THE COMPLETE WORKS OF

JULES VERNE

(1828-1905)

Contents

The Novels

LIST OF VERNE’S NOVELS

The Short Stories

MARTIN PAZ

THE BLOCKADE RUNNERS

DR. OX AND OTHER STORIES

FRRITT-FLACC

YESTERDAY AND TOMORROW

A DRAMA IN MEXICO

THE MUTINEERS OF THE BOUNTY

IN THE YEAR 2889

AN EXPRESS OF THE FUTURE

The Poetry

VERNE’S POETRY

LISTE DES POEMES PAR ORDRE ALPHABETIQUE

The Plays

VERNE’S PLAYS

ONZE JOURS DE SIEGE

MICHEL STROGOFF

The Non-Fiction

CELEBRATED TRAVELS AND TRAVELLERS

I. THE EXPLORATION OF THE WORLD

II. THE GREAT NAVIGATORS OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY

III. THE GREAT EXPLORERS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY

Delphi Classics 2011

Version 3

THE COMPLETE WORKS OF

JULES VERNE

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Alongside Jules Verne, H.G. Wells is the Father of Science-Fiction and one of the most original and prophetic storytellers the world has ever known. This edition offers readers the most complete collection of Wells’ work ever compiled.

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Please note: due to copyright restrictions, this title will not be available in Europe until January 2017

The Novels

Verne’s birthplace - Nantes, France

LIST OF VERNE’S NOVELS

Please note: the novels are sequenced in the chronological order of publication.

FIVE WEEKS IN A BALLOON

PARIS IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY

A JOURNEY TO THE CENTRE OF THE EARTH

FROM THE EARTH TO THE MOON

THE ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN HATTERAS

THE CHILDREN OF CAPTAIN GRANT

AROUND THE MOON

TWENTY THOUSAND LEAGUES UNDER THE SEA

A FLOATING CITY

THE ADVENTURES OF THREE ENGLISHMEN AND THREE RUSSIANS IN SOUTH AFRICA

THE FUR COUNTRY

AROUND THE WORLD IN EIGHTY DAYS

THE MYSTERIOUS ISLAND

THE SURVIVORS OF THE CHANCELLOR

MICHAEL STROGOFF

OFF ON A COMET

THE UNDERGROUND CITY

DICK SAND: A CAPTAIN AT FIFTEEN

THE BEGUM’S FORTUNE

TRIBULATIONS OF A CHINAMAN IN CHINA

THE STEAM HOUSE

EIGHT HUNDRED LEAGUES ON THE AMAZON

THE GREEN RAY

THE SCHOOL FOR ROBINSONS

KERABAN THE INFLEXIBLE

THE ARCHIPELAGO ON FIRE

THE STAR OF THE SOUTH

MATHIAS SANDORF

ROBUR THE CONQUEROR

THE LOTTERY TICKET

THE FLIGHT TO FRANCE

THE WRECK OF THE CYNTHIA

NORTH AGAINST SOUTH

TWO YEARS HOLIDAY

THE PURCHASE OF THE NORTH POLE

FAMILY WITHOUT A NAME

CESAR CASCABEL

MISTRESS BRANICAN

THE CARPATHIAN CASTLE

CLAUDIUS BOMBARNAC

FOUNDLING MICK

THE WONDERFUL ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN ANTIFER

THE FLOATING ISLAND

FACING THE FLAG

CLOVIS DARDENTOR

THE SPHINX OF THE ICE FIELDS

THE NARRATIVE OF ARTHUR GORDON PYM OF NANTUCKET by Edgar Allan Poe

THE SUPER ORINOCO

THE WILL OF AN ECCENTRIC

SECOND FATHERLAND

THE VILLAGE IN THE TREETOPS

THE YARNS OF JEAN-MARIE CABIDOULIN

THE KIP BROTHERS

TRAVELING SCHOLARSHIPS

MASTER OF THE WORLD

A DRAMA IN LIVONIA

INVASION OF THE SEA

THE LIGHTHOUSE AT THE END OF THE WORLD

THE GOLDEN VOLCANO

THE THOMPSON AGENCY AND CO.

THE CHASE OF THE GOLDEN METEOR

THE DANUBE PILOT

THE SURVIVORS OF THE ‘JONATHAN’

THE SECRET OF WILHELM STORITZ

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES OF THE BARSAC MISSION

Please note: due to copyright restrictions and the scarcity of English translations, the 16 novels listed below are only available in their original French texts. Once their translations become available, they will be added to future updates of this eBook.

THE SUPER ORINOCO

SECOND FATHERLAND

THE VILLAGE IN THE TREETOPS

THE YARNS OF JEAN-MARIE CABIDOULIN

THE KIP BROTHERS

TRAVELING SCHOLARSHIPS

A DRAMA IN LIVONIA

INVASION OF THE SEA

THE LIGHTHOUSE AT THE END OF THE WORLD

THE GOLDEN VOLCANO

THE THOMPSON AGENCY AND CO.

THE CHASE OF THE GOLDEN METEOR

THE DANUBE PILOT

THE SURVIVORS OF THE ‘JONATHAN’

THE SECRET OF WILHELM STORITZ

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES OF THE BARSAC MISSION

FIVE WEEKS IN A BALLOON

Translated by William Lackland

First published in 1863, this is Verne’s first novel in a series which would be later called Les Voyages Extraordinaires. The novel includes many of the ingredients of Verne’s later work, with plot twists of adventure, blended with technical, geographic and historic description. The book concerns the exploration of Africa, which was still not completely known to Europeans of the time, making the work even more popular for readers.

Five Weeks in a Balloon tells the story of scholar and explorer, Dr. Samuel Ferguson, who is accompanied by his manservant Joe and his friend professional hunter Richard “Dick” Kennedy. They set out to travel across the African continent with the help of a hot-air balloon filled with hydrogen.

The original title page for the French edition

The 1962 film adaptation

CONTENTS

CHAPTER FIRST.

CHAPTER SECOND.

CHAPTER THIRD.

CHAPTER FOURTH.

CHAPTER FIFTH.

CHAPTER SIXTH.

CHAPTER SEVENTH.

CHAPTER EIGHTH.

CHAPTER NINTH.

CHAPTER TENTH.

CHAPTER ELEVENTH.

CHAPTER TWELFTH

CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.

CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.

CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.

CHAPTER SIXTEENTH.

CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH.

CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH.

CHAPTER NINETEENTH.

CHAPTER TWENTIETH.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SECOND.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THIRD.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURTH.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIFTH.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIXTH.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENTH.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHTH.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINTH.

CHAPTER THIRTIETH.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIRST.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SECOND.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THIRD.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOURTH.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIFTH.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIXTH.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVENTH.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHTH.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINTH.

CHAPTER FORTIETH.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIRST.

CHAPTER FORTY-SECOND.

CHAPTER FORTY-THIRD.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOURTH.

CHAPTER FIRST.

The End of a much-applauded Speech. — The Presentation of Dr. Samuel Ferguson. — Excelsior. — Full-length Portrait of the Doctor. — A Fatalist convinced. — A Dinner at the Travellers’ Club. — Several Toasts for the Occasion.

There was a large audience assembled on the 14th of January, 1862, at the session of the Royal Geographical Society, No. 3 Waterloo Place, London. The president, Sir Francis M — — , made an important communication to his colleagues, in an address that was frequently interrupted by applause.

This rare specimen of eloquence terminated with the following sonorous phrases bubbling over with patriotism:

“England has always marched at the head of nations” (for, the reader will observe, the nations always march at the head of each other), “by the intrepidity of her explorers in the line of geographical discovery.” (General assent). “Dr. Samuel Ferguson, one of her most glorious sons, will not reflect discredit on his origin.” (“No, indeed!” from all parts of the hall.)

“This attempt, should it succeed” (“It will succeed!”), “will complete and link together the notions, as yet disjointed, which the world entertains of African cartology” (vehement applause); “and, should it fail, it will, at least, remain on record as one of the most daring conceptions of human genius!” (Tremendous cheering.)

“Huzza! huzza!” shouted the immense audience, completely electrified by these inspiring words.

“Huzza for the intrepid Ferguson!” cried one of the most excitable of the enthusiastic crowd.

The wildest cheering resounded on all sides; the name of Ferguson was in every mouth, and we may safely believe that it lost nothing in passing through English throats. Indeed, the hall fairly shook with it.

And there were present, also, those fearless travellers and explorers whose energetic temperaments had borne them through every quarter of the globe, many of them grown old and worn out in the service of science. All had, in some degree, physically or morally, undergone the sorest trials. They had escaped shipwreck; conflagration; Indian tomahawks and war-clubs; the fagot and the stake; nay, even the cannibal maws of the South Sea Islanders. But still their hearts beat high during Sir Francis M — — ‘s address, which certainly was the finest oratorical success that the Royal Geographical Society of London had yet achieved.

But, in England, enthusiasm does not stop short with mere words. It strikes off money faster than the dies of the Royal Mint itself. So a subscription to encourage Dr. Ferguson was voted there and then, and it at once attained the handsome amount of two thousand five hundred pounds. The sum was made commensurate with the importance of the enterprise.

A member of the Society then inquired of the president whether Dr. Ferguson was not to be officially introduced.

“The doctor is at the disposition of the meeting,” replied Sir Francis.

“Let him come in, then! Bring him in!” shouted the audience. “We’d like to see a man of such extraordinary daring, face to face!”

“Perhaps this incredible proposition of his is only intended to mystify us,” growled an apoplectic old admiral.

“Suppose that there should turn out to be no such person as Dr. Ferguson?” exclaimed another voice, with a malicious twang.

“Why, then, we’d have to invent one!” replied a facetious member of this grave Society.

“Ask Dr. Ferguson to come in,” was the quiet remark of Sir Francis M — — .

And come in the doctor did, and stood there, quite unmoved by the thunders of applause that greeted his appearance.

He was a man of about forty years of age, of medium height and physique. His sanguine temperament was disclosed in the deep color of his cheeks. His countenance was coldly expressive, with regular features, and a large nose — one of those noses that resemble the prow of a ship, and stamp the faces of men predestined to accomplish great discoveries. His eyes, which were gentle and intelligent, rather than bold, lent a peculiar charm to his physiognomy. His arms were long, and his feet were planted with that solidity which indicates a great pedestrian.

A calm gravity seemed to surround the doctor’s entire person, and no one would dream that he could become the agent of any mystification, however harmless.

Hence, the applause that greeted him at the outset continued until he, with a friendly gesture, claimed silence on his own behalf. He stepped toward the seat that had been prepared for him on his presentation, and then, standing erect and motionless, he, with a determined glance, pointed his right forefinger upward, and pronounced aloud the single word —

“Excelsior!”

Never had one of Bright’s or Cobden’s sudden onslaughts, never had one of Palmerston’s abrupt demands for funds to plate the rocks of the English coast with iron, made such a sensation. Sir Francis M — — ‘s address was completely overshadowed. The doctor had shown himself moderate, sublime, and self-contained, in one; he had uttered the word of the situation —

“Excelsior!”

The gouty old admiral who had been finding fault, was completely won over by the singular man before him, and immediately moved the insertion of Dr. Ferguson’s speech in “The Proceedings of the Royal Geographical Society of London.”

Who, then, was this person, and what was the enterprise that he proposed?

Ferguson’s father, a brave and worthy captain in the English Navy, had associated his son with him, from the young man’s earliest years, in the perils and adventures of his profession. The fine little fellow, who seemed to have never known the meaning of fear, early revealed a keen and active mind, an investigating intelligence, and a remarkable turn for scientific study; moreover, he disclosed uncommon address in extricating himself from difficulty; he was never perplexed, not even in handling his fork for the first time — an exercise in which children generally have so little success.

His fancy kindled early at the recitals he read of daring enterprise and maritime adventure, and he followed with enthusiasm the discoveries that signalized the first part of the nineteenth century. He mused over the glory of the Mungo Parks, the Bruces, the Caillies, the Levaillants, and to some extent, I verily believe, of Selkirk (Robinson Crusoe), whom he considered in no wise inferior to the rest. How many a well-employed hour he passed with that hero on his isle of Juan Fernandez! Often he criticised the ideas of the shipwrecked sailor, and sometimes discussed his plans and projects. He would have done differently, in such and such a case, or quite as well at least — of that he felt assured. But of one thing he was satisfied, that he never should have left that pleasant island, where he was as happy as a king without subjects — no, not if the inducement held out had been promotion to the first lordship in the admiralty!

It may readily be conjectured whether these tendencies were developed during a youth of adventure, spent in every nook and corner of the Globe. Moreover, his father, who was a man of thorough instruction, omitted no opportunity to consolidate this keen intelligence by serious studies in hydrography, physics, and mechanics, along with a slight tincture of botany, medicine, and astronomy.

Upon the death of the estimable captain, Samuel Ferguson, then twenty-two years of age, had already made his voyage around the world. He had enlisted in the Bengalese Corps of Engineers, and distinguished himself in several affairs; but this soldier’s life had not exactly suited him; caring but little for command, he had not been fond of obeying. He, therefore, sent in his resignation, and half botanizing, half playing the hunter, he made his way toward the north of the Indian Peninsula, and crossed it from Calcutta to Surat — a mere amateur trip for him.

From Surat we see him going over to Australia, and in 1845 participating in Captain Sturt’s expedition, which had been sent out to explore the new Caspian Sea, supposed to exist in the centre of New Holland.

Samuel Ferguson returned to England about 1850, and, more than ever possessed by the demon of discovery, he spent the intervening time, until 1853, in accompanying Captain McClure on the expedition that went around the American Continent from Behring’s Straits to Cape Farewell.

Notwithstanding fatigues of every description, and in all climates, Ferguson’s constitution continued marvellously sound. He felt at ease in the midst of the most complete privations; in fine, he was the very type of the thoroughly accomplished explorer whose stomach expands or contracts at will; whose limbs grow longer or shorter according to the resting-place that each stage of a journey may bring; who can fall asleep at any hour of the day or awake at any hour of the night.

Nothing, then, was less surprising, after that, than to find our traveller, in the period from 1855 to 1857, visiting the whole region west of the Thibet, in company with the brothers Schlagintweit, and bringing back some curious ethnographic observations from that expedition.

During these different journeys, Ferguson had been the most active and interesting correspondent of the Daily Telegraph, the penny newspaper whose circulation amounts to 140,000 copies, and yet scarcely suffices for its many legions of readers. Thus, the doctor had become well known to the public, although he could not claim membership in either of the Royal Geographical Societies of London, Paris, Berlin, Vienna, or St. Petersburg, or yet with the Travellers’ Club, or even the Royal Polytechnic Institute, where his friend the statistician Cockburn ruled in state.

The latter savant had, one day, gone so far as to propose to him the following problem: Given the number of miles travelled by the doctor in making the circuit of the Globe, how many more had his head described than his feet, by reason of the different lengths of the radii? — or, the number of miles traversed by the doctor’s head and feet respectively being given, required the exact height of that gentleman?

This was done with the idea of complimenting him, but the doctor had held himself aloof from all the learned bodies — belonging, as he did, to the church militant and not to the church polemical. He found his time better employed in seeking than in discussing, in discovering rather than discoursing.

There is a story told of an Englishman who came one day to Geneva, intending to visit the lake. He was placed in one of those odd vehicles in which the passengers sit side by side, as they do in an omnibus. Well, it so happened that the Englishman got a seat that left him with his back turned toward the lake. The vehicle completed its circular trip without his thinking to turn around once, and he went back to London delighted with the Lake of Geneva.

Doctor Ferguson, however, had turned around to look about him on his journeyings, and turned to such good purpose that he had seen a great deal. In doing so, he had simply obeyed the laws of his nature, and we have good reason to believe that he was, to some extent, a fatalist, but of an orthodox school of fatalism withal, that led him to rely upon himself and even upon Providence. He claimed that he was impelled, rather than drawn by his own volition, to journey as he did, and that he traversed the world like the locomotive, which does not direct itself, but is guided and directed by the track it runs on.

“I do not follow my route;” he often said, “it is my route that follows me.”

The reader will not be surprised, then, at the calmness with which the doctor received the applause that welcomed him in the Royal Society. He was above all such trifles, having no pride, and less vanity. He looked upon the proposition addressed to him by Sir Francis M — — as the simplest thing in the world, and scarcely noticed the immense effect that it produced.

When the session closed, the doctor was escorted to the rooms of the Travellers’ Club, in Pall Mall. A superb entertainment had been prepared there in his honor. The dimensions of the dishes served were made to correspond with the importance of the personage entertained, and the boiled sturgeon that figured at this magnificent repast was not an inch shorter than Dr. Ferguson himself.

Numerous toasts were offered and quaffed, in the wines of France, to the celebrated travellers who had made their names illustrious by their explorations of African territory.

The guests drank to their health or to their memory, in alphabetical order, a good old English way of doing the thing. Among those remembered thus, were: Abbadie, Adams, Adamson, Anderson, Arnaud, Baikie, Baldwin, Barth, Batouda, Beke, Beltram, Du Berba, Bimbachi,Bolognesi, Bolwik, Belzoni, Bonnemain, Brisson, Browne,Bruce, Brun-Rollet, Burchell, Burckhardt, Burton, Cailland, Caillie, Campbell, Chapman, Clapperton, Clot-Bey, Colomieu, Courval, Cumming, Cuny, Debono, Decken,Denham, Desavanchers, Dicksen, Dickson, Dochard, DuChaillu, Duncan, Durand, Duroule, Duveyrier, D’Escayrac, De Lauture, Erhardt, Ferret, Fresnel, Galinier, Galton, Geoffroy, Golberry, Hahn, Halm, Harnier, Hecquart,Heuglin, Hornemann, Houghton, Imbert, Kauffmann, Knoblecher, Krapf, Kummer, Lafargue, Laing, Lafaille,Lambert, Lamiral, Lampriere, John Lander, RichardLander, Lefebvre, Lejean, Levaillant, Livingstone, MacCarthy,Maggiar, Maizan, Malzac, Moffat, Mollien, Monteiro, Morrison, Mungo Park, Neimans, Overweg, Panet, Partarrieau, Pascal, Pearse, Peddie, Penney, Petherick, Poncet, Prax, Raffenel, Rabh, Rebmann, Richardson, Riley, Ritchey, Rochet d’Hericourt, Rongawi, Roscher, Ruppel, Saugnier, Speke, Steidner, Thibaud, Thompson, Thornton, Toole, Tousny, Trotter, Tuckey, Tyrwhitt, Vaudey, Veyssiere, Vincent, Vinco, Vogel, Wahlberg, Warrington, Washington, Werne, Wild, and last, but not least, Dr. Ferguson, who, by his incredible attempt, was to link together the achievements of all these explorers, and complete the series of African discovery.

CHAPTER SECOND.

The Article in the Daily Telegraph. — War between the Scientific Journals. — Mr. Petermann backs his Friend Dr. Ferguson. — Reply of the Savant Koner. — Bets made. — Sundry Propositions offered to the Doctor.

On the next day, in its number of January 15th, the Daily Telegraph published an article couched in the following terms: “Africa is, at length, about to surrender the secret of her vast solitudes; a modern OEdipus is to give us the key to that enigma which the learned men of sixty centuries have not been able to decipher. In other days, to seek the sources of the Nile — fontes Nili quoerere — was regarded as a mad endeavor, a chimera that could not be realized.

“Dr. Barth, in following out to Soudan the track traced by Denham and Clapperton; Dr. Livingstone, in multiplying his fearless explorations from the Cape of Good Hope to the basin of the Zambesi; Captains Burton and Speke, in the discovery of the great interior lakes, have opened three highways to modern civilization. THEIR POINT OF INTERSECTION, which no traveller has yet been able to reach, is the very heart of Africa, and it is thither that all efforts should now be directed.

“The labors of these hardy pioneers of science are now about to be knit together by the daring project of Dr. Samuel Ferguson, whose fine explorations our readers have frequently had the opportunity of appreciating.

“This intrepid discoverer proposes to traverse all Africa from east to west IN A BALLOON. If we are well informed, the point of departure for this surprising journey is to be the island of Zanzibar, upon the eastern coast. As for the point of arrival, it is reserved for Providence alone to designate.

“The proposal for this scientific undertaking was officially made, yesterday, at the rooms of the Royal Geographical Society, and the sum of twenty-five hundred pounds was voted to defray the expenses of the enterprise.

“We shall keep our readers informed as to the progress of this enterprise, which has no precedent in the annals of exploration.”

As may be supposed, the foregoing article had an enormous echo among scientific people. At first, it stirred up a storm of incredulity; Dr. Ferguson passed for a purely chimerical personage of the Barnum stamp, who, after having gone through the United States, proposed to “do” the British Isles.

A humorous reply appeared in the February number of the Bulletins de la Societe Geographique of Geneva, which very wittily showed up the Royal Society of London and their phenomenal sturgeon.

But Herr Petermann, in his Mittheilungen, published at Gotha, reduced the Geneva journal to the most absolute silence. Herr Petermann knew Dr. Ferguson personally, and guaranteed the intrepidity of his dauntless friend.

Besides, all manner of doubt was quickly put out of the question: preparations for the trip were set on foot at London; the factories of Lyons received a heavy order for the silk required for the body of the balloon; and, finally, the British Government placed the transport-ship Resolute, Captain Bennett, at the disposal of the expedition.

At once, upon word of all this, a thousand encouragements were offered, and felicitations came pouring in from all quarters. The details of the undertaking were published in full in the bulletins of the Geographical Society of Paris; a remarkable article appeared in the Nouvelles Annales des Voyages, de la Geographie, de l’Histoire, et de l’Archaeologie de M. V. A. Malte-Brun (“New Annals of Travels, Geography, History, and Archaeology, by M. V. A. Malte-Brun”); and a searching essay in the Zeitschrift fur Allgemeine Erdkunde, by Dr. W. Koner, triumphantly demonstrated the feasibility of the journey, its chances of success, the nature of the obstacles existing, the immense advantages of the aerial mode of locomotion, and found fault with nothing but the selected point of departure, which it contended should be Massowah, a small port in Abyssinia, whence James Bruce, in 1768, started upon his explorations in search of the sources of the Nile. Apart from that, it mentioned, in terms of unreserved admiration, the energetic character of Dr. Ferguson, and the heart, thrice panoplied in bronze, that could conceive and undertake such an enterprise.

The North American Review could not, without some displeasure, contemplate so much glory monopolized by England. It therefore rather ridiculed the doctor’s scheme, and urged him, by all means, to push his explorations as far as America, while he was about it.

In a word, without going over all the journals in the world, there was not a scientific publication, from the Journal of Evangelical Missions to the Revue Algerienne et Coloniale, from the Annales de la Propagation de la Foi to the Church Missionary Intelligencer, that had not something to say about the affair in all its phases.

Many large bets were made at London and throughout England generally, first, as to the real or supposititious existence of Dr. Ferguson; secondly, as to the trip itself, which, some contended, would not be undertaken at all, and which was really contemplated, according to others; thirdly, upon the success or failure of the enterprise; and fourthly, upon the probabilities of Dr. Ferguson’s return. The betting-books were covered with entries of immense sums, as though the Epsom races were at stake.

Thus, believers and unbelievers, the learned and the ignorant, alike had their eyes fixed on the doctor, and he became the lion of the day, without knowing that he carried such a mane. On his part, he willingly gave the most accurate information touching his project. He was very easily approached, being naturally the most affable man in the world. More than one bold adventurer presented himself, offering to share the dangers as well as the glory of the undertaking; but he refused them all, without giving his reasons for rejecting them.

Numerous inventors of mechanism applicable to the guidance of balloons came to propose their systems, but he would accept none; and, when he was asked whether he had discovered something of his own for that purpose, he constantly refused to give any explanation, and merely busied himself more actively than ever with the preparations for his journey.

CHAPTER THIRD.

The Doctor’s Friend. — The Origin of their Friendship. — Dick Kennedy at London. — An unexpected but not very consoling Proposal. — A Proverb by no means cheering. — A few Names from the African Martyrology. — The Advantages of a Balloon. — Dr. Ferguson’s Secret.

Dr. Ferguson had a friend — not another self, indeed, an alter ego, for friendship could not exist between two beings exactly alike.

But, if they possessed different qualities, aptitudes, and temperaments, Dick Kennedy and Samuel Ferguson lived with one and the same heart, and that gave them no great trouble. In fact, quite the reverse.

Dick Kennedy was a Scotchman, in the full acceptation of the word — open, resolute, and headstrong. He lived in the town of Leith, which is near Edinburgh, and, in truth, is a mere suburb of Auld Reekie. Sometimes he was a fisherman, but he was always and everywhere a determined hunter, and that was nothing remarkable for a son of Caledonia, who had known some little climbing among the Highland mountains. He was cited as a wonderful shot with the rifle, since not only could he split a bullet on a knife-blade, but he could divide it into two such equal parts that, upon weighing them, scarcely any difference would be perceptible.

Kennedy’s countenance strikingly recalled that of Herbert Glendinning, as Sir Walter Scott has depicted it in “The Monastery”; his stature was above six feet; full of grace and easy movement, he yet seemed gifted with herculean strength; a face embrowned by the sun; eyes keen and black; a natural air of daring courage; in fine, something sound, solid, and reliable in his entire person, spoke, at first glance, in favor of the bonny Scot.

The acquaintanceship of these two friends had been formed in India, when they belonged to the same regiment. While Dick would be out in pursuit of the tiger and the elephant, Samuel would be in search of plants and insects. Each could call himself expert in his own province, and more than one rare botanical specimen, that to science was as great a victory won as the conquest of a pair of ivory tusks, became the doctor’s booty.

These two young men, moreover, never had occasion to save each other’s lives, or to render any reciprocal service. Hence, an unalterable friendship. Destiny sometimes bore them apart, but sympathy always united them again.

Since their return to England they had been frequently separated by the doctor’s distant expeditions; but, on his return, the latter never failed to go, not to ASK for hospitality, but to bestow some weeks of his presence at the home of his crony Dick.

The Scot talked of the past; the doctor busily prepared for the future. The one looked back, the other forward. Hence, a restless spirit personified in Ferguson; perfect calmness typified in Kennedy — such was the contrast.

After his journey to the Thibet, the doctor had remained nearly two years without hinting at new explorations; and Dick, supposing that his friend’s instinct for travel and thirst for adventure had at length died out, was perfectly enchanted. They would have ended badly, some day or other, he thought to himself; no matter what experience one has with men, one does not travel always with impunity among cannibals and wild beasts. So, Kennedy besought the doctor to tie up his bark for life, having done enough for science, and too much for the gratitude of men.

The doctor contented himself with making no reply to this. He remained absorbed in his own reflections, giving himself up to secret calculations, passing his nights among heaps of figures, and making experiments with the strangest-looking machinery, inexplicable to everybody but himself. It could readily be guessed, though, that some great thought was fermenting in his brain.

“What can he have been planning?” wondered Kennedy, when, in the month of January, his friend quitted him to return to London.

He found out one morning when he looked into the Daily Telegraph.

“Merciful Heaven!” he exclaimed, “the lunatic! the madman! Cross Africa in a balloon! Nothing but that was wanted to cap the climax! That’s what he’s been bothering his wits about these two years past!”

Now, reader, substitute for all these exclamation points, as many ringing thumps with a brawny fist upon the table, and you have some idea of the manual exercise that Dick went through while he thus spoke.

When his confidential maid-of-all-work, the aged Elspeth, tried to insinuate that the whole thing might be a hoax —

“Not a bit of it!” said he. “Don’t I know my man? Isn’t it just like him? Travel through the air! There, now, he’s jealous of the eagles, next! No! I warrant you, he’ll not do it! I’ll find a way to stop him! He! why if they’d let him alone, he’d start some day for the moon!”

On that very evening Kennedy, half alarmed, and half exasperated, took the train for London, where he arrived next morning.

Three-quarters of an hour later a cab deposited him at the door of the doctor’s modest dwelling, in Soho Square, Greek Street. Forthwith he bounded up the steps and announced his arrival with five good, hearty, sounding raps at the door.

Ferguson opened, in person.

“Dick! you here?” he exclaimed, but with no great expression of surprise, after all.

“Dick himself!” was the response.

“What, my dear boy, you at London, and this the mid-season of the winter shooting?”

“Yes! here I am, at London!”

“And what have you come to town for?”

“To prevent the greatest piece of folly that ever was conceived.”

“Folly!” said the doctor.

“Is what this paper says, the truth?” rejoined Kennedy, holding out the copy of the Daily Telegraph, mentioned above.

“Ah! that’s what you mean, is it? These newspapers are great tattlers! But, sit down, my dear Dick.”

“No, I won’t sit down! — Then, you really intend to attempt this journey?”

“Most certainly! all my preparations are getting along finely, and I — “

“Where are your traps? Let me have a chance at them! I’ll make them fly! I’ll put your preparations in fine order.” And so saying, the gallant Scot gave way to a genuine explosion of wrath.

“Come, be calm, my dear Dick!” resumed the doctor. “You’re angry at me because I did not acquaint you with my new project.”

“He calls this his new project!”

“I have been very busy,” the doctor went on, without heeding the interruption; “I have had so much to look after! But rest assured that I should not have started without writing to you.”

“Oh, indeed! I’m highly honored.”

“Because it is my intention to take you with me.”

Upon this, the Scotchman gave a leap that a wild goat would not have been ashamed of among his native crags.

“Ah! really, then, you want them to send us both to Bedlam!”

“I have counted positively upon you, my dear Dick, and I have picked you out from all the rest.”

Kennedy stood speechless with amazement.

“After listening to me for ten minutes,” said the doctor, “you will thank me!”

“Are you speaking seriously?”

“Very seriously.”

“And suppose that I refuse to go with you?”

“But you won’t refuse.”

“But, suppose that I were to refuse?”

“Well, I’d go alone.”

“Let us sit down,” said Kennedy, “and talk without excitement. The moment you give up jesting about it, we can discuss the thing.”

“Let us discuss it, then, at breakfast, if you have no objections, my dear Dick.”

The two friends took their seats opposite to each other, at a little table with a plate of toast and a huge tea-urn before them.

“My dear Samuel,” said the sportsman, “your project is insane! it is impossible! it has no resemblance to anything reasonable or practicable!”

“That’s for us to find out when we shall have tried it!”

“But trying it is exactly what you ought not to attempt.”

“Why so, if you please?”

“Well, the risks, the difficulty of the thing.”

“As for difficulties,” replied Ferguson, in a serious tone, “they were made to be overcome; as for risks and dangers, who can flatter himself that he is to escape them? Every thing in life involves danger; it may even be dangerous to sit down at one’s own table, or to put one’s hat on one’s own head. Moreover, we must look upon what is to occur as having already occurred, and see nothing but the present in the future, for the future is but the present a little farther on.”

“There it is!” exclaimed Kennedy, with a shrug.

“As great a fatalist as ever!”

“Yes! but in the good sense of the word. Let us not trouble ourselves, then, about what fate has in store for us, and let us not forget our good old English proverb: ‘The man who was born to be hung will never be drowned!’”

There was no reply to make, but that did not prevent Kennedy from resuming a series of arguments which may be readily conjectured, but which were too long for us to repeat.

“Well, then,” he said, after an hour’s discussion, “if you are absolutely determined to make this trip across the African continent — if it is necessary for your happiness, why not pursue the ordinary routes?”

“Why?” ejaculated the doctor, growing animated. “Because, all attempts to do so, up to this time, have utterly failed. Because, from Mungo Park, assassinated on the Niger, to Vogel, who disappeared in the Wadai country; from Oudney, who died at Murmur, and Clapperton, lost at Sackatou, to the Frenchman Maizan, who was cut to pieces; from Major Laing, killed by the Touaregs, to Roscher, from Hamburg, massacred in the beginning of 1860, the names of victim after victim have been inscribed on the lists of African martyrdom! Because, to contend successfully against the elements; against hunger, and thirst, and fever; against savage beasts, and still more savage men, is impossible! Because, what cannot be done in one way, should be tried in another. In fine, because what one cannot pass through directly in the middle, must be passed by going to one side or overhead!”

“If passing over it were the only question!” interposed Kennedy; “but passing high up in the air, doctor, there’s the rub!”

“Come, then,” said the doctor, “what have I to fear? You will admit that I have taken my precautions in such manner as to be certain that my balloon will not fall; but, should it disappoint me, I should find myself on the ground in the normal conditions imposed upon other explorers. But, my balloon will not deceive me, and we need make no such calculations.”

“Yes, but you must take them into view.”

“No, Dick. I intend not to be separated from the balloon until I reach the western coast of Africa. With it, every thing is possible; without it, I fall back into the dangers and difficulties as well as the natural obstacles that ordinarily attend such an expedition: with it, neither heat, nor torrents, nor tempests, nor the simoom, nor unhealthy climates, nor wild animals, nor savage men, are to be feared! If I feel too hot, I can ascend; if too cold, I can come down. Should there be a mountain, I can pass over it; a precipice, I can sweep across it; a river, I can sail beyond it; a storm, I can rise away above it; a torrent, I can skim it like a bird! I can advance without fatigue, I can halt without need of repose! I can soar above the nascent cities! I can speed onward with the rapidity of a tornado, sometimes at the loftiest heights, sometimes only a hundred feet above the soil, while the map of Africa unrolls itself beneath my gaze in the great atlas of the world.”

Even the stubborn Kennedy began to feel moved, and yet the spectacle thus conjured up before him gave him the vertigo. He riveted his eyes upon the doctor with wonder and admiration, and yet with fear, for he already felt himself swinging aloft in space.

“Come, come,” said he, at last. “Let us see, Samuel.

Then you have discovered the means of guiding a balloon?”

“Not by any means. That is a Utopian idea.”

“Then, you will go — “

“Whithersoever Providence wills; but, at all events, from east to west.”

“Why so?”

“Because I expect to avail myself of the trade-winds, the direction of which is always the same.”

“Ah! yes, indeed!” said Kennedy, reflecting; “the trade-winds — yes — truly — one might — there’s something in that!”

“Something in it — yes, my excellent friend — there’s EVERY THING in it. The English Government has placed a transport at my disposal, and three or four vessels are to cruise off the western coast of Africa, about the presumed period of my arrival. In three months, at most, I shall be at Zanzibar, where I will inflate my balloon, and from that point we shall launch ourselves.”

“We!” said Dick.

“Have you still a shadow of an objection to offer?

Speak, friend Kennedy.”

“An objection! I have a thousand; but among other things, tell me, if you expect to see the country. If you expect to mount and descend at pleasure, you cannot do so, without losing your gas. Up to this time no other means have been devised, and it is this that has always prevented long journeys in the air.”

“My dear Dick, I have only one word to answer — I shall not lose one particle of gas.”

“And yet you can descend when you please?”

“I shall descend when I please.”

“And how will you do that?”

“Ah, ha! therein lies my secret, friend Dick. Have faith, and let my device be yours — ‘Excelsior!’”

“‘Excelsior’ be it then,” said the sportsman, who did not understand a word of Latin.

But he made up his mind to oppose his friend’s departure by all means in his power, and so pretended to give in, at the same time keeping on the watch. As for the doctor, he went on diligently with his preparations.

CHAPTER FOURTH.

African Explorations. — Barth, Richardson, Overweg, Werne, Brun-Rollet,

Penney, Andrea, Debono, Miani, Guillaume Lejean, Bruce, Krapf and Rebmann,

Maizan, Roscher, Burton and Speke.

The aerial line which Dr. Ferguson counted upon following had not been chosen at random; his point of departure had been carefully studied, and it was not without good cause that he had resolved to ascend at the island of Zanzibar. This island, lying near to the eastern coast of Africa, is in the sixth degree of south latitude, that is to say, four hundred and thirty geographical miles below the equator.

From this island the latest expedition, sent by way of the great lakes to explore the sources of the Nile, had just set out.

But it would be well to indicate what explorations

Dr. Ferguson hoped to link together. The two principal

ones were those of Dr. Barth in 1849, and of Lieutenants

Burton and Speke in 1858.

Dr. Barth is a Hamburger, who obtained permission for himself and for his countryman Overweg to join the expedition of the Englishman Richardson. The latter was charged with a mission in the Soudan.

This vast region is situated between the fifteenth and tenth degrees of north latitude; that is to say, that, in order to approach it, the explorer must penetrate fifteen hundred miles into the interior of Africa.

Until then, the country in question had been known only through the journeys of Denham, of Clapperton, and of Oudney, made from 1822 to 1824. Richardson, Barth, and Overweg, jealously anxious to push their investigations farther, arrived at Tunis and Tripoli, like their predecessors, and got as far as Mourzouk, the capital of Fezzan.

They then abandoned the perpendicular line, and made a sharp turn westward toward Ghat, guided, with difficulty, by the Touaregs. After a thousand scenes of pillage, of vexation, and attacks by armed forces, their caravan arrived, in October, at the vast oasis of Asben. Dr. Barth separated from his companions, made an excursion to the town of Aghades, and rejoined the expedition, which resumed its march on the 12th of December. At length it reached the province of Damerghou; there the three travellers parted, and Barth took the road to Kano, where he arrived by dint of perseverance, and after paying considerable tribute.

In spite of an intense fever, he quitted that place on the 7th of March, accompanied by a single servant. The principal aim of his journey was to reconnoitre Lake Tchad, from which he was still three hundred and fifty miles distant. He therefore advanced toward the east, and reached the town of Zouricolo, in the Bornou country, which is the core of the great central empire of Africa. There he heard of the death of Richardson, who had succumbed to fatigue and privation. He next arrived at Kouka, the capital of Bornou, on the borders of the lake. Finally, at the end of three weeks, on the 14th of April, twelve months after having quitted Tripoli, he reached the town of Ngornou.

We find him again setting forth on the 29th of March, 1851, with Overweg, to visit the kingdom of Adamaoua, to the south of the lake, and from there he pushed on as far as the town of Yola, a little below nine degrees north latitude. This was the extreme southern limit reached by that daring traveller.

He returned in the month of August to Kouka; from there he successively traversed the Mandara, Barghimi, and Klanem countries, and reached his extreme limit in the east, the town of Masena, situated at seventeen degrees twenty minutes west longitude.

On the 25th of November, 1852, after the death of Overweg, his last companion, he plunged into the west, visited Sockoto, crossed the Niger, and finally reached Timbuctoo, where he had to languish, during eight long months, under vexations inflicted upon him by the sheik, and all kinds of ill-treatment and wretchedness. But the presence of a Christian in the city could not long be tolerated, and the Foullans threatened to besiege it. The doctor, therefore, left it on the 17th of March, 1854, and fled to the frontier, where he remained for thirty-three days in the most abject destitution. He then managed to get back to Kano in November, thence to Kouka, where he resumed Denham’s route after four months’ delay. He regained Tripoli toward the close of August, 1855, and arrived in London on the 6th of September, the only survivor of his party.

Such was the venturesome journey of Dr. Barth.

Dr. Ferguson carefully noted the fact, that he had stopped at four degrees north latitude and seventeen degrees west longitude.

Now let us see what Lieutenants Burton and Speke accomplished in Eastern Africa.

The various expeditions that had ascended the Nile could never manage to reach the mysterious source of that river. According to the narrative of the German doctor, Ferdinand Werne, the expedition attempted in 1840, under the auspices of Mehemet Ali, stopped at Gondokoro, between the fourth and fifth parallels of north latitude.

In 1855, Brun-Rollet, a native of Savoy, appointed consul for Sardinia in Eastern Soudan, to take the place of Vaudey, who had just died, set out from Karthoum, and, under the name of Yacoub the merchant, trading in gums and ivory, got as far as Belenia, beyond the fourth degree, but had to return in ill-health to Karthoum, where he died in 1857.

Neither Dr. Penney — the head of the Egyptian medical service, who, in a small steamer, penetrated one degree beyond Gondokoro, and then came back to die of exhaustion at Karthoum — nor Miani, the Venetian, who, turning the cataracts below Gondokoro, reached the second parallel — nor the Maltese trader, Andrea Debono, who pushed his journey up the Nile still farther — could work their way beyond the apparently impassable limit.

In 1859, M. Guillaume Lejean, intrusted with a mission by the French Government, reached Karthoum by way of the Red Sea, and embarked upon the Nile with a retinue of twenty-one hired men and twenty soldiers, but he could not get past Gondokoro, and ran extreme risk of his life among the negro tribes, who were in full revolt. The expedition directed by M. d’Escayrac de Lauture made an equally unsuccessful attempt to reach the famous sources of the Nile.

This fatal limit invariably brought every traveller to a halt. In ancient times, the ambassadors of Nero reached the ninth degree of latitude, but in eighteen centuries only from five to six degrees, or from three hundred to three hundred and sixty geographical miles, were gained.

Many travellers endeavored to reach the sources of the Nile by taking their point of departure on the eastern coast of Africa.

Between 1768 and 1772 the Scotch traveller, Bruce,

set out from Massowah, a port of Abyssinia, traversed the

Tigre, visited the ruins of Axum, saw the sources of the

Nile where they did not exist, and obtained no serious result.

In 1844, Dr. Krapf, an Anglican missionary, founded an establishment at Monbaz, on the coast of Zanguebar, and, in company with the Rev. Dr. Rebmann, discovered two mountain-ranges three hundred miles from the coast. These were the mountains of Kilimandjaro and Kenia, which Messrs. de Heuglin and Thornton have partly scaled so recently.

In 1845, Maizan, the French explorer, disembarked, alone, at Bagamayo, directly opposite to Zanzibar, and got as far as Deje-la-Mhora, where the chief caused him to be put to death in the most cruel torment.

In 1859, in the month of August, the young traveller, Roscher, from Hamburg, set out with a caravan of Arab merchants, reached Lake Nyassa, and was there assassinated while he slept.

Finally, in 1857, Lieutenants Burton and Speke, both officers in the Bengal army, were sent by the London Geographical Society to explore the great African lakes, and on the 17th of June they quitted Zanzibar, and plunged directly into the west.

After four months of incredible suffering, their baggage having been pillaged, and their attendants beaten and slain, they arrived at Kazeh, a sort of central rendezvous for traders and caravans. They were in the midst of the country of the Moon, and there they collected some precious documents concerning the manners, government, religion, fauna, and flora of the region. They next made for the first of the great lakes, the one named Tanganayika, situated between the third and eighth degrees of south latitude. They reached it on the 14th of February, 1858, and visited the various tribes residing on its banks, the most of whom are cannibals.

They departed again on the 26th of May, and reentered Kazeh on the 20th of June. There Burton, who was completely worn out, lay ill for several months, during which time Speke made a push to the northward of more than three hundred miles, going as far as Lake Okeracua, which he came in sight of on the 3d of August; but he could descry only the opening of it at latitude two degrees thirty minutes.

He reached Kazeh, on his return, on the 25th of August, and, in company with Burton, again took up the route to Zanzibar, where they arrived in the month of March in the following year. These two daring explorers then reembarked for England; and the Geographical Society of Paris decreed them its annual prize medal.

Dr. Ferguson carefully remarked that they had not gone beyond the second degree of south latitude, nor the twenty-ninth of east longitude.

The problem, therefore, was how to link the explorations of Burton and Speke with those of Dr. Barth, since to do so was to undertake to traverse an extent of more than twelve degrees of territory.

CHAPTER FIFTH.

Kennedy’s Dreams. — Articles and Pronouns in the Plural. — Dick’s Insinuations. — A Promenade over the Map of Africa. — What is contained between two Points of the Compass. — Expeditions now on foot. — Speke and Grant. — Krapf, De Decken, and De Heuglin.

Dr. Ferguson energetically pushed the preparations for his departure, and in person superintended the construction of his balloon, with certain modifications; in regard to which he observed the most absolute silence. For a long time past he had been applying himself to the study of the Arab language and the various Mandingoe idioms, and, thanks to his talents as a polyglot, he had made rapid progress.

In the mean while his friend, the sportsman, never let him out of his sight — afraid, no doubt, that the doctor might take his departure, without saying a word to anybody. On this subject, he regaled him with the most persuasive arguments, which, however, did NOT persuade Samuel Ferguson, and wasted his breath in pathetic entreaties, by which the latter seemed to be but slightly moved. In fine, Dick felt that the doctor was slipping through his fingers.

The poor Scot was really to be pitied. He could not look upon the azure vault without a sombre terror: when asleep, he felt oscillations that made his head reel; and every night he had visions of being swung aloft at immeasurable heights.

We must add that, during these fearful nightmares, he once or twice fell out of bed. His first care then was to show Ferguson a severe contusion that he had received on the cranium. “And yet,” he would add, with warmth, “that was at the height of only three feet — not an inch more — and such a bump as this! Only think, then!”

This insinuation, full of sad meaning as it was, did not seem to touch the doctor’s heart.

“We’ll not fall,” was his invariable reply.

“But, still, suppose that we WERE to fall!”

“We will NOT fall!”

This was decisive, and Kennedy had nothing more to say.

What particularly exasperated Dick was, that the doctor seemed completely to lose sight of his personality — of his — Kennedy’s — and to look upon him as irrevocably destined to become his aerial companion. Not even the shadow of a doubt was ever suggested; and Samuel made an intolerable misuse of the first person plural: “‘We’ are getting along; ‘we’ shall be ready on the — — ; ‘we’ shall start on the — — ,” etc. etc.

And then there was the singular possessive adjective: “‘Our’ balloon; ‘our’ car; ‘our’ expedition.”

And the same in the plural, too: “‘Our’ preparations; ‘our’ discoveries; ‘our’ ascensions.”

Dick shuddered at them, although he was determined not to go; but he did not want to annoy his friend. Let us also disclose the fact that, without knowing exactly why himself, he had sent to Edinburgh for a certain selection of heavy clothing, and his best hunting-gear and fire-arms.

One day, after having admitted that, with an overwhelming run of good-luck, there MIGHT be one chance of success in a thousand, he pretended to yield entirely to the doctor’s wishes; but, in order to still put off the journey, he opened the most varied series of subterfuges. He threw himself back upon questioning the utility of the expedition — its opportuneness, etc. This discovery of the sources of the Nile, was it likely to be of any use? — Would one have really labored for the welfare of humanity? — When, after all, the African tribes should have been civilized, would they be any happier? — Were folks certain that civilization had not its chosen abode there rather than in Europe? — Perhaps! — And then, couldn’t one wait a little longer? — The trip across Africa would certainly be accomplished some day, and in a less hazardous manner. — In another month, or in six months before the year was over, some explorer would undoubtedly come in — etc. etc.

These hints produced an effect exactly opposite to what was desired or intended, and the doctor trembled with impatience.

“Are you willing, then, wretched Dick — are you willing, false friend — that this glory should belong to another? Must I then be untrue to my past history; recoil before obstacles that are not serious; requite with cowardly hesitation what both the English Government and the Royal Society of London have done for me?”

“But,” resumed Kennedy, who made great use of that conjunction.

“But,” said the doctor, “are you not aware that my journey is to compete with the success of the expeditions now on foot? Don’t you know that fresh explorers are advancing toward the centre of Africa?”

“Still — “

“Listen to me, Dick,” and cast your eyes over that map.”

Dick glanced over it, with resignation.

“Now, ascend the course of the Nile.”

“I have ascended it,” replied the Scotchman, with docility.

“Stop at Gondokoro.”

“I am there.”

And Kennedy thought to himself how easy such a trip was — on the map!

“Now, take one of the points of these dividers and let it rest upon that place beyond which the most daring explorers have scarcely gone.”

“I have done so.”

“And now look along the coast for the island of Zanzibar, in latitude six degrees south.”

“I have it.”

“Now, follow the same parallel and arrive at Kazeh.”

“I have done so.”

“Run up again along the thirty-third degree of longitude to the opening of Lake Oukereoue, at the point where Lieutenant Speke had to halt.”

“I am there; a little more, and I should have tumbled into the lake.”

“Very good! Now, do you know what we have the right to suppose, according to the information given by the tribes that live along its shores?”

“I haven’t the least idea.”

“Why, that this lake, the lower extremity of which is in two degrees and thirty minutes, must extend also two degrees and a half above the equator.”

“Really!”

“Well from this northern extremity there flows a stream which must necessarily join the Nile, if it be not the Nile itself.”

“That is, indeed, curious.”

“Then, let the other point of your dividers rest upon that extremity of Lake Oukereoue.”

“It is done, friend Ferguson.”

“Now, how many degrees can you count between the two points?”

“Scarcely two.”

“And do you know what that means, Dick?”

“Not the least in the world.”

“Why, that makes scarcely one hundred and twenty miles — in other words, a nothing.”

“Almost nothing, Samuel.”

“Well, do you know what is taking place at this moment?”

“No, upon my honor, I do not.”

“Very well, then, I’ll tell you. The Geographical Society regard as very important the exploration of this lake of which Speke caught a glimpse. Under their auspices, Lieutenant (now Captain) Speke has associated with him Captain Grant, of the army in India; they have put themselves at the head of a numerous and well-equipped expedition; their mission is to ascend the lake and return to Gondokoro; they have received a subsidy of more than five thousand pounds, and the Governor of the Cape of Good Hope has placed Hottentot soldiers at their disposal; they set out from Zanzibar at the close of October, 1860. In the mean while John Petherick, the English consul at the city of Karthoum, has received about seven hundred pounds from the foreign office; he is to equip a steamer at Karthoum, stock it with sufficient provisions, and make his way to Gondokoro; there, he will await Captain Speke’s caravan, and be able to replenish its supplies to some extent.”

“Well planned,” said Kennedy.

“You can easily see, then, that time presses if we are to take part in these exploring labors. And that is not all, since, while some are thus advancing with sure steps to the discovery of the sources of the Nile, others are penetrating to the very heart of Africa.”

“On foot?” said Kennedy.

“Yes, on foot,” rejoined the doctor, without noticing the insinuation. “Doctor Krapf proposes to push forward, in the west, by way of the Djob, a river lying under the equator. Baron de Decken has already set out from Monbaz, has reconnoitred the mountains of Kenaia and Kilimandjaro, and is now plunging in toward the centre.”

“But all this time on foot?”

“On foot or on mules.”

“Exactly the same, so far as I am concerned,” ejaculated Kennedy.

“Lastly,” resumed the doctor, “M. de Heuglin, the Austrian vice-consul at Karthoum, has just organized a very important expedition, the first aim of which is to search for the traveller Vogel, who, in 1853, was sent into the Soudan to associate himself with the labors of Dr. Barth. In 1856, he quitted Bornou, and determined to explore the unknown country that lies between Lake Tchad and Darfur. Nothing has been seen of him since that time. Letters that were received in Alexandria, in 1860, said that he was killed at the order of the King of Wadai; but other letters, addressed by Dr. Hartmann to the traveller’s father, relate that, according to the recital of a felatah of Bornou, Vogel was merely held as a prisoner at Wara. All hope is not then lost. Hence, a committee has been organized under the presidency of the Regent of Saxe-Cogurg-Gotha; my friend Petermann is its secretary; a national subscription has provided for the expense of the expedition, whose strength has been increased by the voluntary accession of several learned men, and M. de Heuglin set out from Massowah, in the month of June. While engaged in looking for Vogel, he is also to explore all the country between the Nile and Lake Tchad, that is to say, to knit together the operations of Captain Speke and those of Dr. Barth, and then Africa will have been traversed from east to west.”*

* After the departure of Dr. Ferguson, it was ascertained that M. de Heuglin, owing to some disagreement, took a route different from the one assigned to his expedition, the command of the latter having been transferred to Mr. Muntzinger.

“Well,” said the canny Scot, “since every thing is getting on so well, what’s the use of our going down there?”

Dr. Ferguson made no reply, but contented himself with a significant shrug of the shoulders.

CHAPTER SIXTH.

A Servant — match him! — He can see the Satellites of Jupiter. — Dick and Joe hard at it. — Doubt and Faith. — The Weighing Ceremony. — Joe and Wellington. — He gets a Half-crown.

Dr. Ferguson had a servant who answered with alacrity to the name of Joe. He was an excellent fellow, who testified the most absolute confidence in his master, and the most unlimited devotion to his interests, even anticipating his wishes and orders, which were always intelligently executed. In fine, he was a Caleb without the growling, and a perfect pattern of constant good-humor. Had he been made on purpose for the place, it could not have been better done. Ferguson put himself entirely in his hands, so far as the ordinary details of existence were concerned, and he did well. Incomparable, whole-souled Joe! a servant who orders your dinner; who likes what you like; who packs your trunk, without forgetting your socks or your linen; who has charge of your keys and your secrets, and takes no advantage of all this!

But then, what a man the doctor was in the eyes of this worthy Joe! With what respect and what confidence the latter received all his decisions! When Ferguson had spoken, he would be a fool who should attempt to question the matter. Every thing he thought was exactly right; every thing he said, the perfection of wisdom; every thing he ordered to be done, quite feasible; all that he undertook, practicable; all that he accomplished, admirable. You might have cut Joe to pieces — not an agreeable operation, to be sure — and yet he would not have altered his opinion of his master.

So, when the doctor conceived the project of crossing Africa through the air, for Joe the thing was already done; obstacles no longer existed; from the moment when the doctor had made up his mind to start, he had arrived — along with his faithful attendant, too, for the noble fellow knew, without a word uttered about it, that he would be one of the party.

Moreover, he was just the man to render the greatest service by his intelligence and his wonderful agility. Had the occasion arisen to name a professor of gymnastics for the monkeys in the Zoological Garden (who are smart enough, by-the-way!), Joe would certainly have received the appointment. Leaping, climbing, almost flying — these were all sport to him.

If Ferguson was the head and Kennedy the arm, Joe was to be the right hand of the expedition. He had, already, accompanied his master on several journeys, and had a smattering of science appropriate to his condition and style of mind, but he was especially remarkable for a sort of mild philosophy, a charming turn of optimism. In his sight every thing was easy, logical, natural, and, consequently, he could see no use in complaining or grumbling.

Among other gifts, he possessed a strength and range of vision that were perfectly surprising. He enjoyed, in common with Moestlin, Kepler’s professor, the rare faculty of distinguishing the satellites of Jupiter with the naked eye, and of counting fourteen of the stars in the group of Pleiades, the remotest of them being only of the ninth magnitude. He presumed none the more for that; on the contrary, he made his bow to you, at a distance, and when occasion arose he bravely knew how to use his eyes.

With such profound faith as Joe felt in the doctor, it is not to be wondered at that incessant discussions sprang up between him and Kennedy, without any lack of respect to the latter, however.

One doubted, the other believed; one had a prudent foresight, the other blind confidence. The doctor, however, vibrated between doubt and confidence; that is to say, he troubled his head with neither one nor the other.

“Well, Mr. Kennedy,” Joe would say.

“Well, my boy?”

“The moment’s at hand. It seems that we are to sail for the moon.”

“You mean the Mountains of the Moon, which are not quite so far off. But, never mind, one trip is just as dangerous as the other!”

“Dangerous! What! with a man like Dr. Ferguson?”

“I don’t want to spoil your illusions, my good Joe; but this undertaking of his is nothing more nor less than the act of a madman. He won’t go, though!”

“He won’t go, eh? Then you haven’t seen his balloon at Mitchell’s factory in the Borough?”

“I’ll take precious good care to keep away from it!”

“Well, you’ll lose a fine sight, sir. What a splendid thing it is! What a pretty shape! What a nice car! How snug we’ll feel in it!”

“Then you really think of going with your master?”

“I?” answered Joe, with an accent of profound conviction. “Why, I’d go with him wherever he pleases! Who ever heard of such a thing? Leave him to go off alone, after we’ve been all over the world together! Who would help him, when he was tired? Who would give him a hand in climbing over the rocks? Who would attend him when he was sick? No, Mr. Kennedy, Joe will always stick to the doctor!”

“You’re a fine fellow, Joe!”

“But, then, you’re coming with us!”

“Oh! certainly,” said Kennedy; “that is to say, I will go with you up to the last moment, to prevent Samuel even then from being guilty of such an act of folly! I will follow him as far as Zanzibar, so as to stop him there, if possible.”

“You’ll stop nothing at all, Mr. Kennedy, with all respect to you, sir. My master is no hare-brained person; he takes a long time to think over what he means to do, and then, when he once gets started, the Evil One himself couldn’t make him give it up.”

“Well, we’ll see about that.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, sir — but then, the main thing is, to have you with us. For a hunter like you, sir, Africa’s a great country. So, either way, you won’t be sorry for the trip.”

“No, that’s a fact, I shan’t be sorry for it, if I can get this crazy man to give up his scheme.”

“By-the-way,” said Joe, “you know that the weighing comes off to-day.”

“The weighing — what weighing?”

“Why, my master, and you, and I, are all to be weighed to-day!”

“What! like horse-jockeys?”

“Yes, like jockeys. Only, never fear, you won’t be expected to make yourself lean, if you’re found to be heavy. You’ll go as you are.”

“Well, I can tell you, I am not going to let myself be weighed,” said Kennedy, firmly.

“But, sir, it seems that the doctor’s machine requires it.”

“Well, his machine will have to do without it.”

“Humph! and suppose that it couldn’t go up, then?”

“Egad! that’s all I want!”

“Come! come, Mr. Kennedy! My master will be sending for us directly.”

“I shan’t go.”

“Oh! now, you won’t vex the doctor in that way!”

“Aye! that I will.”

“Well!” said Joe with a laugh, “you say that because he’s not here; but when he says to your face, ‘Dick!’ (with all respect to you, sir,) ‘Dick, I want to know exactly how much you weigh,’ you’ll go, I warrant it.”

“No, I will NOT go!”

At this moment the doctor entered his study, where this discussion had been taking place; and, as he came in, cast a glance at Kennedy, who did not feel altogether at his ease.

“Dick,” said the doctor, “come with Joe; I want to know how much you both weigh.”

“But — “

“You may keep your hat on. Come!” And Kennedy went.

They repaired in company to the workshop of the Messrs. Mitchell, where one of those so-called “Roman” scales was in readiness. It was necessary, by the way, for the doctor to know the weight of his companions, so as to fix the equilibrium of his balloon; so he made Dick get up on the platform of the scales. The latter, without making any resistance, said, in an undertone: “Oh! well, that doesn’t bind me to any thing.”

“One hundred and fifty-three pounds,” said the doctor, noting it down on his tablets.

“Am I too heavy?”

“Why, no, Mr. Kennedy!” said Joe; “and then, you know, I am light to make up for it.”

So saying, Joe, with enthusiasm, took his place on the scales, and very nearly upset them in his ready haste. He struck the attitude of Wellington where he is made to ape Achilles, at Hyde-Park entrance, and was superb in it, without the shield.

“One hundred and twenty pounds,” wrote the doctor.

“Ah! ha!” said Joe, with a smile of satisfaction And why did he smile? He never could tell himself.

“It’s my turn now,” said Ferguson — and he put down one hundred and thirty-five pounds to his own account.

“All three of us,” said he, “do not weigh much more than four hundred pounds.”

“But, sir,” said Joe, “if it was necessary for your expedition, I could make myself thinner by twenty pounds, by not eating so much.”

“Useless, my boy!” replied the doctor. “You may eat as much as you like, and here’s half-a-crown to buy you the ballast.”

CHAPTER SEVENTH.

Geometrical Details. — Calculation of the Capacity of the Balloon. — The

Double Receptacle. — The Covering. — The Car. — The Mysterious Apparatus.

— The Provisions and Stores. — The Final Summing up.

Dr. Ferguson had long been engaged upon the details of his expedition. It is easy to comprehend that the balloon — that marvellous vehicle which was to convey him through the air — was the constant object of his solicitude.

At the outset, in order not to give the balloon too ponderous dimensions, he had decided to fill it with hydrogen gas, which is fourteen and a half times lighter than common air. The production of this gas is easy, and it has given the greatest satisfaction hitherto in aerostatic experiments.

The doctor, according to very accurate calculations, found that, including the articles indispensable to his journey and his apparatus, he should have to carry a weight of 4,000 pounds; therefore he had to find out what would be the ascensional force of a balloon capable of raising such a weight, and, consequently, what would be its capacity.

A weight of four thousand pounds is represented by a displacement of the air amounting to forty-four thousand eight hundred and forty-seven cubic feet; or, in other words, forty-four thousand eight hundred and forty-seven cubic feet of air weigh about four thousand pounds.

By giving the balloon these cubic dimensions, and filling it with hydrogen gas, instead of common air — the former being fourteen and a half times lighter and weighing therefore only two hundred and seventy-six pounds — a difference of three thousand seven hundred and twenty-four pounds in equilibrium is produced; and it is this difference between the weight of the gas contained in the balloon and the weight of the surrounding atmosphere that constitutes the ascensional force of the former.

However, were the forty-four thousand eight hundred and forty-seven cubic feet of gas of which we speak, all introduced into the balloon, it would be entirely filled; but that would not do, because, as the balloon continued to mount into the more rarefied layers of the atmosphere, the gas within would dilate, and soon burst the cover containing it. Balloons, then, are usually only two-thirds filled.

But the doctor, in carrying out a project known only to himself, resolved to fill his balloon only one-half; and, since he had to carry forty-four thousand eight hundred and forty-seven cubic feet of gas, to give his balloon nearly double capacity he arranged it in that elongated, oval shape which has come to be preferred. The horizontal diameter was fifty feet, and the vertical diameter seventy-five feet. He thus obtained a spheroid, the capacity of which amounted, in round numbers, to ninety thousand cubic feet.

Could Dr. Ferguson have used two balloons, his chances of success would have been increased; for, should one burst in the air, he could, by throwing out ballast, keep himself up with the other. But the management of two balloons would, necessarily, be very difficult, in view of the problem how to keep them both at an equal ascensional force.

After having pondered the matter carefully, Dr. Ferguson, by an ingenious arrangement, combined the advantages of two balloons, without incurring their inconveniences. He constructed two of different sizes, and inclosed the smaller in the larger one. His external balloon, which had the dimensions given above, contained a less one of the same shape, which was only forty-five feet in horizontal, and sixty-eight feet in vertical diameter. The capacity of this interior balloon was only sixty-seven thousand cubic feet: it was to float in the fluid surrounding it. A valve opened from one balloon into the other, and thus enabled the aeronaut to communicate with both.

This arrangement offered the advantage, that if gas had to be let off, so as to descend, that which was in the outer balloon would go first; and, were it completely emptied, the smaller one would still remain intact. The outer envelope might then be cast off as a useless encumbrance; and the second balloon, left free to itself, would not offer the same hold to the currents of air as a half-inflated one must needs present.

Moreover, in case of an accident happening to the outside balloon, such as getting torn, for instance, the other would remain intact.

The balloons were made of a strong but light Lyons silk, coated with gutta percha. This gummy, resinous substance is absolutely water-proof, and also resists acids and gas perfectly. The silk was doubled, at the upper extremity of the oval, where most of the strain would come.

Such an envelope as this could retain the inflating fluid for any length of time. It weighed half a pound per nine square feet. Hence the surface of the outside balloon being about eleven thousand six hundred square feet, its envelope weighed six hundred and fifty pounds. The envelope of the second or inner balloon, having nine thousand two hundred square feet of surface, weighed only about five hundred and ten pounds, or say eleven hundred and sixty pounds for both.

The network that supported the car was made of very strong hempen cord, and the two valves were the object of the most minute and careful attention, as the rudder of a ship would be.

The car, which was of a circular form and fifteen feet in diameter, was made of wicker-work, strengthened with a slight covering of iron, and protected below by a system of elastic springs, to deaden the shock of collision. Its weight, along with that of the network, did not exceed two hundred and fifty pounds.

In addition to the above, the doctor caused to be constructed two sheet-iron chests two lines in thickness. These were connected by means of pipes furnished with stopcocks. He joined to these a spiral, two inches in diameter, which terminated in two branch pieces of unequal length, the longer of which, however, was twenty-five feet in height and the shorter only fifteen feet.

These sheet-iron chests were embedded in the car in such a way as to take up the least possible amount of space. The spiral, which was not to be adjusted until some future moment, was packed up, separately, along with a very strong Buntzen electric battery. This apparatus had been so ingeniously combined that it did not weigh more than seven hundred pounds, even including twenty-five gallons of water in another receptacle.

The instruments provided for the journey consisted of two barometers, two thermometers, two compasses, a sextant, two chronometers, an artificial horizon, and an altazimuth, to throw out the height of distant and inaccessible objects.

The Greenwich Observatory had placed itself at the doctor’s disposal. The latter, however, did not intend to make experiments in physics; he merely wanted to be able to know in what direction he was passing, and to determine the position of the principal rivers, mountains, and towns.

He also provided himself with three thoroughly tested iron anchors, and a light but strong silk ladder fifty feet in length.

He at the same time carefully weighed his stores of provision, which consisted of tea, coffee, biscuit, salted meat, and pemmican, a preparation which comprises many nutritive elements in a small space. Besides a sufficient stock of pure brandy, he arranged two water-tanks, each of which contained twenty-two gallons.

The consumption of these articles would necessarily, little by little, diminish the weight to be sustained, for it must be remembered that the equilibrium of a balloon floating in the atmosphere is extremely sensitive. The loss of an almost insignificant weight suffices to produce a very noticeable displacement.

Nor did the doctor forget an awning to shelter the car, nor the coverings and blankets that were to be the bedding of the journey, nor some fowling pieces and rifles, with their requisite supply of powder and ball.

Here is the summing up of his various items, and their weight, as he computed it:

Ferguson……………………… 135 pounds.

Kennedy………………………. 153 “

Joe………………………….. 120 “

Weight of the outside balloon…… 650 “

Weight of the second balloon……. 510 “

Car and network……………….. 280 “

Anchors, instruments, awnings,

and sundry utensils, guns,

coverings, etc………………. 190 “

Meat, pemmican, biscuits, tea,

coffee, brandy………………. 386 “

Water………………………… 400 “

Apparatus…………………….. 700 “

Weight of the hydrogen…………. 276 “

Ballast………………………. 200 “

— — -

4,000 pounds.

Such were the items of the four thousand pounds that Dr. Ferguson proposed to carry up with him. He took only two hundred pounds of ballast for “unforeseen emergencies,” as he remarked, since otherwise he did not expect to use any, thanks to the peculiarity of his apparatus.

CHAPTER EIGHTH.

Joe’s Importance. — The Commander of the Resolute. — Kennedy’s Arsenal. — Mutual Amenities. — The Farewell Dinner. — Departure on the 21st of February. — The Doctor’s Scientific Sessions. — Duveyrier. — Livingstone. — Details of the Aerial Voyage. — Kennedy silenced.

About the 10th of February, the preparations were pretty well completed; and the balloons, firmly secured, one within the other, were altogether finished. They had been subjected to a powerful pneumatic pressure in all parts, and the test gave excellent evidence of their solidity and of the care applied in their construction.

Joe hardly knew what he was about, with delight. He trotted incessantly to and fro between his home in Greek Street, and the Mitchell establishment, always full of business, but always in the highest spirits, giving details of the affair to people who did not even ask him, so proud was he, above all things, of being permitted to accompany his master. I have even a shrewd suspicion that what with showing the balloon, explaining the plans and views of the doctor, giving folks a glimpse of the latter, through a half-opened window, or pointing him out as he passed along the streets, the clever scamp earned a few half-crowns, but we must not find fault with him for that. He had as much right as anybody else to speculate upon the admiration and curiosity of his contemporaries.

On the 16th of February, the Resolute cast anchor near Greenwich. She was a screw propeller of eight hundred tons, a fast sailer, and the very vessel that had been sent out to the polar regions, to revictual the last expedition of Sir James Ross. Her commander, Captain Bennet, had the name of being a very amiable person, and he took a particular interest in the doctor’s expedition, having been one of that gentleman’s admirers for a long time. Bennet was rather a man of science than a man of war, which did not, however, prevent his vessel from carrying four carronades, that had never hurt any body, to be sure, but had performed the most pacific duty in the world.

The hold of the Resolute was so arranged as to find a stowing-place for the balloon. The latter was shipped with the greatest precaution on the 18th of February, and was then carefully deposited at the bottom of the vessel in such a way as to prevent accident. The car and its accessories, the anchors, the cords, the supplies, the water-tanks, which were to be filled on arriving, all were embarked and put away under Ferguson’s own eyes.

Ten tons of sulphuric acid and ten tons of iron filings, were put on board for the future production of the hydrogen gas. The quantity was more than enough, but it was well to be provided against accident. The apparatus to be employed in manufacturing the gas, including some thirty empty casks, was also stowed away in the hold.

These various preparations were terminated on the 18th of February, in the evening. Two state-rooms, comfortably fitted up, were ready for the reception of Dr. Ferguson and his friend Kennedy. The latter, all the while swearing that he would not go, went on board with a regular arsenal of hunting weapons, among which were two double-barrelled breech-loading fowling-pieces, and a rifle that had withstood every test, of the make of Purdey, Moore & Dickson, at Edinburgh. With such a weapon a marksman would find no difficulty in lodging a bullet in the eye of a chamois at the distance of two thousand paces. Along with these implements, he had two of Colt’s six-shooters, for unforeseen emergencies. His powder-case, his cartridge-pouch, his lead, and his bullets, did not exceed a certain weight prescribed by the doctor.

The three travellers got themselves to rights on board during the working-hours of February 19th. They were received with much distinction by the captain and his officers, the doctor continuing as reserved as ever, and thinking of nothing but his expedition. Dick seemed a good deal moved, but was unwilling to betray it; while Joe was fairly dancing and breaking out in laughable remarks. The worthy fellow soon became the jester and merry-andrew of the boatswain’s mess, where a berth had been kept for him.

On the 20th, a grand farewell dinner was given to Dr. Ferguson and Kennedy by the Royal Geographical Society. Commander Bennet and his officers were present at the entertainment, which was signalized by copious libations and numerous toasts. Healths were drunk, in sufficient abundance to guarantee all the guests a lifetime of centuries. Sir Francis M — — presided, with restrained but dignified feeling.

To his own supreme confusion, Dick Kennedy came in for a large share in the jovial felicitations of the night. After having drunk to the “intrepid Ferguson, the glory of England,” they had to drink to “the no less courageous Kennedy, his daring companion.”

Dick blushed a good deal, and that passed for modesty; whereupon the applause redoubled, and Dick blushed again.

A message from the Queen arrived while they were at dessert. Her Majesty offered her compliments to the two travellers, and expressed her wishes for their safe and successful journey. This, of course, rendered imperative fresh toasts to “Her most gracious Majesty.”

At midnight, after touching farewells and warm shaking of hands, the guests separated.

The boats of the Resolute were in waiting at the stairs of Westminster Bridge. The captain leaped in, accompanied by his officers and passengers, and the rapid current of the Thames, aiding the strong arms of the rowers, bore them swiftly to Greenwich. In an hour’s time all were asleep on board.

The next morning, February 21st, at three o’clock, the furnaces began to roar; at five, the anchors were weighed, and the Resolute, powerfully driven by her screw, began to plough the water toward the mouth of the Thames.

It is needless to say that the topic of conversation with every one on board was Dr. Ferguson’s enterprise. Seeing and hearing the doctor soon inspired everybody with such confidence that, in a very short time, there was no one, excepting the incredulous Scotchman, on the steamer who had the least doubt of the perfect feasibility and success of the expedition.

During the long, unoccupied hours of the voyage, the doctor held regular sittings, with lectures on geographical science, in the officers’ mess-room. These young men felt an intense interest in the discoveries made during the last forty years in Africa; and the doctor related to them the explorations of Barth, Burton, Speke, and Grant, and depicted the wonders of this vast, mysterious country, now thrown open on all sides to the investigations of science. On the north, the young Duveyrier was exploring Sahara, and bringing the chiefs of the Touaregs to Paris. Under the inspiration of the French Government, two expeditions were preparing, which, descending from the north, and coming from the west, would cross each other at Timbuctoo. In the south, the indefatigable Livingstone was still advancing toward the equator; and, since March, 1862, he had, in company with Mackenzie, ascended the river Rovoonia. The nineteenth century would, assuredly, not pass, contended the doctor, without Africa having been compelled to surrender the secrets she has kept locked up in her bosom for six thousand years.

But the interest of Dr. Ferguson’s hearers was excited to the highest pitch when he made known to them, in detail, the preparations for his own journey. They took pleasure in verifying his calculations; they discussed them; and the doctor frankly took part in the discussion.

As a general thing, they were surprised at the limited quantity of provision that he took with him; and one day one of the officers questioned him on that subject.

“That peculiar point astonishes you, does it?” said

Ferguson.

“It does, indeed.”

“But how long do you think my trip is going to last? Whole months? If so, you are greatly mistaken. Were it to be a long one, we should be lost; we should never get back. But you must know that the distance from Zanzibar to the coast of Senegal is only thirty-five hundred — say four thousand miles. Well, at the rate of two hundred and forty miles every twelve hours, which does not come near the rapidity of our railroad trains, by travelling day and night, it would take only seven days to cross Africa!”

“But then you could see nothing, make no geographical observations, or reconnoitre the face of the country.”

“Ah!” replied the doctor, “if I am master of my balloon — if I can ascend and descend at will, I shall stop when I please, especially when too violent currents of air threaten to carry me out of my way with them.”

“And you will encounter such,” said Captain Bennet. “There are tornadoes that sweep at the rate of more than two hundred and forty miles per hour.”

“You see, then, that with such speed as that, we could cross Africa in twelve hours. One would rise at Zanzibar, and go to bed at St. Louis!”

“But,” rejoined the officer, “could any balloon withstand the wear and tear of such velocity?”

“It has happened before,” replied Ferguson.

“And the balloon withstood it?”

“Perfectly well. It was at the time of the coronation of Napoleon, in 1804. The aeronaut, Gernerin, sent up a balloon at Paris, about eleven o’clock in the evening. It bore the following inscription, in letters of gold: ‘Paris, 25 Frimaire; year XIII; Coronation of the Emperor Napoleon by his Holiness, Pius VII.’ On the next morning, the inhabitants of Rome saw the same balloon soaring above the Vatican, whence it crossed the Campagna, and finally fluttered down into the lake of Bracciano. So you see, gentlemen, that a balloon can resist such velocities.”

“A balloon — that might be; but a man?” insinuated Kennedy.

“Yes, a man, too! — for the balloon is always motionless with reference to the air that surrounds it. What moves is the mass of the atmosphere itself: for instance, one may light a taper in the car, and the flame will not even waver. An aeronaut in Garnerin’s balloon would not have suffered in the least from the speed. But then I have no occasion to attempt such velocity; and if I can anchor to some tree, or some favorable inequality of the ground, at night, I shall not fail to do so. Besides, we take provision for two months with us, after all; and there is nothing to prevent our skilful huntsman here from furnishing game in abundance when we come to alight.”

“Ah! Mr. Kennedy,” said a young midshipman, with envious eyes, “what splendid shots you’ll have!”

“Without counting,” said another, “that you’ll have the glory as well as the sport!”

“Gentlemen,” replied the hunter, stammering with confusion, “I greatly — appreciate — your compliments — but they — don’t — belong to me.”

“You!” exclaimed every body, “don’t you intend to go?”

“I am not going!”

“You won’t accompany Dr. Ferguson?”

“Not only shall I not accompany him, but I am here so as to be present at the last moment to prevent his going.”

Every eye was now turned to the doctor.

“Never mind him!” said the latter, calmly. “This is a matter that we can’t argue with him. At heart he knows perfectly well that he IS going.”

“By Saint Andrew!” said Kennedy, “I swear — “

“Swear to nothing, friend Dick; you have been ganged and weighed — you and your powder, your guns, and your bullets; so don’t let us say anything more about it.”

And, in fact, from that day until the arrival at Zanzibar, Dick never opened his mouth. He talked neither about that nor about anything else. He kept absolutely silent.

CHAPTER NINTH.

They double the Cape. — The Forecastle. — A Course of Cosmography by Professor Joe. — Concerning the Method of guiding Balloons. — How to seek out Atmospheric Currents. — Eureka.

The Resolute plunged along rapidly toward the Cape of Good Hope, the weather continuing fine, although the sea ran heavier.

On the 30th of March, twenty-seven days after the departure from London, the Table Mountain loomed up on the horizon. Cape City lying at the foot of an amphitheatre of hills, could be distinguished through the ship’s glasses, and soon the Resolute cast anchor in the port. But the captain touched there only to replenish his coal bunkers, and that was but a day’s job. On the morrow, he steered away to the south’ard, so as to double the southernmost point of Africa, and enter the Mozambique Channel.

This was not Joe’s first sea-voyage, and so, for his part, he soon found himself at home on board; every body liked him for his frankness and good-humor. A considerable share of his master’s renown was reflected upon him. He was listened to as an oracle, and he made no more mistakes than the next one.

So, while the doctor was pursuing his descriptive course of lecturing in the officers’ mess, Joe reigned supreme on the forecastle, holding forth in his own peculiar manner, and making history to suit himself — a style of procedure pursued, by the way, by the greatest historians of all ages and nations.

The topic of discourse was, naturally, the aerial voyage. Joe had experienced some trouble in getting the rebellious spirits to believe in it; but, once accepted by them, nothing connected with it was any longer an impossibility to the imaginations of the seamen stimulated by Joe’s harangues.

Our dazzling narrator persuaded his hearers that, after this trip, many others still more wonderful would be undertaken. In fact, it was to be but the first of a long series of superhuman expeditions.

“You see, my friends, when a man has had a taste of that kind of travelling, he can’t get along afterward with any other; so, on our next expedition, instead of going off to one side, we’ll go right ahead, going up, too, all the time.”

“Humph! then you’ll go to the moon!” said one of the crowd, with a stare of amazement.

“To the moon!” exclaimed Joe, “To the moon! pooh! that’s too common. Every body might go to the moon, that way. Besides, there’s no water there, and you have to carry such a lot of it along with you. Then you have to take air along in bottles, so as to breathe.”

“Ay! ay! that’s all right! But can a man get a drop of the real stuff there?” said a sailor who liked his toddy.

“Not a drop!” was Joe’s answer. “No! old fellow, not in the moon. But we’re going to skip round among those little twinklers up there — the stars — and the splendid planets that my old man so often talks about. For instance, we’ll commence with Saturn — “

“That one with the ring?” asked the boatswain.

“Yes! the wedding-ring — only no one knows what’s become of his wife!”

“What? will you go so high up as that?” said one of the ship-boys, gaping with wonder. “Why, your master must be Old Nick himself.”

“Oh! no, he’s too good for that.”

“But, after Saturn — what then?” was the next inquiry of his impatient audience.

“After Saturn? Well, we’ll visit Jupiter. A funny place that is, too, where the days are only nine hours and a half long — a good thing for the lazy fellows — and the years, would you believe it — last twelve of ours, which is fine for folks who have only six months to live. They get off a little longer by that.”

“Twelve years!” ejaculated the boy.

“Yes, my youngster; so that in that country you’d be toddling after your mammy yet, and that old chap yonder, who looks about fifty, would only be a little shaver of four and a half.”

“Blazes! that’s a good ‘un!” shouted the whole forecastle together.

“Solemn truth!” said Joe, stoutly.

“But what can you expect? When people will stay in this world, they learn nothing and keep as ignorant as bears. But just come along to Jupiter and you’ll see. But they have to look out up there, for he’s got satellites that are not just the easiest things to pass.”

All the men laughed, but they more than half believed him. Then he went on to talk about Neptune, where seafaring men get a jovial reception, and Mars, where the military get the best of the sidewalk to such an extent that folks can hardly stand it. Finally, he drew them a heavenly picture of the delights of Venus.

“And when we get back from that expedition,” said the indefatigable narrator, “they’ll decorate us with the Southern Cross that shines up there in the Creator’s button-hole.”

“Ay, and you’d have well earned it!” said the sailors.

Thus passed the long evenings on the forecastle in merry chat, and during the same time the doctor went on with his instructive discourses.

One day the conversation turned upon the means of directing balloons, and the doctor was asked his opinion about it.

“I don’t think,” said he, “that we shall succeed in finding out a system of directing them. I am familiar with all the plans attempted and proposed, and not one has succeeded, not one is practicable. You may readily understand that I have occupied my mind with this subject, which was, necessarily, so interesting to me, but I have not been able to solve the problem with the appliances now known to mechanical science. We would have to discover a motive power of extraordinary force, and almost impossible lightness of machinery. And, even then, we could not resist atmospheric currents of any considerable strength. Until now, the effort has been rather to direct the car than the balloon, and that has been one great error.”

“Still there are many points of resemblance between a balloon and a ship which is directed at will.”

“Not at all,” retorted the doctor, “there is little or no similarity between the two cases. Air is infinitely less dense than water, in which the ship is only half submerged, while the whole bulk of a balloon is plunged in the atmosphere, and remains motionless with reference to the element that surrounds it.”

“You think, then, that aerostatic science has said its last word?”

“Not at all! not at all! But we must look for another point in the case, and if we cannot manage to guide our balloon, we must, at least, try to keep it in favorable aerial currents. In proportion as we ascend, the latter become much more uniform and flow more constantly in one direction. They are no longer disturbed by the mountains and valleys that traverse the surface of the globe, and these, you know, are the chief cause of the variations of the wind and the inequality of their force. Therefore, these zones having been once determined, the balloon will merely have to be placed in the currents best adapted to its destination.”

“But then,” continued Captain Bennet, “in order to reach them, you must keep constantly ascending or descending. That is the real difficulty, doctor.”

“And why, my dear captain?”

“Let us understand one another. It would be a difficulty and an obstacle only for long journeys, and not for short aerial excursions.”

“And why so, if you please?”

“Because you can ascend only by throwing out ballast; you can descend only after letting off gas, and by these processes your ballast and your gas are soon exhausted.”

“My dear sir, that’s the whole question. There is the only difficulty that science need now seek to overcome. The problem is not how to guide the balloon, but how to take it up and down without expending the gas which is its strength, its life-blood, its soul, if I may use the expression.”

“You are right, my dear doctor; but this problem is not yet solved; this means has not yet been discovered.”

“I beg your pardon, it HAS been discovered.”

“By whom?”

“By me!”

“By you?”

“You may readily believe that otherwise I should not have risked this expedition across Africa in a balloon. In twenty-four hours I should have been without gas!”

“But you said nothing about that in England?”

“No! I did not want to have myself overhauled in public. I saw no use in that. I made my preparatory experiments in secret and was satisfied. I have no occasion, then, to learn any thing more from them.”

“Well! doctor, would it be proper to ask what is your secret?”

“Here it is, gentlemen — the simplest thing in the world!”

The attention of his auditory was now directed to the doctor in the utmost degree as he quietly proceeded with his explanation.

CHAPTER TENTH.

Former Experiments. — The Doctor’s Five Receptacles. — The Gas Cylinder. — The Calorifere. — The System of Manoeuvring. — Success certain.

“The attempt has often been made, gentlemen,” said the doctor, “to rise and descend at will, without losing ballast or gas from the balloon. A French aeronaut, M. Meunier, tried to accomplish this by compressing air in an inner receptacle. A Belgian, Dr. Van Hecke, by means of wings and paddles, obtained a vertical power that would have sufficed in most cases, but the practical results secured from these experiments have been insignificant.

“I therefore resolved to go about the thing more directly; so, at the start, I dispensed with ballast altogether, excepting as a provision for cases of special emergency, such as the breakage of my apparatus, or the necessity of ascending very suddenly, so as to avoid unforeseen obstacles.

“My means of ascent and descent consist simply in dilating or contracting the gas that is in the balloon by the application of different temperatures, and here is the method of obtaining that result.

“You saw me bring on board with the car several cases or receptacles, the use of which you may not have understood. They are five in number.

“The first contains about twenty-five gallons of water, to which I add a few drops of sulphuric acid, so as to augment its capacity as a conductor of electricity, and then I decompose it by means of a powerful Buntzen battery. Water, as you know, consists of two parts of hydrogen to one of oxygen gas.

“The latter, through the action of the battery, passes at its positive pole into the second receptacle. A third receptacle, placed above the second one, and of double its capacity, receives the hydrogen passing into it by the negative pole.

“Stopcocks, of which one has an orifice twice the size of the other, communicate between these receptacles and a fourth one, which is called the mixture reservoir, since in it the two gases obtained by the decomposition of the water do really commingle. The capacity of this fourth tank is about forty-one cubic feet.

“On the upper part of this tank is a platinum tube provided with a stopcock.

“You will now readily understand, gentlemen, the apparatus that I have described to you is really a gas cylinder and blow-pipe for oxygen and hydrogen, the heat of which exceeds that of a forge fire.

“This much established, I proceed to the second part of my apparatus. From the lowest part of my balloon, which is hermetically closed, issue two tubes a little distance apart. The one starts among the upper layers of the hydrogen gas, the other amid the lower layers.

“These two pipes are provided at intervals with strong jointings of india-rubber, which enable them to move in harmony with the oscillations of the balloon.

“Both of them run down as far as the car, and lose themselves in an iron receptacle of cylindrical form, which is called the heat-tank. The latter is closed at its two ends by two strong plates of the same metal.

“The pipe running from the lower part of the balloon runs into this cylindrical receptacle through the lower plate; it penetrates the latter and then takes the form of a helicoidal or screw-shaped spiral, the rings of which, rising one over the other, occupy nearly the whole of the height of the tank. Before again issuing from it, this spiral runs into a small cone with a concave base, that is turned downward in the shape of a spherical cap.

“It is from the top of this cone that the second pipe issues, and it runs, as I have said, into the upper beds of the balloon.

“The spherical cap of the small cone is of platinum, so as not to melt by the action of the cylinder and blow-pipe, for the latter are placed upon the bottom of the iron tank in the midst of the helicoidal spiral, and the extremity of their flame will slightly touch the cap in question.

“You all know, gentlemen, what a calorifere, to heat apartments, is. You know how it acts. The air of the apartments is forced to pass through its pipes, and is then released with a heightened temperature. Well, what I have just described to you is nothing more nor less than a calorifere.

“In fact, what is it that takes place? The cylinder once lighted, the hydrogen in the spiral and in the concave cone becomes heated, and rapidly ascends through the pipe that leads to the upper part of the balloon. A vacuum is created below, and it attracts the gas in the lower parts; this becomes heated in its turn, and is continually replaced; thus, an extremely rapid current of gas is established in the pipes and in the spiral, which issues from the balloon and then returns to it, and is heated over again, incessantly.

“Now, the cases increase 1/480 of their volume for each degree of heat applied. If, then, I force the temperature 18 degrees, the hydrogen of the balloon will dilate 18/480 or 1614 cubic feet, and will, therefore, displace 1614 more cubic feet of air, which will increase its ascensional power by 160 pounds. This is equivalent to throwing out that weight of ballast. If I augment the temperature by 180 degrees, the gas will dilate 180/480 and will displace 16,740 cubic feet more, and its ascensional force will be augmented by 1,600 pounds.

“Thus, you see, gentlemen, that I can easily effect very considerable changes of equilibrium. The volume of the balloon has been calculated in such manner that, when half inflated, it displaces a weight of air exactly equal to that of the envelope containing the hydrogen gas, and of the car occupied by the passengers, and all its apparatus and accessories. At this point of inflation, it is in exact equilibrium with the air, and neither mounts nor descends.

“In order, then, to effect an ascent, I give the gas a temperature superior to the temperature of the surrounding air by means of my cylinder. By this excess of heat it obtains a larger distention, and inflates the balloon more. The latter, then, ascends in proportion as I heat the hydrogen.

“The descent, of course, is effected by lowering the heat of the cylinder, and letting the temperature abate. The ascent would be, usually, more rapid than the descent; but that is a fortunate circumstance, since it is of no importance to me to descend rapidly, while, on the other hand, it is by a very rapid ascent that I avoid obstacles. The real danger lurks below, and not above.

“Besides, as I have said, I have a certain quantity of ballast, which will enable me to ascend more rapidly still, when necessary. My valve, at the top of the balloon, is nothing more nor less than a safety-valve. The balloon always retains the same quantity of hydrogen, and the variations of temperature that I produce in the midst of this shut-up gas are, of themselves, sufficient to provide for all these ascending and descending movements.

“Now, gentlemen, as a practical detail, let me add this: “The combustion of the hydrogen and of the oxygen at the point of the cylinder produces solely the vapor or steam of water. I have, therefore, provided the lower part of the cylindrical iron box with a scape-pipe, with a valve operating by means of a pressure of two atmospheres; consequently, so soon as this amount of pressure is attained, the steam escapes of itself.

“Here are the exact figures: 25 gallons of water, separated into its constituent elements, yield 200 pounds of oxygen and 25 pounds of hydrogen. This represents, at atmospheric tension, 1,800 cubic feet of the former and 3,780 cubic feet of the latter, or 5,670 cubic feet, in all, of the mixture. Hence, the stopcock of my cylinder, when fully open, expends 27 cubic feet per hour, with a flame at least six times as strong as that of the large lamps used for lighting streets. On an average, then, and in order to keep myself at a very moderate elevation, I should not burn more than nine cubic feet per hour, so that my twenty-five gallons of water represent six hundred and thirty-six hours of aerial navigation, or a little more than twenty-six days.

“Well, as I can descend when I please, to replenish my stock of water on the way, my trip might be indefinitely prolonged.

“Such, gentlemen, is my secret. It is simple, and, like most simple things, it cannot fail to succeed. The dilation and contraction of the gas in the balloon is my means of locomotion, which calls for neither cumbersome wings, nor any other mechanical motor. A calorifere to produce the changes of temperature, and a cylinder to generate the heat, are neither inconvenient nor heavy. I think, therefore, that I have combined all the elements of success.”

Dr. Ferguson here terminated his discourse, and was most heartily applauded. There was not an objection to make to it; all had been foreseen and decided.

“However,” said the captain, “the thing may prove dangerous.”

“What matters that,” replied the doctor, “provided that it be practicable?”

CHAPTER ELEVENTH.

The Arrival at Zanzibar. — The English Consul. — Ill-will of the Inhabitants. — The Island of Koumbeni. — The Rain-Makers. — Inflation of the Balloon. — Departure on the 18th of April. — The last Good-by. — The Victoria.

An invariably favorable wind had accelerated the progress of the Resolute toward the place of her destination. The navigation of the Mozambique Channel was especially calm and pleasant. The agreeable character of the trip by sea was regarded as a good omen of the probable issue of the trip through the air. Every one looked forward to the hour of arrival, and sought to give the last touch to the doctor’s preparations.

At length the vessel hove in sight of the town of Zanzibar, upon the island of the same name, and, on the 15th of April, at 11 o’clock in the morning, she anchored in the port.

The island of Zanzibar belongs to the Imaum of Muscat, an ally of France and England, and is, undoubtedly, his finest settlement. The port is frequented by a great many vessels from the neighboring countries.

The island is separated from the African coast only by a channel, the greatest width of which is but thirty miles.

It has a large trade in gums, ivory, and, above all, in “ebony,” for Zanzibar is the great slave-market. Thither converges all the booty captured in the battles which the chiefs of the interior are continually fighting. This traffic extends along the whole eastern coast, and as far as the Nile latitudes. Mr. G. Lejean even reports that he has seen it carried on, openly, under the French flag.

Upon the arrival of the Resolute, the English consul at Zanzibar came on board to offer his services to the doctor, of whose projects the European newspapers had made him aware for a month past. But, up to that moment, he had remained with the numerous phalanx of the incredulous.

“I doubted,” said he, holding out his hand to Dr. Ferguson, “but now I doubt no longer.”

He invited the doctor, Kennedy, and the faithful Joe, of course, to his own dwelling. Through his courtesy, the doctor was enabled to have knowledge of the various letters that he had received from Captain Speke. The captain and his companions had suffered dreadfully from hunger and bad weather before reaching the Ugogo country. They could advance only with extreme difficulty, and did not expect to be able to communicate again for a long time.

“Those are perils and privations which we shall manage to avoid,” said the doctor.

The baggage of the three travellers was conveyed to the consul’s residence. Arrangements were made for disembarking the balloon upon the beach at Zanzibar. There was a convenient spot, near the signal-mast, close by an immense building, that would serve to shelter it from the east winds. This huge tower, resembling a tun standing on one end, beside which the famous Heidelberg tun would have seemed but a very ordinary barrel, served as a fortification, and on its platform were stationed Belootchees, armed with lances. These Belootchees are a kind of brawling, good-for-nothing Janizaries.

But, when about to land the balloon, the consul was informed that the population of the island would oppose their doing so by force. Nothing is so blind as fanatical passion. The news of the arrival of a Christian, who was to ascend into the air, was received with rage. The negroes, more exasperated than the Arabs, saw in this project an attack upon their religion. They took it into their heads that some mischief was meant to the sun and the moon. Now, these two luminaries are objects of veneration to the African tribes, and they determined to oppose so sacrilegious an enterprise.

The consul, informed of their intentions, conferred with Dr. Ferguson and Captain Bennet on the subject. The latter was unwilling to yield to threats, but his friend dissuaded him from any idea of violent retaliation.

“We shall certainly come out winners,” he said. “Even the imaum’s soldiers will lend us a hand, if we need it. But, my dear captain, an accident may happen in a moment, and it would require but one unlucky blow to do the balloon an irreparable injury, so that the trip would be totally defeated; therefore we must act with the greatest caution.”

“But what are we to do? If we land on the coast of Africa, we shall encounter the same difficulties. What are we to do?”

“Nothing is more simple,” replied the consul. “You observe those small islands outside of the port; land your balloon on one of them; surround it with a guard of sailors, and you will have no risk to run.”

“Just the thing!” said the doctor, “and we shall be entirely at our ease in completing our preparations.”

The captain yielded to these suggestions, and the Resolute was headed for the island of Koumbeni. During the morning of the 16th April, the balloon was placed in safety in the middle of a clearing in the great woods, with which the soil is studded.

Two masts, eighty feet in height, were raised at the same distance from each other. Blocks and tackle, placed at their extremities, afforded the means of elevating the balloon, by the aid of a transverse rope. It was then entirely uninflated. The interior balloon was fastened to the exterior one, in such manner as to be lifted up in the same way. To the lower end of each balloon were fixed the pipes that served to introduce the hydrogen gas.

The whole day, on the 17th, was spent in arranging the apparatus destined to produce the gas; it consisted of some thirty casks, in which the decomposition of water was effected by means of iron-filings and sulphuric acid placed together in a large quantity of the first-named fluid. The hydrogen passed into a huge central cask, after having been washed on the way, and thence into each balloon by the conduit-pipes. In this manner each of them received a certain accurately-ascertained quantity of gas. For this purpose, there had to be employed eighteen hundred and sixty-six pounds of sulphuric acid, sixteen thousand and fifty pounds of iron, and nine thousand one hundred and sixty-six gallons of water. This operation commenced on the following night, about three A.M. and lasted nearly eight hours. The next day, the balloon, covered with its network, undulated gracefully above its car, which was held to the ground by numerous sacks of earth. The inflating apparatus was put together with extreme care, and the pipes issuing from the balloon were securely fitted to the cylindrical case.

The anchors, the cordage, the instruments, the travelling-wraps, the awning, the provisions, and the arms, were put in the place assigned to them in the car. The supply of water was procured at Zanzibar. The two hundred pounds of ballast were distributed in fifty bags placed at the bottom of the car, but within arm’s-reach.

These preparations were concluded about five o’clock in the evening, while sentinels kept close watch around the island, and the boats of the Resolute patrolled the channel.

The blacks continued to show their displeasure by grimaces and contortions. Their obi-men, or wizards, went up and down among the angry throngs, pouring fuel on the flame of their fanaticism; and some of the excited wretches, more furious and daring than the rest, attempted to get to the island by swimming, but they were easily driven off.

Thereupon the sorceries and incantations commenced; the “rain-makers,” who pretend to have control over the clouds, invoked the storms and the “stone-showers,” as the blacks call hail, to their aid. To compel them to do so, they plucked leaves of all the different trees that grow in that country, and boiled them over a slow fire, while, at the same time, a sheep was killed by thrusting a long needle into its heart. But, in spite of all their ceremonies, the sky remained clear and beautiful, and they profited nothing by their slaughtered sheep and their ugly grimaces.

The blacks then abandoned themselves to the most furious orgies, and got fearfully drunk on “tembo,” a kind of ardent spirits drawn from the cocoa-nut tree, and an extremely heady sort of beer called “togwa.” Their chants, which were destitute of all melody, but were sung in excellent time, continued until far into the night.

About six o’clock in the evening, the captain assembled the travellers and the officers of the ship at a farewell repast in his cabin. Kennedy, whom nobody ventured to question now, sat with his eyes riveted on Dr. Ferguson, murmuring indistinguishable words. In other respects, the dinner was a gloomy one. The approach of the final moment filled everybody with the most serious reflections. What had fate in store for these daring adventurers? Should they ever again find themselves in the midst of their friends, or seated at the domestic hearth? Were their travelling apparatus to fail, what would become of them, among those ferocious savage tribes, in regions that had never been explored, and in the midst of boundless deserts?

Such thoughts as these, which had been dim and vague until then, or but slightly regarded when they came up, returned upon their excited fancies with intense force at this parting moment. Dr. Ferguson, still cold and impassible, talked of this, that, and the other; but he strove in vain to overcome this infectious gloominess. He utterly failed.

As some demonstration against the personal safety of the doctor and his companions was feared, all three slept that night on board the Resolute. At six o’clock in the morning they left their cabin, and landed on the island of Koumbeni.

The balloon was swaying gently to and fro in the morning breeze; the sand-bags that had held it down were now replaced by some twenty strong-armed sailors, and Captain Bennet and his officers were present to witness the solemn departure of their friends.

At this moment Kennedy went right up to the doctor, grasped his hand, and said: “Samuel, have you absolutely determined to go?”

“Solemnly determined, my dear Dick.”

“I have done every thing that I could to prevent this expedition, have I not?”

“Every thing!”

“Well, then, my conscience is clear on that score, and I will go with you.”

“I was sure you would!” said the doctor, betraying in his features swift traces of emotion.

At last the moment of final leave-taking arrived. The captain and his officers embraced their dauntless friends with great feeling, not excepting even Joe, who, worthy fellow, was as proud and happy as a prince. Every one in the party insisted upon having a final shake of the doctor’s hand.

At nine o’clock the three travellers got into their car. The doctor lit the combustible in his cylinder and turned the flame so as to produce a rapid heat, and the balloon, which had rested on the ground in perfect equipoise, began to rise in a few minutes, so that the seamen had to slacken the ropes they held it by. The car then rose about twenty feet above their heads.

“My friends!” exclaimed the doctor, standing up between his two companions, and taking off his hat, “let us give our aerial ship a name that will bring her good luck! let us christen her Victoria!”

This speech was answered with stentorian cheers of “Huzza for the Queen! Huzza for Old England!”

At this moment the ascensional force of the balloon increased prodigiously, and Ferguson, Kennedy, and Joe, waved a last good-by to their friends.

“Let go all!” shouted the doctor, and at the word the Victoria shot rapidly up into the sky, while the four carronades on board the Resolute thundered forth a parting salute in her honor.

CHAPTER TWELFTH

Crossing the Strait. — The Mrima. — Dick’s Remark and Joe’s Proposition. — A Recipe for Coffee-making. — The Uzaramo. — The Unfortunate Maizan. — Mount Dathumi. — The Doctor’s Cards. — Night under a Nopal.

The air was pure, the wind moderate, and the balloon ascended almost perpendicularly to a height of fifteen hundred feet, as indicated by a depression of two inches in the barometric column.

At this height a more decided current carried the balloon toward the southwest. What a magnificent spectacle was then outspread beneath the gaze of the travellers! The island of Zanzibar could be seen in its entire extent, marked out by its deeper color upon a vast planisphere; the fields had the appearance of patterns of different colors, and thick clumps of green indicated the groves and thickets.

The inhabitants of the island looked no larger than insects. The huzzaing and shouting were little by little lost in the distance, and only the discharge of the ship’s guns could be heard in the concavity beneath the balloon, as the latter sped on its flight.

“How fine that is!” said Joe, breaking silence for the first time.

He got no reply. The doctor was busy observing the variations of the barometer and noting down the details of his ascent.

Kennedy looked on, and had not eyes enough to take in all that he saw.

The rays of the sun coming to the aid of the heating cylinder, the tension of the gas increased, and the Victoria attained the height of twenty-five hundred feet.

The Resolute looked like a mere cockle-shell, and the African coast could be distinctly seen in the west marked out by a fringe of foam.

“You don’t talk?” said Joe, again.

“We are looking!” said the doctor, directing his spy-glass toward the mainland.

“For my part, I must talk!”

“As much as you please, Joe; talk as much as you like!”

And Joe went on alone with a tremendous volley of exclamations. The “ohs!” and the “ahs!” exploded one after the other, incessantly, from his lips.

During his passage over the sea the doctor deemed it best to keep at his present elevation. He could thus reconnoitre a greater stretch of the coast. The thermometer and the barometer, hanging up inside of the half-opened awning, were always within sight, and a second barometer suspended outside was to serve during the night watches.

At the end of about two hours the Victoria, driven along at a speed of a little more than eight miles, very visibly neared the coast of the mainland. The doctor, thereupon, determined to descend a little nearer to the ground. So he moderated the flame of his cylinder, and the balloon, in a few moments, had descended to an altitude only three hundred feet above the soil.

It was then found to be passing just over the Mrima country, the name of this part of the eastern coast of Africa. Dense borders of mango-trees protected its margin, and the ebb-tide disclosed to view their thick roots, chafed and gnawed by the teeth of the Indian Ocean. The sands which, at an earlier period, formed the coast-line, rounded away along the distant horizon, and Mount Nguru reared aloft its sharp summit in the northwest.

The Victoria passed near to a village which the doctor found marked upon his chart as Kaole. Its entire population had assembled in crowds, and were yelling with anger and fear, at the same time vainly directing their arrows against this monster of the air that swept along so majestically away above all their powerless fury.

The wind was setting to the southward, but the doctor felt no concern on that score, since it enabled him the better to follow the route traced by Captains Burton and Speke.

Kennedy had, at length, become as talkative as Joe, and the two kept up a continual interchange of admiring interjections and exclamations.

“Out upon stage-coaches!” said one.

“Steamers indeed!” said the other.

“Railroads! eh? rubbish!” put in Kennedy, “that you travel on, without seeing the country!”

“Balloons! they’re the sort for me!” Joe would add. “Why, you don’t feel yourself going, and Nature takes the trouble to spread herself out before one’s eyes!”

“What a splendid sight! What a spectacle! What a delight! a dream in a hammock!”

“Suppose we take our breakfast?” was Joe’s unpoetical change of tune, at last, for the keen, open air had mightily sharpened his appetite.

“Good idea, my boy!”

“Oh! it won’t take us long to do the cooking — biscuit and potted meat?”

“And as much coffee as you like,” said the doctor. “I give you leave to borrow a little heat from my cylinder. There’s enough and to spare, for that matter, and so we shall avoid the risk of a conflagration.”

“That would be a dreadful misfortune!” ejaculated Kennedy. “It’s the same as a powder-magazine suspended over our heads.”

“Not precisely,” said Ferguson, “but still if the gas were to take fire it would burn up gradually, and we should settle down on the ground, which would be disagreeable; but never fear — our balloon is hermetically sealed.”

“Let us eat a bite, then,” replied Kennedy.

“Now, gentlemen,” put in Joe, “while doing the same as you, I’m going to get you up a cup of coffee that I think you’ll have something to say about.”

“The fact is,” added the doctor, “that Joe, along with a thousand other virtues, has a remarkable talent for the preparation of that delicious beverage: he compounds it of a mixture of various origin, but he never would reveal to me the ingredients.”

“Well, master, since we are so far above-ground, I can tell you the secret. It is just to mix equal quantities of Mocha, of Bourbon coffee, and of Rio Nunez.”

A few moments later, three steaming cups of coffee were served, and topped off a substantial breakfast, which was additionally seasoned by the jokes and repartees of the guests. Each one then resumed his post of observation.

The country over which they were passing was remarkable for its fertility. Narrow, winding paths plunged in beneath the overarching verdure. They swept along above cultivated fields of tobacco, maize, and barley, at full maturity, and here and there immense rice-fields, full of straight stalks and purple blossoms. They could distinguish sheep and goats too, confined in large cages, set up on piles to keep them out of reach of the leopards’ fangs. Luxuriant vegetation spread in wild profuseness over this prodigal soil.

Village after village rang with yells of terror and astonishment at the sight of the Victoria, and Dr. Ferguson prudently kept her above the reach of the barbarian arrows. The savages below, thus baffled, ran together from their huddle of huts and followed the travellers with their vain imprecations while they remained in sight.

At noon, the doctor, upon consulting his map, calculated that they were passing over the Uzaramo* country. The soil was thickly studded with cocoa-nut, papaw, and cotton-wood trees, above which the balloon seemed to disport itself like a bird. Joe found this splendid vegetation a matter of course, seeing that they were in Africa. Kennedy descried some hares and quails that asked nothing better than to get a good shot from his fowling-piece, but it would have been powder wasted, since there was no time to pick up the game.

* U and Ou signify country in the language of that region.

The aeronauts swept on with the speed of twelve miles per hour, and soon were passing in thirty-eight degrees twenty minutes east longitude, over the village of Tounda.

“It was there,” said the doctor, “that Burton and Speke were seized with violent fevers, and for a moment thought their expedition ruined. And yet they were only a short distance from the coast, but fatigue and privation were beginning to tell upon them severely.”

In fact, there is a perpetual malaria reigning throughout the country in question. Even the doctor could hope to escape its effects only by rising above the range of the miasma that exhales from this damp region whence the blazing rays of the sun pump up its poisonous vapors. Once in a while they could descry a caravan resting in a “kraal,” awaiting the freshness and cool of the evening to resume its route. These kraals are wide patches of cleared land, surrounded by hedges and jungles, where traders take shelter against not only the wild beasts, but also the robber tribes of the country. They could see the natives running and scattering in all directions at the sight of the Victoria. Kennedy was keen to get a closer look at them, but the doctor invariably held out against the idea.

“The chiefs are armed with muskets,” he said, “and our balloon would be too conspicuous a mark for their bullets.”

“Would a bullet-hole bring us down?” asked Joe.

“Not immediately; but such a hole would soon become a large torn orifice through which our gas would escape.”

“Then, let us keep at a respectful distance from yon miscreants. What must they think as they see us sailing in the air? I’m sure they must feel like worshipping us!”

“Let them worship away, then,” replied the doctor, “but at a distance. There is no harm done in getting as far away from them as possible. See! the country is already changing its aspect: the villages are fewer and farther between; the mango-trees have disappeared, for their growth ceases at this latitude. The soil is becoming hilly and portends mountains not far off.”

“Yes,” said Kennedy, “it seems to me that I can see some high land on this side.”

“In the west — those are the nearest ranges of the Ourizara — Mount Duthumi, no doubt, behind which I hope to find shelter for the night. I’ll stir up the heat in the cylinder a little, for we must keep at an elevation of five or six hundred feet.”

“That was a grant idea of yours, sir,” said Joe. “It’s mighty easy to manage it; you turn a cock, and the thing’s done.”

“Ah! here we are more at our ease,” said the sportsman, as the balloon ascended; “the reflection of the sun on those red sands was getting to be insupportable.”

“What splendid trees!” cried Joe. “They’re quite natural, but they are very fine! Why a dozen of them would make a forest!”

“Those are baobabs,” replied Dr. Ferguson. “See, there’s one with a trunk fully one hundred feet in circumference. It was, perhaps, at the foot of that very tree that Maizan, the French traveller, expired in 1845, for we are over the village of Deje-la-Mhora, to which he pushed on alone. He was seized by the chief of this region, fastened to the foot of a baobab, and the ferocious black then severed all his joints while the war-song of his tribe was chanted; he then made a gash in the prisoner’s neck, stopped to sharpen his knife, and fairly tore away the poor wretch’s head before it had been cut from the body. The unfortunate Frenchman was but twenty-six years of age.”

“And France has never avenged so hideous a crime?” said Kennedy.

“France did demand satisfaction, and the Said of Zanzibar did all in his power to capture the murderer, but in vain.”

“I move that we don’t stop here!” urged Joe; “let us go up, master, let us go up higher by all means.”

“All the more willingly, Joe, that there is Mount Duthumi right ahead of us. If my calculations be right we shall have passed it before seven o’clock in the evening.”

“Shall we not travel at night?” asked the Scotchman.

“No, as little as possible. With care and vigilance we might do so safely, but it is not enough to sweep across Africa. We want to see it.”

“Up to this time we have nothing to complain of, master. The best cultivated and most fertile country in the world instead of a desert! Believe the geographers after that!”

Let us wait, Joe! we shall see by-and-by.”

About half-past six in the evening the Victoria was directly opposite Mount Duthumi; in order to pass, it had to ascend to a height of more than three thousand feet, and to accomplish that the doctor had only to raise the temperature of his gas eighteen degrees. It might have been correctly said that he held his balloon in his hand. Kennedy had only to indicate to him the obstacles to be surmounted, and the Victoria sped through the air, skimming the summits of the range.

At eight o’clock it descended the farther slope, the acclivity of which was much less abrupt. The anchors were thrown out from the car and one of them, coming in contact with the branches of an enormous nopal, caught on it firmly. Joe at once let himself slide down the rope and secured it. The silk ladder was then lowered to him and he remounted to the car with agility. The balloon now remained perfectly at rest sheltered from the eastern winds.

The evening meal was got ready, and the aeronauts, excited by their day’s journey, made a heavy onslaught upon the provisions.

“What distance have we traversed to-day?” asked

Kennedy, disposing of some alarming mouthfuls.

The doctor took his bearings, by means of lunar observations, and consulted the excellent map that he had with him for his guidance. It belonged to the Atlas of “Der Neuester Endeckungen in Afrika” (“The Latest Discoveries in Africa”), published at Gotha by his learned friend Dr. Petermann, and by that savant sent to him. This Atlas was to serve the doctor on his whole journey; for it contained the itinerary of Burton and Speke to the great lakes; the Soudan, according to Dr. Barth; the Lower Senegal, according to Guillaume Lejean; and the Delta of the Niger, by Dr. Blaikie.

Ferguson had also provided himself with a work which combined in one compilation all the notions already acquired concerning the Nile. It was entitled “The Sources of the Nile; being a General Survey of the Basin of that River and of its Head-Stream, with the History of the Nilotic Discovery, by Charles Beke, D.D.”

He also had the excellent charts published in the “Bulletins of the Geographical Society of London;” and not a single point of the countries already discovered could, therefore, escape his notice.

Upon tracing on his maps, he found that his latitudinal route had been two degrees, or one hundred and twenty miles, to the westward.

Kennedy remarked that the route tended toward the south; but this direction was satisfactory to the doctor, who desired to reconnoitre the tracks of his predecessors as much as possible. It was agreed that the night should be divided into three watches, so that each of the party should take his turn in watching over the safety of the rest. The doctor took the watch commencing at nine o’clock; Kennedy, the one commencing at midnight; and Joe, the three o’clock morning watch.

So Kennedy and Joe, well wrapped in their blankets, stretched themselves at full length under the awning, and slept quietly; while Dr. Ferguson kept on the lookout.

CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.

Change of Weather. — Kennedy has the Fever. — The Doctor’s Medicine. — Travels on Land. — The Basin of Imenge. — Mount Rubeho. — Six Thousand Feet Elevation. — A Halt in the Daytime.

The night was calm. However, on Saturday morning, Kennedy, as he awoke, complained of lassitude and feverish chills. The weather was changing. The sky, covered with clouds, seemed to be laying in supplies for a fresh deluge. A gloomy region is that Zungomoro country, where it rains continually, excepting, perhaps, for a couple of weeks in the month of January.

A violent shower was not long in drenching our travellers. Below them, the roads, intersected by “nullahs,” a sort of instantaneous torrent, were soon rendered impracticable, entangled as they were, besides, with thorny thickets and gigantic lianas, or creeping vines. The sulphuretted hydrogen emanations, which Captain Burton mentions, could be distinctly smelt.

“According to his statement, and I think he’s right,” said the doctor, “one could readily believe that there is a corpse hidden behind every thicket.”

“An ugly country this!” sighed Joe; “and it seems to me that Mr. Kennedy is none the better for having passed the night in it.”

“To tell the truth, I have quite a high fever,” said the sportsman.

“There’s nothing remarkable about that, my dear Dick, for we are in one of the most unhealthy regions in Africa; but we shall not remain here long; so let’s be off.”

Thanks to a skilful manoeuvre achieved by Joe, the anchor was disengaged, and Joe reascended to the car by means of the ladder. The doctor vigorously dilated the gas, and the Victoria resumed her flight, driven along by a spanking breeze.

Only a few scattered huts could be seen through the pestilential mists; but the appearance of the country soon changed, for it often happens in Africa that some of the unhealthiest districts lie close beside others that are perfectly salubrious.

Kennedy was visibly suffering, and the fever was mastering his vigorous constitution.

“It won’t do to fall ill, though,” he grumbled; and so saying, he wrapped himself in a blanket, and lay down under the awning.

“A little patience, Dick, and you’ll soon get over this,” said the doctor.

“Get over it! Egad, Samuel, if you’ve any drug in your travelling-chest that will set me on my feet again, bring it without delay. I’ll swallow it with my eyes shut!”

“Oh, I can do better than that, friend Dick; for I can give you a febrifuge that won’t cost any thing.”

“And how will you do that?”

“Very easily. I am simply going to take you up above these clouds that are now deluging us, and remove you from this pestilential atmosphere. I ask for only ten minutes, in order to dilate the hydrogen.”

The ten minutes had scarcely elapsed ere the travellers were beyond the rainy belt of country.

“Wait a little, now, Dick, and you’ll begin to feel the effect of pure air and sunshine.”

“There’s a cure for you!” said Joe; “why, it’s wonderful!”

“No, it’s merely natural.”

“Oh! natural; yes, no doubt of that!”

“I bring Dick into good air, as the doctors do, every day, in Europe, or, as I would send a patient at Martinique to the Pitons, a lofty mountain on that island, to get clear of the yellow fever.”

“Ah! by Jove, this balloon is a paradise!” exclaimed

Kennedy, feeling much better already.

“It leads to it, anyhow!” replied Joe, quite gravely.

It was a curious spectacle — that mass of clouds piled up, at the moment, away below them! The vapors rolled over each other, and mingled together in confused masses of superb brilliance, as they reflected the rays of the sun. The Victoria had attained an altitude of four thousand feet, and the thermometer indicated a certain diminution of temperature. The land below could no longer be seen. Fifty miles away to the westward, Mount Rubeho raised its sparkling crest, marking the limit of the Ugogo country in east longitude thirty-six degrees twenty minutes. The wind was blowing at the rate of twenty miles an hour, but the aeronauts felt nothing of this increased speed. They observed no jar, and had scarcely any sense of motion at all.

Three hours later, the doctor’s prediction was fully verified. Kennedy no longer felt a single shiver of the fever, but partook of some breakfast with an excellent appetite.

That beats sulphate of quinine!” said the energetic

Scot, with hearty emphasis and much satisfaction.

“Positively,” said Joe, “this is where I’ll have to retire to when I get old!”

About ten o’clock in the morning the atmosphere cleared up, the clouds parted, and the country beneath could again be seen, the Victoria meanwhile rapidly descending. Dr. Ferguson was in search of a current that would carry him more to the northeast, and he found it about six hundred feet from the ground. The country was becoming more broken, and even mountainous. The Zungomoro district was fading out of sight in the east with the last cocoa-nut-trees of that latitude.

Ere long, the crests of a mountain-range assumed a more decided prominence. A few peaks rose here and there, and it became necessary to keep a sharp lookout for the pointed cones that seemed to spring up every moment.

“We’re right among the breakers!” said Kennedy.

“Keep cool, Dick. We shan’t touch them,” was the doctor’s quiet answer.

“It’s a jolly way to travel, anyhow!” said Joe, with his usual flow of spirits.

In fact, the doctor managed his balloon with wondrous dexterity.

“Now, if we had been compelled to go afoot over that drenched soil,” said he, “we should still be dragging along in a pestilential mire. Since our departure from Zanzibar, half our beasts of burden would have died with fatigue. We should be looking like ghosts ourselves, and despair would be seizing on our hearts. We should be in continual squabbles with our guides and porters, and completely exposed to their unbridled brutality. During the daytime, a damp, penetrating, unendurable humidity! At night, a cold frequently intolerable, and the stings of a kind of fly whose bite pierces the thickest cloth, and drives the victim crazy! All this, too, without saying any thing about wild beasts and ferocious native tribes!”

“I move that we don’t try it!” said Joe, in his droll way.

“I exaggerate nothing,” continued Ferguson, “for, upon reading the narratives of such travellers as have had the hardihood to venture into these regions, your eyes would fill with tears.”

About eleven o’clock they were passing over the basin of Imenge, and the tribes scattered over the adjacent hills were impotently menacing the Victoria with their weapons. Finally, she sped along as far as the last undulations of the country which precede Rubeho. These form the last and loftiest chain of the mountains of Usagara.

The aeronauts took careful and complete note of the orographic conformation of the country. The three ramifications mentioned, of which the Duthumi forms the first link, are separated by immense longitudinal plains. These elevated summits consist of rounded cones, between which the soil is bestrewn with erratic blocks of stone and gravelly bowlders. The most abrupt declivity of these mountains confronts the Zanzibar coast, but the western slopes are merely inclined planes. The depressions in the soil are covered with a black, rich loam, on which there is a vigorous vegetation. Various water-courses filter through, toward the east, and work their way onward to flow into the Kingani, in the midst of gigantic clumps of sycamore, tamarind, calabash, and palmyra trees.

“Attention!” said Dr. Ferguson. “We are approaching Rubeho, the name of which signifies, in the language of the country, the ‘Passage of the Winds,’ and we would do well to double its jagged pinnacles at a certain height. If my chart be exact, we are going to ascend to an elevation of five thousand feet.”

“Shall we often have occasion to reach those far upper belts of the atmosphere?”

“Very seldom: the height of the African mountains

appears to be quite moderate compared with that of the

European and Asiatic ranges; but, in any case, our good

Victoria will find no difficulty in passing over them.”

In a very little while, the gas expanded under the action of the heat, and the balloon took a very decided ascensional movement. Besides, the dilation of the hydrogen involved no danger, and only three-fourths of the vast capacity of the balloon was filled when the barometer, by a depression of eight inches, announced an elevation of six thousand feet.

“Shall we go this high very long?” asked Joe.

“The atmosphere of the earth has a height of six thousand fathoms,” said the doctor; “and, with a very large balloon, one might go far. That is what Messrs. Brioschi and Gay-Lussac did; but then the blood burst from their mouths and ears. Respirable air was wanting. Some years ago, two fearless Frenchmen, Messrs. Barral and Bixio, also ventured into the very lofty regions; but their balloon burst — “

“And they fell?” asked Kennedy, abruptly.

“Certainly they did; but as learned men should always fall — namely, without hurting themselves.”

“Well, gentlemen,” said Joe, “you may try their fall over again, if you like; but, as for me, who am but a dolt, I prefer keeping at the medium height — neither too far up, nor too low down. It won’t do to be too ambitious.”

At the height of six thousand feet, the density of the atmosphere has already greatly diminished; sound is conveyed with difficulty, and the voice is not so easily heard. The view of objects becomes confused; the gaze no longer takes in any but large, quite ill-distinguishable masses; men and animals on the surface become absolutely invisible; the roads and rivers get to look like threads, and the lakes dwindle to ponds.

The doctor and his friends felt themselves in a very anomalous condition; an atmospheric current of extreme velocity was bearing them away beyond arid mountains, upon whose summits vast fields of snow surprised the gaze; while their convulsed appearance told of Titanic travail in the earliest epoch of the world’s existence.

The sun shone at the zenith, and his rays fell perpendicularly upon those lonely summits. The doctor took an accurate design of these mountains, which form four distinct ridges almost in a straight line, the northernmost being the longest.

The Victoria soon descended the slope opposite to the Rubeho, skirting an acclivity covered with woods, and dotted with trees of very deep-green foliage. Then came crests and ravines, in a sort of desert which preceded the Ugogo country; and lower down were yellow plains, parched and fissured by the intense heat, and, here and there, bestrewn with saline plants and brambly thickets.

Some underbrush, which, farther on, became forests, embellished the horizon. The doctor went nearer to the ground; the anchors were thrown out, and one of them soon caught in the boughs of a huge sycamore.

Joe, slipping nimbly down the tree, carefully attached the anchor, and the doctor left his cylinder at work to a certain degree in order to retain sufficient ascensional force in the balloon to keep it in the air. Meanwhile the wind had suddenly died away.

“Now,” said Ferguson, “take two guns, friend Dick — one for yourself and one for Joe — and both of you try to bring back some nice cuts of antelope-meat; they will make us a good dinner.”

“Off to the hunt!” exclaimed Kennedy, joyously.

He climbed briskly out of the car and descended. Joe had swung himself down from branch to branch, and was waiting for him below, stretching his limbs in the mean time.

“Don’t fly away without us, doctor!” shouted Joe.

“Never fear, my boy! — I am securely lashed. I’ll spend the time getting my notes into shape. A good hunt to you! but be careful. Besides, from my post here, I can observe the face of the country, and, at the least suspicious thing I notice, I’ll fire a signal-shot, and with that you must rally home.”

“Agreed!” said Kennedy; and off they went.

CHAPTER SIXTEENTH.

Symptoms of a Storm. — The Country of the Moon. — The Future of the African Continent. — The Last Machine of all. — A View of the Country at Sunset. — Flora and Fauna. — The Tempest. — The Zone of Fire. — The Starry Heavens.

“See,” said Joe, “what comes of playing the sons of the moon without her leave! She came near serving us an ugly trick. But say, master, did you damage your credit as a physician?”

“Yes, indeed,” chimed in the sportsman. “What kind of a dignitary was this Sultan of Kazeh?”

“An old half-dead sot,” replied the doctor, “whose loss will not be very severely felt. But the moral of all this is that honors are fleeting, and we must not take too great a fancy to them.”

“So much the worse!” rejoined Joe. “I liked the thing — to be worshipped! — Play the god as you like! Why, what would any one ask more than that? By-the-way, the moon did come up, too, and all red, as if she was in a rage.”

While the three friends went on chatting of this and other things, and Joe examined the luminary of night from an entirely novel point of view, the heavens became covered with heavy clouds to the northward, and the lowering masses assumed a most sinister and threatening look. Quite a smart breeze, found about three hundred feet from the earth, drove the balloon toward the north-northeast; and above it the blue vault was clear; but the atmosphere felt close and dull.

The aeronauts found themselves, at about eight in the evening, in thirty-two degrees forty minutes east longitude, and four degrees seventeen minutes latitude. The atmospheric currents, under the influence of a tempest not far off, were driving them at the rate of from thirty to thirty-five miles an hour; the undulating and fertile plains of Mfuto were passing swiftly beneath them. The spectacle was one worthy of admiration — and admire it they did.

“We are now right in the country of the Moon,” said Dr. Ferguson; “for it has retained the name that antiquity gave it, undoubtedly, because the moon has been worshipped there in all ages. It is, really, a superb country.”

“It would be hard to find more splendid vegetation.”

“If we found the like of it around London it would not be natural, but it would be very pleasant,” put in Joe. “Why is it that such savage countries get all these fine things?”

“And who knows,” said the doctor, “that this country may not, one day, become the centre of civilization? The races of the future may repair hither, when Europe shall have become exhausted in the effort to feed her inhabitants.”

“Do you think so, really?” asked Kennedy.

“Undoubtedly, my dear Dick. Just note the progress of events: consider the migrations of races, and you will arrive at the same conclusion assuredly. Asia was the first nurse of the world, was she not? For about four thousand years she travailed, she grew pregnant, she produced, and then, when stones began to cover the soil where the golden harvests sung by Homer had flourished, her children abandoned her exhausted and barren bosom. You next see them precipitating themselves upon young and vigorous Europe, which has nourished them for the last two thousand years. But already her fertility is beginning to die out; her productive powers are diminishing every day. Those new diseases that annually attack the products of the soil, those defective crops, those insufficient resources, are all signs of a vitality that is rapidly wearing out and of an approaching exhaustion. Thus, we already see the millions rushing to the luxuriant bosom of America, as a source of help, not inexhaustible indeed, but not yet exhausted. In its turn, that new continent will grow old; its virgin forests will fall before the axe of industry, and its soil will become weak through having too fully produced what had been demanded of it. Where two harvests bloomed every year, hardly one will be gathered from a soil completely drained of its strength. Then, Africa will be there to offer to new races the treasures that for centuries have been accumulating in her breast. Those climates now so fatal to strangers will be purified by cultivation and by drainage of the soil, and those scattered water supplies will be gathered into one common bed to form an artery of navigation. Then this country over which we are now passing, more fertile, richer, and fuller of vitality than the rest, will become some grand realm where more astonishing discoveries than steam and electricity will be brought to light.”

“Ah! sir,” said Joe, “I’d like to see all that.”

“You got up too early in the morning, my boy!”

“Besides,” said Kennedy, “that may prove to be a very dull period when industry will swallow up every thing for its own profit. By dint of inventing machinery, men will end in being eaten up by it! I have always fancied that the end of the earth will be when some enormous boiler, heated to three thousand millions of atmospheric pressure, shall explode and blow up our Globe!”

“And I add that the Americans,” said Joe, “will not have been the last to work at the machine!”

“In fact,” assented the doctor, “they are great boiler-makers! But, without allowing ourselves to be carried away by such speculations, let us rest content with enjoying the beauties of this country of the Moon, since we have been permitted to see it.”

The sun, darting his last rays beneath the masses of heaped-up cloud, adorned with a crest of gold the slightest inequalities of the ground below; gigantic trees, arborescent bushes, mosses on the even surface — all had their share of this luminous effulgence. The soil, slightly undulating, here and there rose into little conical hills; there were no mountains visible on the horizon; immense brambly palisades, impenetrable hedges of thorny jungle, separated the clearings dotted with numerous villages, and immense euphorbiae surrounded them with natural fortifications, interlacing their trunks with the coral-shaped branches of the shrubbery and undergrowth.

Ere long, the Malagazeri, the chief tributary of Lake Tanganayika, was seen winding between heavy thickets of verdure, offering an asylum to many water-courses that spring from the torrents formed in the season of freshets, or from ponds hollowed in the clayey soil. To observers looking from a height, it was a chain of waterfalls thrown across the whole western face of the country.

Animals with huge humps were feeding in the luxuriant prairies, and were half hidden, sometimes, in the tall grass; spreading forests in bloom redolent of spicy perfumes presented themselves to the gaze like immense bouquets; but, in these bouquets, lions, leopards, hyenas, and tigers, were then crouching for shelter from the last hot rays of the setting sun. From time to time, an elephant made the tall tops of the undergrowth sway to and fro, and you could hear the crackling of huge branches as his ponderous ivory tusks broke them in his way.

“What a sporting country!” exclaimed Dick, unable longer to restrain his enthusiasm; “why, a single ball fired at random into those forests would bring down game worthy of it. Suppose we try it once!”

“No, my dear Dick; the night is close at hand — a threatening night with a tempest in the background — and the storms are awful in this country, where the heated soil is like one vast electric battery.”

“You are right, sir,” said Joe, “the heat has got to be enough to choke one, and the breeze has died away. One can feel that something’s coming.”

“The atmosphere is saturated with electricity,” replied the doctor; “every living creature is sensible that this state of the air portends a struggle of the elements, and I confess that I never before was so full of the fluid myself.”

“Well, then,” suggested Dick, “would it not be advisable to alight?”

“On the contrary, Dick, I’d rather go up, only that I am afraid of being carried out of my course by these counter-currents contending in the atmosphere.”

“Have you any idea, then, of abandoning the route that we have followed since we left the coast?”

“If I can manage to do so,” replied the doctor, “I will turn more directly northward, by from seven to eight degrees; I shall then endeavor to ascend toward the presumed latitudes of the sources of the Nile; perhaps we may discover some traces of Captain Speke’s expedition or of M. de Heuglin’s caravan. Unless I am mistaken, we are at thirty-two degrees forty minutes east longitude, and I should like to ascend directly north of the equator.”

“Look there!” exclaimed Kennedy, suddenly, “see those hippopotami sliding out of the pools — those masses of blood-colored flesh — and those crocodiles snuffing the air aloud!”

“They’re choking!” ejaculated Joe. “Ah! what a fine way to travel this is; and how one can snap his fingers at all that vermin! — Doctor! Mr. Kennedy! see those packs of wild animals hurrying along close together. There are fully two hundred. Those are wolves.”

“No! Joe, not wolves, but wild dogs; a famous breed that does not hesitate to attack the lion himself. They are the worst customers a traveller could meet, for they would instantly tear him to pieces.”

“Well, it isn’t Joe that’ll undertake to muzzle them!” responded that amiable youth. “After all, though, if that’s the nature of the beast, we mustn’t be too hard on them for it!”

Silence gradually settled down under the influence of the impending storm: the thickened air actually seemed no longer adapted to the transmission of sound; the atmosphere appeared MUFFLED, and, like a room hung with tapestry, lost all its sonorous reverberation. The “rover bird” so-called, the coroneted crane, the red and blue jays, the mocking-bird, the flycatcher, disappeared among the foliage of the immense trees, and all nature revealed symptoms of some approaching catastrophe.

At nine o’clock the Victoria hung motionless over Msene, an extensive group of villages scarcely distinguishable in the gloom. Once in a while, the reflection of a wandering ray of light in the dull water disclosed a succession of ditches regularly arranged, and, by one last gleam, the eye could make out the calm and sombre forms of palm-trees, sycamores, and gigantic euphorbiae.

“I am stifling!” said the Scot, inhaling, with all the power of his lungs, as much as possible of the rarefied air. “We are not moving an inch! Let us descend!”

“But the tempest!” said the doctor, with much uneasiness.

“If you are afraid of being carried away by the wind, it seems to me that there is no other course to pursue.”

“Perhaps the storm won’t burst to-night,” said Joe; “the clouds are very high.”

“That is just the thing that makes me hesitate about going beyond them; we should have to rise still higher, lose sight of the earth, and not know all night whether we were moving forward or not, or in what direction we were going.”

“Make up your mind, dear doctor, for time presses!”

“It’s a pity that the wind has fallen,” said Joe, again; “it would have carried us clear of the storm.”

“It is, indeed, a pity, my friends,” rejoined the doctor. “The clouds are dangerous for us; they contain opposing currents which might catch us in their eddies, and lightnings that might set on fire. Again, those perils avoided, the force of the tempest might hurl us to the ground, were we to cast our anchor in the tree-tops.”

“Then what shall we do?”

“Well, we must try to get the balloon into a medium zone of the atmosphere, and there keep her suspended between the perils of the heavens and those of the earth. We have enough water for the cylinder, and our two hundred pounds of ballast are untouched. In case of emergency I can use them.”

“We will keep watch with you,” said the hunter.

“No, my friends, put the provisions under shelter, and lie down; I will rouse you, if it becomes necessary.”

“But, master, wouldn’t you do well to take some rest yourself, as there’s no danger close on us just now?” insisted poor Joe.

“No, thank you, my good fellow, I prefer to keep awake. We are not moving, and should circumstances not change, we’ll find ourselves to-morrow in exactly the same place.”

“Good-night, then, sir!”

“Good-night, if you can only find it so!”

Kennedy and Joe stretched themselves out under their blankets, and the doctor remained alone in the immensity of space.

However, the huge dome of clouds visibly descended, and the darkness became profound. The black vault closed in upon the earth as if to crush it in its embrace.

All at once a violent, rapid, incisive flash of lightning pierced the gloom, and the rent it made had not closed ere a frightful clap of thunder shook the celestial depths.

“Up! up! turn out!” shouted Ferguson.

The two sleepers, aroused by the terrible concussion, were at the doctor’s orders in a moment.

“Shall we descend?” said Kennedy.

“No! the balloon could not stand it. Let us go up before those clouds dissolve in water, and the wind is let loose!” and, so saying, the doctor actively stirred up the flame of the cylinder, and turned it on the spirals of the serpentine siphon.

The tempests of the tropics develop with a rapidity equalled only by their violence. A second flash of lightning rent the darkness, and was followed by a score of others in quick succession. The sky was crossed and dotted, like the zebra’s hide, with electric sparks, which danced and flickered beneath the great drops of rain.

“We have delayed too long,” exclaimed the doctor; “we must now pass through a zone of fire, with our balloon filled as it is with inflammable gas!”

“But let us descend, then! let us descend!” urged Kennedy.

“The risk of being struck would be just about even, and we should soon be torn to pieces by the branches of the trees!”

“We are going up, doctor!”

“Quicker, quicker still!”

In this part of Africa, during the equatorial storms, it is not rare to count from thirty to thirty-five flashes of lightning per minute. The sky is literally on fire, and the crashes of thunder are continuous.

The wind burst forth with frightful violence in this burning atmosphere; it twisted the blazing clouds; one might have compared it to the breath of some gigantic bellows, fanning all this conflagration.

Dr. Ferguson kept his cylinder at full heat, and the balloon dilated and went up, while Kennedy, on his knees, held together the curtains of the awning. The balloon whirled round wildly enough to make their heads turn, and the aeronauts got some very alarming jolts, indeed, as their machine swung and swayed in all directions. Huge cavities would form in the silk of the balloon as the wind fiercely bent it in, and the stuff fairly cracked like a pistol as it flew back from the pressure. A sort of hail, preceded by a rumbling noise, hissed through the air and rattled on the covering of the Victoria. The latter, however, continued to ascend, while the lightning described tangents to the convexity of her circumference; but she bore on, right through the midst of the fire.

“God protect us!” said Dr. Ferguson, solemnly, “we are in His hands; He alone can save us — but let us be ready for every event, even for fire — our fall could not be very rapid.”

The doctor’s voice could scarcely be heard by his companions; but they could see his countenance calm as ever even amid the flashing of the lightnings; he was watching the phenomena of phosphorescence produced by the fires of St. Elmo, that were now skipping to and fro along the network of the balloon.

The latter whirled and swung, but steadily ascended, and, ere the hour was over, it had passed the stormy belt. The electric display was going on below it like a vast crown of artificial fireworks suspended from the car.

Then they enjoyed one of the grandest spectacles that Nature can offer to the gaze of man. Below them, the tempest; above them, the starry firmament, tranquil, mute, impassible, with the moon projecting her peaceful rays over these angry clouds.

Dr. Ferguson consulted the barometer; it announced twelve thousand feet of elevation. It was then eleven o’clock at night.

“Thank Heaven, all danger is past; all we have to do now, is, to keep ourselves at this height,” said the doctor.

“It was frightful!” remarked Kennedy.

“Oh!” said Joe, “it gives a little variety to the trip, and I’m not sorry to have seen a storm from a trifling distance up in the air. It’s a fine sight!”

CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH.

The Karagwah. — Lake Ukereoue. — A Night on an Island. — The Equator. — Crossing the Lake. — The Cascades. — A View of the Country. — The Sources of the Nile. — The Island of Benga. — The Signature of Andrea Debono. — The Flag with the Arms of England.

At five o’clock in the morning, preparations for departure commenced. Joe, with the hatchet which he had fortunately recovered, broke the elephant’s tusks. The balloon, restored to liberty, sped away to the northwest with our travellers, at the rate of eighteen miles per hour.

The doctor had carefully taken his position by the altitude of the stars, during the preceding night. He knew that he was in latitude two degrees forty minutes below the equator, or at a distance of one hundred and sixty geographical miles. He swept along over many villages without heeding the cries that the appearance of the balloon excited; he took note of the conformation of places with quick sights; he passed the slopes of the Rubemhe, which are nearly as abrupt as the summits of the Ousagara, and, farther on, at Tenga, encountered the first projections of the Karagwah chains, which, in his opinion, are direct spurs of the Mountains of the Moon. So, the ancient legend which made these mountains the cradle of the Nile, came near to the truth, since they really border upon Lake Ukereoue, the conjectured reservoir of the waters of the great river.

From Kafuro, the main district of the merchants of that country, he descried, at length, on the horizon, the lake so much desired and so long sought for, of which Captain Speke caught a glimpse on the 3d of August, 1858.

Samuel Ferguson felt real emotion: he was almost in contact with one of the principal points of his expedition, and, with his spy-glass constantly raised, he kept every nook and corner of the mysterious region in sight. His gaze wandered over details that might have been thus described: “Beneath him extended a country generally destitute of cultivation; only here and there some ravines seemed under tillage; the surface, dotted with peaks of medium height, grew flat as it approached the lake; barley-fields took the place of rice-plantations, and there, too, could be seen growing the species of plantain from which the wine of the country is drawn, and mwani, the wild plant which supplies a substitute for coffee. A collection of some fifty or more circular huts, covered with a flowering thatch, constituted the capital of the Karagwah country.”

He could easily distinguish the astonished countenances of a rather fine-looking race of natives of yellowish-brown complexion. Women of incredible corpulence were dawdling about through the cultivated grounds, and the doctor greatly surprised his companions by informing them that this rotundity, which is highly esteemed in that region, was obtained by an obligatory diet of curdled milk.

At noon, the Victoria was in one degree forty-five minutes south latitude, and at one o’clock the wind was driving her directly toward the lake.

This sheet of water was christened Uyanza Victoria, or Victoria Lake, by Captain Speke. At the place now mentioned it might measure about ninety miles in breadth, and at its southern extremity the captain found a group of islets, which he named the Archipelago of Bengal. He pushed his survey as far as Muanza, on the eastern coast, where he was received by the sultan. He made a triangulation of this part of the lake, but he could not procure a boat, either to cross it or to visit the great island of Ukereoue which is very populous, is governed by three sultans, and appears to be only a promontory at low tide.

The balloon approached the lake more to the northward, to the doctor’s great regret, for it had been his wish to determine its lower outlines. Its shores seemed to be thickly set with brambles and thorny plants, growing together in wild confusion, and were literally hidden, sometimes, from the gaze, by myriads of mosquitoes of a light-brown hue. The country was evidently habitable and inhabited. Troops of hippopotami could be seen disporting themselves in the forests of reeds, or plunging beneath the whitish waters of the lake.

The latter, seen from above, presented, toward the west, so broad an horizon that it might have been called a sea; the distance between the two shores is so great that communication cannot be established, and storms are frequent and violent, for the winds sweep with fury over this elevated and unsheltered basin.

The doctor experienced some difficulty in guiding his course; he was afraid of being carried toward the east, but, fortunately, a current bore him directly toward the north, and at six o’clock in the evening the balloon alighted on a small desert island in thirty minutes south latitude, and thirty-two degrees fifty-two minutes east longitude, about twenty miles from the shore.

The travellers succeeded in making fast to a tree, and, the wind having fallen calm toward evening, they remained quietly at anchor. They dared not dream of taking the ground, since here, as on the shores of the Uyanza, legions of mosquitoes covered the soil in dense clouds. Joe even came back, from securing the anchor in the tree, speckled with bites, but he kept his temper, because he found it quite the natural thing for mosquitoes to treat him as they had done.

Nevertheless, the doctor, who was less of an optimist, let out as much rope as he could, so as to escape these pitiless insects, that began to rise toward him with a threatening hum.

The doctor ascertained the height of the lake above the level of the sea, as it had been determined by Captain Speke, say three thousand seven hundred and fifty feet.

“Here we are, then, on an island!” said Joe, scratching as though he’d tear his nails out.

“We could make the tour of it in a jiffy,” added Kennedy, “and, excepting these confounded mosquitoes, there’s not a living being to be seen on it.”

“The islands with which the lake is dotted,” replied the doctor, “are nothing, after all, but the tops of submerged hills; but we are lucky to have found a retreat among them, for the shores of the lake are inhabited by ferocious tribes. Take your sleep, then, since Providence has granted us a tranquil night.”

“Won’t you do the same, doctor?”

“No, I could not close my eyes. My thoughts would banish sleep. To-morrow, my friends, should the wind prove favorable, we shall go due north, and we shall, perhaps, discover the sources of the Nile, that grand secret which has so long remained impenetrable. Near as we are to the sources of the renowned river, I could not sleep.”

Kennedy and Joe, whom scientific speculations failed to disturb to that extent, were not long in falling into sound slumber, while the doctor held his post.

On Wednesday, April 23d, the balloon started at four o’clock in the morning, with a grayish sky overhead; night was slow in quitting the surface of the lake, which was enveloped in a dense fog, but presently a violent breeze scattered all the mists, and, after the balloon had been swung to and fro for a moment, in opposite directions, it at length veered in a straight line toward the north.

Dr. Ferguson fairly clapped his hands for joy.

“We are on the right track!” he exclaimed. “To-day or never we shall see the Nile! Look, my friends, we are crossing the equator! We are entering our own hemisphere!”

“Ah!” said Joe, “do you think, doctor, that the equator passes here?”

“Just here, my boy!”

“Well, then, with all respect to you, sir, it seems to me that this is the very time to moisten it.”

“Good!” said the doctor, laughing. “Let us have a glass of punch. You have a way of comprehending cosmography that is any thing but dull.”

And thus was the passage of the Victoria over the equator duly celebrated.

The balloon made rapid headway. In the west could be seen a low and but slightly-diversified coast, and, farther away in the background, the elevated plains of the Uganda and the Usoga. At length, the rapidity of the wind became excessive, approaching thirty miles per hour.

The waters of the Nyanza, violently agitated, were foaming like the billows of a sea. By the appearance of certain long swells that followed the sinking of the waves, the doctor was enabled to conclude that the lake must have great depth of water. Only one or two rude boats were seen during this rapid passage.

“This lake is evidently, from its elevated position, the natural reservoir of the rivers in the eastern part of Africa, and the sky gives back to it in rain what it takes in vapor from the streams that flow out of it. I am certain that the Nile must here take its rise.”

“Well, we shall see!” said Kennedy.

About nine o’clock they drew nearer to the western coast. It seemed deserted, and covered with woods; the wind freshened a little toward the east, and the other shore of the lake could be seen. It bent around in such a curve as to end in a wide angle toward two degrees forty minutes north latitude. Lofty mountains uplifted their arid peaks at this extremity of Nyanza; but, between them, a deep and winding gorge gave exit to a turbulent and foaming river.

While busy managing the balloon, Dr. Ferguson never ceased reconnoitring the country with eager eyes.

“Look!” he exclaimed, “look, my friends! the statements of the Arabs were correct! They spoke of a river by which Lake Ukereoue discharged its waters toward the north, and this river exists, and we are descending it, and it flows with a speed analogous to our own! And this drop of water now gliding away beneath our feet is, beyond all question, rushing on, to mingle with the Mediterranean! It is the Nile!”

“It is the Nile!” reeechoed Kennedy, carried away by the enthusiasm of his friend.

“Hurrah for the Nile!” shouted Joe, glad, and always ready to cheer for something.

Enormous rocks, here and there, embarrassed the course of this mysterious river. The water foamed as it fell in rapids and cataracts, which confirmed the doctor in his preconceived ideas on the subject. From the environing mountains numerous torrents came plunging and seething down, and the eye could take them in by hundreds. There could be seen, starting from the soil, delicate jets of water scattering in all directions, crossing and recrossing each other, mingling, contending in the swiftness of their progress, and all rushing toward that nascent stream which became a river after having drunk them in.

“Here is, indeed, the Nile!” reiterated the doctor, with the tone of profound conviction. “The origin of its name, like the origin of its waters, has fired the imagination of the learned; they have sought to trace it from the Greek, the Coptic, the Sanscrit; but all that matters little now, since we have made it surrender the secret of its source!”

“But,” said the Scotchman, “how are you to make sure of the identity of this river with the one recognized by the travellers from the north?”

“We shall have certain, irrefutable, convincing, and infallible proof,” replied Ferguson, “should the wind hold another hour in our favor!”

The mountains drew farther apart, revealing in their place numerous villages, and fields of white Indian corn, doura, and sugar-cane. The tribes inhabiting the region seemed excited and hostile; they manifested more anger than adoration, and evidently saw in the aeronauts only obtrusive strangers, and not condescending deities. It appeared as though, in approaching the sources of the Nile, these men came to rob them of something, and so the Victoria had to keep out of range of their muskets.

“To land here would be a ticklish matter!” said the Scot.

“Well!” said Joe, “so much the worse for these natives.

They’ll have to do without the pleasure of our conversation.”

“Nevertheless, descend I must,” said the doctor, “were it only for a quarter of an hour. Without doing so I cannot verify the results of our expedition.”

“It is indispensable, then, doctor?”

“Indispensable; and we will descend, even if we have to do so with a volley of musketry.”

“The thing suits me,” said Kennedy, toying with his pet rifle.

“And I’m ready, master, whenever you say the word!” added Joe, preparing for the fight.

“It would not be the first time,” remarked the doctor, “that science has been followed up, sword in hand. The same thing happened to a French savant among the mountains of Spain, when he was measuring the terrestrial meridian.”

“Be easy on that score, doctor, and trust to your two body-guards.”

“Are we there, master?”

“Not yet. In fact, I shall go up a little, first, in order to get an exact idea of the configuration of the country.”

The hydrogen expanded, and in less than ten minutes the balloon was soaring at a height of twenty-five hundred feet above the ground.

From that elevation could be distinguished an inextricable network of smaller streams which the river received into its bosom; others came from the west, from between numerous hills, in the midst of fertile plains.

“We are not ninety miles from Gondokoro,” said the doctor, measuring off the distance on his map, “and less than five miles from the point reached by the explorers from the north. Let us descend with great care.”

And, upon this, the balloon was lowered about two thousand feet.

“Now, my friends, let us be ready, come what may.”

“Ready it is!” said Dick and Joe, with one voice.

“Good!”

In a few moments the balloon was advancing along the bed of the river, and scarcely one hundred feet above the ground. The Nile measured but fifty fathoms in width at this point, and the natives were in great excitement, rushing to and fro, tumultuously, in the villages that lined the banks of the stream. At the second degree it forms a perpendicular cascade of ten feet in height, and consequently impassable by boats.

“Here, then, is the cascade mentioned by Debono!” exclaimed the doctor.

The basin of the river spread out, dotted with numerous islands, which Dr. Ferguson devoured with his eyes. He seemed to be seeking for a point of reference which he had not yet found.

By this time, some blacks, having ventured in a boat just under the balloon, Kennedy saluted them with a shot from his rifle, that made them regain the bank at their utmost speed.

“A good journey to you,” bawled Joe, “and if I were in your place, I wouldn’t try coming back again. I should be mightily afraid of a monster that can hurl thunderbolts when he pleases.”

But, all at once, the doctor snatched up his spy-glass, and directed it toward an island reposing in the middle of the river.

“Four trees!” he exclaimed; “look, down there!” Sure enough, there were four trees standing alone at one end of it.

“It is Bengal Island! It is the very same,” repeated the doctor, exultingly.

“And what of that?” asked Dick.

“It is there that we shall alight, if God permits.”

“But, it seems to be inhabited, doctor.”

“Joe is right; and, unless I’m mistaken, there is a group of about a score of natives on it now.”

“We’ll make them scatter; there’ll be no great trouble in that,” responded Ferguson.

“So be it,” chimed in the hunter.

The sun was at the zenith as the balloon approached the island.

The blacks, who were members of the Makado tribe, were howling lustily, and one of them waved his bark hat in the air. Kennedy took aim at him, fired, and his hat flew about him in pieces. Thereupon there was a general scamper. The natives plunged headlong into the river, and swam to the opposite bank. Immediately, there came a shower of balls from both banks, along with a perfect cloud of arrows, but without doing the balloon any damage, where it rested with its anchor snugly secured in the fissure of a rock. Joe lost no time in sliding to the ground.

“The ladder!” cried the doctor. “Follow me, Kennedy.”

“What do you wish, sir?”

“Let us alight. I want a witness.”

“Here I am!”

“Mind your post, Joe, and keep a good lookout.”

“Never fear, doctor; I’ll answer for all that.”

“Come, Dick,” said the doctor, as he touched the ground.

So saying, he drew his companion along toward a group of rocks that rose upon one point of the island; there, after searching for some time, he began to rummage among the brambles, and, in so doing, scratched his hands until they bled.

Suddenly he grasped Kennedy’s arm, exclaiming: “Look! look!”

“Letters!”

Yes; there, indeed, could be descried, with perfect precision of outline, some letters carved on the rock. It was quite easy to make them out: “A. D.”

“A.D!” repeated Dr. Ferguson. “Andrea Debono — the very signature of the traveller who farthest ascended the current of the Nile.”

“No doubt of that, friend Samuel,” assented Kennedy.

“Are you now convinced?”

“It is the Nile! We cannot entertain a doubt on that score now,” was the reply.

The doctor, for the last time, examined those precious initials, the exact form and size of which he carefully noted.

“And now,” said he — “now for the balloon!”

“Quickly, then, for I see some of the natives getting ready to recross the river.”

“That matters little to us now. Let the wind but send us northward for a few hours, and we shall reach Gondokoro, and press the hands of some of our countrymen.”

Ten minutes more, and the balloon was majestically ascending, while Dr. Ferguson, in token of success, waved the English flag triumphantly from his car.

CHAPTER NINETEENTH.

The Nile. — The Trembling Mountain. — A Remembrance of the Country. — The Narratives of the Arabs. — The Nyam-Nyams. — Joe’s Shrewd Cogitations. — The Balloon runs the Gantlet. — Aerostatic Ascensions. — Madame Blanchard. “Which way do we head?” asked Kennedy, as he saw his friend consulting the compass.

“North-northeast.”

“The deuce! but that’s not the north?”

“No, Dick; and I’m afraid that we shall have some trouble in getting to Gondokoro. I am sorry for it; but, at last, we have succeeded in connecting the explorations from the east with those from the north; and we must not complain.”

The balloon was now receding gradually from the Nile.

“One last look,” said the doctor, “at this impassable latitude, beyond which the most intrepid travellers could not make their way. There are those intractable tribes, of whom Petherick, Arnaud, Miuni, and the young traveller Lejean, to whom we are indebted for the best work on the Upper Nile, have spoken.”

“Thus, then,” added Kennedy, inquiringly, “our discoveries agree with the speculations of science.”

“Absolutely so. The sources of the White Nile, of the Bahr-el-Abiad, are immersed in a lake as large as a sea; it is there that it takes its rise. Poesy, undoubtedly, loses something thereby. People were fond of ascribing a celestial origin to this king of rivers. The ancients gave it the name of an ocean, and were not far from believing that it flowed directly from the sun; but we must come down from these flights from time to time, and accept what science teaches us. There will not always be scientific men, perhaps; but there always will be poets.”

“We can still see cataracts,” said Joe.

“Those are the cataracts of Makedo, in the third degree of latitude. Nothing could be more accurate. Oh, if we could only have followed the course of the Nile for a few hours!”

“And down yonder, below us, I see the top of a mountain,” said the hunter.

“That is Mount Longwek, the Trembling Mountain of the Arabs. This whole country was visited by Debono, who went through it under the name of Latif-Effendi. The tribes living near the Nile are hostile to each other, and are continually waging a war of extermination. You may form some idea, then, of the difficulties he had to encounter.”

The wind was carrying the balloon toward the northwest, and, in order to avoid Mount Longwek, it was necessary to seek a more slanting current.

“My friends,” said the doctor, “here is where OUR passage of the African Continent really commences; up to this time we have been following the traces of our predecessors. Henceforth we are to launch ourselves upon the unknown. We shall not lack the courage, shall we?”

“Never!” said Dick and Joe together, almost in a shout.

“Onward, then, and may we have the help of Heaven!”

At ten o’clock at night, after passing over ravines, forests, and scattered villages, the aeronauts reached the side of the Trembling Mountain, along whose gentle slopes they went quietly gliding. In that memorable day, the 23d of April, they had, in fifteen hours, impelled by a rapid breeze, traversed a distance of more than three hundred and fifteen miles.

But this latter part of the journey had left them in dull spirits, and complete silence reigned in the car. Was Dr. Ferguson absorbed in the thought of his discoveries? Were his two companions thinking of their trip through those unknown regions? There were, no doubt, mingled with these reflections, the keenest reminiscences of home and distant friends. Joe alone continued to manifest the same careless philosophy, finding it QUITE NATURAL that home should not be there, from the moment that he left it; but he respected the silent mood of his friends, the doctor and Kennedy.

About ten the balloon anchored on the side of the Trembling Mountain, so called, because, in Arab tradition, it is said to tremble the instant that a Mussulman sets foot upon it. The travellers then partook of a substantial meal, and all quietly passed the night as usual, keeping the regular watches.

On awaking the next morning, they all had pleasanter feelings. The weather was fine, and the wind was blowing from the right quarter; so that a good breakfast, seasoned with Joe’s merry pranks, put them in high good-humor.

The region they were now crossing is very extensive. It borders on the Mountains of the Moon on one side, and those of Darfur on the other — a space about as broad as Europe.

“We are, no doubt, crossing what is supposed to be the kingdom of Usoga. Geographers have pretended that there existed, in the centre of Africa, a vast depression, an immense central lake. We shall see whether there is any truth in that idea,” said the doctor.

“But how did they come to think so?” asked Kennedy.

“From the recitals of the Arabs. Those fellows are great narrators — too much so, probably. Some travellers, who had got as far as Kazeh, or the great lakes, saw slaves that had been brought from this region; interrogated them concerning it, and, from their different narratives, made up a jumble of notions, and deduced systems from them. Down at the bottom of it all there is some appearance of truth; and you see that they were right about the sources of the Nile.”

“Nothing could be more correct,” said Kennedy. “It was by the aid of these documents that some attempts at maps were made, and so I am going to try to follow our route by one of them, rectifying it when need be.”

“Is all this region inhabited?” asked Joe.

“Undoubtedly; and disagreeably inhabited, too.”

“I thought so.”

“These scattered tribes come, one and all, under the title of Nyam-Nyams, and this compound word is only a sort of nickname. It imitates the sound of chewing.”

“That’s it! Excellent!” said Joe, champing his teeth as though he were eating; “Nyam-Nyam.”

“My good Joe, if you were the immediate object of this chewing, you wouldn’t find it so excellent.”

“Why, what’s the reason, sir?”

“These tribes are considered man-eaters.”

“Is that really the case?”

“Not a doubt of it! It has also been asserted that these natives had tails, like mere quadrupeds; but it was soon discovered that these appendages belonged to the skins of animals that they wore for clothing.”

“More’s the pity! a tail’s a nice thing to chase away mosquitoes.”

“That may be, Joe; but we must consign the story to the domain of fable, like the dogs’ heads which the traveller, Brun-Rollet, attributed to other tribes.”

“Dogs’ heads, eh? Quite convenient for barking, and even for man-eating!”

“But one thing that has been, unfortunately, proven true, is, the ferocity of these tribes, who are really very fond of human flesh, and devour it with avidity.”

“I only hope that they won’t take such a particular fancy to mine!” said Joe, with comic solemnity.

“See that!” said Kennedy.

“Yes, indeed, sir; if I have to be eaten, in a moment of famine, I want it to be for your benefit and my master’s; but the idea of feeding those black fellows — gracious! I’d die of shame!”

“Well, then, Joe,” said Kennedy, “that’s understood; we count upon you in case of need!”

“At your service, gentlemen!”

“Joe talks in this way so as to make us take good care of him, and fatten him up.”

“Maybe so!” said Joe. “Every man for himself.”

In the afternoon, the sky became covered with a warm mist, that oozed from the soil; the brownish vapor scarcely allowed the beholder to distinguish objects, and so, fearing collision with some unexpected mountain-peak, the doctor, about five o’clock, gave the signal to halt.

The night passed without accident, but in such profound obscurity, that it was necessary to use redoubled vigilance.

The monsoon blew with extreme violence during all the next morning. The wind buried itself in the lower cavities of the balloon and shook the appendage by which the dilating-pipes entered the main apparatus. They had, at last, to be tied up with cords, Joe acquitting himself very skilfully in performing that operation.

He had occasion to observe, at the same time, that the orifice of the balloon still remained hermetically sealed.

“That is a matter of double importance for us,” said the doctor; “in the first place, we avoid the escape of precious gas, and then, again, we do not leave behind us an inflammable train, which we should at last inevitably set fire to, and so be consumed.”

“That would be a disagreeable travelling incident!” said Joe.

“Should we be hurled to the ground?” asked Kennedy.

“Hurled! No, not quite that. The gas would burn quietly, and we should descend little by little. A similar accident happened to a French aeronaut, Madame Blanchard. She ignited her balloon while sending off fireworks, but she did not fall, and she would not have been killed, probably, had not her car dashed against a chimney and precipitated her to the ground.”

“Let us hope that nothing of the kind may happen to us,” said the hunter. “Up to this time our trip has not seemed to me very dangerous, and I can see nothing to prevent us reaching our destination.”

“Nor can I either, my dear Dick; accidents are generally caused by the imprudence of the aeronauts, or the defective construction of their apparatus. However, in thousands of aerial ascensions, there have not been twenty fatal accidents. Usually, the danger is in the moment of leaving the ground, or of alighting, and therefore at those junctures we should never omit the utmost precaution.”

“It’s breakfast-time,” said Joe; “we’ll have to put up with preserved meat and coffee until Mr. Kennedy has had another chance to get us a good slice of venison.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SECOND.

The Capital of Bornou. — The Islands of the Biddiomahs. — The Condors. — The

Doctor’s Anxieties. — His Precautions. — An Attack in Mid-air. — The Balloon

Covering torn. — The Fall. — Sublime Self-Sacrifice. — The Northern Coast of

the Lake.

Since its arrival at Lake Tchad, the balloon had struck a current that edged it farther to the westward. A few clouds tempered the heat of the day, and, besides, a little air could be felt over this vast expanse of water; but about one o’clock, the Victoria, having slanted across this part of the lake, again advanced over the land for a space of seven or eight miles.

The doctor, who was somewhat vexed at first at this turn of his course, no longer thought of complaining when he caught sight of the city of Kouka, the capital of Bornou. He saw it for a moment, encircled by its walls of white clay, and a few rudely-constructed mosques rising clumsily above that conglomeration of houses that look like playing-dice, which form most Arab towns. In the court-yards of the private dwellings, and on the public squares, grew palms and caoutchouc-trees topped with a dome of foliage more than one hundred feet in breadth. Joe called attention to the fact that these immense parasols were in proper accordance with the intense heat of the sun, and made thereon some pious reflections which it were needless to repeat.

Kouka really consists of two distinct towns, separated by the “Dendal,” a large boulevard three hundred yards wide, at that hour crowded with horsemen and foot passengers. On one side, the rich quarter stands squarely with its airy and lofty houses, laid out in regular order; on the other, is huddled together the poor quarter, a miserable collection of low hovels of a conical shape, in which a poverty-stricken multitude vegetate rather than live, since Kouka is neither a trading nor a commercial city.

Kennedy thought it looked something like Edinburgh, were that city extended on a plain, with its two distinct boroughs.

But our travellers had scarcely the time to catch even this glimpse of it, for, with the fickleness that characterizes the air-currents of this region, a contrary wind suddenly swept them some forty miles over the surface of Lake Tchad.

Then then were regaled with a new spectacle. They could count the numerous islets of the lake, inhabited by the Biddiomahs, a race of bloodthirsty and formidable pirates, who are as greatly feared when neighbors as are the Touaregs of Sahara.

These estimable people were in readiness to receive the Victoria bravely with stones and arrows, but the balloon quickly passed their islands, fluttering over them, from one to the other with butterfly motion, like a gigantic beetle.

At this moment, Joe, who was scanning the horizon, said to Kennedy: “There, sir, as you are always thinking of good sport, yonder is just the thing for you!”

“What is it, Joe?”

“This time, the doctor will not disapprove of your shooting.”

“But what is it?”

“Don’t you see that flock of big birds making for us?”

“Birds?” exclaimed the doctor, snatching his spyglass.

“I see them,” replied Kennedy; “there are at least a dozen of them.”

“Fourteen, exactly!” said Joe.

“Heaven grant that they may be of a kind sufficiently noxious for the doctor to let me peg away at them!”

“I should not object, but I would much rather see those birds at a distance from us!”

“Why, are you afraid of those fowls?”

“They are condors, and of the largest size. Should they attack us — “

“Well, if they do, we’ll defend ourselves. We have a whole arsenal at our disposal. I don’t think those birds are so very formidable.”

“Who can tell?” was the doctor’s only remark.

Ten minutes later, the flock had come within gunshot, and were making the air ring with their hoarse cries. They came right toward the Victoria, more irritated than frightened by her presence.

“How they scream! What a noise!” said Joe.

“Perhaps they don’t like to see anybody poaching in their country up in the air, or daring to fly like themselves!”

“Well, now, to tell the truth, when I take a good look at them, they are an ugly, ferocious set, and I should think them dangerous enough if they were armed with Purdy-Moore rifles,” admitted Kennedy.

“They have no need of such weapons,” said Ferguson, looking very grave.

The condors flew around them in wide circles, their flight growing gradually closer and closer to the balloon. They swept through the air in rapid, fantastic curves, occasionally precipitating themselves headlong with the speed of a bullet, and then breaking their line of projection by an abrupt and daring angle.

The doctor, much disquieted, resolved to ascend so as to escape this dangerous proximity. He therefore dilated the hydrogen in his balloon, and it rapidly rose.

But the condors mounted with him, apparently determined not to part company.

“They seem to mean mischief!” said the hunter, cocking his rifle.

And, in fact, they were swooping nearer, and more than one came within fifty feet of them, as if defying the fire-arms.

“By George, I’m itching to let them have it!” exclaimed Kennedy.

“No, Dick; not now! Don’t exasperate them needlessly.

That would only be exciting them to attack us!”

“But I could soon settle those fellows!”

“You may think so, Dick. But you are wrong!”

“Why, we have a bullet for each of them!”

“And suppose that they were to attack the upper part of the balloon, what would you do? How would you get at them? Just imagine yourself in the presence of a troop of lions on the plain, or a school of sharks in the open ocean! For travellers in the air, this situation is just as dangerous.”

“Are you speaking seriously, doctor?”

“Very seriously, Dick.”

“Let us wait, then!”

“Wait! Hold yourself in readiness in case of an attack, but do not fire without my orders.”

The birds then collected at a short distance, yet to near that their naked necks, entirely bare of feathers, could be plainly seen, as they stretched them out with the effort of their cries, while their gristly crests, garnished with a comb and gills of deep violet, stood erect with rage. They were of the very largest size, their bodies being more than three feet in length, and the lower surface of their white wings glittering in the sunlight. They might well have been considered winged sharks, so striking was their resemblance to those ferocious rangers of the deep.

“They are following us!” said the doctor, as he saw them ascending with him, “and, mount as we may, they can fly still higher!”

“Well, what are we to do?” asked Kennedy.

The doctor made no answer.

“Listen, Samuel!” said the sportsman. “There are fourteen of those birds; we have seventeen shots at our disposal if we discharge all our weapons. Have we not the means, then, to destroy them or disperse them? I will give a good account of some of them!”

“I have no doubt of your skill, Dick; I look upon all as dead that may come within range of your rifle, but I repeat that, if they attack the upper part of the balloon, you could not get a sight at them. They would tear the silk covering that sustains us, and we are three thousand feet up in the air!”

At this moment, one of the ferocious birds darted right at the balloon, with outstretched beak and claws, ready to rend it with either or both.

“Fire! fire at once!” cried the doctor.

He had scarcely ceased, ere the huge creature, stricken dead, dropped headlong, turning over and over in space as he fell.

Kennedy had already grasped one of the two-barrelled fowling-pieces and Joe was taking aim with another.

Frightened by the report, the condors drew back for a moment, but they almost instantly returned to the charge with extreme fury. Kennedy severed the head of one from its body with his first shot, and Joe broke the wing of another.

“Only eleven left,” said he.

Thereupon the birds changed their tactics, and by common consent soared above the balloon. Kennedy glanced at Ferguson. The latter, in spite of his imperturbability, grew pale. Then ensued a moment of terrifying silence. In the next they heard a harsh tearing noise, as of something rending the silk, and the car seemed to sink from beneath the feet of our three aeronauts.

“We are lost!” exclaimed Ferguson, glancing at the barometer, which was now swiftly rising.

“Over with the ballast!” he shouted, “over with it!”

And in a few seconds the last lumps of quartz had disappeared.

“We are still falling! Empty the water-tanks! Do you hear me, Joe? We are pitching into the lake!”

Joe obeyed. The doctor leaned over and looked out. The lake seemed to come up toward him like a rising tide. Every object around grew rapidly in size while they were looking at it. The car was not two hundred feet from the surface of Lake Tchad.

“The provisions! the provisions!” cried the doctor.

And the box containing them was launched into space.

Their descent became less rapid, but the luckless aeronauts were still falling, and into the lake.

“Throw out something — something more!” cried the doctor.

“There is nothing more to throw!” was Kennedy’s despairing response.

“Yes, there is!” called Joe, and with a wave of the hand he disappeared like a flash, over the edge of the car.

“Joe! Joe!” exclaimed the doctor, horror-stricken.

The Victoria thus relieved resumed her ascending motion, mounted a thousand feet into the air, and the wind, burying itself in the disinflated covering, bore them away toward the northern part of the lake.

“Lost!” exclaimed the sportsman, with a gesture of despair.

“Lost to save us!” responded Ferguson.

And these men, intrepid as they were, felt the large tears streaming down their cheeks. They leaned over with the vain hope of seeing some trace of their heroic companion, but they were already far away from him.

“What course shall we pursue?” asked Kennedy.

“Alight as soon as possible, Dick, and then wait.”

After a sweep of some sixty miles the Victoria halted on a desert shore, on the north of the lake. The anchors caught in a low tree and the sportsman fastened it securely. Night came, but neither Ferguson nor Kennedy could find one moment’s sleep.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THIRD.

Conjectures. — Reestablishment of the Victoria’s Equilibrium. — Dr. Ferguson’s New Calculations. — Kennedy’s Hunt. — A Complete Exploration of Lake Tchad. — Tangalia. — The Return. — Lari.

On the morrow, the 13th of May, our travellers, for the first time, reconnoitred the part of the coast on which they had landed. It was a sort of island of solid ground in the midst of an immense marsh. Around this fragment of terra firma grew reeds as lofty as trees are in Europe, and stretching away out of sight.

These impenetrable swamps gave security to the position of the balloon. It was necessary to watch only the borders of the lake. The vast stretch of water broadened away from the spot, especially toward the east, and nothing could be seen on the horizon, neither mainland nor islands.

The two friends had not yet ventured to speak of their recent companion. Kennedy first imparted his conjectures to the doctor.

“Perhaps Joe is not lost after all,” he said. “He was a skilful lad, and had few equals as a swimmer. He would find no difficulty in swimming across the Firth of Forth at Edinburgh. We shall see him again — but how and where I know not. Let us omit nothing on our part to give him the chance of rejoining us.”

“May God grant it as you say, Dick!” replied the doctor, with much emotion. “We shall do everything in the world to find our lost friend again. Let us, in the first place, see where we are. But, above all things, let us rid the Victoria of this outside covering, which is of no further use. That will relieve us of six hundred and fifty pounds, a weight not to be despised — and the end is worth the trouble!”

The doctor and Kennedy went to work at once, but they encountered great difficulty. They had to tear the strong silk away piece by piece, and then cut it in narrow strips so as to extricate it from the meshes of the network. The tear made by the beaks of the condors was found to be several feet in length.

This operation took at least four hours, but at length the inner balloon once completely extricated did not appear to have suffered in the least degree. The Victoria was thus diminished in size by one fifth, and this difference was sufficiently noticeable to excite Kennedy’s surprise.

“Will it be large enough?” he asked.

“Have no fears on that score, I will reestablish the equilibrium, and should our poor Joe return we shall find a way to start off with him again on our old route.”

“At the moment of our fall, unless I am mistaken, we were not far from an island.”

“Yes, I recollect it,” said the doctor, “but that island, like all the islands on Lake Tchad, is, no doubt, inhabited by a gang of pirates and murderers. They certainly witnessed our misfortune, and should Joe fall into their hands, what will become of him unless protected by their superstitions?”

“Oh, he’s just the lad to get safely out of the scrape, I repeat.

I have great confidence in his shrewdness and skill.”

“I hope so. Now, Dick, you may go and hunt in the neighborhood, but don’t get far away whatever you do. It has become a pressing necessity for us to renew our stock of provisions, since we had to sacrifice nearly all the old lot.”

“Very good, doctor, I shall not be long absent.”

Hereupon, Kennedy took a double-barrelled fowling-piece, and strode through the long grass toward a thicket not far off, where the frequent sound of shooting soon let the doctor know that the sportsman was making a good use of his time.

Meanwhile Ferguson was engaged in calculating the relative weight of the articles still left in the car, and in establishing the equipoise of the second balloon. He found that there were still left some thirty pounds of pemmican, a supply of tea and coffee, about a gallon and a half of brandy, and one empty water-tank. All the dried meat had disappeared.

The doctor was aware that, by the loss of the hydrogen in the first balloon, the ascensional force at his disposal was now reduced to about nine hundred pounds. He therefore had to count upon this difference in order to rearrange his equilibrium. The new balloon measured sixty-seven thousand cubic feet, and contained thirty-three thousand four hundred and eighty feet of gas. The dilating apparatus appeared to be in good condition, and neither the battery nor the spiral had been injured.

The ascensional force of the new balloon was then about three thousand pounds, and, in adding together the weight of the apparatus, of the passengers, of the stock of water, of the car and its accessories, and putting aboard fifty gallons of water, and one hundred pounds of fresh meat, the doctor got a total weight of twenty-eight hundred and thirty pounds. He could then take with him one hundred and seventy pounds of ballast, for unforeseen emergencies, and the balloon would be in exact balance with the surrounding atmosphere.

His arrangements were completed accordingly, and he made up for Joe’s weight with a surplus of ballast. He spent the whole day in these preparations, and the latter were finished when Kennedy returned. The hunter had been successful, and brought back a regular cargo of geese, wild-duck, snipe, teal, and plover. He went to work at once to draw and smoke the game. Each piece, suspended on a small, thin skewer, was hung over a fire of green wood. When they seemed in good order, Kennedy, who was perfectly at home in the business, packed them away in the car.

On the morrow, the hunter was to complete his supplies.

Evening surprised our travellers in the midst of this work. Their supper consisted of pemmican, biscuit, and tea; and fatigue, after having given them appetite, brought them sleep. Each of them strained eyes and ears into the gloom during his watch, sometimes fancying that they heard the voice of poor Joe; but, alas! the voice that they so longed to hear, was far away.

“At the first streak of day, the doctor aroused Kennedy.

“I have been long and carefully considering what should be done,” said he, “to find our companion.”

“Whatever your plan may be, doctor, it will suit me. Speak!”

“Above all things, it is important that Joe should hear from us in some way.”

“Undoubtedly. Suppose the brave fellow should take it into his head that we have abandoned him?”

“He! He knows us too well for that. Such a thought would never come into his mind. But he must be informed as to where we are.”

“How can that be managed?”

“We shall get into our car and be off again through the air.”

“But, should the wind bear us away?”

“Happily, it will not. See, Dick! it is carrying us back to the lake; and this circumstance, which would have been vexatious yesterday, is fortunate now. Our efforts, then, will be limited to keeping ourselves above that vast sheet of water throughout the day. Joe cannot fail to see us, and his eyes will be constantly on the lookout in that direction. Perhaps he will even manage to let us know the place of his retreat.”

“If he be alone and at liberty, he certainly will.”

“And if a prisoner,” resumed the doctor, “it not being the practice of the natives to confine their captives, he will see us, and comprehend the object of our researches.”

“But, at last,” put in Kennedy — “for we must anticipate every thing — should we find no trace — if he should have left no mark to follow him by, what are we to do?”

“We shall endeavor to regain the northern part of the lake, keeping ourselves as much in sight as possible. There we’ll wait; we’ll explore the banks; we’ll search the water’s edge, for Joe will assuredly try to reach the shore; and we will not leave the country without having done every thing to find him.”

“Let us set out, then!” said the hunter.

The doctor hereupon took the exact bearings of the patch of solid land they were about to leave, and arrived at the conclusion that it lay on the north shore of Lake Tchad, between the village of Lari and the village of Ingemini, both visited by Major Denham. During this time Kennedy was completing his stock of fresh meat. Although the neighboring marshes showed traces of the rhinoceros, the lamantine (or manatee), and the hippopotamus, he had no opportunity to see a single specimen of those animals.

At seven in the morning, but not without great difficulty — which to Joe would have been nothing — the balloon’s anchor was detached from its hold, the gas dilated, and the new Victoria rose two hundred feet into the air. It seemed to hesitate at first, and went spinning around, like a top; but at last a brisk current caught it, and it advanced over the lake, and was soon borne away at a speed of twenty miles per hour.

The doctor continued to keep at a height of from two hundred to five hundred feet. Kennedy frequently discharged his rifle; and, when passing over islands, the aeronauts approached them even imprudently, scrutinizing the thickets, the bushes, the underbrush — in fine, every spot where a mass of shade or jutting rock could have afforded a retreat to their companion. They swooped down close to the long pirogues that navigated the lake; and the wild fishermen, terrified at the sight of the balloon, would plunge into the water and regain their islands with every symptom of undisguised affright.

“We can see nothing,” said Kennedy, after two hours of search.

“Let us wait a little longer, Dick, and not lose heart.

We cannot be far away from the scene of our accident.”

By eleven o’clock the balloon had gone ninety miles. It then fell in with a new current, which, blowing almost at right angles to the other, drove them eastward about sixty miles. It next floated over a very large and populous island, which the doctor took to be Farram, on which the capital of the Biddiomahs is situated. Ferguson expected at every moment to see Joe spring up out of some thicket, flying for his life, and calling for help. Were he free, they could pick him up without trouble; were he a prisoner, they could rescue him by repeating the manoeuvre they had practised to save the missionary, and he would soon be with his friends again; but nothing was seen, not a sound was heard. The case seemed desperate.

About half-past two o’clock, the Victoria hove in sight of Tangalia, a village situated on the eastern shore of Lake Tchad, where it marks the extreme point attained by Denham at the period of his exploration.

The doctor became uneasy at this persistent setting of the wind in that direction, for he felt that he was being thrown back to the eastward, toward the centre of Africa, and the interminable deserts of that region.

“We must absolutely come to a halt,” said he, “and even alight. For Joe’s sake, particularly, we ought to go back to the lake; but, to begin with, let us endeavor to find an opposite current.”

During more than an hour he searched at different altitudes: the balloon always came back toward the mainland. But at length, at the height of a thousand feet, a very violent breeze swept to the northwestward.

It was out of the question that Joe should have been detained on one of the islands of the lake; for, in such case he would certainly have found means to make his presence there known. Perhaps he had been dragged to the mainland. The doctor was reasoning thus to himself, when he again came in sight of the northern shore of Lake Tchad.

As for supposing that Joe had been drowned, that was not to be believed for a moment. One horrible thought glanced across the minds of both Kennedy and the doctor: caymans swarm in these waters! But neither one nor the other had the courage to distinctly communicate this impression. However, it came up to them so forcibly at last that the doctor said, without further preface:

“Crocodiles are found only on the shores of the islands or of the lake, and Joe will have skill enough to avoid them. Besides, they are not very dangerous; and the Africans bathe with impunity, and quite fearless of their attacks.”

Kennedy made no reply. He preferred keeping quiet to discussing this terrible possibility.

The doctor made out the town of Lari about five o’clock in the evening. The inhabitants were at work gathering in their cotton-crop in front of their huts, constructed of woven reeds, and standing in the midst of clean and neatly-kept enclosures. This collection of about fifty habitations occupied a slight depression of the soil, in a valley extending between two low mountains. The force of the wind carried the doctor farther onward than he wanted to go; but it changed a second time, and bore him back exactly to his starting-point, on the sort of enclosed island where he had passed the preceding night. The anchor, instead of catching the branches of the tree, took hold in the masses of reeds mixed with the thick mud of the marshes, which offered considerable resistance.

The doctor had much difficulty in restraining the balloon; but at length the wind died away with the setting in of nightfall; and the two friends kept watch together in an almost desperate state of mind.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIFTH.

What happened to Joe. — The Island of the Biddiomahs. — The Adoration shown him. — The Island that sank. — The Shores of the Lake. — The Tree of the Serpents. — The Foot-Tramp. — Terrible Suffering. — Mosquitoes and Ants. — Hunger. — The Victoria seen. — She disappears. — The Swamp. — One Last Despairing Cry.

What had become of Joe, while his master was thus vainly seeking for him?

When he had dashed headlong into the lake, his first movement on coming to the surface was to raise his eyes and look upward. He saw the Victoria already risen far above the water, still rapidly ascending and growing smaller and smaller. It was soon caught in a rapid current and disappeared to the northward. His master — both his friends were saved!

“How lucky it was,” thought he, “that I had that idea to throw myself out into the lake! Mr. Kennedy would soon have jumped at it, and he would not have hesitated to do as I did, for nothing’s more natural than for one man to give himself up to save two others. That’s mathematics!”

Satisfied on this point, Joe began to think of himself. He was in the middle of a vast lake, surrounded by tribes unknown to him, and probably ferocious. All the greater reason why he should get out of the scrape by depending only on himself. And so he gave himself no farther concern about it.

Before the attack by the birds of prey, which, according to him, had behaved like real condors, he had noticed an island on the horizon, and determining to reach it, if possible, he put forth all his knowledge and skill in the art of swimming, after having relieved himself of the most troublesome part of his clothing. The idea of a stretch of five or six miles by no means disconcerted him; and therefore, so long as he was in the open lake, he thought only of striking out straight ahead and manfully.

In about an hour and a half the distance between him and the island had greatly diminished.

But as he approached the land, a thought, at first fleeting and then tenacious, arose in his mind. He knew that the shores of the lake were frequented by huge alligators, and was well aware of the voracity of those monsters.

Now, no matter how much he was inclined to find every thing in this world quite natural, the worthy fellow was no little disturbed by this reflection. He feared greatly lest white flesh like his might be particularly acceptable to the dreaded brutes, and advanced only with extreme precaution, his eyes on the alert on both sides and all around him. At length, he was not more than one hundred yards from a bank, covered with green trees, when a puff of air strongly impregnated with a musky odor reached him.

“There!” said he to himself, “just what I expected.

The crocodile isn’t far off!”

With this he dived swiftly, but not sufficiently so to avoid coming into contact with an enormous body, the scaly surface of which scratched him as he passed. He thought himself lost and swam with desperate energy. Then he rose again to the top of the water, took breath and dived once more. Thus passed a few minutes of unspeakable anguish, which all his philosophy could not overcome, for he thought, all the while, that he heard behind him the sound of those huge jaws ready to snap him up forever. In this state of mind he was striking out under the water as noiselessly as possible when he felt himself seized by the arm and then by the waist.

Poor Joe! he gave one last thought to his master; and began to struggle with all the energy of despair, feeling himself the while drawn along, but not toward the bottom of the lake, as is the habit of the crocodile when about to devour its prey, but toward the surface.

So soon as he could get breath and look around him, he saw that he was between two natives as black as ebony, who held him, with a firm gripe, and uttered strange cries.

“Ha!” said Joe, “blacks instead of crocodiles! Well, I prefer it as it is; but how in the mischief dare these fellows go in bathing in such places?”

Joe was not aware that the inhabitants of the islands of Lake Tchad, like many other negro tribes, plunge with impunity into sheets of water infested with crocodiles and caymans, and without troubling their heads about them. The amphibious denizens of this lake enjoy the well-deserved reputation of being quite inoffensive.

But had not Joe escaped one peril only to fall into another? That was a question which he left events to decide; and, since he could not do otherwise, he allowed himself to be conducted to the shore without manifesting any alarm.

“Evidently,” thought he, “these chaps saw the Victoria skimming the waters of the lake, like a monster of the air. They were the distant witnesses of my tumble, and they can’t fail to have some respect for a man that fell from the sky! Let them have their own way, then.”

Joe was at this stage of his meditations, when he was landed amid a yelling crowd of both sexes, and all ages and sizes, but not of all colors. In fine, he was surrounded by a tribe of Biddiomahs as black as jet. Nor had he to blush for the scantiness of his costume, for he saw that he was in “undress” in the highest style of that country.

But before he had time to form an exact idea of the situation, there was no mistaking the agitation of which he instantly became the object, and this soon enabled him to pluck up courage, although the adventure of Kazah did come back rather vividly to his memory.

“I foresee that they are going to make a god of me again,” thought he, “some son of the moon most likely. Well, one trade’s as good as another when a man has no choice. The main thing is to gain time. Should the Victoria pass this way again, I’ll take advantage of my new position to treat my worshippers here to a miracle when I go sailing up into the sky!”

While Joe’s thoughts were running thus, the throng pressed around him. They prostrated themselves before him; they howled; they felt him; they became even annoyingly familiar; but at the same time they had the consideration to offer him a superb banquet consisting of sour milk and rice pounded in honey. The worthy fellow, making the best of every thing, took one of the heartiest luncheons he ever ate in his life, and gave his new adorers an exalted idea of how the gods tuck away their food upon grand occasions.

When evening came, the sorcerers of the island took him respectfully by the hand, and conducted him to a sort of house surrounded with talismans; but, as he was entering it, Joe cast an uneasy look at the heaps of human bones that lay scattered around this sanctuary. But he had still more time to think about them when he found himself at last shut up in the cabin.

During the evening and through a part of the night, he heard festive chantings, the reverberations of a kind of drum, and a clatter of old iron, which were very sweet, no doubt, to African ears. Then there were howling choruses, accompanied by endless dances by gangs of natives who circled round and round the sacred hut with contortions and grimaces.

Joe could catch the sound of this deafening orchestra, through the mud and reeds of which his cabin was built; and perhaps under other circumstances he might have been amused by these strange ceremonies; but his mind was soon disturbed by quite different and less agreeable reflections. Even looking at the bright side of things, he found it both stupid and sad to be left alone in the midst of this savage country and among these wild tribes. Few travellers who had penetrated to these regions had ever again seen their native land. Moreover, could he trust to the worship of which he saw himself the object? He had good reason to believe in the vanity of human greatness; and he asked himself whether, in this country, adoration did not sometimes go to the length of eating the object adored!

But, notwithstanding this rather perplexing prospect, after some hours of meditation, fatigue got the better of his gloomy thoughts, and Joe fell into a profound slumber, which would have lasted no doubt until sunrise, had not a very unexpected sensation of dampness awakened the sleeper. Ere long this dampness became water, and that water gained so rapidly that it had soon mounted to Joe’s waist.

“What can this be?” said he; “a flood! a water-spout! or a new torture invented by these blacks? Faith, though, I’m not going to wait here till it’s up to my neck!”

And, so saying, he burst through the frail wall with a jog of his powerful shoulder, and found himself — where? — in the open lake! Island there was none. It had sunk during the night. In its place, the watery immensity of Lake Tchad!

“A poor country for the land-owners!” said Joe, once more vigorously resorting to his skill in the art of natation.

One of those phenomena, which are by no means unusual on Lake Tchad, had liberated our brave Joe. More than one island, that previously seemed to have the solidity of rock, has been submerged in this way; and the people living along the shores of the mainland have had to pick up the unfortunate survivors of these terrible catastrophes.

Joe knew nothing about this peculiarity of the region, but he was none the less ready to profit by it. He caught sight of a boat drifting about, without occupants, and was soon aboard of it. He found it to be but the trunk of a tree rudely hollowed out; but there were a couple of paddles in it, and Joe, availing himself of a rapid current, allowed his craft to float along.

“But let us see where we are,” he said. “The polar-star there, that does its work honorably in pointing out the direction due north to everybody else, will, most likely, do me that service.”

He discovered, with satisfaction, that the current was taking him toward the northern shore of the lake, and he allowed himself to glide with it. About two o’clock in the morning he disembarked upon a promontory covered with prickly reeds, that proved very provoking and inconvenient even to a philosopher like him; but a tree grew there expressly to offer him a bed among its branches, and Joe climbed up into it for greater security, and there, without sleeping much, however, awaited the dawn of day.

When morning had come with that suddenness which is peculiar to the equatorial regions, Joe cast a glance at the tree which had sheltered him during the last few hours, and beheld a sight that chilled the marrow in his bones. The branches of the tree were literally covered with snakes and chameleons! The foliage actually was hidden beneath their coils, so that the beholder might have fancied that he saw before him a new kind of tree that bore reptiles for its leaves and fruit. And all this horrible living mass writhed and twisted in the first rays of the morning sun! Joe experienced a keen sensation or terror mingled with disgust, as he looked at it, and he leaped precipitately from the tree amid the hissings of these new and unwelcome bedfellows.

“Now, there’s something that I would never have believed!” said he.

He was not aware that Dr. Vogel’s last letters had made known this singular feature of the shores of Lake Tchad, where reptiles are more numerous than in any other part of the world. But after what he had just seen, Joe determined to be more circumspect for the future; and, taking his bearings by the sun, he set off afoot toward the northeast, avoiding with the utmost care cabins, huts, hovels, and dens of every description, that might serve in any manner as a shelter for human beings.

How often his gaze was turned upward to the sky! He hoped to catch a glimpse, each time, of the Victoria; and, although he looked vainly during all that long, fatiguing day of sore foot-travel, his confident reliance on his master remained undiminished. Great energy of character was needed to enable him thus to sustain the situation with philosophy. Hunger conspired with fatigue to crush him, for a man’s system is not greatly restored and fortified by a diet of roots, the pith of plants, such as the Mele, or the fruit of the doum palm-tree; and yet, according to his own calculations, Joe was enabled to push on about twenty miles to the westward.

His body bore in scores of places the marks of the thorns with which the lake-reeds, the acacias, the mimosas, and other wild shrubbery through which he had to force his way, are thickly studded; and his torn and bleeding feet rendered walking both painful and difficult. But at length he managed to react against all these sufferings; and when evening came again, he resolved to pass the night on the shores of Lake Tchad.

There he had to endure the bites of myriads of insects — gnats, mosquitoes, ants half an inch long, literally covered the ground; and, in less than two hours, Joe had not a rag remaining of the garments that had covered him, the insects having devoured them! It was a terrible night, that did not yield our exhausted traveller an hour of sleep. During all this time the wild-boars and native buffaloes, reenforced by the ajoub — a very dangerous species of lamantine — carried on their ferocious revels in the bushes and under the waters of the lake, filling the night with a hideous concert. Joe dared scarcely breathe. Even his courage and coolness had hard work to bear up against so terrible a situation.

At length, day came again, and Joe sprang to his feet precipitately; but judge of the loathing he felt when he saw what species of creature had shared his couch — a toad! — but a toad five inches in length, a monstrous, repulsive specimen of vermin that sat there staring at him with huge round eyes. Joe felt his stomach revolt at the sight, and, regaining a little strength from the intensity of his repugnance, he rushed at the top of his speed and plunged into the lake. This sudden bath somewhat allayed the pangs of the itching that tortured his whole body; and, chewing a few leaves, he set forth resolutely, again feeling an obstinate resolution in the act, for which he could hardly account even to his own mind. He no longer seemed to have entire control of his own acts, and, nevertheless, he felt within him a strength superior to despair.

However, he began now to suffer terribly from hunger. His stomach, less resigned than he was, rebelled, and he was obliged to fasten a tendril of wild-vine tightly about his waist. Fortunately, he could quench his thirst at any moment, and, in recalling the sufferings he had undergone in the desert, he experienced comparative relief in his exemption from that other distressing want.

“What can have become of the Victoria?” he wondered. “The wind blows from the north, and she should be carried back by it toward the lake. No doubt the doctor has gone to work to right her balance, but yesterday would have given him time enough for that, so that may be to-day — but I must act just as if I was never to see him again. After all, if I only get to one of the large towns on the lake, I’ll find myself no worse off than the travellers my master used to talk about. Why shouldn’t I work my way out of the scrape as well as they did? Some of them got back home again. Come, then! the deuce! Cheer up, my boy!”

Thus talking to himself and walking on rapidly, Joe came right upon a horde of natives in the very depths of the forest, but he halted in time and was not seen by them. The negroes were busy poisoning arrows with the juice of the euphorbium — a piece of work deemed a great affair among these savage tribes, and carried on with a sort of ceremonial solemnity.

Joe, entirely motionless and even holding his breath, was keeping himself concealed in a thicket, when, happening to raise his eyes, he saw through an opening in the foliage the welcome apparition of the balloon — the Victoria herself — moving toward the lake, at a height of only about one hundred feet above him. But he could not make himself heard; he dared not, could not make his friends even see him!

Tears came to his eyes, not of grief but of thankfulness; his master was then seeking him; his master had not left him to perish! He would have to wait for the departure of the blacks; then he could quit his hiding-place and run toward the borders of Lake Tchad!

But by this time the Victoria was disappearing in the distant sky. Joe still determined to wait for her; she would come back again, undoubtedly. She did, indeed, return, but farther to the eastward. Joe ran, gesticulated, shouted — but all in vain! A strong breeze was sweeping the balloon away with a speed that deprived him of all hope.

For the first time, energy and confidence abandoned the heart of the unfortunate man. He saw that he was lost. He thought his master gone beyond all prospect of return. He dared no longer think; he would no longer reflect!

Like a crazy man, his feet bleeding, his body cut and torn, he walked on during all that day and a part of the next night. He even dragged himself along, sometimes on his knees, sometimes with his hands. He saw the moment nigh when all his strength would fail, and nothing would be left to him but to sink upon the ground and die.

Thus working his way along, he at length found himself close to a marsh, or what he knew would soon become a marsh, for night had set in some hours before, and he fell by a sudden misstep into a thick, clinging mire. In spite of all his efforts, in spite of his desperate struggles, he felt himself sinking gradually in the swampy ooze, and in a few minutes he was buried to his waist.

“Here, then, at last, is death!” he thought, in agony, “and what a death!”

He now began to struggle again, like a madman; but his efforts only served to bury him deeper in the tomb that the poor doomed lad was hollowing for himself; not a log of wood or a branch to buoy him up; not a reed to which he might cling! He felt that all was over! His eyes convulsively closed!

“Master! master! — Help!” were his last words; but his voice, despairing, unaided, half stifled already by the rising mire, died away feebly on the night.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIXTH.

A Throng of People on the Horizon. — A Troop of Arabs. — The Pursuit. — It is He. — Fall from Horseback. — The Strangled Arab. — A Ball from Kennedy. — Adroit Manoeuvres. — Caught up flying. — Joe saved at last.

From the moment when Kennedy resumed his post of observation in the front of the car, he had not ceased to watch the horizon with his utmost attention.

After the lapse of some time he turned toward the doctor and said: “If I am not greatly mistaken I can see, off yonder in the distance, a throng of men or animals moving. It is impossible to make them out yet, but I observe that they are in violent motion, for they are raising a great cloud of dust.”

“May it not be another contrary breeze?” said the doctor, “another whirlwind coming to drive us back northward again?” and while speaking he stood up to examine the horizon.

“I think not, Samuel; it is a troop of gazelles or of wild oxen.”

“Perhaps so, Dick; but yon throng is some nine or ten miles from us at least, and on my part, even with the glass, I can make nothing of it!”

“At all events I shall not lose sight of it. There is something remarkable about it that excites my curiosity. Sometimes it looks like a body of cavalry manoeuvring. Ah! I was not mistaken. It is, indeed, a squadron of horsemen. Look — look there!”

The doctor eyed the group with great attention, and, after a moment’s pause, remarked: “I believe that you are right. It is a detachment of Arabs or Tibbous, and they are galloping in the same direction with us, as though in flight, but we are going faster than they, and we are rapidly gaining on them. In half an hour we shall be near enough to see them and know what they are.”

Kennedy had again lifted his glass and was attentively scrutinizing them. Meanwhile the crowd of horsemen was becoming more distinctly visible, and a few were seen to detach themselves from the main body.

“It is some hunting manoeuvre, evidently,” said Kennedy.

“Those fellows seem to be in pursuit of something.

I would like to know what they are about.”

“Patience, Dick! In a little while we shall overtake them, if they continue on the same route. We are going at the rate of twenty miles per hour, and no horse can keep up with that.”

Kennedy again raised his glass, and a few minutes later he exclaimed: “They are Arabs, galloping at the top of their speed; I can make them out distinctly. They are about fifty in number. I can see their bournouses puffed out by the wind. It is some cavalry exercise that they are going through. Their chief is a hundred paces ahead of them and they are rushing after him at headlong speed.”

“Whoever they may be, Dick, they are not to be feared, and then, if necessary, we can go higher.”

“Wait, doctor — wait a little!”

“It’s curious,” said Kennedy again, after a brief pause, “but there’s something going on that I can’t exactly explain. By the efforts they make, and the irregularity of their line, I should fancy that those Arabs are pursuing some one, instead of following.”

“Are you certain of that, Dick?”

“Oh! yes, it’s clear enough now. I am right! It is a pursuit — a hunt — but a man-hunt! That is not their chief riding ahead of them, but a fugitive.”

“A fugitive!” exclaimed the doctor, growing more and more interested.

“Yes!”

“Don’t lose sight of him, and let us wait!”

Three or four miles more were quickly gained upon these horsemen, who nevertheless were dashing onward with incredible speed.

“Doctor! doctor!” shouted Kennedy in an agitated voice.

“What is the matter, Dick?”

“Is it an illusion? Can it be possible?”

“What do you mean?”

“Wait!” and so saying, the Scot wiped the sights of his spy-glass carefully, and looked through it again intently.

“Well?” questioned the doctor.

“It is he, doctor!”

“He!” exclaimed Ferguson with emotion.

“It is he! no other!” and it was needless to pronounce the name.

“Yes! it is he! on horseback, and only a hundred paces in advance of his enemies! He is pursued!”

“It is Joe — Joe himself!” cried the doctor, turning pale.

“He cannot see us in his flight!”

“He will see us, though!” said the doctor, lowering the flame of his blow-pipe.

“But how?”

“In five minutes we shall be within fifty feet of the ground, and in fifteen we shall be right over him!”

“We must let him know it by firing a gun!”

“No! he can’t turn back to come this way. He’s headed off!”

“What shall we do, then?”

“We must wait.”

“Wait? — and these Arabs!”

“We shall overtake them. We’ll pass them. We are not more than two miles from them, and provided that Joe’s horse holds out!”

“Great God!” exclaimed Kennedy, suddenly.

“What is the matter?”

Kennedy had uttered a cry of despair as he saw Joe fling himself to the ground. His horse, evidently exhausted, had just fallen headlong.

“He sees us!” cried the doctor, “and he motions to us, as he gets upon his feet!”

“But the Arabs will overtake him! What is he waiting for? Ah! the brave lad! Huzza!” shouted the sportsman, who could no longer restrain his feelings.

Joe, who had immediately sprung up after his fall, just as one of the swiftest horsemen rushed upon him, bounded like a panther, avoided his assailant by leaping to one side, jumped up behind him on the crupper, seized the Arab by the throat, and, strangling him with his sinewy hands and fingers of steel, flung him on the sand, and continued his headlong flight.

A tremendous howl was heard from the Arabs, but, completely engrossed by the pursuit, they had not taken notice of the balloon, which was now but five hundred paces behind them, and only about thirty feet from the ground. On their part, they were not twenty lengths of their horses from the fugitive.

One of them was very perceptibly gaining on Joe, and was about to pierce him with his lance, when Kennedy, with fixed eye and steady hand, stopped him short with a ball, that hurled him to the earth.

Joe did not even turn his head at the report. Some of the horsemen reined in their barbs, and fell on their faces in the dust as they caught sight of the Victoria; the rest continued their pursuit.

“But what is Joe about?” said Kennedy; “he don’t stop!”

“He’s doing better than that, Dick! I understand him! He’s keeping on in the same direction as the balloon. He relies upon our intelligence. Ah! the noble fellow! We’ll carry him off in the very teeth of those Arab rascals! We are not more than two hundred paces from him!”

“What are we to do?” asked Kennedy.

“Lay aside your rifle,Dick.”

And the Scot obeyed the request at once.

“Do you think that you can hold one hundred and fifty pounds of ballast in your arms?”

“Ay, more than that!”

“No! That will be enough!”

And the doctor proceeded to pile up bags of sand in Kennedy’s arms.

“Hold yourself in readiness in the back part of the car, and be prepared to throw out that ballast at a single effort. But, for your life, don’t do so until I give the word!”

“Be easy on that point.”

“Otherwise, we should miss Joe, and he would be lost.”

“Count upon me!”

The Victoria at that moment almost commanded the troop of horsemen who were still desperately urging their steeds at Joe’s heels. The doctor, standing in the front of the car, held the ladder clear, ready to throw it at any moment. Meanwhile, Joe had still maintained the distance between himself and his pursuers — say about fifty feet. The Victoria was now ahead of the party.

“Attention!” exclaimed the doctor to Kennedy.

“I’m ready!”

“Joe, look out for yourself!” shouted the doctor in his sonorous, ringing voice, as he flung out the ladder, the lowest ratlines of which tossed up the dust of the road.

As the doctor shouted, Joe had turned his head, but without checking his horse. The ladder dropped close to him, and at the instant he grasped it the doctor again shouted to Kennedy: “Throw ballast!”

“It’s done!”

And the Victoria, lightened by a weight greater than Joe’s, shot up one hundred and fifty feet into the air.

Joe clung with all his strength to the ladder during the wide oscillations that it had to describe, and then making an indescribable gesture to the Arabs, and climbing with the agility of a monkey, he sprang up to his companions, who received him with open arms.

The Arabs uttered a scream of astonishment and rage. The fugitive had been snatched from them on the wing, and the Victoria was rapidly speeding far beyond their reach.

“Master! Kennedy!” ejaculated Joe, and overwhelmed, at last, with fatigue and emotion, the poor fellow fainted away, while Kennedy, almost beside himself, kept exclaiming: “Saved — saved!”

“Saved indeed!” murmured the doctor, who had recovered all his phlegmatic coolness.

Joe was almost naked. His bleeding arms, his body covered with cuts and bruises, told what his sufferings had been. The doctor quietly dressed his wounds, and laid him comfortably under the awning.

Joe soon returned to consciousness, and asked for a glass of brandy, which the doctor did not see fit to refuse, as the faithful fellow had to be indulged.

After he had swallowed the stimulant, Joe grasped the hands of his two friends and announced that he was ready to relate what had happened to him.

But they would not allow him to talk at that time, and he sank back into a profound sleep, of which he seemed to have the greatest possible need.

The Victoria was then taking an oblique line to the westward. Driven by a tempestuous wind, it again approached the borders of the thorny desert, which the travellers descried over the tops of palm-trees, bent and broken by the storm; and, after having made a run of two hundred miles since rescuing Joe, it passed the tenth degree of east longitude about nightfall.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE GREAT GEYSER

Wednesday, August 19. — Fortunately the wind blows violently, and has enabled us to flee from the scene of the late terrible struggle. Hans keeps at his post at the helm. My uncle, whom the absorbing incidents of the combat had drawn away from his contemplations, began again to look impatiently around him.

The voyage resumes its uniform tenor, which I don’t care to break with a repetition of such events as yesterday’s.

Thursday, Aug. 20. — Wind N.N.E. unsteady and fitful. Temperature high. Rate three and a half leagues an hour.

About noon a distant noise is heard. I note the fact without being able to explain it. It is a continuous roar.

“In the distance,” says the Professor, “there is a rock or islet, against which the sea is breaking.”

Hans climbs up the mast, but sees no breakers. The ocean’ is smooth and unbroken to its farthest limit.

Three hours pass away. The roarings seem to proceed from a very distant waterfall.

I remark upon this to my uncle, who replies doubtfully: “Yes, I am convinced that I am right.” Are we, then, speeding forward to some cataract which will cast us down an abyss? This method of getting on may please the Professor, because it is vertical; but for my part I prefer the more ordinary modes of horizontal progression.

At any rate, some leagues to the windward there must be some noisy phenomenon, for now the roarings are heard with increasing loudness. Do they proceed from the sky or the ocean?

I look up to the atmospheric vapours, and try to fathom their depths. The sky is calm and motionless. The clouds have reached the utmost limit of the lofty vault, and there lie still bathed in the bright glare of the electric light. It is not there that we must seek for the cause of this phenomenon. Then I examine the horizon, which is unbroken and clear of all mist. There is no change in its aspect. But if this noise arises from a fall, a cataract, if all this ocean flows away headlong into a lower basin yet, if that deafening roar is produced by a mass of falling water, the current must needs accelerate, and its increasing speed will give me the measure of the peril that threatens us. I consult the current: there is none. I throw an empty bottle into the sea: it lies still.

About four Hans rises, lays hold of the mast, climbs to its top. Thence his eye sweeps a large area of sea, and it is fixed upon a point. His countenance exhibits no surprise, but his eye is immovably steady.

“He sees something,” says my uncle.

“I believe he does.”

Hans comes down, then stretches his arm to the south, saying: “Dere nere!”

“Down there?” repeated my uncle.

Then, seizing his glass, he gazes attentively for a minute, which seems to me an age.

“Yes, yes!” he cried. “I see a vast inverted cone rising from the surface.”

“Is it another sea beast?”

“Perhaps it is.”

“Then let us steer farther westward, for we know something of the danger of coming across monsters of that sort.”

“Let us go straight on,” replied my uncle.

I appealed to Hans. He maintained his course inflexibly.

Yet, if at our present distance from the animal, a distance of twelve leagues at the least, the column of water driven through its blowers may be distinctly seen, it must needs be of vast size. The commonest prudence would counsel immediate flight; but we did not come so far to be prudent.

Imprudently, therefore, we pursue our way. The nearer we approach, the higher mounts the jet of water. What monster can possibly fill itself with such a quantity of water, and spurt it up so continuously?

At eight in the evening we are not two leagues distant from it. Its body — dusky, enormous, hillocky — lies spread upon the sea like an islet. Is it illusion or fear? Its length seems to me a couple of thousand yards. What can be this cetacean, which neither Cuvier nor Blumenbach knew anything about? It lies motionless, as if asleep; the sea seems unable to move it in the least; it is the waves that undulate upon its sides. The column of water thrown up to a height of five hundred feet falls in rain with a deafening uproar. And here are we scudding like lunatics before the wind, to get near to a monster that a hundred whales a day would not satisfy!

Terror seizes upon me. I refuse to go further. I will cut the halliards if necessary! I am in open mutiny against the Professor, who vouchsafes no answer.

Suddenly Hans rises, and pointing with his finger at the menacing object, he says: “Holm.”

“An island!” cries my uncle.

“That’s not an island!” I cried sceptically.

“It’s nothing else,” shouted the Professor, with a loud laugh.

“But that column of water?”

“Geyser,” said Hans.

“No doubt it is a geyser, like those in Iceland.”

At first I protest against being so widely mistaken as to have taken an island for a marine monster. But the evidence is against me, and I have to confess my error. It is nothing worse than a natural phenomenon.

As we approach nearer the dimensions of the liquid column become magnificent. The islet resembles, with a most deceiving likeness, an enormous cetacean, whose head dominates the waves at a height of twenty yards. The geyser, a word meaning ‘fury,’ rises majestically from its extremity. Deep and heavy explosions are heard from time to time, when the enormous jet, possessed with more furious violence, shakes its plumy crest, and springs with a bound till it reaches the lowest stratum of the clouds. It stands alone. No steam vents, no hot springs surround it, and all the volcanic power of the region is concentrated here. Sparks of electric fire mingle with the dazzling sheaf of lighted fluid, every drop of which refracts the prismatic colours.

“Let us land,” said the Professor.

“But we must carefully avoid this waterspout, which would sink our raft in a moment.”

Hans, steering with his usual skill, brought us to the other extremity of the islet.

I leaped up on the rock; my uncle lightly followed, while our hunter remained at his post, like a man too wise ever to be astonished.

We walked upon granite mingled with siliceous tufa. The soil shivers and shakes under our feet, like the sides of an overheated boiler filled with steam struggling to get loose. We come in sight of a small central basin, out of which the geyser springs. I plunge a register thermometer into the boiling water. It marks an intense heat of 325deg, which is far above the boiling point; therefore this water issues from an ardent furnace, which is not at all in harmony with Professor Liedenbrock’s theories. I cannot help making the remark.

“Well,” he replied, “how does that make against my doctrine?”

“Oh, nothing at all,” I said, seeing that I was going in opposition to immovable obstinacy.

Still I am constrained to confess that hitherto we have been wonderfully favoured, and that for some reason unknown to myself we have accomplished our journey under singularly favourable conditions of temperature. But it seems manifest to me that some day we shall reach a region where the central heat attains its highest limits, and goes beyond a point that can be registered by our thermometers.

“That is what we shall see.” So says the Professor, who, having named this volcanic islet after his nephew, gives the signal to embark again.

For some minutes I am still contemplating the geyser. I notice that it throws up its column of water with variable force: sometimes sending it to a great height, then again to a lower, which I attribute to the variable pressure of the steam accumulated in its reservoir.

At last we leave the island, rounding away past the low rocks on its southern shore. Hans has taken advantage of the halt to refit his rudder.

But before going any farther I make a few observations, to calculate the distance we have gone over, and note them in my journal. We have crossed two hundred and seventy leagues of sea since leaving Port Grauben; and we are six hundred and twenty leagues from Iceland, under England.

This distance carries the travellers as far as under the Pyrenees if the league measures three miles. (Trans.)

CHAPTER XXXV.

AN ELECTRIC STORM

Friday, August 21. — On the morrow the magnificent geyser has disappeared. The wind has risen, and has rapidly carried us away from Axel Island. The roarings become lost in the distance.

The weather — if we may use that term — will change before long. The atmosphere is charged with vapours, pervaded with the electricity generated by the evaporation of saline waters. The clouds are sinking lower, and assume an olive hue. The electric light can scarcely penetrate through the dense curtain which has dropped over the theatre on which the battle of the elements is about to be waged.

I feel peculiar sensations, like many creatures on earth at the approach of violent atmospheric changes. The heavily voluted cumulus clouds lower gloomily and threateningly; they wear that implacable look which I have sometimes noticed at the outbreak of a great storm. The air is heavy; the sea is calm.

In the distance the clouds resemble great bales of cotton, piled up in picturesque disorder. By degrees they dilate, and gain in huge size what they lose in number. Such is their ponderous weight that they cannot rise from the horizon; but, obeying an impulse from higher currents, their dense consistency slowly yields. The gloom upon them deepens; and they soon present to our view a ponderous mass of almost level surface. From time to time a fleecy tuft of mist, with yet some gleaming light left upon it, drops down upon the dense floor of grey, and loses itself in the opaque and impenetrable mass.

The atmosphere is evidently charged and surcharged with electricity. My whole body is saturated; my hair bristles just as when you stand upon an insulated stool under the action of an electrical machine. It seems to me as if my companions, the moment they touched me, would receive a severe shock like that from an electric eel.

At ten in the morning the symptoms of storm become aggravated. The wind never lulls but to acquire increased strength; the vast bank of heavy clouds is a huge reservoir of fearful windy gusts and rushing storms.

I am loth to believe these atmospheric menaces, and yet I cannot help muttering: “Here’s some very bad weather coming on.”

The Professor made no answer. His temper is awful, to judge from the working of his features, as he sees this vast length of ocean unrolling before him to an indefinite extent. He can only spare time to shrug his shoulders viciously.

“There’s a heavy storm coming on,” I cried, pointing towards the horizon. “Those clouds seem as if they were going to crush the sea.”

A deep silence falls on all around. The lately roaring winds are hushed into a dead calm; nature seems to breathe no more, and to be sinking into the stillness of death. On the mast already I see the light play of a lambent St. Elmo’s fire; the outstretched sail catches not a breath of wind, and hangs like a sheet of lead. The rudder stands motionless in a sluggish, waveless sea. But if we have now ceased to advance why do we yet leave that sail loose, which at the first shock of the tempest may capsize us in a moment?

“Let us reef the sail and cut the mast down!” I cried. “That will be safest.”

“No, no! Never!” shouted my impetuous uncle. “Never! Let the wind catch us if it will! What I want is to get the least glimpse of rock or shore, even if our raft should be smashed into shivers!”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when a sudden change took place in the southern sky. The piled-up vapours condense into water; and the air, put into violent action to supply the vacuum left by the condensation of the mists, rouses itself into a whirlwind. It rushes on from the farthest recesses of the vast cavern. The darkness deepens; scarcely can I jot down a few hurried notes. The helm makes a bound. My uncle falls full length; I creep close to him. He has laid a firm hold upon a rope, and appears to watch with grim satisfaction this awful display of elemental strife.

Hans stirs not. His long hair blown by the pelting storm, and laid flat across his immovable countenance, makes him a strange figure; for the end of each lock of loose flowing hair is tipped with little luminous radiations. This frightful mask of electric sparks suggests to me, even in this dizzy excitement, a comparison with pre-adamite man, the contemporary of the ichthyosaurus and the megatherium.

Rather of the mammoth and the mastodon. (Trans.) The mast yet holds firm. The sail stretches tight like a bubble ready to burst. The raft flies at a rate that I cannot reckon, but not so fast as the foaming clouds of spray which it dashes from side to side in its headlong speed.

“The sail! the sail!” I cry, motioning to lower it.

“No!” replies my uncle.

“Nej!” repeats Hans, leisurely shaking his head.

But now the rain forms a rushing cataract in front of that horizon toward which we are running with such maddening speed. But before it has reached us the rain cloud parts asunder, the sea boils, and the electric fires are brought into violent action by a mighty chemical power that descends from the higher regions. The most vivid flashes of lightning are mingled with the violent crash of continuous thunder. Ceaseless fiery arrows dart in and out amongst the flying thunder-clouds; the vaporous mass soon glows with incandescent heat; hailstones rattle fiercely down, and as they dash upon our iron tools they too emit gleams and flashes of lurid light. The heaving waves resemble fiery volcanic hills, each belching forth its own interior flames, and every crest is plumed with dancing fire. My eyes fail under the dazzling light, my ears are stunned with the incessant crash of thunder. I must be bound to the mast, which bows like a reed before the mighty strength of the storm.

(Here my notes become vague and indistinct. I have only been able to find a few which I seem to have jotted down almost unconsciously. But their very brevity and their obscurity reveal the intensity of the excitement which dominated me, and describe the actual position even better than my memory could do.) Sunday, 23. — Where are we? Driven forward with a swiftness that cannot be measured.

The night was fearful; no abatement of the storm. The din and uproar are incessant; our ears are bleeding; to exchange a word is impossible.

The lightning flashes with intense brilliancy, and never seems to cease for a moment. Zigzag streams of bluish white fire dash down upon the sea and rebound, and then take an upward flight till they strike the granite vault that overarches our heads. Suppose that solid roof should crumble down upon our heads! Other flashes with incessant play cross their vivid fires, while others again roll themselves into balls of living fire which explode like bombshells, but the music of which scarcely-adds to the din of the battle strife that almost deprives us of our senses of hearing and sight; the limit of intense loudness has been passed within which the human ear can distinguish one sound from another. If all the powder magazines in the world were to explode at once, we should hear no more than we do now.

From the under surface of the clouds there are continual emissions of lurid light; electric matter is in continual evolution from their component molecules; the gaseous elements of the air need to be slaked with moisture; for innumerable columns of water rush upwards into the air and fall back again in white foam.

Whither are we flying? My uncle lies full length across the raft.

The heat increases. I refer to the thermometer; it indicates… (the figure is obliterated).

Monday, August 24. — Will there be an end to it? Is the atmospheric condition, having once reached this density, to become final?

We are prostrated and worn out with fatigue. But Hans is as usual. The raft bears on still to the south-east. We have made two hundred leagues since we left Axel Island.

At noon the violence of the storm redoubles. We are obliged to secure as fast as possible every article that belongs to our cargo. Each of us is lashed to some part of the raft. The waves rise above our heads.

For three days we have never been able to make each other hear a word. Our mouths open, our lips move, but not a word can be heard. We cannot even make ourselves heard by approaching our mouth close to the ear.

My uncle has drawn nearer to me. He has uttered a few words. They seem to be ‘We are lost’; but I am not sure.

At last I write down the words: “Let us lower the sail.”

He nods his consent.

Scarcely has he lifted his head again before a ball of fire has bounded over the waves and lighted on board our raft. Mast and sail flew up in an instant together, and I saw them carried up to prodigious height, resembling in appearance a pterodactyle, one of those strong birds of the infant world.

We lay there, our blood running cold with unspeakable terror. The fireball, half of it white, half azure blue, and the size of a ten-inch shell, moved slowly about the raft, but revolving on its own axis with astonishing velocity, as if whipped round by the force of the whirlwind. Here it comes, there it glides, now it is up the ragged stump of the mast, thence it lightly leaps on the provision bag, descends with a light bound, and just skims the powder magazine. Horrible! we shall be blown up; but no, the dazzling disk of mysterious light nimbly leaps aside; it approaches Hans, who fixes his blue eye upon it steadily; it threatens the head of my uncle, who falls upon his knees with his head down to avoid it. And now my turn comes; pale and trembling under the blinding splendour and the melting heat, it drops at my feet, spinning silently round upon the deck; I try to move my foot away, but cannot.

A suffocating smell of nitrogen fills the air, it enters the throat, it fills the lungs. We suffer stifling pains.

Why am I unable to move my foot? Is it riveted to the planks? Alas! the fall upon our fated raft of this electric globe has magnetised every iron article on board. The instruments, the tools, our guns, are clashing and clanking violently in their collisions with each other; the nails of my boots cling tenaciously to a plate of iron let into the timbers, and I cannot draw my foot away from the spot. At last by a violent effort I release myself at the instant when the ball in its gyrations was about to seize upon it, and carry me off my feet ….

Ah! what a flood of intense and dazzling light! the globe has burst, and we are deluged with tongues of fire!

Then all the light disappears. I could just see my uncle at full length on the raft, and Hans still at his helm and spitting fire under the action of the electricity which has saturated him.

But where are we going to? Where?

Tuesday, August 25. — I recover from a long swoon. The storm continues to roar and rage; the lightnings dash hither and thither, like broods of fiery serpents filling all the air. Are we still under the sea? Yes, we are borne at incalculable speed. We have been carried under England, under the channel, under France, perhaps under the whole of Europe.

A fresh noise is heard! Surely it is the sea breaking upon the rocks!

But then…

CHAPTER XXXVI.

CALM PHILOSOPHIC DISCUSSIONS

Here I end what I may call my log, happily saved from the wreck, and I resume my narrative as before.

What happened when the raft was dashed upon the rocks is more than I can tell. I felt myself hurled into the waves; and if I escaped from death, and if my body was not torn over the sharp edges of the rocks, it was because the powerful arm of Hans came to my rescue.

The brave Icelander carried me out of the reach of the waves, over a burning sand where I found myself by the side of my uncle.

Then he returned to the rocks, against which the furious waves were beating, to save what he could. I was unable to speak. I was shattered with fatigue and excitement; I wanted a whole hour to recover even a little.

But a deluge of rain was still falling, though with that violence which generally denotes the near cessation of a storm. A few overhanging rocks afforded us some shelter from the storm. Hans prepared some food, which I could not touch; and each of us, exhausted with three sleepless nights, fell into a broken and painful sleep.

The next day the weather was splendid. The sky and the sea had sunk into sudden repose. Every trace of the awful storm had disappeared. The exhilarating voice of the Professor fell upon my ears as I awoke; he was ominously cheerful.

“Well, my boy,” he cried, “have you slept well?”

Would not any one have thought that we were still in our cheerful little house on the Konigstrasse and that I was only just coming down to breakfast, and that I was to be married to Grauben that day?

Alas! if the tempest had but sent the raft a little more east, we should have passed under Germany, under my beloved town of Hamburg, under the very street where dwelt all that I loved most in the world. Then only forty leagues would have separated us! But they were forty leagues perpendicular of solid granite wall, and in reality we were a thousand leagues asunder!

All these painful reflections rapidly crossed my mind before I could answer my uncle’s question.

“Well, now,” he repeated, “won’t you tell me how you have slept?”

“Oh, very well,” I said. “I am only a little knocked up, but I shall soon be better.”

“Oh,” says my uncle, “that’s nothing to signify. You are only a little bit tired.”

“But you, uncle, you seem in very good spirits this morning.”

“Delighted, my boy, delighted. We have got there.”

“To our journey’s end?”

“No; but we have got to the end of that endless sea. Now we shall go by land, and really begin to go down! down! down!”

“But, my dear uncle, do let me ask you one question.”

“Of course, Axel.”

“How about returning?”

“Returning? Why, you are talking about the return before the arrival.”

“No, I only want to know how that is to be managed.”

“In the simplest way possible. When we have reached the centre of the globe, either we shall find some new way to get back, or we shall come back like decent folks the way we came. I feel pleased at the thought that it is sure not to be shut against us.”

“But then we shall have to refit the raft.”

“Of course.”

“Then, as to provisions, have we enough to last?”

“Yes; to be sure we have. Hans is a clever fellow, and I am sure he must have saved a large part of our cargo. But still let us go and make sure.”

We left this grotto which lay open to every wind. At the same time I cherished a trembling hope which was a fear as well. It seemed to me impossible that the terrible wreck of the raft should not have destroyed everything on board. On my arrival on the shore I found Hans surrounded by an assemblage of articles all arranged in good order. My uncle shook hands with him with a lively gratitude. This man, with almost superhuman devotion, had been at work all the while that we were asleep, and had saved the most precious of the articles at the risk of his life.

Not that we had suffered no losses. For instance, our firearms; but we might do without them. Our stock of powder had remained uninjured after having risked blowing up during the storm.

“Well,” cried the Professor, “as we have no guns we cannot hunt, that’s all.”

“Yes, but how about the instruments?”

“Here is the aneroid, the most useful of all, and for which I would have given all the others. By means of it I can calculate the depth and know when we have reached the centre; without it we might very likely go beyond, and come out at the antipodes!”

Such high spirits as these were rather too strong.

“But where is the compass? I asked.

“Here it is, upon this rock, in perfect condition, as well as the thermometers and the chronometer. The hunter is a splendid fellow.”

There was no denying it. We had all our instruments. As for tools and appliances, there they all lay on the ground — ladders, ropes, picks, spades, etc.

Still there was the question of provisions to be settled, and I asked — “How are we off for provisions?”

The boxes containing these were in a line upon the shore, in a perfect state of preservation; for the most part the sea had spared them, and what with biscuits, salt meat, spirits, and salt fish, we might reckon on four months’ supply.

“Four months!” cried the Professor. “We have time to go and to return; and with what is left I will give a grand dinner to my friends at the Johannaeum.”

I ought by this time to have been quite accustomed to my uncle’s ways; yet there was always something fresh about him to astonish me.

“Now,” said he, “we will replenish our supply of water with the rain which the storm has left in all these granite basins; therefore we shall have no reason to fear anything from thirst. As for the raft, I will recommend Hans to do his best to repair it, although I don’t expect it will be of any further use to us.”

“How so?” I cried.

“An idea of my own, my lad. I don’t think we shall come out by the way that we went in.”

I stared at the Professor with a good deal of mistrust. I asked, was he not touched in the brain? And yet there was method in his madness.

“And now let us go to breakfast,” said he.

I followed him to a headland, after he had given his instructions to the hunter. There preserved meat, biscuit, and tea made us an excellent meal, one of the best I ever remember. Hunger, the fresh air, the calm quiet weather, after the commotions we had gone through, all contributed to give me a good appetite.

Whilst breakfasting I took the opportunity to put to my uncle the question where we were now.

“That seems to me,” I said, “rather difficult to make out.”

“Yes, it is difficult,” he said, “to calculate exactly; perhaps even impossible, since during these three stormy days I have been unable to keep any account of the rate or direction of the raft; but still we may get an approximation.”

“The last observation,” I remarked, “was made on the island, when the geyser was — “

“You mean Axel Island. Don’t decline the honour of having given your name to the first island ever discovered in the central parts of the globe.”

“Well,” said I, “let it be Axel Island. Then we had cleared two hundred and seventy leagues of sea, and we were six hundred leagues from Iceland.”

“Very well,” answered my uncle; “let us start from that point and count four days’ storm, during which our rate cannot have been less than eighty leagues in the twenty-four hours.”

“That is right; and this would make three hundred leagues more.”

“Yes, and the Liedenbrock sea would be six hundred leagues from shore to shore. Surely, Axel, it may vie in size with the Mediterranean itself.”

“Especially,” I replied, “if it happens that we have only crossed it in its narrowest part. And it is a curious circumstance,” I added, “that if my computations are right, and we are nine hundred leagues from Rejkiavik, we have now the Mediterranean above our head.”

“That is a good long way, my friend. But whether we are under Turkey or the Atlantic depends very much upon the question in what direction we have been moving. Perhaps we have deviated.”

“No, I think not. Our course has been the same all along, and I believe this shore is south-east of Port Grauben.”

“Well,” replied my uncle, “we may easily ascertain this by consulting the compass. Let us go and see what it says.”

The Professor moved towards the rock upon which Hans had laid down the instruments. He was gay and full of spirits; he rubbed his hands, he studied his attitudes. I followed him, curious to know if I was right in my estimate. As soon as we had arrived at the rock my uncle took the compass, laid it horizontally, and questioned the needle, which, after a few oscillations, presently assumed a fixed position. My uncle looked, and looked, and looked again. He rubbed his eyes, and then turned to me thunderstruck with some unexpected discovery.

“What is the matter?” I asked.

He motioned to me to look. An exclamation of astonishment burst from me. The north pole of the needle was turned to what we supposed to be the south. It pointed to the shore instead of to the open sea! I shook the box, examined it again, it was in perfect condition. In whatever position I placed the box the needle pertinaciously returned to this unexpected quarter. Therefore there seemed no reason to doubt that during the storm there had been a sudden change of wind unperceived by us, which had brought our raft back to the shore which we thought we had left so long a distance behind us.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE LIEDENBROCK MUSEUM OF GEOLOGY

How shall I describe the strange series of passions which in succession shook the breast of Professor Liedenbrock? First stupefaction, then incredulity, lastly a downright burst of rage. Never had I seen the man so put out of countenance and so disturbed. The fatigues of our passage across, the dangers met, had all to be begun over again. We had gone backwards instead of forwards!

But my uncle rapidly recovered himself.

“Aha! will fate play tricks upon me? Will the elements lay plots against me? Shall fire, air, and water make a combined attack against me? Well, they shall know what a determined man can do. I will not yield. I will not stir a single foot backwards, and it will be seen whether man or nature is to have the upper hand!”

Erect upon the rock, angry and threatening, Otto Liedenbrock was a rather grotesque fierce parody upon the fierce Achilles defying the lightning. But I thought it my duty to interpose and attempt to lay some restraint upon this unmeasured fanaticism.

“Just listen to me,” I said firmly. “Ambition must have a limit somewhere; we cannot perform impossibilities; we are not at all fit for another sea voyage; who would dream of undertaking a voyage of five hundred leagues upon a heap of rotten planks, with a blanket in rags for a sail, a stick for a mast, and fierce winds in our teeth? We cannot steer; we shall be buffeted by the tempests, and we should be fools and madmen to attempt to cross a second time.”

I was able to develop this series of unanswerable reasons for ten minutes without interruption; not that the Professor was paying any respectful attention to his nephew’s arguments, but because he was deaf to all my eloquence.

“To the raft!” he shouted.

Such was his only reply. It was no use for me to entreat, supplicate, get angry, or do anything else in the way of opposition; it would only have been opposing a will harder than the granite rock.

Hans was finishing the repairs of the raft. One would have thought that this strange being was guessing at my uncle’s intentions. With a few more pieces of surturbrand he had refitted our vessel. A sail already hung from the new mast, and the wind was playing in its waving folds.

The Professor said a few words to the guide, and immediately he put everything on board and arranged every necessary for our departure. The air was clear — and the north-west wind blew steadily.

What could I do? Could I stand against the two? It was impossible? If Hans had but taken my side! But no, it was not to be. The Icelander seemed to have renounced all will of his own and made a vow to forget and deny himself. I could get nothing out of a servant so feudalised, as it were, to his master. My only course was to proceed.

I was therefore going with as much resignation as I could find to resume my accustomed place on the raft, when my uncle laid his hand upon my shoulder.

“We shall not sail until to-morrow,” he said.

I made a movement intended to express resignation.

“I must neglect nothing,” he said; “and since my fate has driven me on this part of the coast, I will not leave it until I have examined it.”

To understand what followed, it must be borne in mind that, through circumstances hereafter to be explained, we were not really where the Professor supposed we were. In fact we were not upon the north shore of the sea.

“Now let us start upon fresh discoveries,” I said.

And leaving Hans to his work we started off together. The space between the water and the foot of the cliffs was considerable. It took half an hour to bring us to the wall of rock. We trampled under our feet numberless shells of all the forms and sizes which existed in the earliest ages of the world. I also saw immense carapaces more than fifteen feet in diameter. They had been the coverings of those gigantic glyptodons or armadilloes of the pleiocene period, of which the modern tortoise is but a miniature representative. The soil was besides this scattered with stony fragments, boulders rounded by water action, and ridged up in successive lines. I was therefore led to the conclusion that at one time the sea must have covered the ground on which we were treading. On the loose and scattered rocks, now out of the reach of the highest tides, the waves had left manifest traces of their power to wear their way in the hardest stone.

This might up to a certain point explain the existence of an ocean forty leagues beneath the surface of the globe. But in my opinion this liquid mass would be lost by degrees farther and farther within the interior of the earth, and it certainly had its origin in the waters of the ocean overhead, which had made their way hither through some fissure. Yet it must be believed that that fissure is now closed, and that all this cavern or immense reservoir was filled in a very short time. Perhaps even this water, subjected to the fierce action of central heat, had partly been resolved into vapour. This would explain the existence of those clouds suspended over our heads and the development of that electricity which raised such tempests within the bowels of the earth.

This theory of the phenomena we had witnessed seemed satisfactory to me; for however great and stupendous the phenomena of nature, fixed physical laws will or may always explain them.

We were therefore walking upon sedimentary soil, the deposits of the waters of former ages. The Professor was carefully examining every little fissure in the rocks. Wherever he saw a hole he always wanted to know the depth of it. To him this was important.

We had traversed the shores of the Liedenbrock sea for a mile when we observed a sudden change in the appearance of the soil. It seemed upset, contorted, and convulsed by a violent upheaval of the lower strata. In many places depressions or elevations gave witness to some tremendous power effecting the dislocation of strata.

The glyptodon and armadillo are mammalian; the tortoise is a chelonian, a reptile, distinct classes of the animal kingdom; therefore the latter cannot be a representative of the former. (Trans.)

We moved with difficulty across these granite fissures and chasms mingled with silex, crystals of quartz, and alluvial deposits, when a field, nay, more than a field, a vast plain, of bleached bones lay spread before us. It seemed like an immense cemetery, where the remains of twenty ages mingled their dust together. Huge mounds of bony fragments rose stage after stage in the distance. They undulated away to the limits of the horizon, and melted in the distance in a faint haze. There within three square miles were accumulated the materials for a complete history of the animal life of ages, a history scarcely outlined in the too recent strata of the inhabited world.

But an impatient curiosity impelled our steps; crackling and rattling, our feet were trampling on the remains of prehistoric animals and interesting fossils, the possession of which is a matter of rivalry and contention between the museums of great cities. A thousand Cuviers could never have reconstructed the organic remains deposited in this magnificent and unparalleled collection.

I stood amazed. My uncle had uplifted his long arms to the vault which was our sky; his mouth gaping wide, his eyes flashing behind his shining spectacles, his head balancing with an up-and-down motion, his whole attitude denoted unlimited astonishment. Here he stood facing an immense collection of scattered leptotheria, mericotheria, lophiodia, anoplotheria, megatheria, mastodons, protopithecae, pterodactyles, and all sorts of extinct monsters here assembled together for his special satisfaction. Fancy an enthusiastic bibliomaniac suddenly brought into the midst of the famous Alexandrian library burnt by Omar and restored by a miracle from its ashes! just such a crazed enthusiast was my uncle, Professor Liedenbrock.

But more was to come, when, with a rush through clouds of bone dust, he laid his hand upon a bare skull, and cried with a voice trembling with excitement:

“Axel! Axel! a human head!”

“A human skull?” I cried, no less astonished.

“Yes, nephew. Aha! M. Milne-Edwards! Ah! M. de Quatrefages, how I wish you were standing here at the side of Otto Liedenbrock!”

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE PROFESSOR IN HIS CHAIR AGAIN

To understand this apostrophe of my uncle’s, made to absent French savants, it will be necessary to allude to an event of high importance in a palaeontological point of view, which had occurred a little while before our departure.

On the 28th of March, 1863, some excavators working under the direction of M. Boucher de Perthes, in the stone quarries of Moulin Quignon, near Abbeville, in the department of Somme, found a human jawbone fourteen feet beneath the surface. It was the first fossil of this nature that had ever been brought to light. Not far distant were found stone hatchets and flint arrow-heads stained and encased by lapse of time with a uniform coat of rust.

The noise of this discovery was very great, not in France alone, but in England and in Germany. Several savants of the French Institute, and amongst them MM. Milne-Edwards and de Quatrefages, saw at once the importance of this discovery, proved to demonstration the genuineness of the bone in question, and became the most ardent defendants in what the English called this ‘trial of a jawbone.’ To the geologists of the United Kingdom, who believed in the certainty of the fact — Messrs. Falconer, Busk, Carpenter, and others — scientific Germans were soon joined, and amongst them the forwardest, the most fiery, and the most enthusiastic, was my uncle Liedenbrock.

Therefore the genuineness of a fossil human relic of the quaternary period seemed to be incontestably proved and admitted.

It is true that this theory met with a most obstinate opponent in M. Elie de Beaumont. This high authority maintained that the soil of Moulin Quignon was not diluvial at all, but was of much more recent formation; and, agreeing in that with Cuvier, he refused to admit that the human species could be contemporary with the animals of the quaternary period. My uncle Liedenbrock, along with the great body of the geologists, had maintained his ground, disputed, and argued, until M. Elie de Beaumont stood almost alone in his opinion.

We knew all these details, but we were not aware that since our departure the question had advanced to farther stages. Other similar maxillaries, though belonging to individuals of various types and different nations, were found in the loose grey soil of certain grottoes in France, Switzerland, and Belgium, as well as weapons, tools, earthen utensils, bones of children and adults. The existence therefore of man in the quaternary period seemed to become daily more certain.

Nor was this all. Fresh discoveries of remains in the pleiocene formation had emboldened other geologists to refer back the human species to a higher antiquity still. It is true that these remains were not human bones, but objects bearing the traces of his handiwork, such as fossil leg-bones of animals, sculptured and carved evidently by the hand of man.

Thus, at one bound, the record of the existence of man receded far back into the history of the ages past; he was a predecessor of the mastodon; he was a contemporary of the southern elephant; he lived a hundred thousand years ago, when, according to geologists, the pleiocene formation was in progress.

Such then was the state of palaeontological science, and what we knew of it was sufficient to explain our behaviour in the presence of this stupendous Golgotha. Any one may now understand the frenzied excitement of my uncle, when, twenty yards farther on, he found himself face to face with a primitive man!

It was a perfectly recognisable human body. Had some particular soil, like that of the cemetery St. Michel, at Bordeaux, preserved it thus for so many ages? It might be so. But this dried corpse, with its parchment-like skin drawn tightly over the bony frame, the limbs still preserving their shape, sound teeth, abundant hair, and finger and toe nails of frightful length, this desiccated mummy startled us by appearing just as it had lived countless ages ago. I stood mute before this apparition of remote antiquity. My uncle, usually so garrulous, was struck dumb likewise. We raised the body. We stood it up against a rock. It seemed to stare at us out of its empty orbits. We sounded with our knuckles his hollow frame.

After some moments’ silence the Professor was himself again. Otto Liedenbrock, yielding to his nature, forgot all the circumstances of our eventful journey, forgot where we were standing, forgot the vaulted cavern which contained us. No doubt he was in mind back again in his Johannaeum, holding forth to his pupils, for he assumed his learned air; and addressing himself to an imaginary audience, he proceeded thus:

“Gentlemen, I have the honour to introduce to you a man of the quaternary or post-tertiary system. Eminent geologists have denied his existence, others no less eminent have affirmed it. The St. Thomases of palaeontology, if they were here, might now touch him with their fingers, and would be obliged to acknowledge their error. I am quite aware that science has to be on its guard with discoveries of this kind. I know what capital enterprising individuals like Barnum have made out of fossil men. I have heard the tale of the kneepan of Ajax, the pretended body of Orestes claimed to have been found by the Spartans, and of the body of Asterius, ten cubits long, of which Pausanias speaks. I have read the reports of the skeleton of Trapani, found in the fourteenth century, and which was at the time identified as that of Polyphemus; and the history of the giant unearthed in the sixteenth century near Palermo. You know as well as I do, gentlemen, the analysis made at Lucerne in 1577 of those huge bones which the celebrated Dr. Felix Plater affirmed to be those of a giant nineteen feet high. I have gone through the treatises of Cassanion, and all those memoirs, pamphlets, answers, and rejoinders published respecting the skeleton of Teutobochus, the invader of Gaul, dug out of a sandpit in the Dauphine, in 1613. In the eighteenth century I would have stood up for Scheuchzer’s pre-adamite man against Peter Campet. I have perused a writing, entitled Gigan — “

Here my uncle’s unfortunate infirmity met him — that of being unable in public to pronounce hard words.

“The pamphlet entitled Gigan — “

He could get no further.

“Giganteo — “

It was not to be done. The unlucky word would not come out. At the

Johannaeum there would have been a laugh.

“Gigantosteologie,” at last the Professor burst out, between two words which I shall not record here.

Then rushing on with renewed vigour, and with great animation:

“Yes, gentlemen, I know all these things, and more. I know that Cuvier and Blumenbach have recognised in these bones nothing more remarkable than the bones of the mammoth and other mammals of the post-tertiary period. But in the presence of this specimen to doubt would be to insult science. There stands the body! You may see it, touch it. It is not a mere skeleton; it is an entire body, preserved for a purely anthropological end and purpose.”

I was good enough not to contradict this startling assertion.

“If I could only wash it in a solution of sulphuric acid,” pursued my uncle, “I should be able to clear it from all the earthy particles and the shells which are incrusted about it. But I do not possess that valuable solvent. Yet, such as it is, the body shall tell us its own wonderful story.”

Here the Professor laid hold of the fossil skeleton, and handled it with the skill of a dexterous showman.

“You see,” he said, “that it is not six feet long, and that we are still separated by a long interval from the pretended race of giants. As for the family to which it belongs, it is evidently Caucasian. It is the white race, our own. The skull of this fossil is a regular oval, or rather ovoid. It exhibits no prominent cheekbones, no projecting jaws. It presents no appearance of that prognathism which diminishes the facial angle. Measure that angle. It is nearly ninety degrees. But I will go further in my deductions, and I will affirm that this specimen of the human family is of the Japhetic race, which has since spread from the Indies to the Atlantic. Don’t smile, gentlemen.”

Nobody was smiling; but the learned Professor was frequently disturbed by the broad smiles provoked by his learned eccentricities.

“Yes,” he pursued with animation, “this is a fossil man, the contemporary of the mastodons whose remains fill this amphitheatre. But if you ask me how he came there, how those strata on which he lay slipped down into this enormous hollow in the globe, I confess I cannot answer that question. No doubt in the post-tertiary period considerable commotions were still disturbing the crust of the earth. The long-continued cooling of the globe produced chasms, fissures, clefts, and faults, into which, very probably, portions of the upper earth may have fallen. I make no rash assertions; but there is the man surrounded by his own works, by hatchets, by flint arrow-heads, which are the characteristics of the stone age. And unless he came here, like myself, as a tourist on a visit and as a pioneer of science, I can entertain no doubt of the authenticity of his remote origin.”

The facial angle is formed by two lines, one touching the brow and the front teeth, the other from the orifice of the ear to the lower line of the nostrils. The greater this angle, the higher intelligence denoted by the formation of the skull. Prognathism is that projection of the jawbones which sharpens or lessons this angle, and which is illustrated in the negro countenance and in the lowest savages.

The Professor ceased to speak, and the audience broke out into loud and unanimous applause. For of course my uncle was right, and wiser men than his nephew would have had some trouble to refute his statements.

Another remarkable thing. This fossil body was not the only one in this immense catacomb. We came upon other bodies at every step amongst this mortal dust, and my uncle might select the most curious of these specimens to demolish the incredulity of sceptics.

In fact it was a wonderful spectacle, that of these generations of men and animals commingled in a common cemetery. Then one very serious question arose presently which we scarcely dared to suggest. Had all those creatures slided through a great fissure in the crust of the earth, down to the shores of the Liedenbrock sea, when they were dead and turning to dust, or had they lived and grown and died here in this subterranean world under a false sky, just like inhabitants of the upper earth? Until the present time we had seen alive only marine monsters and fishes. Might not some living man, some native of the abyss, be yet a wanderer below on this desert strand?

CHAPTER XXXIX.

FOREST SCENERY ILLUMINATED BY ELECTRICITY

For another half hour we trod upon a pavement of bones. We pushed on, impelled by our burning curiosity. What other marvels did this cavern contain? What new treasures lay here for science to unfold? I was prepared for any surprise, my imagination was ready for any astonishment however astounding.

We had long lost sight of the sea shore behind the hills of bones. The rash Professor, careless of losing his way, hurried me forward. We advanced in silence, bathed in luminous electric fluid. By some phenomenon which I am unable to explain, it lighted up all sides of every object equally. Such was its diffusiveness, there being no central point from which the light emanated, that shadows no longer existed. You might have thought yourself under the rays of a vertical sun in a tropical region at noonday and the height of summer. No vapour was visible. The rocks, the distant mountains, a few isolated clumps of forest trees in the distance, presented a weird and wonderful aspect under these totally new conditions of a universal diffusion of light. We were like Hoffmann’s shadowless man.

After walking a mile we reached the outskirts of a vast forest, but not one of those forests of fungi which bordered Port Grauben.

Here was the vegetation of the tertiary period in its fullest blaze of magnificence. Tall palms, belonging to species no longer living, splendid palmacites, firs, yews, cypress trees, thujas, representatives of the conifers, were linked together by a tangled network of long climbing plants. A soft carpet of moss and hepaticas luxuriously clothed the soil. A few sparkling streams ran almost in silence under what would have been the shade of the trees, but that there was no shadow. On their banks grew tree-ferns similar to those we grow in hothouses. But a remarkable feature was the total absence of colour in all those trees, shrubs, and plants, growing without the life-giving heat and light of the sun. Everything seemed mixed-up and confounded in one uniform silver grey or light brown tint like that of fading and faded leaves. Not a green leaf anywhere, and the flowers — which were abundant enough in the tertiary period, which first gave birth to flowers — looked like brown-paper flowers, without colour or scent.

My uncle Liedenbrock ventured to penetrate under this colossal grove. I followed him, not without fear. Since nature had here provided vegetable nourishment, why should not the terrible mammals be there too? I perceived in the broad clearings left by fallen trees, decayed with age, leguminose plants, acerineae, rubiceae and many other eatable shrubs, dear to ruminant animals at every period. Then I observed, mingled together in confusion, trees of countries far apart on the surface of the globe. The oak and the palm were growing side by side, the Australian eucalyptus leaned against the Norwegian pine, the birch-tree of the north mingled its foliage with New Zealand kauris. It was enough to distract the most ingenious classifier of terrestrial botany.

Suddenly I halted. I drew back my uncle.

The diffused light revealed the smallest object in the dense and distant thickets. I had thought I saw — no! I did see, with my own eyes, vast colossal forms moving amongst the trees. They were gigantic animals; it was a herd of mastodons — not fossil remains, but living and resembling those the bones of which were found in the marshes of Ohio in 1801. I saw those huge elephants whose long, flexible trunks were grouting and turning up the soil under the trees like a legion of serpents. I could hear the crashing noise of their long ivory tusks boring into the old decaying trunks. The boughs cracked, and the leaves torn away by cartloads went down the cavernous throats of the vast brutes.

So, then, the dream in which I had had a vision of the prehistoric world, of the tertiary and post-tertiary periods, was now realised. And there we were alone, in the bowels of the earth, at the mercy of its wild inhabitants!

My uncle was gazing with intense and eager interest.

“Come on!” said he, seizing my arm. “Forward! forward!”

“No, I will not!” I cried. “We have no firearms. What could we do in the midst of a herd of these four-footed giants? Come away, uncle — come! No human being may with safety dare the anger of these monstrous beasts.”

“No human creature?” replied my uncle in a lower voice. “You are wrong, Axel. Look, look down there! I fancy I see a living creature similar to ourselves: it is a man!”

I looked, shaking my head incredulously. But though at first I was unbelieving I had to yield to the evidence of my senses.

In fact, at a distance of a quarter of a mile, leaning against the trunk of a gigantic kauri, stood a human being, the Proteus of those subterranean regions, a new son of Neptune, watching this countless herd of mastodons.

Immanis pecoris custos, immanior ipse.

“The shepherd of gigantic herds, and huger still himself.”

Yes, truly, huger still himself. It was no longer a fossil being like him whose dried remains we had easily lifted up in the field of bones; it was a giant, able to control those monsters. In stature he was at least twelve feet high. His head, huge and unshapely as a buffalo’s, was half hidden in the thick and tangled growth of his unkempt hair. It most resembled the mane of the primitive elephant. In his hand he wielded with ease an enormous bough, a staff worthy of this shepherd of the geologic period.

We stood petrified and speechless with amazement. But he might see us! We must fly!

“Come, do come!” I said to my uncle, who for once allowed himself to be persuaded.

In another quarter of an hour our nimble heels had carried us beyond the reach of this horrible monster.

And yet, now that I can reflect quietly, now that my spirit has grown calm again, now that months have slipped by since this strange and supernatural meeting, what am I to think? what am I to believe? I must conclude that it was impossible that our senses had been deceived, that our eyes did not see what we supposed they saw. No human being lives in this subterranean world; no generation of men dwells in those inferior caverns of the globe, unknown to and unconnected with the inhabitants of its surface. It is absurd to believe it!

I had rather admit that it may have been some animal whose structure resembled the human, some ape or baboon of the early geological ages, some protopitheca, or some mesopitheca, some early or middle ape like that discovered by Mr. Lartet in the bone cave of Sansau. But this creature surpassed in stature all the measurements known in modern palaeontology. But that a man, a living man, and therefore whole generations doubtless besides, should be buried there in the bowels of the earth, is impossible.

However, we had left behind us the luminous forest, dumb with astonishment, overwhelmed and struck down with a terror which amounted to stupefaction. We kept running on for fear the horrible monster might be on our track. It was a flight, a fall, like that fearful pulling and dragging which is peculiar to nightmare. Instinctively we got back to the Liedenbrock sea, and I cannot say into what vagaries my mind would not have carried me but for a circumstance which brought me back to practical matters.

Although I was certain that we were now treading upon a soil not hitherto touched by our feet, I often perceived groups of rocks which reminded me of those about Port Grauben. Besides, this seemed to confirm the indications of the needle, and to show that we had against our will returned to the north of the Liedenbrock sea. Occasionally we felt quite convinced. Brooks and waterfalls were tumbling everywhere from the projections in the rocks. I thought I recognised the bed of surturbrand, our faithful Hansbach, and the grotto in which I had recovered life and consciousness. Then a few paces farther on, the arrangement of the cliffs, the appearance of an unrecognised stream, or the strange outline of a rock, came to throw me again into doubt.

I communicated my doubts to my uncle. Like myself, he hesitated; he could recognise nothing again amidst this monotonous scene.

“Evidently,” said I, “we have not landed again at our original starting point, but the storm has carried us a little higher, and if we follow the shore we shall find Port Grauben.”

“If that is the case it will be useless to continue our exploration, and we had better return to our raft. But, Axel, are you not mistaken?”

“It is difficult to speak decidedly, uncle, for all these rocks are so very much alike. Yet I think I recognise the promontory at the foot of which Hans constructed our launch. We must be very near the little port, if indeed this is not it,” I added, examining a creek which I thought I recognised.

“No, Axel, we should at least find our own traces and I see nothing — “

“But I do see,” I cried, darting upon an object lying on the sand.

And I showed my uncle a rusty dagger which I had just picked up.

“Come,” said he, “had you this weapon with you?”

“I! No, certainly! But you, perhaps — “

“Not that I am aware,” said the Professor. “I have never had this object in my possession.”

“Well, this is strange!”

“No, Axel, it is very simple. The Icelanders often wear arms of this kind. This must have belonged to Hans, and he has lost it.”

I shook my head. Hans had never had an object like this in his possession.

“Did it not belong to some pre-adamite warrior?” I cried, “to some living man, contemporary with the huge cattle-driver? But no. This is not a relic of the stone age. It is not even of the iron age. This blade is steel — “

My uncle stopped me abruptly on my way to a dissertation which would have taken me a long way, and said coolly: “Be calm, Axel, and reasonable. This dagger belongs to the sixteenth century; it is a poniard, such as gentlemen carried in their belts to give the coup de grace. Its origin is Spanish. It was never either yours, or mine, or the hunter’s, nor did it belong to any of those human beings who may or may not inhabit this inner world. See, it was never jagged like this by cutting men’s throats; its blade is coated with a rust neither a day, nor a year, nor a hundred years old.”

The Professor was getting excited according to his wont, and was allowing his imagination to run away with him.

“Axel, we are on the way towards the grand discovery. This blade has been left on the strand for from one to three hundred years, and has blunted its edge upon the rocks that fringe this subterranean sea!”

“But it has not come alone. It has not twisted itself out of shape; some one has been here before us!

“Yes — a man has.”

“And who was that man?”

“A man who has engraved his name somewhere with that dagger. That man wanted once more to mark the way to the centre of the earth. Let us look about: look about!”

And, wonderfully interested, we peered all along the high wall, peeping into every fissure which might open out into a gallery.

And so we arrived at a place where the shore was much narrowed. Here the sea came to lap the foot of the steep cliff, leaving a passage no wider than a couple of yards. Between two boldly projecting rocks appeared the mouth of a dark tunnel.

There, upon a granite slab, appeared two mysterious graven letters, half eaten away by time. They were the initials of the bold and daring traveller: [Runic initials appear here]

“A. S.” shouted my uncle. “Arne Saknussemm! Arne Saknussemm everywhere!”

CHAPTER XL.

PREPARATIONS FOR BLASTING A PASSAGE TO THE CENTRE OF THE EARTH

Since the start upon this marvellous pilgrimage I had been through so many astonishments that I might well be excused for thinking myself well hardened against any further surprise. Yet at the sight of these two letters, engraved on this spot three hundred years ago, I stood aghast in dumb amazement. Not only were the initials of the learned alchemist visible upon the living rock, but there lay the iron point with which the letters had been engraved. I could no longer doubt of the existence of that wonderful traveller and of the fact of his unparalleled journey, without the most glaring incredulity.

Whilst these reflections were occupying me, Professor Liedenbrock had launched into a somewhat rhapsodical eulogium, of which Arne Saknussemm was, of course, the hero.

“Thou marvellous genius!” he cried, “thou hast not forgotten one indication which might serve to lay open to mortals the road through the terrestrial crust; and thy fellow-creatures may even now, after the lapse of three centuries, again trace thy footsteps through these deep and darksome ways. You reserved the contemplation of these wonders for other eyes besides your own. Your name, graven from stage to stage, leads the bold follower of your footsteps to the very centre of our planet’s core, and there again we shall find your own name written with your own hand. I too will inscribe my name upon this dark granite page. But for ever henceforth let this cape that advances into the sea discovered by yourself be known by your own illustrious name — Cape Saknussemm.”

Such were the glowing words of panegyric which fell upon my attentive ear, and I could not resist the sentiment of enthusiasm with which I too was infected. The fire of zeal kindled afresh in me. I forgot everything. I dismissed from my mind the past perils of the journey, the future danger of our return. That which another had done I supposed we might also do, and nothing that was not superhuman appeared impossible to me.

“Forward! forward!” I cried.

I was already darting down the gloomy tunnel when the Professor stopped me; he, the man of impulse, counselled patience and coolness.

“Let us first return to Hans,” he said, “and bring the raft to this spot.”

I obeyed, not without dissatisfaction, and passed out rapidly among the rocks on the shore.

I said: “Uncle, do you know it seems to me that circumstances have wonderfully befriended us hitherto?”

“You think so, Axel?”

“No doubt; even the tempest has put us on the right way. Blessings on that storm! It has brought us back to this coast from which fine weather would have carried us far away. Suppose we had touched with our prow (the prow of a rudder!) the southern shore of the Liedenbrock sea, what would have become of us? We should never have seen the name of Saknussemm, and we should at this moment be imprisoned on a rockbound, impassable coast.”

“Yes, Axel, it is providential that whilst supposing we were steering south we should have just got back north at Cape Saknussemm. I must say that this is astonishing, and that I feel I have no way to explain it.”

“What does that signify, uncle? Our business is not to explain facts, but to use them!”

“Certainly; but — “

“Well, uncle, we are going to resume the northern route, and to pass under the north countries of Europe — under Sweden, Russia, Siberia: who knows where? — instead of burrowing under the deserts of Africa, or perhaps the waves of the Atlantic; and that is all I want to know.”

“Yes, Axel, you are right. It is all for the best, since we have left that weary, horizontal sea, which led us nowhere. Now we shall go down, down, down! Do you know that it is now only 1,500 leagues to the centre of the globe?”

“Is that all?” I cried. “Why, that’s nothing. Let us start: march!”

All this crazy talk was going on still when we met the hunter.

Everything was made ready for our instant departure. Every bit of cordage was put on board. We took our places, and with our sail set, Hans steered us along the coast to Cape Saknussemm.

The wind was unfavourable to a species of launch not calculated for shallow water. In many places we were obliged to push ourselves along with iron-pointed sticks. Often the sunken rocks just beneath the surface obliged us to deviate from our straight course. At last, after three hours’ sailing, about six in the evening we reached a place suitable for our landing. I jumped ashore, followed by my uncle and the Icelander. This short passage had not served to cool my ardour. On the contrary, I even proposed to burn ‘our ship,’ to prevent the possibility of return; but my uncle would not consent to that. I thought him singularly lukewarm.

“At least,” I said, “don’t let us lose a minute.”

“Yes, yes, lad,” he replied; “but first let us examine this new gallery, to see if we shall require our ladders.”

My uncle put his Ruhmkorff’s apparatus in action; the raft moored to the shore was left alone; the mouth of the tunnel was not twenty yards from us; and our party, with myself at the head, made for it without a moment’s delay.

The aperture, which was almost round, was about five feet in diameter; the dark passage was cut out in the live rock and lined with a coat of the eruptive matter which formerly issued from it; the interior was level with the ground outside, so that we were able to enter without difficulty. We were following a horizontal plane, when, only six paces in, our progress was interrupted by an enormous block just across our way.

“Accursed rock!” I cried in a passion, finding myself suddenly confronted by an impassable obstacle.

Right and left we searched in vain for a way, up and down, side to side; there was no getting any farther. I felt fearfully disappointed, and I would not admit that the obstacle was final. I stopped, I looked underneath the block: no opening. Above: granite still. Hans passed his lamp over every portion of the barrier in vain. We must give up all hope of passing it.

I sat down in despair. My uncle strode from side to side in the narrow passage.

“But how was it with Saknussemm?” I cried.

“Yes,” said my uncle, “was he stopped by this stone barrier?”

“No, no,” I replied with animation. “This fragment of rock has been shaken down by some shock or convulsion, or by one of those magnetic storms which agitate these regions, and has blocked up the passage which lay open to him. Many years have elapsed since the return of Saknussemm to the surface and the fall of this huge fragment. Is it not evident that this gallery was once the way open to the course of the lava, and that at that time there must have been a free passage? See here are recent fissures grooving and channelling the granite roof. This roof itself is formed of fragments of rock carried down, of enormous stones, as if by some giant’s hand; but at one time the expulsive force was greater than usual, and this block, like the falling keystone of a ruined arch, has slipped down to the ground and blocked up the way. It is only an accidental obstruction, not met by Saknussemm, and if we don’t destroy it we shall be unworthy to reach the centre of the earth.”

Such was my sentence! The soul of the Professor had passed into me. The genius of discovery possessed me wholly. I forgot the past, I scorned the future. I gave not a thought to the things of the surface of this globe into which I had dived; its cities and its sunny plains, Hamburg and the Konigstrasse, even poor Grauben, who must have given us up for lost, all were for the time dismissed from the pages of my memory.

“Well,” cried my uncle, “let us make a way with our pickaxes.”

“Too hard for the pickaxe.”

“Well, then, the spade.”

“That would take us too long.”

“What, then?”

“Why gunpowder, to be sure! Let us mine the obstacle and blow it up.”

“Oh, yes, it is only a bit of rock to blast!”

“Hans, to work!” cried my uncle.

The Icelander returned to the raft and soon came back with an iron bar which he made use of to bore a hole for the charge. This was no easy work. A hole was to be made large enough to hold fifty pounds of guncotton, whose expansive force is four times that of gunpowder.

I was terribly excited. Whilst Hans was at work I was actively helping my uncle to prepare a slow match of wetted powder encased in linen.

“This will do it,” I said.

“It will,” replied my uncle.

By midnight our mining preparations were over; the charge was rammed into the hole, and the slow match uncoiled along the gallery showed its end outside the opening.

A spark would now develop the whole of our preparations into activity.

“To-morrow,” said the Professor.

I had to be resigned and to wait six long hours.

CHAPTER XLI.

THE GREAT EXPLOSION AND THE RUSH DOWN BELOW

The next day, Thursday, August 27, is a well-remembered date in our subterranean journey. It never returns to my memory without sending through me a shudder of horror and a palpitation of the heart. From that hour we had no further occasion for the exercise of reason, or judgment, or skill, or contrivance. We were henceforth to be hurled along, the playthings of the fierce elements of the deep.

At six we were afoot. The moment drew near to clear a way by blasting through the opposing mass of granite.

I begged for the honour of lighting the fuse. This duty done, I was to join my companions on the raft, which had not yet been unloaded; we should then push off as far as we could and avoid the dangers arising from the explosion, the effects of which were not likely to be confined to the rock itself.

The fuse was calculated to burn ten minutes before setting fire to the mine. I therefore had sufficient time to get away to the raft.

I prepared to fulfil my task with some anxiety.

After a hasty meal, my uncle and the hunter embarked whilst I remained on shore. I was supplied with a lighted lantern to set fire to the fuse. “Now go,” said my uncle, “and return immediately to us.” “Don’t be uneasy,” I replied. “I will not play by the way.” I immediately proceeded to the mouth of the tunnel. I opened my lantern. I laid hold of the end of the match. The Professor stood, chronometer in hand. “Ready?” he cried.

“Ay.”

“Fire!”

I instantly plunged the end of the fuse into the lantern. It spluttered and flamed, and I ran at the top of my speed to the raft.

“Come on board quickly, and let us push off.”

Hans, with a vigorous thrust, sent us from the shore. The raft shot twenty fathoms out to sea.

It was a moment of intense excitement. The Professor was watching the hand of the chronometer.

“Five minutes more!” he said. “Four! Three!”

My pulse beat half-seconds.

“Two! One! Down, granite rocks; down with you.”

What took place at that moment? I believe I did not hear the dull roar of the explosion. But the rocks suddenly assumed a new arrangement: they rent asunder like a curtain. I saw a bottomless pit open on the shore. The sea, lashed into sudden fury, rose up in an enormous billow, on the ridge of which the unhappy raft was uplifted bodily in the air with all its crew and cargo.

We all three fell down flat. In less than a second we were in deep, unfathomable darkness. Then I felt as if not only myself but the raft also had no support beneath. I thought it was sinking; but it was not so. I wanted to speak to my uncle, but the roaring of the waves prevented him from hearing even the sound of my voice.

In spite of darkness, noise, astonishment, and terror, I then understood what had taken place.

On the other side of the blown-up rock was an abyss. The explosion had caused a kind of earthquake in this fissured and abysmal region; a great gulf had opened; and the sea, now changed into a torrent, was hurrying us along into it.

I gave myself up for lost.

An hour passed away — two hours, perhaps — I cannot tell. We clutched each other fast, to save ourselves from being thrown off the raft. We felt violent shocks whenever we were borne heavily against the craggy projections. Yet these shocks were not very frequent, from which I concluded that the gully was widening. It was no doubt the same road that Saknussemm had taken; but instead of walking peaceably down it, as he had done, we were carrying a whole sea along with us.

These ideas, it will be understood, presented themselves to my mind in a vague and undetermined form. I had difficulty in associating any ideas together during this headlong race, which seemed like a vertical descent. To judge by the air which was whistling past me and made a whizzing in my ears, we were moving faster than the fastest express trains. To light a torch under these’ conditions would have been impossible; and our last electric apparatus had been shattered by the force of the explosion.

I was therefore much surprised to see a clear light shining near me. It lighted up the calm and unmoved countenance of Hans. The skilful huntsman had succeeded in lighting the lantern; and although it flickered so much as to threaten to go out, it threw a fitful light across the awful darkness.

I was right in my supposition. It was a wide gallery. The dim light could not show us both its walls at once. The fall of the waters which were carrying us away exceeded that of the swiftest rapids in American rivers. Its surface seemed composed of a sheaf of arrows hurled with inconceivable force; I cannot convey my impressions by a better comparison. The raft, occasionally seized by an eddy, spun round as it still flew along. When it approached the walls of the gallery I threw on them the light of the lantern, and I could judge somewhat of the velocity of our speed by noticing how the jagged projections of the rocks spun into endless ribbons and bands, so that we seemed confined within a network of shifting lines. I supposed we were running at the rate of thirty leagues an hour.

My uncle and I gazed on each other with haggard eyes, clinging to the stump of the mast, which had snapped asunder at the first shock of our great catastrophe. We kept our backs to the wind, not to be stifled by the rapidity of a movement which no human power could check.

Hours passed away. No change in our situation; but a discovery came to complicate matters and make them worse.

In seeking to put our cargo into somewhat better order, I found that the greater part of the articles embarked had disappeared at the moment of the explosion, when the sea broke in upon us with such violence. I wanted to know exactly what we had saved, and with the lantern in my hand I began my examination. Of our instruments none were saved but the compass and the chronometer; our stock of ropes and ladders was reduced to the bit of cord rolled round the stump of the mast! Not a spade, not a pickaxe, not a hammer was left us; and, irreparable disaster! we had only one day’s provisions left.

I searched every nook and corner, every crack and cranny in the raft. There was nothing. Our provisions were reduced to one bit of salt meat and a few biscuits.

I stared at our failing supplies stupidly. I refused to take in the gravity of our loss. And yet what was the use of troubling myself. If we had had provisions enough for months, how could we get out of the abyss into which we were being hurled by an irresistible torrent? Why should we fear the horrors of famine, when death was swooping down upon us in a multitude of other forms? Would there be time left to die of starvation?

Yet by an inexplicable play of the imagination I forgot my present dangers, to contemplate the threatening future. Was there any chance of escaping from the fury of this impetuous torrent, and of returning to the surface of the globe? I could not form the slightest conjecture how or when. But one chance in a thousand, or ten thousand, is still a chance; whilst death from starvation would leave us not the smallest hope in the world.

The thought came into my mind to declare the whole truth to my uncle, to show him the dreadful straits to which we were reduced, and to calculate how long we might yet expect to live. But I had the courage to preserve silence. I wished to leave him cool and self-possessed.

At that moment the light from our lantern began to sink by little and little, and then went out entirely. The wick had burnt itself out. Black night reigned again; and there was no hope left of being able to dissipate the palpable darkness. We had yet a torch left, but we could not have kept it alight. Then, like a child, I closed my eyes firmly, not to see the darkness.

After a considerable lapse of time our speed redoubled. I could perceive it by the sharpness of the currents that blew past my face. The descent became steeper. I believe we were no longer sliding, but falling down. I had an impression that we were dropping vertically. My uncle’s hand, and the vigorous arm of Hans, held me fast.

Suddenly, after a space of time that I could not measure, I felt a shock. The raft had not struck against any hard resistance, but had suddenly been checked in its fall. A waterspout, an immense liquid column, was beating upon the surface of the waters. I was suffocating! I was drowning!

But this sudden flood was not of long duration. In a few seconds I found myself in the air again, which I inhaled with all the force of my lungs. My uncle and Hans were still holding me fast by the arms; and the raft was still carrying us.

CHAPTER XLII.

HEADLONG SPEED UPWARD THROUGH THE HORRORS OF DARKNESS

It might have been, as I guessed, about ten at night. The first of my senses which came into play after this last bout was that of hearing. All at once I could hear; and it was a real exercise of the sense of hearing. I could hear the silence in the gallery after the din which for hours had stunned me. At last these words of my uncle’s came to me like a vague murmuring: “We are going up.”

“What do you mean?” I cried.

“Yes, we are going up — up!”

I stretched out my arm. I touched the wall, and drew back my hand bleeding. We were ascending with extreme rapidity.

“The torch! The torch!” cried the Professor.

Not without difficulty Hans succeeded in lighting the torch; and the flame, preserving its upward tendency, threw enough light to show us what kind of a place we were in.

“Just as I thought,” said the Professor “We are in a tunnel not four-and-twenty feet in diameter. The water had reached the bottom of the gulf. It is now rising to its level, and carrying us with it.”

“Where to?”

“I cannot tell; but we must be ready for anything. We are mounting at a speed which seems to me of fourteen feet in a second, or ten miles an hour. At this rate we shall get on.”

“Yes, if nothing stops us; if this well has an aperture. But suppose it to be stopped. If the air is condensed by the pressure of this column of water we shall be crushed.”

“Axel,” replied the Professor with perfect coolness, “our situation is almost desperate; but there are some chances of deliverance, and it is these that I am considering. If at every instant we may perish, so at every instant we may be saved. Let us then be prepared to seize upon the smallest advantage.”

“But what shall we do now?”

“Recruit our strength by eating.”

At these words I fixed a haggard eye upon my uncle. That which I had been so unwilling to confess at last had to be told.

“Eat, did you say?”

“Yes, at once.”

The Professor added a few words in Danish, but Hans shook his head mournfully.

“What!” cried my uncle. “Have we lost our provisions?”

“Yes; here is all we have left; one bit of salt meat for the three.”

My uncle stared at me as if he could not understand.

“Well,” said I, “do you think we have any chance of being saved?”

My question was unanswered.

An hour passed away. I began to feel the pangs of a violent hunger. My companions were suffering too, and not one of us dared touch this wretched remnant of our goodly store.

But now we were mounting up with excessive speed. Sometimes the air would cut our breath short, as is experienced by aeronauts ascending too rapidly. But whilst they suffer from cold in proportion to their rise, we were beginning to feel a contrary effect. The heat was increasing in a manner to cause us the most fearful anxiety, and certainly the temperature was at this moment at the height of 100deg Fahr.

What could be the meaning of such a change? Up to this time facts had supported the theories of Davy and of Liedenbrock; until now particular conditions of non-conducting rocks, electricity and magnetism, had tempered the laws of nature, giving us only a moderately warm climate, for the theory of a central fire remained in my estimation the only one that was true and explicable. Were we then turning back to where the phenomena of central heat ruled in all their rigour and would reduce the most refractory rocks to the state of a molten liquid? I feared this, and said to the Professor: “If we are neither drowned, nor shattered to pieces, nor starved to death, there is still the chance that we may be burned alive and reduced to ashes.”

At this he shrugged his shoulders and returned to his thoughts.

Another hour passed, and, except some slight increase in the temperature, nothing new had happened.

“Come,” said he, “we must determine upon something.”

“Determine on what?” said I.

“Yes, we must recruit our strength by carefully rationing ourselves, and so prolong our existence by a few hours. But we shall be reduced to very great weakness at last.”

“And our last hour is not far off.”

“Well, if there is a chance of safety, if a moment for active exertion presents itself, where should we find the required strength if we allowed ourselves to be enfeebled by hunger?”

“Well, uncle, when this bit of meat has been devoured what shall we have left?”

“Nothing, Axel, nothing at all. But will it do you any more good to devour it with your eyes than with your teeth? Your reasoning has in it neither sense nor energy.”

“Then don’t you despair?” I cried irritably.

“No, certainly not,” was the Professor’s firm reply.

“What! do you think there is any chance of safety left?”

“Yes, I do; as long as the heart beats, as long as body and soul keep together, I cannot admit that any creature endowed with a will has need to despair of life.”

Resolute words these! The man who could speak so, under such circumstances, was of no ordinary type.

“Finally, what do you mean to do?” I asked.

“Eat what is left to the last crumb, and recruit our fading strength. This meal will be our last, perhaps: so let it be! But at any rate we shall once more be men, and not exhausted, empty bags.”

“Well, let us consume it then,” I cried.

My uncle took the piece of meat and the few biscuits which had escaped from the general destruction. He divided them into three equal portions and gave one to each. This made about a pound of nourishment for each. The Professor ate his greedily, with a kind of feverish rage. I ate without pleasure, almost with disgust; Hans quietly, moderately, masticating his small mouthfuls without any noise, and relishing them with the calmness of a man above all anxiety about the future. By diligent search he had found a flask of Hollands; he offered it to us each in turn, and this generous beverage cheered us up slightly.

“Fortrafflig,” said Hans, drinking in his turn.

“Excellent,” replied my uncle.

A glimpse of hope had returned, although without cause. But our last meal was over, and it was now five in the morning.

Man is so constituted that health is a purely negative state. Hunger once satisfied, it is difficult for a man to imagine the horrors of starvation; they cannot be understood without being felt.

Therefore it was that after our long fast these few mouthfuls of meat and biscuit made us triumph over our past agonies.

But as soon as the meal was done, we each of us fell deep into thought. What was Hans thinking of — that man of the far West, but who seemed ruled by the fatalist doctrines of the East?

As for me, my thoughts were made up of remembrances, and they carried me up to the surface of the globe of which I ought never to have taken leave. The house in the Konigstrasse, my poor dear Grauben, that kind soul Martha, flitted like visions before my eyes, and in the dismal moanings which from time to time reached my ears I thought I could distinguish the roar of the traffic of the great cities upon earth.

My uncle still had his eye upon his work. Torch in hand, he tried to gather some idea of our situation from the observation of the strata. This calculation could, at best, be but a vague approximation; but a learned man is always a philosopher when he succeeds in remaining cool, and assuredly Professor Liedenbrock possessed this quality to a surprising degree.

I could hear him murmuring geological terms. I could understand them, and in spite of myself I felt interested in this last geological study.

“Eruptive granite,” he was saying. “We are still in the primitive period. But we are going up, up, higher still. Who can tell?”

Ah! who can tell? With his hand he was examining the perpendicular wall, and in a few more minutes he continued: “This is gneiss! here is mica schist! Ah! presently we shall come to the transition period, and then — “

What did the Professor mean? Could he be trying to measure the thickness of the crust of the earth that lay between us and the world above? Had he any means of making this calculation? No, he had not the aneroid, and no guessing could supply its place.

Still the temperature kept rising, and I felt myself steeped in a broiling atmosphere. I could only compare it to the heat of a furnace at the moment when the molten metal is running into the mould. Gradually we had been obliged to throw aside our coats and waistcoats, the lightest covering became uncomfortable and even painful.

“Are we rising into a fiery furnace?” I cried at one moment when the heat was redoubling.

“No,” replied my uncle, “that is impossible — quite impossible!”

“Yet,” I answered, feeling the wall, “this well is burning hot.”

At the same moment, touching the water, I had to withdraw my hand in haste.

“The water is scalding,” I cried.

This time the Professor’s only answer was an angry gesture.

Then an unconquerable terror seized upon me, from which I could no longer get free. I felt that a catastrophe was approaching before which the boldest spirit must quail. A dim, vague notion laid hold of my mind, but which was fast hardening into certainty. I tried to repel it, but it would return. I dared not express it in plain terms. Yet a few involuntary observations confirmed me in my view. By the flickering light of the torch I could distinguish contortions in the granite beds; a phenomenon was unfolding in which electricity would play the principal part; then this unbearable heat, this boiling water! I consulted the compass.

The compass had lost its properties! it had ceased to act properly!

FROM THE EARTH TO THE MOON

Translated by Lewis Page Mercier

First published in 1865, this is a humorous science fantasy novel, which tells the story of the president of a post-American Civil War gun club in Baltimore, his rival, a Philadelphia maker of armour and a Frenchman. Together they build an enormous sky-facing Columbiad space gun and launch themselves in a spaceship, heading to a Moon landing.

CHAPTER I

THE GUN CLUB

During the War of the Rebellion, a new and influential club was established in the city of Baltimore in the State of Maryland. It is well known with what energy the taste for military matters became developed among that nation of ship-owners, shopkeepers, and mechanics. Simple tradesmen jumped their counters to become extemporized captains, colonels, and generals, without having ever passed the School of Instruction at West Point; nevertheless; they quickly rivaled their compeers of the old continent, and, like them, carried off victories by dint of lavish expenditure in ammunition, money, and men.

But the point in which the Americans singularly distanced the Europeans was in the science of gunnery. Not, indeed, that their weapons retained a higher degree of perfection than theirs, but that they exhibited unheard-of dimensions, and consequently attained hitherto unheard-of ranges. In point of grazing, plunging, oblique, or enfilading, or point-blank firing, the English, French, and Prussians have nothing to learn; but their cannon, howitzers, and mortars are mere pocket-pistols compared with the formidable engines of the American artillery.

This fact need surprise no one. The Yankees, the first mechanicians in the world, are engineers — just as the Italians are musicians and the Germans metaphysicians — by right of birth. Nothing is more natural, therefore, than to perceive them applying their audacious ingenuity to the science of gunnery. Witness the marvels of Parrott, Dahlgren, and Rodman. The Armstrong, Palliser, and Beaulieu guns were compelled to bow before their transatlantic rivals.

Now when an American has an idea, he directly seeks a second American to share it. If there be three, they elect a president and two secretaries. Given four, they name a keeper of records, and the office is ready for work; five, they convene a general meeting, and the club is fully constituted. So things were managed in Baltimore. The inventor of a new cannon associated himself with the caster and the borer. Thus was formed the nucleus of the “Gun Club.” In a single month after its formation it numbered 1,833 effective members and 30,565 corresponding members.

One condition was imposed as a sine qua non upon every candidate for admission into the association, and that was the condition of having designed, or (more or less) perfected a cannon; or, in default of a cannon, at least a firearm of some description. It may, however, be mentioned that mere inventors of revolvers, fire-shooting carbines, and similar small arms, met with little consideration. Artillerists always commanded the chief place of favor.

The estimation in which these gentlemen were held, according to one of the most scientific exponents of the Gun Club, was “proportional to the masses of their guns, and in the direct ratio of the square of the distances attained by their projectiles.”

The Gun Club once founded, it is easy to conceive the result of the inventive genius of the Americans. Their military weapons attained colossal proportions, and their projectiles, exceeding the prescribed limits, unfortunately occasionally cut in two some unoffending pedestrians. These inventions, in fact, left far in the rear the timid instruments of European artillery.

It is but fair to add that these Yankees, brave as they have ever proved themselves to be, did not confine themselves to theories and formulae, but that they paid heavily, in propria persona, for their inventions. Among them were to be counted officers of all ranks, from lieutenants to generals; military men of every age, from those who were just making their debut in the profession of arms up to those who had grown old in the gun-carriage. Many had found their rest on the field of battle whose names figured in the “Book of Honor” of the Gun Club; and of those who made good their return the greater proportion bore the marks of their indisputable valor. Crutches, wooden legs, artificial arms, steel hooks, caoutchouc jaws, silver craniums, platinum noses, were all to be found in the collection; and it was calculated by the great statistician Pitcairn that throughout the Gun Club there was not quite one arm between four persons and two legs between six.

Nevertheless, these valiant artillerists took no particular account of these little facts, and felt justly proud when the despatches of a battle returned the number of victims at ten-fold the quantity of projectiles expended.

One day, however — sad and melancholy day! — peace was signed between the survivors of the war; the thunder of the guns gradually ceased, the mortars were silent, the howitzers were muzzled for an indefinite period, the cannon, with muzzles depressed, were returned into the arsenal, the shot were repiled, all bloody reminiscences were effaced; the cotton-plants grew luxuriantly in the well-manured fields, all mourning garments were laid aside, together with grief; and the Gun Club was relegated to profound inactivity.

Some few of the more advanced and inveterate theorists set themselves again to work upon calculations regarding the laws of projectiles. They reverted invariably to gigantic shells and howitzers of unparalleled caliber. Still in default of practical experience what was the value of mere theories? Consequently, the clubrooms became deserted, the servants dozed in the antechambers, the newspapers grew mouldy on the tables, sounds of snoring came from dark corners, and the members of the Gun Club, erstwhile so noisy in their seances, were reduced to silence by this disastrous peace and gave themselves up wholly to dreams of a Platonic kind of artillery.

“This is horrible!” said Tom Hunter one evening, while rapidly carbonizing his wooden legs in the fireplace of the smoking-room; “nothing to do! nothing to look forward to! what a loathsome existence! When again shall the guns arouse us in the morning with their delightful reports?”

“Those days are gone by,” said jolly Bilsby, trying to extend his missing arms. “It was delightful once upon a time! One invented a gun, and hardly was it cast, when one hastened to try it in the face of the enemy! Then one returned to camp with a word of encouragement from Sherman or a friendly shake of the hand from McClellan. But now the generals are gone back to their counters; and in place of projectiles, they despatch bales of cotton. By Jove, the future of gunnery in America is lost!”

“Ay! and no war in prospect!” continued the famous James T. Maston, scratching with his steel hook his gutta-percha cranium. “Not a cloud on the horizon! and that too at such a critical period in the progress of the science of artillery! Yes, gentlemen! I who address you have myself this very morning perfected a model (plan, section, elevation, etc.) of a mortar destined to change all the conditions of warfare!”

“No! is it possible?” replied Tom Hunter, his thoughts reverting involuntarily to a former invention of the Hon. J. T. Maston, by which, at its first trial, he had succeeded in killing three hundred and thirty-seven people.

“Fact!” replied he. “Still, what is the use of so many studies worked out, so many difficulties vanquished? It’s mere waste of time! The New World seems to have made up its mind to live in peace; and our bellicose Tribune predicts some approaching catastrophes arising out of this scandalous increase of population.”

“Nevertheless,” replied Colonel Blomsberry, “they are always struggling in Europe to maintain the principle of nationalities.”

“Well?”

“Well, there might be some field for enterprise down there; and if they would accept our services — — “

“What are you dreaming of?” screamed Bilsby; “work at gunnery for the benefit of foreigners?”

“That would be better than doing nothing here,” returned the colonel.

“Quite so,” said J. T. Matson; “but still we need not dream of that expedient.”

“And why not?” demanded the colonel.

“Because their ideas of progress in the Old World are contrary to our American habits of thought. Those fellows believe that one can’t become a general without having served first as an ensign; which is as much as to say that one can’t point a gun without having first cast it oneself!”

“Ridiculous!” replied Tom Hunter, whittling with his bowie-knife the arms of his easy chair; “but if that be the case there, all that is left for us is to plant tobacco and distill whale-oil.”

“What!” roared J. T. Maston, “shall we not employ these remaining years of our life in perfecting firearms? Shall there never be a fresh opportunity of trying the ranges of projectiles? Shall the air never again be lighted with the glare of our guns? No international difficulty ever arise to enable us to declare war against some transatlantic power? Shall not the French sink one of our steamers, or the English, in defiance of the rights of nations, hang a few of our countrymen?”

“No such luck,” replied Colonel Blomsberry; “nothing of the kind is likely to happen; and even if it did, we should not profit by it. American susceptibility is fast declining, and we are all going to the dogs.”

“It is too true,” replied J. T. Maston, with fresh violence; “there are a thousand grounds for fighting, and yet we don’t fight. We save up our arms and legs for the benefit of nations who don’t know what to do with them! But stop — without going out of one’s way to find a cause for war — did not North America once belong to the English?”

“Undoubtedly,” replied Tom Hunter, stamping his crutch with fury.

“Well, then,” replied J. T. Maston, “why should not England in her turn belong to the Americans?”

“It would be but just and fair,” returned Colonel Blomsberry.

“Go and propose it to the President of the United States,” cried J. T. Maston, “and see how he will receive you.”

“Bah!” growled Bilsby between the four teeth which the war had left him; “that will never do!”

“By Jove!” cried J. T. Maston, “he mustn’t count on my vote at the next election!”

“Nor on ours,” replied unanimously all the bellicose invalids.

“Meanwhile,” replied J. T. Maston, “allow me to say that, if I cannot get an opportunity to try my new mortars on a real field of battle, I shall say good-by to the members of the Gun Club, and go and bury myself in the prairies of Arkansas!”

“In that case we will accompany you,” cried the others.

Matters were in this unfortunate condition, and the club was threatened with approaching dissolution, when an unexpected circumstance occurred to prevent so deplorable a catastrophe.

On the morrow after this conversation every member of the association received a sealed circular couched in the following terms: BALTIMORE, October 3. The president of the Gun Club has the honor to inform his colleagues that, at the meeting of the 5th instant, he will bring before them a communication of an extremely interesting nature. He requests, therefore, that they will make it convenient to attend in accordance with the present invitation. Very cordially, IMPEY BARBICANE, P.G.C.

CHAPTER II

PRESIDENT BARBICANE’S COMMUNICATION

On the 5th of October, at eight p.m. a dense crowd pressed toward the saloons of the Gun Club at No. 21 Union Square. All the members of the association resident in Baltimore attended the invitation of their president. As regards the corresponding members, notices were delivered by hundreds throughout the streets of the city, and, large as was the great hall, it was quite inadequate to accommodate the crowd of savants. They overflowed into the adjoining rooms, down the narrow passages, into the outer courtyards. There they ran against the vulgar herd who pressed up to the doors, each struggling to reach the front ranks, all eager to learn the nature of the important communication of President Barbicane; all pushing, squeezing, crushing with that perfect freedom of action which is so peculiar to the masses when educated in ideas of “self-government.”

On that evening a stranger who might have chanced to be in Baltimore could not have gained admission for love or money into the great hall. That was reserved exclusively for resident or corresponding members; no one else could possibly have obtained a place; and the city magnates, municipal councilors, and “select men” were compelled to mingle with the mere townspeople in order to catch stray bits of news from the interior.

Nevertheless the vast hall presented a curious spectacle. Its immense area was singularly adapted to the purpose. Lofty pillars formed of cannon, superposed upon huge mortars as a base, supported the fine ironwork of the arches, a perfect piece of cast-iron lacework. Trophies of blunderbuses, matchlocks, arquebuses, carbines, all kinds of firearms, ancient and modern, were picturesquely interlaced against the walls. The gas lit up in full glare myriads of revolvers grouped in the form of lustres, while groups of pistols, and candelabra formed of muskets bound together, completed this magnificent display of brilliance. Models of cannon, bronze castings, sights covered with dents, plates battered by the shots of the Gun Club, assortments of rammers and sponges, chaplets of shells, wreaths of projectiles, garlands of howitzers — in short, all the apparatus of the artillerist, enchanted the eye by this wonderful arrangement and induced a kind of belief that their real purpose was ornamental rather than deadly.

At the further end of the saloon the president, assisted by four secretaries, occupied a large platform. His chair, supported by a carved gun-carriage, was modeled upon the ponderous proportions of a 32-inch mortar. It was pointed at an angle of ninety degrees, and suspended upon truncheons, so that the president could balance himself upon it as upon a rocking-chair, a very agreeable fact in the very hot weather. Upon the table (a huge iron plate supported upon six carronades) stood an inkstand of exquisite elegance, made of a beautifully chased Spanish piece, and a sonnette, which, when required, could give forth a report equal to that of a revolver. During violent debates this novel kind of bell scarcely sufficed to drown the clamor of these excitable artillerists.

In front of the table benches arranged in zigzag form, like the circumvallations of a retrenchment, formed a succession of bastions and curtains set apart for the use of the members of the club; and on this especial evening one might say, “All the world was on the ramparts.” The president was sufficiently well known, however, for all to be assured that he would not put his colleagues to discomfort without some very strong motive.

Impey Barbicane was a man of forty years of age, calm, cold, austere; of a singularly serious and self-contained demeanor, punctual as a chronometer, of imperturbable temper and immovable character; by no means chivalrous, yet adventurous withal, and always bringing practical ideas to bear upon the very rashest enterprises; an essentially New Englander, a Northern colonist, a descendant of the old anti-Stuart Roundheads, and the implacable enemy of the gentlemen of the South, those ancient cavaliers of the mother country. In a word, he was a Yankee to the backbone.

Barbicane had made a large fortune as a timber merchant. Being nominated director of artillery during the war, he proved himself fertile in invention. Bold in his conceptions, he contributed powerfully to the progress of that arm and gave an immense impetus to experimental researches.

He was personage of the middle height, having, by a rare exception in the Gun Club, all his limbs complete. His strongly marked features seemed drawn by square and rule; and if it be true that, in order to judge a man’s character one must look at his profile, Barbicane, so examined, exhibited the most certain indications of energy, audacity, and sang-froid.

At this moment he was sitting in his armchair, silent, absorbed, lost in reflection, sheltered under his high-crowned hat — a kind of black cylinder which always seems firmly screwed upon the head of an American.

Just when the deep-toned clock in the great hall struck eight, Barbicane, as if he had been set in motion by a spring, raised himself up. A profound silence ensued, and the speaker, in a somewhat emphatic tone of voice, commenced as follows:

“My brave, colleagues, too long already a paralyzing peace has plunged the members of the Gun Club in deplorable inactivity. After a period of years full of incidents we have been compelled to abandon our labors, and to stop short on the road of progress. I do not hesitate to state, baldly, that any war which would recall us to arms would be welcome!” (Tremendous applause!) “But war, gentlemen, is impossible under existing circumstances; and, however we may desire it, many years may elapse before our cannon shall again thunder in the field of battle. We must make up our minds, then, to seek in another train of ideas some field for the activity which we all pine for.”

The meeting felt that the president was now approaching the critical point, and redoubled their attention accordingly.

“For some months past, my brave colleagues,” continued Barbicane, “I have been asking myself whether, while confining ourselves to our own particular objects, we could not enter upon some grand experiment worthy of the nineteenth century; and whether the progress of artillery science would not enable us to carry it out to a successful issue. I have been considering, working, calculating; and the result of my studies is the conviction that we are safe to succeed in an enterprise which to any other country would appear wholly impracticable. This project, the result of long elaboration, is the object of my present communication. It is worthy of yourselves, worthy of the antecedents of the Gun Club; and it cannot fail to make some noise in the world.”

A thrill of excitement ran through the meeting.

Barbicane, having by a rapid movement firmly fixed his hat upon his head, calmly continued his harangue:

“There is no one among you, my brave colleagues, who has not seen the Moon, or, at least, heard speak of it. Don’t be surprised if I am about to discourse to you regarding the Queen of the Night. It is perhaps reserved for us to become the Columbuses of this unknown world. Only enter into my plans, and second me with all your power, and I will lead you to its conquest, and its name shall be added to those of the thirty-six states which compose this Great Union.”

“Three cheers for the Moon!” roared the Gun Club, with one voice.

“The moon, gentlemen, has been carefully studied,” continued Barbicane; “her mass, density, and weight; her constitution, motions, distance, as well as her place in the solar system, have all been exactly determined. Selenographic charts have been constructed with a perfection which equals, if it does not even surpass, that of our terrestrial maps. Photography has given us proofs of the incomparable beauty of our satellite; all is known regarding the moon which mathematical science, astronomy, geology, and optics can learn about her. But up to the present moment no direct communication has been established with her.”

A violent movement of interest and surprise here greeted this remark of the speaker.

“Permit me,” he continued, “to recount to you briefly how certain ardent spirits, starting on imaginary journeys, have penetrated the secrets of our satellite. In the seventeenth century a certain David Fabricius boasted of having seen with his own eyes the inhabitants of the moon. In 1649 a Frenchman, one Jean Baudoin, published a `Journey performed from the Earth to the Moon by Domingo Gonzalez,’ a Spanish adventurer. At the same period Cyrano de Bergerac published that celebrated `Journeys in the Moon’ which met with such success in France. Somewhat later another Frenchman, named Fontenelle, wrote `The Plurality of Worlds,’ a chef-d’oeuvre of its time. About 1835 a small treatise, translated from the New York American, related how Sir John Herschel, having been despatched to the Cape of Good Hope for the purpose of making there some astronomical calculations, had, by means of a telescope brought to perfection by means of internal lighting, reduced the apparent distance of the moon to eighty yards! He then distinctly perceived caverns frequented by hippopotami, green mountains bordered by golden lacework, sheep with horns of ivory, a white species of deer and inhabitants with membranous wings, like bats. This brochure, the work of an American named Locke, had a great sale. But, to bring this rapid sketch to a close, I will only add that a certain Hans Pfaal, of Rotterdam, launching himself in a balloon filled with a gas extracted from nitrogen, thirty-seven times lighter than hydrogen, reached the moon after a passage of nineteen hours. This journey, like all previous ones, was purely imaginary; still, it was the work of a popular American author — I mean Edgar Poe!”

“Cheers for Edgar Poe!” roared the assemblage, electrified by their president’s words.

“I have now enumerated,” said Barbicane, “the experiments which I call purely paper ones, and wholly insufficient to establish serious relations with the Queen of the Night. Nevertheless, I am bound to add that some practical geniuses have attempted to establish actual communication with her. Thus, a few days ago, a German geometrician proposed to send a scientific expedition to the steppes of Siberia. There, on those vast plains, they were to describe enormous geometric figures, drawn in characters of reflecting luminosity, among which was the proposition regarding the `square of the hypothenuse,’ commonly called the `Ass’s Bridge’ by the French. `Every intelligent being,’ said the geometrician, `must understand the scientific meaning of that figure. The Selenites, do they exist, will respond by a similar figure; and, a communication being thus once established, it will be easy to form an alphabet which shall enable us to converse with the inhabitants of the moon.’ So spoke the German geometrician; but his project was never put into practice, and up to the present day there is no bond in existence between the Earth and her satellite. It is reserved for the practical genius of Americans to establish a communication with the sidereal world. The means of arriving thither are simple, easy, certain, infallible — and that is the purpose of my present proposal.”

A storm of acclamations greeted these words. There was not a single person in the whole audience who was not overcome, carried away, lifted out of himself by the speaker’s words!

Long-continued applause resounded from all sides.

As soon as the excitement had partially subsided, Barbicane resumed his speech in a somewhat graver voice.

“You know,” said he, “what progress artillery science has made during the last few years, and what a degree of perfection firearms of every kind have reached. Moreover, you are well aware that, in general terms, the resisting power of cannon and the expansive force of gunpowder are practically unlimited. Well! starting from this principle, I ask myself whether, supposing sufficient apparatus could be obtained constructed upon the conditions of ascertained resistance, it might not be possible to project a shot up to the moon?”

At these words a murmur of amazement escaped from a thousand panting chests; then succeeded a moment of perfect silence, resembling that profound stillness which precedes the bursting of a thunderstorm. In point of fact, a thunderstorm did peal forth, but it was the thunder of applause, or cries, and of uproar which made the very hall tremble. The president attempted to speak, but could not. It was fully ten minutes before he could make himself heard.

“Suffer me to finish,” he calmly continued. “I have looked at the question in all its bearings, I have resolutely attacked it, and by incontrovertible calculations I find that a projectile endowed with an initial velocity of 12,000 yards per second, and aimed at the moon, must necessarily reach it. I have the honor, my brave colleagues, to propose a trial of this little experiment.”

CHAPTER III

EFFECT OF THE PRESIDENT’S COMMUNICATION

It is impossible to describe the effect produced by the last words of the honorable president — the cries, the shouts, the succession of roars, hurrahs, and all the varied vociferations which the American language is capable of supplying. It was a scene of indescribable confusion and uproar. They shouted, they clapped, they stamped on the floor of the hall. All the weapons in the museum discharged at once could not have more violently set in motion the waves of sound. One need not be surprised at this. There are some cannoneers nearly as noisy as their own guns.

Barbicane remained calm in the midst of this enthusiastic clamor; perhaps he was desirous of addressing a few more words to his colleagues, for by his gestures he demanded silence, and his powerful alarum was worn out by its violent reports. No attention, however, was paid to his request. He was presently torn from his seat and passed from the hands of his faithful colleagues into the arms of a no less excited crowd.

Nothing can astound an American. It has often been asserted that the word “impossible” in not a French one. People have evidently been deceived by the dictionary. In America, all is easy, all is simple; and as for mechanical difficulties, they are overcome before they arise. Between Barbicane’s proposition and its realization no true Yankee would have allowed even the semblance of a difficulty to be possible. A thing with them is no sooner said than done.

The triumphal progress of the president continued throughout the evening. It was a regular torchlight procession. Irish, Germans, French, Scotch, all the heterogeneous units which make up the population of Maryland shouted in their respective vernaculars; and the “vivas,” “hurrahs,” and “bravos” were intermingled in inexpressible enthusiasm.

Just at this crisis, as though she comprehended all this agitation regarding herself, the moon shone forth with serene splendor, eclipsing by her intense illumination all the surrounding lights. The Yankees all turned their gaze toward her resplendent orb, kissed their hands, called her by all kinds of endearing names. Between eight o’clock and midnight one optician in Jones’-Fall Street made his fortune by the sale of opera-glasses.

Midnight arrived, and the enthusiasm showed no signs of diminution. It spread equally among all classes of citizens — men of science, shopkeepers, merchants, porters, chair-men, as well as “greenhorns,” were stirred in their innermost fibres. A national enterprise was at stake. The whole city, high and low, the quays bordering the Patapsco, the ships lying in the basins, disgorged a crowd drunk with joy, gin, and whisky. Every one chattered, argued, discussed, disputed, applauded, from the gentleman lounging upon the barroom settee with his tumbler of sherry-cobbler before him down to the waterman who got drunk upon his “knock-me-down” in the dingy taverns of Fell Point.

About two A.M. however, the excitement began to subside. President Barbicane reached his house, bruised, crushed, and squeezed almost to a mummy. Hercules could not have resisted a similar outbreak of enthusiasm. The crowd gradually deserted the squares and streets. The four railways from Philadelphia and Washington, Harrisburg and Wheeling, which converge at Baltimore, whirled away the heterogeneous population to the four corners of the United States, and the city subsided into comparative tranquility.

On the following day, thanks to the telegraphic wires, five hundred newspapers and journals, daily, weekly, monthly, or bi-monthly, all took up the question. They examined it under all its different aspects, physical, meteorological, economical, or moral, up to its bearings on politics or civilization. They debated whether the moon was a finished world, or whether it was destined to undergo any further transformation. Did it resemble the earth at the period when the latter was destitute as yet of an atmosphere? What kind of spectacle would its hidden hemisphere present to our terrestrial spheroid? Granting that the question at present was simply that of sending a projectile up to the moon, every one must see that that involved the commencement of a series of experiments. All must hope that some day America would penetrate the deepest secrets of that mysterious orb; and some even seemed to fear lest its conquest should not sensibly derange the equilibrium of Europe.

The project once under discussion, not a single paragraph suggested a doubt of its realization. All the papers, pamphlets, reports — all the journals published by the scientific, literary, and religious societies enlarged upon its advantages; and the Society of Natural History of Boston, the Society of Science and Art of Albany, the Geographical and Statistical Society of New York, the Philosophical Society of Philadelphia, and the Smithsonian of Washington sent innumerable letters of congratulation to the Gun Club, together with offers of immediate assistance and money.

From that day forward Impey Barbicane became one of the greatest citizens of the United States, a kind of Washington of science. A single trait of feeling, taken from many others, will serve to show the point which this homage of a whole people to a single individual attained.

Some few days after this memorable meeting of the Gun Club, the manager of an English company announced, at the Baltimore theatre, the production of “Much ado about Nothing.” But the populace, seeing in that title an allusion damaging to Barbicane’s project, broke into the auditorium, smashed the benches, and compelled the unlucky director to alter his playbill. Being a sensible man, he bowed to the public will and replaced the offending comedy by “As you like it”; and for many weeks he realized fabulous profits.

CHAPTER IV

REPLY FROM THE OBSERVATORY OF CAMBRIDGE

Barbicane, however, lost not one moment amid all the enthusiasm of which he had become the object. His first care was to reassemble his colleagues in the board-room of the Gun Club. There, after some discussion, it was agreed to consult the astronomers regarding the astronomical part of the enterprise. Their reply once ascertained, they could then discuss the mechanical means, and nothing should be wanting to ensure the success of this great experiment.

A note couched in precise terms, containing special interrogatories, was then drawn up and addressed to the Observatory of Cambridge in Massachusetts. This city, where the first university of the United States was founded, is justly celebrated for its astronomical staff. There are to be found assembled all the most eminent men of science. Here is to be seen at work that powerful telescope which enabled Bond to resolve the nebula of Andromeda, and Clarke to discover the satellite of Sirius. This celebrated institution fully justified on all points the confidence reposed in it by the Gun Club. So, after two days, the reply so impatiently awaited was placed in the hands of President Barbicane.

It was couched in the following terms: The Director of the Cambridge Observatory to the President of the Gun Club at Baltimore.

CAMBRIDGE, October 7. On the receipt of your favor of the 6th instant, addressed to the Observatory of Cambridge in the name of the members of the Baltimore Gun Club, our staff was immediately called together, and it was judged expedient to reply as follows: The questions which have been proposed to it are these —

“1. Is it possible to transmit a projectile up to the moon?

“2. What is the exact distance which separates the earth from its satellite?

“3. What will be the period of transit of the projectile when endowed with sufficient initial velocity? and, consequently, at what moment ought it to be discharged in order that it may touch the moon at a particular point?

“4. At what precise moment will the moon present herself in the most favorable position to be reached by the projectile?

“5. What point in the heavens ought the cannon to be aimed at which is intended to discharge the projectile?

“6. What place will the moon occupy in the heavens at the moment of the projectile’s departure?”

Regarding the first question, “Is it possible to transmit a projectile up to the moon?”

Answer. — Yes; provided it possess an initial velocity of 1,200 yards per second; calculations prove that to be sufficient. In proportion as we recede from the earth the action of gravitation diminishes in the inverse ratio of the square of the distance; that is to say, at three times a given distance the action is nine times less. Consequently, the weight of a shot will decrease, and will become reduced to zero at the instant that the attraction of the moon exactly counterpoises that of the earth; that is to say at 47/52 of its passage. At that instant the projectile will have no weight whatever; and, if it passes that point, it will fall into the moon by the sole effect of the lunar attraction. The theoretical possibility of the experiment is therefore absolutely demonstrated; its success must depend upon the power of the engine employed.

As to the second question, “What is the exact distance which separates the earth from its satellite?”

Answer. — The moon does not describe a circle round the earth, but rather an ellipse, of which our earth occupies one of the foci; the consequence, therefore, is, that at certain times it approaches nearer to, and at others it recedes farther from, the earth; in astronomical language, it is at one time in apogee, at another in perigee. Now the difference between its greatest and its least distance is too considerable to be left out of consideration. In point of fact, in its apogee the moon is 247,552 miles, and in its perigee, 218,657 miles only distant; a fact which makes a difference of 28,895 miles, or more than one-ninth of the entire distance. The perigee distance, therefore, is that which ought to serve as the basis of all calculations.

To the third question.

Answer. — If the shot should preserve continuously its initial velocity of 12,000 yards per second, it would require little more than nine hours to reach its destination; but, inasmuch as that initial velocity will be continually decreasing, it will occupy 300,000 seconds, that is 83hrs. 20m. in reaching the point where the attraction of the earth and moon will be in equilibrio. From this point it will fall into the moon in 50,000 seconds, or 13hrs. 53m. 20sec. It will be desirable, therefore, to discharge it 97hrs. 13m. 20sec. before the arrival of the moon at the point aimed at.

Regarding question four, “At what precise moment will the moon present herself in the most favorable position, etc.?”

Answer. — After what has been said above, it will be necessary, first of all, to choose the period when the moon will be in perigee, and also the moment when she will be crossing the zenith, which latter event will further diminish the entire distance by a length equal to the radius of the earth, i. e. 3,919 miles; the result of which will be that the final passage remaining to be accomplished will be 214,976 miles. But although the moon passes her perigee every month, she does not reach the zenith always at exactly the same moment. She does not appear under these two conditions simultaneously, except at long intervals of time. It will be necessary, therefore, to wait for the moment when her passage in perigee shall coincide with that in the zenith. Now, by a fortunate circumstance, on the 4th of December in the ensuing year the moon will present these two conditions. At midnight she will be in perigee, that is, at her shortest distance from the earth, and at the same moment she will be crossing the zenith.

On the fifth question, “At what point in the heavens ought the cannon to be aimed?”

Answer. — The preceding remarks being admitted, the cannon ought to be pointed to the zenith of the place. Its fire, therefore, will be perpendicular to the plane of the horizon; and the projectile will soonest pass beyond the range of the terrestrial attraction. But, in order that the moon should reach the zenith of a given place, it is necessary that the place should not exceed in latitude the declination of the luminary; in other words, it must be comprised within the degrees 0@ and 28@ of lat. N. or S. In every other spot the fire must necessarily be oblique, which would seriously militate against the success of the experiment.

As to the sixth question, “What place will the moon occupy in the heavens at the moment of the projectile’s departure?”

Answer. — At the moment when the projectile shall be discharged into space, the moon, which travels daily forward 13@ 10’ 35”, will be distant from the zenith point by four times that quantity, i. e. by 52@ 41’ 20”, a space which corresponds to the path which she will describe during the entire journey of the projectile. But, inasmuch as it is equally necessary to take into account the deviation which the rotary motion of the earth will impart to the shot, and as the shot cannot reach the moon until after a deviation equal to 16 radii of the earth, which, calculated upon the moon’s orbit, are equal to about eleven degrees, it becomes necessary to add these eleven degrees to those which express the retardation of the moon just mentioned: that is to say, in round numbers, about sixty-four degrees. Consequently, at the moment of firing the visual radius applied to the moon will describe, with the vertical line of the place, an angle of sixty-four degrees.

These are our answers to the questions proposed to the Observatory of Cambridge by the members of the Gun Club: To sum up —

1st. The cannon ought to be planted in a country situated between 0@ and 28@ of N. or S. lat.

2nd. It ought to be pointed directly toward the zenith of the place.

3rd. The projectile ought to be propelled with an initial velocity of 12,000 yards per second.

4th. It ought to be discharged at 10hrs. 46m. 40sec. of the 1st of December of the ensuing year.

5th. It will meet the moon four days after its discharge, precisely at midnight on the 4th of December, at the moment of its transit across the zenith.

The members of the Gun Club ought, therefore, without delay, to commence the works necessary for such an experiment, and to be prepared to set to work at the moment determined upon; for, if they should suffer this 4th of December to go by, they will not find the moon again under the same conditions of perigee and of zenith until eighteen years and eleven days afterward.

The staff of the Cambridge Observatory place themselves entirely at their disposal in respect of all questions of theoretical astronomy; and herewith add their congratulations to those of all the rest of America. For the Astronomical Staff, J. M. BELFAST, Director of the Observatory of Cambridge.

CHAPTER XII

URBI ET ORBI

The astronomical, mechanical, and topographical difficulties resolved, finally came the question of finance. The sum required was far too great for any individual, or even any single State, to provide the requisite millions.

President Barbicane undertook, despite of the matter being a purely American affair, to render it one of universal interest, and to request the financial co-operation of all peoples. It was, he maintained, the right and duty of the whole earth to interfere in the affairs of its satellite. The subscription opened at Baltimore extended properly to the whole world — Urbi et orbi.

This subscription was successful beyond all expectation; notwithstanding that it was a question not of lending but of giving the money. It was a purely disinterested operation in the strictest sense of the term, and offered not the slightest chance of profit.

The effect, however, of Barbicane’s communication was not confined to the frontiers of the United States; it crossed the Atlantic and Pacific, invading simultaneously Asia and Europe, Africa and Oceanica. The observatories of the Union placed themselves in immediate communication with those of foreign countries. Some, such as those of Paris, Petersburg, Berlin, Stockholm, Hamburg, Malta, Lisbon, Benares, Madras, and others, transmitted their good wishes; the rest maintained a prudent silence, quietly awaiting the result. As for the observatory at Greenwich, seconded as it was by the twenty-two astronomical establishments of Great Britain, it spoke plainly enough. It boldly denied the possibility of success, and pronounced in favor of the theories of Captain Nicholl. But this was nothing more than mere English jealousy.

On the 8th of October President Barbicane published a manifesto full of enthusiasm, in which he made an appeal to “all persons of good will upon the face of the earth.” This document, translated into all languages, met with immense success.

Subscription lists were opened in all the principal cities of the Union, with a central office at the Baltimore Bank, 9 Baltimore Street.

In addition, subscriptions were received at the following banks in the different states of the two continents:

At Vienna, with S. M. de Rothschild.

At Petersburg, Stieglitz and Co.

At Paris, The Credit Mobilier.

At Stockholm, Tottie and Arfuredson.

At London, N. M. Rothschild and Son.

At Turin, Ardouin and Co.

At Berlin, Mendelssohn.

At Geneva, Lombard, Odier and Co.

At Constantinople, The Ottoman Bank.

At Brussels, J. Lambert.

At Madrid, Daniel Weisweller.

At Amsterdam, Netherlands Credit Co.

At Rome, Torlonia and Co.

At Lisbon, Lecesne.

At Copenhagen, Private Bank.

At Rio de Janeiro, Private Bank.

At Montevideo, Private Bank.

At Valparaiso and Lima, Thomas la Chambre and Co.

At Mexico, Martin Daran and Co.

Three days after the manifesto of President Barbicane $4,000,000 were paid into the different towns of the Union. With such a balance the Gun Club might begin operations at once. But some days later advices were received to the effect that foreign subscriptions were being eagerly taken up. Certain countries distinguished themselves by their liberality; others untied their purse-strings with less facility — a matter of temperament. Figures are, however, more eloquent than words, and here is the official statement of the sums which were paid in to the credit of the Gun Club at the close of the subscription.

Russia paid in as her contingent the enormous sum of 368,733 roubles. No one need be surprised at this, who bears in mind the scientific taste of the Russians, and the impetus which they have given to astronomical studies — thanks to their numerous observatories.

France began by deriding the pretensions of the Americans. The moon served as a pretext for a thousand stale puns and a score of ballads, in which bad taste contested the palm with ignorance. But as formerly the French paid before singing, so now they paid after having had their laugh, and they subscribed for a sum of 1,253,930 francs. At that price they had a right to enjoy themselves a little.

Austria showed herself generous in the midst of her financial crisis. Her public contributions amounted to the sum of 216,000 florins — a perfect godsend.

Fifty-two thousand rix-dollars were the remittance of Sweden and Norway; the amount is large for the country, but it would undoubtedly have been considerably increased had the subscription been opened in Christiana simultaneously with that at Stockholm. For some reason or other the Norwegians do not like to send their money to Sweden.

Prussia, by a remittance of 250,000 thalers, testified her high approval of the enterprise.

Turkey behaved generously; but she had a personal interest in the matter. The moon, in fact, regulates the cycle of her years and her fast of Ramadan. She could not do less than give 1,372,640 piastres; and she gave them with an eagerness which denoted, however, some pressure on the part of the government.

Belgium distinguished herself among the second-rate states by a grant of 513,000 francs — about two centimes per head of her population.

Holland and her colonies interested themselves to the extent of 110,000 florins, only demanding an allowance of five per cent. discount for paying ready money.

Denmark, a little contracted in territory, gave nevertheless 9,000 ducats, proving her love for scientific experiments.

The Germanic Confederation pledged itself to 34,285 florins. It was impossible to ask for more; besides, they would not have given it.

Though very much crippled, Italy found 200,000 lire in the pockets of her people. If she had had Venetia she would have done better; but she had not.

The States of the Church thought that they could not send less than 7,040 Roman crowns; and Portugal carried her devotion to science as far as 30,000 cruzados. It was the widow’s mite — eighty-six piastres; but self-constituted empires are always rather short of money.

Two hundred and fifty-seven francs, this was the modest contribution of Switzerland to the American work. One must freely admit that she did not see the practical side of the matter. It did not seem to her that the mere despatch of a shot to the moon could possibly establish any relation of affairs with her; and it did not seem prudent to her to embark her capital in so hazardous an enterprise. After all, perhaps she was right.

As to Spain, she could not scrape together more than 110 reals. She gave as an excuse that she had her railways to finish. The truth is, that science is not favorably regarded in that country, it is still in a backward state; and moreover, certain Spaniards, not by any means the least educated, did not form a correct estimate of the bulk of the projectile compared with that of the moon. They feared that it would disturb the established order of things. In that case it were better to keep aloof; which they did to the tune of some reals.

There remained but England; and we know the contemptuous antipathy with which she received Barbicane’s proposition. The English have but one soul for the whole twenty-six millions of inhabitants which Great Britain contains. They hinted that the enterprise of the Gun Club was contrary to the “principle of non-intervention.” And they did not subscribe a single farthing.

At this intimation the Gun Club merely shrugged its shoulders and returned to its great work. When South America, that is to say, Peru, Chili, Brazil, the provinces of La Plata and Columbia, had poured forth their quota into their hands, the sum of $300,000, it found itself in possession of a considerable capital, of which the following is a statement:

United States subscriptions, . . $4,000,000

Foreign subscriptions… $1,446,675

— — — — — -

Total… $5,446,675

Such was the sum which the public poured into the treasury of the Gun Club.

Let no one be surprised at the vastness of the amount. The work of casting, boring, masonry, the transport of workmen, their establishment in an almost uninhabited country, the construction of furnaces and workshops, the plant, the powder, the projectile, and incipient expenses, would, according to the estimates, absorb nearly the whole. Certain cannon-shots in the Federal war cost one thousand dollars apiece. This one of President Barbicane, unique in the annals of gunnery, might well cost five thousand times more.

On the 20th of October a contract was entered into with the manufactory at Coldspring, near New York, which during the war had furnished the largest Parrott, cast-iron guns. It was stipulated between the contracting parties that the manufactory of Coldspring should engage to transport to Tampa Town, in southern Florida, the necessary materials for casting the Columbiad. The work was bound to be completed at latest by the 15th of October following, and the cannon delivered in good condition under penalty of a forfeit of one hundred dollars a day to the moment when the moon should again present herself under the same conditions — that is to say, in eighteen years and eleven days.

The engagement of the workmen, their pay, and all the necessary details of the work, devolved upon the Coldspring Company.

This contract, executed in duplicate, was signed by Barbicane, president of the Gun Club, of the one part, and T. Murchison director of the Coldspring manufactory, of the other, who thus executed the deed on behalf of their respective principals.

CHAPTER XIII

STONES HILL

When the decision was arrived at by the Gun Club, to the disparagement of Texas, every one in America, where reading is a universal acquirement, set to work to study the geography of Florida. Never before had there been such a sale for works like “Bertram’s Travels in Florida,” “Roman’s Natural History of East and West Florida,” “William’s Territory of Florida,” and “Cleland on the Cultivation of the Sugar-Cane in Florida.” It became necessary to issue fresh editions of these works.

Barbicane had something better to do than to read. He desired to see things with his own eyes, and to mark the exact position of the proposed gun. So, without a moment’s loss of time, he placed at the disposal of the Cambridge Observatory the funds necessary for the construction of a telescope, and entered into negotiations with the house of Breadwill and Co. of Albany, for the construction of an aluminum projectile of the required size. He then quitted Baltimore, accompanied by J. T. Maston, Major Elphinstone, and the manager of the Coldspring factory.

On the following day, the four fellow-travelers arrived at New Orleans. There they immediately embarked on board the Tampico, a despatch-boat belonging to the Federal navy, which the government had placed at their disposal; and, getting up steam, the banks of Louisiana speedily disappeared from sight.

The passage was not long. Two days after starting, the Tampico, having made four hundred and eighty miles, came in sight of the coast of Florida. On a nearer approach Barbicane found himself in view of a low, flat country of somewhat barren aspect. After coasting along a series of creeks abounding in lobsters and oysters, the Tampico entered the bay of Espiritu Santo, where she finally anchored in a small natural harbor, formed by the embouchure of the River Hillisborough, at seven P.M. on the 22d of October.

Our four passengers disembarked at once. “Gentlemen,” said Barbicane, “we have no time to lose; tomorrow we must obtain horses, and proceed to reconnoiter the country.”

Barbicane had scarcely set his foot on shore when three thousand of the inhabitants of Tampa Town came forth to meet him, an honor due to the president who had signalized their country by his choice.

Declining, however, every kind of ovation, Barbicane ensconced himself in a room of the Franklin Hotel.

On the morrow some of the small horses of the Spanish breed, full of vigor and of fire, stood snorting under his windows; but instead of four steeds, here were fifty, together with their riders. Barbicane descended with his three fellow-travelers; and much astonished were they all to find themselves in the midst of such a cavalcade. He remarked that every horseman carried a carbine slung across his shoulders and pistols in his holsters.

On expressing his surprise at these preparations, he was speedily enlightened by a young Floridan, who quietly said:

“Sir, there are Seminoles there.”

“What do you mean by Seminoles?”

“Savages who scour the prairies. We thought it best, therefore, to escort you on your road.”

“Pooh!” cried J. T. Maston, mounting his steed.

“All right,” said the Floridan; “but it is true enough, nevertheless.”

“Gentlemen,” answered Barbicane, “I thank you for your kind attention; but it is time to be off.”

It was five A.M. when Barbicane and his party, quitting Tampa Town, made their way along the coast in the direction of Alifia Creek. This little river falls into Hillisborough Bay twelve miles above Tampa Town. Barbicane and his escort coasted along its right bank to the eastward. Soon the waves of the bay disappeared behind a bend of rising ground, and the Floridan “champagne” alone offered itself to view.

Florida, discovered on Palm Sunday, in 1512, by Juan Ponce de Leon, was originally named Pascha Florida. It little deserved that designation, with its dry and parched coasts. But after some few miles of tract the nature of the soil gradually changes and the country shows itself worthy of the name. Cultivated plains soon appear, where are united all the productions of the northern and tropical floras, terminating in prairies abounding with pineapples and yams, tobacco, rice, cotton-plants, and sugar-canes, which extend beyond reach of sight, flinging their riches broadcast with careless prodigality.

Barbicane appeared highly pleased on observing the progressive elevation of the land; and in answer to a question of J. T. Maston, replied:

“My worthy friend, we cannot do better than sink our Columbiad in these high grounds.”

“To get nearer the moon, perhaps?” said the secretary of the Gun Club.

“Not exactly,” replied Barbicane, smiling; “do you not see that among these elevated plateaus we shall have a much easier work of it? No struggles with the water-springs, which will save us long expensive tubings; and we shall be working in daylight instead of down a deep and narrow well. Our business, then, is to open our trenches upon ground some hundreds of yards above the level of the sea.”

“You are right, sir,” struck in Murchison, the engineer; “and, if I mistake not, we shall ere long find a suitable spot for our purpose.”

“I wish we were at the first stroke of the pickaxe,” said the president.

“And I wish we were at the last,” cried J. T. Maston.

About ten A.M. the little band had crossed a dozen miles. To fertile plains succeeded a region of forests. There perfumes of the most varied kinds mingled together in tropical profusion. These almost impenetrable forests were composed of pomegranates, orange-trees, citrons, figs, olives, apricots, bananas, huge vines, whose blossoms and fruits rivaled each other in color and perfume. Beneath the odorous shade of these magnificent trees fluttered and warbled a little world of brilliantly plumaged birds.

J. T. Maston and the major could not repress their admiration on finding themselves in the presence of the glorious beauties of this wealth of nature. President Barbicane, however, less sensitive to these wonders, was in haste to press forward; the very luxuriance of the country was displeasing to him. They hastened onward, therefore, and were compelled to ford several rivers, not without danger, for they were infested with huge alligators from fifteen to eighteen feet long. Maston courageously menaced them with his steel hook, but he only succeeded in frightening some pelicans and teal, while tall flamingos stared stupidly at the party.

At length these denizens of the swamps disappeared in their turn; smaller trees became thinly scattered among less dense thickets — a few isolated groups detached in the midst of endless plains over which ranged herds of startled deer.

“At last,” cried Barbicane, rising in his stirrups, “here we are at the region of pines!”

“Yes! and of savages too,” replied the major.

In fact, some Seminoles had just came in sight upon the horizon; they rode violently backward and forward on their fleet horses, brandishing their spears or discharging their guns with a dull report. These hostile demonstrations, however, had no effect upon Barbicane and his companions.

They were then occupying the center of a rocky plain, which the sun scorched with its parching rays. This was formed by a considerable elevation of the soil, which seemed to offer to the members of the Gun Club all the conditions requisite for the construction of their Columbiad.

“Halt!” said Barbicane, reining up. “Has this place any local appellation?”

“It is called Stones Hill,” replied one of the Floridans.

Barbicane, without saying a word, dismounted, seized his instruments, and began to note his position with extreme exactness. The little band, drawn up in the rear, watched his proceedings in profound silence.

At this moment the sun passed the meridian. Barbicane, after a few moments, rapidly wrote down the result of his observations, and said:

“This spot is situated eighteen hundred feet above the level of the sea, in 27@ 7’ N. lat. and 5@ 7’ W. long. of the meridian of Washington. It appears to me by its rocky and barren character to offer all the conditions requisite for our experiment. On that plain will be raised our magazines, workshops, furnaces, and workmen’s huts; and here, from this very spot,” said he, stamping his foot on the summit of Stones Hill, “hence shall our projectile take its flight into the regions of the Solar World.”

CHAPTER XXII

THE NEW CITIZEN OF THE UNITED STATES

That same day all America heard of the affair of Captain Nicholl and President Barbicane, as well as its singular denouement. From that day forth, Michel Ardan had not one moment’s rest. Deputations from all corners of the Union harassed him without cessation or intermission. He was compelled to receive them all, whether he would or no. How many hands he shook, how many people he was “hail-fellow-well-met” with, it is impossible to guess! Such a triumphal result would have intoxicated any other man; but he managed to keep himself in a state of delightful semi-tipsiness.

Among the deputations of all kinds which assailed him, that of “The Lunatics” were careful not to forget what they owed to the future conqueror of the moon. One day, certain of these poor people, so numerous in America, came to call upon him, and requested permission to return with him to their native country.

“Singular hallucination!” said he to Barbicane, after having dismissed the deputation with promises to convey numbers of messages to friends in the moon. “Do you believe in the influence of the moon upon distempers?”

“Scarcely!”

“No more do I, despite some remarkable recorded facts of history. For instance, during an epidemic in 1693, a large number of persons died at the very moment of an eclipse. The celebrated Bacon always fainted during an eclipse. Charles VI relapsed six times into madness during the year 1399, sometimes during the new, sometimes during the full moon. Gall observed that insane persons underwent an accession of their disorder twice in every month, at the epochs of new and full moon. In fact, numerous observations made upon fevers, somnambulisms, and other human maladies, seem to prove that the moon does exercise some mysterious influence upon man.”

“But the how and the wherefore?” asked Barbicane.

“Well, I can only give you the answer which Arago borrowed from Plutarch, which is nineteen centuries old. `Perhaps the stories are not true!’”

In the height of his triumph, Michel Ardan had to encounter all the annoyances incidental to a man of celebrity. Managers of entertainments wanted to exhibit him. Barnum offered him a million dollars to make a tour of the United States in his show. As for his photographs, they were sold of all size, and his portrait taken in every imaginable posture. More than half a million copies were disposed of in an incredibly short space of time.

But it was not only the men who paid him homage, but the women as well. He might have married well a hundred times over, if he had been willing to settle in life. The old maids, in particular, of forty years and upward, and dry in proportion, devoured his photographs day and night. They would have married him by hundreds, even if he had imposed upon them the condition of accompanying him into space. He had, however, no intention of transplanting a race of Franco-Americans upon the surface of the moon.

He therefore declined all offers.

As soon as he could withdraw from these somewhat embarrassing demonstrations, he went, accompanied by his friends, to pay a visit to the Columbiad. He was highly gratified by his inspection, and made the descent to the bottom of the tube of this gigantic machine which was presently to launch him to the regions of the moon. It is necessary here to mention a proposal of J. T. Maston’s. When the secretary of the Gun Club found that Barbicane and Nicholl accepted the proposal of Michel Ardan, he determined to join them, and make one of a smug party of four. So one day he determined to be admitted as one of the travelers. Barbicane, pained at having to refuse him, gave him clearly to understand that the projectile could not possibly contain so many passengers. Maston, in despair, went in search of Michel Ardan, who counseled him to resign himself to the situation, adding one or two arguments ad hominem.

“You see, old fellow,” he said, “you must not take what I say in bad part; but really, between ourselves, you are in too incomplete a condition to appear in the moon!”

“Incomplete?” shrieked the valiant invalid.

“Yes, my dear fellow! imagine our meeting some of the inhabitants up there! Would you like to give them such a melancholy notion of what goes on down here? to teach them what war is, to inform them that we employ our time chiefly in devouring each other, in smashing arms and legs, and that too on a globe which is capable of supporting a hundred billions of inhabitants, and which actually does contain nearly two hundred millions? Why, my worthy friend, we should have to turn you out of doors!”

“But still, if you arrive there in pieces, you will be as incomplete as I am.”

“Unquestionably,” replied Michel Ardan; “but we shall not.”

In fact, a preparatory experiment, tried on the 18th of October, had yielded the best results and caused the most well-grounded hopes of success. Barbicane, desirous of obtaining some notion of the effect of the shock at the moment of the projectile’s departure, had procured a 38-inch mortar from the arsenal of Pensacola. He had this placed on the bank of Hillisborough Roads, in order that the shell might fall back into the sea, and the shock be thereby destroyed. His object was to ascertain the extent of the shock of departure, and not that of the return.

A hollow projectile had been prepared for this curious experiment. A thick padding fastened upon a kind of elastic network, made of the best steel, lined the inside of the walls. It was a veritable nest most carefully wadded.

“What a pity I can’t find room in there,” said J. T. Maston, regretting that his height did not allow of his trying the adventure.

Within this shell were shut up a large cat, and a squirrel belonging to J. T. Maston, and of which he was particularly fond. They were desirous, however, of ascertaining how this little animal, least of all others subject to giddiness, would endure this experimental voyage.

The mortar was charged with 160 pounds of powder, and the shell placed in the chamber. On being fired, the projectile rose with great velocity, described a majestic parabola, attained a height of about a thousand feet, and with a graceful curve descended in the midst of the vessels that lay there at anchor.

Without a moment’s loss of time a small boat put off in the direction of its fall; some divers plunged into the water and attached ropes to the handles of the shell, which was quickly dragged on board. Five minutes did not elapse between the moment of enclosing the animals and that of unscrewing the coverlid of their prison.

Ardan, Barbicane, Maston, and Nicholl were present on board the boat, and assisted at the operation with an interest which may readily be comprehended. Hardly had the shell been opened when the cat leaped out, slightly bruised, but full of life, and exhibiting no signs whatever of having made an aerial expedition. No trace, however, of the squirrel could be discovered. The truth at last became apparent — the cat had eaten its fellow-traveler!

J. T. Maston grieved much for the loss of his poor squirrel, and proposed to add its case to that of other martyrs to science.

After this experiment all hesitation, all fear disappeared. Besides, Barbicane’s plans would ensure greater perfection for his projectile, and go far to annihilate altogether the effects of the shock. Nothing now remained but to go!

Two days later Michel Ardan received a message from the President of the United States, an honor of which he showed himself especially sensible.

After the example of his illustrious fellow-countryman, the Marquis de la Fayette, the government had decreed to him the title of “Citizen of the United States of America.”

CHAPTER XXIII

THE PROJECTILE-VEHICLE

On the completion of the Columbiad the public interest centered in the projectile itself, the vehicle which was destined to carry the three hardy adventurers into space.

The new plans had been sent to Breadwill and Co. of Albany, with the request for their speedy execution. The projectile was consequently cast on the 2nd of November, and immediately forwarded by the Eastern Railway to Stones Hill, which it reached without accident on the 10th of that month, where Michel Ardan, Barbicane, and Nicholl were waiting impatiently for it.

The projectile had now to be filled to the depth of three feet with a bed of water, intended to support a water-tight wooden disc, which worked easily within the walls of the projectile. It was upon this kind of raft that the travelers were to take their place. This body of water was divided by horizontal partitions, which the shock of the departure would have to break in succession. Then each sheet of the water, from the lowest to the highest, running off into escape tubes toward the top of the projectile, constituted a kind of spring; and the wooden disc, supplied with extremely powerful plugs, could not strike the lowest plate except after breaking successively the different partitions. Undoubtedly the travelers would still have to encounter a violent recoil after the complete escapement of the water; but the first shock would be almost entirely destroyed by this powerful spring. The upper parts of the walls were lined with a thick padding of leather, fastened upon springs of the best steel, behind which the escape tubes were completely concealed; thus all imaginable precautions had been taken for averting the first shock; and if they did get crushed, they must, as Michel Ardan said, be made of very bad materials.

The entrance into this metallic tower was by a narrow aperture contrived in the wall of the cone. This was hermetically closed by a plate of aluminum, fastened internally by powerful screw-pressure. The travelers could therefore quit their prison at pleasure, as soon as they should reach the moon.

Light and view were given by means of four thick lenticular glass scuttles, two pierced in the circular wall itself, the third in the bottom, the fourth in the top. These scuttles then were protected against the shock of departure by plates let into solid grooves, which could easily be opened outward by unscrewing them from the inside. Reservoirs firmly fixed contained water and the necessary provisions; and fire and light were procurable by means of gas, contained in a special reservoir under a pressure of several atmospheres. They had only to turn a tap, and for six hours the gas would light and warm this comfortable vehicle.

There now remained only the question of air; for allowing for the consumption of air by Barbicane, his two companions, and two dogs which he proposed taking with him, it was necessary to renew the air of the projectile. Now air consists principally of twenty-one parts of oxygen and seventy-nine of nitrogen. The lungs absorb the oxygen, which is indispensable for the support of life, and reject the nitrogen. The air expired loses nearly five per cent. of the former and contains nearly an equal volume of carbonic acid, produced by the combustion of the elements of the blood. In an air-tight enclosure, then, after a certain time, all the oxygen of the air will be replaced by the carbonic acid — a gas fatal to life. There were two things to be done then — first, to replace the absorbed oxygen; secondly, to destroy the expired carbonic acid; both easy enough to do, by means of chlorate of potassium and caustic potash. The former is a salt which appears under the form of white crystals; when raised to a temperature of 400 degrees it is transformed into chlorure of potassium, and the oxygen which it contains is entirely liberated. Now twenty-eight pounds of chlorate of potassium produces seven pounds of oxygen, or 2,400 litres — the quantity necessary for the travelers during twenty-four hours.

Caustic potash has a great affinity for carbonic acid; and it is sufficient to shake it in order for it to seize upon the acid and form bicarbonate of potassium. By these two means they would be enabled to restore to the vitiated air its life-supporting properties.

It is necessary, however, to add that the experiments had hitherto been made in anima vili. Whatever its scientific accuracy was, they were at present ignorant how it would answer with human beings. The honor of putting it to the proof was energetically claimed by J. T. Maston.

“Since I am not to go,” said the brave artillerist, “I may at least live for a week in the projectile.”

It would have been hard to refuse him; so they consented to his wish. A sufficient quantity of chlorate of potassium and of caustic potash was placed at his disposal, together with provisions for eight days. And having shaken hands with his friends, on the 12th of November, at six o’clock A.M. after strictly informing them not to open his prison before the 20th, at six o’clock P.M. he slid down the projectile, the plate of which was at once hermetically sealed. What did he do with himself during that week? They could get no information. The thickness of the walls of the projectile prevented any sound reaching from the inside to the outside. On the 20th of November, at six P.M. exactly, the plate was opened. The friends of J. T. Maston had been all along in a state of much anxiety; but they were promptly reassured on hearing a jolly voice shouting a boisterous hurrah.

Presently afterward the secretary of the Gun Club appeared at the top of the cone in a triumphant attitude. He had grown fat!

CHAPTER XXIV

THE TELESCOPE OF THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS

On the 20th of October in the preceding year, after the close of the subscription, the president of the Gun Club had credited the Observatory of Cambridge with the necessary sums for the construction of a gigantic optical instrument. This instrument was designed for the purpose of rendering visible on the surface of the moon any object exceeding nine feet in diameter.

At the period when the Gun Club essayed their great experiment, such instruments had reached a high degree of perfection, and produced some magnificent results. Two telescopes in particular, at this time, were possessed of remarkable power and of gigantic dimensions. The first, constructed by Herschel, was thirty-six feet in length, and had an object-glass of four feet six inches; it possessed a magnifying power of 6,000. The second was raised in Ireland, in Parsonstown Park, and belongs to Lord Rosse. The length of this tube is forty-eight feet, and the diameter of its object-glass six feet; it magnifies 6,400 times, and required an immense erection of brick work and masonry for the purpose of working it, its weight being twelve and a half tons.

Still, despite these colossal dimensions, the actual enlargements scarcely exceeded 6,000 times in round numbers; consequently, the moon was brought within no nearer an apparent distance than thirty-nine miles; and objects of less than sixty feet in diameter, unless they were of very considerable length, were still imperceptible.

In the present case, dealing with a projectile nine feet in diameter and fifteen feet long, it became necessary to bring the moon within an apparent distance of five miles at most; and for that purpose to establish a magnifying power of 48,000 times.

Such was the question proposed to the Observatory of Cambridge, There was no lack of funds; the difficulty was purely one of construction.

After considerable discussion as to the best form and principle of the proposed instrument the work was finally commenced. According to the calculations of the Observatory of Cambridge, the tube of the new reflector would require to be 280 feet in length, and the object-glass sixteen feet in diameter. Colossal as these dimensions may appear, they were diminutive in comparison with the 10,000 foot telescope proposed by the astronomer Hooke only a few years ago!

Regarding the choice of locality, that matter was promptly determined. The object was to select some lofty mountain, and there are not many of these in the United States. In fact there are but two chains of moderate elevation, between which runs the magnificent Mississippi, the “king of rivers” as these Republican Yankees delight to call it.

Eastwards rise the Appalachians, the very highest point of which, in New Hampshire, does not exceed the very moderate altitude of 5,600 feet.

On the west, however, rise the Rocky Mountains, that immense range which, commencing at the Straights of Magellan, follows the western coast of Southern America under the name of the Andes or the Cordilleras, until it crosses the Isthmus of Panama, and runs up the whole of North America to the very borders of the Polar Sea. The highest elevation of this range still does not exceed 10,700 feet. With this elevation, nevertheless, the Gun Club were compelled to be content, inasmuch as they had determined that both telescope and Columbiad should be erected within the limits of the Union. All the necessary apparatus was consequently sent on to the summit of Long’s Peak, in the territory of Missouri.

Neither pen nor language can describe the difficulties of all kinds which the American engineers had to surmount, of the prodigies of daring and skill which they accomplished. They had to raise enormous stones, massive pieces of wrought iron, heavy corner-clamps and huge portions of cylinder, with an object-glass weighing nearly 30,000 pounds, above the line of perpetual snow for more than 10,000 feet in height, after crossing desert prairies, impenetrable forests, fearful rapids, far from all centers of population, and in the midst of savage regions, in which every detail of life becomes an almost insoluble problem. And yet, notwithstanding these innumerable obstacles, American genius triumphed. In less than a year after the commencement of the works, toward the close of September, the gigantic reflector rose into the air to a height of 280 feet. It was raised by means of an enormous iron crane; an ingenious mechanism allowed it to be easily worked toward all the points of the heavens, and to follow the stars from the one horizon to the other during their journey through the heavens.

It had cost $400,000. The first time it was directed toward the moon the observers evinced both curiosity and anxiety. What were they about to discover in the field of this telescope which magnified objects 48,000 times? Would they perceive peoples, herds of lunar animals, towns, lakes, seas? No! there was nothing which science had not already discovered! and on all the points of its disc the volcanic nature of the moon became determinable with the utmost precision.

But the telescope of the Rocky Mountains, before doing its duty to the Gun Club, rendered immense services to astronomy. Thanks to its penetrative power, the depths of the heavens were sounded to the utmost extent; the apparent diameter of a great number of stars was accurately measured; and Mr. Clark, of the Cambridge staff, resolved the Crab nebula in Taurus, which the reflector of Lord Rosse had never been able to decompose.

CONTENTS

PART I

THE ENGLISH AT THE NORTH POLE

CHAPTER I

THE “FORWARD”

CHAPTER II

AN UNEXPECTED LETTER

CHAPTER III

DR. CLAWBONNY

CHAPTER IV

DOG-CAPTAIN

CHAPTER V

OUT AT SEA

CHAPTER VI

THE GREAT POLAR CURRENT

CHAPTER VII

DAVIS’S STRAITS

CHAPTER VIII

GOSSIP OF THE CREW

CHAPTER IX

NEWS

CHAPTER X

DANGEROUS NAVIGATION

CHAPTER XI

THE DEVIL’S THUMB

CHAPTER XII

CAPTAIN HATTERAS

CHAPTER XIII

THE PROJECTS OF HATTERAS

CHAPTER XIV

EXPEDITION IN SEARCH OF FRANKLIN

CHAPTER XV

THE “FORWARD” DRIVEN BACK SOUTH

CHAPTER XVI

THE MAGNETIC POLE

CHAPTER XVII

THE FATE OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN

CHAPTER XVIII

THE NORTHERN ROUTE

CHAPTER XIX

A WHALE IN SIGHT

CHAPTER XX

BEECHEY ISLAND

CHAPTER XXI

THE DEATH OF BELLOT

CHAPTER XXII

BEGINNING OF REVOLT

CHAPTER XXIII

ATTACKED BY ICEBERGS

CHAPTER XXIV

PREPARATIONS FOR WINTERING

CHAPTER XXV

AN OLD FOX

CHAPTER XXVI

THE LAST LUMP OF COAL

CHAPTER XXVII

CHRISTMAS

CHAPTER XXVIII

PREPARATIONS FOR DEPARTURE

CHAPTER XXIX

ACROSS THE ICE

CHAPTER XXX

THE CAIRN

CHAPTER XXXI

THE DEATH OF SIMPSON

CHAPTER XXXII

THE RETURN

PART II

THE FIELD OF ICE.

CHAPTER I.

THE DOCTOR’S INVENTORY.

CHAPTER II.

FIRST WORDS OF ALTAMONT.

CHAPTER III.

A SEVENTEEN DAYS’ MARCH.

CHAPTER IV.

THE LAST CHARGE OF POWDER

CHAPTER V.

THE SEAL AND THE BEAR.

CHAPTER VI.

THE PORPOISE

CHAPTER VII.

AN IMPORTANT DISCUSSION.

CHAPTER VIII.

AN EXCURSION TO THE NORTH OF VICTORIA BAY

CHAPTER IX.

COLD AND HEAT.

CHAPTER X.

WINTER PLEASURES

CHAPTER XI

TRACES OF BEARS

CHAPTER XII

IMPRISONED IN DOCTOR’S HOUSE

CHAPTER XIII.

THE MINE.

CHAPTER XIV.

AN ARCTIC SPRING.

CHAPTER XV.

THE NORTH-WEST PASSAGE.

CHAPTER XVI.

ARCTIC ARCADIA

CHAPTER XVII.

ALTAMONT’S REVENGE.

CHAPTER XVIII.

FINAL PREPARATIONS

CHAPTER XIX.

MARCH TO THE NORTH

CHAPTER XX.

FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE OPEN SEA.

CHAPTER XXII.

GETTING NEAR THE POLE.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE ENGLISH FLAG

CHAPTER XXIV.

MOUNT HATTERAS.

CHAPTER XXV.

RETURN SOUTH.

CHAPTER XXVI.

CONCLUSION.

PART I

THE ENGLISH AT THE NORTH POLE

CHAPTER II

AN UNEXPECTED LETTER

The letter received by Richard Shandon, eight months before, ran as follows: —

“ABERDEEN, “August 2nd, 1859.

“To Mr. Richard Shandon, “Liverpool.

“SIR, — I beg to advise you that the sum of sixteen thousand pounds sterling has been placed in the hands of Messrs. Marcuart and Co. bankers, of Liverpool. I join herewith a series of cheques, signed by me, which will allow you to draw upon the said Messrs. Marcuart for the above-mentioned sum. You do not know me, but that is of no consequence. I know you: that is sufficient. I offer you the place of second on board the brig Forward for a voyage that may be long and perilous. If you agree to my conditions you will receive a salary of PS500, and all through the voyage it will be augmented one-tenth at the end of each year. The Forward is not yet in existence. You must have it built so as to be ready for sea at the beginning of April, 1860, at the latest. Herewith is a detailed plan and estimate. You will take care that it is scrupulously followed. The ship is to be built by Messrs. Scott and Co. who will settle with you. I particularly recommend you the choice of the Forward’s crew; it will be composed of a captain, myself, of a second, you, of a third officer, a boatswain, two engineers, an ice pilot, eight sailors, and two others, eighteen men in all, comprising Dr. Clawbonny, of this town, who will introduce himself to you when necessary. The Forward’s crew must be composed of Englishmen without incumbrance; they should be all bachelors and sober — for no spirits, nor even beer, will be allowed on board — ready to undertake anything, and to bear with anything. You will give the preference to men of a sanguine constitution, as they carry a greater amount of animal heat. Offer them five times the usual pay, with an increase of one-tenth for each year of service. At the end of the voyage five hundred pounds will be placed at the disposition of each, and two thousand at yours. These funds will be placed with Messrs. Marcuart and Co. The voyage will be long and difficult, but honourable, so you need not hesitate to accept my conditions. Be good enough to send your answer to K. Z. Poste Restante, Goteborg, Sweden.

“P.S. — On the 15th of February next you will receive a large Danish dog, with hanging lips, and tawny coat with black stripes. You will take it on board and have it fed with oaten bread, mixed with tallow grease. You will acknowledge the reception of the said dog to me under the same initials as above, Poste Restante, Leghorn, Italy.

“The captain of the Forward will introduce himself to you when necessary. When you are ready to start you will receive further instructions.

“THE CAPTAIN OF THE ‘FORWARD,’

“K. Z.”

CHAPTER III

DR. CLAWBONNY

Richard Shandon was a good sailor; he had been commander of whalers in the Arctic seas for many years, and had a wide reputation for skill. He might well be astonished at such a letter, and so he was, but astonished like a man used to astonishments. He fulfilled, too, all the required conditions: he had no wife, children, or relations; he was as free as a man could be. Having no one to consult, he went straight to Messrs. Marcuart’s bank.

“If the money is there,” he said to himself, “I’ll undertake the rest.”

He was received by the firm with all the attention due to a man with sixteen thousand pounds in their safes. Sure of that fact, Shandon asked for a sheet of letter-paper, and sent his acceptance in a large sailor’s hand to the address indicated. The same day he put himself in communication with the Birkenhead shipbuilders, and twenty-four hours later the keel of the Forward lay on the stocks in the dockyard.

Richard Shandon was a bachelor of forty, robust, energetic, and brave, three sailor-like qualities, giving their possessor confidence, vigour, and sang-froid. He was reputed jealous and hard to be pleased, so he was more feared than loved by his sailors. But this reputation did not increase the difficulty of finding a crew, for he was known to be a clever commander. He was afraid that the mystery of the enterprise would embarrass his movements, and he said to himself, “The best thing I can do is to say nothing at all; there are sea-dogs who will want to know the why and the wherefore of the business, and as I know nothing myself, I can’t tell them. K. Z. is a queer fish, but after all he knows me, and has confidence in me; that’s enough. As to the ship, she will be a handsome lass, and my name isn’t Richard Shandon if she is not destined for the Frozen Seas. But I shall keep that to myself and my officers.”

Upon which Richard Shandon set about recruiting his crew upon the conditions of family and health exacted by the captain. He knew a brave fellow and capital sailor, named James Wall. Wall was about thirty, and had made more than one trip to the North Seas. Shandon offered him the post of third officer, and he accepted blindly; all he cared for was to sail, as he was devoted to his profession. Shandon told him and Johnson (whom he engaged as boatswain) all he knew about the business.

“Just as soon go there as anywhere else,” answered Wall. “If it’s to seek the North-West passage, many have been and come back.”

“Been, yes; but come back I don’t answer for,” said Johnson; “but that’s no reason for not going.”

“Besides, if we are not mistaken in our conjectures,” said Shandon, “the voyage will be undertaken under good conditions. The Forward’s a bonny lass, with a good engine, and will stand wear and tear. Eighteen men are all the crew we want.”

“Eighteen men?” said Johnson. “That’s just the number that the American, Kane, had on board when he made his famous voyage towards the North Pole.”

“It’s a singular fact that there’s always some private individual trying to cross the sea from Davis’s Straits to Behring’s Straits. The Franklin expeditions have already cost England more than seven hundred and sixty thousand pounds without producing any practical result. Who the devil means to risk his fortune in such an enterprise?”

“We are reasoning now on a simple hypothesis,” said Shandon. “I don’t know if we are really going to the Northern or Southern Seas. Perhaps we are going on a voyage of discovery. We shall know more when Dr. Clawbonny comes; I daresay he will tell us all about it.”

“There’s nothing for it but to wait,” answered Johnson; “I’ll go and hunt up some solid subjects, captain; and as to their animal heat, I guarantee beforehand you can trust me for that.”

Johnson was a valuable acquisition; he understood the navigation of these high latitudes. He was quartermaster on board the Phoenix, one of the vessels of the Franklin expedition of 1853. He was witness of the death of the French lieutenant Bellot, whom he had accompanied in his expedition across the ice. Johnson knew the maritime population of Liverpool, and started at once on his recruiting expedition. Shandon, Wall, and he did their work so well that the crew was complete in the beginning of December. It had been a difficult task; many, tempted by the high pay, felt frightened at the risk, and more than one enlisted boldly who came afterwards to take back his word and enlistment money, dissuaded by his friends from undertaking such an enterprise. All of them tried to pierce the mystery, and worried Shandon with questions; he sent them to Johnson.

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” he answered invariably; “you’ll be in good company, that’s all I can tell you. You can take it or leave it alone.”

And the greater number took it.

“I have only to choose,” added the boatswain; “such salary has never been heard of in the memory of sailors, and then the certainty of finding a handsome capital when we come back. Only think: it’s tempting enough.”

“The fact is,” answered the sailor, “it is tempting; enough to live on till the end of one’s days.”

“I don’t hide from you,” continued Johnson, “that the cruise will be long, painful, and perilous; that is formally stated in our instructions, and you ought to know what you undertake; you will very likely be required to attempt all that it is possible for human beings to do, and perhaps more. If you are the least bit frightened, if you don’t think you may just as well finish yonder as here, you’d better not enlist, but give way to a bolder man.”

“But, Mr. Johnson,” continued the sailor, for the want of something better to say, “at least you know the captain?”

“The captain is Richard Shandon till another comes.”

Richard Shandon, in his secret heart, hoped that the command would remain with him, and that at the last moment he should receive precise instructions as to the destination of the Forward. He did all he could to spread the report in his conversations with his officers, or when following the construction of the brig as it grew in the Birkenhead dockyard, looking like the ribs of a whale turned upside down. Shandon and Johnson kept strictly to their instructions touching the health of the sailors who were to form the crew; they all looked hale and hearty, and had enough heat in their bodies to suffice for the engine of the Forward; their supple limbs, their clear and florid complexions were fit to react against the action of intense cold. They were confident and resolute men, energetically and solidly constituted. Of course they were not all equally vigorous; Shandon had even hesitated about taking some of them, such as the sailors Gripper and Garry, and the harpooner Simpson, because they looked rather thin; but, on the whole, their build was good; they were a warm-hearted lot, and their engagement was signed.

All the crew belonged to the same sect of the Protestant religion; during these long campaigns prayer in common and the reading of the Bible have a good influence over the men and sustain them in the hour of discouragement; it was therefore important that they should be all of the same way of thinking. Shandon knew by experience the utility of these practices, and their influence on the mind of the crew; they are always employed on board ships that are intended to winter in the Polar Seas. The crew once got together, Shandon and his two officers set about the provisions; they strictly followed the instructions of the captain; these instructions were clear, precise, and detailed, and the least articles were put down with their quality and quantity. Thanks to the cheques at the commander’s disposition, every article was paid for at once with a discount of 8 per cent, which Richard carefully placed to the credit of K. Z.

Crew, provisions, and cargo were ready by January, 1860; the Forward began to look shipshape, and Shandon went daily to Birkenhead. On the morning of the 23rd of January he was, as usual, on board one of the Mersey ferry-boats with a helm at either end to prevent having to turn it; there was a thick fog, and the sailors of the river were obliged to direct their course by means of the compass, though the passage lasts scarcely ten minutes. But the thickness of the fog did not prevent Shandon seeing a man of short stature, rather fat, with an intelligent and merry face and an amiable look, who came up to him, took him by the two hands, and shook them with an ardour, a petulance, and a familiarity “quite meridional,” as a Frenchman would have said. But if this person did not come from the South, he had got his temperament there; he talked and gesticulated with volubility; his thought must come out or the machine would burst. His eyes, small as those of witty men generally are, his mouth, large and mobile, were safety-pipes which allowed him to give passage to his overflowing thoughts; he talked, and talked, and talked so much and so fast that Shandon couldn’t understand a word he said. However, this did not prevent the Forward’s mate from recognising the little man he had never seen before; a lightning flash traversed his mind, and when the other paused to take breath, Shandon made haste to get out the words, “Doctor Clawbonny!”

“Himself in person, commander! I’ve been at least half a quarter of an hour looking for you, asking everybody everywhere! Just think how impatient I got; five minutes more and I should have lost my head! And so you are the commander Richard? You really exist? You are not a myth? Your hand, your hand! I want to shake it again. It is Richard Shandon’s hand, and if there is a commander Shandon, there’s a brig Forward to command; and if he commands he will start, and if he starts he’ll take Dr. Clawbonny on board.”

“Well, yes, doctor, I am Richard Shandon; there is a brig Forward, and it will start.”

“That’s logic,” answered the doctor, after taking in a large provision of breathing air — “that’s logic. And I am ready to jump for joy at having my dearest wishes gratified. I’ve wanted to undertake such a voyage. Now with you, commander — — “

“I don’t — — ” began Shandon.

“With you,” continued Clawbonny, without hearing him, “we are sure to go far and not to draw back for a trifle.”

“But — — ” began Shandon again.

“For you have shown what you are made of, commander; I know your deeds of service. You are a fine sailor!”

“If you will allow me — — “

“No, I won’t have your bravery, audacity, and skill put an instant in doubt, even by you! The captain who chose you for his mate is a man who knows what he’s about, I can tell you.”

“But that’s nothing to do with it,” said Shandon, impatient.

“What is it, then? Don’t keep me in suspense another minute.”

“You don’t give me time to speak. Tell me, if you please, doctor, how it comes that you are to take part in the expedition of the Forward.”

“Read this letter, this worthy letter, the letter of a brave captain — very laconic, but quite sufficient.”

Saying which the doctor held out the following letter to Shandon: —

“INVERNESS, “Jan. 22nd, 1860.

“To Dr. Clawbonny.

“If Dr. Clawbonny wishes to embark on board the Forward for a long cruise, he may introduce himself to the commander, Richard Shandon, who has received orders concerning him.

“THE CAPTAIN OF THE ‘FORWARD,’

“K. Z.”

“This letter reached me this morning, and here I am, ready to embark.”

“But, doctor, do you know where we are going to?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea, and I do not care so that it is somewhere. They pretend that I am learned; they are mistaken, commander. I know nothing, and if I have published a few books that don’t sell badly, I ought not to have done it; the public is silly for buying them. I know nothing, I tell you. I am only an ignorant man. When I have the offer of completing, or rather of going over again, my knowledge of medicine, surgery, history, geography, botany, mineralogy, conchology, geodesy, chemistry, natural philosophy, mechanics, and hydrography, why I accept, of course.”

“Then,” said Shandon, disappointed, “you do not know where the Forward is bound for?”

“Yes, I do; it is bound for where there is something to learn, to discover, and to compare — where we shall meet with other customs, other countries, other nations, to study in the exercise of their functions; it is going, in short, where I have never been.”

“But I want to know something more definite than that,” cried Shandon.

“Well, I have heard that we are bound for the Northern Seas.”

“At least,” asked Shandon, “you know the captain?”

“Not the least bit in the world! But he is an honest fellow, you may believe me.”

The commander and the doctor disembarked at Birkenhead; the former told the doctor all he knew about the situation of things, and the mystery inflamed the imagination of the doctor. The sight of the brig caused him transports of joy. From that day he stopped with Shandon, and went every day to pay a visit to the shell of the Forward. Besides, he was specially appointed to overlook the installation of the ship’s medicine-chest. For Dr. Clawbonny was a doctor, and a good one, though practising little. At the age of twenty-five he was an ordinary practitioner; at the age of forty he was a savant, well known in the town; he was an influential member of all the literary and scientific institutions of Liverpool. His fortune allowed him to distribute counsels which were none the worse for being gratuitous; beloved as a man eminently lovable must always be, he had never wronged any one, not even himself; lively and talkative, he carried his heart in his hand, and put his hand into that of everybody. When it was known in Liverpool that he was going to embark on board the Forward his friends did all they could to dissuade him, and only fixed him more completely in his determination, and when the doctor was determined to do anything no one could prevent him. From that time the suppositions and apprehensions increased, but did not prevent the Forward being launched on the 5th of February, 1860. Two months later she was ready to put to sea. On the 15th of March, as the letter of the captain had announced, a dog of Danish breed was sent by railway from Edinburgh to Liverpool, addressed to Richard Shandon. The animal seemed surly, peevish, and even sinister, with quite a singular look in his eyes. The name of the Forward was engraved on his brass collar. The commander installed it on board the same day, and acknowledged its reception to K. Z. at Leghorn. Thus, with the exception of the captain, the crew was complete. It was composed as follows: —

1. K. Z. captain; 2. Richard Shandon, commander; 3. James Wall, third officer; 4. Dr. Clawbonny; 5. Johnson, boatswain; 6. Simpson, harpooner; 7. Bell, carpenter; 8. Brunton, chief engineer; 9. Plover, second engineer; 10. Strong (negro), cook; 11. Foker, ice-master; 12. Wolsten, smith; 13. Bolton, sailor; 14. Garry, sailor; 15. Clifton, sailor; 16. Gripper, sailor; 17. Pen, sailor; 18. Warren, stoker.

CHAPTER IV

DOG-CAPTAIN

The day of departure arrived with the 5th of April. The admission of the doctor on board had given the crew more confidence. They knew that where the worthy doctor went they could follow. However, the sailors were still uneasy, and Shandon, fearing that some of them would desert, wished to be off. With the coast out of sight, they would make up their mind to the inevitable.

Dr. Clawbonny’s cabin was situated at the end of the poop, and occupied all the stern of the vessel. The captain’s and mate’s cabins gave upon deck. The captain’s remained hermetically closed, after being furnished with different instruments, furniture, travelling garments, books, clothes for changing, and utensils, indicated in a detailed list. According to the wish of the captain, the key of the cabin was sent to Lubeck; he alone could enter his room.

This detail vexed Shandon, and took away all chance of the chief command. As to his own cabin, he had perfectly appropriated it to the needs of the presumed voyage, for he thoroughly understood the needs of a Polar expedition. The room of the third officer was placed under the lower deck, which formed a vast sleeping-room for the sailors’ use; the men were very comfortably lodged, and would not have found anything like the same convenience on board any other ship; they were cared for like the most priceless cargo: a vast stove occupied all the centre of the common room. Dr. Clawbonny was in his element; he had taken possession of his cabin on the 6th of February, the day after the Forward was launched.

“The happiest of animals,” he used to say, “is a snail, for it can make a shell exactly to fit it; I shall try to be an intelligent snail.”

And considering that the shell was to be his lodging for a considerable time, the cabin began to look like home; the doctor had a savant’s or a child’s pleasure in arranging his scientific traps. His books, his herbals, his set of pigeon-holes, his instruments of precision, his chemical apparatus, his collection of thermometers, barometers, hygrometers, rain-gauges, spectacles, compasses, sextants, maps, plans, flasks, powders, bottles for medicine-chest, were all classed in an order that would have shamed the British Museum. The space of six square feet contained incalculable riches: the doctor had only to stretch out his hand without moving to become instantaneously a doctor, a mathematician, an astronomer, a geographer, a botanist, or a conchologist. It must be acknowledged that he was proud of his management and happy in his floating sanctuary, which three of his thinnest friends would have sufficed to fill. His friends came to it in such numbers that even a man as easy-going as the doctor might have said with Socrates, “My house is small, but may it please Heaven never to fill it with friends!”

To complete the description of the Forward it is sufficient to say that the kennel of the large Danish dog was constructed under the window of the mysterious cabin but its savage inhabitant preferred wandering between decks and in the hold; it seemed impossible to tame him, and no one had been able to become his master; during the night he howled lamentably, making the hollows of the ship ring in a sinister fashion. Was it regret for his absent master? Was it the instinct of knowing that he was starting for a perilous voyage? Was it a presentiment of dangers to come? The sailors decided that it was for the latter reason, and more than one pretended to joke who believed seriously that the dog was of a diabolical kind. Pen, who was a brutal man, was going to strike him once, when he fell, unfortunately, against the angle of the capstan, and made a frightful wound in his head. Of course this accident was placed to the account of the fantastic animal. Clifton, the most superstitious of the crew, made the singular observation that when the dog was on the poop he always walked on the windward side, and afterwards, when the brig was out at sea, and altered its tack, the surprising animal changed its direction with the wind the same as the captain of the Forward would have done in his place. Dr. Clawbonny, whose kindness and caresses would have tamed a tiger, tried in vain to win the good graces of the dog; he lost his time and his pains. The animal did not answer to any name ever written in the dog calendar, and the crew ended by calling him Captain, for he appeared perfectly conversant with ship customs; it was evident that it was not his first trip. From such facts it is easy to understand the boatswain’s answer to Clifton’s friend, and the credulity of those who heard it; more than one repeated jokingly that he expected one day to see the dog take human shape and command the manoeuvres with a resounding voice.

If Richard Shandon did not feel the same apprehensions he was not without anxiety, and the day before the departure, in the evening of April 5th, he had a conversation on the subject with the doctor, Wall, and Johnson in the poop cabin. These four persons were tasting their tenth grog, and probably their last, for the letter from Aberdeen had ordered that all the crew, from the captain to the stoker, should be teetotallers, and that there should be no wine, beer, nor spirits on board except those given by the doctor’s orders. The conversation had been going on about the departure for the last hour. If the instructions of the captain were realised to the end, Shandon would receive his last instructions the next day.

“If the letter,” said the commander, “does not tell me the captain’s name, it must at least tell me the destination of the brig, or I shall not know where to take her to.”

“If I were you,” said the impatient doctor, “I should start whether I get a letter or no; they’ll know how to send after you, you may depend.”

“You are ready for anything, doctor; but if so, to what quarter of the globe should you set sail?”

“To the North Pole, of course; there’s not the slightest doubt about that.”

“Why should it not be the South Pole?” asked Wall.

“The South Pole is out of the question. No one with any sense would send a brig across the whole of the Atlantic. Just reflect a minute, and you’ll see the impossibility.”

“The doctor has an answer to everything,” said Wall.

“Well, we’ll say north,” continued Shandon. “But where north? To Spitzbergen or Greenland? Labrador or Hudson’s Bay? Although all directions end in insuperable icebergs, I am not less puzzled as to which to take. Have you an answer to that, doctor?”

“No,” he answered, vexed at having nothing to say; “but if you don’t get a letter what shall you do?”

“I shall do nothing; I shall wait.”

“Do you mean to say you won’t start?” cried Dr. Clawbonny, agitating his glass in despair.

“Certainly I do.”

“And that would be the wisest plan,” said Johnson tranquilly, while the doctor began marching round the table, for he could not keep still; “but still, if we wait too long, the consequences may be deplorable; the season is good now if we are really going north, as we ought to profit by the breaking up of the ice to cross Davis’s Straits; besides, the crew gets more and more uneasy; the friends and companions of our men do all they can to persuade them to leave the Forward, and their influence may be pernicious for us.”

“Besides,” added Wall, “if one of them deserted they all would, and then I don’t know how you would get another crew together.”

“But what can I do?” cried Shandon.

“What you said you would do,” replied the doctor; “wait and wait till to-morrow before you despair. The captain’s promises have all been fulfilled up to now with the greatest regularity, and there’s no reason to believe we shan’t be made acquainted with our destination when the proper time comes. I haven’t the slightest doubt that to-morrow we shall be sailing in the Irish Channel, and I propose we drink a last grog to our pleasant voyage. It begins in an unaccountable fashion, but with sailors like you there are a thousand chances that it will end well.”

And all four drank to their safe return.

“Now, commander,” continued Johnson, “if you will allow me to advise you, you will prepare everything to start; the crew must think that you know what you are about. If you don’t get a letter to-morrow, set sail; do not get up the steam, the wind looks like holding out, and it will be easy enough to sail; let the pilot come on board; go out of the docks with the tide, and anchor below Birkenhead; our men won’t be able to communicate with land, and if the devil of a letter comes it will find us as easily there as elsewhere.”

“By heavens! you are right, Johnson!” cried the doctor, holding out his hand to the old sailor.

“So be it,” answered Shandon.

Then each one entered his cabin, and waited in feverish sleep for the rising of the sun. The next day the first distribution of letters took place in the town, and not one bore the address of the commander, Richard Shandon. Nevertheless, he made his preparations for departure, and the news spread at once all over Liverpool, and, as we have already seen, an extraordinary affluence of spectators crowded the wharfs of New Prince’s Docks. Many of them came on board to shake hands for the last time with a comrade, or to try and dissuade a friend, or to take a look at the brig, and to know its destination; they were disappointed at finding the commander more taciturn and reserved than ever. He had his reasons for that.

Ten o’clock struck. Eleven followed. The tide began to go out that day at about one o’clock in the afternoon. Shandon from the top of the poop was looking at the crowd with uneasy eyes, trying to read the secret of his destiny on one of the faces. But in vain. The sailors of the Forward executed his orders in silence, looking at him all the time, waiting for orders which did not come. Johnson went on preparing for departure. The weather was cloudy and the sea rough; a south-easter blew with violence, but it was easy to get out of the Mersey.

At twelve o’clock nothing had yet been received. Dr. Clawbonny marched up and down in agitation, looking through his telescope, gesticulating, impatient for the sea, as he said. He felt moved, though he struggled against it. Shandon bit his lips till the blood came. Johnson came up to him and said —

“Commander, if we want to profit by the tide, there is no time to be lost; we shall not be clear of the docks for at least an hour.”

Shandon looked round him once more and consulted his watch. The twelve o’clock letters had been distributed. In despair he told Johnson to start. The boatswain ordered the deck to be cleared of spectators, and the crowd made a general movement to regain the wharves while the last moorings were unloosed. Amidst the confusion a dog’s bark was distinctly heard, and all at once the animal broke through the compact mass, jumped on to the poop, and, as a thousand spectators can testify, dropped a letter at Shandon’s feet.

“A letter!” cried Shandon. “He is on board, then?”

“He was, that’s certain, but he isn’t now,” said Johnson, pointing to the deserted deck.

Shandon held the letter without opening it in his astonishment.

“But read it, read it, I say,” said the doctor.

Shandon looked at it. The envelope had no postmark or date; it was addressed simply to:

“RICHARD SHANDON,

“Commander on board the brig

“Forward.”

Shandon opened the letter and read as follows: —

“Sail for Cape Farewell. You will reach it by the 20th of April. If the captain does not appear on board, cross Davis’s Straits, and sail up Baffin’s Sea to Melville Bay.

“THE CAPTAIN OF THE ‘FORWARD,’

“K. Z.”

Shandon carefully folded this laconic epistle, put it in his pocket, and gave the order for departure. His voice, which rang above the east wind, had something solemn in it.

Soon the Forward had passed the docks, and directed by a Liverpool pilot whose little cutter followed, went down the Mersey with the current. The crowd precipitated itself on to the exterior wharf along the Victoria Docks in order to get a last glimpse of the strange brig. The two topsails, the foresail and the brigantine sail were rapidly set up, and the Forward, worthy of its name, after having rounded Birkenhead Point, sailed with extraordinary fleetness into the Irish Sea.

CHAPTER V

OUT AT SEA

The wind was favourable, though it blew in April gales. The Forward cut through the waves, and towards three o’clock crossed the mail steamer between Liverpool and the Isle of Man. The captain hailed from his deck the last adieu that the Forward was destined to hear.

At five o’clock the pilot left the command in the hands of Richard Shandon, the commander of the brig, and regained his cutter, which, turning round, soon disappeared on the south-west. Towards evening the brig doubled the Calf of Man at the southern extremity of the island. During the night the sea was very rough, but the Forward behaved well, left the point of Ayr to the north-west, and directed its course for the Northern Channel. Johnson was right; once out at sea the maritime instinct of the sailors gained the upper hand. Life on board went on with regularity.

The doctor breathed in the sea air with delight; he walked about vigorously in the squalls, and for a savant he was not a bad sailor.

“The sea is splendid,” said he to Johnson, coming up on deck after breakfast. “I have made its acquaintance rather late, but I shall make up for lost time.”

“You are right, Mr. Clawbonny. I would give all the continents of the world for a corner of the ocean. They pretend that sailors soon get tired of their profession, but I’ve been forty years on the sea and I love it as much as the first day.”

“It is a great pleasure to feel a good ship under one’s feet, and if I’m not a bad judge the Forward behaves herself well.”

“You judge rightly, doctor,” answered Shandon, who had joined the talkers; “she is a good ship, and I acknowledge that a vessel destined for navigation amongst ice has never been better equipped. That reminds me that thirty years ago Captain James Ross, sailing for the North-West passage — — “

“In the Victory,” added the doctor quickly, “a brig about the same tonnage as ours, with a steam-engine too.”

“What! you know about that?”

“Judge if I do,” answered the doctor. “Machines were then in their infancy, and the Victory’s kept her back; the captain, James Ross, after having vainly repaired it bit by bit, finished by taking it down, and abandoned it at his first winter quarters.”

“The devil!” said Shandon. “You know all about it, I see.”

“Yes. I’ve read the works of Parry, Ross, and Franklin, and the reports of McClure, Kennedy, Kane, and McClintock, and I remember something of what I’ve read. I can tell you, too, that this same McClintock, on board the Fox, a screw brig in the style of ours, went easier to his destination than any of the men who preceded him.”

“That’s perfectly true,” answered Shandon; “he was a bold sailor was McClintock; I saw him at work. You may add that, like him, we shall find ourselves in Davis’s Straits in April, and if we succeed in passing the ice our voyage will be considerably advanced.”

“Unless,” added the doctor, “it happens to us like it did to the Fox in 1857, to be caught the very first year by the ice in Baffin’s Sea, and have to winter in the midst of the icebergs.”

“We must hope for better luck,” answered Johnson. “If a ship like the Forward can’t take us where we want to go, we must renounce all hope for ever.”

“Besides,” said the doctor, “if the captain is on board he will know better than we do what must be done. We know nothing as yet; his letter says nothing about what our voyage is for.”

“It is a good deal to know which way to go,” answered Shandon quickly. “We can do without the captain and his instructions for another month at least. Besides, you know what I think about it.”

“A short time ago,” said the doctor, “I thought like you that the captain would never appear, and that you would remain commander of the ship; but now — — “

“Now what?” replied Shandon in an impatient tone.

“Since the arrival of the second letter I have modified that opinion.”

“Why, doctor?”

“Because the letter tells you the route to follow, but leaves you ignorant of the Forward’s destination; and we must know where we are going to. How the deuce are you to get a letter now we are out at sea? On the coast of Greenland the service of the post must leave much to wish for. I believe that our gentleman is waiting for us in some Danish settlement — at Holsteinborg or Uppernawik; he has evidently gone there to complete his cargo of sealskins, buy his sledges and dog, and, in short, get together all the tackle wanted for a voyage in the Arctic Seas. I shouldn’t be at all surprised to see him come out of his cabin one of these fine mornings and begin commanding the ship in anything but a supernatural way.”

“It’s possible,” answered Shandon drily; “but in the meantime the wind is getting up, and I can’t risk my gallant sails in such weather.”

Shandon left the doctor and gave the order to reef the topsails.

“He takes it to heart,” said the doctor to the boatswain.

“Yes,” answered the latter, “and it’s a great pity, for you may be right, Mr. Clawbonny.”

In the evening of Saturday the Forward doubled the Mull of Galloway, whose lighthouse shone to the north-east; during the night they left the Mull of Cantyre to the north, and Cape Fair, on the coast of Ireland, to the east. Towards three o’clock in the morning, the brig, leaving Rathlin Island on her starboard side, disembogued by the Northern Channel into the ocean. It was Sunday, the 8th of April, and the doctor read some chapters of the Bible to the assembled seamen. The wind then became a perfect hurricane, and tended to throw the brig on to the Irish coast; she pitched, and rolled, and tossed, and if the doctor was not seasick it was because he would not be, for nothing was easier. At noon Cape Malinhead disappeared towards the south; it was the last European ground that these bold sailors were to perceive, and more than one watched it out of sight, destined never to see it again. They were then in 55deg 57’ latitude and 7deg 40’ longitude by the Greenwich meridian.

The storm spent itself out about nine o’clock in the evening; the Forward, like a good sailor, maintained her route north-west. She showed by her behaviour during the day what her sailing capacities were, and as the Liverpool connoisseurs had remarked, she was above all, a sailing vessel. During the following days the Forward gained the north-west with rapidity; the wind veered round south, and the sea had a tremendous swell on; the brig was then going along under full sail. Some petrels and puffins came sailing over the poop; the doctor skilfully shot one of the latter, and it fell, fortunately, on the deck. The harpooner, Simpson, picked it up and brought it to its owner.

“Nasty game that, Mr. Clawbonny,” he said.

“It will make an excellent meal, on the contrary,” said the doctor.

“You don’t mean to say you are going to eat that thing?”

“And so are you, old fellow,” said the doctor, laughing.

“Poh!” replied Simpson, “but it’s oily and rancid, like all other sea birds.”

“Never mind!” answered the doctor, “I have a peculiar way of cooking that game, and if you recognise it for a sea bird I’ll consent never to kill another in my life.”

“Do you know how to cook, then?”

“A savant ought to know how to do a little of everything.”

“You’d better take care, Simpson,” said the boatswain; “the doctor’s a clever man, and he’ll make you take this puffin for a grouse.”

The fact is that the doctor was quite right about his fowl; he took off all the fat, which all lies under the skin, principally on the thighs, and with it disappeared the rancidity and taste of fish which is so disagreeable in a sea bird. Thus prepared the puffin was declared excellent, and Simpson acknowledged it the first.

During the late storm Richard Shandon had been able to judge of the qualities of his crew; he had watched each man narrowly, and knew how much each was to be depended upon.

James Wall was devoted to Richard, understood quickly and executed well, but he might fail in initiative; he placed him in the third rank. Johnson was used to struggle with the sea; he was an old stager in the Arctic Ocean, and had nothing to learn either in audacity or sang-froid. The harpooner, Simpson, and the carpenter, Bell, were sure men, faithful to duty and discipline. The ice-master, Foker, was an experienced sailor, and, like Johnson, was capable of rendering important service. Of the other sailors Garry and Bolton seemed to be the best; Bolton was a gay and talkative fellow; Garry was thirty-five, with an energetic face, but rather pale and sad-looking. The three sailors, Clifton, Gripper, and Pen, seemed less ardent and resolute; they easily grumbled. Gripper wanted to break his engagement even before the departure of the Forward; a sort of shame kept him on board. If things went on all right, if there were not too many risks to run, no dangers to encounter, these three men might be depended upon; but they must be well fed, for it might be said that they were led by their stomachs. Although warned beforehand, they grumbled at having to be teetotallers; at their meals they regretted the brandy and gin; it did not, however, make them spare the tea and coffee, which was prodigally given out on board. As to the two engineers, Brunton and Plover, and the stoker, Warren, there had been nothing for them to do as yet, and Shandon could not tell anything about their capabilities.

On the 14th of April the Forward got into the grand current of the Gulf Stream, which, after ascending the eastern coast of America to Newfoundland, inclines to the north-east along the coast of Norway. They were then in 57deg 37’ latitude by 22deg 58’ longitude, at two hundred miles from the point of Greenland. The weather grew colder, and the thermometer descended to thirty-two degrees, that is to say to freezing point.

The doctor had not yet begun to wear the garments he destined for the Arctic Seas, but he had donned a sailor’s dress like the rest; he was a queer sight with his top-boots, in which his legs disappeared, his vast oilcloth hat, his jacket and trousers of the same; when drenched with heavy rains or enormous waves the doctor looked like a sort of sea-animal, and was proud of the comparison.

During two days the sea was extremely rough; the wind veered round to the north-west, and delayed the progress of the Forward. From the 14th to the 16th of April the swell was great, but on the Monday there came such a torrent of rain that the sea became calm immediately. Shandon spoke to the doctor about this phenomenon.

“It confirms the curious observations of the whaler Scoresby, who laid it before the Royal Society of Edinburgh, of which I have the honour to be an honorary member. You see that when it rains the waves are not very high, even under the influence of a violent wind, and when the weather is dry the sea is more agitated, even when there is less wind.”

“But how is this phenomenon accounted for?”

“Very simply; it is not accounted for at all.”

Just then the ice-master, who was keeping watch on the crossbars of the topsails, signalled a floating mass on the starboard, at about fifteen miles distance before the wind.

“An iceberg here!” cried the doctor.

Shandon pointed his telescope in the direction indicated, and confirmed the pilot’s announcement.

“That is curious!” said the doctor.

“What! you are astonished at last!” said the commander, laughing.

“I am surprised, but not astonished,” answered the doctor, laughing; “for the brig Ann, of Poole, from Greenspond, was caught in 1813 in perfect ice-fields, in the forty-fourth degree of north latitude, and her captain, Dayernent, counted them by hundreds!”

“I see you can teach us something, even upon that subject.”

“Very little,” answered Clawbonny modestly; “it is only that ice has been met with in even lower latitudes.”

“I knew that already, doctor, for when I was cabinboy on board the war-sloop Fly — — “

“In 1818,” continued the doctor, “at the end of March, almost in April, you passed between two large islands of floating ice under the forty-second degree of latitude.”

“Well, I declare you astonish me!” cried Shandon.

“But the iceberg doesn’t astonish me, as we are two degrees further north.”

“You are a well, doctor,” answered the commander, “and all we have to do is to be water-buckets.”

“You will draw me dry sooner than you think for; and now, Shandon, if we could get a nearer look at this phenomenon, I should be the happiest of doctors.”

“Just so, Johnson,” said Shandon, calling his boatswain. “It seems to me that the breeze is getting up.”

“Yes, commander,” answered Johnson; “we are making very little way, and the currents of Davis’s Straits will soon be against us.”

“You are right, Johnson, and if we wish to be in sight of Cape Farewell on the 20th of April we must put the steam on, or we shall be thrown on the coasts of Labrador. Mr. Wall, will you give orders to light the fires?”

The commander’s orders were executed, an hour afterwards the steam was up, the sails were furled, and the screw cutting the waves sent the Forward against the north-west wind.

CHAPTER VI

THE GREAT POLAR CURRENT

A short time after the flights of birds became more and more numerous. Petrels, puffins, and mates, inhabitants of those desolate quarters, signalled the approach of Greenland. The Forward was rapidly nearing the north, leaving to her leeward a long line of black smoke.

On Tuesday the 17th of April, about eleven o’clock in the morning, the ice-master signalled the first sight of the ice-blink; it was about twenty miles to the N.N.W. This glaring white strip was brilliantly lighted up, in spite of the presence of thick clouds in the neighbouring parts of the sky. Experienced people on board could make no mistake about this phenomenon, and declared, from its whiteness, that the blink was owing to a large ice-field, situated at about thirty miles out of sight, and that it proceeded from the reflection of luminous rays. Towards evening the wind turned round to the south, and became favourable; Shandon put on all sail, and for economy’s sake caused the fires to be put out. The Forward, under her topsails and foresails, glided on towards Cape Farewell.

At three o’clock on the 18th they came across the ice-stream, and a white thick line of a glaring colour cut brilliantly the lines of the sea and sky. It was evidently drifting from the eastern coast of Greenland more than from Davis’s Straits, for ice generally keeps to the west coast of Baffin’s Sea. An hour afterwards the Forward passed in the midst of isolated portions of the ice-stream, and in the most compact parts, the icebergs, though welded together, obeyed the movements of the swell. The next day the man at the masthead signalled a vessel. It was the Valkirien, a Danish corvette, running alongside the Forward, and making for the bank of Newfoundland. The current of the Strait began to make itself felt, and Shandon had to put on sail to go up it. At this moment the commander, the doctor, James Wall, and Johnson were assembled on the poop examining the direction and strength of the current. The doctor wanted to know if the current existed also in Baffin’s Sea.

“Without the least doubt,” answered Shandon, “and the sailing vessels have much trouble to stem it.”

“Besides there,” added Wall, “you meet with it on the eastern coast of America, as well as on the western coast of Greenland.”

“There,” said the doctor, “that is what gives very singular reason to the seekers of the North-West passage! That current runs about five miles an hour, and it is a little difficult to suppose that it springs from the bottom of a gulf.”

“It is so much the more probable, doctor,” replied Shandon, “that if this current runs from north to south we find in Behring’s Straits a contrary current which runs from south to north, and which must be the origin of this one.”

“According to that,” replied the doctor, “we must admit that America is totally unconnected with the Polar lands, and that the waters of the Pacific run round the coasts of America into the Atlantic. On the other hand, the greater elevation of the waters of the Pacific gives reason to the supposition that they fall into the European seas.”

“But,” sharply replied Shandon, “there must be facts to establish that theory, and if there are any,” added he with irony, “our universally well-informed doctor ought to know them.”

“Well,” replied the above-mentioned, with amiable satisfaction, “if it interests you, I can tell you that whales, wounded in Davis’s Straits, are caught some time afterwards in the neighbourhood of Tartary with the European harpoon still in their flanks.”

“And unless they have been able to double Cape Horn or the Cape of Good Hope,” replied Shandon, “they must necessarily have rounded the septentrional coasts of America — that’s what I call indisputable, doctor.”

“However, if you were not convinced, my dear fellow,” said the doctor, smiling, “I could still produce other facts, such as driftwood, of which Davis’s Straits are full, larch, aspen, and other tropical trees. Now we know that the Gulf Stream hinders those woods from entering the Straits. If, then, they come out of it they can only get in from Behring’s Straits.”

“I am convinced, doctor, and I avow that it would be difficult to remain incredulous with you.”

“Upon my honour,” said Johnson, “there’s something that comes just in time to help our discussion. I perceive in the distance a lump of wood of certain dimensions; if the commander permits it we’ll haul it in, and ask it the name of its country.”

“That’s it,” said the doctor, “the example after the rule.”

Shandon gave the necessary orders; the brig was directed towards the piece of wood signalled, and soon afterwards, not without trouble, the crew hoisted it on deck. It was the trunk of a mahogany tree, gnawed right into the centre by worms, but for which circumstance it would not have floated.

“This is glorious,” said the doctor enthusiastically, “for as the currents of the Atlantic could not carry it to Davis’s Straits, and as it has not been driven into the Polar basin by the streams of septentrional America, seeing that this tree grew under the Equator, it is evident that it comes in a straight line from Behring; and look here, you see those sea-worms which have eaten it, they belong to a hot-country species.”

“It is evident,” replied Wall, “that the people who do not believe in the famous passage are wrong.”

“Why, this circumstance alone ought to convince them,” said the doctor; “I will just trace you out the itinerary of that mahogany; it has been floated towards the Pacific by some river of the Isthmus of Panama or Guatemala, from thence the current has dragged it along the American coast as far as Behring’s Straits, and in spite of everything it was obliged to enter the Polar Seas. It is neither so old nor so soaked that we need fear to assign a recent date to its setting out; it has had the good luck to get clear of the obstacles in that long suite of straits which lead out of Baffin’s Bay, and quickly seized by the boreal current came by Davis’s Straits to be made prisoner by the Forward to the great joy of Dr. Clawbonny, who asks the commander’s permission to keep a sample of it.”

“Do so,” said Shandon, “but allow me to tell you that you will not be the only proprietor of such a wreck. The Danish governor of the Isle of Disko — — “

“On the coast of Greenland,” continued the doctor, “possesses a mahogany table made from a trunk fished up under the same circumstances. I know it, but I don’t envy him his table, for if it were not for the bother, I should have enough there for a whole bedroom.”

During the night, from Wednesday to Thursday, the wind blew with extreme violence, and driftwood was seen more frequently. Nearing the coast offered many dangers at an epoch in which icebergs were so numerous; the commander caused some of the sails to be furled, and the Forward glided away under her foresail and foremast only. The thermometer sank below freezing-point. Shandon distributed suitable clothing to the crew, a woollen jacket and trousers, a flannel shirt, wadmel stockings, the same as those the Norwegian country-people wear, and a pair of perfectly waterproof sea-boots. As to the captain, he contented himself with his natural fur, and appeared little sensible to the change in the temperature; he had, no doubt, gone through more than one trial of this kind, and besides, a Dane had no right to be difficult. He was seen very little, as he kept himself concealed in the darkest parts of the vessel.

Towards evening the coast of Greenland peeped out through an opening in the fog. The doctor, armed with his glass, could distinguish for an instant a line of peaks, ridged with large blocks of ice; but the fog closed rapidly on this vision, like the curtain of a theatre falling in the most interesting moment of the piece.

On the morning of the 20th of April the Forward was in sight of an iceberg a hundred and fifty feet high, stranded there from time immemorial; the thaws had taken no effect on it, and had respected its strange forms. Snow saw it; James Ross took an exact sketch of it in 1829; and in 1851 the French lieutenant Bellot saw it from the deck of the Prince Albert. Of course the doctor wished to keep a memento of the celebrated mountain, and made a clever sketch of it. It is not surprising that such masses should be stranded and adhere to the land, for to each foot above water they have two feet below, giving, therefore, to this one about eighty fathoms of depth.

At last, under a temperature which at noon was only 12deg, under a snowy and foggy sky, Cape Farewell was perceived. The Forward arrived on the day fixed; if it pleased the unknown captain to come and occupy his position in such diabolical weather he would have no cause to complain.

“There you are, then,” said the doctor to himself, “cape so celebrated and so well named! Many have cleared it like us who were destined never to see it again. Is it, then, an eternal adieu said to one’s European friends? You have all passed it. Frobisher, Knight, Barlow, Vaughan, Scroggs, Barentz, Hudson, Blosseville, Franklin, Crozier, Bellot, never to come back to your domestic hearth, and that cape has been really for you the cape of adieus.”

It was about the year 970 that some navigators left Iceland and discovered Greenland. Sebastian Cabot forced his way as far as latitude 56deg in 1498. Gaspard and Michel Cotreal, in 1500 and 1502, went as far north as 60deg; and Martin Frobisher, in 1576, arrived as far as the bay that bears his name. To John Davis belongs the honour of having discovered the Straits in 1585; and two years later, in a third voyage, that bold navigator and great whaler reached the sixty-third parallel, twenty-seven degrees from the Pole.

Barentz in 1596, Weymouth in 1602, James Hall in 1605 and 1607, Hudson, whose name was given to that vast bay which hollows out so profoundly the continent of America, James Poole, in 1611, advanced far into the Strait in search of that North-West passage the discovery of which would have considerably shortened the track of communication between the two worlds. Baffin, in 1616, found the Straits of Lancaster in the sea that bears his own name; he was followed, in 1619, by James Munk, and in 1719 by Knight, Barlow, Vaughan, and Scroggs, of whom no news has ever been heard. In 1776 Lieutenant Pickersgill, sent out to meet Captain Cook, who tried to go up Behring’s Straits, reached the sixty-eighth degree; the following year Young, for the same purpose, went as far north as Woman’s Island.

Afterwards came Captain James Ross, who, in 1818, rounded the coasts of Baffin’s Sea, and corrected the hydrographic errors of his predecessors. Lastly, in 1819 and 1820, the celebrated Parry passed through Lancaster Straits, and penetrated, in spite of unnumbered difficulties, as far as Melville Island, and won the prize of PS5,000 promised by Act of Parliament to the English sailors who would reach the hundred and seventeenth meridian by a higher latitude than the seventy-seventh parallel.

In 1826 Beechey touched Chamisso Island; James Ross wintered from 1829 to 1833 in Prince Regent Straits, and amongst other important works discovered the magnetic pole. During this time Franklin, by an overland route, traversed the septentrional coasts of America from the River Mackenzie to Turnagain Point. Captain Back followed in his steps from 1823 to 1835, and these explorations were completed in 1839 by Messrs. Dease and Simpson and Dr. Rae.

Lastly, Sir John Franklin, wishing to discover the North-West passage, left England in 1845 on board the Erebus and the Terror; he penetrated into Baffin’s Sea, and since his passage across Disko Island no news had been heard of his expedition.

That disappearance determined the numerous investigations which have brought about the discovery of the passage, and the survey of these Polar continents, with such indented coast lines. The most daring English, French, and American sailors made voyages towards these terrible countries, and, thanks to their efforts, the maps of that country, so difficult to make, figured in the list of the Royal Geographical Society of London. The curious history of these countries was thus presented to the doctor’s imagination as he leaned on the rail, and followed with his eyes the long track left by the brig. Thoughts of the bold navigators weighed upon his mind, and he fancied he could perceive under the frozen arches of the icebergs the pale ghosts of those who were no more.

CHAPTER VII

DAVIS’S STRAITS

During that day the Forward cut out an easy road amongst the half-broken ice; the wind was good, but the temperature very low; the currents of air blowing across the ice-fields brought with them their penetrating cold. The night required the severest attention; the floating icebergs drew together in that narrow pass; a hundred at once were often counted on the horizon; they broke off from the elevated coasts under the teeth of the grinding waves and the influence of the spring season, in order to go and melt or to be swallowed up in the depths of the ocean. Long rafts of wood, with which it was necessary to escape collision, kept the crew on the alert; the crow’s nest was put in its place on the mizenmast; it consisted of a cask, in which the ice-master was partly hidden to protect him from the cold winds while he kept watch over the sea and the icebergs in view, and from which he signalled danger and sometimes gave orders to the crew. The nights were short; the sun had reappeared since the 31st of January in consequence of the refraction, and seemed to get higher and higher above the horizon. But the snow impeded the view, and if it did not cause complete obscurity it rendered navigation laborious.

On the 21st of April Desolation Cape appeared in the midst of thick mists; the crew were tired out with the constant strain on their energies rendered necessary ever since they had got amongst the icebergs; the sailors had not had a minute’s rest; it was soon necessary to have recourse to steam to cut a way through the heaped-up blocks. The doctor and Johnson were talking together on the stern, whilst Shandon was snatching a few hours’ sleep in his cabin. Clawbonny was getting information from the old sailor, whose numerous voyages had given him an interesting and sensible education. The doctor felt much friendship for him, and the boatswain repaid it with interest.

“You see, Mr. Clawbonny,” Johnson used to say, “this country is not like all others; they call it Greenland, but there are very few weeks in the year when it justifies its name.”

“Who knows if in the tenth century this land did not justify its name?” added the doctor. “More than one revolution of this kind has been produced upon our globe, and I daresay I should astonish you if I were to tell you that according to Icelandic chronicles two thousand villages flourished upon this continent about eight or nine hundred years ago.”

“You would so much astonish me, Mr. Clawbonny, that I should have some difficulty in believing you, for it is a miserable country.”

“However miserable it may be, it still offers a sufficient retreat to its inhabitants, and even to civilised Europeans.”

“Without doubt! We met men at Disko and Uppernawik who consented to live in such climates; but my ideas upon the matter were that they lived there by compulsion and not by choice.”

“I daresay you are right, though men get accustomed to everything, and the Greenlanders do not appear to me so unfortunate as the workmen of our large towns; they may be unfortunate, but they are certainly not unhappy. I say unhappy, but the word does not translate my thought, for if these people have not the comforts of temperate countries, they are formed for a rude climate, and find pleasures in it which we are not able to conceive.”

“I suppose we must think so, as Heaven is just. Many, many voyages have brought me upon these coasts, and my heart always shrinks at the sight of these wretched solitudes; but they ought to have cheered up these capes, promontories, and bays with more engaging names, for Farewell Cape and Desolation Cape are not names made to attract navigators.”

“I have also remarked that,” replied the doctor, “but these names have a geographical interest that we must not overlook. They describe the adventures of those who gave them those names. Next to the names of Davis, Baffin, Hudson, Ross, Parry, Franklin, and Bellot, if I meet with Cape Desolation I soon find Mercy Bay; Cape Providence is a companion to Port Anxiety; Repulsion Bay brings me back to Cape Eden, and leaving Turnagain Point I take refuge in Refuge Bay. I have there under my eyes an unceasing succession of perils, misfortunes, obstacles, successes, despairs, and issues, mixed with great names of my country, and, like a series of old-fashioned medals, that nomenclature retraces in my mind the whole history of these seas.”

“You are quite right, Mr. Clawbonny, and I hope we shall meet with more Success Bays than Despair Capes in our voyage.”

“I hope so too, Johnson; but, I say, is the crew come round a little from its terrors?”

“Yes, a little; but since we got into the Straits they have begun to talk about the fantastic captain; more than one of them expected to see him appear at the extremity of Greenland; but between you and me, doctor, doesn’t it astonish you a little too?”

“It does indeed, Johnson.”

“Do you believe in the captain’s existence?”

“Of course I do.”

“But what can be his reasons for acting in that manner?”

“If I really must tell you the whole of my thoughts, Johnson, I believe that the captain wished to entice the crew far enough out to prevent them being able to come back. Now if he had been on board when we started they would all have wanted to know our destination, and he might have been embarrassed.”

“But why so?”

“Suppose he should wish to attempt some superhuman enterprise, and to penetrate where others have never been able to reach, do you believe if the crew knew it they would ever have enlisted? As it is, having got so far, going farther becomes a necessity.”

“That’s very probable, Mr. Clawbonny. I have known more than one intrepid adventurer whose name alone was a terror, and who would never have found any one to accompany him in his perilous expeditions — — “

“Excepting me,” ventured the doctor.

“And me, after you,” answered Johnson, “and to follow you; I can venture to affirm that our captain is amongst the number of such adventurers. No matter, we shall soon see; I suppose the unknown will come as captain on board from the coast of Uppernawik or Melville Bay, and will tell us at last where it is his good pleasure to conduct the ship.”

“I am of your opinion, Johnson, but the difficulty will be to get as far as Melville Bay. See how the icebergs encircle us from every point! They scarcely leave a passage for the Forward. Just examine that immense plain over there.”

“The whalers call that in our language an ice-field, that is to say a continued surface of ice the limits of which cannot be perceived.”

“And on that side, that broken field, those long pieces of ice more or less joined at their edges?”

“That is a pack; if it was of a circular form we should call it a patch; and, if the form was longer, a stream.”

“And there, those floating icebergs?”

“Those are drift-ice; if they were a little higher they would be icebergs or hills; their contact with vessels is dangerous, and must be carefully avoided. Here, look over there: on that ice-field there is a protuberance produced by the pressure of the icebergs; we call that a hummock; if that protuberance was submerged to its base we should call it a calf. It was very necessary to give names to all those forms in order to recognise them.”

“It is truly a marvellous spectacle!” exclaimed the doctor, contemplating the wonders of the Boreal Seas; “there is a field for the imagination in such pictures!”

“Yes,” answered Johnson, “ice often takes fantastic shapes, and our men are not behindhand in explaining them according to their own notions.”

“Isn’t that assemblage of ice-blocks admirable? Doesn’t it look like a foreign town, an Eastern town, with its minarets and mosques under the pale glare of the moon? Further on there is a long series of Gothic vaults, reminding one of Henry the Seventh’s chapel or the Houses of Parliament.”

“They would be houses and towns very dangerous to inhabit, and we must not sail too close to them. Some of those minarets yonder totter on their base, and the least of them would crush a vessel like the Forward.”

“And yet sailors dared to venture into these seas before they had steam at their command! How ever could a sailing vessel be steered amongst these moving rocks?”

“Nevertheless, it has been accomplished, Mr. Clawbonny. When the wind became contrary — and that has happened to me more than once — we quietly anchored to one of those blocks, and we drifted more or less with it and waited for a favourable moment to set sail again. I must acknowledge that such a manner of voyaging required months, whilst with a little good fortune we shall only want a few days.”

“It seems to me,” said the doctor, “that the temperature has a tendency to get lower.”

“That would be a pity,” answered Johnson, “for a thaw is necessary to break up these masses and drive them away into the Atlantic; besides, they are more numerous in Davis’s Straits, for the sea gets narrower between Capes Walsingham and Holsteinborg; but on the other side of the 67th degree we shall find the seas more navigable during the months of May and June.”

“Yes; but first of all we must get to the other side.”

“Yes, we must get there, Mr. Clawbonny. In June and July we should have found an open passage, like the whalers do, but our orders were precise; we were to be here in April. I am very much mistaken if our captain has not his reasons for getting us out here so early.”

The doctor was right in stating that the temperature was lowering; the thermometer at noon only indicated 6 degrees, and a north-west breeze was getting up, which, although it cleared the sky, assisted the current in precipitating the floating masses of ice into the path of the Forward. All of them did not obey the same impulsion, and it was not uncommon to encounter some of the highest masses drifting in an opposite direction, seized at their base by an undercurrent.

It is easy to understand the difficulties of this kind of navigation; the engineers had not a minute’s rest; the engines were worked from the deck by means of levers, which opened, stopped, and reversed them according to the orders of the officers on watch. Sometimes the brig had to hasten through an opening in the ice-fields, sometimes to struggle against the swiftness of an iceberg which threatened to close the only practicable issue, or, again, some block, suddenly overthrown, compelled the brig to back quickly so as not to be crushed to pieces. This mass of ice, carried along, broken up and amalgamated by the northern current, crushed up the passage, and if seized by the frost would oppose an impassable barrier to the passage of the Forward.

Birds were found in innumerable quantities on these coasts, petrels and other sea-birds fluttered about here and there with deafening cries, a great number of big-headed, short-necked sea-gulls were amongst them; they spread out their long wings and braved in their play the snow whipped by the hurricane. This animation of the winged tribe made the landscape more lively.

Numerous pieces of wood were floating to leeway, clashing with noise; a few enormous, bloated-headed sharks approached the vessel, but there was no question of chasing them, although Simpson, the harpooner, was longing to have a hit at them. Towards evening several seals made their appearance, nose above water, swimming between the blocks.

On the 22nd the temperature again lowered; the Forward put on all steam to catch the favourable passes: the wind was decidedly fixed in the north-west; all sails were furled.

During that day, which was Sunday, the sailors had little to do. After the reading of Divine service, which was conducted by Shandon, the crew gave chase to sea-birds, of which they caught a great number. They were suitably prepared according to the doctor’s method, and furnished an agreeable increase of provisions to the tables of the officers and crew.

At three o’clock in the afternoon the Forward had attained Thin de Sael, Sukkertop Mountain; the sea was very rough; from time to time a vast and inopportune fog fell from the grey sky; however, at noon an exact observation could be taken. The vessel was in 65deg 20’ latitude by 54deg 22’ longitude. It was necessary to attain two degrees more in order to meet with freer and more favourable navigation.

During the three following days, the 24th, 25th, and 26th of April, the Forward had a continual struggle with the ice; the working of the machines became very fatiguing. The steam was turned off quickly or got up again at a moment’s notice, and escaped whistling from its valves. During the thick mist the nearing of icebergs was only known by dull thundering produced by the avalanches; the brig was instantly veered; it ran the risk of being crushed against the heaps of fresh-water ice, remarkable for its crystal transparency, and as hard as a rock.

Richard Shandon never missed completing his provision of water by embarking several tons of ice every day. The doctor could not accustom himself to the optical delusions that refraction produces on these coasts. An iceberg sometimes appeared to him like a small white lump within reach, when it was at least at ten or twelve miles’ distance. He endeavoured to accustom his eyesight to this singular phenomenon, so that he might be able to correct its errors rapidly.

At last the crew were completely worn out by their labours in hauling the vessel alongside of the ice-fields and by keeping it free from the most menacing blocks by the aid of long perches. Nevertheless, the Forward was still held back in the impassable limits of the Polar Circle on Friday, the 27th of April.

CHAPTER XIII

THE PROJECTS OF HATTERAS

The appearance of this bold personage was appreciated in different ways by the crew; part of them completely rallied round him, either from love of money or daring; others submitted because they could not help themselves, reserving their right to protest later on; besides, resistance to such a man seemed, for the present, difficult. Each man went back to his post. The 20th of May fell on a Sunday, and was consequently a day of rest for the crew. A council was held by the captain, composed of the officers, Shandon, Wall, Johnson, and the doctor.

“Gentlemen,” said the captain in that voice at the same time soft and imperious which characterised him, “you are aware that I intend to go as far as the Pole. I wish to know your opinion about this enterprise. Shandon, what do you think about it?”

“It is not for me to think, captain,” coldly replied Shandon; “I have only to obey.”

Hatteras was not surprised at the answer.

“Richard Shandon,” continued he, not less coldly, “I beg you will say what you think about our chance of success.”

“Very well, captain,” answered Shandon, “facts are there, and answer for me; attempts of the same kind up till now have always failed; I hope we shall be more fortunate.”

“We shall be. What do you think, gentlemen?”

“As far as I am concerned,” replied the doctor, “I consider your plan practicable, as it is certain that some day navigators will attain the boreal Pole. I don’t see why the honour should not fall to our lot.”

“There are many things in our favour,” answered Hatteras; “our measures are taken in consequence, and we shall profit by the experience of those who have gone before us. And thereupon, Shandon, accept my thanks for the care you have taken in fitting out this ship; there are a few evil-disposed fellows amongst the crew that I shall have to bring to reason, but on the whole I have only praises to give you.”

Shandon bowed coldly. His position on the Forward, which he thought to command, was a false one. Hatteras understood this, and did not insist further.

“As to you, gentlemen,” he continued, turning to Wall and Johnson, “I could not have secured officers more distinguished for courage and experience.”

“Well, captain, I’m your man,” answered Johnson, “and although your enterprise seems to me rather daring, you may rely upon me till the end.”

“And on me too,” said James Wall.

“As to you, doctor, I know what you are worth.”

“You know more than I do, then,” quickly replied the doctor.

“Now, gentlemen,” continued Hatteras, “it is well you should learn upon what undeniable facts my pretension to arrive at the Pole is founded. In 1817 the Neptune got up to the north of Spitzbergen, as far as the eighty-second degree. In 1826 the celebrated Parry, after his third voyage to the Polar Seas, started also from Spitzbergen Point, and by the aid of sledge-boats went a hundred and fifty miles northward. In 1852 Captain Inglefield penetrated into Smith’s Inlet as far as seventy-eight degrees thirty-five minutes latitude. All these vessels were English, and Englishmen, our countrymen, commanded them.” Here Hatteras paused. “I ought to add,” he continued, with a constrained look, and as though the words were unable to leave his lips — “I must add that, in 1854, Kane, the American, commanding the brig Advance, went still higher, and that his lieutenant, Morton, going across the ice-fields, hoisted the United States standard on the other side of the eighty-second degree. This said, I shall not return to the subject. Now what remains to be known is this, that the captains of the Neptune, the Enterprise, the Isabel, and the Advance ascertained that proceeding from the highest latitudes there existed a Polar basin entirely free from ice.”

“Free from ice!” exclaimed Shandon, interrupting the captain, “that is impossible!”

“You will notice, Shandon,” quietly replied Hatteras, whose eye shone for an instant, “that I quote names and facts as a proof. I may even add that during Captain Parry’s station on the border of Wellington Channel, in 1851, his lieutenant, Stewart, also found himself in the presence of open sea, and this peculiarity was confirmed during Sir Edward Beecher’s wintering in 1853, in Northumberland Bay, in 76deg 52’ N. latitude, and 99deg 20’ longitude. The reports are incontestable, and it would be most unjust not to admit them.”

“However, captain,” continued Shandon, “those reports are so contradictory.”

“You are mistaken, Shandon,” cried Dr. Clawbonny. “These reports do not contradict any scientific assertion, the captain will allow me to tell you.”

“Go on, doctor,” answered Hatteras.

“Well, listen, Shandon; it evidently follows from geographical facts, and from the study of isotherm lines, that the coldest point of the globe is not at the Pole itself; like the magnetic point, it deviates several degrees from the Pole. The calculations of Brewster, Bergham, and several other natural philosophers show us that in our hemisphere there are two cold Poles; one is situated in Asia at 79deg 30’ N. latitude, and by 120deg E. longitude, and the other in America at 78deg N. latitude, and 97deg W. longitude. It is with the latter that we have to do, and you see, Shandon, we have met with it at more than twelve degrees below the Pole. Well, why should not the Polar Sea be as equally disengaged from ice as the sixty-sixth parallel is in summer — that is to say, the south of Baffin’s Bay?”

“That’s what I call well pleaded,” replied Johnson. “Mr. Clawbonny speaks upon these matters like a professional man.”

“It appears very probable,” chimed in James Wall.

“All guess-work,” answered Shandon obstinately.

“Well, Shandon,” said Hatteras, “let us take into consideration either case; either the sea is free from ice or it is not so, and neither of these suppositions can hinder us from attaining the Pole. If the sea is free the Forward will take us there without trouble; if it is frozen we will attempt the adventure upon our sledges. This, you will allow, is not impracticable. When once our brig has attained the eighty-third degree we shall only have six hundred miles to traverse before reaching the Pole.”

“And what are six hundred miles?” quickly answered the doctor, “when it is known that a Cossack, Alexis Markoff, went over the ice sea along the northern coast of the Russian Empire, in sledges drawn by dogs, for the space of eight hundred miles in twenty-four days?”

“Do you hear that, Shandon?” said Hatteras; “can’t Englishmen do as much as a Cossack?”

“Of course they can,” cried the impetuous doctor.

“Of course,” added the boatswain.

“Well, Shandon?” said the captain.

“I can only repeat what I said before, captain,” said Shandon — “I will obey.”

“Very good. And now,” continued Hatteras, “let us consider our present situation. We are caught by the ice, and it seems to me impossible, for this year at least, to get into Smith’s Strait. Well, here, then, this is what I propose.”

Hatteras laid open upon the table one of the excellent maps published in 1859 by the order of the Admiralty.

“Be kind enough to follow me. If Smith’s Strait is closed up from us, Lancaster Strait, on the west coast of Baffin’s Sea, is not. I think we ought to ascend that strait as far as Barrow Strait, and from there sail to Beechey Island; the same track has been gone over a hundred times by sailing vessels; consequently with a screw we can do it easily. Once at Beechey Island we will go north as far as possible, by Wellington Channel, up to the outlet of the creek which joins Wellington’s and Queen’s Channels, at the very point where the open sea was perceived. It is now only the 20th of May; in a month, if circumstances favour us, we shall have attained that point, and from there we’ll drive forward towards the Pole. What do you think about it, gentlemen?”

“It is evidently the only track to follow,” replied Johnson.

“Very well, we will take it from to-morrow. I shall let them rest to-day as it is Sunday. Shandon, you will take care that religious service be attended to; it has a beneficial effect on the minds of men, and a sailor above all needs to place confidence in the Almighty.”

“It shall be attended to, captain,” answered Shandon, who went out with the lieutenant and the boatswain.

“Doctor!” said Hatteras, pointing towards Shandon, “there’s a man whose pride is wounded; I can no longer rely upon him.”

Early the following day the captain caused the pirogue to be lowered in order to reconnoitre the icebergs in the vicinity, the breadth of which did not exceed 200 yards. He remarked that through a slow pressure of the ice the basin threatened to become narrower. It became urgent, therefore, to make an aperture to prevent the ship being crushed in a vice of the mountains. By the means employed by John Hatteras, it is easy to observe that he was an energetic man.

He first had steps cut out in the walls of ice, and by their means climbed to the summit of an iceberg. From that point he saw that it was easy for him to cut out a road towards the south-west. By his orders a blasting furnace was hollowed nearly in the heart of the mountain. This work, rapidly put into execution, was terminated by noon on Monday. Hatteras could not rely on his eight or ten pound blasting cylinders, which would have had no effect on such masses as those. They were only sufficient to shatter ice-fields. He therefore had a thousand pounds of powder placed in the blasting furnace, of which the diffusive direction was carefully calculated. This mine was provided with a long wick, bound in gutta-percha, the end of which was outside. The gallery conducting to the mine was filled up with snow and lumps of ice, which the cold of the following night made as hard as granite. The temperature, under the influence of an easterly wind, came down to twelve degrees.

At seven the next morning the Forward was held under steam, ready to profit by the smallest issue. Johnson was charged with setting fire to the wick, which, according to calculation, would burn for half an hour before setting fire to the mine. Johnson had, therefore, plenty of time to regain the brig; ten minutes after having executed Hatteras’s order he was again at his post. The crew remained on deck, for the weather was dry and bright; it had left off snowing.

Hatteras was on the poop, chronometer in hand, counting the minutes; Shandon and the doctor were with him. At eight thirty-five a dull explosion was heard, much less loud than any one would have supposed. The outline of the mountains was changed all at once as if by an earthquake; thick white smoke rose up to a considerable height in the sky, leaving long crevices in the iceberg, the top part of which fell in pieces all round the Forward. But the path was not yet free; large blocks of ice remained suspended above the pass on the adjacent mountains, and there was every reason to fear that they would fall and close up the passage. Hatteras took in the situation at one glance.

“Wolsten!” cried he.

The gunsmith hastened up.

“Yes, captain?” cried he.

“Load the gun in the bow with a triple charge,” said Hatteras, “and wad it as hard as possible.”

“Are we going to attack the mountain with cannon-balls?” asked the doctor.

“No,” answered Hatteras, “that would be useless. No bullet, Wolsten, but a triple charge of powder. Look sharp!”

A few minutes after the gun was loaded.

“What does he mean to do without a bullet?” muttered Shandon between his teeth.

“We shall soon see,” answered the doctor.

“Ready, captain!” called out Wolsten.

“All right!” replied Hatteras.

“Brunton!” he called out to the engineer, “a few turns ahead.”

Brunton opened the sliders, and the screw being put in movement, the Forward neared the mined mountain.

“Aim at the pass!” cried the captain to the gunsmith. The latter obeyed, and when the brig was only half a cable’s length from it, Hatteras called out: “Fire!”

A formidable report followed his order, and the blocks, shaken by the atmospheric commotion, were suddenly precipitated into the sea; the disturbance amongst the strata of the air had been sufficient to accomplish this.

“All steam on, Brunton! Straight for the pass, Johnson!”

The latter was at the helm; the brig, driven along by her screw, which turned in the foaming waves, dashed into the middle of the then opened pass; it was time, for scarcely had the Forward cleared the opening than her prison closed up again behind her. It was a thrilling moment, and on board there was only one stout and undisturbed heart — that of the captain. The crew, astonished at the manoeuvre, cried out: “Hurrah for the captain!”

CHAPTER XIV

EXPEDITION IN SEARCH OF FRANKLIN

On Wednesday, the 23rd of May, the Forward had again taken up her adventurous navigation, cleverly tacking amongst the packs and icebergs. Thanks to steam, that obedient force which so many of our Polar sea navigators have had to do without, she appeared to be playing in the midst of the moving rocks. She seemed to recognise the hand of an experienced master, and like a horse under an able rider, she obeyed the thought of her captain. The temperature rose. At six o’clock in the morning the thermometer marked twenty-six degrees, at six in the evening twenty-nine degrees, and at midnight twenty-five degrees; the wind was lightly blowing from the south-east.

On Thursday, towards three in the morning, the Forward was in sight of Possession Bay, on the coast of America. At the entrance to Lancaster Strait, shortly after, the crew caught a glimpse of Burney Cape. A few Esquimaux pulled off towards the vessel, but Hatteras did not take the trouble to wait for them. The Byam-Martin peaks, which overlook Cape Liverpool, were sighted to the left, and soon disappeared in the evening mists, which also prevented any observation being taken from Cape Hay. This cape is so low that it gets confounded with the ice on the coast, a circumstance which often renders the hydrographic determination of the Polar seas extremely difficult.

Puffins, ducks, and white sea-gulls showed up in very great numbers. The Forward was then in latitude 74deg 1’, and in longitude 77deg 15’. The snowy hoods of the two mountains, Catherine and Elizabeth, rose up above the clouds.

On Friday, at six o’clock, Cape Warender was passed on the right side of the strait, and on the left Admiralty Inlet, a bay that has been little explored by navigators, who are generally in a hurry to sail away west. The sea became rather rough, and the waves often swept the deck of the brig, throwing up pieces of ice. The land on the north coast, with its high table lands almost level, and which reverberated the sun’s rays, offered a very curious appearance.

Hatteras wanted to run along the north coast, in order to reach Beechey Island and the entrance to Wellington Channel sooner; but continual icebergs compelled him, to his great annoyance, to follow the southern passes. That was why, on the 26th of May, the Forward was abreast of Cape York in a thick fog interspersed with snow; a very high mountain, almost perpendicular, caused it to be recognised. The weather cleared up a little, and the sun, towards noon, appeared for an instant, allowing a tolerably good observation to be taken; 74deg 4’ latitude and 84deg 23’ longitude. The Forward was then at the extremity of Lancaster Strait.

Hatteras pointed out to the doctor on his map the route already taken, and the one he meant to follow. The position of the brig at the time was very interesting.

“I should like to have been further north,” said he, “but no one can do the impossible; see, this is our exact situation.”

And the captain pricked his map at a short distance from Cape York.

“We are in the centre of this four-road way, open to every wind, fenced by the outlets of Lancaster Strait, Barrow Strait, Wellington Channel, and Regent’s Passage; it is a point that all navigators in these seas have been obliged to come to.”

“Well,” replied the doctor, “it must have puzzled them greatly; four cross-roads with no sign-posts to tell them which to take. How did Parry, Ross, and Franklin manage?”

“They did not manage at all, they were managed; they had no choice, I can assure you; sometimes Barrow Strait was closed to one of them, and the next year another found it open; sometimes the vessel was irresistibly drawn towards Regent’s Passage, so that we have ended by becoming acquainted with these inextricable seas.”

“What a singular country!” said the doctor, examining the map. “It is all in pieces, and they seem to have no logical connection. It seems as if the land in the vicinity of the North Pole had been cut up like this on purpose to make access to it more difficult, whilst that in the other hemisphere quietly terminates in tapered-out points like those of Cape Horn, the Cape of Good Hope, and the Indian Peninsula. Is it the greater rapidity of the equator which has thus modified matters, whilst the land at the extremities, yet fluid from the creation, has not been able to get condensed or agglomerated together, for want of a sufficiently rapid rotation?”

“That must be the case, for everything on earth is logical, and ‘nothing is that errs from law,’ and God often allows men to discover His laws; make use of His permission, doctor.”

“Unfortunately, I shall not be able to take much advantage of it,” said the doctor, “but the wind here is something dreadful,” added he, muffling himself up as well as he could.

“Yes, we are quite exposed to the north wind, and it is turning us out of our road.”

“Anyhow it ought to drive the ice down south, and level a clear road.”

“It ought to do so, doctor, but the wind does not always do what it ought. Look, that ice-bank seems impenetrable. Never mind, we will try to reach Griffith Island, sail round Cornwallis Island, and get into Queen’s Channel without going by Wellington Channel. Nevertheless I positively desire to touch at Beechey Island in order to renew my coal provision.”

“What do you mean?” asked the astonished doctor.

“I mean that, according to orders from the Admiralty, large provisions have been deposited on that island in order to provide for future expeditions, and although Captain McClintock took some in 1859, I assure you that there will be some left for us.”

“By-the-bye,” said the doctor, “these parts have been explored for the last fifteen years, and since the day when the proof of the loss of Franklin was acquired, the Admiralty has always kept five or six cruisers in these seas. If I am not mistaken, Griffith Island, which I see there on the map, almost in the middle of the cross-roads, has become a general meeting-place for navigators.”

“It is so, doctor; and Franklin’s unfortunate expedition resulted in making known these distant countries to us.”

“That is true, captain, for since 1845 expeditions have been very numerous. It was not until 1848 that we began to be uneasy about the disappearance of the Erebus and the Terror, Franklin’s two vessels. It was then that we saw the admiral’s old friend, Dr. Richardson, at the age of seventy, go to Canada, and ascend Coppermine River as far as the Polar Sea; and James Ross, commanding the Enterprise and Investigation, set out from Uppernawik in 1848 and arrived at Cape York, where we now are. Every day he threw a tub containing papers into the sea, for the purpose of making known his whereabouts. During the mists he caused the cannon to be fired, and had sky-rockets sent up at night along with Bengal lights, and kept under sail continually. He wintered in Port Leopold from 1848 to 1849, where he took possession of a great number of white foxes, and caused brass collars, upon which was engraved the indication of the whereabouts of ships and the store depots, to be riveted on their necks. Afterwards they were dispersed in all directions; in the following spring he began to search the coasts of North Somerset on sledges in the midst of dangers and privations from which almost all his men fell ill or lame. He built up cairns in which he inclosed brass cylinders with the necessary memoranda for rallying the lost expedition. While he was away his lieutenant McClure explored the northern coasts of Barrow Strait, but without result. James Ross had under his orders two officers who, later on, were destined to become celebrities — McClure, who cleared the North-West passage, and McClintock, who discovered the remains of Sir John Franklin.”

“Yes; they are now two good and brave English captains. You know the history of these seas well, doctor, and you will benefit us by telling us about it. There is always something to be gained by hearing about such daring attempts.”

“Well, to finish all I know about James Ross: he tried to reach Melville Island by a more westerly direction, but he nearly lost his two vessels, for he was caught by the ice and driven back into Baffin’s Sea.”

“Driven back?” repeated Hatteras, contracting his brows; “forced back in spite of himself?”

“Yes, and without having discovered anything,” continued the doctor; “and ever since that year, 1850, English vessels have never ceased to plough these seas, and a reward of twenty thousand pounds was offered to any one who might find the crews of the Erebus and Terror. Captains Kellett and Moore had already, in 1848, attempted to get through Behring’s Strait. In 1850 and 1851 Captain Austin wintered in Cornwallis Island; Captain Parry, on board the Assistance and the Resolute, explored Wellington Channel; John Ross, the venerable hero of the magnetic pole, set out again with his yacht, the Felix, in search of his friend; the brig Prince Albert went on a first cruise at the expense of Lady Franklin; and, lastly, two American ships, sent out by Grinnell with Captain Haven, were drifted out of Wellington Channel and thrown back into Lancaster Strait. It was during this year that McClintock, who was then Austin’s lieutenant, pushed on as far as Melville Island and Cape Dundas, the extreme points attained by Parry in 1819; it was then that he found traces of Franklin’s wintering on Beechey Island in 1845.”

“Yes,” answered Hatteras, “three of his sailors had been buried there — three men more fortunate than the others!”

The doctor nodded in approval of Hatteras’s remark, and continued: “During 1851 and 1852 the Prince Albert went on a second voyage under the French lieutenant, Bellot; he wintered at Batty Bay, in Prince Regent Strait, explored the south-west of Somerset, and reconnoitred the coast as far as Cape Walker. During that time the Enterprise and the Investigator returned to England and passed under the command of Collinson and McClure for the purpose of rejoining Kellett and Moore in Behring’s Straits; whilst Collinson came back to winter at Hong-Kong, McClure made the best of his way onward, and after being obliged to winter three times — from 1850 to ‘51; from 1851 to ‘52; and from 1852 to ‘53 — he discovered the North-West passage without learning anything of Franklin’s fate. During 1852 and ‘53 a new expedition composed of three sailing vessels, the Resolute, the Assistance, the North Star, and two steamers, the Pioneer and Intrepid, set sail under the command of Sir Edward Belcher, with Captain Kellett under him; Sir Edward visited Wellington Channel, wintered in Northumberland Bay, and went over the coast, whilst Kellett, pushing on to Bridport in Melville Island, explored, without success, that part of the boreal land. It was at this time that news was spread in England that two ships, abandoned in the midst of icebergs, had been descried near the coast of New Scotland. Lady Franklin immediately had prepared the little screw Isabelle, and Captain Inglefield, after having steamed up Baffin’s Bay as far as Victoria Point on the eightieth parallel, came back to Beechey Island no more successful than his predecessors. At the beginning of 1855, Grinnell, an American, fitted up a fresh expedition, and Captain Kane tried to penetrate to the Pole — — “

“But he didn’t do it,” cried Hatteras violently; “and what he didn’t do we will, with God’s help!”

“I know, captain,” answered the doctor, “and I mention it because this expedition is of necessity connected with the search for Franklin. But it had no result. I was almost forgetting to tell you that the Admiralty, considering Beechey Island as the general rendezvous of expeditions, charged Captain Inglefield, who then commanded the steamer Phoenix, to transport provisions there in 1853; Inglefield set out with Lieutenant Bellot, and lost the brave officer who for the second time had devoted his services to England; we can have more precise details upon this catastrophe, as our boatswain, Johnson, was witness to the misfortune.”

“Lieutenant Bellot was a brave Frenchman,” said Hatteras, “and his memory is honoured in England.”

“By that time,” continued the doctor, “Belcher’s fleet began to come back little by little; not all of it, for Sir Edward had been obliged to abandon the Assistance in 1854, as McClure had done with the Investigator in 1853. In the meantime, Dr. Rae, in a letter dated the 29th of July, 1854, and addressed from Repulse Bay, which he had succeeded in reaching through America, sent word that the Esquimaux of King William’s Land were in possession of different objects taken from the wrecks of the Erebus and Terror; there was then not the least doubt about the fate of the expedition; the Phoenix, the North Star, and Collinson’s vessel then came back to England, leaving the Arctic Seas completely abandoned by English ships. But if the Government seemed to have lost all hope it was not so with Lady Franklin, and with the remnants of her fortune she fitted out the Fox, commanded by McClintock, who set sail in 1857, and wintered in the quarters where you made your apparition; he reached Beechey Island on the 11th of August, 1858, wintered a second time in Bellot’s Strait, began his search again in February, 1859, and on the 6th of May found the document which cleared away all doubt about the fate of the Erebus and the Terror, and returned to England at the end of the year. That is all that has happened for fifteen years in these fateful countries, and since the return of the Fox not a single vessel has returned to attempt success in the midst of these dangerous seas.”

“Well,” replied Hatteras, “we will attempt it.”

CHAPTER XV

THE “FORWARD” DRIVEN BACK SOUTH

The weather cleared up towards evening, and land was clearly distinguished between Cape Sepping and Cape Clarence, which runs east, then south, and is joined to the coast on the west by a rather low neck of land. The sea at the entrance to Regent Strait was free from ice, with the exception of an impenetrable ice-bank, a little further than Port Leopold, which threatened to stop the Forward in her north-westerly course. Hatteras was greatly vexed, but he did not show it; he was obliged to have recourse to petards in order to force an entrance to Port Leopold; he reached it on Sunday, the 27th of May; the brig was solidly anchored to the enormous icebergs, which were as upright, hard, and solid as rocks.

The captain, followed by the doctor, Johnson, and his dog Dick, immediately leaped upon the ice, and soon reached land. Dick leaped with joy, for since he had recognised the captain he had become more sociable, keeping his grudge against certain men of the crew for whom his master had no more friendship than he. The port was not then blocked up with ice that the east winds generally heaped up there; the earth, intersected with peaks, offered at their summits graceful undulations of snow. The house and lantern erected by James Ross were still in a tolerable state of preservation; but the provisions seemed to have been ransacked by foxes and bears, the recent traces of which were easily distinguished. Men, too, had had something to do with the devastation, for a few remains of Esquimaux huts remained upon the shores of the Bay. The six graves inclosing the remains of the six sailors of the Enterprise and the Investigator were recognisable by a slight swelling of the ground; they had been respected both by men and animals. In placing his foot for the first time on boreal land, the doctor experienced much emotion. It is impossible to imagine the feelings with which the heart is assailed at the sight of the remains of houses, tents, huts, and magazines that Nature so marvellously preserves in those cold countries.

“There is that residence,” he said to his companions, “which James Ross himself called the Camp of Refuge; if Franklin’s expedition had reached this spot, it would have been saved. There is the engine which was abandoned here, and the stove at which the crew of the Prince Albert warmed themselves in 1851. Things have remained just as they were, and any one would think that Captain Kennedy had only left yesterday. Here is the long boat which sheltered him and his for a few days, for this Kennedy, separated from his ship, was in reality saved by Lieutenant Bellot, who braved the October temperature in order to go to his assistance.”

“I knew that brave and worthy officer,” said Johnson.

Whilst the doctor was examining with all an antiquarian’s enthusiasm the vestiges of previous winterings, Hatteras was occupied in piling together the various provisions and articles of fuel, which were only to be found in very small quantities. The following day was employed in transporting them on board. The doctor, without going too far from the ship, surveyed the country, and took sketches of the most remarkable points of view. The temperature rose by degrees, and the heaped-up snow began to melt. The doctor made an almost complete collection of northern birds, such as gulls, divers, eider-down ducks, which are very much like common ducks, with white breasts and backs, blue bellies, the top of the head blue, and the remainder of the plumage white, shaded with green; several of them had already their breasts stripped of that beautiful down with which the male and female line their nests. The doctor also perceived large seals taking breath on the surface of the ice, but could not shoot one. In his excursions he discovered the high water mark, a stone upon which the following signs are engraved:

(E. I.)

1849,

and which indicate the passage of the Enterprise and Investigator; he pushed forward as far as Cape Clarence to the spot where John and James Ross, in 1833, waited with so much impatience for the breaking up of the ice. The land was strewn with skulls and bones of animals, and traces of Esquimaux habitations could be still distinguished.

The doctor wanted to raise up a cairn on Port Leopold, and deposit in it a note indicating the passage of the Forward, and the aim of the expedition. But Hatteras would not hear of it; he did not want to leave traces behind of which a competitor might take advantage. In spite of his good motives the doctor was forced to yield to the captain’s will. Shandon blamed the captain’s obstinacy, which prevented any ships following the trace of the Forward in case of accident. Hatteras would not give way. His lading was finished on Monday night, and he attempted once more to gain the north by breaking open the ice-bank; but after dangerous efforts he was forced to resign himself, and to go down Regent’s Channel again; he would not stop at Port Leopold, which, open to-day, might be closed again to-morrow by an unexpected displacement of ice-fields, a very frequent phenomenon in these seas, and which navigators ought particularly to take into consideration.

If Hatteras did not allow his uneasiness to be outwardly perceived, it did not prevent him feeling it inwardly. His desire was to push northward, whilst, on the contrary, he found himself constrained to put back southward. Where should he get to in that case? Should he be obliged to put back to Victoria Harbour, in Boothia Gulf, where Sir John Ross wintered in 1833? Would he find Bellot Strait open at that epoch, and could he ascend Peel Strait by rounding North Somerset? Or, again, should he, like his predecessors, find himself captured during several winters, and be compelled to exhaust his strength and provisions? These fears were fermenting in his brain; he must decide one way or other. He heaved about, and struck out south. The width of Prince Regent’s Channel is about the same from Port Leopold to Adelaide Bay. The Forward, more favoured than the ships which had preceded her, and of which the greater number had required more than a month to descend the channel, even in a more favourable season, made her way rapidly amongst the icebergs; it is true that other ships, with the exception of the Fox, had no steam at their disposal, and had to endure the caprices of an uncertain and often foul wind.

In general the crew showed little wish to push on with the enterprising Hatteras; the men were only too glad to perceive that the vessel was taking a southerly direction. Hatteras would have liked to go on regardless of consequences.

The Forward rushed along under the pressure of her engines, the smoke from which twisted round the shining points of the icebergs; the weather was constantly changing from dry cold to snowy fogs. The brig, which drew little water, sailed along the west coast; Hatteras did not wish to miss the entrance to Bellot Strait, as the only outlet to the Gulf of Boothia on the south was the strait, only partially known to the Fury and the Hecla; if he missed the Bellot Strait, he might be shut up without possibility of egress.

In the evening the Forward was in sight of Elwin Bay, known by its high perpendicular rocks; on the Tuesday morning Batty Bay was sighted, where the Prince Albert anchored for its long wintering on the 10th of September, 1851. The doctor swept the whole coast with his telescope. It was from this point that the expeditions radiated that established the geographical configuration of North Somerset. The weather was clear, and the profound ravines by which the bay is surrounded could be clearly distinguished.

The doctor and Johnson were perhaps the only beings on board who took any interest in these deserted countries. Hatteras was always intent upon his maps, and said little; his taciturnity increased as the brig got more and more south; he often mounted the poop, and there with folded arms, and eyes lost in vacancy, he stood for hours. His orders, when he gave any, were curt and rough. Shandon kept a cold silence, and kept himself so much aloof by degrees that at last he had no relations with Hatteras except those exacted by the service; James Wall remained devoted to Shandon, and regulated his conduct accordingly. The remainder of the crew waited for something to turn up, ready to take any advantage in their own interest. There was no longer that unity of thought and communion of ideas on board which are so necessary for the accomplishment of anything great, and this Hatteras knew to his sorrow.

During the day two whales were perceived rushing towards the south; a white bear was also seen, and was shot at without any apparent success. The captain knew the value of an hour under the circumstances, and would not allow the animal to be chased.

On Wednesday morning the extremity of Regent’s Channel was passed; the angle on the west coast was followed by a deep curve in the land. By consulting his map the doctor recognised the point of Somerset House, or Fury Point.

“There,” said he to his habitual companion — “there is the very spot where the first English ship, sent into these seas in 1815, was lost, during the third of Parry’s voyages to the Pole; the Fury was so damaged by the ice on her second wintering, that her crew were obliged to desert her and return to England on board her companion ship the Hecla.”

“That shows the advantage of having a second ship,” answered Johnson. “It is a precaution that Polar navigators ought not to neglect, but Captain Hatteras wasn’t the sort of man to trouble himself with another ship.”

“Do you think he is imprudent, Johnson?” asked the doctor.

“I? I think nothing, Mr. Clawbonny. Do you see those stakes over there with some rotten tent-rags still hanging to them?”

“Yes; that’s where Parry disembarked his provisions from his ship, and, if I remember rightly, the roof of his tent was a topsail.”

“Everything must be greatly changed since 1825!”

“Not so much as any one might think. John Ross owed the health and safety of his crew to that fragile habitation in 1829. When the Prince Albert sent an expedition there in 1851, it was still existing; Captain Kennedy had it repaired, nine years ago now. It would be interesting to visit it, but Hatteras isn’t in the humour to stop!”

“I daresay he is right, Mr. Clawbonny; if time is money in England, here it is life, and a day’s or even an hour’s delay might make all the difference.”

During the day of Thursday, the 1st of June, the Forward cut across Creswell Bay; from Fury Point the coast rose towards the north in perpendicular rocks three hundred feet high; it began to get lower towards the south; some snow summits looked like neatly-cut tables, whilst others were shaped like pyramids, and had other strange forms.

The weather grew milder during that day, but was not so clear; land was lost to sight, and the thermometer went up to thirty-two degrees; seafowl fluttered about, the flocks of wild ducks were seen flying north; the crew could divest themselves of some of their garments, and the influence of the Arctic summer began to be felt. Towards evening the Forward doubled Cape Garry at a quarter of a mile from the shore, where the soundings gave from ten to twelve fathoms; from thence she kept near the coast as far as Brentford Bay. It was under this latitude that Bellot Strait was to be met with; a strait the existence of which Sir John Ross did not even guess at during his expedition in 1828; his maps indicated an uninterrupted coast-line, whose irregularities he noted with the utmost care; the entrance to the strait must therefore have been blocked up by ice at the time. It was really discovered by Kennedy in April, 1852, and he gave it the name of his lieutenant, Bellot, as “a just tribute,” he said, “to the important services rendered to our expedition by the French officer.”

CHAPTER XXII

BEGINNING OF REVOLT

At this unexpected command, the surprise was great on board the Forward.

“Light the fires!” exclaimed some.

“What with?” asked others.

“When we’ve only two months’ coal in the hold!” said Pen.

“What shall we warm ourselves with in the winter?” asked Clifton.

“We shall be obliged to burn the brig down to her water-line,” answered Gripper.

“And stuff the stove with the masts,” added Warren. Shandon looked at Wall. The stupefied engineers hesitated to go down to the machine-room.

“Did you hear me?” cried the captain in an irritated tone.

Brunton made for the hatchway, but before going down he stopped.

“Don’t go, Brunton!” called out a voice.

“Who spoke?” cried Hatteras.

“I did,” said Pen, advancing towards the captain.

“And what did you say?” asked Hatteras.

“I say,” answered Pen with an oath — “I say, we’ve had enough of it, and we won’t go any further. You shan’t kill us with hunger and work in the winter, and they shan’t light the fires!”

“Mr. Shandon,” answered Hatteras calmly, “have that man put in irons!”

“But, captain,” replied Shandon, “what the man says — — “

“If you repeat what the man says,” answered Hatteras, “I’ll have you shut up in your cabin and guarded! Seize that man! Do you hear?” Johnson, Bell, and Simpson advanced towards the sailor, who was in a terrible passion.

“The first who touches me — — ” he said, brandishing a handspike. Hatteras approached him.

“Pen,” said he tranquilly, “if you move, I shall blow out your brains!” So speaking, he cocked a pistol and aimed it at the sailor. A murmur was heard.

“Not a word, men,” said Hatteras, “or that man falls dead!” Johnson and Bell disarmed Pen, who no longer made any resistance, and placed him in the hold.

“Go, Brunton,” said Hatteras. The engineer, followed by Plover and Warren, went down to his post. Hatteras returned to the poop.

“That Pen is a wretched fellow!” said the doctor.

“No man has ever been nearer death!” answered the captain, simply.

The steam was soon got up, the anchors were weighed, and the Forward veered away east, cutting the young ice with her steel prow. Between Baring Island and Beecher Point there are a considerable quantity of islands in the midst of ice-fields; the streams crowd together in the little channels which cut up this part of the sea; they had a tendency to agglomerate under the relatively low temperature; hummocks were formed here and there, and these masses, already more compact, denser, and closer together, would soon form an impenetrable mass. The Forward made its way with great difficulty amidst the snowstorms. However, with the mobility that characterises the climate of these regions, the sun appeared from time to time, the temperature went up several degrees, obstacles melted as if by magic, and a fine sheet of water lay where icebergs bristled all the passes. The horizon glowed with those magnificent orange shades which rest the eye, tired with the eternal white of the snow.

On the 26th of July the Forward passed Dundas Island, and veered afterwards more to the north; but there Hatteras found himself opposite an ice-bank eight or nine feet high, formed of little icebergs detached from the coast; he was obliged to turn west. The uninterrupted cracking of the ice, added to the noise of the steamer, was like sighs or groans. At last the brig found a channel, and advanced painfully along it; often an enormous iceberg hindered her course for hours; the fog hindered the pilot’s look-out; as long as he can see for a mile in front of him, he can easily avoid obstacles; but in the midst of the fog it was often impossible to see a cable’s length, and the swell was very strong. Sometimes the clouds looked smooth and white as though they were reflections of the ice-banks; but there were entire days when the yellow rays of the sun could not pierce the tenacious fog. Birds were still very numerous, and their cries were deafening; seals, lying idle on the floating ice, raised their heads, very little frightened, and moved their long necks as the brig passed. Pieces from the ship’s sheathing were often rubbed off in her contact with the ice. At last, after six days of slow navigation, Point Beecher was sighted to the north on the 1st of August. Hatteras passed the last few hours at his masthead; the open sea that Stewart had perceived on May 30th, 1851, about latitude 76deg 20’, could not be far off; but as far as the eye could reach, Hatteras saw no indication of it. He came down without saying a word.

“Do you believe in an open sea?” asked Shandon of the lieutenant.

“I am beginning not to,” answered Wall.

“Wasn’t I right to say the pretended discovery was purely imagination? But they would not believe me, and even you were against me, Wall.”

“We shall believe in you for the future, Shandon.”

“Yes,” said he, “when it’s too late,” and so saying he went back to his cabin, where he had stopped almost ever since his dispute with the captain. The wind veered round south towards evening; Hatteras ordered the brig to be put under sail and the fires to be put out; the crew had to work very hard for the next few days; they were more than a week getting to Barrow Point. The Forward had only made thirty miles in ten days. There the wind turned north again, and the screw was set to work. Hatteras still hoped to find an open sea beyond the 77th parallel, as Sir Edward Belcher had done. Ought he to treat these accounts as apocryphal? or had the winter come upon him earlier? On the 15th of August Mount Percy raised its peak, covered with eternal snow, through the mist. The next day the sun set for the first time, ending thus the long series of days with twenty-four hours in them. The men had ended by getting accustomed to the continual daylight, but it had never made any difference to the animals; the Greenland dogs went to their rest at their accustomed hour, and Dick slept as regularly every evening as though darkness had covered the sky. Still, during the nights which followed the 15th of August, darkness was never profound; although the sun set, he still gave sufficient light by refraction. On the 19th of August, after a pretty good observation, they sighted Cape Franklin on the east coast and Cape Lady Franklin on the west coast; the gratitude of the English people had given these names to the two opposite points — probably the last reached by Franklin: the name of the devoted wife, opposite to that of her husband, is a touching emblem of the sympathy which always united them.

The doctor, by following Johnson’s advice, accustomed himself to support the low temperature; he almost always stayed on deck braving the cold, the wind, and the snow. He got rather thinner, but his constitution did not suffer. Besides, he expected to be much worse off, and joyfully prepared for the approaching winter.

“Look at those birds,” he said to Johnson one day; “they are emigrating south in flocks! They are shrieking out their good-byes!”

“Yes, Mr. Clawbonny, some instinct tells them they must go, and they set out.”

“There’s more than one amongst us who would like to imitate them, I think.”

“They are cowards, Mr. Clawbonny; those animals have no provisions as we have, and are obliged to seek their food where it is to be found. But sailors, with a good ship under their feet, ought to go to the world’s end.”

“You hope that Hatteras will succeed, then?”

“He certainly will, Mr. Clawbonny.”

“I am of the same opinion as you, Johnson, and if he only wanted one faithful companion — — “

“He’ll have two!”

“Yes, Johnson,” answered the doctor, shaking hands with the brave sailor.

Prince Albert Land, which the Forward was then coasting, bears also the name of Grinnell Land, and though Hatteras, from his hatred to the Yankees, would never call it by its American name, it is the one it generally goes by. It owes its double appellation to the following circumstances: At the same time that Penny, an Englishman, gave it the name of Prince Albert, Lieutenant Haven, commander of the Rescue, called it Grinnell Land in honour of the American merchant who had fitted out the expedition from New York at his own expense. Whilst the brig was coasting it, she experienced a series of unheard-of difficulties, navigating sometimes under sail, sometimes by steam. On the 18th of August they sighted Britannia Mountain, scarcely visible through the mist, and the Forward weighed anchor the next day in Northumberland Bay. She was hemmed in on all sides.

CHAPTER XXXI

THE DEATH OF SIMPSON

The travellers went on their weary way, each thinking of the discovery they had just made. Hatteras frowned with uneasiness.

“What can the Porpoise be?” he asked himself. “Is it a ship? and if so, what was it doing so near the Pole?”

At this thought he shivered, but not from the cold. The doctor and Bell only thought of the result their discovery might have for others or for themselves. But the difficulties and obstacles in their way soon made them oblivious to everything but their own preservation.

Simpson’s condition grew worse; the doctor saw that death was near. He could do nothing, and was suffering cruelly on his own account from a painful ophthalmia which might bring on blindness if neglected. The twilight gave them enough light to hurt the eyes when reflected by the snow; it was difficult to guard against the reflection, for the spectacle-glasses got covered with a layer of opaque ice which obstructed the view, and when so much care was necessary for the dangers of the route, it was important to see clearly; however, the doctor and Bell took it in turns to cover their eyes or to guide the sledge. The soil was volcanic, and by its inequalities made it very difficult to draw the sledge, the frame of which was getting worn out. Another difficulty was the effect of the uniform brilliancy of the snow; the ground seemed to fall beneath the feet of the travellers, and they experienced the same sensation as that of the rolling of a ship; they could not get accustomed to it, and it made them sleepy, and they often walked on half in a dream. Then some unexpected shock, fall, or obstacle would wake them up from their inertia, which afterwards took possession of them again.

On the 25th of January they began to descend, and their dangers increased. The least slip might send them down a precipice, and there they would have been infallibly lost. Towards evening an extremely violent tempest swept the snow-clad summits; they were obliged to lie down on the ground, and the temperature was so low that they were in danger of being frozen to death. Bell, with the help of Hatteras, built a snow-house, in which the poor fellows took shelter; there they partook of a little pemmican and warm tea; there were only a few gallons of spirits of wine left, and they were obliged to use them to quench their thirst, as they could not take snow in its natural state; it must be melted. In temperate countries, where the temperature scarcely falls below freezing point, it is not injurious; but above the Polar circle it gets so cold that it cannot be touched more than a red-hot iron; there is such a difference of temperature that its absorption produces suffocation. The Esquimaux would rather suffer the greatest torments than slake their thirst with snow.

The doctor took his turn to watch at three o’clock in the morning, when the tempest was at its height; he was leaning in a corner of the snow-house, when a lamentable groan from Simpson drew his attention; he rose to go to him, and struck his head against the roof; without thinking of the accident he began to rub Simpson’s swollen limbs; after about a quarter of an hour he got up again, and bumped his head again, although he was kneeling then.

“That’s very queer,” he said to himself.

He lifted his hand above his head, and felt that the roof was lowering.

“Good God!” he cried; “Hatteras! Bell!”

His cries awoke his companions, who got up quickly, and bumped themselves too; the darkness was thick.

“The roof is falling in!” cried the doctor.

They all rushed out, dragging Simpson with them; they had no sooner left their dangerous retreat, than it fell in with a great noise. The poor fellows were obliged to take refuge under the tent covering, which was soon covered with a thick layer of snow, which, as a bad conductor, prevented the travellers being frozen alive. The tempest continued all through the night. When Bell harnessed the dogs the next morning he found that some of them had begun to eat their leather harness, and that two of them were very ill, and could not go much further. However, the caravan set out again; there only remained sixty miles to go. On the 26th, Bell, who went on in front, called out suddenly to his companions. They ran up to him, and he pointed to a gun leaning against an iceberg.

“A gun!” cried the doctor.

Hatteras took it; it was loaded and in good condition.

“The men from the Porpoise can’t be far off,” said the doctor.

Hatteras remarked that the gun was of American manufacture, and his hands crisped the frozen barrel. He gave orders to continue the march, and they kept on down the mountain slope. Simpson seemed deprived of all feeling; he had no longer the strength to complain. The tempest kept on, and the sledge proceeded more and more slowly; they scarcely made a few miles in twenty-four hours, and in spite of the strictest economy, the provisions rapidly diminished; but as long as they had enough for the return journey, Hatteras kept on.

On the 27th they found a sextant half-buried in the snow, then a leather bottle; the latter contained brandy, or rather a lump of ice, with a ball of snow in the middle, which represented the spirit; it could not be used. It was evident that they were following in the steps of some poor shipwrecked fellows who, like them, had taken the only practicable route. The doctor looked carefully round for other cairns, but in vain. Sad thoughts came into his mind; he could not help thinking that it would be a good thing not to meet with their predecessors; what could he and his companions do for them? They wanted help themselves; their clothes were in rags, and they had not enough to eat. If their predecessors were numerous they would all die of hunger. Hatteras seemed to wish to avoid them, and could he be blamed? But these men might be their fellow-countrymen, and, however slight might be the chance of saving them, ought they not to try it? He asked Bell what he thought about it, but the poor fellow’s heart was hardened by his own suffering, and he did not answer. Clawbonny dared not question Hatteras, so he left it to Providence.

In the evening of the 27th, Simpson appeared to be at the last extremity; his limbs were already stiff and frozen; his difficult breathing formed a sort of mist round his head, and convulsive movements announced that his last hour was come. The expression of his face was terrible, desperate, and he threw looks of powerless anger towards the captain. He accused him silently, and Hatteras avoided him and became more taciturn and wrapped up in himself than ever. The following night was frightful; the tempest redoubled in violence; the tent was thrown down three times, and the snowdrifts buried the poor fellows, blinded them, froze them, and wounded them with the sharp icicles struck off the surrounding icebergs. The dogs howled lamentably. Simpson lay exposed to the cruel atmosphere. Bell succeeded in getting up the tent again, which, though it did not protect them from the cold, kept out the snow. But a more violent gust blew it down a fourth time, and dragged it along in its fury.

“Oh, we can’t bear it any longer!” cried Bell.

“Courage, man, courage!” answered the doctor, clinging to him in order to prevent themselves rolling down a ravine. Simpson’s death-rattle was heard. All at once, with a last effort, he raised himself up and shook his fist at Hatteras, who was looking at him fixedly, then gave a fearful cry, and fell back dead in the midst of his unfinished threat.

“He is dead!” cried the doctor.

“Dead!” repeated Bell.

Hatteras advanced towards the corpse, but was driven back by a gust of wind.

Poor Simpson was the first victim to the murderous climate, the first to pay with his life the unreasonable obstinacy of the captain. The dead man had called Hatteras an assassin, but he did not bend beneath the accusation. A single tear escaped from his eyes and froze on his pale cheek. The doctor and Bell looked at him with a sort of terror. Leaning on his stick, he looked like the genius of the North, upright in the midst of the whirlwind, and frightful in his immobility.

He remained standing thus till the first dawn of twilight, bold, tenacious, indomitable, and seemed to defy the tempest that roared round him.

CHAPTER I.

THE DOCTOR’S INVENTORY.

It was a bold project of Hatteras to push his way to the North Pole, and gain for his country the honour and glory of its discovery. But he had done all that lay in human power now, and, after having struggled for nine months against currents and tempests, shattering icebergs and breaking through almost insurmountable barriers, amid the cold of an unprecedented winter, after having outdistanced all his predecessors and accomplished half his task, he suddenly saw all his hopes blasted. The treachery, or rather the despondency, of his worn-out crew, and the criminal folly of one or two leading spirits among them had left him and his little band of men in a terrible situation — helpless in an icy desert, two thousand five hundred miles away from their native land, and without even a ship to shelter them.

However, the courage of Hatteras was still undaunted. The three men which were left him were the best on board his brig, and while they remained he might venture to hope.

After the cheerful, manly words of the captain, the Doctor felt the best thing to be done was to look their prospects fairly in the face, and know the exact state of things. Accordingly, leaving his companions, he stole away alone down to the scene of the explosion.

Of the Forward, the brig that had been so carefully built and had become so dear, not a vestige remained. Shapeless blackened fragments, twisted bars of iron, cable ends still smouldering, and here and there in the distance spiral wreaths of smoke, met his eye on all sides. His cabin and all his precious treasures were gone, his books, and instruments, and collections reduced to ashes. As he stood thinking mournfully of his irreparable loss, he was joined by Johnson, who grasped his offered hand in speechless sorrow.

“What’s to become of us?” asked the Doctor.

“Who can tell!” was the old sailor’s reply.

“Anyhow,” said Clawbonny, “do not let us despair! Let us be men!”

“Yes, Mr. Clawbonny, you are right. Now is the time to show our mettle. We are in a bad plight, and how to get out of it, that is the question.”

“Poor old brig!” exclaimed the Doctor. “I had grown so attached to her. I loved her as one loves a house where he has spent a life-time.”

“Ay! it’s strange what a hold those planks and beams get on a fellow’s heart.”

“And the long-boat — is that burnt?” asked the Doctor.

“No, Mr. Clawbonny. Shandon and his gang have carried it off.”

“And the pirogue?”

“Shivered into a thousand pieces? Stop. Do you see those bits of sheet-iron? That is all that remains of it.”

“Then we have nothing but the Halkett-boat?”

“Yes, we have that still, thanks to your idea of taking it with you.”

“That isn’t much,” said the Doctor.

“Oh, those base traitors!” exclaimed Johnson. “Heaven punish them as they deserve!”

“Johnson,” returned the Doctor, gently, “we must not forget how sorely they have been tried. Only the best remain good in the evil day; few can stand trouble. Let us pity our fellow-sufferers, and not curse them.”

For the next few minutes both were silent, and then Johnson asked what had become of the sledge.

“We left it about a mile off,” was the reply.

“In charge of Simpson?”

“No, Simpson is dead, poor fellow!”

“Simpson dead!”

“Yes, his strength gave way entirely, and he first sank.”

“Poor Simpson! And yet who knows if he isn’t rather to be envied?”

“But, for the dead man we have left behind, we have brought back a dying one.”

“A dying man?”

“Yes, Captain Altamont.”

And in a few words he informed Johnson of their discovery.

“An American!” said Johnson, as the recital was ended.

“Yes, everything goes to prove that. But I wonder what the Porpoise was, and what brought her in these seas?”

“She rushed on to her ruin like the rest of foolhardy adventurers; but, tell me, did you find the coal?”

The Doctor shook his head sadly.

“No coal! not a vestige! No, we did not even get as far as the place mentioned by Sir Edward Belcher.”

“Then we have no fuel whatever?” said the old sailor.

“No.”

“And no provisions?”

“No.”

“And no ship to make our way back to England?”

It required courage indeed to face these gloomy realities, but, after a moment’s silence, Johnson said again —

“Well, at any rate we know exactly how we stand. The first thing to be done now is to make a hut, for we can’t stay long exposed to this temperature.”

“Yes, we’ll soon manage that with Bell’s help,” replied the Doctor. “Then we must go and find the sledge, and bring back the American, and have a consultation with Hatteras.”

“Poor captain,” said Johnson, always forgetting his own troubles, “how he must feel it!”

Clawbonny and Bell found Hatteras standing motionless, his arms folded in his usual fashion. He seemed gazing into space, but his face had recovered its calm, self-possessed expression. His faithful dog stood beside him, like his master, apparently insensible to the biting cold, though the temperature was 32 degrees below zero.

Bell lay on the ice in an almost inanimate condition. Johnson had to take vigorous measures to rouse him, but at last, by dint of shaking and rubbing him with snow, he succeeded.

“Come, Bell,” he cried, “don’t give way like this. Exert yourself, my man; we must have a talk about our situation, and we need a place to put our heads in. Come and help me, Bell. You haven’t forgotten how to make a snow hut, have you? There is an iceberg all ready to hand; we’ve only got to hollow it out. Let’s set to work; we shall find that is the best remedy for us.”

Bell tried to shake off his torpor and help his comrade, while Mr. Clawbonny undertook to go and fetch the sledge and the dogs.

“Will you go with him, captain?” asked Johnson.

“No, my friend,” said Hatteras, in a gentle tone, “if the Doctor will kindly undertake the task. Before the day ends I must come to some resolution, and I need to be alone to think. Go. Do meantime whatever you think best. I will deal with the future.”

Johnson went back to the Doctor, and said —

“It’s very strange, but the captain seems quite to have got over his anger. I never heard him speak so gently before.”

“So much the better,” said Clawbonny. “Believe me, Johnson, that man can save us yet.”

And drawing his hood as closely round his head as possible, the Doctor seized his iron-tipped staff, and set out without further delay.

Johnson and Bell commenced operations immediately. They had simply to dig a hole in the heart of a great block of ice; but it was not easy work, owing to the extreme hardness of the material. However, this very hardness guaranteed the solidity of the dwelling, and the further their labours advanced the more they became sheltered.

Hatteras alternately paced up and down, and stood motionless, evidently shrinking from any approach to the scene of explosion.

In about an hour the Doctor returned, bringing with him Altamont lying on the sledge, wrapped up in the folds of the tent. The poor dogs were so exhausted from starvation that they could scarcely draw it along, and they had begun to gnaw their harness. It was, indeed, high time for feasts and men to take food and rest.

While the hut was being still further dug out, the Doctor went foraging about, and had the good fortune to find a little stove, almost undamaged by the explosion. He soon restored it to working trim, and, by the time the hut was completed, had filled it with wood and got it lighted. Before long it was roaring, and diffusing a genial warmth on all sides. The American was brought in and laid on blankets, and the four Englishmen seated themselves round the fire to enjoy their scanty meal of biscuit and hot tea, the last remains of the provisions on the sledge. Not a word was spoken by Hatteras, and the others respected his silence.

When the meal was over, the Doctor rose and went out, making a sign to Johnson to follow.

“Come, Johnson,” he said, “we will take an inventory of all we have left. We must know exactly how we are off, and our treasures are scattered in all directions; so we had better begin, and pick them up as fast as possible, for the snow may fall at any moment, and then it would be quite useless to look for anything.”

“Don’t let us lose a minute, then,” replied Johnson. “Fire and food — those are our chief wants.”

“Very well, you take one side and I’ll take the other, and we’ll search from the centre to the circumference.”

This task occupied two hours, and all they discovered was a little salt meat, about 50 lbs. of pemmican, three sacks of biscuits, a small stock of chocolate, five or six pints of brandy, and about 2 lbs. of coffee, picked up bean by bean off the ice.

Neither blankets, nor hammocks, nor clothing — all had been consumed in the devouring flame.

This slender store of provisions would hardly last three weeks, and they had wood enough to supply the stove for about the same time.

Now that the inventory was made, the next business was to fetch the sledge. The tired-out dogs were harnessed sorely against their will, and before long returned bringing the few but precious treasures found among the debris of the brig. These were safely deposited in the hut, and then Johnson and Clawbonny, half-frozen with their work, resumed their places beside their companions in misfortune.

CHAPTER II.

FIRST WORDS OF ALTAMONT.

About eight o’clock in the evening, the grey snow clouds cleared away for a little, and the stars shone out brilliantly in the sky.

Hatteras seized the opportunity and went out silently to take the altitude of some of the principal constellations. He wished to ascertain if the ice-field was still drifting.

In half an hour he returned and sat down in a corner of the hut, where he remained without stirring all night, motionless as if asleep, but in reality buried in deepest thought.

The next day the snow fell heavily, and the Doctor congratulated himself on his wise forethought, when he saw the white sheet lying three feet thick over the scene of the explosion, completely obliterating all traces of the Forward.

It was impossible to venture outside in such weather, but the stove drew capitally, and made the hut quite comfortable, or at any rate it seemed so to the weary, worn out adventurers.

The American was in less pain, and was evidently gradually coming back to life. He opened his eyes, but could not yet speak, for his lips were so affected by the scurvy that articulation was impossible, but he could hear and understand all that was said to him. On learning what had passed, and the circumstances of his discovery, he expressed his thanks by gestures, and the Doctor was too wise to let him know how brief his respite from death would prove. In three weeks at most every vestige of food would be gone.

About noon Hatteras roused himself, and going up to his friends, said —

“We must make up our minds what to do, but I must request Johnson to tell me first all the particulars of the mutiny on the brig, and how this final act of baseness came about.”

“What good will that do?” said the Doctor. “The fact is certain, and it is no use thinking over it.”

“I differ from your opinion,” rejoined Hatteras. “Let me hear the whole affair from Johnson, and then I will banish it from my thoughts.”

“Well,” said the boatswain, “this was how it happened. I did all in my power to prevent, but — — “

“I am sure of that, Johnson; and what’s more, I have no doubt the ringleaders had been hatching their plans for some time.”

“That’s my belief too,” said the Doctor.

“And so it is mine,” resumed Johnson; “for almost immediately after your departure Shandon, supported by the others, took the command of the ship.

I could not resist him, and from that moment everybody did pretty much as they pleased. Shandon made no attempt to restrain them: it was his policy to make them believe that their privations and toils were at an end. Economy was entirely disregarded. A blazing fire was kept up in the stove, and the men were allowed to eat and drink at discretion; not only tea and coffee was at their disposal, but all the spirits on board, and on men who had been so long deprived of ardent liquors, you may guess the result. They went on in this manner from the 7th to the 15th of January.”

“And this was Shandon’s doing?” asked Hatteras.

“Yes, captain.”

“Never mention his name to me again! Go on, Johnson.”

“It was about the 24th or 25th of January, that they resolved to abandon the ship. Their plan was to reach the west coast of Baffin’s Bay, and from thence to embark in the boat and follow the track of the whalers, or to get to some of the Greenland settlements on the eastern side. Provisions were abundant, and the sick men were so excited by the hope of return that they were almost well. They began their preparations for departure by making a sledge which they were to draw themselves, as they had no dogs. This was not ready till the 15th of February, and I was always hoping for your arrival, though I half dreaded it too, for you could have done nothing with the men, and they would have massacred you rather than remain on board. I tried my influence on each one separately, remonstrating and reasoning with them, and pointing out the dangers they would encounter, and also the cowardice of leaving you, but it was a mere waste of words; not even the best among them would listen to me. Shandon was impatient to be off, and fixed the 22nd of February for starting. The sledge and the boat were packed as closely as possible with provisions and spirits, and heaps of wood, to obtain which they had hewed the brig down to her water-line. The last day the men ran riot. They completely sacked the ship, and in a drunken paroxysm Pen and two or three others set it on fire. I fought and struggled against them, but they threw me down and assailed me with blows, and then the wretches, headed by Shandon, went off towards the east and were soon out of sight. I found myself alone on the burning ship, and what could I do? The fire-hole was completely blocked up with ice. I had not a single drop of water! For two days the Forward struggled with the flames, and you know the rest.”

A long silence followed the gloomy recital, broken at length by Hatteras, who said —

“Johnson, I thank you; you did all you could to save my ship, but single-handed you could not resist. Again I thank you, and now let the subject be dropped. Let us unite efforts for our common salvation. There are four of us, four companions, four friends, and all our lives are equally precious. Let each give his opinion on the best course for us to pursue.”

“You ask us then, Hatteras,” said the Doctor, “we are all devoted to you, and our words come from our hearts. But will you not state you own views first?”

“That would be little use,” said Hatteras, sadly; “my opinion might appear interested; let me hear all yours first.”

“Captain,” said Johnson, “before pronouncing on such an important matter, I wish to ask you a question.”

“Ask it, then, Johnson.”

“You went out yesterday to ascertain our exact position; well, is the field drifting or stationary?”

“Perfectly stationary. It had not moved since the last reckoning was made. I find we are just where we were before we left, in 80deg 15” lat. and 97deg 35” long.”

“And what distance are we from the nearest sea to the west?”

“About six hundred miles.”

“And that sea is — — ?”

“Smith’s Sound,” was the reply.

“The same that we could not get through last April?”

“The same.”

“Well, captain, now we know our actual situation, we are in a better position to determine our course of action.”

“Speak your minds, then,” said Hatteras, again burying his head in his hands.

“What do you say, Bell?” asked the Doctor.

“It strikes me the case doesn’t need long thinking over,” said the carpenter. “We must get back at once without losing a single day or even a single hour, either to the south or west, and make our way to the nearest coast, even if we are two months doing it!”

“We have only food for three weeks,” replied Hatteras, without raising his head.

“Very well,” said Johnson, “we must make the journey in three weeks, since it is our last chance. Even if we can only crawl on our knees before we get to our destination, we must be there in twenty-five days.”

“This part of the Arctic Continent is unexplored. We may have to encounter difficulties. Mountains and glaciers may bar our progress,” objected Hatteras.

“I don’t see that’s any sufficient reason for not attempting it. We shall have to endure sufferings, no doubt, and perhaps many. We shall have to limit ourselves to the barest quantities of food, unless our guns should procure us anything.”

“There is only about half a pound of powder left,” said Hatteras.

“Come now, Hatteras, I know the full weight of your objections, and I am not deluding myself with vain hopes. But I think I can read your motive. Have you any practical suggestion to offer?”

“No,” said Hatteras, after a little hesitation.

“You don’t doubt our courage,” continued the Doctor. “We would follow you to the last — you know that. But must we not, meantime, give up all hope of reaching the Pole? Your plans have been defeated by treachery. Natural difficulties you might have overcome, but you have been outmatched by perfidy and human weakness. You have done all that man could do, and you would have succeeded I am certain; but situated as we are now, are you not obliged to relinquish your projects for the present, and is not a return to England even positively necessary before you could continue them?”

“Well, captain?” asked Johnson after waiting a considerable time for Hatteras to reply.

Thus interrogated, he raised his head, and said in a constrained tone —

“You think yourselves quite certain then of reaching the Sound, exhausted though you are, and almost without food?”

“No,” replied the Doctor, “but there is one thing certain, the Sound won’t come to us, we must go to it. We may chance to find some Esquimaux tribes further south.”

“Besides, isn’t there the chance of falling in with some ship that is wintering here?” asked Johnson.

“Even supposing the Sound is blocked up, couldn’t we get across to some Greenland or Danish settlement? At any rate, Hatteras, we can get nothing by remaining here. The route to England is towards the south, not the north.”

“Yes,” said Bell, “Mr. Clawbonny is right. We must start, and start at once. We have been forgetting our country too long already.”

“Is this your advice, Johnson?” asked Hatteras again.

“Yes, captain.”

“And yours, Doctor?”

“Yes, Hatteras.”

Hatteras remained silent, but his face, in spite of himself, betrayed his inward agitation. The issue of his whole life hung on the decision he had to make, for he felt that to return to England was to lose all! He could not venture on a fourth expedition.

The Doctor finding he did not reply, added —

“I ought also to have said, that there is not a moment to lose. The sledge must be loaded with the provisions at once, and as much wood as possible. I must confess six hundred miles is a long journey, but we can, or rather we must make twenty miles a day, which will bring us to the coast about the 26th of March.”

“But cannot we wait a few days yet?” said Hatteras.

“What are you hoping for?” asked Johnson.

“I don’t know. Who can tell the future? It is necessary, too, that you should get your strength a little recruited. You might sink down on the road with fatigue, without even a snow hut to shelter you.”

“But think of the terrible death that awaits us here,” replied the carpenter.

“My friends,” said Hatteras, in almost supplicating tones; “you are despairing too soon. I should propose that we should seek our deliverance towards the north, but you would refuse to follow me, and yet why should there not be Esquimaux tribes round about the Pole as well as towards the south? The open sea, of the existence of which we are certified, must wash the shores of continents. Nature is logical in all her doings. Consequently vegetation must be found there when the earth is no longer ice-bound. Is there not a promised land awaiting us in the north from which you would flee?”

Hatteras became animated as he spoke, and Doctor Clawbonny’s excitable nature was so wrought upon that his decision began to waver. He was on the point of yielding, when Johnson, with his wiser head and calmer temperament, recalled him to reason and duty by calling out —

“Come, Bell, let us be off to the sledge.”

“All right,” said Bell, and the two had risen to leave the hut, when Hatteras exclaimed —

“Oh, Johnson! You! you! Well, go! I shall stay, I shall stay!”

“Captain!” said Johnson, stopping in spite of himself.

“I shall stay, I tell you. Go! Leave me like the rest! Come, Duk, you and I will stay together.”

The faithful dog barked as if he understood, and settled himself down beside his master. Johnson looked at the Doctor, who seemed at a loss to know what to do, but came to the conclusion at last that the best way, meantime, was to calm Hatteras, even at the sacrifice of a day. He was just about to try the force of his eloquence in this direction, when he felt a light touch on his arm, and turning round saw Altamont who had crawled out of bed and managed to get on his knees. He was trying to speak, but his swollen lips could scarcely make a sound. Hatteras went towards him, and watched his efforts to articulate so attentively that in a few minutes he made out a word that sounded like Porpoise, and stooping over him he asked —

“Is it the Porpoise?”

Altamont made a sign in the affirmative, and Hatteras went on with his queries, now that he had found a clue.

“In these seas?”

The affirmative gesture was repeated.

“Is she in the north?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know her position?”

“Yes.”

“Exactly?”

“Yes.”

For a minute or so, nothing more was said, and the onlookers waited with palpitating hearts.

Then Hatteras spoke again and said —

“Listen to me. We must know the exact position of your vessel. I will count the degrees aloud, and you; will stop me when I come to the right one.”

The American assented by a motion of the head, and Hatteras began —

“We’ll take the longitude first. 105deg, No? 106deg, 107deg? It is to the west, I suppose?”

“Yes,” replied Altamont.

“Let us go on, then: 109deg, 110deg, 112deg, 114deg, 116deg, 118deg, 120deg.”

“Yes,” interrupted the sick man.

“120deg of longitude, and how many minutes? I will count.”

Hatteras began at number one, and when he got to fifteen, Altamont made a sign to stop.

“Very good,” said Hatteras; “now for the latitude. Are you listening? 80deg, 81deg, 82deg, 83deg.”

Again the sign to stop was made.

“Now for the minutes: 5’, 10’, 15’, 20’, 25’, 30’, 35′.″

Altamont stopped him once more, and smiled feebly.

“You say, then, that the Porpoise is in longitude 120deg 15’, and latitude 83deg 35’?”

“Yes,” sighed the American, and fell back motionless in the Doctor’s arms, completely overpowered by the effort he had made.

“Friends!” exclaimed Hatteras; “you see I was right. Our salvation lies indeed in the north, always in the north. We shall be saved!”

But the joyous, exulting words had hardly escaped his lips before a sudden thought made his countenance change. The serpent of jealousy had stung him, for this stranger was an American, and he had reached three degrees nearer the Pole than the ill-fated Forward.

CHAPTER III.

A SEVENTEEN DAYS’ MARCH.

These first words of Altamont had completely changed the whole aspect of affairs, but his communication was still incomplete, and, after giving him a little time to rest, the Doctor undertook the task of conversing again with him, putting his questions in such a form that a movement of the head or eyes would be a sufficient answer.

He soon ascertained that the Porpoise was a three-mast American ship, from New York, wrecked on the ice, with provisions and combustibles in abundance still on board, and that, though she had been thrown on her side, she had not gone to pieces, and there was every chance of saving her cargo.

Altamont and his crew had left her two months previously, taking the long boat with them on a sledge. They intended to get to Smith’s Sound, and reach some whaler that would take them back to America; but one after another succumbed to fatigue and illness, till at last Altamont and two men were all that remained out of thirty; and truly he had survived by a providential miracle, while his two companions already lay beside him in the sleep of death.

Hatteras wished to know why the Porpoise had come so far north, and learned in reply that she had been irresistibly driven there by the ice. But his anxious fears were not satisfied with this explanation, and he asked further what was the purpose of his voyage. Altamont said he wanted to make the north-west passage, and this appeared to content the jealous Englishman, for he made no more reference to the subject. “Well,” said the Doctor, “it strikes me that, instead of trying to get to Baffin’s Bay, our best plan would be to go in search of the Porpoise, for here lies a ship a full third of the distance nearer, and, more than that, stocked with everything necessary for winter quarters.”

“I see no other course open to us,” replied Bell.

“And the sooner we go the better,” added Johnson, “for the time we allow ourselves must depend on our provisions.”

“You are right, Johnson,” returned the Doctor. “If we start to-morrow, we must reach the Porpoise by the 15th of March, unless we mean to die of starvation. What do you say, Hatteras?”

“Let us make preparations immediately, but perhaps the route may be longer than we suppose.”

“How can that be, captain? The man seems quite sure of the position of his ship,” said the Doctor.

“But suppose the ice-field should have drifted like ours?”

Here Altamont, who was listening attentively, made a sign that he wished to speak, and, after much difficulty, he succeeded in telling the Doctor that the Porpoise had struck on rocks near the coast, and that it was impossible for her to move.

This was reassuring information, though it cut off all hope of returning to Europe, unless Bell could construct a smaller ship out of the wreck.

No time was lost in getting ready to start. The sledge was the principal thing, as it needed thorough repair. There was plenty of wood, and, profiting by the experience they had recently had of this mode of transit, several improvements were made by Bell.

Inside, a sort of couch was laid for the American, and covered over with the tent. The small stock of provisions did not add much to the weight, but, to make up the deficiency, as much wood was piled up on it as it could hold.

The Doctor did the packing, and made an exact calculation of how long their stores would last. He found that, by allowing three-quarter rations to each man and full rations to the dogs, they might hold out for three weeks.

Towards seven in the evening, they felt so worn out that they were obliged to give up work for the night; but, before lying down to sleep, they heaped up the wood in the stove, and made a roaring fire, determined to allow themselves this parting luxury. As they gathered round it, basking in the unaccustomed heat, and enjoying their hot coffee and biscuits and pemmican, they became quite cheerful, and forgot all their sufferings.

About seven in the morning they set to work again and by three in the afternoon everything was ready.

It was almost dark, for, though the sun had reappeared above the horizon since the 31st of January, his light was feeble and of short duration. Happily the moon would rise about half-past six, and her soft beams would give sufficient light to show the road.

The parting moment came. Altamont was overjoyed at the idea of starting, though the jolting would necessarily increase his sufferings, for the Doctor would find on board the medicines he required for his cure.

They lifted him on to the sledge, and laid him as comfortably as possible, and then harnessed the dogs, including Duk. One final look towards the icy bed where the Forward had been, and the little party set out for the Porpoise. Bell was scout, as before; the Doctor and Johnson took each a side of the sledge, and lent a helping hand when necessary; while Hatteras walked behind to keep all in the right track.

They got on pretty quickly, for the weather was good, and the ice smooth and hard, allowing the sledge to glide easily along, yet the temperature was so low that men and dogs were soon panting, and had often to stop and take breath. About seven the moon shone out, and irradiated the whole horizon. Far as the eye could see, there was nothing visible but a wide-stretching level plain of ice, without a solitary hummock or patch to relieve the uniformity.

As the Doctor remarked to his companion, it looked like some vast, monotonous desert.

“Ay! Mr. Clawbonny, it is a desert, but we shan’t die of thirst in it at any rate.”

“That’s a comfort, certainly, but I’ll tell you one thing: it proves, Johnson, we must be a great distance from any coast. The nearer the coast, the more numerous the icebergs in general, and you see there is not one in sight.”

“The horizon is rather misty, though.”

“So it is, but ever since we started, we have been on this same interminable ice-field.”

“Do you know, Mr. Clawbonny, that smooth as this ice is, we are going over most dangerous ground? Fathomless abysses lie beneath our feet.”

“That’s true enough, but they won’t engulph us. This white sheet over them is pretty tough, I can tell you. It is always getting thicker too; for in these latitudes, it snows nine days out of ten even in April and May; ay, and in June as well. The ice here, in some parts, cannot be less than between thirty and forty feet thick.”

“That sounds reassuring, at all events.” said Johnson.

“Yes, we’re not like the skaters on the Serpentine — always in danger of falling through. This ice is strong enough to bear the weight of the Custom House in Liverpool, or the Houses of Parliament in Westminster.”

“Can they reckon pretty nearly what ice will bear, Mr. Clawbonny?” asked the old sailor, always eager for information.

“What can’t be reckoned now-a-days? Yes, ice two inches thick will bear a man; three and a half inches, a man on horse-back; five inches, an eight pounder; eight inches, field artillery; and ten inches, a whole army.”

“It is difficult to conceive of such a power of resistance, but you were speaking of the incessant snow just now, and I cannot help wondering where it comes from, for the water all round is frozen, and what makes the clouds?”

“That’s a natural enough question, but my notion is that nearly all the snow or rain that we get here comes from the temperate zones. I fancy each of those snowflakes was originally a drop of water in some river, caught up by evaporation into the air, and wafted over here in the shape of clouds; so that it is not impossible that when we quench our thirst with the melted snow, we are actually drinking from the very rivers of our own native land.”

Just at this moment the conversation was interrupted by Hatteras, who called out that they were getting out of the straight line. The increasing mist made it difficult to keep together, and at last, about eight o’clock, they determined to come to a halt, as they had gone fifteen miles. The tent was put up and the stove lighted, and after their usual supper they lay down and slept comfortably till morning.

The calm atmosphere was highly favourable, for though the cold became intense, and the mercury was always frozen in the thermometer, they found no difficulty in continuing their route, confirming the truth of Parry’s assertion that any man suitably clad may walk abroad with impunity in the lowest temperature, provided there is no wind; while, on the other hand, the least breeze would make the skin smart acutely, and bring on violent headache, which would soon end in death.

On the 5th of March a peculiar phenomenon occurred. The sky was perfectly clear and glittering with stars, when suddenly snow began to fall thick and fast, though there was not a cloud in the heavens and through the white flakes the constellations could be seen shining. This curious display lasted two hours, and ceased before the Doctor could arrive at any satisfactory conclusion as to its cause.

The moon had ended her last quarter, and complete darkness prevailed now for seventeen hours out of the twenty-four. The travellers had to fasten themselves together with a long rope to avoid getting separated, and it was all but impossible to pursue the right course. Moreover, the brave fellows, in spite of their iron will, began to show signs of fatigue. Halts became more frequent, and yet every hour was precious, for the provisions were rapidly coming to an end.

Hatteras hardly knew what to think as day after day went on without apparent result, and he asked himself sometimes whether the Porpoise had any actual existence except in Altamont’s fevered brain, and more than once the idea even came into his head that perhaps national hatred might have induced the American to drag them along with himself to certain death.

He told the Doctor his suppositions, who rejected them absolutely, and laid them down to the score of the unhappy rivalry that had arisen already between the two captains.

On the 14th of March, after sixteen days’ march the little party found themselves only yet in the 82o latitude. Their strength was exhausted, and they had a hundred miles more to go. To increase their sufferings, rations had to be still further reduced. Each man must be content with a fourth part to allow the dogs their full quantity.

Unfortunately they could not rely at all on their guns, for only seven charges of powder were left, and six balls. They had fired at several hares and foxes on the road already, but unsuccessfully.

However, on the 15th, the Doctor was fortunate enough to surprise a seal basking on the ice, and, after several shots, the animal was captured and killed.

Johnson soon had it skinned and cut in pieces, but it was so lean that it was worthless as food, unless its captors would drink the oil like the Esquimaux.

The Doctor was bold enough to make the attempt, but failed in spite of himself.

Next day several icebergs and hummocks were noticed on the horizon. Was this a sign that land was near, or was it some ice-field that had broken up? It was difficult to know what to surmise.

On arriving at the first of these hummocks, the travellers set to work to make a cave in it where they could rest more comfortably than in the tent, and after three hours’ persevering toil, were able to light their stove and lie down beside it to stretch their weary limbs.

CHAPTER V.

THE SEAL AND THE BEAR.

“You know, Doctor,” said Hatteras, as they returned to the hut, “the polar bears subsist almost entirely on seals. They’ll lie in wait for them beside the crevasses for whole days, ready to strangle them the moment their heads appear above the surface. It is not likely, then, that a bear will be frightened of a seal.”

“I think I see what you are after, but it is dangerous.”

“Yes, but there is more chance of success than in trying any other plan, so I mean to risk it. I am going to dress myself in the seal’s skin, and creep along the ice. Come, don’t let us lose time. Load the gun and give it me.”

The Doctor could not say anything, for he would have done the same himself, so he followed Hatteras silently to the sledge, taking with him a couple of hatchets for his own and Johnson’s use.

Hatteras soon made his toilette, and slipped into the skin, which was big enough to cover him almost entirely.

“Now, then, give me the gun,” he said, “and you be off to Johnson. I must try and steal a march on my adversary.”

“Courage, Hatteras!” said the Doctor, handing him the weapon, which he had carefully loaded meanwhile.

“Never fear! but be sure you don’t show yourselves till I fire.”

The Doctor soon joined the old boatswain behind the hummock, and told him what they had been doing. The bear was still there, but moving restlessly about, as if he felt the approach of danger.

In a quarter of an hour or so the seal made his appearance on the ice. He had gone a good way round, so as to come on the bear by surprise, and every movement was so perfect an imitation of a seal, that even the Doctor would have been deceived if he had not known it was Hatteras.

“It is capital!” said Johnson, in a low voice. The bear had instantly caught sight of the supposed seal, for he gathered himself up, preparing to make a spring as the animal came nearer, apparently seeking to return to his native element, and unaware of the enemy’s proximity. Bruin went to work with extreme prudence, though his eyes glared with greedy desire to clutch the coveted prey, for he had probably been fasting a month, if not two. He allowed his victim to get within ten paces of him, and then sprang forward with a tremendous bound, but stopped short, stupefied and frightened, within three steps of Hatteras, who started up that moment, and, throwing off his disguise, knelt on one knee, and aimed straight at the bear’s heart. He fired, and the huge monster rolled back on the ice.

“Forward! Forward!” shouted the Doctor, hurrying towards Hatteras, for the bear had reared on his hind legs, and was striking the air with one paw and tearing up the snow to stanch his wound with the other.

Hatteras never moved, but waited, knife in hand. He had aimed well, and fired with a sure and steady aim. Before either of his companions came up he had plunged the knife in the animal’s throat, and made an end of him, for he fell down at once to rise no more.

“Hurrah! Bravo!” shouted Johnson and the Doctor, but Hatteras was as cool and unexcited as possible, and stood with folded arms gazing at his prostrate foe.

“It is my turn now,” said Johnson. “It is a good thing the bear is killed, but if we leave him out here much longer, he will get as hard as a stone, and we shall be able to do nothing with him.”

He began forthwith to strip the skin off, and a fine business it was, for the enormous quadruped was almost as large as an ox. It measured nearly nine feet long, and four round, and the great tusks in his jaws were three inches long.

On cutting the carcase open, Johnson found nothing but water in the stomach. The beast had evidently had no food for a long time, yet it was very fat, and weighed fifteen hundred pounds. The hunters were so famished that they had hardly patience to carry home the flesh to be cooked, and it needed all the Doctor’s persuasion to prevent them eating it raw.

On entering the hut, each man with a load on his back, Clawbonny was struck with the coldness that pervaded the atmosphere. On going up to the stove he found the fire black out. The exciting business of the morning had made Johnson neglect his accustomed duty of replenishing the stove.

The Doctor tried to blow the embers into a flame, but finding he could not even get a red spark, he went out to the sledge to fetch tinder, and get the steel from Johnson.

The old sailor put his hand into his pocket, but was surprised to find the steel missing. He felt in the other pockets, but it was not there. Then he went into the hut again, and shook the blanket he had slept in all night, but his search was still unsuccessful.

He went back to his companions and said —

“Are you sure, Doctor, you haven’t the steel?”

“Quite, Johnson.”

“And you haven’t it either, captain?”

“Not I!” replied Hatteras.

“It has always been in your keeping,” said the Doctor.

“Well, I have not got it now!” exclaimed Johnson, turning pale.

“Not got the steel!” repeated the Doctor, shuddering involuntarily at the bare idea of its loss, for it was all the means they had of procuring a fire.

“Look again, Johnson,” he said.

The boatswain hurried to the only remaining place he could think of, the hummock where he had stood to watch the bear. But the missing treasure was nowhere to be found, and the old sailor returned in despair.

Hatteras looked at him, but no word of reproach escaped his lips. He only said —

“This is a serious business, Doctor.”

“It is, indeed!” said Clawbonny.

“We have not even an instrument, some glass that we might take the lens out of, and use like a burning glass.”

“No, and it is a great pity, for the sun’s rays are quite strong enough just now to light our tinder.”

“Well,” said Hatteras, “we must just appease our hunger with the raw meat, and set off again as soon as we can, to try to discover the ship.”

“Yes!” replied Clawbonny, speaking to himself, absorbed in his own reflections. “Yes, that might do at a pinch! Why not? We might try.”

“What are you dreaming about?” asked Hatteras.

“An idea has just occurred to me.”

“An idea come into your head, Doctor,” exclaimed Johnson; “then we are saved!”

“Will it succeed? that’s the question.”

“What’s your project?” said Hatteras.

“We want a lens; well, let us make one.”

“How?” asked Johnson.

“With a piece of ice.”

“What? Do you think that would do?”

“Why not? All that is needed is to collect the sun’s rays into one common focus, and ice will serve that purpose as well as the finest crystal.”

“Is it possible?” said Johnson.

“Yes, only I should like fresh water ice, it is harder and more transparent than the other.”

“There it is to your hand, if I am not much mistaken,” said Johnson, pointing to a hummock close by.

“I fancy that is fresh water, from the dark look of it, and the green tinge.”

“You are right. Bring your hatchet, Johnson.”

A good-sized piece was soon cut off, about a foot in diameter, and the Doctor set to work. He began by chopping it into rough shape with the hatchet; then he operated upon it more carefully with his knife, making as smooth a surface as possible, and finished the polishing process with his fingers, rubbing away until he had obtained as transparent a lens as if it had been made of magnificent crystal.

The sun was shining brilliantly enough for the Doctor’s experiment. The tinder was fetched, and held beneath the lens so as to catch the rays in full power. In a few seconds it took fire, to Johnson’s rapturous delight.

He danced about like an idiot, almost beside himself with joy, and shouted, “Hurrah! hurrah!” while Clawbonny hurried back into the hut and rekindled the fire. The stove was soon roaring, and it was not many minutes before the savoury odour of broiled bear-steaks roused Bell from his torpor.

What a feast this meal was to the poor starving men may be imagined. The Doctor, however, counselled moderation in eating, and set the example himself.

“This is a glad day for us,” he said, “and we have no fear of wanting food all the rest of our journey. Still we must not forget we have further to go yet, and I think the sooner we start the better.”

“We cannot be far off now,” said Altamont, who could almost articulate perfectly again; “we must be within forty-eight hours’ march of the Porpoise.”

“I hope we’ll find something there to make a fire with,” said the Doctor, smiling. “My lens does well enough at present; but it needs the sun, and there are plenty of days when he does not make his appearance here, within less than four degrees of the pole.”

“Less than four degrees!” repeated Altamont, with a sigh; “yes, my ship went further than any other has ever ventured.”

“It is time we started,” said Hatteras, abruptly.

“Yes,” replied the Doctor, glancing uneasily at the two captains.

The dogs were speedily harnessed to the sledge, and the march resumed. As they went along, the Doctor tried to get out of Altamont the real motive that had brought him so far north. But the American made only evasive replies, and Clawbonny whispered in old Johnson’s ear —

“Two men we’ve got that need looking after.”

“You are right,” said Johnson.

“Hatteras never says a word to this American, and I must say the man has not shown himself very grateful. I am here, fortunately.”

“Mr. Clawbonny,” said Johnson, “now this Yankee has come back to life again, I must confess I don’t much like the expression of his face.”

“I am much mistaken if he does not suspect the projects of Hatteras.”

“Do you think his own were similar?”

“Who knows? These Americans, Johnson, are bold, daring fellows. It is likely enough an American would try to do as much as an Englishman.”

“Then you think that Altamont — “

“I think nothing about it, but his ship is certainly on the road to the North Pole.”

“But didn’t Altamont say that he had been caught among the ice, and dragged there irresistibly?”

“He said so, but I fancied there was a peculiar smile on his lips while he spoke.”

“Hang it! It would be a bad job, Mr. Clawbonny, if any feeling of rivalry came between two men of their stamp.”

“Heaven forfend! for it might involve the most serious consequences, Johnson.”

“I hope Altamont will remember he owes his life to us?”

“But do we not owe ours to him now? I grant, without us, he would not be alive at this moment, but without him and his ship, what would become of us?”

“Well, Mr. Clawbonny, you are here to keep things straight anyhow, and that is a blessing.”

“I hope I may manage it, Johnson.”

The journey proceeded without any fresh incident, but on the Saturday morning the travellers found themselves in a region of quite an altered character. Instead of the wide smooth plain of ice that had hitherto stretched before them, overturned icebergs and broken hummocks covered the horizon; while the frequent blocks of fresh-water ice showed that some coast was near.

Next day, after a hearty breakfast off the bear’s paws, the little party continued their route; but the road became toilsome and fatiguing. Altamont lay watching the horizon with feverish anxiety — an anxiety shared by all his companions, for, according to the last reckoning made by Hatteras, they were now exactly in latitude 83deg 35” and longitude 120deg 15”, and the question of life or death would be decided before the day was over.

At last, about two o’clock in the afternoon, Altamont started up with a shout that arrested the whole party, and pointing to a white mass that no eye but his could have distinguished from the surrounding icebergs, exclaimed in a loud, ringing voice, “The Porpoise.”

CHAPTER VIII.

AN EXCURSION TO THE NORTH OF VICTORIA BAY

Next morning Clawbonny was out by dawn of day. Clambering up the steep, rocky wall, against which the Doctor’s House leaned, he succeeded, though with considerable difficulty, in reaching the top, which he found terminated abruptly in a sort of truncated cone. From this elevation there was an extensive view over a vast tract of country, which was all disordered and convulsed as if it had undergone some volcanic commotion. Sea and land, as far as it was possible to distinguish one from the other, were covered with a sheet of ice.

A new project struck the Doctor’s mind, which was soon matured and ripe for execution. He lost no time in going back to the snow house, and consulting over it with his companions.

“I have got an idea,” he said; “I think of constructing a lighthouse on the top of that cone above our heads.”

“A lighthouse!” they all exclaimed.

“Yes, a lighthouse. It would be a double advantage. It would be a beacon to guide us in distant excursions, and also serve to illumine our plateau in the long dreary winter months.”

“There is no doubt,” replied Altamont, “of its utility; but how would you contrive to make it?”

“With one of the lanterns out of the Porpoise.”

“All right; but how will you feed your lamp? With seal oil?”

“No, seal oil would not give nearly sufficient light. It would scarcely be visible through the fog.”

“Are you going to try to make gas out of our coal then?”

“No, not that either, for gas would not be strong enough; and, worse still, it would waste our combustibles.”

“Well,” replied Altamont; “I’m at a loss to see how you — “

“Oh, I’m prepared for everything after the mercury bullet, and the ice lens, and Fort Providence. I believe Mr. Clawbonny can do anything,” exclaimed Johnson.

“Come, Clawbonny, tell us what your light is to be, then,” said Altamont.

“That’s soon told,” replied Clawbonny. “I mean to have an electric light.”

“An electric light?”

“Yes, why not? Haven’t you a galvanic battery on board your ship?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there will be no difficulty then in producing an electric light, and that will cost nothing, and be far brighter.”

“First-rate?” said Johnson; “let us set to work at once.”

“By all means. There is plenty of material. In an hour we can raise a pillar of ice ten feet high, and that is quite enough.

Away went the Doctor, followed by his companions, and the column was soon erected and crowned with a ship lantern. The conducting wires were properly adjusted within it, and the pile with which they communicated fixed up in the sitting-room, where the warmth of the stove would protect it from the action of the frost.

As soon as it grew dark the experiment was made, and proved a complete success. An intense brilliant light streamed from the lantern and illumined the entire plateau and the plains beneath.

Johnson could not help clapping his hands, half beside himself with delight.

“Well, I declare, Mr. Clawbonny,” he exclaimed, “you’re our sun now.”

“One must be a little of everything, you know,” was Clawbonny’s modest reply.

It was too cold. however, even to stand admiring more than a minute, and the whole party were glad enough to get indoors again, and tuck themselves up in their warm blankets.

A regular course of life commenced now, though uncertain weather and frequent changes of temperature made it sometimes impracticable to venture outside the hut at all, and it was not till the Saturday after the installation, that a day came that was favourable enough for a hunting excursion; when Bell, and Altamont, and the Doctor determined to take advantage of it, and try to replenish their stock of provisions.

They started very early in the morning, each armed with a double-barrelled gun and plenty of powder and shot, a hatchet, and a snow knife.

The weather was cloudy, but Clawbonny put the galvanic battery in action before he left, and the bright rays of the electric light did duty for the glorious orb of day, and in truth was no bad substitute, for the light was equal to three thousand candles, or three hundred gas burners.

It was intensely cold, but dry, and there was little or no wind. The hunters set off in the direction of Cape Washington, and the hard snow so favoured their march, that in three hours they had gone fifteen miles, Duk jumping and barking beside them all the way. They kept as close to the coast as possible, but found no trace of human habitation and indeed scarcely a sign of animal life. A few snow birds, however, darting to and fro announced the approach of spring and the return of the animal creation. The sea was still entirely frozen over, but it was evident from the open breathing holes in the ice, that the seals had been quite recently on the surface. In one part the holes were so numerous, that the Doctor said to his companions that he had no doubt that when summer came, they would be seen there in hundreds, and would be easily captured, for on unfrequented shores they were not so difficult of approach. But once frighten them and they all vanish as if by enchantment, and never return to the spot again. “Inexperienced hunters,” he said, “have often lost a whole shoal by attacking them, en masse, with noisy shouts instead of singly and silently.”

“Is it for the oil or skin that they are mostly hunted?”

“Europeans hunt them for the skin, but the Esquimaux eat them. They live on seals, and nothing is so delicious to them as a piece of the flesh, dipped in the blood and oil. After all, cooking has a good deal to do with it, and I’ll bet you something I could dress you cutlets you would not turn up your nose at, unless for their black appearance.”

“We’ll set you to work on it,” said Bell, “and I’ll eat as much as you like to please you.”

“My good Bell, you mean to say to please yourself, but your voracity would never equal the Green-landers’, for they devour from ten to fifteen pounds of meat a day.”

“Fifteen pounds!” said Bell. “What stomachs!”

“Arctic stomachs,” replied the Doctor, “are prodigious; they can expand at will, and, I may add, contract at will; so that they can endure starvation quite as well as abundance. When an Esquimaux sits down to dinner he is quite thin, and by the time he has finished, he is so corpulent you would hardly recognize him. But then we must remember that one meal sometimes has to last a whole day.”

“This voracity must be peculiar to the inhabitants of cold countries,” said Altamont.

“I think it is,” replied the Doctor. “In the Arctic regions people must eat enormously: it is not only one of the conditions of strength, but of existence. The Hudson’s Bay Company always reckoned on this account 8 lbs. of meat to each man a day, or 12 lbs. of fish, or 2 lbs. of pemmican.”

“Invigorating regimen, certainly!” said Bell.

“Not so much as you imagine, my friend. An Indian who guzzles like that can’t do a whit better day’s work than an Englishman, who has his pound of beef and pint of beer.”

“Things are best as they are, then, Mr. Clawbonny.”

“No doubt of it; and yet an Esquimaux meal may well astonish us. In Sir John Ross’s narrative, he states his surprise at the appetites of his guides. He tells us that two of them — just two mind — devoured a quarter of a buffalo in one morning. They cut the meat in long narrow strips, and the mode of eating was either for the one to bite off as much as his mouth could hold, and then pass it on to the other, or to leave the long ribbons of meat dangling from the mouth and devour them gradually like boa-constrictors, lying at full length on the ground.”

“Faugh!” exclaimed Bell, “what disgusting brutes!”

“Every man has his own fashion of dining,” remarked the philosophical American.

“Happily,” said the Doctor.

“Well, if eating is such an imperative necessity in these latitudes, it quite accounts for all the journals of Arctic travellers being so full of eating and drinking.”

“You are right,” returned the Doctor. “I have been struck by the same fact; but I think it arises not only from the necessity of full diet, but from the extreme difficulty sometimes in procuring it. The thought of food is always uppermost in the mind, and naturally finds mention in the narrative.”

“And yet,” said Altamont, “if my memory serves me right, in the coldest parts of Norway the peasants do not seem to need such substantial fare. Milk diet is their staple food, with eggs, and bread made of the bark of the birch-tree; a little salmon occasionally, but never meat; and still they are fine hardy fellows.”

“It is an affair of organization out of my power to explain,” replied Clawbonny; “but I have no doubt that if these same Norwegians were transplanted to Greenland, they would learn to eat like the Esquimaux by the second or third generation. Even if we ourselves were to remain in this blessed country long, we should be as bad as the Esquimaux, even if we escaped becoming regular gluttons.”

“I declare, Mr. Clawbonny, you make me feel hungry with talking so much about eating,” exclaimed Bell.

“Not I!” said Altamont. “It rather sickens me, and makes me loathe the sight of a seal. But, stop, I do believe we are going to have the chance of a dinner off one, for I am much mistaken if that’s not something alive lying on those lumps of ice yonder!”

“It is a walrus!” exclaimed the Doctor. “Be quiet, and let us get up to him.”

Clawbonny was right, it was a walrus of huge dimensions, disporting himself not more than two hundred yards away. The hunters separated, going in different directions, so as to surround the animal and cut off all retreat. They crept along cautiously behind the hummocks, and managed to get within a few paces of him unperceived, when they fired simultaneously.

The walrus rolled over, but speedily got up again, and tried to make his escape, but Altamont fell upon him with his hatchet, and cut off his dorsal fins. He made a desperate resistance, but was overpowered by his enemies, and soon lay dead, reddening the ice-field with his blood.

It was a fine animal, measuring more than fifteen feet in length, and would have been worth a good deal for the oil; but the hunters contented themselves with cutting off the most savoury parts, and left the rest to the ravens, which had just begun to make their appearance.

Night was drawing on, and it was time to think of returning to Fort Providence. The moon had not yet risen, but the sky was serene and cloudless, and already glittering with stars — magnificent stars.

“Come,” said the Doctor, “let us be off, for it is getting late. Our hunting has not been very successful; but still, if a man has found something for his supper, he need not grumble. Let us go the shortest road, however, and get quickly home without losing our way. The stars will guide us.”

They resolved to try a more direct route back by going further inland, and avoiding the windings of the coast; but, after some hours’ walking, they found themselves no nearer Doctor’s House, and it was evident that they must have lost their way. The question was raised whether to construct a hut and rest till morning, or proceed; but Clawbonny insisted on going on, as Hatteras and Johnson would be so uneasy.

“Duk will guide us,” he said; “he won’t go wrong. His instinct can dispense with star and compass. Just let us keep close behind him.”

They did well to trust to Duk, for very speedily a faint light appeared in the horizon almost like a star glimmering through the mist, which hung low above the ground.

“There’s our lighthouse!” exclaimed the Doctor.

“Do you think it is, Mr. Clawbonny?” said Bell.

“I’m certain of it! Come on faster.” The light became stronger the nearer they approached, and soon they were walking in a bright luminous track, leaving their long shadows behind them on the spotless snow.

Quickening their steps, they hastened forward, and in another half hour they were climbing the ascent to Fort Providence.

CHAPTER X.

WINTER PLEASURES

It is a dreary affair to live at the Pole, for there is no going out for many long months, and nothing to break the weary monotony.

The day after the hunting excursion was dark and snowy, and Clawbonny could find no occupation except polishing up the ice walls of the hut as they became damp with the heat inside, and emptying out the snow which drifted into the long passage leading to the inner door. The “Snow-House” stood out well, defying storm and tempest, and the snow only seemed to increase the thickness of the walls.

The storehouses, too, did not give way the least; but though they were only a few yards off, it was found necessary to lay in enough provisions for the day, as very often the weather made it almost impossible to venture that short distance.

The unloading of the Porpoise turned out to have been a wise precaution, for she was slowly but surely being crashed to pieces by the silent, irresistible pressure around her. Still the Doctor was always hoping enough planks might be sufficiently sound to construct a small vessel to convey them back to England, but the right time to build had not come.

The five men were consequently compelled to spend the greater part of the day in complete idleness. Hatteras lolled on his bed absorbed in thought. Altamont smoked or dozed, and the Doctor took care not to disturb either of them, for he was in perpetual fear of a quarrel between them.

At meal times he always led the conversation away from irritating topics and sought, as far as possible, to instruct and interest all parties. Whenever he was not engaged with the preparation of his notes, he gave them dissertations on history, geography, or meteorology, handling his subject in an easy, though philosophical manner, drawing lessons from the most trivial incidents. His inexhaustible memory was never at a loss for fact or illustration when his good humour and geniality made him the life and soul of the little company. He was implicitly trusted by all, even by Hatteras, who cherished a deep affection for him.

Yet no man felt the compulsory confinement more painfully than Clawbonny. He longed ardently for the breaking up of the frost to resume his excursions though he dreaded the rivalry that might ensue between the two captains.

Yet things must come to a crisis soon or late, and meantime he resolved to use his best endeavors to bring both parties to a better mind, but to reconcile an American and an Englishman was no easy task. He and Johnson had many a talk on the subject, for the old sailor’s views quite coincided with his own as to the difficult complications which awaited them in the future.

However, the bad weather continued, and leaving Fort Providence, even for an hour, was out of the question. Day and night they were pent up in these glittering ice-walls, and time hung heavily on their hands, at least on all but the Doctor’s, and he always managed to find some occupation for himself.

“I declare,” said Altamont, one evening; “life like this is not worth having. We might as well be some of those reptiles that sleep all the winter. But I suppose there is no help for it.”

“I am afraid not,” said the Doctor; “unfortunately we are too few in number to get up any amusement.”

“Then you think if there were more of us, we should find more to do?”

“Of course: when whole ships’ crews have wintered here, they have managed to while away the time famously.”

“Well, I must say I should like to know how. It would need a vast amount of ingenuity to extract anything amusing out of our circumstances. I suppose they did not play at charades?”

“No, but they introduced the press and the theatre.”

“What? They had a newspaper?” exclaimed the American.

“They acted a comedy?” said Bell.

“That they did,” said the Doctor. “When Parry wintered at Melville Island, he started both amusements among his men, and they met with great success.”

“Well, I must confess, I should like to have been there,” returned Johnson; “for it must have been rather curious work.”

“Curious and amusing too, my good Johnson. Lieutenant Beechey was the theatre manager, and Captain Sabina chief editor of the newspaper called ‘The Winter Chronicle, or the Gazette of Northern Georgia.’”

“Good titles,” said Altamont.

“The newspaper appeared daily from the 1st of November, 1819, to the 20th of March, 1820. It reported the different excursions, and hunting parties, and accidents, and adventures, and published amusing stories. No doubt the articles were not up to the ‘Spectator’ or the ‘Daily Telegraph,’ but the readers were neither critical nor blase, and found great pleasure in their perusal.”

“My word!” said Altamont. “I should like to read some of the articles.”

“Would you? Well, you shall judge for yourself.”

“What! can you repeat them from memory?”

“No; but you had Parry’s Voyages on board the Porpoise, and I can read you his own narrative if you like.”

This proposition was so eagerly welcomed that the Doctor fetched the book forthwith, and soon found the passage in question.

“Here is a letter,” he said, “addressed to the editor.”

“‘Your proposition to establish a journal has been received by us with the greatest satisfaction. I am convinced that, under your direction, it will be a great source of amusement, and go a long way to lighten our hundred days of darkness.

“‘The interest I take in the matter myself has led me to study the effect of your announcement on my comrades, and I can testify, to use reporter’s language, that the thing has produced an immense sensation.

“‘The day after your prospectus appeared, there was an unusual and unprecedented demand for ink among us, and our green tablecloth was deluged with snippings and parings of quill-pens, to the injury of one of our servants, who got a piece driven right under his nail. I know for a fact that Sergeant Martin had no less than nine pen-knives to sharpen.

“‘It was quite a novel sight to see all the writing-desks brought out, which had not made their appearance for a couple of months, and judging by the reams of paper visible, more than one visit must have been made to the depths of the hold.

“‘I must not forget to tell you, that I believe attempts will be made to slip into your box sundry articles which are not altogether original, as they have been published already. I can declare that, no later than last night, I saw an author bending over his desk, holding a volume of the “Spectator” open with one hand, and thawing the frozen ink in his pen at the lamp with the other. I need not warn you to be on your guard against such tricks, for it would never do for us to have articles in our “Winter Chronicle” which our great-grandfathers read over their breakfast-tables a century ago.’”

“Well, well,” said Altamont, “there is a good deal of clever humour in that writer. He must have been a sharp fellow.”

“You’re right. Here is an amusing catalogue of Arctic tribulations: —

“‘To go out in the morning for a walk, and the moment you put your foot outside the ship, find yourself immersed in the cook’s water-hole.

“‘To go out hunting, and fall in with a splendid reindeer, take aim, and find your gun has gone off with a flash in the pan, owing to damp powder.

“‘To set out on a march with a good supply of soft new bread in your pocket, and discover, when you want to eat, that it has frozen so hard that you would break your teeth if you attempted to bite it through.

“‘To rush from the table when it is reported that a wolf is in sight, and on coming back to find the cat has eaten your dinner.

“‘To be returning quietly home from a walk, absorbed in profitable meditation, and suddenly find yourself in the embrace of a bear.’

“We might supplement this list ourselves,” said the Doctor, “to almost any amount, for there is a sort of pleasure in enumerating troubles when one has got the better of them.”

“I declare,” said Altamont, “this ‘Winter Journal’ is an amusing affair. I wish we could subscribe to it.”

“Suppose we start one,” said Johnson.

“For us five!” exclaimed Clawbonny; “we might do for editors, but there would not be readers enough.”

“No, nor spectators enough, if we tried to get up a comedy,” added Altamont.

“Tell us some more about Captain Parry’s theatre,” said Johnson; “did they play new pieces?”

“Certainly. At first two volumes on board the ‘Hecla’ were gone through, but as there was a performance once a fortnight, this repertoire was soon exhausted. Then they had to improvise fresh plays; Parry himself composed one which had immense success. It was called ‘The North-West Passage, or the End of the Voyage.’”

“A famous title,” said Altamont; “but I must confess, if I had chosen such a subject, I should have been at a loss for the denouement.”

“You are right,” said Bell; “who can say what the end will be?”

“What does that matter?” replied Mr. Clawbonny. “Why should we trouble about the last act, while the first ones are going on well. Leave all that to Providence, friends; let us each play our own role as perfectly as we can, and since the denouement belongs to the Great Author of all things, we will trust his skill. He will manage our affairs for us, never fear.”

“Well, we’d better go and dream about it,” said Johnson, “for it’s getting late, and it is time we went to bed,” said Johnson.

“You’re in a great hurry, old fellow,” replied the Doctor.

“Why would you sit up, Mr. Clawbonny? I am so comfortable in my bed, and then I always have such good dreams. I dream invariably of hot countries, so that I might almost say, half my life is spent in the tropics, and half at the North Pole.”

“You’re a happy man, Johnson,” said Altamont, “to be blessed with such a fortunate organization.”

“Indeed I am,” replied Johnson.

“Well, come, after that it would be positive cruelty to keep our good friend pining here,” said the Doctor, “his tropical sun awaits him, so let’s all go to bed.”

CHAPTER IX THROUGH THE STRAITS OF MAGELLAN

THE joy on board was universal when Paganel’s resolution was made known.

Little Robert flung himself on his neck in such tumultuous delight that he nearly threw the worthy secretary down, and made him say, “Rude petit bonhomme. I’ll teach him geography.”

Robert bade fair to be an accomplished gentleman some day, for John Mangles was to make a sailor of him, and the Major was to teach him sang-froid, and Glenarvan and Lady Helena were to instil into him courage and goodness and generosity, while Mary was to inspire him with gratitude toward such instructors.

The DUNCAN soon finished taking in coal, and turned her back on the dismal region. She fell in before long with the current from the coast of Brazil, and on the 7th of September entered the Southern hemisphere.

So far, then, the voyage had been made without difficulty. Everybody was full of hope, for in this search for Captain Grant, each day seemed to increase the probability of finding him. The captain was among the most confident on board, but his confidence mainly arose from the longing desire he had to see Miss Mary happy. He was smitten with quite a peculiar interest for this young girl, and managed to conceal his sentiments so well that everyone on board saw it except himself and Mary Grant.

As for the learned geographer, he was probably the happiest man in all the southern hemisphere. He spent the whole day in studying maps, which were spread out on the saloon table, to the great annoyance of M. Olbinett, who could never get the cloth laid for meals, without disputes on the subject. But all the passengers took his part except the Major, who was perfectly indifferent about geographical questions, especially at dinner-time. Paganel also came across a regular cargo of old books in the chief officer’s chest. They were in a very damaged condition, but among them he raked out a few Spanish volumes, and determined forthwith to set to work to master the language of Cer-vantes, as no one on board understood it, and it would be helpful in their search along the Chilian coast. Thanks to his taste for languages, he did not despair of being able to speak the language fluently when they arrived at Concepcion. He studied it furiously, and kept constantly muttering heterogeneous syllables.

He spent his leisure hours in teaching young Robert, and instructed him in the history of the country they were so rapidly approaching.

On the 25th of September, the yacht arrived off the Straits of Magellan, and entered them without delay. This route is generally preferred by steamers on their way to the Pacific Ocean. The exact length of the straits is 372 miles. Ships of the largest tonnage find, throughout, sufficient depth of water, even close to the shore, and there is a good bottom everywhere, and abundance of fresh water, and rivers abounding in fish, and forests in game, and plenty of safe and accessible harbors; in fact a thousand things which are lacking in Strait Lemaire and Cape Horn, with its terrible rocks, incessantly visited by hurricane and tempest.

For the first three or four hours — that is to say, for about sixty to eighty miles, as far as Cape Gregory — the coast on either side was low and sandy. Jacques Paganel would not lose a single point of view, nor a single detail of the straits. It would scarcely take thirty-six hours to go through them, and the moving panorama on both sides, seen in all the clearness and glory of the light of a southern sun, was well worth the trouble of looking at and admiring. On the Terra del Fuego side, a few wretched-looking creatures were wandering about on the rocks, but on the other side not a solitary inhabitant was visible.

Paganel was so vexed at not being able to catch a glimpse of

any Patagonians, that his companions were quite amused at him.

He would insist that Patagonia without Patagonians was not

Patagonia at all.

But Glenarvan replied:

“Patience, my worthy geographer. We shall see the Patagonians yet.”

“I am not sure of it.”

“But there is such a people, anyhow,” said Lady Helena.

“I doubt it much, madam, since I don’t see them.”

“But surely the very name Patagonia, which means ‘great feet’ in Spanish, would not have been given to imaginary beings.” “Oh, the name is nothing,” said Paganel, who was arguing simply for the sake of arguing. “And besides, to speak the truth, we are not sure if that is their name.”

“What an idea!” exclaimed Glenarvan. “Did you know that, Major?”

“No,” replied McNabbs, “and wouldn’t give a Scotch pound-note for the information.”

“You shall hear it, however, Major Indifferent. Though Magellan called the natives Patagonians, the Fuegians called them Tiremenen, the Chilians Caucalhues, the colonists of Carmen Tehuelches, the Araucans Huiliches; Bougainville gives them the name of Chauha, and Falkner that of Tehuelhets. The name they give themselves is Inaken. Now, tell me then, how would you recognize them? Indeed, is it likely that a people with so many names has any actual existence?”

“That’s a queer argument, certainly,” said Lady Helena.

“Well, let us admit it,” said her husband, “but our friend Paganel must own that even if there are doubts about the name of the race there is none about their size.”

“Indeed, I will never own anything so outrageous as that,” replied Paganel.

“They are tall,” said Glenarvan.

“I don’t know that.”

“Are they little, then?” asked Lady Helena.

“No one can affirm that they are.”

“About the average, then?” said McNabbs.

“I don’t know that either.”

“That’s going a little too far,” said Glenarvan. “Travelers who have seen them tell us.”

“Travelers who have seen them,” interrupted Paganel, “don’t agree at all in their accounts. Magellan said that his head scarcely reached to their waist.”

“Well, then, that proves.”

“Yes, but Drake declares that the English are taller than the tallest Patagonian?”

“Oh, the English — that may be,” replied the Major, disdainfully, “but we are talking of the Scotch.”

“Cavendish assures us that they are tall and robust,” continued Paganel. “Hawkins makes out they are giants. Lemaire and Shouten declare that they are eleven feet high.”

“These are all credible witnesses,” said Glenarvan.

“Yes, quite as much as Wood, Narborough, and Falkner, who say they are of medium stature. Again, Byron, Giraudais, Bougainville, Wallis, and Carteret, declared that the Patagonians are six feet six inches tall.”

“But what is the truth, then, among all these contradictions?” asked Lady Helena.

“Just this, madame; the Patagonians have short legs, and a large bust; or by way of a joke we might say that these natives are six feet high when they are sitting, and only five when they are standing.”

“Bravo! my dear geographer,” said Glenarvan. “That is very well put.”

“Unless the race has no existence, that would reconcile all statements,” returned Paganel. “But here is one consolation, at all events: the Straits of Magellan are very magnificent, even without Patagonians.”

Just at this moment the DUNCAN was rounding the peninsula of Brunswick between splendid panoramas.

Seventy miles after doubling Cape Gregory, she left on her starboard the penitentiary of Punta Arena. The church steeple and the Chilian flag gleamed for an instant among the trees, and then the strait wound on between huge granitic masses which had an imposing effect. Cloud-capped mountains appeared, their heads white with eternal snows, and their feet hid in immense forests. Toward the southwest, Mount Tarn rose 6,500 feet high. Night came on after a long lingering twilight, the light insensibly melting away into soft shades. These brilliant constellations began to bestud the sky, and the Southern Cross shone out. There were numerous bays along the shore, easy of access, but the yacht did not drop anchor in any; she continued her course fearlessly through the luminous darkness. Presently ruins came in sight, crumbling buildings, which the night invested with grandeur, the sad remains of a deserted settlement, whose name will be an eternal protest against these fertile shores and forests full of game. The DUNCAN was passing Fort Famine.

It was in that very spot that Sarmiento, a Spaniard, came in 1581, with four hundred emigrants, to establish a colony. He founded the city of St. Philip, but the extreme severity of winter decimated the inhabitants, and those who had struggled through the cold died subsequently of starvation. Cavendish the Corsair discovered the last survivor dying of hunger in the ruins.

After sailing along these deserted shores, the DUNCAN went through a series of narrow passes, between forests of beech and ash and birch, and at length doubled Cape Froward, still bristling with the ice of the last winter. On the other side of the strait, in Terra del Fuego, stood Mount Sarmiento, towering to a height of 6,000 feet, an enormous accumulation of rocks, separated by bands of cloud, forming a sort of aerial archipelago in the sky.

It is at Cape Froward that the American continent actually terminates, for Cape Horn is nothing but a rock sunk in the sea in latitude 52 degrees. At Cape Momax the straits widened, and she was able to get round Narborough Isles and advance in a more southerly direction, till at length the rock of Cape Pilares, the extreme point of Desolation Island, came in sight, thirty-six hours after entering the straits. Before her stem lay a broad, open, sparkling ocean, which Jacques Paganel greeted with enthusiastic gestures, feeling kindred emotions with those which stirred the bosom of Ferdinand de Magellan himself, when the sails of his ship, the TRINIDAD, first bent before the breeze from the great Pacific.

CHAPTER VI A HOSPITABLE COLONIST

THE captain’s first care was to anchor his vessel securely. He found excellent moorage in five fathoms’ depth of water, with a solid bottom of hard granite, which afforded a firm hold. There was no danger now of either being driven away or stranded at low water. After so many hours of danger, the DUNCAN found herself in a sort of creek, sheltered by a high circular point from the winds outside in the open sea.

Lord Glenarvan grasped John Mangles’ hand, and simply said:

“Thank you, John.”

This was all, but John felt it ample recompense. Glenarvan kept to himself the secret of his anxiety, and neither Lady Helena, nor Mary, nor Robert suspected the grave perils they had just escaped.

One important fact had to be ascertained. On what part of the coast had the tempest thrown them? How far must they go to regain the parallel. At what distance S. W. was Cape Bernouilli? This was soon determined by taking the position of the ship, and it was found that she had scarcely deviated two degrees from the route. They were in longitude 36 degrees 12 minutes, and latitude 32 degrees 67 minutes, at Cape Catastrophe, three hundred miles from Cape Bernouilli. The nearest port was Adelaide, the Capital of Southern Australia.

Could the DUNCAN be repaired there? This was the question. The extent of the injuries must first be ascertained, and in order to do this he ordered some of the men to dive down below the stern. Their report was that one of the branches of the screw was bent, and had got jammed against the stern post, which of course prevented all possibility of rotation. This was a serious damage, so serious as to require more skilful workmen than could be found in Adelaide.

After mature reflection, Lord Glenarvan and John Mangles came to the determination to sail round the Australian coast, stopping at Cape Bernouilli, and continuing their route south as far as Melbourne, where the DUNCAN could speedily be put right. This effected, they would proceed to cruise along the eastern coast to complete their search for the BRITANNIA.

This decision was unanimously approved, and it was agreed that they should start with the first fair wind. They had not to wait long for the same night the hurricane had ceased entirely, and there was only a manageable breeze from the S. W. Preparations for sailing were instantly commenced, and at four o’clock in the morning the crew lifted the anchors, and got under way with fresh canvas outspread, and a wind blowing right for the Australian shores.

Two hours afterward Cape Catastrophe was out of sight. In the evening they doubled Cape Borda, and came alongside Kangaroo Island. This is the largest of the Australian islands, and a great hiding place for runaway convicts. Its appearance was enchanting. The stratified rocks on the shore were richly carpeted with verdure, and innumerable kangaroos were jumping over the woods and plains, just as at the time of its discovery in 1802. Next day, boats were sent ashore to examine the coast minutely, as they were now on the 36th parallel, and between that and the 38th Glenarvan wished to leave no part unexplored.

The boats had hard, rough work of it now, but the men never complained. Glenarvan and his inseparable companion, Paganel, and young Robert generally accompanied them. But all this painstaking exploration came to nothing. Not a trace of the shipwreck could be seen anywhere. The Australian shores revealed no more than the Patagonian. However, it was not time yet to lose hope altogether, for they had not reached the exact point indicated by the document.

On the 20th of December, they arrived off Cape Bernouilli, which terminates Lacepede Bay, and yet not a vestige of the BRITANNIA had been discovered. Still this was not surprising, as it was two years since the occurrence of the catastrophe, and the sea might, and indeed must, have scattered and destroyed whatever fragments of the brig had remained. Besides, the natives who scent a wreck as the vultures do a dead body, would have pounced upon it and carried off the smaller DEBRIS. There was no doubt whatever Harry Grant and his companions had been made prisoners the moment the waves threw them on the shore, and been dragged away into the interior of the continent.

But if so, what becomes of Paganel’s ingenious hypothesis about the document? viz. that it had been thrown into a river and carried by a current into the sea. That was a plausible enough theory in Patagonia, but not in the part of Australia intersected by the 37th parallel. Besides the Patagonian rivers, the Rio Colorado and the Rio Negro, flow into the sea along deserted solitudes, uninhabited and uninhabitable; while, on the contrary, the principal rivers of Australia — the Murray, the Yarrow, the Torrens, the Darling — all connected with each other, throw themselves into the ocean by well-frequented routes, and their mouths are ports of great activity. What likelihood, consequently, would there be that a fragile bottle would ever find its way along such busy thoroughfares right out into the Indian Ocean?

Paganel himself saw the impossibility of it, and confessed to the Major, who raised a discussion on the subject, that his hypothesis would be altogether illogical in Australia. It was evident that the degrees given related to the place where the BRITANNIA was actually shipwrecked and not the place of captivity, and that the bottle therefore had been thrown into the sea on the western coast of the continent.

However, as Glenarvan justly remarked, this did not alter the fact of Captain Grant’s captivity in the least degree, though there was no reason now for prosecuting the search for him along the 37th parallel, more than any other. It followed, consequently, that if no traces of the BRITANNIA were discovered at Cape Bernouilli, the only thing to be done was to return to Europe. Lord Glenarvan would have been unsuccessful, but he would have done his duty courageously and conscientiously.

But the young Grants did not feel disheartened. They had long since said to themselves that the question of their father’s deliverance was about to be finally settled. Irrevocably, indeed, they might consider it, for as Paganel had judiciously demonstrated, if the wreck had occurred on the eastern side, the survivors would have found their way back to their own country long since.

“Hope on! Hope on, Mary!” said Lady Helena to the young girl, as they neared the shore; “God’s hand will still lead us.”

“Yes, Miss Mary,” said Captain John. “Man’s extremity is God’s opportunity. When one way is hedged up another is sure to open.”

“God grant it,” replied Mary.

Land was quite close now. The cape ran out two miles into the sea, and terminated in a gentle slope, and the boat glided easily into a sort of natural creek between coral banks in a state of formation, which in course of time would be a belt of coral reefs round the southern point of the Australian coast. Even now they were quite sufficiently formidable to destroy the keel of a ship, and the BRITANNIA might likely enough have been dashed to pieces on them.

The passengers landed without the least difficulty on an absolutely desert shore. Cliffs composed of beds of strata made a coast line sixty to eighty feet high, which it would have been difficult to scale without ladders or cramp-irons. John Mangles happened to discover a natural breach about half a mile south. Part of the cliff had been partially beaten down, no doubt, by the sea in some equinoctial gale. Through this opening the whole party passed and reached the top of the cliff by a pretty steep path. Robert climbed like a young cat, and was the first on the summit, to the despair of Paganel, who was quite ashamed to see his long legs, forty years old, out-distanced by a young urchin of twelve. However, he was far ahead of the Major, who gave himself no concern on the subject.

They were all soon assembled on the lofty crags, and from this elevation could command a view of the whole plain below. It appeared entirely uncultivated, and covered with shrubs and bushes. Glenarvan thought it resembled some glens in the lowlands of Scotland, and Paganel fancied it like some barren parts of Britanny. But along the coast the country appeared to be inhabited, and significant signs of industry revealed the presence of civilized men, not savages.

“A mill!” exclaimed Robert.

And, sure enough, in the distance the long sails of a mill appeared, apparently about three miles off.

“It certainly is a windmill,” said Paganel, after examining the object in question through his telescope.

“Let us go to it, then,” said Glenarvan.

Away they started, and, after walking about half an hour, the country began to assume a new aspect, suddenly changing its sterility for cultivation. Instead of bushes, quick-set hedges met the eye, inclosing recent clearings. Several bullocks and about half a dozen horses were feeding in meadows, surrounded by acacias supplied from the vast plantations of Kangaroo Island. Gradually fields covered with cereals came in sight, whole acres covered with bristling ears of corn, hay-ricks in the shape of large bee-hives, blooming orchards, a fine garden worthy of Horace, in which the useful and agreeable were blended; then came sheds; commons wisely distributed, and last of all, a plain comfortable dwelling-house, crowned by a joyous-sounding mill, and fanned and shaded by its long sails as they kept constantly moving round.

Just at that moment a pleasant-faced man, about fifty years of age, came out of the house, warned, by the loud barking of four dogs, of the arrival of strangers. He was followed by five handsome strapping lads, his sons, and their mother, a fine tall woman. There was no mistaking the little group. This was a perfect type of the Irish colonist — a man who, weary of the miseries of his country, had come, with his family, to seek fortune and happiness beyond the seas.

Before Glenarvan and his party had time to reach the house and present themselves in due form, they heard the cordial words: “Strangers! welcome to the house of Paddy O’Moore!”

“You are Irish,” said Glenarvan, “if I am not mistaken,” warmly grasping the outstretched hand of the colonist.

“I was,” replied Paddy O’Moore, “but now I am Australian. Come in, gentlemen, whoever you may be, this house is yours.”

It was impossible not to accept an invitation given with such grace. Lady Helena and Mary Grant were led in by Mrs. O’Moore, while the gentlemen were assisted by his sturdy sons to disencumber themselves of their fire-arms.

An immense hall, light and airy, occupied the ground floor of the house, which was built of strong planks laid horizontally. A few wooden benches fastened against the gaily-colored walls, about ten stools, two oak chests on tin mugs, a large long table where twenty guests could sit comfortably, composed the furniture, which looked in perfect keeping with the solid house and robust inmates.

The noonday meal was spread; the soup tureen was smoking between roast beef and a leg of mutton, surrounded by large plates of olives, grapes, and oranges. The necessary was there and there was no lack of the superfluous. The host and hostess were so pleasant, and the big table, with its abundant fare, looked so inviting, that it would have been ungracious not to have seated themselves. The farm servants, on equal footing with their master, were already in their places to take their share of the meal. Paddy O’Moore pointed to the seats reserved for the strangers, and said to Glenarvan:

“I was waiting for you.”

“Waiting for us!” replied Glenarvan in a tone of surprise.

“I am always waiting for those who come,” said the Irishman; and then, in a solemn voice, while the family and domestics reverently stood, he repeated the BENEDICITE.

Dinner followed immediately, during which an animated conversation was kept up on all sides. From Scotch to Irish is but a handsbreadth. The Tweed, several fathoms wide, digs a deeper trench between Scotland and England than the twenty leagues of Irish Channel, which separates Old Caledonia from the Emerald Isle. Paddy O’Moore related his history. It was that of all emigrants driven by misfortune from their own country. Many come to seek fortunes who only find trouble and sorrow, and then they throw the blame on chance, and forget the true cause is their own idleness and vice and want of commonsense. Whoever is sober and industrious, honest and economical, gets on.

Such a one had been and was Paddy O’Moore. He left Dundalk, where he was starving, and came with his family to Australia, landed at Adelaide, where, refusing employment as a miner, he got engaged on a farm, and two months afterward commenced clearing ground on his own account.

The whole territory of South Australia is divided into lots, each containing eighty acres, and these are granted to colonists by the government. Any industrious man, by proper cultivation, can not only get a living out of his lot, but lay by pounds 80 a year.

Paddy O’Moore knew this. He profited by his own former experience, and laid by every penny he could till he had saved enough to purchase new lots. His family prospered, and his farm also. The Irish peasant became a landed proprietor, and though his little estate had only been under cultivation for two years, he had five hundred acres cleared by his own hands, and five hundred head of cattle. He was his own master, after having been a serf in Europe, and as independent as one can be in the freest country in the world.

His guests congratulated him heartily as he ended his narration; and Paddy O’Moore no doubt expected confidence for confidence, but he waited in vain. However, he was one of those discreet people who can say, “I tell you who I am, but I don’t ask who you are.” Glenarvan’s great object was to get information about the BRITANNIA, and like a man who goes right to the point, he began at once to interrogate O’Moore as to whether he had heard of the shipwreck.

The reply of the Irishman was not favorable; he had never heard the vessel mentioned. For two years, at least, no ship had been wrecked on that coast, neither above nor below the Cape. Now, the date of the catastrophe was within two years. He could, therefore, declare positively that the survivors of the wreck had not been thrown on that part of the western shore. Now, my Lord,” he added, “may I ask what interest you have in making the inquiry?”

This pointed question elicited in reply the whole history of the expedition. Glenarvan related the discovery of the document, and the various attempts that had been made to follow up the precise indications given of the whereabouts of the unfortunate captives; and he concluded his account by expressing his doubt whether they should ever find the Captain after all.

His dispirited tone made a painful impression on the minds of his auditors. Robert and Mary could not keep back their tears, and Paganel had not a word of hope or comfort to give them. John Mangles was grieved to the heart, though he, too, was beginning to yield to the feeling of hopelessness which had crept over the rest, when suddenly the whole party were electrified by hearing a voice exclaim: “My Lord, praise and thank God! if Captain Grant is alive, he is on this Australian continent.”

CHAPTER I A ROUGH CAPTAIN

IF ever the searchers after Captain Grant were tempted to despair, surely it was at this moment when all their hopes were destroyed at a blow. Toward what quarter of the world should they direct their endeavors? How were they to explore new countries? The DUNCAN was no longer available, and even an immediate return to their own land was out of the question. Thus the enterprise of these generous Scots had failed! Failed! a despairing word that finds no echo in a brave soul; and yet under the repeated blows of adverse fate, Glenarvan himself was compelled to acknowledge his inability to prosecute his devoted efforts.

Mary Grant at this crisis nerved herself to the resolution never to utter the name of her father. She suppressed her own anguish, when she thought of the unfortunate crew who had perished. The daughter was merged in the friend, and she now took upon her to console Lady Glenarvan, who till now had been her faithful comforter. She was the first to speak of returning to Scotland. John Mangles was filled with admiration at seeing her so courageous and so resigned. He wanted to say a word further in the Captain’s interest, but Mary stopped him with a glance, and afterward said to him: “No, Mr. John, we must think of those who ventured their lives. Lord Glenarvan must return to Europe!”

“You are right, Miss Mary,” answered John Mangles; “he must. Beside, the English authorities must be informed of the fate of the DUNCAN. But do not despair. Rather than abandon our search I will resume it alone! I will either find Captain Grant or perish in the attempt!”

It was a serious undertaking to which John Mangles bound himself; Mary accepted, and gave her hand to the young captain, as if to ratify the treaty. On John Mangles’ side it was a life’s devotion; on Mary’s undying gratitude.

During that day, their departure was finally arranged; they resolved to reach Melbourne without delay.

Next day John went to inquire about the ships ready to sail.

He expected to find frequent communication between Eden and Victoria.

He was disappointed; ships were scarce. Three or four vessels, anchored in Twofold Bay, constituted the mercantile fleet of the place; none of them were bound for Melbourne, nor Sydney, nor Point de Galle, at any of which ports Glenarvan would have found ships loading for England. In fact, the Peninsular and Oriental Company has a regular line of packets between these points and England.

Under these circumstances, what was to be done? Waiting for a ship might be a tedious affair, for Twofold Bay is not much frequented. Numbers of ships pass by without touching. After due reflection and discussion, Glenarvan had nearly decided to follow the coast road to Sydney, when Paganel made an unexpected proposition.

The geographer had visited Twofold Bay on his own account, and was aware that there were no means of transport for Sydney or Melbourne. But of the three vessels anchored in the roadstead one was loading for Auckland, the capital of the northern island of New Zealand. Paganel’s proposal was to take the ship in question, and get to Auckland, whence it would be easy to return to Europe by the boats of the Peninsular and Oriental Company.

This proposition was taken into serious consideration. Paganel on this occasion dispensed with the volley of arguments he generally indulged in. He confined himself to the bare proposition, adding that the voyage to New Zealand was only five or six days — the distance, in fact, being only about a thousand miles.

By a singular coincidence Auckland is situated on the self-same parallel — the thirty-seventh — which the explorers had perseveringly followed since they left the coast of Araucania. Paganel might fairly have used this as an argument in favor of his scheme; in fact, it was a natural opportunity of visiting the shores of New Zealand.

But Paganel did not lay stress on this argument. After two mistakes, he probably hesitated to attempt a third interpretation of the document. Besides, what could he make of it? It said positively that a “continent” had served as a refuge for Captain Grant, not an island. Now, New Zealand was nothing but an island. This seemed decisive. Whether, for this reason, or for some other, Paganel did not connect any idea of further search with this proposition of reaching Auckland. He merely observed that regular communication existed between that point and Great Britain, and that it was easy to take advantage of it.

John Mangles supported Paganel’s proposal. He advised its adoption, as it was hopeless to await the problematical arrival of a vessel in Twofold Bay. But before coming to any decision, he thought it best to visit the ship mentioned by the geographer. Glenarvan, the Major, Paganel, Robert, and Mangles himself, took a boat, and a few strokes brought them alongside the ship anchored two cables’ length from the quay.

It was a brig of 150 tons, named the MACQUARIE. It was engaged in the coasting trade between the various ports of Australia and New Zealand. The captain, or rather the “master,” received his visitors gruffly enough. They perceived that they had to do with a man of no education, and whose manners were in no degree superior to those of the five sailors of his crew. With a coarse, red face, thick hands, and a broken nose, blind of an eye, and his lips stained with the pipe, Will Halley was a sadly brutal looking person. But they had no choice, and for so short a voyage it was not necessary to be very particular.

“What do you want?” asked Will Halley, when the strangers stepped on the poop of his ship.

“The captain,” answered John Mangles.

“I am the captain,” said Halley. “What else do you want?”

“The MACQUARIE is loading for Auckland, I believe?”

“Yes. What else?”

“What does she carry?”

“Everything salable and purchasable. What else?”

“When does she sail?”

“To-morrow at the mid-day tide. What else?”

“Does she take passengers?”

“That depends on who the passengers are, and whether they are satisfied with the ship’s mess.”

“They would bring their own provisions.”

“What else?”

“What else?”

“Yes. How many are there?”

“Nine; two of them are ladies.”

“I have no cabins.”

“We will manage with such space as may be left at their disposal.”

“What else?”

“Do you agree?” said John Mangles, who was not in the least put out by the captain’s peculiarities.

“We’ll see,” said the master of the MACQUARIE.

Will Halley took two or three turns on the poop, making it resound with iron-heeled boots, and then he turned abruptly to John Mangles.

“What would you pay?” said he.

“What do you ask?” replied John.

“Fifty pounds.”

Glenarvan looked consent.

“Very good! Fifty pounds,” replied John Mangles.

“But passage only,” added Halley.

“Yes, passage only.”

“Food extra.”

“Extra.”

“Agreed. And now,” said Will, putting out his hand, “what about the deposit money?”

“Here is half of the passage-money, twenty-five pounds,” said Mangles, counting out the sum to the master.

“All aboard to-morrow,” said he, “before noon. Whether or no, I weigh anchor.”

“We will be punctual.”

This said, Glenarvan, the Major, Robert, Paganel, and John Mangles left the ship, Halley not so much as touching the oilskin that adorned his red locks.

“What a brute,” exclaimed John.

“He will do,” answered Paganel. “He is a regular sea-wolf.”

“A downright bear!” added the Major.

“I fancy,” said John Mangles, “that the said bear has dealt in human flesh in his time.”

“What matter?” answered Glenarvan, “as long as he commands the MACQUARIE, and the MACQUARIE goes to New Zealand. From Twofold Bay to Auckland we shall not see much of him; after Auckland we shall see him no more.”

Lady Helena and Mary Grant were delighted to hear that their departure was arranged for to-morrow. Glenarvan warned them that the MACQUARIE was inferior in comfort to the DUNCAN. But after what they had gone through, they were indifferent to trifling annoyances. Wilson was told off to arrange the accommodation on board the MACQUARIE. Under his busy brush and broom things soon changed their aspect.

Will Halley shrugged his shoulders, and let the sailor have his way. Glenarvan and his party gave him no concern. He neither knew, nor cared to know, their names. His new freight represented fifty pounds, and he rated it far below the two hundred tons of cured hides which were stowed away in his hold. Skins first, men after. He was a merchant. As to his sailor qualification, he was said to be skillful enough in navigating these seas, whose reefs make them very dangerous.

As the day drew to a close, Glenarvan had a desire to go again to the point on the coast cut by the 37th parallel. Two motives prompted him. He wanted to examine once more the presumed scene of the wreck. Ayrton had certainly been quartermaster on the BRITANNIA, and the BRITANNIA might have been lost on this part of the Australian coast; on the east coast if not on the west. It would not do to leave without thorough investigation, a locality which they were never to revisit.

And then, failing the BRITANNIA, the DUNCAN certainly had fallen into the hands of the convicts. Perhaps there had been a fight? There might yet be found on the coast traces of a struggle, a last resistance. If the crew had perished among the waves, the waves probably had thrown some bodies on the shore.

Glenarvan, accompanied by his faithful John, went to carry out the final search. The landlord of the Victoria Hotel lent them two horses, and they set out on the northern road that skirts Twofold Bay.

It was a melancholy journey. Glenarvan and Captain John trotted along without speaking, but they understood each other. The same thoughts, the same anguish harrowed both their hearts. They looked at the sea-worn rocks; they needed no words of question or answer. John’s well-tried zeal and intelligence were a guarantee that every point was scrupulously examined, the least likely places, as well as the sloping beaches and sandy plains where even the slight tides of the Pacific might have thrown some fragments of wreck. But no indication was seen that could suggest further search in that quarter — all trace of the wreck escaped them still.

As to the DUNCAN, no trace either. All that part of Australia, bordering the ocean, was desert.

Still John Mangles discovered on the skirts of the shore evident traces of camping, remains of fires recently kindled under solitary Myall-trees. Had a tribe of wandering blacks passed that way lately? No, for Glenarvan saw a token which furnished incontestable proof that the convicts had frequented that part of the coast.

This token was a grey and yellow garment worn and patched, an ill-omened rag thrown down at the foot of a tree. It bore the convict’s original number at the Perth Penitentiary. The felon was not there, but his filthy garments betrayed his passage. This livery of crime, after having clothed some miscreant, was now decaying on this desert shore.

“You see, John,” said Glenarvan, “the convicts got as far as here! and our poor comrades of the DUNCAN — “

“Yes,” said John, in a low voice, “they never landed, they perished!”

“Those wretches!” cried Glenarvan. “If ever they fall into my hands I will avenge my crew — “

Grief had hardened Glenarvan’s features. For some minutes he gazed at the expanse before him, as if taking a last look at some ship disappearing in the distance. Then his eyes became dim; he recovered himself in a moment, and without a word or look, set off at a gallop toward Eden.

The wanderers passed their last evening sadly enough. Their thoughts recalled all the misfortunes they had encountered in this country.

They remembered how full of well-warranted hope they had been at Cape Bernouilli, and how cruelly disappointed at Twofold Bay!

Paganel was full of feverish agitation. John Mangles, who had watched him since the affair at Snowy River, felt that the geographer was hesitating whether to speak or not to speak. A thousand times he had pressed him with questions, and failed in obtaining an answer.

But that evening, John, in lighting him to his room, asked him why he was so nervous.

“Friend John,” said Paganel, evasively, “I am not more nervous to-night than I always am.”

“Mr. Paganel,” answered John, “you have a secret that chokes you.”

“Well!” cried the geographer, gesticulating, “what can I do?

It is stronger than I!”

“What is stronger?”

“My joy on the one hand, my despair on the other.”

“You rejoice and despair at the same time!”

“Yes; at the idea of visiting New Zealand.”

“Why! have you any trace?” asked John, eagerly. “Have you recovered the lost tracks?”

“No, friend John. No one returns from New Zealand; but still — you know human nature. All we want to nourish hope is breath. My device is ‘Spiro spero,’ and it is the best motto in the world!”

CHAPTER II NAVIGATORS AND THEIR DISCOVERIES

NEXT day, the 27th of January, the passengers of the MACQUARIE were installed on board the brig. Will Halley had not offered his cabin to his lady passengers. This omission was the less to be deplored, for the den was worthy of the bear.

At half past twelve the anchor was weighed, having been loosed from its holding-ground with some difficulty. A moderate breeze was blowing from the southwest. The sails were gradually unfurled; the five hands made slow work. Wilson offered to assist the crew; but Halley begged him to be quiet and not to interfere with what did not concern him. He was accustomed to manage his own affairs, and required neither assistance nor advice.

This was aimed at John Mangles, who had smiled at the clumsiness of some maneuver. John took the hint, but mentally resolved that he would nevertheless hold himself in readiness in case the incapacity of the crew should endanger the safety of the vessel.

However, in time, the sails were adjusted by the five sailors, aided by the stimulus of the captain’s oaths. The MACQUARIE stood out to sea on the larboard tack, under all her lower sails, topsails, topgallants, cross-jack, and jib. By and by, the other sails were hoisted. But in spite of this additional canvas the brig made very little way. Her rounded bow, the width of her hold, and her heavy stern, made her a bad sailor, the perfect type of a wooden shoe.

They had to make the best of it. Happily, five days, or, at most, six, would take them to Auckland, no matter how bad a sailor the MACQUARIE was.

At seven o’clock in the evening the Australian coast and the lighthouse of the port of Eden had faded out of sight. The ship labored on the lumpy sea, and rolled heavily in the trough of the waves. The passengers below suffered a good deal from this motion. But it was impossible to stay on deck, as it rained violently. Thus they were condemned to close imprisonment.

Each one of them was lost in his own reflections. Words were few. Now and then Lady Helena and Miss Grant exchanged a few syllables. Glenarvan was restless; he went in and out, while the Major was impassive. John Mangles, followed by Robert, went on the poop from time to time, to look at the weather. Paganel sat in his corner, muttering vague and incoherent words.

What was the worthy geographer thinking of? Of New Zealand, the country to which destiny was leading him. He went mentally over all his history; he called to mind the scenes of the past in that ill-omened country.

But in all that history was there a fact, was there a solitary incident that could justify the discoverers of these islands in considering them as “a continent.” Could a modern geographer or a sailor concede to them such a designation. Paganel was always revolving the meaning of the document. He was possessed with the idea; it became his ruling thought. After Patagonia, after Australia, his imagination, allured by a name, flew to New Zealand. But in that direction, one point, and only one, stood in his way.

“Contin — contin,” he repeated, “that must mean continent!”

And then he resumed his mental retrospect of the navigators who made known to us these two great islands of the Southern Sea.

It was on the 13th of December, 1642, that the Dutch navigator Tasman, after discovering Van Diemen’s Land, sighted the unknown shores of New Zealand. He coasted along for several days, and on the 17th of December his ships penetrated into a large bay, which, terminating in a narrow strait, separated the two islands.

The northern island was called by the natives Ikana-Mani, a word which signifies the fish of Mani. The southern island was called Tavai-Pouna-Mou, “the whale that yields the green-stones.”

Abel Tasman sent his boats on shore, and they returned accompanied by two canoes and a noisy company of natives. These savages were middle height, of brown or yellow complexion, angular bones, harsh voices, and black hair, which was dressed in the Japanese manner, and surmounted by a tall white feather.

This first interview between Europeans and aborigines seemed to promise amicable and lasting intercourse. But the next day, when one of Tasman’s boats was looking for an anchorage nearer to the land, seven canoes, manned by a great number of natives, attacked them fiercely. The boat capsized and filled. The quartermaster in command was instantly struck with a badly-sharpened spear, and fell into the sea. Of his six companions four were killed; the other two and the quartermaster were able to swim to the ships, and were picked up and recovered.

After this sad occurrence Tasman set sail, confining his revenge to giving the natives a few musket-shots, which probably did not reach them. He left this bay — which still bears the name of Massacre Bay — followed the western coast, and on the 5th of January, anchored near the northern-most point. Here the violence of the surf, as well as the unfriendly attitude of the natives, prevented his obtaining water, and he finally quitted these shores, giving them the name Staten-land or the Land of the States, in honor of the States-General.

The Dutch navigator concluded that these islands were adjacent to the islands of the same name on the east of Terra del Fuego, at the southern point of the American continent. He thought he had found “the Great Southern Continent.”

“But,” said Paganel to himself, “what a seventeenth century sailor might call a ‘continent’ would never stand for one with a nineteenth century man. No such mistake can be supposed! No! there is something here that baffles me.”

CHAPTER VII THE MAORI WAR

GLENARVAN would have liked to start without an hour’s delay, and follow the coast to Auckland. But since the morning heavy clouds had been gathering, and toward eleven o’clock, after the landing was effected, the vapors condensed into violent rain, so that instead of starting they had to look for shelter.

Wilson was fortunate enough to discover what just suited their wants: a grotto hollowed out by the sea in the basaltic rocks. Here the travelers took shelter with their arms and provisions. In the cave they found a ready-garnered store of dried sea-weed, which formed a convenient couch; for fire, they lighted some wood near the mouth of the cavern, and dried themselves as well as they could.

John hoped that the duration of this deluge of rain would be in an inverse ratio to its violence, but he was doomed to disappointment. Hours passed without any abatement of its fury. Toward noon the wind freshened, and increased the force of the storm. The most patient of men would have rebelled at such an untoward incident; but what could be done; without any vehicle, they could not brave such a tempest; and, after all, unless the natives appeared on the scene, a delay of twelve hours was not so much consequence, as the journey to Auckland was only a matter of a few days. During this involuntary halt, the conversation turned on the incidents of the New Zealand war. But to understand and appreciate the critical position into which these MACQUARIE passengers were thrown, something ought to be known of the history of the struggle which had deluged the island of Ika-na-Mani with blood.

Since the arrival of Abel Tasman in Cook’s Strait, on the 16th of December, 1642, though the New Zealanders had often been visited by European vessels, they had maintained their liberty in their several islands. No European power had thought of taking possession of this archipelago, which commands the whole Pacific Ocean. The missionaries stationed at various points were the sole channels of Christian civilization. Some of them, especially the Anglicans, prepared the minds of the New Zealand chiefs for submitting to the English yoke. It was cleverly managed, and these chiefs were influenced to sign a letter addressed to Queen Victoria to ask her protection. But the most clearsighted of them saw the folly of this step; and one of them, after having affixed his tattoo-mark to the letter by way of signature, uttered these prophetic words: “We have lost our country! henceforth it is not ours; soon the stranger will come and take it, and we shall be his slaves.”

And so it was; on January 29, 1840, the English corvette HERALD arrived to claim possession.

From the year 1840, till the day the DUNCAN left the Clyde, nothing had happened here that Paganel did not know and he was ready to impart his information to his companions.

“Madam,” said he, in answer to Lady Helena’s questions, “I must repeat what I had occasion to remark before, that the New Zealanders are a courageous people, who yielded for a moment, but afterward fought foot to foot against the English invaders. The Maori tribes are organized like the old clans of Scotland. They are so many great families owning a chief, who is very jealous of his prerogative. The men of this race are proud and brave, one tribe tall, with straight hair, like the Maltese, or the Jews of Bagdad; the other smaller, thickset like mulattoes, but robust, haughty, and warlike. They had a famous chief, named Hihi, a real Vercingetorix, so that you need not be astonished that the war with the English has become chronic in the Northern Island, for in it is the famous tribe of the Waikatos, who defend their lands under the leadership of William Thompson.”

“But,” said John Mangles, “are not the English in possession of the principal points in New Zealand?”

“Certainly, dear John,” replied Paganel. “After Captain Hobson took formal possession, and became governor, nine colonies were founded at various times between 1840 and 1862, in the most favorable situations. These formed the nucleus of nine provinces, four in the North Island and five in the southern island, with a total population of 184,346 inhabitants on the 30th of June, 1864.”

“But what about this interminable war?” asked John Mangles.

“Well,” said Paganel, “six long months have gone by since we left Europe, and I cannot say what may have happened during that time, with the exception of a few facts which I gathered from the newspapers of Maryborough and Seymour during our Australian journey. At that time the fighting was very lively in the Northern Island.”

“And when did the war commence?” asked Mary Grant.

“Recommence, you mean, my dear young lady,” replied Paganel; “for there was an insurrection so far back as 1845. The present war began toward the close of 1863; but long before that date the Maories were occupied in making preparations to shake off the English yoke. The national party among the natives carried on an active propaganda for the election of a Maori ruler. The object was to make old Potatau king, and to fix as the capital of the new kingdom his village, which lay between the Waikato and Waipa Rivers. Potatau was an old man, remarkable rather for cunning than bravery; but he had a Prime Minister who was both intelligent and energetic, a descendant of the Ngatihahuas, who occupied the isthmus before the arrival of the strangers. This minister, William Thompson, became the soul of the War of Independence, and organized the Maori troops, with great skill. Under this guidance a Taranaki chief gathered the scattered tribes around the same flag; a Waikato chief formed a ‘Land League,’ intended to prevent the natives from selling their land to the English Government, and warlike feasts were held just as in civilized countries on the verge of revolution. The English newspapers began to notice these alarming symptoms, and the government became seriously disturbed at these ‘Land League’ proceedings. In short, the train was laid, and the mine was ready to explode. Nothing was wanted but the spark, or rather the shock of rival interests to produce the spark.

“This shock took place in 1860, in the Taranaki province on the southwest coast of Ika-na-Mani. A native had six hundred acres of land in the neighborhood of New Plymouth. He sold them to the English Government; but when the surveyor came to measure the purchased land, the chief Kingi protested, and by the month of March he had made the six hundred acres in question into a fortified camp, surrounded with high palisades. Some days after Colonel Gold carried this fortress at the head of his troops, and that day heard the first shot fired of the native war.”

“Have the rebels been successful up to this time?”

“Yes, Madam, and the English themselves have often been compelled to admire the courage and bravery of the New Zealanders. Their mode of warfare is of the guerilla type; they form skirmishing parties, come down in small detachments, and pillage the colonists’ homes. General Cameron had no easy time in the campaigns, during which every bush had to be searched. In 1863, after a long and sanguinary struggle, the Maories were entrenched in strong and fortified position on the Upper Waikato, at the end of a chain of steep hills, and covered by three miles of forts. The native prophets called on all the Maori population to defend the soil, and promised the extermination of the pakekas, or white men. General Cameron had three thousand volunteers at his disposal, and they gave no quarter to the Maories after the barbarous murder of Captain Sprent. Several bloody engagements took place; in some instances the fighting lasted twelve hours before the Maories yielded to the English cannonade. The heart of the army was the fierce Waikato tribe under William Thompson. This native general commanded at the outset 2,500 warriors, afterward increased to 8,000. The men of Shongi and Heki, two powerful chiefs, came to his assistance. The women took their part in the most trying labors of this patriotic war. But right has not always might. After severe struggles General Cameron succeeded in subduing the Waikato district, but empty and depopulated, for the Maories escaped in all directions. Some wonderful exploits were related. Four hundred Maories who were shut up in the fortress of Orakau, besieged by 1,000 English, under Brigadier-General Carey, without water or provisions, refused to surrender, but one day at noon cut their way through the then decimated 40th Regiment, and escaped to the marshes.”

“But,” asked John Mangles, “did the submission of the Waikato district put an end to this sanguinary war?”

“No, my friend,” replied Paganel. “The English resolved to march on Taranaki province and besiege Mataitawa, William Thompson’s fortress. But they did not carry it without great loss. Just as I was leaving Paris, I heard that the Governor and the General had accepted the submission of the Tauranga tribes, and left them in possession of three-fourths of their lands. It was also rumored that the principal chief of the rebellion, William Thompson, was inclined to surrender, but the Australian papers have not confirmed this, but rather the contrary, and I should not be surprised to find that at this moment the war is going on with renewed vigor.”

“Then, according to you, Paganel,” said Glenarvan, “this struggle is still going on in the provinces of Auckland and Taranaki?”

“I think so.”

“This very province where the MACQUARIE’S wreck has deposited us.”

“Exactly. We have landed a few miles above Kawhia harbor, where the Maori flag is probably still floating.”

“Then our most prudent course would be to keep toward the north,” remarked Glenarvan.

“By far the most prudent,” said Paganel. “The New Zealanders are incensed against Europeans, and especially against the English. Therefore let us avoid falling into their hands.”

“We might have the good fortune to fall in with a detachment of European troops,” said Lady Helena.

“We may, Madam,” replied the geographer; “but I do not expect it. Detached parties do not like to go far into the country, where the smallest tussock, the thinnest brushwood, may conceal an accomplished marksman. I don’t fancy we shall pick up an escort of the 40th Regiment. But there are mission-stations on this west coast, and we shall be able to make them our halting-places till we get to Auckland.”

CHAPTER VIII ON THE ROAD TO AUCKLAND

ON the 7th of February, at six o’clock in the morning, the signal for departure was given by Glenarvan. During the night the rain had ceased. The sky was veiled with light gray clouds, which moderated the heat of the sun, and allowed the travelers to venture on a journey by day.

Paganel had measured on the map a distance of eighty miles between Point Kawhia and Auckland; it was an eight days’ journey if they made ten miles a day. But instead of following the windings of the coast, he thought it better to make for a point thirty miles off, at the confluence of the Waikato and the Waipa, at the village of Ngarnavahia. The “overland track” passes that point, and is rather a path than a road, practicable for the vehicles which go almost across the island, from Napier, in Hawke’s Bay, to Auckland. From this village it would be easy to reach Drury, and there they could rest in an excellent hotel, highly recommended by Dr. Hochstetter.

The travelers, each carrying a share of the provisions, commenced to follow the shore of Aotea Bay. From prudential motives they did not allow themselves to straggle, and by instinct they kept a look-out over the undulating plains to the eastward, ready with their loaded carbines. Paganel, map in hand, took a professional pleasure in verifying the minutest details.

The country looked like an immense prairie which faded into distance, and promised an easy walk. But the travelers were undeceived when they came to the edge of this verdant plain. The grass gave way to a low scrub of small bushes bearing little white flowers, mixed with those innumerable tall ferns with which the lands of New Zealand abound. They had to cut a path across the plain, through these woody stems, and this was a matter of some difficulty, but at eight o’clock in the evening the first slopes of the Hakarihoata Ranges were turned, and the party camped immediately. After a fourteen miles’ march, they might well think of resting.

Neither wagon or tent being available, they sought repose beneath some magnificent Norfolk Island pines. They had plenty of rugs which make good beds. Glenarvan took every possible precaution for the night. His companions and he, well armed, were to watch in turns, two and two, till daybreak. No fires were lighted. Barriers of fire are a potent preservation from wild beasts, but New Zealand has neither tiger, nor lion, nor bear, nor any wild animal, but the Maori adequately fills their place, and a fire would only have served to attract this two-footed jaguar.

The night passed pleasantly with the exception of the attack of the sand-flies, called by the natives, “ngamu,” and the visit of the audacious family of rats, who exercised their teeth on the provisions.

Next day, on the 8th of February, Paganel rose more sanguine, and almost reconciled to the country. The Maories, whom he particularly dreaded, had not yet appeared, and these ferocious cannibals had not molested him even in his dreams. “I begin to think that our little journey will end favorably. This evening we shall reach the confluence of the Waipa and Waikato, and after that there is not much chance of meeting natives on the way to Auckland.”

“How far is it now,” said Glenarvan, “to the confluence of the Waipa and Waikato?”

“Fifteen miles; just about what we did yesterday.”

“But we shall be terribly delayed if this interminable scrub continues to obstruct our path.”

“No,” said Paganel, “we shall follow the banks of the Waipa, and then we shall have no obstacle, but on the contrary, a very easy road.”

“Well, then,” said Glenarvan, seeing the ladies ready, “let us make a start.”

During the early part of the day, the thick brushwood seriously impeded their progress. Neither wagon nor horses could have passed where travelers passed, so that their Australian vehicle was but slightly regretted. Until practicable wagon roads are cut through these forests of scrub, New Zealand will only be accessible to foot passengers. The ferns, whose name is legion, concur with the Maories in keeping strangers off the lands.

The little party overcame many obstacles in crossing the plains in which the Hakarihoata Ranges rise. But before noon they reached the banks of the Waipa, and followed the northward course of the river.

The Major and Robert, without leaving their companions, shot some snipe and partridge under the low shrubs of the plain. Olbinett, to save time, plucked the birds as he went along.

Paganel was less absorbed by the culinary importance of the game than by the desire of obtaining some bird peculiar to New Zealand. His curiosity as a naturalist overcame his hunger as a traveler. He called to mind the peculiarities of the “tui” of the natives, sometimes called the mocking-bird from its incessant chuckle, and sometimes “the parson,” in allusion to the white cravat it wears over its black, cassock-like plumage.

“The tui,” said Paganel to the Major, “grows so fat during the Winter that it makes him ill, and prevents him from flying. Then he tears his breast with his beak, to relieve himself of his fat, and so becomes lighter. Does not that seem to you singular, McNabbs?”

“So singular that I don’t believe a word of it,” replied the Major.

Paganel, to his great regret, could not find a single specimen, or he might have shown the incredulous Major the bloody scars on the breast. But he was more fortunate with a strange animal which, hunted by men, cats and dogs, has fled toward the unoccupied country, and is fast disappearing from the fauna of New Zealand. Robert, searching like a ferret, came upon a nest made of interwoven roots, and in it a pair of birds destitute of wings and tail, with four toes, a long snipe-like beak, and a covering of white feathers over the whole body, singular creatures, which seemed to connect the oviparous tribes with the mam-mifers.

It was the New Zealand “kiwi,” the Apteryx australis of naturalists, which lives with equal satisfaction on larvae, insects, worms or seeds. This bird is peculiar to the country. It has been introduced into very few of the zoological collections of Europe. Its graceless shape and comical motions have always attracted the notice of travelers, and during the great exploration of the Astrolabe and the Zelee, Dumont d’Urville was principally charged by the Academy of Sciences to bring back a specimen of these singular birds. But in spite of rewards offered to the natives, he could not obtain a single specimen.

Paganel, who was elated at such a piece of luck, tied the two birds together, and carried them along with the intention of presenting them to the Jardin des Plantes, in Paris. “Presented by M. Jacques Paganel.” He mentally saw the flattering inscription on the handsomest cage in the gardens. Sanguine geographer!

The party pursued their way without fatigue along the banks of the Waipa. The country was quite deserted; not a trace of natives, nor any track that could betray the existence of man. The stream was fringed with tall bushes, or glided along sloping banks, so that nothing obstructed the view of the low range of hills which closed the eastern end of the valley. With their grotesque shapes, and their outlines lost in a deceptive haze, they brought to mind giant animals, worthy of antediluvian times. They might have been a herd of enormous whales, suddenly turned to stone. These disrupted masses proclaimed their essentially volcanic character. New Zealand is, in fact, a formation of recent plutonic origin. Its emergence from the sea is constantly increasing. Some points are known to have risen six feet in twenty years. Fire still runs across its center, shakes it, convulses it, and finds an outlet in many places by the mouths of geysers and the craters of volcanoes.

At four in the afternoon, nine miles had been easily accomplished. According to the map which Paganel constantly referred to, the confluence of the Waipa and Waikato ought to be reached about five miles further on, and there the night halt could be made. Two or three days would then suffice for the fifty miles which lay between them and the capital; and if Glenarvan happened to fall in with the mail coach that plies between Hawkes’ Bay and Auckland twice a month, eight hours would be sufficient.

“Therefore,” said Glenarvan, “we shall be obliged to camp during the night once more.”

“Yes,” said Paganel, “but I hope for the last time.”

“I am very glad to think so, for it is very trying for Lady Helena and Mary Grant.”

“And they never utter a murmur,” added John Mangles. “But I think I heard you mention a village at the confluence of these rivers.”

“Yes,” said the geographer, “here it is, marked on Johnston’s map.

It is Ngarnavahia, two miles below the junction.”

“Well, could we not stay there for the night? Lady Helena and Miss Grant would not grudge two miles more to find a hotel even of a humble character.”

“A hotel!” cried Paganel, “a hotel in a Maori village! you would not find an inn, not a tavern! This village will be a mere cluster of huts, and so far from seeking rest there, my advice is that you give it a wide berth.”

“Your old fears, Paganel!” retorted Glenarvan.

“My dear Lord, where Maories are concerned, distrust is safer than confidence. I do not know on what terms they are with the English, whether the insurrection is suppressed or successful, or whether indeed the war may not be going on with full vigor. Modesty apart, people like us would be a prize, and I must say, I would rather forego a taste of Maori hospitality. I think it certainly more prudent to avoid this village of Ngarnavahia, to skirt it at a distance, so as to avoid all encounters with the natives. When we reach Drury it will be another thing, and there our brave ladies will be able to recruit their strength at their leisure.”

This advice prevailed. Lady Helena preferred to pass another night in the open air, and not to expose her companions to danger. Neither Mary Grant or she wished to halt, and they continued their march along the river.

Two hours later, the first shades of evening began to fall. The sun, before disappearing below the western horizon, darted some bright rays through an opening in the clouds. The distant eastern summits were empurpled with the parting glories of the day. It was like a flying salute addressed to the way-worn travelers.

Glenarvan and his friends hastened their steps, they knew how short the twilight is in this high latitude, and how quickly the night follows it. They were very anxious to reach the confluence of the two rivers before the darkness overtook them. But a thick fog rose from the ground, and made it very difficult to see the way.

Fortunately hearing stood them in the stead of sight; shortly a nearer sound of water indicated that the confluence was at hand. At eight o’clock the little troop arrived at the point where the Waipa loses itself in the Waikato, with a moaning sound of meeting waves.

“There is the Waikato!” cried Paganel, “and the road to Auckland is along its right bank.”

“We shall see that to-morrow,” said the Major, “Let us camp here. It seems to me that that dark shadow is that of a little clump of trees grown expressly to shelter us. Let us have supper and then get some sleep.”

“Supper by all means,” said Paganel, “but no fire; nothing but biscuit and dried meat. We have reached this spot incognito, let us try and get away in the same manner. By good luck, the fog is in our favor.”

The clump of trees was reached and all concurred in the wish of the geographer. The cold supper was eaten without a sound, and presently a profound sleep overcame the travelers, who were tolerably fatigued with their fifteen miles’ march.

CHAPTER IX INTRODUCTION TO THE CANNIBALS

THE next morning at daybreak a thick fog was clinging to the surface of the river. A portion of the vapors that saturated the air were condensed by the cold, and lay as a dense cloud on the water. But the rays of the sun soon broke through the watery mass and melted it away.

A tongue of land, sharply pointed and bristling with bushes, projected into the uniting streams. The swifter waters of the Waipa rushed against the current of the Waikato for a quarter of a mile before they mingled with it; but the calm and majestic river soon quieted the noisy stream and carried it off quietly in its course to the Pacific Ocean.

When the vapor disappeared, a boat was seen ascending the current of the Waikato. It was a canoe seventy feet long, five broad, and three deep; the prow raised like that of a Venetian gondola, and the whole hollowed out of a trunk of a kahikatea. A bed of dry fern was laid at the bottom. It was swiftly rowed by eight oars, and steered with a paddle by a man seated in the stern.

This man was a tall Maori, about forty-five years of age, broad-chested, muscular, with powerfully developed hands and feet. His prominent and deeply-furrowed brow, his fierce look, and sinister expression, gave him a formidable aspect.

Tattooing, or “moko,” as the New Zealanders call it, is a mark of great distinction. None is worthy of these honorary lines, who has not distinguished himself in repeated fights. The slaves and the lower class can not obtain this decoration. Chiefs of high position may be known by the finish and precision and truth of the design, which sometimes covers their whole bodies with the figures of animals. Some are found to undergo the painful operation of “moko” five times. The more illustrious, the more illustrated, is the rule of New Zealand.

Dumont D’Urville has given some curious details as to this custom. He justly observes that “moko” is the counterpart of the armorial bearings of which many families in Europe are so vain. But he remarks that there is this difference: the armorial bearings of Europe are frequently a proof only of the merits of the first who bore them, and are no certificate of the merits of his descendants; while the individual coat-of-arms of the Maori is an irrefragible proof that it was earned by the display of extraordinary personal courage.

The practice of tattooing, independently of the consideration it procures, has also a useful aspect. It gives the cu-taneous system an increased thickness, enabling it to resist the inclemency of the season and the incessant attacks of the mosquito.

As to the chief who was steering the canoe, there could be no mistake. The sharpened albatross bone used by the Maori tattooer, had five times scored his countenance. He was in his fifth edition, and betrayed it in his haughty bearing.

His figure, draped in a large mat woven of “phormium” trimmed with dogskins, was clothed with a pair of cotton drawers, blood-stained from recent combats. From the pendant lobe of his ears hung earrings of green jade, and round his neck a quivering necklace of “pounamous,” a kind of jade stone sacred among the New Zealanders. At his side lay an English rifle, and a “patou-patou,” a kind of two-headed ax of an emerald color, and eighteen inches long. Beside him sat nine armed warriors of inferior rank, ferocious-looking fellows, some of them suffering from recent wounds. They sat quite motionless, wrapped in their flax mantles. Three savage-looking dogs lay at their feet. The eight rowers in the prow seemed to be servants or slaves of the chief. They rowed vigorously, and propelled the boat against the not very rapid current of the Waikato, with extraordinary velocity.

In the center of this long canoe, with their feet tied together, sat ten European prisoners closely packed together.

It was Glenarvan and Lady Helena, Mary Grant, Robert, Paganel, the Major, John Mangles, the steward, and the two sailors.

The night before, the little band had unwittingly, owing to the mist, encamped in the midst of a numerous party of natives. Toward the middle of the night they were surprised in their sleep, were made prisoners, and carried on board the canoe. They had not been ill-treated, so far, but all attempts at resistance had been vain. Their arms and ammunition were in the hands of the savages, and they would soon have been targets for their own balls.

They were soon aware, from a few English words used by the natives, that they were a retreating party of the tribe who had been beaten and decimated by the English troops, and were on their way back to the Upper Waikato. The Maori chief, whose principal warriors had been picked off by the soldiers of the 42nd Regiment, was returning to make a final appeal to the tribes of the Waikato district, so that he might go to the aid of the indomitable William Thompson, who was still holding his own against the conquerors. The chief’s name was “Kai-Koumou,” a name of evil boding in the native language, meaning “He who eats the limbs of his enemy.” He was bold and brave, but his cruelty was equally remarkable. No pity was to be expected at his hands. His name was well known to the English soldiers, and a price had been set on his head by the governor of New Zealand.

This terrible blow befell Glenarvan at the very moment when he was about to reach the long-desired haven of Auckland, and so regain his own country; but no one who looked at his cool, calm features, could have guessed the anguish he endured. Glenarvan always rose to his misfortunes. He felt that his part was to be the strength and the example of his wife and companions; that he was the head and chief; ready to die for the rest if circumstances required it. He was of a deeply religious turn of mind, and never lost his trust in Providence nor his belief in the sacred character of his enterprise. In the midst of this crowning peril he did not give way to any feeling of regret at having been induced to venture into this country of savages.

His companions were worthy of him; they entered into his lofty views; and judging by their haughty demeanor, it would scarcely have been supposed that they were hurrying to the final catastrophe. With one accord, and by Glenarvan’s advice, they resolved to affect utter indifference before the natives. It was the only way to impress these ferocious natures. Savages in general, and particularly the Maories, have a notion of dignity from which they never derogate. They respect, above all things, coolness and courage. Glenarvan was aware that by this mode of procedure, he and his companions would spare themselves needless humiliation.

From the moment of embarking, the natives, who were very taciturn, like all savages, had scarcely exchanged a word, but from the few sentences they did utter, Glenarvan felt certain that the English language was familiar to them. He therefore made up his mind to question the chief on the fate that awaited them. Addressing himself to Kai-Koumou, he said in a perfectly unconcerned voice: “Where are we going, chief?”

Kai-Koumou looked coolly at him and made no answer.

“What are you going to do with us?” pursued Glenarvan.

A sudden gleam flashed into the eyes of Kai-Koumou, and he said in a deep voice: “Exchange you, if your own people care to have you; eat you if they don’t.”

Glenarvan asked no further questions; but hope revived in his heart. He concluded that some Maori chiefs had fallen into the hands of the English, and that the natives would try to get them exchanged. So they had a chance of salvation, and the case was not quite so desperate.

The canoe was speeding rapidly up the river. Paganel, whose excitable temperament always rebounded from one extreme to the other, had quite regained his spirits. He consoled himself that the natives were saving them the trouble of the journey to the English outposts, and that was so much gain. So he took it quite quietly and followed on the map the course of the Waikato across the plains and valleys of the province. Lady Helena and Mary Grant, concealing their alarm, conversed in a low voice with Glenarvan, and the keenest physiognomists would have failed to see any anxiety in their faces.

The Waikato is the national river in New Zealand. It is to the Maories what the Rhine is to the Germans, and the Danube to the Slavs. In its course of 200 miles it waters the finest lands of the North Island, from the province of Wellington to the province of Auckland. It gave its name to all those indomitable tribes of the river district, which rose en masse against the invaders.

The waters of this river are still almost strangers to any craft but the native canoe. The most audacious tourist will scarcely venture to invade these sacred shores; in fact, the Upper Waikato is sealed against profane Europeans.

Paganel was aware of the feelings of veneration with which the natives regard this great arterial stream. He knew that the English and German naturalists had never penetrated further than its junction with the Waipa. He wondered how far the good pleasure of Kai-Koumou would carry his captives? He could not have guessed, but for hearing the word “Taupo” repeatedly uttered between the chief and his warriors. He consulted his map and saw that “Taupo” was the name of a lake celebrated in geographical annals, and lying in the most mountainous part of the island, at the southern extremity of Auckland province. The Waikato passes through this lake and then flows on for 120 miles.

CHAPTER X A MOMENTOUS INTERVIEW

AN unfathomable gulf twenty-five miles long, and twenty miles broad was produced, but long before historic times, by the falling in of caverns among the trachytic lavas of the center of the island. And these waters falling from the surrounding heights have taken possession of this vast basin. The gulf has become a lake, but it is also an abyss, and no lead-line has yet sounded its depths.

Such is the wondrous lake of Taupo, lying 1,250 feet above the level of the sea, and in view of an amphitheater of mountains 2,400 feet high. On the west are rocky peaks of great size; on the north lofty summits clothed with low trees; on the east a broad beach with a road track, and covered with pumice stones, which shimmer through the leafy screen of the bushes; on the southern side rise volcanic cones behind a forest flat. Such is the majestic frame that incloses this vast sheet of water whose roaring tempests rival the cyclones of Ocean.

The whole region boils like an immense cauldron hung over subterranean fires. The ground vibrates from the agitation of the central furnace. Hot springs filter out everywhere. The crust of the earth cracks in great rifts like a cake, too quickly baked.

About a quarter of a mile off, on a craggy spur of the mountain stood a “pah,” or Maori fortress. The prisoners, whose feet and hands were liberated, were landed one by one, and conducted into it by the warriors. The path which led up to the intrenchment, lay across fields of “phormium” and a grove of beautiful trees, the “kai-kateas” with persistent leaves and red berries; “dracaenas australis,” the “ti-trees” of the natives, whose crown is a graceful counterpart of the cabbage-palm, and “huious,” which are used to give a black dye to cloth. Large doves with metallic sheen on their plumage, and a world of starlings with reddish carmeles, flew away at the approach of the natives.

After a rather circuitous walk, Glenarvan and his party arrived at the “pah.”

The fortress was defended by an outer inclosure of strong palisades, fifteen feet high; a second line of stakes; then a fence composed of osiers, with loop-holes, inclosed Verne the inner space, that is the plateau of the “pah,” on which were erected the Maori buildings, and about forty huts arranged symmetrically.

When the captives approached they were horror-struck at the sight of the heads which adorned the posts of the inner circle. Lady Helena and Mary Grant turned away their eyes more with disgust than with terror. These heads were those of hostile chiefs who had fallen in battle, and whose bodies had served to feed the conquerors. The geographer recognized that it was so, from their eye sockets being hollow and deprived of eye-balls.

Glenarvan and his companions had taken in all this scene at a glance. They stood near an empty house, waiting the pleasure of the chief, and exposed to the abuse of a crowd of old crones. This troop of harpies surrounded them, shaking their fists, howling and vociferating. Some English words that escaped their coarse mouths left no doubt that they were clamoring for immediate vengeance.

In the midst of all these cries and threats, Lady Helena, tranquil to all outward seeming, affected an indifference she was far from feeling. This courageous woman made heroic efforts to restrain herself, lest she should disturb Glenarvan’s coolness. Poor Mary Grant felt her heart sink within her, and John Mangles stood by ready to die in her behalf. His companions bore the deluge of invectives each according to his disposition; the Major with utter indifference, Paganel with exasperation that increased every moment.

Glenarvan, to spare Lady Helena the attacks of these witches, walked straight up to Kai-Koumou, and pointing to the hideous group: “Send them away,” said he.

The Maori chief stared fixedly at his prisoner without speaking; and then, with a nod, he silenced the noisy horde. Glenarvan bowed, as a sign of thanks, and went slowly back to his place.

At this moment a hundred Maories were assembled in the “pah,” old men, full grown men, youths; the former were calm, but gloomy, awaiting the orders of Kai-Koumou; the others gave themselves up to the most violent sorrow, bewailing their parents and friends who had fallen in the late engagements.

Kai-Koumou was the only one of all the chiefs that obeyed the call of William Thompson, who had returned to the lake district, and he was the first to announce to his tribe the defeat of the national insurrection, beaten on the plains of the lower Waikato. Of the two hundred warriors who, under his orders, hastened to the defence of the soil, one hundred and fifty were missing on his return. Allowing for a number being made prisoners by the invaders, how many must be lying on the field of battle, never to return to the country of their ancestors!

This was the secret of the outburst of grief with which the tribe saluted the arrival of Kai-Koumou. Up to that moment nothing had been known of the last defeat, and the fatal news fell on them like a thunder clap.

Among the savages, sorrow is always manifested by physical signs; the parents and friends of deceased warriors, the women especially, lacerated their faces and shoulders with sharpened shells. The blood spurted out and blended with their tears. Deep wounds denoted great despair. The unhappy Maories, bleeding and excited, were hideous to look upon.

There was another serious element in their grief. Not only had they lost the relative or friend they mourned, but his bones would be missing in the family mausoleum. In the Maori religion the possession of these relics is regarded as indispensable to the destinies of the future life; not the perishable flesh, but the bones, which are collected with the greatest care, cleaned, scraped, polished, even varnished, and then deposited in the “oudoupa,” that is the “house of glory.” These tombs are adorned with wooden statues, representing with perfect exactness the tattoo of the deceased. But now their tombs would be left empty, the religious rites would be unsolemnized, and the bones that escaped the teeth of the wild dog would whiten without burial on the field of battle.

Then the sorrowful chorus redoubled. The menaces of the women were intensified by the imprecations of the men against the Europeans. Abusive epithets were lavished, the accompanying gestures became more violent. The howl was about to end in brutal action.

Kai-Koumou, fearing that he might be overpowered by the fanatics of his tribe, conducted his prisoners to a sacred place, on an abruptly raised plateau at the other end of the “pah.” This hut rested against a mound elevated a hundred feet above it, which formed the steep outer buttress of the entrenchment. In this “Ware-Atoua,” sacred house, the priests or arikis taught the Maories about a Triune God, father, son, and bird, or spirit. The large, well constructed hut, contained the sacred and choice food which Maoui-Ranga-Rangui eats by the mouths of his priests.

In this place, and safe for the moment from the frenzied natives, the captives lay down on the flax mats. Lady Helena was quite exhausted, her moral energies prostrate, and she fell helpless into her husband’s arms.

Glenarvan pressed her to his bosom and said: “Courage, my dear Helena; Heaven will not forsake us!”

Robert was scarcely in when he jumped on Wilson’s shoulders, and squeezed his head through a crevice left between the roof and the walls, from which chaplets of amulets were hung. From that elevation he could see the whole extent of the “pah,” and as far as Kai-Koumou’s house.

“They are all crowding round the chief,” said he softly.

“They are throwing their arms about… They are howling…

. Kai-Koumou is trying to speak.”

Then he was silent for a few minutes.

“Kai-Koumou is speaking… The savages are quieter.

… They are listening… .”

“Evidently,” said the Major, “this chief has a personal interest in protecting us. He wants to exchange his prisoners for some chiefs of his tribe! But will his warriors consent?”

“Yes!… They are listening… . They have dispersed, some are gone into their huts… The others have left the intrenchment.”

“Are you sure?” said the Major.

“Yes, Mr. McNabbs,” replied Robert, “Kai-Koumou is left alone with the warriors of his canoe… . Oh! one of them is coming up here… .”

“Come down, Robert,” said Glenarvan.

At this moment, Lady Helena who had risen, seized her husband’s arm.

“Edward,” she said in a resolute tone, “neither Mary Grant nor I must fall into the hands of these savages alive!”

And so saying, she handed Glenarvan a loaded revolver.

“Fire-arm!” exclaimed Glenarvan, with flashing eyes.

“Yes! the Maories do not search their prisoners. But, Edward, this is for us, not for them.”

Glenarvan slipped the revolver under his coat; at the same moment the mat at the entrance was raised, and a native entered.

He motioned to the prisoners to follow him. Glenarvan and the rest walked across the “pah” and stopped before Kai-Koumou. He was surrounded by the principal warriors of his tribe, and among them the Maori whose canoe joined that of the Kai-Koumou at the confluence of Pohain-henna, on the Waikato. He was a man about forty years of age, powerfully built and of fierce and cruel aspect. His name was Kara-Tete, meaning “the irascible” in the native tongue. Kai-Koumou treated him with a certain tone of respect, and by the fineness of his tattoo, it was easy to perceive that Kara-Tete held a lofty position in the tribe, but a keen observer would have guessed the feeling of rivalry that existed between these two chiefs. The Major observed that the influence of Kara-Tete gave umbrage to Kai-Koumou. They both ruled the Waikato tribes, and were equal in authority. During this interview Kai-Koumou smiled, but his eyes betrayed a deep-seated enmity.

Kai-Koumou interrogated Glenarvan.

“You are English?” said he.

“Yes,” replied Glenarvan, unhesitatingly, as his nationality would facilitate the exchange.

“And your companions?” said Kai-Koumou.

“My companions are English like myself. We are shipwrecked travelers, but it may be important to state that we have taken no part in the war.”

“That matters little!” was the brutal answer of Kara-Tete.

“Every Englishman is an enemy. Your people invaded our island!

They robbed our fields! they burned our villages!”

“They were wrong!” said Glenarvan, quietly. “I say so, because I think it, not because I am in your power.”

“Listen,” said Kai-Koumou, “the Tohonga, the chief priest of Noui-Atoua has fallen into the hands of your brethren; he is a prisoner among the Pakekas. Our deity has commanded us to ransom him. For my own part, I would rather have torn out your heart, I would have stuck your head, and those of your companions, on the posts of that palisade. But Noui-Atoua has spoken.”

As he uttered these words, Kai-Koumou, who till now had been quite unmoved, trembled with rage, and his features expressed intense ferocity.

Then after a few minutes’ interval he proceeded more calmly.

“Do you think the English will exchange you for our Tohonga?”

Glenarvan hesitated, all the while watching the Maori chief.

“I do not know,” said he, after a moment of silence.

“Speak,” returned Kai-Koumou, “is your life worth that of our Tohonga?”

“No,” replied Glenarvan. “I am neither a chief nor a priest among my own people.”

Paganel, petrified at this reply, looked at Glenarvan in amazement.

Kai-Koumou appeared equally astonished.

“You doubt it then?” said he.

“I do not know,” replied Glenarvan.

“Your people will not accept you as an exchange for Tohonga?”

“Me alone? no,” repeated Glenarvan. “All of us perhaps they might.”

“Our Maori custom,” replied Kai-Koumou, “is head for head.”

“Offer first these ladies in exchange for your priest,” said Glenarvan, pointing to Lady Helena and Mary Grant.

Lady Helena was about to interrupt him. But the Major held her back.

“Those two ladies,” continued Glenarvan, bowing respectfully toward Lady Helena and Mary Grant, “are personages of rank in their own country.”

The warrior gazed coldly at his prisoner. An evil smile relaxed his lips for a moment; then he controlled himself, and in a voice of ill-concealed anger: “Do you hope to deceive Kai-Koumou with lying words, accursed Pakeka? Can not the eyes of Kai-Koumou read hearts?”

And pointing to Lady Helena: “That is your wife?” he said.

“No! mine!” exclaimed Kara-Tete.

And then pushing his prisoners aside, he laid his hand on the shoulder of Lady Helena, who turned pale at his touch.

“Edward!” cried the unfortunate woman in terror.

Glenarvan, without a word, raised his arm, a shot! and Kara-Tete fell at his feet.

The sound brought a crowd of natives to the spot. A hundred arms were ready, and Glenarvan’s revolver was snatched from him.

Kai-Koumou glanced at Glenarvan with a curious expression: then with one hand protecting Glenarvan, with the other he waved off the crowd who were rushing on the party.

At last his voice was heard above the tumult.

“Taboo! Taboo!” he shouted.

At that word the crowd stood still before Glenarvan and his companions, who for the time were preserved by a supernatural influence.

A few minutes after they were re-conducted to Ware-Atoua, which was their prison. But Robert Grant and Paganel were not with them.

CHAPTER XI THE CHIEF’S FUNERAL

KAI-KOUMOU, as frequently happens among the Maories, joined the title of ariki to that of tribal chief. He was invested with the dignity of priest, and, as such, he had the power to throw over persons or things the superstitious protection of the “taboo.”

The “taboo,” which is common to all the Polynesian races, has the primary effect of isolating the “tabooed” person and preventing the use of “tabooed” things. According to the Maori doctrine, anyone who laid sacrilegious hands on what had been declared “taboo,” would be punished with death by the insulted deity, and even if the god delayed the vindication of his power, the priests took care to accelerate his vengeance.

By the chiefs, the “taboo” is made a political engine, except in some cases, for domestic reasons. For instance, a native is tabooed for several days when his hair is cut; when he is tattooed; when he is building a canoe, or a house; when he is seriously ill, and when he is dead. If excessive consumption threatens to exterminate the fish of a river, or ruin the early crop of sweet potatoes, these things are put under the protection of the taboo. If a chief wishes to clear his house of hangers-on, he taboos it; if an English trader displeases him he is tabooed. His interdict has the effect of the old royal “veto.”

If an object is tabooed, no one can touch it with impunity. When a native is under the interdict, certain aliments are denied him for a prescribed period. If he is relieved, as regards the severe diet, his slaves feed him with the viands he is forbidden to touch with his hands; if he is poor and has no slaves, he has to take up the food with his mouth, like an animal.

In short, the most trifling acts of the Maories are directed and modified by this singular custom, the deity is brought into constant contact with their daily life. The taboo has the same weight as a law; or rather, the code of the Maories, indisputable and undisputed, is comprised in the frequent applications of the taboo.

As to the prisoners confined in the Ware-Atoua, it was an arbitrary taboo which had saved them from the fury of the tribe. Some of the natives, friends and partisans of Kai-Koumou, desisted at once on hearing their chief’s voice, and protected the captives from the rest.

Glenarvan cherished no illusive hopes as to his own fate; nothing but his death could atone for the murder of a chief, and among these people death was only the concluding act of a martyrdom of torture. Glenarvan, therefore, was fully prepared to pay the penalty of the righteous indignation that nerved his arm, but he hoped that the wrath of Kai-Koumou would not extend beyond himself.

What a night he and his companions passed! Who could picture their agonies or measure their sufferings? Robert and Paganel had not been restored to them, but their fate was no doubtful matter. They were too surely the first victims of the frenzied natives. Even McNabbs, who was always sanguine, had abandoned hope. John Mangles was nearly frantic at the sight of Mary Grant’s despair at being separated from her brother. Glenarvan pondered over the terrible request of Lady Helena, who preferred dying by his hand to submitting to torture and slavery. How was he to summon the terrible courage!

“And Mary? who has a right to strike her dead?” thought John, whose heart was broken.

Escape was clearly impossible. Ten warriors, armed to the teeth, kept watch at the door of Ware-Atoua.

The morning of February 13th arrived. No communication had taken place between the natives and the “tabooed” prisoners. A limited supply of provisions was in the house, which the unhappy inmates scarcely touched. Misery deadened the pangs of hunger. The day passed without change, and without hope; the funeral ceremonies of the dead chief would doubtless be the signal for their execution.

Although Glenarvan did not conceal from himself the probability that Kai-Koumou had given up all idea of exchange, the Major still cherished a spark of hope.

“Who knows,” said he, as he reminded Glenarvan of the effect produced on the chief by the death of Kara-Tete — “who knows but that Kai-Koumou, in his heart, is very much obliged to you?”

But even McNabbs’ remarks failed to awaken hope in Glenarvan’s mind. The next day passed without any appearance of preparation for their punishment; and this was the reason of the delay.

The Maories believe that for three days after death the soul inhabits the body, and therefore, for three times twenty-four hours, the corpse remains unburied. This custom was rigorously observed. Till February 15th the “pah” was deserted.

John Mangles, hoisted on Wilson’s shoulders, frequently reconnoitered the outer defences. Not a single native was visible; only the watchful sentinels relieving guard at the door of the Ware-Atoua.

But on the third day the huts opened; all the savages, men, women, and children, in all several hundred Maories, assembled in the “pah,” silent and calm.

Kai-Koumou came out of his house, and surrounded by the principal chiefs of his tribe, he took his stand on a mound some feet above the level, in the center of the enclosure. The crowd of natives formed in a half circle some distance off, in dead silence.

At a sign from Kai-Koumou, a warrior bent his steps toward Ware-Atoua.

“Remember,” said Lady Helena to her husband. Glenarvan pressed her to his heart, and Mary Grant went closer to John Mangles, and said hurriedly:

“Lord and Lady Glenarvan cannot but think if a wife may claim death at her husband’s hands, to escape a shameful life, a betrothed wife may claim death at the hands of her betrothed husband, to escape the same fate. John! at this last moment I ask you, have we not long been betrothed to each other in our secret hearts? May I rely on you, as Lady Helena relies on Lord Glenarvan?”

“Mary!” cried the young captain in his despair. “Ah! dear Mary — “

The mat was lifted, and the captives led to Kai-Koumou; the two women were resigned to their fate; the men dissembled their sufferings with superhuman effort.

They arrived in the presence of the Maori chief.

“You killed Kara-Tete,” said he to Glenarvan.

“I did,” answered Glenarvan.

“You die to-morrow at sunrise.”

“Alone?” asked Glenarvan, with a beating heart.

“Oh! if our Tohonga’s life was not more precious than yours!” exclaimed Kai-Koumou, with a ferocious expression of regret.

At this moment there was a commotion among the natives. Glenarvan looked quickly around; the crowd made way, and a warrior appeared heated by running, and sinking with fatigue.

Kai-Koumou, as soon as he saw him, said in English, evidently for the benefit of the captives:

“You come from the camp of the Pakekas?”

“Yes,” answered the Maori.

“You have seen the prisoner, our Tohonga?”

“I have seen him.”

“Alive?”

“Dead! English have shot him.”

It was all over with Glenarvan and his companions.

“All!” cried Kai-Koumou; “you all die to-morrow at daybreak.”

Punishment fell on all indiscriminately. Lady Helena and Mary Grant were grateful to Heaven for the boon.

The captives were not taken back to Ware-Atoua. They were destined to attend the obsequies of the chief and the bloody rites that accompanied them. A guard of natives conducted them to the foot of an immense kauri, and then stood on guard without taking their eyes off the prisoners.

The three prescribed days had elapsed since the death of Kara-Tete, and the soul of the dead warrior had finally departed; so the ceremonies commenced.

The body was laid on a small mound in the central enclosure. It was clothed in a rich dress, and wrapped in a magnificent flax mat. His head, adorned with feathers, was encircled with a crown of green leaves. His face, arms, and chest had been rubbed with oil, and did not show any sign of decay.

The parents and friends arrived at the foot of the mound, and at a certain moment, as if the leader of an orchestra were leading a funeral chant, there arose a great wail of tears, sighs, and sobs. They lamented the deceased with a plaintive rhythm and doleful cadence. The kinsmen beat their heads; the kinswomen tore their faces with their nails and lavished more blood than tears. But these demonstrations were not sufficient to propitiate the soul of the deceased, whose wrath might strike the survivors of his tribe; and his warriors, as they could not recall him to life, were anxious that he should have nothing to wish for in the other world. The wife of Kara-Tete was not to be parted from him; indeed, she would have refused to survive him. It was a custom, as well as a duty, and Maori history has no lack of such sacrifices.

This woman came on the scene; she was still young. Her disheveled hair flowed over her shoulders. Her sobs and cries filled the air. Incoherent words, regrets, sobs, broken phrases in which she extolled the virtues of the dead, alternated with her moans, and in a crowning paroxysm of sorrow, she threw herself at the foot of the mound and beat her head on the earth.

The Kai-Koumou drew near; suddenly the wretched victim rose; but a violent blow from a “MERE,” a kind of club brandished by the chief, struck her to the ground; she fell senseless.

Horrible yells followed; a hundred arms threatened the terror-stricken captives. But no one moved, for the funeral ceremonies were not yet over.

The wife of Kara-Tete had joined her husband. The two bodies lay stretched side by side. But in the future life, even the presence of his faithful companion was not enough. Who would attend on them in the realm of Noui-Atoua, if their slaves did not follow them into the other world.

Six unfortunate fellows were brought to the mound. They were attendants whom the pitiless usages of war had reduced to slavery. During the chief’s lifetime they had borne the severest privations, and been subjected to all kinds of ill-usage; they had been scantily fed, and incessantly occupied like beasts of burden, and now, according to Maori ideas, they were to resume to all eternity this life of bondage.

These poor creatures appeared quite resigned to their destiny. They were not taken by surprise. Their unbound hands showed that they met their fate without resistance.

Their death was speedy and not aggravated by tedious suffering; torture was reserved for the authors of the murder, who, only twenty paces off, averted their eyes from the horrible scene which was to grow yet more horrible.

Six blows of the MERE, delivered by the hands of six powerful warriors, felled the victims in the midst of a sea of blood.

This was the signal for a fearful scene of cannibalism. The bodies of slaves are not protected by taboo like those of their masters. They belong to the tribe; they were a sort of small change thrown among the mourners, and the moment the sacrifice was over, the whole crowd, chiefs, warriors, old men, women, children, without distinction of age, or sex, fell upon the senseless remains with brutal appetite. Faster than a rapid pen could describe it, the bodies, still reeking, were dismembered, divided, cut up, not into morsels, but into crumbs. Of the two hundred Maories present everyone obtained a share. They fought, they struggled, they quarreled over the smallest fragment. The drops of hot blood splashed over these festive monsters, and the whole of this detestable crew groveled under a rain of blood. It was like the delirious fury of tigers fighting over their prey, or like a circus where the wild beasts devour the deer. This scene ended, a score of fires were lit at various points of the “pah”; the smell of charred flesh polluted the air; and but for the fearful tumult of the festival, but for the cries that emanated from these flesh-sated throats, the captives might have heard the bones crunching under the teeth of the cannibals.

Glenarvan and his companions, breathless with horror, tried to conceal this fearful scene from the eyes of the two poor ladies. They understood then what fate awaited them next day at dawn, and also with what cruel torture this death would be preceded. They were dumb with horror.

The funeral dances commenced. Strong liquors distilled from the “piper excelsum” animated the intoxication of the natives. They had nothing human left. It seemed possible that the “taboo” might be forgotten, and they might rush upon the prisoners, who were already terrified at their delirious gestures.

But Kai-Koumou had kept his own senses amidst the general delirium. He allowed an hour for this orgy of blood to attain its maximum and then cease, and the final scene of the obsequies was performed with the accustomed ceremonial.

The corpses of Kara-Tete and his wife were raised, the limbs were bent, and laid against the stomach according to the Maori usage; then came the funeral, not the final interment, but a burial until the moment when the earth had destroyed the flesh and nothing remained but the skeleton.

The place of “oudoupa,” or the tomb, had been chosen outside the fortress, about two miles off at the top of a low hill called Maunganamu, situated on the right bank of the lake, and to this spot the body was to be taken. Two palanquins of a very primitive kind, hand-barrows, in fact, were brought to the foot of the mound, and the corpses doubled up so that they were sitting rather than lying, and their garments kept in place by a band of hanes, were placed on them. Four warriors took up the litters on their shoulders, and the whole tribe, repeating their funeral chant, followed in procession to the place of sepulture.

The captives, still strictly guarded, saw the funeral cortege leave the inner inclosure of the “pah”; then the chants and cries grew fainter. For about half an hour the funeral procession remained out of sight, in the hollow valley, and then came in sight again winding up the mountain side; the distance gave a fantastic effect to the undulating movement of this long serpentine column.

The tribe stopped at an elevation of about 800 feet, on the summit of Maunganamu, where the burial place of Kara-Tete had been prepared. An ordinary Maori would have had nothing but a hole and a heap of earth. But a powerful and formidable chief destined to speedy deification, was honored with a tomb worthy of his exploits.

The “oudoupa” had been fenced round, and posts, surmounted with faces painted in red ochre, stood near the grave where the bodies were to lie. The relatives had not forgotten that the “Waidoua,” the spirit of the dead, lives on mortal food, as the body did in this life. Therefore, food was deposited in the inclosure as well as the arms and clothing of the deceased. Nothing was omitted for comfort. The husband and wife were laid side by side, then covered with earth and grass, after another series of laments.

Then the procession wound slowly down the mountain, and henceforth none dare ascend the slope of Maunganamu on pain of death, for it was “tabooed,” like Tongariro, where lie the ashes of a chief killed by an earthquake in 1846.

CHAPTER XII STRANGELY LIBERATED

JUST as the sun was sinking beyond Lake Taupo, behind the peaks of Tuhahua and Pukepapu, the captives were conducted back to their prison.

They were not to leave it again till the tops of the Wahiti Ranges were lit with the first fires of day.

They had one night in which to prepare for death. Overcome as they were with horror and fatigue, they took their last meal together.

“We shall need all our strength,” Glenarvan had said, “to look death in the face. We must show these savages how Europeans can die.”

The meal ended. Lady Helena repeated the evening prayer aloud, her companions, bare-headed, repeated it after her. Who does not turn his thoughts toward God in the hour of death? This done, the prisoners embraced each other. Mary Grant and Helena, in a corner of the hut, lay down on a mat. Sleep, which keeps all sorrow in abeyance, soon weighed down their eyelids; they slept in each other’s arms, overcome by exhaustion and prolonged watching.

Then Glenarvan, taking his friends aside, said: “My dear friends, our lives and the lives of these poor women are in God’s hands. If it is decreed that we die to-morrow, let us die bravely, like Christian men, ready to appear without terror before the Supreme Judge. God, who reads our hearts, knows that we had a noble end in view. If death awaits us instead of success, it is by His will. Stern as the decree may seem, I will not repine. But death here, means not death only, it means torture, insult, perhaps, and here are two ladies — “

Glenarvan’s voice, firm till now, faltered. He was silent a moment, and having overcome his emotion, he said, addressing the young captain: “John, you have promised Mary what I promised Lady Helena.

What is your plan?”

“I believe,” said John, “that in the sight of God I have a right to fulfill that promise.”

“Yes, John; but we are unarmed.”

“No!” replied John, showing him a dagger. “I snatched it from Kara-Tete when he fell at your feet. My Lord, whichever of us survives the other will fulfill the wish of Lady Helena and Mary Grant.”

After these words were said, a profound silence ensued.

At last the Major said: “My friends, keep that to the last moment.

I am not an advocate of irremediable measures.”

“I did not speak for ourselves,” said Glenarvan. “Be it as it may, we can face death! Had we been alone, I should ere now have cried, ‘My friends, let us make an effort. Let us attack these wretches!’

But with these poor girls — “

At this moment John raised the mat, and counted twenty-five natives keeping guard on the Ware-Atoua. A great fire had been lighted, and its lurid glow threw into strong relief the irregular outlines of the “pah.” Some of the savages were sitting round the brazier; the others standing motionless, their black outlines relieved against the clear background of flame. But they all kept watchful guard on the hut confided to their care.

It has been said that between a vigilant jailer and a prisoner who wishes to escape, the chances are in favor of the prisoner; the fact is, the interest of the one is keener than that of the other. The jailer may forget that he is on guard; the prisoner never forgets that he is guarded. The captive thinks oftener of escaping than the jailer of preventing his flight, and hence we hear of frequent and wonderful escapes.

But in the present instance hatred and revenge were the jailers — not an indifferent warder; the prisoners were not bound, but it was because bonds were useless when five-and-twenty men were watching the only egress from the Ware-Atoua.

This house, with its back to the rock which closed the fortress, was only accessible by a long, narrow promontory which joined it in front to the plateau on which the “pah” was erected. On its two other sides rose pointed rocks, which jutted out over an abyss a hundred feet deep. On that side descent was impossible, and had it been possible, the bottom was shut in by the enormous rock. The only outlet was the regular door of the Ware-Atoua, and the Maories guarded the promontory which united it to the “pah” like a drawbridge. All escape was thus hopeless, and Glenarvan having tried the walls for the twentieth time, was compelled to acknowledge that it was so.

The hours of this night, wretched as they were, slipped away. Thick darkness had settled on the mountain. Neither moon nor stars pierced the gloom. Some gusts of wind whistled by the sides of the “pah,” and the posts of the house creaked: the fire outside revived with the puffs of wind, and the flames sent fitful gleams into the interior of Ware-Atoua. The group of prisoners was lit up for a moment; they were absorbed in their last thoughts, and a deathlike silence reigned in the hut.

It might have been about four o’clock in the morning when the Major’s attention was called to a slight noise which seemed to come from the foundation of the posts in the wall of the hut which abutted on the rock. McNabbs was at first indifferent, but finding the noise continue, he listened; then his curiosity was aroused, and he put his ear to the ground; it sounded as if someone was scraping or hollowing out the ground outside.

As soon as he was sure of it, he crept over to Glenarvan and John Mangles, and startling them from their melancholy thoughts, led them to the end of the hut.

“Listen,” said he, motioning them to stoop.

The scratching became more and more audible; they could hear the little stones grate on a hard body and roll away.

“Some animal in his burrow,” said John Mangles.

Glenarvan struck his forehead.

“Who knows?” said he, “it might be a man.”

“Animal or man,” answered the Major, “I will soon find out!”

Wilson and Olbinett joined their companions, and all united to dig through the wall — John with his dagger, the others with stones taken from the ground, or with their nails, while Mulrady, stretched along the ground, watched the native guard through a crevice of the matting.

These savages sitting motionless around the fire, suspected nothing of what was going on twenty feet off.

The soil was light and friable, and below lay a bed of silicious tufa; therefore, even without tools, the aperture deepened quickly. It soon became evident that a man, or men, clinging to the sides of the “pah,” were cutting a passage into its exterior wall. What could be the object? Did they know of the existence of the prisoners, or was it some private enterprise that led to the undertaking?

The prisoners redoubled their efforts. Their fingers bled, but still they worked on; after half an hour they had gone three feet deep; they perceived by the increased sharpness of the sounds that only a thin layer of earth prevented immediate communication.

Some minutes more passed, and the Major withdrew his hand from the stroke of a sharp blade. He suppressed a cry.

John Mangles, inserting the blade of his poniard, avoided the knife which now protruded above the soil, but seized the hand that wielded it.

It was the hand of a woman or child, a European! On neither side had a word been uttered. It was evidently the cue of both sides to be silent.

“Is it Robert?” whispered Glenarvan.

But softly as the name was breathed, Mary Grant, already awakened by the sounds in the hut, slipped over toward Glenarvan, and seizing the hand, all stained with earth, she covered it with kisses.

“My darling Robert,” said she, never doubting, “it is you! it is you!”

“Yes, little sister,” said he, “it is I am here to save you all; but be very silent.”

“Brave lad!” repeated Glenarvan.

“Watch the savages outside,” said Robert.

Mulrady, whose attention was distracted for a moment by the appearance of the boy, resumed his post.

“It is all right,” said he. “There are only four awake; the rest are asleep.”

A minute after, the hole was enlarged, and Robert passed from the arms of his sister to those of Lady Helena. Round his body was rolled a long coil of flax rope.

“My child, my child,” murmured Lady Helena, “the savages did not kill you!”

“No, madam,” said he; “I do not know how it happened, but in the scuffle I got away; I jumped the barrier; for two days I hid in the bushes, to try and see you; while the tribe were busy with the chief’s funeral, I came and reconnoitered this side of the path, and I saw that I could get to you. I stole this knife and rope out of the desert hut. The tufts of bush and the branches made me a ladder, and I found a kind of grotto already hollowed out in the rock under this hut; I had only to bore some feet in soft earth, and here I am.”

Twenty noiseless kisses were his reward.

“Let us be off!” said he, in a decided tone.

“Is Paganel below?” asked Glenarvan.

“Monsieur Paganel?” replied the boy, amazed.

“Yes; is he waiting for us?”

“No, my Lord; but is he not here?” inquired Robert.

“No, Robert!” answered Mary Grant.

“Why! have you not seen him?” asked Glenarvan. “Did you lose each other in the confusion? Did you not get away together?”

“No, my Lord!” said Robert, taken aback by the disappearance of his friend Paganel.

“Well, lose no more time,” said the Major. “Wherever Paganel is, he cannot be in worse plight than ourselves. Let us go.”

Truly, the moments were precious. They had to fly. The escape was not very difficult, except the twenty feet of perpendicular fall outside the grotto.

After that the slope was practicable to the foot of the mountain. From this point the prisoners could soon gain the lower valleys; while the Maories, if they perceived the flight of the prisoners, would have to make a long round to catch them, being unaware of the gallery between the Ware-Atoua and the outer rock.

The escape was commenced, and every precaution was taken. The captives passed one by one through the narrow passage into the grotto. John Mangles, before leaving the hut, disposed of all the evidences of their work, and in his turn slipped through the opening and let down over it the mats of the house, so that the entrance to the gallery was quite concealed.

The next thing was to descend the vertical wall to the slope below, and this would have been impracticable, but that Robert had brought the flax rope, which was now unrolled and fixed to a projecting point of rock, the end hanging over.

John Mangles, before his friends trusted themselves to this flax rope, tried it; he did not think it very strong; and it was of importance not to risk themselves imprudently, as a fall would be fatal.

“This rope,” said he, “will only bear the weight of two persons; therefore let us go in rotation. Lord and Lady Glenarvan first; when they arrive at the bottom, three pulls at the rope will be a signal to us to follow.”

“I will go first,” said Robert. “I discovered a deep hollow at the foot of the slope where those who come down can conceal themselves and wait for the rest.”

“Go, my boy,” said Glenarvan, pressing Robert’s hand.

Robert disappeared through the opening out of the grotto. A minute after, the three pulls at the cord informed them the boy had alighted safely.

Glenarvan and Lady Helena immediately ventured out of the grotto. The darkness was still very great, though some grayish streaks were already visible on the eastern summits.

The biting cold of the morning revived the poor young lady.

She felt stronger and commenced her perilous descent.

Glenarvan first, then Lady Helena, let themselves down along the rope, till they came to the spot where the perpendicular wall met the top of the slope. Then Glenarvan going first and supporting his wife, began to descend backward.

He felt for the tufts and grass and shrubs able to afford a foothold; tried them and then placed Lady Helena’s foot on them. Some birds, suddenly awakened, flew away, uttering feeble cries, and the fugitives trembled when a stone loosened from its bed rolled to the foot of the mountain.

They had reached half-way down the slope, when a voice was heard from the opening of the grotto.

“Stop!” whispered John Mangles.

Glenarvan, holding with one hand to a tuft of tetragonia, with the other holding his wife, waited with breathless anxiety.

Wilson had had an alarm. Having heard some unusual noise outside the Ware-Atoua, he went back into the hut and watched the Maories from behind the mat. At a sign from him, John stopped Glenarvan.

One of the warriors on guard, startled by an unusual sound, rose and drew nearer to the Ware-Atoua. He stood still about two paces from the hut and listened with his head bent forward. He remained in that attitude for a minute that seemed an hour, his ear intent, his eye peering into the darkness. Then shaking his head like one who sees he is mistaken, he went back to his companions, took an armful of dead wood, and threw it into the smouldering fire, which immediately revived. His face was lighted up by the flame, and was free from any look of doubt, and after having glanced to where the first light of dawn whitened the eastern sky, stretched himself near the fire to warm his stiffened limbs.

“All’s well!” whispered Wilson.

John signaled to Glenarvan to resume his descent.

Glenarvan let himself gently down the slope; soon Lady Helena and he landed on the narrow track where Robert waited for them.

The rope was shaken three times, and in his turn John Mangles, preceding Mary Grant, followed in the dangerous route.

He arrived safely; he rejoined Lord and Lady Glenarvan in the hollow mentioned by Robert.

Five minutes after, all the fugitives had safely escaped from the Ware-Atoua, left their retreat, and keeping away from the inhabited shores of the lakes, they plunged by narrow paths into the recesses of the mountains.

They walked quickly, trying to avoid the points where they might be seen from the pah. They were quite silent, and glided among the bushes like shadows. Whither? Where chance led them, but at any rate they were free.

Toward five o’clock, the day began to dawn, bluish clouds marbled the upper stratum of clouds. The misty summits began to pierce the morning mists. The orb of day was soon to appear, and instead of giving the signal for their execution, would, on the contrary, announce their flight.

It was of vital importance that before the decisive moment arrived they should put themselves beyond the reach of the savages, so as to put them off their track. But their progress was slow, for the paths were steep. Lady Glenarvan climbed the slopes, supported, not to say carried, by Glenarvan, and Mary Grant leaned on the arm of John Mangles; Robert, radiant with joy, triumphant at his success, led the march, and the two sailors brought up the rear.

Another half an hour and the glorious sun would rise out of the mists of the horizon. For half an hour the fugitives walked on as chance led them. Paganel was not there to take the lead. He was now the object of their anxiety, and whose absence was a black shadow between them and their happiness. But they bore steadily eastward, as much as possible, and faced the gorgeous morning light. Soon they had reached a height of 500 feet above Lake Taupo, and the cold of the morning, increased by the altitude, was very keen. Dim outlines of hills and mountains rose behind one another; but Glenarvan only thought how best to get lost among them. Time enough by and by to see about escaping from the labyrinth.

At last the sun appeared and sent his first rays on their path.

Suddenly a terrific yell from a hundred throats rent the air.

It came from the pah, whose direction Glenarvan did not know.

Besides, a thick veil of fog, which, spread at his feet, prevented any distinct view of the valleys below.

But the fugitives could not doubt that their escape had been discovered; and now the question was, would they be able to elude pursuit? Had they been seen? Would not their track betray them?

At this moment the fog in the valley lifted, and enveloped them for a moment in a damp mist, and at three hundred feet below they perceived the swarming mass of frantic natives.

While they looked they were seen. Renewed howls broke forth, mingled with the barking of dogs, and the whole tribe, after vainly trying to scale the rock of Ware-Atoua, rushed out of the pah, and hastened by the shortest paths in pursuit of the prisoners who were flying from their vengeance.

CHAPTER XIII THE SACRED MOUNTAIN

THE summit of the mountain was still a hundred feet above them. The fugitives were anxious to reach it that they might continue their flight on the eastern slope out of the view of their pursuers. They hoped then to find some practicable ridge that would allow of a passage to the neighboring peaks that were thrown together in an orographic maze, to which poor Paganel’s genius would doubtless have found the clew.

They hastened up the slope, spurred on by the loud cries that drew nearer and nearer. The avenging crowd had already reached the foot of the mountain.

“Courage! my friends,” cried Glenarvan, urging his companions by voice and look.

In less than five minutes they were at the top of the mountain, and then they turned to judge of their position, and decide on a route that would baffle their pursuers.

From their elevated position they could see over Lake Taupo, which stretched toward the west in its setting of picturesque mountains. On the north the peaks of Pirongia; on the south the burning crater of Tongariro. But eastward nothing but the rocky barrier of peaks and ridges that formed the Wahiti ranges, the great chain whose unbroken links stretch from the East Cape to Cook’s Straits. They had no alternative but to descend the opposite slope and enter the narrow gorges, uncertain whether any outlet existed.

Glenarvan could not prolong the halt for a moment.

Wearied as they might be, they must fly or be discovered.

“Let us go down!” cried he, “before our passage is cut off.”

But just as the ladies had risen with a despairing effort, McNabbs stopped them and said: “Glenarvan, it is useless. Look!”

And then they all perceived the inexplicable change that had taken place in the movements of the Maories.

Their pursuit had suddenly stopped. The ascent of the mountain had ceased by an imperious command. The natives had paused in their career, and surged like the sea waves against an opposing rock. All the crowd, thirsting for blood, stood at the foot of the mountain yelling and gesticulating, brandishing guns and hatchets, but not advancing a foot. Their dogs, rooted to the spot like themselves, barked with rage.

What stayed them? What occult power controlled these savages? The fugitives looked without understanding, fearing lest the charm that enchained Kai-Koumou’s tribe should be broken.

Suddenly John Mangles uttered an exclamation which attracted the attention of his companions. He pointed to a little inclosure on the summit of the cone.

“The tomb of Kara-Tete!” said Robert.

“Are you sure, Robert?” said Glenarvan.

“Yes, my Lord, it is the tomb; I recognize it.”

Robert was right. Fifty feet above, at the extreme peak of the mountain, freshly painted posts formed a small palisaded inclosure, and Glenarvan too was convinced that it was the chief’s burial place. The chances of their flight had led them to the crest of Maunganamu.

Glenarvan, followed by the rest, climbed to the foot of the tomb.

A large opening, covered with mats, led into it.

Glenarvan was about to invade the sanctity of the “oudoupa,”

when he reeled backward.

“A savage!” said he.

“In the tomb?” inquired the Major.

“Yes, McNabbs.”

“No matter; go in.”

Glenarvan, the Major, Robert and John Mangles entered.

There sat a Maori, wrapped in a large flax mat; the darkness of the “oudoupa” preventing them from distinguishing his features.

He was very quiet, and was eating his breakfast quite coolly.

Glenarvan was about to speak to him when the native forestalled him by saying gayly and in good English: “Sit down, my Lord; breakfast is ready.”

It was Paganel. At the sound of his voice they all rushed into the “oudoupa,” and he was cordially embraced all round. Paganel was found again. He was their salvation. They wanted to question him; to know how and why he was here on the summit of Maunganamu; but Glenarvan stopped this misplaced curiosity.

“The savages?” said he.

“The savages,” said Paganel, shrugging his shoulders.

“I have a contempt for those people! Come and look at them.”

They all followed Paganel out of the “oudoupa.” The Maories were still in the same position round the base of the mountain, uttering fearful cries.

“Shout! yell! till your lungs are gone, stupid wretches!” said Paganel. “I dare you to come here!”

“But why?” said Glenarvan.

“Because the chief is buried here, and the tomb protects us, because the mountain is tabooed.”

“Tabooed?”

“Yes, my friends! and that is why I took refuge here, as the malefactors used to flee to the sanctuaries in the middle ages.”

“God be praised!” said Lady Helena, lifting her hands to heaven.

The fugitives were not yet out of danger, but they had a moment’s respite, which was very welcome in their exhausted state.

Glenarvan was too much overcome to speak, and the Major nodded his head with an air of perfect content.

“And now, my friends,” said Paganel, “if these brutes think to exercise their patience on us, they are mistaken. In two days we shall be out of their reach.”

“By flight!” said Glenarvan. “But how?”

“That I do not know,” answered Paganel, “but we shall manage it.”

And now everybody wanted to know about their friend’s adventures. They were puzzled by the reserve of a man generally so talkative; on this occasion they had to drag the words out of his mouth; usually he was a ready story-teller, now he gave only evasive answers to the questions of the rest.

“Paganel is another man!” thought McNabbs.

His face was really altered. He wrapped himself closely in his great flax mat and seemed to deprecate observation. Everyone noticed his embarrassment, when he was the subject of conversation, though nobody appeared to remark it; when other topics were under discussion, Paganel resumed his usual gayety.

Of his adventures all that could be extracted from him at this time was as follows: After the murder of Kara-Tete, Paganel took advantage, like Robert, of the commotion among the natives, and got out of the inclosure. But less fortunate than young Grant, he walked straight into a Maori camp, where he met a tall, intelligent-looking chief, evidently of higher rank than all the warriors of his tribe. The chief spoke excellent English, and he saluted the new-comer by rubbing the end of his nose against the end of the geographer’s nose.

Paganel wondered whether he was to consider himself a prisoner or not. But perceiving that he could not stir without the polite escort of the chief, he soon made up his mind on that point.

This chief, Hihi, or Sunbeam, was not a bad fellow. Paganel’s spectacles and telescope seemed to give him a great idea of Paganel’s importance, and he manifested great attachment to him, not only by kindness, but by a strong flax rope, especially at night.

This lasted for three days; to the inquiry whether he was well treated, he said “Yes and no!” without further answer; he was a prisoner, and except that he expected immediate execution, his state seemed to him no better than that in which he had left his unfortunate friends.

One night, however, he managed to break his rope and escape. He had seen from afar the burial of the chief, and knew that he was buried on the top of Maunganamu, and he was well acquainted with the fact that the mountain would be therefore tabooed. He resolved to take refuge there, being unwilling to leave the region where his companions were in durance. He succeeded in his dangerous attempt, and had arrived the previous night at the tomb of Kara-Tete, and there proposed to recruit his strength while he waited in the hope that his friends might, by Divine mercy, find the means of escape.

Such was Paganel’s story. Did he designedly conceal some incident of his captivity? More than once his embarrassment led them to that conclusion. But however that might be, he was heartily congratulated on all sides. And then the present emergency came on for serious discussion. The natives dare not climb Maunganamu, but they, of course, calculated that hunger and thirst would restore them their prey. It was only a question of time, and patience is one of the virtues of all savages. Glenarvan was fully alive to the difficulty, but made up his mind to watch for an opportunity, or make one. First of all he made a thorough survey of Maunganamu, their present fortress; not for the purpose of defence, but of escape. The Major, John, Robert, Paganel, and himself, made an exact map of the mountain. They noted the direction, outlet and inclination of the paths. The ridge, a mile in length, which united Maunganamu to the Wahiti chain had a downward inclination. Its slope, narrow and jagged though it was, appeared the only practicable route, if they made good their escape at all. If they could do this without observation, under cover of night, they might possibly reach the deep valleys of the Range and put the Maories off the scent.

But there were dangers in this route; the last part of it was within pistol shot of natives posted on the lower slopes. Already when they ventured on the exposed part of the crest, they were saluted with a hail of shot which did not reach them. Some gun wads, carried by the wind, fell beside them; they were made of printed paper, which Paganel picked up out of curiosity, and with some trouble deciphered.

“That is a good idea! My friends, do you know what those creatures use for wads?”

“No, Paganel!” said Glenarvan.

“Pages of the Bible! If that is the use they make of the Holy Book, I pity the missionaries! It will be rather difficult to establish a Maori library.”

“And what text of scripture did they aim at us?”

“A message from God Himself!” exclaimed John Mangles, who was in the act of reading the scorched fragment of paper. “It bids us hope in Him,” added the young captain, firm in the faith of his Scotch convictions.

“Read it, John!” said Glenarvan.

And John read what the powder had left visible: “I will deliver him, for he hath trusted in me.”

“My friends,” said Glenarvan, “we must carry these words of hope to our dear, brave ladies. The sound will bring comfort to their hearts.”

Glenarvan and his companions hastened up the steep path to the cone, and went toward the tomb. As they climbed they were astonished to perceive every few moments a kind of vibration in the soil. It was not a movement like earthquake, but that peculiar tremor that affects the metal of a boiler under high pressure. It was clear the mountain was the outer covering of a body of vapor, the product of subterranean fires.

This phenomenon of course excited no surprise in those that had just traveled among the hot springs of the Waikato. They knew that the central region of the Ika-na-Mani is essentially volcanic. It is a sieve, whose interstices furnish a passage for the earth’s vapors in the shape of boiling geysers and solfataras.

Paganel, who had already noticed this, called the attention of his friends to the volcanic nature of the mountain. The peak of Maunganamu was only one of the many cones which bristle on this part of the island. It was a volcano of the future. A slight mechanical change would produce a crater of eruption in these slopes, which consisted merely of whitish silicious tufa.

“That may be,” said Glenarvan, “but we are in no more danger here than standing by the boiler of the DUNCAN; this solid crust is like sheet iron.”

“I agree with you,” added the Major, “but however good a boiler may be, it bursts at last after too long service.”

“McNabbs,” said Paganel, “I have no fancy for staying on the cone.

When Providence points out a way, I will go at once.”

“I wish,” remarked John, “that Maunganamu could carry us himself, with all the motive power that he has inside. It is too bad that millions of horse-power should lie under our feet unavailable for our needs. Our DUNCAN would carry us to the end of the world with the thousandth part of it.”

The recollections of the DUNCAN evoked by John Mangles turned Glenarvan’s thoughts into their saddest channel; for desperate as his own case was he often forgot it, in vain regret at the fate of his crew.

His mind still dwelt on it when he reached the summit of Maunganamu and met his companions in misfortune.

Lady Helena, when she saw Glenarvan, came forward to meet him.

“Dear Edward,” said she, “you have made up your mind?

Are we to hope or fear?”

“Hope, my dear Helena,” replied Glenarvan. “The natives will never set foot on the mountain, and we shall have time to devise a plan of escape.”

“More than that, madam, God himself has encouraged us to hope.”

And so saying, John Mangles handed to Lady Helena the fragment of paper on which was legible the sacred words; and these young women, whose trusting hearts were always open to observe Providential interpositions, read in these words an indisputable sign of salvation.

“And now let us go to the ‘oudoupa!’” cried Paganel, in his gayest mood. “It is our castle, our dining-room, our study! None can meddle with us there! Ladies! allow me to do the honors of this charming abode.”

They followed Paganel, and when the savages saw them profaning anew the tabooed burial place, they renewed their fire and their fearful yells, the one as loud as the other. But fortunately the balls fell short of our friends, though the cries reached them.

Lady Helena, Mary Grant, and their companions were quite relieved to find that the Maories were more dominated by superstition than by anger, and they entered the monument.

It was a palisade made of red-painted posts. Symbolic figures, tattooed on the wood, set forth the rank and achievements of the deceased. Strings of amulets, made of shells or cut stones, hung from one part to another. In the interior, the ground was carpeted with green leaves, and in the middle, a slight mound betokened the place of the newly made grave. There lay the chief’s weapons, his guns loaded and capped, his spear, his splendid ax of green jade, with a supply of powder and ball for the happy hunting grounds.

“Quite an arsenal!” said Paganel, “of which we shall make a better use.

What ideas they have! Fancy carrying arms in the other world!”

“Well!” said the Major, “but these are English firearms.”

“No doubt,” replied Glenarvan, “and it is a very unwise practice to give firearms to savages! They turn them against the invaders, naturally enough. But at any rate, they will be very valuable to us.”

“Yes,” said Paganel, “but what is more useful still is the food and water provided for Kara-Tete.”

Things had been handsomely done for the deceased chief; the amount of provisions denoted their esteem for the departed. There was food enough to sustain ten persons for fifteen days, or the dead man forever.

The vegetable aliments consisted of edible ferns, sweet potatoes, the “convolvulus batatas,” which was indigenous, and the potato which had been imported long before by the Europeans. Large jars contained pure water, and a dozen baskets artistically plaited contained tablets of an unknown green gum.

The fugitives were therefore provided for some days against hunger and thirst, and they needed no persuasion to begin their attack on the deceased chief’s stores. Glenarvan brought out the necessary quantity and put them into Olbinett’s hands. The steward, who never could forget his routine ideas, even in the most exceptional circumstances, thought the meal a slender one. He did not know how to prepare the roots, and, besides, had no fire.

But Paganel soon solved the difficulty by recommending him to bury his fern roots and sweet potatoes in the soil. The temperature of the surface stratum was very high, and a thermometer plunged into the soil would have marked from 160 to 170 degrees; in fact, Olbinett narrowly missed being scalded, for just as he had scooped a hole for the roots, a jet of vapor sprang up and with a whistling sound rose six feet above the ground.

The steward fell back in terror.

“Shut off steam!” cried the Major, running to close the hole with the loose drift, while Paganel pondering on the singular phenomenon muttered to himself: “Let me see! ha! ha! Why not?”

“Are you hurt?” inquired McNabbs of Olbinett.

“No, Major,” said the steward, “but I did not expect — “

“That Providence would send you fire,” interrupted Paganel in a jovial tone. “First the larder of Kara-Tete and then fire out of the ground! Upon my word, this mountain is a paradise! I propose that we found a colony, and cultivate the soil and settle here for life! We shall be the Robinsons of Maunganamu. We should want for nothing.”

“If it is solid ground,” said John Mangles.

“Well! it is not a thing of yesterday,” said Paganel. “It has stood against the internal fire for many a day, and will do so till we leave it, at any rate.”

“Breakfast is ready,” announced Olbinett with as much dignity as if he was in Malcolm Castle.

Without delay, the fugitives sat down near the palisade, and began one of the many meals with which Providence had supplied them in critical circumstances. Nobody was inclined to be fastidious, but opinions were divided as regarded the edible fern. Some thought the flavor sweet and agreeable, others pronounced it leathery, insipid, and resembling the taste of gum. The sweet potatoes, cooked in the burning soil, were excellent. The geographer remarked that Kara-Tete was not badly off after all.

And now that their hunger was appeased, it was time to decide on their plan of escape.

“So soon!” exclaimed Paganel in a piteous tone. “Would you quit the home of delight so soon?”

“But, Monsieur Paganel,” interposed Lady Helena, “if this be Capua, you dare not intend to imitate Hannibal!”

“Madam, I dare not contradict you, and if discussion is the order of the day, let it proceed.”

“First,” said Glenarvan, “I think we ought to start before we are driven to it by hunger. We are revived now, and ought to take advantage of it. To-night we will try to reach the eastern valleys by crossing the cordon of natives under cover of the darkness.”

“Excellent,” answered Paganel, “if the Maories allow us to pass.”

“And if not?” asked John Mangles.

“Then we will use our great resources,” said Paganel.

“But have we great resources?” inquired the Major.

“More than we can use!” replied Paganel, without any further explanation.

And then they waited for the night.

The natives had not stirred. Their numbers seemed even greater, perhaps owing to the influx of the stragglers of the tribe. Fires lighted at intervals formed a girdle of flame round the base of the mountain, so that when darkness fell, Maunganamu appeared to rise out of a great brasier, and to hide its head in the thick darkness. Five hundred feet below they could hear the hum and the cries of the enemy’s camp.

At nine o’clock the darkness being very intense, Glenarvan and John Mangles went out to reconnoiter before embarking the whole party on this critical journey. They made the descent noiselessly, and after about ten minutes, arrived on the narrow ridge that crossed the native lines, fifty feet above the camp.

All went well so far. The Maories, stretched beside the fires, did not appear to observe the two fugitives. But in an instant a double fusillade burst forth from both sides of the ridge.

“Back,” exclaimed Glenarvan; “those wretches have the eyes of cats and the guns of riflemen!”

And they turned, and once more climbed the steep slope of the mountain, and then hastened to their friends who had been alarmed at the firing. Glenarvan’s hat was pierced by two balls, and they concluded that it was out of the question to venture again on the ridge between two lines of marksmen.

“Wait till to-morrow,” said Paganel, “and as we cannot elude their vigilance, let me try my hand on them.”

The night was cold; but happily Kara-Tete had been furnished with his best night gear, and the party wrapped themselves each in a warm flax mantle, and protected by native superstition, slept quietly inside the inclosure, on the warm ground, still violating with the violence of the internal ebullition.

CHAPTER XIV A BOLD STRATAGEM

NEXT day, February 17th, the sun’s first rays awoke the sleepers of the Maunganamu. The Maories had long since been astir, coming and going at the foot of the mountain, without leaving their line of observation. Furious clamor broke out when they saw the Europeans leave the sacred place they had profaned.

Each of the party glanced first at the neighboring mountains, and at the deep valleys still drowned in mist, and over Lake Taupo, which the morning breeze ruffled slightly.

And then all clustered round Paganel eager to hear his project.

Paganel soon satisfied their curiosity. “My friends,” said he, “my plan has one great recommendation; if it does not accomplish all that I anticipate, we shall be no worse off than we are at present. But it must, it will succeed.”

“And what is it?” asked McNabbs.

“It is this,” replied Paganel, “the superstition of the natives has made this mountain a refuge for us, and we must take advantage of their superstition to escape. If I can persuade Kai-Koumou that we have expiated our profanation, that the wrath of the Deity has fallen on us: in a word, that we have died a terrible death, do you think he will leave the plateau of Maunganamu to return to his village?”

“Not a doubt of it,” said Glenarvan.

“And what is the horrible death you refer to?” asked Lady Helena.

“The death of the sacrilegious, my friends,” replied Paganel. “The avenging flames are under our feet. Let us open a way for them!”

“What! make a volcano!” cried John Mangles.

“Yes, an impromptu volcano, whose fury we can regulate. There are plenty of vapors ready to hand, and subterranean fires ready to issue forth. We can have an eruption ready to order.”

“An excellent idea, Paganel; well conceived,” said the Major.

“You understand,” replied the geographer, “we are to pretend to fall victims to the flames of the Maori Pluto, and to disappear spiritually into the tomb of Kara-Tete. And stay there three, four, even five days if necessary — that is to say, till the savages are convinced that we have perished, and abandon their watch.”

“But,” said Miss Grant, “suppose they wish to be sure of our punishment, and climb up here to see?”

“No, my dear Mary,” returned Paganel. “They will not do that. The mountain is tabooed, and if it devoured its sacrilegious intruders, it would only be more inviolably tabooed.”

“It is really a very clever plan,” said Glenarvan. “There is only one chance against it; that is, if the savages prolong their watch at the foot of Maunganamu, we may run short of provisions. But if we play our game well there is not much fear of that.”

“And when shall we try this last chance?” asked Lady Helena.

“To-night,” rejoined Paganel, “when the darkness is the deepest.”

“Agreed,” said McNabbs; “Paganel, you are a genius! and I, who seldom get up an enthusiasm, I answer for the success of your plan. Oh! those villains! They shall have a little miracle that will put off their conversion for another century. I hope the missionaries will forgive us.”

The project of Paganel was therefore adopted, and certainly with the superstitious ideas of the Maories there seemed good ground for hope. But brilliant as the idea might be, the difficulty was in the modus operandi. The volcano might devour the bold schemers, who offered it a crater. Could they control and direct the eruption when they had succeeded in letting loose its vapor and flames, and lava streams? The entire cone might be engulfed. It was meddling with phenomena of which nature herself has the absolute monopoly.

Paganel had thought of all this; but he intended to act prudently and without pushing things to extremes. An appearance would be enough to dupe the Maories, and there was no need for the terrible realities of an eruption.

How long that day seemed. Each one of the party inwardly counted the hours. All was made ready for flight. The oudoupa provisions were divided and formed very portable packets. Some mats and firearms completed their light equipment, all of which they took from the tomb of the chief. It is needless to say that their preparations were made within the inclosure, and that they were unseen by the savages.

At six o’clock the steward served up a refreshing meal. Where or when they would eat in the valleys of the Ranges no one could foretell. So that they had to take in supplies for the future. The principal dish was composed of half a dozen rats, caught by Wilson and stewed. Lady Helena and Mary Grant obstinately refused to taste this game, which is highly esteemed by the natives; but the men enjoyed it like the real Maories. The meat was excellent and savory, and the six devourers were devoured down to the bones.

The evening twilight came on. The sun went down in a stormy-looking bank of clouds. A few flashes of lightning glanced across the horizon and distant thunder pealed through the darkened sky.

Paganel welcomed the storm, which was a valuable aid to his plans, and completed his program. The savages are superstitiously affected by the great phenomena of nature. The New Zealanders think that thunder is the angry voice of Noui-Atoua, and lightning the fierce gleam of his eyes. Thus their deity was coming personally to chastise the violators of the taboo.

At eight o’clock, the summit of the Maunganamu was lost in portentous darkness. The sky would supply a black background for the blaze which Paganel was about to throw on it. The Maories could no longer see their prisoners; and this was the moment for action. Speed was necessary. Glenarvan, Paganel, McNabbs, Robert, the steward, and the two sailors, all lent a hand.

The spot for the crater was chosen thirty paces from Kara-Tete’s tomb. It was important to keep the oudoupa intact, for if it disappeared, the taboo of the mountain would be nullified. At the spot mentioned Paganel had noticed an enormous block of stone, round which the vapors played with a certain degree of intensity. This block covered a small natural crater hollowed in the cone, and by its own weight prevented the egress of the subterranean fire. If they could move it from its socket, the vapors and the lava would issue by the disencumbered opening.

The workers used as levers some posts taken from the interior of the oudoupa, and they plied their tools vigorously against the rocky mass. Under their united efforts the stone soon moved. They made a little trench so that it might roll down the inclined plane. As they gradually raised it, the vibrations under foot became more distinct. Dull roarings of flame and the whistling sound of a furnace ran along under the thin crust. The intrepid la-borers, veritable Cyclops handling Earth’s fires, worked in silence; soon some fissures and jets of steam warned them that their place was growing dangerous. But a crowning effort moved the mass which rolled down and disappeared. Immediately the thin crust gave way. A column of fire rushed to the sky with loud detonations, while streams of boiling water and lava flowed toward the native camp and the lower valleys.

All the cone trembled as if it was about to plunge into a fathomless gulf.

Glenarvan and his companions had barely time to get out of the way; they fled to the enclosure of the oudoupa, not without having been sprinkled with water at 220 degrees. This water at first spread a smell like soup, which soon changed into a strong odor of sulphur.

Then the mud, the lava, the volcanic stones, all spouted forth in a torrent. Streams of fire furrowed the sides of Maunganamu. The neighboring mountains were lit up by the glare; the dark valleys were also filled with dazzling light.

All the savages had risen, howling under the pain inflicted by the burning lava, which was bubbling and foaming in the midst of their camp.

Those whom the liquid fire had not touched fled to the surrounding hills; then turned, and gazed in terror at this fearful phenomenon, this volcano in which the anger of their deity would swallow up the profane intruders on the sacred mountain. Now and then, when the roar of the eruption became less violent, their cry was heard: “Taboo! taboo! taboo!”

An enormous quantity of vapors, heated stones and lava was escaping by this crater of Maunganamu. It was not a mere geyser like those that girdle round Mount Hecla, in Iceland, it was itself a Hecla. All this volcanic commotion was confined till then in the envelope of the cone, because the safety valve of Tangariro was enough for its expansion; but when this new issue was afforded, it rushed forth fiercely, and by the laws of equilibrium, the other eruptions in the island must on that night have lost their usual intensity.

An hour after this volcano burst upon the world, broad streams of lava were running down its sides. Legions of rats came out of their holes, and fled from the scene.

All night long, and fanned by the tempest in the upper sky, the crater never ceased to pour forth its torrents with a violence that alarmed Glenarvan. The eruption was breaking away the edges of the opening. The prisoners. hidden behind the inclosure of stakes, watched the fearful progress of the phenomenon.

Morning came. The fury of the volcano had not slackened. Thick yellowish fumes were mixed with the flames; the lava torrents wound their serpentine course in every direction.

Glenarvan watched with a beating heart, looking from all the interstices of the palisaded enclosure, and observed the movements in the native camp.

The Maories had fled to the neighboring ledges, out of the reach of the volcano. Some corpses which lay at the foot of the cone, were charred by the fire. Further off toward the “pah,” the lava had reached a group of twenty huts, which were still smoking. The Maories, forming here and there groups, contemplated the canopied summit of Maunganamu with religious awe.

Kai-Koumou approached in the midst of his warriors, and Glenarvan recognized him. The chief advanced to the foot of the hill, on the side untouched by the lava, but he did not ascend the first ledge.

Standing there, with his arms stretched out like an ex-erciser, he made some grimaces, whose meaning was obvious to the prisoners. As Paganel had foreseen, Kai-Koumou launched on the avenging mountain a more rigorous taboo.

Soon after the natives left their positions and followed the winding paths that led toward the pah.

“They are going!” exclaimed Glenarvan. “They have left their posts! God be praised! Our stratagem has succeeded! My dear Lady Helena, my brave friends, we are all dead and buried! But this evening when night comes, we shall rise and leave our tomb, and fly these barbarous tribes!”

It would be difficult to conceive of the joy that pervaded the oudoupa. Hope had regained the mastery in all hearts. The intrepid travelers forgot the past, forgot the future, to enjoy the present delight! And yet the task before them was not an easy one — to gain some European outpost in the midst of this unknown country. But Kai-Koumou once off their track, they thought themselves safe from all the savages in New Zealand.

A whole day had to elapse before they could make a start, and they employed it in arranging a plan of flight. Paganel had treasured up his map of New Zealand, and on it could trace out the best roads.

After discussion, the fugitives resolved to make for the Bay of Plenty, towards the east. The region was unknown, but apparently desert. The travelers, who from their past experience, had learned to make light of physical difficulties, feared nothing but meeting Maories. At any cost they wanted to avoid them and gain the east coast, where the missionaries had several stations. That part of the country had hitherto escaped the horrors of war, and the natives were not in the habit of scouring the country.

As to the distance that separated Lake Taupo from the Bay of Plenty, they calculated it about a hundred miles. Ten days’ march at ten miles a day, could be done, not without fatigue, but none of the party gave that a thought. If they could only reach the mission stations they could rest there while waiting for a favorable opportunity to get to Auckland, for that was the point they desired to reach.

This question settled, they resumed their watch of the native proceedings, and continued so doing till evening fell. Not a solitary native remained at the foot of the mountain, and when darkness set in over the Taupo valleys, not a fire indicated the presence of the Maories at the base. The road was free.

At nine o’clock, the night being unusually dark, Glenarvan gave the order to start. His companions and he, armed and equipped at the expense of Kara-Tete, began cautiously to descend the slopes of Maunganamu, John Mangles and Wilson leading the way, eyes and ears on the alert. They stopped at the slightest sound, they started at every passing cloud. They slid rather than walked down the spur, that their figures might be lost in the dark mass of the mountain. At two hundred feet below the summit, John Mangles and his sailors reached the dangerous ridge that had been so obstinately defended by the natives. If by ill luck the Maories, more cunning than the fugitives, had only pretended to retreat; if they were not really duped by the volcanic phenomenon, this was the spot where their presence would be betrayed. Glenarvan could not but shudder, in spite of his confidence, and in spite of the jokes of Paganel. The fate of the whole party would hang in the balance for the ten minutes required to pass along that ridge. He felt the beating of Lady Helena’s heart, as she clung to his arm.

He had no thought of turning back. Neither had John. The young captain, followed closely by the whole party, and protected by the intense darkness, crept along the ridge, stopping when some loose stone rolled to the bottom. If the savages were still in the ambush below, these unusual sounds might provoke from both sides a dangerous fusillade.

But speed was impossible in their serpent-like progress down this sloping crest. When John Mangles had reached the lowest point, he was scarcely twenty-five feet from the plateau, where the natives were encamped the night before, and then the ridge rose again pretty steeply toward a wood for about a quarter of a mile.

All this lower part was crossed without molestation, and they commenced the ascent in silence. The clump of bush was invisible, though they knew it was there, and but for the possibility of an ambush, Glenarvan counted on being safe when the party arrived at that point. But he observed that after this point, they were no longer protected by the taboo. The ascending ridge belonged not to Maunganamu, but to the mountain system of the eastern side of Lake Taupo, so that they had not only pistol shots, but hand-to-hand fighting to fear. For ten minutes, the little band ascended by insensible degrees toward the higher table-land. John could not discern the dark wood, but he knew it ought to be within two hundred feet. Suddenly he stopped; almost retreated. He fancied he heard something in the darkness; his stoppage interrupted the march of those behind.

He remained motionless long enough to alarm his companions. They waited with unspeakable anxiety, wondering if they were doomed to retrace their steps, and return to the summit of Maunganamu.

But John, finding that the noise was not repeated, resumed the ascent of the narrow path of the ridge. Soon they perceived the shadowy outline of the wood showing faintly through the darkness. A few steps more and they were hid from sight in the thick foliage of the trees.

CHAPTER XV FROM PERIL TO SAFETY

THE night favored their escape, and prudence urged them to lose no time in getting away from the fatal neighborhood of Lake Taupo. Paganel took the post of leader, and his wonderful instinct shone out anew in this difficult mountain journey. His nyctalopia was a great advantage, his cat-like sight enabling him to distinguish the smallest object in the deepest gloom.

For three hours they walked on without halting along the far-reaching slope of the eastern side. Paganel kept a little to the southeast, in order to make use of a narrow passage between the Kaimanawa and the Wahiti Ranges, through which the road from Hawkes’ Bay to Auckland passes. Once through that gorge, his plan was to keep off the road, and, under the shelter of the high ranges, march to the coast across the inhabited regions of the province.

At nine o’clock in the morning, they had made twelve miles in twelve hours. The courageous women could not be pressed further, and, besides, the locality was suitable for camping. The fugitives had reached the pass that separates the two chains. Paganel, map in hand, made a loop toward the northeast, and at ten o’clock the little party reached a sort of redan, formed by a projecting rock.

The provisions were brought out, and justice was done to their meal. Mary Grant and the Major, who had not thought highly of the edible fern till then, now ate of it heartily.

The halt lasted till two o’clock in the afternoon, then they resumed their journey; and in the evening they stopped eight miles from the mountains, and required no persuasion to sleep in the open air.

Next day was one of serious difficulties. Their route lay across this wondrous region of volcanic lakes, geysers, and solfataras, which extended to the east of the Wahiti Ranges. It is a country more pleasant for the eye to ramble over, than for the limbs. Every quarter of a mile they had to turn aside or go around for some obstacle, and thus incurred great fatigue; but what a strange sight met their eyes! What infinite variety nature lavishes on her great panoramas!

On this vast extent of twenty miles square, the subterranean forces had a field for the display of all their varied effects. Salt springs, of singular transparency, peopled by myriads of insects, sprang up from thickets of tea-tree scrub. They diffused a powerful odor of burnt powder, and scattered on the ground a white sediment like dazzling snow. The limpid waters were nearly at boiling point, while some neighboring springs spread out like sheets of glass. Gigantic tree-ferns grew beside them, in conditions analogous to those of the Silurian vegetation.

On every side jets of water rose like park fountains, out of a sea of vapor; some of them continuous, others intermittent, as if a capricious Pluto controlled their movements. They rose like an amphitheater on natural terraces; their waters gradually flowed together under folds of white smoke, and corroding the edges of the semi-transparent steps of this gigantic staircase. They fed whole lakes with their boiling torrents.

Farther still, beyond the hot springs and tumultuous geysers, came the solfataras. The ground looked as if covered with large pustules. These were slumbering craters full of cracks and fissures from which rose various gases. The air was saturated with the acrid and unpleasant odor of sulphurous acid. The ground was encrusted with sulphur and crystalline concretions. All this incalculable wealth had been accumulating for centuries, and if the sulphur beds of Sicily should ever be exhausted, it is here, in this little known district of New Zealand, that supplies must be sought.

The fatigue in traveling in such a country as this will be best understood. Camping was very difficult, and the sportsmen of the party shot nothing worthy of Olbinett’s skill; so that they had generally to content themselves with fern and sweet potato — a poor diet which was scarcely sufficient to recruit the exhausted strength of the little party, who were all anxious to escape from this barren region.

But four days at least must elapse before they could hope to leave it. On February 23, at a distance of fifty miles from Maunganamu, Glenarvan called a halt, and camped at the foot of a nameless mountain, marked on Paganel’s map. The wooded plains stretched away from sight, and great forests appeared on the horizon.

That day McNabbs and Robert killed three kiwis, which filled the chief place on their table, not for long, however, for in a few moments they were all consumed from the beaks to the claws.

At dessert, between the potatoes and sweet potatoes, Paganel moved a resolution which was carried with enthusiasm. He proposed to give the name of Glenarvan to this unnamed mountain, which rose 3,000 feet high, and then was lost in the clouds, and he printed carefully on his map the name of the Scottish nobleman.

It would be idle to narrate all the monotonous and uninteresting details of the rest of the journey. Only two or three occurrences of any importance took place on the way from the lakes to the Pacific Ocean. The march was all day long across forests and plains. John took observations of the sun and stars. Neither heat nor rain increased the discomfort of the journey, but the travelers were so reduced by the trials they had undergone, that they made very slow progress; and they longed to arrive at the mission station.

They still chatted, but the conversation had ceased to be general. The little party broke up into groups, attracted to each other, not by narrow sympathies, but by a more personal communion of ideas.

Glenarvan generally walked alone; his mind seemed to recur to his unfortunate crew, as he drew nearer to the sea. He apparently lost sight of the dangers which lay before them on their way to Auckland, in the thought of his massacred men; the horrible picture haunted him.

Harry Grant was never spoken of; they were no longer in a position to make any effort on his behalf. If his name was uttered at all, it was between his daughter and John Mangles.

John had never reminded Mary of what she had said to him on that last night at Ware-Atoua. He was too wise to take advantage of a word spoken in a moment of despair. When he mentioned Captain Grant, John always spoke of further search. He assured Mary that Lord Glenarvan would re-embark in the enterprise. He persistently returned to the fact that the authenticity of the document was indisputable, and that therefore Harry Grant was somewhere to be found, and that they would find him, if they had to try all over the world. Mary drank in his words, and she and John, united by the same thought, cherished the same hope. Often Lady Helena joined in the conversation; but she did not participate in their illusions, though she refrained from chilling their enthusiasm.

McNabbs, Robert, Wilson, and Mulrady kept up their hunting parties, without going far from the rest, and each one furnished his QUOTA of game.

Paganel, arrayed in his flax mat, kept himself aloof, in a silent and pensive mood.

And yet, it is only justice to say, in spite of the general rule that, in the midst of trials, dangers, fatigues, and privations, the most amiable dispositions become ruffled and embittered, all our travelers were united, devoted, ready to die for one another.

On the 25th of February, their progress was stopped by a river which answered to the Wakari on Paganel’s map, and was easily forded. For two days plains of low scrub succeeded each other without interruption. Half the distance from Lake Taupo to the coast had been traversed without accident, though not without fatigue.

Then the scene changed to immense and interminable forests, which reminded them of Australia, but here the kauri took the place of the eucalyptus. Although their enthusiasm had been incessantly called forth during their four months’ journey, Glenarvan and his companions were compelled to admire and wonder at those gigantic pines, worthy rivals of the Cedars of Lebanon, and the “Mammoth trees” of California. The kauris measured a hundred feet high, before the ramification of the branches. They grew in isolated clumps, and the forest was not composed of trees, but of innumerable groups of trees, which spread their green canopies in the air two hundred feet from the ground.

Some of these pines, still young, about a hundred years old, resembled the red pine of Europe. They had a dark crown surmounted by a dark conical shoot. Their older brethren, five or six hundred years of age, formed great green pavilions supported on the inextricable network of their branches. These patriarchs of the New Zealand forest measured fifty yards in circumference, and the united arms of all the travelers could not embrace the giant trunk.

For three days the little party made their way under these vast arches, over a clayey soil which the foot of man had never trod. They knew this by the quantity of resinous gum that lay in heaps at the foot of the trees, and which would have lasted for native exportation many years.

The sportsmen found whole coveys of the kiwi, which are scarce in districts frequented by the Maories; the native dogs drive them away to the shelter of these inaccessible forests. They were an abundant source of nourishing food to our travelers.

Paganel also had the good fortune to espy, in a thicket, a pair of gigantic birds; his instinct as a naturalist was awakened. He called his companions, and in spite of their fatigue, the Major, Robert, and he set off on the track of these animals.

His curiosity was excusable, for he had recognized, or thought he had recognized, these birds as “moas” belonging to the species of “dinornis,” which many naturalists class with the extinct birds. This, if Paganel was right, would confirm the opinion of Dr. Hochstetter and other travelers on the present existence of the wingless giants of New Zealand.

These moas which Paganel was chasing, the contemporaries of the Megatherium and the Pterodactyles, must have been eighteen feet high. They were huge ostriches, timid too, for they fled with extreme rapidity. But no shot could stay their course. After a few minutes of chase, these fleet-footed moas disappeared among the tall trees, and the sportsmen lost their powder and their pains.

That evening, March 1, Glenarvan and his companions, emerging at last from the immense kauri-forest, camped at the foot of Mount Ikirangi, whose summit rose five thousand five hundred feet into the air. At this point they had traveled a hundred miles from Maunganamu, and the shore was still thirty miles away. John Mangles had calculated on accomplishing the whole journey in ten days, but he did not foresee the physical difficulties of the country.

On the whole, owing to the circuits, the obstacles, and the imperfect observations, the journey had been extended by fully one-fifth, and now that they had reached Mount Ikirangi, they were quite worn out.

Two long days of walking were still to be accomplished, during which time all their activity and vigilance would be required, for their way was through a district often frequented by the natives. The little party conquered their weariness, and set out next morning at daybreak.

Between Mount Ikirangi which was left to the right, and Mount Hardy whose summit rose on the left to a height of 3,700 feet, the journey was very trying; for about ten miles the bush was a tangle of “supple-jack,” a kind of flexible rope, appropriately called “stifling-creeper,” that caught the feet at every step. For two days, they had to cut their way with an ax through this thousand-headed hydra. Hunting became impossible, and the sportsmen failed in their accustomed tribute. The provisions were almost exhausted, and there was no means of renewing them; their thirst was increasing by fatigue, and there was no water wherewith to quench it.

The sufferings of Glenarvan and his party became terrible, and for the first time their moral energy threatened to give way. They no longer walked, they dragged themselves along, soulless bodies, animated only by the instinct of self-preservation which survives every other feeling, and in this melancholy plight they reached Point Lottin on the shores of the Pacific.

Here they saw several deserted huts, the ruins of a village lately destroyed by the war, abandoned fields, and everywhere signs of pillage and incendiary fires.

They were toiling painfully along the shore, when they saw, at a distance of about a mile, a band of natives, who rushed toward them brandishing their weapons. Glenarvan, hemmed in by the sea, could not fly, and summoning all his remaining strength he was about to meet the attack, when John Mangles cried: “A boat! a boat!”

And there, twenty paces off, a canoe with six oars lay on the beach. To launch it, jump in and fly from the dangerous shore, was only a minute’s work. John Mangles, McNabbs, Wilson and Mulrady took the oars; Glenarvan the helm; the two women, Robert and Olbinett stretched themselves beside him. In ten minutes the canoe was a quarter of a mile from the shore. The sea was calm. The fugitives were silent. But John, who did not want to get too far from land, was about to give the order to go up the coast, when he suddenly stopped rowing.

He saw three canoes coming out from behind Point Lottin and evidently about to give chase.

“Out to sea! Out to sea!” he exclaimed. “Better to drown if we must!”

The canoe went fast under her four rowers. For half an hour she kept her distance; but the poor exhausted fellows grew weaker, and the three pursuing boats began to gain sensibly on them. At this moment, scarcely two miles lay between them. It was impossible to avoid the attack of the natives, who were already preparing to fire their long guns.

What was Glenarvan about? — standing up in the stern he was looking toward the horizon for some chimerical help. What did he hope for? What did he wish? Had he a presentiment?

In a moment his eyes gleamed, his hand pointed out into the distance.

“A ship! a ship!” he cried. “My friends, row! row hard!”

Not one of the rowers turned his head — not an oar-stroke must be lost.

Paganel alone rose, and turned his telescope to the point indicated.

“Yes,” said he, “a ship! a steamer! they are under full steam! they are coming to us! Found now, brave comrades!”

The fugitives summoned new energy, and for another half hour, keeping their distance, they rowed with hasty strokes. The steamer came nearer and nearer. They made out her two masts, bare of sails, and the great volumes of black smoke. Glenarvan, handing the tiller to Robert, seized Paganel’s glass, and watched the movements of the steamer.

John Mangles and his companions were lost in wonder when they saw Glenarvan’s features contract and grow pale, and the glass drop from his hands. One word explained it.

“The DUNCAN!” exclaimed Glenarvan. “The DUNCAN, and the convicts!”

“The DUNCAN!” cried John, letting go his oar and rising.

“Yes, death on all sides!” murmured Glenarvan, crushed by despair.

It was indeed the yacht, they could not mistake her — the yacht and her bandit crew!

The major could scarcely restrain himself from cursing their destiny.

The canoe was meantime standing still. Where should they go? Whither fly? What choice was there between the convicts and the savages?

A shot was fired from the nearest of the native boats, and the ball struck Wilson’s oar.

A few strokes then carried the canoe nearer to the DUNCAN.

The yacht was coming down at full speed, and was not more than half a mile off.

John Mangles, between two enemies, did not know what to advise, whither to fly! The two poor ladies on their knees, prayed in their agony.

The savages kept up a running fire, and shots were raining round the canoe, when suddenly a loud report was heard, and a ball from the yacht’s cannon passed over their heads, and now the boat remained motionless between the DUNCAN and the native canoes.

John Mangles, frenzied with despair, seized his ax. He was about to scuttle the boat and sink it with his unfortunate companions, when a cry from Robert arrested his arm.

“Tom Austin! Tom Austin!” the lad shouted. “He is on board!

I see him! He knows us! He is waving his hat.”

The ax hung useless in John’s hand.

A second ball whistled over his head, and cut in two the nearest of the three native boats, while a loud hurrah burst forth on board the DUNCAN.

The savages took flight, fled and regained the shore.

“Come on, Tom, come on!” cried John Mangles in a joyous voice.

And a few minutes after, the ten fugitives, how, they knew not, were all safe on board the DUNCAN.

CHAPTER XVI WHY THE “DUNCAN” WENT TO NEW ZEALAND

IT would be vain to attempt to depict the feelings of Glenarvan and his friends when the songs of old Scotia fell on their ears. The moment they set foot on the deck of the DUNCAN, the piper blew his bagpipes, and commenced the national pibroch of the Malcolm clan, while loud hurrahs rent the air.

Glenarvan and his whole party, even the Major himself, were crying and embracing each other. They were delirious with joy. The geographer was absolutely mad. He frisked about, telescope in hand, pointing it at the last canoe approaching the shore.

But at the sight of Glenarvan and his companions, with their clothing in rags, and thin, haggard faces, bearing marks of horrible sufferings, the crew ceased their noisy demonstrations. These were specters who had returned — not the bright, adventurous travelers who had left the yacht three months before, so full of hope! Chance, and chance only, had brought them back to the deck of the yacht they never thought to see again. And in what a state of exhaustion and feebleness. But before thinking of fatigue, or attending to the imperious demands of hunger and thirst, Glenarvan questioned Tom Austin about his being on this coast.

Why had the DUNCAN come to the eastern coast of New Zealand? How was it not in the hands of Ben Joyce? By what providential fatality had God brought them in the track of the fugitives?

Why? how? and for what purpose? Tom was stormed with questions on all sides. The old sailor did not know which to listen to first, and at last resolved to hear nobody but Glenarvan, and to answer nobody but him.

“But the convicts?” inquired Glenarvan. “What did you do with them?”

“The convicts?” replied Tom, with the air of a man who does not in the least understand what he is being asked.

“Yes, the wretches who attacked the yacht.”

“What yacht? Your Honor’s?”

“Why, of course, Tom. The DUNCAN, and Ben Joyce, who came on board.”

“I don’t know this Ben Joyce, and have never seen him.”

“Never seen him!” exclaimed Paganel, stupefied at the old sailor’s replies. “Then pray tell me, Tom, how it is that the DUNCAN is cruising at this moment on the coast of New Zealand?”

But if Glenarvan and his friends were totally at a loss to understand the bewilderment of the old sailor, what was their amazement when he replied in a calm voice: “The DUNCAN is cruising here by your Honor’s orders.”

“By my orders?” cried Glenarvan.

“Yes, my Lord. I only acted in obedience to the instructions sent in your letter of January fourteenth.”

“My letter! my letter!” exclaimed Glenarvan.

The ten travelers pressed closer round Tom Austin, devouring him with their eyes. The letter dated from Snowy River had reached the DUNCAN, then.

“Let us come to explanations, pray, for it seems to me I am dreaming.

You received a letter, Tom?”

“Yes, a letter from your Honor.”

“At Melbourne?”

“At Melbourne, just as our repairs were completed.”

“And this letter?”

“It was not written by you, but bore your signature, my Lord.”

“Just so; my letter was brought by a convict called Ben Joyce.”

“No, by a sailor called Ayrton, a quartermaster on the BRITANNIA.”

“Yes, Ayrton or Ben Joyce, one and the same individual.

Well, and what were the contents of this letter?”

“It contained orders to leave Melbourne without delay, and go and cruise on the eastern coast of — “

“Australia!” said Glenarvan with such vehemence that the old sailor was somewhat disconcerted.

“Of Australia?” repeated Tom, opening his eyes. “No, but New Zealand.”

“Australia, Tom! Australia!” they all cried with one voice.

Austin’s head began to feel in a whirl. Glenarvan spoke with such assurance that he thought after all he must have made a mistake in reading the letter. Could a faithful, exact old servant like himself have been guilty of such a thing! He turned red and looked quite disturbed.

“Never mind, Tom,” said Lady Helena. “God so willed it.”

“But, no, madam, pardon me,” replied old Tom. “No, it is impossible, I was not mistaken. Ayrton read the letter as I did, and it was he, on the contrary, who wished to bring me to the Australian coast.”

“Ayrton!” cried Glenarvan.

“Yes, Ayrton himself. He insisted it was a mistake: that you meant to order me to Twofold Bay.”

“Have you the letter still, Tom?” asked the Major, extremely interested in this mystery.

“Yes, Mr. McNabbs,” replied Austin. “I’ll go and fetch it.”

He ran at once to his cabin in the forecastle. During his momentary absence they gazed at each other in silence, all but the Major, who crossed his arms and said: “Well, now, Paganel, you must own this would be going a little too far.”

“What?” growled Paganel, looking like a gigantic note of interrogation, with his spectacles on his forehead and his stooping back.

Austin returned directly with the letter written by Paganel and signed by Glenarvan.

“Will your Honor read it?” he said, handing it to him.

Glenarvan took the letter and read as follows: “Order to Tom Austin to put out to sea without delay, and to take the Duncan, by latitude 37 degrees to the eastern coast of New Zealand!”

“New Zealand!” cried Paganel, leaping up.

And he seized the letter from Glenarvan, rubbed his eyes, pushed down his spectacles on his nose, and read it for himself.

“New Zealand!” he repeated in an indescribable tone, letting the order slip between his fingers.

That same moment he felt a hand laid on his shoulder, and turning round found himself face to face with the Major, who said in a grave tone: “Well, my good Paganel, after all, it is a lucky thing you did not send the DUNCAN to Cochin China!”

This pleasantry finished the poor geographer. The crew burst out into loud Homeric laughter. Paganel ran about like a madman, seized his head with both hands and tore his hair. He neither knew what he was doing nor what he wanted to do. He rushed down the poop stairs mechanically and paced the deck, nodding to himself and going straight before without aim or object till he reached the forecastle. There his feet got entangled in a coil of rope. He stumbled and fell, accidentally catching hold of a rope with both hands in his fall.

Suddenly a tremendous explosion was heard. The forecastle gun had gone off, riddling the quiet calm of the waves with a volley of small shot. The unfortunate Paganel had caught hold of the cord of the loaded gun. The geographer was thrown down the forecastle ladder and disappeared below.

A cry of terror succeeded the surprise produced by the explosion. Everybody thought something terrible must have happened. The sailors rushed between decks and lifted up Paganel, almost bent double. The geographer uttered no sound.

They carried his long body onto the poop. His companions were in despair. The Major, who was always the surgeon on great occasions, began to strip the unfortunate that he might dress his wounds; but he had scarcely put his hands on the dying man when he started up as if touched by an electrical machine.

“Never! never!” he exclaimed, and pulling his ragged coat tightly round him, he began buttoning it up in a strangely excited manner.

“But, Paganel,” began the Major.

“No, I tell you!”

“I must examine — “

“You shall not examine.”

“You may perhaps have broken — ” continued McNabbs.

“Yes,” continued Paganel, getting up on his long legs, “but what I have broken the carpenter can mend.”

“What is it, then?”

“There.”

Bursts of laughter from the crew greeted this speech.

Paganel’s friends were quite reassured about him now.

They were satisfied that he had come off safe and sound from his adventure with the forecastle gun.

“At any rate,” thought the Major, “the geographer is wonderfully bashful.”

But now Paganel was recovered a little, he had to reply to a question he could not escape.

“Now, Paganel,” said Glenarvan, “tell us frankly all about it. I own that your blunder was providential. It is sure and certain that but for you the DUNCAN would have fallen into the hands of the convicts; but for you we should have been recaptured by the Maories. But for my sake tell me by what supernatural aberration of mind you were induced to write New Zealand instead of Australia?”

“Well, upon my oath,” said Paganel, “it is — “

But the same instant his eyes fell on Mary and Robert Grant, and he stopped short and then went on: “What would you have me say, my dear Glenarvan? I am mad, I am an idiot, an incorrigible fellow, and I shall live and die the most terrible absent man. I can’t change my skin.”

“Unless you get flayed alive.”

“Get flayed alive!” cried the geographer, with a furious look.

“Is that a personal allusion?”

“An allusion to what?” asked McNabbs, quietly. This was all that passed. The mystery of the DUNCAN’S presence on the coast was explained, and all that the travelers thought about now was to get back to their comfortable cabins, and to have breakfast.

However, Glenarvan and John Mangles stayed behind with Tom Austin after the others had retired. They wished to put some further questions to him.

“Now, then, old Austin,” said Glenarvan, “tell me, didn’t it strike you as strange to be ordered to go and cruise on the coast of New Zealand?”

“Yes, your Honor,” replied Tom. “I was very much surprised, but it is not my custom to discuss any orders I receive, and I obeyed. Could I do otherwise? If some catastrophe had occurred through not carrying out your injunctions to the letter, should not I have been to blame? Would you have acted differently, captain?”

“No, Tom,” replied John Mangles.

“But what did you think?” asked Glenarvan.

“I thought, your Honor, that in the interest of Harry Grant, it was necessary to go where I was told to go. I thought that in consequence of fresh arrangements, you were to sail over to New Zealand, and that I was to wait for you on the east coast of the island. Moreover, on leaving Melbourne, I kept our destination a secret, and the crew only knew it when we were right out at sea, and the Australian continent was finally out of sight. But one circumstance occurred which greatly perplexed me.”

“What was it, Tom?” asked Glenarvan.

“Just this, that when the quartermaster of the BRITANNIA heard our destination — “

“Ayrton!” cried Glenarvan. “Then he is on board?”

“Yes, your Honor.”

“Ayrton here?” repeated Glenarvan, looking at John Mangles.

“God has so willed!” said the young captain.

In an instant, like lightning, Ayrton’s conduct, his long-planned treachery, Glenarvan’s wound, Mulrady’s assassination, the sufferings of the expedition in the marshes of the Snowy River, the whole past life of the miscreant, flashed before the eyes of the two men. And now, by the strangest concourse of events, the convict was in their power.

“Where is he?” asked Glenarvan eagerly.

“In a cabin in the forecastle, and under guard.”

“Why was he imprisoned?”

“Because when Ayrton heard the vessel was going to New Zealand, he was in a fury; because he tried to force me to alter the course of the ship; because he threatened me; and, last of all, because he incited my men to mutiny. I saw clearly he was a dangerous individual, and I must take precautions against him.”

“And since then?”

“Since then he has remained in his cabin without attempting to go out.”

“That’s well, Tom.”

Just at this moment Glenarvan and John Mangles were summoned to the saloon where breakfast, which they so sorely needed, was awaiting them. They seated themselves at the table and spoke no more of Ayrton.

But after the meal was over, and the guests were refreshed and invigorated, and they all went upon deck, Glenarvan acquainted them with the fact of the quartermaster’s presence on board, and at the same time announced his intention of having him brought before them.

“May I beg to be excused from being present at his examination?” said Lady Helena. “I confess, dear Edward, it would be extremely painful for me to see the wretched man.”

“He must be confronted with us, Helena,” replied Lord Glenarvan; “I beg you will stay. Ben Joyce must see all his victims face to face.”

Lady Helena yielded to his wish. Mary Grant sat beside her, near Glenarvan. All the others formed a group round them, the whole party that had been compromised so seriously by the treachery of the convict. The crew of the yacht, without understanding the gravity of the situation, kept profound silence.

“Bring Ayrton here,” said Glenarvan.

CHAPTER XVII AYRTON’S OBSTINACY

AYRTON came. He crossed the deck with a confident tread, and mounted the steps to the poop. His eyes were gloomy, his teeth set, his fists clenched convulsively. His appearance betrayed neither effrontery nor timidity. When he found himself in the presence of Lord Glenarvan he folded his arms and awaited the questions calmly and silently.

“Ayrton,” said Glenarvan, “here we are then, you and us, on this very DUNCAN that you wished to deliver into the hands of the convicts of Ben Joyce.”

The lips of the quartermaster trembled slightly and a quick flush suffused his impassive features. Not the flush of remorse, but of shame at failure. On this yacht which he thought he was to command as master, he was a prisoner, and his fate was about to be decided in a few seconds.

However, he made no reply. Glenarvan waited patiently.

But Ayrton persisted in keeping absolute silence.

“Speak, Ayrton, what have you to say?” resumed Glenarvan.

Ayrton hesitated, the wrinkles in his forehead deepened, and at length he said in calm voice: “I have nothing to say, my Lord. I have been fool enough to allow myself to be caught. Act as you please.”

Then he turned his eyes away toward the coast which lay on the west, and affected profound indifference to what was passing around him. One would have thought him a stranger to the whole affair. But Glenarvan was determined to be patient. Powerful motives urged him to find out certain details concerning the mysterious life of Ayrton, especially those which related to Harry Grant and the BRITANNIA. He therefore resumed his interrogations, speaking with extreme gentleness and firmly restraining his violent irritation against him.

“I think, Ayrton,” he went on, “that you will not refuse to reply to certain questions that I wish to put to you; and, first of all, ought I to call you Ayrton or Ben Joyce? Are you, or are you not, the quartermaster of the BRITANNIA?”

Ayrton remained impassive, gazing at the coast, deaf to every question.

Glenarvan’s eyes kindled, as he said again: “Will you tell me how you left the BRITANNIA, and why you are in Australia?”

The same silence, the same impassibility.

“Listen to me, Ayrton,” continued Glenarvan; “it is to your interest to speak. Frankness is the only resource left to you, and it may stand you in good stead. For the last time, I ask you, will you reply to my questions?”

Ayrton turned his head toward Glenarvan, and looked into his eyes.

“My Lord,” he said, “it is not for me to answer. Justice may witness against me, but I am not going to witness against myself.”

“Proof will be easy,” said Glenarvan.

“Easy, my Lord,” repeated Ayrton, in a mocking tone. “Your honor makes rather a bold assertion there, it seems to me. For my own part, I venture to affirm that the best judge in the Temple would be puzzled what to make of me. Who will say why I came to Australia, when Captain Grant is not here to tell? Who will prove that I am the Ben Joyce placarded by the police, when the police have never had me in their hands, and my companions are at liberty? Who can damage me except yourself, by bringing forward a single crime against me, or even a blameable action? Who will affirm that I intended to take possession of this ship and deliver it into the hands of the convicts? No one, I tell you, no one. You have your suspicions, but you need certainties to condemn a man, and certainties you have none. Until there is a proof to the contrary, I am Ayrton, quartermaster of the BRITANNIA.”

Ayrton had become animated while he was speaking, but soon relapsed into his former indifference.

He, no doubt, expected that his reply would close the examination, but Glenarvan commenced again, and said: “Ayrton, I am not a Crown prosecutor charged with your indictment. That is no business of mine. It is important that our respective situations should be clearly defined. I am not asking you anything that could compromise you. That is for justice to do. But you know what I am searching for, and a single word may put me on the track I have lost. Will you speak?”

Ayrton shook his head like a man determined to be silent.

“Will you tell me where Captain Grant is?” asked Glenarvan.

“No, my Lord,” replied Ayrton.

“Will you tell me where the BRITANNIA was wrecked?”

“No, neither the one nor the other.”

“Ayrton,” said Glenarvan, in almost beseeching tones, “if you know where Harry Grant is, will you, at least, tell his poor children, who are waiting for you to speak the word?”

Ayrton hesitated. His features contracted, and he muttered in a low voice, “I cannot, my Lord.”

Then he added with vehemence, as if reproaching himself for a momentary weakness: “No, I will not speak. Have me hanged, if you choose.”

“Hanged!” exclaimed Glenarvan, overcome by a sudden feeling of anger.

But immediately mastering himself, he added in a grave voice: “Ayrton, there is neither judge nor executioner here. At the first port we touch at, you will be given up into the hands of the English authorities.”

“That is what I demand,” was the quartermaster’s reply.

Then he turned away and quietly walked back to his cabin, which served as his prison. Two sailors kept guard at the door, with orders to watch his slightest movement. The witnesses of this examination retired from the scene indignant and despairing.

As Glenarvan could make no way against Ayrton’s obstinacy, what was to be done now? Plainly no course remained but to carry out the plan formed at Eden, of returning to Europe and giving up for the time this unsuccessful enterprise, for the traces of the BRITANNIA seemed irrevocably lost, and the document did not appear to allow any fresh interpretation. On the 37th parallel there was not even another country, and the DUNCAN had only to turn and go back.

After Glenarvan had consulted his friends, he talked over the question of returning, more particularly with the captain. John examined the coal bunkers, and found there was only enough to last fifteen days longer at the outside. It was necessary, therefore, to put in at the nearest port for a fresh supply.

John proposed that he should steer for the Bay of Talcahuano, where the DUNCAN had once before been revictualed before she commenced her voyage of circumnavigation. It was a direct route across, and lay exactly along the 37th parallel. From thence the yacht, being amply provisioned, might go south, double Cape Horn, and get back to Scotland by the Atlantic route.

This plan was adopted, and orders were given to the engineer to get up the steam. Half an hour afterward the beak-head of the yacht was turned toward Talcahuano, over a sea worthy of being called the Pacific, and at six P. M. the last mountains of New Zealand had disappeared in warm, hazy mist on the horizon.

The return voyage was fairly commenced. A sad voyage, for the courageous searching party to come back to the port without bringing home Harry Grant with them! The crew, so joyous at departure and so hopeful, were coming back to Europe defeated and discouraged. There was not one among the brave fellows whose heart did not swell at the thought of seeing his own country once more; and yet there was not one among them either who would not have been willing to brave the perils of the sea for a long time still if they could but find Captain Grant.

Consequently, the hurrahs which greeted the return of Lord Glenarvan to the yacht soon gave place to dejection. Instead of the close intercourse which had formerly existed among the passengers, and the lively conversations which had cheered the voyage, each one kept apart from the others in the solitude of his own cabin, and it was seldom that anyone appeared on the deck of the DUNCAN.

Paganel, who generally shared in an exaggerated form the feelings of those about him, whether painful or joyous — a man who could have invented hope if necessary — even Paganel was gloomy and taciturn. He was seldom visible; his natural loquacity and French vivacity gave place to silence and dejection. He seemed even more downhearted than his companions. If Glenarvan spoke at all of renewing the search, he shook his head like a man who has given up all hope, and whose convictions concerning the fate of the shipwrecked men appeared settled. It was quite evident he believed them irrevocably lost.

And yet there was a man on board who could have spoken the decisive word, and refused to break his silence. This was Ayrton. There was no doubt the fellow knew, if not the present whereabouts of the captain, at least the place of shipwreck. But it was evident that were Grant found, he would be a witness against him. Hence his persistent silence, which gave rise to great indignation on board, especially among the crew, who would have liked to deal summarily with him.

Glenarvan repeatedly renewed his attempts with the quartermaster, but promises and threats were alike useless. Ayrton’s obstinacy was so great, and so inexplicable, that the Major began to believe he had nothing to reveal. His opinion was shared, moreover, by the geographer, as it corroborated his own notion about Harry Grant.

But if Ayrton knew nothing, why did he not confess his ignorance? It could not be turned against him. His silence increased the difficulty of forming any new plan. Was the presence of the quartermaster on the Australian continent a proof of Harry Grant’s being there? It was settled that they must get this information out of Ayrton.

Lady Helena, seeing her husband’s ill-success, asked his permission to try her powers against the obstinacy of the quartermaster. When a man had failed, a woman perhaps, with her gentler influence, might succeed. Is there not a constant repetition going on of the story of the fable where the storm, blow as it will, cannot tear the cloak from the shoulders of the traveler, while the first warm rays of sunshine make him throw it off immediately?

Glenarvan, knowing his young wife’s good sense, allowed her to act as she pleased.

The same day (the 5th of March), Ayrton was conducted to Lady Helena’s saloon. Mary Grant was to be present at the interview, for the influence of the young girl might be considerable, and Lady Helena would not lose any chance of success.

For a whole hour the two ladies were closeted with the quartermaster, but nothing transpired about their interview. What had been said, what arguments they used to win the secret from the convict, or what questions were asked, remained unknown; but when they left Ayrton, they did not seem to have succeeded, as the expression on their faces denoted discouragement.

In consequence of this, when the quartermaster was being taken back to his cabin, the sailors met him with violent menaces. He took no notice except by shrugging his shoulders, which so increased their rage, that John Mangles and Glenarvan had to interfere, and could only repress it with difficulty.

But Lady Helena would not own herself vanquished. She resolved to struggle to the last with this pitiless man, and went next day herself to his cabin to avoid exposing him again to the vindictiveness of the crew.

The good and gentle Scotchwoman stayed alone with the convict leader for two long hours. Glenarvan in a state of extreme nervous anxiety, remained outside the cabin, alternately resolved to exhaust completely this last chance of success, alternately resolved to rush in and snatch his wife from so painful a situation.

But this time when Lady Helena reappeared, her look was full of hope. Had she succeeded in extracting the secret, and awakening in that adamant heart a last faint touch of pity?

McNabbs, who first saw her, could not restrain a gesture of incredulity.

However the report soon spread among the sailors that the quartermaster had yielded to the persuasions of Lady Helena. The effect was electrical. The entire crew assembled on deck far quicker than Tom Austin’s whistle could have brought them together.

Glenarvan had hastened up to his wife and eagerly asked: “Has he spoken?”

“No,” replied Lady Helena, “but he has yielded to my entreaties, and wishes to see you.”

“Ah, dear Helena, you have succeeded!”

“I hope so, Edward.”

“Have you made him any promise that I must ratify?”

“Only one; that you will do all in your power to mitigate his punishment.”

“Very well, dear Helena. Let Ayrton come immediately.”

Lady Helena retired to her cabin with Mary Grant, and the quartermaster was brought into the saloon where Lord Glenarvan was expecting him.

CHAPTER XVIII A DISCOURAGING CONFESSION

As soon as the quartermaster was brought into the presence of Lord Glenarvan, his keepers withdrew.

“You wanted to speak to me, Ayrton?” said Glenarvan.

“Yes, my Lord,” replied the quartermaster.

“Did you wish for a private interview?”

“Yes, but I think if Major McNabbs and Mr. Paganel were present it would be better.”

“For whom?”

“For myself.”

Ayrton spoke quite calmly and firmly. Glenarvan looked at him for an instant, and then sent to summon McNabbs and Paganel, who came at once.

“We are all ready to listen to you,” said Glenarvan, when his two friends had taken their place at the saloon table.

Ayrton collected himself, for an instant, and then said: “My Lord, it is usual for witnesses to be present at every contract or transaction between two parties. That is why I desire the presence of Messrs. Paganel and McNabbs, for it is, properly speaking, a bargain which I propose to make.”

Glenarvan, accustomed to Ayrton’s ways, exhibited no surprise, though any bargaining between this man and himself seemed strange.

“What is the bargain?” he said.

“This,” replied Ayrton. “You wish to obtain from me certain facts which may be useful to you. I wish to obtain from you certain advantages which would be valuable to me. It is giving for giving, my Lord. Do you agree to this or not?”

“What are the facts?” asked Paganel eagerly.

“No,” said Glenarvan. “What are the advantages?”

Ayrton bowed in token that he understood Glenarvan’s distinction.

“These,” he said, “are the advantages I ask. It is still your intention, I suppose, to deliver me up to the English authorities?”

“Yes, Ayrton, it is only justice.”

“I don’t say it is not,” replied the quartermaster quietly.

“Then of course you would never consent to set me at liberty.”

Glenarvan hesitated before replying to a question so plainly put.

On the answer he gave, perhaps the fate of Harry Grant might depend!

However, a feeling of duty toward human justice compelled him to say: “No, Ayrton, I cannot set you at liberty.”

“I do not ask it,” said the quartermaster proudly.

“Then, what is it you want?”

“A middle place, my Lord, between the gibbet that awaits me and the liberty which you cannot grant me.”

“And that is — “

“To allow me to be left on one of the uninhabited islands of the Pacific, with such things as are absolute necessaries. I will manage as best I can, and will repent if I have time.”

Glenarvan, quite unprepared for such a proposal, looked at his two friends in silence. But after a brief reflection, he replied: “Ayrton, if I agree to your request, you will tell me all I have an interest in knowing.”

“Yes, my Lord, that is to say, all I know about Captain Grant and the BRITANNIA.”

“The whole truth?”

“The whole.”

“But what guarantee have I?”

“Oh, I see what you are uneasy about. You need a guarantee for me, for the truth of a criminal. That’s natural. But what can you have under the circumstances. There is no help for it, you must either take my offer or leave it.”

“I will trust to you, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan, simply.

“And you do right, my Lord. Besides, if I deceive you, vengeance is in your own power.”

“How?”

“You can come and take me again from where you left me, as I shall have no means of getting away from the island.”

Ayrton had an answer for everything. He anticipated the difficulties and furnished unanswerable arguments against himself. It was evident he intended to affect perfect good faith in the business. It was impossible to show more complete confidence. And yet he was prepared to go still further in disinterestedness.

“My Lord and gentlemen,” he added, “I wish to convince you of the fact that I am playing cards on the table. I have no wish to deceive you, and I am going to give you a fresh proof of my sincerity in this matter. I deal frankly with you, because I reckon on your honor.”

“Speak, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan.

“My Lord, I have not your promise yet to accede to my proposal, and yet I do not scruple to tell you that I know very little about Harry Grant.”

“Very little,” exclaimed Glenarvan.

“Yes, my Lord, the details I am in a position to give you relate to myself. They are entirely personal, and will not do much to help you to recover the lost traces of Captain Grant.”

Keen disappointment was depicted on the faces of Glenarvan and the Major.

They thought the quartermaster in the possession of an important secret, and he declared that his communications would be very nearly barren.

Paganel’s countenance remained unmoved.

Somehow or other, this avowal of Ayrton, and surrender of himself, so to speak, unconditionally, singularly touched his auditors, especially when the quartermaster added: “So I tell you beforehand, the bargain will be more to my profit than yours.”

“It does not signify,” replied Glenarvan. “I accept your proposal, Ayrton. I give you my word to land you on one of the islands of the Pacific Ocean.”

“All right, my Lord,” replied the quartermaster.

Was this strange man glad of this decision? One might have doubted it, for his impassive countenance betokened no emotion whatever. It seemed as if he were acting for someone else rather than himself.

“I am ready to answer,” he said.

“We have no questions to put to you,” said Glenarvan. “Tell us all you know, Ayrton, and begin by declaring who you are.”

“Gentlemen,” replied Ayrton, “I am really Tom Ayrton, the quartermaster of the BRITANNIA. I left Glasgow on Harry Grant’s ship on the 12th of March, 1861. For fourteen months I cruised with him in the Pacific in search of an advantageous spot for founding a Scotch colony. Harry Grant was the man to carry out grand projects, but serious disputes often arose between us. His temper and mine could not agree. I cannot bend, and with Harry Grant, when once his resolution is taken, any resistance is impossible, my Lord. He has an iron will both for himself and others.

“But in spite of that, I dared to rebel, and I tried to get the crew to join me, and to take possession of the vessel. Whether I was to blame or not is of no consequence. Be that as it may, Harry Grant had no scruples, and on the 8th of April, 1862, he left me behind on the west coast of Australia.”

“Of Australia!” said the Major, interrupting Ayrton in his narrative. “Then of course you had quitted the BRITANNIA before she touched at Callao, which was her last date?”

“Yes,” replied the quartermaster, “for the BRITANNIA did not touch there while I was on board. And how I came to speak of Callao at Paddy O’Moore’s farm was that I learned the circumstances from your recital.”

“Go on, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan.

“I found myself abandoned on a nearly desert coast, but only forty miles from the penal settlement at Perth, the capital of Western Australia. As I was wandering there along the shore, I met a band of convicts who had just escaped, and I joined myself to them. You will dispense, my Lord, with any account of my life for two years and a half. This much, however, I must tell you, that I became the leader of the gang, under the name of Ben Joyce. In September, 1864, I introduced myself at the Irish farm, where I engaged myself as a servant in my real name, Ayrton. I waited there till I should get some chance of seizing a ship. This was my one idea. Two months afterward the DUNCAN arrived. During your visit to the farm you related Captain Grant’s history, and I learned then facts of which I was not previously aware — that the BRITANNIA had touched at Callao, and that her latest news was dated June, 1862, two months after my disembarkation, and also about the document and the loss of the ship somewhere along the 37th parallel; and, lastly, the strong reasons you had for supposing Harry Grant was on the Australian continent. Without the least hesitation I determined to appropriate the DUNCAN, a matchless vessel, able to outdistance the swiftest ships in the British Navy. But serious injuries had to be repaired. I therefore let it go to Melbourne, and joined myself to you in my true character as quartermaster, offering to guide you to the scene of the shipwreck, fictitiously placed by me on the east coast of Australia. It was in this way, followed or sometimes preceded by my gang of convicts, I directed your expedition toward the province of Victoria. My men committed a bootless crime at Camden Bridge; since the DUNCAN, if brought to the coast, could not escape me, and with the yacht once mine, I was master of the ocean. I led you in this way unsuspectingly as far as the Snowy River. The horses and bullocks dropped dead one by one, poisoned by the gastrolobium. I dragged the wagon into the marshes, where it got half buried. At my instance — but you know the rest, my Lord, and you may be sure that but for the blunder of Mr. Paganel, I should now command the DUNCAN. Such is my history, gentlemen. My disclosures, unfortunately, cannot put you on the track of Harry Grant, and you perceive that you have made but a poor bargain by coming to my terms.”

The quartermaster said no more, but crossed his arms in his usual fashion and waited. Glenarvan and his friends kept silence. They felt that this strange criminal had spoken the whole truth. He had only missed his coveted prize, the DUNCAN, through a cause independent of his will. His accomplices had gone to Twofold Bay, as was proved by the convict blouse found by Glenarvan. Faithful to the orders of their chief, they had kept watch on the yacht, and at length, weary of waiting, had returned to the old haunt of robbers and incendiaries in the country parts of New South Wales.

The Major put the first question, his object being to verify the dates of the BRITANNIA.

“You are sure then,” he said, “that it was on the 8th of April you were left on the west coast of Australia?”

“On that very day,” replied Ayrton.

“And do you know what projects Harry Grant had in view at the time?”

“In an indefinite way I do.”

“Say all you can, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan, “the least indication may set us in the right course.”

“I only know this much, my Lord,” replied the quartermaster, “that Captain Grant intended to visit New Zealand. Now, as this part of the programme was not carried out while I was on board, it is not impossible that on leaving Callao the BRITANNIA went to reconnoiter New Zealand. This would agree with the date assigned by the document to the shipwreck — the 27th of June, 1862.”

“Clearly,” said Paganel.

“But,” objected Glenarvan, “there is nothing in the fragmentary words in the document that could apply to New Zealand.”

“That I cannot answer,” said the quartermaster.

“Well, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan, “you have kept your word, and I will keep mine. We have to decide now on what island of the Pacific Ocean you are to be left?”

“It matters little, my Lord,” replied Ayrton.

“Return to your cabin,” said Glenarvan, “and wait our decision.”

The quartermaster withdrew, guarded by the two sailors.

“That villain might have been a man,” said the Major.

“Yes,” returned Glenarvan; “he is a strong, clear-headed fellow.

Why was it that he must needs turn his powers to such evil account?”

“But Harry Grant?”

“I must fear he is irrevocably lost. Poor children!

Who can tell them where their father is?”

“I can!” replied Paganel. “Yes; I can!” One could not help remarking that the geographer, so loquacious and impatient usually, had scarcely spoken during Ayrton’s examination. He listened without opening his mouth. But this speech of his now was worth many others, and it made Glenarvan spring to his feet, crying out: “You, Paganel! you know where Captain Grant is?”

“Yes, as far as can be known.”

“How do you know?”

“From that infernal document.”

“Ah!” said the Major, in a tone of the most profound incredulity.

“Hear me first, and shrug your shoulders afterward,” said Paganel. “I did not speak sooner, because you would not have believed me. Besides, it was useless; and I only speak to-day because Ayrton’s opinion just supports my own.”

“Then it is New Zealand?” asked Glenarvan.

“Listen and judge,” replied Paganel. “It is not without reason, or, rather, I had a reason for making the blunder which has saved our lives. When I was in the very act of writing the letter to Glenarvan’s dictation, the word ZEALAND was swimming in my brain. This is why. You remember we were in the wagon. McNabbs had just apprised Lady Helena about the convicts; he had given her the number of the Australian and New Zealand Gazette which contained the account of the catastrophe at Camden Bridge. Now, just as I was writing, the newspaper was lying on the ground, folded in such a manner that only two syllables of the title were visible; these two syllables were ALAND. What a sudden light flashed on my mind. ALAND was one of the words in the English document, one that hitherto we had translated a terre, and which must have been the termination of the proper noun, ZEALAND.”

“Indeed!” said Glenarvan.

“Yes,” continued Paganel, with profound conviction; “this meaning had escaped me, and do you know why? Because my wits were exercised naturally on the French document, as it was most complete, and in that this important word was wanting.”

“Oh, oh!” said the Major; “your imagination goes too far, Paganel; and you forget your former deductions.”

“Go on, Major; I am ready to answer you.”

“Well, then, what do you make of your word AUSTRA?”

“What it was at first. It merely means southern countries.”

“Well, and this syllable, INDI, which was first the root of the INDIANS, and second the root of the word indigenes?”

“Well, the third and last time,” replied Paganel, “it will be the first syllable of the word INDIGENCE.”

“And CONTIN?” cried McNabbs. “Does that still mean CONTINENT?”

“No; since New Zealand is only an island.”

“What then?” asked Glenarvan.

“My dear lord,” replied Paganel, “I am going to translate the document according to my third interpretation, and you shall judge. I only make two observations beforehand. First, forget as much as possible preceding interpretations, and divest your mind of all preconceived notions. Second, certain parts may appear to you strained, and it is possible that I translate them badly; but they are of no importance; among others, the word AGONIE, which chokes me; but I cannot find any other explanation. Besides, my interpretation was founded on the French document; and don’t forget it was written by an Englishman, who could not be familiar with the idioms of the French language. Now then, having said this much, I will begin.”

And slowly articulating each syllable, he repeated the following sentences: “LE 27th JUIN, 1862, le trois-mats Britannia, de Glasgow, a sombre apres une longue AGONIE dans les mers AUSTRALES sur les cotes de la Nouvelle ZELANDE — in English Zealand. Deux matelots et le Capitaine Grant ont pu y ABORDER. La CONTINUellement en PRoie a une CRUELle INDIgence, ils ont jete ce document par — de longitude ET 37 degrees 11’ de LATItude. Venex a leur secours, ou ils sont PERDUS!” (On the 27th of June, 1865, the three-mast vessel BRITANNIA, of Glasgow, has foundered after a long AGOnie in the Southern Seas, on the coast of New Zealand. Two sailors and Captain Grant have succeeded in landing. Continually a prey to cruel indigence, they have thrown this document into the sea in — longitude and 37 degrees 11’ latitude. Come to their help, or they are lost.) Paganel stopped. His interpretation was admissible. But precisely because it appeared as likely as the preceding, it might be as false. Glenarvan and the Major did not then try and discuss it. However, since no traces of the BRITANNIA had yet been met with, either on the Patagonian or Australian coasts, at the points where these countries are crossed by the 37th parallel, the chances were in favor of New Zealand.

“Now, Paganel,” said Glenarvan, “will you tell me why you have kept this interpretation secret for nearly two months?”

“Because I did not wish to buoy you up again with vain hopes. Besides, we were going to Auckland, to the very spot indicated by the latitude of the document.”

“But since then, when we were dragged out of the route, why did you not speak?”

“Because, however just the interpretation, it could do nothing for the deliverance of the captain.”

“Why not, Paganel?”

“Because, admitting that the captain was wrecked on the New Zealand coast, now that two years have passed and he has not reappeared, he must have perished by shipwreck or by the New Zealanders.”

“Then you are of the opinion,” said Glenarvan, “that — “

“That vestiges of the wreck might be found; but that the survivors of the BRITANNIA have, beyond doubt, perished.”

“Keep all this silent, friends,” said Glenarvan, “and let me choose a fitting moment to communicate these sad tidings to Captain Grant’s children.”

CHAPTER XIX A CRY IN THE NIGHT

THE crew soon heard that no light had been thrown on the situation of Captain Grant by the revelations of Ayrton, and it caused profound disappointment among them, for they had counted on the quartermaster, and the quartermaster knew nothing which could put the DUNCAN on the right track.

The yacht therefore continued her course. They had yet to select the island for Ayrton’s banishment.

Paganel and John Mangles consulted the charts on board, and exactly on the 37th parallel found a little isle marked by the name of Maria Theresa, a sunken rock in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, 3,500 miles from the American coast, and 1,500 miles from New Zealand. The nearest land on the north was the Archipelago of Pomotou, under the protectorate of France; on the south there was nothing but the eternal ice-belt of the Polar Sea. No ship would come to reconnoiter this solitary isle. No echoes from the world would ever reach it. The storm birds only would rest awhile on it during their long flight, and in many charts the rock was not even marked.

If ever complete isolation was to be found on earth, it was on this little out-of-the-way island. Ayrton was informed of its situation, and expressed his willingness to live there apart from his fellows. The head of the vessel was in consequence turned toward it immediately.

Two days later, at two o’clock, the man on watch signaled land on the horizon. This was Maria Theresa, a low, elongated island, scarcely raised above the waves, and looking like an enormous whale. It was still thirty miles distant from the yacht, whose stem was rapidly cutting her way over the water at the rate of sixteen knots an hour.

Gradually the form of the island grew more distinct on the horizon. The orb of day sinking in the west, threw up its peculiar outlines in sharp relief. A few peaks of no great elevation stood out here and there, tipped with sunlight. At five o’clock John Mangles could discern a light smoke rising from it.

“Is it a volcano?” he asked of Paganel, who was gazing at this new land through his telescope.

“I don’t know what to think,” replied the geographer; “Maria Theresa is a spot little known; nevertheless, it would not be surprising if its origin were due to some submarine upheaval, and consequently it may be volcanic.”

“But in that case,” said Glenarvan, “is there not reason to fear that if an eruption produced it, an eruption may carry it away?”

“That is not possible,” replied Paganel. “We know of its existence for several centuries, which is our security. When the Isle Julia emerged from the Mediterranean, it did not remain long above the waves, and disappeared a few months after its birth.”

“Very good,” said Glenarvan. “Do you think, John, we can get there to-night?”

“No, your honor, I must not risk the DUNCAN in the dark, for I am unacquainted with the coast. I will keep under steam, but go very slowly, and to-morrow, at daybreak, we can send off a boat.”

At eight o’clock in the evening, Maria Theresa, though five miles to leeward, appeared only an elongated shadow, scarcely visible. The DUNCAN was always getting nearer.

At nine o’clock, a bright glare became visible, and flames shot up through the darkness. The light was steady and continued.

“That confirms the supposition of a volcano,” said Paganel, observing it attentively.

“Yet,” replied John Mangles, “at this distance we ought to hear the noise which always accompanies an eruption, and the east wind brings no sound whatever to our ear.”

“That’s true,” said Paganel. “It is a volcano that blazes, but does not speak. The gleam seems intermittent too, sometimes, like that of a lighthouse.”

“You are right,” said John Mangles, “and yet we are not on a lighted coast.”

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “another fire? On the shore this time!

Look! It moves! It has changed its place!”

John was not mistaken. A fresh fire had appeared, which seemed to die out now and then, and suddenly flare up again.

“Is the island inhabited then?” said Glenarvan.

“By savages, evidently,” replied Paganel.

“But in that case, we cannot leave the quartermaster there.”

“No,” replied the Major, “he would be too bad a gift even to bestow on savages.”

“We must find some other uninhabited island,” said Glenarvan, who could not help smiling at the delicacy of McNabbs. “I promised Ayrton his life, and I mean to keep my promise.”

“At all events, don’t let us trust them,” added Paganel.

“The New Zealanders have the barbarous custom of deceiving ships by moving lights, like the wreckers on the Cornish coast in former times.

Now the natives of Maria Theresa may have heard of this proceeding.”

“Keep her off a point,” called out John to the man at the helm.

“To-morrow at sunrise we shall know what we’re about.”

At eleven o’clock, the passengers and John Mangles retired to their cabins. In the forepart of the yacht the man on watch was pacing the deck, while aft, there was no one but the man at the wheel.

At this moment Mary Grant and Robert came on the poop.

The two children of the captain, leaning over the rail, gazed sadly at the phosphorescent waves and the luminous wake of the DUNCAN. Mary was thinking of her brother’s future, and Robert of his sister’s. Their father was uppermost in the minds of both. Was this idolized parent still in existence? Must they give him up? But no, for what would life be without him? What would become of them without him? What would have become of them already, but for Lord Glenarvan and Lady Helena?

The young boy, old above his years through trouble, divined the thoughts that troubled his sister, and taking her hand in his own, said, “Mary, we must never despair. Remember the lessons our father gave us. Keep your courage up and no matter what befalls you, let us show this obstinate courage which can rise above everything. Up to this time, sister, you have been working for me, it is my turn now, and I will work for you.”

“Dear Robert!” replied the young girl.

“I must tell you something,” resumed Robert. “You mustn’t be vexed, Mary!”

“Why should I be vexed, my child?”

“And you will let me do it?”

“What do you mean?” said Mary, getting uneasy.

“Sister, I am going to be a sailor!”

“You are going to leave me!” cried the young girl, pressing her brother’s hand.

“Yes, sister; I want to be a sailor, like my father and Captain John. Mary, dear Mary, Captain John has not lost all hope, he says. You have confidence in his devotion to us, and so have I. He is going to make a grand sailor out of me some day, he has promised me he will; and then we are going to look for our father together. Tell me you are willing, sister mine. What our father would have done for us it is our duty, mine, at least, to do for him. My life has one purpose to which it should be entirely consecrated — that is to search, and never cease searching for my father, who would never have given us up. Ah, Mary, how good our father was!”

“And so noble, so generous!” added Mary. “Do you know, Robert, he was already a glory to our country, and that he would have been numbered among our great men if fate had not arrested his course.”

“Yes, I know it,” said Robert.

Mary put her arm around the boy, and hugged him fondly as he felt her tears fall on his forehead.

“Mary, Mary!” he cried, “it doesn’t matter what our friends say, I still hope, and will always hope. A man like my father doesn’t die till he has finished his work.”

Mary Grant could not reply. Sobs choked her voice. A thousand feelings struggled in her breast at the news that fresh attempts were about to be made to recover Harry Grant, and that the devotion of the captain was so unbounded.

“And does Mr. John still hope?” she asked.

“Yes,” replied Robert. “He is a brother that will never forsake us, never! I will be a sailor, you’ll say yes, won’t you, sister? And let me join him in looking for my father. I am sure you are willing.”

“Yes, I am willing,” said Mary. “But the separation!” she murmured.

“You will not be alone, Mary, I know that. My friend John told me so. Lady Helena will not let you leave her. You are a woman; you can and should accept her kindness. To refuse would be ungrateful, but a man, my father has said a hundred times, must make his own way.”

“But what will become of our own dear home in Dundee, so full of memories?”

“We will keep it, little sister! All that is settled, and settled so well, by our friend John, and also by Lord Glenarvan. He is to keep you at Malcolm Castle as if you were his daughter. My Lord told my friend John so, and he told me. You will be at home there, and have someone to speak to about our father, while you are waiting till John and I bring him back to you some day. Ah! what a grand day that will be!” exclaimed Robert, his face glowing with enthusiasm.

“My boy, my brother,” replied Mary, “how happy my father would be if he could hear you. How much you are like him, dear Robert, like our dear, dear father. When you grow up you’ll be just himself.”

“I hope I may,” said Robert, blushing with filial and sacred pride.

“But how shall we requite Lord and Lady Glenarvan?” said Mary Grant.

“Oh, that will not be difficult,” replied Robert, with boyish confidence. “We will love and revere them, and we will tell them so; and we will give them plenty of kisses, and some day, when we can get the chance, we will die for them.”

“We’ll live for them, on the contrary,” replied the young girl, covering her brother’s forehead with kisses. “They will like that better, and so shall I.”

The two children then relapsed into silence, gazing out into the dark night, and giving way to long reveries, interrupted occasionally by a question or remark from one to the other. A long swell undulated the surface of the calm sea, and the screw turned up a luminous furrow in the darkness.

A strange and altogether supernatural incident now occurred. The brother and sister, by some of those magnetic communications which link souls mysteriously together, were the subjects at the same time and the same instant of the same hallucination.

Out of the midst of these waves, with their alternations of light and shadow, a deep plaintive voice sent up a cry, the tones of which thrilled through every fiber of their being.

“Come! come!” were the words which fell on their ears.

They both started up and leaned over the railing, and peered into the gloom with questioning eyes.

“Mary, you heard that? You heard that?” cried Robert.

But they saw nothing but the long shadow that stretched before them.

“Robert,” said Mary, pale with emotion, “I thought — yes, I thought as you did, that — We must both be ill with fever, Robert.”

A second time the cry reached them, and this time the illusion was so great, that they both exclaimed simultaneously, “My father! My father!”

It was too much for Mary. Overcome with emotion, she fell fainting into Robert’s arms.

“Help!” shouted Robert. “My sister! my father! Help! Help!”

The man at the wheel darted forward to lift up the girl. The sailors on watch ran to assist, and John Mangles, Lady Helena, and Glenarvan were hastily roused from sleep.

“My sister is dying, and my father is there!” exclaimed Robert, pointing to the waves.

They were wholly at a loss to understand him.

“Yes!” he repeated, “my father is there! I heard my father’s voice; Mary heard it too!”

Just at this moment, Mary Grant recovering consciousness, but wandering and excited, called out, “My father! my father is there!”

And the poor girl started up, and leaning over the side of the yacht, wanted to throw herself into the sea.

“My Lord — Lady Helena!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands, “I tell you my father is there! I can declare that I heard his voice come out of the waves like a wail, as if it were a last adieu.”

The young girl went off again into convulsions and spasms, which became so violent that she had to be carried to her cabin, where Lady Helena lavished every care on her. Robert kept on repeating, “My father! my father is there! I am sure of it, my Lord!”

The spectators of this painful scene saw that the captain’s children were laboring under an hallucination. But how were they to be undeceived?

Glenarvan made an attempt, however. He took Robert’s hand, and said, “You say you heard your father’s voice, my dear boy?”

“Yes, my Lord; there, in the middle of the waves.

He cried out, ‘Come! come!’”

“And did you recognize his voice?”

“Yes, I recognized it immediately. Yes, yes; I can swear to it!

My sister heard it, and recognized it as well. How could we both be deceived? My Lord, do let us go to my father’s help.

A boat! a boat!”

Glenarvan saw it was impossible to undeceive the poor boy, but he tried once more by saying to the man at the wheel: “Hawkins, you were at the wheel, were you not, when Miss Mary was so strangely attacked?”

“Yes, your Honor,” replied Hawkins.

“And you heard nothing, and saw nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Now Robert, see?”

“If it had been Hawkins’s father,” returned the boy, with indomitable energy, “Hawkins would not say he had heard nothing. It was my father, my lord! my father.”

Sobs choked his voice; he became pale and silent, and presently fell down insensible, like his sister.

Glenarvan had him carried to his bed, where he lay in a deep swoon.

“Poor orphans,” said John Mangles. “It is a terrible trial they have to bear!”

“Yes,” said Glenarvan; “excessive grief has produced the same hallucination in both of them, and at the same time.”

“In both of them!” muttered Paganel; “that’s strange, and pure science would say inadmissible.”

He leaned over the side of the vessel, and listened attentively, making a sign to the rest to keep still.

But profound silence reigned around. Paganel shouted his loudest.

No response came.

“It is strange,” repeated the geographer, going back to his cabin. “Close sympathy in thought and grief does not suffice to explain this phenomenon.”

Next day, March 4, at 5 A. M. at dawn, the passengers, including Mary and Robert, who would not stay behind, were all assembled on the poop, each one eager to examine the land they had only caught a glimpse of the night before.

The yacht was coasting along the island at the distance of about a mile, and its smallest details could be seen by the eye.

Suddenly Robert gave a loud cry, and exclaimed he could see two men running about and gesticulating, and a third was waving a flag.

“The Union Jack,” said John Mangles, who had caught up a spy-glass.

“True enough,” said Paganel, turning sharply round toward Robert.

“My Lord,” said Robert, trembling with emotion, “if you don’t want me to swim to the shore, let a boat be lowered. Oh, my Lord, I implore you to let me be the first to land.”

No one dared to speak. What! on this little isle, crossed by the 37th parallel, there were three men, shipwrecked Englishmen! Instantaneously everyone thought of the voice heard by Robert and Mary the preceding night. The children were right, perhaps, in the affirmation. The sound of a voice might have reached them, but this voice — was it their father’s? No, alas, most assuredly no. And as they thought of the dreadful disappointment that awaited them, they trembled lest this new trial should crush them completely. But who could stop them from going on shore? Lord Glenarvan had not the heart to do it.

“Lower a boat,” he called out.

Another minute and the boat was ready. The two children of Captain Grant, Glenarvan, John Mangles, and Paganel, rushed into it, and six sailors, who rowed so vigorously that they were presently almost close to the shore.

At ten fathoms’ distance a piercing cry broke from Mary’s lips.

“My father!” she exclaimed.

A man was standing on the beach, between two others. His tall, powerful form, and his physiognomy, with its mingled expression of boldness and gentleness, bore a resemblance both to Mary and Robert. This was indeed the man the children had so often described. Their hearts had not deceived them. This was their father, Captain Grant!

The captain had heard Mary’s cry, for he held out his arms, and fell flat on the sand, as if struck by a thunderbolt.

CHAPTER XX CAPTAIN GRANT’S STORY

JOY does not kill, for both father and children recovered before they had reached the yacht. The scene which followed, who can describe? Language fails. The whole crew wept aloud at the sight of these three clasped together in a close, silent embrace.

The moment Harry Grant came on deck, he knelt down reverently. The pious Scotchman’s first act on touching the yacht, which to him was the soil of his native land, was to return thanks to the God of his deliverance. Then, turning to Lady Helena and Lord Glenarvan, and his companions, he thanked them in broken words, for his heart was too full to speak. During the short passage from the isle to the yacht, his children had given him a brief sketch of the DUNCAN’S history.

What an immense debt he owed to this noble lady and her friends! From Lord Glenarvan, down to the lowest sailor on board, how all had struggled and suffered for him! Harry Grant expressed his gratitude with such simplicity and nobleness, his manly face suffused with pure and sweet emotion, that the whole crew felt amply recompensed for the trials they had undergone. Even the impassable Major himself felt a tear steal down his cheek in spite of all his self-command; while the good, simple Paganel cried like a child who does not care who sees his tears.

Harry Grant could not take his eyes off his daughter. He thought her beautiful, charming; and he not only said so to himself, but repeated it aloud, and appealed to Lady Helena for confirmation of his opinion, as if to convince himself that he was not blinded by his paternal affection. His boy, too, came in for admiration. “How he has grown! he is a man!” was his delighted exclamation. And he covered the two children so dear to him with the kisses he had been heaping up for them during his two years of absence.

Robert then presented all his friends successively, and found means always to vary the formula of introduction, though he had to say the same thing about each. The fact was, each and all had been perfect in the children’s eyes.

John Mangles blushed like a child when his turn came, and his voice trembled as he spoke to Mary’s father.

Lady Helena gave Captain Grant a narrative of the voyage, and made him proud of his son and daughter. She told him of the young hero’s exploits, and how the lad had already paid back part of the paternal debt to Lord Glenarvan. John Mangles sang Mary’s praises in such terms, that Harry Grant, acting on a hint from Lady Helena, put his daughter’s hand into that of the brave young captain, and turning to Lord and Lady Glenarvan, said: “My Lord, and you, Madam, also give your blessing to our children.”

When everything had been said and re-said over and over again, Glenarvan informed Harry Grant about Ayrton. Grant confirmed the quartermaster’s confession as far as his disembarkation on the coast of Australia was concerned.

“He is an intelligent, intrepid man,” he added, “whose passions have led him astray. May reflection and repentance bring him to a better mind!”

But before Ayrton was transferred, Harry Grant wished to do the honors of his rock to his friends. He invited them to visit his wooden house, and dine with him in Robinson Crusoe fashion.

Glenarvan and his friends accepted the invitation most willingly. Robert and Mary were eagerly longing to see the solitary house where their father had so often wept at the thought of them. A boat was manned, and the Captain and his two children, Lord and Lady Glenarvan, the Major, John Mangles, and Paganel, landed on the shores of the island.

A few hours sufficed to explore the whole domain of Harry Grant. It was in fact the summit of a submarine mountain, a plateau composed of basaltic rocks and volcanic DEBRIS. During the geological epochs of the earth, this mountain had gradually emerged from the depths of the Pacific, through the action of the subterranean fires, but for ages back the volcano had been a peaceful mountain, and the filled-up crater, an island rising out of the liquid plain. Then soil formed. The vegetable kingdom took possession of this new land. Several whalers landed domestic animals there in passing; goats and pigs, which multiplied and ran wild, and the three kingdoms of nature were now displayed on this island, sunk in mid ocean.

When the survivors of the shipwrecked BRITANNIA took refuge there, the hand of man began to organize the efforts of nature. In two years and a half, Harry Grant and his two sailors had metamorphosed the island. Several acres of well-cultivated land were stocked with vegetables of excellent quality.

The house was shaded by luxuriant gum-trees. The magnificent ocean stretched before the windows, sparkling in the sunlight. Harry Grant had the table placed beneath the grand trees, and all the guests seated themselves. A hind quarter of a goat, nardou bread, several bowls of milk, two or three roots of wild endive, and pure fresh water, composed the simple repast, worthy of the shepherds of Arcadia.

Paganel was enchanted. His old fancies about Robinson Crusoe revived in full force. “He is not at all to be pitied, that scoundrel, Ayrton!” he exclaimed, enthusiastically. “This little isle is just a paradise!”

“Yes,” replied Harry Grant, “a paradise to these poor, shipwrecked fellows that Heaven had pity on, but I am sorry that Maria Theresa was not an extensive and fertile island, with a river instead of a stream, and a port instead of a tiny bay exposed to the open sea.”

“And why, captain?” asked Glenarvan.

“Because I should have made it the foundation of the colony with which I mean to dower Scotland.”

“Ah, Captain Grant, you have not given up the project, then, which made you so popular in our old country?”

“No, my Lord, and God has only saved me through your efforts that I might accomplish my task. My poor brothers in old Caledonia, all who are needy must have a refuge provided for them in another land against their misery, and my dear country must have a colony of her own, for herself alone, somewhere in these seas, where she may find that independence and comfort she so lacks in Europe.”

“Ah, that is very true, Captain Grant,” said Lady Helena. “This is a grand project of yours, and worthy of a noble heart. But this little isle — “

“No, madam, it is a rock only fit at most to support a few settlers; while what we need is a vast country, whose virgin soil abounds in untouched stores of wealth,” replied the captain.

“Well, captain,” exclaimed Glenarvan, “the future is ours, and this country we will seek for together.”

And the two brave Scotchmen joined hands in a hearty grip and so sealed the compact.

A general wish was expressed to hear, while they were on the island, the account of the shipwreck of the BRITANNIA, and of the two years spent by the survivors in this very place. Harry Grant was delighted to gratify their curiosity, and commenced his narration forthwith.

“My story,” he said, “is that of all the Robinson Crusoes cast upon an island, with only God and themselves to rely on, and feeling it a duty to struggle for life with the elements.

“It was during the night of the 26th or 27th of June, 1862, that the BRITANNIA, disabled by a six days’ storm, struck against the rocks of Maria Theresa. The sea was mountains high, and lifeboats were useless. My unfortunate crew all perished, except Bob Learce and Joe Bell, who with myself managed to reach shore after twenty unsuccessful attempts.

“The land which received us was only an uninhabited island, two miles broad and five long, with about thirty trees in the interior, a few meadows, and a brook of fresh water, which fortunately never dried up. Alone with my sailors, in this corner of the globe, I did not despair. I put my trust in God, and accustomed myself to struggle resolutely for existence. Bob and Joe, my brave companions in misfortune, my friends, seconded me energetically.

“We began like the fictitious Robinson Crusoe of Defoe, our model, by collecting the planks of the ship, the tools, a little powder, and firearms, and a bag of precious seeds. The first few days were painful enough, but hunting and fishing soon afforded us a sure supply of food, for wild goats were in abundance in the interior of the island, and marine animals abounded on the coast. By degrees we fell into regular ways and habits of life.

“I had saved my instruments from the wreck, and knew exactly the position of the island. I found we were out of the route of vessels, and could not be rescued unless by some providential chance. I accepted our trying lot composedly, always thinking, however, of my dear ones, remembering them every day in my prayers, though never hoping to see them again.

“However, we toiled on resolutely, and before long several acres of land were sown with the seed off the BRITANNIA; potatoes, endive, sorrel, and other vegetables besides, gave wholesome variety to our daily fare. We caught some young kids, which soon grew quite tame. We had milk and butter. The nardou, which grew abundantly in dried up creeks, supplied us with tolerably substantial bread, and we had no longer any fears for our material life.

“We had built a log hut with the DEBRIS of the BRITANNIA, and this was covered over with sail cloth, carefully tarred over, and beneath this secure shelter the rainy season passed comfortably. Many a plan was discussed here, and many a dream indulged in, the brightest of which is this day realized.

“I had at first the idea of trying to brave the perils of the ocean in a canoe made out of the spars of the ship, but 1,500 miles lay between us and the nearest coast, that is to say the islands of the Archipelago of Pomotou. No boat could have stood so long a voyage. I therefore relinquished my scheme, and looked for no deliverance except from a divine hand.

“Ah, my poor children! how often we have stood on the top of the rocks and watched the few vessels passing in the distance far out at sea. During the whole period of our exile only two or three vessels appeared on the horizon, and those only to disappear again immediately. Two years and a half were spent in this manner. We gave up hoping, but yet did not despair. At last, early yesterday morning, when I was standing on the highest peak of the island, I noticed a light smoke rising in the west. It increased, and soon a ship appeared in sight. It seemed to be coming toward us. But would it not rather steer clear of an island where there was no harbor.

“Ah, what a day of agony that was! My heart was almost bursting.

My comrades kindled a fire on one of the peaks. Night came on,

but no signal came from the yacht. Deliverance was there, however.

Were we to see it vanish from our eyes?

“I hesitated no longer. The darkness was growing deeper. The ship might double the island during the night. I jumped into the sea, and attempted to make my way toward it. Hope trebled my strength, I cleft the waves with superhuman vigor, and had got so near the yacht that I was scarcely thirty fathoms off, when it tacked about.

“This provoked me to the despairing cry, which only my two children heard. It was no illusion.

“Then I came back to the shore, exhausted and overcome with emotion and fatigue. My two sailors received me half dead. It was a horrible night this last we spent on the island, and we believed ourselves abandoned forever, when day dawned, and there was the yacht sailing nearly alongside, under easy steam. Your boat was lowered — we were saved — and, oh, wonder of Divine goodness, my children, my beloved children, were there holding out their arms to me!”

Robert and Mary almost smothered their father with kisses and caresses as he ended his narrative.

It was now for the first time that the captain heard that he owed his deliverance to the somewhat hieroglyphical document which he had placed in a bottle and confined to the mercy of the ocean.

But what were Jacques Paganel’s thoughts during Captain Grant’s recital? The worthy geographer was turning over in his brain for the thousandth time the words of the document. He pondered his three successive interpretations, all of which had proved false. How had this island, called Maria Theresa, been indicated in the papers originally?

At last Paganel could contain himself no longer, and seizing

Harry Grant’s hand, he exclaimed:

“Captain! will you tell me at last what really was in your indecipherable document?”

A general curiosity was excited by this question of the geographer, for the enigma which had been for nine months a mystery was about to be explained.

“Well, captain,” repeated Paganel, “do you remember the precise words of the document?”

“Exactly,” replied Harry Grant; “and not a day has passed without my recalling to memory words with which our last hopes were linked.”

“And what are they, captain?” asked Glenarvan. “Speak, for our amour propre is wounded to the quick!”

“I am ready to satisfy you,” replied Harry Grant; “but, you know, to multiply the chances of safety, I had inclosed three documents in the bottle, in three different languages. Which is it you wish to hear?”

“They are not identical, then?” cried Paganel.

“Yes, they are, almost to a word.”

“Well, then, let us have the French document,” replied Glenarvan. “That is the one that is most respected by the waves, and the one on which our interpretations have been mostly founded.”

“My Lord, I will give it you word for word,” replied Harry Grant.

“LE 27 JUIN, 1862, le trois-mats Britannia, de Glasgow, s’est perdu a quinze cents lieues de la Patagonie, dans l’hemisphere austral. Partes a terre, deux matelots et le Capitaine Grant ont atteint l’ile Tabor — “

“Oh!” exclaimed Paganel.

“LA,” continued Harry Grant, “continuellement en proie a une cruelle indigence, ils ont jete ce document par 153 degrees de longitude et 37 degrees 11’ de latitude. Venes a leur secours, ou ils sont perdus.”

At the name of Tabor, Paganel had started up hastily, and now being unable to restrain himself longer, he called out:

“How can it be Isle Tabor? Why, this is Maria Theresa!”

“Undoubtedly, Monsieur Paganel,” replied Harry Grant. “It is

Maria Theresa on the English and German charts, but is named

Tabor on the French ones!”

At this moment a vigorous thump on Paganel’s shoulder almost bent him double. Truth obliges us to say it was the Major that dealt the blow, though strangely contrary to his usual strict politeness.

“Geographer!” said McNabbs, in a tone of the most supreme contempt.

But Paganel had not even felt the Major’s hand. What was that compared to the geographical blow which had stunned him?

He had been gradually getting nearer the truth, however, as he learned from Captain Grant. He had almost entirely deciphered the indecipherable document. The names Patagonia, Australia, New Zealand, had appeared to him in turn with absolute certainty. CONTIN, at first CONTINENT, had gradually reached its true meaning, continuelle. Indi had successively signified indiens, indigenes, and at last the right word was found — INDIGENCE. But one mutilated word, ABOR, had baffled the geographer’s sagacity. Paganel had persisted in making it the root of the verb ABORDER, and it turned out to be a proper name, the French name of the Isle Tabor, the isle which had been a refuge for the shipwrecked sailors of the BRITANNIA. It was difficult to avoid falling into the error, however, for on the English planispheres on the DUNCAN, the little isle was marked Maria Theresa.

“No matter?” cried Paganel, tearing his hair; “I ought not to have forgotten its double appellation. It is an unpardonable mistake, one unworthy of a secretary of the Geographical Society. I am disgraced!”

“Come, come, Monsieur Paganel,” said Lady Helena; “moderate your grief.”

“No, madam, no; I am a mere ass!”

“And not even a learned one!” added the Major, by way of consolation.

When the meal was over, Harry Grant put everything in order in his house. He took nothing away, wishing the guilty to inherit the riches of the innocent. Then they returned to the vessel, and, as Glenarvan had determined to start the same day, he gave immediate orders for the disembarkation of the quartermaster. Ayrton was brought up on the poop, and found himself face to face with Harry Grant.

“It is I, Ayrton!” said Grant

“Yes, it is you, captain,” replied Ayrton, without the least sign of surprise at Harry Grant’s recovery. “Well, I am not sorry to see you again in good health.”

“It seems, Ayrton, that I made a mistake in landing you on an inhabited coast.”

“It seems so, captain.”

“You are going to take my place on this uninhabited island.

May Heaven give you repentance!”

“Amen,” said Ayrton, calmly.

Glenarvan then addressed the quartermaster.

“It is still your wish, then, Ayrton, to be left behind?”

“Yes, my Lord!”

“And Isle Tabor meets your wishes?”

“Perfectly.”

“Now then, listen to my last words, Ayrton. You will be cut off here from all the world, and no communication with your fellows is possible. Miracles are rare, and you will not be able to quit this isle. You will be alone, with no eye upon you but that of God, who reads the deepest secrets of the heart; but you will be neither lost nor forsaken, as Captain Grant was. Unworthy as you are of anyone’s remembrance, you will not be dropped out of recollection. I know where you are, Ayrton; I know where to find you — I shall never forget.”

“God keep your Honor,” was all Ayrton’s reply.

These were the final words exchanged between Glenarvan and the quartermaster. The boat was ready and Ayrton got into it.

John Mangles had previously conveyed to the island several cases of preserved food, besides clothing, and tools and firearms, and a supply of powder and shot. The quartermaster could commence a new life of honest labor. Nothing was lacking, not even books; among others, the Bible, so dear to English hearts.

The parting hour had come. The crew and all the passengers were assembled on deck. More than one felt his heart swell with emotion. Mary Grant and Lady Helena could not restrain their feelings.

“Must it be done?” said the young wife to her husband.

“Must the poor man be left there?”

“He must, Helena,” replied Lord Glenarvan. “It is in expiation of his crimes.”

At that moment the boat, in charge of John Mangles, turned away. Ayrton, who remained standing, and still unmoved, took off his cap and bowed gravely.

Glenarvan uncovered, and all the crew followed his example, as if in presence of a man who was about to die, and the boat went off in profound silence.

On reaching land, Ayrton jumped on the sandy shore, and the boat returned to the yacht. It was then four o’clock in the afternoon, and from the poop the passengers could see the quartermaster gazing at the ship, standing with folded arms on a rock, motionless as a statue.

“Shall we set sail, my Lord?” asked John Mangles.

“Yes, John,” replied Glenarvan, hastily, more moved than he cared to show.

“Go on!” shouted John to the engineer.

The steam hissed and puffed out, the screw began to stir the waves, and by eight o’clock the last peaks of Isle Tabor disappeared in the shadows of the night.

CHAPTER XXI PAGANEL’S LAST ENTANGLEMENT

ON the 19th of March, eleven days after leaving the island, the DUNCAN sighted the American coast, and next day dropped anchor in the bay of Talcahuano. They had come back again after a voyage of five months, during which, and keeping strictly along the 37th parallel, they had gone round the world. The passengers in this memorable expedition, unprecedented in the annals of the Travelers’ Club, had visited Chili, the Pampas, the Argentine Republic, the Atlantic, the island of Tristan d’Acunha, the Indian Ocean, Amsterdam Island, Australia, New Zealand, Isle Tabor, and the Pacific. Their search had not been fruitless, for they were bringing back the survivors of the shipwrecked BRITANNIA.

Not one of the brave Scots who set out at the summons of their chief, but could answer to their names; all were returning to their old Scotia.

As soon as the DUNCAN had re-provisioned, she sailed along the coast of Patagonia, doubled Cape Horn, and made a swift run up the Atlantic Ocean. No voyage could be more devoid of incident. The yacht was simply carrying home a cargo of happiness. There was no secret now on board, not even John Mangles’s attachment to Mary Grant.

Yes, there was one mystery still, which greatly excited McNabbs’s curiosity. Why was it that Paganel remained always hermetically fastened up in his clothes, with a big comforter round his throat and up to his very ears? The Major was burning with desire to know the reason of this singular fashion. But in spite of interrogations, allusions, and suspicions on the part of McNabbs, Paganel would not unbutton.

Not even when the DUNCAN crossed the line, and the heat was so great that the seams of the deck were melting. “He is so DISTRAIT that he thinks he is at St. Petersburg,” said the Major, when he saw the geographer wrapped in an immense great-coat, as if the mercury had been frozen in the thermometer.

At last on the 9th of May, fifty-three days from the time of leaving Talcahuano, John Mangles sighted the lights of Cape Clear. The yacht entered St. George’s Channel, crossed the Irish Sea, and on the 10th of May reached the Firth of Clyde. At 11 o’clock she dropped anchor off Dunbarton, and at 2 P.M. the passengers arrived at Malcolm Castle amidst the enthusiastic cheering of the Highlanders.

As fate would have it then, Harry Grant and his two companions were saved. John Mangles wedded Mary Grant in the old cathedral of St. Mungo, and Mr. Paxton, the same clergyman who had prayed nine months before for the deliverance of the father, now blessed the marriage of his daughter and his deliverer. Robert was to become a sailor like Harry Grant and John Mangles, and take part with them in the captain’s grand projects, under the auspices of Lord Glenarvan.

But fate also decreed that Paganel was not to die a bachelor?

Probably so.

The fact was, the learned geographer after his heroic exploits, could not escape celebrity. His blunders made quite a FURORE among the fashionables of Scotland, and he was overwhelmed with courtesies.

It was then that an amiable lady, about thirty years of age, in fact, a cousin of McNabbs, a little eccentric herself, but good and still charming, fell in love with the geographer’s oddities, and offered him her hand. Forty thousand pounds went with it, but that was not mentioned.

Paganel was far from being insensible to the sentiments of Miss Arabella, but yet he did not dare to speak. It was the Major who was the medium of communication between these two souls, evidently made for each other. He even told Paganel that his marriage was the last freak he would be able to allow himself. Paganel was in a great state of embarrassment, but strangely enough could not make up his mind to speak the fatal word.

“Does not Miss Arabella please you then?” asked McNabbs.

“Oh, Major, she is charming,” exclaimed Paganel, “a thousand times too charming, and if I must tell you all, she would please me better if she were less so. I wish she had a defect!”

“Be easy on that score,” replied the Major, “she has, and more than one.

The most perfect woman in the world has always her quota.

So, Paganel, it is settled then, I suppose?”

“I dare not.”

“Come, now, my learned friend, what makes you hesitate?”

“I am unworthy of Miss Arabella,” was the invariable reply of the geographer. And to this he would stick.

At last, one day being fairly driven in a corner by the intractable Major, he ended by confiding to him, under the seal of secrecy, a certain peculiarity which would facilitate his apprehension should the police ever be on his track.

“Bah!” said the Major.

“It is really as I tell you,” replied Paganel.

“What does it matter, my worthy friend?”

“Do you think so, Major?”

“On the contrary, it only makes you more uncommon. It adds to your personal merits. It is the very thing to make you the nonpareil husband that Arabella dreams about.”

And the Major with imperturbable gravity left Paganel in a state of the utmost disquietude.

A short conversation ensued between McNabbs and Miss Arabella. A fortnight afterwards, the marriage was celebrated in grand style in the chapel of Malcolm Castle. Paganel looked magnificent, but closely buttoned up, and Miss Arabella was arrayed in splendor.

And this secret of the geographer would have been forever buried in oblivion, if the Major had not mentioned it to Glenarvan, and he could not hide it from Lady Helena, who gave a hint to Mrs. Mangles. To make a long story short, it got in the end to M. Olbinett’s ears, and soon became noised abroad.

Jacques Paganel, during his three days’ captivity among the Maories, had been tattooed from the feet to the shoulders, and he bore on his chest a heraldic kiwi with outspread wings, which was biting at his heart.

This was the only adventure of his grand voyage that Paganel could never get over, and he always bore a grudge to New Zealand on account of it. It was for this reason too, that, notwithstanding solicitation and regrets, he never would return to France. He dreaded lest he should expose the whole Geographical Society in his person to the jests of caricaturists and low newspapers, by their secretary coming back tattooed.

The return of the captain to Scotland was a national event, and Harry Grant was soon the most popular man in old Caledonia. His son Robert became a sailor like himself and Captain Mangles, and under the patronage of Lord Glenarvan they resumed the project of founding a Scotch colony in the Southern Seas.

AROUND THE MOON

Translated by Lewis Page Mercier

This 1870 novel is a sequel to From the Earth to the Moon, continuing the journey to the moon by three adventurers. Having been fired out of the giant Columbiad space gun, Barbicane, Nicholl and Michel Ardan begin a five-day trip to the moon. A few minutes into the journey, a small, bright asteroid passes within a few hundred yards of them, but fortunately does not collide with the projectile. The asteroid had been captured by the Earth’s gravity and had become a second moon. The three travellers undergo a series of adventures during the rest of their astrological journey.

The first edition in English

PRELIMINARY CHAPTER

THE FIRST PART OF THIS WORK, AND SERVING AS A PREFACE TO THE SECOND

During the year 186-, the whole world was greatly excited by a scientific experiment unprecedented in the annals of science. The members of the Gun Club, a circle of artillerymen formed at Baltimore after the American war, conceived the idea of putting themselves in communication with the moon! — yes, with the moon — by sending to her a projectile. Their president, Barbicane, the promoter of the enterprise, having consulted the astronomers of the Cambridge Observatory upon the subject, took all necessary means to ensure the success of this extraordinary enterprise, which had been declared practicable by the majority of competent judges. After setting on foot a public subscription, which realized nearly L1,200,000, they began the gigantic work.

According to the advice forwarded from the members of the Observatory, the gun destined to launch the projectile had to be fixed in a country situated between the 0 and 28th degrees of north or south latitude, in order to aim at the moon when at the zenith; and its initiatory velocity was fixed at twelve thousand yards to the second. Launched on the 1st of December, at 10hrs. 46m. 40s. P.M. it ought to reach the moon four days after its departure, that is on the 5th of December, at midnight precisely, at the moment of her attaining her perigee, that is her nearest distance from the earth, which is exactly 86,410 leagues (French), or 238,833 miles mean distance (English).

The principal members of the Gun Club, President Barbicane, Major Elphinstone, the secretary Joseph T. Maston, and other learned men, held several meetings, at which the shape and composition of the projectile were discussed, also the position and nature of the gun, and the quality and quantity of powder to be used. It was decided: First, that the projectile should be a shell made of aluminum with a diameter of 108 inches and a thickness of twelve inches to its walls; and should weigh 19,250 pounds. Second, that the gun should be a Columbiad cast in iron, 900 feet long, and run perpendicularly into the earth. Third, that the charge should contain 400,000 pounds of gun-cotton, which, giving out six billions of litres of gas in rear of the projectile, would easily carry it toward the orb of night.

These questions determined President Barbicane, assisted by Murchison the engineer, to choose a spot situated in Florida, in 27@ 7’ North latitude, and 77@ 3’ West (Greenwich) longitude. It was on this spot, after stupendous labor, that the Columbiad was cast with full success. Things stood thus, when an incident took place which increased the interest attached to this great enterprise a hundredfold.

A Frenchman, an enthusiastic Parisian, as witty as he was bold, asked to be enclosed in the projectile, in order that he might reach the moon, and reconnoiter this terrestrial satellite. The name of this intrepid adventurer was Michel Ardan. He landed in America, was received with enthusiasm, held meetings, saw himself carried in triumph, reconciled President Barbicane to his mortal enemy, Captain Nicholl, and, as a token of reconciliation, persuaded them both to start with him in the projectile. The proposition being accepted, the shape of the projectile was slightly altered. It was made of a cylindro-conical form. This species of aerial car was lined with strong springs and partitions to deaden the shock of departure. It was provided with food for a year, water for some months, and gas for some days. A self-acting apparatus supplied the three travelers with air to breathe. At the same time, on one of the highest points of the Rocky Mountains, the Gun Club had a gigantic telescope erected, in order that they might be able to follow the course of the projectile through space. All was then ready.

On the 30th of November, at the hour fixed upon, from the midst of an extraordinary crowd of spectators, the departure took place, and for the first time, three human beings quitted the terrestrial globe, and launched into inter-planetary space with almost a certainty of reaching their destination. These bold travelers, Michel Ardan, President Barbicane, and Captain Nicholl, ought to make the passage in ninety-seven hours, thirteen minutes, and twenty seconds. Consequently, their arrival on the lunar disc could not take place until the 5th of December at twelve at night, at the exact moment when the moon should be full, and not on the 4th, as some badly informed journalists had announced.

But an unforeseen circumstance, viz. the detonation produced by the Columbiad, had the immediate effect of troubling the terrestrial atmosphere, by accumulating a large quantity of vapor, a phenomenon which excited universal indignation, for the moon was hidden from the eyes of the watchers for several nights.

The worthy Joseph T. Maston, the staunchest friend of the three travelers, started for the Rocky Mountains, accompanied by the Hon. J. Belfast, director of the Cambridge Observatory, and reached the station of Long’s Peak, where the telescope was erected which brought the moon within an apparent distance of two leagues. The honorable secretary of the Gun Club wished himself to observe the vehicle of his daring friends.

The accumulation of the clouds in the atmosphere prevented all observation on the 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th, 9th, and 10th of December. Indeed it was thought that all observations would have to be put off to the 3d of January in the following year; for the moon entering its last quarter on the 11th, would then only present an ever-decreasing portion of her disc, insufficient to allow of their following the course of the projectile.

At length, to the general satisfaction, a heavy storm cleared the atmosphere on the night of the 11th and 12th of December, and the moon, with half-illuminated disc, was plainly to be seen upon the black sky.

That very night a telegram was sent from the station of Long’s Peak by Joseph T. Maston and Belfast to the gentlemen of the Cambridge Observatory, announcing that on the 11th of December at 8h. 47m. P.M. the projectile launched by the Columbiad of Stones Hill had been detected by Messrs. Belfast and Maston — that it had deviated from its course from some unknown cause, and had not reached its destination; but that it had passed near enough to be retained by the lunar attraction; that its rectilinear movement had been changed to a circular one, and that following an elliptical orbit round the star of night it had become its satellite. The telegram added that the elements of this new star had not yet been calculated; and indeed three observations made upon a star in three different positions are necessary to determine these elements. Then it showed that the distance separating the projectile from the lunar surface “might” be reckoned at about 2,833 miles.

It ended with the double hypothesis: either the attraction of the moon would draw it to herself, and the travelers thus attain their end; or that the projectile, held in one immutable orbit, would gravitate around the lunar disc to all eternity.

With such alternatives, what would be the fate of the travelers? Certainly they had food for some time. But supposing they did succeed in their rash enterprise, how would they return? Could they ever return? Should they hear from them? These questions, debated by the most learned pens of the day, strongly engrossed the public attention.

It is advisable here to make a remark which ought to be well considered by hasty observers. When a purely speculative discovery is announced to the public, it cannot be done with too much prudence. No one is obliged to discover either a planet, a comet, or a satellite; and whoever makes a mistake in such a case exposes himself justly to the derision of the mass. Far better is it to wait; and that is what the impatient Joseph T. Maston should have done before sending this telegram forth to the world, which, according to his idea, told the whole result of the enterprise. Indeed this telegram contained two sorts of errors, as was proved eventually. First, errors of observation, concerning the distance of the projectile from the surface of the moon, for on the 11th of December it was impossible to see it; and what Joseph T. Maston had seen, or thought he saw, could not have been the projectile of the Columbiad. Second, errors of theory on the fate in store for the said projectile; for in making it a satellite of the moon, it was putting it in direct contradiction of all mechanical laws.

One single hypothesis of the observers of Long’s Peak could ever be realized, that which foresaw the case of the travelers (if still alive) uniting their efforts with the lunar attraction to attain the surface of the disc.

Now these men, as clever as they were daring, had survived the terrible shock consequent on their departure, and it is their journey in the projectile car which is here related in its most dramatic as well as in its most singular details. This recital will destroy many illusions and surmises; but it will give a true idea of the singular changes in store for such an enterprise; it will bring out the scientific instincts of Barbicane, the industrious resources of Nicholl, and the audacious humor of Michel Ardan. Besides this, it will prove that their worthy friend, Joseph T. Maston, was wasting his time, while leaning over the gigantic telescope he watched the course of the moon through the starry space.

CHAPTER I

TWENTY MINUTES PAST TEN TO FORTY-SEVEN MINUTES PAST TEN P. M.

As ten o’clock struck, Michel Ardan, Barbicane, and Nicholl, took leave of the numerous friends they were leaving on the earth. The two dogs, destined to propagate the canine race on the lunar continents, were already shut up in the projectile.

The three travelers approached the orifice of the enormous cast-iron tube, and a crane let them down to the conical top of the projectile. There, an opening made for the purpose gave them access to the aluminum car. The tackle belonging to the crane being hauled from outside, the mouth of the Columbiad was instantly disencumbered of its last supports.

Nicholl, once introduced with his companions inside the projectile, began to close the opening by means of a strong plate, held in position by powerful screws. Other plates, closely fitted, covered the lenticular glasses, and the travelers, hermetically enclosed in their metal prison, were plunged in profound darkness.

“And now, my dear companions,” said Michel Ardan, “let us make ourselves at home; I am a domesticated man and strong in housekeeping. We are bound to make the best of our new lodgings, and make ourselves comfortable. And first let us try and see a little. Gas was not invented for moles.”

So saying, the thoughtless fellow lit a match by striking it on the sole of his boot; and approached the burner fixed to the receptacle, in which the carbonized hydrogen, stored at high pressure, sufficed for the lighting and warming of the projectile for a hundred and forty-four hours, or six days and six nights. The gas caught fire, and thus lighted the projectile looked like a comfortable room with thickly padded walls, furnished with a circular divan, and a roof rounded in the shape of a dome.

Michel Ardan examined everything, and declared himself satisfied with his installation.

“It is a prison,” said he, “but a traveling prison; and, with the right of putting my nose to the window, I could well stand a lease of a hundred years. You smile, Barbicane. Have you any arriere-pensee? Do you say to yourself, `This prison may be our tomb?’ Tomb, perhaps; still I would not change it for Mahomet’s, which floats in space but never advances an inch!”

While Michel Ardan was speaking, Barbicane and Nicholl were making their last preparations.

Nicholl’s chronometer marked twenty minutes past ten P.M. when the three travelers were finally enclosed in their projectile.

This chronometer was set within the tenth of a second by that of Murchison the engineer. Barbicane consulted it.

“My friends,” said he, “it is twenty minutes past ten. At forty-seven minutes past ten Murchison will launch the electric spark on the wire which communicates with the charge of the Columbiad. At that precise moment we shall leave our spheroid. Thus we still have twenty-seven minutes to remain on the earth.”

“Twenty-six minutes thirteen seconds,” replied the methodical Nicholl.

“Well!” exclaimed Michel Ardan, in a good-humored tone, “much may be done in twenty-six minutes. The gravest questions of morals and politics may be discussed, and even solved. Twenty-six minutes well employed are worth more than twenty-six years in which nothing is done. Some seconds of a Pascal or a Newton are more precious than the whole existence of a crowd of raw simpletons — — “

“And you conclude, then, you everlasting talker?” asked Barbicane.

“I conclude that we have twenty-six minutes left,” replied Ardan.

“Twenty-four only,” said Nicholl.

“Well, twenty-four, if you like, my noble captain,” said Ardan; “twenty-four minutes in which to investigate — — “

“Michel,” said Barbicane, “during the passage we shall have plenty of time to investigate the most difficult questions. For the present we must occupy ourselves with our departure.”

“Are we not ready?”

“Doubtless; but there are still some precautions to be taken, to deaden as much as possible the first shock.”

“Have we not the water-cushions placed between the partition-breaks, whose elasticity will sufficiently protect us?”

“I hope so, Michel,” replied Barbicane gently, “but I am not sure.”

“Ah, the joker!” exclaimed Michel Ardan. “He hopes! — He is not sure! — and he waits for the moment when we are encased to make this deplorable admission! I beg to be allowed to get out!”

“And how?” asked Barbicane.

“Humph!” said Michel Ardan, “it is not easy; we are in the train, and the guard’s whistle will sound before twenty-four minutes are over.”

“Twenty,” said Nicholl.

For some moments the three travelers looked at each other.

Then they began to examine the objects imprisoned with them.

“Everything is in its place,” said Barbicane. “We have now to decide how we can best place ourselves to resist the shock. Position cannot be an indifferent matter; and we must, as much as possible, prevent the rush of blood to the head.”

“Just so,” said Nicholl.

“Then,” replied Michel Ardan, ready to suit the action to the word, “let us put our heads down and our feet in the air, like the clowns in the grand circus.”

“No,” said Barbicane, “let us stretch ourselves on our sides; we shall resist the shock better that way. Remember that, when the projectile starts, it matters little whether we are in it or before it; it amounts to much the same thing.”

“If it is only `much the same thing,’ I may cheer up,” said Michel Ardan.

“Do you approve of my idea, Nicholl?” asked Barbicane.

“Entirely,” replied the captain. “We’ve still thirteen minutes and a half.”

“That Nicholl is not a man,” exclaimed Michel; “he is a chronometer with seconds, an escape, and eight holes.”

But his companions were not listening; they were taking up their last positions with the most perfect coolness. They were like two methodical travelers in a car, seeking to place themselves as comfortably as possible.

We might well ask ourselves of what materials are the hearts of these Americans made, to whom the approach of the most frightful danger added no pulsation.

Three thick and solidly-made couches had been placed in the projectile. Nicholl and Barbicane placed them in the center of the disc forming the floor. There the three travelers were to stretch themselves some moments before their departure.

During this time, Ardan, not being able to keep still, turned in his narrow prison like a wild beast in a cage, chatting with his friends, speaking to the dogs Diana and Satellite, to whom, as may be seen, he had given significant names.

“Ah, Diana! Ah, Satellite!” he exclaimed, teasing them; “so you are going to show the moon-dogs the good habits of the dogs of the earth! That will do honor to the canine race! If ever we do come down again, I will bring a cross type of `moon-dogs,’ which will make a stir!”

“If there are dogs in the moon,” said Barbicane.

“There are,” said Michel Ardan, “just as there are horses, cows, donkeys, and chickens. I bet that we shall find chickens.”

“A hundred dollars we shall find none!” said Nicholl.

“Done, my captain!” replied Ardan, clasping Nicholl’s hand. “But, by the bye, you have already lost three bets with our president, as the necessary funds for the enterprise have been found, as the operation of casting has been successful, and lastly, as the Columbiad has been loaded without accident, six thousand dollars.”

“Yes,” replied Nicholl. “Thirty-seven minutes six seconds past ten.”

“It is understood, captain. Well, before another quarter of an hour you will have to count nine thousand dollars to the president; four thousand because the Columbiad will not burst, and five thousand because the projectile will rise more than six miles in the air.”

“I have the dollars,” replied Nicholl, slapping the pocket of this coat. “I only ask to be allowed to pay.”

“Come, Nicholl. I see that you are a man of method, which I could never be; but indeed you have made a series of bets of very little advantage to yourself, allow me to tell you.”

“And why?” asked Nicholl.

“Because, if you gain the first, the Columbiad will have burst, and the projectile with it; and Barbicane will no longer be there to reimburse your dollars.”

“My stake is deposited at the bank in Baltimore,” replied Barbicane simply; “and if Nicholl is not there, it will go to his heirs.”

“Ah, you practical men!” exclaimed Michel Ardan; “I admire you the more for not being able to understand you.”

“Forty-two minutes past ten!” said Nicholl.

“Only five minutes more!” answered Barbicane.

“Yes, five little minutes!” replied Michel Ardan; “and we are enclosed in a projectile, at the bottom of a gun 900 feet long! And under this projectile are rammed 400,000 pounds of gun-cotton, which is equal to 1,600,000 pounds of ordinary powder! And friend Murchison, with his chronometer in hand, his eye fixed on the needle, his finger on the electric apparatus, is counting the seconds preparatory to launching us into interplanetary space.”

“Enough, Michel, enough!” said Barbicane, in a serious voice; “let us prepare. A few instants alone separate us from an eventful moment. One clasp of the hand, my friends.”

“Yes,” exclaimed Michel Ardan, more moved than he wished to appear; and the three bold companions were united in a last embrace.

“God preserve us!” said the religious Barbicane.

Michel Ardan and Nicholl stretched themselves on the couches placed in the center of the disc.

“Forty-seven minutes past ten!” murmured the captain.

“Twenty seconds more!” Barbicane quickly put out the gas and lay down by his companions, and the profound silence was only broken by the ticking of the chronometer marking the seconds.

Suddenly a dreadful shock was felt, and the projectile, under the force of six billions of litres of gas, developed by the combustion of pyroxyle, mounted into space.

CHAPTER II

THE FIRST HALF-HOUR

What had happened? What effect had this frightful shock produced? Had the ingenuity of the constructors of the projectile obtained any happy result? Had the shock been deadened, thanks to the springs, the four plugs, the water-cushions, and the partition-breaks? Had they been able to subdue the frightful pressure of the initiatory speed of more than 11,000 yards, which was enough to traverse Paris or New York in a second? This was evidently the question suggested to the thousand spectators of this moving scene. They forgot the aim of the journey, and thought only of the travelers. And if one of them — Joseph T. Maston for example — could have cast one glimpse into the projectile, what would he have seen?

Nothing then. The darkness was profound. But its cylindro-conical partitions had resisted wonderfully. Not a rent or a dent anywhere! The wonderful projectile was not even heated under the intense deflagration of the powder, nor liquefied, as they seemed to fear, in a shower of aluminum.

The interior showed but little disorder; indeed, only a few objects had been violently thrown toward the roof; but the most important seemed not to have suffered from the shock at all; their fixtures were intact.

On the movable disc, sunk down to the bottom by the smashing of the partition-breaks and the escape of the water, three bodies lay apparently lifeless. Barbicane, Nicholl, and Michel Ardan — did they still breathe? or was the projectile nothing now but a metal coffin, bearing three corpses into space?

Some minutes after the departure of the projectile, one of the bodies moved, shook its arms, lifted its head, and finally succeeded in getting on its knees. It was Michel Ardan. He felt himself all over, gave a sonorous “Hem!” and then said: “Michel Ardan is whole. How about the others?”

The courageous Frenchman tried to rise, but could not stand. His head swam, from the rush of blood; he was blind; he was a drunken man.

“Bur-r!” said he. “It produces the same effect as two bottles of Corton, though perhaps less agreeable to swallow.” Then, passing his hand several times across his forehead and rubbing his temples, he called in a firm voice: “Nicholl! Barbicane!”

He waited anxiously. No answer; not even a sigh to show that the hearts of his companions were still beating. He called again. The same silence.

“The devil!” he exclaimed. “They look as if they had fallen from a fifth story on their heads. Bah!” he added, with that imperturbable confidence which nothing could check, “if a Frenchman can get on his knees, two Americans ought to be able to get on their feet. But first let us light up.”

Ardan felt the tide of life return by degrees. His blood became calm, and returned to its accustomed circulation. Another effort restored his equilibrium. He succeeded in rising, drew a match from his pocket, and approaching the burner lighted it. The receiver had not suffered at all. The gas had not escaped. Besides, the smell would have betrayed it; and in that case Michel Ardan could not have carried a lighted match with impunity through the space filled with hydrogen. The gas mixing with the air would have produced a detonating mixture, and the explosion would have finished what the shock had perhaps begun. When the burner was lit, Ardan leaned over the bodies of his companions: they were lying one on the other, an inert mass, Nicholl above, Barbicane underneath.

Ardan lifted the captain, propped him up against the divan, and began to rub vigorously. This means, used with judgment, restored Nicholl, who opened his eyes, and instantly recovering his presence of mind, seized Ardan’s hand and looked around him.

“And Barbicane?” said he.

“Each in turn,” replied Michel Ardan. “I began with you, Nicholl, because you were on the top. Now let us look to Barbicane.” Saying which, Ardan and Nicholl raised the president of the Gun Club and laid him on the divan. He seemed to have suffered more than either of his companions; he was bleeding, but Nicholl was reassured by finding that the hemorrhage came from a slight wound on the shoulder, a mere graze, which he bound up carefully.

Still, Barbicane was a long time coming to himself, which frightened his friends, who did not spare friction.

“He breathes though,” said Nicholl, putting his ear to the chest of the wounded man.

“Yes,” replied Ardan, “he breathes like a man who has some notion of that daily operation. Rub, Nicholl; let us rub harder.” And the two improvised practitioners worked so hard and so well that Barbicane recovered his senses. He opened his eyes, sat up, took his two friends by the hands, and his first words were —

“Nicholl, are we moving?”

Nicholl and Ardan looked at each other; they had not yet troubled themselves about the projectile; their first thought had been for the traveler, not for the car.

“Well, are we really moving?” repeated Michel Ardan.

“Or quietly resting on the soil of Florida?” asked Nicholl.

“Or at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico?” added Michel Ardan.

“What an idea!” exclaimed the president.

And this double hypothesis suggested by his companions had the effect of recalling him to his senses. In any case they could not decide on the position of the projectile. Its apparent immovability, and the want of communication with the outside, prevented them from solving the question. Perhaps the projectile was unwinding its course through space. Perhaps after a short rise it had fallen upon the earth, or even in the Gulf of Mexico — a fall which the narrowness of the peninsula of Florida would render not impossible.

The case was serious, the problem interesting, and one that must be solved as soon as possible. Thus, highly excited, Barbicane’s moral energy triumphed over physical weakness, and he rose to his feet. He listened. Outside was perfect silence; but the thick padding was enough to intercept all sounds coming from the earth. But one circumstance struck Barbicane, viz. that the temperature inside the projectile was singularly high. The president drew a thermometer from its case and consulted it. The instrument showed 81@ Fahr.

“Yes,” he exclaimed, “yes, we are moving! This stifling heat, penetrating through the partitions of the projectile, is produced by its friction on the atmospheric strata. It will soon diminish, because we are already floating in space, and after having nearly stifled, we shall have to suffer intense cold.

“What!” said Michel Ardan. “According to your showing, Barbicane, we are already beyond the limits of the terrestrial atmosphere?”

“Without a doubt, Michel. Listen to me. It is fifty-five minutes past ten; we have been gone about eight minutes; and if our initiatory speed has not been checked by the friction, six seconds would be enough for us to pass through the forty miles of atmosphere which surrounds the globe.”

“Just so,” replied Nicholl; “but in what proportion do you estimate the diminution of speed by friction?”

“In the proportion of one-third, Nicholl. This diminution is considerable, but according to my calculations it is nothing less. If, then, we had an initiatory speed of 12,000 yards, on leaving the atmosphere this speed would be reduced to 9,165 yards. In any case we have already passed through this interval, and — — “

“And then,” said Michel Ardan, “friend Nicholl has lost his two bets: four thousand dollars because the Columbiad did not burst; five thousand dollars because the projectile has risen more than six miles. Now, Nicholl, pay up.”

“Let us prove it first,” said the captain, “and we will pay afterward. It is quite possible that Barbicane’s reasoning is correct, and that I have lost my nine thousand dollars. But a new hypothesis presents itself to my mind, and it annuls the wager.”

“What is that?” asked Barbicane quickly.

“The hypothesis that, for some reason or other, fire was never set to the powder, and we have not started at all.”

“My goodness, captain,” exclaimed Michel Ardan, “that hypothesis is not worthy of my brain! It cannot be a serious one. For have we not been half annihilated by the shock? Did I not recall you to life? Is not the president’s shoulder still bleeding from the blow it has received?”

“Granted,” replied Nicholl; “but one question.”

“Well, captain?”

“Did you hear the detonation, which certainly ought to be loud?”

“No,” replied Ardan, much surprised; “certainly I did not hear the detonation.”

“And you, Barbicane?”

“Nor I, either.”

“Very well,” said Nicholl.

“Well now,” murmured the president “why did we not hear the detonation?”

The three friends looked at each other with a disconcerted air. It was quite an inexplicable phenomenon. The projectile had started, and consequently there must have been a detonation.

“Let us first find out where we are,” said Barbicane, “and let down this panel.”

This very simple operation was soon accomplished.

The nuts which held the bolts to the outer plates of the right-hand scuttle gave way under the pressure of the English wrench. These bolts were pushed outside, and the buffers covered with India-rubber stopped up the holes which let them through. Immediately the outer plate fell back upon its hinges like a porthole, and the lenticular glass which closed the scuttle appeared. A similar one was let into the thick partition on the opposite side of the projectile, another in the top of the dome, and finally a fourth in the middle of the base. They could, therefore, make observations in four different directions; the firmament by the side and most direct windows, the earth or the moon by the upper and under openings in the projectile.

Barbicane and his two companions immediately rushed to the uncovered window. But it was lit by no ray of light. Profound darkness surrounded them, which, however, did not prevent the president from exclaiming: “No, my friends, we have not fallen back upon the earth; no, nor are we submerged in the Gulf of Mexico. Yes! we are mounting into space. See those stars shining in the night, and that impenetrable darkness heaped up between the earth and us!”

“Hurrah! hurrah!” exclaimed Michel Ardan and Nicholl in one voice.

Indeed, this thick darkness proved that the projectile had left the earth, for the soil, brilliantly lit by the moon-beams would have been visible to the travelers, if they had been lying on its surface. This darkness also showed that the projectile had passed the atmospheric strata, for the diffused light spread in the air would have been reflected on the metal walls, which reflection was wanting. This light would have lit the window, and the window was dark. Doubt was no longer possible; the travelers had left the earth.

“I have lost,” said Nicholl.

“I congratulate you,” replied Ardan.

“Here are the nine thousand dollars,” said the captain, drawing a roll of paper dollars from his pocket.

“Will you have a receipt for it?” asked Barbicane, taking the sum.

“If you do not mind,” answered Nicholl; “it is more business-like.”

And coolly and seriously, as if he had been at his strong-box, the president drew forth his notebook, tore out a blank leaf, wrote a proper receipt in pencil, dated and signed it with the usual flourish, and gave it to the captain, who carefully placed it in his pocketbook. Michel Ardan, taking off his hat, bowed to his two companions without speaking. So much formality under such circumstances left him speechless. He had never before seen anything so “American.”

This is a purely French habit.

This affair settled, Barbicane and Nicholl had returned to the window, and were watching the constellations. The stars looked like bright points on the black sky. But from that side they could not see the orb of night, which, traveling from east to west, would rise by degrees toward the zenith. Its absence drew the following remark from Ardan: “And the moon; will she perchance fail at our rendezvous?”

“Do not alarm yourself,” said Barbicane; “our future globe is at its post, but we cannot see her from this side; let us open the other.”

“As Barbicane was about leaving the window to open the opposite scuttle, his attention was attracted by the approach of a brilliant object. It was an enormous disc, whose colossal dimension could not be estimated. Its face, which was turned to the earth, was very bright. One might have thought it a small moon reflecting the light of the large one. She advanced with great speed, and seemed to describe an orbit round the earth, which would intersect the passage of the projectile. This body revolved upon its axis, and exhibited the phenomena of all celestial bodies abandoned in space.

“Ah!” exclaimed Michel Ardan, “What is that? another projectile?”

Barbicane did not answer. The appearance of this enormous body surprised and troubled him. A collision was possible, and might be attended with deplorable results; either the projectile would deviate from its path, or a shock, breaking its impetus, might precipitate it to earth; or, lastly, it might be irresistibly drawn away by the powerful asteroid. The president caught at a glance the consequences of these three hypotheses, either of which would, one way or the other, bring their experiment to an unsuccessful and fatal termination. His companions stood silently looking into space. The object grew rapidly as it approached them, and by an optical illusion the projectile seemed to be throwing itself before it.

“By Jove!” exclaimed Michel Ardan, “we shall run into one another!”

Instinctively the travelers drew back. Their dread was great, but it did not last many seconds. The asteroid passed several hundred yards from the projectile and disappeared, not so much from the rapidity of its course, as that its face being opposite the moon, it was suddenly merged into the perfect darkness of space.

“A happy journey to you,” exclaimed Michel Ardan, with a sigh of relief. “Surely infinity of space is large enough for a poor little projectile to walk through without fear. Now, what is this portentous globe which nearly struck us?”

“I know,” replied Barbicane.

“Oh, indeed! you know everything.”

“It is,” said Barbicane, “a simple meteorite, but an enormous one, which the attraction of the earth has retained as a satellite.”

“Is it possible!” exclaimed Michel Ardan; “the earth then has two moons like Neptune?”

“Yes, my friends, two moons, though it passes generally for having only one; but this second moon is so small, and its speed so great, that the inhabitants of the earth cannot see it. It was by noticing disturbances that a French astronomer, M. Petit, was able to determine the existence of this second satellite and calculate its elements. According to his observations, this meteorite will accomplish its revolution around the earth in three hours and twenty minutes, which implies a wonderful rate of speed.”

“Do all astronomers admit the existence of this satellite?” asked Nicholl.

“No,” replied Barbicane; “but if, like us, they had met it, they could no longer doubt it. Indeed, I think that this meteorite, which, had it struck the projectile, would have much embarrassed us, will give us the means of deciding what our position in space is.”

“How?” said Ardan.

“Because its distance is known, and when we met it, we were exactly four thousand six hundred and fifty miles from the surface of the terrestrial globe.”

“More than two thousand French leagues,” exclaimed Michel Ardan.

“That beats the express trains of the pitiful globe called the earth.”

“I should think so,” replied Nicholl, consulting his chronometer; “it is eleven o’clock, and it is only thirteen minutes since we left the American continent.”

“Only thirteen minutes?” said Barbicane.

“Yes,” said Nicholl; “and if our initiatory speed of twelve thousand yards has been kept up, we shall have made about twenty thousand miles in the hour.”

“That is all very well, my friends,” said the president, “but the insoluble question still remains. Why did we not hear the detonation of the Columbiad?”

For want of an answer the conversation dropped, and Barbicane began thoughtfully to let down the shutter of the second side. He succeeded; and through the uncovered glass the moon filled the projectile with a brilliant light. Nicholl, as an economical man, put out the gas, now useless, and whose brilliancy prevented any observation of the inter-planetary space.

The lunar disc shone with wonderful purity. Her rays, no longer filtered through the vapory atmosphere of the terrestrial globe, shone through the glass, filling the air in the interior of the projectile with silvery reflections. The black curtain of the firmament in reality heightened the moon’s brilliancy, which in this void of ether unfavorable to diffusion did not eclipse the neighboring stars. The heavens, thus seen, presented quite a new aspect, and one which the human eye could never dream of. One may conceive the interest with which these bold men watched the orb of night, the great aim of their journey.

In its motion the earth’s satellite was insensibly nearing the zenith, the mathematical point which it ought to attain ninety-six hours later. Her mountains, her plains, every projection was as clearly discernible to their eyes as if they were observing it from some spot upon the earth; but its light was developed through space with wonderful intensity. The disc shone like a platinum mirror. Of the earth flying from under their feet, the travelers had lost all recollection.

It was captain Nicholl who first recalled their attention to the vanishing globe.

“Yes,” said Michel Ardan, “do not let us be ungrateful to it. Since we are leaving our country, let our last looks be directed to it. I wish to see the earth once more before it is quite hidden from my eyes.”

To satisfy his companions, Barbicane began to uncover the window at the bottom of the projectile, which would allow them to observe the earth direct. The disc, which the force of the projection had beaten down to the base, was removed, not without difficulty. Its fragments, placed carefully against a wall, might serve again upon occasion. Then a circular gap appeared, nineteen inches in diameter, hollowed out of the lower part of the projectile. A glass cover, six inches thick and strengthened with upper fastenings, closed it tightly. Beneath was fixed an aluminum plate, held in place by bolts. The screws being undone, and the bolts let go, the plate fell down, and visible communication was established between the interior and the exterior.

Michel Ardan knelt by the glass. It was cloudy, seemingly opaque.

“Well!” he exclaimed, “and the earth?”

“The earth?” said Barbicane. “There it is.”

“What! that little thread; that silver crescent?”

“Doubtless, Michel. In four days, when the moon will be full, at the very time we shall reach it, the earth will be new, and will only appear to us as a slender crescent which will soon disappear, and for some days will be enveloped in utter darkness.”

“That the earth?” repeated Michel Ardan, looking with all his eyes at the thin slip of his native planet.

The explanation given by President Barbicane was correct. The earth, with respect to the projectile, was entering its last phase. It was in its octant, and showed a crescent finely traced on the dark background of the sky. Its light, rendered bluish by the thick strata of the atmosphere was less intense than that of the crescent moon, but it was of considerable dimensions, and looked like an enormous arch stretched across the firmament. Some parts brilliantly lighted, especially on its concave part, showed the presence of high mountains, often disappearing behind thick spots, which are never seen on the lunar disc. They were rings of clouds placed concentrically round the terrestrial globe.

While the travelers were trying to pierce the profound darkness, a brilliant cluster of shooting stars burst upon their eyes. Hundreds of meteorites, ignited by the friction of the atmosphere, irradiated the shadow of the luminous train, and lined the cloudy parts of the disc with their fire. At this period the earth was in its perihelion, and the month of December is so propitious to these shooting stars, that astronomers have counted as many as twenty-four thousand in an hour. But Michel Ardan, disdaining scientific reasonings, preferred thinking that the earth was thus saluting the departure of her three children with her most brilliant fireworks.

Indeed this was all they saw of the globe lost in the solar world, rising and setting to the great planets like a simple morning or evening star! This globe, where they had left all their affections, was nothing more than a fugitive crescent!

Long did the three friends look without speaking, though united in heart, while the projectile sped onward with an ever-decreasing speed. Then an irresistible drowsiness crept over their brain. Was it weariness of body and mind? No doubt; for after the over-excitement of those last hours passed upon earth, reaction was inevitable.

“Well,” said Nicholl, “since we must sleep, let us sleep.”

And stretching themselves on their couches, they were all three soon in a profound slumber.

But they had not forgotten themselves more than a quarter of an hour, when Barbicane sat up suddenly, and rousing his companions with a loud voice, exclaimed — —

“I have found it!”

“What have you found?” asked Michel Ardan, jumping from his bed.

“The reason why we did not hear the detonation of the Columbiad.”

“And it is — — ?” said Nicholl.

“Because our projectile traveled faster than the sound!”

CHAPTER III

THEIR PLACE OF SHELTER

This curious but certainly correct explanation once given, the three friends returned to their slumbers. Could they have found a calmer or more peaceful spot to sleep in? On the earth, houses, towns, cottages, and country feel every shock given to the exterior of the globe. On sea, the vessels rocked by the waves are still in motion; in the air, the balloon oscillates incessantly on the fluid strata of divers densities. This projectile alone, floating in perfect space, in the midst of perfect silence, offered perfect repose.

Thus the sleep of our adventurous travelers might have been indefinitely prolonged, if an unexpected noise had not awakened them at about seven o’clock in the morning of the 2nd of December, eight hours after their departure.

This noise was a very natural barking.

“The dogs! it is the dogs!” exclaimed Michel Ardan, rising at once.

“They are hungry,” said Nicholl.

“By Jove!” replied Michel, “we have forgotten them.”

“Where are they?” asked Barbicane.

They looked and found one of the animals crouched under the divan. Terrified and shaken by the initiatory shock, it had remained in the corner till its voice returned with the pangs of hunger. It was the amiable Diana, still very confused, who crept out of her retreat, though not without much persuasion, Michel Ardan encouraging her with most gracious words.

“Come, Diana,” said he: “come, my girl! thou whose destiny will be marked in the cynegetic annals; thou whom the pagans would have given as companion to the god Anubis, and Christians as friend to St. Roch; thou who art rushing into interplanetary space, and wilt perhaps be the Eve of all Selenite dogs! come, Diana, come here.”

Diana, flattered or not, advanced by degrees, uttering plaintive cries.

“Good,” said Barbicane: “I see Eve, but where is Adam?”

“Adam?” replied Michel; “Adam cannot be far off; he is there somewhere; we must call him. Satellite! here, Satellite!”

But Satellite did not appear. Diana would not leave off howling. They found, however, that she was not bruised, and they gave her a pie, which silenced her complaints. As to Satellite, he seemed quite lost. They had to hunt a long time before finding him in one of the upper compartments of the projectile, whither some unaccountable shock must have violently hurled him. The poor beast, much hurt, was in a piteous state.

“The devil!” said Michel.

They brought the unfortunate dog down with great care. Its skull had been broken against the roof, and it seemed unlikely that he could recover from such a shock. Meanwhile, he was stretched comfortably on a cushion. Once there, he heaved a sigh.

“We will take care of you,” said Michel; “we are responsible for your existence. I would rather lose an arm than a paw of my poor Satellite.”

Saying which, he offered some water to the wounded dog, who swallowed it with avidity.

This attention paid, the travelers watched the earth and the moon attentively. The earth was now only discernible by a cloudy disc ending in a crescent, rather more contracted than that of the previous evening; but its expanse was still enormous, compared with that of the moon, which was approaching nearer and nearer to a perfect circle.

“By Jove!” said Michel Ardan, “I am really sorry that we did not start when the earth was full, that is to say, when our globe was in opposition to the sun.”

“Why?” said Nicholl.

“Because we should have seen our continents and seas in a new light — the first resplendent under the solar rays, the latter cloudy as represented on some maps of the world. I should like to have seen those poles of the earth on which the eye of man has never yet rested.

“I dare say,” replied Barbicane; “but if the earth had been full, the moon would have been new; that is to say, invisible, because of the rays of the sun. It is better for us to see the destination we wish to reach, than the point of departure.”

“You are right, Barbicane,” replied Captain Nicholl; “and, besides, when we have reached the moon, we shall have time during the long lunar nights to consider at our leisure the globe on which our likenesses swarm.”

“Our likenesses!” exclaimed Michel Ardan; “They are no more our likenesses than the Selenites are! We inhabit a new world, peopled by ourselves — the projectile! I am Barbicane’s likeness, and Barbicane is Nicholl’s. Beyond us, around us, human nature is at an end, and we are the only population of this microcosm until we become pure Selenites.”

“In about eighty-eight hours,” replied the captain.

“Which means to say?” asked Michel Ardan.

“That it is half-past eight,” replied Nicholl.

“Very well,” retorted Michel; “then it is impossible for me to find even the shadow of a reason why we should not go to breakfast.”

Indeed the inhabitants of the new star could not live without eating, and their stomachs were suffering from the imperious laws of hunger. Michel Ardan, as a Frenchman, was declared chief cook, an important function, which raised no rival. The gas gave sufficient heat for the culinary apparatus, and the provision box furnished the elements of this first feast.

The breakfast began with three bowls of excellent soup, thanks to the liquefaction in hot water of those precious cakes of Liebig, prepared from the best parts of the ruminants of the Pampas. To the soup succeeded some beefsteaks, compressed by an hydraulic press, as tender and succulent as if brought straight from the kitchen of an English eating-house. Michel, who was imaginative, maintained that they were even “red.”

Preserved vegetables (“fresher than nature,” said the amiable Michel) succeeded the dish of meat; and was followed by some cups of tea with bread and butter, after the American fashion.

The beverage was declared exquisite, and was due to the infusion of the choicest leaves, of which the emperor of Russia had given some chests for the benefit of the travelers.

And lastly, to crown the repast, Ardan had brought out a fine bottle of Nuits, which was found “by chance” in the provision-box. The three friends drank to the union of the earth and her satellite.

And, as if he had not already done enough for the generous wine which he had distilled on the slopes of Burgundy, the sun chose to be part of the party. At this moment the projectile emerged from the conical shadow cast by the terrestrial globe, and the rays of the radiant orb struck the lower disc of the projectile direct occasioned by the angle which the moon’s orbit makes with that of the earth.

“The sun!” exclaimed Michel Ardan.

“No doubt,” replied Barbicane; “I expected it.”

“But,” said Michel, “the conical shadow which the earth leaves in space extends beyond the moon?”

“Far beyond it, if the atmospheric refraction is not taken into consideration,” said Barbicane. “But when the moon is enveloped in this shadow, it is because the centers of the three stars, the sun, the earth, and the moon, are all in one and the same straight line. Then the nodes coincide with the phases of the moon, and there is an eclipse. If we had started when there was an eclipse of the moon, all our passage would have been in the shadow, which would have been a pity.”

“Why?”

“Because, though we are floating in space, our projectile, bathed in the solar rays, will receive light and heat. It economizes the gas, which is in every respect a good economy.”

Indeed, under these rays which no atmosphere can temper, either in temperature or brilliancy, the projectile grew warm and bright, as if it had passed suddenly from winter to summer. The moon above, the sun beneath, were inundating it with their fire.

“It is pleasant here,” said Nicholl.

“I should think so,” said Michel Ardan. “With a little earth spread on our aluminum planet we should have green peas in twenty-four hours. I have but one fear, which is that the walls of the projectile might melt.”

“Calm yourself, my worthy friend,” replied Barbicane; “the projectile withstood a very much higher temperature than this as it slid through the strata of the atmosphere. I should not be surprised if it did not look like a meteor on fire to the eyes of the spectators in Florida.”

“But then J. T. Maston will think we are roasted!”

“What astonishes me,” said Barbicane, “is that we have not been.

That was a danger we had not provided for.”

“I feared it,” said Nicholl simply.

“And you never mentioned it, my sublime captain,” exclaimed

Michel Ardan, clasping his friend’s hand.

Barbicane now began to settle himself in the projectile as if he was never to leave it. One must remember that this aerial car had a base with a superficies of fifty-four square feet. Its height to the roof was twelve feet. Carefully laid out in the inside, and little encumbered by instruments and traveling utensils, which each had their particular place, it left the three travelers a certain freedom of movement. The thick window inserted in the bottom could bear any amount of weight, and Barbicane and his companions walked upon it as if it were solid plank; but the sun striking it directly with its rays lit the interior of the projectile from beneath, thus producing singular effects of light.

They began by investigating the state of their store of water and provisions, neither of which had suffered, thanks to the care taken to deaden the shock. Their provisions were abundant, and plentiful enough to last the three travelers for more than a year. Barbicane wished to be cautious, in case the projectile should land on a part of the moon which was utterly barren. As to water and the reserve of brandy, which consisted of fifty gallons, there was only enough for two months; but according to the last observations of astronomers, the moon had a low, dense, and thick atmosphere, at least in the deep valleys, and there springs and streams could not fail. Thus, during their passage, and for the first year of their settlement on the lunar continent, these adventurous explorers would suffer neither hunger nor thirst.

Now about the air in the projectile. There, too, they were secure. Reiset and Regnaut’s apparatus, intended for the production of oxygen, was supplied with chlorate of potassium for two months. They necessarily consumed a certain quantity of gas, for they were obliged to keep the producing substance at a temperature of above 400@. But there again they were all safe. The apparatus only wanted a little care. But it was not enough to renew the oxygen; they must absorb the carbonic acid produced by expiration. During the last twelve hours the atmosphere of the projectile had become charged with this deleterious gas. Nicholl discovered the state of the air by observing Diana panting painfully. The carbonic acid, by a phenomenon similar to that produced in the famous Grotto del Cane, had collected at the bottom of the projectile owing to its weight. Poor Diana, with her head low, would suffer before her masters from the presence of this gas. But Captain Nicholl hastened to remedy this state of things, by placing on the floor several receivers containing caustic potash, which he shook about for a time, and this substance, greedy of carbonic acid, soon completely absorbed it, thus purifying the air.

An inventory of instruments was then begun. The thermometers and barometers had resisted, all but one minimum thermometer, the glass of which was broken. An excellent aneroid was drawn from the wadded box which contained it and hung on the wall. Of course it was only affected by and marked the pressure of the air inside the projectile, but it also showed the quantity of moisture which it contained. At that moment its needle oscillated between 25.24 and 25.08.

It was fine weather.

Barbicane had also brought several compasses, which he found intact. One must understand that under present conditions their needles were acting wildly, that is without any constant direction. Indeed, at the distance they were from the earth, the magnetic pole could have no perceptible action upon the apparatus; but the box placed on the lunar disc might perhaps exhibit some strange phenomena. In any case it would be interesting to see whether the earth’s satellite submitted like herself to its magnetic influence.

A hypsometer to measure the height of the lunar mountains, a sextant to take the height of the sun, glasses which would be useful as they neared the moon, all these instruments were carefully looked over, and pronounced good in spite of the violent shock.

As to the pickaxes and different tools which were Nicholl’s especial choice; as to the sacks of different kinds of grain and shrubs which Michel Ardan hoped to transplant into Selenite ground, they were stowed away in the upper part of the projectile. There was a sort of granary there, loaded with things which the extravagant Frenchman had heaped up. What they were no one knew, and the good-tempered fellow did not explain. Now and then he climbed up by cramp-irons riveted to the walls, but kept the inspection to himself. He arranged and rearranged, he plunged his hand rapidly into certain mysterious boxes, singing in one of the falsest of voices an old French refrain to enliven the situation.

Barbicane observed with some interest that his guns and other arms had not been damaged. These were important, because, heavily loaded, they were to help lessen the fall of the projectile, when drawn by the lunar attraction (after having passed the point of neutral attraction) on to the moon’s surface; a fall which ought to be six times less rapid than it would have been on the earth’s surface, thanks to the difference of bulk. The inspection ended with general satisfaction, when each returned to watch space through the side windows and the lower glass coverlid.

There was the same view. The whole extent of the celestial sphere swarmed with stars and constellations of wonderful purity, enough to drive an astronomer out of his mind! On one side the sun, like the mouth of a lighted oven, a dazzling disc without a halo, standing out on the dark background of the sky! On the other, the moon returning its fire by reflection, and apparently motionless in the midst of the starry world. Then, a large spot seemingly nailed to the firmament, bordered by a silvery cord; it was the earth! Here and there nebulous masses like large flakes of starry snow; and from the zenith to the nadir, an immense ring formed by an impalpable dust of stars, the “Milky Way,” in the midst of which the sun ranks only as a star of the fourth magnitude. The observers could not take their eyes from this novel spectacle, of which no description could give an adequate idea. What reflections it suggested! What emotions hitherto unknown awoke in their souls! Barbicane wished to begin the relation of his journey while under its first impressions, and hour after hour took notes of all facts happening in the beginning of the enterprise. He wrote quietly, with his large square writing, in a business-like style.

During this time Nicholl, the calculator, looked over the minutes of their passage, and worked out figures with unparalleled dexterity. Michel Ardan chatted first with Barbicane, who did not answer him, and then with Nicholl, who did not hear him, with Diana, who understood none of his theories, and lastly with himself, questioning and answering, going and coming, busy with a thousand details; at one time bent over the lower glass, at another roosting in the heights of the projectile, and always singing. In this microcosm he represented French loquacity and excitability, and we beg you to believe that they were well represented. The day, or rather (for the expression is not correct) the lapse of twelve hours, which forms a day upon the earth, closed with a plentiful supper carefully prepared. No accident of any nature had yet happened to shake the travelers’ confidence; so, full of hope, already sure of success, they slept peacefully, while the projectile under an uniformly decreasing speed was crossing the sky.

CHAPTER IV

A LITTLE ALGEBRA

The night passed without incident. The word “night,” however, is scarcely applicable.

The position of the projectile with regard to the sun did not change. Astronomically, it was daylight on the lower part, and night on the upper; so when during this narrative these words are used, they represent the lapse of time between rising and setting of the sun upon the earth.

The travelers’ sleep was rendered more peaceful by the projectile’s excessive speed, for it seemed absolutely motionless. Not a motion betrayed its onward course through space. The rate of progress, however rapid it might be, cannot produce any sensible effect on the human frame when it takes place in a vacuum, or when the mass of air circulates with the body which is carried with it. What inhabitant of the earth perceives its speed, which, however, is at the rate of 68,000 miles per hour? Motion under such conditions is “felt” no more than repose; and when a body is in repose it will remain so as long as no strange force displaces it; if moving, it will not stop unless an obstacle comes in its way. This indifference to motion or repose is called inertia.

Barbicane and his companions might have believed themselves perfectly stationary, being shut up in the projectile; indeed, the effect would have been the same if they had been on the outside of it. Had it not been for the moon, which was increasing above them, they might have sworn that they were floating in complete stagnation.

That morning, the 3rd of December, the travelers were awakened by a joyous but unexpected noise; it was the crowing of a cock which sounded through the car. Michel Ardan, who was the first on his feet, climbed to the top of the projectile, and shutting a box, the lid of which was partly open, said in a low voice, “Will you hold your tongue? That creature will spoil my design!”

But Nicholl and Barbicane were awake.

“A cock!” said Nicholl.

“Why no, my friends,” Michel answered quickly; “it was I who wished to awake you by this rural sound.” So saying, he gave vent to a splendid cock-a-doodledoo, which would have done honor to the proudest of poultry-yards.

The two Americans could not help laughing.

“Fine talent that,” said Nicholl, looking suspiciously at his companion.

“Yes,” said Michel; “a joke in my country. It is very Gallic; they play the cock so in the best society.”

Then turning the conversation: “Barbicane, do you know what I have been thinking of all night?”

“No,” answered the president.

“Of our Cambridge friends. You have already remarked that I am an ignoramus in mathematical subjects; and it is impossible for me to find out how the savants of the observatory were able to calculate what initiatory speed the projectile ought to have on leaving the Columbiad in order to attain the moon.”

“You mean to say,” replied Barbicane, “to attain that neutral point where the terrestrial and lunar attractions are equal; for, starting from that point, situated about nine-tenths of the distance traveled over, the projectile would simply fall upon the moon, on account of its weight.”

“So be it,” said Michel; “but, once more; how could they calculate the initiatory speed?”

“Nothing can be easier,” replied Barbicane.

“And you knew how to make that calculation?” asked Michel Ardan.

“Perfectly. Nicholl and I would have made it, if the observatory had not saved us the trouble.”

“Very well, old Barbicane,” replied Michel; “they might have cut off my head, beginning at my feet, before they could have made me solve that problem.”

“Because you do not know algebra,” answered Barbicane quietly.

“Ah, there you are, you eaters of x^1; you think you have said all when you have said `Algebra.’”

“Michel,” said Barbicane, “can you use a forge without a hammer, or a plow without a plowshare?”

“Hardly.”

“Well, algebra is a tool, like the plow or the hammer, and a good tool to those who know how to use it.”

“Seriously?”

“Quite seriously.”

“And can you use that tool in my presence?”

“If it will interest you.”

“And show me how they calculated the initiatory speed of our car?”

“Yes, my worthy friend; taking into consideration all the elements of the problem, the distance from the center of the earth to the center of the moon, of the radius of the earth, of its bulk, and of the bulk of the moon, I can tell exactly what ought to be the initiatory speed of the projectile, and that by a simple formula.”

“Let us see.”

“You shall see it; only I shall not give you the real course drawn by the projectile between the moon and the earth in considering their motion round the sun. No, I shall consider these two orbs as perfectly motionless, which will answer all our purpose.”

“And why?”

“Because it will be trying to solve the problem called `the problem of the three bodies,’ for which the integral calculus is not yet far enough advanced.”

“Then,” said Michel Ardan, in his sly tone, “mathematics have not said their last word?”

“Certainly not,” replied Barbicane.

“Well, perhaps the Selenites have carried the integral calculus farther than you have; and, by the bye, what is this `integral calculus?’”

“It is a calculation the converse of the differential,” replied Barbicane seriously.

“Much obliged; it is all very clear, no doubt.”

“And now,” continued Barbicane, “a slip of paper and a bit of pencil, and before a half-hour is over I will have found the required formula.”

Half an hour had not elapsed before Barbicane, raising his head, showed Michel Ardan a page covered with algebraical signs, in which the general formula for the solution was contained.

“Well, and does Nicholl understand what that means?”

“Of course, Michel,” replied the captain. “All these signs, which seem cabalistic to you, form the plainest, the clearest, and the most logical language to those who know how to read it.”

“And you pretend, Nicholl,” asked Michel, “that by means of these hieroglyphics, more incomprehensible than the Egyptian Ibis, you can find what initiatory speed it was necessary to give the projectile?”

“Incontestably,” replied Nicholl; “and even by this same formula I can always tell you its speed at any point of its transit.”

“On your word?”

“On my word.”

“Then you are as cunning as our president.”

“No, Michel; the difficult part is what Barbicane has done; that is, to get an equation which shall satisfy all the conditions of the problem. The remainder is only a question of arithmetic, requiring merely the knowledge of the four rules.”

“That is something!” replied Michel Ardan, who for his life could not do addition right, and who defined the rule as a Chinese puzzle, which allowed one to obtain all sorts of totals.

“The expression v zero, which you see in that equation, is the speed which the projectile will have on leaving the atmosphere.”

“Just so,” said Nicholl; “it is from that point that we must calculate the velocity, since we know already that the velocity at departure was exactly one and a half times more than on leaving the atmosphere.”

“I understand no more,” said Michel.

“It is a very simple calculation,” said Barbicane.

“Not as simple as I am,” retorted Michel.

“That means, that when our projectile reached the limits of the terrestrial atmosphere it had already lost one-third of its initiatory speed.”

“As much as that?”

“Yes, my friend; merely by friction against the atmospheric strata. You understand that the faster it goes the more resistance it meets with from the air.”

“That I admit,” answered Michel; “and I understand it, although your x’s and zero’s, and algebraic formula, are rattling in my head like nails in a bag.”

“First effects of algebra,” replied Barbicane; “and now, to finish, we are going to prove the given number of these different expressions, that is, work out their value.”

“Finish me!” replied Michel.

Barbicane took the paper, and began to make his calculations with great rapidity. Nicholl looked over and greedily read the work as it proceeded.

“That’s it! that’s it!” at last he cried.

“Is it clear?” asked Barbicane.

“It is written in letters of fire,” said Nicholl.

“Wonderful fellows!” muttered Ardan.

“Do you understand it at last?” asked Barbicane.

“Do I understand it?” cried Ardan; “my head is splitting with it.”

“And now,” said Nicholl, “to find out the speed of the projectile when it leaves the atmosphere, we have only to calculate that.”

The captain, as a practical man equal to all difficulties, began to write with frightful rapidity. Divisions and multiplications grew under his fingers; the figures were like hail on the white page. Barbicane watched him, while Michel Ardan nursed a growing headache with both hands.

“Very well?” asked Barbicane, after some minutes’ silence.

“Well!” replied Nicholl; every calculation made, v zero, that is to say, the speed necessary for the projectile on leaving the atmosphere, to enable it to reach the equal point of attraction, ought to be — — “

“Yes?” said Barbicane.

“Twelve thousand yards.”

“What!” exclaimed Barbicane, starting; “you say — — “

“Twelve thousand yards.”

“The devil!” cried the president, making a gesture of despair.

“What is the matter?” asked Michel Ardan, much surprised.

“What is the matter! why, if at this moment our speed had already diminished one-third by friction, the initiatory speed ought to have been — — “

“Seventeen thousand yards.”

“And the Cambridge Observatory declared that twelve thousand yards was enough at starting; and our projectile, which only started with that speed — — “

“Well?” asked Nicholl.

“Well, it will not be enough.”

“Good.”

“We shall not be able to reach the neutral point.”

“The deuce!”

“We shall not even get halfway.”

“In the name of the projectile!” exclaimed Michel Ardan, jumping as if it was already on the point of striking the terrestrial globe.

“And we shall fall back upon the earth!”

CHAPTER V

THE COLD OF SPACE

This revelation came like a thunderbolt. Who could have expected such an error in calculation? Barbicane would not believe it. Nicholl revised his figures: they were exact. As to the formula which had determined them, they could not suspect its truth; it was evident that an initiatory velocity of seventeen thousand yards in the first second was necessary to enable them to reach the neutral point.

The three friends looked at each other silently. There was no thought of breakfast. Barbicane, with clenched teeth, knitted brows, and hands clasped convulsively, was watching through the window. Nicholl had crossed his arms, and was examining his calculations. Michel Ardan was muttering: “That is just like these scientific men: they never do anything else.

I would give twenty pistoles if we could fall upon the Cambridge Observatory and crush it, together with the whole lot of dabblers in figures which it contains.”

Suddenly a thought struck the captain, which he at once communicated to Barbicane.

“Ah!” said he; “it is seven o’clock in the morning; we have already been gone thirty-two hours; more than half our passage is over, and we are not falling that I am aware of.”

Barbicane did not answer, but after a rapid glance at the captain, took a pair of compasses wherewith to measure the angular distance of the terrestrial globe; then from the lower window he took an exact observation, and noticed that the projectile was apparently stationary. Then rising and wiping his forehead, on which large drops of perspiration were standing, he put some figures on paper. Nicholl understood that the president was deducting from the terrestrial diameter the projectile’s distance from the earth. He watched him anxiously.

“No,” exclaimed Barbicane, after some moments, “no, we are not falling! no, we are already more than 50,000 leagues from the earth. We have passed the point at which the projectile would have stopped if its speed had only been 12,000 yards at starting. We are still going up.”

“That is evident,” replied Nicholl; “and we must conclude that our initial speed, under the power of the 400,000 pounds of gun-cotton, must have exceeded the required 12,000 yards. Now I can understand how, after thirteen minutes only, we met the second satellite, which gravitates round the earth at more than 2,000 leagues’ distance.”

“And this explanation is the more probable,” added Barbicane, “Because, in throwing off the water enclosed between its partition-breaks, the projectile found itself lightened of a considerable weight.”

“Just so,” said Nicholl.

“Ah, my brave Nicholl, we are saved!”

“Very well then,” said Michel Ardan quietly; “as we are safe, let us have breakfast.”

Nicholl was not mistaken. The initial speed had been, very fortunately, much above that estimated by the Cambridge Observatory; but the Cambridge Observatory had nevertheless made a mistake.

The travelers, recovered from this false alarm, breakfasted merrily. If they ate a good deal, they talked more. Their confidence was greater after than before “the incident of the algebra.”

“Why should we not succeed?” said Michel Ardan; “why should we not arrive safely? We are launched; we have no obstacle before us, no stones in the way; the road is open, more so than that of a ship battling with the sea; more open than that of a balloon battling with the wind; and if a ship can reach its destination, a balloon go where it pleases, why cannot our projectile attain its end and aim?”

“It will attain it,” said Barbicane.

“If only to do honor to the Americans,” added Michel Ardan, “the only people who could bring such an enterprise to a happy termination, and the only one which could produce a President Barbicane. Ah, now we are no longer uneasy, I begin to think, What will become of us? We shall get right royally weary.”

Barbicane and Nicholl made a gesture of denial.

“But I have provided for the contingency, my friends,” replied Michel; “you have only to speak, and I have chess, draughts, cards, and dominoes at your disposal; nothing is wanting but a billiard-table.”

“What!” exclaimed Barbicane; “you brought away such trifles?”

“Certainly,” replied Michel, “and not only to distract ourselves, but also with the laudable intention of endowing the Selenite smoking divans with them.”

“My friend,” said Barbicane, “if the moon is inhabited, its inhabitants must have appeared some thousands of years before those of the earth, for we cannot doubt that their star is much older than ours. If then these Selenites have existed their hundreds of thousands of years, and if their brain is of the same organization of the human brain, they have already invented all that we have invented, and even what we may invent in future ages. They have nothing to learn from us, and we have everything to learn from them.”

“What!” said Michel; “you believe that they have artists like Phidias, Michael Angelo, or Raphael?”

“Yes.”

“Poets like Homer, Virgil, Milton, Lamartine, and Hugo?”

“I am sure of it.”

“Philosophers like Plato, Aristotle, Descartes, Kant?”

“I have no doubt of it.”

“Scientific men like Archimedes, Euclid, Pascal, Newton?”

“I could swear it.”

“Comic writers like Arnal, and photographers like — like Nadar?”

“Certain.”

“Then, friend Barbicane, if they are as strong as we are, and even stronger — these Selenites — why have they not tried to communicate with the earth? why have they not launched a lunar projectile to our terrestrial regions?”

“Who told you that they have never done so?” said Barbicane seriously.

“Indeed,” added Nicholl, “it would be easier for them than for us, for two reasons; first, because the attraction on the moon’s surface is six times less than on that of the earth, which would allow a projectile to rise more easily; secondly, because it would be enough to send such a projectile only at 8,000 leagues instead of 80,000, which would require the force of projection to be ten times less strong.”

“Then,” continued Michel, “I repeat it, why have they not done it?”

“And I repeat,” said Barbicane; “who told you that they have not done it?”

“When?”

“Thousands of years before man appeared on earth.”

“And the projectile — where is the projectile? I demand to see the projectile.”

“My friend,” replied Barbicane, “the sea covers five-sixths of our globe. From that we may draw five good reasons for supposing that the lunar projectile, if ever launched, is now at the bottom of the Atlantic or the Pacific, unless it sped into some crevasse at that period when the crust of the earth was not yet hardened.”

“Old Barbicane,” said Michel, “you have an answer for everything, and I bow before your wisdom. But there is one hypothesis that would suit me better than all the others, which is, the Selenites, being older than we, are wiser, and have not invented gunpowder.”

At this moment Diana joined in the conversation by a sonorous barking.

She was asking for her breakfast.

“Ah!” said Michel Ardan, “in our discussion we have forgotten Diana and Satellite.”

Immediately a good-sized pie was given to the dog, which devoured it hungrily.

“Do you see, Barbicane,” said Michel, “we should have made a second Noah’s ark of this projectile, and borne with us to the moon a couple of every kind of domestic animal.”

“I dare say; but room would have failed us.”

“Oh!” said Michel, “we might have squeezed a little.”

“The fact is,” replied Nicholl, “that cows, bulls, and horses, and all ruminants, would have been very useful on the lunar continent, but unfortunately the car could neither have been made a stable nor a shed.”

“Well, we might have at least brought a donkey, only a little donkey; that courageous beast which old Silenus loved to mount. I love those old donkeys; they are the least favored animals in creation; they are not only beaten while alive, but even after they are dead.”

“How do you make that out?” asked Barbicane. “Why,” said Michel, “they make their skins into drums.”

Barbicane and Nicholl could not help laughing at this ridiculous remark. But a cry from their merry companion stopped them. The latter was leaning over the spot where Satellite lay. He rose, saying: “My good Satellite is no longer ill.”

“Ah!” said Nicholl.

“No,” answered Michel, “he is dead! There,” added he, in a piteous tone, “that is embarrassing. I much fear, my poor Diana, that you will leave no progeny in the lunar regions!”

Indeed the unfortunate Satellite had not survived its wound. It was quite dead. Michel Ardan looked at his friends with a rueful countenance.

“One question presents itself,” said Barbicane. “We cannot keep the dead body of this dog with us for the next forty-eight hours.”

“No! certainly not,” replied Nicholl; “but our scuttles are fixed on hinges; they can be let down. We will open one, and throw the body out into space.”

The president thought for some moments, and then said: “Yes, we must do so, but at the same time taking very great precautions.”

“Why?” asked Michel.

“For two reasons which you will understand,” answered Barbicane. “The first relates to the air shut up in the projectile, and of which we must lose as little as possible.”

“But we manufacture the air?”

“Only in part. We make only the oxygen, my worthy Michel; and with regard to that, we must watch that the apparatus does not furnish the oxygen in too great a quantity; for an excess would bring us very serious physiological troubles. But if we make the oxygen, we do not make the azote, that medium which the lungs do not absorb, and which ought to remain intact; and that azote will escape rapidly through the open scuttles.”

“Oh! the time for throwing out poor Satellite?” said Michel.

“Agreed; but we must act quickly.”

“And the second reason?” asked Michel.

“The second reason is that we must not let the outer cold, which is excessive, penetrate the projectile or we shall be frozen to death.”

“But the sun?”

“The sun warms our projectile, which absorbs its rays; but it does not warm the vacuum in which we are floating at this moment. Where there is no air, there is no more heat than diffused light; and the same with darkness; it is cold where the sun’s rays do not strike direct. This temperature is only the temperature produced by the radiation of the stars; that is to say, what the terrestrial globe would undergo if the sun disappeared one day.”

“Which is not to be feared,” replied Nicholl.

“Who knows?” said Michel Ardan. “But, in admitting that the sun does not go out, might it not happen that the earth might move away from it?”

“There!” said Barbicane, “there is Michel with his ideas.”

“And,” continued Michel, “do we not know that in 1861 the earth passed through the tail of a comet? Or let us suppose a comet whose power of attraction is greater than that of the sun. The terrestrial orbit will bend toward the wandering star, and the earth, becoming its satellite, will be drawn such a distance that the rays of the sun will have no action on its surface.”

“That might happen, indeed,” replied Barbicane, “but the consequences of such a displacement need not be so formidable as you suppose.”

“And why not?”

“Because the heat and cold would be equalized on our globe. It has been calculated that, had our earth been carried along in its course by the comet of 1861, at its perihelion, that is, its nearest approach to the sun, it would have undergone a heat 28,000 times greater than that of summer. But this heat, which is sufficient to evaporate the waters, would have formed a thick ring of cloud, which would have modified that excessive temperature; hence the compensation between the cold of the aphelion and the heat of the perihelion.”

“At how many degrees,” asked Nicholl, “is the temperature of the planetary spaces estimated?”

“Formerly,” replied Barbicane, “it was greatly exagerated; but now, after the calculations of Fourier, of the French Academy of Science, it is not supposed to exceed 60@ Centigrade below zero.”

“Pooh!” said Michel, “that’s nothing!”

“It is very much,” replied Barbicane; “the temperature which was observed in the polar regions, at Melville Island and Fort Reliance, that is 76@ Fahrenheit below zero.”

“If I mistake not,” said Nicholl, “M. Pouillet, another savant, estimates the temperature of space at 250@ Fahrenheit below zero. We shall, however, be able to verify these calculations for ourselves.”

“Not at present; because the solar rays, beating directly upon our thermometer, would give, on the contrary, a very high temperature. But, when we arrive in the moon, during its fifteen days of night at either face, we shall have leisure to make the experiment, for our satellite lies in a vacuum.”

“What do you mean by a vacuum?” asked Michel. “Is it perfectly such?”

“It is absolutely void of air.”

“And is the air replaced by nothing whatever?”

“By the ether only,” replied Barbicane.

“And pray what is the ether?”

“The ether, my friend, is an agglomeration of imponderable atoms, which, relatively to their dimensions, are as far removed from each other as the celestial bodies are in space. It is these atoms which, by their vibratory motion, produce both light and heat in the universe.”

They now proceeded to the burial of Satellite. They had merely to drop him into space, in the same way that sailors drop a body into the sea; but, as President Barbicane suggested, they must act quickly, so as to lose as little as possible of that air whose elasticity would rapidly have spread it into space. The bolts of the right scuttle, the opening of which measured about twelve inches across, were carefully drawn, while Michel, quite grieved, prepared to launch his dog into space. The glass, raised by a powerful lever, which enabled it to overcome the pressure of the inside air on the walls of the projectile, turned rapidly on its hinges, and Satellite was thrown out. Scarcely a particle of air could have escaped, and the operation was so successful that later on Barbicane did not fear to dispose of the rubbish which encumbered the car.

CHAPTER VI

QUESTION AND ANSWER

On the 4th of December, when the travelers awoke after fifty-four hours’ journey, the chronometer marked five o’clock of the terrestrial morning. In time it was just over five hours and forty minutes, half of that assigned to their sojourn in the projectile; but they had already accomplished nearly seven-tenths of the way. This peculiarity was due to their regularly decreasing speed.

Now when they observed the earth through the lower window, it looked like nothing more than a dark spot, drowned in the solar rays. No more crescent, no more cloudy light! The next day, at midnight, the earth would be new, at the very moment when the moon would be full. Above, the orb of night was nearing the line followed by the projectile, so as to meet it at the given hour. All around the black vault was studded with brilliant points, which seemed to move slowly; but, at the great distance they were from them, their relative size did not seem to change. The sun and stars appeared exactly as they do to us upon earth. As to the moon, she was considerably larger; but the travelers’ glasses, not very powerful, did not allow them as yet to make any useful observations upon her surface, or reconnoiter her topographically or geologically.

Thus the time passed in never-ending conversations all about the moon. Each one brought forward his own contingent of particular facts; Barbicane and Nicholl always serious, Michel Ardan always enthusiastic. The projectile, its situation, its direction, incidents which might happen, the precautions necessitated by their fall on to the moon, were inexhaustible matters of conjecture.

As they were breakfasting, a question of Michel’s, relating to the projectile, provoked rather a curious answer from Barbicane, which is worth repeating. Michel, supposing it to be roughly stopped, while still under its formidable initial speed, wished to know what the consequences of the stoppage would have been.

“But,” said Barbicane, “I do not see how it could have been stopped.”

“But let us suppose so,” said Michel.

“It is an impossible supposition,” said the practical Barbicane; “unless that impulsive force had failed; but even then its speed would diminish by degrees, and it would not have stopped suddenly.”

“Admit that it had struck a body in space.”

“What body?”

“Why that enormous meteor which we met.”

“Then,” said Nicholl, “the projectile would have been broken into a thousand pieces, and we with it.”

“More than that,” replied Barbicane; “we should have been burned to death.”

“Burned?” exclaimed Michel, “by Jove! I am sorry it did not happen, `just to see.’”

“And you would have seen,” replied Barbicane. “It is known now that heat is only a modification of motion. When water is warmed — that is to say, when heat is added to it — its particles are set in motion.”

“Well,” said michel, “that is an ingenious theory!”

“And a true one, my worthy friend; for it explains every phenomenon of caloric. Heat is but the motion of atoms, a simple oscillation of the particles of a body. When they apply the brake to a train, the train comes to a stop; but what becomes of the motion which it had previously possessed? It is transformed into heat, and the brake becomes hot. Why do they grease the axles of the wheels? To prevent their heating, because this heat would be generated by the motion which is thus lost by transformation.”

“Yes, I understand,” replied Michel, “perfectly. For example, when I have run a long time, when I am swimming, when I am perspiring in large drops, why am I obliged to stop? Simply because my motion is changed into heat.”

Barbicane could not help smiling at Michel’s reply; then, returning to his theory, said: “Thus, in case of a shock, it would have been with our projectile as with a ball which falls in a burning state after having struck the metal plate; it is its motion which is turned into heat. Consequently I affirm that, if our projectile had struck the meteor, its speed thus suddenly checked would have raised a heat great enough to turn it into vapor instantaneously.”

“Then,” asked Nicholl, “what would happen if the earth’s motion were to stop suddenly?”

“Her temperature would be raised to such a pitch,” said Barbicane, “that she would be at once reduced to vapor.”

“Well,” said Michel, “that is a way of ending the earth which will greatly simplify things.”

“And if the earth fell upon the sun?” asked Nicholl.

“According to calculation,” replied Barbicane, “the fall would develop a heat equal to that produced by 16,000 globes of coal, each equal in bulk to our terrestrial globe.”

“Good additional heat for the sun,” replied Michel Ardan, “of which the inhabitants of Uranus or Neptune would doubtless not complain; they must be perished with cold on their planets.”

“Thus, my friends,” said Barbicane, “all motion suddenly stopped produces heat. And this theory allows us to infer that the heat of the solar disc is fed by a hail of meteors falling incessantly on its surface. They have even calculated — — “

“Oh, dear!” murmured Michel, “the figures are coming.”

“They have even calculated,” continued the imperturbable Barbicane, “that the shock of each meteor on the sun ought to produce a heat equal to that of 4,000 masses of coal of an equal bulk.”

“And what is the solar heat?” asked Michel.

“It is equal to that produced by the combustion of a stratum of coal surrounding the sun to a depth of forty-seven miles.”

“And that heat — — “

“Would be able to boil two billions nine hundred millions of cubic myriameters of water.”

The myriameter is equal to rather more than 10,936 cubic yards English.

“And it does not roast us!” exclaimed Michel.

“No,” replied Barbicane, “because the terrestrial atmosphere absorbs four-tenths of the solar heat; besides, the quantity of heat intercepted by the earth is but a billionth part of the entire radiation.”

“I see that all is for the best,” said Michel, “and that this atmosphere is a useful invention; for it not only allows us to breathe, but it prevents us from roasting.”

“Yes!” said Nicholl, “unfortunately, it will not be the same in the moon.”

“Bah!” said Michel, always hopeful. “If there are inhabitants, they must breathe. If there are no longer any, they must have left enough oxygen for three people, if only at the bottom of ravines, where its own weight will cause it to accumulate, and we will not climb the mountains; that is all.” And Michel, rising, went to look at the lunar disc, which shone with intolerable brilliancy.

“By Jove!” said he, “it must be hot up there!”

“Without considering,” replied Nicholl, “that the day lasts 360 hours!”

“And to compensate that,” said Barbicane, “the nights have the same length; and as heat is restored by radiation, their temperature can only be that of the planetary space.”

“A pretty country, that!” exclaimed Michel. “Never mind! I wish I was there! Ah! my dear comrades, it will be rather curious to have the earth for our moon, to see it rise on the horizon, to recognize the shape of its continents, and to say to oneself, `There is America, there is Europe;’ then to follow it when it is about to lose itself in the sun’s rays! By the bye, Barbicane, have the Selenites eclipses?”

“Yes, eclipses of the sun,” replied Barbicane, “when the centers of the three orbs are on a line, the earth being in the middle. But they are only partial, during which the earth, cast like a screen upon the solar disc, allows the greater portion to be seen.”

“And why,” asked Nicholl, “is there no total eclipse? Does not the cone of the shadow cast by the earth extend beyond the moon?”

“Yes, if we do not take into consideration the refraction produced by the terrestrial atmosphere. No, if we take that refraction into consideration. Thus let <lower case delta> be the horizontal parallel, and p the apparent semidiameter — — “

“Oh!” said Michel. “Do speak plainly, you man of algebra!”

“Very well, replied Barbicane; “in popular language the mean distance from the moon to the earth being sixty terrestrial radii, the length of the cone of the shadow, on account of refraction, is reduced to less than forty-two radii. The result is that when there are eclipses, the moon finds itself beyond the cone of pure shadow, and that the sun sends her its rays, not only from its edges, but also from its center.”

“Then,” said Michel, in a merry tone, “why are there eclipses, when there ought not to be any?”

“Simply because the solar rays are weakened by this refraction, and the atmosphere through which they pass extinguished the greater part of them!”

“That reason satisfies me,” replied Michel. “Besides we shall see when we get there. Now, tell me, Barbicane, do you believe that the moon is an old comet?”

“There’s an idea!”

“Yes,” replied Michel, with an amiable swagger, “I have a few ideas of that sort.”

“But that idea does not spring from Michel,” answered Nicholl.

“Well, then, I am a plagiarist.”

“No doubt about it. According to the ancients, the Arcadians pretend that their ancestors inhabited the earth before the moon became her satellite. Starting from this fact, some scientific men have seen in the moon a comet whose orbit will one day bring it so near to the earth that it will be held there by its attraction.”

“Is there any truth in this hypothesis?” asked Michel.

“None whatever,” said Barbicane, “and the proof is, that the moon has preserved no trace of the gaseous envelope which always accompanies comets.”

“But,” continued Nicholl, “Before becoming the earth’s satellite, could not the moon, when in her perihelion, pass so near the sun as by evaporation to get rid of all those gaseous substances?”

“It is possible, friend Nicholl, but not probable.”

“Why not?”

“Because — Faith I do not know.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Michel, “what hundred of volumes we might make of all that we do not know!”

“Ah! indeed. What time is it?” asked Barbicane.

“Three o’clock,” answered Nicholl.

“How time goes,” said Michel, “in the conversation of scientific men such as we are! Certainly, I feel I know too much! I feel that I am becoming a well!”

Saying which, Michel hoisted himself to the roof of the projectile, “to observe the moon better,” he pretended. During this time his companions were watching through the lower glass. Nothing new to note!

When Michel Ardan came down, he went to the side scuttle; and suddenly they heard an exclamation of surprise!

“What is it?” asked Barbicane.

The president approached the window, and saw a sort of flattened sack floating some yards from the projectile. This object seemed as motionless as the projectile, and was consequently animated with the same ascending movement.

“What is that machine?” continued Michel Ardan. “Is it one of the bodies which our projectile keeps within its attraction, and which will accompany it to the moon?”

“What astonishes me,” said Nicholl, “is that the specific weight of the body, which is certainly less than that of the projectile, allows it to keep so perfectly on a level with it.”

“Nicholl,” replied Barbicane, after a moment’s reflection, “I do not know what the object it, but I do know why it maintains our level.”

“And why?”

“Because we are floating in space, my dear captain, and in space bodies fall or move (which is the same thing) with equal speed whatever be their weight or form; it is the air, which by its resistance creates these differences in weight. When you create a vacuum in a tube, the objects you send through it, grains of dust or grains of lead, fall with the same rapidity. Here in space is the same cause and the same effect.”

“Just so,” said Nicholl, “and everything we throw out of the projectile will accompany it until it reaches the moon.”

“Ah! fools that we are!” exclaimed Michel.

“Why that expletive?” asked Barbicane.

“Because we might have filled the projectile with useful objects, books, instruments, tools, etc. We could have thrown them all out, and all would have followed in our train. But happy thought! Why cannot we walk outside like the meteor? Why cannot we launch into space through the scuttle? What enjoyment it would be to feel oneself thus suspended in ether, more favored than the birds who must use their wings to keep themselves up!”

“Granted,” said Barbicane, “but how to breathe?”

“Hang the air, to fail so inopportunely!”

“But if it did not fail, Michel, your density being less than that of the projectile, you would soon be left behind.”

“Then we must remain in our car?”

“We must!”

“Ah!” exclaimed Michel, in a load voice.

“What is the matter,” asked Nicholl.

“I know, I guess, what this pretended meteor is! It is no asteroid which is accompanying us! It is not a piece of a planet.”

“What is it then?” asked Barbicane.

“It is our unfortunate dog! It is Diana’s husband!”

Indeed, this deformed, unrecognizable object, reduced to nothing, was the body of Satellite, flattened like a bagpipe without wind, and ever mounting, mounting!

CHAPTER VII

A MOMENT OF INTOXICATION

Thus a phenomenon, curious but explicable, was happening under these strange conditions.

Every object thrown from the projectile would follow the same course and never stop until it did. There was a subject for conversation which the whole evening could not exhaust.

Besides, the excitement of the three travelers increased as they drew near the end of their journey. They expected unforseen incidents, and new phenomena; and nothing would have astonished them in the frame of mind they then were in. Their overexcited imagination went faster than the projectile, whose speed was evidently diminishing, though insensibly to themselves. But the moon grew larger to their eyes, and they fancied if they stretched out their hands they could seize it.

The next day, the 5th of November, at five in the morning, all three were on foot. That day was to be the last of their journey, if all calculations were true. That very night, at twelve o’clock, in eighteen hours, exactly at the full moon, they would reach its brilliant disc. The next midnight would see that journey ended, the most extraordinary of ancient or modern times. Thus from the first of the morning, through the scuttles silvered by its rays, they saluted the orb of night with a confident and joyous hurrah.

The moon was advancing majestically along the starry firmament. A few more degrees, and she would reach the exact point where her meeting with the projectile was to take place.

According to his own observations, Barbicane reckoned that they would land on her northern hemisphere, where stretch immense plains, and where mountains are rare. A favorable circumstance if, as they thought, the lunar atmosphere was stored only in its depths.

“Besides,” observed Michel Ardan, “a plain is easier to disembark upon than a mountain. A Selenite, deposited in Europe on the summit of Mont Blanc, or in Asia on the top of the Himalayas, would not be quite in the right place.”

“And,” added Captain Nicholl, “on a flat ground, the projectile will remain motionless when it has once touched; whereas on a declivity it would roll like an avalanche, and not being squirrels we should not come out safe and sound. So it is all for the best.”

Indeed, the success of the audacious attempt no longer appeared doubtful. But Barbicane was preoccupied with one thought; but not wishing to make his companions uneasy, he kept silence on this subject.

The direction the projectile was taking toward the moon’s northern hemisphere, showed that her course had been slightly altered. The discharge, mathematically calculated, would carry the projectile to the very center of the lunar disc. If it did not land there, there must have been some deviation. What had caused it? Barbicane could neither imagine nor determine the importance of the deviation, for there were no points to go by.

He hoped, however, that it would have no other result than that of bringing them nearer the upper border of the moon, a region more suitable for landing.

Without imparting his uneasiness to his companions, Barbicane contented himself with constantly observing the moon, in order to see whether the course of the projectile would not be altered; for the situation would have been terrible if it failed in its aim, and being carried beyond the disc should be launched into interplanetary space. At that moment, the moon, instead of appearing flat like a disc, showed its convexity. If the sun’s rays had struck it obliquely, the shadow thrown would have brought out the high mountains, which would have been clearly detached. The eye might have gazed into the crater’s gaping abysses, and followed the capricious fissures which wound through the immense plains. But all relief was as yet leveled in intense brilliancy. They could scarcely distinguish those large spots which give the moon the appearance of a human face.

“Face, indeed!” said Michel Ardan; “but I am sorry for the amiable sister of Apollo. A very pitted face!”

But the travelers, now so near the end, were incessantly observing this new world. They imagined themselves walking through its unknown countries, climbing its highest peaks, descending into its lowest depths. Here and there they fancied they saw vast seas, scarcely kept together under so rarefied an atmosphere, and water-courses emptying the mountain tributaries. Leaning over the abyss, they hoped to catch some sounds from that orb forever mute in the solitude of space. That last day left them.

They took down the most trifling details. A vague uneasiness took possession of them as they neared the end. This uneasiness would have been doubled had they felt how their speed had decreased. It would have seemed to them quite insufficient to carry them to the end. It was because the projectile then “weighed” almost nothing. Its weight was ever decreasing, and would be entirely annihilated on that line where the lunar and terrestrial attractions would neutralize each other.

But in spite of his preoccupation, Michel Ardan did not forget to prepare the morning repast with his accustomed punctuality. They ate with a good appetite. Nothing was so excellent as the soup liquefied by the heat of the gas; nothing better than the preserved meat. Some glasses of good French wine crowned the repast, causing Michel Ardan to remark that the lunar vines, warmed by that ardent sun, ought to distill even more generous wines; that is, if they existed. In any case, the far-seeing Frenchman had taken care not to forget in his collection some precious cuttings of the Medoc and Cote d’Or, upon which he founded his hopes.

Reiset and Regnaut’s apparatus worked with great regularity. Not an atom of carbonic acid resisted the potash; and as to the oxygen, Captain Nicholl said “it was of the first quality.” The little watery vapor enclosed in the projectile mixing with the air tempered the dryness; and many apartments in London, Paris, or New York, and many theaters, were certainly not in such a healthy condition.

But that it might act with regularity, the apparatus must be kept in perfect order; so each morning Michel visited the escape regulators, tried the taps, and regulated the heat of the gas by the pyrometer. Everything had gone well up to that time, and the travelers, imitating the worthy Joseph T. Maston, began to acquire a degree of embonpoint which would have rendered them unrecognizable if their imprisonment had been prolonged to some months. In a word, they behaved like chickens in a coop; they were getting fat.

In looking through the scuttle Barbicane saw the specter of the dog, and other divers objects which had been thrown from the projectile, obstinately following them. Diana howled lugubriously on seeing the remains of Satellite, which seemed as motionless as if they reposed on solid earth.

“Do you know, my friends,” said Michel Ardan, “that if one of us had succumbed to the shock consequent on departure, we should have had a great deal of trouble to bury him? What am I saying? to etherize him, as here ether takes the place of earth. You see the accusing body would have followed us into space like a remorse.”

“That would have been sad,” said Nicholl.

“Ah!” continued Michel, “what I regret is not being able to take a walk outside. What voluptuousness to float amid this radiant ether, to bathe oneself in it, to wrap oneself in the sun’s pure rays. If Barbicane had only thought of furnishing us with a diving apparatus and an air-pump, I could have ventured out and assumed fanciful attitudes of feigned monsters on the top of the projectile.”

“Well, old Michel,” replied Barbicane, “you would not have made a feigned monster long, for in spite of your diver’s dress, swollen by the expansion of air within you, you would have burst like a shell, or rather like a balloon which has risen too high. So do not regret it, and do not forget this — as long as we float in space, all sentimental walks beyond the projectile are forbidden.”

Michel Ardan allowed himself to be convinced to a certain extent. He admitted that the thing was difficult but not impossible, a word which he never uttered.

The conversation passed from this subject to another, not failing him for an instant. It seemed to the three friends as though, under present conditions, ideas shot up in their brains as leaves shoot at the first warmth of spring. They felt bewildered. In the middle of the questions and answers which crossed each other, Nicholl put one question which did not find an immediate solution.

“Ah, indeed!” said he; “it is all very well to go to the moon, but how to get back again?”

His two interlocutors looked surprised. One would have thought that this possibility now occurred to them for the first time.

“What do you mean by that, Nicholl?” asked Barbicane gravely.

“To ask for means to leave a country,” added Michel, “When we have not yet arrived there, seems to me rather inopportune.”

“I do not say that, wishing to draw back,” replied Nicholl; “but I repeat my question, and I ask, `How shall we return?’”

“I know nothing about it,” answered Barbicane.

“And I,” said Michel, “if I had known how to return, I would never have started.”

“There’s an answer!” cried Nicholl.

“I quite approve of Michel’s words,” said Barbicane; “and add, that the question has no real interest. Later, when we think it is advisable to return, we will take counsel together. If the Columbiad is not there, the projectile will be.”

“That is a step certainly. A ball without a gun!”

“The gun,” replied Barbicane, “can be manufactured. The powder can be made. Neither metals, saltpeter, nor coal can fail in the depths of the moon, and we need only go 8,000 leagues in order to fall upon the terrestrial globe by virtue of the mere laws of weight.”

“Enough,” said Michel with animation. “Let it be no longer a question of returning: we have already entertained it too long. As to communicating with our former earthly colleagues, that will not be difficult.”

“And how?”

“By means of meteors launched by lunar volcanoes.”

“Well thought of, Michel,” said Barbicane in a convinced tone of voice. “Laplace has calculated that a force five times greater than that of our gun would suffice to send a meteor from the moon to the earth, and there is not one volcano which has not a greater power of propulsion than that.”

“Hurrah!” exclaimed Michel; “these meteors are handy postmen, and cost nothing. And how we shall be able to laugh at the post-office administration! But now I think of it — — “

“What do you think of?”

“A capital idea. Why did we not fasten a thread to our projectile, and we could have exchanged telegrams with the earth?”

“The deuce!” answered Nicholl. “Do you consider the weight of a thread 250,000 miles long nothing?”

“As nothing. They could have trebled the Columbiad’s charge; they could have quadrupled or quintupled it!” exclaimed Michel, with whom the verb took a higher intonation each time.

“There is but one little objection to make to your proposition,” replied Barbicane, “which is that, during the rotary motion of the globe, our thread would have wound itself round it like a chain on a capstan, and that it would inevitably have brought us to the ground.”

“By the thirty-nine stars of the Union!” said Michel, “I have nothing but impracticable ideas to-day; ideas worthy of J. T. Maston. But I have a notion that, if we do not return to earth, J. T. Maston will be able to come to us.”

“Yes, he’ll come,” replied Barbicane; “he is a worthy and a courageous comrade. Besides, what is easier? Is not the Columbiad still buried in the soil of Florida? Is cotton and nitric acid wanted wherewith to manufacture the pyroxyle? Will not the moon pass the zenith of Florida? In eighteen years’ time will she not occupy exactly the same place as to-day?”

“Yes,” continued Michel, “yes, Maston will come, and with him our friends Elphinstone, Blomsberry, all the members of the Gun Club, and they will be well received. And by and by they will run trains of projectiles between the earth and the moon! Hurrah for J. T. Maston!”

It is probable that, if the Hon. J. T. Maston did not hear the hurrahs uttered in his honor, his ears at least tingled. What was he doing then? Doubtless, posted in the Rocky Mountains, at the station of Long’s Peak, he was trying to find the invisible projectile gravitating in space. If he was thinking of his dear companions, we must allow that they were not far behind him; and that, under the influence of a strange excitement, they were devoting to him their best thoughts.

But whence this excitement, which was evidently growing upon the tenants of the projectile? Their sobriety could not be doubted. This strange irritation of the brain, must it be attributed to the peculiar circumstances under which they found themselves, to their proximity to the orb of night, from which only a few hours separated them, to some secret influence of the moon acting upon their nervous system? Their faces were as rosy as if they had been exposed to the roaring flames of an oven; their voices resounded in loud accents; their words escaped like a champagne cork driven out by carbonic acid; their gestures became annoying, they wanted so much room to perform them; and, strange to say, they none of them noticed this great tension of the mind.

“Now,” said Nicholl, in a short tone, “now that I do not know whether we shall ever return from the moon, I want to know what we are going to do there?”

“What we are going to do there?” replied Barbicane, stamping with his foot as if he was in a fencing saloon; “I do not know.”

“You do not know!” exclaimed Michel, with a bellow which provoked a sonorous echo in the projectile.

“No, I have not even thought about it,” retorted Barbicane, in the same loud tone.

“Well, I know,” replied Michel.

“Speak, then,” cried Nicholl, who could no longer contain the growling of his voice.

“I shall speak if it suits me,” exclaimed Michel, seizing his companions’ arms with violence.

“It must suit you,” said Barbicane, with an eye on fire and a threatening hand. “It was you who drew us into this frightful journey, and we want to know what for.”

“Yes,” said the captain, “now that I do not know where I am going, I want to know why I am going.”

“Why?” exclaimed Michel, jumping a yard high, “why? To take possession of the moon in the name of the United States; to add a fortieth State to the Union; to colonize the lunar regions; to cultivate them, to people them, to transport thither all the prodigies of art, of science, and industry; to civilize the Selenites, unless they are more civilized than we are; and to constitute them a republic, if they are not already one!”

“And if there are no Selenites?” retorted Nicholl, who, under the influence of this unaccountable intoxication, was very contradictory.

“Who said that there were no Selenites?” exclaimed Michel in a threatening tone.

“I do,” howled Nicholl.

“Captain,” said Michel, “do not repreat that insolence, or I will knock your teeth down your throat!”

The two adversaries were going to fall upon each other, and the incoherent discussion threatened to merge into a fight, when Barbicane intervened with one bound.

“Stop, miserable men,” said he, separating his two companions; “if there are no Selenites, we will do without them.”

“Yes,” exclaimed Michel, who was not particular; “yes, we will do without them. We have only to make Selenites. Down with the Selenites!”

“The empire of the moon belongs to us,” said Nicholl.

“Let us three constitute the republic.”

“I will be the congress,” cried Michel.

“And I the senate,” retorted Nicholl.

“And Barbicane, the president,” howled Michel.

“Not a president elected by the nation,” replied Barbicane.

“Very well, a president elected by the congress,” cried Michel; “and as I am the congress, you are unanimously elected!”

“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! for President Barbicane,” exclaimed Nicholl.

“Hip! hip! hip!” vociferated Michel Ardan.

Then the president and the senate struck up in a tremendous voice the popular song “Yankee Doodle,” while from the congress resounded the masculine tones of the “Marseillaise.”

Then they struck up a frantic dance, with maniacal gestures, idiotic stampings, and somersaults like those of the boneless clowns in the circus. Diana, joining in the dance, and howling in her turn, jumped to the top of the projectile. An unaccountable flapping of wings was then heard amid most fantastic cock-crows, while five or six hens fluttered like bats against the walls.

Then the three traveling companions, acted upon by some unaccountable influence above that of intoxication, inflamed by the air which had set their respiratory apparatus on fire, fell motionless to the bottom of the projectile.

CHAPTER VIII

AT SEVENTY-EIGHT THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN LEAGUES

What had happened? Whence the cause of this singular intoxication, the consequences of which might have been very disastrous? A simple blunder of Michel’s, which, fortunately, Nicholl was able to correct in time.

After a perfect swoon, which lasted some minutes, the captain, recovering first, soon collected his scattered senses. Although he had breakfasted only two hours before, he felt a gnawing hunger, as if he had not eaten anything for several days. Everything about him, stomach and brain, were overexcited to the highest degree. He got up and demanded from Michel a supplementary repast. Michel, utterly done up, did not answer.

Nicholl then tried to prepare some tea destined to help the absorption of a dozen sandwiches. He first tried to get some fire, and struck a match sharply. What was his surprise to see the sulphur shine with so extraordinary a brilliancy as to be almost unbearable to the eye. From the gas-burner which he lit rose a flame equal to a jet of electric light.

A revelation dawned on Nicholl’s mind. That intensity of light, the physiological troubles which had arisen in him, the overexcitement of all his moral and quarrelsome faculties — he understood all.

“The oxygen!” he exclaimed.

And leaning over the air apparatus, he saw that the tap was allowing the colorless gas to escape freely, life-giving, but in its pure state producing the gravest disorders in the system. Michel had blunderingly opened the tap of the apparatus to the full.

Nicholl hastened to stop the escape of oxygen with which the atmosphere was saturated, which would have been the death of the travelers, not by suffocation, but by combustion. An hour later, the air less charged with it restored the lungs to their normal condition. By degrees the three friends recovered from their intoxication; but they were obliged to sleep themselves sober over their oxygen as a drunkard does over his wine.

When Michel learned his share of the responsibility of this incident, he was not much disconcerted. This unexpected drunkenness broke the monotony of the journey. Many foolish things had been said while under its influence, but also quickly forgotten.

“And then,” added the merry Frenchman, “I am not sorry to have tasted a little of this heady gas. Do you know, my friends, that a curious establishment might be founded with rooms of oxygen, where people whose system is weakened could for a few hours live a more active life. Fancy parties where the room was saturated with this heroic fluid, theaters where it should be kept at high pressure; what passion in the souls of the actors and spectators! what fire, what enthusiasm! And if, instead of an assembly only a whole people could be saturated, what activity in its functions, what a supplement to life it would derive. From an exhausted nation they might make a great and strong one, and I know more than one state in old Europe which ought to put itself under the regime of oxygen for the sake of its health!”

Michel spoke with so much animation that one might have fancied that the tap was still too open. But a few words from Barbicane soon shattered his enthusiasm.

“That is all very well, friend Michel,” said he, “but will you inform us where these chickens came from which have mixed themselves up in our concert?”

“Those chickens?”

“Yes.”

Indeed, half a dozen chickens and a fine cock were walking about, flapping their wings and chattering.

“Ah, the awkward things!” exclaimed Michel. “The oxygen has made them revolt.”

“But what do you want to do with these chickens?” asked Barbicane.

“To acclimatize them in the moon, by Jove!”

“Then why did you hide them?”

“A joke, my worthy president, a simple joke, which has proved a miserable failure. I wanted to set them free on the lunar continent, without saying anything. Oh, what would have been your amazement on seeing these earthly-winged animals pecking in your lunar fields!”

“You rascal, you unmitigated rascal,” replied Barbicane, “you do not want oxygen to mount to the head. You are always what we were under the influence of the gas; you are always foolish!”

“Ah, who says that we were not wise then?” replied Michel Ardan.

After this philosophical reflection, the three friends set about restoring the order of the projectile. Chickens and cock were reinstated in their coop. But while proceeding with this operation, Barbicane and his two companions had a most desired perception of a new phenomenon. From the moment of leaving the earth, their own weight, that of the projectile, and the objects it enclosed, had been subject to an increasing diminution. If they could not prove this loss of the projectile, a moment would arrive when it would be sensibly felt upon themselves and the utensils and instruments they used.

It is needless to say that a scale would not show this loss; for the weight destined to weight the object would have lost exactly as much as the object itself; but a spring steelyard for example, the tension of which was independent of the attraction, would have given a just estimate of this loss.

We know that the attraction, otherwise called the weight, is in proportion to the densities of the bodies, and inversely as the squares of the distances. Hence this effect: If the earth had been alone in space, if the other celestial bodies had been suddenly annihilated, the projectile, according to Newton’s laws, would weigh less as it got farther from the earth, but without ever losing its weight entirely, for the terrestrial attraction would always have made itself felt, at whatever distance.

But, in reality, a time must come when the projectile would no longer be subject to the law of weight, after allowing for the other celestial bodies whose effect could not be set down as zero. Indeed, the projectile’s course was being traced between the earth and the moon. As it distanced the earth, the terrestrial attraction diminished: but the lunar attraction rose in proportion. There must come a point where these two attractions would neutralize each other: the projectile would possess weight no longer. If the moon’s and the earth’s densities had been equal, this point would have been at an equal distance between the two orbs. But taking the different densities into consideration, it was easy to reckon that this point would be situated at 47/60ths of the whole journey, i.e. at 78,514 leagues from the earth. At this point, a body having no principle of speed or displacement in itself, would remain immovable forever, being attracted equally by both orbs, and not being drawn more toward one than toward the other.

Now if the projectile’s impulsive force had been correctly calculated, it would attain this point without speed, having lost all trace of weight, as well as all the objects within it. What would happen then? Three hypotheses presented themselves.

1. Either it would retain a certain amount of motion, and pass the point of equal attraction, and fall upon the moon by virtue of the excess of the lunar attraction over the terrestrial.

2. Or, its speed failing, and unable to reach the point of equal attraction, it would fall upon the moon by virtue of the excess of the lunar attraction over the terrestrial.

3. Or, lastly, animated with sufficient speed to enable it to reach the neutral point, but not sufficient to pass it, it would remain forever suspended in that spot like the pretended tomb of Mahomet, between the zenith and the nadir.

Such was their situation; and Barbicane clearly explained the consequences to his traveling companions, which greatly interested them. But how should they know when the projectile had reached this neutral point situated at that distance, especially when neither themselves, nor the objects enclosed in the projectile, would be any longer subject to the laws of weight?

Up to this time, the travelers, while admitting that this action was constantly decreasing, had not yet become sensible to its total absence.

But that day, about eleven o’clock in the morning, Nicholl having accidentally let a glass slip from his hand, the glass, instead of falling, remained suspended in the air.

“Ah!” exclaimed Michel Ardan, “that is rather an amusing piece of natural philosophy.”

And immediately divers other objects, firearms and bottles, abandoned to themselves, held themselves up as by enchantment. Diana too, placed in space by Michel, reproduced, but without any trick, the wonderful suspension practiced by Caston and Robert Houdin. Indeed the dog did not seem to know that she was floating in air.

The three adventurous companions were surprised and stupefied, despite their scientific reasonings. They felt themselves being carried into the domain of wonders! they felt that weight was really wanting to their bodies. If they stretched out their arms, they did not attempt to fall. Their heads shook on their shoulders. Their feet no longer clung to the floor of the projectile. They were like drunken men having no stability in themselves.

Fancy has depicted men without reflection, others without shadow. But here reality, by the neutralizations of attractive forces, produced men in whom nothing had any weight, and who weighed nothing themselves.

Suddenly Michel, taking a spring, left the floor and remained suspended in the air, like Murillo’s monk of the Cusine des Anges.

The two friends joined him instantly, and all three formed a miraculous “Ascension” in the center of the projectile.

“Is it to be believed? is it probable? is it possible?” exclaimed Michel; “and yet it is so. Ah! if Raphael had seen us thus, what an `Assumption’ he would have thrown upon canvas!”

“The `Assumption’ cannot last,” replied Barbicane. “If the projectile passes the neutral point, the lunar attraction will draw us to the moon.”

“Then our feet will be upon the roof,” replied Michel.

“No,” said Barbicane, “because the projectile’s center of gravity is very low; it will only turn by degrees.”

“Then all our portables will be upset from top to bottom, that is a fact.”

“Calm yourself, Michel,” replied Nicholl; “no upset is to be feared; not a thing will move, for the projectile’s evolution will be imperceptible.”

“Just so,” continued Barbicane; “and when it has passed the point of equal attraction, its base, being the heavier, will draw it perpendicularly to the moon; but, in order that this phenomenon should take place, we must have passed the neutral line.”

“Pass the neutral line,” cried Michel; “then let us do as the sailors do when they cross the equator.”

A slight side movement brought Michel back toward the padded side; thence he took a bottle and glasses, placed them “in space” before his companions, and, drinking merrily, they saluted the line with a triple hurrah. The influence of these attractions scarcely lasted an hour; the travelers felt themselves insensibly drawn toward the floor, and Barbicane fancied that the conical end of the projectile was varying a little from its normal direction toward the moon. By an inverse motion the base was approaching first; the lunar attraction was prevailing over the terrestrial; the fall toward the moon was beginning, almost imperceptibly as yet, but by degrees the attractive force would become stronger, the fall would be more decided, the projectile, drawn by its base, would turn its cone to the earth, and fall with ever-increasing speed on to the surface of the Selenite continent; their destination would then be attained. Now nothing could prevent the success of their enterprise, and Nicholl and Michel Ardan shared Barbicane’s joy.

Then they chatted of all the phenomena which had astonished them one after the other, particularly the neutralization of the laws of weight. Michel Ardan, always enthusiastic, drew conclusions which were purely fanciful.

“Ah, my worthy friends,” he exclaimed, “what progress we should make if on earth we could throw off some of that weight, some of that chain which binds us to her; it would be the prisoner set at liberty; no more fatigue of either arms or legs. Or, if it is true that in order to fly on the earth’s surface, to keep oneself suspended in the air merely by the play of the muscles, there requires a strength a hundred and fifty times greater than that which we possess, a simple act of volition, a caprice, would bear us into space, if attraction did not exist.”

“Just so,” said Nicholl, smiling; “if we could succeed in suppressing weight as they suppress pain by anaesthesia, that would change the face of modern society!”

“Yes,” cried Michel, full of his subject, “destroy weight, and no more burdens!”

“Well said,” replied Barbicane; “but if nothing had any weight, nothing would keep in its place, not even your hat on your head, worthy Michel; nor your house, whose stones only adhere by weight; nor a boat, whose stability on the waves is only caused by weight; not even the ocean, whose waves would no longer be equalized by terrestrial attraction; and lastly, not even the atmosphere, whose atoms, being no longer held in their places, would disperse in space!”

“That is tiresome,” retorted Michel; “nothing like these matter-of-fact people for bringing one back to the bare reality.”

“But console yourself, Michel,” continued Barbicane, “for if no orb exists from whence all laws of weight are banished, you are at least going to visit one where it is much less than on the earth.”

“The moon?”

“Yes, the moon, on whose surface objects weigh six times less than on the earth, a phenomenon easy to prove.”

“And we shall feel it?” asked Michel.

“Evidently, as two hundred pounds will only weigh thirty pounds on the surface of the moon.”

“And our muscular strength will not diminish?”

“Not at all; instead of jumping one yard high, you will rise eighteen feet high.”

“But we shall be regular Herculeses in the moon!” exclaimed Michel.

“Yes,” replied Nicholl; “for if the height of the Selenites is in proportion to the density of their globe, they will be scarcely a foot high.”

“Lilliputians!” ejaculated Michel; “I shall play the part of Gulliver. We are going to realize the fable of the giants. This is the advantage of leaving one’s own planet and over-running the solar world.”

“One moment, Michel,” answered Barbicane; “if you wish to play the part of Gulliver, only visit the inferior planets, such as Mercury, Venus, or Mars, whose density is a little less than that of the earth; but do not venture into the great planets, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune; for there the order will be changed, and you will become Lilliputian.”

“And in the sun?”

“In the sun, if its density is thirteen hundred and twenty-four thousand times greater, and the attraction is twenty-seven times greater than on the surface of our globe, keeping everything in proportion, the inhabitants ought to be at least two hundred feet high.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Michel; “I should be nothing more than a pigmy, a shrimp!”

“Gulliver with the giants,” said Nicholl.

“Just so,” replied Barbicane.

“And it would not be quite useless to carry some pieces of artillery to defend oneself.”

“Good,” replied Nicholl; “your projectiles would have no effect on the sun; they would fall back upon the earth after some minutes.”

“That is a strong remark.”

“It is certain,” replied Barbicane; “the attraction is so great on this enormous orb, that an object weighing 70,000 pounds on the earth would weigh but 1,920 pounds on the surface of the sun. If you were to fall upon it you would weigh — let me see — about 5,000 pounds, a weight which you would never be able to raise again.”

“The devil!” said Michel; “one would want a portable crane. However, we will be satisfied with the moon for the present; there at least we shall cut a great figure. We will see about the sun by and by.”

CHAPTER IX

THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DEVIATION

Barbicane had now no fear of the issue of the journey, at least as far as the projectile’s impulsive force was concerned; its own speed would carry it beyond the neutral line; it would certainly not return to earth; it would certainly not remain motionless on the line of attraction. One single hypothesis remained to be realized, the arrival of the projectile at its destination by the action of the lunar attraction.

It was in reality a fall of 8,296 leagues on an orb, it is true, where weight could only be reckoned at one sixth of terrestrial weight; a formidable fall, nevertheless, and one against which every precaution must be taken without delay.

These precautions were of two sorts, some to deaden the shock when the projectile should touch the lunar soil, others to delay the fall, and consequently make it less violent.

To deaden the shock, it was a pity that Barbicane was no longer able to employ the means which had so ably weakened the shock at departure, that is to say, by water used as springs and the partition breaks.

The partitions still existed, but water failed, for they could not use their reserve, which was precious, in case during the first days the liquid element should be found wanting on lunar soil.

And indeed this reserve would have been quite insufficient for a spring. The layer of water stored in the projectile at the time of starting upon their journey occupied no less than three feet in depth, and spread over a surface of not less than fifty-four square feet. Besides, the cistern did not contain one-fifth part of it; they must therefore give up this efficient means of deadening the shock of arrival. Happily, Barbicane, not content with employing water, had furnished the movable disc with strong spring plugs, destined to lessen the shock against the base after the breaking of the horizontal partitions. These plugs still existed; they had only to readjust them and replace the movable disc; every piece, easy to handle, as their weight was now scarcely felt, was quickly mounted.

The different pieces were fitted without trouble, it being only a matter of bolts and screws; tools were not wanting, and soon the reinstated disc lay on steel plugs, like a table on its legs. One inconvenience resulted from the replacing of the disc, the lower window was blocked up; thus it was impossible for the travelers to observe the moon from that opening while they were being precipitated perpendicularly upon her; but they were obliged to give it up; even by the side openings they could still see vast lunar regions, as an aeronaut sees the earth from his car.

This replacing of the disc was at least an hour’s work. It was past twelve when all preparations were finished. Barbicane took fresh observations on the inclination of the projectile, but to his annoyance it had not turned over sufficiently for its fall; it seemed to take a curve parallel to the lunar disc. The orb of night shone splendidly into space, while opposite, the orb of day blazed with fire.

Their situation began to make them uneasy.

“Are we reaching our destination?” said Nicholl.

“Let us act as if we were about reaching it,” replied Barbicane.

“You are sceptical,” retorted Michel Ardan. “We shall arrive, and that, too, quicker than we like.”

This answer brought Barbicane back to his preparations, and he occupied himself with placing the contrivances intended to break their descent. We may remember the scene of the meeting held at Tampa Town, in Florida, when Captain Nicholl came forward as Barbicane’s enemy and Michel Ardan’s adversary. To Captain Nicholl’s maintaining that the projectile would smash like glass, Michel replied that he would break their fall by means of rockets properly placed.

Thus, powerful fireworks, taking their starting-point from the base and bursting outside, could, by producing a recoil, check to a certain degree the projectile’s speed. These rockets were to burn in space, it is true; but oxygen would not fail them, for they could supply themselves with it, like the lunar volcanoes, the burning of which has never yet been stopped by the want of atmosphere round the moon.

Barbicane had accordingly supplied himself with these fireworks, enclosed in little steel guns, which could be screwed on to the base of the projectile. Inside, these guns were flush with the bottom; outside, they protruded about eighteen inches. There were twenty of them. An opening left in the disc allowed them to light the match with which each was provided. All the effect was felt outside. The burning mixture had already been rammed into each gun. They had, then, nothing to do but raise the metallic buffers fixed in the base, and replace them by the guns, which fitted closely in their places.

This new work was finished about three o’clock, and after taking all these precautions there remained but to wait. But the projectile was perceptibly nearing the moon, and evidently succumbed to her influence to a certain degree; though its own velocity also drew it in an oblique direction. From these conflicting influences resulted a line which might become a tangent. But it was certain that the projectile would not fall directly on the moon; for its lower part, by reason of its weight, ought to be turned toward her.

Barbicane’s uneasiness increased as he saw his projectile resist the influence of gravitation. The Unknown was opening before him, the Unknown in interplanetary space. The man of science thought he had foreseen the only three hypotheses possible — the return to the earth, the return to the moon, or stagnation on the neutral line; and here a fourth hypothesis, big with all the terrors of the Infinite, surged up inopportunely. To face it without flinching, one must be a resolute savant like Barbicane, a phlegmatic being like Nicholl, or an audacious adventurer like Michel Ardan.

Conversation was started upon this subject. Other men would have considered the question from a practical point of view; they would have asked themselves whither their projectile carriage was carrying them. Not so with these; they sought for the cause which produced this effect.

“So we have become diverted from our route,” said Michel; “but why?”

“I very much fear,” answered Nicholl, “that, in spite of all precautions taken, the Columbiad was not fairly pointed. An error, however small, would be enough to throw us out of the moon’s attraction.”

“Then they must have aimed badly?” asked Michel.

“I do not think so,” replied Barbicane. “The perpendicularity of the gun was exact, its direction to the zenith of the spot incontestible; and the moon passing to the zenith of the spot, we ought to reach it at the full. There is another reason, but it escapes me.”

“Are we not arriving too late?” asked Nicholl.

“Too late?” said Barbicane.

“Yes,” continued Nicholl. “The Cambridge Observatory’s note says that the transit ought to be accomplished in ninety-seven hours thirteen minutes and twenty seconds; which means to say, that sooner the moon will not be at the point indicated, and later it will have passed it.”

“True,” replied Barbicane. “But we started the 1st of December, at thirteen minutes and twenty-five seconds to eleven at night; and we ought to arrive on the 5th at midnight, at the exact moment when the moon would be full; and we are now at the 5th of December. It is now half-past three in the evening; half-past eight ought to see us at the end of our journey. Why do we not arrive?”

“Might it not be an excess of speed?” answered Nicholl; “for we know now that its initial velocity was greater than they supposed.”

“No! a hundred times, no!” replied Barbicane. “An excess of speed, if the direction of the projectile had been right, would not have prevented us reaching the moon. No, there has been a deviation. We have been turned out of our course.”

“By whom? by what?” asked Nicholl.

“I cannot say,” replied Barbicane.

“Very well, then, Barbicane,” said Michel, “do you wish to know my opinion on the subject of finding out this deviation?”

“Speak.”

“I would not give half a dollar to know it. That we have deviated is a fact. Where we are going matters little; we shall soon see. Since we are being borne along in space we shall end by falling into some center of attraction or other.”

Michel Ardan’s indifference did not content Barbicane. Not that he was uneasy about the future, but he wanted to know at any cost why his projectile had deviated.

But the projectile continued its course sideways to the moon, and with it the mass of things thrown out. Barbicane could even prove, by the elevations which served as landmarks upon the moon, which was only two thousand leagues distant, that its speed was becoming uniform — fresh proof that there was no fall. Its impulsive force still prevailed over the lunar attraction, but the projectile’s course was certainly bringing it nearer to the moon, and they might hope that at a nearer point the weight, predominating, would cause a decided fall.

The three friends, having nothing better to do, continued their observations; but they could not yet determine the topographical position of the satellite; every relief was leveled under the reflection of the solar rays.

They watched thus through the side windows until eight o’clock at night. The moon had grown so large in their eyes that it filled half of the firmament. The sun on one side, and the orb of night on the other, flooded the projectile with light.

At that moment Barbicane thought he could estimate the distance which separated them from their aim at no more than 700 leagues. The speed of the projectile seemed to him to be more than 200 yards, or about 170 leagues a second. Under the centripetal force, the base of the projectile tended toward the moon; but the centrifugal still prevailed; and it was probable that its rectilineal course would be changed to a curve of some sort, the nature of which they could not at present determine.

Barbicane was still seeking the solution of his insoluble problem. Hours passed without any result. The projectile was evidently nearing the moon, but it was also evident that it would never reach her. As to the nearest distance at which it would pass her, that must be the result of two forces, attraction and repulsion, affecting its motion.

“I ask but one thing,” said Michel; “that we may pass near enough to penetrate her secrets.”

“Cursed be the thing that has caused our projectile to deviate from its course,” cried Nicholl.

And, as if a light had suddenly broken in upon his mind, Barbicane answered, “Then cursed be the meteor which crossed our path.”

“What?” said Michel Ardan.

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Nicholl.

“I mean,” said Barbicane in a decided tone, “I mean that our deviation is owing solely to our meeting with this erring body.”

“But it did not even brush us as it passed,” said Michel.

“What does that matter? Its mass, compared to that of our projectile, was enormous, and its attraction was enough to influence our course.”

“So little?” cried Nicholl.

“Yes, Nicholl; but however little it might be,” replied Barbicane, “in a distance of 84,000 leagues, it wanted no more to make us miss the moon.”

CHAPTER X

THE OBSERVERS OF THE MOON

Barbicane had evidently hit upon the only plausible reason of this deviation. However slight it might have been, it had sufficed to modify the course of the projectile. It was a fatality. The bold attempt had miscarried by a fortuitous circumstance; and unless by some exceptional event, they could now never reach the moon’s disc.

Would they pass near enough to be able to solve certain physical and geological questions until then insoluble? This was the question, and the only one, which occupied the minds of these bold travelers. As to the fate in store for themselves, they did not even dream of it.

But what would become of them amid these infinite solitudes, these who would soon want air? A few more days, and they would fall stifled in this wandering projectile. But some days to these intrepid fellows was a century; and they devoted all their time to observe that moon which they no longer hoped to reach.

The distance which had then separated the projectile from the satellite was estimated at about two hundred leagues. Under these conditions, as regards the visibility of the details of the disc, the travelers were farther from the moon than are the inhabitants of earth with their powerful telescopes.

Indeed, we know that the instrument mounted by Lord Rosse at Parsonstown, which magnifies 6,500 times, brings the moon to within an apparent distance of sixteen leagues. And more than that, with the powerful one set up at Long’s Peak, the orb of night, magnified 48,000 times, is brought to within less than two leagues, and objects having a diameter of thirty feet are seen very distinctly. So that, at this distance, the topographical details of the moon, observed without glasses, could not be determined with precision. The eye caught the vast outline of those immense depressions inappropriately called “seas,” but they could not recognize their nature. The prominence of the mountains disappeared under the splendid irradiation produced by the reflection of the solar rays. The eye, dazzled as if it was leaning over a bath of molten silver, turned from it involuntarily; but the oblong form of the orb was quite clear. It appeared like a gigantic egg, with the small end turned toward the earth. Indeed the moon, liquid and pliable in the first days of its formation, was originally a perfect sphere; but being soon drawn within the attraction of the earth, it became elongated under the influence of gravitation. In becoming a satellite, she lost her native purity of form; her center of gravity was in advance of the center of her figure; and from this fact some savants draw the conclusion that the air and water had taken refuge on the opposite surface of the moon, which is never seen from the earth. This alteration in the primitive form of the satellite was only perceptible for a few moments. The distance of the projectile from the moon diminished very rapidly under its speed, though that was much less than its initial velocity — but eight or nine times greater than that which propels our express trains. The oblique course of the projectile, from its very obliquity, gave Michel Ardan some hopes of striking the lunar disc at some point or other. He could not think that they would never reach it. No! he could not believe it; and this opinion he often repeated. But Barbicane, who was a better judge, always answered him with merciless logic.

“No, Michel, no! We can only reach the moon by a fall, and we are not falling. The centripetal force keeps us under the moon’s influence, but the centrifugal force draws us irresistibly away from it.”

This was said in a tone which quenched Michel Ardan’s last hope.

The portion of the moon which the projectile was nearing was the northern hemisphere, that which the selenographic maps place below; for these maps are generally drawn after the outline given by the glasses, and we know that they reverse the objects. Such was the Mappa Selenographica of Boeer and Moedler which Barbicane consulted. This northern hemisphere presented vast plains, dotted with isolated mountains.

At midnight the moon was full. At that precise moment the travelers should have alighted upon it, if the mischievous meteor had not diverted their course. The orb was exactly in the condition determined by the Cambridge Observatory. It was mathematically at its perigee, and at the zenith of the twenty-eighth parallel. An observer placed at the bottom of the enormous Columbiad, pointed perpendicularly to the horizon, would have framed the moon in the mouth of the gun. A straight line drawn through the axis of the piece would have passed through the center of the orb of night. It is needless to say, that during the night of the 5th-6th of December, the travelers took not an instant’s rest. Could they close their eyes when so near this new world? No! All their feelings were concentrated in one single thought: — See! Representatives of the earth, of humanity, past and present, all centered in them! It is through their eyes that the human race look at these lunar regions, and penetrate the secrets of their satellite! A strange emotion filled their hearts as they went from one window to the other. Their observations, reproduced by Barbicane, were rigidly determined. To take them, they had glasses; to correct them, maps.

As regards the optical instruments at their disposal, they had excellent marine glasses specially constructed for this journey. They possessed magnifying powers of 100. They would thus have brought the moon to within a distance (apparent) of less than 2,000 leagues from the earth. But then, at a distance which for three hours in the morning did not exceed sixty-five miles, and in a medium free from all atmospheric disturbances, these instruments could reduce the lunar surface to within less than 1,500 yards!

CHAPTER XII

OROGRAPHIC DETAILS

The course taken by the projectile, as we have before remarked, was bearing it toward the moon’s northern hemisphere. The travelers were far from the central point which they would have struck, had their course not been subject to an irremediable deviation. It was past midnight; and Barbicane then estimated the distance at seven hundred and fifty miles, which was a little greater than the length of the lunar radius, and which would diminish as it advanced nearer to the North Pole. The projectile was then not at the altitude of the equator; but across the tenth parallel, and from that latitude, carefully taken on the map to the pole, Barbicane and his two companions were able to observe the moon under the most favorable conditions. Indeed, by means of glasses, the above-named distance was reduced to little more than fourteen miles. The telescope of the Rocky Mountains brought the moon much nearer; but the terrestrial atmosphere singularly lessened its power. Thus Barbicane, posted in his projectile, with the glasses to his eyes, could seize upon details which were almost imperceptible to earthly observers.

“My friends,” said the president, in a serious voice, “I do not know whither we are going; I do not know if we shall ever see the terrestrial globe again. Nevertheless, let us proceed as if our work would one day by useful to our fellow-men. Let us keep our minds free from every other consideration. We are astronomers; and this projectile is a room in the Cambridge University, carried into space. Let us make our observations!”

This said, work was begun with great exactness; and they faithfully reproduced the different aspects of the moon, at the different distances which the projectile reached.

At the time that the projectile was as high as the tenth parallel, north latitude, it seemed rigidly to follow the twentieth degree, east longitude. We must here make one important remark with regard to the map by which they were taking observations. In the selenographical maps where, on account of the reversing of the objects by the glasses, the south is above and the north below, it would seem natural that, on account of that inversion, the east should be to the left hand, and the west to the right. But it is not so. If the map were turned upside down, showing the moon as we see her, the east would be to the left, and the west to the right, contrary to that which exists on terrestrial maps. The following is the reason of this anomaly. Observers in the northern hemisphere (say in Europe) see the moon in the south — according to them. When they take observations, they turn their backs to the north, the reverse position to that which they occupy when they study a terrestrial map. As they turn their backs to the north, the east is on their left, and the west to their right. To observers in the southern hemisphere (Patagonia for example), the moon’s west would be quite to their left, and the east to their right, as the south is behind them. Such is the reason of the apparent reversing of these two cardinal points, and we must bear it in mind in order to be able to follow President Barbicane’s observations.

With the help of Boeer and Moedler’s Mappa Selenographica, the travelers were able at once to recognize that portion of the disc enclosed within the field of their glasses.

“What are we looking at, at this moment?” asked Michel.

“At the northern part of the `Sea of Clouds,’” answered Barbicane. “We are too far off to recognize its nature. Are these plains composed of arid sand, as the first astronomer maintained? Or are they nothing but immense forests, according to M. Warren de la Rue’s opinion, who gives the moon an atmosphere, though a very low and a very dense one? That we shall know by and by. We must affirm nothing until we are in a position to do so.”

This “Sea of Clouds” is rather doubtfully marked out upon the maps. It is supposed that these vast plains are strewn with blocks of lava from the neighboring volcanoes on its right, Ptolemy, Purbach, Arzachel. But the projectile was advancing, and sensibly nearing it. Soon there appeared the heights which bound this sea at this northern limit. Before them rose a mountain radiant with beauty, the top of which seemed lost in an eruption of solar rays.

“That is — ?” asked Michel.

“Copernicus,” replied Barbicane.

“Let us see Copernicus.”

This mount, situated in 9@ north latitude and 20@ east longitude, rose to a height of 10,600 feet above the surface of the moon. It is quite visible from the earth; and astronomers can study it with ease, particularly during the phase between the last quarter and the new moon, because then the shadows are thrown lengthways from east to west, allowing them to measure the heights.

This Copernicus forms the most important of the radiating system, situated in the southern hemisphere, according to Tycho Brahe. It rises isolated like a gigantic lighthouse on that portion of the “Sea of Clouds,” which is bounded by the “Sea of Tempests,” thus lighting by its splendid rays two oceans at a time. It was a sight without an equal, those long luminous trains, so dazzling in the full moon, and which, passing the boundary chain on the north, extends to the “Sea of Rains.” At one o’clock of the terrestrial morning, the projectile, like a balloon borne into space, overlooked the top of this superb mount. Barbicane could recognize perfectly its chief features. Copernicus is comprised in the series of ringed mountains of the first order, in the division of great circles. Like Kepler and Aristarchus, which overlook the “Ocean of Tempests,” sometimes it appeared like a brilliant point through the cloudy light, and was taken for a volcano in activity. But it is only an extinct one — like all on that side of the moon. Its circumference showed a diameter of about twenty-two leagues. The glasses discovered traces of stratification produced by successive eruptions, and the neighborhood was strewn with volcanic remains which still choked some of the craters.

“There exist,” said Barbicane, “several kinds of circles on the surface of the moon, and it is easy to see that Copernicus belongs to the radiating class. If we were nearer, we should see the cones bristling on the inside, which in former times were so many fiery mouths. A curious arrangement, and one without an exception on the lunar disc, is that the interior surface of these circles is the reverse of the exterior, and contrary to the form taken by terrestrial craters. It follows, then, that the general curve of the bottom of these circles gives a sphere of a smaller diameter than that of the moon.”

“And why this peculiar disposition?” asked Nicholl.

“We do not know,” replied Barbicane.

“What splendid radiation!” said Michel. “One could hardly see a finer spectacle, I think.”

“What would you say, then,” replied Barbicane, “if chance should bear us toward the southern hemisphere?”

“Well, I should say that it was still more beautiful,” retorted

Michel Ardan.

At this moment the projectile hung perpendicularly over the circle. The circumference of Copernicus formed almost a perfect circle, and its steep escarpments were clearly defined. They could even distinguish a second ringed enclosure. Around spread a grayish plain, of a wild aspect, on which every relief was marked in yellow. At the bottom of the circle, as if enclosed in a jewel case, sparkled for one instant two or three eruptive cones, like enormous dazzling gems. Toward the north the escarpments were lowered by a depression which would probably have given access to the interior of the crater.

In passing over the surrounding plains, Barbicane noticed a great number of less important mountains; and among others a little ringed one called Guy Lussac, the breadth of which measured twelve miles.

Toward the south, the plain was very flat, without one elevation, without one projection. Toward the north, on the contrary, till where it was bounded by the “Sea of Storms,” it resembled a liquid surface agitated by a storm, of which the hills and hollows formed a succession of waves suddenly congealed. Over the whole of this, and in all directions, lay the luminous lines, all converging to the summit of Copernicus.

The travelers discussed the origin of these strange rays; but they could not determine their nature any more than terrestrial observers.

“But why,” said Nicholl, “should not these rays be simply spurs of mountains which reflect more vividly the light of the sun?”

“No,” replied Barbicane; “if it was so, under certain conditions of the moon, these ridges would cast shadows, and they do not cast any.”

And indeed, these rays only appeared when the orb of day was in opposition to the moon, and disappeared as soon as its rays became oblique.

“But how have they endeavored to explain these lines of light?” asked Michel; “for I cannot believe that savants would ever be stranded for want of an explanation.”

“Yes,” replied Barbicane; “Herschel has put forward an opinion, but he did not venture to affirm it.”

“Never mind. What was the opinion?”

“He thought that these rays might be streams of cooled lava which shone when the sun beat straight upon them. It may be so; but nothing can be less certain. Besides, if we pass nearer to Tycho, we shall be in a better position to find out the cause of this radiation.”

“Do you know, my friends, what that plain, seen from the height we are at, resembles?” said Michel.

“No,” replied Nicholl.

“Very well; with all those pieces of lava lengthened like rockets, it resembles an immense game of spelikans thrown pellmell. There wants but the hook to pull them out one by one.”

“Do be serious,” said Barbicane.

“Well, let us be serious,” replied Michel quietly; “and instead of spelikans, let us put bones. This plain, would then be nothing but an immense cemetery, on which would repose the mortal remains of thousands of extinct generations. Do you prefer that high-flown comparison?”

“One is as good as the other,” retorted Barbicane.

“My word, you are difficult to please,” answered Michel.

“My worthy friend,” continued the matter-of-fact Barbicane, “it matters but little what it resembles, when we do not know what it is.”

“Well answered,” exclaimed Michel. “That will teach me to reason with savants.”

But the projectile continued to advance with almost uniform speed around the lunar disc. The travelers, we may easily imagine, did not dream of taking a moment’s rest. Every minute changed the landscape which fled from beneath their gaze. About half past one o’clock in the morning, they caught a glimpse of the tops of another mountain. Barbicane, consulting his map, recognized Eratosthenes.

It was a ringed mountain nine thousand feet high, and one of those circles so numerous on this satellite. With regard to this, Barbicane related Kepler’s singular opinion on the formation of circles. According to that celebrated mathematician, these crater-like cavities had been dug by the hand of man.

“For what purpose?” asked Nicholl.

“For a very natural one,” replied Barbicane. “The Selenites might have undertaken these immense works and dug these enormous holes for a refuge and shield from the solar rays which beat upon them during fifteen consecutive days.”

“The Selenites are not fools,” said Michel.

“A singular idea,” replied Nicholl; “but it is probable that Kepler did not know the true dimensions of these circles, for the digging of them would have been the work of giants quite impossible for the Selenites.”

“Why? if weight on the moon’s surface is six times less than on the earth?” said Michel.

“But if the Selenites are six times smaller?” retorted Nicholl.

“And if there are no Selenites?” added Barbicane.

This put an end to the discussion.

Soon Eratosthenes disappeared under the horizon without the projectile being sufficiently near to allow close observation. This mountain separated the Apennines from the Carpathians. In the lunar orography they have discerned some chains of mountains, which are chiefly distributed over the northern hemisphere. Some, however, occupy certain portions of the southern hemisphere also.

About two o’clock in the morning Barbicane found that they were above the twentieth lunar parallel. The distance of the projectile from the moon was not more than six hundred miles. Barbicane, now perceiving that the projectile was steadily approaching the lunar disc, did not despair; if not of reaching her, at least of discovering the secrets of her configuration.

CHAPTER XIV

THE NIGHT OF THREE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-FOUR HOURS AND A HALF

At the moment when this phenomenon took place so rapidly, the projectile was skirting the moon’s north pole at less than twenty-five miles distance. Some seconds had sufficed to plunge it into the absolute darkness of space. The transition was so sudden, without shade, without gradation of light, without attenuation of the luminous waves, that the orb seemed to have been extinguished by a powerful blow.

“Melted, disappeared!” Michel Ardan exclaimed, aghast.

Indeed, there was neither reflection nor shadow. Nothing more was to be seen of that disc, formerly so dazzling. The darkness was complete. and rendered even more so by the rays from the stars. It was “that blackness” in which the lunar nights are insteeped, which last three hundred and fifty-four hours and a half at each point of the disc, a long night resulting from the equality of the translatory and rotary movements of the moon. The projectile, immerged in the conical shadow of the satellite, experienced the action of the solar rays no more than any of its invisible points.

In the interior, the obscurity was complete. They could not see each other. Hence the necessity of dispelling the darkness. However desirous Barbicane might be to husband the gas, the reserve of which was small, he was obliged to ask from it a fictitious light, an expensive brilliancy which the sun then refused.

“Devil take the radiant orb!” exclaimed Michel Ardan, “which forces us to expend gas, instead of giving us his rays gratuitously.”

“Do not let us accuse the sun,” said Nicholl, “it is not his fault, but that of the moon, which has come and placed herself like a screen between us and it.”

“It is the sun!” continued Michel.

“It is the moon!” retorted Nicholl.

An idle dispute, which Barbicane put an end to by saying:

“My friends, it is neither the fault of the sun nor of the moon; it is the fault of the projectile, which, instead of rigidly following its course, has awkwardly missed it. To be more just, it is the fault of that unfortunate meteor which has so deplorably altered our first direction.”

“Well,” replied Michel Ardan, “as the matter is settled, let us have breakfast. After a whole night of watching it is fair to build ourselves up a little.”

This proposal meeting with no contradiction, Michel prepared the repast in a few minutes. But they ate for eating’s sake, they drank without toasts, without hurrahs. The bold travelers being borne away into gloomy space, without their accustomed cortege of rays, felt a vague uneasiness in their hearts. The “strange” shadow so dear to Victor Hugo’s pen bound them on all sides. But they talked over the interminable night of three hundred and fifty-four hours and a half, nearly fifteen days, which the law of physics has imposed on the inhabitants of the moon.

Barbicane gave his friends some explanation of the causes and the consequences of this curious phenomenon.

“Curious indeed,” said they; “for, if each hemisphere of the moon is deprived of solar light for fifteen days, that above which we now float does not even enjoy during its long night any view of the earth so beautifully lit up. In a word she has no moon (applying this designation to our globe) but on one side of her disc. Now if this were the case with the earth — if, for example, Europe never saw the moon, and she was only visible at the antipodes, imagine to yourself the astonishment of a European on arriving in Australia.”

“They would make the voyage for nothing but to see the moon!” replied Michel.

“Very well!” continued Barbicane, “that astonishment is reserved for the Selenites who inhabit the face of the moon opposite to the earth, a face which is ever invisible to our countrymen of the terrestrial globe.”

“And which we should have seen,” added Nicholl, “if we had arrived here when the moon was new, that is to say fifteen days later.”

“I will add, to make amends,” continued Barbicane, “that the inhabitants of the visible face are singularly favored by nature, to the detriment of their brethren on the invisible face. The latter, as you see, have dark nights of 354 hours, without one single ray to break the darkness. The other, on the contrary, when the sun which has given its light for fifteen days sinks below the horizon, see a splendid orb rise on the opposite horizon. It is the earth, which is thirteen times greater than the diminutive moon that we know — the earth which developes itself at a diameter of two degrees, and which sheds a light thirteen times greater than that qualified by atmospheric strata — the earth which only disappears at the moment when the sun reappears in its turn!”

“Nicely worded!” said Michel, “slightly academical perhaps.”

“It follows, then,” continued Barbicane, without knitting his brows, “that the visible face of the disc must be very agreeable to inhabit, since it always looks on either the sun when the moon is full, or on the earth when the moon is new.”

“But,” said Nicholl, “that advantage must be well compensated by the insupportable heat which the light brings with it.”

“The inconvenience, in that respect, is the same for the two faces, for the earth’s light is evidently deprived of heat. But the invisible face is still more searched by the heat than the visible face. I say that for you, Nicholl, because Michel will probably not understand.”

“Thank you,” said Michel.

“Indeed,” continued Barbicane, “when the invisible face receives at the same time light and heat from the sun, it is because the moon is new; that is to say, she is situated between the sun and the earth. It follows, then, considering the position which she occupies in opposition when full, that she is nearer to the sun by twice her distance from the earth; and that distance may be estimated at the two-hundredth part of that which separates the sun from the earth, or in round numbers 400,000 miles. So that invisible face is so much nearer to the sun when she receives its rays.”

“Quite right,” replied Nicholl.

“On the contrary,” continued Barbicane.

“One moment,” said Michel, interrupting his grave companion.

“What do you want?”

“I ask to be allowed to continue the explanation.”

“And why?”

“To prove that I understand.”

“Get along with you,” said Barbicane, smiling.

“On the contrary,” said Michel, imitating the tone and gestures of the president, “on the contrary, when the visible face of the moon is lit by the sun, it is because the moon is full, that is to say, opposite the sun with regard to the earth. The distance separating it from the radiant orb is then increased in round numbers to 400,000 miles, and the heat which she receives must be a little less.”

“Very well said!” exclaimed Barbicane. “Do you know, Michel, that, for an amateur, you are intelligent.”

“Yes,” replied Michel coolly, “we are all so on the Boulevard des Italiens.”

Barbicane gravely grasped the hand of his amiable companion, and continued to enumerate the advantages reserved for the inhabitants of the visible face.

Among others, he mentioned eclipses of the sun, which only take place on this side of the lunar disc; since, in order that they may take place, it is necessary for the moon to be in opposition. These eclipses, caused by the interposition of the earth between the moon and the sun, can last two hours; during which time, by reason of the rays refracted by its atmosphere, the terrestrial globe can appear as nothing but a black point upon the sun.

“So,” said Nicholl, “there is a hemisphere, that invisible hemisphere which is very ill supplied, very ill treated, by nature.”

“Never mind,” replied Michel; “if we ever become Selenites, we will inhabit the visible face. I like the light.”

“Unless, by any chance,” answered Nicholl, “the atmosphere should be condensed on the other side, as certain astronomers pretend.”

“That would be a consideration,” said Michel.

Breakfast over, the observers returned to their post. They tried to see through the darkened scuttles by extinguishing all light in the projectile; but not a luminous spark made its way through the darkness.

One inexplicable fact preoccupied Barbicane. Why, having passed within such a short distance of the moon — about twenty-five miles only — why the projectile had not fallen? If its speed had been enormous, he could have understood that the fall would not have taken place; but, with a relatively moderate speed, that resistance to the moon’s attraction could not be explained. Was the projectile under some foreign influence? Did some kind of body retain it in the ether? It was quite evident that it could never reach any point of the moon. Whither was it going? Was it going farther from, or nearing, the disc? Was it being borne in that profound darkness through the infinity of space? How could they learn, how calculate, in the midst of this night? All these questions made Barbicane uneasy, but he could not solve them.

Certainly, the invisible orb was there, perhaps only some few miles off; but neither he nor his companions could see it. If there was any noise on its surface, they could not hear it. Air, that medium of sound, was wanting to transmit the groanings of that moon which the Arabic legends call “a man already half granite, and still breathing.”

One must allow that that was enough to aggravate the most patient observers. It was just that unknown hemisphere which was stealing from their sight. That face which fifteen days sooner, or fifteen days later, had been, or would be, splendidly illuminated by the solar rays, was then being lost in utter darkness. In fifteen days where would the projectile be? Who could say? Where would the chances of conflicting attractions have drawn it to? The disappointment of the travelers in the midst of this utter darkness may be imagined. All observation of the lunar disc was impossible. The constellations alone claimed all their attention; and we must allow that the astronomers Faye, Charconac, and Secchi, never found themselves in circumstances so favorable for their observation.

Indeed, nothing could equal the splendor of this starry world, bathed in limpid ether. Its diamonds set in the heavenly vault sparkled magnificently. The eye took in the firmament from the Southern Cross to the North Star, those two constellations which in 12,000 years, by reason of the succession of equinoxes, will resign their part of the polar stars, the one to Canopus in the southern hemisphere, the other to Wega in the northern. Imagination loses itself in this sublime Infinity, amid which the projectile was gravitating, like a new star created by the hand of man. From a natural cause, these constellations shone with a soft luster; they did not twinkle, for there was no atmosphere which, by the intervention of its layers unequally dense and of different degrees of humidity, produces this scintillation. These stars were soft eyes, looking out into the dark night, amid the silence of absolute space.

Long did the travelers stand mute, watching the constellated firmament, upon which the moon, like a vast screen, made an enormous black hole. But at length a painful sensation drew them from their watchings. This was an intense cold, which soon covered the inside of the glass of the scuttles with a thick coating of ice. The sun was no longer warming the projectile with its direct rays, and thus it was losing the heat stored up in its walls by degrees. This heat was rapidly evaporating into space by radiation, and a considerably lower temperature was the result. The humidity of the interior was changed into ice upon contact with the glass, preventing all observation.

Nicholl consulted the thermometer, and saw that it had fallen to seventeen degrees (Centigrade) below zero. So that, in spite of the many reasons for economizing, Barbicane, after having begged light from the gas, was also obliged to beg for heat. The projectile’s low temperature was no longer endurable. Its tenants would have been frozen to death.

1@ Fahrenheit.

“Well!” observed Michel, “we cannot reasonably complain of the monotony of our journey! What variety we have had, at least in temperature. Now we are blinded with light and saturated with heat, like the Indians of the Pampas! now plunged into profound darkness, amid the cold, like the Esquimaux of the north pole. No, indeed! we have no right to complain; nature does wonders in our honor.”

“But,” asked Nicholl, “what is the temperature outside?”

“Exactly that of the planetary space,” replied Barbicane.

“Then,” continued Michel Ardan, “would not this be the time to make the experiment which we dared not attempt when we were drowned in the sun’s rays?

“It is now or never,” replied Barbicane, “for we are in a good position to verify the temperature of space, and see if Fourier or Pouillet’s calculations are exact.”

“In any case it is cold,” said Michel. “See! the steam of the interior is condensing on the glasses of the scuttles. If the fall continues, the vapor of our breath will fall in snow around us.”

“Let us prepare a thermometer,” said Barbicane.

We may imagine that an ordinary thermometer would afford no result under the circumstances in which this instrument was to be exposed. The mercury would have been frozen in its ball, as below 42@ Fahrenheit below zero it is no longer liquid. But Barbicane had furnished himself with a spirit thermometer on Wafferdin’s system, which gives the minima of excessively low temperatures.

Before beginning the experiment, this instrument was compared with an ordinary one, and then Barbicane prepared to use it.

“How shall we set about it?” asked Nicholl.

“Nothing is easier,” replied Michel Ardan, who was never at a loss. “We open the scuttle rapidly; throw out the instrument; it follows the projectile with exemplary docility; and a quarter of an hour after, draw it in.”

“With the hand?” asked Barbicane.

“With the hand,” replied Michel.

“Well, then, my friend, do not expose yourself,” answered Barbicane, “for the hand that you draw in again will be nothing but a stump frozen and deformed by the frightful cold.”

“Really!”

“You will feel as if you had had a terrible burn, like that of iron at a white heat; for whether the heat leaves our bodies briskly or enters briskly, it is exactly the same thing. Besides, I am not at all certain that the objects we have thrown out are still following us.”

“Why not?” asked Nicholl.

“Because, if we are passing through an atmosphere of the slightest density, these objects will be retarded. Again, the darkness prevents our seeing if they still float around us. But in order not to expose ourselves to the loss of our thermometer, we will fasten it, and we can then more easily pull it back again.”

Barbicane’s advice was followed. Through the scuttle rapidly opened, Nicholl threw out the instrument, which was held by a short cord, so that it might be more easily drawn up. The scuttle had not been opened more than a second, but that second had sufficed to let in a most intense cold.

“The devil!” exclaimed Michel Ardan, “it is cold enough to freeze a white bear.”

Barbicane waited until half an hour had elapsed, which was more than time enough to allow the instrument to fall to the level of the surrounding temperature. Then it was rapidly pulled in.

Barbicane calculated the quantity of spirits of wine overflowed into the little vial soldered to the lower part of the instrument, and said:

“A hundred and forty degrees Centigrade below zero!”

218 degrees Fahrenheit below zero.

M. Pouillet was right and Fourier wrong. That was the undoubted temperature of the starry space. Such is, perhaps, that of the lunar continents, when the orb of night has lost by radiation all the heat which fifteen days of sun have poured into her.

CHAPTER XV

HYPERBOLA OR PARABOLA

We may, perhaps, be astonished to find Barbicane and his companions so little occupied with the future reserved for them in their metal prison which was bearing them through the infinity of space. Instead of asking where they were going, they passed their time making experiments, as if they had been quietly installed in their own study.

We might answer that men so strong-minded were above such anxieties — that they did not trouble themselves about such trifles — and that they had something else to do than to occupy their minds with the future.

The truth was that they were not masters of their projectile; they could neither check its course, nor alter its direction.

A sailor can change the head of his ship as he pleases; an aeronaut can give a vertical motion to his balloon. They, on the contrary, had no power over their vehicle. Every maneuver was forbidden. Hence the inclination to let things alone, or as the sailors say, “let her run.”

Where did they find themselves at this moment, at eight o’clock in the morning of the day called upon the earth the 6th of December? Very certainly in the neighborhood of the moon, and even near enough for her to look to them like an enormous black screen upon the firmament. As to the distance which separated them, it was impossible to estimate it. The projectile, held by some unaccountable force, had been within four miles of grazing the satellite’s north pole.

But since entering the cone of shadow these last two hours, had the distance increased or diminished? Every point of mark was wanting by which to estimate both the direction and the speed of the projectile.

Perhaps it was rapidly leaving the disc, so that it would soon quit the pure shadow. Perhaps, again, on the other hand, it might be nearing it so much that in a short time it might strike some high point on the invisible hemisphere, which would doubtlessly have ended the journey much to the detriment of the travelers.

A discussion arose on this subject, and Michel Ardan, always ready with an explanation, gave it as his opinion that the projectile, held by the lunar attraction, would end by falling on the surface of the terrestrial globe like an aerolite.

“First of all, my friend,” answered Barbicane, “every aerolite does not fall to the earth; it is only a small proportion which do so; and if we had passed into an aerolite, it does not necessarily follow that we should ever reach the surface of the moon.”

“But how if we get near enough?” replied Michel.

“Pure mistake,” replied Barbicane. “Have you not seen shooting stars rush through the sky by thousands at certain seasons?”

“Yes.”

“Well, these stars, or rather corpuscles, only shine when they are heated by gliding over the atmospheric layers. Now, if they enter the atmosphere, they pass at least within forty miles of the earth, but they seldom fall upon it. The same with our projectile. It may approach very near to the moon, and not yet fall upon it.”

“But then,” asked Michel, “I shall be curious to know how our erring vehicle will act in space?”

“I see but two hypotheses,” replied Barbicane, after some moments’ reflection.

“What are they?”

“The projectile has the choice between two mathematical curves, and it will follow one or the other according to the speed with which it is animated, and which at this moment I cannot estimate.”

“Yes,” said Nicholl, “it will follow either a parabola or a hyperbola.”

“Just so,” replied Barbicane. “With a certain speed it will assume the parabola, and with a greater the hyperbola.”

“I like those grand words,” exclaimed Michel Ardan; “one knows directly what they mean. And pray what is your parabola, if you please?”

“My friend,” answered the captain, “the parabola is a curve of the second order, the result of the section of a cone intersected by a plane parallel to one of the sides.”

“Ah! ah!” said Michel, in a satisfied tone.

“It is very nearly,” continued Nicholl, “the course described by a bomb launched from a mortar.”

“Perfect! And the hyperbola?”

“The hyperbola, Michel, is a curve of the second order, produced by the intersection of a conic surface and a plane parallel to its axis, and constitutes two branches separated one from the other, both tending indefinitely in the two directions.”

“Is it possible!” exclaimed Michel Ardan in a serious tone, as if they had told him of some serious event. “What I particularly like in your definition of the hyperbola (I was going to say hyperblague) is that it is still more obscure than the word you pretend to define.”

Nicholl and Barbicane cared little for Michel Ardan’s fun. They were deep in a scientific discussion. What curve would the projectile follow? was their hobby. One maintained the hyperbola, the other the parabola. They gave each other reasons bristling with x. Their arguments were couched in language which made Michel jump. The discussion was hot, and neither would give up his chosen curve to his adversary.

This scientific dispute lasted so long that it made Michel very impatient.

“Now, gentlemen cosines, will you cease to throw parabolas and hyperbolas at each other’s heads? I want to understand the only interesting question in the whole affair. We shall follow one or the other of these curves? Good. But where will they lead us to?”

“Nowhere,” replied Nicholl.

“How, nowhere?”

“Evidently,” said Barbicane, “they are open curves, which may be prolonged indefinitely.”

“Ah, savants!” cried Michel; “and what are either the one or the other to us from the moment we know that they equally lead us into infinite space?”

Barbicane and Nicholl could not forbear smiling. They had just been creating “art for art’s sake.” Never had so idle a question been raised at such an inopportune moment. The sinister truth remained that, whether hyperbolically or parabolically borne away, the projectile would never again meet either the earth or the moon.

What would become of these bold travelers in the immediate future? If they did not die of hunger, if they did not die of thirst, in some days, when the gas failed, they would die from want of air, unless the cold had killed them first. Still, important as it was to economize the gas, the excessive lowness of the surrounding temperature obliged them to consume a certain quantity. Strictly speaking, they could do without its light, but not without its heat. Fortunately the caloric generated by Reiset’s and Regnaut’s apparatus raised the temperature of the interior of the projectile a little, and without much expenditure they were able to keep it bearable.

But observations had now become very difficult. the dampness of the projectile was condensed on the windows and congealed immediately. This cloudiness had to be dispersed continually. In any case they might hope to be able to discover some phenomena of the highest interest.

But up to this time the disc remained dumb and dark. It did not answer the multiplicity of questions put by these ardent minds; a matter which drew this reflection from Michel, apparently a just one:

“If ever we begin this journey over again, we shall do well to choose the time when the moon is at the full.”

“Certainly,” said Nicholl, “that circumstance will be more favorable. I allow that the moon, immersed in the sun’s rays, will not be visible during the transit, but instead we should see the earth, which would be full. And what is more, if we were drawn round the moon, as at this moment, we should at least have the advantage of seeing the invisible part of her disc magnificently lit.”

“Well said, Nicholl,” replied Michel Ardan. “What do you think, Barbicane?”

“I think this,” answered the grave president: “If ever we begin this journey again, we shall start at the same time and under the same conditions. Suppose we had attained our end, would it not have been better to have found continents in broad daylight than a country plunged in utter darkness? Would not our first installation have been made under better circumstances? Yes, evidently. As to the invisible side, we could have visited it in our exploring expeditions on the lunar globe. So that the time of the full moon was well chosen. But we ought to have arrived at the end; and in order to have so arrived, we ought to have suffered no deviation on the road.”

“I have nothing to say to that,” answered Michel Ardan. “Here is, however, a good opportunity lost of observing the other side of the moon.”

But the projectile was now describing in the shadow that incalculable course which no sight-mark would allow them to ascertain. Had its direction been altered, either by the influence of the lunar attraction, or by the action of some unknown star? Barbicane could not say. But a change had taken place in the relative position of the vehicle; and Barbicane verified it about four in the morning.

The change consisted in this, that the base of the projectile had turned toward the moon’s surface, and was so held by a perpendicular passing through its axis. The attraction, that is to say the weight, had brought about this alteration. The heaviest part of the projectile inclined toward the invisible disc as if it would fall upon it.

Was it falling? Were the travelers attaining that much desired end? No. And the observation of a sign-point, quite inexplicable in itself, showed Barbicane that his projectile was not nearing the moon, and that it had shifted by following an almost concentric curve.

This point of mark was a luminous brightness, which Nicholl sighted suddenly, on the limit of the horizon formed by the black disc. This point could not be confounded with a star. It was a reddish incandescence which increased by degrees, a decided proof that the projectile was shifting toward it and not falling normally on the surface of the moon.

“A volcano! it is a volcano in action!” cried Nicholl; “a disemboweling of the interior fires of the moon! That world is not quite extinguished.”

“Yes, an eruption,” replied Barbicane, who was carefully studying the phenomenon through his night glass. “What should it be, if not a volcano?”

“But, then,” said Michel Ardan, “in order to maintain that combustion, there must be air. So the atmosphere does surround that part of the moon.”

“Perhaps so,” replied Barbicane, “but not necessarily.

The volcano, by the decomposition of certain substances, can provide its own oxygen, and thus throw flames into space. It seems to me that the deflagration, by the intense brilliancy of the substances in combustion, is produced in pure oxygen. We must not be in a hurry to proclaim the existence of a lunar atmosphere.”

The fiery mountain must have been situated about the 45@ south latitude on the invisible part of the disc; but, to Barbicane’s great displeasure, the curve which the projectile was describing was taking it far from the point indicated by the eruption. Thus he could not determine its nature exactly. Half an hour after being sighted, this luminous point had disappeared behind the dark horizon; but the verification of this phenomenon was of considerable consequence in their selenographic studies. It proved that all heat had not yet disappeared from the bowels of this globe; and where heat exists, who can affirm that the vegetable kingdom, nay, even the animal kingdom itself, has not up to this time resisted all destructive influences? The existence of this volcano in eruption, unmistakably seen by these earthly savants, would doubtless give rise to many theories favorable to the grave question of the habitability of the moon.

Barbicane allowed himself to be carried away by these reflections. He forgot himself in a deep reverie in which the mysterious destiny of the lunar world was uppermost. He was seeking to combine together the facts observed up to that time, when a new incident recalled him briskly to reality. This incident was more than a cosmical phenomenon; it was a threatened danger, the consequence of which might be disastrous in the extreme.

Suddenly, in the midst of the ether, in the profound darkness, an enormous mass appeared. It was like a moon, but an incandescent moon whose brilliancy was all the more intolerable as it cut sharply on the frightful darkness of space. This mass, of a circular form, threw a light which filled the projectile. The forms of Barbicane, Nicholl, and Michel Ardan, bathed in its white sheets, assumed that livid spectral appearance which physicians produce with the fictitious light of alcohol impregnated with salt.

“By Jove!” cried Michel Ardan, “we are hideous. What is that ill-conditioned moon?”

“A meteor,” replied Barbicane.

“A meteor burning in space?”

“Yes.”

This shooting globe suddenly appearing in shadow at a distance of at most 200 miles, ought, according to Barbicane, to have a diameter of 2,000 yards. It advanced at a speed of about one mile and a half per second. It cut the projectile’s path and must reach it in some minutes. As it approached it grew to enormous proportions.

Imagine, if possible, the situation of the travelers! It is impossible to describe it. In spite of their courage, their sang-froid, their carelessness of danger, they were mute, motionless with stiffened limbs, a prey to frightful terror. Their projectile, the course of which they could not alter, was rushing straight on this ignited mass, more intense than the open mouth of an oven. It seemed as though they were being precipitated toward an abyss of fire.

Barbicane had seized the hands of his two companions, and all three looked through their half-open eyelids upon that asteroid heated to a white heat. If thought was not destroyed within them, if their brains still worked amid all this awe, they must have given themselves up for lost.

Two minutes after the sudden appearance of the meteor (to them two centuries of anguish) the projectile seemed almost about to strike it, when the globe of fire burst like a bomb, but without making any noise in that void where sound, which is but the agitation of the layers of air, could not be generated.

Nicholl uttered a cry, and he and his companions rushed to the scuttle. What a sight! What pen can describe it? What palette is rich enough in colors to reproduce so magnificent a spectacle?

It was like the opening of a crater, like the scattering of an immense conflagration. Thousands of luminous fragments lit up and irradiated space with their fires. Every size, every color, was there intermingled. There were rays of yellow and pale yellow, red, green, gray — a crown of fireworks of all colors. Of the enormous and much-dreaded globe there remained nothing but these fragments carried in all directions, now become asteroids in their turn, some flaming like a sword, some surrounded by a whitish cloud, and others leaving behind them trains of brilliant cosmical dust.

These incandescent blocks crossed and struck each other, scattering still smaller fragments, some of which struck the projectile. Its left scuttle was even cracked by a violent shock. It seemed to be floating amid a hail of howitzer shells, the smallest of which might destroy it instantly.

The light which saturated the ether was so wonderfully intense, that Michel, drawing Barbicane and Nicholl to his window, exclaimed, “The invisible moon, visible at last!”

And through a luminous emanation, which lasted some seconds, the whole three caught a glimpse of that mysterious disc which the eye of man now saw for the first time. What could they distinguish at a distance which they could not estimate? Some lengthened bands along the disc, real clouds formed in the midst of a very confined atmosphere, from which emerged not only all the mountains, but also projections of less importance; its circles, its yawning craters, as capriciously placed as on the visible surface. Then immense spaces, no longer arid plains, but real seas, oceans, widely distributed, reflecting on their liquid surface all the dazzling magic of the fires of space; and, lastly, on the surface of the continents, large dark masses, looking like immense forests under the rapid illumination of a brilliance.

Was it an illusion, a mistake, an optical illusion? Could they give a scientific assent to an observation so superficially obtained? Dared they pronounce upon the question of its habitability after so slight a glimpse of the invisible disc?

But the lightnings in space subsided by degrees; its accidental brilliancy died away; the asteroids dispersed in different directions and were extinguished in the distance.

The ether returned to its accustomed darkness; the stars, eclipsed for a moment, again twinkled in the firmament, and the disc, so hastily discerned, was again buried in impenetrable night.

CHAPTER XVI

THE SOUTHERN HEMISPHERE

The projectile had just escaped a terrible danger, and a very unforseen one. Who would have thought of such an encounter with meteors? These erring bodies might create serious perils for the travelers. They were to them so many sandbanks upon that sea of ether which, less fortunate than sailors, they could not escape. But did these adventurers complain of space? No, not since nature had given them the splendid sight of a cosmical meteor bursting from expansion, since this inimitable firework, which no Ruggieri could imitate, had lit up for some seconds the invisible glory of the moon. In that flash, continents, seas, and forests had become visible to them. Did an atmosphere, then, bring to this unknown face its life-giving atoms? Questions still insoluble, and forever closed against human curiousity!

It was then half-past three in the afternoon. The projectile was following its curvilinear direction round the moon. Had its course again been altered by the meteor? It was to be feared so. But the projectile must describe a curve unalterably determined by the laws of mechanical reasoning. Barbicane was inclined to believe that this curve would be rather a parabola than a hyperbola. But admitting the parabola, the projectile must quickly have passed through the cone of shadow projected into space opposite the sun. This cone, indeed, is very narrow, the angular diameter of the moon being so little when compared with the diameter of the orb of day; and up to this time the projectile had been floating in this deep shadow. Whatever had been its speed (and it could not have been insignificant), its period of occultation continued. That was evident, but perhaps that would not have been the case in a supposedly rigidly parabolical trajectory — a new problem which tormented Barbicane’s brain, imprisoned as he was in a circle of unknowns which he could not unravel.

Neither of the travelers thought of taking an instant’s repose. Each one watched for an unexpected fact, which might throw some new light on their uranographic studies. About five o’clock, Michel Ardan distributed, under the name of dinner, some pieces of bread and cold meat, which were quickly swallowed without either of them abandoning their scuttle, the glass of which was incessantly encrusted by the condensation of vapor.

About forty-five minutes past five in the evening, Nicholl, armed with his glass, sighted toward the southern border of the moon, and in the direction followed by the projectile, some bright points cut upon the dark shield of the sky. They looked like a succession of sharp points lengthened into a tremulous line. They were very bright. Such appeared the terminal line of the moon when in one of her octants.

They could not be mistaken. It was no longer a simple meteor. This luminous ridge had neither color nor motion. Nor was it a volcano in eruption. And Barbicane did not hesitate to pronounce upon it.

“The sun!” he exclaimed.

“What! the sun?” answered Nicholl and Michel Ardan.

“Yes, my friends, it is the radiant orb itself lighting up the summit of the mountains situated on the southern borders of the moon. We are evidently nearing the south pole.”

“After having passed the north pole,” replied Michel. “We have made the circuit of our satellite, then?”

“Yes, my good Michel.”

“Then, no more hyperbolas, no more parabolas, no more open curves to fear?”

“No, but a closed curve.”

“Which is called — — “

“An ellipse. Instead of losing itself in interplanetary space, it is probable that the projectile will describe an elliptical orbit around the moon.”

“Indeed!”

“And that it will become her satellite.”

“Moon of the moon!” cried Michel Ardan.

“Only, I would have you observe, my worthy friend,” replied Barbicane, “that we are none the less lost for that.”

“Yes, in another manner, and much more pleasantly,” answered the careless Frenchman with his most amiable smile.

CHAPTER XVII

TYCHO

At six in the evening the projectile passed the south pole at less than forty miles off, a distance equal to that already reached at the north pole. The elliptical curve was being rigidly carried out.

At this moment the travelers once more entered the blessed rays of the sun. They saw once more those stars which move slowly from east to west. The radiant orb was saluted by a triple hurrah. With its light it also sent heat, which soon pierced the metal walls. The glass resumed its accustomed appearance. The layers of ice melted as if by enchantment; and immediately, for economy’s sake, the gas was put out, the air apparatus alone consuming its usual quantity.

“Ah!” said Nicholl, “these rays of heat are good. With what impatience must the Selenites wait the reappearance of the orb of day.”

“Yes,” replied Michel Ardan, “imbibing as it were the brilliant ether, light and heat, all life is contained in them.”

At this moment the bottom of the projectile deviated somewhat from the lunar surface, in order to follow the slightly lengthened elliptical orbit. From this point, had the earth been at the full, Barbicane and his companions could have seen it, but immersed in the sun’s irradiation she was quite invisible. Another spectacle attracted their attention, that of the southern part of the moon, brought by the glasses to within 450 yards. They did not again leave the scuttles, and noted every detail of this fantastical continent.

Mounts Doerful and Leibnitz formed two separate groups very near the south pole. The first group extended from the pole to the eighty-fourth parallel, on the eastern part of the orb; the second occupied the eastern border, extending from the 65@ of latitude to the pole.

On their capriciously formed ridge appeared dazzling sheets, as mentioned by Pere Secchi. With more certainty than the illustrious Roman astronomer, Barbicane was enabled to recognize their nature.

“They are snow,” he exclaimed.

“Snow?” repeated Nicholl.

“Yes, Nicholl, snow; the surface of which is deeply frozen. See how they reflect the luminous rays. Cooled lava would never give out such intense reflection. There must then be water, there must be air on the moon. As little as you please, but the fact can no longer be contested.” No, it could not be. And if ever Barbicane should see the earth again, his notes will bear witness to this great fact in his selenographic observations.

These mountains of Doerful and Leibnitz rose in the midst of plains of a medium extent, which were bounded by an indefinite succession of circles and annular ramparts. These two chains are the only ones met with in this region of circles. Comparatively but slightly marked, they throw up here and there some sharp points, the highest summit of which attains an altitude of 24,600 feet.

But the projectile was high above all this landscape, and the projections disappeared in the intense brilliancy of the disc. And to the eyes of the travelers there reappeared that original aspect of the lunar landscapes, raw in tone, without gradation of colors, and without degrees of shadow, roughly black and white, from the want of diffusion of light.

But the sight of this desolate world did not fail to captivate them by its very strangeness. They were moving over this region as if they had been borne on the breath of some storm, watching heights defile under their feet, piercing the cavities with their eyes, going down into the rifts, climbing the ramparts, sounding these mysterious holes, and leveling all cracks. But no trace of vegetation, no appearance of cities; nothing but stratification, beds of lava, overflowings polished like immense mirrors, reflecting the sun’s rays with overpowering brilliancy. Nothing belonging to a living world — everything to a dead world, where avalanches, rolling from the summits of the mountains, would disperse noiselessly at the bottom of the abyss, retaining the motion, but wanting the sound. In any case it was the image of death, without its being possible even to say that life had ever existed there.

Michel Ardan, however, thought he recognized a heap of ruins, to which he drew Barbicane’s attention. It was about the 80th parallel, in 30@ longitude. This heap of stones, rather regularly placed, represented a vast fortress, overlooking a long rift, which in former days had served as a bed to the rivers of prehistorical times. Not far from that, rose to a height of 17,400 feet the annular mountain of Short, equal to the Asiatic Caucasus. Michel Ardan, with his accustomed ardor, maintained “the evidences” of his fortress. Beneath it he discerned the dismantled ramparts of a town; here the still intact arch of a portico, there two or three columns lying under their base; farther on, a succession of arches which must have supported the conduit of an aqueduct; in another part the sunken pillars of a gigantic bridge, run into the thickest parts of the rift. He distinguished all this, but with so much imagination in his glance, and through glasses so fantastical, that we must mistrust his observation. But who could affirm, who would dare to say, that the amiable fellow did not really see that which his two companions would not see?

Moments were too precious to be sacrificed in idle discussion. The selenite city, whether imaginary or not, had already disappeared afar off. The distance of the projectile from the lunar disc was on the increase, and the details of the soil were being lost in a confused jumble. The reliefs, the circles, the craters, and the plains alone remained, and still showed their boundary lines distinctly. At this moment, to the left, lay extended one of the finest circles of lunar orography, one of the curiosities of this continent. It was Newton, which Barbicane recognized without trouble, by referring to the Mappa Selenographica.

Newton is situated in exactly 77@ south latitude, and 16@ east longitude. It forms an annular crater, the ramparts of which, rising to a height of 21,300 feet, seemed to be impassable.

Barbicane made his companions observe that the height of this mountain above the surrounding plain was far from equaling the depth of its crater. This enormous hole was beyond all measurement, and formed a gloomy abyss, the bottom of which the sun’s rays could never reach. There, according to Humboldt, reigns utter darkness, which the light of the sun and the earth cannot break. Mythologists could well have made it the mouth of hell.

“Newton,” said Barbicane, “is the most perfect type of these annular mountains, of which the earth possesses no sample. They prove that the moon’s formation, by means of cooling, is due to violent causes; for while, under the pressure of internal fires the reliefs rise to considerable height, the depths withdraw far below the lunar level.”

“I do not dispute the fact,” replied Michel Ardan.

Some minutes after passing Newton, the projectile directly overlooked the annular mountains of Moret. It skirted at some distance the summits of Blancanus, and at about half-past seven in the evening reached the circle of Clavius.

This circle, one of the most remarkable of the disc, is situated in 58@ south latitude, and 15@ east longitude. Its height is estimated at 22,950 feet. The travelers, at a distance of twenty-four miles (reduced to four by their glasses) could admire this vast crater in its entirety.

“Terrestrial volcanoes,” said Barbicane, “are but mole-hills compared with those of the moon. Measuring the old craters formed by the first eruptions of Vesuvius and Etna, we find them little more than three miles in breadth. In France the circle of Cantal measures six miles across; at Ceyland the circle of the island is forty miles, which is considered the largest on the globe. What are these diameters against that of Clavius, which we overlook at this moment?”

“What is its breadth?” asked Nicholl.

“It is 150 miles,” replied Barbicane. “This circle is certainly the most important on the moon, but many others measure 150, 100, or 75 miles.”

“Ah! my friends,” exclaimed Michel, “can you picture to yourselves what this now peaceful orb of night must have been when its craters, filled with thunderings, vomited at the same time smoke and tongues of flame. What a wonderful spectacle then, and now what decay! This moon is nothing more than a thin carcase of fireworks, whose squibs, rockets, serpents, and suns, after a superb brilliancy, have left but sadly broken cases. Who can say the cause, the reason, the motive force of these cataclysms?”

Barbicane was not listening to Michel Ardan; he was contemplating these ramparts of Clavius, formed by large mountains spread over several miles. At the bottom of the immense cavity burrowed hundreds of small extinguished craters, riddling the soil like a colander, and overlooked by a peak 15,000 feet high.

Around the plain appeared desolate. Nothing so arid as these reliefs, nothing so sad as these ruins of mountains, and (if we may so express ourselves) these fragments of peaks and mountains which strewed the soil. The satellite seemed to have burst at this spot.

The projectile was still advancing, and this movement did not subside. Circles, craters, and uprooted mountains succeeded each other incessantly. No more plains; no more seas. A never ending Switzerland and Norway. And lastly, in the canter of this region of crevasses, the most splendid mountain on the lunar disc, the dazzling Tycho, in which posterity will ever preserve the name of the illustrious Danish astronomer.

In observing the full moon in a cloudless sky no one has failed to remark this brilliant point of the southern hemisphere. Michel Ardan used every metaphor that his imagination could supply to designate it by. To him this Tycho was a focus of light, a center of irradiation, a crater vomiting rays. It was the tire of a brilliant wheel, an asteria enclosing the disc with its silver tentacles, an enormous eye filled with flames, a glory carved for Pluto’s head, a star launched by the Creator’s hand, and crushed against the face of the moon!

Tycho forms such a concentration of light that the inhabitants of the earth can see it without glasses, though at a distance of 240,000 miles! Imagine, then, its intensity to the eye of observers placed at a distance of only fifty miles! Seen through this pure ether, its brilliancy was so intolerable that Barbicane and his friends were obliged to blacken their glasses with the gas smoke before they could bear the splendor. Then silent, scarcely uttering an interjection of admiration, they gazed, they contemplated. All their feelings, all their impressions, were concentrated in that look, as under any violent emotion all life is concentrated at the heart.

Tycho belongs to the system of radiating mountains, like Aristarchus and Copernicus; but it is of all the most complete and decided, showing unquestionably the frightful volcanic action to which the formation of the moon is due. Tycho is situated in 43@ south latitude, and 12@ east longitude. Its center is occupied by a crater fifty miles broad. It assumes a slightly elliptical form, and is surrounded by an enclosure of annular ramparts, which on the east and west overlook the outer plain from a height of 15,000 feet. It is a group of Mont Blancs, placed round one common center and crowned by radiating beams.

What this incomparable mountain really is, with all the projections converging toward it, and the interior excrescences of its crater, photography itself could never represent. Indeed, it is during the full moon that Tycho is seen in all its splendor. Then all shadows disappear, the foreshortening of perspective disappears, and all proofs become white — a disagreeable fact: for this strange region would have been marvelous if reproduced with photographic exactness. It is but a group of hollows, craters, circles, a network of crests; then, as far as the eye could see, a whole volcanic network cast upon this encrusted soil. One can then understand that the bubbles of this central eruption have kept their first form. Crystallized by cooling, they have stereotyped that aspect which the moon formerly presented when under the Plutonian forces.

The distance which separated the travelers from the annular summits of Tycho was not so great but that they could catch the principal details. Even on the causeway forming the fortifications of Tycho, the mountains hanging on to the interior and exterior sloping flanks rose in stories like gigantic terraces. They appeared to be higher by 300 or 400 feet to the west than to the east. No system of terrestrial encampment could equal these natural fortifications. A town built at the bottom of this circular cavity would have been utterly inaccessible.

Inaccessible and wonderfully extended over this soil covered with picturesque projections! Indeed, nature had not left the bottom of this crater flat and empty. It possessed its own peculiar orography, a mountainous system, making it a world in itself. The travelers could distinguish clearly cones, central hills, remarkable positions of the soil, naturally placed to receive the chefs-d’oeuvre of Selenite architecture. There was marked out the place for a temple, here the ground of a forum, on this spot the plan of a palace, in another the plateau for a citadel; the whole overlooked by a central mountain of 1,500 feet. A vast circle, in which ancient Rome could have been held in its entirety ten times over.

“Ah!” exclaimed Michel Ardan, enthusiastic at the sight; “what a grand town might be constructed within that ring of mountains! A quiet city, a peaceful refuge, beyond all human misery. How calm and isolated those misanthropes, those haters of humanity might live there, and all who have a distaste for social life!”

“All! It would be too small for them,” replied Barbicane simply.

CHAPTER XVIII

GRAVE QUESTIONS

But the projectile had passed the enceinte of Tycho, and Barbicane and his two companions watched with scrupulous attention the brilliant rays which the celebrated mountain shed so curiously over the horizon.

What was this radiant glory? What geological phenomenon had designed these ardent beams? This question occupied Barbicane’s mind.

Under his eyes ran in all directions luminous furrows, raised at the edges and concave in the center, some twelve miles, others thirty miles broad. These brilliant trains extended in some places to within 600 miles of Tycho, and seemed to cover, particularly toward the east, the northeast and the north, the half of the southern hemisphere. One of these jets extended as far as the circle of Neander, situated on the 40th meridian. Another, by a slight curve, furrowed the “Sea of Nectar,” breaking against the chain of Pyrenees, after a circuit of 800 miles. Others, toward the west, covered the “Sea of Clouds” and the “Sea of Humors” with a luminous network. What was the origin of these sparkling rays, which shone on the plains as well as on the reliefs, at whatever height they might be? All started from a common center, the crater of Tycho. They sprang from him. Herschel attributed their brilliancy to currents of lava congealed by the cold; an opinion, however, which has not been generally adopted. Other astronomers have seen in these inexplicable rays a kind of moraines, rows of erratic blocks, which had been thrown up at the period of Tycho’s formation.

“And why not?” asked Nicholl of Barbicane, who was relating and rejecting these different opinions.

“Because the regularity of these luminous lines, and the violence necessary to carry volcanic matter to such distances, is inexplicable.”

“Eh! by Jove!” replied Michel Ardan, “it seems easy enough to me to explain the origin of these rays.”

“Indeed?” said Barbicane.

“Indeed,” continued Michel. “It is enough to say that it is a vast star, similar to that produced by a ball or a stone thrown at a square of glass!”

“Well!” replied Barbicane, smiling. “And what hand would be powerful enough to throw a ball to give such a shock as that?”

“The hand is not necessary,” answered Nicholl, not at all confounded; “and as to the stone, let us suppose it to be a comet.”

“Ah! those much-abused comets!” exclaimed Barbicane. “My brave Michel, your explanation is not bad; but your comet is useless. The shock which produced that rent must have some from the inside of the star. A violent contraction of the lunar crust, while cooling, might suffice to imprint this gigantic star.”

“A contraction! something like a lunar stomach-ache.” said Michel Ardan.

“Besides,” added Barbicane, “this opinion is that of an English savant, Nasmyth, and it seems to me to sufficiently explain the radiation of these mountains.”

“That Nasmyth was no fool!” replied Michel.

Long did the travelers, whom such a sight could never weary, admire the splendors of Tycho. Their projectile, saturated with luminous gleams in the double irradiation of sun and moon, must have appeared like an incandescent globe. They had passed suddenly from excessive cold to intense heat. Nature was thus preparing them to become Selenites. Become Selenites! That idea brought up once more the question of the habitability of the moon. After what they had seen, could the travelers solve it? Would they decide for or against it? Michel Ardan persuaded his two friends to form an opinion, and asked them directly if they thought that men and animals were represented in the lunar world.

“I think that we can answer,” said Barbicane; “but according to my idea the question ought not to be put in that form. I ask it to be put differently.”

“Put it your own way,” replied Michel.

“Here it is,” continued Barbicane. “The problem is a double one, and requires a double solution. Is the moon habitable? Has the moon ever been inhabitable?”

“Good!” replied Nicholl. “First let us see whether the moon is habitable.”

“To tell the truth, I know nothing about it,” answered Michel.

“And I answer in the negative,” continued Barbicane. “In her actual state, with her surrounding atmosphere certainly very much reduced, her seas for the most part dried up, her insufficient supply of water restricted, vegetation, sudden alternations of cold and heat, her days and nights of 354 hours — the moon does not seem habitable to me, nor does she seem propitious to animal development, nor sufficient for the wants of existence as we understand it.”

“Agreed,” replied Nicholl. “But is not the moon habitable for creatures differently organized from ourselves?”

“That question is more difficult to answer, but I will try; and I ask Nicholl if motion appears to him to be a necessary result of life, whatever be its organization?”

“Without a doubt!” answered Nicholl.

“Then, my worthy companion, I would answer that we have observed the lunar continent at a distance of 500 yards at most, and that nothing seemed to us to move on the moon’s surface. The presence of any kind of life would have been betrayed by its attendant marks, such as divers buildings, and even by ruins. And what have we seen? Everywhere and always the geological works of nature, never the work of man. If, then, there exist representatives of the animal kingdom on the moon, they must have fled to those unfathomable cavities which the eye cannot reach; which I cannot admit, for they must have left traces of their passage on those plains which the atmosphere must cover, however slightly raised it may be. These traces are nowhere visible. There remains but one hypothesis, that of a living race to which motion, which is life, is foreign.”

“One might as well say, living creatures which do not live,” replied Michel.

“Just so,” said Barbicane, “which for us has no meaning.”

“Then we may form our opinion?” said Michel.

“Yes,” replied Nicholl.

“Very well,” continued Michel Ardan, “the Scientific Commission assembled in the projectile of the Gun Club, after having founded their argument on facts recently observed, decide unanimously upon the question of the habitability of the moon — `No! the moon is not habitable.’”

This decision was consigned by President Barbicane to his notebook, where the process of the sitting of the 6th of December may be seen.

“Now,” said Nicholl, “let us attack the second question, an indispensable complement of the first. I ask the honorable commission, if the moon is not habitable, has she ever been inhabited, Citizen Barbicane?”

“My friends,” replied Barbicane, “I did not undertake this journey in order to form an opinion on the past habitability of our satellite; but I will add that our personal observations only confirm me in this opinion. I believe, indeed I affirm, that the moon has been inhabited by a human race organized like our own; that she has produced animals anatomically formed like the terrestrial animals: but I add that these races, human and animal, have had their day, and are now forever extinct!”

“Then,” asked Michel, “the moon must be older than the earth?”

“No!” said Barbicane decidedly, “but a world which has grown old quicker, and whose formation and deformation have been more rapid. Relatively, the organizing force of matter has been much more violent in the interior of the moon than in the interior of the terrestrial globe. The actual state of this cracked, twisted, and burst disc abundantly proves this. The moon and the earth were nothing but gaseous masses originally. These gases have passed into a liquid state under different influences, and the solid masses have been formed later. But most certainly our sphere was still gaseous or liquid, when the moon was solidified by cooling, and had become habitable.”

“I believe it,” said Nicholl.

“Then,” continued Barbicane, “an atmosphere surrounded it, the waters contained within this gaseous envelope could not evaporate. Under the influence of air, water, light, solar heat, and central heat, vegetation took possession of the continents prepared to receive it, and certainly life showed itself about this period, for nature does not expend herself in vain; and a world so wonderfully formed for habitation must necessarily be inhabited.”

“But,” said Nicholl, “many phenomena inherent in our satellite might cramp the expansion of the animal and vegetable kingdom. For example, its days and nights of 354 hours?”

“At the terrestrial poles they last six months,” said Michel.

“An argument of little value, since the poles are not inhabited.”

“Let us observe, my friends,” continued Barbicane, “that if in the actual state of the moon its long nights and long days created differences of temperature insupportable to organization, it was not so at the historical period of time. The atmosphere enveloped the disc with a fluid mantle; vapor deposited itself in the shape of clouds; this natural screen tempered the ardor of the solar rays, and retained the nocturnal radiation. Light, like heat, can diffuse itself in the air; hence an equality between the influences which no longer exists, now that atmosphere has almost entirely disappeared. And now I am going to astonish you.”

“Astonish us?” said Michel Ardan.

“I firmly believe that at the period when the moon was inhabited, the nights and days did not last 354 hours!”

“And why?” asked Nicholl quickly.

“Because most probably then the rotary motion of the moon upon her axis was not equal to her revolution, an equality which presents each part of her disc during fifteen days to the action of the solar rays.”

“Granted,” replied Nicholl, “but why should not these two motions have been equal, as they are really so?”

“Because that equality has only been determined by terrestrial attraction. And who can say that this attraction was powerful enough to alter the motion of the moon at that period when the earth was still fluid?”

“Just so,” replied Nicholl; “and who can say that the moon has always been a satellite of the earth?”

“And who can say,” exclaimed Michel Ardan, “that the moon did not exist before the earth?”

Their imaginations carried them away into an indefinite field of hypothesis. Barbicane sought to restrain them.

“Those speculations are too high,” said he; “problems utterly insoluble. Do not let us enter upon them. Let us only admit the insufficiency of the primordial attraction; and then by the inequality of the two motions of rotation and revolution, the days and nights could have succeeded each other on the moon as they succeed each other on the earth. Besides, even without these conditions, life was possible.”

“And so,” asked Michel Ardan, “humanity has disappeared from the moon?”

“Yes,” replied Barbicane, “after having doubtless remained persistently for millions of centuries; by degrees the atmosphere becoming rarefied, the disc became uninhabitable, as the terrestrial globe will one day become by cooling.”

“By cooling?”

“Certainly,” replied Barbicane; “as the internal fires became extinguished, and the incandescent matter concentrated itself, the lunar crust cooled. By degrees the consequences of these phenomena showed themselves in the disappearance of organized beings, and by the disappearance of vegetation. Soon the atmosphere was rarefied, probably withdrawn by terrestrial attraction; then aerial departure of respirable air, and disappearance of water by means of evaporation. At this period the moon becoming uninhabitable, was no longer inhabited. It was a dead world, such as we see it to-day.”

“And you say that the same fate is in store for the earth?”

“Most probably.”

“But when?”

“When the cooling of its crust shall have made it uninhabitable.”

“And have they calculated the time which our unfortunate sphere will take to cool?”

“Certainly.”

“And you know these calculations?”

“Perfectly.”

“But speak, then, my clumsy savant,” exclaimed Michel Ardan, “for you make me boil with impatience!”

“Very well, my good Michel,” replied Barbicane quietly; “we know what diminution of temperature the earth undergoes in the lapse of a century. And according to certain calculations, this mean temperature will after a period of 400,000 years, be brought down to zero!”

“Four hundred thousand years!” exclaimed Michel. “Ah! I breathe again. Really I was frightened to hear you; I imagined that we had not more than 50,000 years to live.”

Barbicane and Nicholl could not help laughing at their companion’s uneasiness. Then Nicholl, who wished to end the discussion, put the second question, which had just been considered again.

“Has the moon been inhabited?” he asked.

The answer was unanimously in the affirmative. But during this discussion, fruitful in somewhat hazardous theories, the projectile was rapidly leaving the moon: the lineaments faded away from the travelers’ eyes, mountains were confused in the distance; and of all the wonderful, strange, and fantastical form of the earth’s satellite, there soon remained nothing but the imperishable remembrance.

CHAPTER XIX

A STRUGGLE AGAINST THE IMPOSSIBLE

For a long time Barbicane and his companions looked silently and sadly upon that world which they had only seen from a distance, as Moses saw the land of Canaan, and which they were leaving without a possibility of ever returning to it. The projectile’s position with regard to the moon had altered, and the base was now turned to the earth.

This change, which Barbicane verified, did not fail to surprise them. If the projectile was to gravitate round the satellite in an elliptical orbit, why was not its heaviest part turned toward it, as the moon turns hers to the earth? That was a difficult point.

In watching the course of the projectile they could see that on leaving the moon it followed a course analogous to that traced in approaching her. It was describing a very long ellipse, which would most likely extend to the point of equal attraction, where the influences of the earth and its satellite are neutralized.

Such was the conclusion which Barbicane very justly drew from facts already observed, a conviction which his two friends shared with him.

“And when arrived at this dead point, what will become of us?” asked Michel Ardan.

“We don’t know,” replied Barbicane.

“But one can draw some hypotheses, I suppose?”

“Two,” answered Barbicane; “either the projectile’s speed will be insufficient, and it will remain forever immovable on this line of double attraction — — “

“I prefer the other hypothesis, whatever it may be,” interrupted Michel.

“Or,” continued Barbicane, “its speed will be sufficient, and it will continue its elliptical course, to gravitate forever around the orb of night.”

“A revolution not at all consoling,” said Michel, “to pass to the state of humble servants to a moon whom we are accustomed to look upon as our own handmaid. So that is the fate in store for us?”

Neither Barbicane nor Nicholl answered.

“You do not answer,” continued Michel impatiently.

“There is nothing to answer,” said Nicholl.

“Is there nothing to try?”

“No,” answered Barbicane. “Do you pretend to fight against the impossible?”

“Why not? Do one Frenchman and two Americans shrink from such a word?”

“But what would you do?”

“Subdue this motion which is bearing us away.”

“Subdue it?”

“Yes,” continued Michel, getting animated, “or else alter it, and employ it to the accomplishment of our own ends.”

“And how?”

“That is your affair. If artillerymen are not masters of their projectile they are not artillerymen. If the projectile is to command the gunner, we had better ram the gunner into the gun. My faith! fine savants! who do not know what is to become of us after inducing me — — “

“Inducing you!” cried Barbicane and Nicholl. “Inducing you!

What do you mean by that?”

“No recrimination,” said Michel. “I do not complain, the trip has pleased me, and the projectile agrees with me; but let us do all that is humanly possible to do the fall somewhere, even if only on the moon.”

“We ask no better, my worthy Michel,” replied Barbicane, “but means fail us.”

“We cannot alter the motion of the projectile?”

“No.”

“Nor diminish its speed?”

“No.”

“Not even by lightening it, as they lighten an overloaded vessel?”

“What would you throw out?” said Nicholl. “We have no ballast on board; and indeed it seems to me that if lightened it would go much quicker.”

“Slower.”

“Quicker.”

“Neither slower nor quicker,” said Barbicane, wishing to make his two friends agree; “for we float is space, and must no longer consider specific weight.”

“Very well,” cried Michel Ardan in a decided voice; “then their remains but one thing to do.”

“What is it?” asked Nicholl.

“Breakfast,” answered the cool, audacious Frenchman, who always brought up this solution at the most difficult juncture.

In any case, if this operation had no influence on the projectile’s course, it could at least be tried without inconvenience, and even with success from a stomachic point of view. Certainly Michel had none but good ideas.

They breakfasted then at two in the morning; the hour mattered little. Michel served his usual repast, crowned by a glorious bottle drawn from his private cellar. If ideas did not crowd on their brains, we must despair of the Chambertin of 1853. The repast finished, observation began again. Around the projectile, at an invariable distance, were the objects which had been thrown out. Evidently, in its translatory motion round the moon, it had not passed through any atmosphere, for the specific weight of these different objects would have checked their relative speed.

On the side of the terrestrial sphere nothing was to be seen. The earth was but a day old, having been new the night before at twelve; and two days must elapse before its crescent, freed from the solar rays, would serve as a clock to the Selenites, as in its rotary movement each of its points after twenty-four hours repasses the same lunar meridian.

On the moon’s side the sight was different; the orb shone in all her splendor amid innumerable constellations, whose purity could not be troubled by her rays. On the disc, the plains were already returning to the dark tint which is seen from the earth. The other part of the nimbus remained brilliant, and in the midst of this general brilliancy Tycho shone prominently like a sun.

Barbicane had no means of estimating the projectile’s speed, but reasoning showed that it must uniformly decrease, according to the laws of mechanical reasoning. Having admitted that the projectile was describing an orbit around the moon, this orbit must necessarily be elliptical; science proves that it must be so. No motive body circulating round an attracting body fails in this law. Every orbit described in space is elliptical. And why should the projectile of the Gun Club escape this natural arrangement? In elliptical orbits, the attracting body always occupies one of the foci; so that at one moment the satellite is nearer, and at another farther from the orb around which it gravitates. When the earth is nearest the sun she is in her perihelion; and in her aphelion at the farthest point. Speaking of the moon, she is nearest to the earth in her perigee, and farthest from it in her apogee. To use analogous expressions, with which the astronomers’ language is enriched, if the projectile remains as a satellite of the moon, we must say that it is in its “aposelene” at its farthest point, and in its “periselene” at its nearest. In the latter case, the projectile would attain its maximum of speed; and in the former its minimum. It was evidently moving toward its aposelenitical point; and Barbicane had reason to think that its speed would decrease up to this point, and then increase by degrees as it neared the moon. This speed would even become nil, if this point joined that of equal attraction. Barbicane studied the consequences of these different situations, and thinking what inference he could draw from them, when he was roughly disturbed by a cry from Michel Ardan.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed, “I must admit we are down-right simpletons!”

“I do not say we are not,” replied Barbicane; “but why?”

“Because we have a very simple means of checking this speed which is bearing us from the moon, and we do not use it!”

“And what is the means?”

“To use the recoil contained in our rockets.”

“Done!” said Nicholl.

“We have not used this force yet,” said Barbicane, “it is true, but we will do so.”

“When?” asked Michel.

“When the time comes. Observe, my friends, that in the position occupied by the projectile, an oblique position with regard to the lunar disc, our rockets, in slightly altering its direction, might turn it from the moon instead of drawing it nearer?”

“Just so,” replied Michel.

“Let us wait, then. By some inexplicable influence, the projectile is turning its base toward the earth. It is probable that at the point of equal attraction, its conical cap will be directed rigidly toward the moon; at that moment we may hope that its speed will be nil; then will be the moment to act, and with the influence of our rockets we may perhaps provoke a fall directly on the surface of the lunar disc.”

“Bravo!” said Michel. “What we did not do, what we could not do on our first passage at the dead point, because the projectile was then endowed with too great a speed.”

“Very well reasoned,” said Nicholl.

“Let us wait patiently,” continued Barbicane. “Putting every chance on our side, and after having so much despaired, I may say I think we shall gain our end.”

This conclusion was a signal for Michel Ardan’s hips and hurrahs. And none of the audacious boobies remembered the question that they themselves had solved in the negative. No! the moon is not inhabited; no! the moon is probably not habitable. And yet they were going to try everything to reach her.

One single question remained to be solved. At what precise moment the projectile would reach the point of equal attraction, on which the travelers must play their last card. In order to calculate this to within a few seconds, Barbicane had only to refer to his notes, and to reckon the different heights taken on the lunar parallels. Thus the time necessary to travel over the distance between the dead point and the south pole would be equal to the distance separating the north pole from the dead point. The hours representing the time traveled over were carefully noted, and the calculation was easy. Barbicane found that this point would be reached at one in the morning on the night of the 7th-8th of December. So that, if nothing interfered with its course, it would reach the given point in twenty-two hours.

The rockets had primarily been placed to check the fall of the projectile upon the moon, and now they were going to employ them for a directly contrary purpose. In any case they were ready, and they had only to wait for the moment to set fire to them.

“Since there is nothing else to be done,” said Nicholl, “I make a proposition.”

“What is it?” asked Barbicane.

“I propose to go to sleep.”

“What a motion!” exclaimed Michel Ardan.

“It is forty hours since we closed our eyes,” said Nicholl.

“Some hours of sleep will restore our strength.”

“Never,” interrupted Michel.

“Well,” continued Nicholl, “every one to his taste; I shall go to sleep.” And stretching himself on the divan, he soon snored like a forty-eight pounder.

“That Nicholl has a good deal of sense,” said Barbicane; “presently I shall follow his example.” Some moments after his continued bass supported the captain’s baritone.

“Certainly,” said Michel Ardan, finding himself alone, “these practical people have sometimes most opportune ideas.”

And with his long legs stretched out, and his great arms folded under his head, Michel slept in his turn.

But this sleep could be neither peaceful nor lasting, the minds of these three men were too much occupied, and some hours after, about seven in the morning, all three were on foot at the same instant.

The projectile was still leaving the moon, and turning its conical part more and more toward her.

An explicable phenomenon, but one which happily served Barbicane’s ends.

Seventeen hours more, and the moment for action would have arrived.

The day seemed long. However bold the travelers might be, they were greatly impressed by the approach of that moment which would decide all — either precipitate their fall on to the moon, or forever chain them in an immutable orbit. They counted the hours as they passed too slow for their wish; Barbicane and Nicholl were obstinately plunged in their calculations, Michel going and coming between the narrow walls, and watching that impassive moon with a longing eye.

At times recollections of the earth crossed their minds. They saw once more their friends of the Gun Club, and the dearest of all, J. T. Maston. At that moment, the honorable secretary must be filling his post on the Rocky Mountains. If he could see the projectile through the glass of his gigantic telescope, what would he think? After seeing it disappear behind the moon’s south pole, he would see them reappear by the north pole! They must therefore be a satellite of a satellite! Had J. T. Maston given this unexpected news to the world? Was this the denouement of this great enterprise?

But the day passed without incident. The terrestrial midnight arrived. The 8th of December was beginning. One hour more, and the point of equal attraction would be reached. What speed would then animate the projectile? They could not estimate it. But no error could vitiate Barbicane’s calculations. At one in the morning this speed ought to be and would be nil.

Besides, another phenomenon would mark the projectile’s stopping-point on the neutral line. At that spot the two attractions, lunar and terrestrial, would be annulled. Objects would “weigh” no more. This singular fact, which had surprised Barbicane and his companions so much in going, would be repeated on their return under the very same conditions. At this precise moment they must act.

Already the projectile’s conical top was sensibly turned toward the lunar disc, presented in such a way as to utilize the whole of the recoil produced by the pressure of the rocket apparatus. The chances were in favor of the travelers. If its speed was utterly annulled on this dead point, a decided movement toward the moon would suffice, however slight, to determine its fall.

“Five minutes to one,” said Nicholl.

“All is ready,” replied Michel Ardan, directing a lighted match to the flame of the gas.

“Wait!” said Barbicane, holding his chronometer in his hand.

At that moment weight had no effect. The travelers felt in themselves the entire disappearance of it. They were very near the neutral point, if they did not touch it.

“One o’clock,” said Barbicane.

Michel Ardan applied the lighted match to a train in communication with the rockets. No detonation was heard in the inside, for there was no air. But, through the scuttles, Barbicane saw a prolonged smoke, the flames of which were immediately extinguished.

The projectile sustained a certain shock, which was sensibly felt in the interior.

The three friends looked and listened without speaking, and scarcely breathing. One might have heard the beating of their hearts amid this perfect silence.

“Are we falling?” asked Michel Ardan, at length.

“No,” said Nicholl, “since the bottom of the projectile is not turning to the lunar disc!”

At this moment, Barbicane, quitting his scuttle, turned to his two companions. He was frightfully pale, his forehead wrinkled, and his lips contracted.

“We are falling!” said he.

“Ah!” cried Michel Ardan, “on to the moon?”

“On to the earth!”

“The devil!” exclaimed Michel Ardan, adding philosophically, “well, when we came into this projectile we were very doubtful as to the ease with which we should get out of it!”

And now this fearful fall had begun. The speed retained had borne the projectile beyond the dead point. The explosion of the rockets could not divert its course. This speed in going had carried it over the neutral line, and in returning had done the same thing. The laws of physics condemned it to pass through every point which it had already gone through. It was a terrible fall, from a height of 160,000 miles, and no springs to break it. According to the laws of gunnery, the projectile must strike the earth with a speed equal to that with which it left the mouth of the Columbiad, a speed of 16,000 yards in the last second.

But to give some figures of comparison, it has been reckoned that an object thrown from the top of the towers of Notre Dame, the height of which is only 200 feet, will arrive on the pavement at a speed of 240 miles per hour. Here the projectile must strike the earth with a speed of 115,200 miles per hour.

“We are lost!” said Michel coolly.

“Very well! if we die,” answered Barbicane, with a sort of religious enthusiasm, “the results of our travels will be magnificently spread. It is His own secret that God will tell us! In the other life the soul will want to know nothing, either of machines or engines! It will be identified with eternal wisdom!”

“In fact,” interrupted Michel Ardan, “the whole of the other world may well console us for the loss of that inferior orb called the moon!”

Barbicane crossed his arms on his breast, with a motion of sublime resignation, saying at the same time: “The will of heaven be done!”

CHAPTER XX

THE SOUNDINGS OF THE SUSQUEHANNA

Well, lieutenant, and our soundings?”

“I think, sir, that the operation is nearing its completion,” replied Lieutenant Bronsfield. “But who would have thought of finding such a depth so near in shore, and only 200 miles from the American coast?”

“Certainly, Bronsfield, there is a great depression,” said Captain Blomsberry. “In this spot there is a submarine valley worn by Humboldt’s current, which skirts the coast of America as far as the Straits of Magellan.”

“These great depths,” continued the lieutenant, “are not favorable for laying telegraphic cables. A level bottom, like that supporting the American cable between Valentia and Newfoundland, is much better.”

“I agree with you, Bronsfield. With your permission, lieutenant, where are we now?”

“Sir, at this moment we have 3,508 fathoms of line out, and the ball which draws the sounding lead has not yet touched the bottom; for if so, it would have come up of itself.”

“Brook’s apparatus is very ingenious,” said Captain Blomsberry; “it gives us very exact soundings.”

“Touch!” cried at this moment one of the men at the forewheel, who was superintending the operation.

The captain and the lieutenant mounted the quarterdeck.

“What depth have we?” asked the captain.

“Three thousand six hundred and twenty-seven fathoms,” replied the lieutenant, entering it in his notebook.

“Well, Bronsfield,” said the captain, “I will take down the result. Now haul in the sounding line. It will be the work of some hours. In that time the engineer can light the furnaces, and we shall be ready to start as soon as you have finished. It is ten o’clock, and with your permission, lieutenant, I will turn in.”

“Do so, sir; do so!” replied the lieutenant obligingly.

The captain of the Susquehanna, as brave a man as need be, and the humble servant of his officers, returned to his cabin, took a brandy-grog, which earned for the steward no end of praise, and turned in, not without having complimented his servant upon his making beds, and slept a peaceful sleep.

It was then ten at night. The eleventh day of the month of

December was drawing to a close in a magnificent night.

The Susquehanna, a corvette of 500 horse-power, of the United

States navy, was occupied in taking soundings in the Pacific

Ocean about 200 miles off the American coast, following that

long peninsula which stretches down the coast of Mexico.

The wind had dropped by degrees. There was no disturbance in the air. The pennant hung motionless from the maintop-gallant- mast truck.

Captain Jonathan Blomsberry (cousin-german of Colonel Blomsberry, one of the most ardent supporters of the Gun Club, who had married an aunt of the captain and daughter of an honorable Kentucky merchant) — Captain Blomsberry could not have wished for finer weather in which to bring to a close his delicate operations of sounding. His corvette had not even felt the great tempest, which by sweeping away the groups of clouds on the Rocky Mountains, had allowed them to observe the course of the famous projectile.

Everything went well, and with all the fervor of a Presbyterian, he did not forget to thank heaven for it. The series of soundings taken by the Susquehanna, had for its aim the finding of a favorable spot for the laying of a submarine cable to connect the Hawaiian Islands with the coast of America.

It was a great undertaking, due to the instigation of a powerful company. Its managing director, the intelligent Cyrus Field, purposed even covering all the islands of Oceanica with a vast electrical network, an immense enterprise, and one worthy of American genius.

To the corvette Susquehanna had been confided the first operations of sounding. It was on the night of the 11th-12th of December, she was in exactly 27@ 7’ north latitude, and 41@ 37’ west longitude, on the meridian of Washington.

The moon, then in her last quarter, was beginning to rise above the horizon.

After the departure of Captain Blomsberry, the lieutenant and some officers were standing together on the poop. On the appearance of the moon, their thoughts turned to that orb which the eyes of a whole hemisphere were contemplating. The best naval glasses could not have discovered the projectile wandering around its hemisphere, and yet all were pointed toward that brilliant disc which millions of eyes were looking at at the same moment.

“They have been gone ten days,” said Lieutenant Bronsfield at last. “What has become of them?”

“They have arrived, lieutenant,” exclaimed a young midshipman, “and they are doing what all travelers do when they arrive in a new country, taking a walk!”

“Oh! I am sure of that, if you tell me so, my young friend,” said Lieutenant Bronsfield, smiling.

“But,” continued another officer, “their arrival cannot be doubted. The projectile was to reach the moon when full on the 5th at midnight. We are now at the 11th of December, which makes six days. And in six times twenty-four hours, without darkness, one would have time to settle comfortably. I fancy I see my brave countrymen encamped at the bottom of some valley, on the borders of a Selenite stream, near a projectile half-buried by its fall amid volcanic rubbish, Captain Nicholl beginning his leveling operations, President Barbicane writing out his notes, and Michel Ardan embalming the lunar solitudes with the perfume of his — — “

“Yes! it must be so, it is so!” exclaimed the young midshipman, worked up to a pitch of enthusiasm by this ideal description of his superior officer.

“I should like to believe it,” replied the lieutenant, who was quite unmoved. “Unfortunately direct news from the lunar world is still wanting.”

“Beg pardon, lieutenant,” said the midshipman, “but cannot

President Barbicane write?”

A burst of laughter greeted this answer.

“No letters!” continued the young man quickly. “The postal administration has something to see to there.”

“Might it not be the telegraphic service that is at fault?” asked one of the officers ironically.

“Not necessarily,” replied the midshipman, not at all confused. “But it is very easy to set up a graphic communication with the earth.”

“And how?”

“By means of the telescope at Long’s Peak. You know it brings the moon to within four miles of the Rocky Mountains, and that it shows objects on its surface of only nine feet in diameter. Very well; let our industrious friends construct a giant alphabet; let them write words three fathoms long, and sentences three miles long, and then they can send us news of themselves.”

The young midshipman, who had a certain amount of imagination, was loudly applauded; Lieutenant Bronsfield allowing that the idea was possible, but observing that if by these means they could receive news from the lunar world they could not send any from the terrestrial, unless the Selenites had instruments fit for taking distant observations at their disposal.

“Evidently,” said one of the officers; “but what has become of the travelers? what they have done, what they have seen, that above all must interest us. Besides, if the experiment has succeeded (which I do not doubt), they will try it again. The Columbiad is still sunk in the soil of Florida. It is now only a question of powder and shot; and every time the moon is at her zenith a cargo of visitors may be sent to her.”

“It is clear,” replied Lieutenant Bronsfield, “that J. T. Maston will one day join his friends.”

“If he will have me,” cried the midshipman, “I am ready!”

“Oh! volunteers will not be wanting,” answered Bronsfield; “and if it were allowed, half of the earth’s inhabitants would emigrate to the moon!”

This conversation between the officers of the Susquehanna was kept up until nearly one in the morning. We cannot say what blundering systems were broached, what inconsistent theories advanced by these bold spirits. Since Barbicane’s attempt, nothing seemed impossible to the Americans. They had already designed an expedition, not only of savants, but of a whole colony toward the Selenite borders, and a complete army, consisting of infantry, artillery, and cavalry, to conquer the lunar world.

At one in the morning, the hauling in of the sounding-line was not yet completed; 1,670 fathoms were still out, which would entail some hours’ work. According to the commander’s orders, the fires had been lighted, and steam was being got up. The Susquehanna could have started that very instant.

At that moment (it was seventeen minutes past one in the morning) Lieutenant Bronsfield was preparing to leave the watch and return to his cabin, when his attention was attracted by a distant hissing noise. His comrades and himself first thought that this hissing was caused by the letting off of steam; but lifting their heads, they found that the noise was produced in the highest regions of the air. They had not time to question each other before the hissing became frightfully intense, and suddenly there appeared to their dazzled eyes an enormous meteor, ignited by the rapidity of its course and its friction through the atmospheric strata.

This fiery mass grew larger to their eyes, and fell, with the noise of thunder, upon the bowsprit, which it smashed close to the stem, and buried itself in the waves with a deafening roar!

A few feet nearer, and the Susquehanna would have foundered with all on board!

At this instant Captain Blomsberry appeared, half-dressed, and rushing on to the forecastle-deck, whither all the officers had hurried, exclaimed, “With your permission, gentlemen, what has happened?”

And the midshipman, making himself as it were the echo of the body, cried, “Commander, it is `they’ come back again!”

CHAPTER XXII

RECOVERED FROM THE SEA

The spot where the projectile sank under the waves was exactly known; but the machinery to grasp it and bring it to the surface of the ocean was still wanting. It must first be invented, then made. American engineers could not be troubled with such trifles. The grappling-irons once fixed, by their help they were sure to raise it in spite of its weight, which was lessened by the density of the liquid in which it was plunged.

But fishing-up the projectile was not the only thing to be thought of. They must act promptly in the interest of the travelers. No one doubted that they were still living.

“Yes,” repeated J. T. Maston incessantly, whose confidence gained over everybody, “our friends are clever people, and they cannot have fallen like simpletons. They are alive, quite alive; but we must make haste if we wish to find them so. Food and water do not trouble me; they have enough for a long while. But air, air, that is what they will soon want; so quick, quick!”

And they did go quick. They fitted up the Susquehanna for her new destination. Her powerful machinery was brought to bear upon the hauling-chains. The aluminum projectile only weighed 19,250 pounds, a weight very inferior to that of the transatlantic cable which had been drawn up under similar conditions. The only difficulty was in fishing up a cylindro-conical projectile, the walls of which were so smooth as to offer no hold for the hooks. On that account Engineer Murchison hastened to San Francisco, and had some enormous grappling-irons fixed on an automatic system, which would never let the projectile go if it once succeeded in seizing it in its powerful claws. Diving-dresses were also prepared, which through this impervious covering allowed the divers to observe the bottom of the sea. He also had put on board an apparatus of compressed air very cleverly designed. There were perfect chambers pierced with scuttles, which, with water let into certain compartments, could draw it down into great depths. These apparatuses were at San Francisco, where they had been used in the construction of a submarine breakwater; and very fortunately it was so, for there was no time to construct any. But in spite of the perfection of the machinery, in spite of the ingenuity of the savants entrusted with the use of them, the success of the operation was far from being certain. How great were the chances against them, the projectile being 20,000 feet under the water! And if even it was brought to the surface, how would the travelers have borne the terrible shock which 20,000 feet of water had perhaps not sufficiently broken? At any rate they must act quickly. J. T. Maston hurried the workmen day and night. He was ready to don the diving-dress himself, or try the air apparatus, in order to reconnoiter the situation of his courageous friends.

But in spite of all the diligence displayed in preparing the different engines, in spite of the considerable sum placed at the disposal of the Gun Club by the Government of the Union, five long days (five centuries!) elapsed before the preparations were complete. During this time public opinion was excited to the highest pitch. Telegrams were exchanged incessantly throughout the entire world by means of wires and electric cables. The saving of Barbicane, Nicholl, and Michel Ardan was an international affair. Every one who had subscribed to the Gun Club was directly interested in the welfare of the travelers.

At length the hauling-chains, the air-chambers, and the automatic grappling-irons were put on board. J. T. Maston, Engineer Murchison, and the delegates of the Gun Club, were already in their cabins. They had but to start, which they did on the 21st of December, at eight o’clock at night, the corvette meeting with a beautiful sea, a northeasterly wind, and rather sharp cold. The whole population of San Francisco was gathered on the quay, greatly excited but silent, reserving their hurrahs for the return. Steam was fully up, and the screw of the Susquehanna carried them briskly out of the bay.

It is needless to relate the conversations on board between the officers, sailors, and passengers. All these men had but one thought. All these hearts beat under the same emotion. While they were hastening to help them, what were Barbicane and his companions doing? What had become of them? Were they able to attempt any bold maneuver to regain their liberty? None could say. The truth is that every attempt must have failed! Immersed nearly four miles under the ocean, this metal prison defied every effort of its prisoners.

On the 23rd inst. at eight in the morning, after a rapid passage, the Susquehanna was due at the fatal spot. They must wait till twelve to take the reckoning exactly. The buoy to which the sounding line had been lashed had not yet been recognized.

At twelve, Captain Blomsberry, assisted by his officers who superintended the observations, took the reckoning in the presence of the delegates of the Gun Club. Then there was a moment of anxiety. Her position decided, the Susquehanna was found to be some minutes westward of the spot where the projectile had disappeared beneath the waves.

The ship’s course was then changed so as to reach this exact point.

At forty-seven minutes past twelve they reached the buoy; it was in perfect condition, and must have shifted but little.

“At last!” exclaimed J. T. Maston.

“Shall we begin?” asked Captain Blomsberry.

“Without losing a second.”

Every precaution was taken to keep the corvette almost completely motionless. Before trying to seize the projectile, Engineer Murchison wanted to find its exact position at the bottom of the ocean. The submarine apparatus destined for this expedition was supplied with air. The working of these engines was not without danger, for at 20,000 feet below the surface of the water, and under such great pressure, they were exposed to fracture, the consequences of which would be dreadful.

J. T. Maston, the brothers Blomsberry, and Engineer Murchison, without heeding these dangers, took their places in the air-chamber. The commander, posted on his bridge, superintended the operation, ready to stop or haul in the chains on the slightest signal. The screw had been shipped, and the whole power of the machinery collected on the capstan would have quickly drawn the apparatus on board. The descent began at twenty-five minutes past one at night, and the chamber, drawn under by the reservoirs full of water, disappeared from the surface of the ocean.

The emotion of the officers and sailors on board was now divided between the prisoners in the projectile and the prisoners in the submarine apparatus. As to the latter, they forgot themselves, and, glued to the windows of the scuttles, attentively watched the liquid mass through which they were passing.

The descent was rapid. At seventeen minutes past two, J. T. Maston and his companions had reached the bottom of the Pacific; but they saw nothing but an arid desert, no longer animated by either fauna or flora. By the light of their lamps, furnished with powerful reflectors, they could see the dark beds of the ocean for a considerable extent of view, but the projectile was nowhere to be seen.

The impatience of these bold divers cannot be described, and having an electrical communication with the corvette, they made a signal already agreed upon, and for the space of a mile the Susquehanna moved their chamber along some yards above the bottom.

Thus they explored the whole submarine plain, deceived at every turn by optical illusions which almost broke their hearts. Here a rock, there a projection from the ground, seemed to be the much-sought-for projectile; but their mistake was soon discovered, and then they were in despair.

“But where are they? where are they?” cried J. T. Maston. And the poor man called loudly upon Nicholl, Barbicane, and Michel Ardan, as if his unfortunate friends could either hear or answer him through such an impenetrable medium! The search continued under these conditions until the vitiated air compelled the divers to ascend.

The hauling in began about six in the evening, and was not ended before midnight.

“To-morrow,” said J. T. Maston, as he set foot on the bridge of the corvette.

“Yes,” answered Captain Blomsberry.

“And on another spot?”

“Yes.”

J. T. Maston did not doubt of their final success, but his companions, no longer upheld by the excitement of the first hours, understood all the difficulty of the enterprise. What seemed easy at San Francisco, seemed here in the wide ocean almost impossible. The chances of success diminished in rapid proportion; and it was from chance alone that the meeting with the projectile might be expected.

The next day, the 24th, in spite of the fatigue of the previous day, the operation was renewed. The corvette advanced some minutes to westward, and the apparatus, provided with air, bore the same explorers to the depths of the ocean.

The whole day passed in fruitless research; the bed of the sea was a desert. The 25th brought no other result, nor the 26th.

It was disheartening. They thought of those unfortunates shut up in the projectile for twenty-six days. Perhaps at that moment they were experiencing the first approach of suffocation; that is, if they had escaped the dangers of their fall. The air was spent, and doubtless with the air all their morale.

“The air, possibly,” answered J. T. Maston resolutely, “but their morale never!”

On the 28th, after two more days of search, all hope was gone.

This projectile was but an atom in the immensity of the ocean.

They must give up all idea of finding it.

But J. T. Maston would not hear of going away. He would not abandon the place without at least discovering the tomb of his friends. But Commander Blomsberry could no longer persist, and in spite of the exclamations of the worthy secretary, was obliged to give the order to sail.

On the 29th of December, at nine A.M. the Susquehanna, heading northeast, resumed her course to the bay of San Francisco.

It was ten in the morning; the corvette was under half-steam, as it was regretting to leave the spot where the catastrophe had taken place, when a sailor, perched on the main-top-gallant crosstrees, watching the sea, cried suddenly: “A buoy on the lee bow!”

The officers looked in the direction indicated, and by the help of their glasses saw that the object signalled had the appearance of one of those buoys which are used to mark the passages of bays or rivers. But, singularly to say, a flag floating on the wind surmounted its cone, which emerged five or six feet out of water. This buoy shone under the rays of the sun as if it had been made of plates of silver. Commander Blomsberry, J. T. Maston, and the delegates of the Gun Club were mounted on the bridge, examining this object straying at random on the waves.

All looked with feverish anxiety, but in silence. None dared give expression to the thoughts which came to the minds of all.

The corvette approached to within two cables’ lengths of the object.

A shudder ran through the whole crew. That flag was the American flag!

At this moment a perfect howling was heard; it was the brave J. T. Maston who had just fallen all in a heap. Forgetting on the one hand that his right arm had been replaced by an iron hook, and on the other that a simple gutta-percha cap covered his brain-box, he had given himself a formidable blow.

They hurried toward him, picked him up, restored him to life.

And what were his first words?

“Ah! trebly brutes! quadruply idiots! quintuply boobies that we are!”

“What is it?” exclaimed everyone around him.

“What is it?”

“Come, speak!”

“It is, simpletons,” howled the terrible secretary, “it is that the projectile only weighs 19,250 pounds!”

“Well?”

“And that it displaces twenty-eight tons, or in other words 56,000 pounds, and that consequently it floats!”

Ah! what stress the worthy man had laid on the verb “float!” And it was true! All, yes! all these savants had forgotten this fundamental law, namely, that on account of its specific lightness, the projectile, after having been drawn by its fall to the greatest depths of the ocean, must naturally return to the surface. And now it was floating quietly at the mercy of the waves.

The boats were put to sea. J. T. Maston and his friends had rushed into them! Excitement was at its height! Every heart beat loudly while they advanced to the projectile. What did it contain? Living or dead?

Living, yes! living, at least unless death had struck Barbicane and his two friends since they had hoisted the flag.

Profound silence reigned on the boats. All were breathless.

Eyes no longer saw. One of the scuttles of the projectile was open.

Some pieces of glass remained in the frame, showing that it had been broken. This scuttle was actually five feet above the water.

A boat came alongside, that of J. T. Maston, and J. T. Maston rushed to the broken window.

At that moment they heard a clear and merry voice, the voice of Michel Ardan, exclaiming in an accent of triumph: “White all, Barbicane, white all!”

Barbicane, Michel Ardan, and Nicholl were playing at dominoes!

CHAPTER XXIII

THE END

We may remember the intense sympathy which had accompanied the travelers on their departure. If at the beginning of the enterprise they had excited such emotion both in the old and new world, with what enthusiasm would they be received on their return! The millions of spectators which had beset the peninsula of Florida, would they not rush to meet these sublime adventurers? Those legions of strangers, hurrying from all parts of the globe toward the American shores, would they leave the Union without having seen Barbicane, Nicholl, and Michel Ardan? No! and the ardent passion of the public was bound to respond worthily to the greatness of the enterprise. Human creatures who had left the terrestrial sphere, and returned after this strange voyage into celestial space, could not fail to be received as the prophet Elias would be if he came back to earth. To see them first, and then to hear them, such was the universal longing.

Barbicane, Michel Ardan, Nicholl, and the delegates of the Gun Club, returning without delay to Baltimore, were received with indescribable enthusiasm. The notes of President Barbicane’s voyage were ready to be given to the public. The New York Herald bought the manuscript at a price not yet known, but which must have been very high. Indeed, during the publication of “A Journey to the Moon,” the sale of this paper amounted to five millions of copies. Three days after the return of the travelers to the earth, the slightest detail of their expedition was known. There remained nothing more but to see the heroes of this superhuman enterprise.

The expedition of Barbicane and his friends round the moon had enabled them to correct the many admitted theories regarding the terrestrial satellite. These savants had observed de visu, and under particular circumstances. They knew what systems should be rejected, what retained with regard to the formation of that orb, its origin, its habitability. Its past, present, and future had even given up their last secrets. Who could advance objections against conscientious observers, who at less than twenty-four miles distance had marked that curious mountain of Tycho, the strangest system of lunar orography? How answer those savants whose sight had penetrated the abyss of Pluto’s circle? How contradict those bold ones whom the chances of their enterprise had borne over that invisible face of the disc, which no human eye until then had ever seen? It was now their turn to impose some limit on that selenographic science, which had reconstructed the lunar world as Cuvier did the skeleton of a fossil, and say, “The moon was this, a habitable world, inhabited before the earth. The moon is that, a world uninhabitable, and now uninhabited.”

To celebrate the return of its most illustrious member and his two companions, the Gun Club decided upon giving a banquet, but a banquet worthy of the conquerors, worthy of the American people, and under such conditions that all the inhabitants of the Union could directly take part in it.

All the head lines of railroads in the States were joined by flying rails; and on all the platforms, lined with the same flags, and decorated with the same ornaments, were tables laid and all served alike. At certain hours, successively calculated, marked by electric clocks which beat the seconds at the same time, the population were invited to take their places at the banquet tables. For four days, from the 5th to the 9th of January, the trains were stopped as they are on Sundays on the railways of the United States, and every road was open. One engine only at full speed, drawing a triumphal carriage, had the right of traveling for those four days on the railroads of the United States.

The engine was manned by a driver and a stoker, and bore, by special favor, the Hon. J. T. Maston, secretary of the Gun Club. The carriage was reserved for President Barbicane, Colonel Nicholl, and Michel Ardan. At the whistle of the driver, amid the hurrahs, and all the admiring vociferations of the American language, the train left the platform of Baltimore. It traveled at a speed of one hundred and sixty miles in the hour. But what was this speed compared with that which had carried the three heroes from the mouth of the Columbiad?

Thus they sped from one town to the other, finding whole populations at table on their road, saluting them with the same acclamations, lavishing the same bravos! They traveled in this way through the east of the Union, Pennsylvania, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Vermont, Maine, and New Hampshire; the north and west by New York, Ohio, Michigan, and Wisconsin; returning to the south by Illinois, Missouri, Arkansas, Texas, and Louisiana; they went to the southeast by Alabama and Florida, going up by Georgia and the Carolinas, visiting the center by Tennessee, Kentucky, Virginia, and Indiana, and, after quitting the Washington station, re-entered Baltimore, where for four days one would have thought that the United States of America were seated at one immense banquet, saluting them simultaneously with the same hurrahs! The apotheosis was worthy of these three heroes whom fable would have placed in the rank of demigods.

And now will this attempt, unprecedented in the annals of travels, lead to any practical result? Will direct communication with the moon ever be established? Will they ever lay the foundation of a traveling service through the solar world? Will they go from one planet to another, from Jupiter to Mercury, and after awhile from one star to another, from the Polar to Sirius? Will this means of locomotion allow us to visit those suns which swarm in the firmament?

To such questions no answer can be given. But knowing the bold ingenuity of the Anglo-Saxon race, no one would be astonished if the Americans seek to make some use of President Barbicane’s attempt.

Thus, some time after the return of the travelers, the public received with marked favor the announcement of a company, limited, with a capital of a hundred million of dollars, divided into a hundred thousand shares of a thousand dollars each, under the name of the “National Company of Interstellary Communication.” President, Barbicane; vice-president, Captain Nicholl; secretary, J. T. Maston; director of movements, Michel Ardan.

And as it is part of the American temperament to foresee everything in business, even failure, the Honorable Harry Trolloppe, judge commissioner, and Francis Drayton, magistrate, were nominated beforehand!

TWENTY THOUSAND LEAGUES UNDER THE SEA

Translated by Lewis Mercier

First published in 1870, this novel is one of Verne’s most famous works. It tells the story of Captain Nemo and his submarine Nautilus, from the perspective of Professor Pierre Aronnax. The title refers to the distance travelled under the sea and not to a depth, as is often misunderstood.

The narrative begins in 1866, when a mysterious sea monster is sighted and then an ocean liner is damaged by the mysterious creature. The United States government finally assembles an expedition in New York City to track down and destroy the menace. Professor Pierre Aronnax, a noted French marine biologist and narrator of the story, who happens to be in New York at the time and is a recognised expert in his field, is invited to join the expedition.

The original frontispiece

The first edition in English

CONTENTS

PART ONE

CHAPTER I

A SHIFTING REEF

CHAPTER II

PRO AND CON

CHAPTER III

I FORM MY RESOLUTION

CHAPTER IV

NED LAND

CHAPTER V

AT A VENTURE

CHAPTER VI

AT FULL STEAM

CHAPTER VII

AN UNKNOWN SPECIES OF WHALE

CHAPTER VIII

MOBILIS IN MOBILI

CHAPTER IX

NED LAND’S TEMPERS

CHAPTER X

THE MAN OF THE SEAS

CHAPTER XI

ALL BY ELECTRICITY

CHAPTER XII

SOME FIGURES

CHAPTER XIII

THE BLACK RIVER

CHAPTER XIV

A NOTE OF INVITATION

CHAPTER XV

A WALK ON THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA

CHAPTER XVI

A SUBMARINE FOREST

CHAPTER XVII

FOUR THOUSAND LEAGUES UNDER THE PACIFIC

CHAPTER XVIII

VANIKORO

CHAPTER XIX

TORRES STRAITS

CHAPTER XX

A FEW DAYS ON LAND

CHAPTER XXI

CAPTAIN NEMO’S THUNDERBOLT

CHAPTER XXII

“AEGRI SOMNIA”

CHAPTER XXIII

THE CORAL KINGDOM

PART TWO

CHAPTER I

THE INDIAN OCEAN

CHAPTER II

A NOVEL PROPOSAL OF CAPTAIN NEMO’S

CHAPTER III

A PEARL OF TEN MILLIONS

CHAPTER IV

THE RED SEA

CHAPTER V

THE ARABIAN TUNNEL

CHAPTER VI

THE GRECIAN ARCHIPELAGO

CHAPTER VII

THE MEDITERRANEAN IN FORTY-EIGHT HOURS

CHAPTER VIII

VIGO BAY

CHAPTER IX

A VANISHED CONTINENT

CHAPTER X

THE SUBMARINE COAL-MINES

CHAPTER XI

THE SARGASSO SEA

CHAPTER XII

CACHALOTS AND WHALES

CHAPTER XIII

THE ICEBERG

CHAPTER XIV

THE SOUTH POLE

CHAPTER XV

ACCIDENT OR INCIDENT?

CHAPTER XVI

WANT OF AIR

CHAPTER XVII

FROM CAPE HORN TO THE AMAZON

CHAPTER XVIII

THE POULPS

CHAPTER XIX

THE GULF STREAM

CHAPTER XX

FROM LATITUDE 47deg 24’ TO LONGITUDE 17deg 28’

CHAPTER XXI

A HECATOMB

CHAPTER XXII

THE LAST WORDS OF CAPTAIN NEMO

CHAPTER XXIII

CONCLUSION

PART ONE

CHAPTER I

A SHIFTING REEF

The year 1866 was signalised by a remarkable incident, a mysterious and puzzling phenomenon, which doubtless no one has yet forgotten. Not to mention rumours which agitated the maritime population and excited the public mind, even in the interior of continents, seafaring men were particularly excited. Merchants, common sailors, captains of vessels, skippers, both of Europe and America, naval officers of all countries, and the Governments of several States on the two continents, were deeply interested in the matter.

For some time past vessels had been met by “an enormous thing,” a long object, spindle-shaped, occasionally phosphorescent, and infinitely larger and more rapid in its movements than a whale.

The facts relating to this apparition (entered in various log-books) agreed in most respects as to the shape of the object or creature in question, the untiring rapidity of its movements, its surprising power of locomotion, and the peculiar life with which it seemed endowed. If it was a whale, it surpassed in size all those hitherto classified in science. Taking into consideration the mean of observations made at divers times — rejecting the timid estimate of those who assigned to this object a length of two hundred feet, equally with the exaggerated opinions which set it down as a mile in width and three in length — we might fairly conclude that this mysterious being surpassed greatly all dimensions admitted by the learned ones of the day, if it existed at all. And that it DID exist was an undeniable fact; and, with that tendency which disposes the human mind in favour of the marvellous, we can understand the excitement produced in the entire world by this supernatural apparition. As to classing it in the list of fables, the idea was out of the question.

On the 20th of July, 1866, the steamer Governor Higginson, of the Calcutta and Burnach Steam Navigation Company, had met this moving mass five miles off the east coast of Australia. Captain Baker thought at first that he was in the presence of an unknown sandbank; he even prepared to determine its exact position when two columns of water, projected by the mysterious object, shot with a hissing noise a hundred and fifty feet up into the air. Now, unless the sandbank had been submitted to the intermittent eruption of a geyser, the Governor Higginson had to do neither more nor less than with an aquatic mammal, unknown till then, which threw up from its blow-holes columns of water mixed with air and vapour.

Similar facts were observed on the 23rd of July in the same year, in the Pacific Ocean, by the Columbus, of the West India and Pacific Steam Navigation Company. But this extraordinary creature could transport itself from one place to another with surprising velocity; as, in an interval of three days, the Governor Higginson and the Columbus had observed it at two different points of the chart, separated by a distance of more than seven hundred nautical leagues.

Fifteen days later, two thousand miles farther off, the Helvetia, of the Compagnie-Nationale, and the Shannon, of the Royal Mail Steamship Company, sailing to windward in that portion of the Atlantic lying between the United States and Europe, respectively signalled the monster to each other in 42deg 15’ N. lat. and 60deg 35’ W. long. In these simultaneous observations they thought themselves justified in estimating the minimum length of the mammal at more than three hundred and fifty feet, as the Shannon and Helvetia were of smaller dimensions than it, though they measured three hundred feet over all.

Now the largest whales, those which frequent those parts of the sea round the Aleutian, Kulammak, and Umgullich islands, have never exceeded the length of sixty yards, if they attain that.

In every place of great resort the monster was the fashion. They sang of it in the cafes, ridiculed it in the papers, and represented it on the stage. All kinds of stories were circulated regarding it. There appeared in the papers caricatures of every gigantic and imaginary creature, from the white whale, the terrible “Moby Dick” of sub-arctic regions, to the immense kraken, whose tentacles could entangle a ship of five hundred tons and hurry it into the abyss of the ocean. The legends of ancient times were even revived.

Then burst forth the unending argument between the believers and the unbelievers in the societies of the wise and the scientific journals. “The question of the monster” inflamed all minds. Editors of scientific journals, quarrelling with believers in the supernatural, spilled seas of ink during this memorable campaign, some even drawing blood; for from the sea-serpent they came to direct personalities.

During the first months of the year 1867 the question seemed buried, never to revive, when new facts were brought before the public. It was then no longer a scientific problem to be solved, but a real danger seriously to be avoided. The question took quite another shape. The monster became a small island, a rock, a reef, but a reef of indefinite and shifting proportions.

On the 5th of March, 1867, the Moravian, of the Montreal Ocean Company, finding herself during the night in 27deg 30’ lat. and 72deg 15’ long. struck on her starboard quarter a rock, marked in no chart for that part of the sea. Under the combined efforts of the wind and its four hundred horse power, it was going at the rate of thirteen knots. Had it not been for the superior strength of the hull of the Moravian, she would have been broken by the shock and gone down with the 237 passengers she was bringing home from Canada.

The accident happened about five o’clock in the morning, as the day was breaking. The officers of the quarter-deck hurried to the after-part of the vessel. They examined the sea with the most careful attention. They saw nothing but a strong eddy about three cables’ length distant, as if the surface had been violently agitated. The bearings of the place were taken exactly, and the Moravian continued its route without apparent damage. Had it struck on a submerged rock, or on an enormous wreck? They could not tell; but, on examination of the ship’s bottom when undergoing repairs, it was found that part of her keel was broken.

This fact, so grave in itself, might perhaps have been forgotten like many others if, three weeks after, it had not been re-enacted under similar circumstances. But, thanks to the nationality of the victim of the shock, thanks to the reputation of the company to which the vessel belonged, the circumstance became extensively circulated.

The 13th of April, 1867, the sea being beautiful, the breeze favourable, the Scotia, of the Cunard Company’s line, found herself in 15deg 12’ long. and 45deg 37’ lat. She was going at the speed of thirteen knots and a half.

At seventeen minutes past four in the afternoon, whilst the passengers were assembled at lunch in the great saloon, a slight shock was felt on the hull of the Scotia, on her quarter, a little aft of the port-paddle.

The Scotia had not struck, but she had been struck, and seemingly by something rather sharp and penetrating than blunt. The shock had been so slight that no one had been alarmed, had it not been for the shouts of the carpenter’s watch, who rushed on to the bridge, exclaiming, “We are sinking! we are sinking!” At first the passengers were much frightened, but Captain Anderson hastened to reassure them. The danger could not be imminent. The Scotia, divided into seven compartments by strong partitions, could brave with impunity any leak. Captain Anderson went down immediately into the hold. He found that the sea was pouring into the fifth compartment; and the rapidity of the influx proved that the force of the water was considerable. Fortunately this compartment did not hold the boilers, or the fires would have been immediately extinguished. Captain Anderson ordered the engines to be stopped at once, and one of the men went down to ascertain the extent of the injury. Some minutes afterwards they discovered the existence of a large hole, two yards in diameter, in the ship’s bottom. Such a leak could not be stopped; and the Scotia, her paddles half submerged, was obliged to continue her course. She was then three hundred miles from Cape Clear, and, after three days’ delay, which caused great uneasiness in Liverpool, she entered the basin of the company.

The engineers visited the Scotia, which was put in dry dock. They could scarcely believe it possible; at two yards and a half below water-mark was a regular rent, in the form of an isosceles triangle. The broken place in the iron plates was so perfectly defined that it could not have been more neatly done by a punch. It was clear, then, that the instrument producing the perforation was not of a common stamp and, after having been driven with prodigious strength, and piercing an iron plate 1 3/8 inches thick, had withdrawn itself by a backward motion.

Such was the last fact, which resulted in exciting once more the torrent of public opinion. From this moment all unlucky casualties which could not be otherwise accounted for were put down to the monster.

Upon this imaginary creature rested the responsibility of all these shipwrecks, which unfortunately were considerable; for of three thousand ships whose loss was annually recorded at Lloyd’s, the number of sailing and steam-ships supposed to be totally lost, from the absence of all news, amounted to not less than two hundred!

Now, it was the “monster” who, justly or unjustly, was accused of their disappearance, and, thanks to it, communication between the different continents became more and more dangerous. The public demanded sharply that the seas should at any price be relieved from this formidable cetacean.

Member of the whale family.

CHAPTER III

I FORM MY RESOLUTION

Three seconds before the arrival of J. B. Hobson’s letter I no more thought of pursuing the unicorn than of attempting the passage of the North Sea. Three seconds after reading the letter of the honourable Secretary of Marine, I felt that my true vocation, the sole end of my life, was to chase this disturbing monster and purge it from the world.

But I had just returned from a fatiguing journey, weary and longing for repose. I aspired to nothing more than again seeing my country, my friends, my little lodging by the Jardin des Plantes, my dear and precious collections — but nothing could keep me back! I forgot all — fatigue, friends and collections — and accepted without hesitation the offer of the American Government.

“Besides,” thought I, “all roads lead back to Europe; and the unicorn may be amiable enough to hurry me towards the coast of France. This worthy animal may allow itself to be caught in the seas of Europe (for my particular benefit), and I will not bring back less than half a yard of his ivory halberd to the Museum of Natural History.” But in the meanwhile I must seek this narwhal in the North Pacific Ocean, which, to return to France, was taking the road to the antipodes.

“Conseil,” I called in an impatient voice.

Conseil was my servant, a true, devoted Flemish boy, who had accompanied me in all my travels. I liked him, and he returned the liking well. He was quiet by nature, regular from principle, zealous from habit, evincing little disturbance at the different surprises of life, very quick with his hands, and apt at any service required of him; and, despite his name, never giving advice — even when asked for it.

Conseil had followed me for the last ten years wherever science led. Never once did he complain of the length or fatigue of a journey, never make an objection to pack his portmanteau for whatever country it might be, or however far away, whether China or Congo. Besides all this, he had good health, which defied all sickness, and solid muscles, but no nerves; good morals are understood. This boy was thirty years old, and his age to that of his master as fifteen to twenty. May I be excused for saying that I was forty years old?

But Conseil had one fault: he was ceremonious to a degree, and would never speak to me but in the third person, which was sometimes provoking.

“Conseil,” said I again, beginning with feverish hands to make preparations for my departure.

Certainly I was sure of this devoted boy. As a rule, I never asked him if it were convenient for him or not to follow me in my travels; but this time the expedition in question might be prolonged, and the enterprise might be hazardous in pursuit of an animal capable of sinking a frigate as easily as a nutshell. Here there was matter for reflection even to the most impassive man in the world. What would Conseil say?

“Conseil,” I called a third time.

Conseil appeared.

“Did you call, sir?” said he, entering.

“Yes, my boy; make preparations for me and yourself too. We leave in two hours.”

“As you please, sir,” replied Conseil, quietly.

“Not an instant to lose; lock in my trunk all travelling utensils, coats, shirts, and stockings — without counting, as many as you can, and make haste.”

“And your collections, sir?” observed Conseil.

“They will keep them at the hotel.”

“We are not returning to Paris, then?” said Conseil.

“Oh! certainly,” I answered, evasively, “by making a curve.”

“Will the curve please you, sir?”

“Oh! it will be nothing; not quite so direct a road, that is all. We take our passage in the Abraham, Lincoln.”

“As you think proper, sir,” coolly replied Conseil.

“You see, my friend, it has to do with the monster — the famous narwhal. We are going to purge it from the seas. A glorious mission, but a dangerous one! We cannot tell where we may go; these animals can be very capricious. But we will go whether or no; we have got a captain who is pretty wide-awake.”

Our luggage was transported to the deck of the frigate immediately. I hastened on board and asked for Commander Farragut. One of the sailors conducted me to the poop, where I found myself in the presence of a good-looking officer, who held out his hand to me.

“Monsieur Pierre Aronnax?” said he.

“Himself,” replied I. “Commander Farragut?”

“You are welcome, Professor; your cabin is ready for you.”

I bowed, and desired to be conducted to the cabin destined for me.

The Abraham Lincoln had been well chosen and equipped for her new destination. She was a frigate of great speed, fitted with high-pressure engines which admitted a pressure of seven atmospheres. Under this the Abraham Lincoln attained the mean speed of nearly eighteen knots and a third an hour — a considerable speed, but, nevertheless, insufficient to grapple with this gigantic cetacean.

The interior arrangements of the frigate corresponded to its nautical qualities. I was well satisfied with my cabin, which was in the after part, opening upon the gunroom.

“We shall be well off here,” said I to Conseil.

“As well, by your honour’s leave, as a hermit-crab in the shell of a whelk,” said Conseil.

I left Conseil to stow our trunks conveniently away, and remounted the poop in order to survey the preparations for departure.

At that moment Commander Farragut was ordering the last moorings to be cast loose which held the Abraham Lincoln to the pier of Brooklyn. So in a quarter of an hour, perhaps less, the frigate would have sailed without me. I should have missed this extraordinary, supernatural, and incredible expedition, the recital of which may well meet with some suspicion.

But Commander Farragut would not lose a day nor an hour in scouring the seas in which the animal had been sighted. He sent for the engineer.

“Is the steam full on?” asked he.

“Yes, sir,” replied the engineer.

“Go ahead,” cried Commander Farragut.

CHAPTER IV

NED LAND

Captain Farragut was a good seaman, worthy of the frigate he commanded. His vessel and he were one. He was the soul of it. On the question of the monster there was no doubt in his mind, and he would not allow the existence of the animal to be disputed on board. He believed in it, as certain good women believe in the leviathan — by faith, not by reason. The monster did exist, and he had sworn to rid the seas of it. Either Captain Farragut would kill the narwhal, or the narwhal would kill the captain. There was no third course.

The officers on board shared the opinion of their chief. They were ever chatting, discussing, and calculating the various chances of a meeting, watching narrowly the vast surface of the ocean. More than one took up his quarters voluntarily in the cross-trees, who would have cursed such a berth under any other circumstances. As long as the sun described its daily course, the rigging was crowded with sailors, whose feet were burnt to such an extent by the heat of the deck as to render it unbearable; still the Abraham Lincoln had not yet breasted the suspected waters of the Pacific. As to the ship’s company, they desired nothing better than to meet the unicorn, to harpoon it, hoist it on board, and despatch it. They watched the sea with eager attention.

Besides, Captain Farragut had spoken of a certain sum of two thousand dollars, set apart for whoever should first sight the monster, were he cabin-boy, common seaman, or officer.

I leave you to judge how eyes were used on board the Abraham Lincoln.

For my own part I was not behind the others, and, left to no one my share of daily observations. The frigate might have been called the Argus, for a hundred reasons. Only one amongst us, Conseil, seemed to protest by his indifference against the question which so interested us all, and seemed to be out of keeping with the general enthusiasm on board.

I have said that Captain Farragut had carefully provided his ship with every apparatus for catching the gigantic cetacean. No whaler had ever been better armed. We possessed every known engine, from the harpoon thrown by the hand to the barbed arrows of the blunderbuss, and the explosive balls of the duck-gun. On the forecastle lay the perfection of a breech-loading gun, very thick at the breech, and very narrow in the bore, the model of which had been in the Exhibition of 1867. This precious weapon of American origin could throw with ease a conical projectile of nine pounds to a mean distance of ten miles.

Thus the Abraham Lincoln wanted for no means of destruction; and, what was better still she had on board Ned Land, the prince of harpooners.

Ned Land was a Canadian, with an uncommon quickness of hand, and who knew no equal in his dangerous occupation. Skill, coolness, audacity, and cunning he possessed in a superior degree, and it must be a cunning whale to escape the stroke of his harpoon.

Ned Land was about forty years of age; he was a tall man (more than six feet high), strongly built, grave and taciturn, occasionally violent, and very passionate when contradicted. His person attracted attention, but above all the boldness of his look, which gave a singular expression to his face.

Who calls himself Canadian calls himself French; and, little communicative as Ned Land was, I must admit that he took a certain liking for me. My nationality drew him to me, no doubt. It was an opportunity for him to talk, and for me to hear, that old language of Rabelais, which is still in use in some Canadian provinces. The harpooner’s family was originally from Quebec, and was already a tribe of hardy fishermen when this town belonged to France.

Little by little, Ned Land acquired a taste for chatting, and I loved to hear the recital of his adventures in the polar seas. He related his fishing, and his combats, with natural poetry of expression; his recital took the form of an epic poem, and I seemed to be listening to a Canadian Homer singing the Iliad of the regions of the North.

I am portraying this hardy companion as I really knew him. We are old friends now, united in that unchangeable friendship which is born and cemented amidst extreme dangers. Ah, brave Ned! I ask no more than to live a hundred years longer, that I may have more time to dwell the longer on your memory.

Now, what was Ned Land’s opinion upon the question of the marine monster? I must admit that he did not believe in the unicorn, and was the only one on board who did not share that universal conviction. He even avoided the subject, which I one day thought it my duty to press upon him. One magnificent evening, the 30th July (that is to say, three weeks after our departure), the frigate was abreast of Cape Blanc, thirty miles to leeward of the coast of Patagonia. We had crossed the tropic of Capricorn, and the Straits of Magellan opened less than seven hundred miles to the south. Before eight days were over the Abraham Lincoln would be ploughing the waters of the Pacific.

Seated on the poop, Ned Land and I were chatting of one thing and another as we looked at this mysterious sea, whose great depths had up to this time been inaccessible to the eye of man. I naturally led up the conversation to the giant unicorn, and examined the various chances of success or failure of the expedition. But, seeing that Ned Land let me speak without saying too much himself, I pressed him more closely.

“Well, Ned,” said I, “is it possible that you are not convinced of the existence of this cetacean that we are following? Have you any particular reason for being so incredulous?”

The harpooner looked at me fixedly for some moments before answering, struck his broad forehead with his hand (a habit of his), as if to collect himself, and said at last, “Perhaps I have, Mr. Aronnax.”

“But, Ned, you, a whaler by profession, familiarised with all the great marine mammalia — YOU ought to be the last to doubt under such circumstances!”

“That is just what deceives you, Professor,” replied Ned. “As a whaler I have followed many a cetacean, harpooned a great number, and killed several; but, however strong or well-armed they may have been, neither their tails nor their weapons would have been able even to scratch the iron plates of a steamer.”

“But, Ned, they tell of ships which the teeth of the narwhal have pierced through and through.”

“Wooden ships — that is possible,” replied the Canadian, “but I have never seen it done; and, until further proof, I deny that whales, cetaceans, or sea-unicorns could ever produce the effect you describe.”

“Well, Ned, I repeat it with a conviction resting on the logic of facts. I believe in the existence of a mammal power fully organised, belonging to the branch of vertebrata, like the whales, the cachalots, or the dolphins, and furnished with a horn of defence of great penetrating power.”

“Hum!” said the harpooner, shaking his head with the air of a man who would not be convinced.

“Notice one thing, my worthy Canadian,” I resumed. “If such an animal is in existence, if it inhabits the depths of the ocean, if it frequents the strata lying miles below the surface of the water, it must necessarily possess an organisation the strength of which would defy all comparison.”

“And why this powerful organisation?” demanded Ned.

“Because it requires incalculable strength to keep one’s self in these strata and resist their pressure. Listen to me. Let us admit that the pressure of the atmosphere is represented by the weight of a column of water thirty-two feet high. In reality the column of water would be shorter, as we are speaking of sea water, the density of which is greater than that of fresh water. Very well, when you dive, Ned, as many times 32 feet of water as there are above you, so many times does your body bear a pressure equal to that of the atmosphere, that is to say, 15 lb. for each square inch of its surface. It follows, then, that at 320 feet this pressure equals that of 10 atmospheres, of 100 atmospheres at 3,200 feet, and of 1,000 atmospheres at 32,000 feet, that is, about 6 miles; which is equivalent to saying that if you could attain this depth in the ocean, each square three-eighths of an inch of the surface of your body would bear a pressure of 5,600 lb. Ah! my brave Ned, do you know how many square inches you carry on the surface of your body?”

“I have no idea, Mr. Aronnax.”

“About 6,500; and as in reality the atmospheric pressure is about 15 lb. to the square inch, your 6,500 square inches bear at this moment a pressure of 97,500 lb.”

“Without my perceiving it?”

“Without your perceiving it. And if you are not crushed by such a pressure, it is because the air penetrates the interior of your body with equal pressure. Hence perfect equilibrium between the interior and exterior pressure, which thus neutralise each other, and which allows you to bear it without inconvenience. But in the water it is another thing.”

“Yes, I understand,” replied Ned, becoming more attentive; “because the water surrounds me, but does not penetrate.”

“Precisely, Ned: so that at 32 feet beneath the surface of the sea you would undergo a pressure of 97,500 lb.; at 320 feet, ten times that pressure; at 3,200 feet, a hundred times that pressure; lastly, at 32,000 feet, a thousand times that pressure would be 97,500,000 lb. — that is to say, that you would be flattened as if you had been drawn from the plates of a hydraulic machine!”

“The devil!” exclaimed Ned.

“Very well, my worthy harpooner, if some vertebrate, several hundred yards long, and large in proportion, can maintain itself in such depths — of those whose surface is represented by millions of square inches, that is by tens of millions of pounds, we must estimate the pressure they undergo. Consider, then, what must be the resistance of their bony structure, and the strength of their organisation to withstand such pressure!”

“Why!” exclaimed Ned Land, “they must be made of iron plates eight inches thick, like the armoured frigates.”

“As you say, Ned. And think what destruction such a mass would cause, if hurled with the speed of an express train against the hull of a vessel.”

“Yes — certainly — perhaps,” replied the Canadian, shaken by these figures, but not yet willing to give in.

“Well, have I convinced you?”

“You have convinced me of one thing, sir, which is that, if such animals do exist at the bottom of the seas, they must necessarily be as strong as you say.”

“But if they do not exist, mine obstinate harpooner, how explain the accident to the Scotia?”

CHAPTER V

AT A VENTURE

The voyage of the Abraham Lincoln was for a long time marked by no special incident. But one circumstance happened which showed the wonderful dexterity of Ned Land, and proved what confidence we might place in him.

The 30th of June, the frigate spoke some American whalers, from whom we learned that they knew nothing about the narwhal. But one of them, the captain of the Monroe, knowing that Ned Land had shipped on board the Abraham Lincoln, begged for his help in chasing a whale they had in sight. Commander Farragut, desirous of seeing Ned Land at work, gave him permission to go on board the Monroe. And fate served our Canadian so well that, instead of one whale, he harpooned two with a double blow, striking one straight to the heart, and catching the other after some minutes’ pursuit.

Decidedly, if the monster ever had to do with Ned Land’s harpoon, I would not bet in its favour.

The frigate skirted the south-east coast of America with great rapidity. The 3rd of July we were at the opening of the Straits of Magellan, level with Cape Vierges. But Commander Farragut would not take a tortuous passage, but doubled Cape Horn.

The ship’s crew agreed with him. And certainly it was possible that they might meet the narwhal in this narrow pass. Many of the sailors affirmed that the monster could not pass there, “that he was too big for that!”

The 6th of July, about three o’clock in the afternoon, the Abraham Lincoln, at fifteen miles to the south, doubled the solitary island, this lost rock at the extremity of the American continent, to which some Dutch sailors gave the name of their native town, Cape Horn. The course was taken towards the north-west, and the next day the screw of the frigate was at last beating the waters of the Pacific.

“Keep your eyes open!” called out the sailors.

And they were opened widely. Both eyes and glasses, a little dazzled, it is true, by the prospect of two thousand dollars, had not an instant’s repose.

I myself, for whom money had no charms, was not the least attentive on board. Giving but few minutes to my meals, but a few hours to sleep, indifferent to either rain or sunshine, I did not leave the poop of the vessel. Now leaning on the netting of the forecastle, now on the taffrail, I devoured with eagerness the soft foam which whitened the sea as far as the eye could reach; and how often have I shared the emotion of the majority of the crew, when some capricious whale raised its black back above the waves! The poop of the vessel was crowded on a moment. The cabins poured forth a torrent of sailors and officers, each with heaving breast and troubled eye watching the course of the cetacean. I looked and looked till I was nearly blind, whilst Conseil kept repeating in a calm voice:

“If, sir, you would not squint so much, you would see better!”

But vain excitement! The Abraham Lincoln checked its speed and made for the animal signalled, a simple whale, or common cachalot, which soon disappeared amidst a storm of abuse.

But the weather was good. The voyage was being accomplished under the most favourable auspices. It was then the bad season in Australia, the July of that zone corresponding to our January in Europe, but the sea was beautiful and easily scanned round a vast circumference.

The 20th of July, the tropic of Capricorn was cut by 105d of longitude, and the 27th of the same month we crossed the Equator on the 110th meridian. This passed, the frigate took a more decided westerly direction, and scoured the central waters of the Pacific. Commander Farragut thought, and with reason, that it was better to remain in deep water, and keep clear of continents or islands, which the beast itself seemed to shun (perhaps because there was not enough water for him! suggested the greater part of the crew). The frigate passed at some distance from the Marquesas and the Sandwich Islands, crossed the tropic of Cancer, and made for the China Seas. We were on the theatre of the last diversions of the monster: and, to say truth, we no longer LIVED on board. The entire ship’s crew were undergoing a nervous excitement, of which I can give no idea: they could not eat, they could not sleep — twenty times a day, a misconception or an optical illusion of some sailor seated on the taffrail, would cause dreadful perspirations, and these emotions, twenty times repeated, kept us in a state of excitement so violent that a reaction was unavoidable.

And truly, reaction soon showed itself. For three months, during which a day seemed an age, the Abraham Lincoln furrowed all the waters of the Northern Pacific, running at whales, making sharp deviations from her course, veering suddenly from one tack to another, stopping suddenly, putting on steam, and backing ever and anon at the risk of deranging her machinery, and not one point of the Japanese or American coast was left unexplored.

The warmest partisans of the enterprise now became its most ardent detractors. Reaction mounted from the crew to the captain himself, and certainly, had it not been for the resolute determination on the part of Captain Farragut, the frigate would have headed due southward. This useless search could not last much longer. The Abraham Lincoln had nothing to reproach herself with, she had done her best to succeed. Never had an American ship’s crew shown more zeal or patience; its failure could not be placed to their charge — there remained nothing but to return.

This was represented to the commander. The sailors could not hide their discontent, and the service suffered. I will not say there was a mutiny on board, but after a reasonable period of obstinacy, Captain Farragut (as Columbus did) asked for three days’ patience. If in three days the monster did not appear, the man at the helm should give three turns of the wheel, and the Abraham Lincoln would make for the European seas.

This promise was made on the 2nd of November. It had the effect of rallying the ship’s crew. The ocean was watched with renewed attention. Each one wished for a last glance in which to sum up his remembrance. Glasses were used with feverish activity. It was a grand defiance given to the giant narwhal, and he could scarcely fail to answer the summons and “appear.”

Two days passed, the steam was at half pressure; a thousand schemes were tried to attract the attention and stimulate the apathy of the animal in case it should be met in those parts. Large quantities of bacon were trailed in the wake of the ship, to the great satisfaction (I must say) of the sharks. Small craft radiated in all directions round the Abraham Lincoln as she lay to, and did not leave a spot of the sea unexplored. But the night of the 4th of November arrived without the unveiling of this submarine mystery.

The next day, the 5th of November, at twelve, the delay would (morally speaking) expire; after that time, Commander Farragut, faithful to his promise, was to turn the course to the south-east and abandon for ever the northern regions of the Pacific.

The frigate was then in 31deg 15’ N. lat. and 136deg 42’ E. long. The coast of Japan still remained less than two hundred miles to leeward. Night was approaching. They had just struck eight bells; large clouds veiled the face of the moon, then in its first quarter. The sea undulated peaceably under the stern of the vessel.

At that moment I was leaning forward on the starboard netting. Conseil, standing near me, was looking straight before him. The crew, perched in the ratlines, examined the horizon which contracted and darkened by degrees. Officers with their night glasses scoured the growing darkness: sometimes the ocean sparkled under the rays of the moon, which darted between two clouds, then all trace of light was lost in the darkness.

In looking at Conseil, I could see he was undergoing a little of the general influence. At least I thought so. Perhaps for the first time his nerves vibrated to a sentiment of curiosity.

“Come, Conseil,” said I, “this is the last chance of pocketing the two thousand dollars.”

“May I be permitted to say, sir,” replied Conseil, “that I never reckoned on getting the prize; and, had the government of the Union offered a hundred thousand dollars, it would have been none the poorer.”

“You are right, Conseil. It is a foolish affair after all, and one upon which we entered too lightly. What time lost, what useless emotions! We should have been back in France six months ago.”

“In your little room, sir,” replied Conseil, “and in your museum, sir; and I should have already classed all your fossils, sir. And the Babiroussa would have been installed in its cage in the Jardin des Plantes, and have drawn all the curious people of the capital!”

“As you say, Conseil. I fancy we shall run a fair chance of being laughed at for our pains.”

“That’s tolerably certain,” replied Conseil, quietly; “I think they will make fun of you, sir. And, must I say it — — ?”

“Go on, my good friend.”

“Well, sir, you will only get your deserts.”

“Indeed!”

“When one has the honour of being a savant as you are, sir, one should not expose one’s self to — — ”

Conseil had not time to finish his compliment. In the midst of general silence a voice had just been heard. It was the voice of Ned Land shouting:

“Look out there! The very thing we are looking for — on our weather beam!”

CHAPTER VI

AT FULL STEAM

At this cry the whole ship’s crew hurried towards the harpooner — commander, officers, masters, sailors, cabin boys; even the engineers left their engines, and the stokers their furnaces.

The order to stop her had been given, and the frigate now simply went on by her own momentum. The darkness was then profound, and, however good the Canadian’s eyes were, I asked myself how he had managed to see, and what he had been able to see. My heart beat as if it would break. But Ned Land was not mistaken, and we all perceived the object he pointed to. At two cables’ length from the Abraham Lincoln, on the starboard quarter, the sea seemed to be illuminated all over. It was not a mere phosphoric phenomenon. The monster emerged some fathoms from the water, and then threw out that very intense but mysterious light mentioned in the report of several captains. This magnificent irradiation must have been produced by an agent of great SHINING power. The luminous part traced on the sea an immense oval, much elongated, the centre of which condensed a burning heat, whose overpowering brilliancy died out by successive gradations.

“It is only a massing of phosphoric particles,” cried one of the officers.

“No, sir, certainly not,” I replied. “That brightness is of an essentially electrical nature. Besides, see, see! it moves; it is moving forwards, backwards; it is darting towards us!”

A general cry arose from the frigate.

“Silence!” said the captain. “Up with the helm, reverse the engines.”

The steam was shut off, and the Abraham Lincoln, beating to port, described a semicircle.

“Right the helm, go ahead,” cried the captain.

These orders were executed, and the frigate moved rapidly from the burning light.

I was mistaken. She tried to sheer off, but the supernatural animal approached with a velocity double her own.

We gasped for breath. Stupefaction more than fear made us dumb and motionless. The animal gained on us, sporting with the waves. It made the round of the frigate, which was then making fourteen knots, and enveloped it with its electric rings like luminous dust.

Then it moved away two or three miles, leaving a phosphorescent track, like those volumes of steam that the express trains leave behind. All at once from the dark line of the horizon whither it retired to gain its momentum, the monster rushed suddenly towards the Abraham Lincoln with alarming rapidity, stopped suddenly about twenty feet from the hull, and died out — not diving under the water, for its brilliancy did not abate — but suddenly, and as if the source of this brilliant emanation was exhausted. Then it reappeared on the other side of the vessel, as if it had turned and slid under the hull. Any moment a collision might have occurred which would have been fatal to us. However, I was astonished at the manoeuvres of the frigate. She fled and did not attack.

On the captain’s face, generally so impassive, was an expression of unaccountable astonishment.

“Mr. Aronnax,” he said, “I do not know with what formidable being I have to deal, and I will not imprudently risk my frigate in the midst of this darkness. Besides, how attack this unknown thing, how defend one’s self from it? Wait for daylight, and the scene will change.”

“You have no further doubt, captain, of the nature of the animal?”

“No, sir; it is evidently a gigantic narwhal, and an electric one.”

“Perhaps,” added I, “one can only approach it with a torpedo.”

“Undoubtedly,” replied the captain, “if it possesses such dreadful power, it is the most terrible animal that ever was created. That is why, sir, I must be on my guard.”

The crew were on their feet all night. No one thought of sleep. The Abraham Lincoln, not being able to struggle with such velocity, had moderated its pace, and sailed at half speed. For its part, the narwhal, imitating the frigate, let the waves rock it at will, and seemed decided not to leave the scene of the struggle. Towards midnight, however, it disappeared, or, to use a more appropriate term, it “died out” like a large glow-worm. Had it fled? One could only fear, not hope it. But at seven minutes to one o’clock in the morning a deafening whistling was heard, like that produced by a body of water rushing with great violence.

The captain, Ned Land, and I were then on the poop, eagerly peering through the profound darkness.

“Ned Land,” asked the commander, “you have often heard the roaring of whales?”

“Often, sir; but never such whales the sight of which brought me in two thousand dollars. If I can only approach within four harpoons’ length of it!”

“But to approach it,” said the commander, “I ought to put a whaler at your disposal?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“That will be trifling with the lives of my men.”

“And mine too,” simply said the harpooner.

Towards two o’clock in the morning, the burning light reappeared, not less intense, about five miles to windward of the Abraham Lincoln. Notwithstanding the distance, and the noise of the wind and sea, one heard distinctly the loud strokes of the animal’s tail, and even its panting breath. It seemed that, at the moment that the enormous narwhal had come to take breath at the surface of the water, the air was engulfed in its lungs, like the steam in the vast cylinders of a machine of two thousand horse-power.

“Hum!” thought I, “a whale with the strength of a cavalry regiment would be a pretty whale!”

We were on the qui vive till daylight, and prepared for the combat. The fishing implements were laid along the hammock nettings. The second lieutenant loaded the blunder busses, which could throw harpoons to the distance of a mile, and long duck-guns, with explosive bullets, which inflicted mortal wounds even to the most terrible animals. Ned Land contented himself with sharpening his harpoon — a terrible weapon in his hands.

At six o’clock day began to break; and, with the first glimmer of light, the electric light of the narwhal disappeared. At seven o’clock the day was sufficiently advanced, but a very thick sea fog obscured our view, and the best spy glasses could not pierce it. That caused disappointment and anger.

I climbed the mizzen-mast. Some officers were already perched on the mast-heads. At eight o’clock the fog lay heavily on the waves, and its thick scrolls rose little by little. The horizon grew wider and clearer at the same time. Suddenly, just as on the day before, Ned Land’s voice was heard: “The thing itself on the port quarter!” cried the harpooner.

Every eye was turned towards the point indicated. There, a mile and a half from the frigate, a long blackish body emerged a yard above the waves. Its tail, violently agitated, produced a considerable eddy. Never did a tail beat the sea with such violence. An immense track, of dazzling whiteness, marked the passage of the animal, and described a long curve.

The frigate approached the cetacean. I examined it thoroughly.

The reports of the Shannon and of the Helvetia had rather exaggerated its size, and I estimated its length at only two hundred and fifty feet. As to its dimensions, I could only conjecture them to be admirably proportioned. While I watched this phenomenon, two jets of steam and water were ejected from its vents, and rose to the height of 120 feet; thus I ascertained its way of breathing. I concluded definitely that it belonged to the vertebrate branch, class mammalia.

The crew waited impatiently for their chief’s orders. The latter, after having observed the animal attentively, called the engineer. The engineer ran to him.

“Sir,” said the commander, “you have steam up?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the engineer.

“Well, make up your fires and put on all steam.”

Three hurrahs greeted this order. The time for the struggle had arrived. Some moments after, the two funnels of the frigate vomited torrents of black smoke, and the bridge quaked under the trembling of the boilers.

The Abraham Lincoln, propelled by her wonderful screw, went straight at the animal. The latter allowed it to come within half a cable’s length; then, as if disdaining to dive, it took a little turn, and stopped a short distance off.

This pursuit lasted nearly three-quarters of an hour, without the frigate gaining two yards on the cetacean. It was quite evident that at that rate we should never come up with it.

“Well, Mr. Land,” asked the captain, “do you advise me to put the boats out to sea?”

“No, sir,” replied Ned Land; “because we shall not take that beast easily.”

“What shall we do then?”

“Put on more steam if you can, sir. With your leave, I mean to post myself under the bowsprit, and, if we get within harpooning distance, I shall throw my harpoon.”

“Go, Ned,” said the captain. “Engineer, put on more pressure.”

Ned Land went to his post. The fires were increased, the screw revolved forty-three times a minute, and the steam poured out of the valves. We heaved the log, and calculated that the Abraham Lincoln was going at the rate of 18 1/2 miles an hour.

But the accursed animal swam at the same speed.

For a whole hour the frigate kept up this pace, without gaining six feet. It was humiliating for one of the swiftest sailers in the American navy. A stubborn anger seized the crew; the sailors abused the monster, who, as before, disdained to answer them; the captain no longer contented himself with twisting his beard — he gnawed it.

The engineer was called again.

“You have turned full steam on?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the engineer.

The speed of the Abraham Lincoln increased. Its masts trembled down to their stepping holes, and the clouds of smoke could hardly find way out of the narrow funnels.

They heaved the log a second time.

“Well?” asked the captain of the man at the wheel.

“Nineteen miles and three-tenths, sir.”

“Clap on more steam.”

The engineer obeyed. The manometer showed ten degrees. But the cetacean grew warm itself, no doubt; for without straining itself, it made 19 3/10 miles.

What a pursuit! No, I cannot describe the emotion that vibrated through me. Ned Land kept his post, harpoon in hand. Several times the animal let us gain upon it. — “We shall catch it! we shall catch it!” cried the Canadian. But just as he was going to strike, the cetacean stole away with a rapidity that could not be estimated at less than thirty miles an hour, and even during our maximum of speed, it bullied the frigate, going round and round it. A cry of fury broke from everyone!

At noon we were no further advanced than at eight o’clock in the morning.

The captain then decided to take more direct means.

“Ah!” said he, “that animal goes quicker than the Abraham Lincoln. Very well! we will see whether it will escape these conical bullets. Send your men to the forecastle, sir.”

The forecastle gun was immediately loaded and slewed round. But the shot passed some feet above the cetacean, which was half a mile off.

“Another, more to the right,” cried the commander, “and five dollars to whoever will hit that infernal beast.”

An old gunner with a grey beard — that I can see now — with steady eye and grave face, went up to the gun and took a long aim. A loud report was heard, with which were mingled the cheers of the crew.

The bullet did its work; it hit the animal, and, sliding off the rounded surface, was lost in two miles depth of sea.

The chase began again, and the captain, leaning towards me, said: “I will pursue that beast till my frigate bursts up.”

“Yes,” answered I; “and you will be quite right to do it.”

I wished the beast would exhaust itself, and not be insensible to fatigue like a steam engine. But it was of no use. Hours passed, without its showing any signs of exhaustion.

However, it must be said in praise of the Abraham Lincoln that she struggled on indefatigably. I cannot reckon the distance she made under three hundred miles during this unlucky day, November the 6th. But night came on, and overshadowed the rough ocean.

Now I thought our expedition was at an end, and that we should never again see the extraordinary animal. I was mistaken. At ten minutes to eleven in the evening, the electric light reappeared three miles to windward of the frigate, as pure, as intense as during the preceding night.

The narwhal seemed motionless; perhaps, tired with its day’s work, it slept, letting itself float with the undulation of the waves. Now was a chance of which the captain resolved to take advantage.

He gave his orders. The Abraham Lincoln kept up half steam, and advanced cautiously so as not to awake its adversary. It is no rare thing to meet in the middle of the ocean whales so sound asleep that they can be successfully attacked, and Ned Land had harpooned more than one during its sleep. The Canadian went to take his place again under the bowsprit.

The frigate approached noiselessly, stopped at two cables’ lengths from the animal, and following its track. No one breathed; a deep silence reigned on the bridge. We were not a hundred feet from the burning focus, the light of which increased and dazzled our eyes.

At this moment, leaning on the forecastle bulwark, I saw below me Ned Land grappling the martingale in one hand, brandishing his terrible harpoon in the other, scarcely twenty feet from the motionless animal. Suddenly his arm straightened, and the harpoon was thrown; I heard the sonorous stroke of the weapon, which seemed to have struck a hard body. The electric light went out suddenly, and two enormous waterspouts broke over the bridge of the frigate, rushing like a torrent from stem to stern, overthrowing men, and breaking the lashings of the spars. A fearful shock followed, and, thrown over the rail without having time to stop myself, I fell into the sea.

CHAPTER VII

AN UNKNOWN SPECIES OF WHALE

This unexpected fall so stunned me that I have no clear recollection of my sensations at the time. I was at first drawn down to a depth of about twenty feet. I am a good swimmer (though without pretending to rival Byron or Edgar Poe, who were masters of the art), and in that plunge I did not lose my presence of mind. Two vigorous strokes brought me to the surface of the water. My first care was to look for the frigate. Had the crew seen me disappear? Had the Abraham Lincoln veered round? Would the captain put out a boat? Might I hope to be saved?

The darkness was intense. I caught a glimpse of a black mass disappearing in the east, its beacon lights dying out in the distance. It was the frigate! I was lost.

“Help, help!” I shouted, swimming towards the Abraham Lincoln in desperation.

My clothes encumbered me; they seemed glued to my body, and paralysed my movements.

I was sinking! I was suffocating!

“Help!”

This was my last cry. My mouth filled with water; I struggled against being drawn down the abyss. Suddenly my clothes were seized by a strong hand, and I felt myself quickly drawn up to the surface of the sea; and I heard, yes, I heard these words pronounced in my ear: “If master would be so good as to lean on my shoulder, master would swim with much greater ease.”

I seized with one hand my faithful Conseil’s arm.

“Is it you?” said I, “you?”

“Myself,” answered Conseil; “and waiting master’s orders.”

“That shock threw you as well as me into the sea?”

“No; but, being in my master’s service, I followed him.”

The worthy fellow thought that was but natural.

“And the frigate?” I asked.

“The frigate?” replied Conseil, turning on his back; “I think that master had better not count too much on her.”

“You think so?”

“I say that, at the time I threw myself into the sea, I heard the men at the wheel say, `The screw and the rudder are broken.’

“Broken?”

“Yes, broken by the monster’s teeth. It is the only injury the Abraham Lincoln has sustained. But it is a bad look-out for us — she no longer answers her helm.”

“Then we are lost!”

“Perhaps so,” calmly answered Conseil. “However, we have still several hours before us, and one can do a good deal in some hours.”

Conseil’s imperturbable coolness set me up again. I swam more vigorously; but, cramped by my clothes, which stuck to me like a leaden weight, I felt great difficulty in bearing up. Conseil saw this.

“Will master let me make a slit?” said he; and, slipping an open knife under my clothes, he ripped them up from top to bottom very rapidly. Then he cleverly slipped them off me, while I swam for both of us.

Then I did the same for Conseil, and we continued to swim near to each other.

Nevertheless, our situation was no less terrible. Perhaps our disappearance had not been noticed; and, if it had been, the frigate could not tack, being without its helm. Conseil argued on this supposition, and laid his plans accordingly. This quiet boy was perfectly self-possessed. We then decided that, as our only chance of safety was being picked up by the Abraham Lincoln’s boats, we ought to manage so as to wait for them as long as possible. I resolved then to husband our strength, so that both should not be exhausted at the same time; and this is how we managed: while one of us lay on our back, quite still, with arms crossed, and legs stretched out, the other would swim and push the other on in front. This towing business did not last more than ten minutes each; and relieving each other thus, we could swim on for some hours, perhaps till day-break. Poor chance! but hope is so firmly rooted in the heart of man! Moreover, there were two of us. Indeed I declare (though it may seem improbable) if I sought to destroy all hope — if I wished to despair, I could not.

The collision of the frigate with the cetacean had occurred about eleven o’clock in the evening before. I reckoned then we should have eight hours to swim before sunrise, an operation quite practicable if we relieved each other. The sea, very calm, was in our favour. Sometimes I tried to pierce the intense darkness that was only dispelled by the phosphorescence caused by our movements. I watched the luminous waves that broke over my hand, whose mirror-like surface was spotted with silvery rings. One might have said that we were in a bath of quicksilver.

Near one o’clock in the morning, I was seized with dreadful fatigue. My limbs stiffened under the strain of violent cramp. Conseil was obliged to keep me up, and our preservation devolved on him alone. I heard the poor boy pant; his breathing became short and hurried. I found that he could not keep up much longer.

“Leave me! leave me!” I said to him.

“Leave my master? Never!” replied he. “I would drown first.”

Just then the moon appeared through the fringes of a thick cloud that the wind was driving to the east. The surface of the sea glittered with its rays. This kindly light reanimated us. My head got better again. I looked at all points of the horizon. I saw the frigate! She was five miles from us, and looked like a dark mass, hardly discernible. But no boats!

I would have cried out. But what good would it have been at such a distance! My swollen lips could utter no sounds. Conseil could articulate some words, and I heard him repeat at intervals, “Help! help!”

Our movements were suspended for an instant; we listened. It might be only a singing in the ear, but it seemed to me as if a cry answered the cry from Conseil.

“Did you hear?” I murmured.

“Yes! Yes!”

And Conseil gave one more despairing cry.

This time there was no mistake! A human voice responded to ours! Was it the voice of another unfortunate creature, abandoned in the middle of the ocean, some other victim of the shock sustained by the vessel? Or rather was it a boat from the frigate, that was hailing us in the darkness?

Conseil made a last effort, and, leaning on my shoulder, while I struck out in a desperate effort, he raised himself half out of the water, then fell back exhausted.

“What did you see?”

“I saw — — ” murmured he; “I saw — but do not talk — reserve all your strength!”

What had he seen? Then, I know not why, the thought of the monster came into my head for the first time! But that voice! The time is past for Jonahs to take refuge in whales’ bellies! However, Conseil was towing me again. He raised his head sometimes, looked before us, and uttered a cry of recognition, which was responded to by a voice that came nearer and nearer. I scarcely heard it. My strength was exhausted; my fingers stiffened; my hand afforded me support no longer; my mouth, convulsively opening, filled with salt water. Cold crept over me. I raised my head for the last time, then I sank.

At this moment a hard body struck me. I clung to it: then I felt that I was being drawn up, that I was brought to the surface of the water, that my chest collapsed — I fainted.

It is certain that I soon came to, thanks to the vigorous rubbings that I received. I half opened my eyes.

“Conseil!” I murmured.

“Does master call me?” asked Conseil.

Just then, by the waning light of the moon which was sinking down to the horizon, I saw a face which was not Conseil’s and which I immediately recognised.

“Ned!” I cried.

“The same, sir, who is seeking his prize!” replied the Canadian.

“Were you thrown into the sea by the shock to the frigate?”

“Yes, Professor; but more fortunate than you, I was able to find a footing almost directly upon a floating island.”

“An island?”

“Or, more correctly speaking, on our gigantic narwhal.”

“Explain yourself, Ned!”

“Only I soon found out why my harpoon had not entered its skin and was blunted.”

“Why, Ned, why?”

“Because, Professor, that beast is made of sheet iron.”

The Canadian’s last words produced a sudden revolution in my brain. I wriggled myself quickly to the top of the being, or object, half out of the water, which served us for a refuge. I kicked it. It was evidently a hard, impenetrable body, and not the soft substance that forms the bodies of the great marine mammalia. But this hard body might be a bony covering, like that of the antediluvian animals; and I should be free to class this monster among amphibious reptiles, such as tortoises or alligators.

Well, no! the blackish back that supported me was smooth, polished, without scales. The blow produced a metallic sound; and, incredible though it may be, it seemed, I might say, as if it was made of riveted plates.

There was no doubt about it! This monster, this natural phenomenon that had puzzled the learned world, and over thrown and misled the imagination of seamen of both hemispheres, it must be owned was a still more astonishing phenomenon, inasmuch as it was a simply human construction.

We had no time to lose, however. We were lying upon the back of a sort of submarine boat, which appeared (as far as I could judge) like a huge fish of steel. Ned Land’s mind was made up on this point. Conseil and I could only agree with him.

Just then a bubbling began at the back of this strange thing (which was evidently propelled by a screw), and it began to move. We had only just time to seize hold of the upper part, which rose about seven feet out of the water, and happily its speed was not great.

“As long as it sails horizontally,” muttered Ned Land, “I do not mind; but, if it takes a fancy to dive, I would not give two straws for my life.”

The Canadian might have said still less. It became really necessary to communicate with the beings, whatever they were, shut up inside the machine. I searched all over the outside for an aperture, a panel, or a manhole, to use a technical expression; but the lines of the iron rivets, solidly driven into the joints of the iron plates, were clear and uniform. Besides, the moon disappeared then, and left us in total darkness.

At last this long night passed. My indistinct remembrance prevents my describing all the impressions it made. I can only recall one circumstance. During some lulls of the wind and sea, I fancied I heard several times vague sounds, a sort of fugitive harmony produced by words of command. What was, then, the mystery of this submarine craft, of which the whole world vainly sought an explanation? What kind of beings existed in this strange boat? What mechanical agent caused its prodigious speed?

Daybreak appeared. The morning mists surrounded us, but they soon cleared off. I was about to examine the hull, which formed on deck a kind of horizontal platform, when I felt it gradually sinking.

“Oh! confound it!” cried Ned Land, kicking the resounding plate. “Open, you inhospitable rascals!”

Happily the sinking movement ceased. Suddenly a noise, like iron works violently pushed aside, came from the interior of the boat. One iron plate was moved, a man appeared, uttered an odd cry, and disappeared immediately.

Some moments after, eight strong men, with masked faces, appeared noiselessly, and drew us down into their formidable machine.

CHAPTER VIII

MOBILIS IN MOBILI

This forcible abduction, so roughly carried out, was accomplished with the rapidity of lightning. I shivered all over. Whom had we to deal with? No doubt some new sort of pirates, who explored the sea in their own way. Hardly had the narrow panel closed upon me, when I was enveloped in darkness. My eyes, dazzled with the outer light, could distinguish nothing. I felt my naked feet cling to the rungs of an iron ladder. Ned Land and Conseil, firmly seized, followed me. At the bottom of the ladder, a door opened, and shut after us immediately with a bang.

We were alone. Where, I could not say, hardly imagine. All was black, and such a dense black that, after some minutes, my eyes had not been able to discern even the faintest glimmer.

Meanwhile, Ned Land, furious at these proceedings, gave free vent to his indignation.

“Confound it!” cried he, “here are people who come up to the Scotch for hospitality. They only just miss being cannibals. I should not be surprised at it, but I declare that they shall not eat me without my protesting.”

“Calm yourself, friend Ned, calm yourself,” replied Conseil, quietly. “Do not cry out before you are hurt. We are not quite done for yet.”

“Not quite,” sharply replied the Canadian, “but pretty near, at all events. Things look black. Happily, my bowie knife I have still, and I can always see well enough to use it. The first of these pirates who lays a hand on me — — ”

“Do not excite yourself, Ned,” I said to the harpooner, “and do not compromise us by useless violence. Who knows that they will not listen to us? Let us rather try to find out where we are.”

I groped about. In five steps I came to an iron wall, made of plates bolted together. Then turning back I struck against a wooden table, near which were ranged several stools. The boards of this prison were concealed under a thick mat, which deadened the noise of the feet. The bare walls revealed no trace of window or door. Conseil, going round the reverse way, met me, and we went back to the middle of the cabin, which measured about twenty feet by ten. As to its height, Ned Land, in spite of his own great height, could not measure it.

Half an hour had already passed without our situation being bettered, when the dense darkness suddenly gave way to extreme light. Our prison was suddenly lighted, that is to say, it became filled with a luminous matter, so strong that I could not bear it at first. In its whiteness and intensity I recognised that electric light which played round the submarine boat like a magnificent phenomenon of phosphorescence. After shutting my eyes involuntarily, I opened them, and saw that this luminous agent came from a half globe, unpolished, placed in the roof of the cabin.

“At last one can see,” cried Ned Land, who, knife in hand, stood on the defensive.

“Yes,” said I; “but we are still in the dark about ourselves.”

“Let master have patience,” said the imperturbable Conseil.

The sudden lighting of the cabin enabled me to examine it minutely. It only contained a table and five stools. The invisible door might be hermetically sealed. No noise was heard. All seemed dead in the interior of this boat. Did it move, did it float on the surface of the ocean, or did it dive into its depths? I could not guess.

A noise of bolts was now heard, the door opened, and two men appeared.

One was short, very muscular, broad-shouldered, with robust limbs, strong head, an abundance of black hair, thick moustache, a quick penetrating look, and the vivacity which characterises the population of Southern France.

The second stranger merits a more detailed description. I made out his prevailing qualities directly: self-confidence — because his head was well set on his shoulders, and his black eyes looked around with cold assurance; calmness — for his skin, rather pale, showed his coolness of blood; energy — evinced by the rapid contraction of his lofty brows; and courage — because his deep breathing denoted great power of lungs.

Whether this person was thirty-five or fifty years of age, I could not say. He was tall, had a large forehead, straight nose, a clearly cut mouth, beautiful teeth, with fine taper hands, indicative of a highly nervous temperament. This man was certainly the most admirable specimen I had ever met. One particular feature was his eyes, rather far from each other, and which could take in nearly a quarter of the horizon at once.

This faculty — (I verified it later) — gave him a range of vision far superior to Ned Land’s. When this stranger fixed upon an object, his eyebrows met, his large eyelids closed around so as to contract the range of his vision, and he looked as if he magnified the objects lessened by distance, as if he pierced those sheets of water so opaque to our eyes, and as if he read the very depths of the seas.

The two strangers, with caps made from the fur of the sea otter, and shod with sea boots of seal’s skin, were dressed in clothes of a particular texture, which allowed free movement of the limbs. The taller of the two, evidently the chief on board, examined us with great attention, without saying a word; then, turning to his companion, talked with him in an unknown tongue. It was a sonorous, harmonious, and flexible dialect, the vowels seeming to admit of very varied accentuation.

The other replied by a shake of the head, and added two or three perfectly incomprehensible words. Then he seemed to question me by a look.

I replied in good French that I did not know his language; but he seemed not to understand me, and my situation became more embarrassing.

“If master were to tell our story,” said Conseil, “perhaps these gentlemen may understand some words.”

I began to tell our adventures, articulating each syllable clearly, and without omitting one single detail. I announced our names and rank, introducing in person Professor Aronnax, his servant Conseil, and master Ned Land, the harpooner.

The man with the soft calm eyes listened to me quietly, even politely, and with extreme attention; but nothing in his countenance indicated that he had understood my story. When I finished, he said not a word.

There remained one resource, to speak English. Perhaps they would know this almost universal language. I knew it — as well as the German language — well enough to read it fluently, but not to speak it correctly. But, anyhow, we must make ourselves understood.

“Go on in your turn,” I said to the harpooner; “speak your best Anglo-Saxon, and try to do better than I.”

Ned did not beg off, and recommenced our story.

To his great disgust, the harpooner did not seem to have made himself more intelligible than I had. Our visitors did not stir. They evidently understood neither the language of England nor of France.

Very much embarrassed, after having vainly exhausted our speaking resources, I knew not what part to take, when Conseil said:

“If master will permit me, I will relate it in German.”

But in spite of the elegant terms and good accent of the narrator, the German language had no success. At last, nonplussed, I tried to remember my first lessons, and to narrate our adventures in Latin, but with no better success. This last attempt being of no avail, the two strangers exchanged some words in their unknown language, and retired.

The door shut.

“It is an infamous shame,” cried Ned Land, who broke out for the twentieth time. “We speak to those rogues in French, English, German, and Latin, and not one of them has the politeness to answer!”

“Calm yourself,” I said to the impetuous Ned; “anger will do no good.”

“But do you see, Professor,” replied our irascible companion, “that we shall absolutely die of hunger in this iron cage?”

“Bah!” said Conseil, philosophically; “we can hold out some time yet.”

“My friends,” I said, “we must not despair. We have been worse off than this. Do me the favour to wait a little before forming an opinion upon the commander and crew of this boat.”

“My opinion is formed,” replied Ned Land, sharply. “They are rascals.”

“Good! and from what country?”

“From the land of rogues!”

“My brave Ned, that country is not clearly indicated on the map of the world; but I admit that the nationality of the two strangers is hard to determine. Neither English, French, nor German, that is quite certain. However, I am inclined to think that the commander and his companion were born in low latitudes. There is southern blood in them. But I cannot decide by their appearance whether they are Spaniards, Turks, Arabians, or Indians. As to their language, it is quite incomprehensible.”

“There is the disadvantage of not knowing all languages,” said Conseil, “or the disadvantage of not having one universal language.”

As he said these words, the door opened. A steward entered. He brought us clothes, coats and trousers, made of a stuff I did not know. I hastened to dress myself, and my companions followed my example. During that time, the steward — dumb, perhaps deaf — had arranged the table, and laid three plates.

“This is something like!” said Conseil.

“Bah!” said the angry harpooner, “what do you suppose they eat here? Tortoise liver, filleted shark, and beef steaks from seadogs.”

“We shall see,” said Conseil.

The dishes, of bell metal, were placed on the table, and we took our places. Undoubtedly we had to do with civilised people, and, had it not been for the electric light which flooded us, I could have fancied I was in the dining-room of the Adelphi Hotel at Liverpool, or at the Grand Hotel in Paris. I must say, however, that there was neither bread nor wine. The water was fresh and clear, but it was water and did not suit Ned Land’s taste. Amongst the dishes which were brought to us, I recognised several fish delicately dressed; but of some, although excellent, I could give no opinion, neither could I tell to what kingdom they belonged, whether animal or vegetable. As to the dinner-service, it was elegant, and in perfect taste. Each utensil — spoon, fork, knife, plate — had a letter engraved on it, with a motto above it, of which this is an exact facsimile:

MOBILIS IN MOBILI N

The letter N was no doubt the initial of the name of the enigmatical person who commanded at the bottom of the seas.

Ned and Conseil did not reflect much. They devoured the food, and I did likewise. I was, besides, reassured as to our fate; and it seemed evident that our hosts would not let us die of want.

However, everything has an end, everything passes away, even the hunger of people who have not eaten for fifteen hours. Our appetites satisfied, we felt overcome with sleep.

“Faith! I shall sleep well,” said Conseil.

“So shall I,” replied Ned Land.

My two companions stretched themselves on the cabin carpet, and were soon sound asleep. For my own part, too many thoughts crowded my brain, too many insoluble questions pressed upon me, too many fancies kept my eyes half open. Where were we? What strange power carried us on? I felt — or rather fancied I felt — the machine sinking down to the lowest beds of the sea. Dreadful nightmares beset me; I saw in these mysterious asylums a world of unknown animals, amongst which this submarine boat seemed to be of the same kind, living, moving, and formidable as they. Then my brain grew calmer, my imagination wandered into vague unconsciousness, and I soon fell into a deep sleep.

CHAPTER IX

NED LAND’S TEMPERS

How long we slept I do not know; but our sleep must have lasted long, for it rested us completely from our fatigues. I woke first. My companions had not moved, and were still stretched in their corner.

Hardly roused from my somewhat hard couch, I felt my brain freed, my mind clear. I then began an attentive examination of our cell. Nothing was changed inside. The prison was still a prison — the prisoners, prisoners. However, the steward, during our sleep, had cleared the table. I breathed with difficulty. The heavy air seemed to oppress my lungs. Although the cell was large, we had evidently consumed a great part of the oxygen that it contained. Indeed, each man consumes, in one hour, the oxygen contained in more than 176 pints of air, and this air, charged (as then) with a nearly equal quantity of carbonic acid, becomes unbreathable.

It became necessary to renew the atmosphere of our prison, and no doubt the whole in the submarine boat. That gave rise to a question in my mind. How would the commander of this floating dwelling-place proceed? Would he obtain air by chemical means, in getting by heat the oxygen contained in chlorate of potash, and in absorbing carbonic acid by caustic potash? Or — a more convenient, economical, and consequently more probable alternative — would he be satisfied to rise and take breath at the surface of the water, like a whale, and so renew for twenty-four hours the atmospheric provision?

In fact, I was already obliged to increase my respirations to eke out of this cell the little oxygen it contained, when suddenly I was refreshed by a current of pure air, and perfumed with saline emanations. It was an invigorating sea breeze, charged with iodine. I opened my mouth wide, and my lungs saturated themselves with fresh particles.

At the same time I felt the boat rolling. The iron-plated monster had evidently just risen to the surface of the ocean to breathe, after the fashion of whales. I found out from that the mode of ventilating the boat.

When I had inhaled this air freely, I sought the conduit pipe, which conveyed to us the beneficial whiff, and I was not long in finding it. Above the door was a ventilator, through which volumes of fresh air renewed the impoverished atmosphere of the cell.

I was making my observations, when Ned and Conseil awoke almost at the same time, under the influence of this reviving air. They rubbed their eyes, stretched themselves, and were on their feet in an instant.

“Did master sleep well?” asked Conseil, with his usual politeness.

“Very well, my brave boy. And you, Mr. Land?”

“Soundly, Professor. But, I don’t know if I am right or not, there seems to be a sea breeze!”

A seaman could not be mistaken, and I told the Canadian all that had passed during his sleep.

“Good!” said he. “That accounts for those roarings we heard, when the supposed narwhal sighted the Abraham Lincoln.”

“Quite so, Master Land; it was taking breath.”

“Only, Mr. Aronnax, I have no idea what o’clock it is, unless it is dinner-time.”

“Dinner-time! my good fellow? Say rather breakfast-time, for we certainly have begun another day.”

“So,” said Conseil, “we have slept twenty-four hours?”

“That is my opinion.”

“I will not contradict you,” replied Ned Land. “But, dinner or breakfast, the steward will be welcome, whichever he brings.”

“Master Land, we must conform to the rules on board, and I suppose our appetites are in advance of the dinner hour.”

“That is just like you, friend Conseil,” said Ned, impatiently. “You are never out of temper, always calm; you would return thanks before grace, and die of hunger rather than complain!”

Time was getting on, and we were fearfully hungry; and this time the steward did not appear. It was rather too long to leave us, if they really had good intentions towards us. Ned Land, tormented by the cravings of hunger, got still more angry; and, notwithstanding his promise, I dreaded an explosion when he found himself with one of the crew.

For two hours more Ned Land’s temper increased; he cried, he shouted, but in vain. The walls were deaf. There was no sound to be heard in the boat; all was still as death. It did not move, for I should have felt the trembling motion of the hull under the influence of the screw. Plunged in the depths of the waters, it belonged no longer to earth: this silence was dreadful.

I felt terrified, Conseil was calm, Ned Land roared.

Just then a noise was heard outside. Steps sounded on the metal flags. The locks were turned, the door opened, and the steward appeared.

Before I could rush forward to stop him, the Canadian had thrown him down, and held him by the throat. The steward was choking under the grip of his powerful hand.

Conseil was already trying to unclasp the harpooner’s hand from his half-suffocated victim, and I was going to fly to the rescue, when suddenly I was nailed to the spot by hearing these words in French: “Be quiet, Master Land; and you, Professor, will you be so good as to listen to me?”

CHAPTER X

THE MAN OF THE SEAS

It was the commander of the vessel who thus spoke.

At these words, Ned Land rose suddenly. The steward, nearly strangled, tottered out on a sign from his master. But such was the power of the commander on board, that not a gesture betrayed the resentment which this man must have felt towards the Canadian. Conseil interested in spite of himself, I stupefied, awaited in silence the result of this scene.

The commander, leaning against the corner of a table with his arms folded, scanned us with profound attention. Did he hesitate to speak? Did he regret the words which he had just spoken in French? One might almost think so.

After some moments of silence, which not one of us dreamed of breaking, “Gentlemen,” said he, in a calm and penetrating voice, “I speak French, English, German, and Latin equally well. I could, therefore, have answered you at our first interview, but I wished to know you first, then to reflect. The story told by each one, entirely agreeing in the main points, convinced me of your identity. I know now that chance has brought before me M. Pierre Aronnax, Professor of Natural History at the Museum of Paris, entrusted with a scientific mission abroad, Conseil, his servant, and Ned Land, of Canadian origin, harpooner on board the frigate Abraham Lincoln of the navy of the United States of America.”

I bowed assent. It was not a question that the commander put to me. Therefore there was no answer to be made. This man expressed himself with perfect ease, without any accent. His sentences were well turned, his words clear, and his fluency of speech remarkable. Yet, I did not recognise in him a fellow-countryman.

He continued the conversation in these terms:

“You have doubtless thought, sir, that I have delayed long in paying you this second visit. The reason is that, your identity recognised, I wished to weigh maturely what part to act towards you. I have hesitated much. Most annoying circumstances have brought you into the presence of a man who has broken all the ties of humanity. You have come to trouble my existence.”

“Unintentionally!” said I.

“Unintentionally?” replied the stranger, raising his voice a little. “Was it unintentionally that the Abraham Lincoln pursued me all over the seas? Was it unintentionally that you took passage in this frigate? Was it unintentionally that your cannon-balls rebounded off the plating of my vessel? Was it unintentionally that Mr. Ned Land struck me with his harpoon?”

I detected a restrained irritation in these words. But to these recriminations I had a very natural answer to make, and I made it.

“Sir,” said I, “no doubt you are ignorant of the discussions which have taken place concerning you in America and Europe. You do not know that divers accidents, caused by collisions with your submarine machine, have excited public feeling in the two continents. I omit the theories without number by which it was sought to explain that of which you alone possess the secret. But you must understand that, in pursuing you over the high seas of the Pacific, the Abraham Lincoln believed itself to be chasing some powerful sea-monster, of which it was necessary to rid the ocean at any price.”

A half-smile curled the lips of the commander: then, in a calmer tone:

“M. Aronnax,” he replied, “dare you affirm that your frigate would not as soon have pursued and cannonaded a submarine boat as a monster?”

This question embarrassed me, for certainly Captain Farragut might not have hesitated. He might have thought it his duty to destroy a contrivance of this kind, as he would a gigantic narwhal.

“You understand then, sir,” continued the stranger, “that I have the right to treat you as enemies?”

I answered nothing, purposely. For what good would it be to discuss such a proposition, when force could destroy the best arguments?

“I have hesitated some time,” continued the commander; “nothing obliged me to show you hospitality. If I chose to separate myself from you, I should have no interest in seeing you again; I could place you upon the deck of this vessel which has served you as a refuge, I could sink beneath the waters, and forget that you had ever existed. Would not that be my right?”

“It might be the right of a savage,” I answered, “but not that of a civilised man.”

“Professor,” replied the commander, quickly, “I am not what you call a civilised man! I have done with society entirely, for reasons which I alone have the right of appreciating. I do not, therefore, obey its laws, and I desire you never to allude to them before me again!”

This was said plainly. A flash of anger and disdain kindled in the eyes of the Unknown, and I had a glimpse of a terrible past in the life of this man. Not only had he put himself beyond the pale of human laws, but he had made himself independent of them, free in the strictest acceptation of the word, quite beyond their reach! Who then would dare to pursue him at the bottom of the sea, when, on its surface, he defied all attempts made against him?

What vessel could resist the shock of his submarine monitor? What cuirass, however thick, could withstand the blows of his spur? No man could demand from him an account of his actions; God, if he believed in one — his conscience, if he had one — were the sole judges to whom he was answerable.

These reflections crossed my mind rapidly, whilst the stranger personage was silent, absorbed, and as if wrapped up in himself. I regarded him with fear mingled with interest, as, doubtless, OEdiphus regarded the Sphinx.

After rather a long silence, the commander resumed the conversation.

“I have hesitated,” said he, “but I have thought that my interest might be reconciled with that pity to which every human being has a right. You will remain on board my vessel, since fate has cast you there. You will be free; and, in exchange for this liberty, I shall only impose one single condition. Your word of honour to submit to it will suffice.”

“Speak, sir,” I answered. “I suppose this condition is one which a man of honour may accept?”

“Yes, sir; it is this: It is possible that certain events, unforeseen, may oblige me to consign you to your cabins for some hours or some days, as the case may be. As I desire never to use violence, I expect from you, more than all the others, a passive obedience. In thus acting, I take all the responsibility: I acquit you entirely, for I make it an impossibility for you to see what ought not to be seen. Do you accept this condition?”

Then things took place on board which, to say the least, were singular, and which ought not to be seen by people who were not placed beyond the pale of social laws. Amongst the surprises which the future was preparing for me, this might not be the least.

“We accept,” I answered; “only I will ask your permission, sir, to address one question to you — one only.”

“Speak, sir.”

“You said that we should be free on board.”

“Entirely.”

“I ask you, then, what you mean by this liberty?”

“Just the liberty to go, to come, to see, to observe even all that passes here save under rare circumstances — the liberty, in short, which we enjoy ourselves, my companions and I.”

It was evident that we did not understand one another.

“Pardon me, sir,” I resumed, “but this liberty is only what every prisoner has of pacing his prison. It cannot suffice us.”

“It must suffice you, however.”

“What! we must renounce for ever seeing our country, our friends, our relations again?”

“Yes, sir. But to renounce that unendurable worldly yoke which men believe to be liberty is not perhaps so painful as you think.”

“Well,” exclaimed Ned Land, “never will I give my word of honour not to try to escape.”

“I did not ask you for your word of honour, Master Land,” answered the commander, coldly.

“Sir,” I replied, beginning to get angry in spite of my self, “you abuse your situation towards us; it is cruelty.”

“No, sir, it is clemency. You are my prisoners of war. I keep you, when I could, by a word, plunge you into the depths of the ocean. You attacked me. You came to surprise a secret which no man in the world must penetrate — the secret of my whole existence. And you think that I am going to send you back to that world which must know me no more? Never! In retaining you, it is not you whom I guard — it is myself.”

These words indicated a resolution taken on the part of the commander, against which no arguments would prevail.

“So, sir,” I rejoined, “you give us simply the choice between life and death?”

“Simply.”

“My friends,” said I, “to a question thus put, there is nothing to answer. But no word of honour binds us to the master of this vessel.”

“None, sir,” answered the Unknown.

Then, in a gentler tone, he continued:

“Now, permit me to finish what I have to say to you. I know you, M. Aronnax. You and your companions will not, perhaps, have so much to complain of in the chance which has bound you to my fate. You will find amongst the books which are my favourite study the work which you have published on `the depths of the sea.’ I have often read it. You have carried out your work as far as terrestrial science permitted you. But you do not know all — you have not seen all. Let me tell you then, Professor, that you will not regret the time passed on board my vessel. You are going to visit the land of marvels.”

These words of the commander had a great effect upon me. I cannot deny it. My weak point was touched; and I forgot, for a moment, that the contemplation of these sublime subjects was not worth the loss of liberty. Besides, I trusted to the future to decide this grave question. So I contented myself with saying:

“By what name ought I to address you?”

“Sir,” replied the commander, “I am nothing to you but Captain Nemo; and you and your companions are nothing to me but the passengers of the Nautilus.”

Captain Nemo called. A steward appeared. The captain gave him his orders in that strange language which I did not understand. Then, turning towards the Canadian and Conseil:

“A repast awaits you in your cabin,” said he. “Be so good as to follow this man.

“And now, M. Aronnax, our breakfast is ready. Permit me to lead the way.”

“I am at your service, Captain.”

I followed Captain Nemo; and as soon as I had passed through the door, I found myself in a kind of passage lighted by electricity, similar to the waist of a ship. After we had proceeded a dozen yards, a second door opened before me.

I then entered a dining-room, decorated and furnished in severe taste. High oaken sideboards, inlaid with ebony, stood at the two extremities of the room, and upon their shelves glittered china, porcelain, and glass of inestimable value. The plate on the table sparkled in the rays which the luminous ceiling shed around, while the light was tempered and softened by exquisite paintings.

In the centre of the room was a table richly laid out. Captain Nemo indicated the place I was to occupy.

The breakfast consisted of a certain number of dishes, the contents of which were furnished by the sea alone; and I was ignorant of the nature and mode of preparation of some of them. I acknowledged that they were good, but they had a peculiar flavour, which I easily became accustomed to. These different aliments appeared to me to be rich in phosphorus, and I thought they must have a marine origin.

Captain Nemo looked at me. I asked him no questions, but he guessed my thoughts, and answered of his own accord the questions which I was burning to address to him.

“The greater part of these dishes are unknown to you,” he said to me. “However, you may partake of them without fear. They are wholesome and nourishing. For a long time I have renounced the food of the earth, and I am never ill now. My crew, who are healthy, are fed on the same food.”

“So,” said I, “all these eatables are the produce of the sea?”

“Yes, Professor, the sea supplies all my wants. Sometimes I cast my nets in tow, and I draw them in ready to break. Sometimes I hunt in the midst of this element, which appears to be inaccessible to man, and quarry the game which dwells in my submarine forests. My flocks, like those of Neptune’s old shepherds, graze fearlessly in the immense prairies of the ocean. I have a vast property there, which I cultivate myself, and which is always sown by the hand of the Creator of all things.”

“I can understand perfectly, sir, that your nets furnish excellent fish for your table; I can understand also that you hunt aquatic game in your submarine forests; but I cannot understand at all how a particle of meat, no matter how small, can figure in your bill of fare.”

“This, which you believe to be meat, Professor, is nothing else than fillet of turtle. Here are also some dolphins’ livers, which you take to be ragout of pork. My cook is a clever fellow, who excels in dressing these various products of the ocean. Taste all these dishes. Here is a preserve of sea-cucumber, which a Malay would declare to be unrivalled in the world; here is a cream, of which the milk has been furnished by the cetacea, and the sugar by the great fucus of the North Sea; and, lastly, permit me to offer you some preserve of anemones, which is equal to that of the most delicious fruits.”

I tasted, more from curiosity than as a connoisseur, whilst Captain Nemo enchanted me with his extraordinary stories.

“You like the sea, Captain?”

“Yes; I love it! The sea is everything. It covers seven tenths of the terrestrial globe. Its breath is pure and healthy. It is an immense desert, where man is never lonely, for he feels life stirring on all sides. The sea is only the embodiment of a supernatural and wonderful existence. It is nothing but love and emotion; it is the `Living Infinite,’ as one of your poets has said. In fact, Professor, Nature manifests herself in it by her three kingdoms — mineral, vegetable, and animal. The sea is the vast reservoir of Nature. The globe began with sea, so to speak; and who knows if it will not end with it? In it is supreme tranquillity. The sea does not belong to despots. Upon its surface men can still exercise unjust laws, fight, tear one another to pieces, and be carried away with terrestrial horrors. But at thirty feet below its level, their reign ceases, their influence is quenched, and their power disappears. Ah! sir, live — live in the bosom of the waters! There only is independence! There I recognise no masters! There I am free!”

Captain Nemo suddenly became silent in the midst of this enthusiasm, by which he was quite carried away. For a few moments he paced up and down, much agitated. Then he became more calm, regained his accustomed coldness of expression, and turning towards me:

“Now, Professor,” said he, “if you wish to go over the Nautilus, I am at your service.”

Captain Nemo rose. I followed him. A double door, contrived at the back of the dining-room, opened, and I entered a room equal in dimensions to that which I had just quitted.

It was a library. High pieces of furniture, of black violet ebony inlaid with brass, supported upon their wide shelves a great number of books uniformly bound. They followed the shape of the room, terminating at the lower part in huge divans, covered with brown leather, which were curved, to afford the greatest comfort. Light movable desks, made to slide in and out at will, allowed one to rest one’s book while reading. In the centre stood an immense table, covered with pamphlets, amongst which were some newspapers, already of old date. The electric light flooded everything; it was shed from four unpolished globes half sunk in the volutes of the ceiling. I looked with real admiration at this room, so ingeniously fitted up, and I could scarcely believe my eyes.

“Captain Nemo,” said I to my host, who had just thrown himself on one of the divans, “this is a library which would do honour to more than one of the continental palaces, and I am absolutely astounded when I consider that it can follow you to the bottom of the seas.”

“Where could one find greater solitude or silence, Professor?” replied Captain Nemo. “Did your study in the Museum afford you such perfect quiet?”

“No, sir; and I must confess that it is a very poor one after yours. You must have six or seven thousand volumes here.”

“Twelve thousand, M. Aronnax. These are the only ties which bind me to the earth. But I had done with the world on the day when my Nautilus plunged for the first time beneath the waters. That day I bought my last volumes, my last pamphlets, my last papers, and from that time I wish to think that men no longer think or write. These books, Professor, are at your service besides, and you can make use of them freely.”

I thanked Captain Nemo, and went up to the shelves of the library. Works on science, morals, and literature abounded in every language; but I did not see one single work on political economy; that subject appeared to be strictly proscribed. Strange to say, all these books were irregularly arranged, in whatever language they were written; and this medley proved that the Captain of the Nautilus must have read indiscriminately the books which he took up by chance.

“Sir,” said I to the Captain, “I thank you for having placed this library at my disposal. It contains treasures of science, and I shall profit by them.”

“This room is not only a library,” said Captain Nemo, “it is also a smoking-room.”

“A smoking-room!” I cried. “Then one may smoke on board?”

“Certainly.”

“Then, sir, I am forced to believe that you have kept up a communication with Havannah.”

“Not any,” answered the Captain. “Accept this cigar, M. Aronnax; and, though it does not come from Havannah, you will be pleased with it, if you are a connoisseur.”

I took the cigar which was offered me; its shape recalled the London ones, but it seemed to be made of leaves of gold. I lighted it at a little brazier, which was supported upon an elegant bronze stem, and drew the first whiffs with the delight of a lover of smoking who has not smoked for two days.

“It is excellent, but it is not tobacco.”

“No!” answered the Captain, “this tobacco comes neither from Havannah nor from the East. It is a kind of sea-weed, rich in nicotine, with which the sea provides me, but somewhat sparingly.”

At that moment Captain Nemo opened a door which stood opposite to that by which I had entered the library, and I passed into an immense drawing-room splendidly lighted.

It was a vast, four-sided room, thirty feet long, eighteen wide, and fifteen high. A luminous ceiling, decorated with light arabesques, shed a soft clear light over all the marvels accumulated in this museum. For it was in fact a museum, in which an intelligent and prodigal hand had gathered all the treasures of nature and art, with the artistic confusion which distinguishes a painter’s studio.

Thirty first-rate pictures, uniformly framed, separated by bright drapery, ornamented the walls, which were hung with tapestry of severe design. I saw works of great value, the greater part of which I had admired in the special collections of Europe, and in the exhibitions of paintings. The several schools of the old masters were represented by a Madonna of Raphael, a Virgin of Leonardo da Vinci, a nymph of Corregio, a woman of Titan, an Adoration of Veronese, an Assumption of Murillo, a portrait of Holbein, a monk of Velasquez, a martyr of Ribera, a fair of Rubens, two Flemish landscapes of Teniers, three little “genre” pictures of Gerard Dow, Metsu, and Paul Potter, two specimens of Gericault and Prudhon, and some sea-pieces of Backhuysen and Vernet. Amongst the works of modern painters were pictures with the signatures of Delacroix, Ingres, Decamps, Troyon, Meissonier, Daubigny, etc.; and some admirable statues in marble and bronze, after the finest antique models, stood upon pedestals in the corners of this magnificent museum. Amazement, as the Captain of the Nautilus had predicted, had already begun to take possession of me.

“Professor,” said this strange man, “you must excuse the unceremonious way in which I receive you, and the disorder of this room.”

“Sir,” I answered, “without seeking to know who you are, I recognise in you an artist.”

“An amateur, nothing more, sir. Formerly I loved to collect these beautiful works created by the hand of man. I sought them greedily, and ferreted them out indefatigably, and I have been able to bring together some objects of great value. These are my last souvenirs of that world which is dead to me. In my eyes, your modern artists are already old; they have two or three thousand years of existence; I confound them in my own mind. Masters have no age.”

“And these musicians?” said I, pointing out some works of Weber, Rossini, Mozart, Beethoven, Haydn, Meyerbeer, Herold, Wagner, Auber, Gounod, and a number of others, scattered over a large model piano-organ which occupied one of the panels of the drawing-room.

“These musicians,” replied Captain Nemo, “are the contemporaries of Orpheus; for in the memory of the dead all chronological differences are effaced; and I am dead, Professor; as much dead as those of your friends who are sleeping six feet under the earth!”

Captain Nemo was silent, and seemed lost in a profound reverie. I contemplated him with deep interest, analysing in silence the strange expression of his countenance. Leaning on his elbow against an angle of a costly mosaic table, he no longer saw me, — he had forgotten my presence.

I did not disturb this reverie, and continued my observation of the curiosities which enriched this drawing-room.

Under elegant glass cases, fixed by copper rivets, were classed and labelled the most precious productions of the sea which had ever been presented to the eye of a naturalist. My delight as a professor may be conceived.

The division containing the zoophytes presented the most curious specimens of the two groups of polypi and echinodermes. In the first group, the tubipores, were gorgones arranged like a fan, soft sponges of Syria, ises of the Moluccas, pennatules, an admirable virgularia of the Norwegian seas, variegated unbellulairae, alcyonariae, a whole series of madrepores, which my master Milne Edwards has so cleverly classified, amongst which I remarked some wonderful flabellinae oculinae of the Island of Bourbon, the “Neptune’s car” of the Antilles, superb varieties of corals — in short, every species of those curious polypi of which entire islands are formed, which will one day become continents. Of the echinodermes, remarkable for their coating of spines, asteri, sea-stars, pantacrinae, comatules, asterophons, echini, holothuri, etc. represented individually a complete collection of this group.

A somewhat nervous conchyliologist would certainly have fainted before other more numerous cases, in which were classified the specimens of molluscs. It was a collection of inestimable value, which time fails me to describe minutely. Amongst these specimens I will quote from memory only the elegant royal hammer-fish of the Indian Ocean, whose regular white spots stood out brightly on a red and brown ground, an imperial spondyle, bright-coloured, bristling with spines, a rare specimen in the European museums — (I estimated its value at not less than L1000); a common hammer-fish of the seas of New Holland, which is only procured with difficulty; exotic buccardia of Senegal; fragile white bivalve shells, which a breath might shatter like a soap-bubble; several varieties of the aspirgillum of Java, a kind of calcareous tube, edged with leafy folds, and much debated by amateurs; a whole series of trochi, some a greenish-yellow, found in the American seas, others a reddish-brown, natives of Australian waters; others from the Gulf of Mexico, remarkable for their imbricated shell; stellari found in the Southern Seas; and last, the rarest of all, the magnificent spur of New Zealand; and every description of delicate and fragile shells to which science has given appropriate names.

Apart, in separate compartments, were spread out chaplets of pearls of the greatest beauty, which reflected the electric light in little sparks of fire; pink pearls, torn from the pinna-marina of the Red Sea; green pearls of the haliotyde iris; yellow, blue and black pearls, the curious productions of the divers molluscs of every ocean, and certain mussels of the water-courses of the North; lastly, several specimens of inestimable value which had been gathered from the rarest pintadines. Some of these pearls were larger than a pigeon’s egg, and were worth as much, and more than that which the traveller Tavernier sold to the Shah of Persia for three millions, and surpassed the one in the possession of the Imaum of Muscat, which I had believed to be unrivalled in the world.

Therefore, to estimate the value of this collection was simply impossible. Captain Nemo must have expended millions in the acquirement of these various specimens, and I was thinking what source he could have drawn from, to have been able thus to gratify his fancy for collecting, when I was interrupted by these words:

“You are examining my shells, Professor? Unquestionably they must be interesting to a naturalist; but for me they have a far greater charm, for I have collected them all with my own hand, and there is not a sea on the face of the globe which has escaped my researches.”

“I can understand, Captain, the delight of wandering about in the midst of such riches. You are one of those who have collected their treasures themselves. No museum in Europe possesses such a collection of the produce of the ocean. But if I exhaust all my admiration upon it, I shall have none left for the vessel which carries it. I do not wish to pry into your secrets: but I must confess that this Nautilus, with the motive power which is confined in it, the contrivances which enable it to be worked, the powerful agent which propels it, all excite my curiosity to the highest pitch. I see suspended on the walls of this room instruments of whose use I am ignorant.”

“You will find these same instruments in my own room, Professor, where I shall have much pleasure in explaining their use to you. But first come and inspect the cabin which is set apart for your own use. You must see how you will be accommodated on board the Nautilus.”

I followed Captain Nemo who, by one of the doors opening from each panel of the drawing-room, regained the waist. He conducted me towards the bow, and there I found, not a cabin, but an elegant room, with a bed, dressing-table, and several other pieces of excellent furniture.

I could only thank my host.

“Your room adjoins mine,” said he, opening a door, “and mine opens into the drawing-room that we have just quitted.”

I entered the Captain’s room: it had a severe, almost a monkish aspect. A small iron bedstead, a table, some articles for the toilet; the whole lighted by a skylight. No comforts, the strictest necessaries only.

Captain Nemo pointed to a seat.

“Be so good as to sit down,” he said. I seated myself, and he began thus:

CHAPTER XI

ALL BY ELECTRICITY

“Sir,” said Captain Nemo, showing me the instruments hanging on the walls of his room, “here are the contrivances required for the navigation of the Nautilus. Here, as in the drawing-room, I have them always under my eyes, and they indicate my position and exact direction in the middle of the ocean. Some are known to you, such as the thermometer, which gives the internal temperature of the Nautilus; the barometer, which indicates the weight of the air and foretells the changes of the weather; the hygrometer, which marks the dryness of the atmosphere; the storm-glass, the contents of which, by decomposing, announce the approach of tempests; the compass, which guides my course; the sextant, which shows the latitude by the altitude of the sun; chronometers, by which I calculate the longitude; and glasses for day and night, which I use to examine the points of the horizon, when the Nautilus rises to the surface of the waves.”

“These are the usual nautical instruments,” I replied, “and I know the use of them. But these others, no doubt, answer to the particular requirements of the Nautilus. This dial with movable needle is a manometer, is it not?”

“It is actually a manometer. But by communication with the water, whose external pressure it indicates, it gives our depth at the same time.”

“And these other instruments, the use of which I cannot guess?”

“Here, Professor, I ought to give you some explanations. Will you be kind enough to listen to me?”

He was silent for a few moments, then he said:

“There is a powerful agent, obedient, rapid, easy, which conforms to every use, and reigns supreme on board my vessel. Everything is done by means of it. It lights, warms it, and is the soul of my mechanical apparatus. This agent is electricity.”

“Electricity?” I cried in surprise.

“Yes, sir.”

“Nevertheless, Captain, you possess an extreme rapidity of movement, which does not agree well with the power of electricity. Until now, its dynamic force has remained under restraint, and has only been able to produce a small amount of power.”

“Professor,” said Captain Nemo, “my electricity is not everybody’s. You know what sea-water is composed of. In a thousand grammes are found 96 1/2 per cent. of water, and about 2 2/3 per cent. of chloride of sodium; then, in a smaller quantity, chlorides of magnesium and of potassium, bromide of magnesium, sulphate of magnesia, sulphate and carbonate of lime. You see, then, that chloride of sodium forms a large part of it. So it is this sodium that I extract from the sea-water, and of which I compose my ingredients. I owe all to the ocean; it produces electricity, and electricity gives heat, light, motion, and, in a word, life to the Nautilus.”

“But not the air you breathe?”

“Oh! I could manufacture the air necessary for my consumption, but it is useless, because I go up to the surface of the water when I please. However, if electricity does not furnish me with air to breathe, it works at least the powerful pumps that are stored in spacious reservoirs, and which enable me to prolong at need, and as long as I will, my stay in the depths of the sea. It gives a uniform and unintermittent light, which the sun does not. Now look at this clock; it is electrical, and goes with a regularity that defies the best chronometers. I have divided it into twenty-four hours, like the Italian clocks, because for me there is neither night nor day, sun nor moon, but only that factitious light that I take with me to the bottom of the sea. Look! just now, it is ten o’clock in the morning.”

“Exactly.”

“Another application of electricity. This dial hanging in front of us indicates the speed of the Nautilus. An electric thread puts it in communication with the screw, and the needle indicates the real speed. Look! now we are spinning along with a uniform speed of fifteen miles an hour.”

“It is marvelous! And I see, Captain, you were right to make use of this agent that takes the place of wind, water, and steam.”

“We have not finished, M. Aronnax,” said Captain Nemo, rising. “If you will allow me, we will examine the stern of the Nautilus.”

Really, I knew already the anterior part of this submarine boat, of which this is the exact division, starting from the ship’s head: the dining-room, five yards long, separated from the library by a water-tight partition; the library, five yards long; the large drawing-room, ten yards long, separated from the Captain’s room by a second water-tight partition; the said room, five yards in length; mine, two and a half yards; and, lastly a reservoir of air, seven and a half yards, that extended to the bows. Total length thirty five yards, or one hundred and five feet. The partitions had doors that were shut hermetically by means of india-rubber instruments, and they ensured the safety of the Nautilus in case of a leak.

I followed Captain Nemo through the waist, and arrived at the centre of the boat. There was a sort of well that opened between two partitions. An iron ladder, fastened with an iron hook to the partition, led to the upper end. I asked the Captain what the ladder was used for.

“It leads to the small boat,” he said.

“What! have you a boat?” I exclaimed, in surprise.

“Of course; an excellent vessel, light and insubmersible, that serves either as a fishing or as a pleasure boat.”

“But then, when you wish to embark, you are obliged to come to the surface of the water?”

“Not at all. This boat is attached to the upper part of the hull of the Nautilus, and occupies a cavity made for it. It is decked, quite water-tight, and held together by solid bolts. This ladder leads to a man-hole made in the hull of the Nautilus, that corresponds with a similar hole made in the side of the boat. By this double opening I get into the small vessel. They shut the one belonging to the Nautilus; I shut the other by means of screw pressure. I undo the bolts, and the little boat goes up to the surface of the sea with prodigious rapidity. I then open the panel of the bridge, carefully shut till then; I mast it, hoist my sail, take my oars, and I’m off.”

“But how do you get back on board?”

“I do not come back, M. Aronnax; the Nautilus comes to me.”

“By your orders?”

“By my orders. An electric thread connects us. I telegraph to it, and that is enough.”

“Really,” I said, astonished at these marvels, “nothing can be more simple.”

After having passed by the cage of the staircase that led to the platform, I saw a cabin six feet long, in which Conseil and Ned Land, enchanted with their repast, were devouring it with avidity. Then a door opened into a kitchen nine feet long, situated between the large store-rooms. There electricity, better than gas itself, did all the cooking. The streams under the furnaces gave out to the sponges of platina a heat which was regularly kept up and distributed. They also heated a distilling apparatus, which, by evaporation, furnished excellent drinkable water. Near this kitchen was a bathroom comfortably furnished, with hot and cold water taps.

Next to the kitchen was the berth-room of the vessel, sixteen feet long. But the door was shut, and I could not see the management of it, which might have given me an idea of the number of men employed on board the Nautilus.

At the bottom was a fourth partition that separated this office from the engine-room. A door opened, and I found myself in the compartment where Captain Nemo — certainly an engineer of a very high order — had arranged his locomotive machinery. This engine-room, clearly lighted, did not measure less than sixty-five feet in length. It was divided into two parts; the first contained the materials for producing electricity, and the second the machinery that connected it with the screw. I examined it with great interest, in order to understand the machinery of the Nautilus.

“You see,” said the Captain, “I use Bunsen’s contrivances, not Ruhmkorff’s. Those would not have been powerful enough. Bunsen’s are fewer in number, but strong and large, which experience proves to be the best. The electricity produced passes forward, where it works, by electro-magnets of great size, on a system of levers and cog-wheels that transmit the movement to the axle of the screw. This one, the diameter of which is nineteen feet, and the thread twenty-three feet, performs about 120 revolutions in a second.”

“And you get then?”

“A speed of fifty miles an hour.”

“I have seen the Nautilus manoeuvre before the Abraham Lincoln, and I have my own ideas as to its speed. But this is not enough. We must see where we go. We must be able to direct it to the right, to the left, above, below. How do you get to the great depths, where you find an increasing resistance, which is rated by hundreds of atmospheres? How do you return to the surface of the ocean? And how do you maintain yourselves in the requisite medium? Am I asking too much?”

“Not at all, Professor,” replied the Captain, with some hesitation; “since you may never leave this submarine boat. Come into the saloon, it is our usual study, and there you will learn all you want to know about the Nautilus.”

CHAPTER XII

SOME FIGURES

A moment after we were seated on a divan in the saloon smoking. The Captain showed me a sketch that gave the plan, section, and elevation of the Nautilus. Then he began his description in these words:

“Here, M. Aronnax, are the several dimensions of the boat you are in. It is an elongated cylinder with conical ends. It is very like a cigar in shape, a shape already adopted in London in several constructions of the same sort. The length of this cylinder, from stem to stern, is exactly 232 feet, and its maximum breadth is twenty-six feet. It is not built quite like your long-voyage steamers, but its lines are sufficiently long, and its curves prolonged enough, to allow the water to slide off easily, and oppose no obstacle to its passage. These two dimensions enable you to obtain by a simple calculation the surface and cubic contents of the Nautilus. Its area measures 6,032 feet; and its contents about 1,500 cubic yards; that is to say, when completely immersed it displaces 50,000 feet of water, or weighs 1,500 tons.

“When I made the plans for this submarine vessel, I meant that nine-tenths should be submerged: consequently it ought only to displace nine-tenths of its bulk, that is to say, only to weigh that number of tons. I ought not, therefore, to have exceeded that weight, constructing it on the aforesaid dimensions.

“The Nautilus is composed of two hulls, one inside, the other outside, joined by T-shaped irons, which render it very strong. Indeed, owing to this cellular arrangement it resists like a block, as if it were solid. Its sides cannot yield; it coheres spontaneously, and not by the closeness of its rivets; and its perfect union of the materials enables it to defy the roughest seas.

“These two hulls are composed of steel plates, whose density is from .7 to .8 that of water. The first is not less than two inches and a half thick and weighs 394 tons. The second envelope, the keel, twenty inches high and ten thick, weighs only sixty-two tons. The engine, the ballast, the several accessories and apparatus appendages, the partitions and bulkheads, weigh 961.62 tons. Do you follow all this?”

“I do.”

“Then, when the Nautilus is afloat under these circumstances, one-tenth is out of the water. Now, if I have made reservoirs of a size equal to this tenth, or capable of holding 150 tons, and if I fill them with water, the boat, weighing then 1,507 tons, will be completely immersed. That would happen, Professor. These reservoirs are in the lower part of the Nautilus. I turn on taps and they fill, and the vessel sinks that had just been level with the surface.”

“Well, Captain, but now we come to the real difficulty. I can understand your rising to the surface; but, diving below the surface, does not your submarine contrivance encounter a pressure, and consequently undergo an upward thrust of one atmosphere for every thirty feet of water, just about fifteen pounds per square inch?”

“Just so, sir.”

“Then, unless you quite fill the Nautilus, I do not see how you can draw it down to those depths.”

“Professor, you must not confound statics with dynamics or you will be exposed to grave errors. There is very little labour spent in attaining the lower regions of the ocean, for all bodies have a tendency to sink. When I wanted to find out the necessary increase of weight required to sink the Nautilus, I had only to calculate the reduction of volume that sea-water acquires according to the depth.”

“That is evident.”

“Now, if water is not absolutely incompressible, it is at least capable of very slight compression. Indeed, after the most recent calculations this reduction is only .000436 of an atmosphere for each thirty feet of depth. If we want to sink 3,000 feet, I should keep account of the reduction of bulk under a pressure equal to that of a column of water of a thousand feet. The calculation is easily verified. Now, I have supplementary reservoirs capable of holding a hundred tons. Therefore I can sink to a considerable depth. When I wish to rise to the level of the sea, I only let off the water, and empty all the reservoirs if I want the Nautilus to emerge from the tenth part of her total capacity.”

I had nothing to object to these reasonings.

“I admit your calculations, Captain,” I replied; “I should be wrong to dispute them since daily experience confirms them; but I foresee a real difficulty in the way.”

“What, sir?”

“When you are about 1,000 feet deep, the walls of the Nautilus bear a pressure of 100 atmospheres. If, then, just now you were to empty the supplementary reservoirs, to lighten the vessel, and to go up to the surface, the pumps must overcome the pressure of 100 atmospheres, which is 1,500 lbs. per square inch. From that a power — — ”

“That electricity alone can give,” said the Captain, hastily. “I repeat, sir, that the dynamic power of my engines is almost infinite. The pumps of the Nautilus have an enormous power, as you must have observed when their jets of water burst like a torrent upon the Abraham Lincoln. Besides, I use subsidiary reservoirs only to attain a mean depth of 750 to 1,000 fathoms, and that with a view of managing my machines. Also, when I have a mind to visit the depths of the ocean five or six miles below the surface, I make use of slower but not less infallible means.”

“What are they, Captain?”

“That involves my telling you how the Nautilus is worked.”

“I am impatient to learn.”

“To steer this boat to starboard or port, to turn, in a word, following a horizontal plan, I use an ordinary rudder fixed on the back of the stern-post, and with one wheel and some tackle to steer by. But I can also make the Nautilus rise and sink, and sink and rise, by a vertical movement by means of two inclined planes fastened to its sides, opposite the centre of flotation, planes that move in every direction, and that are worked by powerful levers from the interior. If the planes are kept parallel with the boat, it moves horizontally. If slanted, the Nautilus, according to this inclination, and under the influence of the screw, either sinks diagonally or rises diagonally as it suits me. And even if I wish to rise more quickly to the surface, I ship the screw, and the pressure of the water causes the Nautilus to rise vertically like a balloon filled with hydrogen.”

“Bravo, Captain! But how can the steersman follow the route in the middle of the waters?”

“The steersman is placed in a glazed box, that is raised about the hull of the Nautilus, and furnished with lenses.”

“Are these lenses capable of resisting such pressure?”

“Perfectly. Glass, which breaks at a blow, is, nevertheless, capable of offering considerable resistance. During some experiments of fishing by electric light in 1864 in the Northern Seas, we saw plates less than a third of an inch thick resist a pressure of sixteen atmospheres. Now, the glass that I use is not less than thirty times thicker.”

“Granted. But, after all, in order to see, the light must exceed the darkness, and in the midst of the darkness in the water, how can you see?”

“Behind the steersman’s cage is placed a powerful electric reflector, the rays from which light up the sea for half a mile in front.”

“Ah! bravo, bravo, Captain! Now I can account for this phosphorescence in the supposed narwhal that puzzled us so. I now ask you if the boarding of the Nautilus and of the Scotia, that has made such a noise, has been the result of a chance rencontre?”

“Quite accidental, sir. I was sailing only one fathom below the surface of the water when the shock came. It had no bad result.”

“None, sir. But now, about your rencontre with the Abraham Lincoln?”

“Professor, I am sorry for one of the best vessels in the American navy; but they attacked me, and I was bound to defend myself. I contented myself, however, with putting the frigate hors de combat; she will not have any difficulty in getting repaired at the next port.”

“Ah, Commander! your Nautilus is certainly a marvellous boat.”

“Yes, Professor; and I love it as if it were part of myself. If danger threatens one of your vessels on the ocean, the first impression is the feeling of an abyss above and below. On the Nautilus men’s hearts never fail them. No defects to be afraid of, for the double shell is as firm as iron; no rigging to attend to; no sails for the wind to carry away; no boilers to burst; no fire to fear, for the vessel is made of iron, not of wood; no coal to run short, for electricity is the only mechanical agent; no collision to fear, for it alone swims in deep water; no tempest to brave, for when it dives below the water it reaches absolute tranquillity. There, sir! that is the perfection of vessels! And if it is true that the engineer has more confidence in the vessel than the builder, and the builder than the captain himself, you understand the trust I repose in my Nautilus; for I am at once captain, builder, and engineer.”

“But how could you construct this wonderful Nautilus in secret?”

“Each separate portion, M. Aronnax, was brought from different parts of the globe.”

“But these parts had to be put together and arranged?”

“Professor, I had set up my workshops upon a desert island in the ocean. There my workmen, that is to say, the brave men that I instructed and educated, and myself have put together our Nautilus. Then, when the work was finished, fire destroyed all trace of our proceedings on this island, that I could have jumped over if I had liked.”

“Then the cost of this vessel is great?”

“M. Aronnax, an iron vessel costs L145 per ton. Now the Nautilus weighed 1,500. It came therefore to L67,500, and L80,000 more for fitting it up, and about L200,000, with the works of art and the collections it contains.”

“One last question, Captain Nemo.”

“Ask it, Professor.”

“You are rich?”

“Immensely rich, sir; and I could, without missing it, pay the national debt of France.”

I stared at the singular person who spoke thus. Was he playing upon my credulity? The future would decide that.

CHAPTER XIII

THE BLACK RIVER

The portion of the terrestrial globe which is covered by water is estimated at upwards of eighty millions of acres. This fluid mass comprises two billions two hundred and fifty millions of cubic miles, forming a spherical body of a diameter of sixty leagues, the weight of which would be three quintillions of tons. To comprehend the meaning of these figures, it is necessary to observe that a quintillion is to a billion as a billion is to unity; in other words, there are as many billions in a quintillion as there are units in a billion. This mass of fluid is equal to about the quantity of water which would be discharged by all the rivers of the earth in forty thousand years.

During the geological epochs the ocean originally prevailed everywhere. Then by degrees, in the silurian period, the tops of the mountains began to appear, the islands emerged, then disappeared in partial deluges, reappeared, became settled, formed continents, till at length the earth became geographically arranged, as we see in the present day. The solid had wrested from the liquid thirty-seven million six hundred and fifty-seven square miles, equal to twelve billions nine hundred and sixty millions of acres.

The shape of continents allows us to divide the waters into five great portions: the Arctic or Frozen Ocean, the Antarctic, or Frozen Ocean, the Indian, the Atlantic, and the Pacific Oceans.

The Pacific Ocean extends from north to south between the two Polar Circles, and from east to west between Asia and America, over an extent of 145 degrees of longitude. It is the quietest of seas; its currents are broad and slow, it has medium tides, and abundant rain. Such was the ocean that my fate destined me first to travel over under these strange conditions.

“Sir,” said Captain Nemo, “we will, if you please, take our bearings and fix the starting-point of this voyage. It is a quarter to twelve; I will go up again to the surface.”

The Captain pressed an electric clock three times. The pumps began to drive the water from the tanks; the needle of the manometer marked by a different pressure the ascent of the Nautilus, then it stopped.

“We have arrived,” said the Captain.

I went to the central staircase which opened on to the platform, clambered up the iron steps, and found myself on the upper part of the Nautilus.

The platform was only three feet out of water. The front and back of the Nautilus was of that spindle-shape which caused it justly to be compared to a cigar. I noticed that its iron plates, slightly overlaying each other, resembled the shell which clothes the bodies of our large terrestrial reptiles. It explained to me how natural it was, in spite of all glasses, that this boat should have been taken for a marine animal.

Toward the middle of the platform the longboat, half buried in the hull of the vessel, formed a slight excrescence. Fore and aft rose two cages of medium height with inclined sides, and partly closed by thick lenticular glasses; one destined for the steersman who directed the Nautilus, the other containing a brilliant lantern to give light on the road.

The sea was beautiful, the sky pure. Scarcely could the long vehicle feel the broad undulations of the ocean. A light breeze from the east rippled the surface of the waters. The horizon, free from fog, made observation easy. Nothing was in sight. Not a quicksand, not an island. A vast desert.

Captain Nemo, by the help of his sextant, took the altitude of the sun, which ought also to give the latitude. He waited for some moments till its disc touched the horizon. Whilst taking observations not a muscle moved, the instrument could not have been more motionless in a hand of marble.

“Twelve o’clock, sir,” said he. “When you like — — ”

I cast a last look upon the sea, slightly yellowed by the Japanese coast, and descended to the saloon.

“And now, sir, I leave you to your studies,” added the Captain; “our course is E.N.E. our depth is twenty-six fathoms. Here are maps on a large scale by which you may follow it. The saloon is at your disposal, and, with your permission, I will retire.” Captain Nemo bowed, and I remained alone, lost in thoughts all bearing on the commander of the Nautilus.

For a whole hour was I deep in these reflections, seeking to pierce this mystery so interesting to me. Then my eyes fell upon the vast planisphere spread upon the table, and I placed my finger on the very spot where the given latitude and longitude crossed.

The sea has its large rivers like the continents. They are special currents known by their temperature and their colour. The most remarkable of these is known by the name of the Gulf Stream. Science has decided on the globe the direction of five principal currents: one in the North Atlantic, a second in the South, a third in the North Pacific, a fourth in the South, and a fifth in the Southern Indian Ocean. It is even probable that a sixth current existed at one time or another in the Northern Indian Ocean, when the Caspian and Aral Seas formed but one vast sheet of water.

At this point indicated on the planisphere one of these currents was rolling, the Kuro-Scivo of the Japanese, the Black River, which, leaving the Gulf of Bengal, where it is warmed by the perpendicular rays of a tropical sun, crosses the Straits of Malacca along the coast of Asia, turns into the North Pacific to the Aleutian Islands, carrying with it trunks of camphor-trees and other indigenous productions, and edging the waves of the ocean with the pure indigo of its warm water. It was this current that the Nautilus was to follow. I followed it with my eye; saw it lose itself in the vastness of the Pacific, and felt myself drawn with it, when Ned Land and Conseil appeared at the door of the saloon.

My two brave companions remained petrified at the sight of the wonders spread before them.

“Where are we, where are we?” exclaimed the Canadian. “In the museum at Quebec?”

“My friends,” I answered, making a sign for them to enter, “you are not in Canada, but on board the Nautilus, fifty yards below the level of the sea.”

“But, M. Aronnax,” said Ned Land, “can you tell me how many men there are on board? Ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred?”

“I cannot answer you, Mr. Land; it is better to abandon for a time all idea of seizing the Nautilus or escaping from it. This ship is a masterpiece of modern industry, and I should be sorry not to have seen it. Many people would accept the situation forced upon us, if only to move amongst such wonders. So be quiet and let us try and see what passes around us.”

“See!” exclaimed the harpooner, “but we can see nothing in this iron prison! We are walking — we are sailing — blindly.”

Ned Land had scarcely pronounced these words when all was suddenly darkness. The luminous ceiling was gone, and so rapidly that my eyes received a painful impression.

We remained mute, not stirring, and not knowing what surprise awaited us, whether agreeable or disagreeable. A sliding noise was heard: one would have said that panels were working at the sides of the Nautilus.

“It is the end of the end!” said Ned Land.

Suddenly light broke at each side of the saloon, through two oblong openings. The liquid mass appeared vividly lit up by the electric gleam. Two crystal plates separated us from the sea. At first I trembled at the thought that this frail partition might break, but strong bands of copper bound them, giving an almost infinite power of resistance.

The sea was distinctly visible for a mile all round the Nautilus. What a spectacle! What pen can describe it? Who could paint the effects of the light through those transparent sheets of water, and the softness of the successive gradations from the lower to the superior strata of the ocean?

We know the transparency of the sea and that its clearness is far beyond that of rock-water. The mineral and organic substances which it holds in suspension heightens its transparency. In certain parts of the ocean at the Antilles, under seventy-five fathoms of water, can be seen with surprising clearness a bed of sand. The penetrating power of the solar rays does not seem to cease for a depth of one hundred and fifty fathoms. But in this middle fluid travelled over by the Nautilus, the electric brightness was produced even in the bosom of the waves. It was no longer luminous water, but liquid light.

On each side a window opened into this unexplored abyss. The obscurity of the saloon showed to advantage the brightness outside, and we looked out as if this pure crystal had been the glass of an immense aquarium.

“You wished to see, friend Ned; well, you see now.”

“Curious! curious!” muttered the Canadian, who, forgetting his ill-temper, seemed to submit to some irresistible attraction; “and one would come further than this to admire such a sight!”

“Ah!” thought I to myself, “I understand the life of this man; he has made a world apart for himself, in which he treasures all his greatest wonders.”

For two whole hours an aquatic army escorted the Nautilus. During their games, their bounds, while rivalling each other in beauty, brightness, and velocity, I distinguished the green labre; the banded mullet, marked by a double line of black; the round-tailed goby, of a white colour, with violet spots on the back; the Japanese scombrus, a beautiful mackerel of these seas, with a blue body and silvery head; the brilliant azurors, whose name alone defies description; some banded spares, with variegated fins of blue and yellow; the woodcocks of the seas, some specimens of which attain a yard in length; Japanese salamanders, spider lampreys, serpents six feet long, with eyes small and lively, and a huge mouth bristling with teeth; with many other species.

Our imagination was kept at its height, interjections followed quickly on each other. Ned named the fish, and Conseil classed them. I was in ecstasies with the vivacity of their movements and the beauty of their forms. Never had it been given to me to surprise these animals, alive and at liberty, in their natural element. I will not mention all the varieties which passed before my dazzled eyes, all the collection of the seas of China and Japan. These fish, more numerous than the birds of the air, came, attracted, no doubt, by the brilliant focus of the electric light.

Suddenly there was daylight in the saloon, the iron panels closed again, and the enchanting vision disappeared. But for a long time I dreamt on, till my eyes fell on the instruments hanging on the partition. The compass still showed the course to be E.N.E. the manometer indicated a pressure of five atmospheres, equivalent to a depth of twenty five fathoms, and the electric log gave a speed of fifteen miles an hour. I expected Captain Nemo, but he did not appear. The clock marked the hour of five.

Ned Land and Conseil returned to their cabin, and I retired to my chamber. My dinner was ready. It was composed of turtle soup made of the most delicate hawks bills, of a surmullet served with puff paste (the liver of which, prepared by itself, was most delicious), and fillets of the emperor-holocanthus, the savour of which seemed to me superior even to salmon.

I passed the evening reading, writing, and thinking. Then sleep overpowered me, and I stretched myself on my couch of zostera, and slept profoundly, whilst the Nautilus was gliding rapidly through the current of the Black River.

CHAPTER XVI

A SUBMARINE FOREST

We had at last arrived on the borders of this forest, doubtless one of the finest of Captain Nemo’s immense domains. He looked upon it as his own, and considered he had the same right over it that the first men had in the first days of the world. And, indeed, who would have disputed with him the possession of this submarine property? What other hardier pioneer would come, hatchet in hand, to cut down the dark copses?

This forest was composed of large tree-plants; and the moment we penetrated under its vast arcades, I was struck by the singular position of their branches — a position I had not yet observed.

Not an herb which carpeted the ground, not a branch which clothed the trees, was either broken or bent, nor did they extend horizontally; all stretched up to the surface of the ocean. Not a filament, not a ribbon, however thin they might be, but kept as straight as a rod of iron. The fuci and llianas grew in rigid perpendicular lines, due to the density of the element which had produced them. Motionless yet, when bent to one side by the hand, they directly resumed their former position. Truly it was the region of perpendicularity!

I soon accustomed myself to this fantastic position, as well as to the comparative darkness which surrounded us. The soil of the forest seemed covered with sharp blocks, difficult to avoid. The submarine flora struck me as being very perfect, and richer even than it would have been in the arctic or tropical zones, where these productions are not so plentiful. But for some minutes I involuntarily confounded the genera, taking animals for plants; and who would not have been mistaken? The fauna and the flora are too closely allied in this submarine world.

These plants are self-propagated, and the principle of their existence is in the water, which upholds and nourishes them. The greater number, instead of leaves, shoot forth blades of capricious shapes, comprised within a scale of colours pink, carmine, green, olive, fawn, and brown.

“Curious anomaly, fantastic element!” said an ingenious naturalist, “in which the animal kingdom blossoms, and the vegetable does not!”

In about an hour Captain Nemo gave the signal to halt; I, for my part, was not sorry, and we stretched ourselves under an arbour of alariae, the long thin blades of which stood up like arrows.

This short rest seemed delicious to me; there was nothing wanting but the charm of conversation; but, impossible to speak, impossible to answer, I only put my great copper head to Conseil’s. I saw the worthy fellow’s eyes glistening with delight, and, to show his satisfaction, he shook himself in his breastplate of air, in the most comical way in the world.

After four hours of this walking, I was surprised not to find myself dreadfully hungry. How to account for this state of the stomach I could not tell. But instead I felt an insurmountable desire to sleep, which happens to all divers. And my eyes soon closed behind the thick glasses, and I fell into a heavy slumber, which the movement alone had prevented before. Captain Nemo and his robust companion, stretched in the clear crystal, set us the example.

How long I remained buried in this drowsiness I cannot judge, but, when I woke, the sun seemed sinking towards the horizon. Captain Nemo had already risen, and I was beginning to stretch my limbs, when an unexpected apparition brought me briskly to my feet.

A few steps off, a monstrous sea-spider, about thirty-eight inches high, was watching me with squinting eyes, ready to spring upon me. Though my diver’s dress was thick enough to defend me from the bite of this animal, I could not help shuddering with horror. Conseil and the sailor of the Nautilus awoke at this moment. Captain Nemo pointed out the hideous crustacean, which a blow from the butt end of the gun knocked over, and I saw the horrible claws of the monster writhe in terrible convulsions. This incident reminded me that other animals more to be feared might haunt these obscure depths, against whose attacks my diving-dress would not protect me. I had never thought of it before, but I now resolved to be upon my guard. Indeed, I thought that this halt would mark the termination of our walk; but I was mistaken, for, instead of returning to the Nautilus, Captain Nemo continued his bold excursion. The ground was still on the incline, its declivity seemed to be getting greater, and to be leading us to greater depths. It must have been about three o’clock when we reached a narrow valley, between high perpendicular walls, situated about seventy-five fathoms deep. Thanks to the perfection of our apparatus, we were forty-five fathoms below the limit which nature seems to have imposed on man as to his submarine excursions.

I say seventy-five fathoms, though I had no instrument by which to judge the distance. But I knew that even in the clearest waters the solar rays could not penetrate further. And accordingly the darkness deepened. At ten paces not an object was visible. I was groping my way, when I suddenly saw a brilliant white light. Captain Nemo had just put his electric apparatus into use; his companion did the same, and Conseil and I followed their example. By turning a screw I established a communication between the wire and the spiral glass, and the sea, lit by our four lanterns, was illuminated for a circle of thirty-six yards.

As we walked I thought the light of our Ruhmkorff apparatus could not fail to draw some inhabitant from its dark couch. But if they did approach us, they at least kept at a respectful distance from the hunters. Several times I saw Captain Nemo stop, put his gun to his shoulder, and after some moments drop it and walk on. At last, after about four hours, this marvellous excursion came to an end. A wall of superb rocks, in an imposing mass, rose before us, a heap of gigantic blocks, an enormous, steep granite shore, forming dark grottos, but which presented no practicable slope; it was the prop of the Island of Crespo. It was the earth! Captain Nemo stopped suddenly. A gesture of his brought us all to a halt; and, however desirous I might be to scale the wall, I was obliged to stop. Here ended Captain Nemo’s domains. And he would not go beyond them. Further on was a portion of the globe he might not trample upon.

The return began. Captain Nemo had returned to the head of his little band, directing their course without hesitation. I thought we were not following the same road to return to the Nautilus. The new road was very steep, and consequently very painful. We approached the surface of the sea rapidly. But this return to the upper strata was not so sudden as to cause relief from the pressure too rapidly, which might have produced serious disorder in our organisation, and brought on internal lesions, so fatal to divers. Very soon light reappeared and grew, and, the sun being low on the horizon, the refraction edged the different objects with a spectral ring. At ten yards and a half deep, we walked amidst a shoal of little fishes of all kinds, more numerous than the birds of the air, and also more agile; but no aquatic game worthy of a shot had as yet met our gaze, when at that moment I saw the Captain shoulder his gun quickly, and follow a moving object into the shrubs. He fired; I heard a slight hissing, and a creature fell stunned at some distance from us. It was a magnificent sea-otter, an enhydrus, the only exclusively marine quadruped. This otter was five feet long, and must have been very valuable. Its skin, chestnut-brown above and silvery underneath, would have made one of those beautiful furs so sought after in the Russian and Chinese markets: the fineness and the lustre of its coat would certainly fetch L80. I admired this curious mammal, with its rounded head ornamented with short ears, its round eyes, and white whiskers like those of a cat, with webbed feet and nails, and tufted tail. This precious animal, hunted and tracked by fishermen, has now become very rare, and taken refuge chiefly in the northern parts of the Pacific, or probably its race would soon become extinct.

Captain Nemo’s companion took the beast, threw it over his shoulder, and we continued our journey. For one hour a plain of sand lay stretched before us. Sometimes it rose to within two yards and some inches of the surface of the water. I then saw our image clearly reflected, drawn inversely, and above us appeared an identical group reflecting our movements and our actions; in a word, like us in every point, except that they walked with their heads downward and their feet in the air.

Another effect I noticed, which was the passage of thick clouds which formed and vanished rapidly; but on reflection I understood that these seeming clouds were due to the varying thickness of the reeds at the bottom, and I could even see the fleecy foam which their broken tops multiplied on the water, and the shadows of large birds passing above our heads, whose rapid flight I could discern on the surface of the sea.

On this occasion I was witness to one of the finest gun shots which ever made the nerves of a hunter thrill. A large bird of great breadth of wing, clearly visible, approached, hovering over us. Captain Nemo’s companion shouldered his gun and fired, when it was only a few yards above the waves. The creature fell stunned, and the force of its fall brought it within the reach of dexterous hunter’s grasp. It was an albatross of the finest kind.

Our march had not been interrupted by this incident. For two hours we followed these sandy plains, then fields of algae very disagreeable to cross. Candidly, I could do no more when I saw a glimmer of light, which, for a half mile, broke the darkness of the waters. It was the lantern of the Nautilus. Before twenty minutes were over we should be on board, and I should be able to breathe with ease, for it seemed that my reservoir supplied air very deficient in oxygen. But I did not reckon on an accidental meeting which delayed our arrival for some time.

I had remained some steps behind, when I presently saw Captain Nemo coming hurriedly towards me. With his strong hand he bent me to the ground, his companion doing the same to Conseil. At first I knew not what to think of this sudden attack, but I was soon reassured by seeing the Captain lie down beside me, and remain immovable.

I was stretched on the ground, just under the shelter of a bush of algae, when, raising my head, I saw some enormous mass, casting phosphorescent gleams, pass blusteringly by.

My blood froze in my veins as I recognised two formidable sharks which threatened us. It was a couple of tintoreas, terrible creatures, with enormous tails and a dull glassy stare, the phosphorescent matter ejected from holes pierced around the muzzle. Monstrous brutes! which would crush a whole man in their iron jaws. I did not know whether Conseil stopped to classify them; for my part, I noticed their silver bellies, and their huge mouths bristling with teeth, from a very unscientific point of view, and more as a possible victim than as a naturalist.

Happily the voracious creatures do not see well. They passed without seeing us, brushing us with their brownish fins, and we escaped by a miracle from a danger certainly greater than meeting a tiger full-face in the forest. Half an hour after, guided by the electric light we reached the Nautilus. The outside door had been left open, and Captain Nemo closed it as soon as we had entered the first cell. He then pressed a knob. I heard the pumps working in the midst of the vessel, I felt the water sinking from around me, and in a few moments the cell was entirely empty. The inside door then opened, and we entered the vestry.

There our diving-dress was taken off, not without some trouble, and, fairly worn out from want of food and sleep, I returned to my room, in great wonder at this surprising excursion at the bottom of the sea.

CHAPTER XIX

TORRES STRAITS

During the night of the 27th or 28th of December, the Nautilus left the shores of Vanikoro with great speed. Her course was south-westerly, and in three days she had gone over the 750 leagues that separated it from La Perouse’s group and the south-east point of Papua.

Early on the 1st of January, 1863, Conseil joined me on the platform.

“Master, will you permit me to wish you a happy New Year?”

“What! Conseil; exactly as if I was at Paris in my study at the Jardin des Plantes? Well, I accept your good wishes, and thank you for them. Only, I will ask you what you mean by a `Happy New Year’ under our circumstances? Do you mean the year that will bring us to the end of our imprisonment, or the year that sees us continue this strange voyage?”

“Really, I do not know how to answer, master. We are sure to see curious things, and for the last two months we have not had time for dullness. The last marvel is always the most astonishing; and, if we continue this progression, I do not know how it will end. It is my opinion that we shall never again see the like. I think then, with no offence to master, that a happy year would be one in which we could see everything.”

On 2nd January we had made 11,340 miles, or 5,250 French leagues, since our starting-point in the Japan Seas. Before the ship’s head stretched the dangerous shores of the coral sea, on the north-east coast of Australia. Our boat lay along some miles from the redoubtable bank on which Cook’s vessel was lost, 10th June, 1770. The boat in which Cook was struck on a rock, and, if it did not sink, it was owing to a piece of coral that was broken by the shock, and fixed itself in the broken keel.

I had wished to visit the reef, 360 leagues long, against which the sea, always rough, broke with great violence, with a noise like thunder. But just then the inclined planes drew the Nautilus down to a great depth, and I could see nothing of the high coral walls. I had to content myself with the different specimens of fish brought up by the nets. I remarked, among others, some germons, a species of mackerel as large as a tunny, with bluish sides, and striped with transverse bands, that disappear with the animal’s life.

These fish followed us in shoals, and furnished us with very delicate food. We took also a large number of gilt-heads, about one and a half inches long, tasting like dorys; and flying pyrapeds like submarine swallows, which, in dark nights, light alternately the air and water with their phosphorescent light. Among the molluscs and zoophytes, I found in the meshes of the net several species of alcyonarians, echini, hammers, spurs, dials, cerites, and hyalleae. The flora was represented by beautiful floating seaweeds, laminariae, and macrocystes, impregnated with the mucilage that transudes through their pores; and among which I gathered an admirable Nemastoma Geliniarois, that was classed among the natural curiosities of the museum.

Two days after crossing the coral sea, 4th January, we sighted the Papuan coasts. On this occasion, Captain Nemo informed me that his intention was to get into the Indian Ocean by the Strait of Torres. His communication ended there.

The Torres Straits are nearly thirty-four leagues wide; but they are obstructed by an innumerable quantity of islands, islets, breakers, and rocks, that make its navigation almost impracticable; so that Captain Nemo took all needful precautions to cross them. The Nautilus, floating betwixt wind and water, went at a moderate pace. Her screw, like a cetacean’s tail, beat the waves slowly.

Profiting by this, I and my two companions went up on to the deserted platform. Before us was the steersman’s cage, and I expected that Captain Nemo was there directing the course of the Nautilus. I had before me the excellent charts of the Straits of Torres, and I consulted them attentively. Round the Nautilus the sea dashed furiously. The course of the waves, that went from south-east to north-west at the rate of two and a half miles, broke on the coral that showed itself here and there.

“This is a bad sea!” remarked Ned Land.

“Detestable indeed, and one that does not suit a boat like the Nautilus.”

“The Captain must be very sure of his route, for I see there pieces of coral that would do for its keel if it only touched them slightly.”

Indeed the situation was dangerous, but the Nautilus seemed to slide like magic off these rocks. It did not follow the routes of the Astrolabe and the Zelee exactly, for they proved fatal to Dumont d’Urville. It bore more northwards, coasted the Islands of Murray, and came back to the south-west towards Cumberland Passage. I thought it was going to pass it by, when, going back to north-west, it went through a large quantity of islands and islets little known, towards the Island Sound and Canal Mauvais.

I wondered if Captain Nemo, foolishly imprudent, would steer his vessel into that pass where Dumont d’Urville’s two corvettes touched; when, swerving again, and cutting straight through to the west, he steered for the Island of Gilboa.

It was then three in the afternoon. The tide began to recede, being quite full. The Nautilus approached the island, that I still saw, with its remarkable border of screw-pines. He stood off it at about two miles distant. Suddenly a shock overthrew me. The Nautilus just touched a rock, and stayed immovable, laying lightly to port side.

When I rose, I perceived Captain Nemo and his lieutenant on the platform. They were examining the situation of the vessel, and exchanging words in their incomprehensible dialect.

She was situated thus: Two miles, on the starboard side, appeared Gilboa, stretching from north to west like an immense arm. Towards the south and east some coral showed itself, left by the ebb. We had run aground, and in one of those seas where the tides are middling — a sorry matter for the floating of the Nautilus. However, the vessel had not suffered, for her keel was solidly joined. But, if she could neither glide off nor move, she ran the risk of being for ever fastened to these rocks, and then Captain Nemo’s submarine vessel would be done for.

I was reflecting thus, when the Captain, cool and calm, always master of himself, approached me.

“An accident?” I asked.

“No; an incident.”

“But an incident that will oblige you perhaps to become an inhabitant of this land from which you flee?”

Captain Nemo looked at me curiously, and made a negative gesture, as much as to say that nothing would force him to set foot on terra firma again. Then he said: “Besides, M. Aronnax, the Nautilus is not lost; it will carry you yet into the midst of the marvels of the ocean. Our voyage is only begun, and I do not wish to be deprived so soon of the honour of your company.”

“However, Captain Nemo,” I replied, without noticing the ironical turn of his phrase, “the Nautilus ran aground in open sea. Now the tides are not strong in the Pacific; and, if you cannot lighten the Nautilus, I do not see how it will be reinflated.”

“The tides are not strong in the Pacific: you are right there, Professor; but in Torres Straits one finds still a difference of a yard and a half between the level of high and low seas. To-day is 4th January, and in five days the moon will be full. Now, I shall be very much astonished if that satellite does not raise these masses of water sufficiently, and render me a service that I should be indebted to her for.”

Having said this, Captain Nemo, followed by his lieutenant, redescended to the interior of the Nautilus. As to the vessel, it moved not, and was immovable, as if the coralline polypi had already walled it up with their in destructible cement.

“Well, sir?” said Ned Land, who came up to me after the departure of the Captain.

“Well, friend Ned, we will wait patiently for the tide on the 9th instant; for it appears that the moon will have the goodness to put it off again.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“And this Captain is not going to cast anchor at all since the tide will suffice?” said Conseil, simply.

The Canadian looked at Conseil, then shrugged his shoulders.

“Sir, you may believe me when I tell you that this piece of iron will navigate neither on nor under the sea again; it is only fit to be sold for its weight. I think, therefore, that the time has come to part company with Captain Nemo.”

“Friend Ned, I do not despair of this stout Nautilus, as you do; and in four days we shall know what to hold to on the Pacific tides. Besides, flight might be possible if we were in sight of the English or Provencal coast; but on the Papuan shores, it is another thing; and it will be time enough to come to that extremity if the Nautilus does not recover itself again, which I look upon as a grave event.”

“But do they know, at least, how to act circumspectly? There is an island; on that island there are trees; under those trees, terrestrial animals, bearers of cutlets and roast beef, to which I would willingly give a trial.”

“In this, friend Ned is right,” said Conseil, “and I agree with him. Could not master obtain permission from his friend Captain Nemo to put us on land, if only so as not to lose the habit of treading on the solid parts of our planet?”

“I can ask him, but he will refuse.”

“Will master risk it?” asked Conseil, “and we shall know how to rely upon the Captain’s amiability.”

To my great surprise, Captain Nemo gave me the permission I asked for, and he gave it very agreeably, without even exacting from me a promise to return to the vessel; but flight across New Guinea might be very perilous, and I should not have counselled Ned Land to attempt it. Better to be a prisoner on board the Nautilus than to fall into the hands of the natives.

At eight o’clock, armed with guns and hatchets, we got off the Nautilus. The sea was pretty calm; a slight breeze blew on land. Conseil and I rowing, we sped along quickly, and Ned steered in the straight passage that the breakers left between them. The boat was well handled, and moved rapidly.

Ned Land could not restrain his joy. He was like a prisoner that had escaped from prison, and knew not that it was necessary to re-enter it.

“Meat! We are going to eat some meat; and what meat!” he replied. “Real game! no, bread, indeed.”

“I do not say that fish is not good; we must not abuse it; but a piece of fresh venison, grilled on live coals, will agreeably vary our ordinary course.”

“Glutton!” said Conseil, “he makes my mouth water.”

“It remains to be seen,” I said, “if these forests are full of game, and if the game is not such as will hunt the hunter himself.”

“Well said, M. Aronnax,” replied the Canadian, whose teeth seemed sharpened like the edge of a hatchet; “but I will eat tiger — loin of tiger — if there is no other quadruped on this island.”

“Friend Ned is uneasy about it,” said Conseil.

“Whatever it may be,” continued Ned Land, “every animal with four paws without feathers, or with two paws without feathers, will be saluted by my first shot.”

“Very well! Master Land’s imprudences are beginning.”

“Never fear, M. Aronnax,” replied the Canadian; “I do not want twenty-five minutes to offer you a dish, of my sort.”

At half-past eight the Nautilus boat ran softly aground on a heavy sand, after having happily passed the coral reef that surrounds the Island of Gilboa.

CHAPTER III

A PEARL OF TEN MILLIONS

The next morning at four o’clock I was awakened by the steward whom Captain Nemo had placed at my service. I rose hurriedly, dressed, and went into the saloon.

Captain Nemo was awaiting me.

“M. Aronnax,” said he, “are you ready to start?”

“I am ready.”

“Then please to follow me.”

“And my companions, Captain?”

“They have been told and are waiting.”

“Are we not to put on our diver’s dresses?” asked I.

“Not yet. I have not allowed the Nautilus to come too near this coast, and we are some distance from the Manaar Bank; but the boat is ready, and will take us to the exact point of disembarking, which will save us a long way. It carries our diving apparatus, which we will put on when we begin our submarine journey.”

Captain Nemo conducted me to the central staircase, which led on the platform. Ned and Conseil were already there, delighted at the idea of the “pleasure party” which was preparing. Five sailors from the Nautilus, with their oars, waited in the boat, which had been made fast against the side.

The night was still dark. Layers of clouds covered the sky, allowing but few stars to be seen. I looked on the side where the land lay, and saw nothing but a dark line enclosing three parts of the horizon, from south-west to north west. The Nautilus, having returned during the night up the western coast of Ceylon, was now west of the bay, or rather gulf, formed by the mainland and the Island of Manaar. There, under the dark waters, stretched the pintadine bank, an inexhaustible field of pearls, the length of which is more than twenty miles.

Captain Nemo, Ned Land, Conseil, and I took our places in the stern of the boat. The master went to the tiller; his four companions leaned on their oars, the painter was cast off, and we sheered off.

The boat went towards the south; the oarsmen did not hurry. I noticed that their strokes, strong in the water, only followed each other every ten seconds, according to the method generally adopted in the navy. Whilst the craft was running by its own velocity, the liquid drops struck the dark depths of the waves crisply like spats of melted lead. A little billow, spreading wide, gave a slight roll to the boat, and some samphire reeds flapped before it.

We were silent. What was Captain Nemo thinking of? Perhaps of the land he was approaching, and which he found too near to him, contrary to the Canadian’s opinion, who thought it too far off. As to Conseil, he was merely there from curiosity.

About half-past five the first tints on the horizon showed the upper line of coast more distinctly. Flat enough in the east, it rose a little to the south. Five miles still lay between us, and it was indistinct owing to the mist on the water. At six o’clock it became suddenly daylight, with that rapidity peculiar to tropical regions, which know neither dawn nor twilight. The solar rays pierced the curtain of clouds, piled up on the eastern horizon, and the radiant orb rose rapidly. I saw land distinctly, with a few trees scattered here and there. The boat neared Manaar Island, which was rounded to the south. Captain Nemo rose from his seat and watched the sea.

At a sign from him the anchor was dropped, but the chain scarcely ran, for it was little more than a yard deep, and this spot was one of the highest points of the bank of pintadines.

“Here we are, M. Aronnax,” said Captain Nemo. “You see that enclosed bay? Here, in a month will be assembled the numerous fishing boats of the exporters, and these are the waters their divers will ransack so boldly. Happily, this bay is well situated for that kind of fishing. It is sheltered from the strongest winds; the sea is never very rough here, which makes it favourable for the diver’s work. We will now put on our dresses, and begin our walk.”

I did not answer, and, while watching the suspected waves, began with the help of the sailors to put on my heavy sea-dress. Captain Nemo and my companions were also dressing. None of the Nautilus men were to accompany us on this new excursion.

Soon we were enveloped to the throat in india-rubber clothing; the air apparatus fixed to our backs by braces. As to the Ruhmkorff apparatus, there was no necessity for it. Before putting my head into the copper cap, I had asked the question of the Captain.

“They would be useless,” he replied. “We are going to no great depth, and the solar rays will be enough to light our walk. Besides, it would not be prudent to carry the electric light in these waters; its brilliancy might attract some of the dangerous inhabitants of the coast most inopportunely.”

As Captain Nemo pronounced these words, I turned to Conseil and Ned Land. But my two friends had already encased their heads in the metal cap, and they could neither hear nor answer.

One last question remained to ask of Captain Nemo.

“And our arms?” asked I; “our guns?”

“Guns! What for? Do not mountaineers attack the bear with a dagger in their hand, and is not steel surer than lead? Here is a strong blade; put it in your belt, and we start.”

I looked at my companions; they were armed like us, and, more than that, Ned Land was brandishing an enormous harpoon, which he had placed in the boat before leaving the Nautilus.

Then, following the Captain’s example, I allowed myself to be dressed in the heavy copper helmet, and our reservoirs of air were at once in activity. An instant after we were landed, one after the other, in about two yards of water upon an even sand. Captain Nemo made a sign with his hand, and we followed him by a gentle declivity till we disappeared under the waves.

Over our feet, like coveys of snipe in a bog, rose shoals of fish, of the genus monoptera, which have no other fins but their tail. I recognized the Javanese, a real serpent two and a half feet long, of a livid colour underneath, and which might easily be mistaken for a conger eel if it were not for the golden stripes on its side. In the genus stromateus, whose bodies are very flat and oval, I saw some of the most brilliant colours, carrying their dorsal fin like a scythe; an excellent eating fish, which, dried and pickled, is known by the name of Karawade; then some tranquebars, belonging to the genus apsiphoroides, whose body is covered with a shell cuirass of eight longitudinal plates.

The heightening sun lit the mass of waters more and more. The soil changed by degrees. To the fine sand succeeded a perfect causeway of boulders, covered with a carpet of molluscs and zoophytes. Amongst the specimens of these branches I noticed some placenae, with thin unequal shells, a kind of ostracion peculiar to the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean; some orange lucinae with rounded shells; rockfish three feet and a half long, which raised themselves under the waves like hands ready to seize one. There were also some panopyres, slightly luminous; and lastly, some oculines, like magnificent fans, forming one of the richest vegetations of these seas.

In the midst of these living plants, and under the arbours of the hydrophytes, were layers of clumsy articulates, particularly some raninae, whose carapace formed a slightly rounded triangle; and some horrible looking parthenopes.

At about seven o’clock we found ourselves at last surveying the oyster-banks on which the pearl-oysters are reproduced by millions.

Captain Nemo pointed with his hand to the enormous heap of oysters; and I could well understand that this mine was inexhaustible, for Nature’s creative power is far beyond man’s instinct of destruction. Ned Land, faithful to his instinct, hastened to fill a net which he carried by his side with some of the finest specimens. But we could not stop. We must follow the Captain, who seemed to guide him self by paths known only to himself. The ground was sensibly rising, and sometimes, on holding up my arm, it was above the surface of the sea. Then the level of the bank would sink capriciously. Often we rounded high rocks scarped into pyramids. In their dark fractures huge crustacea, perched upon their high claws like some war-machine, watched us with fixed eyes, and under our feet crawled various kinds of annelides.

At this moment there opened before us a large grotto dug in a picturesque heap of rocks and carpeted with all the thick warp of the submarine flora. At first it seemed very dark to me. The solar rays seemed to be extinguished by successive gradations, until its vague transparency became nothing more than drowned light. Captain Nemo entered; we followed. My eyes soon accustomed themselves to this relative state of darkness. I could distinguish the arches springing capriciously from natural pillars, standing broad upon their granite base, like the heavy columns of Tuscan architecture. Why had our incomprehensible guide led us to the bottom of this submarine crypt? I was soon to know. After descending a rather sharp declivity, our feet trod the bottom of a kind of circular pit. There Captain Nemo stopped, and with his hand indicated an object I had not yet perceived. It was an oyster of extraordinary dimensions, a gigantic tridacne, a goblet which could have contained a whole lake of holy-water, a basin the breadth of which was more than two yards and a half, and consequently larger than that ornamenting the saloon of the Nautilus. I approached this extraordinary mollusc. It adhered by its filaments to a table of granite, and there, isolated, it developed itself in the calm waters of the grotto. I estimated the weight of this tridacne at 600 lb. Such an oyster would contain 30 lb. of meat; and one must have the stomach of a Gargantua to demolish some dozens of them.

Captain Nemo was evidently acquainted with the existence of this bivalve, and seemed to have a particular motive in verifying the actual state of this tridacne. The shells were a little open; the Captain came near and put his dagger between to prevent them from closing; then with his hand he raised the membrane with its fringed edges, which formed a cloak for the creature. There, between the folded plaits, I saw a loose pearl, whose size equalled that of a coco-nut. Its globular shape, perfect clearness, and admirable lustre made it altogether a jewel of inestimable value. Carried away by my curiosity, I stretched out my hand to seize it, weigh it, and touch it; but the Captain stopped me, made a sign of refusal, and quickly withdrew his dagger, and the two shells closed suddenly. I then understood Captain Nemo’s intention. In leaving this pearl hidden in the mantle of the tridacne he was allowing it to grow slowly. Each year the secretions of the mollusc would add new concentric circles. I estimated its value at L500,000 at least.

After ten minutes Captain Nemo stopped suddenly. I thought he had halted previously to returning. No; by a gesture he bade us crouch beside him in a deep fracture of the rock, his hand pointed to one part of the liquid mass, which I watched attentively.

About five yards from me a shadow appeared, and sank to the ground. The disquieting idea of sharks shot through my mind, but I was mistaken; and once again it was not a monster of the ocean that we had anything to do with.

It was a man, a living man, an Indian, a fisherman, a poor devil who, I suppose, had come to glean before the harvest. I could see the bottom of his canoe anchored some feet above his head. He dived and went up successively. A stone held between his feet, cut in the shape of a sugar loaf, whilst a rope fastened him to his boat, helped him to descend more rapidly. This was all his apparatus. Reaching the bottom, about five yards deep, he went on his knees and filled his bag with oysters picked up at random. Then he went up, emptied it, pulled up his stone, and began the operation once more, which lasted thirty seconds.

The diver did not see us. The shadow of the rock hid us from sight. And how should this poor Indian ever dream that men, beings like himself, should be there under the water watching his movements and losing no detail of the fishing? Several times he went up in this way, and dived again. He did not carry away more than ten at each plunge, for he was obliged to pull them from the bank to which they adhered by means of their strong byssus. And how many of those oysters for which he risked his life had no pearl in them! I watched him closely; his manoeuvres were regular; and for the space of half an hour no danger appeared to threaten him.

I was beginning to accustom myself to the sight of this interesting fishing, when suddenly, as the Indian was on the ground, I saw him make a gesture of terror, rise, and make a spring to return to the surface of the sea.

I understood his dread. A gigantic shadow appeared just above the unfortunate diver. It was a shark of enormous size advancing diagonally, his eyes on fire, and his jaws open. I was mute with horror and unable to move.

The voracious creature shot towards the Indian, who threw himself on one side to avoid the shark’s fins; but not its tail, for it struck his chest and stretched him on the ground.

This scene lasted but a few seconds: the shark returned, and, turning on his back, prepared himself for cutting the Indian in two, when I saw Captain Nemo rise suddenly, and then, dagger in hand, walk straight to the monster, ready to fight face to face with him. The very moment the shark was going to snap the unhappy fisherman in two, he perceived his new adversary, and, turning over, made straight towards him.

I can still see Captain Nemo’s position. Holding himself well together, he waited for the shark with admirable coolness; and, when it rushed at him, threw himself on one side with wonderful quickness, avoiding the shock, and burying his dagger deep into its side. But it was not all over. A terrible combat ensued.

The shark had seemed to roar, if I might say so. The blood rushed in torrents from its wound. The sea was dyed red, and through the opaque liquid I could distinguish nothing more. Nothing more until the moment when, like lightning, I saw the undaunted Captain hanging on to one of the creature’s fins, struggling, as it were, hand to hand with the monster, and dealing successive blows at his enemy, yet still unable to give a decisive one.

The shark’s struggles agitated the water with such fury that the rocking threatened to upset me.

I wanted to go to the Captain’s assistance, but, nailed to the spot with horror, I could not stir.

I saw the haggard eye; I saw the different phases of the fight. The Captain fell to the earth, upset by the enormous mass which leant upon him. The shark’s jaws opened wide, like a pair of factory shears, and it would have been all over with the Captain; but, quick as thought, harpoon in hand, Ned Land rushed towards the shark and struck it with its sharp point.

The waves were impregnated with a mass of blood. They rocked under the shark’s movements, which beat them with indescribable fury. Ned Land had not missed his aim. It was the monster’s death-rattle. Struck to the heart, it struggled in dreadful convulsions, the shock of which overthrew Conseil.

But Ned Land had disentangled the Captain, who, getting up without any wound, went straight to the Indian, quickly cut the cord which held him to his stone, took him in his arms, and, with a sharp blow of his heel, mounted to the surface.

We all three followed in a few seconds, saved by a miracle, and reached the fisherman’s boat.

Captain Nemo’s first care was to recall the unfortunate man to life again. I did not think he could succeed. I hoped so, for the poor creature’s immersion was not long; but the blow from the shark’s tail might have been his death-blow.

Happily, with the Captain’s and Conseil’s sharp friction, I saw consciousness return by degrees. He opened his eyes. What was his surprise, his terror even, at seeing four great copper heads leaning over him! And, above all, what must he have thought when Captain Nemo, drawing from the pocket of his dress a bag of pearls, placed it in his hand! This munificent charity from the man of the waters to the poor Cingalese was accepted with a trembling hand. His wondering eyes showed that he knew not to what super-human beings he owed both fortune and life.

At a sign from the Captain we regained the bank, and, following the road already traversed, came in about half an hour to the anchor which held the canoe of the Nautilus to the earth.

Once on board, we each, with the help of the sailors, got rid of the heavy copper helmet.

Captain Nemo’s first word was to the Canadian.

“Thank you, Master Land,” said he.

“It was in revenge, Captain,” replied Ned Land. “I owed you that.”

A ghastly smile passed across the Captain’s lips, and that was all.

“To the Nautilus,” said he.

The boat flew over the waves. Some minutes after we met the shark’s dead body floating. By the black marking of the extremity of its fins, I recognised the terrible melanopteron of the Indian Seas, of the species of shark so properly called. It was more than twenty-five feet long; its enormous mouth occupied one-third of its body. It was an adult, as was known by its six rows of teeth placed in an isosceles triangle in the upper jaw.

Whilst I was contemplating this inert mass, a dozen of these voracious beasts appeared round the boat; and, without noticing us, threw themselves upon the dead body and fought with one another for the pieces.

At half-past eight we were again on board the Nautilus. There I reflected on the incidents which had taken place in our excursion to the Manaar Bank.

Two conclusions I must inevitably draw from it — one bearing upon the unparalleled courage of Captain Nemo, the other upon his devotion to a human being, a representative of that race from which he fled beneath the sea. Whatever he might say, this strange man had not yet succeeded in entirely crushing his heart.

When I made this observation to him, he answered in a slightly moved tone:

“That Indian, sir, is an inhabitant of an oppressed country; and I am still, and shall be, to my last breath, one of them!”

CHAPTER IV

THE RED SEA

In the course of the day of the 29th of January, the island of Ceylon disappeared under the horizon, and the Nautilus, at a speed of twenty miles an hour, slid into the labyrinth of canals which separate the Maldives from the Laccadives. It coasted even the Island of Kiltan, a land originally coraline, discovered by Vasco da Gama in 1499, and one of the nineteen principal islands of the Laccadive Archipelago, situated between 10deg and 14deg 30’ N. lat. and 69deg 50′ 72″ E. long.

We had made 16,220 miles, or 7,500 (French) leagues from our starting-point in the Japanese Seas.

The next day (30th January), when the Nautilus went to the surface of the ocean there was no land in sight. Its course was N.N.E. in the direction of the Sea of Oman, between Arabia and the Indian Peninsula, which serves as an outlet to the Persian Gulf. It was evidently a block without any possible egress. Where was Captain Nemo taking us to? I could not say. This, however, did not satisfy the Canadian, who that day came to me asking where we were going.

“We are going where our Captain’s fancy takes us, Master Ned.”

“His fancy cannot take us far, then,” said the Canadian. “The Persian Gulf has no outlet: and, if we do go in, it will not be long before we are out again.”

“Very well, then, we will come out again, Master Land; and if, after the Persian Gulf, the Nautilus would like to visit the Red Sea, the Straits of Bab-el-mandeb are there to give us entrance.”

“I need not tell you, sir,” said Ned Land, “that the Red Sea is as much closed as the Gulf, as the Isthmus of Suez is not yet cut; and, if it was, a boat as mysterious as ours would not risk itself in a canal cut with sluices. And again, the Red Sea is not the road to take us back to Europe.”

“But I never said we were going back to Europe.”

“What do you suppose, then?”

“I suppose that, after visiting the curious coasts of Arabia and Egypt, the Nautilus will go down the Indian Ocean again, perhaps cross the Channel of Mozambique, perhaps off the Mascarenhas, so as to gain the Cape of Good Hope.”

“And once at the Cape of Good Hope?” asked the Canadian, with peculiar emphasis.

“Well, we shall penetrate into that Atlantic which we do not yet know. Ah! friend Ned, you are getting tired of this journey under the sea; you are surfeited with the incessantly varying spectacle of submarine wonders. For my part, I shall be sorry to see the end of a voyage which it is given to so few men to make.”

For four days, till the 3rd of February, the Nautilus scoured the Sea of Oman, at various speeds and at various depths. It seemed to go at random, as if hesitating as to which road it should follow, but we never passed the Tropic of Cancer.

In quitting this sea we sighted Muscat for an instant, one of the most important towns of the country of Oman. I admired its strange aspect, surrounded by black rocks upon which its white houses and forts stood in relief. I saw the rounded domes of its mosques, the elegant points of its minarets, its fresh and verdant terraces. But it was only a vision! The Nautilus soon sank under the waves of that part of the sea.

We passed along the Arabian coast of Mahrah and Hadramaut, for a distance of six miles, its undulating line of mountains being occasionally relieved by some ancient ruin. The 5th of February we at last entered the Gulf of Aden, a perfect funnel introduced into the neck of Bab-el-mandeb, through which the Indian waters entered the Red Sea.

The 6th of February, the Nautilus floated in sight of Aden, perched upon a promontory which a narrow isthmus joins to the mainland, a kind of inaccessible Gibraltar, the fortifications of which were rebuilt by the English after taking possession in 1839. I caught a glimpse of the octagon minarets of this town, which was at one time the richest commercial magazine on the coast.

I certainly thought that Captain Nemo, arrived at this point, would back out again; but I was mistaken, for he did no such thing, much to my surprise.

The next day, the 7th of February, we entered the Straits of Bab-el-mandeb, the name of which, in the Arab tongue, means The Gate of Tears.

To twenty miles in breadth, it is only thirty-two in length. And for the Nautilus, starting at full speed, the crossing was scarcely the work of an hour. But I saw nothing, not even the Island of Perim, with which the British Government has fortified the position of Aden. There were too many English or French steamers of the line of Suez to Bombay, Calcutta to Melbourne, and from Bourbon to the Mauritius, furrowing this narrow passage, for the Nautilus to venture to show itself. So it remained prudently below. At last about noon, we were in the waters of the Red Sea.

I would not even seek to understand the caprice which had decided Captain Nemo upon entering the gulf. But I quite approved of the Nautilus entering it. Its speed was lessened: sometimes it kept on the surface, sometimes it dived to avoid a vessel, and thus I was able to observe the upper and lower parts of this curious sea.

The 8th of February, from the first dawn of day, Mocha came in sight, now a ruined town, whose walls would fall at a gunshot, yet which shelters here and there some verdant date-trees; once an important city, containing six public markets, and twenty-six mosques, and whose walls, defended by fourteen forts, formed a girdle of two miles in circumference.

The Nautilus then approached the African shore, where the depth of the sea was greater. There, between two waters clear as crystal, through the open panels we were allowed to contemplate the beautiful bushes of brilliant coral and large blocks of rock clothed with a splendid fur of green variety of sites and landscapes along these sandbanks and algae and fuci. What an indescribable spectacle, and what variety of sites and landscapes along these sandbanks and volcanic islands which bound the Libyan coast! But where these shrubs appeared in all their beauty was on the eastern coast, which the Nautilus soon gained. It was on the coast of Tehama, for there not only did this display of zoophytes flourish beneath the level of the sea, but they also formed picturesque interlacings which unfolded themselves about sixty feet above the surface, more capricious but less highly coloured than those whose freshness was kept up by the vital power of the waters.

What charming hours I passed thus at the window of the saloon! What new specimens of submarine flora and fauna did I admire under the brightness of our electric lantern!

The 9th of February the Nautilus floated in the broadest part of the Red Sea, which is comprised between Souakin, on the west coast, and Komfidah, on the east coast, with a diameter of ninety miles.

That day at noon, after the bearings were taken, Captain Nemo mounted the platform, where I happened to be, and I was determined not to let him go down again without at least pressing him regarding his ulterior projects. As soon as he saw me he approached and graciously offered me a cigar.

“Well, sir, does this Red Sea please you? Have you sufficiently observed the wonders it covers, its fishes, its zoophytes, its parterres of sponges, and its forests of coral? Did you catch a glimpse of the towns on its borders?”

“Yes, Captain Nemo,” I replied; “and the Nautilus is wonderfully fitted for such a study. Ah! it is an intelligent boat!”

“Yes, sir, intelligent and invulnerable. It fears neither the terrible tempests of the Red Sea, nor its currents, nor its sandbanks.”

“Certainly,” said I, “this sea is quoted as one of the worst, and in the time of the ancients, if I am not mistaken, its reputation was detestable.”

“Detestable, M. Aronnax. The Greek and Latin historians do not speak favourably of it, and Strabo says it is very dangerous during the Etesian winds and in the rainy season. The Arabian Edrisi portrays it under the name of the Gulf of Colzoum, and relates that vessels perished there in great numbers on the sandbanks and that no one would risk sailing in the night. It is, he pretends, a sea subject to fearful hurricanes, strewn with inhospitable islands, and `which offers nothing good either on its surface or in its depths.’”

“One may see,” I replied, “that these historians never sailed on board the Nautilus.”

“Just so,” replied the Captain, smiling; “and in that respect moderns are not more advanced than the ancients. It required many ages to find out the mechanical power of steam. Who knows if, in another hundred years, we may not see a second Nautilus? Progress is slow, M. Aronnax.”

“It is true,” I answered; “your boat is at least a century before its time, perhaps an era. What a misfortune that the secret of such an invention should die with its inventor!”

Captain Nemo did not reply. After some minutes’ silence he continued:

“You were speaking of the opinions of ancient historians upon the dangerous navigation of the Red Sea.”

“It is true,” said I; “but were not their fears exaggerated?”

“Yes and no, M. Aronnax,” replied Captain Nemo, who seemed to know the Red Sea by heart. “That which is no longer dangerous for a modern vessel, well rigged, strongly built, and master of its own course, thanks to obedient steam, offered all sorts of perils to the ships of the ancients. Picture to yourself those first navigators venturing in ships made of planks sewn with the cords of the palmtree, saturated with the grease of the seadog, and covered with powdered resin! They had not even instruments wherewith to take their bearings, and they went by guess amongst currents of which they scarcely knew anything. Under such conditions shipwrecks were, and must have been, numerous. But in our time, steamers running between Suez and the South Seas have nothing more to fear from the fury of this gulf, in spite of contrary trade-winds. The captain and passengers do not prepare for their departure by offering propitiatory sacrifices; and, on their return, they no longer go ornamented with wreaths and gilt fillets to thank the gods in the neighbouring temple.”

“I agree with you,” said I; “and steam seems to have killed all gratitude in the hearts of sailors. But, Captain, since you seem to have especially studied this sea, can you tell me the origin of its name?”

“There exist several explanations on the subject, M. Aronnax. Would you like to know the opinion of a chronicler of the fourteenth century?”

“Willingly.”

“This fanciful writer pretends that its name was given to it after the passage of the Israelites, when Pharaoh perished in the waves which closed at the voice of Moses.”

“A poet’s explanation, Captain Nemo,” I replied; “but I cannot content myself with that. I ask you for your personal opinion.”

“Here it is, M. Aronnax. According to my idea, we must see in this appellation of the Red Sea a translation of the Hebrew word `Edom’; and if the ancients gave it that name, it was on account of the particular colour of its waters.”

“But up to this time I have seen nothing but transparent waves and without any particular colour.”

“Very likely; but as we advance to the bottom of the gulf, you will see this singular appearance. I remember seeing the Bay of Tor entirely red, like a sea of blood.”

“And you attribute this colour to the presence of a microscopic seaweed?”

“Yes.”

“So, Captain Nemo, it is not the first time you have overrun the Red Sea on board the Nautilus?”

“No, sir.”

“As you spoke a while ago of the passage of the Israelites and of the catastrophe to the Egyptians, I will ask whether you have met with the traces under the water of this great historical fact?”

“No, sir; and for a good reason.”

“What is it?”

“It is that the spot where Moses and his people passed is now so blocked up with sand that the camels can barely bathe their legs there. You can well understand that there would not be water enough for my Nautilus.”

“And the spot?” I asked.

“The spot is situated a little above the Isthmus of Suez, in the arm which formerly made a deep estuary, when the Red Sea extended to the Salt Lakes. Now, whether this passage were miraculous or not, the Israelites, nevertheless, crossed there to reach the Promised Land, and Pharaoh’s army perished precisely on that spot; and I think that excavations made in the middle of the sand would bring to light a large number of arms and instruments of Egyptian origin.”

“That is evident,” I replied; “and for the sake of archaeologists let us hope that these excavations will be made sooner or later, when new towns are established on the isthmus, after the construction of the Suez Canal; a canal, however, very useless to a vessel like the Nautilus.”

“Very likely; but useful to the whole world,” said Captain Nemo. “The ancients well understood the utility of a communication between the Red Sea and the Mediterranean for their commercial affairs: but they did not think of digging a canal direct, and took the Nile as an intermediate. Very probably the canal which united the Nile to the Red Sea was begun by Sesostris, if we may believe tradition. One thing is certain, that in the year 615 before Jesus Christ, Necos undertook the works of an alimentary canal to the waters of the Nile across the plain of Egypt, looking towards Arabia. It took four days to go up this canal, and it was so wide that two triremes could go abreast. It was carried on by Darius, the son of Hystaspes, and probably finished by Ptolemy II. Strabo saw it navigated: but its decline from the point of departure, near Bubastes, to the Red Sea was so slight that it was only navigable for a few months in the year. This canal answered all commercial purposes to the age of Antonius, when it was abandoned and blocked up with sand. Restored by order of the Caliph Omar, it was definitely destroyed in 761 or 762 by Caliph Al-Mansor, who wished to prevent the arrival of provisions to Mohammed-ben-Abdallah, who had revolted against him. During the expedition into Egypt, your General Bonaparte discovered traces of the works in the Desert of Suez; and, surprised by the tide, he nearly perished before regaining Hadjaroth, at the very place where Moses had encamped three thousand years before him.”

“Well, Captain, what the ancients dared not undertake, this junction between the two seas, which will shorten the road from Cadiz to India, M. Lesseps has succeeded in doing; and before long he will have changed Africa into an immense island.”

“Yes, M. Aronnax; you have the right to be proud of your countryman. Such a man brings more honour to a nation than great captains. He began, like so many others, with disgust and rebuffs; but he has triumphed, for he has the genius of will. And it is sad to think that a work like that, which ought to have been an international work and which would have sufficed to make a reign illustrious, should have succeeded by the energy of one man. All honour to M. Lesseps!”

“Yes! honour to the great citizen,” I replied, surprised by the manner in which Captain Nemo had just spoken.

“Unfortunately,” he continued, “I cannot take you through the Suez Canal; but you will be able to see the long jetty of Port Said after to-morrow, when we shall be in the Mediterranean.”

“The Mediterranean!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, sir; does that astonish you?”

“What astonishes me is to think that we shall be there the day after to-morrow.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, Captain, although by this time I ought to have accustomed myself to be surprised at nothing since I have been on board your boat.”

“But the cause of this surprise?”

“Well! it is the fearful speed you will have to put on the Nautilus, if the day after to-morrow she is to be in the Mediterranean, having made the round of Africa, and doubled the Cape of Good Hope!”

“Who told you that she would make the round of Africa and double the Cape of Good Hope, sir?”

“Well, unless the Nautilus sails on dry land, and passes above the isthmus — — ”

“Or beneath it, M. Aronnax.”

“Beneath it?”

“Certainly,” replied Captain Nemo quietly. “A long time ago Nature made under this tongue of land what man has this day made on its surface.”

“What! such a passage exists?”

“Yes; a subterranean passage, which I have named the Arabian Tunnel. It takes us beneath Suez and opens into the Gulf of Pelusium.”

“But this isthmus is composed of nothing but quick sands?”

“To a certain depth. But at fifty-five yards only there is a solid layer of rock.”

“Did you discover this passage by chance?” I asked more and more surprised.

“Chance and reasoning, sir; and by reasoning even more than by chance. Not only does this passage exist, but I have profited by it several times. Without that I should not have ventured this day into the impassable Red Sea. I noticed that in the Red Sea and in the Mediterranean there existed a certain number of fishes of a kind perfectly identical. Certain of the fact, I asked myself was it possible that there was no communication between the two seas? If there was, the subterranean current must necessarily run from the Red Sea to the Mediterranean, from the sole cause of difference of level. I caught a large number of fishes in the neighbourhood of Suez. I passed a copper ring through their tails, and threw them back into the sea. Some months later, on the coast of Syria, I caught some of my fish ornamented with the ring. Thus the communication between the two was proved. I then sought for it with my Nautilus; I discovered it, ventured into it, and before long, sir, you too will have passed through my Arabian tunnel!”

CHAPTER XXXII

THE FALLS OF THE NIAGARA

THE Niagara is not a stream, not even a river; it is simply a weir sluice, a canal thirty-six miles long, which empties the waters of the Lakes Superior, Michigan, Huron, and Erie into the Ontario. The difference in the level of these last two lakes is three hundred and forty feet; this difference uniformly proportioned the whole of the width would hardly have created a “rapid;” but the Falls alone absorb half the difference in level, whence their formidable power.

This Niagarine trench separates the United States from Canada. Its right bank is American and its left English; on one side policemen, on the other not a shadow of one to be seen.

On the morning of the 12th of April, at break of day, the Doctor and I walked down the wide street of Niagara Falls, which is the name of the village situated on the banks of the Falls. It is a kind of small watering-place, three hundred miles from Albany, built in a healthy and charming situation, provided with sumptuous hotels and comfortable villas, which the Yankees and Canadians frequent in the season. The weather was magnificent, the sun warmed the cold atmosphere, a dull, distant roar was heard, and I saw vapors on the horizon which could not be clouds.

“Is that the Falls? “I asked of the Doctor.

“Patience!” replied Pitferge.

In a few minutes we were on the banks of the Niagara. The river was flowing peacefully along; it was clear, and not deep, with numerous projections of gray rock emerging here and there. The roar of the cataract grew louder and louder, but as yet we could not see it. A wooden bridge, supported by iron arches, united the left bank to an island in the midst of the current; onto this bridge the Doctor led me. Above, stretched the river as far as the eye could reach; down the stream, that is to say on our right, the first unevenness of a rapid was noticeable; then, at half a mile from the bridge, the earth suddenly gave way, and clouds of spray filled the air. This was the American fall, which we could not see. Beyond, on the Canadian side, lay a peaceful country, with hills, villas, and bare trees.

“Don’t look! don’t look!” cried the Doctor to me; “reserve yourself, shut your eyes, and do not open them until I tell you!”

I hardly listened to my original friend, but continued to look. The bridge crossed, we set foot on the island known as Goat Island. It is a piece of land of about seventy acres, covered with trees, and intersected with lovely avenues with carriage drives. It is like a bouquet thrown between the American and Canadian Falls, separated from the shore by a distance of three hundred yards. We ran under the great trees, climbed the slopes, and went down the steps; the thundering roar of the falls was redoubled, and the air saturated with spray.

“Look!” cried the Doctor.

Coming from behind a mass of rock, the Niagara appeared in all its splendor. At this spot it meets with a sharp angle of land, and falling round it, forms the Canadian cascade, called the “Horse-shoe Fall,” which falls from a height of one hundred and fifty-eight feet, and is two miles broad.

In this, one of the most beautiful spots in the world, Nature has combined everything to astonish the eye. The fall of the Niagara singularly favors the effects of light and shade; the sunbeams falling on the water, capriciously diversify the color; and those who have seen this effect, must admit that it is without parallel. In fact, near Goat Island the foam is white; it is then a fall of snow, or a heap of melted silver, pouring into the abyss. In the center of the cataract the color of the water is a most beautiful sea-green, which indicates its depth, so that the Detroit, a ship drawing twenty feet and launched on the current, was able to descend the falls without grazing. Towards the Canadian shore the whirlpool, on the contrary, looks like metal shining beneath the luminous rays, and it is melted gold which is now poured into the gulf. Below, the river is invisible from the vapors which rise over it. I caught glimpses, however, of enormous blocks of ice accumulated by the cold of winter; they take the form of monsters, which, with open jaws, hourly absorb the hundred millions of tons poured into them by the inexhaustible Niagara. Half a mile below the cataract the river again became tranquil, and presented a smooth surface, which the winds of April had not yet been able to ruffle.

“And now for the middle of the torrent,” said the Doctor to me.

I could not imagine what the Doctor meant by those words, until he pointed to a tower built on the edge of a rock some hundred feet from the shore, almost overhanging the precipice. This monument, raised in 1833, by a certain audacious being, one Judge Porter, is called the “Terrapin Tower.”

We went down the steps of Goat Island, and, coming to the height of the upper course of the Niagara, I saw a bridge, or rather some planks, thrown from one rock to the other, which united the tower with the banks of the river. The bridge was but a few feet from the abyss, and below it roared the torrent. We ventured on these planks, and in a few minutes reached the rock which supported Terrapin Tower. This round tower, forty-five feet in height, is built of stone, with a circular balcony at its summit, and a roof covered with red stucco. The winding staircase, on which thousands of names are cut, is wooden. Once at the top of the tower, there is nothing to do but cling to the balcony and look.

The tower is in the midst of the cataract. From its summit the eye plunges into the depths of the abyss, and peers into the very jaws of the ice monsters, as they swallow the torrent. One feels the rock tremble which supports it. It is impossible to hear anything but the roaring of the surging water. The spray rises to the top of the monument, and splendid rainbows are formed by the sun shining on the vaporized water.

By a simple optical illusion, the tower seems to move with a frightful rapidity, but, happily, in the opposite direction to the fall, for, with the contrary illusion, it would be impossible to look at the gulf from giddiness.

Breathless and shivering, we went for a moment inside the tower, and the Doctor took the opportunity of saying to me, “This Terrapin Tower, my dear sir, will some day fall into the abyss, and perhaps sooner than is expected.”

“Ah! indeed!”

“There is no doubt about it. The great Canadian Fall recedes insensibly, but still, it recedes. The tower, when it was first built in 1833, was much farther from the cataract. Geologists say that the fall, in the space of thirty-five thousand years, will be found at Queenstown, seven miles up the stream. According to Mr. Bakewell, it recedes a yard in a year; but according to Sir Charles Lyell one foot only. The time will come when the rock which supports the tower, worn away by the water, will glide down the Falls of the cataract. Well, my dear sir, remember this: the day when the Terrapin Tower falls, there will be some eccentrics who will descend the Niagara with it.”

I looked at the Doctor, as if to ask him if he would be of that number, but he signed for me to follow him, and we went out again to look at the “Horse-shoe Fall,” and the surrounding country. We could now distinguish the American Fall, slightly curtailed and separated by a projection of the island, where there is another small central cataract one hundred feet wide; the American cascade, equally fine, falls perpendicularly. Its height is one hundred and sixty-four feet. But in order to have a good view of it it is necessary to stand facing it, on the Canadian side.

All day we wandered on the banks of the Niagara, irresistibly drawn back to the tower, where the roar of the water, the spray, the sunlight playing on the vapors, the excitement, and the briny odor of the cataract, holds you in a perpetual ecstasy. Then we went back to Goat Island to get the Fall from every point of view, without ever being wearied of looking at it. The Doctor would have taken me to see the “Grotto of Winds,” hollowed out underneath the central Fall, but access to it was not allowed, on account of the frequent falling away of the rocks.

At five o’clock we went back to the hotel, and after a hasty dinner, served in the American fashion, we returned to Goat Island. The Doctor wished to go and see the “Three Sisters,” charming little islets scattered at the head of the island; then, with the return of evening, he led me back to the tottering rock of Terrapin Tower.

The last rays of the setting sun had disappeared behind the gray hills, and the moon shed her soft clear light over the landscape. The shadow of the tower stretched across the abyss; farther down the stream the water glided silently along, crowned with a light mist. The Canadian shore, already plunged in darkness, contrasted vividly with the moon-lit banks of Goat Island, and the village of Niagara Falls. Below us, the gulf, magnified by the uncertain light, looked like a bottomless abyss, in which roared the formidable torrent. What an effect! What artist could ever depict such a scene, either with the pen or paint-brush? For some minutes a moving light appeared on the horizon; it (was the signal light of a train crossing the Niagara bridge at a distance of two miles from us. Here we remained silent and motionless on the top of the tower until midnight, leaning over the waters which possessed such a fascination. Once, when the moon-beams caught the liquid dust at a certain angle, I had a glimpse of a milky band of transparent ribbon trembling in the shadows. It was a lunar rainbow, a pale irradiation of the queen of the night, whose soft light was refracted through the mist of the cataract.

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE RETURN TO EUROPE

SOME minutes later we were descending a long flight of steps on the Canadian side, which led to the banks of the river, covered with huge sheets of ice. Here a boat was waiting to take us to “America.” One passenger had already taken his place in it. He was an engineer from Kentucky, and acquainted the Doctor with his name and1 profession. We embarked without loss of time, and by dint of steering, so as to avoid the blocks of ice, reached the middle of the river, where the current offered a clear passage. From here we had a last view of the magnificent Niagara cataract. Our companion observed it with a thoughtful air.

“Is it not grand, sir? Is it not magnificent?” said I.

“Yes,” replied he; “but what a waste of mechanical force; what a mill might be turned with such a fall as that!”

Never did I feel more inclined to pitch an engineer into the water!

On the other bank a small and almost vertical railroad, worked by a rope on the American side, hoisted us to the top. At half-past one we took the express, which put us down at Buffalo at a quarter past two. After visiting this large new town, and tasting the water of Lake Erie, we again took the New York Central Railroad at six o’clock in the evening. The next day, on leaving the comfortable beds of a “sleeping car,” we found ourselves at Albany, and the Hudson Railroad, which runs along the left bank of the river, brought us to New York a few hours later.

The next day, the 15th of April, in company with the indefatigable Doctor, I went over the city, East River, and Brooklyn. In the evening I bade farewell to the good Dean Pitferge, and I felt, in leaving him, that I left a friend.

Tuesday, the 16th” of April, was the day fixed for the departure of the Great Eastern. At eleven o’clock I went to Thirty-seventh pier, where the tender was to await the passengers. It was already filled with people and luggage when I embarked. Just as the tender was leaving the quay someone caught hold of my arm, and turning round I saw Dr. Pitferge.

“You! “I cried; “and are you going back to Europe?”

“Yes, my dear sir.”

“By the Great Eastern?”

“Undoubtedly,” replied the amiable original, smiling; “I have considered the matter, and have come to the conclusion that I must go. Only think, this may be the Great Eastern’s last voyage; the one which she will never complete

The bell for departure had rung, when one of the waiters from the Fifth Avenue Hotel came running up to me, and put a telegram into my hands, dated from Niagara: “Ellen has awakened; her reason has entirely returned to her, and the doctor has every hope of her recovery.”

I communicated this good news to Dean Pitferge.

“Every hope for her indeed! every hope!” said my fellow-traveler, in a sarcastic tone. “I also have every hope for her, but what good does that do? Anyone may have great hopes for you, for me, for all of us, but at the same time he may be just as much wrong as right.”’

Twelve days later we reached Brest, and the day following Paris. The return passage was made without any misfortune, to the great displeasure of Dean Pitferge, who always expected to see the great ship wrecked.

And now, when I am sitting at my own table, if I had not my daily notes before me, I should think that the Great Eastern, that floating city in which I lived for a month, the meeting of Ellen and Fabian, the peerless Niagara, all these were the visions of a dream. Ah! how delightful is traveling, “even when one does return,” in spite of what the Doctor may say to the contrary.

For eight months I heard nothing of my original, but one day the post brought me a letter, covered with many-colored stamps, which began with these words, “On board the Corinqnay, Auckland Rocks. At last we have been shipwrecked.” And ended thus, “Was never in better health.

“Very heartily yours.

“DEAN PITFERGE.”

THE END

CHAPTER IV.

A FEW WORDS ABOUT THE METRE.

The idea of an invariable and constant system of measurement, of which nature herself should furnish the exact value, may be said to have existed in the mind of man from the earliest ages. It was of the highest importance, however, that this measurement should be accurately determined, whatever had been the cataclysms of which our earth had been the scene, and it is certain that the ancients felt the same, though they failed in methods and appliances for carrying out the work with sufficient accuracy.

The best way of obtaining a constant measurement was to connect it with the terrestrial sphere, whose circumference must be considered as invariable, and then to measure the whole or part of that circumference mathematically.

The ancients had tried to do this, and Aristotle, according to some contemporary philosophers, reckoned that the stadium, or Egyptian cubit, formed the hundred-thousandth part of the distance between the pole and the equator, and Eratosthenes in the time of the Ptolemies, calculated the value of a degree along the Nile, between Syene and Alexandria, pretty correctly; but Posidonius and Ptolemy were not sufficiently accurate in the same kind of geodetic operations that they undertook; neither were their successors.

Picard, for the first time in France, began to regulate the methods that were used for measuring a degree, and in 1669, by measuring the celestial and terrestrial arcs between Paris and Amiens, found that a degree was equal to 57,060 toises, equivalent to 364,876 English feet, or about 69.1 miles.

Picard’s measurement was continued either way across the French territory as far as Dunkirk and Collioure by Dominic Cassini and Lahire (1683 — 1718), and it was verified in 1739, from Dunkirk to Perpignan, by Francis Cassini and Lacaille; and at length Mechain carried it as far as Barcelona in Spain; but after his death (for he succumbed to the fatigue attending his operations) the measurement of the meridian in France was interrupted until it was subsequently taken up by Arago and Biot in 1807. These two men prolonged it as far as the Balearic Isles, so that the arc now extended from Dunkirk to Formentera, being equally divided by the parallel of lat. 45deg N. half way between the pole and the equator; and under these conditions it was not necessary to take the depression of the earth into account in order to find the value of the quadrant of the meridian. This measurement gave 57,025 toises as the mean value of an arc of a degree in France.

It can be seen that up to that time Frenchmen especially had undertaken to determine that delicate point, and it was likewise the French Convention that, according to Talleyrand’s proposition, passed a resolution in 1790, charging the Academy of Sciences to invent an invariable system of weights and measures. Just at that time the statement signed by the illustrious names of Borda, Lagrange, Laplace, Monge, and Condorcet, proposed that the unit of measure should be the “metre” the ten-millionth part of the quadrant of the meridian; and that the unit of weight should be the “gramme”, a cubic centimetre of distilled water at the freezing-point; and that the multiples and subdivisions of every measure should be formed decimally.

Later, the determinations of the value of a terrestrial degree were carried on in different parts of the world, for the earth being not spherical, but elliptic, it required much calculation to find the depression at the poles.

In 1736, Maupertuis, Clairaut, Camus, Lemonnier, Outhier, and the Swedish Celsius measured a northern arc in Lapland, and found the length of an arc of a degree to be 57,419 toises.

In 1745, La Condamine, Bouguer, and Godin, set sail for Peru, where they were joined by the Spanish officers Juan and Antonio Ulloa, and they then found that the Peruvian arc contained 56,737 toises.

In 1752, Lacaille reported 57,037 toises as the length of the arc he had measured at the Cape of Good Hope.

In 1754, Father Boscowitch and Father le Maire began a survey of the Papal States, and in the course of their operations found the arc between Rome and Rimini to be 56,973 toises.

In 1762 and 1763, Beccaria reckoned the degree in Piedmont at 57,468 toises, and in 1768, the astronomers Mason and Dixon, in North America, on the confines of Maryland and Pennsylvania, found that the value of the degree in America was 56,888 toises.

Since the beginning of the 19th century numbers of other arcs have been measured, in Bengal, the East Indies, Piedmont, Finland, Courland, East Prussia, Denmark, &c. but the English and Russians were less active than other nations in trying to decide this delicate point, their principal geodetic operation being that undertaken by General Roy in 1784, for the purpose of determining the difference of longitude between Paris and Greenwich.

It may be concluded from all the above-mentioned measurements that the mean value of a degree is 57,000 toises, or 25 ancient French leagues, and by multiplying this mean value by the 360 degrees contained in the circumference, it is found that the earth measures 9000 leagues round.

But, as may be seen from the figures above, the measurements of the different arcs in different parts of the world do not quite agree. Nevertheless, by taking this average of 57,000 toises for the value of a degree, the value of the metre, that is to say, the ten-millionth part of the quadrant of the meridian, may be deduced, and is found to be 0.513074 of the whole line, or 39.37079 English inches.

In reality, this value is rather too small, for later calculations (taking into account the depression of the earth at the poles, which is 1/299.15 and not 1/334, as was thought at first) now give nearly 10,000,856 metres instead of 10,000,000 for the length of the quadrant of the meridian. The difference of 856 metres is hardly noticeable in such a long distance; but nevertheless, mathematically speaking, it cannot be said that the metre, as it is now used, represents the ten-millionth part of the quadrant of the terrestrial meridian exactly; there is an error of about 1/5000 of a line, i.e. 1/5000 of the twelfth part of an inch.

The metre, thus determined, was still not adopted by all the civilized nations. Belgium, Spain, Piedmont, Greece, Holland, the old Spanish colonies, the republics of the Equator, New Granada, and Costa Rica, took a fancy to it immediately; but notwithstanding the evident superiority of this metrical system to every other, England had refused to use it.

Perhaps if it had not been for the political disturbances which arose at the close of the 18th century, the inhabitants of the United Kingdom would have accepted the system, for when the Constituent Assembly issued its decree on the 8th of May, 1790, the members of the Royal Society in England were invited to co-operate with the French Academicians. They had to decide whether the measure of the metre should be founded on the length of the pendulum that beats the sexagesimal second, or whether they should take a fraction of one of the great circles of the earth for a unit of length; but events prevented the proposed conference, and so it was not until the year 1854 that England, having long seen the advantage of the metrical system, and that scientific and commercial societies were being founded to spread the reform, resolved to adopt it.

But still the English Government wished to keep their resolution a secret until the new geodetic operations that they had commenced should enable them to assign a more correct value to the terrestrial degree, and they thought they had better act in concert with the Russian Government, who were also hesitating about adopting the system.

A Commission of three Englishmen and three Russians was therefore chosen from among the most eminent members of the scientific societies, and we have seen that they were Colonel Everest, Sir John Murray, and William Emery, for England; and Matthew Strux, Nicholas Palander, and Michael Zorn, for Russia.

The international Commission having met in London, decided first of all that the measure of an arc of meridian should be taken in the Southern hemisphere, and that another arc should subsequently be measured in the Northern hemisphere, so that from the two operations they might hope to deduce an exact value which should satisfy all the conditions of the programme.

It now remained to choose between the different English possessions in the Southern hemisphere, Cape Colony, Australia, and New Zealand. The two last, lying quite at the antipodes of Europe, would involve the Commission in a long voyage, and, besides, the Maoris and Australians, who were often at war with their invaders, might render the proposed operation difficult; while Cape Colony, on the contrary, offered real advantages. In the first place, it was under the same meridian as parts of European Russia, so that after measuring an arc of meridian in South Africa, they could measure a second one in the empire of the Czar, and still keep their operations a secret; secondly, the voyage from England to South Africa was comparatively short; and thirdly, these English and Russian philosophers would find an excellent opportunity there of analyzing the labours of the French astronomer Lacaille, who had worked in the same place, and of proving whether he was correct in giving 57,037 toises as the measurement of a degree of meridian at the Cape of Good Hope.

It was therefore decided that the geodetic operation should be commenced at the Cape, and as the two Governments approved of the decision, large credits were opened, and two sets of all the instruments required in a triangulation were manufactured. The astronomer William Emery was asked to make preparations for an exploration in the interior of South Africa, and the frigate “Augusta,” of the royal navy, received orders to convey the members of the Commission and their suite to the mouth of the Orange River.

It should here be added, that besides the scientific question, there was also a question of national vainglory that excited these philosophers to join in a common labour; for, in reality, they were anxious to out-do France in her numerical calculations, and to surpass in precision the labours of her most illustrious astronomers, and that in the heart of a savage and almost unknown land. Thus the members of the Anglo-Russian Commission had resolved to sacrifice every thing, even their lives, in order to obtain a result that should be favourable to science, and at the same time glorious for their country.

And this is how it came to pass that the astronomer William Emery found himself at the Morgheda Falls, on the banks of the Orange River, at the end of January, 1854.

CHAPTER XVII.

AN UNEXPECTED BLIGHT.

After the oryx hunt the bushman had a long conversation with the Colonel. He felt sure, he said, that they were watched and followed, and that the only reason why they had not been attacked before was because the Makololos wished to get them farther north, where their hordes were larger. The question thus arose whether, in presence of this danger, they should retrace their steps; but they were reluctant to suffer that which nature had favoured to be interrupted by the attacks of a few African savages. The Colonel, aware of the importance of the question, asked the bushman to tell him all he knew about the Makololos.

Mokoum explained that they were the most northerly branch ot the great tribe of the Bechuanas. In 1850 Dr. Livingstone, during his first journey to the Zambesi, was received at Sesheki, the usual residence of Sebitouani, the chief of the Makololos. This native was a man of remarkable intelligence, and a formidable warrior. In 1824 he had menaced the Cape frontier, and, little by little, had gained an ascendency over the tribes of Central Africa, and had united them in a compact group. In the year before the arrival of the Anglo-Russian expedition the chief had died in Livingstone’s arms, and his son Sekeleton succeeded him.

At first Sekeleton was very friendly towards the Europeans who visited the Zambesi, and Dr. Livingstone had no complaint to make. But after the departure of the famous traveller, not only strangers but the neighbouring tribes were harassed by Sekeleton and his warriors. To these vexations succeeded pillage on a large scale, and the Makololos scoured the district between Lake Ngami and the Upper Zambesi. Consequently nothing was more dangerous than for a caravan to venture across this region without a considerable escort, especially when its progress had been previously known.

Such was the history given by Mokoum. He said that he thought it right to tell the Colonel the whole truth, adding, that for his own part (if the Colonel so wished) he should not hesitate to continue the march.

Colonel Everest consulted with his colleagues, and it was settled that the work, at all risks, should be continued. Something more than half of the project was now accomplished, and, whatever happened, the English owed it to themselves and their country not to abandon their undertaking. The series of triangles was resumed. On the 27th the tropic of Capricorn was passed, and on the 3rd of November, with the completion of the forty-first triangle, a fifth degree was added to the meridian.

For a month the survey went on rapidly, without meeting a single natural obstacle. Mokoum, always on the alert, kept a constant look-out at the head and flanks of the caravan, and forbade the hunters to venture too great a distance away. No immediate danger, however, seemed to threaten the little troop, and they were sanguine that the bushman’s fears might prove groundless. There was no further trace of the native who, after eluding them at the cromlech, had taken so strange a part in the oryx chase: nor did any other aggressor appear. Still, at various intervals, the bushman observed signs of trepidation among the Bochjesmen under his command. The incidents of the flight from the old cromlech, and the stratagem of the oryx hunt, could not be concealed from them, and they were perpetually expecting an attack. A deadly antipathy existed between tribe and tribe, and, in the event of a collision, the defeated party could entertain no hope of mercy. The Bochjesmen were already 300 miles from their home, and there was every prospect of their being carried 200 more. It is true that, before engaging them, Mokoum had been careful to inform them of the length and difficulties of the journey, and they were not men to shrink from fatigue; but now, when to these was added the danger of a conflict with implacable enemies, regret was mingled with murmuring, and dissatisfaction was exhibited with ill-humour, and although Mokoum pretended neither to hear nor to see, he was silently conscious ot an increasing anxiety.

On the 2nd of December a circumstance occurred which still further increased the spirit of complaint amongst this superstitious people, and provoked them to a kind of rebellion. Since the previous evening the weather had become dull. The atmosphere, saturated with vapour, gave signs of being heavily charged with electric fluid. There was every prospect of the recurrence of one of the storms which in this tropical district are seldom otherwise than violent. During the morning the sky became covered with sinister-looking clouds, piled together like bales of down of contrasted colours, the yellowish hue distinctly relieving the masses of dark grey. The sun was wan, the heat was overpowering, and the barometer fell rapidly; the air was so still that not a leaf fluttered.

Although the astronomers had not been unconscious of the change of weather, they had not thought it necessary to suspend their labours. Emery, attended by two sailors and four natives in charge of a waggon, was sent two miles east of the meridian to establish a post for the vertex of the next triangle. He was occupied in securing his point of sight, when a current of cold air caused a rapid condensation, which appeared to contribute immediately to a development of electric matter. Instantly there fell a violent shower of hail, and by a rare phenomenon the hailstones were luminous, so that it seemed to be raining drops of boiling silver. The storm increased; sparks flashed from the ground, and jets of light gleamed from the iron settings of the waggon. Dr. Livingstone relates that he has seen tiles broken, and horses and antelopes killed, by the violence of these hail-storms.

Without losing a moment, Emery left his work for the purpose of calling his men to the waggon, which would afford better shelter than a tree. But he had hardly left the top of the hill, when a dazzling flash, instantly followed by a peal of thunder, inflamed the air.

Emery was thrown down, and lay prostrate, as though he were actually dead. The two sailors, dazzled for a moment, were not long in rushing towards him, and were relieved to find that the thunderbolt had spared him. He had been enveloped by the fluid, which, collected by the compass which he held in his hand, had been diverted in its course, so as to leave him not seriously injured. Raised by the sailors, he soon came to himself; but he had narrowly escaped. Two natives, twenty paces apart, lay lifeless at the foot of the post. One had been struck by the full force of the thunderbolt, and was a black and shattered corpse, while his clothes remained entire; the other had been locally struck on the skull by the destructive fluid, and had been killed at once. The three men had been undeniably struck by a single flash. This trisection of a flash of lightning is an unusual but not unknown occurrence, and the angular division was very large. The Bochjesmen were at first overwhelmed by the sudden death of their comrades, but soon, in spite of the cries of the sailors and at the risk of being struck themselves, they rushed back to the camp. The two sailors, having first provided for the protection of Emery, conveyed the two dead bodies to the waggon, and then found shelter for themselves, being sorely bruised by the hailstones, which fell like a shower of marbles. For three quarters of an hour the storm continued to rage; the hail then abated so as to allow the waggon to return to camp.

The news of the death of the natives had preceded them, and had produced a deplorable effect on the minds of the Bochjesmen, who already looked upon the trigonometrical operations with the terror of superstition. They assembled in secret council, and some more timid than the rest declared they would go no farther. The rebellious disposition began to look serious, and it took all the bushman’s influence to arrest an actual revolt. Colonel Everest offered the poor men an increase of pay; but contentment was not to be restored without much trouble. It was a matter of emergency; had the natives deserted, the position of the caravan, without escort and without drivers, would have been perilous in the extreme. At length, however, the difficulty was overcome, and after the burial of the natives, the camp was raised, and the little troop proceeded to the hill where the two had met their death.

Emery felt the shock for some days: his left hand, which had held the compass, was almost paralyzed; but after a time it recovered, and he was able to resume his work.

For eighteen days no special incident occurred. The Makololos did not appear, and Mokoum, though still distrustful, exhibited fewer indications of alarm. They were not more than fifty miles from the desert; and the karroo was still verdant, and enriched by abundant water. They thought that neither man nor beast could want for any thing in this region so rich in game and pasturage; but they had reckoned without the locusts, against whose appearance there is no security in the agricultural districts of South Africa.

On the evening of the 20th, about an hour before sunset the camp was arranged for the night. A light northerly breeze refreshed the atmosphere. The three Englishmen and Mokoum, resting at the foot of a tree, discussed their plans for the future. It was arranged that during the night the astronomers should take the altitude of some stars, in order accurately to find their latitude. Every thing seemed favourable for the operations; in a cloudless sky the moon was nearly new, and the constellations might be expected to be clear and resplendent. Great was the disappointment, therefore, when Emery, rising and pointing to the north, said, —

“The horizon is overcast: I begin to fear our anticipations of a fine night will hardly be verified.”

“Yes,” replied Sir John, “I see a cloud is rising, and if the wind should freshen, it might overspread the sky.”

“There is not another storm coming, I hope,” interposed the Colonel.

“We are in the tropics,” said Emery, “and it would not be surprising; for to-night I begin to have misgivings about our observations.”

“What is your opinion, Mokoum?” asked the Colonel of the bushman.

Mokoum looked attentively towards the north. The cloud was bounded by a long clear curve, as definite as though traced by a pair of compasses. It marked off a section of some miles on the horizon, and its appearance, black as smoke, seemed to excite the apprehensions of the bushman. At times it reflected a reddish light from the setting sun, as though it were rather a solid mass than any collection of vapour. Without direct reply to the Colonel’s appeal, Mokoum simply said that it was strange.

In a few minutes one of the Bochjesmen announced that the horses and cattle showed signs of agitation, and would not be driven to the interior of the camp.

“Well, let them stay outside,” said Mokoum; and in answer to the suggestion that there would be danger from the wild beasts around, he added significantly, “Oh, the wild beasts will be too much occupied to pay any attention to them.”

After the native had gone back. Colonel Everest turned to ask what the bushman meant; but he had moved away, and was absorbed in watching the advance of the cloud, of which, too accurately, he was aware of the origin.

The dark mass approached. It hung low and appeared to be but a few hundred feet from the ground. Mingling with the sound of the wind was heard a peculiar rustling, which seemed to proceed from the cloud itself. At this moment, above the cloud against the sky, appeared thousands of black specks, fluttering up and down, plunging in and out, and breaking the distinctness of the outline.

“What are those moving specks of black?” asked Sir John.

“They are vultures, eagles, falcons, and kites,” answered Mokoum, “from afar they have followed the cloud, and will never leave it until it is destroyed or dispersed.”

“But the cloud?”

“Is not a cloud at all,” answered the bushman, extending his hand towards the sombre mass, which by this time had spread over a quarter of the sky. “It is a living host; to say the truth, it is a swarm of locusts.”

The hunter was not mistaken. The Europeans were about to witness one of those terrible invasions of grasshoppers which are unhappily too frequent, and in one night change the most fertile country into an arid desert. These locusts, now arriving by millions, were the “grylli devastorii” of the naturalists, and travellers have seen for a distance of fifty miles the beach covered with piles of these insects to the height of four feet.

“Yes,” continued the bushman, “these living clouds are a true scourge to the country, and it will be lucky if we escape without harm.”

“But we have no crops and pasturages of our own,” said the Colonel; “what have we to fear?”

“Nothing, if they merely pass over our heads; every thing, if they settle on the country over which we must travel. They will not leave a leaf on the trees, nor a blade of grass on the ground; and you forget, Colonel, that if our own sustenance is secure, that of our animals is not. What do you suppose will become of us in the middle of a devastated district?”

The astronomers were silent for a time, and contemplated the animated mass before them. The cries of the eagles and falcons, who were devouring the insects by thousands, sounded above the redoubled murmur.

“Do you think they will settle here?” said Emery.

“I fear so,” answered Mokoum, “the wind carries them here direct. The sun is setting, and the fresh evening breeze will bear them down; should they settle on the trees, bushes, and prairies, why, then I tell you — ;” but the bushman could not finish his sentence. In an instant the enormous cloud which overshadowed them settled on the ground. Nothing could be seen as far as the horizon but the thickening mass. The camp was bestrewed; waggons and tents alike were veiled beneath the living hail. The Englishmen, moving knee-deep in the insects, crushed them by hundreds at every step.

Although there was no lack of agencies at work for their destruction, their aggregate defied all check. The birds, with hoarse cries, darted down from above, and devoured them greedily; from below, the snakes consumed them in enormous quantities; the horses, buffaloes, mules, and dogs fed on them with great relish; and lions and hyenas, elephants and rhinoceroses, swallowed them down by bushels. The very Bochjesmen welcomed these “shrimps of the air” like celestial manna; the insects even preyed on each other, but their numbers still resisted all sources of destruction.

The bushman entreated the English to taste the dainty. Thousands of young locusts, of a green colour, an inch to an inch and a half long, and about as thick as a quill, were caught. Before they have deposited their eggs, they are considered a great delicacy by connoisseurs, and are more tender than the old insects, which are of a yellowish tinge, and sometimes measure four inches in length. After half an hour’s boiling and seasoning with salt, pepper, and vinegar, the bushman served up a tempting dish to the three Englishmen. The insects, dismembered of head, legs, and skin, were eaten just like shrimps, and were found extremely savoury. Sir John, who ate some hundreds, recommended his people to take advantage of the opportunity to make a large provision.

At night they were all about to seek their usual beds; but the interior of the waggons had not escaped the invasion. It was impossible to enter without crushing the locusts, and to sleep under such conditions was not an agreeable prospect. Accordingly, as the night was clear and the stars bright, the astronomers were rejoiced to pursue their contemplated operations, and deemed it more pleasant than burying themselves to the neck in a coverlet of locusts. Moreover, they would not have had a moment’s sleep, on account of the howling of the beasts which were attracted by their unusual prey.

The next day the sun rose in a clear horizon, and commenced its course over a brilliant sky foreboding heat. A dull rustling of scales among the locusts showed that they were about to carry their devastations elsewhere; and towards eight o’clock the mass rose like the unfurling of an immense veil, and obscured the sun. It grew dusk as if night were returning, and with the freshening of the wind the whole mass was in motion. For two hours, with a deafening noise, the cloud passed over the darkened camp, and disappeared beyond the western horizon.

After their departure the bushman’s predictions were found to be entirely realized. All was demolished, and the soil was brown and bare. Every branch was stripped to utter nakedness. It was like a sudden winter settling in the height of summer, or like the dropping of a desert into the midst of a land of plenty. The Oriental proverb which describes the devastating fury of the Osmanlis might justly be applied to these locusts, “Where the Turk has passed, the grass springs up no more.”

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE DESERT.

It was indeed no better than a desert which now lay before the travellers. When, on the 25th of December, they completed the measurement of another degree, and reached the northern boundary of the karroo, they found no difference between the district they had been traversing and the new country, the real desert, arid and scorching, over which they were now about to pass. The animals belonging to the caravan suffered greatly from the dearth alike of pasturage and water. The last drops of rain in the pools had dried up, and it was an acrid soil, a mixture of clay and sand, very unfavourable to vegetation. The waters of the rainy season filtered quickly through the sandy strata, so that the region was incapable of preserving for any length of time a particle of moisture. More than once has Dr. Livingstone carried his adventurous explorations across one of these barren districts. The very atmosphere was so dry, that iron left in the open air did not rust, and the distinguished traveller relates that the leaves hung weak and shrivelled; that the mimosas remained closed by day as well as by night; that the scarabaei, laid on the ground, expired in a few seconds; and that the mercury in the ball of a thermometer buried three inches in the soil rose at midday to 134deg Fahrenheit.

These records which Livingstone had made were now verified by the astronomers between the karroo and Lake Ngami. The suffering and fatigue, especially of the animals, continually increased, and the dry dusty grass afforded them but little nourishment. Nothing ventured on the desert; the birds had flown beyond the Zambesi for fruit and flowers, and the wild beasts shunned the plain which offered them no prey. During the first fortnight in January the hunters caught sight of a few couples of those antelopes which are able to exist without water for several weeks. There were some oryxes like those in whose pursuit Sir John had sustained so great a disappointment, and there were besides, some dappled, soft-eyed caamas, which venture beyond the green pasturages, and which are much esteemed for the quality of their flesh.

To travel under that burning sun through the stifling atmosphere, to work for days and nights in the oppressive sultriness, was fatiguing in the extreme. The reserve of water evaporated continuously, so they were obliged to ration themselves to a painfully limited allowance. However, ever, such were their zeal and courage that they mastered all their troubles, and not a single detail of their task was neglected. On the 25th of January they completed their seventh degree, the number of triangles constructed having amounted to fifty-seven.

Only a comparatively small portion of the desert had now to be traversed, and the bushman thought that they would be able to reach Lake Ngami before their provision was exhausted. The Colonel and his companions thus had definite hopes, and were inspirited to persevere. But the hired Bochjesmen, who knew nothing of any scientific ardour, and who had been long ago reluctant to pursue their journey, could hardly be encouraged to hold out: unquestionably they suffered greatly, and were objects for commiseration. Already, too, some beasts of burden, overcome by hard work and scanty food, had been left behind, and it was to be feared that more would fall into the same helpless condition. Mokoum had a difficult task to perform, and as murmurs and recriminations increased, his influence more and more lost its weight. It became evident that the want of water would be a serious obstacle, and that the expedition must either retrace its steps, or, at the risk of meeting the Russians, turn to the right of the meridian, to seek some of the villages which were known to be scattered along Livingstone’s route.

It was not long, however, before the bushman one morning came to the Colonel, and declared himself powerless against the increasing difficulties. The drivers, he said, refused to obey him; and there were continued scenes of insubordination, in which all the natives joined. The Colonel perfectly well understood the situation; but stern to himself, he was stern to others. He refused to suspend his operations, and declared that although he went alone, he would continue to advance. His two companions of course agreed, and professed themselves ready to follow him. Renewed efforts of Mokoum persuaded the natives to venture a little farther: he felt sure that the caravan could not be more than five or six days’ march from Lake Ngami, and once there, the animals could find pasturage and shade, and the men an abundance of fresh water. All these considerations he laid before the principal Bochjesmen. He showed them that it was really best to advance northwards. If they turned to the west, their march would be perilous, and to turn back was only to find the karroo desolate and dry. The natives at length yielded to his solicitations, and the almost exhausted caravan continued its course.

Happily this vast plain was in itself favourable to all astronomical observations, so that no delay arose from any natural obstruction. On one occasion there sprang up a sudden hope that nature was about to restore to them a supply of the water of which she had been so niggardly. A lagoon, a mile or two in extent, was discovered on the horizon. The reflection was indubitably of water, proving that what they saw was no mirage, due to the unequal density of the atmospheric strata. The caravan speedily turned in that direction, and the lagoon was reached towards five in the evening. Some of the horses broke away from their drivers, and galloped to the longed-for water. Having smelt it, they plunged in to their chests, but almost immediately returned to the bank. They had not drunk, and when the Bochjesmen arrived they found themselves by the side of a lagoon so impregnated with salt that its water could not be touched. Disappointment was keen, it was little short of despair. Mokoum thought that he should never induce the natives to proceed; but fortunately the only hope was in advancing, and even the natives were alive to the conviction that Lake Ngami was the nearest point where water could be procured. In four days, unless retarded by its labours, the expedition must reach the shores of the lake.

Every day was momentous. To economize time, Colonel Everest formed larger triangles and established fewer posts. No efforts were spared to hurry on the progress of the survey. Notwithstanding the application of every energy, the painful sojourn in the desert was prolonged, and it was not until the 21st of February that the level ground began to be rough and undulating. A mountain 500 or 600 feet high was descried about fifteen miles to the north-west. The bushman recognized it as Mount Scorzef, and, pointing to the north, said, —

“Lake Ngami is there.”

“The Ngami! the Ngami!” echoed the natives, with noisy demonstration. They wished to hurry on in advance over the fifteen miles, but Mokoum restrained them, asserting that the country was infested by Makololos, and that it was important to keep together. Colonel Everest, himself eager to reach the lake, resolved to connect by a single triangle the station he was now occupying with Mount Scorzef. The instruments were therefore arranged, and the angle of the last triangle which had been already measured from the south was measured again from the station. Mokoum, in his impatience, only established a temporary camp; he hoped to reach the lake before night; but he neglected none of his usual precautions, and prudently sent out horsemen right and left to explore the underwood. Since the oryx-chase the Makololos seemed indeed to have abandoned their watch, still he would not incur any risk of being taken by surprise.

Thus carefully guarded by the bushman, the astronomers constructed their triangle. According to Emery’s calculations it would carry them nearly to the twentieth parallel, the proposed limit of their arc. A few more triangles on the other side of Lake Ngami would complete their eighth degree; to verify the calculations, a new base would subsequently be measured directly on the ground, and the great enterprise would be ended. The ardour of the astronomers increased as they approached the fulfilment of their task.

Meanwhile there was considerable curiosity as to what the Russians on their side had accomplished. For six months the members of the commission had been separated, and it seemed probable to the English that the Russians had not suffered so much from heat and thirst, since their course had lain nearer Livingstone’s route, and therefore in less arid regions. After leaving Kolobeng they would come across various villages to the right of their meridian, where they could easily revictual their caravan. But still it was not unlikely that in this less arid, though more frequented country, Matthew Strux’s little band had been more exposed to the attacks of the plundering Makololos, and this was the more probable, since they seemed to have abandoned the pursuit of the English caravan.

Although the Colonel, ever engrossed, had no thought to bestow on these things, Sir John and Emery had often discussed the doings of their former comrades. They wondered whether they would come across them again, and whether they would find that they had obtained the same mathematical result as themselves, and whether the two computations of a degree in South Africa would be identical. Emery did not cease to entertain kind memories of his friend, knowing well that Zorn, for his part, would never forget him.

The measurement of the angles was now resumed. To obtain the angle at the station they now occupied, they had to observe two points of sight. One of these was formed by the conical summit of Mount Scorzef, and the other by a sharp peak three or four miles to the left of the meridian, whose direction was easily obtained by one of the telescopes of the repeating circle. Mount Scorzef was much more distant; its position would compel the observers to diverge considerably to the right of the meridian, but on examination they found they had no other choice. The station was therefore observed with the second telescope of the repeating circle, and the angular distance between Mount Scorzef and the smaller peak was obtained.

Notwithstanding the impatience of the natives. Colonel Everest, as calmly as though he were in his own observatory, made many successive registries from the graduated circle of his telescope, and then, by taking the average of all his readings, he obtained a result rigorously exact.

The day glided on, and it was not until the darkness prevented the reading of the instruments, that the Colonel brought his observations to an end, saying, —

“I am at your orders, Mokoum; we will start as soon as you like.”

“And none too soon,” replied Mokoum; “better had we accomplished our journey by daylight.”

The proposal to start met with unanimous approval, and by seven o’clock the thirsty party were once more on the march.

Some strange foreboding seemed weighing on the mind of Mokoum, and he urged the three Europeans to look carefully to their rifles and to be well provided with ammunition. The night grew dark, the moon and stars were repeatedly veiled in mist, but the atmosphere near the ground was clear. The bushman’s keen vision was ever watching the flanks and front of the caravan, and his unwonted disquietude could not fail to be noticed by Sir John, who was likewise on the watch. They toiled through the weary evening, occasionally stopping to gather together the loiterers, and at ten o’clock they were still six miles from the lake. The animals gasped for breath in an atmosphere so dry that the hygrometer could not have detected a trace of moisture.

Mokoum was indefatigable in his endeavours to keep the disorganized party close together; but, in spite of his remonstrances, the caravan no longer presented a compact nucleus. Men and beasts stretched out into a long file, and some oxen had sunk exhausted to the ground. The dismounted horsemen could hardly drag themselves along, and any stragglers could have been easily carried off by the smallest band of natives. Mokoum went in evident anxiety from one to another, and with word and gestures tried to rally the troop; but his success was far from complete, and already, without his knowledge, some of his men were missing.

By eleven o’clock the foremost waggons were hardly more than three miles from their destination. In the gloom of night Mount Scorzef stood out distinctly in its solitary height, like an enormous pyramid, and the obscurity made its dimensions appear greater than they actually were. Unless Mokoum were mistaken, Lake Ngami lay just behind Mount Scorzef, so that the caravan must pass round its base in order to reach the tract of fresh water by the shortest route.

The bushman, in company with the three Europeans, took the lead, and prepared to turn to the left, when suddenly some distinct, though distant reports, arrested their attention. They reined in their horses, and listened with a natural anxiety. In a country where the natives use only lances and arrows the report of European fire-arms was rather startling. The Colonel and Sir John simultaneously asked the bushman from whence the sound could proceed. Mokoum asserted that he could perceive a light in the shadow at the summit of Mount Scorzef, and that he had no doubt that the Makololos were attacking a party of Europeans.

“Europeans!” cried Emery.

“Yes,” replied Mokoum; “these reports can only be produced by European weapons.”

“But what Europeans could they be?” began Sir John.

“Be who they may,” broke in the Colonel, “we must go to their assistance.”

“Yes; come on,” said Emery, with no little excitement.

Before setting off for the mountain, Mokoum, for the last time, tried to rally the small band. But when the bushman turned round the caravan was dispersed, the horses unyoked, the waggons forsaken, and a few scattered shadows were flying along the plain towards the south.

“The cowards!” he cried; then turning to the English, he said, “Well, we must go on.”

The Englishmen and the bushman, gathering up all the remaining strength of their horses, darted on to the north. After a while they could plainly distinguish the war-cry of the Makololos. Whatever was their number, it was evident they were making an attack on Mount Scorzef from the summit of which the flashes of fire continued. Groups of men could be faintly distinguished ascending the sides. Soon the Colonel and his companions were on the rear of the besiegers. Abandoning their worn-out steeds, and shouting loud enough to be heard by the besieged, they fired at the mass of natives. The rapidity with which they re-loaded caused the Makololos to imagine themselves assailed by a large troop. The sudden attack surprised them, and, letting fly a shower of arrows and assagais, they retreated. Without losing a moment, the Colonel, Sir John, Emery, the bushman, and the sailors, never desisting from firing, darted among the group of natives, of whose bodies no less than fifteen soon strewed the ground.

The Makololos divided. The Europeans rushed into the gap, and, overpowering the foremost, ascended the slope backwards. In a few minutes they had reached the summit, which was now entirely in darkness, the besieged having suspended their fire for fear of injuring those who had come so opportunely to their aid.

They were the Russian astronomers. Strux, Palander, Zorn, and their five sailors, all were there: but of all the natives belonging to their caravan there remained but the faithful pioneer. The Bochjesmen had been as faithless to them as they had been to the English.

The instant the Colonel appeared, Strux darted from the top of a low wall that crowned the summit.

“The English!” he cried.

“Yes,” replied the Colonel gravely; “but now neither Russian nor English. Nationalities be forgotten; for mutual defence we are kinsmen, in that we are one and all Europeans!”

CHAPTER XIX.

SCIENCE UNDAUNTED.

Noble words were those just uttered by the Colonel. In the face of the Makololos it was no time for hesitation or discussion, and English and Russians, forgetting their national quarrel, were now re-united for mutual defence more firmly than ever. Emery and Zorn had warmly greeted each other, and the others had sealed their new alliance with a grasp of the hand.

The first care of the English was to quench their thirst. Water, drawn from the lake, was plentiful in the Russian camp. Then, as soon as the Makololos were quiet enough to afford some respite, the astronomers, sheltered by a sort of casemate forming part of a deserted fortress, talked of all that had happened since their separation at Kolobeng.

It appeared that the same reason had brought the Russians so far to the left of their meridian as had caused the English to turn to the right of theirs. Mount Scorzef, halfway between the two arcs, was the only height in that district which would serve as a station on the banks of Lake Ngami. Each of the meridians crossed the lake, whose opposite shores it was necessary to unite trigonometrically by a large triangle. Naturally, therefore, the two rival expeditions met on the only mountain which could serve their purpose.

Matthew Strux then gave some details of his operations. After leaving Kolobeng, the Russian party had continued without irregularity. The old meridian, which had fallen by lot to the Russians, fell across a fertile and slightly undulated country, which offered every facility for the formation of the triangles. Like the English, they had suffered from the heat, but they had experienced no hardship from the want of water. Streams were abundant, and kept up a wholesome moisture. The horses and oxen had roamed over an immense pasturage, across verdant prairies broken by forests and underwood. The wild animals by night had been safely kept at a distance by sentinels and fires, nor had any natives been seen except those stationary in the villages in which Dr. Livingstone had always found a hospitable reception. All through the journey the Bochjesmen of the caravan had given no cause for complaint, nor was it until the previous day, when the Makololos to the number of 200 or 300 had appeared on the plain, that they had shown themselves faithless, and deserted. For thirty-six hours the expedition had now occupied the little fortress. The Makololos had attacked them in the evening, after plundering the waggons left at the foot of the hill. The instruments fortunately, having been carried into the fort, were secure. The steamboat had also escaped the ravages of the natives; it had been immediately put together by the sailors, and was now at anchor in a little creek of Lake Ngami, behind the enormous rocks that formed the base of the mountain. Mount Scorzef sloped with sudden abruptness down to the lake, and there was no danger of an attack from that side.

Such was Matthew Strux’s account. Colonel Everest, in his turn, related the incidents of his march, the fatigues and difficulties, and the revolt of the Bochjesmen, and it was found by comparison that the Russians had had a less harassing journey than their rivals.

The night of the 21st passed quietly. The bushman and sailors kept watch under the walls of the fort; the Makololos on their part did not renew any attack, but the bivouac-fires at the foot of the mountain proved that they had not relinquished their project.

At daybreak the Europeans left their casemate for the purpose of reconnoitring the plain. The early morning light illumined the vast extent of country as far as the horizon. Towards the south lay the desert, with its burnt brown grass and barren aspect. Close under the mountain was the circular camp, containing a swarm of 400 to 500 natives. The fires were still alight, and some pieces of venison broiling on the hot embers. The encampment was something more than temporary; the Makololos were evidently determined not to abandon their prey. Either vengeance or an instinctive thirst for blood appeared to be prompting them, since all the valuables of both caravans, the waggons, horses, oxen, and provisions, had fallen into their power; or perhaps it might be that they coveted the fire-arms which the Europeans carried, and of which they made such terrible use.

The united English and Russians held a long consultation with the bushman, and it was felt that they could not relax their watch until they should arrive at a definite decision. This decision must depend on a variety of circumstances, and first of all it was necessary to understand exactly the position of Mount Scorzef.

The mountain overlooked to the south, east, and west the vast desert which the astronomers, having traversed it, knew extended southwards to the karroo. In the west could be discerned the faint outlines of the hills bordering the fertile country of the Makololos, one of whose capitals, Maketo, lies about a hundred miles north-west of Lake Ngami.

To the north the mountain commanded a country which was a great contrast to the arid steppes of the south. There were water, trees, and pasturage. For a hundred miles east and west lay the wide Eake Ngami, while from north to south its length was not more than 30 to 40 miles. Beyond appeared a gentle, undulated country, enriched with forests and watered by the affluents of the Zambesi, and shut in to the extreme north by a low chain of mountains. This wide oasis was caused by the great artery, the Zambesi, which is to South Africa what the Danube is to Europe, or the Amazon to South America.

The side of the mountain towards the lake, steep as it was, was not so steep but that the sailors could accomplish an ascent and descent by a narrow way which passed from point to point. They thus contrived to reach the spot where the “Queen and Czar” lay hid, and, obtaining a supply of water, enabled the little garrison to hold out in the deserted fort as long as their provisions lasted.

The astronomers wondered why this little fort had been placed on the top of the mountain. Mokoum, who had visited the country as Livingstone’s guide, explained that formerly the neighbourhood of Lake Ngami was frequented by traders in ivory and ebony. The ivory was furnished by the elephants and rhinoceroses; but the ebony trade was but too often another name for that traffic in human beings which is still carried on by the slave-traders in the region of the Zambesi. A great number of prisoners are made in the wars and pillages in the interior of the country, and these prisoners are sold as slaves. Mount Scorzef had been a centre of encampment for the ivory-traders, and it was there that they had been accustomed to rest before descending the Zambesi. They had fortified their position, to protect themselves and their slaves from depredations, since it was not an uncommon occurrence for the prisoners to be recaptured for fresh sale by the very men who had recently sold them. The route of the traders was now changed; they no longer passed the shores of the lake, and the little fort was falling into ruins. All that remained was an enclosure in the form of the sector of a circle, from the centre of which rose a small casemated redoubt, pierced with loop-holes, and surmounted by a small wooden turret.

But notwithstanding the condition of ruin into which it had fallen, the fortress offered the Europeans a welcome retreat. Behind the thick sandstone walls, and armed with their rapidly-loading guns, they were confident that they could keep back an army of Makololos, and, unless their provisions and ammunition failed, they would be able to complete their observations.

At present they had plenty of ammunition; the coffer in which it was contained had been placed on the same waggon which carried the steamboat, and had therefore escaped the rapacity of the natives.

The great difficulty would be the possible failure of provisions. The Colonel and Strux made a careful inspection of the store, and found that there was only enough to last the eighteen men for two days. After a short breakfast, the astronomers and the bushman, leaving the sailors still to keep watch round the walls, assembled in the redoubt to discuss their situation.

“I cannot understand,” said Mokoum, “why you are so uneasy. You say that we have only provisions for two days; but why stay here? Let us leave to-morrow, or even to-day. The Makololos need not hinder us; they could not cross the lake, and in the steamboat we may reach the northern shore in a few hours.”

The astronomers looked at each other; the idea, natural as it was, had not struck them before. Sir John was the first to speak.

“But we have not yet completed the measurement of our meridian.”

“Will the Makololos have any regard for your meridian?” asked the hunter.

“Very likely not,” answered Sir John; “but we have a regard for it, and will not leave our undertaking incomplete. I am sure my colleagues agree with me.”

“Yes,” said the Colonel, speaking for all; “as long as one of us survives, and is able to put his eye to his telescope, the survey shall go on. If necessary, we will take our observations with our instrument in one hand and our gun in the other, even to the last extremity.”

The energetic philosophers shouted out their resolution to proceed at every hazard.

When it was thus decided that the survey should at all risks be continued, the question arose as to the choice of the next station,

“Although there will be a difficulty,” said Strux, “in joining Mount Scorzef trigonometrically to a station to the north of the lake, it is not impracticable. I have fixed on a peak in the extreme north-east, so that the side of the triangle will cross the lake obliquely.”

“Well,” said the Colonel, “if the peak exists, I do not see any difficulty.”

“The only difficulty,” replied Strux, “consists in the distance.”

“What is the distance?”

“Over a hundred miles, and a lighted signal must be carried to the top of the peak.”

“Assuredly that can be done,” said the Colonel.

“And all that time, how are we to defend ourselves against the Makololos?” asked the bushman.

“We will manage that too.”

Mokoum said that he would obey the Colonel’s orders, and the conversation ended. The whole party left the casemate, and Strux pointed out the peak he had chosen. It was the conical peak of Volquiria, 300 feet high, and just visible in the horizon. Notwithstanding the distance, a powerful reflector could thence be discerned by means of a magnifying telescope, and the curvature of the earth’s surface, which Strux had taken into account, would not be any obstacle. The real difficulty was how the lamp should be hoisted to the top of the mountain. The angle made at Mount Scorzef with Mount Volquiria and the preceding station would probably complete the measurement of the meridian, so that the operation was all important, Zorn and Emery offered to take this journey of a hundred miles in an unknown country, and, accompanied by the pioneer, prepared to start.

One of the canoes of birch-bark, which are manufactured by the natives with great dexterity, would be sufficient to carry them over the lake. Mokoum and the pioneer descended to the shore, where were growing some dwarf birches, and in a very short time had accomplished their task, and prepared the canoe.

At eight o’clock in the evening the newly-constructed craft was loaded with instruments, the apparatus for the reverberator, provisions, arms, and ammunition. It was arranged that the astronomers should meet again in a small creek known to both Mokoum and the pioneer; it was also agreed that as soon as the reverberator on Mount Volquiria should be perceived, Colonel Everest should light a signal on Mount Scorzef, so that Emery and Zorn, in their turn, might take the direction.

The young men took leave of their colleagues, and descended the mountain in the obscurity of night, having been preceded by the pioneer and two sailors, one English and one Russian. The mooring was loosened, and the frail boat turned quietly across the lake.

CHAPTER XXII.

HIDE AND SEEK.

When daylight re-appeared, the vessel was nearing the northern shore of the lake. There was no trace of natives, consequently the Colonel and his companions, who had been ready armed, laid aside their guns as the “Queen and Czar” drew up in a little bay hollowed in the rocks.

The bushman, Sir John, and one of the sailors set out at once to reconnoitre the neighbourhood. They could perceive no sign of Makololos, and fortunately they found game in abundance. Troops of antelopes grazed in the long grass and in the shelter of the thickets, and a number of aquatic birds frequented the shores of the lake. The hunters returned with ample provision, and the whole party could enjoy the savoury venison, a supply of which was now unlikely to fail them again.

The camp was arranged under the great willows near the lake, on the banks of a small river. The Colonel and Strux had arranged to meet on the northern shore with the pioneer’s little party, and the rest afforded by the few days of expectation was gratefully enjoyed by all. Palander employed himself in rectifying and adjusting the results of the latest observations, while Mokoum and Sir John hunted most vigorously over the fertile, well-watered country, abounding in game, of which the Englishman would have been delighted, had it been in his power, to complete a purchase on behalf of the British government.

Three days after, on the 8th of March, some gun-shots announced the arrival of the remainder of the party for whom they tarried. Emery, Zorn, the two sailors, and the pioneer, were all in perfect health. Their theodolite, the only instrument remaining to the Commission, was safe.

The young astronomers and their companions were received with joyous congratulations. In a few words they related that their journey had not been devoid of difficulty. For two days they had lost their way in the forests that skirted the mountainous district, and with only the vague indications of the compass they would never have reached Mount Volquiria, if it had not been for the shrewd intelligence of the pioneer. The ascent of the mountain was rough, and the delay had caused the young astronomers as much impatience as it had their colleagues on Mount Scorzef. They had carefully, by, barometrical observations, calculated that the summit of Volquiria was 3200 feet above the level of the sea. The light, increased by a strong reflector, was first lighted on the night of the 4th; thus the observers on Mount Scorzef had perceived it as soon as it appeared.

Emery and Zorn had easily discerned the intense fire caused by the burning fortress, and with the theodolite had completed the measurement of the triangle.

“And did you determine the latitude of the peak?” said the Colonel to Emery, “Yes, most accurately,” replied Emery; “we found it to be 19deg37‘35.337”.”

“Well, gentlemen,” said the Colonel, “we may say that our task is ended. We have measured, by means of sixty-three triangles, an arc of more than eight degrees in length; and when we have rigidly corrected our results, we shall know the exact value of the degree, and consequently of the metre, in this part of the globe.”

A cheer of satisfaction could not be repressed amongst the others.

“And now,” added the Colonel, “we have only to descend the Zambesi in order to reach the Indian Ocean: is it not so, Mr. Strux.?”

“It is so,” answered Strux; “but I think we ought still to adopt some means of testing our previous operations. Let us continue our triangles until we find a place suitable for the direct measurement of a base. The agreement between the lengths of the base, obtained by the calculations and by the direct measurement, will alone tell what degree of accuracy we ought to attribute to our observations.”

Strux’s proposition was unanimously adopted. It was agreed to construct a series of subsidiary triangles until a side could be measured with the platinum rods. The steamboat, descending the affluents of the Zambesi, was to await the travellers below the celebrated Victoria Falls.

Every thing being arranged, the little troop, with the exception of four sailors on board the “Queen and Czar,” started the next day at sunrise. Some stations had been chosen to the east and the angles measured, and along this favourable country, they hoped easily to accomplish their auxiliary series. The bushman had adroitly caught a quagga, of which, willing or unwilling, he made a beast of burden to carry the theodolite, the measuring-rods, and some other luggage of the caravan.

The journey proceeded rapidly. The undulated country afforded many points of sight for the small accessory triangles. The weather was fine, and it was not needful to have recourse to nocturnal observations. The travellers could nearly always find shelter in the woods, and, besides, the heat was not insufferable, since some vapours arose from the pools and streams which tempered the sun’s rays.

Every want was supplied by the hunters, and there was no longer any thing to be feared from the natives, who seemed to be more to the south of Lake Ngami.

Matthew Strux and the Colonel seemed to have forgotten all their personal rivalry, and although there was no close intimacy between them, they were on the most perfect terms of courtesy.

Day after day, during a period of three weeks, the observations steadily proceeded. For the measurement of a base the astronomers required a tract of land that should be level for several miles, and the very undulations of the soil that were desirable for the establishment of the points of sight were unfavourable for that observation. They proceeded to the north-east, sometimes following the right bank of the Cnobi, one of the principal tributaries of the Upper Zambesi, in order to avoid Maketo, the chief settlement of the Makololos.

They had now every reason to anticipate that their return would be happily accomplished, and that no further natural obstacle would occur, and they hoped that their difficulties were all at an end. The country which they were traversing was comparatively well known and they could not be far from the villages of the Zambesi which Livingstone had lately visited. They thus thought with reason that all the most arduous part of their task was over, when an incident, of which the consequences might have been serious, almost compromised the result of the whole expedition.

Nicholas Palander was the hero, or rather was nearly being the victim, of the adventure.

The intrepid but thoughtless calculator, unwarned by his escape from the crocodiles, had still the habit of withdrawing himself from his companions. In an open country there was no great danger in this, but in woods Palander’s abstraction might lead to serious consequences. Strux and the bushman gave him many warnings, and Palander, though much astonished at what he considered an excess of prudence, promised to conform to their wishes.

On the 27th, some hours had passed since Strux and Mokoum had seen any thing of Palander. The little troop were travelling through thickets of low trees and shrubs, extending as far as the horizon. It was important to keep together, as it would be difficult to discover the track of any one lost in the wood. But seeing and fearing nothing, Palander, who had been posted, pencil in one hand, the register in the other, on the left flank of the troop, was not long in disappearing.

When, towards four o’clock, Strux and his companions found that Palander was no longer with them, they became extremely anxious. His former aberrations were still fresh in their remembrance, and it was probably the abstracted calculator alone by whom they had been forgotten.

The march was stopped, and they all shouted in vain.

The bushman and the sailors dispersed for a quarter of a mile in each direction, beating the bushes, trampling through the woods and long grass, firing off their guns, but yet without success.

They became still more uneasy, especially Matthew Strux, to whose anxiety was joined an extreme irritation against his unlucky colleague. This was not the first time that Palander had served them thus, and if the Colonel had laid any blame on him, Strux would not have known what to say.

Under the circumstances, the only thing to be done was to encamp in the wood, and begin a more careful search.

The Colonel and his companions had just arranged to place their camp near a glade of considerable extent, when a cry, unlike any thing human, resounded at some distance to the left. Almost immediately, running at full speed, appeared Palander. His head was bare, his hair dishevelled, and his clothes torn in some parts almost to rags. His companions plied him with questions; but the unhappy man, with haggard and distended eye, whose compressed nostrils still further hindered his short jerking respiration, could not bring out a word.

What had happened? why had he wandered away? and why did he appear so terrified? At last, to their repeated questions, he gasped out, in almost unintelligible accents, something about the registers.

The astronomers shuddered; the registers, on which was inscribed every result of their operations, and which the calculator had never allowed out of his possession, even when asleep, these registers were missing. No matter whether Palander had lost them, or whether they had been stolen from him; they were gone, and all their labour was in vain!

While his companions, mutely terrified, only looked at each other, Matthew Strux could no longer restrain his anger. He burst forth into all manner of invective against the miserable man, threatening him with the displeasure of the Russian government, and adding, that if he did not suffer under the knout he should linger out his life in Siberia.

To all this Palander answered but by a movement of the head: he seemed to acquiesce in all these condemnations, and even thought the judgment would be too lenient.

“But perhaps he has been robbed,” said the Colonel at last.

“What matters?” cried Strux, beside himself; “what business had he so far away from us, after our continual warning?”

“True,” replied Sir John, “but we ought to know whether he has lost the registers or been robbed of them. Has any one robbed you, Palander?” continued he, turning to the poor man, who had sunk down with fatigue.

Palander made a sign of affirmation.

“Who?” continued Sir John. “Natives? Makololos?”

Palander shook his head.

“Well, then, Europeans?” asked Sir John.

“No,” answered Palander in a stifled voice.

“Who then?” shouted Strux, shaking his clenched fists in Palander’s face.

“They were neither natives — nor white men — but monkeys,” stammered out Palander at last.

It was a fact that the unhappy man had been robbed by a monkey, and if the consequences of the incident had been less serious, the whole party would have broken out into laughter.

Mokoum explained that what had just happened was of frequent occurrence. Many times, to his knowledge, had travellers been rifled by these pig-headed chacmas, a species of baboon very common in South African forests. The calculator had been plundered by these animals, though not without a struggle, as his ragged garments testified. Still, in the judgment of his companions, there was no excuse to be made: if he had remained in his proper place this irreparable loss would not have occurred.

“We did not take the trouble,” began Colonel Everest, “to measure an arc of meridian in South Africa for a blunderer like you — “

He did not finish his sentence, conscious that it was useless to continue to abuse the unhappy man, whom Strux had not ceased to load with every variety of vituperation. The Europeans were, without exception, quite overpowered by emotion; but Mokoum, who was less sensitive to the importance of the loss, retained his self-possession.

“Perhaps even yet,” he said, “something may be done to assist you in your perplexity. These chacmas are always careful of their stolen goods, and if we find the robber we shall find the registers with him. But time is precious, and none must be lost.”

The bushman had opened a ray of hope. Palander revived at the suggestion: he arranged his tattered clothes as best he could, and having accepted the jacket of one sailor and the hat of another, declared himself ready to lead his companions to the scene of his adventure.

They all started off towards the west, and passed the night and the ensuing day without any favourable result. In many places, by traces on the ground and the bark of the trees, the bushman and the pioneer recognized unmistakable vestiges of the baboons, of which Palander affirmed that he was sure he had seen no less than ten. The party was soon on their track, and advanced with the utmost precaution, the bushman affirming that he could only count on success in his search by taking the chacmas by surprise, since they were sagacious animals, such as could only be approached by some device of secrecy.

Early the following morning one of the Russian sailors, who was somewhat in front, perceived, if not the actual thief, yet one of its associates. He prudently returned to the little troop, who came at once to a halt. The Europeans, who had resolved to obey Mokoum in every thing, awaited his instructions. The bushman begged them to remain in quietness where they were, and, taking Sir John and the pioneer, turned towards the part of the wood already visited by the sailor, carefully keeping under shelter of the trees and bushwood.

In a short time the bushman and his two companions caught sight of one chacma, and almost immediately of nine or ten more, gambolling among the branches. Crouching behind a tree, they attentively watched the animals, Their long tails were continually sweeping the ground, and their powerful muscles, sharp teeth, and pointed claws, rendered them formidable even to the beasts of prey. These chacmas are the terror of the Boers, whose fields of corn and maize, and occasionally whose habitations, are plundered by them.

Not one of the animals had as yet espied the hunters. but they all continued their sport, yelping and barking as though they were great ill-favoured dogs. The important point for determination was, whether the actual purloiner of the missing documents was there. All doubt was put aside when the pioneer pointed out a chacma wrapped in a rag of Palander’s coat. Sir John felt that this creature must be secured at any price, but he was obliged to act with great circumspection, aware as he was that a single false movement would cause the whole herd to decamp at once.

“Stay here,” said Mokoum to the pioneer; “Sir John and I will return to our companions, and set about surrounding the animals; but meanwhile do not lose sight of them.”

The pioneer remained at his post, while Sir John and the bushman returned to Colonel Everest. The only means of securing the suspected culprit was to surround the whole troop. To accomplish this, the Europeans divided into separate detachments; one composed of Strux, Emery, Zorn, and three sailors, was to join the pioneer, and to form a semicircle around him; and the other, comprising the Colonel, Mokoum, Sir John, Palander, and the other three sailors, made a detour to the left, in order to fall back upon the herd from the other side Implicitly following the bushman’s advice, they all advanced with the utmost caution. Their guns were ready, and it was agreed that the chacma with the rags should be the aim for every shot.

Mokoum kept a watchful eye upon Palander, and insisted upon his marching close to himself, lest his unguardedness should betray him into some fresh folly. The worthy astronomer was almost beside himself in consternation at his loss, and evidently thought it a question of life or death.

After marching with the frequent halts which the policy of being unobserved suggested, and continuing to diverge for half an hour, the bushman considered that they might now fall back. He and his companions, each about twenty paces apart, advanced like a troop of Pawnies on a war-trail, without a word or gesture, avoiding even the least rustling in the branches.

Suddenly the bushman stopped; the rest instantly followed his example, and standing with their finger on the lock of their guns, were ready to raise them to their shoulder.

The band of chacmas was in sight, they were already sensible of some danger, and seemed on the look-out. The great animal which had stolen the registers had, to their fancy, an appearance of being especially agitated. It had been already recognized by Palander, who muttered something like an imprecation between his teeth.

The chacma looked as if it was making signs to its companions: some females, with their young ones on their shoulders, had collected in a group, and the males went to and fro around them.

The hunters still drew on, one and all keeping a steady eye direct towards the ostensible thief. All at once, by an involuntary movement, Palander’s gun went off in his hands.

Sir John broke out into an exclamation of disgust, and instantly afterwards fired.

Ten reports followed: three chacmas lay dead on the ground, and the rest, with a prodigious bound, passed over the hunters’ heads.

The robber baboon alone remained: it darted at the trunk of a sycamore, which it climbed with an amazing agility, and disappeared among the branches.

The bushman, having keenly surveyed the spot, asserted that the registers were there concealed, and fearing lest the chacma should escape across the trees, he calmly aimed and fired. The animal, wounded in the leg, fell from branch to branch. In one of its fore-claws it was seen to clutch the registers, which it had taken from a fork of the tree.

At the sight, Palander, with a leap like a chamois, darted at the chacma, and a tremendous struggle ensued. The cries of both man and beast mingled in harsh and discordant strain, and the hunters dared not take aim at the chacma for fear of wounding their comrade.

Strux, beside himself with rage, shouted again and again that they should fire, and in his furious agitation he would probably have done so, if it had not been that he was accidentally without a cartridge for his gun, which had been already discharged.

The combat continued; sometimes Palander, sometimes the chacma, was uppermost. The astronomer, his shoulders lacerated by the creature’s claws, tried to strangle his adversary. At last the bushman, seizing a favourable moment, made a sudden dash, and killed the ape with one blow of his hatchet.

Nicholas Palander, bleeding, exhausted, and insensible, was picked up by his colleagues: in his last effort he had recaptured his registers, which he was found unconsciously grasping to his bosom.

The carcase of the chacma was conveyed with glee to the camp. At the evening repast it furnished a delicious meal to the hunters. To all of them, but especially to Palander, not only had the excitement of the chase quickened their appetite for the palatable dish, but the relish was heightened by the gratifying knowledge that vengeance was satisfied.

THE FUR COUNTRY

Translated by N. D’Anvers

This adventure novel was first published in 1873 and was serialised in Magasin d’Education et de Recreation. The narrative is set in 1859 and concerns Lt. Jasper Hobson and other members of the Hudson’s Bay Company, who travel through the Northwest Territories of Canada to Cape Bathurst on the Arctic Ocean on the mission to create a fort.

CONTENTS

PART I

CHAPTER I.

A SOIREE AT FORT RELIANCE.

CHAPTER II.

THE HUDSON’S BAY FUR COMPANY.

CHAPTER III.

A SAVANT THAWED.

CHAPTER IV.

A FACTORY.

CHAPTER V.

FROM FORT RELIANCE TO FORT ENTERPRISE.

CHAPTER VI.

A WAPITI DUEL.

CHAPTER VII.

THE ARCTIC CIRCLE.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE GREAT BEAR LAKE.

CHAPTER IX.

A STORM ON THE LAKE.

CHAPTER X.

A RETROSPECT.

CHAPTER XI.

ALONG THE COAST.

CHAPTER XII.

THE MIDNIGHT SUN.

CHAPTER XIII.

FORT HOPE.

CHAPTER XIV.

SOME EXCURSIONS.

CHAPTER XV.

FIFTEEN MILES FROM CAPE BATHURST.

CHAPTER XVI.

TWO SHOTS.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE APPROACH OF WINTER.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE POLAR NIGHT.

CHAPTER XIX.

A NEIGHBOURLY VISIT.

CHAPTER XX.

MERCURY FREEZES.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE LARGE POLAR BEARS.

CHAPTER XXII.

FIVE MONTHS MORE.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE ECLIPSE OF THE 18TH JULY 1860.

PART II

CHAPTER I.

A FLOATING FORT.

CHAPTER II.

WHERE ARE WE?

CHAPTER III.

A TOUR OF THE ISLAND.

CHAPTER IV.

A NIGHT ENCAMPMENT.

CHAPTER V.

FROM JULY 25TH TO AUGUST 20TH.

CHAPTER VI.

TEN DAYS OF TEMPEST

CHAPTER VII.

A FIRE AND A CRY.

CHAPTER VIII.

MRS. PAULINA BARNETT’S EXCURSION.

CHAPTER IX.

KALUMAH’S ADVENTURES.

CHAPTER X.

THE KAMTCHATKA CURRENT.

CHAPTER XI

A COMMUNICATION FROM LIEUTENANT HOBSON.

CHAPTER XII.

A CHANCE TO BE TRIED.

CHAPTER XIII.

ACROSS THE ICE-FIELD.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE WINTER MONTHS.

CHAPTER XV.

THE LAST EXPLORING EXPEDITION.

CHAPTER XVI

THE BREAK-UP OF THE ICE

CHAPTER XVII.

THE AVALANCHE.

CHAPTER XVIII.

ALL AT WORK.

CHAPTER XIX.

BEHRING SEA.

CHAPTER XX.

IN THE OFFING.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE ISLAND BECOMES AN ISLET.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE FOUR FOLLOWING DAYS.

CHAPTER XXIII.

ON A PIECE OF ICE.

CHAPTER XXIV

CONCLUSION.

CHAPTER I.

A SOIREE AT FORT RELIANCE.

On the evening of the 17th March 1859, Captain Craventy gave a fete at Fort Reliance. Our readers must not at once imagine a grand entertainment, such as a court ball, or a musical soiree with a fine orchestra. Captain Craventy’s reception was a very simple affair, yet he had spared no pains to give it eclat.

In fact, under the auspices of Corporal Joliffe, the large room on the ground-floor was completely transformed. The rough walls, constructed of roughly-hewn trunks of trees piled up horizontally, were still visible, it is true, but their nakedness was disguised by arms and armour, borrowed from the arsenal of the fort, and by an English tent at each corner of the room. Two lamps suspended by chains, like chandeliers, and provided with tin reflectors, relieved the gloomy appearance of the blackened beams of the ceiling, and sufficiently illuminated the misty atmosphere of the room. The narrow windows, some of them mere loop-holes, were so encrusted with hoar-frost, that it was impossible to look through them; but two or three pieces of red bunting, tastily arranged about them, challenged the admiration of all who entered. The floor, of rough joists of wood laid parallel with each other, had been carefully swept by Corporal Joliffe. No sofas, chairs, or other modern furniture, impeded the free circulation of the guests. Wooden benches half fixed against the walls, huge blocks of wood cut with the axe, and two tables with clumsy legs, were all the appliances of luxury the saloon could boast of. But the partition wall, with a narrow door leading into the next room, was decorated in a style alike costly and picturesque. From the beams hung magnificent furs admirably arranged, the equal of which could not be seen in the more favoured regions of Regent Street or the Perspective-Newski. It seemed as if the whole fauna of the ice-bound North were here represented by their finest skins. The eye wandered from the furs of wolves, grey bears, polar bears, otters, wolverenes, beavers, muskrats, water pole-cats, ermines, and silver foxes; and above this display was an inscription in brilliantly-coloured and artistically shaped cardboard — the motto of the world-famous Hudson’s Bay Company —

“PROPELLE CUTUM.”

“Really, Corporal Joliffe, you have surpassed yourself !” said Captain Craventy to his subordinate.

“I think I have, I think I have !” replied the Corporal; “but honour to whom honour is due, Mrs Joliffe deserves part of your commendation; she assisted me in everything.”

“A wonderful woman, Corporal.”

“Her equal is not to be found, Captain.”

An immense brick and earthenware stove occupied the centre of the room, with a huge iron pipe passing from it through the ceiling, and conducting the dense black smoke into the outer air. This stove contained a roaring fire constantly fed with fresh shovelfuls of coal by the stoker, an old soldier specially appointed to the service. Now and then a gust of wind drove back a volume of smoke into the room, dimming the brightness of the lamps, and adding fresh blackness to the beams of the ceiling, whilst tongues of flame shot forth from the stove. But the guests of Fort Reliance thought little of this slight inconvenience; the stove warmed them, and they could not pay too dearly for its cheering heat, so terribly cold was it outside in the cutting north wind.

The storm could be heard raging without, the snow fell fast, becoming rapidly solid and coating the already frosted window panes with fresh ice. The whistling wind made its way through the cranks and chinks of the doors and windows, and occasionally the rattling noise drowned every other sound. Presently an awful silence ensued. Nature seemed to be taking breath; but suddenly the squall recommenced with terrific fury. The house was shaken to its foundations, the planks cracked, the beams groaned. A stranger less accustomed than the habitues of the fort to the war of the elements, would have asked if the end of the world were come.

But, with two exceptions, Captain Craventy’s guests troubled themselves little about the weather, and if they had been outside they would have felt no more fear than the stormy petrels disporting themselves in the midst of the tempest. Two only of the assembled company did not belong to the ordinary society of the neighbourhood, two women, whom we shall introduce when we have enumerated Captain Craventy’s other guests: these were, Lieutenant Jaspar Hobson, Sergeant Long, Corporal Joliffe, and his bright active Canadian wife, a certain Mac-Nab and his wife, both Scotch, John Rae, married to an Indian woman of the country, and some sixty soldiers or employes of the Hudson’s Bay Company. The neighbouring forts also furnished their contingent of guests, for in these remote lands people look upon each other as neighbours although their homes may be a hundred miles apart. A good many employes or traders came from Fort Providence or Fort Resolution, of the Great Slave Lake district, and even from Fort Chippeway and Fort Liard further south. A rare break like this in the monotony of their secluded lives, in these hyberborean regions, was joyfully welcomed by all the exiles, and even a few Indian chiefs, about a dozen, had accepted Captain Craventy’s invitation. They were not, however, accompanied by their wives, the luckless squaws being still looked upon as little better than slaves. The presence of these natives is accounted for by the fact that they are in constant intercourse with the traders, and supply the greater number of furs which pass through the hands of the Hudson’s Bay Company, in exchange for other commodities. They are mostly Chippeway Indians, well grown men with hardy constitutions. Their complexions are of the peculiar reddish black colour always ascribed in Europe to the evil spirits of fairyland. They wear very picturesque cloaks of skins and mantles of fur, with a head-dross of eagle’s feathers spread out like a lady’s fan, and quivering with every motion of their thick black hair.

Such was the company to whom the Captain was doing the honours of Fort Reliance. There was no dancing for want of music, but the “buffet” admirably supplied the want of the hired musicians of the European balls. On the table rose a pyramidal pudding made by Mrs Joliffe’s own hands; it was an immense truncated cone, composed of flour, fat, rein-deer venison, and musk beef. The eggs, milk, and citron prescribed in recipe books were, it is true, wanting, but their absence was atoned for by its huge proportions. Mrs Joliffe served out slice after slice with liberal hands, yet there remained enough and to spare. Piles of sandwiches also figured on the table, in which ship biscuits took the place of thin slices of English bread and butter, and dainty morsels of corned beef that of the ham and stuffed veal of the old world. The sharp teeth of the Chippeway Indians made short work of the tough biscuits; and for drink there was plenty of whisky and gin handed round in little pewter pots, not to speak of a great bowl of punch which was to close the entertainment, and of which the Indians talked long afterwards in their wigwams.

Endless were the compliments paid to the Joliffes that evening, but they deserved them; how zealously they waited on the guests, with what easy grace they distributed the refreshments! They did not need prompting, they anticipated the wishes of each one. The sandwiches were succeeded by slices of the inexhaustible pudding, the pudding by glasses of gin or whisky.

“No, thank you, Mr Joliffe.”

“You are too good, Corporal; but let me have time to breathe.”

“Mrs Joliffe, I assure you, I can eat no more.”

“Corporal Joliffe, I am at your mercy.”

“No more, Mrs Joliffe, no more, thank you!”

Such were the replies met with on every side by the zealous pair, but their powers of persuasion were such that the most reluctant yielded in the end. The quantities of food and drink consumed were really enormous. The hubbub of conversation increased. The soldiery and employes became excited. Here the talk was of hunting, there of trade. What plans were laid for next season! The entire fauna of the Arctic regions would scarcely supply game enough for these enterprising hunters. They already saw bears, foxes, and musk oxen, falling beneath their bullets, and pole-cats by hundreds caught in their traps. Their imagination pictured the costly furs piled up in the magazines of the Company, which was this year to realise hitherto unheard of profits. And whilst the spirits thus freely circulated inflamed the imagination of the Europeans, the large doses of Captain Craventy’s “fire-water” imbibed by the Indians had an opposite effect. Too proud to show admiration, too cautious to make promises, the taciturn chiefs listened gravely and silently to the babel of voices around them.

The captain enjoying the hurly burly, and pleased to see the poor people, brought back as it were to the civilised world, enjoying themselves so thoroughly, was here, there, and everywhere, answering all inquiries about the fete with the words

“Ask Joliffe, ask Joliffe !”

And they asked Joliffe, who had a gracious word for every body.

Some of those employed in the garrison and civil service of Fort Reliance must here receive a few words of special notice, for they were presently to go through experiences of a most terrible nature, which no human perspicacity could possibly have foreseen. Amongst others we must name Lieutenant Jaspar Hobson, Sergeant Long, Corporal and Mrs Joliffe, and the two foreign women already alluded to, in whose honour Captain Craventy’s fete was given.

Jaspar Hobson was a man of forty years of age. He was short and slight, with little muscular power; but a force of will which carried him successfully through all trials, and enabled him to rise superior to adverse circumstances. He was “a child of the Company.” His father, Major Hobson, an Irishman from Dublin, who had now been dead for some time, lived for many years at Fort Assiniboin with his wife. There Jaspar Hobson was born. His childhood and youth were spent at the foot of the Rocky Mountains. His father brought him up strictly, and he became a man in self-control and courage whilst yet a boy in years. Jaspar Hobson was no mere hunter, but a soldier, a brave and intelligent officer. During the struggles in Oregon of the Hudson’s Bay Company with the rival companies of the Union, he distinguished himself by his zeal and intrepidity, and rapidly rose to the rank of lieutenant. His well-known merit led to his appointment to the command of an expedition to the north, the aim of which was to explore the northern shores of the Great Bear Lake, and to found a fort on the confines of the American continent. Jaspar Hobson was to set out on his journey early in April.

If the lieutenant was the type of a good officer, Sergeant Long was that of a good soldier. He was a man of fifty years of age, with a rough beard that looked as if it were made of cocoa-nut fibre. Constitutionally brave, and disposed to obey rather than to command. He had no ambition but to obey the orders he received never questioning them, however strange they might appear, never reasoning for himself when on duty for the Company-a true machine in uniform; but a perfect machine, never wearing out; ever on the march, yet never showing signs of fatigue. Perhaps Sergeant Long was rather hard upon his men, as he was upon himself. He would not tolerate the slightest infraction of discipline, and mercilessly ordered men into confinement for the slightest neglect, whilst he himself had never been reprimanded. In a word, he was a man born to obey, and this self-annihilation suited his passive temperament. Men such as he are the materials of which a formidable army is formed. They are the arms of the service, obeying a single head. Is not this the only really powerful organisation? The two types of fabulous mythology, Briareus with a hundred arms and Hydra with a hundred heads, well represent the two kinds of armies; and in a conflict between them, which would be victorious? Briareus without a doubt !

We have already made acquaintance with Corporal Joliffe. He was the busy bee of the party, but it was pleasant to hear him humming. He would have made a better major-domo than a soldier; and he was himself aware of this. So he called himself the “Corporal in charge of details,” but he would have lost himself a hundred times amongst these details, had not little Mrs Joliffe guided him with a firm hand. So it came to pass, that Corporal Joliffe obeyed his wife without owning it, doubtless thinking to himself, like the philosopher Sancho, “a woman’s advice is no such great thing, but he must be a fool who does not listen to it.”

It is now time to say a few words of the two foreign women already alluded to more than once. They were both about forty years old, and one of them well deserved to take first rank amongst celebrated female travellers. The name of Paulina Barnett, the rival of the Pfeiffers, Tinnis, and Haimaires of Hull, has been several times honourably mentioned at the meetings of the Royal Geographical Society. In her journeys up the Brahmaputra, as far as the mountains of Thibet, across an unknown corner of New Holland, from Swan Bay to the Gulf of Carpentaria, Paulina Barnett had given proof of the qualities of a great traveller. She had been a widow for fifteen years, and her passion for travelling led her constantly to explore new lands. She was tall, and her face, framed in long braids of hair, already touched with white, was full of energy. She was near-sighted, and a double eye-glass rested upon her long straight nose, with its mobile nostrils. We must confess that her walk was somewhat masculine, and her whole appearance was suggestive of moral power, rather than of female grace. She was an Englishwoman from Yorkshire, possessed of some fortune, the greater part of which was expended in adventurous expeditions, and some new scheme of exploration had now brought her to Fort Reliance. Having crossed the equinoctial regions, she was doubtless anxious to penetrate to the extreme limits of the hyperborean. Her presence at the fort was an event. The governor of the Company had given her a special letter of recommendation to Captain Craventy, according to which the latter was to do all in his power to forward the design of the celebrated traveller to reach the borders of the Arctic Ocean. A grand enterprise! To follow in the steps of Hearne, Mackenzie, Rae, Franklin, and others. What fatigues, what trials, what dangers would have to be gone through in the conflict with the terrible elements of the Polar climate! How could a woman dare to venture where so many explorers have drawn back or perished? But the stranger now shut up in Fort Reliance was no ordinary woman; she was Paulina Barnett, a laureate of the Royal Society.

We must add that the celebrated traveller was accompanied by a servant named Madge. This faithful creature was not merely a servant, but a devoted and courageous friend, who lived only for her mistress. A Scotchwoman of the old type, whom a Caleb might have married without loss of dignity. Madge was about five years older than Mrs Barnett, and was tall and strongly built. The two were on the most intimate terms; Paulina looked upon Madge as an elder sister, and Madge treated Paulina as her daughter.

It was in honour of Paulina Barnett that Captain Craventy was this evening treating his employes and the Chippeway Indians. In fact, the lady traveller was to join the expedition of Jaspar Hobson for the exploration of the north. It was for Paulina Barnett that the large saloon of the factory resounded with joyful hurrahs. And it was no wonder that the stove consumed a hundredweight of coal on this memorable evening, for the cold outside was twenty-four degrees Fahrenheit below zero, and Fort Reliance is situated in 61deg 47’ N. Lat. at least four degrees from the Polar circle.

CHAPTER III.

A SAVANT THAWED.

Sergeant Long hastened to the narrow passage from which opened the outer door of the fort, and heard the cries redoubled, and combined with violent blows on the postern gate, surrounded by high walls, which gave access to the court. The Sergeant pushed open the door, and plunging into the snow, already a foot deep; he waded through it, although half-blinded by the cutting sleet, and nipped by the terrible cold.

“What the devil does any one want at this time of night?” exclaimed the Sergeant to himself, as he mechanically removed the heavy bars of the gate; “none but Esquimaux would dare to brave such a temperature as this!”

“Open! open! open!” they shouted from without.

“I am opening,” replied Sergeant Long, who really seemed to be a long time about it.

At last the door swung open, and the Sergeant was almost upset by a sledge, drawn by six dogs, which dashed past him like a flash of lightning. Worthy Sergeant Long only just escaped being crushed, but he got up without a murmur, closed the gate, and returned to the house at his ordinary pace, that is to say, at the rate of seventy-five strides a minute.

But Captain Craventy, Lieutenant Jaspar Hobson, and Corporal Joliffe were already outside, braving the intense cold, and staring at the sledge, white with snow, which had just drawn up in front of them.

A man completely enveloped in furs now descended from it,

“Fort Reliance?;” he inquired.

“The same,” replied the Captain.

“Captain Craventy?”

“Behold him! Who are you?”

“A courier of the Company.”

“Are you alone?”

“No, I bring a traveller.”

“A traveller! And what does he want?”

“He is come to see the moon.”

At this reply, Captain Craventy said to himself the man must be a fool. But there was no time to announce this opinion, for the courier had taken an inert mass from the sledge, a kind of bag covered with snow, and was about to carry it into the house, when the Captain inquired

“What is that bag?”

“It is my traveller,” replied the courier.

“Who is this traveller?”

“The astronomer, Thomas Black.”

“But he is frozen.”

“Well, he must be thawed.”

Thomas Black, carried by the Sergeant, the Corporal, and the courier, now made his entrance into the house of the fort, and was taken to a room on the first floor, the temperature of which was bearable, thanks to a glowing stove. He was laid upon a bed, and the Captain took his hand.

It was literally frozen. The wrappers and furred mantles, in which Thomas Black was rolled up like a parcel requiring care, were removed, and revealed a man of about fifty. He was short and stout, his hair was already touched with grey, his beard was untrimmed, his eyes were closed, and his lips pressed together as if glued to one another. If he breathed at all, it was so slightly that the frost-work on the windows would not have been affected by it. Joliffe undressed him, and turned him rapidly on to his face and back again, with the words —

“Come, come, sir, when do you mean to return to consciousness?”

But the visitor who had arrived in so strange a manner showed no signs of returning life, and Corporal Joliffe could think of no better means to restore the lost vital heat than to give him a bath in the bowl of hot punch.

Very happily for Thomas Black, however, Lieutenant Jaspar Hobson had another idea.

“Snow, bring snow!” he cried.

There was plenty of it in the court of Fort Reliance; and whilst the Sergeant went to fetch the snow, Joliffe removed all the astronomer’s clothes. The body of the unfortunate man was covered with white frost-bitten patches. It was urgently necessary to restore the circulation of the blood in the affected portions. This result Jaspar Hobson hoped to obtain by vigorous friction with the snow. We know that this is the means generally employed in the polar countries to set going afresh the circulation of the blood arrested by the intense cold, even as the rivers are arrested in their courses by the icy touch of winter. Sergeant Loin soon returned, and he and Joliffe gave the new arrival such a rubbing as he had probably never before received. It was no soft and agreeable friction, but a vigorous shampooing most lustily performed, more like the scratching of a curry-comb than the caresses of a human hand.

And during the operation the loquacious Corporal continued to exhort the unconscious traveller.

“Come, come, sir. What do you mean by getting frozen like this. Now, don’t be so obstinate !”

Probably it was obstinacy which kept Thomas Black from deigning to show a sign of life. At the end of half an hour the rubbers began to despair, and were about to discontinue their exhausting efforts, when the poor man sighed several times.

“He lives; he is coming to !” cried Jaspar Hobson.

After having warmed the outside of his body, Corporal Joliffe hurried to do the same for the inside, and hastily fetched a few glasses of the punch. The traveller really felt much revived by them; the colour returned to his cheeks, expression to his eyes, and words to his lips, so that Captain Craventy began to hope that he should have an explanation from Thomas Black himself of his strange arrival at the fort in such a terrible condition.

At last the traveller, well covered with wraps, rose on his elbow, and said in a voice still faint

“Fort Reliance?”

“The same,” replied the Captain.

“Captain Craventy?”

“He is before you, and is happy to bid you welcome. But may I inquire what brings you to Fort Reliance?”

“He is come to see the moon,” replied the courier, who evidently thought this a happy answer.

It satisfied Thomas Black too, for he bent his head in assent and resumed —

“Lieutenant Hobson?”

“I am here,” replied the Lieutenant.

“You have not yet started?”

“Not. yet, sir.”

“Then,” replied Thomas Black, “I have only to thank you, and to go to sleep until to-morrow morning.”

The Captain and his companions retired, leaving their strange visitor to his repose. Half an hour later the fete was at an end, and the guests had regained their respective homes, either in the different rooms of the fort, or the scattered houses outside the enceinte.

The next day Thomas Black was rather better. His vigorous constitution had thrown off the effects of the terrible chill he had had. Any one else would have died from it; but he was not like other men.

And now who was this astronomer? Where did he come from? Why had he undertaken this journey across the territories of the Company in the depth of winter? What did the courier’s reply signify? — To see the moon! The moon could be seen anywhere; there was no need to come to the hyperborean regions to look at it!

Such were the thoughts which passed through Captain Craventy’s mind. But the next day, after an hour’s talk with his new guest, he had learned all he wished to know.

Thomas Black was an astronomer attached to the Greenwich Observatory, so brilliantly presided over by Professor Airy. Mr Black was no theorist, but a sagacious and intelligent observer; and in the twenty years during which he had devoted himself to astronomy, he had rendered great services to the science of ouranography. In private life he was a simple nonentity; he existed only for astronomy; he lived in the heavens, not upon the earth; and was a true descendant of the witty La Fontaine’s savant who fell into a well. He could talk of nothing but stars and constellations. He ought to have lived in a telescope. As an observer be had not his rival; his patience was inexhaustible; he could watch for months for a cosmical phenomenon. He had a specialty of his own, too; he had studied luminous meteors and shooting stars, and his discoveries in this branch of astronomical science were considerable. When ever minute observations or exact measurements and definitions were required, Thomas Black was chosen for the service; for his clearness of sight was something remarkable. The power of observation is not given to everyone, and it will not therefore be surprising that the Greenwich astronomer should have been chosen for the mission we are about to describe, which involved results so interesting for selenographic science.

We know that during a total eclipse of the sun the moon is surrounded by a luminous corona. But what is the origin of this corona? Is it a real substance? or is it only an effect of the diffraction of the sun’s rays near the moon? This is a question which science has hitherto been unable to answer.

As early as 1706 this luminous halo was scientifically described. The corona was minutely examined during the total eclipse of 1715 by Lonville and Halley, by Maraldi in 1724, by Antonio de’Ulloa in 1778, and by Bonditch and Ferrer in 1806; but their theories were so contradictory that no definite conclusion could be arrived at. During the total eclipse of 1842, learned men of all nations — Airy, Arago, Keytal, Langier, Mauvais, Otto, Struve, Petit, Baily, &c. — endeavoured to solve the mystery of the origin of the phenomenon; but in spite of all their efforts, “the disagreement,” says Arago, “of the observations taken in different places by skilful astronomers of one and the same eclipse, have involved the question in fresh obscurity, so that it is now impossible to come to any certain conclusion as to the cause of the phenomenon.” Since this was written, other total eclipses have been studied with no better results.

Yet the solution of the question is of such vast importance to selenographic science that no price would be too great to pay for it. A fresh opportunity was now about to occur to study the much-discussed corona. A total eclipse of the sun — total, at least, for the extreme north of America, for Spain and North Africa — was to take place on July 18th, 1860. It was arranged between the astronomers of different countries that simultaneous observations should be taken at the various points of the zone where the eclipse would be total. Thomas Black was chosen for the expedition to North America, and was now much in the same situation as the English astronomers who were transported to Norway and Sweden on the occasion of the eclipse of 1851.

It will readily be imagined that Thomas Black seized with avidity the opportunity offered him of studying this luminous halo. He was also to examine into the nature of the red prominences which appear on different parts of the edge of the terrestrial satellite when the totality of the eclipse has commenced; and should he be able satisfactorily to establish their origin, he would be entitled to the applause of the learned men of all Europe.

Thomas Black eagerly prepared for his journey. He obtained urgent letters of recommendation to the principal agents of the Hudson’s Bay Company. He ascertained that an expedition was to go to the extreme north of the continent to found a new fort. It was an opportunity not to be lost; so he set out, crossed the Atlantic, landed at New York, traversed the lakes to the Red River settlement, and pressed on from fort to fort in a sledge, under the escort of a courier of the Company; in spite of the severity of the winter, braving all the dangers of a journey across the Arctic regions, and arriving at Fort Reliance on the 19th March in the condition we have described.

Such was the explanation given by the astronomer to Captain Craventy. He at once placed himself entirely at Mr Black’s service, but could not refrain from inquiring why he had been in such a great hurry to arrive, when the eclipse was not to take place until the following year, 1860?

“But, Captain,” replied the astronomer, “I heard that the Company was sending an expedition along the northern coast of America, and I did not wish to miss the departure of Lieutenant Hobson.”

“Mr Black,” replied the Captain, “if the Lieutenant had already started, I should have felt it my duty to accompany you myself to the shores of the Polar Sea.”

And with fresh assurances of his willingness to serve him, the Captain again bade his new guest welcome to Fort Reliance.

CHAPTER IV.

A FACTORY.

One of the largest of the lakes beyond the 61st parallel is that called the Great Slave Lake; it is two hundred and fifty miles long by fifty across, and is situated exactly at 61deg 25’ N. lat. and 114deg W. long. The surrounding districts slope down to it, and it completely fills a vast natural hollow. The position of the lake in the very centre of the hunting districts. once swarming with game, early attracted the attention of the Company. Numerous streams either take their rise from it or flow into it-the Mackenzie, the Athabasca, &c.; and several important forts have been constructed on its shores — Fort Providence on the north, and Fort Resolution on the south. Fort Reliance is situated on the north-east extremity, and is about three hundred miles from the Chesterfield inlet, a long narrow estuary formed by the waters of Hudson’s Bay.

The Great Slave Lake is dotted with little islands, the granite and gneiss of which they are formed jutting up in several places. Its northern banks are clothed with thick woods, shutting out the barren frozen district beyond, not inaptly called the “Cursed Land.” The southern regions, on the other band, are flat, without a rise of any kind, and the soil is mostly calcareous. The large ruminants of the polar districts — the buffaloes or bisons, the flesh of which forms almost the only food of the Canadian and native hunters — seldom go further north than the Great Slave Lake.

The trees on the northern shores of the lake form magnificent forests. We need not be astonished at meeting with such fine vegetation in this remote district. The Great Slave Lake is not really in a higher latitude than Stockholm or Christiania. We have only to remember that the isothermal lines, or belts of equal heat, along which heat is distributed in equal quantities, do not follow the terrestrial parallels, and that with the same latitude, America is ever so much colder than Europe. In April the streets of New York are still white with snow, yet the latitude of New York is nearly the same as that of the Azores. The nature of a country, its position with regard to the oceans, and even the conformation of its soil, all influence its climate.

In summer Fort Reliance was surrounded with masses of verdure, refreshing to the sight after the long dreary winter. Timber was plentiful in these forests, which consisted almost entirely of poplar, pine, and birch. The islets on the lake produced very fine willows. Game was abundant in the underwood, even during the bad season. Further south the hunters from the fort successfully pursued bisons, elks, and Canadian porcupines, the flesh of which is excellent. The waters of the Slave Lake were full of fish; trout in them attained to an immense size, their weight often exceeding forty pounds. Pikes, voracious lobes, a sort of charr or grayling called “blue fish,” and countless legions of tittamegs, the Coregonus of naturalists, disported themselves in the water, so that the inhabitants of Fort Reliance were well supplied with food. Nature provided for all their wants; and clothed in the skins of foxes, martens, bears, and other Arctic animals, they were able to brave the rigour of the winter.

The fort, properly so called, consisted of a wooden house with a ground-floor and one upper storey. In it lived the commandant and his officers. The barracks for the soldiers, the magazines of the Company, and the offices where exchanges were made, surrounded this house. A little chapel, which wanted nothing but a clergyman, and a powder-magazine, completed the buildings of the settlement. The whole was surrounded by palisades twenty-five feet high, defended by a small bastion with a pointed roof at each of the four corners of the parallelogram formed by the enceinte. The fort was thus protected from surprise, a necessary precaution in the days when the Indians, instead of being the purveyors of the Company, fought for the independence of their native land, and when the agents and soldiers of rival associations disputed the possession of the rich fur country.

At that time the Hudson’s Bay Company employed about a million men on its territories. It held supreme authority over them, an authority which could even inflict death. The governors of the factories could regulate salaries, and arbitrarily fix the price of provisions and furs; and as a result of this irresponsible power, they often realised a profit of no less than three hundred per cent.

We shall see from the following table, taken from the “Voyage of Captain Robert Lade,” on what terms exchanges were formerly made with those Indians who have since become the best hunters of the Company. Beavers’ skins were then the currency employed in buying and selling.

The Indians paid —

For one gun,

10 beavers’ skins

“half a pound of powder, 1 “

“four pounds of shot, 1 “

“one axe, 1 “

“six knives, 1 “

“one pound of glass beads, 1 “

“one laced coat, 6 “

“one coat not laced, 5 “

“one laced female dress, 6 “

“one pound of tobacco, 1 “

“one box of powder, 1 “

“one comb and one looking glass, 2 “

But a few years ago beaver-skins became so scarce that the currency had to be changed. Bison-furs are now the medium of trade. When an Indian presents himself at the fort, the agents of the Company give him as many pieces of wood as he brings skins, and he exchanges these pieces of wood for manufactured articles on the premises; and as the Company fix the price of the articles they buy and sell, they cannot fail to realise large profits.

Such was the mode of proceeding in Fort Reliance and other factories; so that Mrs Paulina Barnett was able to watch the working of the system during her stay, which extended until the 16th April. Many a long talk did she have with Lieutenant Hobson, many were the projects they formed, and firmly were they both determined to allow no obstacle to check their advance. As for Thomas Black, he never opened his lips except when his own special mission was discussed. He was wrapped up in the subject of the luminous corona and red prominences of the moon; he lived but to solve the problem, and in the end made Mrs Paulina Barnett nearly as enthusiastic as himself. How eager the two were to cross the Arctic Circle, and how far off the 18th July 1860 appeared to both, but especially to the impatient Greenwich astronomer, can easily be imagined.

The preparations for departure could not be commenced until the middle of March, and a month passed before they were completed. In fact, it was a formidable undertaking to organise such an expedition for crossing the Polar regions. Everything had to betaken with them-food, clothes, tools, arms, ammunition, and a nondescript collection of various requisites.

The troops, under the command of Lieutenant Jaspar Hobson, were one chief and two subordinate officers, with ten soldiers, three of whom took their wives with them. They were all picked men, chosen by Captain Craventy on account of their energy and resolution. We append a list of the whole party: —

1. Lieutenant Jaspar Hobson.

11. Sabine, soldier.

2. Sergeant Long.

12. Hope, do.

3. Corporal Joliffe.

13. Kellet, do.

4. Petersen, soldier 14. Mrs Rae

5. Belcher, do.

15. Mrs Joliffe.

6. Rae, do 16. Mrs Mac-Nab.

7. Marbre, do 17. Mrs Paulina Barnett.

8. Garry, do 18. Madge.

9. Pond, do 19. Thomas Black

10. Mac-Nab, do.

In all, nineteen persons to be transported several hundreds of miles through a desert and imperfectly-known country.

With this project in view, however, the Company had collected everything necessary for the expedition. A dozen sledges, with their teams of dogs, were in readiness. These primitive vehicles consisted of strong but light planks joined together by transverse bands. A piece of curved wood, turning up at the end like a skate, was fixed beneath the sledge, enabling it to cleave the snow without sinking deeply into it. Six swift and intelligent dogs, yoked two and two, and controlled by the long thong brandished by the driver, drew the sledges, and could go at a rate of fifteen miles an hour.

The wardrobe of the travellers consisted of garments made of reindeer-skins, lined throughout with thick furs. All wore linen next the skin as a protection against the sudden changes of temperature frequent in these latitudes. Each one, officer or soldier, male or female, wore seal-skin boots sewn with twine, in the manufacture of which the natives excel. These boots are absolutely impervious, and are so flexible that they are admirably adapted for walking. Pine-wood snow-shoes, two or three feet long, capable of supporting the weight of a man on the most brittle snow, and enabling him to pass over it with the rapidity of a skater on ice, can be fastened to the soles of the seal-skin boots. Fur caps and deer-skin belts completed the costumes.

For arms, Lieutenant Hobson had the regulation musketoons provided by the Company, pistols, ordnance sabres, and plenty of ammunition; for tools : axes, saws, adzes, and other instruments required in carpentering. Then there was the collection of all that would be needed for setting up a factory in the remote district for which they were bound : a stove; a smelting furnace, two airpumps for ventilation, an India-rubber boat, only inflated when required, &c. &c.

The party might have relied for provisions on the hunters amongst them. Some of the soldiers were skilful trackers of game, and there were plenty of reindeer in the Polar regions. Whole tribes of Indians, or Esquimaux, deprived of bread and all other nourishment, subsist entirely on this venison, which is both abundant and palatable. But as delays and difficulties had to be allowed for, a certain quantity of provisions was taken with them. The flesh of the bison, elk, and deer, amassed in the large battues on the south of the lake; corned beef, which will keep for any length of time; and some Indian preparations, in which the flesh of animals, ground to powder, retains its nutritive properties in a very small bulk, requiring no cooking, and forming a very nourishing diet, were amongst the stores provided in case of need.

Lieutenant Hobson likewise took several casks of rum and whisky; but he was firmly resolved to economise these spirits, so injurious to the health in cold latitudes, as much as possible. The Company had placed at his disposal a little portable medicine-chest, containing formidable quantities of lime-juice, lemons, and other simple remedies necessary to check, or if possible to prevent, the scorbutic affections which take such a terrible form in these regions.

All the men had been chosen with great care; none were too stout or too thin, and all had for years been accustomed to the severity of the climate, and could therefore more easily endure the fatigues of an expedition to the Polar Sea. They were all brave, high-spirited fellows, who had taken service of their own accord. Double pay had been promised them during their stay at the confines of the American continent, should they succeed in making a settlement beyond the seventieth parallel.

The sledge provided for Mrs Barnett and her faithful Madge was rather more comfortable than the others. She did not wish to be treated better than her travelling companions, but yielded to the urgent request of Captain Craventy, who was but carrying out the wishes of the Company.

The vehicle which brought Thomas Black to Fort Reliance also conveyed him and his scientific apparatus from it. A few astronomical instruments, of which there were not many in those days-a telescope for his selenographic observations, a sextant for taking the latitude, a chronometer for determining the longitudes, a few maps, a few books, were all stored away in this sledge, and Thomas Black relied upon his faithful dogs to lose nothing by the way.

Of course the food for the various teams was not forgotten. There were altogether no less than seventy-two dogs, quite a herd to provide for by the way, and it was the business of the hunters to cater for them. These strong intelligent animals were bought of the Chippeway Indians, who know well how to train them for their arduous calling.

The little company was most skilfully organised. The zeal of Lieutenant Jaspar Hobson was beyond all praise. Proud of his mission, and devoted to his task; he neglected nothing which could insure success. Corporal Joliffe, always a busybody, exerted himself without producing any very tangible results; but his wife was most useful and devoted; and Mrs Paulina Barnett had already struck up a great friendship with the brisk little Canadian woman, whose fair hair and large soft eyes were so pleasant to look at.

We need scarcely add that Captain Craventy did all in his power to further the enterprise. The instructions he had received from the Company showed what great importance they attached to the success of the expedition, and the establishment of a new factory beyond the seventieth parallel. We may therefore safely affirm that every human effort likely to insure success which could be made was made; but who could tell what insurmountable difficulties nature might place in the path of the brave Lieutenant I who could tell what awaited him and his devoted little band.

CHAPTER VI.

A WAPITI DUEL.

Two hundred miles had been traversed since the expedition left Fort Reliance. The travellers, taking advantage of the long twilight, pressed on day and night, and were literally overcome with fatigue when they reached Fort Enterprise, near the shores of Lake Snare.

This fort was no more than a depot of provisions, of little importance, erected a few years before by the Hudson’s Bay Company. It served as a resting-place for the men taking the convoys of furs from the Great Bear Lake, some three hundred miles further to the north-west. About a dozen soldiers formed the garrison. The fort consisted of a wooden house surrounded by palisades. But few as were the comforts it offered, Lieutenant Hobson’s companions gladly took refuge in it and rested there for two days.

The gentle influence of the Arctic spring was beginning to be felt. Here and there the snow had melted, and the temperature of the nights was no longer below freezing point. A few delicate mosses and slender grasses clothed the rugged ground with their soft verdure; and from between the stones peeped the moist calices of tiny, almost colourless, flowers. These faint signs of reawakening vegetation, after the long night of winter, were refreshing to eyes weary of the monotonous whiteness of the snow; and the scattered specimens of the Flora of the Arctic regions were welcomed with delight.

Mrs Paulina Barnett and Jaspar Hobson availed themselves of this leisure time to visit the shores of the little lake. They were both students and enthusiastic lovers of nature. Together they wandered amongst the ice masses, already beginning to break up, and the waterfalls created by the action of the rays of the sun. The surface itself of Lake Snare was still intact, not a crack denoted the approaching thaw; but it was strewn with the ruins of mighty icebergs, which assumed all manner of picturesque forms, and the beauty of which was heightened when the light, diffracted by the sharp edges of the ice, touched them with all manner of colours. One might have fancied that a rainbow, crushed in a powerful hand, bad been flung upon the ground, its fragments crossing each other as they fell.

“What a beautiful scene!” exclaimed Mrs Paulina Barnett. “These prismatic effects vary at every change of our position. Does it not seem as if we were bending over the opening of an immense kaleidoscope, or are you already weary of a sight so new and interesting to me?”

“No, madam,” replied the Lieutenant; “although I was born and bred on this continent, its beauties never pall upon me. But if your enthusiasm is so great when you see this scenery with the sun shining upon it, what will it be when you are privileged to behold the terrible grandeur of the winter? To own the truth, I think the sun, so much thought of in temperate latitudes, spoils my Arctic home.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Mrs Barnett, smiling at the Lieutenant’s last remark; “for my part, I think the sun a capital travelling companion, and I shall not be disposed to grumble at the warmth it gives even in the Polar regions !”

“Ah, madam,” replied Jaspar Hobson, “I am one of those who think it best to visit Russia in the winter, and the Sahara Desert in the summer. You then see their peculiar characteristics to advantage. The sun is a star of the torrid and temperate zones, and is out of place thirty degrees from the North Pole. The true sky of this country is the pure frigid sky of winter, bright with constellations, and sometimes flushed with the glory of the Aurora Borealis. This land is the land of the night, not of the day; and you have yet to make acquaintance with the delights and marvels of the long Polar night.”

“Have you ever visited the temperate zones of Europe and America?” inquired Mrs Barnett.

“Yes, madam; and I admired them as they deserved. But I returned home with fresh love and enthusiasm for my native land. Cold is my element, and no merit is due to me for braving it. It has no power over me; and, like the Esquimaux. I can live for months together in a snow hut.”

“Really, Lieutenant Hobson, it is quite cheering to hear our dreaded enemy spoken of in such terms. I hope to prove myself worthy to be your companion, and wherever you venture, we will venture together.”

“I agree, madam, I agree; and may all the women and soldiers accompanying me show themselves as resolute as you. If so, God helping us, we shall indeed advance far.”

“You have nothing to complain of yet,” observed the lady. “Not a single accident has occurred, the weather has been propitious, the cold not too severe-everything has combined to aid us.”

“Yes, madam; but the sun which you admire so much will soon create difficulties for us, and strew obstacles in our path.”

“What do you mean, Lieutenant Hobson?”

“I mean that the heat will soon have changed the aspect of the country; that the melted ice will impede the sliding of the sledges; that the ground will become rough and uneven; that our panting dogs will no longer carry us along with the speed of an arrow; that the rivers and lakes will resume their liquid state, and that we shall have to ford or go round them. All these changes, madam, due to the influence of the solar rays, will cause delays, fatigue, and dangers, the very least of which will be the breaking of the brittle snow beneath our feet, or the falling of the avalanches from the summits of the icebergs. For all this we have to thank the gradual rise of the sun higher and higher above the horizon. Bear this in mind, madam: of the four elements of the old creation, only one is necessary to us here, the air; the other three, fire, earth, and water, are de trop in the Arctic regions.”

Of course the Lieutenant was exaggerating, and Mrs Barnett could easily have retorted with counter-arguments; but she liked to hear his raptures in praise of his beloved country, and she felt that his enthusiasm was a guarantee that he would shrink from no obstacle.

Yet Jaspar Hobson was right when he said the sun would cause difficulties. This was seen when the party set out again on the 4th May, three days later. The thermometer, even in the coldest part of the night, marked more than 32deg Fahrenheit. A complete thaw set in, the vast white sheet of snow resolved itself into water. The irregularities of the rocky soil caused constant jolting of the sledges, and the passengers were roughly shaken. The roads were so heavy that the dogs had to go at a slow trot, and the reins were therefore again entrusted to the hands of the imprudent Corporal Joliffe. Neither shouts nor flourishings of the whip had the slightest effect on the jaded animals.

From time to time the travellers lightened the sledges by walking little way. This mode of locomotion suited the hunters, who were now gradually approaching the best districts for game in the whole of English America. Mrs Paulina Barnett and Madge took a great interest in the chase, whilst Thomas Black professed absolute indifference to all athletic exercise. He had not come all this distance to hunt the polecat or the ermine, but merely to look at the moon at the moment when her disc should cover that of the sun. When the queen of the night rose above the horizon, the impatient astronomer would gaze at her with eager eyes, and one day the Lieutenant said to him “It would be a bad look-out for you, Mr Black, if by any unlucky chance the moon should fail to keep her appointment on the 16th July 1860.”

“Lieutenant Hobson,” gravely replied the astronomer, “if the moon were guilty of such a breach of good manners, I should indeed have cause to complain.”

The chief hunters of the expedition were the soldiers Marbre and Sabine, both very expert at their business. Their skill was wonderful; and the cleverest Indians would not have surpassed them in keenness of sight, precision of aim, or manual address. They were alike trappers and hunters, and were acquainted with all the nets and snares for taking sables, otters, wolves, foxes, bears, &c. No artifice was unknown to them, and Captain Craventy had shown his wisdom in choosing two such intelligent men to accompany the little troop.

Whilst on the march however, Marbre and Sabine had no time for setting traps. They could not separate from the others for more than an hour or two at a time, and were obliged to be content with the game which passed within range of their rifles. Still they were fortunate enough to kill two of the large American ruminants, seldom met with in such elevated latitudes.

On the morning of the 15th May the hunters asked permission to follow some fresh traces they had found, and the Lieutenant not only granted it, but himself accompanied them with Mrs Paulina Barnett, and they went several miles out of their route towards the east.

The impressions were evidently the result of the passage of about half-a-dozen large deer. There could be no mistake about it; Marbre and Sabine were positive on that point, and could even have named the species to which the animals belonged.

“You seem surprised to have met with traces of these animals here, Lieutenant,” said Mrs Barnett.

“Well, madam,” replied Hobson, “this species is rarely seen beyond 57deg N. lat. We generally hunt them at the south of the Slave Lake, where they feed upon the shoots of willows and poplars, and certain wild roses to which they are very partial.”

“I suppose these creatures, like those with valuable furs, have fled from the districts scoured by the hunters.”

“I see no other explanation of their presence at 65deg N. lat.” replied the Lieutenant-“that is, if the men are not mistaken as to the origin of the footprints.”

“No, no, sir,” cried Sabine; “Marbre and I are not mistaken. These traces were left by deer, the deer we hunters call red deer, and the natives wapitis.”

“He is quite right,” added Marbre; “old trappers like us are not to be taken in; besides, don’t you hear that peculiar whistling sound?”

The party had now reached the foot of a little hill, and as the snow had almost disappeared from its sides they were able to climb it, and hastened to the summit, the peculiar whistling noticed by Marbre becoming louder, mingled with cries resembling the braying of an ass, and proving that the two hunters were riot mistaken.

Once at the top of the hill, the adventurers looked eagerly towards the east. The undulating plains were still white with snow, but its dazzling surface was here and there relieved with patches of stunted light green vegetation. A few gaunt shrubs stretched forth their bare and shrivelled branches, and huge icebergs with precipitous sides stood out against the grey background of the sky.

“Wapitis! wapitis!-there they are !” cried Sabine and Marbre at once, pointing to a group of animals distinctly visible about a quarter of a mile to the east.

“What are they doing?” asked Mrs Barnett.

“They are fighting, madam,” replied Hobson; “they always do when the heat of the Polar sun inflames their blood-another deplorable result of the action of the radiant orb of day !”

From where they stood the party could easily watch the group of wapitis. They were fine specimens of the family of deer known under the various names of stags with rounded antlers, American stags, roebucks, grey elks and red elks, &c. These graceful creatures have slender legs and brown skins with patches of red hair, the colour of which becomes darker in the warmer season. The fierce males are easily distinguished from the females by their fine white antlers, the latter being entirely without these ornaments. These wapitis were once very numerous all over North America, and the United States imported a great many; but clearings were begun on every side, the forest trees fell beneath the axe of the pioneer of civilisation, and the wapitis took refuge in the more peaceful districts of Canada; but they were soon again disturbed, and wandered to the shores of Hudson’s Bay. So that although the wapiti thrives in a cold country, Lieutenant Hobson was right in saying that it seldom penetrates beyond 57deg N. latitude; and the specimens now found had doubtless fled before the Chippeway Indians, who hunt them without mercy.

The wapitis were so engrossed in their desperate struggle that they were unconscious of the approach of the hunters; but they would probably not have ceased fighting, had they been aware of it. Marbre and Sabine, aware of their peculiarity in this respect, might therefore have advanced fearlessly upon them, and have taken aim at leisure.

Lieutenant Hobson suggested that they should do so.

“Beg pardon, sir,” replied Marbre; “but let us spare our powder and shot. These beasts are engaged in a war to the death, and we shall arrive in plenty of time to pick up the vanquished.”

“Have these wapitis a commercial value?” asked Mrs Paulina Barnett.

“Yes, madam,” replied Hobson; “and their skin, which is not quite so thick as that of the elk, properly so called makes very valuable leather. By rubbing this skin with the fat and brains of the animal itself, it is rendered flexible, and neither damp nor dryness injures it. The Indians are therefore always eager to procure the skins of the wapitis.”

“Does not the flesh make admirable venison?”

“Pretty good, madam; only pretty good. It is tough, and does not taste very nice; the fat becomes hard directly it is taken from the fire, and sticks to the teeth. It is certainly inferior as an article of food to the flesh of other deer; but when meat is scarce we are glad enough to eat it, and it supports life as well as anything else.”

Mrs Barnett and Lieutenant Hobson had been chatting together for some minutes, when, with the exception of two, the wapitis suddenly ceased fighting. Was their rage satiated?- or had they perceived the hunters, and felt the approach of danger? Whatever the cause, all but two fine creatures fled a towards the east With incredible speed; in a few instants they were out of sight, and the swiftest horse could not have caught them up.

Meanwhile, however, two magnificent specimens remained on the field of battle. Heads down, antlers to antlers, hind legs stretched and quivering, they butted at each other without a moment’s pause. Like two wrestlers struggling for a prize which neither will yield, they would not separate, but whirled round and round together on their front legs as if riveted to one another. What implacable rage !” exclaimed Mrs Barnett.

“Yes,” replied the Lieutenant; “the wapitis really are most spiteful beasts. I have no doubt they are fighting out an old quarrel.”

“Would not this be the time to approach them, when they are blinded with rage?”

“There’s plenty of time, ma’am,” said Sabine; “they won’t escape us now. They will not stir from where they are when we are three steps from them, the rifles at our shoulders, and our fingers on the triggers !”

Indeed? Yes, madam,” added Hobson, who had carefully examined the wapitis after the hunter’s remark; “and whether at our hands or from the teeth of wolves, those wapitis will meet death where they now stand.”

“I don’t understand what you mean, Lieutenant,” said Mrs Barnett.

“Well, go nearer, madam,” he replied; “don’t be afraid of startling the animals; for, as our hunter says, they are no longer capable of flight.”

The four now descended the hill, and in a few minutes gained the theatre of the struggle. The wapitis had not moved. They were pushing at each other like a couple of rams, and seemed to be inseparably glued together.

In fact, in the heat of the combat the antlers of the two creatures had become entangled together to such an extent that they could no longer separate without breaking them. This often happens in the hunting districts. It is not at all uncommon to find antlers thus connected lying on the ground; the poor encumbered animals soon die of hunger, or they become an easy prey to wild beasts.

Two bullets put an end to the fight between the wapitis; and Marbre and Sabine taking immediate possession, carried off their skins to be subsequently prepared, leaving their bleeding carcasses to be devoured by wolves and bears.

CHAPTER VII.

THE ARCTIC CIRCLE.

The expedition continued to advance towards the north-west; but the great inequalities of the ground made it hard work for the dogs to get along, and the poor creatures, who could hardly be held in when they started, were now quiet enough. Eight or ten miles a day were as much as they could accomplish, although Lieutenant Hobson urged them on to the utmost.

He was anxious to get to Fort Confidence, on the further side of the Great Bear Lake, where he hoped to obtain some useful information. Had the Indians frequenting the northern banks of the lake been able to cross the districts on the shores of the sea? was the Arctic Ocean open at this time of year? These were grave questions, the reply to which would decide the fate of the new factory.

The country through which the little troop was now passing was intersected by numerous streams, mostly tributaries of the two large rivers, the Mackenzie and Coppermine, which flow from the south to the north, and empty themselves into the Arctic Ocean. Lakes, lagoons, and numerous pools are formed between these two principal arteries; and as they were no longer frozen over, the sledges could not venture upon them, and were compelled to go around them, which caused considerable delay. Lieutenant Hobson was certainly right in saying that winter is the time to visit the hyperborean regions, for they are then far easier to traverse. Mrs Paulina Barnett had reason to own the justice of this assertion than once.

This region, included in the “Cursed Land,” was, besides, completely deserted, as are the greater portion of the districts of the extreme north of America. It has been estimated that there is but one inhabitant to every ten square miles. Besides the scattered natives, there are some few thousand agents or soldiers of the different fur-trading companies; but they mostly congregate in the southern districts and about the various factories. No human footprints gladdened the eyes of the travellers, the only traces on the sandy soil were those of ruminants and rodents. Now and then a fierce polar bear was seen, and Mrs Paulina Barnett expressed her surprise at not meeting more of these terrible carnivorous beasts, of whose daily attacks on whalers and persons shipwrecked in Baffin’s Bay and on the coasts of Greenland and Spitzbergen she had read in the accounts of those who had wintered in the Arctic regions.

“Wait for the winter, madam,” replied the Lieutenant; “wait till the cold makes them hungry, and then you will perhaps see as many as you care about !”

On the 23d May, after a long and fatiguing journey, the expedition at last reached the Arctic Circle. We know that this latitude 23deg 27′ 57″ from the North Pole, forms the mathematical limit beyond which the rays of the sun do not penetrate in the winter, when the northern districts of the globe are turned away from the orb of day. Here, then, the travellers entered the true Arctic region, the northern Frigid Zone.

The latitude had been very carefully obtained by means of most accurate instruments, which were handled with equal skill by the astronomer and by Lieutenant Hobson. Mrs Barnett was present at the operation, and had the satisfaction of hearing that she was at last about to cross the Arctic Circle. It was with a feeling of just pride that she received the intelligence.

“You have already passed through the two Torrid Zones in your previous journeys,” said the Lieutenant, “and now you are on the verge of the Arctic Circle. Few explorers have ventured into such totally different regions. Some, so to speak, have a specialty for hot countries, and choose Africa or Australia as the field for their investigations. Such were Barth, Burton, Livingstone Speke, Douglas, Stuart, &c. Others, on the contrary, have a passion for the Arctic regions, still so little known. Mackenzie, Franklin, Penny, Kane, Parry, Rae, &c. preceded us on our present journey; but we must congratulate you, Mrs Barnett, on being a more cosmopolitan traveller than all of them.”

“I must see everything or at least try to see everything, Lieutenant,” replied. Mrs Paulina; “and I think the dangers and difficulties are about equal everywhere. Although we have not to dread the fevers of the unhealthy torrid regions, or the attacks of the fierce black races, in this Frigid Zone, the cold is a no less formidable enemy; and I suspect that the white bears we are liable to meet with here will give us quite as warm a reception as would the tiers of Thibet or the lions of Africa. In Torrid and Frigid Zones alike there are vast unexplored tracts which will long defy the efforts of the boldest adventurers.”

“Yes, madam,” replied Jaspar Hobson; “but I think the hyperborean regions will longer resist thorough exploration. The natives are the chief obstacle in tropical regions, and I am well aware how many travellers have fallen victims to savages. But civilisation will necessarily subdue the wild races sooner or later; whereas in the Arctic and Antarctic Zones it is not the inhabitants who arrest the progress of the explorer, but Nature herself who repels those who approach her, and paralyses their energies with the bitter cold !”

“You think, then, that the secrets of the most remote districts of Africa and Australia will have been fathomed before the Frigid Zone has been entirely examined?”

“Yes, madam,” replied the Lieutenant; “and I think my opinion is founded on facts. The most intrepid discoverers of the Arctic regions - Parry, Penny, Franklin, M’Clure, Dane, and Morton — did not get beyond 83deg north latitude, seven degrees from the pole — whereas Australia has several times been crossed from south to north by the bold Stuart; and even Africa, with all its terrors, was traversed by Livingstone from the Bay of Loanga to the mouth of the Zambesi. We are, therefore, nearer to geographical knowledge of the equatorial countries than of the Polar districts.”

“Do you think that the Pole itself will ever be reached by man?” inquired Mrs Paulina Barnett.

“Certainly,” replied Hobson, adding with a smile, “by man or woman. But I think other means must be tried of reaching this point, where all the meridians of the globe cross each other, than those hitherto adopted by travellers. We hear of the open sea, of which certain explorers are said to have caught a glimpse. But if such a sea, free from ice, really exist, it is very difficult to get at, and no one can say positively whether it extends to the North Pole. For my part, I think an open sea would increase rather than lessen the difficulties of explorers. As for me, I would rather count upon firm footing, whether on ice or rock, all the way. Then I would organise successive expeditions, establishing depots of provisions and fuel nearer and nearer to the Pole; and so, with plenty of time, plenty of money, and perhaps the sacrifice of a good many lives, I should in the end solve the great scientific problem. I should, I think, at last reach the hitherto inaccessible goal !”

“I think you are right, Lieutenant,” said Mrs Barnett; “and if ever you try the experiment, I should not be afraid to join you, and would gladly go to set up the Union Jack at the North Pole. But that is not our present object.”

“Not our immediate object, madam,” replied Hobson; “but when once the projects of the Company are realised, when the new fort has been erected on the confines of the American continent, it may become the natural starting-point of all expeditions to the north. Besides, should the fur-yielding animals, too zealously hunted, take refuge at the Pole, we should have to follow them.”

“Unless costly furs should go out of fashion,” replied Mrs Barnett.

“O madam,” cried the Lieutenant, “there will always be some pretty woman whose wish for a sable muff or an ermine tippet must be gratified !”

“I am afraid so,” said Mrs Barnett, laughing; “and probably the first discoverer of the Pole will have been led thither in pursuit of a sable or a silver fox.”

“That is my conviction,” replied Hobson. “Such is human nature, and greed of gain will always carry a man further than zeal for science.”

“What! do you utter such sentiments?” exclaimed Mrs Barnett.

“Well, madam, what am I but an employe of the Hudson’s Bay Company? and does the Company risk its capital and agents with any other hope than an increase of profits?”

“Lieutenant Hobson,” said Mrs Barnett, “I think I know you well enough to assert that on occasion you would be ready to devote body and soul to science. If a purely geographical question called you to the Pole, I feel sure you would not hesitate to go. But,” she added, with a smile, “the solution of this great problem is still far distant. We have but just reached the verge of the Arctic Circle, but I hope we may cross it without any very great difficulty.”

“That I fear is doubtful,” said the Lieutenant, who had been attentively examining the sky during their conversation. “The weather has looked threatening for the last few days. Look at the uniformly grey hue of the heavens. That mist will presently resolve itself into snow; and if the wind should rise ever so little, we shall have to battle with a fearful storm. I wish we were at the Great Bear Lake !”

“Do not let us lose any time, then,” said Mrs Barnett, rising; “give the signal to start at once.”

The Lieutenant needed no urging. Had he been alone, or accompanied by a few men as energetic as himself, he would have pressed on day and night; but he was obliged to make allowance for the fatigue of others, although he never spared himself. He therefore granted a few hours of rest to his little party, and it was not until three in the afternoon that they again set out.

Jaspar Hobson was not mistaken in prophesying a change in the weather. It came very soon. During the afternoon of the same day the mist became thicker, and assumed a yellowish and threatening hue. The Lieutenant, although very uneasy, allowed none of his anxiety to appear, but had a long consultation with Sergeant Long whilst the dogs of his sledge were laboriously preparing to start.

Unfortunately, the district now to be traversed was very unsuitable for sledges. The ground was very uneven; ravines were of frequent occurrence; and masses of granite or half-thawed icebergs blocked up the road, causing constant delay. The poor dogs did their best, but the drivers’ whips no longer produced any effect upon them.

And so the Lieutenant and his men were often obliged to walk to rest the exhausted animals, to push the sledges, or even sometimes to lift them when the roughness of the ground threatened to upset them. The incessant fatigue was, however, borne by all without a murmur. Thomas Black alone, absorbed in his one idea, never got out of his sledge, and indeed be was so corpulent that all exertion was disagreeable to him.

The nature of the soil changed from the moment of entering the Arctic Circle. Some geological convulsion had evidently upheaved the enormous blocks strewn upon the surface. The vegetation, too, was of a more distinctive character. Wherever they were sheltered from the keen north winds, the flanks of the hills were clothed not only with shrubs, but with large trees, all of the same species — pines, willows, and firs — proving by their presence that a certain amount of vegetative force is retained even in the Frigid Zone. Jaspar Hobson hoped to find such specimens of the Arctic Flora even on the verge of the Polar Sea; for these trees would supply him with wood to build his fort, and fuel to warm its inhabitants. The same thought passed through the minds of his companions, and they could not help wondering at the contrast between this comparatively fertile region, and the long white plains stretching between the Great Slave Lake and Fort Enterprise.

At night the yellow mist became more opaque; the wind rose, the snow began to fall in large flakes, and the ground was soon covered with a thick white carpet. In less than an hour the snow was a foot deep, and as it did not freeze but remained in a liquid state, the sledges could only advance with extreme difficulty; the curved fronts stuck in the soft substance, and the dogs were obliged to stop again and again.

Towards eight o’clock in the evening the wind became very boisterous. The snow, driven before it, was flung upon the ground or whirled in the air, forming one huge whirlpool. The dogs, beaten back by the squall and blinded with snow, could advance no further. The party was then in a narrow gorge between huge icebergs, over which the storm raged with fearful fury. Pieces of ice, broken off by the hurricane, were hurled into the pass; partial avalanches, any one of which could have crushed the sledges and their inmates, added to its dangers, and to press on became impossible. The Lieutenant no longer insisted, and after consulting with Sergeant Long, gave the order to halt. It was now necessary to find a shelter from the snow-drift; but this was no difficult matter to men accustomed to Polar expeditions. Jaspar Hobson and his men knew well what they had to do under the circumstances. It was not the first time they had been surprised by a tempest some hundred miles from the forts of the Company, without so much as an Esquimaux hut or Indian hovel in which to lay their heads.

“To the icebergs! to the icebergs !” cried Jaspar Hobson.

Every one understood what he meant. Snow houses were to be hollowed out of the frozen masses, or rather holes were to be dug, in which each person could cower until the storm was over. Knives and hatchets were soon at work on the brittle masses of ice, and in three-quarters of an hour some ten dens had been scooped out large enough to contain two or three persons each. The dogs were left to themselves, their own instinct leading them to find sufficient shelter under the snow.

Before ten o’clock all the travellers were crouching in the snow houses, in groups of two or three, each choosing congenial companions. Mrs Barnett, Madge, and Lieutenant Hobson occupied one hut, Thomas Black and Sergeant Long another, and so on. These retreats were warm, if not comfortable; and the Esquimaux and Indians have no other refuge even in the bitterest cold. The adventurers could therefore fearlessly await the end of the storm as long as they took care not to let the openings of their holes become blocked up with the snow, which they had to shovel away every half hour. So violent was the storm that even the Lieutenant and his soldiers could scarcely set foot outside. Fortunately, all were provided with sufficient food, and were able to endure their beaver-like existence without suffering from cold or hunger For forty-eight hours the fury of the tempest continued to increase. The wind roared in the narrow pass, and tore off the tops of the icebergs. Loud reports, repeated twenty times by the echoes, gave notice of the fall of avalanches, and Jaspar Hobson began to fear that his further progress would be barred by the masses of debris accumulated between the mountains. Other sounds mingled with these reports, which Lieutenant Hobson knew too well, and he did not disguise from Mrs Barnett that bears were prowling about the pass. But fortunately these terrible animals were too much occupied with their own concerns to discover the retreat of the travellers; neither the dogs nor the sledges, buried in the snow, attracted their attention, and they passed on without doing any harm.

The last night, that of the 25th or 26th May, was even more terrible. So great was the fury of the hurricane that a general overthrow of icebergs appeared imminent. A fearful death would then have awaited the unfortunate travellers beneath the ruins of the broken masses. The blocks of ice cracked with an awful noise, and certain oscillations gave warning that breaches had been made threatening their solidity. However, no great crash occurred, the huge mountains remained intact, and towards the end of the night one of those sudden changes so frequent in the Arctic regions took place; the tempest ceased suddenly beneath the influence of intense cold, and with the first dawn of day peace was restored.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE GREAT BEAR LAKE.

This sudden increase of cold was most fortunate. Even in temperate climes there are generally three or four bitter days in May; and they were most serviceable now in consolidating the freshly-fallen snow, and making it practicable for sledges. Lieutenant Hobson, therefore, lost no time in resuming his journey, urging on the dogs to their utmost speed.

The route was, however, slightly changed. Instead of bearing due north, the expedition advanced towards the west, following, so to speak, the curve of the Arctic Circle. The Lieutenant was most anxious to reach Fort Confidence, built on the northern extremity of the Great Bear Lake. These few cold days were of the greatest service to him; he advanced rapidly, no obstacle was encountered, and his little troop arrived at the factory on the 30th May.

At this time Forts Confidence and Good Hope were the most advanced posts of the Company in the north. Fort Confidence was a most important position, built on the northern extremity of the lake, close to its waters, which being frozen over in winter, and navigable in summer, afforded easy access to Fort Franklin, on the southern shores, and promoted the coming and going of the Indian hunters with their daily spoils. Many were the hunting and fishing expeditions which started from Forts Confidence and Good Hope, especially from the former. The Great Bear Lake is quite a Mediterranean Sea, extending over several degrees of latitude and longitude. Its shape is very irregular : two promontories jut into it towards the centre, and the upper portion forms a triangle; its appearance, as a whole, much resembling the extended skin of a ruminant without the head.

Fort Confidence was built at the end of the “right paw,” at least two hundred miles from Coronation Gulf, one of the numerous estuaries which irregularly indent the coast of North America. It was therefore situated beyond the Arctic Circle, but three degrees south of the seventieth parallel, north of which the Hudson’s Bay Company proposed forming a new settlement.

Fort Confidence, as a whole, much resembled other factories further south. It consisted of a house for the officers, barracks for the soldiers, and magazines for the furs - all of wood, surrounded by palisades. The captain in command was then absent. He had gone towards the east on a hunting expedition with a few Indians and soldiers. The last season had not been good, costly furs had been scarce; but to make up for this the lake had supplied plenty of otter-skins. The stock of them had, however, just been sent to the central factories in the south, so that the magazines of Fort Confidence were empty on the arrival of our party.

In the absence of the Captain a Sergeant did the honours of the fort to Jaspar Hobson and his companions. This second officer, Felton by name was a brother-in-law of Sergeant Long. He showed the greatest readiness to assist the views of the Lieutenant, who being anxious to rest his party, decided on remaining two or three days at Fort Confidence. In the absence of the little garrison there was plenty of room, and dogs and men were soon comfortably installed. The best room in the largest house was of course given to Mrs Paulina Barnett, who was delighted with the politeness of Sergeant Felton.

Jaspar Hobson’s first care was to ask Felton if any Indians from the north were then beating the shores of the Great Bear Lake “Yes, Lieutenant,” replied the Sergeant; “we have just received notice of the encampment of a party of Hare Indians on the other northern extremity of the lake.”

“How far from here?” inquired Hobson.

“About thirty miles,” replied Sergeant Felton. “Do you wish to enter into communication with these Indians?”

“Yes,” said Hobson; they may be able to give me some valuable information about the districts bordering on the Arctic Ocean, and bounded by Cape Bathurst. Should the site be favourable, I propose constructing our new fort somewhere about there.”

“Well, Lieutenant, nothing is easier than to go to the Hare encampment.”

“Along the shores of the lake?”

“No, across it; it is now free from ice, and the wind is favourable. We will place a cutter and a boatman at your service, and in a few hours you will be in the Indian settlement.”

“Thank you, Sergeant; to-morrow, then.” Whenever you like, Lieutenant.”

The start was fixed for the next morning; and when Mrs Paulina Barnett heard of the plan, she begged the Lieutenant to allow her to accompany him, which of course he readily did.

But now to tell how the rest of this first day was passed. Mrs Barnett, Hobson, two or three soldiers, Madge, Mrs Mac-Nab, and Joliffe explored the shores of the lake under the guidance of Felton. The neighbourhood was by no means barren of vegetation; the hills, now free from snow, were crowned by resinous trees of the Scotch pine species. These trees, which attain a height of some forty feet, supply the inhabitants of the forts with plenty of fuel through the long winter. Their thick trunks and dark gloomy branches form a striking feature of the landscape; but the regular clumps of equal height, sloping down to the very edge of the water, are somewhat monotonous. Between the groups of trees the soil was clothed with a sort of whitish weed, which perfumed the air with a sweet thymy odour. Sergeant Felton informed his guests that this plant was called the “herb of incense “on account of the fragrance it emits when burnt.

Some hundred steps from the fort the party came to a little natural harbour shut in by high granite rocks, which formed an admirable protection from the heavy surf. Here was anchored the fleet of Fort Confidence, consisting of a single fishing-boat — the very one which was to take Mrs Barnett and Hobson to the Indian encampment the next day. From this harbour an extensive view was obtained of the lake; its waters slightly agitated by the wind, with its irregular shores broken by jagged capes and intersected by creeks. The wooded heights beyond, with here and there the rugged outline of a floating iceberg standing out against the clear blue air, formed the background on the north; whilst on the south a regular sea horizon, a circular line clearly cutting sky and water, and at this moment glittering in the sunbeams, bounded the sight.

The whole scene was rich in animal and vegetable life. The surface of the water, the shores strewn with flints and blocks of granite, the slopes with their tapestry of herbs, the tree-crowned hill-tops, were all alike frequented by various specimens of the feathered tribe. Several varieties of ducks, uttering their different cries and calls, eider ducks, whistlers spotted redshanks, “old women,” those loquacious birds whose beak is never closed, skimmed the surface of the lake. Hundreds of puffins and guillemots with outspread wings darted about in every direction, and beneath the trees strutted ospreys two feet high-a kind of hawk with a grey body, blue beak and claws, and orange-coloured eyes, which build their huge nests of marine plants in the forked branches of trees. The hunter Sabine managed to bring down a couple of these gigantic ospreys, which measured nearly six feet from tip to tip of their wings, and were therefore magnificent specimens of these migratory birds, who feed entirely on fish, and take refuge on the shores of the Gulf of Mexico when winter sets in, only visiting the higher latitudes of North America during the short summer.

But the most interesting event of the day was the capture of an otter, the skin of which was worth several hundred roubles.

The furs of these valuable amphibious creatures were once much sought after in China; and although the demand for them has considerably decreased in the Celestial Empire, they still command very high prices in the Russian market. Russian traders, ready to buy up sea-otter skins, travel all along the coasts of New Cornwall as far as the Arctic Ocean; and of course, thus hunted, the animal is becoming very rare. It has taken refuge further and further north, and the trackers have now to pursue it on the shores of the Kamtchatka Sea, and in the islands of the Behring Archipelago.

“But,” added Sergeant Felton, after the preceding explanation, “American inland otters are not to be despised, and those which frequent the Great Bear Lake are worth from PS50 to PS60 each.”

The Sergeant was right; magnificent otters are found in these waters, and he himself skilfully tracked and killed one in the presence of his visitors which was scarcely inferior in value to those from Kamtchatka itself. The creature measured three feet from the muzzle to the end of its tail; it had webbed feet, short legs, and its fur, darker on the upper than on the under part of its body, was long and silky.

“A good shot, Sergeant,” said Lieutenant Hobson, who with Mrs Barnett had been attentively examining the magnificent fur of the dead animal.

“Yes, Lieutenant,” replied Felton; “and if each day brought us such a skin as that, we should have nothing to complain of. But much time is wasted in watching these animals, who swim and dive with marvellous rapidity. We generally hunt them at night, as they very seldom venture from their homes in the trunks of trees or the holes of rocks in the daytime, and even expert hunters find it very difficult to discover their retreats.”

“And are these otters also becoming scarcer and scarcer?” inquired Mrs Barnett.

“Yes, madam,” replied the Sergeant; “and when this species becomes extinct, the profits of the Company will sensibly decline. All the hunters try to obtain its fur, and the Americans in particular are formidable rivals to us. Did you not meet any American agents on your journey up, Lieutenant?”

“Not one,” replied Hobson. “Do they ever penetrate as far as this?”

“Oh yes !” said the Sergeant; “and when you hear of their approach, I advise you to be on your guard.”

“Are these agents, then, highway robbers?” asked Mrs Paulina Barnett.

“No, madam,” replied the Sergeant; “but they are formidable rivals, and when game is scarce, hunters often come to blows about it. I daresay that if the Company’s attempt to establish a fort on the verge of the Arctic Ocean be successful, its example will at once be followed by these Americans, whom Heaven confound!”

“Bah!” exclaimed the Lieutenant; “the hunting districts are vast, and there’s room beneath the sun for everybody. As for us, let’s make a start to begin with. Let us press on as long as we have firm ground beneath our feet, and God be with us!”

After a walk of three hours the visitors returned to Fort Confidence, where a good meal of fish and fresh venison awaited them. Sergeant Long did the honours of the table, and after a little pleasant conversation, all retired to rest to forget their fatigues in a healthy and refreshing sleep.

The next day, May 31st, Mrs Barnett and Jaspar Hobson were on foot at five A.M. The Lieutenant intended to devote this day to visiting the Indian encampment, and obtaining as much useful information as possible. He asked Thomas Black to go with him, but the astronomer preferred to remain on terra firma. He wished to make a few astronomical observations, and to determine exactly the latitude and longitude of Fort Confidence; so that Mrs Barnett and Jaspar Hobson had to cross the lake alone, under the guidance of an old boatman named Norman, who had long been in the Company’s service.

The two travellers were accompanied by Sergeant Long as far as the little harbour, where they found old Norman ready to embark. Their little vessel was but an open fishing-boat, six feet long, rigged like a cutter, which one man could easily manage The weather was beautiful, and the slight breeze blowing from the north-east was favourable to the crossing. Sergeant Felton took leave of his guests with many apologies for being unable to accompany them in the absence of his chief. The boat was let loose from its moorings, and tacking to starboard, shot across the clear waters of the lake.

The little trip passed pleasantly enough. The taciturn old sailor sat silent in the stern of the boat with the tiller tucked under his arm. Mrs Barnett and Lieutenant Hobson, seated opposite to each other, examined with interest the scenery spread out before them. The boat skirted the northern shores of the lake at about three miles’ distance, following a rectilinear direction, so that the wooded heights sloping gradually to the west were distinctly visible. From this side the district north of the lake appeared perfectly flat, and the horizon receded to a considerable distance. The whole of this coast contrasted strongly with the sharp angle, at the extremity of which rose Fort Confidence, framed in green pines. The flag of the Company was still visible floating from the tower of the fort. The oblique rays of the sun lit up the surface of the water, and striking on the floating icebergs, seemed to convert them into molten silver of dazzling brightness. No trace remained of the solid ice-mountains of the winter but these moving relies, which the solar rays could scarcely dissolve, and which seemed, as it were, to protest against the brilliant but not very powerful Polar sun, now describing a diurnal arc of considerable length.

Mrs Barnett and the Lieutenant, as was their custom, communicated to each other the thoughts suggested by the strange scenes through which they were passing. They laid up a store of pleasant recollections for the future whilst the beat floated rapidly along upon the peaceful waves.

The party started at six in the morning, and at nine they neared the point on the northern bank at which they were to land. The Indian encampment was situated at the north-west angle of the Great Bear Lake. Before ten o’clock old Norman ran the boat aground on a low bank at the foot of a cliff of moderate height. Mrs Barnett and the Lieutenant landed at once. Two or three Indians, with their chief, wearing gorgeous plumes, hastened to meet them, and addressed them in fairly intelligible English.

These Hare Indians, like the Copper and Beaver Indians, all belong to the Chippeway race, and differ but little in customs and costumes from their fellow-tribes. They are in constant communication with the factories, and have become, so to speak, “Britainised” — at least as much so as is possible for savages. They bring the spoils of the chase to the forts, and there exchange them for the necessaries of life, which they no longer provide for themselves. They are in the pay of the Company, they live upon it, and it is not surprising that they have lost all originality. To find a native race as yet uninfluenced by contact with Europeans we must go to still higher latitudes, to the ice-bound regions frequented by the Esquimaux, who, like the Greenlanders, are the true children of Arctic lands.

Mrs Barnett and Jaspar Hobson accompanied the Indians to their camp, about half a mile from the shore, and found some thirty natives there, men, women, and children, who supported themselves by hunting and fishing on the borders of the lake. These Indians had just come from the northernmost districts of the American continent, and were able to give the Lieutenant some valuable, although necessarily incomplete, information on the actual state of the sea-coast near the seventieth parallel. The Lieutenant heard with considerable satisfaction that a party of Americans or Europeans had been seen oil the confines of the Polar Sea, and that it was open at this time of year. About Cape Bathurst, properly so called, the point for which he intended to make, the Hare Indians could tell him nothing. Their chief said, however, that the district between the Great Bear Lake and Cape Bathurst was very difficult to cross, being hilly and intersected by streams, at this season of the year free from ice. He advised the Lieutenant to go down the Coppermine river, from the north-east of the lake, which would take him to the coast by the shortest route. Once at the Arctic Ocean, it would be easy to skirt along its shores and to choose the best spot at Which to halt.

Lieutenant Hobson thanked the Indian chief, and took leave after giving him a few presents. Then accompanied by Mrs Barnett, he explored the neighbourhood of the camp, not returning to the boat until nearly three o’clock in the afternoon.

CHAPTER IX.

A STORM ON THE LAKE.

The old sailor was impatiently awaiting the return of the travellers; for during the last hour the weather had changed, and the appearance of the sky was calculated to render any one accustomed to read the signs of the clouds uneasy. The sun was obscured by a thick mist, the wind had fallen, but - an ominous moaning was heard from the south of the lake. These symptoms of an approaching change of temperature were developed with all the rapidity peculiar to these elevated latitudes.

“Let us be off, sir! let us be off!” cried old Norman, looking anxiously at the fog above his head. “Let us start without losing an instant. There are terrible signs in the air!”

“Indeed,” exclaimed the Lieutenant, “the appearance of the sky is quite changed, and we never noticed it, Mrs Barnett!”

“Are you afraid of a storm?” inquired the lady of old Norman.

“Yes, madam,” replied the old sailor; “and the storms on the Great Bear Lake are often terrible. The hurricane rages as if upon the open Atlantic Ocean. This sudden fog bodes us no good; but the tempest may hold back for three or four hours, and by that time we shall be at Fort Confidence. Let us then start without a moment’s delay, for the boat would not be safe near these rocks.”

The Lieutenant, feeling that the old man, accustomed as he was to navigate these waters, was better able to judge than himself, decided to follow his advice, and embarked at once with Mrs Barnett.

But just as they were pushing off, old Norman, as if possessed by some sudden presentiment, murmured —

“Perhaps it would be better to wait.”

Lieutenant Hobson overheard these words, and looked inquiringly at the old boatman, already seated at the helm. Had he been alone he would not have hesitated to start, but as Mrs Barnett was with him caution was necessary. The lady at once saw and understood his hesitation.

“Never mind about me, Lieutenant,” she said; “act as if I were not present. Let us start immediately , as our brave guide suggests.”

“We are off, then,” cried Norman, letting go the moorings, “to the fort by the shortest route.”

For about an hour the bark made little head. The sail, scarcely filled by the fitful breeze, flapped against the mast. The fog became thicker. The waves began to rise and the boat to rock considerably; for the approaching hurricane affected the water sooner than the atmosphere itself. The two travellers sat still and silent, whilst the old sailor peered into the darkness with bloodshot eyes. Prepared for all contingencies, he awaited the shock of the wind, ready to pay out rapidly should the attack be very violent. The conflict of the elements had not, however, as yet commenced; and all would have been well if they bad been able to advance, but after an hour’s sail they were still only about two hours’ distance from the Indian encampment. A few gusts of wind from the shore drove them out of their course, and the dense fog rendered it impossible for them to make out the coast-line. Should the wind settle in the north it would probably go hard with the light boat, which, unable to hold its own course, would be drifted out into the lake no one knew where.

“We are scarcely advancing at all,” said the Lieutenant to old Norman.

“No, sir,” replied Norman; “the wind is not strong enough to fill the sail, and if it were, I fear it comes from the wrong quarter. If so,” he added, pointing to the south, “we may see Fort Franklin before Fort Confidence.”

“Well,” said Mrs Barnett cheerfully, “our trip will have been all the more complete. This is a magnificent lake, well worth exploring from north to south. I suppose, Norman, one might get back even from Fort Franklin?”

“Yes, madam, if we ever reach it,” replied the old man. “But tempests lasting fifteen days are by no means rare on this lake; and if our bad luck should drive us to the south, it may be a month before Lieutenant Hobson again sees Fort Confidence.”

“Let us be careful, then,” said the Lieutenant; “for such a delay, would hinder our projects very much. Do the best you can under the circumstances, and if you think it would be prudent, go back to the north. I don’t suppose Mrs Barnett would mind a walk of twenty or twenty-five miles.”

I should be glad enough to go back to the north, Lieutenant,” replied Norman, “if it were still possible. But look, the wind seems likely to settle against us. All I can attempt is to get to the cape on the north-east, and if it doesn’t blow too hard, I hope to succeed.”

But at about half-past four the storm broke. The shrill whistling of the wind was heard far above their heads, but the state of the atmosphere prevented it from as yet descending upon the lake; this was, however, only delayed for a brief space of time. The cries of frightened birds flying through the fog mingled with the noise of the wind. Suddenly the mist was torn open, and revealed low jagged masses of rain-cloud chased towards the south. The fears of the old sailor were realised. The wind blew from the north, and it was not long before the travellers learned the meaning of a squall upon the lake.

“Look out!” cried old Norman, tightening sail so as to get his boat ahead of the wind, whilst keeping her under control of the helm.

The squall came. It caught the boat upon the flank, and it was turned over on its side; but recovering itself, it was flung upon the crest of a wave. The billows surged as if upon an open sea. The waters of the lake not being very deep, struck against the bottom and rebounded to an immense height.

“Help! help!” cried old Norman, hurriedly struggling to haul down his sail.

Mrs Barnett and Hobson endeavoured to come to his assistance, but without success, for they knew noticing of the management of a boat. Norman, unable to leave the helm, and the halliards being entangled at the top of the mast, could not take in the sail. Every moment the boat threatened to capsize, and heavy seas broke over its sides. The sky became blacker and blacker, cold rain mingled with snow fell in torrents, whilst the squall redoubled its fury, lashing the crests of the waves into foam.

“Cut it! cut it!” screamed Norman above the roaring of the storm.

The Lieutenant, his cap blown away and his eyes blinded by the spray, seized Norman’s knife and cut the halliard like a harp-string; but the wet cordage no longer acted in the grooves of the pulleys, and the yard remained attached to the top of the mast.

Norman, totally unable to make head against the wind, now resolved to tack about for the south, dangerous as it would be to have the boat before the wind, pursued by waves advancing at double its speed. Yes, to tack, although this course would probably bring them all to the southern shores of the lake, far away from their destination.

The Lieutenant and his brave companion were well aware of the danger which threatened them. The frail boat could not long resist the blows of the waves, it would either be crushed or capsized; the lives of those within it were in the hands of God.

But neither yielded to despair; clinging to the sides of the boat, wet to the skin, chilled to the bone by the cutting blast, they strove to gaze through the thick mist and fog. All trace of the land had disappeared, and so great was the obscurity that at a cable’s length from the boat clouds and waves could not be distinguished from each other. Now and then the two travellers looked inquiringly into old Norman’s face, who, with teeth set and hands clutching the tiller; tried to keep his boat as much as possible under wind.

But the violence of the squall became such that the boat could not long maintain this course. The waves which struck its bow would soon have inevitably crushed it; the front planks were already beginning to separate, and when its whole weight was flung into the hollows of the waves it seemed as if it could rise no more.

“We must tack, we must tack, whatever happens !” murmured the old sailor.

And pushing the tiller and paying out sail, he turned the head of the boat to the south. The sail, stretched to the utmost, brought the boat round with giddy rapidity, and the immense waves, chased by the wind, threatened to engulf the little bark. This was the great danger of shifting with the wind right aft. The billows hurled themselves in rapid succession upon the boat, which could not evade them. It filled rapidly, and the water bad to be baled out without a moment’s pause, or it must have foundered. As they got nearer and nearer to the middle of the lake the waves became rougher. Nothing there broke the fury of the wind; no clumps of trees, no hills, checked for a moment the headlong course of the hurricane. Now and then momentary glimpses were obtained through the fog of icebergs dancing like buoys upon the waves, and driven towards the south of the lake.

It was half-past five. Neither Norman nor the Lieutenant had any idea of where they were, or whither they were going. They had lost all control over the boat, and were at the mercy of the winds and waves.

And now at about a hundred feet behind the boat a huge wave upreared its foam-crowned crest, whilst in front a black whirlpool was formed by the sudden sinking of the water. All surface agitation, crushed by the wind, had disappeared around this awful gulf, which, growing deeper and blacker every moment, drew the devoted little vessel towards its fatal embrace. Ever nearer came the mighty wave, all lesser billows sinking into insignificance before it. It gained upon the boat, another moment and it would crush it to atoms. Norman, looking round, saw its approach; and Mrs Barnett and the Lieutenant, with eyes fixed and staring, awaited in fearful suspense the blow from which there was no escape. The wave broke over them with the noise of thunder; it enveloped the stern of the boat in foam, a fearful crash was heard, and a cry burst from the lips of the Lieutenant and his companion, smothered beneath the liquid mass.

They thought that all was over, and that the boat had sunk; but no, it rose once more, although more than half filled with water.

The Lieutenant uttered a cry of despair. Where was Norman? The poor old sailor had disappeared !

Mrs Paulina Barnett looked inquiringly at Hobson.

“Norman!” he repeated, pointing to his empty place.

“Unhappy man !” murmured Mrs Barnett; and at the risk of being flung from the boat rocking on the waves, the two started to their feet and looked around them. But they could see and hear nothing. No cry for help broke upon their ears. No dead body floated in the white foam. The old sailor had met his death in the element he loved so well.

Mrs Barnett and Hobson sank back upon their seats. They were now alone, and must see to their own safety; but neither of them knew anything of the management of a boat, and even an experienced hand could scarcely have controlled it now. They were at the mercy of the waves, and the bark, with distended sail, swept along in mad career. What could the Lieutenant do to check or direct its course?

What a terrible situation for our travellers, to be thus overtaken by a tempest in a frail bark which they could not manage !

“We are lost!” said the Lieutenant.

“No, Lieutenant,” replied Mrs Barnett; “let us make another effort. Heaven helps those who help themselves !”

Lieutenant Hobson now for the first time realised with how intrepid a woman fate had thrown him.

The first thing to be done was to get rid of the water which weighed down the boat. Another wave shipped would have filled it in a moment, and it must have sunk at once. The vessel lightened, it would have a better chance of rising on the waves; and the two set to work to bale out the water. This was no easy task; for fresh waves constantly broke over them, and the scoop could not be laid aside for an instant. Mrs Barnett was indefatigable, and the Lieutenant, leaving the baling to her, took the helm himself, and did the best he could to guide the boat with the wind right aft.

To add to the danger, night, or rather darkness, for in these latitudes night only lasts a few hours at this time of year, fell upon them. Scarce a ray of light penetrated through the heavy clouds and fog. They could not see two yards before them, and the boat must have been dashed to pieces had it struck a floating iceberg. This danger was indeed imminent, for the loose ice-masses advance with such rapidity that it is impossible to get out of their way.

“You have no control over the helm?” said Mrs Barnett in a slight lull of the storm.

No, madam he replied; “and you must prep are for the worst.”

“I am ready!” replied the courageous woman simply.

As she spoke a loud rippling sound was heard. The sail, torn away by the wind, disappeared like a white cloud. The boat sped rapidly along for a few instants, and then stopped suddenly, the waves buffeting it about like an abandoned wreck. Mrs Barnett and Hobson, flung to the bottom of the boat, bruised, shaken, and torn, felt that all was lost. Not a shred of canvas was left to aid in navigating the craft; and what with the spray, the snow, and the rain, they could scarcely see each other, whilst the uproar drowned their voices. Expecting every moment to perish, they remained for an hour in painful suspense, commending themselves to God, who alone could save them.

Neither of them could have said how long they waited when they were aroused by a violent shock.

The boat had just struck an enormous iceberg, a floating block with rugged, slippery sides, to which it would be impossible to cling.

At this sudden blow, which could not have been parried, the bow of the boat was split open, and the water poured into it in torrents.

“We are sinking! we are sinking !” cried Jasper Hobson.

He was right. The boat was settling down; the water had already reached the seats.

“Madam, madam, I am here! I will not leave you!” added the Lieutenant.

“No, no,” cried Mrs Barnett : “alone, you may save yourself; together, we should perish. Leave me! leave me!”

“Never!” cried Hobson.

But he had scarcely pronounced this word when the boat, struck by another wave, filled and sank.

Both were drawn under water by the eddy caused by the sudden settling down of the boat, but in a few instants they rose to the surface. Hobson was a strong swimmer, and struck out with one arm, supporting his companion with the other. But it was evident that he could not long sustain a conflict with the furious waves, and that he must perish with her he wished to save.

At this moment a strange sound attracted his attention. It was not the cry of a frightened bird, but the shout of a human voice! By one supreme effort Hobson raised himself above the waves and looked around him.

But he could distinguish nothing in the thick fog. And yet he again beard cries, this time nearer to him. Some bold men were coming to his succour! Alas! if it were so, they would arrive too late. Encumbered by his clothes, the Lieutenant felt himself sinking with the unfortunate lady, whose head he could scarcely keep above the water. With a last despairing effort he uttered a heartrending cry and disappeared beneath the waves.

It was, however, no mistake-he had heard voices. Three men, wandering about by the lake, had seen the boat in danger, and put off to its rescue. They were Esquimaux, the only men who could have hoped to weather such a storm, for theirs are the only boats constructed to escape destruction in these fearful tempests.

The Esquimaux boat or kayak is a long pirogue raised at each end, made of a light framework of wood, covered with stretched seal-skins strongly stitched with the sinews of the Walrus. In the upper part of the boat; also covered with skins, is an opening in which the Esquimaux takes his place, fastening his waterproof jacket to the back of his seat; so that he is actually joined to his bark, which riot a drop of water can penetrate. This light, easily-managed kayak, floating as it does, on the crests of the waves, can never be submerged; and if it be sometimes capsized, a blow of the paddle rights it again directly; so that it is able to live and make way in seas in which any other boat would certainly be dashed to pieces.

The three Esquimaux, guided by the Lieutenant’s last despairing cry, arrived at the scene of the wreck joints in time. Hobson and Mrs Barnett, already half drowned, felt themselves drawn up by powerful hands; but in the darkness they were unable to discover who were their deliverers. One of the men took the Lieutenant and laid him across his own boat, another did the sane for Mrs Barnett, and the three kayaks, skilfully managed with the paddles, six feet long, sped rapidly over the white foam.

Half an hour afterwards, the shipwrecked travellers were lying on the sandy beach three miles above Fort Providence.

The old sailor alone was missing !

CHAPTER X.

A RETROSPECT.

It was about ten o’clock the same night when Mrs Barnett and Lieutenant Hobson knocked at the postern gate of the fort. Great was the joy on seeing them, for they had been given up for lost; but this joy was turned to mourning at the news of the death of Norman. The brave fellow had been beloved by all, and his loss was sincerely mourned. The intrepid and devoted Esquimaux received phlegmatically the earnest expressions of gratitude of those they had saved, and could riot be persuaded to come to the fort. What they had done seemed to them only natural, and these were not the first persons they had rescued; so they quietly returned to their wild life of adventure on the lake, where they hunted the otters and water-birds day and night.

For the next three nights the party rested. Hobson always intended to set out on June 2d; and on that day, all having recovered from their fatigues and the storm having abated, the order was given to start.

Sergeant Felton had done all in his power to make his guests comfortable and to aid their enterprise; some of the jaded dogs were replaced by fresh animals, and now the Lieutenant found all his sledges drawn up in good order at the door of the enceinte, and awaiting the travellers.

The adieux were soon over. Each one thanked Sergeant Felton for his hospitality, and Mrs Paulina Barnett was most profuse in her expressions of gratitude. A hearty shake of the hand between the Sergeant and his brother-in-law, Long, completed the leave-taking, Each pair got into the sledge assigned to them; but this time Mrs Barnett and the Lieutenant shared one vehicle, Madge and Sergeant Long following them.

According to the advice of the Indian chief, Hobson determined to get to the coast by the shortest route, and to take a north-easterly direction. After consulting, his map, which merely gave a rough outline of the configuration of the country, it seemed best to him to descend the valley of the Coppermine, a large river which flows into Coronation Gulf.

The distance between Fort Confidence and the mouth of this river is only a degree and a half-that is to say, about eighty-five or ninety miles. The deep hollow formed by the gulf is bounded on the north by Cape Krusenstein, and from it the coast juts out towards the north-west, ending in Cape Bathurst, which is above the seventieth parallel.

The Lieutenant, therefore, now changed the route he had hitherto followed, directing his course to the east, so as to reach the river in a few hours.

In the afternoon of the next day, June 3d, the river was gained. It was now free from ice, and its clear and rapid waters flowed through a vast valley, intersected by numerous but easily fordable streams. The sledges advanced pretty rapidly, and as they went along, Hobson gave his companion some account of the country through which they were passing. A sincere friendship founded on mutual esteem, had sprung up between these two. Mrs Paulina Barnett was an earnest student with a special gift for discovery, and was therefore always glad to converse with travellers and explorers. Hobson, who knew his beloved North America by heart, was able to answer all her inquiries fully.

“About ninety years ago,” he said, “the territory through which the Coppermine flows was unknown, and we are indebted for its discovery to the agents of the Hudson’s Bay Company. But as always happens in scientific matters, in seeking one thing, another was found. Columbus was trying to find Asia, and discovered America.”

“And what were the agents of the Hudson’s Bay Company seeking? The famous North-West Passage?”

“No, madam,” replied the young Lieutenant. “A century ago the Company had no interest in the opening of a new route, which would have been more valuable to its rivals than to it. It is even said that in 1741 a certain Christopher Middleton, sent to explore these latitudes, was publicly charged with receiving a bribe of PS500 from the Company to say that there was not, and could not be, a sea passage between the oceans.”

“That was not much to the credit of the celebrated Company,” said Mrs Barnett.

“I do not defend it in the matter,” replied Hobson; “and its interference was severely censured by Parliament in 1746, when a reward of PS20,000 was offered by the Government for the discovery of the passage in question. In that year two intrepid explorers, William Moor and Francis Smith, penetrated as far as Repulse Bay in the hope of discovering the much-longed-for passage. But they were unsuccessful, and returned to England after an absence of a year and a half.”

“But did not other captains follow in their steps, resolved to conquer where they had failed?” inquired Mrs Barnett.

“No, madam; and in spite of the large reward offered by Parliament, no attempt was made to resume explorations in English America until thirty years afterwards, when some agents of the Company took up the unfinished task of Captains Moor and Smith.”

“The Company had then relinquished the narrow-minded egotistical position it had taken up?”

“No, madam, not yet. Samuel Hearne, the agent, only went to reconnoitre the position of a copper-mine which native miners had reported. On November 6, 1769, this agent left Fort Prince of Wales, on the river Churchill, near the western shores of Hudson’s Bay. He pressed boldly on to the north-west; but the excessive cold and the exhaustion of his provisions compelled him to return without accomplishing anything. Fortunately he was not easily discouraged, and on February 23d of the next year he set out again, this time taking some Indians with him. Great hardships were endured in this second journey. The fish and game on which Hearne had relied often failed him; and he had once nothing to eat for seven days but wild fruit, bits of old leather, and burnt bones. He was again compelled to return to the fort a disappointed man. But he did not even yet despair, and started a third time, December 7th, 1770; and after a struggle of nineteen months, he discovered the Coppermine river, July 13th, 1772, the course of which he followed to its mouth. According to his own account, he saw the open sea, and in any case he was the first to penetrate to the northern coast of America.”

“But the North-West Passage-that is to say, the direct communication by sea between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans — was not then discovered?”

“Oh no, madam,” replied the Lieutenant; “and what countless adventurous sailors have since gone to seek it! Phipps in 1773, James Cook and Clerke in 1776 to 1779, Kotzebue in 1815 to 1818, Ross, Parry, Franklin, and others have attempted this difficult task; but it was reserved to M’Clure in our own day to pass from one ocean to the other across the Polar Sea.”

“Well, Lieutenant, that was a geographical discovery of which we English may well be proud. But do tell me if the Hudson’s Bay Company did not adopt more generous views, and send out some other explorer after the return of Hearne.”

“It did, madam; and it was thanks to it that Captain Franklin was able to accomplish his voyage of 1819 to 1822 between the river discovered by Hearne and Cape Turnagain. This expedition endured great fatigue and hardships; provisions often completely failed, and two Canadians were assassinated and eaten by their comrades. But in spite of all his sufferings, Captain Franklin explored no less than five thousand five hundred and fifty miles of the hitherto unknown coast of North America!”

“He was indeed a man of energy,” added Mrs Barnett; “and he gave proof of his great qualities in starting on a fresh Polar expedition after all he had gone through.”

“Yes,” replied the Lieutenant; “and he met a terrible death in the land his own intrepidity had discovered. It has now been proved, however, that all his companions did not perish with him. Many are doubtless still wandering about on the vast ice-fields. I cannot think of their awful condition without a shudder. One day,” be added earnestly, and with strange emotion — ” one day I will search the unknown lands where the dreadful catastrophe took place, and — “

“And,” exclaimed Mrs Barnett, pressing his hand, “I will accompany you. Yes, this idea has occurred to me more than once, as it has to you; and my heart beats high when I think that fellow countrymen of my own-Englishmen-are awaiting succour.”

“Which will come too late for most of them, madam,” said the Lieutenant; “but rest assured some will even yet be saved.”

“God grant it, Lieutenant!” replied Mrs Barnett; “and it appears to me that the agents of the Company, living as they do close to the coast, are better fitted than any one else to fulfil this duty of humanity.”

“I agree with you, madam; they are, as they have often proved, inured to the rigours of the Arctic climate. Was it not they who aided Captain Back in his voyage in 1834, when he discovered King William’s Land, where Franklin met his fate? Was it not two of us, Dease and Simpson, who were sent by the Governor of Hudson’s Bay to explore the shores of the Polar Sea in 1838, and whose courageous efforts first discovered Victoria Land? It is my opinion that the future reserves for the Hudson’s Bay Company the final conquest of the Arctic regions. Gradually its factories are advancing further and further north, following the retreat of the fur-yielding animals; and one day a fort will be erected on the Pole itself, that mathematical point where meet all the meridians of the globe.”

During this and the succeeding journeys Jaspar Hobson related his own adventures since he entered the service of the Company his struggles with the agents of rival associations, and his efforts to explore the unknown districts of the north or west; and Mrs Barnett, on her side, told of her travels in the tropics. She spoke of all she had done, and of all she hoped still to accomplish; so that the long hours, lightened by pleasant conversation, passed rapidly away.

Meanwhile the dogs advanced at full gallop towards the north. The Coppermine valley widened sensibly as they neared the Arctic Ocean. The hills on either side sank lower and lower, and only scattered clumps of resinous trees broke the monotony of the landscape. A few blocks of ice, drifted down by the river, still resisted the action of the sun; but each day their number decreased, and a canoe, or even a good-sized boat, might easily have descended the stream, the course of which was unimpeded by any natural barrier or aggregation of rocks. The bed of the Coppermine was both deep and wide; its waters were very clear, and being fed by the melted snow, flowed on at a considerable pace, never, however, forming dangerous rapids. Its course, at first very sinuous, became gradually less and less winding, and at last stretched along in a straight line for several miles. Its banks, composed of fine firm sand, and clothed in part with short dry herbage, were wide and level, so that the long train of sledges sped rapidly over them.

The expedition travelled day and night-if we can speak of the night, when the sun, describing an almost horizontal circle, scarcely disappeared at all. The true night only lasted two hours, and the dawn succeeded the twilight almost immediately. The weather was fine; the sky clear, although somewhat misty on the horizon; and everything combined to favour the travellers.

For two days they kept along the river-banks without meeting with any difficulties. They saw but few fur-bearing animals; but there were plenty of birds, which might have been counted by thousands. The absence of otters, sables, beavers, ermines, foxes, &c. did not trouble the Lieutenant much, for he supposed that they had been driven further north by over-zealous tracking; and indeed the marks of encampments, extinguished fires, &c. told of the more or less recent passage of native hunters. Hobson knew that he would have to penetrate a good deal further north, and that part only of his journey would be accomplished when he got to the mouth of the Coppermine river. He was therefore most eager to reach the limit of Hearne’s exploration, and pressed on as rapidly as possible.

Every one shared the Lieutenant’s impatience, and resolutely resisted fatigue in order to reach the Arctic Ocean with the least possible delay. They were drawn onwards by an indefinable attraction; the glory of the unknown dazzled their sight. Probably real hardships would commence when they did arrive at the much-desired coast. But no matter, they longed to battle with difficulties, and to press straight onwards to their aim. The district they were now traversing could have no direct interest for them; the real exploration would only commence on the shores of the Arctic Ocean. Each one, then, would gladly hail the arrival in the elevated western districts for which they were bound, cut across though they were by the seventieth parallel of north latitude.

On the 5th June, four days after leaving Fort Confidence the river widened considerably. The western banks, curving slightly, ran almost due north; whilst the eastern rounded off into the coastline, stretching away as far as the eye could reach.

Lieutenant Hobson paused, and waving his hand to his companions, pointed to the boundless ocean.

CHAPTER XI.

ALONG THE COAST.

Coronation Gulf, the large estuary dotted with the islands forming the Duke of York Archipelago, which the party had now reached, was a sheet of water with irregular banks, let in, as it were, into the North American continent. At its western angle opened the mouth of the Coppermine; and on the east a long narrow creek called Bathurst Inlet ran into the mainland, from which stretched the jagged broken coast with its pointed capes and rugged promontories, ending in that confusion of straits, sounds, and channels which gives such a strange appearance to the maps of North America. On the other side the coast turned abruptly to the north beyond the mouth of the Coppermine River, and ended in Cape Krusenstern.

After consulting with Sergeant Long, Lieutenant Hobson decided to give his party a day’s rest here.

The exploration, properly so called, which was to enable the Lieutenant to fix upon a suitable site for the establishment of a fort, was now really about to begin. The Company had advised him to keep as much as possible above the seventieth parallel, and on the shores of the Arctic Ocean. To obey his orders Hobson was obliged to keep to the west; for on the east — with the exception, perhaps, of the land of Boothia, crossed by the seventieth parallel — the whole country belongs rather to the Arctic Circle, and the geographical conformation of Boothia is as yet but imperfectly known.

After carefully ascertaining the latitude and longitude, and verifying his position by the map, the Lieutenant found that he was a hundred miles below the seventieth degree. But beyond Cape Krusenstern, the coast-line, running in a north-easterly direction, abruptly crosses the seventieth parallel at a sharp angle near the one hundred and thirtieth meridian, and at about the same elevation as Cape Bathurst, the spot named as a rendezvous by Captain Craventy. He must therefore make for that point, and should the site appear suitable the new fort would be erected there.

“There,” said the Lieutenant to his subordinate, Long, “we shall be in the position ordered by the Company. There the sea, open for a great part of the year, will allow the vessels from Behring Strait to come right up to the fort, bringing us fresh provisions and taking away our commodities.”

“Not to mention,” added Sergeant Long, “that our men will be entitled to double pay all the time they are beyond the seventieth parallel.”

“Of course that is understood,” replied Hobson; “and I daresay they will accept it without a murmur.”

“Well then, Lieutenant,” said Long simply, “we have now only to start for Cape Bathurst.”

But as a day of rest had been promised, the start did not actually take place until the next day, June 6th.

The second part of the journey would naturally be very different from the first. The rules with regard to the sledges keeping their rank need no longer be enforced, and each couple drove as it pleased them. Only short distances were traversed at a time; halts were made at every angle of the coast, and the party often walked. Lieutenant Hobson only urged two things upon his companions not to go further than three miles from the coast, and to rally their forces twice a day, at twelve o’clock and in the evening. At night they all encamped in tents.

The weather continued very fine and the temperature moderate, maintaining a mean height of 59deg Fahrenheit above zero. Two or three times sudden snowstorms came on; but they did not last long, and exercised no sensible influence upon the temperature.

The whole of the American coast between Capes Krusenstern and Parry, comprising an extent of more than two hundred and fifty miles, was examined with the greatest care between the 6th and 20th of June. Geographical observations were accurately taken, and Hobson, most effectively aided by Thomas Black, was able to rectify certain errors in previous marine surveys; whilst the primary object of the expedition — the examination into the quality and quantity of the game in the surrounding districts-was not neglected.

Were these lands well stocked with game? Could they count with certainty not only on a good supply of furs, but also of meat? Would the resources of the country provide a fort with provisions in the summer months at least? Such were the grave questions which Lieutenant Hobson had to solve, and which called for immediate attention. We give a summary of the conclusions at which he arrived.

Game, properly so called, of the kind for which Corporal Joliffe amongst others had a special predilection, was not abundant. There were plenty of birds of the duck tribe; but only a few Polar hares, difficult of approach, poorly represented the rodents of the north. There seemed, however, to be a good many bears about. Marbre and Sabine had come upon the fresh traces of several. Some were even seen and tracked; but, as a rule, they kept at a respectful distance. In the winter, however, driven by famine from higher latitudes, there would probably be more than enough of these ravenous beasts prowling about the shores of the Arctic Ocean.

“There is certainly no denying,” said Corporal Joliffe, “that bear’s flesh is very good eating when once it’s in the larder; but there is something very problematical about it beforehand, and it’s always just possible that the hunters themselves may meet the fate they intended for the bears!”

This was true enough. It was no use counting upon the bears to provision their fort. Fortunately traces were presently found of herds of a far more useful animal, the flesh of which is the principal food of the Indians and Esquimaux. We allude to the reindeer; and Corporal Joliffe announced with the greatest satisfaction that there were plenty of these ruminants on this coast. The ground was covered with the lichen to which they are so partial, and which they cleverly dig out from under the snow.

There could be no mistake as to the footprints left by the reindeer, as, like the camel, they have a small nail-like hoof with a convex surface. Large herds, sometimes numbering several thousand animals, are seen running wild in certain parts of America. Being easily domesticated, they are employed to draw sledges; and they also supply the factories with excellent milk, more nourishing than that of cows. Their dead bodies are not less useful. Their thick skin provides clothes, their hair makes very good thread, and their flesh is palatable; so that they are really the most valuable animals to be found in these latitudes, and Hobson, being assured of their presence, was relieved from half his anxiety.

As he advanced he had also reason to be satisfied with regard to the fur-bearing animals. By the little streams rose many beaver lodges and musk-rat tunnels. Badgers, lynxes, ermines, wolverenes, sables, polecats, &c. frequented these districts, hitherto undisturbed by hunters. They had thus far come to no trace of the presence of man, and the animals had chosen their refuge well. Footprints were also found of the fine blue and silver foxes, which are becoming more and more rare, and the fur of which is worth its weight in gold. Sabine and Mac-Nab might many a time have shot a very valuable animal on this excursion, but the Lieutenant had wisely forbidden all hunting of the kind. He did not wish to alarm the animals before the approaching season-that is to say, before the winter months, when their furs become thicker and more beautiful. It was also desirable not to overload the sledges. The hunters saw the force of his reasoning; but for all that, their fingers itched when they came within shot-range of a sable or some valuable fox. Their Lieutenant’s orders were, however, not to be disobeyed.

Polar bears and birds were, therefore, all that the hunters had to practise upon in this second stage of their journey. The former, however, not yet rendered bold by hunger, soon scampered off, and no serious struggle with them ensued.

The poor birds suffered for the enforced immunity of the quadrupeds. White-headed eagles, huge birds with a harsh screeching cry; fishing hawks, which build their nests in dead trees and migrate to the Arctic regions in the summer; snow buntings with pure white plumage, wild geese, which afford the best food of all the Anseres tribe; ducks with red heads and black breasts; ash-coloured crows, a kind of mocking jay of extreme ugliness; eider ducks; scoters or black divers, &c. &c. whose mingled cries awake the echoes of the Arctic regions, fell victims by hundreds to the unerring aim of Marbre and Sabine. These birds haunt the high latitudes by millions, and it would -be impossible to form an accurate estimate of their number on the shores of the Arctic Ocean. Their flesh formed a very pleasant addition to the daily rations of biscuit and corned beef, and we can understand that the hunters laid up a good stock of them in the fifteen days during which they were debarred from attacking more valuable game.

There would then be no lack of animal food; the magazines of the Company would be well stocked with game, and its offices filled with furs and traders; but something more was wanted to insure success to the undertaking. Would it be possible to obtain a sufficient supply of fuel to contend with the rigour of an Arctic winter at so elevated a latitude?

Most fortunately the coast, was well wooded; the hills which sloped down towards the sea were crowned with green trees, amongst which the pine predominated. Some of the woods might even be called forests, and would constitute an admirable reserve of timber for the fort. Here and there Hobson noticed isolated groups of willows, poplars, dwarf birch-trees, and numerous thickets of arbutus. At this time of the warm season all these trees were covered with verdure, and were an unexpected and refreshing sight to eyes so long accustomed to the rugged, barren polar landscape. The ground at the foot of the hills was carpeted with a short herbage devoured with avidity by the reindeer, and forming their only sustenance in winter. On the whole, then, the Lieutenant had reason to congratulate himself on having chosen the north-west of the American continent for the foundation of a new settlement.

We have said that these territories, so rich in animals, were apparently deserted by men. The travellers saw neither Esquimaux, who prefer the districts round Hudson’s Bay, nor Indians, who seldom venture so far beyond the Arctic Circle. And indeed in these remote latitudes hunters may be overtaken by storms, or be suddenly surprised by winter, and cut off from all communication with their fellow-creatures. We can easily imagine that Lieutenant Hobson was by no means sorry not to meet any rival explorers. What he wanted was an unoccupied country, a deserted land, suitable as a refuge for the fur-bearing animals; and in this matter he had the full sympathy of Mrs Barnett, who, as the guest of the Company, naturally took a great interest in the success of its schemes.

Fancy, then, the disappointment of the Lieutenant, when on the morning of the 20th June he came to an encampment but recently abandoned.

It was situated at the end of a narrow creek called Darnley Bay, of which Cape Parry is the westernmost point. There at the foot of a little hill were the stakes which had served to mark the limits of the camp, and heaps of cinders, the extinct embers of the fires.

The whole party met at this encampment, and all understood how great a disappointment it involved for Lieutenant Hobson.

“What a pity!” he exclaimed. “I would rather have met a whole family of polar bears!”

“But I daresay the men who encamped here are already far off,” said Mrs Barnett; “very likely they have returned to their usual hunting grounds.”

“That is as it may be,” replied the Lieutenant. “If these be the traces of Esquimaux, they are more likely to have gone on than to have turned back; and if they be those of Indians, they are probably, like ourselves, seeking a new hunting district; and in either case it will be very unfortunate for us.”

“But,” said Mrs Barnett, “cannot we find out to what race the travellers do belong? Can’t we ascertain if they be Esquimaux or Indians from the south? I should think tribes of such a different origin, and of such dissimilar customs, would not encamp in the same manner.”

Mrs Barnett was right; they might possibly solve the mystery after a thorough examination of the ground.

Jaspar Hobson and others set to work, carefully examining every trace, every object left behind, every mark on the ground; but in vain, there was nothing to guide them to a decided opinion. The bones of some animals scattered about told them nothing, and the Lieutenant, much annoyed, was about to abandon the useless search, when he heard an exclamation from Mrs Joliffe, who had wandered a little way to the left.

All hurried towards the young Canadian, who remained fixed to the spot, looking attentively at the ground before her.

As her companions came up she said —

“You are looking for traces, Lieutenant; well, here are some.”

And Mrs Joliffe pointed to a good many footprints clearly visible in the firm clay.

These might reveal something; for the feet of the Indians and Esquimaux, as well as their boots, are totally different from each other.

But what chiefly struck Lieutenant Hobson was the strange arrangement of these impressions. They were evidently made by a human foot, a shod foot; but, strange to say, the ball alone appeared to have touched the ground! The marks were very numerous, close together, often crossing one another, but confined to a very small circle.

Jaspar Hobson called the attention of the rest of the party to this singular circumstance.

“These were not made by a person walking,” he said.

“Nor by a person jumping,” added Mrs Barnett; “for there is no mark of a heel.”

“No,” said Mrs Joliffe; “these footprints were left by a dancer.”

She was right, as further examination proved. They were the marks left by a dancer, and a dancer engaged in some light and graceful exercise, for they were neither clumsy nor deep.

But who could the light-hearted individual be who had been impelled to dance in this sprightly fashion some degrees above the Arctic Circle?

“It was certainly not an Esquimaux,” said the Lieutenant.

“Nor an Indian,” cried Corporal Joliffe.

“No, it was a Frenchman,” said Sergeant Long quietly.

And all agreed that none but a Frenchman could have been capable of dancing on such a spot.

CHAPTER XIII.

FORT HOPE.

The site of the new fort was now finally determined on. It would be impossible to find a better situation than on the level ground behind Cape Bathurst, on the eastern bank of the lagoon Hobson determined to commence the construction of the principal house at once. Meanwhile all must accommodate themselves as best they could; and the sledges were ingeniously utilised to form a provisional encampment.

His men being very skilful, the Lieutenant hoped to have the principal house ready in a month. It was to be large enough to accommodate for a time the nineteen persons of the party. Later, and before the excessive cold set in, if there should be time, the barracks for the soldiers and the magazines for the furs and skins were to be built. There was not much chance of getting it all done before the end of September; and after that date, the winter, with its first bitter frosts and long nights, would arrest all further progress.

Of the ten soldiers chosen by Captain Craventy, two-Marbre and Sabine-were skilful hunters; the other eight handled the hatchet with as much address as the musket. Like sailors, they could turn their hands to anything, and were now to be treated more like workmen than soldiers, for they were to build a fort which there was as yet no enemy to attack. Petersen, Belcher, Rae, Garry, Pond, Hope, and Kellet formed a body of clever, zealous carpenters, under the able superintendence of lilac-Nab, a Scotchman from Stirling, who had had considerable experience in the building both of houses and boats. The men were well provided with tools-hatchets, centre-bits, adzes, planes, hand-saws, mallets, hammers, chisels, &c. &c. Rae was most skilful at blacksmith’s work, and with the aid of a little portable forge he was able to make all the pins, tenons, bolts, nails, screws, nuts, &e. required in carpentry. They had no mason in the party; but none was wanted, as all the buildings of the factories in the north are of wood. Fortunately there were plenty of trees about Cape Bathurst, although as Hobson had already remarked to Mrs Barnett, there was not a rock, a stone, not even a flint or a pebble, to be seen. The shore was strewn with innumerable quantities of bivalve shells broken by the surf, and with seaweed or zoophytes, mostly sea-urchins and asteriadae; but the soil consisted entirely of earth and sand, without a morsel of silica or broken granite; and the cape itself was but an accumulation of soft earth, the particles of which were scarcely held together by the vegetation with which it was clothed.

In the afternoon of the same day, July 6th Hobson and Mac-Nab the carpenter went to choose the site of the principal house on the plateau at the foot of Cape Bathurst. From this point the view embraced the lagoon and the western districts to a distance of ten or twelve miles. On the right, about four miles off, towered icebergs of a considerable height. partly draped in mist; whilst on the left stretched apparently boundless plains, vast steppes which it would be impossible to distinguish from the frozen surface of the lagoon or from the sea itself in the winter.

The spot chosen, Hobson and Mac-Nab set out the outer walls of the house with the line. This outline formed a rectangle measuring sixty feet on the larger side, and thirty on the smaller. The facade of the house would therefore have a length of sixty feet it was to have a door and three windows on the side of the promontory, where the inner court was to be situated, and four windows on the side of the lagoon. The door was to open at the left corner, instead of in the middle, of the back of the house, for the sake of warmth. This arrangement would impede the entrance of the outer air to the further rooms, and add considerably to the comfort of the inmates of the fort.

According to the simple plan agreed upon by the Lieutenant and his master-carpenter, there were to be four compartments in the house: the first to be an antechamber with a double door to keep out the wind; the second to serve as a kitchen, that the cooking which would generate damp, might be all done quite away from the living-rooms; the third, a large hall, where the daily meals were to be served in common; and the fourth, to be divided into several cabins, like the state-rooms on board ship.

The soldiers were to occupy the dining-hall provisionally, and a kind of camp-bed was arranged for them at the end of the room. The Lieutenant, Mrs Barnett, Thomas Black, Madge, Mrs Joliffe, Mrs Mac-Nab, and Mrs Rae were to lodge in the cabins of the fourth compartment. They would certainly be packed pretty closely; but it was only a temporary state of things, and when the barracks were constructed, the principal house would be reserved to the officer in command, his sergeant, Thomas Black, Mrs Barnett, and her faithful Madge, who never left her. Then the fourth compartment might perhaps be divided into three cabins, instead of four; for to avoid corners as much as possible is a rule which should never be forgotten by those who winter in high latitudes Nooks and corners are, in fact, so many receptacles of ice. The partitions impede the ventilation; and the moisture, generated in the air, freezes readily, and makes the atmosphere of the rooms unhealthy causing grave maladies to those who sleep in them.

On this account many navigators who have to winter in the midst of ice have one large room in the centre of their vessel, which is shared by officers and sailors in common. For obvious reasons, however, Hobson could not adopt this plan.

From the preceding description we shall have seen that the future house was to consist merely of a ground-floor. The roof was to be high, and its sides to slope considerably, so that water could easily run off them. The snow would, however, settle upon them; and when once they were covered with it, the house would be, so to speak, hermetically closed, and the inside temperature would be kept at the same mean height. Snow is, in fact, a very bad conductor of beat: it prevents it from entering, it is true; but, what is more important in an Arctic winter, it also keeps it from getting out.

The carpenter was to build two chimneys-one above the kitchen, the other in connection with the stove of the large dining-room, which was to heat it and the compartment containing the cabins. The architectural effect of the whole would certainly be poor; but the house would be as comfortable as possible, and what more could any one desire?

Certainly an artist who had once seen it would not soon forget this winter residence, set down in the gloomy Arctic twilight in the midst of snow-drifts, half hidden by icicles, draped in white from roof to foundation, its walls encrusted with snow, and the smoke from its fires assuming strangely-contorted forms in the wind.

But now to tell of the actual construction of this house, as yet existing only in imagination. This, of course, was the business of Mac-Nab and his men; and while the carpenters were at work, the foraging party to whom the commissariat was entrusted would not be idle. There was plenty for every one to do.

The first step was to choose suitable timber, and a species of Scotch fir was decided on, which grew conveniently upon the neighbouring hills, and seemed altogether well adapted to the multifarious uses to which it would be put. For in the rough and ready style of habitation which they were planning, there could be no variety of material; and every part of the house-outside and inside walls, flooring, ceiling, partitions, rafters, ridges, framework, and tiling-would have to be contrived of planks, beams, and timbers. As may readily be supposed, finished workmanship was riot necessary for such a description of building, and Mac-Nab was able to proceed very rapidly without endangering the safety of the building. About a hundred of these firs were chosen and felled-they were neither barked nor squared-and formed so many timbers, averaging some twenty feet in length. The axe and the chisel did not touch them except at the ends, in order to form the tenons and mortises by which they were to be secured to one another. Very few days sufficed to complete this part of the work, and the timbers were brought down by the dogs to the site fixed on for the principal building. To start with, the Bite had been carefully levelled. The soil, a mixture of fine earth and sand, had been beaten and consolidated with heavy blows. The brushwood with which it was originally covered was burnt, and the thick layer of ashes thus produced would prevent the damp from penetrating the floors. A clean and dry foundation having been thus secured on which to lay the first joists, upright posts were fixed at each corner of the site, and at the extremities of the inside walls, to form the skeleton of the building. The posts were sunk to a depth of some feet in the ground, after their ends had been hardened in the fire; and were slightly hollowed at each side to receive the crossbeams of the outer wall, between which the openings for the doors and windows had been arranged for. These posts were held together at the top by horizontal beams well let into the mortises, and consolidating the whole building. On these horizontal beams, which represented the architraves of the two fronts, rested the high trusses of the roof, which overhung the walls like the eaves of a chalet. Above this squared architrave were laid the joists of the ceiling, and those of the floor upon the layer of ashes.

The timbers, both in the inside and outside walls, were only laid side by side. To insure their being properly joined, Rae the blacksmith drove strong iron bolts through them at intervals; and when even this contrivance proved insufficient to close the interstices as hermetically as was necessary, Mac-Nab had recourse to calking, a process which seamen find invaluable in rendering vessels water-tight; only as a substitute for tow he used a sort of dry moss, with which the eastern side of the cape was covered, driving it into the crevices with calking-irons and a hammer, filling up each hollow with layers of hot tar, obtained without difficulty from the pine-trees, and thus making the walls and boarding impervious to the rain and damp of the winter season.

The door and windows in the two fronts were roughly but strongly built, and the small panes of the latter glazed with isinglass, which, though rough, yellow, and almost opaque, was yet the best substitute for glass which the resources of the country afforded; and its imperfections really mattered little, as the windows were sure to be always open in fine weather; while during, the long night of the Arctic winter they would be useless, and have to be kept closed and defended by heavy shutters with strong bolts against the violence of the gales. Meanwhile the house was being quickly fitted up inside. By means of a double door between the outer and inner halls a too sudden change of temperature was avoided, and the wind was prevented from blowing with unbroken force into the rooms. The air-pumps, brought from Fort Reliance, were so fixed as to let in fresh air whenever excessive cold prevented the opening of doors or windows -one being made to eject the impure air from within, the other to renew the supply; for the Lieutenant had given his whole mind to this important matter.

The principal cooking utensil was a large iron furnace, which had been brought piecemeal from Fort Reliance, and which the carpenter put up without any difficulty. The chimneys for the kitchen and ball, however, seemed likely to tax the ingenuity of the workmen to the utmost, as no material within their reach was strong enough for the purpose, and stone, as we have said before, was nowhere to be found in the country around Cape Bathurst.

The difficulty appeared insurmountable, when the invincible Lieutenant suggested that they should utilise the shells with which the shore was strewed.

“Make chimneys of shells!” cried the carpenter.

“Yes, Mac-Nab,” replied Hobson; “we must collect the shells, grind them, burn them, and make them into lime, then mould the lime into bricks, and use them in the same way.”

“Let us try the shells, by all means,” replied the carpenter; and so the idea was put in practice at once, and many tons collected of calcareous shells identical with those found in the lowest stratum of the Tertiary formations.

A furnace was constructed for the decomposition of the carbonate which is so large an ingredient of these shells, and thus the lime required was obtained in the space of a few hours. It would perhaps be too much to say that the substance thus made was as entirely satisfactory as if it had gone through all the usual processes; but it answered its purpose, and strong conical chimneys soon adorned the roof, to the great satisfaction of Mrs Paulina Barnett, who congratulated the originator of the scheme warmly on its success, only adding laughingly, that she hoped the chimneys would riot smoke.

“Of course they will smoke, madam,” replied Hobson coolly; “all chimneys do!”

All this was finished within a month, and on the 6th of August they were to take possession of the new house.

While Mac-Nab and his men were working so hard, the foraging party, with the Lieutenant at its head, had been exploring the environs of Cape Bathurst, and satisfied themselves that there would be no difficulty in supplying the Company’s demands for fur and feathers, so soon as they could set about hunting in earnest. In the meantime they prepared the way for future sport, contenting themselves for the present with the capture of a few couples of reindeer, which they intended to domesticate for the sake of their milk and their young. They were kept in a paddock about fifty yards from the house, and entrusted to the care of Mac-Nabs wife, an Indian woman, well qualified to take charge of them.

The care of the household fell to Mrs Paulina Barnett, and this good woman, with Madge’s help, was invaluable in providing for all the small wants, which would inevitably have escaped the notice of the men.

After scouring the country within a radius of several miles, the Lieutenant notified, as the result of his observations, that the territory on which they had established themselves, and to which he gave the name of Victoria Land, was a large peninsula about one hundred and fifty square miles in extent, with very clearly-defined boundaries, connected with the American continent by an isthmus, extending from the lower end of Washburn Bay on the east, as fair as the corresponding slope on the opposite coast. The Lieutenant next proceeded to ascertain what were the resources of the lake and river, and found great reason to be satisfied with the result of his examination. The shallow waters of the lake teemed with trout, pike, and other available fresh-water fish; and the little river was a favourite resort of salmon and shoals of white bait and smelts. The supply of sea-fish was not so good; and though many a grampus and whale passed by in the offing, the latter probably flying from the harpoons of the Behring Strait fishermen there were no means of capturing them unless one by chance happened to get stranded on the coast; nor would Hobson allow any of the seals which abounded on the western shore to be taken until a satisfactory conclusion should be arrived at as to how to use them to the best advantage.

The colonists now considered themselves fairly installed stalled in their new abode, and after due deliberation unanimously agreed to bestow upon the settlement the name of Fort Good Hope.

Alas! the auspicious title was never to be inscribed upon a map. The undertaking, begun so bravely and with such prospects of success, was destined never to be carried out, and another disaster would have to be added to the long list of failures in Arctic enterprise.

CHAPTER XIV.

SOME EXCURSIONS.

It did not take long to furnish the new abode. A camp-bed was set up in the hall, and the carpenter Mac-Nab constructed a most substantial table, around which were ranged fixed benches. A few movable seats and two enormous presses completed the furniture of this apartment. The inner room, which was also ready, was divided by solid partitions into six dormitories, the two end ones alone being lighted by windows looking to the front and back. The only furniture was a bed and a table. Mrs Paulina Barnett and Madge were installed in one which looked immediately out upon the lake. Hobson offered the other with the window in it to Thomas Black, and the astronomer took immediate possession of it. The Lieutenant’s own room was a dark cell adjoining the hall, with no window but a bull’s eye pierced through the partition. Mrs Joliffe, Mrs Mac-Nab, and Mrs Rae, with their husbands, occupied the other dormitories. These good people agreed so well together that it would have been a pity to separate them. Moreover, an addition was expected shortly to the little colony; and Mac-Nab had already gone so far as to secure the services of Mrs Barnett as god-mother, an honour which gave the good woman much satisfaction. The sledges had been entirely unloaded, and the bedding carried into the different rooms. All utensils, stores, and provisions which were not required for immediate use were stowed away in a garret, to which a ladder gave access. The winter clothing-such as boots, overcoats, furs, and skins-were also taken there, and protected from the damp in large chests. As soon as these arrangements were completed, the Lieutenant began to provide for the heating of the house.

Knowing that the most energetic measures were necessary to combat the severity of the Arctic winter, and that during the weeks of intensest cold there would be no possibility of leaving the house to forage for supplies, he ordered a quantity of fuel to be brought from the wooded hills in the neighbourhood, and took care to obtain a plentiful store of oil from the seals which abounded on the shore.

In obedience to his orders, and under his directions, the house was provided with a condensing apparatus which would receive the internal moisture, and was so constructed that the ice which would form in it could easily be removed.

This question of heating was a very serious one to the Lieutenant.

“I am a native of the Polar regions, madam,” he often said to Mrs Barnett; “I have some experience in these matters, and I have read over and over again books written by those who have wintered in these latitudes. It is impossible to take too many precautions in preparing to pass a winter in the Arctic regions, and nothing must be left to chance where a single neglect may prove fatal to the enterprise.”

“Very true, Mr Hobson,” replied Mrs Barnett; “and you have evidently made up your mind to conquer the cold; but there is the food to be thought of too.”

“Yes, indeed; I have been thinking of that, and mean to make all possible use of the produce of the country so as to economise our stores. As soon as we can, we will make some foraging expeditions. We need not think about the furs at present, for there will be plenty of time during the winter to stock the Company’s depots. Besides, the furred animals have not got their winter clothing on yet, and the skins would lose fifty per cent. of their value if taken now. Let us content ourselves for the present with provisioning Fort Hope. Reindeer, elk, - and any wapitis that may have ventured so far north are the only game worth our notice just now; it will be no small undertaking to provide food for twenty people and sixty dogs.”

The Lieutenant loved order, and determined to do everything in the most methodical manner, feeling confident that if his companions would help him to the utmost of their power, nothing need be wanting to the success of the expedition.

The weather at this season was almost always fine, and might be expected to continue so for five weeks longer, when the snow would begin to fall. It was very important that the carpenters-should make all possible use of the interval; and as soon as the principal house was finished, Hobson set them to work to build an enormous kennel or shed in which to keep the teams of dogs. This doghouse was built at the very foot of the promontory, against the hill, and about forty yards to the right of the house. Barracks for the accommodation of the men were to be built opposite this kennel on the left, while the store and powder magazines were to occupy the front of the enclosure.

Hobson determined with almost excessive prudence to have the Factory enclosed before the winter set in. A strong fence of pointed stakes, planted firmly in the ground, was set up as a protection against the inroads of wild animals or the hostilities of the natives. The Lieutenant had not forgotten an outrage which had been committed along the coast at no great distance from Fort Hope, and he well knew how essential it was to be safe from a coup de main. The factory was therefore entirely encircled, and at each extremity of the lagoon Mac-Nab undertook to erect a wooden sentry-box commanding the coast-line, from which a watch could be kept without any danger. The men worked indefatigably, and it seemed likely that everything would be finished before the cold season set in.

In the meantime hunting parties were organised. The capture of seals being put off for a more convenient season, the sportsmen prepared to supply the fort with game, which might be dried and preserved for consumption during the bad season.

Accordingly Marbre and Sabine, sometimes accompanied by the Lieutenant and Sergeant Long, whose experience was invaluable, scoured the country daily for miles round; and it was no uncommon sight to see Mrs Paulina Barnett join them and step briskly along shouldering her gun bravely, and never allowing herself to be outstripped by her companions.

Throughout the month of August these expeditions were continued with great success, and the store of provisions increased rapidly. Marbre and Sabine were skilled in all the artifices which sportsmen employ in stalking their prey-particularly the reindeer, which are exceedingly wary. How patiently they would face the wind lest the creature’s keen sense of smell should warn it of their approach! and how cunningly they lured it on to its destruction by displaying the magnificent antlers of some former victim above the birch-bushes !

They found a useful alley (sic) in a certain little traitorous bird to which the Indians have given the name of “monitor.” It is a kind of daylight owl, about the size of a pigeon, and has earned its name by its habit of calling the attention of hunters to their quarry, by uttering a sharp note like the cry of a child.

When about fifty reindeer, or, to give them their Indian name, “caribous,” had been brought down by the guns, the flesh was cut into long strips for food, the skins being kept to be tanned and used for shoe-leather.

Besides the caribous, there were also plenty of Polar hares, which formed an agreeable addition to the larder. They were much less timorous than the European species, and allowed themselves to be caught in great numbers. They belong to the rodent family, and have long ears, brown eyes, and a soft fur resembling swan’s down. They weigh from ten to fifteen pounds each, and their flesh is excellent. Hundreds of them were cared for winter use, and the remainder converted into excellent pies by the skilful hands of Mrs Joliffe.

While making provision for future wants, the daily supplies were not neglected. In addition to the Polar bares, which underwent every variety of culinary treatment from Mrs Joliffe, and won for her compliments innumerable from hunters and workmen alike, many waterfowl figured in the bill of fare. Besides the ducks which abounded on the shores of the lagoon, large flocks of grouse congregated round the clumps of stunted willows. They belong, as their zoological name implies, to the partridge family, and might be aptly described as white partridges with long black-spotted feathers in the tail. The Indians call them willow-fowl; but to a European sportsman they are neither more nor less than blackcock (Tetrao tetrix). When roasted slightly before a quick clear fire they proved delicious.

Then there were the supplies furnished by lake and stream. Sergeant Long was a first-rate angler, and nothing could surpass the skill and patience with which he whipped the water and cast his s line. The faithful Madge, another worthy disciple of Isaak Walton was perhaps his only equal. Day after day the two sallied forth together rod in hand, to spend the day in mute companionship by the river-side, whence they were sure to return in triumph laden with some splendid specimens of the salmon tribe.

But to return to our sportsmen; they soon found that their hunting excursions were not to be free from peril. Hobson perceived with some alarm that bears were very numerous in the neighbourhood and that scarcely a day passed without one or more of them being sighted. Sometimes these unwelcome visitors belonged to the family of brown bears, so common throughout the whole “Cursed Land; “but now and then a solitary specimen of the formidable Polar bear warned the hunters what dangers they might have to encounter so soon as the first frost should drive great numbers of these fearful animals to the neighbourhood of Cape Bathurst. Every book of Arctic explorations is full of accounts of the frequent perils to which travellers and whalers are exposed from the ferocity of these animals.

Now and then, too, a distant pack of wolves was seen, which receded like a wave at the approach of the hunters, or the sound of their bark was heard as they followed the trail of a reindeer or wapiti. These creatures were large grey wolves, about three feet high, with long tails, whose fur becomes white in the winter. They abounded in this part of the country, where food was plentiful; and frequented wooded spots, where they lived in holes like foxes. During the temperate season, when they could get as much as they wanted to eat, they were scarcely dangerous, and fled with the characteristic cowardice of their race at the first sign of pursuit; but when impelled by hunger, their numbers rendered them very formidable; and from the fact of their lairs being close at hand, they never left the country even in the depth of winter.

One day the sportsmen returned to Fort Hope, bringing with them an unpleasant-looking animal, which neither Mrs Paulina Barnett nor the astronomer, Thomas Black, had ever before seen. It was a carnivorous creature of the plantigrada family, and greatly resembled the American glutton, being strongly built, with short legs, and, like all animals of the feline tribe, a very supple back; its eyes were small and horny, and it was armed with curved claws and formidable jaws.

“What is this horrid creature?” inquired Mrs Paulina Barnett of Sabine, who replied in his usual sententious manner —

“A Scotchman would call it a ‘quick-hatch,’ an Indian an ‘okelcoo-haw-gew,’ and a Canadian a ‘carcajou.”’

“And what do you call it?”

“A wolverene, ma’am,” returned Sabine, much delighted with the elegant way in which he had rounded his sentence.

The wolverene, as this strange quadruped is called by zoologists, lives in hollow trees or rocky caves, whence it issues at night and creates great havoc amongst beavers, musk-rats, and other rodents, sometimes fighting with a fox or a wolf for its spoils. Its chief characteristics are great cunning, immense muscular power, and an acute sense of smell. It is found in very high latitudes; and the short fur with which it is clothed becomes almost black in the winter months, and forms a large item in the Company’s exports.

During their excursions the settlers paid as much attention to the Flora of the country as to its Fauna; but in those regions vegetation, has necessarily a hard struggle for existence, as it must brave every season of the year, whereas the animals are able to migrate to a warmer climate during the winter.

The hills on the eastern side, of the lake were well covered with pine and fir trees; and Jaspar also noticed the “tacamahac,” a species of poplar which grows to a great height and shoots forth yellowish leaves which turn green in the autumn. These trees and larches were, however, few and sickly looking, as if they found the oblique rays of the sun insufficient to make them thrive. The black fir, or Norway spruce fir, throve better, especially when situated in ravines well sheltered from the north wind. The young shoots of this tree are very valuable, yielding a favourite beverage known in North America as “spruce-beer.” A good crop of these branchlets was gathered in and stored in the cellar of Fort Hope. There were also the dwarf birch, a shrub about two feet high, native to very cold climates, and whole thickets of cedars, which are so valuable for fuel.

Of vegetables which could be easily grown and used for food, this barren land yielded but few; and Mrs Joliffe, who took a great interest in “economic “botany, only met with .two plants which were available in cooking.

One of these, a bulb, very difficult to classify, because its leaves fall off just at the flowering season, turned out to be a wild leek, and yielded a good crop of onions, each about the size of an egg.

The other plant was that known throughout North America as “Labrador tea;” it grew abundantly on the shores of the lagoon between the clumps of willow and arbutus, and formed the principal food of the Polar hares. Steeped in boiling water, and flavoured with a few drops of brandy or gin, it formed an excellent beverage, and served to economise the supply of China tea which the party had brought from Fort Reliance.

Knowing the scarcity of vegetables, Jaspar Hobson had plenty of seeds with him, chiefly sorrel and scurvy-grass (Cochlearia), the antiscorbutic properties of which are invaluable in these latitudes. In choosing the site of the settlement, such care bad been taken to find a spot sheltered from the keen blasts, which shrivel vegetation like a fire, that there was every chance of these seeds yielding a good crop in the ensuing season.

The dispensary of the new fort contained other antiscorbutics, in the shape of casks of lemon and lime juice, both of which are absolutely indispensable to an Arctic expedition. Still the greatest economy was necessary with regard to the stores, as a long period of bad weather might cut off the communication between Fort Hope and the southern stations.

CHAPTER XV.

FIFTEEN MILES FROM CAPE BATHURST.

September had now commenced, and as upon the most favourable calculation only three more weeks would intervene before the bad season set in and interrupted the labours of the explorers, the greatest haste was necessary in completing the new buildings, and Mae-Nab and his workmen surpassed themselves in industry. The dog-house was on the eve of being finished, and very little remained to be done to the palisading which was, to encircle the fort. An inner court had been constructed, in the shape of a half-moon, fenced with tall pointed stakes, fifteen feet high, to which a postern gave entrance. Jaspar Hobson favoured the system of an unbroken enclosure with detached forts (a great improvement upon the tactics of Vauban and Cormontaigne), and knew that to make his defence complete the summit of Cape Bathurst, which was the key of the position, must be fortified; until that could be done, however, he thought the palisading would be a sufficient protection, at least against quadrupeds.

The next thing was to lay in a supply of oil and lights, and accordingly an expedition was organised to a spot about fifteen miles distant where seals were plentiful, Mrs Paulina Barnett being invited to accompany the sportsmen, not indeed for the sake of watching the poor creatures slaughtered, but to satisfy her curiosity with regard to the country around Cape Bathurst, and to see some cliff’s on that part of the coast which were worthy of notice. The Lieutenant chose as his other companions, Sergeant Long, and the soldiers Petersen, Hope, and Kellet, and the party set off at eight o’clock in the morning in two sledges, each drawn by six dogs, on which the bodies of the seals were to be brought back. The weather was fine, but the fog which lay low along the horizon veiled the rays of the sun, whose yellow disk was now beginning to disappear for some hours during the night, a circumstance which attracted the Lieutenant’s attention, for reasons which we will explain.

That part of the shore to the west of Cape Bathurst rises but a few inches above the level of the sea, and the tides are-or are said to be-very high in the Arctic Ocean-many navigators, such as Parry, Franklin, the two Rosses, M’Clure, and M’Clintock, having observed that when the sun and moon were in conjunction the waters were sometimes twenty-five feet above the ordinary level. How then was it to be explained that the sea did not at high tide inundate Cape Bathurst, which possessed no natural defences such as cliffs or downs? What was it, in fact, which prevented the entire submersion of the whole district, and the meeting of the waters of the lake with those of the Arctic Ocean?

Jaspar Hobson could not refrain from remarking on this peculiarity to Mrs Barnett, who replied somewhat hastily that she supposed that there were-in spite of all that had been said to the contrary-no tides in the Arctic Ocean.

“On the contrary, madam,” said Hobson, “all navigators agree that the ebb and flow of Polar seas are very distinctly marked, and it is impossible to believe that they can have been mistaken on such a subject.”

“How is it, then,” inquired Mrs Barnett, “that this land is not flooded when it is scarcely ten feet above the sea level at low tide?”

“That is just what puzzles me,” said Hobson; “for I have been attentively watching the tides all through this month, and during that time they have not varied more than a foot, and I feel certain, that even during the September equinox, they will not rise more than a foot and a half all along the shores of Cape Bathurst.”

“Can you not explain this phenomenon?” inquired Mrs Barnett.

“Well, madam,” replied the Lieutenant, “two conclusions are open to us, either of which I find it difficult to believe; such men as Franklin, Parry, Ross, and others, are mistaken, and there are no tides on this part of the American coast; or, as in the Mediterranean, to which the waters of the Atlantic have not free ingress, the straits are too narrow to be affected by the ocean currents.”

“The latter would appear to be the more reasonable hypothesis, Mr Hobson.”

“It is riot, however, thoroughly satisfactory,” said the Lieutenant, “and I feel sure that if we could but find it, there is some simple and natural explanation of the phenomenon.”

After a monotonous journey along a flat and sandy shore, the party reached their destination, and, having unharnessed the teams, they were left behind lest they should startle the seals.

At the first glance around them, all were equally struck with the contrast between the appearance of this district and that of Cape Bathurst.

Here the coast line was broken and fretted, showing manifest traces of its igneous origin; whereas the site of the fort was of sedimentary formation and aqueous origin. Stone, so conspicuously absent at the cape, was here plentiful; the black sand and porous lava were strewn with huge boulders deeply imbedded in the soil, and there were large quantities of the aluminium, silica, and felspar pebbles peculiar to the crystalline strata of one class of igneous rocks. Glittering Labrador stones, and many other kinds of felspar, red, green, and blue, were sprinkled on the unfrequented beach, with grey and yellow pummice-stone, and lustrous variegated obsidian. Tall cliffs, rising some two hundred feet above the sea, frowned down upon the bay; and the Lieutenant resolved to climb them, and obtain a good view of the eastern side of the country. For this there was plenty of time, as but few of the creatures they had come to seek were as yet to be seen, and the proper time for the attack would be when they assembled for the afternoon siesta in which the. amphibious mammalia always indulge. The Lieutenant, however, quickly discovered that the animals frequenting this coast were not, as he had been led to suppose, true seals, although they belonged to the Phocidae family, but morses or walruses, sometimes called sea-cows. They resemble the seals in general form, but the canine teeth of the upper jaw curved down-wards are much more largely developed.

Following the coast line, which curved considerably, and to which they gave the name of “Walruses’ Bay,” the party soon reached the foot of the cliff, and Petersen, Hope, and Kellet, took up their position as sentinels on the little promontory, whilst Mrs Barnett, Hobson, and Long, after promising not to lose sight of their comrades, and to be on the look-out for their signal, proceeded to climb the cliff, the summit of which they reached in about a quarter of an hour. From this position they were able to survey the whole surrounding country; at their feet lay the vast sea, stretching northwards as far as the eye .could reach, its expanse so entirely unbroken by islands or icebergs that the travellers came to the conclusion, that this portion of the Arctic waters was navigable as far as Behring Straits, and that during the summer season the North-West Passage to Cape Bathurst would, be open to the Company’s ships. On the west, the aspect of the country explained the presence of the volcanic debris on the shore; for at a distance of about ten miles was a chain of granitic hills, of conical form, with blunted crests, looking as if their summits had been cut off, and with jagged tremulous outlines standing out against the sky. They bad hitherto escaped the notice of our party, as they were concealed by the cliffs on the Cape Bathurst side, and Jaspar Hobson examined them in silence, but with great attention, before he proceeded to stud the eastern side, which consisted of a long strip of perfectly level coast-line stretching away to Cape Bathurst. Any one provided with a good field-glass would have been able to distinguish the fort of Good Hope, and perhaps even the cloud of blue smoke, which was no doubt at that very moment issuing from Mrs Joliffe’s kitchen chimney.

The country behind them seemed to possess two entirely distinct characters; to the east and south the cape was bounded by a vast plain, many hundreds of square miles in extent, while behind the cliff, from “Walruses’ Bay” to the mountains mentioned above, the country had undergone terrible convulsions, showing clearly that it owed its origin to volcanic eruptions. The Lieutenant was much struck with this marked contrast, and Sergeant Long asked him whether he thought the mountains on the western horizon were volcanoes.

“Undoubtedly,” said Hobson; “all these pumice-stones and pebbles have been discharged by them to this distance, and if we were to go two or three miles farther, we should find ourselves treading upon nothing but lava and ashes.”

“Do you suppose,” inquired the Sergeant, “that all these volcanoes are still active?”

“That I cannot tell you yet.”

“But there is no smoke issuing from any of them,” added the Sergeant.

“That proves nothing; your pipe is not always in your mouth, and it is just the same with volcanoes, they are not always smoking.”

“I see,” said the Sergeant; “but it is a great puzzle to me how volcanoes can exist at all. on Polar continents.”

“Well, there are riot many of them !” said Mrs Barnett.

“No, madam,” replied Jaspar, “but they are not so very rare either; they are to be found in Jan Mayen’s Land, the Aleutian Isles, Kamtchatka, Russian America, and Iceland, as well as in the Antarctic circle, in Tierra del Fuego, and Australasia. They are the chimneys of the great furnace in the centre of the earth, where Nature makes her chemical experiments, and it appears to me that the Creator of all things has taken care to place these safety-valves wherever they were most needed.”

“I suppose so,” replied the Sergeant; “and yet it does seem very strange to find them in this icy climate.”

“Why should they not be here as well as anywhere else, Sergeant? I should say that ventilation holes are likely to be more numerous at the Poles than at the Equator !”

“Why so?” asked the Sergeant in much surprise.

“Because, if these safety-valves are forced open by the pressure of subterranean gases, it will most likely be at the spots where the surface of the earth is thinest, and as the globe is flattened at the poles, it would appear natural that-but Kellet is making signs to us,” added the Lieutenant, breaking off abruptly; “will you join us, Mrs Barnett?”

“No, thank you. I will stay here until we return to the fort. I don’t care to watch the walrus slaughtered!”

“Very well,” replied Hobson, “only don’t forget to join us in an hour’s time, meanwhile you can enjoy the view.”

The beach was soon reached, and some hundred walrus had collected, either waddling about on their clumsy webbed feet, or sleeping in family groups. Some few of the larger males-creatures nearly four feet long, clothed with very short reddish fur-kept guard over the herd.

Great caution was required in approaching these formidable looking animals, and the hunters took advantage of every bit of cover afforded by rocks and inequalities of the ground, so as to get within easy range of them and cut off their retreat to the sea.

On land these creatures are clumsy and awkward, moving in jerks or with creeping motions like huge caterpillars, but in water -their native element — they are nimble and even graceful; indeed their strength is so great, that they have been known to overturn the whalers in pursuit of them.

As the hunters drew near the sentinels took alarm, and raising their heads looked searchingly around them; but before they could warn their companions of danger, Hobson and Kellet rushed upon them from one side, the Sergeant, Petersen, and Hope from the other, and after lodging a ball in each of their bodies, despatched them with their spears, whilst the rest of the herd plunged into the sea.

The victory was an easy one; the five victims were very large and their tusks, though slightly rough, of the best quality. They were chiefly valuable, however, on account of the oil; of which-being in excellent condition-they would yield a large quantity. The bodies were packed in the sledges, and proved no light weight for the dogs.

It was now one o’clock, and Mrs Barnett having joined them, the party set out on foot-the sledges being full-to return to the fort. There were but ten miles to be traversed, but ten miles in a straight line is a weary journey, proving the truth of the adage “It’s a long lane that has no turning.” They beguiled the tediousness of the way by chatting pleasantly, and Mrs Barnett was ready to join in the conversation, or to listen with interest to the accounts the worthy soldiers gave of former adventures; but in spite of the brave struggle against ennui they advanced but slowly, and the poor dogs found it hard work to drag the heavily-laden sledges over the rough ground. Had it been covered with frozen snow the distance would have been accomplished in a couple of hours.

The merciful Lieutenant often ordered a halt to give the teams breathing-time, and the Sergeant remarked that it would be much more convenient for the inhabitants of the fort, if the morses would settle a little nearer Cape Bathurst.

“They could riot find a suitable spot,” replied the Lieutenant, with a melancholy shake of the head.

“Why not?” inquired Mrs Barnett with some surprise.

“Because they only congregate where the slope of the beach is gradual enough to allow of their creeping up easily from the sea. Now Cape Bathurst rises abruptly, like a perpendicular wall, from water three hundred fathoms deep. It is probable that ages ago portion of the continent was rent away in some violent volcanic convulsion, and flung into the Arctic Ocean. Hence the absence of morses on the beach of our cape.”

CHAPTER XVI.

TWO SHOTS.

The first half of September passed rapidly away. Had Fort Hope been situated at the Pole itself, that is to say, twenty degrees farther north, the polar night would have set in on the 21st of that month But under the seventieth parallel the sun would be visible above the horizon for another month. Nevertheless, the temperature was already decidedly colder, the thermometer fell during the night to 31deg Fahrenheit; and thin coatings of ice appeared here and there, to be dissolved again in the day-time.

But the settlers were able to await the coming of winter without alarm; they had a more than sufficient store of provisions, their supply of dried venison had largely increased, another score of morses had been killed, the tame rein-deer were warmly and comfortably housed, and a huge wooden shed behind the house was filled with fuel. In short, everything was prepared for the Polar night.

And now all the wants of the inhabitants of the fort being provided for, it was time to think of the interests of the Company. The Arctic creatures had now assumed their winter furs, and were therefore of the greatest value, and Hobson organised shooting parties for the remainder of the fine weather, intending to set traps when the snow should prevent further excursions.

They would have plenty to do to satisfy the requirements of the Company, for so far north it was of no use to depend on the Indians, who are generally the purveyors of the factories.

The first expedition was to the haunt of a family of beavers, long since noted by the watchful Lieutenant, on a tributary of the stream already referred to. It is true, the fur of the beaver is not now as valuable as when it was used for hats, and fetched PS16 per kilogramme (rather more than 2 lb.); but it still commands a high price as the animal is becoming very scarce, in consequence of the reckless way in which it has been hunted.

When the party reached their destination, the Lieutenant called Mrs Barnett’s attention to the great ingenuity displayed by beavers in the construction of their submarine city. There were some hundred animals in the little colony now to be invaded, and they lived together in pairs in the “holes” or “vaults” they had hollowed out near the stream. They had already commenced their preparations for the winter, and were hard at work constructing their dams and laying up their piles of wood. A dam of admirable structure had already been built across the stream, which was deep and rapid enough not to freeze far below the surface, even in the severest weather. This dam, which was convex towards the current, consisted of a collection of upright stakes interlaced with branches and roots, the whole being cemented together and rendered watertight with the clayey mud of the river, previously pounded by the animals’ feet. The beavers use their tails-which are large and flat, with scales instead of hair at the root-for plastering over their buildings and beating the clay into shape.

“The object of this dam,” said the Lieutenant to Mrs Barnett, “is to secure to the beavers a sufficient depth of water at all seasons of the year, and to enable the engineers of the tribe to build the round buts .called houses or lodges, the tops of which you can just see. They are extremely solid structures, and the walls made of stick, clay, roots, &c. are two feet thick. They can only be entered from below the water, and their owners have therefore to dive when they go home-an admirable arrangement for their protection. Each lodge contains two stories; in the lower the winter stock of branches, bark, and roots, is laid up, and the upper is the residence of the householder and his family.”

“There is, however, not a beaver in sight,” said Mrs Barnett; “is this a deserted village?”

“Oh no,” replied the Lieutenant, “the inhabitants are now all asleep and resting; they only work in the night, and we mean to surprise them in their holes.”

This was, in fact, easily done, and in an hour’s time about a hundred of the ill-fated rodents had been captured, twenty of which were of very great value, their fur being black, and therefore especially esteemed. That of the others was also long, glossy, and silky, but of a reddish hue mixed with chestnut brown. Beneath the long fur, the beavers have a second coat of close short hair of a greyish-white colour.

The hunters returned to the fort much delighted with the result of their expedition. The beavers’ skins were warehoused and labelled as “parchments” or “young beavers,” according to their value.

Excursions of a similar kind were carried on throughout the month of September, and during the first half of October, with equally happy results.

A few badgers were taken, the skin being used as an ornament for the collars of draught horses, and the hair for making brushes of every variety. These carnivorous creatures belong to the bear family, and the specimens obtained by Hobson were of the genus peculiar to North America, sometimes called the Taxel badger.

Another animal of the rodent family, nearly as industrious as the beaver, largely contributed to the stores of the Company. This was the musk-rat or musquash. Its head and body are about a foot long and its tail ten inches. Its fur is in considerable demand. These creatures, like the rest of their family, multiply with extreme rapidity, and a great number were easily unearthed.

In the pursuit of lynxes and wolverines or gluttons, fire-arms bad to be used. The lynx has all the suppleness and agility of the feline tribe to which it belongs, and is formidable even to the rein-deer; Marbre and Sabine were, however, well up to their work, and succeeded in killing more than sixty of them. A few wolverines or gluttons were also despatched, their fur is reddish-brown, and that of the lynx, light-red with black spots; both are of considerable value.

Very few ermines or stoats were seen, and Jaspar Hobson ordered his men to spare any which happened to cross their path until the winter, when they should have assumed their beautiful snow-white coats with the one black spot at the tip of the tail. At present the upper fur was reddish-brown and the under yellowish white, so that, as Sabine expressed it, it was desirable to let them “ripen,” or, in other words,-to wait for the cold to bleach them.

Their cousins, the polecats, however, which emit so disagreeable an odour, fell victims in great numbers to the hunters, who either tracked them to their homes in hollow trees, or shot them as they glided through the branches.

Martens, properly so-called, were hunted with great zeal. Their fur is in considerable demand, although not so valuable as that of the sable, which becomes a dark lustrous brown in the winter. The latter did not, however, come in the way of our hunters, as it only frequents the north of Europe and Asia as far as Kamtchatka, and is chiefly hunted by the inhabitants of Siberia. They had to be cone tent with the polecats and pine-martens, called “Canada-martens,” which frequent the shores of the Arctic Ocean.

All the weasels and martens are very difficult to catch; they wriggle their long supple bodies through the smallest apertures with great ease, and thus elude their pursuers. In the winter, however, they are easily taken in traps, and Marbre and Sabine looked forward to make up for lost time then, when, said they, “there shall be plenty of their furs in the Company’s stores.”

We have now only to mention the Arctic or blue and silver foxes, to complete the list of animals which swelled the profits of the Hudson’s Bay Company.

The furs of these foxes are esteemed in the Russian and English markets above all others, and that of the blue fox is the most valuable of all. This pretty creature has a black muzzle, and the fur is not as one would suppose blue, but whitish-brown; its great price-six times that of any other kind-arises from its superior softness, thickness, and length. A cloak belonging to the Emperor of Russia, composed entirely of fur from the neck of the blue fox (the fur from the neck is considered better than that from any other part), was shown at the London Exhibition of 1851, and valued at PS3400 sterling.

Several of these foxes were sighted at Cape Bathurst, but all escaped the hunters; whilst only about a dozen silver foxes fell into their hands. The fur of the latter-of a lustrous black dotted with white-is much sought after in England and Russia, although it does not command so high a price as that of the foxes mentioned above.

One of the silver foxes captured was a splendid creature, with a coal-black fur tipped with white at the extreme end of the tail, and with a dash of the same on the forehead. The circumstances attending its death deserve relation in detail, as they proved that Hobson was right in the precautions he had taken

On the morning of the 24th September, two sledges conveyed Mrs Barnett, the Lieutenant, Sergeant Long. Marbre, and Sabine, to Walruses’ Bay. Some traces of foxes had been noticed the evening before, amongst some rocks clothed with scanty herbage and the direction taken by the animals was very clearly indicated. The hunters followed up the trail of a large animal, and were rewarded by bringing down a very fine silver fox.

Several other animals of the same species were sighted, and the hunters divided into two parties-Marbre and Sabine going after one foe, and Mrs Barnett, Hobson, and the Sergeant, trying to cut off the retreat of another fine animal hiding behind some rocks.

Great caution and some artifice was necessary to deal with this crafty animal, which took care not to expose itself to a shot. The pursuit lasted for half-an-hour without success; but at last the poor creature, with the sea on one side and its three enemies on the other, had recourse in its desperation to a flying leap, thinking thus to escape with its life. But Hobson was too quick for it; and as it bounded by like a flash of lightning, it was struck by a shot, and to every one’s surprise, the report of the Lieutenant’s gun was succeeded by that of another, and a second ball entered the body of the fox, which fell to the ground mortally wounded.

“Hurrah! hurrah !” cried Hobson, “it is mine!”

“And mine!” said another voice, and a stranger stept forward and placed his foot upon the fox just as the Lieutenant was about to raise it.

Hobson drew back in astonishment. He thought the second ball had been fired by the Sergeant, and found himself face to face with a stranger whose gun was still smoking.

The rivals gazed at each other in silence.

The rest of the party now approached, and the stranger was quickly joined by twelve comrades, four of whom were like himself “Canadian travellers,” and eight Chippeway Indians.

The leader was a tall man-a fine specimen of his class-those Canadian trappers described in the romances of Washington Irving, whose competition Hobson had dreaded with such good reason. He wore the traditional costume ascribed to his fellow-hunters by the great American writer; a blanket loosely arranged about his person, a striped cotton shirt, wide cloth trousers, leather gaiters, deerskin mocassins, and a sash of checked woollen stuff round the waist, from which were suspended his knife, tobacco-pouch, pipe, and a few useful tools.

Hobson was right. The man before him was a Frenchman, or at least a descendant of the French Canadians, perhaps an agent of the American Company come to act as a spy on the settlers in the fort. The other four Canadians wore a costume resembling that of their leader, but of coarser materials.

The Frenchman bowed politely to Mrs Barnett, and the Lieutenant was the first to break the silence, during which he had not removed his eyes from his rival’s face.

“This fox is mine, sir,” he said quietly.

“It is if you killed it !” replied the other in good English, but with a slightly foreign accent.

“Excuse me, sir,” replied Hobson rather sharply, “it is mine in any case.”

The stranger smiled. scornfully at this lofty reply, so exactly what be expected from an agent of the Hudson’s Bay Company, which claims supremacy over all the northern districts, from the Atlantic to the Pacific.

“Do you mean to say,” he said at last, gracefully toying with his gun, “that you consider the Hudson’s Bay Company mistress of the whole of North America?”

“Of course I do,” said Hobson; “and if, as I imagine, you belong to an American company —

“To the St Louis Fur Company,” replied the stranger with a bow.

“I think,” added the Lieutenant, “that you will find it difficult to show the grants entitling you to any privileges here.”

“Grants! privileges !” cried the Canadian scornfully, “old world terms which are out of place in America !”

“You are not now on American but on English ground,” replied the Lieutenant proudly.

“This is no time for such a discussion,” said the hunter rather warmly. “We all know the old claims made by the English in general, and the Hudson’s Bay Company in particular, to these hunting grounds; but I expect coming events will soon alter this state of things, and America will be America from the Straits of Magellan to the North Pole !”

“I do not agree with you,” replied Hobson dryly.

“Well, sir, however that may be,” said the Canadian, “let us suffer this international question to remain in abeyance for the present. Whatever rights the Company may arrogate to itself, it is very clear that in the extreme north of the continent, and especially on the coast, the territory belongs to whoever occupies it. You have founded a factory on Cape Bathurst, therefore we will respect your domain, and you on your side will avoid ours, when the St Louis fur-traders have established their projected fort at another point on the northern shore of America.”

The Lieutenant frowned at this speech, for he well knew what complications would arise in the future when the Hudson’s Bay Company would be compelled to struggle for supremacy with powerful rivals, and that quarrelling and even bloodshed would ensue; he could not, however, but acknowledge that this was not the time to begin the discussion, and he was not sorry when the hunter, whose manners, to tell the truth, were very polite, placed the dispute on another footing.

“As for this present matter,” said the Canadian, “it is of minor importance, and we must settle it according to the rules of the chase. Our guns are of different calibre, and our balls can be easily distinguished; let the fox belong to whichever of us really killed it.”

The proposition was a fair one, and the body of the victim was examined accordingly. One ball had entered at the side, the other at the heart; and the latter was from the gun of the Canadian.

“The fox is your property, sir,” said Jaspar Hobson, vainly endeavouring to conceal his chagrin at seeing this valuable spoil fall into the enemy’s hands.

The Canadian took it, but instead of throwing it over his shoulder and carrying it off, he turned to Mrs Barnett, and said “Ladies are fond of beautiful furs, and although, perhaps, if they knew better what dangers and difficulties have to be surmounted in order to obtain them, they might not care so much about them, they are not likely to refuse to wear them on that account, and I hope, madam, you will favour me by accepting this one in remembrance of our meeting.”

Mrs Barnett hesitated for a moment, but the gift was offered with so much courtesy and kindliness of manner, that it would have seemed churlish to refuse, and she therefore accepted it with many thanks.

This little ceremony over, the stranger again bowed politely, and, followed by his comrades, quickly disappeared behind the rocks, whilst the Lieutenant and his party returned to Fort Good Hope. Hobson was very silent and thoughtful all the way; for he could not but feel that the existence of a rival company would greatly compromise the success of his undertaking, and lead to many future difficulties.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE APPROACH OF WINTER.

It was the 21st of September. The sun was then passing through the autumnal equinox, that is to say, the day and night were of equal length all over the world. These successive alternations of light and darkness were hailed with delight by the inhabitants of the fort. It is easier to sleep in the absence of the sun, and darkness refreshes and strengthens the eyes, weary with the unchanging brightness of several months of daylight.

We know that during the equinox the tides are generally at their greatest height; we have high water or flood, for the sun and moon being in conjunction, their double influence is brought to bear upon the waters. It was, therefore, necessary to note carefully the approaching tide at Cape Bathurst. Jaspar Hobson had made bench marks some days before, so as to estimate exactly the amount of vertical displacement of the waters between high and low tide; he found, however, that in spite of all the reports of previous observers, the combined solar and lunar influence was hardly felt in this part of the Arctic Ocean. There was scarcely any tide at all, and the statements of navigators on the subject were contradicted.

“There is certainly something unnatural here !” said Lieutenant Hobson to himself.

He did not in fact know what to think, but other cares soon occupied his mind, and he did not long endeavour to get to the rights of this singular peculiarity.

On the 29th September the state of the atmosphere changed considerably. The thermometer fell to 41deg Fahrenheit, and the sky became covered with clouds which were soon converted into heavy rain. The bad season was approaching.

Before the ground should be covered with snow, Mrs Joliffe was busy sowing the seeds of Cochlearia (scurvy grass) and sorrel, in the hope that as they were very hardy, and would be well protected from the rigour of the winter by the snow itself, they would come up in the spring. Her garden, consisting of several acres hidden behind the cliff of the cape, had been prepared beforehand, and it was sown during the last days of September.

Hobson made his companions assume their winter garments before the great cold set in, and all were soon suitably clothed in the linen under vests, deerskin cloaks, sealskin pantaloons, fur bonnets, and waterproof boots with which they were provided. We may also say that the rooms were suitably dressed; the wooden walls were hung with skins, in order to prevent the formation upon them of coats of ice in sudden falls of temperature. About this time, Rae set up his condensers for collecting the vapour suspended in the air, which were to be emptied twice a week. The heat of the stove was regulated according to the variations of the external temperature, so as to keep the thermometer of the rooms at 50deg Fahrenheit. The house would soon be covered with thick snow, which would prevent any waste of the internal warmth, and by this combination of natural and artificial protections they hoped to be able successfully to contend with their two most formidable enemies, cold and damp.

On the 2nd October the thermometer fell still lower, and the first snow storm came on; there was but little wind, and there were therefore none of those violent whirlpools of snow called drifts, but a vast white carpet of uniform thickness soon clothed the cape, the enceinte of fort, and the coast. The waters of the lake and sea, not yet petrified by the icy hand of winter, were of a dull, gloomy, greyish hue, and on the northern horizon the first icebergs stood out against the misty sky. The blockade had not yet commenced, but nature was collecting her materials, soon to be cemented by the cold into an impenetrable barrier.

The “young ice “was rapidly forming on the liquid surfaces of sea and lake. The lagoon was the first to freeze over; large whitish-grey patches appeared here and there, signs of a hard frost setting in, favoured by the calmness of the atmosphere. and after a night during which the thermometer had remained at 15deg Fahrenheit, the surface of the lake was smooth and firm enough to satisfy the most fastidious skaters of the Serpentine. On the verge of the horizon, the sky assumed that peculiar appearance which whalers call ice-blink, and which is the result of the glare of light reflected obliquely from the surface of the ice against the opposite atmosphere. Vast tracts of the ocean became gradually solidified, the ice-fields, formed by the accumulation of icicles, became welded to the coast, presenting a surface broken and distorted by the action of the waves, and contrasting strongly with the smooth mirror of the lake. Here and there floated these long pieces, scarcely cemented together at the edges, known as “drift ice,” and the “hummocks,” or protuberances caused by the squeezing of one piece against another, were also of frequent occurrence.

In a few days the aspect of Cape Bathurst and the surrounding districts was completely changed. Mrs Barnett’s delight and enthusiasm knew no bounds; everything was new to her, and she would have thought no fatigue or suffering too great to be endured for the sake of witnessing such a spectacle. She could imagine nothing more sublime than this invasion of winter with all its mighty forces, this conquest of the northern regions by the cold. All trace of the distinctive features of the country had disappeared; the land was metamorphosed, a new country was springing into being before her admiring eyes, a country gifted with a grand and touching beauty. Details were lost, only the large outlines were given, scarcely marked out against the misty sky. One transformation scene followed another with magic rapidity. The ocean, which but lately lifted up its mighty waves, was hushed and still; the verdant soil of various hues was replaced by a carpet of dazzling whiteness; the woods of trees of different kinds were converted into groups of gaunt skeletons draped in hoar-frost; the radiant orb of day had become a pale disc, languidly running its allotted course in the thick fog, and visible but for a few hours a day, whilst the sea horizon, no longer clearly cut against the sky, was hidden by an endless chain of icebergs, broken into countless rugged forms, and building up that impenetrable ice-wall, which Nature has set up between the Pole and the bold explorers who endeavour to reach it.

We can well understand to how many discussions and conversations the altered appearance of the country gave rise. Thomas Black was the only one who remained indifferent to the sublime beauty of the scene. But what could one expect of an astronomer so wrapped up in his one idea, that he might be said to be present in the little colony in the body, but absent in spirit? He lived in the contemplation of the heavenly bodies, passing from the examination of one constellation to that of another, roving in imagination through the vast realms of space, peopled by countless radiant orbs, and fuming with rage when fogs or clouds hid the objects of his devotion from his sight. Hobson consoled him by promising him fine cold nights admirably suited to astronomical observations, when he could watch the beautiful Aurora Borealis, the lunar halos, and other phenomena of Polar countries worthy even of his admiration.

The cold was not at this time too intense; there was no wind, and it is the wind which makes the cold so sharp and biting. Hunting was vigorously carried on for some days. The magazines became stocked with new furs, and fresh stores of provisions were laid up. Partridges and ptarmigans on their way to the south passed over the fort in great numbers, and supplied fresh and wholesome meat. Polar or Arctic hares were plentiful, and had already assumed their white winter robes. About a hundred of these rodents formed a valuable addition to the reserves of the colony.

There were also large flocks of the whistling swan or hooper, one of the finest species of North America. The hunters killed several couples of them, handsome birds, four or five feet in entire length, with white plumage, touched with copper colour on the head and upper part of neck. They were on their way to a more hospitable zone, where they could find the aquatic plants and insects they required for food, and they sped through the air at a rapid pace, for it is as much their native element as water. Trumpeter swans, with a cry like the shrill tone of a clarion, which are about the same size as the hoopers, but have black feet and beaks, also passed in great numbers, but neither Marbre nor Sabine were fortunate enough to bring down any of them. However, they shouted out “au revoir” in significant tones, for they knew that they would return with the first breezes of spring and that they could then be easily caught. Their skin, plumage, and down, are all of great value, and they are therefore eagerly hunted. In some favourable years tens of thousands of them have been exported, fetching half a guinea a piece.

During these excursions, which only lasted for a few hours, and were often interrupted by bad weather, packs of wolves were often met with. There was no need to go far to find them, for, rendered bold by hunger, they already ventured close to the factory. Their scent is very keen, and they were attracted by the smell from the kitchen. During the night they could be heard howling in a threatening manner. Although not dangerous individually, these carnivorous beasts are formidable in packs, and the hunters therefore took care to be well armed when they went beyond the enceinte of the fort.

The bears were still more aggressive. Not a day passed without several of these animals being seen. At night they would come close up to the enclosure, and sane were even wounded with shot, but got off, staining the snow with their blood, so that up to October 10th not one had left its warm and valuable fur in the hands of the hunters. Hobson would not have them molested, rightly judging that with such formidable creatures it was best to remain on the defensive, and it was not improbable that, urged on by hunger, they might attack Fort Hope before very long. Then the little colony could defend itself, and provision its stores at the same time.

For a few days the weather continued dry and cold, the surface of the snow was firm and suitable for walking, so that a few excursions were made without difficulty along the coast on the south of the fort. The Lieutenant was anxious to ascertain if the agents of the St Louis Fur Company had left the country. No traces were, however, found of their return march, and it was therefore concluded that they had gone down to some southern fort to pass the winter by another route.

The few fine days were soon over, and in the first week of November the wind veered round to the south, making the temperature warmer, it is true, but also bringing heavy snow-storms. The ground was soon covered with a soft Cushion several feet thick, which had to be cleared away round the house every day, whilst a lane was made through it to the postern, the shed, and the stable of the dogs and rein-deer. Excursions became more and more rare, and it was impossible to walk without snow-shoes.

When the snow has become hardened by frost, it easily sustains the weight of a man; but when it is soft and yielding, and the unfortunate pedestrian sinks into it up to his knees, the snow-shoes used by Indians are invaluable.

Lieutenant Hobson and his companions were quite accustomed to walk in them, and could glide about over the snow as rapidly as skaters on ice; Mrs Barnett had early practised wearing them, and was quite as expert in their use as the rest of the party. The frozen lake as well as the coast was scoured by these indefatigable explorers, who were even able to advance several miles from the shore on the solid surface of the ocean now covered with ice several feet thick. It was, however, very tiring work, for the ice-fields were rugged and uneven, strewn with piled-up ridges of ice and hummocks which had to be turned. Further out a chain of icebergs, some five hundred feet high, barred their progress. These mighty icebergs, broken into fantastic and picturesque forms, were a truly magnificent spectacle. Here they looked like the whitened ruins of a town with curtains battered in, and monuments and columns overthrown; there like some volcanic land torn and convulsed by earthquakes and eruptions; a confusion of glaciers and glittering ice-peaks with snowy ramparts and buttresses, valleys, and crevasses, mountains and hillocks, tossed and distorted like the famous Alps of Switzerland. A few scattered birds, petrels, guillemots, and puffins, lingering behind their fellows, still enlivened the vast solitude with their piercing cries; huge white bears roamed about amongst the hummocks, their dazzling coats scarcely distinguishable from the shining ice-truly there was enough to interest and excite our adventurous lady traveller, and even Madge, the faithful Madge, shared the enthusiasm of her mistress. How far, how very far, were both from the tropic zones of India or Australia!

The frozen ocean was firm enough to have allowed of the passage of a park of artillery, or the erection of a monument, and many were the excursions on its surface until the sudden lowering of the temperature rendered all exertion so exhausting that they had to be discontinued. The pedestrians were out of breath after taking a few steps, and the dazzling whiteness of the glittering snow could not be endured by the naked eye; indeed, the reverberation or flickering glare of the undulatory reflection of the light from the surface of the snow, has been known to cause several cases of blindness amongst the Esquimaux.

A singular phenomenon due to the refraction of rays of light was now observed: distances, depths, and heights lost their true proportions, five or six yards of ice looked like two, and many were the falls and ludicrous results of this optical illusion.

On October 14th the thermometer marked 3deg Fahrenheit below zero, a severe temperature to endure, especially when the north wind blows strongly. The air seemed to be made of needles, and those who ventured out of the house were in great danger of being frost-bitten, when death or mortification would ensue if the suspended circulation of the blood were not restored by immediate friction with snow. Garry, Belcher, Hope, and other members of the little community were attacked by frost-bite, but the parts affected being rubbed in time they escaped without serious injury.

It will readily be understood that all manual labour had now become impossible. The days were extremely short, the sun was only above the horizon for a few hours and the actual winter, implying entire confinement within doors, was about to commence. The last Arctic birds forsook the gloomy shores of the Polar Sea, only a few pairs of those speckled quails remained which the Indians appropriately call “winter birds,” because they wait in the Arctic regions until the commencement of the Polar night, but they too were soon to take their departure.

Lieutenant Hobson, therefore, urged on the setting of the traps and snares which were to remain in different parts of Cape Bathurst throughout the winter.

These traps consisted merely of rough joists supported on a square, formed of three pieces of wood so balanced as to fall on the least touchin fact, the same sort of trap as that used for snaring birds in fields on a large scale. The end of the horizontal piece of wood was baited with venison, and every animal of a moderate height, a fox or a marten, for instance, which touched it with its paw, could not fail to be crushed. Such were the traps set in the winter over a space of several miles by the famous hunters whose adventurous life has been so poetically described by Cooper. Some thirty of these snares were set round Fort Hope, and were to be visited at pretty frequent intervals.

On the 12th November a new member was born to the little colony. Mrs Mac-Nab was safely confined of a fine healthy boy, of whom the head carpenter was extremely proud. Mrs Barnett stood god-mother to the child, which received the name of Michael Hope. The ceremony of baptism was performed with considerable solemnity, and a kind of fete was held in honour of the little creature which had just come into the world beyond the 70th degree N. Lat.

A few days afterwards, on November .20th, the sun sunk below the horizon not to appear again for two months. The Polar night had commenced!

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE POLAR NIGHT.

The long night was ushered in by a violent storm. The cold was perhaps a little less severe, but the air was very damp, and, in spite of every precaution, the humidity penetrated into the house, and the condensers, which were emptied every morning, contained several pounds of ice.

Outside drifts whirled past like waterspouts-the snow seemed no longer to fall horizontally but vertically. The Lieutenant was obliged to insist upon the door being kept shut, for had it been opened the passages would immediately have become blocked up. The explorers were literally prisoners.

The window shutters were hermetically closed, and the lamps were kept burning through the long hours of the sleepless night.

But although darkness reigned without, the noise of the tempest replaced the silence usually so complete in these high latitudes. The roaring of the wind between the house and the cliff never ceased for a moment, the house trembled to its foundations, and had it not been for the solidity of its construction, must have succumbed to the violence of the hurricane. Fortunately the accumulation of snow round the walls broke the force of the squall, and Mac-Nabs only fear was for the chimneys, which were liable to be blown over. However, they remained firm, although they had constantly to be freed from the snow which blocked up the openings.

In the midst of the whistling of the wind, loud reports were heard, of which Mrs Barnett could not conjecture the cause. It was the falling of icebergs in the offing. The echoes caught up the sounds, which were rolled along like the reverberations of thunder. The ,,round shook as the ice-fields split open, crushed by the falling of these mighty mountains, and none but those thoroughly inured to the horrors of these wild rugged climates could witness these strange phenomena without a shudder. Lieutenant Hobson and his companions were accustomed to all these things, and Mrs Barnett and Madge were gradually becoming so, and were, besides, not altogether unfamiliar with those terrible winds which move at the rate of forty miles an hour, and overturn twenty-four pounders. Here, however, the darkness and the snow aggravated the dread might of the storm; that which was not crushed was buried and smothered, and, probably twelve hours after the commencement of the tempest, house, kennel, shed, and enceinte would have disappeared beneath a bed of snow of uniform thickness.

The time was not wasted during this long imprisonment. All these good people agreed together perfectly, and neither ill-humour nor ennui marred the contentment of the little party shut up in such a narrow space. They were used to life under similar conditions at Forts Enterprise and Reliance, and there was nothing to excite Mrs Barnett’s surprise in their ready accommodation of themselves to circumstances.

Part of the day was occupied with work, part with reading and games. Garments had to be made and mended, arms to be kept bright and in good repair, boots to be manufactured, and the daily journal to be issued in which Lieutenant Hobson recorded the slightest events of this northern wintering-the weather, the temperature, the direction of the wind, the appearance of meteors so frequent in the Polar regions, &c. &c. Then the house had to be kept in order, the rooms must be swept, and the stores of furs must be visited every day to see if they were free from damp; the fires and stoves, too, required constant superintendence, and perpetual vigilance was necessary to prevent the accumulation of particles of moisture in the corners.

To each one was assigned a task, the duty of each one was laid down in rules fixed up in the large room, so that without being overworked, the occupants of the fort were never without something to do. Thomas Black screwed and unscrewed his instruments, and looked over his astronomical calculations, remaining almost always shut up in his cabin, fretting and funning at the storm which prevented him from making nocturnal observations. The three married women had also plenty to see to : Mrs Mac-Nab busied herself with her baby who got on wonderfully, whilst Mrs Joliffe, assisted by Mrs Rae, and with the Corporal always at her heels, presided in the kitchen.

When work was done the entire party assembled in the large room, spending the whole of Sunday together. Reading was the chief amusement. The Bible and some books of travels were the whole library of the fort; but they were all the good folks required. Mrs Barnett generally read aloud, and her audience listened with delight. The Bible and accounts of adventures received a fresh charm when read out in her clear earnest voice; her gestures were so expressive that imaginary persons seemed to live when she spoke of them, and all were glad when she took up the book. She was, in fact, the life and soul of the little community, eager alike to give and receive instruction; she combined the charm and grace of a woman with the energy of a man, and she consequently became the idol of the rough soldiers, who would have willingly laid down their lives in her service. Mrs Barnett shared everything with her companions, never holding herself aloof or remaining shut up in her cabin, but working zealously amongst the others, drawing out the most reticent by her intelligent questions and warm sympathy. Good humour and good health prevailed throughout the little community, and neither bands nor tongues were idle.

The storm, however, showed no signs of abating. The party had now been confined to the house for three days, and the snow-drifts were as wild and furious as ever. Lieutenant Hobson began to get anxious. It was becoming imperatively necessary to renew the air of the rooms, which was too much charged with carbonic acid. The light of the lamps began to pale in the unhealthy atmosphere, and the air-pumps would not act, the pipes being choked up with ice; they were not, in fact, intended to be used when the house was buried in snow. It was necessary to take counsel; the Lieutenant and Sergeant Long put their heads together, and it was decided on November 23d that, as the wind beat with rather less violence on the front of the house, one of the windows at the end of the passage on that side should be opened.

This was no light matter. It was easy enough to open the window from inside, but the shutter outside was encrusted over with thick lumps of ice, and resisted every effort to move it. It had to be taken off its hinges, and the hard mass of snow was then attacked with pickaxe and shovel; it was at least ten feet thick, and it was not until a kind of channel bad been scooped out that the outer air was admitted.

Hobson, the Sergeant, several soldiers, and Mrs Barnett herself ventured to creep through this tunnel or channel, but not without considerable difficulty, for the wind rushed in with fearful fury.

What a scene was presented by Cape Bathurst and the surrounding plain. It was mid-day, and but a few faint twilight rays glimmered upon the southern horizon. The cold was not so intense as one would have supposed, and the thermometer marked only 15deg Fahrenheit above zero; but the snow-drifts whirled along with terrific force, and all would inevitably have been thrown to the ground, had not the snow in which they were standing up to their waists helped to sustain them against the gusts of wind. Everything around them was white, the walls of the enceinte, and the whole of the house even to the roof were completely covered over, and nothing but a few blue wreaths of smoke would have betrayed the existence of a human habitation to a stranger.

Under the circumstances the “promenade “was soon over; but Mrs Barnett bad made good use of her time, and would never forget the awful beauty of the Polar regions in a snow-storm, a beauty upon which few women had been privileged to look.

A few moments sufficed to renew the atmosphere of the house, and all unhealthy vapours were quickly dispersed by the introduction of a pure and refreshing current of air.

The Lieutenant and his companions hurried in, and the window was again closed; but after that the snow before it was removed every day for the sake of ventilation.

The entire week passed in a similar manner; fortunately the reindeer and dogs had plenty of food, so that there was no need to visit them. The eight days during which the occupants of the fort were imprisoned so closely, could not fail to be somewhat irksome to strong men, soldiers and hunters, accustomed to plenty of exercise in the open air; and we must own that listening to reading aloud gradually lost its charm, and even cribbage became uninteresting. The last thought at night was a hope that the tempest might have ceased in the morning, a hope disappointed every day. Fresh snow constantly accumulated upon the windows, the wind roared, the icebergs burst with a crash like thunder, the smoke was forced back into the rooms, and there were no signs of a diminution of the fury of the storm.

At last, however, on the 28th November the Aneroid barometer in the large room gave notice of an approaching change in the state of the atmosphere. It rose rapidly, whilst the thermometer outside fell almost suddenly to less than four degrees below zero. These were symptoms which could not be mistaken, and on the 29th November the silence all around the fort told that the tempest had ceased.

Every one was eager to get out, tine confinement had lasted long enough. The door could not be opened, and all had to get through the window, and clear away the fresh accumulation of snow; this time, however, it was no soft mass they had to remove, but compact blocks of ice, which required pickaxes to break them up.

It took about half-an-hour to clear a passage, and then every one in the fort, except Mrs Mac-Nab, who was not yet up, hastened into the interior court, glad once more to be able to walk about.

The cold was still intense, but the wind having gone down it was possible to endure it, although great care was necessary to escape serious consequences on leaving the heated rooms for the open air, the difference between the temperature inside and outside being some fifty-four degrees.

It was eight o’clock in the morning. Myriads of brilliant constellations studded the sky, and at the zenith shone the Pole star. Although in both hemispheres there are in reality but 5000 fixed stars visible to the naked eye, their number appeared to the observers incalculable. Exclamations of admiration burst involuntarily from the lips of the delighted astronomer as he gazed into the cloudless heavens, once more undimmed by mists or vapours. Never had a more beautiful sky been spread out before the eyes of an astronomer.

Whilst Thomas Black was raving in ecstasy, dead to all terrestrial matters, his companions had wandered as far as the enceinte. The snow was as bard as a rock, And so slippery that there were a good many tumbles, but no serious injuries.

It is needless to state that the court of the fort was completely filled up. The roof of the house alone appeared above the white mass, the surface of which had been worn smooth by the action of the wind; of the palisade nothing was visible but the top of the stakes, and the least nimble of the wild animals they dreaded could easily have climbed over them. But what was to be done? It was no use to think of clearing away a mass of frozen snow ten feet thick, extending over so large an extent of ground. All they could attempt would be to dig away the ice inside the enceinte, so as to form a kind of moat, the counterscarp of which would protect the palisade. But alas the winter was only beginning, and a fresh tempest might at any time fill in the ditch a few hours.

Whilst the Lieutenant was examining the works, which could no more protect his fort than a single sunbeam could melt the solid layer of snow,-Mrs Joliffe suddenly exclaimed:

“And our dogs! our reindeer!”

It was indeed time to think about the poor animals. The dog house and stable being lower than the house were probably entirely covered, and the supply of air had perhaps been completely cut off. Some hurried to the dog-house, others to the reindeer stable, and all fears were quickly dispelled. The wall of ice, which connected the northern corner of the house with the cliff, had partly protected the two buildings, and the snow round them was not more than four feet thick, so that the apertures left in the walls had not been closed up. The animals were all well, and when the door was opened, the dogs rushed out barking with delight.

The cold was so intense, that after an hour’s walk every one began to think of the glowing stove in the large room at home. There was nothing left to be done outside, the traps buried beneath ten feet of snow could not be visited, so all returned to the house, the window, was closed, and the party sat down to the dinner awaiting them with sharpened appetites.

W e can readily imagine that the conversation turned on the intensity of the cold, which had so rapidly converted the soft snow into a solid mass. It was no light matter, and might to a certain extent compromise the safety of the little colony.

“But, Lieutenant,” said Mrs Barnett, “can we not count upon a few days’ thaw-will not all this snow be rapidly converted into water?”

“Oh no, madam,” replied Hobson, “a thaw at this time of year is not at all likely. Indeed I expect the thermometer will fall still lower, and it is very much to be regretted that we were unable to remove the snow when it was soft.”

What, you think the temperature likely to become much colder?”

“I do most certainly, madam, 4deg below zero-what is that at this latitude?”

“What would it be if we were at the Pole itself?”

“The Pole, madam, is probably not the coldest point of the globe, for most navigators agree that the sea is there open. From certain peculiarities of its geographical position it would appear that a certain spot on the shores of North Georgia, 95deg longitude and 78deg latitude, has the coldest mean temperature in the world: 2deg below zero all the year round. It is, therefore, called the ‘pole of cold.’”

“But,” said Mrs Barnett, “we are more than 8deg further south than that famous point.”

“Well, I don’t suppose we shall suffer as much at Cape Bathurst as we might have done in North Georgia. I only tell you of the ‘pole of cold,’ that you may not confound it with the Pole properly so-called when the lowness of the temperature is discussed. Great cold has besides been experienced on other points of the globe. The difference is, that the low temperature is not there maintained.”

“To what places do you allude?” inquired Mrs Barnett; “I assure you I take the greatest interest in this matter of degrees of cold.”

“As far as I can remember, madam,” replied the Lieutenant, Arctic explorers state that at Melville Island the temperature fell to 61deg below zero, and at Port Felix to 65deg.”

“But Melville Island and Port Felix are some degrees farther north latitude than Cape Bathurst, are they not?”

“Yes, madam, but in a certain sense we may say that their latitude proves nothing. A combination of different atmospheric conditions is requisite to produce intense cold. Local and other causes largely modify climate. If I remember rightly in 1845… Sergeant Long, you were at Fort Reliance at that date?

“Yes, sir,” replied Long.

“Well, was it not in January of that year that the cold was so excessive?”

“Yes it was, I remember only too well that the thermometer marked 70deg below zero.”

“What!” exclaimed Mrs Barnett, “at Fort Reliance, on the Great Slave Lake?”

“Yes, madam,” replied the Lieutenant, “and that was at 65deg north latitude only, which is the same parallel as that of Christiania and St Petersburg.”

“Then we must be prepared for everything.”

“Yes, indeed, we must when we winter in Arctic countries.”

During the 29th and 30th November, the cold did not decrease, and it was necessary to keep up huge fires to prevent the freezing in all the corners of the house of the moisture in the atmosphere. Fortunately there was plenty of fuel, and it was not spared. A mean temperature of 52deg Fahrenheit was maintained indoors in spite of the intensity of the cold without.

Thomas Black was so anxious to take stellar observations, now that the sky was so clear, that he braved the rigour of the outside temperature, hoping to be able to examine some of the magnificent constellations twinkling on the zenith. But he was compelled to desist-his instruments “burnt” his hands!“Burnt “is the only word to express the sensation produced by touching a metallic body subjected to the influence of intense cold. Exactly similar results are produced by the sudden introduction of heat into an animate body, and the sudden withdrawal of the same from it, as the astronomer found to his cost when he left the skin of his fingers on his instruments. He had to give up taking observations.

However, the heavens made him the best amends in their power by displaying the most beautiful and indescribable phenomena of a lunar halo and an Aurora Borealis.

The lunar halo was a white corona with a pale red edge encircling the moon. This luminous meteor was about forty-five degrees in diameter, and was the result of the diffraction of the lunar rays through the small prismatic ice-crystals floating in the atmosphere. The queen of the night shone with renewed splendour and heightened beauty from the centre of the luminous ring, the colour and consistency of which resembled the milky transparent lunar rainbows which have been so often described by astronomers.

Fifteen hours later the heavens were lit up by a magnificent Aurora Borealis, the arch of which extended over more than a hundred geographical degrees. The vertex of this arch was situated in the magnetic meridian, and, as is often the case, the rays darted by the luminous meteor were of all the colours of the rainbow, red predominating. Here and there. the stars seemed to be floating in blood Glowing lines of throbbing colour spread from the dark segment on the horizon, some of them passing the zenith and quenching the light of the moon in their electric waves, which oscillated and trembled as if swept by a current of air.

No description could give an adequate idea of the glory which flushed the northern sky, converting it into a vast dome of fire, but after the magnificent spectacle had been enjoyed for about half an hour, it suddenly disappeared-not fading gradually away after concentration of its rays, or a diminution of its splendour, but dying abruptly, as if an invisible hand had cut off the supply of electricity which gave it life.

It was time it was over, for the sake of Thomas Black, for in another five minutes he would have been frozen where he stood !

CHAPTER XIX.

A NEIGHBOURLY VISIT.

On the 2nd December; the intensity of the cold decreased. The phenomena of the lunar halo and Aurora Borealis were symptoms which a meteorologist would have been at no loss to interpret. They implied the existence of a certain quantity of watery vapour in the atmosphere, and the barometer fell slightly, whilst the thermometer rose to 15deg above zero.

Although this temperature would have seemed very cold to the inhabitants of a temperate zone, it was easily endured by the colonists. The absence of wind made a great difference, and Hobson having noticed that the upper layers of snow were becoming softer, ordered his men to clear it away from the outer approaches of the enceinte. Mac-Nab and his subordinates set to work zealously, and completed their task in a few days. The traps were now uncovered and re-set. A good many footprints showed that there were plenty of furred animals about the cape, and as they could not get any other food, it was probable that the bait in the snares would soon attract them. In accordance with the advice of Marbre the hunter, a reindeer trap was constructed iii the Esquimaux style. A trench was dug twelve feet deep, and of a uniform width of ten feet. A see-saw plank, which would rebound when lowered, was laid across it. A bait of herbs was placed at one end of the plank, and any animal venturing to take them, was inevitably flung to the bottom of the pit, and the plank immediately returning to its former position, would allow of the trapping of another animal in the same manner. Once in, there was no getting out. The only difficulty Marbre had to contend with in making his trap, was the extreme hardness of the ground to be dug out, but both he and the Lieutenant were not a little surprised at finding beneath some five feet of earth and sand a bed of snow, as hard as a rock, which appeared to be very thick.

After closely examining the geological structure of the ground, Hobson observed:

“This part of the coast must have been subjected to intense cold for a considerable length of time a great many years ago. Probably the ice rests on a bed of granite, and the earth and sand upon it have accumulated gradually.”

“Well, sir, our trap won’t be any the worse for that, the reindeer will find a slippery wall, which it will be impossible for them to climb.”

Marbre was right, as the event proved.

On the 5th September, he and Sabine were on their way to the trench, when they heard loud growls. They stood still and listened.

“It’s no reindeer making that noise, “said Marbre, “I know well enough what creature has fallen into our pit.”

“A bear?” replied Sabine.

“Yes,” said Marbre, whose eyes glistened with delight.

“Well,” remarked Sabine, “we won’t grumble at that, bears’ steaks are as good as reindeers’, and we get the fur in! Come along.”

The two hunters were armed. They quickly slipped balls into their guns, which were already loaded with lead, and hurried to the trap. The see-saw plank had swung back into its place, but the bait had disappeared, having probably been dragged down, into the trench. The growls became louder and fiercer, and looking down the hunters saw that it was indeed a bear they had taken. A huge mass was huddled together in one corner of the pit, looking in the gloom like a pile of white fur with two glittering eyes. The sides of the trench had been ploughed up by the creature’s sharp claws, and had they been made of earth instead of ice, it would certainly have managed to scramble out, but it could get no hold on the slippery surface, and it had only managed to enlarge its prison, not to escape from it.

Under the circumstances the capture was easy. Two balls carefully aimed put an end to the bear’s life, and the next thing to do was to get it out of the pit. The two hunters returned to the fort for reinforcements, and ten of the soldiers, provided with ropes, returned with them. It was not without considerable difficulty that the body was hauled up. It was a huge creature, six feet long, weighing six hundred pounds, and must have possessed immense strength. It belonged to the suborder of white bears, and had the flattened head, long neck, short and slightly curved claws, narrow muzzle, and smooth white fur characteristic of the species. The edible portions of this valuable animal were confided to Mrs Joliffe, and b her carefully prepared for the table.

The next week the traps were in full activity. Some twenty martens were taken, in all the beauty of their winter clothing, but only two or three foxes. These cunning creatures divined the snare laid for them, and scratching up the ground near the trap, they often managed to run off with the bait without being caught. This made Sabine beside himself with rage for,” he said, “such a subterfuge was unworthy of a respectable fox.”

About the 10th December, the wind having veered round to the south-west, the snow again began to fall, but not in thick flakes, or in large quantities. The wind being high, however, the cold was severely felt, and it was necessary to settle in-doors again, and resume domestic occupations. Hobson distributed lime lozenges and lime juice to every one as a precaution against the scorbutic affections, which damp cold produces. No symptoms of scurvy had fortunately as yet appeared amongst the occupants of the fort, thanks to the sanitary precautions taken.

The winter solstice was now approaching, when the darkness of the Polar night would be most profound, as the sun would be at the lowest maximum point below the horizon of the northern hemisphere. At midnight the southern edges of the long white plains were touched with a faint glimmer of twilight, that was all, and it would be impossible to imagine anything more melancholy than the gloomy stillness and darkness of the vast expanse.

Hobson felt more secure from the attacks of wild beasts, now that the approaches to the enceinte had been cleared of snow, which was a fortunate circumstance, as ominous growlings were heard, the nature of which no one could mistake.

There was no fear of visits from Indian hunters or Canadians at this time of year, but an incident occurred proving that these districts were not altogether depopulated even in the winter, and which was quite an episode in the long dreary dark months. Some human beings still lingered on the coast hunting morses and camping under the snow. They belonged to the race of Esquimaux, deg` or eaters of raw flesh,” which is scattered over the continent of North America, from Baffin’s Bay to Behring Strait, seldom, however, advancing farther south than the Great Slave Lake.

On the morning of the 14th December, or rather nine hours before midday, Sergeant Long, on his return from an excursion along the coast, ended his report to the Lieutenant by saying, that if his eyes had not deceived him, a tribe of nomads were encamped about four miles from the fort, near a little cape jutting out from the coast.

“What do you suppose these nomads are?” inquired Hobson.

“Either men or morses,” replied the Sergeant. “There’s no medium!”

The brave Sergeant would have been considerably surprised if any one had told him that some naturalists admit the existence of the “medium,” the idea of which he scouted; and certain savants have with some humour classed the Esquimaux as an “intermediate species “between roan and the sea-cow.

Lieutenant Hobson, Mrs Barnett, Madge, and a few others at once went to ascertain the truth of the report. Well wrapt up, and on their guard against a sudden chill, their feet cased in furred boots, and guns and hatchets in their hands, they issued from the postern, and made their way over the frozen snow along the coast, strewn with masses of ice.

The moon, already in the last quarter, shed a few faint rays through the mists which shrouded the ice-fields. After marching for about an hour, the Lieutenant began to think that the Sergeant had been mistaken, and that what he had seen were morses, who had returned to their native element through the holes in the ice which they always keep open.

But Long, pointing to a grey wreath of smoke curling out of a conical protuberance on the ice-field some hundred steps off, contented himself with observing quietly —

“The morses are smoking, then !”

As he spoke some living creatures came out of the but dragging themselves along the snow. They were Esquimaux, but whether male or female none but a native could have said, for their costumes were all exactly alike.

Indeed, without in the least sharing the opinion of the naturalist quoted above, any one might have taken the rough shaggy figures for seals or some other amphibious animals. There were six of them-four full-grown, and two children. Although very short, they were broad-chested and muscular. They had the flat noses, long eye-lashes, large mouths, thick lips, long black coarse hair, and beardless chins of their race. Their costume consisted of a round coat made of the skin of the walrus, a hood, boots, trousers, and mittens of the same material. They gazed at the Europeans in silence.

“Does any one understand Esquimaux?” inquired the Lieutenant.

No one was acquainted with that idiom, and every one started when a voice immediately exclaimed in English, “Welcome! welcome !”

It was an Esquimaux, and, as they learned later, a woman, who, approaching Mrs Barnett, held out her hand.

The lady, much surprised, replied in a few words, which the native girl readily understood, and the whole family was invited to follow the Europeans to the fort.

The Esquimaux looked searchingly at the strangers, and after a few moments’ hesitation they accompanied the Lieutenant, keeping close together, however:

Arrived at the enceinte, the native woman, seeing the house, of the existence of which she had had no idea, exclaimed —

“House! snow-house!”

She asked if it were made of snow, which was a natural question enough, for the house was all but hidden beneath the white mass which covered the ground. She was made to understand that it was built of wood; she then turned and said a few words to her companions, who made signs of acquiescence, and they all passed through the postern, and were taken to the large room in the chief building.

They removed their hoods, and it became possible to distinguish sexes. There were two men, about forty or fifty years old, with yellowish-red complexions, sharp teeth, and projecting cheek-bones, which gave them something of the appearance of carnivorous animals; two women, still young whose matted hair was adorned with the teeth and claws of Polar bears; and two children, about five or six years old, poor little creatures with intelligent faces, who looked about them with wide wondering eyes.

“I believe the Esquimaux are always hungry,” said Hobson, “so I don’t suppose our guests would object to a slice of venison.”

In obedience to the Lieutenant’s order, Joliffe brought some reindeer-venison, which the poor creatures devoured with greedy avidity; but the young woman who had answered in English behaved with greater refinement, and watched Mrs Barnett and the women of the fort without once removing her eyes from them. Presently noticing the baby in Mrs Mac-Nabs arms; she rose and ran up to it, speaking to it in a soft voice, and caressing it tenderly.

Indeed if not exactly superior, the young girl was certainly more civilised than her companions, which was especially noticeable when, being attacked by a slight fit of coughing, she put her hand before her mouth in the manner enjoined by the first rules of civilised society.

This significant gesture did not escape any one, and Mrs Barnett, who chatted for some time with the Esquimaux woman, learned from her in a few short sentences that she had been for a year in the service of the Danish governor of Upper Navik, whose wife was English, and that she had left Greenland to follow her family to the hunting grounds. The two men were her brothers; the other woman was her sister-in-law, married to one of the men, and mother of the two children. They were all returning from Melbourne Island, on the eastern coast of English America, and were making for Point Barrow, on the western coast of Russian America, the home of their tribe, and-were considerably astonished to find a factory established on Cape Bathurst. Indeed the two men shook their heads when they spoke of it. Did they disapprove of the construction of a fort at this particular point of the coast? Did they think the situation ill-chosen? In spite of all his endeavours, Hobson could get no satisfactory reply to these questions, or rather he could not understand the answers he received.

The name of the young girl was Kalumah, and she seemed to have taken a great fancy to Mrs Barnett. But sociable as she was, she appeared to feel no regret at having left the governor of Upper Navik, and to be sincerely attached to her relations.

After refreshing themselves with the reindeer-venison, and drinking half-a-pint of rum, in which the children had their share, the Esquimaux took leave of their hosts; but before saying goodbye, the young girl invited Mrs Barnett to visit their snow-hut, and the lady promised to do so the next day, weather permitting.

The next day was fine, and accompanied by Madge, Lieutenant Hobson, and a few soldiers, well armed in case any bears should be prowling about, Mrs Barnett set out for “Cape Esquimaux,” as they had named the spot where the little colony had encamped.

Kalumah hastened forward to meet her friend of yesterday, and pointed to the but with an, air of pride. It was a large cone of snow, with an opening in the summit, through which the smoke from the fire inside made its way. These snow-houses, called igloos in the language of the Esquimaux, are constructed with great rapidity, and are admirably suited to the climate. In them their owners can endure a temperature 40deg below zero, without fires, and without suffering much. In the summer the Esquimaux encamp in tents made of seal and reindeer skins, which are called tupics.

It was no easy matter to get into this hut. The only opening was a hole close to the ground, and it was necessary to creep through a kind of passage three or four feet long, which is about the thickness of the walls of these snow-houses. But a traveller by profession, a laureate of the Royal Society, could not hesitate, and Mrs Paulina Barnett did not hesitate! Followed by Madge, she bravely entered the narrow tunnel in imitation of her guide. Lieutenant Hobson and his men dispensed with paying their respects inside.

And Mrs Barnett soon discovered that the chief difficulty was not getting into the but, but remaining in it when there. The room was heated by a fire, on which the bones of morses were burning; and the air was full of the smell of the fetid oil of a lamp, of greasy garments, and the flesh of the amphibious animals which form the chief article of an Esquimaux’s diet. It was suffocating and sickening! Madge could not stand it, and hurried out at once, but Mrs Barnett, rather than hurt the feelings of the young native, showed superhuman courage, and extended her visit over five long minutes!-five centuries! The two children and their mother were at home, but the men had gone to hunt morses four or five miles from their camp.

Once out of the hut, Mrs Barnett drew a long sigh of relief, and the colour returned to her blanched cheeks.

“Well, madam,” inquired the Lieutenant, “what do you think of Esquimaux houses?”

“The ventilation leaves something to be desired !” she replied simply.

The interesting native family remained encamped near Cape Esquimaux for eight days. The men passed twelve hours out of every twenty-four hunting morses. With a patience which none but sportsmen could understand, they would watch for the amphibious animals near the holes through which they come up to the surface of the ice-field to breathe. When the morse appears, a rope with a running noose is flung round its body a little below the head, and it is dragged on to the ice-field, often with considerable difficulty, and killed with hatchets. It is really more like fishing than bunting. It is considered a great treat to drink the warm blood of the walrus, and the Esquimaux often indulge in it to excess.

Kalumah came to the fort every day in spite of the severity of the weather. She was never tired of going through the different rooms, and watching Mrs Joliffe at her cooking or sewing. She asked the English name of everything, and talked for hours together with Mrs Barnett, if the term “talking” can be applied to an exchange of words after long deliberation on both sides. When Mrs Barnett read aloud, Kalumah listened with great attention, although she probably understood nothing of what she heard.

The young native girl had a sweet voice, and sometimes sang some strange melancholy rhythmical songs with a peculiar metre, and, if we may so express it, a frosty ring about them, peculiarly characteristic of their origin.

Mrs Barnett had the patience to translate one of these Greenland sagas, which was sung to a sad air, interspersed with long pauses, and filled with strange intervals, which produced an indescribable effect. We give an English rendering of Mrs Barnett’s translation, which may give a faint idea of this strange hyperborean poetry.

GREENLAND SONG

Dark Is the sky,

The sun sinks wearily;

My trembling heart, with sorrow filled,

Aches drearily !

My sweet child at my songs is smiling still,

While at his tender heart the icicles lie chill.

Child of my dreams I

Thy love doth cheer me;

The cruel biting frost I brave

But to be near thee!

Ah me, Ah me, could these hot tears of mine

But melt the icicles around that heart of thine!

Could we once more

Meet heart to heart,

Thy little hands close clasped in mine,

No more to part.

Then on thy chill heart rays from heaven above

Should fall, and softly melt it with the warmth of love!

On the 20th December the Esquimaux family came to take leave of the occupants of the fort. Kalumah was sorry to part with Mrs Barnett, who would gladly have retained her in her service, but the young native could not be persuaded to leave her own people; she promised, however, to return to Fort Hope in the summer.

Her farewell was touching. She presented Mrs Barnett with a copper ring, and received in exchange a necklace of black beads, which she immediately put on. Hobson gave the poor people a good stock of provisions, which they packed in their sledge; and after a few words of grateful acknowledgment from Kalumah, the whole party set out towards the west, quickly disappearing in the thick fogs on the shore.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE LARGE POLAR BEARS.

The only one of the four windows through which it was possible to look into the court of the fort was that opening at the end of the entrance passage. The outside shutters had not been closed; but before it could be seen through it had to be washed with boiling water, as the panes were covered with a thick coating of ice. This was done several times a day by the Lieutenant’s orders, when the districts surrounding the fort were carefully examined, and the state of the sky, and of the alcohol thermometer placed outside, were accurately noted.

On the 6th January, towards eleven o’clock in the morning, Kellet, whose turn it was to look out, suddenly called the Sergeant, and pointed to some moving masses indistinctly visible in the gloom. Long, approaching the window observed quietly —

“They are bears!”

In fact half-a-dozen of these formidable animals had succeeded in getting over the palisades, and, attracted by the smoke from the chimneys, were advancing upon the house.

On hearing of the approach of the bears, Hobson at once ordered the window of the passage to be barricaded inside; it was the only unprotected opening in the house, and when it was secured it appeared impossible for the bears to effect an entrance. The window was, therefore, quickly closed up with bars, which the carpenter Mac-Nab wedged firmly in, leaving a narrow slit through which to watch the movements of the unwelcome visitors.

“Now,” observed the head carpenter, “these gentlemen can’t get in without our permission, and we have time to hold a council of war.”

“Well, Lieutenant,” exclaimed Mrs Barnett, “nothing has been wanting to our northern winter! After the cold come the bears.”

“Not after,” replied the Lieutenant, “but, which is a serious matter, with the cold, and a cold ago intense that we cannot venture outside! I really don’t know how we shall get rid .of these tiresome brutes.”

“I suppose they will soon get tired of prowling about,” said the lady, “and return as they came.”

Hobson shook his head as if he had his doubts.

“You don’t know these animals, madam. They are famished with hunger, and will not go until we make them!”

“Are you anxious, then?”

“Yes and no,” replied the Lieutenant. “I don’t think the bears will get in; but neither do I see how we can get out, should it become necessary for us to do so.”

With these words Hobson turned to the window, and Mrs Barnett joined the other women, who had gathered round the Sergeant, and were listening to what he had to say about the bears. He spoke like a man well up in his subject, for he had had-many an encounter with these formidable carnivorous creatures, which are often met with even towards the south, where, however, they can be safely attacked, whilst here the siege would be a regular blockade, for the cold would quite prevent any attempt at a sortie.

Throughout the whole day the movements of the bears were attentively watched. Every now and then one of them would lay his great head against the window-pane and an ominous growl was heard.

The Lieutenant and the Sergeant took counsel together, and it was agreed that if their enemies showed no sign of beating a retreat, they would drill a few loopholes in the walls of the house, and fire at them. But it was decided to put off this desperate measure for a day or two, as it was desirable to avoid giving access to the outer air; the inside temperature being already far too low. The walrus oil to be burnt was frozen so hard that it had to be broken up with hatchets.

The day passed without any incident. The bears went and came, prowling round the house, but attempting no direct attack. Watch was kept all night, and at four o’clock in the morning they seemed to have left the court-at any rate, they were nowhere to be seen.

But about seven o’clock Marbre went up to the loft to fetch some provisions, and on his return announced that the bears were walking about on the roof.

Hobson, the Sergeant, Mac-Nab, and two or three soldiers seized their arms, and rushed to the ladder in the passage, which. communicated with the loft by a trap-door. The cold was, however, so intense in the loft that the men could not hold the barrels of their guns, and their breath froze as it left their lips and floated about them as snow.

Marbre was right; the bears were all on the roof, and the sound of their feet and their growls could be distinctly heard. Their great claws caught in the laths of the roof beneath the ice, and there was some danger that they might have sufficient strength to tear away the woodwork.

The Lieutenant and his men, becoming giddy and faint from the intense cold, were soon obliged to go down, and Hobson announced the state of affairs in as hopeful a tone as he could assume.

“The bears,” he said, “are now upon the roof. We ourselves have nothing to fear, as they can’t get into our rooms; but they may force an entrance to the loft, and devour the furs stowed away there. Now these furs belong to the Company, and it is our duty to preserve them from injury I ask you then, my friends, to aid me in removing them to a place of safety.”

All eagerly volunteered, and relieving each other in parties of two or three, for none could have supported the intense severity of the cold for long at a time, they managed to carry all the furs into the large room in about an hour.

Whilst the work was proceeding, the bears continued their efforts to get in, and tried to lift up the rafters of .the roof. In some places the laths became broken by their weight, and poor Mac-Nab was in despair; he had not reckoned upon such a contingency when he constructed the roof, and expected to see it give way every moment.

The day passed, however, without any change in the situation. The bears did not get in; but a no less formidable enemy, the cold, gradually penetrated into every room. The fires in the stoves burnt low; the fuel in reserve was almost exhausted; and before twelve o’clock, the last piece of wood would be burnt, and the genial warmth of the stove would no longer cheer the unhappy colonists.

Death would then await them-death in its most fearful form, from cold. The poor creatures, huddled together round the stove, felt that their own vital heat must soon become exhausted, but not a word of complaint passed their lips. The women bore their sufferings with the greatest heroism, and Mrs Mac-Nab pressed her baby convulsively to her ice-cold breast. Some of the soldiers slept, or rather were wrapped in a heavy torpor, which could scarcely be called sleep.

At three o’clock in the morning Hobson consulted the thermometer hanging in the large room, about ten feet from the stove.

It marked 4deg Fahrenheit below zero.

The Lieutenant pressed his hand to his forehead, and looked mournfully at his silent companions without a word. His half-condensed breath shrouded his face in a white cloud, and he was standing rooted to the spot when a hand was laid upon his shoulder. He started, and looked round to see Mrs Barnett beside him.

“Something must be done, Lieutenant Hobson !” exclaimed the energetic woman; “we cannot die like this without an effort to save ourselves !”

“Yes,” replied the Lieutenant, feeling revived by the moral courage of his companion-” yes, something must be done !” and he called together Long, Mac-Nab, and Rae the blacksmith, as the bravest men in his party. All, together with Mrs Barnett, hastened to the window, and having washed the panes with boiling water, they consulted the thermometer outside.

“Seventy-two degrees !” cried Hobson. “My friends, two courses only are open to us, we can risk our lives to get a fresh supply of fuel, or we can burn the benches, beds, partition walls, and everything in the house to feed our stoves for a few days longer. A desperate alternative, for the cold may last for some time yet; there is no sign of a change in the weather.”

“Let us risk our lives to get fuel !” said Sergeant Long.

All agreed that it would be the best course, and without another word each one set to work to prepare for the emergency.

The following were the precautions taken to save the lives of those who were about to risk themselves for the sake of the general good : —

The shed in which the wood was stored was about fifty steps on the left, behind, the principal house. It was decided that one of the men should try and run to the shed. He was to take one rope wound round his body, and to carry another in his hand, one end of which was to be held by one of his comrades. Once at the shed, he was to load one of the sledges there with fuel, and tie one rope to the front, and the other to the back of the vehicle, so that it could be dragged backwards and forwards between the house and the shed without much danger. A tug violently shaking one or the other cord would be the signal that the sledge was filled with fuel at the shed, or unloaded at the house.

A very clever plan, certainly; but two things might defeat it. The door of the shed might be so blocked up with ice that it would be very difficult to open it, or the bears might come down from the roof and prowl about the court. Two risks to be run !

Long, Mac-Nab, and Rae, all three volunteered for the perilous service; but the Sergeant reminded the other two that they were married, and insisted upon being the first to venture.

When the Lieutenant expressed a wish to go himself, Mrs Barnett said earnestly, “You are our chief; you ]nave no right to expose yourself. Let Sergeant Long go.”

Hobson could not but realise that his office imposed caution, and being called upon to decide which of his companions should go, be chose the Sergeant. Mrs Barnett pressed the brave man’s hand with ill-concealed emotion; and the rest of the colonists, asleep or stupefied, knew nothing of the attempt about to be made to save their lives.

Two long ropes were got ready. The Sergeant wound one round his body above the warm furs, worth some thousand pounds sterling, in which he was encased, and tied the other to his belt, on which he hung a tinder-box and a loaded revolver. Just before starting he swallowed down half a glass of rum, as he said, “to insure a good load of wood.”

Hobson, Rae, and Mac-Nab accompanied the brave fellow through the kitchen, where the fire had just gone out, and into the passage. Rae climbed up to the trap-door of the loft, and peeping through it, made sure that the bears were still on the roof. The moment for action had arrived.

One door of the passage was open, and in spite of the thick furs in which they were wrapped, all felt chilled to the very marrow of their bones; and when the second door was pushed open, they recoiled for an instant, panting for breath, whilst the moisture held in suspension in the air of the passage covered the walls and the floor with fine snow.

The weather outside was extremely dry, and the stars shone with extraordinary brilliancy. Sergeant Long rushed out without a moment’s hesitation, dragging the cord behind him, one end of which was held by his companions; the outer door was pushed to, and Hobson, Mae-Nab, and Rae went back to the passage and closed the second door, behind which they waited. If Long did not return in a few minutes, they might conclude that his enterprise had succeeded, and that, safe in the shed, he was loading the first train with fuel. Ten minutes at the most ought to suffice for this operation, if he had been able to get the door open.

When the Sergeant was fairly off, Hobson and Mac-Nab walked together towards the end of the passage.

Meanwhile Rae had been watching the bears and the loft. It was so dark that all hoped Long’s movements would escape the notice of the hungry animals.

Ten minutes elapsed, and the three watchers went back to the narrow space between the two doors, waiting for the signal to be given to drag in the sledge.

Five minutes more. The cord remained motionless in their hands! Their anxiety can be imagined. It was a quarter of an hour since the Sergeant had started, plenty of time for all he had to do, and he had given no signal.

Hobson waited a few minutes longer, and then tightening his hold of the end of the rope, he made a sign to his companions to pull with him. If the load of wood were not quite ready, the Sergeant could easily stop it from being dragged away.

The rope was pulled vigorously. A heavy object seemed to slide along the snow. In a few moments it reached the outer door.

It was the body of the Sergeant, with the rope round his waist. Poor Long had never reached the shed. He had fallen fainting to the ground, and after twenty minutes’ exposure to such a temperature there was little hope that he would revive.

A cry of grief and despair burst from the lips of Mac-Nab and Rae. They lifted their unhappy comrade from the ground, and carried him into the passage; but as the Lieutenant was closing the outer door, something pushed violently against it, and a horrible growl was heard.

“Help!” cried Hobson.

Mac-Nab and Rae rushed to their officer’s assistance; but Mrs Barnett had been beforehand with them and was struggling with all her strength to help Hobson to close the door. In vain; the monstrous brute, throwing the whole weight of its body against it, would force its way into the passage in another moment.

Mrs Barnett, whose presence of mind did not forsake her now, seized one of the pistols in the Lieutenant’s belt, and waiting quietly until the animal shoved its head between the door and the wall, discharged the contents into its open mouth.

The bear fell backwards, mortally wounded no doubt, and the door was shut and securely fastened.

The body of the Sergeant was then carried into the large room. But, alas! the fire was dying out. How was it possible to restore the vital heat with no means of obtaining warmth?

“I will go — I will go and fetch some wood !” cried the blacksmith Rae.

“Yes, Rae, we will go together!” exclaimed Mrs Barnett, whose courage was unabated.

“No, my friends, no!” cried Hobson; “you would fall victims to the cold, or the bears, or both. Let us burn all there is to burn in the house, and leave the rest to God !”

And the poor half-frozen settlers rose and laid about them with their hatchets like madmen. Benches, tables, and partition walls were thrown down, broken up, crushed to pieces, and piled up in the stove of the large room and kitchen furnace. Very soon good fires were burning, on which a few drops of walrus-oil were poured, so that the temperature of the rooms quickly rose a dozen degrees.

Every effort was made to restore the Sergeant. He was rubbed with warm rum, and gradually the circulation of his blood was restored. The white blotches with which parts of his body were covered began to disappear; but he had suffered dreadfully, and several hours elapsed before he could articulate a word. He was laid in a warm bed, and Mrs Barnett and Madge watched by him until the next morning.

Meanwhile Hobson, Mac-Nab, and Rae consulted bow best to escape from their terrible situation. It was impossible to shut their eyes to the fact that in two days this fresh supply of fuel would be exhausted, and then, if the cold continued, what would become of them all? The new moon had risen forty-eight hours ago, and there was no sign of a change in the weather! The north wind still swept the face of the country with its icy breath; the barometer remained at “fine dry weather; “and there was not a vapour to be seen above the endless succession of ice-fields. There was reason to fear that the intense cold would last a long time yet, but what was to be done? Would it do to try once more to get to the wood-shed, when the bears had been roused by the shot, and rendered doubly dangerous? Would it be possible to attack these dreadful creatures in the open air I No, it would be madness, and certain death for all!

Fortunately the temperature of the rooms had now become more bearable, and in the morning Mrs Joliffe served up a breakfast of hot meat and tea. Hot grog was served out, and the brave Sergeant was able to take his share. The heat from the stoves warmed the bodies and reanimated the drooping courage of the poor colonists, who were now ready to attack the bears at a word from Hobson. But the Lieutenant, thinking the forces unequally matched, would not risk the attempt; and it appeared likely that the day would pass without any incident worthy of note, when at about three o’clock in the afternoon a great noise was heard on the top of the house.

“There they are!” cried two or three soldiers, hastily arming themselves with hatchets and pistols.

It was evident that the bears had torn away one of the rafters of the roof, and got into the loft.

“Let every one remain where he is!” cried the Lieutenant. “Rae, the trap !”

The blacksmith rushed into the passage, scaled the ladder, and shut and securely fastened the trap-door.

A dreadful noise was now heard-growling, stamping of feet, and tearing of claws. It was doubtful whether the danger of the anxious listeners was increased, or the reverse. Some were of opinion that if all the bears were in the loft, it would be easier to attack them. They would be less formidable in a narrow space, and there would not be the same risk of suffocation from cold. Of course a conflict with such fierce creatures must still. be very perilous, but it no longer appeared so desperate as before.

It was now debated whether it would be better to go and attack the besiegers, or to remain on the defensive. Only one soldier could get through the narrow trap-door at a time, and this mace Hobson hesitate, and finally resolve to wait. The Sergeant and others, whose bravery none could doubt, agreed that he was in the right, and it might be possible that some new incident would occur to modify the situation. It was almost impossible for the bears to break through the beams of the ceiling, as they had the rafters of the roof, so that there was little fear that they would get on to the ground-floor.

The day passed by in anxious expectation, and at night no one could sleep for the uproar made by the furious beasts.

The next day, about nine o’clock, a fresh complication compelled Hobson to take active steps.

He knew that the pipes of the stove and kitchen furnace ran all along the loft, and being made of lime-bricks but imperfectly cemented together, they could not resist great pressure for any length of time. Now some of the bears scratched at the masonry, whilst others leant against the pipes for the sake of the warmth from the stove; so that the bricks began to give way, and soon the stoves and furnace ceased to draw.

This really was an irreparable misfortune, which would have disheartened less energetic men. But things were not yet at their worst. Whilst the fire became lower and lower, a thick, nauseous, acrid smoke filled the house; the pipes were broken, and the smoke soon became so thick that the lamps went out. Hobson now saw that he must leave the house if he wished to escape suffocation, but to leave the house would be to perish with cold. At this fresh misfortune some of the women screamed; and Hobson, seizing a hatchet, shouted in a loud voice

“To the bears! to the bears, my friends !”

It was the forlorn-hope. These terrible creatures must be destroyed. All rushed into the passage and made for the ladder, Hobson leading the way. The trap-door was opened, and a few shots were fired into the black whirlpool of smoke. Mingled howls and screams were heard, and blood began to flow on both sides; but the fearful conflict was waged in profound darkness.

In the midst of the melee a terrible rumbling sound suddenly drowned the tumult, the ground became violently agitated, and the house rocked as if it were being torn up from its foundations. The beams of the walls separated, and through the openings Hobson and his companions saw the terrified bears rushing away into the darkness, howling with rage and fright.

CHAPTER XXII.

FIVE MONTHS MORE.

A violent earthquake had shaken Cape Bathurst. Such convulsions were probably frequent in this volcanic region, and the connection between them and eruptions was once more demonstrated.

Hobson well understood the significance of what had occurred, and waited in anxious suspense. He knew that the earth might open and swallow up the little colony; but only one shock was felt, and that was rather a rebound than a vertical upheaval, which made the house lean over towards the lake, and burst open its walls. Immediately after this one shock, the ground again became firm and motionless.

The house, although damaged, was still habitable; the breaches in the walls were quickly repaired, and the pipes of the chimneys were patched together again somehow Fortunately the wounds the soldiers had received in their struggle with the bears were slight, and merely required dressing.

Two miserable days ensued, during which the woodwork of the beds and the planks of the partition walls were burnt, and the most pressing repairs executed by Mac-Nab and his men. The piles, well driven into the earth, had not yielded; but it was evident that the earthquake had caused a sinking of the level of the coast on which the fort was built, which might seriously compromise the safety of the building. Hobson was most anxious to ascertain the extent of the alteration of elevation, but the pitiless cold prevented him from venturing outside.

But at last there were symptoms of an approaching change in the weather. The stars shone with rather less brilliancy, and on the 11th January the barometer fell slightly; hazy vapours floated in the air, the condensation of which would raise the temperature; and on the 12th January the wind veered to the south-west, and snow fell at irregular intervals.

The thermometer outside suddenly rose to 15deg above zero, and to the frozen colonists it was like the beginning of spring.

At eleven o’clock the same morning all were out of doors. They were like a band of captives unexpectedly set free. They were, however, absolutely forbidden to go beyond the enceinte of the fort, in case of awkward meetings.

The sun had not yet reappeared above the horizon, but it approached it nearly enough to produce a long twilight, during which objects could be distinctly seen to a distance of two miles; and Hobson’s first thought was to ascertain what difference the earthquake had produced in the appearance of the surrounding districts.

Certain changes had been effected. The crest of the promontory of Cape Bathurst had been broken off, and large pieces of the cliff had been flung upon the beach. The whole mass of the cape seemed to have been bent towards the lake, altering the elevation of the plateau on which the fort was built. The soil on the west appeared to have been depressed, whilst that on the east had been elevated. One of the results of this change of level would unfortunately be, that when the thaw set in, the waters of the lake and of Paulina river, in obedience to the law, requiring liquids to maintain their level, would inundate a portion of the western coast. The stream would probably scoop out another bed, and the natural harbour at its mouth would be destroyed. The hills on the eastern bank seemed to be considerably depressed, but the cliffs on the west were too far off for any accurate observations to be made. The important alteration produced by the earthquake may, in fact, be summed up in a very few words : the horizontal character of the ground was replaced by a slope from east to west.

“Well, Lieutenant,” said Mrs Barnett, laughing, “you were good enough to give my name to the port and river, and now there will be neither Paulina river nor Port Barnett. I must say I have been hardly used.”

“Well, madam,” replied Hobson, “although the river is gone, the lake remains, and we will call it Lake Barnett. I hope that it at least will remain true to you.”

Mr and Mrs Joliffe, on leaving the house, had hurried, one to the doghouse, the other to the reindeer-stable. The dogs had not suffered much from their lone, confinement, and rushed into the court barking with delight. One reindeer had died, but the others, though thin, appeared to be in good health.

“Well, madam,” said the Lieutenant, “we have got through our troubles better than we could have expected.”

“I never despaired,” replied the lady. “The miseries of an Arctic -winter would not conquer men like you and your companions.”

“To own the truth, madam,” replied Hobson, “I never experienced such intense cold before, in all the years I have spent in the north; and if it had lasted many days longer we should all have been lost.”

“The earthquake came in the nick of time then, not only to drive away the bears, but also to modify the extremity of the cold?”

“Perhaps so, madam. All natural phenomena influence each other to a certain extent. But the volcanic structure of the soil makes me rather uneasy. I cannot but regret the close vicinity of this active volcano. If the lava from it cannot reach us, the earthquakes connected with it can. Just look at our house now!”

“Oh, all that can be put right when the fine weather comes, and you will make it all the stronger for the painful experience you have gained.”

“Of course we shall, but meanwhile I am afraid you won’t find it very comfortable.”

“Are you speaking to me, Lieutenant? to an old traveller like me? I shall imagine myself one of the crew of a small vessel, and now that it does not pitch and toss, I shall have no fear of being sea-sick.”

“What you say does not surprise me,” replied Hobson; “we all know your grandeur of character, your moral courage and imperturbable good temper. You have done much to help us all to bear our troubles, and I thank you in my own name and that of my men.”

“You flatter me, Lieutenant; you flatter me.”

“No, no; I only say what every one thinks. But may I ask you one question. You know that next June, Captain Craventy is to send us a convoy with provisions, which will take back our furs to Fort Reliance. I suppose our friend Thomas Black, after having seen his eclipse, will return with the Captain’s men. Do you mean to accompany him?”

“Do you mean to send me back?” asked the lady with a smile.

“O madam !” —

“Well, my superior officer,” replied Mrs Barnett, extending her hand to the Lieutenant, “I shall ask you to allow me to spend another winter at Fort Hope. Next year one of the Company’s ships will probably anchor off Cape Bathurst, and I shall return in it. Having come overland, I should like to go back by Behring Strait.”

The Lieutenant was delighted with his companion’s decision. The two had become sincerely attached to each other, and had many tastes and qualities in common. The hour of separation could not fail to be painful to both; and who could tell what further trials awaited `the colonists, in which their combine, influence might sustain the courage of the rest?

On the 20th January the sun at last reappeared, and the Polar night was at an end. It only remained above the horizon for a few minutes, and was greeted with joyous hurrahs by the settlers. From this date the days gradually increased in length.

Throughout the month of February, and until the 15th March, there were abrupt transitions from fine to bad weather. The fine days were so cold that the hunters could not go out; and in the bad weather snowstorms kept them in. It was only between whiles that any outdoor work could be done; and long excursions were out of the question. There was no necessity for them, however, as the traps were in full activity. In the latter end of the winter, martens, foxes, ermines, wolverines, and other valuable animals were taken in large numbers, and the trappers had plenty to do.

In March an excursion was ventured on as far as Walruses’ Bay and it was noticed that the earthquake had considerably altered the form of the cliffs, which were much depressed; whilst the igneous hills beyond, with their summits wrapped in mist, seemed to look larger and more threatening than ever.

About the 20th March the hunters sighted the first swans migrating from the south, and uttering shrill cries as they flew. A few snow buntings and winter hawks were also seen. But the ground was still covered with thick layers of frozen snow, and the sun was powerless to melt the hard surface of the lake and sea.

The breaking up of the frost did not commence until early in April. The ice burst with a noise like the discharge of artillery.

Sudden changes took place in the appearance of the icebergs broken by collisions, undermined by the action of the water once more set free, huge masses rolled over with an awful crash, in consequence of the displacement of their centre of gravity, causing fractures and fissures in the ice-fields which greatly accelerated their breaking up.

At this time the mean temperature was 32deg above zero, so that the upper layer of ice on the beach rapidly dissolved, whilst the chain of icebergs, drifted along by the currents of the Polar Sea, gradually drew back and became lost in the fogs on the horizon. On the 15th April the sea was open, and a vessel from the Pacific Ocean coming through Behring Strait, could certainly have skirted along the American coast, and have anchored off Cape Bathurst.

Whilst the ice was disappearing from the ocean, Lake Barnett was also laying aside its slippery armour, much to the delight of the thousands of ducks and other water-fowl which began to teem upon its banks. As Hobson had foreseen, however, the level of the lake was affected by the slope of the soil. That part of the beach which stretched away from the enceinte of the fort, and was bounded on the east by wooded hills, had increased considerably in extent; and Hobson estimated that the waters of the lake had receded five hundred paces on the eastern bank. As a natural consequence, the water on the western side had risen, and if not held back by some natural barrier, would inundate the country.

On the whole, it was fortunate that the slope was from east to west; for had it been from west to east, the factory must have been submerged.

The little river dried up as soon as the thaw set free its waters. It might almost be said to have run back to its source, so abrupt was the slope of its bed from north to south.

“We have now to erase a river from the map of the Arctic regions,” observed Hobson to his Sergeant. “It would have been embarrassing if we had been dependent on the truant for drinkable water. Fortunately we have still Lake Barnett, and I don’t suppose our thirsty men will drain it quite dry.”

“Yes, we’ve got the lake,” replied the Sergeant; “but do you think its waters have remained sweet?”

Hobson started and looked at his subordinate with knitted brows. It had not occurred to him that a fissure in the ground might have established a communication between the lake and the sea! Should it be so, ruin must ensue, and the factory would inevitably have to be abandoned after all.

The Lieutenant and Hobson rushed to the lake and found their fears groundless. Its waters were still sweet.

Early in May the snow had disappeared in several places, and a scanty vegetation clothed the soil. Tiny mosses and slender grasses timidly pushed up their stems above the ground, and the sorrel and cochlearia seeds which Mrs Joliffe had planted began to sprout. The carpet of snow had protected them through the bitter winter; but they had still to be saved from the beaks of birds and the teeth of rodents. This arduous and important task was confided to the worthy Corporal, who acquitted himself of it with the zeal and devotion of a scarecrow in a kitchen garden.

The long days had now returned, and hunting was resumed.

Hobson was anxious to have a good stock of furs for the agents from Fort Reliance to take charge of when they arrived, as they would do in a few weeks. Marbre, Sabine, and the others, therefore, commenced the campaign. Their excursions were neither long nor fatiguing : they never went further than two miles from Cape Bathurst, for they had never before been in a district so well stocked with game; and they were both surprised and delighted. :Martens, reindeer, hares, caribous, foxes, and ermines passed close to their guns.

One thing, however, excited some regret in the minds of the colonists, not a trace was to be seen of their old enemies the bears; and it seemed as if they had taken all their relations with them. Perhaps the earthquake had frightened them away, for they have a very delicate nervous organisation, if such an expression can be applied to a mere quadruped. It was a pity they were gone, for vengeance could not be wreaked upon them.

The month of May was very wet. Rain and snow succeeded each other. The mean temperature was only 41deg above zero. Fogs were of frequent occurrence, and so thick that it would often have been imprudent to go any distance from the fort. Petersen and Kellet once caused their companions grave anxiety by disappearing for forty-eight hours. They had lost their way, and turned to the south when they thought they were near to Walruses’ Bay. They came back exhausted and half dead with hunger.

June came at last, and with it really fine warm weather. The colonists were able to leave off their winter clothing. They worked zealously at repairing the house, the foundations of which had to be propped up; and Hobson also ordered the construction of a large magazine at the southern corner of the court. The quantity of game justified the expenditure of time and labour involved : the number of furs collected was already considerable, and it was necessary to have some place set aside in which to keep them.

The Lieutenant now expected every day the arrival of the detachment to be sent by Captain Craventy. A good many things were still required for the new settlement. The stores were getting low; and if the party had left the fort in the beginning of May, they ought to reach Cape Bathurst towards the middle of June. It will be remembered that the Captain and his Lieutenant had fixed upon the cape as the spot of rendezvous, and Hobson having constructed his fort on it, there was no fear of the reinforcements failing to find him.

From the 15th June the districts surrounding the cape were carefully watched. The British flag waved from the summit of the cliff, and could be seen at a considerable distance. It was probable that the convoy would follow the Lieutenant’s example, and skirt along the coast from Coronation Gulf. If not exactly the shortest, it was the surest route, at a time when, the sea being free from ice, the coast-line could be easily followed.

When the month of June passed without the arrival of the expected party, Hobson began to feel rather uneasy, especially as the country again became wrapped in fogs. He began to fear that the agents might lose their way, and often talked the matter over with Mrs Barnett, Mac-Nab, and Rae.

Thomas Black made no attempt to conceal his uneasiness, for he was anxious to return with the party from Fort Reliance as soon as he had seen his eclipse; and should anything keep them back from coming, he would have to resign himself to another winter, a prospect which did not please him at all; and in reply to his eager questions, Hobson could say little to reassure him.

The 4th July dawned. No news! Some men sent to the southeast to reconnoitre, returned, bringing no tidings.

Either the agents had never started, or they had lost their way. The latter hypothesis was unfortunately the more probable. Hobson knew Captain Craventy, and felt confident that he had sent off the convoy at the time named.

His increasing anxiety will therefore be readily understood. The fine season was rapidly passing away. Another two months and the Arctic winter, with its bitter winds, its whirlpools of snow, and its long nights, would again set in.

Hobson, as we well know, was not a man to yield to misfortune without a struggle. Something must be done, and with the ready concurrence of the astronomer the following plan was decided on.

It was now the 5th July. In another fortnight-July 18th-the solar eclipse was to take place, and after that Thomas Black would be free to leave Fort Hope. It was therefore agreed that if by that time the agents had not arrived, a convoy of a few men and four or five sledges should leave the factory, and make for the Great Slave Lake, taking with them some of the most valuable furs; and if no accident befell them, they might hope to arrive at Fort Reliance in six weeks at the latest-that is to say, towards the end of August.

This matter settled, Thomas Black shrank back into his shell, and became once more the man of one idea, awaiting the moment when the moon, passing between the orb of day and “himself,” should totally eclipse the disc of the sun.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE ECLIPSE OF THE 18TH JULY 1860.

The mists did not disperse. The sun shone feebly through thick curtains of fog, and the astronomer began to have a great dread lest the eclipse should not be visible after all. Sometimes the fog was so dense that the summit of the cape could not be seen from the court of the fort.

Hobson got more and more uneasy. He had no longer any doubt that the convoy had gone astray in the strange land; moreover, vague apprehensions and sad forebodings increased his depression. He could not look into the future with any confidence — why, he would have found it impossible to explain. Everything apparently combined to reassure him. In spite of the great rigour of the winter, his little colony was in excellent health. No quarrels had arisen amongst the colonists, and their zeal and enthusiasm was still unabated. The surrounding districts were well stocked with game, the harvest of furs had surpassed his expectations, and the Company might well be satisfied with the result of the enterprise. Even if no fresh supply of provisions arrived, the resources of the country were such that the prospect of a second winter need awake no misgivings. Why, then, was Lieutenant Hobson losing hope and confidence?

He and Mrs Barnett had many a talk on the subject; and the latter did all she could to raise the drooping spirits of the commanding officer, urging upon him all the considerations enumerated above; and one day walking with him along the beach, she pleaded the cause of Cape Bathurst and the factory, built at the cost of-so much suffering, with more than usual eloquence.

“Yes, yes, madam, you are right,” replied Hobson; “but we can’t help our presentiments. I am no visionary. Twenty times in my soldier’s life I have been in critical circumstances, and have never lost presence of mind for one instant; and now for the first time in my life I am uneasy about the future. If I had to face a positive danger, I should have no fear; but a vague uncertain peril of which I have only a presentiment “

“What danger do you mean?” inquired Mrs Barnett; “a danger from men, from animals, or the elements?”

“Of animals I have no dread whatever, madam; it is for them to tremble before the hunters of Cape Bathurst, nor do I fear men; these districts are frequented by none but Esquimaux, and the Indians seldom venture so far north.”

“Besides, Lieutenant,” said Mrs Barnett, “the Canadians, whose arrival you so much feared in the fine season, have never appeared.”

“I am very sorry for it, madam.”

“What! you regret the absence of the rivals who are so evidently hostile to your Company?”

“Madam, I am both glad and sorry that they have not come; that will of course puzzle you. But observe that the expected convoy from Fort Reliance has not arrived. It is the same with. the agents of the St Louis Fur Company; they might have come, and they have not done so. Not a single Esquimaux has visited this part of the coast during the summer either” —

“And what do you conclude from all this?” inquired Mrs Barnett.

“I conclude that it is not so easy to get to Cape Bathurst or to Fort Hope as we could wish.”

The lady looked into the Lieutenant’s anxious face, struck with the melancholy and significant intonation of the word easy.

“Lieutenant Hobson,” she said earnestly, “if you fear neither men nor animals, I must conclude that your anxiety has reference to the elements.”

“Madam,” he replied, “I do not know if my spirit be broken, or if my presentiments blind me, but there seems to me to be something uncanny about this district. If I had known it better I should not have settled down in it. I have already called your attention to certain peculiarities, which to me appear inexplicable; the total absence of stones everywhere, and the clear-cut line of the coast. I can’t make out about the primitive formation of this end of the continent. I know that the vicinity of a volcano may cause some phenomena; but you remember what I said to you on the subject of the tides?”

“Oh yes, perfectly.”

“Where the sea ought according to the observations of explorers in these latitudes, to have risen fifteen or twenty feet, it has scarcely risen one !”

“Yes; but that you accounted for by the irregular distribution of land and the narrowness of the straits.”

“I tried to account for it, that is all,” replied Hobson; “but the day before yesterday I noticed a still more extraordinary phenomenon, which I cannot even try to explain, and I doubt if the greatest savants could do so either.”

Mrs Barnett looked inquiringly at Hobson.

“What has happened?” she exclaimed.

“Well, the day before yesterday, madam, when the moon was full, and according to the almanac the tide ought to have been very high, the sea did not even rise one foot, as it did before-it did not rise at all.”

“Perhaps you may be mistaken observed Mrs Barnett.

“I am not mistaken. I saw it with my own eyes. The day before yesterday, July 4th, there was positively no tide on the coast of Cape Bathurst.”

“And what do you conclude from that?” inquired Mrs Barnett.

“I conclude madam,” replied the Lieutenant, “either that the laws of nature are changed, or that this district is very peculiarly situated… or rather… I conclude nothing… I explain nothing… I am puzzled… I do not understand it; and therefore… therefore I am anxious.”

Mrs Barnett asked no more questions. Evidently the total absence of tides was as unnatural and inexplicable as would be the absence of the sun from the meridian at noon. Unless the earthquake had so modified the conformation of the coast of the Arctic regions as to account for it-but no, such an idea could not be entertained by any one accustomed to note terrestrial phenomena.

As for supposing that the Lieutenant could be mistaken in his observations, that was impossible; and that very day he and Mrs Barnett, by means of beach-marks made on the beach, ascertained beyond all doubt that whereas a year before the sea rose a foot, there was now no tide whatever.

The matter was kept a profound secret, as Hobson was unwilling to render his companions anxious. But he might often be seen standing motionless and silent upon the summit of the cape, gazing across the sea, which was now open, and stretched away as far as the eye could reach.

During the month of July hunting the furred animals was discontinued, as the martens, foxes, and others had already lost their winter beauty. No game was brought down but that required for food, such as caribous, Polar hares, &c. which, strange to say, instead of being scared away by the guns, continued to multiply near the fort. Mrs Barnett did not fail to note this peculiar, and, as the event proved, significant fact.

No change had taken place in the situation on the 15th July. No news from Fort Reliance. The expected convoy did not arrive, and Hobson resolved to execute his project of sending to Captain Craventy, as Captain Craventy did not come to him.

Of course none but Sergeant Long could be appointed to the command of the little troop, although the faithful fellow would rather not have been separated from his Lieutenant. A considerable time must necessarily elapse before he could get back to Fort Hope. He would have to pass the winter at Fort Reliance, and return the next summer. Eight months at least! It is true either Mac-Nab or Rae could have taken the Sergeant’s place; but then they were married, and the one being a master carpenter, and the other the only blacksmith, the colonists could not well have dispensed with their services.

Such were the grounds on which the Lieutenant chose Long, and the Sergeant submitted with military obedience. The four soldiers elected to accompany him were Belcher, Pond, Petersen, and Kellet, who declared their readiness to start.

Four sledges and their teams of dogs were told off for the service. They were to take a good stock of provisions, and the most valuable of the furs. Foxes, ermines, martens, swans, lynxes, musk-rats, gluttons, &c. all contributed to the precious convoy. The start was fixed for the morning of the 19th July, the day after the eclipse. Of course Thomas Black was to accompany the Sergeant, and one sledge was to convoy his precious person and instruments.

The worthy savant endured agonies of suspense in the few days preceding the phenomenon which he awaited with so much impatience. He might well be anxious; for one day it was fine and another wet, now mists obscured the sun, or thick fogs hid it all together; and the wind veered to every point of the horizon with provoking fickleness and uncertainty. What if during the few moments of the eclipse the queen of the night and the great orb of day should be wrapped in an opaque cloud at the critical moment, so that he, the astronomer, Thomas Black, come so far to watch the phenomenon, should be unable to see the luminous corona or the red prominences! How terrible would be the disappointment! How many dangers, how much suffering, how much fatigue, would have been gone through in vain !

“To have come so far to see the moon, and not to see it!” he cried in a comically piteous tone.

No, he could not face the thought and early of an evening he would climb to the summit of the cape and gaze into the heavens. The fair Phoebe was nowhere to be seen; for it being three days before new moon, she was accompanying the sun in his daily course, and her light was quenched in his beams.

Many a time did Thomas Black relieve his over-burdened heart by pouring out his troubles to Mrs Barnett. The good lady felt sincerely sorry for him, and one day, anxious to reassure him, she told him that the barometer showed a certain tendency to rise, and reminded him that they were in the fine season.

The fine season !” cried the poor astronomer” shrugging his shoulders. “Who can speak of a fine season in such a country as this?”

“Well, but, Mr Black,” said Mrs Barnett, “suppose, for the sake of argument, that you miss this eclipse by any unlucky chance, I suppose there will be another some day. The eclipse of July 18th will not be the last of this century.”

“No, madam, no,” returned Black; “there will be five more total eclipses of the sun before 1900. One on the 31st December 1861, which will be total for the Atlantic Ocean, the Mediterranean, and the Sahara Desert; a second on the 22d December 1870, total for the Azores, the south of Spain, Algeria, Sicily, and Turkey; a third on the 19th August 1887, total for the north-east of Germany, the south of Russia, and Central Asia; a fourth on the 9th April 1896, visible in Greenland, Lapland, and Siberia; and lastly, a fifth on the 28th May 1900, which will be total for the United States, Spain, Algeria, and

Egypt.”

“Well, Mr Black,” resumed Mrs Barnett, “if you lose the eclipse of the 18th July 1860, you can console yourself by looking forward to that of the 31st December 1861. It will only be seventeen months !”

“I can console myself, madam,” said the astronomer gravely, “by looking forward to that of 1896. I shall have to wait not seventeen months but thirty-six years !”

“May I ask why?”

“Because of all the eclipses, it alone-that of 9th August 1896-will be total for places in high latitudes, such as Lapland, Siberia, or Greenland.”

“But what is the special interest of an observation taken in these elevated latitudes?”

“What special interest?” cried Thomas Black; why, a scientific interest of the highest importance. Eclipses have very rarely been watched near the Pole, where the sun, being very little above the horizon, is considerably increased in size. The disc of the moon which is to intervene between us and the sun is subject to a similar apparent extension, and therefore it may be that the red prominences and the luminous corona can be more thoroughly examined This, madam, is why I have travelled all this distance to watch the eclipse above the seventieth parallel. A similar opportunity will not occur until 1896, and who can tell if I shall be alive then?”

To this burst of enthusiasm there was no reply to be made; and the astronomer’s anxiety and depression increased, for the inconstant weather seemed more and more disposed to play him some ill-natured trick.

It was very fine on the 16th July, but the next day it was cloudy and misty and Thomas Black became really ill. The feverish state he had been in for so long seemed likely to result in a serious illness. Mrs Barnett and Hobson tried in vain to soothe him, and Sergeant Long and the others could not understand how it was possible to be so unhappy for love of the moon.”

At last the great day-the 18th July-dawned. According to the calculations of astronomers, the total eclipse was to last four minutes thirty-seven seconds-that is to say, from forty-three minutes fifteen seconds past eleven to forty-seven minutes fifty-seven seconds past eleven A.M.

“What do I ask? what do I ask?” moaned the astronomer, tearing his hair. “Only one little corner of the sky free from clouds! only the small space in which the eclipse is to take place I And for how long? For four short minutes! After that, let it snow, let it thunder, let the elements break loose in fury, I should care no more for it all than a snail for a chronometer.”

It is not to be denied that Thomas Black had some grounds for his fears. It really seemed likely that observations would be impossible. At daybreak the horizon was shrouded in mists Heavy clouds were coming up from the south, and covering the very portion of the sky in which the eclipse was to take place. But doubtless the patron saint of astronomers had pity on poor Black, for towards eight o’clock a slight wind arose and swept tire mists and clouds from the sky, leaving it bright and clear!

A cry of gratitude burst from the lips of the astronomer, and his heart beat high with newly-awakened hope. The sun shone brightly, and the moon, so soon to darken it, was as yet invisible in its glorious beams.

Thomas Black’s instruments were already carefully placed on the promontory, and having pointed them towards the southern horizon, he awaited the event with calmness restored, and the coolness necessary for taking his observation. What was there left to fear?

Nothing, unless it was that the sky might fall upon his head! At nine o’clock there was not a cloud, not a vapour left upon the sky from the zenith to the horizon. Never were circumstances more favourable to an astronomical observation.

The whole party were anxious to take part in the observation, and all gathered round the astronomer on Cape Bathurst. Gradually the sun rose above the horizon, describing an extended arc above the vast plain stretching away to the south. No one spoke, but awaited the eclipse in solemn silence.

Towards half-past nine the eclipse commenced The disc of the moon seemed to graze that of the sun. But the moon’s shadow was not to fall completely on the earth, hiding the sun, until between forty three minutes past eleven and forty-seven minutes fifty-seven seconds past eleven. That was the time fixed in the almanacs, and every one knows that no error can creep into them, established, verified, and controlled as they are by the scientific men of all the observatories in the world.

The astronomer had brought a good many glasses with him, and he distributed them amongst his companions, that all might watch the progress of the phenomenon without injury to the eyes.

The brown disc of the moon gradually advanced, and terrestrial objects began to assume a peculiar orange hue, whilst the atmosphere on tire zenith completely changed colour. At a quarter-past ten half the disc of the sun was darkened, and a few dogs which happened to be at liberty showed signs of uneasiness and bowled piteously. The wild ducks, thinking night had come, began to utter sleepy calls -and to seek their nests, and the mothers gathered their little ones under their wings. The hush of eventide fell upon all animated nature.

At eleven o’clock two-thirds of the sun were covered, and all terrestrial objects became a kind of vinous red. A gloomy twilight set in, to be succeeded during the four minutes of totality by absolute darkness. A few planets, amongst t others Mercury and Venus, began to appear, and some constellations — Caplet, [symbol] and [symbol] of Taurus, and [symbol] of Orion. The darkness deepened every moment.

Thomas Black remained motionless with his eye glued to the glass of his instrument, eagerly watching the progress of the phenomenon. At forty-three minutes past eleven the discs of the two luminaries ought to be exactly opposite to each other, that of the moon completely hiding that of the sun.

“Forty-three minutes past eleven,” announced Hobson, who was attentively watching the minute hand of his chronometer.

Thomas Black remained motionless, stooping over his instrument. Half a minute passed, and then the astronomer [astonomer] drew himself up, with eyes distended and eager. Once more he bent over the telescope, and cried in a choked voice —

“She is going! she is going! The moon, the moon is going! She is disappearing, running away !”

True enough the disc of the moon was gliding away from that of the sun without having completely covered it !

The astronomer had fallen backwards, completely overcome. The four minutes were past. The luminous corona had not appeared !

“What is the matter?” inquired Hobson.

“The matter is,” screamed the poor astronomer, “that the eclipse was not total-not total for this portion of the globe! Do you hear? It was not to-t-a-1! I say not to-t-a-l! !”

“Then your almanacs are incorrect.”

“Incorrect! Don’t tell that to me, if you please, Lieutenant Hobson !”

“But what then?” said Hobson, suddenly changing countenance.

“Why,” said Black, “we are not after all on the seventieth parallel !”

“Only fancy !” cried Mrs Barnett.

“We can soon prove it,” said the astronomer whose eyes flashed with rage and disappointment. “The sun will pass the meridian in a few minutes… My sextant-quick… make haste !”

One of the soldiers rushed to the house and fetched the instrument required.

The astronomer pointed it upon the sun; he watched the orb of day pass the meridian, and rapidly noted down a few calculations.

“What was the situation of Cape Bathurst a year ago when we took the latitude?” he inquired.

“Seventy degrees, forty-four minutes, and thirty-seven seconds,” replied Hobson.

“Well, sir, it is now seventy-three degrees, seven minutes, and twenty seconds! You see we are not under the seventieth parallel !

“Or rather we are no longer there !” muttered Hobson.

A sudden light had broken in upon his mind, all the phenomena hitherto so inexplicable were now explained.

Cape Bathurst had drifted three degrees farther north since the arrival of the Lieutenant and his companions !

CHAPTER VI.

TEN DAYS OF TEMPEST

From the 17th to the 20th August the weather continued fine, and the temperature moderate. The mists on the horizon were not resolved into clouds, and altogether the weather was exceptionally beautiful for such an elevated position. It will be readily understood, however, that Hobson could take no pleasure in the fineness of the climate.

On the 21st August, however, the barometer gave notice of an approaching change. The column of mercury suddenly fell considerably, the sun was completely hidden at the moment of culmination, and Hobson was unable to take his bearings.

The next day the wind changed and blew strongly from the northwest, torrents of rain falling at intervals. Meanwhile, however, the temperature did not change to any sensible extent, the thermometer remaining at 54deg Fahrenheit.

Fortunately the proposed works were now all finished, and MacNab had completed the carcass of his boat, which was planked and ribbed. Hunting might now be neglected a little, as the stores were complete, which was fortunate, for the weather became very bad. The wind was high, the rain incessant, and thick fogs rendered it impossible to go beyond the enceinte of the fort.

“What do you think of this change in the weather, Lieutenant?” inquired Mrs Barnett on the morning of the 27th August; “might it not be in our favour?”

“I should not like to be sure of it, madam,” replied Hobson; “but anything is better for us than the magnificent weather we have lately had, during which the sun made the waters warmer and warmer. Then, too, the wind from the northwest is so very strong that it may perhaps drive us nearer to the American continent.”

“Unfortunately,” observed Long, “we can’t take our bearings every day now. It’s impossible to see either sun, moon, or stars in this fog. Fancy attempting to take an altitude now!”

“We shall see well enough to recognise America, if we get anywhere near it,” said Mrs Barnett. “Whatever land we approach will be welcome. It will most likely be some part of Russian America — probably Western Alaska.”

“You are right, madam,” said Hobson; “for, unfortunately, in the whole Arctic Ocean there is not an island, an islet, or even a rock to which we could fasten our vessel!”

“Well,” rejoined Mrs Barnett, “why should not our conveyance take us straight to the coasts of Asia? Might not the currents carry us past the opening of Bearing Strait and land us on the shores of Siberia?”

“No, madam, no,” replied Hobson; “our ice-field would soon meet the Kamtchatka current, and be carried by it to the northwest. It is more likely, however, that this wind will drive us towards the shores of Russian America.”

“We must keep watch, then,” said Mrs Barnett, “and ascertain our position as soon as possible.”

“We shall indeed keep watch,” replied Hobson, “although this fog is very much against us If we should be driven on to the coast, the shock will be felt even if we cannot see. Let’s hope the island will not fall to pieces in this storm! That is at present our principal danger. Well, when it comes we shall see what there is to be done, and meanwhile we must wait patiently.”

Of course this conversation was not held in the public room, where the soldiers and women worked together. It was in her own room, with the window looking out on the court, that Mrs Barnett received visitors. It was almost impossible to see indoors even in the daytime, and the wind could be heard rushing by outside like an avalanche. Fortunately, Cape Bathurst protected the house from the north-east winds, but the sand and earth from its summit were hurled down upon the roof with a noise like the pattering of hail. Mac Nab began to feel fresh uneasiness about his chimneys, which it was absolutely necessary to keep in good order. With the roaring of the wind was mingled that of the sea, as its huge waves broke upon the beach. The storm had become a hurricane.

In spite of the fury of the gale, Hobson determined on the morning of the 28th of August to climb to the summit of Cape Bathurst, in order to examine the state of the horizon, the sea, and the sky. He therefore wrapped himself up, taking care to have nothing about him likely to give hold the wind, and set out.

He got to the foot of the cape without much difficulty. The sand and earth blinded him, it is true, but protected by the cliff he had not as yet actually faced the wind. The fatigue began when he attempted to climb the almost perpendicular sides of the promontory; but by clutching at the tufts of herbs with which they were covered, he managed to get to the top, but there the fury of the gale was such that he could neither remain standing nor seated; he was therefore forced to fling himself upon his face behind the little coppice and cling to some shrubs, only raising his head and shoulders above the ground.

The appearance of sea and sky was indeed terrible. The spray dashed over the Lieutenant’s head, and half-a-mile from the cape water and clouds were confounded together in a thick mist. Low jagged rain-clouds were chased along the heavens with giddy rapidity, and heavy masses of vapour were piled upon the zenith. Every now and then an awful stillness fell upon the land, and the only sounds were the breaking of the surf upon the beach and the roaring of the angry billows; but then the tempest recommenced with redoubled fury, and Hobson felt the cape tremble to its foundations. Sometimes the rain poured down with such violence that it resembled grape-shot.

It was indeed a terrible hurricane from the very worst quarter of the heavens. This north-east wind might blow for a long time and cause all manner of havoc. Yet Hobson, who would generally have grieved over the destruction around him, did not complain, — on the contrary, he rejoiced; for if, as he hoped, the island held together, it must be driven to the south-west by this wind, so much more powerful than the currents. And the south-west meant land — hope — safety! Yes, for his own sake, and for that of all with him, he hoped that the hurricane would last until it had flung them upon the laud, no matter where. That which would have been fatal to a ship was the best thing that could happen to the floating island.

For a quarter of an hour Hobson remained crouching upon the ground, clutching at the shrubs like a drowning man at a spar, lashed by the wind, drenched by the rain and the spray, struggling to estimate all the chances of safety the storm might afford him. At the end of that time he let himself slide down the cape, and fought his way to Fort Hope.

Hobson’s first care was to tell his comrades that the hurricane was not yet at its height, and that it would probably last a long time yet. He announced these tidings with the manner of one bringing good news, and every one looked at him in astonishment. Their chief officer really seemed to take a delight in the fury of the elements.

On the 30th Hobson again braved the tempest, not this time climbing the cape, but going down to the beach. What was his joy at noticing some long weeds floating on the top of the waves, of a kind which did not grow on Victoria Island. Christopher Columbus’ delight was not greater when he saw the sea-weed which told him of the proximity of land.

The Lieutenant hurried back to the fort, and told Mrs Barnett and Sergeant Long of his discovery. He had a good mind to tell every one the whole truth now, but a strange presentiment kept him silent.

The occupants of the fort had plenty to amuse them in the long days of compulsory confinement. They went on improving the inside of the various buildings, and dug trenches in the court to carry away the rain-water. Mac-Nab, a hammer in one hand and a nail in the other, was always busy at a job in some corner or another, and nobody took much note of the tempest outside in the daytime; but at night it was impossible to sleep, the wind beat upon the buildings like a battering-ram; between the house and the cape sometimes whirled a huge waterspout of extraordinary dimensions; the planks cracked, the beams seemed about to separate, and there was danger of the whole structure tumbling down. Mac-Nab and his men lived in a state of perpetual dread, and had to be continually on the watch.

Meanwhile, Hobson was uneasy about the stability of the island itself, rather than that of the house upon it. The tempest became so violent, and the sea so rough, that there was really a danger of the dislocation of the ice-field. It seemed impossible for it to resist much longer, diminished as it was in thickness and subject to the perpetual action of the waves. It is true that its inhabitants did not feel any motion, on account of its vast extent, but it suffered from it none the less. The point at issue was simply: — Would the island last until it was flung upon the coast, or would it fall to pieces before it touched firm ground?

There could be no doubt that thus far it had resisted. As the Lieutenant explained to Mrs Barnett, had it already been broken, had the ice-field already divided into a number of islets, the occupants of the fort must have noticed it, for the different pieces would have been small enough to be affected by the motion of the sea, and the people on any one of them would have been pitched about like passengers on a boat. This was not the case, and in his daily observations Lieutenant Hobson had noticed no movement whatever, not so much as a trembling of the island, which appeared as firm and motionless as when it was still connected by its isthmus with the mainland.

But the breaking up, which had not yet taken place, might happen at any minute.

Hobson was most anxious to ascertain whether Victoria Island, driven by the northwest wind out of the current, had approached the continent. Everything, in fact, depended upon this, which was their last chance of safety. But without sun, moon, or stars, instruments were of course useless, as no observations could be taken, and the exact position of the island could not be determined. If, then, they were approaching the land, they would only know it when the land came in sight, and Hobson’s only means of ascertaining anything in time to be of any service, was to get to the south of his dangerous dominions. The position of Victoria Island with regard to the cardinal points had not sensibly altered all the time. Cape Bathurst still pointed to the north, as it did when it was the advanced post of North America. It was, therefore, evident that if Victoria Island should come alongside of the continent, it would touch it with its southern side, — the communication would, in a word, be re-established by means of the broken isthmus; it was, therefore, imperative to ascertain what was going on in that direction.

Hobson determined to go to Cape Michael, however terrible the storm might be, but he meant to keep the real motive of his reconnaissance a secret from his companions. Sergeant Long was to accompany him.

About four o’clock P.M. on the 31st August, Hobson sent for the Sergeant in his own room, that they might arrange together for all eventualities.

“Sergeant Long,” he began, “it is necessary that we should, without delay, ascertain the position of Victoria Island, and above all whether this wind has, as I hope, driven it near to the American continent.”

“I quite agree with you, sir,” replied Long, “and the sooner we find out the better”

“But it will necessitate our going down to the south of the island.”

“I am ready, sir.”

“I know, Sergeant, that you are always ready to do your duty, but you will not go alone. Two of us ought to go, that we may be able to let our comrades know if any land is in sight; and besides I must see for myself… we will go together.”

“When you like, Lieutenant, just when you think best.”

“We will start this evening at nine o’clock, when everybody else has gone to bed”

“Yes, they would all want to come with us,” said Long, “and they must not know why we go so far from the factory.”

“No, they must not know,” replied Hobson, “and if I can, I will keep the knowledge of our awful situation from them until the end.”

“It is agreed then, sir?”

“Yes. You will take a tinder-box and some touchwood [Footnote: A fungus used as tinder (Polyporous igniarius).] with you, so that we can make a signal if necessary — if land is in sight in the south, for instance”

“Yes, sir.”

“We shall have a rough journey, Sergeant.”

“What does that matter, sir, but by the way — the lady?”

“I don’t think I shall tell her. She would want to go with us.”

“And she could not,” said the Sergeant, “a woman could not battle with such a gale. Just see how its fury is increasing at this moment!”

Indeed the house was rocking to such an extent that it seemed likely to be torn from its foundations.

“No,” said Hobson, “courageous as she is, she could not, she ought not to accompany us. But on second thought, it will be best to tell her of our project. She ought to know in case any accident should befall us”

“Yes,” replied Long, “we ought not to keep anything from her, and if we do not come back”…

“At nine o’clock then, Sergeant.”

“At nine o’clock.”

And with a military salute Sergeant Long retired.

A few minutes later Hobson was telling Mrs Barnett of his scheme. As he expected the brave woman insisted on accompanying him, and was quite ready to face the tempest. Hobson did not dissuade her by dwelling on the dangers of the expedition, he merely said that her presence was necessary at the fort during his absence, and that her remaining would set his mind at ease. If any accident happened to him it would be a comfort to know that she would take his place.

Mrs Barnett understood and said no more about going; but only urged Hobson not to risk himself unnecessarily. To remember that he was the chief officer, that his life was not his own, but necessary to the safety of all. The Lieutenant promised to be as prudent as possible; but added that the examination of the south of the island must be made at once, and he would make it. The next day Mrs Barnett merely told her companions that the Lieutenant and the Sergeant had gone to make a final reconnaissance before the winter set in.

CHAPTER VII.

A FIRE AND A CRY.

The Lieutenant and the Sergeant spent the evening in the large room of the fort, where all were assembled except the astronomer, who still remained shut up in his cabin. The men were busy over their various occupations, some cleaning their arms, others mending or sharpening their tools. The women were stitching away industriously, and Mrs Paulina Barnett was reading aloud; but she was often interrupted not only by the noise of the wind, which shook the walls of the house like a battering-ram, but by the cries of the baby. Corporal Joliffe, who had undertaken to amuse him, had enough to do. The young gentleman had ridden upon his playmate’s knees until they were worn out, and the Corporal at last put the indefatigable little cavalier on the large table, where he rolled about to his heart’s content until he fell asleep.

At eight o’clock prayers were read as usual, the lamps were extinguished, and all retired to rest.

When every one was asleep, Hobson and Long crept cautiously across the large room and gained the passage, where they found Mrs Barnett, who wished to press their hands once more.

“Till to-morrow,” she said to the Lieutenant.

“Yes,” replied Hobson, “to-morrow, madam, without fail.”

“But if you are delayed?”

“You must wait patiently for us,” replied the Lieutenant, “for if in examining the southern horizon we should see a fire, which is not unlikely this dark night, we should know that we were near the coasts of New Georgia, and then it would be desirable for me to ascertain our position by daylight. In fact, we may be away forty eight hours. If, however, we can get to Cape Michael before midnight, we shall be back at the fort to-morrow evening. So wait patiently, madam, and believe that we shall incur no unnecessary risk.”

“But,” added the lady, “suppose you don’t get back to morrow, suppose you are away more than two days?”

“Then we shall not return at all,” replied Hobson simply.

The door was opened, Mrs Barnett closed it behind the Lieutenant and his companion and went back to her own room, where Madge awaited her, feeling anxious and thoughtful.

Hobson and Long made their way across the inner court through a whirlwind which nearly knocked them down; but clinging to each other, and leaning on their iron-bound staffs, they reached the postern gates, and set out [beween] between the hills and the eastern bank of the lagoon.

A faint twilight enabled them to see their way. The moon, which was new the night before, would not appear above the horizon, and there was nothing to lessen the gloom of the darkness, which would, however, last but a few hours longer.

The wind and rain were as violent as ever. The Lieutenant and his companion wore impervious boots and water-proof cloaks well pulled in at the waist, and the hood completely covering their heads. Thus protected they got along at a rapid pace, for the wind was behind them, and sometimes drove them on rather faster than they cared to go. Talking was quite out of the question, and they did not attempt it, for they were deafened by the hurricane, and out of breath with the buffeting they received.

Hobson did not mean to follow the coast, the windings of which would have taken him a long way round, and have brought him face to face with the wind, which swept over the sea with nothing to break its fury. His idea was to cut across in a straight line from Cape Bathurst to Cape Michael, and he was provided with a pocket compass with which to ascertain his bearings. He hoped by this means to cross the ten or eleven miles between him and his goal, just before the twilight faded and gave place to the two hours of real darkness.

Bent almost double, with rounded shoulders and stooping heads, the two pressed on. As long as they kept near the lake they did not meet the gale full face, the little hills crowned with trees afforded them some protection, the wind howled fearfully as it bent and distorted the branches, almost tearing the trunks up by the roots; but it partly exhausted its strength, and even the rain when it reached the explorers was converted into impalpable mist, so that for about four miles they did not suffer half as much as they expected to.

But when they reached the southern skirts of the wood, where the hills disappeared, and there were neither trees nor rising ground, the wind swept along with awful force, and involuntarily they paused for a moment. They were still six miles from Cape Michael.

“We are going to have a bad time of it,” shouted Lieutenant Hobson in the Sergeant’s ear.

“Yes, the wind and rain will conspire to give us a good beating,” answered Long.

“I am afraid that now and then we shall have hail as well,” added Hobson.

“It won’t be as deadly as grape-shot,” replied Long coolly, “and we have both been through that, and so forwards!”

“Forwards, my brave comrade!”

It was then ten o’clock. The twilight was fading away, dying as if drowned in the mists or quenched by the wind and the rain. There was still, however, some light, and the Lieutenant struck his flint, and consulted his compass, passing a piece of burning touchwood over it, and then, drawing his cloak more closely around him, he plunged after the Sergeant across the unprotected plain.

At the first step, both were flung violently to the ground, but they managed to scramble up, and clinging to each other with their backs bent like two old crippled peasants, they struck into a kind of ambling trot.

There was a kind of awful grandeur in the storm to which neither was insensible. Jagged masses of mist and ragged rain-clouds swept along the ground. The loose earth and sand were whirled into the air and flung down again like grape-shot, and the lips of Hobson and his companion were wet with salt spray, although the sea was two or three miles distant at least.

During the rare brief pauses in the gale, they stopped and took breath, whilst the Lieutenant ascertained their position as accurately as possible.

The tempest increased as the night advanced, the air and water seemed to be absolutely confounded together, and low down on the horizon was formed one of those fearful waterspouts which can overthrow houses, tear up forests, and which the vessels whose safety they threaten attack with artillery. It really seemed as if the ocean itself was being torn from its bed and flung over the devoted little island.

Hobson could not help wondering how it was that the ice-field which supported it was not broken in a hundred places in this violent convulsion of the sea, the roaring of which could be distinctly heard where he stood. Presently Long, who was a few steps in advance, stopped suddenly, and turning round managed to make the Lieutenant hear the broken words —

“Not that way!”

“Why not?”

“The sea!”

“What, the sea! We cannot possibly have got to the southeast coast!”

“Look, look, Lieutenant!”

It was true, a vast sheet of water was indistinctly visible before them, and large waves were rolling up and breaking at the Lieutenant’s feet.

Hobson again had recourse to his flint, and with the aid of some lighted touchwood consulted the needle of his compass very carefully.

“No,” he said, “the sea is farther to the left, we have not yet passed the wood between us and Cape Michael.”

“Then it is” — —

“It is a fracture of the island!” cried Hobson, as both were compelled to fling themselves to the ground before the wind, “either a large portion of our land has been broken off and drifted away, or a gulf has been made, which we can go round. Forwards!”

They struggled to their feet and turned to the right towards the centre of the island. For about ten minutes they pressed on in silence, fearing, not without reason, that all communication with the south of the island would be found to be cut off. Presently, however, they no longer heard the noise of the breakers.

“It is only a gulf.” screamed Hobson in the Sergeant’s ear. “Let us turn round.”

And they resumed their original direction towards the south, but both knew only too well that they had a fearful danger to face, for that portion of the island on which they were was evidently cracked for a long distance, and might at any moment separate entirely; should it do so under the influence of the waves, they would inevitably be drifted away, whither they knew not. Yet they did not hesitate, but plunged into the mist, not even pausing to wonder if they should ever get back.

What anxious forebodings must, however, have pressed upon the heart of the Lieutenant. Could he now hope that the island would hold together until the winter? had not the inevitable breaking up already commenced? If the wind should not drive them on to the coast, were they not doomed to perish very soon, to be swallowed up by the deep, leaving no trace behind them? What a fearful prospect for all the unconscious inhabitants of the fort!

But through it all the two men, upheld by the consciousness of a duty to perform, bravely struggled on against the gale, which nearly tore them to pieces, along the new beach, the foam sometimes bathing their feet, and presently gained the large wood which shut in Cape Michael. This they would have to cross to get to the coast by the shortest route, and they entered it in complete darkness, the wind thundering among the branches over their heads. Everything seemed to be breaking to pieces around them, the dislocated branches intercepted their passage, and every moment they ran a risk of being crushed beneath a falling tree, or they stumbled over a stump they had not been able to see in the gloom. The noise of the waves on the other side of the wood was a sufficient guide to their steps, and sometimes the furious breakers shook the weakened ground beneath their feet. Holding each other’s hands lest they should lose each other, supporting each other, and the one helping the other up when he fell over some obstacle, they at last reached the point for which they were bound.

But the instant they quitted the shelter of the wood a perfect whirlwind tore them asunder, and flung them upon the ground.

“Sergeant, Sergeant! Where are you?” cried Hobson with all the strength of his lungs.

“Here, here!” roared Long in reply.

And creeping on the ground they struggled to reach each other; but it seemed as if a powerful hand rivetted them to the spot on which they had fallen, and it was only after many futile efforts that they managed to reach each other. Having done so, they tied their belts together to prevent another separation, and crept along the sand to a little rising ground crowned by a small clump of pines. Once there they were a little more protected, and they proceeded to dig themselves a hole, in which they crouched in a state of absolute exhaustion and prostration.

It was half-past eleven o’clock P.M.

For some minutes neither spoke. With eyes half closed they lay in a kind of torpor, whilst the trees above them bent beneath the wind, and their branches rattled like the bones of a skeleton. But yet again they roused themselves from this fatal lethargy, and a few mouthfuls of rum from the Sergeant’s flask revived them.

“Let us hope these trees will hold,” at last observed Hobson.

“And that our hole will not blow away with them,” added the Sergeant, crouching in the soft sand.

“Well!” said Hobson, “here we are at last, a few feet from Cape Michael, and as we came to make observations, let us make them. I have a presentiment, Sergeant, only a presentiment, remember, that we are not far from firm ground!”

Had the southern horizon been visible the two adventurers would have been able to see two-thirds of it from their position; but it was too dark to make out anything, and if the hurricane had indeed driven them within sight of land, they would not be able to see it until daylight, unless a fire should be lighted on the continent.

As the Lieutenant had told Mrs Barnett, fishermen often visited that part of North America, which is called New Georgia, and there are a good many small native colonies, the members of which collect the teeth of mammoths, these fossil elephants being very numerous in these latitudes. A few degrees farther south, on the island of Sitka, rises New-Archangel, the principal settlement in Russian America, and the head-quarters of the Russian Fur Company, whose jurisdiction once extended over the whole of the Aleutian Islands. The shores of the Arctic Ocean are, however, the favourite resort of hunters, especially since the Hudson’s Bay Company took a lease of the districts formerly in the hands of the Russians; and Hobson, although he knew nothing of the country, was well acquainted with the habits of those who were likely to visit it at this time of the year, and was justified in thinking that he might meet fellow-countrymen, perhaps even members of his own Company, or, failing them, some native Indians, scouring the coasts.

But could the Lieutenant reasonably hope that Victoria Island had been driven towards the coast?

“Yes, a hundred times yes,” he repeated to the Sergeant again and again. “For seven days a hurricane has been blowing from the northeast, and although I know that the island is very flat, and there is not much for the wind to take hold of, still all these little hills and woods spread out like sails must have felt the influence of the wind to a certain extent. Moreover, the sea which bears us along feels its power, and large waves are certainly running in shore. It is impossible for us to have remained in the current which was dragging us to the west, we must have been driven out of it, and towards the south. Last time we took our bearings we were two hundred miles from the coast, and in seven days ” — —

“Your reasonings are very just, Lieutenant,” replied the Sergeant, “and I feel that whether the wind helps us or not, God will not forsake us. It cannot be His will that so many unfortunate creatures should perish, and I put my trust in Him!”

The two talked on in broken sentences, making each other hear above the roaring of the storm, and struggling to pierce the gloom which closed them in on every side; but they could see nothing, not a ray of light broke the thick darkness.

About half past one A.M. the hurricane ceased for a few minutes, whilst the fury of the sea seemed to be redoubled, and the large waves, lashed into foam, broke over each other with a roar like thunder.

Suddenly Hobson seizing his companion’s arm shouted —

“Sergeant, do you hear?”

“What?”

“The noise of the sea?”

“Of course I do, sir,” replied Long, listening more attentively, “and the sound of the breakers seems to me not” — —

“Not exactly the same… isn’t it Sergeant; listen, listen, it is like the sound of surf!… it seems as if the waves were breaking against rocks!”

Hobson and the Sergeant now listened intently, the monotonous sound of the waves dashing against each other in the offing was certainly exchanged for the regular rolling sound produced by the breaking of water against a hard body; they heard the reverberating echoes which told of the neighbourhood of rocks, and they knew that along the whole of the coast of their island there was not a single stone, and nothing more sonorous than the earth and sand of which it was composed!

Could they have been deceived? The Sergeant tried to rise to listen better, but he was immediately flung down by the hurricane, which recommenced with renewed violence. The lull was over, and again the noise of the waves was drowned in the shrill whistling of the wind, and the peculiar echo could no longer be made out.

The anxiety of the two explorers will readily be imagined. They again crouched down in their hole, doubting whether it would not perhaps be prudent to leave even this shelter, for they felt the sand giving way beneath them, and the pines cracking at their very roots. They persevered, however, in gazing towards the south, every nerve strained to the utmost, in the effort to distinguish objects through the darkness.

The first grey twilight of the dawn might soon be expected to appear, and a little before half-past two A.M. Long suddenly exclaimed:

“I see it!”

“What?”

“A fire!”

“A fire?”

“Yes, there — over there!”

And he pointed to the south-west. Was he mistaken? No, for Hobson also made out a faint glimmer in the direction indicated.

“Yes!” he cried, “yes, Sergeant, a fire; there is land there!”

“Unless it is a fire on board ship,” replied Long.

“A ship at sea in this weather!” exclaimed Hobson, “impossible! No, no, there is land there, land I tell you, a few miles from us!”

“Well, let us make a signal!”

“Yes, Sergeant, we will reply to the fire on the mainland by a fire on our island!”

Of course neither Hobson nor Long had a torch, but above their heads rose resinous pines distorted by the hurricane.

“Your flint, Sergeant,” said Hobson.

Long at once struck his flint, lighted the touchwood, and creeping along the sand climbed to the foot of the thicket of firs, where he was soon joined by the Lieutenant. There was plenty of deadwood about, and they piled it up at the stems of the trees, set fire to it, and soon, the wind helping them, they had the satisfaction of seeing the whole thicket in a blaze

“Ah!” said Hobson, “as we saw their fire, they will see ours!”

The firs burnt with a lurid glare like a large torch. The dried resin in the old trunks aided the conflagration, and they were rapidly consumed. At last the crackling ceased, the flames died away, and all was darkness.

Hobson and Long looked in vain for an answering fire — nothing was to be seen. For ten minutes they watched, hoping against hope, and were just beginning to despair, when suddenly a cry was heard, a distinct cry for help. It was a human voice, and it came from the sea.

Hobson and Long, wild with eager anxiety, let themselves slide down to the shore.

The cry was not, however, repeated.

The daylight was now gradually beginning to appear, and the violence of the tempest seemed to be decreasing. Soon it was light enough for the horizon to be examined.

But there was no land in sight, sea and sky were still blended in one unbroken circle.

CHAPTER VIII.

MRS. PAULINA BARNETT’S EXCURSION.

The whole morning Hobson and Sergeant Long wandered about the coast. The weather was much improved, the rain had ceased, and the wind had veered round to the south-east with extraordinary suddenness, without unfortunately decreasing in violence, causing fresh anxiety to the Lieutenant, who could no longer hope to reach the mainland.

The south-east wind would drive the wandering island farther from the continent, and fling it into the dangerous currents, which must drift it to the north of the Arctic Ocean.

How could they even be sure that they had really approached the coast during the awful night just over. Might it not have been merely a fancy of the Lieutenant’s? The air was now clear, and they could look round a radius of several miles; yet there was nothing in the least resembling land within sight. Might they not adopt the Sergeant’s suggestion, that a ship had passed the island during the night, that the fire and cry were alike signals of sailors in distress? And if it had been a vessel, must it not have foundered in such a storm?

Whatever the explanation there was no sign of a wreck to be seen either in the offing or on the beach, and the waves, now driven along by the wind from the land, were large enough to have overwhelmed any vessel.

“Well, Lieutenant,” said Sergeant Long, “what is to be done?’”

“We must remain upon our island,” replied the Lieutenant, pressing his hand to his brow; “we must remain on our island and wait for winter; it alone can save us.”

It was now mid-day, and Hobson, anxious to get back to Fort Hope before the evening, at once turned towards Cape Bathurst.

The wind, being now on their backs, helped them along as it had done before. They could not help feeling very uneasy, as they were naturally afraid that the island might have separated into two parts in the storm. The gulf observed the night before might have spread farther, and if so they would be cut off from their friends.

They soon reached the wood they had crossed the night before. Numbers of trees were lying on the ground, some with broken stems, others torn up by the roots from the soft soil, which had not afforded them sufficient support. The few which remained erect were stripped of their leaves, and their naked branches creaked and moaned as the south-east wind swept over them.

Two miles beyond this desolated forest the wanderers arrived at the edge of the gulf they had seen the night before without being able to judge of its extent. They examined it carefully, and found that it was about fifty feet wide, cutting the coast line straight across near Cape Michael and what was formerly Fort Barnett, forming a kind of estuary running more than a mile and a half inland. If the sea should again become rough in a fresh storm, this gulf would widen more and more.

Just as Hobson approached the beach, he saw a large piece of ice separate from the island and float away!

“Ah!” murmured Long, “that is the danger!”

Both then turned hurriedly to the west, and walked as fast as they could round the huge gulf, making direct for Fort Hope.

They noticed no other changes by the way, and towards four o’clock they crossed the court and found all their comrades at their usual occupations.

Hobson told his men that he had wished once more before the winter to see if there were any signs of the approach of Captain Craventy’s convoy, and that his expedition had been fruitless.

“Then, sir,” observed Marbre, “I suppose we must give up all idea of seeing our comrades from Fort Reliance for this year at least?”

“I think you must,” replied Hobson simply, re-entering the public room.

Mrs Barnett and Madge were told of the two chief events of the exploration: the fire and the cry. Hobson was quite sure that neither lib nor the Sergeant were mistaken. The fire had really been seen, the cry had really been heard; and after a long consultation every one came to the conclusion that a ship in distress had passed within sight during the night, and that the island had not approached the American coast.

The south-east wind quickly chased away the clouds and mists, so that Hobson hoped to be able to take his bearings the next day. The night was colder and a fine snow fell, which quickly covered the ground. This first sign of winter was hailed with delight by all who knew of the peril of their situation.

On the 2nd September the sky gradually became free from vapours of all kinds, and the sun again appeared. Patiently the Lieutenant awaited its culmination; at noon he took the latitude, and two hours later a calculation of hour-angles gave him the longitude.

The following were the results obtained: Latitude, 70deg 57’; longitude, 170deg 30’.

So that, in spite of the violence of the hurricane, the island had remained in much the same latitude, although it had been drifted somewhat farther west. They were now abreast of Behring Strait, but four hundred miles at least north of Capes East and Prince of Wales, which jut out on either side at the narrowest part of the passage.

The situation was, therefore, more dangerous than ever, as the island was daily getting nearer to the dangerous Kamtchatka Current, which, if it once seized it in its rapid waters, might carry it far away to the north. Its fate would now soon be decided. It would either stop where the two currents met, and there be shut in by the ice of the approaching winter, or it would be drifted away and lost in the solitudes of the remote hyperborean regions.

Hobson was painfully moved on ascertaining the true state of things, and being anxious to conceal his emotion, he shut himself up in his own room and did not appear again that day. With his chart before him, he racked his brains to find some way out of the difficulties with which be was beset.

The temperature fell some degrees farther the same day, and the mists, which had collected above the south-eastern horizon the day before, resolved themselves into snow during the night, so that the next day the white carpet was two inches thick. Winter was coming at last.

On September 3rd Mrs Barnett resolved to go a few miles along the coast towards Cape Esquimaux. She wished to see for herself the changes lately produced. If she had mentioned her project to the Lieutenant, he would certainly have offered to accompany her; but she did not wish to disturb him, and decided to go without him, taking Madge with her. There was really nothing to fear, the only formidable animals, the bears, seemed to have quite deserted the island after the earthquake; and two women might, without danger, venture on a walk of a few hours without an escort.

Madge agreed at once to Mrs Barnett’s proposal, and without a word to any one they set out at eight o’clock A.M. provided with an ice-chisel, a flask of spirits, and a wallet of provisions.

After leaving Cape Bathurst they turned to the west. The sun was already dragging its slow course along the horizon, for at this time of year it would only be a few degrees above it at its culmination. But its oblique rays were clear and powerful, and the snow was already melting here and there beneath their influence.

The coast was alive with flocks of birds of many kinds; ptarmigans, guillemots, puffins, wild geese, and ducks of every variety fluttered about, uttering their various cries, skimming the surface of the sea or of the lagoon, according as their tastes led them to prefer salt or fresh water.

Mrs Barnett had now a capital opportunity of seeing how many furred animals haunted the neighbourhood of Fort Hope. Martens, ermines, musk-rats, and foxes were numerous, and the magazines of the factory might easily have been filled with their skins, but what good would that be now? The inoffensive creatures, knowing that hunting was suspended, went and came fearlessly, venturing close up to the palisade, and becoming tamer every day. Their instinct doubtless told them that they and their old enemies were alike prisoners on the island, and a common danger bound them together. It struck Mrs Barnett as strange that the two enthusiastic hunters — Marbre and Sabine — should obey the Lieutenant’s orders to spare the furred animals without remonstrance or complaint, and appeared not even to wish to shoot the valuable game around them. It was true the foxes and others had not yet assumed their winter robes, but this was not enough to explain the strange indifference of the two hunters.

Whilst walking at a good pace and talking over their strange situation, Mrs Barnett and Madge carefully noted the peculiarities of the sandy coast. The ravages recently made by the sea were distinctly visible. Fresh landslips enabled them to see new fractures in the ice distinctly. The strand, fretted away in many places, had sunk to an enormous extent, and the waves washed along a level beach when the perpendicular shores had once checked their advance. It was evident that parts of the island were now only on a level with the ocean.

“O Madge!” exclaimed Mrs Barnett, pointing to the long smooth tracts on which the curling waves broke in rapid succession, “our situation has indeed become aggravated by the awful storm! It is evident that the level of the whole island is gradually becoming lower. It is now only a question of time. Will the winter come soon enough to save us? Everything depends upon that.”

“The winter will come, my dear girl,” replied Madge with her usual unshaken confidence. “We have already had two falls of snow. Ice is [begininng] beginning to accumulate, and God will send it us in time, I feel sure.”

“You are right. Madge, we must have faith!” said Mrs Barnett. “We women who do not trouble ourselves about the scientific reasons for physical phenomena can hope, when men who are better informed, perhaps, despair. That is one of our blessings, which our Lieutenant unfortunately does not share. He sees the significance of facts, he reflects, he calculates, he reckons up the time still remaining to us, and I see that he is beginning to lose all hope.”

“He is a brave, energetic man, for all that,” replied Madge.

“Yes,” added Mrs Barnett, “and if it be in the power of man to save us, he will do it.”

By nine o’clock the two women had walked four miles. They were often obliged to go inland for some little distance, to avoid parts of the coast already invaded by the sea. Here and there the waves had encroached half-a-mile beyond the former high-water line, and the thickness of the ice-field had been considerably reduced. There was danger that it would soon yield in many places, and that new bays would be formed all along the coast.

As they got farther from the fort Mrs Barnett noticed that the number of furred animals decreased considerably. The poor creatures evidently felt more secure near a human habitation. The only formidable animals which had not been led by instinct to escape in time from the dangerous island were a few wolves, savage beasts which even a common danger did not conciliate. Mrs Barnett and Madge saw several wandering about on the plains, but they did not approach, and soon disappeared behind the hills on the south of the lagoon.

“What will become of all these imprisoned animals,” said Madge, “when all food fails them, and they are famished with hunger in the winter?”

“They will not be famished in a hurry, Madge,” replied Mrs Barnett, “and we shall have nothing to fear from them; all the martens, ermines, and Polar hares, which we spare will fall an easy prey to them. That is not our danger; the brittle ground beneath our feet, which may at any moment give way, is our real peril. Only look how the sea is advancing here. It already covers half the plain, and the waves, still comparatively warm, are eating away our island above and below at the same time! If the cold does not stop it very soon, the sea will shortly join the lake, and we shall lose our lagoon as we lost our river and our port!”

“Well, if that should happen it will indeed be an irreparable misfortune!” exclaimed Madge.

“Why?” asked Mrs Barnett, looking inquiringly at her companion.

“Because we shall have no more fresh water,” replied Madge.

“Oh, we shall not want for fresh water, Madge,” said Mrs Barnett; “the rain, the snow, the ice, the icebergs of the ocean, the very ice-field on which we float, will supply us with that; no, no, that is not our danger.”

About ten o’clock Mrs Barnett and Madge had readied the rising ground above Cape Esquimaux, but at least two miles inland, for they had found it impossible to follow the coast, worn away as it was by the sea. Being rather tired with the many detours they had had to make, they decided to rest a few minutes before setting off on their return to Fort Hope. A little hill crowned by a clump of birch trees and a few shrubs afforded a pleasant shelter, and a bank covered with yellow moss, from which the snow had melted, served them as a seat. The little wallet was opened, and they shared their simple repast like sisters.

Half an hour later, Mrs Barnett proposed that they should climb along the promontory to the sea, and find out the exact state of Cape Esquimaux. She was anxious to know if the point of it had resisted the storm, and Madge declared herself ready to follow “her dear girl” wherever she went, but at the same time reminded her that they were eight or nine miles from Cape Bathurst already, and that they must not make Lieutenant Hobson uneasy by too long an absence.

But some presentiment made Mrs Barnett insist upon doing as she proposed, and she was right, as the event proved. It would only delay them half an hour after all.

They had not gone a quarter of a mile before Mrs Barnett stopped suddenly, and pointed to some clear and regular impressions upon the snow. These marks must have been made within the last nine or ten hours, or the last fall of snow would have covered them over.

“What animal has passed along here, I wonder?” said Madge.

“It was not an animal,” said Mrs Barnett, bending down to examine the marks more closely, “not a quadruped certainly, for its four feet would have left impressions very different from these. Look, Madge, they are the footprints of a human person!”

“But who could have been here?” inquired Madge; “none of the soldiers or women have left the fort, and we are on an island, remember. You must be mistaken, my dear; but we will follow the marks, and see where they lead us.”

They did so, and fifty paces farther on both again paused.

“Look, Madge, look!” cried Mrs Barnett, seizing her companion’s arm, “and then say if I am mistaken.”

Near the footprints there were marks of a heavy body having been dragged along the snow, and the impression of a hand.

“It is the hand of a woman or a child!” cried Madge.

“Yes!” replied Mrs Barnett; “a woman or a child has fallen here exhausted, and risen again to stumble farther on; look, the footprints again, and father on more falls!”

“Who, who could it have been?” exclaimed Madge.

“How can I tell?” replied Mrs Barnett. “Some unfortunate creature imprisoned like ourselves for three or four months perhaps. Or some shipwrecked wretch flung upon the coast in the storm. You remember the fire and the cry of which Sergeant Long and Lieutenant Hobson spoke. Come, come, Madge, there may be some one in danger for us to save!

And Mrs Barnett, dragging Madge with her, ran along following the traces, and further on found that they were stained with blood.

The brave, tender-hearted woman, had spoken of saving some one in danger; had she then forgotten that there was no safety for any upon the island, doomed sooner or later to be swallowed up by the ocean?

The impressions on the ground led towards Cape Esquimaux. And the two carefully traced them, but the footprints presently disappeared, whilst the blood-stains increased, making an irregular pathway along the snow. It was evident the poor wretch had been unable to walk farther, and had crept along on hands and knees; here and there fragments of torn clothes were scattered about, bits of sealskin and fur.

“Come, come,” cried Mrs Barnett, whose heart beat violently.

Madge followed her, they were only a few yards from Cape Esquimaux, which now rose only a few feet upon the sea-level against the background of the sky, and was quite deserted.

The impressions now led them to the right of the cape, and running along they soon climbed to the top, but there was still nothing, absolutely nothing, to be seen. At the foot of the cape, where the slight ascent began, the traces turned to the right, and led straight to the sea.

Mrs Barnett was turning to the right also, but just as she was stepping on to the beach, Madge, who had been following her and looking about uneasily, caught hold of her hand, and exclaimed —

“Stop! stop!” “No, Madge, no!” cried Mrs Barnett, who was drawn along by a kind of instinct in spite of herself.

“Stop, stop, and look!” cried Madge, tightening her hold on her mistress’s hand.

On the beach, about fifty paces from Cape Esquimaux, a large white mass was moving about and growling angrily.

It was an immense Polar bear, and the two women watched it with beating hearts. It was pacing round and round a bundle of fur on the ground, which it smelt at every now and then, lifting it up and letting it fall again. The bundle of fur looked like the dead body of a walrus.

Mrs Barnett and Madge did not know what to think, whether to advance or to retreat, but presently as the body was moved about a kind of hood fell back from the head, and some long locks of brown hair were thrown over the snow.

“It is a woman! a woman!” cried Mrs Barnett, eager to rush to her assistance and find out if she were dead or alive!

“Stop!” repeated Madge, holding her back; “the bear won’t harm her.”

And, indeed, the formidable creature merely turned the body over, and showed no inclination of tearing it with its dreadful claws. It went away and came back apparently uncertain what to do. It had not yet perceived the two women who were so anxiously watching it.

Suddenly a loud crack was heard. The earth shook, and it seemed as if the whole of Cape Esquimaux were about to be plunged into the sea.

A large piece of the island had broken away, and a huge piece of ice, the centre of gravity of which had been displaced by the alteration in its specific weight, drifted away, carrying with it the bear and the body of the woman.

Mrs Barnett screamed, and would have flung herself upon the broken ice before it floated away, if Madge had not clutched her hand firmly, saying quietly — —

“Stop! stop!”

At the noise produced by the breaking off of the piece of ice, the bear started back with a fearful growl, and, leaving the body, rushed to the side where the fracture had taken place; but he was already some forty feet from the coast, and in his terror he ran round and round the islet, tearing up the ground with his claws, and stamping the sand and snow about him.

Presently he returned to the motionless body, and, to the horror of the two women, seized it by the clothes with his teeth, and carrying it to the edge of the ice, plunged with it into the sea.

Being a powerful swimmer, like the whole race of Arctic bears, he soon gained the shores of the island. With a great exertion of strength he managed to climb up the ice, and having reached the surface of the island he quietly laid down the body he had brought with him.

Mrs Barnett could no longer be held back, and, shaking off Madge’s hold, she rushed to the beach, never thinking of the danger she ran in facing a formidable carnivorous creature.

The bear, seeing her approach, reared upon his hind legs, and came towards her, but at about ten paces off he paused, shook his great head, and turning round with a low growl, quietly walked away towards the centre of the island, without once looking behind him. He, too, was evidently affected by the mysterious fear which had tamed all the wild animals on the island.

Mrs Barnett was soon bending over the body stretched about the snow.

A cry of astonishment burst from her lips:

“Madge, Madge, come!” she exclaimed.

Madge approached and looked long and fixedly at the inanimate body. It was the young Esquimaux girl Kalumah!

CHAPTER XI

A COMMUNICATION FROM LIEUTENANT HOBSON.

Such was the situation. To use Sergeant Long’s expression, the island had “cast anchor,” and was as stationary as when the isthmus connected it with the mainland. But six hundred miles now separated it from inhabited countries, six hundred miles which would have to be traversed in sledges across the solidified surface of the sea, amongst the icebergs which the cold would build up, in the bitterest months of the Arctic winter.

It would be a fearful undertaking, but hesitation was impossible. The winter, for which Lieutenant Hobson had so ardently longed, had come at last, and arrested the fatal march of the island to the north. It would throw a bridge six hundred miles long from their desolate home to the continents on the south, and the new chances of safety must not be neglected, every effort must be made to restore the colonists, so long lost in the hyperborean regions, to their friends.

As Hobson explained to his companions, it would be madness to linger till the spring should again thaw the ice, which would be to abandon themselves once more to the capricious Behring currents. They must wait until the sea was quite firmly frozen over, which at the most would be in another three or four weeks. Meanwhile the Lieutenant proposed making frequent excursions on the ice-field encircling the island, in order to ascertain its thickness, its suitability for the passage of sledges, and the best route to take across it so as to reach the shores of Asia or America.

“Of course,” observed Hobson to Mrs Barnett and Sergeant Long, “we would all rather make for Russian America than Asia, if a choice is open to us.”

“Kalumah will be very useful to us,” said Mrs Barnett, “for as a native she will be thoroughly acquainted with the whole of Alaska.”

“Yes, indeed,” replied Hobson, “her arrival was most fortunate for us. Thanks to her, we shall be easily able to get to the settlement of Fort Michael on Norton Sound, perhaps even to New Archangel, a good deal farther south, where we can pass the rest of the winter.”

“Poor Fort Hope!” exclaimed Mrs Barnett, “it goes to my heart to think of abandoning it on this island. It has been built at the cost of so much trouble and fatigue, everything about it has been so admirably arranged by you, Lieutenant! I feel as if my heart would break when we leave it finally.”

“You will not suffer more than I shall, madam,” replied Hobson, “and perhaps not so much. It is the chief work of my life; I have devoted all my powers to the foundation of Fort Hope, so unfortunately named, and I shall never cease to regret having to leave it. And what will the Company say which confided this task to me, for after all I am` but its humble agent.”

“It will say,” cried Mrs Barnett with enthusiasm, “it will say that you have done your duty, that you are not responsible for the caprices of nature, which is ever more powerful than man. It will understand that you could not foresee what has happened, for it was beyond the penetration of the most far-sighted man, and it will know that it owes the preservation of the whole party to your prudence and moral courage.”

“Thank you, madam,” replied the Lieutenant, pressing Mrs Barnett’s hand, “thank you for your warm-hearted words. But I have had some experience of men, and I know that success is always admired and failure condemned. But the will of Heaven be done!”

Sergeant Long, anxious to turn the Lieutenant from his melancholy thoughts, now began to talk about the preparations for the approaching departure, and asked if it was not time to tell his comrades the truth.

“Let us wait a little longer,” replied Hobson. “We have saved the poor fellows much anxiety and worry already, let us keep silent until the day is fixed for the start, and then we will reveal the whole truth.”

This point being decided, the ordinary occupations of the factory went on for a few weeks longer.

How different was the situation of the colonists a year ago, when they were all looking forward to the future in happy unconsciousness!

A year ago the first symptoms of the cold season were appearing, even as they were now. The “young ice” was gradually forming along the coast. The lagoon, its waters being quieter than those of the sea, was the first to freeze over. The temperature remained about one or two degrees above freezing point in the day, and fell to three or four degrees below in the night. Hobson again made his men assume their winter garments, the linen vests and furs before described. The condensers were again set up inside the house, the air vessel and air-pumps were cleaned, the traps were set round the palisades on different parts of Cape Bathurst, and Marbre and Sabine got plenty of game, and finally the last touches were given to the inner rooms of the principal house.

Although Fort Hope was now about two degrees farther north than at the same time the year before, there was no sensible difference in the state of the temperature. The fact is, the distance between the seventieth and seventy-second parallels is not great enough to affect the mean height of the thermometer, on the contrary, it really seemed to be less cold than at the beginning of the winter before. Perhaps, however, that was because the colonists were now, to a certain extent, acclimatised.

Certainly the winter did not set in so abruptly as last time. The weather was very damp, and the atmosphere was always charged with vapour, which fell now as rain now as snow. In Lieutenant Hobson’s opinion, at least, it was not nearly cold enough.

The sea froze all round the island, it is true, but not in a regular or continuous sheet of ice. Large blackish patches here and there showed that the icicles were not thoroughly cemented together. Loud resonant noises were constantly heard, produced by the breaking of the ice field when the rain melted the imperfectly welded edges of the blocks composing it. There was no rapid accumulation of lump upon lump such as is generally seen in intense cold. Icebergs and hummocks were few and scattered, and no ice-wall as yet shut in the horizon.

“This season would have been just the thing for the explorers of the North West Passage, or the seekers of the North Pole,” repeated Sergeant Long again and again, “but it is most unfavourable for us, and very much against our ever getting back to our own land!”

This went on throughout October, and Hobson announced that the mean temperature was no lower than 32deg Fahrenheit, and it is well known that several days of cold, 7deg or 8deg below zero, are required for the sea to freeze hard.

Had proof been needed that the ice-field was impassable, a fact noticed by Mrs Barnett and Hobson would have sufficed.

The animals imprisoned in the island, the furred animals, reindeer, wolves, &c. would have left the island had it been possible to cross the sea, but they continued to gather in large numbers round the factory, and to seek the vicinity of man. The wolves came actually within musket-range of the enceinte to devour the martens and Polar hares, which were their only food. The famished reindeer having neither moss nor herbs on which to browse, roved about Cape Bathurst in herds. A solitary bear, no doubt the one to which Mrs Barnett and Kalumah felt they owed a debt of gratitude, often passed to and fro amongst the trees of the woods, on the banks of the lagoon, and the presence of all these animals, especially of the ruminants, which require an exclusively vegetable diet, proved that flight was impossible.

We have said that the thermometer remained at freezing point, and Hobson found on consulting his journal that at the same time the year before, it had already marked 20deg Fahrenheit below zero, proving how unequally cold is distributed in the capricious Polar regions.

The colonists therefore did not suffer much, and were not confined to the house at all. It was, however, very damp indeed, rain mixed with snow fell constantly, and the falling of the barometer proved that the atmosphere was charged with vapour.

Throughout October the Lieutenant and Long made many excursions to ascertain the state of the ice-field in the offing; one day they went to Cape Michael, another to the edge of the former Walruses’ Bay, anxious to see if it would be possible to cross to the continent of America or Asia, or if the start would have to be put off.

But the surface of the ice-field was covered with puddles of water, and in some parts riddled with holes, which would certainly have been impassable for sledges. It seemed as if it would be scarcely safe for a single traveller to venture across the half-liquid, half-solid masses. It was easy to see that the cold had been neither severe nor equally maintained, for the ice consisted of an accumulation of sharp points, crystals, prisms, polyhedrons, and figures of every variety, like an aggregation of stalactites. It was more like a glacier than a “field,” and even if it had been practicable, walking on it would have been very tiring.

Hobson and Long managed with great difficulty to scramble over a mile or two towards the south, but at the expense of a vast amount of time, so that they were compelled to admit that they must wait some time yet, and they returned to Fort Hope disappointed and disheartened.

The first days of November came, and the temperature fell a little, but only a very few degrees, which was not nearly enough. Victoria Island was wrapped in damp fogs, and the lamps had to be lit during the day. It was necessary, however, to economise the oil as much as possible, as the supply was running short. No fresh stores had been brought by Captain Craventy’s promised convoy, and there were no more walruses to be hunted. Should the dark winter be prolonged, the colonists would be compelled to have recourse to the fat of animals, perhaps even to the resin of the firs, to get a little light. The days were already very short, and the pale disc of the sun, yielding no warmth, and deprived of all its brightness, only appeared above the horizon for a few hours at a time. Yes, winter had come with its mists, its rain, and its snow, but without the long desired cold.

On the 11th November something of a fete was held at Fort Hope. Mrs Joliffe served up a few extras at dinner, for it was the anniversary of the birth of little Michael Mac-Nab. He was now a year old, and was the delight of everybody. He had large blue eyes and fair curly hair, like his father, the head carpenter, who was very proud of the resemblance. At dessert the baby was solemnly weighed. It was worth something to see him struggling in the scales, and to hear his astonished cries! He actually weighed thirty-four pounds! The announcement of this wonderful weight was greeted with loud cheers, and Mrs Mac-Nab was congratulated by everybody on her fine boy. Why Corporal Joliffe felt that he ought to share the compliments it is difficult to imagine, unless it was as a kind of foster-father or nurse to the baby. He had carried the child about, dandled and rocked him so often, that he felt he had something to do with his specific weight!

The next day, November 12th, the sun did not appear above the horizon. The long Polar night was beginning nine days sooner than it had done the year before, in consequence of the difference in the latitude of Victoria Island then and now.

The disappearance of the sun did not, however, produce any change in the state of the atmosphere. The temperature was as changeable as ever. The thermometer fell one day and rose the next. Rain and snow succeeded each other. The wind was soft, and did not settle in any quarter, but often veered round to every point of the compass in the course of a single day. The constant damp was very unhealthy, and likely to lead to scorbutic affections amongst the colonists, but fortunately, although the lime juice and lime lozenges were running short, and no fresh stock had been obtained, the scurvy-grass and sorrel had yielded a very good crop, and, by the advice of Lieutenant Hobson, a portion of them was eaten daily.

Every effort must, however, be made to get away from Fort Hope. Under the circumstances, three months would scarcely be long enough for them all to get to the nearest continent. It was impossible to risk being overtaken by the thaw on the ice-field, and therefore if they started at all it must be at the end of November.

The journey would have been difficult enough, even if the ice had been rendered solid everywhere by a severe winter, and in this uncertain weather it was a most serious matter.

On the 13th November, Hobson, Mrs Barnett, and the Sergeant met to decide on the day of departure. The Sergeant was of opinion that they ought to leave the island as soon as possible.

“For,” he said, “we must make allowance for all the possible delays during a march of six hundred miles. We ought to reach the continent before March, or we may be surprised by the thaw, and then we shall be in a worse predicament than we are on our island.”

“But,” said Mrs Barnett, “is the sea firm enough for us to cross it?”

“I think it is,” said Long, “and the ice gets thicker every day. The barometer, too, is gradually rising, and by the time our preparations are completed, which will be in about another week, I think, I hope that the really cold weather will have set in.”

“The winter has begun very badly,” said Hobson, “in fact everything seems to combine against us. Strange seasons have often been experienced on these seas, I have heard of whalers being able to navigate in places where, even in the summer at another time they would not have had an inch of water beneath their keels. In my opinion there is not a day to be lost, and I cannot sufficiently regret that the ordinary temperature of these regions does not assist us.”

“It will later,” said Mrs Barnett, “and we must be ready to take advantage of every chance in our favour. When do you propose starting, Lieutenant?”

“At the end of November at the latest,” replied Hobson, “but if in a week hence our preparations are finished, and the route appears practicable, we will start then.”

“Very well,” said Long, “we will get ready without losing an instant.”

“Then,” said Mrs Barnett, “you will now tell our companions of the situation in which they are placed?”

“Yes, madam, the moment to speak and the time for action have alike arrived.”

“And when do you propose enlightening them?”

“At once. Sergeant Long,” he added, turning to his subordinate, who at once drew himself up in a military attitude, “call all your men together in the large room to receive a communication.”

Sergeant Long touched his cap, and turning on his heel left the room without a word.

For some minutes Mrs Barnett and Hobson were left alone, but neither of them spoke.

The Sergeant quickly returned, and told Hobson that his orders were executed.

The Lieutenant and the lady at once went into the large room. All the members of the colony, men and women, were assembled in the dimly lighted room.

Hobson came forward, and standing in the centre of the group said very gravely —

“My friends, until to-day I have felt it my duty, in order to spare you useless anxiety, to conceal from you the situation of our fort. An earthquake separated us from the continent. Cape Bathurst has broken away from the mainland. Our peninsula is but an island of ice, a wandering island” — —

At this moment Marbre stepped forward, and said quietly.

“We knew it, sir!”

CHAPTER XIV.

THE WINTER MONTHS.

The party did not arrive at Fort Hope until the 28th, after a most arduous journey. They had now nothing to depend on but the boat, and that they could not use until the sea was open, which would not be for six months.

Preparations for another winter were therefore made. The sledges were unloaded, the provisions put back in the pantry, and the clothes, arms, furs, &c. in the magazines. The dogs returned to their dog-house, and the reindeer to their stable.

Great was the despair of Thomas Black at this return to seclusion. The poor astronomer carried his instruments, his books, and his MSS. back to his room, and more angry than ever with “the evil fate which pursued him,” he held himself aloof from everything which went on in the factory.

All were again settled at their usual winter avocations the day after their arrival, and the monotonous winter life once more commenced. Needlework, mending the clothes, taking care of the furs, some of which might yet be saved, the observation of the weather, the examination of the ice-field, and reading aloud, were the daily occupations. Mrs Barnett was, as before, the leader in everything, and her influence was everywhere felt. If, as sometimes happened, now that all were uneasy about the future, a slight disagreement occurred between any of the soldiers, a few words from Mrs Barnett soon set matters straight, for she had acquired wonderful power over the little world in which she moved, and she always used it for the good of the community.

Kalumah had become a great favourite with everybody, for she was always pleasant and obliging. Mrs Barnett had undertaken her education, and she got on quickly, for she was both intelligent and eager to learn. She improved her English speaking, and also taught her to read and write in that language. There were, however, twelve masters for Kalumah, all eager to assist in this branch of her education, as the soldiers had all been taught reading, writing, and arithmetic either in England or in English colonies.

The building of the boat proceeded rapidly, and it was to be planked and decked before the end of the month. Mac-Nab and some of his men worked hard in the darkness outside, with no light but the flames of burning resin, whilst others were busy making the rigging in the magazines of the factory. Although the season was now far advanced, the weather still remained very undecided. The cold was sometimes intense, but owing to the prevalence of west winds it never lasted long.

Thus passed the whole of December, rain and intermittent falls of snow succeeded each other, the temperature meanwhile varying from 26deg to 34deg Fahrenheit. The consumption of fuel was moderate, although there was no need to economise it, the reserves being considerable. It was otherwise with the oil, upon which they depended for light, for the stock was getting so low that the Lieutenant could at last only allow the lamps to be lit for a few hours every day. He tried using reindeer fat for lighting the house, but the smell of it was so unbearable that every one preferred being in the dark. All work had of course to be given up for the time, and very tedious did the long dark hours appear.

Some Aurorae Borealis and two or three lunar halos appeared at full moon, and Thomas Black might now have minutely observed all these phenomenon, and have made precise calculations on their intensity, their coloration, connection with the electric state of the atmosphere, and their influence upon the magnetic needle, &c. But the astronomer did not even leave his room. His spirit was completely crushed.

On the 30th December the light of the moon revealed a long circular line of icebergs shutting in the horizon on the north and east of Victoria Island. This was the ice-wall, the frozen masses of which were piled up to a height of some three or four hundred feet. Two-thirds of the island were hemmed in by this mighty barrier, and it seemed probable that the blockade would become yet more complete.

The sky was clear for the first week of January. The new year, 1861, opened with very cold weather, and the column of mercury fell to 8deg Fahrenheit. It was the lowest temperature that had yet been experienced in this singular winter, although it was anything but low for such a high latitude.

The Lieutenant felt it his duty once more to take the latitude and longitude of the island by means of stellar observations, and found that its position had not changed at all.

About this time, in spite of all their economy, the oil seemed likely to fail altogether. The sun would not appear above the horizon before early in February, so that there was a month to wait, during which there was a danger of the colonists having to remain in complete darkness. Thanks to the young Esquimaux, however, a fresh supply of oil for the lamps was obtained.

On the 3rd January Kalumah walked to Cape Bathurst to examine the state of the ice. All along the south of the island the ice-field was very compact, the icicles of which it was composed were more firmly welded together, there were no liquid spaces between them, and the surface of the floe, though rough, was perfectly firm everywhere. This was no doubt caused by the pressure of the chain of icebergs on the horizon, which drove the ice towards the north, and squeezed it against the island.

Although she saw no crevasses or rents, the young native noticed many circular holes neatly cut in the ice, the use of which she knew perfectly well. They were the holes kept open by seals imprisoned beneath the solid crust of ice, and by which they came to the surface to breathe and look for mosses under the snow on the coast.

Kalumah knew that in the winter bears will crouch patiently near these holes, and watching for the moment when the seal comes out of the water, they rush upon it, hug it to death in their paws, and carry it off. She knew, too, that the Esquimaux, not less patient than the bears, also watch for the appearance of these animals, and throwing a running noose over their heads when they push them up, drag them to the surface.

What bears and Esquimaux could do might certainly also be done by skilful hunters, and Kalumah hastened back to the fort to tell the Lieutenant of what she had seen, feeling sure that where these holes were seals were not far off.

Hobson sent for the hunters, and the young native described to them the way in which the Esquimaux capture these animals in the winter, and begged them to try.

She had not finished speaking before Sabine had a strong rope with a running noose ready in his hand and accompanied by Hobson, Mrs Barnett, Kalumah, and two or three soldiers, the hunters hurried to Cape Bathurst, and whilst the women remained on the beach, the men made their way to the holes pointed out by Kalumah. Each one was provided with a rope, and stationed himself at a different hole.

A long time of waiting ensued — no sign of the seals, but at last the water in the hole Marbre had chosen began to bubble, and a head with long tusks appeared. It was that of a walrus. Marbre flung his running noose skilfully over its neck and pulled it tightly. His comrades rushed to his assistance, and with some difficulty the huge beast was dragged upon the ice, and despatched with hatchets.

It was a great success, and the colonists were delighted with this novel fishing. Other walruses were taken in the same way, and furnished plenty of oil, which, though not strictly of the right sort, did very well for the lamps, and there was no longer any lack of light in any of the rooms of Fort Hope.

The cold was even now not very severe, and had the colonists been on the American mainland they could only have rejoiced in the mildness of the winter. They were sheltered by the chain of icebergs from the north and west winds, and the month of January passed on with the thermometer never many degrees below freezing point, so that the sea round Victoria Island was never frozen hard. Fissures of more or less extent broke the regularity of the surface in the offing, as was proved by the continued presence of the ruminants and furred animals near the factory, all of which had become strangely tame, forming in fact part of the menagerie of the colony.

According to Hobson’s orders, all these creatures were unmolested. It would have been useless to kill them, and a reindeer was only occasionally slaughtered to obtain a fresh supply of venison. Some of the furred animals even ventured into the enceinte, and they were not driven away. The martens and foxes were in all the splendour of their winter clothing, and under ordinary circumstances would have been of immense value. These rodents found plenty of moss under the snow, thanks to the mildness of the season, and did not therefore live upon the reserves of the factory.

It was with some apprehensions for the future that the end of the winter was awaited, but Mrs Barnett did all in her power to brighten the monotonous existence of her companions in exile.

Only one incident occurred in the month of January, and that one was distressing enough. On the 7th, Michael Mac-Nab was taken ill — severe headache, great thirst and alternations of shivering and fever, soon reduced the poor little fellow to a sad state. His mother and father, and indeed all his friends, were in very great trouble. No one knew what to do, as it was impossible to say what his illness was, but Madge, who retained her senses about her, advised cooling drinks and poultices. Kalumah was indefatigable, remaining day and night by her favourite’s bedside, and refusing to take any rest.

About the third day there was no longer any doubt as to the nature of the malady. A rash came out all over the child’s body, and it was evident that he had malignant scarlatina, which would certainly produce internal inflammation.

Children of a year old are rarely attacked with this terrible disease, but cases do occasionally occur. The medicine-chest of the factory was necessarily insufficiently stocked, but Madge, who had nursed several patients through scarlet lever, remembered that tincture of belladonna was recommended, and administered one or two drops to the little invalid every day. The greatest care was taken lest he should catch cold; he was at once removed to his parents’ room, and the rash soon came out freely. Tiny red points appeared on his tongue, his lips, and even on the globes of his eyes. Two days later his skin assumed a violet hue, then it became white and fell off in scales.

It was now that double care was required to combat the great internal inflammation, which proved the severity of the attack, Nothing was neglected, the boy was, in fact, admirably nursed, and on the 20th January, twelve days after he was taken ill, he was pronounced out of danger.

Great was the joy in the factory. The baby was the child of the fort, of the regiment! He was born in the terrible northern latitudes, in the colony itself, he had been named Michael Hope, and he had come to be regarded as a kind of talisman in the dangers and difficulties around, and all felt sure that God would not take him from them.

Poor Kalumah would certainly not have survived him had he died, but he gradually recovered, and fresh hope seemed to come back when he was restored to the little circle.

The 23d of January was now reached, after all these distressing alternations of hope and fear. The situation of Victoria Island had not changed in the least, and it was still wrapped in the gloom of the apparently interminable Polar night. Snow fell abundantly for some days, and was piled up on the ground to the height of two feet.

On the 27th a somewhat alarming visit was received at the fort. The soldiers Belcher and Pond, when on guard in front of the enceinte in the morning, saw a huge bear quietly advancing towards the fort. They hurried into the large room, and told Mrs Barnett of the approach of the formidable carnivorous beast.

“Perhaps it is only our bear again,” observed Mrs Barnett to Hobson, and accompanied by him, and followed by the Sergeant, Sabine, and some soldiers provided with guns, — he fearlessly walked to the postern.

The bear was now about two hundred paces off, and was walking along without hesitation, as if he had some settled plan in view.

“I know him!” cried Mrs Barnett, “it is your bear, Kalumah, your preserver!”

“Oh, don’t kill my bear!” exclaimed the young Esquimaux.

“He shall not be killed,” said the Lieutenant, “don’t injure him, my good fellows,” he added to the men, “he will probably return as he came.”

“But suppose he intends coming into the enceinte?” said Long, who had his doubts as to the friendly propensities of Polar bears.

“Let him come, Sergeant,” said Mrs Barnett, “he is a prisoner like ourselves, and you know prisoners” —

“Don’t eat each other,” added Hobson. “True, but only when they belong to the same species For your sake, however, we will spare this fellow-sufferer, and only defend ourselves if he attack us. I think, however, it will be as prudent to go back to the House. We must not put too strong a temptation in the way of our carnivorous friend!”

This was certainly good advice, and all returned to the large room, the windows were closed, but not the shutters.

Through the panes the movements of the visitor were watched. The bear, finding the postern unfastened, quietly pushed open the door, looked in, carefully examined the premises, and finally entered the enceinte. Having reached the centre, he examined the buildings around him, went towards the reindeer stable and dog-house, listened for a moment to the howlings of the dogs and the uneasy noises made by the reindeer, then continued his walk round the palisade, and at last came and leant his great head against one of the windows of the large room.

To own the truth everybody started back, several of the soldiers seized their guns, and Sergeant Long began to fear he had let the joke go too far.

But Kalumah came forward, and looked through the thin partition with her sweet eyes. The bear seemed to recognise her, at least so she thought, and doubtless satisfied with his inspection, he gave a hearty growl, and turning away left the enceinte, as Hobson had prophesied, as he entered it.

This was the bear’s first and last visit to the fort, and on his departure everything went on as quietly as before.

The little boy’s recovery progressed favourably, and at the end of the month he was as rosy and as bright as ever.

At noon on the 3rd of February, the northern horizon was touched with a faint glimmer of light which did not fade away for an hour, and the yellow disc of the sun appeared for an instant for the first time since the commencement of the long Polar night.

The 1956 Oscar winning film adaptation

CHAPTER IV

IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG ASTOUNDS PASSEPARTOUT, HIS SERVANT

Having won twenty guineas at whist, and taken leave of his friends, Phileas Fogg, at twenty-five minutes past seven, left the Reform Club.

Passepartout, who had conscientiously studied the programme of his duties, was more than surprised to see his master guilty of the inexactness of appearing at this unaccustomed hour; for, according to rule, he was not due in Saville Row until precisely midnight.

Mr. Fogg repaired to his bedroom, and called out, “Passepartout!”

Passepartout did not reply. It could not be he who was called; it was not the right hour.

“Passepartout!” repeated Mr. Fogg, without raising his voice.

Passepartout made his appearance.

“I’ve called you twice,” observed his master.

“But it is not midnight,” responded the other, showing his watch.

“I know it; I don’t blame you. We start for Dover and Calais in ten minutes.”

A puzzled grin overspread Passepartout’s round face; clearly he had not comprehended his master.

“Monsieur is going to leave home?”

“Yes,” returned Phileas Fogg. “We are going round the world.”

Passepartout opened wide his eyes, raised his eyebrows, held up his hands, and seemed about to collapse, so overcome was he with stupefied astonishment.

“Round the world!” he murmured.

“In eighty days,” responded Mr. Fogg. “So we haven’t a moment to lose.”

“But the trunks?” gasped Passepartout, unconsciously swaying his head from right to left.

“We’ll have no trunks; only a carpet-bag, with two shirts and three pairs of stockings for me, and the same for you. We’ll buy our clothes on the way. Bring down my mackintosh and traveling-cloak, and some stout shoes, though we shall do little walking. Make haste!”

Passepartout tried to reply, but could not. He went out, mounted to his own room, fell into a chair, and muttered: “That’s good, that is! And I, who wanted to remain quiet!”

He mechanically set about making the preparations for departure. Around the world in eighty days! Was his master a fool? No. Was this a joke, then? They were going to Dover; good! To Calais; good again! After all, Passepartout, who had been away from France five years, would not be sorry to set foot on his native soil again. Perhaps they would go as far as Paris, and it would do his eyes good to see Paris once more. But surely a gentleman so chary of his steps would stop there; no doubt — but, then, it was none the less true that he was going away, this so domestic person hitherto!

By eight o’clock Passepartout had packed the modest carpet-bag, containing the wardrobes of his master and himself; then, still troubled in mind, he carefully shut the door of his room, and descended to Mr. Fogg.

Mr. Fogg was quite ready. Under his arm might have been observed a red-bound copy of Bradshaw’s Continental Railway Steam Transit and General Guide, with its timetables showing the arrival and departure of steamers and railways. He took the carpet-bag, opened it, and slipped into it a goodly roll of Bank of England notes, which would pass wherever he might go.

“You have forgotten nothing?” asked he.

“Nothing, monsieur.”

“My mackintosh and cloak?”

“Here they are.”

“Good! Take this carpet-bag,” handing it to Passepartout. “Take good care of it, for there are twenty thousand pounds in it.”

Passepartout nearly dropped the bag, as if the twenty thousand pounds were in gold, and weighed him down.

Master and man then descended, the street-door was double-locked, and at the end of Saville Row they took a cab and drove rapidly to Charing Cross. The cab stopped before the railway station at twenty minutes past eight. Passepartout jumped off the box and followed his master, who, after paying the cabman, was about to enter the station, when a poor beggar-woman, with a child in her arms, her naked feet smeared with mud, her head covered with a wretched bonnet, from which hung a tattered feather, and her shoulders shrouded in a ragged shawl, approached, and mournfully asked for alms.

Mr. Fogg took out the twenty guineas he had just won at whist, and handed them to the beggar, saying, “Here, my good woman. I’m glad that I met you;” and passed on.

Passepartout had a moist sensation about the eyes; his master’s action touched his susceptible heart.

Two first-class tickets for Paris having been speedily purchased, Mr. Fogg was crossing the station to the train, when he perceived his five friends of the Reform.

“Well, gentlemen,” said he, “I’m off, you see; and, if you will examine my passport when I get back, you will be able to judge whether I have accomplished the journey agreed upon.”

“Oh, that would be quite unnecessary, Mr. Fogg,” said Ralph politely. “We will trust your word, as a gentleman of honour.”

“You do not forget when you are due in London again?” asked Stuart.

“In eighty days; on Saturday, the 21st of December, 1872, at a quarter before nine p.m. Good-bye, gentlemen.”

Phileas Fogg and his servant seated themselves in a first-class carriage at twenty minutes before nine; five minutes later the whistle screamed, and the train slowly glided out of the station.

The night was dark, and a fine, steady rain was falling. Phileas Fogg, snugly ensconced in his corner, did not open his lips. Passepartout, not yet recovered from his stupefaction, clung mechanically to the carpet-bag, with its enormous treasure.

Just as the train was whirling through Sydenham, Passepartout suddenly uttered a cry of despair.

“What’s the matter?” asked Mr. Fogg.

“Alas! In my hurry — I — I forgot — ”

“What?”

“To turn off the gas in my room!”

“Very well, young man,” returned Mr. Fogg, coolly; “it will burn — at your expense.”

CHAPTER IX

IN WHICH THE RED SEA AND THE INDIAN OCEAN PROVE PROPITIOUS TO THE DESIGNS OF PHILEAS FOGG

The distance between Suez and Aden is precisely thirteen hundred and ten miles, and the regulations of the company allow the steamers one hundred and thirty-eight hours in which to traverse it. The Mongolia, thanks to the vigorous exertions of the engineer, seemed likely, so rapid was her speed, to reach her destination considerably within that time. The greater part of the passengers from Brindisi were bound for India some for Bombay, others for Calcutta by way of Bombay, the nearest route thither, now that a railway crosses the Indian peninsula. Among the passengers was a number of officials and military officers of various grades, the latter being either attached to the regular British forces or commanding the Sepoy troops, and receiving high salaries ever since the central government has assumed the powers of the East India Company: for the sub-lieutenants get 280 pounds, brigadiers, 2,400 pounds, and generals of divisions, 4,000 pounds. What with the military men, a number of rich young Englishmen on their travels, and the hospitable efforts of the purser, the time passed quickly on the Mongolia. The best of fare was spread upon the cabin tables at breakfast, lunch, dinner, and the eight o’clock supper, and the ladies scrupulously changed their toilets twice a day; and the hours were whirled away, when the sea was tranquil, with music, dancing, and games.

But the Red Sea is full of caprice, and often boisterous, like most long and narrow gulfs. When the wind came from the African or Asian coast the Mongolia, with her long hull, rolled fearfully. Then the ladies speedily disappeared below; the pianos were silent; singing and dancing suddenly ceased. Yet the good ship ploughed straight on, unretarded by wind or wave, towards the straits of Bab-el-Mandeb. What was Phileas Fogg doing all this time? It might be thought that, in his anxiety, he would be constantly watching the changes of the wind, the disorderly raging of the billows — every chance, in short, which might force the Mongolia to slacken her speed, and thus interrupt his journey. But, if he thought of these possibilities, he did not betray the fact by any outward sign.

Always the same impassible member of the Reform Club, whom no incident could surprise, as unvarying as the ship’s chronometers, and seldom having the curiosity even to go upon the deck, he passed through the memorable scenes of the Red Sea with cold indifference; did not care to recognise the historic towns and villages which, along its borders, raised their picturesque outlines against the sky; and betrayed no fear of the dangers of the Arabic Gulf, which the old historians always spoke of with horror, and upon which the ancient navigators never ventured without propitiating the gods by ample sacrifices. How did this eccentric personage pass his time on the Mongolia? He made his four hearty meals every day, regardless of the most persistent rolling and pitching on the part of the steamer; and he played whist indefatigably, for he had found partners as enthusiastic in the game as himself. A tax-collector, on the way to his post at Goa; the Rev. Decimus Smith, returning to his parish at Bombay; and a brigadier-general of the English army, who was about to rejoin his brigade at Benares, made up the party, and, with Mr. Fogg, played whist by the hour together in absorbing silence.

As for Passepartout, he, too, had escaped sea-sickness, and took his meals conscientiously in the forward cabin. He rather enjoyed the voyage, for he was well fed and well lodged, took a great interest in the scenes through which they were passing, and consoled himself with the delusion that his master’s whim would end at Bombay. He was pleased, on the day after leaving Suez, to find on deck the obliging person with whom he had walked and chatted on the quays.

“If I am not mistaken,” said he, approaching this person, with his most amiable smile, “you are the gentleman who so kindly volunteered to guide me at Suez?”

“Ah! I quite recognise you. You are the servant of the strange Englishman — ”

“Just so, monsieur — ”

“Fix.”

“Monsieur Fix,” resumed Passepartout, “I’m charmed to find you on board. Where are you bound?”

“Like you, to Bombay.”

“That’s capital! Have you made this trip before?”

“Several times. I am one of the agents of the Peninsular Company.”

“Then you know India?”

“Why yes,” replied Fix, who spoke cautiously.

“A curious place, this India?”

“Oh, very curious. Mosques, minarets, temples, fakirs, pagodas, tigers, snakes, elephants! I hope you will have ample time to see the sights.”

“I hope so, Monsieur Fix. You see, a man of sound sense ought not to spend his life jumping from a steamer upon a railway train, and from a railway train upon a steamer again, pretending to make the tour of the world in eighty days! No; all these gymnastics, you may be sure, will cease at Bombay.”

“And Mr. Fogg is getting on well?” asked Fix, in the most natural tone in the world.

“Quite well, and I too. I eat like a famished ogre; it’s the sea air.”

“But I never see your master on deck.”

“Never; he hasn’t the least curiosity.”

“Do you know, Mr. Passepartout, that this pretended tour in eighty days may conceal some secret errand — perhaps a diplomatic mission?”

“Faith, Monsieur Fix, I assure you I know nothing about it, nor would I give half a crown to find out.”

After this meeting, Passepartout and Fix got into the habit of chatting together, the latter making it a point to gain the worthy man’s confidence. He frequently offered him a glass of whiskey or pale ale in the steamer bar-room, which Passepartout never failed to accept with graceful alacrity, mentally pronouncing Fix the best of good fellows.

Meanwhile the Mongolia was pushing forward rapidly; on the 13th, Mocha, surrounded by its ruined walls whereon date-trees were growing, was sighted, and on the mountains beyond were espied vast coffee-fields. Passepartout was ravished to behold this celebrated place, and thought that, with its circular walls and dismantled fort, it looked like an immense coffee-cup and saucer. The following night they passed through the Strait of Bab-el-Mandeb, which means in Arabic The Bridge of Tears, and the next day they put in at Steamer Point, north-west of Aden harbour, to take in coal. This matter of fuelling steamers is a serious one at such distances from the coal-mines; it costs the Peninsular Company some eight hundred thousand pounds a year. In these distant seas, coal is worth three or four pounds sterling a ton.

The Mongolia had still sixteen hundred and fifty miles to traverse before reaching Bombay, and was obliged to remain four hours at Steamer Point to coal up. But this delay, as it was foreseen, did not affect Phileas Fogg’s programme; besides, the Mongolia, instead of reaching Aden on the morning of the 15th, when she was due, arrived there on the evening of the 14th, a gain of fifteen hours.

Mr. Fogg and his servant went ashore at Aden to have the passport again visaed; Fix, unobserved, followed them. The visa procured, Mr. Fogg returned on board to resume his former habits; while Passepartout, according to custom, sauntered about among the mixed population of Somalis, Banyans, Parsees, Jews, Arabs, and Europeans who comprise the twenty-five thousand inhabitants of Aden. He gazed with wonder upon the fortifications which make this place the Gibraltar of the Indian Ocean, and the vast cisterns where the English engineers were still at work, two thousand years after the engineers of Solomon.

“Very curious, very curious,” said Passepartout to himself, on returning to the steamer. “I see that it is by no means useless to travel, if a man wants to see something new.” At six p.m. the Mongolia slowly moved out of the roadstead, and was soon once more on the Indian Ocean. She had a hundred and sixty-eight hours in which to reach Bombay, and the sea was favourable, the wind being in the north-west, and all sails aiding the engine. The steamer rolled but little, the ladies, in fresh toilets, reappeared on deck, and the singing and dancing were resumed. The trip was being accomplished most successfully, and Passepartout was enchanted with the congenial companion which chance had secured him in the person of the delightful Fix. On Sunday, October 20th, towards noon, they came in sight of the Indian coast: two hours later the pilot came on board. A range of hills lay against the sky in the horizon, and soon the rows of palms which adorn Bombay came distinctly into view. The steamer entered the road formed by the islands in the bay, and at half-past four she hauled up at the quays of Bombay.

Phileas Fogg was in the act of finishing the thirty-third rubber of the voyage, and his partner and himself having, by a bold stroke, captured all thirteen of the tricks, concluded this fine campaign with a brilliant victory.

The Mongolia was due at Bombay on the 22nd; she arrived on the 20th. This was a gain to Phileas Fogg of two days since his departure from London, and he calmly entered the fact in the itinerary, in the column of gains.

CHAPTER XXVII

IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT UNDERGOES, AT A SPEED OF TWENTY MILES AN HOUR, A COURSE OF MORMON HISTORY

During the night of the 5th of December, the train ran south-easterly for about fifty miles; then rose an equal distance in a north-easterly direction, towards the Great Salt Lake.

Passepartout, about nine o’clock, went out upon the platform to take the air. The weather was cold, the heavens grey, but it was not snowing. The sun’s disc, enlarged by the mist, seemed an enormous ring of gold, and Passepartout was amusing himself by calculating its value in pounds sterling, when he was diverted from this interesting study by a strange-looking personage who made his appearance on the platform.

This personage, who had taken the train at Elko, was tall and dark, with black moustache, black stockings, a black silk hat, a black waistcoat, black trousers, a white cravat, and dogskin gloves. He might have been taken for a clergyman. He went from one end of the train to the other, and affixed to the door of each car a notice written in manuscript.

Passepartout approached and read one of these notices, which stated that Elder William Hitch, Mormon missionary, taking advantage of his presence on train No. 48, would deliver a lecture on Mormonism in car No. 117, from eleven to twelve o’clock; and that he invited all who were desirous of being instructed concerning the mysteries of the religion of the “Latter Day Saints” to attend.

“I’ll go,” said Passepartout to himself. He knew nothing of Mormonism except the custom of polygamy, which is its foundation.

The news quickly spread through the train, which contained about one hundred passengers, thirty of whom, at most, attracted by the notice, ensconced themselves in car No. 117. Passepartout took one of the front seats. Neither Mr. Fogg nor Fix cared to attend.

At the appointed hour Elder William Hitch rose, and, in an irritated voice, as if he had already been contradicted, said, “I tell you that Joe Smith is a martyr, that his brother Hiram is a martyr, and that the persecutions of the United States Government against the prophets will also make a martyr of Brigham Young. Who dares to say the contrary?”

No one ventured to gainsay the missionary, whose excited tone contrasted curiously with his naturally calm visage. No doubt his anger arose from the hardships to which the Mormons were actually subjected. The government had just succeeded, with some difficulty, in reducing these independent fanatics to its rule. It had made itself master of Utah, and subjected that territory to the laws of the Union, after imprisoning Brigham Young on a charge of rebellion and polygamy. The disciples of the prophet had since redoubled their efforts, and resisted, by words at least, the authority of Congress. Elder Hitch, as is seen, was trying to make proselytes on the very railway trains.

Then, emphasising his words with his loud voice and frequent gestures, he related the history of the Mormons from Biblical times: how that, in Israel, a Mormon prophet of the tribe of Joseph published the annals of the new religion, and bequeathed them to his son Mormon; how, many centuries later, a translation of this precious book, which was written in Egyptian, was made by Joseph Smith, junior, a Vermont farmer, who revealed himself as a mystical prophet in 1825; and how, in short, the celestial messenger appeared to him in an illuminated forest, and gave him the annals of the Lord.

Several of the audience, not being much interested in the missionary’s narrative, here left the car; but Elder Hitch, continuing his lecture, related how Smith, junior, with his father, two brothers, and a few disciples, founded the church of the “Latter Day Saints,” which, adopted not only in America, but in England, Norway and Sweden, and Germany, counts many artisans, as well as men engaged in the liberal professions, among its members; how a colony was established in Ohio, a temple erected there at a cost of two hundred thousand dollars, and a town built at Kirkland; how Smith became an enterprising banker, and received from a simple mummy showman a papyrus scroll written by Abraham and several famous Egyptians.

The Elder’s story became somewhat wearisome, and his audience grew gradually less, until it was reduced to twenty passengers. But this did not disconcert the enthusiast, who proceeded with the story of Joseph Smith’s bankruptcy in 1837, and how his ruined creditors gave him a coat of tar and feathers; his reappearance some years afterwards, more honourable and honoured than ever, at Independence, Missouri, the chief of a flourishing colony of three thousand disciples, and his pursuit thence by outraged Gentiles, and retirement into the Far West.

Ten hearers only were now left, among them honest Passepartout, who was listening with all his ears. Thus he learned that, after long persecutions, Smith reappeared in Illinois, and in 1839 founded a community at Nauvoo, on the Mississippi, numbering twenty-five thousand souls, of which he became mayor, chief justice, and general-in-chief; that he announced himself, in 1843, as a candidate for the Presidency of the United States; and that finally, being drawn into ambuscade at Carthage, he was thrown into prison, and assassinated by a band of men disguised in masks.

Passepartout was now the only person left in the car, and the Elder, looking him full in the face, reminded him that, two years after the assassination of Joseph Smith, the inspired prophet, Brigham Young, his successor, left Nauvoo for the banks of the Great Salt Lake, where, in the midst of that fertile region, directly on the route of the emigrants who crossed Utah on their way to California, the new colony, thanks to the polygamy practised by the Mormons, had flourished beyond expectations.

“And this,” added Elder William Hitch, “this is why the jealousy of Congress has been aroused against us! Why have the soldiers of the Union invaded the soil of Utah? Why has Brigham Young, our chief, been imprisoned, in contempt of all justice? Shall we yield to force? Never! Driven from Vermont, driven from Illinois, driven from Ohio, driven from Missouri, driven from Utah, we shall yet find some independent territory on which to plant our tents. And you, my brother,” continued the Elder, fixing his angry eyes upon his single auditor, “will you not plant yours there, too, under the shadow of our flag?”

“No!” replied Passepartout courageously, in his turn retiring from the car, and leaving the Elder to preach to vacancy.

During the lecture the train had been making good progress, and towards half-past twelve it reached the northwest border of the Great Salt Lake. Thence the passengers could observe the vast extent of this interior sea, which is also called the Dead Sea, and into which flows an American Jordan. It is a picturesque expanse, framed in lofty crags in large strata, encrusted with white salt — a superb sheet of water, which was formerly of larger extent than now, its shores having encroached with the lapse of time, and thus at once reduced its breadth and increased its depth.

The Salt Lake, seventy miles long and thirty-five wide, is situated three miles eight hundred feet above the sea. Quite different from Lake Asphaltite, whose depression is twelve hundred feet below the sea, it contains considerable salt, and one quarter of the weight of its water is solid matter, its specific weight being 1,170, and, after being distilled, 1,000. Fishes are, of course, unable to live in it, and those which descend through the Jordan, the Weber, and other streams soon perish.

The country around the lake was well cultivated, for the Mormons are mostly farmers; while ranches and pens for domesticated animals, fields of wheat, corn, and other cereals, luxuriant prairies, hedges of wild rose, clumps of acacias and milk-wort, would have been seen six months later. Now the ground was covered with a thin powdering of snow.

The train reached Ogden at two o’clock, where it rested for six hours, Mr. Fogg and his party had time to pay a visit to Salt Lake City, connected with Ogden by a branch road; and they spent two hours in this strikingly American town, built on the pattern of other cities of the Union, like a checker-board, “with the sombre sadness of right-angles,” as Victor Hugo expresses it. The founder of the City of the Saints could not escape from the taste for symmetry which distinguishes the Anglo-Saxons. In this strange country, where the people are certainly not up to the level of their institutions, everything is done “squarely” — cities, houses, and follies.

The travellers, then, were promenading, at three o’clock, about the streets of the town built between the banks of the Jordan and the spurs of the Wahsatch Range. They saw few or no churches, but the prophet’s mansion, the court-house, and the arsenal, blue-brick houses with verandas and porches, surrounded by gardens bordered with acacias, palms, and locusts. A clay and pebble wall, built in 1853, surrounded the town; and in the principal street were the market and several hotels adorned with pavilions. The place did not seem thickly populated. The streets were almost deserted, except in the vicinity of the temple, which they only reached after having traversed several quarters surrounded by palisades. There were many women, which was easily accounted for by the “peculiar institution” of the Mormons; but it must not be supposed that all the Mormons are polygamists. They are free to marry or not, as they please; but it is worth noting that it is mainly the female citizens of Utah who are anxious to marry, as, according to the Mormon religion, maiden ladies are not admitted to the possession of its highest joys. These poor creatures seemed to be neither well off nor happy. Some — the more well-to-do, no doubt — wore short, open, black silk dresses, under a hood or modest shawl; others were habited in Indian fashion.

Passepartout could not behold without a certain fright these women, charged, in groups, with conferring happiness on a single Mormon. His common sense pitied, above all, the husband. It seemed to him a terrible thing to have to guide so many wives at once across the vicissitudes of life, and to conduct them, as it were, in a body to the Mormon paradise with the prospect of seeing them in the company of the glorious Smith, who doubtless was the chief ornament of that delightful place, to all eternity. He felt decidedly repelled from such a vocation, and he imagined — perhaps he was mistaken — that the fair ones of Salt Lake City cast rather alarming glances on his person. Happily, his stay there was but brief. At four the party found themselves again at the station, took their places in the train, and the whistle sounded for starting. Just at the moment, however, that the locomotive wheels began to move, cries of “Stop! stop!” were heard.

Trains, like time and tide, stop for no one. The gentleman who uttered the cries was evidently a belated Mormon. He was breathless with running. Happily for him, the station had neither gates nor barriers. He rushed along the track, jumped on the rear platform of the train, and fell, exhausted, into one of the seats.

Passepartout, who had been anxiously watching this amateur gymnast, approached him with lively interest, and learned that he had taken flight after an unpleasant domestic scene.

When the Mormon had recovered his breath, Passepartout ventured to ask him politely how many wives he had; for, from the manner in which he had decamped, it might be thought that he had twenty at least.

“One, sir,” replied the Mormon, raising his arms heavenward — “one, and that was enough!”

CHAPTER XXVIII

IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT DOES NOT SUCCEED IN MAKING ANYBODY LISTEN TO REASON

The train, on leaving Great Salt Lake at Ogden, passed northward for an hour as far as Weber River, having completed nearly nine hundred miles from San Francisco. From this point it took an easterly direction towards the jagged Wahsatch Mountains. It was in the section included between this range and the Rocky Mountains that the American engineers found the most formidable difficulties in laying the road, and that the government granted a subsidy of forty-eight thousand dollars per mile, instead of sixteen thousand allowed for the work done on the plains. But the engineers, instead of violating nature, avoided its difficulties by winding around, instead of penetrating the rocks. One tunnel only, fourteen thousand feet in length, was pierced in order to arrive at the great basin.

The track up to this time had reached its highest elevation at the Great Salt Lake. From this point it described a long curve, descending towards Bitter Creek Valley, to rise again to the dividing ridge of the waters between the Atlantic and the Pacific. There were many creeks in this mountainous region, and it was necessary to cross Muddy Creek, Green Creek, and others, upon culverts.

Passepartout grew more and more impatient as they went on, while Fix longed to get out of this difficult region, and was more anxious than Phileas Fogg himself to be beyond the danger of delays and accidents, and set foot on English soil.

At ten o’clock at night the train stopped at Fort Bridger station, and twenty minutes later entered Wyoming Territory, following the valley of Bitter Creek throughout. The next day, 7th December, they stopped for a quarter of an hour at Green River station. Snow had fallen abundantly during the night, but, being mixed with rain, it had half melted, and did not interrupt their progress. The bad weather, however, annoyed Passepartout; for the accumulation of snow, by blocking the wheels of the cars, would certainly have been fatal to Mr. Fogg’s tour.

“What an idea!” he said to himself. “Why did my master make this journey in winter? Couldn’t he have waited for the good season to increase his chances?”

While the worthy Frenchman was absorbed in the state of the sky and the depression of the temperature, Aouda was experiencing fears from a totally different cause.

Several passengers had got off at Green River, and were walking up and down the platforms; and among these Aouda recognised Colonel Stamp Proctor, the same who had so grossly insulted Phileas Fogg at the San Francisco meeting. Not wishing to be recognised, the young woman drew back from the window, feeling much alarm at her discovery. She was attached to the man who, however coldly, gave her daily evidences of the most absolute devotion. She did not comprehend, perhaps, the depth of the sentiment with which her protector inspired her, which she called gratitude, but which, though she was unconscious of it, was really more than that. Her heart sank within her when she recognised the man whom Mr. Fogg desired, sooner or later, to call to account for his conduct. Chance alone, it was clear, had brought Colonel Proctor on this train; but there he was, and it was necessary, at all hazards, that Phileas Fogg should not perceive his adversary.

Aouda seized a moment when Mr. Fogg was asleep to tell Fix and Passepartout whom she had seen.

“That Proctor on this train!” cried Fix. “Well, reassure yourself, madam; before he settles with Mr. Fogg; he has got to deal with me! It seems to me that I was the more insulted of the two.”

“And, besides,” added Passepartout, “I’ll take charge of him, colonel as he is.”

“Mr. Fix,” resumed Aouda, “Mr. Fogg will allow no one to avenge him. He said that he would come back to America to find this man. Should he perceive Colonel Proctor, we could not prevent a collision which might have terrible results. He must not see him.”

“You are right, madam,” replied Fix; “a meeting between them might ruin all. Whether he were victorious or beaten, Mr. Fogg would be delayed, and — ”

“And,” added Passepartout, “that would play the game of the gentlemen of the Reform Club. In four days we shall be in New York. Well, if my master does not leave this car during those four days, we may hope that chance will not bring him face to face with this confounded American. We must, if possible, prevent his stirring out of it.”

The conversation dropped. Mr. Fogg had just woke up, and was looking out of the window. Soon after Passepartout, without being heard by his master or Aouda, whispered to the detective, “Would you really fight for him?”

“I would do anything,” replied Fix, in a tone which betrayed determined will, “to get him back living to Europe!”

Passepartout felt something like a shudder shoot through his frame, but his confidence in his master remained unbroken.

Was there any means of detaining Mr. Fogg in the car, to avoid a meeting between him and the colonel? It ought not to be a difficult task, since that gentleman was naturally sedentary and little curious. The detective, at least, seemed to have found a way; for, after a few moments, he said to Mr. Fogg, “These are long and slow hours, sir, that we are passing on the railway.”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Fogg; “but they pass.”

“You were in the habit of playing whist,” resumed Fix, “on the steamers.”

“Yes; but it would be difficult to do so here. I have neither cards nor partners.”

“Oh, but we can easily buy some cards, for they are sold on all the American trains. And as for partners, if madam plays — ”

“Certainly, sir,” Aouda quickly replied; “I understand whist. It is part of an English education.”

“I myself have some pretensions to playing a good game. Well, here are three of us, and a dummy — ”

“As you please, sir,” replied Phileas Fogg, heartily glad to resume his favourite pastime even on the railway.

Passepartout was dispatched in search of the steward, and soon returned with two packs of cards, some pins, counters, and a shelf covered with cloth.

The game commenced. Aouda understood whist sufficiently well, and even received some compliments on her playing from Mr. Fogg. As for the detective, he was simply an adept, and worthy of being matched against his present opponent.

“Now,” thought Passepartout, “we’ve got him. He won’t budge.”

At eleven in the morning the train had reached the dividing ridge of the waters at Bridger Pass, seven thousand five hundred and twenty-four feet above the level of the sea, one of the highest points attained by the track in crossing the Rocky Mountains. After going about two hundred miles, the travellers at last found themselves on one of those vast plains which extend to the Atlantic, and which nature has made so propitious for laying the iron road.

On the declivity of the Atlantic basin the first streams, branches of the North Platte River, already appeared. The whole northern and eastern horizon was bounded by the immense semi-circular curtain which is formed by the southern portion of the Rocky Mountains, the highest being Laramie Peak. Between this and the railway extended vast plains, plentifully irrigated. On the right rose the lower spurs of the mountainous mass which extends southward to the sources of the Arkansas River, one of the great tributaries of the Missouri.

At half-past twelve the travellers caught sight for an instant of Fort Halleck, which commands that section; and in a few more hours the Rocky Mountains were crossed. There was reason to hope, then, that no accident would mark the journey through this difficult country. The snow had ceased falling, and the air became crisp and cold. Large birds, frightened by the locomotive, rose and flew off in the distance. No wild beast appeared on the plain. It was a desert in its vast nakedness.

After a comfortable breakfast, served in the car, Mr. Fogg and his partners had just resumed whist, when a violent whistling was heard, and the train stopped. Passepartout put his head out of the door, but saw nothing to cause the delay; no station was in view.

Aouda and Fix feared that Mr. Fogg might take it into his head to get out; but that gentleman contented himself with saying to his servant, “See what is the matter.”

Passepartout rushed out of the car. Thirty or forty passengers had already descended, amongst them Colonel Stamp Proctor.

The train had stopped before a red signal which blocked the way. The engineer and conductor were talking excitedly with a signal-man, whom the station-master at Medicine Bow, the next stopping place, had sent on before. The passengers drew around and took part in the discussion, in which Colonel Proctor, with his insolent manner, was conspicuous.

Passepartout, joining the group, heard the signal-man say, “No! you can’t pass. The bridge at Medicine Bow is shaky, and would not bear the weight of the train.”

This was a suspension-bridge thrown over some rapids, about a mile from the place where they now were. According to the signal-man, it was in a ruinous condition, several of the iron wires being broken; and it was impossible to risk the passage. He did not in any way exaggerate the condition of the bridge. It may be taken for granted that, rash as the Americans usually are, when they are prudent there is good reason for it.

Passepartout, not daring to apprise his master of what he heard, listened with set teeth, immovable as a statue.

“Hum!” cried Colonel Proctor; “but we are not going to stay here, I imagine, and take root in the snow?”

“Colonel,” replied the conductor, “we have telegraphed to Omaha for a train, but it is not likely that it will reach Medicine Bow is less than six hours.”

“Six hours!” cried Passepartout.

“Certainly,” returned the conductor, “besides, it will take us as long as that to reach Medicine Bow on foot.”

“But it is only a mile from here,” said one of the passengers.

“Yes, but it’s on the other side of the river.”

“And can’t we cross that in a boat?” asked the colonel.

“That’s impossible. The creek is swelled by the rains. It is a rapid, and we shall have to make a circuit of ten miles to the north to find a ford.”

The colonel launched a volley of oaths, denouncing the railway company and the conductor; and Passepartout, who was furious, was not disinclined to make common cause with him. Here was an obstacle, indeed, which all his master’s banknotes could not remove.

There was a general disappointment among the passengers, who, without reckoning the delay, saw themselves compelled to trudge fifteen miles over a plain covered with snow. They grumbled and protested, and would certainly have thus attracted Phileas Fogg’s attention if he had not been completely absorbed in his game.

Passepartout found that he could not avoid telling his master what had occurred, and, with hanging head, he was turning towards the car, when the engineer, a true Yankee, named Forster called out, “Gentlemen, perhaps there is a way, after all, to get over.”

“On the bridge?” asked a passenger.

“On the bridge.”

“With our train?”

“With our train.”

Passepartout stopped short, and eagerly listened to the engineer.

“But the bridge is unsafe,” urged the conductor.

“No matter,” replied Forster; “I think that by putting on the very highest speed we might have a chance of getting over.”

“The devil!” muttered Passepartout.

But a number of the passengers were at once attracted by the engineer’s proposal, and Colonel Proctor was especially delighted, and found the plan a very feasible one. He told stories about engineers leaping their trains over rivers without bridges, by putting on full steam; and many of those present avowed themselves of the engineer’s mind.

“We have fifty chances out of a hundred of getting over,” said one.

“Eighty! ninety!”

Passepartout was astounded, and, though ready to attempt anything to get over Medicine Creek, thought the experiment proposed a little too American. “Besides,” thought he, “there’s a still more simple way, and it does not even occur to any of these people! Sir,” said he aloud to one of the passengers, “the engineer’s plan seems to me a little dangerous, but — ”

“Eighty chances!” replied the passenger, turning his back on him.

“I know it,” said Passepartout, turning to another passenger, “but a simple idea — ”

“Ideas are no use,” returned the American, shrugging his shoulders, “as the engineer assures us that we can pass.”

“Doubtless,” urged Passepartout, “we can pass, but perhaps it would be more prudent — ”

“What! Prudent!” cried Colonel Proctor, whom this word seemed to excite prodigiously. “At full speed, don’t you see, at full speed!”

“I know — I see,” repeated Passepartout; “but it would be, if not more prudent, since that word displeases you, at least more natural — ”

“Who! What! What’s the matter with this fellow?” cried several.

The poor fellow did not know to whom to address himself.

“Are you afraid?” asked Colonel Proctor.

“I afraid? Very well; I will show these people that a Frenchman can be as American as they!”

“All aboard!” cried the conductor.

“Yes, all aboard!” repeated Passepartout, and immediately. “But they can’t prevent me from thinking that it would be more natural for us to cross the bridge on foot, and let the train come after!”

But no one heard this sage reflection, nor would anyone have acknowledged its justice. The passengers resumed their places in the cars. Passepartout took his seat without telling what had passed. The whist-players were quite absorbed in their game.

The locomotive whistled vigorously; the engineer, reversing the steam, backed the train for nearly a mile — retiring, like a jumper, in order to take a longer leap. Then, with another whistle, he began to move forward; the train increased its speed, and soon its rapidity became frightful; a prolonged screech issued from the locomotive; the piston worked up and down twenty strokes to the second. They perceived that the whole train, rushing on at the rate of a hundred miles an hour, hardly bore upon the rails at all.

And they passed over! It was like a flash. No one saw the bridge. The train leaped, so to speak, from one bank to the other, and the engineer could not stop it until it had gone five miles beyond the station. But scarcely had the train passed the river, when the bridge, completely ruined, fell with a crash into the rapids of Medicine Bow.

CHAPTER XXIX

IN WHICH CERTAIN INCIDENTS ARE NARRATED WHICH ARE ONLY TO BE MET WITH ON AMERICAN RAILROADS

The train pursued its course, that evening, without interruption, passing Fort Saunders, crossing Cheyne Pass, and reaching Evans Pass. The road here attained the highest elevation of the journey, eight thousand and ninety-two feet above the level of the sea. The travellers had now only to descend to the Atlantic by limitless plains, levelled by nature. A branch of the “grand trunk” led off southward to Denver, the capital of Colorado. The country round about is rich in gold and silver, and more than fifty thousand inhabitants are already settled there.

Thirteen hundred and eighty-two miles had been passed over from San Francisco, in three days and three nights; four days and nights more would probably bring them to New York. Phileas Fogg was not as yet behind-hand.

During the night Camp Walbach was passed on the left; Lodge Pole Creek ran parallel with the road, marking the boundary between the territories of Wyoming and Colorado. They entered Nebraska at eleven, passed near Sedgwick, and touched at Julesburg, on the southern branch of the Platte River.

It was here that the Union Pacific Railroad was inaugurated on the 23rd of October, 1867, by the chief engineer, General Dodge. Two powerful locomotives, carrying nine cars of invited guests, amongst whom was Thomas C. Durant, vice-president of the road, stopped at this point; cheers were given, the Sioux and Pawnees performed an imitation Indian battle, fireworks were let off, and the first number of the Railway Pioneer was printed by a press brought on the train. Thus was celebrated the inauguration of this great railroad, a mighty instrument of progress and civilisation, thrown across the desert, and destined to link together cities and towns which do not yet exist. The whistle of the locomotive, more powerful than Amphion’s lyre, was about to bid them rise from American soil.

Fort McPherson was left behind at eight in the morning, and three hundred and fifty-seven miles had yet to be traversed before reaching Omaha. The road followed the capricious windings of the southern branch of the Platte River, on its left bank. At nine the train stopped at the important town of North Platte, built between the two arms of the river, which rejoin each other around it and form a single artery, a large tributary, whose waters empty into the Missouri a little above Omaha.

The one hundred and first meridian was passed.

Mr. Fogg and his partners had resumed their game; no one — not even the dummy — complained of the length of the trip. Fix had begun by winning several guineas, which he seemed likely to lose; but he showed himself a not less eager whist-player than Mr. Fogg. During the morning, chance distinctly favoured that gentleman. Trumps and honours were showered upon his hands.

Once, having resolved on a bold stroke, he was on the point of playing a spade, when a voice behind him said, “I should play a diamond.”

Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Fix raised their heads, and beheld Colonel Proctor.

Stamp Proctor and Phileas Fogg recognised each other at once.

“Ah! it’s you, is it, Englishman?” cried the colonel; “it’s you who are going to play a spade!”

“And who plays it,” replied Phileas Fogg coolly, throwing down the ten of spades.

“Well, it pleases me to have it diamonds,” replied Colonel Proctor, in an insolent tone.

He made a movement as if to seize the card which had just been played, adding, “You don’t understand anything about whist.”

“Perhaps I do, as well as another,” said Phileas Fogg, rising.

“You have only to try, son of John Bull,” replied the colonel.

Aouda turned pale, and her blood ran cold. She seized Mr. Fogg’s arm and gently pulled him back. Passepartout was ready to pounce upon the American, who was staring insolently at his opponent. But Fix got up, and, going to Colonel Proctor said, “You forget that it is I with whom you have to deal, sir; for it was I whom you not only insulted, but struck!”

“Mr. Fix,” said Mr. Fogg, “pardon me, but this affair is mine, and mine only. The colonel has again insulted me, by insisting that I should not play a spade, and he shall give me satisfaction for it.”

“When and where you will,” replied the American, “and with whatever weapon you choose.”

Aouda in vain attempted to retain Mr. Fogg; as vainly did the detective endeavour to make the quarrel his. Passepartout wished to throw the colonel out of the window, but a sign from his master checked him. Phileas Fogg left the car, and the American followed him upon the platform. “Sir,” said Mr. Fogg to his adversary, “I am in a great hurry to get back to Europe, and any delay whatever will be greatly to my disadvantage.”

“Well, what’s that to me?” replied Colonel Proctor.

“Sir,” said Mr. Fogg, very politely, “after our meeting at San Francisco, I determined to return to America and find you as soon as I had completed the business which called me to England.”

“Really!”

“Will you appoint a meeting for six months hence?”

“Why not ten years hence?”

“I say six months,” returned Phileas Fogg; “and I shall be at the place of meeting promptly.”

“All this is an evasion,” cried Stamp Proctor. “Now or never!”

“Very good. You are going to New York?”

“No.”

“To Chicago?”

“No.”

“To Omaha?”

“What difference is it to you? Do you know Plum Creek?”

“No,” replied Mr. Fogg.

“It’s the next station. The train will be there in an hour, and will stop there ten minutes. In ten minutes several revolver-shots could be exchanged.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Fogg. “I will stop at Plum Creek.”

“And I guess you’ll stay there too,” added the American insolently.

“Who knows?” replied Mr. Fogg, returning to the car as coolly as usual. He began to reassure Aouda, telling her that blusterers were never to be feared, and begged Fix to be his second at the approaching duel, a request which the detective could not refuse. Mr. Fogg resumed the interrupted game with perfect calmness.

At eleven o’clock the locomotive’s whistle announced that they were approaching Plum Creek station. Mr. Fogg rose, and, followed by Fix, went out upon the platform. Passepartout accompanied him, carrying a pair of revolvers. Aouda remained in the car, as pale as death.

The door of the next car opened, and Colonel Proctor appeared on the platform, attended by a Yankee of his own stamp as his second. But just as the combatants were about to step from the train, the conductor hurried up, and shouted, “You can’t get off, gentlemen!”

“Why not?” asked the colonel.

“We are twenty minutes late, and we shall not stop.”

“But I am going to fight a duel with this gentleman.”

“I am sorry,” said the conductor; “but we shall be off at once. There’s the bell ringing now.”

The train started.

“I’m really very sorry, gentlemen,” said the conductor. “Under any other circumstances I should have been happy to oblige you. But, after all, as you have not had time to fight here, why not fight as we go along?”

“That wouldn’t be convenient, perhaps, for this gentleman,” said the colonel, in a jeering tone.

“It would be perfectly so,” replied Phileas Fogg.

“Well, we are really in America,” thought Passepartout, “and the conductor is a gentleman of the first order!”

So muttering, he followed his master.

The two combatants, their seconds, and the conductor passed through the cars to the rear of the train. The last car was only occupied by a dozen passengers, whom the conductor politely asked if they would not be so kind as to leave it vacant for a few moments, as two gentlemen had an affair of honour to settle. The passengers granted the request with alacrity, and straightway disappeared on the platform.

The car, which was some fifty feet long, was very convenient for their purpose. The adversaries might march on each other in the aisle, and fire at their ease. Never was duel more easily arranged. Mr. Fogg and Colonel Proctor, each provided with two six-barrelled revolvers, entered the car. The seconds, remaining outside, shut them in. They were to begin firing at the first whistle of the locomotive. After an interval of two minutes, what remained of the two gentlemen would be taken from the car.

Nothing could be more simple. Indeed, it was all so simple that Fix and Passepartout felt their hearts beating as if they would crack. They were listening for the whistle agreed upon, when suddenly savage cries resounded in the air, accompanied by reports which certainly did not issue from the car where the duellists were. The reports continued in front and the whole length of the train. Cries of terror proceeded from the interior of the cars.

Colonel Proctor and Mr. Fogg, revolvers in hand, hastily quitted their prison, and rushed forward where the noise was most clamorous. They then perceived that the train was attacked by a band of Sioux.

This was not the first attempt of these daring Indians, for more than once they had waylaid trains on the road. A hundred of them had, according to their habit, jumped upon the steps without stopping the train, with the ease of a clown mounting a horse at full gallop.

The Sioux were armed with guns, from which came the reports, to which the passengers, who were almost all armed, responded by revolver-shots.

The Indians had first mounted the engine, and half stunned the engineer and stoker with blows from their muskets. A Sioux chief, wishing to stop the train, but not knowing how to work the regulator, had opened wide instead of closing the steam-valve, and the locomotive was plunging forward with terrific velocity.

The Sioux had at the same time invaded the cars, skipping like enraged monkeys over the roofs, thrusting open the doors, and fighting hand to hand with the passengers. Penetrating the baggage-car, they pillaged it, throwing the trunks out of the train. The cries and shots were constant. The travellers defended themselves bravely; some of the cars were barricaded, and sustained a siege, like moving forts, carried along at a speed of a hundred miles an hour.

Aouda behaved courageously from the first. She defended herself like a true heroine with a revolver, which she shot through the broken windows whenever a savage made his appearance. Twenty Sioux had fallen mortally wounded to the ground, and the wheels crushed those who fell upon the rails as if they had been worms. Several passengers, shot or stunned, lay on the seats.

It was necessary to put an end to the struggle, which had lasted for ten minutes, and which would result in the triumph of the Sioux if the train was not stopped. Fort Kearney station, where there was a garrison, was only two miles distant; but, that once passed, the Sioux would be masters of the train between Fort Kearney and the station beyond.

The conductor was fighting beside Mr. Fogg, when he was shot and fell. At the same moment he cried, “Unless the train is stopped in five minutes, we are lost!”

“It shall be stopped,” said Phileas Fogg, preparing to rush from the car.

“Stay, monsieur,” cried Passepartout; “I will go.”

Mr. Fogg had not time to stop the brave fellow, who, opening a door unperceived by the Indians, succeeded in slipping under the car; and while the struggle continued and the balls whizzed across each other over his head, he made use of his old acrobatic experience, and with amazing agility worked his way under the cars, holding on to the chains, aiding himself by the brakes and edges of the sashes, creeping from one car to another with marvellous skill, and thus gaining the forward end of the train.

There, suspended by one hand between the baggage-car and the tender, with the other he loosened the safety chains; but, owing to the traction, he would never have succeeded in unscrewing the yoking-bar, had not a violent concussion jolted this bar out. The train, now detached from the engine, remained a little behind, whilst the locomotive rushed forward with increased speed.

Carried on by the force already acquired, the train still moved for several minutes; but the brakes were worked and at last they stopped, less than a hundred feet from Kearney station.

The soldiers of the fort, attracted by the shots, hurried up; the Sioux had not expected them, and decamped in a body before the train entirely stopped.

But when the passengers counted each other on the station platform several were found missing; among others the courageous Frenchman, whose devotion had just saved them.

CHAPTER XXXI

IN WHICH FIX, THE DETECTIVE, CONSIDERABLY FURTHERS THE INTERESTS OF PHILEAS FOGG

Phileas Fogg found himself twenty hours behind time. Passepartout, the involuntary cause of this delay, was desperate. He had ruined his master!

At this moment the detective approached Mr. Fogg, and, looking him intently in the face, said:

“Seriously, sir, are you in great haste?”

“Quite seriously.”

“I have a purpose in asking,” resumed Fix. “Is it absolutely necessary that you should be in New York on the 11th, before nine o’clock in the evening, the time that the steamer leaves for Liverpool?”

“It is absolutely necessary.”

“And, if your journey had not been interrupted by these Indians, you would have reached New York on the morning of the 11th?”

“Yes; with eleven hours to spare before the steamer left.”

“Good! you are therefore twenty hours behind. Twelve from twenty leaves eight. You must regain eight hours. Do you wish to try to do so?”

“On foot?” asked Mr. Fogg.

“No; on a sledge,” replied Fix. “On a sledge with sails. A man has proposed such a method to me.”

It was the man who had spoken to Fix during the night, and whose offer he had refused.

Phileas Fogg did not reply at once; but Fix, having pointed out the man, who was walking up and down in front of the station, Mr. Fogg went up to him. An instant after, Mr. Fogg and the American, whose name was Mudge, entered a hut built just below the fort.

There Mr. Fogg examined a curious vehicle, a kind of frame on two long beams, a little raised in front like the runners of a sledge, and upon which there was room for five or six persons. A high mast was fixed on the frame, held firmly by metallic lashings, to which was attached a large brigantine sail. This mast held an iron stay upon which to hoist a jib-sail. Behind, a sort of rudder served to guide the vehicle. It was, in short, a sledge rigged like a sloop. During the winter, when the trains are blocked up by the snow, these sledges make extremely rapid journeys across the frozen plains from one station to another. Provided with more sails than a cutter, and with the wind behind them, they slip over the surface of the prairies with a speed equal if not superior to that of the express trains.

Mr. Fogg readily made a bargain with the owner of this land-craft. The wind was favourable, being fresh, and blowing from the west. The snow had hardened, and Mudge was very confident of being able to transport Mr. Fogg in a few hours to Omaha. Thence the trains eastward run frequently to Chicago and New York. It was not impossible that the lost time might yet be recovered; and such an opportunity was not to be rejected.

Not wishing to expose Aouda to the discomforts of travelling in the open air, Mr. Fogg proposed to leave her with Passepartout at Fort Kearney, the servant taking upon himself to escort her to Europe by a better route and under more favourable conditions. But Aouda refused to separate from Mr. Fogg, and Passepartout was delighted with her decision; for nothing could induce him to leave his master while Fix was with him.

It would be difficult to guess the detective’s thoughts. Was this conviction shaken by Phileas Fogg’s return, or did he still regard him as an exceedingly shrewd rascal, who, his journey round the world completed, would think himself absolutely safe in England? Perhaps Fix’s opinion of Phileas Fogg was somewhat modified; but he was nevertheless resolved to do his duty, and to hasten the return of the whole party to England as much as possible.

At eight o’clock the sledge was ready to start. The passengers took their places on it, and wrapped themselves up closely in their travelling-cloaks. The two great sails were hoisted, and under the pressure of the wind the sledge slid over the hardened snow with a velocity of forty miles an hour.

The distance between Fort Kearney and Omaha, as the birds fly, is at most two hundred miles. If the wind held good, the distance might be traversed in five hours; if no accident happened the sledge might reach Omaha by one o’clock.

What a journey! The travellers, huddled close together, could not speak for the cold, intensified by the rapidity at which they were going. The sledge sped on as lightly as a boat over the waves. When the breeze came skimming the earth the sledge seemed to be lifted off the ground by its sails. Mudge, who was at the rudder, kept in a straight line, and by a turn of his hand checked the lurches which the vehicle had a tendency to make. All the sails were up, and the jib was so arranged as not to screen the brigantine. A top-mast was hoisted, and another jib, held out to the wind, added its force to the other sails. Although the speed could not be exactly estimated, the sledge could not be going at less than forty miles an hour.

“If nothing breaks,” said Mudge, “we shall get there!”

Mr. Fogg had made it for Mudge’s interest to reach Omaha within the time agreed on, by the offer of a handsome reward.

The prairie, across which the sledge was moving in a straight line, was as flat as a sea. It seemed like a vast frozen lake. The railroad which ran through this section ascended from the south-west to the north-west by Great Island, Columbus, an important Nebraska town, Schuyler, and Fremont, to Omaha. It followed throughout the right bank of the Platte River. The sledge, shortening this route, took a chord of the arc described by the railway. Mudge was not afraid of being stopped by the Platte River, because it was frozen. The road, then, was quite clear of obstacles, and Phileas Fogg had but two things to fear — an accident to the sledge, and a change or calm in the wind.

But the breeze, far from lessening its force, blew as if to bend the mast, which, however, the metallic lashings held firmly. These lashings, like the chords of a stringed instrument, resounded as if vibrated by a violin bow. The sledge slid along in the midst of a plaintively intense melody.

“Those chords give the fifth and the octave,” said Mr. Fogg.

These were the only words he uttered during the journey. Aouda, cosily packed in furs and cloaks, was sheltered as much as possible from the attacks of the freezing wind. As for Passepartout, his face was as red as the sun’s disc when it sets in the mist, and he laboriously inhaled the biting air. With his natural buoyancy of spirits, he began to hope again. They would reach New York on the evening, if not on the morning, of the 11th, and there was still some chances that it would be before the steamer sailed for Liverpool.

Passepartout even felt a strong desire to grasp his ally, Fix, by the hand. He remembered that it was the detective who procured the sledge, the only means of reaching Omaha in time; but, checked by some presentiment, he kept his usual reserve. One thing, however, Passepartout would never forget, and that was the sacrifice which Mr. Fogg had made, without hesitation, to rescue him from the Sioux. Mr. Fogg had risked his fortune and his life. No! His servant would never forget that!

While each of the party was absorbed in reflections so different, the sledge flew past over the vast carpet of snow. The creeks it passed over were not perceived. Fields and streams disappeared under the uniform whiteness. The plain was absolutely deserted. Between the Union Pacific road and the branch which unites Kearney with Saint Joseph it formed a great uninhabited island. Neither village, station, nor fort appeared. From time to time they sped by some phantom-like tree, whose white skeleton twisted and rattled in the wind. Sometimes flocks of wild birds rose, or bands of gaunt, famished, ferocious prairie-wolves ran howling after the sledge. Passepartout, revolver in hand, held himself ready to fire on those which came too near. Had an accident then happened to the sledge, the travellers, attacked by these beasts, would have been in the most terrible danger; but it held on its even course, soon gained on the wolves, and ere long left the howling band at a safe distance behind.

About noon Mudge perceived by certain landmarks that he was crossing the Platte River. He said nothing, but he felt certain that he was now within twenty miles of Omaha. In less than an hour he left the rudder and furled his sails, whilst the sledge, carried forward by the great impetus the wind had given it, went on half a mile further with its sails unspread.

It stopped at last, and Mudge, pointing to a mass of roofs white with snow, said: “We have got there!”

Arrived! Arrived at the station which is in daily communication, by numerous trains, with the Atlantic seaboard!

Passepartout and Fix jumped off, stretched their stiffened limbs, and aided Mr. Fogg and the young woman to descend from the sledge. Phileas Fogg generously rewarded Mudge, whose hand Passepartout warmly grasped, and the party directed their steps to the Omaha railway station.

The Pacific Railroad proper finds its terminus at this important Nebraska town. Omaha is connected with Chicago by the Chicago and Rock Island Railroad, which runs directly east, and passes fifty stations.

A train was ready to start when Mr. Fogg and his party reached the station, and they only had time to get into the cars. They had seen nothing of Omaha; but Passepartout confessed to himself that this was not to be regretted, as they were not travelling to see the sights.

The train passed rapidly across the State of Iowa, by Council Bluffs, Des Moines, and Iowa City. During the night it crossed the Mississippi at Davenport, and by Rock Island entered Illinois. The next day, which was the 10th, at four o’clock in the evening, it reached Chicago, already risen from its ruins, and more proudly seated than ever on the borders of its beautiful Lake Michigan.

Nine hundred miles separated Chicago from New York; but trains are not wanting at Chicago. Mr. Fogg passed at once from one to the other, and the locomotive of the Pittsburgh, Fort Wayne, and Chicago Railway left at full speed, as if it fully comprehended that that gentleman had no time to lose. It traversed Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey like a flash, rushing through towns with antique names, some of which had streets and car-tracks, but as yet no houses. At last the Hudson came into view; and, at a quarter-past eleven in the evening of the 11th, the train stopped in the station on the right bank of the river, before the very pier of the Cunard line.

The China, for Liverpool, had started three-quarters of an hour before!

CHAPTER XXXIII

IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG SHOWS HIMSELF EQUAL TO THE OCCASION

An hour after, the Henrietta passed the lighthouse which marks the entrance of the Hudson, turned the point of Sandy Hook, and put to sea. During the day she skirted Long Island, passed Fire Island, and directed her course rapidly eastward.

At noon the next day, a man mounted the bridge to ascertain the vessel’s position. It might be thought that this was Captain Speedy. Not the least in the world. It was Phileas Fogg, Esquire. As for Captain Speedy, he was shut up in his cabin under lock and key, and was uttering loud cries, which signified an anger at once pardonable and excessive.

What had happened was very simple. Phileas Fogg wished to go to Liverpool, but the captain would not carry him there. Then Phileas Fogg had taken passage for Bordeaux, and, during the thirty hours he had been on board, had so shrewdly managed with his banknotes that the sailors and stokers, who were only an occasional crew, and were not on the best terms with the captain, went over to him in a body. This was why Phileas Fogg was in command instead of Captain Speedy; why the captain was a prisoner in his cabin; and why, in short, the Henrietta was directing her course towards Liverpool. It was very clear, to see Mr. Fogg manage the craft, that he had been a sailor.

How the adventure ended will be seen anon. Aouda was anxious, though she said nothing. As for Passepartout, he thought Mr. Fogg’s manoeuvre simply glorious. The captain had said “between eleven and twelve knots,” and the Henrietta confirmed his prediction.

If, then — for there were “ifs” still — the sea did not become too boisterous, if the wind did not veer round to the east, if no accident happened to the boat or its machinery, the Henrietta might cross the three thousand miles from New York to Liverpool in the nine days, between the 12th and the 21st of December. It is true that, once arrived, the affair on board the Henrietta, added to that of the Bank of England, might create more difficulties for Mr. Fogg than he imagined or could desire.

During the first days, they went along smoothly enough. The sea was not very unpropitious, the wind seemed stationary in the north-east, the sails were hoisted, and the Henrietta ploughed across the waves like a real trans-Atlantic steamer.

Passepartout was delighted. His master’s last exploit, the consequences of which he ignored, enchanted him. Never had the crew seen so jolly and dexterous a fellow. He formed warm friendships with the sailors, and amazed them with his acrobatic feats. He thought they managed the vessel like gentlemen, and that the stokers fired up like heroes. His loquacious good-humour infected everyone. He had forgotten the past, its vexations and delays. He only thought of the end, so nearly accomplished; and sometimes he boiled over with impatience, as if heated by the furnaces of the Henrietta. Often, also, the worthy fellow revolved around Fix, looking at him with a keen, distrustful eye; but he did not speak to him, for their old intimacy no longer existed.

Fix, it must be confessed, understood nothing of what was going on. The conquest of the Henrietta, the bribery of the crew, Fogg managing the boat like a skilled seaman, amazed and confused him. He did not know what to think. For, after all, a man who began by stealing fifty-five thousand pounds might end by stealing a vessel; and Fix was not unnaturally inclined to conclude that the Henrietta under Fogg’s command, was not going to Liverpool at all, but to some part of the world where the robber, turned into a pirate, would quietly put himself in safety. The conjecture was at least a plausible one, and the detective began to seriously regret that he had embarked on the affair.

As for Captain Speedy, he continued to howl and growl in his cabin; and Passepartout, whose duty it was to carry him his meals, courageous as he was, took the greatest precautions. Mr. Fogg did not seem even to know that there was a captain on board.

On the 13th they passed the edge of the Banks of Newfoundland, a dangerous locality; during the winter, especially, there are frequent fogs and heavy gales of wind. Ever since the evening before the barometer, suddenly falling, had indicated an approaching change in the atmosphere; and during the night the temperature varied, the cold became sharper, and the wind veered to the south-east.

This was a misfortune. Mr. Fogg, in order not to deviate from his course, furled his sails and increased the force of the steam; but the vessel’s speed slackened, owing to the state of the sea, the long waves of which broke against the stern. She pitched violently, and this retarded her progress. The breeze little by little swelled into a tempest, and it was to be feared that the Henrietta might not be able to maintain herself upright on the waves.

Passepartout’s visage darkened with the skies, and for two days the poor fellow experienced constant fright. But Phileas Fogg was a bold mariner, and knew how to maintain headway against the sea; and he kept on his course, without even decreasing his steam. The Henrietta, when she could not rise upon the waves, crossed them, swamping her deck, but passing safely. Sometimes the screw rose out of the water, beating its protruding end, when a mountain of water raised the stern above the waves; but the craft always kept straight ahead.

The wind, however, did not grow as boisterous as might have been feared; it was not one of those tempests which burst, and rush on with a speed of ninety miles an hour. It continued fresh, but, unhappily, it remained obstinately in the south-east, rendering the sails useless.

The 16th of December was the seventy-fifth day since Phileas Fogg’s departure from London, and the Henrietta had not yet been seriously delayed. Half of the voyage was almost accomplished, and the worst localities had been passed. In summer, success would have been well-nigh certain. In winter, they were at the mercy of the bad season. Passepartout said nothing; but he cherished hope in secret, and comforted himself with the reflection that, if the wind failed them, they might still count on the steam.

On this day the engineer came on deck, went up to Mr. Fogg, and began to speak earnestly with him. Without knowing why it was a presentiment, perhaps Passepartout became vaguely uneasy. He would have given one of his ears to hear with the other what the engineer was saying. He finally managed to catch a few words, and was sure he heard his master say, “You are certain of what you tell me?”

“Certain, sir,” replied the engineer. “You must remember that, since we started, we have kept up hot fires in all our furnaces, and, though we had coal enough to go on short steam from New York to Bordeaux, we haven’t enough to go with all steam from New York to Liverpool.” “I will consider,” replied Mr. Fogg.

Passepartout understood it all; he was seized with mortal anxiety. The coal was giving out! “Ah, if my master can get over that,” muttered he, “he’ll be a famous man!” He could not help imparting to Fix what he had overheard.

“Then you believe that we really are going to Liverpool?”

“Of course.”

“Ass!” replied the detective, shrugging his shoulders and turning on his heel.

Passepartout was on the point of vigorously resenting the epithet, the reason of which he could not for the life of him comprehend; but he reflected that the unfortunate Fix was probably very much disappointed and humiliated in his self-esteem, after having so awkwardly followed a false scent around the world, and refrained.

And now what course would Phileas Fogg adopt? It was difficult to imagine. Nevertheless he seemed to have decided upon one, for that evening he sent for the engineer, and said to him, “Feed all the fires until the coal is exhausted.”

A few moments after, the funnel of the Henrietta vomited forth torrents of smoke. The vessel continued to proceed with all steam on; but on the 18th, the engineer, as he had predicted, announced that the coal would give out in the course of the day.

“Do not let the fires go down,” replied Mr. Fogg. “Keep them up to the last. Let the valves be filled.”

Towards noon Phileas Fogg, having ascertained their position, called Passepartout, and ordered him to go for Captain Speedy. It was as if the honest fellow had been commanded to unchain a tiger. He went to the poop, saying to himself, “He will be like a madman!”

In a few moments, with cries and oaths, a bomb appeared on the poop-deck. The bomb was Captain Speedy. It was clear that he was on the point of bursting. “Where are we?” were the first words his anger permitted him to utter. Had the poor man be an apoplectic, he could never have recovered from his paroxysm of wrath.

“Where are we?” he repeated, with purple face.

“Seven hundred and seven miles from Liverpool,” replied Mr. Fogg, with imperturbable calmness.

“Pirate!” cried Captain Speedy.

“I have sent for you, sir — ”

“Pickaroon!”

” — sir,” continued Mr. Fogg, “to ask you to sell me your vessel.”

“No! By all the devils, no!”

“But I shall be obliged to burn her.”

“Burn the Henrietta!”

“Yes; at least the upper part of her. The coal has given out.”

“Burn my vessel!” cried Captain Speedy, who could scarcely pronounce the words. “A vessel worth fifty thousand dollars!”

“Here are sixty thousand,” replied Phileas Fogg, handing the captain a roll of bank-bills. This had a prodigious effect on Andrew Speedy. An American can scarcely remain unmoved at the sight of sixty thousand dollars. The captain forgot in an instant his anger, his imprisonment, and all his grudges against his passenger. The Henrietta was twenty years old; it was a great bargain. The bomb would not go off after all. Mr. Fogg had taken away the match.

“And I shall still have the iron hull,” said the captain in a softer tone.

“The iron hull and the engine. Is it agreed?”

“Agreed.”

And Andrew Speedy, seizing the banknotes, counted them and consigned them to his pocket.

During this colloquy, Passepartout was as white as a sheet, and Fix seemed on the point of having an apoplectic fit. Nearly twenty thousand pounds had been expended, and Fogg left the hull and engine to the captain, that is, near the whole value of the craft! It was true, however, that fifty-five thousand pounds had been stolen from the Bank.

When Andrew Speedy had pocketed the money, Mr. Fogg said to him, “Don’t let this astonish you, sir. You must know that I shall lose twenty thousand pounds, unless I arrive in London by a quarter before nine on the evening of the 21st of December. I missed the steamer at New York, and as you refused to take me to Liverpool — ”

“And I did well!” cried Andrew Speedy; “for I have gained at least forty thousand dollars by it!” He added, more sedately, “Do you know one thing, Captain — ”

“Fogg.”

“Captain Fogg, you’ve got something of the Yankee about you.”

And, having paid his passenger what he considered a high compliment, he was going away, when Mr. Fogg said, “The vessel now belongs to me?”

“Certainly, from the keel to the truck of the masts — all the wood, that is.”

“Very well. Have the interior seats, bunks, and frames pulled down, and burn them.”

It was necessary to have dry wood to keep the steam up to the adequate pressure, and on that day the poop, cabins, bunks, and the spare deck were sacrificed. On the next day, the 19th of December, the masts, rafts, and spars were burned; the crew worked lustily, keeping up the fires. Passepartout hewed, cut, and sawed away with all his might. There was a perfect rage for demolition.

The railings, fittings, the greater part of the deck, and top sides disappeared on the 20th, and the Henrietta was now only a flat hulk. But on this day they sighted the Irish coast and Fastnet Light. By ten in the evening they were passing Queenstown. Phileas Fogg had only twenty-four hours more in which to get to London; that length of time was necessary to reach Liverpool, with all steam on. And the steam was about to give out altogether!

“Sir,” said Captain Speedy, who was now deeply interested in Mr. Fogg’s project, “I really commiserate you. Everything is against you. We are only opposite Queenstown.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Fogg, “is that place where we see the lights Queenstown?”

“Yes.”

“Can we enter the harbour?”

“Not under three hours. Only at high tide.”

“Stay,” replied Mr. Fogg calmly, without betraying in his features that by a supreme inspiration he was about to attempt once more to conquer ill-fortune.

Queenstown is the Irish port at which the trans-Atlantic steamers stop to put off the mails. These mails are carried to Dublin by express trains always held in readiness to start; from Dublin they are sent on to Liverpool by the most rapid boats, and thus gain twelve hours on the Atlantic steamers.

Phileas Fogg counted on gaining twelve hours in the same way. Instead of arriving at Liverpool the next evening by the Henrietta, he would be there by noon, and would therefore have time to reach London before a quarter before nine in the evening.

The Henrietta entered Queenstown Harbour at one o’clock in the morning, it then being high tide; and Phileas Fogg, after being grasped heartily by the hand by Captain Speedy, left that gentleman on the levelled hulk of his craft, which was still worth half what he had sold it for.

The party went on shore at once. Fix was greatly tempted to arrest Mr. Fogg on the spot; but he did not. Why? What struggle was going on within him? Had he changed his mind about “his man”? Did he understand that he had made a grave mistake? He did not, however, abandon Mr. Fogg. They all got upon the train, which was just ready to start, at half-past one; at dawn of day they were in Dublin; and they lost no time in embarking on a steamer which, disdaining to rise upon the waves, invariably cut through them.

Phileas Fogg at last disembarked on the Liverpool quay, at twenty minutes before twelve, 21st December. He was only six hours distant from London.

But at this moment Fix came up, put his hand upon Mr. Fogg’s shoulder, and, showing his warrant, said, “You are really Phileas Fogg?”

“I am.”

“I arrest you in the Queen’s name!”

CHAPTER XXXIV

IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG AT LAST REACHES LONDON

Phileas Fogg was in prison. He had been shut up in the Custom House, and he was to be transferred to London the next day.

Passepartout, when he saw his master arrested, would have fallen upon Fix had he not been held back by some policemen. Aouda was thunderstruck at the suddenness of an event which she could not understand. Passepartout explained to her how it was that the honest and courageous Fogg was arrested as a robber. The young woman’s heart revolted against so heinous a charge, and when she saw that she could attempt to do nothing to save her protector, she wept bitterly.

As for Fix, he had arrested Mr. Fogg because it was his duty, whether Mr. Fogg were guilty or not.

The thought then struck Passepartout, that he was the cause of this new misfortune! Had he not concealed Fix’s errand from his master? When Fix revealed his true character and purpose, why had he not told Mr. Fogg? If the latter had been warned, he would no doubt have given Fix proof of his innocence, and satisfied him of his mistake; at least, Fix would not have continued his journey at the expense and on the heels of his master, only to arrest him the moment he set foot on English soil. Passepartout wept till he was blind, and felt like blowing his brains out.

Aouda and he had remained, despite the cold, under the portico of the Custom House. Neither wished to leave the place; both were anxious to see Mr. Fogg again.

That gentleman was really ruined, and that at the moment when he was about to attain his end. This arrest was fatal. Having arrived at Liverpool at twenty minutes before twelve on the 21st of December, he had till a quarter before nine that evening to reach the Reform Club, that is, nine hours and a quarter; the journey from Liverpool to London was six hours.

If anyone, at this moment, had entered the Custom House, he would have found Mr. Fogg seated, motionless, calm, and without apparent anger, upon a wooden bench. He was not, it is true, resigned; but this last blow failed to force him into an outward betrayal of any emotion. Was he being devoured by one of those secret rages, all the more terrible because contained, and which only burst forth, with an irresistible force, at the last moment? No one could tell. There he sat, calmly waiting — for what? Did he still cherish hope? Did he still believe, now that the door of this prison was closed upon him, that he would succeed?

However that may have been, Mr. Fogg carefully put his watch upon the table, and observed its advancing hands. Not a word escaped his lips, but his look was singularly set and stern. The situation, in any event, was a terrible one, and might be thus stated: if Phileas Fogg was honest he was ruined; if he was a knave, he was caught.

Did escape occur to him? Did he examine to see if there were any practicable outlet from his prison? Did he think of escaping from it? Possibly; for once he walked slowly around the room. But the door was locked, and the window heavily barred with iron rods. He sat down again, and drew his journal from his pocket. On the line where these words were written, “21st December, Saturday, Liverpool,” he added, “80th day, 11.40 a.m.” and waited.

The Custom House clock struck one. Mr. Fogg observed that his watch was two hours too fast.

Two hours! Admitting that he was at this moment taking an express train, he could reach London and the Reform Club by a quarter before nine, p.m. His forehead slightly wrinkled.

At thirty-three minutes past two he heard a singular noise outside, then a hasty opening of doors. Passepartout’s voice was audible, and immediately after that of Fix. Phileas Fogg’s eyes brightened for an instant.

The door swung open, and he saw Passepartout, Aouda, and Fix, who hurried towards him.

Fix was out of breath, and his hair was in disorder. He could not speak. “Sir,” he stammered, “sir — forgive me — most — unfortunate resemblance — robber arrested three days ago — you are free!”

Phileas Fogg was free! He walked to the detective, looked him steadily in the face, and with the only rapid motion he had ever made in his life, or which he ever would make, drew back his arms, and with the precision of a machine knocked Fix down.

“Well hit!” cried Passepartout, “Parbleu! that’s what you might call a good application of English fists!”

Fix, who found himself on the floor, did not utter a word. He had only received his deserts. Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout left the Custom House without delay, got into a cab, and in a few moments descended at the station.

Phileas Fogg asked if there was an express train about to leave for London. It was forty minutes past two. The express train had left thirty-five minutes before. Phileas Fogg then ordered a special train.

There were several rapid locomotives on hand; but the railway arrangements did not permit the special train to leave until three o’clock.

At that hour Phileas Fogg, having stimulated the engineer by the offer of a generous reward, at last set out towards London with Aouda and his faithful servant.

It was necessary to make the journey in five hours and a half; and this would have been easy on a clear road throughout. But there were forced delays, and when Mr. Fogg stepped from the train at the terminus, all the clocks in London were striking ten minutes before nine.

Having made the tour of the world, he was behind-hand five minutes. He had lost the wager!

CHAPTER XXXVI

IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG’S NAME IS ONCE MORE AT A PREMIUM ON ‘CHANGE

It is time to relate what a change took place in English public opinion when it transpired that the real bankrobber, a certain James Strand, had been arrested, on the 17th day of December, at Edinburgh. Three days before, Phileas Fogg had been a criminal, who was being desperately followed up by the police; now he was an honourable gentleman, mathematically pursuing his eccentric journey round the world.

The papers resumed their discussion about the wager; all those who had laid bets, for or against him, revived their interest, as if by magic; the “Phileas Fogg bonds” again became negotiable, and many new wagers were made. Phileas Fogg’s name was once more at a premium on ‘Change.

His five friends of the Reform Club passed these three days in a state of feverish suspense. Would Phileas Fogg, whom they had forgotten, reappear before their eyes! Where was he at this moment? The 17th of December, the day of James Strand’s arrest, was the seventy-sixth since Phileas Fogg’s departure, and no news of him had been received. Was he dead? Had he abandoned the effort, or was he continuing his journey along the route agreed upon? And would he appear on Saturday, the 21st of December, at a quarter before nine in the evening, on the threshold of the Reform Club saloon?

The anxiety in which, for three days, London society existed, cannot be described. Telegrams were sent to America and Asia for news of Phileas Fogg. Messengers were dispatched to the house in Saville Row morning and evening. No news. The police were ignorant what had become of the detective, Fix, who had so unfortunately followed up a false scent. Bets increased, nevertheless, in number and value. Phileas Fogg, like a racehorse, was drawing near his last turning-point. The bonds were quoted, no longer at a hundred below par, but at twenty, at ten, and at five; and paralytic old Lord Albemarle bet even in his favour.

A great crowd was collected in Pall Mall and the neighbouring streets on Saturday evening; it seemed like a multitude of brokers permanently established around the Reform Club. Circulation was impeded, and everywhere disputes, discussions, and financial transactions were going on. The police had great difficulty in keeping back the crowd, and as the hour when Phileas Fogg was due approached, the excitement rose to its highest pitch.

The five antagonists of Phileas Fogg had met in the great saloon of the club. John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, the bankers, Andrew Stuart, the engineer, Gauthier Ralph, the director of the Bank of England, and Thomas Flanagan, the brewer, one and all waited anxiously.

When the clock indicated twenty minutes past eight, Andrew Stuart got up, saying, “Gentlemen, in twenty minutes the time agreed upon between Mr. Fogg and ourselves will have expired.”

“What time did the last train arrive from Liverpool?” asked Thomas Flanagan.

“At twenty-three minutes past seven,” replied Gauthier Ralph; “and the next does not arrive till ten minutes after twelve.”

“Well, gentlemen,” resumed Andrew Stuart, “if Phileas Fogg had come in the 7:23 train, he would have got here by this time. We can, therefore, regard the bet as won.”

“Wait; don’t let us be too hasty,” replied Samuel Fallentin. “You know that Mr. Fogg is very eccentric. His punctuality is well known; he never arrives too soon, or too late; and I should not be surprised if he appeared before us at the last minute.”

“Why,” said Andrew Stuart nervously, “if I should see him, I should not believe it was he.”

“The fact is,” resumed Thomas Flanagan, “Mr. Fogg’s project was absurdly foolish. Whatever his punctuality, he could not prevent the delays which were certain to occur; and a delay of only two or three days would be fatal to his tour.”

“Observe, too,” added John Sullivan, “that we have received no intelligence from him, though there are telegraphic lines all along is route.”

“He has lost, gentleman,” said Andrew Stuart, “he has a hundred times lost! You know, besides, that the China the only steamer he could have taken from New York to get here in time arrived yesterday. I have seen a list of the passengers, and the name of Phileas Fogg is not among them. Even if we admit that fortune has favoured him, he can scarcely have reached America. I think he will be at least twenty days behind-hand, and that Lord Albemarle will lose a cool five thousand.”

“It is clear,” replied Gauthier Ralph; “and we have nothing to do but to present Mr. Fogg’s cheque at Barings to-morrow.”

At this moment, the hands of the club clock pointed to twenty minutes to nine.

“Five minutes more,” said Andrew Stuart.

The five gentlemen looked at each other. Their anxiety was becoming intense; but, not wishing to betray it, they readily assented to Mr. Fallentin’s proposal of a rubber.

“I wouldn’t give up my four thousand of the bet,” said Andrew Stuart, as he took his seat, “for three thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine.”

The clock indicated eighteen minutes to nine.

The players took up their cards, but could not keep their eyes off the clock. Certainly, however secure they felt, minutes had never seemed so long to them!

“Seventeen minutes to nine,” said Thomas Flanagan, as he cut the cards which Ralph handed to him.

Then there was a moment of silence. The great saloon was perfectly quiet; but the murmurs of the crowd outside were heard, with now and then a shrill cry. The pendulum beat the seconds, which each player eagerly counted, as he listened, with mathematical regularity.

“Sixteen minutes to nine!” said John Sullivan, in a voice which betrayed his emotion.

One minute more, and the wager would be won. Andrew Stuart and his partners suspended their game. They left their cards, and counted the seconds.

At the fortieth second, nothing. At the fiftieth, still nothing.

At the fifty-fifth, a loud cry was heard in the street, followed by applause, hurrahs, and some fierce growls.

The players rose from their seats.

At the fifty-seventh second the door of the saloon opened; and the pendulum had not beat the sixtieth second when Phileas Fogg appeared, followed by an excited crowd who had forced their way through the club doors, and in his calm voice, said, “Here I am, gentlemen!”

THE MYSTERIOUS ISLAND

Anonymous translation, 1875

First published in 1874, this novel is a sequel to Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea and In Search of the Castaways, though it is very different in theme. The novel concerns the adventures of five Americans on an uncharted island in the South Pacific. The story begins in the American Civil War, during the siege of Richmond, Virginia, the capital of the Confederate States of America. As famine and death ravage the city, five northern prisoners of war decide to escape by the unusual means of hijacking a balloon.

The original front page

PART 1. DROPPED FROM THE CLOUDS

CHAPTER 1

“Are we rising again?” “No. On the contrary.” “Are we descending?” “Worse than that, captain! we are falling!” “For Heaven’s sake heave out the ballast!” “There! the last sack is empty!” “Does the balloon rise?” “No!” “I hear a noise like the dashing of waves. The sea is below the car! It cannot be more than 500 feet from us!” “Overboard with every weight!… everything!”

Such were the loud and startling words which resounded through the air, above the vast watery desert of the Pacific, about four o’clock in the evening of the 23rd of March, 1865.

Few can possibly have forgotten the terrible storm from the northeast, in the middle of the equinox of that year. The tempest raged without intermission from the 18th to the 26th of March. Its ravages were terrible in America, Europe, and Asia, covering a distance of eighteen hundred miles, and extending obliquely to the equator from the thirty-fifth north parallel to the fortieth south parallel. Towns were overthrown, forests uprooted, coasts devastated by the mountains of water which were precipitated on them, vessels cast on the shore, which the published accounts numbered by hundreds, whole districts leveled by waterspouts which destroyed everything they passed over, several thousand people crushed on land or drowned at sea; such were the traces of its fury, left by this devastating tempest. It surpassed in disasters those which so frightfully ravaged Havana and Guadalupe, one on the 25th of October, 1810, the other on the 26th of July, 1825.

But while so many catastrophes were taking place on land and at sea, a drama not less exciting was being enacted in the agitated air.

In fact, a balloon, as a ball might be carried on the summit of a waterspout, had been taken into the circling movement of a column of air and had traversed space at the rate of ninety miles an hour, turning round and round as if seized by some aerial maelstrom.

Beneath the lower point of the balloon swung a car, containing five passengers, scarcely visible in the midst of the thick vapor mingled with spray which hung over the surface of the ocean.

Whence, it may be asked, had come that plaything of the tempest? From what part of the world did it rise? It surely could not have started during the storm. But the storm had raged five days already, and the first symptoms were manifested on the 18th. It cannot be doubted that the balloon came from a great distance, for it could not have traveled less than two thousand miles in twenty-four hours.

At any rate the passengers, destitute of all marks for their guidance, could not have possessed the means of reckoning the route traversed since their departure. It was a remarkable fact that, although in the very midst of the furious tempest, they did not suffer from it. They were thrown about and whirled round and round without feeling the rotation in the slightest degree, or being sensible that they were removed from a horizontal position.

Their eyes could not pierce through the thick mist which had gathered beneath the car. Dark vapor was all around them. Such was the density of the atmosphere that they could not be certain whether it was day or night. No reflection of light, no sound from inhabited land, no roaring of the ocean could have reached them, through the obscurity, while suspended in those elevated zones. Their rapid descent alone had informed them of the dangers which they ran from the waves. However, the balloon, lightened of heavy articles, such as ammunition, arms, and provisions, had risen into the higher layers of the atmosphere, to a height of 4,500 feet. The voyagers, after having discovered that the sea extended beneath them, and thinking the dangers above less dreadful than those below, did not hesitate to throw overboard even their most useful articles, while they endeavored to lose no more of that fluid, the life of their enterprise, which sustained them above the abyss.

The night passed in the midst of alarms which would have been death to less energetic souls. Again the day appeared and with it the tempest began to moderate. From the beginning of that day, the 24th of March, it showed symptoms of abating. At dawn, some of the lighter clouds had risen into the more lofty regions of the air. In a few hours the wind had changed from a hurricane to a fresh breeze, that is to say, the rate of the transit of the atmospheric layers was diminished by half. It was still what sailors call “a close-reefed topsail breeze,” but the commotion in the elements had none the less considerably diminished.

Towards eleven o’clock, the lower region of the air was sensibly clearer. The atmosphere threw off that chilly dampness which is felt after the passage of a great meteor. The storm did not seem to have gone farther to the west. It appeared to have exhausted itself. Could it have passed away in electric sheets, as is sometimes the case with regard to the typhoons of the Indian Ocean?

But at the same time, it was also evident that the balloon was again slowly descending with a regular movement. It appeared as if it were, little by little, collapsing, and that its case was lengthening and extending, passing from a spherical to an oval form. Towards midday the balloon was hovering above the sea at a height of only 2,000 feet. It contained 50,000 cubic feet of gas, and, thanks to its capacity, it could maintain itself a long time in the air, although it should reach a great altitude or might be thrown into a horizontal position.

Perceiving their danger, the passengers cast away the last articles which still weighed down the car, the few provisions they had kept, everything, even to their pocket-knives, and one of them, having hoisted himself on to the circles which united the cords of the net, tried to secure more firmly the lower point of the balloon.

It was, however, evident to the voyagers that the gas was failing, and that the balloon could no longer be sustained in the higher regions. They must infallibly perish!

There was not a continent, nor even an island, visible beneath them. The watery expanse did not present a single speck of land, not a solid surface upon which their anchor could hold.

It was the open sea, whose waves were still dashing with tremendous violence! It was the ocean, without any visible limits, even for those whose gaze, from their commanding position, extended over a radius of forty miles. The vast liquid plain, lashed without mercy by the storm, appeared as if covered with herds of furious chargers, whose white and disheveled crests were streaming in the wind. No land was in sight, not a solitary ship could be seen. It was necessary at any cost to arrest their downward course, and to prevent the balloon from being engulfed in the waves. The voyagers directed all their energies to this urgent work. But, notwithstanding their efforts, the balloon still fell, and at the same time shifted with the greatest rapidity, following the direction of the wind, that is to say, from the northeast to the southwest.

Frightful indeed was the situation of these unfortunate men. They were evidently no longer masters of the machine. All their attempts were useless. The case of the balloon collapsed more and more. The gas escaped without any possibility of retaining it. Their descent was visibly accelerated, and soon after midday the car hung within 600 feet of the ocean.

It was impossible to prevent the escape of gas, which rushed through a large rent in the silk. By lightening the car of all the articles which it contained, the passengers had been able to prolong their suspension in the air for a few hours. But the inevitable catastrophe could only be retarded, and if land did not appear before night, voyagers, car, and balloon must to a certainty vanish beneath the waves.

They now resorted to the only remaining expedient. They were truly dauntless men, who knew how to look death in the face. Not a single murmur escaped from their lips. They were determined to struggle to the last minute, to do anything to retard their fall. The car was only a sort of willow basket, unable to float, and there was not the slightest possibility of maintaining it on the surface of the sea.

Two more hours passed and the balloon was scarcely 400 feet above the water.

At that moment a loud voice, the voice of a man whose heart was inaccessible to fear, was heard. To this voice responded others not less determined. “Is everything thrown out?” “No, here are still 2,000 dollars in gold.” A heavy bag immediately plunged into the sea. “Does the balloon rise?” “A little, but it will not be long before it falls again.” “What still remains to be thrown out?” “Nothing.” “Yes! the car!” “Let us catch hold of the net, and into the sea with the car.”

This was, in fact, the last and only mode of lightening the balloon. The ropes which held the car were cut, and the balloon, after its fall, mounted 2,000 feet. The five voyagers had hoisted themselves into the net, and clung to the meshes, gazing at the abyss.

The delicate sensibility of balloons is well known. It is sufficient to throw out the lightest article to produce a difference in its vertical position. The apparatus in the air is like a balance of mathematical precision. It can be thus easily understood that when it is lightened of any considerable weight its movement will be impetuous and sudden. So it happened on this occasion. But after being suspended for an instant aloft, the balloon began to redescend, the gas escaping by the rent which it was impossible to repair.

The men had done all that men could do. No human efforts could save them now.

They must trust to the mercy of Him who rules the elements.

At four o’clock the balloon was only 500 feet above the surface of the water.

A loud barking was heard. A dog accompanied the voyagers, and was held pressed close to his master in the meshes of the net.

“Top has seen something,” cried one of the men. Then immediately a loud voice shouted, —

“Land! land!” The balloon, which the wind still drove towards the southwest, had since daybreak gone a considerable distance, which might be reckoned by hundreds of miles, and a tolerably high land had, in fact, appeared in that direction. But this land was still thirty miles off. It would not take less than an hour to get to it, and then there was the chance of falling to leeward.

An hour! Might not the balloon before that be emptied of all the fluid it yet retained?

Such was the terrible question! The voyagers could distinctly see that solid spot which they must reach at any cost. They were ignorant of what it was, whether an island or a continent, for they did not know to what part of the world the hurricane had driven them. But they must reach this land, whether inhabited or desolate, whether hospitable or not.

It was evident that the balloon could no longer support itself! Several times already had the crests of the enormous billows licked the bottom of the net, making it still heavier, and the balloon only half rose, like a bird with a wounded wing. Half an hour later the land was not more than a mile off, but the balloon, exhausted, flabby, hanging in great folds, had gas in its upper part alone. The voyagers, clinging to the net, were still too heavy for it, and soon, half plunged into the sea, they were beaten by the furious waves. The balloon-case bulged out again, and the wind, taking it, drove it along like a vessel. Might it not possibly thus reach the land?

But, when only two fathoms off, terrible cries resounded from four pairs of lungs at once. The balloon, which had appeared as if it would never again rise, suddenly made an unexpected bound, after having been struck by a tremendous sea. As if it had been at that instant relieved of a new part of its weight, it mounted to a height of 1,500 feet, and here it met a current of wind, which instead of taking it directly to the coast, carried it in a nearly parallel direction.

At last, two minutes later, it reproached obliquely, and finally fell on a sandy beach, out of the reach of the waves.

The voyagers, aiding each other, managed to disengage themselves from the meshes of the net. The balloon, relieved of their weight, was taken by the wind, and like a wounded bird which revives for an instant, disappeared into space.

But the car had contained five passengers, with a dog, and the balloon only left four on the shore.

The missing person had evidently been swept off by the sea, which had just struck the net, and it was owing to this circumstance that the lightened balloon rose the last time, and then soon after reached the land. Scarcely had the four castaways set foot on firm ground, than they all, thinking of the absent one, simultaneously exclaimed, “Perhaps he will try to swim to land! Let us save him! let us save him!”

CHAPTER 2

Those whom the hurricane had just thrown on this coast were neither aeronauts by profession nor amateurs. They were prisoners of war whose boldness had induced them to escape in this extraordinary manner.

A hundred times they had almost perished! A hundred times had they almost fallen from their torn balloon into the depths of the ocean. But Heaven had reserved them for a strange destiny, and after having, on the 20th of March, escaped from Richmond, besieged by the troops of General Ulysses Grant, they found themselves seven thousand miles from the capital of Virginia, which was the principal stronghold of the South, during the terrible War of Secession. Their aerial voyage had lasted five days.

The curious circumstances which led to the escape of the prisoners were as follows:

That same year, in the month of February, 1865, in one of the coups de main by which General Grant attempted, though in vain, to possess himself of Richmond, several of his officers fell into the power of the enemy and were detained in the town. One of the most distinguished was Captain Cyrus Harding. He was a native of Massachusetts, a first-class engineer, to whom the government had confided, during the war, the direction of the railways, which were so important at that time. A true Northerner, thin, bony, lean, about forty-five years of age; his close-cut hair and his beard, of which he only kept a thick mustache, were already getting gray. He had one-of those finely-developed heads which appear made to be struck on a medal, piercing eyes, a serious mouth, the physiognomy of a clever man of the military school. He was one of those engineers who began by handling the hammer and pickaxe, like generals who first act as common soldiers. Besides mental power, he also possessed great manual dexterity. His muscles exhibited remarkable proofs of tenacity. A man of action as well as a man of thought, all he did was without effort to one of his vigorous and sanguine temperament. Learned, clear-headed, and practical, he fulfilled in all emergencies those three conditions which united ought to insure human success — activity of mind and body, impetuous wishes, and powerful will. He might have taken for his motto that of William of Orange in the 17th century: “I can undertake and persevere even without hope of success.” Cyrus Harding was courage personified. He had been in all the battles of that war. After having begun as a volunteer at Illinois, under Ulysses Grant, he fought at Paducah, Belmont, Pittsburg Landing, at the siege of Corinth, Port Gibson, Black River, Chattanooga, the Wilderness, on the Potomac, everywhere and valiantly, a soldier worthy of the general who said, “I never count my dead!” And hundreds of times Captain Harding had almost been among those who were not counted by the terrible Grant; but in these combats where he never spared himself, fortune favored him till the moment when he was wounded and taken prisoner on the field of battle near Richmond. At the same time and on the same day another important personage fell into the hands of the Southerners. This was no other than Gideon Spilett, a reporter for the New York Herald, who had been ordered to follow the changes of the war in the midst of the Northern armies.

Gideon Spilett was one of that race of indomitable English or American chroniclers, like Stanley and others, who stop at nothing to obtain exact information, and transmit it to their journal in the shortest possible time. The newspapers of the Union, such as the New York Herald, are genuine powers, and their reporters are men to be reckoned with. Gideon Spilett ranked among the first of those reporters: a man of great merit, energetic, prompt and ready for anything, full of ideas, having traveled over the whole world, soldier and artist, enthusiastic in council, resolute in action, caring neither for trouble, fatigue, nor danger, when in pursuit of information, for himself first, and then for his journal, a perfect treasury of knowledge on all sorts of curious subjects, of the unpublished, of the unknown, and of the impossible. He was one of those intrepid observers who write under fire, “reporting” among bullets, and to whom every danger is welcome.

He also had been in all the battles, in the first rank, revolver in one hand, note-book in the other; grape-shot never made his pencil tremble. He did not fatigue the wires with incessant telegrams, like those who speak when they have nothing to say, but each of his notes, short, decisive, and clear, threw light on some important point. Besides, he was not wanting in humor. It was he who, after the affair of the Black River, determined at any cost to keep his place at the wicket of the telegraph office, and after having announced to his journal the result of the battle, telegraphed for two hours the first chapters of the Bible. It cost the New York Herald two thousand dollars, but the New York Herald published the first intelligence.

Gideon Spilett was tall. He was rather more than forty years of age. Light whiskers bordering on red surrounded his face. His eye was steady, lively, rapid in its changes. It was the eye of a man accustomed to take in at a glance all the details of a scene. Well built, he was inured to all climates, like a bar of steel hardened in cold water.

For ten years Gideon Spilett had been the reporter of the New York Herald, which he enriched by his letters and drawings, for he was as skilful in the use of the pencil as of the pen. When he was captured, he was in the act of making a description and sketch of the battle. The last words in his note-book were these: “A Southern rifleman has just taken aim at me, but — ” The Southerner notwithstanding missed Gideon Spilett, who, with his usual fortune, came out of this affair without a scratch.

Cyrus Harding and Gideon Spilett, who did not know each other except by reputation, had both been carried to Richmond. The engineer’s wounds rapidly healed, and it was during his convalescence that he made acquaintance with the reporter. The two men then learned to appreciate each other. Soon their common aim had but one object, that of escaping, rejoining Grant’s army, and fighting together in the ranks of the Federals.

The two Americans had from the first determined to seize every chance; but although they were allowed to wander at liberty in the town, Richmond was so strictly guarded, that escape appeared impossible. In the meanwhile Captain Harding was rejoined by a servant who was devoted to him in life and in death. This intrepid fellow was a Negro born on the engineer’s estate, of a slave father and mother, but to whom Cyrus, who was an Abolitionist from conviction and heart, had long since given his freedom. The once slave, though free, would not leave his master. He would have died for him. He was a man of about thirty, vigorous, active, clever, intelligent, gentle, and calm, sometimes naive, always merry, obliging, and honest. His name was Nebuchadnezzar, but he only answered to the familiar abbreviation of Neb.

When Neb heard that his master had been made prisoner, he left Massachusetts without hesitating an instant, arrived before Richmond, and by dint of stratagem and shrewdness, after having risked his life twenty times over, managed to penetrate into the besieged town. The pleasure of Harding on seeing his servant, and the joy of Neb at finding his master, can scarcely be described.

But though Neb had been able to make his way into Richmond, it was quite another thing to get out again, for the Northern prisoners were very strictly watched. Some extraordinary opportunity was needed to make the attempt with any chance of success, and this opportunity not only did not present itself, but was very difficult to find.

Meanwhile Grant continued his energetic operations. The victory of Petersburg had been very dearly bought. His forces, united to those of Butler, had as yet been unsuccessful before Richmond, and nothing gave the prisoners any hope of a speedy deliverance.

The reporter, to whom his tedious captivity did not offer a single incident worthy of note, could stand it no longer. His usually active mind was occupied with one sole thought — how he might get out of Richmond at any cost. Several times had he even made the attempt, but was stopped by some insurmountable obstacle. However, the siege continued; and if the prisoners were anxious to escape and join Grant’s army, certain of the besieged were no less anxious to join the Southern forces. Among them was one Jonathan Forster, a determined Southerner. The truth was, that if the prisoners of the Secessionists could not leave the town, neither could the Secessionists themselves while the Northern army invested it. The Governor of Richmond for a long time had been unable to communicate with General Lee, and he very much wished to make known to him the situation of the town, so as to hasten the march of the army to their relief. Thus Jonathan Forster accordingly conceived the idea of rising in a balloon, so as to pass over the besieging lines, and in that way reach the Secessionist camp.

The Governor authorized the attempt. A balloon was manufactured and placed at the disposal of Forster, who was to be accompanied by five other persons. They were furnished with arms in case they might have to defend themselves when they alighted, and provisions in the event of their aerial voyage being prolonged.

The departure of the balloon was fixed for the 18th of March. It should be effected during the night, with a northwest wind of moderate force, and the aeronauts calculated that they would reach General Lee’s camp in a few hours.

But this northwest wind was not a simple breeze. From the 18th it was evident that it was changing to a hurricane. The tempest soon became such that Forster’s departure was deferred, for it was impossible to risk the balloon and those whom it carried in the midst of the furious elements.

The balloon, inflated on the great square of Richmond, was ready to depart on the first abatement of the wind, and, as may be supposed, the impatience among the besieged to see the storm moderate was very great.

The 18th, the 19th of March passed without any alteration in the weather. There was even great difficulty in keeping the balloon fastened to the ground, as the squalls dashed it furiously about.

The night of the 19th passed, but the next morning the storm blew with redoubled force. The departure of the balloon was impossible.

On that day the engineer, Cyrus Harding, was accosted in one of the streets of Richmond by a person whom he did not in the least know. This was a sailor named Pencroft, a man of about thirty-five or forty years of age, strongly built, very sunburnt, and possessed of a pair of bright sparkling eyes and a remarkably good physiognomy. Pencroft was an American from the North, who had sailed all the ocean over, and who had gone through every possible and almost impossible adventure that a being with two feet and no wings would encounter. It is needless to say that he was a bold, dashing fellow, ready to dare anything and was astonished at nothing. Pencroft at the beginning of the year had gone to Richmond on business, with a young boy of fifteen from New Jersey, son of a former captain, an orphan, whom he loved as if he had been his own child. Not having been able to leave the town before the first operations of the siege, he found himself shut up, to his great disgust; but, not accustomed to succumb to difficulties, he resolved to escape by some means or other. He knew the engineer-officer by reputation; he knew with what impatience that determined man chafed under his restraint. On this day he did not, therefore, hesitate to accost him, saying, without circumlocution, “Have you had enough of Richmond, captain?”

The engineer looked fixedly at the man who spoke, and who added, in a low voice, —

“Captain Harding, will you try to escape?”

“When?” asked the engineer quickly, and it was evident that this question was uttered without consideration, for he had not yet examined the stranger who addressed him. But after having with a penetrating eye observed the open face of the sailor, he was convinced that he had before him an honest man.

“Who are you?” he asked briefly.

Pencroft made himself known.

“Well,” replied Harding, “and in what way do you propose to escape?”

“By that lazy balloon which is left there doing nothing, and which looks to me as if it was waiting on purpose for us — ”

There was no necessity for the sailor to finish his sentence. The engineer understood him at once. He seized Pencroft by the arm, and dragged him to his house. There the sailor developed his project, which was indeed extremely simple. They risked nothing but their lives in its execution. The hurricane was in all its violence, it is true, but so clever and daring an engineer as Cyrus Harding knew perfectly well how to manage a balloon. Had he himself been as well acquainted with the art of sailing in the air as he was with the navigation of a ship, Pencroft would not have hesitated to set out, of course taking his young friend Herbert with him; for, accustomed to brave the fiercest tempests of the ocean, he was not to be hindered on account of the hurricane.

Captain Harding had listened to the sailor without saying a word, but his eyes shone with satisfaction. Here was the long-sought-for opportunity — he was not a man to let it pass. The plan was feasible, though, it must be confessed, dangerous in the extreme. In the night, in spite of their guards, they might approach the balloon, slip into the car, and then cut the cords which held it. There was no doubt that they might be killed, but on the other hand they might succeed, and without this storm! — Without this storm the balloon would have started already and the looked-for opportunity would not have then presented itself.

“I am not alone!” said Harding at last.

“How many people do you wish to bring with you?” asked the sailor.

“Two; my friend Spilett, and my servant Neb.”

“That will be three,” replied Pencroft; “and with Herbert and me five. But the balloon will hold six — ”

“That will be enough, we will go,” answered Harding in a firm voice.

This “we” included Spilett, for the reporter, as his friend well knew, was not a man to draw back, and when the project was communicated to him he approved of it unreservedly. What astonished him was, that so simple an idea had not occurred to him before. As to Neb, he followed his master wherever his master wished to go.

“This evening, then,” said Pencroft, “we will all meet out there.”

“This evening, at ten o’clock,” replied Captain Harding; “and Heaven grant that the storm does not abate before our departure.”

Pencroft took leave of the two friends, and returned to his lodging, where young Herbert Brown had remained. The courageous boy knew of the sailor’s plan, and it was not without anxiety that he awaited the result of the proposal being made to the engineer. Thus five determined persons were about to abandon themselves to the mercy of the tempestuous elements!

No! the storm did not abate, and neither Jonathan Forster nor his companions dreamed of confronting it in that frail car.

It would be a terrible journey. The engineer only feared one thing; it was that the balloon, held to the ground and dashed about by the wind, would be torn into shreds. For several hours he roamed round the nearly-deserted square, surveying the apparatus. Pencroft did the same on his side, his hands in his pockets, yawning now and then like a man who did not know how to kill the time, but really dreading, like his friend, either the escape or destruction of the balloon. Evening arrived. The night was dark in the extreme. Thick mists passed like clouds close to the ground. Rain fell mingled with snow, it was very cold. A mist hung over Richmond. It seemed as if the violent storm had produced a truce between the besiegers and the besieged, and that the cannon were silenced by the louder detonations of the storm. The streets of the town were deserted. It had not even appeared necessary in that horrible weather to place a guard in the square, in the midst of which plunged the balloon. Everything favored the departure of the prisoners, but what might possibly be the termination of the hazardous voyage they contemplated in the midst of the furious elements? —

“Dirty weather!” exclaimed Pencroft, fixing his hat firmly on his head with a blow of his fist; “but pshaw, we shall succeed all the same!”

At half-past nine, Harding and his companions glided from different directions into the square, which the gas-lamps, extinguished by the wind, had left in total obscurity. Even the enormous balloon, almost beaten to the ground, could not be seen. Independently of the sacks of ballast, to which the cords of the net were fastened, the car was held by a strong cable passed through a ring in the pavement. The five prisoners met by the car. They had not been perceived, and such was the darkness that they could not even see each other.

Without speaking a word, Harding, Spilett, Neb, and Herbert took their places in the car, while Pencroft by the engineer’s order detached successively the bags of ballast. It was the work of a few minutes only, and the sailor rejoined his companions.

The balloon was then only held by the cable, and the engineer had nothing to do but to give the word.

At that moment a dog sprang with a bound into the car. It was Top, a favorite of the engineer. The faithful creature, having broken his chain, had followed his master. He, however, fearing that its additional weight might impede their ascent, wished to send away the animal.

“One more will make but little difference, poor beast!” exclaimed Pencroft, heaving out two bags of sand, and as he spoke letting go the cable; the balloon ascending in an oblique direction, disappeared, after having dashed the car against two chimneys, which it threw down as it swept by them.

Then, indeed, the full rage of the hurricane was exhibited to the voyagers. During the night the engineer could not dream of descending, and when day broke, even a glimpse of the earth below was intercepted by fog.

Five days had passed when a partial clearing allowed them to see the wide extending ocean beneath their feet, now lashed into the maddest fury by the gale.

Our readers will recollect what befell these five daring individuals who set out on their hazardous expedition in the balloon on the 20th of March. Five days afterwards four of them were thrown on a desert coast, seven thousand miles from their country! But one of their number was missing, the man who was to be their guide, their leading spirit, the engineer, Captain Harding! The instant they had recovered their feet, they all hurried to the beach in the hopes of rendering him assistance.

CHAPTER 4

All at once the reporter sprang up, and telling the sailor that he would rejoin them at that same place, he climbed the cliff in the direction which the Negro Neb had taken a few hours before. Anxiety hastened his steps, for he longed to obtain news of his friend, and he soon disappeared round an angle of the cliff. Herbert wished to accompany him.

“Stop here, my boy,” said the sailor; “we have to prepare an encampment, and to try and find rather better grub than these shell-fish. Our friends will want something when they come back. There is work for everybody.”

“I am ready,” replied Herbert.

“All right,” said the sailor; “that will do. We must set about it regularly. We are tired, cold, and hungry; therefore we must have shelter, fire, and food. There is wood in the forest, and eggs in nests; we have only to find a house.”

“Very well,” returned Herbert, “I will look for a cave among the rocks, and I shall be sure to discover some hole into which we can creep.”

“All right,” said Pencroft; “go on, my boy.”

They both walked to the foot of the enormous wall over the beach, far from which the tide had now retreated; but instead of going towards the north, they went southward. Pencroft had remarked, several hundred feet from the place at which they landed, a narrow cutting, out of which he thought a river or stream might issue. Now, on the one hand it was important to settle themselves in the neighborhood of a good stream of water, and on the other it was possible that the current had thrown Cyrus Harding on the shore there.

The cliff, as has been said, rose to a height of three hundred feet, but the mass was unbroken throughout, and even at its base, scarcely washed by the sea, it did not offer the smallest fissure which would serve as a dwelling. It was a perpendicular wall of very hard granite, which even the waves had not worn away. Towards the summit fluttered myriads of sea-fowl, and especially those of the web-footed species with long, flat, pointed beaks — a clamorous tribe, bold in the presence of man, who probably for the first time thus invaded their domains. Pencroft recognized the skua and other gulls among them, the voracious little sea-mew, which in great numbers nestled in the crevices of the granite. A shot fired among this swarm would have killed a great number, but to fire a shot a gun was needed, and neither Pencroft nor Herbert had one; besides this, gulls and sea-mews are scarcely eatable, and even their eggs have a detestable taste. However, Herbert, who had gone forward a little more to the left, soon came upon rocks covered with sea-weed, which, some hours later, would be hidden by the high tide. On these rocks, in the midst of slippery wrack, abounded bivalve shell-fish, not to be despised by starving people. Herbert called Pencroft, who ran up hastily.

“Here are mussels!” cried the sailor; “these will do instead of eggs!”

“They are not mussels,” replied Herbert, who was attentively examining the molluscs attached to the rocks; “they are lithodomes.”

“Are they good to eat?” asked Pencroft.

“Perfectly so.”

“Then let us eat some lithodomes.”

The sailor could rely upon Herbert; the young boy was well up in natural history, and always had had quite a passion for the science. His father had encouraged him in it, by letting him attend the lectures of the best professors in Boston, who were very fond of the intelligent, industrious lad. And his turn for natural history was, more than once in the course of time, of great use, and he was not mistaken in this instance. These lithodomes were oblong shells, suspended in clusters and adhering very tightly to the rocks. They belong to that species of molluscous perforators which excavate holes in the hardest stone; their shell is rounded at both ends, a feature which is not remarked in the common mussel.

Pencroft and Herbert made a good meal of the lithodomes, which were then half opened to the sun. They ate them as oysters, and as they had a strong peppery taste, they were palatable without condiments of any sort.

Their hunger was thus appeased for the time, but not their thirst, which increased after eating these naturally-spiced molluscs. They had then to find fresh water, and it was not likely that it would be wanting in such a capriciously uneven region. Pencroft and Herbert, after having taken the precaution of collecting an ample supply of lithodomes, with which they filled their pockets and handkerchiefs, regained the foot of the cliff.

Two hundred paces farther they arrived at the cutting, through which, as Pencroft had guessed, ran a stream of water, whether fresh or not was to be ascertained. At this place the wall appeared to have been separated by some violent subterranean force. At its base was hollowed out a little creek, the farthest part of which formed a tolerably sharp angle. The watercourse at that part measured one hundred feet in breadth, and its two banks on each side were scarcely twenty feet high. The river became strong almost directly between the two walls of granite, which began to sink above the mouth; it then suddenly turned and disappeared beneath a wood of stunted trees half a mile off.

“Here is the water, and yonder is the wood we require!” said Pencroft. “Well, Herbert, now we only want the house.”

The water of the river was limpid. The sailor ascertained that at this time — that is to say, at low tide, when the rising floods did not reach it — it was sweet. This important point established, Herbert looked for some cavity which would serve them as a retreat, but in vain; everywhere the wall appeared smooth, plain, and perpendicular.

However, at the mouth of the watercourse and above the reach of the high tide, the convulsions of nature had formed, not a grotto, but a pile of enormous rocks, such as are often met with in granite countries and which bear the name of “Chimneys.”

Pencroft and Herbert penetrated quite far in among the rocks, by sandy passages in which light was not wanting, for it entered through the openings which were left between the blocks, of which some were only sustained by a miracle of equilibrium; but with the light came also air — a regular corridor-gale — and with the wind the sharp cold from the exterior. However, the sailor thought that by stopping-up some of the openings with a mixture of stones and sand, the Chimneys could be rendered habitable. Their geometrical plan represented the typographical sign “&,” which signifies “et cetera” abridged, but by isolating the upper mouth of the sign, through which the south and west winds blew so strongly, they could succeed in making the lower part of use.

“Here’s our work,” said Pencroft, “and if we ever see Captain Harding again, he will know how to make something of this labyrinth.”

“We shall see him again, Pencroft,” cried Herbert, “and when he returns he must find a tolerable dwelling here. It will be so, if we can make a fireplace in the left passage and keep an opening for the smoke.”

“So we can, my boy,” replied the sailor, “and these Chimneys will serve our turn. Let us set to work, but first come and get a store of fuel. I think some branches will be very useful in stopping up these openings, through which the wind shrieks like so many fiends.”

Herbert and Pencroft left the Chimneys, and, turning the angle, they began to climb the left bank of the river. The current here was quite rapid, and drifted down some dead wood. The rising tide — and it could already be perceived — must drive it back with force to a considerable distance. The sailor then thought that they could utilize this ebb and flow for the transport of heavy objects.

After having walked for a quarter of an hour, the sailor and the boy arrived at the angle which the river made in turning towards the left. From this point its course was pursued through a forest of magnificent trees. These trees still retained their verdure, notwithstanding the advanced season, for they belonged to the family of “coniferae,” which is spread over all the regions of the globe, from northern climates to the tropics. The young naturalist recognized especially the “deedara,” which are very numerous in the Himalayan zone, and which spread around them a most agreeable odor. Between these beautiful trees sprang up clusters of firs, whose opaque open parasol boughs spread wide around. Among the long grass, Pencroft felt that his feet were crushing dry branches which crackled like fireworks.

“Well, my boy,” said he to Herbert, “if I don’t know the name of these trees, at any rate I reckon that we may call them ‘burning wood,’ and just now that’s the chief thing we want.”

“Let us get a supply,” replied Herbert, who immediately set to work.

The collection was easily made. It was not even necessary to lop the trees, for enormous quantities of dead wood were lying at their feet; but if fuel was not wanting, the means of transporting it was not yet found. The wood, being very dry, would burn rapidly; it was therefore necessary to carry to the Chimneys a considerable quantity, and the loads of two men would not be sufficient. Herbert remarked this.

“Well, my boy,” replied the sailor, “there must be some way of carrying this wood; there is always a way of doing everything. If we had a cart or a boat, it would be easy enough.”

“But we have the river,” said Herbert.

“Right,” replied Pencroft; “the river will be to us like a road which carries of itself, and rafts have not been invented for nothing.”

“Only,” observed Herbert, “at this moment our road is going the wrong way, for the tide is rising!”

“We shall be all right if we wait till it ebbs,” replied the sailor, “and then we will trust it to carry our fuel to the Chimneys. Let us get the raft ready.”

The sailor, followed by Herbert, directed his steps towards the river. They both carried, each in proportion to his strength, a load of wood bound in fagots. They found on the bank also a great quantity of dead branches in the midst of grass, among which the foot of man had probably never before trod. Pencroft began directly to make his raft. In a kind of little bay, created by a point of the shore which broke the current, the sailor and the lad placed some good-sized pieces of wood, which they had fastened together with dry creepers. A raft was thus formed, on which they stacked all they had collected, sufficient, indeed, to have loaded at least twenty men. In an hour the work was finished, and the raft moored to the bank, awaited the turning of the tide.

There were still several hours to be occupied, and with one consent Pencroft and Herbert resolved to gain the upper plateau, so as to have a more extended view of the surrounding country.

Exactly two hundred feet behind the angle formed by the river, the wall, terminated by a fall of rocks, died away in a gentle slope to the edge of the forest. It was a natural staircase. Herbert and the sailor began their ascent; thanks to the vigor of their muscles they reached the summit in a few minutes; and proceeded to the point above the mouth of the river.

On attaining it, their first look was cast upon the ocean which not long before they had traversed in such a terrible condition. They observed, with emotion, all that part to the north of the coast on which the catastrophe had taken place. It was there that Cyrus Harding had disappeared. They looked to see if some portion of their balloon, to which a man might possibly cling, yet existed. Nothing! The sea was but one vast watery desert. As to the coast, it was solitary also. Neither the reporter nor Neb could be anywhere seen. But it was possible that at this time they were both too far away to be perceived.

“Something tells me,” cried Herbert, “that a man as energetic as Captain Harding would not let himself be drowned like other people. He must have reached some point of the shore; don’t you think so, Pencroft?”

The sailor shook his head sadly. He little expected ever to see Cyrus Harding again; but wishing to leave some hope to Herbert: “Doubtless, doubtless,” said he; “our engineer is a man who would get out of a scrape to which any one else would yield.”

In the meantime he examined the coast with great attention. Stretched out below them was the sandy shore, bounded on the right of the river’s mouth by lines of breakers. The rocks which were visible appeared like amphibious monsters reposing in the surf. Beyond the reef, the sea sparkled beneath the sun’s rays. To the south a sharp point closed the horizon, and it could not be seen if the land was prolonged in that direction, or if it ran southeast and southwest, which would have made this coast a very long peninsula. At the northern extremity of the bay the outline of the shore was continued to a great distance in a wider curve. There the shore was low, flat, without cliffs, and with great banks of sand, which the tide left uncovered. Pencroft and Herbert then returned towards the west. Their attention was first arrested by the snow-topped mountain which rose at a distance of six or seven miles. From its first declivities to within two miles of the coast were spread vast masses of wood, relieved by large green patches, caused by the presence of evergreen trees. Then, from the edge of this forest to the shore extended a plain, scattered irregularly with groups of trees. Here and there on the left sparkled through glades the waters of the little river; they could trace its winding course back towards the spurs of the mountain, among which it seemed to spring. At the point where the sailor had left his raft of wood, it began to run between the two high granite walls; but if on the left bank the wall remained clear and abrupt, on the right bank, on the contrary, it sank gradually, the massive sides changed to isolated rocks, the rocks to stones, the stones to shingle running to the extremity of the point.

“Are we on an island?” murmured the sailor.

“At any rate, it seems to be big enough,” replied the lad.

“An island, ever so big, is an island all the same!” said Pencroft.

But this important question could not yet be answered. A more perfect survey had to be made to settle the point. As to the land itself, island or continent, it appeared fertile, agreeable in its aspect, and varied in its productions.

“This is satisfactory,” observed Pencroft; “and in our misfortune, we must thank Providence for it.”

“God be praised!” responded Herbert, whose pious heart was full of gratitude to the Author of all things.

Pencroft and Herbert examined for some time the country on which they had been cast; but it was difficult to guess after so hasty an inspection what the future had in store for them.

They then returned, following the southern crest of the granite platform, bordered by a long fringe of jagged rocks, of the most whimsical shapes. Some hundreds of birds lived there nestled in the holes of the stone; Herbert, jumping over the rocks, startled a whole flock of these winged creatures.

“Oh!” cried he, “those are not gulls nor sea-mews!”

“What are they then?” asked Pencroft.

“Upon my word, one would say they were pigeons!”

“Just so, but these are wild or rock pigeons. I recognize them by the double band of black on the wing, by the white tail, and by their slate-colored plumage. But if the rock-pigeon is good to eat, its eggs must be excellent, and we will soon see how many they may have left in their nests!”

“We will not give them time to hatch, unless it is in the shape of an omelet!” replied Pencroft merrily.

“But what will you make your omelet in?” asked Herbert; “in your hat?”

“Well!” replied the sailor, “I am not quite conjuror enough for that; we must come down to eggs in the shell, my boy, and I will undertake to despatch the hardest!”

Pencroft and Herbert attentively examined the cavities in the granite, and they really found eggs in some of the hollows. A few dozen being collected, were packed in the sailor’s handkerchief, and as the time when the tide would be full was approaching, Pencroft and Herbert began to redescend towards the watercourse. When they arrived there, it was an hour after midday. The tide had already turned. They must now avail themselves of the ebb to take the wood to the mouth. Pencroft did not intend to let the raft go away in the current without guidance, neither did he mean to embark on it himself to steer it. But a sailor is never at a loss when there is a question of cables or ropes, and Pencroft rapidly twisted a cord, a few fathoms long, made of dry creepers. This vegetable cable was fastened to the after-part of the raft, and the sailor held it in his hand while Herbert, pushing off the raft with a long pole, kept it in the current. This succeeded capitally. The enormous load of wood drifted down the current. The bank was very equal; there was no fear that the raft would run aground, and before two o’clock they arrived at the river’s mouth, a few paces from the Chimneys.

CHAPTER 5

Pencroft’s first care, after unloading the raft, was to render the cave habitable by stopping up all the holes which made it draughty. Sand, stones, twisted branches, wet clay, closed up the galleries open to the south winds. One narrow and winding opening at the side was kept, to lead out the smoke and to make the fire draw. The cave was thus divided into three or four rooms, if such dark dens with which a donkey would scarcely have been contented deserved the name. But they were dry, and there was space to stand upright, at least in the principal room, which occupied the center. The floor was covered with fine sand, and taking all in all they were well pleased with it for want of a better.

“Perhaps,” said Herbert, while he and Pencroft were working, “our companions have found a superior place to ours.”

“Very likely,” replied the seaman; “but, as we don’t know, we must work all the same. Better to have two strings to one’s bow than no string at all!”

“Oh!” exclaimed Herbert, “how jolly it will be if they were to find Captain Harding and were to bring him back with them!”

“Yes, indeed!” said Pencroft, “that was a man of the right sort.”

“Was!” exclaimed Herbert, “do you despair of ever seeing him again?”

“God forbid!” replied the sailor. Their work was soon done, and Pencroft declared himself very well satisfied.

“Now,” said he, “our friends can come back when they like. They will find a good enough shelter.”

They now had only to make a fireplace and to prepare the supper — an easy task. Large flat stones were placed on the ground at the opening of the narrow passage which had been kept. This, if the smoke did not take the heat out with it, would be enough to maintain an equal temperature inside. Their wood was stowed away in one of the rooms, and the sailor laid in the fireplace some logs and brushwood. The seaman was busy with this, when Herbert asked him if he had any matches.

“Certainly,” replied Pencroft, “and I may say happily, for without matches or tinder we should be in a fix.”

“Still we might get fire as the savages do,” replied Herbert, “by rubbing two bits of dry stick one against the other.”

“All right; try, my boy, and let’s see if you can do anything besides exercising your arms.”

“Well, it’s a very simple proceeding, and much used in the islands of the Pacific.”

“I don’t deny it,” replied Pencroft, “but the savages must know how to do it or employ a peculiar wood, for more than once I have tried to get fire in that way, but I could never manage it. I must say I prefer matches. By the bye, where are my matches?”

Pencroft searched in his waistcoat for the box, which was always there, for he was a confirmed smoker. He could not find it; he rummaged the pockets of his trousers, but, to his horror, he could nowhere discover the box.

“Here’s a go!” said he, looking at Herbert. “The box must have fallen out of my pocket and got lost! Surely, Herbert, you must have something — a tinder-box — anything that can possibly make fire!”

“No, I haven’t, Pencroft.”

The sailor rushed out, followed by the boy. On the sand, among the rocks, near the river’s bank, they both searched carefully, but in vain. The box was of copper, and therefore would have been easily seen.

“Pencroft,” asked Herbert, “didn’t you throw it out of the car?”

“I knew better than that,” replied the sailor; “but such a small article could easily disappear in the tumbling about we have gone through. I would rather even have lost my pipe! Confound the box! Where can it be?”

“Look here, the tide is going down,” said Herbert; “let’s run to the place where we landed.”

It was scarcely probable that they would find the box, which the waves had rolled about among the pebbles, at high tide, but it was as well to try. Herbert and Pencroft walked rapidly to the point where they had landed the day before, about two hundred feet from the cave. They hunted there, among the shingle, in the clefts of the rocks, but found nothing. If the box had fallen at this place it must have been swept away by the waves. As the sea went down, they searched every little crevice with no result. It was a grave loss in their circumstances, and for the time irreparable. Pencroft could not hide his vexation; he looked very anxious, but said not a word. Herbert tried to console him by observing, that if they had found the matches, they would, very likely, have been wetted by the sea and useless.

“No, my boy,” replied the sailor; “they were in a copper box which shut very tightly; and now what are we to do?”

“We shall certainly find some way of making a fire,” said Herbert. “Captain Harding or Mr. Spilett will not be without them.”

“Yes,” replied Pencroft; “but in the meantime we are without fire, and our companions will find but a sorry repast on their return.”

“But,” said Herbert quickly, “do you think it possible that they have no tinder or matches?”

“I doubt it,” replied the sailor, shaking his head, “for neither Neb nor Captain Harding smoke, and I believe that Mr. Spilett would rather keep his note-book than his match-box.”

Herbert did not reply. The loss of the box was certainly to be regretted, but the boy was still sure of procuring fire in some way or other. Pencroft, more experienced, did not think so, although he was not a man to trouble himself about a small or great grievance. At any rate, there was only one thing to be done — to await the return of Neb and the reporter; but they must give up the feast of hard eggs which they had meant to prepare, and a meal of raw flesh was not an agreeable prospect either for themselves or for the others.

Before returning to the cave, the sailor and Herbert, in the event of fire being positively unattainable, collected some more shell-fish, and then silently retraced their steps to their dwelling.

Pencroft, his eyes fixed on the ground, still looked for his box. He even climbed up the left bank of the river from its mouth to the angle where the raft had been moored. He returned to the plateau, went over it in every direction, searched among the high grass on the border of the forest, all in vain.

It was five in the evening when he and Herbert re-entered the cave. It is useless to say that the darkest corners of the passages were ransacked before they were obliged to give it up in despair. Towards six o’clock, when the sun was disappearing behind the high lands of the west, Herbert, who was walking up and down on the strand, signalized the return of Neb and Spilett.

They were returning alone!… The boy’s heart sank; the sailor had not been deceived in his forebodings; the engineer, Cyrus Harding, had not been found!

The reporter, on his arrival, sat down on a rock, without saying anything. Exhausted with fatigue, dying of hunger, he had not strength to utter a word.

As to Neb, his red eyes showed how he had cried, and the tears which he could not restrain told too clearly that he had lost all hope.

The reporter recounted all that they had done in their attempt to recover Cyrus Harding. He and Neb had surveyed the coast for a distance of eight miles and consequently much beyond the place where the balloon had fallen the last time but one, a fall which was followed by the disappearance of the engineer and the dog Top. The shore was solitary; not a vestige of a mark. Not even a pebble recently displaced; not a trace on the sand; not a human footstep on all that part of the beach. It was clear that that portion of the shore had never been visited by a human being. The sea was as deserted as the land, and it was there, a few hundred feet from the coast, that the engineer must have found a tomb.

As Spilett ended his account, Neb jumped up, exclaiming in a voice which showed how hope struggled within him, “No! he is not dead! he can’t be dead! It might happen to any one else, but never to him! He could get out of anything!” Then his strength forsaking him, “Oh! I can do no more!” he murmured.

“Neb,” said Herbert, running to him, “we will find him! God will give him back to us! But in the meantime you are hungry, and you must eat something.”

So saying, he offered the poor Negro a few handfuls of shell-fish, which was indeed wretched and insufficient food. Neb had not eaten anything for several hours, but he refused them. He could not, would not live without his master.

As to Gideon Spilett, he devoured the shell-fish, then he laid himself down on the sand, at the foot of a rock. He was very weak, but calm. Herbert went up to him, and taking his hand, “Sir,” said he, “we have found a shelter which will be better than lying here. Night is advancing. Come and rest! To-morrow we will search farther.”

The reporter got up, and guided by the boy went towards the cave. On the way, Pencroft asked him in the most natural tone, if by chance he happened to have a match or two.

The reporter stopped, felt in his pockets, but finding nothing said, “I had some, but I must have thrown them away.”

The seaman then put the same question to Neb and received the same answer.

“Confound it!” exclaimed the sailor.

The reporter heard him and seizing his arm, “Have you no matches?” he asked.

“Not one, and no fire in consequence.”

“Ah!” cried Neb, “if my master was here, he would know what to do!”

The four castaways remained motionless, looking uneasily at each other. Herbert was the first to break the silence by saying, “Mr. Spilett, you are a smoker and always have matches about you; perhaps you haven’t looked well, try again, a single match will be enough!”

The reporter hunted again in the pockets of his trousers, waistcoat, and great-coat, and at last to Pencroft’s great joy, no less to his extreme surprise, he felt a tiny piece of wood entangled in the lining of his waistcoat. He seized it with his fingers through the stuff, but he could not get it out. If this was a match and a single one, it was of great importance not to rub off the phosphorus.

“Will you let me try?” said the boy, and very cleverly, without breaking it, he managed to draw out the wretched yet precious little bit of wood which was of such great importance to these poor men. It was unused.

“Hurrah!” cried Pencroft; “it is as good as having a whole cargo!” He took the match, and, followed by his companions, entered the cave.

This small piece of wood, of which so many in an inhabited country are wasted with indifference and are of no value, must here be used with the greatest caution.

The sailor first made sure that it was quite dry; that done, “We must have some paper,” said he.

“Here,” replied Spilett, after some hesitation tearing a leaf out of his note-book.

Pencroft took the piece of paper which the reporter held out to him, and knelt down before the fireplace. Some handfuls of grass, leaves, and dry moss were placed under the fagots and disposed in such a way that the air could easily circulate, and the dry wood would rapidly catch fire.

Pencroft then twisted the piece of paper into the shape of a cone, as smokers do in a high wind, and poked it in among the moss. Taking a small, rough stone, he wiped it carefully, and with a beating heart, holding his breath, he gently rubbed the match. The first attempt did not produce any effect. Pencroft had not struck hard enough, fearing to rub off the phosphorus.

“No, I can’t do it,” said he, “my hand trembles, the match has missed fire; I cannot, I will not!” and rising, he told Herbert to take his place.

Certainly the boy had never in all his life been so nervous. Prometheus going to steal the fire from heaven could not have been more anxious. He did not hesitate, however, but struck the match directly.

A little spluttering was heard and a tiny blue flame sprang up, making a choking smoke. Herbert quickly turned the match so as to augment the flame, and then slipped it into the paper cone, which in a few seconds too caught fire, and then the moss.

A minute later the dry wood crackled and a cheerful flame, assisted by the vigorous blowing of the sailor, sprang up in the midst of the darkness.

“At last!” cried Pencroft, getting up; “I was never so nervous before in all my life!”

The flat stones made a capital fireplace. The smoke went quite easily out at the narrow passage, the chimney drew, and an agreeable warmth was not long in being felt.

They must now take great care not to let the fire go out, and always to keep some embers alight. It only needed care and attention, as they had plenty of wood and could renew their store at any time.

Pencroft’s first thought was to use the fire by preparing a more nourishing supper than a dish of shell-fish. Two dozen eggs were brought by Herbert. The reporter leaning up in a corner, watched these preparations without saying anything. A threefold thought weighed on his mind. Was Cyrus still alive? If he was alive, where was he? If he had survived from his fall, how was it that he had not found some means of making known his existence? As to Neb, he was roaming about the shore. He was like a body without a soul.

Pencroft knew fifty ways of cooking eggs, but this time he had no choice, and was obliged to content himself with roasting them under the hot cinders. In a few minutes the cooking was done, and the seaman invited the reporter to take his share of the supper. Such was the first repast of the castaways on this unknown coast. The hard eggs were excellent, and as eggs contain everything indispensable to man’s nourishment, these poor people thought themselves well off, and were much strengthened by them. Oh! if only one of them had not been missing at this meal! If the five prisoners who escaped from Richmond had been all there, under the piled-up rocks, before this clear, crackling fire on the dry sand, what thanksgiving must they have rendered to Heaven! But the most ingenious, the most learned, he who was their unquestioned chief, Cyrus Harding, was, alas! missing, and his body had not even obtained a burial-place.

Thus passed the 25th of March. Night had come on. Outside could be heard the howling of the wind and the monotonous sound of the surf breaking on the shore. The waves rolled the shingle backwards and forwards with a deafening noise.

The reporter retired into a dark corner after having shortly noted down the occurrences of the day; the first appearance of this new land, the loss of their leader, the exploration of the coast, the incident of the matches, etc.; and then overcome by fatigue, he managed to forget his sorrows in sleep. Herbert went to sleep directly. As to the sailor, he passed the night with one eye on the fire, on which he did not spare fuel. But one of the castaways did not sleep in the cave. The inconsolable, despairing Neb, notwithstanding all that his companions could say to induce him to take some rest, wandered all night long on the shore calling on his master.

CHAPTER 6

The inventory of the articles possessed by these castaways from the clouds, thrown upon a coast which appeared to be uninhabited, was soon made out. They had nothing, save the clothes which they were wearing at the time of the catastrophe. We must mention, however, a note-book and a watch which Gideon Spilett had kept, doubtless by inadvertence, not a weapon, not a tool, not even a pocket-knife; for while in the car they had thrown out everything to lighten the balloon. The imaginary heroes of Daniel Defoe or of Wyss, as well as Selkirk and Raynal shipwrecked on Juan Fernandez and on the archipelago of the Aucklands, were never in such absolute destitution. Either they had abundant resources from their stranded vessels, in grain, cattle, tools, ammunition, or else some things were thrown up on the coast which supplied them with all the first necessities of life. But here, not any instrument whatever, not a utensil. From nothing they must supply themselves with everything.

And yet, if Cyrus Harding had been with them, if the engineer could have brought his practical science, his inventive mind to bear on their situation, perhaps all hope would not have been lost. Alas! they must hope no longer again to see Cyrus Harding. The castaways could expect nothing but from themselves and from that Providence which never abandons those whose faith is sincere.

But ought they to establish themselves on this part of the coast, without trying to know to what continent it belonged, if it was inhabited, or if they were on the shore of a desert island?

It was an important question, and should be solved with the shortest possible delay. From its answer they would know what measures to take. However, according to Pencroft’s advice, it appeared best to wait a few days before commencing an exploration. They must, in fact, prepare some provisions and procure more strengthening food than eggs and molluscs. The explorers, before undertaking new fatigues, must first of all recruit their strength.

The Chimneys offered a retreat sufficient for the present. The fire was lighted, and it was easy to preserve some embers. There were plenty of shell-fish and eggs among the rocks and on the beach. It would be easy to kill a few of the pigeons which were flying by hundreds about the summit of the plateau, either with sticks or stones. Perhaps the trees of the neighboring forest would supply them with eatable fruit. Lastly, the sweet water was there.

It was accordingly settled that for a few days they would remain at the Chimneys so as to prepare themselves for an expedition, either along the shore or into the interior of the country. This plan suited Neb particularly. As obstinate in his ideas as in his presentiments, he was in no haste to abandon this part of the coast, the scene of the catastrophe. He did not, he would not believe in the loss of Cyrus Harding. No, it did not seem to him possible that such a man had ended in this vulgar fashion, carried away by a wave, drowned in the floods, a few hundred feet from a shore. As long as the waves had not cast up the body of the engineer, as long as he, Neb, had not seen with his eyes, touched with his hands the corpse of his master, he would not believe in his death! And this idea rooted itself deeper than ever in his determined heart. An illusion perhaps, but still an illusion to be respected, and one which the sailor did not wish to destroy. As for him, he hoped no longer, but there was no use in arguing with Neb. He was like the dog who will not leave the place where his master is buried, and his grief was such that most probably he would not survive him.

This same morning, the 26th of March, at daybreak, Neb had set out on the shore in a northerly direction, and he had returned to the spot where the sea, no doubt, had closed over the unfortunate Harding.

That day’s breakfast was composed solely of pigeon’s eggs and lithodomes. Herbert had found some salt deposited by evaporation in the hollows of the rocks, and this mineral was very welcome.

The repast ended, Pencroft asked the reporter if he wished to accompany Herbert and himself to the forest, where they were going to try to hunt. But on consideration, it was thought necessary that someone should remain to keep in the fire, and to be at hand in the highly improbable event of Neb requiring aid. The reporter accordingly remained behind.

“To the chase, Herbert,” said the sailor. “We shall find ammunition on our way, and cut our weapons in the forest.” But at the moment of starting, Herbert observed, that since they had no tinder, it would perhaps be prudent to replace it by another substance.

“What?” asked Pencroft.

“Burnt linen,” replied the boy. “That could in case of need serve for tinder.”

The sailor thought it very sensible advice. Only it had the inconvenience of necessitating the sacrifice of a piece of handkerchief. Notwithstanding, the thing was well worth while trying, and a part of Pencroft’s large checked handkerchief was soon reduced to the state of a half-burnt rag. This inflammable material was placed in the central chamber at the bottom of a little cavity in the rock, sheltered from all wind and damp.

It was nine o’clock in the morning. The weather was threatening and the breeze blew from the southeast. Herbert and Pencroft turned the angle of the Chimneys, not without having cast a look at the smoke which, just at that place, curled round a point of rock: they ascended the left bank of the river.

Arrived at the forest, Pencroft broke from the first tree two stout branches which he transformed into clubs, the ends of which Herbert rubbed smooth on a rock. Oh! what would they not have given for a knife!

The two hunters now advanced among the long grass, following the bank. From the turning which directed its course to the southwest, the river narrowed gradually and the channel lay between high banks, over which the trees formed a double arch. Pencroft, lest they should lose themselves, resolved to follow the course of the stream, which would always lead them back to the point from which they started. But the bank was not without some obstacles: here, the flexible branches of the trees bent level with the current; there, creepers and thorns which they had to break down with their sticks. Herbert often glided among the broken stumps with the agility of a young cat, and disappeared in the underwood. But Pencroft called him back directly, begging him not to wander away. Meanwhile, the sailor attentively observed the disposition and nature of the surrounding country. On the left bank, the ground, which was flat and marshy, rose imperceptibly towards the interior. It looked there like a network of liquid threads which doubtless reached the river by some underground drain. Sometimes a stream ran through the underwood, which they crossed without difficulty. The opposite shore appeared to be more uneven, and the valley of which the river occupied the bottom was more clearly visible. The hill, covered with trees disposed in terraces, intercepted the view. On the right bank walking would have been difficult, for the declivities fell suddenly, and the trees bending over the water were only sustained by the strength of their roots.

It is needless to add that this forest, as well as the coast already surveyed, was destitute of any sign of human life. Pencroft only saw traces of quadrupeds, fresh footprints of animals, of which he could not recognize the species. In all probability, and such was also Herbert’s opinion, some had been left by formidable wild beasts which doubtless would give them some trouble; but nowhere did they observe the mark of an axe on the trees, nor the ashes of a fire, nor the impression of a human foot. On this they might probably congratulate themselves, for on any land in the middle of the Pacific the presence of man was perhaps more to be feared than desired. Herbert and Pencroft speaking little, for the difficulties of the way were great, advanced very slowly, and after walking for an hour they had scarcely gone more than a mile. As yet the hunt had not been successful. However, some birds sang and fluttered in the foliage, and appeared very timid, as if man had inspired them with an instinctive fear. Among others, Herbert described, in a marshy part of the forest, a bird with a long pointed beak, closely resembling the king-fisher, but its plumage was not fine, though of a metallic brilliancy.

“That must be a jacamar,” said Herbert, trying to get nearer.

“This will be a good opportunity to taste jacamar,” replied the sailor, “if that fellow is in a humor to be roasted!”

Just then, a stone cleverly thrown by the boy, struck the creature on the wing, but the blow did not disable it, and the jacamar ran off and disappeared in an instant.

“How clumsy I am!” cried Herbert.

“No, no, my boy!” replied the sailor. “The blow was well aimed; many a one would have missed it altogether! Come, don’t be vexed with yourself. We shall catch it another day!”

As the hunters advanced, the trees were found to be more scattered, many being magnificent, but none bore eatable fruit. Pencroft searched in vain for some of those precious palm-trees which are employed in so many ways in domestic life, and which have been found as far as the fortieth parallel in the Northern Hemisphere, and to the thirty-fifth only in the Southern Hemisphere. But this forest was only composed of coniferae, such as deodaras, already recognized by Herbert, and Douglas pine, similar to those which grow on the northwest coast of America, and splendid firs, measuring a hundred and fifty feet in height.

At this moment a flock of birds, of a small size and pretty plumage, with long glancing tails, dispersed themselves among the branches strewing their feathers, which covered the ground as with fine down. Herbert picked up a few of these feathers, and after having examined them, —

“These are couroucous,” said he.

“I should prefer a moor-cock or guinea-fowl,” replied Pencroft, “still, if they are good to eat — ”

“They are good to eat, and also their flesh is very delicate,” replied Herbert. “Besides, if I don’t mistake, it is easy to approach and kill them with a stick.”

The sailor and the lad, creeping among the grass, arrived at the foot of a tree, whose lower branches were covered with little birds. The couroucous were waiting the passage of insects which served for their nourishment. Their feathery feet could be seen clasping the slender twigs which supported them.

The hunters then rose, and using their sticks like scythes, they mowed down whole rows of these couroucous, who never thought of flying away, and stupidly allowed themselves to be knocked off. A hundred were already heaped on the ground, before the others made up their minds to fly.

“Well,” said Pencroft, “here is game, which is quite within the reach of hunters like us. We have only to put out our hands and take it!”

The sailor having strung the couroucous like larks on flexible twigs, they then continued their exploration. The stream here made a bend towards the south, but this detour was probably not prolonged for the river must have its source in the mountain, and be supplied by the melting of the snow which covered the sides of the central cone.

The particular object of their expedition was, as has been said, to procure the greatest possible quantity of game for the inhabitants of the Chimneys. It must be acknowledged that as yet this object had not been attained. So the sailor actively pursued his researches, though he exclaimed, when some animal which he had not even time to recognize fled into the long grass, “If only we had had the dog Top!” But Top had disappeared at the same time as his master, and had probably perished with him.

Towards three o’clock new flocks of birds were seen through certain trees, at whose aromatic berries they were pecking, those of the juniper-tree among others. Suddenly a loud trumpet call resounded through the forest. This strange and sonorous cry was produced by a game bird called grouse in the United States. They soon saw several couples, whose plumage was rich chestnut-brown mottled with dark brown, and tail of the same color. Herbert recognized the males by the two wing-like appendages raised on the neck. Pencroft determined to get hold of at least one of these gallinaceae, which were as large as a fowl, and whose flesh is better than that of a pullet. But it was difficult, for they would not allow themselves to be approached. After several fruitless attempts, which resulted in nothing but scaring the grouse, the sailor said to the lad, —

“Decidedly, since we can’t kill them on the wing, we must try to take them with a line.”

“Like a fish?” cried Herbert, much surprised at the proposal.

“Like a fish,” replied the sailor quite seriously. Pencroft had found among the grass half a dozen grouse nests, each having three or four eggs. He took great care not to touch these nests, to which their proprietors would not fail to return. It was around these that he meant to stretch his lines, not snares, but real fishing-lines. He took Herbert to some distance from the nests, and there prepared his singular apparatus with all the care which a disciple of Izaak Walton would have used. Herbert watched the work with great interest, though rather doubting its success. The lines were made of fine creepers, fastened one to the other, of the length of fifteen or twenty feet. Thick, strong thorns, the points bent back (which were supplied from a dwarf acacia bush) were fastened to the ends of the creepers, by way of hooks. Large red worms, which were crawling on the ground, furnished bait.

This done, Pencroft, passing among the grass and concealing himself skillfully, placed the end of his lines armed with hooks near the grouse nests; then he returned, took the other ends and hid with Herbert behind a large tree. There they both waited patiently; though, it must be said, that Herbert did not reckon much on the success of the inventive Pencroft.

A whole half-hour passed, but then, as the sailor had surmised, several couple of grouse returned to their nests. They walked along, pecking the ground, and not suspecting in any way the presence of the hunters, who, besides, had taken care to place themselves to leeward of the gallinaceae.

The lad felt at this moment highly interested. He held his breath, and Pencroft, his eyes staring, his mouth open, his lips advanced, as if about to taste a piece of grouse, scarcely breathed.

Meanwhile, the birds walked about the hooks, without taking any notice of them. Pencroft then gave little tugs which moved the bait as if the worms had been still alive.

The sailor undoubtedly felt much greater anxiety than does the fisherman, for he does not see his prey coming through the water. The jerks attracted the attention of the gallinaceae, and they attacked the hooks with their beaks. Three voracious grouse swallowed at the same moment bait and hook. Suddenly with a smart jerk, Pencroft “struck” his line, and a flapping of wings showed that the birds were taken.

“Hurrah!” he cried, rushing towards the game, of which he made himself master in an instant.

Herbert clapped his hands. It was the first time that he had ever seen birds taken with a line, but the sailor modestly confessed that it was not his first attempt, and that besides he could not claim the merit of invention.

“And at any rate,” added he, “situated as we are, we must hope to hit upon many other contrivances.”

The grouse were fastened by their claws, and Pencroft, delighted at not having to appear before their companions with empty hands, and observing that the day had begun to decline, judged it best to return to their dwelling.

The direction was indicated by the river, whose course they had only to follow, and, towards six o’clock, tired enough with their excursion, Herbert and Pencroft arrived at the Chimneys.

CHAPTER 7

Gideon Spilett was standing motionless on the shore, his arms crossed, gazing over the sea, the horizon of which was lost towards the east in a thick black cloud which was spreading rapidly towards the zenith. The wind was already strong, and increased with the decline of day. The whole sky was of a threatening aspect, and the first symptoms of a violent storm were clearly visible.

Herbert entered the Chimneys, and Pencroft went towards the reporter. The latter, deeply absorbed, did not see him approach.

“We are going to have a dirty night, Mr. Spilett!” said the sailor: “Petrels delight in wind and rain.”

The reporter, turning at the moment, saw Pencroft, and his first words were, —

“At what distance from the coast would you say the car was, when the waves carried off our companion?”

The sailor had not expected this question. He reflected an instant and replied, —

“Two cables lengths at the most.”

“But what is a cable’s length?” asked Gideon Spilett.

“About a hundred and twenty fathoms, or six hundred feet.”

“Then,” said the reporter, “Cyrus Harding must have disappeared twelve hundred feet at the most from the shore?”

“About that,” replied Pencroft.

“And his dog also?”

“Also.”

“What astonishes me,” rejoined the reporter, “while admitting that our companion has perished, is that Top has also met his death, and that neither the body of the dog nor of his master has been cast on the shore!”

“It is not astonishing, with such a heavy sea,” replied the sailor. “Besides, it is possible that currents have carried them farther down the coast.”

“Then, it is your opinion that our friend has perished in the waves?” again asked the reporter.

“That is my opinion.”

“My own opinion,” said Gideon Spilett, “with due deference to your experience, Pencroft, is that in the double fact of the absolute disappearance of Cyrus and Top, living or dead, there is something unaccountable and unlikely.”

“I wish I could think like you, Mr. Spilett,” replied Pencroft; “unhappily, my mind is made up on this point.” Having said this, the sailor returned to the Chimneys. A good fire crackled on the hearth. Herbert had just thrown on an armful of dry wood, and the flame cast a bright light into the darkest parts of the passage.

Pencroft immediately began to prepare the dinner. It appeared best to introduce something solid into the bill of fare, for all needed to get up their strength. The strings of couroucous were kept for the next day, but they plucked a couple of grouse, which were soon spitted on a stick, and roasting before a blazing fire.

At seven in the evening Neb had not returned. The prolonged absence of the Negro made Pencroft very uneasy. It was to be feared that he had met with an accident on this unknown land, or that the unhappy fellow had been driven to some act of despair. But Herbert drew very different conclusions from this absence. According to him, Neb’s delay was caused by some new circumstances which had induced him to prolong his search. Also, everything new must be to the advantage of Cyrus Harding. Why had Neb not returned unless hope still detained him? Perhaps he had found some mark, a footstep, a trace which had put him in the right path. Perhaps he was at this moment on a certain track. Perhaps even he was near his master.

Thus the lad reasoned. Thus he spoke. His companions let him talk. The reporter alone approved with a gesture. But what Pencroft thought most probable was, that Neb had pushed his researches on the shore farther than the day before, and that he had not as yet had time to return.

Herbert, however, agitated by vague presentiments, several times manifested an intention to go to meet Neb. But Pencroft assured him that that would be a useless course, that in the darkness and deplorable weather he could not find any traces of Neb, and that it would be much better to wait. If Neb had not made his appearance by the next day, Pencroft would not hesitate to join him in his search.

Gideon Spilett approved of the sailor’s opinion that it was best not to divide, and Herbert was obliged to give up his project; but two large tears fell from his eyes.

The reporter could not refrain from embracing the generous boy.

Bad weather now set in. A furious gale from the southeast passed over the coast. The sea roared as it beat over the reef. Heavy rain was dashed by the storm into particles like dust. Ragged masses of vapor drove along the beach, on which the tormented shingles sounded as if poured out in cart-loads, while the sand raised by the wind added as it were mineral dust to that which was liquid, and rendered the united attack insupportable. Between the river’s mouth and the end of the cliff, eddies of wind whirled and gusts from this maelstrom lashed the water which ran through the narrow valley. The smoke from the fireplace was also driven back through the opening, filling the passages and rendering them uninhabitable.

Therefore, as the grouse were cooked, Pencroft let the fire die away, and only preserved a few embers buried under the ashes.

At eight o’clock Neb had not appeared, but there was no doubt that the frightful weather alone hindered his return, and that he must have taken refuge in some cave, to await the end of the storm or at least the return of day. As to going to meet him, or attempting to find him, it was impossible.

The game constituted the only dish at supper; the meat was excellent, and Pencroft and Herbert, whose long excursion had rendered them very hungry, devoured it with infinite satisfaction.

Their meal concluded, each retired to the corner in which he had rested the preceding night, and Herbert was not long in going to sleep near the sailor, who had stretched himself beside the fireplace.

Outside, as the night advanced, the tempest also increased in strength, until it was equal to that which had carried the prisoners from Richmond to this land in the Pacific. The tempests which are frequent during the seasons of the equinox, and which are so prolific in catastrophes, are above all terrible over this immense ocean, which opposes no obstacle to their fury. No description can give an idea of the terrific violence of the gale as it beat upon the unprotected coast.

Happily the pile of rocks which formed the Chimneys was solid. It was composed of enormous blocks of granite, a few of which, insecurely balanced, seemed to tremble on their foundations, and Pencroft could feel rapid quiverings under his head as it rested on the rock. But he repeated to himself, and rightly, that there was nothing to fear, and that their retreat would not give way. However he heard the noise of stones torn from the summit of the plateau by the wind, falling down on to the beach. A few even rolled on to the upper part of the Chimneys, or flew off in fragments when they were projected perpendicularly. Twice the sailor rose and intrenched himself at the opening of the passage, so as to take a look in safety at the outside. But there was nothing to be feared from these showers, which were not considerable, and he returned to his couch before the fireplace, where the embers glowed beneath the ashes.

Notwithstanding the fury of the hurricane, the uproar of the tempest, the thunder, and the tumult, Herbert slept profoundly. Sleep at last took possession of Pencroft, whom a seafaring life had habituated to anything. Gideon Spilett alone was kept awake by anxiety. He reproached himself with not having accompanied Neb. It was evident that he had not abandoned all hope. The presentiments which had troubled Herbert did not cease to agitate him also. His thoughts were concentrated on Neb. Why had Neb not returned? He tossed about on his sandy couch, scarcely giving a thought to the struggle of the elements. Now and then, his eyes, heavy with fatigue, closed for an instant, but some sudden thought reopened them almost immediately.

Meanwhile the night advanced, and it was perhaps two hours from morning, when Pencroft, then sound asleep, was vigorously shaken.

“What’s the matter?” he cried, rousing himself, and collecting his ideas with the promptitude usual to seamen.

The reporter was leaning over him, and saying, —

“Listen, Pencroft, listen!”

The sailor strained his ears, but could hear no noise beyond those caused by the storm.

“It is the wind,” said he.

“No,” replied Gideon Spilett, listening again, “I thought I heard — ”

“What?”

“The barking of a dog!”

“A dog!” cried Pencroft, springing up.

“Yes — barking — ”

“It’s not possible!” replied the sailor. “And besides, how, in the roaring of the storm — ”

“Stop — listen — ” said the reporter.

Pencroft listened more attentively, and really thought he heard, during a lull, distant barking.

“Well!” said the reporter, pressing the sailor’s hand.

“Yes — yes!” replied Pencroft.

“It is Top! It is Top!” cried Herbert, who had just awoke; and all three rushed towards the opening of the Chimneys. They had great difficulty in getting out. The wind drove them back. But at last they succeeded, and could only remain standing by leaning against the rocks. They looked about, but could not speak. The darkness was intense. The sea, the sky, the land were all mingled in one black mass. Not a speck of light was visible.

The reporter and his companions remained thus for a few minutes, overwhelmed by the wind, drenched by the rain, blinded by the sand.

Then, in a pause of the tumult, they again heard the barking, which they found must be at some distance.

It could only be Top! But was he alone or accompanied? He was most probably alone, for, if Neb had been with him, he would have made his way more directly towards the Chimneys. The sailor squeezed the reporter’s hand, for he could not make himself heard, in a way which signified “Wait!” then he reentered the passage.

An instant after he issued with a lighted fagot, which he threw into the darkness, whistling shrilly.

It appeared as if this signal had been waited for; the barking immediately came nearer, and soon a dog bounded into the passage. Pencroft, Herbert, and Spilett entered after him.

An armful of dry wood was thrown on the embers. The passage was lighted up with a bright flame.

“It is Top!” cried Herbert.

It was indeed Top, a magnificent Anglo-Norman, who derived from these two races crossed the swiftness of foot and the acuteness of smell which are the preeminent qualities of coursing dogs. It was the dog of the engineer, Cyrus Harding. But he was alone! Neither Neb nor his master accompanied him!

How was it that his instinct had guided him straight to the Chimneys, which he did not know? It appeared inexplicable, above all, in the midst of this black night and in such a tempest! But what was still more inexplicable was, that Top was neither tired, nor exhausted, nor even soiled with mud or sand! — Herbert had drawn him towards him, and was patting his head, the dog rubbing his neck against the lad’s hands.

“If the dog is found, the master will be found also!” said the reporter.

“God grant it!” responded Herbert. “Let us set off! Top will guide us!”

Pencroft did not make any objection. He felt that Top’s arrival contradicted his conjectures. “Come along then!” said he.

Pencroft carefully covered the embers on the hearth. He placed a few pieces of wood among them, so as to keep in the fire until their return. Then, preceded by the dog, who seemed to invite them by short barks to come with him, and followed by the reporter and the boy, he dashed out, after having put up in his handkerchief the remains of the supper.

The storm was then in all its violence, and perhaps at its height. Not a single ray of light from the moon pierced through the clouds. To follow a straight course was difficult. It was best to rely on Top’s instinct. They did so. The reporter and Herbert walked behind the dog, and the sailor brought up the rear. It was impossible to exchange a word. The rain was not very heavy, but the wind was terrific.

However, one circumstance favored the seaman and his two companions. The wind being southeast, consequently blew on their backs. The clouds of sand, which otherwise would have been insupportable, from being received behind, did not in consequence impede their progress. In short, they sometimes went faster than they liked, and had some difficulty in keeping their feet; but hope gave them strength, for it was not at random that they made their way along the shore. They had no doubt that Neb had found his master, and that he had sent them the faithful dog. But was the engineer living, or had Neb only sent for his companions that they might render the last duties to the corpse of the unfortunate Harding?

After having passed the precipice, Herbert, the reporter, and Pencroft prudently stepped aside to stop and take breath. The turn of the rocks sheltered them from the wind, and they could breathe after this walk or rather run of a quarter of an hour.

They could now hear and reply to each other, and the lad having pronounced the name of Cyrus Harding, Top gave a few short barks, as much as to say that his master was saved.

“Saved, isn’t he?” repeated Herbert; “saved, Top?”

And the dog barked in reply.

They once more set out. The tide began to rise, and urged by the wind it threatened to be unusually high, as it was a spring tide. Great billows thundered against the reef with such violence that they probably passed entirely over the islet, then quite invisible. The mole no longer protected the coast, which was directly exposed to the attacks of the open sea.

As soon as the sailor and his companions left the precipice, the wind struck them again with renewed fury. Though bent under the gale they walked very quickly, following Top, who did not hesitate as to what direction to take.

They ascended towards the north, having on their left an interminable extent of billows, which broke with a deafening noise, and on their right a dark country, the aspect of which it was impossible to guess. But they felt that it was comparatively flat, for the wind passed completely over them, without being driven back as it was when it came in contact with the cliff.

At four o’clock in the morning, they reckoned that they had cleared about five miles. The clouds were slightly raised, and the wind, though less damp, was very sharp and cold. Insufficiently protected by their clothing, Pencroft, Herbert and Spilett suffered cruelly, but not a complaint escaped their lips. They were determined to follow Top, wherever the intelligent animal wished to lead them.

Towards five o’clock day began to break. At the zenith, where the fog was less thick, gray shades bordered the clouds; under an opaque belt, a luminous line clearly traced the horizon. The crests of the billows were tipped with a wild light, and the foam regained its whiteness. At the same time on the left the hilly parts of the coast could be seen, though very indistinctly.

At six o’clock day had broken. The clouds rapidly lifted. The seaman and his companions were then about six miles from the Chimneys. They were following a very flat shore bounded by a reef of rocks, whose heads scarcely emerged from the sea, for they were in deep water. On the left, the country appeared to be one vast extent of sandy downs, bristling with thistles. There was no cliff, and the shore offered no resistance to the ocean but a chain of irregular hillocks. Here and there grew two or three trees, inclined towards the west, their branches projecting in that direction. Quite behind, in the southwest, extended the border of the forest.

At this moment, Top became very excited. He ran forward, then returned, and seemed to entreat them to hasten their steps. The dog then left the beach, and guided by his wonderful instinct, without showing the least hesitation, went straight in among the downs. They followed him. The country appeared an absolute desert. Not a living creature was to be seen.

The downs, the extent of which was large, were composed of hillocks and even of hills, very irregularly distributed. They resembled a Switzerland modeled in sand, and only an amazing instinct could have possibly recognized the way.

Five minutes after having left the beach, the reporter and his two companions arrived at a sort of excavation, hollowed out at the back of a high mound. There Top stopped, and gave a loud, clear bark. Spilett, Herbert, and Pencroft dashed into the cave.

Neb was there, kneeling beside a body extended on a bed of grass.

The body was that of the engineer, Cyrus Harding.

CHAPTER 8

Neb did not move. Pencroft only uttered one word.

“Living?” he cried.

Neb did not reply. Spilett and the sailor turned pale. Herbert clasped his hands, and remained motionless. The poor Negro, absorbed in his grief, evidently had neither seen his companions nor heard the sailor speak.

The reporter knelt down beside the motionless body, and placed his ear to the engineer’s chest, having first torn open his clothes.

A minute — an age! — passed, during which he endeavored to catch the faintest throb of the heart.

Neb had raised himself a little and gazed without seeing. Despair had completely changed his countenance. He could scarcely be recognized, exhausted with fatigue, broken with grief. He believed his master was dead.

Gideon Spilett at last rose, after a long and attentive examination.

“He lives!” said he.

Pencroft knelt in his turn beside the engineer, he also heard a throbbing, and even felt a slight breath on his cheek.

Herbert at a word from the reporter ran out to look for water. He found, a hundred feet off, a limpid stream, which seemed to have been greatly increased by the rains, and which filtered through the sand; but nothing in which to put the water, not even a shell among the downs. The lad was obliged to content himself with dipping his handkerchief in the stream, and with it hastened back to the grotto.

Happily the wet handkerchief was enough for Gideon Spilett, who only wished to wet the engineer’s lips. The cold water produced an almost immediate effect. His chest heaved and he seemed to try to speak.

“We will save him!” exclaimed the reporter.

At these words hope revived in Neb’s heart. He undressed his master to see if he was wounded, but not so much as a bruise was to be found, either on the head, body, or limbs, which was surprising, as he must have been dashed against the rocks; even the hands were uninjured, and it was difficult to explain how the engineer showed no traces of the efforts which he must have made to get out of reach of the breakers.

But the explanation would come later. When Cyrus was able to speak he would say what had happened. For the present the question was, how to recall him to life, and it appeared likely that rubbing would bring this about; so they set to work with the sailor’s jersey.

The engineer, revived by this rude shampooing, moved his arm slightly and began to breathe more regularly. He was sinking from exhaustion, and certainly, had not the reporter and his companions arrived, it would have been all over with Cyrus Harding.

“You thought your master was dead, didn’t you?” said the seaman to Neb.

“Yes! quite dead!” replied Neb, “and if Top had not found you, and brought you here, I should have buried my master, and then have lain down on his grave to die!”

It had indeed been a narrow escape for Cyrus Harding!

Neb then recounted what had happened. The day before, after having left the Chimneys at daybreak, he had ascended the coast in a northerly direction, and had reached that part of the shore which he had already visited.

There, without any hope he acknowledged, Neb had searched the beach, among the rocks, on the sand, for the smallest trace to guide him. He examined particularly that part of the beach which was not covered by the high tide, for near the sea the water would have obliterated all marks. Neb did not expect to find his master living. It was for a corpse that he searched, a corpse which he wished to bury with his own hands!

He sought long in vain. This desert coast appeared never to have been visited by a human creature. The shells, those which the sea had not reached, and which might be met with by millions above high-water mark, were untouched. Not a shell was broken.

Neb then resolved to walk along the beach for some miles. It was possible that the waves had carried the body to quite a distant point. When a corpse floats a little distance from a low shore, it rarely happens that the tide does not throw it up, sooner or later. This Neb knew, and he wished to see his master again for the last time.

“I went along the coast for another two miles, carefully examining the beach, both at high and low water, and I had despaired of finding anything, when yesterday, above five in the evening, I saw footprints on the sand.”

“Footprints?” exclaimed Pencroft.

“Yes!” replied Neb.

“Did these footprints begin at the water’s edge?” asked the reporter.

“No,” replied Neb, “only above high-water mark, for the others must have been washed out by the tide.”

“Go on, Neb,” said Spilett.

“I went half crazy when I saw these footprints. They were very clear and went towards the downs. I followed them for a quarter of a mile, running, but taking care not to destroy them. Five minutes after, as it was getting dark, I heard the barking of a dog. It was Top, and Top brought me here, to my master!”

Neb ended his account by saying what had been his grief at finding the inanimate body, in which he vainly sought for the least sign of life. Now that he had found him dead he longed for him to be alive. All his efforts were useless! Nothing remained to be done but to render the last duties to the one whom he had loved so much! Neb then thought of his companions. They, no doubt, would wish to see the unfortunate man again. Top was there. Could he not rely on the sagacity of the faithful animal? Neb several times pronounced the name of the reporter, the one among his companions whom Top knew best.

Then he pointed to the south, and the dog bounded off in the direction indicated to him.

We have heard how, guided by an instinct which might be looked upon almost as supernatural, Top had found them.

Neb’s companions had listened with great attention to this account.

It was unaccountable to them how Cyrus Harding, after the efforts which he must have made to escape from the waves by crossing the rocks, had not received even a scratch. And what could not be explained either was how the engineer had managed to get to this cave in the downs, more than a mile from the shore.

“So, Neb,” said the reporter, “it was not you who brought your master to this place.”

“No, it was not I,” replied the Negro.

“It’s very clear that the captain came here by himself,” said Pencroft.

“It is clear in reality,” observed Spilett, “but it is not credible!”

The explanation of this fact could only be produced from the engineer’s own lips, and they must wait for that till speech returned. Rubbing had re-established the circulation of the blood. Cyrus Harding moved his arm again, then his head, and a few incomprehensible words escaped him.

Neb, who was bending over him, spoke, but the engineer did not appear to hear, and his eyes remained closed. Life was only exhibited in him by movement, his senses had not as yet been restored.

Pencroft much regretted not having either fire, or the means of procuring it, for he had, unfortunately, forgotten to bring the burnt linen, which would easily have ignited from the sparks produced by striking together two flints. As to the engineer’s pockets, they were entirely empty, except that of his waistcoat, which contained his watch. It was necessary to carry Harding to the Chimneys, and that as soon as possible. This was the opinion of all.

Meanwhile, the care which was lavished on the engineer brought him back to consciousness sooner than they could have expected. The water with which they wetted his lips revived him gradually. Pencroft also thought of mixing with the water some moisture from the titra’s flesh which he had brought. Herbert ran to the beach and returned with two large bivalve shells. The sailor concocted something which he introduced between the lips of the engineer, who eagerly drinking it opened his eyes.

Neb and the reporter were leaning over him.

“My master! my master!” cried Neb.

The engineer heard him. He recognized Neb and Spilett, then his other two companions, and his hand slightly pressed theirs.

A few words again escaped him, which showed what thoughts were, even then, troubling his brain. This time he was understood. Undoubtedly they were the same words he had before attempted to utter.

“Island or continent?” he murmured.

“Bother the continent,” cried Pencroft hastily; “there is time enough to see about that, captain! we don’t care for anything, provided you are living.”

The engineer nodded faintly, and then appeased to sleep.

They respected this sleep, and the reporter began immediately to make arrangements for transporting Harding to a more comfortable place. Neb, Herbert, and Pencroft left the cave and directed their steps towards a high mound crowned with a few distorted trees. On the way the sailor could not help repeating, —

“Island or continent! To think of that, when at one’s last gasp! What a man!”

Arrived at the summit of the mound, Pencroft and his two companions set to work, with no other tools than their hands, to despoil of its principal branches a rather sickly tree, a sort of marine fir; with these branches they made a litter, on which, covered with grass and leaves, they could carry the engineer.

This occupied them nearly forty minutes, and it was ten o’clock when they returned to Cyrus Harding whom Spilett had not left.

The engineer was just awaking from the sleep, or rather from the drowsiness, in which they had found him. The color was returning to his cheeks, which till now had been as pale as death. He raised himself a little, looked around him, and appeared to ask where he was.

“Can you listen to me without fatigue, Cyrus?” asked the reporter.

“Yes,” replied the engineer.

“It’s my opinion,” said the sailor, “that Captain Harding will be able to listen to you still better, if he will have some more grouse jelly, — for we have grouse, captain,” added he, presenting him with a little of this jelly, to which he this time added some of the flesh.

Cyrus Harding ate a little of the grouse, and the rest was divided among his companions, who found it but a meager breakfast, for they were suffering extremely from hunger.

“Well!” said the sailor, “there is plenty of food at the Chimneys, for you must know, captain, that down there, in the south, we have a house, with rooms, beds, and fireplace, and in the pantry, several dozen of birds, which our Herbert calls couroucous. Your litter is ready, and as soon as you feel strong enough we will carry you home.”

“Thanks, my friend,” replied the engineer; “wait another hour or two, and then we will set out. And now speak, Spilett.”

The reporter then told him all that had occurred. He recounted all the events with which Cyrus was unacquainted, the last fall of the balloon, the landing on this unknown land, which appeared a desert (whatever it was, whether island or continent), the discovery of the Chimneys, the search for him, not forgetting of course Neb’s devotion, the intelligence exhibited by the faithful Top, as well as many other matters.

“But,” asked Harding, in a still feeble voice, “you did not, then, pick me up on the beach?”

“No,” replied the reporter.

“And did you not bring me to this cave?”

“No.”

“At what distance is this cave from the sea?”

“About a mile,” replied Pencroft; “and if you are astonished, captain, we are not less surprised ourselves at seeing you in this place!”

“Indeed,” said the engineer, who was recovering gradually, and who took great interest in these details, “indeed it is very singular!”

“But,” resumed the sailor, “can you tell us what happened after you were carried off by the sea?”

Cyrus Harding considered. He knew very little. The wave had torn him from the balloon net. He sank at first several fathoms. On returning to the surface, in the half light, he felt a living creature struggling near him. It was Top, who had sprung to his help. He saw nothing of the balloon, which, lightened both of his weight and that of the dog, had darted away like an arrow.

There he was, in the midst of the angry sea, at a distance which could not be less than half a mile from the shore. He attempted to struggle against the billows by swimming vigorously. Top held him up by his clothes; but a strong current seized him and drove him towards the north, and after half an hour of exertion, he sank, dragging Top with him into the depths. From that moment to the moment in which he recovered to find himself in the arms of his friends he remembered nothing.

“However,” remarked Pencroft, “you must have been thrown on to the beach, and you must have had strength to walk here, since Neb found your footmarks!”

“Yes… of course,” replied the engineer, thoughtfully; “and you found no traces of human beings on this coast?”

“Not a trace,” replied the reporter; “besides, if by chance you had met with some deliverer there, just in the nick of time, why should he have abandoned you after having saved you from the waves?”

“You are right, my dear Spilett. Tell me, Neb,” added the engineer, turning to his servant, “it was not you who… you can’t have had a moment of unconsciousness… during which no, that’s absurd… Do any of the footsteps still remain?” asked Harding.

“Yes, master,” replied Neb; “here, at the entrance, at the back of the mound, in a place sheltered from the rain and wind. The storm has destroyed the others.”

“Pencroft,” said Cyrus Harding, “will you take my shoe and see if it fits exactly to the footprints?”

The sailor did as the engineer requested. While he and Herbert, guided by Neb, went to the place where the footprints were to be found, Cyrus remarked to the reporter, —

“It is a most extraordinary thing!”

“Perfectly inexplicable!” replied Gideon Spilett.

“But do not dwell upon it just now, my dear Spilett, we will talk about it by-and-by.”

A moment after the others entered.

There was no doubt about it. The engineer’s shoe fitted exactly to the footmarks. It was therefore Cyrus Harding who had left them on the sand.

“Come,” said he, “I must have experienced this unconsciousness which I attributed to Neb. I must have walked like a somnambulist, without any knowledge of my steps, and Top must have guided me here, after having dragged me from the waves… Come, Top! Come, old dog!”

The magnificent animal bounded barking to his master, and caresses were lavished on him. It was agreed that there was no other way of accounting for the rescue of Cyrus Harding, and that Top deserved all the honor of the affair.

Towards twelve o’clock, Pencroft having asked the engineer if they could now remove him, Harding, instead of replying, and by an effort which exhibited the most energetic will, got up. But he was obliged to lean on the sailor, or he would have fallen.

“Well done!” cried Pencroft; “bring the captain’s litter.”

The litter was brought; the transverse branches had been covered with leaves and long grass. Harding was laid on it, and Pencroft, having taken his place at one end and Neb at the other, they started towards the coast. There was a distance of eight miles to be accomplished; but, as they could not go fast, and it would perhaps be necessary to stop frequently, they reckoned that it would take at least six hours to reach the Chimneys. The wind was still strong, but fortunately it did not rain. Although lying down, the engineer, leaning on his elbow, observed the coast, particularly inland. He did not speak, but he gazed; and, no doubt, the appearance of the country, with its inequalities of ground, its forests, its various productions, were impressed on his mind. However, after traveling for two hours, fatigue overcame him, and he slept.

At half-past five the little band arrived at the precipice, and a short time after at the Chimneys.

They stopped, and the litter was placed on the sand; Cyrus Harding was sleeping profoundly, and did not awake.

Pencroft, to his extreme surprise, found that the terrible storm had quite altered the aspect of the place. Important changes had occurred; great blocks of stone lay on the beach, which was also covered with a thick carpet of sea-weed, algae, and wrack. Evidently the sea, passing over the islet, had been carried right up to the foot of the enormous curtain of granite. The soil in front of the cave had been torn away by the violence of the waves. A horrid presentiment flashed across Pencroft’s mind. He rushed into the passage, but returned almost immediately, and stood motionless, staring at his companions… The fire was out; the drowned cinders were nothing but mud; the burnt linen, which was to have served as tinder, had disappeared! The sea had penetrated to the end of the passages, and everything was overthrown and destroyed in the interior of the Chimneys!

CHAPTER 9

In a few words, Gideon Spilett, Herbert, and Neb were made acquainted with what had happened. This accident, which appeared so very serious to Pencroft, produced different effects on the companions of the honest sailor.

Neb, in his delight at having found his master, did not listen, or rather, did not care to trouble himself with what Pencroft was saying.

Herbert shared in some degree the sailor’s feelings.

As to the reporter, he simply replied, —

“Upon my word, Pencroft, it’s perfectly indifferent to me!”

“But, I repeat, that we haven’t any fire!”

“Pooh!”

“Nor any means of relighting it!”

“Nonsense!”

“But I say, Mr. Spilett — ”

“Isn’t Cyrus here?” replied the reporter.

“Is not our engineer alive? He will soon find some way of making fire for us!”

“With what?”

“With nothing.”

What had Pencroft to say? He could say nothing, for, in the bottom of his heart he shared the confidence which his companions had in Cyrus Harding. The engineer was to them a microcosm, a compound of every science, a possessor of all human knowledge. It was better to be with Cyrus in a desert island, than without him in the most flourishing town in the United States. With him they could want nothing; with him they would never despair. If these brave men had been told that a volcanic eruption would destroy the land, that this land would be engulfed in the depths of the Pacific, they would have imperturbably replied, —

“Cyrus is here!”

While in the palanquin, however, the engineer had again relapsed into unconsciousness, which the jolting to which he had been subjected during his journey had brought on, so that they could not now appeal to his ingenuity. The supper must necessarily be very meager. In fact, all the grouse flesh had been consumed, and there no longer existed any means of cooking more game. Besides, the couroucous which had been reserved had disappeared. They must consider what was to be done.

First of all, Cyrus Harding was carried into the central passage. There they managed to arrange for him a couch of sea-weed which still remained almost dry. The deep sleep which had overpowered him would no doubt be more beneficial to him than any nourishment.

Night had closed in, and the temperature, which had modified when the wind shifted to the northwest, again became extremely cold. Also, the sea having destroyed the partitions which Pencroft had put up in certain places in the passages, the Chimneys, on account of the draughts, had become scarcely habitable. The engineer’s condition would, therefore, have been bad enough, if his companions had not carefully covered him with their coats and waistcoats.

Supper, this evening, was of course composed of the inevitable lithodomes, of which Herbert and Neb picked up a plentiful supply on the beach. However, to these molluscs, the lad added some edible sea-weed, which he gathered on high rocks, whose sides were only washed by the sea at the time of high tides. This sea-weed, which belongs to the order of Fucacae, of the genus Sargassum, produces, when dry, a gelatinous matter, rich and nutritious. The reporter and his companions, after having eaten a quantity of lithodomes, sucked the sargassum, of which the taste was very tolerable. It is used in parts of the East very considerably by the natives. “Never mind!” said the sailor, “the captain will help us soon.” Meanwhile the cold became very severe, and unhappily they had no means of defending themselves from it.

The sailor, extremely vexed, tried in all sorts of ways to procure fire. Neb helped him in this work. He found some dry moss, and by striking together two pebbles he obtained some sparks, but the moss, not being inflammable enough, did not take fire, for the sparks were really only incandescent, and not at all of the same consistency as those which are emitted from flint when struck in the same manner. The experiment, therefore, did not succeed.

Pencroft, although he had no confidence in the proceeding, then tried rubbing two pieces of dry wood together, as savages do. Certainly, the movement which he and Neb exhibited, if it had been transformed into heat, according to the new theory, would have been enough to heat the boiler of a steamer! It came to nothing. The bits of wood became hot, to be sure, but much less so than the operators themselves.

After working an hour, Pencroft, who was in a complete state of perspiration, threw down the pieces of wood in disgust.

“I can never be made to believe that savages light their fires in this way, let them say what they will,” he exclaimed. “I could sooner light my arms by rubbing them against each other!”

The sailor was wrong to despise the proceeding. Savages often kindle wood by means of rapid rubbing. But every sort of wood does not answer for the purpose, and besides, there is “the knack,” following the usual expression, and it is probable that Pencroft had not “the knack.”

Pencroft’s ill humor did not last long. Herbert had taken the bits of wood which he had turned down, and was exerting himself to rub them. The hardy sailor could not restrain a burst of laughter on seeing the efforts of the lad to succeed where he had failed.

“Rub, my boy, rub!” said he.

“I am rubbing,” replied Herbert, laughing, “but I don’t pretend to do anything else but warm myself instead of shivering, and soon I shall be as hot as you are, my good Pencroft!”

This soon happened. However, they were obliged to give up, for this night at least, the attempt to procure fire. Gideon Spilett repeated, for the twentieth time, that Cyrus Harding would not have been troubled for so small a difficulty. And, in the meantime, he stretched himself in one of the passages on his bed of sand. Herbert, Neb, and Pencroft did the same, while Top slept at his master’s feet.

Next day, the 28th of March, when the engineer awoke, about eight in the morning, he saw his companions around him watching his sleep, and, as on the day before, his first words were: —

“Island or continent?” This was his uppermost thought.

“Well!” replied Pencroft, “we don’t know anything about it, captain!”

“You don’t know yet?”

“But we shall know,” rejoined Pencroft, “when you have guided us into the country.”

“I think I am able to try it,” replied the engineer, who, without much effort, rose and stood upright.

“That’s capital!” cried the sailor.

“I feel dreadfully weak,” replied Harding. “Give me something to eat, my friends, and it will soon go off. You have fire, haven’t you?”

This question was not immediately replied to. But, in a few seconds —

“Alas! we have no fire,” said Pencroft, “or rather, captain, we have it no longer!”

And the sailor recounted all that had passed the day before. He amused the engineer by the history of the single match, then his abortive attempt to procure fire in the savages’ way.

“We shall consider,” replied the engineer, “and if we do not find some substance similar to tinder — ”

“Well?” asked the sailor.

“Well, we will make matches.

“Chemicals?”

“Chemicals!”

“It is not more difficult than that,” cried the reporter, striking the sailor on the shoulder.

The latter did not think it so simple, but he did not protest. All went out. The weather had become very fine. The sun was rising from the sea’s horizon, and touched with golden spangles the prismatic rugosities of the huge precipice.

Having thrown a rapid glance around him, the engineer seated himself on a block of stone. Herbert offered him a few handfuls of shell-fish and sargassum, saying, —

“It is all that we have, Captain Harding.”

“Thanks, my boy,” replied Harding; “it will do — for this morning at least.”

He ate the wretched food with appetite, and washed it down with a little fresh water, drawn from the river in an immense shell.

His companions looked at him without speaking. Then, feeling somewhat refreshed, Cyrus Harding crossed his arms, and said, —

“So, my friends, you do not know yet whether fate has thrown us on an island, or on a continent?”

“No, captain,” replied the boy.

“We shall know to-morrow,” said the engineer; “till then, there is nothing to be done.”

“Yes,” replied Pencroft.

“What?”

“Fire,” said the sailor, who, also, had a fixed idea.

“We will make it, Pencroft,” replied Harding.

“While you were carrying me yesterday, did I not see in the west a mountain which commands the country?”

“Yes,” replied Spilett, “a mountain which must be rather high — ”

“Well,” replied the engineer, “we will climb to the summit to-morrow, and then we shall see if this land is an island or a continent. Till then, I repeat, there is nothing to be done.”

“Yes, fire!” said the obstinate sailor again.

“But he will make us a fire!” replied Gideon Spilett, “only have a little patience, Pencroft!”

The seaman looked at Spilett in a way which seemed to say, “If it depended upon you to do it, we wouldn’t taste roast meat very soon”; but he was silent.

Meanwhile Captain Harding had made no reply. He appeared to be very little troubled by the question of fire. For a few minutes he remained absorbed in thought; then again speaking, —

“My friends,” said he, “our situation is, perhaps, deplorable; but, at any rate, it is very plain. Either we are on a continent, and then, at the expense of greater or less fatigue, we shall reach some inhabited place, or we are on an island. In the latter case, if the island is inhabited, we will try to get out of the scrape with the help of its inhabitants; if it is desert, we will try to get out of the scrape by ourselves.”

“Certainly, nothing could be plainer,” replied Pencroft.

“But, whether it is an island or a continent,” asked Gideon Spilett, “whereabouts do you think, Cyrus, this storm has thrown us?”

“I cannot say exactly,” replied the engineer, “but I presume it is some land in the Pacific. In fact, when we left Richmond, the wind was blowing from the northeast, and its very violence greatly proves that it could not have varied. If the direction has been maintained from the northeast to the southwest, we have traversed the States of North Carolina, of South Carolina, of Georgia, the Gulf of Mexico, Mexico, itself, in its narrow part, then a part of the Pacific Ocean. I cannot estimate the distance traversed by the balloon at less than six to seven thousand miles, and, even supposing that the wind had varied half a quarter, it must have brought us either to the archipelago of Mendava, either on the Pomotous, or even, if it had a greater strength than I suppose, to the land of New Zealand. If the last hypothesis is correct, it will be easy enough to get home again. English or Maoris, we shall always find some one to whom we can speak. If, on the contrary, this is the coast of a desert island in some tiny archipelago, perhaps we shall be able to reconnoiter it from the summit of that peak which overlooks the country, and then we shall see how best to establish ourselves here as if we are never to go away.”

“Never?” cried the reporter. “You say ‘Never,’ my dear Cyrus?”

“Better to put things at the worst at first,” replied the engineer, “and reserve the best for a surprise.”

“Well said,” remarked Pencroft. “It is to be hoped, too, that this island, if it be one, is not situated just out of the course of ships; that would be really unlucky!”

“We shall not know what we have to rely on until we have first made the ascent of the mountain,” replied the engineer.

“But to-morrow, captain,” asked Herbert, “shall you be in a state to bear the fatigue of the ascent?”

“I hope so,” replied the engineer, “provided you and Pencroft, my boy, show yourselves quick and clever hunters.”

“Captain,” said the sailor, “since you are speaking of game, if on my return, I was as certain of roasting it as I am of bringing it back — ”

“Bring it back all the same, Pencroft,” replied Harding.

It was then agreed that the engineer and the reporter were to pass the day at the Chimneys, so as to examine the shore and the upper plateau. Neb, Herbert, and the sailor were to return to the forest, renew their store of wood, and lay violent hands on every creature, feathered or hairy, which might come within their reach.

They set out accordingly about ten o’clock in the morning, Herbert confident, Neb joyous, Pencroft murmuring aside, —

“If, on my return, I find a fire at the house, I shall believe that the thunder itself came to light it.” All three climbed the bank; and arrived at the angle made by the river, the sailor, stopping, said to his two companions, —

“Shall we begin by being hunters or wood-men?”

“Hunters,” replied Herbert. “There is Top already in quest.”

“We will hunt, then,” said the sailor, “and afterwards we can come back and collect our wood.”

This agreed to, Herbert, Neb, and Pencroft, after having torn three sticks from the trunk of a young fir, followed Top, who was bounding about among the long grass.

This time, the hunters, instead of following the course of the river, plunged straight into the heart of the forest. There were still the same trees, belonging, for the most part, to the pine family. In certain places, less crowded, growing in clumps, these pines exhibited considerable dimensions, and appeared to indicate, by their development, that the country was situated in a higher latitude than the engineer had supposed. Glades, bristling with stumps worn away by time, were covered with dry wood, which formed an inexhaustible store of fuel. Then, the glade passed, the underwood thickened again, and became almost impenetrable.

It was difficult enough to find the way among the groups of trees, without any beaten track. So the sailor from time to time broke off branches which might be easily recognized. But, perhaps, he was wrong not to follow the watercourse, as he and Herbert had done on their first excursion, for after walking an hour not a creature had shown itself. Top, running under the branches, only roused birds which could not be approached. Even the couroucous were invisible, and it was probable that the sailor would be obliged to return to the marshy part of the forest, in which he had so happily performed his grouse fishing.

“Well, Pencroft,” said Neb, in a slightly sarcastic tone, “if this is all the game which you promised to bring back to my master, it won’t need a large fire to roast it!”

“Have patience,” replied the sailor, “it isn’t the game which will be wanting on our return.”

“Have you not confidence in Captain Harding?”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t believe that he will make fire?”

“I shall believe it when the wood is blazing in the fireplace.”

“It will blaze, since my master has said so.”

“We shall see!”

Meanwhile, the sun had not reached the highest point in its course above the horizon. The exploration, therefore, continued, and was usefully marked by a discovery which Herbert made of a tree whose fruit was edible. This was the stone-pine, which produces an excellent almond, very much esteemed in the temperate regions of America and Europe. These almonds were in a perfect state of maturity, and Herbert described them to his companions, who feasted on them.

“Come,” said Pencroft, “sea-weed by way of bread, raw mussels for meat, and almonds for dessert, that’s certainly a good dinner for those who have not a single match in their pocket!”

“We mustn’t complain,” said Herbert.

“I am not complaining, my boy,” replied Pencroft, “only I repeat, that meat is a little too much economized in this sort of meal.”

“Top has found something!” cried Neb, who ran towards a thicket, in the midst of which the dog had disappeared, barking. With Top’s barking were mingled curious gruntings.

The sailor and Herbert had followed Neb. If there was game there this was not the time to discuss how it was to be cooked, but rather, how they were to get hold of it.

The hunters had scarcely entered the bushes when they saw Top engaged in a struggle with an animal which he was holding by the ear. This quadruped was a sort of pig nearly two feet and a half long, of a blackish brown color, lighter below, having hard scanty hair; its toes, then strongly fixed in the ground, seemed to be united by a membrane. Herbert recognized in this animal the capybara, that is to say, one of the largest members of the rodent order.

Meanwhile, the capybara did not struggle against the dog. It stupidly rolled its eyes, deeply buried in a thick bed of fat. Perhaps it saw men for the first time.

However, Neb having tightened his grasp on his stick, was just going to fell the pig, when the latter, tearing itself from Top’s teeth, by which it was only held by the tip of its ear, uttered a vigorous grunt, rushed upon Herbert, almost overthrew him, and disappeared in the wood.

“The rascal!” cried Pencroft.

All three directly darted after Top, but at the moment when they joined him the animal had disappeared under the waters of a large pond shaded by venerable pines.

Neb, Herbert, and Pencroft stopped, motionless. Top plunged into the water, but the capybara, hidden at the bottom of the pond, did not appear.

“Let us wait,” said the boy, “for he will soon come to the surface to breathe.”

“Won’t he drown?” asked Neb.

“No,” replied Herbert, “since he has webbed feet, and is almost an amphibious animal. But watch him.”

Top remained in the water. Pencroft and his two companions went to different parts of the bank, so as to cut off the retreat of the capybara, which the dog was looking for beneath the water.

Herbert was not mistaken. In a few minutes the animal appeared on the surface of the water. Top was upon it in a bound, and kept it from plunging again. An instant later the capybara, dragged to the bank, was killed by a blow from Neb’s stick.

“Hurrah!” cried Pencroft, who was always ready with this cry of triumph.

“Give me but a good fire, and this pig shall be gnawed to the bones!”

Pencroft hoisted the capybara on his shoulders, and judging by the height of the sun that it was about two o’clock, he gave the signal to return.

Top’s instinct was useful to the hunters, who, thanks to the intelligent animal, were enabled to discover the road by which they had come. Half an hour later they arrived at the river.

Pencroft soon made a raft of wood, as he had done before, though if there was no fire it would be a useless task, and the raft following the current, they returned towards the Chimneys.

But the sailor had not gone fifty paces when he stopped, and again uttering a tremendous hurrah, pointed towards the angle of the cliff, —

“Herbert! Neb! Look!” he shouted.

Smoke was escaping and curling up among the rocks.

CHAPTER 10

In a few minutes the three hunters were before a crackling fire. The captain and the reporter were there. Pencroft looked from one to the other, his capybara in his hand, without saying a word.

“Well, yes, my brave fellow,” cried the reporter.

“Fire, real fire, which will roast this splendid pig perfectly, and we will have a feast presently!”

“But who lighted it?” asked Pencroft.

“The sun!”

Gideon Spilett was quite right in his reply. It was the sun which had furnished the heat which so astonished Pencroft. The sailor could scarcely believe his eyes, and he was so amazed that he did not think of questioning the engineer.

“Had you a burning-glass, sir?” asked Herbert of Harding.

“No, my boy,” replied he, “but I made one.”

And he showed the apparatus which served for a burning-glass. It was simply two glasses which he had taken from his own and the reporter’s watches. Having filled them with water and rendered their edges adhesive by means of a little clay, he thus fabricated a regular burning-glass, which, concentrating the solar rays on some very dry moss, soon caused it to blaze.

The sailor considered the apparatus; then he gazed at the engineer without saying a word, only a look plainly expressed his opinion that if Cyrus Harding was not a magician, he was certainly no ordinary man. At last speech returned to him, and he cried, —

“Note that, Mr. Spilett, note that down on your paper!”

“It is noted,” replied the reporter.

Then, Neb helping him, the seaman arranged the spit, and the capybara, properly cleaned, was soon roasting like a suckling-pig before a clear, crackling fire.

The Chimneys had again become more habitable, not only because the passages were warmed by the fire, but because the partitions of wood and mud had been re-established.

It was evident that the engineer and his companions had employed their day well. Cyrus Harding had almost entirely recovered his strength, and had proved it by climbing to the upper plateau. From this point his eye, accustomed to estimate heights and distances, was fixed for a long time on the cone, the summit of which he wished to reach the next day. The mountain, situated about six miles to the northwest, appeared to him to measure 3,500 feet above the level of the sea. Consequently the gaze of an observer posted on its summit would extend over a radius of at least fifty miles. Therefore it was probable that Harding could easily solve the question of “island or continent,” to which he attached so much importance.

They supped capitally. The flesh of the capybara was declared excellent. The sargassum and the almonds of the stone-pine completed the repast, during which the engineer spoke little. He was preoccupied with projects for the next day.

Once or twice Pencroft gave forth some ideas upon what it would be best to do; but Cyrus Harding, who was evidently of a methodical mind, only shook his head without uttering a word.

“To-morrow,” he repeated, “we shall know what we have to depend upon, and we will act accordingly.”

The meal ended, fresh armfuls of wood were thrown on the fire, and the inhabitants of the Chimneys, including the faithful Top, were soon buried in a deep sleep.

No incident disturbed this peaceful night, and the next day, the 29th of March, fresh and active they awoke, ready to undertake the excursion which must determine their fate.

All was ready for the start. The remains of the capybara would be enough to sustain Harding and his companions for at least twenty-four hours.

Besides, they hoped to find more food on the way. As the glasses had been returned to the watches of the engineer and reporter, Pencroft burned a little linen to serve as tinder. As to flint, that would not be wanting in these regions of Plutonic origin. It was half-past seven in the morning when the explorers, armed with sticks, left the Chimneys. Following Pencroft’s advice, it appeared best to take the road already traversed through the forest, and to return by another route. It was also the most direct way to reach the mountain. They turned the south angle and followed the left bank of the river, which was abandoned at the point where it formed an elbow towards the southwest. The path, already trodden under the evergreen trees, was found, and at nine o’clock Cyrus Harding and his companions had reached the western border of the forest. The ground, till then, very little undulated, boggy at first, dry and sandy afterwards, had a gentle slope, which ascended from the shore towards the interior of the country. A few very timid animals were seen under the forest-trees. Top quickly started them, but his master soon called him back, for the time had not come to commence hunting; that would be attended to later. The engineer was not a man who would allow himself to be diverted from his fixed idea. It might even have been said that he did not observe the country at all, either in its configuration or in its natural productions, his great aim being to climb the mountain before him, and therefore straight towards it he went. At ten o’clock a halt of a few minutes was made. On leaving the forest, the mountain system of the country appeared before the explorers. The mountain was composed of two cones; the first, truncated at a height of about two thousand five hundred feet, was sustained by buttresses, which appeared to branch out like the talons of an immense claw set on the ground. Between these were narrow valleys, bristling with trees, the last clumps of which rose to the top of the lowest cone. There appeared to be less vegetation on that side of the mountain which was exposed to the northeast, and deep fissures could be seen which, no doubt, were watercourses.

On the first cone rested a second, slightly rounded, and placed a little on one side, like a great round hat cocked over the ear. A Scotchman would have said, “His bonnet was a thocht ajee.” It appeared formed of bare earth, here and there pierced by reddish rocks.

They wished to reach the second cone, and proceeding along the ridge of the spurs seemed to be the best way by which to gain it.

“We are on volcanic ground,” Cyrus Harding had said, and his companions following him began to ascend by degrees on the back of a spur, which, by a winding and consequently more accessible path, joined the first plateau.

The ground had evidently been convulsed by subterranean force. Here and there stray blocks, numerous debris of basalt and pumice-stone, were met with. In isolated groups rose fir-trees, which, some hundred feet lower, at the bottom of the narrow gorges, formed massive shades almost impenetrable to the sun’s rays.

During the first part of the ascent, Herbert remarked on the footprints which indicated the recent passage of large animals.

“Perhaps these beasts will not let us pass by willingly,” said Pencroft.

“Well,” replied the reporter, who had already hunted the tiger in India, and the lion in Africa, “we shall soon learn how successfully to encounter them. But in the meantime we must be upon our guard!”

They ascended but slowly.

The distance, increased by detours and obstacles which could not be surmounted directly, was long. Sometimes, too, the ground suddenly fell, and they found themselves on the edge of a deep chasm which they had to go round. Thus, in retracing their steps so as to find some practicable path, much time was employed and fatigue undergone for nothing. At twelve o’clock, when the small band of adventurers halted for breakfast at the foot of a large group of firs, near a little stream which fell in cascades, they found themselves still half way from the first plateau, which most probably they would not reach till nightfall. From this point the view of the sea was much extended, but on the right the high promontory prevented their seeing whether there was land beyond it. On the left, the sight extended several miles to the north; but, on the northwest, at the point occupied by the explorers, it was cut short by the ridge of a fantastically-shaped spur, which formed a powerful support of the central cone.

At one o’clock the ascent was continued. They slanted more towards the southwest and again entered among thick bushes. There under the shade of the trees fluttered several couples of gallinaceae belonging to the pheasant species. They were tragopans, ornamented by a pendant skin which hangs over their throats, and by two small, round horns, planted behind the eyes. Among these birds, which were about the size of a fowl, the female was uniformly brown, while the male was gorgeous in his red plumage, decorated with white spots. Gideon Spilett, with a stone cleverly and vigorously thrown, killed one of these tragopans, on which Pencroft, made hungry by the fresh air, had cast greedy eyes.

After leaving the region of bushes, the party, assisted by resting on each other’s shoulders, climbed for about a hundred feet up a steep acclivity and reached a level place, with very few trees, where the soil appeared volcanic. It was necessary to ascend by zigzags to make the slope more easy, for it was very steep, and the footing being exceedingly precarious required the greatest caution. Neb and Herbert took the lead, Pencroft the rear, the captain and the reporter between them. The animals which frequented these heights — and there were numerous traces of them — must necessarily belong to those races of sure foot and supple spine, chamois or goat. Several were seen, but this was not the name Pencroft gave them, for all of a sudden — “Sheep!” he shouted.

All stopped about fifty feet from half-a-dozen animals of a large size, with strong horns bent back and flattened towards the point, with a woolly fleece, hidden under long silky hair of a tawny color.

They were not ordinary sheep, but a species usually found in the mountainous regions of the temperate zone, to which Herbert gave the name of the musmon.

“Have they legs and chops?” asked the sailor.

“Yes,” replied Herbert.

“Well, then, they are sheep!” said Pencroft.

The animals, motionless among the blocks of basalt, gazed with an astonished eye, as if they saw human bipeds for the first time. Then their fears suddenly aroused, they disappeared, bounding over the rocks.

“Good-bye, till we meet again,” cried Pencroft, as he watched them, in such a comical tone that Cyrus Harding, Gideon Spilett, Herbert, and Neb could not help laughing.

The ascent was continued. Here and there were traces of lava. Sulphur springs sometimes stopped their way, and they had to go round them. In some places the sulphur had formed crystals among other substances, such as whitish cinders made of an infinity of little feldspar crystals.

In approaching the first plateau formed by the truncating of the lower cone, the difficulties of the ascent were very great. Towards four o’clock the extreme zone of the trees had been passed. There only remained here and there a few twisted, stunted pines, which must have had a hard life in resisting at this altitude the high winds from the open sea. Happily for the engineer and his companions the weather was beautiful, the atmosphere tranquil; for a high breeze at an elevation of three thousand feet would have hindered their proceedings. The purity of the sky at the zenith was felt through the transparent air. A perfect calm reigned around them. They could not see the sun, then hid by the vast screen of the upper cone, which masked the half-horizon of the west, and whose enormous shadow stretching to the shore increased as the radiant luminary sank in its diurnal course. Vapor — mist rather than clouds — began to appear in the east, and assume all the prismatic colors under the influence of the solar rays.

Five hundred feet only separated the explorers from the plateau, which they wished to reach so as to establish there an encampment for the night, but these five hundred feet were increased to more than two miles by the zigzags which they had to describe. The soil, as it were, slid under their feet.

The slope often presented such an angle that they slipped when the stones worn by the air did not give a sufficient support. Evening came on by degrees, and it was almost night when Cyrus Harding and his companions, much fatigued by an ascent of seven hours, arrived at the plateau of the first cone. It was then necessary to prepare an encampment, and to restore their strength by eating first and sleeping afterwards. This second stage of the mountain rose on a base of rocks, among which it would be easy to find a retreat. Fuel was not abundant. However, a fire could be made by means of the moss and dry brushwood, which covered certain parts of the plateau. While the sailor was preparing his hearth with stones which he put to this use, Neb and Herbert occupied themselves with getting a supply of fuel. They soon returned with a load of brushwood. The steel was struck, the burnt linen caught the sparks of flint, and, under Neb’s breath, a crackling fire showed itself in a few minutes under the shelter of the rocks. Their object in lighting a fire was only to enable them to withstand the cold temperature of the night, as it was not employed in cooking the bird, which Neb kept for the next day. The remains of the capybara and some dozens of the stone-pine almonds formed their supper. It was not half-past six when all was finished.

Cyrus Harding then thought of exploring in the half-light the large circular layer which supported the upper cone of the mountain. Before taking any rest, he wished to know if it was possible to get round the base of the cone in the case of its sides being too steep and its summit being inaccessible. This question preoccupied him, for it was possible that from the way the hat inclined, that is to say, towards the north, the plateau was not practicable. Also, if the summit of the mountain could not be reached on one side, and if, on the other, they could not get round the base of the cone, it would be impossible to survey the western part of the country, and their object in making the ascent would in part be altogether unattained.

The engineer, accordingly, regardless of fatigue, leaving Pencroft and Neb to arrange the beds, and Gideon Spilett to note the incidents of the day, began to follow the edge of the plateau, going towards the north. Herbert accompanied him.

The night was beautiful and still, the darkness was not yet deep. Cyrus Harding and the boy walked near each other, without speaking. In some places the plateau opened before them, and they passed without hindrance. In others, obstructed by rocks, there was only a narrow path, in which two persons could not walk abreast. After a walk of twenty minutes, Cyrus Harding and Herbert were obliged to stop. From this point the slope of the two cones became one. No shoulder here separated the two parts of the mountain. The slope, being inclined almost seventy degrees, the path became impracticable.

But if the engineer and the boy were obliged to give up thoughts of following a circular direction, in return an opportunity was given for ascending the cone.

In fact, before them opened a deep hollow. It was the rugged mouth of the crater, by which the eruptive liquid matter had escaped at the periods when the volcano was still in activity. Hardened lava and crusted scoria formed a sort of natural staircase of large steps, which would greatly facilitate the ascent to the summit of the mountain.

Harding took all this in at a glance, and without hesitating, followed by the lad, he entered the enormous chasm in the midst of an increasing obscurity.

There was still a height of a thousand feet to overcome. Would the interior acclivities of the crater be practicable? It would soon be seen. The persevering engineer resolved to continue his ascent until he was stopped. Happily these acclivities wound up the interior of the volcano and favored their ascent.

As to the volcano itself, it could not be doubted that it was completely extinct. No smoke escaped from its sides; not a flame could be seen in the dark hollows; not a roar, not a mutter, no trembling even issued from this black well, which perhaps reached far into the bowels of the earth. The atmosphere inside the crater was filled with no sulphurous vapor. It was more than the sleep of a volcano; it was its complete extinction. Cyrus Harding’s attempt would succeed.

Little by little, Herbert and he climbing up the sides of the interior, saw the crater widen above their heads. The radius of this circular portion of the sky, framed by the edge of the cone, increased obviously. At each step, as it were, that the explorers made, fresh stars entered the field of their vision. The magnificent constellations of the southern sky shone resplendently. At the zenith glittered the splendid Antares in the Scorpion, and not far was Alpha Centauri, which is believed to be the nearest star to the terrestrial globe. Then, as the crater widened, appeared Fomalhaut of the Fish, the Southern Triangle, and lastly, nearly at the Antarctic Pole, the glittering Southern Cross, which replaces the Polar Star of the Northern Hemisphere.

It was nearly eight o’clock when Cyrus Harding and Herbert set foot on the highest ridge of the mountain at the summit of the cone.

It was then perfectly dark, and their gaze could not extend over a radius of two miles. Did the sea surround this unknown land, or was it connected in the west with some continent of the Pacific? It could not yet be made out. Towards the west, a cloudy belt, clearly visible at the horizon, increased the gloom, and the eye could not discover if the sky and water were blended together in the same circular line.

But at one point of the horizon a vague light suddenly appeared, which descended slowly in proportion as the cloud mounted to the zenith.

It was the slender crescent moon, already almost disappearing; but its light was sufficient to show clearly the horizontal line, then detached from the cloud, and the engineer could see its reflection trembling for an instant on a liquid surface. Cyrus Harding seized the lad’s hand, and in a grave voice, —

“An island!” said he, at the moment when the lunar crescent disappeared beneath the waves.

CHAPTER 11

Half an hour later Cyrus Harding and Herbert had returned to the encampment. The engineer merely told his companions that the land upon which fate had thrown them was an island, and that the next day they would consult. Then each settled himself as well as he could to sleep, and in that rocky hole, at a height of two thousand five hundred feet above the level of the sea, through a peaceful night, the islanders enjoyed profound repose.

The next day, the 30th of March, after a hasty breakfast, which consisted solely of the roasted tragopan, the engineer wished to climb again to the summit of the volcano, so as more attentively to survey the island upon which he and his companions were imprisoned for life perhaps, should the island be situated at a great distance from any land, or if it was out of the course of vessels which visited the archipelagoes of the Pacific Ocean. This time his companions followed him in the new exploration. They also wished to see the island, on the productions of which they must depend for the supply of all their wants.

It was about seven o’clock in the morning when Cyrus Harding, Herbert, Pencroft, Gideon Spilett, and Neb quitted the encampment. No one appeared to be anxious about their situation. They had faith in themselves, doubtless, but it must be observed that the basis of this faith was not the same with Harding as with his companions. The engineer had confidence, because he felt capable of extorting from this wild country everything necessary for the life of himself and his companions; the latter feared nothing, just because Cyrus Harding was with them. Pencroft especially, since the incident of the relighted fire, would not have despaired for an instant, even if he was on a bare rock, if the engineer was with him on the rock.

“Pshaw,” said he, “we left Richmond without permission from the authorities! It will be hard if we don’t manage to get away some day or other from a place where certainly no one will detain us!”

Cyrus Harding followed the same road as the evening before. They went round the cone by the plateau which formed the shoulder, to the mouth of the enormous chasm. The weather was magnificent. The sun rose in a pure sky and flooded with his rays all the eastern side of the mountain.

The crater was reached. It was just what the engineer had made it out to be in the dark; that is to say, a vast funnel which extended, widening, to a height of a thousand feet above the plateau. Below the chasm, large thick streaks of lava wound over the sides of the mountain, and thus marked the course of the eruptive matter to the lower valleys which furrowed the northern part of the island.

The interior of the crater, whose inclination did not exceed thirty five to forty degrees, presented no difficulties nor obstacles to the ascent. Traces of very ancient lava were noticed, which probably had overflowed the summit of the cone, before this lateral chasm had opened a new way to it.

As to the volcanic chimney which established a communication between the subterranean layers and the crater, its depth could not be calculated with the eye, for it was lost in obscurity. But there was no doubt as to the complete extinction of the volcano.

Before eight o’clock Harding and his companions were assembled at the summit of the crater, on a conical mound which swelled the northern edge.

“The sea, the sea everywhere!” they cried, as if their lips could not restrain the words which made islanders of them.

The sea, indeed, formed an immense circular sheet of water all around them! Perhaps, on climbing again to the summit of the cone, Cyrus Harding had had a hope of discovering some coast, some island shore, which he had not been able to perceive in the dark the evening before. But nothing appeared on the farthest verge of the horizon, that is to say over a radius of more than fifty miles. No land in sight. Not a sail. Over all this immense space the ocean alone was visible — the island occupied the center of a circumference which appeared to be infinite.

The engineer and his companions, mute and motionless, surveyed for some minutes every point of the ocean, examining it to its most extreme limits. Even Pencroft, who possessed a marvelous power of sight, saw nothing; and certainly if there had been land at the horizon, if it appeared only as an indistinct vapor, the sailor would undoubtedly have found it out, for nature had placed regular telescopes under his eyebrows.

From the ocean their gaze returned to the island which they commanded entirely, and the first question was put by Gideon Spilett in these terms:

“About what size is this island?”

Truly, it did not appear large in the midst of the immense ocean.

Cyrus Harding reflected a few minutes; he attentively observed the perimeter of the island, taking into consideration the height at which he was placed; then, —

“My friends,” said he, “I do not think I am mistaken in giving to the shore of the island a circumference of more than a hundred miles.”

“And consequently an area?”

“That is difficult to estimate,” replied the engineer, “for it is so uneven.”

If Cyrus Harding was not mistaken in his calculation, the island had almost the extent of Malta or Zante, in the Mediterranean, but it was at the same time much more irregular and less rich in capes, promontories, points, bays, or creeks. Its strange form caught the eye, and when Gideon Spilett, on the engineer’s advice, had drawn the outline, they found that it resembled some fantastic animal, a monstrous leviathan, which lay sleeping on the surface of the Pacific.

This was in fact the exact shape of the island, which it is of consequence to know, and a tolerably correct map of it was immediately drawn by the reporter.

The east part of the shore, where the castaways had landed, formed a wide bay, terminated by a sharp cape, which had been concealed by a high point from Pencroft on his first exploration. At the northeast two other capes closed the bay, and between them ran a narrow gulf, which looked like the half-open jaws of a formidable dog-fish.

From the northeast to the southwest the coast was rounded, like the flattened cranium of an animal, rising again, forming a sort of protuberance which did not give any particular shape to this part of the island, of which the center was occupied by the volcano.

From this point the shore ran pretty regularly north and south, broken at two-thirds of its perimeter by a narrow creek, from which it ended in a long tail, similar to the caudal appendage of a gigantic alligator.

This tail formed a regular peninsula, which stretched more than thirty miles into the sea, reckoning from the cape southeast of the island, already mentioned; it curled round, making an open roadstead, which marked out the lower shore of this strangely-formed land.

At the narrowest part, that is to say between the Chimneys and the creek on the western shore, which corresponded to it in latitude, the island only measured ten miles; but its greatest length, from the jaws at the northeast to the extremity of the tail of the southwest, was not less than thirty miles.

As to the interior of the island, its general aspect was this, very woody throughout the southern part from the mountain to the shore, and arid and sandy in the northern part. Between the volcano and the east coast Cyrus Harding and his companions were surprised to see a lake, bordered with green trees, the existence of which they had not suspected. Seen from this height, the lake appeared to be on the same level as the ocean, but, on reflection, the engineer explained to his companions that the altitude of this little sheet of water must be about three hundred feet, because the plateau, which was its basin, was but a prolongation of the coast.

“Is it a freshwater lake?” asked Pencroft.

“Certainly,” replied the engineer, “for it must be fed by the water which flows from the mountain.”

“I see a little river which runs into it,” said Herbert, pointing out a narrow stream, which evidently took its source somewhere in the west.

“Yes,” said Harding; “and since this stream feeds the lake, most probably on the side near the sea there is an outlet by which the surplus water escapes. We shall see that on our return.”

This little winding watercourse and the river already mentioned constituted the water-system, at least such as it was displayed to the eyes of the explorers. However, it was possible that under the masses of trees which covered two-thirds of the island, forming an immense forest, other rivers ran towards the sea. It might even be inferred that such was the case, so rich did this region appear in the most magnificent specimens of the flora of the temperate zones. There was no indication of running water in the north, though perhaps there might be stagnant water among the marshes in the northeast; but that was all, in addition to the downs, sand, and aridity which contrasted so strongly with the luxuriant vegetation of the rest of the island.

The volcano did not occupy the central part; it rose, on the contrary, in the northwestern region, and seemed to mark the boundary of the two zones. At the southwest, at the south, and the southeast, the first part of the spurs were hidden under masses of verdure. At the north, on the contrary, one could follow their ramifications, which died away on the sandy plains. It was on this side that, at the time when the mountain was in a state of eruption, the discharge had worn away a passage, and a large heap of lava had spread to the narrow jaw which formed the northeastern gulf.

Cyrus Harding and his companions remained an hour at the top of the mountain. The island was displayed under their eyes, like a plan in relief with different tints, green for the forests, yellow for the sand, blue for the water. They viewed it in its tout-ensemble, nothing remained concealed but the ground hidden by verdure, the hollows of the valleys, and the interior of the volcanic chasms.

One important question remained to be solved, and the answer would have a great effect upon the future of the castaways.

Was the island inhabited?

It was the reporter who put this question, to which after the close examination they had just made, the answer seemed to be in the negative.

Nowhere could the work of a human hand be perceived. Not a group of huts, not a solitary cabin, not a fishery on the shore. No smoke curling in the air betrayed the presence of man. It is true, a distance of nearly thirty miles separated the observers from the extreme points, that is, of the tail which extended to the southwest, and it would have been difficult, even to Pencroft’s eyes, to discover a habitation there. Neither could the curtain of verdure, which covered three-quarters of the island, be raised to see if it did not shelter some straggling village. But in general the islanders live on the shores of the narrow spaces which emerge above the waters of the Pacific, and this shore appeared to be an absolute desert.

Until a more complete exploration, it might be admitted that the island was uninhabited. But was it frequented, at least occasionally, by the natives of neighboring islands? It was difficult to reply to this question. No land appeared within a radius of fifty miles. But fifty miles could be easily crossed, either by Malay proas or by the large Polynesian canoes. Everything depended on the position of the island, of its isolation in the Pacific, or of its proximity to archipelagoes. Would Cyrus Harding be able to find out their latitude and longitude without instruments? It would be difficult. Since he was in doubt, it was best to take precautions against a possible descent of neighboring natives.

The exploration of the island was finished, its shape determined, its features made out, its extent calculated, the water and mountain systems ascertained. The disposition of the forests and plains had been marked in a general way on the reporter’s plan. They had now only to descend the mountain slopes again, and explore the soil, in the triple point of view, of its mineral, vegetable, and animal resources.

But before giving his companions the signal for departure, Cyrus Harding said to them in a calm, grave voice, —

“Here, my friends, is the small corner of land upon which the hand of the Almighty has thrown us. We are going to live here; a long time, perhaps. Perhaps, too, unexpected help will arrive, if some ship passes by chance. I say by chance, because this is an unimportant island; there is not even a port in which ships could anchor, and it is to be feared that it is situated out of the route usually followed, that is to say, too much to the south for the ships which frequent the archipelagoes of the Pacific, and too much to the north for those which go to Australia by doubling Cape Horn. I wish to hide nothing of our position from you — ”

“And you are right, my dear Cyrus,” replied the reporter, with animation. “You have to deal with men. They have confidence in you, and you can depend upon them. Is it not so, my friends?”

“I will obey you in everything, captain,” said Herbert, seizing the engineer’s hand.

“My master always, and everywhere!” cried Neb.

“As for me,” said the sailor, “if I ever grumble at work, my name’s not Jack Pencroft, and if you like, captain, we will make a little America of this island! We will build towns, we will establish railways, start telegraphs, and one fine day, when it is quite changed, quite put in order and quite civilized, we will go and offer it to the government of the Union. Only, I ask one thing.”

“What is that?” said the reporter.

“It is, that we do not consider ourselves castaways, but colonists, who have come here to settle.” Harding could not help smiling, and the sailor’s idea was adopted. He then thanked his companions, and added, that he would rely on their energy and on the aid of Heaven.

“Well, now let us set off to the Chimneys!” cried Pencroft.

“One minute, my friends,” said the engineer. “It seems to me it would be a good thing to give a name to this island, as well as to, the capes, promontories, and watercourses, which we can see.

“Very good,” said the reporter. “In the future, that will simplify the instructions which we shall have to give and follow.”

“Indeed,” said the sailor, “already it is something to be able to say where one is going, and where one has come from. At least, it looks like somewhere.”

“The Chimneys, for example,” said Herbert.

“Exactly!” replied Pencroft. “That name was the most convenient, and it came to me quite of myself. Shall we keep the name of the Chimneys for our first encampment, captain?”

“Yes, Pencroft, since you have so christened it.”

“Good! as for the others, that will be easy,” returned the sailor, who was in high spirits. “Let us give them names, as the Robinsons did, whose story Herbert has often read to me; Providence Bay, Whale Point, Cape Disappointment!”

“Or, rather, the names of Captain Harding,” said Herbert, “of Mr. Spilett, of Neb! — ”

“My name!” cried Neb, showing his sparkling white teeth.

“Why not?” replied Pencroft. “Port Neb, that would do very well! And Cape Gideon — ”

“I should prefer borrowing names from our country,” said the reporter, “which would remind us of America.”

“Yes, for the principal ones,” then said Cyrus Harding; “for those of the bays and seas, I admit it willingly. We might give to that vast bay on the east the name of Union Bay, for example; to that large hollow on the south, Washington Bay; to the mountain upon which we are standing, that of Mount Franklin; to that lake which is extended under our eyes, that of Lake Grant; nothing could be better, my friends. These names will recall our country, and those of the great citizens who have honored it; but for the rivers, gulfs, capes, and promontories, which we perceive from the top of this mountain, rather let us choose names which will recall their particular shape. They will impress themselves better on our memory, and at the same time will be more practical. The shape of the island is so strange that we shall not be troubled to imagine what it resembles. As to the streams which we do not know as yet, in different parts of the forest which we shall explore later, the creeks which afterwards will be discovered, we can christen them as we find them. What do you think, my friends?”

The engineer’s proposal was unanimously agreed to by his companions. The island was spread out under their eyes like a map, and they had only to give names to all its angles and points. Gideon Spilett would write them down, and the geographical nomenclature of the island would be definitely adopted. First, they named the two bays and the mountain, Union Bay, Washington Bay, and Mount Franklin, as the engineer had suggested.

“Now,” said the reporter, “to this peninsula at the southwest of the island, I propose to give the name of Serpentine Peninsula, and that of Reptile-end to the bent tail which terminates it, for it is just like a reptile’s tail.”

“Adopted,” said the engineer.

“Now,” said Herbert, pointing to the other extremity of the island, “let us call this gulf which is so singularly like a pair of open jaws, Shark Gulf.”

“Capital!” cried Pencroft, “and we can complete the resemblance by naming the two parts of the jaws Mandible Cape.”

“But there are two capes,” observed the reporter.

“Well,” replied Pencroft, “we can have North Mandible Cape and South Mandible Cape.”

“They are inscribed,” said Spilett.

“There is only the point at the southeastern extremity of the island to be named,” said Pencroft.

“That is, the extremity of Union Bay?” asked Herbert.

“Claw Cape,” cried Neb directly, who also wished to be godfather to some part of his domain.

In truth, Neb had found an excellent name, for this cape was very like the powerful claw of the fantastic animal which this singularly-shaped island represented.

Pencroft was delighted at the turn things had taken, and their imaginations soon gave to the river which furnished the settlers with drinking water and near which the balloon had thrown them, the name of the Mercy, in true gratitude to Providence. To the islet upon which the castaways had first landed, the name of Safety Island; to the plateau which crowned the high granite precipice above the Chimneys, and from whence the gaze could embrace the whole of the vast bay, the name of Prospect Heights.

Lastly, all the masses of impenetrable wood which covered the Serpentine Peninsula were named the forests of the Far West.

The nomenclature of the visible and known parts of the island was thus finished, and later, they would complete it as they made fresh discoveries.

As to the points of the compass, the engineer had roughly fixed them by the height and position of the sun, which placed Union Bay and Prospect Heights to the east. But the next day, by taking the exact hour of the rising and setting of the sun, and by marking its position between this rising and setting, he reckoned to fix the north of the island exactly, for, in consequence of its situation in the Southern Hemisphere, the sun, at the precise moment of its culmination, passed in the north and not in the south, as, in its apparent movement, it seems to do, to those places situated in the Northern Hemisphere.

Everything was finished, and the settlers had only to descend Mount Franklin to return to the Chimneys, when Pencroft cried out, —

“Well! we are preciously stupid!”

“Why?” asked Gideon Spilett, who had closed his notebook and risen to depart.

“Why! our island! we have forgotten to christen it!”

Herbert was going to propose to give it the engineer’s name and all his companions would have applauded him, when Cyrus Harding said simply, —

“Let us give it the name of a great citizen, my friend; of him who now struggles to defend the unity of the American Republic! Let us call it Lincoln Island!”

The engineer’s proposal was replied to by three hurrahs.

And that evening, before sleeping, the new colonists talked of their absent country; they spoke of the terrible war which stained it with blood; they could not doubt that the South would soon be subdued, and that the cause of the North, the cause of justice, would triumph, thanks to Grant, thanks to Lincoln!

Now this happened the 30th of March, 1865. They little knew that sixteen days afterwards a frightful crime would be committed in Washington, and that on Good Friday Abraham Lincoln would fall by the hand of a fanatic.

CHAPTER 12

They now began the descent of the mountain. Climbing down the crater, they went round the cone and reached their encampment of the previous night. Pencroft thought it must be breakfast-time, and the watches of the reporter and engineer were therefore consulted to find out the hour.

That of Gideon Spilett had been preserved from the sea-water, as he had been thrown at once on the sand out of reach of the waves. It was an instrument of excellent quality, a perfect pocket chronometer, which the reporter had not forgotten to wind up carefully every day.

As to the engineer’s watch, it, of course, had stopped during the time which he had passed on the downs.

The engineer now wound it up, and ascertaining by the height of the sun that it must be about nine o’clock in the morning, he put his watch at that hour.

“No, my dear Spilett, wait. You have kept the Richmond time, have you not?”

“Yes, Cyrus.”

“Consequently, your watch is set by the meridian of that town, which is almost that of Washington?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Very well, keep it thus. Content yourself with winding it up very, exactly, but do not touch the hands. This may be of use to us.

“What will be the good of that?” thought the sailor.

They ate, and so heartily, that the store of game and almonds was totally exhausted. But Pencroft was not at all uneasy, they would supply themselves on the way. Top, whose share had been very much to his taste, would know how to find some fresh game among the brushwood. Moreover, the sailor thought of simply asking the engineer to manufacture some powder and one or two fowling-pieces; he supposed there would be no difficulty in that.

On leaving the plateau, the captain proposed to his companions to return to the Chimneys by a new way. He wished to reconnoiter Lake Grant, so magnificently framed in trees. They therefore followed the crest of one of the spurs, between which the creek that supplied the lake probably had its source. In talking, the settlers already employed the names which they had just chosen, which singularly facilitated the exchange of their ideas. Herbert and Pencroft — the one young and the other very boyish — were enchanted, and while walking, the sailor said,

“Hey, Herbert! how capital it sounds! It will be impossible to lose ourselves, my boy, since, whether we follow the way to Lake Grant, or whether we join the Mercy through the woods of the Far West, we shall be certain to arrive at Prospect Heights, and, consequently, at Union Bay!”

It had been agreed, that without forming a compact band, the settlers should not stray away from each other. It was very certain that the thick forests of the island were inhabited by dangerous animals, and it was prudent to be on their guard. In general, Pencroft, Herbert, and Neb walked first, preceded by Top, who poked his nose into every bush. The reporter and the engineer went together, Gideon Spilett ready to note every incident, the engineer silent for the most part, and only stepping aside to pick up one thing or another, a mineral or vegetable substance, which he put into his pocket, without making any remark.

“What can he be picking up?” muttered Pencroft. “I have looked in vain for anything that’s worth the trouble of stooping for.”

Towards ten o’clock the little band descended the last declivities of Mount Franklin. As yet the ground was scantily strewn with bushes and trees. They were walking over yellowish calcinated earth, forming a plain of nearly a mile long, which extended to the edge of the wood. Great blocks of that basalt, which, according to Bischof, takes three hundred and fifty millions of years to cool, strewed the plain, very confused in some places. However, there were here no traces of lava, which was spread more particularly over the northern slopes.

Cyrus Harding expected to reach, without incident, the course of the creek, which he supposed flowed under the trees at the border of the plain, when he saw Herbert running hastily back, while Neb and the sailor were hiding behind the rocks.

“What’s the matter, my boy?” asked Spilett.

“Smoke,” replied Herbert. “We have seen smoke among the rocks, a hundred paces from us.”

“Men in this place?” cried the reporter.

“We must avoid showing ourselves before knowing with whom we have to deal,” replied Cyrus Harding. “I trust that there are no natives on this island; I dread them more than anything else. Where is Top?”

“Top is on before.”

“And he doesn’t bark?”

“No.”

“That is strange. However, we must try to call him back.”

In a few moments, the engineer, Gideon Spilett, and Herbert had rejoined their two companions, and like them, they kept out of sight behind the heaps of basalt.

From thence they clearly saw smoke of a yellowish color rising in the air.

Top was recalled by a slight whistle from his master, and the latter, signing to his companions to wait for him, glided away among the rocks. The colonists, motionless, anxiously awaited the result of this exploration, when a shout from the engineer made them hasten forward. They soon joined him, and were at once struck with a disagreeable odor which impregnated the atmosphere.

The odor, easily recognized, was enough for the engineer to guess what the smoke was which at first, not without cause, had startled him.

“This fire,” said he, “or rather, this smoke is produced by nature alone. There is a sulphur spring there, which will cure all our sore throats.”

“Captain!” cried Pencroft. “What a pity that I haven’t got a cold!”

The settlers then directed their steps towards the place from which the smoke escaped. They there saw a sulphur spring which flowed abundantly between the rocks, and its waters discharged a strong sulphuric acid odor, after having absorbed the oxygen of the air.

Cyrus Harding, dipping in his hand, felt the water oily to the touch. He tasted it and found it rather sweet. As to its temperature, that he estimated at ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit. Herbert having asked on what he based this calculation, —

“Its quite simple, my boy,” said he, “for, in plunging my hand into the water, I felt no sensation either of heat or cold. Therefore it has the same temperature as the human body, which is about ninety-five degrees.”

The sulphur spring not being of any actual use to the settlers, they proceeded towards the thick border of the forest, which began some hundred paces off.

There, as they had conjectured, the waters of the stream flowed clear and limpid between high banks of red earth, the color of which betrayed the presence of oxide of iron. From this color, the name of Red Creek was immediately given to the watercourse.

It was only a large stream, deep and clear, formed of the mountain water, which, half river, half torrent, here rippling peacefully over the sand, there falling against the rocks or dashing down in a cascade, ran towards the lake, over a distance of a mile and a half, its breadth varying from thirty to forty feet. Its waters were sweet, and it was supposed that those of the lake were so also. A fortunate circumstance, in the event of their finding on its borders a more suitable dwelling than the Chimneys.

As to the trees, which some hundred feet downwards shaded the banks of the creek, they belonged, for the most part, to the species which abound in the temperate zone of America and Tasmania, and no longer to those coniferae observed in that portion of the island already explored to some miles from Prospect Heights. At this time of the year, the commencement of the month of April, which represents the month of October, in this hemisphere, that is, the beginning of autumn, they were still in full leaf. They consisted principally of casuarinas and eucalypti, some of which next year would yield a sweet manna, similar to the manna of the East. Clumps of Australian cedars rose on the sloping banks, which were also covered with the high grass called “tussac” in New Holland; but the cocoanut, so abundant in the archipelagoes of the Pacific, seemed to be wanting in the island, the latitude, doubtless, being too low.

“What a pity!” said Herbert, “such a useful tree, and which has such beautiful nuts!”

As to the birds, they swarmed among the scanty branches of the eucalypti and casuarinas, which did not hinder the display of their wings. Black, white, or gray cockatoos, paroquets, with plumage of all colors, kingfishers of a sparkling green and crowned with red, blue lories, and various other birds appeared on all sides, as through a prism, fluttering about and producing a deafening clamor. Suddenly, a strange concert of discordant voices resounded in the midst of a thicket. The settlers heard successively the song of birds, the cry of quadrupeds, and a sort of clacking which they might have believed to have escaped from the lips of a native. Neb and Herbert rushed towards the bush, forgetting even the most elementary principles of prudence. Happily, they found there, neither a formidable wild beast nor a dangerous native, but merely half a dozen mocking and singing birds, known as mountain pheasants. A few skillful blows from a stick soon put an end to their concert, and procured excellent food for the evening’s dinner.

Herbert also discovered some magnificent pigeons with bronzed wings, some superbly crested, others draped in green, like their congeners at Port-Macquarie; but it was impossible to reach them, or the crows and magpies which flew away in flocks.

A charge of small shot would have made great slaughter among these birds, but the hunters were still limited to sticks and stones, and these primitive weapons proved very insufficient.

Their insufficiency was still more clearly shown when a troop of quadrupeds, jumping, bounding, making leaps of thirty feet, regular flying mammiferae, fled over the thickets, so quickly and at such a height, that one would have thought that they passed from one tree to another like squirrels.

“Kangaroos!” cried Herbert.

“Are they good to eat?” asked Pencroft.

“Stewed,” replied the reporter, “their flesh is equal to the best venison! — ”

Gideon Spilett had not finished this exciting sentence when the sailor, followed by Neb and Herbert, darted on the kangaroos tracks. Cyrus Harding called them back in vain. But it was in vain too for the hunters to pursue such agile game, which went bounding away like balls. After a chase of five minutes, they lost their breath, and at the same time all sight of the creatures, which disappeared in the wood. Top was not more successful than his masters.

“Captain,” said Pencroft, when the engineer and the reporter had rejoined them, “Captain, you see quite well we can’t get on unless we make a few guns. Will that be possible?”

“Perhaps,” replied the engineer, “but we will begin by first manufacturing some bows and arrows, and I don’t doubt that you will become as clever in the use of them as the Australian hunters.”

“Bows and arrows!” said Pencroft scornfully. “That’s all very well for children!”

“Don’t be proud, friend Pencroft,” replied the reporter. “Bows and arrows were sufficient for centuries to stain the earth with blood. Powder is but a thing of yesterday, and war is as old as the human race — unhappily.”

“Faith, that’s true, Mr. Spilett,” replied the sailor, “and I always speak too quickly. You must excuse me!”

Meanwhile, Herbert constant to his favorite science, Natural History, reverted to the kangaroos, saying, —

“Besides, we had to deal just now with the species which is most difficult to catch. They were giants with long gray fur; but if I am not mistaken, there exist black and red kangaroos, rock kangaroos, and rat kangaroos, which are more easy to get hold of. It is reckoned that there are about a dozen species.”

“Herbert,” replied the sailor sententiously, “there is only one species of kangaroos to me, that is ‘kangaroo on the spit,’ and it’s just the one we haven’t got this evening!”

They could not help laughing at Master Pencroft’s new classification. The honest sailor did not hide his regret at being reduced for dinner to the singing pheasants, but fortune once more showed itself obliging to him.

In fact, Top, who felt that his interest was concerned went and ferreted everywhere with an instinct doubled by a ferocious appetite. It was even probable that if some piece of game did fall into his clutches, none would be left for the hunters, if Top was hunting on his own account; but Neb watched him and he did well.

Towards three o’clock the dog disappeared in the brushwood and gruntings showed that he was engaged in a struggle with some animal. Neb rushed after him, and soon saw Top eagerly devouring a quadruped, which ten seconds later would have been past recognizing in Top’s stomach. But fortunately the dog had fallen upon a brood, and besides the victim he was devouring, two other rodents — the animals in question belonged to that order — lay strangled on the turf.

Neb reappeared triumphantly holding one of the rodents in each hand. Their size exceeded that of a rabbit, their hair was yellow, mingled with green spots, and they had the merest rudiments of tails.

The citizens of the Union were at no loss for the right name of these rodents. They were maras, a sort of agouti, a little larger than their congeners of tropical countries, regular American rabbits, with long ears, jaws armed on each side with five molars, which distinguish the agouti.

“Hurrah!” cried Pencroft, “the roast has arrived! and now we can go home.”

The walk, interrupted for an instant, was resumed. The limpid waters of the Red Creek flowed under an arch of casuannas, banksias, and gigantic gum-trees. Superb lilacs rose to a height of twenty feet. Other arborescent species, unknown to the young naturalist, bent over the stream, which could be heard murmuring beneath the bowers of verdure.

Meanwhile the stream grew much wider, and Cyrus Harding supposed that they would soon reach its mouth. In fact, on emerging from beneath a thick clump of beautiful trees, it suddenly appeared before their eyes.

The explorers had arrived on the western shore of Lake Grant. The place was well worth looking at. This extent of water, of a circumference of nearly seven miles and an area of two hundred and fifty acres, reposed in a border of diversified trees. Towards the east, through a curtain of verdure, picturesquely raised in some places, sparkled an horizon of sea. The lake was curved at the north, which contrasted with the sharp outline of its lower part. Numerous aquatic birds frequented the shores of this little Ontario, in which the thousand isles of its American namesake were represented by a rock which emerged from its surface, some hundred feet from the southern shore. There lived in harmony several couples of kingfishers perched on a stone, grave, motionless, watching for fish, then darting down, they plunged in with a sharp cry, and reappeared with their prey in their beaks. On the shores and on the islets, strutted wild ducks, pelicans, water-hens, red-beaks, philedons, furnished with a tongue like a brush, and one or two specimens of the splendid menura, the tail of which expands gracefully like a lyre.

As to the water of the lake, it was sweet, limpid, rather dark, and from certain bubblings, and the concentric circles which crossed each other on the surface, it could not be doubted that it abounded in fish.

“This lake is really beautiful!” said Gideon Spilett. “We could live on its borders!”

“We will live there!” replied Harding.

The settlers, wishing to return to the Chimneys by the shortest way, descended towards the angle formed on the south by the junction of the lake’s bank. It was not without difficulty that they broke a path through the thickets and brushwood which had never been put aside by the hand of men, and they thus went towards the shore, so as to arrive at the north of Prospect Heights. Two miles were cleared in this direction, and then, after they had passed the last curtain of trees, appeared the plateau, carpeted with thick turf, and beyond that the infinite sea.

To return to the Chimneys, it was enough to cross the plateau obliquely for the space of a mile, and then to descend to the elbow formed by the first detour of the Mercy. But the engineer desired to know how and where the overplus of the water from the lake escaped, and the exploration was prolonged under the trees for a mile and a half towards the north. It was most probable that an overfall existed somewhere, and doubtless through a cleft in the granite. This lake was only, in short, an immense center basin, which was filled by degrees by the creek, and its waters must necessarily pass to the sea by some fall. If it was so, the engineer thought that it might perhaps be possible to utilize this fall and borrow its power, actually lost without profit to any one. They continued then to follow the shores of Lake Grant by climbing the plateau; but, after having gone a mile in this direction, Cyrus Harding had not been able to discover the overfall, which, however, must exist somewhere.

It was then half-past four. In order to prepare for dinner it was necessary that the settlers should return to their dwelling. The little band retraced their steps, therefore, and by the left bank of the Mercy, Cyrus Harding and his companions arrived at the Chimneys.

The fire was lighted, and Neb and Pencroft, on whom the functions of cooks naturally devolved, to the one in his quality of Negro, to the other in that of sailor, quickly prepared some broiled agouti, to which they did great justice.

The repast at length terminated; at the moment when each one was about to give himself up to sleep, Cyrus Harding drew from his pocket little specimens of different sorts of minerals, and just said, —

“My friends, this is iron mineral, this a pyrite, this is clay, this is lime, and this is coal. Nature gives us these things. It is our business to make a right use of them. To-morrow we will commence operations.”

CHAPTER 13

“Well, captain, where are we going to begin?” asked Pencroft next morning of the engineer.

“At the beginning,” replied Cyrus Harding.

And in fact, the settlers were compelled to begin “at the very beginning.” They did not possess even the tools necessary for making tools, and they were not even in the condition of nature, who, “having time, husbands her strength.” They had no time, since they had to provide for the immediate wants of their existence, and though, profiting by acquired experience, they had nothing to invent, still they had everything to make; their iron and their steel were as yet only in the state of minerals, their earthenware in the state of clay, their linen and their clothes in the state of textile material.

It must be said, however, that the settlers were “men” in the complete and higher sense of the word. The engineer Harding could not have been seconded by more intelligent companions, nor with more devotion and zeal. He had tried them. He knew their abilities.

Gideon Spilett, a talented reporter, having learned everything so as to be able to speak of everything, would contribute largely with his head and hands to the colonization of the island. He would not draw back from any task: a determined sportsman, he would make a business of what till then had only been a pleasure to him.

Herbert, a gallant boy, already remarkably well informed in the natural sciences, would render greater service to the common cause.

Neb was devotion personified. Clever, intelligent, indefatigable, robust, with iron health, he knew a little about the work of the forge, and could not fail to be very useful in the colony.

As to Pencroft, he had sailed over every sea, a carpenter in the dockyards in Brooklyn, assistant tailor in the vessels of the state, gardener, cultivator, during his holidays, etc. and like all seamen, fit for anything, he knew how to do everything.

It would have been difficult to unite five men, better fitted to struggle against fate, more certain to triumph over it.

“At the beginning,” Cyrus Harding had said. Now this beginning of which the engineer spoke was the construction of an apparatus which would serve to transform the natural substances. The part which heat plays in these transformations is known. Now fuel, wood or coal, was ready for immediate use, an oven must be built to use it.

“What is this oven for?” asked Pencroft.

“To make the pottery which we have need of,” replied Harding.

“And of what shall we make the oven?”

“With bricks.”

“And the bricks?”

“With clay. Let us start, my friends. To save trouble, we will establish our manufactory at the place of production. Neb will bring provisions, and there will be no lack of fire to cook the food.”

“No,” replied the reporter; “but if there is a lack of food for want of instruments for the chase?”

“Ah, if we only had a knife!” cried the sailor.

“Well?” asked Cyrus Harding.

“Well! I would soon make a bow and arrows, and then there could be plenty of game in the larder!”

“Yes, a knife, a sharp blade.” said the engineer, as if he was speaking to himself.

At this moment his eyes fell upon Top, who was running about on the shore. Suddenly Harding’s face became animated.

“Top, here,” said he.

The dog came at his master’s call. The latter took Top’s head between his hands, and unfastening the collar which the animal wore round his neck, he broke it in two, saying, —

“There are two knives, Pencroft!”

Two hurrahs from the sailor was the reply. Top’s collar was made of a thin piece of tempered steel. They had only to sharpen it on a piece of sandstone, then to raise the edge on a finer stone. Now sandstone was abundant on the beach, and two hours after the stock of tools in the colony consisted of two sharp blades, which were easily fixed in solid handles.

The production of these their first tools was hailed as a triumph. It was indeed a valuable result of their labor, and a very opportune one. They set out.

Cyrus Harding proposed that they should return to the western shore of the lake, where the day before he had noticed the clayey ground of which he possessed a specimen. They therefore followed the bank of the Mercy, traversed Prospect Heights, and after a walk of five miles or more they reached a glade, situated two hundred feet from Lake Grant.

On the way Herbert had discovered a tree, the branches of which the Indians of South America employ for making their bows. It was the crejimba, of the palm family, which does not bear edible fruit. Long straight branches were cut, the leaves stripped off; it was shaped, stronger in the middle, more slender at the extremities, and nothing remained to be done but to find a plant fit to make the bow-string. This was the “hibiscus heterophyllus,” which furnishes fibers of such remarkable tenacity that they have been compared to the tendons of animals. Pencroft thus obtained bows of tolerable strength, for which he only wanted arrows. These were easily made with straight stiff branches, without knots, but the points with which they must be armed, that is to say, a substance to serve in lieu of iron, could not be met with so easily. But Pencroft said, that having done his part of the work, chance would do the rest.

The settlers arrived on the ground which had been discovered the day before. Being composed of the sort of clay which is used for making bricks and tiles, it was very useful for the work in question. There was no great difficulty in it. It was enough to scour the clay with sand, then to mold the bricks and bake them by the heat of a wood fire.

Generally bricks are formed in molds, but the engineer contented himself with making them by hand. All that day and the day following were employed in this work. The clay, soaked in water, was mixed by the feet and hands of the manipulators, and then divided into pieces of equal size. A practiced workman can make, without a machine, about ten thousand bricks in twelve hours; but in their two days work the five brickmakers on Lincoln Island had not made more than three thousand, which were ranged near each other, until the time when their complete desiccation would permit them to be used in building the oven, that is to say, in three or four days.

It was on the 2nd of April that Harding had employed himself in fixing the orientation of the island, or, in other words, the precise spot where the sun rose. The day before he had noted exactly the hour when the sun disappeared beneath the horizon, making allowance for the refraction. This morning he noted, no less exactly, the hour at which it reappeared. Between this setting and rising twelve hours, twenty-four minutes passed. Then, six hours, twelve minutes after its rising, the sun on this day would exactly pass the meridian and the point of the sky which it occupied at this moment would be the north. At the said hour, Cyrus marked this point, and putting in a line with the sun two trees which would serve him for marks, he thus obtained an invariable meridian for his ulterior operations.

The settlers employed the two days before the oven was built in collecting fuel. Branches were cut all round the glade, and they picked up all the fallen wood under the trees. They were also able to hunt with greater success, since Pencroft now possessed some dozen arrows armed with sharp points. It was Top who had famished these points, by bringing in a porcupine, rather inferior eating, but of great value, thanks to the quills with which it bristled. These quills were fixed firmly at the ends of the arrows, the flight of which was made more certain by some cockatoos’ feathers. The reporter and Herbert soon became very skilful archers. Game of all sorts in consequence abounded at the Chimneys, capybaras, pigeons, agouties, grouse, etc. The greater part of these animals were killed in the part of the forest on the left bank of the Mercy, to which they gave the name of Jacamar Wood, in remembrance of the bird which Pencroft and Herbert had pursued when on their first exploration.

This game was eaten fresh, but they preserved some capybara hams, by smoking them above a fire of green wood, after having perfumed them with sweet-smelling leaves. However, this food, although very strengthening, was always roast upon roast, and the party would have been delighted to hear some soup bubbling on the hearth, but they must wait till a pot could be made, and, consequently, till the oven was built.

During these excursions, which were not extended far from the brick-field, the hunters could discern the recent passage of animals of a large size, armed with powerful claws, but they could not recognize the species. Cyrus Harding advised them to be very careful, as the forest probably enclosed many dangerous beasts.

And he did right. Indeed, Gideon Spilett and Herbert one day saw an animal which resembled a jaguar. Happily the creature did not attack them, or they might not have escaped without a severe wound. As soon as he could get a regular weapon, that is to say, one of the guns which Pencroft begged for, Gideon Spilett resolved to make desperate war against the ferocious beasts, and exterminate them from the island.

The Chimneys during these few days was not made more comfortable, for the engineer hoped to discover, or build if necessary, a more convenient dwelling. They contented themselves with spreading moss and dry leaves on the sand of the passages, and on these primitive couches the tired workers slept soundly.

They also reckoned the days they had passed on Lincoln Island, and from that time kept a regular account. The 5th of April, which was Wednesday, was twelve days from the time when the wind threw the castaways on this shore.

On the 6th of April, at daybreak, the engineer and his companions were collected in the glade, at the place where they were going to perform the operation of baking the bricks. Naturally this had to be in the open air, and not in a kiln, or rather, the agglomeration of bricks made an enormous kiln, which would bake itself. The fuel, made of well-prepared fagots, was laid on the ground and surrounded with several rows of dried bricks, which soon formed an enormous cube, to the exterior of which they contrived air-holes. The work lasted all day, and it was not till the evening that they set fire to the fagots. No one slept that night, all watching carefully to keep up the fire.

The operation lasted forty-eight hours, and succeeded perfectly. It then became necessary to leave the smoking mass to cool, and during this time Neb and Pencroft, guided by Cyrus Harding, brought, on a hurdle made of interlaced branches, loads of carbonate of lime and common stones, which were very abundant, to the north of the lake. These stones, when decomposed by heat, made a very strong quicklime, greatly increased by slacking, at least as pure as if it had been produced by the calcination of chalk or marble. Mixed with sand the lime made excellent mortar.

The result of these different works was, that, on the 9th of April, the engineer had at his disposal a quantity of prepared lime and some thousands of bricks.

Without losing an instant, therefore, they began the construction of a kiln to bake the pottery, which was indispensable for their domestic use. They succeeded without much difficulty. Five days after, the kiln was supplied with coal, which the engineer had discovered lying open to the sky towards the mouth of the Red Creek, and the first smoke escaped from a chimney twenty feet high. The glade was transformed into a manufactory, and Pencroft was not far wrong in believing that from this kiln would issue all the products of modern industry.

In the meantime what the settlers first manufactured was a common pottery in which to cook their food. The chief material was clay, to which Harding added a little lime and quartz. This paste made regular “pipe-clay,” with which they manufactured bowls, cups molded on stones of a proper size, great jars and pots to hold water, etc. The shape of these objects was clumsy and defective, but after they had been baked in a high temperature, the kitchen of the Chimneys was provided with a number of utensils, as precious to the settlers as the most beautifully enameled china. We must mention here that Pencroft, desirous to know if the clay thus prepared was worthy of its name of pipe-clay, made some large pipes, which he thought charming, but for which, alas! he had no tobacco, and that was a great privation to Pencroft. “But tobacco will come, like everything else!” he repeated, in a burst of absolute confidence.

This work lasted till the 15th of April, and the time was well employed. The settlers, having become potters, made nothing but pottery. When it suited Cyrus Harding to change them into smiths, they would become smiths. But the next day being Sunday, and also Easter Sunday, all agreed to sanctify the day by rest. These Americans were religious men, scrupulous observers of the precepts of the Bible, and their situation could not but develop sentiments of confidence towards the Author of all things.

On the evening of the 15th of April they returned to the Chimneys, carrying with them the pottery, the furnace being extinguished until they could put it to a new use. Their return was marked by a fortunate incident; the engineer discovered a substance which replaced tinder. It is known that a spongy, velvety flesh is procured from a certain mushroom of the genus polyporous. Properly prepared, it is extremely inflammable, especially when it has been previously saturated with gunpowder, or boiled in a solution of nitrate or chlorate of potash. But, till then, they had not found any of these polypores or even any of the morels which could replace them. On this day, the engineer, seeing a plant belonging to the wormwood genus, the principal species of which are absinthe, balm-mint, tarragon, etc. gathered several tufts, and, presenting them to the sailor, said, —

“Here, Pencroft, this will please you.”

Pencroft looked attentively at the plant, covered with long silky hair, the leaves being clothed with soft down.

“What’s that, captain?” asked Pencroft. “Is it tobacco?”

“No,” replied Harding, “it is wormwood; Chinese wormwood to the learned, but to us it will be tinder.”

When the wormwood was properly dried it provided them with a very inflammable substance, especially afterwards when the engineer had impregnated it with nitrate of potash, of which the island possessed several beds, and which is in truth saltpeter.

The colonists had a good supper that evening. Neb prepared some agouti soup, a smoked capybara ham, to which was added the boiled tubercules of the “caladium macrorhizum,” an herbaceous plant of the arum family. They had an excellent taste, and were very nutritious, being something similar to the substance which is sold in England under the name of “Portland sago”; they were also a good substitute for bread, which the settlers in Lincoln Island did not yet possess.

When supper was finished, before sleeping, Harding and his companions went to take the air on the beach. It was eight o’clock in the evening; the night was magnificent. The moon, which had been full five days before, had not yet risen, but the horizon was already silvered by those soft, pale shades which might be called the dawn of the moon. At the southern zenith glittered the circumpolar constellations, and above all the Southern Cross, which some days before the engineer had greeted on the summit of Mount Franklin.

Cyrus Harding gazed for some time at this splendid constellation, which has at its summit and at its base two stars of the first magnitude, at its left arm a star of the second, and at its right arm a star of the third magnitude.

Then, after some minutes thought —

“Herbert,” he asked of the lad, “is not this the 15th of April?”

“Yes, captain,” replied Herbert.

“Well, if I am not mistaken, to-morrow will be one of the four days in the year in which the real time is identical with average time; that is to say, my boy, that to-morrow, to within some seconds, the sun will pass the meridian just at midday by the clocks. If the weather is fine I think that I shall obtain the longitude of the island with an approximation of some degrees.”

“Without instruments, without sextant?” asked Gideon Spilett.

“Yes,” replied the engineer. “Also, since the night is clear, I will try, this very evening, to obtain our latitude by calculating the height of the Southern Cross, that is, from the southern pole above the horizon. You understand, my friends, that before undertaking the work of installation in earnest it is not enough to have found out that this land is an island; we must, as nearly as possible, know at what distance it is situated, either from the American continent or Australia, or from the principal archipelagoes of the Pacific.”

“In fact,” said the reporter, “instead of building a house it would be more important to build a boat, if by chance we are not more than a hundred miles from an inhabited coast.”

“That is why,” returned Harding, “I am going to try this evening to calculate the latitude of Lincoln Island, and to-morrow, at midday, I will try to calculate the longitude.”

If the engineer had possessed a sextant, an apparatus with which the angular distance of objects can be measured with great precision, there would have been no difficulty in the operation. This evening by the height of the pole, the next day by the passing of the sun at the meridian, he would obtain the position of the island. But as they had not one he would have to supply the deficiency.

Harding then entered the Chimneys. By the light of the fire he cut two little flat rulers, which he joined together at one end so as to form a pair of compasses, whose legs could separate or come together. The fastening was fixed with a strong acacia thorn which was found in the wood pile. This instrument finished, the engineer returned to the beach, but as it was necessary to take the height of the pole from above a clear horizon, that is, a sea horizon, and as Claw Cape hid the southern horizon, he was obliged to look for a more suitable station. The best would evidently have been the shore exposed directly to the south; but the Mercy would have to be crossed, and that was a difficulty. Harding resolved, in consequence, to make his observation from Prospect Heights, taking into consideration its height above the level of the sea — a height which he intended to calculate next day by a simple process of elementary geometry.

The settlers, therefore, went to the plateau, ascending the left bank of the Mercy, and placed themselves on the edge which looked northwest and southeast, that is, above the curiously-shaped rocks which bordered the river.

This part of the plateau commanded the heights of the left bank, which sloped away to the extremity of Claw Cape, and to the southern side of the island. No obstacle intercepted their gaze, which swept the horizon in a semi-circle from the cape to Reptile End. To the south the horizon, lighted by the first rays of the moon, was very clearly defined against the sky.

At this moment the Southern Cross presented itself to the observer in an inverted position, the star Alpha marking its base, which is nearer to the southern pole.

This constellation is not situated as near to the antarctic pole as the Polar Star is to the arctic pole. The star Alpha is about twenty-seven degrees from it, but Cyrus Harding knew this and made allowance for it in his calculation. He took care also to observe the moment when it passed the meridian below the pole, which would simplify the operation.

Cyrus Harding pointed one leg of the compasses to the horizon, the other to Alpha, and the space between the two legs gave him the angular distance which separated Alpha from the horizon. In order to fix the angle obtained, he fastened with thorns the two pieces of wood on a third placed transversely, so that their separation should be properly maintained.

That done, there was only the angle to calculate by bringing back the observation to the level of the sea, taking into consideration the depression of the horizon, which would necessitate measuring the height of the cliff. The value of this angle would give the height of Alpha, and consequently that of the pole above the horizon, that is to say, the latitude of the island, since the latitude of a point of the globe is always equal to the height of the pole above the horizon of this point.

The calculations were left for the next day, and at ten o’clock every one was sleeping soundly.

CHAPTER 14

The next day, the 16th of April, and Easter Sunday, the settlers issued from the Chimneys at daybreak, and proceeded to wash their linen. The engineer intended to manufacture soap as soon as he could procure the necessary materials — soda or potash, fat or oil. The important question of renewing their wardrobe would be treated of in the proper time and place. At any rate their clothes would last at least six months longer, for they were strong, and could resist the wear of manual labor. But all would depend on the situation of the island with regard to inhabited land. This would be settled to-day if the weather permitted.

The sun rising above a clear horizon, announced a magnificent day, one of those beautiful autumn days which are like the last farewells of the warm season.

It was now necessary to complete the observations of the evening before by measuring the height of the cliff above the level of the sea.

“Shall you not need an instrument similar to the one which you used yesterday?” said Herbert to the engineer.

“No, my boy,” replied the latter, “we are going to proceed differently, but in as precise a way.”

Herbert, wishing to learn everything he could, followed the engineer to the beach. Pencroft, Neb, and the reporter remained behind and occupied themselves in different ways.

Cyrus Harding had provided himself with a straight stick, twelve feet long, which he had measured as exactly as possible by comparing it with his own height, which he knew to a hair. Herbert carried a plumb-line which Harding had given him, that is to say, a simple stone fastened to the end of a flexible fiber. Having reached a spot about twenty feet from the edge of the beach, and nearly five hundred feet from the cliff, which rose perpendicularly, Harding thrust the pole two feet into the sand, and wedging it up carefully, he managed, by means of the plumb-line, to erect it perpendicularly with the plane of the horizon.

That done, he retired the necessary distance, when, lying on the sand, his eye glanced at the same time at the top of the pole and the crest of the cliff. He carefully marked the place with a little stick.

Then addressing Herbert — “Do you know the first principles of geometry?” he asked.

“Slightly, captain,” replied Herbert, who did not wish to put himself forward.

“You remember what are the properties of two similar triangles?”

“Yes,” replied Herbert; “their homologous sides are proportional.”

“Well, my boy, I have just constructed two similar right-angled triangles; the first, the smallest, has for its sides the perpendicular pole, the distance which separates the little stick from the foot of the pole and my visual ray for hypothenuse; the second has for its sides the perpendicular cliff, the height of which we wish to measure, the distance which separates the little stick from the bottom of the cliff, and my visual ray also forms its hypothenuse, which proves to be prolongation of that of the first triangle.”

“Ah, captain, I understand!” cried Herbert. “As the distance from the stick to the pole is to the distance from the stick to the base of the cliff, so is the height of the pole to the height of the cliff.”

“Just so, Herbert,” replied the engineer; “and when we have measured the two first distances, knowing the height of the pole, we shall only have a sum in proportion to do, which will give us the height of the cliff, and will save us the trouble of measuring it directly.”

The two horizontal distances were found out by means of the pole, whose length above the sand was exactly ten feet.

The first distance was fifteen feet between the stick and the place where the pole was thrust into the sand.

The second distance between the stick and the bottom of the cliff was five hundred feet.

These measurements finished, Cyrus Harding and the lad returned to the Chimneys.

The engineer then took a flat stone which he had brought back from one of his previous excursions, a sort of slate, on which it was easy to trace figures with a sharp shell. He then proved the following proportions: —

15:500::10:x

500 x 10 = 5000

5000 / 15 = 333.3

From which it was proved that the granite cliff measured 333 feet in height.

Cyrus Harding then took the instrument which he had made the evening before, the space between its two legs giving the angular distance between the star Alpha and the horizon. He measured, very exactly, the opening of this angle on a circumference which he divided into 360 equal parts. Now, this angle by adding to it the twenty-seven degrees which separated Alpha from the antarctic pole, and by reducing to the level of the sea the height of the cliff on which the observation had been made, was found to be fifty-three degrees. These fifty-three degrees being subtracted from ninety degrees — the distance from the pole to the equator — there remained thirty-seven degrees. Cyrus Harding concluded, therefore, that Lincoln Island was situated on the thirty-seventh degree of the southern latitude, or taking into consideration through the imperfection of the performance, an error of five degrees, that it must be situated between the thirty-fifth and the fortieth parallel.

There was only the longitude to be obtained, and the position of the island would be determined, The engineer hoped to attempt this the same day, at twelve o’clock, at which moment the sun would pass the meridian.

It was decided that Sunday should be spent in a walk, or rather an exploring expedition, to that side of the island between the north of the lake and Shark Gulf, and if there was time they would push their discoveries to the northern side of Cape South Mandible. They would breakfast on the downs, and not return till evening.

At half-past eight the little band was following the edge of the channel. On the other side, on Safety Islet, numerous birds were gravely strutting. They were divers, easily recognized by their cry, which much resembles the braying of a donkey. Pencroft only considered them in an eatable point of view, and learnt with some satisfaction that their flesh, though blackish, is not bad food.

Great amphibious creatures could also be seen crawling on the sand; seals, doubtless, who appeared to have chosen the islet for a place of refuge. It was impossible to think of those animals in an alimentary point of view, for their oily flesh is detestable; however, Cyrus Harding observed them attentively, and without making known his idea, he announced to his companions that very soon they would pay a visit to the islet. The beach was strewn with innumerable shells, some of which would have rejoiced the heart of a conchologist; there were, among others, the phasianella, the terebratual, etc. But what would be of more use, was the discovery, by Neb, at low tide, of a large oysterbed among the rocks, nearly five miles from the Chimneys.

“Neb will not have lost his day,” cried Pencroft, looking at the spacious oysterbed.

“It is really a fortunate discovery,” said the reporter, “and as it is said that each oyster produces yearly from fifty to sixty thousand eggs, we shall have an inexhaustible supply there.”

“Only I believe that the oyster is not very nourishing,” said Herbert.

“No,” replied Harding. “The oyster contains very little nitrogen, and if a man lived exclusively on them, he would have to eat not less than fifteen to sixteen dozen a day.”

“Capital!” replied Pencroft. “We might swallow dozens and dozens without exhausting the bed. Shall we take some for breakfast?”

And without waiting for a reply to this proposal, knowing that it would be approved of, the sailor and Neb detached a quantity of the molluscs. They put them in a sort of net of hibiscus fiber, which Neb had manufactured, and which already contained food; they then continued to climb the coast between the downs and the sea.

From time to time Harding consulted his watch, so as to be prepared in time for the solar observation, which had to be made exactly at midday.

All that part of the island was very barren as far as the point which closed Union Bay, and which had received the name of Cape South Mandible. Nothing could be seen there but sand and shells, mingled with debris of lava. A few sea-birds frequented this desolate coast, gulls, great albatrosses, as well as wild duck, for which Pencroft had a great fancy. He tried to knock some over with an arrow, but without result, for they seldom perched, and he could not hit them on the wing.

This led the sailor to repeat to the engineer, —

“You see, captain, so long as we have not one or two fowling-pieces, we shall never get anything!”

“Doubtless, Pencroft,” replied the reporter, “but it depends on you. Procure us some iron for the barrels, steel for the hammers, saltpeter. coal and sulphur for powder, mercury and nitric acid for the fulminate, and lead for the shot, and the captain will make us first-rate guns.”

“Oh!” replied the engineer, “we might, no doubt, find all these substances on the island, but a gun is a delicate instrument, and needs very particular tools. However, we shall see later!”

“Why,” cried Pencroft, “were we obliged to throw overboard all the weapons we had with us in the car, all our implements, even our pocket-knives?”

“But if we had not thrown them away, Pencroft, the balloon would have thrown us to the bottom of the sea!” said Herbert.

“What you say is true, my boy,” replied the sailor.

Then passing to another idea, — “Think,” said he, “how astounded Jonathan Forster and his companions must have been when, next morning, they found the place empty, and the machine flown away!”

“I am utterly indifferent about knowing what they may have thought,” said the reporter.

“It was all my idea, that!” said Pencroft, with a satisfied air.

“A splendid idea, Pencroft!” replied Gideon Spilett, laughing, “and which has placed us where we are.”

“I would rather be here than in the hands of the Southerners,” cried the sailor, “especially since the captain has been kind enough to come and join us again.”

“So would I, truly!” replied the reporter. “Besides, what do we want? Nothing.”

“If that is not — everything!” replied Pencroft, laughing and shrugging his shoulders. “But, some day or other, we shall find means of going away!”

“Sooner, perhaps, than you imagine, my friends,” remarked the engineer, “if Lincoln Island is but a medium distance from an inhabited island, or from a continent. We shall know in an hour. I have not a map of the Pacific, but my memory has preserved a very clear recollection of its southern part. The latitude which I obtained yesterday placed New Zealand to the west of Lincoln Island, and the coast of Chile to the east. But between these two countries, there is a distance of at least six thousand miles. It has, therefore, to be determined what point in this great space the island occupies, and this the longitude will give us presently, with a sufficient approximation, I hope.”

“Is not the archipelago of the Pomoutous the nearest point to us in latitude?” asked Herbert.

“Yes,” replied the engineer, “but the distance which separates us from it is more than twelve hundred miles.”

“And that way?” asked Neb, who followed the conversation with extreme interest, pointing to the south.

“That way, nothing,” replied Pencroft.

“Nothing, indeed,” added the engineer.

“Well, Cyrus,” asked the reporter, “if Lincoln Island is not more than two or three thousand miles from New Zealand or Chile?”

“Well,” replied the engineer, “instead of building a house we will build a boat, and Master Pencroft shall be put in command — ”

“Well then,” cried the sailor, “I am quite ready to be captain — as soon as you can make a craft that’s able to keep at sea!”

“We shall do it, if it is necessary,” replied Cyrus Harding.

But while these men, who really hesitated at nothing, were talking, the hour approached at which the observation was to be made. What Cyrus Harding was to do to ascertain the passage of the sun at the meridian of the island, without an instrument of any sort, Herbert could not guess.

The observers were then about six miles from the Chimneys, not far from that part of the downs in which the engineer had been found after his enigmatical preservation. They halted at this place and prepared for breakfast, for it was half-past eleven. Herbert went for some fresh water from a stream which ran near, and brought it back in a jug, which Neb had provided.

During these preparations Harding arranged everything for his astronomical observation. He chose a clear place on the shore, which the ebbing tide had left perfectly level. This bed of fine sand was as smooth as ice, not a grain out of place. It was of little importance whether it was horizontal or not, and it did not matter much whether the stick six feet high, which was planted there, rose perpendicularly. On the contrary, the engineer inclined it towards the south, that is to say, in the direction of the coast opposite to the sun, for it must not be forgotten that the settlers in Lincoln Island, as the island was situated in the Southern Hemisphere, saw the radiant planet describe its diurnal arc above the northern, and not above the southern horizon.

Herbert now understood how the engineer was going to proceed to ascertain the culmination of the sun, that is to say its passing the meridian of the island or, in other words, determine due south. It was by means of the shadow cast on the sand by the stick, a way which, for want of an instrument, would give him a suitable approach to the result which he wished to obtain.

In fact, the moment when this shadow would reach its minimum of length would be exactly twelve o’clock, and it would be enough to watch the extremity of the shadow, so as to ascertain the instant when, after having successively diminished, it began to lengthen. By inclining his stick to the side opposite to the sun, Cyrus Harding made the shadow longer, and consequently its modifications would be more easily ascertained. In fact, the longer the needle of a dial is, the more easily can the movement of its point be followed. The shadow of the stick was nothing but the needle of a dial. The moment had come, and Cyrus Harding knelt on the sand, and with little wooden pegs, which he stuck into the sand, he began to mark the successive diminutions of the stick’s shadow. His companions, bending over him, watched the operation with extreme interest. The reporter held his chronometer in his hand, ready to tell the hour which it marked when the shadow would be at its shortest. Moreover, as Cyrus Harding was working on the 16th of April, the day on which the true and the average time are identical, the hour given by Gideon Spilett would be the true hour then at Washington, which would simplify the calculation. Meanwhile as the sun slowly advanced, the shadow slowly diminished, and when it appeared to Cyrus Harding that it was beginning to increase, he asked, “What o’clock is it?”

“One minute past five,” replied Gideon Spilett directly. They had now only to calculate the operation. Nothing could be easier. It could be seen that there existed, in round numbers, a difference of five hours between the meridian of Washington and that of Lincoln Island, that is to say, it was midday in Lincoln Island when it was already five o’clock in the evening in Washington. Now the sun, in its apparent movement round the earth, traverses one degree in four minutes, or fifteen degrees an hour. Fifteen degrees multiplied by five hours give seventy-five degrees.

Then, since Washington is 77deg 3′ 11″ as much as to say seventy-seven degrees counted from the meridian of Greenwich which the Americans take for their starting-point for longitudes concurrently with the English — it followed that the island must be situated seventy-seven and seventy-five degrees west of the meridian of Greenwich, that is to say, on the hundred and fifty-second degree of west longitude.

Cyrus Harding announced this result to his companions, and taking into consideration errors of observation, as he had done for the latitude, he believed he could positively affirm that the position of Lincoln Island was between the thirty-fifth and the thirty-seventh parallel, and between the hundred and fiftieth and the hundred and fifty-fifth meridian to the west of the meridian of Greenwich.

The possible fault which he attributed to errors in the observation was, it may be seen, of five degrees on both sides, which, at sixty miles to a degree, would give an error of three hundred miles in latitude and longitude for the exact position.

But this error would not influence the determination which it was necessary to take. It was very evident that Lincoln Island was at such a distance from every country or island that it would be too hazardous to attempt to reach one in a frail boat.

In fact, this calculation placed it at least twelve hundred miles from Tahiti and the islands of the archipelago of the Pomoutous, more than eighteen hundred miles from New Zealand, and more than four thousand five hundred miles from the American coast!

And when Cyrus Harding consulted his memory, he could not remember in any way that such an island occupied, in that part of the Pacific, the situation assigned to Lincoln Island.

CHAPTER 15

The next day, the 17th of April, the sailor’s first words were addressed to Gideon Spilett.

“Well, sir,” he asked, “what shall we do to-day?”

“What the captain pleases,” replied the reporter.

Till then the engineer’s companions had been brickmakers and potters, now they were to become metallurgists.

The day before, after breakfast, they had explored as far as the point of Mandible Cape, seven miles distant from the Chimneys. There, the long series of downs ended, and the soil had a volcanic appearance. There were no longer high cliffs as at Prospect Heights, but a strange and capricious border which surrounded the narrow gulf between the two capes, formed of mineral matter, thrown up by the volcano. Arrived at this point the settlers retraced their steps, and at nightfall entered the Chimneys; but they did not sleep before the question of knowing whether they could think of leaving Lincoln Island or not was definitely settled.

The twelve hundred miles which separated the island from the Pomoutous Island was a considerable distance. A boat could not cross it, especially at the approach of the bad season. Pencroft had expressly declared this. Now, to construct a simple boat even with the necessary tools, was a difficult work, and the colonists not having tools they must begin by making hammers, axes, adzes, saws, augers, planes, etc. which would take some time. It was decided, therefore, that they would winter at Lincoln Island, and that they would look for a more comfortable dwelling than the Chimneys, in which to pass the winter months.

Before anything else could be done it was necessary to make the iron ore, of which the engineer had observed some traces in the northwest part of the island, fit for use by converting it either into iron or into steel.

Metals are not generally found in the ground in a pure state. For the most part they are combined with oxygen or sulphur. Such was the case with the two specimens which Cyrus Harding had brought back, one of magnetic iron, not carbonated, the other a pyrite, also called sulphuret of iron. It was, therefore the first, the oxide of iron, which they must reduce with coal, that is to say, get rid of the oxygen, to obtain it in a pure state. This reduction is made by subjecting the ore with coal to a high temperature, either by the rapid and easy Catalan method, which has the advantage of transforming the ore into iron in a single operation, or by the blast furnace, which first smelts the ore, then changes it into iron, by carrying away the three to four per cent. of coal, which is combined with it.

Now Cyrus Harding wanted iron, and he wished to obtain it as soon as possible. The ore which he had picked up was in itself very pure and rich. It was the oxydulous iron, which is found in confused masses of a deep gray color; it gives a black dust, crystallized in the form of the regular octahedron. Native lodestones consist of this ore, and iron of the first quality is made in Europe from that with which Sweden and Norway are so abundantly supplied. Not far from this vein was the vein of coal already made use of by the settlers. The ingredients for the manufacture being close together would greatly facilitate the treatment of the ore. This is the cause of the wealth of the mines in Great Britain, where the coal aids the manufacture of the metal extracted from the same soil at the same time as itself.

“Then, captain,” said Pencroft, “we are going to work iron ore?”

“Yes, my friend,” replied the engineer, “and for that — something which will please you — we must begin by having a seal hunt on the islet.”

“A seal hunt!” cried the sailor, turning towards Gideon Spilett. “Are seals needed to make iron?”

“Since Cyrus has said so!” replied the reporter.

But the engineer had already left the Chimneys, and Pencroft prepared for the seal hunt, without having received any other explanation.

Cyrus Harding, Herbert, Gideon Spilett, Neb, and the sailor were soon collected on the shore, at a place where the channel left a ford passable at low tide. The hunters could therefore traverse it without getting wet higher than the knee.

Harding then put his foot on the islet for the first, and his companions for the second time.

On their landing some hundreds of penguins looked fearlessly at them. The hunters, armed with sticks, could have killed them easily, but they were not guilty of such useless massacre, as it was important not to frighten the seals, who were lying on the sand several cable lengths off. They also respected certain innocent-looking birds, whose wings were reduced to the state of stumps, spread out like fins, ornamented with feathers of a scaly appearance. The settlers, therefore, prudently advanced towards the north point, walking over ground riddled with little holes, which formed nests for the sea-birds. Towards the extremity of the islet appeared great black heads floating just above the water, having exactly the appearance of rocks in motion.

These were the seals which were to be captured. It was necessary, however, first to allow them to land, for with their close, short hair, and their fusiform conformation, being excellent swimmers, it is difficult to catch them in the sea, while on land their short, webbed feet prevent their having more than a slow, waddling movement.

Pencroft knew the habits of these creatures, and he advised waiting till they were stretched on the sand, when the sun, before long, would send them to sleep. They must then manage to cut off their retreat and knock them on the head.

The hunters, having concealed themselves behind the rocks, waited silently.

An hour passed before the seals came to play on the sand. They could count half a dozen. Pencroft and Herbert then went round the point of the islet, so as to take them in the rear, and cut off their retreat. During this time Cyrus Harding, Spilett, and Neb, crawling behind the rocks, glided towards the future scene of combat.

All at once the tall figure of the sailor appeared. Pencroft shouted. The engineer and his two companions threw themselves between the sea and the seals. Two of the animals soon lay dead on the sand, but the rest regained the sea in safety.

“Here are the seals required, captain!” said the sailor, advancing towards the engineer.

“Capital,” replied Harding. “We will make bellows of them!”

“Bellows!” cried Pencroft. “Well! these are lucky seals!”

It was, in fact, a blowing-machine, necessary for the treatment of the ore that the engineer wished to manufacture with the skins of the amphibious creatures. They were of a medium size, for their length did not exceed six feet. They resembled a dog about the head.

As it was useless to burden themselves with the weight of both the animals, Neb and Pencroft resolved to skin them on the spot, while Cyrus Harding and the reporter continued to explore the islet.

The sailor and the Negro cleverly performed the operation, and three hours afterwards Cyrus Harding had at his disposal two seals’ skins, which he intended to use in this state, without subjecting them to any tanning process.

The settlers waited till the tide was again low, and crossing the channel they entered the Chimneys.

The skins had then to be stretched on a frame of wood and sewn by means of fibers so as to preserve the air without allowing too much to escape. Cyrus Harding had nothing but the two steel blades from Top’s collar, and yet he was so clever, and his companions aided him with so much intelligence, that three days afterwards the little colony’s stock of tools was augmented by a blowing-machine, destined to inject the air into the midst of the ore when it should be subjected to heat — an indispensable condition to the success of the operation.

On the morning of the 20th of April began the “metallic period,” as the reporter called it in his notes. The engineer had decided, as has been said, to operate near the veins both of coal and ore. Now, according to his observations, these veins were situated at the foot of the northeast spurs of Mount Franklin, that is to say, a distance of six miles from their home. It was impossible, therefore, to return every day to the Chimneys, and it was agreed that the little colony should camp under a hut of branches, so that the important operation could be followed night and day.

This settled, they set out in the morning. Neb and Pencroft dragged the bellows on a hurdle; also a quantity of vegetables and animals, which they besides could renew on the way.

The road led through Jacamar Wood, which they traversed obliquely from southeast to northwest, and in the thickest part. It was necessary to beat a path, which would in the future form the most direct road to Prospect Heights and Mount Franklin. The trees, belonging to the species already discovered, were magnificent. Herbert found some new ones, among others some which Pencroft called “sham leeks”; for, in spite of their size, they were of the same liliaceous family as the onion, chive, shallot, or asparagus. These trees produce ligneous roots which, when cooked, are excellent; from them, by fermentation, a very agreeable liquor is made. They therefore made a good store of the roots.

The journey through the wood was long; it lasted the whole day, and so allowed plenty of time for examining the flora and fauna. Top, who took special charge of the fauna, ran through the grass and brushwood, putting up all sorts of game. Herbert and Gideon Spilett killed two kangaroos with bows and arrows, and also an animal which strongly resembled both a hedgehog and an ant-eater. It was like the first because it rolled itself into a ball, and bristled with spines, and the second because it had sharp claws, a long slender snout which terminated in a bird’s beak, and an extendible tongue, covered with little thorns which served to hold the insects.

“And when it is in the pot,” asked Pencroft naturally, “what will it be like?”

“An excellent piece of beef,” replied Herbert.

“We will not ask more from it,” replied the sailor.

During this excursion they saw several wild boars, which however, did not offer to attack the little band, and it appeared as if they would not meet with any dangerous beasts; when, in a thick part of the wood, the reporter thought he saw, some paces from him, among the lower branches of a tree, an animal which he took for a bear, and which he very tranquilly began to draw. Happily for Gideon Spilett, the animal in question did not belong to the redoubtable family of the plantigrades. It was only a koala, better known under the name of the sloth, being about the size of a large dog, and having stiff hair of a dirty color, the paws armed with strong claws, which enabled it to climb trees and feed on the leaves. Having identified the animal, which they did not disturb, Gideon Spilett erased “bear” from the title of his sketch, putting koala in its place, and the journey was resumed.

At five o’clock in the evening, Cyrus Harding gave the signal to halt. They were now outside the forest, at the beginning of the powerful spurs which supported Mount Franklin towards the west. At a distance of some hundred feet flowed the Red Creek, and consequently plenty of fresh water was within their reach.

The camp was soon organized. In less than an hour, on the edge of the forest, among the trees, a hut of branches interlaced with creepers, and pasted over with clay, offered a tolerable shelter. Their geological researches were put off till the next day. Supper was prepared, a good fire blazed before the hut, the roast turned, and at eight o’clock, while one of the settlers watched to keep up the fire, in case any wild beasts should prowl in the neighborhood, the others slept soundly.

The next day, the 21st of April, Cyrus Harding accompanied by Herbert, went to look for the soil of ancient formation, on which he had already discovered a specimen of ore. They found the vein above ground, near the source of the creek, at the foot of one of the northeastern spurs. This ore, very rich in iron, enclosed in its fusible veinstone, was perfectly suited to the mode of reduction which the engineer intended to employ; that is, the Catalan method, but simplified, as it is used in Corsica. In fact, the Catalan method, properly so called, requires the construction of kilns and crucibles, in which the ore and the coal, placed in alternate layers, are transformed and reduced, But Cyrus Harding intended to economize these constructions, and wished simply to form, with the ore and the coal, a cubic mass, to the center of which he would direct the wind from his bellows. Doubtless, it was the proceeding employed by Tubalcain, and the first metallurgists of the inhabited world. Now that which had succeeded with the grandson of Adam, and which still yielded good results in countries rich in ore and fuel, could not but succeed with the settlers in Lincoln Island.

The coal, as well as the ore, was collected without trouble on the surface of the ground. They first broke the ore into little pieces, and cleansed them with the hand from the impurities which soiled their surface. Then coal and ore were arranged in heaps and in successive layers, as the charcoal-burner does with the wood which he wishes to carbonize. In this way, under the influence of the air projected by the blowing-machine, the coal would be transformed into carbonic acid, then into oxide of carbon, its use being to reduce the oxide of iron, that is to say, to rid it of the oxygen.

Thus the engineer proceeded. The bellows of sealskin, furnished at its extremity with a nozzle of clay, which had been previously fabricated in the pottery kiln, was established near the heap of ore. Using the mechanism which consisted of a frame, cords of fiber and counterpoise, he threw into the mass an abundance of air, which by raising the temperature also concurred with the chemical transformation to produce in time pure iron.

The operation was difficult. All the patience, all the ingenuity of the settlers was needed; but at last it succeeded, and the result was a lump of iron, reduced to a spongy state, which it was necessary to shingle and fagot, that is to say, to forge so as to expel from it the liquefied veinstone. These amateur smiths had, of course, no hammer; but they were in no worse a situation than the first metallurgist, and therefore did what, no doubt, he had to do.

A handle was fixed to the first lump, and was used as a hammer to forge the second on a granite anvil, and thus they obtained a coarse but useful metal. At length, after many trials and much fatigue, on the 25th of April several bars of iron were forged, and transformed into tools, crowbars, pincers, pickaxes, spades, etc. which Pencroft and Neb declared to be real jewels. But the metal was not yet in its most serviceable state, that is, of steel. Now steel is a combination of iron and coal, which is extracted, either from the liquid ore, by taking from it the excess of coal, or from the iron by adding to it the coal which was wanting. The first, obtained by the decarburation of the metal, gives natural or puddled steel; the second, produced by the carburation of the iron, gives steel of cementation.

It was the last which Cyrus Harding intended to forge, as he possessed iron in a pure state. He succeeded by heating the metal with powdered coal in a crucible which had previously been manufactured from clay suitable for the purpose.

He then worked this steel, which is malleable both when hot or cold, with the hammer. Neb and Pencroft, cleverly directed, made hatchets, which, heated red-hot, and plunged suddenly into cold water, acquired an excellent temper.

Other instruments, of course roughly fashioned, were also manufactured; blades for planes, axes, hatchets, pieces of steel to be transformed into saws, chisels; then iron for spades, pickaxes, hammers, nails, etc. At last, on the 5th of May, the metallic period ended, the smiths returned to the Chimneys, and new work would soon authorize them to take a fresh title.

CHAPTER 16

It was the 6th of May, a day which corresponds to the 6th of November in the countries of the Northern Hemisphere. The sky had been obscured for some days, and it was of importance to make preparations for the winter. However, the temperature was not as yet much lower, and a centigrade thermometer, transported to Lincoln Island, would still have marked an average of ten to twelve degrees above zero. This was not surprising, since Lincoln Island, probably situated between the thirty-fifth and fortieth parallel, would be subject, in the Southern Hemisphere, to the same climate as Sicily or Greece in the Northern Hemisphere. But as Greece and Sicily have severe cold, producing snow and ice, so doubtless would Lincoln Island in the severest part of the winter and it was advisable to provide against it.

In any case if cold did not yet threaten them, the rainy season would begin, and on this lonely island, exposed to all the fury of the elements, in mid-ocean, bad weather would be frequent, and probably terrible. The question of a more comfortable dwelling than the Chimneys must therefore be seriously considered and promptly resolved on.

Pencroft, naturally, had some predilection for the retreat which he had discovered, but he well understood that another must be found. The Chimneys had been already visited by the sea, under circumstances which are known, and it would not do to be exposed again to a similar accident.

“Besides,” added Cyrus Harding, who this day was talking of these things with his companions, “we have some precautions to take.”

“Why? The island is not inhabited,” said the reporter.

“That is probable,” replied the engineer, “although we have not yet explored the interior; but if no human beings are found, I fear that dangerous animals may abound. It is necessary to guard against a possible attack, so that we shall not be obliged to watch every night, or to keep up a fire. And then, my friends, we must foresee everything. We are here in a part of the Pacific often frequented by Malay pirates — ”

“What!” said Herbert, “at such a distance from land?”

“Yes, my boy,” replied the engineer. “These pirates are bold sailors as well as formidable enemies, and we must take measures accordingly.”

“Well,” replied Pencroft, “we will fortify ourselves against savages with two legs as well as against savages with four. But, captain, will it not be best to explore every part of the island before undertaking anything else?”

“That would be best,” added Gideon Spilett.

“Who knows if we might not find on the opposite side one of the caverns which we have searched for in vain here?”

“That is true,” replied the engineer, “but you forget, my friends, that it will be necessary to establish ourselves in the neighborhood of a watercourse, and that, from the summit of Mount Franklin, we could not see towards the west, either stream or river. Here, on the contrary, we are placed between the Mercy and Lake Grant, an advantage which must not be neglected. And, besides, this side, looking towards the east, is not exposed as the other is to the trade-winds, which in this hemisphere blow from the northwest.”

“Then, captain,” replied the sailor, “let us build a house on the edge of the lake. Neither bricks nor tools are wanting now. After having been brickmakers, potters, smelters, and smiths, we shall surely know how to be masons!”

“Yes, my friend; but before coming to any decision we must consider the matter thoroughly. A natural dwelling would spare us much work, and would be a surer retreat, for it would be as well defended against enemies from the interior as those from outside.”

“That is true, Cyrus,” replied the reporter, “but we have already examined all that mass of granite, and there is not a hole, not a cranny!”

“No, not one!” added Pencroft. “Ah, if we were able to dig out a dwelling in that cliff, at a good height, so as to be out of the reach of harm, that would be capital! I can see that on the front which looks seaward, five or six rooms — ”

“With windows to light them!” said Herbert, laughing.

“And a staircase to climb up to them!” added Neb.

“You are laughing,” cried the sailor, “and why? What is there impossible in what I propose? Haven’t we got pickaxes and spades? Won’t Captain Harding be able to make powder to blow up the mine? Isn’t it true, captain, that you will make powder the very day we want it?”

Cyrus Harding listened to the enthusiastic Pencroft developing his fanciful projects. To attack this mass of granite, even by a mine, was Herculean work, and it was really vexing that nature could not help them at their need. But the engineer did not reply to the sailor except by proposing to examine the cliff more attentively, from the mouth of the river to the angle which terminated it on the north.

They went out, therefore, and the exploration was made with extreme care, over an extent of nearly two miles. But in no place in the bare, straight cliff, could any cavity be found. The nests of the rock pigeons which fluttered at its summit were only, in reality, holes bored at the very top, and on the irregular edge of the granite.

It was a provoking circumstance, and as to attacking this cliff, either with pickaxe or with powder, so as to effect a sufficient excavation, it was not to be thought of. It so happened that, on all this part of the shore, Pencroft had discovered the only habitable shelter, that is to say, the Chimneys, which now had to be abandoned.

The exploration ended, the colonists found themselves at the north angle of the cliff, where it terminated in long slopes which died away on the shore. From this place, to its extreme limit in the west, it only formed a sort of declivity, a thick mass of stones, earth, and sand, bound together by plants, bushes, and grass inclined at an angle of only forty-five degrees. Clumps of trees grew on these slopes, which were also carpeted with thick grass. But the vegetation did not extend far, and a long, sandy plain, which began at the foot of these slopes, reached to the beach.

Cyrus Harding thought, not without reason, that the overplus of the lake must overflow on this side. The excess of water furnished by the Red Creek must also escape by some channel or other. Now the engineer had not yet found this channel on any part of the shore already explored, that is to say, from the mouth of the stream on the west of Prospect Heights.

The engineer now proposed to his companions to climb the slope, and to return to the Chimneys by the heights, while exploring the northern and eastern shores of the lake. The proposal was accepted, and in a few minutes Herbert and Neb were on the upper plateau. Cyrus Harding, Gideon Spilett, and Pencroft followed with more sedate steps.

The beautiful sheet of water glittered through the trees under the rays of the sun. In this direction the country was charming. The eye feasted on the groups of trees. Some old trunks, bent with age, showed black against the verdant grass which covered the ground. Crowds of brilliant cockatoos screamed among the branches, moving prisms, hopping from one bough to another.

The settlers instead of going directly to the north bank of the lake, made a circuit round the edge of the plateau, so as to join the mouth of the creek on its left bank. It was a detour of more than a mile and a half. Walking was easy, for the trees widely spread, left a considerable space between them. The fertile zone evidently stopped at this point, and vegetation would be less vigorous in the part between the course of the Creek and the Mercy.

Cyrus Harding and his companions walked over this new ground with great care. Bows, arrows, and sticks with sharp iron points were their only weapons. However, no wild beast showed itself, and it was probable that these animals frequented rather the thick forests in the south; but the settlers had the disagreeable surprise of seeing Top stop before a snake of great size, measuring from fourteen to fifteen feet in length. Neb killed it by a blow from his stick. Cyrus Harding examined the reptile, and declared it not venomous, for it belonged to that species of diamond serpents which the natives of New South Wales rear. But it was possible that others existed whose bite was mortal such as the deaf vipers with forked tails, which rise up under the feet, or those winged snakes, furnished with two ears, which enable them to proceed with great rapidity. Top, the first moment of surprise over, began a reptile chase with such eagerness, that they feared for his safety. His master called him back directly.

The mouth of the Red Creek, at the place where it entered into the lake, was soon reached. The explorers recognized on the opposite shore the point which they had visited on their descent from Mount Franklin. Cyrus Harding ascertained that the flow of water into it from the creek was considerable. Nature must therefore have provided some place for the escape of the overplus. This doubtless formed a fall, which, if it could be discovered, would be of great use.

The colonists, walking apart, but not straying far from each other, began to skirt the edge of the lake, which was very steep. The water appeared to be full of fish, and Pencroft resolved to make some fishing-rods, so as to try and catch some.

The northeast point was first to be doubled. It might have been supposed that the discharge of water was at this place, for the extremity of the lake was almost on a level with the edge of the plateau. But no signs of this were discovered, and the colonists continued to explore the bank, which, after a slight bend, descended parallel to the shore.

On this side the banks were less woody, but clumps of trees, here and there, added to the picturesqueness of the country. Lake Grant was viewed from thence in all its extent, and no breath disturbed the surface of its waters. Top, in beating the bushes, put up flocks of birds of different kinds, which Gideon Spilett and Herbert saluted with arrows. One was hit by the lad, and fell into some marshy grass. Top rushed forward, and brought a beautiful swimming bird, of a slate color, short beak, very developed frontal plate, and wings edged with white. It was a “coot,” the size of a large partridge, belonging to the group of macrodactyls which form the transition between the order of wading birds and that of palmipeds. Sorry game, in truth, and its flavor is far from pleasant. But Top was not so particular in these things as his masters, and it was agreed that the coot should be for his supper.

The settlers were now following the eastern bank of the lake, and they would not be long in reaching the part which they already knew. The engineer was much surprised at not seeing any indication of the discharge of water. The reporter and the sailor talked with him, and he could not conceal his astonishment.

At this moment Top, who had been very quiet till then, gave signs of agitation. The intelligent animal went backwards and forwards on the shore, stopped suddenly, and looked at the water, one paw raised, as if he was pointing at some invisible game; then he barked furiously, and was suddenly silent.

Neither Cyrus Harding nor his companions had at first paid any attention to Top’s behavior; but the dog’s barking soon became so frequent that the engineer noticed it.

“What is there, Top?” he asked.

The dog bounded towards his master, seeming to be very uneasy, and then rushed again towards the bank. Then, all at once, he plunged into the lake.

“Here, Top!” cried Cyrus Harding, who did not like his dog to venture into the treacherous water.

“What’s happening down there?” asked Pencroft, examining the surface of the lake.

“Top smells some amphibious creature,” replied Herbert.

“An alligator, perhaps,” said the reporter.

“I do not think so,” replied Harding. “Alligators are only met with in regions less elevated in latitude.”

Meanwhile Top had returned at his master’s call, and had regained the shore: but he could not stay quiet; he plunged in among the tall grass, and guided by instinct, he appeared to follow some invisible being which was slipping along under the surface of the water. However the water was calm; not a ripple disturbed its surface. Several times the settlers stopped on the bank, and observed it attentively. Nothing appeared. There was some mystery there.

The engineer was puzzled.

“Let us pursue this exploration to the end,” said he.

Half an hour after they had all arrived at the southeast angle of the lake, on Prospect Heights. At this point the examination of the banks of the lake was considered finished, and yet the engineer had not been able to discover how and where the waters were discharged. “There is no doubt this overflow exists,” he repeated, “and since it is not visible it must go through the granite cliff at the west!”

“But what importance do you attach to knowing that, my dear Cyrus?” asked Gideon Spilett.

“Considerable importance,” replied the engineer; “for if it flows through the cliff there is probably some cavity, which it would be easy to render habitable after turning away the water.”

“But is it not possible, captain, that the water flows away at the bottom of the lake,” said Herbert, “and that it reaches the sea by some subterranean passage?”

“That might be,” replied the engineer, “and should it be so we shall be obliged to build our house ourselves, since nature has not done it for us.”

The colonists were about to begin to traverse the plateau to return to the Chimneys, when Top gave new signs of agitation. He barked with fury, and before his master could restrain him, he had plunged a second time into the lake.

All ran towards the bank. The dog was already more than twenty feet off, and Cyrus was calling him back, when an enormous head emerged from the water, which did not appear to be deep in that place.

Herbert recognized directly the species of amphibian to which the tapering head, with large eyes, and adorned with long silky mustaches, belonged.

“A lamantin!” he cried.

It was not a lamantin, but one of that species of the order of cetaceans, which bear the name of the “dugong,” for its nostrils were open at the upper part of its snout. The enormous animal rushed on the dog, who tried to escape by returning towards the shore. His master could do nothing to save him, and before Gideon Spilett or Herbert thought of bending their bows, Top, seized by the dugong, had disappeared beneath the water.

Neb, his iron-tipped spear in his hand, wished to go to Top’s help, and attack the dangerous animal in its own element.

“No, Neb,” said the engineer, restraining his courageous servant.

Meanwhile, a struggle was going on beneath the water, an inexplicable struggle, for in his situation Top could not possibly resist; and judging by the bubbling of the surface it must be also a terrible struggle, and could not but terminate in the death of the dog! But suddenly, in the middle of a foaming circle, Top reappeared. Thrown in the air by some unknown power, he rose ten feet above the surface of the lake, fell again into the midst of the agitated waters, and then soon gained the shore, without any severe wounds, miraculously saved.

Cyrus Harding and his companions could not understand it. What was not less inexplicable was that the struggle still appeared to be going on. Doubtless, the dugong, attacked by some powerful animal, after having released the dog, was fighting on its own account. But it did not last long. The water became red with blood, and the body of the dugong, emerging from the sheet of scarlet which spread around, soon stranded on a little beach at the south angle of the lake. The colonists ran towards it. The dugong was dead. It was an enormous animal, fifteen or sixteen feet long, and must have weighed from three to four thousand pounds. At its neck was a wound, which appeared to have been produced by a sharp blade.

What could the amphibious creature have been, who, by this terrible blow had destroyed the formidable dugong? No one could tell, and much interested in this incident, Harding and his companions returned to the Chimneys.

CHAPTER 19

The next day, the 22nd of May, the arrangement of their new dwelling was commenced. In fact, the settlers longed to exchange the insufficient shelter of the Chimneys for this large and healthy retreat, in the midst of solid rock, and sheltered from the water both of the sea and sky. Their former dwelling was not, however, to be entirely abandoned, for the engineer intended to make a manufactory of it for important works. Cyrus Harding’s first care was to find out the position of the front of Granite House from the outside. He went to the beach, and as the pickaxe when it escaped from the hands of the reporter must have fallen perpendicularly to the foot of the cliff, the finding it would be sufficient to show the place where the hole had been pierced in the granite.

The pickaxe was easily found, and the hole could be seen in a perpendicular line above the spot where it was stuck in the sand. Some rock pigeons were already flying in and out of the narrow opening; they evidently thought that Granite House had been discovered on purpose for them. It was the engineer’s intention to divide the right portion of the cavern into several rooms, preceded by an entrance passage, and to light it by means of five windows and a door, pierced in the front. Pencroft was much pleased with the five windows, but he could not understand the use of the door, since the passage offered a natural staircase, through which it would always be easy to enter Granite House.

“My friend,” replied Harding, “if it is easy for us to reach our dwelling by this passage, it will be equally easy for others besides us. I mean, on the contrary, to block up that opening, to seal it hermetically, and, if it is necessary, to completely hide the entrance by making a dam, and thus causing the water of the lake to rise.”

“And how shall we get in?” asked the sailor.

“By an outside ladder,” replied Cyrus Harding, “a rope ladder, which, once drawn up, will render access to our dwelling impossible.”

“But why so many precautions?” asked Pencroft. “As yet we have seen no dangerous animals. As to our island being inhabited by natives, I don’t believe it!”

“Are you quite sure of that, Pencroft?” asked the engineer, looking at the sailor.

“Of course we shall not be quite sure, till we have explored it in every direction,” replied Pencroft.

“Yes,” said Harding, “for we know only a small portion of it as yet. But at any rate, if we have no enemies in the interior, they may come from the exterior, for parts of the Pacific are very dangerous. We must be provided against every contingency.”

Cyrus Harding spoke wisely; and without making any further objection, Pencroft prepared to execute his orders.

The front of Granite House was then to be lighted by five windows and a door, besides a large bay window and some smaller oval ones, which would admit plenty of light to enter into the marvelous nave which was to be their chief room. This facade, situated at a height of eighty feet above the ground, was exposed to the east, and the rising sun saluted it with its first rays. It was found to be just at that part of the cliff which was between the projection at the mouth of the Mercy and a perpendicular line traced above the heap of rocks which formed the Chimneys. Thus the winds from the northeast would only strike it obliquely, for it was protected by the projection. Besides, until the window-frames were made, the engineer meant to close the openings with thick shutters, which would prevent either wind or rain from entering, and which could be concealed in need.

The first work was to make the openings. This would have taken too long with the pickaxe alone, and it is known that Harding was an ingenious man. He had still a quantity of nitro-glycerine at his disposal, and he employed it usefully. By means of this explosive substance the rock was broken open at the very places chosen by the engineer. Then, with the pickaxe and spade, the windows and doors were properly shaped, the jagged edges were smoothed off, and a few days after the beginning of the work, Granite House was abundantly lighted by the rising sun, whose rays penetrated into its most secret recesses. Following the plan proposed by Cyrus Harding, the space was to be divided into five compartments looking out on the sea; to the right, an entry with a door, which would meet the ladder; then a kitchen, thirty feet long; a dining-room, measuring forty feet; a sleeping-room, of equal size; and lastly, a “Visitor’s room,” petitioned for by Pencroft, and which was next to the great hall. These rooms, or rather this suite of rooms, would not occupy all the depth of the cave. There would be also a corridor and a storehouse, in which their tools, provisions, and stores would be kept. All the productions of the island, the flora as well as the fauna, were to be there in the best possible state of preservation, and completely sheltered from the damp. There was no want of space, so that each object could be methodically arranged. Besides, the colonists had still at their disposal the little grotto above the great cavern, which was like the garret of the new dwelling.

This plan settled, it had only to be put into execution. The miners became brickmakers again, then the bricks were brought to the foot of Granite House. Till then, Harding and his companions had only entered the cavern by the long passage. This mode of communication obliged them first to climb Prospect Heights, making a detour by the river’s bank, and then to descend two hundred feet through the passage, having to climb as far when they wished to return to the plateau. This was a great loss of time, and was also very fatiguing. Cyrus Harding, therefore, resolved to proceed without any further delay to the fabrication of a strong rope ladder, which, once raised, would render Granite House completely inaccessible.

This ladder was manufactured with extreme care, and its uprights, formed of the twisted fibers of a species of cane, had the strength of a thick cable. As to the rounds, they were made of a sort of red cedar, with light, strong branches; and this apparatus was wrought by the masterly hand of Pencroft.

Other ropes were made with vegetable fibers, and a sort of crane with a tackle was fixed at the door. In this way bricks could easily be raised into Granite House. The transport of the materials being thus simplified, the arrangement of the interior could begin immediately. There was no want of lime, and some thousands of bricks were there ready to be used. The framework of the partitions was soon raised, very roughly at first, and in a short time, the cave was divided into rooms and storehouses, according to the plan agreed upon.

These different works progressed rapidly under the direction of the engineer, who himself handled the hammer and the trowel. No labor came amiss to Cyrus Harding, who thus set an example to his intelligent and zealous companions. They worked with confidence, even gaily, Pencroft always having some joke to crack, sometimes carpenter, sometimes rope-maker, sometimes mason, while he communicated his good humor to all the members of their little world. His faith in the engineer was complete; nothing could disturb it. He believed him capable of undertaking anything and succeeding in everything. The question of boots and clothes — assuredly a serious question, — that of light during the winter months, utilizing the fertile parts of the island, transforming the wild flora into cultivated flora, it all appeared easy to him; Cyrus Harding helping, everything would be done in time. He dreamed of canals facilitating the transport of the riches of the ground; workings of quarries and mines; machines for every industrial manufacture; railroads; yes, railroads! of which a network would certainly one day cover Lincoln Island.

The engineer let Pencroft talk. He did not put down the aspirations of this brave heart. He knew how communicable confidence is; he even smiled to hear him speak, and said nothing of the uneasiness for the future which he felt. In fact, in that part of the Pacific, out of the course of vessels, it was to be feared that no help would ever come to them. It was on themselves, on themselves alone, that the settlers must depend, for the distance of Lincoln Island from all other land was such, that to hazard themselves in a boat, of a necessarily inferior construction, would be a serious and perilous thing.

“But,” as the sailor said, “they quite took the wind out of the sails of the Robinsons, for whom everything was done by a miracle.”

In fact, they were energetic; an energetic man will succeed where an indolent one would vegetate and inevitably perish.

Herbert distinguished himself in these works. He was intelligent and active; understanding quickly, he performed well; and Cyrus Harding became more and more attached to the boy. Herbert had a lively and reverent love for the engineer. Pencroft saw the close sympathy which existed between the two, but he was not in the least jealous. Neb was Neb: he was what he would be always, courage, zeal, devotion, self-denial personified. He had the same faith in his master that Pencroft had, but he showed it less vehemently. When the sailor was enthusiastic, Neb always looked as if he would say, “Nothing could be more natural.” Pencroft and he were great friends.

As to Gideon Spilett, he took part in the common work, and was not less skilful in it than his companions, which always rather astonished the sailor. A “journalist,” clever, not only in understanding, but in performing everything.

The ladder was finally fixed on the 28th of May. There were not less than a hundred rounds in this perpendicular height of eighty feet. Harding had been able, fortunately, to divide it in two parts, profiting by an overhanging of the cliff which made a projection forty feet above the ground. This projection, carefully leveled by the pickaxe, made a sort of platform, to which they fixed the first ladder, of which the oscillation was thus diminished one-half, and a rope permitted it to be raised to the level of Granite House. As to the second ladder, it was secured both at its lower part, which rested on the projection, and at its upper end, which was fastened to the door. In short the ascent had been made much easier. Besides, Cyrus Harding hoped later to establish an hydraulic apparatus, which would avoid all fatigue and loss of time, for the inhabitants of Granite House.

The settlers soon became habituated to the use of this ladder. They were light and active, and Pencroft, as a sailor, accustomed to run up the masts and shrouds, was able to give them lessons. But it was also necessary to give them to Top. The poor dog, with his four paws, was not formed for this sort of exercise. But Pencroft was such a zealous master, that Top ended by properly performing his ascents, and soon mounted the ladder as readily as his brethren in the circus. It need not be said that the sailor was proud of his pupil. However, more than once Pencroft hoisted him on his back, which Top never complained of.

It must be mentioned here, that during these works, which were actively conducted, for the bad season was approaching, the alimentary question was not neglected. Every day, the reporter and Herbert, who had been voted purveyors to the colony, devoted some hours to the chase. As yet, they only hunted in Jacamar Wood, on the left of the river, because, for want of a bridge or boat, the Mercy had not yet been crossed. All the immense woods, to which the name of the Forests of the Far West had been given, were not explored. They reserved this important excursion for the first fine days of the next spring. But Jacamar Wood was full of game; kangaroos and boars abounded, and the hunters iron-tipped spears and bows and arrows did wonders. Besides, Herbert discovered towards the southwest point of the lagoon a natural warren, a slightly damp meadow, covered with willows and aromatic herbs which scented the air, such as thyme, basil, savory, all the sweet-scented species of the labiated plants, which the rabbits appeared to be particularly fond of.

On the reporter observing that since the table was spread for the rabbits, it was strange that the rabbits themselves should be wanting, the two sportsmen carefully explored the warren. At any rate, it produced an abundance of useful plants, and a naturalist would have had a good opportunity of studying many specimens of the vegetable kingdom. Herbert gathered several shoots of the basil, rosemary, balm, betony, etc. which possess different medicinal properties, some pectoral, astringent, febrifuge, others anti-spasmodic, or anti-rheumatic. When, afterwards, Pencroft asked the use of this collection of herbs, —

“For medicine,” replied the lad, “to treat us when we are ill.”

“Why should we be ill, since there are no doctors in the island?” asked Pencroft quite seriously.

There was no reply to be made to that, but the lad went on with his collection all the same, and it was well received at Granite House. Besides these medicinal herbs, he added a plant known in North America as “Oswego tea,” which made an excellent beverage.

At last, by searching thoroughly, the hunters arrived at the real site of the warren. There the ground was perforated like a sieve.

“Here are the burrows!” cried Herbert.

“Yes,” replied the reporter, “so I see.”

“But are they inhabited?”

“That is the question.”

This was soon answered. Almost immediately, hundreds of little animals, similar to rabbits, fled in every direction, with such rapidity that even Top could not overtake them. Hunters and dog ran in vain; these rodents escaped them easily. But the reporter resolved not to leave the place, until he had captured at least half-a-dozen of the quadrupeds. He wished to stock their larder first, and domesticate those which they might take later. It would not have been difficult to do this, with a few snares stretched at the openings of the burrows. But at this moment they had neither snares, nor anything to make them of. They must, therefore, be satisfied with visiting each hole, and rummaging in it with a stick, hoping by dint of patience to do what could not be done in any other way.

At last, after half an hour, four rodents were taken in their holes. They were similar to their European brethren, and are commonly known by the name of American rabbits.

This produce of the chase was brought back to Granite House, and figured at the evening repast. The tenants of the warren were not at all to be despised, for they were delicious. It was a valuable resource of the colony, and it appeared to be inexhaustible.

On the 31st of May the partitions were finished. The rooms had now only to be furnished, and this would be work for the long winter days. A chimney was established in the first room, which served as a kitchen. The pipe destined to conduct the smoke outside gave some trouble to these amateur bricklayers. It appeared simplest to Harding to make it of brick clay; as creating an outlet for it to the upper plateau was not to be thought of, a hole was pierced in the granite above the window of the kitchen, and the pipe met it like that of an iron stove. Perhaps the winds which blew directly against the facade would make the chimney smoke, but these winds were rare, and besides, Master Neb, the cook, was not so very particular about that.

When these interior arrangements were finished, the engineer occupied himself in blocking up the outlet by the lake, so as to prevent any access by that way. Masses of rock were rolled to the entrance and strongly cemented together. Cyrus Harding did not yet realize his plan of drowning this opening under the waters of the lake, by restoring them to their former level by means of a dam. He contented himself with hiding the obstruction with grass and shrubs, which were planted in the interstices of the rocks, and which next spring would sprout thickly. However, he used the waterfall so as to lead a small stream of fresh water to the new dwelling. A little trench, made below their level, produced this result; and this derivation from a pure and inexhaustible source yielded twenty-five or thirty gallons a day. There would never be any want of water at Granite House. At last all was finished, and it was time, for the bad season was near. Thick shutters closed the windows of the facade, until the engineer had time to make glass.

Gideon Spilett had very artistically arranged on the rocky projections around the windows plants of different kinds, as well as long streaming grass, so that the openings were picturesquely framed in green, which had a pleasing effect.

The inhabitants of this solid, healthy, and secure dwelling, could not but be charmed with their work. The view from the windows extended over a boundless horizon, which was closed by the two Mandible Capes on the north, and Claw Cape on the south. All Union Bay was spread before them. Yes, our brave settlers had reason to be satisfied, and Pencroft was lavish in his praise of what he humorously called, “his apartments on the fifth floor above the ground!”

CHAPTER 20

The winter season set in with the month of June, which corresponds with the month of December in the Northern Hemisphere. It began with showers and squalls, which succeeded each other without intermission. The tenants of Granite House could appreciate the advantages of a dwelling which sheltered them from the inclement weather. The Chimneys would have been quite insufficient to protect them against the rigor of winter, and it was to be feared that the high tides would make another irruption. Cyrus Harding had taken precautions against this contingency, so as to preserve as much as possible the forge and furnace which were established there.

During the whole of the month of June the time was employed in different occupations, which excluded neither hunting nor fishing, the larder being, therefore, abundantly supplied. Pencroft, so soon as he had leisure, proposed to set some traps, from which he expected great results. He soon made some snares with creepers, by the aid of which the warren henceforth every day furnished its quota of rodents. Neb employed nearly all his time in salting or smoking meat, which insured their always having plenty of provisions. The question of clothes was now seriously discussed, the settlers having no other garments than those they wore when the balloon threw them on the island. These clothes were warm and good; they had taken great care of them as well as of their linen, and they were perfectly whole, but they would soon need to be replaced. Moreover, if the winter was severe, the settlers would suffer greatly from cold.

On this subject the ingenuity of Harding was at fault. They must provide for their most pressing wants, settle their dwelling, and lay in a store of food; thus the cold might come upon them before the question of clothes had been settled. They must therefore make up their minds to pass this first winter without additional clothing. When the fine season came round again, they would regularly hunt those musmons which had been seen on the expedition to Mount Franklin, and the wool once collected, the engineer would know how to make it into strong warm stuff… How? He would consider.

“Well, we are free to roast ourselves at Granite House!” said Pencroft. “There are heaps of fuel, and no reason for sparing it.”

“Besides,” added Gideon Spilett, “Lincoln Island is not situated under a very high latitude, and probably the winters here are not severe. Did you not say, Cyrus, that this thirty-fifth parallel corresponded to that of Spain in the other hemisphere?”

“Doubtless,” replied the engineer, “but some winters in Spain are very cold! No want of snow and ice; and perhaps Lincoln Island is just as rigourously tried. However, it is an island, and as such, I hope that the temperature will be more moderate.”

“Why, captain?” asked Herbert.

“Because the sea, my boy, may be considered as an immense reservoir, in which is stored the heat of the summer. When winter comes, it restores this heat, which insures for the regions near the ocean a medium temperature, less high in summer, but less low in winter.”

“We shall prove that,” replied Pencroft. “But I don’t want to bother myself about whether it will be cold or not. One thing is certain, that is that the days are already short, and the evenings long. Suppose we talk about the question of light.”

“Nothing is easier,” replied Harding.

“To talk about?” asked the sailor.

“To settle.”

“And when shall we begin?”

“To-morrow, by having a seal hunt.”

“To make candles?”

“Yes.”

Such was the engineer’s project; and it was quite feasible, since he had lime and sulphuric acid, while the amphibians of the islet would furnish the fat necessary for the manufacture.

They were now at the 4th of June. It was Whit Sunday and they agreed to observe this feast. All work was suspended, and prayers were offered to Heaven. But these prayers were now thanksgivings. The settlers in Lincoln Island were no longer the miserable castaways thrown on the islet. They asked for nothing more — they gave thanks. The next day, the 5th of June, in rather uncertain weather, they set out for the islet. They had to profit by the low tide to cross the Channel, and it was agreed that they would construct, for this purpose, as well as they could, a boat which would render communication so much easier, and would also permit them to ascend the Mercy, at the time of their grand exploration of the southwest of the island, which was put off till the first fine days.

The seals were numerous, and the hunters, armed with their iron-tipped spears, easily killed half-a-dozen. Neb and Pencroft skinned them, and only brought back to Granite House their fat and skin, this skin being intended for the manufacture of boots.

The result of the hunt was this: nearly three hundred pounds of fat, all to be employed in the fabrication of candles.

The operation was extremely simple, and if it did not yield absolutely perfect results, they were at least very useful. Cyrus Harding would only have had at his disposal sulphuric acid, but by heating this acid with the neutral fatty bodies he could separate the glycerine; then from this new combination, he easily separated the olein, the margarin, and the stearin, by employing boiling water. But to simplify the operation, he preferred to saponify the fat by means of lime. By this he obtained a calcareous soap, easy to decompose by sulphuric acid, which precipitated the lime into the state of sulphate, and liberated the fatty acids.

From these three acids-oleic, margaric, and stearic-the first, being liquid, was driven out by a sufficient pressure. As to the two others, they formed the very substance of which the candles were to be molded.

This operation did not last more than four and twenty hours. The wicks, after several trials, were made of vegetable fibers, and dipped in the liquefied substance, they formed regular stearic candles, molded by the hand, which only wanted whiteness and polish. They would not doubtless have the advantages of the wicks which are impregnated with boracic acid, and which vitrify as they burn and are entirely consumed, but Cyrus Harding having manufactured a beautiful pair of snuffers, these candles would be greatly appreciated during the long evenings in Granite House.

During this month there was no want of work in the interior of their new dwelling. The joiners had plenty to do. They improved their tools, which were very rough, and added others also.

Scissors were made among other things, and the settlers were at last able to cut their hair, and also to shave, or at least trim their beards. Herbert had none, Neb but little, but their companions were bristling in a way which justified the making of the said scissors.

The manufacture of a hand-saw cost infinite trouble, but at last an instrument was obtained which, when vigorously handled, could divide the ligneous fibers of the wood. They then made tables, seats, cupboards, to furnish the principal rooms, and bedsteads, of which all the bedding consisted of grass mattresses. The kitchen, with its shelves, on which rested the cooking utensils, its brick stove, looked very well, and Neb worked away there as earnestly as if he was in a chemist’s laboratory.

But the joiners had soon to be replaced by carpenters. In fact, the waterfall created by the explosion rendered the construction of two bridges necessary, one on Prospect Heights, the other on the shore. Now the plateau and the shore were transversely divided by a watercourse, which had to be crossed to reach the northern part of the island. To avoid it the colonists had been obliged to make a considerable detour, by climbing up to the source of the Red Creek. The simplest thing was to establish on the plateau, and on the shore, two bridges from twenty to five and twenty feet in length. All the carpenter’s work that was needed was to clear some trees of their branches: this was a business of some days. Directly the bridges were established, Neb and Pencroft profited by them to go to the oyster-bed which had been discovered near the downs. They dragged with them a sort of rough cart, which replaced the former inconvenient hurdle, and brought back some thousands of oysters, which soon increased among the rocks and formed a bed at the mouth of the Mercy. These molluscs were of excellent quality, and the colonists consumed some daily.

It has been seen that Lincoln Island, although its inhabitants had as yet only explored a small portion of it, already contributed to almost all their wants. It was probable that if they hunted into its most secret recesses, in all the wooded part between the Mercy and Reptile Point, they would find new treasures.

The settlers in Lincoln Island had still one privation. There was no want of meat, nor of vegetable products; those ligneous roots which they had found, when subjected to fermentation, gave them an acid drink, which was preferable to cold water; they also made sugar, without canes or beet-roots, by collecting the liquor which distils from the “acer saceharinum,” a sort of maple-tree, which flourishes in all the temperate zones, and of which the island possessed a great number; they made a very agreeable tea by employing the herbs brought from the warren; lastly, they had an abundance of salt, the only mineral which is used in food… but bread was wanting.

Perhaps in time the settlers could replace this want by some equivalent, it was possible that they might find the sago or the breadfruit tree among the forests of the south, but they had not as yet met with these precious trees. However, Providence came directly to their aid, in an infinitesimal proportion it is true, but Cyrus Harding, with all his intelligence, all his ingenuity, would never have been able to produce that which, by the greatest chance, Herbert one day found in the lining of his waistcoat, which he was occupied in setting to rights.

On this day, as it was raining in torrents, the settlers were assembled in the great hall in Granite House, when the lad cried out all at once, —

“Look here, captain — A grain of corn!”

And he showed his companions a grain — a single grain — which from a hole in his pocket had got into the lining of his waistcoat.

The presence of this grain was explained by the fact that Herbert, when at Richmond, used to feed some pigeons, of which Pencroft had made him a present.

“A grain of corn?” said the engineer quickly.

“Yes, captain; but one, only one!”

“Well, my boy,” said Pencroft, laughing, “we’re getting on capitally, upon my word! What shall we make with one grain of corn?”

“We will make bread of it,” replied Cyrus Harding.

“Bread, cakes, tarts!” replied the sailor. “Come, the bread that this grain of corn will make won’t choke us very soon!”

Herbert, not attaching much importance to his discovery, was going to throw away the grain in question; but Harding took it, examined it, found that it was in good condition, and looking the sailor full in the face — “Pencroft,” he asked quietly, “do you know how many ears one grain of corn can produce?”

“One, I suppose!” replied the sailor, surprised at the question.

“Ten, Pencroft! And do you know how many grains one ear bears?”

“No, upon my word.”

“About eighty!” said Cyrus Harding. “Then, if we plant this grain, at the first crop we shall reap eight hundred grains which at the second will produce six hundred and forty thousand; at the third, five hundred and twelve millions; at the fourth, more than four hundred thousands of millions! There is the proportion.”

Harding’s companions listened without answering. These numbers astonished them. They were exact, however.

“Yes, my friends,” continued the engineer, “such are the arithmetical progressions of prolific nature; and yet what is this multiplication of the grain of corn, of which the ear only bears eight hundred grains, compared to the poppy-plant, which bears thirty-two thousand seeds; to the tobacco-plant, which produces three hundred and sixty thousand? In a few years, without the numerous causes of destruction, which arrests their fecundity, these plants would overrun the earth.”

But the engineer had not finished his lecture.

“And now, Pencroft,” he continued, “do you know how many bushels four hundred thousand millions of grains would make?”

“No,” replied the sailor; “but what I do know is, that I am nothing better than a fool!”

“Well, they would make more than three millions, at a hundred and thirty thousand a bushel, Pencroft.”

“Three millions!” cried Pencroft.

“Three millions.”

“In four years?”

“In four years,” replied Cyrus Harding, “and even in two years, if, as I hope, in this latitude we can obtain two crops a year.”

At that, according to his usual custom, Pencroft could not reply otherwise than by a tremendous hurrah.

“So, Herbert,” added the engineer, “you have made a discovery of great importance to us. Everything, my friends, everything can serve us in the condition in which we are. Do not forget that, I beg of you.”

“No, captain, no, we shan’t forget it,” replied Pencroft; “and if ever I find one of those tobacco-seeds, which multiply by three hundred and sixty thousand, I assure you I won’t throw it away! And now, what must we do?”

“We must plant this grain,” replied Herbert.

“Yes,” added Gideon Spilett, “and with every possible care, for it bears in itself our future harvests.”

“Provided it grows!” cried the sailor.

“It will grow,” replied Cyrus Harding.

This was the 20th of June. The time was then propitious for sowing this single precious grain of corn. It was first proposed to plant it in a pot, but upon reflection it was decided to leave it to nature, and confide it to the earth. This was done that very day, and it is needless to add, that every precaution was taken that the experiment might succeed.

The weather having cleared, the settlers climbed the height above Granite House. There, on the plateau, they chose a spot, well sheltered from the wind, and exposed to all the heat of the midday sun. The place was cleared, carefully weeded, and searched for insects and worms; then a bed of good earth, improved with a little lime, was made; it was surrounded by a railing; and the grain was buried in the damp earth.

Did it not seem as if the settlers were laying the first stone of some edifice? It recalled to Pencroft the day on which he lighted his only match, and all the anxiety of the operation. But this time the thing was more serious. In fact, the castaways would have been always able to procure fire, in some mode or other, but no human power could supply another grain of corn, if unfortunately this should be lost!

CHAPTER 21

From this time Pencroft did not let a single day pass without going to visit what he gravely called his “corn-field.” And woe to the insects which dared to venture there! No mercy was shown them.

Towards the end of the month of June, after incessant rain, the weather became decidedly colder, and on the 29th a Fahrenheit thermometer would certainly have announced only twenty degrees above zero, that is considerably below the freezing-point. The next day, the 30th of June, the day which corresponds to the 31st of December in the northern year, was a Friday. Neb remarked that the year finished on a bad day, but Pencroft replied that naturally the next would begin on a good one, which was better.

At any rate it commenced by very severe cold. Ice accumulated at the mouth of the Mercy, and it was not long before the whole expanse of the lake was frozen.

The settlers had frequently been obliged to renew their store of wood. Pencroft also had wisely not waited till the river was frozen, but had brought enormous rafts of wood to their destination. The current was an indefatigable moving power, and it was employed in conveying the floating wood to the moment when the frost enchained it. To the fuel which was so abundantly supplied by the forest, they added several cartloads of coal, which had to be brought from the foot of the spurs of Mount Franklin. The powerful heat of the coal was greatly appreciated in the low temperature, which on the 4th of July fell to eight degrees of Fahrenheit, that is, thirteen degrees below zero. A second fireplace had been established in the dining-room, where they all worked together at their different avocations. During this period of cold, Cyrus Harding had great cause to congratulate himself on having brought to Granite House the little stream of water from Lake Grant. Taken below the frozen surface, and conducted through the passage, it preserved its fluidity, and arrived at an interior reservoir which had been hollowed out at the back part of the storeroom, while the overflow ran through the well to the sea.

About this time, the weather being extremely dry, the colonists, clothed as warmly as possible, resolved to devote a day to the exploration of that part of the island between the Mercy and Claw Cape. It was a wide extent of marshy land, and they would probably find good sport, for water-birds ought to swarm there.

They reckoned that it would be about eight or nine miles to go there, and as much to return, so that the whole of the day would be occupied. As an unknown part of the island was about to be explored, the whole colony took part in the expedition. Accordingly, on the 5th of July, at six o’clock in the morning, when day had scarcely broken, Cyrus Harding, Gideon Spilett, Herbert, Neb, and Pencroft, armed with spears, snares, bows and arrows, and provided with provisions, left Granite House, preceded by Top, who bounded before them.

Their shortest way was to cross the Mercy on the ice, which then covered it.

“But,” as the engineer justly observed, “that could not take the place of a regular bridge!” So, the construction of a regular bridge was noted in the list of future works.

It was the first time that the settlers had set foot on the right bank of the Mercy, and ventured into the midst of those gigantic and superb coniferae now sprinkled over with snow.

But they had not gone half a mile when from a thicket a whole family of quadrupeds, who had made a home there, disturbed by Top, rushed forth into the open country.

“Ah! I should say those are foxes!” cried Herbert, when he saw the troop rapidly decamping.

They were foxes, but of a very large size, who uttered a sort of barking, at which Top seemed to be very much astonished, for he stopped short in the chase, and gave the swift animals time to disappear.

The dog had reason to be surprised, as he did not know Natural History. But, by their barking, these foxes, with reddish-gray hair, black tails terminating in a white tuft, had betrayed their origin. So Herbert was able, without hesitating, to give them their real name of “Arctic foxes.” They are frequently met with in Chile, in the Falkland Islands, and in all parts of America traversed by the thirtieth and fortieth parallels. Herbert much regretted that Top had not been able to catch one of these carnivora.

“Are they good to eat?” asked Pencroft, who only regarded the representatives of the fauna in the island from one special point of view.

“No,” replied Herbert; “but zoologists have not yet found out if the eye of these foxes is diurnal or nocturnal, or whether it is correct to class them in the genus dog, properly so called.”

Harding could not help smiling on hearing the lad’s reflection, which showed a thoughtful mind. As to the sailor, from the moment when he found that the foxes were not classed in the genus eatable, they were nothing to him. However, when a poultry-yard was established at Granite House, he observed that it would be best to take some precautions against a probable visit from these four-legged plunderers, and no one disputed this.

After having turned the point, the settlers saw a long beach washed by the open sea. It was then eight o’clock in the morning. The sky was very clear, as it often is after prolonged cold; but warmed by their walk, neither Harding nor his companions felt the sharpness of the atmosphere too severely. Besides there was no wind, which made it much more bearable. A brilliant sun, but without any calorific action, was just issuing from the ocean. The sea was as tranquil and blue as that of a Mediterranean gulf, when the sky is clear. Claw Cape, bent in the form of a yataghan, tapered away nearly four miles to the southeast. To the left the edge of the marsh was abruptly ended by a little point. Certainly, in this part of Union Bay, which nothing sheltered from the open sea, not even a sandbank, ships beaten by the east winds would have found no shelter. They perceived by the tranquillity of the sea, in which no shallows troubled the waters, by its uniform color, which was stained by no yellow shades, by the absence of even a reef, that the coast was steep and that the ocean there covered a deep abyss. Behind in the west, but at a distance of four miles, rose the first trees of the forests of the Far West. They might have believed themselves to be on the desolate coast of some island in the Antarctic regions which the ice had invaded. The colonists halted at this place for breakfast. A fire of brushwood and dried seaweed was lighted, and Neb prepared the breakfast of cold meat, to which he added some cups of Oswego tea.

While eating they looked around them. This part of Lincoln Island was very sterile, and contrasted with all the western part. The reporter was thus led to observe that if chance had thrown them at first on the shore, they would have had but a deplorable idea of their future domain.

“I believe that we should not have been able to reach it,” replied the engineer, “for the sea is deep, and there is not a rock on which we could have taken refuge. Before Granite House, at least, there were sandbanks, an islet, which multiplied our chances of safety. Here, nothing but the depths!”

“It is singular enough,” remarked Spilett, “that this comparatively small island should present such varied ground. This diversity of aspect, logically only belongs to continents of a certain extent. One would really say, that the western part of Lincoln Island, so rich and so fertile, is washed by the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico, and that its shores to the north and the southeast extend over a sort of Arctic sea.”

“You are right, my dear Spilett,” replied Cyrus Harding, “I have also observed this. I think the form and also the nature of this island strange. It is a summary of all the aspects which a continent presents, and I should not be surprised if it was a continent formerly.”

“What! a continent in the middle of the Pacific?” cried Pencroft.

“Why not?” replied Cyrus Harding. “Why should not Australia, New Ireland, Australasia, united to the archipelagoes of the Pacific, have once formed a sixth part of the world, as important as Europe or Asia, as Africa or the two Americas? To my mind, it is quite possible that all these islands, emerging from this vast ocean, are but the summits of a continent, now submerged, but which was above the waters at a prehistoric period.”

“As the Atlantis was formerly,” replied Herbert.

“Yes, my boy… if, however, it existed.”

“And would Lincoln Island have been a part of that continent?” asked Pencroft.

“It is probable,” replied Cyrus Harding, “and that would sufficiently, explain the variety of productions which are seen on its surface.”

“And the great number of animals which still inhabit it,” added Herbert.

“Yes, my boy,” replied the engineer, “and you furnish me with an argument to support my theory. It is certain, after what we have seen, that animals are numerous in this island, and what is more strange, that the species are extremely varied. There is a reason for that, and to me it is that Lincoln Island may have formerly been a part of some vast continent which had gradually sunk below the Pacific.”

“Then, some fine day,” said Pencroft, who did not appear to be entirely convinced, “the rest of this ancient continent may disappear in its turn, and there will be nothing between America and Asia.”

“Yes,” replied Harding, “there will be new continents which millions and millions of animalculae are building at this moment.”

“And what are these masons?” asked Pencroft.

“Coral insects,” replied Cyrus Harding. “By constant work they made the island of Clermont-Tonnerre, and numerous other coral islands in the Pacific Ocean. Forty-seven millions of these insects are needed to weigh a grain, and yet, with the sea-salt they absorb, the solid elements of water which they assimilate, these animalculae produce limestone, and this limestone forms enormous submarine erections, of which the hardness and solidity equal granite. Formerly, at the first periods of creation, nature employing fire, heaved up the land, but now she entrusts to these microscopic creatures the task of replacing this agent, of which the dynamic power in the interior of the globe has evidently diminished — which is proved by the number of volcanoes on the surface of the earth, now actually extinct. And I believe that centuries succeeding to centuries, and insects to insects, this Pacific may one day be changed into a vast continent, which new generations will inhabit and civilize in their turn.”

“That will take a long time,” said Pencroft.

“Nature has time for it,” replied the engineer.

“But what would be the use of new continents?” asked Herbert. “It appears to me that the present extent of habitable countries is sufficient for humanity. Yet nature does nothing uselessly.”

“Nothing uselessly, certainly,” replied the engineer, “but this is how the necessity of new continents for the future, and exactly on the tropical zone occupied by the coral islands, may be explained. At least to me this explanation appears plausible.”

“We are listening, captain,” said Herbert.

“This is my idea: philosophers generally admit that some day our globe will end, or rather that animal and vegetable life will no longer be possible, because of the intense cold to which it will be subjected. What they are not agreed upon, is the cause of this cold. Some think that it will arise from the falling of the temperature, which the sun will experience after millions of years; others, from the gradual extinction of the fires in the interior of our globe, which have a greater influence on it than is generally supposed. I hold to this last hypothesis, grounding it on the fact that the moon is really a cold star, which is no longer habitable, although the sun continues to throw on its surface the same amount of heat. If, then, the moon has become cold, it is because the interior fires to which, as do all the stars of the stellar world, it owes its origin, are completely extinct. Lastly, whatever may be the cause, our globe will become cold some day, but this cold will only operate gradually. What will happen, then? The temperate zones, at a more or less distant period, will not be more habitable than the polar regions now are. Then the population of men, as well as the animals, will flow towards the latitudes which are more directly under the solar influence. An immense emigration will take place. Europe, Central Asia, North America, will gradually be abandoned, as well as Australasia and the lower parts of South America. The vegetation will follow the human emigration. The flora will retreat towards the Equator at the same time as the fauna. The central parts of South America and Africa will be the continents chiefly inhabited. The Laplanders and the Samoides will find the climate of the polar regions on the shores of the Mediterranean. Who can say, that at this period, the equatorial regions will not be too small, to contain and nourish terrestrial humanity? Now, may not provident nature, so as to give refuge to all the vegetable and animal emigration, be at present laying the foundation of a new continent under the Equator, and may she not have entrusted these insects with the construction of it? I have often thought of all these things, my friends, and I seriously believe that the aspect of our globe will some day be completely changed; that by the raising of new continents the sea will cover the old, and that, in future ages, a Columbus will go to discover the islands of Chimborazo, of the Himalayas, or of Mont Blanc, remains of a submerged America, Asia, and Europe. Then these new continents will become, in their turn, uninhabitable; heat will die away, as does the heat from a body when the soul has left it; and life will disappear from the globe, if not for ever, at least for a period. Perhaps then, our spheroid will rest — will be left to death — to revive some day under superior conditions! But all that, my friends, is the secret of the Author of all things; and beginning by the work of the insects, I have perhaps let myself be carried too far, in investigating the secrets of the future.

“My dear Cyrus,” replied Spilett, “these theories are prophecies to me, and they will be accomplished some day.”

“That is the secret of God,” said the engineer.

“All that is well and good,” then said Pencroft, who had listened with all his might, “but will you tell me, captain, if Lincoln Island has been made by your insects?”

“No,” replied Harding; “it is of a purely volcanic origin.”

“Then it will disappear some day?”

“That is probable.”

“I hope we won’t be here then.”

“No, don’t be uneasy, Pencroft; we shall not be here then, as we have no wish to die here, and hope to get away some time.”

“In the meantime,” replied Gideon Spilett, “let us establish ourselves here as if forever. There is no use in doing things by halves.”

This ended the conversation. Breakfast was finished, the exploration was continued, and the settlers arrived at the border of the marshy region. It was a marsh of which the extent, to the rounded coast which terminated the island at the southeast, was about twenty square miles. The soil was formed of clayey flint-earth, mingled with vegetable matter, such as the remains of rushes, reeds, grass, etc. Here and there beds of grass, thick as a carpet, covered it. In many places icy pools sparkled in the sun. Neither rain nor any river, increased by a sudden swelling, could supply these ponds. They therefore naturally concluded that the marsh was fed by the infiltrations of the soil and it was really so. It was also to be feared that during the heat miasmas would arise, which might produce fevers.

Above the aquatic plants, on the surface of the stagnant water, fluttered numbers of birds. Wild duck, teal, snipe lived there in flocks, and those fearless birds allowed themselves to be easily approached.

One shot from a gun would certainly have brought down some dozen of the birds, they were so close together. The explorers were, however, obliged to content themselves with bows and arrows. The result was less, but the silent arrow had the advantage of not frightening the birds, while the noise of firearms would have dispersed them to all parts of the marsh. The hunters were satisfied, for this time, with a dozen ducks, which had white bodies with a band of cinnamon, a green head, wings black, white, and red, and flattened beak. Herbert called them tadorns. Top helped in the capture of these birds, whose name was given to this marshy part of the island. The settlers had here an abundant reserve of aquatic game. At some future time they meant to explore it more carefully, and it was probable that some of the birds there might be domesticated, or at least brought to the shores of the lake, so that they would be more within their reach.

About five o’clock in the evening Cyrus Harding and his companions retraced their steps to their dwelling by traversing Tadorn’s Fens, and crossed the Mercy on the ice-bridge.

At eight in the evening they all entered Granite House.

CHAPTER 22

This intense cold lasted till the 15th of August, without, however, passing the degree of Fahrenheit already mentioned. When the atmosphere was calm, the low temperature was easily borne, but when the wind blew, the poor settlers, insufficiently clothed, felt it severely. Pencroft regretted that Lincoln Island was not the home of a few families of bears rather than of so many foxes and seals.

“Bears,” said he, “are generally very well dressed, and I ask no more than to borrow for the winter the warm cloaks which they have on their backs.”

“But,” replied Neb, laughing, “perhaps the bears would not consent to give you their cloaks, Pencroft. These beasts are not St. Martins.”

“We would make them do it, Neb, we would make them,” replied Pencroft, in quite an authoritative tone.

But these formidable carnivora did not exist in the island, or at any rate they had not yet shown themselves.

In the meanwhile, Herbert, Pencroft, and the reporter occupied themselves with making traps on Prospect Heights and at the border of the forest.

According to the sailor, any animal, whatever it was, would be a lawful prize, and the rodents or carnivora which might get into the new snares would be well received at Granite House.

The traps were besides extremely simple; being pits dug in the ground, a platform of branches and grass above, which concealed the opening, and at the bottom some bait, the scent of which would attract animals. It must be mentioned also, that they had not been dug at random, but at certain places where numerous footprints showed that quadrupeds frequented the ground. They were visited every day, and at three different times, during the first days, specimens of those Antarctic foxes which they had already seen on the right bank of the Mercy were found in them.

“Why, there are nothing but foxes in this country!” cried Pencroft, when for the third time he drew one of the animals out of the pit. Looking at it in great disgust, he added, “beasts which are good for nothing!”

“Yes,” said Gideon Spilett, “they are good for something!”

“And what is that?”

“To make bait to attract other creatures!”

The reporter was right, and the traps were henceforward baited with the foxes carcasses.

The sailor had also made snares from the long tough fibers of a certain plant, and they were even more successful than the traps. Rarely a day passed without some rabbits from the warren being caught. It was always rabbit, but Neb knew how to vary his sauces and the settlers did not think of complaining.

However, once or twice in the second week of August, the traps supplied the hunters with other animals more useful than foxes, namely, several of those small wild boars which had already been seen to the north of the lake. Pencroft had no need to ask if these beasts were eatable. He could see that by their resemblance to the pig of America and Europe.

“But these are not pigs,” said Herbert to him, “I warn you of that, Pencroft.”

“My boy,” replied the sailor, bending over the trap and drawing out one of these representatives of the family of sus by the little appendage which served it as a tail. “Let me believe that these are pigs.”

“Why?”

“Because that pleases me!”

“Are you very fond of pig then, Pencroft?”

“I am very fond of pig,” replied the sailor, “particularly of its feet, and if it had eight instead of four, I should like it twice as much!”

As to the animals in question, they were peccaries belonging to one of the four species which are included in the family, and they were also of the species of Tajacu, recognizable by their deep color and the absence of those long teeth with which the mouths of their congeners are armed. These peccaries generally live in herds, and it was probable that they abounded in the woody parts of the island.

At any rate, they were eatable from head to foot, and Pencroft did not ask more from them.

Towards the 15th of August, the state of the atmosphere was suddenly moderated by the wind shifting to the northwest. The temperature rose some degrees, and the accumulated vapor in the air was not long in resolving into snow. All the island was covered with a sheet of white, and showed itself to its inhabitants under a new aspect. The snow fell abundantly for several days, and it soon reached a thickness of two feet.

The wind also blew with great violence, and at the height of Granite House the sea could be heard thundering against the reefs. In some places, the wind, eddying round the corners, formed the snow into tall whirling columns, resembling those waterspouts which turn round on their base, and which vessels attack with a shot from a gun. However, the storm, coming from the northwest, blew across the island, and the position of Granite House preserved it from a direct attack.

But in the midst of this snow-storm, as terrible as if it had been produced in some polar country, neither Cyrus Harding nor his companions could, notwithstanding their wish for it, venture forth, and they remained shut up for five days, from the 20th to the 25th of August. They could hear the tempest raging in Jacamar Wood, which would surely suffer from it. Many of the trees would no doubt be torn up by the roots, but Pencroft consoled himself by thinking that he would not have the trouble of cutting them down.

“The wind is turning woodman, let it alone,” he repeated.

Besides, there was no way of stopping it, if they had wished to do so.

How grateful the inhabitants of Granite House then were to Heaven for having prepared for them this solid and immovable retreat! Cyrus Harding had also his legitimate share of thanks, but after all, it was Nature who had hollowed out this vast cavern, and he had only discovered it. There all were in safety, and the tempest could not reach them. If they had constructed a house of bricks and wood on Prospect Heights, it certainly would not have resisted the fury of this storm. As to the Chimneys, it must have been absolutely uninhabitable, for the sea, passing over the islet, would beat furiously against it. But here, in Granite House, in the middle of a solid mass, over which neither the sea nor air had any influence, there was nothing to fear.

During these days of seclusion the settlers did not remain inactive.

There was no want of wood, cut up into planks, in the storeroom, and little by little they completed their furnishing; constructing the most solid of tables and chairs, for material was not spared. Neb and Pencroft were very proud of this rather heavy furniture, which they would not have changed on any account.

Then the carpenters became basket-makers, and they did not succeed badly in this new manufacture. At the point of the lake which projected to the north, they had discovered an osier-bed in which grew a large number of purple osiers. Before the rainy season, Pencroft and Herbert had cut down these useful shrubs, and their branches, well prepared, could now be effectively employed. The first attempts were somewhat crude, but in consequence of the cleverness and intelligence of the workmen, by consulting, and recalling the models which they had seen, and by emulating each other, the possessions of the colony were soon increased by several baskets of different sizes. The storeroom was provided with them, and in special baskets Neb placed his collection of rhizomes, stone-pine almonds, etc.

During the last week of the month of August the weather moderated again. The temperature fell a little, and the tempest abated. The colonists sallied out directly. There was certainly two feet of snow on the shore, but they were able to walk without much difficulty on the hardened surface. Cyrus Harding and his companions climbed Prospect Heights.

What a change! The woods, which they had left green, especially in the part at which the firs predominated, had disappeared under a uniform color. All was white, from the summit of Mount Franklin to the shore, the forests, the plains, the lake, the river. The waters of the Mercy flowed under a roof of ice, which, at each rising and ebbing of the tide, broke up with loud crashes. Numerous birds fluttered over the frozen surface of the lake. Ducks and snipe, teal and guillemots were assembled in thousands. The rocks among which the cascade flowed were bristling with icicles. One might have said that the water escaped by a monstrous gargoyle, shaped with all the imagination of an artist of the Renaissance. As to the damage caused by the storm in the forest, that could not as yet be ascertained; they would have to wait till the snowy covering was dissipated.

Gideon Spilett, Pencroft, and Herbert did not miss this opportunity of going to visit their traps. They did not find them easily, under the snow with which they were covered. They had also to be careful not to fall into one or other of them, which would have been both dangerous and humiliating; to be taken in their own snares! But happily they avoided this unpleasantness, and found their traps perfectly intact. No animal had fallen into them, and yet the footprints in the neighborhood were very numerous, among others, certain very clear marks of claws. Herbert did not hesitate to affirm that some animal of the feline species had passed there, which justified the engineer’s opinion that dangerous beasts existed in Lincoln Island. These animals doubtless generally lived in the forests of the Far West, but pressed by hunger, they had ventured as far as Prospect Heights. Perhaps they had smelled out the inhabitants of Granite House. “Now, what are these feline creatures?” asked Pencroft. “They are tigers,” replied Herbert. “I thought those beasts were only found in hot countries?”

“On the new continent,” replied the lad, “they are found from Mexico to the Pampas of Buenos Aires. Now, as Lincoln Island is nearly under the same latitude as the provinces of La Plata, it is not surprising that tigers are to be met with in it.”

“Well, we must look out for them,” replied Pencroft.

However, the snow soon disappeared, quickly dissolving under the influence of the rising temperature. Rain fell, and the sheet of white soon vanished. Notwithstanding the bad weather, the settlers renewed their stores of different things, stone-pine almonds, rhizomes, syrup from the maple-tree, for the vegetable part; rabbits from the warren, agouties, and kangaroos for the animal part. This necessitated several excursions into the forest, and they found that a great number of trees had been blown down by the last hurricane. Pencroft and Neb also pushed with the cart as far as the vein of coal, and brought back several tons of fuel. They saw in passing that the pottery kiln had been severely damaged by the wind, at least six feet of it having been blown off.

At the same time as the coal, the store of wood was renewed at Granite House, and they profited by the current of the Mercy having again become free, to float down several rafts. They could see that the cold period was not ended.

A visit was also paid to the Chimneys, and the settlers could not but congratulate themselves on not having been living there during the hurricane. The sea had left unquestionable traces of its ravages. Sweeping over the islet, it had furiously assailed the passages, half filling them with sand, while thick beds of seaweed covered the rocks. While Neb, Herbert, and Pencroft hunted or collected wood, Cyrus Harding and Gideon Spilett busied themselves in putting the Chimneys to rights, and they found the forge and the bellows almost unhurt, protected as they had been from the first by the heaps of sand.

The store of fuel had not been made uselessly. The settlers had not done with the rigorous cold. It is known that, in the Northern Hemisphere, the month of February is principally distinguished by rapid fallings of the temperature. It is the same in the Southern Hemisphere, and the end of the month of August, which is the February of North America, does not escape this climatic law.

About the 25th, after another change from snow to rain, the wind shifted to the southeast, and the cold became, suddenly, very severe. According to the engineer’s calculation, the mercurial column of a Fahrenheit thermometer would not have marked less than eight degrees below zero, and this intense cold, rendered still more painful by a sharp gale, lasted for several days. The colonists were again shut up in Granite House, and as it was necessary to hermetically seal all the openings of the facade, only leaving a narrow passage for renewing the air, the consumption of candles was considerable. To economize them, the cavern was often only lighted by the blazing hearths, on which fuel was not spared. Several times, one or other of the settlers descended to the beach in the midst of ice which the waves heaped up at each tide, but they soon climbed up again to Granite House, and it was not without pain and difficulty that their hands could hold to the rounds of the ladder. In consequence of the intense cold, their fingers felt as if burned when they touched the rounds. To occupy the leisure hours, which the tenants of Granite House now had at their disposal, Cyrus Harding undertook an operation which could be performed indoors.

We know that the settlers had no other sugar at their disposal than the liquid substance which they drew from the maple, by making deep incisions in the tree. They contented themselves with collecting this liquor in jars and employing it in this state for different culinary purposes, and the more so, as on growing old, this liquid began to become white and to be of a syrupy consistence.

But there was something better to be made of it, and one day Cyrus Harding announced that they were going to turn into refiners.

“Refiners!” replied Pencroft. “That is rather a warm trade, I think.”

“Very warm,” answered the engineer.

“Then it will be seasonable!” said the sailor.

This word refining need not awake in the mind thoughts of an elaborate manufactory with apparatus and numerous workmen. No! to crystallize this liquor, only an extremely easy operation is required. Placed on the fire in large earthen pots, it was simply subjected to evaporation, and soon a scum arose to its surface. As soon as this began to thicken, Neb carefully removed it with a wooden spatula; this accelerated the evaporation, and at the same time prevented it from contracting an empyreumatic flavor.

After boiling for several hours on a hot fire, which did as much good to the operators as the substance operated upon, the latter was transformed into a thick syrup. This syrup was poured into clay molds, previously fabricated in the kitchen stove, and to which they had given various shapes. The next day this syrup had become cold, and formed cakes and tablets. This was sugar of rather a reddish color, but nearly transparent and of a delicious taste.

The cold continued to the middle of September, and the prisoners in Granite House began to find their captivity rather tedious. Nearly every day they attempted sorties which they could not prolong. They constantly worked at the improvement of their dwelling. They talked while working. Harding instructed his companions in many things, principally explaining to them the practical applications of science. The colonists had no library at their disposal; but the engineer was a book which was always at hand, always open at the page which one wanted, a book which answered all their questions, and which they often consulted. The time thus passed away pleasantly, these brave men not appearing to have any fears for the future.

However, all were anxious to see, if not the fine season, at least the cessation of the insupportable cold. If only they had been clothed in a way to meet it, how many excursions they would have attempted, either to the downs or to Tadorn’s Fens! Game would have been easily approached, and the chase would certainly have been most productive. But Cyrus Harding considered it of importance that no one should injure his health, for he had need of all his hands, and his advice was followed.

But it must be said, that the one who was most impatient of this imprisonment, after Pencroft perhaps, was Top. The faithful dog found Granite House very narrow. He ran backwards and forwards from one room to another, showing in his way how weary he was of being shut up. Harding often remarked that when he approached the dark well which communicated with the sea, and of which the orifice opened at the back of the storeroom, Top uttered singular growlings. He ran round and round this hole, which had been covered with a wooden lid. Sometimes even he tried to put his paws under the lid, as if he wished to raise it. He then yelped in a peculiar way, which showed at once anger and uneasiness.

The engineer observed this maneuver several times.

What could there be in this abyss to make such an impression on the intelligent animal? The well led to the sea, that was certain. Could narrow passages spread from it through the foundations of the island? Did some marine monster come from time to time, to breathe at the bottom of this well? The engineer did not know what to think, and could not refrain from dreaming of many strange improbabilities. Accustomed to go far into the regions of scientific reality, he would not allow himself to be drawn into the regions of the strange and almost of the supernatural; but yet how to explain why Top, one of those sensible dogs who never waste their time in barking at the moon, should persist in trying with scent and hearing to fathom this abyss, if there was nothing there to cause his uneasiness? Top’s conduct puzzled Cyrus Harding even more than he cared to acknowledge to himself.

At all events, the engineer only communicated his impressions to Gideon Spilett, for he thought it useless to explain to his companions the suspicions which arose from what perhaps was only Top’s fancy.

At last the cold ceased. There had been rain, squalls mingled with snow, hailstorms, gusts of wind, but these inclemencies did not last. The ice melted, the snow disappeared; the shore, the plateau, the banks of the Mercy, the forest, again became practicable. This return of spring delighted the tenants of Granite House, and they soon only passed it in the hours necessary for eating and sleeping.

They hunted much in the second part of September, which led Pencroft to again entreat for the firearms, which he asserted had been promised by Cyrus Harding. The latter, knowing well that without special tools it would be nearly impossible for him to manufacture a gun which would be of any use, still drew back and put off the operation to some future time, observing in his usual dry way, that Herbert and Spilett had become very skilful archers, so that many sorts of excellent animals, agouties, kangaroos, capybaras, pigeons, bustards, wild ducks, snipes, in short, game both with fur and feathers, fell victims to their arrows, and that, consequently, they could wait. But the obstinate sailor would listen to nothing of this, and he would give the engineer no peace till he promised to satisfy his desire. Gideon Spilett, however, supported Pencroft.

“If, which may be doubted,” said he, “the island is inhabited by wild beasts, we must think how to fight with and exterminate them. A time may come when this will be our first duty.”

But at this period, it was not the question of firearms which occupied Harding, but that of clothes. Those which the settlers wore had passed this winter, but they would not last until next winter. Skins of carnivora or the wool of ruminants must be procured at any price, and since there were plenty of musmons, it was agreed to consult on the means of forming a flock which might be brought up for the use of the colony. An enclosure for the domestic animals, a poultry-yard for the birds, in a word to establish a sort of farm in the island, such were the two important projects for the fine season.

In consequence and in view of these future establishments, it became of much importance that they should penetrate into all the yet unknown parts of Lincoln Island, that is to say, through that thick forest which extended on the right bank of the Mercy, from its mouth to the extremity of the Serpentine Peninsula, as well as on the whole of its western side. But this needed settled weather, and a month must pass before this exploration could be profitably undertaken.

They therefore waited with some impatience, when an incident occurred which increased the desire the settlers had to visit the whole of their domain.

It was the 24th of October. On this day, Pencroft had gone to visit his traps, which he always kept properly baited. In one of them he found three animals which would be very welcome for the larder. They were a female peccary and her two young ones.

Pencroft then returned to Granite House, enchanted with his capture, and, as usual, he made a great show of his game.

“Come, we shall have a grand feast, captain!” he exclaimed. “And you too, Mr. Spilett, you will eat some!”

“I shall be very happy,” replied the reporter; “but what is it that I am going to eat?”

“Suckling-pig.”

“Oh, indeed, suckling-pig, Pencroft? To hear you, I thought that you were bringing back a young partridge stuffed with truffles!”

“What?” cried Pencroft. “Do you mean to say that you turn up your nose at suckling-pig?’

“No,” replied Gideon Spilett, without showing any enthusiasm; “provided one doesn’t eat too much.”

“That’s right, that’s right,” returned the sailor, who was not pleased whenever he heard his chase made light of. “You like to make objections. Seven months ago, when we landed on the island, you would have been only too glad to have met with such game!”

“Well, well,” replied the reporter, “man is never perfect, nor contented.”

“Now,” said Pencroft, “I hope that Neb will distinguish himself. Look here! These two little peccaries are not more than three months old! They will be as tender as quails! Come along, Neb, come! I will look after the cooking myself.”

And the sailor, followed by Neb, entered the kitchen, where they were soon absorbed in their culinary labors.

They were allowed to do it in their own way. Neb, therefore, prepared a magnificent repast — the two little peccaries, kangaroo soup, a smoked ham, stone-pine almonds, Oswego tea; in fact, all the best that they had, but among all the dishes figured in the first rank the savory peccaries.

At five o’clock dinner was served in the dining-room of Granite House. The kangaroo soup was smoking on the table. They found it excellent.

To the soup succeeded the peccaries, which Pencroft insisted on carving himself, and of which he served out monstrous portions to each of the guests.

These suckling-pigs were really delicious, and Pencroft was devouring his share with great gusto, when all at once a cry and an oath escaped him.

“What’s the matter?” asked Cyrus Harding.

“The matter? the matter is that I have just broken a tooth!” replied the sailor.

“What, are there pebbles in your peccaries?” said Gideon Spilett.

“I suppose so,” replied Pencroft, drawing from his lips the object which had cost him a grinder — !

It was not a pebble — it was a leaden bullet.

CHAPTER 8

The first week of January was devoted to the manufacture of the linen garments required by the colony. The needles found in the box were used by sturdy if not delicate fingers, and we may be sure that what was sewn was sewn firmly.

There was no lack of thread, thanks to Cyrus Harding’s idea of re-employing that which had been already used in the covering of the balloon. This with admirable patience was all unpicked by Gideon Spilett and Herbert, for Pencroft had been obliged to give this work up, as it irritated him beyond measure; but he had no equal in the sewing part of the business. Indeed, everybody knows that sailors have a remarkable aptitude for tailoring.

The cloth of which the balloon-case was made was then cleaned by means of soda and potash, obtained by the incineration of plants, in such a way that the cotton, having got rid of the varnish, resumed its natural softness and elasticity; then, exposed to the action of the atmosphere, it soon became perfectly white. Some dozen shirts and sock — the latter not knitted, of course, but made of cotton — were thus manufactured. What a comfort it was to the settlers to clothe themselves again in clean linen, which was doubtless rather rough, but they were not troubled about that! and then to go to sleep between sheets, which made the couches at Granite House into quite comfortable beds!

It was about this time also that they made boots of seal-leather, which were greatly needed to replace the shoes and boots brought from America. We may be sure that these new shoes were large enough and never pinched the feet of the wearers.

With the beginning of the year 1866 the heat was very great, but the hunting in the forests did not stand still. Agouties, peccaries, capybaras, kangaroos, game of all sorts, actually swarmed there, and Spilett and Herbert were too good marksmen ever to throw away their shot uselessly.

Cyrus Harding still recommended them to husband the ammunition, and he took measures to replace the powder and shot which had been found in the box, and which he wished to reserve for the future. How did he know where chance might one day cast his companions and himself in the event of their leaving their domain? They should, then, prepare for the unknown future by husbanding their ammunition and by substituting for it some easily renewable substance.

To replace lead, of which Harding had found no traces in the island, he employed granulated iron, which was easy to manufacture. These bullets, not having the weight of leaden bullets, were made larger, and each charge contained less, but the skill of the sportsmen made up this deficiency. As to powder, Cyrus Harding would have been able to make that also, for he had at his disposal saltpeter, sulphur, and coal; but this preparation requires extreme care, and without special tools it is difficult to produce it of a good quality. Harding preferred, therefore, to manufacture pyroxyle, that is to say gun-cotton, a substance in which cotton is not indispensable, as the elementary tissue of vegetables may be used, and this is found in an almost pure state, not only in cotton, but in the textile fiber of hemp and flax, in paper, the pith of the elder, etc. Now, the elder abounded in the island towards the mouth of Red Creek, and the colonists had already made coffee of the berries of these shrubs, which belong to the family of the caprifoliaceae.

The only thing to be collected, therefore, was elder-pith, for as to the other substance necessary for the manufacture of pyroxyle, it was only fuming azotic acid. Now, Harding having sulphuric acid at his disposal, had already been easily able to produce azotic acid by attacking the saltpeter with which nature supplied him. He accordingly resolved to manufacture and employ pyroxyle, although it has some inconveniences, that is to say, a great inequality of effect, an excessive inflammability, since it takes fire at one hundred and seventy degrees instead of two hundred and forty, and lastly, an instantaneous deflagration which might damage the firearms. On the other hand, the advantages of pyroxyle consist in this, that it is not injured by damp, that it does not make the gun-barrels dirty, and that its force is four times that of ordinary powder.

To make pyroxyle, the cotton must be immersed in the fuming azotic acid for a quarter of an hour, then washed in cold water and dried. Nothing could be more simple.

Cyrus Harding had only at his disposal the ordinary azotic acid and not the fuming or monohydrate azotic acid, that is to say, acid which emits white vapors when it comes in contact with damp air; but by substituting for the latter ordinary azotic acid, mixed, in the proportion of from three to five volumes of concentrated sulphuric acid, the engineer obtained the same result. The sportsmen of the island therefore soon had a perfectly prepared substance, which, employed discreetly, produced admirable results.

About this time the settlers cleared three acres of the plateau, and the rest was preserved in a wild state, for the benefit of the onagers. Several excursions were made into the Jacamar Wood and the forests of the Far West, and they brought back from thence a large collection of wild vegetables, spinach, cress, radishes, and turnips, which careful culture would soon improve, and which would temper the regimen on which the settlers had till then subsisted. Supplies of wood and coal were also carted. Each excursion was at the same time a means of improving the roads, which gradually became smoother under the wheels of the cart.

The rabbit-warren still continued to supply the larder of Granite House. As fortunately it was situated on the other side of Creek Glycerine, its inhabitants could not reach the plateau nor ravage the newly-made plantation. The oyster-bed among the rocks was frequently renewed and furnished excellent molluscs. Besides that, the fishing, either in the lake or the Mercy, was very profitable, for Pencroft had made some lines, armed with iron hooks, with which they frequently caught fine trout, and a species of fish whose silvery sides were speckled with yellow, and which were also extremely savory. Master Neb, who was skilled in the culinary art, knew how to vary agreeably the bill of fare. Bread alone was wanting at the table of the settlers, and as has been said, they felt this privation greatly.

The settlers hunted too the turtles which frequented the shores of Cape Mandible. At this place the beach was covered with little mounds, concealing perfectly spherical turtles’ eggs, with white hard shells, the albumen of which does not coagulate as that of birds’ eggs. They were hatched by the sun, and their number was naturally considerable, as each turtle can lay annually two hundred and fifty.

“A regular egg-field,” observed Gideon Spilett, “and we have nothing to do but to pick them up.”

But not being contented with simply the produce, they made chase after the producers, the result of which was that they were able to bring back to Granite House a dozen of these chelonians, which were really valuable from an alimentary point of view. The turtle soup, flavored with aromatic herbs, often gained well-merited praises for its preparer, Neb.

We must here mention another fortunate circumstance by which new stores for the winter were laid in. Shoals of salmon entered the Mercy, and ascended the country for several miles. It was the time at which the females, going to find suitable places in which to spawn, precede the males and make a great noise through the fresh water. A thousand of these fish, which measured about two feet and a half in length, came up the river, and a large quantity were retained by fixing dams across the stream. More than a hundred were thus taken, which were salted and stored for the time when winter, freezing up the streams, would render fishing impracticable. By this time the intelligent Jup was raised to the duty of valet. He had been dressed in a jacket, white linen breeches, and an apron, the pockets of which were his delight. The clever orang had been marvelously trained by Neb, and any one would have said that the Negro and the ape understood each other when they talked together. Jup had besides a real affection for Neb, and Neb returned it. When his services were not required, either for carrying wood or for climbing to the top of some tree, Jup passed the greatest part of his time in the kitchen, where he endeavored to imitate Neb in all that he saw him do. The black showed the greatest patience and even extreme zeal in instructing his pupil, and the pupil exhibited remarkable intelligence in profiting by the lessons he received from his master.

Judge then of the pleasure Master Jup gave to the inhabitants of Granite House when, without their having had any idea of it, he appeared one day, napkin on his arm, ready to wait at table. Quick, attentive, he acquitted himself perfectly, changing the plates, bringing dishes, pouring out water, all with a gravity which gave intense amusement to the settlers, and which enraptured Pencroft.

“Jup, some soup!”

“Jup, a little agouti!”

“Jup, a plate!”

“Jup! Good Jup! Honest Jup!”

Nothing was heard but that, and Jup without ever being disconcerted, replied to every one, watched for everything, and he shook his head in a knowing way when Pencroft, referring to his joke of the first day, said to him, —

“Decidedly, Jup, your wages must be doubled.”

It is useless to say that the orang was now thoroughly domesticated at Granite House, and that he often accompanied his masters to the forest without showing any wish to leave them. It was most amusing to see him walking with a stick which Pencroft had given him, and which he carried on his shoulder like a gun. If they wished to gather some fruit from the summit of a tree, how quickly he climbed for it. If the wheel of the cart stuck in the mud, with what energy did Jup with a single heave of his shoulder put it right again.

“What a jolly fellow he is!” cried Pencroft often. “If he was as mischievous as he is good, there would be no doing anything with him!”

It was towards the end of January the colonists began their labors in the center of the island. It had been decided that a corral should be established near the sources of the Red Creek, at the foot of Mount Franklin, destined to contain the ruminants, whose presence would have been troublesome at Granite House, and especially for the musmons, who were to supply the wool for the settlers’ winter garments.

Each morning, the colony, sometimes entire, but more often represented only by Harding, Herbert, and Pencroft, proceeded to the sources of the Creek, a distance of not more than five miles, by the newly beaten road to which the name of Corral Road had been given.

There a site was chosen, at the back of the southern ridge of the mountain. It was a meadow land, dotted here and there with clumps of trees, and watered by a little stream, which sprung from the slopes which closed it in on one side. The grass was fresh, and it was not too much shaded by the trees which grew about it. This meadow was to be surrounded by a palisade, high enough to prevent even the most agile animals from leaping over. This enclosure would be large enough to contain a hundred musmons and wild goats, with all the young ones they might produce.

The perimeter of the corral was then traced by the engineer, and they would then have proceeded to fell the trees necessary for the construction of the palisade, but as the opening up of the road had already necessitated the sacrifice of a considerable number, those were brought and supplied a hundred stakes, which were firmly fixed in the ground.

The construction of this corral did not take less than three weeks, for besides the palisade, Cyrus Harding built large sheds, in which the animals could take shelter. These buildings had also to be made very strong, for musmons are powerful animals, and their first fury was to be feared. The stakes, sharpened at their upper end and hardened by fire, had been fixed by means of cross-bars, and at regular distances props assured the solidity of the whole.

The corral finished, a raid had to be made on the pastures frequented by the ruminants. This was done on the 7th of February, on a beautiful summer’s day, and every one took part in it. The onagers, already well trained, were ridden by Spilett and Herbert, and were of great use.

The maneuver consisted simply in surrounding the musmons and goats, and gradually narrowing the circle around them. Cyrus Harding, Pencroft, Neb, and Jup, posted themselves in different parts of the wood, while the two cavaliers and Top galloped in a radius of half a mile round the corral.

The musmons were very numerous in this part of the island. These fine animals were as large as deer; their horns were stronger than those of the ram, and their gray-colored fleece was mixed with long hair.

This hunting day was very fatiguing. Such going and coming, and running and riding and shouting! Of a hundred musmons which had been surrounded, more than two-thirds escaped, but at last, thirty of these animals and ten wild goats were gradually driven back towards the corral, the open door of which appearing to offer a means of escape, they rushed in and were prisoners.

In short, the result was satisfactory, and the settlers had no reason to complain. There was no doubt that the flock would prosper, and that at no distant time not only wool but hides would be abundant.

That evening the hunters returned to Granite House quite exhausted. However, notwithstanding their fatigue, they returned the next day to visit the corral. The prisoners had been trying to overthrow the palisade, but of course had not succeeded, and were not long in becoming more tranquil.

During the month of February, no event of any importance occurred. The daily labors were pursued methodically, and, as well as improving the roads to the corral and to Port Balloon, a third was commenced, which, starting from the enclosure, proceeded towards the western coast. The yet unknown portion of Lincoln Island was that of the wood-covered Serpentine Peninsula, which sheltered the wild beasts, from which Gideon Spilett was so anxious to clear their domain.

Before the cold season should appear the most assiduous care was given to the cultivation of the wild plants which had been transplanted from the forest to Prospect Heights. Herbert never returned from an excursion without bringing home some useful vegetable. One day, it was some specimens of the chicory tribe, the seeds of which by pressure yield an excellent oil; another, it was some common sorrel, whose antiscorbutic qualities were not to be despised; then, some of those precious tubers, which have at all times been cultivated in South America, potatoes, of which more than two hundred species are now known. The kitchen garden, now well stocked and carefully defended from the birds, was divided into small beds, where grew lettuces, kidney potatoes, sorrel, turnips, radishes, and other coneiferae. The soil on the plateau was particularly fertile, and it was hoped that the harvests would be abundant.

They had also a variety of different beverages, and so long as they did not demand wine, the most hard to please would have had no reason to complain. To the Oswego tea, and the fermented liquor extracted from the roots of the dragonnier, Harding had added a regular beer, made from the young shoots of the spruce-fir, which, after having been boiled and fermented, made that agreeable drink called by the Anglo-Americans spring-beer.

Towards the end of the summer, the poultry-yard was possessed of a couple of fine bustards, which belonged to the houbara species, characterized by a sort of feathery mantle; a dozen shovelers, whose upper mandible was prolonged on each side by a membraneous appendage; and also some magnificent cocks, similar to the Mozambique cocks, the comb, caruncle, and epidermis being black. So far, everything had succeeded, thanks to the activity of these courageous and intelligent men. Nature did much for them, doubtless; but faithful to the great precept, they made a right use of what a bountiful Providence gave them.

After the heat of these warm summer days, in the evening when their work was finished and the sea-breeze began to blow, they liked to sit on the edge of Prospect Heights, in a sort of veranda, covered with creepers, which Neb had made with his own hands. There they talked, they instructed each other, they made plans, and the rough good-humor of the sailor always amused this little world, in which the most perfect harmony had never ceased to reign.

They often spoke of their country, of their dear and great America. What was the result of the War of Secession? It could not have been greatly prolonged. Richmond had doubtless soon fallen into the hands of General Grant. The taking of the capital of the Confederates must have been the last action of this terrible struggle. Now the North had triumphed in the good cause, how welcome would have been a newspaper to the exiles in Lincoln Island! For eleven months all communication between them and the rest of their fellow-creatures had been interrupted, and in a short time the 24th of March would arrive, the anniversary of the day on which the balloon had thrown them on this unknown coast. They were then mere castaways, not even knowing how they should preserve their miserable lives from the fury of the elements! And now, thanks to the knowledge of their captain, and their own intelligence, they were regular colonists, furnished with arms, tools, and instruments; they had been able to turn to their profit the animals, plants, and minerals of the island, that is to say, the three kingdoms of Nature.

Yes; they often talked of all these things and formed still more plans.

As to Cyrus Harding he was for the most part silent, and listened to his companions more often than he spoke to them. Sometimes he smiled at Herbert’s ideas or Pencroft’s nonsense, but always and everywhere he pondered over those inexplicable facts, that strange enigma, of which the secret still escaped him!

CHAPTER 13

“A castaway!” exclaimed Pencroft; “left on this Tabor Island not two hundred miles from us! Ah, Captain Harding, you won’t now oppose my going.”

“No, Pencroft,” replied Cyrus Harding; “and you shall set out as soon as possible.”

“To-morrow?”

“To-morrow!”

The engineer still held in his hand the paper which he had taken from the bottle. He contemplated it for some instants, then resumed,

“From this document, my friends, from the way in which it is worded, we may conclude this: first, that the castaway on Tabor Island is a man possessing a considerable knowledge of navigation, since he gives the latitude and longitude of the island exactly as we ourselves found it, and to a second of approximation; secondly, that he is either English or American, as the document is written in the English language.”

“That is perfectly logical,” answered Spilett; “and the presence of this castaway explains the arrival of the case on the shores of our island. There must have been a wreck, since there is a castaway. As to the latter, whoever he may be, it is lucky for him that Pencroft thought of building this boat and of trying her this very day, for a day later and this bottle might have been broken on the rocks.”

“Indeed,” said Herbert, “it is a fortunate chance that the ‘Bonadventure’ passed exactly where the bottle was still floating!”

“Does not this appear strange to you?” asked Harding of Pencroft.

“It appears fortunate, that’s all,” answered the sailor. “Do you see anything extraordinary in it, captain? The bottle must go somewhere, and why not here as well as anywhere else?”

“Perhaps you are right, Pencroft,” replied the engineer; “and yet — ”

“But,” observed Herbert, “there’s nothing to prove that this bottle has been floating long in the sea.”

“Nothing,” replied Gideon Spilett, “and the document appears even to have been recently written. What do you think about it, Cyrus?”

During this conversation Pencroft had not remained inactive. He had put the vessel about, and the “Bonadventure,” all sails set, was running rapidly towards Claw Cape.

Every one was thinking of the castaway on Tabor Island. Should they be in time to save him? This was a great event in the life of the colonists! They themselves were but castaways, but it was to be feared that another might not have been so fortunate, and their duty was to go to his succor.

Claw Cape was doubled, and about four o’clock the “Bonadventure” dropped her anchor at the mouth of the Mercy.

That same evening the arrangements for the new expedition were made. It appeared best that Pencroft and Herbert, who knew how to work the vessel, should undertake the voyage alone. By setting out the next day, the 10th of October, they would arrive on the 13th, for with the present wind it would not take more than forty-eight hours to make this passage of a hundred and fifty miles. One day in the island, three or four to return, they might hope therefore that on the 17th they would again reach Lincoln Island. The weather was fine, the barometer was rising, the wind appeared settled, everything then was in favor of these brave men whom an act of humanity was taking far from their island.

Thus it had been agreed that Cyrus Harding, Neb, and Gideon Spilett should remain at Granite House, but an objection was raised, and Spilett, who had not forgotten his business as reporter to the New York Herald, having declared that he would go by swimming rather than lose such an opportunity, he was admitted to take a part in the voyage.

The evening was occupied in transporting on board the “Bonadventure,” articles of bedding, utensils, arms, ammunition, a compass, provisions for a week; this being rapidly done, the colonists ascended to Granite House.

The next day, at five o’clock in the morning, the farewells were said, not without some emotion on both sides, and Pencroft setting sail made towards Claw Cape, which had to be doubled in order to proceed to the southwest.

The “Bonadventure” was already a quarter of a mile from the coast when the passengers perceived on the heights of Granite House two men waving their farewells; they were Cyrus Harding and Neb.

“Our friends,” exclaimed Spilett, “this is our first separation in fifteen months.”

Pencroft, the reporter and Herbert waved in return, and Granite House soon disappeared behind the high rocks of the Cape.

During the first part of the day the “Bonadventure” was still in sight of the southern coast of Lincoln Island, which soon appeared just like a green basket, with Mount Franklin rising from the center. The heights, diminished by distance, did not present an appearance likely to tempt vessels to touch there. Reptile End was passed in about an hour, though at a distance of about ten miles.

At this distance it was no longer possible to distinguish anything of the Western Coast, which stretched away to the ridges of Mount Franklin, and three hours after the last of Lincoln Island sank below the horizon.

The “Bonadventure” behaved capitally. Bounding over the waves she proceeded rapidly on her course. Pencroft had hoisted the foresail, and steering by the compass followed a rectilinear direction. From time to time Herbert relieved him at the helm, and the lad’s hand was so firm that the sailor had not a point to find fault with.

Gideon Spilett chatted sometimes with one, sometimes with the other, if wanted he lent a hand with the ropes, and Captain Pencroft was perfectly satisfied with his crew.

In the evening the crescent moon, which would not be in its first quarter until the 16th, appeared in the twilight and soon set again. The night was dark but starry, and the next day again promised to be fine.

Pencroft prudently lowered the foresail, not wishing to be caught by a sudden gust while carrying too much canvas; it was perhaps an unnecessary precaution on such a calm night, but Pencroft was a prudent sailor and cannot be blamed for it.

The reporter slept part of the night. Pencroft and Herbert took turns for a spell of two hours each at the helm. The sailor trusted Herbert as he would himself, and his confidence was justified by the coolness and judgment of the lad. Pencroft gave him his directions as a commander to his steersman, and Herbert never allowed the “Bonadventure” to swerve even a point. The night passed quickly, as did the day of the 12th of October. A south-easterly direction was strictly maintained. Unless the “Bonadventure” fell in with some unknown current she would come exactly within sight of Tabor Island.

As to the sea over which the vessel was then sailing, it was absolutely deserted. Now and then a great albatross or frigate bird passed within gunshot, and Gideon Spilett wondered if it was to one of them that he had confided his last letter addressed to the New York Herald. These birds were the only beings that appeared to frequent this part of the ocean between Tabor and Lincoln Islands.

“And yet,” observed Herbert, “this is the time that whalers usually proceed towards the southern part of the Pacific. Indeed I do not think there could be a more deserted sea than this.”

“It is not quite so deserted as all that,” replied Pencroft.

“What do you mean?” asked the reporter.

“We are on it. Do you take our vessel for a wreck and us for porpoises?”

And Pencroft laughed at his joke.

By the evening, according to calculation, it was thought that the “Bonadventure” had accomplished a distance of a hundred and twenty miles since her departure from Lincoln Island, that is to say in thirty-six hours, which would give her a speed of between three and four knots an hour. The breeze was very slight and might soon drop altogether. However, it was hoped that the next morning by break of day, if the calculation had been correct and the course true, they would sight Tabor Island.

Neither Gideon Spilett, Herbert, nor Pencroft slept that night. In the expectation of the next day they could not but feel some emotion. There was so much uncertainty in their enterprise! Were they near Tabor Island? Was the island still inhabited by the castaway to whose succor they had come? Who was this man? Would not his presence disturb the little colony till then so united? Besides, would he be content to exchange his prison for another? All these questions, which would no doubt be answered the next day, kept them in suspense, and at the dawn of day they all fixed their gaze on the western horizon.

“Land!” shouted Pencroft at about six o’clock in the morning.

And it was impossible that Pencroft should be mistaken, it was evident that land was there. Imagine the joy of the little crew of the “Bonadventure.” In a few hours they would land on the beach of the island!

The low coast of Tabor Island, scarcely emerging from the sea, was not more than fifteen miles distant.

The head of the “Bonadventure,” which was a little to the south of the island, was set directly towards it, and as the sun mounted in the east, its rays fell upon one or two headlands.

“This is a much less important isle than Lincoln Island,” observed Herbert, “and is probably due like ours to some submarine convulsion.”

At eleven o’clock the “Bonadventure” was not more than two miles off, and Pencroft, while looking for a suitable place at which to land, proceeded very cautiously through the unknown waters. The whole of the island could now be surveyed, and on it could be seen groups of gum and other large trees, of the same species as those growing on Lincoln Island. But the astonishing thing was that no smoke arose to show that the island was inhabited, no signal whatever appeared on the shore!

And yet the document was clear enough; there was a castaway, and this castaway should have been on the watch.

In the meanwhile the “Bonadventure” entered the winding channels among the reefs, and Pencroft observed every turn with extreme care. He had put Herbert at the helm, posting himself in the bows, inspecting the water, while he held the halliard in his hand, ready to lower the sail at a moment’s notice. Gideon Spilett with his glass eagerly scanned the shore, though without perceiving anything.

However, at about twelve o’clock the keel of the “Bonadventure” grated on the bottom. The anchor was let go, the sails furled, and the crew of the little vessel landed.

And there was no reason to doubt that this was Tabor Island, since according to the most recent charts there was no island in this part of the Pacific between New Zealand and the American Coast.

The vessel was securely moored, so that there should be no danger of her being carried away by the receding tide; then Pencroft and his companions, well armed, ascended the shore, so as to gain an elevation of about two hundred and fifty or three hundred feet which rose at a distance of half a mile.

“From the summit of that hill,” said Spilett, “we can no doubt obtain a complete view of the island, which will greatly facilitate our search.”

“So as to do here,” replied Herbert, “that which Captain Harding did the very first thing on Lincoln Island, by climbing Mount Franklin.”

“Exactly so,” answered the reporter, “and it is the best plan.”

While thus talking the explorers had advanced along a clearing which terminated at the foot of the hill. Flocks of rock-pigeons and sea-swallows, similar to those of Lincoln Island, fluttered around them. Under the woods which skirted the glade on the left they could hear the bushes rustling and see the grass waving, which indicated the presence of timid animals, but still nothing to show that the island was inhabited.

Arrived at the foot of the hill, Pencroft, Spilett, and Herbert climbed it in a few minutes, and gazed anxiously round the horizon.

They were on an islet, which did not measure more than six miles in circumference, its shape not much bordered by capes or promontories, bays or creeks, being a lengthened oval. All around, the lonely sea extended to the limits of the horizon. No land nor even a sail was in sight.

This woody islet did not offer the varied aspects of Lincoln Island, arid and wild in one part, but fertile and rich in the other. On the contrary this was a uniform mass of verdure, out of which rose two or three hills of no great height. Obliquely to the oval of the island ran a stream through a wide meadow falling into the sea on the west by a narrow mouth.

“The domain is limited,” said Herbert.

“Yes,” rejoined Pencroft: “It would have been too small for us.”

“And moreover,” said the reporter, “it appears to be uninhabited.”

“Indeed,” answered Herbert, “nothing here betrays the presence of man.”

“Let us go down,” said Pencroft, “and search.”

The sailor and his two companions returned to the shore, to the place where they had left the “Bonadventure.”

They had decided to make the tour of the island on foot, before exploring the interior; so that not a spot should escape their investigations. The beach was easy to follow, and only in some places was their way barred by large rocks, which, however, they easily passed round. The explorers proceeded towards the south, disturbing numerous flocks of sea-birds and herds of seals, which threw themselves into the sea as soon as they saw the strangers at a distance.

“Those beasts yonder,” observed the reporter, “do not see men for the first time. They fear them, therefore they must know them.”

An hour after their departure they arrived on the southern point of the islet, terminated by a sharp cape, and proceeded towards the north along the western coast, equally formed by sand and rocks, the background bordered with thick woods.

There was not a trace of a habitation in any part, not the print of a human foot on the shore of the island, which after four hours’ walking had been gone completely round.

It was to say the least very extraordinary, and they were compelled to believe that Tabor Island was not or was no longer inhabited. Perhaps, after all the document was already several months or several years old, and it was possible in this case, either that the castaway had been enabled to return to his country, or that he had died of misery.

Pencroft, Spilett, and Herbert, forming more or less probable conjectures, dined rapidly on board the “Bonadventure” so as to be able to continue their excursion until nightfall. This was done at five o’clock in the evening, at which hour they entered the wood.

Numerous animals fled at their approach, being principally, one might say, only goats and pigs, which were obviously European species.

Doubtless some whaler had landed them on the island, where they had rapidly increased. Herbert resolved to catch one or two living, and take them back to Lincoln Island.

It was no longer doubtful that men at some period or other had visited this islet, and this became still more evident when paths appeared trodden through the forest, felled trees, and everywhere traces of the hand of man; but the trees were becoming rotten, and had been felled many years ago; the marks of the axe were velveted with moss, and the grass grew long and thick on the paths, so that it was difficult to find them.

“But,” observed Gideon Spilett, “this not only proves that men have landed on the island, but also that they lived on it for some time. Now, who were these men? How many of them remain?”

“The document,” said Herbert, “only spoke of one castaway.”

“Well, if he is still on the island,” replied Pencroft, “it is impossible but that we shall find him.”

The exploration was continued. The sailor and his companions naturally followed the route which cut diagonally across the island, and they were thus obliged to follow the stream which flowed towards the sea.

If the animals of European origin, if works due to a human hand, showed incontestably that men had already visited the island, several specimens of the vegetable kingdom did not prove it less. In some places, in the midst of clearings, it was evident that the soil had been planted with culinary plants, at probably the same distant period.

What, then, was Herbert’s joy, when he recognized potatoes, chicory, sorrel, carrots, cabbages, and turnips, of which it was sufficient to collect the seed to enrich the soil of Lincoln Island.

“Capital, jolly!” exclaimed Pencroft. “That will suit Neb as well as us. Even if we do not find the castaway, at least our voyage will not have been useless, and God will have rewarded us.”

“Doubtless,” replied Gideon Spilett, “but to see the state in which we find these plantations, it is to be feared that the island has not been inhabited for some time.”

“Indeed,” answered Herbert, “an inhabitant, whoever he was, could not have neglected such an important culture!”

“Yes,” said Pencroft, “the castaway has gone.”

“We must suppose so.”

“It must then be admitted that the document has already a distant date?”

“Evidently.”

“And that the bottle only arrived at Lincoln Island after having floated in the sea a long time.”

“Why not?” returned Pencroft. “But night is coming on,” added he, “and I think that it will be best to give up the search for the present.”

“Let us go on board, and to-morrow we will begin again,” said the reporter.

This was the wisest course, and it was about to be followed when Herbert, pointing to a confused mass among the trees, exclaimed, —

“A hut!”

All three immediately ran towards the dwelling. In the twilight it was just possible to see that it was built of planks and covered with a thick tarpaulin.

The half-closed door was pushed open by Pencroft, who entered with a rapid step.

The hut was empty!

CHAPTER IX CURTIS EXPLAINS THE SITUATION

OCTOBER 19. — Everything, then, is clear. The uneas-iness of the crew, their frequent conferences, Owen’s mys-terious words, the constant scourings of the deck and the oppressive heat of the cabins which had been noticed even by my fellow-passengers, all are explained.

After his grave communication, Curtis remained silent. I shivered with a thrill of horror; a calamity the most terrible that can befall a voyager stared me in the face, and it was some seconds before I could recover sufficient com-posure to inquire when the fire was first discovered.

“Six days ago,” replied the mate.

“Six days ago!” I exclaimed; “why, then, it was that night.”

“Yes,” he said, interrupting me; “it was the night you heard the disturbance upon deck. The men on watch noticed a slight smoke issuing from the large hatchway and immediately called Captain Huntly and myself. We found beyond all doubt, that the cargo was on fire, and what was worse, that there was no possibility of getting at the seat of the combustion. What could we do? Why, we took the only precaution that was practicable under the circumstances, and resolved most carefully to exclude every breath of air from penetrating into the hold. For some time I hoped that we had been successful. I thought that the fire was stifled; but during the last three days there is every reason to make us know that it has been gaining strength. Do what we will, the deck gets hotter and hotter, and unless it were kept constantly wet, it would be unbearable to the feet. But I am glad, Mr. Kazallon,” he added; “that you have made the discovery. It is better that you should know it.” I listened in silence. I was now fully aroused to the gravity of the situation and thoroughly comprehended how we were in the very face of a calamity which it seemed that no human power could avert.

“Do you know what has caused the fire?” I presently inquired.

“It probably arose,” he answered, “from the sponta-neous combustion of the cotton. The case is rare, but it is far from unknown. Unless the cotton is perfectly dry when it is shipped, its confinement in a damp or ill-ventilated hold will sometimes cause it to ignite; and I have no doubt it is this that has brought about our misfortune.”

“But after all,” I said, “the cause matters very little.

Is there no remedy? Is there nothing to be done?”

“Nothing, Mr. Kazallon,” he said. “As I told you be-fore, we have adopted the only possible measure within our power to check the fire. At one time I thought of knock-ing a hole in the ship’s timbers just on her water-line, and letting in just as much water as the pumps could afterward get rid of again; but we found the combustion was right in the middle of the cargo and that we should be obliged to flood the entire hold before we could get at the right place. That scheme consequently was no good. During the night, I had the deck bored in various places and water poured down through the holes; but that again seemed of no use. There is only one thing that can be done; we must persevere in excluding most carefully every breath of outer air, so that perhaps the conflagration, deprived of oxygen, may smoulder itself out. That is our only hope.”

“But, you say the fire is increasing?”

“Yes; and that shows that in spite of all our care there is some aperture which we have not been able to discover, by which, somehow or other, air gets into the hold.”

“Have you ever heard of a vessel surviving such circumstances?” I asked.

“Yes, Mr. Kazallon,” said Curtis; “it is not at all an unusual thing for ships laden with cotton to arrive at Liver-pool or Havre with a portion of their cargo consumed; and I have myself known more than one captain run into port with his deck scorching his very feet, and who, to save his vessel and the remainder of his freight has been compelled to un-load with the utmost expedition. But, in such cases, of course the fire has been more or less under control through-out the voyage; with us, it is increasing day by day, and I tell you I am convinced there is an aperture somewhere which has escaped our notice.”

“But would it not be advisable for us to retrace our course, and make for the nearest land?”

“Perhaps it would,” he answered. “Walter and I, and the boatswain, are going to talk the matter over seriously with the captain to-day. But, between ourselves, I have taken the responsibility upon myself; I have already changed the tack to the southwest; we are now straight be-fore the wind, and consequently we are sailing toward the coast.”

“I need hardly ask,” I added; “whether any of the other passengers are at all aware of the imminent danger in which we are placed.”

“None of them,” he said; “not in the least; and I hope you will not enlighten them. We don’t want terrified women and cowardly men to add to our embarrassment; the crew are under orders to keep a strict silence on the subject. Silence is indispensable.”

I promised to keep the matter a profound secret, as I fully entered into Curtis’s views as to the absolute necessity for concealment.

CHAPTER XVIII WE EXPLORE THE REEF

OCTOBER 31 to November 5. — Our first proceeding on the morning of the 31st was to make the proposed tour of the reef, which is about a quarter of a mile long. With the aid of our sounding-lines we found that the water was deep, right up to the very rocks, and that no shelving shores prevented us coasting along them. There was not a shadow of doubt as to the rock being of purely volcanic origin, upheaved by some mighty subterranean convulsion. It is formed of blocks of basalt, arranged in perfect order, of which the regular prisms give the whole mass the effect of being one gigantic crystal; and the remarkable transparency of the sea enabled us plainly to observe the curious shafts of the prismatic columns that support the marvelous sub-structure.

“This is indeed a singular island,” said M. Letourneur; “evidently it is of quite recent origin.”

“Yes, father,” said Andre, “and I should think it has been caused by a phenomenon similar to those which pro-duced the Julia Island, off the coast of Sicily, or the group of the Santorini, in the Grecian Archipelago. One could almost fancy that it had been created expressly for the Chancellor to strand upon.”

“It is very certain,” I observed, “that some upheaving has lately taken place. This is by no means an unfrequented part of the Atlantic, so that it is not at all likely that it could have escaped the notice of sailors if it had been always in existence; yet it is not marked even in the most modern charts. We must try and explore it thoroughly and give future navigators the benefit of our observations.”

“But, perhaps, it will disappear as it came,” said Andre. “You are no doubt aware, Mr. Kazallon, that these volcanic islands sometimes have a very transitory existence. Not im-possibly, by the time it gets marked upon the maps it may no longer be here.”

“Never mind, my boy,” answered his father, “it is bet-ter to give warning of a danger that does not exist than overlook one that does. I dare say the sailors will not grumble much, if they don’t find a reef where we have marked one.”

“No, I dare say not, father,” said Andre, “and after all this island is very likely as firm as a continent. However, if it is to disappear, I expect Captain Curtis would be glad to see it take its departure as soon as possible after he has finished his repairs; it would save him a world of trouble in getting his ship afloat.”

“Why, what a fellow you are, Andre!” I said, laughing; “I believe you would like to rule Nature with a magic wand, first of all, you would call up a reef from the depth of the ocean to give the Chancellor time to extinguish her flames, and then you would make it disappear just that the ship might be free again.”

Andre smiled; then, in a more serious tone, he expressed his gratitude for the timely help that had been vouchsafed us in our hour of need.

The more we examined the rocks that formed the base of the little island, the more we became convinced that its formation was quite recent. Not a mollusk, not a tuft of seaweed was found clinging to the sides of the rocks; not a germ had the wind carried to its surface, not a bird had taken refuge amid the crags upon its summits. To a lover of natural history, the spot did not yield a single point of interest; the geologist alone would find subject of study in the basaltic mass.

When we reached the southern point of the island I proposed that we should disembark. My companions readily assented, young Letourneur jocosely observing that if the little island was destined to vanish, it was quite right that it should first be visited by human beings. The boat was accordingly brought alongside, and we set foot upon the reef, and began to ascend the gradual slope that leads to its highest elevation.

The walking was not very rough, and as Andre could get along tolerably well without the assistance of an arm, he led the way, his father and I following close behind. A quarter of an hour sufficed to bring us to the loftiest point in the islet, when we seated ourselves on the basaltic prism that crowned its summit.

Andre took a sketch-book from his pocket, and proceeded to make a drawing of the reef. Scarcely had he completed the outline when his father exclaimed:

“Why, Andre, you have drawn a ham!”

“Something uncommonly like it, I confess,” replied Andre. “I think we had better ask Captain Curtis to let us call our island Ham Rock.”

“Good,” said I; “though sailors will need to keep it at a respectful distance, for they will scarcely find that their teeth are strong enough to tackle it.”

M. Letourneur was quite correct; the outline of the reef as it stood clearly defined against the deep green water resembled nothing so much as a fine York ham, of which the little creek, where the Chancellor had been stranded, corresponded to the hollow place above the knuckle. The tide at this time was low, and the ship now lay heeled over very much to the starboard side, the few points of rock that emerged in the extreme south of the reef plainly marking the narrow passage through which she had been forced before she finally ran aground.

As soon as Andre had finished his sketch we descended by a slope as gradual as that by which we had come up, and made our way toward the west. We had not gone very far when a beautiful grotto, perfect as an architectural structure, arrested our attention. M. Letourneur and Andre, who have visited the Hebrides, pronounced it to be a Fingal’s cave in miniature; a Gothic chapel that might form a fit vestibule for the cathedral cave of Staffa. The basaltic rocks had cooled down into the same regular concentric prisms; there was the same dark canopied roof with its in-terstices filled up with its yellow lutings; the same precision of outline in the prismatic angles, sharp as though chiseled by a sculptor’s hand; the same sonorous vibration of the air across the basaltic rocks, of which the Gaelic poets have feigned that the harps of the Fingal minstrelsy were made. But whereas at Staffa the floor of the cave is always covered with a sheet of water, here the grotto was beyond the reach of all but the highest waves, while the prismatic shafts them-selves formed quite a solid pavement.

After remaining nearly an hour in our newly-discovered grotto we returned to the Chancellor, and communicated the result of our explorations to Curtis, who entered the island upon his chart, by the name Andre Letourneur had proposed.

Since its discovery we have not permitted a day to pass without spending some time in our Ham Rock grotto. Curtis has taken an opportunity of visiting it, but he is too preoccupied with other matters to have much interest to spare for the wonders of nature. Falsten, too, came once and examined the character of the rocks, knocking and chipping them about with all the mercilessness of a geologist. Mr. Kear would not trouble himself to leave the ship; and although I asked his wife to join us in one of our excursions she declined, upon the plea that the fatigue, as well as the inconvenience of embarking in the boat, would be more than she could bear.

Miss Herbey, only to thankful to escape even for an hour from her capricious mistress, eagerly accepted M. Letourneur’s invitation to pay a visit to the reef, but to her great disappointment Mrs. Kear at first refused point-blank to allow her to leave the ship. I felt intensely annoyed, and re-solved to intercede in Miss Herbey’s favor; and as I had already rendered that self-indulgent lady sundry services which she though she might probably be glad again to ac-cept, I gained my point, and Miss Herbey has several times been permitted to accompany us across the rocks, where the young girl’s delight at her freedom has been a pleasure to behold.

Sometimes we fish along the shore, and then enjoy a luncheon in the grotto, while the basalt columns vibrate like harps to the breeze. This arid reef, little as it is, compared with the cramped limits of the Chancellor’s deck is like some vast domain; soon there will be scarcely a stone with which we are not familiar, scarcely a portion of its surface which we have not trodden, and I am sure that when the hour of departure arrives we shall leave it with regret.

In the course of conversation, Andre Letourneur one day happened to say that he believed the island of Staffa be-longed to the Macdonald family, who let it for the small sum of L.12 a year.

“I suppose then,” said Miss Herbey, “that we should hardly get more than half-a-crown a year for our pet little island.”

“I don’t think you would get a penny for it. Miss Herbey; but are you thinking of taking a lease?” I said laughing.

“Not at present,” she said; then added, with a half-sup- pressed sigh, “and yet it is a place where I have seemed to know what it is to be really happy.”

Andre murmured some expression of assent, and we all felt that there was something touching in the words of the orphaned, friendless girl who had found her long-lost sense of happiness on a lonely rock in the Atlantic.

CHAPTER XIX THE CARGO UNLOADED

NOVEMBER 6 to November 15. — For the first five days after the Chancellor had run aground, there was a dense black smoke continually rising from the hold; but it grad-ually diminished until the 6th of November, when we might consider that the fire was extinguished. Curtis, neverthe-less, deemed it prudent to persevere in working the pumps, which he did until the entire hull of the ship, right up to the deck, had been completely inundated.

The rapidity, however, with which the water, at every re-treat of the tide, drained off to the level of the sea, was an indication that the leak must be of considerable magnitude; and such, on investigation, proved to be the case. One of the sailors, named Flaypole, dived one day at low water to examine the extent of the damage, and found that the hole was not much less than four feet square, and was situated thirty feet fore of the helm, and two feet above the rider of the keel; three planks had been stove in by a sharp point of rock and it was only a wonder that the violence with which the heavily-laden vessel had been thrown ashore did not result in the smashing in of many parts beside.

As it would be a couple of days or more before the hold would be in a condition for the bales of cotton to be removed for the carpenter to examine the damage from the interior of the ship, Curtis employed the interval in having the broken mizzen-mast repaired. Dowlas the carpenter, with considerable skill, contrived to mortise it into its former stump. and made the junction thoroughly secure by strong iron-belts and bolts. The shrouds, the stays and backstays, were then carefully refitted, some of the sails were changed, and the whole of the running rigging was renewed. Injury, to some extent, had been done to the poop and to the crew’s lockers in the front; but time and labor were all that were wanted to make them good; and with such a will did every-body set to work that it was not long before all the cabins were again available for use.

On the 8th the unlading of the ship commenced. Pulleys and tackling were put over the hatches, and passengers and crew together proceeded to haul up the heavy bales which had been deluged so frequently by water that the cotton was all but spoiled. One by one the sodden bales were placed in the boat to be transported to the reef. After the first layer of cotton had been removed it became necessary to drain off part of the water that filled the hold. For this purpose the leak in the side had somehow or other to be stopped, and this was an operation which was cleverly accomplished by Dowlas and Flaypole, who contrived to dive at low tide and nail a sheet of copper over the entire hole. This, however, of itself would have been utterly inadequate to sustain the pressure that would arise from the action of the pumps; so Curtis ordered that a number of the bales should be piled up inside against the broken planks. The scheme succeeded very well, and as the water got lower and lower in the hold the men were enabled to resume their task of unlading.

Curtis thinks it quite probable that the leaks may be mended from the interior. By far the best way of repairing the damage would be to careen the ship, and to shift the planking, but the appliances are wanting for such an un-dertaking; moreover, any bad weather which might occur while the ship was on her flank would only too certainly be fatal to her altogether. But the captain has very little doubt that by some device or other he shall manage to patch up the hole in such a way as will insure our reaching land in safety.

After two days’ toil the water was entirely reduced, and without further difficulty the unlading was completed. All of us, including even Andre Letourneur, have been taking our turn at the pumps, for the work is so extremely fatiguing that the crew require some occasional respite; arms and back soon become strained and weary with the incessant swing of the handles, and I can well understand the dislike which sailors always express to the labor.

One thing there is which is much in our favor; the ship lies on a firm and solid bottom, and we have the satisfaction of knowing that we are not contending with a flood that encroaches faster than it can be resisted. Heaven grant that we may not be called to make like efforts, and to make them hopelessly, for a foundering ship!

CHAPTER XXIV CURTIS RESOLVES TO ABANDON THE SHIP

DECEMBER 4. — The first attempt at mutiny being thus

happily suppressed, it is to be hoped that Curtis will succeed

as well in future. An insubordinate crew would render us

powerless indeed.

Throughout the night the pumps were kept, without respite, steadily at work, but without producing the least sensible benefit. The ship became so water-logged and heavy that she hardly rose at all to the waves, which con-sequently often washed over the deck and contributed their part toward aggravating our case. Our situation was rapidly becoming as terrible as it had been when the fire was raging in the midst of us; and the prospect of being swallowed by the devouring billows was no less formidable than that of perishing in the flames.

Curtis kept the men up to the mark, and, willing or unwilling, they had no alternative but to work on as best they might; but in spite of all their efforts, the water perpetually rose, till, at length, the men in the hold who were passing the buckets found themselves immersed up to their waists, and were obliged to come on deck.

This morning, after a somewhat protracted consultation with Walter and the boatswain, Curtis resolved to abandon the ship. The only remaining boat was far too small to hold us all, and it would therefore be necessary to construct a raft that should carry those who could not find room in her. Dowlas, the carpenter, Mr. Falsten, and ten sailors were told off to put the raft in hand, the rest of the crew being ordered to continue their work assiduously at the pumps, until the time came and everything was ready for embarkation.

Hatchet or saw in hand, the carpenter and his assistants made a beginning without delay, by cutting and trimming the spare yards and extra spars to a proper length. These were then lowered into the sea — which was propitiously calm — so as to favor the operation (which otherwise would have been very difficult) of lashing them together into a firm framework, about forty feet long and twenty-five feet wide, upon which the platform was to be supported.

I kept my own place steadily at the pumps, and Andre Letourneur worked at my side. I often noticed his father glance at him sorrowfully, as though he wondered what would become of him if he had to struggle with waves to which even the strongest man could hardly fail to succumb. But come what may, his father will never forsake him, and I myself shall not be wanting in rendering him whatever assistance I can.

Mrs. Kear, who had been for some time in a state of drowsy unconsciousness, was not informed of the immediate danger; but when Miss Herbey, looking somewhat pale with fatigue, paid one of her flying visits to the deck, I warned her to take every precaution for herself, and to be ready for any emergency.

“Thank you, doctor, I am always ready,” she cheerfully replied, and returned to her duties below. I saw Andre follow the young girl with his eyes, and a look of melancholy interest passed over his countenance.

Toward eight o’clock in the evening the framework for the raft was almost complete, and the men were lower-ing empty barrels, which had first been securely bunged, and were lashing them to the woodwork to insure its floating.

Two hours later and suddenly there arose the startling cry, “We are sinking! we are sinking!”

Up to the poop rushed Mr. Kear, followed immediately by Falsten and Miss Herbey, who were bearing the inan-imate form of Mrs. Kear. Curtis ran to his cabin, instantly returning with a chart, a sextant, and a compass in his hand.

The scene that followed will ever be engraven in my memory; the cries of distress, the general confusion, the frantic rush of the sailors toward the raft that was not yet ready to support them, can never be forgotten. The whole period of my life seemed to be concentrated into that terrible moment when the planks bent below my feet and the ocean yawned beneath me.

Some of the sailors had taken their delusive refuge in the shrouds, and I was preparing to follow them when a hand was laid upon my shoulder.. Turning round I beheld M. Letourneur, with tears in his eyes, pointing toward his son. “Yes, my friend,” I said, pressing his hand, “we will save him, if possible.”

But Curtis had already caught hold of the young man, and was hurrying him to the main-mast shrouds, when the Chancellor, which had been scudding along rapidly with the wind, stopped suddenly, with a violent shock, and began to settle. The sea rose over my ankles, and almost instinc-tively I clutched at the nearest rope. All at once, when it seemed all over, the ship ceased to sink, and hung motionless in mid-ocean.

CHAPTER XXVII THE WHALE-BOAT MISSING

DECEMBER 6. — I must have fallen asleep for a few hours, when, at four o’clock in the morning, I was rudely aroused by the roaring of the wind, and could distinguish Curtis’s voice as he shouted in the brief intervals between the heavy gusts.

I got up, and holding tightly to the purlin — for the waves made the masts tremble with their violence — I tried to look around and below me. The sea was literally raging beneath, and great masses of livid-looking foam were dashing between the masts, which were oscillating terrifically. It was still dark, and I could only faintly distinguish two figures in the stern, whom, by the sound of their voices, that I caught occasionally above the tumult, I made out to be Curtis and the boatswain.

Just at that moment a sailor, who had mounted to the main-top to do something to the rigging, passed close be-hind me.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“The wind has changed,” he answered, adding something which I could not hear distinctly, but which sounded like “dead against us.”

Dead against us! then. thought I, the wind had shifted to the southwest, and my last night’s forebodings had been correct.

When daylight at length appeared, I found the wind, al-though not blowing actually from the southwest, had veered round to the northwest, a change which was equally dis-astrous to us, inasmuch as it was carrying us away from land. Moreover, the ship had sunk considerably during the night, and there were now five feet of water above deck; the side netting had completely disappeared, and the fore-castle and the poop were now all but on a level with the sea, which washed over them incessantly. With all possible ex-pedition Curtis and his crew were laboring away at their raft, but the violence of the swell materially impeded their operations, and it became a matter of doubt as to whether the woodwork would not fall asunder before it could be properly fastened together.

As I watched the men at their work, M. Letourneur, with one arm supporting his son, came out and stood by my side.

“Don’t you think this main-top will soon give way?” he said, as the narrow platform on which we stood creaked and groaned with the swaying of the masts.

Miss Herbey heard his words and pointing toward Mrs. Kear, who was lying prostrate at her feet, asked what we thought ought to be done.

“We can do nothing but stay where we are,” I replied.

“No,” said Andre, “this is our best refuge; I hope you are not afraid.”

“Not for myself,” said the young girl quietly, “only for those to whom life is precious.”

At a quarter to eight we heard the boatswain calling to the sailors in the bows.

“Ay, ay, sir,” said one of the men — O’Ready, I think.

“Where’s the whale-boat?” shouted the boatswain in a loud voice.

“I don’t know, sir. Not with us,” was the reply.

“She’s gone adrift, then!”

And sure enough the whale-boat was no longer hanging from the bowsprit; and in a moment the discovery was made that Mr. Kear, Silas Huntly, and three sailors, — a Scotch-man and two Englishmen, — were missing. Afraid that the Chancellor would founder before the completion of the raft, Kear and Huntly had plotted together to effect their escape, and had bribed the three sailors to seize the only remaining boat.

This, then, was the black speck that I had seen during the night. The miserable husband had deserted his wife, the faithless captain had abandoned the ship that had once been under his command.

“There are five saved, then,” said the boatswain.

“Faith, an it’s five lost ye’ll be maning,” said O’Ready; and the state of the sea fully justified his opinion.

The crew were furious when they heard of the surrepti-tious flight, and loaded the fugitives with all the invectives they could lay their tongues to. So enraged were they at the dastardly trick of which they had been made the dupes, that if chance should bring the deserters again on board I should be sorry to answer for the consequences.

In accordance with my advice, Mrs. Kear has not been in-formed of her husband’s disappearance. The unhappy lady is wasting away with a fever for which we are powerless to supply a remedy, for the medicine-chest was lost when the ship began to sink. Nevertheless, I do not think we have anything to regret on that score, feeling, as I do, that in a case like Mrs. Kear’s, drugs would be of no avail.

CHAPTER XXXIV A SQUALL

DECEMBER 21. — No further disturbance has taken place among the men. For a few hours the fish appeared again, and we caught a great many of them, and stored them away in an empty barrel. This addition to our stock of pro-visions makes us hope that food, at least, will not fail us.

Usually the nights in the tropics are cool, but to-day, as the evening drew on, the wonted freshness did not return, but the air remained stifling and oppressive, while heavy masses of vapor hung over the water.

There was no moonlight; there would be a new moon at half-past one in the morning, but the night was singularly dark, except for dazzling flashes of summer lightning that from time to time illuminated the horizon far and wide. There was, however, no answering roll of thunder, and the silence of the atmosphere seemed almost awful.

For a couple of hours, in the vain hope of catching a breath of air, Miss Herbey, Andre Letourneur, and I, sat watching the imposing struggle of the electric vapors. The clouds appeared like embattled turrets crested with flame, and the very sailors, coarse-minded men as they were, seemed struck with the grandeur of the spectacle, and regarded attentively, though with an anxious eye, the pre-liminary tokens of a coming storm. Until midnight we kept our seats upon the stern of the raft, while the lightning ever and again shed around us a livid glare similar to that produced by adding salt to lighted alcohol.

“Are you afraid of a storm. Miss Herbey?” said Andre to the girl.

“No, Mr. Andre, my feelings are always rather those of

awe than of fear,” she replied. “I consider a storm one of

the sublimest phenomena that we can behold — don’t you

think so too?”

“Yes, and especially when the thunder is pealing,” he said; “that majestic rolling, far different to the sharp crash of artillery, rises and falls like the long-drawn notes of the grandest music, and I can safely say that the tones of the most accomplished artiste have never moved me like that in-comparable voice of nature.”

“Rather a deep bass, though,” I said, laughing.

“That may be,” he answered; “but I wish we might hear it now, for this silent lightning is somewhat unexpressive.”

“Never mind that, Andre,” I said; “enjoy a storm when it comes, if you like, but pray don’t wish for it.”

“And why not?” said he; “a storm will bring us wind, you know.”

“And water, too,” added Miss Herbey, “the water of which we are so seriously in need.”

The young people evidently wished to regard the storm from their own point of view, and although I could have opposed plenty of common sense to their poetical sentiments, I said no more, but let them talk on as they pleased for fully an hour.

Meanwhile the sky was becoming quite over-clouded, and after the zodiacal constellations had disappeared in the mists that hung round the horizon, one by one the stars above our heads were veiled in dark rolling masses of vapor, from which every instant there issued forth sheets of electricity that formed a vivid background to the dark gray fragments of cloud that floated beneath.

Sleep, even if we wished it, would have been impossible in that stifling temperature. The lightning increased in brilliancy and appeared from all quarters of the horizon, each flash covering large arcs, varying from l00 deg. to 150 deg. leaving the atmosphere pervaded by one incessant phos-phorescent glow.

The thunder became at length more and more distinct, the reports, if I may use the expression, being “round,” rather than rolling. It seemed almost as though the sky were padded with heavy clouds of which the elasticity muffled the sound of the electric bursts.

Hitherto, the sea had been calm, almost stagnant as a pond. Now, however, long undulations took place, which the sailors recognized, all too well, as being the rebound produced by a distant tempest. A ship, in such a case, would have been instantly brought ahull, but no maneuvering could be applied to our raft, which could only drift before the blast.

At one o’clock in the morning one vivid flash, followed, after the interval of a few seconds, by a loud report of thunder, announced that the storm was rapidly approaching. Suddenly the horizon was enveloped in a vaporous fog, and seemed to contract until it was close around us. At the same instant the voice of one of the sailors was heard shout-ing:

“A squall! a squall!”

CHAPTER XLI HUMAN FLESH FOR BAIT

JANUARY 8. — All night I remained by the side of the poor fellow’s corpse, and several times Miss Herbey joined me in my mournful watch.

Before daylight dawned, the body was quite cold, and as I knew there must be no delay in throwing it overboard, I asked Curtis to assist me in the sad office. The body was frightfully emaciated, and I had every hope that it would not float.

As soon as it was quite light, taking every precaution that no one should see what we were about, Curtis and I pro-ceeded to our melancholy task. We took a few articles from the lieutenant’s pockets, which we purposed, if either of us should survive, to remit to his mother. But as we wrapped him in his tattered garments that would have to suffice for his winding sheet, I started back with a thrill of horror. The right foot had gone, leaving the leg a bleeding stump.

No doubt that, overcome by fatigue, I must have fallen asleep for an interval during the night, and some one had taken advantage of my slumber to mutilate the corpse. But who could have been guilty of so foul a deed? Curtis looked around with anger flashing in his eye; but all seemed as usual, and the silence was only broken by a few groans of agony.

But there was no time to be lost; perhaps we were already observed, and more horrible scenes might be likely to occur. Curtis said a few short prayers, and we cast the body into the sea. It sank immediately.

“They are feeding the sharks well, and no mistake,” said a voice behind me.

I turned round quickly, and found that it was Jynxstrop who had spoken.

As the boatswain now approached, I asked him whether he thought it possible that any of the wretched men could have taken the dead man’s foot.

“Oh, yes, I dare say,” he replied in a significant tone, “and perhaps they thought they were right.”

“Right! what do you mean?” I exclaimed.

“Well, sir,” he said coldly, “isn’t it better to eat a dead man than a living one?”

I was at a loss to comprehend him, and, turning away, laid myself down at the end of the raft.

Toward eleven o’clock a most suspicious incident occurred. The boatswain, who had cast his lines early in the morning, caught three large cod, each more than thirty inches long, of the species which, when dried, is known by the name of stock-fish. Scarcely had he hauled them on board when the sailors made a dash at them, and it was with the utmost dif-ficulty that Curtis, Falsten and myself could restore order, so that we might divide the fish into equal portions. Three cod were not much among fourteen starving persons, but, small as the quantity was, it was allotted in strictly equal shares. Most of us devoured the food raw, almost I might say, alive; only Curtis, Andre, and Miss Herbey having the patience to wait until their allowance had been boiled at a fire which they made with a few scraps of wood. For my-self, I confess that I swallowed my portion of fish as it was — raw and bleeding. M. Letourneur followed my example; the poor man devoured his food like a famished wolf, and it is only a wonder to me how, after his lengthened fast, he came to be alive at all.

The boatswain’s delight at his success was excessive, and amounted almost to delirium. I went up to him, and en-couraged him to repeat his attempt.

“Oh, yes,” he said; “I’ll try again. I’ll try again.”

“And why not try at once?” I asked.

“Not now,” he said evasively; “the night is the best time for catching large fish. Besides, I must manage to get some bait, for we have been improvident enough not to save a single scrap.”

“But you have succeeded once without bait; why may you not succeed again?”

“Oh, I had some very good bait last night,” he said.

I stared at him in amazement. He steadily returned my gaze, but said nothing.

“Have you none left?” at last I asked.

“Yes!” he almost whispered, and left me without another word.

Our meal, meager as it had been, served to rally our shat-tered energies; our hopes were slightly raised; there was no reason why the boatswain should not have the same good luck again.

One evidence of the degree to which our spirits were re-vived was that our minds were no longer fixed upon the miserable present and hopeless future, but we began to recall and discuss the past; and M. Letourneur, Andre, Mr. Falsten and I, held a long conversation with the captain about the various incidents of our eventful voyage, speaking of our lost companions, of the fire, or the stranding of the ship, of our sojourn on Ham Rock, of the springing of the leak, of our terrible voyage in the top-masts, of the construction of the raft, and of the storm. All these things seemed to have happened so long ago, and yet we were living still. Living, did I say? Ay, if such an existence as ours could be called a life, fourteen of us were living still. Who would be the next to go? We should then be thirteen.

“An unlucky number!” said Andre, with a mournful smile.

During the night the boatswain cast his lines from the stern of the raft, and, unwilling to trust them to anyone else, remained watching them himself. In the morning I went to ascertain what success had attended his patience. It was scarcely light, and with eager eyes he was peering down into the water. He had neither seen nor heard me coming.

“Well, boatswain!” I said, touching him on the shoulder.

He turned round quickly.

“Those villainous sharks have eaten every morsel of my bait,” he said, in a desponding voice.

“And you have no more left?” I asked.

“No more,” he said. Then grasping my arm, he added, “and that only shows me that it is no good doing things by halves.”

The truth flashed upon me at once, and I laid my hand upon his mouth. Poor Walter!

CHAPTER XLII OXIDE OF COPPER POISONING

JANUARY 9 and10. — On the 9th the wind dropped, and there was a dead calm; not a ripple disturbed the surface of the long undulations as they rose and fell beneath us; and if it were not for the slight current which is carrying us we know not whither, the raft would be absolutely stationary.

The heat was intolerable; our thirst more intolerable still; and now it was that for the first time I fully realized how the insufficiency of drink could cause torture more unendurable than the pangs of hunger. Mouth, throat, pharynx, all alike were parched and dry, every gland becoming hard as horn under the action of the hot air we breathed. At my urgent solicitation, the captain was for once induced to double our allowance of water; and this relaxation of the ordinary rule enabled us to attempt to slake our thirst four times in the day, instead of only twice. I use the word “attempt” advisedly; for the water at the bottom of the barrel though kept covered by a sail, became so warm that it was perfectly flat and unrefreshing.

It was a most trying day, and the sailors relapsed into a condition of deep despondency. The moon was nearly full, but when she rose the breeze did not return. Continuance of high temperature in daytime is a sure proof that we have been carried far to the south, and here, on this illimitable ocean, we have long ceased even to look for land; it might almost seem as though this globe of ours had veritably be-come a liquid sphere!

To-day we are still becalmed, and the temperature is as high as ever. The air is heated like a furnace, and the sun scorches like fire. The torments of famine are all forgotten; our thoughts are concentrated with fevered expectation upon the longed-for moment when Curtis shall dole out the scanty measure of lukewarm water that makes up our ration. Oh for one good draught, even if it should exhaust the whole supply! At least, it seems as if we then could die in peace!

About noon we were startled by sharp cries of agony, and looking round, I saw Owen writhing in the most horrible convulsions. I went toward him, for, detestable as his conduct had been, common humanity prompted me to see whether I could afford him any relief. But before I reached him, a shout from Flaypole arrested my attention. The man was up in the mast, and with great excitement pointing to the east.

“A ship! A ship!” he cried.

In an instant all were on their feet. Even Owen stopped his cries and stood erect. It was quite true that in the direc-tion indicated by Flaypole there was a white speck visible upon the horizon. But did it move? Would the sailors with their keen vision pronounce it to be a sail? A silence the most profound fell upon us all. I glanced at Curtis as he stood with folded arms intently gazing at the distant point. His brow was furrowed, and he contracted every fea-ture, as with half-closed eyes he concentrated his power of vision upon that one faint spot in the far off horizon.

But at length he dropped his arms and shook his head. I looked again, but the spot was no longer there. If it were a ship, that ship had disappeared; but probably it had been a mere reflection, or, more likely still, only the crest of some curling wave.

A deep dejection followed this phantom ray of hope. All returned to their accustomed places. Curtis alone remained motionless, but his eye no longer scanned the distant view.

Owen now began to shriek more wildly than ever. He presented truly a most melancholy sight; he writhed with the most hideous contortions, and had all the appearance of suffering from tetanus. His throat was contracted by re-peated spasms, his tongue was parched, his body swollen, and his pulse, though feeble, was rapid and irregular. The poor wretch’s symptoms were precisely such as to lead us to suspect that he had taken some corrosive poison. Of course it was quite out of our power to administer any antidote; all that we could devise was to make him swallow something that might act as an emetic. I asked Curtis for a little of the lukewarm water. As the contents of the broken barrel were now exhausted, the captain, in order to comply with my request, was about to tap the other barrel, when Owen started suddenly to his knees, and with a wild, unearthly shriek, exclaimed:

“No! no! no! of that water I will not touch a drop.”

I supposed he did not understand what we were going to do, and endeavored to explain; but all in vain; he persisted in refusing to taste the water in the second barrel. I then tried to induce vomiting by tickling his uvula, and he brought off some bluish secretion from his stomach, the character of which confirmed our previous suspicions — that he had been poisoned by oxide of copper. We now felt convinced that any effort on our part to save him would be of no avail. The vomiting, however, had for the time relieved him, and he was able to speak.

Curtis and I both implored him to let us know what he had taken to bring about consequences so serious. His reply fell upon us as a startling blow.

The ill-fated wretch had stolen several pints of water from the barrel that had been untouched, and that water had poisoned him!

CHAPTER XLVII HOBART HANGS HIMSELF

JANUARY 18. — After this excitement I awaited the ap-proach of day with a strange anxiety. My conscience told me that Hobart had the right to denounce me in the pres-ence of all my fellow-passengers; yet my alarm was vain. The idea of my proceedings being exposed by him was quite absurd; in a moment he would himself be murdered without pity by the crew, if it should be revealed that, un-known to them, he had been living on some private store which, by clandestine cunning, he had reserved. But, in spite of my anxiety, I had a longing for day to come.

The bit of food that I had thus stolen was very small; but small as it was it had alleviated my hunger; and I was now tortured with remorse, because I had not shared the meager morsel with my fellow-sufferers. Miss Herbey, Andre, his father, all had been forgotten, and from the bot-tom of my heart I repented of my cruel selfishness.

Meantime the moon rose high in the heavens, and the first streaks of dawn appeared. There is no twilight in these low latitudes, and the full daylight came well nigh at once. I had not closed my eyes since my encounter with the steward, and ever since the first blush of day I had labored under the impression that I could see some unusual dark mass half way up the mast. But although it again and again caught my eye, it hardly roused my curiosity, and I did not rise from the bundle of sails on which I was lying to ascertain what it really was. But no sooner did the rays of the sun fall upon it than I saw at once that it was the body of a man, attached to a rope, and swinging to and fro with the motion of the raft.

A horrible presentiment carried me to the foot of the mast, and, just as I had guessed, Hobart had hanged himself. I could not for a moment doubt that it was I myself that had impelled him to the suicide. A cry of horror had scarcely escaped my lips, when my fellow-passengers were at my side, and the rope was cut. Then came the sailors. And what was it that made the group gather so eagerly around the body? Was it a humane desire to see whether any sparks of life remained? No, indeed; the corpse was cold, and the limbs were rigid; there was no chance that animation should be restored. What then was it that kept them lingering so close around? It was only too apparent what they were about to do.

But I did not, could not, look. I refused to take part in the horrible repast that was proposed. Neither would Miss Herbey, Andre, nor his father, consent to alleviate their pangs of hunger by such revolting means. I know nothing for certain as to what Curtis did, and I did not venture to inquire; but of the others, — Falsten, Dowlas, the boatswain, and all the rest, — I know that, to assuage their cravings, they consented to reduce themselves to the level of beasts of prey; they were transformed from human beings into ravenous brutes.

The four of us who sickened at the idea of partaking of the horrid meal withdrew to the seclusion of our tent; it was bad enough to hear, without witnessing the appalling operation. But, in truth, I had the greatest difficulty in the world in preventing Andre from rushing out upon the cannibals, and snatching the odious food from their clutches. I represented to him the hopelessness of his attempt, and tried to reconcile him by telling him that if they liked the food they had a right to it. Hobart had not been murdered; he had died by his own hand; and, after all, as the boatswain had once remarked to me, “It was better to eat a dead man than a live one.”

Do what I would, however, I could not quiet Andre’s feeling of abhorrence; in his disgust and loathing he seemed for the time to have quite forgotten his own sufferings.

Meanwhile, there was no concealing the truth that we were ourselves dying of starvation, while our eight com-panions would probably, by their loathsome diet, escape that frightful destiny. Owing to his secret hoard of provisions Hobart had been by far the strongest among us; he had been supported, so that no organic disease had affected his tissues, and really might be said to be in good health when his chagrin drove him to his desperate suicide. But what was I thinking of! whither were my meditations carrying me away? was it not coming to pass that the cannibals were rousing my envy instead of exciting my horror?

Very shortly after this I heard Dowlas talking about the possibility of obtaining salt by evaporating seawater in the sun; “and then,” he added, “we can salt down the rest.”

The boatswain assented to what the carpenter had said, and probably the suggestion was adopted.

Silence, the most profound, now reigns upon the raft. I presume that nearly all have gone to sleep. One thing I do know, that they are no longer hungry.

CHAPTER XLVIII HOBART’S BODY STOLEN

JANUARY 19. — All through the day the sky remained un-clouded and the heat intense; and night came on without bringing much sensible moderation in the temperature. I was unable to get any sleep, and, toward morning, was dis-turbed by hearing an angry clamor going on outside the tent; it aroused M. Letourneur, Andre, and Miss Herbey, as much as myself, and we were anxious to ascertain the cause of the tumult.

The boatswain, Dowlas, and all the sailors were storming at each other in frightful rage; and Curtis, who had come forward from the stern, was endeavoring to pacify them.

“But who has done it? we must know who has done it,” said Dowlas, scowling with vindictive passion on the group around him.

“There’s a thief,” howled out the boatswain, “and he shall be found! Let’s know who has taken it.”

“I haven’t taken it!” “Nor I! Nor I!” cried the sailors one after another.

And then they set to work again to ransack every quarter of the raft; they rolled every spar aside, they overturned everything on board, and only grew more and more incensed with anger as their search proved fruitless.”

“Can YOU tell us,” said the boatswain, coming up to me, “who is the thief?”

“Thief!” I replied. “I don’t know what you mean.”

And while we were speaking the others all came up to-gether, and told me that they had looked everywhere else, and that they were going now to search the tent.

“Shame!” I said. “You ought to allow those whom you know to be dying of hunger at least to die in peace. There is not one of us who has left the tent all night. Why suspect us?”

“Now just look here, Mr. Kazallon,” said the boatswain, in a voice which he was endeavoring to calm down into moderation, “we are not accusing you of anything; we know well enough you, and all the rest of you, had a right to your shares as much as anybody; but that isn’t it. It’s all gone somewhere, every bit.”

“Yes,” said Sandon gruffly; “it’s all gone somewheres, and we are going to search the tent.”

Resistance was useless, and Miss Herbey, M. Letourneur, and Andre were all turned out.

I confess I was very fearful. I had a strong suspicion that for the sake of his son, for whom he was ready to venture anything, M. Letourneur had committed the theft; in that case I knew that nothing would have prevented the in-furiated men from tearing the devoted father to pieces. I beckoned to Curtis for protection, and he came and stood beside me. He said nothing, but waited with his hands in his pockets, and I think I am not mistaken in my belief that there was some sort of a weapon in each.

To my great relief the search was ineffectual. There was no doubt that the carcass of the suicide had been thrown overboard, and the rage of the disappointed cannibals knew no bounds.

Yet who had ventured to do the deed? I looked at M. Letourneur and Miss Herbey; but their countenances at once betrayed their ignorance. Andre turned his face away, and his eyes did not meet my own. Probably it is he; but, if it be, I wonder whether he has reckoned up the consequences of so rash an act.

CHAPTER LI FLAYPOLE BECOMES DELIRIOUS

JANUARY 24. — 1 have inquired more than once of Curtis if he has the faintest idea to what quarter of the Atlantic we have drifted, and each time he has been unable to give me a decided answer, though from his general observation of the direction of the wind and currents he imagines that we have been carried westward, that is to say, toward the land.

To-day the breeze has dropped entirely, but the heavy swell is still upon the sea, and is an unquestionable sign that a tempest has been raging at no great distance. The raft labors hard against the waves, and Curtis, Falsten, and the boatswain, employ the little energy that remains to them in strengthening the joints. Why do they give themselves such trouble? Why not let the few frail planks part asunder, and allow the ocean to terminate our miserable ex-istence? Certain it seems that our sufferings must have reached their utmost limit, and nothing could exceed the torture that we are enduring. The sky pours down upon us a heat like that of molten lead, and the sweat that saturates the tattered clothes that hang about our bodies goes far to aggravate the agonies of our thirst. No words of mine can describe this dire distress; these sufferings are beyond human estimate.

Even bathing, the only means of refreshment that we possessed, has now become impossible, for ever since Jynxstrop’s death the sharks have hung about the raft in shoals.

To-day I tried to gain a few drops of fresh water by evaporation, but even with the exercise of the greatest pa-tience, it was with the utmost difficulty that I obtained enough to moisten a little scrap of linen; and the only kettle that we had was so old and battered, that it would not bear the fire, so that I was obliged to give up the attempt in de-spair.

Falsten is now almost exhausted, and if he survives us at all, it can only be for a few days. Whenever I raised my head I always failed to see him, but he was probably lying sheltered somewhere beneath the sails. Curtis was the only man who remained on his feet, but with indomitable pluck he continued to stand on the front of the raft, waiting, watching, hoping. To look at him, with his unflagging energy, almost tempted me to imagine that he did well to hope, but I dared not entertain one sanguine thought, and there I lay, waiting, nay, longing for death.

How many hours passed away thus I cannot tell, but after a time a loud peal of laughter burst upon my ear. Someone else, then, was going mad, I thought; but the idea did not rouse me in the least. The laughter was repeated with greater vehemence, but I never raised my head. Presently I caught a few incoherent words.

“Fields, fields, gardens and trees! Look, there’s an inn under the trees! Quick, quick! brandy, gin, water! a guinea a drop! I’ll pay for it! I’ve lots of money! lots! lots!”

Poor deluded wretch! I thought again; the wealth of a nation could not buy a drop of water here. There was silence for a minute, when all of a sudden I heard the shout of “Land! land!”

The words acted upon me like an electric shock, and, with a frantic effort, I started to my feet. No land, indeed, was visible, but Flaypole, laughing, singing, and gesticulating, was raging up and down the raft. Sight, taste, and hear-ing — all were gone; but the cerebral derangement supplied their place, and in imagination the maniac was conversing with absent friends, inviting them into the George Inn at Cardiff, offering them gin, whiskey, and, above all, water! Stumbling at every step, and singing in a cracked, discordant voice, he staggered about among us like an intoxicated man. With the loss of his senses all his sufferings had vanished, and his thirst was appeased. It was hard not to wish to be a partaker of his hallucination.

Dowlas, Falsten, and the boatswain, seemed to think that the unfortunate wretch would, like Jynxstrop, put an end to himself by leaping into the sea; but, determined this time to preserve the body, that it might serve a better purpose than merely feeding the sharks, they rose and followed the madman everywhere he went, keeping a strict eye upon his every movement.

But the matter did not end as they expected. As though he were really intoxicated by the stimulants of which he had been raving, Flaypole at last sank down in a heap in a cor-ner of the raft, where he lay lost in a heavy slumber.

CONTENTS

BOOK I

CHAPTER I A FETE AT THE NEW PALACE

CHAPTER II RUSSIANS AND TARTARS

CHAPTER III MICHAEL STROGOFF MEETS THE CZAR

CHAPTER IV FROM MOSCOW TO NIJNI-NOVGOROD

CHAPTER V THE TWO ANNOUNCEMENTS

CHAPTER VI BROTHER AND SISTER

CHAPTER VII GOING DOWN THE VOLGA

CHAPTER VIII GOING UP THE KAMA

CHAPTER IX DAY AND NIGHT IN A TARANTASS

CHAPTER X A STORM IN THE URAL MOUNTAINS

CHAPTER XI TRAVELERS IN DISTRESS

CHAPTER XII PROVOCATION

CHAPTER XIII DUTY BEFORE EVERYTHING

CHAPTER XIV MOTHER AND SON

CHAPTER XV THE MARSHES OF THE BARABA

CHAPTER XVI A FINAL EFFORT

CHAPTER XVII THE RIVALS

BOOK II

CHAPTER I A TARTAR CAMP

CHAPTER II CORRESPONDENTS IN TROUBLE

CHAPTER III BLOW FOR BLOW

CHAPTER IV THE TRIUMPHAL ENTRY

CHAPTER V “LOOK WHILE YOU MAY!”

CHAPTER VI A FRIEND ON THE HIGHWAY

CHAPTER VII THE PASSAGE OF THE YENISEI

CHAPTER VIII A HARE CROSSES THE ROAD

CHAPTER IX IN THE STEPPE

CHAPTER X BAIKAL AND ANGARA

CHAPTER XI BETWEEN TWO BANKS

CHAPTER XII IRKUTSK

CHAPTER XIII THE CZAR’S COURIER

CHAPTER XIV THE NIGHT OF THE FIFTH OF OCTOBER

CHAPTER XV CONCLUSION

BOOK I

CHAPTER I A FETE AT THE NEW PALACE

“SIRE, a fresh dispatch.”

“Whence?”

“From Tomsk?”

“Is the wire cut beyond that city?”

“Yes, sire, since yesterday.”

“Telegraph hourly to Tomsk, General, and keep me informed of all that occurs.”

“Sire, it shall be done,” answered General Kissoff.

These words were exchanged about two hours after midnight, at the moment when the fete given at the New Palace was at the height of its splendor.

During the whole evening the bands of the Preobra-jensky and Paulowsky regiments had played without cessation polkas, mazurkas, schottisches, and waltzes from among the choicest of their repertoires. Innumerable couples of dancers whirled through the magnificent saloons of the palace, which stood at a few paces only from the “old house of stones” — in former days the scene of so many terrible dramas, the echoes of whose walls were this night awakened by the gay strains of the musicians.

The grand-chamberlain of the court, was, besides, well seconded in his arduous and delicate duties. The grand-dukes and their aides-de-camp, the chamberlains-in-waiting and other officers of the palace, presided personally in the arrangement of the dances. The grand duchesses, covered with diamonds, the ladies-in-waiting in their most exquisite costumes, set the example to the wives of the military and civil dignitaries of the ancient “city of white stone.” When, therefore, the signal for the “polonaise” resounded through the saloons, and the guests of all ranks took part in that measured promenade, which on occasions of this kind has all the importance of a national dance, the mingled costumes, the sweeping robes adorned with lace, and uniforms covered with orders, presented a scene of dazzling splendor, lighted by hundreds of lusters multiplied tenfold by the numerous mirrors adorning the walls.

The grand saloon, the finest of all those contained in the New Palace, formed to this procession of exalted personages and splendidly dressed women a frame worthy of the magnificence they displayed. The rich ceiling, with its gilding already softened by the touch of time, appeared as if glittering with stars. The embroidered drapery of the curtains and doors, falling in gorgeous folds, assumed rich and varied hues, broken by the shadows of the heavy masses of damask.

Through the panes of the vast semicircular bay-windows the light, with which the saloons were filled, shone forth with the brilliancy of a conflagration, vividly illuminating the gloom in which for some hours the palace had been shrouded. The attention of those of the guests not taking part in the dancing was attracted by the contrast. Resting in the recesses of the windows, they could discern, standing out dimly in the darkness, the vague outlines of the countless towers, domes, and spires which adorn the ancient city. Below the sculptured balconies were visible numerous sentries, pacing silently up and down, their rifles carried horizontally on the shoulder, and the spikes of their helmets glittering like flames in the glare of light issuing from the palace. The steps also of the patrols could be heard beating time on the stones beneath with even more regularity than the feet of the dancers on the floor of the saloon. From time to time the watchword was repeated from post to post, and occasionally the notes of a trumpet, mingling with the strains of the orchestra, penetrated into their midst. Still farther down, in front of the facade, dark masses obscured the rays of light which proceeded from the windows of the New Palace. These were boats descending the course of a river, whose waters, faintly illumined by a few lamps, washed the lower portion of the terraces.

The principal personage who has been mentioned, the giver of the fete, and to whom General Kissoff had been speaking in that tone of respect with which sovereigns alone are usually addressed, wore the simple uniform of an officer of chasseurs of the guard. This was not affectation on his part, but the custom of a man who cared little for dress, his contrasting strongly with the gorgeous costumes amid which he moved, encircled by his escort of Georgians, Cossacks, and Circassians — a brilliant band, splendidly clad in the glittering uniforms of the Caucasus.

This personage, of lofty stature, affable demeanor, and physiognomy calm, though bearing traces of anxiety, moved from group to group, seldom speaking, and appearing to pay but little attention either to the merriment of the younger guests or the graver remarks of the exalted dignitaries or members of the diplomatic corps who represented at the Russian court the principal governments of Europe. Two or three of these astute politicians — physiognomists by virtue of their profession — failed not to detect on the countenance of their host symptoms of disquietude, the source of which eluded their penetration; but none ventured to interrogate him on the subject.

It was evidently the intention of the officer of chasseurs that his own anxieties should in no way cast a shade over the festivities; and, as he was a personage whom almost the population of a world in itself was wont to obey, the gayety of the ball was not for a moment checked.

Nevertheless, General Kissoff waited until the officer to whom he had just communicated the dispatch forwarded from Tomsk should give him permission to withdraw; but the latter still remained silent. He had taken the telegram, he had read it carefully, and his visage became even more clouded than before. Involuntarily he sought the hilt of his sword, and then passed his hand for an instant before his eyes, as though, dazzled by the brilliancy of the light, he wished to shade them, the better to see into the recesses of his own mind.

“We are, then,” he continued, after having drawn General Kissoff aside towards a window, “since yesterday without intelligence from the Grand Duke?”

“Without any, sire; and it is to be feared that in a short time dispatches will no longer cross the Siberian frontier.”

“But have not the troops of the provinces of Amoor and Irkutsk, as those also of the Trans-Balkan territory, received orders to march immediately upon Irkutsk?”

“The orders were transmitted by the last telegram we were able to send beyond Lake Baikal.”

“And the governments of Yeniseisk, Omsk, Semipolatinsk, and Tobolsk — are we still in direct communication with them as before the insurrection?”

“Yes, sire; our dispatches have reached them, and we are assured at the present moment that the Tartars have not advanced beyond the Irtish and the Obi.”

“And the traitor Ivan Ogareff, are there no tidings of him?”

“None,” replied General Kissoff. “The head of the police cannot state whether or not he has crossed the frontier.”

“Let a description of him be immediately dispatched to Nijni-Novgorod, Perm, Ekaterenburg, Kasirnov, Tioumen, Ishim, Omsk, Tomsk, and to all the telegraphic stations with which communication is yet open.”

“Your majesty’s orders shall be instantly carried out.”

“You will observe the strictest silence as to this.”

The General, having made a sign of respectful assent, bowing low, mingled with the crowd, and finally left the apartments without his departure being remarked.

The officer remained absorbed in thought for a few moments, when, recovering himself, he went among the various groups in the saloon, his countenance reassuming that calm aspect which had for an instant been disturbed.

Nevertheless, the important occurrence which had occasioned these rapidly exchanged words was not so unknown as the officer of the chasseurs of the guard and General Kissoff had possibly supposed. It was not spoken of officially, it is true, nor even officiously, since tongues were not free; but a few exalted personages had been informed, more or less exactly, of the events which had taken place beyond the frontier. At any rate, that which was only slightly known, that which was not matter of conversation even between members of the corps diplomatique, two guests, distinguished by no uniform, no decoration, at this reception in the New Palace, discussed in a low voice, and with apparently very correct information.

By what means, by the exercise of what acuteness had these two ordinary mortals ascertained that which so many persons of the highest rank and importance scarcely even suspected? It is impossible to say. Had they the gifts of foreknowledge and foresight? Did they possess a supplementary sense, which enabled them to see beyond that limited horizon which bounds all human gaze? Had they obtained a peculiar power of divining the most secret events? Was it owing to the habit, now become a second nature, of living on information, that their mental constitution had thus become really transformed? It was difficult to escape from this conclusion.

Of these two men, the one was English, the other French; both were tall and thin, but the latter was sallow as are the southern Provencals, while the former was ruddy like a Lancashire gentleman. The Anglo-Norman, formal, cold, grave, parsimonious of gestures and words, appeared only to speak or gesticulate under the influence of a spring operating at regular intervals. The Gaul, on the contrary, lively and petulant, expressed himself with lips, eyes, hands, all at once, having twenty different ways of explaining his thoughts, whereas his interlocutor seemed to have only one, immutably stereotyped on his brain.

The strong contrast they presented would at once have struck the most superficial observer; but a physiognomist, regarding them closely, would have defined their particular characteristics by saying, that if the Frenchman was “all eyes,” the Englishman was “all ears.”

In fact, the visual apparatus of the one had been singularly perfected by practice. The sensibility of its retina must have been as instantaneous as that of those conjurors who recognize a card merely by a rapid movement in cutting the pack or by the arrangement only of marks invisible to others. The Frenchman indeed possessed in the highest degree what may be called “the memory of the eye.”

The Englishman, on the contrary, appeared especially organized to listen and to hear. When his aural apparatus had been once struck by the sound of a voice he could not forget it, and after ten or even twenty years he would have recognized it among a thousand. His ears, to be sure, had not the power of moving as freely as those of animals who are provided with large auditory flaps; but, since scientific men know that human ears possess, in fact, a very limited power of movement, we should not be far wrong in affirming that those of the said Englishman became erect, and turned in all directions while endeavoring to gather in the sounds, in a manner apparent only to the naturalist. It must be observed that this perfection of sight and hearing was of wonderful assistance to these two men in their vocation, for the Englishman acted as correspondent of the Daily Telegraph, and the Frenchman, as correspondent of what newspaper, or of what newspapers, he did not say; and when asked, he replied in a jocular manner that he corresponded with “his cousin Madeleine.” This Frenchman, however, neath his careless surface, was wonderfully shrewd and sagacious. Even while speaking at random, perhaps the better to hide his desire to learn, he never forgot himself. His loquacity even helped him to conceal his thoughts, and he was perhaps even more discreet than his confrere of the Daily Telegraph. Both were present at this fete given at the New Palace on the night of the 15th of July in their character of reporters.

It is needless to say that these two men were devoted to their mission in the world — that they delighted to throw themselves in the track of the most unexpected intelligence — that nothing terrified or discouraged them from succeeding — that they possessed the imperturbable sang froid and the genuine intrepidity of men of their calling. Enthusiastic jockeys in this steeplechase, this hunt after information, they leaped hedges, crossed rivers, sprang over fences, with the ardor of pure-blooded racers, who will run “a good first” or die!

Their journals did not restrict them with regard to money — the surest, the most rapid, the most perfect element of information known to this day. It must also be added, to their honor, that neither the one nor the other ever looked over or listened at the walls of private life, and that they only exercised their vocation when political or social interests were at stake. In a word, they made what has been for some years called “the great political and military reports.”

It will be seen, in following them, that they had generally an independent mode of viewing events, and, above all, their consequences, each having his own way of observing and appreciating.

The French correspondent was named Alcide Jolivet. Harry Blount was the name of the Englishman. They had just met for the first time at this fete in the New Palace, of which they had been ordered to give an account in their papers. The dissimilarity of their characters, added to a certain amount of jealousy, which generally exists between rivals in the same calling, might have rendered them but little sympathetic. However, they did not avoid each other, but endeavored rather to exchange with each other the chat of the day. They were sportsmen, after all, hunting on the same ground. That which one missed might be advantageously secured by the other, and it was to their interest to meet and converse.

This evening they were both on the look out; they felt, in fact, that there was something in the air.

“Even should it be only a wildgoose chase,” said Alcide Jolivet to himself, “it may be worth powder and shot.”

The two correspondents therefore began by cautiously sounding each other.

“Really, my dear sir, this little fete is charming!” said Alcide Jolivet pleasantly, thinking himself obliged to begin the conversation with this eminently French phrase.

“I have telegraphed already, ‘splendid!’” replied Harry Blount calmly, employing the word specially devoted to expressing admiration by all subjects of the United Kingdom.

“Nevertheless,” added Alcide Jolivet, “I felt compelled to remark to my cousin — ”

“Your cousin?” repeated Harry Blount in a tone of surprise, interrupting his brother of the pen.

“Yes,” returned Alcide Jolivet, “my cousin Madeleine. It is with her that I correspond, and she likes to be quickly and well informed, does my cousin. I therefore remarked to her that, during this fete, a sort of cloud had appeared to overshadow the sovereign’s brow.”

“To me, it seemed radiant,” replied Harry Blount, who perhaps, wished to conceal his real opinion on this topic.

“And, naturally, you made it ‘radiant,’ in the columns of the Daily Telegraph.”

“Exactly.”

“Do you remember, Mr. Blount, what occurred at Zakret in 1812?”

“I remember it as well as if I had been there, sir,” replied the English correspondent.

“Then,” continued Alcide Jolivet, “you know that, in the middle of a fete given in his honor, it was announced to the Emperor Alexander that Napoleon had just crossed the Niemen with the vanguard of the French army. Nevertheless the Emperor did not leave the fete, and notwithstanding the extreme gravity of intelligence which might cost him his empire, he did not allow himself to show more uneasiness.”

“Than our host exhibited when General Kissoff informed him that the telegraphic wires had just been cut between the frontier and the government of Irkutsk.”

“Ah! you are aware of that?”

“I am!”

“As regards myself, it would be difficult to avoid knowing it, since my last telegram reached Udinsk,” observed Alcide Jolivet, with some satisfaction.

“And mine only as far as Krasnoiarsk,” answered Harry Blount, in a no less satisfied tone.

“Then you know also that orders have been sent to the troops of Nikolaevsk?”

“I do, sir; and at the same time a telegram was sent to the Cossacks of the government of Tobolsk to concentrate their forces.”

“Nothing can be more true, Mr. Blount; I was equally well acquainted with these measures, and you may be sure that my dear cousin shall know of them to-morrow.”

“Exactly as the readers of the Daily Telegraph shall know it also, M. Jolivet.”

“Well, when one sees all that is going on…”

“And when one hears all that is said…”

“An interesting campaign to follow, Mr. Blount.”

“I shall follow it, M. Jolivet!”

“Then it is possible that we shall find ourselves on ground less safe, perhaps, than the floor of this ball-room.”

“Less safe, certainly, but — ”

“But much less slippery,” added Alcide Jolivet, holding up his companion, just as the latter, drawing back, was about to lose his equilibrium.

Thereupon the two correspondents separated, pleased that the one had not stolen a march on the other.

At that moment the doors of the rooms adjoining the great reception saloon were thrown open, disclosing to view several immense tables beautifully laid out, and groaning under a profusion of valuable china and gold plate. On the central table, reserved for the princes, princesses, and members of the corps diplomatique, glittered an epergne of inestimable price, brought from London, and around this chef-d’oeuvre of chased gold reflected under the light of the lusters a thousand pieces of most beautiful service from the manufactories of Sevres.

The guests of the New Palace immediately began to stream towards the supper-rooms.

At that moment. General Kissoff, who had just re-entered, quickly approached the officer of chasseurs.

“Well?” asked the latter abruptly, as he had done the former time.

“Telegrams pass Tomsk no longer, sire.”

“A courier this moment!”

The officer left the hall and entered a large antechamber adjoining. It was a cabinet with plain oak furniture, situated in an angle of the New Palace. Several pictures, amongst others some by Horace Vernet, hung on the wall.

The officer hastily opened a window, as if he felt the want of air, and stepped out on a balcony to breathe the pure atmosphere of a lovely July night. Beneath his eyes, bathed in moonlight, lay a fortified inclosure, from which rose two cathedrals, three palaces, and an arsenal. Around this inclosure could be seen three distinct towns: Kitai-Gorod, Beloi-Gorod, Zemlianai-Gorod — European, Tartar, and Chinese quarters of great extent, commanded by towers, belfries, minarets, and the cupolas of three hundred churches, with green domes, surmounted by the silver cross. A little winding river, here and there reflected the rays of the moon.

This river was the Moskowa; the town Moscow; the fortified inclosure the Kremlin; and the officer of chasseurs of the guard, who, with folded arms and thoughtful brow, was listening dreamily to the sounds floating from the New Palace over the old Muscovite city, was the Czar.

CHAPTER II RUSSIANS AND TARTARS

THE Czar had not so suddenly left the ball-room of the New Palace, when the fete he was giving to the civil and military authorities and principal people of Moscow was at the height of its brilliancy, without ample cause; for he had just received information that serious events were taking place beyond the frontiers of the Ural. It had become evident that a formidable rebellion threatened to wrest the Siberian provinces from the Russian crown.

Asiatic Russia, or Siberia, covers a superficial area of 1,790,208 square miles, and contains nearly two millions of inhabitants. Extending from the Ural Mountains, which separate it from Russia in Europe, to the shores of the Pacific Ocean, it is bounded on the south by Turkestan and the Chinese Empire; on the north by the Arctic Ocean, from the Sea of Kara to Behring’s Straits. It is divided into several governments or provinces, those of Tobolsk, Yeniseisk, Irkutsk, Omsk, and Yakutsk; contains two districts, Okhotsk and Kamtschatka; and possesses two countries, now under the Muscovite dominion — that of the Kirghiz and that of the Tshouktshes. This immense extent of steppes, which includes more than one hundred and ten degrees from west to east, is a land to which criminals and political offenders are banished.

Two governor-generals represent the supreme authority of the Czar over this vast country. The higher one resides at Irkutsk, the far capital of Eastern Siberia. The River Tchouna separates the two Siberias.

No rail yet furrows these wide plains, some of which are in reality extremely fertile. No iron ways lead from those precious mines which make the Siberian soil far richer below than above its surface. The traveler journeys in summer in a kibick or telga; in winter, in a sledge.

An electric telegraph, with a single wire more than eight thousand versts in length, alone affords communication between the western and eastern frontiers of Siberia. On issuing from the Ural, it passes through Ekaterenburg, Kasirnov, Tioumen, Ishim, Omsk, Elamsk, Kolyvan, Tomsk, Krasnoiarsk, Nijni-Udinsk, Irkutsk, Verkne-Nertschink, Strelink, Albazine, Blagowstenks, Radde, Orlomskaya, Alexandrowskoe, and Nikolaevsk; and six roubles and nineteen copecks are paid for every word sent from one end to the other. From Irkutsk there is a branch to Kiatka, on the Mongolian frontier; and from thence, for thirty copecks a word, the post conveys the dispatches to Pekin in a fortnight.

It was this wire, extending from Ekaterenburg to Nikolaevsk, which had been cut, first beyond Tomsk, and then between Tomsk and Kolyvan.

This was why the Czar, to the communication made to him for the second time by General Kissoff, had answered by the words, “A courier this moment!”

The Czar remained motionless at the window for a few moments, when the door was again opened. The chief of police appeared on the threshold.

“Enter, General,” said the Czar briefly, “and tell me all you know of Ivan Ogareff.”

“He is an extremely dangerous man, sire,” replied the chief of police.

“He ranked as colonel, did he not?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Was he an intelligent officer?”

“Very intelligent, but a man whose spirit it was impossible to subdue; and possessing an ambition which stopped at nothing, he became involved in secret intrigues, and was degraded from his rank by his Highness the Grand Duke, and exiled to Siberia.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Two years since. Pardoned after six months of exile by your majesty’s favor, he returned to Russia.”

“And since that time, has he not revisited Siberia?”

“Yes, sire; but he voluntarily returned there,” replied the chief of police, adding, and slightly lowering his voice, “there was a time, sire, when NONE returned from Siberia.”

“Well, whilst I live, Siberia is and shall be a country whence men CAN return.”

The Czar had the right to utter these words with some pride, for often, by his clemency, he had shown that Russian justice knew how to pardon.

The head of the police did not reply to this observation, but it was evident that he did not approve of such half-measures. According to his idea, a man who had once passed the Ural Mountains in charge of policemen, ought never again to cross them. Now, it was not thus under the new reign, and the chief of police sincerely deplored it. What! no banishment for life for other crimes than those against social order! What! political exiles returning from Tobolsk, from Yakutsk, from Irkutsk! In truth, the chief of police, accustomed to the despotic sentences of the ukase which formerly never pardoned, could not understand this mode of governing. But he was silent, waiting until the Czar should interrogate him further. The questions were not long in coming.

“Did not Ivan Ogareff,” asked the Czar, “return to Russia a second time, after that journey through the Siberian provinces, the object of which remains unknown?”

“He did.”

“And have the police lost trace of him since?”

“No, sire; for an offender only becomes really dangerous from the day he has received his pardon.”

The Czar frowned. Perhaps the chief of police feared that he had gone rather too far, though the stubbornness of his ideas was at least equal to the boundless devotion he felt for his master. But the Czar, disdaining to reply to these indirect reproaches cast on his policy, continued his questions. “Where was Ogareff last heard of?”

“In the province of Perm.”

“In what town?”

“At Perm itself.”

“What was he doing?”

“He appeared unoccupied, and there was nothing suspicious in his conduct.”

“Then he was not under the surveillance of the secret police?”

“No, sire.”

“When did he leave Perm?”

“About the month of March?”

“To go…?”

“Where, is unknown.”

“And it is not known what has become of him?”

“No, sire; it is not known.”

“Well, then, I myself know,” answered the Czar. “I have received anonymous communications which did not pass through the police department; and, in the face of events now taking place beyond the frontier, I have every reason to believe that they are correct.”

“Do you mean, sire,” cried the chief of police, “that Ivan Ogareff has a hand in this Tartar rebellion?”

“Indeed I do; and I will now tell you something which you are ignorant of. After leaving Perm, Ivan Ogareff crossed the Ural mountains, entered Siberia, and penetrated the Kirghiz steppes, and there endeavored, not without success, to foment rebellion amongst their nomadic population. He then went so far south as free Turkestan; there, in the provinces of Bokhara, Khokhand, and Koondooz, he found chiefs willing to pour their Tartar hordes into Siberia, and excite a general rising in Asiatic Russia. The storm has been silently gathering, but it has at last burst like a thunderclap, and now all means of communication between Eastern and Western Siberia have been stopped. Moreover, Ivan Ogareff, thirsting for vengeance, aims at the life of my brother!”

The Czar had become excited whilst speaking, and now paced up and down with hurried steps. The chief of police said nothing, but he thought to himself that, during the time when the emperors of Russia never pardoned an exile, schemes such as those of Ivan Ogareff could never have been realized. Approaching the Czar, who had thrown himself into an armchair, he asked, “Your majesty has of course given orders so that this rebellion may be suppressed as soon as possible?”

“Yes,” answered the Czar. “The last telegram which reached Nijni-Udinsk would set in motion the troops in the governments of Yenisei, Irkutsk, Yakutsk, as well as those in the provinces of the Amoor and Lake Baikal. At the same time, the regiments from Perm and Nijni-Novgorod, and the Cossacks from the frontier, are advancing by forced marches towards the Ural Mountains; but some weeks must pass before they can attack the Tartars.”

“And your majesty’s brother, his Highness the Grand Duke, is now isolated in the government of Irkutsk, and is no longer in direct communication with Moscow?”

“That is so.”

“But by the last dispatches, he must know what measures have been taken by your majesty, and what help he may expect from the governments nearest Irkutsk?”

“He knows that,” answered the Czar; “but what he does not know is, that Ivan Ogareff, as well as being a rebel, is also playing the part of a traitor, and that in him he has a personal and bitter enemy. It is to the Grand Duke that Ogareff owes his first disgrace; and what is more serious is, that this man is not known to him. Ogareff’s plan, therefore, is to go to Irkutsk, and, under an assumed name, offer his services to the Grand Duke. Then, after gaining his confidence, when the Tartars have invested Irkutsk, he will betray the town, and with it my brother, whose life he seeks. This is what I have learned from my secret intelligence; this is what the Grand Duke does not know; and this is what he must know!”

“Well, sire, an intelligent, courageous courier…”

“I momentarily expect one.”

“And it is to be hoped he will be expeditious,” added the chief of police; “for, allow me to add, sire, that Siberia is a favorable land for rebellions.”

“Do you mean to say. General, that the exiles would make common cause with the rebels?” exclaimed the Czar.

“Excuse me, your majesty,” stammered the chief of police, for that was really the idea suggested to him by his uneasy and suspicious mind.

“I believe in their patriotism,” returned the Czar.

“There are other offenders besides political exiles in Siberia,” said the chief of police.

“The criminals? Oh, General, I give those up to you! They are the vilest, I grant, of the human race. They belong to no country. But the insurrection, or rather, the rebellion, is not to oppose the emperor; it is raised against Russia, against the country which the exiles have not lost all hope of again seeing — and which they will see again. No, a Russian would never unite with a Tartar, to weaken, were it only for an hour, the Muscovite power!”

The Czar was right in trusting to the patriotism of those whom his policy kept, for a time, at a distance. Clemency, which was the foundation of his justice, when he could himself direct its effects, the modifications he had adopted with regard to applications for the formerly terrible ukases, warranted the belief that he was not mistaken. But even without this powerful element of success in regard to the Tartar rebellion, circumstances were not the less very serious; for it was to be feared that a large part of the Kirghiz population would join the rebels.

The Kirghiz are divided into three hordes, the greater, the lesser, and the middle, and number nearly four hundred thousand “tents,” or two million souls. Of the different tribes some are independent and others recognize either the sovereignty of Russia or that of the Khans of Khiva, Khokhand, and Bokhara, the most formidable chiefs of Turkestan. The middle horde, the richest, is also the largest, and its encampments occupy all the space between the rivers Sara Sou, Irtish, and the Upper Ishim, Lake Saisang and Lake Aksakal. The greater horde, occupying the countries situated to the east of the middle one, extends as far as the governments of Omsk and Tobolsk. Therefore, if the Kirghiz population should rise, it would be the rebellion of Asiatic Russia, and the first thing would be the separation of Siberia, to the east of the Yenisei.

It is true that these Kirghiz, mere novices in the art of war, are rather nocturnal thieves and plunderers of caravans than regular soldiers. As M. Levchine says, “a firm front or a square of good infantry could repel ten times the number of Kirghiz; and a single cannon might destroy a frightful number.”

That may be; but to do this it is necessary for the square of good infantry to reach the rebellious country, and the cannon to leave the arsenals of the Russian provinces, perhaps two or three thousand versts distant. Now, except by the direct route from Ekaterenburg to Irkutsk, the often marshy steppes are not easily practicable, and some weeks must certainly pass before the Russian troops could reach the Tartar hordes.

Omsk is the center of that military organization of Western Siberia which is intended to overawe the Kirghiz population. Here are the bounds, more than once infringed by the half-subdued nomads, and there was every reason to believe that Omsk was already in danger. The line of military stations, that is to say, those Cossack posts which are ranged in echelon from Omsk to Semipolatinsk, must have been broken in several places. Now, it was to be feared that the “Grand Sultans,” who govern the Kirghiz districts would either voluntarily accept, or involuntarily submit to, the dominion of Tartars, Mussulmen like themselves, and that to the hate caused by slavery was not united the hate due to the antagonism of the Greek and Mussulman religions. For some time, indeed, the Tartars of Turkestan had endeavored, both by force and persuasion, to subdue the Kirghiz hordes.

A few words only with respect to these Tartars. The Tartars belong more especially to two distinct races, the Caucasian and the Mongolian. The Caucasian race, which, as Abel de Remusat says, “is regarded in Europe as the type of beauty in our species, because all the nations in this part of the world have sprung from it,” includes also the Turks and the Persians. The purely Mongolian race comprises the Mongols, Manchoux, and Thibetans.

The Tartars who now threatened the Russian Empire, belonged to the Caucasian race, and occupied Turkestan. This immense country is divided into different states, governed by Khans, and hence termed Khanats. The principal khanats are those of Bokhara, Khokhand, Koondooz, etc. At this period, the most important and the most formidable khanat was that of Bokhara. Russia had already been several times at war with its chiefs, who, for their own interests, had supported the independence of the Kirghiz against the Muscovite dominion. The present chief, Feofar-Khan, followed in the steps of his predecessors.

The khanat of Bokhara has a population of two million five hundred thousand inhabitants, an army of sixty thousand men, trebled in time of war, and thirty thousand horsemen. It is a rich country, with varied animal, vegetable, and mineral products, and has been increased by the accession of the territories of Balkh, Aukoi, and Meimaneh. It possesses nineteen large towns. Bokhara, surrounded by a wall measuring more than eight English miles, and flanked with towers, a glorious city, made illustrious by Avicenna and other learned men of the tenth century, is regarded as the center of Mussulman science, and ranks among the most celebrated cities of Central Asia. Samarcand, which contains the tomb of Tamerlane and the famous palace where the blue stone is kept on which each new khan must seat himself on his accession, is defended by a very strong citadel. Karschi, with its triple cordon, situated in an oasis, surrounded by a marsh peopled with tortoises and lizards, is almost impregnable, Is-chardjoui is defended by a population of twenty thousand souls. Protected by its mountains, and isolated by its steppes, the khanat of Bokhara is a most formidable state; and Russia would need a large force to subdue it.

The fierce and ambitious Feofar now governed this corner of Tartary. Relying on the other khans — principally those of Khokhand and Koondooz, cruel and rapacious warriors, all ready to join an enterprise so dear to Tartar instincts — aided by the chiefs who ruled all the hordes of Central Asia, he had placed himself at the head of the rebellion of which Ivan Ogareff was the instigator. This traitor, impelled by insane ambition as much as by hate, had ordered the movement so as to attack Siberia. Mad indeed he was, if he hoped to rupture the Muscovite Empire. Acting under his suggestion, the Emir — which is the title taken by the khans of Bokhara — had poured his hordes over the Russian frontier. He invaded the government of Semipolatinsk, and the Cossacks, who were only in small force there, had been obliged to retire before him. He had advanced farther than Lake Balkhash, gaining over the Kirghiz population on his way. Pillaging, ravaging, enrolling those who submitted, taking prisoners those who resisted, he marched from one town to another, followed by those impedimenta of Oriental sovereignty which may be called his household, his wives and his slaves — all with the cool audacity of a modern Ghengis-Khan. It was impossible to ascertain where he now was; how far his soldiers had marched before the news of the rebellion reached Moscow; or to what part of Siberia the Russian troops had been forced to retire. All communication was interrupted. Had the wire between Kolyvan and Tomsk been cut by Tartar scouts, or had the Emir himself arrived at the Yeniseisk provinces? Was all the lower part of Western Siberia in a ferment? Had the rebellion already spread to the eastern regions? No one could say. The only agent which fears neither cold nor heat, which can neither be stopped by the rigors of winter nor the heat of summer, and which flies with the rapidity of lightning — the electric current — was prevented from traversing the steppes, and it was no longer possible to warn the Grand Duke, shut up in Irkutsk, of the danger threatening him from the treason of Ivan Ogareff.

A courier only could supply the place of the interrupted current. It would take this man some time to traverse the five thousand two hundred versts between Moscow and Irkutsk. To pass the ranks of the rebels and invaders he must display almost superhuman courage and intelligence. But with a clear head and a firm heart much can be done.

“Shall I be able to find this head and heart?” thought the Czar.

CHAPTER XII PROVOCATION

EKATERENBURG, geographically, is an Asiatic city; for it is situated beyond the Ural Mountains, on the farthest eastern slopes of the chain. Nevertheless, it belongs to the government of Perm; and, consequently, is included in one of the great divisions of European Russia. It is as though a morsel of Siberia lay in Russian jaws.

Neither Michael nor his companions were likely to experience the slightest difficulty in obtaining means of continuing their journey in so large a town as Ekaterenburg. It was founded in 1723, and has since become a place of considerable size, for in it is the chief mint of the empire. There also are the headquarters of the officials employed in the management of the mines. Thus the town is the center of an important district, abounding in manufactories principally for the working and refining of gold and platina.

Just now the population of Ekaterenburg had greatly increased; many Russians and Siberians, menaced by the Tartar invasion, having collected there. Thus, though it had been so troublesome a matter to find horses and vehicles when going to Ekaterenburg, there was no difficulty in leaving it; for under present circumstances few travelers cared to venture on the Siberian roads.

So it happened that Blount and Alcide had not the slightest trouble in replacing, by a sound telga, the famous demi-carriage which had managed to take them to Ekaterenburg. As to Michael, he retained his tarantass, which was not much the worse for its journey across the Urals; and he had only to harness three good horses to it to take him swiftly over the road to Irkutsk.

As far as Tioumen, and even up to Novo-Zaimskoe, this road has slight inclines, which gentle undulations are the first signs of the slopes of the Ural Mountains. But after Novo-Zaimskoe begins the immense steppe.

At Ichim, as we have said, the reporters intended to stop, that is at about four hundred and twenty miles from Ekaterenburg. There they intended to be guided by circumstances as to their route across the invaded country, either together or separately, according as their news-hunting instinct set them on one track or another.

This road from Ekaterenburg to Ichim — which passes through Irkutsk — was the only one which Michael could take. But, as he did not run after news, and wished, on the contrary, to avoid the country devastated by the invaders, he determined to stop nowhere.

“I am very happy to make part of my journey in your company,” said he to his new companions, “but I must tell you that I am most anxious to reach Omsk; for my sister and I are going to rejoin our mother. Who can say whether we shall arrive before the Tartars reach the town! I must therefore stop at the post-houses only long enough to change horses, and must travel day and night.”

“That is exactly what we intend doing,” replied Blount.

“Good,” replied Michael; “but do not lose an instant. Buy or hire a carriage whose — ”

“Whose hind wheels,” added Alcide, “are warranted to arrive at the same time as its front wheels.”

Half an hour afterwards the energetic Frenchman had found a tarantass in which he and his companion at once seated themselves. Michael and Nadia once more entered their own carriage, and at twelve o’clock the two vehicles left the town of Ekaterenburg together.

Nadia was at last in Siberia, on that long road which led to Irkutsk. What must then have been the thoughts of the young girl? Three strong swift horses were taking her across that land of exile where her parent was condemned to live, for how long she knew not, and so far from his native land. But she scarcely noticed those long steppes over which the tarantass was rolling, and which at one time she had despaired of ever seeing, for her eyes were gazing at the horizon, beyond which she knew her banished father was. She saw nothing of the country across which she was traveling at the rate of fifteen versts an hour; nothing of these regions of Western Siberia, so different from those of the east. Here, indeed, were few cultivated fields; the soil was poor, at least at the surface, but in its bowels lay hid quantities of iron, copper, platina, and gold. How can hands be found to cultivate the land, when it pays better to burrow beneath the earth? The pickaxe is everywhere at work; the spade nowhere.

However, Nadia’s thoughts sometimes left the provinces of Lake Baikal, and returned to her present situation. Her father’s image faded away, and was replaced by that of her generous companion as he first appeared on the Vladimir railroad. She recalled his attentions during that journey, his arrival at the police-station, the hearty simplicity with which he had called her sister, his kindness to her in the descent of the Volga, and then all that he did for her on that terrible night of the storm in the Urals, when he saved her life at the peril of his own.

Thus Nadia thought of Michael. She thanked God for having given her such a gallant protector, a friend so generous and wise. She knew that she was safe with him, under his protection. No brother could have done more than he. All obstacles seemed cleared away; the performance of her journey was but a matter of time.

Michael remained buried in thought. He also thanked God for having brought about this meeting with Nadia, which at the same time enabled him to do a good action, and afforded him additional means for concealing his true character. He delighted in the young girl’s calm intrepidity. Was she not indeed his sister? His feeling towards his beautiful and brave companion was rather respect than affection. He felt that hers was one of those pure and rare hearts which are held by all in high esteem.

However, Michael’s dangers were now beginning, since he had reached Siberian ground. If the reporters were not mistaken, if Ivan Ogareff had really passed the frontier, all his actions must be made with extreme caution. Things were now altered; Tartar spies swarmed in the Siberian provinces. His incognito once discovered, his character as courier of the Czar known, there was an end of his journey, and probably of his life. Michael felt now more than ever the weight of his responsibility.

While such were the thoughts of those occupying the first carriage, what was happening in the second? Nothing out of the way. Alcide spoke in sentences; Blount replied by monosyllables. Each looked at everything in his own light, and made notes of such incidents as occurred on the journey — few and but slightly varied — while they crossed the provinces of Western Siberia.

At each relay the reporters descended from their carriage and found themselves with Michael. Except when meals were to be taken at the post-houses, Nadia did not leave the tarantass. When obliged to breakfast or dine, she sat at table, but was always very reserved, and seldom joined in conversation.

Alcide, without going beyond the limits of strict propriety, showed that he was greatly struck by the young girl. He admired the silent energy which she showed in bearing all the fatigues of so difficult a journey.

The forced stoppages were anything but agreeable to Michael; so he hastened the departure at each relay, roused the innkeepers, urged on the iemschiks, and expedited the harnessing of the tarantass. Then the hurried meal over — always much too hurried to agree with Blount, who was a methodical eater — they started, and were driven as eagles, for they paid like princes.

It need scarcely be said that Blount did not trouble himself about the girl at table. That gentleman was not in the habit of doing two things at once. She was also one of the few subjects of conversation which he did not care to discuss with his companion.

Alcide having asked him, on one occasion, how old he thought the girl, “What girl?” he replied, quite seriously.

“Why, Nicholas Korpanoff’s sister.”

“Is she his sister?”

“No; his grandmother!” replied Alcide, angry at his indifference. “What age should you consider her?”

“Had I been present at her birth I might have known.”

Very few of the Siberian peasants were to be seen in the fields. These peasants are remarkable for their pale, grave faces, which a celebrated traveler has compared to those of the Castilians, without the haughtiness of the latter. Here and there some villages already deserted indicated the approach of the Tartar hordes. The inhabitants, having driven off their flocks of sheep, their camels, and their horses, were taking refuge in the plains of the north. Some tribes of the wandering Kirghiz, who remained faithful, had transported their tents beyond the Irtych, to escape the depredations of the invaders.

Happily, post traveling was as yet uninterrupted; and telegraphic communication could still be effected between places connected with the wire. At each relay horses were to be had on the usual conditions. At each telegraphic station the clerks transmitted messages delivered to them, delaying for State dispatches alone.

Thus far, then, Michael’s journey had been accomplished satisfactorily. The courier of the Czar had in no way been impeded; and, if he could only get on to Krasnoiarsk, which seemed the farthest point attained by Feofar-Khan’s Tartars, he knew that he could arrive at Irkutsk, before them. The day after the two carriages had left Ekaterenburg they reached the small town of Toulouguisk at seven o’clock in the morning, having covered two hundred and twenty versts, no event worthy of mention having occurred. The same evening, the 22d of July, they arrived at Tioumen.

Tioumen, whose population is usually ten thousand inhabitants, then contained double that number. This, the first industrial town established by the Russians in Siberia, in which may be seen a fine metal-refining factory and a bell foundry, had never before presented such an animated appearance. The correspondents immediately went off after news. That brought by Siberian fugitives from the seat of war was far from reassuring. They said, amongst other things, that Feofar-Khan’s army was rapidly approaching the valley of the Ichim, and they confirmed the report that the Tartar chief was soon to be joined by Colonel Ogareff, if he had not been so already. Hence the conclusion was that operations would be pushed in Eastern Siberia with the greatest activity. However, the loyal Cossacks of the government of Tobolsk were advancing by forced marches towards Tomsk, in the hope of cutting off the Tartar columns.

At midnight the town of Novo-Saimsk was reached; and the travelers now left behind them the country broken by tree-covered hills, the last remains of the Urals.

Here began the regular Siberian steppe which extends to the neighborhood of Krasnoiarsk. It is a boundless plain, a vast grassy desert; earth and sky here form a circle as distinct as that traced by a sweep of the compasses. The steppe presents nothing to attract notice but the long line of the telegraph posts, their wires vibrating in the breeze like the strings of a harp. The road could be distinguished from the rest of the plain only by the clouds of fine dust which rose under the wheels of the tarantass. Had it not been for this white riband, which stretched away as far as the eye could reach, the travelers might have thought themselves in a desert.

Michael and his companions again pressed rapidly forward. The horses, urged on by the iemschik, seemed to fly over the ground, for there was not the slightest obstacle to impede them. The tarantass was going straight for Ichim, where the two correspondents intended to stop, if nothing happened to make them alter their plans.

A hundred and twenty miles separated Novo-Saimsk from the town of Ichim, and before eight o’clock the next evening the distance could and should be accomplished if no time was lost. In the opinion of the iemschiks, should the travelers not be great lords or high functionaries, they were worthy of being so, if it was only for their generosity in the matter of “na vodkou.”

On the afternoon of the next day, the 23rd of July, the two carriages were not more than thirty versts from Ichim. Suddenly Michael caught sight of a carriage — scarcely visible among the clouds of dust — preceding them along the road. As his horses were evidently less fatigued than those of the other traveler, he would not be long in overtaking it. This was neither a tarantass nor a telga, but a post-berlin, which looked as if it had made a long journey. The postillion was thrashing his horses with all his might, and only kept them at a gallop by dint of abuse and blows. The berlin had certainly not passed through Novo-Saimsk, and could only have struck the Irkutsk road by some less frequented route across the steppe.

Our travelers’ first thought, on seeing this berlin, was to get in front of it, and arrive first at the relay, so as to make sure of fresh horses. They said a word to their iemschiks, who soon brought them up with the berlin.

Michael Strogoff came up first. As he passed, a head was thrust out of the window of the berlin.

He had not time to see what it was like, but as he dashed by he distinctly heard this word, uttered in an imperious tone: “Stop!”

But they did not stop; on the contrary, the berlin was soon distanced by the two tarantasses.

It now became a regular race; for the horses of the berlin — no doubt excited by the sight and pace of the others — recovered their strength and kept up for some minutes. The three carriages were hidden in a cloud of dust. From this cloud issued the cracking of whips mingled with excited shouts and exclamations of anger.

Nevertheless, the advantage remained with Michael and his companions, which might be very important to them if the relay was poorly provided with horses. Two carriages were perhaps more than the postmaster could provide for, at least in a short space of time.

Half an hour after the berlin was left far behind, looking only a speck on the horizon of the steppe.

It was eight o’clock in the evening when the two carriages reached Ichim. The news was worse and worse with regard to the invasion. The town itself was menaced by the Tartar vanguard; and two days before the authorities had been obliged to retreat to Tobolsk. There was not an officer nor a soldier left in Ichim.

On arriving at the relay, Michael Strogoff immediately asked for horses. He had been fortunate in distancing the berlin. Only three horses were fit to be harnessed. The others had just come in worn out from a long stage.

As the two correspondents intended to stop at Ichim, they had not to trouble themselves to find transport, and had their carriage put away. In ten minutes Michael was told that his tarantass was ready to start.

“Good,” said he.

Then turning to the two reporters: “Well, gentlemen, the time is come for us to separate.”

“What, Mr. Korpanoff,” said Alcide Jolivet, “shall you not stop even for an hour at Ichim?”

“No, sir; and I also wish to leave the post-house before the arrival of the berlin which we distanced.”

“Are you afraid that the traveler will dispute the horses with you?”

“I particularly wish to avoid any difficulty.”

“Then, Mr. Korpanoff,” said Jolivet, “it only remains for us to thank you once more for the service you rendered us, and the pleasure we have had in traveling with you.”

“It is possible that we shall meet you again in a few days at Omsk,” added Blount.

“It is possible,” answered Michael, “since I am going straight there.”

“Well, I wish you a safe journey, Mr. Korpanoff,” said Alcide, “and Heaven preserve you from telgas.”

The two reporters held out their hands to Michael with the intention of cordially shaking his, when the sound of a carriage was heard outside. Almost immediately the door was flung open and a man appeared.

It was the traveler of the berlin, a military-looking man, apparently about forty years of age, tall, robust in figure, broad-shouldered, with a strongly-set head, and thick mus-taches meeting red whiskers. He wore a plain uniform. A cavalry saber hung at his side, and in his hand he held a short-handled whip.

“Horses,” he demanded, with the air of a man accustomed to command.

“I have no more disposable horses,” answered the postmaster, bowing.

“I must have some this moment.”

“It is impossible.”

“What are those horses which have just been harnessed to the tarantass I saw at the door?”

“They belong to this traveler,” answered the postmaster, pointing to Michael Strogoff.

“Take them out!” said the traveler in a tone which admitted of no reply.

Michael then advanced.

“These horses are engaged by me,” he said.

“What does that matter? I must have them. Come, be quick; I have no time to lose.”

“I have no time to lose either,” replied Michael, restraining himself with difficulty.

Nadia was near him, calm also, but secretly uneasy at a scene which it would have been better to avoid.

“Enough!” said the traveler. Then, going up to the postmaster, “Let the horses be put into my berlin,” he exclaimed with a threatening gesture.

The postmaster, much embarrassed, did not know whom to obey, and looked at Michael, who evidently had the right to resist the unjust demands of the traveler.

Michael hesitated an instant. He did not wish to make use of his podorojna, which would have drawn attention to him, and he was most unwilling also, by giving up his horses, to delay his journey, and yet he must not engage in a struggle which might compromise his mission.

The two reporters looked at him ready to support him should he appeal to them.

“My horses will remain in my carriage,” said Michael, but without raising his tone more than would be suitable for a plain Irkutsk merchant.

The traveler advanced towards Michael and laid his hand heavily on his shoulder. “Is it so?” he said roughly. “You will not give up your horses to me?”

“No,” answered Michael.

“Very well, they shall belong to whichever of us is able to start. Defend yourself; I shall not spare you!”

So saying, the traveler drew his saber from its sheath, and Nadia threw herself before Michael.

Blount and Alcide Jolivet advanced towards him.

“I shall not fight,” said Michael quietly, folding his arms across his chest.

“You will not fight?”

“No.”

“Not even after this?” exclaimed the traveler. And before anyone could prevent him, he struck Michael’s shoulder with the handle of the whip. At this insult Michael turned deadly pale. His hands moved convulsively as if he would have knocked the brute down. But by a tremendous effort he mastered himself. A duel! it was more than a delay; it was perhaps the failure of his mission. It would be better to lose some hours. Yes; but to swallow this affront!

“Will you fight now, coward?” repeated the traveler, adding coarseness to brutality.

“No,” answered Michael, without moving, but looking the other straight in the face.

“The horses this moment,” said the man, and left the room.

The postmaster followed him, after shrugging his shoulders and bestowing on Michael a glance of anything but approbation.

The effect produced on the reporters by this incident was not to Michael’s advantage. Their discomfiture was visible. How could this strong young man allow himself to be struck like that and not demand satisfaction for such an insult? They contented themselves with bowing to him and retired, Jolivet remarking to Harry Blount “I could not have believed that of a man who is so skillful in finishing up Ural Mountain bears. Is it the case that a man can be courageous at one time and a coward at another? It is quite incomprehensible.”

A moment afterwards the noise of wheels and whip showed that the berlin, drawn by the tarantass’ horses, was driving rapidly away from the post-house.

Nadia, unmoved, and Michael, still quivering, remained alone in the room. The courier of the Czar, his arms crossed over his chest was seated motionless as a statue. A color, which could not have been the blush of shame, had replaced the paleness on his countenance.

Nadia did not doubt that powerful reasons alone could have allowed him to suffer so great a humiliation from such a man. Going up to him as he had come to her in the police-station at Nijni-Novgorod: “Your hand, brother,” said she.

And at the same time her hand, with an almost maternal gesture, wiped away a tear which sprang to her companion’s eye.

BOOK II

CHAPTER II CORRESPONDENTS IN TROUBLE

IVAN OGAREFF was bringing up the main body of the army of the Emir. The cavalry and infantry now under him had formed part of the column which had taken Omsk. Ogareff, not having been able to reduce the high town, in which, it must be remembered, the governor and garrison had sought refuge, had decided to pass on, not wishing to delay operations which ought to lead to the conquest of Eastern Siberia. He therefore left a garrison in Omsk, and, reinforcing himself en route with the conquerors of Kolyvan, joined Feofar’s army.

Ivan Ogareff’s soldiers halted at the outposts of the camp. They received no orders to bivouac. Their chief’s plan, doubtless, was not to halt there, but to press on and reach Tomsk in the shortest possible time, it being an important town, naturally intended to become the center of future operations.

Besides his soldiers, Ogareff was bringing a convoy of Russian and Siberian prisoners, captured either at Omsk or Kolyvan. These unhappy creatures were not led to the enclosure — already too crowded — but were forced to remain at the outposts without shelter, almost without nourishment. What fate was Feofar-Khan reserving for these unfortunates? Would he imprison them in Tomsk, or would some bloody execution, familiar to the Tartar chiefs, remove them when they were found too inconvenient? This was the secret of the capricious Emir.

This army had not come from Omsk and Kolyvan without bringing in its train the usual crowd of beggars, freebooters, pedlars, and gypsies, which compose the rear-guard of an army on the march.

All these people lived on the country traversed, and left little of anything behind them. There was, therefore, a necessity for pushing forward, if only to secure provisions for the troops. The whole region between Ichim and the Obi, now completely devastated, no longer offered any resources. The Tartars left a desert behind them.

Conspicuous among the gypsies who had hastened from the western provinces was the Tsigane troop, which had accompanied Michael Strogoff as far as Perm. Sangarre was there. This fierce spy, the tool of Ivan Ogareff, had not deserted her master. Ogareff had traveled rapidly to Ichim, whilst Sangarre and her band had proceeded to Omsk by the southern part of the province.

It may be easily understood how useful this woman was to Ogareff. With her gypsy-band she could penetrate anywhere. Ivan Ogareff was kept acquainted with all that was going on in the very heart of the invaded provinces. There were a hundred eyes, a hundred ears, open in his service. Besides, he paid liberally for this espionage, from which he derived so much advantage.

Once Sangarre, being implicated in a very serious affair, had been saved by the Russian officer. She never forgot what she owed him, and had devoted herself to his service body and soul.

When Ivan Ogareff entered on the path of treason, he saw at once how he might turn this woman to account. Whatever order he might give her, Sangarre would execute it. An inexplicable instinct, more powerful still than that of gratitude, had urged her to make herself the slave of the traitor to whom she had been attached since the very beginning of his exile in Siberia.

Confidante and accomplice, Sangarre, without country, without family, had been delighted to put her vagabond life to the service of the invaders thrown by Ogareff on Siberia. To the wonderful cunning natural to her race she added a wild energy, which knew neither forgiveness nor pity. She was a savage worthy to share the wigwam of an Apache or the hut of an Andaman.

Since her arrival at Omsk, where she had rejoined him with her Tsiganes, Sangarre had not again left Ogareff. The circumstance that Michael and Marfa Strogoff had met was known to her. She knew and shared Ogareff’s fears concerning the journey of a courier of the Czar. Having Marfa Strogoff in her power, she would have been the woman to torture her with all the refinement of a Redskin in order to wrest her secret from her. But the hour had not yet come in which Ogareff wished the old Siberian to speak. Sangarre had to wait, and she waited, without losing sight of her whom she was watching, observing her slightest gestures, her slightest words, endeavoring to catch the word “son” escaping from her lips, but as yet always baffled by Marfa’s taciturnity.

At the first flourish of the trumpets several officers of high rank, followed by a brilliant escort of Usbeck horsemen, moved to the front of the camp to receive Ivan Ogareff. Arrived in his presence, they paid him the greatest respect, and invited him to accompany them to Feofar-Khan’s tent.

Imperturbable as usual, Ogareff replied coldly to the deference paid to him. He was plainly dressed; but, from a sort of impudent bravado, he still wore the uniform of a Russian officer.

As he was about to enter the camp, Sangarre, passing among the officers approached and remained motionless before him. “Nothing?” asked Ogareff.

“Nothing.”

“Have patience.”

“Is the time approaching when you will force the old woman to speak?”

“It is approaching, Sangarre.”

“When will the old woman speak?”

“When we reach Tomsk.”

“And we shall be there — ”

“In three days.”

A strange gleam shot from Sangarre’s great black eyes, and she retired with a calm step. Ogareff pressed his spurs into his horse’s flanks, and, followed by his staff of Tartar officers, rode towards the Emir’s tent.

Feofar-Khan was expecting his lieutenant. The council, composed of the bearer of the royal seal, the khodja, and some high officers, had taken their places in the tent. Ivan Ogareff dismounted and entered.

Feofar-Khan was a man of forty, tall, rather pale, of a fierce countenance, and evil eyes. A curly black beard flowed over his chest. With his war costume, coat of mail of gold and silver, cross-belt and scabbard glistening with precious stones, boots with golden spurs, helmet ornamented with an aigrette of brilliant diamonds, Feofar presented an aspect rather strange than imposing for a Tartar Sardana-palus, an undisputed sovereign, who directs at his pleasure the life and fortune of his subjects.

When Ivan Ogareff appeared, the great dignitaries remained seated on their gold-embroidered cushions; but Feofar rose from a rich divan which occupied the back part of the tent, the ground being hidden under the thick velvet-pile of a Bokharian carpet.

The Emir approached Ogareff and gave him a kiss, the meaning of which he could not mistake. This kiss made the lieutenant chief of the council, and placed him temporarily above the khodja.

Then Feofar spoke. “I have no need to question you,” said he; “speak, Ivan. You will find here ears very ready to listen to you.”

“Takhsir,” answered Ogareff, “this is what I have to make known to you.” He spoke in the Tartar language, giving to his phrases the emphatic turn which distinguishes the languages of the Orientals. “Takhsir, this is not the time for unnecessary words. What I have done at the head of your troops, you know. The lines of the Ichim and the Irtych are now in our power; and the Turcoman horsemen can bathe their horses in the now Tartar waters. The Kirghiz hordes rose at the voice of Feofar-Khan. You can now push your troops towards the east, and where the sun rises, or towards the west, where he sets.”

“And if I march with the sun?” asked the Emir, without his countenance betraying any of his thoughts.

“To march with the sun,” answered Ogareff, “is to throw yourself towards Europe; it is to conquer rapidly the Siberian provinces of Tobolsk as far as the Ural Mountains.”

“And if I go to meet this luminary of the heavens?”

“It is to subdue to the Tartar dominion, with Irkutsk, the richest countries of Central Asia.”

“But the armies of the Sultan of St. Petersburg?” said Feofar-Khan, designating the Emperor of Russia by this strange title.

“You have nothing to fear from them,” replied Ivan Ogareff. “The invasion has been sudden; and before the Russian army can succor them, Irkutsk or Tobolsk will have fallen into your power. The Czar’s troops have been overwhelmed at Kolyvan, as they will be everywhere where yours meet them.”

“And what advice does your devotion to the Tartar cause suggest?” asked the Emir, after a few moments’ silence.

“My advice,” answered Ivan Ogareff quickly, “is to march to meet the sun. It is to give the grass of the eastern steppes to the Turcoman horses to consume. It is to take Irkutsk, the capital of the eastern provinces, and with it a hostage, the possession of whom is worth a whole country. In the place of the Czar, the Grand Duke his brother must fall into your hands.”

This was the great result aimed at by Ivan Ogareff. To listen to him, one would have taken him for one of the cruel descendants of Stephan Razine, the celebrated pirate who ravaged Southern Russia in the eighteenth century. To seize the Grand Duke, murder him pitilessly, would fully satisfy his hatred. Besides, with the capture of Irkutsk, all Eastern Siberia would pass to the Tartars.

“It shall be thus, Ivan,” replied Feofar.

“What are your orders, Takhsir?”

“To-day our headquarters shall be removed to Tomsk.”

Ogareff bowed, and, followed by the housch-begui, he retired to execute the Emir’s orders.

As he was about to mount his horse, to return to the outposts, a tumult broke out at some distance, in the part of the camp reserved for the prisoners. Shouts were heard, and two or three shots fired. Perhaps it was an attempt at revolt or escape, which must be summarily suppressed.

Ivan Ogareff and the housch-begui walked forward and almost immediately two men, whom the soldiers had not been able to keep back appeared before them.

The housch-begui, without more information, made a sign which was an order for death, and the heads of the two prisoners would have rolled on the ground had not Ogareff uttered a few words which arrested the sword already raised aloft. The Russian had perceived that these prisoners were strangers, and he ordered them to be brought to him.

They were Harry Blount and Alcide jolivet.

On Ogareff’s arrival in the camp, they had demanded to be conducted to his presence. The soldiers had refused. In consequence, a struggle, an attempt at flight, shots fired which happily missed the two correspondents, but their execution would not have been long delayed, if it had not been for the intervention of the Emir’s lieutenant.

The latter observed the prisoners for some moments, they being absolutely unknown to him. They had been present at that scene in the post-house at Ichim, in which Michael Strogoff had been struck by Ogareff; but the brutal traveler had paid no attention to the persons then collected in the common room.

Blount and Jolivet, on the contrary, recognized him at once, and the latter said in a low voice, “Hullo! It seems that Colonel Ogareff and the rude personage of Ichim are one!” Then he added in his companion’s ear, “Explain our affair, Blount. You will do me a service. This Russian colonel in the midst of a Tartar camp disgusts me; and although, thanks to him, my head is still on my shoulders, my eyes would exhibit my feelings were I to attempt to look him in the face.”

So saying, Alcide Jolivet assumed a look of complete and haughty indifference.

Whether or not Ivan Ogareff perceived that the prisoner’s attitude was insulting towards him, he did not let it appear. “Who are you, gentlemen?” he asked in Russian, in a cold tone, but free from its usual rudeness.

“Two correspondents of English and French newspapers,” replied Blount laconically.

“You have, doubtless, papers which will establish your identity?”

“Here are letters which accredit us in Russia, from the English and French chancellor’s office.”

Ivan Ogareff took the letters which Blount held out, and read them attentively. “You ask,” said he, “authorization to follow our military operations in Siberia?”

“We ask to be free, that is all,” answered the English correspondent dryly.

“You are so, gentlemen,” answered Ogareff; “I am curious to read your articles in the Daily Telegraph.”

“Sir,” replied Blount, with the most imperturbable coolness, “it is sixpence a number, including postage.” And thereupon he returned to his companion, who appeared to approve completely of his replies.

Ivan Ogareff, without frowning, mounted his horse, and going to the head of his escort, soon disappeared in a cloud of dust.

“Well, Jolivet, what do you think of Colonel Ivan Ogareff, general-in-chief of the Tartar troops?” asked Blount.

“I think, my dear friend,” replied Alcide, smiling, “that the housch-begui made a very graceful gesture when he gave the order for our heads to be cut off.”

Whatever was the motive which led Ogareff to act thus in regard to the two correspondents, they were free and could rove at their pleasure over the scene of war. Their intention was not to leave it. The sort of antipathy which formerly they had entertained for each other had given place to a sincere friendship. Circumstances having brought them together, they no longer thought of separating. The petty questions of rivalry were forever extinguished. Harry Blount could never forget what he owed his companion, who, on the other hand, never tried to remind him of it. This friendship too assisted the reporting operations, and was thus to the advantage of their readers.

“And now,” asked Blount, “what shall we do with our liberty?”

“Take advantage of it, of course,” replied Alcide, “and go quietly to Tomsk to see what is going on there.”

“Until the time — very near, I hope — when we may rejoin some Russian regiment?”

“As you say, my dear Blount, it won’t do to Tartarise ourselves too much. The best side is that of the most civilized army, and it is evident that the people of Central Asia will have everything to lose and absolutely nothing to gain from this invasion, while the Russians will soon repulse them. It is only a matter of time.”

The arrival of Ivan Ogareff, which had given Jolivet and Blount their liberty, was to Michael Strogoff, on the contrary, a serious danger. Should chance bring the Czar’s courier into Ogareff’s presence, the latter could not fail to recognize in him the traveler whom he had so brutally treated at the Ichim post-house, and although Michael had not replied to the insult as he would have done under any other circumstances, attention would be drawn to him, and at once the accomplishment of his plans would be rendered more difficult.

This was the unpleasant side of the business. A favorable result of his arrival, however, was the order which was given to raise the camp that very day, and remove the headquarters to Tomsk. This was the accomplishment of Michael’s most fervent desire. His intention, as has been said, was to reach Tomsk concealed amongst the other prisoners; that is to say, without any risk of falling into the hands of the scouts who swarmed about the approaches to this important town. However, in consequence of the arrival of Ivan Ogareff, he questioned whether it would not be better to give up his first plan and attempt to escape during the journey.

Michael would, no doubt, have kept to the latter plan had he not learnt that Feofar-Khan and Ogareff had already set out for the town with some thousands of horsemen. “I will wait, then,” said he to himself; “at least, unless some exceptional opportunity for escape occurs. The adverse chances are numerous on this side of Tomsk, while beyond I shall in a few hours have passed the most advanced Tartar posts to the east. Still three days of patience, and may God aid me!”

It was indeed a journey of three days which the prisoners, under the guard of a numerous detachment of Tartars, were to make across the steppe. A hundred and fifty versts lay between the camp and the town — an easy march for the Emir’s soldiers, who wanted for nothing, but a wretched journey for these people, enfeebled by privations. More than one corpse would show the road they had traversed.

It was two o’clock in the afternoon, on the 12th of August, under a hot sun and cloudless sky, that the toptschi-baschi gave the order to start.

Alcide and Blount, having bought horses, had already taken the road to Tomsk, where events were to reunite the principal personages of this story.

Amongst the prisoners brought by Ivan Ogareff to the Tartar camp was an old woman, whose taciturnity seemed to keep her apart from all those who shared her fate. Not a murmur issued from her lips. She was like a statue of grief. This woman was more strictly guarded than anyone else, and, without her appearing to notice, was constantly watched by the Tsigane Sangarre. Notwithstanding her age she was compelled to follow the convoy of prisoners on foot, without any alleviation of her suffering.

However, a kind Providence had placed near her a courageous, kind-hearted being to comfort and assist her. Amongst her companions in misfortune a young girl, remarkable for beauty and taciturnity, seemed to have given herself the task of watching over her. No words had been exchanged between the two captives, but the girl was always at the old woman’s side when help was useful. At first the mute assistance of the stranger was accepted with some mistrust. Gradually, however, the young girl’s clear glance, her reserve, and the mysterious sympathy which draws together those who are in misfortune, thawed Marfa Strogoff’s coldness.

Nadia — for it was she — was thus able, without knowing it, to render to the mother those attentions which she had herself received from the son. Her instinctive kindness had doubly inspired her. In devoting herself to her service, Nadia secured to her youth and beauty the protection afforded by the age of the old prisoner.

On the crowd of unhappy people, embittered by sufferings, this silent pair — one seeming to be the grandmother, the other the grand-daughter — imposed a sort of respect.

After being carried off by the Tartar scouts on the Irtych, Nadia had been taken to Omsk. Kept prisoner in the town, she shared the fate of all those captured by Ivan Ogareff, and consequently that of Marfa Strogoff.

If Nadia had been less energetic, she would have succumbed to this double blow. The interruption to her journey, the death of Michael, made her both desperate and excited. Divided, perhaps forever, from her father, after so many happy efforts had brought her near him, and, to crown her grief, separated from the intrepid companion whom God seemed to have placed in her way to lead her. The image of Michael Strogoff, struck before her eyes with a lance and disappearing beneath the waters of the Irtych, never left her thoughts.

Could such a man have died thus? For whom was God reserving His miracles if this good man, whom a noble object was urging onwards, had been allowed to perish so miserably? Then anger would prevail over grief. The scene of the affront so strangely borne by her companion at the Ichim relay returned to her memory. Her blood boiled at the recollection.

“Who will avenge him who can no longer avenge himself?” she said.

And in her heart, she cried, “May it be I!” If before his death Michael had confided his secret to her, woman, aye girl though she was, she might have been able to carry to a successful conclusion the interrupted task of that brother whom God had so soon taken from her.

Absorbed in these thoughts, it can be understood how Nadia could remain insensible to the miseries even of her captivity. Thus chance had united her to Marfa Strogoff without her having the least suspicion of who she was. How could she imagine that this old woman, a prisoner like herself, was the mother of him, whom she only knew as the merchant Nicholas Korpanoff? And on the other hand, how could Marfa guess that a bond of gratitude connected this young stranger with her son?

The thing that first struck Nadia in Marfa Strogoff was the similarity in the way in which each bore her hard fate. This stoicism of the old woman under the daily hardships, this contempt of bodily suffering, could only be caused by a moral grief equal to her own. So Nadia thought; and she was not mistaken. It was an instinctive sympathy for that part of her misery which Marfa did not show which first drew Nadia towards her. This way of bearing her sorrow went to the proud heart of the young girl. She did not offer her services; she gave them. Marfa had neither to refuse nor accept them. In the difficult parts of the journey, the girl was there to support her. When the provisions were given out, the old woman would not have moved, but Nadia shared her small portion with her; and thus this painful journey was performed. Thanks to her companion, Marfa was able to follow the soldiers who guarded the prisoners without being fastened to a saddle-bow, as were many other unfortunate wretches, and thus dragged along this road of sorrow.

“May God reward you, my daughter, for what you have done for my old age!” said Marfa Strogoff once, and for some time these were the only words exchanged between the two unfortunate beings.

During these few days, which to them appeared like centuries, it would seem that the old woman and the girl would have been led to speak of their situation. But Marfa Strogoff, from a caution which may be easily understood, never spoke about herself except with the greatest brevity. She never made the smallest allusion to her son, nor to the unfortunate meeting.

Nadia also, if not completely silent, spoke little. However, one day her heart overflowed, and she told all the events which had occurred from her departure from Wladimir to the death of Nicholas Korpanoff.

All that her young companion told intensely interested the old Siberian. “Nicholas Korpanoff!” said she. “Tell me again about this Nicholas. I know only one man, one alone, in whom such conduct would not have astonished me. Nicholas Korpanoff! Was that really his name? Are you sure of it, my daughter?”

“Why should he have deceived me in this,” replied Nadia, “when he deceived me in no other way?”

Moved, however, by a kind of presentiment, Marfa Strogoff put questions upon questions to Nadia.

“You told me he was fearless, my daughter. You have proved that he has been so?” asked she.

“Yes, fearless indeed!” replied Nadia.

“It was just what my son would have done,” said Marfa to herself.

Then she resumed, “Did you not say that nothing stopped him, nor astonished him; that he was so gentle in his strength that you had a sister as well as a brother in him, and he watched over you like a mother?”

“Yes, yes,” said Nadia. “Brother, sister, mother — he has been all to me!”

“And defended you like a lion?”

“A lion indeed!” replied Nadia. “A lion, a hero!”

“My son, my son!” thought the old Siberian. “But you said, however, that he bore a terrible insult at that post-house in Ichim?”

“He did bear it,” answered Nadia, looking down.

“He bore it!” murmured Marfa, shuddering.

“Mother, mother,” cried Nadia, “do not blame him! He had a secret. A secret of which God alone is as yet the judge!”

“And,” said Marfa, raising her head and looking at Nadia as though she would read the depths of her heart, “in that hour of humiliation did you not despise this Nicholas Korpanoff?”

“I admired without understanding him,” replied the girl. “I never felt him more worthy of respect.”

The old woman was silent for a minute.

“Was he tall?” she asked.

“Very tall.”

“And very handsome? Come, speak, my daughter.”

“He was very handsome,” replied Nadia, blushing.

“It was my son! I tell you it was my son!” exclaimed the old woman, embracing Nadia.

“Your son!” said Nadia amazed, “your son!”

“Come,” said Marfa; “let us get to the bottom of this, my child. Your companion, your friend, your protector had a mother. Did he never speak to you of his mother?”

“Of his mother?” said Nadia. “He spoke to me of his mother as I spoke to him of my father — often, always. He adored her.”

“Nadia, Nadia, you have just told me about my own son,” said the old woman.

And she added impetuously, “Was he not going to see this mother, whom you say he loved, in Omsk?”

“No,” answered Nadia, “no, he was not.”

“Not!” cried Marfa. “You dare to tell me not!”

“I say so: but it remains to me to tell you that from motives which outweighed everything else, motives which I do not know, I understand that Nicholas Korpanoff had to traverse the country completely in secret. To him it was a question of life and death, and still more, a question of duty and honor.”

“Duty, indeed, imperious duty,” said the old Siberian, “of those who sacrifice everything, even the joy of giving a kiss, perhaps the last, to his old mother. All that you do not know, Nadia — all that I did not know myself — I now know. You have made me understand everything. But the light which you have thrown on the mysteries of my heart, I cannot return on yours. Since my son has not told you his secret, I must keep it. Forgive me, Nadia; I can never repay what you have done for me.”

“Mother, I ask you nothing,” replied Nadia.

All was thus explained to the old Siberian, all, even the conduct of her son with regard to herself in the inn at Omsk. There was no doubt that the young girl’s companion was Michael Strogoff, and that a secret mission in the invaded country obliged him to conceal his quality of the Czar’s courier.

“Ah, my brave boy!” thought Marfa. “No, I will not betray you, and tortures shall not wrest from me the avowal that it was you whom I saw at Omsk.”

Marfa could with a word have paid Nadia for all her devotion to her. She could have told her that her companion, Nicholas Korpanoff, or rather Michael Strogoff, had not perished in the waters of the Irtych, since it was some days after that incident that she had met him, that she had spoken to him.

But she restrained herself, she was silent, and contented herself with saying, “Hope, my child! Misfortune will not overwhelm you. You will see your father again; I feel it; and perhaps he who gave you the name of sister is not dead. God cannot have allowed your brave companion to perish. Hope, my child, hope! Do as I do. The mourning which I wear is not yet for my son.”

CHAPTER III BLOW FOR BLOW

SUCH were now the relative situations of Marfa Strogoff and Nadia. All was understood by the old Siberian, and though the young girl was ignorant that her much-regretted companion still lived, she at least knew his relationship to her whom she had made her mother; and she thanked God for having given her the joy of taking the place of the son whom the prisoner had lost.

But what neither of them could know was that Michael, having been captured at Kolyvan, was in the same convoy and was on his way to Tomsk with them.

The prisoners brought by Ivan Ogareff had been added to those already kept by the Emir in the Tartar camp. These unfortunate people, consisting of Russians, Siberians, soldiers and civilians, numbered some thousands, and formed a column which extended over several versts. Some among them being considered dangerous were handcuffed and fastened to a long chain. There were, too, women and children, many of the latter suspended to the pommels of the saddles, while the former were dragged mercilessly along the road on foot, or driven forward as if they were animals. The horsemen compelled them to maintain a certain order, and there were no laggards with the exception of those who fell never to rise again.

In consequence of this arrangement, Michael Strogoff, marching in the first ranks of those who had left the Tartar camp — that is to say, among the Kolyvan prisoners — was unable to mingle with the prisoners who had arrived after him from Omsk. He had therefore no suspicion that his mother and Nadia were present in the convoy, nor did they suppose that he was among those in front. This journey from the camp to Tomsk, performed under the lashes and spear-points of the soldiers, proved fatal to many, and terrible to all. The prisoners traveled across the steppe, over a road made still more dusty by the passage of the Emir and his vanguard. Orders had been given to march rapidly. The short halts were rare. The hundred miles under a burning sky seemed interminable, though they were performed as rapidly as possible.

The country, which extends from the right of the Obi to the base of the spur detached from the Sayanok Mountains, is very sterile. Only a few stunted and burnt-up shrubs here and there break the monotony of the immense plain. There was no cultivation, for there was no water; and it was water that the prisoners, parched by their painful march, most needed. To find a stream they must have diverged fifty versts eastward, to the very foot of the mountains.

There flows the Tom, a little affluent of the Obi, which passes near Tomsk before losing itself in one of the great northern arteries. There water would have been abundant, the steppe less arid, the heat less severe. But the strictest orders had been given to the commanders of the convoy to reach Tomsk by the shortest way, for the Emir was much afraid of being taken in the flank and cut off by some Russian column descending from the northern provinces.

It is useless to dwell upon the sufferings of the unhappy prisoners. Many hundreds fell on the steppe, where their bodies would lie until winter, when the wolves would devour the remnants of their bones.

As Nadia helped the old Siberian, so in the same way did Michael render to his more feeble companions in misfortune such services as his situation allowed. He encouraged some, supported others, going to and fro, until a prick from a soldier’s lance obliged him to resume the place which had been assigned him in the ranks.

Why did he not endeavor to escape?

The reason was that he had now quite determined not to venture until the steppe was safe for him. He was resolved in his idea of going as far as Tomsk “at the Emir’s expense,” and indeed he was right. As he observed the numerous detachments which scoured the plain on the convoy’s flanks, now to the south, now to the north, it was evident that before he could have gone two versts he must have been recaptured. The Tartar horsemen swarmed — it actually appeared as if they sprang from the earth — like insects which a thunderstorm brings to the surface of the ground. Flight under these conditions would have been extremely difficult, if not impossible. The soldiers of the escort displayed excessive vigilance, for they would have paid for the slightest carelessness with their heads.

At nightfall of the 15th of August, the convoy reached the little village of Zabediero, thirty versts from Tomsk.

The prisoners’ first movement would have been to rush into the river, but they were not allowed to leave the ranks until the halt had been organized. Although the current of the Tom was just now like a torrent, it might have favored the flight of some bold or desperate man, and the strictest measures of vigilance were taken. Boats, requisitioned at Zabediero, were brought up to the Tom and formed a line of obstacles impossible to pass. As to the encampment on the outskirts of the village, it was guarded by a cordon of sentinels.

Michael Strogoff, who now naturally thought of escape, saw, after carefully surveying the situation, that under these conditions it was perfectly impossible; so, not wishing to compromise himself, he waited.

The prisoners were to encamp for the whole night on the banks of the Tom, for the Emir had put off the entrance of his troops into Tomsk. It had been decided that a military fete should mark the inauguration of the Tartar headquarters in this important city. Feofar-Khan already occupied the fortress, but the bulk of his army bivouacked under its walls, waiting until the time came for them to make a solemn entry.

Ivan Ogareff left the Emir at Tomsk, where both had arrived the evening before, and returned to the camp at Zabediero. From here he was to start the next day with the rear-guard of the Tartar army. A house had been arranged for him in which to pass the night. At sunrise horse and foot soldiers were to proceed to Tomsk, where the Emir wished to receive them with the pomp usual to Asiatic sovereigns. As soon as the halt was organized, the prisoners, worn out with their three days’ journey, and suffering from burning thirst, could drink and take a little rest. The sun had already set, when Nadia, supporting Marfa Strogoff, reached the banks of the Tom. They had not till then been able to get through those who crowded the banks, but at last they came to drink in their turn.

The old woman bent over the clear stream, and Nadia, plunging in her hand, carried it to Marfa’s lips. Then she refreshed herself. They found new life in these welcome waters. Suddenly Nadia started up; an involuntary cry escaped her.

Michael Strogoff was there, a few steps from her. It was he. The dying rays of the sun fell upon him.

At Nadia’s cry Michael started. But he had sufficient command over himself not to utter a word by which he might have been compromised. And yet, when he saw Nadia, he also recognized his mother.

Feeling he could not long keep master of himself at this unexpected meeting, he covered his eyes with his hands and walked quickly away.

Nadia’s impulse was to run after him, but the old Siberian murmured in her ear, “Stay, my daughter!”

“It is he!” replied Nadia, choking with emotion. “He lives, mother! It is he!”

“It is my son,” answered Marfa, “it is Michael Strogoff, and you see that I do not make a step towards him! Imitate me, my daughter.”

Michael had just experienced the most violent emotion which a man can feel. His mother and Nadia were there!

The two prisoners who were always together in his heart, God had brought them together in this common misfortune. Did Nadia know who he was? Yes, for he had seen Marfa’s gesture, holding her back as she was about to rush towards him. Marfa, then, had understood all, and kept his secret.

During that night, Michael was twenty times on the point of looking for and joining his mother; but he knew that he must resist the longing he felt to take her in his arms, and once more press the hand of his young companion. The least imprudence might be fatal. He had besides sworn not to see his mother. Once at Tomsk, since he could not escape this very night, he would set off without having even embraced the two beings in whom all the happiness of his life was centered, and whom he should leave exposed to so many perils.

Michael hoped that this fresh meeting at the Zabediero camp would have no disastrous consequences either to his mother or to himself. But he did not know that part of this scene, although it passed so rapidly, had been observed by Sangarre, Ogareff’s spy.

The Tsigane was there, a few paces off, on the bank, as usual, watching the old Siberian woman. She had not caught sight of Michael, for he disappeared before she had time to look around; but the mother’s gesture as she kept back Nadia had not escaped her, and the look in Marfa’s eyes told her all.

It was now beyond doubt that Marfa Strogoff’s son, the Czar’s courier, was at this moment in Zabediero, among Ivan Ogareff’s prisoners. Sangarre did not know him, but she knew that he was there. She did not then attempt to discover him, for it would have been impossible in the dark and the immense crowd.

As for again watching Nadia and Marfa Strogoff, that was equally useless. It was evident that the two women would keep on their guard, and it would be impossible to overhear anything of a nature to compromise the courier of the Czar. The Tsigane’s first thought was to tell Ivan Ogareff. She therefore immediately left the encampment. A quarter of an hour after, she reached Zabediero, and was shown into the house occupied by the Emir’s lieutenant. Ogareff received the Tsigane directly.

“What have you to tell me, Sangarre?” he asked.

“Marfa Strogoff’s son is in the encampment.”

“A prisoner?”

“A prisoner.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Ogareff, “I shall know — ”

“You will know nothing, Ivan,” replied Tsigane; “for you do not even know him by sight.”

“But you know him; you have seen him, Sangarre?”

“I have not seen him; but his mother betrayed herself by a gesture, which told me everything.”

“Are you not mistaken?”

“I am not mistaken.”

“You know the importance which I attach to the apprehension of this courier,” said Ivan Ogareff. “If the letter which he has brought from Moscow reaches Irkutsk, if it is given to the Grand Duke, the Grand Duke will be on his guard, and I shall not be able to get at him. I must have that letter at any price. Now you come to tell me that the bearer of this letter is in my power. I repeat, Sangarre, are you not mistaken?”

Ogareff spoke with great animation. His emotion showed the extreme importance he attached to the possession of this letter. Sangarre was not at all put out by the urgency with which Ogareff repeated his question. “I am not mistaken, Ivan,” she said.

“But, Sangarre, there are thousands of prisoners; and you say that you do not know Michael Strogoff.”

“No,” answered the Tsigane, with a look of savage joy, “I do not know him; but his mother knows him. Ivan, we must make his mother speak.”

“To-morrow she shall speak!” cried Ogareff. So saying, he extended his hand to the Tsigane, who kissed it; for there is nothing servile in this act of respect, it being usual among the Northern races.

Sangarre returned to the camp. She found out Nadia and Marfa Strogoff, and passed the night in watching them. Although worn out with fatigue, the old woman and the girl did not sleep. Their great anxiety kept them awake. Michael was living, but a prisoner. Did Ogareff know him, or would he not soon find him out? Nadia was occupied by the one thought that he whom she had thought dead still lived. But Marfa saw further into the future: and, although she did not care what became of herself, she had every reason to fear for her son.

Sangarre, under cover of the night, had crept near the two women, and remained there several hours listening. She heard nothing. From an instinctive feeling of prudence not a word was exchanged between Nadia and Marfa Strogoff. The next day, the 16th of August, about ten in the morning, trumpet-calls resounded throughout the encampment. The Tartar soldiers were almost immediately under arms.

Ivan Ogareff arrived, surrounded by a large staff of Tartar officers. His face was more clouded than usual, and his knitted brow gave signs of latent wrath which was waiting for an occasion to break forth.

Michael Strogoff, hidden in a group of prisoners, saw this man pass. He had a presentiment that some catastrophe was imminent: for Ivan Ogareff knew now that Marfa was the mother of Michael Strogoff.

Ogareff dismounted, and his escort cleared a large circle round him. Just then Sangarre approached him, and said, “I have no news.”

Ivan Ogareff’s only reply was to give an order to one of his officers. Then the ranks of prisoners were brutally hurried up by the soldiers. The unfortunate people, driven on with whips, or pushed on with lances, arranged themselves round the camp. A strong guard of soldiers drawn up behind, rendered escape impossible.

Silence then ensued, and, on a sign from Ivan Ogareff, Sangarre advanced towards the group, in the midst of which stood Marfa.

The old Siberian saw her, and knew what was going to happen. A scornful smile passed over her face. Then leaning towards Nadia, she said in a low tone, “You know me no longer, my daughter. Whatever may happen, and however hard this trial may be, not a word, not a sign. It concerns him, and not me.”

At that moment Sangarre, having regarded her for an instant, put her hand on her shoulder.

“What do you want with me?” said Marfa.

“Come!” replied Sangarre, and pushing the old Siberian before her, she took her to Ivan Ogareff, in the middle of the cleared ground. Michael cast down his eyes that their angry flashings might not appear.

Marfa, standing before Ivan Ogareff, drew herself up, crossed her arms on her breast, and waited.

“You are Marfa Strogoff?” asked Ogareff.

“Yes,” replied the old Siberian calmly.

“Do you retract what you said to me when, three days ago, I interrogated you at Omsk?”

“No!”

“Then you do not know that your son, Michael Strogoff, courier of the Czar, has passed through Omsk?”

“I do not know it.”

“And the man in whom you thought you recognized your son, was not he your son?”

“He was not my son.”

“And since then you have not seen him amongst the prisoners?”

“No.”

“If he were pointed out, would you recognize him?”

“No.”

On this reply, which showed such determined resolution, a murmur was heard amongst the crowd.

Ogareff could not restrain a threatening gesture.

“Listen,” said he to Marfa, “your son is here, and you shall immediately point him out to me.”

“No.”

“All these men, taken at Omsk and Kolyvan, will defile before you; and if you do not show me Michael Strogoff, you shall receive as many blows of the knout as men shall have passed before you.”

Ivan Ogareff saw that, whatever might be his threats, whatever might be the tortures to which he submitted her, the indomitable Siberian would not speak. To discover the courier of the Czar, he counted, then, not on her, but on Michael himself. He did not believe it possible that, when mother and son were in each other’s presence, some involuntary movement would not betray him. Of course, had he wished to seize the imperial letter, he would simply have given orders to search all the prisoners; but Michael might have destroyed the letter, having learnt its contents; and if he were not recognized, if he were to reach Irkutsk, all Ivan Ogareff’s plans would be baffled. It was thus not only the letter which the traitor must have, but the bearer himself.

Nadia had heard all, and she now knew who was Michael Strogoff, and why he had wished to cross, without being recognized, the invaded provinces of Siberia.

On an order from Ivan Ogareff the prisoners defiled, one by one, past Marfa, who remained immovable as a statue, and whose face expressed only perfect indifference.

Her son was among the last. When in his turn he passed before his mother, Nadia shut her eyes that she might not see him. Michael was to all appearance unmoved, but the palm of his hand bled under his nails, which were pressed into them.

Ivan Ogareff was baffled by mother and son.

Sangarre, close to him, said one word, “The knout!”

“Yes,” cried Ogareff, who could no longer restrain himself; “the knout for this wretched old woman — the knout to the death!”

A Tartar soldier bearing this terrible instrument of torture approached Marfa. The knout is composed of a certain number of leathern thongs, at the end of which are attached pieces of twisted iron wire. It is reckoned that a sentence to one hundred and twenty blows of this whip is equivalent to a sentence of death.

Marfa knew it, but she knew also that no torture would make her speak. She was sacrificing her life.

Marfa, seized by two soldiers, was forced on her knees on the ground. Her dress torn off left her back bare. A saber was placed before her breast, at a few inches’ distance only. Directly she bent beneath her suffering, her breast would be pierced by the sharp steel.

The Tartar drew himself up. He waited. “Begin!” said Ogareff. The whip whistled in the air.

But before it fell a powerful hand stopped the Tartar’s arm. Michael was there. He had leapt forward at this horrible scene. If at the relay at Ichim he had restrained himself when Ogareff’s whip had struck him, here before his mother, who was about to be struck, he could not do so. Ivan Ogareff had succeeded.

“Michael Strogoff!” cried he. Then advancing, “Ah, the man of Ichim?”

“Himself!” said Michael. And raising the knout he struck Ogareff a sharp blow across the face. “Blow for blow!” said he.

“Well repaid!” cried a voice concealed by the tumult.

Twenty soldiers threw themselves on Michael, and in another instant he would have been slain.

But Ogareff, who on being struck had uttered a cry of rage and pain, stopped them. “This man is reserved for the Emir’s judgment,” said he. “Search him!”

The letter with the imperial arms was found in Michael’s bosom; he had not had time to destroy it; it was handed to Ogareff.

The voice which had pronounced the words, “Well repaid!” was that of no other than Alcide Jolivet. “Par-dieu!” said he to Blount, “they are rough, these people. Acknowledge that we owe our traveling companion a good turn. Korpanoff or Strogoff is worthy of it. Oh, that was fine retaliation for the little affair at Ichim.”

“Yes, retaliation truly,” replied Blount; “but Strogoff is a dead man. I suspect that, for his own interest at all events, it would have been better had he not possessed quite so lively a recollection of the event.”

“And let his mother perish under the knout?”

“Do you think that either she or his sister will be a bit better off from this outbreak of his?”

“I do not know or think anything except that I should have done much the same in his position,” replied Alcide. “What a scar the Colonel has received! Bah! one must boil over sometimes. We should have had water in our veins instead of blood had it been incumbent on us to be always and everywhere unmoved to wrath.”

“A neat little incident for our journals,” observed Blount, “if only Ivan Ogareff would let us know the contents of that letter.”

Ivan Ogareff, when he had stanched the blood which was trickling down his face, had broken the seal. He read and re-read the letter deliberately, as if he was determined to discover everything it contained.

Then having ordered that Michael, carefully bound and guarded, should be carried on to Tomsk with the other prisoners, he took command of the troops at Zabediero, and, amid the deafening noise of drums and trumpets, he marched towards the town where the Emir awaited him.

CHAPTER V “LOOK WHILE YOU MAY!”

MICHAEL was held before the Emir’s throne, at the foot of the terrace, his hands bound behind his back. His mother overcome at last by mental and physical torture, had sunk to the ground, daring neither to look nor listen.

“Look while you may,” exclaimed Feofar-Kahn, stretching his arm towards Michael in a threatening manner. Doubtless Ivan Ogareff, being well acquainted with Tartar customs, had taken in the full meaning of these words, for his lips curled for an instant in a cruel smile; he then took his place by Feofar-Khan.

A trumpet call was heard. This was the signal for the amusements to begin. “Here comes the ballet,” said Alcide to Blount; “but, contrary to our customs, these barbarians give it before the drama.”

Michael had been commanded to look at everything. He looked. A troop of dancers poured into the open space before the Emir’s tent. Different Tartar instruments, the “doutare,” a long-handled guitar, the “kobize,” a kind of violoncello, the “tschibyzga,” a long reed flute; wind instruments, tom-toms, tambourines, united with the deep voices of the singers, formed a strange harmony. Added to this were the strains of an aerial orchestra, composed of a dozen kites, which, fastened by strings to their centers, resounded in the breeze like AEolian harps.

Then the dancers began. The performers were all of Persian origin; they were no longer slaves, but exercised their profession at liberty. Formerly they figured officially in the ceremonies at the court of Teheran, but since the accession of the reigning family, banished or treated with contempt, they had been compelled to seek their fortune elsewhere. They wore the national costume, and were adorned with a profusion of jewels. Little triangles of gold, studded with jewels, glittered in their ears. Circles of silver, marked with black, surrounded their necks and legs.

These performers gracefully executed various dances, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups. Their faces were uncovered, but from time to time they threw a light veil over their heads, and a gauze cloud passed over their bright eyes as smoke over a starry sky. Some of these Persians wore leathern belts embroidered with pearls, from which hung little triangular bags. From these bags, embroidered with golden filigree, they drew long narrow bands of scarlet silk, on which were braided verses of the Koran. These bands, which they held between them, formed a belt under which the other dancers darted; and, as they passed each verse, following the precept it contained, they either prostrated themselves on the earth or lightly bounded upwards, as though to take a place among the houris of Mohammed’s heaven.

But what was remarkable, and what struck Alcide, was that the Persians appeared rather indolent than fiery. Their passion had deserted them, and, by the kind of dances as well as by their execution, they recalled rather the calm and self-possessed nauch girls of India than the impassioned dancers of Egypt.

When this was over, a stern voice was heard saying:

“Look while you may!”

The man who repeated the Emir’s words — a tall spare Tartar — was he who carried out the sentences of Feofar-Khan against offenders. He had taken his place behind Michael, holding in his hand a broad curved saber, one of those Damascene blades which are forged by the celebrated armorers of Karschi or Hissar.

Behind him guards were carrying a tripod supporting a chafing-dish filled with live coals. No smoke arose from this, but a light vapor surrounded it, due to the incineration of a certain aromatic and resinous substance which he had thrown on the surface.

The Persians were succeeded by another party of dancers, whom Michael recognized. The journalists also appeared to recognize them, for Blount said to his companion, “These are the Tsiganes of Nijni-Novgorod.”

“No doubt of it,” cried Alcide. “Their eyes, I imagine, bring more money to these spies than their legs.”

In putting them down as agents in the Emir’s service, Alcide Jolivet was, by all accounts, not mistaken.

In the first rank of the Tsiganes, Sangarre appeared, superb in her strange and picturesque costume, which set off still further her remarkable beauty.

Sangarre did not dance, but she stood as a statue in the midst of the performers, whose style of dancing was a combination of that of all those countries through which their race had passed — Turkey, Bohemia, Egypt, Italy, and Spain. They were enlivened by the sound of cymbals, which clashed on their arms, and by the hollow sounds of the “daires” — a sort of tambourine played with the fingers.

Sangarre, holding one of those daires, which she played between her hands, encouraged this troupe of veritable corybantes. A young Tsigane, of about fifteen years of age, then advanced. He held in his hand a “doutare,” strings of which he made to vibrate by a simple movement of the nails. He sung. During the singing of each couplet, of very peculiar rhythm, a dancer took her position by him and remained there immovable, listening to him, but each time that the burden came from the lips of the young singer, she resumed her dance, dinning in his ears with her daire, and deafening him with the clashing of her cymbals. Then, after the last chorus, the remainder surrounded the Tsigane in the windings of their dance.

At that moment a shower of gold fell from the hands of the Emir and his train, and from the hands of his officers of all ranks; to the noise which the pieces made as they struck the cymbals of the dancers, being added the last murmurs of the doutares and tambourines.

“Lavish as robbers,” said Alcide in the ear of his companion. And in fact it was the result of plunder which was falling; for, with the Tartar tomans and sequins, rained also Russian ducats and roubles.

Then silence followed for an instant, and the voice of the executioner, who laid his hand on Michael’s shoulder, once more pronounced the words, which this repetition rendered more and more sinister:

“Look while you may”

But this time Alcide observed that the executioner no longer held the saber bare in his hand.

Meanwhile the sun had sunk behind the horizon. A semi-obscurity began to envelop the plain. The mass of cedars and pines became blacker and blacker, and the waters of the Tom, totally obscured in the distance, mingled with the approaching shadows.

But at that instant several hundreds of slaves, bearing lighted torches, entered the square. Led by Sangarre, Tsiganes and Persians reappeared before the Emir’s throne, and showed off, by the contrast, their dances of styles so different. The instruments of the Tartar orchestra sounded forth in harmony still more savage, accompanied by the guttural cries of the singers. The kites, which had fallen to the ground, once more winged their way into the sky, each bearing a parti-colored lantern, and under a fresher breeze their harps vibrated with intenser sound in the midst of the aerial illumination.

Then a squadron of Tartars, in their brilliant uniforms, mingled in the dances, whose wild fury was increasing rapidly, and then began a performance which produced a very strange effect. Soldiers came on the ground, armed with bare sabers and long pistols, and, as they executed dances, they made the air re-echo with the sudden detonations of their firearms, which immediately set going the rumbling of the tambourines, and grumblings of the daires, and the gnashing of doutares.

Their arms, covered with a colored powder of some metallic ingredient, after the Chinese fashion, threw long jets — red, green, and blue — so that the groups of dancers seemed to be in the midst of fireworks. In some respects, this performance recalled the military dance of the ancients, in the midst of naked swords; but this Tartar dance was rendered yet more fantastic by the colored fire, which wound, serpent-like, above the dancers, whose dresses seemed to be embroidered with fiery hems. It was like a kaleidoscope of sparks, whose infinite combinations varied at each movement of the dancers.

Though it may be thought that a Parisian reporter would be perfectly hardened to any scenic effect, which our modern ideas have carried so far, yet Alcide Jolivet could not restrain a slight movement of the head, which at home, between the Boulevard Montmartre and La Madeleine would have said — “Very fair, very fair.”

Then, suddenly, at a signal, all the lights of the fantasia were extinguished, the dances ceased, and the performers disappeared. The ceremony was over, and the torches alone lighted up the plateau, which a few instants before had been so brilliantly illuminated.

On a sign from the Emir, Michael was led into the middle of the square.

“Blount,” said Alcide to his companion, “are you going to see the end of all this?”

“No, that I am not,” replied Blount.

“The readers of the Daily Telegraph are, I hope, not very eager for the details of an execution a la mode Tartare?”

“No more than your cousin!”

“Poor fellow!” added Alcide, as he watched Michael. “That valiant soldier should have fallen on the field of battle!”

“Can we do nothing to save him?” said Blount.

“Nothing!”

The reporters recalled Michael’s generous conduct towards them; they knew now through what trials he must have passed, ever obedient to his duty; and in the midst of these Tartars, to whom pity is unknown, they could do nothing for him. Having little desire to be present at the torture reserved for the unfortunate man, they returned to the town. An hour later, they were on the road to Irkutsk, for it was among the Russians that they intended to follow what Alcide called, by anticipation, “the campaign of revenge.”

Meantime, Michael was standing ready, his eyes returning the Emir’s haughty glance, while his countenance assumed an expression of intense scorn whenever he cast his looks on Ivan Ogareff. He was prepared to die, yet not a single sign of weakness escaped him.

The spectators, waiting around the square, as well as Feofar-Khan’s body-guard, to whom this execution was only one of the attractions, were eagerly expecting it. Then, their curiosity satisfied, they would rush off to enjoy the pleasures of intoxication.

The Emir made a sign. Michael was thrust forward by his guards to the foot of the terrace, and Feofar said to him, “You came to see our goings out and comings in, Russian spy. You have seen for the last time. In an instant your eyes will be forever shut to the day.”

Michael’s fate was to be not death, but blindness; loss of sight, more terrible perhaps than loss of life. The unhappy man was condemned to be blinded.

However, on hearing the Emir’s sentence Michael’s heart did not grow faint. He remained unmoved, his eyes wide open, as though he wished to concentrate his whole life into one last look. To entreat pity from these savage men would be useless, besides, it would be unworthy of him. He did not even think of it. His thoughts were condensed on his mission, which had apparently so completely failed; on his mother, on Nadia, whom he should never more see! But he let no sign appear of the emotion he felt. Then, a feeling of vengeance to be accomplished came over him. “Ivan,” said he, in a stern voice, “Ivan the Traitor, the last menace of my eyes shall be for you!”

Ivan Ogareff shrugged his shoulders.

But Michael was not to be looking at Ivan when his eyes were put out. Marfa Strogoff stood before him.

“My mother!” cried he. “Yes! yes! my last glance shall be for you, and not for this wretch! Stay there, before me! Now I see once more your well-beloved face! Now shall my eyes close as they rest upon it..!”

The old woman, without uttering a word, advanced.

“Take that woman away!” said Ivan.

Two soldiers were about to seize her, but she stepped back and remained standing a few paces from Michael.

The executioner appeared. This time, he held his saber bare in his hand, and this saber he had just drawn from the chafing-dish, where he had brought it to a white heat. Michael was going to be blinded in the Tartar fashion, with a hot blade passed before his eyes!

Michael did not attempt to resist. Nothing existed before his eyes but his mother, whom his eyes seemed to devour. All his life was in that last look.

Marfa Strogoff, her eyes open wide, her arms extended towards where he stood, was gazing at him. The incandescent blade passed before Michael’s eyes.

A despairing cry was heard. His aged mother fell senseless to the ground. Michael Strogoff was blind.

His orders executed, the Emir retired with his train. There remained in the square only Ivan Ogareff and the torch bearers. Did the wretch intend to insult his victim yet further, and yet to give him a parting blow?

Ivan Ogareff slowly approached Michael, who, feeling him coming, drew himself up. Ivan drew from his pocket the Imperial letter, he opened it, and with supreme irony he held it up before the sightless eyes of the Czar’s courier, saying, “Read, now, Michael Strogoff, read, and go and repeat at Irkutsk what you have read. The true Courier of the Czar is Ivan Ogareff.”

This said, the traitor thrust the letter into his breast. Then, without looking round he left the square, followed by the torch-bearers.

Michael was left alone, at a few paces from his mother, lying lifeless, perhaps dead. He heard in the distance cries and songs, the varied noises of a wild debauch. Tomsk, illuminated, glittered and gleamed.

Michael listened. The square was silent and deserted. He went, groping his way, towards the place where his mother had fallen. He found her with his hand, he bent over her, he put his face close to hers, he listened for the beating of her heart. Then he murmured a few words.

Did Marfa still live, and did she hear her son’s words? Whether she did so or not, she made not the slightest movement. Michael kissed her forehead and her white locks. He then raised himself, and, groping with his foot, trying to stretch out his hand to guide himself, he walked by degrees to the edge of the square.

Suddenly Nadia appeared. She walked straight to her companion. A knife in her hand cut the cords which bound Michael’s arms. The blind man knew not who had freed him, for Nadia had not spoken a word.

But this done: “Brother!” said she.

“Nadia!” murmured Michael, “Nadia!”

“Come, brother,” replied Nadia, “use my eyes whilst yours sleep. I will lead you to Irkutsk.”

CHAPTER VI A FRIEND ON THE HIGHWAY

HALF an hour afterwards, Michael and Nadia had left Tomsk.

Many others of the prisoners were that night able to escape from the Tartars, for officers and soldiers, all more or less intoxicated, had unconsciously relaxed the vigilant guard which they had hitherto maintained. Nadia, after having been carried off with the other prisoners, had been able to escape and return to the square, at the moment when Michael was led before the Emir. There, mingling with the crowd, she had witnessed the terrible scene. Not a cry escaped her when the scorching blade passed before her companion’s eyes. She kept, by her strength of will, mute and motionless. A providential inspiration bade her restrain herself and retain her liberty that she might lead Marfa’s son to that goal which he had sworn to reach. Her heart for an instant ceased to beat when the aged Siberian woman fell senseless to the ground, but one thought restored her to her former energy. “I will be the blind man’s dog,” said she.

On Ogareff’s departure, Nadia had concealed herself in the shade. She had waited till the crowd left the square. Michael, abandoned as a wretched being from whom nothing was to be feared, was alone. She saw him draw himself towards his mother, bend over her, kiss her forehead, then rise and grope his way in flight.

A few instants later, she and he, hand in hand, had descended the steep slope, when, after having followed the high banks of the Tom to the furthest extremity of the town, they happily found a breach in the inclosure.

The road to Irkutsk was the only one which penetrated towards the east. It could not be mistaken. It was possible that on the morrow, after some hours of carousal, the scouts of the Emir, once more scattering over the steppes, might cut off all communication. It was of the greatest importance therefore to get in advance of them. How could Nadia bear the fatigues of that night, from the 16th to the 17th of August? How could she have found strength for so long a stage? How could her feet, bleeding under that forced march, have carried her thither? It is almost incomprehensible. But it is none the less true that on the next morning, twelve hours after their departure from Tomsk, Michael and she reached the town of Semilowskoe, after a journey of thirty-five miles.

Michael had not uttered a single word. It was not Nadia who held his hand, it was he who held that of his companion during the whole of that night; but, thanks to that trembling little hand which guided him, he had walked at his ordinary pace.

Semilowskoe was almost entirely abandoned. The inhabitants had fled. Not more than two or three houses were still occupied. All that the town contained, useful or precious, had been carried off in wagons. However, Nadia was obliged to make a halt of a few hours. They both required food and rest.

The young girl led her companion to the extremity of the town. There they found an empty house, the door wide open. An old rickety wooden bench stood in the middle of the room, near the high stove which is to be found in all Siberian houses. They silently seated themselves.

Nadia gazed in her companion’s face as she had never before gazed. There was more than gratitude, more than pity, in that look. Could Michael have seen her, he would have read in that sweet desolate gaze a world of devotion and tenderness.

The eyelids of the blind man, made red by the heated blade, fell half over his eyes. The pupils seemed to be singularly enlarged. The rich blue of the iris was darker than formerly. The eyelashes and eyebrows were partly burnt, but in appearance, at least, the old penetrating look appeared to have undergone no change. If he could no longer see, if his blindness was complete, it was because the sensibility of the retina and optic nerve was radically destroyed by the fierce heat of the steel.

Then Michael stretched out his hands.

“Are you there, Nadia?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied the young girl; “I am close to you, and I will not go away from you, Michael.”

At his name, pronounced by Nadia for the first time, a thrill passed through Michael’s frame. He perceived that his companion knew all, who he was.

“Nadia,” replied he, “we must separate!”

“We separate? How so, Michael?”

“I must not be an obstacle to your journey! Your father is waiting for you at Irkutsk! You must rejoin your father!”

“My father would curse me, Michael, were I to abandon you now, after all you have done for me!”

“Nadia, Nadia,” replied Michael, “you should think only of your father!”

“Michael,” replied Nadia, “you have more need of me than my father. Do you mean to give up going to Irkutsk?”

“Never!” cried Michael, in a tone which plainly showed that none of his energy was gone.

“But you have not the letter!”

“That letter of which Ivan Ogareff robbed me! Well! I shall manage without it, Nadia! They have treated me as a spy! I will act as a spy! I will go and repeat at Irkutsk all I have seen, all I have heard; I swear it by Heaven above! The traitor shall meet me one day face to face! But I must arrive at Irkutsk before him.”

“And yet you speak of our separating, Michael?”

“Nadia, they have taken everything from me!”

“I have some roubles still, and my eyes! I can see for you, Michael; and I will lead you thither, where you could not go alone!”

“And how shall we go?”

“On foot.”

“And how shall we live?”

“By begging.”

“Let us start, Nadia.”

“Come, Michael.”

The two young people no longer kept the names “brother” and “sister.” In their common misfortune, they felt still closer united. They left the house after an hour’s repose. Nadia had procured in the town some morsels of “tchornekhleb,” a sort of barley bread, and a little mead, called “meod” in Russia. This had cost her nothing, for she had already begun her plan of begging. The bread and mead had in some degree appeased Michael’s hunger and thirst. Nadia gave him the lion’s share of this scanty meal. He ate the pieces of bread his companion gave him, drank from the gourd she held to his lips.

“Are you eating, Nadia?” he asked several times.

“Yes, Michael,” invariably replied the young girl, who contented herself with what her companion left.

Michael and Nadia quitted Semilowskoe, and once more set out on the laborious road to Irkutsk. The girl bore up in a marvelous way against fatigue. Had Michael seen her, perhaps he would not have had the courage to go on. But Nadia never complained, and Michael, hearing no sigh, walked at a speed he was unable to repress. And why? Did he still expect to keep before the Tartars? He was on foot, without money; he was blind, and if Nadia, his only guide, were to be separated from him, he could only lie down by the side of the road and there perish miserably. But if, on the other hand, by energetic perseverance he could reach Krasnoiarsk, all was perhaps not lost, since the governor, to whom he would make himself known, would not hesitate to give him the means of reaching Irkutsk.

Michael walked on, speaking little, absorbed in his own thoughts. He held Nadia’s hand. The two were in incessant communication. It seemed to them that they had no need of words to exchange their thoughts. From time to time Michael said, “Speak to me, Nadia.”

“Why should I, Michael? We are thinking together!” the young girl would reply, and contrived that her voice should not betray her extreme fatigue.

But sometimes, as if her heart had ceased to beat for an instant, her limbs tottered, her steps flagged, her arms fell to her sides, she dropped behind. Michael then stopped, he fixed his eyes on the poor girl, as though he would try to pierce the gloom which surrounded him; his breast heaved; then, supporting his companion more than before, he started on afresh.

However, amidst these continual miseries, a fortunate circumstance on that day occurred which it appeared likely would considerably ease their fatigue. They had been walking from Semilowskoe for two hours when Michael stopped.

“Is there no one on the road?”

“Not a single soul,” replied Nadia.

“Do you not hear some noise behind us? If they are Tartars we must hide. Keep a good look-out!”

“Wait, Michael!” replied Nadia, going back a few steps to where the road turned to the right.

Michael Strogoff waited alone for a minute, listening attentively.

Nadia returned almost immediately and said, “It is a cart. A young man is leading it.”

“Is he alone?”

“Alone.”

Michael hesitated an instant. Should he hide? or should he, on the contrary, try to find a place in the vehicle, if not for himself, at least for her? For himself, he would be quite content to lay one hand on the cart, to push it if necessary, for his legs showed no sign of failing him; but he felt sure that Nadia, compelled to walk ever since they crossed the Obi, that is, for eight days, must be almost exhausted. He waited.

The cart was soon at the corner of the road. It was a very dilapidated vehicle, known in the country as a kibitka, just capable of holding three persons. Usually the kibitka is drawn by three horses, but this had but one, a beast with long hair and a very long tail. It was of the Mongol breed, known for strength and courage.

A young man was leading it, with a dog beside him. Nadia saw at once that the young man was Russian; his face was phlegmatic, but pleasant, and at once inspired confidence. He did not appear to be in the slightest hurry; he was not walking fast that he might spare his horse, and, to look at him, it would not have been believed that he was following a road which might at any instant be swarming with Tartars.

Nadia, holding Michael by the hand, made way for the vehicle. The kibitka stopped, and the driver smilingly looked at the young girl.

“And where are you going to in this fashion?” he asked, opening wide his great honest eyes.

At the sound of his voice, Michael said to himself that he had heard it before. And it was satisfactory to him to recognize the man for his brow at once cleared.

“Well, where are you going?” repeated the young man, addressing himself more directly to Michael.

“We are going to Irkutsk,” he replied.

“Oh! little father, you do not know that there are still versts and versts between you and Irkutsk?”

“I know it.”

“And you are going on foot?”

“On foot.”

“You, well! but the young lady?”

“She is my sister,” said Michael, who judged it prudent to give again this name to Nadia.

“Yes, your sister, little father! But, believe me, she will never be able to get to Irkutsk!”

“Friend,” returned Michael, approaching him, “the Tartars have robbed us of everything, and I have not a copeck to offer you; but if you will take my sister with you, I will follow your cart on foot; I will run when necessary, I will not delay you an hour!”

“Brother,” exclaimed Nadia, “I will not! I will not! Sir, my brother is blind!”

“Blind!” repeated the young man, much moved.

“The Tartars have burnt out his eyes!” replied Nadia, extending her hands, as if imploring pity.

“Burnt out his eyes! Oh! poor little father! I am going to Krasnoiarsk. Well, why should not you and your sister mount in the kibitka? By sitting a little close, it will hold us all three. Besides, my dog will not refuse to go on foot; only I don’t go fast, I spare my horse.”

“Friend, what is your name?” asked Michael.

“My name is Nicholas Pigassof.”

“It is a name that I will never forget,” said Michael.

“Well, jump up, little blind father. Your sister will be beside you, in the bottom of the cart; I sit in front to drive. There is plenty of good birch bark and straw in the bottom; it’s like a nest. Serko, make room!”

The dog jumped down without more telling. He was an animal of the Siberian race, gray hair, of medium size, with an honest big head, just made to pat, and he, moreover, appeared to be much attached to his master.

In a moment more, Michael and Nadia were seated in the kibitka. Michael held out his hands as if to feel for those of Pigassof. “You wish to shake my hands!” said Nicholas. “There they are, little father! shake them as long as it will give you any pleasure.”

The kibitka moved on; the horse, which Nicholas never touched with the whip, ambled along. Though Michael did not gain any in speed, at least some fatigue was spared to Nadia.

Such was the exhaustion of the young girl, that, rocked by the monotonous movement of the kibitka, she soon fell into a sleep, its soundness proving her complete prostration. Michael and Nicholas laid her on the straw as comfortably as possible. The compassionate young man was greatly moved, and if a tear did not escape from Michael’s eyes, it was because the red-hot iron had dried up the last!

“She is very pretty,” said Nicholas.

“Yes,” replied Michael.

“They try to be strong, little father, they are brave, but they are weak after all, these dear little things! Have you come from far.”

“Very far.”

“Poor young people! It must have hurt you very much when they burnt your eyes!”

“Very much,” answered Michael, turning towards Nicholas as if he could see him.

“Did you not weep?”

“Yes.”

“I should have wept too. To think that one could never again see those one loves. But they can see you, however; that’s perhaps some consolation!”

“Yes, perhaps. Tell me, my friend,” continued Michael, “have you never seen me anywhere before?”

“You, little father? No, never.”

“The sound of your voice is not unknown to me.”

“Why!” returned Nicholas, smiling, “he knows the sound of my voice! Perhaps you ask me that to find out where I come from. I come from Kolyvan.”

“From Kolyvan?” repeated Michael. “Then it was there I met you; you were in the telegraph office?”

“That may be,” replied Nicholas. “I was stationed there. I was the clerk in charge of the messages.”

“And you stayed at your post up to the last moment?”

“Why, it’s at that moment one ought to be there!”

“It was the day when an Englishman and a Frenchman were disputing, roubles in hand, for the place at your wicket, and the Englishman telegraphed some poetry.”

“That is possible, but I do not remember it.”

“What! you do not remember it?”

“I never read the dispatches I send. My duty being to forget them, the shortest way is not to know them.”

This reply showed Nicholas Pigassof’s character. In the meanwhile the kibitka pursued its way, at a pace which Michael longed to render more rapid. But Nicholas and his horse were accustomed to a pace which neither of them would like to alter. The horse went for two hours and rested one — so on, day and night. During the halts the horse grazed, the travelers ate in company with the faithful Serko. The kibitka was provisioned for at least twenty persons, and Nicholas generously placed his supplies at the disposal of his two guests, whom he believed to be brother and sister.

After a day’s rest, Nadia recovered some strength. Nicholas took the best possible care of her. The journey was being made under tolerable circumstances, slowly certainly, but surely. It sometimes happened that during the night, Nicholas, although driving, fell asleep, and snored with a clearness which showed the calmness of his conscience. Perhaps then, by looking close, Michael’s hand might have been seen feeling for the reins, and giving the horse a more rapid pace, to the great astonishment of Serko, who, however, said nothing. The trot was exchanged for the amble as soon as Nicholas awoke, but the kibitka had not the less gained some versts.

Thus they passed the river Ichirnsk, the villages of Ichisnokoe, Berikylokoe, Kuskoe, the river Marunsk, the village of the same name, Bogostowskoe, and, lastly, the Ichoula, a little stream which divides Western from Eastern Siberia. The road now lay sometimes across wide moors, which extended as far as the eye could reach, sometimes through thick forests of firs, of which they thought they should never get to the end. Everywhere was a desert; the villages were almost entirely abandoned. The peasants had fled beyond the Yenisei, hoping that this wide river would perhaps stop the Tartars.

On the 22d of August, the kibitka entered the town of Atchinsk, two hundred and fifty miles from Tomsk. Eighty miles still lay between them and Krasnoiarsk.

No incident had marked the journey. For the six days during which they had been together, Nicholas, Michael, and Nadia had remained the same, the one in his unchange-able calm, the other two, uneasy, and thinking of the time when their companion would leave them.

Michael saw the country through which they traveled with the eyes of Nicholas and the young girl. In turns, they each described to him the scenes they passed. He knew whether he was in a forest or on a plain, whether a hut was on the steppe, or whether any Siberian was in sight. Nicholas was never silent, he loved to talk, and, from his peculiar way of viewing things, his friends were amused by his conversation. One day, Michael asked him what sort of weather it was.

“Fine enough, little father,” he answered, “but soon we shall feel the first winter frosts. Perhaps the Tartars will go into winter quarters during the bad season.”

Michael Strogoff shook his head with a doubtful air.

“You do not think so, little father?” resumed Nicholas. “You think that they will march on to Irkutsk?”

“I fear so,” replied Michael.

“Yes… you are right; they have with them a bad man, who will not let them loiter on the way. You have heard speak of Ivan Ogareff?”

“Yes.”

“You know that it is not right to betray one’s country!”

“No… it is not right…” answered Michael, who wished to remain unmoved.

“Little father,” continued Nicholas, “it seems to me that you are not half indignant enough when Ivan Ogareff is spoken of. Your Russian heart ought to leap when his name is uttered.”

“Believe me, my friend, I hate him more than you can ever hate him,” said Michael.

“It is not possible,” replied Nicholas; “no, it is not possible! When I think of Ivan Ogareff, of the harm which he is doing to our sacred Russia, I get into such a rage that if I could get hold of him — ”

“If you could get hold of him, friend?”

“I think I should kill him.”

“And I, I am sure of it,” returned Michael quietly.

CHAPTER IX IN THE STEPPE

MICHAEL STROGOFF and Nadia were once more as free as they had been in the journey from Perm to the banks of the Irtych. But how the conditions under which they traveled were altered! Then, a comfortable tarantass, fresh horses, well-kept post-horses assured the rapidity of their journey. Now they were on foot; it was utterly impossible to procure any other means of locomotion, they were without resources, not knowing how to obtain even food, and they had still nearly three hundred miles to go! Moreover, Michael could now only see with Nadia’s eyes.

As to the friend whom chance had given them, they had just lost him, and fearful might be his fate. Michael had thrown himself down under the brushwood at the side of the road. Nadia stood beside him, waiting for the word from him to continue the march.

It was ten o’clock. The sun had more than three hours before disappeared below the horizon. There was not a house in sight. The last of the Tartars was lost in the distance. Michael and Nadia were quite alone.

“What will they do with our friend?” exclaimed the girl. “Poor Nicholas! Our meeting will have been fatal to him!” Michael made no response.

“Michael,” continued Nadia, “do you not know that he defended you when you were the Tartars’ sport; that he risked his life for me?”

Michael was still silent. Motionless, his face buried in his hands; of what was he thinking? Perhaps, although he did not answer, he heard Nadia speak.

Yes! he heard her, for when the young girl added, “Where shall I lead you, Michael?”

“To Irkutsk!” he replied.

“By the highroad?”

“Yes, Nadia.”

Michael was still the same man who had sworn, whatever happened, to accomplish his object. To follow the highroad, was certainly to go the shortest way. If the vanguard of Feofar-Khan’s troops appeared, it would then be time to strike across the country.

Nadia took Michael’s hand, and they started.

The next morning, the 13th of September, twenty versts further, they made a short halt in the village of Joulounov-skoe. It was burnt and deserted. All night Nadia had tried to see if the body of Nicholas had not been left on the road, but it was in vain that she looked among the ruins, and searched among the dead. Was he reserved for some cruel torture at Irkutsk?

Nadia, exhausted with hunger, was fortunate enough to find in one of the houses a quantity of dried meat and “soukharis,” pieces of bread, which, dried by evaporation, preserve their nutritive qualities for an indefinite time.

Michael and the girl loaded themselves with as much as they could carry. They had thus a supply of food for several days, and as to water, there would be no want of that in a district rendered fertile by the numerous little affluents of the Angara.

They continued their journey. Michael walked with a firm step, and only slackened his pace for his companion’s sake. Nadia, not wishing to retard him, obliged herself to walk. Happily, he could not see to what a miserable state fatigue had reduced her.

However, Michael guessed it. “You are quite done up, poor child,” he said sometimes.

“No,” she would reply.

“When you can no longer walk, I will carry you.”

“Yes, Michael.”

During this day they came to the little river Oka, but it was fordable, and they had no difficulty in crossing. The sky was cloudy and the temperature moderate. There was some fear that the rain might come on, which would much have increased their misery. A few showers fell, but they did not last.

They went on as before, hand in hand, speaking little, Nadia looking about on every side; twice a day they halted. Six hours of the night were given to sleep. In a few huts Nadia again found a little mutton; but, contrary to Michael’s hopes, there was not a single beast of burden in the country; horses, camels — all had been either killed or carried off. They must still continue to plod on across this weary steppe on foot.

The third Tartar column, on its way to Irkutsk, had left plain traces: here a dead horse, there an abandoned cart. The bodies of unfortunate Siberians lay along the road, principally at the entrances to villages. Nadia, overcoming her repugnance, looked at all these corpses!

The chief danger lay, not before, but behind. The advance guard of the Emir’s army, commanded by Ivan Ogareff, might at any moment appear. The boats sent down the lower Yenisei must by this time have reached Krasnoiarsk and been made use of. The road was therefore open to the invaders. No Russian force could be opposed to them between Krasnoiarsk and Lake Baikal, Michael therefore expected before long the appearance of the Tartar scouts.

At each halt, Nadia climbed some hill and looked anxiously to the Westward, but as yet no cloud of dust had signaled the approach of a troop of horse.

Then the march was resumed; and when Michael felt that he was dragging poor Nadia forward too rapidly, he went at a slower pace. They spoke little, and only of Nicholas. The young girl recalled all that this companion of a few days had done for them.

In answering, Michael tried to give Nadia some hope of which he did not feel a spark himself, for he well knew that the unfortunate fellow would not escape death.

One day Michael said to the girl, “You never speak to me of my mother, Nadia.”

His mother! Nadia had never wished to do so. Why renew his grief? Was not the old Siberian dead? Had not her son given the last kiss to her corpse stretched on the plain of Tomsk?

“Speak to me of her, Nadia,” said Michael. “Speak — you will please me.”

And then Nadia did what she had not done before. She told all that had passed between Marfa and herself since their meeting at Omsk, where they had seen each other for the first time. She said how an inexplicable instinct had led her towards the old prisoner without knowing who she was, and what encouragement she had received in return. At that time Michael Strogoff had been to her but Nicholas Korpanoff.

“Whom I ought always to have been,” replied Michael, his brow darkening.

Then later he added, “I have broken my oath, Nadia. I had sworn not to see my mother!”

“But you did not try to see her, Michael,” replied Nadia. “Chance alone brought you into her presence.”

“I had sworn, whatever might happen, not to betray myself.”

“Michael, Michael! at sight of the lash raised upon Marfa, could you refrain? No! No oath could prevent a son from succoring his mother!”

“I have broken my oath, Nadia,” returned Michael. “May God and the Father pardon me!”

“Michael,” resumed the girl, “I have a question to ask you. Do not answer it if you think you ought not. Nothing from you would vex me!”

“Speak, Nadia.”

“Why, now that the Czar’s letter has been taken from you, are you so anxious to reach Irkutsk?”

Michael tightly pressed his companion’s hand, but he did not answer.

“Did you know the contents of that letter before you left Moscow?”

“No, I did not know.”

“Must I think, Michael, that the wish alone to place me in my father’s hands draws you toward Irkutsk?”

“No, Nadia,” replied Michael, gravely. “I should deceive you if I allowed you to believe that it was so. I go where duty orders me to go. As to taking you to Irkutsk, is it not you, Nadia, who are now taking me there? Do I not see with your eyes; and is it not your hand that guides me? Have you not repaid a hundred-fold the help which I was able to give you at first? I do not know if fate will cease to go against us; but the day on which you thank me for having placed you in your father’s hands, I in my turn will thank you for having led me to Irkutsk.”

“Poor Michael!” answered Nadia, with emotion. “Do not speak so. That does not answer me. Michael, why, now, are you in such haste to reach Irkutsk?”

“Because I must be there before Ivan Ogareff,” exclaimed Michael.

“Even now?”

“Even now, and I will be there, too!”

In uttering these words, Michael did not speak solely through hatred to the traitor. Nadia understood that her companion had not told, or could not tell, her all.

On the 15th of September, three days later, the two reached the village of Kouitounskoe. The young girl suffered dreadfully. Her aching feet could scarcely support her; but she fought, she struggled, against her weariness, and her only thought was this: “Since he cannot see me, I will go on till I drop.”

There were no obstacles on this part of the journey, no danger either since the departure of the Tartars, only much fatigue. For three days it continued thus. It was plain that the third invading column was advancing rapidly in the East; that could be seen by the ruins which they left after them — the cold cinders and the already decomposing corpses.

There was nothing to be seen in the West; the Emir’s advance-guard had not yet appeared. Michael began to consider the various reasons which might have caused this delay. Was a sufficient force of Russians directly menacing Tomsk or Krasnoiarsk? Did the third column, isolated from the others, run a risk of being cut off? If this was the case, it would be easy for the Grand Duke to defend Irkutsk, and any time gained against an invasion was a step towards repulsing it. Michael sometimes let his thoughts run on these hopes, but he soon saw their improbability, and felt that the preservation of the Grand Duke depended alone on him.

Nadia dragged herself along. Whatever might be her moral energy, her physical strength would soon fail her. Michael knew it only too well. If he had not been blind, Nadia would have said to him, “Go, Michael, leave me in some hut! Reach Irkutsk! Accomplish your mission! See my father! Tell him where I am! Tell him that I wait for him, and you both will know where to find me! Start! I am not afraid! I will hide myself from the Tartars! I will take care of myself for him, for you! Go, Michael! I can go no farther!”

Many times Nadia was obliged to stop. Michael then took her in his strong arms and, having no longer to think of her fatigue, walked more rapidly and with his indefatigable step.

On the 18th of September, at ten in the evening, Kimilteiskoe was at last entered. From the top of a hill, Nadia saw in the horizon a long light line. It was the Dinka River. A few lightning flashes were reflected in the water; summer lightning, without thunder. Nadia led her companion through the ruined village. The cinders were quite cold. The last of the Tartars had passed through at least five or six days before.

Beyond the village, Nadia sank down on a stone bench. “Shall we make a halt?” asked Michael.

“It is night, Michael,” answered Nadia. “Do you not want to rest a few hours?”

“I would rather have crossed the Dinka,” replied Michael, “I should like to put that between us and the Emir’s advance-guard. But you can scarcely drag yourself along, my poor Nadia!”

“Come, Michael,” returned Nadia, seizing her companion’s hand and drawing him forward.

Two or three versts further the Dinka flowed across the Irkutsk road. The young girl wished to attempt this last effort asked by her companion. She found her way by the light from the flashes. They were then crossing a boundless desert, in the midst of which was lost the little river. Not a tree nor a hillock broke the flatness. Not a breath disturbed the atmosphere, whose calmness would allow the slightest sound to travel an immense distance.

Suddenly, Michael and Nadia stopped, as if their feet had been fast to the ground. The barking of a dog came across the steppe. “Do you hear?” said Nadia.

Then a mournful cry succeeded it — a despairing cry, like the last appeal of a human being about to die.

“Nicholas! Nicholas!” cried the girl, with a foreboding of evil. Michael, who was listening, shook his head.

“Come, Michael, come,” said Nadia. And she who just now was dragging herself with difficulty along, suddenly recovered strength, under violent excitement.

“We have left the road,” said Michael, feeling that he was treading no longer on powdery soil but on short grass.

“Yes, we must!” returned Nadia. “It was there, on the right, from which the cry came!”

In a few minutes they were not more than half a verst from the river. A second bark was heard, but, although more feeble, it was certainly nearer. Nadia stopped.

“Yes!” said Michael. “It is Serko barking!… He has followed his master!”

“Nicholas!” called the girl. Her cry was unanswered.

Michael listened. Nadia gazed over the plain illumined now and again with electric light, but she saw nothing. And yet a voice was again raised, this time murmuring in a plaintive tone, “Michael!”

Then a dog, all bloody, bounded up to Nadia.

It was Serko! Nicholas could not be far off! He alone could have murmured the name of Michael! Where was he? Nadia had no strength to call again. Michael, crawling on the ground, felt about with his hands.

Suddenly Serko uttered a fresh bark and darted towards a gigantic bird which had swooped down. It was a vulture. When Serko ran towards it, it rose, but returning struck at the dog. The latter leapt up at it. A blow from the formidable beak alighted on his head, and this time Serko fell back lifeless on the ground.

At the same moment a cry of horror escaped Nadia. “There… there!” she exclaimed.

A head issued from the ground! She had stumbled against it in the darkness.

Nadia fell on her knees beside it. Nicholas buried up to his neck, according to the atrocious Tartar custom, had been left in the steppe to die of thirst, and perhaps by the teeth of wolves or the beaks of birds of prey!

Frightful torture for the victim imprisoned in the ground — the earth pressed down so that he cannot move, his arms bound to his body like those of a corpse in its coffin! The miserable wretch, living in the mold of clay from which he is powerless to break out, can only long for the death which is so slow in coming!

There the Tartars had buried their prisoner three days before! For three days, Nicholas waited for the help which now came too late! The vultures had caught sight of the head on a level with the ground, and for some hours the dog had been defending his master against these ferocious birds!

Michael dug at the ground with his knife to release his friend! The eyes of Nicholas, which till then had been closed, opened.

He recognized Michael and Nadia. “Farewell, my friends!” he murmured. “I am glad to have seen you again! Pray for me!”

Michael continued to dig, though the ground, having been tightly rammed down, was as hard as stone, and he managed at last to get out the body of the unhappy man. He listened if his heart was still beating… It was still!

He wished to bury him, that he might not be left exposed; and the hole into which Nicholas had been placed when living, was enlarged, so that he might be laid in it — dead! The faithful Serko was laid by his master.

At that moment, a noise was heard on the road, about half a verst distant. Michael Strogoff listened. It was evidently a detachment of horse advancing towards the Dinka. “Nadia, Nadia!” he said in a low voice.

Nadia, who was kneeling in prayer, arose. “Look, look!” said he.

“The Tartars!” she whispered.

It was indeed the Emir’s advance-guard, passing rapidly along the road to Irkutsk.

“They shall not prevent me from burying him!” said Michael. And he continued his work.

Soon, the body of Nicholas, the hands crossed on the breast, was laid in the grave. Michael and Nadia, kneeling, prayed a last time for the poor fellow, inoffensive and good, who had paid for his devotion towards them with his life.

“And now,” said Michael, as he threw in the earth, “the wolves of the steppe will not devour him.”

Then he shook his fist at the troop of horsemen who were passing. “Forward, Nadia!” he said.

Michael could not follow the road, now occupied by the Tartars. He must cross the steppe and turn to Irkutsk. He had not now to trouble himself about crossing the Dinka. Nadia could not move, but she could see for him. He took her in his arms and went on towards the southwest of the province.

A hundred and forty miles still remained to be traversed. How was the distance to be performed? Should they not succumb to such fatigue? On what were they to live on the way? By what superhuman energy were they to pass the slopes of the Sayansk Mountains? Neither he nor Nadia could answer this!

And yet, twelve days after, on the 2d of October, at six o’clock in the evening, a wide sheet of water lay at Michael Strogoff’s feet. It was Lake Baikal.

CHAPTER X BAIKAL AND ANGARA

LAKE BAIKAL is situated seventeen hundred feet above the level of the sea. Its length is about six hundred miles, its breadth seventy. Its depth is not known. Madame de Bourboulon states that, according to the boatmen, it likes to be spoken of as “Madam Sea.” If it is called “Sir Lake,” it immediately lashes itself into fury. However, it is reported and believed by the Siberians that a Russian is never drowned in it.

This immense basin of fresh water, fed by more than three hundred rivers, is surrounded by magnificent volcanic mountains. It has no other outlet than the Angara, which after passing Irkutsk throws itself into the Yenisei, a little above the town of Yeniseisk. As to the mountains which encase it, they form a branch of the Toungouzes, and are derived from the vast system of the Altai.

In this territory, subject to peculiar climatical conditions, the autumn appears to be absorbed in the precocious winter. It was now the beginning of October. The sun set at five o’clock in the evening, and during the long nights the temperature fell to zero. The first snows, which would last till summer, already whitened the summits of the neighboring hills. During the Siberian winter this inland sea is frozen over to a thickness of several feet, and is crossed by the sleighs of caravans.

Either because there are people who are so wanting in politeness as to call it “Sir Lake,” or for some more meteorological reason, Lake Baikal is subject to violent tempests. Its waves, short like those of all inland seas, are much feared by the rafts, prahms, and steamboats, which furrow it during the summer.

It was the southwest point of the lake which Michael had now reached, carrying Nadia, whose whole life, so to speak, was concentrated in her eyes. But what could these two expect, in this wild region, if it was not to die of exhaustion and famine? And yet, what remained of the long journey of four thousand miles for the Czar’s courier to reach his end? Nothing but forty miles on the shore of the lake up to the mouth of the Angara, and sixty miles from the mouth of the Angara to Irkutsk; in all, a hundred miles, or three days’ journey for a strong man, even on foot.

Could Michael Strogoff still be that man?

Heaven, no doubt, did not wish to put him to this trial. The fatality which had hitherto pursued his steps seemed for a time to spare him. This end of the Baikal, this part of the steppe, which he believed to be a desert, which it usually is, was not so now. About fifty people were collected at the angle formed by the end of the lake.

Nadia immediately caught sight of this group, when Michael, carrying her in his arms, issued from the mountain pass. The girl feared for a moment that it was a Tartar detachment, sent to beat the shores of the Baikal, in which case flight would have been impossible to them both. But Nadia was soon reassured.

“Russians!” she exclaimed. And with this last effort, her eyes closed and her head fell on Michael’s breast.

But they had been seen, and some of these Russians, running to them, led the blind man and the girl to a little point at which was moored a raft.

The raft was just going to start. These Russians were fugitives of different conditions, whom the same interest had united at Lake Baikal. Driven back by the Tartar scouts, they hoped to obtain a refuge at Irkutsk, but not being able to get there by land, the invaders having occupied both banks of the Angara, they hoped to reach it by descending the river which flows through the town.

Their plan made Michael’s heart leap; a last chance was before him, but he had strength to conceal this, wishing to keep his incognito more strictly than ever.

The fugitives’ plan was very simple. A current in the lake runs along by the upper bank to the mouth of the Angara; this current they hoped to utilize, and with its assistance to reach the outlet of Lake Baikal. From this point to Irkutsk, the rapid waters of the river would bear them along at a rate of eight miles an hour. In a day and a half they might hope to be in sight of the town.

No kind of boat was to be found; they had been obliged to make one; a raft, or rather a float of wood, similar to those which usually are drifted down Siberian rivers, was constructed. A forest of firs, growing on the bank, had supplied the necessary materials; the trunks, fastened together with osiers, made a platform on which a hundred people could have easily found room.

On board this raft Michael and Nadia were taken. The girl had returned to herself; some food was given to her as well as to her companion. Then, lying on a bed of leaves, she soon fell into a deep sleep.

To those who questioned him, Michael Strogoff said nothing of what had taken place at Tomsk. He gave himself out as an inhabitant of Krasnoiarsk, who had not been able to get to Irkutsk before the Emir’s troops arrived on the left bank of the Dinka, and he added that, very probably, the bulk of the Tartar forces had taken up a position before the Siberian capital.

There was not a moment to be lost; besides, the cold was becoming more and more severe. During the night the temperature fell below zero; ice was already forming on the surface of the Baikal. Although the raft managed to pass easily over the lake, it might not be so easy between the banks of the Angara, should pieces of ice be found to block up its course.

At eight in the evening the moorings were cast off, and the raft drifted in the current along the shore. It was steered by means of long poles, under the management of several muscular moujiks. An old Baikal boatman took command of the raft. He was a man of sixty-five, browned by the sun, and lake breezes. A thick white beard flowed over his chest; a fur cap covered his head; his aspect was grave and austere. His large great-coat, fastened in at the waist, reached down to his heels. This taciturn old fellow was seated in the stern, and issued his commands by gestures. Besides, the chief work consisted in keeping the raft in the current, which ran along the shore, without drifting out into the open.

It has been already said that Russians of all conditions had found a place on the raft. Indeed, to the poor moujiks, the women, old men, and children, were joined two or three pilgrims, surprised on their journey by the invasion; a few monks, and a priest. The pilgrims carried a staff, a gourd hung at the belt, and they chanted psalms in a plaintive voice: one came from the Ukraine, another from the Yellow sea, and a third from the Finland provinces. This last, who was an aged man, carried at his waist a little padlocked collecting-box, as if it had been hung at a church door. Of all that he collected during his long and fatiguing pilgrimage, nothing was for himself; he did not even possess the key of the box, which would only be opened on his return.

The monks came from the North of the Empire. Three months before they had left the town of Archangel. They had visited the sacred islands near the coast of Carelia, the convent of Solovetsk, the convent of Troitsa, those of Saint Antony and Saint Theodosia, at Kiev, that of Kazan, as well as the church of the Old Believers, and they were now on their way to Irkutsk, wearing the robe, the cowl, and the clothes of serge.

As to the papa, or priest, he was a plain village pastor, one of the six hundred thousand popular pastors which the Russian Empire contains. He was clothed as miserably as the moujiks, not being above them in social position; in fact, laboring like a peasant on his plot of ground; baptis-ing, marrying, burying. He had been able to protect his wife and children from the brutality of the Tartars by sending them away into the Northern provinces. He himself had stayed in his parish up to the last moment; then he was obliged to fly, and, the Irkutsk road being stopped, had come to Lake Baikal.

These priests, grouped in the forward part of the raft, prayed at regular intervals, raising their voices in the silent night, and at the end of each sentence of their prayer, the “Slava Bogu,” Glory to God! issued from their lips.

No incident took place during the night. Nadia remained in a sort of stupor, and Michael watched beside her; sleep only overtook him at long intervals, and even then his brain did not rest. At break of day, the raft, delayed by a strong breeze, which counteracted the course of the current, was still forty versts from the mouth of the Angara. It seemed probable that the fugitives could not reach it before three or four o’clock in the evening. This did not trouble them; on the contrary, for they would then descend the river during the night, and the darkness would also favor their entrance into Irkutsk.

The only anxiety exhibited at times by the old boatman was concerning the formation of ice on the surface of the water. The night had been excessively cold; pieces of ice could be seen drifting towards the West. Nothing was to be dreaded from these, since they could not drift into the Angara, having already passed the mouth; but pieces from the Eastern end of the lake might be drawn by the current between the banks of the river; this would cause difficulty, possibly delay, and perhaps even an insurmountable obstacle which would stop the raft.

Michael therefore took immense interest in ascertaining what was the state of the lake, and whether any large number of ice blocks appeared. Nadia being now awake, he questioned her often, and she gave him an account of all that was going on.

Whilst the blocks were thus drifting, curious phenomena were taking place on the surface of the Baikal. Magnificent jets, from springs of boiling water, shot up from some of those artesian wells which Nature has bored in the very bed of the lake. These jets rose to a great height and spread out in vapor, which was illuminated by the solar rays, and almost immediately condensed by the cold. This curious sight would have assuredly amazed a tourist traveling in peaceful times on this Siberian sea.

At four in the evening, the mouth of the Angara was signaled by the old boatman, between the high granite rocks of the shore. On the right bank could be seen the little port of Livenitchnaia, its church, and its few houses built on the bank. But the serious thing was that the ice blocks from the East were already drifting between the banks of the Angara, and consequently were descending towards Irkutsk. However, their number was not yet great enough to obstruct the course of the raft, nor the cold great enough to increase their number.

The raft arrived at the little port and there stopped. The old boatman wished to put into harbor for an hour, in order to make some repairs. The trunks threatened to separate, and it was important to fasten them more securely together to resist the rapid current of the Angara.

The old boatman did not expect to receive any fresh fugitives at Livenitchnaia, and yet, the moment the raft touched, two passengers, issuing from a deserted house, ran as fast as they could towards the beach.

Nadia seated on the raft, was abstractedly gazing at the shore. A cry was about to escape her. She seized Michael’s hand, who at that moment raised his head.

“What is the matter, Nadia?” he asked.

“Our two traveling companions, Michael.”

“The Frenchman and the Englishman whom we met in the defiles of the Ural?”

“Yes.”

Michael started, for the strict incognito which he wished to keep ran a risk of being betrayed. Indeed, it was no longer as Nicholas Korpanoff that Jolivet and Blount would now see him, but as the true Michael Strogoff, Courier of the Czar. The two correspondents had already met him twice since their separation at the Ichim post-house — the first time at the Zabediero camp, when he laid open Ivan Ogareff’s face with the knout; the second time at Tomsk, when he was condemned by the Emir. They therefore knew who he was and what depended on him.

Michael Strogoff rapidly made up his mind. “Nadia,” said he, “when they step on board, ask them to come to me!”

It was, in fact, Blount and Jolivet, whom the course of events had brought to the port of Livenitchnaia, as it had brought Michael Strogoff. As we know, after having been present at the entry of the Tartars into Tomsk, they had departed before the savage execution which terminated the fete. They had therefore never suspected that their former traveling companion had not been put to death, but blinded by order of the Emir.

Having procured horses they had left Tomsk the same evening, with the fixed determination of henceforward dating their letters from the Russian camp of Eastern Siberia. They proceeded by forced marches towards Irkutsk. They hoped to distance Feofar-Khan, and would certainly have done so, had it not been for the unexpected apparition of the third column, come from the South, up the valley of the Yenisei. They had been cut off, as had been Michael, before being able even to reach the Dinka, and had been obliged to go back to Lake Baikal.

They had been in the place for three days in much perplexity, when the raft arrived. The fugitives’ plan was explained to them. There was certainly a chance that they might be able to pass under cover of the night, and penetrate into Irkutsk. They resolved to make the attempt.

Alcide directly communicated with the old boatman, and asked a passage for himself and his companion, offering to pay anything he demanded, whatever it might be.

“No one pays here,” replied the old man gravely; “every one risks his life, that is all!”

The two correspondents came on board, and Nadia saw them take their places in the forepart of the raft. Harry Blount was still the reserved Englishman, who had scarcely addressed a word to her during the whole passage over the Ural Mountains. Alcide Jolivet seemed to be rather more grave than usual, and it may be acknowledged that his gravity was justified by the circumstances.

Jolivet had, as has been said, taken his seat on the raft, when he felt a hand laid on his arm. Turning, he recognized Nadia, the sister of the man who was no longer Nicholas Korpanoff, but Michael Strogoff, Courier of the Czar. He was about to make an exclamation of surprise when he saw the young girl lay her finger on her lips.

“Come,” said Nadia. And with a careless air, Alcide rose and followed her, making a sign to Blount to accompany him.

But if the surprise of the correspondents had been great at meeting Nadia on the raft it was boundless when they perceived Michael Strogoff, whom they had believed to be no longer living.

Michael had not moved at their approach. Jolivet turned towards the girl. “He does not see you, gentlemen,” said Nadia. “The Tartars have burnt out his eyes! My poor brother is blind!”

A feeling of lively compassion exhibited itself on the faces of Blount and his companion. In a moment they were seated beside Michael, pressing his hand and waiting until he spoke to them.

“Gentlemen,” said Michael, in a low voice, “you ought not to know who I am, nor what I am come to do in Siberia. I ask you to keep my secret. Will you promise me to do so?”

“On my honor,” answered Jolivet.

“On my word as a gentleman,” added Blount.

“Good, gentlemen.”

“Can we be of any use to you?” asked Harry Blount. “Could we not help you to accomplish your task?”

“I prefer to act alone,” replied Michael.

“But those blackguards have destroyed your sight,” said Alcide.

“I have Nadia, and her eyes are enough for me!”

In half an hour the raft left the little port of Livenitchnaia, and entered the river. It was five in the evening and getting dusk. The night promised to be dark and very cold also, for the temperature was already below zero.

Alcide and Blount, though they had promised to keep Michael’s secret, did not leave him. They talked in a low voice, and the blind man, adding what they told him to what he already knew, was able to form an exact idea of the state of things. It was certain that the Tartars had actually invested Irkutsk, and that the three columns had effected a junction. There was no doubt that the Emir and Ivan Ogareff were before the capital.

But why did the Czar’s courier exhibit such haste to get there, now that the Imperial letter could no longer be given by him to the Grand Duke, and when he did not even know the contents of it? Alcide Jolivet and Blount could not understand it any more than Nadia had done.

No one spoke of the past, except when Jolivet thought it his duty to say to Michael, “We owe you some apology for not shaking hands with you when we separated at Ichim.”

“No, you had reason to think me a coward!”

“At any rate,” added the Frenchman, “you knouted the face of that villain finely, and he will carry the mark of it for a long time!”

“No, not a long time!” replied Michael quietly.

Half an hour after leaving Livenitchnaia, Blount and his companion were acquainted with the cruel trials through which Michael and his companion had successively passed. They could not but heartily admire his energy, which was only equaled by the young girl’s devotion. Their opinion of Michael was exactly what the Czar had expressed at Moscow: “Indeed, this is a Man!”

The raft swiftly threaded its way among the blocks of ice which were carried along in the current of the Angara. A moving panorama was displayed on both sides of the river, and, by an optical illusion, it appeared as if it was the raft which was motionless before a succession of picturesque scenes. Here were high granite cliffs, there wild gorges, down which rushed a torrent; sometimes appeared a clearing with a still smoking village, then thick pine forests blazing. But though the Tartars had left their traces on all sides, they themselves were not to be seen as yet, for they were more especially massed at the approaches to Irkutsk.

All this time the pilgrims were repeating their prayers aloud, and the old boatman, shoving away the blocks of ice which pressed too near them, imperturbably steered the raft in the middle of the rapid current of the Angara.

Verne at the time of publication

BOOK I.

CHAPTER I. A CHALLENGE

“Nothing, sir, can induce me to surrender my claim.”

“I am sorry, count, but in such a matter your views cannot modify mine.”

“But allow me to point out that my seniority unquestionably gives me a prior right.”

“Mere seniority, I assert, in an affair of this kind, cannot possibly entitle you to any prior claim whatever.”

“Then, captain, no alternative is left but for me to compel you to yield at the sword’s point.”

“As you please, count; but neither sword nor pistol can force me to forego my pretensions. Here is my card.”

“And mine.”

This rapid altercation was thus brought to an end by the formal interchange of the names of the disputants. On one of the cards was inscribed:

Captain Hector Servadac,

Staff Officer, Mostaganem.

On the other was the title: Count Wassili Timascheff,

On board the Schooner “Dobryna.”

It did not take long to arrange that seconds should be appointed, who would meet in Mostaganem at two o’clock that day; and the captain and the count were on the point of parting from each other, with a salute of punctilious courtesy, when Timascheff, as if struck by a sudden thought, said abruptly: “Perhaps it would be better, captain, not to allow the real cause of this to transpire?”

“Far better,” replied Servadac; “it is undesirable in every way for any names to be mentioned.”

“In that case, however,” continued the count, “it will be necessary to assign an ostensible pretext of some kind. Shall we allege a musical dispute? a contention in which I feel bound to defend Wagner, while you are the zealous champion of Rossini?”

“I am quite content,” answered Servadac, with a smile; and with another low bow they parted.

The scene, as here depicted, took place upon the extremity of a little cape on the Algerian coast, between Mostaganem and Tenes, about two miles from the mouth of the Shelif. The headland rose more than sixty feet above the sea-level, and the azure waters of the Mediterranean, as they softly kissed the strand, were tinged with the reddish hue of the ferriferous rocks that formed its base. It was the 31st of December. The noontide sun, which usually illuminated the various projections of the coast with a dazzling brightness, was hidden by a dense mass of cloud, and the fog, which for some unaccountable cause, had hung for the last two months over nearly every region in the world, causing serious interruption to traffic between continent and continent, spread its dreary veil across land and sea.

After taking leave of the staff-officer, Count Wassili Timascheff wended his way down to a small creek, and took his seat in the stern of a light four-oar that had been awaiting his return; this was immediately pushed off from shore, and was soon alongside a pleasure-yacht, that was lying to, not many cable lengths away.

At a sign from Servadac, an orderly, who had been standing at a respectful distance, led forward a magnificent Arabian horse; the captain vaulted into the saddle, and followed by his attendant, well mounted as himself, started off towards Mostaganem. It was half-past twelve when the two riders crossed the bridge that had been recently erected over the Shelif, and a quarter of an hour later their steeds, flecked with foam, dashed through the Mascara Gate, which was one of five entrances opened in the embattled wall that encircled the town.

At that date, Mostaganem contained about fifteen thousand inhabitants, three thousand of whom were French. Besides being one of the principal district towns of the province of Oran, it was also a military station. Mostaganem rejoiced in a well-sheltered harbor, which enabled her to utilize all the rich products of the Mina and the Lower Shelif. It was the existence of so good a harbor amidst the exposed cliffs of this coast that had induced the owner of the Dobryna to winter in these parts, and for two months the Russian standard had been seen floating from her yard, whilst on her mast-head was hoisted the pennant of the French Yacht Club, with the distinctive letters M. C. W. T. the initials of Count Timascheff.

Having entered the town, Captain Servadac made his way towards Matmore, the military quarter, and was not long in finding two friends on whom he might rely — a major of the 2nd Fusileers, and a captain of the 8th Artillery. The two officers listened gravely enough to Servadac’s request that they would act as his seconds in an affair of honor, but could not resist a smile on hearing that the dispute between him and the count had originated in a musical discussion. Surely, they suggested, the matter might be easily arranged; a few slight concessions on either side, and all might be amicably adjusted. But no representations on their part were of any avail. Hector Servadac was inflexible.

“No concession is possible,” he replied, resolutely. “Rossini has been deeply injured, and I cannot suffer the injury to be unavenged. Wagner is a fool. I shall keep my word. I am quite firm.”

“Be it so, then,” replied one of the officers; “and after all, you know, a sword-cut need not be a very serious affair.”

“Certainly not,” rejoined Servadac; “and especially in my case, when I have not the slightest intention of being wounded at all.”

Incredulous as they naturally were as to the assigned cause of the quarrel, Servadac’s friends had no alternative but to accept his explanation, and without farther parley they started for the staff office, where, at two o’clock precisely, they were to meet the seconds of Count Timascheff. Two hours later they had returned. All the preliminaries had been arranged; the count, who like many Russians abroad was an aide-de-camp of the Czar, had of course proposed swords as the most appropriate weapons, and the duel was to take place on the following morning, the first of January, at nine o’clock, upon the cliff at a spot about a mile and a half from the mouth of the Shelif. With the assurance that they would not fail to keep their appointment with military punctuality, the two officers cordially wrung their friend’s hand and retired to the Zulma Cafe for a game at piquet. Captain Servadac at once retraced his steps and left the town.

For the last fortnight Servadac had not been occupying his proper lodgings in the military quarters; having been appointed to make a local levy, he had been living in a gourbi, or native hut, on the Mostaganem coast, between four and five miles from the Shelif. His orderly was his sole companion, and by any other man than the captain the enforced exile would have been esteemed little short of a severe penance.

On his way to the gourbi, his mental occupation was a very laborious effort to put together what he was pleased to call a rondo, upon a model of versification all but obsolete. This rondo, it is unnecessary to conceal, was to be an ode addressed to a young widow by whom he had been captivated, and whom he was anxious to marry, and the tenor of his muse was intended to prove that when once a man has found an object in all respects worthy of his affections, he should love her “in all simplicity.” Whether the aphorism were universally true was not very material to the gallant captain, whose sole ambition at present was to construct a roundelay of which this should be the prevailing sentiment. He indulged the fancy that he might succeed in producing a composition which would have a fine effect here in Algeria, where poetry in that form was all but unknown.

“I know well enough,” he said repeatedly to himself, “what I want to say. I want to tell her that I love her sincerely, and wish to marry her; but, confound it! the words won’t rhyme. Plague on it! Does nothing rhyme with ‘simplicity’? Ah! I have it now: ‘Lovers should, whoe’er they be, Love in all simplicity.’

But what next? how am I to go on? I say, Ben Zoof,” he called aloud to his orderly, who was trotting silently close in his rear, “did you ever compose any poetry?”

“No, captain,” answered the man promptly: “I have never made any verses, but I have seen them made fast enough at a booth during the fete of Montmartre.”

“Can you remember them?”

“Remember them! to be sure I can. This is the way they began: ‘Come in! come in! you’ll not repent The entrance money you have spent; The wondrous mirror in this place Reveals your future sweetheart’s face.’”

“Bosh!” cried Servadac in disgust; “your verses are detestable trash.”

“As good as any others, captain, squeaked through a reed pipe.”

“Hold your tongue, man,” said Servadac peremptorily; “I have made another couplet.

‘Lovers should, whoe’er they be, Love in all simplicity; Lover, loving honestly, Offer I myself to thee.’”

Beyond this, however, the captain’s poetical genius was impotent to carry him; his farther efforts were unavailing, and when at six o’clock he reached the gourbi, the four lines still remained the limit of his composition.

CHAPTER III. INTERRUPTED EFFUSIONS

Composed of mud and loose stones, and covered with a thatch of turf and straw, known to the natives by the name of “driss,” the gourbi, though a grade better than the tents of the nomad Arabs, was yet far inferior to any habitation built of brick or stone. It adjoined an old stone hostelry, previously occupied by a detachment of engineers, and which now afforded shelter for Ben Zoof and the two horses. It still contained a considerable number of tools, such as mattocks, shovels, and pick-axes.

Uncomfortable as was their temporary abode, Servadac and his attendant made no complaints; neither of them was dainty in the matter either of board or lodging. After dinner, leaving his orderly to stow away the remains of the repast in what he was pleased to term the “cupboard of his stomach.” Captain Servadac turned out into the open air to smoke his pipe upon the edge of the cliff. The shades of night were drawing on. An hour previously, veiled in heavy clouds, the sun had sunk below the horizon that bounded the plain beyond the Shelif.

The sky presented a most singular appearance. Towards the north, although the darkness rendered it impossible to see beyond a quarter of a mile, the upper strata of the atmosphere were suffused with a rosy glare. No well-defined fringe of light, nor arch of luminous rays, betokened a display of aurora borealis, even had such a phenomenon been possible in these latitudes; and the most experienced meteorologist would have been puzzled to explain the cause of this striking illumination on this 31st of December, the last evening of the passing year.

But Captain Servadac was no meteorologist, and it is to be doubted whether, since leaving school, he had ever opened his “Course of Cosmography.” Besides, he had other thoughts to occupy his mind. The prospects of the morrow offered serious matter for consideration. The captain was actuated by no personal animosity against the count; though rivals, the two men regarded each other with sincere respect; they had simply reached a crisis in which one of them was de trop; which of them, fate must decide.

At eight o’clock, Captain Servadac re-entered the gourbi, the single apartment of which contained his bed, a small writing-table, and some trunks that served instead of cupboards. The orderly performed his culinary operations in the adjoining building, which he also used as a bed-room, and where, extended on what he called his “good oak mattress,” he would sleep soundly as a dormouse for twelve hours at a stretch. Ben Zoof had not yet received his orders to retire, and ensconcing himself in a corner of the gourbi, he endeavored to doze — a task which the unusual agitation of his master rendered somewhat difficult. Captain Servadac was evidently in no hurry to betake himself to rest, but seating himself at his table, with a pair of compasses and a sheet of tracing-paper, he began to draw, with red and blue crayons, a variety of colored lines, which could hardly be supposed to have much connection with a topographical survey. In truth, his character of staff-officer was now entirely absorbed in that of Gascon poet. Whether he imagined that the compasses would bestow upon his verses the measure of a mathematical accuracy, or whether he fancied that the parti-colored lines would lend variety to his rhythm, it is impossible to determine; be that as it may, he was devoting all his energies to the compilation of his rondo, and supremely difficult he found the task.

“Hang it!” he ejaculated, “whatever induced me to choose this meter? It is as hard to find rhymes as to rally fugitive in a battle. But, by all the powers! it shan’t be said that a French officer cannot cope with a piece of poetry. One battalion has fought — now for the rest!”

Perseverance had its reward. Presently two lines, one red, the other blue, appeared upon the paper, and the captain murmured: “Words, mere words, cannot avail, Telling true heart’s tender tale.”

“What on earth ails my master?” muttered Ben Zoof; “for the last hour he has been as fidgety as a bird returning after its winter migration.”

Servadac suddenly started from his seat, and as he paced the room with all the frenzy of poetic inspiration, read out: “Empty words cannot convey All a lover’s heart would say.”

“Well, to be sure, he is at his everlasting verses again!” said Ben Zoof to himself, as he roused himself in his corner. “Impossible to sleep in such a noise;” and he gave vent to a loud groan.

“How now, Ben Zoof?” said the captain sharply. “What ails you?”

“Nothing, sir, only the nightmare.”

“Curse the fellow, he has quite interrupted me!” ejaculated the captain. “Ben Zoof!” he called aloud.

“Here, sir!” was the prompt reply; and in an instant the orderly was upon his feet, standing in a military attitude, one hand to his forehead, the other closely pressed to his trouser-seam.

“Stay where you are! don’t move an inch!” shouted Servadac; “I have just thought of the end of my rondo.” And in a voice of inspiration, accompanying his words with dramatic gestures, Servadac began to declaim: “Listen, lady, to my vows —

O, consent to be my spouse; Constant ever I will be, Constant…”

No closing lines were uttered. All at once, with unutterable violence, the captain and his orderly were dashed, face downwards, to the ground.

CHAPTER IX. INQUIRIES UNSATISFIED

Fast as his legs could carry him, Servadac had made his way to the top of the cliff. It was quite true that a vessel was in sight, hardly more than six miles from the shore; but owing to the increase in the earth’s convexity, and the consequent limitation of the range of vision, the rigging of the topmasts alone was visible above the water. This was enough, however, to indicate that the ship was a schooner — an impression that was confirmed when, two hours later, she came entirely in sight.

“The Dobryna!” exclaimed Servadac, keeping his eye unmoved at his telescope.

“Impossible, sir!” rejoined Ben Zoof; “there are no signs of smoke.”

“The Dobryna!” repeated the captain, positively. “She is under sail; but she is Count Timascheff’s yacht.”

He was right. If the count were on board, a strange fatality was bringing him to the presence of his rival. But no longer now could Servadac regard him in the light of an adversary; circumstances had changed, and all animosity was absorbed in the eagerness with which he hailed the prospect of obtaining some information about the recent startling and inexplicable events. During the twenty-seven days that she had been absent, the Dobryna, he conjectured, would have explored the Mediterranean, would very probably have visited Spain, France, or Italy, and accordingly would convey to Gourbi Island some intelligence from one or other of those countries. He reckoned, therefore, not only upon ascertaining the extent of the late catastrophe, but upon learning its cause. Count Timascheff was, no doubt, magnanimously coming to the rescue of himself and his orderly.

The wind being adverse, the Dobryna did not make very rapid progress; but as the weather, in spite of a few clouds, remained calm, and the sea was quite smooth, she was enabled to hold a steady course. It seemed unaccountable that she should not use her engine, as whoever was on board, would be naturally impatient to reconnoiter the new island, which must just have come within their view. The probability that suggested itself was that the schooner’s fuel was exhausted.

Servadac took it for granted that the Dobryna was endeavoring to put in. It occurred to him, however, that the count, on discovering an island where he had expected to find the mainland of Africa, would not unlikely be at a loss for a place of anchorage. The yacht was evidently making her way in the direction of the former mouth of the Shelif, and the captain was struck with the idea that he would do well to investigate whether there was any suitable mooring towards which he might signal her. Zephyr and Galette were soon saddled, and in twenty minutes had carried their riders to the western extremity of the island, where they both dismounted and began to explore the coast.

They were not long in ascertaining that on the farther side of the point there was a small well-sheltered creek of sufficient depth to accommodate a vessel of moderate tonnage. A narrow channel formed a passage through the ridge of rocks that protected it from the open sea, and which, even in the roughest weather, would ensure the calmness of its waters.

Whilst examining the rocky shore, the captain observed, to his great surprise, long and well-defined rows of seaweed, which undoubtedly betokened that there had been a very considerable ebb and flow of the waters — a thing unknown in the Mediterranean, where there is scarcely any perceptible tide. What, however, seemed most remarkable, was the manifest evidence that ever since the highest flood (which was caused, in all probability, by the proximity of the body of which the huge disc had been so conspicuous on the night of the 31st of December) the phenomenon had been gradually lessening, and in fact was now reduced to the normal limits which had characterized it before the convulsion.

Without doing more than note the circumstance, Servadac turned his entire attention to the Dobryna, which, now little more than a mile from shore, could not fail to see and understand his signals. Slightly changing her course, she first struck her mainsail, and, in order to facilitate the movements of her helmsman, soon carried nothing but her two topsails, brigantine and jib. After rounding the peak, she steered direct for the channel to which Servadac by his gestures was pointing her, and was not long in entering the creek. As soon as the anchor, imbedded in the sandy bottom, had made good its hold, a boat was lowered. In a few minutes more Count Timascheff had landed on the island. Captain Servadac hastened towards him.

“First of all, count,” he exclaimed impetuously, “before we speak one other word, tell me what has happened.”

The count, whose imperturbable composure presented a singular contrast to the French officer’s enthusiastic vivacity, made a stiff bow, and in his Russian accent replied: “First of all, permit me to express my surprise at seeing you here. I left you on a continent, and here I have the honor of finding you on an island.”

“I assure you, count, I have never left the place.”

“I am quite aware of it. Captain Servadac, and I now beg to offer you my sincere apologies for failing to keep my appointment with you.”

“Never mind, now,” interposed the captain; “we will talk of that by-and-by. First, tell me what has happened.”

“The very question I was about to put to you, Captain Servadac.”

“Do you mean to say you know nothing of the cause, and can tell me nothing of the extent, of the catastrophe which has transformed this part of Africa into an island?”

“Nothing more than you know yourself.”

“But surely, Count Timascheff, you can inform me whether upon the northern shore of the Mediterranean — ”

“Are you certain that this is the Mediterranean?” asked the count significantly, and added, “I have discovered no sign of land.”

The captain stared in silent bewilderment. For some moments he seemed perfectly stupefied; then, recovering himself, he began to overwhelm the count with a torrent of questions. Had he noticed, ever since the 1st of January, that the sun had risen in the west? Had he noticed that the days had been only six hours long, and that the weight of the atmosphere was so much diminished? Had he observed that the moon had quite disappeared, and that the earth had been in imminent hazard of running foul of the planet Venus? Was he aware, in short, that the entire motions of the terrestrial sphere had undergone a complete modification? To all these inquiries, the count responded in the affirmative. He was acquainted with everything that had transpired; but, to Servadac’s increasing astonishment, he could throw no light upon the cause of any of the phenomena.

“On the night of the 31st of December,” he said, “I was proceeding by sea to our appointed place of meeting, when my yacht was suddenly caught on the crest of an enormous wave, and carried to a height which it is beyond my power to estimate. Some mysterious force seemed to have brought about a convulsion of the elements. Our engine was damaged, nay disabled, and we drifted entirely at the mercy of the terrible hurricane that raged during the succeeding days. That the Dobryna escaped at all is little less than a miracle, and I can only attribute her safety to the fact that she occupied the center of the vast cyclone, and consequently did not experience much change of position.”

He paused, and added: “Your island is the first land we have seen.”

“Then let us put out to sea at once and ascertain the extent of the disaster,” cried the captain, eagerly. “You will take me on board, count, will you not?”

“My yacht is at your service, sir, even should you require to make a tour round the world.”

“A tour round the Mediterranean will suffice for the present, I think,” said the captain, smiling.

The count shook his head.

“I am not sure,” said he, “but what the tour of the Mediterranean will prove to be the tour of the world.”

Servadac made no reply, but for a time remained silent and absorbed in thought.

After the silence was broken, they consulted as to what course was best to pursue; and the plan they proposed was, in the first place, to discover how much of the African coast still remained, and to carry on the tidings of their own experiences to Algiers; or, in the event of the southern shore having actually disappeared, they would make their way northwards and put themselves in communication with the population on the river banks of Europe.

Before starting, it was indispensable that the engine of the Dobryna should be repaired: to sail under canvas only would in contrary winds and rough seas be both tedious and difficult. The stock of coal on board was adequate for two months’ consumption; but as it would at the expiration of that time be exhausted, it was obviously the part of prudence to employ it in reaching a port where fuel could be replenished.

The damage sustained by the engine proved to be not very serious; and in three days after her arrival the Dobryna was again ready to put to sea.

Servadac employed the interval in making the count acquainted with all he knew about his small domain. They made an entire circuit of the island, and both agreed that it must be beyond the limits of that circumscribed territory that they must seek an explanation of what had so strangely transpired.

It was on the last day of January that the repairs of the schooner were completed. A slight diminution in the excessively high temperature which had prevailed for the last few weeks, was the only apparent change in the general order of things; but whether this was to be attributed to any alteration in the earth’s orbit was a question which would still require several days to decide. The weather remained fine, and although a few clouds had accumulated, and might have caused a trifling fall of the barometer, they were not sufficiently threatening to delay the departure of the Dobryna.

Doubts now arose, and some discussion followed, whether or not it was desirable for Ben Zoof to accompany his master. There were various reasons why he should be left behind, not the least important being that the schooner had no accommodation for horses, and the orderly would have found it hard to part with Zephyr, and much more with his own favorite Galette; besides, it was advisable that there should be some one left to receive any strangers that might possibly arrive, as well as to keep an eye upon the herds of cattle which, in the dubious prospect before them, might prove to be the sole resource of the survivors of the catastrophe. Altogether, taking into consideration that the brave fellow would incur no personal risk by remaining upon the island, the captain was induced with much reluctance to forego the attendance of his servant, hoping very shortly to return and to restore him to his country, when he had ascertained the reason of the mysteries in which they were enveloped.

On the 31st, then, Ben Zoof was “invested with governor’s powers,” and took an affecting leave of his master, begging him, if chance should carry him near Montmartre, to ascertain whether the beloved “mountain” had been left unmoved.

Farewells over, the Dobryna was carefully steered through the creek, and was soon upon the open sea.

CHAPTER X. A SEARCH FOR ALGERIA

The Dobryna, a strong craft of 200 tons burden, had been built in the famous shipbuilding yards in the Isle of Wight. Her sea going qualities were excellent, and would have amply sufficed for a circumnavigation of the globe. Count Timascheff was himself no sailor, but had the greatest confidence in leaving the command of his yacht in the hands of Lieutenant Procope, a man of about thirty years of age, and an excellent seaman. Born on the count’s estates, the son of a serf who had been emancipated long before the famous edict of the Emperor Alexander, Procope was sincerely attached, by a tie of gratitude as well as of duty and affection, to his patron’s service. After an apprenticeship on a merchant ship he had entered the imperial navy, and had already reached the rank of lieutenant when the count appointed him to the charge of his own private yacht, in which he was accustomed to spend by far the greater part of his time, throughout the winter generally cruising in the Mediterranean, whilst in the summer he visited more northern waters.

The ship could not have been in better hands. The lieutenant was well informed in many matters outside the pale of his profession, and his attainments were alike creditable to himself and to the liberal friend who had given him his education. He had an excellent crew, consisting of Tiglew the engineer, four sailors named Niegoch, Tolstoy, Etkef, and Panofka, and Mochel the cook. These men, without exception, were all sons of the count’s tenants, and so tenaciously, even out at sea, did they cling to their old traditions, that it mattered little to them what physical disorganization ensued, so long as they felt they were sharing the experiences of their lord and master. The late astounding events, however, had rendered Procope manifestly uneasy, and not the less so from his consciousness that the count secretly partook of his own anxiety.

Steam up and canvas spread, the schooner started eastwards. With a favorable wind she would certainly have made eleven knots an hour had not the high waves somewhat impeded her progress. Although only a moderate breeze was blowing, the sea was rough, a circumstance to be accounted for only by the diminution in the force of the earth’s attraction rendering the liquid particles so buoyant, that by the mere effect of oscillation they were carried to a height that was quite unprecedented. M. Arago has fixed twenty-five or twenty-six feet as the maximum elevation ever attained by the highest waves, and his astonishment would have been very great to see them rising fifty or even sixty feet. Nor did these waves in the usual way partially unfurl themselves and rebound against the sides of the vessel; they might rather be described as long undulations carrying the schooner (its weight diminished from the same cause as that of the water) alternately to such heights and depths, that if Captain Servadac had been subject to seasickness he must have found himself in sorry plight. As the pitching, however, was the result of a long uniform swell, the yacht did not labor much harder than she would against the ordinary short strong waves of the Mediterranean; the main inconvenience that was experienced was the diminution in her proper rate of speed.

For a few miles she followed the line hitherto presumably occupied by the coast of Algeria; but no land appeared to the south. The changed positions of the planets rendered them of no avail for purposes of nautical observation, nor could Lieutenant Procope calculate his latitude and longitude by the altitude of the sun, as his reckonings would be useless when applied to charts that had been constructed for the old order of things; but nevertheless, by means of the log, which gave him the rate of progress, and by the compass which indicated the direction in which they were sailing, he was able to form an estimate of his position that was sufficiently free from error for his immediate need.

Happily the recent phenomena had no effect upon the compass; the magnetic needle, which in these regions had pointed about 22 degrees from the north pole, had never deviated in the least — a proof that, although east and west had apparently changed places, north and south continued to retain their normal position as cardinal points. The log and the compass, therefore, were able to be called upon to do the work of the sextant, which had become utterly useless.

On the first morning of the cruise Lieutenant Procope, who, like most Russians, spoke French fluently, was explaining these peculiarities to Captain Servadac; the count was present, and the conversation perpetually recurred, as naturally it would, to the phenomena which remained so inexplicable to them all.

“It is very evident,” said the lieutenant, “that ever since the 1st of January the earth has been moving in a new orbit, and from some unknown cause has drawn nearer to the sun.”

“No doubt about that,” said Servadac; “and I suppose that, having crossed the orbit of Venus, we have a good chance of running into the orbit of Mercury.”

“And finish up by a collision with the sun!” added the count.

“There is no fear of that, sir. The earth has undoubtedly entered upon a new orbit, but she is not incurring any probable risk of being precipitated onto the sun.”

“Can you satisfy us of that?” asked the count.

“I can, sir. I can give you a proof which I think you will own is conclusive. If, as you suppose, the earth is being drawn on so as to be precipitated against the sun, the great center of attraction of our system, it could only be because the centrifugal and centripetal forces that cause the planets to rotate in their several orbits had been entirely suspended: in that case, indeed, the earth would rush onwards towards the sun, and in sixty-four days and a half the catastrophe you dread would inevitably happen.”

“And what demonstration do you offer,” asked Servadac eagerly, “that it will not happen?”

“Simply this, captain: that since the earth entered her new orbit half the sixty-four days has already elapsed, and yet it is only just recently that she has crossed the orbit of Venus, hardly one-third of the distance to be traversed to reach the sun.”

The lieutenant paused to allow time for reflection, and added: “Moreover, I have every reason to believe that we are not so near the sun as we have been. The temperature has been gradually diminishing; the heat upon Gourbi Island is not greater now than we might ordinarily expect to find in Algeria. At the same time, we have the problem still unsolved that the Mediterranean has evidently been transported to the equatorial zone.”

Both the count and the captain expressed themselves reassured by his representations, and observed that they must now do all in their power to discover what had become of the vast continent of Africa, of which, they were hitherto failing so completely to find a vestige.

Twenty-four hours after leaving the island, the Dobryna had passed over the sites where Tenes, Cherchil, Koleah, and Sidi-Feruch once had been, but of these towns not one appeared within range of the telescope. Ocean reigned supreme. Lieutenant Procope was absolutely certain that he had not mistaken his direction; the compass showed that the wind had never shifted from the west, and this, with the rate of speed as estimated by the log, combined to assure him that at this date, the 2d of February, the schooner was in lat. 36 degrees 49 min N. and long. 3 degrees 25 min E. the very spot which ought to have been occupied by the Algerian capital. But Algiers, like all the other coast-towns, had apparently been absorbed into the bowels of the earth.

Captain Servadac, with clenched teeth and knitted brow, stood sternly, almost fiercely, regarding the boundless waste of water. His pulse beat fast as he recalled the friends and comrades with whom he had spent the last few years in that vanished city. All the images of his past life floated upon his memory; his thoughts sped away to his native France, only to return again to wonder whether the depths of ocean would reveal any traces of the Algerian metropolis.

“Is it not impossible,” he murmured aloud, “that any city should disappear so completely? Would not the loftiest eminences of the city at least be visible? Surely some portion of the Casbah must still rise above the waves? The imperial fort, too, was built upon an elevation of 750 feet; it is incredible that it should be so totally submerged. Unless some vestiges of these are found, I shall begin to suspect that the whole of Africa has been swallowed in some vast abyss.”

Another circumstance was most remarkable. Not a material object of any kind was to be noticed floating on the surface of the water; not one branch of a tree had been seen drifting by, nor one spar belonging to one of the numerous vessels that a month previously had been moored in the magnificent bay which stretched twelve miles across from Cape Matafuz to Point Pexade. Perhaps the depths might disclose what the surface failed to reveal, and Count Timascheff, anxious that Servadac should have every facility afforded him for solving his doubts, called for the sounding-line. Forthwith, the lead was greased and lowered. To the surprise of all, and especially of Lieutenant Procope, the line indicated a bottom at a nearly uniform depth of from four to five fathoms; and although the sounding was persevered with continuously for more than two hours over a considerable area, the differences of level were insignificant, not corresponding in any degree to what would be expected over the site of a city that had been terraced like the seats of an amphitheater. Astounding as it seemed, what alternative was left but to suppose that the Algerian capital had been completely leveled by the flood?

The sea-bottom was composed of neither rock, mud, sand, nor shells; the sounding-lead brought up nothing but a kind of metallic dust, which glittered with a strange iridescence, and the nature of which it was impossible to determine, as it was totally unlike what had ever been known to be raised from the bed of the Mediterranean.

“You must see, lieutenant, I should think, that we are not so near the coast of Algeria as you imagined.”

The lieutenant shook his head. After pondering awhile, he said: “If we were farther away I should expect to find a depth of two or three hundred fathoms instead of five fathoms. Five fathoms! I confess I am puzzled.”

For the next thirty-six hours, until the 4th of February, the sea was examined and explored with the most unflagging perseverance. Its depth remained invariable, still four, or at most five, fathoms; and although its bottom was assiduously dredged, it was only to prove it barren of marine production of any type.

The yacht made its way to lat. 36 degrees, and by reference to the charts it was tolerably certain that she was cruising over the site of the Sahel, the ridge that had separated the rich plain of the Mitidja from the sea, and of which the highest peak, Mount Boujereah, had reached an altitude of 1,200 feet; but even this peak, which might have been expected to emerge like an islet above the surface of the sea, was nowhere to be traced. Nothing was to be done but to put about, and return in disappointment towards the north.

Thus the Dobryna regained the waters of the Mediterranean without discovering a trace of the missing province of Algeria.

CHAPTER XVII. A SECOND ENIGMA

Upon re-embarking, the bewildered explorers began to discuss the question whether it would not now be desirable to make their way back to Gourbi Island, which was apparently the only spot in their new world from which they could hope to derive their future sustenance. Captain Servadac tried to console himself with the reflection that Gourbi Island was, after all, a fragment of a French colony, and as such almost like a bit of his dear France; and the plan of returning thither was on the point of being adopted, when Lieutenant Procope remarked that they ought to remember that they had not hitherto made an entire circuit of the new shores of the sea on which they were sailing.

“We have,” he said, “neither investigated the northern shore from the site of Cape Antibes to the strait that brought us to Gibraltar, nor have we followed the southern shore that stretches from the strait to the Gulf of Cabes. It is the old coast, and not the new, that we have been tracing; as yet, we cannot say positively that there is no outlet to the south; as yet, we cannot assert that no oasis of the African desert has escaped the catastrophe. Perhaps, even here in the north, we may find that Italy and Sicily and the larger islands of the Mediterranean may still maintain their existence.”

“I entirely concur with you,” said Count Timascheff. “I quite think we ought to make our survey of the confines of this new basin as complete as possible before we withdraw.”

Servadac, although he acknowledged the justness of these observations, could not help pleading that the explorations might be deferred until after a visit had been paid to Gourbi Island.

“Depend upon it, captain, you are mistaken,” replied the lieutenant; “the right thing to do is to use the Dobryna while she is available.”

“Available! What do you mean?” asked the count, somewhat taken by surprise.

“I mean,” said Procope, “that the farther this Gallia of ours recedes from the sun, the lower the temperature will fall. It is likely enough, I think, that before long the sea will be frozen over, and navigation will be impossible. Already you have learned something of the difficulties of traversing a field of ice, and I am sure, therefore, you will acquiesce in my wish to continue our explorations while the water is still open.”

“No doubt you are right, lieutenant,” said the count. “We will continue our search while we can for some remaining fragment of Europe. Who shall tell whether we may not meet with some more survivors from the catastrophe, to whom it might be in our power to afford assistance, before we go into our winter quarters?”

Generous and altogether unselfish as this sentiment really was, it was obviously to the general interest that they should become acquainted, and if possible establish friendly relations, with any human inhabitant who might be sharing their own strange destiny in being rolled away upon a new planet into the infinitude of space. All difference of race, all distinction of nationality, must be merged into the one thought that, few as they were, they were the sole surviving representatives of a world which it seemed exceedingly improbable that they would ever see again; and common sense dictated that they were bound to direct all their energies to insure that their asteroid should at least have a united and sympathizing population.

It was on the 25th of February that the yacht left the little creek in which she had taken refuge, and setting off at full steam eastwards, she continued her way along the northern shore. A brisk breeze tended to increase the keenness of the temperature, the thermometer being, on an average, about two degrees below zero. Salt water freezes only at a lower temperature than fresh; the course of the Dobryna was therefore unimpeded by ice, but it could not be concealed that there was the greatest necessity to maintain the utmost possible speed.

The nights continued lovely; the chilled condition of the atmosphere prevented the formation of clouds; the constellations gleamed forth with unsullied luster; and, much as Lieutenant Procope, from nautical considerations, might regret the absence of the moon, he could not do otherwise than own that the magnificent nights of Gallia were such as must awaken the enthusiasm of an astronomer. And, as if to compensate for the loss of the moonlight, the heavens were illuminated by a superb shower of falling stars, far exceeding, both in number and in brilliancy, the phenomena which are commonly distinguished as the August and November meteors; in fact, Gallia was passing through that meteoric ring which is known to lie exterior to the earth’s orbit, but almost concentric with it. The rocky coast, its metallic surface reflecting the glow of the dazzling luminaries, appeared literally stippled with light, whilst the sea, as though spattered with burning hailstones, shone with a phosphorescence that was perfectly splendid. So great, however, was the speed at which Gallia was receding from the sun, that this meteoric storm lasted scarcely more than four and twenty hours.

Next day the direct progress of the Dobryna was arrested by a long projection of land, which obliged her to turn southwards, until she reached what formerly would have been the southern extremity of Corsica. Of this, however, there was now no trace; the Strait of Bonifacio had been replaced by a vast expanse of water, which had at first all the appearance of being utterly desert; but on the following morning the explorers unexpectedly sighted a little island, which, unless it should prove, as was only too likely, to be of recent origin they concluded, from its situation, must be a portion of the northernmost territory of Sardinia.

The Dobryna approached the land as nearly as was prudent, the boat was lowered, and in a few minutes the count and Servadac had landed upon the islet, which was a mere plot of meadow land, not much more than two acres in extent, dotted here and there with a few myrtle-bushes and lentisks, interspersed with some ancient olives. Having ascertained, as they imagined, that the spot was devoid of living creature, they were on the point of returning to their boat, when their attention was arrested by a faint bleating, and immediately afterwards a solitary she-goat came bounding towards the shore. The creature had dark, almost black hair, and small curved horns, and was a specimen of that domestic breed which, with considerable justice, has gained for itself the title of “the poor man’s cow.” So far from being alarmed at the presence of strangers, the goat ran nimbly towards them, and then, by its movements and plaintive cries, seemed to be enticing them to follow it.

“Come,” said Servadac; “let us see where it will lead us; it is more than probable it is not alone.”

The count agreed; and the animal, as if comprehending what was said, trotted on gently for about a hundred paces, and stopped in front of a kind of cave or burrow that was half concealed by a grove of lentisks. Here a little girl, seven or eight years of age, with rich brown hair and lustrous dark eyes, beautiful as one of Murillo’s angels, was peeping shyly through the branches. Apparently discovering nothing in the aspect of the strangers to excite her apprehensions, the child suddenly gained confidence, darted forwards with outstretched hands, and in a voice, soft and melodious as the language which she spoke, said in Italian:

“I like you; you will not hurt me, will you?”

“Hurt you, my child?” answered Servadac. “No, indeed; we will be your friends; we will take care of you.”

And after a few moments’ scrutiny of the pretty maiden, he added:

“Tell us your name, little one.”

“Nina!” was the child’s reply.

“Well, then, Nina, can you tell us where we are?”

“At Madalena, I think,” said the little girl; “at least, I know I was there when that dreadful shock came and altered everything.”

The count knew that Madalena was close to Caprera, to the north of Sardinia, which had entirely disappeared in the disaster. By dint of a series of questions, he gained from the child a very intelligent account of her experiences. She told him that she had no parents, and had been employed in taking care of a flock of goats belonging to one of the landowners, when one day, all of a sudden, everything around her, except this little piece of land, had been swallowed up, and that she and Marzy, her pet goat, had been left quite alone. She went on to say that at first she had been very frightened; but when she found that the earth did not shake any more, she had thanked the great God, and had soon made herself very happy living with Marzy. She had enough food, she said, and had been waiting for a boat to fetch her, and now a boat had come and she was quite ready to go away; only they must let her goat go with her: they would both like so much to get back to the old farm.

“Here, at least, is one nice little inhabitant of Gallia,” said Captain Servadac, as he caressed the child and conducted her to the boat.

Half an hour later, both Nina and Marzy were safely quartered on board the yacht. It is needless to say that they received the heartiest of welcomes. The Russian sailors, ever superstitious, seemed almost to regard the coming of the child as the appearance of an angel; and, incredible as it may seem, more than one of them wondered whether she had wings, and amongst themselves they commonly referred to her as “the little Madonna.”

Soon out of sight of Madalena, the Dobryna for some hours held a southeasterly course along the shore, which here was fifty leagues in advance of the former coastline of Italy, demonstrating that a new continent must have been formed, substituted as it were for the old peninsula, of which not a vestige could be identified. At a latitude corresponding with the latitude of Rome, the sea took the form of a deep gulf, extending back far beyond the site of the Eternal City; the coast making a wide sweep round to the former position of Calabria, and jutting far beyond the outline of “the boot,” which Italy resembles. But the beacon of Messina was not to be discerned; no trace, indeed, survived of any portion of Sicily; the very peak of Etna, 11,000 feet as it had reared itself above the level of the sea, had vanished utterly.

Another sixty leagues to the south, and the Dobryna sighted the entrance of the strait which had afforded her so providential a refuge from the tempest, and had conducted her to the fragmentary relic of Gibraltar. Hence to the Gulf of Cabes had been already explored, and as it was universally allowed that it was unnecessary to renew the search in that direction, the lieutenant started off in a transverse course, towards a point hitherto uninvestigated. That point was reached on the 3rd of March, and thence the coast was continuously followed, as it led through what had been Tunis, across the province of Constantine, away to the oasis of Ziban; where, taking a sharp turn, it first reached a latitude of 32 degrees, and then returned again, thus forming a sort of irregular gulf, enclosed by the same unvarying border of mineral concrete. This colossal boundary then stretched away for nearly 150 leagues over the Sahara desert, and, extending to the south of Gourbi Island, occupied what, if Morocco had still existed, would have been its natural frontier.

Adapting her course to these deviations of the coastline, the Dobryna was steering northwards, and had barely reached the limit of the bay, when the attention of all on board was arrested by the phenomenon of a volcano, at least 3,000 feet high, its crater crowned with smoke, which occasionally was streaked by tongues of flame.

“A burning mountain!” they exclaimed.

“Gallia, then, has some internal heat,” said Servadac.

“And why not, captain?” rejoined the lieutenant. “If our asteroid has carried with it a portion of the old earth’s atmosphere, why should it not likewise retain something of its central fire?”

“Ah, well!” said the captain, shrugging his shoulders, “I dare say there is caloric enough in our little world to supply the wants of its population.”

Count Timascheff interrupted the silence that followed this conversation by saying, “And now, gentlemen, as our course has brought us on our way once more towards Gibraltar, what do you say to our renewing our acquaintance with the Englishmen? They will be interested in the result of our voyage.”

“For my part,” said Servadac, “I have no desire that way. They know where to find Gourbi Island; they can betake themselves thither just when they please. They have plenty of provisions. If the water freezes, 120 leagues is no very great distance. The reception they gave us was not so cordial that we need put ourselves out of the way to repeat our visit.”

“What you say is too true,” replied the count. “I hope we shall show them better manners when they condescend to visit us.”

“Ay,” said Servadac, “we must remember that we are all one people now; no longer Russian, French, or English. Nationality is extinct.”

“I am sadly afraid, however,” continued the count, “that an Englishman will be an Englishman ever.”

“Yes,” said the captain, “that is always their failing.”

And thus all further thought of making their way again to the little garrison of Gibraltar was abandoned.

But even if their spirit of courtesy had disposed them to renew their acquaintance with the British officers, there were two circumstances that just then would have rendered such a proposal very unadvisable. In the first place, Lieutenant Procope was convinced that it could not be much longer now before the sea would be entirely frozen; and, besides this, the consumption of their coal, through the speed they had maintained, had been so great that there was only too much reason to fear that fuel would fail them. Anyhow, the strictest economy was necessary, and it was accordingly resolved that the voyage should not be much prolonged. Beyond the volcanic peak, moreover, the waters seemed to expand into a boundless ocean, and it might be a thing full of risk to be frozen up while the yacht was so inadequately provisioned. Taking all these things into account, it was agreed that further investigations should be deferred to a more favorable season, and that, without delay, the Dobryna should return to Gourbi Island.

This decision was especially welcome to Hector Servadac, who, throughout the whole of the last five weeks, had been agitated by much anxious thought on account of the faithful servant he had left behind.

The transit from the volcano to the island was not long, and was marked by only one noticeable incident. This was the finding of a second mysterious document, in character precisely similar to what they had found before. The writer of it was evidently engaged upon a calculation, probably continued from day to day, as to the motions of the planet Gallia upon its orbit, and committing the results of his reckonings to the waves as the channel of communication.

Instead of being enclosed in a telescope-case, it was this time secured in a preserved-meat tin, hermetically sealed, and stamped with the same initials on the wax that fastened it. The greatest care was used in opening it, and it was found to contain the following message:

“Gallia Ab sole, au 1 mars, dist. 78,000,000 l! Chemin parcouru de fev. a mars: 59,000,000 1! Va bene! All right! Nil desperandum!

“Enchante!”

“Another enigma!” exclaimed Servadac; “and still no intelligible signature, and no address. No clearing up of the mystery!”

“I have no doubt, in my own mind,” said the count, “that it is one of a series. It seems to me probable that they are being sent broadcast upon the sea.”

“I wonder where the hare-brained savant that writes them can be living?” observed Servadac.

“Very likely he may have met with the fate of AEsop’s abstracted astronomer, who found himself at the bottom of a well.”

“Ay; but where is that well?” demanded the captain.

This was a question which the count was incapable of settling; and they could only speculate afresh as to whether the author of the riddles was dwelling upon some solitary island, or, like themselves, was navigating the waters of the new Mediterranean. But they could detect nothing to guide them to a definite decision.

After thoughtfully regarding the document for some time. Lieutenant Procope proceeded to observe that he believed the paper might be considered as genuine, and accordingly, taking its statements as reliable, he deduced two important conclusions: first, that whereas, in the month of January, the distance traveled by the planet (hypothetically called Gallia) had been recorded as 82,000,000 leagues, the distance traveled in February was only 59,000,000 leagues — a difference of 23,000,000 leagues in one month; secondly, that the distance of the planet from the sun, which on the 15th of February had been 59,000,000 leagues, was on the 1st of March 78,000,000 leagues — an increase of 19,000,000 leagues in a fortnight. Thus, in proportion as Gallia receded from the sun, so did the rate of speed diminish by which she traveled along her orbit; facts to be observed in perfect conformity with the known laws of celestial mechanism.

“And your inference?” asked the count.

“My inference,” replied the lieutenant, “is a confirmation of my surmise that we are following an orbit decidedly elliptical, although we have not yet the material to determine its eccentricity.”

“As the writer adheres to the appellation of Gallia, do you not think,” asked the count, “that we might call these new waters the Gallian Sea?”

“There can be no reason to the contrary, count,” replied the lieutenant; “and as such I will insert it upon my new chart.”

“Our friend,” said Servadac, “seems to be more and more gratified with the condition of things; not only has he adopted our motto, ‘Nil desperandum!‘ but see how enthusiastically he has wound up with his ‘Enchante!’”

The conversation dropped.

A few hours later the man on watch announced that Gourbi Island was in sight.

CHAPTER VIII. JUPITER SOMEWHAT CLOSE

Except as to the time the comet would take to revolve round the sun, it must be confessed that all the professor’s calculations had comparatively little interest for anyone but himself, and he was consequently left very much to pursue his studies in solitude.

The following day was the 1st of August, or, according to Rosette, the 63rd of April. In the course of this month Gallia would travel 16,500,000 leagues, attaining at the end a distance of 197,000,000 leagues from the sun. This would leave 81,000,000 leagues more to be traversed before reaching the aphelion of the 15th of January, after which it would begin once more to approach the sun.

But meanwhile, a marvelous world, never before so close within the range of human vision, was revealing itself. No wonder that Palmyrin Rosette cared so little to quit his observatory; for throughout those calm, clear Gallian nights, when the book of the firmament lay open before him, he could revel in a spectacle which no previous astronomer had ever been permitted to enjoy.

The glorious orb that was becoming so conspicuous an object was none other than the planet Jupiter, the largest of all the bodies existing within the influence of solar attraction. During the seven months that had elapsed since its collision with the earth, the comet had been continuously approaching the planet, until the distance between them was scarcely more than 61,000,000 leagues, and this would go on diminishing until the 15th of October.

Under these circumstances, was it perfectly certain that no danger could accrue? Was not Gallia, when its pathway led it into such close proximity to this enormous planet, running a risk of being attracted within its influence? Might not that influence be altogether disastrous? The professor, it is true, in his estimate of the duration of his comet’s revolution, had represented that he had made all proper allowances for any perturbations that would be caused either by Jupiter, by Saturn, or by Mars; but what if there were any errors in his calculations? what if there should be any elements of disturbance on which he had not reckoned?

Speculations of this kind became more and more frequent, and Lieutenant Procope pointed out that the danger incurred might be of a fourfold character: first, that the comet, being irresistibly attracted, might be drawn on to the very surface of the planet, and there annihilated; secondly, that as the result of being brought under that attraction, it might be transformed into a satellite, or even a sub-satellite, of that mighty world; thirdly, that it might be diverted into a new orbit, which would never be coincident with the ecliptic; or, lastly, its course might be so retarded that it would only reach the ecliptic too late to permit any junction with the earth. The occurrence of any one of these contingencies would be fatal to their hopes of reunion with the globe, from which they had been so strangely severed.

To Rosette, who, without family ties which he had never found leisure or inclination to contract, had no shadow of desire to return to the earth, it would be only the first of these probabilities that could give him any concern. Total annihilation might not accord with his views, but he would be quite content for Gallia to miss its mark with regard to the earth, indifferent whether it revolved as a new satellite around Jupiter, or whether it wended its course through the untraversed regions of the milky way. The rest of the community, however, by no means sympathized with the professor’s sentiments, and the following month was a period of considerable doubt and anxiety.

On the 1st of September the distance between Gallia and Jupiter was precisely the same as the mean distance between the earth and the sun; on the 16th, the distance was further reduced to 26,000,000 leagues. The planet began to assume enormous dimensions, and it almost seemed as if the comet had already been deflected from its elliptical orbit, and was rushing on in a straight line towards the overwhelming luminary.

The more they contemplated the character of this gigantic planet, the more they became impressed with the likelihood of a serious perturbation in their own course. The diameter of Jupiter is 85,390 miles, nearly eleven times as great as that of the earth; his volume is 1,387 times, and his mass 300 times greater; and although the mean density is only about a quarter of that of the earth, and only a third of that of water (whence it has been supposed that the superficies of Jupiter is liquid), yet his other proportions were large enough to warrant the apprehension that important disturbances might result from his proximity.

“I forget my astronomy, lieutenant,” said Servadac. “Tell me all you can about this formidable neighbor.”

The lieutenant having refreshed his memory by reference to Flammarion’s Recits de l’Infini, of which he had a Russian translation, and some other books, proceeded to recapitulate that Jupiter accomplishes his revolution round the sun in 4,332 days 14 hours and 2 minutes; that he travels at the rate of 467 miles a minute along an orbit measuring 2,976 millions of miles; and that his rotation on his axis occupies only 9 hours and 55 minutes.

“His days, then, are shorter than ours?” interrupted the captain.

“Considerably,” answered the lieutenant, who went on to describe how the displacement of a point at the equator of Jupiter was twenty-seven times as rapid as on the earth, causing the polar compression to be about 2,378 miles; how the axis, being nearly perpendicular, caused the days and nights to be nearly of the same length, and the seasons to be invariable; and how the amount of light and heat received by the planet is only a twenty-fifth part of that received by the earth, the average distance from the sun being 475,693,000 miles.

“And how about these satellites? Sometimes, I suppose, Jupiter has the benefit of four moons all shining at once?” asked Servadac.

Of the satellites, Lieutenant Procope went on to say that one is rather smaller than our own moon; that another moves round its primary at an interval about equal to the moon’s distance from ourselves; but that they all revolve in considerably less time: the first takes only l day 18 hours 27 minutes; the second takes 3 days 13 hours 14 minutes; the third, 7 days 3 hours 42 minutes; whilst the largest of all takes but 16 days 16 hours 32 minutes. The most remote revolves round the planet at a distance of 1,192,820 miles.

“They have been enlisted into the service of science,” said Procope. “It is by their movements that the velocity of light has been calculated; and they have been made available for the determination of terrestrial longitudes.”

“It must be a wonderful sight,” said the captain.

“Yes,” answered Procope. “I often think Jupiter is like a prodigious clock with four hands.”

“I only hope that we are not destined to make a fifth hand,” answered Servadac.

Such was the style of the conversation that was day by day reiterated during the whole month of suspense. Whatever topic might be started, it seemed soon to settle down upon the huge orb that was looming upon them with such threatening aspect.

“The more remote that these planets are from the sun,” said Procope, “the more venerable and advanced in formation are they found to be. Neptune, situated 2,746,271,000 miles from the sun, issued from the solar nebulosity, thousands of millions of centuries back. Uranus, revolving 1,753,851,000 miles from the center of the planetary system, is of an age amounting to many hundred millions of centuries. Jupiter, the colossal planet, gravitating at a distance of 475,693,000 miles, may be reckoned as 70,000,000 centuries old. Mars has existed for 1,000,000,000 years at a distance of 139,212,000 miles. The earth, 91,430,000 miles from the sun, quitted his burning bosom 100,000,000 years ago. Venus, revolving now 66,131,000 miles away, may be assigned the age of 50,000,000 years at least; and Mercury, nearest of all, and youngest of all, has been revolving at a distance of 35,393,000 miles for the space of 10,000,000 years — the same time as the moon has been evolved from the earth.”

Servadac listened attentively. He was at a loss what to say; and the only reply he made to the recital of this novel theory was to the effect that, if it were true, he would prefer being captured by Mercury than by Jupiter, for Mercury, being so much the younger, would probably prove the less imperative and self-willed master.

It was on the 1st of September that the comet had crossed the orbit of Jupiter, and on the 1st of October the two bodies were calculated to be at their minimum separation. No direct shock, however, could be apprehended; the demonstration was sufficiently complete that the orbit of Gallia did not coincide with that of the planet, the orbit of Jupiter being inclined at an angle of 1 degrees 19 mins to the orbit of the earth, with which that of Gallia was, no doubt, coincident.

As the month of September verged towards its close, Jupiter began to wear an aspect that must have excited the admiration of the most ignorant or the most indifferent observer. Its salient points were illumined with novel and radiant tints, and the solar rays, reflected from its disc, glowed with a mingled softness and intensity upon Gallia, so that Nerina had to pale her beauty.

Who could wonder that Rosette, enthusiast as he was, should be irremovable from his observatory? Who could expect otherwise than that, with the prospect before him of viewing the giant among planets, ten times nearer than any mortal eye had ever done, he should have begrudged every moment that distracted his attention?

Meanwhile, as Jupiter grew large, the sun grew small.

From its increased remoteness the diameter of the sun’s disc was diminished to 5 degrees 46 mins.

And what an increased interest began to be associated with the satellites! They were visible to the naked eye! Was it not a new record in the annals of science?

Although it is acknowledged that they are not ordinarily visible on earth without the aid of a somewhat powerful telescope, it has been asserted that a favored few, endued with extraordinary powers of vision, have been able to identify them with an unassisted eye; but here, at least, in Nina’s Hive were many rivals, for everyone could so far distinguish them one from the other as to describe them by their colors. The first was of a dull white shade; the second was blue; the third was white and brilliant; the fourth was orange, at times approaching to a red. It was further observed that Jupiter itself was almost void of scintillation.

Rosette, in his absorbing interest for the glowing glories of the planet, seemed to be beguiled into comparative forgetfulness of the charms of his comet; but no astronomical enthusiasm of the professor could quite allay the general apprehension that some serious collision might be impending.

Time passed on. There was nothing to justify apprehension. The question was continually being asked, “What does the professor really think?”

“Our friend the professor,” said Servadac, “is not likely to tell us very much; but we may feel pretty certain of one thing: he wouldn’t keep us long in the dark, if he thought we were not going back to the earth again. The greatest satisfaction he could have would be to inform us that we had parted from the earth for ever.”

“I trust from my very soul,” said the count, “that his prognostications are correct.”

“The more I see of him, and the more I listen to him,” replied Servadac, “the more I become convinced that his calculations are based on a solid foundation, and will prove correct to the minutest particular.”

Ben Zoof here interrupted the conversation. “I have something on my mind,” he said.

“Something on your mind? Out with it!” said the captain.

“That telescope!” said the orderly; “it strikes me that that telescope which the old professor keeps pointed up at yonder big sun is bringing it down straight upon us.”

The captain laughed heartily.

“Laugh, captain, if you like; but I feel disposed to break the old telescope into atoms.”

“Ben Zoof,” said Servadac, his laughter exchanged for a look of stern displeasure, “touch that telescope, and you shall swing for it!”

The orderly looked astonished.

“I am governor here,” said Servadac.

Ben Zoof knew what his master meant, and to him his master’s wish was law.

The interval between the comet and Jupiter was, by the 1st of October, reduced to 43,000,000 miles. The belts all parallel to Jupiter’s equator were very distinct in their markings. Those immediately north and south of the equator were of a dusky hue; those toward the poles were alternately dark and light; the intervening spaces of the planet’s superficies, between edge and edge, being intensely bright. The belts themselves were occasionally broken by spots, which the records of astronomy describe as varying both in form and in extent.

The physiology of belts and spots alike was beyond the astronomer’s power to ascertain; and even if he should be destined once again to take his place in an astronomical congress on the earth, he would be just as incapable as ever of determining whether or no they owed their existence to the external accumulation of vapor, or to some internal agency. It would not be Professor Rosette’s lot to enlighten his brother savants to any great degree as to the mysteries that are associated with this, which must ever rank as one of the most magnificent amongst the heavenly orbs.

As the comet approached the critical point of its career it cannot be denied that there was an unacknowledged consciousness of alarm. Mutually reserved, though ever courteous, the count and the captain were secretly drawn together by the prospect of a common danger; and as their return to the earth appeared to them to become more and more dubious, they abandoned their views of narrow isolation, and tried to embrace the wider philosophy that acknowledges the credibility of a habitable universe.

But no philosophy could be proof against the common instincts of their humanity; their hearts, their hopes, were set upon their natural home; no speculation, no science, no experience, could induce them to give up their fond and sanguine anticipation that once again they were to come in contact with the earth.

“Only let us escape Jupiter,” said Lieutenant Procope, repeatedly, “and we are free from anxiety.”

“But would not Saturn lie ahead?” asked Servadac and the count in one breath.

“No!” said Procope; “the orbit of Saturn is remote, and does not come athwart our path. Jupiter is our sole hindrance. Of Jupiter we must say, as William Tell said, ‘Once through the ominous pass and all is well.’”

The 15th of October came, the date of the nearest approximation of the comet to the planet. They were only 31,000,000 miles apart. What would now transpire? Would Gallia be diverted from its proper way? or would it hold the course that the astronomer had predicted?

Early next morning the captain ventured to take the count and the lieutenant up to the observatory. The professor was in the worst of tempers.

That was enough. It was enough, without a word, to indicate the course which events had taken. The comet was pursuing an unaltered way.

The astronomer, correct in his prognostications, ought to have been the most proud and contented of philosophers; his pride and contentment were both overshadowed by the certainty that the career of his comet was destined to be so transient, and that it must inevitably once again come into collision with the earth.

CHAPTER XV. A JOURNEY AND A DISAPPOINTMENT

It was as the professor had said. From the day that Isaac Hakkabut had entered upon his mercantile career, his dealings had all been carried on by a system of false weight. That deceitful steelyard had been the mainspring of his fortune. But when it had become his lot to be the purchaser instead of the vendor, his spirit had groaned within him at being compelled to reap the fruits of his own dishonesty. No one who had studied his character could be much surprised at the confession that was extorted from him, that for every supposed kilogramme that he had ever sold the true weight was only 750 grammes, or just five and twenty per cent. less than it ought to have been.

The professor, however, had ascertained all that he wanted to know. By estimating his comet at a third as much again as its proper weight, he had found that his calculations were always at variance with the observed situation of the satellite, which was immediately influenced by the mass of its primary.

But now, besides enjoying the satisfaction of having punished old Hakkabut, Rosette was able to recommence his calculations with reference to the elements of Nerina upon a correct basis, a task to which he devoted himself with redoubled energy.

It will be easily imagined that Isaac Hakkabut, thus caught in his own trap, was jeered most unmercifully by those whom he had attempted to make his dupes. Ben Zoof, in particular, was never wearied of telling him how on his return to the world he would be prosecuted for using false weights, and would certainly become acquainted with the inside of a prison. Thus badgered, he secluded himself more than ever in his dismal hole, never venturing, except when absolutely obliged, to face the other members of the community.

On the 7th of October the comet re-entered the zone of the telescopic planets, one of which had been captured as a satellite, and the origin of the whole of which is most probably correctly attributed to the disintegration of some large planet that formerly revolved between the orbits of Mars and Jupiter. By the beginning of the following month half of this zone had been traversed, and only two months remained before the collision with the earth was to be expected. The temperature was now rarely below 12 degrees below zero, but that was far too cold to permit the slightest symptoms of a thaw. The surface of the sea remained as frozen as ever, and the two vessels, high up on their icy pedestals, remained unaltered in their critical position.

It was about this time that the question began to be mooted whether it would not be right to reopen some communication with the Englishmen at Gibraltar. Not that any doubt was entertained as to their having been able successfully to cope with the rigors of the winter; but Captain Servadac, in a way that did honor to his generosity, represented that, however uncourteous might have been their former behavior, it was at least due to them that they should be informed of the true condition of things, which they had had no opportunity of learning; and, moreover, that they should be invited to co-operate with the population of Nina’s Hive, in the event of any measures being suggested by which the shock of the approaching collision could be mitigated.

The count and the lieutenant both heartily concurred in Servadac’s sentiments of humanity and prudence, and all agreed that if the intercourse were to be opened at all, no time could be so suitable as the present, while the surface of the sea presented a smooth and solid footing. After a thaw should set in, neither the yacht nor the tartan could be reckoned on for service, and it would be inexpedient to make use of the steam launch, for which only a few tons of coal had been reserved, just sufficient to convey them to Gourbi Island when the occasion should arise; whilst as to the yawl, which, transformed into a sledge, had performed so successful a trip to Formentera, the absence of wind would make that quite unavailable. It was true that with the return of summer temperature, there would be certain to be a derangement in the atmosphere of Gallia, which would result in wind, but for the present the air was altogether too still for the yawl to have any prospects of making its way to Gibraltar.

The only question remaining was as to the possibility of going on foot. The distance was somewhere about 240 miles. Captain Servadac declared himself quite equal to the undertaking. To skate sixty or seventy miles a day would be nothing, he said, to a practical skater like himself. The whole journey there and back might be performed in eight days. Provided with a compass, a sufficient supply of cold meat, and a spirit lamp, by which he might boil his coffee, he was perfectly sure he should, without the least difficulty, accomplish an enterprise that chimed in so exactly with his adventurous spirit.

Equally urgent were both the count and the lieutenant to be allowed to accompany him; nay, they even offered to go instead; but Servadac, expressing himself as most grateful for their consideration, declined their offer, and avowed his resolution of taking no other companion than his own orderly.

Highly delighted at his master’s decision, Ben Zoof expressed his satisfaction at the prospect of “stretching his legs a bit,” declaring that nothing could induce him to permit the captain to go alone. There was no delay. The departure was fixed for the following morning, the 2nd of November.

Although it is not to be questioned that a genuine desire of doing an act of kindness to his fellow-creatures was a leading motive of Servadac’s proposed visit to Gibraltar, it must be owned that another idea, confided to nobody, least of all to Count Timascheff, had been conceived in the brain of the worthy Gascon. Ben Zoof had an inkling that his master was “up to some other little game,” when, just before starting, he asked him privately whether there was a French tricolor among the stores. “I believe so,” said the orderly.

“Then don’t say a word to anyone, but fasten it up tight in your knapsack.”

Ben Zoof found the flag, and folded it up as he was directed. Before proceeding to explain this somewhat enigmatical conduct of Servadac, it is necessary to refer to a certain physiological fact, coincident but unconnected with celestial phenomena, originating entirely in the frailty of human nature. The nearer that Gallia approached the earth, the more a sort of reserve began to spring up between the captain and Count Timascheff. Though they could not be said to be conscious of it, the remembrance of their former rivalry, so completely buried in oblivion for the last year and ten months, was insensibly recovering its hold upon their minds, and the question was all but coming to the surface as to what would happen if, on their return to earth, the handsome Madame de L — — should still be free. From companions in peril, would they not again be avowed rivals? Conceal it as they would, a coolness was undeniably stealing over an intimacy which, though it could never be called affectionate, had been uniformly friendly and courteous.

Under these circumstances, it was not surprising that Hector Servadac should not have confided to the count a project which, wild as it was, could scarcely have failed to widen the unacknowledged breach that was opening in their friendship.

The project was the annexation of Ceuta to the French dominion. The Englishmen, rightly enough, had continued to occupy the fragment of Gibraltar, and their claim was indisputable. But the island of Ceuta, which before the shock had commanded the opposite side of the strait, and had been occupied by Spaniards, had since been abandoned, and was therefore free to the first occupant who should lay claim to it. To plant the tricolor upon it, in the name of France, was now the cherished wish of Servadac’s heart.

“Who knows,” he said to himself, “whether Ceuta, on its return to earth, may not occupy a grand and commanding situation? What a proud thing it would be to have secured its possession to France!”

Next morning, as soon as they had taken their brief farewell of their friends, and were fairly out of sight of the shore, Servadac imparted his design to Ben Zoof, who entered into the project with the greatest zest, and expressed himself delighted, not only at the prospect of adding to the dominions of his beloved country, but of stealing a march upon England.

Both travelers were warmly clad, the orderly’s knapsack containing all the necessary provisions. The journey was accomplished without special incident; halts were made at regular intervals, for the purpose of taking food and rest. The temperature by night as well as by day was quite endurable, and on the fourth afternoon after starting, thanks to the straight course which their compass enabled them to maintain, the adventurers found themselves within a few miles of Ceuta.

As soon as Ben Zoof caught sight of the rock on the western horizon, he was all excitement. Just as if he were in a regiment going into action, he talked wildly about “columns” and “squares” and “charges.” The captain, although less demonstrative, was hardly less eager to reach the rock. They both pushed forward with all possible speed till they were within a mile and a half of the shore, when Ben Zoof, who had a very keen vision, stopped suddenly, and said that he was sure he could see something moving on the top of the island.

“Never mind, let us hasten on,” said Servadac. A few minutes carried them over another mile, when Ben Zoof stopped again.

“What is it, Ben Zoof?” asked the captain.

“It looks to me like a man on a rock, waving his arms in the air,” said the orderly.

“Plague on it!” muttered Servadac; “I hope we are not too late.” Again they went on; but soon Ben Zoof stopped for the third time.

“It is a semaphore, sir; I see it quite distinctly.” And he was not mistaken; it had been a telegraph in motion that had caught his eye.

“Plague on it!” repeated the captain.

“Too late, sir, do you think?” said Ben Zoof.

“Yes, Ben Zoof; if that’s a telegraph — and there is no doubt of it — somebody has been before us and erected it; and, moreover, if it is moving, there must be somebody working it now.”

He was keenly disappointed. Looking towards the north, he could distinguish Gibraltar faintly visible in the extreme distance, and upon the summit of the rock both Ben Zoof and himself fancied they could make out another semaphore, giving signals, no doubt, in response to the one here.

“Yes, it is only too clear; they have already occupied it, and established their communications,” said Servadac.

“And what are we to do, then?” asked Ben Zoof.

“We must pocket our chagrin, and put as good a face on the matter as we can,” replied the captain.

“But perhaps there are only four or five Englishmen to protect the place,” said Ben Zoof, as if meditating an assault.

“No, no, Ben Zoof,” answered Servadac; “we must do nothing rash. We have had our warning, and, unless our representations can induce them to yield their position, we must resign our hope.”

Thus discomfited, they had reached the foot of the rock, when all at once, like a “Jack-in-the-box,” a sentinel started up before them with the challenge:

“Who goes there?”

“Friends. Vive la France!” cried the captain.

“Hurrah for England!” replied the soldier.

By this time four other men had made their appearance from the upper part of the rock.

“What do you want?” asked one of them, whom Servadac remembered to have seen before at Gibraltar.

“Can I speak to your commanding officer?” Servadac inquired.

“Which?” said the man. “The officer in command of Ceuta?”

“Yes, if there is one.”

“I will acquaint him with your arrival,” answered the Englishman, and disappeared.

In a few minutes the commanding officer, attired in full uniform, was seen descending to the shore. It was Major Oliphant himself.

Servadac could no longer entertain a doubt that the Englishmen had forestalled him in the occupation of Ceuta. Provisions and fuel had evidently been conveyed thither in the boat from Gibraltar before the sea had frozen, and a solid casemate, hollowed in the rock, had afforded Major Oliphant and his contingent ample protection from the rigor of the winter. The ascending smoke that rose above the rock was sufficient evidence that good fires were still kept up; the soldiers appeared to have thriven well on what, no doubt, had been a generous diet, and the major himself, although he would scarcely have been willing to allow it, was slightly stouter than before.

Being only about twelve miles distant from Gibraltar, the little garrison at Ceuta had felt itself by no means isolated in its position; but by frequent excursions across the frozen strait, and by the constant use of the telegraph, had kept up their communication with their fellow-countrymen on the other island. Colonel Murphy and the major had not even been forced to forego the pleasures of the chessboard. The game that had been interrupted by Captain Servadac’s former visit was not yet concluded; but, like the two American clubs that played their celebrated game in 1846 between Washington and Baltimore, the two gallant officers made use of the semaphore to communicate their well-digested moves.

The major stood waiting for his visitor to speak.

“Major Oliphant, I believe?” said Servadac, with a courteous bow.

“Yes, sir, Major Oliphant, officer in command of the garrison at Ceuta,” was the Englishman’s reply. “And to whom,” he added, “may I have the honor of speaking?”

“To Captain Servadac, the governor general of Gallia.”

“Indeed!” said the major, with a supercilious look.

“Allow me to express my surprise,” resumed the captain, “at seeing you installed as commanding officer upon what I have always understood to be Spanish soil. May I demand your claim to your position?”

“My claim is that of first occupant.”

“But do you not think that the party of Spaniards now resident with me may at some future time assert a prior right to the proprietorship?”

“I think not, Captain Servadac.”

“But why not?” persisted the captain.

“Because these very Spaniards have, by formal contract, made over Ceuta, in its integrity, to the British government.”

Servadac uttered an exclamation of surprise.

“And as the price of that important cession,” continued Major Oliphant, “they have received a fair equivalent in British gold.”

“Ah!” cried Ben Zoof, “that accounts for that fellow Negrete and his people having such a lot of money.”

Servadac was silent. It had become clear to his mind what had been the object of that secret visit to Ceuta which he had heard of as being made by the two English officers. The arguments that he had intended to use had completely fallen through; all that he had now to do was carefully to prevent any suspicion of his disappointed project.

“May I be allowed to ask, Captain Servadac, to what I am indebted for the honor of this visit?” asked Major Oliphant presently.

“I have come, Major Oliphant, in the hope of doing you and your companions a service,” replied Servadac, rousing himself from his reverie.

“Ah, indeed!” replied the major, as though he felt himself quite independent of all services from exterior sources.

“I thought, major, that it was not unlikely you were in ignorance of the fact that both Ceuta and Gibraltar have been traversing the solar regions on the surface of a comet.”

The major smiled incredulously; but Servadac, nothing daunted, went on to detail the results of the collision between the comet and the earth, adding that, as there was the almost immediate prospect of another concussion, it had occurred to him that it might be advisable for the whole population of Gallia to unite in taking precautionary measures for the common welfare.

“In fact, Major Oliphant,” he said in conclusion, “I am here to inquire whether you and your friends would be disposed to join us in our present quarters.”

“I am obliged to you, Captain Servadac,” answered the major stiffly; “but we have not the slightest intention of abandoning our post. We have received no government orders to that effect; indeed, we have received no orders at all. Our own dispatch to the First Lord of the Admiralty still awaits the mail.”

“But allow me to repeat,” insisted Servadac, “that we are no longer on the earth, although we expect to come in contact with it again in about eight weeks.”

“I have no doubt,” the major answered, “that England will make every effort to reclaim us.”

Servadac felt perplexed. It was quite evident that Major Oliphant had not been convinced of the truth of one syllable of what he had been saying.

“Then I am to understand that you are determined to retain your two garrisons here and at Gibraltar?” asked Servadac, with one last effort at persuasion.

“Certainly; these two posts command the entrance of the Mediterranean.”

“But supposing there is no longer any Mediterranean?” retorted the captain, growing impatient.

“Oh, England will always take care of that,” was Major Oliphant’s cool reply. “But excuse me,” he added presently; “I see that Colonel Murphy has just telegraphed his next move. Allow me to wish you good-afternoon.”

And without further parley, followed by his soldiers, he retired into the casemate, leaving Captain Servadac gnawing his mustache with mingled rage and mortification.

“A fine piece of business we have made of this!” said Ben Zoof, when he found himself alone with his master.

“We will make our way back at once,” replied Captain Servadac.

“Yes, the sooner the better, with our tails between our legs,” rejoined the orderly, who this time felt no inclination to start off to the march of the Algerian zephyrs. And so the French tricolor returned as it had set out — in Ben Zoof’s knapsack.

On the eighth evening after starting, the travelers again set foot on the volcanic promontory just in time to witness a great commotion.

Palmyrin Rosette was in a furious rage. He had completed all his calculations about Nerina, but that perfidious satellite had totally disappeared. The astronomer was frantic at the loss of his moon. Captured probably by some larger body, it was revolving in its proper zone of the minor planets.

The original French frontispiece

CHAPTER IV. THE FORD FAMILY

TEN minutes afterwards, James Starr and Harry issued from the principal gallery. They were now standing in a glade, if we may use this word to designate a vast and dark excavation. The place, however, was not entirely deprived of daylight. A few rays straggled in through the opening of a deserted shaft. It was by means of this pipe that ventilation was established in the Dochart pit. Owing to its lesser density, the warm air was drawn towards the Yarrow shaft. Both air and light, therefore, penetrated in some measure into the glade.

Here Simon Ford had lived with his family ten years, in a subterranean dwelling, hollowed out in the schistous mass, where formerly stood the powerful engines which worked the mechanical traction of the Dochart pit.

Such was the habitation, “his cottage,” as he called it, in which resided the old overman. As he had some means saved during a long life of toil, Ford could have afforded to live in the light of day, among trees, or in any town of the kingdom he chose, but he and his wife and son preferred remaining in the mine, where they were happy together, having the same opinions, ideas, and tastes. Yes, they were quite fond of their cottage, buried fifteen hundred feet below Scottish soil. Among other advantages, there was no fear that tax gatherers, or rent collectors would ever come to trouble its inhabitants.

At this period, Simon Ford, the former overman of the Dochart pit, bore the weight of sixty-five years well. Tall, robust, well-built, he would have been regarded as one of the most conspicuous men in the district which supplies so many fine fellows to the Highland regiments.

Simon Ford was descended from an old mining family, and his ancestors had worked the very first carboniferous seams opened in Scotland. Without discussing whether or not the Greeks and Romans made use of coal, whether the Chinese worked coal mines before the Christian era, whether the French word for coal (HOUILLE) is really derived from the farrier Houillos, who lived in Belgium in the twelfth century, we may affirm that the beds in Great Britain were the first ever regularly worked. So early as the eleventh century, William the Conqueror divided the produce of the Newcastle bed among his companions-in-arms. At the end of the thirteenth century, a license for the mining of “sea coal” was granted by Henry III. Lastly, towards the end of the same century, mention is made of the Scotch and Welsh beds.

It was about this time that Simon Ford’s ancestors penetrated into the bowels of Caledonian earth, and lived there ever after, from father to son. They were but plain miners. They labored like convicts at the work of extracting the precious combustible. It is even believed that the coal miners, like the salt-makers of that period, were actual slaves.

However that might have been, Simon Ford was proud of belonging to this ancient family of Scotch miners. He had worked diligently in the same place where his ancestors had wielded the pick, the crowbar, and the mattock. At thirty he was overman of the Dochart pit, the most important in the Aberfoyle colliery. He was devoted to his trade. During long years he zealously performed his duty. His only grief had been to perceive the bed becoming impoverished, and to see the hour approaching when the seam would be exhausted.

It was then he devoted himself to the search for new veins in all the Aberfoyle pits, which communicated underground one with another. He had had the good luck to discover several during the last period of the working. His miner’s instinct assisted him marvelously, and the engineer, James Starr, appreciated him highly. It might be said that he divined the course of seams in the depths of the coal mine as a hydroscope reveals springs in the bowels of the earth. He was par excellence the type of a miner whose whole existence is indissolubly connected with that of his mine. He had lived there from his birth, and now that the works were abandoned he wished to live there still. His son Harry foraged for the subterranean housekeeping; as for himself, during those ten years he had not been ten times above ground.

“Go up there! What is the good?” he would say, and refused to leave his black domain. The place was remarkably healthy, subject to an equable temperature; the old overman endured neither the heat of summer nor the cold of winter. His family enjoyed good health; what more could he desire?

But at heart he felt depressed. He missed the former animation, movement, and life in the well-worked pit. He was, however, supported by one fixed idea. “No, no! the mine is not exhausted!” he repeated.

And that man would have given serious offense who could have ventured to express before Simon Ford any doubt that old Aberfoyle would one day revive! He had never given up the hope of discovering some new bed which would restore the mine to its past splendor. Yes, he would willingly, had it been necessary, have resumed the miner’s pick, and with his still stout arms vigorously attacked the rock. He went through the dark galleries, sometimes alone, sometimes with his son, examining, searching for signs of coal, only to return each day, wearied, but not in despair, to the cottage.

Madge, Simon’s faithful companion, his “gude-wife,” to use the Scotch term, was a tall, strong, comely woman. Madge had no wish to leave the Dochart pit any more than had her husband. She shared all his hopes and regrets. She encouraged him, she urged him on, and talked to him in a way which cheered the heart of the old overman. “Aberfoyle is only asleep,” she would say. “You are right about that, Simon. This is but a rest, it is not death!”

Madge, as well as the others, was perfectly satisfied to live independent of the outer world, and was the center of the happiness enjoyed by the little family in their dark cottage.

The engineer was eagerly expected. Simon Ford was standing at his door, and as soon as Harry’s lamp announced the arrival of his former viewer he advanced to meet him.

“Welcome, Mr. Starr!” he exclaimed, his voice echoing under the roof of schist. “Welcome to the old overman’s cottage! Though it is buried fifteen hundred feet under the earth, our house is not the less hospitable.”

“And how are you, good Simon?” asked James Starr, grasping the hand which his host held out to him.

“Very well, Mr. Starr. How could I be otherwise here, sheltered from the inclemencies of the weather? Your ladies who go to Newhaven or Portobello in the summer time would do much better to pass a few months in the coal mine of Aberfoyle! They would run no risk here of catching a heavy cold, as they do in the damp streets of the old capital.”

“I’m not the man to contradict you, Simon,” answered James Starr, glad to find the old man just as he used to be. “Indeed, I wonder why I do not change my home in the Canongate for a cottage near you.”

“And why not, Mr. Starr? I know one of your old miners who would be truly pleased to have only a partition wall between you and him.”

“And how is Madge?” asked the engineer.

“The goodwife is in better health than I am, if that’s possible,” replied Ford, “and it will be a pleasure to her to see you at her table. I think she will surpass herself to do you honor.”

“We shall see that, Simon, we shall see that!” said the engineer, to whom the announcement of a good breakfast could not be indifferent, after his long walk.

“Are you hungry, Mr. Starr?”

“Ravenously hungry. My journey has given me an appetite. I came through horrible weather.”

“Ah, it is raining up there,” responded Simon Ford.

“Yes, Simon, and the waters of the Forth are as rough as the sea.”

“Well, Mr. Starr, here it never rains. But I needn’t describe to you all the advantages, which you know as well as myself. Here we are at the cottage. That is the chief thing, and I again say you are welcome, sir.”

Simon Ford, followed by Harry, ushered their guest into the dwelling. James Starr found himself in a large room lighted by numerous lamps, one hanging from the colored beams of the roof.

“The soup is ready, wife,” said Ford, “and it mustn’t be kept waiting any more than Mr. Starr. He is as hungry as a miner, and he shall see that our boy doesn’t let us want for anything in the cottage! By-the-bye, Harry,” added the old overman, turning to his son, “Jack Ryan came here to see you.”

“I know, father. We met him in the Yarrow shaft.”

“He’s an honest and a merry fellow,” said Ford; “but he seems to be quite happy above ground. He hasn’t the true miner’s blood in his veins. Sit down, Mr. Starr, and have a good dinner, for we may not sup till late.”

As the engineer and his hosts were taking their places: “One moment, Simon,” said James Starr. “Do you want me to eat with a good appetite?”

“It will be doing us all possible honor, Mr. Starr,” answered Ford.

“Well, in order to eat heartily, I must not be at all anxious. Now I have two questions to put to you.”

“Go on, sir.”

“Your letter told me of a communication which was to be of an interesting nature.”

“It is very interesting indeed.”

“To you?”

“To you and to me, Mr. Starr. But I do not want to tell it you until after dinner, and on the very spot itself. Without that you would not believe me.”

“Simon,” resumed the engineer, “look me straight in the face. An interesting communication? Yes. Good! I will not ask more,” he added, as if he had read the reply in the old overman’s eyes.

“And the second question?” asked the latter.

“Do you know, Simon, who the person is who can have written this?” answered the engineer, handing him the anonymous letter.

Ford took the letter and read it attentively. Then giving it to his son, “Do you know the writing?” he asked.

“No, father,” replied Harry.

“And had this letter the Aberfoyle postmark?” inquired Simon Ford.

“Yes, like yours,” replied James Starr.

“What do you think of that, Harry?” said his father, his brow darkening.

“I think, father,” returned Harry, “that someone has had some interest in trying to prevent Mr. Starr from coming to the place where you invited him.”

“But who,” exclaimed the old miner, “who could have possibly guessed enough of my secret?” And Simon fell into a reverie, from which he was aroused by his wife.

“Let us begin, Mr. Starr,” she said. “The soup is already getting cold. Don’t think any more of that letter just now.”

On the old woman’s invitation, each drew in his chair, James Starr opposite to Madge — to do him honor — the father and son opposite to each other. It was a good Scotch dinner. First they ate “hotchpotch,” soup with the meat swimming in capital broth. As old Simon said, his wife knew no rival in the art of preparing hotchpotch. It was the same with the “cockyleeky,” a cock stewed with leeks, which merited high praise. The whole was washed down with excellent ale, obtained from the best brewery in Edinburgh.

But the principal dish consisted of a “haggis,” the national pudding, made of meat and barley meal. This remarkable dish, which inspired the poet Burns with one of his best odes, shared the fate of all the good things in this world — it passed away like a dream.

Madge received the sincere compliments of her guest. The dinner ended with cheese and oatcake, accompanied by a few small glasses of “usquebaugh,” capital whisky, five and twenty years old — just Harry’s age. The repast lasted a good hour. James Starr and Simon Ford had not only eaten much, but talked much too, chiefly of their past life in the old Aberfoyle mine.

Harry had been rather silent. Twice he had left the table, and even the house. He evidently felt uneasy since the incident of the stone, and wished to examine the environs of the cottage. The anonymous letter had not contributed to reassure him.

Whilst he was absent, the engineer observed to Ford and his wife, “That’s a fine lad you have there, my friends.”

“Yes, Mr. Starr, he is a good and affectionate son,” replied the old overman earnestly.

“Is he happy with you in the cottage?”

“He would not wish to leave us.”

“Don’t you think of finding him a wife, some day?”

“A wife for Harry,” exclaimed Ford. “And who would it be? A girl from up yonder, who would love merry-makings and dancing, who would prefer her clan to our mine! Harry wouldn’t do it!”

“Simon,” said Madge, “you would not forbid that Harry should take a wife.”

“I would forbid nothing,” returned the old miner, “but there’s no hurry about that. Who knows but we may find one for him — ”

Harry re-entered at that moment, and Simon Ford was silent.

When Madge rose from the table, all followed her example, and seated themselves at the door of the cottage. “Well, Simon,” said the engineer, “I am ready to hear you.”

“Mr. Starr,” responded Ford, “I do not need your ears, but your legs. Are you quite rested?”

“Quite rested and quite refreshed, Simon. I am ready to go with you wherever you like.”

“Harry,” said Simon Ford, turning to his son, “light our safety lamps.”

“Are you going to take safety lamps!” exclaimed James Starr, in amazement, knowing that there was no fear of explosions of fire-damp in a pit quite empty of coal.

“Yes, Mr. Starr, it will be prudent.”

“My good Simon, won’t you propose next to put me in a miner’s dress?”

“Not just yet, sir, not just yet!” returned the old overman, his deep-set eyes gleaming strangely.

Harry soon reappeared, carrying three safety lamps. He handed one of these to the engineer, the other to his father, and kept the third hanging from his left hand, whilst his right was armed with a long stick.

“Forward!” said Simon Ford, taking up a strong pick, which was leaning against the wall of the cottage.

“Forward!” echoed the engineer. “Good-by, Madge.”

“GOD speed you!” responded the good woman.

“A good supper, wife, do you hear?” exclaimed Ford. “We shall be hungry when we come back, and will do it justice!”

CHAPTER V. SOME STRANGE PHENOMENA

MANY superstitious beliefs exist both in the Highlands and Lowlands of Scotland. Of course the mining population must furnish its contingent of legends and fables to this mythological repertory. If the fields are peopled with imaginary beings, either good or bad, with much more reason must the dark mines be haunted to their lowest depths. Who shakes the seam during tempestuous nights? who puts the miners on the track of an as yet unworked vein? who lights the fire-damp, and presides over the terrible explosions? who but some spirit of the mine? This, at least, was the opinion commonly spread among the superstitious Scotch.

In the first rank of the believers in the supernatural in the Dochart pit figured Jack Ryan, Harry’s friend. He was the great partisan of all these superstitions. All these wild stories were turned by him into songs, which earned him great applause in the winter evenings.

But Jack Ryan was not alone in his belief. His comrades affirmed, no less strongly, that the Aberfoyle pits were haunted, and that certain strange beings were seen there frequently, just as in the Highlands. To hear them talk, it would have been more extraordinary if nothing of the kind appeared. Could there indeed be a better place than a dark and deep coal mine for the freaks of fairies, elves, goblins, and other actors in the fantastical dramas? The scenery was all ready, why should not the supernatural personages come there to play their parts?

So reasoned Jack Ryan and his comrades in the Aberfoyle mines. We have said that the different pits communicated with each other by means of long subterranean galleries. Thus there existed beneath the county of Stirling a vast tract, full of burrows, tunnels, bored with caves, and perforated with shafts, a subterranean labyrinth, which might be compared to an enormous ant-hill.

Miners, though belonging to different pits, often met, when going to or returning from their work. Consequently there was a constant opportunity of exchanging talk, and circulating the stories which had their origin in the mine, from one pit to another. These accounts were transmitted with marvelous rapidity, passing from mouth to mouth, and gaining in wonder as they went.

Two men, however, better educated and with more practical minds than the rest, had always resisted this temptation. They in no degree believed in the intervention of spirits, elves, or goblins. These two were Simon Ford and his son. And they proved it by continuing to inhabit the dismal crypt, after the desertion of the Dochart pit. Perhaps good Madge, like every Highland woman, had some leaning towards the supernatural. But she had to repeat all these stories to herself, and so she did, most conscientiously, so as not to let the old traditions be lost.

Even had Simon and Harry Ford been as credulous as their companions, they would not have abandoned the mine to the imps and fairies. For ten years, without missing a single day, obstinate and immovable in their convictions, the father and son took their picks, their sticks, and their lamps. They went about searching, sounding the rock with a sharp blow, listening if it would return a favor-able sound. So long as the soundings had not been pushed to the granite of the primary formation, the Fords were agreed that the search, unsuccessful to-day, might succeed to-morrow, and that it ought to be resumed. They spent their whole life in endeavoring to bring Aberfoyle back to its former prosperity. If the father died before the hour of success, the son was to go on with the task alone.

It was during these excursions that Harry was more particularly struck by certain phenomena, which he vainly sought to explain. Several times, while walking along some narrow cross-alley, he seemed to hear sounds similar to those which would be produced by violent blows of a pickax against the wall.

Harry hastened to seek the cause of this mysterious work. The tunnel was empty. The light from the young miner’s lamp, thrown on the wall, revealed no trace of any recent work with pick or crowbar. Harry would then ask himself if it was not the effect of some acoustic illusion, or some strange and fantastic echo. At other times, on suddenly throwing a bright light into a suspicious-looking cleft in the rock, he thought he saw a shadow. He rushed forward. Nothing, and there was no opening to permit a human being to evade his pursuit!

Twice in one month, Harry, whilst visiting the west end of the pit, distinctly heard distant reports, as if some miner had exploded a charge of dynamite. The second time, after many careful researches, he found that a pillar had just been blown up.

By the light of his lamp, Harry carefully examined the place attacked by the explosion. It had not been made in a simple embankment of stones, but in a mass of schist, which had penetrated to this depth in the coal stratum. Had the object of the explosion been to discover a new vein? Or had someone wished simply to destroy this portion of the mine? Thus he questioned, and when he made known this occurrence to his father, neither could the old overman nor he himself answer the question in a satisfactory way.

“It is very queer,” Harry often repeated. “The presence of an unknown being in the mine seems impossible, and yet there can be no doubt about it. Does someone besides ourselves wish to find out if a seam yet exists? Or, rather, has he attempted to destroy what remains of the Aberfoyle mines? But for what reason? I will find that out, if it should cost me my life!”

A fortnight before the day on which Harry Ford guided the engineer through the labyrinth of the Dochart pit, he had been on the point of attaining the object of his search. He was going over the southwest end of the mine, with a large lantern in his hand. All at once, it seemed to him that a light was suddenly extinguished, some hundred feet before him, at the end of a narrow passage cut obliquely through the rock. He darted forward.

His search was in vain. As Harry would not admit a supernatural explanation for a physical occurrence, he concluded that certainly some strange being prowled about in the pit. But whatever he could do, searching with the greatest care, scrutinizing every crevice in the gallery, he found nothing for his trouble.

If Jack Ryan and the other superstitious fellows in the mine had seen these lights, they would, without fail, have called them supernatural, but Harry did not dream of doing so, nor did his father. And when they talked over these phenomena, evidently due to a physical cause, “My lad,” the old man would say, “we must wait. It will all be explained some day.”

However, it must be observed that, hitherto, neither Harry nor his father had ever been exposed to any act of violence. If the stone which had fallen at the feet of James Starr had been thrown by the hand of some ill-disposed person, it was the first criminal act of that description.

James Starr was of opinion that the stone had become detached from the roof of the gallery; but Harry would not admit of such a simple explanation. According to him, the stone had not fallen, it had been thrown; for otherwise, without rebounding, it could never have described a trajectory as it did.

Harry saw in it a direct attempt against himself and his father, or even against the engineer.

CHAPTER XI. HANGING BY A THREAD

ALTHOUGH in this way the Ford family led a happy and contented life, yet it was easy to see that Harry, naturally of a grave disposition, became more and more quiet and reserved. Even Jack Ryan, with all his good humor and usually infectious merriment, failed to rouse him to gayety of manner.

One Sunday — it was in the month of June — the two friends were walking together on the shores of Loch Malcolm. Coal Town rested from labor. In the world above, stormy weather prevailed. Violent rains fell, and dull sultry vapors brooded over the earth; the atmosphere was most oppressive.

Down in Coal Town there was perfect calm; no wind, no rain. A soft and pleasant temperature existed instead of the strife of the elements which raged without. What wonder then, that excursionists from Stirling came in considerable numbers to enjoy the calm fresh air in the recesses of the mine?

The electric discs shed a brilliancy of light which the British sun, oftener obscured by fogs than it ought to be, might well envy. Jack Ryan kept talking of these visitors, who passed them in noisy crowds, but Harry paid very little attention to what he said.

“I say, do look, Harry!” cried Jack. “See what numbers of people come to visit us! Cheer up, old fellow! Do the honors of the place a little better. If you look so glum, you’ll make all these outside folks think you envy their life above-ground.”

“Never mind me, Jack,” answered Harry. “You are jolly enough for two, I’m sure; that’s enough.”

“I’ll be hanged if I don’t feel your melancholy creeping over me though!” exclaimed Jack. “I declare my eyes are getting quite dull, my lips are drawn together, my laugh sticks in my throat; I’m forgetting all my songs. Come, man, what’s the matter with you?”

“You know well enough, Jack.”

“What? the old story?”

“Yes, the same thoughts haunt me.”

“Ah, poor fellow!” said Jack, shrugging his shoulders. “If you would only do like me, and set all the queer things down to the account of the goblins of the mine, you would be easier in your mind.”

“But, Jack, you know very well that these goblins exist only in your imagination, and that, since the works here have been reopened, not a single one has been seen.”

“That’s true, Harry; but if no spirits have been seen, neither has anyone else to whom you could attribute the extraordinary doings we want to account for.”

“I shall discover them.”

“Ah, Harry! Harry! it’s not so easy to catch the spirits of New Aberfoyle!”

“I shall find out the spirits as you call them,” said Harry, in a tone of firm conviction.

“Do you expect to be able to punish them?”

“Both punish and reward. Remember, if one hand shut us up in that passage, another hand delivered us! I shall not soon forget that.”

“But, Harry, how can we be sure that these two hands do not belong to the same body?”

“What can put such a notion in your head, Jack?” asked Harry.

“Well, I don’t know. Creatures that live in these holes, Harry, don’t you see? they can’t be made like us, eh?”

“But they ARE just like us, Jack.”

“Oh, no! don’t say that, Harry! Perhaps some madman managed to get in for a time.”

“A madman! No madman would have formed such connected plans, or done such continued mischief as befell us after the breaking of the ladders.”

“Well, but anyhow he has done no harm for the last three years, either to you, Harry, or any of your people.”

“No matter, Jack,” replied Harry; “I am persuaded that this malignant being, whoever he is, has by no means given up his evil intentions. I can hardly say on what I found my convictions. But at any rate, for the sake of the new works, I must and will know who he is and whence he comes.”

“For the sake of the new works did you say?” asked Jack, considerably surprised.

“I said so, Jack,” returned Harry. “I may be mistaken, but, to me, all that has happened proves the existence of an interest in this mine in strong opposition to ours. Many a time have I considered the matter; I feel almost sure of it. Just consider the whole series of inexplicable circumstances, so singularly linked together. To begin with, the anonymous letter, contradictory to that of my father, at once proves that some man had become aware of our projects, and wished to prevent their accomplishment. Mr. Starr comes to see us at the Dochart pit. No sooner does he enter it with me than an immense stone is cast upon us, and communication is interrupted by the breaking of the ladders in the Yarrow shaft. We commence exploring. An experiment, by which the existence of a new vein would be proved, is rendered impossible by stoppage of fissures. Notwithstanding this, the examination is carried out, the vein discovered. We return as we came, a prodigious gust of air meets us, our lamp is broken, utter darkness surrounds us. Nevertheless, we make our way along the gloomy passage until, on reaching the entrance, we find it blocked up. There we were — imprisoned. Now, Jack, don’t you see in all these things a malicious intention? Ah, yes, believe me, some being hitherto invisible, but not supernatural, as you will persist in thinking, was concealed in the mine. For some reason, known only to himself, he strove to keep us out of it. WAS there, did I say? I feel an inward conviction that he IS there still, and probably prepares some terrible disaster for us. Even at the risk of my life, Jack, I am resolved to discover him.”

Harry spoke with an earnestness which strongly impressed his companion. “Well, Harry,” said he, “if I am forced to agree with you in certain points, won’t you admit that some kind fairy or brownie, by bringing bread and water to you, was the means of — ”

“Jack, my friend,” interrupted Harry, “it is my belief that the friendly person, whom you will persist in calling a spirit, exists in the mine as certainly as the criminal we speak of, and I mean to seek them both in the most distant recesses of the mine.”

“But,” inquired Jack, “have you any possible clew to guide your search?”

“Perhaps I have. Listen to me! Five miles west of New Aberfoyle, under the solid rock which supports Ben Lomond, there exists a natural shaft which descends perpendicularly into the vein beneath. A week ago I went to ascertain the depth of this shaft. While sounding it, and bending over the opening as my plumb-line went down, it seemed to me that the air within was agitated, as though beaten by huge wings.”

“Some bird must have got lost among the lower galleries,” replied Jack.

“But that is not all, Jack. This very morning I went back to the place, and, listening attentively, I thought I could detect a sound like a sort of groaning.”

“Groaning!” cried Jack, “that must be nonsense; it was a current of air — unless indeed some ghost — ”

“I shall know to-morrow what it was,” said Harry.

“Tomorrow?” answered Jack, looking at his friend.

“Yes; to-morrow I am going down into that abyss.”

“Harry! that will be a tempting of Providence.”

“No, Jack, Providence will aid me in the attempt. Tomorrow, you and some of our comrades will go with me to that shaft. I will fasten myself to a long rope, by which you can let me down, and draw me up at a given signal. I may depend upon you, Jack?”

“Well, Harry,” said Jack, shaking his head, “I will do as you wish me; but I tell you all the same, you are very wrong.”

“Nothing venture nothing win,” said Harry, in a tone of decision. “Tomorrow morning, then, at six o’clock. Be silent, and farewell!”

It must be admitted that Jack Ryan’s fears were far from groundless. Harry would expose himself to very great danger, supposing the enemy he sought for lay concealed at the bottom of the pit into which he was going to descend. It did not seem likely that such was the case, however.

“Why in the world,” repeated Jack Ryan, “should he take all this trouble to account for a set of facts so very easily and simply explained by the supernatural intervention of the spirits of the mine?”

But, notwithstanding his objections to the scheme, Jack Ryan and three miners of his gang arrived next morning with Harry at the mouth of the opening of the suspicious shaft. Harry had not mentioned his intentions either to James Starr or to the old overman. Jack had been discreet enough to say nothing.

Harry had provided himself with a rope about 200 feet long. It was not particularly thick, but very strong — sufficiently so to sustain his weight. His friends were to let him down into the gulf, and his pulling the cord was to be the signal to withdraw him.

The opening into this shaft or well was twelve feet wide. A beam was thrown across like a bridge, so that the cord passing over it should hang down the center of the opening, and save Harry from striking against the sides in his descent.

He was ready.

“Are you still determined to explore this abyss?” whispered Jack Ryan.

“Yes, I am, Jack.”

The cord was fastened round Harry’s thighs and under his arms, to keep him from rocking. Thus supported, he was free to use both his hands. A safety-lamp hung at his belt, also a large, strong knife in a leather sheath.

Harry advanced to the middle of the beam, around which the cord was passed. Then his friends began to let him down, and he slowly sank into the pit. As the rope caused him to swing gently round and round, the light of his lamp fell in turns on all points of the side walls, so that he was able to examine them carefully. These walls consisted of pit coal, and so smooth that it would be impossible to ascend them.

Harry calculated that he was going down at the rate of about a foot per second, so that he had time to look about him, and be ready for any event.

During two minutes — that is to say, to the depth of about 120 feet, the descent continued without any incident.

No lateral gallery opened from the side walls of the pit, which was gradually narrowing into the shape of a funnel. But Harry began to feel a fresher air rising from beneath, whence he concluded that the bottom of the pit communicated with a gallery of some description in the lowest part of the mine.

The cord continued to unwind. Darkness and silence were complete. If any living being whatever had sought refuge in the deep and mysterious abyss, he had either left it, or, if there, by no movement did he in the slightest way betray his presence.

Harry, becoming more suspicious the lower he got, now drew his knife and held it in his right hand. At a depth of 180 feet, his feet touched the lower point and the cord slackened and unwound no further.

Harry breathed more freely for a moment. One of the fears he entertained had been that, during his descent, the cord might be cut above him, but he had seen no projection from the walls behind which anyone could have been concealed.

The bottom of the abyss was quite dry. Harry, taking the lamp from his belt, walked round the place, and perceived he had been right in his conjectures.

An extremely narrow passage led aside out of the pit. He had to stoop to look into it, and only by creeping could it be followed; but as he wanted to see in which direction it led, and whether another abyss opened from it, he lay down on the ground and began to enter it on hands and knees.

An obstacle speedily arrested his progress. He fancied he could perceive by touching it, that a human body lay across the passage. A sudden thrill of horror and surprise made him hastily draw back, but he again advanced and felt more carefully.

His senses had not deceived him; a body did indeed lie there; and he soon ascertained that, although icy cold at the extremities, there was some vital heat remaining. In less time than it takes to tell it, Harry had drawn the body from the recess to the bottom of the shaft, and, seizing his lamp, he cast its lights on what he had found, exclaiming immediately, “Why, it is a child!”

The child still breathed, but so very feebly that Harry expected it to cease every instant. Not a moment was to be lost; he must carry this poor little creature out of the pit, and take it home to his mother as quickly as he could. He eagerly fastened the cord round his waist, stuck on his lamp, clasped the child to his breast with his left arm, and, keeping his right hand free to hold the knife, he gave the signal agreed on, to have the rope pulled up.

It tightened at once; he began the ascent. Harry looked around him with redoubled care, for more than his own life was now in danger.

For a few minutes all went well, no accident seemed to threaten him, when suddenly he heard the sound of a great rush of air from beneath; and, looking down, he could dimly perceive through the gloom a broad mass arising until it passed him, striking him as it went by.

It was an enormous bird — of what sort he could not see; it flew upwards on mighty wings, then paused, hovered, and dashed fiercely down upon Harry, who could only wield his knife in one hand. He defended himself and the child as well as he could, but the ferocious bird seemed to aim all its blows at him alone. Afraid of cutting the cord, he could not strike it as he wished, and the struggle was prolonged, while Harry shouted with all his might in hopes of making his comrades hear.

He soon knew they did, for they pulled the rope up faster; a distance of about eighty feet remained to be got over. The bird ceased its direct attack, but increased the horror and danger of his situation by rushing at the cord, clinging to it just out of his reach, and endeavoring, by pecking furiously, to cut it.

Harry felt overcome with terrible dread. One strand of the rope gave way, and it made them sink a little.

A shriek of despair escaped his lips.

A second strand was divided, and the double burden now hung suspended by only half the cord.

Harry dropped his knife, and by a superhuman effort succeeded, at the moment the rope was giving way, in catching hold of it with his right hand above the cut made by the beak of the bird. But, powerfully as he held it in his iron grasp, he could feel it gradually slipping through his fingers.

He might have caught it, and held on with both hands by sacrificing the life of the child he supported in his left arm. The idea crossed him, but was banished in an instant, although he believed himself quite unable to hold out until drawn to the surface. For a second he closed his eyes, believing they were about to plunge back into the abyss.

He looked up once more; the huge bird had disappeared; his hand was at the very extremity of the broken rope — when, just as his convulsive grasp was failing, he was seized by the men, and with the child was placed on the level ground.

The fearful strain of anxiety removed, a reaction took place, and Harry fell fainting into the arms of his friends.

CHAPTER XII. NELL ADOPTED

A COUPLE of hours later, Harry still unconscious, and the child in a very feeble state, were brought to the cottage by Jack Ryan and his companions. The old overman listened to the account of their adventures, while Madge attended with the utmost care to the wants of her son, and of the poor creature whom he had rescued from the pit.

Harry imagined her a mere child, but she was a maiden of the age of fifteen or sixteen years.

She gazed at them with vague and wondering eyes; and the thin face, drawn by suffering, the pallid complexion, which light could never have tinged, and the fragile, slender figure, gave her an appearance at once singular and attractive. Jack Ryan declared that she seemed to him to be an uncommonly interesting kind of ghost.

It must have been due to the strange and peculiar circumstances under which her life hitherto had been led, that she scarcely seemed to belong to the human race. Her countenance was of a very uncommon cast, and her eyes, hardly able to bear the lamp-light in the cottage, glanced around in a confused and puzzled way, as if all were new to them.

As this singular being reclined on Madge’s bed and awoke to consciousness, as from a long sleep, the old Scotchwoman began to question her a little.

“What do they call you, my dear?” said she.

“Nell,” replied the girl.

“Do you feel anything the matter with you, Nell?”

“I am hungry. I have eaten nothing since — since — ”

Nell uttered these few words like one unused to speak much. They were in the Gaelic language, which was often spoken by Simon and his family. Madge immediately brought her some food; she was evidently famished. It was impossible to say how long she might have been in that pit.

“How many days had you been down there, dearie?” inquired Madge.

Nell made no answer; she seemed not to understand the question.

“How many days, do you think?”

“Days?” repeated Nell, as though the word had no meaning for her, and she shook her head to signify entire want of comprehension.

Madge took her hand, and stroked it caressingly. “How old are you, my lassie?” she asked, smiling kindly at her.

Nell shook her head again.

“Yes, yes,” continued Madge, “how many years old?”

“Years?” replied Nell. She seemed to understand that word no better than days! Simon, Harry, Jack, and the rest, looked on with an air of mingled compassion, wonder, and sympathy. The state of this poor thing, clothed in a miserable garment of coarse woolen stuff, seemed to impress them painfully.

Harry, more than all the rest, seemed attracted by the very peculiarity of this poor stranger. He drew near, took Nell’s hand from his mother, and looked directly at her, while something like a smile curved her lip. “Nell,” he said, “Nell, away down there — in the mine — were you all alone?”

“Alone! alone!” cried the girl, raising herself hastily. Her features expressed terror; her eyes, which had appeared to soften as Harry looked at her, became quite wild again. “Alone!” repeated she, “alone!” — and she fell back on the bed, as though deprived of all strength.

“The poor bairn is too weak to speak to us,” said Madge, when she had adjusted the pillows. “After a good rest, and a little more food, she will be stronger. Come away, Simon and Harry, and all the rest of you, and let her go to sleep.” So Nell was left alone, and in a very few minutes slept profoundly.

This event caused a great sensation, not only in the coal mines, but in Stirlingshire, and ultimately throughout the kingdom. The strangeness of the story was exaggerated; the affair could not have made more commotion had they found the girl enclosed in the solid rock, like one of those antediluvian creatures who have occasionally been released by a stroke of the pickax from their stony prison. Nell became a fashionable wonder without knowing it. Superstitious folks made her story a new subject for legendary marvels, and were inclined to think, as Jack Ryan told Harry, that Nell was the spirit of the mines.

“Be it so, Jack,” said the young man; “but at any rate she is the good spirit. It can have been none but she who brought us bread and water when we were shut up down there; and as to the bad spirit, who must still be in the mine, we’ll catch him some day.”

Of course James Starr had been at once informed of all this, and came, as soon as the young girl had sufficiently recovered her strength, to see her, and endeavor to question her carefully.

She appeared ignorant of nearly everything relating to life, and, although evidently intelligent, was wanting in many elementary ideas, such as time, for instance. She had never been used to its division, and the words signifying hours, days, months, and years were unknown to her.

Her eyes, accustomed to the night, were pained by the glare of the electric discs; but in the dark her sight was wonderfully keen, the pupil dilated in a remarkable manner, and she could see where to others there appeared profound obscurity. It was certain that her brain had never received any impression of the outer world, that her eyes had never looked beyond the mine, and that these somber depths had been all the world to her.

The poor girl probably knew not that there were a sun and stars, towns and counties, a mighty universe composed of myriads of worlds. But until she comprehended the significance of words at present conveying no precise meaning to her, it was impossible to ascertain what she knew.

As to whether or not Nell had lived alone in the recesses of New Aberfoyle, James Starr was obliged to remain uncertain; indeed, any allusion to the subject excited evident alarm in the mind of this strange girl. Either Nell could not or would not reply to questions, but that some secret existed in connection with the place, which she could have explained, was manifest.

“Should you like to stay with us? Should you like to go back to where we found you?” asked James Starr.

“Oh, yes!” exclaimed the maiden, in answer to his first question; but a cry of terror was all she seemed able to say to the second.

James Starr, as well as Simon and Harry Ford, could not help feeling a certain amount of uneasiness with regard to this persistent silence. They found it impossible to forget all that had appeared so inexplicable at the time they made the discovery of the coal mine; and although that was three years ago, and nothing new had happened, they always expected some fresh attack on the part of the invisible enemy.

They resolved to explore the mysterious well, and did so, well armed and in considerable numbers. But nothing suspicious was to be seen; the shaft communicated with lower stages of the crypt, hollowed out in the carboniferous bed.

Many a time did James Starr, Simon, and Harry talk over these things. If one or more malevolent beings were concealed in the coal-pit, and there concocted mischief, Nell surely could have warned them of it, yet she said nothing. The slightest allusion to her past life brought on such fits of violent emotion, that it was judged best to avoid the subject for the present. Her secret would certainly escape her by-and-by.

By the time Nell had been a fortnight in the cottage, she had become a most intelligent and zealous assistant to old Madge. It was clear that she instinctively felt she should remain in the dwelling where she had been so charitably received, and perhaps never dreamt of quitting it. This family was all in all to her, and to the good folks themselves Nell had seemed an adopted child from the moment when she first came beneath their roof. Nell was in truth a charming creature; her new mode of existence added to her beauty, for these were no doubt the first happy days of her life, and her heart was full of gratitude towards those to whom she owed them. Madge felt towards her as a mother would; the old woman doted upon her; in short, she was beloved by everybody. Jack Ryan only regretted one thing, which was that he had not saved her himself. Friend Jack often came to the cottage. He sang, and Nell, who had never heard singing before, admired it greatly; but anyone might see that she preferred to Jack’s songs the graver conversation of Harry, from whom by degrees she learnt truths concerning the outer world, of which hitherto she had known nothing.

It must be said that, since Nell had appeared in her own person, Jack Ryan had been obliged to admit that his belief in hobgoblins was in a measure weakened. A couple of months later his credulity experienced a further shock. About that time Harry unexpectedly made a discovery which, in part at least, accounted for the apparition of the fire-maidens among the ruins of Dundonald Castle at Irvine.

During several days he had been engaged in exploring the remote galleries of the prodigious excavation towards the south. At last he scrambled with difficulty up a narrow passage which branched off through the upper rock. To his great astonishment, he suddenly found himself in the open air. The passage, after ascending obliquely to the surface of the ground, led out directly among the ruins of Dundonald Castle.

There was, therefore, a communication between New Aberfoyle and the hills crowned by this ancient castle. The upper entrance to this gallery, being completely concealed by stones and brushwood, was invisible from without; at the time of their search, therefore, the magistrates had been able to discover nothing.

A few days afterwards, James Starr, guided by Harry, came himself to inspect this curious natural opening into the coal mine. “Well,” said he, “here is enough to convince the most superstitious among us. Farewell to all their brownies, goblins, and fire-maidens now!”

“I hardly think, Mr. Starr, we ought to congratulate ourselves,” replied Harry. “Whatever it is we have instead of these things, it can’t be better, and may be worse than they are.”

“That’s true, Harry,” said the engineer; “but what’s to be done? It is plain that, whatever the beings are who hide in the mine, they reach the surface of the earth by this passage. No doubt it was the light of torches waved by them during that dark and stormy night which attracted the MOTALA towards the rocky coast, and like the wreckers of former days, they would have plundered the unfortunate vessel, had it not been for Jack Ryan and his friends. Anyhow, so far it is evident, and here is the mouth of the den. As to its occupants, the question is — Are they here still?”

“I say yes; because Nell trembles when we mention them — yes, because Nell will not, or dare not, speak about them,” answered Harry in a tone of decision.

Harry was surely in the right. Had these mysterious denizens of the pit abandoned it, or ceased to visit the spot, what reason could the girl have had for keeping silence?

James Starr could not rest till he had penetrated this mystery. He foresaw that the whole future of the new excavations must depend upon it. Renewed and strict precautions were therefore taken. The authorities were informed of the discovery of the entrance. Watchers were placed among the ruins of the castle. Harry himself lay hid for several nights in the thickets of brushwood which clothed the hill-side.

Nothing was discovered — no human being emerged from the opening. So most people came to the conclusion that the villains had been finally dislodged from the mine, and that, as to Nell, they must suppose her to be dead at the bottom of the shaft where they had left her.

While it remained unworked, the mine had been a safe enough place of refuge, secure from all search or pursuit. But now, circumstances being altered, it became difficult to conceal this lurking-place, and it might reasonably be hoped they were gone, and that nothing for the future was to be dreaded from them.

James Starr, however, could not feel sure about it; neither could Harry be satisfied on the subject, often repeating, “Nell has clearly been mixed up with all this secret business. If she had nothing more to fear, why should she keep silence? It cannot be doubted that she is happy with us. She likes us all — she adores my mother. Her absolute silence as to her former life, when by speaking out she might benefit us, proves to me that some awful secret, which she dares not reveal, weighs on her mind. It may also be that she believes it better for us, as well as for herself, that she should remain mute in a way otherwise so unaccountable.”

In consequence of these opinions, it was agreed by common consent to avoid all allusion to the maiden’s former mode of life. One day, however, Harry was led to make known to Nell what James Starr, his father, mother, and himself believed they owed to her interference.

It was a fete-day. The miners made holiday on the surface of the county of Stirling as well as in its subterraneous domains. Parties of holiday-makers were moving about in all directions. Songs resounded in many places beneath the sonorous vaults of New Aberfoyle. Harry and Nell left the cottage, and slowly walked along the left bank of Loch Malcolm.

Then the electric brilliance darted less vividly, and the rays were interrupted with fantastic effect by the sharp angles of the picturesque rocks which supported the dome. This imperfect light suited Nell, to whose eyes a glare was very unpleasant.

“Nell,” said Harry, “your eyes are not fit for daylight yet, and could not bear the brightness of the sun.”

“Indeed they could not,” replied the girl; “if the sun is such as you describe it to me, Harry.”

“I cannot by any words, Nell, give you an idea either of his splendor or of the beauty of that universe which your eyes have never beheld. But tell me, is it really possible that, since the day when you were born in the depths of the coal mine, you never once have been up to the surface of the earth?”

“Never once, Harry,” said she; “I do not believe that, even as an infant, my father or mother ever carried me thither. I am sure I should have retained some impression of the open air if they had.”

“I believe you would,” answered Harry. “Long ago, Nell, many children used to live altogether in the mine; communication was then difficult, and I have met with more than one young person, quite as ignorant as you are of things above-ground. But now the railway through our great tunnel takes us in a few minutes to the upper regions of our country. I long, Nell, to hear you say, ‘Come, Harry, my eyes can bear daylight, and I want to see the sun! I want to look upon the works of the Almighty.’”

“I shall soon say so, Harry, I hope,” replied the girl; “I shall soon go with you to the world above; and yet — ”

“What are you going to say, Nell?” hastily cried Harry; “can you possibly regret having quitted that gloomy abyss in which you spent your early years, and whence we drew you half dead?”

“No, Harry,” answered Nell; “I was only thinking that darkness is beautiful as well as light. If you but knew what eyes accustomed to its depth can see! Shades flit by, which one longs to follow; circles mingle and intertwine, and one could gaze on them forever; black hollows, full of indefinite gleams of radiance, lie deep at the bottom of the mine. And then the voice-like sounds! Ah, Harry! one must have lived down there to understand what I feel, what I can never express.”

“And were you not afraid, Nell, all alone there?”

“It was just when I was alone that I was not afraid.”

Nell’s voice altered slightly as she said these words; however, Harry thought he might press the subject a little further, so he said, “But one might be easily lost in these great galleries, Nell. Were you not afraid of losing your way?”

“Oh, no, Harry; for a long time I had known every turn of the new mine.”

“Did you never leave it?”

“Yes, now and then,” answered the girl with a little hesitation; “sometimes I have been as far as the old mine of Aberfoyle.”

“So you knew our old cottage?”

“The cottage! oh, yes; but the people who lived there I only saw at a great distance.”

“They were my father and mother,” said Harry; “and I was there too; we have always lived there — we never would give up the old dwelling.”

“Perhaps it would have been better for you if you had,” murmured the maiden.

“Why so, Nell? Was it not just because we were obstinately resolved to remain that we ended by discovering the new vein of coal? And did not that discovery lead to the happy result of providing work for a large population, and restoring them to ease and comfort? and did it not enable us to find you, Nell, to save your life, and give you the love of all our hearts?”

“Ah, yes, for me indeed it is well, whatever may happen,” replied Nell earnestly; “for others — who can tell?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing — nothing. But it used to be very dangerous at that time to go into the new cutting — yes, very dangerous indeed, Harry! Once some rash people made their way into these chasms. They got a long, long way; they were lost!”

“They were lost?” said Harry, looking at her.

“Yes, lost!” repeated Nell in a trembling voice. “They could not find their way out.”

“And there,” cried Harry, “they were imprisoned during eight long days! They were at the point of death, Nell; and, but for a kind and charitable being — an angel perhaps — sent by God to help them, who secretly brought them a little food; but for a mysterious guide, who afterwards led to them their deliverers, they never would have escaped from that living tomb!”

“And how do you know about that?” demanded the girl.

“Because those men were James Starr, my father, and myself, Nell!”

Nell looked up hastily, seized the young man’s hand, and gazed so fixedly into his eyes that his feelings were stirred to their depths. “You were there?” at last she uttered.

“I was indeed,” said Harry, after a pause, “and she to whom we owe our lives can have been none other than yourself, Nell!”

Nell hid her face in her hands without speaking. Harry had never seen her so much affected.

“Those who saved your life, Nell,” added he in a voice tremulous with emotion, “already owed theirs to you; do you think they will ever forget it?”

CHAPTER XIII. ON THE REVOLVING LADDER

THE mining operations at New Aberfoyle continued to be carried on very successfully. As a matter of course, the engineer, James Starr, as well as Simon Ford, the discoverers of this rich carboniferous region, shared largely in the profits.

In time Harry became a partner. But he never thought of quitting the cottage. He took his father’s place as overman, and diligently superintended the works of this colony of miners. Jack Ryan was proud and delighted at the good fortune which had befallen his comrade. He himself was getting on very well also.

They frequently met, either at the cottage or at the works in the pit. Jack did not fail to remark the sentiments entertained by Harry towards Nell. Harry would not confess to them; but Jack only laughed at him when he shook his head and tried to deny any special interest in her.

It must be noted that Jack Ryan had the greatest possible wish to be of the party when Nell should pay her first visit to the upper surface of the county of Stirling. He wished to see her wonder and admiration on first beholding the yet unknown face of Nature. He very much hoped that Harry would take him with them when the excursion was made. As yet, however, the latter had made no proposal of the kind to him, which caused him to feel a little uneasy as to his intentions.

One morning Jack Ryan was descending through a shaft which led from the surface to the lower regions of the pit. He did so by means of one of those ladders which, continually revolving by machinery, enabled persons to ascend and descend without fatigue. This apparatus had lowered him about a hundred and fifty feet, when at a narrow landing-place he perceived Harry, who was coming up to his labors for the day.

“Well met, my friend!” cried Jack, recognizing his comrade by the light of the electric lamps.

“Ah, Jack!” replied Harry, “I am glad to see you. I’ve got something to propose.”

“I can listen to nothing till you tell me how Nell is,” interrupted Jack Ryan.

“Nell is all right, Jack — so much so, in fact, that I hope in a month or six weeks — ”

“To marry her, Harry?”

“Jack, you don’t know what you are talking about!”

“Ah, that’s very likely; but I know quite well what I shall do.”

“What will you do?”

“Marry her myself, if you don’t; so look sharp,” laughed Jack. “By Saint Mungo! I think an immense deal of bonny Nell! A fine young creature like that, who has been brought up in the mine, is just the very wife for a miner. She is an orphan — so am I; and if you don’t care much for her, and if she will have me — ”

Harry looked gravely at Jack, and let him talk on without trying to stop him. “Don’t you begin to feel jealous, Harry?” asked Jack in a more serious tone.

“Not at all,” answered Harry quietly.

“But if you don’t marry Nell yourself, you surely can’t expect her to remain a spinster?”

“I expect nothing,” said Harry.

A movement of the ladder machinery now gave the two friends the opportunity — one to go up, the other down the shaft. However, they remained where they were.

“Harry,” quoth Jack, “do you think I spoke in earnest just now about Nell?”

“No, that I don’t, Jack.”

“Well, but now I will!”

“You? speak in earnest?”

“My good fellow, I can tell you I am quite capable of giving a friend a bit of advice.”

“Let’s hear, then, Jack!”

“Well, look here! You love Nell as heartily as she deserves. Old Simon, your father, and old Madge, your mother, both love her as if she were their daughter. Why don’t you make her so in reality? Why don’t you marry her?”

“Come, Jack,” said Harry, “you are running on as if you knew how Nell felt on the subject.”

“Everybody knows that,” replied Jack, “and therefore it is impossible to make you jealous of any of us. But here goes the ladder again — I’m off!”

“Stop a minute, Jack!” cried Harry, detaining his companion, who was stepping onto the moving staircase.

“I say! you seem to mean me to take up my quarters here altogether!”

“Do be serious and listen, Jack! I want to speak in earnest myself now.”

“Well, I’ll listen till the ladder moves again, not a minute longer.”

“Jack,” resumed Harry, “I need not pretend that I do not love Nell; I wish above all things to make her my wife.”

“That’s all right!”

“But for the present I have scruples of conscience as to asking her to make me a promise which would be irrevocable.”

“What can you mean, Harry?”

“I mean just this — that, it being certain Nell has never been outside this coal mine in the very depths of which she was born, it stands to reason that she knows nothing, and can comprehend nothing of what exists beyond it. Her eyes — yes, and perhaps also her heart — have everything yet to learn. Who can tell what her thoughts will be, when perfectly new impressions shall be made upon her mind? As yet she knows nothing of the world, and to me it would seem like deceiving her, if I led her to decide in ignorance, upon choosing to remain all her life in the coal mine. Do you understand me, Jack?”

“Hem! — yes — pretty well. What I understand best is that you are going to make me miss another turn of the ladder.”

“Jack,” replied Harry gravely, “if this machinery were to stop altogether, if this landing-place were to fall beneath our feet, you must and shall hear what I have to say.”

“Well done, Harry! that’s how I like to be spoken to! Let’s settle, then, that, before you marry Nell, she shall go to school in Auld Reekie.”

“No indeed, Jack; I am perfectly able myself to educate the person who is to be my wife.”

“Sure that will be a great deal better, Harry!”

“But, first of all,” resumed Harry, “I wish that Nell should gain a real knowledge of the upper world. To illustrate my meaning, Jack, suppose you were in love with a blind girl, and someone said to you, ‘In a month’s time her sight will be restored,’ would you not wait till after she was cured, to marry her?”

“Faith, to be sure I would!” exclaimed Jack.

“Well, Jack, Nell is at present blind; and before she marries me, I wish her to see what I am, and what the life really is to which she would bind herself. In short, she must have daylight let in upon the subject!”

“Well said, Harry! Very well said indeed!” cried Jack. “Now I see what you are driving at. And when may we expect the operation to come off?”

“In a month, Jack,” replied Harry. “Nell is getting used to the light of our reflectors. That is some preparation. In a month she will, I hope, have seen the earth and its wonders — the sky and its splendors. She will perceive that the limits of the universe are boundless.”

But while Harry was thus giving the rein to his imagination, Jack Ryan, quitting the platform, had leaped on the step of the moving machinery.

“Hullo, Jack! Where are you?”

“Far beneath you,” laughed the merry fellow. “While you soar to the heights, I plunge into the depths.”

“Fare ye well. Jack!” returned Harry, himself laying hold of the rising ladder; “mind you say nothing about what I have been telling you.”

“Not a word,” shouted Jack, “but I make one condition.”

“What is that?”

“That I may be one of the party when Nell’s first excursion to the face of the earth comes off!”

“So you shall, Jack, I promise you!”

A fresh throb of the machinery placed a yet more considerable distance between the friends. Their voices sounded faintly to each other. Harry, however, could still hear Jack shouting: “I say! do you know what Nell will like better than either sun, moon, or stars, after she’s seen the whole of them?”

“No, Jack!”

“Why, you yourself, old fellow! still you! always you!” And Jack’s voice died away in a prolonged “Hurrah!”

Harry, after this, applied himself diligently, during all his spare time, to the work of Nell’s education. He taught her to read and to write, and such rapid progress did she make, it might have been said that she learnt by instinct. Never did keen intelligence more quickly triumph over utter ignorance. It was the wonder of all beholders.

Simon and Madge became every day more and more attached to their adopted child, whose former history continued to puzzle them a good deal. They plainly saw the nature of Harry’s feelings towards her, and were far from displeased thereat. They recollected that Simon had said to the engineer on his first visit to the old cottage, “How can our son ever think of marrying? Where could a wife possibly be found suitable for a lad whose whole life must be passed in the depths of a coal mine?”

Well! now it seemed as if the most desirable companion in the world had been led to him by Providence. Was not this like a blessing direct from Heaven? So the old man made up his mind that, if the wedding did take place, the miners of New Aberfoyle should have a merry-making at Coal Town, which they would never during their lives forget. Simon Ford little knew what he was saying!

It must be remarked that another person wished for this union of Harry and Nell as much as Simon did — and that was James Starr, the engineer. Of course he was really interested in the happiness of the two young people. But another motive, connected with wider interests, influenced him to desire it.

It has been said that James Starr continued to entertain a certain amount of apprehension, although for the present nothing appeared to justify it. Yet that which had been might again be. This mystery about the new cutting — Nell was evidently the only person acquainted with it. Now, if fresh dangers were in store for the miners of Aberfoyle, how were they possibly to be guarded against, without so much as knowing the cause of them?

“Nell has persisted in keeping silence,” said James Starr very often, “but what she has concealed from others, she will not long hide from her husband. Any danger would be danger to Harry as well as to the rest of us. Therefore, a marriage which brings happiness to the lovers, and safety to their friends, will be a good marriage, if ever there is such a thing here below.”

Thus, not illogically, reasoned James Starr. He communicated his ideas to old Simon, who decidedly appreciated them. Nothing, then, appeared to stand in the way of the match. What, in fact, was there to prevent it? They loved each other; the parents desired nothing better for their son. Harry’s comrades envied his good fortune, but freely acknowledged that he deserved it. The maiden depended on no one else, and had but to give the consent of her own heart.

Why, then, if there were none to place obstacles in the way of this union — why, as night came on, and, the labors of the day being over, the electric lights in the mine were extinguished, and all the inhabitants of Coal Town at rest within their dwellings — why did a mysterious form always emerge from the gloomier recesses of New Aberfoyle, and silently glide through the darkness?

What instinct guided this phantom with ease through passages so narrow as to appear to be impracticable?

Why should the strange being, with eyes flashing through the deepest darkness, come cautiously creeping along the shores of Lake Malcolm? Why so directly make his way towards Simon’s cottage, yet so carefully as hitherto to avoid notice? Why, bending towards the windows, did he strive to catch, by listening, some fragment of the conversation within the closed shutters?

And, on catching a few words, why did he shake his fist with a menacing gesture towards the calm abode, while from between his set teeth issued these words in muttered fury, “She and he? Never! never!”

CHAPTER XIV. A SUNRISE

A MONTH after this, on the evening of the 20th of August, Simon Ford and Madge took leave, with all manner of good wishes, of four tourists, who were setting forth from the cottage.

James Starr, Harry, and Jack Ryan were about to lead Nell’s steps over yet untrodden paths, and to show her the glories of nature by a light to which she was as yet a stranger. The excursion was to last for two days. James Starr, as well as Harry, considered that during these eight and forty hours spent above ground, the maiden would be able to see everything of which she must have remained ignorant in the gloomy pit; all the varied aspects of the globe, towns, plains, mountains, rivers, lakes, gulfs, and seas would pass, panorama-like, before her eyes.

In that part of Scotland lying between Edinburgh and Glasgow, nature would seem to have collected and set forth specimens of every one of these terrestrial beauties. As to the heavens, they would be spread abroad as over the whole earth, with their changeful clouds, serene or veiled moon, their radiant sun, and clustering stars. The expedition had been planned so as to combine a view of all these things.

Simon and Madge would have been glad to go with Nell; but they never left their cottage willingly, and could not make up their minds to quit their subterranean home for a single day.

James Starr went as an observer and philosopher, curious to note, from a psychological point of view, the novel impressions made upon Nell; perhaps also with some hope of detecting a clue to the mysterious events connected with her childhood. Harry, with a little trepidation, asked himself whether it was not possible that this rapid initiation into the things of the exterior world would change the maiden he had known and loved hitherto into quite a different girl. As for Jack Ryan, he was as joyous as a lark rising in the first beams of the sun. He only trusted that his gayety would prove contagious, and enliven his traveling companions, thus rewarding them for letting him join them. Nell was pensive and silent.

James Starr had decided, very sensibly, to set off in the evening. It would be very much better for the girl to pass gradually from the darkness of night to the full light of day; and that would in this way be managed, since between midnight and noon she would experience the successive phases of shade and sunshine, to which her sight had to get accustomed.

Just as they left the cottage, Nell took Harry’s hand saying, “Harry, is it really necessary for me to leave the mine at all, even for these few days?”

“Yes, it is, Nell,” replied the young man. “It is needful for both of us.”

“But, Harry,” resumed Nell, “ever since you found me, I have been as happy as I can possibly be. You have been teaching me. Why is that not enough? What am I going up there for?”

Harry looked at her in silence. Nell was giving utterance to nearly his own thoughts.

“My child,” said James Starr, “I can well understand the hesitation you feel; but it will be good for you to go with us. Those who love you are taking you, and they will bring you back again. Afterwards you will be free, if you wish it, to continue your life in the coal mine, like old Simon, and Madge, and Harry. But at least you ought to be able to compare what you give up with what you choose, then decide freely. Come!”

“Come, dear Nell!” cried Harry.

“Harry, I am willing to follow you,” replied the maiden. At nine o’clock the last train through the tunnel started to convey Nell and her companions to the surface of the earth. Twenty minutes later they alighted on the platform where the branch line to New Aberfoyle joins the railway from Dumbarton to Stirling.

The night was already dark. From the horizon to the zenith, light vapory clouds hurried through the upper air, driven by a refreshing northwesterly breeze. The day had been lovely; the night promised to be so likewise.

On reaching Stirling, Nell and her friends, quitting the train, left the station immediately. Just before them, between high trees, they could see a road which led to the banks of the river Forth.

The first physical impression on the girl was the purity of the air inhaled eagerly by her lungs.

“Breathe it freely, Nell,” said James Starr; “it is fragrant with all the scents of the open country.”

“What is all that smoke passing over our heads?” inquired Nell.

“Those are clouds,” answered Harry, “blown along by the westerly wind.”

“Ah!” said Nell, “how I should like to feel myself carried along in that silent whirl! And what are those shining sparks which glance here and there between rents in the clouds?”

“Those are the stars I have told you about, Nell. So many suns they are, so many centers of worlds like our own, most likely.”

The constellations became more clearly visible as the wind cleared the clouds from the deep blue of the firmament. Nell gazed upon the myriad stars which sparkled overhead. “But how is it,” she said at length, “that if these are suns, my eyes can endure their brightness?”

“My child,” replied James Starr, “they are indeed suns, but suns at an enormous distance. The nearest of these millions of stars, whose rays can reach us, is Vega, that star in Lyra which you observe near the zenith, and that is fifty thousand millions of leagues distant. Its brightness, therefore, cannot affect your vision. But our own sun, which will rise to-morrow, is only distant thirty-eight millions of leagues, and no human eye can gaze fixedly upon that, for it is brighter than the blaze of any furnace. But come, Nell, come!”

They pursued their way, James Starr leading the maiden, Harry walking by her side, while Jack Ryan roamed about like a young dog, impatient of the slow pace of his masters. The road was lonely. Nell kept looking at the great trees, whose branches, waving in the wind, made them seem to her like giants gesticulating wildly. The sound of the breeze in the tree-tops, the deep silence during a lull, the distant line of the horizon, which could be discerned when the road passed over open levels — all these things filled her with new sensations, and left lasting impressions on her mind.

After some time she ceased to ask questions, and her companions respected her silence, not wishing to influence by any words of theirs the girl’s highly sensitive imagination, but preferring to allow ideas to arise spontaneously in her soul.

At about half past eleven o’clock, they gained the banks of the river Forth. There a boat, chartered by James Starr, awaited them. In a few hours it would convey them all to Granton. Nell looked at the clear water which flowed up to her feet, as the waves broke gently on the beach, reflecting the starlight. “Is this a lake?” said she.

“No,” replied Harry, “it is a great river flowing towards the sea, and soon opening so widely as to resemble a gulf. Taste a little of the water in the hollow of your hand, Nell, and you will perceive that it is not sweet like the waters of Lake Malcolm.”

The maiden bent towards the stream, and, raising a little water to her lips, “This is quite salt,” said she.

“Yes, the tide is full; the sea water flows up the river as far as this,” answered Harry.

“Oh, Harry! Harry!” exclaimed the maiden, “what can that red glow on the horizon be? Is it a forest on fire?”

“No, it is the rising moon, Nell.”

“To be sure, that’s the moon,” cried Jack Ryan, “a fine big silver plate, which the spirits of air hand round and round the sky to collect the stars in, like money.”

“Why, Jack,” said the engineer, laughing, “I had no idea you could strike out such bold comparisons!”

“Well, but, Mr. Starr, it is a just comparison. Don’t you see the stars disappear as the moon passes on? so I suppose they drop into it.”

“What you mean to say, Jack, is that the superior brilliancy of the moon eclipses that of stars of the sixth magnitude, therefore they vanish as she approaches.”

“How beautiful all this is!” repeated Nell again and again, with her whole soul in her eyes. “But I thought the moon was round?”

“So she is, when ‘full,’” said James Starr; “that means when she is just opposite to the sun. But to-night the moon is in the last quarter, shorn of her just proportions, and friend Jack’s grand silver plate looks more like a barber’s basin.”

“Oh, Mr. Starr, what a base comparison!” he exclaimed, “I was just going to begin a sonnet to the moon, but your barber’s basin has destroyed all chance of an inspiration.”

Gradually the moon ascended the heavens. Before her light the lingering clouds fled away, while stars still sparkled in the west, beyond the influence of her radiance. Nell gazed in silence on the glorious spectacle. The soft silvery light was pleasant to her eyes, and her little trembling hand expressed to Harry, who clasped it, how deeply she was affected by the scene.

“Let us embark now,” said James Starr. “We have to get to the top of Arthur’s Seat before sunrise.”

The boat was moored to a post on the bank. A boatman awaited them. Nell and her friends took their seats; the sail was spread; it quickly filled before the northwesterly breeze, and they sped on their way.

What a new sensation was this for the maiden! She had been rowed on the waters of Lake Malcolm; but the oar, handled ever so lightly by Harry, always betrayed effort on the part of the oarsman. Now, for the first time, Nell felt herself borne along with a gliding movement, like that of a balloon through the air. The water was smooth as a lake, and Nell reclined in the stern of the boat, enjoying its gentle rocking. Occasionally the effect of the moonlight on the waters was as though the boat sailed across a glittering silver field. Little wavelets rippled along the banks. It was enchanting.

At length Nell was overcome with drowsiness, her eyelids drooped, her head sank on Harry’s shoulder — she slept. Harry, sorry that she should miss any of the beauties of this magnificent night, would have aroused her.

“Let her sleep!” said the engineer. “She will better enjoy the novelties of the day after a couple of hours’ rest.”

At two o’clock in the morning the boat reached Granton pier. Nell awoke. “Have I been asleep?” inquired she.

“No, my child,” said James Starr. “You have been dreaming that you slept, that’s all.”

The night continued clear. The moon, riding in mid-heaven, diffused her rays on all sides. In the little port of Granton lay two or three fishing boats; they rocked gently on the waters of the Firth. The wind fell as the dawn approached. The atmosphere, clear of mists, promised one of those fine autumn days so delicious on the sea coast.

A soft, transparent film of vapor lay along the horizon; the first sunbeam would dissipate it; to the maiden it exhibited that aspect of the sea which seems to blend it with the sky. Her view was now enlarged, without producing the impression of the boundless infinity of ocean.

Harry taking Nell’s hand, they followed James Starr and Jack Ryan as they traversed the deserted streets. To Nell, this suburb of the capital appeared only a collection of gloomy dark houses, just like Coal Town, only that the roof was higher, and gleamed with small lights.

She stepped lightly forward, and easily kept pace with Harry. “Are you not tired, Nell?” asked he, after half an hour’s walking.

“No! my feet seem scarcely to touch the earth,” returned she. “This sky above us seems so high up, I feel as if I could take wing and fly!”

“I say! keep hold of her!” cried Jack Ryan. “Our little Nell is too good to lose. I feel just as you describe though, myself, when I have not left the pit for a long time.”

“It is when we no longer experience the oppressive effect of the vaulted rocky roof above Coal Town,” said James Starr, “that the spacious firmament appears to us like a profound abyss into which we have, as it were, a desire to plunge. Is that what you feel, Nell?”

“Yes, Mr. Starr, it is exactly like that,” said Nell. “It makes me feel giddy.”

“Ah! you will soon get over that, Nell,” said Harry. “You will get used to the outer world, and most likely forget all about our dark coal pit.”

“No, Harry, never!” said Nell, and she put her hand over her eyes, as though she would recall the remembrance of everything she had lately quitted.

Between the silent dwellings of the city, the party passed along Leith Walk, and went round the Calton Hill, where stood, in the light of the gray dawn, the buildings of the Observatory and Nelson’s Monument. By Regent’s Bridge and the North Bridge they at last reached the lower extremity of the Canongate. The town still lay wrapt in slumber.

Nell pointed to a large building in the center of an open space, asking, “What great confused mass is that?”

“That confused mass, Nell, is the palace of the ancient kings of Scotland; that is Holyrood, where many a sad scene has been enacted! The historian can here invoke many a royal shade; from those of the early Scottish kings to that of the unhappy Mary Stuart, and the French king, Charles X. When day breaks, however, Nell, this palace will not look so very gloomy. Holyrood, with its four embattled towers, is not unlike some handsome country house. But let us pursue our way. There, just above the ancient Abbey of Holyrood, are the superb cliffs called Salisbury Crags. Arthur’s Seat rises above them, and that is where we are going. From the summit of Arthur’s Seat, Nell, your eyes shall behold the sun appear above the horizon seaward.”

They entered the King’s Park, then, gradually ascending they passed across the Queen’s Drive, a splendid carriageway encircling the hill, which we owe to a few lines in one of Sir Walter Scott’s romances.

Arthur’s Seat is in truth only a hill, seven hundred and fifty feet high, which stands alone amid surrounding heights. In less than half an hour, by an easy winding path, James Starr and his party reached the crest of the crouching lion, which, seen from the west, Arthur’s Seat so much resembles. There, all four seated themselves; and James Starr, ever ready with quotations from the great Scottish novelist, simply said, “Listen to what is written by Sir Walter Scott in the eighth chapter of the Heart of Mid-Lothian. ‘If I were to choose a spot from which the rising or setting sun could be seen to the greatest possible advantage, it would be from this neighborhood.’ Now watch, Nell! the sun will soon appear, and for the first time you will contemplate its splendor.”

The maiden turned her eyes eastward. Harry, keeping close beside her, observed her with anxious interest. Would the first beams of day overpower her feelings? All remained quiet, even Jack Ryan. A faint streak of pale rose tinted the light vapors of the horizon. It was the first ray of light attacking the laggards of the night. Beneath the hill lay the silent city, massed confusedly in the twilight of dawn. Here and there lights twinkled among the houses of the old town. Westward rose many hill-tops, soon to be illuminated by tips of fire.

Now the distant horizon of the sea became more plainly visible. The scale of colors fell into the order of the solar. Every instant they increased in intensity, rose color became red, red became fiery, daylight dawned. Nell now glanced towards the city, of which the outlines became more distinct. Lofty monuments, slender steeples emerged from the gloom; a kind of ashy light was spread abroad. At length one solitary ray struck on the maiden’s sight. It was that ray of green which, morning or evening, is reflected upwards from the sea when the horizon is clear.

An instant afterwards, Nell turned, and pointing towards a bright prominent point in the New Town, “Fire!” cried she.

“No, Nell, that is no fire,” said Harry. “The sun has touched with gold the top of Sir Walter Scott’s monument” — and, indeed, the extreme point of the monument blazed like the light of a pharos.

It was day — the sun arose — his disc seemed to glitter as though he indeed emerged from the waters of the sea. Appearing at first very large from the effects of refraction, he contracted as he rose and assumed the perfectly circular form. Soon no eye could endure the dazzling splendor; it was as though the mouth of a furnace was opened through the sky.

Nell closed her eyes, but her eyelids could not exclude the glare, and she pressed her fingers over them. Harry advised her to turn in the opposite direction. “Oh, no,” said she, “my eyes must get used to look at what yours can bear to see!”

Even through her hands Nell perceived a rosy light, which became more white as the sun rose above the horizon. As her sight became accustomed to it, her eyelids were raised, and at length her eyes drank in the light of day.

The good child knelt down, exclaiming, “Oh Lord God! how beautiful is Thy creation!” Then she rose and looked around. At her feet extended the panorama of Edinburgh — the clear, distinct lines of streets in the New Town, and the irregular mass of houses, with their confused network of streets and lanes, which constitutes Auld Reekie, properly so called. Two heights commanded the entire city; Edinburgh Castle, crowning its huge basaltic rock, and the Calton Hill, bearing on its rounded summit, among other monuments, ruins built to represent those of the Parthenon at Athens.

Fine roadways led in all directions from the capital. To the north, the coast of the noble Firth of Forth was indented by a deep bay, in which could be seen the seaport town of Leith, between which and this Modern Athens of the north ran a street, straight as that leading to the Piraeus.

Beyond the wide Firth could be seen the soft outlines of the county of Fife, while beneath the spectator stretched the yellow sands of Portobello and Newhaven.

Nell could not speak. Her lips murmured a word or two indistinctly; she trembled, became giddy, her strength failed her; overcome by the purity of the air and the sublimity of the scene, she sank fainting into Harry’s arms, who, watching her closely, was ready to support her.

The youthful maiden, hitherto entombed in the massive depths of the earth, had now obtained an idea of the universe — of the works both of God and of man. She had looked upon town and country, and beyond these, into the immensity of the sea, the infinity of the heavens.

CHAPTER XV. LOCH LOMOND AND LOCH KATRINE

HARRY bore Nell carefully down the steeps of Arthur’s Seat, and, accompanied by James Starr and Jack Ryan, they reached Lambert’s Hotel. There a good breakfast restored their strength, and they began to make further plans for an excursion to the Highland lakes.

Nell was now refreshed, and able to look boldly forth into the sunshine, while her lungs with ease inhaled the free and healthful air. Her eyes learned gladly to know the harmonious varieties of color as they rested on the green trees, the azure skies, and all the endless shades of lovely flowers and plants.

The railway train, which they entered at the Waverley Station, conveyed Nell and her friends to Glasgow. There, from the new bridge across the Clyde, they watched the curious sea-like movement of the river. After a night’s rest at Comrie’s Royal Hotel, they betook themselves to the terminus of the Edinburgh and Glasgow Railway, from whence a train would rapidly carry them, by way of Dumbarton and Balloch, to the southern extremity of Loch Lomond.

“Now for the land of Rob Roy and Fergus MacIvor! — the scenery immortalized by the poetical descriptions of Walter Scott,” exclaimed James Starr. “You don’t know this country, Jack?”

“Only by its songs, Mr. Starr,” replied Jack; “and judging by those, it must be grand.”

“So it is, so it is!” cried the engineer, “and our dear Nell shall see it to the best advantage.”

A steamboat, the SINCLAIR by name, awaited tourists about to make the excursion to the lakes. Nell and her companions went on board. The day had begun in brilliant sunshine, free from the British fogs which so often veil the skies.

The passengers were determined to lose none of the beauties of nature to be displayed during the thirty miles’ voyage. Nell, seated between James Starr and Harry, drank in with every faculty the magnificent poetry with which lovely Scottish scenery is fraught. Numerous small isles and islets soon appeared, as though thickly sown on the bosom of the lake. The SINCLAIR steamed her way among them, while between them glimpses could be had of quiet valleys, or wild rocky gorges on the mainland.

“Nell,” said James Starr, “every island here has its legend, perhaps its song, as well as the mountains which overshadow the lake. One may, without much exaggeration, say that the history of this country is written in gigantic characters of mountains and islands.”

Nell listened, but these fighting stories made her sad. Why all that bloodshed on plains which to her seemed enormous, and where surely there must have been room for everybody?

The shores of the lake form a little harbor at Luss. Nell could for a moment catch sight of the old tower of its ancient castle. Then, the SINCLAIR turning northward, the tourists gazed upon Ben Lomond, towering nearly 3,000 feet above the level of the lake.

“Oh, what a noble mountain!” cried Nell; “what a view there must be from the top!”

“Yes, Nell,” answered James Starr; “see how haughtily its peak rises from amidst the thicket of oaks, birches, and heather, which clothe the lower portion of the mountain! From thence one may see two-thirds of old Caledonia. This eastern side of the lake was the special abode of the clan McGregor. At no great distance, the struggles of the Jacobites and Hanoverians repeatedly dyed with blood these lonely glens. Over these scenes shines the pale moon, called in old ballads ‘Macfarlane’s lantern.’ Among these rocks still echo the immortal names of Rob Roy and McGregor Campbell.”

As the SINCLAIR advanced along the base of the mountain, the country became more and more abrupt in character. Trees were only scattered here and there; among them were the willows, slender wands of which were formerly used for hanging persons of low degree.

“To economize hemp,” remarked James Starr.

The lake narrowed very much as it stretched northwards.

The steamer passed a few more islets, Inveruglas, Eilad-whow, where stand some ruins of a stronghold of the clan MacFarlane. At length the head of the loch was reached, and the SINCLAIR stopped at Inversnaid.

Leaving Loch Arklet on the left, a steep ascent led to the Inn of Stronachlacar, on the banks of Loch Katrine.

There, at the end of a light pier, floated a small steamboat, named, as a matter of course, the Rob Roy. The travelers immediately went on board; it was about to start. Loch Katrine is only ten miles in length; its width never exceeds two miles. The hills nearest it are full of a character peculiar to themselves.

“Here we are on this famous lake,” said James Starr. “It has been compared to an eel on account of its length and windings: and justly so. They say that it never freezes. I know nothing about that, but what we want to think of is, that here are the scenes of the adventures in the Lady of the Lake. I believe, if friend Jack looked about him carefully, he might see, still gliding over the surface of the water, the shade of the slender form of sweet Ellen Douglas.”

“To be sure, Mr. Starr,” replied Jack; “why should I not? I may just as well see that pretty girl on the waters of Loch Katrine, as those ugly ghosts on Loch Malcolm in the coal pit.”

It was by this time three o’clock in the afternoon. The less hilly shores of Loch Katrine westward extended like a picture framed between Ben An and Ben Venue. At the distance of half a mile was the entrance to the narrow bay, where was the landing-place for our tourists, who meant to return to Stirling by Callander.

Nell appeared completely worn out by the continued excitement of the day. A faint ejaculation was all she was able to utter in token of admiration as new objects of wonder or beauty met her gaze. She required some hours of rest, were it but to impress lastingly the recollection of all she had seen.

Her hand rested in Harry’s, and, looking earnestly at her, he said, “Nell, dear Nell, we shall soon be home again in the gloomy region of the coal mine. Shall you not pine for what you have seen during these few hours spent in the glorious light of day?”

“No, Harry,” replied the girl; “I shall like to think about it, but I am glad to go back with you to our dear old home.”

“Nell!” said Harry, vainly attempting to steady his voice, “are you willing to be bound to me by the most sacred tie? Could you marry me, Nell?”

“Yes, Harry, I could, if you are sure that I am able to make you happy,” answered the maiden, raising her innocent eyes to his.

Scarcely had she pronounced these words when an unaccountable phenomenon took place. The Rob Roy, still half a mile from land, experienced a violent shock. She suddenly grounded. No efforts of the engine could move her.

The cause of this accident was simply that Loch Katrine was all at once emptied, as though an enormous fissure had opened in its bed. In a few seconds it had the appearance of a sea beach at low water. Nearly the whole of its contents had vanished into the bosom of the earth.

“My friends!” exclaimed James Starr, as the cause of this marvel became suddenly clear to him, “God help New Aberfoyle!”

CHAPTER XVI. A FINAL THREAT

ON that day, in the colliery of New Aberfoyle, work was going on in the usual regular way. In the distance could be heard the crash of great charges of dynamite, by which the carboniferous rocks were blasted. Here masses of coal were loosened by pick-ax and crowbar; there the perforating machines, with their harsh grating, bored through the masses of sandstone and schist.

Hollow, cavernous noises resounded on all sides. Draughts of air rushed along the ventilating galleries, and the wooden swing-doors slammed beneath their violent gusts. In the lower tunnels, trains of trucks kept passing along at the rate of fifteen miles an hour, while at their approach electric bells warned the workmen to cower down in the refuge places. Lifts went incessantly up and down, worked by powerful engines on the surface of the soil. Coal Town was throughout brilliantly lighted by the electric lamps at full power.

Mining operations were being carried on with the greatest activity; coal was being piled incessantly into the trucks, which went in hundreds to empty themselves into the corves at the bottom of the shaft. While parties of miners who had labored during the night were taking needful rest, the others worked without wasting an hour.

Old Simon Ford and Madge, having finished their dinner, were resting at the door of their cottage. Simon smoked a good pipe of tobacco, and from time to time the old couple spoke of Nell, of their boy, of Mr. Starr, and wondered how they liked their trip to the surface of the earth. Where would they be now? What would they be doing? How could they stay so long away from the mine without feeling homesick?

Just then a terrific roaring noise was heard. It was like the sound of a mighty cataract rushing down into the mine. The old people rose hastily. They perceived at once that the waters of Loch Malcolm were rising. A great wave, unfurling like a billow, swept up the bank and broke against the walls of the cottage. Simon caught his wife in his arms, and carried her to the upper part of their dwelling.

At the same moment, cries arose from all parts of Coal Town, which was threatened by a sudden inundation. The inhabitants fled for safety to the top of the schist rocks bordering the lake; terror spread in all directions; whole families in frantic haste rushed towards the tunnel in order to reach the upper regions of the pit.

It was feared that the sea had burst into the colliery, for its galleries and passages penetrated as far as the Caledonian Canal. In that case the entire excavation, vast as it was, would be completely flooded. Not a single inhabitant of New Aberfoyle would escape death.

But when the foremost fugitives reached the entrance to the tunnel, they encountered Simon Ford, who had quitted his cottage. “Stop, my friends, stop!” shouted the old man; “if our town is to be overwhelmed, the floods will rush faster than you can; no one can possibly escape. But see! the waters are rising no further! it appears to me the danger is over.”

“And our comrades at the far end of the works — what about them?” cried some of the miners.

“There is nothing to fear for them,” replied Simon; “they are working on a higher level than the bed of the loch.”

It was soon evident that the old man was in the right. The sudden influx of water had rushed to the very lowest bed of the vast mine, and its only ultimate effect was to raise the level of Loch Malcolm a few feet. Coal Town was uninjured, and it was reasonable to hope that no one had perished in the flood of water which had descended to the depths of the mine never yet penetrated by the workmen.

Simon and his men could not decide whether this inundation was owing to the overflow of a subterranean sheet of water penetrating fissures in the solid rock, or to some underground torrent breaking through its worn bed, and precipitating itself to the lowest level of the mine. But that very same evening they knew what to think about it, for the local papers published an account of the marvelous phenomenon which Loch Katrine had exhibited.

The surprising news was soon after confirmed by the four travelers, who, returning with all possible speed to the cottage, learned with extreme satisfaction that no serious damage was done in New Aberfoyle.

The bed of Loch Katrine had fairly given way. The waters had suddenly broken through by an enormous fissure into the mine beneath. Of Sir Walter Scott’s favorite loch there was not left enough to wet the pretty foot of the Lady of the Lake; all that remained was a pond of a few acres at the further extremity.

This singular event made a profound sensation in the country. It was a thing unheard of that a lake should in the space of a few minutes empty itself, and disappear into the bowels of the earth. There was nothing for it but to erase Loch Katrine from the map of Scotland until (by public subscription) it could be refilled, care being of course taken, in the first place, to stop the rent up tight. This catastrophe would have been the death of Sir Walter Scott, had he still been in the world.

The accident was explicable when it was ascertained that, between the bed of the lake and the vast cavity beneath, the geological strata had become reduced to a thin layer, incapable of longer sustaining the weight of water.

Now, although to most people this event seemed plainly due to natural causes, yet to James Starr and his friends, Simon and Harry Ford, the question constantly recurred, was it not rather to be attributed to malevolence? Uneasy suspicions continually harassed their minds. Was their evil genius about to renew his persecution of those who ventured to work this rich mine?

At the cottage, some days later, James Starr thus discussed the matter with the old man and his son: “Well, Simon,” said he, “to my thinking we must class this circumstance with the others for which we still seek elucidation, although it is no doubt possible to explain it by natural causes.”

“I am quite of your mind, Mr. James,” replied Simon, “but take my advice, and say nothing about it; let us make all researches ourselves.”

“Oh, I know the result of such research beforehand!” cried the engineer.

“And what will it be, then?”

“We shall find proofs of malevolence, but not the malefactor.”

“But he exists! he is there! Where can he lie concealed? Is it possible to conceive that the most depraved human being could, single-handed, carry out an idea so infernal as that of bursting through the bed of a lake? I believe I shall end by thinking, like Jack Ryan, that the evil demon of the mine revenges himself on us for having invaded his domain.”

Nell was allowed to hear as little as possible of these discussions. Indeed, she showed no desire to enter into them, although it was very evident that she shared in the anxieties of her adopted parents. The melancholy in her countenance bore witness to much mental agitation.

It was at length resolved that James Starr, together with Simon and Harry, should return to the scene of the disaster, and endeavor to satisfy themselves as to the cause of it. They mentioned their project to no one. To those unacquainted with the group of facts on which it was based, the opinion of Starr and his friends could not fail to appear wholly inadmissible.

A few days later, the three friends proceeded in a small boat to examine the natural pillars on which had rested the solid earth forming the basin of Loch Katrine. They discovered that they had been right in suspecting that the massive columns had been undermined by blasting. The blackened traces of explosion were to be seen, the waters having subsided below the level of these mysterious operations Thus the fall of a portion of the vast vaulted dome was proved to have been premeditated by man, and by man’s hand had it been effected.

“It is impossible to doubt it,” said James Starr; “and who can say what might not have happened had the sea, instead of a little loch, been let in upon us?”

“You may well say that,” cried the old overman, with a feeling of pride in his beloved mine; “for nothing less than a sea would have drowned our Aberfoyle. But, once more, what possible interest could any human being have in the destruction of our works?”

“It is quite incomprehensible,” replied James Starr. “This case is something perfectly unlike that of a band of common criminals, who, concealing themselves in dens and caves, go forth to rob and pillage the surrounding country. The evil deeds of such men would certainly, in the course of three years have betrayed their existence and lurking-places. Neither can it be, as I sometimes used to think, that smugglers or coiners carried on their illegal practices in some distant and unknown corner of these prodigious caverns, and were consequently anxious to drive us out of them. But no one coins false money or obtains contraband goods only to conceal them!

“Yet it is clear that an implacable enemy has sworn the ruin of New Aberfoyle, and that some interest urges him to seek in every possible way to wreak his hatred upon us. He appears to be too weak to act openly, and lays his schemes in secret; but displays such intelligence as to render him a most formidable foe.

“My friends, he must understand better than we do the secrets of our domain, since he has all this time eluded our vigilance. He must be a man experienced in mining, skilled beyond the most skillful — that’s certain, Simon! We have proof enough of that.

“Let me see! Have you never had a personal enemy, to whom your suspicions might point? Think well! There is such a thing as hatred which time never softens. Go back to recollections of your earliest days. What befalls us appears the work of a stern and patient will, and to explain it demands every effort of thought and memory.”

Simon did not answer immediately — his mind evidently engaged in a close and candid survey of his past life. Presently, raising his head, “No,” said he; “no! Heaven be my witness, neither Madge nor I have ever injured anybody. We cannot believe that we have a single enemy in the world.”

“Ah! if Nell would only speak!” cried the engineer.

“Mr. Starr — and you, father,” said Harry, “I do beg of you to keep silence on this matter, and not to question my poor Nell. I know she is very anxious and uneasy; and I feel positive that some great secret painfully oppresses her heart. Either she knows nothing it would be of any use for us to hear, or she considers it her duty to be silent. It is impossible to doubt her affection for us — for all of us. If at a future time she informs me of what she has hitherto concealed from us, you shall know about it immediately.”

“So be it, then, Harry,” answered the engineer; “and yet I must say Nell’s silence, if she knows anything, is to me perfectly inexplicable.”

Harry would have continued her defense; but the engineer stopped him, saying, “All right, Harry; we promise to say no more about it to your future wife.”

“With my father’s consent she shall be my wife without further delay.”

“My boy,” said old Simon, “your marriage shall take place this very day month. Mr. Starr, will you undertake the part of Nell’s father?”

“You may reckon upon me for that, Simon,” answered the engineer.

They then returned to the cottage, but said not a word of the result of their examinations in the mine, so that to the rest of its inhabitants, the bursting in of the vaulted roof of the caverns continued to be regarded as a mere accident. There was but a loch the less in Scotland.

Nell gradually resumed her customary duties, and Harry made good use of her little visit to the upper air, in the instructions he gave her. She enjoyed the recollections of life above ground, yet without regretting it. The somber region she had loved as a child, and in which her wedded life would be spent, was as dear to her as ever.

The approaching marriage created great excitement in New Aberfoyle. Good wishes poured in on all sides, and foremost among them were Jack Ryan’s. He was detected busily practicing his best songs in preparation for the great day, which was to be celebrated by the whole population of Coal Town.

During the month preceding the wedding-day, there were more accidents occurring in New Aberfoyle than had ever been known in the place. One would have thought the approaching union of Harry and Nell actually provoked one catastrophe after another. These misfortunes happened chiefly at the further and lowest extremity of the works, and the cause of them was always in some way mysterious.

Thus, for instance, the wood-work of a distant gallery was discovered to be in flames, which were extinguished by Harry and his companions at the risk of their lives, by employing engines filled with water and carbonic acid, always kept ready in case of necessity. The lamp used by the incendiary was found; but no clew whatever as to who he could be.

Another time an inundation took place in consequence of the stanchions of a water-tank giving way; and Mr. Starr ascertained beyond a doubt that these supports had first of all been partially sawn through. Harry, who had been overseeing the works near the place at the time, was buried in the falling rubbish, and narrowly escaped death.

A few days afterwards, on the steam tramway, a train of trucks, which Harry was passing along, met with an obstacle on the rails, and was overturned. It was then discovered that a beam had been laid across the line. In short, events of this description became so numerous that the miners were seized with a kind of panic, and it required all the influence of their chiefs to keep them on the works.

“You would think that there was a whole band of these ruffians,” Simon kept saying, “and we can’t lay hands on a single one of them.”

Search was made in all directions. The county police were on the alert night and day, yet discovered nothing. The evil intentions seeming specially designed to injure Harry. Starr forbade him to venture alone beyond the ordinary limits of the works.

They were equally careful of Nell, although, at Harry’s entreaty, these malicious attempts to do harm were concealed from her, because they might remind her painfully of former times. Simon and Madge watched over her by day and by night with a sort of stern solicitude. The poor child yielded to their wishes, without a remark or a complaint. Did she perceive that they acted with a view to her interest? Probably she did. And on her part, she seemed to watch over others, and was never easy unless all whom she loved were together in the cottage.

When Harry came home in the evening, she could not restrain expressions of child-like joy, very unlike her usual manner, which was rather reserved than demonstrative. As soon as day broke, she was astir before anyone else, and her constant uneasiness lasted all day until the hour of return home from work.

Harry became very anxious that their marriage should take place. He thought that, when the irrevocable step was taken, malevolence would be disarmed, and that Nell would never feel safe until she was his wife. James Starr, Simon, and Madge, were all of the same opinion, and everyone counted the intervening days, for everyone suffered from the most uncomfortable forebodings.

It was perfectly evident that nothing relating to Nell was indifferent to this hidden foe, whom it was impossible to meet or to avoid. Therefore it seemed quite possible that the solemn act of her marriage with Harry might be the occasion of some new and dreadful outbreak of his hatred.

One morning, a week before the day appointed for the ceremony, Nell, rising early, went out of the cottage before anyone else. No sooner had she crossed the threshold than a cry of indescribable anguish escaped her lips.

Her voice was heard throughout the dwelling; in a moment, Madge, Harry, and Simon were at her side. Nell was pale as death, her countenance agitated, her features expressing the utmost horror. Unable to speak, her eyes were riveted on the door of the cottage, which she had just opened.

With rigid fingers she pointed to the following words traced upon it during the night: “Simon Ford, you have robbed me of the last vein in our old pit. Harry, your son, has robbed me of Nell. Woe betide you! Woe betide you all! Woe betide New Aberfoyle! — SILFAX.”

“Silfax!” exclaimed Simon and Madge together.

“Who is this man?” demanded Harry, looking alternately at his father and at the maiden.

“Silfax!” repeated Nell in tones of despair, “Silfax!” — and, murmuring this name, her whole frame shuddering with fear and agitation, she was borne away to her chamber by old Madge.

James Starr, hastening to the spot, read the threatening sentences again and again.

“The hand which traced these lines,” said he at length, “is the same which wrote me the letter contradicting yours, Simon. The man calls himself Silfax. I see by your troubled manner that you know him. Who is this Silfax?”

CHAPTER XVII. THE “MONK”

THIS name revealed everything to the old overman. It was that of the last “monk” of the Dochart pit.

In former days, before the invention of the safety-lamp, Simon had known this fierce man, whose business it was to go daily, at the risk of his life, to produce partial explosions of fire-damp in the passages. He used to see this strange solitary being, prowling about the mine, always accompanied by a monstrous owl, which he called Harfang, who assisted him in his perilous occupation, by soaring with a lighted match to places Silfax was unable to reach.

One day this old man disappeared, and at the same time also, a little orphan girl born in the mine, who had no relation but himself, her great-grandfather. It was perfectly evident now that this child was Nell. During the fifteen years, up to the time when she was saved by Harry, they must have lived in some secret abyss of the mine.

The old overman, full of mingled compassion and anger, made known to the engineer and Harry all that the name of Silfax had revealed to him. It explained the whole mystery. Silfax was the mysterious being so long vainly sought for in the depths of New Aberfoyle.

“So you knew him, Simon?” demanded Mr. Starr.

“Yes, that I did,” replied the overman. “The Harfang man, we used to call him. Why, he was old then! He must be fifteen or twenty years older than I am. A wild, savage sort of fellow, who held aloof from everyone and was known to fear nothing — neither fire nor water. It was his own fancy to follow the trade of ‘monk,’ which few would have liked. The constant danger of the business had unsettled his brain. He was prodigiously strong, and he knew the mine as no one else — at any rate, as well as I did. He lived on a small allowance. In faith, I believed him dead years ago.”

“But,” resumed James Starr, “what does he mean by those words, ‘You have robbed me of the last vein of our old mine’?”

“Ah! there it is,” replied Simon; “for a long time it had been a fancy of his — I told you his mind was deranged — that he had a right to the mine of Aberfoyle; so he became more and more savage in temper the deeper the Dochart pit — his pit! — was worked out. It just seemed as if it was his own body that suffered from every blow of the pickax. You must remember that, Madge?”

“Ay, that I do, Simon,” replied she.

“I can recollect all this,” resumed Simon, “since I have seen the name of Silfax on the door. But I tell you, I thought the man was dead, and never imagined that the spiteful being we have so long sought for could be the old fireman of the Dochart pit.”

“Well, now, then,” said Starr, “it is all quite plain. Chance made known to Silfax the new vein of coal. With the egotism of madness, he believed himself the owner of a treasure he must conceal and defend. Living in the mine, and wandering about day and night, he perceived that you had discovered the secret, and had written in all haste to beg me to come. Hence the letter contradicting yours; hence, after my arrival, all the accidents that occurred, such as the block of stone thrown at Harry, the broken ladder at the Yarrow shaft, the obstruction of the openings into the wall of the new cutting; hence, in short, our imprisonment, and then our deliverance, brought about by the kind assistance of Nell, who acted of course without the knowledge of this man Silfax, and contrary to his intentions.”

“You describe everything exactly as it must have happened, Mr. Starr,” returned old Simon. “The old ‘Monk’ is mad enough now, at any rate!”

“All the better,” quoth Madge.

“I don’t know that,” said Starr, shaking his head; “it is a terrible sort of madness this.”

“Ah! now I understand that the very thought of him must have terrified poor little Nell, and also I see that she could not bear to denounce her grandfather. What a miserable time she must have had of it with the old man!”

“Miserable with a vengeance,” replied Simon, “between that savage and his owl, as savage as himself. Depend upon it, that bird isn’t dead. That was what put our lamp out, and also so nearly cut the rope by which Harry and Nell were suspended.”

“And then, you see,” said Madge, “this news of the marriage of our son with his granddaughter added to his rancor and ill-will.”

“To be sure,” said Simon. “To think that his Nell should marry one of the robbers of his own coal mine would just drive him wild altogether.”

“He will have to make up his mind to it, however,” cried Harry. “Mad as he is, we shall manage to convince him that Nell is better off with us here than ever she was in the caverns of the pit. I am sure, Mr. Starr, if we could only catch him, we should be able to make him listen to reason.”

“My poor Harry! there is no reasoning with a madman,” replied the engineer. “Of course it is better to know your enemy than not; but you must not fancy all is right because we have found out who he is. We must be on our guard, my friends; and to begin with, Harry, you positively must question Nell. She will perceive that her silence is no longer reasonable. Even for her grandfather’s own interest, she ought to speak now. For his own sake, as well as for ours, these insane plots must be put a stop to.”

“I feel sure, Mr. Starr,” answered Harry, “that Nell will of herself propose to tell you what she knows. You see it was from a sense of duty that she has been silent hitherto. My mother was very right to take her to her room just now. She much needed time to recover her spirits; but now I will go for her.”

“You need not do so, Harry,” said the maiden in a clear and firm voice, as she entered at that moment the room in which they were. Nell was very pale; traces of tears were in her eyes; but her whole manner showed that she had nerved herself to act as her loyal heart dictated as her duty.

“Nell!” cried Harry, springing towards her.

The girl arrested her lover by a gesture, and continued, “Your father and mother, and you, Harry, must now know all. And you too, Mr. Starr, must remain ignorant of nothing that concerns the child you have received, and whom Harry — unfortunately for him, alas! — drew from the abyss.”

“Oh, Nell! what are you saying?” cried Harry.

“Allow her to speak,” said James Starr in a decided tone.

“I am the granddaughter of old Silfax,” resumed Nell. “I never knew a mother till the day I came here,” added she, looking at Madge.

“Blessed be that day, my daughter!” said the old woman.

“I knew no father till I saw Simon Ford,” continued Nell; “nor friend till the day when Harry’s hand touched mine. Alone with my grandfather I have lived during fifteen years in the remote and most solitary depths of the mine. I say WITH my grandfather, but I can scarcely use the expression, for I seldom saw him. When he disappeared from Old Aberfoyle, he concealed himself in caverns known only to himself. In his way he was kind to me, dreadful as he was; he fed me with whatever he could procure from outside the mine; but I can dimly recollect that in my earliest years I was the nursling of a goat, the death of which was a bitter grief to me. My grandfather, seeing my distress, brought me another animal — a dog he said it was. But, unluckily, this dog was lively, and barked. Grandfather did not like anything cheerful. He had a horror of noise, and had taught me to be silent; the dog he could not teach to be quiet, so the poor animal very soon disappeared. My grandfather’s companion was a ferocious bird, Harfang, of which, at first, I had a perfect horror; but this creature, in spite of my dislike to it, took such a strong affection for me, that I could not help returning it. It even obeyed me better than its master, which used to make me quite uneasy, for my grandfather was jealous. Harfang and I did not dare to let him see us much together; we both knew it would be dangerous. But I am talking too much about myself: the great thing is about you.”

“No, my child,” said James Starr, “tell us everything that comes to your mind.”

“My grandfather,” continued Nell, “always regarded your abode in the mine with a very evil eye — not that there was any lack of space. His chosen refuge was far — very far from you. But he could not bear to feel that you were there. If I asked any questions about the people up above us, his face grew dark, he gave no answer, and continued quite silent for a long time afterwards. But when he perceived that, not content with the old domain, you seemed to think of encroaching upon his, then indeed his anger burst forth. He swore that, were you to succeed in reaching the new mine, you should assuredly perish. Notwithstanding his great age, his strength is astonishing, and his threats used to make me tremble.”

“Go on, Nell, my child,” said Simon to the girl, who paused as though to collect her thoughts.

“On the occasion of your first attempt,” resumed Nell, “as soon as my grandfather saw that you were fairly inside the gallery leading to New Aberfoyle, he stopped up the opening, and turned it into a prison for you. I only knew you as shadows dimly seen in the gloom of the pit, but I could not endure the idea that you would die of hunger in these horrid places; and so, at the risk of being detected, I succeeded in obtaining bread and water for you during some days. I should have liked to help you to escape, but it was so difficult to avoid the vigilance of my grandfather. You were about to die. Then arrived Jack Ryan and the others. By the providence of God I met with them, and instantly guided them to where you were. When my grandfather discovered what I had done, his rage against me was terrible. I expected death at his hands. After that my life became insupportable to me. My grandfather completely lost his senses. He proclaimed himself King of Darkness and Flame; and when he heard your tools at work on coal-beds which he considered entirely his own, he became furious and beat me cruelly. I would have fled from him, but it was impossible, so narrowly did he watch me. At last, in a fit of ungovernable fury, he threw me down into the abyss where you found me, and disappeared, vainly calling on Harfang, which faithfully stayed by me, to follow him. I know not how long I remained there, but I felt I was at the point of death when you, my Harry, came and saved me. But now you all see that the grandchild of old Silfax can never be the wife of Harry Ford, because it would be certain death to you all!”

“Nell!” cried Harry.

“No,” continued the maiden, “my resolution is taken. By one means only can your ruin be averted; I must return to my grandfather. He threatens to destroy the whole of New Aberfoyle. His is a soul incapable of mercy or forgiveness, and no mortal can say to what horrid deed the spirit of revenge will lead him. My duty is clear; I should be the most despicable creature on earth did I hesitate to perform it. Farewell! I thank you all heartily. You only have taught me what happiness is. Whatever may befall, believe that my whole heart remains with you.”

At these words, Simon, Madge, and Harry started up in an agony of grief, exclaiming in tones of despair, “What, Nell! is it possible you would leave us?”

James Starr put them all aside with an air of authority, and, going straight up to Nell, he took both her hands in his, saying quietly, “Very right, my child; you have said exactly what you ought to say; and now listen to what we have to say in reply. We shall not let you go away; if necessary, we shall keep you by force. Do you think we could be so base as to accept of your generous proposal? These threats of Silfax are formidable — no doubt about it! But, after all, a man is but a man, and we can take precautions. You will tell us, will you not, even for his own sake, all you can about his habits and his lurking-places? All we want to do is to put it out of his power to do harm, and perhaps bring him to reason.”

“You want to do what is quite impossible,” said Nell. “My grandfather is everywhere and nowhere. I have never seen his retreats. I have never seen him sleep. If he meant to conceal himself, he used to leave me alone, and vanish. When I took my resolution, Mr. Starr, I was aware of everything you could say against it. Believe me, there is but one way to render Silfax powerless, and that will be by my return to him. Invisible himself, he sees everything that goes on. Just think whether it is likely he could discover your very thoughts and intentions, from that time when the letter was written to Mr. Starr, up to now that my marriage with Harry has been arranged, if he did not possess the extraordinary faculty of knowing everything. As far as I am able to judge, my grandfather, in his very insanity, is a man of most powerful mind. He formerly used to talk to me on very lofty subjects. He taught me the existence of God, and never deceived me but on one point, which was — that he made me believe that all men were base and perfidious, because he wished to inspire me with his own hatred of all the human race. When Harry brought me to the cottage, you thought I was simply ignorant of mankind, but, far beyond that, I was in mortal fear of you all. Ah, forgive me! I assure you, for many days I believed myself in the power of wicked wretches, and I longed to escape. You, Madge, first led me to perceive the truth, not by anything you said, but by the sight of your daily life, for I saw that your husband and son loved and respected you! Then all these good and happy workmen, who so revere and trust Mr. Starr, I used to think they were slaves; and when, for the first time, I saw the whole population of Aberfoyle come to church and kneel down to pray to God, and praise Him for His infinite goodness, I said to myself, ‘My grandfather has deceived me.’ But now, enlightened by all you have taught me, I am inclined to think he himself is deceived. I mean to return to the secret passages I formerly frequented with him. He is certain to be on the watch. I will call to him; he will hear me, and who knows but that, by returning to him, I may be able to bring him to the knowledge of the truth?”

The maiden spoke without interruption, for all felt that it was good for her to open her whole heart to her friends.

But when, exhausted by emotion, and with eyes full of tears, she ceased speaking, Harry turned to old Madge and said, “Mother, what should you think of the man who could forsake the noble girl whose words you have been listening to?”

“I should think he was a base coward,” said Madge, “and, were he my son, I should renounce and curse him.”

“Nell, do you hear what our mother says?” resumed Harry. “Wherever you go I will follow you. If you persist in leaving us, we will go away together.”

“Harry! Harry!” cried Nell.

Overcome by her feelings, the girl’s lips blanched, and she sank into the arms of Madge, who begged she might be left alone with her.

CHAPTER XVIII. NELL’S WEDDING

IT was agreed that the inhabitants of the cottage must keep more on their guard than ever. The threats of old Silfax were too serious to be disregarded. It was only too possible that he possessed some terrible means by which the whole of Aberfoyle might be annihilated.

Armed sentinels were posted at the various entrances to the mine, with orders to keep strict watch day and night. Any stranger entering the mine was brought before James Starr, that he might give an account of himself. There being no fear of treason among the inhabitants of Coal Town, the threatened danger to the subterranean colony was made known to them. Nell was informed of all the precautions taken, and became more tranquil, although she was not free from uneasiness. Harry’s determination to follow her wherever she went compelled her to promise not to escape from her friends.

During the week preceding the wedding, no accident whatever occurred in Aberfoyle. The system of watching was carefully maintained, but the miners began to recover from the panic, which had seriously interrupted the work of excavation. James Starr continued to look out for Silfax. The old man having vindictively declared that Nell should never marry Simon’s son, it was natural to suppose that he would not hesitate to commit any violent deed which would hinder their union.

The examination of the mine was carried on minutely. Every passage and gallery was searched, up to those higher ranges which opened out among the ruins of Dundonald Castle. It was rightly supposed that through this old building Silfax passed out to obtain what was needful for the support of his miserable existence (which he must have done, either by purchasing or thieving).

As to the “fire-maidens,” James Starr began to think that appearance must have been produced by some jet of fire-damp gas which, issuing from that part of the pit, could be lighted by Silfax. He was not far wrong; but all search for proof of this was fruitless, and the continued strain of anxiety in this perpetual effort to detect a malignant and invisible being rendered the engineer — outwardly calm — an unhappy man.

389

As the wedding-day approached, his dread of some catastrophe increased, and he could not but speak of it to the old overman, whose uneasiness soon more than equaled his own. At length the day came. Silfax had given no token of existence.

By daybreak the entire population of Coal Town was astir. Work was suspended; overseers and workmen alike desired to do honor to Simon Ford and his son. They all felt they owed a large debt of gratitude to these bold and persevering men, by whose means the mine had been restored to its former prosperity. The ceremony was to take place at eleven o’clock, in St. Giles’s chapel, which stood on the shores of Loch Malcolm.

At the appointed time, Harry left the cottage, supporting his mother on his arm, while Simon led the bride. Following them came Starr, the engineer, composed in manner, but in reality nerved to expect the worst, and Jack Ryan, stepping superb in full Highland piper’s costume. Then came the other mining engineers, the principal people of Coal Town, the friends and comrades of the old overman — every member of this great family of miners forming the population of New Aberfoyle.

In the outer world, the day was one of the hottest of the month of August, peculiarly oppressive in northern countries. The sultry air penetrated the depths of the coal mine, and elevated the temperature. The air which entered through the ventilating shafts, and the great tunnel of Loch Malcolm, was charged with electricity, and the barometer, it was afterwards remarked, had fallen in a remarkable manner. There was, indeed, every indication that a storm might burst forth beneath the rocky vault which formed the roof of the enormous crypt of the very mine itself.

But the inhabitants were not at that moment troubling themselves about the chances of atmospheric disturbance above ground. Everybody, as a matter of course, had put on his best clothes for the occasion. Madge was dressed in the fashion of days gone by, wearing the “toy” and the “rokelay,” or Tartan plaid, of matrons of the olden time, old Simon wore a coat of which Bailie Nicol Jarvie himself would have approved.

Nell had resolved to show nothing of her mental agitation; she forbade her heart to beat, or her inward terrors to betray themselves, and the brave girl appeared before all with a calm and collected aspect. She had declined every ornament of dress, and the very simplicity of her attire added to the charming elegance of her appearance. Her hair was bound with the “snood,” the usual head-dress of Scottish maidens.

All proceeded towards St. Giles’s chapel, which had been handsomely decorated for the occasion.

The electric discs of light which illuminated Coal Town blazed like so many suns. A luminous atmosphere pervaded New Aberfoyle. In the chapel, electric lamps shed a glow over the stained-glass windows, which shone like fiery kaleidoscopes. At the porch of the chapel the minister awaited the arrival of the wedding party.

It approached, after having passed in stately procession along the shore of Loch Malcolm. Then the tones of the organ were heard, and, preceded by the minister, the group advanced into the chapel. The Divine blessing was first invoked on all present. Then Harry and Nell remained alone before the minister, who, holding the sacred book in his hand, proceeded to say, “Harry, will you take Nell to be your wife, and will you promise to love her always?”

“I promise,” answered the young man in a firm and steady voice.

“And you, Nell,” continued the minister, “will you take Harry to be your husband, and — ”

Before he could finish the sentence, a prodigious noise resounded from without. One of the enormous rocks, on which was formed the terrace overhanging the banks of Loch Malcolm, had suddenly given way and opened without explosion, disclosing a profound abyss, into which the waters were now wildly plunging.

In another instant, among the shattered rocks and rushing waves appeared a canoe, which a vigorous arm propelled along the surface of the lake. In the canoe was seen the figure of an old man standing upright. He was clothed in a dark mantle, his hair was dishevelled, a long white beard fell over his breast, and in his hand he bore a lighted Davy safety lamp, the flame being protected by the metallic gauze of the apparatus.

In a loud voice this old man shouted, “The fire-damp is upon you! Woe — woe betide ye all!”

At the same moment the slight smell peculiar to carburetted hydrogen was perceptibly diffused through the atmosphere. And, in truth, the fall of the rock had made a passage of escape for an enormous quantity of explosive gas, accumulated in vast cavities, the openings to which had hitherto been blocked up.

Jets and streams of the fire-damp now rose upward in the vaulted dome; and well did that fierce old man know that the consequence of what he had done would be to render explosive the whole atmosphere of the mine.

James Starr and several others, having hastily quitted the chapel, and perceived the imminence of the danger, now rushed back, crying out in accents of the utmost alarm, “Fly from the mine! Fly instantly from the mine!”

“Now for the fire-damp! Here comes the fire-damp!” yelled the old man, urging his canoe further along the lake.

Harry with his bride, his father and his mother, left the chapel in haste and in terror.

“Fly! fly for your lives!” repeated James Starr. Alas! it was too late to fly! Old Silfax stood there, prepared to fulfill his last dreadful threat — prepared to stop the marriage of Nell and Harry by overwhelming the entire population of the place beneath the ruins of the coal mine.

As he stood ready to accomplish this act of vengeance, his enormous owl, whose white plumage was marked with black spots, was seen hovering directly above his head.

At that moment a man flung himself into the waters of the lake, and swam vigorously towards the canoe.

It was Jack Ryan, fully determined to reach the madman before he could do the dreadful deed of destruction.

Silfax saw him coming. Instantly he smashed the glass of his lamp, and, snatching out the burning wick, waved it in the air.

Silence like death fell upon the astounded multitude. James Starr, in the calmness of despair, marvelled that the inevitable explosion was even for a moment delayed.

Silfax, gazing upwards with wild and contracted features, appeared to become aware that the gas, lighter than the lower atmosphere, was accumulating far up under the dome; and at a sign from him the owl, seizing in its claw the lighted match, soared upwards to the vaulted roof, towards which the madman pointed with outstretched arm.

Another second and New Aberfoyle would be no more.

Suddenly Nell sprang from Harry’s arms, and, with a bright look of inspiration, she ran to the very brink of the waters of the lake. “Harfang! Harfang!” cried she in a clear voice; “here! come to me!”

The faithful bird, surprised, appeared to hesitate in its flight. Presently, recognizing Nell’s voice, it dropped the burning match into the water, and, describing a wide circle, flew downwards, alighting at the maiden’s feet.

Then a terrible cry echoed through the vaulted roofs. It was the last sound uttered by old Silfax.

Just as Jack Ryan laid his hand on the edge of the canoe, the old man, foiled in his purpose of revenge, cast himself headlong into the waters of the lake.

“Save him! oh, save him!” shrieked Nell in a voice of agony. Immediately Harry plunged into the water, and, swimming towards Jack Ryan, he dived repeatedly.

But his efforts were useless. The waters of Loch Malcolm yielded not their prey: they closed forever over Silfax.

CHAPTER XIX. THE LEGEND OF OLD SILFAX

Six months after these events, the marriage, so strangely interrupted, was finally celebrated in St. Giles’s chapel, and the young couple, who still wore mourning garments, returned to the cottage. James Starr and Simon Ford, henceforth free from the anxieties which had so long distressed them, joyously presided over the entertainment which followed the ceremony, and prolonged it to the following day.

On this memorable occasion, Jack Ryan, in his favorite character of piper, and in all the glory of full dress, blew up his chanter, and astonished the company by the unheard of achievement of playing, singing, and dancing all at once.

It is needless to say that Harry and Nell were happy. These loving hearts, after the trials they had gone through found in their union the happiness they deserved.

As to Simon Ford, the ex-overman of New Aberfoyle, he began to talk of celebrating his golden wedding, after fifty years of marriage with good old Madge, who liked the idea immensely herself.

“And after that, why not golden wedding number two?”

“You would like a couple of fifties, would you, Mr. Simon?” said Jack Ryan.

“All right, my boy,” replied the overman quietly, “I see nothing against it in this fine climate of ours, and living far from the luxury and intemperance of the outer world.”

Will the dwellers in Coal Town ever be called to witness this second ceremony? Time will show. Certainly the strange bird of old Silfax seemed destined to attain a wonderful longevity. The Harfang continued to haunt the gloomy recesses of the cave. After the old man’s death, Nell had attempted to keep the owl, but in a very few days he flew away. He evidently disliked human society as much as his master had done, and, besides that, he appeared to have a particular spite against Harry. The jealous bird seemed to remember and hate him for having carried off Nell from the deep abyss, notwithstanding all he could do to prevent him. Still, at long intervals, Nell would see the creature hovering above Loch Malcolm.

Could he possibly be watching for his friend of yore? Did he strive to pierce, with keen eye, the depths which had engulfed his master?

The history of the Harfang became legendary, and furnished Jack Ryan with many a tale and song. Thanks to him, the story of old Silfax and his bird will long be preserved, and handed down to future generations of the Scottish peasantry.

DICK SAND: A CAPTAIN AT FIFTEEN

Trasnlated by Ellen Elizabeth Frewer

This novel was first published in 1878 and deals with the controversial theme of the African slave trade, amongst other issues. It tells the story of Dick Sand, a fifteen year old boy serving on the schooner “Pilgrim” as a sailor. The crew are whale hunters that voyage every year down to New Zealand.

The frontispiece in the first French edition

CONTENTS

PART I

CHAPTER I.

THE “PILGRIM.”

CHAPTER II.

THE APPRENTICE.

CHAPTER III.

A RESCUE.

CHAPTER IV.

THE SURVIVORS OF THE “WALDECK.”

CHAPTER V.

DINGO’S SAGACITY.

CHAPTER VI.

A WHALE IN SIGHT.

CHAPTER VII.

PREPARATIONS FOR AN ATTACK.

CHAPTER VIII.

A CATASTROPHE.

CHAPTER IX.

DICK’S PROMOTION.

CHAPTER X.

THE NEW CREW.

CHAPTER XI.

ROUGH WEATHER.

CHAPTER XII.

HOPE REVIVED.

CHAPTER XIII.

LAND AT LAST.

CHAPTER XIV.

ASHORE.

CHAPTER XV.

A STRANGER.

CHAPTER XVI.

THROUGH THE FOREST.

CHAPTER XVII

MISGIVINGS.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY.

PART II

CHAPTER I.

THE DARK CONTINENT.

CHAPTER II.

ACCOMPLICES.

CHAPTER III.

ON THE MARCH AGAIN.

CHAPTER IV.

ROUGH TRAVELLING.

CHAPTER V.

WHITE ANTS.

CHAPTER VI.

A DIVING-BELL.

CHAPTER VII.

A SLAVE CARAVAN.

CHAPTER VIII.

NOTES BY THE WAY.

CHAPTER IX.

KAZONNDE.

CHAPTER X.

MARKET-DAY.

CHAPTER XI.

A BOWL OF PUNCH.

CHAPTER XII.

ROYAL OBSEQUIES.

CHAPTER XIII.

IN CAPTIVITY.

CHAPTER XIV.

A RAY OF HOPE.

CHAPTER XV.

AN EXCITING CHASE.

CHAPTER XVI.

A MAGICIAN.

CHAPTER XVII.

DRIFTING DOWN THE STREAM.

CHAPTER XVIII.

AN ANXIOUS VOYAGE.

CHAPTER XIX.

AN ATTACK.

CHAPTER XX.

A HAPPY REUNION.

PART I

CHAPTER I.

THE “PILGRIM.”

On the 2nd of February, 1873, the “Pilgrim,” a tight little craft of 400 tons burden, lay in lat. 43deg 57’, S. and long. 165deg 19’, W. She was a schooner, the property of James W. Weldon, a wealthy Californian ship-owner who had fitted her out at San Francisco, expressly for the whale-fisheries in the southern seas.

James Weldon was accustomed every season to send his whalers both to the Arctic regions beyond Behring Straits, and to the Antarctic Ocean below Tasmania and Cape Horn; and the “Pilgrim,” although one of the smallest, was one of the best-going vessels of its class; her sailing-powers were splendid, and her rigging was so adroitly adapted that with a very small crew she might venture without risk within sight of the impenetrable ice-fields of the southern hemisphere: under skilful guidance she could dauntlessly thread her way amongst the drifting ice-bergs that, lessened though they were by perpetual shocks and undermined by warm currents, made their way northwards as far as the parallel of New Zealand or the Cape of Good Hope, to a latitude corresponding to which in the northern hemisphere they are never seen, having already melted away in the depths of the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans.

For several years the command of the “Pilgrim” had been entrusted to Captain Hull, an experienced seaman, and one of the most dexterous harpooners in Weldon’s service. The crew consisted of five sailors and an apprentice. This number, of course, was quite insufficient for the process of whale-fishing, which requires a large contingent both for manning the whale-boats and for cutting up the whales after they are captured; but Weldon, following the example of other owners, found it more economical to embark at San Francisco only just enough men to work the ship to New Zealand, where, from the promiscuous gathering of seamen of well-nigh every nationality, and of needy emigrants, the captain had no difficulty in engaging as many whalemen as he wanted for the season. This method of hiring men who could be at once discharged when their services were no longer required had proved altogether to be the most profitable and convenient.

The “Pilgrim” had now just completed her annual voyage to the Antarctic circle. It was not, however, with her proper quota of oil-barrels full to the brim, nor yet with an ample cargo of cut and uncut whalebone, that she was thus far on her way back. The time, indeed, for a good haul was past; the repeated and vigourous attacks upon the cetaceans had made them very scarce; the whale known as “the Right whale,” the “Nord-kapper” of the northern fisheries, the “Sulpher-boltone” of the southern, was hardly ever to be seen; and latterly the whalers had had no alternative but to direct their efforts against the Finback or Jubarte, a gigantic mammal, encounter with which is always attended with considerable danger.

So scanty this year had been the supply of whales that Captain Hull had resolved next year to push his way into far more southern latitudes; even, if necessary, to advance to the regions known as Clarie and Adelie Lands, of which the discovery, though claimed by the American navigator Wilkes, belongs by right to the illustrious Frenchman Dumont d’Urville, the commander of the “Astrolabe” and the “Zelee.”

The season had been exceptionally unfortunate for the “Pilgrim.” At the beginning of January, almost in the height of the southern summer, long before the ordinary time for the whalers’ return, Captain Hull had been obliged to abandon his fishing-quarters. His hired contingent, all men of more than doubtful character, had given signs of such insubordination as threatened to end in mutiny; and he had become aware that he must part company with them on the earliest possible opportunity. Accordingly, without delay, the bow of the “Pilgrim” was directed to the northwest, towards New Zealand, which was sighted on the 15th of January, and on reaching Waitemata, the port of Auckland, in the Hauraki Gulf, on the east coast of North Island, the whole of the gang was peremptorily discharged.

The ship’s crew were more than dissatisfied. They were angry. Never before had they returned with so meagre a haul. They ought to have had at least two hundred barrels more. The captain himself experienced all the mortification of an ardent sportsman who for the first time in his life brings home a half-empty bag; and there was a general spirit of animosity against the rascals whose rebellion had so entirely marred the success of the expedition.

Captain Hull did everything in his power to repair the disappointment; he made every effort to engage a fresh gang; but it was too late; every available seaman had long since been carried off to the fisheries. Finding therefore that all hope of making good the deficiency in his cargo must be resigned, he was on the point of leaving Auckland, alone with his crew, when he was met by a request with which he felt himself bound to comply.

It had chanced that James Weldon, on one of those journeys which were necessitated by the nature of his business, had brought with him his wife, his son Jack, a child of five years of age, and a relation of the family who was generally known by the name of Cousin Benedict. Weldon had of course intended that his family should accompany him on his return home to San Francisco; but little Jack was taken so seriously ill, that his father, whose affairs demanded his immediate return, was obliged to leave him behind at Auckland with his wife and Cousin Benedict.

Three months had passed away, little Jack was convalescent, and Mrs. Weldon, weary of her long separation from her husband, was anxious to get home as soon as possible. Her readiest way of reaching San Francisco was to cross to Australia, and thence to take a passage in one of the vessels of the “Golden Age” Company, which run between Melbourne and the Isthmus of Panama: on arriving in Panama she would have to wait the departure of the next American steamer of the line which maintains a regular communication between the Isthmus and California. This route, however, involved many stoppages and changes, such as are always disagreeable and inconvenient for women and children, and Mrs. Weldon was hesitating whether she should encounter the journey, when she heard that her husband’s vessel, the “Pilgrim,” had arrived at Auckland. Hastening to Captain Hull, she begged him to take her with her little boy, Cousin Benedict, and Nan, an old negress who had been her attendant from her childhood, on board the “Pilgrim,” and to convey them to San Francisco direct.

“Was it not over hazardous,” asked the captain, “to venture upon a voyage of between 5000 and 6000 miles in so small a sailing-vessel?”

But Mrs. Weldon urged her request, and Captain Hull, confident in the sea-going qualities of his craft, and anticipating at this season nothing but fair weather on either side of the equator, gave his consent.

In order to provide as far as possible for the comfort of the lady during a voyage that must occupy from forty to fifty days, the captain placed his own cabin at her entire disposal.

Everything promised well for a prosperous voyage. The only hindrance that could be foreseen arose from the circumstance that the “Pilgrim” would have to put in at Valparaiso for the purpose of unlading; but that business once accomplished, she would continue her way along the American coast with the assistance of the land breezes, which ordinarily make the proximity of those shores such agreeable quarters for sailing.

Mrs. Weldon herself had accompanied her husband in so many voyages, that she was quite inured to all the makeshifts of a seafaring life, and was conscious of no misgiving in embarking upon a vessel of such small tonnage. She was a brave, high-spirited woman of about thirty years of age, in the enjoyment of excellent health, and for her the sea had no terrors. Aware that Captain Hull was an experienced man, in whom her husband had the utmost confidence, and knowing that his ship was a substantial craft, registered as one of the best of the American whalers, so far from entertaining any mistrust as to her safety, she only rejoiced in the opportuneness of the chance which seemed to offer her a direct and unbroken route to her destination.

Cousin Benedict, as a matter of course, was to accompany her. He was about fifty; but in spite of his mature age it would have been considered the height of imprudence to allow him to travel anywhere alone. Spare, lanky, with a bony frame, with an enormous cranium, and a profusion of hair, he was one of those amiable, inoffensive savants who, having once taken to gold spectacles, appear to have arrived at a settled standard of age, and, however long they live afterwards, seem never to be older than they have ever been.

Claiming a sort of kindredship with all the world, he was universally known, far beyond the pale of his own connexions, by the name of “Cousin Benedict.” In the ordinary concerns of life nothing would ever have rendered him capable of shifting for himself; of his meals he would never think until they were placed before him; he had the appearance of being utterly insensible to heat or cold; he vegetated rather than lived, and might not inaptly be compared to a tree which, though healthy enough at its core, produces scant foliage and no fruit. His long arms and legs were in the way of himself and everybody else; yet no one could possibly treat him with unkindness. As M. Prudhomme would say, “if only he had been endowed with capability,” he would have rendered a service to any one in the world; but helplessness was his dominant characteristic; helplessness was ingrained into his very nature; yet this very helplessness made him an object of kind consideration rather than of contempt, and Mrs. Weldon looked upon him as a kind of elder brother to her little Jack.

It must not be supposed, however, that Cousin Benedict was either idle or unoccupied. On the contrary, his whole time was devoted to one absorbing passion for natural history. Not that he had any large claim to be regarded properly as a natural historian; he had made no excursions over the whole four districts of zoology, botany, mineralogy, and geology, into which the realms of natural history are commonly divided; indeed, he had no pretensions at all to be either a botanist, a mineralogist, or a geologist; his studies only sufficed to make him a zoologist, and that in a very limited sense. No Cuvier was he; he did not aspire to decompose animal life by analysis, and to recompose it by synthesis; his enthusiasm had not made him at all deeply versed in vertebrata, mollusca, or radiata; in fact, the vertebrata — animals, birds, reptiles, fishes — had had no place in his researches; the mollusca — from the cephalopoda to the bryozia — had had no attractions for him; nor had he consumed the midnight oil in investigating the radiata, the echmodermata, acalephae, polypi, entozoa, or infusoria.

No; Cousin Benedict’s interest began and ended with the articulata; and it must be owned at once that his studies were very far from embracing all the range of the six classes into which “articulata” are subdivided; viz, the insecta, the mynapoda, the arachnida, the crustacea, the cinhopoda, and the anelides; and he was utterly unable in scientific language to distinguish a worm from a leech, an earwig from a sea-acorn, a spider from a scorpion, a shrimp from a frog-hopper, or a galley-worm from a centipede.

To confess the plain truth, Cousin Benedict was an amateur entomologist, and nothing more.

Entomology, it may be asserted, is a wide science; it embraces the whole division of the articulata; but our friend was an entomologist only in the limited sense of the popular acceptation of the word; that is to say, he was an

observer and collector of insects, meaning by “insects” those articulata which have bodies consisting of a number of concentric movable rings, forming three distinct segments, each with a pair of legs, and which are scientifically designated as hexapods.

To this extent was Cousin Benedict an entomologist; and when it is remembered that the class of insecta of which he had grown up to be the enthusiastic student comprises no less than ten [Footnote: These ten orders are (1) the orthoptera, e.g. grasshoppers and crickets; (2) the neuroptera, e.g. dragon-flies; (3) the hymenoptera, e.g. bees, wasps, and ants; (4) the lepidoptera, e.g. butterflies and moths; (5) the hemiptera, e.g. cicadas and fleas; (6) the coleoptera, e.g. cockchafers and glow-worms; (7) the diptera, e.g. gnats and flies; (8) the rhipiptera, e.g. the stylops; (9) the parasites, e.g. the acarus; and (10) the thysanura, e.g. the lepisma and podura.] orders, and that of these ten the coleoptera and diptera alone include 30,000 and 60,000 species respectively, it must be confessed that he had an ample field for his most persevering exertions.

Every available hour did he spend in the pursuit of his favourite science: hexapods ruled his thoughts by day and his dreams by night. The number of pins that he carried thick on the collar and sleeves of his coat, down the front of his waistcoat, and on the crown of his hat, defied computation; they were kept in readiness for the capture of specimens that might come in his way, and on his return from a ramble in the country he might be seen literally encased with a covering of insects, transfixed adroitly by scientific rule.

This ruling passion of his had been the inducement that had urged him to accompany Mr. and Mrs. Weldon to New Zealand. It had appeared to him that it was likely to be a promising district, and now having been successful in adding some rare specimens to his collection, he was anxious to get back again to San Francisco, and to assign them their proper places in his extensive cabinet.

Besides, it never occurred to Mrs. Weldon to start without him. To leave him to shift for himself would be sheer cruelty. As a matter of course whenever Mrs. Weldon went on board the “Pilgrim,” Cousin Benedict would go too.

Not that in any emergency assistance of any kind could be expected from him; on the contrary, in the case of difficulty he would be an additional burden; but there was every reason to expect a fair passage and no cause of misgiving of any kind, so the propriety of leaving the amiable entomologist behind was never suggested.

Anxious that she should be no impediment in the way of the due departure of the “Pilgrim” from Waitemata, Mrs. Weldon made her preparations with the utmost haste, discharged the servants which she had temporarily engaged at Auckland, and accompanied by little Jack and the old negress, and followed mechanically by Cousin Benedict, embarked on the 22nd of January on board the schooner.

The amateur, however, kept his eye very scrupulously upon his own special box. Amongst his collection of insects were some very remarkable examples of new staphylins, a species of carnivorous coleoptera with eyes placed above their head; it was a kind supposed to be peculiar to New Caledonia. Another rarity which had been brought under his notice was a venomous spider, known among the Maoris as a “katipo;” its bite was asserted to be very often fatal. As a spider, however, belongs to the order of the arachnida, and is not properly an “insect,” Benedict declined to take any interest in it. Enough for him that he had secured a novelty in his own section of research; the “Staphylin Neo-Zelandus” was not only the gem of his collection, but its pecuniary value baffled ordinary estimate; he insured his box at a fabulous sum, deeming it to be worth far more than all the cargo of oil and whalebone in the “Pilgrim’s” hold.

Captain Hull advanced to meet Mrs. Weldon and her party as they stepped on deck.

“It must be understood, Mrs. Weldon,” he said, courteously raising his hat, “that you take this passage entirely on your own responsibility.”

“Certainly, Captain Hull,” she answered; “but why do you ask?”

“Simply because I have received no orders from Mr. Weldon,” replied the captain.

“But my wish exonerates you,” said Mrs. Weldon.

“Besides,” added Captain Hull, “I am unable to provide you with the accommodation and the comfort that you would have upon a passenger steamer.”

“You know well enough, captain,” remonstrated the lady “that my husband would not hesitate for a moment to trust his wife and child on board the ‘Pilgrim.’”

“Trust, madam! No! no more than I should myself. I repeat that the ‘Pilgrim’ cannot afford you the comfort to which you are accustomed.”

Mrs. Weldon smiled.

“Oh, I am not one of your grumbling travellers. I shall have no complaints to make either of small cramped cabins, or of rough and meagre food.”

She took her son by the hand, and passing on, begged that they might start forthwith.

Orders accordingly were given; sails were trimmed; and after taking the shortest course across the gulf, the “Pilgrim” turned her head towards America.

Three days later strong easterly breezes compelled the schooner to tack to larboard in order to get to windward. The consequence was that by the 2nd of February the captain found himself in such a latitude that he might almost be suspected of intending to round Cape Horn rather than of having a design to coast the western shores of the New Continent.

Still, the sea did not become rough. There was a slight delay, but, on the whole, navigation was perfectly easy.

CHAPTER II.

THE APPRENTICE.

There was no poop upon the “Pilgrim’s” deck, so that Mrs. Weldon had no alternative than to acquiesce in the captain’s proposal that she should occupy his own modest cabin.

Accordingly, here she was installed with Jack and old Nan; and here she took all her meals, in company with the captain and Cousin Benedict.

For Cousin Benedict tolerably comfortable sleeping accommodation had been contrived close at hand, while Captain Hull himself retired to the crew’s quarter, occupying the cabin which properly belonged to the chief mate, but as already indicated, the services of a second officer were quite dispensed with.

All the crew were civil and attentive to the wife of their employer, a master to whom they were faithfully attached. They were all natives of the coast of California, brave and experienced seamen, and united by tastes and habits in a common bond of sympathy. Few as they were in number, their work was never shirked, not simply from the sense of duty, but because they were directly interested in the profits of their undertaking; the success of their labours always told to their own advantage. The present expedition was the fourth that they had taken together; and, as it turned out to be the first in which they had failed to meet with success, it may be imagined that they were full of resentment against the mutinous whalemen who had been the cause of so serious a diminution of their ordinary gains.

The only one on board who was not an American was a man who had been temporarily engaged as cook. His name was Negoro; he was a Portuguese by birth, but spoke English with perfect fluency. The previous cook had deserted the ship at Auckland, and when Negoro, who was out of employment, applied for the place, Captain Hull, only too glad to avoid detention, engaged him at once without inquiry into his antecedents. There was not the slightest fault to be found with the way in which the cook performed his duties, but there was something in his manner, or perhaps, rather in the expression of his countenance, which excited the Captain’s misgivings, and made him regret that he had not taken more pains to investigate the character of one with whom he was now brought into such close contact

Negoro looked about forty years of age. Although he had the appearance of being slightly built, he was muscular; he was of middle height, and seemed to have a robust constitution; his hair was dark, his complexion somewhat swarthy. His manner was taciturn, and although, from occasional remarks that he dropped, it was evident that he had received some education, he was very reserved on the subjects both of his family and of his past life. No one knew where he had come from, and he admitted no one to his confidence as to where he was going, except that he made no secret of his intention to land at Valparaiso. His freedom from sea-sickness demonstrated that this could hardly be his first voyage, but on the other hand his complete ignorance of seamen’s phraseology made it certain that he had never been accustomed to his present occupation. He kept himself aloof as much as possible from the rest of the crew, during the day rarely leaving the great cast-iron stove, which was out of proportion to the measurement of the cramped little kitchen; and at night, as soon as the fire was extinguished, took the earliest opportunity of retiring to his berth and going to sleep.

It has been already stated that the crew of the “Pilgrim” consisted of five seamen and an apprentice. This apprentice was Dick Sands.

Dick was fifteen years old; he was a foundling, his unknown parents having abandoned him at his birth, and he had been brought up in a public charitable institution. He had been called Dick, after the benevolent passer-by who had discovered him when he was but an infant a few hours old, and he had received the surname of Sands as a memorial of the spot where he had been exposed, Sandy Hook, a point at the mouth of the Hudson, where it forms an entrance to the harbour of New York.

As Dick was so young it was most likely he would yet grow a little taller, but it did not seem probable that he would ever exceed middle height, he looked too stoutly and strongly built to grow much. His complexion was dark, but his beaming blue eyes attested, with scarcely room for doubt, his Anglo-Saxon origin, and his countenance betokened energy and intelligence. The profession that he had adopted seemed to have equipped him betimes for fighting the battle of life.

Misquoted often as Virgil’s are the words

“Audaces fortuna juvat!”

but the true reading is

“Audentes fortuna juvat!”

and, slight as the difference may seem, it is very significant. It is upon the confident rather than the rash, the daring rather than the bold, that Fortune sheds her smiles; the bold man often acts without thinking, whilst the daring always thinks before he acts.

And Dick Sands was truly courageous; he was one of the daring. At fifteen years old, an age at which few boys have laid aside the frivolities of childhood, he had acquired the stability of a man, and the most casual observer could scarcely fail to be attracted by his bright, yet thoughtful countenance. At an early period of his life he had realized all the difficulties of his position, and had made a resolution, from which nothing tempted him to flinch, that he would carve out for himself an honourable and independent career. Lithe and agile in his movements, he was an adept in every kind of athletic exercise; and so marvellous was his success in everything he undertook, that he might almost be supposed to be one of those gifted mortals who have two right hands and two left feet.

Until he was four years old the little orphan had found a home in one of those institutions in America where forsaken children are sure of an asylum, and he was subsequently sent to an industrial school supported by charitable aid, where he learnt reading, writing, and arithmetic. From the days of infancy he had never deviated from the expression of his wish to be a sailor, and accordingly, as soon as he was eight, he was placed as cabin-boy on board one of the ships that navigate the Southern Seas. The officers all took a peculiar interest in him, and he received, in consequence, a thoroughly good grounding in the duties and discipline of a seaman’s life. There was no room to doubt that he must ultimately rise to eminence in his profession, for when a child from the very first has been trained in the knowledge that he must gain his bread by the sweat of his brow, it is comparatively rare that he lacks the will to do so.

Whilst he was still acting as cabin-boy on one of those trading-vessels, Dick attracted the notice of Captain Hull, who took a fancy to the lad and introduced him to his employer. Mr. Weldon at once took a lively interest in Dick’s welfare, and had his education continued in San Francisco, taking care that he was instructed in the doctrines of the Roman Catholic Church, to which his own family belonged.

Throughout his studies Dick Sands’ favourite subjects were always those which had a reference to his future profession; he mastered the details of the geography of the world; he applied himself diligently to such branches of mathematics as were necessary for the science of navigation; whilst for recreation in his hours of leisure, he would greedily devour every book of adventure in travel that came in his way. Nor did he omit duly to combine the practical with the theoretical; and when he was bound apprentice on board the “Pilgrim,” a vessel not only belonging to his benefactor, but under the command of his kind friend Captain Hull, he congratulated himself most heartily, and felt that the experience he should gain in the southern whale-fisheries could hardly fail to be of service to him in after-life. A first-rate sailor ought to be a first-rate fisherman too.

It was a matter of the greatest pleasure to Dick Sands when he heard to his surprise that Mrs. Weldon was about to become a passenger on board the “Pilgrim.” His devotion to the family of his benefactor was large and genuine. For several years Mrs. Weldon had acted towards him little short of a mother’s part, and for Jack, although he never forgot the difference in their position, he entertained well-nigh a brother’s affection. His friends had the satisfaction of being assured that they had sown the seeds of kindness on a generous soil, for there was no room to doubt that the heart of the orphan boy was overflowing with sincere gratitude. Should the occasion arise, ought he not, he asked, to be ready to sacrifice everything in behalf of those to whom he was indebted not only for his start in life, but for the knowledge of all that was right and holy?

Confiding in the good principles of her protege, Mrs. Weldon had no hesitation in entrusting her little son to his especial charge. During the frequent periods of leisure, when the sea was fair, and the sails required no shifting, the apprentice was never weary of amusing Jack by making him familiar with the practice of a sailor’s craft; he made him scramble up the shrouds, perch upon the yards, and slip down the back-stays; and the mother had no alarm; her assurance of Dick Sands’ ability and watchfulness to protect her boy was so complete that she could only rejoice in an occupation for him that seemed more than anything to restore the colour he had lost in his recent illness.

Time passed on without incident; and had it not been for the constant prevalence of an adverse wind, neither passengers nor crew could have found the least cause of complaint. The pertinacity, however, with which the wind kept to the east could not do otherwise than make Captain Hull somewhat concerned; it absolutely prevented him from getting his ship into her proper course, and he could not altogether suppress his misgiving that the calms near the

Tropic of Capricorn, and the equatorial current driving him on westwards, would entail a delay that might be serious.

It was principally on Mrs. Weldon’s account that the Captain began to feel uneasiness, and he made up his mind that if he could hail a vessel proceeding to America he should advise his passengers to embark on her; unfortunately, however, he felt that they were still in a latitude far too much to the south to make it likely that they should sight a steamer going to Panama; and at that date, communication between Australia and the New World was much less frequent than it has since become.

Still, nothing occurred to interrupt the general monotony of the voyage until the 2nd of February, the date at which our narrative commences.

It was about nine o’clock in the morning of that day that Dick and little Jack had perched themselves together on the top-mast-yards. The weather was very clear, and they could see the horizon right round except the section behind them, hidden by the brigantine-sail on the main-mast. Below them, the bowsprit seemed to lie along the water with its stay-sails attached like three unequal wings; from the lads’ feet to the deck was the smooth surface of the fore-mast; and above their heads nothing but the small top-sail and the top-mast. The schooner was running on the larboard tack as close to the wind as possible.

Dick Sand was pointing out to Jack how well the ship was ballasted, and was trying to explain how it was impossible for her to capsize, however much she heeled to starboard, when suddenly the little fellow cried out, —

“I can see something in the water!”

“Where? what?” exclaimed Dick, clambering to his feet upon the yard.

“There!” said the child, directing attention to the portion of the sea-surface that was visible between the stay-sails.

Dick fixed his gaze intently for a moment, and then shouted out lustily, —

“Look out in front, to starboard! There is something afloat. To windward, look out!”

CHAPTER III.

A RESCUE.

At the sound of Dick’s voice all the crew, in a moment, were upon the alert. The men who were not on watch rushed to the deck, and Captain Hull hurried from his cabin to the bows. Mrs. Weldon, Nan, and even Cousin Benedict leaned over the starboard taffrails, eager to get a glimpse of what had thus suddenly attracted the attention of the young apprentice. With his usual indifference, Negoro did not leave his cabin, and was the only person on board who did not share the general excitement.

Speculations were soon rife as to what could be the nature of the floating object which could be discerned about three miles ahead. Suggestions of various character were freely made. One of the sailors declared that it looked to him only like an abandoned raft, but Mrs. Weldon observed quickly that if it were a raft it might be carrying some unfortunate shipwrecked men who must be rescued if possible. Cousin Benedict asserted that it was nothing more nor less than a huge sea-monster; but the captain soon arrived at the conviction that it was the hull of a vessel that had heeled over on to its side, an opinion with which Dick thoroughly coincided, and went so far as to say that he believed he could make out the copper keel glittering in the sun.

“Luff, Bolton, luff!” shouted Captain Hull to the helmsman; “we will at any rate lose no time in getting alongside.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the helmsman, and the “Pilgrim” in an instant was steered according to orders.

In spite, however, of the convictions of the captain and Dick, Cousin Benedict would not be moved from his opinion that the object of their curiosity was some huge cetacean.

“It is certainly dead, then,” remarked Mrs. Weldon; “it is perfectly motionless.”

“Oh, that’s because it is asleep,” said Benedict, who, although he would have willingly given up all the whales in the ocean for one rare specimen of an insect, yet could not surrender his own belief.

“Easy, Bolton, easy!” shouted the captain when they were getting nearer the floating mass; “don’t let us be running foul of the thing; no good could come from knocking a hole in our side; keep out from it a good cable’s length.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the helmsman, in his usual cheery way; and by an easy turn of the helm the “Pilgrim’s” course was slightly modified so as to avoid all fear of collision.

The excitement of the sailors by this time had become more intense. Ever since the distance had been less than a mile all doubt had vanished, and it was certain that what was attracting their attention was the hull of a capsized ship. They knew well enough the established rule that a third of all salvage is the right of the finders, and they were filled with the hope that the hull they were nearing might contain an undamaged cargo, and be “a good haul,” to compensate them for their ill-success in the last season.

A quarter of an hour later and the “Pilgrim” was within half a mile of the deserted vessel, facing her starboard side. Water-logged to her bulwarks, she had heeled over so completely that it would have been next to impossible to stand upon her deck. Of her masts nothing was to be seen; a few ends of cordage were all that remained of her shrouds, and the try-sail chains were hanging all broken. On the starboard flank was an enormous hole.

“Something or other has run foul of her,” said Dick.

“No doubt of that,” replied the captain; “the only wonder is that she did not sink immediately.”

“Oh, how I hope the poor crew have been saved!” exclaimed Mrs Weldon.

“Most probably,” replied the captain, “they would all have taken to the boats. It is as likely as not that the ship which did the mischief would continue its course quite unconcerned”

“Surely, you cannot mean,” cried Mrs Weldon, “that any one could be capable of such inhumanity?”

“Only too probable,” answered Captain Hull, “unfortunately, such instances are very far from rare”

He scanned the drifting ship carefully and continued, —

“No, I cannot see any sign of boats here, I should guess that the crew have made an attempt to get to land, at such a distance as this, however, from America or from the islands of the Pacific I should be afraid that it must be hopeless.”

“Is it not possible,” asked Mrs Weldon, “that some poor creature may still survive on board, who can tell what has happened?”

“Hardly likely, madam; otherwise there would have been some sort of a signal in sight. But it is a matter about which we will make sure.”

The captain waved his hand a little in the direction in which he wished to go, and said quietly, —

“Luff, Bolton, luff a bit!”

The “Pilgrim” by this time was not much more than three cables’ lengths from the ship, there was still no token of her being otherwise than utterly deserted, when Dick Sands suddenly exclaimed, —

“Hark! if I am not much mistaken, that is a dog barking!”

Every one listened attentively; it was no fancy on Dick’s part, sure enough a stifled barking could be heard, as if some unfortunate dog had been imprisoned beneath the hatchways; but as the deck was not yet visible, it was impossible at present to determine the precise truth.

Mrs Weldon pleaded, —

“If it is only a dog, captain, let it be saved.”

“Oh, yes, yes, mamma, the dog must be saved!” cried

little Jack; “I will go and get a bit of sugar ready for it.”

“A bit of sugar, my child, will not be much for a starved dog.”

“Then it shall have my soup, and I will do without,” said the boy, and he kept shouting, “Good dog! good dog!” until he persuaded himself that he heard the animal responding to his call.

The vessels were now scarcely three hundred feet apart; the barking was more and more distinct, and presently a great dog was seen clinging to the starboard netting. It barked more desperately than ever.

“Howick,” said Captain Hull, calling to the boatswain, “heave to, and lower the small boat.”

The sails were soon trimmed so as to bring the schooner to a standstill within half a cable’s length of the disabled craft, the boat was lowered, and the captain and Dick, with a couple of sailors, went on board. The dog kept up a continual yelping; it made the most vigourous efforts to retain its hold upon the netting, but perpetually slipped backwards and fell off again upon the inclining deck. It was soon manifest, however, that all the noise the creature was making was not directed exclusively towards those who were coming to its rescue, and Mrs. Weldon could not divest herself of the impression that there must be some survivors still on board. All at once the animal changed its gestures. Instead of the crouching attitude and supplicating whine with which it seemed to be imploring the compassion of those who were nearing it, it suddenly appeared to become bursting with violence and furious with rage.

“What ails the brute?” exclaimed Captain Hull.

But already the boat was on the farther side of the wrecked ship, and the captain was not in a position to see that Negoro the cook had just come on to the schooner’s deck, or that it was obvious that it was against him that the dog had broken out in such obstreperous fury. Negoro had approached without being noticed by any one; he made his way to the forecastle, whence, without a word or look of surprise, he gazed a moment at the dog, knitted his brow, and, silent and unobserved as he had come, retired to his kitchen.

As the boat had rounded the stern of the drifting hull, it had been observed that the one word “Waldeck” was painted on the aft-board, but that there was no intimation of the port to which the ship belonged. To Captain Hull’s experienced eye, however, certain details of construction gave a decided confirmation to the probability suggested by her name that she was of American build.

Of what had once been a fine brig of 500 tons burden this hopeless wreck was now all that remained. The large hole near the bows indicated the place where the disastrous shock had occurred, but as, in the heeling over, this aperture had been carried some five or six feet above the water, the vessel had escaped the immediate foundering which must otherwise have ensued; but still it wanted only the rising of a heavy swell to submerge the ship at any time in a few minutes.

It did not take many more strokes to bring the boat close to the larboard bulwark, which was half out of the water, and Captain Hull obtained a view of the whole length of the deck. It was clear from end to end. Both masts had been snapped off within two feet of their sockets, and had been swept away with shrouds, stays, and rigging. Not a single spar was to be seen floating anywhere within sight of the wreck, a circumstance from which it was to be inferred that several days at least had elapsed since the catastrophe.

Meantime the dog, sliding down from the taffrail, got to the centre hatchway, which was open. Here it continued to bark, alternately directing its eyes above deck and below.

“Look at that dog!” said Dick; “I begin to think there must be somebody on board.”

“If so,” answered the captain, “he must have died of hunger; the water of course has flooded the store-room.”

“No,” said Dick; “that dog wouldn’t look like that if there were nobody there alive.”

Taking the boat as close as was prudent to the wreck, the captain and Dick called and whistled repeatedly to the dog, which after a while let itself slip into the sea, and began to swim slowly and with manifest weakness towards the boat. As soon as it was lifted in, the animal, instead of devouring the piece of bread that was offered him, made its way to a bucket containing a few drops of fresh water, and began eagerly to lap them up.

“The poor wretch is dying of thirst!” said Dick.

It soon appeared that the dog was very far from being engrossed with its own interests. The boat was being pushed back a few yards in order to allow the captain to ascertain the most convenient place to get alongside the “Waldeck,” when the creature seized Dick by the jacket, and set up a howl that was almost human in its piteousness. It was evidently in a state of alarm that the boat was not going to return to the wreck. The dog’s meaning could not be misunderstood. The boat was accordingly brought against the larboard side of the vessel, and while the two sailors lashed her securely to the “Waldeck’s” cat-head, Captain Hull and Dick, with the dog persistently accompanying them, clambered, after some difficulty, to the open hatchway between the stumps of the masts, and made their way into the hold. It was half full of water, but perfectly destitute of cargo, its sole contents being the ballast sand which had slipped to larboard, and now served to keep the vessel on her side.

One glance was sufficient to convince the captain that there was no salvage to be effected.

“There is nothing here; nobody here,” he said.

“So I see,” said the apprentice, who had made his way to the extreme fore-part of the hold.

“Then we have only to go up again,” remarked the captain.

They ascended the ladder, but no sooner did they reappear upon the deck than the dog, barking irrepressibly, began trying manifestly to drag them towards the stern.

Yielding to what might be called the importunities of the dog, they followed him to the poop, and there, by the dim glimmer admitted by the sky-light, Captain Hull made out the forms of five bodies, motionless and apparently lifeless, stretched upon the floor.

One after another, Dick hastily examined them all, and emphatically declared it to be his opinion, that not one or them had actually ceased to breathe; whereupon the captain did not lose a minute in summoning the two sailors to his aid, and although it was far from an easy task, he succeeded in getting the five unconscious men, who were all negroes, conveyed safely to the boat.

The dog followed, apparently satisfied.

With all possible speed the boat made its way back again to the “Pilgrim,” a girt-line was lowered from the mainyard, and the unfortunate men were raised to the deck.

“Poor things!” said Mrs. Weldon, as she looked compassionately on the motionless forms.

“But they are not dead,” cried Dick eagerly; “they are not dead; we shall save them all yet!”

“What’s the matter with them?” asked Cousin Benedict, looking at them with utter bewilderment.

“We shall hear all about them soon, I dare say,” said the captain, smiling; “but first we will give them a few drops of rum in some water.”

Cousin Benedict smiled in return.

“Negoro!” shouted the captain.

At the sound of the name, the dog, who had hitherto been quite passive, growled fiercely, showed his teeth, and exhibited every sign of rage.

The cook did not answer.

“Negoro!” again the captain shouted, and the dog became yet more angry.

At this second summons Negoro slowly left his kitchen, but no sooner had he shown his face upon the deck than the animal made a rush at him, and would unquestionably have seized him by the throat if the man had not knocked him back with a poker which he had brought with him in his hand.

The infuriated beast was secured by the sailors, and prevented from inflicting any serious injury.

“Do you know this dog?” asked the captain.

“Know him? Not I! I have never set eyes on the brute in my life.”

“Strange!” muttered Dick to himself; “there is some mystery here. We shall see.”

CHAPTER IV.

THE SURVIVORS OF THE “WALDECK.”

In spite of the watchfulness of the French and English cruisers, there is no doubt that the slave-trade is still extensively carried on in all parts of equatorial Africa, and that year after year vessels loaded with slaves leave the coasts of Angola and Mozambique to transport their living freight to many quarters even of the civilized world.

Of this Captain Hull was well aware, and although he was now in a latitude which was comparatively little traversed by such slavers, he could not help almost involuntarily conjecturing that the negroes they had just found must be part of a slave-cargo which was on its way to some colony of the Pacific; if this were so, he would at least have the satisfaction of announcing to them that they had regained their freedom from the moment that they came on board the “Pilgrim.”

Whilst these thoughts were passing through his mind, Mrs. Weldon, assisted by Nan and the ever active Dick Sands, was doing everything in her power to restore consciousness to the poor sufferers. The judicious administration of fresh water and a limited quantity of food soon had the effect of making them revive; and when they were restored to their senses it was found that the eldest of them, a man of about sixty years of age, who immediately regained his powers of speech, was able to reply in good English to all the questions that were put to him. In answer to Captain Hull’s inquiry whether they were not slaves, the old negro proudly stated that he and his companions were

all free American citizens, belonging to the state of Pennsylvania.

“Then, let me assure you, my friend,” said the captain, “you have by no means compromised your liberty in having been brought on board the American schooner ‘Pilgrim.’”

Not merely, as it seemed, on account of his age and experience, but rather because of a certain superiority and greater energy of character, this old man was tacitly recognized as the spokesman of his party; he freely communicated all the information that Captain Hull required to hear, and by degrees he related all the details of his adventures.

He said that his name was Tom, and that when he was only six years of age he had been sold as a slave, and brought from his home in Africa to the United States; but by the act of emancipation he had long since recovered his freedom. His companions, who were all much younger than himself, their ages ranging from twenty-five to thirty, were all free-born, their parents having been emancipated before their birth, so that no white man had ever exercised upon them the rights of ownership. One of them was his own son; his name was Bat (an abbreviation of Bartholomew); and there were three others, named Austin, Actaeon, and Hercules. All four of them were specimens of that stalwart race that commands so high a price in the African market, and in spite of the emaciation induced by their recent sufferings, their muscular, well-knit frames betokened a strong and healthy constitution. Their manner bore the impress of that solid education which is given in the North American schools, and their speech had lost all trace of the “nigger-tongue,” a dialect without articles or inflexions, which since the anti-slavery war has almost died out in the United States.

Three years ago, old Tom stated, the five men had been engaged by an Englishman who had large property in South Australia, to work upon his estates near Melbourne. Here they had realized a considerable profit, and upon the completion of their engagement they determined to return with their savings to America. Accordingly, on the 5th of January, after paying their passage in the ordinary way, they embarked at Melbourne on board the “Waldeck.” Everything went on well for seventeen days, until, on the night of the 22nd, which was very dark, they were run into by a great steamer. They were all asleep in their berths, but, roused by the shock of the collision, which was extremely severe, they hurriedly made their way on to the deck. The scene was terrible; both masts were gone, and the brig, although the water had not absolutely flooded her hold so as to make her sink, had completely heeled over on her side. Captain and crew had entirely disappeared, some probably having been dashed into the sea, others perhaps having saved themselves by clinging to the rigging of the ship which had fouled them, and which could be distinguished through the darkness rapidly receding in the distance. For a while they were paralyzed, but they soon awoke to the conviction that they were left alone upon a half-capsized and disabled hull, twelve hundred miles from the nearest land. Mrs. Weldon was loud in her expression of indignation that any captain should have the barbarity to abandon an unfortunate vessel with which his own carelessness had brought him into collision. It would be bad enough, she said for a driver on a public road, when it might be presumed that help would be forthcoming, to pass on unconcerned after causing an accident to another vehicle; but how much more shameful to desert the injured on the open sea, where the victims of his incompetence could have no chance of obtaining succour! Captain Hull could only repeat what he had said before, that incredibly atrocious as it might seem, such inhumanity was far from rare.

On resuming his story, Tom said that he and his companions soon found that they had no means left for getting away from the capsized brig; both the boats had been crushed in the collision, so that they had no alternative except to await the appearance of a passing vessel, whilst the wreck was drifting hopelessly along under the action of the currents. This accounted for the fact of their being found so far south of their proper course.

For the next ten days the negroes had subsisted upon a few scraps of food that they found in the stern cabin; but as the store room was entirely under water, they were quite unable to obtain a drop of anything to drink, and the freshwater tanks that had been lashed to the deck had been stove in at the time of the catastrophe. Tortured with thirst, the poor men had suffered agonies, and having on the previous night entirely lost consciousness, they must soon have died if the “Pilgrim’s” timely arrival had not effected their rescue.

All the outlines of Tom’s narrative were fully confirmed by the other negroes; Captain Hull could see no reason to doubt it; indeed, the facts seemed to speak for themselves.

One other survivor of the wreck, if he had been gifted with the power of speech, would doubtless have corroborated the testimony. This was the dog who seemed to have such an unaccountable dislike to Negoro.

Dingo, as the dog was named, belonged to the fine breed of mastiffs peculiar to New Holland. It was not, however, from Australia, but from the coast of West Africa, near the mouth of the Congo, that the animal had come. He had been picked up there, two years previously, by the captain of the “Waldeck,” who had found him wandering about and more than half starved. The initials S. V. engraved upon his collar were the only tokens that the dog had a past history of his own. After he had been taken on board the “Waldeck,” he remained quite unsociable, apparently ever pining for some lost master, whom he had failed to find in the desert land where he had been met with.

Larger than the dogs of the Pyrenees, Dingo was a magnificent example of his kind. Standing on his hind legs, with his head thrown back, he was as tall as a man. His agility and strength would have made him a sure match for a panther, and he would not have flinched at facing a bear. His fine shaggy coat was a dark tawny colour, shading off somewhat lighter round the muzzle, and his long bushy tail was as strong as a lion’s. If he were made angry, no doubt he might become a most formidable foe, so that it was no wonder that Negoro did not feel altogether gratified at his reception.

But Dingo, though unsociable, was not savage. Old Tom said that, on board the “Waldeck,” he had noticed that the animal seemed to have a particular dislike to negroes; not that he actually attempted to do them any harm, only he uniformly avoided them, giving an impression that he must have been systematically ill-treated by the natives of that part of Africa in which he had been found. During the ten days that had elapsed since the collision, Dingo had kept resolutely aloof from Tom and his companions; they could not tell what he had been feeding on; they only knew that, like themselves, he had suffered an excruciating thirst.

Such had been the experience of the survivors of the “Waldeck.” Their situation had been most critical. Even if they survived the pangs of want of food, the slightest gale or the most inconsiderable swell might at any moment have sunk the water-logged ship, and had it not been that calms and contrary winds had contributed to the opportune arrival of the “Pilgrim,” an inevitable fate was before them; their corpses must lie at the bottom of the sea.

Captain Hull’s act of humanity, however, would not be complete unless he succeeded in restoring the shipwrecked men to their homes. This he promised to do. After completing the unlading at Valparaiso, the “Pilgrim” would make direct for California, where, as Mrs. Weldon assured them, they would be most hospitably received by her husband, and provided with the necessary means for returning to Pennsylvania.

The five men, who, as the consequence of the shipwreck, had lost all the savings of their last three years of toil, were profoundly grateful to their kind-hearted benefactors; nor, poor negroes as they were, did they utterly resign the hope that at some future time they might have it in their power to repay the debt which they owed their deliverers.

CHAPTER V.

DINGO’S SAGACITY.

Meantime the “Pilgrim” pursued her course, keeping as much as possible to the east, and before evening closed in the hull of the “Waldeck” was out of sight.

Captain Hull still continued to feel uneasy about the constant prevalence of calms; not that for himself he cared much about the delay of a week or two in a voyage from New Zealand to Valparaiso, but he was disappointed at the prolonged inconvenience it caused to his lady passenger. Mrs. Weldon, however, submitted to the detention very philosophically, and did not utter a word of complaint.

The captain’s next care was to improvise sleeping accommodation for Tom and his four associates. No room for them could possibly be found in the crew’s quarters, so that their berths had to be arranged under the forecastle; and as long as the weather continued fine, there was no reason why the negroes, accustomed as they were to a somewhat rough life, should not find themselves sufficiently comfortable.

After this incident of the discovery of the wreck, life on board the “Pilgrim” relapsed into its ordinary routine. With the wind invariably in the same direction, the sails required very little shifting; but whenever it happened, as occasionally it would, that there was any tacking to be done, the good-natured negroes were ever ready to lend a helping hand; and the rigging would creak again under the weight of Hercules, a great strapping fellow, six feet high, who seemed almost to require ropes of extra strength made for his special use.

Hercules became at once a great favourite with little Jack; and when the giant lifted him like a doll in his stalwart arms, the child fairly shrieked with delight.

“Higher! higher! very high!” Jack would say sometimes.

“There you are, then, Master Jack,” Hercules would reply as he raised him aloft.

“Am I heavy?” asked the child,

“As heavy as a feather.”

“Then lift me higher still,” cried Jack; “as high as ever you can reach.”

And Hercules, with the child’s two feet supported on his huge palm, would walk about the deck with him like an acrobat, Jack all the time endeavouring, with vain efforts, to make him “feel his weight.”

Besides Dick Sands and Hercules, Jack admitted a third friend to his companionship. This was Dingo. The dog, unsociable as he had been on board the “Waldeck,” seemed to have found society more congenial to his tastes, and being one of those animals that are fond of children, he allowed Jack to do with him almost anything he pleased. The child, however, never thought of hurting the dog in any way, and it was doubtful which of the two had the greater enjoyment of their mutual sport. Jack found a live dog infinitely more entertaining than his old toy upon its four wheels, and his great delight was to mount upon Dingo’s back, when the animal would gallop off with him like a race-horse with his jockey. It must be owned that one result of this intimacy was a serious diminution of the supply of sugar in the store-room. Dingo was the delight of all the crew excepting Negoro, who cautiously avoided coming in contact with an animal who showed such unmistakable symptoms of hostility.

The new companions that Jack had thus found did not in the least make him forget his old friend Dick Sands, who devoted all his leisure time to him as assiduously as ever. Mrs. Weldon regarded their intimacy with the

greatest satisfaction, and one day made a remark to that effect in the presence of Captain Hull.

“You are right, madam,” said the captain cordially; “Dick is a capital fellow, and will be sure to be a first-rate sailor. He has an instinct which is little short of a genius; it supplies all deficiencies of theory. Considering how short an experience and how little instruction he has had, it is quite wonderful how much he knows about a ship.”

“Certainly for his age,” assented Mrs. Weldon, “he is singularly advanced. I can safely say that I have never had a fault to find with him. I believe that it is my husband’s intention, after this voyage, to let him have systematic training in navigation, so that he may be able ultimately to become a captain.”

“I have no misgivings, madam,” replied the captain; “there is every reason to expect that he will be an honour to the service”

“Poor orphan!” said the lady; “he has been trained in a hard school.”

“Its lessons have not been lost upon him,” rejoined Captain Hull; “they have taught him the prime lesson that he has his own way to make in the world.”

The eyes of the two speakers turned as it were unwittingly in the direction where Dick Sands happened to be standing. He was at the helm.

“Look at him now!” said the captain; “see how steadily he keeps his eye upon the fore; nothing distracts him from his duty; he is as much to be depended on as the most experienced helmsman. It was a capital thing for him that he began his training as a cabin-boy. Nothing like it. Begin at the beginning. It is the best of training for the merchant service.”

“But surely,” interposed Mrs. Weldon, “you would not deny that in the navy there have been many good officers who have never had the training of which you are speaking?”

“True, madam; but yet even some of the best of them have begun at the lowest step of the ladder. For instance, Lord Nelson.”

Just at this instant Cousin Benedict emerged from the stern-cabin, and completely absorbed, according to his wont, in his own pursuit, began to wander up and down the deck, peering into the interstices of the network, rummaging under the seats, and drawing his long fingers along the cracks in the floor where the tar had crumbled away.

“Well, Benedict, how are you getting on?” asked Mrs Weldon.

“I? Oh, well enough, thank you,” he replied dreamily; “but I wish we were on shore.”

“What were you looking for under that bench?” said Captain Hull.

“Insects, of course,” answered Benedict; “I am always looking for insects.”

“But don’t you know, Benedict,” said Mrs. Weldon, “that Captain Hull is far too particular to allow any vermin on the deck of his vessel?”

Captain Hull smiled and said, —

“Mrs Weldon is very complimentary; but I am really inclined to hope that your investigations in the cabins of the ‘Pilgrim’ will not be attended with much success.”

Cousin Benedict shrugged his shoulders in a manner that indicated that he was aware that the cabins could furnish nothing attractive in the way of insects.

“However,” continued the captain, “I dare say down in the hold you could find some cockroaches; but cockroaches, I presume, would be of little or no interest to you.”

“No interest?” cried Benedict, at once warmed into enthusiasm; “why, are they not the very orthoptera that roused the imprecations of Virgil and Horace? Are they not closely allied to the Periplaneta orientalis and the American Kakerlac, which inhabit — “

“I should rather say infest,” interrupted the captain.

“Easy enough to see, sir,” replied Benedict, stopping short with amazement, “that you are not an entomologist!”

“I fear I must plead guilty to your accusation,” said the captain good-humouredly.

“You must not expect every one to be such an enthusiast in your favourite study as yourself.” Mrs. Weldon interposed; “but are you not satisfied with the result of your explorations in New Zealand?”

“Yes, yes,” answered Benedict, with a sort of hesitating reluctance; “I must not say I was dissatisfied; I was really very delighted to secure that new staphylin which hitherto had never been seen elsewhere than in New California; but still, you know, an entomologist is always craving for fresh additions to his collection.”

While he was speaking, Dingo, leaving little Jack, who was romping with him, came and jumped on Benedict, and began to fawn on him.

“Get away, you brute!” he exclaimed, thrusting the dog aside.

“Poor Dingo! good dog!” cried Jack, running up and taking the animal’s huge head between his tiny hands.

“Your interest in cockroaches, Mr. Benedict,” observed the captain, “does not seem to extend to dogs.”

“It isn’t that I dislike dogs at all,” answered Benedict; “but this creature has disappointed me.”

“How do you mean? You could hardly want to catalogue him with the diptera or hymenoptera?” asked Mrs Weldon laughingly.

“Oh, not at all,” replied Benedict, with the most unmoved gravity. “But I understood that he had been found on the West Coast of Africa, and I hoped that perhaps he might have brought over some African hemiptera in his coat; but I have searched his coat well, over and over again, without finding a single specimen. The dog has disappointed me,” he repeated mournfully.

“I can only hope,” said the captain, “that if you had found anything, you were going to kill it instantly.”

Benedict looked with mute astonishment into the captain’s face. In a moment or two afterwards, he said, —

“I suppose, sir, you acknowledge that Sir John Franklin was an eminent member of your profession?”

“Certainly; why?”

“Because Sir John would never take away the life of the most insignificant insect; it is related of him that when he had once been incessantly tormented all day by a mosquito, at last he found it on the back of his hand and blew it off, saying, ‘Fly away, little creature, the world is large enough for both you and me!’”

“That little anecdote of yours, Mr. Benedict,” said the captain, smiling, “is a good deal older than Sir John Franklin. It is told, in nearly the same words, about Uncle Toby, in Sterne’s ‘Tristram Shandy’; only there it was not a mosquito, it was a common fly.”

“And was Uncle Toby an entomologist?” asked Benedict; “did he ever really live?”

“No,” said the captain, “he was only a character in a novel.”

Cousin Benedict gave a look of utter contempt, and Captain Hull and Mrs Weldon could not resist laughing.

Such is only one instance of the way in which Cousin Benedict invariably brought it about that all conversation with him ultimately turned upon his favourite pursuit, and all along, throughout the monotonous hours of smooth sailing, while the “Pilgrim” was making her little headway to the east, he showed his own devotion to his pet science, by seeking to enlist new disciples. First of all, he tried his powers of persuasion upon Dick Sands, but soon finding that the young apprentice had no taste for entomological mysteries, he gave him up and turned his attention to the negroes. Nor was he much more successful with them; one after another, Tom, Bat, Actaeon, and Austin had all withdrawn themselves from his instructions, and the class at last was reduced to the single person of Hercules; but in him the enthusiastic naturalist thought he had discovered a latent talent which could distinguish between a parasite and a thysanura.

Hercules accordingly submitted to pass a considerable portion of his leisure in the observation of every variety of coleoptera; he was encouraged to study the extensive collection of stag-beetles, tiger-beetles and lady-birds; and although at times the enthusiast trembled to see some of his most delicate and fragile specimens in the huge grasp of his pupil, he soon learned that the man’s gentle docility was a sufficient guarantee against his clumsiness.

While the science of entomology was thus occupying its two votaries, Mrs. Weldon was giving her own best attention to the education of Master Jack. Reading and writing she undertook to teach herself, while she entrusted the instruction in arithmetic to the care of Dick Sands. Under the conviction that a child of five years will make a much more rapid progress if something like amusement be combined with his lessons, Mrs. Weldon would not teach her boy to spell by the use of an ordinary school primer, but used a set of cubes, on the sides of which the various letters were painted in red. After first making a word and showing it to Jack, she set him to put it together without her help, and it was astonishing how quickly the child advanced, and how many hours he would spend in this way, both in the cabin and on deck. There were more than fifty cubes, which, besides the alphabet, included all the digits; so that they were of service for Dick Sands’ lessons as well as for her own. She was more than satisfied with her device.

On the morning of the 9th an incident occurred which could not fail to be observed as somewhat remarkable. Jack was half lying, half sitting on the deck, amusing himself with his letters, and had just finished putting together a word with which he intended to puzzle old Tom, who, with his hand sheltering his eyes, was pretending not to see the difficulty which was being labouriously prepared to bewilder him; all at once, Dingo, who had been gambolling round the child, made a sudden pause, lifted his right paw, and wagged his tail convulsively. Then darting down upon a capital S, he seized it in his mouth, and carried it some paces away.

“Oh, Dingo, Dingo! you mustn’t eat my letters!” shouted the child.

But the dog had already dropped the block of wood, and coming back again, picked up another, which he laid quietly by the side of the first. This time it was a capital V. Jack uttered an exclamation of astonishment which brought to his side not only his mother, but the captain and Dick, who were both on deck. In answer to their inquiry as to what had occurred, Jack cried out in the greatest excitement that Dingo knew how to read. At any rate he was sure that he knew his letters.

Dick Sands smiled and stooped to take back the letters. Dingo snarled and showed his teeth, but the apprentice was not frightened; he carried his point, and replaced the two blocks among the rest. Dingo in an instant pounced upon them again, and having drawn them to his side, laid a paw upon each of them, as if to signify his intention of retaining them in his possession. Of the other letters of the alphabet he took no notice at all.

“It is very strange,” said Mrs. Weldon; “he has picked out S V again.”

“S V!” repeated the captain thoughtfully; “are not those the letters that form the initials on his collar?”

And turning to the old negro, he continued, —

“Tom didn’t you say that this dog did not always belong to the captain of the ‘Waldeck’?”

“To the best of my belief,” replied Tom, “the captain had only had him about two years. I often heard him tell how he found him at the mouth of the Congo.”

“Do you suppose that he never knew where the animal came from, or to whom he had previously belonged?” asked Captain Hull.

“Never,” answered Tom, shaking his head; “a lost dog is worse to identify than a lost child; you see, he can’t make himself understood any way.”

The captain made no answer, but stood musing; Mrs. Weldon interrupted him.

“These letters, captain, seem to be recalling something to your recollection.

“I can hardly go so far as to say that, Mrs. Weldon,” he replied; “but I cannot help associating them with the fate of a brave explorer.”

“Whom do you mean? said the lady.

“In 1871, just two years ago,” the captain continued, “a French traveller, under the auspices of the Geographical

Society of Paris, set out for the purpose of crossing Africa from west to east. His starting-point was the mouth of the Congo, and his exit was designed to be as near as possible to Cape Deldago, at the mouth of the River Rovouma, of which he was to ascertain the true course. The name of this man was Samuel Vernon, and I confess it strikes me as somewhat a strange coincidence that the letters engraved on Dingo’s collar should be Vernon’s initials.”

“Is nothing known about this traveller?” asked Mrs. Weldon.

“Nothing was ever heard of him after his first departure. It appears quite certain that he failed to reach the east coast, and it can only be conjectured either that he died upon his way, or that he was made prisoner by the natives; and if so, and this dog ever belonged to him, the animal might have made his way back to the sea-coast, where, just about the time that would be likely, the captain of the ‘Waldeck’ picked him up.”

“But you have no reason to suppose, Captain Hull, that Vernon ever owned a dog of this description?”

“I own I never heard of it,” said the captain; “but still the impression fixes itself on my mind that the dog must have been his; how he came to know one letter from another, it is not for me to pretend to say. Look at him now, madam! he seems not only to be reading the letters for himself, but to be inviting us to come and read them with him.”

Whilst Mrs. Weldon was watching the dog with much amusement, Dick Sands, who had listened to the previous conversation, took the opportunity of asking the captain whether the traveller Vernon had started on his expedition quite alone.

“That is really more than I can tell you, my boy,” answered Captain Hull; “but I should almost take it for granted that he would have a considerable retinue of natives.”

The captain spoke without being aware that Negoro had meanwhile quietly stolen on deck. At first his presence was quite unnoticed, and no one observed the peculiar glance with which he looked at the two letters over which Dingo still persisted in keeping guard. The dog, however, no sooner caught sight of the cook than he began to bristle with rage, whereupon Negoro, with a threatening gesture which seemed half involuntary, withdrew immediately to his accustomed quarters.

The incident did not escape the captain’s observation.

“No doubt,” he said, “there is some mystery here;” and he was pondering the matter over in his mind when Dick Sands spoke.

“Don’t you think it very singular, sir, that this dog should have such a knowledge of the alphabet?”

Jack here put in his word.

“My mamma has told me about a dog whose name was Munito, who could read as well as a schoolmaster, and could play dominoes.”

Mrs. Weldon smiled.

“I am afraid, my child, that that dog was not quite so learned as you imagine. I don’t suppose he knew one letter from another; but his master, who was a clever American, having found out that the animal had a very keen sense of hearing, taught him some curious tricks.”

“What sort of tricks?” asked Dick, who was almost as much interested as little Jack.

“When he had to perform in public,” continued Mrs. Weldon, “a lot of letters like yours, Jack, were spread out upon a table, and Munito would put together any word that the company should propose, either aloud or in a whisper, to his master. The creature would walk about until he stopped at the very letter which was wanted. The secret of it all was that the dog’s owner gave him a signal when he was to stop by rattling a little tooth-pick in his pocket, making a slight noise that only the dog’s ears were acute enough to perceive.”

Dick was highly amused, and said, —

“But that was a dog who could do nothing wonderful without his master.”

“Just so,” answered Mrs. Weldon; “and it surprises me

very much to see Dingo picking out these letters without a master to direct him.”

“The more one thinks of it, the more strange it is,” said Captain Hull; “but, after all, Dingo’s sagacity is not greater than that of the dog which rang the convent bell in order to get at the dish that was reserved for passing beggars; nor than that of the dog who had to turn a spit every other day, and never could be induced to work when it was not his proper day. Dingo evidently has no acquaintance with any other letters except the two S V; and some circumstance which we can never guess has made him familiar with them.”

“What a pity he cannot talk!” exclaimed the apprentice; “we should know why it is that he always shows his teeth at Negoro.”

“And tremendous teeth they are!” observed the captain, as Dingo at that moment opened his mouth, and made a display of his formidable fangs.

CHAPTER VI.

A WHALE IN SIGHT.

It was only what might be expected that the dog’s singular exhibition of sagacity should repeatedly form a subject of conversation between Mrs. Weldon, the captain, and Dick. The young apprentice in particular began to entertain a lurking feeling of distrust towards Negoro, although it must be owned that the man’s conduct in general afforded no tangible grounds for suspicion.

Nor as it only among the stern passengers that Dingo’s remarkable feat was discussed; amongst the crew in the bow the dog not only soon gained the reputation of being able to read, but was almost credited with being able to write too, as well as any sailor among them; indeed the chief wonder was that he did not speak.

“Perhaps he can,” suggested Bolton, the helmsman, “and likely enough some fine day we shall have him coming to ask about our bearings, and to inquire which way the wind lies.”

“Ah! why not?” assented another sailor; “parrots talk, and magpies talk; why shouldn’t a dog? For my part, I should guess it must be easier to speak with a mouth than with a beak.”

“Of course it is,” said Howick, the boatswain; “only a quadruped has never yet been known to do it.”

Perhaps, however, the worthy fellow would have been amazed to hear that a certain Danish savant once possesed a dog that could actually pronounce quite distinctly nearly twenty different words, demonstrating that the construction of the glottis, the aperture at the top of the windpipe, was adapted for the emission of regular sounds: of course the animal attached no meaning to the words it uttered any more than a parrot or a jay can comprehend their own chatterings.

Thus, unconsciously, Dingo had become the hero of the hour. On several separate occasions Captain Hull repeated the experiment of spreading out the blocks before him, but invariably with the same result; the dog never failed, without the slightest hesitation, to pick out the two letters, leaving all the rest of the alphabet quite unnoticed.

Cousin Benedict alone, somewhat ostentatiously, professed to take no interest in the circumstance.

“You cannot suppose,” he said to Captain Hull, after various repetitions of the trick, “that dogs are to be reckoned the only animals endowed with intelligence Rats, you know, will always leave a sinking ship, and beavers invariably raise their dams before the approach of a flood. Did not the horses of Nicomedes, Scanderberg and Oppian die of grief for the loss of their masters? Have there not been instances of donkeys with wonderful memories? Birds, too, have been trained to do the most remarkable things; they have been taught to write word after word at their master’s dictation; there are cockatoos who can count the people in a room as accurately as a mathematician; and haven’t you heard of the old Cardinal’s parrot that he would not part with for a hundred gold crowns because it could repeat the Apostles’ creed from beginning to end without a blunder? And insects,” he continued, warming into enthusiasm, “how marvellously they vindicate the axiom —

‘In minimis maximus Deus!’

Are not the structures of ants the very models for the architects of a city? Has the diving-bell of the aquatic argyroneta ever been surpassed by the invention of the most skilful student of mechanical art? And cannot fleas go through a drill and fire a gun as well as the most accomplished artilleryman? This Dingo is nothing out of the way. I suppose he belongs to some unclassed species of mastiff. Perhaps one day or other he may come to be identified as the ‘canis alphabeticus’ of New Zealand.”

The worthy entomologist delivered this and various similar harangues; but Dingo, nevertheless, retained his high place in the general estimation, and by the occupants of the forecastle was regarded as little short of a phenomenon. The feeling, otherwise universal, was not in any degree shared by Negoro, and it is not improbable that the man would have been tempted to some foul play with the dog if the open sympathies of the crew had not kept him in check. More than ever he studiously avoided coming in contact in any way with the animal, and Dick Sands in his own mind was quite convinced that since the incident of the letters, the cook’s hatred of the dog had become still more intense.

After continual alternations with long and wearisome calms the north-east wind perceptibly moderated, and on the both, Captain Hull really began to hope that such a change would ensue as to allow the schooner to run straight before the wind. Nineteen days had elapsed since the “Pilgrim” had left Auckland, a period not so long but that with a favourable breeze it might be made up at last. Some days however were yet to elapse before the wind veered round to the anticipated quarter.

It has been already stated that this portion of the Pacific is almost always deserted. It is out of the line of the American and Australian steam-packets, and except a whaler had been brought into it by some such exceptional circumstances as the “Pilgrim,” it was quite unusual to see one in this latitude.

But, however void of traffic was the surface of the sea, to none but an unintelligent mind could it appear monotonous or barren of interest. The poetry of the ocean breathes forth in its minute and almost imperceptible changes. A marine plant, a tuft of seaweed lightly furrowing the water, a drifting spar with its unknown history, may afford unlimited scope — for the imagination; every little drop passing, in its process of evaporation, backwards and

forwards from sea to sky, might perchance reveal its own special secret; and happy are those minds which are capable of a due appreciation of the mysteries of air and ocean.

Above the surface as well as below, the restless flood is ever teaming with animal life; and the passengers on board the “Pilgrim” derived no little amusement from watching great flocks of birds migrating northwards to escape the rigour of the polar winter, and ever and again descending in rapid flight to secure some tiny fish. Occasionally Dick Sands would take a pistol, and now and then a rifle, and, thanks to Mr. Weldon’s former instructions, would bring down various specimens of the feathered tribe.

Sometimes white petrels would congregate in considerable numbers near the schooner; and sometimes petrels of another species, with brown borders on their wings, would come in sight; now there would be flocks of damiers skimming the water; and now groups of penguins, whose clumsy gait appears so ludicrous on shore; but, as Captain Hull pointed out, when their stumpy wings were employed as fins, they were a match for the most rapid of fish, so that sailors have often mistaken them for bonitos.

High over head, huge albatrosses, their outspread wings measuring ten feet from tip to tip, would soar aloft, thence to swoop down towards the deep, into which they plunged their beaks in search of food. Such incidents and scenes as these were infinite in their variety, and it was accordingly only for minds that were obtuse to the charms of nature that the voyage could be monotonous.

On the day the wind shifted, Mrs. Weldon was walking up and down on the “Pilgrim’s” stern, when her attention was attracted by what seemed to her a strange phenomenon. All of a sudden, far as the eye could reach, the sea had assumed a reddish hue, as if it were tinged with blood.

Both Dick and Jack were standing close behind her, and she cried, —

“Look, Dick, look! the sea is all red. Is it a seaweed that is making the water so strange a colour?

“No,” answered Dick, “it is not a weed; it is what the sailors call whales’ food; it is formed, I believe, of innumerable myriads of minute crustacea.”

“Crustacea they may be,” replied Mrs. Weldon, “but they must be so small that they are mere insects. Cousin Benedict no doubt will like to see them.”

She called aloud, —

“Benedict! Benedict! come here! we have a sight here to interest you.”

The amateur naturalist slowly emerged from his cabin followed by Captain Hull.

“Ah! yes, I see!” said the captain; “whales’ food; just the opportunity for you, Mr. Benedict; a chance not to be thrown away for studying one of the most curious of the crustacea.”

“Nonsense!” ejaculated Benedict contemptuously; “utter nonsense!”

“Why? what do you mean, Mr. Benedict?” retorted the captain; “surely you, as an entomologist, must know that I am right in my conviction that these crustacea belong to one of the six classes of the articulata.”

The disdain of Cousin Benedict was expressed by a repeated sneer.

“Are you not aware, sir, that my researches as an entomologist are confined entirely to the hexapoda?”

Captain Hull, unable to repress a smile, only answered good-humouredly, —

“I see, sir, your tastes do not lie in the same direction as those of the whale.”

And turning to Mrs. Weldon, he continued, —

“To whalemen, madam, this is a sight that speaks for itself. It is a token that we ought to lose no time in getting out our lines and looking to the state of our harpoons. There is game not far away.”

Jack gave vent to his astonishment.

“Do you mean that great creatures like whales feed on such tiny things as these?”

“Yes, my boy,” said the captain; “and I daresay they are as nice to them as semolina and ground rice are to you.

When a whale gets into the middle of them he has nothing to do but to open his jaws, and, in a minute, hundreds of thousands of these minute creatures are inside the fringe or whalebone around his palate, and he is sure of a good mouthful.”

“So you see, Jack,” said Dick, “the whale gets his shrimps without the trouble of shelling them.”

“And when he has just closed his snappers is the very time to give him a good taste of the harpoon,” added Captain Hull.

The words had hardly escaped the captain’s lips when a shout from one of the sailors announced, —

“A whale to larboard!”

“There’s the whale!” repeated the captain. All his professional instincts were aroused in an instant, and he hurried to the bow, followed in eager curiosity by all the stern passengers.

Even Cousin Benedict loitered up in the rear, constrained, in spite of himself, to take a share in the general interest.

There was no doubt about the matter. Four miles or so to windward an unusual commotion in the water betokened to experienced eyes the presence of a whale; but the distance was too great to permit a reasonable conjecture to be formed as to which species of those mammifers the creature belonged.

Three distinct species are familiarly known. First there is the Right whale, which is ordinarily sought for in the northern fisheries. The average length of this cetacean is sixty feet, though it has been known to attain the length of eighty feet. It has no dorsal fin, and beneath its skin is a thick layer of blubber. One of these monsters alone will yield as much as a hundred barrels of oil.

Then there is the Hump-back, a typical representative of the species “balaenoptera,” a definition which may at first sight appear to possess an interest for an entomologist, but which really refers to two white dorsal fins, each half as wide as the body, resembling a pair of wings, and in their formation similar to those of the flying-fish. It must be owned, however, that a flying whale would decidedly be a rara avis.

Lastly, there is the Jubarte, commonly known as the Finback. It is provided with a dorsal fin, and in length not unfrequently is a match for the gigantic Right whale.

While it was impossible to decide to which of the three species the whale in the distance really belonged, the general impression inclined to the belief that it was a jubarte.

With longing eyes Captain Hull and his crew gazed at the object of general attraction. Just as irresistibly as it is said a clockmaker is drawn on to examine the mechanism of every clock which chance may throw in his way, so is a whaleman ever anxious to plunge his harpoon into any whale that he can get within his reach. The larger the game the more keen the excitement; and no elephant-hunter’s eagerness ever surpasses the zest of the whale-fisher when once started in pursuit of the prey.

To the crew the sight of the whale was the opening of an unexpected opportunity, and no wonder they were fired with the burning hope that even now they might do something to supply the deficiency of their meagre haul throughout the season.

Far away as the creature still was, the captain’s practised eye soon enabled him to detect various indications that satisfied him as to its true species. Amongst other things that arrested his attention, he observed a column of water and vapour ejected from the nostrils. “It isn’t a right whale,” he said; “if so, its spout would be smaller and it would rise higher in the air. And I do not think it is a hump-back. I cannot hear the hump-back’s roar. Dick, tell me, what do you think about it?”

With a critical eye Dick Sands looked long and steadily at the spout.

“It blows out water, sir,” said the apprentice, “water, as well as vapour. I should think it is a finback. But it must be a rare large one.”

“Seventy feet, at least!” rejoined the captain, flushing with his enthusiasm.

“What a big fellow!” said Jack, catching the excitement of his elders.

“Ah, Jack, my boy,” chuckled the captain, “the whale little thinks who are watching him enjoy his breakfast!”

“Yes,” said the boatswain; “a dozen such gentlemen as that would freight a craft twice the size of ours; but this one, if only we can get him, will go a good way towards filling our empty barrels.”

“Rather rough work, you know,” said Dick, “to attack a finback!”

“You are right, Dick,” answered the captain; “the boat has yet to be built which is strong enough to resist the flap of a jubarte’s tail.”

“But the profit is worth the risk, captain, isn’t it?”

“You are right again, Dick,” replied Captain Hull, and as he spoke, he clambered on to the bowsprit in order that he might get a better view of the whale.

The crew were as eager as their captain. Mounted on the fore-shrouds, they scanned the movements of their coveted prey in the distance, freely descanting upon the profit to be made out of a good finback and declaring that it would be a thousand pities if this chance of filling the casks below should be permitted to be lost.

Captain Hull was perplexed. He bit his nails and knitted his brow.

“Mamma!” cried little Jack, “I should so much like to see a whale close, — quite close, you know.”

“And so you shall, my boy,” replied the captain, who was standing by, and had come to the resolve that if his men would back him, he would make an attempt to capture the prize.

He turned to his crew, —

“My men! what do you think? shall we make the venture? Remember, we are all alone; we have no whalemen to help us; we must rely upon ourselves; I have thrown a harpoon before now; I can throw a harpoon again; what do you say?”

The crew responded with a ringing cheer, —

“Ay, ay, sir! Ay, ay!”

CHAPTER VII.

PREPARATIONS FOR AN ATTACK.

Great was the excitement that now prevailed, and the question of an attempt to capture the sea-monster became the ruling theme of conversation. Mrs. Weldon expressed considerable doubt as to the prudence of venturing upon so great a risk with such a limited number of hands, but when Captain Hull assured her that he had more than once successfully attacked a whale with a single boat, and that for his part he had no fear of failure, she made no further remonstrance, and appeared quite satisfied.

Having formed his resolve, the captain lost no time in setting about his preliminary arrangements. He could not really conceal from his own mind that the pursuit of a finback was always a matter of some peril, and he was anxious, accordingly, to make every possible provision which forethought could devise against all emergencies.

Besides her long-boat, which was kept between the two masts, the “Pilgrim” had three whale-boats, two of them slung to the starboard and larboard davits, and the third at the stern, outside the taffrail. During the fishing season, when the crew was reinforced by a hired complement of New Zealand whalemen, all three of these boats would be brought at once into requisition, but at present the whole crew of the “Pilgrim” was barely sufficient to man one of the three boats. Tom and his friends were ready to volunteer their assistance, but any offers of service from them were necessarily declined; the manipulation of a whale-boat can only be entrusted to those who are experienced in the work, as a false turn of the tiller or a premature stroke of the oar may in a moment compromise the safety of the whole party. Thus compelled to take all his trained sailors with him on his venturous expedition, the captain had no alternative than to leave his apprentice in charge of the schooner during his absence. Dick’s choice would have been very much in favour of taking a share in the whale-hunt, but he had the good sense to know that the developed strength of a man would be of far greater service in the boat, and accordingly without a murmur he resigned himself to remain behind.

Of the five sailors who were to man the boat, there were four to take the oars, whilst Howick the boatswain was to manage the oar at the stern, which on these occasions generally replaces an ordinary rudder as being quicker in action in the event of any of the side oars being disabled. The post of harpooner was of course assigned to Captain Hull, to whose lot it would consequently fall first to hurl his weapon at the whale, then to manage the unwinding of the line to which the harpoon was attached, and finally to kill the creature by lance-wounds when it should emerge again from below the sea.

A method sometimes employed for commencing an attack is to place a sort of small cannon on the bows or deck of the boat and to discharge from it either a harpoon or some explosive bullets, which make frightful lacerations on the body of the victim; but the “Pilgrim” was not provided with apparatus of this description; not only are all the contrivances of this kind very costly and difficult to manage, but the fishermen generally are averse to innovations, and prefer the old-fashioned harpoons. It was with these alone that Captain Hull was now about to encounter the finback that was lying some four miles distant from his ship.

The weather promised as favourably as could be for the enterprise. The sea was calm, and the wind moreover was still moderating, so that there was no likelihood of the schooner drifting away during the captain’s absence.

When the starboard whale-boat had been lowered, and the four sailors had entered it, Howick passed a couple of harpoons down to them, and some lances which had been carefully sharpened; to these were added five coils of stout and supple rope, each 600 feet long, for a whale when struck often dives so deeply that even these lengths of line knotted together are found to be insufficient. After these implements of attack had been properly stowed in the bows, the crew had only to await the pleasure of their captain.

The “Pilgrim,” before the sailors left her, had been made to heave to, and the yards were braced so as to secure her remaining as stationary as possible. As the time drew near for the captain to quit her, he gave a searching look all round to satisfy himself that everything was in order; he saw that the halyards were properly tightened, and the sails trimmed as they should be, and then calling the young apprentice to his side, he said, —

“Now, Dick, I am going to leave you for a few hours: while I am away, I hope that it will not be necessary for you to make any movement whatever. However, you must be on the watch. It is not very likely, but it is possible that this finback may carry us out to some distance. If so, you will have to follow; and in that case, I am sure you may rely upon Tom and his friends for assistance.”

One and all, the negroes assured the captain of their willingness to obey Dick’s instructions, the sturdy Hercules rolling up his capacious shirt-sleeves as if to show that he was ready for immediate action.

The captain went on, —

“The weather is beautifully fine, Dick, and I see no prospect of the wind freshening; but come what may, I have one direction to give you which I strictly enforce. You must not leave the ship. If I want you to follow us, I will hoist a flag on the boat-hook.”

“You may trust me, sir,” answered Dick; “and I will keep a good look-out.”

“All right, my lad; keep a cool head and a good heart. You are second captain now, you know. I never heard of any one of your age being placed in such a post; be a credit to your position!”

Dick blushed, and the bright flush that rose to his cheeks spoke more than words.

“The lad may be trusted,” murmured the captain to himself; “he is as modest as he is courageous. Yes; he may be trusted.”

It cannot be denied that the captain was not wholly without compunction at the step he was taking; he was aware of the danger to which he was exposing himself, but he beguiled himself with the persuasion that it was only for a few hours; and his fisherman’s instinct was very keen. It was not only for himself; the desire upon the part of the crew was almost irresistibly strong that every opportunity ought to be employed for making the cargo of the schooner equal to her owner’s expectations. And so he finally prepared to start.

“I wish you all success!” said Mrs. Weldon.

“Many thanks!” he replied.

Little Jack put in his word, —

“And you will try and catch the whale without hurting him much?”

“All right, young gentleman,” answered the captain; “he shall hardly feel the tip of our fingers!”

“Sometimes,” said Cousin Benedict, as if he had been pondering the expedition in relation to his pet science, “sometimes there are strange insects clinging to the backs of these great mammifers; do you think you are likely to procure me any specimens?”

“You shall soon have the opportunity of investigating for yourself,” was the captain’s reply.

“And you, Tom; we shall be looking to you for help in cutting up our prize, when we get it alongside,” continued he.

“We shall be quite ready, sir,” said the negro.

“One thing more, Dick,” added the captain; “you may as well be getting up the empty barrels out of the hold; they will be all ready.”

“It shall be done, sir,” answered Dick promptly.

If everything went well it was the intention that the whale after it had been killed should be towed to the side of the schooner, where it would be firmly lashed. Then the sailors with their feet in spiked shoes would get upon its back and proceed to cut the blubber, from head to tail, in long strips, which would first be divided into lumps about a foot and a half square, the lumps being subsequently chopped into smaller portions capable of being stored away in casks. The ordinary rule would be for a ship, as soon as the flaying was complete, to make its way to land where the blubber could be at once boiled down, an operation by which it is reduced by about a third of its weight, and by which it yields all its oil, the only portion of it which is of any value. Under present circumstances, however, Captain Hull would not think of melting down the blubber until his arrival at Valparaiso, and as he was sanguine that the wind would soon set in a favourable direction, he calculated that he should reach that port in less than three weeks, a period during which his cargo would not be deteriorated.

The latest movement with regard to the “Pilgrim” had been to bring her somewhat nearer the spot where the spouts of vapour indicated the presence of the coveted prize. The creature continued to swim about in the reddened waters, opening and shutting its huge jaws like an automaton, and absorbing at every mouthful whole myriads of animalcula. No one entertained a fear that it would try to make an escape; it was the unanimous verdict that it was “a fighting whale,” and one that would resist all attacks to the very end.

As Captain Hull descended the rope-ladder and took his place in the front of the boat, Mrs. Weldon and all on board renewed their good wishes.

Dingo stood with his fore paws upon the taffrail, and appeared as much as any to be bidding the adventurous party farewell.

When the boat pushed off, those who were left on board the “Pilgrim” made their way slowly to the bows, from which the most extensive view was to be gained.

The captain’s voice came from the retreating boat, —

“A sharp look-out, Dick; a sharp look-out; one eye on us, one on the ship!”

“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the apprentice.

By his gestures the captain showed that he was under some emotion; he called out again, but the boat had made such headway that it was too far off for any words to be heard.

Dingo broke out into a piteous howl.

The dog was still standing erect, his eye upon the boat in the distance. To the sailors, ever superstitious, the howling was not reassuring. Even Mrs. Weldon was startled.

“Why, Dingo, Dingo,” she exclaimed, “this isn’t the way to encourage your friends. Come here, sir; you must behave better than that!”

Sinking down on all fours the animal walked slowly up to Mrs. Weldon, and began to lick her hand.

“Ah!” muttered old Tom, shaking his head solemnly, “he doesn’t wag his tail at all. A bad omen.”

All at once the dog gave a savage growl.

As she turned her head, Mrs Weldon caught sight of Negoro making his way to the forecastle, probably actuated by the general spirit of curiosity to follow the maneuvers of the whale-boat. He stopped and seized a handspike as soon as he saw the ferocious attitude of the dog.

The lady was quite unable to pacify the animal, which seemed about to fly upon the throat of the cook, but Dick Sands called out loudly, —

“Down, Dingo, down!”

The dog obeyed; but it seemed to be with extreme reluctance that he returned to Dick’s side; he continued to growl, as if still remembering his rage. Negoro had turned very pale, and having put down the handspike, made his way cautiously back to his own quarters.

“Hercules,” said Dick, “I must get you to keep your eye upon that man.”

“Yes, I will,” he answered, significantly clenching his fists.

Dick took his station at the helm, whence he kept an earnest watch upon the whale-boat, which under the vigourous plying of the seamen’s oars had become little more than a speck upon the water.

CHAPTER VIII.

A CATASTROPHE.

Experienced whaleman as he was, Captain Hull knew the difficulty of the task he had undertaken, he was alive to the importance of making his approach to the whale from the leeward, so that there should be no sound to apprize the creature of the proximity of the boat. He had perfect confidence in his boatswain, and felt sure that he would take the proper course to insure a favourable result to the enterprise.

“We mustn’t show ourselves too soon, Howick,” he said.

“Certainly not,” replied Howick, “I am going to skirt the edge of the discoloured water, and I shall take good care to get well to leeward.”

“All right,” the captain answered, and turning to the crew said, “now, my lads, as quietly as you can.”

Muffling the sound of their oars by placing straw in the rowlocks, and avoiding the least unnecessary noise, the men skilfully propelled the boat along the outline of the water tinged by the crustacea, so that while the starboard oars still dipped in the green and limpid sea, the larboard were in the deep-dyed waves, and seemed as though they were dripping with blood.

“Wine on this side, water on that,” said one of the sailors jocosely.

“But neither of them fit to drink,” rejoined the captain sharply, “so just hold your tongue!”

Under Howick’s guidance the boat now glided stealthily

on to the greasy surface of the reddened waters, where she appeared to float as on a pool of oil. The whale seemed utterly unconscious of the attack that was threatening it, and allowed the boat to come nearer without exhibiting any sign of alarm.

The wide circuit which the captain had thought it advisable to take had the effect of considerably increasing the distance between his boat and the “Pilgrim,” whilst the strange rapidity with which objects at sea become diminished in apparent magnitude, as if viewed through the wrong end of a telescope, made the ship look farther away than she actually was.

Another half-hour elapsed, and at the end of it the captain found himself so exactly to leeward that the huge body of the whale was precisely intermediate between his boat and the “Pilgrim.” A closer approach must now be made; every precaution must be used; but the time had come to get sufficiently near for the harpoon to be discharged.

“Slowly, my men,” said the captain, in a low voice; “slowly and softly!”

Howick muttered something that implied that the whale had ceased blowing so hard, and that it was aware of their approach; the captain, upon this, enjoined the most perfect silence, but urged his crew onwards, until, in five or six minutes, they were within a cable’s length of the finback. Erect at the stern the boatswain stood, and manoeuvred to get the boat as close as possible to the whale’s left flank, while he made it an object of special care to keep beyond the reach of its formidable tail, one stroke of which could involve them all in instantaneous disaster.

The manipulation of the boat thus left to the boatswain, the captain made ready for the arduous effort that was before him. At the extreme bow, harpoon in hand, with his legs somewhat astride so as to insure his equilibrium, he stood prepared to plunge his weapon into the mass that rose above the surface of the sea. By his side, coiled in a pail, and with one end firmly attached to the harpoon, was the first of the five lines which if the whale should dive to a considerable depth, would have to be joined end to end, one after another .

“Are you ready, my lads?” said he, hardly above a whisper.

“Ay, ay, sir,” replied Howick, speaking as gently as his master, and giving a firmer grip to the rudder-oar that he held in his hands.

“Then, alongside at once,” was the captain’s order, which was promptly obeyed, so that in a few minutes the boat was only about ten feet from the body of the whale. The animal did not move. Was it asleep? In that case there was hope that the very first stroke might be fatal. But it was hardly likely. Captain Hull felt only too sure that there was some different cause to be assigned for its remaining so still and stationary; and the rapid glances of the boatswain showed that he entertained the same suspicion. But it was no time for speculation; the moment for action had arrived, and no attempt was made on either hand to exchange ideas upon the subject.

Captain Hull seized his weapon tightly by the shaft, and having poised it several times in the air, in order to make more sure of his aim, he gathered all his strength and hurled it against the side of the finback.

“Backwater!” he shouted.

The sailors pushed back with all their might, and the boat in an instant was beyond the range of the creature’s tail.

And now the immoveableness of the animal was at once accounted for.

“See; there’s a youngster!” exclaimed Howick.

And he was not mistaken. Startled by the blow of the harpoon the monster had heeled over on to its side, and the movement revealed a young whale which the mother had been disturbed in the act of suckling. It was a discovery which made Captain Hull aware that the capture of the whale would be attended with double difficulty; he knew; that she would defend “her little one” (if such a term can be applied to a creature that was at least twenty feet long) with the most determined fury; yet having made what he considered a successful commencement of the attack, he would not be daunted, nor deterred from his endeavour to secure so fine a prize.

The whale did not, as sometimes happens, make a precipitate dash upon the boat, a proceeding which necessitates the instant cutting of the harpoon-line, and an immediate retreat, but it took the far more usual course of diving downwards almost perpendicularly. It was followed by its calf; very soon, however, after rising once again to the surface with a sudden bound, it began swimming along under water with great rapidity.

Before its first plunge Captain Hull and Howick had sufficient opportunity to observe that it was an unusually large balaenoptera, measuring at least eighty feet from head to tail, its colour being of a yellowish-brown, dappled with numerous spots of a darker shade.

The pursuit, or what may be more aptly termed “the towing,” of the whale had now fairly commenced. The sailors had shipped their oars, and the whale-boat darted like an arrow along the surface of the waves. In spite of the oscillation, which was very violent, Howick succeeded in maintaining equilibrium, and did not need the repeated injunctions with which the agitated captain urged his boatswain to be upon his guard.

But fast as the boat flew along, she could not keep pace with the whale, and so rapidly did the line run out that except proper care had been taken to keep the bucket in which it was coiled filled with water, the friction against the edge of the boat would inevitably have caused it to take fire. The whale gave no indication of moderating its speed, so that the first line was soon exhausted, and the second had to be attached to its end, only to be run out with like rapidity. In a few minutes more it was necessary to join on the third line; it was evident that the whale had not been hit in a vital part, and so far from rising to the surface, the oblique direction of the rope indicated that the creature was seeking yet greater depths.

“Confound it!” exclaimed the captain; “it seems as if the brute is going to run out all our line.”

“Yes; and see what a distance the animal is dragging us away from the ‘Pilgrim,’” answered Howick.

“Sooner or later, however,” said Captain Hull, “the thing must come to the surface; she is not a fish, you know.”

“She is saving her breath for the sake of her speed,” said one of the sailors with a grin.

But grin as he might, both he and his companions began to look serious when the fourth line had to be added to the third, and more serious still when the fifth was added to the fourth. The captain even began to mutter imprecations upon the refractory brute that was putting their patience to so severe a test.

The last line was nearly all uncoiled, and the general consternation was growing very great, when there was observed to be a slight slackening in the tension.

“Thank Heaven!” cried the captain; “the beast has tired herself out at last.”

Casting his eye towards the “Pilgrim,” he saw at a glance that she could not be less than five miles to leeward. It was a long distance, but when, according to his arrangement, he had hoisted the flag on the boat-hook which was to be the signal for the ship to approach, he had the satisfaction of seeing that Dick Sands and the negroes at once began bracing the yards to get as near as possible to the wind. The breeze, however, blew only in short, unsteady puffs, and it was only too evident that the “Pilgrim” would have considerable difficulty in working her way to the whale-boat, even if she succeeded at last.

Meantime, just as had been expected, the whale had risen to the surface of the water, the harpoon still fixed firmly in her side. She remained motionless, apparently waiting for her calf, which she had far out-distanced in her mad career. Captain Hull ordered his men to pull towards her as rapidly as they could, and on getting close up, two of the sailors, following the captain’s example, shipped their oars and took up the long lances with which the whale was now to be attacked. Howick held himself in readiness to sheer off quickly in the event of the finback making a turn towards the boat.

“Now, my lads!” shouted the captain. “Look out! take a good aim! no false shots! Are you ready, Howick?”

“Quite ready, captain,” answered the boatswain, adding, “but it perplexes me altogether to see the brute so quiet all of a sudden.”

“It looks suspicious,” said the captain; “but never mind; go on! straight ahead!”

Captain Hull was becoming more excited every moment.

During the time the boat was approaching, the whale had only turned round a little in the water without changing its position. It was evidently still looking for its calf, which was not to be seen by its side. All of a sudden it gave a jerk with its tail which carried it some few yards away.

The men were all excited. Was the beast going to escape again? Was the fatiguing pursuit all to come over a second time? Must not the chase be abandoned? Would not the prize have to be given up?

But no: the whale was not starting on another flight; it had merely turned so as to face the boat, and now rapidly beating the water with its enormous fins, it commenced a frantic dash forwards.

“Look out, Howick, she’s coming!” shouted Captain Hull.

The skilful boatswain was all on the alert; the boat swerved, as if by instinct, so as to avoid the blow, and as the whale passed furiously by, she received three tremendous thrusts from the lances of the captain and the two men, who all endeavoured to strike at some vital part. There was a sudden pause. The whale spouted up two gigantic columns of blood and water, lashed its tail, and, with bounds and plunges that were terrible to behold, renewed its angry attack upon the boat.

None but the most determined of whalemen could fail to lose their head under such an assault. Calm and collected, however, the crew remained. Once again did Howick adroitly sheer aside, and once again did the three lances do their deadly work upon the huge carcase as it rolled impetuously past; but this time, so great was the wave that was caused by the infuriated animal, that the boat was well-nigh full of water, and in imminent danger of being capsized.

“Bale away, men!” cried the captain.

Putting down their oars, the other sailors set to work baling with all their might. Captain Hull cut the harpoon-line, now no longer required, because the whale, maddened with pain and grief for the loss of its offspring, would certainly make no further attempt to escape, but would fight desperately to the very end.

The finback was obviously bent on a third onslaught upon the boat, which, being in spite of all the men’s exertions still more than half full of water, no longer answered readily to the rudder-oar.

No one thought of flight. The swiftest boat could be overtaken in a very few bounds. There was no alternative but to face the encounter. It was not long in coming. Their previous good fortune failed them. The whale in passing caught the boat with such a violent blow from its dorsal fin, that the men lost their footing and the lances missed their mark.

“Where’s Howick?” screamed the captain in alarm.

“Here I am, captain; all right!” replied the boatswain, who had scrambled to his feet only to find that the oar with which he had been steering was snapped in half.

“The rudder’s smashed,” he said.

“Take another, Howick; quick!” cried the captain.

But scarcely had he time to replace the broken oar, when a bubbling was heard a few yards away from the boat, and the young whale made its appearance on the surface of the sea. Catching sight of it instantly, the mother made a fresh dash in its direction, the maternal instincts were aroused, and the contest must become more deadly than ever.

Captain Hull looked towards the “Pilgrim,” and waved his signal frantically above his head. It was, however, with

no hope of succour; he was only too well aware that no human efforts could effectually hasten the arrival of the ship. Dick Sands indeed had at once obeyed the first summons: already the wind was filling the sails, but in default of steam power her progress at best could not be otherwise than slow. Not only did Dick feel convinced that it would be a useless waste of time to lower a boat and come off with the negroes to the rescue, but he remembered the strict orders he had received on no account to quit the ship. Captain Hull, however, could perceive that the apprentice had had the aft-boat lowered, and was towing it along, so that it should be in readiness for a refuge as soon as they should get within reach.

But the whale, close at hand, demanded attention that could ill be spared for the yet distant ship. Covering her young one with her body, she was manifestly designing another charge full upon the boat.

“On your guard, Howick! sheer off!” bellowed the captain.

But the order was useless. The fresh oar that the boatswain had taken to replace the broken one was considerably shorter, and consequently it failed in lever-power. There was, in fact, no helm for the boat to answer. The sailors saw the failure, and convinced that all was lost uttered one long, despairing cry that might have been heard on board the “Pilgrim.” Another moment, and from beneath there came a tremendous blow from the monster’s tail that sent the boat flying in the air. In fragments it fell back again into a sea that was lashed into fury by the angry flapping of the finback’s fins.

Was it not possible for the unfortunate men, bleeding and wounded as they were, still to save themselves by clinging to some floating spar? Captain Hull is indeed seen endeavouring to hoist the boatswain on to a drifting plank. But all in vain. There is no hope. The whale, writhing in the convulsions of death, returns yet once again to the attack; the waters around the struggling sailors seethe and foam. A brief turmoil follows as if there were the bursting of some vast waterspout.

In a quarter of an hour afterwards, Dick Sands, with the negroes, reaches the scene of the catastrophe. All is still and desolate. Every living object has vanished. Nothing is visible except a few fragments of the whale-boat floating on the blood-stained water.

CHAPTER IX.

DICK’S PROMOTION.

The first feeling experienced by those on board the “Pilgrim,” after witnessing the terrible disaster was one of grief and horror at the fearful death that had befallen the victims. Captain Hull and his men had been swept away before their very eyes, and they had been powerless to assist. Not one was saved; the schooner had reached the spot too late to offer the least resistance to the attacks of the formidable sea-monster.

When Dick and the negroes returned to the ship after their hopeless search, with only the corroboration of their sad foreboding that captain and crew had disappeared for ever, Mrs. Weldon sank upon her knees; little Jack knelt beside her crying bitterly; and Dick, old Nan, and all the negroes stood reverently around her whilst with great devoutness the lady offered up the prayer of commendation for the souls of the departing. All sympathized heartily with her supplications, nor was there any diminution of their fervour when she proceeded to implore that the survivors might have strength and courage for their own hour of need.

The situation was indeed very grave. Here was the “Pilgrim” in the middle of the Pacific, hundreds of miles away from the nearest land, without captain, without crew, at the mercy of the wind and waves. It was a strange fatality that had brought the whale across their path; it was a fatality stranger still that had induced her captain, a man of no ordinary prudence, to risk even his life for the sake of making good a deficient cargo. It was an event almost unknown in the annals of whale-fishing that not a single man in the whale-boat should escape alive; nevertheless, it was all too true; and now, of all those left on board, Dick Sands, the apprentice-boy of fifteen years of age, was the sole individual who had the slightest knowledge of the management of a ship; the negroes, brave and willing as they were, were perfectly ignorant of seamen’s duties; and, to crown all, here was a lady with her child on board, for whose safety the commander of the vessel would be held responsible.

Such were the facts which presented themselves to the mind of Dick as, with folded arms, he stood gazing gloomily at the spot where Captain Hull, his esteemed benefactor, had sunk to rise no more. The lad raised his eyes sadly; he scanned the horizon with the vain hope that he might perchance descry some passing vessel to which he could confide Mrs. Weldon and her son; for himself, his mind was made up; he had already resolved that nothing should induce him to quit the “Pilgrim” until he had exhausted every energy in trying to carry her into port.

The ocean was all deserted. Since the disappearance of the whale nothing had broken the monotonous surface either of sea or sky. The apprentice, short as his experience was, knew enough to be aware that he was far out of the common track alike of merchantmen or whalers; he would not buoy himself up with false expectations; he would look his situation full and fairly in the face; he would do his best, and trust hopefully in guidance from the Power above.

Thus absorbed in his meditations he did not observe that he was not alone. Negoro, who had gone below immediately after the catastrophe, had again come back upon deck. What this mysterious character had felt upon witnessing the awful calamity it would be impossible to say. Although with his eye he had keenly taken in every detail of the melancholy spectacle, every muscle of, his face had remained unmoved; not a gesture, not a word betrayed the least emotion. Even if he had heard, he had taken no part, nor evinced the faintest interest in Mrs. Weldon’s outpouring of prayer.

He had made his way to the stern, where Dick Sands was pondering over the responsibilities of his own position, and stood looking towards the apprentice without interrupting his reverie.

Catching sight of him, Dick roused himself in an instant, and said, —

“You want to speak to me?”

“I must speak either to the captain or the boatswain,” answered the man.

“Negoro,” said Dick sharply, “you know as well as I do, that they are both drowned.”

“Then where am I to get my orders from?” asked the fellow insolently.

“From me,” promptly rejoined the apprentice.

“From you! from a boy of fifteen?”

“Yes, from me,” repeated Dick, in a firm and resolute voice, looking at the man until he recoiled under his gaze. “From me”

Mrs. Weldon had heard what passed.

“I wish every one on board to understand,” she interposed, “that Dick Sands is captain now. Orders must be taken from him, and they must be obeyed.”

Negoro frowned, bit his lip, sneered, and having muttered something that was unintelligible, made his way back to his cabin.

Meantime, the schooner under the freshening breeze had been carried beyond the shoal of the crustaceans. Dick cast his eye first at the sails, then along the deck, and seemed to become more and more alive to the weight of the obligation that had fallen upon him; but his heart did not fail him; he was conscious that the hopes of the passengers centred in himself, and he was determined to let them see that he would do his best not to disappoint them.

Although he was satisfied of his capability, with the help of the negroes, to manipulate the sails, he was conscious of a defect of the scientific knowledge which was requisite for properly controlling the ship’s course. He felt the want of a few more years’ experience. If only he had had longer practice he would, he thought, have been as able as Captain Hull himself, to use the sextant, to take the altitude of the stars, to read the time from his chronometer; sun, moon, and planets, should have been his guides; from the firmament, as from a dial-plate, he would have gathered the teachings of his true position; but all this was beyond him as yet; his knowledge went no further than the use of the log and compass, and by these alone he must be content to make his reckonings. But he kept up his courage, and did not permit himself for one moment to despair of ultimate success.

Mrs. Weldon needed little penetration to recognize the thoughts which were passing in the mind of the resolute youth.

“I see you have come to your decision, Dick,” she said. “The command of the ship is in your hands; no fear but that you will do your duty; and Tom, and the rest of them, no doubt, will render you every assistance in their power.”

“Yes, Mrs. Weldon,” rejoined Dick brightly; “and before long I shall hope to make them good seamen. If only the weather lasts fair, everything will go on well enough; and if the weather turns out bad, we must not despond; we will get safe ashore.”

He paused a moment and added reverently, —

“God helping us.”

Mrs. Weldon proceeded to inquire whether he had any means of ascertaining the “Pilgrim’s” present position. He replied that the ship’s chart would at once settle that. Captain Hull had kept the reckoning accurately right up to the preceding day.

“And what do you propose to do next?” she asked. “Of course you understand that in our present circumstances we are not in the least bound to go to Valparaiso if there is a nearer port which we could reach.”

“Certainly not,” replied Dick; “and therefore it is my intention to sail due east, as by following that course we

are sure to come upon some part of the American coast.”

“Do your best, Dick, to let us get ashore somewhere.”

“Never fear, madam,” he answered; “as we get nearer land we shall be almost sure to fall in with a cruiser which will put us into the right track. If the wind does but remain in the north-west, and allow us to carry plenty of sail, we shall get on famously.”

He spoke with the cheery confidence of a good sailor who knows the good ship beneath his feet. He had moved off a few steps to go and take the helm, when Mrs. Weldon, calling him back, reminded him that he had not yet ascertained the true position of the schooner. Dick confessed that it ought to be done at once, and going to the captain’s cabin brought out the chart upon which the ill-fated commander had marked the bearings the evening before. According to this dead-reckoning they were in lat. 43deg 35’, S. and long. 164deg 13’, W.; and as the schooner had made next to no progress during the last twenty-four eventful hours, the entry might fairly be accepted as representing approximately their present position.

To the lady’s inexperienced eye, as she bent over the outspread chart, it seemed that the land, as represented by the brown patch which depicted the continent of South America extending like a barrier between two oceans from Cape Horn to Columbia, was, after all, not so very far distant; the wide space of the Pacific was not so broad but that it would be quickly traversed.

“Oh, we shall soon be on shore!” she said.

But Dick knew better. He had acquaintance enough with the scale upon which the chart was constructed to be aware that the “Pilgrim” herself would have been a speck like a microscopic infusoria on the vast surface of that sea, and that hundreds and hundreds of weary miles separated her from the coast.

No time was to be lost. Contrary winds had ceased to blow; a fresh north-westerly breeze had sprung up, and the cirri, or curl-cloud: overhead indicated that for some time at least the direction of the wind would be unchanged.

Dick appealed to the negroes, and tried to make them appreciate the difficulty of the task that had fallen to his lot. Tom answered, in behalf of himself and all the rest, that they were not only willing, but anxious, to do all they could to assist him, saying that if their knowledge was small, yet their arms were strong, and added that they should certainly be obedient to every order he gave.

“My friends,” said Dick, addressing them in reply; “I shall make it a point of myself taking the helm as much as possible. But you know I must have my proper rest sometimes. No one can live without sleep. Now, Tom, I intend you to stand by me for the remainder of the day. I will try and make you understand how to steer by the aid of the compass. It is not difficult. You will soon learn. I shall have to leave you when I go to my hammock for an hour or two.”

“Is there nothing,” said little Jack, “that I can learn to do?”

“Oh yes, Jack; you shall keep the wind in order,” answered Dick, smiling.

“That I will!” cried the child, clapping his hands, while the mother drew him to her side.

“And now, my men,” was Dick’s first order to his crew, we must brace in the yards to sail fair. I will show you how.”

“All right, Captain Sands; we are at your service,” said old Tom gravely.

CHAPTER X.

THE NEW CREW.

Dick Sands, captain of the “Pilgrim,” would not lose a moment in getting his ship under sail. His prime object was to land his passengers safely at Valparaiso or some other American port, and to accomplish his purpose it was in the first place necessary that he should ascertain the schooner’s rate of speed and the direction that she was taking. This information was to be obtained readily enough by means of the log and compass, and the result of each day’s observations would be entered regularly on the chart.

The log on board was a patent log, with a dial-plate and screw, by means of which the distance that is travelled can be measured accurately for any definite time; it was an instrument so simple that the negroes were very soon taught its use. The slight error in the reckoning caused by the action of the currents could only be rectified by astronomical observations, which, as already has been stated, were beyond Dick’s attainments to make.

The idea more than once crossed Dick’s mind whether he would not take the “Pilgrim” back again to New Zealand; the distance was considerably less than it was to America, and had the wind remained in the quarter whence it had been blowing so long, it is more than likely he would have determined to retrace his course. But as the wind had now veered to the north-west, and there was every probability that it was settled for a time, he came to the conclusion that he had better take advantage of it and persevere in making his way towards the east. Accordingly he lost no time in putting his ship before the wind.

On a schooner the foremast usually carries four square sails; on the lower mast a foresail; on the top-mast a top-sail; on the top-gallant a top-gallant-sail and a royal. The main-mast carries only a main-sail and a top-sail. Between the masts upon the fore-stays can be hoisted a triple tier of triangular sails; while the bowsprit with its jib-boom will carry the three jibs.

The jibs, the main-sail, the main-top-sail and the staysails are all managed with comparative ease, because they can be hoisted from the deck without the necessity of ascending the mast to let fly the robbins, by which they are fastened to the yards. With the sails on the foremast it is altogether a more difficult business. In order either to unfurl them, to take them in, or to reef them, it is necessary for a man to clamber up by the shrouds, either to the fore-top, or to the top-gallant cross-trees, and thence mounting by loose ropes, extended below the yards, to hold on by one hand whilst he does his work with the other. The operation requires alike the head and arm of an experienced mariner; and when a fresh breeze has been blowing, it is a casualty far from uncommon that a sailor, confused by the flapping of the canvas and the pitching of the vessel, should be blown overboard in the act. For the unpractised negroes the danger would necessarily be very great. However, the wind at present was very moderate, and the ship ploughed her way over the waves without any violent oscillations.

At the time when Dick Sands, in obedience to the signal he received from Captain Hull, proceeded to make his way to the scene of the disaster, the “Pilgrim,” as she lay to, was carrying only her jibs, main-sail, foresail, and fore-top-sail. In order, therefore, to put her as near as possible to the wind, it had been merely necessary to counter-brace the foresail yard, a manoeuvre in which the negroes had rendered all the assistance that was necessary. It was requisite now to do something more. To enable him to get straight before the wind Dick wanted to increase his sail, and was desirous of hoisting the top-gallant, the royal, the main-top-sail, and the staysails.

He was himself standing at the wheel.

“Now, my men,” he shouted to the negroes; “I want your help. Do exactly as I tell you. Bear away, Tom!”

Tom looked puzzled.

“Bear away! unfasten that rope, I mean. And, Bat, come along; do the same as Tom.”

The men did what they were bidden.

“That’s right!” continued Dick, and calling to Hercules, said, —

“Now, Hercules; a good strong pull!”

To give such a direction to Hercules was somewhat imprudent; the rigging creaked again under his giant strength.

“Gently, gently, my good fellow!” said Dick, laughing; “you will have the mast down.”

“I declare I hardly touched the rope,” answered Hercules.

“Well, next time, you must only pretend to touch it,” said Dick; and, continuing his orders, shouted, “Now slacken! let fly! make fast! now brace in the yards! all right! that’s capital!”

The yards were loosened, the foresails turned slowly round, and, catching the breeze, gave a slight impetus to the ship. Dick’s next orders were for the jib-sheets to be set free, and then he called the men to the stern.

“Now,” said he; “we must look to the main-mast; but take care, Hercules, not to have it down.”

“I will be as careful as possible, Mr. Dick,” submissively replied Hercules, as though he were afraid to commit himself to any rash promise.

The manoeuvre was simple enough. The main-sheet was gradually slackened, the great sail took the wind and added its powerful action to that of the foresails. The main-top-sail was next brought to bear; it was only clewed up, so that there was nothing to do except to pull the halyards, haul it aboard the tack, and unfurl it. But in pulling at the halyards the muscular energy of Hercules, which was supplemented by that of Actaeon, not to forget little Jack, who had volunteered his assistance, proved to be overpowering, and the rope snapped in two. All three of them, of course, fell flat upon the deck; but fortunately neither of them was hurt, and Jack laughed heartily at his tumble as an excellent joke.

“Up with you!” cried Captain Dick; “there’s no harm done; splice the rope, and haul away more gently next time.”

It took but a few minutes to execute the order, and the “Pilgrim” was soon sailing away rapidly with her head to the east.

“Well done, my friends!” said Dick, who had not left his post at the helm; “you will be first-rate sailors before the end of the voyage.”

“We shall do our best, I promise you, Captain Sands,” replied Tom, making it a point to give the young commander his proper title.

Mrs. Weldon also congratulated the new crew upon the success of their first attempt.

“I believe it was Master Jack who broke that rope,” said Hercules, with a sly twinkle in his eye; “he is very strong, I can tell you.”

Jack looked as though he thoroughly appreciated the compliment, and evidenced his satisfaction by giving his huge friend a hearty shake of the hand.

There were still several sails that were not yet set. Running well before the wind as the “Pilgrim” was, Dick nevertheless felt that the gallant, royal, and staysails, if brought into service, would materially assist her progress, and he determined not to dispense with their help. The staysails could be hoisted from below, but to bring the gallant and royal into play demanded more experience than any of his crew had had. Knowing that he could not entrust the task to them, and yet resolved not to be baulked of his wish to set them, he undertook the task himself. He first put Tom to the helm, showing him how

to keep the schooner’s head in the right direction, and having placed the other four at the royal and top-gallant halyards, proceeded to mount the foremast.

To clamber up the foreshrouds and the top-shrouds on to the cross-trees was mere child’s play to the active apprentice. In a few minutes he had unfurled the top-gallant-sail, mounted to the royal-yard, unfurled the royal, again reached the cross-trees, and having caught hold of one of the starboard backstays, had descended to the deck; there he gave the necessary directions, and the two sails were made fast, and both yards braced.

Nor did this content him. The staysails were set between the masts, and thus the “Pilgrim” was running along, crowded to the full, with all her canvas. The only additional sails which Dick could possibly have employed would have been some studding-sails to larboard, but as the setting of these was a matter of some difficulty, and they were not always readily struck in the case of a sudden squall, he contented himself without them.

Again he took his place at the helm. The breeze was manifestly freshening, and the “Pilgrim,” almost imperceptibly heeling to starboard, glided rapidly along the surface of the water, leaving behind her a wake, smooth and clean, that bore plain witness to the true adjustment of her water-line.

“This is good progress, Mrs. Weldon,” he said; “may Heaven grant the wind and weather may continue thus favourable!”

The lady, in silence, shook the boy’s hand; and then, worn-out with the excitement of the past hours, went to her cabin, where she lay down and fell into a troubled doze.

The new crew remained on watch. They were stationed on the forecastle, in readiness to make any alteration which the sails might require, but the wind was so steady and unshifting that no need arose for their services.

And Cousin Benedict? all this time, where was he? and what had he been doing?

He was sitting in his cabin; he had a magnifying-glass in his hand and was studying an articulata of the order orthoptera, an insect of the Blattidae family; its characteristics are a roundish body, rather long wings, flat elytra, and a head hidden by the prothorax. He had been on deck at the time of the calamity; the ill-fated captain with the crew had been drowned before his very eyes; but he said nothing; not that he was unmoved; to think that he was not struck with horror would be to libel his kind and pitying nature. His sympathy was aroused, especially for his cousin; he pressed her hand warmly as if he would assure her of his truest commiseration; but he said nothing; he hurried off towards his cabin; and who shall deny that it was to devise some wonderfully energetic measures that he would take in consequence of this melancholy event?

Passing the kitchen, however, he caught sight of Negoro in the act of crushing a blatta, an American species of cockroach. He broke out into a storm of invective, and in tones of indignation demanded the surrender of the insect, which Negoro made with cool contempt. In a moment Captain Hull and his partners in death were all forgotten; the enthusiast had secured a prize with which he hastened to his own little compartment, where he was soon absorbed in proving to his own satisfaction, in opposition to the opinion of other entomologists, that the blattae of the phoraspous species, which are remarkable for their colours, differ in their habits from blattae of the ordinary sort.

For the remainder of the day perfect order reigned on board the “Pilgrim.” Though they were unable to shake off the sickening feeling of horror roused by the frightful disaster, and felt that they had sustained a startling shock, all the passengers seemed mechanically to fall into their usual routine. Dick Sands, though avowedly at the wheel, seemed to be everywhere, with an eye for every thing, and his amateur crew obeyed him readily, and with the promptness of a willing activity.

Negoro made no further overt attempt to question the young captain’s authority, but remained shut up in his kitchen. Dick made no secret of his determination to place the cook in close confinement if he exhibited any

future sign of insubordination. Hercules was ready to carry him off bodily to the hold, and old Nan was equally ready to take his place in the cooking department. Probably Negoro was aware of all this; at any rate he did not seem disposed to give any further cause of offence at present.

As the day advanced the wind continued to freshen; but no shifting of the sails seemed necessary. The “Pilgrim” was running well. There was no need to diminish her spread of canvas. Masts as solid and rigging as strong as hers could stand a far heavier breeze.

As a general rule, it is deemed prudent in case of a squall to shorten sail at night, and especially to take in gallants and royal; but the weather prospects now were all so promising and satisfactory that Dick persuaded himself he was under no necessity to take this precaution; he rather felt himself bound to take the strongest measures he could to expedite his reaching less unfrequented waters. He made up his mind, however, not to leave the deck at all that night.

The young captain made every effort to get an approximate reckoning of the schooner’s progress. He heaved the log every half-hour and duly registered the result of each successive examination. There were two compasses on board; one in the binnacle, close under the eye of the helmsman, the other, an inverted compass, being attached to the rafters of the captain’s cabin, so that without leaving his berth he could see whether the man in charge of the wheel was holding a proper course.

Every vessel that is duly furnished for a lengthened voyage has always not only two compasses but two chronometers, one to correct the other. The “Pilgrim” was not deficient in this respect, and Dick Sands made a strong point of admonishing his crew that they should take especial care of the compasses, which under their present circumstances were of such supreme importance.

A misfortune, however, was in store for them. On the night of the 12th, while Dick was on watch, the compass in the cabin became detached from its fastening and fell on the floor. The accident was not discovered until the following morning. Whether the metal ferule that had attached the instrument to the rafters had become rusty, or whether it had been worn away by additional friction it seemed impossible to settle. All that could be said was that the compass was broken beyond repair. Dick was extremely grieved at the loss; but he did not consider that any one was to be blamed for the mishap, and could only resolve for the future to take extra care of the compass in the binnacle.

With the exception of this contretemps, everything appeared to go on satisfactorily on board. Mrs. Weldon, reassured by Dick’s confidence, had regained much of her wonted calmness, and was besides ever supported by a sincere religious spirit. She and Dick had many a long conversation together. The ingenuous lad was always ready to take the kind and intelligent lady into his counsel, and day by day would point out to her on the chart the registers he made as the result of his dead reckoning; he would then try and satisfy her that under the prevailing wind there could be no doubt they must arrive at the coast of South America: moreover, he said that, unless he was much mistaken, they should sight the land at no great distance from Valparaiso.

Mrs. Weldon had, in truth, no reason to question the correctness of Dick’s representations; she owned that provided the wind remained in the same favourable quarter, there was every prospect of their reaching land in safety; nevertheless at times she could not resist the misgiving that would arise when she contemplated what might be the result of a change of wind or a breaking of the weather.

With the light-heartedness that belonged to his age, Jack soon fell back into his accustomed pursuits, and was to be seen merrily running over the deck or romping with Dingo. At times, it is true, he missed the companionship of Dick; but his mother made him comprehend that now that Dick, was captain, his time was too much occupied to allow him; any leisure for play, and the child quite understood that he must not interrupt his old friend in his new duties.

The negroes performed their work with intelligence, and seemed to make rapid progress in the art of seamanship. Tom had been unanimously appointed boatswain, and took one watch with Bat and Austin, the alternate watch being discharged by Dick himself with Hercules and Actaeon. One of them steered so that the other two were free to watch at the bows. As a general rule Dick Sands managed to remain at the wheel all night; five or six hours’ sleep in the daytime sufficed for him, and during the time when he was lying down he entrusted the wheel to Tom or Bat, who under his instructions had become very fair helmsmen. Although in these unfrequented waters there was little chance of running foul of any other vessel, Dick invariably took the precaution of lighting his signals, carrying a green light to starboard and a red light to port. His exertions, however, were a great strain upon him, and sometimes during the night his fatigue would induce a heavy drowsiness, and he steered, as it were, by instinct more than by attention.

On the night of the 13th, he was so utterly worn-out that he was obliged to ask Tom to relieve him at the helm whilst he went down for a few hours’ rest. Actaeon and Hercules remained on watch on the forecastle.

The night was very dark; the sky was covered with heavy clouds that had formed in the chill evening air, and the sails on the top-masts were lost in the obscurity. At the stern, the lamps on either side of the binnacle cast a faint reflection on the metal mountings of the wheel, leaving the deck generally in complete darkness.

Towards three o’clock in the morning Tom was getting so heavy with sleepiness that he was almost unconscious. His eye, long fixed steadily on the compass, lost its power of vision, and he fell into a doze from which it would require more than a slight disturbance to arouse him.

Meantime a light shadow glided stealthily along the deck. Creeping gradually up to the binnacle, Negoro put down something heavy that he had brought in his hand. He stole a keen and rapid glance at the dial of the compass, and made his way back, unseen and unheard as he had come.

Almost immediately afterwards, Tom awakened from his slumber. His eye fell instinctively on the compass, and he saw in a moment that the ship was out of her proper course. By a turn of the helm he brought her head to what he supposed to be the east. But he was mistaken. During his brief interval of unconsciousness a piece of iron had been deposited beneath the magnetic needle, which by this means had been diverted thirty degrees to the right, and, instead of pointing due north, inclined far towards north-east.

Consequently it came to pass that the “Pilgrim,” supposed by her young commander to be making good headway due east, was in reality, under the brisk north-west breeze, speeding along towards the south-east.

CHAPTER XI.

ROUGH WEATHER.

During the ensuing week nothing particular occurred on board. The breeze still freshened, and the “Pilgrim” made on the average 160 miles every twenty-four hours. The speed was as great as could be expected from a craft of her size.

Dick grew more and more sanguine in his anticipations that it could not be long before the schooner would cross the track of the mail-packets plying between the eastern and western hemispheres. He had made up his mind to hail the first passing vessel, and either to transfer his passengers, or what perhaps would be better still, to borrow a few sailors, and, it might be, an officer to work the “Pilgrim” to shore. He could not help, however, a growing sense of astonishment, when day after day passed, and yet there was no ship to be signalled. He kept the most vigourous look-out, but all to no purpose. Three voyages before had he made to the whale-fisheries, and his experience made him sure that he ought now to be sighting some English or American vessel on its way between the Equator and Cape Horn.

Very different, however, was the true position of the “Pilgrim” from what Dick supposed; not only had the ship been carried far out of her direct course by currents, the force of which there were no means of estimating, but from the moment when the compass had been tampered with by Negoro, the steering itself had put the vessel all astray.

Unconscious of both these elements of disturbance, Dick Sands was convinced that they were proceeding steadily eastwards, and was perpetually encouraging Mrs. Weldon and himself by the assurance that they must very soon arrive within view of the American coast; again and again asserting that his sole concern was for his passengers, and that for his own safety he had no anxiety.

“But think, Dick,” said the lady, “what a position you would have been in, if you had not had your passengers. You would have been alone with that terrible Negoro; you would have been rather alarmed then.”

“I should have taken good care to put it out of Negoro’s power to do me any mischief, and then I should have worked the ship by myself,” answered the lad stoutly.

His very pluck gave Mrs. Weldon renewed confidence. She was a woman with wonderful powers of endurance, and it was only when she thought of her little son that she had any feeling of despair; yet even this she endeavoured to conceal, and Dick’s undaunted courage helped her.

Although the youth of the apprentice did not allow him to pretend to any advanced scientific knowledge, he had the proverbial “weather-eye” of the sailor. He was not only very keen in noticing any change in the aspect of the sky, but he had learnt from Captain Hull, who was a clever meteorologist, to draw correct conclusions from the indications of the barometer; the captain, indeed, having taken the trouble to make him learn by heart the general rules which are laid down in Vorepierre’s Dictionnaire Illustre.

There are seven of these rules: —

1. If after a long period of fine weather the barometer falls suddenly and continuously, although the mercury may be descending for two or three days before there is an apparent change in the atmosphere, there will ultimately be rain; and the longer has been the time between the first depression and the commencement of the rain, the longer the rain may be expected to last.

2. Vice versa, if after a long period of wet weather the barometer begins to rise slowly and steadily, fine weather will ensue; and the longer the time between the first rising of the mercury and the commencement of the fine weather, the longer the fine weather may be expected to last.

3. If immediately after the fall or rise of the mercury a change of weather ensues, the change will be of no long continuance.

4. A gradual rise for two or three days during rain forecasts fine weather; but if there be a fall immediately on the arrival of the fine weather, it will not be for long. This rule holds also conversely.

5. In spring and autumn a sudden fall indicates rain; in the summer, if very hot, it foretells a storm. In the winter, after a period of steady frost, a fall prognosticates a change of wind with rain and hail; whilst a rise announces the approach of snow.

6. Rapid oscillations of the mercury either way are not to be interpreted as indicating either wet or dry weather of any duration; continuance of either fair or foul weather is forecast only by a prolonged and steady rise or fall beforehand.

7. At the end of autumn, after a period of wind and rain, a rise may be expected to be followed by north wind and frost.

Not merely had Dick got these rules by rote, but he had tested them by his own observations, and had become singularly trustworthy in his forecasts of the weather. He made a point of consulting the barometer several times every day, and although to all appearances the sky indicated that the fine weather was settled, it did not escape his observation that on the 20th the mercury showed a tendency to fall. Dick knew that rain, if it came, would be accompanied by wind; an opinion in which he was very soon confirmed by the breeze freshening, till the air was displaced at the rate of nearly sixty feet a second, or more

[Footnote 1: This and several of the other rules are concisely concentrated in the couplet —

Long foretold, long last; Short notice, soon past. ]

than forty miles an hour; and he recognized the necessity of at once shortening sail. He had already used the precaution to take in the royal, the main-top-sail, and the flying jib, but he now at once resolved likewise to take in the top-gallant, and to have a couple of reefs in the foretop-sail.

To an inexperienced crew, the last operation was far from easy; but there was no symptom of shrinking from it. Followed by Bat and Austin, Dick mounted the rigging of the foremast, and with little trouble got to the top-gallant. Had the weather been less unpromising he would have been inclined to leave the two yards as they were, but anticipating the ultimate necessity of being obliged to lower the mast, he unrigged them, and let them down to the deck; he knew well enough that in the event of the gale rising as he expected, the lowering of the mast as well as the shortening of sail would contribute to diminish the strain and stress upon the vessel.

It was the work of two hours to get this preliminary operation over. There still remained the task of taking in the reefs in the top-sail.

The “Pilgrim” in one respect differed from most modern vessels. She did not carry a double foretop, which would very much have diminished the difficulty attending the reefing. It was consequently necessary to proceed as before; to mount the rigging, by main force to haul in the flapping canvas, and to make the fastening secure. But critical and dangerous as the task was, it was successfully accomplished, and the three young men, having descended safely to the deck, had the satisfaction of seeing the schooner run easily before the wind, which had further increased till it was blowing a stiff gale.

For three days the gale continued brisk and hard, yet without any variation in its direction. But all along the barometer was falling; the mercury sank to 28deg without symptom of recovery. The sky was becoming overcast; clouds, thick and lowering, obscured the sun, and it was difficult to make out where it rose or where it set. Dick did his best to keep up his courage, but he could not disguise

from himself that there was cause for uneasiness. He took no more rest than was absolutely necessary, and what repose he allowed himself he always took on deck; he maintained a calm exterior, but he was really tortured with anxiety.

Although the violence of the wind seemed to lull awhile, Dick did not suffer himself to be betrayed into any false security; he knew only too well what to expect, and after a brief interval of comparative quiet, the gale returned and the waves began to run very high.

About four o’clock one afternoon, Negoro (a most unusual thing for him) emerged from his kitchen, and skulked to the fore. Dingo was fast asleep, and did not make his ordinary growl by way of greeting to his enemy. For half an hour Negoro stood motionless, apparently surveying the horizon. The heavy waves rolled past; they were higher than the condition of the wind warranted; their magnitude witnessed to a storm passing in the west, and there was every reason to suspect that the “Pilgrim” might be caught by its violence.

Negoro looked long at the water; he then raised his eyes and scanned the sky. Above and below he might have read threatening signs. The upper stratum of cloud was travelling far more rapidly than that beneath, an indication that ere long the masses of vapour would descend, and, coming in contact with the inferior current, would change the gale into a tempest, which probably would increase to a hurricane.

It might be from ignorance or it might be from indifference, but there was no indication of alarm on the face of Negoro; on the other hand there might be seen a sort of smile curling on his lip. After thus gazing above him and around him, he clambered on to the bowsprit, and made his way by degrees to the very gammonings; again he rested and looked about him as if to explore the horizon; after a while he clambered back on deck, and soon stealthily retreated to his own quarters.

No doubt there was much to cause concern in the general aspect of the weather; but there was one point on which they never failed to congratulate each other; — that the direction of the wind had never changed, and consequently must be carrying them in the desired course. Unless a storm should overtake them, they could continue their present navigation without peril, and with every prospect of finding a port upon the shore where they might put in. Such were their mutual and acknowledged hopes; but Dick secretly felt the misgiving lest, without a pilot, he might in his ignorance fail to find a harbour of refuge. Nevertheless, he would not suffer himself to meet trouble half-way, and kept up his spirits under the conviction that if difficulties came he should be strengthened to grapple with them or make his escape.

Time passed on, and the 9th of March arrived without material change in the condition of the atmosphere. The sky remained heavily burdened, and the wind, which occasionally had abated for a few hours, had always returned with at least its former violence. The occasional rising of the mercury never encouraged Dick to anticipate a permanent improvement in the weather, and he discerned only too plainly that brighter times at present were not to be looked for.

A startling alarm had more than once been caused by the sudden breaking of storms in which thunderbolts had seemed to fall within a few cables’ lengths of the schooner. On these occasions the torrents of rain had been so heavy that the ship had appeared to be in the very midst of a whirlpool of vapour, and it was impossible to see a yard ahead.

The “Pilgrim” pitched and rolled frightfully. Fortunately Mrs. Weldon could bear the motion without much personal inconvenience, and consequently was able to devote her attention to her little boy, who was a miserable sufferer. Cousin Benedict was as undisturbed as the cockroaches he was investigating; he hardly noticed the increasing madness of either wind or wave, but went on with his studies as calmly as if he were in his own comfortable museum at San Francisco. Moreover, it was fortunate that the negroes did not suffer to any great degree from sea-sickness, and consequently were able to assist their captain in his arduous task, Dick was far too experienced a sailor himself to be inconvenienced by any oscillations of the vessel, however violent.

The “Pilgrim” still made good headway, and Dick, although he was aware that ultimately it would probably be necessary again to shorten sail, was anxious to postpone making any alteration before he was absolutely obliged. Surely, he reasoned with himself, the land could not now be far away; he had calculated his speed; he had kept a diligent reckoning on the chart; surely, the shore must be almost in sight. He would not trust his crew to keep watch; he was aware how easily their inexperienced eyes would be misled, and how they might mistake a distant cloud-bank for the land they coveted to see; he kept watch for himself; his own gaze was ever fixed upon the horizon; and in the eagerness of his expectation he would repeatedly mount to the cross-trees to get a wider range of vision.

But land was not to be seen.

Next day as Dick was standing at the bow, alternately considering the canvas which his ship carried and the aspect presented by the sky, Mrs. Weldon approached him without his noticing her. She caught some muttered expressions of bewilderment that fell from his lips, and asked him whether he could see anything.

He lowered the telescope which he had been holding in his hand, and answered, —

“No, Mrs. Weldon, I cannot see anything; and it is this Hiat perplexes me so sorely. I cannot understand why we have not already come in sight of land. It is nearly a month since we lost our poor dear captain. There has been no delay in our progress; no stoppage in our rate of speed. I cannot make it out.”

“How far were we from land when we lost the captain?”

“I am sure I am not far out in saying that we were scarcely more than 4500 miles from the shores of America.”

“And at what rate have we been sailing?”

“Not much less than nine score knots a day.”

“How long, then, do you reckon, Dick, we ought to be in arriving at the coast?”

“Under six-and-twenty days,” replied Dick.

He paused before he spoke again, then added, —

“But what mystifies me even more than our failing to sight the land is this: we have not come across a single vessel; and yet vessels without number are always traversing these seas.”

“But do you not think,” inquired Mrs. Weldon, “that you have made some error in your reckoning? Is your speed really what you have supposed?”

“Impossible, madam,” replied Dick, with an air of dignity, “impossible that I should have fallen into error. The log has been consulted, without fail, every half-hour. I am about to have it lowered now, and I will undertake to show you that we are at this present moment making ten miles an hour, which would give considerably over 200 miles a day.”

He then called out to Tom, —

“Tom, lower the log!”

The old man was quite accustomed to the duty. The log was fastened to the line and thrown overboard. It ran out regularly for about five-and-twenty fathoms, when all at once the line slackened in Tom’s hand.

“It is broken!” cried Tom; “the cord is broken!”

“Broken?” exclaimed Dick: “good heavens! we have lost the log!”

It was too true. The log was gone.

Tom drew in the rope. Dick took it up and examined it. It had not broken at its point of union with the log; it had given way in the middle, at a place where the strands in some unaccountable way had worn strangely thin.

Dick’s agony of mind, in spite of his effort to be calm, was intensely great. A suspicion of foul play involuntarily occurred to him. He knew that the rope had been of first-rate make; he knew that it had been quite sound when used before; but he could prove nothing; he could only mourn over the loss which committed him to the sole remaining compass as his only guide.

That compass, too, although he knew it not, was misleading him entirely!

Mrs. Weldon sighed as she witnessed the grief which the loss manifestly caused poor Dick, but in purest sympathy she said nothing, and retired thoughtfully to her cabin.

It was no longer possible to reckon the rate of progress, but there was no doubt that the “Pilgrim” continued to maintain at least her previous speed.

Before another four-and-twenty hours had passed the barometer had fallen still lower, and the wind was threatening to rise to a velocity of sixty miles. Resolved to be on the safe side, Dick determined not only to strike the top-gallant and the main-top-mast, but to take in all the lower sails. Indeed, he began to be aware that no time was to be lost. The operation would not be done in a moment, and the storm was approaching. Dick made Tom take the helm; he ascended the shrouds with Bat, Austin, and Actaeon, making Hercules stay on deck to slacken the halyards as required.

By dint of arduous exertion, and at no little risk of being thrown overboard by the rolling of the ship, they succeeded in lowering the two masts; the foretop-sail was then reefed, and the fore-sail entirely struck, so that the only canvas that the schooner carried was the reefed foretop and the one stay. These, however, made her run with a terrific speed.

Early on the morning of the 12th, Dick noted with alarm that the barometer had not ceased to fall, and now registered only 27.9deg. The tempest had continued to increase, till it was unsafe for the ship to carry any canvas at all. The order was given for the top-sail to be taken in, but it was too late; a violent gust carried the sail completely away, and Austin, who had made his way to the foretop-yard, was struck by the flying sheet; and although he was not seriously hurt, he was obliged at once to return to deck.

Dick Sands became more uneasy than ever; he was tortured by apprehensions of reefs outlying the shore, to which he imagined he must now be close; but he could discern no rocks to justify his fears, and returned to take his place at the helm.

The next moment Negoro appeared on deck; he pointed mysteriously to the far-off horizon, as though he discerned some object, as a mountain, there; and looking round with a malevolent smile, immediately left the deck, and went back to his cabin.

CHAPTER XII.

HOPE REVIVED.

The wind had now increased to a hurricane; it had veered to the south-west, and had attained a velocity little short of ninety miles an hour. On land, the most substantial of erections could with difficulty have withstood its violence, and a vessel anchored in a roadstead must have been torn from its moorings and cast ashore. The memorable storm that had devastated the Island of Guadaloupe on the 25th of July, 1825, when heavy cannon were lifted from their carriages, could scarcely have been more furious, and it was only her mobility before the blast and the solidity of her structure that gave the “Pilgrim” a hope of surviving the tempest.

A few minutes after the topsail had been lost, the small jib was carried away. Dick Sands contemplated the possibility of throwing out a storm-jib, made of extra strong canvas, as a means of bringing the ship a little more under his control, but abandoned the idea as useless. It was, therefore, under bare poles that the “Pilgrim” was driven along; but in spite of the lack of canvas, the hull, masts, and rigging, gave sufficient purchase to the wind, and the progress of the schooner was prodigiously rapid; sometimes, indeed, she seemed to be literally lifted from the water, and scudded on, scarcely skimming its surface. The rolling was fearful. Enormous waves followed in quick succession, and as they travelled faster than the ship, there was the perpetual risk of one of them catching her astern. Without sail, there were no means of escaping that peril by increase of speed; the adroit management of the helm was the only chance of avoiding the hazardous shocks, and even this repeatedly failed.

To prevent his being washed overboard Dick lashed himself to his place at the wheel by a rope round his waist, and made Tom and Bat keep close at hand, ready to give him assistance, in case of emergency. Hercules and Actaeon, clinging to the bitt, kept watch at the bow. Mrs. Weldon and her party, at Dick’s special request, remained inside the stern cabin, although the lady, for her own part, would much rather have stayed on deck; she had, however, yielded to the representation that she would thus be exposing herself to unnecessary danger.

The hatchways were hermetically closed, and it was to be hoped that they would withstand the heavy sea that was dashing over them; only let one of them give way to the pressure, and the vessel must inevitably fill and founder. It was a matter of congratulation that the stowage had been done very carefully, so that notwithstanding all the lurchings of the ship, the cargo did not shift in the least.

The heroic young commander had still further curtailed his periods of rest, and it was only at the urgent entreaty of Mrs. Weldon, who feared that he would exhaust himself by his vigilance, that he was induced to lie down for a few hours’ sleep on the night of the 13th.

After Tom and Bat had been left alone at the wheel they were, somewhat to their surprise, joined by Negoro, who very rarely came aft. He seemed inclined to enter into conversation, but found little encouragement to talk on the part either of Tom or his son. All at once a violent roll of the ship threw him off his feet, and he would have gone overboard if he had not been saved by falling against the binnacle.

Old Tom was in a frantic state of alarm lest the compass should be broken. He uttered a cry of consternation so loud that it roused Dick from the light slumber into which he had fallen in the cabin, and he rushed to the deck. By the time he had reached the stern, Negoro had not only regained his feet, but had managed successfully to conceal

the bit of iron which he had again extracted from beneath the binnacle where he had himself laid it. Now that the wind had shifted to the south-west, it suited his machinations that the magnetic needle should indicate its true direction.

“How now?” asked Dick eagerly; “what is the meaning of all this noise?”

Tom explained how the cook had fallen against the binnacle, and how he had been terrified lest the compass should be injured. Dick’s heart sank at the thought of losing his sole remaining compass, and his anxiety betrayed itself in his countenance as he knelt down to examine its condition; but he breathed freely as he ascertained that the instrument had sustained no damage; by the dim light he saw the needle resting on its two concentric circles, and felt his fears at once relieved; of course, he was quite unconscious of the fact that the removal of the bit of iron had made the magnet change its pointing. The incident, however, excited his misgiving; although he felt that Negoro could not be held responsible for an accidental fall, the very presence of the man in such a place at such a time perplexed him.

“And what brings you here, this hour of the night?” he asked.

“That’s not your business,” retorted Negoro insolently.

“It is my business,” replied Dick resolutely; “and I mean to have an answer; what brought you here?”

Negoro answered sullenly that he knew of no rule to prevent his going where he liked and when he liked.

“No rule!” cried Dick; “then I make the rule now. From this time forward, I make the rule that you shall never come astern. Do you understand?”

Roused from his accustomed doggedness, the man seemed to make a threatening movement. Quick as lightning, Dick Sands drew a revolver from his pocket.

“Negoro, one act, one word of insubordination, and I blow out your brains!”

Negoro had no time to reply; before he could speak he was bowed down towards the deck by an irresistible weight. Hercules had grasped him by the shoulder.

“Shall I put him overboard, captain? he will make a meal for the fishes; they are not very particular what they eat,” said the negro, with a grin of contempt.

“Not yet,” quietly answered Dick.

The giant removed his hand, and Negoro stood upright again, and began to retreat to his own quarters, muttering, however, as he passed Hercules, —

“You cursed nigger! You shall pay for this!”

The discovery was now made that the wind apparently had taken a sudden shift of no less than forty-five degrees; but what occasioned Dick the greatest perplexity was that there was nothing in the condition of the sea to correspond with the alteration in the current of the air; instead of being directly astern, wind and waves were now beating on the larboard. Progress in this way must necessarily be full of danger, and Dick was obliged to bring his ship up at least four points before he got her straight before the tempest.

The young captain felt that he must be more than ever on the alert; he could not shake off the suspicion that Negoro had been concerned in the loss of the first compass, and had some further designs upon the second. Still he was utterly at a loss to imagine what possible motive the man could have for so criminal an act of malevolence, as there was no plausible reason to be assigned why he should not be as anxious as all the rest to reach the coast of America. The suspicion continued, however, to haunt him, and when he mentioned it to Mrs. Weldon he found that a similar feeling of distrust had agitated her, although she, like himself, was altogether unable to allege a likely motive why the cook should contemplate so strange an act of mischief. It was determined that a strict surveillance should be kept upon all the fellow’s movements.

Negoro, however, manifested no inclination to disobey the captain’s peremptory order; he kept strictly to his own part of the ship; but as Dingo was now regularly quartered on the stern, there was a tolerably sure guarantee that the cook would not be found wandering much in that direction.

A week passed, and still the tempest showed no signs of abating; the barometer continued to fall, and not once did a period of calmer weather afford an opportunity of carrying sail. The “Pilgrim” still made her way northeast. Her speed could not be less than two hundred miles in twenty-four hours. But no land appeared. Vast as was the range of the American continent, extending for 120 degrees between the Atlantic and the Pacific, it was nowhere to be discerned. Was he dreaming? was he mad? Dick would perpetually ask himself: had he been sailing in a wrong direction? had he failed to steer aright?

But no: he was convinced there was no error in his steering. Although he could not actually see it for the mist, he knew that day after day the sun rose before him, and that it set behind him. Yet he was constrained in bewilderment to ask, what had become of those shores of America upon which, when they came in sight, there was only too great a fear the ship should be dashed? what had become of them? where were they? whither had this incessant hurricane driven them? why did not the expected coast appear?

To all these bewildering inquiries Dick could find no answer except to imagine that his compass had misled him. Yet he was powerless to put his own misgivings to the test; he deplored more than ever the destruction of the duplicate instrument which would have checked his registers. He studied his chart; but all in vain; the position in which he found himself as the result of Negoro’s treachery, seemed to baffle him the more, the more he tried to solve the mystery.

The days were passing on in this chronic state of anxiety, when one morning about eight o’clock, Hercules, who was on watch at the fore, suddenly shouted, —

“Land!”

Dick Sands had little reliance upon the negro’s inexperienced eye, but hurried forward to the bow.

“Where’s the land?” he cried; his voice being scarcely audible above the howling of the tempest.

“There! look there!” said Hercules, nodding his head and pointing over the larboard side, to the northeast.

Dick could see nothing.

Mrs. Weldon had heard the shout. Unable to restrain her interest, she had left her cabin and was at Dick’s side. He uttered an expression of surprise at seeing her, but could not hear anything she said, as her voice was unable to rise above the roaring of the elements; she stood, her whole being as it were concentrated in the power of vision, and scanned the horizon in the direction indicated by Hercules. But all to no purpose.

Suddenly, however, after a while, Dick raised his hand.

“Yes!” he said; “yes; sure enough, yonder is land.”

He clung with excitement to the netting; and Mrs Weldon, supported by Hercules, strained her eyes yet more vehemently to get a glimpse of a shore which she had begun to despair of ever reaching.

Beyond a doubt an elevated peak was there. It must be about ten miles to leeward. A break in the clouds soon left it more distinct. Some promontory it must be upon the American coast. Without sails, of course, the “Pilgrim” had no chance of bearing down direct upon it; but at least there was every reason to believe that she would soon reach some other portion of the shore; perhaps before noon, certainly in a few hours, they must be close to land.

The pitching of the ship made it impossible for Mrs. Weldon to keep safe footing on the deck; accordingly, at a sign from Dick, Hercules led her back again to her cabin.

Dick did not remain long at the bow, but went thoughtfully back to the wheel.

He had, indeed, a tremendous responsibility before him. Here was the land, the land for which they had longed so eagerly; and now that their anticipations were on the point of being realized, what was there, with a hurricane driving them on towards it, to prevent that land being their destruction? What measures could he take to prevent the schooner being dashed to pieces against it?

At the very moment when the promontory was just abreast of them, Negoro appeared on deck; he nodded to the peak familiarly, as he might have saluted a familiar friend, and retired as stealthily as he had come.

Two hours later, and the promontory was lying to the larboard wake. Dick Sands had never relaxed his watchfulness, but he had failed to discover any further indications of a coast-line. His perplexity could only increase; the horizon was clear; the Andes ought to be distinct; they would be conspicuous twenty miles or more away. Dick took up his telescope again and again; he scrutinized the eastern horizon with minutest care; but there was nothing to be seen; and as the afternoon waned away the last glimpse had been taken of the promontory that had awakened their expectation; it had vanished utterly from their gaze; no indication of shore could be seen from the “Pilgrim’s” deck.

Dick Sands uttered a sigh of mingled amazement and relief. He went into Mrs. Weldon’s cabin, where she was standing with her party.

“It was only an island!” he said; “only an island!”

“How? why? what island? what do you mean?” cried Mrs. Weldon incredulously; “what island can it be?”

“The chart perhaps will tell us,” replied Dick; and hurrying off to his own cabin, he immediately returned with the chart in his hands.

After studying it attentively for a few minutes, he said, —

“There, Mrs. Weldon; the land we have just passed, I should suppose must be that little speck in the midst of the Pacific. It must be Easter Island. At least, there seems to be no other land which possibly it could be.”

“And do you say,” inquired Mrs. Weldon, “that we have left it quite behind us?”

“Yes, entirely; almost to windward.”

Mrs. Weldon commenced a searching scrutiny of the map that was outspread before her.

“How far is this,” she said, after bending a considerable time over the chart; “how far is this from the coast of America?”

“Thirty-five degrees,” answered Dick; “somewhere about 2500 miles.”

“What ever do you mean?” rejoined the lady astonished; “if the ‘Pilgrim’ is still 2500 miles from shore, she has positively made no progress at all. Impossible!”

In thoughtful perplexity, Dick passed his hand across his brow. He did not know what to say. After an interval of silence, he said, —

“I have no account to give for the strange delay. It is inexplicable to myself, except upon that one hypothesis, which I cannot resist, that the readings of the compass, somehow or other, have been wrong.”

He relapsed into silence. Then, brightening up, he added, —

“But, thank God! at least we have now the satisfaction of knowing where we really are; we are no longer lost upon the wide Pacific; if only this hurricane will cease, long as the distance seems, we are on our proper course to the shores of America.”

The tone of confidence with which the youthful captain spoke had the effect of inspiring new hope into all who heard him; their spirits rose, and to their sanguine mood it seemed as if they were approaching to the end of all their troubles, and had hardly more to do than to await the turning of a tide to bring them into a glad proximity to port.

Easter Island, of which the true name is Vai-Hoo, was discovered by David in 1686 and visited by Cook and Laperouse. It lies in lat. 27deg S. and long. 112 E.; consequently, it was evident that during the raging of the hurricane the schooner had been driven northwards no less than fifteen degrees. Far away, however, as she was from shore, the wind could hardly fail within ten days to carry her within sight of land; and then, if the storm had worn itself out, (as probably it would,) the “Pilgrim” would again hoist sail, and make her way into some port with safety. Anyhow, the discovery of his true position restored a spirit of confidence to Dick Sands, and he anticipated the time when he should no longer be drifting helplessly before the storm.

To say the truth, the “Pilgrim” had suffered very little from the prolonged fury of the weather. The damage she had sustained was limited to the loss of the topsail and the small jib, which could be easily replaced. The caulking of the seams remained thoroughly sound, and no drop of water had found its way into the hold. The pumps, too, were perfectly free. Dick Sands did not fear for the stability of his ship; his only anxiety was lest the weather should not moderate in time. Only let the wind subside, and the schooner once more would be under his control; but he never forgot that the ordering of the winds and waves were in the hands of the Great Disposer of all.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY.

The morning of the 18th dawned, the day on which, according to Harris’s prediction, the travellers were to be safely housed at San Felice. Mrs. Weldon was really much relieved at the prospect, for she was aware that her strength must prove inadequate to the strain of a more protracted journey. The condition of her little boy, who was alternately flushed with fever, and pale with exhaustion, had begun to cause her great anxiety, and unwilling to resign the care of the child even to Nan his faithful nurse, she insisted upon carrying him in her own arms. Twelve days and nights, passed in the open air, had done much to try her powers of endurance, and the charge of a sick child in addition would soon break down her strength entirely.

Dick Sands, Nan, and the negroes had all borne the march very fairly. Their stock of provisions, though of course considerably diminished, was still far from small. As for Harris, he had shown himself pre-eminently adapted for forest-life, and capable of bearing any amount of fatigue. Yet, strange to say, as he approached the end of the journey, his manner underwent a remarkable change; instead of conversing in his ordinary frank and easy way, he became silent and preoccupied, as if engrossed in his own thoughts. Perhaps he had an instinctive consciousness that “his young friend,” as he was in the habit of addressing Dick, was entertaining hard suspicions about him.

The march was resumed. The trees once again ceased to be crowded in impenetrable masses, but stood in clusters at considerable distances apart. Now, Dick tried to argue with himself, they must be coming to the true pampas, or the man must be designedly misleading them; and yet what motive could he have?

Although during the earlier part of the day there occurred nothing that could be said absolutely to justify Dick’s increasing uneasiness, two circumstances transpired which did not escape his observation, and which, he felt, might be significant. The first of these was a sudden change in Dingo’s behaviour. The dog, throughout the march, had uniformly run along with his nose upon the ground, smelling the grass and shrubs, and occasionally uttering a sad low whine; but to-day he seemed all agitation; he scampered about with bristling coat, with his head erect, and ever and again burst into one of those furious fits of barking, with which he had formerly been accustomed to greet Negoro’s appearance upon the deck of the “Pilgrim.”

The idea that flitted across Dick’s mind was shared by Tom.

“Look, Mr. Dick, look at Dingo; he is at his old ways again,” said he; “it is just as if Negoro…”

“Hush!” said Dick to the old man, who continued in a lower voice, —

“It is just as if Negoro had followed us; do you think it is likely?”

“It might perhaps be to his advantage to follow us, if he doesn’t know the country; but if he does know the country, why then…”

Dick did not finish his sentence, but whistled to Dingo. The dog reluctantly obeyed the call.

As soon as the dog was at his side, Dick patted him, repeating, —

“Good dog! good Dingo! where’s Negoro?”

The sound of Negoro’s name had its usual effect; it seemed to irritate the animal exceedingly, and he barked furiously, and apparently wanted to dash into the thicket.

Harris had been an interested spectator of the scene, and now approached with a peculiar expression on his countenance, and inquired what they were saying to Dingo.

“Oh, nothing much,” replied Tom; “we were only asking him for news of a lost acquaintance.”

“Ah, I suppose you mean that Portuguese cook of yours.”

“Yes,” answered Tom; “we fancied from Dingo’s behaviour, that Negoro must be somewhere close at hand.”

“Why don’t you send and search the underwood? perhaps the poor wretch is in distress.”

“No need of that, Mr. Harris; Negoro, I have no doubt, is quite capable of taking care of himself.”

“Well, just as you please, my young friend,” said Harris, with an air of indifference.

Dick turned away; he continued his endeavours to pacify Dingo, and the conversation dropped.

The other thing that had arrested Dick’s attention was the behaviour of the horse. If they had been as near the hacienda as Harris described, would not the animal have pricked up its ears, sniffed the air, and with dilated nostril, exhibited some sign of satisfaction, as being upon familiar ground?

But nothing of the kind was to be observed; the horse plodded along as unconcernedly as if a stable were as far away as ever.

Even Mrs. Weldon was not so engrossed with her child, but what she was fain to express her wonder at the deserted aspect of the country. No trace of a farm-labourer was anywhere to be seen! She cast her eye at Harris, who was in his usual place in front, and observing how he was looking first to the left, and then to the right, with the air of a man who was uncertain of his path, she asked herself whether it was possible their guide might have lost his way. She dared not entertain the idea, and averted her eyes, that she might not be harassed by his movements.

After crossing an open plain about a mile in width, the travellers once again entered the forest, which resumed something of the same denseness that had characterized it farther to the west. In the course of the afternoon, they came to a spot which was marked very distinctly by the vestiges of some enormous animals, which must have passed quite recently. As Dick looked carefully about him, he observed that the branches were all torn off or broken to a considerable height, and that the foot-tracks in the trampled grass were much too large to be those either of jaguars or panthers. Even if it were possible that the prints on the ground had been made by ais or other taidigrades, this would fail to account in the least for the trees being broken to such a height. Elephants alone were capable of working such destruction in the underwood, but elephants were unknown in America. Dick was puzzled, but controlled himself so that he would not apply to Harris for any enlightenment; his intuition made him aware that a man who had once tried to make him believe that giraffes were ostriches, would not hesitate a second time to impose upon his credulity.

More than ever was Dick becoming convinced that Harris was a traitor, and he was secretly prompted to tax him with his treachery. Still he was obliged to own that he could not assign any motive for the man acting in such a manner with the survivors of the “Pilgrim,” and consequently hesitated before he actually condemned him for conduct so base and heartless. What could be done? he repeatedly asked himself. On board ship the boy captain might perchance have been able to devise some plan for the safety of those so strangely committed to his charge, but here on an unknown shore, he could only suffer from the burden of this responsibility the more, because he was so utterly powerless to act.

He made up his mind on one point. He determined not to alarm the poor anxious mother a moment before he was actually compelled. It was his carrying out this determination that explained why on subsequently arriving at a considerable stream, where he saw some huge heads, swollen muzzles, long tusks and unwieldy bodies rising from amidst the rank wet grass, he uttered no word and gave no gesture of surprise; but only too well he knew, at a glance, that he must be looking at a herd of hippopotamuses.

It was a weary march that day; a general feeling of depression spread involuntarily from one to another; hardly conscious to herself of her weariness, Mrs. Weldon was exhibiting manifest symptoms of lassitude; and it was only Dick’s moral energy and sense of duty that kept him from succumbing to the prevailing dejection.

About four o’clock, Tom noticed something lying in the grass, and stooping down he picked up a kind of knife; it was of peculiar shape, being very wide and flat in the blade, while its handle, which was of ivory, was ornamented with a good deal of clumsy carving. He carried it at once to Dick, who, when he had scrutinized it, held it up to Harris, with the remark, —

“There must be natives not far off.”

“Quite right, my young friend; the hacienda must be a very few miles away, — but yet, but yet…”

He hesitated.

“You don’t mean that you are not sure of your way,” said Dick sharply.”

“Not exactly that,” replied Harris; “yet in taking this short cut across the forest, I am inclined to think I am a mile or so out of the way. Perhaps I had better walk on a little way, and look about me.”

“No; you do not leave us here,” cried Dick firmly.

“Not against your will; but remember, I do not undertake to guide you in the dark.”

“We must spare you the necessity for that. I can answer for it that Mrs. Weldon will raise no objection to spending another night in the open air. We can start off to-morrow morning as early as we like, and if the distance be only what you represent, a few hours will easily accomplish it.”

“As you please,” answered Harris with cold civility.

Just then, Dingo again burst out into a vehement fit of barking, and it required no small amount of coaxing on Dick’s part to make him cease from his noise.

It was decided that the halt should be made at once. Mrs. Weldon, as it had been anticipated, urged nothing against it, being preoccupied by her immediate attentions to Jack, who was lying in her arms, suffering from a decided attack of fever. The shelter of a large thicket had just been selected by Dick as a suitable resting-place for the night, when Tom, who was assisting in the necessary preparations, suddenly gave a cry of horror.

“What is it, Tom?” asked Dick very calmly.

“Look! look at these trees! they are spattered with blood! and look here! here are hands, men’s hands, cut off and lying on the ground!”

“What?” cried Dick, and in an instant was at his side.

His presence of mind did not fail him; he whispered, —

“Hush! Tom! hush! not a word!”

But it was with a shudder that ran through his veins that he witnessed for himself the mutilated fragments of several human bodies, and saw, lying beside them, some broken forks, and some bits of iron chain.

The sight of the gory remains made Dingo bark ferociously, and Dick, who was most anxious that Mrs. Weldon’s attention should not be called to the discovery, had the greatest difficulty in driving him back; but fortunately the lady’s mind was so engrossed with her patient, that she did not observe the commotion. Harris stood aloof; there was no one to notice the change that passed over his countenance, but the expression was almost diabolical in its malignity.

Poor old Tom himself seemed perfectly spell-bound. With his hands clenched, his eyes dilated, and his breast heaving with emotion, he kept repeating without anything like coherence, the words, —

“Forks! chains! forks!… long ago… remember… too well… chains!”

“For Mrs. Weldon’s sake, Tom, hold your tongue!” Dick implored him.

Tom, however, was full with some remembrance of the past; he continued to repeat, —

“Long ago… forks… chains!” until Dick led him out of hearing.

A fresh halting-place was chosen a short distance further on, and supper was prepared. But the meal was left almost untasted; not so much that hunger had been overcome by fatigue, but because the indefinable feeling of uneasiness, that had taken possession of them all, had entirely destroyed all appetite.

Gradually the night became very dark. The sky was covered with heavy storm-clouds, and on the western horizon flashes of summer lightning now and then glimmered through the trees. The air was perfectly still; not a leaf stirred, and the atmosphere seemed so charged with electricity as to be incapable of transmitting sound of any kind.

Dick, himself, with Austin and Bat in attendance, remained on guard, all of them eagerly straining both eye and ear to catch any light or sound that might disturb the silence and obscurity. Old Tom, with his head sunk upon his breast, sat motionless, as in a trance; he was gloomily revolving the awakened memories of the past. Mrs. Weldon was engaged with her sick child. Scarcely one of the party was really asleep, except indeed it might be Cousin Benedict, whose reasoning faculties were not of an order to carry him forwards into any future contingencies.

Midnight was still an hour in advance, when the dull air seemed filled with a deep and prolonged roar, mingled with a peculiar kind of vibration.

Tom started to his feet. A fresh recollection of his early days had struck him.

“A lion! a lion!” he shouted.

In vain Dick tried to repress him; but he repeated, —

“A lion! a lion!”

Dick Sands seized his cutlass, and, unable any longer to control his wrath, he rushed to the spot where he had left Harris lying.

The man was gone, and his horse with him!

All the suspicions that had been so long pent up within Dick’s mind now shaped themselves into actual reality. A flood of light had broken in upon him. Now he was convinced, only too certainly, that it was not the coast of America at all upon which the schooner had been cast ashore! it was not Easter Island that had been sighted far away in the west! the compass had completely deceived him; he was satisfied now that the strong currents had carried them quite round Cape Horn, and that they had really entered the Atlantic. No wonder that quinquinas, caoutchouc, and other South American products, had failed to be seen. This was neither the Bolivian pampas nor the plateau of Atacama. They were giraffes, not ostriches, that had vanished down the glade; they were elephants that had trodden down the underwood; they were hippopotamuses that were lurking by the river; it was indeed the dreaded tzetsy that Cousin Benedict had so triumphantly discovered; and, last of all, it was a lion’s roar that had disturbed the silence of the forest. That chain, that knife, those forks, were unquestionably the instruments of slave-dealers; and what could those mutilated hands be, except the relics of their ill-fated victims?

Harris and Negoro must be in a conspiracy!

It was with terrible anguish that Dick gnashed his teeth and muttered, —

“Yes, it is too true; we are in Africa! in equatorial Africa! in the land of slavery! in the very haunt of slave-drivers!”

CHAPTER II.

ACCOMPLICES.

On the day following that on which Dick Sands and his party had made their last halt in the forest, two men met by appointment at a spot about three miles distant.

The two men were Harris and Negoro, the one lately landed from New Zealand, the other pursuing his wonted occupation of slave-dealer in the province of Angola. They were seated at the foot of an enormous banyan-tree, on the banks of a rushing torrent that streamed between tall borders of papyrus.

After the conversation had turned awhile upon the events of the last few hours, Negoro said abruptly, —

“Couldn’t you manage to get that young fifteen-year-old any farther into the interior?”

“No, indeed; it was a hard matter enough to bring him thus far; for the last few days his suspicions have been wide awake.”

“But just another hundred miles, you know,” continued Negoro, “would have finished the business off well, and those black fellows would have been ours to a dead certainty.”

“Don’t I tell you, my dear fellow, that it was more than time for me to give them the slip?” replied Harris, shrugging his shoulders. “Only too well I knew that our young friend was longing to put a shot into my body, and that was a sugar-plum I might not be able to digest.”

The Portuguese gave a grunt of assent, and Harris went on, —

“For several days I succeeded well enough. I managed to palm off the country as the forest of Atacama, which you may recollect I once visited; but when the youngster began to ask for gutta-percha and humming-birds, and his mother wanted quinquina-trees, and when that old fool of a cousin was bent on finding cocuyos, I was rather nonplussed. One day I had to swear that giraffes were ostriches, but the young captain did not seem to swallow the dose at all easily. Then we saw traces of elephants and hippopotamuses, which of course are as often seen in America as an honest man in a Benguela penitentiary; then that old nigger Tom discovered a lot of forks and chains left by some runaway slaves at the foot of a tree; but when, last of all, a lion roared, — and the noise, you know, is rather louder than the mewing of a cat, — I thought it was time to take my horse and decamp.”

Negoro repeated his expression of regret that the whole party had not been carried another hundred miles into the province.

“It really cannot be helped,” rejoined the American; “I have done the best I could; and I think, mate,” he added confidentially, “that you have done wisely in following the caravan at a good distance; that dog of theirs evidently owes you a grudge, and might prove an ugly customer.”

“I shall put a bullet into that beast’s head before long,” growled Negoro.

“Take care you don’t get one through your own first,” laughed Harris; “that young Sands, I warn you, is a first-rate shot, and between ourselves, is rather a fine fellow of his kind.”

“Fine fellow, indeed!” sneered Negoro; “whatever he is, he is a young upstart, and I have a long score to wipe off against him;” and, as he spoke, an expression of the utmost malignity passed over his countenance.

Harris smiled.

“Well, mate,” he said; “your travels have not improved your temper, I see. But come now, tell me what you have been doing all this time. When I found you just after the wreck, at the mouth of the Longa, you had only time to ask me to get this party, somehow or other, up into the country. But it is just upon two years since you left Cassange with that caravan of slaves for our old master Alvez. What have you been doing since? The last I heard of you was that you had run foul of an English cruiser, and that you were condemned to be hanged.”

“So I was very nearly,” muttered Negoro.

“Ah, well, that will come sooner or later,” rejoined the American with philosophic indifference; “men of our trade can’t expect to die quietly in our beds, you know. But were you caught by the English?”

“No, by the Portuguese.”

“Before you had got rid of your cargo?”

Negoro hesitated a moment before replying.

“No,” he said, presently, and added, “The Portuguese have changed their game: for a long time they carried on the trade themselves, but now they have got wonderfully particular; so I was caught, and condemned to end my days in the penitentiary at St. Paul de Loanda.”

“Confound it!” exclaimed Harris, “a hundred times better be hanged!”

“I’m not so sure of that,” the Portuguese replied, “for when I had been at the galleys about a fortnight I managed to escape, and got into the hold of an English steamer bound for New Zealand. I wedged myself in between a cask of water and a case of preserved meat, and so managed to exist for a month. It was close quarters, I can tell you, but I preferred to travel incognito rather than run the risk of being handed over again to the authorities at Loanda.”

“Well done!” exclaimed the American, “and so you had a free passage to the land of the Maoris. But you didn’t come back in the same fashion?”

“No; I always had a hankering to be here again at my old trade; but for a year and a half…”

He stopped abruptly, and grasped Harris by the arm.

“Hush,” he whispered, “didn’t you hear a rustling in that clump of papyrus?”

In a moment Harris had caught up his loaded gun; and both men, starting to their feet, looked anxiously around them.

“It was nothing,” said Harris presently; “the stream is swollen by the storm, that is all; your two years’ travelling has made you forget the sounds of the forest, mate. Sit down again, and go on with your story. When I know the past, I shall be better able to talk about the future.”

They reseated themselves, and Negoro went on, —

“For a whole year and a half I vegetated at Auckland. I left the hold of the steamer without a dollar in my pocket, and had to turn my hand to every trade imaginable in order to get a living.”

“Poor fellow! I daresay you even tried the trade of being an honest man,” put in the American.

“Just so,” said Negoro, “and in course of time the ‘Pilgrim,’ the vessel by which I came here, put in at Auckland. While she was waiting to take Mrs. Weldon and her party on board, I applied to the captain for a post, for I was once mate on board a slaver, and know something of seamanship. The ‘Pilgrim’s’ crew was complete, but fortunately the ship’s cook had just deserted; I offered to supply his place; in default of better my services were accepted, and in a few days we were out of sight of New Zealand.”

“I have heard something about the voyage from young Sands,” said Harris, “but even now I can’t understand how you reached here.”

“Neither does he,” said Negoro, with a malicious grin. “I will tell you now, and you may repeat the story to your young friend if you like.”

“Well, go on,” said Harris.

“When we started,” continued Negoro, “it was my intention to sail only as far as Chili: that would have brought me nearly half way to Angola; but three weeks after leaving Auckland, Captain Hull and all his crew were lost in chasing a whale, and I and the apprentice were the only seamen left on board.”

“Then why in the name of peace didn’t you take command of the ship?” exclaimed Harris.

“Because there were five strong niggers who didn’t trust me; so, on second thoughts, I determined to keep my old post as cook.”

“Then do you mean to say that it was mere accident that brought you to the coast of Africa?”

“Not a bit of it; the only accident, — and a very lucky one it was — was meeting you on the very spot where we stranded. But it was my doing that we got so far. Young Sands understood nothing more of navigation than the use of the log and compass. Well, one fine day, you understand, the log remained at the bottom of the sea, and one night the compass was tampered with, so that the ‘Pilgrim,’ scudding along before a tempest, was carried altogether out of her course. You may imagine the young captain was puzzled at the length of the voyage; it would have bewildered a more experienced head than his. Before he was aware of it, we had rounded Cape Horn; I recognized it through the mist. Then at once I put the compass to rights again, and the ‘Pilgrim ‘ was carried north-eastwards by a tremendous hurricane to the very place I wanted. The island Dick Sands took for Easter Island was really Tristan d’Acunha.”

“Good!” said Harris; “I think I understand now how our friends have been persuaded to take Angola for Bolivia. But they are undeceived now, you know,” he added.

“I know all about that,” replied the Portuguese.

“Then what do you intend to do?” said Harris.

“You will see,” answered Negoro significantly; “but first of all tell me something about our employer, old Alvez; how is he?”

“Oh, the old rascal is well enough, and will be delighted to see you again,” replied Harris.

“Is he at the market at Bihe?”

“No, he has been at his place at Kazonnde for a year or more.”

“And how does business go on?”

“Badly enough, on this coast,” said Harris; “plenty of slaves are waiting to be shipped to the Spanish colonies, but the difficulty is how to get them embarked. The Portuguese authorities on the one hand, and the English cruisers on the other, almost put a stop to exportation altogether; down to the south, near Mossamedes, is the only part where it can be attempted with any chance of success. To pass a caravan through Benguela or Loande is an utter impossibility; neither the governors nor the chefes

[Footnote 1: Subordinate Portuguese governors at secondary stations.] will listen to a word of reason. Old Alvez is therefore thinking of going in the other direction towards Nyangwe and Lake Tanganyika; he can there exchange his goods for slaves and ivory, and is sure to do a good business with Upper Egypt and the coast of Mozambique, which supplies Madagascar. But I tell you, Negoro,” he added gravely, “I believe the time is coming when the slave-trade will come to an end altogether. The English missionaries are advancing into the interior. That fellow Livingstone, confound him! has finished his tour of the lakes, and is now working his way towards Angola; then there is another man named Cameron who is talking about crossing the continent from east to west, and it is feared that Stanley the American will do the same. All this exploration, you know, is ruinous to our business, and it is to our interest that not one of these travellers should be allowed to return to tell tales of us in Europe.”

Harris spoke like a merchant embarrassed by a temporary commercial crisis. The atrocious scenes to which the slave-dealers are accustomed seems to render them impervious to all sense of justice or humanity, and they learn to regard their living merchandize with as small concern as though they were dealing with chests of tea or hogsheads of sugar.

But Harris was right when he asserted that civilization must follow the wake of the intrepid pioneers of African discovery. Livingstone first, and after him, Grant, Speke, Burton, Cameron, Stanley, are the heroes whose names will ever be linked with the first dawnings of a brighter age upon the dark wilds of Equatorial Africa.

Having ascertained that his accomplice had returned unscrupulous and daring as ever, and fully prepared to pursue his former calling as an agent of old Alvez the slave dealer, Harris inquired what he proposed doing with the survivors of the “Pilgrim” now that they were in his hands.

“Divide them into two lots,” answered Negoro, without a moment’s hesitation, “one for the market, the other…”

He did not finish his sentence, but the expression of his countenance was an index to the malignity of his purpose.

“Which shall you sell?” asked the American.

“The niggers, of course. The old one is not worth much, but the other four ought to fetch a good price at Kazonnde.”

“Yes, you are right,” said Harris; “American-born slaves, with plenty of work in them, are rare articles, and very different to the miserable wretches we get up the country. But you never told me,” he added, suddenly changing the subject, “whether you found any money on board the ‘Pilgrim’!”

“Oh, I rescued a few hundred dollars from the wreck, that was all,” said the Portuguese carelessly; “but I am expecting…” he stopped short.

“What are you expecting?” inquired Harris eagerly.

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” said Negoro, apparently annoyed that he had said so much, and immediately began talking of the means of securing the living prey which he had been taking so many pains to entrap. Harris informed him that on the Coanza, about ten miles distant, there was at the present time encamped a slave caravan, under the control of an Arab named Ibn Hamish; plenty of native soldiers were there on guard, and if Dick Sands and his people could only be induced to travel in that direction, their capture would be a matter of very little difficulty. He said that of course Dick Sands’ first thought would naturally be how to get back to the coast; it was not likely that he would venture a second time through the forest, but would in all probability try to make his way to the nearest river, and descend its course on a raft to the sea. The nearest river was undoubtedly the Coanza, so that he and Negoro might feel quite sure of meeting “their friends” upon its banks.

“If you really think so,” said Negoro, “there is not much time to be lost; whatever young Sands determines to do, he will do at once: he never lets the grass grow under his feet.”

“Let us start, then, this very moment, mate,” was Harris’s reply.

Both rose to their feet, when they were startled by the same rustling in the papyrus which had previously aroused Negoro’s fears. Presently a low growl was heard, and a large dog, showing his teeth, emerged from the bushes, evidently prepared for an attack.

“It’s Dingo!” exclaimed Harris.

“Confound the brute! he shall not escape me this time,” said Negoro.

He caught up Harris’s gun, and raising it to his shoulder, he fired just as the dog was in the act of springing at his throat. A long whine of pain followed the report, and Dingo disappeared again amongst the bushes that fringed the stream. Negoro was instantly upon his track, but could discover nothing beyond a few blood-stains upon the stalks of the papyrus, and a long crimson trail upon the pebbles on the bank.

“I think I have done for the beast now,” was Negoro’s remark as he returned from his fruitless search.

Harris, who had been a silent spectator of the whole scene, now asked coolly, —

“What makes that animal have such an inveterate dislike to you?”

“Oh, there is an old score to settle between us,” replied the Portuguese.

“What about?” inquired the American.

Negoro made no reply, and finding him evidently disinclined to be communicative on the subject, Harris did not press the matter any further.

A few moments later the two men were descending the stream, and making their way through the forest towards the Coanza.

CHAPTER III.

ON THE MARCH AGAIN.

“Africa! Africa!” was the terrible word that echoed and re-echoed in the mind of Dick Sands. As he pondered over the events of the preceding weeks he could now understand why, notwithstanding the rapid progress of the ship, the land seemed ever to be receding, and why the voyage had been prolonged to twice its anticipated length. It remained, however, a mystery inexplicable as before, how and when they had rounded Cape Horn and passed into another ocean. Suddenly the idea flashed upon him that the compass must have been tampered with; and he remembered the fall of the first compass; he recalled the night when he had been roused by Tom’s cry of alarm that Negoro had fallen against the binnacle. As he recollected these circumstances he became more and more convinced that it was Negoro who was the mainspring of all the mischief; that it was he who had contrived the loss of the “Pilgrim,” and compromised the safety of all on board.

What had been the career, what could be the motives of a man who was capable of such vile machinations?

But shrouded in mystery as were the events of the past, the present offered a prospect equally obscure.

Beyond the fact that he was in Africa and a hundred miles from the coast, Dick knew absolutely nothing. He could only conjecture that he was in the fatal province of Angola, and assured as he was that Harris had acted the traitor, he was led to the conclusion that he and Negoro had been playing into each other’s hands. The result of the collision, he feared, might be very disastrous to the survivors of the “Pilgrim.” Yet, in what manner would the odious stratagem be accomplished? Dick could well understand that the negroes would be sold for slaves; he could only too easily imagine that upon himself Negoro would wreak the vengeance he had so obviously been contemplating; but for Mrs. Weldon and the other helpless members of the party what fate could be in store?

The situation was terrible, but yet Dick did not flinch; he had been appointed captain, and captain he would remain; Mrs. Weldon and her little son had been committed to his charge, and he was resolved to carry out his trust faithfully to the end.

For several hours he remained wrapped in thought, pondering over the present and the future, weighing the evil chances against the good, only to be convinced that the evil much preponderated. At length he rose, firm, resolute, calm. The first glimmer of dawn was breaking upon the forest. All the rest of the party, except Tom, were fast asleep. Dick Sands crept softly up to the old negro, and whispered: —

“Tom, you know now where we are!”

“Yes, yes, Mr. Dick, only too well I know it. We are in Africa!”

The old man sighed mournfully.

“Tom,” said Dick, in the same low voice, “you must keep this a secret; you must not say a word to let Mrs. Weldon or any of the others know “

The old man murmured his assent, and Dick continued: —

“It will be quite enough for them to learn that we have been betrayed by Harris, and that we must consequently practise extra care and watchfulness; they will merely think we are taking precautions against being surprised by nomad Indians. I trust to your good sense, Tom, to assist me in this.”

“You may depend upon me, Mr. Dick; and I can promise you that we will all do our best to prove our courage, and to show our devotion to your service.”

Thus assured of Tom’s co-operation, Dick proceeded to deliberate upon his future line of action. He had every reason to believe that the treacherous American, startled by the traces of the slaves and the unexpected roaring of the lion, had taken flight before he had conducted his victims to the spot where they were to be attacked, and that consequently some hours might elapse before he would be joined by Negoro, who (to judge from Dingo’s strange behaviour) had undoubtedly for the last few days been somewhere on their track.

Here was a delay that might be turned to good account, and no time was to be lost in taking advantage of it to commence their return journey to the coast. If, as Dick had every reason to suppose, he was in Angola, he hoped to find, either north or south, some Portuguese settlement whence he could obtain the means of transporting his party to their several homes.

But how was this return journey to be accomplished? It would be difficult, not to say imprudent, to retrace their footsteps through the forest; it would merely bring them to their starting-point, and would, moreover, afford an easy track for Negoro or his accomplices to follow. The safest and most secret means of reaching the coast would assuredly be by descending the course of some river. This would have to be effected by constructing a strong raft, from which the little party, well armed, might defend themselves alike from attacks either of the natives or of wild beasts, and which would likewise afford a comfortable means of transport for Mrs. Weldon and her little boy, who were now deprived of the use of Harris’s horse. The negroes, it is true, would be only too pleased to carry the lady on a litter of branches, but this would be to occupy the services of two out of five, and under the circumstances it was manifestly advisable that all hands should be free to act on the defensive. Another great inducement towards the plan was that Dick Sands felt himself much more at home in travelling by water than by land, and was longing to be once again upon what to him was, as it were, his native element. He little dreamt that he was devising for himself the very plan that Harris, in his speculations, had laid down for him!

The most urgent matter was now to find such a stream as would suit their purpose. Dick had several reasons for feeling sure that one existed in the neighbourhood. He knew that the little river, which fell into the Atlantic near the spot where the “Pilgrim” stranded, could not extend very far either to the north or east, because the horizon was bounded in both directions by the chain of mountains which he had taken for the Cordilleras. If the stream did not rise in those hills it must incline to the south, so that in either case Dick was convinced he could not be long in discovering it or one of its affluents. Another sign, which he recognized as hopeful, was that during the last few miles of the march the soil had become moist and level, whilst here and there the appearance of tiny rivulets indicated that an aqueous network existed in the subsoil. On the previous day, too, the caravan had skirted a rushing torrent, of which the waters were tinged with oxide of iron from its sloping banks.

Dick’s scheme was to make his way back as far as this stream, which though not navigable itself would in all probability empty itself into some affluent of greater importance. The idea, which he imparted to Tom, met with the old negro’s entire approval.

As the day dawned the sleepers, one by one, awoke. Mrs. Weldon laid little Jack in Nan’s arms. The child was still dozing; the fever had abated, but he looked painfully white and exhausted after the attack.

“Dick,” said Mrs. Weldon, after looking round her, “where is Mr. Harris? I cannot see him.”

“Harris has left us,” answered Dick very quietly.

“Do you mean that he has gone on ahead?”

“No, madam, I mean that he has left us, and gone away entirely: he is in league with Negoro.”

“In league with Negoro!” cried Mrs. Weldon, “Ah, I have had a fancy lately that there has been something wrong: but why? what can be their motive?”

“Indeed I am unable to tell you,” replied Dick; “I only

of heavily-laden chariots, betokened the flight of a herd of buffaloes; but with these exceptions no animal of any magnitude appeared in view.

For about two miles Dick followed the course of the rivulet, in the hope that it would emerge into a more important stream, which would convey them without much difficulty or danger direct to the sea.

Towards noon about three miles had been accomplished, and a halt was made for rest. Neither Negoro nor Harris had been seen, nor had Dingo reappeared. The encampment for the midday refreshment was made under the shelter of a clump of bamboos, which effectually concealed them all. Few words were spoken during the meal. Mrs. Weldon could eat nothing; she had again taken her little boy into her arms, and seemed wholly absorbed in watching him. Again and again Dick begged her to take some nourishment, urging upon her the necessity of keeping up her strength.

“We shall not be long in finding a good current to carry us to the coast,” said the lad brightly.

Mrs. Weldon raised her eyes to his animated features. With so sanguine and resolute a leader, with such devoted servants as the five negroes in attendance, she felt that she ought not utterly to despair. Was she not, after all, on friendly soil? what great harm could Harris perpetrate against her or her belongings? She would hope still, hope for the best.

Rejoiced as he was to see something of its former brightness return to her countenance, Dick nevertheless had scarcely courage steadily to return her searching gaze. Had she known the whole truth, he knew that her heart must fail her utterly.

CHAPTER IV.

ROUGH TRAVELLING.

Just at this moment Jack woke up and put his arms round his mother’s neck. His eyes were brighter, and there was manifestly no return of fever.

“You are better, darling!” said Mrs. Weldon, pressing him tenderly to her.

“Yes, mamma, I am better; but I am very thirsty.”

Some cold water was soon procured, which the child drank eagerly, and then began to look about him. His first inquiry was for his old friends, Dick and Hercules, both of whom approached at his summons and greeted him affectionately.

“Where is the horse?” was the next question.

“Gone away, Master Jack; I am your horse now,” said Hercules.

“But you have no bridle for me to hold,” said Jack, looking rather disappointed.

“You may put a bit in my mouth if you like, master Jack,” replied Hercules, extending his jaws, “and then you may pull as hard as you please.”

“O, I shall not pull very hard,” said Jack; “but haven’t we nearly come to Mr. Harris’s farm?”

Mrs. Weldon assured the child that they should soon be where they wanted to be, and Dick, finding that the conversation was approaching dangerous ground, proposed that the journey should be now resumed. Mrs. Weldon assented; the encampment was forthwith broken up and the march continued as before.

In order not to lose sight of the watercourse, it was necessary to cut a way right through the underwood: progress was consequently very slow; and a little over a mile was all that was accomplished in about three hours. Footpaths had evidently once existed, but they had all become what the natives term “dead,” that is, they had become entirely overgrown with brushwood and brambles. The negroes worked away with a will; Hercules, in particular, who temporarily resigned his charge to Nan, wielded his axe with marvellous effect, all the time giving vent to stentorian groans and grunts, and succeeded in opening the woods before him as if they were being consumed by a devouring fire.

Fortunately this heavy labour was not of very long duration.

After about a mile, an opening of moderate width, converging towards the stream and following its bank, was discovered in the underwood. It was a passage formed by elephants, which apparently by hundreds must be in the habit of traversing this part of the forest. The spongy soil, soaked by the downpour of the rainy season, was everywhere indented with the enormous impressions of their feet.

But it soon became evident that elephants were not the only living creatures that had used this track. Human bones gnawed by beasts of prey, whole human skeletons, still wearing the iron fetters of slavery, everywhere strewed the ground. It was a scene only too common in Central Africa, where like cattle driven to the slaughter, poor miserable men are dragged in caravans for hundreds of weary miles, to perish on the road in countless numbers beneath the trader’s lash, to succumb to the mingled horrors of fatigue, privation, and disease, or, if provisions fail, to be butchered, without pity or remorse, by sword and gun.

That slave-caravans had passed that way was too obvious to permit a doubt. For at least a mile, at almost every step Dick came in contact with the scattered bones; while ever and again huge goat suckers, disturbed by the approach of the travellers, rose with flapping wings, and circled round their heads.

The youth’s heart sank with secret dismay lest Mrs. Weldon should divine the meaning of this ghastly scene, and appeal to him for explanation, but fortunately she had again insisted on carrying her little patient, and although the child was fast asleep, he absorbed her whole attention. Nan was by her side, almost equally engrossed. Old Tom alone was fully alive to the significance of his surroundings, and with downcast eyes he mournfully pursued his march. Full of amazement, the other negroes looked right and left upon what might appear to them as the upheaval of some vast cemetery, but they uttered no word of inquiry or surprise.

Meantime the bed of the stream had increased both in breadth and depth, and the rivulet had in a degree lost its character of a rushing torrent. This was a change which Dick Sands observed hopefully, interpreting it as an indication that it might itself become navigable, or would empty itself into some more important tributary of the Atlantic. His resolve was fixed: he would follow its course at all hazards. As soon, therefore, as he found that the elephant’s track was quitting the water’s edge, he made up his mind to abandon it, and had no hesitation in again resorting to the use of the axe. Once more, then, commenced the labour of cutting a way through the entanglement of bushes and creepers that were thick upon the soil. It was no longer forest through which they were wending their arduous path; trees were comparatively rare; only tall clumps of bamboos rose above the grass, so high, however, that even Hercules could not see above them, and the passage of the little troop could only have been discovered by the rustling in the stalks.

In the course of the afternoon, the soil became soft and marshy. It was evident that the travellers were crossing plains that in a long rainy season must be inundated. The ground was carpeted with luxuriant mosses and graceful ferns, and the continual appearance of brown hematite wherever there was a rise in the soil, betokened the existence of a rich vein of metal beneath.

Remembering what he had read in Dr. Livingstone’s account of these treacherous swamps, Dick bade his companions take their footing warily. He himself led the way. Tom expressed his surprise that the ground should be so soaked when there had been no rain for some time.

“I think we shall have a storm soon,” said Bat,

“All the more reason, then,” replied Dick, “why we should get away from these marshes as quickly as possible. Carry Jack again, Hercules; and you, Bat and Austin, keep close to Mrs. Weldon, so as to be able to assist her if she wants your help. But take care, take care, Mr. Benedict!” he cried out in sudden alarm; “what are you doing, sir?”

“I’m slipping in,” was poor Benedict’s helpless reply. He had trodden upon a kind of quagmire and, as though a trap had been opened beneath his feet, was fast disappearing into the slough. Assistance was immediately rendered, and the unfortunate naturalist was dragged out, covered with mud almost to his waist, but thoroughly satisfied because his precious box of specimens had suffered no injury. Actaeon undertook for the future to keep close to his side, and endeavour to avoid a repetition of the mishap.

The accident could not be said to be altogether free from unpleasant consequences. Air-bubbles in great numbers had risen to the surface of the mire from which Benedict had been extricated, and as they burst they disseminated an odious stench that was well-nigh intolerable. The passage of these pestilential districts is not unfrequently very dangerous, and Livingstone, who on several occasions waded through them in mud that reached to his breast, compares them to great sponges composed of black porous earth, in which every footstep causes streams of moisture to ooze out.

For well nigh half a mile they had now to wend their cautious way across this spongy soil. Mrs. Weldon, ankle-deep in the soft mud, was at last compelled to come to a stand-still; and Hercules, Bat, and Austin, all resolved that she should be spared further discomfort, and insisted upon weaving some bamboos into a litter, upon which, after much reluctance to become such a burden, she was induced, with Jack beside her, to take her place.

After the delay thus caused, the procession again started on its perilous route. Dick Sands continued to walk at the head, in order to test the stability of the footing; Action followed, holding Cousin Benedict firmly by the arm; Tom took charge of old Nan, who without his support would certainly have fallen into the quagmire; and the three other negroes carried the litter in the rear. It was a matter of the greatest difficulty to find a path that was sufficiently firm; the method they adopted was to pick their way as much as possible on the long rank grass that on the margin of the swamps was tolerably tough; but in spite of the greatest precaution, there was not one of them who escaped occasionally sinking up to his knees in slush.

At about five o’clock they were relieved by finding themselves on ground of a more clayey character; it was still soft and porous below, but its surface was hard enough to give a secure foothold. There were watery pores that percolated the subsoil, and these gave evident witness to the proximity of a river-district.

The heat would have been intolerably oppressive if it had not been tempered by some heavy storm-clouds which obstructed the direct influence of the sun’s rays. Lightning was observed to be playing faintly about the sky, and there was now and again the low growl of distant thunder. The indications of a gathering storm were too manifest to be disregarded, and Dick could not help being very uneasy. He had heard of the extreme violence of African storms, and knew that torrents of rain, hurricanes that no tree could resist, and thunderbolt after thunderbolt were the usual accompaniment of these tempests. And here in this lowland desert, which too surely would be completely inundated, there would not be a tree to which they could resort for shelter, while it would likewise be utterly vain to hope to obtain a refuge by excavation, as water would be found only two feet below the surface.

After scrutinizing the landscape, however, he noticed some low elevations on the north that seemed to form the boundary of the marshy plain. A few trees were scattered along their summits; if his party could get no other shelter here, he hoped they would be able to find themselves free from any danger caused by the rising flood.

“Push on, friends, push on!” he cried; “three miles more, and we shall be out of this treacherous lowland.”

His words served to inspire a fresh confidence, and in spite of all the previous fatigue, every energy was brought into play with renewed vigour. Hercules, in particular, seemed ready to carry the whole party, if it had been in his power.

The storm was not long in beginning. The rising ground was still two miles away. Although the sun was above the horizon, the darkness was almost complete; the overhanging volumes of vapour sank lower and lower towards the earth, but happily the full force of the deluge which must ultimately come did not descend as yet. Lightning, red and blue, flashed on every side and appeared to cover the ground with a network of flame.

Ever and again the little knot of travellers were in peril of being struck by the thunderbolts which, on that treeless plain, had no other object of attraction. Poor little Jack, who had been awakened by the perpetual crashes, buried his face in terror in Hercules’ breast, anxious, however, not to distress his mother by any outward exhibition of alarm. The good-natured negro endeavoured to pacify him by promises that the lightning should not touch him, and the child, ever confident in the protection of his huge friend, lost something of his nervousness.

But it could not be long before the clouds would burst and discharge the threatened downpour.

“What are we to do, Tom?” asked Dick, drawing up close to the negro’s side.

“We must make a rush for it; push on with all the speed we can.”

“But where?” cried Dick.

“Straight on,” was the prompt reply; “if the rain catches us here on the plain we shall all be drowned.”

“But where are we to go?” repeated Dick, in despair; “if only there were a hut! But look, look there!”

A vivid flash of lightning had lit up the country, and Dick declared that he could see a camp which could hardly be more than a quarter of a mile ahead.

The negro looked doubtful.

“I saw it too,” he assented: “but if it be a camp at all it would be a camp of natives; and to fall into that would involve us in a worse fate than the rain.”

Another brilliant flash brought the camp once again into relief; it appeared to be made up of about a hundred conical tents, arranged very symmetrically, each of them being from twelve to fifteen feet in height. It had the appearance, from a distance, of being deserted; if it were really so, it would afford just the shelter that was needed; otherwise, at all hazards, it must be most carefully avoided.

“I will go in advance,” said Dick, after a moment’s reflection, “and reconnoitre it.”

“Let one of us, at least, go with you,” replied Tom.

“No, stay where you are; I shall be much less likely to be discovered if I go alone.”

Without another word, he darted off, and was soon lost in the sombre darkness that was only broken by the frequent lightning.

Large drops of rain were now beginning to fall.

Tom and Dick had been walking some little distance in advance of the rest of the party, who consequently had not overheard their conversation. A halt being made, Mrs. Weldon inquired what was the matter. Tom explained that a camp or village had been noticed a little way in front, and that the captain had gone forward to investigate it. Mrs. Weldon asked no further questions, but quietly waited the result. It was only a few minutes before Dick returned.

“You may come on,” he cried.

“Is the camp deserted?” asked Tom.

“It is not a camp at all; it is a lot of ant-hills!”

“Ant-hills!” echoed Benedict, suddenly aroused into a state of excitement.

“No doubt of it, Mr. Benedict.” replied Dick; “they are ant-hills twelve feet high at least: and I hope we shall be able to get into them.”

“Twelve feet!” the naturalist repeated; “they must be those of the termites, the white ants; there is no other insect that could make them. Wonderful architects are the termites.”

“Termites, or whatever they are, they will have to turn out for us,” said Dick.

“But they will eat us up!” objected Benedict.

“I can’t help that,” retorted Dick; “go we must, and go at once.”

“But stop a moment,” continued the provoking naturalist; “stop, and tell me: I can’t be wrong: I always thought that white ants could never be found elsewhere than in Africa.”

“Come along, sir, I say; come along, quick!” shouted Dick, terrified lest Mrs. Weldon should have overheard him.

They hurried on. A wind had risen; large spattering drops were now beginning to fall more heavily on the ground and in a few minutes it would be impossible to stand against the advancing tempest. The nearest of the accumulation of ant-hills was reached in time, and however dangerous their occupants might be, it was decided either to expel them, or to share their quarters. Each cone was formed of a kind of reddish clay, and had a single opening at its base. Hercules took his hatchet, and quickly enlarged the aperture till it would admit his own huge body. Not an ant made its appearance. Cousin Benedict expressed his extreme surprise. But the structure unquestionably was empty, and one after another the whole party made their way inside.

The rain by this time was descending in terrific torrents, strong enough to extinguish, one would think, the most violent explosions of the electric fluid. But the travellers were secure in their shelter, and had nothing to fear for the present; their tenement was of greater stability than a tent or a native hut. It was one of those marvellous structures erected by little insects, which to Cameron appeared even more wonderful than the upraising of the Egyptian pyramids by human hands. To use his own comparison, it might be likened to the construction of a Mount Everest, the loftiest of the Himalayan peaks, by the united labour of a nation.

CHAPTER V.

WHITE ANTS.

The storm had now burst in full fury, and fortunate it was that a refuge had been found. The rain did not fall in separate drops as in temperate zones, but descended like the waters of a cataract, in one solid and compact mass, in a way that could only suggest the outpour of some vast aerial basin containing the waters of an entire ocean. Contrary, too, to the storms of higher latitudes, of which the duration seems ordinarily to be in inverse ratio to their violence, these African tempests, whatever their magnitude, often last for whole days, furrowing the soil into deep ravines, changing plains to lakes and brooks to torrents, and causing rivers to overflow and cover vast districts with their inundations. It is hard to understand whence such volumes of vapour and electric fluid can accumulate. The earth, upon these occasions, might almost seem to be carried back to the remote period which has been called “the diluvian age.”

Happily, the walls of the anthill were very thick; no beaver-hut formed of pounded earth could be more perfectly water-tight, and a torrent might have passed over it without a particle of moisture making its way through its substance.

As soon as the party had taken possession of the tenement, a lantern was lighted, and they proceeded to examine the interior. The cone, which was about twelve feet high inside, was eleven feet wide at the base, gradually narrowing to a sugar-loaf top. The walls and partitions between the tiers of cells were nowhere less than a foot thick throughout.

These wonderful erections, the result of the combined labour of innumerable insects, are by no means uncommon in the heart of Africa. Smeathman, a Dutch traveller of the last century, has recorded how he and four companions all at one time occupied the summit of one of them in Lounde. Livingstone noticed some made of red clay, of which the height varied from fifteen to twenty feet; and in Nyangwe, Cameron several times mistook one of these colonies for a native camp pitched upon the plain. He described some of these strange edifices as being flanked with small spires, giving them the appearance of a cathedral-dome.

The reddish clay of which the anthill was composed could leave no doubt upon the mind of a naturalist that it had been formed by the species known as “termes bellicosus;” had it been made of grey or black alluvial soil, it might have been attributed to the “termes mordax” or “termes atrox,” formidable names that must awaken anything but pleasure in the minds of all but enthusiast entomologists.

In the centre was an open space, surrounded by roomy compartments, ranged one upon another, like the berths of a ship’s cabin, and lined with the millions of cells that had been occupied by the ants. This central space was inadequate to hold the whole party that had now made their hurried resort to it, but as each of the compartments was sufficiently capacious to admit one person to occupy it in a sitting posture, Mrs. Weldon, Jack, Nan, and Cousin Benedict were exalted to the upper tier, Austin, Bat, and Actaeon occupied the next story, whilst Tom and Hercules, and Dick Sands himself remained below.

Dick soon found that the soil beneath his feet was beginning to get damp, and insisted upon having some of the dry clay spread over it from the base of the cone.

“It is a long time,” he said, “since we have slept with a roof over our heads; and I am anxious to make our refuge as secure as possible. It may be that we shall have to

stay here for a whole day or more; on the first opportunity I shall go and explore; it may turn out that we are near the stream we are seeking; and perhaps we shall have to build a raft before we start again.”

Under his direction, therefore, Hercules took his hatchet, and proceeded to break down the lowest range of cells and to spread the dry, brittle clay of which they were composed a good foot thick over the damp floor, taking care not in any way to block up the aperture by which the fresh air penetrated into the interior.

It was indeed fortunate that the termites had abandoned their home; had it swarmed with its multitudes of voracious Neuroptera, the anthill would have been utterly untenable for human beings. Cousin Benedict’s curiosity was awakened, and he was intensely interested in the question of the evacuation, so that he proceeded at once to investigate, if he could, whether the emigration had been recent or otherwise. He took the lantern, and as the result of his scrutiny he soon discovered in a recess what he described as the termites‘“storehouse,” or the place where the indefatigable insects keep their provisions. It was a large cavity, not far from the royal cell, which, together with the cells for the reception of the young larvae, had been destroyed by Hercules in the course of his flooring operations. Out of this receptacle Benedict drew a considerable quantity of gum and vegetable juices, all in a state so liquid as to demonstrate that they had been deposited there quite recently.

“They have only just gone,” he exclaimed, with an air of authority, as if he imagined that some one was about to challenge his assertion.

“We are not going to dispute your word, Mr. Benedict,” said Dick; “here we are; we have taken their place, and shall be quite content for them to keep out of the way, without caring when they went, or where they have gone.”

“But we must care,” retorted Benedict testily; “why they have gone concerns us a good deal; these juices make it evident, from the liquid state in which we find them, that the ants were here this morning, they have not only gone, but they have carried off their young larvae with them; they have been sagacious enough to take warning of some impending danger.”

“Perhaps they heard that we were coming,” said Hercules, laughing.

A look of withering scorn was the only answer that the entomologist deigned to give.

“Yes, I say,” repeated Hercules, “perhaps they heard that we were coming.”

“Pshaw!” said Benedict contemptuously; “do you imagine they would be afraid of you? they would reduce your carcase to a skeleton in no time, if they found it across their path.”

“No doubt, if I were dead,” replied Hercules, “they could pick my bones pretty clean; but while I had the use of my limbs I think I could crush them by thousands.”

“Thousands!” ejaculated Benedict, with increasing warmth; “you think you could demolish thousands; but what if they were hundreds of thousands, millions, hundreds of millions? Alive as much as dead, I tell you, they wouldn’t be long in consuming every morsel of you.”

During this brisk little discussion Dick Sands had been pondering over what Benedict had said. There was no doubt that the amateur naturalist was well acquainted with the habits of white ants, and if, as he affirmed, the insects had instinctively quitted their abode on account of some approaching danger, Dick asked himself whether it was safe or prudent for his party to remain. But the fury of the storm was still so great that all possibility of removing from the shelter seemed precluded for the present, and, without inquiring farther into the mystery, he merely said,

“Although the ants, Mr. Benedict, have left us their provisions, we must not forget that we have brought our own. We will have our supper now, and to-morrow, when the storm is over, we will see what is to be done.”

Fatigue had not taken away the appetite of the energetic travellers, and they gladly set about the preparation of their meal. The provisions, of which they had enough for

another two days, had not been injured by the rain. For some minutes the crunching of hard biscuit was the only sound to be heard; Hercules, in particular, seemed to pound away with his huge jaws as with a pair of millstones.

Mrs. Weldon was the only one of the party who ate little; and that little was only taken at Dick’s earnest solicitation; he could not help noticing, with much concern, that although Jack seemed to be satisfactorily recovering, and, without sign of fever, was sleeping calmly enough on a bed made up of clothes spread out in one of the cells, yet his mother had lost much of her courage, and seemed preoccupied and depressed.

Cousin Benedict did due honour to the simple evening repast; not on account of its quantity or quality, but because it gave him an opportunity of holding forth upon the subject of termites. He was much vexed that he had been unable to discover a single specimen in the deserted anthill with which he might illustrate his lecture, but notwithstanding this deficiency he continued to talk, heedless whether any one was listening.

“They are wonderful insects,” he said; “they belong to the order of the Neuroptera, which have the antennae longer than the head; their mandibles are well-developed, and the inferior pair of wings is generally as large as the superior. There are five families of them; the Panorpide, the Myrmellonide, the Hemerobiide, the Termitine, and the Perlide. I need hardly say that what we are now occupying is a dwelling of the Termitine.”

At this point Dick became all attention; he was anxious to ascertain whether this discovery of white ants had aroused any suspicion in Benedict’s mind that they must be on African soil. The naturalist, now fairly mounted on a favourite hobby, went on with his discourse.

“I am sorry not to have a specimen to show you, but these Termitine have four joints in the tarsi, and strong horny mandibles. The family includes, as genera, the Mantispa, the Raphidia, and the Termes, the last commonly known as white ants, amongst which are ‘Termes fatalis, Termes lucifugans, Termes mordax,’ and several others more or less rare.”

“And which of them built this anthill?” inquired Dick.

“The bellicosi!” replied Benedict, pronouncing the name with as much pride as if he were eulogizing the Macedonians or some warlike nation of antiquity. “Bellicosi,” he continued, “are to be found of every size. There is as much difference between the largest and the smallest of them as there is between Hercules and a dwarf; the workers are about one-fifth of an inch long; the soldiers, or fighting-ants, are half an inch; whilst the males and females measure four fifths of an inch. There is another curious species, called ‘sirafoos,’ which are about half an inch long, and have pincers instead of mandibles, and heads larger than their bodies, like sharks. In fact, if sharks and sirafoos were placed in competition, I should be inclined to back the sharks.”

“And where are these sirafoos most generally to be found?” said Dick cautiously.

“In Africa, in the southern and central provinces. Africa may truly be termed the land of ants. Livingstone, in the notes brought home by Stanley, describes a battle which he was fortunate enough to witness between an army of black ants and an army of red. The black ants, or drivers, which are what the natives call sirafoos, got the best of it; and the red ants, or ‘tchoongoos,’ after a very resolute defence, were obliged to retire defeated, carrying their eggs and young ones with them. Livingstone avows that he never saw the warlike instinct so strongly developed as in these sirafoos; the stoutest man, the largest animal, a lion or an elephant, quails before the grip of their mandibles: no obstacle impedes their progress; no tree is too lofty for them to scale, and they contrive to cross wide streams by forming their own bodies into a kind of suspension bridge. Equally amazing are their numbers; Du Chaillu, another African traveller, relates how it took more than twelve hours for a column of ants to file pass him, without a moment’s pause in their march. These numbers, however cease to be so surprising when it is explained that their fecundity is such that a single female of the termites bellicosi has been estimated to produce as many as sixty thousand eggs a day. These Neuroptera furnish the natives with a favourite food, grilled ants being considered a great delicacy.”

“Have you ever tasted them?” asked Hercules, with a grin.

“Never,” answered the naturalist; “but I am in hopes I shall have a chance of doing so very soon.”

“Surely you don’t imagine yourself in Africa!” said Tom suddenly.

“Africa! no; why should I?” replied Benedict; “but, as I have already seen a tzetsy in America, I do not despair of having the satisfaction of discovering white ants there too. You do not know the sensation I shall make in Europe when I publish my folio volume and its illustrations.”

It was evident that no inkling of the truth had yet entered poor Benedict’s brain, and it seemed likely that it would require demonstration far more striking than any natural phenomena to undeceive the minds of such of the party as were not already in possession of the fatal secret.

Although it was nine o’clock, Cousin Benedict went on talking incessantly, regardless of the fact that one by one his audience were falling to sleep in their separate cells. Dick Sands did not sleep, but neither did he interrupt the entomologist by farther questions; Hercules kept up his attention longer than the rest, but at length he too succumbed to weariness, and his eyes and ears were closed to all external sights and sounds.

But endurance has limits, and at last Cousin Benedict, having worn himself out, clambered up to the topmost cell of the cone, which he had chosen for his dormitory, and fell into a peaceful slumber.

The lantern had been already extinguished. All was darkness and silence within, whilst the storm without still raged with a violence that gave no sign of abatement.

Dick Sands himself was the only one of the party who was not partaking in the repose that was so indispensable to them all; but he could not sleep; his every thought was absorbed in the responsibility that rested on him to rescue those under his charge from the dangers that threatened them. Again and again he recalled every incident that had occurred since the loss of Captain Hull and his crew; he remembered the occasion when he had stood with his pistol pointed at Negoro’s head; why, oh why, had his hand faltered then? why had he not at that moment hurled the miserable wretch overboard, and thus relieved himself and his partners in trouble from the catastrophe that had since befallen them? Peril was still staring them in the face, and his sole drop of consolation in the bitter cup of despondency was that Mrs. Weldon was still ignorant of their real situation.

At that moment, just in the fever of his agony, he felt a light breath upon his forehead; a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a gentle voice murmured in his ear, —

“My poor boy, I know everything. God will help us! His will be done!”

CHAPTER VI.

A DIVING-BELL.

This sudden revelation that Mrs. Weldon was acquainted with the true state of things left Dick speechless. Even had he been capable of replying, she gave him no opportunity, but immediately retired to the side of her son. The various incidents of the march had all gradually enlightened her, and perhaps the exclamation of Cousin Benedict on the preceding evening had crowned them all; anyhow the brave lady now knew the worst. Dick felt, however, that she did not despair; neither would he.

He lay and longed for the dawn, when he hoped to explore the situation better, and perchance to find the watercourse which he was convinced could not be far distant. Moreover, he was extremely anxious to be out of the reach of the natives whom, it was only too likely, Negoro and Harris might be putting on their track.

But as yet no glimmer of daylight penetrated the aperture of the cone, whilst the heavy rumblings, deadened as they were by the thickness of the walls, made it certain that the storm was still raging with undiminished fury. Attentively Dick listened, and he could distinctly hear the rain beating around the base of the ant-hill; the heavy drops splashed again as they fell, in a way altogether different to what they would upon solid ground, so that he felt sure that the adjacent land was by this time completely flooded. He was getting very drowsy when it suddenly occurred to him that it was not unlikely the aperture was getting blocked up with damp clay; in that case he knew that the breath of the inmates would quickly vitiate the internal atmosphere. He crept along the ground and had the satisfaction of finding that the clay embankment was still perfectly dry; the orifice was quite unobstructed, allowing not only a free passage to the air, but admitting the glare of the occasional flashes of lightning, which the descending volumes of water did not seem to stay.

Having thus far satisfied himself that all was well, and that there was no immediate danger, Dick thought that he might now resign himself to sleep as well as the rest: he took the precaution, however, of stretching himself upon the embankment within easy reach of the opening, and with his head supported against the wall, after a while dozed off.

How long his light slumber had lasted he could not say, when he was aroused by a sensation of cold. He started up, and to his horror discovered that the water had entered the ant-hill and was rising rapidly; it could not be long, he saw, before it reached the cells which were occupied by Hercules and Tom. He woke them at once, and told them what he had observed. The lantern was soon lighted, and they set to work to ascertain what progress the water was making It rose for about five feet, when it was found to remain stationary.

“What is the matter, Dick?” inquired Mrs. Weldon, disturbed by the movements of the men.

“Nothing very alarming,” answered Dick promptly; “only some water has found its way into the lower part of the place; it will not reach your upper cells; probably some river has overflowed its boundaries.”

“The very river, perhaps,” suggested Hercules assuringly, “that is to carry us to the coast.”

Mrs. Weldon made no reply.

Cousin Benedict was still sleeping as soundly as if he were himself a white ant; the negroes were peering down on to the sheet of water which reflected back the rays of the lantern, ready to carry out any orders given by Dick, who was quietly gauging the inundation, and removing the provisions and fire-arms out of its reach.

“Did the water get in at the opening, Mr. Dick?” asked Tom.

“Yes, Tom, and consequently we are coming to the end of our stock of fresh air,” was Dick’s reply.

“But why should we not make another opening above the water level?” Tom inquired.

“A thing to be thought about,” said Dick; “but we have to remember that if we have five feet of water here inside, there is probably a depth of six or seven outside. In rising here the flood has compressed the air, and made it an obstacle to further progress, but if we allow the air to escape, we may perhaps only be letting the water rise too high for our safety. We are just as if we were in a diving-bell.”

“Then what is to be done?” asked the old negro.

“No doubt,” replied Dick, “we must proceed very cautiously. An inconsiderate step will jeopardize our lives.” Dick Sands was quite correct in comparing the cone to an immersed diving-bell. In that mechanical contrivance, however, the air can always be renewed by means of pumps, so that it can be occupied without inconvenience beyond what is entailed by a somewhat confined atmosphere; but here the interior space had already been reduced by a third part through the encroachment of the water, and there was no method of communicating with the outer air except by opening a new aperture, an operation in which there was manifest danger.

Dick did not entertain the slightest apprehension that the ant-hill would be carried away bodily by the inundation; he knew that it would adhere to its base as firmly as a beaver-hut; what he really dreaded was that the storm would last so long that the flood would rise high above the plain, perhaps submerging the ant-hill entirely, so that ultimately all air would be expelled by the persistent pressure.

The more he pondered the more he felt himself driven to the conviction that the inundation would be wide and deep. It could not be, he felt sure, entirely owing to the downpour from the clouds that the rapid flood was rising; there must have been the sudden overflowing of some stream to cause such a deluge over the lowlying plain. It could not be proved that the ant hill was not already under water, so that escape might be no longer possible, even from its highest point.

With all Dick’s courage, it was yet evident that he was very uneasy; he did not know what to do, and asked himself again and again whether patient waiting or decisive action would be his more prudent course.

It was now about three o’clock in the morning. All within the ant-hill were silent and motionless, listening to the incessant turmoil which told that the strife of the elements had not yet ceased.

Presently, old Tom pointed out that the height of the water was gradually increasing, but only by very slow ascent. Dick could only say that if the flood continued to rise, however slowly, it must inevitably drive out the air.

As if struck by a sudden thought, Bat called out, —

“Let me try and get outside. Perhaps I might dive and get through the opening.”

“I think I had better make that experiment myself,” answered Dick.

“That you never shall,” interposed Tom peremptorily; “you must let Bat go. It may not be possible to get back, and your presence is indispensable here. Think, sir, think of Mrs. Weldon, and Master Jack,” he added in a lower tone.

“Well, well,” Dick assented, “if it must be so, Bat shall go.”

And turning to Bat, he continued,

“Do not try to come back again; we will try, if we can, to follow you the same way; but if the top of the cone is still above water, knock hard on it with your hatchet, and we shall take it as a signal that we may break our way out. Do you understand?”

“All right!” he said, “all right, sir.”

And after wringing his father’s hand, he drew a long breath, and plunged into the water that filled the lower section of the ant-hill.

It was an exploit that required considerable agility; the diver would have to find the orifice, make his way through it, and, without loss of a moment, let himself rise to the surface outside. Full half a minute elapsed, and Dick was making sure that the negro had been successful in his effort, when his black head emerged from the water. There was a general exclamation of surprise.

“It is blocked up,” gasped Bat, as soon as he had recovered breath enough to speak.

“Blocked up?” cried Tom.

“Yes,” Bat affirmed; “I have felt all round the wall very carefully with my hand, and I am sure there is no hole left; I suppose the water has dissolved the clay.”

“If you cannot find a hole,” exclaimed Hercules, “I can very soon make one;” and he was just about to plunge his hatchet into the side of the ant-hill, when Dick prevented him.

“Stop, stop! you must not be in such a hurry!”

He reflected for a few moments, and went on, —

“We must be cautious; an impetuous step may be destruction; perhaps the water is over the top; if it is allowed to enter, then at once is an end of all.”

“But whatever we do,” urged Tom, “must be done at once; there is no time to lose.”

He was right; the water had risen till it was quite six feet deep; none but Mrs. Weldon, Jack, Nan, and Cousin Benedict, who were lodged in the upper cells, were fairly above its surface.

Dick now came to his determination. At about a foot above the water-level, that is, about seven feet from the ground, he resolved to bore a hole through the clay. If he should find himself in communication with the open air, he would have the proof he desired that the top of the cone was still uncovered; if, on the other hand, he should ascertain that he had pierced the wall below the surface of the external water, he would be prepared to plug up the hole instantaneously, and repeat the experiment higher up. It was true that the inundation might have risen even fifteen feet above the plain; in that case the worst had come, and there was no alternative but that they must all die of asphyxia.

Carefully considering the chances of his undertaking, Dick calmly and steadily set about his task. The best instrument that suggested itself for his purpose was the ramrod of a gun, which, having a sort of corkscrew at the end for extracting the wadding, would serve as an auger. The hole would be very small, but yet large enough for the requisite test. Hercules showed him all the light he could by holding up the lantern. There were several candles left, so that they were not in fear of being altogether in darkness.

The operation hardly took a minute; the ramrod passed through the clay without difficulty; a muffled sound was distinguished as of air-bubbles rushing through a column of water. As the air escaped, the water in the cone rose perceptibly. The hole had been pierced too low. A handful of clay was immediately forced into the orifice, which was thus effectually plugged; and Dick turned round quietly, and said, —

“We must try again.”

The water had again become stationary, but its last rise had diminished the amount of breathing space by more than eight inches. The supply of oxygen was beginning to fail, respiration was becoming difficult, and the flame of the candle burned red and dim.

About a foot higher than the first hole, Dick now set about boring a second. The experiment might again prove a failure, and the water rise yet higher in the cone; but the risk must be run.

Just as the auger was being inserted, a loud exclamation of delight was heard proceeding from Cousin Benedict’s cell. Dick paused, and Hercules turned the lantern towards the excited naturalist, who seemed beaming with satisfaction.

“Yes, yes; I see it all well enough,” he cried; “I know now why the termites left their home; they were wide-awake; they were more clever than we are; they knew that the storm was coming!”

Finding that this was all the worthy entomologist had

to communicate, Dick, without comment, turned back again to his operation. Again the gurgling noise! again the water’s upward rush! For the second time he had failed to effect an aperture to the outer air!

The situation was to the last degree alarming. The water had all but reached Mrs. Weldon, and she was obliged to take her boy into her arms. Every one felt nearly stifled. A loud singing was heard in the ears, and the lantern showed barely any light at all. A few minutes more and the air would be incapable of supporting life. One chance alone remained. They must bore another hole at the very summit of the cone. Not that they were unaware of the imminent danger of this measure, for if the ant-hill were really submerged the water from below would immediately expel the remaining air and death must be instantaneous. A few brief words from Dick explained the emergency of the crisis. Mrs. Weldon recognized the necessity, —

“Yes, Dick, do it; there is nothing else to be done.”

While she was speaking the light flickered out, and they were in total darkness.

Mounted on the shoulders of Hercules, who was crouching in one of the side-cells, his head only just above water, Dick proceeded to force the ramrod into the clay, which at the vertex of the ant-hill was considerably harder and thicker than elsewhere.

A strange mingling of hope and fear thrilled through Dick Sands as he applied his hand to make the opening which was to admit life and air, or the flood of death!

The silence of the general expectation was broken by the noise of a sharp hissing; the water rose for eight inches, but all at once it ceased to rise; it had found its level. No need this time to close the orifice; the top of the ant-hill was higher than the top of the flood; and for the present, at least, they could all rejoice that their lives were spared!

A general cheer, led by the stentorian voice of Hercules, involuntarily broke from the party; cutlasses were brought into action, and the clay crumbled away beneath the vigorous assault that was made upon it. The welcome air was admitted through the new-made aperture, bringing with it the first rays of the rising sun. The summit of the ant-hill once removed, it would be quite easy to clamber to the top, whence it was hoped they would soon get away to some high ground out of reach of the flood.

Dick was the first to mount the summit; but a cry of dismay burst from his lips!

A sound only too well known to travellers in Africa broke upon his ear; that sound was the whizzing of arrows.

Hardly a hundred yards away was a large encampment; whilst, in the water, quite close to the ant-hill where he stood, he saw some long boats full of natives. From one of these had come the volley of arrows which had greeted his appearance above the opening of the cone.

To tell his people what had happened was the work of a moment. He seized his gun, and made Hercules, Bat, and Actaeon take theirs, and all fired simultaneously at the nearest boat. Several of the natives were seen to fall; but shouts of defiance were raised, and shots were fired in return.

Resistance was manifestly useless. What could they do against a hundred natives? they were assailed on every hand. In accordance with what seemed a preconcerted plan, they were carried off from the ant-hill with brutal violence, in two parties, without the chance of a farewell word or sign.

Dick Sands saw that Mrs. Weldon, Jack, and Cousin Benedict were placed on board one boat, and were conveyed towards the camp, whilst he himself, with the five negroes and old Nan, was forced into another, and taken in a different direction. Twenty natives formed a body-guard around them, and five boats followed in their rear.

Useless though it were, Dick and the negroes made one desperate attempt to maintain their freedom; they wounded several of their antagonists, and would doubtless have paid their lives as a penalty for their daring, if there had not been special orders given that they should be taken alive.

The passage of the flood was soon accomplished. The boat had barely touched the shore, when Hercules with a

tremendous bound sprang on to the land. Instantly two natives rushed upon him. The giant clave their skulls with the butt end of his gun, and made off. Followed though he was by a storm of bullets, he escaped in safety, and disappeared beneath the cover of the woods.

Dick Sands and the others were guarded to the shore, and fettered like slaves.

CHAPTER VIII.

NOTES BY THE WAY.

The storm of the preceding evening had now passed away, but the sky was still cloudy and the weather far from settled. It was the 19th of April, the time of the masika, or second period of the rainy season, so that for the next two or three weeks the nights might be expected to be wet.

On leaving the banks of the Coanza the caravan proceeded due east. Soldiers marched at the head and in the rear, as well as upon the flanks of the troop; any escape of the prisoners, therefore, even if they had not been loaded with their fetters, would have been utterly impossible. They were all driven along without any attempt at order, the havildars using their whips unsparingly upon them whenever they showed signs of flagging. Some poor mothers could be seen carrying two infants, one on each arm, whilst others led by the hand naked children, whose feet were sorely cut by the rough ground over which they had trod.

Ibn Hamish, the Arab who had interfered between Dick and the havildar, acted as commander to the caravan, and was here, there, and everywhere; not moved in the least by the sufferings of the captives, but obliged to be attentive to the importunities of the soldiers and porters, who were perpetually clamouring for extra rations, or demanding an immediate halt. Loud were the discussions that arose, and the uproar became positively deafening when the quarrelsome voices rose above the shrieks of the slaves, many of whom found themselves treading upon soil already stained by the blood of the ranks in front.

No chance again opened for Dick to get any communication with his friends, who had been sent to the van of the procession. Urged on by the whip they continued to march in single file, their heads in the heavy forks. If ever the havildar strolled a few yards away, Bat took the opportunity of murmuring a few words of encouragement to his poor old father, while he tried to pick out the easiest path for him, and to relax the pace to suit his enfeebled limbs. Large tears rolled down old Tom’s cheeks when he found that his son’s efforts only resulted in bringing down upon his back some sharp cuts of the havildar’s whip. Actaeon and Austin, subject to hardly less brutality, followed a few steps behind, but all four could not help feeling envious at the luck of Hercules, who might have dangers to encounter, but at least had his liberty.

Immediately upon their capture, Tom had revealed to his companions the fact that they were in Africa, and informing them how they had been betrayed by Harris, made them understand that they had no mercy to expect.

Old Nan had been placed amongst a group of women in the central ranks. She was chained to a young mother with two children, the one at the breast, the other only three years old, and scarcely able to walk. Moved by compassion, Nan took the little one into her own arms, thus not only saving it from fatigue, but from the blows it would very likely have received for lagging behind. The mother shed tears of gratitude, but the weight was almost too much for Nan’s strength, and she felt as if she must break down under her self-imposed burden. She thought fondly of little Jack, and imagining him borne along in the arms of his weary mother, could not help asking herself whether she should ever see him or her kind mistress again.

Far in the rear, Dick could not see the head of the caravan except occasionally, when the ground was rather on the rise. The voices of the agents and drivers, harsh and excited as they were, scarcely roused him from his melancholy reflections. His thoughts were not of himself nor of his own sufferings; his whole attention was absorbed in looking for some traces of Mrs. Weldon’s progress; if she, too, was being taken to Kazonnde, her route must also lie this way. But he could discover no trace of her having been conducted by this line of march, and could only hope that she was being spared the cruelties which he was himself witnessing.

The forest extended for about twenty miles to the east of the Coanza, but whether it was that the trees had been destroyed by the ravages of insects, or broken down before they had made their growth by being trampled on by elephants, they were growing much less thickly than in the immediate vicinity of the river. There were numbers of cotton-trees, seven or eight feet high, from which are manufactured the black-and-white striped stuffs that are worn in the interior of the province; but, upon the whole, progress was not much impeded either by shrubs or underwood. Occasionally the caravan plunged into jungles of reeds like bamboos, their stalks an inch in diameter, so tall that only an elephant or giraffe could have reared above them, and through which none excepting such as had a very intimate knowledge of the country could possibly have made their way.

Starting every morning at daybreak they marched till noon, when an hour’s halt was made. Packets of manioc were then unfastened, and doled out in sparing quantities among the slaves; sometimes, when the soldiers had plundered some village, a little goat’s flesh or some sweet potatoes were added to the meal; but generally the fatigue, aggravated by inadequate rest, took away the appetite, and when meal-time arrived many of the slaves could hardly eat at all. During the first eight days’ march from the Coanza no less than twenty unfortunate wretches had fallen upon the road, and had been left behind, a prey to the lions, panthers, and leopards that prowled in the wake. As Dick heard their roars in the stillness of the night, he trembled as he thought of Hercules. Nevertheless, had the opportunity offered itself, he would not for a moment have hesitated in making his own escape to the wilderness.

The two hundred and fifty miles between the river and Kazonnde were accomplished in what the traders call marches of ten miles each, including the halts at night and midday. The journey cannot be better described than by a few rough notes that Dick Sands made upon his way.

April 25th. — Saw a village surrounded with bamboo palisading, eight or nine feet high. Fields round planted with maize, beans, and sorghum. Two negroes captured, fifteen killed, rest took to flight.

26th. — Crossed a torrent 150 yards wide. Bridge formed of trunks of trees and creepers. Piles nearly gave way; two women fastened to a fork; one of them, carrying a baby, fell into the water. Water quickly tinged with blood; crocodiles seen under bridge; risk of stepping into their very jaws.

28th. — Crossed a forest of bauhinias; great trees, the iron-wood of the Portuguese. Heavy rain; ground sodden; marching difficult. Caught sight of Nan in the middle of caravan; she was toiling along with a black child in her arms; the woman with her limping, and blood trickling from her shoulder.

29th. — Camp at night under a huge baobab, with white flowers and light green leaves. Lions and leopards roaring all night. A soldier fired at a panther. What has become of Hercules?

30th. — Rainy season said to be over till November. First touch of African winter. Dew very heavy. Plains all flooded. Easterly winds: difficulty of respiration; susceptibility to fever. No trace of Mrs. Weldon; cannot tell whether she is ahead. Fear Jack may have a return of fever.

May 5th. — Forced to march several stages across flooded plains, water up to the waist; many leeches sticking to the skin. Lotus and papyrus upon higher ground. Great heavy leaves, like cabbages, beneath the water, make many stumble as they walk. Saw large numbers of little fish, silurus-species; these are caught by the natives, and sold to the caravans.

7th. — Plain still inundated. Last night, no halting-place to be found. Marched on through the darkness. Great misery. Except for Mrs. Weldon, life not worth having; for her sake must hold out. Loud cries heard. Saw, by the lightning, soldiers breaking large boughs from the resinous trees that emerged from the water. The caravan had been attacked on the flank by a dozen or more crocodiles; women and children seized and carried off to what Livingstone calls their “pasture-lands,” the holes where they deposit their prey until it is decomposed. Myself grazed by the scales of one of them. A slave close beside me torn out of the fork, which was snapped in half. How the poor fellow’s cry of agony rings in my ear! This morning, twenty missing. Tom and the others, thank God! are still alive. They are on in front. Once Bat made a sharp turn, and Tom caught sight of me. Nothing to be seen of Nan; was she, poor creature, one of those that the crocodiles had got?

8th. — After twenty-four hours in the water we have crossed the plain. We have halted on a hill. The sun helps to dry us. Nothing to eat except a little manioc and a few handfuls of maize. Only muddy water to drink. Impossible for Mrs. Weldon to survive these hardships; I hope from my heart that she has been taken some other way. Small-pox has broken out in the caravan; those that have it are to be left behind.

9th. — Started at dawn. No stragglers allowed; sick and weary must be kept together by havildars’ whip; the losses were considerable. Living skeletons all round. Rejoiced once more to catch sight of Nan. She was not carrying the child any longer; she was alone; the chain was round her waist, but she had the loose end thrown over her shoulder. I got close to her; suppose I am altered, as she did not know me. After I had called her by name several times she stared at me, and at last said, “Ah, Mr. Dick, is it you? you will not see me here much longer” Her cadaverous look pained my very soul, but I tried to speak hopefully. Poor Nan shook her head. “I shall never see my dear mistress again; no, nor master Jack; I shall soon die. “Anxious to help her, I would gladly have carried the end of the chain which she had been obliged to bear because her fellow-prisoner was dead. A rough hand was soon upon my shoulder; a cruel lash had made Nan retreat to the general crowd, whilst, at the bidding of an Arab chief, I was hustled back to the very hindmost rank of the procession. I overheard the word Negoro, in a way that convinced me that it is under the direction of the Portuguese that I am subject to this hard indignity.

11th. — Last night encamped under some large trees on the skirts of a forest. Several escaped prisoners recaptured; their punishment barbarously cruel. Loud roaring of lions and hyenas heard at nightfall, also snorting of hippopotamuses; probably some lake or water-course not far off. Tired, but could not sleep; heard a rustling in the grass; felt sure that something was going to attack me; what could I do? I had no gun. For Mrs. Weldon’s sake, must, if possible, preserve my life. The night was dark; no moon; two eyes gleamed upon me; I was about to utter a cry of alarm; fortunately, I suppressed it; the creature that had sprung to my feet was Dingo! The dog licked my hands all over, persisting in rubbing his neck against them, evidently to make me feel there; found a reed fastened to the well-known collar upon which the initials S.V. had so often awakened our curiosity; breaking open the reed, I took a note from inside; it was too dark for me to see to read it. I tried, by caressing Dingo, to detain him; but the dog appeared to know that his mission with me was at an end; he licked my hands affectionately, made a sudden bound, and disappeared in the long grass as mysteriously as he had come. The howling of the wild beasts increased. How I dreaded that the faithful creature would become their prey! No more sleep this night for me. It seemed that daylight would never dawn; at length it broke with the suddenness that marks a tropical morn. I was able cautiously to read my note; the handwriting, I knew at a glance, was that of Hercules; there were but a few lines in pencil: —

“Mrs. Weldon and Jack carried away in a kitanda.

Harris and Negoro both with them. Mr. Benedict too. Only a few marches ahead, but cannot be communicated with at present. Found Dingo wounded by a gun-shot. Dear Mr. Dick, do not despair; keep up your courage. I may help you yet.

“Your ever true and faithful “HERCULES.”

As far as it went, this intelligence was satisfactory. A kitanda, I know, is a kind of litter made of dry grass, protected by a curtain, and carried on the shoulders of two men by a long bamboo. What a relief to know that Mrs. Weldon and Jack have been spared the miseries of this dreadful march! May I not indulge the hope of seeing them at Kazonnde?

12th. — The prisoners getting more and more weary and worn out. Blood-stains on the way still more conspicuous. Many poor wretches are a mass of wounds. One poor woman for two days has carried her dead child, from which she refuses to be parted.

l6th. — Small-pox raging; the road strewn with corpses. Still ten days before we reach Kazonnde. Just passed a tree from which slaves who had died from hunger were hanging by the neck.

18th. — Must not give in, but I am almost exhausted. Rains have ceased. We are to make what the dealers call trikesa, extra marches in the after-part of the day. Road very steep; runs through nyassi, tall grass of which the stalks scratch my face, and the seeds get under my tattered clothes and make my skin smart painfully. My boots fortunately are thick, and have not worn out. More slaves sick and abandoned to take their chance. Provisions running very short; soldiers and pagazis must be satisfied, otherwise they desert; consequently the slaves are all but starved. “They can eat each other,” say the agents. A young slave, apparently in good health, dropped down dead. It made me think of Livingstone’s description of how free-born men, reduced to slavery, will suddenly press their hand on their side, and die of a broken heart.

24th. — Twenty captives, incapable any longer of keeping pace with the rest, put to death by the havildars, the Arab chief offering no opposition. Poor old Nan one of the victims of this horrible butchery. My foot struck her corpse as I passed, but I was not permitted to give her a decent burial. Poor old Nan! the first of the survivors of the “Pilgrim” to go to her long rest! Poor old Nan!

Every night I watch for Dingo; but he never comes. Has Hercules nothing more to communicate? or has any mishap befallen him? If he is alive he will do what mortal strength can do to aid us.

CHAPTER IX.

KAZONNDE.

By the 26th of May, when the caravan reached Kazonnde the number of the slaves had diminished by more than half, so numerous had been the casualties along the road. But the dealers were quite prepared to make a market of their loss; the demand for slaves was very great, and the price must be raised accordingly.

Angola at that time was the scene of a large negro-traffic, and as the caravans principally wended their way towards the interior, the Portuguese authorities at Loanda and Benguela had practically no power to prevent it. The barracks on the shore were crowded to overflowing with prisoners, the few slave-ships that managed to elude the cruisers being quite inadequate to embark the whole number for the Spanish colonies to America.

Kazonnde, the point whence the caravans diverge to the various parts of the lake district, is situated three miles from the mouth of the Coanza, and is one of the most important lakonis, or markets of the province. The open marketplace where the slaves are exposed for sale is called the chitoka.

All the larger towns of Central Africa are divided into two distinct parts; one occupied by the Arab, Portuguese, or native merchants, and containing their slave-barracks; the other being the residence of the negro king, often a fierce drunken potentate, whose rule is a reign of terror, and who lives by subsidies allowed him by the traders.

The commercial quarter of Kazonnde now belonged to

Jose Antonio Alvez. It was his largest depot, although he had another at Bihe, and a third at Cassange, where Cameron subsequently met him. It consisted of one long street, on each side of which were groups of flat-roofed houses called tembes, built of rough earth, and provided with square yards for cattle. The end of it opened into the chitoka, which was surrounded by the barracks. Above the houses some fine banyan-trees waved their branches, surmounted here and there by the crests of graceful palms. There was at least a score of birds of prey that hovered about the streets, and came down to perform the office of public scavengers. At no great distance flowed the Loohi, a river not yet explored, but which is supposed to be an affluent or sub-affluent of the Congo.

Adjoining the commercial quarter was the royal residence, nothing more nor less than a collection of dirty huts, extending over an area of nearly a square mile.

Some of these huts were unenclosed; others were surrounded by a palisade of reeds, or by a hedge of bushy figs.

In an enclosure within a papyrus fence were about thirty huts appropriated to the king’s slaves, another group for his wives, and in the middle, almost hidden by a plantation of manioc, a tembe larger and loftier than the rest, the abode of the monarch himself.

He had sorely declined from the dignity and importance of his predecessors, and his army, which by the early Portuguese traders had been estimated at 20,000, now numbered less than 4000 men; no longer could he afford, as in the good old time, to order a sacrifice of twenty-five or thirty slaves at one offering.

His name was Moene Loonga. Little over fifty, he was prematurely aged by drink and debauchery, and scarcely better than a maniac. His subjects, officers, and ministers, were all liable to be mutilated at his pleasure, and noses and ears, feet and hands, were cut off unsparingly whenever his caprice so willed it. His death would have been a cause of regret to no one, with the exception, perhaps, of Alvez, who was on very good terms with him. Alvez, moreover, feared that in the event of the present king’s death, the succession of his chief wife, Queen Moena, might be disputed, and that his dominions would be invaded by a younger and more active neighbour, one of the kings of Ukusu, who had already seized upon some villages dependent on the government of Kazonnde, and who was in alliance with a rival trader named Tipo-Tipo, a man of pure Arab extraction, from whom Cameron afterwards received a visit at Nyangwe.

To all intents and purposes Alvez was the real sovereign of the district, having fostered the vices of the brutalized king till he had him completely in his power. He was a man considerably advanced in years; he was not (as his name might imply) a white man, but had merely assumed his Portuguese title for purposes of business; his true name was Kendele, and he was a pure negro by birth, being a native of Dondo on the Coanza. He had commenced life as a slave-dealer’s agent, and was now on his way towards becoming a first-class trader; that is to say, he was a consummate rascal under the guise of an honest man. He it was whom Cameron met at the end of 1874 at Kilemba, the capital of Urua, of which Kasongo is chief, and with whose caravan he travelled to Bihe, a distance of seven hundred miles.

It was midday when the caravan entered Kazonnde. The journey from the Coanza had lasted thirty-eight days, more than five weeks of misery as great as was within human power to endure. Amidst the noise of drums and coodoo-horns the slaves were conducted to the marketplace. The soldiers of the caravan discharged their guns into the air, and old Alvez’ resident retinue responded with a similar salute. The bandits, than which the soldiers were nothing better, were delighted to meet again, and would celebrate their return by a season of riot and excess.

The slaves, reduced to a total of about two hundred and fifty, were many of them almost dead from exhaustion; the forks were removed from their necks, though the chains were still retained, and the whole of them were driven into barracks that were unfit even for cattle, to await (in company with 1200 to 1500 other captives already there) the great market which would be held two days hence.

The pagazis, after delivering their loads of ivory, would only stay to receive their payment of a few yards of calico or other stuff, and would then depart at once to join some other caravan.

On being relieved from the forks which they had carried for so many weary days, Tom and his companions heartily wrung each other’s hands, but they could not venture to utter one word of mutual encouragement. The three younger men, more full of life and vigour, had resisted the effects of the fatigue, but poor old Tom was nearly exhausted, and had the march been protracted for a few more days he must have shared Nan’s fate and been left behind, a prey to the wild beasts.

Upon their arrival all four were packed into a narrow cell, where some food was provided, and the door was immediately locked upon them.

The chitoka was now almost deserted, and Dick Sands was left there under the special charge of a havildar: he lost no opportunity of peering into every hut in the hope of catching a glimpse of Mrs. Weldon, who, if Hercules had not misinformed him, had come on hither just in front.

But he was very much perplexed. He could well understand that Mrs. Weldon, if still a prisoner, would be kept out of sight, but why Negoro and Harris did not appear to triumph over him in his humiliation was quite a mystery to him. It was likely enough that the presence of either one or the other of them would be the signal for himself to be exposed to fresh indignity, or even to torture, but Dick would have welcomed the sight of them at Kazonnde, were it only as an indication that Mrs. Weldon and Jack were there also.

It disappointed him, too, that Dingo did not come back. Ever since the dog had brought him the first note, he had kept an answer written ready to send to Hercules, imploring him to look after Mrs. Weldon, and to keep him informed of everything. He began to fear that the faithful creature must be dead, perhaps perished in some attempt to reach himself; it was, however, quite possible that Hercules had taken the dog in some other direction, hoping to gain somedepot in the interior.

But so thoroughly had Dick persuaded himself that Mrs. Weldon had preceded him to Kazonnde that his disappointment became more and more keen when he failed to discover her. For a while he seemed to yield to despair, and sat down sorrowful and sick at heart.

Suddenly a chorus of voices and trumpets broke upon his ear; he was startled into taking a new interest in what was going on.

“Alvez! Alvez!” was the cry again and again repeated by the crowd.

Here, then, was the great man himself about to appear. Was it not likely that Harris or Negoro might be with him?

Dick stood erect and resolute, his eye vivid with expectation; he felt all eagerness to stand face to face with his betrayers; boy as he was, he was equal to cope with them both.

The kitanda, which came in sight at the end of the street, was nothing more than a kind of hammock covered by a faded and ragged curtain. An old negro stepped out of it. His attendants greeted him with noisy acclamations.

This, then, was the great trader, Jose Antonio Alvez.

Immediately following him was his friend Coimbra, son of the chief Coimbra of Bihe, and, according to Cameron, the greatest blackguard in the province. This sworn ally of Alvez, this organizer of his slave-raids, this commander, worthy of his own horde of bandits, was utterly loathsome in his appearance, his flesh was filthily dirty, his eyes were bloodshot, his skin yellow, and his long hair all dishevelled. He had no other attire than a tattered shirt, a tunic made of grass, and a battered straw hat, under which his countenance appeared like that of some old hag.

Alvez himself, whose clothes were like those of an old Turk the day after a carnival, was one degree more respectable in appearance than his satellite, not that his looks spoke much for the very highest class of African slave-dealers. To Dick’s great disappointment, neither Harris nor Negoro was among his retinue.

Both Alvez and Coimbra shook hands with Ibn Hamish, the leader of the caravan, and congratulated him on the success of the expedition. Alvez made a grimace on being told that half the slaves had died on the way, but on the whole he seemed satisfied; he could meet the demand that at present existed, and would lose no time in bartering the new arrival for ivory or hannas, copper in the shape of a St. Andrew’s cross, the form in which the metal is exported in Central Africa.

After complimenting the havildars upon the way in which they had done their work, the trader gave orders that the porters should be paid and dismissed. The conversations were carried on in a mixture of Portuguese and native idioms, in which the African element abounded so largely that a native of Lisbon would have been at a loss to understand them. Dick, of course, could not comprehend what was said, and it was only when he saw a havildar go towards the cell in which Tom and the others were confined, that he realized that the talk was about himself and his party.

When the negroes were brought out, Dick came close up, being anxious to learn as much as he could of what was in contemplation. The old trader’s eyes seemed to brighten as he glanced upon the three strapping young men who, he knew, would soon be restored to their full strength by rest and proper food. They at least would get a good price; as for poor old Tom, he was manifestly so broken down by infirmity and age, that he would have no value in the market.

In a few words of broken English, which Alvez had picked up from some of his agents, he ironically gave them all a welcome.

“Glad to see you!” he said, with a diabolical grin.

Tom knew what he meant, and drew himself up proudly.

“We are free men!” he protested, “free citizens of the United States!”

“Yes, yes!” replied Alvez, grinning, “you are Americans; very glad to see you!”

“Very glad to see you!” echoed Coimbra, and walking up to Austin he felt his chest and shoulders, and then proceeded to open his mouth in order to examine his teeth.

A blow from Austin’s powerful fist sent the satellite staggering backwards.

Some soldiers made a dash and seized the young negro, evidently ready to make him pay dearly for his temerity; but Alvez was by no means willing to have any injury done to his newly-acquired property, and called them off. He hardly attempted to conceal his amusement at Coimbra’s discomfiture, although the blow had cost him one of his front teeth.

After he had recovered somewhat from the shock, Coimbra stood scowling at Austin, as if mentally vowing vengeance on some future occasion.

Dick Sands was now himself brought forward in the custody of a havildar. It was clear that Alvez had been told all about him, for after scanning him for a moment, he stammered out in his broken English, —

“Ah! ah! the little Yankee!”

“Yes,” replied Dick; “I see you know who I am. What are you going to do with me and my friends?”

“Yankee! little Yankee!” repeated the trader, who either did not or would not comprehend the meaning of Dick’s question.

Dick turned to Coimbra and made the same inquiry of him; in spite of his degraded features, now still farther disfigured by being swollen from the blow, it was easy to recognize that he was not of native origin. He refused to answer a word, and only stared again with the vicious glare of malevolence.

Meanwhile, Alvez had begun to talk to Ibn Hamish. Dick felt sure that they intended to separate him from the negroes, and accordingly took the opportunity of whispering a few words to them.

“My friends, I have heard from Hercules. Dingo

brought me a note from him, tied round his neck. He says Harris and Negoro have carried off Mrs. Weldon, Jack, and Mr. Benedict. He did not know where. Have patience, and we will find them yet.”

“And where’s Nan?” muttered Tom, in a low voice.

“Dead,” replied Dick, and was about to add more, when a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a voice that he knew too well exclaimed, —

“Well, my young friend, how are you? I am glad to see you again.”

He turned round quickly. Harris stood before him.

“Where is Mrs. Weldon?” asked Dick impetuously.

“Ah, poor thing!” answered Harris, with an air of deep commiseration.

“What! is she dead?” Dick almost shrieked; “where is her child?”

“Poor little fellow!” said Harris, in the same mournful tone.

These insinuations, that those in whose welfare he was so deeply interested had succumbed to the hardships of the journey, awoke in Dick’s mind a sudden and irresistible desire for vengeance. Darting forwards he seized the cutlass that Harris wore in his belt, and plunged it into his heart.

With a yell and a curse, the American fell dead at his feet.

CHAPTER X.

MARKET-DAY.

So sudden was Dick’s action that it had been impossible to parry his blow. Several of the natives rushed on him, and in all likelihood would have struck him down upon the spot had not Negoro arrived at that very moment. At a sign from him the natives drew back, and proceeded to raise and carry away Harris’s corpse.

Alvez and Coimbra were urgent in their demand that Dick should forthwith be punished by death, but Negoro whispered to them that they would assuredly be the gainers by delay, and they accordingly contented themselves with ordering the youth to be placed under strict supervision.

This was the first time that Dick had set eyes upon Negoro since he had left the coast; nevertheless, so heartbroken was he at the intelligence he had just received, that he did not deign to address a word to the man whom he knew to be the real author of all his misery. He cared not now what became of him.

Loaded with chains, he was placed in the dungeon where Alvez was accustomed to confine slaves who had been condemned to death for mutiny or violence. That he had no communication with the outer world gave him no concern; he had avenged the death of those for whose safety he had felt himself responsible, and could now calmly await the fate which he could not doubt was in store for him; he did not dare to suppose that he had been temporarily spared otherwise than that he might

suffer the cruellest tortures that native ingenuity could devise. That the “Pilgrim’s” cook now held in his power the boy captain he so thoroughly hated was warrant enough that the sternest possible measure of vengeance would be exacted.

Two days later, the great market, the lakoni, commenced. Although many of the principal traders were there from the interior, it was by no means exclusively a slave-mart; a considerable proportion of the natives from the neighbouring provinces assembled to dispose of the various products of the country.

Quite early the great chitoka of Kazonnde was all alive with a bustling concourse of little under five thousand people, including the slaves of old Alvez, amongst whom were Tom and his three partners in adversity — an item by no means inconsiderable in the dealer’s stock.

Accompanied by Coimbra, Alvez himself was one of the first arrivals. He was going to sell his slaves in lots to be conveyed in caravans into the interior. The dealers for the most part consisted of half-breeds from Ujiji, the principal market on Lake Tanganyika, whilst some of a superior class were manifestly Arabs.

The natives that were assembled were of both sexes, and of every variety of age, the women in particular displaying an aptitude in making bargains that is shared by their sisters elsewhere of a lighter hue; and it may be said that no market of the most civilized region could be characterized by greater excitement or animation, for amongst the savages of Africa the customer makes his offer in equally noisy terms as the vendor.

The lakoni was always considered a kind of fete-day; consequently the natives of both sexes, though their clothing was scanty in extent, made a point of appearing in a most lavish display of ornaments. Their head-gear was most remarkable. The men had their hair arranged in every variety of eccentric device; some had it divided into four parts, rolled over cushions and fastened into a chignon, or mounted in front into a bunch of tails adorned with red feathers; others plastered it thickly with a mixture of red mud and oil similar to that used for greasing machinery, and formed it into cones or lumps, into which they inserted a medley of iron pins and ivory skewers; whilst the greatest dandies had a glass bead threaded upon every single hair, the whole being fastened together by a tattooing-knife driven through the glittering mass.

As a general rule, the women preferred dressing their hair in little tufts about the size of a cherry, arranging it into the shape of a cap, with corkscrew ringlets on each side of the face. Some wore it simply hanging down their backs, others in French fashion, with a fringe across the forehead; but every coiffure, without exception, was daubed and caked either with the mixture of mud and grease, or with a bright red extract of sandal-wood called nkola.

But it was not only on their heads that they made this extraordinary display of ornaments; the lobes of their ears were loaded till they reached their shoulders with a profusion of wooden pegs, open-work copper rings, grains of maize, or little gourds, which served the purpose of snuff-boxes; their necks, arms, wrists, legs, and ankles were a perfect mass of brass and copper rings, or sometimes were covered with a lot of bright buttons. Rows of red beads, called sames-sames, or talakas, seemed also very popular. As they had no pockets, they attached their knives, pipes and other articles to various parts of their body; so that altogether, in their holiday attire, the rich men of the district might not inappropriately be compared to walking shrines.

With their teeth they had all played the strangest of vagaries; the upper and lower incisors had generally been extracted, and the others had been filed to points or carved into hooks, like the fangs of a rattle-snake. Their fingernails were allowed to grow to such an immoderate length as to render the hands well-nigh useless, and their swarthy skins were tattooed with figures of trees, birds, crescents and discs, or, not unfrequently, with those zigzag lines which Livingstone thinks he recognizes as resembling those observed in ancient Egyptian drawings. The tattooing is effected by means of a blue substance inserted into incisions previously made in the skin. Every child is tattooed in precisely the same pattern as his father before him, and thus it may always be ascertained to what family he belongs. Instead of carrying his armorial bearings upon his plate or upon the panels of his carriage, the African magnate wears them emblazoned on his own bosom!

The garments that were usually worn were simply aprons of antelope-skins descending to the knees, but occasionally a short petticoat might be seen made of woven grass and dyed with bright colours. The ladies not unfrequently wore girdles of beads attached to green skirts embroidered with silk and ornamented with bits of glass or cowries, or sometimes the skirts were made of the grass cloth called lambda, which, in blue, yellow, or black, is so much valued by the people of Zanzibar.

Garments of these pretensions, however, always indicated that the wearers belonged to the upper classes; the lower orders, such as the smaller dealers, as well as the slaves, had hardly any clothes at all.

The women commonly acted as porters, and arrived at the market with huge baskets on their backs, which they secured by means of straps passed across the forehead. Having deposited their loads upon the chitoka, they turned out their goods, and then seated themselves inside the empty baskets.

As the result of the extreme fertility of the country all the articles offered for sale were of a first-rate quality. There were large stores of rice, which had been grown at a profit a hundred times as great as the cost, and maize which, producing three crops in eight months, yielded a profit as large again as the rice. There were also sesame, Urua pepper stronger than Cayenne, manioc, nutmegs, salt, and palm-oil. In the market, too, were hundreds of goats, pigs and sheep, evidently of a Tartar breed, with hair instead of wool; and there was a good supply of fish and poultry. Besides all these there was an attractive display of bright-coloured pottery, the designs of which were very symmetrical.

In shrill, squeaky voices, children were crying several varieties of native drinks; banana-wine, pombe, which, whatever it was, seemed to be in great demand; malofoo, a kind of beer compounded of bananas, and mead, a mixture of honey and water, fermented with malt.

But the most prominent feature in the whole market was the traffic in stuffs and ivory. The pieces could be counted by thousands of the unbleached mcrikani from Salem in Massachusetts, of the blue cotton, kaniki, thirty-four inches wide, and of the checked sohari, blue and black with its scarlet border. More expensive than these were lots of silk diulis, with red, green, or yellow grounds, which are sold in lengths of three yards, at prices varying from seven dollars to eighty, when they are interwoven with gold.

The ivory had come from well-nigh every part of Central Africa, and was destined for Khartoom, Zanzibar, and Natal, many of the merchants dealing in this commodity exclusively.

How vast a number of elephants must be slaughtered to supply this ivory may be imagined when it is remembered that over 200 tons, that is, 1,125,000 lbs. are exported annually to Europe. Of this, much the larger share goes to England, where the Sheffield cutlery consumes about 382,500 lbs. From the West Coast of Africa alone the produce is nearly 140 tons.

The average weight of a pair of tusks is 28 lbs. and the ordinary value of these in 1874 would be about 60l.; but here in Kazonnde were some weighing no less than 165 lbs. of that soft, translucent quality which retains its whiteness far better than the ivory from other sources.

As already mentioned, slaves are not unfrequently used as current money amongst the African traders, but the natives themselves usually pay for their goods with Venetian glass beads, of which the chalk-white are called catchokolos, the black bubulus, and the red sikunderetches. Strung in ten rows, or khetes, these beads are twisted twice round the neck, forming what is called a foondo, which is always reckoned of considerable value.

The usual measure by which they are sold is the frasilah, containing a weight of about 70 lbs. Livingstone, Cameron and Stanley always took care to be well provided with this kind of currency. In default of beads, the pice, a Zanzibar coin worth something more than a farthing, and vioon-gooas, shells peculiar to the East Coast, are recognized as a medium of exchange in the market. Amongst the cannibal tribes a certain value is attached to human teeth, and at the lakoni some natives might be seen wearing strings of teeth, the owners of which they had probably, at some previous time, devoured. This species of currency, however, was falling rapidly into disuse.

Towards the middle of the day the excitement of the market reached its highest pitch, and the uproar became perfectly deafening. The voices of the eager sellers mingled with those of indignant and overcharged customers; fights were numerous, and as there was an utter absence of any kind of police, no effort was made to restore peace or order amongst the unruly crowd.

It was just noon when Alvez gave orders that the slaves he wished to dispose of should be placed on view. Thereupon nearly two thousand unfortunates were brought forward, many of whom had been confined in the dealer’s barracks for several months. Most of the stock, however, had been so carefully attended to that they were in good condition, and it was only the last batch that looked as if they would be improved by another month’s rest; but as the demand upon the East Coast was now very large, Alvez hoped to get a good price for all, and determined to part with even the last arrivals for whatever sum he could obtain.

Amongst these latter, whom the havildars drove like a herd of cattle into the middle of the chitoka, were Tom and his three friends. They were closely chained, and rage and shame were depicted in their countenances.

Bat passed a quick and scrutinizing gaze around him, and said to the others, —

“I do not see Mr. Dick.”

Tom answered mournfully, —

“Mr. Dick will be killed, if he is not dead already. Our only hope is that we may now all be bought in one lot; it will be a consolation to us if we can be all together.”

Tears rose to Bat’s eyes as he thought of how his poor old father was likely to be sold, and carried away to wear out his days as a common slave.

The sale now commenced. The agents of Alvez proceeded to divide the slaves, men, women and children, into lots, treating them in no respect better than beasts in a cattle-market. Tom and the others were paraded about from customer to customer, an agent accompanying them to proclaim the price demanded. Strong, intelligent-looking Americans, quite different to the miserable creatures brought from the banks of the Zambesi and Lualaba, they at once attracted the observation of the Arab and half-breed dealers. Just as though they were examining a horse, the buyers felt their limbs, turned them round and round, looked at their teeth, and finally tested their paces by throwing a stick to a distance and making them run to fetch it.

All the slaves were subjected to similar humiliations; and ail alike, except the very young children, seemed deeply sensible of their degradation. The cruelty exhibited towards them was very vile. Coimbra, who was half drunk, treated them with the utmost brutality; not that they had any reason to expect any gentler dealings at the hands of the new masters who might purchase them for ivory or any other commodity. Children were torn away from their parents, husbands from their wives, brothers from sisters, and without even the indulgence of a parting word, were separated never to meet again.

The scenes that occur at such markets as this at Kazonnde are too heartrending to be described in detail.

It is one of the peculiar requirements of the slave-trade that the two sexes should have an entirely different destination. In fact, the dealers who purchase men never purchase women. The women, who are required to supply the Mussulman harems, are sent principally to Arab districts to be exchanged for ivory; whilst the men, who are to be put to hard labour, are despatched to the coast, East and West, whence they are exported to the Spanish colonies, or to the markets of Muscat or Madagascar.

To Tom and his friends the prospect of being transported to a slave colony was far better than that of being retained in some Central African province, where they could have no chance of regaining their liberty; and the moment, to them, was accordingly one of great suspense.

Altogether, things turned out for them better than they dared anticipate. They had at least the satisfaction of finding that as yet they were not to be separated. Alvez, of course, had taken good care to conceal the origin of this exceptional lot, and their own ignorance of the language thoroughly prevented them from communicating it; but the anxiety to secure so valuable a property rendered the competition for it very keen; the bidding rose higher and higher, until at length the four men were knocked down to a rich Arab dealer, who purposed in the course of a few days to take them to Lake Tanganyika, and thence to one of the deptos of Zanzibar.

This journey, it is true, would be for 1500 miles across the most unhealthy parts of Central Africa, through districts harassed by internal wars; and it seemed improbable that Tom could survive the hardships he must meet; like poor old Nan, he would succumb to fatigue; but the brave fellows did not suffer themselves to fear the future, they were only too happy to be still together; and the chain that bound them one to another was felt to be easier and lighter to bear.

Their new master knew that it was for his own interest that his purchase should be well taken care of; he looked to make a substantial profit at Zanzibar, and sent them off at once to his own private barracks; consequently they saw no more of what transpired at Kazonnde.

CHAPTER XI.

A BOWL OF PUNCH.

The afternoon was passing away, and it was now past four o’clock, when the sound of drums, cymbals, and a variety of native instruments was heard at the end of the main thoroughfare. The market was still going on with the same animation as before; half a day’s screeching and fighting seemed neither to have wearied the voices nor broken the limbs of the demoniacal traffickers; there was a considerable number of slaves still to be disposed of, and the dealers were haggling over the remaining lots with an excitement of which a sudden panic on the London Stock Exchange could give a very inadequate conception.

But the discordant concert which suddenly broke upon the ear was the signal for business to be at once suspended. The crowd might cease its uproar, and recover its breath. The King of Kazonnde, Moene Loonga, was about to honour the lakoni with a visit.

Attended by a large retinue of wives, officers, soldiers, and slaves, the monarch was conveyed to the middle of the market-place in an old palanquin, from which he was obliged to have five or six people to help him to descend. Alvez and the other traders advanced to meet him with the most exaggerated gestures of reverence, all of which he received as his rightful homage.

He was a man of fifty years of age, but might easily have passed for eighty. He looked like an old, decrepit monkey. On his head was a kind of tiara, adorned with leopards’ claws dyed red, and tufts of greyish-white hair;

this was the usual crown of the sovereigns of Kazonnde. From his waist hung two skirts of coodoo-hide, stiff as blacksmiths’ aprons, and embroidered with pearls. The tattooings on his breast were so numerous that his pedigree, which they declared, might seem to reach back to time immemorial. His wrists and arms were encased in copper bracelets, thickly encrusted with beads; he wore a pair of top-boots, a present from Alvez some twenty years ago; in his left hand he carried a great stick surmounted by a silver knob; in his right a fly-flapper with a handle studded with pearls; over his head was carried an old umbrella with as many patches as a Harlequin’s coat, whilst from his neck hung Cousin Benedict’s magnifying-glass, and on his nose were the spectacles which had been stolen from Bat’s pocket.

Such was the appearance of the potentate beneath whose sway the country trembled for a hundred miles round.

By virtue of his sovereignty Moene Loonga claimed to be of celestial origin; and any subject who should have the audacity to raise a question on this point would have been despatched forthwith to another world. All his actions, his eating and drinking, were supposed to be performed by divine impulse. He certainly drank like no other mortal; his officers and ministers, confirmed tipplers as they were, appeared sober men in comparison with himself, and he seemed never to be doing anything but imbibing strong pombe, and over-proof spirit with which Alvez kept him liberally supplied.

In his harem Moene Loonga had wives of all ages from forty to fourteen, most of whom accompanied him on his visit to the lakoni. Moena, the chief wife, who was called the queen, was the eldest of them all, and, like the rest, was of royal blood. She was a vixenish-looking woman, very gaily attired; she wore a kind of bright tartan over a skirt of woven grass, embroidered with pearls; round her throat was a profusion of necklaces, and her hair was mounted up in tiers that toppled high above her head, making her resemble some hideous monster. The younger wives, all of them sisters or cousins of the king, were less elaborately dressed. They walked behind her, ready at the slightest sign to perform the most menial services. Did his Majesty wish to sit down, two of them would immediately stoop to the ground and form a seat with their bodies, whilst others would have to lie down and support his feet upon their backs: a throne and footstool of living ebony.

Amidst the staggering, half-tipsy crowd of ministers, officers, and magicians that composed Moene Loonga’s suite, there was hardly a man to be seen who had not lost either an eye, an ear, or hand, or nose. Death and mutilation were the only two punishments practised in Kazonnde, and the slightest offence involved the instant amputation of some member of the body. The loss of the ear was considered the severest penalty, as it prevented the possibility of wearing earrings!

The governors of districts, or kilolos, whether hereditary or appointed for four years, were distinguished by red waistcoats and zebra-skin caps; in their hands they brandished long rattans, coated at one extremity with a varnish of magic drugs.

The weapons carried by the soldiers consisted of wooden bows adorned with fringes and provided with a spare bowstring, knives filed into the shape of serpents’ tongues, long, broad lances, and shields of palm wood, ornamented with arabesques. In the matter of uniform, the royal army had no demands to make upon the royal treasury.

Amongst the attendants of the king there was a considerable number of sorcerers and musicians. The sorcerers, or mganga, were practically the physicians of the court, the savages having the most implicit faith in divinations and incantations of every kind, and employing fetishes, clay or wooden figures, representing sometimes ordinary human beings and sometimes fantastic animals. Like the rest of the retinue, these magicians were, for the most part, more or less mutilated, an indication that some of their prescriptions on behalf of the king had failed of success.

The musicians were of both sexes, some performing on

shrill rattles, some on huge drums, whilst others played on instruments called marimbas, a kind of dulcimer made of two rows of different-sized gourds fastened in a frame, and struck by sticks with india-rubber balls at the end. To any but native ears the music was perfectly deafening.

Several flags and banners were carried m the procession, and amongst these was mixed up a number of long pikes, upon which were stuck the skulls of the various chiefs that Moene Loonga had conquered in battle.

As the king as helped out of his palanquin, the acclamations rose higher and higher from every quarter of the market place The soldiers attached to the caravans fired off their old guns, though the reports were almost too feeble to be heard above the noisy vociferations of the crowd; and the havildars rubbed their black noses with cinnabar powder, which they carried in bags, and prostrated themselves. Alvez advanced and presented the king with some fresh tobacco, “the appeasing herb,” as it is called in the native dialect; and certainly Moene Loonga seemed to require some appeasing, as, for some unknown reason, he was in a thoroughly bad temper.

Coimbra, Ibn Hamish and the dealers all came forward to pay their court to the monarch, the Arabs greeting him with the cry of marhaba, or welcome; others clapped their hands and bowed to the very ground; while some even smeared themselves with mud, in token of their most servile subjection.

But Moene Loonga scarcely took notice of any of them; he went staggering along, rolling like a ship upon a stormy sea, and made his way past the crowds of slaves, each of whom, no less than their masters, trembled lest he should think fit to claim them for his own.

Negoro, who kept close at Alvez’ side, did not fail to render his homage along with the rest. Alvez and the king were carrying on a conversation in the native language, if that could be called a conversation in which Moene Loonga merely jerked out a few monosyllables from his inflamed and swollen lips. He was asking Alvez to replenish his stock of brandy.

“We are proud to welcome your majesty at the market of Kazonnde,” Alvez was saying.

“Get me brandy,” was all the drunken king’s reply.

“Will it please your majesty to take part in the business of the lakoni?” Alvez tried to ask.

“Drink!” blurted out the king impatiently.

Alvez continued, —

“My friend Negoro here is anxious to greet your majesty after his long absence.”

“Drink!” roared the monarch again.

“Will the king take pombe or mead?” asked Alvez, at last obliged to take notice of the demand.

“Brandy! give me fire-water!” yelled the king, in a fury. “For every drop you shall have…”

“A drop of a white man’s blood!” suggested Negoro, glancing at Alvez.

“Yes, yes; kill a white man,” assented Moene Loonga, his ferocious instincts all aroused by the proposition.

“There is a white man here,” said Alvez, “who has killed my agent. He must be punished for his act.”

“Send him to King Masongo!” cried the king; “Masongo and the Assuas will cut him up and eat him alive.”

Only too true it is that cannibalism is still openly practised in certain provinces of Central Africa. Livingstone records that the Manyuemas not only eat men killed in war, but even buy slaves for that purpose; it is said to be the avowal of these Manyuemas that “human flesh is slightly salt, and requires no seasoning.” Cameron relates how in the dominions of Moene Booga dead bodies were soaked for a few days in running water as a preparation for their being devoured; and Stanley found traces of a widely-spread cannibalism amongst the inhabitants of Ukusu.

But however horrible might be the manner of death proposed by Moene Loonga, it did not at all suit Negoro’s purpose to let Dick Sands out of his clutches.

“The white man is here,” he said to the king; “it is here he has committed his offence, and here he should be punished.”

“If you will,” replied Moene Loonga; “only I must have fire-water; a drop of fire-water for every drop of the white man’s blood.”

“Yes, you shall have the fire-water,” assented Alvez, “and what is more, you shall have it all alight. We will give your majesty a bowl of blazing punch.”

The thought had struck Alvez, and he was himself delighted with the idea, that he would set the spirit in flames. Moene Loonga had complained that the “fire-water” did not justify its name as it ought, and Alvez hoped that perhaps, administered in this new form, it might revivify the deadened membranes of the palate of the king.

Moene Loonga did not conceal his satisfaction. Wives and courtiers alike were full of anticipation. They had all drunk brandy, but they had not drunk brandy alight. And not only was their thirst for alcohol to be satisfied; their thirst for blood was likewise to be indulged; and when it is remembered how, even amongst the civilized, drunkenness reduces a man below the level of a brute, it may be imagined to what barbarous cruelties Dick Sands was likely to be exposed. The idea of torturing a white man was not altogether repugnant to the coloured blood of either Alvez or Coimbra, while with Negoro the spirit of vengeance had completely overpowered all feeling of compunction.

Night, without any intervening twilight, was soon drawing on, and the contemplated display could hardly fail to be effective. The programme for the evening consisted of two parts; first, the blazing punch-bowl; then the torture, culminating in an execution.

The destined victim was still closely confined in his dark and dreary dungeon; all the slaves, whether sold or not, had been driven back to the barracks, and the chitoka was cleared of every one except the slave-dealers, the havildars, and the soldiers, who hoped, by favour of the king, to have a share of the flaming punch.

Alvez did not long delay the proceedings. He ordered a huge caldron, capable of containing more than twenty gallons, to be placed in the centre of the market-place. Into this were emptied several casks of highly-rectified spirit, of a very inferior quality, to which was added a supply of cinnamon and other spices, no ingredient being omitted which was likely to give a pungency to suit the savage palate.

The whole royal retinue formed a circle round the king. Fascinated by the sight of the spirit, Moene Loonga came reeling up to the edge of the punch-bowl, and seemed ready to plunge himself head foremost into it. Alvez held him back, at the same time placing a lucifer in his hand.

“Set it alight!” cried the slave-dealer, grinning slily as he spoke.

The king applied the match to the surface of the spirit. The effect was instantaneous. High above the edge of the bowl the blue flame rose and curled. To give intensity to the process Alvez had added a sprinkling of salt to the mixture, and this caused the fire to cast upon the faces of all around that lurid glare which is generally associated with apparitions of ghosts and phantoms. Half intoxicated already, the negroes yelled and gesticulated; and joining hands, they performed a fiendish dance around their monarch. Alvez stood and stirred the spirit with an enormous metal ladle, attached to a pole, and as the flames rose yet higher and higher they seemed to throw a more and more unearthly glamour over the ape-like forms that circled in their wild career.

Moene Loonga, in his eagerness, soon seized the ladle from the slave-dealer’s hands, plunged it deep into the bowl, and bringing it up again full of the blazing punch, raised it to his lips.

A horrible shriek brought the dancers to a sudden standstill. By a kind of spontaneous combustion, the king had taken fire internally; though it was a fire that emitted little heat, it was none the less intense and consuming. In an instant one of the ministers in attendance ran to the king’s assistance, but he, almost as much alcoholized as his master, caught fire as well, and soon both monarch and minister lay writhing on the ground in unutterable agony. Not a soul was able to lend a helping hand. Alvez and Negoro were at a loss what to do; the courtiers dared not expose themselves to so terrible a fate; the women had all

fled in alarm, and Coimbra, awakened to the conviction of the inflammability of his own condition, had rapidly decamped.

To say the truth, it was impossible to do anything; water would have proved unavailing to quench the pale blue flame that hovered over the prostrate forms, every tissue of which was so thoroughly impregnated with spirit, that combustion, though outwardly extinguished, would continue its work internally.

In a few minutes life was extinct, but the bodies continued long afterwards to burn; until, upon the spot where they had fallen, a few light ashes, some fragments of the spinal column, some fingers and some toes, covered with a thin layer of stinking soot, were all that remained of the King of Kazonnde and his ill fated minister.

CHAPTER 7

THE CENTRAL BLOCK

A report from Dr. Echternach, surgeon-in-chief to the section of the Albrecht pit, stated that the death of Carl Bauer, number 41,902, thirteen years of age, trapper in gallery 228, was caused by asphyxia, resulting from the absorption by the respiratory organs of a large proportion of carbon dioxide.

Another no less luminous report from the engineer Maulesmiilhe explained the necessity of including in the ventilating scheme zone B in the plan xiv, as a large amount of deleterious gas was filtering slowly from its galleries. Lastly, a note from the same functionary brought before the notice of the authorities the devotion of the overseer Rayer, and of the first-class workman, Johann Schwartz.

Ten hours later, on reaching the porter’s lodge, Max, - as he took his token, found on the hook a printed order, addressed to him:

“Schwartz will present himself at the Director-General’s office at ten o’clock to-day. Central block, Gate and Road A.”

“At last!” thought Max. “This.is the first step; the rest will comer’

While chatting with his comrades on his Sunday walks round Stahlstadt, he had acquired sufficient knowledge of the general organization of the city to know that authority to enter the central block was not to be had every day. AH sorts of stories were current about this place. It was said that some indiscreet people, who had tried to get into the guarded enclosure by stratagem, had never been seen again. That before their admission, all

workmen employed there had to go through a series of masonic ceremonies — that they were obliged to take the most solemn oaths not to reveal anything that went on there, and were mercilessly sentenced to death by a secret tribunal if they violated their oath. An underground railway put this sanctuary in communication with the outer part of the works. Night trains conveyed unknown visitors. Supreme councils were held there, and sometimes mysterious personages came to participate in the deliberations.

Without putting too much faith in these rumours, . Max knew that they were really the popular expression j of a well-known fact — the extreme difficulty which attended admission into the central division. Of all the workmen whom he knew — and he had friends in the iron-mines as well as in the coal-pits, among-the refiners as well as among the men employed in the blast furnaces, among the carpenters as well as the smiths-not one had ever entered the gate.

So it was with a feeling of intense curiosity as well as of secret pleasure that he presented himself there at the hour named. It was soon plain that the precautions Were of the strictest order.

Evidently Max was expected. Two men, dressed in grey uniforms with swords at their sides, and revolvers in their belts, were waiting in the porter’s lodge.

This lodge, like that of a cloistered convent, had two I gates, an outer and an inner one, which were never opened at the same time.

The pass examined and signed, Max saw, though without manifesting any surprise, a white handkerchief brought out; with this the two attendants in uniform carefully bandaged his eyes.

Then, taking him by the arms, they marched him off without saying a

word.

After walking two or three thousand steps they mounted a staircase, a door was opened and shut, and Max was allowed to take off his bandage.

He found himself in a large plain room, furnished with some chairs, a blackboard, and a long desk, supplied with every implement necessary for line drawing. It was lighted by high windows, filled with ground glass.

Almost immediately two personages, who looked as if they belonged to a university, entered the room.

“You are brought before our notice as having somewhat distinguished yourself,” said one of them. “We are going to examine you to find out if there is any ground for admitting you into the model division. Are you prepared to

answer our questions?”

Max modestly declared himself ready to be put to the test.

The two examiners then successively put questions to him in chemistry, geometry, and algebra. The young workman satisfied them in every case by the clearness and precision of his answers. The figures which he traced in chalk on the board were neat, decided, and elegant. His equations were set out most perfectly, in equal lines, like the ranks of a crack regiment. One of these demonstrations was so remarkable, and so new to the judges that they expressed their astonishment, and asked him where he had been taught.

“At .Schaffhaiisen, my native town, hi the elementary school.”

“Yon seem to’ be a good draughtsman?” “It was my strong point.”

“The education they give in Switzerland is decidedly very out of the ordinary,” one examiner remarked to the other. “We will give you two hours to execute this,” he resumed, handing to the candidate a drawing of a very complicated-looking steam-engine. “If you acquit yourself well you shall be admitted with the comment, ‘Perfectly satisfactory and very superior’. Left alone, Max set eagerly to work. When his judges re-entered at the expiration of the given time, they were so delighted with his diagram that they added to the promised comment, “We have not another draughtsman of equal talent.”

Our young workman was then again seized by the grey attendants, and with the same ceremonial, that is to say, the bandaged eyes, he was led to the office of the Director-General.

“You are offered admission to one of the studios in the model division,” said this personage. “Are you ready to submit to the rules and regulations?”

“I do not know what they are,” said Max; “but I presume they are acceptable.”

“They are these: First, you are compelled, as long as your engagement lasts, to reside in the same division. You cannot go out but by special and exceptional order. Second, you are subjected to military discipline; and you owe absolute obedience, under military penalties, to your superiors. As a setoff against this, you are like the non-commissioned officers of an army in the field, for you may, by regular stages, be raised to the highest grades. Third, you bind yourself by an oath never to reveal to any one what you see in the division to which you have access. Fourth, your correspondence is opened by your chiefs, all you send as well as all you receive; and it must be limited to

your own family.”

“In short, I am in prison,” thought Max.

Then he replied quietly-

“These rules seem perfectly just, and I am ready to submit to them.”

“Good. Raise your hand. Take the oath. You are nominated draughtsman to the fourth studio. A lodging will be assigned to you, and for your meals you will find a first-rate canteen here. You haven’t brought your property with you?”

“No, sir. As I didn’t know what I was wanted for, I left my things in my

room.”

“They will be brought to you, for you must not go out of the division

again.”

“I did well,” thought Max, “to write my notes in cipher! They would only have to look at them!”

Before the close of the day, Max was established in a pretty little room, in the fourth storey of a building overlooking a wide courtyard, and had framed some ideas about his new life.

He did not fancy that it would be as dismal as it seemed at first sight. His comrades, with whom he made acquaintance at the restaurant, were mostly quiet and gentle, like all industrious people. To brighten things up a little — for there was rather a lack of gaiety in their mechanical life — they had formed a band amongst themselves, and performed selections of very tolerable music every evening. A library, a reading room, during the rare hours of leisure, were valuable resources for the mind, from a scientific point of view. Special courses held by professors were obligatory for all the men employed, and they had besides to undergo frequent examinations and competitions. But fresh air and liberty were lacking in these narrow confines.

It was a regular college, only with extra strictness exercised on grown men. The surrounding atmosphere was bound to weigh on their spirits, subjected as they were to an iron discipline.

The winter passed away in these occupations, to which Max gave himself up heart and soul. Misapplication, the perfection of his drawings, his extraordinary progress in every subject he was taught, which was obvious to all his tutors and examiners, had made him, even in this short time and amongst all these diligent men, something of a celebrity. By general consent he was the most clever draughtsman of them all, the most ingenious, the most fruitful in resources. Did there arise any difficulty? they applied to him. Even the chiefs themselves resorted to his experience, with the respect which merit extorts even from the most marked jealousy. But if, on reaching the heart of the model division, the young man fancied that he would be any nearer getting at the innermost secrets, he was very much out in his reckoning.

His life at present was enclosed within an iron railing three hundred yards in diameter, surrounding the segment of the central block to which he was attached. Intellectually, his activity could and should extend to the highest branches of metallurgical industry. In practice, it was limited to drawing steam-engines. He constructed them of all dimensions and of all powers, for every kind of industry and use, for war-ships and for, printing-presses; but he never went beyond this highly-specialized task, this speciality. The division of

labour, pushed to its utmost limit, held him as in a-vise

*

After four months passed in section A, Max knew no more of the layout of the works in the Steel City than he did on entering. At the most he had merely collected a little general information about the organization of the machinery of which — notwithstanding his merits — he formed but a very small portion. He knew that the centre of the spider’s web, symbolical of Stahlstadt, was the Bull Tower, a kind of Cyclopean structure, overlooking all the neighbouring buildings.

He had learnt, too, through the rumours which circulated in the canteen, that the dwelling of Herr Schultz himself was at the base of this tower, and that the renowned secret room occupied its centre. It was added that this vaulted hall, protected against any danger of fire, and plated inside, as a battleship is plated outside, was closed by a system of steel doors with spring-gun locks, worthy of the most suspicious bank. The general opinion was that Professor Schultz was working at the completion of a terrible engine of war of unprecedented power, destined to assure universal dominion to Germany.

Max had revolved in his brain many most audacious plans of escalade and disguise, but had been compelled to admit that nothing of the sort was practicable. Those lines of sombre and massive walls, flooded with light during the night, and guarded by trusty sentinels, would always oppose an insuperable obstacle to every attempt. But even if he did partly overcome it what would he see? Details, always details, never the whole!

What matter! He had sworn not to yield, and he would not yield. If it took ten years, he would wait that time. But the hour was coming when that secret would be his own. It must! The happy city of Frankville was prospering, its beneficent institutions favouring each and all, and giving a new horizon of hope to a disheartened “people”. Max had no doubt that in the face of such a triumph of the Latin race, Schultz would be more than ever determined to make good his threats. Stahlstadt and its factories were a proof of that Thus many weeks passed away.

One day in March, Max had just for the hundredth time repeated his secret vow, when one of the grey-clad attendants told him that the Director-General wished to speak to him.

“I have received from Herr Schultz,” said this high functionary, “an order to send him our best draughtsman. You are the man. Make your arrangements to pass into the inner circle. You are promoted to the rank of lieutenant.”

Thus, at the very moment when he was almost despairing of success, his heroic toil at last procured him the entrance he so much desired!

Max was so filled with delight that it showed Itself in his face.

“I am happy to have such good news to announce to you,” continued the Director; “and I cannot refrain from urging you to continue in the path you have begun to tread so gallantly. A brilliant future is before you. Go, sir.”

So Max, after his long probation, caught the first glimpse of the end which he had sworn to reach!

To stuff all his clothes into his portmanteau, to follow the grey men, to pass through the last enclosure, of which the entrance in the A road might still have been forbidden to him, was the work of a few minutes.

He now stood at the foot of the inaccessible’ Bull Tower; until this moment he had seen only its lofty head reared among the clouds.-

The scene which lay before him was indeed unexpected. Imagine a man suddenly transported from a noisy, commonplace European workshop into the midst of a virgin forest in the torrid zone. Such was the surprise which awaited Max in the centre of Stahlstadt.

As a virgin forest gains in beauty from the descriptions of great writers, so was Professor Schultz’s park more beautiful than the most lovely of pleasure gardens. Slender palms, tufted bananas, curious cacti formed the shrubberies, creepers wound gracefully round eucalyptus trees, hung in green festoons, or fell in rich clusters. The most tender plants bloomed in abundance. Pineapples and guavas ripened beside oranges. Humming birds and birds of paradise displayed their brilliant plumage in the open air, for the temperature was as tropical as the vegetation.

Max instinctively looked around and above for glass and hot-air pipes

to account for this miracle; seeing nothing but the blue sky he stopped bewildered.

Then it flashed upon him that not far from the spot was a coal mine permanently on fire, and he guessed that Herr Schultz had ingeniously utilized this valuable subterranean heat, by means of metallic pipes, to maintain a constant hot-house atmosphere.

But this explanation did not prevent the young Alsacians eyes from being dazzled and charmed with the green lawns, while his nostrils inhaled with delight the delicious scents which filled the air. To a man who had passed six months without seeing even a blade of grass, it was truly refreshing. A gravelled path led him, by a gentle slope, to the foot of a handsome flight of marble steps, commanded by a majestic colonnade. Behind rose the huge and massive square building, which was as it were the pedestal of the Bull Tower.

Beneath the peristyle Max could see seven or eight servants in red livery, and a gorgeous porter in a cocked hat, and bearing a halberd. And he noticed rich bronze candelabra between the columns. As he ascended the steps a slight rumble told him that the underground railway lay beneath his feet.

Max gave his name, and was immediately admitted into a hall, a veritable museum of sculpture. Not having time to examine anything, he was conducted first through a saloon, adorned with black and gold, and then through one with red and gold ornaments, and finally he was left alone for five minutes in a yellow and gold saloon. At the end of that time a footman returned and showed him into a splendid green and gold study.

Herr Schultz in’ person, smoking a long clay pipe, with a tankard of beer at his side, had the effect, in the midst of all this luxury, of a spot of mud on a patent-leather boot.

Without rising, without even turning his head, the King of Steel merely said, in a cold tone —

“Are you the draughtsman?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have seen your diagrams. They are very good. But do you understand nothing but steam-engines?”

“I have never been examined in anything else.”

“Do you know anything of the science of projectiles?”

“I have studied it in my spare time, and for my own pleasure.”

This reply interested Herr Schultz.

He deigned to turn and look at his employee.

“Well, will you undertake to design a cannon with me? We shall see what you can make of it! Ah! You will be scarcely able to take the place of that idiot of a Sohne, who got killed this morning whilst handling some dynamite! The fool might have blown us all up!”

It must be acknowledged that this revolting want of feeling was only what might have been expected from - the mouth of Hen Schuitz.

CHAPTER 8

THE DRAGON’S DEN

The reader who has followed the progress of our young Aisacian’s fortune will probably not be much surprised to find him, at the end of a few weeks, firmly established in Herr Schultz’s favour. The two had become inseparable. They worked together, they ate and walked together, and together they sat smoking over their foaming glasses of beer. The ex-professor of Iena had never before met with a coadjutor so entirely after his own heart, one who caught his meaning with half a word, ‘ and who could so-rapidly utilize his theoretical ideas.

Max not merely possessed transcendent merit in all branches of the profession, he was also the most charming companion, the most diligent worker, the most modestly fertile inventor.

Herr Schultz was delighted with him. Ten times a day he said to himself, “What a treasure! what a pearl this fellow is!”

The truth was that Max had, at the first glance, seen through the character of his formidable patron, and, perceiving that blind and insatiable vanity was its leading feature, he regulated his conduct by humouring the egotism which he despised.

In a dew days the young man had acquired such skill in the fingering necessary for this human keyboard, that he could play upon Schultz as easily as one plays on a piano.

His tactics merely consisted in exhibiting his own merits to advantage, but always in such a way as to leave an opening for his master to show superiority over him. For instance, when he finished a drawing he would leave it perfect, with the exception of some slight fault, as easy to see as to correct, and this the ex-professor immediately and exultantly pounced upon.

Had he some theoretical idea, he developed it in the course of conversation in such a way that Herr Schultz might fancy that he himself had originated it. Sometimes he even went further, saying boldly —

“I have traced that plan of a battleship with the detachable ram which you asked f or.”

“Me?” returned Herr Schultz, who had never dreamt of such a thing.

“Why, yes! you don’t mean to say you have forgotten? A detachable ram, which will leave a spindle-shaped torpedo in the enemy’s side, to burst after three minutes!”

1 hadn’t the least recollection of it. That comes .of having a head like mine! it’s so full of inventive genius that I forget my own ideas,” And Herr Schultz conscientiously pocketed the credit of the new invention.

Perhaps, after all, he was only half duped by this artifice. In his innermost heart he probably felt that Max was stronger than he. But by one of those mysterious workings of the human brain, he was contented with the appearance of superiority as long as he could delude his subordinate.

“But the fellow must be an ass after all, in spite of his clevenest he would sometimes say to himself, with a silent laugh which showed all the thirty-two dominoes in his jaw.

His vanity, if it were-ever wounded, was soon consoled by the reflection that he alone in ail the world could carry out these inventions and ideas. They would have been of no value but for his gold. After all Max was only part of the mechanism which he, Schultz, had set going, and so on, and so forth.

Yet, though he was in such high favour, Max was never taken into the professor’s confidence, and after five months’ sojourn in the Bull Tower he knew little more than at first of its’ mysteries. His suspicions had become certainties, and that was all. He was now sure that Stahlstadt contained a secret, and that Herr Schultz had some aim far beyond that of mere profit. The nature of his occupation made it extremely probable that he had invented some completely new engine of warfare.

But the enigma had still to be solved. Max at last decided that he could never obtain the knowledge he. sought without bringing the affair to a head, and this he resolved to do.

It was after dinner on the evening of the 5th of September; exactly a year since he had found the body of his little friend Carl in the Albrecht pit.

Outside, the long severe’ American winter had already covered the country with its white mantle; but in the park of Stahlstadt the temperature was as warm as during June, and the snow, melting before it touched the ground, fell in rain instead of flakes.

“Those sausages in sauerkraut were delicious, weren’t they?” remarked Herr Schultz, whose love of his favourite dish was unaffected by the Begum’s millions.

“Delicious!” returned Max, who had heroically partaken of this mess every evening, till at last he hated the very sight of it.

His feelings decided him at once to carry the project he meditated into effect.

“I wonder,” resumed Herr Schultz, with a sigh, “how people can endure existence, when they have neither sausages, nor sauerkraut, nor beer.”

“Life must be one long misery to them,” replied Max. “It would really be a charity to unite all mankind with the Vaterland.”

“Well! well! that will come, that will come!” exclaimed the King of Steel. “Here we are already installed in the heart of America. Just let us take an island or two in the neighbourhood of Japan, and you will see in how few strides we shall get round the globe!”

The footman now brought in the pipes; Herr Schultz filled and lighted his. Max had purposely determined to make’use of this moment of supreme bliss, so he began, after a few minutes’ silence —

“I must say that I don’t quite believe in this conquest!”

“What conquest?” asked Herr Schultz, who had forgotten what was the topic of conversation.

“The conquest of the world by the Germans.”

The ex-professor thought he had not heard correctly.

“You don’t believe in the conquest of the world by the Germans?”

“No.”

“Oh, indeed, that’s a strange thing! I’d like to know the reasons for your doubt.”

“Simply because the French artillerymen will end by doing, better, and will far surpass you. The Swiss, my fellow-countrymen, who know them well, are firmly convinced that a Frenchman forewarned is worth two Germans. The lesson of 1870 will be repeated against those who gave it No one doubts this in my little country, sir, and if I may venture to say so, it is the opinion of the cleverest men in England.”

Max had uttered these words in a cool, dry, and decisive tone, which, if it were possible, doubled the effect of this downright blasphemy.

Herr Schultz glared wildly-his astonishment almost choked him. Then the blood rushed to his face with such violence that the young mari feared, for a moment, he had gone too far. However, seeing that rage had not stifled his victim, and that he would not die of the shock this time, he resumed —

“Yes, it is annoying to think of; but it’s the fact. Although our rivals-aren’t making any noise about it, yet they are working. Do you think they’ve learnt nothing since the war? Whilst we are stupidly trying to increase the weight of our cannon, you may be sure that they are preparing something new, and that we shall see what it is on the very first opportunity!”

“Something new, something new!” stammered Herr Schultz. “We are doing that too, sir!”

“Ah, yes, in a way. We are making in steel what our predecessors made in bronze, that’s all. We double the proportions and the range of our pieces.”

“Double!” exclaimed Herr Schultz, in a tone which signified, “Indeed! we do better than double!”

“In short,” resumed Max, “we are mere plagiarists See here, the truth is we lack any genius for inventing.

We discover nothing, and the French do — and will — you may be sure.”

Herr Schultz had become, outwardly at least, rather calmer, though his trembling lips, and the paleness which had succeeded the apoplectic crimson, betrayed the agitation of his mind.

Must he endure such a pitch of humiliation? To be the-far-famed Schultz, the absolute master of the greatest manufactory and cannon-foundry in the whole world, to have kings and parliaments at his feet, and then to be told by an insignificant Swiss draughtsman that he lacked inventiveness, that he was inferior to a French gunner! And all this when he had close to him, on the other side of a. plated wall, something which would confound the impudent rascal, a thousand times, shut him up completely and sweep away all his idiotic arguments? No, it was not to be endured!

Herr Schultz rose so abruptly that he broke his pipe. Then, casting at Max a glance full of irony, he hissed out from between his set teeth —

“Follow me, sir, I’m going to show you whether I, Herr Schultz, have any lack of inventiveness!”

Max had played high, but he had-won-thanks to the surprise his bold and unexpected language had produced, and the passion he had aroused.

Vanity being stronger than prudence with the ex-professor, Schultz was now eager to reveal his secret. He led the way with a hurried step into his study, closed the door carefully, and, walking straight up to the bookcase, he touched a panel. Immediately an opening, concealed by the rows of books, appeared in the wall. This was the entrance to a narrow passage, leading by a stone staircase to the very foot of the Bull Tower.

There an oaken door was opened by means of a little key which never left the possession of the master of the place. A second door appeared, fastened with a padlock, similar to those used for securing strong-boxes.

Herr Schultz threw open the heavy iron barrier, protected within by a complicated apparatus of explosive machinery, which Max, actuated by professional curiosity, would have much liked to examine; but his guide left him no time to do so.

The two men then found themselves before a third door, without any apparent lock or bolt, which yielded to a slight push, which had to be given, however, in a special way.

This third barrier passed, Herr Schultz and his companion climbed an iron staircase of two hundred steps, and arrived at the summit of the Bull Tower, overlooking all the city of Stahlstadt.

In the centre of a sort of casemate, pierced with numerous embrasures, stood a steel cannon.

“There!” exclaimed the professor, who had not uttered a word since they left the dining-room.

It was the most enormous piece of ordnance Max had ever beheld. A breach-loader of at least three hundred tons, its mouth measured nearly five feet in diameter. Mounted on a steel carriage, and running on rails of the same metal, it might have been manoeuvred by a child, so easy did a system of cogged wheels make all its movements. A spring, fixed at the back of the carriage, had the effect of annulling the recoil, or at least of producing a perfectly equal reaction, so that after each shot the gun returned to its original position.

“And what may be the perforating power of this piece?” asked Max, who could not restrain his admiration.

“At twenty thousand yards we can’ pierce a forty-inch plate as easily as if it were a slice of bread and butter!”

“And its range?”

“Its range?” cried Schultz, enthusiastically. “Ah! you said just now that our imitative genius had done nothing more than double the range of former guns! Well, with this fellow, I would undertake to send, with tolerable precision, a projectile to the distance of thirty miles!”

“Thirty miles!” cried Max. “Thirty miles! What new powder are you using?”

“Oh! I can tell you everything now,” replied Herr Schultz in a peculiar tone. “There is no inconvenience in revealing my secrets to you. Large-grained powder has served its time. Gun-cotton is what I use; its expansive powder is four times that of ordinary powder, and I increase it fivefold by mixing with it eight-tenths of its weight of nitrate of potash.”

“But,” observed Max, “no piece, though made of the best steel, could stand that long. After four or five shots your cannon will be impaired, and soon become useless.”

“If it were only to fire one shot that one would be sufficient!”

“It would be an expensive one.”

“It would cost a million, for that is the net cost of the sy “One shot worth a million!”

“What matter, so that it destroyed a thousand millions!”

“A thousand millions!” cried Max.

However, he restrained the mingled horror and admiration with which this fearful agent of destruction inspired him, and added —

“It is certainly a wonderful and astonishing piece ofartillery, but notwithstanding its merits, it bears out my theory, there are certainly improvements, but it is all limitation, no invention.”

“No invention!” responded Herr Schultz, shrugging his shoulders. “I repeat that I have no secrets from you now. Gome with me.”

The King of Steel and his companion then left the casemate and descended to a lower storey by means of an hydraulic lift. Here lay a large number of long objects, cylindrical in shape, which might, from a distance, have been taken for dismounted cannon.

“There are our shells,” said Herr Schultz.

This time Max was obliged to acknowledge that they resembled nothing he had ever seen before. They were enormous tubes, six feet in length and three in diameter, sheathed in lead in such a way as to fit into the rifling of the gun, closed behind by a steel plate, and with the point finished off by a steel tip, supplied with a percussion striker.

Nothing in their appearance indicated the special nature of these shells, though Max felt that they must contain some terrible element of destruction, surpassing all that had ever been made or thought of before.

“Can’t you guess?” asked Herr Schultz, seeing that his companion remained silent.

“Indeed, no, sir! Why should you want a shell so long and so heavy — in appearance at least?”

“Their appearance is deceitful,” answered Herr Schultz; “and there is no great difference in their weight from that of an ordinary shell of the same calibre. Come! I must tell you everything. A fusee shell of glass, encased in oak, charged with liquid carbon dioxide at seventy atmospheres of pressure. The fall brings about the explosion of the case and the return of the liquid to a gaseous state. An enormous volume of carbonic acid gas rushes into the air, and a cold of a hundred degrees below zero seizes upon the surrounding atmosphere. Every living thing within a radius of thirty yards from the centre of the explosion is at once frozen and suffocated. I say thirty yards at the lowest, but the action would really extend much farther, say to a hundred or a couple of hundred yards.

“Another capital thing about it is, that the gas, remaining a very long time near the ground, because it is heavier than air, will preserve the dangerous properties of the zone for many hours after the first explosion, so that any creature which may attempt to enter or pass through it must infallibly perish. The effect of that shot will be both instantaneous and lasting. Besides, with my plan, there will be no wounded, only dead!”

Herr Schultz displayed manifest pleasure in exhibiting the merits of his invention. His good humour had returned, he was flushed with pride, and his teeth gleamed.

“You are to imagine,” he resumed, “a sufficient number of my pieces of ordnance directed against a besieged town. Supposing one sufficient for the destruction of an area of two acres and a half, then, for a town of two thousand five hundred acres, we must have a hundred batteries, each consisting of ten suitable guns. Now, let us suppose all our guns in position, the weather calm and favourable, the general signal given by an electric wire. In a minute there would not be a single living being remaining in an area of two thousand five hundred acres! The town would be submerged in a regular ocean of carbonic acid gas! The idea occurred to me last year on reading the medical report of the accidental death of a little miner in the Albrecht pit. I had the first inspiration at Naples, when I visited the Dog Grotto.* [The Grotto del Cano, in the neighbourhood of Naples, borrows its names from the curious property its atmosphere possesses of suffocating a dog, or any small four-legged animal, without doing any harm to a man standing upright-this is because of a layer of about two feet of carbonic acid gas, kept close to the ground by its specific weight.] But that more recent event was needed to put the finishing touches to my idea. You comprehend the principle, don’t you? An artificial ocean of pure carbon dioxide! Now, the proportion of a fifth of this gas would be enough to make the air unbreathable.”

Max did not utter a word. He was in fact struck dumb. Herr Schultz felt his triumph so keenly that he did not wish to take advantage of it.

“There is only one detail which troubles me,” said he.

“And what can that be?” asked Max.

“That I have not succeeded in suppressing the sound of the explosion. It makes my gun too much like a common cannon. Just think of what it would be if I could fire it silently. On some calm and serene night, sudden death comes noiselessly upon a hundred thousand men at once!”

The enchanting prospect thus called up threw Herr Schultz into a brown study. From this reverie, which was only a deep immersion in a bath of self-love, he was aroused as Max observed —

“Very good, sir, very good! but a thousand guns of this description mean time and money.”

“Money? we are overflowing with it! Time? Time is ours!”

And indeed this German, the latest of his school, believed what he said.

“Well,” replied Max, “your shell loaded with carbon dioxide’ is not entirely new after all, for it is derived from those asphyxiating projectiles which have been known for many years; but that it may be eminently destructive, I do not deny. Only — “

“Only?”

“It is light for its size, and if it is ever projected thirty miles — “

“It is only made to go six,” answered Herr Schultz, smiling. “But,” he added, pointing to another shell, “here is one of steel. This fellow is full, and contains a hundred smaller guns, symmetrically arranged, fitted one into the other like the parts of a telescope. Having been fired as projectiles, they will become cannon to vomit forth in their turn tiny shells loaded with incendiary matter. It will be a whole battery hurled through space, to carry flame and death into a town by covering it with a shower of inextinguishable fire! This has enough weight to go the thirty miles that I mentioned. In a short time such a trial will be made of it that unbelievers may go if they like and handle the hundred thousand corpses which it will have stretched on the ground.”

Here the dominoes gleamed so intolerably in Herr Schultz’s mouth, that Max felt a strong desire to smash a dozen or so of them in, but he restrained himself. He had not yet heard everything.

Herr Schultz resumed —

“I have told you that a decisive experiment is shortly to be made.”

“How? Where?” cried Max.

“How? With one of these shells, which, thrown by my gun from the platform, will cross the Cascade Moun-tains. Where? There exists a city, separated from us by thirty miles at the most, upon whose inhabitants it will come like a thunder-clap, for even if they expected it they could not ward it off or escape its horrific events. This is now the 5th of September. Well, on the 13th, at a quarter before midnight, Frankville will disappear from off American soil! The burning of Sodom will be rivalled. Professor Schultz, in his turn, will let loose the fires of Heaven!”

At this unexpected declaration Max felt the blood curdle in his veins. Fortunately Herr Schultz did not perceive agitation.

“Now you see,” he continued in an easy tone, “we act in just the opposite way from the founders of Frankville. We search for the secret of abridging the lives of men, whilst they seek to lengthen them. However, everything in nature has an object, and Dr. Sarrasin, by founding that isolated city, has, without suspecting it, placed within my reach, a most magnificent field of experiment”

Max could scarcely believe his ears. “But,” he said, and the involuntary tremor in his voice attracted the attention of the King of Steel for a moment, “the inhabitants of Frankville have done no harm to you, sir. So far as I know, you have not the slightest reason for picking a quarrel with them.”

“My dear fellow,” replied Herr Schultz, “in your brain, though well organized in other respects, there is a fund of Celtic ideas, which would do you much injury were you to live long enough! Right-Good-Evil are purely relative, and quite conventional words. Nothing is positive but the grand laws of nature. The law of competition has the same force as that of gravitation. It is folly to resist, while to submit and follow in the way it pointsout is only wise and reasonable, and therefore I mean to destroy Doctor Sarrasin’s city. Thanks to my cannon, my fifty thousand Germans will easily make an end of the hundred thousand dreamers over there, who now constitute a group condemned to perish.”

Seeing that an attempt to argue with Herr Schultz would be useless, Max did not try to soften him.

The two then left the shell chamber, closed the secret doors, and returned to the dining-room.

In the coolest, most natural way, the professor again lifted his tankard to his lips, touched a bell, called for a pipe in the place of the one he had broken, and then addressing the footman — “Are Arminius and Sigimer there?” he asked. “Yes, sir.”

“Tell them to remain within call.”

When the servant had left the. room, the King of Steel turned to Max and looked him full in the face.

The latter’s eyes did not quail before that look of almost metallic hardness.

“You really mean,” said he, “to put your project into execution?”

“Really. I know the situation and the latitude and longitude of Frankville to the tenth of a second, and on the 13th of September, at a quarter before midnight, it will cease to be.”

“Perhaps you ought to have kept this plan an absolute secret.”

“My dear fellow,” answered Herr Schultz, “decidedly your mind never would become logical. This makes me regret the less that you must die young.” At these words Max started up. “Is it possible that you do not understand,” added Herr Schultz, coldly, “that I never speak of my plans but before those who cannot repeat them?”

The bell rang. Arminius and Sigimer, two giants, appeared at the door. “You wished to know my secret,” said Herr Schultz, “you do know it. Nothing remains for you now but to die!” Max did not reply.

“You are too intelligent,” resumed Herr Schultz, “to suppose that I can let you live, now that you know all about my plans. That would be an act of unpardonable carelessness; that would be illogical. The greatness of my aim forbids me to compromise its success for the consideration of a relative value so trifling as the life of a man — even of such a man as you, my dear fellow, whose good cerebral organization I most particularly esteem. Now I truly regret that a slight impulse of self-love should have carried me away and placed me under the necessity of suppressing you. But you must understand that in the face of the interests to which I have devoted myself, there can be no question of sentiment. I may as well tell you now, that it was for having penetrated my secret that your predecessor met his death, and not by an explosion of dynamite! The rule is strict, it must be inflexible! I can alter nothing.”

Max looked at Herr Schultz. He understood by the sound of his voice, by the unrelenting obstinacy of that bald head that he was lost. He did not give himself the trouble of uttering a word of protest.

“When, and by what death shall I die?” he merely asked.

“Don’t be uneasy about that,” replied Herr Schultz, composedly. ^Yon will die; but suffering will be spared you. You will not wake up some morning. That is all.”

At a sign from the King of Steel, Max found himself led away, and shut into his room, the door of which was guarded by the two giants.

But when he found himself alone, he thought with a shudder of agony and rage of the doctor, his relations, compatriots, all those whom he loved.

“The death which awaits me is nothing,” he said to himself. “But how am I to avert the danger which threatens them?”

CHAPTER 11

AT DINNER WITH DOCTOR SARRASIN

On the 13th of September, although it wanted but a few hours to the time fixed on by Professor Schultz for the destruction of Frankville, neither the governor nor anyone among the inhabitants dreamed of the danger which threatened them.

Seven o’clock in the evening arrived.

Half buried in thick masses of oleander and tamarinds, the beautiful city lay at the foot of the Cascade Mountains, its marble quays gently caressed by the waves of the Pacific. The carefully watered roads, freshened by the breeze, presented a cheerful and animated spectacle. The trees which shaded them rustled softly. The velvet lawns were fresh and green. Brilliant beds of flowers exhaled their sweetness around the calm and smiling white houses. The air was warm and balmy, and the sky as blue as the sea which glittered at the end of the long avenues.

A stranger arriving in the town would have been at once struck with the healthful look of the inhabitants and the activity in the streets. The academies of painting, music, and sculpture, and the library, all in the same quarter, had just been closed. Excellent public courses were given there to small classes, so that each pupil might get the full advantage of the lesson. Among the crowds issuing from these places, and naturally causing some stoppage, not an exclamation of impatience, nor an angry look, was heard or seen. The general aspect was one of calmness and satisfaction.

Not in the centre of the town but on the shores of the Pacific had Doctor Sarrasin built his house. It had been among the first put up, and he had come immediately and settled himself there with his wife and daughter Jeannette.

Octavius, the extempore millionaire, had chosen to remain in Paris; but he had no longer Max for a mentor.

The two friends had almost lost sight of each other since they lived together in the Rue du Roi de Sicile.

When the doctor emigrated with his wife and daughter to the coast of Oregon, Otto was his own master. He soon neglected college, where his father had wished him to continue his studies, and was in consequence plucked in the final examination in which his friend Max came out first.

Till then, poor Otto, who was incapable of managing for himself, had had Max for a guide. When the young Alsacian left, his companion at once began to see life in Paris. He passed the greater part of his time on the box of a four-in-hand coach, driving perpetually between the Avenue Marigny, where he had rooms, and the various suburban race-courses.

Otto Sarrasin, who, three months before could scarcely manage to stick on a horse hired by the hour, had suddenly become deeply versed in the mysteries of hip-pology. His erudition was borrowed from an English groom who had entered his service, and who, because oPS the superiority of his special knowledge ruled him entirely.

Interviews with tailors, saddlers, and bootmakers occupied the mornings. His evenings were spent at the theatres and in the rooms of an ostentatious newly-formed club which he had just opened at the corner of Trouchet Street, and chosen by Otto because the people he met there paid to his money a homage which his personal merits had not hitherto received.

He thought the company highly distinguished. It was noticeable that the handsomely-framed list hanging in the waiting-room bore few except foreign names. Titles abounded, so that you might almost fancy yourself in the antechamber of an heraldic college. But on penetrating farther one might imagine oneself in a living ethnological exhibition. All the big noises and bilious complexions of the two hemispheres seemed to have assembled there.

Otto Sarrasin reigned paramount among these worthies. His words were quoted, his neckties copied, his opinions accepted as articles of faith. And intoxicated with this incense of flattery, he never realized that he was systematically losing money, gambling and at the races. Perhaps certain members of the club, in their Oriental capacity, thought that they had some claims on the Begum’s heritage. At any rate, they were able to gradually draw it into their pockets by a slow but continual process.

In this new life the ties which bound Otto to Max Bruckmann were soon loosened. At last, the two friends exchanged letters only at long intervals. What could there be in common between the eager hard-working man, solely occupied with bringing his intellect to the highest point of culture and strength, and the idle youth, puffed up with his riches, his thoughts filled only with club and stable gossip?

We know how Max left Paris, first to keep a watch on Herr Schultz, who had just founded Stahlstadt, the rival to Frankville, and then actually to enter the services of the King of Steel.

For two years Otto led his useless and dissipated life. Then a weariness of these hollow and worthless pleasures seized him, and one fine day, after having wasted some millions of francs, he rejoined his father, thus escaping from moral and physical ruin. At the moment he was living in the doctor’s house in Frankville.

His sister Jeannette was now a lovely girl of nineteen, to whose French grace her four years’ stay in the new country had added all the good American qualities. Her mother said sometimes that before having her so completely to herself, she had never felt the charm of perfect intimacy with her.

As to Madame Sarrasin, since the return of her prodigal son, the child of her hopes, she was as completely happy as any one can be here below, for she associated herself with all the good her husband could and did do with his immense fortune. On the evening of which we have spoken, Doctor Sarrasin had invited to dinner two of his most intimate friends, Colonel Hendon, an old hero of the War of Secession, who had left an arm at Pittsburg, and an ear at Sevenoaks, but who could hold his own with any one at a game of chess; and Monsieur Lentz, Director-General of Instruction in the new city.

The conversation turned on the plans for the administration of the town, and the results already obtained in the various public services, institutions, hospitals, and mutual-aid societies.

M. Lentz, following the doctor’s programme, in which religious teaching was not forgotten, had founded several elementary schools, where it was the schoolmaster’s duty to develop the mind of the child by submitting it to a sort of intellectual gymnastic exercise, devised so as to follow the natural bent of its faculties. The child was taught to love a science before being crammed with it, thus avoiding that knowledge which, says Montaigne, “floats on the surface of the brain,” without penetrating the understanding, or rendering its possessor either wiser or better. Later, a well-prepared intellect can choose its path for itself and follow it profitably.

In this well-ordered education the principles of health took a foremost place.

Man should have equal command both of his mind and body. If one fails him he suffers for it, and the mind especially, if unsupported by the body, would soon give way.

Frankville had now reached the highest degree of intellectual, as well as of temporal, prosperity. In its Congress were collected all the illustrious and learned men of the two worlds. Artists, painters, sculptors, musicians, crowded to this city attracted by its reputation.

All the young people of Frankville, who promised some day to enlighten this corner of America, studied under these masters. This new Athens-of French origin-was on the way to become the first of cities. A sound military, as well as a civil, education was given in the colleges. All the young men were taught the use of firearms, and the first principles of strategy and tactics.

When this became the subject of conversation, Colonel Hendon declared himself delighted with all his recruits.

“They are,” he said, “already accustomed to forced marches, fatigue, and all kinds of manly exercises. Our army is composed of citizens, and when the time comes to prove them, they will be found to be disciplined and trustworthy soldiers.”

Frankville was on the best terms with all the neighbouring States, for she had seized every occasion to cooperate with them; but ingratitude speaks so loudly when a people’s own interests are in question that the doctor and his friends resolved not to lose sight of the maxim: “Heaven helps those who help themselves,” and to rely on their own exertions.

Dinner was over, the dessert was on the table, and following the usual custom the ladies had just retired.

Doctor Sarrasin, Otto, Colonel Hendon, and M. Lentz continued the conversation, and were discussing the higher questions of political economy, when a servant entered and handed the doctor his paper.

It was the New York Herald. This respectable journal had always shown itself extremely favourable, first to the foundation and then to the development of Frankville, and the leaders of the city were accustomed to look in its columns for the possible variations of public opinion regarding them in the United States. This agglomeration of happy, free, and independent people on their little neutral territory, was envied by not a few, and if Frankville had many friends in America to defend her, she had also enemies who delighted in attacking her. At any rate, the New York Herald was on their side, and constantly expressed itself in terms of admiration and esteem.

Without interrupting what he was saying, Doctor Sarrasin opened the paper, mechanically casting his eyes on the first paragraph. Suddenly he paused in consternation as he saw the following lines, which he read to himself and then aloud, to the great surprise and greater indignation of his friends: “New York, September 8th — A violent attempt against the rights of men is shortly to take place. We learn from a certain source that formidable preparations are being made at Stahlstadt with the object of attacking and destroying Frankville, the city of French origin. We do not know if the United States can or ought to interfere in this struggle, which will, set the Latin and Saxon races by the ears; but, in common with all honest men, we denounce this odious abuse of strength. Frankville should not lose an hour in putting herself in a state of defence, etc.”

CHAPTER 13

MAX BRUCKMANN, TO PROFESSOR SCHULTZ OF STAHLSTADT

“Frankyille? September 14th I consider it proper to inform the King of Steel, that -on the evening of the day before yesterday, preferring my own safety to that of the model in the blazing work-1 shop, I succeeded in passing beyond the frontier of his dominion.

‘While taking leave, I should fail in my bounden duty, unless I in turn revealed my secrets. Do not, however, be uneasy on that account, I shall not require you to pay for the knowledge with your life.

“My real name is not Schwartz, and I am not a Swiss. Alsace is my country, and I am called Max Bruckmann.

“I am a tolerable engineer, if one may take your word for it; but first and foremost, I am a Frenchman. You have shown yourself the implacable enemy of my coun-J try, my friends, and my family. You have entertained odious designs against everything I hold most dear. I have dared and done all, to discover those designs; I will dare and do all to frustrate them.

“I hasten to let you know that your first shot has failed to take effect.

“It has not hit the mark, for, thank heaven, it could not. Your gun is nevertheless wonderful, though the projectiles which it sends forth will never” do any harm to anyone! They will fall nowhere! I had a presentiment of this, and, to your great glory, it is now an established fact, that Herr Schultz has invented a wonderful cannon, but one which is entirely inoffensive.

“You will be delighted to hear that we saw your perfected shell, at 45 minutes and 4 seconds past 11, flying above our town. It was flying westwards

and circling in space, and this will continue to do until the end of time. A projectile with an initial speed of 10,000 yards per second can never fall! This motion, combined with the earth’s attraction, destines it to circle forever around our globe.

“You ought to have known this.

“I hope and expect that the cannon in the Bull Tower is completely spoilt by this first trial; but two hundred thousand dollars is not too much to have paid for the pleasure of having endowed the planetary world with a new star, and the earth with a second satellite. * (see note end) “Max Bruckmann.”

An express messenger was immediately sent from Frankville to Stahlstadt with this letter; and Max, must be forgiven for not having been able to resist the satisfaction of writing it to Herr Schultz.

Max was quite right when he said that the famous shell would never again fall on the surface of the earth, and also right when he predicted the cannon of the Bull Tower would be rendered useless by the enormous charge of gun-cotton.

The receipt of this letter greatly discomfited Herr Schultz, and was a terrible shock to his self-love. As he read it, he turned perfectly livid, and his head fell on his breast as if he had been struck with a club. He remained in this state of prostration for a quarter of an hour. When he revived his rage was frightful. Arminius and Sigimer alone witnessed its outbursts!

However, Herr Schultz was not a man to acknowledge himself beaten.

Henceforth the struggle between him and Max would continue to the death. He still had other shells charged with liquid carbon dioxide, which guns less powerful but more practical, could throw a short distance.

Calming himself with an effort, the King of Steel reentered his study, and continued his work.

It was clear that Frankville, now more than ever menaced with danger, must neglect nothing by which it could put itself into a perfect state of preparedness.

CHAPTER 14

CLEARING FOR ACTION

ALTHOUGH THE danger was no longer imminent, it was still serious. Max told Doctor Sarrasin and his friends all he knew about Herr Schultz’s preparations, and described his engines of destruction. On the next day the | Council of Defence, in which he took a principal part, occupied itself with discussing a plan of resistance and preparing to put it into execution.

In all this Max was well seconded by Otto, whom he I found altered and much improved in character.

No one knew the details of the Council’s decisions. Only their general purport was regularly communicated to the press. It was not difficult to trace in these the practical hand of Max.

“In preparing for defence,” he told the townsfolk, “the great thing is to know the strength of the enemy, and to adapt the plan of resistance to that strength. No doubt Herr Schultz’s cannon are formidable, but it is better to have to face these guns — of which we know the number, calibre, range and effect — than to have to deal with unknown weapons.”

It was decided to prevent the blockade of the town, either by land or

sea.

How this could best be done was a question which the Council actively discussed, and when they announced that the problem was solved nobody doubted it. The citizens hastened en masse to put the plan into effect, and no tasks were neglected which could contribute to the work of defence. Men of all ages, and of every walk of life, became for the time being manual labourers, and everything went on rapidly and cheerfully. Provisions enough for two years were stored in the town. Coal and iron were also imported in bulk; the iron being essential for manufacturing weapons of all sorts and the coal equally necessary both for warmth and for fuel for the munition factories.

In addition to the heaps of iron and coal there could be seen all stored in the market places, gigantic heaps of sacks of flour, and quarters of smoked meat, stacks of cheeses, mountains of preserved and dried vegetables. Numbers of sheep and cattle were also herded in the beautiful gardens of the town.

When the calling-up order appeared for the mobilization of all men able to carry arms, the enthusiasm with which it was received testified to the excellent spirit of these soldier-citizens. Plainly dressed in woollen shirts, cloth trousers, and half-boots, strong leather caps, and armed with Werder rifles, they drilled every day in the avenues.

Gangs of coolies banked up the earth, dug trenches, raised the entrenchments and redoubts at every favourable point. The casting of guns had been commenced and was pushed on with activity, for the many smoke-consuming plants in the city were easily transformed into casting furnaces.

Max was tireless in all this. He was here, there and everywhere, in the thick of all the work. Did some theoretical or practical difficulty arise $ he could immediately solve it. If necessary, he turned up his sleeves and gave a practical demonstration. His authority was always accepted without a murmur, and his orders were punctually obeyed.

Otto likewise did his best. Although at first he had thought of ornamenting his uniform with gold lace, he soon gave up the idea, seeing that to set a good example to others he must be content to do the duty of a private soldier.

He, therefore, took his place in the battalion assigned to him, and conducted himself like a model soldier. To those who at first attempted to pity him, he replied —

“Everyone according to his merits. Perhaps I should not have been able to command, so the least I can do is to learn to obey!”

A report — which turned out to be false — gave a still more lively impulse to the works of defence. Herr Schultz, it was said, was negotiating with some maritime company to transport his cannon. From that time I on such hoaxes were the order of the day. Now it was that the Schultz fleet was off the coast of Frankville, and now that the Sacramento Railway had been cut by

Uhlans, who had apparently dropped from the clouds. But all these rumours, which were immediately con-, tradicted, had been invented by the correspondents of newspapers, hard up for matter to fill their despatches, with the object of sustaining the curiosity of their readers. The truth was that Stahlstadt did not give the least sign of life.

This perfect quietude, although it left Max ample time to complete his preparations, caused him much dis-, quiet in his rare moments of leisure.

“Is it possible that the ruffian has changed his tactics, and is preparing some new mode of attack?” he thought.

However, the plans for checking the advance of the .enemy’s ships, and preventing the blockade of the town, promised to answer well, and Max redoubled his exertions.

His sole pleasure and his only rest, after a hard day’s I work, was the short hour which he passed every evening in Madame Sarcasm’s drawing-room.

From the first, the doctor had stipulated that he should always come and dine at his house, unless he were prevented by another engagement; but, by some singular chance, no other invitation enticing enough to make Max give up this privilege had as yet presented itself.

The everlasting game of chess between the doctor and Colonel Hendon could not have been interesting enough to explain the punctuality with which he presented himself every day at the door of the mansion. We are therefore compelled to believe that there was another attraction for Max, and we might, perhaps, have suspected its nature — although, certainly he himself did not as yet suspect it — had we observed the interest which he took in the conversations between himself, Madame Sarrasin, and Mademoiselle Jeannette, when they were all three seated near the large table, at which the two ladies were busy providing necessities for future use in the ambulances.

“Will these steel bolts be better than the ones you showed us a drawing of?” asked Jeannette, who was interested in everything concerning the defence.

“There’s no doubt about that, mademoiselle/7 replied Max.

“Oh, I’m so glad to hear it! But what a lot of trouble and research you have to put into the smallest detail of your work! You told me that another 500 yards of trench were dug yesterday — that’s quite a lot, isn’t it?”

“No indeed — not nearly enough. At that rate we shan’t get the strong-point finished by the end of the month.”

“I should like to see it finished, and those horrible Schultz people

coming! You men are so very lucky — you can work and make yourselves useful. Waiting can’t possibly be so trying for them as it is for useless people like us!”

“Useless!” exclaimed Max, roused out of his usual calm. “Useless! And who do you think these brave men — men who have left eveiything to become soldiers — who do you think they’re working for, if it isn’t to secure the safety and happiness of their mothers, their wives — and the ones whom they hope to make their wives? Where does their ardour come from if it isn’t from you, and how do you account for this readiness to sacrifice themselves if not — ??

Here Max got rather confused, and stopped. Mademoiselle Jeannette did not urge him, and good Madame Sarrasin herself was obliged to close the discussion by saying to the young man that no doubt a love of duty was sufficient to explain the zeal of most of them.

And when Max, at the call of inexorable duty, tore himself away from this pleasant talk, in order to finish a plan, or a calculation or an estimate, he took with him the invincible determination to save Frankville and its inhabitants.

I Little could he imagine what was about to happen, and yet it was only the inevitable result of a state of things so utterly unnatural as this concentration of all power in a single person which formed the fundamental principle in the City of Steel.

CHAPTER 8

Suspense

“Well, Craig-Fry?” said the Hon. William J. Bidulph, the following day, to the two agents whom he had commissioned to watch the movements of the new client of the Centenary.

“Well,” answered Craig, “we followed him yesterday during a long walk — — “

“And,” added Fry, “he certainly has not the appearance of a man who contemplates suicide. When night came we saw him to his own door, but which, unfortunately, we could not enter.”

“And this morning?” asked William J. Bidulph.

“We learned,” answered Craig, “that he was as safe as the bridge of Palikao.”

The agents, Craig and Fry, were two pure-blooded Americans, cousins, in the employ of the Centenary, who might be taken for twins. They were so identified, that when one commenced a sentence, the other usually finished it. They had the same brain, the same thought, heart, stomach, and the same way of doing everything. It was four hands, arms, and legs united in one body. In a word, they were like the Siamese twins.

“Then,” asked William J. Bidulph, “you have not yet been able to penetrate into the house?”

“Not — ” said Craig “Yet,” said Fry.

“It may be difficult,” replied the principal agent; “but it must be done; it is of importance that the Centenary not only earns the enormous premium, but it is of greater importance to save $200,000. Therefore, there are two months of watching, and perhaps more, if our new client renews his policy.”

“There is a servant — ” said Craig.

“Whom we might bribe — ” said Fry “Ah,” said Bidulph, “stick to the servant — buy him. He must be sensible to the sound of taels; and taels you shall not want, even although you may have to exhaust the three thousand formalities of civility which Chinese etiquette requires. You will not regret the pains you have taken.”

“It shall be — ” said Craig.

“Done,” replied Fry. And those were the reasons why Craig and Fry wished to put themselves on a familiar footing with Soun. Now, Soun was not a man to resist taels, with the courteous offer of several glasses of American liquor.

Craig and Fry soon learned from Soun all that they wished to know for their interest, which amounted to this: Had Kin-Fo changed his style of living? No; except that he scolded his valet less, that the scissors were not used so often to cut off his pigtail, and that the rattan was used less on his shoulders. Had Kin-Fo any deadly weapon about him? No; for he did not belong to that respectable category of amateurs who use deadly weapons. What did he eat at his meals? Some simple dishes. Did he rise early? At five o’clock. Did he go to bed early? At ten o’clock, which was his custom since Soun had known him. Was he sad, preoccupied, or wearied with life? He was not a very cheerful man, indeed. Oh, no! Nevertheless, some days he enjoyed the things of this life. Yes — Soun found him less indifferent, like a man who is waiting — for what — ? He could not tell.

Finally, did his master possess any poisonous substance which he could use? He had none any longer, for that very morning they had thrown by his orders into the Houang-Pou a dozen of little globules which were poisonous.

In all this, there was nothing to alarm the principal agent of the Centenary. No. The rich Kin-Fo, whose circumstances no one except Wang was aware of, appeared to enjoy life. However this may be, Craig and Fry were to continue to make inquiries about everything their client did. Thus the two inseparables continued to question Soun, who took pleasure in conversing with such amiable men.

It would be going too far to say that the hero of this story clung to life more tenaciously since his resolution to get rid of it; but he did not want for emotions. He had placed Damocles’ sword over his head, and this sword was sure to fall on him some day. Was it to be to-day, or tomorrow? This morning, or this evening? On this point there was some doubt, and hence a movement of the heart, new to him. Besides, since the exchange of words between him and Wang, he saw less of him. Either the philosopher left the house oftener than he was accustomed, or he shut himself up in his room. Kin-Fo did not go in search of him; that was not his place, and he was ignorant of how Wang passed his time. Perhaps, in preparing some ambush for him. An old Tai-ping must have a great many ways of dispatching a man. From this Kin-Fo’s curiosity was aroused; a new element of interest was afforded him. However, the master and pupil met at the same table; but there was no allusion made to their future position of assassin and assassinated — they talked about other things. Wang was more serious than usual, often turned his eyes away, and seemed to be more preoccupied. The man who was so communicative had now become silent and sad. A great eater formerly, like every philosopher who has a good stomach, the most delicate dishes did not tempt him, and the wine no longer consoled him.

Kin-Fo tried to put him at his ease. He tasted of every dish, and it followed that he ate more than usual; hence a new sensation, and he relished his dinners, which agreed with him; it could not be that Wang intended to poison him. He afforded Wang every facility to accomplish his deed. Kin-Fo left his chamber door open, that the philosopher might enter and deal the fatal blow while he was awake or asleep; all that Kin-Fo expected was, that his hand might be swift, and the blow fatal. But his emotions were changing; and after the first few nights he was so accustomed to expect the fatal blow, that he slept soundly and awoke every morning fresh and bright. Things could not always remain thus.

The thought often occurred to Kin-Fo, that Wang would hesitate before killing him in the house where he had been so hospitably entertained. He resolved to put him more at his ease on that point, and we find him running about the country, seeking isolated roads, staying out late in the worst places in Shang-Hai, where robbery and murders were committed daily. He walked through the streets at all hours of the night, jostled by drunken men of all nations, but he was safe and sound. He did not see Craig and Fry, who followed him everywhere, ready to give him help in case of need. If matters went on in this way, Kin-Fo would get accustomed to this new mode of existence, and perhaps weariness would return.

One day chance aroused a new sensation in him. He passed the door of the philosopher’s room. Wang was trying the point of a dagger, and wetting it with some liquid in a blue glass bottle. As Kin-Fo glanced into the room the philosopher brandished the dagger around, in order to try it. Kin-Fo’s face changed at the sight of this, and the blood mounted to his eyes; he thought to himself, “this is the day in which he is to perform the deed.” He discreetly retired, without being seen or heard. Kin-Fo did not leave his room the rest of the day, nor did the philosopher make his appearance either. Kin-Fo went to bed as usual, and rose next morning as a healthy man does.

Ten days had now elapsed, but Wang had two months still to perform his promise. “I have given him more time than is necessary,” said Kin-Fo; and he feared that Wang had repented of his promise.

Kin-Fo observed, however, that the philosopher made more visits than usual to the ancestor’s room, where the coffin was stored, and he was delighted to hear from Soun than Wang had ordered him to brush and clean it, and keep it in readiness.

The 13th, 14th, and 15th of May passed. There was nothing new.

Did Wang intend to let the time pass, and only pay his debt when it was due, as is the custom with merchants? In that case there would be no emotion or surprise for Kin-Fo.

A significant occurrence came to the knowledge of Kin-Fo on the morning of the 16th of May, about six o’clock. He had, had a bad night, and, on waking, was still under the influence of a horrid dream. Prince Ien, the sovereign judge of the Chinese hell, had condemned him not to appear before him until the twelfth-hundreth moon should rise above the horizon of the Celestial Empire. A century still to live — a whole century!

Kin-Fo was therefore in bad humor, for he believed everything was conspiring against him, and when Soun came to assist him to dress, he accosted him angrily: “Go to the devil.”

“No,” answered Soun, “not before I have told you.”

“What?”

“That Mr. Wang — — “

“Wang — ! What has Wang done?” said Kin-Fo, seizing Soun by his pigtail. “What has he done?”

“My master,” answered Soun, who wriggled like a worm, “he has ordered us to carry your coffin into the ‘Pavilion of Long Life,’ and — — “

“Has he done that?” cried Kin-Fo, whose face lighted up. “Go, Soun — go, my friend! Stop; here are ten taels; and be careful to execute all Wang’s orders.”

Thereupon Soun was astonished, and repeated to himself: “Decidedly, master is crazy; but at least he is generous.”

This time Kin-Fo did not doubt that the Tai-ping intended to give the fatal blow in the “Pavilion of Long Life,” where he himself had determined to die. The catastrophe was now approaching. How long the day appeared to Kin-Fo. Finally the sun disappeared, and the shadows of night surrounded the yamen.

Kin-Fo went to the pavilion in the hope of never leaving it alive. He extended himself on a soft divan, which seemed to be made for long repose, and he waited. Then the recollections of his useless life passed before his mind — his weariness, his disgust, all that riches could not conquer, and all that poverty might have increased.

One bright light illumined his life, which had no attraction during his opulence: it was the affection which he felt for the young widow. This sentiment moved his heart when it was about ceasing to beat. What! Make poor Le-ou as miserable as himself — never!

The fourth period, which precedes the dawn, passed, causing Kin-Fo, the liveliest emotions. He listened anxiously. He tried to hear the least noise, while his eyes looked into the darkness. More than once he thought he heard the door open, pushed by some prudent hand. He thought without doubt that Wang hoped to find him asleep, and would strike him in his sleep. Then a reaction took place in him; he feared and desired at the same time this visit of the Tai-ping. The dawn appeared, and the day was slowly approaching. Suddenly the door was opened; Kin-Fo arose, having lived in this last second more than he had done in his whole lifetime.

Soun was before him, with a letter in his hand. “In great haste,” Soun simply said.

Kin-Fo took the letter, which bore the San Francisco postmark. He opened the envelope, read it rapidly, and rushed out of the “Pavilion of Long Life.”

“Wang, Wang!” he cried. In an instant he flung open the door and was in the philosopher’s room.

Wang was not there. Wang had not slept in the house. The servants, on hearing Kin-Fo’s cries, ran to him; they searched the yamen, but it was evident that Wang had disappeared without leaving any traces.

CHAPTER 9

Inverted Circumstances

“Yes, Mr. Bidulph, a simple stock-jobbing operation, in the American style,” said Kin-Fo to the principal agent of the insurance company.

The Honorable William J. Bidulph laughed with the aid of a connoisseur, and observed: “It was indeed well played for everybody was taken in.”

“My own correspondent even,” remarked Kin-Fo; “for eight days afterward they paid with open doors; there was no failure, the news was false, but the deed was done, and the stock, which had depreciated eight per cent. was bought in by the Central Bank at the lowest rate; and when the director was asked the cause of the failure, he answered amiably, ‘One hundred and seventy-five per cent.’ This is what my correspondent writes me in the letter I received this morning, at the moment when I thought myself absolutely ruined.”

“Did you have any idea of taking your own life?” cried William J. Bidulph.

“No,” answered Kin-Fo; “but I thought I might be assassinated.”

“Assassinated?”

“By my written authority — an assassination agreed upon, and which would have cost you — — “

“Two hundred thousand dollars,” answered Mr. Bidulph, “since all risks against death were taken. Ah, we should have regretted your loss, my dear sir.”

“On account of the amount?”

Mr. Bidulph took his client’s hand and shook it cordially in the American style. “But I do not understand you,” he added.

“You will understand,” replied Kin-Fo; and he told him of the engagement entered into by him with a man in whom he had confidence, and who guaranteed every immunity. The grave feature was that the promise would be fulfilled; the pledge would be kept, without the shadow of a doubt.

“Is this man a friend?” asked the agent.

“He is,” answered Kin-Fo; “and my death is worth $50,000 to him.”

“Fifty thousand dollars!” cried Mr. Bidulph. “Then it is Mr. Wang?”

“The same.”

“A philosopher! He would never kill you.”

Kin-Fo was about to say, “This philosopher is an old Tai-ping. During the half of his life he has committed more murders than would ruin the Centenary if they had been insured there. For the last eighteen years his ferocious instincts have been restrained. Now the opportunity is offered him, and he believes me to be ruined and determined to die, and knowing that he will get a small fortune by my death, he will not hesitate.”

Kin-Fo said nothing of this, however, for it would compromise Wang, whom, perhaps, William J. Bidulph would not have hesitated to denounce to the governor of the province as a former Tai-ping. That would have saved Kin-Fo, no doubt, but Wang would have been lost.

“Well,” said the agent, “there is a simple thing to do.”

“What is it?”

“You must tell Mr. Wang that the contract is broken, and get back the compromising letter.”

“That is easier said than done,” answered Kin-Fo.

“Wang has disappeared since yesterday, and no one knows his whereabouts.”

“Ah!” said the agent, rather perplexed. “And now, my dear sir, you no longer wish to die,” he said, looking at Kin-Fo.

“No,” he answered. “The stroke of the Central Bank in California has doubled my fortune, and I am going to get married. But I must find Wang first; the time agreed upon has not yet expired.”

“When does it expire?”

“On the 25th of June. And during the interval the Centenary runs great risk, and it should take measures in consequence.”

“And find the philosopher,” said the Honorable William J. Bidulph.

He promenaded up and down with his hands behind his back, then said, “Well, we will find this man, even if he is hidden in the bowels of the earth; and until then we shall prevent any attempt at assassination, as we have prevented you from committing suicide.”

“What do you mean?” asked Kin-Fo.

“This: that since the day the policy was signed, the 30th of April last, two of my detectives have followed you and watched your movements.”

“I have not observed them.”

“Ah, they are discreet men. I should like to introduce them to you, now there is no necessity to hide their movements unless from Mr. Wang.”

“Certainly,” answered Kin-Fo.

“Craig-Fry should be here since you are here,” and William J. Bidulph cried out, “Craig-Fry!”

Craig and Fry were indeed there behind the door of the private office. They had tracked Kin-Fo to the Centenary office, and were waiting for him.

Now, there were two courses, as the Honorable William J. Bidulph observed. The detectives must remain carefully shut up in Kin-Fo’s house at Shang-Hai, so that Wang could not enter without their knowledge, or else find Wang, who must be made to give up the letter, which must be considered null and void.

“The first plan is of no use,” said Kin-Fo. “Wang knows how to come to me without being seen, since my house is his; he must be found at any cost.”

“You are right, sir,” answered William J. Bidulph.

“The surest way is to find Wang — and he must be found.”

“Dead or — ” said Craig.

“Alive,” concluded Fry.

“No, living,” cried Kin-Fo. “I do not intend that Wang shall be in danger a moment through my fault.”

“Craig and Fry,” added William J. Bidulph, “you are responsible for our client for seventy-seven days longer, and until the 30th of next June he will be worth to us two hundred thousand dollars.”

Thereupon the client and the principal agent of the Centenary took leave of each other. Ten minutes later, Kin-Fo, escorted by his two body-guards, who were not to leave him again, entered the yamen.

When Soun saw Craig and Fry officially installed in the house, he felt some regret. There would be no more answers or taels; besides, his master began to abuse him again. Unfortunate Soun! What would he have said had he known what the future had in store for him?

The first care Kin-Fo took was to phonograph to Cha-Coua Avenue, Pekin, the change of fortune which made him richer than before. The young lady heard the voice again of him whom she believed to be lost to her forever. He would see his little younger sister again. The seventh moon would not pass before he would see her, never to leave her again; having refused to make her miserable, he did not wish to run the risk of making her a widow. Le-ou did not quite understand what this last phrase meant. She only knew one thing; that was, that her lover had returned, and that before two months he would be with her. On that day there was not a happier woman than the young widow in all the Celestial Empire.

A complete reaction had taken place in Kin-Fo’s ideas-now become a fourfold millionaire — from the operations of the Central Bank in California. He intended to live, and to live well. Twenty days of emotions had changed him. Neither the Mandarin Pao-Shen, nor the Merchant Yin-Pang, nor Tim the high liver, nor Houal the literary man would have recognized in him the indifferent host who bade them good-by on one of the flower — ! Boats on the River of Pearls. Wang would not have believed his eyes were he there, but he had disappeared. He did not come back to the house at Shang-Hai.

Eight days later, on the 24th of May, no news was heard of the philosopher; vainly did Kin-Fo, Craig, and Fry search the districts, the shops, and the suburbs of Shang-Hai, and the most skillful detectives of the police searched in vain for him about the country. The philosopher could not be found.

Craig and Fry became more uneasy, and increased their precautions. Neither by day nor by night did they lose sight of their client; they eat at the same table with him, and slept in the same room. They tried to persuade him to wear a steel breast-plate in case he was struck with a dagger, and to eat only eggs in the shell to prevent him being poisoned. Kin-Fo sent them away. Why not shut him up for two months in the Centenary safe under the pretext that he was worth $200,000?

Then William J. Bidulph, always practical, proposed to his client to return him the premium and destroy the policy.

“I am sorry,” said Kin-Fo, “but the thing is done, and you must take the consequences.”

“Well, let it be so,” said the agent, who had to submit to what he could not avoid. “You are right. You will never be better guarded than by us.”

“Nor for better value,” replied Kin-Fo.

CHAPTER 10

Kin-Fo Becomes Celebrated

Still Wang could not be found.

This complication disturbed the calm of the agent of the Centenary. At first he had thought that Wang would not fulfill his promise, but now he began to believe that nothing was impossible in that strange country which they call the Celestial Empire. He was soon of the same opinion as Kin-Fo, that if they could not find Wang, the philosopher would keep his word. His disappearance even indicated a project of attacking his pupil when he least expected it, like a thunderbolt, and striking him to the heart. After placing the letter on the body of his victim, he would quietly present himself at the office of the Centenary to claim his insurance.

Wang must, therefore, be notified. The Honorable William J. Bidulph had to use some indirect means. In a few days notices were forwarded to the different Chinese newspapers, and telegrams were sent to the foreign journals in both worlds: “Mr. Wang, of Shang-Hai, is requested to consider the agreement made between Mr. Kin-Fo and himself, under date the 2nd of May last, as canceled; the said Mr. Kin-Fo having but one desire, and that is to die a centenarian.”

This strange advertisement was soon followed by another more practical: “Two thousand dollars to whoever will make known to William J. Bidulph, the principal agent of the Centenary at Shang-Hai, the present residence of Mr. Wang, of said city.”

That the philosopher was running around the world during the fifty-five days given him to fulfill his promise, there was no reason to suppose. It was more probable that he was concealed in the suburbs of Shang-Hai; but the Honorable William J. Bidulph did not believe he could use too many precautions.

Several days passed, and there was no change in the situation of affairs. The advertisements were reproduced in profusion, under the familiar American style: “Wang, Wang, Wang,” on one side, and “Kin-Fo, Kin-Fo, Kin-Fo,” on the other. This had the effect of creating general laughter.

As far as the remotest provinces of the Celestial Empire people cried out in jest, “Where is Wang?” “Who has seen Wang?” “Where does Wang live?” “What is Wang doing?”

“Wang! Wang! Wang!” cried the little Chinese children in the streets.

The advertisements were soon in the mouths of everybody, and Kin-Fo, who wished to become a centenarian, who sought for longevity, like the celebrated elephant whose twentieth lustrum was about being accomplished in the palace of the stables of Pekin, could not fail to be soon very much in the fashion.

Kin-Fo had to endure the inconveniences of this singular celebrity, and they went so far as to sing songs about him to the tune of “The Five Periods of the Centenarian.” If Kin-Fo was annoyed at the noise made over his name, William J. Bidulph, on the contrary, was rejoiced; but Wang was, none the less, not to be found.

Things went so far that Kin-Fo was unable to endure the situation. Did he go out — a train of children of every age and sex followed him in the streets, and along the wharves, and even as far as the suburbs. Did he go home — a rabble of the worst kind stood before the doors of the yamen. Every morning he had to satisfy his people that he had not slept in his coffin in the “Pavilion of Long Life.” The papers published an ironical bulletin of his health with comments, as if he belonged to the reigning dynasty of the “Tsing,” which made him appear ridiculous.

It followed that one day, on the 21st of May, the annoyed Kin-Fo went to find the Honorable William J. Bidulph, to notify him that he intended to leave the place. He had, had enough of Shang-Hai, and the people of Shang-Hai. The agent thereupon remarked to him, very justly, “You may, be running greater risks.”

“I care little for that,” said Kin-Fo.

“But where are you going?”

“Straight before me.”

“But where will you stop?”

“Nowhere.”

“When will you come back?”

“Never.”

“And if I should get some news of Wang?”

“Let Wang go to the devil! Oh, the foolish idea I had of giving him that absurd letter!”

Kin-Fo still had a great desire to find the philosopher. That his life was in the hands of another annoyed him, but to have to wait another month in such a situation he was not resigned to. The lamb was becoming enraged.

“Well, go then,” said William J. Bidulph. “Craig and Fry will follow you, wherever you go.”

“As you like,” said Kin-Fo; “But I give you notice that they will have to run about.”

Kin-Fo returned home and prepared to depart. Soun was to accompany him, although he did not like moving about.

Fry and Craig, like true Americans, were always ready to go, even to the end of the world, and they asked but one question: “Where, sir — ” said Craig.

“Are you going?” added Fry.

“To Nan-King first, and then to the devil.”

The same smile appeared simultaneously on Craig and Fry’s lips; they were delighted. “To the devil!” nothing could please them better. They took leave of the Honorable William J. Bidulph, and dressed themselves in Chinese costume, in order to attract less attention during the journey through the Celestial Empire. An hour afterward, with their bags at their side, and their revolvers fastened around their waist, they returned to the yamen.

At nightfall Kin-Fo and his companions took passage on the steamboat which runs between Shang-Hai and Nan-King. In less than twelve hours they ascended by the Blue River as far as the old capital of Southern China. During the short passage, Craig and Fry took precious care of Kin-Fo, staring at all the passengers to see if they could recognize anybody, and particularly if they could see the philosopher, whom they knew very well. They felt assured that he was not on board. After taking this precaution, they paid particular attention to Kin-Fo; they felt every support on which he might lean; they drew him away from the boiler; they cautioned him not to expose himself to the night air; they scolded Soun for his neglect, as he was never near his master when he wanted him. They also slept at his cabin door, ready to assist him if, by an explosion or collision, the steamboat should sink.

But no accident occurred to prove Fry and Craig’s devotion. The steamboat rapidly descended the Wousung, touched at Yang-Tse-Kiang, coasted along the island of Tsong-Ming, ascended through the province of Kiang-Sou, and on the 22nd, in the morning, landed her passengers safe and sound on the quay of the old imperial city. Soun was indebted to the two body-guards that his pigtail had not grown shorter during the voyage.

It was not without a motive that Kin-Fo stopped first at Nan-King. He had an idea that he might find the philosopher there. Wang might be attracted by past recollections to this unfortunate city, which was the principal center of the rebellion of the Tachings. It was possible that the philosopher, feeling homesick, had taken refuge in those places so full of personal recollections, and from there, in a few hours, he could return to Shang-Hai, ready to deal the blow.

Such was Kin-Fo’s reason for stopping at Nan-King; should he meet Wang, all would be explained, and the absurd situation would be finished. If Wang was not there, he could continue his travels through the Celestial Empire until the time expired when he would have nothing to fear from his old teacher and friend.

“I am traveling under the assumed name of Ki-Nan,” said Kin-Fo to his companions, “and I do not wish my real name to be known, under any pretext whatever.”

“Ki — ” said Craig.

“Nan,” finished Fry.

“Ki-Nan,” repeated Soun.

One can understand that Kin-Fo escaping the annoyances of his fame at Shang-Hai, did not wish to meet them again on his journey.

The whole day was passed in visiting the different places and streets in Nan-King. Kin-Fo walked quickly, talked little, and looked at everything. No suspicious person appeared among the mass of people which they met on the canals or in the streets. They saw no one they knew around the yamen of the Catholic missionaries, nor in the neighborhood of the arsenal. Kin-Fo, followed by his two companions, left by the eastern gate, and ventured out into the deserted country. They saw a small temple, and behind it was a hill. Under its turf Rong-Ou, the bonze who had become an emperor, and five centuries before had fought against the foreign power.

Might not the philosopher have come here again to look at the tomb where rested the founder of the dynasty of Ming? But the temple was abandoned. The only guardians were the colossal figures on the marble.

On the door of the temple Kin-Fo saw, not without emotion, signs which some hand had engraved there. He approached, and read these three letters; W. K. F.

Wang! Kin-Fo! There could be no doubt that the philosopher had recently passed there.

CHAPTER 11

Travel Under Difficulties

Who is this traveler who is seen running over the principal road and up the canals and rivers of the Celestial Empire? He is going on and on all the time, not knowing in the evening where he will be to-morrow. He crosses over cities without seeing them, he goes to hotels only to sleep a few hours, and he stops at restaurants only to take a hasty meal. He is prodigal with his money; he throws it about to hasten his progress.

It is not a merchant engaged in business; it is not a mandarin to whom the minister has given an important and pressing mission; it is not an artist in search of the beauties of nature; it is not a savant who is in search of ancient documents stored in the temples of old China; it is not a student going to the pagoda to get his university degrees; nor is it a priest of Buddha inspecting the altars; nor a pilgrim fulfilling a vow at one of the five holy mountains of the Celestial Empire. It is the pretended Ki-Nan, accompanied by Fry and Craig, followed by Soun. It is Kin-Fo, in that singular state of mind which leads him to search for the undiscoverable Wang.

The travelers had taken at Nan-King one of those rapid American steamboats, those floating hotels which sail on the Blue River. Sixty hours later, and they land at Ran-Keou. There, situated at the confluence of the Blue River and its important tributary, the Ran-Kiang, the wandering Kin-Fo stopped half a day.

If Craig and Fry had ever hoped that on this journey through China they could get any idea of its customs, or learn anything of its cities, they were soon undeceived. They had not even time to take notes, and their impressions were reduced to the names of cities and suburbs, and to the days of the month; but they were neither curious nor talkative, they hardly ever spoke; for what good would it do? What Craig thought, Fry thought also.

Kin-Fo was not the man to give up this style of traveling, which pleased him. He expected to go to the point where the Ran-Kiang would cease to be navigable, after that he would consider. Craig and Fry would have liked that kind of navigation the whole course of the journey, for it was easier to watch on board of a boat, and there was less danger.

As for Soun, this life on board of a steamboat was agreeable to him. He did not have to walk; he had nothing to do; and he left his master to the good offices of Craig and Fry. He slept in the corner after breakfast, dinner, and supper, and the cooking was good.

Whoever had followed Kin-Fo from province to province, from city to city, in this fantastic journey, would have had much to do. At one time he would travel in a carriage, but such a carriage — it was nothing more than a box, fastened by large iron nails to the axletree of two wheels, drawn by two mules, and a linen covering which allowed the rays of the sun and the rain to penetrate. At another time he might be seen extended in a mule-chair, like a sentry-box hung between two poles, and which pitched and tossed about like a ship at sea. Craig and Fry followed on two asses which rolled and pitched more than the chair, trotted along like two aids-de-camp.

As to Soun, on such occasions, when walking was necessarily rapid, he went on foot grumbling and complaining, and comforting himself, when the opportunity offered, with brandy. He also felt a peculiar rolling motion, but it was due to other causes than the roughness of the road over which he had to go.

It was on horseback, and poor horses they were, that Kin-Fo and his companions made their entry into Si-Gnan-Fou, the ancient capital of the Central Empire, the former residence of the emperors of the dynasty of Tang. But to reach this far-off province of Chen-Si, and to cross the plains, how much fatigue and danger they had to undergo.

As to the dangers, they were but too real in a country where the police have an extraordinary dread of being stabbed by robbers. Several times suspicious looking men stopped the travelers while they were crossing narrow places, but on seeing Craig and Fry with their revolvers in their belts, they were frightened away. Nevertheless, the agents of the Centenary sometimes experienced great fear for the living million of dollars they were escorting, if not for themselves. That Kin-Fo should fall by Wang’s poniard, or by a robber’s dagger, would make no difference; the result would be the same, and the Company’s money-chest would receive the blow.

Under those circumstances, Kin-Fo, who was armed, could defend himself. His life he valued more than ever now, and, as Craig and Fry remarked, “he would kill himself to preserve it.”

At Tong-Kouan Kin-Fo intended to rest some days. He was looking for a convenient hotel where he could find a good bed, and a good table, which would have been agreeable to Fry and Craig, and more so to Soun. But the latter had the imprudence to give the Custom-house authorities the real name of his master, which cost him a partial loss of his pigtail. This mistake made Kin-Fo leave the city at once in great anger. The name had produced its effect. People wished to see the celebrated Kin-Fo, this unique man, whose only desire was to become a centenarian.

The disgusted traveler, with his two guards and his valet, had only time to escape from the crowds of curious people who followed his footsteps. He ascended the shores of the Yellow River on foot, and he and his companions traveled until they were exhausted, when they stopped at a little town, where, his being unknown, secured him some hours of peace and quiet.

Soun was so absolutely discomfited, that he dared not say a word, and, with the ridiculous little rat-tail that yet remained to him, he was a comic sight. The boys ran after him, making fun of him and calling him names, and he, too, was in a hurry to arrive at some place where his master was unknown.

The little town had no horses, wagons, or chairs. There was no alternative but to remain there or go on. This did not inspire the philosopher Wang’s pupil with good humor, and he showed very little philosophy under the circumstances. He accused everybody, and had only himself to blame. How he regretted the time when he had nothing to do but live. “If to know happiness it is necessary to experience pain and torments,” as Wang said, “I know it now.”

While thus going about, he met worthy fellows without a penny in their pockets, who nevertheless were happy. He could not but see the varied forms of happiness which work, cheerfully performed, gives. Here were laborers bent over their plows, and there workmen who sang while handling their tools. Was it not to the want of this labor that Kin-Fo’s lack of happiness might be attributed? Ah! The lesson was complete; he believed so, at least.

Craig and Fry finished by discovering a vehicle, the only one, after searching through the village, but they were unable to use it. It was a wheelbarrow — Pascal’s wheelbarrow, and no doubt invented before the time of the invention of powder, the art of writing, the compass, and the kite.

In China, the wheel of this conveyance, which is large in diameter, is placed, not at the extreme end of the shafts, but in the center, and moves across the body of the wheelbarrow like the central wheel of some steamboats. The body is divided into two parts, in one of which the traveler can stretch himself out, and in the other his baggage is carried.

The motor of this vehicle can be only one man, who pushes it before him, and does not drag it after him. He is therefore placed behind the traveler, and does not obstruct his view, as the English cab-driver does. When the wind is favorable, the man adds to the natural force by setting a mast in front of the vehicle and raising a sail; so that when the breeze is strong, instead of pushing the wheelbarrow, it is the wheelbarrow which draws the man along — and sometimes faster than he wishes to go.

This vehicle was brought, with all its accessories, and Kin-Fo entered it. The wind was favorable, and the sail was hoisted. “Let us go, Soun,” said Kin-Fo.

Soun was preparing to stretch himself out in the baggage compartment of the wheelbarrow. “Into the shafts!” cried Kin-Fo, in a tone which admitted of no reply.

“But, master — ” said Soun, whose legs shook like a foundered horse.

“To the shafts!” repeated Kin-Fo, looking suspiciously at Soun’s pigtail. “To the shafts! And look out that you do not shake me.”

Soun passed the straps around his shoulders, and took hold of the shafts with both hands. Fry and Craig took their position, one on each side of the wheelbarrow, and the breeze assisting them, the little band went off at a brisk trot. We cannot attempt to describe Soun’s powerless rage.

It was in this equipage that Kin-Fo entered into the northern provinces of China; walking when he wanted to stretch his legs, and driven in a wheelbarrow when he wished to rest himself.

On the 19th of June he reached Tong-Tcheou. Wang had yet six days to complete his contract.

CHAPTER 17

The Cargo

“Where are we, Captain Yin?” Kin-Fo asked after the danger was all over.

“I hardly know,” replied the captain, who had quite recovered his jovial looks.

“Are we in the Gulf of Pe-Chi-Li?”

“Not unlikely.”

“Or do you think we have been driven into the Gulf of Leao-Tong?”

“Very probably.”

“Where, then, are we going to land?”

“Just where the wind takes us.”

“When?”

“That’s more than I can tell you.”

Kin-Fo was beginning to lose his temper. “A true Chinaman always knows his whereabouts,” he said, quoting a Chinese proverb.

“Ah! That means on land, not at sea!” answered the captain, grinning from ear to ear.

“I don’t see anything to laugh at,” said Kin-Fo impatiently.

“Nor do I see anything to cry at,” retorted Yin.

It might be true that there was nothing really alarming in the situation, but it was quite obvious that the captain did not know where he was; without a compass he had no means of judging in what direction his ship had been driven by the tempest, during which the wind had been blowing from such different quarters, and while, with her sails furled and her helm useless, she had been the mere plaything of the hurricane.

But whether the junk had been carried into one gulf or the other, there could be no hesitation now about the necessity of putting her head to the west; ultimately, land must be sighted in that direction. Had it been in his power, the captain would forthwith have hoisted sail and followed the sun, which was once more shining, though only faintly; but there was not a breath of wind; the typhoon had been succeeded by a dead calm; not a ripple played upon the smooth undulations that just lifted up the vessel and allowed her to sink again without moving her a foot forward. A heavy vapor hung over the sea, and the general aspect was in striking contrast to the commotion of the previous night. It was one of those calms locally known as “white calms.”

“And how long is this going to last?” said Kin-Fo.

“No telling,” replied the captain with perfect composure; “at this season of the year calms sometimes continue for weeks.”

“Weeks!” repeated Kin-Fo; “do you suppose I am to stay here for weeks?”

“No help for it, my dear sir, unless by good luck we can manage to get taken in tow.”

“Confound the junk! What a fool I was to be caught coming on board!”

“Will you allow me to offer you two little bits of advice? Be like other folks, and don’t grumble at the weather which you can’t alter; and, secondly, do as I am going to do; go to bed and get some comfortable sleep.”

And with a philosophy that was worthy of Wang himself, the captain retired to his cabin, leaving only a few men on deck.

For the next quarter of an hour Kin-Fo paced backward and forward, drumming his fingers upon his folded arms; then, casting a glance at the desolate scene around, he made up his mind to go to his cabin, and left the deck without saying a word to Craig and Fry, who had been lounging meanwhile against the taffrail, not speaking a word to each other, but no doubt holding mutual intercourse by silent sympathy. They had heard all that passed between Kin-Fo and the captain, but to say the truth, they really were not concerned at the delay which was giving so much annoyance to the young man; if they were losing anything in time, they were gaining in security, for as long as Kin-Fo was on board the Sam-Yep, was he not free from any chance of being attacked by Lao-Shen? Moreover, the period of their engagement and consequently of their responsibility was close at hand; two days more and a whole band of Tai-pings might assail him, and it would not be their duty to risk a hair of their heads to protect him. Practical Yankees as they were, they were devoted to the client of the Centenarian so long as he represented the sum of 200,000 dollars; they would be utterly indifferent when that interest lapsed.

Under these circumstances there was nothing to prevent them from sitting down to their luncheon with a capital appetite. The food was excellent; they partook of the same dishes, consumed the same quantities of bread and the same number of slices of meat; they drank Bidulph’s health in the same number of glasses of wine, and afterward smoked precisely the same number of cigarettes. If not by birth, they were Siamese twins in taste and habit.

The day passed on without incident or accident; there was still the “woolly” sky; still the smooth sea; and nothing to disturb the general monotony.

Toward four o’clock in the afternoon, poor Soun made his appearance on deck. He reeled, he staggered as if he were drunk, though probably he had never in all his life been so abstemious before. His complexion was blue and green, verging to yellow; probably when he got on shore again it would be as usual, orange; when he was angry he would flush into crimson, and thus in a very short period his countenance would have exhibited all the colors of the rainbow.

Keeping his eyes half-closed, and not daring to look beyond the bulwarks, he stumbled up to Craig and Fry, and said, “Are we nearly there?”

“No,” they answered.

“Not nearly?”

“No.”

“Ai ai ya!” he moaned, and flung himself down at the foot of the mast, wriggling as if in convulsions, which made his miserable little queue shake like a puppy’s tail.

Earlier in the day Captain Yin had given orders, very prudently, for the hatchways to be opened that the sun might dry up the water that during the typhoon had been shipped into the hold. Craig and Fry had been promenading the deck, repeatedly pausing and looking down through the middle hatchway, until at last, prompted by curiosity, they agreed to go below.

Except just where the light was admitted from above, the hold was very dark; but after a short time the eye grew accustomed to the obscurity, and it was quite possible to distinguish the way in which the singular cargo had been stowed. The hold was not divided, as in most junks, into partitions, but was open from end to end, and the whole of it appropriated to this strange consignment, the crew having to find their berths forward. Piled up one upon another, and arrayed on both sides, were the seventy-five coffins bound for Foo-Ning, all fastened quite securely so as to prevent any oscillation that might imperil the ship, a passage being left along the middle, the end of which, remote from the hatchway, was sunk in gloom.

Craig and Fry walked silently and softly, as though they were treading the floor of a mausoleum. There was something of awe mingling with their curiosity. The coffins were of all sizes, a small proportion of them being costly and elaborate, the generality perfectly plain. Of the emigrants whom necessity drives across the Pacific, it is very few that make a fortune or realize a competency in the diggings of California, or in the mines of Nevada and Colorado; nearly all die as impoverished as they went out; but all, whatever their wealth or poverty, are without exception and with equal care brought back to their native land.

About ten of the coffins were made of valuable wood adorned with all the richness that Chinese fancy could devise; but the rest were merely four planks with ends, put together in the roughest manner and painted yellow; every one of them bore the name and address of its tenant, and as Craig and Fry passed along they kept on reading such names as Lien-Foo of Yun-Ping-Fu, Nan-Loon of Foo-Ning, and remarked that there seemed no confusion; every corpse could be conveyed to its destination to await in field, in orchard, or in plain, its ultimate interment in Chinese soil.

“Well packed!” whispered Craig.

“Well packed!” whispered Fry.

They spoke calmly as they would about a consignment of ordinary goods from San Francisco or New York.

Having proceeded to the farther end of the passage where it was most gloomy, they turned and looked along the avenue of that temporary cemetery toward the light; they were on the point of returning, when a slight sound attracted their attention. “A rat!” they said.

“I should think a rat would prefer a cargo of rice,” said Craig.

“Or of maize,” added Fry.

The noise continued. It was like a scratching with nails or claws. It was on the starboard side, and came from about the level of their heads; consequently from the upper tier of coffins.

The men hissed as they would to scare away a rat. Still the scratching went on. They listened with bated breath. Evidently the sound came from inside one of the coffins.

“Some Chinaman buried before he was dead,” said Craig.

“And just come to life again,” continued Fry.

They went close up to the coffin, and laid their hands upon it; it did not admit of a doubt that there was movement within. “This means mischief!” they muttered.

The same idea had simultaneously occurred to them both, that a new danger was threatening the client in their charge.

Raising their hands, they could feel that the lid of the coffin was being gently lifted up. With the most perfect composure they waited to see what would follow next. They did not make a movement. It was too dark for them to distinguish anything plainly, but they were not mistaken in thinking they saw a coffin lid slowly opening on the larboard side.

A whisper was next heard. A whisper followed in reply.

“Is that you, Cono?”

“Is that you, Fa-Kien?”

“Is it to be to-night?”

“Yes, to-night.”

“Before the moon rises?”

“Yes, in the second watch.”

“Do the others know?”

“They have all been told.”

“I shall be glad to get out of this.”

“Ay, so shall we all.”

“Thirty-six hours in a coffin is no joke!”

“You are right.”

“But Lao-Shen ordered it.”

“Hush, hush! What’s that?”

The last exclamation was caused by Craig and Fry making an involuntary movement at the mention of Lao-Shen; but they did not speak nor move again.

There was a slight pause, after which the coffin-lids gently closed themselves again, and there was complete silence.

Stealthily on hands and knees, Craig and Fry made their way back through the hatchway on to the deck, and in a moment were locked in their own cabin, where they could converse without risk of being overheard.

“Dead men who talk — ” began Craig.

“Are not dead yet,” concluded Fry.

The mere mentioning of Lao-Shen’s name under these somewhat ghastly circumstances had been enough to reveal the whole truth. It was evident that the Tai-ping had employed some agents who had found their way on board, and it did not admit of much doubt that they had only succeeded by the connivance of the captain. The coffins had been disembarked from the American ships, and had, had to remain for a day or two to await the arrival of the Sam-Yep, and during that time a number of them had been broken open, the corpses removed, and their places supplied by the confederates of Lao-Shen. How it had transpired that Kin-Fo was among the passengers of the Sam-Yep was a mystery they could not explain; but they recollected that they had noticed suspicious characters on board from the time of embarkation, and acknowledged that it would be a thing discreditable to themselves if, after all, the office they represented should lose the two hundred thousand dollars at stake.

They were not the men to lose their presence of mind; they were facing a grave and unexpected emergency; there was not much time in which to form their plans; the deed was to be done before the second watch; there was not much scope for deliberation; there was only one conclusion to be arrived at — before the second watch Kin-Fo must be away from the junk.

How the escape was to be made was a question more easy to ask than to answer. The only boat belonging to the ship was a cumbrous craft that it would take the whole crew to lower to the water, and if the captain were an accomplice in the plot, the crew could not be enlisted to lend a helping hand. The project of using the boat had to be abandoned.

Seven o’clock, and the captain was still in his cabin. Was it not likely he was only waiting in solitude until the appointed time had passed, and the deed was done? The junk was floating adrift; there was no watch, why should there be? A sailor, all alone, was slumbering in the bows. If only the appliances were at hand, the opportunity for escape was complete. Had they been anxious to get away from a fire-ship, they scarcely could have been more excited. A thought struck them; there was not a moment to spare to discuss it; it must be put into execution now, at once.

Opening the door of Kin-Fo’s cabin, they touched him gently; he was fast asleep; they touched him again.

“What do you want with me?” he said.

They told him as concisely as they could all the facts; he did not seem at all alarmed; he pondered a moment, and asked, “Why not throw the rascals overboard?”

“That is quite out of the question,” they replied. “There are too many against us.”

“Then are we to do nothing?” said Kin-Fo.

“Do as we tell you,” answered Craig; “we have made our plans.”

“Let me hear,” said Kin-Fo, in some surprise.

“Take this dress; ask no questions; put it on, and be ready!”

The men opened a parcel they had brought with them. It contained four sets of the swimming apparatus just invented by Captain Boyton. They gave a set to Kin-Fo, saying, “We have more for ourselves, and one for Soun.”

“Go and fetch Soun,” he bade them.

And Soun was brought in, looking as if he were suffering from an attack of paralysis.

“You are to put this on,” said his master.

But Soun was incapable of helping himself, and while he kept on moaning, “Ai ai ya,” the others contrived to drag him into the waterproof attire.

Eight o’clock, and they were all equipped; they looked like four great seals just going to plunge into the frozen waters, although it must be owned that Soun was almost too flabby in his condition to be compared to so lithe a creature.

The junk continued to float in absolute stillness upon the unruffled sea; Craig and Fry opened one of the portholes of the cabin, and quietly dropped Soun down without more ado. Kin-Fo cautiously followed; Craig and Fry only stayed to make sure that they had provided themselves with all the necessary appurtenances, and plunged in after them.

So quiet were all their movements that no one on board was aware that four of the passengers had quitted the Sam-Yep.

CHAPTER 18

Afloat

Captain Boyton’s apparatus is a gutta-percha suit, consisting of leggings, tunic, and cap. But though impervious to water, the material would not be impervious to cold, were it not that the garments are made with an outer and an inner layer between which may be admitted a certain quantity of air. The air serves the double purpose of maintaining the apparatus upon the surface of the water and preventing the chill that would otherwise ensue from long exposure.

The joints of the separate pieces of the costume are perfectly water-tight. The leggings terminate beneath the feet with heavy soles, and are clasped at the waist with a metal belt, which is made wide enough to allow free movement, to the body. The jacket is fixed into the belt, and has a solid collar, to which in its turn is attached the cap, which is drawn tightly over the forehead, cheeks and chin by means of an elastic border, leaving only the eyes, mouth, and nose exposed.

Several gutta-percha tubes are attached to the jacket to admit the air, which can be regulated to any density, so that a traveler may float upright with the water up to his neck or only to his waist, or may lie horizontally upon its surface, all the time in perfect safety and with complete liberty of action.

The practical utility of the apparatus has already been proved in a way that does much credit to its inventor. To make it complete there are several other appurtenances: a waterproof bag that is slung over the shoulder, and contains various useful articles; a small pole which can be attached to the foot by a socket, and carries a small sail; and a light paddle, which may be used either as an oar or a rudder, as circumstances may require.

Thus equipped, Kin-Fo, Craig, Fry, and Soun floated off, and a very few strokes of their paddles carried them a considerable distance from the junk. The night was very dark, and even if Captain Yin or any of his men had been on deck, they would not have perceived the fugitives, and no one could have the slightest suspicion that they were escaping.

The second watch, the time mentioned by the pretended corpse, would be about the middle of the night, consequently Kin-Fo and his companions had several hours’ grace during which they hoped to get a safe distance from the Sam-Yep. A very slight breeze was beginning to ruffle the surface of the water, but not enough to make them depend on any other means except their paddles for their progress.

In a very few minutes Kin-Fo, Craig, and Fry, grew accustomed to their strange equipment, and were able to maneuver so well, that they could, without a moment’s hesitation, assume any attitude or make any movement they desired. Soun for a time had to be taken in tow, but he very quickly recovered his energies, and felt far more at his ease than he had been on board the junk. All sensation of seasickness had left him, and the relief of finding himself floating up to his waist in the sea, instead of being subject to the pitching, tossing, and heaving of a ship, was very great.

But although he was no longer ill, he was in considerable alarm. Nothing possessed him but that he should be devoured by sharks, and he was continually drawing up his legs, as though he felt them already being snapped at. His fears, it must be owned, were not altogether without foundation.

It was a strange vicissitude to which fortune had now called Kin-Fo and his companions. On and on they went, lying almost flat upon their backs to paddle, and rising to the perpendicular when they required a rest. An hour after leaving the junk the party found themselves about half a mile distant. They came to a standstill, resting on their paddles, and began to hold a whispered consultation.

“That rascal of a captain!” said Craig, in order to broach the subject that was of course uppermost in his mind.

“And that scoundrel Lao-Shen!” added Fry.

“Are you surprised?” said Kin-Fo; “I am never surprised at anything now.”

“I cannot understand how those fellows found out that you were going to take passage on board that junk,” replied Craig.

“Well, it doesn’t matter much now that we are safe,” said Kin-Fo composedly.

“Safe!” exclaimed Craig; “We are not safe as long as the Sam-Yep is in sight.”

“What is to be done, then?” inquired Kin-Fo.

“We must take some refreshment and go on again, so that we may be out of sight at daybreak.”

Admitting a little more air into his apparatus, Fry allowed himself to rise till the water was about level with his waist, and then opening his bag, took out a bottle and a glass. He filled the glass with brandy, and handed it to Kin-Fo, who, without requiring any pressing, drained it to the bottom. Craig and Fry helped themselves, and Soun was not forgotten.

“How are you now?” asked Craig, when Soun had emptied his glass.

“Much better, thank you,” said Soun; “but I should like something to eat.”

“We will have our breakfast at daybreak, and then you shall have some tea.”

Soun made a wry face.

“Cold?” he asked.

“No; hot,” said Craig.

Soun’s countenance brightened.

“But how will you manage that?” he inquired.

“I shall make a fire.”

“Then why wait till the morning?” urged Soun.

“Why, you stupid fellow, you don’t want Captain Yin and his accomplices to see our light, do you?”

“No, O no.”

“Then have patience, and wait till the proper time.”

The appearance of the party during this colloquy was irresistibly comical; the slight undulation of the water kept them bobbing up and down like so many corks, or like the hammers of a pianoforte when the keys are touched. Kin-Fo presently remarked that the wind was beginning to freshen.

“Let us set our sails, then,” said Craig and Fry.

But just as they were preparing to erect their little masts, Soun uttered a loud cry of terror.

“Be quiet, you fool!” angrily whispered his master, “do you want us to be discovered?”

“I thought,” muttered Soun, “I saw a monster — a shark — quite close to me; I thought I felt it, too.”

Craig carefully examined the surface of the water, and said that it was quite a mistake on Soun’s part; no shark was there at all.

Kin-Fo laid his hand on his servant’s shoulder.

“Understand, Soun, that you are not to be a coward,” he said. “You are not to cry out, mind, even if your leg is snapped off.”

“If you make any outcry,” added Fry, “we will cut a slit in your jacket, and send you to the bottom of the sea, where you may bellow to your heart’s content.”

Thus adjured, the unfortunate Soun, though by no means consoled, dared not utter another word. It seemed as though his troubles were never to have an end, and he began to think that the miseries of seasickness were scarcely worse than the tortures of terror.

Kin-Fo had been right when he said that the wind was freshening. Even if it were only one of the slight breezes that subside at’ sunrise, it must be utilized to increase the distance between them and the Sam-Yep. When Lao-Shen’s people discovered that Kin-Fo was no longer in his cabin, they would assuredly begin to look about for him, and if any of them were in sight, the ship’s boat would greatly facilitate their capture; consequently it was of the utmost importance to be far away before dawn.

The wind fortunately was blowing from the east. Whether they had been carried by the hurricane into the Gulf of Leao-Tong, the Gulf of Pe-Chi-Li, or even into the Yellow Sea, a westerly course must in any case take them toward the coast, where they had every chance of being picked up by some merchant vessel on its way to the mouth of the Pei-Ho, or by one of the fishing-boats plying day and night about the shore. If, on the contrary, the wind had come from the west, and the Sam-Yep had been driven south of Corea, Kin-Fo and his companions would have had no chance of rescue; they must either have been borne away on to the open sea, or floated ultimately on to the shores of Japan as lifeless corpses, which the dress they wore would not allow to sink.

It was now about ten o’clock. The moon would rise shortly before midnight, and there was no time to be lost. According to Craig and Fry’s directions, preparations were made for hoisting sail. The process was very simple. Each gutta-percha suit had a socket attached to the sole of the right foot, which was intended to hold the short pole that served for a mast. The party first of all stretched themselves on their backs, brought their foot within reach of their hands by bending the knee, and fixed the mast in its place, having previously attached the halyard of the little sail to its extremity. At a signal from Fry and Craig, each man simultaneously pulled at his halyard, and hoisted the upper corner of his triangular sail to the top of the mast. The halyards were then made fast to the metal waistbands, the sheets were held in the hand, and they all sailed off like a flotilla of “scaphanders,” an appellation to which they had more right than the submarine workmen to whom it is often improperly applied.

In the course of ten minutes they were able to steer with perfect ease and security; they kept equal pace with one another, and glided easily along the water like so many seagulls with their wings extended to the breeze. Their progress was greatly facilitated by the condition of the sea; not a wave disturbed the long quiet undulation of its surface, so that there was no splash or surf to inconvenience them.

Two or three times, Soun, forgetting Craig and Fry’s instructions, was foolish enough to turn his head, and in so doing swallowed several mouthfuls of salt water. Experience, however, soon taught him better. Still he could not overcome his dread of sharks. It was explained to him that he ran less risk in a horizontal than in a vertical position, since the formation of a shark’s jaw obliges it to turn over on to its back before seizing its prey, and consequently it is difficult for it to grasp a floating object; it was furthermore pointed out to him that these voracious brutes prefer inanimate bodies to those with any power of motion. Soun accordingly made up his mind not to keep still for a moment, and was all the happier for his efforts.

For about an hour the “scaphanders” sailed on. A shorter time would not have sufficed to carry them out of reach of the junk, a longer would have exhausted them; already their arms were getting weary with the strain put upon them by the tension of the sails.

Craig and Fry gave the signal for stopping. Instantly the sheets were loosened, and all, with the exception of Soun, who preferred remaining on the cautious side, resumed a perpendicular position.

“Five minutes’ rest, sir,” said Craig to Kin-Fo.

“And another glass of brandy,” said Fry.

Kin-Fo assented willingly to both propositions. A little stimulant was all they required at present; having dined shortly before leaving the junk, they could well afford to wait for food until the morning. Neither did they suffer at all from cold; the layer of air between their bodies and the water protected them from any chill, and their temperature had not abated a degree since they made their start.

Was the Sam-Yep still in sight? Fry carefully swept the eastern horizon with a night-glass that he drew from his bag, but no sign of her was visible against the dim background of the sky. The night was rather foggy; there were very few stars, and the planets looked almost like nebulae in the firmament. The waning moon, however, would not be long in rising, and would probably disperse the mist.

“The rascals are still asleep,” said Fry.

“They haven’t taken advantage of the breeze,” said Craig.

Kin-Fo, tightening his sheet, and spreading his sail to the wind, now professed himself ready to make another start, and accordingly they all resumed their course, the wind being not quite so strong as before.

As they were proceeding toward the west, they would be unable to observe the moon as she rose in the east; her light, however, would necessarily illuminate the opposite horizon, of which it was important for them to make a careful observation. If instead of a clearly defined circle between sea and sky, the line should be broken and refract the lunar rays, they might be certain that the shore was in sight; and as the coast was everywhere open and unbeaten by surf, a landing could be effected without danger in almost any part.

About twelve o’clock a faint light began to play upon the vapors overhead, a sign that the moon was rising above the water. Neither Kin-Fo nor his companions turned their heads. Again the breeze had freshened, and while it helped to disperse the fog, was carrying them along with considerable rapidity, so that quite a furrow of foam followed in their wake. The atmosphere became clearer and clearer; the constellations shone out more brightly, and the moon, changing from a coppery red to a silvery white, soon illumined the whole of the surrounding space.

All at once Craig uttered a loud oath.

“The junk!” he cried.

“Down with the sails!” exclaimed Fry.

In an instant the four sails were lowered, and the masts removed from their sockets. All the party resumed an upright position, and looked behind them. There, too truly, was the outline of the junk, with all sails spread, about a mile away.

Captain Yin, they did not doubt, had become aware of Kin-Fo’s escape, and had at once set out in pursuit. Unless the fugitives could contrive to avoid discovery on the bright surface of the water, in another quarter of an hour they would be in the hands of the captain and his accomplices.

“Heads down!” said Craig.

His order was understood. A little more air was ejected from the apparatus, and all four men sank until only their heads emerged from the waves. There they waited without a sound or a motion.

The junk was advancing rapidly, its upper sails casting great shadows on the sea. In five minutes’ time it was within half a mile of them, and they could see the sailors moving to and fro, and the captain at the helm. All at once a great shout was heard; a crowd of men had rushed upon the deck, and were apparently attacking the crew. The uproar was terrible; yells of rage and execration alternated with shrieks of agony and despair. Then all was still; the clamor was hushed; nothing was heard but a constant splash, splash, at the side of the junk, indicating that bodies were being thrown overboard.

After all, then, Captain Yin and his crew had not been in league with Lao-Shen and his troop; the poor fellows, on the contrary, had themselves been the victims of the band of rascals who had smuggled themselves on board with no other design than that of gaining possession of the junk. The pirates had, had no idea that Kin-Fo was a fellow-passenger, and were he discovered now, it was certain that neither he nor any of his companions could expect to find mercy at their hands.

The Sam-Yep continued her course. She was close upon them now, but by the happiest chance she cast upon them the shadow of her sails. For an instant they dived beneath the waves. When they rose again, the junk had passed, and they were safe.

A corpse that was floating by they recognized as that of Captain Yin, with a poignard in his side. For a time the ample folds of his garments sustained him upon the surface of the water. Then he sank, never to rise again.

Thus by a foul massacre had perished the genial, lighthearted commander of the Sam-Yep.

Ten minutes later the junk had disappeared in the west, and Kin-Fo, Craig, Fry, and Soun were all alone in the waste of water.

CHAPTER 19

A Tiger-Shark

In the course of three hours day began to break, and before it was quite light the junk was out of sight. Though sailing in the same direction, the “scaphanders” had of course been unable to keep pace with her, and she was already nine or ten miles away.

All danger from that quarter was therefore at an end; nevertheless the situation was not altogether satisfactory. Far as the eye could reach there was no indication of land, nor was there a single vessel of any kind in sight; whether they were in the Gulf of Pe-Chi-Li or in the Yellow Sea was still uncertain.

The direction taken by the junk, however, demonstrated that sooner or later land would be found toward the west, and, as a slight breeze still ruffled the waters, it was advisable to continue sailing that way.

It was now necessary to satisfy the cravings of hunger, which, after a ten hours’ fast, were very keen.

“We will make a good breakfast,” said Craig and Fry.

Kin-Fo gladly assented. Soun smacked his lips with delight, and for a time quite forgot his fear of being devoured.

The waterproof bag was again in requisition. Fry produced some bread and some excellent preserved meat, and the meal, though not as elaborate in its menu as an ordinary Chinese repast, was nevertheless most heartily enjoyed.

The bag contained provisions enough for one more day, by which time Craig and Fry said they might all hope to be on shore. Kin-Fo asked them what ground they had for such a hope? They replied that their good luck seemed to be returning to them; they were free of the dangerous junk, and never since they had, had the honor of attending Kin-Fo had they been in so secure a position as now.

“All the Tai-pings in the world, sir, could not reach you here,” said Craig.

“And considering that you are equivalent to two hundred thousand dollars, you float excellently well,” said Fry.

Kin-Fo smiled.

“It is all owing to you, gentlemen,” he said, “that I am afloat at all. Had it not been for you, I should have had the fate of poor Captain Yin.”

“And so should I,” echoed Soun, gulping down a huge mouthful of bread.

“You will not be the losers for your attention,” Kin-Fo continued; “I shall never forget how much I owe you.”

“You owe us nothing,” said Craig; “we are the servants of the Centenarian.”

“And our great hope is,” said Fry, “that the Centenarian will never owe anything to you.”

Whatever might be their motive, Kin-Fo could not be otherwise than touched by their zealous devotion.

“We will talk about this again,” said he, “when Lao-Shen has restored that unfortunate letter.”

Craig and Fry smiled significantly, but made no reply.

Presently, in fun, Kin-Fo asked Soun to bring him some tea.

“All right,” said Fry, before Soun had time to reply to his master’s joke.

Again opening his bag, he produced a little appliance which may well be reckoned an indispensable accompaniment to the Boyton apparatus, and which serves the double purpose of a lamp and a stove. It consisted simply of a tube five or six inches in length, furnished with a tap-top and bottom, the whole being inserted into a sheet of cork, like the floating thermometers used in public baths.

After placing it upon the surface of the water, Fry turned on the taps, one with each hand, and in an instant a flame started from the extremity of the funnel, sufficiently large to diffuse a perceptible heat.

“There’s your stove,” said Fry.

Soun could not believe his eyes.

“Why, you made fire out of water!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, he made it of water and phosphuret of calcium,” said Craig.

The instrument, in fact, was constructed so as to utilize a singular property of phosphuret of calcium, which in contact with water produces phosphuretted hydrogen. The gas burns spontaneously, and cannot be extinguished by either wind or rain. It is consequently employed now for lighting all the improved life-buoys, which immediately they touch the water, eject a long flame, by means of which any one who has fallen overboard by night is at once able to see the means thrown out for his rescue.

While the hydrogen was burning, Craig held over it a little saucepan, containing some fresh water which he had drawn from a little keg, also carried in the bag. As soon as the water was boiling, he poured it into a teapot, in which a few pinches of tea had already been placed. The whole party then partook of the decoction, and even Kin-Fo and Soun, although it was not brewed in Chinese fashion, had no fault to find with it. It formed, in fact, a most acceptable addition to the breakfast. All that they required now was some knowledge of their whereabouts. At no distant day a sextant and chronometer will unquestionably be added to the Boyton apparatus, and then shipwrecked mariners will no longer be at a loss to ascertain their position upon the ocean.

Thus refreshed the little party once again set sail. For hours the wind blew steadily, and they rarely had to use their paddles as rudders. The gentle gliding movement in a horizontal position had a tendency to make them sleepy; but under the circumstances sleep must not be thought of, and in order to resist it, Craig and Fry smoked cigars, after the fashion of dandies in a swimming bath.

Several times the “scaphanders” were startled by the gambols of some marine animals that put Soun into a great state of alarm; these were nothing more, however, than harmless porpoises, probably astonished at the strange beings whom they now saw for the first time invading their native element. In great herds, they darted along with the speed of arrows, their huge slimy bodies glistening like emeralds beneath the water; now and then leaping up some five or six feet into the air, and turning a somersault that displayed the remarkable suppleness of their muscles. So great was their speed, far surpassing that of the fleetest ships, that Kin-Fo, in spite of the jerks and plunges, would fain have been taken in tow by one of them.

Toward noon the wind lulled into short puffs, and finally dropped altogether. The little sails fell idly against the masts; no longer was there any tension upon the sheets, nor any furrow of foam left behind in the wake.

“This is bad,” said Craig.

“Very unfortunate,” assented Fry.

They all came to a standstill. The masts were taken from the sockets, the sails struck, and each member of the party, having placed himself in an upright position, examined the horizon.

It was still deserted. Not a sail nor a trail of smoke was in sight. A scorching sun had absorbed all vapor and rarefied the air. The water would not have been cold for the travelers, even had they not been protected by their double covering of gutta-percha.

Sanguine as Craig and Fry might be as to the final issue of events, they could scarcely fail to be somewhat uneasy now. They had no means of judging how far they had sailed in the course of the last sixteen hours, and the nonappearance of any coast or passing vessel became more and more inexplicable. Still, neither they nor Kin-Fo were the men to despair as long as hope remained, and as they had provisions enough for another day, and the weather showed no symptoms of growing stormy, they determined to make good use of their paddles, and to push on. The signal for starting was given, and now on their backs, now on their faces, they persevered in their westerly course.

Progress was far from rapid. To arms unaccustomed to the work, the manipulation of the paddles was very fatiguing. Poor Soun was full of complaints; and he lagged so much behind the others that they frequently had to wait until he caught them up. His master scolded, abused, and threatened him, but all in vain; Soun knew that his pigtail was safe in his gutta-percha cap; still, the fear of being left behind sufficed to prevent him from falling very far into the rear.

Toward two o’clock some sea-gulls were observed, and although these birds are often seen far out at sea, their appearance could not but be taken as an indication that land was most probably within an accessible distance.

An hour later they all got entangled in a bed of seaweed, from which they had considerable trouble to extricate themselves; they floundered about like fish in a drag-net, and were obliged to use knives to set themselves free. The result was a delay of about half an hour, and an outlay of strength which could ill be spared.

At four o’clock, greatly exhausted, they made another halt. A fresh breeze had sprung up, but unfortunately it was from the south. As they could not trim their sails, they were afraid to use them at all, lest they should be carried northward and lose the headway they had made toward the west.

The halt was rather long, for, besides resting their weary limbs, they were glad to recruit themselves again with their provisions; but the dinner was not so festive a meal as the breakfast had been. Matters did not look quite so promising now; night was coming on; the wind was increasing from the south, and no one knew precisely what to do.

Kin-Fo leaned in gloomy silence upon his paddle, his brows knit, but more with vexation than alarm. Soun kept on grumbling and whining, and began to sneeze as though he were attacked with influenza. Craig and Fry felt that something was expected of them, but were puzzled how to act.

By a happy chance, a solution came to their bewilderment. About five o’clock, pointing suddenly toward the south, they both exclaimed,

“A sail!”

Sure enough, about three miles to windward, a vessel was bearing down toward them, and, if she held her present course, would probably pass within a short distance of the spot where they were. Not a moment was to be lost in making their way toward her. The opportunity for deliverance must not be allowed to slip. Instantly the paddles were brought into use, and nearer and nearer drew the vessel in the freshening breeze. It was only a fishing-smack, but it indicated that the land could not be very far distant, for the Chinese fishermen rarely venture far out to sea.

Encouraging the others to follow, Kin-Fo paddled with all his might, darting over the surface of the water like a skiff; and Soun, in his eagerness not to be left behind, worked away so hard that he fairly outstripped his master.

Half a mile more, and they would be within earshot of the boat, even if they had not already been observed. The fear was, that the fishermen, when they saw such strange creatures in the water, might take to flight. Nevertheless the attempt to reach them must be made.

The distance to be accomplished was growing inconsiderable, when Soun, who was still in advance, gave a startling cry of terror:

“A shark! A shark!”

And it was no false alarm. About twenty paces ahead could be seen the fins of a tiger-shark, a voracious creature peculiar to these waters, and truly worthy of its name.

“Out with your knives!” shouted Craig and Fry.

The weapons, such as they were, were quickly produced. Soun, meantime, deeming prudence the better part of valor, had beat a hasty retreat behind the rest. The shark was rapidly bearing down upon them, and for an instant his huge body, all streaked and spotted with green, rose above the waters. It was at least sixteen feet in length, a truly hideous monster!

Turning half over on to its back, it was preparing to make a snap at Kin-Fo, who, quite calm and collected, planted his paddle on its back, and, with a vigorous thrust, sent himself flying far out of the way. Craig and Fry drew close up, ready either for attack or defense.

The shark dived for a second, and returned to the charge, its huge mouth bristling with four rows of cruel teeth. Kin-Fo attempted to repeat his former maneuver, but this time the paddle came in contact with the creature’s jaw, and was snapped off short. Half lying on its side, the shark was just rushing once more upon its prey, when the water became blood-red. Craig and Fry, with the long blades of their American knives, had succeeded in penetrating the tough skin of the brute. The hideous jaw opened and closed again with a terrible snap. The shark seemed in agonies, and began to lash the water with its formidable tail, one stroke catching Fry on his side, and dashing him ten feet away. Craig uttered a cry of pain, as if he had received the blow himself. But Fry was not hurt; his gutta-percha covering had protected him from injury, and he returned to the attack with redoubled vigor.

The shark turned and turned again. Kin-Fo had contrived to lodge the end of his broken paddle in the socket of its eye, and, at the risk of being cut in two, managed to hold it firmly there, while Craig and Fry endeavored to pierce the creature’s heart. Their attempt was evidently successful, for almost directly the shark, with one last struggle, sank beneath the bloody waters.

“Hurrah! Hurrah!” shouted Craig and Fry, brandishing their knives in triumph.

“Thanks! Thanks!” was all Kin-Fo could say.

“No thanks to us,” said Craig; “two hundred thousand dollars was too good a mouthful for that brute!”

Fry cordially assented.

And where, meantime, was Soun? The coward, making off as fast as his paddle would carry him, had got within three cables’ length of the fishing-boat; but his precaution was almost the means of his coming to grief.

The fishermen, perceiving what they supposed to be a strange animal in the water, prepared to catch it as they would a seal or a dolphin, and a long rope with a hook attached was thrown overboard. The hook caught Soun by the waist-belt, and slipping upward, made a rent in his gutta-percha jacket the whole length of his back. Sustained now only by his inflated leggings, he rolled right over with his head in the water, and his heels in the air.

Kin-Fo, Craig, and Fry had by this time reached the spot, and were calling out to the fishermen in good Chinese. Great was the alarm of the men on finding themselves accosted by what they supposed to be “talking seals.” Their first impulse was to set sail and make off, but Kin-Fo at last convinced them that he was a Chinaman like themselves, and he and the two Americans were taken on board.

Soun was then turned the right way up by means of a boat-hook, and one of the fishermen caught hold of his pigtail for the purpose of hauling him on to the boat. The pigtail came off bodily in the man’s hand, and down went Soun again into the water. The fishermen, by throwing a rope round his waist, succeeded, with considerable difficulty, in getting him into the boat.

Almost before he could get rid of the quantities of salt water that he had swallowed, Kin-Fo walked up to him, and said:

“Then that pigtail of yours was false, after all?”

“Ah, yes, sir,” replied Soun, “knowing your ways, I should never have ventured to enter your service with a real one.”

The tone in which he spoke was so irresistibly comical, that Kin-Fo burst into a fit of laughter, in which the others joined.

The fishermen were from Foo-Ning, and were now only about five miles from the very port to which Kin-Fo wanted to go.

Toward eight o’clock that evening, they were safely landed at Foo-Ning, and divesting themselves of their Boyton apparatus, once more resumed their ordinary appearance.

An original illustration

CONTENTS

BOOK ONE

THE DEMON OF CAWNPORE

CHAPTER I

“TWO THOUSAND POUNDS FOR A HEAD”

CHAPTER II

COLONEL MUNRO

CHAPTER III

THE SEPOY REVOLT

CHAPTER IV

DEEP IN THE CAVES OF ELLORA

CHAPTER V

THE IRON GIANT

CHAPTER VI

FIRST STAGES

CHAPTER VII

THE PILGRIMS OF THE PHALGOU RIVER

CHAPTER VIII

A FEW HOURS AT BENARES

CHAPTER IX

ALLAHABAD

CHAPTER X

VIA DOLOROSA

CHAPTER XI

THE MONSOON

CHAPTER XII

THREE-FOLD LIGHT

CHAPTER XIII

CAPTAIN HOOD’S PROWESS

CHAPTER XIV

ONE AGAINST THREE

CHAPTER XV

THE PAL OF TANDIT

CHAPTER XVI

ROVING FLAME

BOOK TWO

TIGERS AND TRAITORS

CHAPTER I

OUR SANITARIUM

CHAPTER II

MATHIAS VAN GUITT

CHAPTER III

THE KRAAL

CHAPTER IV

A QUEEN OF THE TERRAI

CHAPTER V

A NIGHT ATTACK

CHAPTER VI

MATHIAS VAN GUITT’S FAREWELL

CHAPTER VII

PASSAGE OF THE BETTWA

CHAPTER VIII

HOOD VERSUS BANKS

CHAPTER IX

A HUNDRED AGAINST ONE

CHAPTER X

LAKE PUTURIA

CHAPTER XI

FACE TO FACE

CHAPTER XII

AT THE CANNON’S MOUTH

CHAPTER XIII.

BEHEMOTH!

CHAPTER XIV

CAPTAIN HOOD’S FIFTIETH TIGER

The original frontispiece

BOOK ONE

THE DEMON OF CAWNPORE

CHAPTER I

“TWO THOUSAND POUNDS FOR A HEAD”

A REWARD of two thousand pounds will be paid to any one who will deliver up, dead or alive, one of the prime movers of the Sepoy revolt, at present known to be in the Bombay presidency, the Nabob Dandou Pant, commonly called…”

Such was the fragmentary notice read by the inhabitants of Aurangabad, on the evening of the 6th of March, 1867.

A copy of the placard had been recently affixed to the wall of a lonely and ruined bungalow on the banks of the Doudhma, and already the corner of the paper bearing the second name — a name execrated by some, secretly admired by others — was gone.

The name had been there, printed in large letters, but it was torn off by the hand of a solitary fakir who passed by that desolate spot. The name of the Governor of the Bombay presidency, countersigning that of the Viceroy of India, had also disappeared. What could have been the fakir’s motive in doing this?

By defacing the notice, did he hope that the rebel of 1857 would escape public prosecution, and the consequences of the steps taken to secure his arrest? Could he imagine that a notoriety so terrible as his would vanish with the fragments of this scrap of paper?

To suppose such a thing would have been madness. The notices were affixed in profusion to the walls of the houses, palaces, mosques, and hotels of Aurangabad. Besides which, a crier had gone through all the streets, reading in a loud voice the proclamation of the Viceroy. So that the inhabitants of the lowest quarters knew by this tine that a sum, amounting to a fortune, was promised to whomso—

ever would deliver up this Dandou Pant. The name, annihilated in one solitary instance, would, before twelve hours were over, be proclaimed throughout the province.

If, indeed, the report was correct that the Nabob had taken refuge in this part of Hindoostan, there could be no doubt that he would shortly fall into the hands of those strongly interested in his capture. Under what impulse, then, had the fakir defaced a placard of which thousands of copies had been circulated?

The impulse was doubtless one of anger, mingled perhaps with contempt; for he turned from the place with a scornful gesture, and entering the city was soon lost to view amid the swarming populace of its more crowded and disreputable quarter.

That portion of the Indian peninsula which lies between the Western Ghauts, and the Ghauts of the Bay of Bengal, is called the Deccan. It is the name commonly given to the southern part of India below the Ganges. The Deccan, of which the name in Sanscrit signifies “south,” contains a certain number of provinces in the presidencies of Bombay and Madras. Chief among these is the province of Aurangabad, the capital of which was, in former days, that of the entire Deccan.

In the seventeenth century the celebrated Mogul Emperor, Aurungzebe, established his court in the town of Aurangabad, known in the early history of India by the name of Kirkhi. It then contained one hundred thousand inhabitants. Now, in the hands of the English who rule it in the name of the Nizam of Hyderabad, there are not more than fifty thousand. Vet it is one of the most healthful cities of the peninsula, having hitherto escaped the scourge of Asiatic cholera, as well as the visitations of the fever epidemics so much to be dreaded in India.

Aurangabad possesses magnificent remains of its ancient splendor. Many artistic and richly ornamental buildings bear witness to the power and grandeur of the most illustrious of the conquerors of India, the renowned Aurungzebe, who raised this empire, increased by the addition of Cabul and Assam, to a marvellous height of prosperity.

The palace of the Great Mogul stands on the right bank of the Doudhma. The mausoleum of the favorite Sultana of the Shah Jahan, the father of Aurungzebe, is also a remarkable edifice; so likewise is the elegant mosque built in imitation of the Tadje at Agra, which rears its four minarets round a graceful swelling cupola.

Among the mixed and varied population of Aurangabad, such a man as the fakir above mentioned easily concealed himself from observation. Whether his character was real or assumed, he was in no respect to be distinguished from others of his class. Men like him abound in India, and form, with the sayeds, a body of religious mendicants, who, traveling through the country on foot or on horseback, ask alms, which, if not bestowed willingly, they demand as a right. They also play the part of voluntary martyrs, and are held in great reverence by the lower orders of the Hindoo people.

This particular fakir was a man of good height, being more than five feet nine inches. His age could not have been more than forty, and his countenance reminded one of the handsome Mahratta type, especially in the brilliancy of his keen black eyes; but it was difficult to trace the fine features of the race, disfigured and pitted as they were by the marks of smallpox. He was in the prime of life, and his figure was robust and supple. A close observer would have seen that he had lost one finger of his left hand. His hair was dyed a red color, and he went barefoot, wearing only a turban, and a scanty shirt or tunic of striped woolen stuff girded round his waist.

On his breast were represented in bright colors the emblems of the two principles of preservation and destruction taught by Hindoo mythology: the lion’s head of the fourth incarnation of Vishnu, the three eyes and the symbolic trident of the ferocious Siva.

There was great stir and commotion that evening in the streets of Aurangabad, especially in the lower quarters, where the populace swarmed outside the hovels in which they lived. Men, women, children; English soldiers, sepoys, beggars of all descriptions; peasants from the villages, met, talked, gesticulated, discussed the proclamation, and calculated the chances of winning the enormous reward offered by Government.

The excitement was as great as it could have been before the wheel of a lottery where the prize was 2,000/. In this case the fortunate ticket was the head of Dandou Pant,

and to obtain it a man must first have the good luck to fall in with the Nabob, and then the courage to seize him.

The fakir, apparently the only person unexcited by the hope of winning the prize, threaded his way among the eager groups, occasionally stopping and listening to what was said, as though he might hear something of use to him. He spoke to no one, but if his lips were silent his eyes and ears were on the alert.

“Two thousand pounds for finding the Nabob!” exclaimed one, raising his clenched hands to heaven.

“Not for finding him,” replied another, “but for catching him, which is a very different thing!”

“Well, to be sure, he is not a man to let himself be taken without a resolute struggle.”

“But surely it was said he died of fever in the jungles of Nepaul?”

“That story was quite untrue! The cunning fellow chose to pass for dead, that he might live in greater security!”

“The report was spread that he had been buried in the midst of his encampment on the frontier!”

“It was a false funeral, on purpose to deceive people.”

The fakir did not change a muscle of his countenance on hearing this latter assertion, which was made in a tone admitting of no doubt. But when one of the more excited of the group near which he was standing began to relate the following circumstantial details, his brows knit involuntarily as he listened.

“It is very certain,” said the speaker, “that in 1859 the Nabob took refuge with his brother, Balao Rao, and the ex-rajah of Gonda, Debi-Bux-Singh, in a camp at the foot of the mountains of Nepaul. There, finding themselves closely pressed by the British troops, they all three resolved to cross the Indo-Chinese frontier. Before doing so, they caused a report of their death to be circulated, in order to confirm which they went through the ceremony of actual funerals; but in fact only a finger from the left hand of each man had been really buried. These they cut off themselves when the rites were celebrated.”

“How do you know all this?” demanded one of the crowd of listeners.

“I myself was present,” answered the man. “The sol—

Biers of Dandou Pant had taken me prisoner. I only effected my escape six months afterward.”

While the Hindoo was speaking, the fakir never took his gaze off him. His eyes blazed like lightning. He kept his left hand under the ragged folds of his garment, and his lips quivered as they parted over his sharp-pointed teeth.

“So you have seen the Nabob?” inquired one of the audience.

“I have,” replied the former prisoner of Dandou Pant.

“And would know him for certain if accident were to bring you face to face with him?”

“Assuredly I would: I know him as well as I know myself.”

Then you have a good chance of gaining the 2,000!” returned his questioner, not without a touch of envy in his tone.

“Perhaps so,” replied the Hindoo, “if it be true that the Nabob has been so imprudent as to venture into the presidency of Bombay, which to me appears very unlikely.”

“What would be the reason of his venturing so far? What reason would induce him to dare so much?”

“No doubt he might hope to instigate a fresh rebellion, either among the sepoys or among the country populations of Central India.”

“Since Government asserts that he is known to be in the province,” said one of the speakers, who belonged to that class which takes for gospel everything stated by authority, “of course Government has reliable information on the subject.”

“Be it so!” responded the Hindoo; “only let it be the will of Brahma that Dandou Pant crosses my path, and my fortune is made!”

The fakir withdrew a few paces, but he did not lose sight of the ex-prisoner of the Nabob.

It was by this time dark night, but there was no diminution of the commotion in the streets of Aurangabad. Gossip about the Nabob circulated faster than ever. Here, people were saying that he had been seen in the town; there, that he was known to be at a great distance. A courier from the north was reported to have arrived, with news for the Governor, of his arrest. At nine o’clock the best informed asserted that he was already imprisoned in the town jail — in company with some Thugs who had been vegetating there for more than thirty years; that he was going to be hanged next day at sunrise without a trial, just like Tantia Topi, his celebrated comrade in revolt.

But by ten o’clock there was fresh news. The prisoner had escaped, and the hopes of those who coveted the reward revived. In reality all these reports were false. Those supposed to be the best informed knew no more than any one else. The Nabob’s head was safe. The prize was still to be won.

It was evident that the Indian who was acquainted with the person of Dandou Pant had a better chance of gaining the reward than any one else. Very few people, especially in the presidency of Bombay, had had occasion to meet with the savage leader of the great insurrection.

Farther to the north, or more in the center of the country — in Scinde, in Bundelkund, in Oude, near Agra, Delhi, Cawnpore, Lucknow, on the principal theater of the atrocities committed by his order — the population would have risen in a body, and delivered him over to British justice. The relatives of his victims — husbands, brothers, children, wives — still wept for those whom he had caused to be massacred by hundreds. Ten years had passed, but had not extinguished the righteous sentiments of horror and vengeance. It seemed, therefore, impossible that Dandou Pant should be so imprudent as to trust himself in districts where his name was held in execration.

If, then, he really had, as was supposed, recrossed the Indo-Chinese frontier — if some hidden motive, whether projects for new revolt or otherwise, had induced him to quit the secret asylum which had hitherto remained unknown even to the Anglo-Indian police — it was only in the provinces of the Deccan that he could expect an open course and a species of security. And we have seen that the Governor had, in point of fact, got wind of his appearance in the presidency, and instantly a price had been set on his head. Still it must be remarked that men of the upper ranks at Aurangabad — magistrates, military officers, and public functionaries — considerably doubted the truth of the information received by the Governor.

It had so often been reported that this man had been seen, and even captured! So much false intelligence had been circulated respecting him, that there began to be a kind of legendary belief in a gift of ubiquity possessed by him, to account for the skill with which he eluded the most able and active agents of the police. The population, however, made no doubt that the intelligence as to his appearance was reliable.

Among those now most convinced that the Nabob was to be found was, of course, his ex-prisoner. The poor wretch, allured by the hope of gain, and likewise animated by a spirit of personal revenge, began to set about the undertaking at once, and regarded his success as almost certain.

His plan was very simple. He proposed next day to offer his services to the Governor; then, after having learned exactly all that was known of Dandou Pant — that is to say, the particulars on which was founded the information referred to in the proclamation — he intended to make his way at once to the locality in which the Nabob was reported to have been seen.

About eleven o’clock at night the Indian began to think of retiring to take some repose. His only resting-place was a small boat moored by the banks of the Doudhma; and thither he directed his steps, his mind full of the various reports he had heard, as, with half-closed eyes and thoughtful brow, he revolved the project he had resolved to carry out.

Quite unknown to him the fakir dogged his steps; he followed noiselessly, and, keeping in the shadow, never for an instant lost sight of him. Toward the outskirts of this quarter of Aurangabad the streets became gradually deserted. The chief thoroughfare opened upon bare, unoccupied ground, one circuit of which skirted the stream of the Doudhma. The place was a kind of desert beyond the town, though within its walls a few passengers were hastily traversing it, evidently anxious to reach more frequented paths. The footsteps of the last died away in the distance, the Hindoo was now alone on the river’s bank.

The fakir was at no great distance, but concealed by trees, or beneath the somber walls of ruined habitations, which were scattered here and there. His precautions were needful. When the moon rose and shed uncertain rays athwart the gloom, the Hindoo might have seen that he was watched,

and even very closely followed. As to hearing the sound of the fakir’s tread, it was utterly impossible. Barefoot, he glided, rather than walked. Nothing revealed his presence on the banks of the Doudhma.

Five minutes passed. The Hindoo took his way mechanically toward his wretched boat, like a man accustomed to withdraw night after night to this desert place.

He was absorbed in the thought of the interview he meant to have next day with the Governor; while the hope of revenging himself on the Nabob — never remarkable for his tenderness toward his prisoners — united with a burning desire to obtain the reward, rendered him blind and deaf to everything around him; and though the fakir was gradually approaching him, he was totally unconscious of the danger in which his imprudent words had placed him.

Suddenly a man sprang upon him with a bound like that of a tiger! He seemed to grasp a lightning flash. It was the moonlight glancing on the blade of a Malay dagger!

The Hindoo, struck in the breast, fell heavily to the ground. The wound, inflicted by an unerring hand, was mortal; but a few inarticulate words escaped the unhappy man’s lips, with a torrent of blood. The assassin stooped, raised his victim, and supported him while he turned his own face to the full light of the moon.

“Dost know me?” he asked.

“It is he!” murmured the Indian; and the dreaded name would have been his last choking utterance, but his head fell back, and he expired. In another instant the corpse had disappeared beneath the waters of the Doudhma.

The fakir waited until the noise of the plunge had passed away; then, turning swiftly, he traversed the open ground, and passing along the now deserted streets and lanes, approached one of the city gates.

This gate was closed for the night just as he reached it, and a military guard occupied the post, to prevent either ingress or egress. The fakir could not leave Aurangabad, as he had intended to do. “Vet depart this night I must, if ever I am to do it alive!” muttered he.

He turned away, and followed the inner line of fortifications for some little distance; then, ascending the slope. reached the upper part of the rampart. The crest towered fifty feet above the level of the fosse which lay between the scarp and counterscarp, and was devoid of any salient points or projections which could have afforded support. It seemed quite impossible that any man could descend without a rope, and the cord he wore as a girdle was but a few feet in length. He paused, glanced keenly round, and considered what was to be done.

Great trees rise within the walls of Aurangabad, which seems set, in a verdant frame of foliage. The branches of these being long and flexible, it might be possible to cling to one, and at great risk, drop over the wall. No sooner did this idea occur to the fakir, than, without a moment’s hesitation, he plunged among the boughs, and soon reappeared outside the wall, holding a long pliable branch, which he grasped midway, and which gradually bent .beneath his weight.

When the branch rested on the edge of the wall, the fakir began to let himself slowly downward, as though he held a knotted rope in his hands. By this means he descended a considerable distance; but when close to the extremity of the bough, at least thirty feet still intervened between him and the ground. There he hung, swinging in the air by his outstretched arms, while his feet sought some crevice or rough stone for support.

A flash! — another! The report of musketry!

The sentries had perceived the fugitive and fired upon him. He was not hit, but a ball struck the branch which supported him, and splintered it.

In a few seconds it gave way, and down went the fakir into the fosse. Such a fearful fall would have killed another man — he was uninjured. To spring to his feet, dart up the slope of the counterscarp amid a storm of bullets — not one of which touched him — and vanish in the darkness, was “mere play to the agile fugitive.

At a distance of two miles he passed the cantonments of the English troops, quartered outside Aurangabad.

A couple of hundred paces beyond that he stopped, turned round, and stretching his mutilated hand toward the city, fiercely uttered these words: “Woe betide those who fall now into the power of Dandou Pant! Englishmen have not seen the last of Nana Sahib!”

Nana Sahib! This name, the most formidable to which the revolt of 1857 had given a horrid notoriety, was there once more flung like a haughty challenge at the conquerors of India.

CHAPTER II

COLONEL MUNRO

“MAUCLER, my dear fellow, you tell us nothing about your journey!” said my friend Banks, the engineer, to me. “One would suppose you had never got beyond your native Paris! What do you think of India?”

“Think of India! “I replied. “I really must see it before I can answer that question!”

“Well, that is good!” returned Banks. “Why, you have just traversed the entire peninsula from Bombay to Calcutta, and unless you are downright blind — “

“I am not blind, my dear Banks; but during that journey you speak of I was blinded.”

“Blinded?”

“Yes! quite blinded by smoke, steam, dust; and, above all, by the rapid motion. I don’t want to speak evil of railroads, Banks, since it is your business to make them; but let me ask whether you call it traveling to be jammed up in the compartment of a carriage, see no, farther than the glass of the windows on each side of you, tear along day and night, now over viaducts among the eagles and vultures, now through tunnels among moles and rats, stopping only at stations one exactly like another, seeing nothing of towns but the outside of their walls and the tops of their minarets, and all this amid an uproar of snorting engines, shrieking steam-whistles, grinding and grating of rails, varied by the mournful groans of the brake? Can you, I say, call this traveling so as to see a country?”

“Well done!” cried Captain Hood. “There, Banks! answer that if you can. What is your opinion, colonel? “The colonel, thus addressed, bent his head slightly, and merely said, “I am curious to know what reply Banks can make to our guest, Monsieur Maucler.”

“I reply without the slightest hesitation,” said the engineer, “that I quite agree with Maucler.”

“But then,” cried Captain Hood, “why do you construct these railroads at all?”

“To enable you to go from Calcutta to Bombay in sixty hours when you are in a hurry.”

“I am never in a hurry.”

“Ah, well then, you had better take to the great trunk road and walk!”

“That is exactly what I intend doing.”

“When?”

“When the colonel will agree to accompany me in a pretty little stroll of eight or nine hundred miles across the country!”

The colonel smiled, and without speaking again fell into one of the long reveries from which his most intimate friends, among whom were Captain Hood and Banks the engineer, found it difficult to rouse him.

I had arrived in India a month previously. Having journeyed by the Great Indian Peninsular Railway, which runs from Bombay to Calcutta, via Allahabad. I knew literally nothing of the country. But it was my purpose to travel through its northern districts beyond the Ganges, to visit its great cities, to examine and study the principal monuments of antiquity, and to devote to my explorations sufficient time to render them complete.

I had become acquainted with the engineer Banks in Paris. For some years we had been united by a friendship which only increased with greater intimacy. I had promised to visit him at Calcutta as soon as the completion of that part of the Scinde, Punjab, and Delhi Railroad, of which he was engineer, should set him at liberty.

The works being now at an end, Banks had some months’ leave, and I had come to propose that he should take rest by roaming over India with me! As a matter of course he had accepted my proposal with enthusiasm, and in a few weeks, when the season would be favorable, we were to set off.

On my arrival at Calcutta in the month of March, 1867, Banks had introduced me to one of his gallant comrades, Captain Hood, and afterward to his friend Colonel Munro, at whose house we were spending the evening. The colonel, at this time a man of about forty-seven, occupied a house in the European quarter; it stood somewhat apart, and consequently beyond the noise and stir of the great metropolis of India, which consists in fact of two cities, one native, the other foreign and commercial.

The colonel’s house was evidently that of a man in easy circumstances. There was a large staff of servants, such as is required in Anglo-Indian families: The furniture and every household arrangement was in the very best taste and style. In everything about the establishment might be traced the hand of an intelligent woman, whose thoughtful care must have originally planned the comforts and conveniences of the home, but at the same time one felt that this woman was there no longer.

The management of the household was conducted entirely by an old soldier of the colonel’s regiment, who acted as his steward or major-domo. Sergeant McNeil was a Scotchman, who had been with him in many campaigns, not merely in his military capacity, but as an attached and devoted personal attendant.

He was a man of five-and-forty or thereabouts, of tall and vigorous frame, and manly, well-bearded countenance. Although he had retired from the service when his colonel did, he continued to wear the uniform; and this national costume, together with his martial bearing, bespoke him at once the Highlander and the soldier.

Both had left the army in 1860. But instead of returning to the hills and glens of their native land, both had remained in India, and lived at Calcutta in a species of retirement and solitude, which requires to be explained.

When my friend Banks was about to introduce me to Colonel Munro, he gave me one piece of advice. “Make no allusion to the sepoy revolt,” he said: “and, above all, never mention the name of Nana Sahib.”

Colonel Edward Munro belonged to an old Scottish family, whose members had made their mark in the history of former days.

He was descended from that Sir Hector Munro who in 1760 commanded the army in Bengal, when a serious insurrection had to be quelled. This he effected with a stern and pitiless energy. In one day twenty-eight rebels were blown from the cannon’s mouth — a fearful sentence, many times afterward carried out during the mutiny of 1857.

At the period of that great revolt Colonel Munro was in command of the 93d Regiment of Highlanders, which he led during the campaign under Sir James Outram — one of the heroes of that war — of whom Sir Charles Napier spoke as “The Chevalier Bayard of the Indian Army.” Colonel Munro was with him at Cawnpore; and also in the second campaign, he was at the siege of Lucknow, and continued with Sir James until the latter was appointed a Member of the Council of India at Calcutta.

In 1858 Colonel Munro was made a Knight Commander of the Star of India, and was created a baronet. His beloved wife never bore the title of Lady Munro, for she perished at Cawnpore on the 27th of June, 1857, in the atrocious of — perpetrated by the orders and before the eyes of Nana Sahib.

Lady Munro (her friends always called her so) had been perfectly adored by her husband. She was scarcely seven-and-twenty at the time of her terrible death. Mrs. Orr and Miss Jackson, after the taking of Lucknow, were miraculously saved and restored to their husband and father. But to Colonel Munro nothing remained of his wife. She had disappeared with the two hundred victims in the well of Cawnpore.

Sir Edward, now a desperate man, had but one object remaining in life; it was to quench a burning thirst for vengeance — for justice. The discovery of Nana Sahib, for whom, by order of Government, search was being made in all directions, was his one great desire, his sole aim.

It was in order to be free to prosecute this search that he had retired from the army. Sergeant McNeil got his discharge at the same time, and faithfully followed his master. The two men were animated by one hope, lived in one thought, had but one end in view; and eagerly starting in pursuit, followed up one track after another, only to fail as completely as the Anglo-Indian police had done. The Nana escaped all their efforts.

After three years spent in fruitless attempts, the colonel and Sergeant McNeil suspended their exertions for a time.

Just then the report of Nana. Sahib’s death was current in India, and this time it seemed to be so well attested as to admit of no reasonable doubt.

Sir Edward Munro and McNeil returned to Calcutta, and established themselves in the lonely bungalow which has been described. There the colonel lived in retirement, never left home, read nothing which could contain any reference to the sanguinary time of the mutiny, and seemed to live but for the cherished memory of his wife. Time in no way mitigated his grief.

I learned these particulars from my friend Banks, on our way to the house of mourning, as Sir Edward’s bungalow might be called. It was very evident why he had warned me against making any allusion to the sepoy revolt and its cruel chief.

It must be noted that a report of Nana’s reappearance in Bombay, which had for some days been circulating, had not reached him. Had it done so, he would have been on the move at once.

Banks and Captain Hood were tried friends of the colonel’s, and they were his only constant visitors.

The former, as I have said, had recently completed the works he had in charge, on the Great Indian Peninsular Railway. He was a man in the prime of life, and was now appointed to take an active part in constructing the Madras Railway, designed to connect the Arabian Sea with the Bay of Bengal, but which was not to be commenced for a year. He was just now on leave at Calcutta, occupied with many mechanical projects, for his mind was active and fertile, incessantly devising some novel invention. His spare time he devoted to the colonel, whose fast friend he had been for twenty years. Thus most of his evenings were spent in the veranda of the bungalow. There he usually met Captain Hood, who belonged to the first squadron of Carabineers, and had served in the campaign of 1857-58 first under Sir John Campbell in Oude and Rohilkund, and afterward in Central India, under Sir Hugh Rose, during the campaign which terminated in the taking of Gwalior.

Hood was not more than thirty; he had spent most of his life in India, and was a distinguished member of the Madras Club. His hair and beard were auburn, and he belonged to an English regiment; otherwise he was thoroughly “Indianized,” and loved the country as if it had been his by birth. He thought India the only place worth living in. And there, certainly, all his tastes were gratified. A soldier by nature and temperament, opportunities for fighting were of constant recurrence. An enthusiastic sportsman, was he not in a land where nature had collected together all the wild animals in creation, all the furred and feathered game of either hemisphere? A determined mountaineer, the magnificent ranges of Thibet offered him the ascent of the loftiest summits on the globe.

An intrepid traveler, what debarred him from setting foot on the hitherto untrodden regions of the Himalayan frontier? Madly fond of horse-racing, the race-courses of India appeared to him fully as important as those of Newmarket or Epsom.

On this latter subject Banks and Hood were quite at variance. The engineer took very little interest in the turfy triumphs of “Gladiator “and Co.

One day, when Hood had been urging him to express some opinion on the point, Banks said that to his mind races could never be really exciting but on one condition.

“And what is that?” demanded Hood.

“It should be clearly understood,” returned Banks quite seriously, “that the jockey last at the winning-post is to be shot in his saddle.”

“Ah! not a bad idea!” exclaimed Hood, very simply. Nor would he have hesitated to run the chance himself.

Such were Sir Edward Munro’s two constant visitors, and without joining in their conversations he liked to listen to them. Their perpetual discussions and disputes on all sorts of subjects, often brought a smile to his lips.

One wish and desire these two brave fellows had in common. And that was to induce the colonel to join them in making a journey, and so to vary the melancholy tenor of his thoughts. Several times they had tried to persuade him to go to places frequented during the hot season by the rich dwellers in Calcutta.

The colonel was immovable.

He had heard of the journey which Banks and I proposed to take. This evening the subject was resumed. Captain Hood’s idea was a vast walking-tour in the north of India. He objected to railroads, as Banks did to horses. The middle course proposed was to travel either in carriages or in palanquins — easy enough on the great thoroughfares of Hindoostan.

“Don’t tell me about your bullock-wagons and your humped-zebu carriages!” cried Banks. “I believe if you had your way without us engineers, you would still go about in primitive vehicles such as were discarded in Europe five hundred years ago.”

“I’m sure they are far more comfortable than some of your contrivances, Banks. And think of those splendid white bullocks! why, they keep up a gallop admirably, and you find relays at every two leagues — “

“Yes; and they drag a machine on four wheels after them, in which one is tossed and pitched worse than in a boat at sea in a storm.”

“Well, I can’t say much for these conveyances, certainly,” answered Hood. “But have we not capital carriages for two, three, or four horses, which in speed can rival some of your trains? For my part, give me a palanquin rather than a train.”

“A palanquin, Hood! Call it a coffin — a bier — where you are laid out like a corpse!”

“That’s all very well, but at least you are not rattled and shaken about. In a palanquin you may write, read, or sleep at your ease, without being roused up for your ticket at every station. A palanquin carried by four or six Bengalee gamals (bearers) will take you at the rate of four-and-half miles an hour, and ever so much safer, too, than your merciless express trains!”

“The best plan of all,” said I, “would certainly be to carry one’s house with one.”

“Oh, you snail!” cried Banks.

“My friend,” replied I, “a snail who could leave his shell, and return to it at pleasure, would not be badly off. To travel in one’s own house, a rolling house, will probably be the climax of inventions in the matter of journeying!”

“Perhaps it will,” said Colonel Munro, who had not yet spoken. “If the scene could be changed without leaving home and all its associations, if the horizon, points of view, atmosphere, and climate could be varied while one’s daily life went on as usual — yes, perhaps — “

“No more traveler’s bungalows,” said Hood, “where comfort is unknown, although for stopping there you require a leave from the local magistrate.”

“No more detestable inns, in which one is fleeced morally and physically!” said I.

“What a vision of delight!” cried Captain Hood. “Fancy stopping when you please, setting off when you feel inclined, going at a foot’s pace when disposed to linger, racing away at a gallop the instant the humor strikes you! Then to carry with you not only a bedroom, but drawing and dining and smoking rooms! and a kitchen! and a cook! That would be something like progress, indeed, Banks! and a hundred times better than railways. Contradict me if you dare!”

“Far from contradicting, I should entirely agree with you, if only you carried your notion of improvement far enough.”

“What? do you mean to say better still might be done?”

“Listen, and judge for yourself. You consider that a moving house would be superior to a carriage — to a saloon-carriage — even to a sleeping-car on a railroad. And supposing one traveled for pleasure only, and not on business, you are right; I suppose we are agreed as to that?”

“Yes,” said I, “we all think so; “and Colonel Munro made a sign of acquiescence.

“Well,’ continued Banks. “Now let us proceed. You give your orders to your coach-builder and architect combined, who turns you out a perfect realization of the idea, and there you have your rolling house, answering in every way to your requirements, replete with every convenience and comfort; not so high as to make one fear a somersault, not so broad as to suggest the possibility of sticking in a narrow road; well hung — in short, perfection. Let us suppose it has been built for our friend Colonel Munro; he invites us to share his hospitality, and proposes to visit the northern parts of India — like snails if you please, but snails who are not glued by the tail to their shells. All is prepared — nothing forgotten, not even the precious cook and kitchen so dear to our friend Hood. The day for starting comes! All right! Holloa! who is to draw your house, my good friend?”

“Draw it?” cried Hood; “why mules, asses, horses, bullocks!”

“In dozens?” said Banks.

“Ah! let’s see; elephants, of course — elephants! It would be something superb, majestic, to see a house drawn by a team of elephants, well-matched, and with splendid action.

Can you conceive a more lordly and magnificent style of progression? Would it not be glorious?”

“Well — yes — but — “

“But! still another of your buts.’”

“And a very big but ‘ it is.”

“Bother you engineers! you are good for nothing but to discover difficulties.”

“And to surmount them when not insurmountable,” replied Banks quietly.

“Well then, surmount this one.”

“I will — and in this way. My dear Munro, Captain Hood offers us a large choice of motive power, but none which is incapable of fatigue, none which will not on occasion prove restive or obstinate, and above all, require to eat. It follows that the traveling house we speak of is quite impracticable unless it can be a steam house.”

“And run upon rails, of course! I thought so!” cried the captain, shrugging his shoulders.

“No, upon roads,” returned Banks; “drawn by a first-rate traction engine.”

“Bravo!” shouted Hood, “bravo! Provided the house need not follow your imperious lines of rails, I agree to the steam.”

“But,” said I to Banks, “an engine requires food as much as mules, asses, horses, bullocks, or elephants do, and for want of it will come to a standstill.”

“A steam horse,” replied he, “is equal in strength to several real horses, and the power may be indefinitely increased. The steam horse is subject neither to fatigue nor to sickness. In all latitudes, through all weathers, in sunshine, rain, or snow, he continues his unwearied course. He fears not the attack of wild beasts, the bite of serpents, nor the stings of venomous insects. Desiring neither rest nor sleep, he needs no whip, spur, or goad. The steam horse, provided only he is not required at last to be cooked for dinner, is superior to every draught animal which Providence has placed at the disposal of mankind. All he consumes is a little oil or grease, a little coal or wood; and you know, my friends, that forests are not scarce in our Indian Peninsula, and the wood belongs to everybody.”

“Well said!” exclaimed Captain Hood. “Hurrah for the steam horse! I can almost fancy I see the traveling house, invented by Banks the great engineer, traveling the highways and byways of India, penetrating jungles, plunging through forests, venturing even into the haunts of lions, tigers, bears, panthers, and leopards, while we, safe within its walls, are dealing destruction on all and sundry! Ah, Banks, it makes my mouth water! I wish I wasn’t going to be born for another fifty years!”

“Why not, my dear fellow?”

“Because fifty years hence your dream will come true; we shall have the steam house.”

“It is ready now,” said Banks simply. “Ready! Who has made one? Have you?”

“I have; and to tell you the truth, I rather expect it will even surpass your visionary hopes.”

“My dear Banks, let’s be off at once!” cried Hood, as if he had received an electric shock.

The engineer begged him to be calm, and turning to Sir Edward Munro, addressed him in an earnest tone.

“Edward,” said he, “if I place a steam house at your command — if a month hence, when the season will be suitable, I come and tell you that your rooms are prepared, and that you can occupy them and go wherever you like, while your friends Maucler, Hood, and I are ready and willing to accompany you on an excursion to the north of India — will you answer me, ‘ Let us start, Banks, let us start; and the God of the traveler be our speed ‘?”

“Yes, my friends,” replied Colonel Munro, after a few moments’ reflection. “Yes, I agree. I place at your disposal, Banks, the requisite funds. Keep your promise. Bring to us this ideal of a steam house, which is to surpass even Hood’s imagination, and we will travel over all India.”

“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” shouted Captain Hood. “Now for wild sports on the frontiers of Nepaul!”

At this moment Sergeant McNeil, attracted by the captain’s ringing cheers, appeared at the entrance to the veranda.

“McNeil,” said Colonel Munro, “we start in a month for the north of India. Will you go?”

“Certainly, colonel, if you do,” he replied.

CHAPTER III

THE SEPOY REVOLT

SOME account must now be given of the state of India at the period when the events of this story took place, and especially it will be necessary to relate the chief circumstances connected with the formidable revolt of the sepoys.

The Honorable East India Company, called sometimes by the nickname of “John Company,” was founded in 1600, in the reign of Elizabeth, in the midst of a population of two hundred millions, inhabiting the sacred land of Aryavarta.

Their first title was merely “The Governor and Company of Merchants of London trading to the East Indies,” and at their head was placed the Duke of Cumberland.

About this time the power of the Portuguese, which till then had been very great in the Indies, began to diminish. Of this the English immediately took advantage, and made their first attempt at a political and military administration in the presidency of Bengal, its capital, Calcutta, becoming the center of the new government.

A French Company was founded about the same period, under the patronage of Colbert, and the conflicting interests of the rival companies gave rise to endless contentions, in which, a century later, the names of Dupleix, Labourdonnais, and Count de Lally, are distinguished both in successes and reverses. The French were finally compelled to abandon the Carnatic, that portion of the peninsula which comprehends a part of its eastern coast.

Lord Clive’s brilliant successes having assured the English power in Bengal, Warren Hastings consolidated the empire Clive had founded, and from that time war and conquest went on, till England became master of that vast empire which has been described as “not less splendid and more durable than that of Alexander.”

The Company, however, till then all powerful, began to lose its authority, and in 1784 a bill was passed placing it under the control of Government. In 1813 it lost the monopoly of trading to India, and in 1833 the right of trading to China.

Since the establishment of a military force in India, the 134

army had always been composed of two distinct contingents, European and native. The first consisted of British cavalry and infantry regiments, and European infantry in service of the Company; the second, of native regulars, commanded by English officers. There was also artillery, which belonged to the Company, and was European with the exception of a few batteries.

When Lord William Bentinck was made Governor of Madras, he introduced some reforms which highly offended the native troops. The sepoys were required to clip their mustaches, shave their chins, and were forbidden to wear their marks of caste. A new regulation turban was also ordered for them. Incited by the sons of Tippoo Sahib, this was made the excuse for an outbreak, in which the garrison at Vellore rose against and massacred their officers and about a hundred English soldiers, even the sick in the hospital being butchered.

The English troops quartered at Arcot fortunately arrived in time to stem that rebellion. This, however, showed that a slight cause would at any moment set the natives against their conquerors, and in 1857 imminent peril threatened this Eastern Empire.

The Mohammedans of both sects longed to set themselves free from the British yoke, but could not hope to do so while the Hindoo soldiery remained true to their salt. Unhappily the spark that was needed to inflame their passions was not long in being supplied. A suspicion had seized the Hindoo mind that their religion and caste were in danger; that the English had determined that all the natives should become Christians. They believed that the cartridges for their new Enfield rifles were purposely greased with pig’s fat, so that when they bit off the ends they would be defiled, lose caste, and be compelled to embrace the Christian religion.

Now, in a country where the population renounces even the use of soap, because the fat of either a sacred or unclean animal may enter into its composition, it was found very difficult to enforce the use of cartridges prepared with this substance, especially as they had to be touched with the lips. The Government yielded in some degree to the outcry which was made; but it was quite in vain to modify the drill with the rifles, or to assert that the fats in question took no part in the manufacture of the cartridges. Not a sepoy in the army could be reassured or persuaded to the contrary.

At this time Lord Canning was at the head of the administration as governor-general. Perhaps this statesman deluded himself as to the extent of the movement. For some years past the star of the United Kingdom had been growing visibly dimmer in the Hindoo sky. In 1842 the retreat from Cabul had diminished the prestige of the European conquerors. The attitude of the English army during the Crimean war had not in some instances been such as to sustain its military reputation. The sepoys, therefore, who were well acquainted with all that was happening on the shores of the Black Sea, thought the time had come when a revolt of the native troops would probably be successful. Their minds, already well prepared, were inflamed and excited by the bards, brahmins, and moulvis, who stirred them up by songs and exhortations.

At the beginning of the year 1857, while the contingent of the British army was reduced owing to exterior complications, Nana Sahib, otherwise called Dandou Pant, who had been residing near Cawnpore, had gone to Delhi, and twice to Lucknow, no doubt with the object of provoking the rising, prepared so long ago, for, in fact, very shortly after the departure of the Nana, the insurrection was declared.

On the 24th of February, at Berampore, the 34th regiment refused the cartridges. In the middle of the month of March an adjutant was massacred, and the regiment being disbanded after the punishment of the assassins, carried into the neighboring provinces most active elements of revolt.

On the 10th of May, at Meerut, a little to the north of Delhi, the 3 d, 11th, and 20th regiments mutinied, killed their colonels and several staff officers, gave up the town to pillage, and then fell back on Delhi. Here the rajah, a descendant of Timour, joined them. The arsenal fell into their power, and the officers of the 54th regiment were slaughtered. On the 11th of May, at Delhi, Major Fraser and his officers were pitilessly massacred by the mutineers of Meerut, in the very palace of the European commandant; and on the 16th of May forty-nine prisoners, men, women, and children, fell under the hatchets of the assassins. On the 20th of May, the 26th regiment, cantoned near Lahore, killed the commandant of the fort and the European sergeant-major.

The impulse once given to these frightful butcheries, it was impossible to stop them. On the 28th of May, at Nourabad, many Anglo-Indian officers fell victims. The brigadier commandant, with his aide-de-camp, and many other officers, were murdered in the cantonments of Lucknow on the 30th of May. On the 31st of May, at Bareilly, in the Rohilkund, several officers were surprised and massacred, without having time to defend themselves. At Shahjahanpore, on the same date, were assassinated the collector and a number of officers by the sepoys of the 38th regiment; and the next day, beyond Barwar, many officers, women, and children, who were en route for the station of Sivapore, a mile from Aurungabad, fell victims.

In the first days of June, at Bhopal, were massacred a part of the European population; and at Jansi, under the inspiration of the terrible dispossessed Rani, all the women and children who took refuge in the fort were slaughtered with unexampled refinement of cruelty. At Allahabad, on the 6th of June, eight young ensigns fell by the sepoys’ hands. On the 14th of June, two native regiments revolted at Gwalior, and assassinated their officers.

On the 27th of June, at Cawnpore, expired the first hecatomb of victims, of every age and sex, all shot or drowned — a prelude to the fearful drama which was to take place there a few weeks later. On the 1st of July, at Holkar, thirty-four Europeans — officers, women, and children — were massacred, and the town pillaged and burned; and on the same day, at Ugow, the colonel and adjutant of the 23d regiment were slain.

The second massacre at Cawnpore was on the 15th of July. On that day several hundred women and children — among them Lady Munro — were butchered with unequaled cruelty by the order of Nana himself, who called to his aid the Mussulman butchers from the slaughter-houses. This atrocious act, and how the bodies were afterward thrown down a well, is too well known to need further description.

On the 26th of September, in Lucknow, many were half cut to pieces, and then thrown still living into the flames. Besides these, in all the towns, and throughout the whole country, there were isolated murders, which altogether gave to this mutiny a horrible character of atrocity.

To these butcheries the English generals soon replied by reprisals — necessary, no doubt, since they did much to inspire terror of the British name among the insurgents — but which were truly frightful. At the beginning of the insurrection, at Lahore, Chief Justice Montgomery and Brigadier Corbett had managed to disarm, without bloodshed, the 8th, 16th, 26th, and 49th native regiments. At Moultan the 62d and 29th regiments were also forced to surrender their arms, without being able to attempt any serious resistance. The same thing was done at Peshawar to the 24th, 27th, and 51st regiments, who were disarmed by Brigadier S. Colton and Colonel Nicholson, just as the rebellion was about to burst. But the native officers of the 51st regiment having fled to the mountains, a price was set on their heads, and all were soon brought back by the hillmen. This was the beginning of the reprisals.

A column, commanded by Colonel Nicholson, attacked a native regiment, which was marching toward Delhi. The mutineers were soon defeated and dispersed, and one hundred and twenty prisoners brought to Peshawar. All were indiscriminately condemned to death; but one out of three only were really executed. Ten cannon were placed on the drilling-ground, a prisoner fastened to each of their mouths, and five times were the ten guns fired covering the plain with mutilated remains, in the midst of air tainted with the smell of burning flesh.

These men, as M. de Valbezen says in his book called “Nouvelles Etudes sur les Anglais et l’Inde,” nearly all died with that heroic indifference which Indians know so well how to preserve even in the very face of death. “No need to bind me, captain,” said a fine young sepoy, twenty years of age, to one of the officers present at the execution; and as he spoke he carelessly stroked the instrument of death. “No need to bind me; I have no wish to run away.” Such was the first and horrible execution, which was to be followed by so many others.

At the same time Brigadier Chamberlain published the following order to the native troops at Lahore, after the execution of two sepoys of the 55th regiment: “You have just seen two of your comrades bound to the cannon’s mouth and blown to pieces; this will be the punishment of all traitors. Your conscience will tell you what penalties they will undergo in the other world. These two soldiers have been shot rather than hung on the gallows, because I wished to spare them the pollution of the executioner’s touch, and prove thus that the Government, even at this crisis, wishes to avoid everything that would do the least injury to your prejudices of religion and caste.”

On the 30th of July, 1,237 prisoners fell successively before firing platoons, and fifty others only escaped to die of hunger and suffocation in the prisons in which they were shut up. On the 28th of August, of 870 sepoys who fled from Lahore, 659 were pitilessly massacred by the soldiers of the British army.

After the taking of Delhi, on the 23 d of September, three princes of the king’s family, the heir presumptive and his two cousins, surrendered unconditionally to Major Hodson, who brought them, with an escort of five men only, into the midst of a menacing crowd of 5,000 Hindoosone against 1,000. And yet, halfway through, Hodson stopped the cart which contained his prisoners, got into it, ordered them to lay bare their breasts, and then shot them all three with his revolver. “This bloody execution, by the hand of an English officer,” says M. de Valbezen, “excited the highest admiration throughout the Punjab.”

After the capture of Delhi, 3,000 prisoners perished by shot or on the gallows, and with them twenty-nine members of the royal family. The siege of Delhi, it is true, had cost the besiegers 2,151 Europeans, and 1,686 natives. At Allahabad horrible slaughter was made, not among the sepoys, but in the ranks of the humble population, whom the fanatics had almost unconsciously enticed to pillage. At Lucknow, on the 16th of November, 2,000 sepoys were shot at the Sikander Bagh, and a space of 120 square yards was strewed with their dead bodies.

At Cawnpore, after the massacre, Colonel Neil obliged the condemned men, before giving them over to the gallows, to lick and clean with their tongues, in proportion to their rank of caste, each spot of blood remaining in the house in which the victims had perished. To the Hindoos this was preceding death with dishonor.

During the expedition into Central India executions were continual, and under the fire of musketry “walls of human flesh fell and perished on the earth! “On the 9th of March, 1858, during the attack on the Yellow House, at the time of the second siege of Lucknow, after the decimation of the sepoys, it appears certain that one of these unfortunate men was roasted alive by the Sikhs, under the very eyes of the English officers! On the 11th, the moats of the Begum’s palace at Lucknow were filled with sepoys’ bodies; for the English could not restrain the rage that possessed them. In twelve days 3,000 natives were slain, either hung or shot, including among them 380 fugitives on the island of Hydasspes, who were escaping into Cashmere.

In short, without counting the sepoys who were killed under arms during this merciless repression — in which no prisoners were made — in the Punjab only not less than 628 natives were shot or bound to the cannon’s mouth by order of the military authorities, 1,370 by order of the civil authority, 386 hung by order of both.

At the beginning of the year 1859 it was estimated that more than 120,000 native officers and soldiers had perished, and more than 200,000 civilian natives, who paid with their lives for their participation — often doubtful — in this insurrection. Terrible reprisals these! and perhaps, on that occasion, Mr. Gladstone had some reason on his side when he protested so energetically against them in Parliament.

It was important, for the better understanding of our story, that the death-list on both sides should be given as above, to make the reader comprehend the unsatiated hatred which still remained in the hearts of the conquered, thirsting for vengeance, as well as in those of the conquerors, who, ten years afterward, were still mourning the victims of Cawnpore and Lucknow.

As to the purely military facts of the campaign against the rebels, they comprised the following expeditions, which may be summarily mentioned.

To begin with, Sir John Lawrence lost his life in the first Punjab campaign. Then came the siege of Delhi (that central point of the insurrection), reenforced by thousands of fugitives, and in which Mohammed Shah Bahadour was proclaimed Emperor of Hindoostan. “Finish up Delhi!” was the impatient order of the governor-general in his last dispatch to the commander-in-chief; and the siege, begun on the night of the 13th of June, was ended on the 19th of September, after costing the lives of Generals Sir Harry Barnard and John Nicholson.

At the same time, after Nana Sahib had had himself declared Peishwar, and been crowned at the castle fort of Bhitoor, General Havelock effected his march on Cawnpore. He entered it the 17th of July, though too late to prevent the second massacre, or to seize the Nana, who managed to escape with 5,000 men and forty pieces of cannon.

Havelock then undertook a first campaign in the kingdom of Oude, and on the 28th of July he crossed the Ganges with 1,700 men and ten cannon only, and proceeded toward Lucknow.

Sir Colin Campbell and Major-General Sir James Outram now appeared on the scene. The siege of Lucknow lasted eighty-seven days, and during it Sir Henry Lawrence and General Havelock lost their lives. Then Sir Colin Campbell, after having been obliged to retire on Cawnpore, of which he took definite possession, prepared for a second campaign.

During this time other troops captured Mohir, a town of Central India, and made an expedition across the Mulwa, which established the British authority in that kingdom.

At the commencement of the year 1858 Campbell and Outram again marched on Lucknow, with four divisions of infantry, commanded by Major-Generals Sir James Outram and Sir Edward Lugard, and Brigadiers Walpole and Franks. Sir Hope Grant led the cavalry, while Wilson and Robert Napier had other commands, the army consisting of about 25,000 men, which were joined by the Maharajah of Nepaul with 12,000 Ghoorkas. But the rebel army numbered not less than 120,000 men, and the town of Lucknow contained from 700,000 to 800,000 inhabitants. The first attack was made on the 6th of March.

On the 16th, after a series of combats the English got possession of that part of the town situated on the left bank of the Goomtee. Moos-a-bagh was cannonaded and captured by Sir James Outram and Sir Hope Grant on the 19th; and on the 21st, after a fierce struggle the English took final possession of the city.

In the month of April an expedition was made into Rohilkund, as a great number of the fugitive insurgents were there. Bareilly, the capital of that kingdom, was the first object of the English, who were not at the outset very fortunate, as they suffered a sort of defeat at Jugdespore. Here also Brigadier Adrian Hope was killed. But toward the end of the month Campbell arrived, retook Shahjahanpore, and on the 5th of May, attacking Bareilly, he seized it, without having been able to prevent the rebels evacuating it.

The Central India Field Force, under the command of Sir Hugh Rose, performed many gallant achievements. This general, in January, 1858, marched through the kingdom of Bhopal and relieved the town of Saugor on the 3 d of February, which had been closely besieged since July, 1857.

Ten days after he took the fort of Gurakota, forced the defiles of the Vindhya chain, crossed the Betwa, and arrived before Jhansi, defended by 11,000 rebels, under the command of the savage Amazon Ranee; invested this place on the 22d of March, in the midst of intense heat, detached 2,000 men from the besieging army to meet 20,000 men from Gwalior, led by the famous Tantia Topee, put this chief to the rout, and then assaulted the town on the 22d of April, forced the walls, and seized the citadel, from which the Ranee managed to escape. On the 23 d of May the British advanced on Calpee, and occupied it. The Ranee and Tantia Topee having taken possession of Gwalior, Sir Hugh Rose advanced upon that place; an action took place at Morar on the 16th of June, and on the 19th another fierce contest, in which the rebels were completely put to the rout, and the Central India Field Force returned to Bombay in triumph.

The Ranee was killed in a hand-to-hand fight before Gwalior. This famous queen, who was devoted to the Nabob, and was his most faithful companion during the insurrection, fell by the hand of Sir Edward Munro. Nana Sahib, by the dead body of Lady Munro at Cawnpore, the colonel, by the dead body of the Ranee at Gwalior, represent the revolt and the suppression, and were thus made enemies whose hatred would find terrible vent if they ever met face to face!

The insurrection might now be considered to be quelled, except in a few places in the kingdom of Oude. Campbell resumed the campaign on the 2d of November, seized the last of the rebel places, and compelled several important chiefs to submit themselves. One of them, however, Beni Madho, was not taken. In December it was learned that he had taken refuge in a neighboring district of Nepaul. It was said that Nana Sahib, Balao Rao his brother, and the Begum of Oude, were with him. Later it was reported that they had sought refuge across the Raptee, on the boundaries of the kingdoms of Nepaul and Oude. Campbell pressed rapidly on, but they had crossed the frontier. In the beginning of February, 1859, an English brigade, one of the regiments being under command of Colonel Munro, pursued them into Nepaul. Beni Madho was killed, the Begum of Oude and her son were made prisoners, and obtained permission to reside in the capital of Nepaul. As to Nana Sahib and Balao Rao, though for long they were thought to be dead, yet such was not the case.

Thus the terrible insurrection was crushed. Tantia Topee, betrayed by his lieutenant Man-Singh, and condemned to death, was executed on the 15th of April at Sipree. This rebel, “this truly remarkable actor in the great drama of the Indian insurrection,” says M. de Valbezen, “one who gave proofs of a political genius full of resources and daring,” died courageously on the scaffold.

This sepoy mutiny, which might perhaps have lost India to the English if it had extended all over the peninsula, and especially if the rising had been national, caused the downfall of the Honorable East India Company. On the 1st of November, 1858, a proclamation, published in twenty languages, announced that Victoria, Queen of England, would wield the scepter of India — that country of which, some years later, she was to be crowned Empress.

The governor, now called Viceroy, a Secretary of State, and fifteen members, composed the supreme government. The governors of the presidencies of Madras and Bombay were henceforward to be nominated by the queen; the members of the Indian service and the commanders-in-chief to be chosen by the Secretary of State. Such were the principal arrangements of the new government.

As to the military force, the English army contained seventeen thousand more men than before the sepoy mutiny. The army in 1867 numbered 64,902 European officers and men, and 125,246 native. Such was the actual state of the peninsula from an administrative and military point of view; such the effective force which guarded a territory of 400,000 square miles.

“The English,” says M. Grandidier, “have been fortunate in finding in this large and magnificent country a gentle, industrious, and civilized people, who for long have been accustomed to a yoke. But they must be careful; gentleness has its limits, and the yoke should not be allowed to bruise their necks, or they may one day rebel and cast it off.”

CHAPTER IV

DEEP IN THE CAVES OF ELLORA

it was but too true. The Mahratta prince, Dandou Pant, adopted son of Baji Rao, Peishwar of Poona, known as Nana Sahib, and perhaps at this period the sole survivor of the leaders in the great insurrection, had dared to leave his inaccessible retreats amid the mountains of Nepaul. Full of courage and audacity, accustomed to face danger, crafty and skilled in the art of baffling and eluding pursuit in every form, he had ventured forth into the provinces of the Deccan, animated by hatred intensified a hundredfold since the terrible reprisals taken after the rebellion.

Yes; Nana Sahib had sworn deadly hate to the possessors of India. Was he not the heir of Baji Rao? and when the Peishwar died in 1851, had not the Company refused to continue to pay to him his pension of eight Lacs of rupees? This had been one of the causes of an enmity from which resulted the greater excesses.

But what could Nana Sahib hope for now? The revolt had been completely quelled eight years before. The Honorable East India Company had gradually been superseded by the English Government, which now held the entire peninsula under an authority very much firmer and better established than that of the old mercantile associations.

Not a trace of the mutiny remained, for the ranks of the native regiments had been wholly reorganized. Could the Nana dream of success in an attempt to foment a national movement among the lowest classes of Hindoostan? We shall see.

He was aware that his presence in the province of Aurungabad had been observed; that the governor and viceroy were informed of it; that a price was set on his head. It was clear that precipitate flight was necessary, and that his place of refuge must be well concealed indeed if he hoped to baffle the search of the agents of Anglo-Indian police.

The Nana did not waste an hour of the night between the 6th and 7th of March. He perfectly knew the country, and resolved to gain Ellora, twenty-five miles from Aurungabad, and there join one of his accomplices.

The night was very dark. The pretended fakir, satisfied that no one was in pursuit, took his way toward the mausoleum, erected at some distance from the city, in honor of the Mohammedan Sha-Soufi, a saint whose relics have a high medicinal reputation. All within the mausoleum, priests and pilgrims, slept profoundly, and the Nana passed on without being subjected to inconvenient questioning.

Dark as it was, he soon discerned, four leagues farther northward, the block of granite on which is reared the impregnable fortress of Dowlatabad. Rising abruptly from the plain to the height of two hundred and forty feet, its vast outline could be traced against the sky. But Nana Sahib, with a glance of hatred, turned his gaze away from the place; for one of his ancestors, an emperor of the Deccan, had wished to establish his capital at the base of this stronghold. It would indeed have been an impregnable position, well suited to be the central point of an insurrectionary movement in this part of India.

Having traversed the plain, a region of more varied and broken ground succeeded; the undulations gave notice of mountains in the distance. But the Nana did not slacken his pace, although often making steep ascents. Twenty-five miles, the distance that is between Ellora and Aurungabad, had to be got over during the night; nothing therefore induced him to make a halt, although an open caravanserai lay near his path, and he passed a lonely and half-ruined bungalow among the hills, where he might have sought an hour’s repose.

When the sun rose he was beyond the village of Ranzah, which possesses the tomb of Aurungzebe, the most famous of Mogul emperors.

At length he had reached the celebrated group of excavations which take their name from the little neighboring village of Ellora.

The hill in which these caves, to the number of thirty, have been hollowed out, is crescent-shaped. The monuments consist of twenty-four Buddhist monasteries and some grottoes of less importance. The basaltic quarry has been extensively worked by the hand of man. But the native architects, who from the earliest ages extracted stones from it, had not for their main object the erection of the marvelous buildings here and there to be seen on the surface of the vast peninsula. No; they removed these stones in order to procure space within the living rock.

The arrival of Nana Sahib at Ellora was unobserved; he entered the caves and glided into one of several deep cracks or crevices which had opened in the basement, but were concealed behind the supporting elephants.

This opening admitted him into a gloomy passage or drain which ran beneath the temple, terminating in a sort of crypt or vaulted reservoir, now dry and empty.

Advancing a short way into the passage, the Nana uttered a peculiar whistle, to which a sound precisely similar immediately replied, and a light flashed through the darkness, proving that the answer was no mocking echo. Then an Indian appeared carrying a small lantern.

“Away with the light!” said the Nana.

“Dandou Pant!” said the Indian, extinguishing the lamp; “is it thou thyself?”

“My brother, it is I myself.”

“Art thou — ?.

“Let me eat first,” returned the Nana; “we will converse afterward. But let both eating and speaking be in darkness. Take my hand and guide me.”

The Indian took his hand and drew him into the crypt, and he assisted him to lie down on a heap of withered grass and leaves, where he himself had been sleeping when roused by the fakir’s signal.

The man, accustomed to move in the obscurity of this dismal retreat, soon produced food, consisting of bread, the flesh of fowls prepared in a way common in India, and a gourd containing half a pint of the strong spirit known as arrack, distilled from the sap of the cocoanut-tree.

The Nana ate and drank, but spoke never a word. He was faint and sinking through hunger and fatigue, and his whole vitality seemed concentrated in his eyes, which burned and flashed in the darkness like those of a tiger. The Indian remained motionless, waiting till the Nabob chose to speak.

This man was Balao Rao, the brother of Nana Sahib. Balao Rao, a year older than Dandou Pant, resembled him physically, and might easily be mistaken for him. Morally the likeness was still more complete. In detestation of the English, in craft to form plots, and in cruelty to execute them, they were as one soul, in two bodies. Throughout the rebellion these two brothers had kept together. After it was subdued, they shared together a refuge on the frontiers of Nepaul. And now, united by the single aim of resuming the struggle, they were both ready for action.

When the Nana had devoured the food set before him, he remained for some time leaning his head on his folded arms. Balao Rao kept silence, thinking he wished to sleep.

But Dandou Pant raised his head suddenly, and, grasping his brother’s hand, said in a hollow voice, “I am denounced! There is a price set on my head! 2,000l. promised to the man who delivers up Nana Sahib!”

“Thy head is worth more than that, Dandou Pant!” cried Balao Rao; “2,000l. is hardly enough even for mine. They would be fortunate if they got the two for 20,000/.”

“Yes,” returned the Nana; “in three months, on the 23d of June, will be the anniversary of the battle of Plassy. Our prophets foretold that its hundredth anniversary, in 1857, should witness the downfall of British rule and the emancipation of the children of the sun. Nine years more than the hundred have now all but passed, and India still lies crushed and trodden beneath the invader’s heel.”

That effort which failed in 1857 may and ought to succeed ten years afterward,” replied Balao Rao. “In 1827, ‘37, and ‘47, there were risings in India. The fever of revolt has broken out every ten years. Well — this year it will be cured by a bath of European blood!”

“Let but Brahma be our stay,” murmured the Nana, “and then — life for life! Woe to the leaders of our foe who yet survive! Lawrence is gone, Barnard, Hope, Napier, Hodson, Havelock — all are gone. But Campbell and Rose still live, and he whom, above all, I hate — that Colonel Munro, whose ancestor was the first to blow our men from the cannon’s mouth, the man who with his own hand slew my friend the Ranee of Jhansi. Let but that man fall into my power, and he shall see whether I have forgotten the horrors of Colonel Neil, the massacres of Secunderabad, the slaughter in the Begum’s palace, at Bareilly, Jhansi, Morar, the island of Hydaspes, and at Delhi. He shall discover that I have sworn his death, as he did mine.”

“Has he not left the army?” inquired Balao Rao.

“He would re-enter the service the moment any disturbances broke out,” replied Nana Sahib. “But even if our attempted rising were to fail, he should not escape, for I would stab him in his bungalow at Calcutta.”

“So let it be — and now?”

“Now the work must begin. This time it shall be a national movement. Let but the Hindoos of towns, villages, and country places rise simultaneously, and very soon the sepoys will make common cause with them. I have traversed the center and north of the Deccan; everywhere I have found minds ripe for revolt. We have leaders ready to act in every town and straggling village. The Brahmins will fanaticize the people. Religion this time will carry along with us the votaries of Siva and Vishnu. At the appointed time, at the given signal, millions of natives will rise, and the royal army will be annihilated!”

“And Dandou Pant?” exclaimed Balao Rao, seizing his brother’s hand.

“Dandou Pant,” continued the Nana, “will not only be the Peishwar crowned in the hill-fort of Bithour. He will be the sovereign of the whole sacred land of Hindoostan!”

Nana Sahib folded his arms, his abstracted look was that of a man whose mental eye is bent on the distant future, and he remained silent.

Balao Rao was careful not to rouse him. He loved to see the working of that fierce soul, burning as it were with a hidden fire, which he knew he could at any moment fan into a flame.

The Nana could not have had an accomplice more devoted to his person, a counselor more eager to urge him forward to attain his ends. He was to him, as has been said, a second self.

After a silence of some duration, the Nana raised his head — his thoughts had returned to the present.

“Where are our comrades?”

“In the caverns of Adjuntah, where they were appointed to wait for us.”

“And our horses?”

“I left them a gunshot from this place, on the road between Ellora and Boregami.”

“Is Kalagani with them?”

“He is, my brother. They are rested, refreshed, and perfectly ready for us.”

“Then let us start. We must be at Adjuntah before daybreak.”

“And after that what must be done? Has not this enforced flight disarranged our previous plans?”

“No,” replied Nana Sahib. “We must gain the heights of Sautpourra, where every defile is known to me, and where I can assuredly defy the pursuit of the English bloodhounds of police. There we shall be in the territory of the Bheels and Ghoonds, who are faithful to our cause. There, in the midst of that mountainous region of the Vindhyas, where the standard of revolt may at any moment be raised, I shall await the favorable juncture!”

“Forward!” exclaimed Balao Rao, starting up, “and let those who want heads come and take them!”

“Yes — let them come,” responded the Nana, grinding his teeth. “I am ready.”

Balao Rao instantly made his way along the narrow passage which led to this dismal cell beneath the temple. On reaching the secret opening behind the colossal elephant, he cautiously emerged, looked anxiously on all sides, amid the shadowy gloom, to ascertain that the coast was clear. Then advancing some twenty paces, and being satisfied that all was safe, he gave notice by a shrill whistle that the Nana might follow him.

Shortly afterward the two brothers had quitted this artificial valley, the length of which is half a league, and which, sometimes to a great height, and in several stories, is pierced by galleries, vaulted chambers, and excavations. The distance between Ellora and Adjuntah is fifty miles, but the Nana was no longer the fugitive of Aurungabad, traveling painfully on foot. Three horses awaited him,

as his brother had said, under the care of his faithful servant Kalagani. They were concealed in a thick forest, about a mile from Ellora, and the three men were speedily mounted and galloping in the direction of Adjuntah. It was no strange thing to see a fakir on horseback. In point of fact, many of these impudent beggars demand alms from their seat in the saddle!

Although the time of the year was not that at which pilgrimages are usually made, yet the Nana avoided passing near the Mohammedan mausoleum frequented as a bungalow by pilgrims, travelers, and sightseers of all nations who often flock thither attracted by the wonders of Ellora, and pushed forward by a route as remote as possible from human habitations. He only halted occasionally to breathe the steeds and to partake of the simple provisions which Kalagani carried at his saddle-bow.

The ground was flat and level. In all directions stretched expanses of heath, crossed by massive ridges of dense jungle. But as they approached Adjuntah the country became more varied.

The superb grottoes or caves of Adjuntah, which rival those of Ellora, and perhaps in general beauty surpass them, occupy the lower end of a small valley about half a mile from the town. Nana Sahib could reach them without passing through it, and therefore felt himself secure, although so near a place where the governor’s proclamation was fixed to every building.

Fifteen hours after quitting Ellora he and his two companions plunged into a narrow defile which led them into the celebrated valley where twenty-seven temples, hewn in the rocky wall, looked down into the giddy depths beneath.

It was night, superb though moonless, for the heavens glittered with starry constellations, when the Nana, Balao Rao, and Kalagani approached their destination. Lofty trees and giant flowering plants stood out in strong relief against the sparkling sky. Not a breath stirred the air, not a leaf moved, not the faintest sound could be heard, save the dull murmur of a torrent which rolled in the depths of a ravine hundreds of feet below.

This murmur grew on the ear, however, and became a hoarse roar as the riders advanced to the cataract of Satkound, where the water, torn by sharp projections of quartz and basalt, plunges over a fall of fifty fathoms. As the travelers passed the chasm, a cloud of liquid dust whirled and eddied over it, which moonlight would have tinted with soft rainbow hues.

Here the defile made a sharp turn like an elbow, and the valley, in all its wealth of Buddhist architecture, lay before them.

On the walls of these temples — profusely adorned with columns, rose-tracery, arabesques, and galleries peopled by colossal forms of grotesque animals, hollowed out into cells formerly occupied by the priests, who were the guardians of these sacred abodes — the artist may admire the bright colors of frescoes which seem as though painted but yesterday; frescoes which represent royal ceremonies, religious processions, and battles, exhibiting every weapon employed long before the Christian era in the great and glorious empire of India.

To Nana Sahib all the secrets of these mysterious temples were well known. Already, more than once, he had, when closely pressed, sought refuge among them. The subterranean galleries connecting the temples, the narrow tunnels bored through solid walls of quartz, the winding passages crossing and recrossing in every direction, all the thousand ramifications of a labyrinth the clue to which might be sought in vain by the most patient, were familiar to him. Even with no torch to illumine their profound gloom, he was perfectly at home the’re.

Like a man sure of what he was about, the Nana made straight for one of the excavations less important than the rest. The entrance to it was filled up by a curtain of foliage and a mass of huge stones piled up in some ancient landslip, and thickly overgrown by shrubs and creepers.

The Nana gave notice of his presence at this concealed entrance simply by scraping his nail on a flat surface of stone.

Instantly the heads of two or three natives appeared among the branches; then ten, then twenty, showed themselves; and then soon, creeping and winding out like serpents from between the stones, came a party of forty well-armed men.

“Forward!” said Nana Sahib.

And seeking no explanation, ignorant of whither he led them, these faithful followers were ready to obey; and, if needful, lay down their lives for Dandou Pant. They were on foot, but could vie with the speed of any horse.

The little party made its way across the defile which skirted the abyss, keeping in a northerly direction, and rounding the shoulder of the hill. In an hour they reached the road to Kandeish, which finally leads to the passes of the Sautpourra mountains.

At daybreak they passed near the line of railway running from Bombay to Allahabad, above Nagpore.

On a sudden the Calcutta express dashed into sight, flinging masses of white vapor among the stately banyans, and startling with its shrieking whistle the wild inhabitants of the jungle.

The Nana drew bridle, and stretching his hand toward the flying train, exclaimed, in a strong, stern voice, “Speed on thy way, and tell the Viceroy of India that Nana Sahib lives! Tell him that this railroad, the accursed work of the invader’s hands, shall ere long be drenched in their blood.”

CHAPTER V

THE IRON GIANT

ON the morning of the 5th of May, the passengers along the high road from Calcutta to Chandernagore, whether men, women, or children, English or native, were completely astounded by a sight which met their eyes. And certainly the surprise they testified was extremely natural.

At sunrise a strange and most remarkable equipage had been seen to issue from the suburbs of the Indian capital, attended by a dense crowd of people drawn by curiosity to watch its departure.

First, and apparently drawing the caravan, came a gigantic elephant. The monstrous animal, twenty feet in height, and thirty in length, advanced deliberately, steadily, and with a certain mystery of movement which struck the gazer with a thrill of awe. His trunk, curved like a cornucopia, was uplifted high in the air. His gilded tusks, projecting from behind the massive jaws, resembled a pair of huge scythes. On his back was a highly ornamented howdah, which looked like a tower surmounted, in Indian style, by a dome-shaped roof and furnished with lens-shaped glasses to serve for windows.

This elephant drew after him a train consisting of two enormous cars, or actual houses, moving bungalows in fact, each mounted on four wheels. The wheels, which, were prodigiously strong, were carved, or rather sculptured in every part. Their lowest portion only could be seen, as they moved inside a sort of case, like a paddle-box, which concealed the enormous locomotive apparatus. A flexible gangway connected the two carriages.

How could a single elephant, however strong, manage to drag these two enormous constructions, without any apparent effort? Yet this astonishing animal did so! His huge feet were raised and set down with mechanical regularity, and he changed his pace from a walk to a trot, without either the voice or a hand of a mahout being apparent.

The spectators were at first so astonished by all this, that they kept at a respectful distance; but when they ventured nearer, their surprise gave place to admiration. They could hear a roar, very similar to the cry uttered by these giants of the Indian forests. At intervals there issued from the trunk a jet of vapor. And yet, it was an elephant! The rugged greeny-black skin evidently covered the bony framework of one that must be called the king of the pachyderms. His eyes were lifelike; all his members were endowed with movement!

Ay! But if some inquisitive person had chanced to lay his hand on the animal, all would have been explained. It was but a marvelous deception, a gigantic imitation, having as nearly as possible every appearance of life. In fact, this elephant was really encased in steel, and an actual steamengine was concealed within its sides.

The train, or Steam House, to give it its most suitable name, was the traveling dwelling promised by the engineer. The first carriage, or rather house, was the habitation of Colonel Munro, Captain Hood, Banks, and myself. In the second lodged Sergeant McNeil and the servants of the expedition. Banks had kept his promise, Colonel Munro had kept his; and that was the reason why, on this May morning, we were setting out in this extraordinary vehicle, with the intention of visiting the northern regions of the Indian peninsula.

But what was the good of this artificial elephant? Why have this fantastic apparatus, so unlike the usual practical inventions of the English? Till then, no one had ever thought of giving to a locomotive destined to travel either over macadam highways or iron rails, the shape and form of a quadruped.

I must say, the first time we were admitted to view the machine we were all lost in amazement. Questions about the why and wherefore fell thick and fast upon our friend Banks. We knew that this traction-engine had been constructed from his plans and under his directions. What, then, had given him the idea of hiding it within the iron sides of a mechanical elephant?

“My friends,” answered Banks seriously, “do you know the Rajah of Bhootan?”

“I know him,” replied Captain Hood, “or rather I did know him, for he died two months ago.”

“Well, before dying,” returned the engineer, “the Rajah of Bhootan not only lived, but lived differently to any one else. He loved pomp, and displayed it in every possible manner. He never denied himself anything — I mean anything that ever came into his head. His brain imagined the most impossible things, and had not his purse been inexhaustible, it would soon have been emptied in the process of gratifying all his desires. He was enormously rich, had coffers filled with lacs of rupees. Now one day an idea occurred to him, which took such possession of his mind as to keep him from sleeping — an idea which Solomon might have been proud of, and would certainly have realized, had he been acquainted with steam: this idea was to travel in a perfectly new fashion, and to have an equipage such as no one had before dreamed of. He knew me, and sent for me to his court, and himself drew the plan of his locomotive. If you imagine, my friends, that I burst into a laugh at the Rajah’s proposition, you are mistaken. I perfectly understood that this grandiose idea sprang naturally from the brain of a Hindoo sovereign, and I had but one desire on the subject — to realize it as soon as possible, and in a way to satisfy both my poetic client and myself. A hardworking engineer hasn’t an opportunity every day to exercise his talents in this fantastic way, and add an animal of this description to the creations of the “Arabian Nights.” In short, I saw it was possible to realize the Rajah’s whim. All that has been done, that can be done, will be done in machinery. I set to work, and in this iron-plated case, in the shape of an elephant, I managed to inclose the boiler, the machinery, and the tender of a traction-engine, with all its accessories. The flexible trunk, which can be raised and lowered at will, is the chimney; the legs of my animal are connected with the wheels of the apparatus; I arranged his eyes so as to dart out two jets of electric light, and the artificial elephant was complete. But as it was not my own spontaneous creation, I met with numerous difficulties which delayed me. The gigantic plaything, as you may call it, cost me many a sleepless night; so many indeed, that my rajah, who was wild with impatience, and passed the best part of his time in my workshops, died before the finishing touches were given that would allow the elephant to set forth on his travels. The poor fellow had no time even to make one trial of his invention. His heirs, however, less fanciful than he, viewed the apparatus with the terror of superstition, and as the work of a madman. They were only eager to get rid of it at any price. I therefore bought it up on the colonel’s account. Now you know all the why and wherefore of the matter, and how it is that in all the world we alone are the proprietors of a steam elephant, with the strength of eighty horses, not to mention eighty elephants!”

“Bravo, Banks! well done!” exclaimed Captain Hood. “A first-class engineer who is an artist, a poet in iron and steel into the bargain, is a rara avis among us!”

“The rajah being dead,” resumed Banks, “and his apparatus being in my possession, I had not the heart to destroy my elephant, and give the locomotive its ordinary form.”

“And you did well!” replied the captain. “Our elephant is superb, there’s no other word for it!” said the captain. “And what a fine effect we shall have, careering over the plains and through the jungles of Hindoostan! It is a regular rajah-like idea, isn’t it? and one of which we shall reap the advantage, sha’n’t we, colonel?”

Colonel Munro made a faint attempt at a smile, to show that he quite approved of the captain’s speech.

The journey was resolved upon then and there; and now this unique and wonderful steam elephant was reduced to drag the traveling residence of four Englishmen, instead of stalking along in state with one of the most opulent rajahs of the Indian peninsula.

I quote the following description of the mechanism of this road engine, on which Banks had brought to bear all the improvements of modern science, from notes made at the time.

“Between the four wheels are all the machinery of cylinders, pistons, feed-pump, etc. covered by the body of the boiler. This tubular boiler is in the fore part of the elephant’s body, and the tender, carrying fuel and water, in the hinder part. The boiler and tender, though both on the same truck, have a space between them, left for the use of the stoker. The engine-driver is stationed in the fireproof howdah on the animal’s back, in which we all could take refuge in case of any serious attack. He has there everything in his power, safety-valves, regulating brakes, etc. so that he can steer or back his engine at will. He has also thick lens-shaped glass fixed in the narrow embrasures, through which he can see the road both before and behind him.

“The boiler and tender are fixed on springs of the best steel, so as to lessen the jolting caused by the inequalities of the ground. The wheels, constructed with vast solidity, are grooved so as to bite the earth, and prevent them from ‘ skating.’

“The nominal strength of the engine is equal to that of eighty horses, but its power can be increased to equal that of one hundred and fifty, without any danger of an explosion. A case, hermetically sealed, incloses all the machinery, so as to protect it from the dust of the roads, which would soon put the mechanism out of order. The machine has a double cylinder after the Field system, and its great perfection consists in this, that the expenditure is small and the results great. Nothing could be better arranged in that way, for in the furnace any kind of fuel may be burned, either wood or coal. The engineer estimates the ordinary speed at fifteen miles an hour, but on a good road it can reach twenty-five. There is no danger of the wheels skating, not only from the grooves, but because of the perfect poise of the apparatus, which is all so well balanced that not even the severest jolting could disturb it. The atmospheric brakes, with which the engine is provided, could in a moment produce either a slackening of speed or a sudden halt.

“The facility with which the machine can ascend slopes is remarkable. Banks has succeeded most happily in this, taking into consideration the weight and power of propulsion of the machine. It can easily ascend a slope at an inclination of from four to five inches in the yard, which is considerable.”

There is a perfect network of magnificent roads made by the English all over India, which are excellently fitted for this mode of locomotion. The Great Trunk Road, for instance, stretches uninterruptedly for one thousand and two hundred miles.

I must now describe the Steam House.

Banks had not only bought from the Nabob’s heirs the traction-engine, but the train which it had in tow. This had of course been constructed, according to the Oriental taste of the rajah, in the most gorgeous Hindoo fashion. I have already called it a traveling bungalow, and it merited the name, for the two cars composing it were simply a marvelous specimen of the architecture of the country.

Imagine two pagoda-shaped buildings without minarets, but with double-ridged roofs surmounted by a dome, the corbeling of the windows supported by sculptured pilasters, all the ornamentation in exquisitely carved and colored woods of rare kinds, a handsome veranda both back and front. You might suppose them a couple of pagodas torn from the sacred hill of Sonnaghur.

To complete the marvel of this prodigious locomotive I must add that it can float! In fact, the stomach, or that part of the elephant’s body which contains the machinery, as well as the lower portion of the buildings, form boats of light steel. When a river is met with, the elephant marches straight into it, the train follows, and as the animal’s feet can be moved by paddle-wheels, the Steam House moves gayly over the surface of the water. This is an indescribable advantage for such a vast country as India, where there are more rivers than bridges. This was the train ordered by the capricious Rajah of Bhootan. But though the carriages were like pagodas on the outside, Banks thought it best to furnish the interior to suit English tastes, with everything necessary for a long journey, and in this he was very successful.

The width of the two carriages was not less than eighteen feet; they therefore projected over the wheels, as the axles were not more than fifteen. Being well hung on splendid springs, any jolting would be as little felt as on a well-made railroad.

The first carriage was forty-five feet long. In front was an elegant veranda, in which a dozen people could sit comfortably. Two windows and a door led into the drawing-room, lighted besides by two side windows. This room, furnished with a table and book-case, and having luxurious divans all round it, was artistically decorated and hung with rich tapestry. A thick Turkey carpet covered the floor. “Tatties,” or blinds, hung before the windows, and were kept moistened with perfumed water, so that a delightful freshness was constantly diffused throughout all the apartments. A punkah was suspended from the ceiling and kept continually in motion, for it was necessary to provide against the heat, which at certain times of the year is something frightful.

Opposite the veranda door was another of valuable wood, opening into the dining-room, which was lighted not only by side windows, but by a ceiling of ground glass.

Eight guests might have been comfortably seated round the table in the center, so as we were but four we had ample room. It was furnished with sideboards and buffets loaded with all the wealth of silver, glass, and china, which is necessary to English comfort. Of course all these fragile articles were put in specially made racks, as is done on board ship, so that even on the roughest roads they would be perfectly safe.

A door led out into the passage, which ended in another veranda at the back. From this passage opened four rooms, each containing a bed, dressing-table, wardrobe and sofa, and fitted up like the cabins of the best transatlantic steamers. The first of these rooms on the left was occupied by Colonel Munro, the second on the right by Banks. Captain Hood was established next to the engineer, and I next to Sir Edward.

The second carriage was thirty-six feet in length, and also possessed a veranda which opened into a large kitchen, flanked on each side with a pantry, and supplied with everything that could be wanted. This kitchen communicated with a passage which, widening into a square in the middle, and lighted by a skylight, formed a dining-room for the servants. In the four angles were four cabins, occupied by Sergeant McNeil, the engine driver, the stoker, and Colonel Munro’s orderly; while at the back were two other rooms for the cook and Captain Hood’s man; besides a gun-room, box-room and ice-house, all opening into the back veranda.

It could not be denied that Banks had intelligently and comfortably arranged and furnished Steam House. There was an apparatus for heating it in winter with hot air from the engine, besides two small fireplaces in the drawing and dining rooms. We were therefore quite prepared to brave the rigors of the cold season, even on the slopes of the mountains of Thibet.

The following is the itinerary of the journey which was agreed on, subject to any modifications which unforeseen circumstances might suggest. We proposed leaving Calcutta, to follow the valley of the Ganges up to Allahabad, to cross the kingdom of Oude, so as to reach the first slopes of Thibet, to remain there for some months, sometimes in one place, sometimes in another, so as to give Captain Hood plenty of opportunity for hunting, and then to redescend to Bombay. We had thus 900 leagues, or 2,700 miles before us. But our house and servants traveled with us. Under these conditions, who would refuse even to make the tour of the world again and again?

CHAPTER VI

FIRST STAGES

Before dawn, on the morning of our start, I left the Spencer Hotel, one of the best in Calcutta, which I had made my residence ever since my arrival.

Our train awaited us at no great distance; we had only to enter and establish ourselves. Our luggage had of course been put “on board.” Nothing unnecessary was allowed; but Captain Hood had large ideas in the matter of firearms, and considered an arsenal of four Enfield rifles, four fowling-pieces, two duck-guns, and several other guns, pistols, and revolvers, quite indispensable for such a party as ours. This armory appeared to threaten the lives of wild beasts rather than simply to supply game for our table, but the Nimrod of our expedition was very decided in his views on the subject.

Captain Hood was in the highest spirits. The triumph of having succeeded in persuading Colonel Munro to forsake his solitary retreat; the pleasure of setting out on such a tour, with an equipage so entirely novel; the prospect of unusual occupation, plenty of exercise, and grand Himalayan excursions — all combined to excite him to the greatest degree, and he gave vent to his feelings in perpetual exclamations, while he urged us to bestir ourselves.

The clock struck the hour of departure. Steam was up, the engine ready for action. Our engine-driver stood at his post, his hand on the regulator. The whistle sounded.

“Off with you, Behemoth!” shouted Captain Hood, waving his cap. And this name, so well suited to our wonderful traction-engine, was ever after bestowed upon it.

Now for a word as to our attendants, who occupied the second house — No. 2, as we used to call it.

The engine-driver, Storr, was an Englishman, and had been employed on “The Great Southern “line until a few months previously. Banks knew him to be an efficient and clever workman, thoroughly up to his business, and therefore engaged him for Colonel Munro’s service. He was a man of forty years of age, and proved exceedingly useful to us.

The fireman’s name was Kalouth. He belonged to a tribe or class of Hindoos much sought after by railway companies, to be employed as stokers, because they endure with impunity the double heat of their tropical climate and that of the engine furnaces. They resemble, in this, the Arabs employed as firemen in the Red Sea steamers — good fellows who are content to be merely boiled where Europeans would be roasted in a few minutes.

Colonel Munro had a regimental servant named Goilmi, one of the tribe of Gourkas. He belonged to that regiment which, as an act of good discipline, had accepted the use of the Enfield rifles, the introduction of which into the service had been the reason, or at least the pretext, of the sepoy revolt. Small, active, supple, and of tried fidelity, Gofirni always wore the dark uniform of the rifle brigade, which was as dear to him as his own skin.

Sergeant McNeil and Ganni were attached heart and soul to Colonel Munro. They had fought under his command all through the Indian campaign; they had accompanied him in his fruitless search for Nana Sahib; they had followed him into retirement, and would never dream of leaving him.

Captain Hood had also a faithful follower — a frank, lively young Englishman, whose name was Fox, and who would not have changed places with any officer’s servant under the sun. He perfectly adored Captain Hood, and was quite as keen a sportsman as his master. Having accompanied him on numberless tiger-hunts, Fox had proved his skill, and reckoned the tigers which had fallen to his gun at thirty-seven, only three less than his master could boast of.

Our staff of attendants was completed by a negro cook, whose dominion lay in the forepart of the second house. He was of French origin, and having boiled, fried, and fricasseed in every possible latitude, Monsieur Parazard-for that was his name — had no small opinion of the importance of his noble profession; he would have scorned to call it his trade.

He presided over his saucepans with the air of a high priest, and distributed his condiments with the accuracy of a chemist. Monsieur Parazard was vain, it is true, but so clever that we readily pardoned his vanity.

Our expedition, then, was made up of ten persons; namely, Sir Edward Munro, Banks, Hood, and myself, who were accommodated in one house; McNeil, Storr, Mouth, Gofimi, Fox, and Monsieur Parazard, in the other.

I must not forget the two dogs, Fan and Niger, whose sporting qualities were to be put to the proof by Hood, in many a stirring episode of the chase.

“Arrange the route exactly as you please, my friends,” said Colonel Munro. “Decide without reference to me. Whatever you do will be done well.”

“Still, my dear Munro,” replied Banks; “it would be satisfactory to have your opinion.”

“No, Banks,” returned the colonel; “I give myself up to you, and have no wish to visit one place rather than another. One single question, however, I will ask. After Benares, in what direction do you propose to travel?”

“Northward, most certainly!” exclaimed Hood impetuously. “Right across the kingdom of Oude, up to the lower ranges of the Himalayas!”

“Well then, my friends,” began Colonel Munro, “perhaps when we get so far, I will propose — but it will be soon enough to speak of that when the time comes. Till then, go just where you choose.”

I could not help feeling somewhat surprised by these words of Sir Edward Munro. What could he have in his mind? Had he only agreed to take this journey in the hope that chance might serve his purpose better than his own will and endeavor had done? Did it seem to him possible that, supposing Nana Sahib to be still alive, he might yet find trace of him in the extreme north of India? Was the hope of vengeance still strong within him?

I could not resist the conviction that our friend was influenced by this hidden motive, and that Sergeant McNeil shared his master’s thoughts.

When we left Calcutta we were seated in the drawing-room of Steam House. The door and the windows of the veranda were open, and the measured beat of the punkah kept up an agreeable temperature. Storr drove the engine at a slow and steady rate of three miles an hour, for we travelers were just then in no haste, and desired to see at leisure the country we passed through.

For a long time we were followed by a number of Europeans who were astonished at our equipage, and by crowds of natives whose wonder and admiration was mingled with fear. We gradually distanced this attendant mob, but met people continually who lavished upon us admiring exclamations of Wallah! wallah! The huge elephant, vomiting clouds of steam, excited far more astonishment than the two superb cars which he drew after him.

At ten o’clock breakfast was served in the dining-room; and, seated at a table which was far less shaken than it would have been in a first-class railway carriage, we did ample justice to the culinary skill of Monsieur Parazard. We were traveling along the left bank of the Hoogly,

the most western of the numerous arms of the Ganges, which form together the labyrinthine network of the delta of the Sunderbunds, and is entirely an alluvial formation.

“What you see there, my dear Maucler,” said Banks, “is a conquest won by the sacred river Ganges from the not less sacred Bay of Bengal. It has been a mere affair of time. There is probably not an atom of that soil which has not been transported hither, by the mighty current, from the Himalayan heights. Little by little the stream has robbed the mountains in order to form this province, through which it has worked its bed — “

“And changes incessantly!” broke in Captain Hood. “There never was such a whimsical, capricious, lunatic of a river as this same Ganges. People take the trouble to build a town on its banks, and behold, a few centuries later the town is in the midst of a plain, its harbors are dry, the river has changed its course! Thus Rajmahal, as well as Gaur, were both formerly situated on this faithless stream, and now there they are dying of thirst amidst the parched rice-fields of the plains.”

“Then may not some such fate be in store for Calcutta?” inquired I.

“Ah, who knows?”

“Come, come,” said Banks; “you forget the engineers! It would only require skillful embankments. We could easily put a strait-waistcoat on the Ganges, and restrain its vagaries.”

“It is well for you, Banks,” said I, “that no natives are within earshot when you speak so irreverently of their sacred stream! They would never forgive you.’

“Well, really,” returned Banks, they look on their river as a son of God, if not God himself, and in their eyes it can do nothing amiss.”

“Not even by maintaining, as it does, epidemics of the plague, fever, and cholera!” cried Captain Hood. “I must say, however, that the atmosphere it engenders agrees splendidly with the tigers and crocodiles which swarm in the Sunderbunds. Ah, the savages! Fox!” he added, turning to his servant, who was clearing away the breakfast things.

“Yes, captain.”

“Wasn’t it there you killed your thirty-seventh?”

“Yes, captain, two miles from Fort Canning. It was one evening — “

“There, Fox! that will do,” interrupted the captain, as he tossed off a large glass of brandy and soda. “I know all about the thirty-seventh. The history of your thirty-eighth would interest me more.”

“My thirty-eighth is not killed yet, captain.”

“No, but you will bag him some day, Fox, as I shall my forty-first.”

It is to be noted, that in the conversations of Captain Hood and his man, the word “tiger “was never mentioned. It was quite unnecessary. The two hunters perfectly understood one another.

As we proceeded to the Hoogly, its banks, which above Calcutta are rather low, gradually contracted, much reducing the width of the river. For some hours we kept near the railroad, which from Burdwan passes on to Rajmahal, in the valley of the Ganges, which it then follows till beyond Benares.

The Calcutta train passed us at great speed, and the shouts of the passengers showed that while they admired us, they mocked our slower pace. We did not return their defiance. More rapidly they certainly did travel than ourselves, but in comfort there was simply no comparison.

During these two days the scenery was invariably flat, and therefore monotonous. Here and there waved a few slender cocoanut-trees, the last of which we should leave behind after passing Burdwan. These trees, which belong to the great family of palms, are partial to the coast, and love to breathe salt air. Thus they are not found beyond a somewhat narrow belt along the sea coast, and it is vain to seek them in Central India. The flora of the interior is, however, extremely interesting and varied.

On each side of our route, the country in this part resembles an immense chess-board marked out in squares of rice-fields, and stretching as far as we could see. Shades of green predominated, and the harvest promised to be abundant in this moist, warm soil, the prodigious fertility of which is well known.

On the evening of the second day, with punctuality which an express might have envied, the engine gave its last snort and stopped at the gates of Burdwan. This city is the judicial headquarters of an English district; but properly speaking, the country belongs to a Maharajah, who pays taxes to Government amounting to not less than ten millions.

The town consists in a great part of low houses, standing in fine avenues of trees, such as cocoanuts and arequipas. These avenues being wide enough to admit our train, we proceeded to encamp in a charming spot, full of shade and freshness.

It seemed as though a large addition were suddenly made to the city, when our houses took up their position in it, and we would not have exchanged our residences for any in the splendid quarter where stands the magnificent palace of the sovereign of Burdwan.

It may well be supposed that our elephant produced all the terror and admiration which he usually excited among Bengalees. The people ran together from all sides, the men bare-headed, their hair cut short a la Titus, and wearing only loose cotton drawers, while the women were enveloped from head to foot in white.

“I begin to be afraid,” said Captain Hood, “that the Maharajah will want to buy our Behemoth, and that he will offer such a vast sum, we shall be forced to let his highness have him.”

“Never!” exclaimed Banks. “I will make another elephant for him if he likes, of power enough to draw his whole capital from one end of his dominion to the other. But we won’t part with Behemoth at any price, will we, Munro?”

“Most certainly we will not,” answered the colonel, in the tone of a man who was not to be tempted by millions.

And after all there was no question as to whether our colossal elephant was for sale or not. The Maharajah was not at Burdwan, and the only visit we received was from his kamdar, a sort of private secretary, who came to examine our equipage. Having done so, this personage offered us permission, which we very readily accepted, to examine the gardens of the palace.

We found them well worth a visit. They were beautifully laid out, filled with the finest specimens of tropical vegetation, and watered by sparkling rivulets flowing from miniature lakes. The park we also admired greatly: its verdant lawns were adorned by fanciful kiosks, and in superb menageries we found specimens of all the animals of the country, wild as well as domestic. Here were goats, stags, deer, elephants, tigers, lions, panthers, and bears, besides others too numerous to mention.

“Oh, captain!” cried Fox, “here are tigers in cages just like birds. Isn’t it a pity?”

“Indeed, Fox, and so it is,” replied the captain. “If the poor fellows had their choice, they certainly would far rather be prowling about in the jungle, even within reach of our rifle-balls!

“That’s just what I think, captain,” sighed honest Fox.

Next morning, the 10th of May, having laid in a fresh stock of provisions, we quitted Burdwan. Our Steam House passed the line of railroad by a level crossing, and traveled in the direction of Ramghur, a town situated about seventy leagues from Calcutta.

During this part of the journey Behemoth was kept going at a gentle trot, which pace proved the excellent structure of our well-hung carriages; the roads being good also favored our experiment.

To the great surprise of Captain Hood, we passed through many jungles without seeing any wild animals. It seemed not unlikely that they were terrified, and fled at the approach of a gigantic elephant, vomiting steam and smoke; but as it was to the northern regions, and not to Bengal provinces, that our hunter looked for the sport he loved so well, he did not as yet begin to complain.

On the 15th of May we were near Ramghur, about fifty leagues from Burdwan. The rate of speed at which we had traveled was not more than fifteen leagues in twelve hours. Three days afterward, on the 18th, we stopped at the little town of Chittra. No incidents marked these stages of our journey. The heat was intense; but what could be more agreeable than a siesta beneath the cool shelter of the verandas! The burning hours passed away in luxurious repose.

In the evenings Storr and ‘<Mouth cleaned the furnace and oiled and thoroughly examined the engine, operations which were always carefully superintended by Banks himself. While he was so employed, Captain Hood and I, accompanied by Fox, Goilmi, and the two dogs, used to take our guns, and explore the neighborhood of our camp. We fell in with nothing more important in the way of game than birds and a few small animals; and although the captain turned up his nose at such poor sport, he was always highly delighted next day, when Monsieur Parazard regaled us with a variety of new and savory dishes.

Banks, when he could, made our halting-places near some wood, and on the banks of a stream or brook, because it was always necessary to replenish the tender with what was wanted for the next day’s journey, and he attended personally to every detail.

Goinni and Fox were frequently employed as hewers of wood and drawers of water.

When the day’s work was done we lighted our cigars (excellent Manilla cheroots), and while we smoked we talked about this country with which Hood, as well as Banks, was so thoroughly well acquainted, The captain disdained cigars, and his vigorous lungs inhaled, through a pipe twenty feet long, the aromatic smoke of a hookah, carefully filled for him by the hand of Fox. It was our greatest wish that Colonel Munro should accompany us on our little shooting excursions round the camp. We invariably asked him to do so, but he as invariably declined, and remained with Sergeant McNeil, spending the time of our absence in pacing up and down a distance of not more than a hundred yards.

They spoke little, but so completely did they understand one another, that words were not needed for the interchange of thoughts.

Both were absorbed in tragic and indelible recollections. It was possible that, in approaching the theater of the bloody insurrection, these recollections would become more vivid.

Banks and Captain Hood shared with me the opinion that some fixed idea, which would be developed later, had induced Colonel Munro to join us in this expedition to the north of India.

In that case we might be on the verge of great events. Our steam Behemoth might be drawing us across these huge plains and mountains to the scene of a thrilling and unexpected drama.

CHAPTER VII

THE PILGRIMS OF THE PHALGOU RIVER

WHAT is now called Behar was in former days the empire of Magadha. In the time of the Buddhists it was sacred territory, and is still covered with temples and monasteries. But, for many centuries, the Brahmins have occupied the place of the priests of Buddha. They have taken possession of the viharas or temples, and, turning them to their own account, live on the produce of the worship they teach. The faithful flock thither from all parts, and in these sacred places the Brahmins compete with the holy waters of the Ganges, the pilgrimages to Benares, the ceremonies of Juggernaut; in fact, one may say the country belongs to them.

The soil is rich, there are immense rice-fields of emerald green, and vast plantations of poppies. There are numerous villages, buried in luxuriant verdure, and shaded by palms, mangoes, and date-trees, over which nature has thrown, like a net, a tangled web of creeping plants.

Steam House passed along roads which were embowered in foliage, and beneath the leafy arches the air was cool and fresh. We followed the chart of our route, and had no fear of losing our way.

The snorting and trumpeting of our elephant mingled with the deafening screams of the winged tribes and the discordant chatterings and scoldings of apes and monkeys, and the golden fruit of the bananas shone like stars through light clouds, as smoke and steam rolled in volumes among the trees. The delicate rice-birds rose in flocks as Behemoth passed along, their white plumage almost concealed as they flew through the spiral wreaths of steam.

But the heat! the moist air scarcely made its way through the tattier of our windows. The hot winds, charged with caloric as they passed over the surface of the great western plains, enveloped the land in their fiery embrace. One longs for the month of June, when this state of the atmosphere will be modified. Death threatens those who seek to brave the stroke of this flaming sun.

The fields are deserted. Even the ryots themselves, inured as they are to the burning heat, cannot continue their agricultural labors. The shady roadway alone is prac—

ticable, and even there we require the shelter of our traveling bungalow. Mouth the fireman must be made of pure carbon, or he would certainly dissolve before the grating of his furnace. But the brave Hindoo holds out nobly. It has become second nature with him, this existence on the platform of the locomotives which scour the railway lines of Central India!

During the daytime of May the 19th, the thermometer suspended on the wall of the dining-room registered 106deg Fahrenheit. That evening we were unable to take our accustomed “constitutional “or hawakana. This word signifies literally “to eat air,” and means that, after the stifling heat of the tropical day, people go out to inhale the cool pure air of evening. On this occasion we felt that, on the contrary, the air would eat us!

“Monsieur Maucler,” said Sergeant McNeil to me, “this heat reminds me of one day in March, when Sir Hugh Rose, with just two pieces of artillery, tried to storm the walls at Lucknow. It was sixteen days since we had crossed the river Betwa, and during all that time our horses had not once been unsaddled. We were fighting between enormous walls of granite, and we might as well have been in a burning fiery furnace. The chitsis passed up and down our ranks, carrying water in their leathern bottles, which they poured on the men’s heads as they stood to their guns, otherwise we should have dropped. Well do I remember how I felt! I was exhausted, my skull was ready to burst — I tottered. Colonel Munro saw me, and snatching the bottle from the hand of a chitsi, he emptied it over me — and it was the last water the carriers could procure… A man can’t forget that sort of thing, sir! No, no! When I have shed the last drop of my blood for my colonel, I shall still be in his debt.”

“Sergeant McNeil,” said I, “does it not seem to you that since we left Calcutta, Colonel Munro has become more absent and melancholy than ever? I think that every day — “

“Yes, sir,” replied McNeil, hastily interrupting me, “but that is quite natural. My colonel is approaching Lucknow — Cawnpore — where Nana Sahib murdered… Ah! it drives me mad to speak of it! Perhaps it would have been better if this journey had been planned in some different direction — if we had avoided the provinces ravaged by the insurrection! The recollection of these awful events is not yet softened by time.”

“Why not even now change the route?” exclaimed I. “If you like, McNeil, I will speak about it to Mr. Banks and Captain Hood.”

“It’s too late now,” replied the sergeant. “Besides, I have reason to think that my colonel wishes to revisit, perhaps for the last time, the theater of that horrible war; that he will once more go to the scene of Lady Munro’s death.”

“If you really think so, McNeil,” said I, “it will be better to let things take their course, and not attempt to alter our plans. It is often felt to be a consolation to weep at the grave of those who are dear to us.”

“Yes, at their grave!” cried McNeil. “But who can call the well of Cawnpore a grave? Could that fearful spot seem to anybody like a quiet grave in a Scotch churchyard, where, among flowers and under shady trees, they would stand on a spot, marked by a stone with one name, just one, upon it? Ah, sir, I fear the colonel’s grief will be something terrible! But I tell you again, it is too late to change the route. If we did, who knows but he might refuse to follow it? No, no; let things be, and may God direct us!”

It was evident, from the way in which McNeil spoke, that he well knew what was certain to influence his master’s plans, and I was by no means convinced that the opportunity of revisiting Cawnpore had not led the colonel to quit Calcutta. At all events, he now seemed attracted as by a magnet to the scene where that fatal tragedy had been enacted. To that force it would be necessary to yield.

I proceeded to ask the sergeant whether he himself had relinquished the idea of revenge — in other words, whether he believed Nana Sahib to be dead.

“No,” replied McNeil frankly. “Although I have no ground whatever for my belief, I feel persuaded that Nana Sahib will not die unpunished for his many crimes. No; I have heard nothing, I know nothing about him, but I am inwardly convinced it is so. Ah, sir! righteous vengeance is something to live for! Heaven grant that my presentiment is true, and then — some day — “

The sergeant left his sentence unfinished, but his looks were sufficient. The servant and the master were of one mind.

When I reported this conversation to Banks and the captain, they were both of opinion that no change of route ought to be made. It had never been proposed to go to Cawnpore; and, once across the Ganges at Benares, we intended to push directly northwards, traversing the eastern portion of the kingdoms of Oude and Rohilkund. McNeil might after all be wrong in supposing that Sir Edward Munro would wish to revisit Cawnpore; but if he proposed to do so, we determined to offer no opposition.

As to Nana Sahib, if there had been any truth in the report of his reappearance in the Bombay presidency, we ought by this time to have heard something more of him. But, on the contrary, all the intelligence we could gain on our route led to the conclusion that the authorities had been in error.

If Colonel Munro really had any ulterior design in making this journey, it might have seemed more natural that he should have confided his intentions to Banks, who was his most intimate friend, rather than to Sergeant McNeil. But the latter was no doubt preferred, because he would urge his master to undertake what Banks would probably consider perilous and imprudent enterprises.

At noon, on the 19th of May, we left the small town of Chittra, 280 miles from Calcutta. Next day, at nightfall, we arrived, after a day of fearful heat, in the neighborhood of Gaya. The halt was made on the banks of a sacred river, the Phalgou, well known to pilgrims.

Our two houses were drawn up on a pretty bank, shaded by fine trees, within a couple of miles of the town. This place, being extremely curious and interesting, we intended to remain in it for thirty-six hours, that is to say for two nights and a day. Starting about four o’clock next morning, in order to avoid the midday heat, Banks, Captain Hood and I left Colonel Munro, and took our way to the town of Gaya.

It is stated that 150,000 devotees annually visit this center of Brahminical institutions; and we found every road to the place was swarming with men, women, old people, and children, who were advancing from all directions across the country, having braved the thousand fatigues of a long pilgrimage in order to fulfill their religious duties.

We could not have had a better guide than Banks, who knew the neighborhood well, having previously been on a survey in Behar, where a railroad was proposed, but not yet constructed.

Just before entering the place, which is appropriately called the Holy City, Banks stopped us near a sacred tree, round which pilgrims of every age and sex were bowed in the attitude of adoration. This tree was a peepul: the girth of the trunk was enormous; but although many of its branches were decayed and fallen, it was not more than two or three hundred years old. This fact was ascertained by M. Louis Rousselet, two years later, during his interesting journey across the India of the Rajahs.

The “Tree of Buddha,” as it is called, is the last of a generation of sacred peepuls, which have for ages overshadowed the spot, the first having been planted there five centuries before the Christian era; and probably the fanatics kneeling before it believe this to be the original tree consecrated there by Buddha. It stands upon a ruined terrace close to a temple built of brick, and evidently of great antiquity.

The appearance of three Europeans, in the midst of these swarming thousands of natives, was not regarded favorably. Nothing was said, but we could not reach the terrace, nor penetrate within the old temple: certainly it would have been difficult to do so under any circumstances, on account of the dense masses of pilgrims by whom the way was blocked up.

“I wish we could fall in with a Brahmin,” said Banks; “we might then inspect the temple, and feel we were doing the thing thoroughly.”

“What!” cried I, “would a priest be less strict than his followers?”

“My dear Maucler,” answered Banks, “the strictest rules will give way before the offer of a few rupees! The Brahmins must live.”

“I don’t see why they should,” bluntly said Captain Hood, who never professed toleration toward the Hindoos, nor held in respect, as his countrymen generally do, their manners, customs, prejudices, and objects of veneration. In his eyes India was nothing but a vast hunting-ground, and he felt a far deeper interest in the wild inhabitants of the jungles than in the native population either of town or country.

After remaining for some time at the foot of the sacred tree, Banks led us on toward the town of Gaya, the crowd of pilgrims increasing as we advanced. Very soon, through a vista of verdure, the picturesque edifices of Gaya appeared on the summit of a rock.

It is the temple of Vishnu which attracts travelers to this place. The construction is modern, as it was rebuilt by the Queen of Holcar only a few years ago. The great curiosity of this temple is the marks left by Vishnu when he condescended to visit earth on purpose to contend with the demon Maya. The struggle between a god and a fiend could not long remain doubtful.

Maya succumbed, and a block of stone, visible within the inclosure of Vishnu-Pad, bears witness, by the deep impress of his adversary’s footprints, that the demon had to deal with a formidable foe.

I said the block of stone was “visible “; I ought to have said “visible to Hindoo natives only.” No European is permitted to gaze upon these divine relics.

Perhaps a more robust faith than is to be found in Western minds may be necessary in order to distinguish these traces on the miraculous stone. Be that as it may, Banks’s offer of money failed this time. No priest would accept what would have been the price of a sacrilege; I dare not venture to suppose that the sum offered was unequal to the extent of the Brahminical conscience. Anyhow, we could not get into the temple.

Captain Flood was furious. He seemed disposed to deal summarily with the Brahmin who had turned us away.

Banks had to restrain him forcibly.

“Are you mad, Hood?” said he. “Don’t you know that the Hindoos regard their priests, the Brahmins, not merely as a race of illustrious descent, but also as beings of altogether superior and supernatural origin?”

When we reached that part of the river Phalgou which bathes the rock of Gaya, the prodigious assemblage of pilgrims lay before us in its full extent. There, in indescribable confusion, was a heaving, huddling, jostling crowd of men and women, old men and children, citizens and peasants, rich baboos and poor ryots, of every imaginable degree. Some came in palanquins, others in carriages drawn by large-humped oxen. Some lie beside their camels, whose snakelike heads are stretched out on the ground, while many travel on foot from all parts of India. Here tents are set up; there carts and wagons are unyoked, and numerous huts made of branches are prepared as temporary shelter for the crowd.

“What a mob “exclaimed Captain Hood.

“The water of the Phalgou will not be fit to drink this evening,” observed Banks.

“Why not?” inquired I.

“Because its waters are sacred, and this unsavory crowd will go and bathe in them, as they do in the Ganges.”

“Are we down stream?” cried Hood, pointing toward our encampment.

“No! don’t be uneasy, captain!” answered Banks, laughing; “we are up the river.”

“That’s all right! It would never do to water Behemoth at an impure fountain!”

We passed on through thousands of natives massed together in comparatively small space. The ear was struck by a discordant noise of chains and small bells. It was thus that mendicants appealed to public charity. Infinitely varied specimens of this vagrant brotherhood swarmed in all directions. Most of them displayed false wounds and deformities, but although the professed beggars only pretend to be sufferers, it is very different with the religious fanatics. In fact it would be difficult to carry enthusiasm further than they do.

Some of the fakirs, nearly naked, were covered with ashes; one had his arm fixed in a painful position by prolonged tension; another had kept his hand closed until it was pierced by the nails of his own fingers.

Some had measured the whole distance of their journey by the length of their bodies. For hundreds of miles they had continued incessantly to lie down, rise up, and lie down again, as though acting the part of a surveyor’s chain.

Here some of the faithful, stupefied with bang (which is liquid opium mixed with a decoction of hemp), were suspended on branches of trees, by iron hooks plunged into their shoulders. Hanging thus, they whirled round and round until the flesh gave way, and they fell into the waters of the Phalgou.

Others, in honor of Siva, had pierced their arms, legs, or tongues through and through with little darts, and made serpents lick the blood which flowed from the wounds.

Such a spectacle could not be otherwise than repugnant to a European eye. I was passing on in haste, when Banks suddenly stopped me, saying, “The hour of prayer!”

At the same instant a Brahmin appeared in the midst of the crowd. He raised his right hand, and pointed toward the rising sun, hitherto concealed behind the rocks of Gaya.

The first ray darted by the glorious luminary was the signal. The all but naked crowd entered the sacred waters. There were simple immersions, as in the early form of baptism, but these soon changed into water parties of which it was not easy to perceive the religious character. Perhaps the initiated, who recited slocas or texts, which for a given sum the priests dictated to them, thought no more of the cleansing of their bodies than their souls. The truth being that after having taken a little water in the hollow of the hand, and sprinkled it toward the four cardinal points, they merely threw up a few drops into their faces, like bathers who amuse themselves on the beach as they enter the shallow waves. I ought to add besides, that they never forgot to pull out at least one hair for every sin they had Committed. A good many deserved to come forth bald from the waters of the Phalgou So vehement were the watery gambols of the faithful, as they plunged hither and thither, that the alligators in terror fled to the opposite bank. There they remained in a row, staring with their dull sea-green eyes at the noisy crowd which had invaded their domain, and making the air resound with the snapping of their formidable jaws. The pilgrims paid no more attention to them than if they had been harmless lizards.

It was time to leave these singular devotees, who were getting ready to enter Kailas, which is the paradise of Brahm; so we went up the river and returned to our encampment.

It might have been one o’clock the next morning when I was roused from uneasy slumber by a dull murmuring sound approaching along the banks of the Phalgou.

My first idea was, that the atmosphere being charged with electricity, a storm of wind was rising in the west, which would displace the strata of air, and perhaps make it more suitable for respiration. I was mistaken; the branches of the trees above us remained motionless; not a leaf stirred.

I put my head out at my window and listened. I plainly heard the distant murmur, but nothing was to be seen. The surface of the river was calm and placid, and the sound proceeded neither from the air nor from the water. Although puzzled, I could perceive no cause for alarm, and returning to bed, fatigue overcame my wakefulness, and I became drowsy. At intervals I was conscious of the inexplicable murmuring noise, but finally fell fast asleep.

In about two hours, just as the first rays of dawn broke through the darkness, I awoke with a start. Some one in the passage was calling the engineer. “Mr. Banks!”

“What is wanted?”

“Will you come here, sir?”

It was Storr the fireman who spoke to Banks. I rose immediately, and joined them in the front veranda. Colonel Munro was already there, and Captain Hood came soon after. “What’s the matter? “I heard Banks say.

“Just you look, sir,” replied Storr.

It was light enough for us to see the river banks and part of the road which stretched away before us; and to our great surprise these were encumbered by several hundred Hindoos, who were lying about in groups.

“Ah! those are some of the pilgrims we saw yesterday!” said Captain Hood.

“But what are they doing here?” said I.

“No doubt,” replied the captain, “they are waiting for sunrise, that they may perform their ablutions.”

“No such thing,” said Banks; “why should they leave Gaya to do that? I suspect they have come here because — “

“Because Behemoth has produced his usual effect,” interrupted Captain Hood. “They heard that a huge great elephant — a colossus — bigger than the biggest they ever saw, was in the neighborhood, and of course they came to admire him.”

“If they keep to admiration, it will be all very well,” returned the engineer, shaking his head.

“What do you fear, Banks?” asked Colonel Munro.

“Well, I am afraid these fanatics may get in the way and impede our progress.”

“Be prudent, whatever you do! One cannot act too cautiously in dealing with such devotees.”

“Kalouth!” cried Banks, calling the stoker, “are the fires ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, light up.”

“Yes, light up by all means, Kalouth,” cried Captain Hood; “blaze away, Kalouth; and let Behemoth puff smoke and steam into the ugly faces of all this rabble!”

It was then half-past three in the morning. It would take half an hour to get up steam. The fires were instantly lighted. The wood cracked in the furnaces, and dense smoke issued from the gigantic trunk of the elephant, which was uplifted high among the boughs of the great trees.

Several parties of natives approached; then a general movement took place in the crowd. The people pressed closer round us. Those in the foremost rank threw up their arms in the air, stretched them toward the elephant, bowed down, knelt, cast themselves prostrate on the ground, and distinctly manifested the most profound adoration.

There we stood beneath the veranda, very anxious to know what this display of fanaticism would lead to. McNeil joined us, and looked on in silence. Banks took his place with Storr in the howdah, from which he could direct every movement of Behemoth.

By four o’clock steam was up. The noise made by the engine was, of course, taken by the Hindoos for the angry trumpeting of an elephant belonging to a supernatural race. Storr allowed the steam to escape by the valves, and it appeared to issue from the sides and through the skin of the gigantic quadruped.

“We are at high pressure.”

“Go ahead, Banks,” returned the colonel; “but be careful; don’t let us crush anybody.”

It was almost day. The road along the river bank was occupied by this great crowd of devotees, who seemed to have no idea of making way for us, so that to go forward and crush no one was anything but easy. The steam-whistle gave forth two or three short piercing shrieks, to which the pilgrims replied by frantic howls.

“Clear the way there!” shouted the engineer, telling the stoker at the same time to open the regulator. The steam bellowed as it rushed into the cylinders, the wheels made half a revolution, and a huge jet of white smoke issued from the trunk.

For an instant the crowd swerved aside. The regulator was then half open; the trumpeting and snorting of Behemoth increased in vehemence, and our train began to advance between the serried ranks of the natives, who seemed loath to give place to it.

“Look out, Banks! “I suddenly exclaimed.

I was leaning over the veranda rails, and I beheld a dozen of these fanatics cast themselves on the road, with the evident wish to be crushed beneath the wheels of the monstrous machine.

“Stand back there! Attention!” shouted Colonel Munro, signing to them to rise.

“Oh, the idiots “cried Captain Hood; “they take us for the car of Juggernaut! They want to get pounded beneath the feet of the sacred elephant!”

At a sign from Banks, the fireman shut off steam. The pilgrims, lying across the road, seemed desirous not to move. The fanatic crowd around them uttered loud cries, and appeared by their gestures to encourage them to persevere. The engine was at a standstill. Banks was excessively embarrassed.

All at once an idea struck him.

“Now we shall see!” he cried; and turning the tap of the clearance pipes under the boiler, strong jets of steam issued forth, and spread along the surface of the ground; while the air was filled by the shrill, harsh screams of the whistle.

“Hurrah! hurrah!” shouted Captain Hood. “Give it them, Banks! give it them well!”

The method proved successful. As the streams of vapor reached the fanatics, they sprang up with loud cries of pain. They were prepared and anxious to be run over, but not to be scalded.

The crowd drew back. The way was clear. Steam was put on in good earnest, and the wheels revolved steadily.

“Forward!” exclaimed Captain Hood, clapping his hands and laughing heartily.

And at a rapid rate Behemoth took his way along the road, vanishing in a cloud of vapor, like some mysterious visitant, from before the eyes of the wondering crowd.

CHAPTER VIII

A FEW HOURS AT BENARES

THE high road now lay open before our Steam House, a road which, via Sasseram, would lead us along the right bank of the Ganges, up to Benares.

A mile beyond the encampment our engine slackened its speed, and we proceeded at the more moderate pace of about seven miles and a half an hour. It Was Banks’s intention to camp that evening seventy-five miles from Gaya, and to pass the night quietly in the neighborhood of the little town of Sasseram.

In general, Indian roads avoid watercourses as much as possible, for they necessitate bridges, which are very expensive affairs to erect on that alluvial soil. In many places where it was found impossible to prevent a river or stream from barring the path, there is no means of transit except an ancient and clumsy ferry-boat, of no use for the conveyance of our train. Fortunately, however, we were independent.

We had that very day to cross an important river, the Sone. This stream is fed above Rhotas by its affluents, the Coput and the Coyle, and flows into the Ganges just between Arrah and Dinapore.

Nothing could be easier than our passage. The elephant took to the water quite naturally. It descended the gentle slope of the bank straight into the river, rested on the surface, and with its huge feet beating the water like a paddle-wheel, it quietly drew our floating train to the opposite bank.

Captain Hood could not contain his delight.

“A traveling house!” he would exclaim, “a house which is both a carriage and a steamboat. Now we only need wings to enable us to fly through the air, and thus to cleave space.”

“That will be done some day or other, Hood,” rejoined the engineer, quite seriously.

“I believe it, Banks,” answered the captain, no less seriously. “It will be done! But what can’t be done, is that our life should be given back to us a couple of hundred years hence to enable us to see all these marvels! Life is not all sunshine, but yet I would willingly consent to live ten centuries out of pure curiosity!”

That evening, twelve hours after leaving Gaya, we passed under the magnificent tubular railway bridge, eighty feet above the bed of the Sone, and encamped in the environs of Sasseram. We tverely wished to spend a night in this spot, to replenish our stock of wood and water, and start again at dawn of day.

This program we carried out, and next morning, before the burning midday heat began, we were far on our way.

The landscape was still much the same; that is, very rich and very cultivated. Such it appeared on approaching the marvelous valley of the Ganges. I will not stop to describe the numberless villages we passed lying in the midst of extensive rice-fields, nestling amid groves of palms, interspersed with mangoes and other trees of magnificent growth and foliage.

We never paused on our way; for even if the road was blocked by a cart drawn by slow-paced zebus, two or three shrieks from our whistle caused them to draw on one side, and we dashed past, to the great amazement of the ryots.

I was delighted and charmed at the sight of a great number of fields of roses. We were indeed not far distant from Ghazipore, the great center of production of the water, or rather essence, made from these flowers.

That evening, having traversed a tolerably level country between immense fields of poppies and tracts of rice marked out like a chess-board, we camped on the right bank of the Ganges, before the ancient Jerusalem of the Hindoos — the sacred city of Benares.

“Twenty-four hours’ halt here,” said Banks.

“At what distance from Calcutta are we now? “I asked the engineer.

“About three hundred and fifty miles,” he replied; “and you acknowledge, my friend, do you not, that we have felt nothing of the length of the way or the fatigue of the journey?”

The Ganges! Is not that a name which calls up the most poetic legends, and does it not seem as if all India were summed up in that word? Is there in the world a valley to be compared to this, extending over a space of fifteen hundred miles, and containing not less than a hundred million inhabitants? Is there a spot on the globe where more wonders have been heaped up since the appearance of the Asiatic races?

When we looked out the next morning, the 23 d of May, the rising sun was shining on the sheet of water spread out before our eyes. Several alligators of great size lay on the white sand, as if drinking in the early sunlight. Motionless, they were turned toward the radiant orb, as if they had been the most faithful votaries of Brahma. But the sight of several corpses floating by aroused them from their adoration.

It is said that these bodies float on the back when they are men, and on the chest when they are women, but from personal observation I can state that there is no truth in this statement. In a moment the monsters had darted on the prey, daily furnished to them on the waters of these rivers, and with it plunged into the depths.

The Calcutta Railway, before branching off at Allahabad ‘to run toward Delhi, keeps close to the right bank of the Ganges, although it does not follow the river in all its numerous windings. At the Mogul-Serai station, from which we were but a few miles distant, a small branch line turns off, which passes Benares by crossing the river, and, passing through the valley of the Goumtie, reaches Jaunpore at a distance of about thirty-five miles.

Benares lies on the left bank. But it was at Allahabad, and not here, that we were to cross the Ganges. Our Behemoth stood therefore in the encampment we had chosen on the evening of the 22d of May. Several boats were moored to the bank, ready to take us across to the sacred town, which I was very desirous of exploring carefully.

These cities had been so often visited by Colonel Munro that there was really nothing new to him to learn or see in this one. He had, however, at first thought of accompanying us that day; but on reflection decided to make an excursion along the banks of the river instead, with Sergeant McNeil as his companion; so the two quitted Steam House before we ourselves had started. Captain Hood had at one time been quartered at Benares, and he was anxious to go and see a few of his old friends there. Banks and I, therefore — the engineer having expressed a wish to be my guide — were the only members of our party whom a feeling of curiosity attracted to the city.

“Benares,” said Banks, is the most holy city of India. It is the Hindoo Mecca, and whoever has lived in it, if only for four-and-twenty hours, is assured of eternal happiness. One can imagine, then, what an enormous crowd of pilgrims such a belief would attract thither, and what a great population must reside in a city for which Brahma has reserved blessings of such importance.”

Benares is supposed to have existed for more than thirty centuries, and must therefore have been founded about the time when Troy disappeared. It always exercised a great influence — not political, but spiritual — over Hindoostan, and was the authorized center of the Buddhist religion until the ninth century. A religious revolution then occurred. Brahminism destroyed the ancient worship. Benares became the Brahmin capital, the center of attraction to the faithful, and it is said that 300,000 pilgrims visit it annually.

The Holy City still has its Rajah. Though he is a stipendiary of the British, and his salary is somewhat poor, he is still a prince, and inhabits a magnificent residence at Ramnagur, on the Ganges. He is a veritable descendant of the kings of Kaci, the ancient name of Benares, but has no real influence; though he would console himself for that if his pension had not been reduced to a lac of rupees, which is 100,000 rupees, or 10,000l. only enough for the pocketmoney of a Nabob in the old times.

Benares, like all towns in the valley of the Ganges, took part in the great insurrection of 1857. Its garrison was at this time composed of the 37th regiment of native infantry, a corps of irregular cavalry, and half a Sikh regiment. The English troops consisted merely of a half battery of artillery. This handful of men could not attempt to disarm the native soldiers. The authorities therefore waited with impatience for the arrival of Colonel Neil, who set out for Allahabad with the 10th regiment. Colonel Neil entered Benares with only two hundred and fifty men, and gave orders for a parade on the drill-ground.

When all were assembled, the sepoys were told to give up their arms. They refused. A fight then ensued between them and Colonel Neil’s infantry. The irregular cavalry almost immediately joined the mutineers, as did the Sikhs, who believed themselves betrayed.

The half battery, however, opened fire on them, and, notwithstanding that they fought with valor and desperation, all were put to the rout.

This fight took place outside the town. Inside there was an attempt at insurrection on the part of the Mussulmans, who hoisted the green flag, but this was soon quelled. From that time, and throughout the rest of the revolt, Benares was troubled no more, even at the time when the insurrection appeared triumphant in the province of the west.

These details Banks gave me as our boat glided slowly over the water of the Ganges.

“My dear fellow,” he remarked, “you are now going to pay your first visit to Benares. But although this city is so ancient, you must not expect to find in it any monument more than three hundred years old. Don’t be astonished at this. It is the consequence of those religious contests in which fire and sword have played such a lamentable part. But all the same, Benares is a very remarkable and curious town, and you will not regret an excursion to it.”

We now stopped our boat at a suitable distance to allow us to gaze across a bay as blue as that of Naples, at the picturesque amphitheater of terraced houses and palaces descending to the water’s edge, some of them projecting over the river, so that the waves constantly washed their base and appeared likely some day to undermine them. A pagoda of Chinese architecture, consecrated to Buddha — a perfect forest of towers, spires, and minarets — beautified the city, studded as it is with mosques and temples, the latter surmounted by the Lingam, one of the symbols of Siva, while the lofty Mohammedan mosque built by Aurungzebe crowned the marvelous panorama.

Instead of disembarking at one of the ghats, or flights of stone steps leading from the banks of the river up to the terraces, Banks directed the boatman to take us first past the quay.

Here I found the scene at Gaya reproduced, though with a different landscape. Instead of the green forests of the Phalgou, we had this holy city for a background. But the life part of the picture was much the same. Thousands of pilgrims covered the banks, the terraces, the stairs, and devoutly plunged into the stream, in rows of three or four deep. It must not be imagined that this bath was free. Sentries in red turbans, with sabers at their sides, stood on the lower steps of the ghats, and exacted tribute, in company with industrious Brahmins, who sold chaplets, amulets, charms, and other religious articles.

But besides the pilgrims who bathed on their own account, there were also traders whose only business was to draw this most sacred water, and transport it to the distant parts of the peninsula. As a security, each phial is marked with the seal of the Brahmins. But in spite of this, fraud is carried on to a great extent, as the exportation of this miraculous liquid is so considerable.

“Perhaps,” as Banks said to me, “all the water of the Ganges would not be sufficient to supply the wants of the faithful.”

I asked if these bathers did not often meet with accidents, for no one seemed to try to prevent such a thing. There were no swimmers to prevent imprudent people from venturing too far into the rapid current.

“Accidents are indeed frequent,” answered Banks; “but if the body of the devotee is lost, his soul is saved; therefore they do not concern themselves much about it.”

“And crocodiles? “I added.

“Crocodiles,” replied Banks, “usually keep their distance. All this noise terrifies them. These monsters are not to be feared so much as villains who dive under the water, seize women and children, and tear off their jewels. There is even a story about one of these wretches, who, by means of an artificial head, played the part of a crocodile for a long time, and made quite a little fortune by this profitable though dangerous trade. Finally, this impertinent intruder was devoured one day by a real alligator, and nothing was found of him but his head of tanned skin, floating on the surface of the water.

“There are also desperate fanatics who voluntarily seek death in the depths of the Ganges; and this they do with a curious species of refinement. Round their body they tie a chaplet of open but empty urns; gradually the water fills these vessels, and the devotee gently sinks down, amid the applause of the crowd.”

Our boat at last landed us at the Manmenka Ghat. Here were arranged in layers the funeral piles on which the corpses of all those who in their lifetime had had any care for their future existence, were burned. In this sacred spot, cremation is eagerly sought for by the faithful, and these funeral piles burn night and day. Rich baboos of distant territories cause themselves to be carried to Benares as soon as they are attacked by an illness which they feel will prove fatal. Benares is unquestionably the best starting point for a journey to the other world. If the deceased has only to reproach himself with venial faults, his soul is wafted on the smoke of the Manmenka straight to the regions of eternal bliss. If, on the contrary, he has been a great sinner, his soul must go and inhabit the body of a Brahmin yet to be born, for the purpose of being regenerated. It is to be hoped that his second life will be exemplary, or he will be exposed to a third trial before he is finally admitted to share the delights of Brahma’s heaven.

The rest of the day we devoted to exploring the town, its principal monuments, and its bazaars, lined with dark shops after the Arab fashion. Here they sold principally fine muslin of beautiful texture, and kinkob, a rich silk material, brocaded with gold, which is one of the principal products of the Benares industry. The streets were clean, but so narrow as almost to prevent the sun’s rays from penetrating to the pavement. But although it was shady, the heat was stifling. I pitied the bearers of our palanquin, who yet seemed to make no complaint themselves.

However, it being an opportunity for the poor wretches to earn a few rupees was sufficient to give them strength and spirit. But a certain Hindoo, or rather Bengalee, with a keen eye and cunning expression, had no such reason for following us, as he did, the whole day, and without much attempt at concealment. As we landed at the Manmenka Ghat, I had been speaking to Banks, and uttered aloud the name of Colonel Munro. The Bengalee, who was watching our boat put in, gave an evident start. I did not at the time pay much attention to this, but recalled the circumstance when I perceived the spy incessantly dogging our steps. He only left us to appear again, either before or behind, a few minutes later. Whether friend or foe I could not tell, but that he was a man to whom the name of Colonel Munro was not indifferent was perfectly evident.

Our palanquin soon stopped at the foot of a staircase of a hundred steps, leading from the quay to the mosque of Aurungzebe. Formerly the devotees only ascended these Santa Scala on their knees, after the manner of the faithful at Rome; but that was when a magnificent Hindoo temple dedicated to Vishnu was on the site now occupied by the mosque of the conqueror.

I should much have liked to survey Benares from the top of one of the minarets of this mosque, the construction of which is regarded as a perfect triumph of architecture. Although one hundred and thirty-two feet in height, they have scarcely the diameter of a manufactory chimney, and yet the cylindrical shaft contains a winding stair. No one is allowed to ascend, and there is a reason for this prohibition: the two minarets are already sensibly out of the perpendicular, and unless endowed with the vitality of the Tower of Pisa, they will end by coming down some day.

On leaving the mosque of Aurungzebe, I found the Bengalee waiting for us at the door. This time I looked fixedly at him, and he lowered his eyes. Before drawing Banks’ attention to this incident, I wished to ascertain if this individual would persist in his suspicious behavior, and for the present I said nothing.

You may count pagodas and mosques by hundreds in this marvelous town of Benares. Also splendid palaces — the most beautiful of which is unquestionably that of the King of Nagpore. Few rajahs indeed neglect to secure a house in the Holy City, and always come to it at the time of the great religious festivals of Mela.

I could not attempt to visit all these buildings during the little time we had at our disposal. I contented myself, therefore, with making a visit to the temple of Bicheshwar, in which is set up the Lingam of Siva. This — a shapeless stone, looked upon as part of the body of this the most savage god of the Hindoo mythology — covers a well, the stagnant waters of which possess, they say, miraculous virtues. I saw also the Mankarnika, or sacred fountain, where devotees bathe, to the great profit of the Brahmins; then the Manmundir, an observatory built two hundred years ago by the Emperor Akbar.

I had heard of a palace of monkeys, which all tourists never failed to visit. A Parisian naturally imagined himself about to behold something like the celebrated monkey-house in the Jardin des Plantes. But there was nothing of the sort. I found that this palace was a temple, called the Dourga-Khound, situated a little beyond the outskirts. The monkeys were by no means shut up in cages. They roamed freely through the courts, leaping from wall to wall, climbing to the tops of enormous mango-trees, noisily disputing over the parched corn brought byTheir visitors, and to which they are very partial.

There, as everywhere else, the Brahmins, who keep the Dourga-Khound, levy a small contribution, which evidently makes this profession one of the most lucrative in India.

It is needless to say that we were rather done up by the heat, as toward evening we began to think of returning to Steam House. We had breakfasted and dined at Secrole, in one of the best hotels of that English town, and yet I must say that the cuisine made us regret that of Monsieur Parazard.

As we were stepping into our boat to return to the right bank of the Ganges, I again caught sight of the Bengalee a short distance from us. A skiff containing a Hindoo was waiting for him, into which he got. Did he mean to cross the river, and so follow us to our encampment? This looked suspicious.

“Banks,” said I in a low tone, pointing to the Bengalee, “that fellow is a spy, who has followed us every step of the way.”

“I have seen him,” returned Banks; “and I also noticed that it was the colonel’s name, uttered by you, which first put him on the alert.”

“Isn’t there any — ? “I said.

“No; leave him alone,” said Banks. “Better not to let him know that he is suspected — besides, he has gone now.”

In fact, the Bengalee’s canoe had already disappeared among the numerous vessels of all shapes and sizes covering the dark waters of the Ganges. Banks turned to our boatman. “Do you know that man?” he asked, in a tone of affected indifference.

“No; this is the first time I have seen him,” replied the native.

On reaching our encampment, we found Colonel Munro and Sergeant McNeil already there. Banks asked the sergeant if anything had happened during our absence. “Nothing,” was the reply.

“You haven’t seen any suspicious-looking person prowling about?”

‘ No, Mr. Banks. Have you any reason for suspecting — ?”

“We have been dogged during our excursion in Benares,” answered the engineer, “and I did not like the look of the fellow who followed us.”

“The spy was — ?”

“A Bengalee, who was put on the alert by the mention of Colonel Munro’s name.”

“What could the man want with us?”

“I don’t know, McNeil. We must keep a lookout.”

“We will!” returned the sergeant emphatically.

CHAPTER IX

ALLAHABAD

THE distance between Benares and Allahabad is about eighty miles, and the road lies on the right bank of the Ganges between the railway and the river. Storr had loaded the tender with a good supply of coal, so that the elephant would have no lack of nourishment for several days. Well cleaned — I had almost said well curry-combed — as bright as if he had just come out of the workshop, he impatiently waited the moment for starting. He didn’t exactly paw the ground, but the quivering of the wheels betrayed the tension of the steam which filled his lungs of steel. Our train started early in the morning of the 24th, at a rate of three to four miles an hour.

The night passed quietly, and we saw nothing of the Bengalee.

I may as well mention here, once for all, that each day’s program, of getting up, going to bed, breakfasts, luncheons, dinners, and siestas, was carried out with military exactitude. Our life in the Steam House went on as regularly as in the bungalow at Calcutta. The landscape was constantly changing under our eyes, without any perceptible movement of our house. We soon grew accustomed to our life, as do passengers on board an ocean steamer, though we had nothing monotonous, for, unlike the sea, our horizon was ever changing.

Toward eleven o’clock we caught sight, on the plain, of a curious mausoleum, erected in honor of two holy personages of Islam, “Cassim-Soliman,” father and son. Half an hour after this we passed the important fortress of Chunar, an impregnable rock crowned by picturesque ramparts, and rising perpendicularly one hundred and fifty feet above the river.

Of course we halted to pay this place a visit, as it is one of the most important fortresses in the valley of the Ganges.

It is a very economical place with regard to expenditure of powder and bullets, for when an assaulting column endeavors to scale the walls, it is immediately crushed by an avalanche of rocks and stones kept for the purpose.

At its foot lies the town which bears its name, the houses coquettishly peeping out from among the verdure.

In Benares, as we have seen, there exist many privileged places, which are considered by the Hindoos as the most sacred in the world. If one began to count, the number scattered over the peninsula would amount to hundreds. Chunar possesses one of these miraculous spots. Here you are shown a marble slab, to which some god or other comes regularly to take his daily siesta. It is true that he is invisible, so we did not stop see him.

About two o’clock next day we forded the little river Tonsa, at that time only containing a foot of water, and by the evening were encamped at the end of one of the suburbs of Allahabad.

On the next day Banks again wished to accompany me during the few hours I was able to spend in Allahabad. One might easily have spent three days in exploring the three towns of which it is composed, but it is less curious than Benares, although numbered among the holy cities.

There is really nothing to say about the Hindoo part of the town. It is simply a mass of low houses, separated by narrow streets, shaded by magnificent tamarind-trees.

Of the English town and cantonments, there is not much to be said either. The fine well-planted avenues, wealthy habitations, and wide squares, all look as if the town was destined to become a great capitaL

Allahabad is situated in a vast plain, bounded on the north and south by the double course of the Jumna and Ganges. It is called the “Plain of Almsgiving,” because the Hindoo princes have at all times come here to perform works of charity. M. Rousselet, quoting a passage from the “Life of Hionen Thsang,” says, “It is more meritorious to give away one piece of money in this place, than a hundred thousand elsewhere.”

The fort of Allahahad is well worth a visit. It is constructed to the west of the great Almsgiving Plain, from which its high granite walls stand boldly out In the middle of the fort is a palace, now used as an arsenal, though formerly the favorite residence of the Sultan Akbar. In one of the corners is the Lat of Feroze Schachs, a superb monolith thirty-six feet in height, supporting a lion. Not far off is a little temple, which no Hindoo can visit, as they are refused admission into the fort, although it is one of the most sacred places in the world.

Banks told me that the fort of Allahabad also has its legend, which reminds one of the story relative to the reconstruction of Solomon’s temple in Jerusalem. When the Sultan wished to build this fort, it seems that the stones turned very refractory. Directly a wall was built, it tumbled itself down again. The oracle was consulted. The oracle replied, as usual, that a voluntary victim must be offered to remove this spell.

A Hindoo offered himself as a holocaust; he was sacrificed, and the fort was soon finished. This man was called Brog, Ind that is the reason why the town is still designated by the double name of Brog-Allahabad.

Banks took us to the deservedly celebrated gardens of Khousroo. Here numerous Mohammedan mausoleums stand under the shade of beautiful tamarinds. One of them is the last resting-place of the sultan from whom these gardens take their name. On one of the white marble walls is printed the palm of an enormous hand. This was pointed out to us with a complacency which was lacking in the exhibition of the sacred impressions at Gaya. It And leaving the drawing-room, the engineer opened the door of the sergeant’s cabin.

He was not there.

“Where is McNeil?” asked Banks of Gofni, who was getting ready to wait at table.

“He has left the camp,” replied Gofimi.

“How long?”

“He went nearly an hour ago, by Colonel Munro’s orders.”

“You do not know where he has gone?”

“No, sahib, and I cannot tell why he went.”

“Nothing fresh has happened here since we left?”

“Nothing, sahib.”

Banks returned, and telling me of the sergeant’s absence for a reason that no one knew, he repeated, “I do not know what it is, but very certainly there is something up. We must wait and see.”

Every one now sat down to table. Ordinarily, Colonel Munro took part in the conversation during meals. He liked to hear us relate our adventures and excursions, and was interested in all we had been doing during the day.

I always took care to avoid speaking of anything that could in the slightest degree remind him of the mutiny. I think that he perceived this; but whether he appreciated it or not, it was sometimes difficult enough to maintain this reserve, especially when we talked of towns such as Benares and Allahabad.

During dinner, on the evening of which I speak, I feared being obliged to speak of Allahabad. I need not have been afraid, however. Colonel Munro questioned neither Banks nor myself about the occupation of our day. He remained mute during the whole of dinner, and as time went on his preoccupation visibly increased. He cast frequent glances along the road which led to the cantonments, and several times was evidently on the point of rising from table, the better to see in that direction. It was plain that he was impatiently awaiting the return of Sergeant McNeil.

Our meal was dull enough. Hood looked interrogatively at Banks, as if to ask him what was the matter, but Banks knew no more than he did.

When dinner at last came to an end, Colonel Munro, instead of as usual lying down to take a nap, stepped down from the veranda, went a few paces along the road, gave one long look down it; then, returning toward us, “Banks, Hood, and you, too, Maucler,” he said, “will you accompany me as far as the nearest houses of the cantonments?”

We all immediately rose and followed the colonel, who walked slowly on without uttering a word. After proceeding thus for about a hundred paces, Sir Edward stopped before a post standing on the right hand side of the road, and having a notice stuck on it. “Read that,” he said.

It was the placard, already more than two months old, which put a price on the head of Nana Sahib, and gave notice of his presence in the presidency of Bombay.

Banks and Hood could scarcely conceal their disappointment. While still in Calcutta, and during the journey, they had so managed, up to the present time, that this notice had never come under the colonel’s eyes. But now a vexatious chance had baffled all their precautions.

“Banks!” said Sir Edward, seizing the engineer’s hand, “did you know of this notice? “Banks made no reply.

“You knew two months ago,” continued the colonel, “of this announcement that Nana Sahib was in the presidency of Bombay, and yet you said nothing to me.”

Banks remained silent, not knowing what to say.

“Well, yes, colonel,” exclaimed Captain Hood, “we did know of it, but what was the use of telling you? Who was to prove that the announcement is true, and what was the good of bringing to your mind those painful recollections which do you so much harm?”

“Banks,” cried Colonel Munro, his face, as it were, transformed, “have you forgotten that it is my right, that I of all men must do justice on that wretch? Know this! when I consented to leave Calcutta, I did so, because this journey would take me to the north of India, because I never even for a single day believed in the death of Nana Sahib, and because I will never relinquish my purpose of vengeance. In setting out with you, I had but one idea, one hope. For the attainment of my purpose, on the chances of the journey, and the aid of heaven, I had relied. I was right in so doing. Heaven directed me to this notice. It is in the south, and not in the north, that Nana Sahib must be sought for. Be it so; I shall go south.”

We had not been mistaken in our fears. It was but too true. A fancy — nay more, a fixed idea — still governed the mind of Colonel Munro. He had just disclosed it to us.

“Munro,” returned Banks, “if I said nothing to you about this, it was because I did not believe in Nana Sahib’s being in the Bombay Presidency. It is probable that the authorities have been once more mistaken. In fact, that notice is dated the 6th of March, and since that time nothing has been heard to corroborate the statement of the appearance of the nabob.”

At first Colonel Munro made no answer to the engineer’s observation. He took another look along the road, then said, “My friends, I am about to hear the latest news. McNeil has gone to Allahabad with a letter for the governor. In a few minutes I shall know whether Nana Sahib did indeed reappear in one of the western provinces; whether he is there still, or whether he has again been lost sight of.”

“And if he has been seen, if the fact is indisputable, what shall you do, Munro?” asked Banks, grasping the colonel’s hand.

“I shall go,” replied Sir Edward, “as is my duty, where justice leads me.”

“That is positively decided, Munro?”

“Yes, Banks, positively. You must continue your travels without me, my friends — I shall take the train to Bombay this evening.”

“But not alone,” responded the engineer, turning toward us. “We will accompany you, Munro.”

“Yes, yes, colonel,” exclaimed Captain Hood. “We shall certainly not let you go without us. Instead of hunting wild beasts, we will hunt villains.”

Colonel Munro,” I added, “will you allow me to join the captain as one of your friends?”

“Yes, Maucler,” replied Banks; “this very evening we will leave Allahabad.”

“It is needless,” said a grave voice behind us.

We all turned, and beheld Sergeant McNeil standing with a newspaper in his hand. “Read, colonel,” said he. “This is what the governor desired me to show you.”

Sir Edward took the paper, and read as follows: “The Governor of the Bombay Presidency requests the public to take notice that the proclamation of the 6th of March, respecting the nabob, Dandou Pant, must now be considered as canceled. Nana Sahib was yesterday attacked in the defiles of the Sautpourra mountains, where he had taken refuge with his band, and was killed in the skirmish. The body has been identified by the inhabitants of Cawnpore and Lucknow. A finger is wanting on the left hand, and it is known that Nana Sahib had one amputated at the time when his mock obsequies were celebrated to make people believe in his death. The kingdom of India has now nothing further to dread from the machinations of the cruel nabob who has cost her so much blood.”

Colonel Munro read these lines in a hollow voice; then the paper fell from his hands.

We remained silent. Nana Sahib’s death, now indisputable, delivered us from all fear as to the future.

Colonel Munro said nothing for some minutes, but stood with his hand pressed over his eyes, as if to efface all frightful recollections. Then, “When should we leave Allahabad?” he asked.

“To-morrow, at daybreak,” replied the engineer.

“Banks,” resumed Sir Edward, “could we not stop for a few hours at Cawnpore?”

“You wish it?”

“Yes, Banks, I should like it — I must see Cawnpore once again — for the last time.”

“We shall be there in a couple of days,” replied the engineer, quietly.

“And after that?” said the colonel.

“After that,” answered Banks, “we shall continue our expedition to the north of India.”

“Yes, to the north! to the north!” said the colonel, in a tone which stirred me to the depths of my heart.

In truth, it was likely that Sir Edward Munro still entertained some doubt as to the real result of that last skirmish between Nana Sahib and the English. Yet what reason could he have for disbelieving such evidence as this? The future alone could explain.

CHAPTER X

VIA DOLOROSA

THE kingdom of Oude was formerly one of the most important, as it is still one of the richest, provinces in India. It had many sovereigns — some strong, some feeble. The weakness of one of them, named Wajid Ali Shah, brought about the annexation of his kingdom to the dominions of the Company, on the 6th of February, 1857.

This took place only a few months before the outbreak of this insurrection, and it was in Oude that the most frightful massacres were committed, and followed by the most terrible reprisals. The names of two cities remain in mournful celebrity ever since that time: Lucknow and Cawnpore.

Lucknow is the capital; Cawnpore one of the principal towns of the ancient kingdom. We reached the latter place on the morning of the 29th of May, having followed the right bank of the Ganges through a level plain covered with immense fields of indigo. For two days we had traveled at a speed of three leagues an hour, and were now nearly one thousand “kilometers “from Calcutta.

Cawnpore is a town of about 60,000 inhabitants. It occupies a strip of land about five miles in length, on the right bank of the Ganges. There is a military cantonment, in which are quartered 7,000 men. The traveler would vainly seek for anything worthy of his attention in this city, although it is of very ancient origin; anterior, they say, to the Christian era. No sentiment of curiosity, then, brought us to Cawnpore. The wishes of Sir Edward alone led us thither.

Early on the morning of the 30th May we quitted our encampment, and Banks, Captain Hood, and I, followed the colonel and Sergeant McNeil along that melancholy route on which the points of mournful interest were for the last time to be revisited.

I will here repeat the facts, as related to me by Banks, which it is necessary should be known. Cawnpore, which was garrisoned by reliable troops at the time of the annexation of the kingdom of Oude, contained at the outbreak of the mutiny no more than two hundred and fifty British soldiers to three regiments of native infantry (the 1st, 53d, and 56th), two regiments of cavalry, and a battery of Ben-gal artillery. There were in the place besides a considerable number of Europeans, workmen, clerks, merchants, etc. with 850 women and children of the 32d regiment, which garrisoned Lucknow.

Colonel Munro had been living at Cawnpore for several years. And it was there he met the lady who became his wife. Miss Hanlay was a charming young Englishwoman, high-spirited, intelligent, and noble-minded, worthy of the love of such a man as the colonel, who adored her. She and her mother resided in a bungalow near Cawnpore, and there, in 1855, she was married to Edward Munro.

Two years afterward, in 1857, when the first acts of rebellion occurred at Meerut, Colonel Munro had to rejoin his regiment at a day’s notice. He was therefore obliged to leave his wife with his mother-in-law at Cawnpore, but thinking that place unsafe, he charged them to make immediate preparations for departure to Calcutta. Alas, his fears were but too surely justified by what followed. The departure of Mrs. Hanlay and Lady Munro was delayed, and the consequences were fatal. The unfortunate ladies were unable to leave Cawnpore.

Sir Hugh Wheeler was then in command of the division — an upright, honorable soldier, who was but too soon to fall a victim to the crafty designs of Nana Sahib. The nabob at that time occupied his castle of Bithour, ten miles from Cawnpore, and affected to be on the best possible terms with the Europeans.

“You are aware, my dear Maucler,” continued Banks, “that the first outbreak of the insurrection took place at Meerut and Delhi. The news reached Cawnpore on the 4th of May. And on the same day the 1st regiment of sepoys exhibited symptoms of hostility. At this moment Nana Sahib came forward with an offer of his services to the Government. General Wheeler was so ill-advised as to place confidence in the good faith of this villain and knave, who immediately sent his own soldiers to occupy the Treasury Buildings.

“That same day an irregular regiment of sepoys, on its way to Cawnpore, mutinied and massacred its British officers at the very gates of the town. The danger then became evident in all its magnitude. General Wheeler gave orders that all Europeans should take refuge in the barracks, where were quartered the women and children of the 32d regiment, then at Lucknow. These barracks were situated at the point nearest the road from Allahabad, by which alone succor could arrive.

“It was there that Lady Munro and her mother were shut up; and throughout this imprisonment she manifested the utmost sympathy for her companions in misfortune, tending them with her own hands, assisting them with money, encouraging them by words and example; in short, showing herself to be, as I have told you she was, a noble, heroic woman.

“The arsenal was soon after confided to a guard of the soldiers of Nana Sahib. Then the traitor displayed the standard of rebellion; and, on the 7th of June, the sepoys, at their own desire, attacked the barracks, which was not defended by more than three hundred men who could be relied upon. They held out bravely, however, against the besiegers’ fire, beneath showers of projectiles; suffering sickness of all sorts, dying of hunger and thirst, for the supply of provisions was insufficient, and they had no water, because the wells dried up.

“This resistance lasted until the 27th of June. Nana Sahib then proposed a capitulation and General Wheeler committed the unpardonable mistake of signing it, notwithstanding the earnest entreaties of Lady Munro, who besought him to continue the contest.

“In consequence of this capitulation, about five hundred, persons — men, women, and children — Lady Munro and her mother being of the number, were embarked in boats, which were to descend the Ganges, and convey them to Allahabad. Scarcely were these unmoored, than the sepoys opened fire; bullets and grape-shot fell upon them like hail. Some of the boats sank, others were burned; one alone succeeded in passing several miles down the river. In this boat were Lady Munro and her mother, and for an instant they could believe themselves saved. But the soldiers of the Nana pursued, overtook, captured, and brought them back to the cantonments.

“There the prisoners were divided. All the men were put to death at once. The women and children were added to the number of those who had not been massacred on the 27th of June. These two hundred victims, for whom protracted agony was reserved, were shut up in a bungalow, the name of which, Bibi-Ghar, will ever be held in sorrowful remembrance.”

“How did these horrible details become known to you? “I inquired.

“They were related to me,” replied Banks, “by an old sergeant of the 32d. This man escaped by a miracle, and was sheltered by the Rajah of Raischwarah, a province of the kingdom of Oude, who received him as well as some other fugitives with the greatest humanity.”

“And Lady Munro and her mother? — what became of them?”

“My dear friend,” replied Banks, “we have no direct information of what happened, but it is only too easy to conjecture. In fact, the sepoys were masters of Cawnpore, and they were so until the 15th of July, during which period (nineteen days, which were like so many years! The unhappy victims were in hourly expectation of succor, which only came too late. General Havelock was marching from Calcutta to the relief of Cawnpore, and, after repeatedly defeating the mutineers, he entered it on the 17th of July.

“But two days previously, upon hearing that the British troops had crossed the river Pandou-Naddi, Nana Sahib resolved to signalize the last hours of his occupation of Cawnpore by frightful massacres. No fate seemed to him too severe for the invaders of India. Some prisoners, who had shared the captivity of the prisoners at Bibi-Ghar, were brought, and murdered before his eyes.

“The crowd of women and children remained, and among them Lady Munro and her mother. A platoon of the 6th regiment of sepoys received orders to fire upon them through the windows of Bibi-Ghar. The execution began, but not being carried out quickly enough to please the Nana, who was about to be compelled to beat a retreat, this sanguinary prince sent for Mussulman butchers to assist the soldiery. It was the butchery of a slaughter-house.

“Next day, the children and women, dead or alive, were flung into a well; and when Havelock’s soldiers came up, this well, charged to the brim with corpses, was still reeking!

“Then began the reprisals. A certain number of mutineers, accomplices of Nana Sahib, had fallen into the hands of General Havelock. And the following day he issued that terrible Order of the Day, the terms of which I shall never forget:-

”’ The well in which lie the mortal remains of the poor women and children massacred by order of the miscreant Nana Sahib, is to be filled up and carefully covered over in the form of a tomb. A detachment of European British soldiers, under an officer’s command, will fulfill the pious duty this evening. But the house and rooms in which the massacre took place are not to be cleansed by the fellow-countrymen of the victims. The officer is to understand that every drop of innocent blood is to be removed by the tongues of the mutineers condemned to die. After having heard the sentence of death, each man is to be conducted to the place of the massacre, and forced to cleanse a portion of the floors. Care must be taken to, render the task as repulsive as possible to the religious sentiments of the condemned men; and the lash, if necessary, must not be spared. This being accomplished, the sentence will be carried out on gallows erected near the house.’”

“This,” continued Banks, with deep emotion, “was the order for the day. It was executed in all particulars. But it could not restore the lost! And when, two days afterward, Colonel Munro arrived and sought for tidings or traces of Lady Munro and her mother, he found nothing — nothing!”

All this was related to me by Banks before reaching Cawnpore. And now it was toward the scene of these horrors that the colonel directed his steps. But first he revisited the bungalow where Lady Munro had lived in her youth, and where he had seen her for the last time.

It was situated a little outside the suburbs, not far from the line of military cantonments. Nothing of the house remained but ruins, blackened gables, fallen trees decaying on the ground; all was desolation, for the colonel had permitted nothing to be repaired. After the lapse of ten years the bungalow remained just as it had been left by the incendiaries.

We spent an hour in this desolate place. Sir Edward moved silently among ruins which awoke so many recollections, sometimes closing his eyes, as if in thought, he recalled the happy existence which nothing could ever restore to him. At length hastily, and as if doing violence to his feelings, he returned to us, and left the house.

We almost began to hope this visit would satisfy him. But no! Sir Edward Munro had resolved to drain to the dregs the bitterness of the sorrow which overwhelmed him in this fatal town. He wished to go to the barracks where his heroic wife had devoted herself so nobly to the care of those who endured there the horrors of a siege.

These barracks stood in the plain outside the town, and a church was being built on the spot. In order to reach it, we followed a macadamized road shaded by fine trees, and among the unfinished new buildings we could distinguish remains of the brick walls which had formed part of the works of defense raised by General Wheeler.

After Colonel Munro had long gazed motionless and in silence upon the ruins of the barracks, he turned to go toward Bibi-Ghar, but Banks, unable to restrain himself, seized his arm, as though to arrest his steps.

Sir Edward looked steadfastly in his face, and said in a terribly calm voice, “Let us proceed.”

“Munro! I beseech of you!”

“Then I will go alone.”

There was no resisting him. We went toward Bibi-Ghar, which is approached through gardens very well laid out, and planted with fine trees. The building is of octagonal form, and has a colonnade in Gothic style, which surrounds the place where was the well, now filled up and closed in by a casing of stone. This forms a kind of pedestal on which stands a white marble statue representing the Angel of Pity, one of the last works due to the chisel of the sculptor Marochetti.

It was Lord Canning, Governor-General of India during the fearful insurrection of 1857, who caused this monument to be erected. It was constructed from the design of Colonel Yule, of the engineers, who himself wished to have defrayed all the expenses. Here Sir Edward Munro could no longer restrain his tears. He fell on his knees beside the statue; while Sergeant McNeil, who was close beside him, wept in silence; and we, in the deepest pain, stood looking on, powerless to console this unfathomable grief.

At length Banks, aided by McNeil, succeeded in drawing our friend away from the spot, and I thought of the words traced with his bayonet by one of Havelock’s soldiers on the stone brink of the well: “Remember Cawnpore!”

CHAPTER XI

THE MONSOON

AT eleven o’clock we returned to the encampment, anxious to leave Cawnpore as quickly as possible; but our engine required some trifling repairs, and it was impossible to do so before the following morning.

Part of a day, then, was at my disposal. I considered that I could not employ it better than by visiting Lucknow, as Banks did not intend to pass through that place, where Colonel Munro would again have been brought in contact with reminiscences of the war. He was right. These vivid recollections were already far too poignant.

At midday, then, quitting Steam House, I took the little branch railway which unites Cawnpore to Lucknow. The distance is not more than twenty leagues, and in a couple of hours I found myself in this important capital of the kingdom of Oude, of which I wished merely to obtain a glance, or, as I might say, an impression. I soon perceived the truth of what I had heard respecting the great buildings of Lucknow, built during the reigns,of the Mohammedan emperors of the seventeenth century.

A Frenchman, named Martin, a native of Lyons, and a common soldier in the army of Lally-Tollendal, became, in 1730, a favorite with the king. He it was who designed, and in fact may be called the architect of, the so-called marvels of the capital of Oude.

The Kaiser Bagh, or official residence of the sovereigns, is a whimsical and fantastic medley of every style of architecture which could possibly emanate from the imagination of a corporal, and is a most superficial structure. The interior is nothing; all the labor has been lavished on the outside which is at once Hindoo, Chinese, Moorish, and — European. It is the same with regard to another smaller palace, called the Farid Bakch, which is likewise the work of Martin.

As to the Imambara, built in the midst of the fortress by Kaifiatoulla, the greatest architect of India in the seventeenth century, it is really superb, and, bristling with its hundreds of bell-towers, has a grand and imposing effect!

I could not leave Lucknow without seeing the Constantine Palace, which is another of the original performances of the French corporal, and bears his name. I also wished to visit the adjacent garden, called Secunder Bagh, where hundreds of sepoys were executed for having violated the tomb of the humble soldier of fortune before they abandoned the town.

Another French name besides that of Martin is honored at Lucknow. A non-commissioned officer, formerly of the Chasseurs d’Afrique, named Duprat, so distinguished himself by his bravery during the mutiny, that the rebels offered to make him their leader. Duprat nobly refused, notwithstanding the promises of wealth held out to tempt him, and the threats with which he was menaced when he stood firm. He remained faithful to the English. But the sepoys, who had failed to make him a traitor, directed against him their special vengeance, and he was slain in an encounter. “Infidel dog!” they had said on his refusal to join them, “we will have thee in spite of thyself! “And they had him; but only when he was dead!

The names of these two French soldiers were united in the reprisals; for the sepoys who had insulted the tomb of the one, and prepared the grave of the other, were ruthlessly put to death!

At length — having admired the magnificent parks which encircle this great city of 500,000 inhabitants as with a belt of verdure and flowers, and having ridden on elephant-back through the principal streets, and the fine boulevard of Hazrat Gaudj — I took the train, and returned to Cawnpore.

Next morning, the 31st of May, we resumed our route.

“Now then!” cried Captain Hood; “we are done at last with your Allahabads, your Cawnpores, Lucknows, and the rest, for which I care about as much as I do for a blank cartridge!”

“Yes, Hood, we have got through all that,” replied Banks; “and now for the north, toward which we are to travel almost in a direct line, to the base of the Himalayas.”

Bravo!” resumed the captain. “What I call real India is not the provinces, crammed with native towns and swarming with people, but the region where live in freedom my friends the elephants, lions, tigers, panthers, leopards, bears. bisons, and serpents. That is, in reality, the only habitable part of the whole peninsula! You will see that it is so, Maucler, and you will have no reason to regret the valley of the Ganges!”

“In your society I can regret nothing, my friend,” replied I.

“There are, however,” said Banks, “some very interesting towns in the northwest; such as Delhi, Agra, and Lahore. . .”

“Oh! my dear fellow! who ever heard of those miserable little places!” cried Hood.

“Miserable, indeed!” replied Banks. “Let me tell you, Hood, they are magnificent cities! And,” he continued, turning to me, “we must manage to let you see them, Maucler, without throwing out the captain’s plans for a sporting campaign.”

“All right, Banks,” said Hood; “but it is only from to-day that I consider our journey to have fairly commenced.”

Presently, in a loud voice, he shouted, “Fox!”

“Here, captain!” answered his servant.

“Fox! get all the guns, rifles, and revolvers in good order!”

“They are so, sir.”

“Prepare the cartridges.”

“They are prepared.”

“Is everything ready?”

“Quite ready, sir.”

“Make everything still more ready.”

“I will, sir.”

“It won’t be long before the thirty-eighth takes his place on your glorious list, Fox!”

“The thirty-eighth!” cried the man, with sudden light in his eye; “he won’t have to complain of the nice little ball I am keeping ready for him!”

“Get along with you, Fox!”

With a military salute Fox faced about, and re-entered the gun-room.

I will now give an outline of the plan for the second part of our journey — a plan which only unforeseen events were to induce us to alter.

By this route we were to ascend the course of the Ganges toward the northwest for a long way, and then, turning sharp to the north, continue our way between two rivers; one a tributary of the great river, the other of the Goinni. By this means a considerable number of streams would be avoided; and, passing by Biswah, we should rise in an oblique direction to the lower ranges of the mountains of Nepaul across the western part of Oude and Rohilkund This route had been ingeniously planned by Banks so as to surmount all difficulties. If coal were to fail in the north of Hindoostan, we were sure of having abundance of wood, and Behemoth would easily keep up any rate of speed we wished, on good roads through the grandest forests of the Indian Peninsula.

It was agreed that we might easily reach Biswah in six days, allowing for stoppages at convenient places, and time for the sportsmen of the party to exhibit their prowess. Besides Captain Hood, with Fox and Goilmi, could easily explore the vicinity of the roads, while Behemoth moved slowly along.

I was permitted to join them, although I was far from being an experienced hunter, and I occasionally did so.

I ought to mention that from the moment our journey took this new aspect, Colonel Munro became more sociable. Once fairly among the plains and forests beyond the valley of the Ganges, he appeared to resume the calm and even tenor of the life he used to lead at Calcutta, although it was impossible to suppose he could forget that we were gradually approaching the north of India, the region whither he was attracted as by an irresistible fatality. His conversation became more animated, both at meals and during the pleasant evening hours when we halted. As for McNeil, he seemed more gloomy than usual. Had the sight of BibiGhar revived his hatred and thirst for vengeance?

“Nana Sahib killed?” said he to me one day. “No, no, sir; they have not done that for us yet!”

The first day of our journey passed without any incident worth recording. Neither Captain Hood nor Fox had a chance of aiming at any sort of animal. It was quite distressing, and so extraordinary that we began to wonder whether the apparition of a steam elephant could be keeping the savage dwellers of the plains at a distance. We passed several jungles, known to be the resort of tigers and other carnivorous feline creatures. Not one showed himself, although the hunters kept away full two miles from us.

They were forced to devote their energies, with Niger and Fan, to shooting for Monsieur Parazard’s larder. Ho expected to be supplied regularly, and considered game for the table of paramount importance, most unreasonably despising the tigers and other beasts Fox talked to him about.

Disdainfully shrugging his shoulders, he would ask, “Are they good to eat?”

In the evening we fixed our camp beneath the shelter of a group of enormous banyans. The night was as tranquil as the day had been calm. No roars or howlings of wild animals broke the silence. The snorting of Behemoth himself was stilled.

When the camp-fires were extinguished, Banks, to please the captain, refrained from connecting the electric current by which the elephant’s eyes would have become two powerful lamps. But nothing came of it. It was the same the two following nights. Hood was getting desperate.

“What can have happened to my kingdom of Oude?” repeated the captain. “It has been translated! There are no more tigers here than in the lowlands of Scotland!”

“Perhaps there may have been battues here lately,” suggested Colonel Munro. “The animals may have emigrated en masse. But cheer up, my friend, and wait till we reach the foot of the mountains of Nepaul. You will find scope for your hunting instincts there!”

“It is devoutly to be hoped it may be so, colonel,” replied Hood, sadly shaking his head. “Otherwise we may as well recast our balls, and make small shot of them!”

The 3d of June was one of the hottest days which we had endured. There was not a breath of wind, and had not the road been shaded by huge trees, I think we must have been literally baked in our rooms. It seemed possible that, in heat like this, wild animals did not care to quit their dens even during the night.

Next morning, at sunrise, the horizon to the westward for the first time appeared somewhat misty. We then had presented to our eyes a magnificent spectacle — the phenomenon of the mirage, which is called in some parts of India seekote, or castles in the air; and in others, dessasur, or illusion.

What we saw was not a visionary sheet of water, with curious effects of refraction, but a complete chain of low hills, crowned by castles of the most fantastic form, resembling the rocky heights of some Rhenish valley with their ancient fastnesses of the Margraves. In a moment we seemed transported not only to that romantic part of Europe, but into the Middle Ages five or six centuries back. This phenomenon was surprisingly clear, and gave us a strange sensation of absolute reality. So much so, that the gigantic elephant-engine, with all its apparatus of modern machinery, advancing toward the habitations of men of Europe, in the eleventh century, struck us as far more out of place and unnatural than when traversing, beneath clouds of vapor, the country of Vishnu and Brahma.

“We thank you, fair Lady Nature!” cried Captain Hood; “instead of the minarets and cupolas, mosques and pagodas, we have been accustomed to, you are spreading before us charming old towns and castles of feudal times!”

“How poetical you are this morning, Hood!” returned Banks. “Pray have you been reading romantic ballads lately?”

“Laugh away, Banks; quiz me as much as you like, but just look there! See how objects in the foreground are growing in size! The bushes are turning into trees, the hills into mountains, the — f “Why the very cats will be tigers soon, won’t they, Hood?”

“Ah, Banks! how jolly that would be!… There!” continued the captain, “my Rhenish castles are melting away; the town is crumbling to ruins, and we return to realities, seeing only a landscape in the kingdom of Oude, which the very wild animals have deserted.”

The sun, rising above the eastern horizon, quickly dissipated the magical effects of refraction. The fortresses, like castles built of cards, sank down with the hills, which were suddenly transformed into plains.

“Well, now that the mirage has vanished, and with it Hood’s poetic vein, shall I tell you, my friends,” said Banks, what the phenomenon presages?”

“Say on, great engineer!” quoth the captain.

“Nothing less than a great change of weather,” replied Banks. “The early days of June are usually marked by climacteric changes. The turn of the monsoon will bring the periodical rainy season.”

“My dear Banks,” said I, “let it rain as it will, we are snug enough here. Under cover like this I should prefer a deluge to heat such as — “

“All right, my dear friend, you shall be satisfied,” returned he; “I believe the rain is not far off, and we shall soon see the first clouds in the southwest.”

Banks was right. Toward evening the western horizon became obscured by vapors, showing that the monsoon, as frequently happens, would commence during the night. These mists, charged with electricity, came across the peninsula from the Indian Ocean, like so many vast leathern bottles out of the cellars of AEolus, filled full of storm, tempest, and hurricane.

Other signs, well known to Anglo-Indians, were observed during the day. Spiral columns of very fine dust whirled along the roads, in a manner quite unlike that which was raised by our heavy wheels. They resembled a number of those tufts of downy wool which can be set in motion by an electrical machine. The ground might, therefore, be compared to an immense receiver in which for several days electricity had been stored up. This dust was strangely tinted with yellow, and had a most curious effect, each atom seeming to shine from a little luminous center. At times we appeared to be traveling through flames, harmless flames, it is true, though neither in color nor vivacity resembling the ignis fatuus.

On this evening the encampment was arranged with greater care than usual, because, if the heat of the following day should prove equally overpowering, Banks proposed to prolong the halt, so as to pursue the journey during the night.

Colonel Munro was well pleased to think of spending some hours in this noble forest, so shady, so deeply calm. Everybody was satisfied with the arrangement; some because they really required rest, others because they longed once more to endeavor to fall in with some animal worth firing at. It is easy to guess who those persons were.

“Fox! Goiimi! it is only seven o’clock!” cried Captain Hood, as soon as we came to a halt; “let’s take a turn in the forest before it is quite dark. Will you come with us, Maucler?”

“My dear Hood,” said Banks, before I had time to answer, “you had better not leave the encampment. The weather looks threatening. Should the storm burst, you would find some trouble in getting back to us. To-morrow, if we remain here, you can go.”

“But to-morrow it will be daylight again,” replied Hood. “The dark hours are what I want for adventure!”

“I know that, Hood; but the night which is coming on is very unpromising. Still, if you are resolved to go, do not wander to any distance. In an hour it will be very dark, and you might have great difficulty in making your way back to camp.”

“Don’t be uneasy, Banks; it is hardly seven o’clock, and I will only ask the colonel for leave of absence till ten.”

“Go, if you wish it, my dear Hood,” said Sir Edward, “but pray attend to the advice Banks has given you.”

“All right, colonel.” And the captain, with his followers, Fox and Goilmi, all well equipped for the chase, left the encampment, and quickly disappeared behind the thick trees.

Fatigued by the heat of the day, I remained in camp.

Banks gave orders that the engine fires should not, as they usually were, be completely extinguished. He wished to retain the power of quickly getting up steam, in case of an emergency.

Storr and Kalouth betook themselves to their accustomed tasks, and attended to the supplies of wood and water; in doing so they found little difficulty, for a small stream flowed near our halting-place, and there was no lack of timber close at hand. M. Parazard diligently labored in his vocation, and, while putting aside the remains of one dinner, was busily planning the next.

As the evening continued pleasant, Sir Edward, Banks, McNeil, and I, went to rest by the borders of the rivulet, as the flow of its limpid waters refreshed the atmosphere, which even at this hour was suffocating.

The sinking sun shed a light which tinged with a color like dark-blue ink a mass of vapor which, through openings in the dense foliage, we could see accumulating in the zenith. These thick, heavily condensed clouds were stirred by no wind, but appeared to advance with a solemn motion of their own.

We remained chatting here till about eight o’clock. From time to time Banks rose to take a more extended view of the horizon, going toward the borders of the forest, which abruptly crossed the plain within a quarter of a mile of the camp. Each time on returning he looked uneasy, and only shook his head in reply to our questions.

At last we rose and accompanied him. Beneath the banyans it began to be dark already: I could see that an immense plain stretched westward up to a line of indistinct low hills, which were now almost enveloped in the clouds. The aspect of the heavens was terrible in its calm. Not a breath of air stirred the leaves of the highest trees. It was not the soft repose of slumbering nature, so often sung by poets, but the dull, heavy sleep of sickness. There was a restrained tension in the atmosphere, like condensed steam ready to explode.

And indeed the explosion was imminent. The storm-clouds were high, as is usually the case over plains, and presented wide curvilinear outlines, very strongly marked. They seemed to swell out, and, uniting together, diminished in number while they increased in size. Evidently, in a short time, there would be but one dense mass spread over the sky above us. Small detached clouds at a lower elevation hurried along, attracting, repelling, and crushing one against another, then, confusedly joining the general ine/ge, were lost to view.

About half-past eight a sharp flash of forked lightning rent the gloom asunder. Sixty-five seconds afterward, a peal of thunder broke, and the hollow rumbling attendant to that species of lightning lasted about fifteen seconds.

“Sixteen miles,” said Banks, looking at his watch. “That is almost the greatest distance at which thunder can be heard. But the storm, once unchained, will travel quickly; we must not wait for it. Let us go indoors, my friends.”

“And what about Captain Hood?” said Sergeant McNeil.

“The thunder has sounded the recall,” replied Banks. “It is to be hoped he will obey orders.”

CHAPTER XII

THREE-FOLD LIGHT

hindoostan shares with certain parts of Brazil — among others with Rio Janeiro — the proud distinction of being more frequently visited by storms than any other country on the face of the globe.

I consulted the barometer as soon as we reentered our apartments, and found that there had been a sudden fall of two inches in the mercurial column. This I pointed out to Colonel Munro.

“I am uneasy about Hood and his companions,” he said. “A storm is imminent; night is coming on, and the darkness rapidly increases. Sportsmen are certain always to go farther than they say they will, and even than they intend. How are they to find their way back to us?”

“Madman that he is!” cried Banks; “it was impossible to make him listen to reason. They never ought to have gone!”

“That is true enough, Banks; but gone they are,” replied Sir Edward; “all we can do now is to try and get them back.”

“Can we signal to them, anyhow? “I asked.

“To be sure we can. I will light the electric lamps at once. That is a happy thought of yours, Maucler.”

“Shall I go in search of Captain Hood, sir?” inquired McNeil.

“No, my old friend,” replied the colonel. “You would not find him, and would be lost yourself.”

Banks connected the electric current, and very soon Behemoth’s eyes, like two blazing beacons, shot glaring light athwart the gloom of the banyan forest. It seemed certain that it would be visible to our sportsmen at a considerable distance.

At this moment a hurricane of great violence burst forth, rending the tree-tops, and sounding among the columns of banyan as though rushing through sonorous organ-pipes. It was indeed a sudden outburst. Showers of leaves and dead branches strewed the ground and rattled upon the roofs of our carriages.

We closed every window; but the rain did not yet fall. “It is a species of typhoon,” remarked Banks.

“Storr!” cried Banks to the engine-driver, “are the embrasures of the turret well closed?”

“Yes, Mr. Banks: there is nothing to fear there.”

“Where is Kalouth?”

“He is stowing away the last of the fuel in the tender.”

“After this storm we shall only have to collect the wood. The wind is playing wood-cutter, and sparing us all the hard work,” said the engineer. “Keep up the pressure, Storr, and get under shelter.”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

“Are your tanks filled, Kalouth?”

“Yes, sahib; the water-supply is made up.”

“Well, come in, come in.”

And the engine-driver and stoker hastened into the second carriage.

Flashes of lightning were now frequent, and thunder from the electric clouds kept up a sullen roar. The wind blew like scorching blasts from the mouth of a furnace. Occasionally we left the saloon, and went into the veranda. Gazing upward at the lofty summits of the stately banyans, the branches showed like fine black lace against the glowing background of the illumined sky. The incessant lightning was followed so rapidly by the peals of thunder, that the echoes had not time to die away; they were continually aroused by new and yet louder explosions. A deep, continuous roll was maintained, and only broken by those sharp detonations so well compared by Lucretius to the harsh screaming sound of paper when it is torn.

“I wonder the storm has not yet driven them in,” said Colonel Munro.

“Perhaps Captain Hood has found some shelter in the forest,” answered Sergeant McNeil. “He may be waiting in some cave or hollow tree, and will rejoin us in the morning. The camp will be here all right.”

Banks shook his head somewhat doubtfully; he did not seem to share McNeil’s opinion.

It was now about nine o’clock, and the rain began to fall with great force. It was mingled with enormous hailstones, and they pelted on the hollow roofs of Steam House with a noise like the roll of many drums. Even without the roar of the thunder, it was impossible to hear our own voices.

The air was full of the leaves of trees, whirling in all directions.

Banks did not attempt to speak, but pointed to the engine, directing our attention to the hailstones as they struck the metal sides of Behemoth. It was marvelous! Each stone struck fire in the contact, like flint and steel. It seemed as though showers of fiery metallic drops fell from the clouds, sending forth sparks as they struck the steel-plated engine. This proved how completely the atmosphere was saturated with electricity. Fulminating matter traversed it incessantly, till all space seemed to blaze with fire.

Banks signed to us to return to the saloon, and closed the veranda door. The darkness within the room contrasted strongly with the lightning which ‘flashed without. We had presently a proof that we were ourselves strongly charged with the electric fluid, when, to our infinite astonishment, we perceived our saliva to be luminous. This phenomenon, rarely observed, and very alarming when it is so, has been described as “spitting fire.”

The tumult of the heavens seemed every instant to increase, and the stoutest hearts beat thick and fast.

“And the others!” said Colonel Munro.

“Ah, yes, indeed — the others!” returned Banks.

We were horribly uneasy, yet could do nothing whatever to assist Captain Hood and his companions, who were of course in the utmost danger.

Even supposing they had found shelter, it could only be beneath trees, where accidents during storms are most imminent; and in the middle of a dense forest, how could they possibly maintain the distance of five or six yards from a vertical line, drawn from the extremity of the longest branches, which persons caught by storms in the neighborhood of trees are scientifically advised to do?

As these thoughts rushed through my mind, a peal of thunder, louder than any we had heard, burst directly over us. Steam House trembled throughout, and seemed to rise on its springs. I expected it to be overturned.

At the same time a strong odor filled the room — the penetrating smell of nitrous vapors.

“A thunderbolt has fallen!” said McNeil.

“Storr! Kalouth! Parazard!” shouted Banks.

The three men came running into our apartment, while the engineer stepped out on the balcony.

“There! — look there!” he cried. An enormous banyan had been struck ten paces off, on the left of the road.

We could see everything distinctly by the glare of incessant lightning. The immense trunk had fallen across the neighboring trees, its sturdy saplings no longer able to sustain it. The whole length of its bark had been peeled off, and one long strip was waving about and lashing the air, as the force of the gale made it twist and twine like a serpent. It was seen that the bark must have been stripped off from base to summit, under the influence of electricity which had violently rushed upward.

“A narrow escape for Steam House,” said the engineer. “We must remain here; we are safer than under those trees.”

As he spoke we heard cries. Could it be our friends returning?

“It is Parazard’s voice,” said Storr.

It was indeed the cook, who, from the hinder balcony, was loudly calling to us. We hastened to join him.

What a sight met our eyes! Within a hundred yards of us, behind, and to the right of, the camp, the banyan forest was on fire!

Already the loftier tree-tops were disappearing behind a curtain of flame.

The conflagration advanced fiercely and with incredible velocity toward Steam House. The danger was imminent. The heat and long continuous drought had combined to make trees, grass, and bushes so dry and combustible that it was probable the entire forest would be devoured by the furious element.

As we witnessed its rapid spread and advance, we were convinced that, should it reach the place of our encampment, our entire equipage would, in a very few minutes, be destroyed.

We stood silent before this fearful danger.

Then, folding his arms, the colonel said quietly, “Banks, you must get us out of this scrape.”

“Yes, I must, Munro,” replied the engineer; “and since we cannot possibly put out this fire, we must run away from it,”

“On foot?” exclaimed I.

“No; with our train all complete.”

“And Captain Hood, sir?” said McNeil.

“We can do nothing for them. If they are not here immediately, we shall start without them.”

“We must not abandon them,” said the colonel.

“My dear Munro, let me get the train out of reach of the fire, and then we can search for them.”

“Go on, then, Banks,” replied Colonel Munro, who saw that the engineer was in the right.

“Storr!” cried Banks, “to your engine at once! Kalouth! to your furnace — get the steam up! What pressure have we?’

“Two atmospheres,” answered the engine-driver.

“Within ten minutes we must have four! Look sharp, my lads!”

The men did not lose a moment. Torrents of black smoke gushed from the elephant’s trunk, meeting, and seeming to defy, the torrents of rain. Behemoth replied with whirling clouds of sparks to the vivid flashes which surrounded him; and draughts of air, whistling through the funnel, accelerated the combustion of the wood which Kalouth heaped and piled on his furnace.

Sir Edward Munro, Banks, and I remained on the veranda in rear of the carriages, watching the progress of the forest-fire. Huge trees tottered and fell across this vast hearth; the branches cracked and crackled like musketry; the burning creepers twisted in all directions, and led the flames from tree to tree, thus spreading the devastation right and left.

Within five minutes the conflagration had advanced fifty yards, and the flames, torn and disheveled by the gale, shot upward to such a height that the lightning flashes pierced them in all directions.

“We must be off in five minutes,” said Banks.

“At what a pace this fire goes! “I replied.

“We shall go faster!”

“If only Hood and his men were back!” said Sir Edward.

“The whistle! — sound the whistle!” cried Banks; “they may, perhaps, hear that.”

And darting into the turret, he made the air resound with shrill screams, which were heard above the rumbling thunder, and must have sounded to an immense distance. The situation can better be imagined than described. Necessity urged to immediate flight, while it seemed impossible to forsake our absent friends.

Banks returned to the hinder balcony. The edge of the fire was less than fifty yards from Steam House. The heat became insufferable; we could scarcely breathe the burning air. Flakes of fire fell on the carriages, which seemed protected in a measure by the floods and torrents of rain; but these, we well knew, could not check the direct attack of the flames.

The engine continued to send forth piercing shrieks. It was all in vain. There were no signs of either Hood, Fox, or Goiimi.

The engine-driver came to Banks, “Steam is up, sir!”

“Go on, then, Storr!” replied Banks, “but not too fast. Just quick enough to keep up beyond the reach of the fire.”

“Stop, Banks! wait a few minutes!” cried Colonel Munro, who could not bring himself to quit the spot.

“Three minutes, then, Munro,” returned Banks coolly. “But in three minutes the back of the train will begin to burn.”

Two minutes passed. It was impossible to stay in the veranda. The iron plating could not be touched, and began to burst open at the joints. It would be madness to stop another instant.

“Go on, Storr!”

“Hallo!” exclaimed the sergeant.

“There they are! God be praised!” said the colonel.

To the right of the road appeared Captain Hood and Fox, supporting Goiimi in their arms as they approached the carriage door.

Is he dead?”

“No; but struck by lightning, which smashed his gun, and has paralyzed his left leg.”

“We should never have got back to camp but for your steam whistle, Banks!” said Hood.

“Forward! forward!” shouted the engineer.

Hood and Fox sprang on board the train, and Gofimi, who had not lost consciousness, was placed in his cabin.

It was half-past ten — Banks and Storr went into the turret, and the equipage moved steadily forward, amid the blaze of a three-fold light, produced by the burning forest, the electric lamps, and the vivid lightning flashing from the skies.

Then Captain Hood in a few words related what had happened during his excursion. They had seen no traces of any wild animals. As the storm approached, darkness overtook them much more rapidly than they expected. They were three miles from camp when they heard the first thunder-clap, and endeavored to return, but quickly found they had lost their way among the banyan trunks, all exactly alike, and without a path in any direction whatever.

The tempest increased in violence; they were far beyond the limits of the light diffused by our electric lamp, and had nothing to guide them as to our whereabouts, while the rain and hail fell in torrents, quickly penetrating the shelter of the leafy screen above them.

Suddenly, with a glare of intensely brilliant lightning, a burst of thunder broke over them, and Goilmi fell prostrate at Captain Hood’s feet; the butt-end of his gun alone remained in his hand, for it was instantaneously stripped of every bit of metal. They believed him to be killed, but found that the electric fluid had not struck him directly, although his leg was paralyzed by the shock. Poor Goitmi could not walk a step, and had to be carried. His companions would not listen to his entreaties that they would leave him, escape themselves, and, if possible, return afterward to fetch him. They raised him between them, and, as best they could, pursued their doubtful way through the dark forest.

Thus for two hours they wandered about, hesitating, stopping, resuming their march, without the slightest clue to the direction in which to find the camp.

At last, to their infinite joy, they heard the shriek of the steam whistle. It was the welcome voice of Behemoth.

A quarter of an hour afterward they arrived, as we were on the point of quitting the halting-place, and only just in time!

And now, though the train ran rapidly along the broad, smooth forest-road, the fire kept pace with it, and the danger was rendered the more threatening by a change of wind, such as frequently occurs during these violent meteoric storms. Instead of blowing in flank, it now changed to the rear, and by its vehemence materially increased the advance of the flames, which perceptibly gained on the travelers. A cloud of hot ashes whirled upward from the ground, as from the mouth of some crater; and into this rained downward burning branches and flakes of fire. The conflagration really resembled, more than anything else, the advance of a stream of lava, rushing across the country, and destroying everything in its course.

Banks instantly perceived this, and, even if he had not, he would have felt the scorching blast as it swept by.

Our speed was increased, although some danger attended the doing so over an unknown path. The machine, however, would not proceed as fast as the engineer could have wished, owing to the road being so cut up and flooded by rain.

About half-past eleven another awful clap of thunder burst directly over our heads. A cry escaped us. We feared that Banks and Storr had both been struck in their howdah, from which they were guiding the train.

This calamity, however, had not befallen us. Our elephant only had been struck, the tip of one of his long, hanging ears having attracted the electric current. No damage resulted to the machine fortunately, and Behemoth seemed to try to reply to the peals of thunder by renewed and vigorous trumpetings.

“Hurrah!” cried Captain Hood. “Hurrah! An elephant of flesh and blood would have been done for by this time. But this old fellow braves thunder and lightning, and sticks at nothing. Go it, Behemoth; hurrah!”

For another half hour the train was still ahead. Banks, fearing to run it against some obstacle, only proceeded at a rate sufficient to keep us out of reach of the fire.

From the veranda, in which Colonel Munro, Hood, and I had placed ourselves, we could see passing, great shadows, bounding through the blaze of the fire and lightning. We soon discovered them to be those of wild animals.

As a precautionary measure, Captain Hood kept his gun ready, for it was possible that some terrified beast might leap on our train, in search of a shelter or refuge.

One huge tiger did indeed make the attempt, but in his prodigious spring he was caught by the neck between two branches of a banyan-tree, which, bending under the storm, acted like great cords, and strangled the animal. “Poor beast!” said Fox.

“These creatures,” remarked Captain Hood, in an indignant manner, “are made to be killed by good, honest shot. You may well say poor beast.”

Poor Captain Hood was indeed out of luck. When he wanted tigers, he couldn’t find them; and now, when he was not looking for them, they passed within range, without his being able to get a shot at them, or were strangled before his eyes, like mice in a trap.

At one in the morning, our situation, dangerous as it had been before, became worse. The wind, which shifted about from one point of the compass to another, continually swept the fire across the road in front of us, so that now we were absolutely hemmed in.

The storm, however, had much diminished in violence, as is invariably the case when these pass above a forest, for there the trees gradually draw off and absorb the electric matter. But though the lightning and thunder were now less frequent, and though the rain fell with gentler force, yet the wind still roared with inconceivable fury.

At any cost it was absolutely necessary to hasten on, even at the risk of running into an obstacle, or of dashing over a precipice.

Banks directed our course with astonishing coolness, his eyes glued to the glass of the howdah, his hand ever on the regulator. Our way now led between two hedges of fire, and these we were forced to go through. On went Banks, resolutely and steadily, at the rate of five or six miles an hour.

I thought at last we should be obliged to stop, when before us lay a narrow passage, only fifty yards wide, with a roaring furnace on either side. Our wheels crunched over the glowing cinders, which strewed the soil, and a burning, stifling atmosphere enveloped us.

We were past!

At two in the morning a flash of lightning revealed to us the borders of the wood. Behind us lay a vast panorama of flames, which would spread on, and never stop until they had devoured the very last banyan of the immense forest.

At daybreak we halted at last; the storm had entirely ceased, and we arranged our camp. Our elephant, who was carefully examined, was found to have the tip of his right ear pierced by several holes running in diverse directions. If such a thing had happened to any other creature than an animal of steel, it would most certainly have at once sunk down, never again to rise, and our unfortunate train would then have been rapidly overwhelmed by the advancing flames.

At six that morning, after a very short rest, we again resumed our journey, and by twelve o’clock we were encamped in the neighborhood of Rewah.

CHAPTER XIII

CAPTAIN HOOD’S PROWESS

THE remainder of the day and the next night were quietly spent in camp. After all our fatigue and danger, this rest was well earned.

We had no longer before us the rich plains of the kingdom of Oude. Steam House had now to pass through Rohilkund, a fertile territory, though much cut up by nullahs, or ravines. Bareilly is the capital of this province, which is one hundred and fifty-five miles square, well watered by the numerous affluents or tributaries of the Cogra; here and there are many groups of magnificent mango-trees, as well as thick jungles, which latter are gradually disappearing as cultivation advances.

After the taking of Delhi, this was the center of the insurrection; Sir Colin Campbell conducted one of his campaigns here. Here, too, Brigadier Walpole’s column was not at the outset very fortunate, and here, also, fell a friend of Sir Edward Munro, the colonel of the 93 d Highlanders, who had so distinguished himself in the two assaults on Lucknow, during the affair of the 14th of April.

We could not have had a country better suited for the advance of our train than this. Beautiful level roads, easily crossed streams, running from the two more important arteries, descending from the north, all united to render this part of our journey pleasant. In a short time we should come to the first rising ground which connected the plain with the mountains of Nepaul.

We had, however, to think seriously of the rainy season.

The monsoon, which is prevalent from the northeast to the southwest during the first months of the year, is now reversed. The rainy season is more violent on the coast than in the interior of the peninsula, and also a little later; the reason being that the clouds are exhausted before reaching the center of India. Besides this, their direction is somewhat altered by the barrier of high mountains which form a sort of atmospheric eddy. On the coast of Malabar the monsoon begins in the month of May; in the central and northern provinces, it is felt some weeks later on, in June. We were now in June, and our journey was henceforward to be performed under new though well-foreseen circumstances.

I should have said before that honest Goilmi, who had been disarmed by the lightning in such an untoward manner, was nearly well again by the next day. The paralysis of his left leg was merely temporary. Soon not a trace of his accident remained, but it seemed to me he always bore rather a grudge against that storm.

On both the 6th and 7th of June, Captain Hood, aided by Fan and Niger, had better sport. He killed a couple of those antelopes called nylghaus. They are the blue oxen of the Hindoos, though it is certainly more correct to call them deer, since they have a greater resemblance to that animal.

These were not the wild beasts Captain Hood hoped for; but all the same, the nylghau, though not actually ferocious, is dangerous; for when slightly wounded, it turns on the hunter.

A shot from the captain, and a second from Fox, stopped short both of these superb creatures, killed, as it were, on the wing; and indeed Fox seemed to look on them as nothing higher than feathered game.

Monsieur Parazard, fortunately, was quite of another opinion, and the excellent haunch, cooked to a turn, which he served up to us that day at dinner, brought us all over to his side.

At daybreak on the 8th of June we left an encampment we had made near a little yillage in Rohilkund. We had arrived at it the evening before, after traversing the twenty-five miles which lay between it and Rewah. Our train could only go at a very moderate pace over the heavy ground caused by the rains. Besides this, the streams began to swell, and fording several delayed us some hours. After all we had not now so very far to go. We were sure of reaching the mountainous region before the end of June. There we intended to install Steam House for several of the summer months, as if in the midst of a sanitorium. We had nothing to make us uneasy in that respect.

On the 8th of June Captain Hood missed a fine opportunity for a shot. The road was bordered by a thick bamboo jungle, as is often the case near villages, which look as if built in a basket of flowers. This was not as yet the true jungle, for that, in the Hindoo sense, applies to the rugged, bare, and sterile plain, dotted with lines of gray bushes. We, on the contrary, were in a cultivated country, in the midst of a fertile territory, covered in most places with marshy rice-grounds.

Behemoth went quietly along, guided by Storr’s hand, and emitting graceful, feathery clouds of vapor, which curled away and dispersed among the bamboos at the roadside.

All at once, out leaped an animal with the most wonderful agility, and fastened on our elephant’s neck.

“A cheetah! a cheetah!” shouted the engine-driver.

At this cry, Captain Hood darted out to the balcony, and seized his gun, always ready and always at hand.

“A cheetah!” exclaimd he in his turn.

“Fire, then!” cried I.

“Time enough!” returned the captain, who contented himself with merely taking a good aim at the animal.

The cheetah is a species of leopard peculiar to India, not so large as the tiger, but almost as formidable, it is so active, supple, and strong.

Colonel Munro, Banks, and I stood out on the veranda, watching with interest for the captain to fire.

The leopard had evidently been deceived by the sight of our elephant. He had boldly sprung at him, expecting to bury his teeth and claws in living flesh, but instead of that, met with an iron skin, on which neither teeth nor claws could make any impression. Furious at his discomfiture, he clung to the long ears of the artificial animal, and was no doubt preparing to bound off again when he caught sight of us.

Captain Hood kept his gun pointed, after the manner of a hunter who is sure of his aim, but does not wish to fire until he is certain he can hit a vital part.

The cheetah drew itself up, roaring savagely. It no doubt knew of its danger, but did not attempt to escape. Perhaps it watched for an opportunity to spring on to the veranda.

Indeed, we soon saw it climbing up the elephant’s head, to the trunk or chimney, and almost to the opening out of which puffed jets of vapor.

“Now fire, Hood!” said I again.

“There’s time enough,” answered the captain. Then, without taking his eyes off the leopard, who still gazed at us, he addressed himself to me. “Did you ever kill a cheetah, Maucler?” he asked.

“Never.”

“Would you like to kill one?”

“Captain,” I replied, “I should not like to deprive you of this magnificent shot — !

“Pooh!” returned Hood, “it’s nothing of a shot. Take a gun and aim just below the beast’s shoulder! If you miss, I shall catch him as he springs.”

“Be it so, then.”

Fox, who had joined us, put a double-barreled gun into my hands. I took it, cocked it, aimed just below the leopard’s shoulder, and fired.

The animal, wounded, though but slightly, took an enormous bound, right over the driver’s howdah, and alighted on the first roof of Steam House.

Skilled sportsman as Captain Hood was, even he had not time to fire. “Here Fox, after me!” he shouted.

And the two, darting out of the veranda, hastened up into the howdah.

The leopard immediately sprang on to the second roof, clearing the foot-bridge at a bound.

The captain was on the point of firing, but another desperate leap carried the animal off the roof, and landed him at the side of the road, when he instantly disappeared in the jungle.

“Stop! stop!” cried Banks, to the engineer, who, applying the atmospheric brakes, brought the train to an instant standstill.

The captain and Fox leaped out and ran into the thicket, in hopes of finding the cheetah.

A few minutes passed. We listened somewhat impatiently. No shot was fired, and very soon the two hunters returned empty handed.

“Disappeared! Got clear off!” called out Captain Hood; “and not even a trace of blood on the grass!”

“It was my fault,” said I. “It would have been better if you had fired at the cheetah yourself. You wouldn’t have missed!”

“Nonsense,” returned Hood, “you hit him, I’m certain, though not in a good place.”

“The beast wasn’t fated to be my thirty-ninth, nor your forty-first, captain,” remarked Fox, much out of countenance.

“Rubbish,” said Hood, in a somewhat affected tone of indifference, “a cheetah isn’t a tiger! If it had been, my dear Maucler, I couldn’t have made up my mind to yield that shot to you!”

“Come to table, my friends,” said Colonel Munro. “Breakfast is ready, and will console you — “

“I hope it may,” put in McNeil; “but it was all Fox’s fault!”

“My fault?” said the man, quite nonplussed by this unexpected observation.

“Certainly, Fox,” returned the sergeant. “The gun you handed to Mr. Maucler was only loaded with number six! “And McNeil held out the second cartridge which he had just withdrawn, to prove his words.

“Fox!” said Captain Hood.

“Yes, sir.”

“A couple of days under arrest!”

“Yes, captain.” And Fox retired into his cabin, resolved not to appear again for forty-eight hours. He was quite ashamed of himself, and wished to hide his disgraced head.

The next day Captain Hood, Goiimi, and I went off to beat about the plain at the side of the road, and thus to spend the half day’s halt which Banks allowed us. It rained all the morning, but about midday the sky cleared, and we hoped for a few hours of fine weather.

I must mention that it was not Hood, the hunter of wild beasts, who took me out this time, but the sportsman in search of game. In the interests of the table, he intended to stroll quietly about the rice-fields, accompanied by Fan and Niger.

Monsieur Parazard had hinted to the captain that his larder was empty, and that he expected his honor to take the necessary measures to fill it again. Captain Hood resigned himself, and we set out. For two hours our battue had no other result than to put up a few partridges, or scare away a few hares; but all at such a distance that, notwithstanding our good dogs, we had no chance of hitting them.

Captain Hood became utterly disgusted. In this vast plain, without jungles, or thickets, and dotted with villages and farms, he had no great hopes of meeting with any sort of wild beast, which would make amends for the loss of the leopard the preceding day. He had only come out now in the character of a purveyor, and thought of the reception Monsieur Parazard would give him if he returned with an empty bag. It was not our fault that even by four o’clock we had not had occasion to fire a single shot. A dry wind blew, and, as I said, all the game rose out of range.

“My dear fellow,” said Hood, “this won’t do at all. When we left Calcutta, I promised you such grand sport; and all this time, bad luck, fatality, I don’t know what to call it, nor how to understand it, has prevented me from keeping my promise!”

“Come, captain,” I replied, “you mustn’t despair. Though I do regret it, it is more on your account than my own! We shall have better luck, no doubt, on the hills!”

“Yes,” said Hood, “on the Himalayan slopes we shall set to work under more favorable conditions. You see, Maucler, I’d wager anything that our train, with all its apparatus, its steam and its roaring, and especially the gigantic elephant, terrifies the confounded brutes much more than a railway train would do, and that’s the reason we don’t see anything of them when traveling! When we halt, we must hope to be more lucky. That leopard was a fool! He must have been starving when he sprang on Behemoth, and he was worthy of being killed outright by a good shot! Hang that fellow Fox! I sha’n’t forget that little job of his in a hurry! What time is it now?”

“Nearly five o’clock!”

“Five already, and we haven’t bagged a thing!”

“They won’t expect us back in camp till seven. Perhaps by that time — “

“No; luck is against us!” exclaimed the captain; “and, look you, luck is the half of success!”

“Perseverance, too,” I answered. “Suppose we agree that we won’t go back empty-handed! Will that suit you?”

“Suit me? of course it will!”

“Agreed, then.”

“Look here, Maucler, I shall carry back a mouse or a squirrel, rather than be foresworn.”

Hood, Goini, and I were now in a frame of mind to attack anything. The chase was continued with a perseverance worthy of a better cause; but it seemed as if even the most inoffensive birds had become aware of our hostile intentions. We couldn’t get near a single one.

We roamed about thus among the rice-fields, beating first one side of the road and then the other, and turning back again, so as not to get too far from the camp. All was useless. Half past six, and we had not had to reload our guns. We might as well have had walking-sticks in our hands, the results would have been all the same.

I glanced at Captain Hood. He was marching along with his teeth set, while a deep frown on his brow betrayed his angry feelings. Between his compressed lips he muttered I don’t know what vain menaces against every living creature whether feathered or furred of which there was not a specimen on the plain. He probably would soon fire his gun at the first object which met his eye, a tree or rock, may be — rather a cynical way of getting rid of his anger. It was easy to see his weapon burned his fingers, as it were, from the way he shifted it about, now to his shoulder, then to his arm, now again carrying it in his hand.

Gofimi looked at him. “The captain will be in a passion if this goes on!” he said to me, shaking his head.

“Yes,” I replied, “I’d willingly give thirty shillings for the most modest little tame pigeon, if some charitable hand would let it go within range! It would appease him!”

But neither for thirty shillings, nor for double, or triple that amount, could we procure even the cheapest or the most common of fowl. The country seemed deserted, and we saw neither farm nor village. Indeed if it had been possible, I believe I should have sent Gotami to buy at any price some bird or other, if only a plucked chicken; anything to set our fretful captain free from his vow.

Night was coming on. In an hour’s time there would not be light enough for us to continue our fruitless expedition. Although we had agreed not to return to camp without something, yet we should be forced to do so, unless we meant to stay out all night. Not only did it threaten rain, but Colonel Munro and Banks would be seriously alarmed if we did not reappear.

Captain Hood, with straining eyeballs, glancing from right to left with birdlike quickness, walked ten paces ahead in an opposite direction to that of Steam House.

I was thinking of hastening my steps so as to rejoin him and beg him not to continue this struggle against ill-luck, when a whirr of wings was heard on my right. I looked toward the spot.

A dark mass was rising slowly above a thicket.

Instantly, without giving Captain Hood time to turn round, I leveled my gun, and fired both barrels successively. The unknown bird fell heavily.

Fan sprang forward, seized and brought it to the captain.

“At last!” exclaimed Hood. “If Monsieur Parazard isn’t contented with this, he must be shoved into his pot himself, head first.”

“But is it an edible bird? “I asked.

“Certainly, for want of anything better!” answered the captain.

“It was lucky nobody saw you, Mr. Maucler!” said “What have I done wrong?”

“Why, you have killed a peacock, and that is forbidden, for they are sacred birds all over India.”

“The fiend fly away with sacred birds and those who made them sacred, too!” exclaimed Captain Hood impatiently. “This one is killed at all events, and we shall eat him — devoutly if you like, but devour him somehow!”

Since the expedition of Alexander into this peninsula, the peacock has been a sacred animal in the Brahmins’ country. The Hindoos make it the emblem of the goddess Saravasti, who presides over births and marriages. To destroy this bird is forbidden under pain of punishment, which the English law has confirmed.

This one, which so rejoiced Captain Hood’s heart, was a magnificent specimen, with green metallic gleaming wings, edged with gold. His beautifully marked tail formed a superb fan of silky feathers.

“All right; forward!” said the captain.

“To-morrow, Monsieur Parazard will give us peacock for dinner, in spite of what all the Brahmins in India may think! Although, when cooked, this bird will indeed only look like a somewhat pretentious chicken, yet with its feathers artistically arranged, it will have a fine effect on our table!”

“Then you are satisfied, captain?”

“Satisfied — with you, yes, my dear fellow, but not pleased with myself at all! My bad luck isn’t over yet, and I must do away with it. Come along!”

Off we started to retrace our steps to the camp, now about three miles distant. Captain Hood and I walked close together along a winding path through thick bamboo jungles; Go-Cimi, carrying our game, bringing up the rear. The sun had not yet disappeared, but it was shrouded in great clouds, so that we had to find our way through semi-obscurity.

All at once a terrific roar burst from a thicket on our right. The sound was to me so awful that I stopped short, almost in spite of myself.

Captain Hood grasped my hand. “A tiger!” he said.

Then an oath escaped him. “Thunder and lightning!” he exclaimed, “there is only small shot in our guns!”

It was too true; neither Hood, Goinni, nor I, had any ball cartridges.

Besides, if we had, we should not have had time to reload. Ten seconds after uttering his first roar, the animal leaped from the covert with a single bound, and landed on the road twenty paces from us. It was a magnificent tiger, what the Hindoos would have called a man-eater, his annual victims might no doubt be counted by hundreds.

The situation was terrible. I gazed at the tiger, and must confess that my gun trembled in my hand. He measured from nine to ten feet in length, and was of a tawny color, striped with black and white.

He stared back at us, his catlike eyes blazing in the shadow. His tail feverishly lashed his sides. He crouched as if about to spring.

Hood had not lost his presence of mind. He took a careful aim at the animal, muttering in a tone which it is impossible to describe, “Number six! To fire at a tiger with number six! If I don’t hit him right in the eyes, we are — “

The captain had not time to finish. The tiger advanced not by leaps, but slow steps.

Goitmi crouched behind us, and also took aim, though his gun, too, only contained small shot. As to mine, it was not even loaded. I prepared to do this now.

“Not a movement, not a sound!” muttered the captain. “The tiger will spring, and that will never do!”

We all three remained motionless. The tiger advanced slowly, his eyes glaring fixedly, and his great jaws held almost level with the ground. The brute was now only ten paces from the captain.

Hood stood firm, steady as a statue, concentrating his whole life in his gaze. The terrible struggle which was about to take place, and which might leave none of us alive, did not even make his heart beat more rapidly than usual. I thought the tiger was about to make his spring. He took five steps. I had need of all my self-control to keep from calling out, “Fire, Hood! now fire!”

No! The captain had said — and it was evidently his only chance — that he meant to blind the animal; and to do that he must be very close before he fired. The tiger came three paces nearer, and prepared to spring —

A loud report was heard, almost immediately followed by a second. The second explosion seemed to have taken place in the very body of the animal, which, after two or three starts and roars of pain, fell dead on the ground.

“Wonderful!” exclaimed Captain Hood, “my gun was loaded with ball after all, and what’s more, with an explosive ball! Ah, thanks, Fox, this time many thanks!”

“Is it possible? “I cried.

“Look for yourself.” And as he spoke the captain drew out the cartridge from the other barrel. There was the ball.

All was explained. Captain Hood possessed a double-barrelled rifle and a double-barrelled gun, both of the same caliber. Now, when Fox made the mistake of loading the rifle with small shot, he at the same time put explosive ball cartridges into the other. The day before, this mistake saved the life of the leopard, to-day it saved ours!

“Yes,” remarked Hood, “and never in my life have I been nearer death!”

Half an hour afterward, when we were safe back in camp, Hood called up Fox and told him what had happened.

“Captain,” returned the man, “that proves that instead of two days in confinement, I deserved four, because I made a mistake twice!”

“That is my opinion,” replied his master; “but since through your mistake I have bagged my forty-first, it is also my opinion that I should offer you this sovereign — “

“And mine that I should take it,” answered Fox, pocketing the piece of gold.

Such were the incidents which marked Captain Hood’s encounter with his forty-first tiger.

In the evening of the 12th of June, our train came to a halt near a small village of no importance, and the next day we set out to begin the ninety miles which still lay between us and the mountains of Nepaul.

CHAPTER XV

THE PAL OF TANDIT

HAVING followed thus far the travels of Colonel Munro and his companions, from Calcutta to the Indo-Chinese frontier, and seen them safely encamped at the base of the mountains of Thibet, we will leave them for a time in their winter-quarters and devote a few pages to some other characters who have appeared in our story.

Our readers may remember the incident which marked the arrival of Steam House at Allahabad. From a newspaper of that town, dated the 25th of May, Colonel Munro learned the news of the death of Nana Sahib. Was this report so often spread before, and again so often contradicted, this time indeed true? After reading such minute details, could Sir Edward Munro still doubt, and was he not justified in renouncing all expectation of being able finally to do justice on the rebel of 1857?

We shall be enabled to judge of this, when we hear of all that occurred after the night of the 7th of March, during which Nana Sahib, accompanied by Balao Rao, his brother, and escorted by most faithful companions, the Hindoo Kalagani among the number, left the caves of Adjuntah.

Sixty hours later, the nabob reached the narrow defiles of the Sautpoora Mountains, after crossing the Taptee, which flows into the sea on the west coast, near Surat. He was then a hundred miles from Adjuntah, in a part of the province little frequented, and thus tolerably secure for a time. The place was well chosen.

Here Nana Sahib was near the country of the Ghoonds, an aboriginal tribe, only half subdued, whom he hoped to induce to revolt. Ghoondwana is a territory of two hundred square miles containing a population of more than three millions. M. Rousselet considers the inhabitants to be always ripe for rebellion. It is quite an important part of Hindoostan, and truth to say, is only nominally under English rule. The railway from Bombay to Allahabad traverses this district from southwest to northeast, and even has a branch into the center of the province of Nagpore; but the tribes remain as savage as ever, become refractory at any proposal of civilization, are very impatient of the European yoke, and in fact, as they can any moment retreat into their mountain fastnesses, are extremely difficult to keep in order, and this Nana Sahib well knew.

Here then he determined to seek shelter, so as to escape the search of the English police, and there to await a fit time to provoke an insurrectional movement.

If the nabob should succeed in his enterprise, if at his summons the Ghoonds should rise and follow where he led, the revolt would doubtless spread rapidly and widely.

To the north of Ghoondwana lies Bundelcund, which comprises the mountainous region, situated between the higher plateau of the Vindhyas and the important river the Jumna. In this country, covered with beautiful virgin forests, live a deceitful and cruel people, among whom all criminals, political or otherwise, seek and easily find a refuge. These provinces still remain barbarous, and here still live the descendants of those who fought under Tippoo Sahib against the invaders. Here, too, are the headquarters of the celebrated stranglers, the Thugs, so long the terror of India, fanatical assassins, who destroy innumerable victims, though without shedding blood; as well as bands of Pindarris, who perpetrate the most odious massacres, almost with impunity. In every part are swarms of the terrible Dacoits, a sect of poisoners, who follow in the footsteps of the Thugs; and finally Nana Sahib himself had taken refuge here, after escaping the royal troops, now masters of Jansi. He having thus thrown them off the scent, intended soon to go and seek a more secure asylum in the inaccessible retreats of the Indo-Chinese frontier.

To the east of Ghoondwana is Kondistan or the country of the Konds. These people are the fierce votaries of Tado Pennor, the god of the earth, and Maunek Soro, the red god of battles. They are much given to those meriahs or human sacrifices, which the English have so long endeavored to abolish; and can only be compared to the savage natives of the most barbarous Polynesian islands. In 1840 and 1854, Major-General John Campbell with Captains Macpherson, Macvicar, and Fry, engaged in long and troublesome expeditions against these daring fanatics, who will do anything under a religious pretext, if an unscrupulous leader can be found.

To the west of Ghoondwana lies a state containing from 1,500,000 to 2,000,000 souls, occupied by the Bheels, formerly so powerful in Malwa and Rajpootana, now divided into clans, and spread all about the Vindhyas. They are almost always intoxicated with the spirit they obtain from the mikowah tree, but are brave, daring, hardy, and active, and constantly prepared to answer to the kisri their cry for war or pillage.

From this description it will be seen that Nana Sahib had chosen well. In this central region of the peninsula, he hoped this time, instead of a mere military insurrection, to provoke a national movement, in which Hindoos of every caste would take part.

But before taking any decided step, it was necessary to settle in the country, so as to obtain as much influence, and act as effectively as was possible under the circumstances.

This, of course, necessitated the discovery of a safe retreat, for a time at any rate, which he could be free to abandon, directly it was suspected.

This was Nana Sahib’s first care. The Hindoos who had followed him from Adjuntah, could go and come as they liked throughout the presidency. Balao Rao, who was not included in the governor’s notice, might also have enjoyed the same immunity, had it not been for his likeness to his brother. Since his flight to the frontiers of Nepaul, attention had not been drawn to his person, and there was every reason to believe him dead. But, taken for Nana Sahib, he would have been at once arrested, and this at any cost must be avoided.

A single asylum then was needed for these two brothers, one in thought and aim, and in the defiles of the Sautpoora Mountains, this would neither take long nor be difficult to find.

A suitable place was at last pointed out by one of the natives of the band, a Ghoond, who knew every inch of the valley, even to its innermost retreats.

On the right bank of a little tributary of the Nerbudda was a deserted pal, called the Pal of Tandit.

A pal is something less than a village and scarcely a hamlet, merely a collection of huts, or sometimes even a solitary habitation. The wanderers who inhabit it take up their abode there only for a time. After burning a few trees, the cinders of which improve the ground for a time, the Ghoond and his friends construct a dwelling. As the country is anything but safe, the house has all the appearance of a little fort. It is surrounded by palisades, and is capable of being defended against a surprise. Besides which, hidden in some thick clump of trees, or buried, so to speak, in a bower of cactus and brushwood, it is no easy matter to discover it at all.

Usually, the pal crowns some hillock with a narrow valley on one side, between two steep spurs of the mountains, in the midst of an impenetrable forest. It does not seem that any human creature could live there. There is no road to it, nor even the vestige of a path. To reach one, it is sometimes necessary to ascend the bed of a torrent, so that the water may wash away all traces of any one having passed that way. Besides this, a perfect avalanche of stones and rocks is kept ready at the top, arranged so that even a child’s hand would be sufficient to push them over, and crush any one who attempted to reach the pal against the wish of the inhabitants.

Isolated as they are in their inaccessible eyries, the Ghoonds can yet communicate most rapidly from pal to pal. From the unequal ridges of the Sautpooras, signals are in a few minutes sent over sixty miles of country. A fire lighted on the summit of a pointed rock, a tree changed into a gigantic torch, a column of smoke on the top of a spur of the hills: the inhabitants all know what these signify. The enemy, that is to say, a detachment of English soldiers, or a squad of police, has penetrated into the valley, ascended the course of the Nerbudda, is searching the gorges, in quest of some criminal, to whom the district offers a willing refuge. The war-cry, so familiar to the ear of the mountaineers, becomes a cry of alarm. A stranger might mistake it for the call of night-birds, or the hissing of serpents.

The Ghoond does not so mistake it, however: it is a warning that he must fly, and so he does. The suspected pals are abandoned, or even burned. The nomads escape to other retreats, to be in their turn deserted if close pressed, so that when the agents of the authorities at last make their way to them, they find nothing but ruins.

It was to one of these places, the Pal of Tandit, that Nana Sahib and his friends came to take refuge. The faithful Ghoond, so devoted to the person of the nabob, brought them to it, and there, on the 12th of March, they stationed themselves.

The brothers’ first care, after taking possession of the Pal of Tandit, was diligently to reconnoiter the neighborhood. They observed in what directions they could see, and how far. They found out what were the nearest habitations, and who were their occupants. The position of this lonely peak, on which in the midst of a group of trees, was the Pal of Tandit, was minutely studied, until they finally came to the conclusion that it was utterly impossible to obtain access to it without following the bed of the Nazzur torrent, up which they had themselves ascended.

The security this Pal offered was undoubted, more especially as below it was a cave or tunnel, from which secret passages led out from the spur of the mountain, and afforded another way of escape when necessary.

It was not enough, however, for Balao Rao to know only what the Pal of Tandit was at the present time; he wished to know what it had been, and while the nabob was examining the interior he continued to interrogate the Ghoond.

“A few questions more,” he said. “For how long has this pal been deserted?”

“For more than a year,” replied the Ghoond.

“Who last inhabited it?”

“A wandering family, who only stayed there a few months.”

“Why did they leave it?”

“Because the soil did not supply them with sufficient nourishment on which to subsist.”

“And since their departure, no one to your knowledge has taken refuge there?”

“No one.”

“A soldier or emissary of the police has never set foot in this pal?”

“Never.”

“It has been visited by no stranger?”

“By none,” answered the Ghoond, “unless it was a woman.”

“A woman?” exclaimed Balao Rao.

“Yes, a woman, who has been wandering about in the valley of the Nerbudda for the last three years.”

“Who is she?”

“I have no idea who she is,” replied the man. “Where she comes from I cannot tell, and not a person in the valley knows more than I do about the matter. Whether she is a foreigner, or a native, no one has ever been able to find out.”

Balao Rao reflected for a moment, then resumed, “What does this woman do?” he asked.

“She goes to and fro,” replied the Ghoond, “and lives entirely on alms. Every one in the valley has a kind of superstitious veneration for her. I have several times myself received her in my own pal. She never speaks, and is generally supposed to be dumb, and I should not be surprised if she were. At night she may be seen straying about, holding a lighted torch in her hand. For this reason she is always known by the name of the ‘ Roving Flame.’”

“But,” said Balao Rao, “if this woman knows the Pal of Tandit, is she not likely to return to it while we are here, and so cause us some danger?”

“Not at all,” replied the Ghoond. “She is mad. Her senses have fled; her eyes gaze without seeing; her ears listen without hearing, her tongue cannot utter a word. It is as though she were blind, deaf, and dumb to all that goes on around her. She is quite mad, and madness is a living death!”

The Ghoond, in the language of the hillmen, thus traced the portrait of a strange creature, well known in the valley under the name of the “Roving Flame “of the Nerbudda. This was a woman whose pale, still beautiful, countenance, worn, though not with years, and quite devoid of expression, betrayed neither her origin nor age. The wild eyes looked as though they had closed to all intellectual life on some terrific scene, the horror of which still lingered in them.

The hillmen always received this poor inoffensive creature kindly. Like all savage people, the Ghoonds hold persons who have been deprived of reason in a sort of superstitious reverence. Roving Flame was hospitably welcomed wherever she appeared. No pal was closed to her. They fed her when she was hungry, gave her a bed when she was weary, without expecting a word of thanks from the poor speechless mouth.

For how long had this woman led this existence? Where had she come from? When did she first appear in Ghoondwana? Why did she rove about with a torch in her hand? Was it to light her path or to scare away wild beasts? It was impossible to find out. Sometimes she disappeared for whole months together. What became of her then? Did she leave the defiles of the Sautpooras for the gorges of the Vindhyas? Did she wander beyond the Nerbudda into Malwa or Bundelcund? No one knew. More than once, when her absence was prolonged, it was thought that her melancholy life had ended. But no! She always came back, still looking the same: for neither fatigue, nor illness, nor privation had any visible effect on her apparently frail body.

Balao Rao heard the native with extreme attention. He considered whether there might not be some danger in the circumstance that Roving Flame knew the Pal of Tandit, for, as she had already before sought refuge there, her instinct might lead her back to it. He therefore questioned the Ghoond as to whether he or his friends knew where the mad woman actually was at the present time.

“I cannot tell at all,” answered the Ghoond. “For more than six months no one has seen her in the valley. Possibly she may be dead; but even should she reappear and come to this pal, there is nothing to fear from her. She is but a moving statue. She will not see you, nor hear you, nor know in the least who you are! She will just enter, sit by your hearth for a day or even two, then light her torch, and begin again to wander from house to house. That is the way her life is spent. But since her absence this time has been so prolonged, most likely she will not return again. The mind died long ago, and now the body must be dead also!”

Balao Rao did not attach sufficient importance to this incident to think it worth mentioning to Nana Sahib.

The fugitives spent a month in the Pal of Tandit, and as yet Roving Flame had not returned to the Nerbudda valley.

CHAPTER XVI

ROVING FLAME

FOR a whole month, from the 12th of March to the 12th of April, Nana Sahib remained concealed in the pal. He wished to give the English authorities time either to make some mistake by thinking he was dead, and so give up the search, or to go on a false scent in quite another direction.

The two brothers did not go out in the daytime themselves, but their faithful followers went forth throughout the valley, visiting the villages and hamlets, announcing in ambiguous words the approaching apparition of a great moulti, half god, half man, and thus preparing their minds for a national rising.

When night fell, Nana Sahib and Balao Rao ventured to quit their retreat. Following the banks of the Nerbudda, they went from village to village, from pal to pal, awaiting the time when, with some security, they might attempt the domains of the rajahs under British rule. Nana Sahib knew, besides, that there were many semi-independent tribes,

who were impatient of the foreign yoke, and would rally round him at his summons. But in the first instance he must only deal with the savage populations of Ghoondwana.

These barbarous Bheels, nomad Konds, and Ghoonds, as little civilized as the natives of the Pacific isles, the Nana found all ready to rise and follow where he would. Although he prudently only made himself known to two or three powerful chiefs, that was sufficient to prove to him that his name alone would attract millions of natives from the central plateau of Hindoostan.

When the two brothers met again in their pal, they compared notes of all that they had seen, heard, and done. Their companions then joined them, bringing from all parts word that the spirit of revolt was blowing like a tempest through the Nerbudda valley. The Ghoonds only longed to be allowed to yell the “kisri,” or war-cry of the hillmen, and hurl themselves like a cataract on the military cantonments of the residency.

The time for that had not yet come.

It was in truth not enough that in the province lying between the Sautpooras and Vindhyas alone the spirit of revolt should be smouldering. That the fire might gradually gain on the country, it was necessary to carry the combustible elements into the neighboring states, which were more directly under English authority.

The whole of the vast kingdom of Scindia, as well as the states of Bhopal, Malwa, and Bundelcund were to be made to resemble a huge bonfire, ready and prepared for lighting. But Nana Sahib, wisely enough, did not intend to delegate to others the task of visiting his partisans in the insurrection of 1857; those natives who remained faithful to his cause, and never had believed in his death, were constantly expecting his reappearance.

A month after his arrival in the Pal of Tandit, the Nana began to consider he might act in safety. He thought that by this time the story of his having been seen in the province would be contradicted. Trusty spies kept him informed as to all that the governor of the Bombay Presidency had done to effect his capture. He knew that at first the authorities had instituted a most active search, but without result. The fisherman of Aurungabad, once the Nana’s prisoner, had fallen by his dagger, and no one had suspected that the fugitive fakir was the Nabob Dandoo Pant, on whose head a price had been set. In a week the reports grew fewer, the aspirants to the prize of 2,000/. lost hope, and the name of Nana Sahib began to be forgotten. Without much fear of being recognized, the nabob now began his insurrectionary campaign. Now in the costume of a parsee, and now in that of a humble ryot, one day alone, and another accompanied by his brother, he went long distances from the Pal of Tandit, northward, to the other side of the Nerbudda, and even beyond the Vindhyas.

If a spy had followed him in his wanderings he would, soon after the 12th of April, have found him at Indore.

There, Nana Sahib, while preserving the strictest incognito, put himself in communication with the extensive rural population employed in the culture of poppy fields. These were Rihillas, Mekranis, Valayalis, eager, courageous, and fanatical, chiefly sepoy deserters, concealed by the dress of native peasants.

Nana Sahib, on the 19th of April, passing through a magnificent valley in which dates and mango-trees grew in profusion, arrived at Suari.

Here rise numerous curious constructions, of very great antiquity. They are called “topes,” and resemble tumuli, crowned with hemispheric domes, the principal group being that of Saldhara, at the north of the valley. From these funeral monuments — these dwellings of the dead — the altars of which, dedicated to Buddhist rites, are shaded by stone parasols — issued, at the voice of Nana Sahib, hundreds of fugitives. Buried in these ruins to escape the retaliations of the English, one word was sufficient to make them understand what the nabob expected of them; when the hour came, a signal would be enough to excite them to throw themselves en masse on the invaders.

On the 24th of April the Nana reached Bhilsa, the chief town of an important district of Malwa, and in the ruins of that ancient place he collected men ripe for revolt, to whom he gave the news.

On the 27th he entered Rajghur, and on the 30th the old city of Saugor, not far from the spot where General Sir Hugh Rose fought a bloody battle with the insurgents, and with the hill of Maudanpoor, gained the key of the defiles of the Vindhyas.

There the nabob was joined by his brother and Kalagani, and the two then made themselves known to the chiefs of the principal tribes of which they were sure. In these councils the preliminaries of a general insurrection were discussed and agreed upon. While Nana Sahib and Balao Rao were pursuing their operations in these parts, their allies were no less busy on the northern side of the Vindhyas.

Before returning to the Nerbudda valley, the two brothers wished to visit Punnah. They ventured up the Keyne, under the shade of giant teaks and colossal bamboos. Here they enrolled many wild fellows from among the miserable people who work for the rajah in the valuable diamond-mines of the territory. “This rajah,” says M. Rousselet, “understanding the position which English protection gives to the princes of Bundelcund, prefers the role of a rich landholder to that of an insignificant prince.” A rich landholder indeed! The region he possesses extends for twenty miles north of Punnah, and the working of his mines, the products of which are most esteemed in the markets of Benares and Allahabad, employs a large number of Hindoos. They are very hardly treated, condemned to the severest labor, and running a great chance of being decapitated as soon as their work is no longer required: so it is not to be wondered at that the Nana found many among them ready to fight for the independence of their country.

Leaving this place, the brothers came southward again, intending to return to the Pal of Tandit. However, before provoking the southern rising which should coincide with that of the north, they determined to stop at Bhopal.

This is an important Mussulman town, and the capital of Islamism in India. Its begum remained faithful to the English during the time of the rebellion.

Nana Sahib and Balao Rao, accompanied by a dozen Ghoonds, arrived at Bhopal on the 24th of May, the last day of the Moharum festival, instituted to celebrate the revival of the Mussulman army. Both had assumed the dress of joguis, religious mendicants armed with long daggers with rounded blades, which they dig into their bodies in a fanatical manner, though without doing any great harm. Being unrecognizable in this disguise, the two brothers followed the procession through the streets of the town, in the midst of numerous elephants, bearing on their back tadzias, or little temples, twenty feet high; they mingled with the Mussulmans, who were richly clothed in gold-embroidered tunics and muslin turbans; they joined with the musicians, soldiers, dancing-girls, young men disguised as women — a strange agglomeration which gave to the ceremony quite the look of a carnival. In this mob of natives were many of their friends, with whom the conspirators could easily manage to exchange a masonic sign, well known to the rebels of 1857.

When evening came, the crowd surged toward the lake which bathes the eastern suburb of the town.

There, in the midst of deafening cries, reports of firearms, popping of crackers, and by the light of innumerable torches, the fanatics seized the tadzias, and cast them into the waters of the lake. The Moharum festival was ended.

Just then Nana Sahib felt a touch on his shoulder. He turned and saw a Bengalee standing beside him.

The Nana recognized in this man one of his former followers. He gave him a questioning look.

The Bengalee thereupon murmured the following words, all of which were heard by the Nana without his betraying emotion by a single word or look.

“Colonel Munro has left Calcutta.”

“Where is he?”

“He was at Benares yesterday.”

“Where is he going?

“To the Nepaulese frontier.”

“With what object?”

“To stay there a?few months.”

“And then — ’”

“Return to Bombay.”

A whistle was heard. At the signal a native glided through the crowd and stood before them.

It was Kalagani.

“Go this instant,” said the nabob, “join Munro on his way to the north. Attach yourself to him. Render him some service, and risk your life if necessary. Never leave him until he is beyond the Vindhyas in the Nerbudda valley. Then — and then only — come and give me notice of his presence.”

Kalagani signed an affirmative and disappeared. An order from the nabob was enough. In ten minutes he had left Bhopal.

At that moment Balao Rao approached his brother.

“It is time to set out,” he said.

“Yes,” replied the Nana; “and before daybreak we must be at the Pal of Tandit.”

“Forward, then!”

Followed by their Ghoonds, the two men skirted the northern side of the lake until they reached an isolated farm, where horses awaited them and their escort. They were swift animals, fed upon spiced food, and capable of doing fifty miles in a single night. By eight o’clock they were galloping along the road from Bhopal to the Vindhyas.

The Nana prudently wished his return to the pal to pass unnoticed; so in order to reach their destination before daybreak, they pushed on at their utmost speed.

The brothers barely exchanged a word, but their minds were occupied with the same thoughts. During their excursion they had gathered more than hope — the absolute certainty that numberless followers would rally around them. The center of India was entirely in their hands. The military cantonments scattered over this vast territory could not resist the first assault of the insurgents. Their annihilation would leave the way open for the revolt, which, spreading from coast to coast, would call up a wall of determined natives, against which the English army would dash themselves in vain.

The Nana’s thoughts were divided between this and the fortunate chance, which would soon put Munro into his power. The colonel had at last quitted Calcutta, where he was so difficult to get at. Henceforth, none of his movements would be unknown to the nabob. Without his suspecting it, the hand of Kalagani would guide him into the wild country of the Vindhyas, and once there, none could protect him from the punishment Nana Sahib’s hate reserved for him.

Balao Rao knew nothing of what had passed between the Bengalee and his brother. It was not until they were approaching the pal, when stopping to breathe their horses for an instant, that Nana Sahib mentioned the subject.

“Munro has left Calcutta and is going to Bombay.”

“The road to Bombay,” exclaimed Balao Rao, “leads to the shores of the Indian Ocean.”

“The road to Bombay, this time,” returned the Nana, “will end in the Vindhyas.”

The horses set off again at a gallop through the thick forest which covered the borders of the Nerbudda valley.

It was five in the morning, and day was dawning, as Nana Sahib, Balao Rao, and their companions drew rein at the foot of the Nazzur torrent. The party here dismounted and left their horses in charge of a couple of Ghoonds, with orders to take them to the nearest village. The rest then followed the brothers, who were already ascending the torrent.

All was still. The noise of day had not yet succeeded to the silence of night. Suddenly a shot was heard, followed by many others; then shouts arose. “Hurrah! hurrah! forward!”

An officer, with fifty British soldiers, appeared on the crest of the pal. “Fire! let none escape!” he exclaimed.

Another volley was fired straight at the group of Ghoonds which surrounded the Nana and his brother. Five or six natives fell, the others throwing themselves into the stream disappeared among the trees.

“Nana Sahib! Nana Sahib!” shouted the English, as they penetrated the narrow ravine.

All at once, one of those who had been mortally wounded, rose, his hand extended. “Death to the invaders!” he cried, in a hoarse voice, then fell back dead.

The officer approached the body. “Is this indeed Nana Sahib?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, it is,” answered two of his men, who had been at Cawnpore, and were well acquainted with the person of the nabob.

“After the others now,” called out the officer.

And he with all his detachment hastened off into the forest in pursuit.

Scarcely had they disappeared, when a dark figure glided out of the dim recesses of the pal. It was Roving Flame.

The evening before, the mad woman had been the unconscious guide of the officer and his men. She had entered the valley and was mechanically bending her step toward the Pal of Tandit, when she happened to pass a bivouac of these soldiers who were engaged in the search for the Nana. As the strange being glided by, the tongue which was supposed to be speechless, uttered a word, a name, that of the slaughterer of Cawnpore.

“Nana Sahib! Nana Sahib!” she repeated, as if some unaccountable presentiment had called up the image in her mind.

The officer heard and started. He instantly ordered up his men and followed in her steps, she appearing neither to see nor hear them. They reached the pal. Was this indeed the place in which the miscreant had hidden himself? The officer took the necessary measures for guarding the bed of the Nazzur and waited for day.

Directly Nana Sahib and his Ghoonds appeared on the scene, they were met with a volley, which laid many low, and among them, the chief of the Sepoy Mutiny.

Such was the account of the skirmish sent by telegraph to the Governor of the Bombay Presidency. The telegram soon spread all over the peninsula, the papers copied it, and thus Colonel Munro read it on the 26th of May in the Allahabad Gazette.

No one could any longer have doubts about the death of Nana Sahib. His identity had been proved, and as the paragraph stated, “India has now nothing further to dread from the machinations of the cruel nabob who has cost her so much blood!”

The madwoman left the pal and descended the bed of the Nazzur. Her hollow eyes were burning with a strange light, which was not there a short time before, and she still muttered at intervals the name of the Nana.

She reached the spot where the dead bodies lay, and stopped before the one recognized by the soldiers. The horrid scowl with which he died was fixed on his features. Having lived but for vengeance, his hate still survived.

The madwoman knelt down, laid her clasped hands on the body, from which the blood flowed and stained the folds of her dress, and looked long and fixedly at the face. Then she arose, and shaking her head, glided slowly away.

By the time she had gone a few yards, Roving Flame had relapsed into her wonted indifference, and her lips no longer uttered the cursed name of Nana Sahib.

BOOK TWO

TIGERS AND TRAITORS

CHAPTER I

OUR SANITARIUM

SPEAKING of the great American Andes, the mineralogist Haiiy uses a grand expression when he calls them “The incommensurable parts of Creation.”

These proud words may justly be applied to the Himalayan chain, whose heights no man can measure with any mathematical precision. They occurred to my mind when I first viewed this incomparable region, in the midst of which Colonel Munro, Captain Hood, Banks, and myself were to sojourn for several weeks.

“Not only are these mountains immeasurable,” said the engineer, “but their summit must be regarded as inaccessible; for human organs cannot work at such a height, where the air is not dense enough for breathing!”

This chain may be best described as a barrier of primitive granite, gneiss, and schist rocks, 1,560 miles in length, extending from the seventy-second meridian to the ninety-fifth, through two presidencies, Agra and Calcutta, and two kingdoms, Bhootan and Nepaul. It comprehends three distinct zones; the first 5,000 feet high, being more temperate than the lower plain, and yielding a harvest of corn in the winter, and rice in the summer; the second, increasing from 5,000 to 9,000 feet, on which the snow melts in the spring time, and the third, rising to 25,000, covered with ice and snow, which even in the hot season defies the solar rays.

At an elevation of 20,000 feet the mountains are pierced by eleven passes, which, incessantly threatened by avalanches, swept by torrents, and encumbered by glaciers, yet make it possible, though dangerous and difficult, to go from India to Thibet. Above this ridge, which is sometimes rounded and then again as flat as Table Mountain at the Cape of Good Hope, rise seven or eight peaks, some volcanic, commanding the sources of the Gogra, the Jumna, and the Ganges. The chief are Mounts Dookia and Kinchinjinga,

rising to 28,000 feet; Diodhoonga, 24,000; Dhawalagiri, 27,000; Chumalari, 28,000; and the highest in the world, Mount Everest, 29,000 feet. Such is this magnificent pile of mountains, which neither Alps, Pyrenees, nor Andes can excel in loftiness.

The first slopes are extensively and thickly wooded. Here may be found different representatives of the palm family, which, in a higher zone, give place to vast forests of oaks, cypress, and pines, to rich masses of bamboos and herbaceous plants.

Banks, who gave us this information, told us also that the snow-line is 6,000 feet lower on the Indian side of the chain than on the Thibetian; the reason being that the vapors brought by the south winds are arrested by the enormous barrier. On the other side, therefore, villages have been established at an altitude of 15,000 feet in the midst of fields of barley and beautiful meadows. If you believe the natives, one night is sufficient for a crop of grass to carpet these pastures!

In the middle zone, peacocks, partridges, pheasants, bustards, and quails, represent the winged tribe. Goats and sheep abound. In the highest zone we only find the wild boar, the chamois, the wild cat; and the eagle soars above the scanty vegetation, mere humble specimens of an arctic flora.

But there was nothing there to tempt Captain Hood. Was it likely that this Nimrod would have come into the Himalayan region merely to continue his trade of domestic provider? Fortunately for him, there was no chance that game worthy of his Enfield-rifle, and his explosive balls, would be scarce.

At the foot of the first slopes of the chain extends a zone, called by the natives the belt of Terrai. It is a long declivitous stretch of land, four or five miles wide, damp, warm, covered with vegetation and dense forests forming favorite resorts for wild beasts. This Eden of the hunter who loves the stirring features of the chase lay but 1,500 yards below us. It was therefore easy to enter into these preserves, which seemed as it were quite distinct grounds.

It was more than probable that Captain Hood would have greater pleasure in visiting the lower than the upper zones of the Himalayas, although, even after the explorations of that most ill-humored of travelers, Victor Jacque—

mont, many important geographical discoveries remain yet to be made.

“So this important chain is only very imperfectly known? “I remarked to Banks.

“Very imperfectly indeed,” answered the engineer. “The Himalayan chain may be likened to a little planet, stuck on to our globe, and keeping its own secrets.”

“They have been surveyed though,” said I, “they have been explored as much as is possible!”

“Oh, yes! There has been no lack of Himalayan travelers,” replied Banks. “Messrs. Gerard and Webb, the officers Kirkpatrick, Fraser, Hodgson, Herbert, Lloyd, Hooker, Cunningham, Strabing, Skinner, Johnson, Moorcroft, Thomson, Griffith, Vigne, FEW, the missionaries Huc and Gabet, and more recently the brothers Schlagentweit, Colonel Waugh, Lieutenants Reuillier and Montgomery, have, by dint of great labor, made known in large measure their orological arrangements. Nevertheless, my friends, much remains to be learned.

“The exact heights of the principal peaks have given rise to numberless rectifications. Formerly, Dhawalagiri was the king of the whole chain; then after new measurements, he was forced to yield the throne to Kinchinjinga, who again has abdicated in favor of Mount Everest. At the present time, the latter surpasses all its rivals. However, the Chinese now say that the Kuen-Lun Mountains, to which it is true European measurements have not been applied, surpass Mount Everest in a slight degree, and that we must no longer look to the Himalayas as possessing the highest point of our globe.

“But in reality these measurements must not be considered mathematical until they have been barometrically obtained, and with every precaution that a direct determination will admit of. And how is this to be done without carrying a barometer to the very top of one of these inaccessible peaks? Of course no one has yet accomplished this.”

“It will be done,” answered Captain Hood, “just as some day voyages will be made to both the north and south pole!”

“Evidently!”

“Or an exploring party to the lowest depths of old Ocean.”

“Doubtless.”

“Or a journey to the center of the earth?”

“Bravo, Hood!”

“As everything will be done! “I added.

“Even an aerial voyage to each of the planets of the solar system!” rejoined Hood, whom nothing daunted.

“No, captain,” I replied. “Man, a mere inhabitant of the earth, cannot overstep its boundaries! But though he is confined to its crust, he may penetrate into all its secrets.”

“He can, he must!” cried Banks. “All that is within the limits of possibility may and shall be accomplished. Then when man has nothing more to discover in the globe which he inhabits — “

“He will disappear with the spheroid which has no longer any mysteries concealed from him,” put in Captain Hood.

Not so!” returned Banks. “He will enjoy it as a master, and will derive far greater advantages from it. But friend Hood, now that we are in the Himalayan country, I wish to tell you of a curious discovery which you may make, among others, and which will certainly interest you.”

“What is it about, Banks?”

“In the account of his travels, the missionary Huc speaks of a singular tree which is called in Thibet ‘ the tree of ten thousand pictures.’ According to the Hindoo legend, Tong Kabac, the reformer of the Buddhist religion, was changed into a tree, some thousand years after the same adventure happened to Philemon, Baucis, and Daphne, those curious vegetable beings of the mythological flora. The hair of Tong Kabac became the foliage of this sacred tree, and on the leaves are — the missionary declares he saw it with his own eyes — Thibetian characters, distinctly to be traced in the veins.”

“A tree producing printed leaves! “I exclaimed.

“And, moreover, on which you may read the purest and most moral sentences,” continued the engineer.

“That would be well worth the trouble of proving,” said I, laughing.

“Prove it, then, my friends,” answered Banks. “If these trees exist in the southern part of Thibet, they surely are to be found in the upper zone, on the southern slopes of the Himalayas. During your excursions, then, you can be on the lookout for this — what shall I call it? — this maxim-tree.”

“No, by Jove!” returned Captain Hood. “I came here to hunt, and have not the smallest intention of doing anything in the climbing line.”

“Well, my dear fellow,” resumed Banks, “a daring climber like you ought to make some ascent in all this great chain.”

“Never!” exclaimed the captain.

“Why not?”

“I have renounced ascents!”

“Since when?”

“Since the day when, after having risked my life twenty times,” answered Captain Hood, “I managed to reach the summit of Vrigel, in the kingdom of Bhootan. It was said that no human being had ever set foot on the top of that peak! There was glory to be gained! my honor was at stake! Well, after no end of narrow squeaks for it, I got to the top, and what did I see but these words cut on a rock: Durand, dentist, 14, Rue Caumartin, Paris! ‘ I climb no more!”

The honest captain! I must confess that, while telling us of his discomfiture, Hood looked so comical, that it was impossible to help joining him in a hearty laugh.

I have several times spoken of the “sanatariums “of the peninsula. These resorts in the mountains are much frequented during the summer by landowners, officers, and merchants, who are scorched by the glowing heat of the plains. In the first rank we must name Simla. It is like a little bit of Switzerland, with its torrents, its streams, its chalets, pleasantly situated under the shade of cedars and pines, 6,000 feet above the level of the sea.

After Simla, I must mention Darjeeling, with its pretty white houses, overlooked by Mount Kinchinjinga, 312 miles to the north of Calcutta, 6,900 feet above the level of the sea — a charming situation, in the most beautiful country in the world.

And now to these fresh and healthy stations, rendered indispensable by the burning climate of India, was added our Steam House. But it belonged to ourselves alone. It offered all the comforts of the most luxurious dwellings on the peninsula. Here, in this delicious climate, surrounded by all the necessaries and appliances of modern life, we dwelt in an atmosphere of quietness which we might have sought for in vain at Simla or Darjeeling, where there are swarms of Anglo-Indians.

The site for our sanitarium was judiciously chosen. The road, leaving the lower part of the mountain, diverged at this point both to the east and to the west, so as to connect several scattered villages. The nearest of these hamlets was five miles from Steam House. It was occupied by a hospitable race of mountaineers, who rear goats and sheep, and cultivate rich fields of wheat and barley.

One of the spurs supporting the great framework of the Himalayas formed a gently undulating plateau, nearly a mile in length, and half a mile in width. This was covered with a thick carpet of short, close, velvety grass, dotted all over with violets. Clusters of beautiful rhododendrons, as large as small oaks, and natural arbors of camellias, gave a gay and gardenlike aspect to the scene. Nature had had no need to call in the aid of workmen from Ispahan or Smyrna, to manufacture this vegetable carpet. Several million seeds, brought by the sweet South breezes to the fertile ground, a little rain, a little sunshine, and there lay the green, soft fabric!

In the background roared a torrent, whose course could be traced by its silvery gleam many hundred feet, as it descended the mountainside. It flowed down the right slope of the spur, and plunged, at no great distance from us, into a natural basin, overhung by splendid trees.

The overflow from this basin formed a stream, which, running across our plateau, ended in a noisy cascade, which dashed itself finally into a bottomless gulf.

From this description it may be seen how favorably Steam House was situated, both for comfort for the body and pleasure for the eye. Below us lay other and lesser crests, descending in gigantic steps to the plain. All this we could see from our high place of observation.

Number One of Steam House was placed so that the view to the south might be seen from the veranda as well as from the side windows of the drawing and dining rooms. Over us “a cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade,” contrasting with the eternal snow which glittered on the distant mountain peaks.

On the left, Number Two stood close to an enormous granite rock, gilded by the sun. This, our attendants’ house, was placed about twenty feet from the principal dwelling. From the end of one of its roofs curled upward a little stream of blue-gray smoke, showing the position of Monsieur Parazard’s culinary laboratory.

In the midst of the trees which lay between the two habitations might be seen a huge mastodon. It was Behemoth, standing under a great beech-tree, with his trunk upraised, as if browsing on the branches. He, too, was stationary now; resting, albeit he had no need of rest. However, there he stood, resolute defender of Steam House, like some enormous antediluvian animal, guarding the way.

Colossal as we had always thought our elephant, now that he stood before the everlasting hills, he, the handiwork of puny man, faded into insignificance. “Like a fly on the facade of a cathedral!” remarked Captain Hood contemptuously.

The comparison was good. Here, behind us, was a block of granite, from which a thousand elephants the size of ours might have been carved, and this block was but a simple step in the stair which leads up and up to the topmost crest crowned by the peak of Dhawalagiri.

At times, when the sky lowers, not only the highest summits, but the lower crests, disappear. This is caused by thick vapors sweeping across the middle zone, and veiling all the upper part. The landscape shrinks, and then, by an optical effect, it is as if the houses, the trees, the rocks, and Behemoth himself, resumed their natural size.

When certain moist winds blow, the clouds often roll below the plateau. The eye then rests on nothing but a sea of clouds, illumined here and there by the sun’s rays. All land both above and beneath vanishes, and we feel as if transported into some aerial region, beyond the earth.

Suddenly the wind changes. A northern breeze blows through the mountain gulleys, the fog is swept away, the cloudy sea disappears as if by magic, the grand rocks and peaks stand out again, and once more our view extends over a panorama of sixty miles.

CHAPTER III

THE KRAAL

THE death of this unfortunate man made a deep impression upon us, both from the fact itself and from the cause, though it was anything but an unusual occurrence. It was but one more added to the thousands who annually fall victims in India to the formidable reptiles.

It has been said — jestingly I presume — that formerly there were no snakes in Martinique, but that the English imported them when they were obliged to give up the island to France. The French had no occasion to retaliate in this manner when they yielded their conquest in India, for Nature had shown herself only too prodigal in that respect.

Under the influence of the venom, the body of the Hindoo began to exhibit signs of rapid decomposition. A speedy burial was necessary. His companions, therefore, set to work, and soon laid him in a grave deep enough to protect the body from wild beasts. When this sad ceremony was ended, Mathias van Guitt invited us to accompany him to his kraal, and we readily did so.

Half an hour’s walk brought us to the place, which deserved its name of kraal, though it is a word more especially used by the settlers of South Africa.

It was a wide inclosure, standing in a glade in the depths of the forest. Mathias van Guitt had arranged it with a perfect understanding of the requirements of his trade. A row of high palisades, having a gate wide enough to admit carts, surrounded it on the four sides. Inside was a long hut, made of trunks of trees and planks, which was the dwelling-place.

Six cages, divided into several compartments, and each mounted on four wheels, were drawn up in the left end of the inclosure. From the roars which issued from them, we concluded they were not untenanted.

To the left were penned a dozen buffaloes, which were fed on the mountain grass. These were the animals used to draw the traveling menagerie. Six men, who attended to these creatures and drove the carts, and ten others who were especially skillful in the chase, completed the staff of attendants in the kraal.

The carters were hired only for the duration of the campaign. Their services ended by driving the carts to the nearest railway station. There the cages were placed on trucks, and wheeled off, via Allahabad, to Bombay or Calcutta. The hunters, who were Hindoos, are called shikarries. They were employed to discover and follow up the traces of animals, dislodge them, and then assist in their capture.

Mathias van Guitt and his men had lived for some months in this kraal. They were there exposed, not only to the attacks of ferocious beasts, but also to the fevers with which the Terrai is infested. The damp nights, the pernicious evaporations from the ground, the moist heat hanging about under the thick-growing trees, through which the sun never penetrates, all combine to make this lower zone of the Himalayas a most unhealthy region. The purveyor and his men were, however, so well acclimatized, that the malaria affected them no more than it did the tigers or other inhabitants of the Terrai.

It would not have been wise for us to live in the kraal, nor did this enter into Captain Hood’s plan. Except for a night or two passed on the watch, we intended living in Steam House, which was too high up for any baleful vapors to reach us there.

Here were we, then, arrived at Van Guitt’s encampment. The door opened for us to enter. Mathias van Guitt appeared particularly flattered by our visit. “Now, gentlemen,” he said, “permit me to do the honors of my kraal. This establishment is replete with every necessary for the pursuit of my vocation. In reality, it is but a but on a large scale, which, in this country, hunters call a houddi.”

Saying this, our host opened the door of the dwelling which he and his people occupied together. Nothing could have been more simple. One room for the master, another for the carters, and another for the shikarries. A fourth, rather larger, serving for both kitchen and dining-room.

After visiting the habitation of “these bimana, belonging to the highest order of mammalia,” we were requested to look at the nearest of the quadrupeds’ dwellings. This was the most interesting part of the kraal. The cages were not like the comfortable dens of a zoological garden, but recalled rather the appearance of a traveling show. All that was required to complete them was a gaudily-painted canvas hung above a stage, and representing in startling colors a tamer, in pink tights and velvet jacket, striking an attitude in the midst of a bounding herd of wild beasts, who, with bloody jaws and claws outspread, were cowering under the lash of some heroic Van Amburgh.

A few paces farther on were the buffaloes. They occupied a portion of the kraal on the right, and their daily rations of fresh grass were brought to them there. It would have been impossible to allow these animals to stray in the neighboring pastures. As Mathias van Guitt elegantly remarked, “the freedom of pasture, allowable in the United Kingdom, is incompatible with the dangers presented by the Himalayan forests.”

The menagerie, properly so called, comprised six cages on wheels. Each cage, with a barred front, was divided into three compartments. Doors, or rather partitions, moved from the top, made it easy for the animals in one compartment to be driven into another when necessary.

The cages at the present time contained seven tigers, two lions, three panthers, and a couple of leopards.

Van Guitt informed us that his stock would not be complete until he had captured two leopards, three tigers, and one lion more. Then he intended leaving this camp, proceeding to the nearest railway station, and thence traveling to Bombay.

The wild beasts were easily watched in their cages, and proved to be magnificent creatures, but particularly ferocious. They had been too recently caught to have yet become accustomed to a state of captivity. This was plain from their constant roars, their restless pacings up and down, and the blows they gave the bars, straining them in many places.

On seeing us, their rage was redoubled; but Van Guitt was not in the least disturbed.

“Poor beasts!” remarked Captain Hood.

“Poor beasts!” echoed Fox.

“Do you believe, then, that they are more to be pitied than those which you kill?” asked our host, somewhat sharply.

“Less to be pitied than blamed… for allowing themselves to be caught!” returned Hood.

If it is true that the wild beasts of a country such as Africa are sometimes compelled to undergo a long fast, because the animals upon which they feed are scarce, such could never be the case in the Terrai zone. Here abound bisons, buffaloes, zebras, boars, antelopes, to which the lions, tigers, and panthers are constantly giving chase. Besides goats and flocks of sheep, not to mention the poor ryots who are their shepherds, offer a certain and easy prey. They always find abundance in the Himalayan forests to satisfy their hunger. The purveyor fed his menagerie chiefly on the flesh of bison and zebras, and it was the shikarries’ duty to procure this meat.

It is a mistake to imagine that this species of hunting is without danger. Quite the contrary. The tiger himself has much to fear from the savage buffalo, who is a terrible animal when wounded. Many a hunter has, to his horror, found his antagonist rooting up, with its horns, the tree in which he has taken refuge.

It is said that the eye of a ruminant is a regular magnifying lens, increasing the size of an object threefold, and that man, in this gigantic aspect, awes him. It is also asserted that the upright position of a human being walking is of a nature to terrify ferocious animals, and, therefore, that it is far better to face them standing than lying or crouching down. I cannot tell how much truth there may be in these statements; but it is very certain that a man, even when drawn up to his full height, produces no effect whatever on the savage buffalo; and if his shot misses, he is almost certainly lost.

The buffalo of India has a short, square head, smooth horns, flattened at the base, a humped back — like its American congener — its legs, from the foot to the knee, being white, and its size, from the root of the tail to the end of its muzzle, measuring sometimes twelve feet. Although it is not particularly ferocious when feeding in herds on the plain, it yet is very formidable to any hunter who rashly attacks it.

The purveyor, who knew his business, was very sparing as to his captives’ food. Once a day, at twelve o’clock, four or five pounds of meat were given them, and nothing more.

He even, though not from any religious motive, allowed them to fast from Saturday to Monday. They must have passed a dismal Sunday! Then, when forty-eight hours had elapsed, and their modest pittance appeared, the excitement and the roaring may be imagined, the cages actually swaying backward and forward with the movement of the springing, bounding creatures inside.

Yes, poor beasts! we may be tempted to say with Captain, Hood. But Mathias van Guitt did not act thus without a motive; and this enforced abstinence was good for the animals, and heightened their price in the European market.

It may easily be imagined that while Van Guitt was exhibiting his collection, more as a naturalist than a showman, his tongue was not allowed to stand still. On the contrary. He talked, he described, he related; and as wild beasts were the principal subjects of his redundant periods, it was all tolerably interesting to us.

“But, Mr. van Guitt,” said Banks, “can you tell me if the profits of the trade are in proportion to the risks that are run?”

“Sir,” answered the purveyor, “it was formerly extremely remunerative. However, for the last few years, I have been forced to perceive that ferocious animals have declined. You may judge of this by the current prices of the last quotation. Our principal market is the Zoological Garden in Antwerp. Volatiles, ophidians, specimens of the simian and saurian family, representatives of the carnivora of both hemispheres, such is the consuetudinal — “

At this word Captain Hood bowed.

” — produce of our adventurous battues in the forests of the peninsula. From one cause or another the public taste seems to have altered, and the sale price is sometimes less than what was expended on the capture! For instance, a male ostrich is now sold but for 441. and the female for 321. A black panther found a purchaser for only 601. a Java tigress for 961. and a family of lions — father, mother, uncle, and two healthy cubs — were sold in a lump for 280l.”

“They really went for nothing,” said Banks.

“As to proboscidate animals — ” resumed Van Guitt.

“Proboscidate?” said Captain Hood.

“We call by that scientific name those pachydermata which nature has furnished with a trunk.”

“Such as elephants!”

“Yes, elephants since the quaternary period. They were ‘ mastodons ‘ in the prehistoric times.”

“Thank you,” replied Hood.

“As to proboscidate animals,” resumed Van Guitt, “we must soon renounce even their capture, unless it is for the sake of their tusks; for the consumption of ivory has in no way diminished. But since the authors of dramatic pieces, at their wit’s end for some novelty, have conceived the idea of introducing these creatures on the stage, they are taken about from one town to another; so that the same elephant, parading the country with a strolling company, satisfies the curiosity of a whole province. From this cause, elephants are in less request than formerly.”

“But,” I asked, “do you only supply European menageries with these specimens of the Indian fauna?”

“You will pardon me,” replied Mathias van Guitt, “if on this subject, sir, I allow myself, without being too curious, to put to you a simple question?”

I bowed in token of acquiescence.

“You are French, sir,” said the purveyor. “That is plainly seen, not only by your accent, but by your type, which is an agreeable combination of the Gallo-Roman and the Celt. Now, as a Frenchman, you cannot have any propensity for distant journeys, and probably have not made the tour of the world? “Here Van Guitt’s hand described one of the great circles of the sphere.

“I have not yet had that pleasure,” I replied.

“I will ask you, then, sir,” continued our friend, “not if you have been to the Indies, as you are already here, but if you are thoroughly acquainted with the Indian peninsula?”

“Imperfectly as yet,” I answered. “However, I have already visited Bombay, Calcutta, Benares, Allahabad, and the valley of the Ganges. I have seen their monuments, I have admired — “

“Ah! what is that, sir, what is all that?” interrupted Mathias van Guitt, turning away his head, and shaking his hand, in a manner to express supreme disdain.

Then launching out into an animated description, “Yes, what is all that, if you have not visited the menageries of those powerful rajahs, who maintain the worship of the superb animals, on which the sacred territory of India prides itself? Resume your tourist’s staff, sir. Go into Guicowar, and render homage to the King of Baroda. Inspect his menageries, which owe the greater number of their tenants, lions from Kattiwar, bears, panthers, cheetahs, lynx, and tigers, to me. Be present at the celebration of the marriage of his sixty thousand pigeons, which takes place every year, with great pomp! Admire his five hundred bulbuls, the nightingales of the peninsula, whose education is attended to as carefully as if they were heirs to the throne! Contemplate the elephants; one of them is the executioner, and his business it is to dash the head of the condemned man on the stone of punishment! Then transfer yourself to the establishments of the Rajah of Maissour, the richest of Asiatic sovereigns. Enter his palace, where you may count hundreds of rhinoceri, elephants, tigers, and every creature of high rank which belongs to the animal aristocracy of India! And when you have seen all this, sir, perhaps you need no longer be accused of ignorance of the marvels of this incomparable country!”

I could do no more than bow before these remarks. Van Guitt’s impassioned style of representing things admitted of no discussion.

Captain Hood, however, pressed him more directly about the particular fauna of this region of the Terrai.

“A little information, if you please,” he said, “about the wild beasts which I have come to this part of India to hunt. Although I am only a sportsman, and I repeat, I do not compete with you, Mr. van Guitt, yet if I could be of any use in capturing the tigers which you still want for your collection, I shall only be too pleased to do so. But, when your menagerie is completed, you must not take it ill if I, in my turn, shoot a few for my own personal amusement.”

Mathias van Guitt put himself into the attitude of a man who has resigned himself to submit to what he disapproves of, but does not know how to prevent. He admitted, however, that the Terrai contains a considerable number of troublesome animals, in no great request in the European markets, so that their sacrifice might be permitted.

“Kill the boars, I consent to that,” said he. “Although these swine of the order of pachydermata, are not carnivorous — “

“Carnivorous?” said Captain Hood.

“I mean by that, that they are herbivorous; their ferocity is so great, that hunters who are rash enough to attack them run the greatest danger.”

“And wolves?”

“Wolves are numerous all over the peninsula, and are much to be dreaded when they advance in herds on some solitary farm. These animals slightly resemble the wolf of Poland, and I certainly have not much esteem either for jackals or wild dogs. I do not deny the ravages they commit, and as they have not the smallest marketable value, and are unworthy to figure among the higher classes of zoo-ocracy, I will abandon them also to you, Captain Hood.”

“And bears? “I next asked.

“Bears are good, sir,” answered the zoologist with a nod of approval. “Although those of India are not sought for quite as eagerly as others of the family Ursidw, they nevertheless possess a certain commercial value which recommends them to the benevolent attention of connoisseurs. Your taste might hesitate between the two species which we find in the valleys of Cashmere and the hills of Rajmahal. But, except perhaps in the hibernating period, these creatures are almost inoffensive, and, in short, would not tempt the cynegetic instincts of a true sportsman, such as I hold Captain Hood to be.”

The captain smiled in a significant manner, showing well that with or without the permission of Mathias van Guitt, he meant only to refer to himself on these special questions.

“These animals,” continued Van Guitt, “feed only on vegetables, and have nothing in common with the ferocious species, on which the peninsula so justly plumes itself.”

“Do you include the leopard in your list of wild beasts?” asked Captain Hood.

“Most certainly, sir. This creature is active, bold, full of courage, and he can climb trees, so for that reason he is sometimes more formidable than the tiger.”

“Oh!” ejaculated the captain.

“Sir,” answered Mathias van Guitt in a dignified tone, “when a hunter is no longer sure of finding a refuge in trees, he is very near being hunted in his turn!”

“And the panther?” asked Captain Hood, willing to cut short this discussion.

“The panther is superb,” answered Mathias van Guitt; “and you may observe, gentlemen, that I have some magnificent specimens. Astonishing animals, which by a singular contradiction, an antilogy, to use an uncommon word, may be trained for the chase. Yes, gentlemen, in Guicowar especially, the rajahs use panthers in this noble exercise. They are taken out in a palanquin, with their heads muffled like a falcon or a merlin! Indeed, they are regular four-footed hawks! No sooner do the hunters come in sight of a herd of antelopes, than the panther is unhooded, and flies upon the timid ruminants, whose feet, swift as they are, cannot carry them beyond the reach of those terrible claws! Yes, captain, yes! You will find panthers in the Terrai! You may perhaps find more than you care for, but I warn you charitably that they are by no means tame!”

“I should hope not,” was Captain Hood’s reply. “Nor the lions either,” added the zoologist, somewhat vexed at this answer.

“Ah! lions!” said Hood. “Let us speak a little about lions, please!”

“Well, sir,” resumed Mathias van Guitt, “I regard the so-called king of beasts as inferior to his congeners of ancient Libya. Here the males do not wear that mane which is the appendage of the African lion, and in my opinion, they are, therefore, but shorn Samsons! They have, besides, almost entirely disappeared from Central India to seek a refuge in the Kattiwar peninsula, the desert of Theil, and the Terrai forest. These degenerate felines, living solitary, like hermits, do not gain strength by frequenting the company of their fellows. Therefore, I do not give them the first place in the scale of quadrupeds. Indeed, gentlemen, you may escape from a lion — from a tiger, never I”

“Ah! tigers!” cried Captain Hood. “Yes, tigers!” echoed Fox.

“The tiger,” replied Van Guitt, growing animated, “to him belongs the crown. We speak of the royal tiger, not the royal lion, and that is but justice. India belongs entirely to him, and may be summed up in him. Was he not the first occupant of the soil? Was it not his right to look upon as invaders, not only the representatives of the Anglo-Saxon race, but also the polar race? Is he not indeed the true child of this sacred land of Aryvarta? These magnificent animals are spread over the whole surface of the peninsula, and they have not abandoned a single district of their ancestors, from Cape Comerin to the Himalayan barrier!”

And Mathias van Guitt’s arm, stretched out to denote the southern promontory, was now waved northward toward the mountain peaks.

“In the Sunderbunds,” he continued, “they are at home! There they reign as masters, and woe to all who attempt to dispute with them their territory! In the Neilgherry Hills they roam about in a body, like wild cats.

“‘Si parva licet componere magnis!’

You can understand from this why these superb felida are in such demand in all European markets, and are the pride of menageries! What is the great attraction in the public or private wild beast show? The tiger! When do you most fear for the life of the tamer? When he is in the tiger’s cage! For what animals do the rajahs pay their weight in gold to obtain them to ornament their royal gardens? The tiger! What creature is always at a premium in the wild animal market exchange of London, Antwerp, and Hamburg? The tiger! In what chase do British officers in India so distinguish themselves? In the tiger hunt! Do you know, gentlemen, what entertainment the independent sovereigns of India provide for their guests? A royal tiger in a cage is brought. The cage is placed in the midst of a wide plain. The rajah, his guests, his officers, his guards, are armed with lances, revolvers, and rifles, and are, for the most part, mounted on gallant solipeds — “

“Solipeds?” said Captain Hood.

“Their horses, if you prefer the more vulgar word. Already the solipeds, terrified by the near neighborhood of the tiger, his scent, and the light which gleams from his eyes, rear, so that it requires all their riders’ skill to manage them. Suddenly the door of the cage is thrown open. The monster springs forth; with wild leaps he flies on the scattered groups; in his fury he immolates a hecatomb of victims. Although sometimes he contrives to break through the circle of fire and sword with which he is surrounded, more often he is overcome and falls, one against a hundred.

But, at least, his death is a glorious one, it is avenged beforehand.”

“Bravo, Mr. van Guitt,” cried Captain Hood, in his turn becoming quite excited. “Yes, that must be a fine sight. Truly the tiger is the king of beasts.”

“A royalty, too, which defies revolution,” added the zoologist.

“You have caught many, Mr. van Guitt,” said Hood, “I have killed many, and I hope not to leave the Terrai until the fiftieth has fallen by my shot.”

“Captain,” said the purveyor with a frown, “I have delivered up to you boars, wolves, bears, and buffaloes, will not those suffice to gratify your sporting mania?”

I saw that our friend Hood would burst forth with as much animation as Mathias van Guitt on this exciting question. Had the one captured more tigers than the other had killed? Was it better to catch or shoot them? This was the matter and theme of discussion! The captain and the zoologist commenced to exchange rapid sentences, both speaking at once, and apparently not in the least comprehending what the other said.

Banks interposed. “That tigers are the kings of creation is understood, gentlemen, but I must be permitted to add that they are very dangerous to their subjects. In 1862, if I am not mistaken, these excellent felidae devoured all the telegraph clerks in the Island of Sangor. We are also told of a tigress who, in three years, made no less than a hundred and eighteen victims, and another, who in the same space of time destroyed a hundred and twenty-seven persons. That is rather too much, even for a queen! Lastly, since the mutiny, in an interval of three years, twelve thousand five hundred and fifty-four individuals have perished by tigers’ teeth or claws.”

“But, sir,” replied Van Guitt, “you seem to forget that these animals are omophagm.”

“Omophagx?” said Captain Hood.

“Yes, eaters of raw flesh, and the natives say that when they have once tasted human flesh, they never care for any other!”

“Well, sir?” said Banks.

“Well, sir,” answered Mathias van Guitt, smiling, “they obey their nature!… They certainly must eat!’

CHAPTER V

A NIGHT ATTACK

THE colonel’s unexpected departure made us seriously uneasy. He was evidently still brooding over past events. But what could we do? Follow Sir Edward? We were ignorant of the direction he had taken, or even what point of the Nepaulese frontier he wished to reach.

On the other hand, we could not conceal from ourselves that as he had said nothing to Banks about this plan, it was because he dreaded his friend’s expostulations had wished to avoid hearing them. Banks much regretted having followed us on our expedition.

All we could do now was to resign ourselves and wait. Colonel Munro would certainly return before the end of August, that month being the last we were to pass here before proceeding southwest by the road to Bombay.

Kalagani, who was well doctored by Banks, only remained four-and-twenty hours in Steam House. His wound began to heal rapidly, and he left us, to return to his duties at the kraal.

The month of August was ushered in by violent rains — weather bad enough to give a frog a cold in its head, as Captain Hood remarked; but as there was less wet than in July, it was consequently more propitious for our excursions into the Terrai. Intercourse with the kraal was frequent. Mathias van Guitt continued dissatisfied. He, too, hoped to leave his camp in the beginning of September; but a lion, two tigers, and two leopards were still wanting, and he needed them to complete his troupe.

By way of retaliation, instead of the actors which he wished to engage on his employers’ account, others came and presented themselves at his agency, for whom he had no occasion. Thus, on the 4th of August, a fine bear was caught in one of his traps. We happened to be in the kraal when the shikarries brought back a cage containing a prisoner of great size, with black fur, sharp claws, and long hairy ears, which is a specialty of the ursine family in India.

“Now what do I want with this useless tardigrade?” exclaimed the naturalist, shrugging his shoulders.

“Brother Ballon! Brother Ballon!” repeated the shikarries. Apparently though the natives are only nephews of tigers, they are the brothers of bears.

But Mathias van Guitt, notwithstanding this degree of relationship, received brother Ballon with a very evident show of ill-humor. It certainly did not please him to catch bears when he wanted tigers. What he to do with this inconvenient beast? It did not suit him to feed the animal without hopes of making anything by it. The Indian bear is little in request in the European market. It has not the mercantile value of the American grizzly, nor the Polar bear. Therefore Mathias van Guitt, being a good business man, did not care to possess a cumbersome brute, which he might find it very difficult to get rid of!

“Will you have him?” asked he of Captain Hood.

“What on earth do you expect me to do with him?” returned the captain.

“You can make him into beefsteaks,” replied the zoologist, “if I may make use of the catachresis!”

“Mr. van Guitt,” said Banks gravely, “the catachresis is allowable, when for lack of any other expression, it renders the thought properly.”

“That is quite my opinion,” replied the zoologist.

“Well, Hood,” said Banks, “will you or will you not take Mr. van Guitt’s bear?”

“Of course not,” replied the captain. “To eat bear steaks when once the bear is killed is all very well; but to kill a bear on purpose to make steaks of him isn’t an appetizing job!”

“Then you may give that plantigrade his liberty,” said Van Guitt, turning to his shikarries.

They obeyed. The cage was brought out of the kraal. One of the men opened the door. Brother Ballon, who seemed rather ashamed of the situation, did not require to be asked twice. He walked calmly out of the cage, shook his head, which might be interpreted as meaning thanks, and marched off uttering a grunt of satisfaction.

“That is a good deed you have performed,” said Banks. “It will bring you luck, Mr. van Guitt!”

Banks was right enough. On the 6th of August the zoologist was rewarded by procuring one of the animals he wished for. These were the circumstances of the capture: Mathias van Guitt, Captain Hood, and I, accompanied by Fox, Storr, and Icalagani, had been beating a thicket of cactus and lentisks since daybreak, when a half-stifled roar was heard.

With our guns ready cocked, and walking near together so as to guard against an isolated attack, we proceeded immediately to the suspected spot. Fifty paces off the naturalist made us halt. He appeared to recognize the animal by the nature of the roar, and addressing himself more particularly to Captain Hood, “No useless firing, I beg,” he whispered.

Then advancing a few steps, while we, obeying his sign, remained behind, “A lion!” he cried.

There, indeed, at the end of a strong rope fastened to the forked branch of a tree, an animal was struggling. The fierce beast, hanging by one of its forepaws, which was tight in the slip-knot of the rope, gave terrible jerks without managing to free itself.

Captain Hood’s first impulse, in spite of Van Guitt’s request, was to make ready to fire.

“Do not fire, captain!” exclaimed the naturalist. “I conjure you not to fire!”

“But — “

“No, no; I tell you! That lion is caught in one of my own snares, and he belongs to me!”

It was indeed a gallows-snare, at once simple and very ingenious. A very strong rope is fixed to the branch of a tree which is both tough and flexible. This branch is then bent down to the ground, so that the lower end of the cord, terminating in a running loop, hangs in a notch cut in a stake fixed firmly in the ground. On this stake is placed a bait in such a position that if any animal wishes to get at it, he must put either his head or one of his paws in the noose. But as soon as he does this, and moves the bait ever so slightly, the cord is disengaged from the stake,

the branch flies up, the animal is raised, and at the same moment a heavy cylinder of wood, sliding along the rope, falls on the knot, fixing it tightly and rendering vain all the efforts of the suspended animal to get free.

This species of snare is frequently set in the Indian forests, and wild animals allow themselves to be caught in them far more frequently than one would be tempted to believe. It usually happens that the beast is seized by the neck, causing almost immediate strangulation, while at the same timq the skull is half fractured by the heavy wooden cylinder. But the lion which was now struggling before our eyes had only been caught by the paw. He was decidedly “all alive and kicking,” as Captain Hood remarked, and well worthy to figure among the zoologist’s guests.

Mathias van Guitt, in high delight, at once dispatched Kalagani to the kraal, with orders to bring a cage in charge of a driver. While he was gone we had ample leisure and opportunity to observe the captive, whose fury was redoubled by our presence.

The naturalist never took his eyes off him. He walked round and round the tree, taking good care, however, to keep out of reach of the claws which the poor lion struck out in every direction.

In half an hour’s time the cage appeared, drawn by two buffaloes. The suspended animal was cut down, not without some trouble, and we took the road to the kraal.

“Truly I was beginning to despair,” said Van Guitt. “Lions do not figure in great numbers among the nemoral beasts of India —

“Nemoral?” said Captain Hood.

“Yes, beasts which haunt forests, and I have reason to congratulate myself on capturing this animal, which will do honor to my menagerie.”

Dating from this day, Mathias van Guitt had no further reason to complain of ill-luck. On the 11th of August two leopards were taken together in that first trap from which we liberated the naturalist. These creatures were cheetahs, similar to the one which so audaciously attacked Behemoth on the plains of Rohilkund, and which we were not able to shoot. Two tigers only were now required to complete Van Guitt’s stock.

It was now the 15th of August. Colonel Munro had not yet reappeared, and we had not received any news of him. Banks was more uneasy than he cared to show. He interrogated Kalagani, who knew the Nepaul frontier, as to the danger Sir Edward might run by venturing into these independent territories.

The native assured him that not one of Nana Sahib’s partisans remained within the confines of Thibet. However, he seemed to regret that the colonel had not chosen him for a guide. His services would have been very useful in a country, with every path of which he was well acquainted. But there was no use now in thinking of joining him.

In the meanwhile, Captain Hood and Fox more especially continued their excursions in the Terrai. Aided by the shikarries, they contrived to kill three more tigers of medium size, not without great risk. Two of the animals went to the captain’s account, the third to his man.

“Forty-eight!” said Hood, who greatly longed to make up the round number of fifty before quitting the Himalayas.

“Thirty-nine!” said Fox, without counting a formidable panther which had fallen by his gun.

On the 20th of August the last but one of the tigers wanted by Van Guitt was found in one of the pits, which either by instinct or chance the creatures had till then escaped. As is usually the case, the animal was hurt in its fall, but the injury was not serious. A few days’ rest was sufficient to effect a cure, so that there would be nothing visible when delivery was made to Messrs. Hagenbeck, of Hamburg.

The use of this pit is regarded by connoisseurs as a barbarous method. When it is merely a question of destroying the animals, any way is good; but when it is necessary to take them alive, death is too often the consequence of their fall, especially when they are precipitated into a pit fifteen or twenty feet deep, destined for the capture of elephants. Out of ten there may be only one without some mortal injury. Therefore, even in Mysore, the naturalist told us, where the plan was at first so highly extolled, they are now beginning to give it up.

Mathias van Guitt being anxious to set out for Bombay, did all in his power to obtain his last tiger. It was not long before he had it in his possession, but at what a price! This incident deserves a detailed account, for the animal was dearly — too dearly — bought.

An expedition had been arranged by Captain Hood, for the evening of the 26th of August. Circumstances combined to render it a favorable opportunity — a cloudless sky, a calm, still night, and a waning moon. When the darkness is very profound, wild beasts do not care to quit their lairs, but a half light attracts them. Thus the meniscus — a word which Mathias van Guitt applied to the crescent moon — shed a few faint beams after midnight.

Captain Hood and I, Fox and Storr, who had taken a liking for the chase, formed the nucleus of this expedition, which was joined by the zoologist, Kalagani, and a few of the natives. Dinner ended, after taking leave of Banks, who had declined accompanying us, we left Steam House about seven in the evening, and at eight reached the kraal, without having met with any misadventure. Mathias van Guitt was just finishing his supper. He received us in his usual demonstrative style. A council of war was held, and a plan agreed upon.

It was thought advisable to lie in wait at the edge of a stream, falling down one of those ravines called nullahs, a couple of miles from the kraal, at a place which a pair of tigers visited every night. No bait had been placed at this spot, as the natives pronounced it useless. A battue recently made in that part of the Terrai proved that the need to quench their thirst was sufficient to attract the tigers to the bottom of that nullah. They also said that it would be easy for us to post ourselves advantageously there.

As we were not to leave the kraal before midnight, and it was then but eight o’clock, we had to wait with what patience we might until the hour for departure. “Gentlemen,” said Mathias van Guitt, “my habitation is entirely at your disposal. I invite you to do as I intend doing, lie down and endeavor to obtain some sleep. We shall have to rise more than early, and a few hours slumber will do much to fit us for our exertions.”

“Do you care to have a snooze, Maucler?” asked Captain Hood.

“No, thanks,” I answered, “and I would rather keep myself awake by walking about than be roused out of my first sleep.”

“Just as you please, gentlemen,” answered the zoologist. “As for myself, I already feel that spasmodic winking of the eyelid which is caused by the need of sleep. You see I have already the pendulum movement! “And Mathias van Guitt, raising his arms and throwing back his head and body, gave vent to several portentous yawns. Then making us a profound bow, he retired into his hut, and was doubtless soon fast asleep.

“Now what are we going to do?” asked I.

“Let us walk about, Maucler,” answered Captain Hood, “up and down in the kraal. It is a fine night, and I shall feel much more fit for a start than if I had three or four hours nap first. Besides, though sleep is called our best friend, it is a friend who often keeps us waiting!”

We were now strolling up and down in the inclosure, thinking or chatting as we chose. Storr, “whose best friend was not likely to keep him waiting,” was already asleep, lying at the foot of a tree. The shikarries and the rest were all crouched in their several corners, and no one in the place was awake but ourselves.

Keeping a watch would have been useless, as the kraal was entirely surrounded by a close and solid palisade. Kalagani himself made sure that the door was securely fastened; then, that duty performed, he wished us good night as he passed and joined his companions.

Our stroll took us first to the place occupied by the buffaloes. These magnificent ruminants, quiet and docile, were not even tethered. Accustomed to repose under the shade of gigantic maples, there they lay, their great horns entangled, their feet folded beneath them, and deep, sonorous breathing issuing from their enormous bodies. Even our approach did not arouse them. One only lifted his huge head for a moment, and looked sleepily at us, but soon put it down again.

“See to what a state tameness, or rather domestication, has reduced them,” I remarked.

“Yes,” replied Hood; “and yet buffaloes are terrible animals when in a savage state. But though they are so strong, they have not agility, and what can their horns do against the teeth and claws of lions and tigers? The advantage is decidedly on the side of the latter.”

Talking thus, we approached the cages. There, too, all was still. Tigers, lions, panthers, leopards, all were asleep in their various compartments. Mathias van Guitt wisely did not put them together until they were somewhat tamed by a few weeks of captivity. Otherwise, the brutes would most certainly have eaten each other up the very first day.

The three lions crouched motionless in a half circle like huge cats. Nothing of their heads could be seen, so buried were they in a thick muff of black fur, and they slept the sleep of the just.

Slumber was less profound in the tigers’ apartment. Their glowing eyes flamed through the dusk. Now and again a great paw would be stretched out, clawing at the iron bars. This was the sleep of fretful and impatient carnivora.

“They are having bad dreams, and I feel for them!” said the compassionate captain.

Some remorse, no doubt, troubled the three panthers, or at least some regret. At this hour, in their free life, they would have been roaming through the forest! They would have prowled around the pastures in quest of living flesh.

As to the four leopards, no nightmare disturbed their rest. They reposed peacefully. Two of these felines, a male and female, occupied the same room, being to all appearance as comfortable as if they were in their own den.

A single compartment was still empty — the one destined for the sixth and impracticable tiger, for whose capture Mathias van Guitt yet lingered in the Terrai.

Our promenade had lasted for nearly an hour. After once more making the tour of the kraal, we seated ourselves at the foot of an enormous mimosa. Absolute silence reigned over the entire forest. The wind, which whistled through the trees as night fell, had now died away. Not a leaf rustled.

Captain Hood and I, now seated near each other, no longer chatted. Not that we were becoming drowsy. It was rather that sort of absorption, more moral than physical, which is the effect produced by the perfect repose of nature. One thinks without forming the thought. One dreams as a man dreams without sleeping, when the wide open eyes gaze far away, seeing only some vision of the fancy.

One peculiarity surprised the captain, and unconsciously speaking in an undertone, as if fearing to break the silence, he said, “Maucler, this stillness astonishes me! Generally there are wild beasts roaring all night and making the forest a most noisy place. If not tigers or panthers, at any rate the jackals never rest. This kraal, full of living beings, ought to attract hundreds of them, and yet we hear nothing, not a snap of dry wood, or even a howl. If Mathias van Guitt was awake he would wonder as much as I do, no doubt, and would find some long break-jaw word by which to express his surprise!”

“Your observation is correct, my dear Hood,” I replied; “and I do not know to what cause to attribute the absence of these night prowlers. But we must take care, or we shall end by going to sleep ourselves!”

“No, no, fight against it!” returned the captain, stretching himself. “It will soon be time for us to start.”

And we continued to interchange sentences at somewhat long intervals. How long this lasted I cannot say, but suddenly a noise was heard which quickly aroused me from my drowsy state.

There was no doubt about it, the noise issued from the wild beasts’ cage. Lions, tigers, panthers, leopards, till now so peaceful, were uttering sullen growls of anger. Pacing up and down their narrow dens, they seemed to scent something afar off, and stopped every now and again to rear themselves up against the bars and sniff the air.

“What’s the matter with them?” asked I.

“I don’t know,” answered Hood, “but I fear they scent the approach of — “

At that moment tremendous roars were heard outside the inclosure.

“Tigers!” exclaimed Hood, running toward Van Guitt’s hut. But such was the violence of the roaring that all the inhabitants of the kraal were already on foot, and the zoologist met him at the door.

“An attack!” he cried.

“I believe so,” replied the captain.

“Stop! I will see!”

And without taking time to finish his phrase, Mathias van Guitt, seizing a ladder, placed it against the palisade. In a moment he was at the top.

“Ten tigers and a dozen panthers!” he cried.

“That’s serious,” answered Captain Hood. “We intended hunting them, and now they have come hunting us!”

“Your guns — get your guns!” cried the zoologist. Obeying his orders, in half a minute we were ready to fire.

Attacks by a band of wild beasts are not rare in India. The inhabitants of districts infested by tigers, particularly the Sunderbunds, have often been besieged in their dwellings. This is a dreadful event, and too often the victory rests with the assailants.

In the meanwhile to the roars outside were joined howls and growls from the inside. The kraal was answering the forest. We could scarcely hear ourselves speak.

“To the palisades!” shouted Van Guitt, making us understand what he wanted more by his gestures than his voice. We all hastened forward.

At that moment, the buffaloes, a prey to the wildest terror, endeavored to force their way out from their inclosure, while the men vainly tried to keep them back.

Suddenly, the gate, having no doubt been insecurely fastened, was burst violently open, and a whole troop of wild beasts rushed in.

And yet Kalagani was supposed to have closed that gate carefully; he did so every evening!

“To the hut! to the but!” shouted Van Guitt, running toward his house, which alone offered a refuge.

But should we have time to reach it? Already two shikarries lay stretched on the earth. The others fled across the inclosure seeking a shelter. The zoologist, Storr, and six natives were already in the house, and closed the door just in time, as a couple of tigers were about to spring in.

Kalagani, Fox, and the rest had caught hold of trees, and hoisted themselves up among the branches. As for the captain and myself we had no time nor opportunity for joining Van Guitt.

“Maucler! Mat..cler!” shouted Hood, whose right arm had just received a wound.

With a blow of his tail a huge tiger had thrown me to the ground. Before he had time to turn upon me, I rose and hastened to Captain Hood’s assistance.

One refuge still remained to us; the empty compartment of the sixth cage. We sprung in, and in a moment we had closed the door, and were for a time safe from the brutes who threw themselves, growling savagely, against the iron bars.

Such was the fierceness of the furious beasts, joined to the anger of the tigers imprisoned in the neighboring compartments, that the cage, oscillating on its wheels, seemed on the point of being capsized.

The tigers, however, soon abandoned it to attack some more certain prey. What a scene it was I not a detail of it was lost to us, looking through the bars of our cage!

“The world is turned upside down!” cried Hood, who was almost mad with vexation.

“Those brutes to be out and we shut up!”

“Your wound? “I asked.

“That’s nothing!”

Five or six shots were at this moment heard. The firing was from the hut, around which two tigers and three panthers were raging. One of the animals was killed by an explosive ball from Storr’s rifle.

The others retreated and fell upon the herd of buffaloes, who were utterly defenceless against such adversaries. Fox, Kalagani, and the natives, who had dropped their weapons in their haste to climb the trees, could give no assistance.

However, Captain Hood, taking aim between the bars of our cage, fired. Although his right arm being almost paralyzed by his wound prevented him from taking his usual unerring aim, he was lucky enough to “pot his forty-ninth tiger.”

The buffaloes leaped from their inclosure and rushed bellowing through the kraal. They vainly endeavored to gore the tigers, who, however, easily kept out of reach of their horns. One of them, mounted by a panther, his claws tearing its neck, rushed out and away through the forest.

Five or six others, pursued closely by the beasts, also disappeared. A few of the tigers followed; but the buffaloes who had not been able to escape, lay slaughtered and torn on the ground.

Other shots were fired through the windows of the hut. But while Hood and I were doing our part, a new danger, menaced us. The animals shut up in the cages, excited by the rage of the struggle, the smell of blood, the roars of their brethren, rampaged about with indescribable violence..

Would they end by breaking their bars? This seemed really likely.

In fact, one of the tigers’ cages was turned over. I thought for a moment that it would burst open and let them loose!

Fortunately nothing like this happened, and the prisoners could not even see what was passing outside, since it was the barred side of the cage which was downwards.

“Decidedly there are too many of them!” muttered the captain, as he reloaded.

At that moment, a tiger made a prodigious spring, and clung to the fork of a tree, on which two or three shikarries had sought refuge. One of the unfortunate men was seized and dragged down to the ground.

There a panther disputed with the tiger for the possession of the dead body, crunching the bones in the midst of a sea of blood.

“Fire now! Why don’t you fire!” shouted the captain, as if Van Guitt and his companions could hear him.

As to us, we could do nothing more. Our cartridges were exhausted, and we could only remain powerless spectators of the scene. Even this did not last long, a tiger in the next compartment to ours who had been endeavoring to break out, managed by giving a violent shake to destroy the equilibrium of the cage. It oscillated for a moment, and then over it went.

Slightly bruised by the fall, we soon scrambled again to our knees. The sides bore the shock, but now we could no longer see what was going on outside. Though we could not see, we could at least hear! What a hideous din! What a horrid odor of blood! The fight seemed to have taken a still more violent character. What had happened? Had the prisoners in the other cages escaped? Where they attacking Van Guitt’s hut? Were the tigers and panthers springing into the trees and tearing down the natives?

“And we all the time shut up in this abominable box!”

exclaimed Captain Hood, wild with excitement and rage.

Nearly a quarter of an hour — which appeared whole hours to us — passed in this way. Then the uproar began to calm down. The roaring and howling diminished. The bounds of the tigers which occupied the compartments in one cage were less frequent. Had the massacre come to an end?

All at once, I heard the gate of the kraal slammed to with great noise; and Kalagani’s voice calling to us loudly, then Fox shouting, “Captain! captain!”

“This way!” cried Hood.

He was heard, and we soon felt the cage being lifted. A moment more and we were free.

“Fox! Storr!” called the captain, whose first thought was for his companions.

Here, sir!” answered both the men.

They were not even wounded. Mathias van Guitt and Kalagani were equally safe and sound. Two tigers and a panther lay lifeless on the ground. The others had left the kraal, and Kalagani had shut them out. We were all in safety. None of the beasts of the menagerie had effected an escape during the combat, and besides that the zoologist now counted one prisoner more. This was a young tiger imprisoned in the small traveling cage, which had upset over him, and under which he was caught as in a snare.

The stock of Mathias van Guitt was thus completed; but it had cost him dear! Five of his buffaloes were killed, and three of his natives, horribly mutilated, weltered in their blood on the grass of the inclosure!

CHAPTER VI

MATHIAS VAN GUITT’S FAREWELL

DURING the rest of the night no other incident occurred either in or outside the kraal. The gate was securely fastened this time. How was it that at the very time the wild beasts surrounded the palisade it should have been open? This was truly most unaccountable, for Kalagani had himself placed the strong bars which fastened it.

Captain Hood’s wound gave him considerable pain, although it was but skin-deep. A little more though would have caused him to lose the use of his right arm.

For my part, I felt nothing of the violent blow which had thrown me to the ground. We resolved to return to Steam House as soon as day began to dawn.

As to Mathias van Guitt, except for regretting the loss of three of his people, he was not at all disheartened, although the being deprived of his buffaloes must put him to some inconvenience when the time for his departure came.

“It is but the chances of the trade,” he said, “and I have for long had a presentiment that an adventure of this kind would befall me.”

He then proceeded to arrange for the interment of the three natives, whose remains were laid in a corner of the kraal in a grave deep enough to prevent any wild animals disturbing them.

Soon, however, the dawn began to light up the dark avenues of the Terrai, and after many shakes of the hand, we took leave of Mathias van Guitt. To accompany us on our walk through the forest the zoologist put at our disposal Kalagani and two natives. His offer was accepted, and at six o’clock we left the kraal.

No untoward incident marked our return journey. Of tigers and panthers there was not a trace. The animals having been so severely repulsed had no doubt retreated to their dens, and this was not the time to go and rouse them up. As to the buffaloes which had escaped from the kraal, they had either been slain and devoured in the depths of the forest, or, if still alive, having fled to a great distance, it was not to be expected that their instinct would lead them back to the encampment. They must therefore be considered as positively lost to the naturalist.

At the border of the forest, Kalagani and the other men left us, and not long after Fan and Niger welcomed us back with joyful barks to Steam House.

I recounted our adventures to Banks, and it is needless to say that he congratulated us heartily on having got off so well! Too often in attacks of this nature not one of the assailed party escapes to tell the tale of the exploits of the assailants!

As to Captain Hood, he was obliged, whether he liked it or not, to keep his arm in a sling; but the engineer, who wa’s the doctor of the expedition, found his wound not serious, and declared that in a few days no trace of it would remain. At heart Captain Hood was much mortified at having received a wound without having returned it. And yet, he had added another tiger to the forty-eight already on his list.

On the afternoon of the 27th our attention was aroused by the joyful and excited barking of the dogs. We hastened out and saw Colonel Munro, McNeil, and Goiimi. Their return was a real relief to us. Had Sir Edward succeeded in his expedition? This we did not yet know. Hq was there, however, safe and sound, and that was the most important thing after all.

Banks immediately hurried up to him, grasped his hand, and gave him a questioning look.

“Nothing!” was all the reply he received, accompanied by a shake of the head.

This word signified not only that the search of the Nepaulese frontier had resulted in nothing, but that any conversation on this subject would be useless. It appeared to mean that there was nothing to speak about.

McNeil and GoCimi, whom Banks interrogated in the evening, were more explicit. They told him that Colonel Munro had indeed wished to survey that portion of Hindoostan in which Nana Sahib had taken refuge before his reappearance in the Bombay Presidency; to ascertain what had become of the nabob’s companions; to search for any traces which might remain of their passage over that part of the frontier; to endeavor to learn whether, instead of Nana Sahib, his brother, Balao Rao, was hiding in that country. Such had been Sir Edward’s object.

The result of this search was that there could no longer be any doubt that the rebels had left the country. There was not a vestige of that camp in which the false obsequies of Nana Sahib had been celebrated. No news was heard of Balao Rao. Of his companions, nothing that could urge them to set off on the track. The nabob killed in the defiles of the Sautpoora Mountains, his friends probably dispersed beyond the limits of the peninsula, the work of the avenger seemed already performed. To quit the Himalayas, continue southward, and thus finish our journey from Calcutta to Bombay, was all we had now to think of.

The departure was fixed for a week from that time, for the 3 d of September. That time was necessary to complete the healing of Captain Hood’s wound. Colonel Munro, too, who was plainly fatigued by his excursion through that rough country, was also glad of a few days’ rest.

During this time Banks began his preparations by getting our train in order, and in a state for the journey from the Himalayas to Bombay. To begin with it was agreed that the route should be a second time altered so as to avoid the great towns of the northwest, Mirat, Delhi, Agra, Gwalior, Jansi, and others, in which so many disasters of the mutiny of 1857 had taken place. With the last rebels of the insurrection had disappeared all that could arouse the recollections of Colonel Munro.

Our traveling dwelling would thus go straight through the provinces without stopping at the principal cities, but the country was well worth a visit, if only for its natural beauties. The immense kingdom of Scindia is unequalled in this respect. The most picturesque roads in the peninsula now lay before Behemoth.

The season of the monsoons had ended with the rainy season, which is not prolonged beyond the month of August. The first days of September promised a most agreeable temperature, which would render the second part of our journey far pleasanter than the first.

During the last week of our stay in the sanitarium, Fox and Goinni purveyed daily for the pantry. Accompanied by the two dogs they found swarms of partridges, pheasants, and bustards. These birds, preserved in the ice-house, were to supply us with game during the journey.

We paid two or three more visits to the kraal. There Mathias van Guitt was also preparing for his departure for Bombay, bearing his troubles with the philosophy which carried him calmly through all the miseries of existence both great and small.

The capture of the tenth tiger had completed his stock.

It was now only necessary to make up the number of his buffaloes. Not one of those which fled during the night attack had been recaptured. The chances were that all, dispersed in the forest, had met with violent deaths. The difficulty was how to make up the teams. In hopes of obtaining animals among the scattered farms and villages of the neighborhood, Van Guitt had sent Kalagani to inquire, and awaited his return with some impatience.

The last week of our abode at the sanitarium passed without incident. Captain Hood’s wound gradually healed, and he seemed to hope for one more expedition before closing the campaign. But this idea Colonel Munro would not encourage.

Why risk himself needlessly while his arm was weak?

During the rest of our journey he would be very likely to meet with sport en route.

“Besides,” observed Banks, “you surely ought to be satisfied to find yourself alive and well, with a score of forty-nine tigers fallen to your gun. The balance is all in your favor.’

“Forty-nine — yes,” returned the captain with a sigh; “but I wanted fifty.”

He was evidently dissatisfied.

The 2d of September arrived, and we were on the eve of departure. In the morning Goiimi came in to announce a visit from the purveyor. Van Guitt, accompanied by Kalagani, came to Steam House; no doubt he wished to take formal leave at the last moment.

Colonel Munro received him cordially, and the Dutchman plunged into a course of speechifying more astonishing than ever. It struck me that his high-flown compliments concealed something which he hesitated to propose. Banks brought him to the point by inquiring whether he had succeeded in making up his buffalo teams.

“No, indeed, Mr. Banks,” he replied, “Kalagani has been unsuccessful. Although I gave him carte blanche as to price, he failed to procure a single pair of these useful animals. I am forced to admit myself wholly at a loss how to convey my menagerie to the nearest railway station. This loss of my buffaloes, by the sudden attack on the night between the 25th and 26th of August, embarrasses me exceedingly. My cages with their four-footed prisoners are heavy, and —

“Well, how are you going to manage?” demanded the engineer.

I can’t exactly say,” returned Mathias. “I plan — I contrive — I hesitate — but the fact is that on the 20th of September, that is to say eighteen days hence, I am bound to deliver the animals at Bombay.”

“In eighteen days!” echoed Banks. “Why you have not an hour to lose.”

“I know it, sir, and I have but one resource, just one.”

“What may that be?”

“It is to entreat the colonel to do me a very great favor.”

“Speak freely, Mr. van Guitt,” said Colonel Munro; “if I can oblige you, I will do so with pleasure.”

Mathias bowed, placed his right hand on his lips, swayed himself from side to side, and in every gesture betokened himself overwhelmed by unexpected kindness. He then explained that understanding our giant engine to be of immense power, he wished to know if it would be possible to attach his caravan of cages to our train, and so to drag them to Etawah, the nearest station on the line between Delhi and Allahabad.

The colonel turned to the engineer, saying, “Can we do what Mr. van Guitt requires?”

“I see no difficulty,” replied Banks. “Behemoth will never know that he draws a heavier weight.”

“It shall be done, Mr. van Guitt,” said Colonel Munro. “We will take your goods to Etawah. People ought to be neighborly and help one another even in the Himalayas.”

“I am aware of your goodness, colonel,” replied Van Guitt, “and indeed felt I might reckon on it.”

“You were right,” said Colonel Munro.

Everything being thus arranged, the Dutchman prepared to return to his kraal, in order to dismiss such of his attendants as were no longer required, retaining only four shikarries who were wanted to tend the animals.

“We meet to-morrow, then,” said Colonel Munro.

“To-morrow, gentlemen, I shall be ready, and waiting for you and your steam monster at my kraal.” And the purveyor, delighted with the success of his visit, retired with all the airs of an actor leaving the stage.

Kalagani, after fixedly regarding Colonel Munro, whose journey to the frontiers of Nepaul appeared to interest him deeply, followed his master.

The last arrangements were completed. Everything was in traveling order, and of the Steam House sanitarium nothing remained. We were ready to descend to the plains, where our elephant was to leave us and fetch the Dutchman’s caravan to join our train, which then was to start across Rohilkund.

At seven o’clock on the morning of the 3 d of September, Behemoth stood ready to resume the duties he had hitherto so well fulfilled. But a very unexpected occurrence now excited the surprise of every one.

After lighting the furnace to heat the boiler, Kalouth opened the different flues and the soot doors, in order to be sure that nothing impeded the draught of air, but started back when, with a strange sound of hissing, a score of what seemed like leathern thongs darted toward him from the tubes.

“Hallo, Kalouth! What’s the matter?” said Banks.

“A swarm of serpents, sahib,” cried the stoker.

In fact, what appeared like straps were snakes which had chosen to make themselves at home in the furnace chimneys, whence the heat now dislodged them. Some were scorched, and fell to the ground; had not Kalouth opened the valves, all would speedily have been roasted.

“What!” cried Captain Hood, running forward, “has Behemoth been cherishing a brood of serpents in his bosom?”

Yes, of the most dangerous and numerous description and a superb tiger-python now showed his pointed head from the tip of the elephant’s trunk, and began to unfold his coils, amid spiral volumes of smoke. The other serpents, which were so lucky as to escape with their lives, quickly vanished among the bushes.

But the python could not easily ascend the cast iron cylinder, and Captain Hood had time to get his rifle and send a bullet through its head.

Then Goorni mounted the elephant, and scrambling up the trunk, succeeded, with the help of Kalouth and Storr, in hoisting out the huge reptile. It was a most magnificent boa, in a vesture of gorgeous green and purple, adorned with regular rings, which seemed as though cut out of splendid tiger skin. It was as thick as a man’s arm, and measured quite five yards in length.

Truly it was a superb specimen, and would have made an advantageous addition to Van Guitt’s collection could it have been secured alive.

The excitement of this incident having subsided, Kalouth rearranged his furnace, the boiler soon began to do its part, and steam being fairly got up, we were ready to be off. One last glance over the marvelous panorama spread before us to the south, one last lingering look toward the indented outlines of the mighty mountain peaks which stood forth sharply against the northern sky, and then the shriek of the whistle gave notice of departure.

We descended the winding road without difficulty, the atmospheric brake acting admirably on the steep pitches, and in an hour we halted on the lower limit of the Terrai, at the edge of the plain. Here Behemoth, under charge of Banks and the fireman, left us, and at a dignified pace entered one of the broad roads through the forest.

A couple of hours later we heard the snorting and puffing of the steam giant, and he issued from the thicket of trees with the Dutchman’s caravan menagerie in tow.

Mathias van Guitt made his appearance, and renewed his thanks to the colonel. The wild beast cages, with a van in front for the purveyor and his men, were attached to our train, now composed of eight carriages.

Banks gave the signal, the regulation whistle sounded, and Behemoth, with stately motion, began to advance along the magnificent road leading to the south. The addition of Van Guitt and his wild beast vans made no difference to him.

“Well, Van Guitt, what do you think of it?” inquired Captain Hood.

“I think, captain,” replied Mathias, with some reason, “that this elephant would be much more wonderful if he were made of flesh and blood.”

We did not follow the route by which we had reached the foot of the Himalayas, but traveled southwest toward the little town of Philibit. We went at a moderate and easy pace, and met with no hindrance or discomfort.

The Dutchman daily took his seat at our table, when his splendid appetite never failed to do honor to the culinary talents of Monsieur Parazard. It speedily became necessary to call upon our sportsmen to do their duty, and Captain Hood resumed his labors for the larder. Food was required for our four-footed passengers, as well as for ourselves, and the shikarries took care to provide it. They were clever hunters; and led by Kalagani, himself a first-rate shot, kept up a supply of bison and antelope meat.

Kalagani maintained his peculiar and reserved manners, although very kindly treated by Colonel Munro, who was not a man to forget a good service done him. On the 10th of September our train skirted the town of hilibit without making a halt, but a considerable number of natives came to see us. Van Guitt’s wild beast show attracted little attention in comparison with Behemoth, and without more than a passing glance at the splendid creatures within their cages, all hastened to admire the Steam Elephant.

We traversed the great plains of Northern India, passing, at a distance of some leagues, Bareilly, one of the chief cities of Rohilkund. Sometimes we were surrounded by forests filled with birds of brilliant plumage, sometimes by dense thickets of the thorny acacia two or three yards high, which is called by the English “Wait-a-bit.”

There we met with many wild boars, whose flesh was of a remarkably fine flavor, from the fact of their feeding on the yellowish berry of these plants. These boars are extremely savage animals, and on several occasions they were killed by Captain Hood and Kalagani, under circumstances which displayed to advantage all the courage and skill possessed by our mighty hunters.

Between Philibit, and Etawah railway station our train had to cross the Upper Ganges, and shortly after an important tributary, the Kali-Nacli.

The menagerie vans were detached, and Steam House, assuming its nautical character, easily floated from one bank to the other. It was different with the Dutchman’s vans. They had to be transported singly by a ferry boat, and though tedious, the passage was effected without much difficulty, as both he and his men knew exactly what to do.

At length without any adventure worthy of notice we reached the line of rail between Delhi and Allahabad. Here the two parts of our train were to separate, the first continuing to descend southward across the vast territories of Scind, in order to reach the Vindhyas and the presidency of Bombay. The second, was to be placed on railway trucks to travel to Bombay, and so by ship to Europe.

We encamped together for one night, and the respective starts were to be made at daybreak. Mathias van Guitt was about to dismiss such of his attendants as were no longer necessary to him, retaining the natives only until he should reach the ship.

Among the men now paid off was Kalagani, the hunter.

We had become attached to this native since he had rendered good service both to Colonel Munro and Captain Hood; and Banks, perceiving him to be at a loss for employment, asked if it would suit him to accompany us as far as Bombay.

After some moments consideration, Kalagani accepted the proposal, which seemed to please Colonel Munro very much. He was well acquainted with all this part of India, and attached to the staff of Steam House was likely to be extremely useful to us.

The next morning the camp was struck. Steam was up, and Storr only awaited final orders.

The ceremony of leave-taking was very simple on our part, highly theatrical on that of Van Guitt, who amplified his expressions of thanks, and specially distinguished himself in the final scene, when, as he disappeared from our sight he indicated by pantomimic gestures that never, either here below or in life hereafter, should our kindness fade from his memory.

CHAPTER VII

PASSAGE OF THE BETTWA

Our position on the 18th of September stood thus.

Distance from Calcutta… 812 miles.

From Sanitarium on the Himalayas 236

From Bombay… 1,000

With regard to distance, not half of our proposed journey had been accomplished, but reckoning the seven weeks spent on the Himalayan frontier above half the time allotted to it had elapsed. We left Calcutta on the 6th of March, and in two months we hoped to reach the western shores of Hindostan. Avoiding the great towns concerned in the revolt of 1857, we should travel nearly due south. There being excellent roads through Scind, we should meet no difficulties until we came to the mountains of Central India.

The presence of an experienced man like Kalagani would give additional security as well as facility to our progress, as he seemed so thoroughly well acquainted with this part of Hindostan. Banks called him the first day, while Colonel Munro was taking his siesta, and asked in what capacity he had so frequently traversed these provinces.

“I belonged,” replied the man, “to one of the numerous caravans of Brinjarees, who convey to the interior, on the backs of oxen, supplies of grain, either ordered by the government or private persons. In this capacity I have passed a score of times across the territories of North and Central India.”

“Do such caravans still cross this part of the peninsula?”

“Yes, sir, they do, and at this season of the year I should expect to meet Brinjarees on their way north.”

“Well, Kalagani, you are likely to be very useful to us. We wish to avoid the great cities, and to pass through the open country. You shall be our guide.”

“Certainly, sir,” answered the Hindoo, in the cold tone which was habitual to him, and to which I could never get quite reconciled. Then, he added, “Shall I state in a general way the direction we shall have to take?”

“Do so, Kalagani,” said Banks, spreading a large map on the table, and preparing to verify by observation the information about to be given him.

“It is very simple,” said the Indian. “A direct line takes us from the Delhi railroad to that of Bombay. The junction is at Allahabad. Between Etawah and the frontier of Bundelkund, there is but one important river to cross, the Jumna; between that and the Vindhyas Mountains there is another, the Bettwa. These two rivers may have overflowed their banks, but I think your train would be able to cross them even if it were so.”

“There would be no serious difficulty,” replied the engineer. “And having reached the Vindhyas — ?”

“We should turn slightly to the southeast, in order to reach a practicable pass. There will be no difficulty there either, for I know a spot where the ascents are easy. Wheel carriages prefer that way; it is the pass of Sirgour.”

“That ought to suit us,” returned Banks, “but I perceive that beyond the pass of Sirgour the country is very hilly. Could we not approach the Vindhyas by crossing Bhopal?”

“There are a great many towns in that direction,” answered Kalagani; “it would be difficult to avoid them. The sepoys distinguished themselves particularly there during the war of independence.”

I was struck by this expression, “the war of independence,” which Kalagani applied to the Mutiny. However.

I reflected that it was a native, not an Englishman, who used it. Besides, we had no reason to suppose that Kalagani had taken part in the revolt.

“Well,” resumed Banks, “leaving the cities of Bhopal to the west, are you certain that the pass of Sirgour will give us access to a practicable road?”

“To a road I have often traveled, sir, which, after making the circuit of Lake Puturia, will bring you near Jubbulpore, on the Bombay railway.”

“I see,” said Banks, who followed on the map all that the man said; “and after that — * ’”

“After that the road turns to the southwest, and, more or less, runs alongside the line as far as Bombay.”

“Of course — so it does,” returned Banks. “I see no particular difficulty anywhere, and the route suits us. We shall not forget your services, Kalagani.”

Kalagani made his salaam, and was about to retire, when changing his mind, he again approached the engineer. “Have you any question to put to me?” said Banks. “I have, sir; may I be permitted to ask why you especially want to avoid the great towns of the Bundelkund?”

Banks looked at me. There seemed no reason for concealing the facts of the case from this man, and after a little consideration, Colonel Munro’s position was explained to him.

He listened attentively to what the engineer related to him, and then he said in a tone denoting surprise, “Colonel Munro has nothing more to fear from Nana Sahib — at least not in these provinces.”

“Neither in these provinces nor anywhere else,” returned Banks. “Why do you say ‘ in these provinces? ’”

“Because it was reported several months ago that the nabob had reappeared in the Bombay Presidency, but by no research could his retreat be discovered, and supposing him ever to have been there, it is probable that he has now again passed beyond the Indo-Chinese frontier.”

This answer seemed to prove that Kalagani was ignorant of what had taken place in the Sautpourra Mountains, and that in the month of May, Nana Sahib had been slain by British soldiers at the Pal of Tandit.

“It seems that news takes a long time to reach the Himalayan forests!” exclaimed Banks.

Kalagani looked at him fixedly, like one not in the least comprehending his words.

“You do not seem to know that Nana Sahib is dead,” continued the engineer.

“Nana Sahib dead!” cried the native.

“Certainly,” replied Banks, “government announced the fact that he had been killed, with all the details.”

“Killed?” said Kalagani, shaking his head, “where do they say Nana Sahib was killed?”

“At the Pal of TandIt, in the Sautpourra Mountains.”

“And when?”

“Nearly four months ago, on the 25th of last May.”

I noticed a peculiar look flit over Kalagani’s face as he folded his arms and remained silent.

“Have you any reason,” inquired I, “for discrediting the account of Nana Sahib’s death?”

“None, sir; I believe what you tell me.”

In another instant Banks and I were alone, and he exclaimed, “You see what these fellows are! They regard the chief of the rebel sepoys as something more than mortal. and because they have not seen him hanged, they never will believe he is dead.”

“Why,” replied I, “that is just like the old soldiers of the empire, who for twenty years after Napoleon’s death stoutly maintained that he was still alive.”

Since passing across the Upper Ganges fifteen days previous to this, a fertile country had opened before us, called the Doab, a district lying in the angle formed by the Ganges and the Jumna, which two rivers unite near Allahabad.

My impressions of the Doab are of alluvial plains cleared by the Brahmins twenty centuries before the Christian era, farming operations of the rudest description carried on by the peasantry, vast canal works due to English engineers, fields of the cotton plant, which especially thrives in this part of the country, the groans of the cotton mill machinery at work near every village, mingled with the songs of the men who are employed about it.

We went on our way very comfortably. Scenery and situations changed before our eyes, while we enjoyed in luxury the climax of the art of locomotion.

What mode of progression could be superior to this?

We reached the left bank of the Jumna. This important stream forms the boundary of Rajasthan, the country of the Rajahs, dividing it from Hindostan, or the country of the Hindoos.

We found that an early flood had already raised the waters of the Jumna. The current was rapid, but although this made our transit somewhat less easy, it did not hinder it at all. Banks took some few precautions, found a suitable landing-place, and within half an hour, Steam House was mounting the opposite bank of the river.

Railway trains require massive bridges to be built at great expense; one of these, of tubular construction, spans the Jumna at the fortress of Pelimghur near Delhi.

But our Behemoth drew his double cars over the surface of the current with as much ease as along the best macadamized high road.

Beyond the Jumna lay several of the towns which our engineer intended to pass by unvisited.

Among these was Gwalior, situated near the river Sawunrika, built on a basaltic rock, with its superb mosque of Musjid, its palace of Pal, its curious Gate of Elephants, its famous fortress, and the Vihura erected by Buddhists. The modern town of Lashkar, built at a little distance, forms a singular contrast to this ancient city, and competes in trade with it vigorously.

It was at Gwalior that the Ranee of Jansi, the devoted friend of Nana Sahib, defended herself heroically to the last. There, as we have already said, she fell by the hand of Colonel Munro during an engagement with two squadrons of the British troops, where he was in command of a battalion of his regiment, and from that moment dated the mortal hatred borne toward him by the Nabob, who sought till death to gratify it by revenge.

Yes! it certainly was desirable that Sir Edward Munro should not renew his recollections of the scenes which took place before the gates of Gwalior!

After Gwalior we passed Antri, and its vast plain broken by numerous peaks, like islands in an archipelago.

Then Duttiah, which has not been in existence for more than five centuries. It possesses a central fortress, elegant houses, temples of various forms, the deserted palace of Birsing-Deo, and the arsenal of Tope-Kana, the whole forming the capital of the province of Duttiah, which lies in the northern angle of Bundelkund, and is under British protection. Antri and Duttiah, as well as Gwalior, were seriously compromised by the insurrectional disturbances of 1857.

On the 22d of September, Jansi was passed at a considerable distance. This city is the most important military station in the Bundelkund, and the spirit of revolt is strong in the lower classes of its population. The town is comparatively modern, and has a great trade in Indian muslins, and blue cotton cloths. There are no ancient remains in this place, but it is interesting to visit its citadel, whose walls the English artillery and projectiles failed to destroy, also the Necropolis of the rajahs, which is remarkably picturesque.

This was the chief stronghold of the sepoy mutineers in Central India. There the intrepid Ranee instigated the first rising, which speedily spread throughout the Bundelkund.

There Sir Hugh Rose maintained an engagement which lasted no less than six days, during which time he lost fifteen per cent. of his force.

There, in spite of the obstinate resistance of a garrison of twelve thousand sepoys, and backed by an army of twenty thousand, Tantia Topi, Balao Rao (brother of the Nana), and last not least, the Ranee herself, were compelled to yield to the superiority of British arms.

It was there, at Jansi, that Colonel Munro had saved the life of his sergeant, McNeil, and given up to him his last drop of water. Yes! Jansi of all places must be avoided in a journey where the route was planned and marked out by Sir Edward’s warmest friends!

After passing Jansi, we were detained for several hours by an encounter with travelers of whom Kalagani had previously spoken.

It was about eleven o’clock. Breakfast was over, and we were lounging under the veranda, or in the saloon, while Behemoth plodded steadily on at a moderate speed. The road was magnificent. Shaded by lofty trees it passed through fields of cotton and grain. The weather was fine, the sun very hot. All we could wish for was a metropolitan water-cart, to keep down the puffs of fine white dust which occasionally rose round our equipage.

But after a while the atmosphere appeared to become absolutely darkened with clouds of dust as dense as any ever blown up by the simoom of the Libyan Desert.

“I cannot imagine the cause of such a phenomenon,” said Banks, “for the wind blows quite a light breeze.”

“Probably Kalagani can explain it,” said Colonel Munro.

He was called, and entering the veranda, looked along the road, and at once said, “It is a long caravan going northward, and is most likely a party of the Brinjarees I spoke of to you, Mr. Banks.”

“Ah I and no doubt you will find some old friends among them.”

“Possibly, sahib; I lived a long time among those wandering tribes.”

“Perhaps you will want to leave us and join them again,” remarked Captain Hood.

“Not at all,” answered Kalagani.

Half an hour later, it was proved that his opinion was correct. A moving wall of oxen advanced, and our mighty elephant himself was brought to a standstill. There was nothing to regret in this enforced halt, however, for a most curious spectacle was presented to our observations.

A drove of four or five thousand oxen encumbered the road, and, as our guide had supposed, they belonged to a caravan of Brinjarees.

“These people,” said Banks, “are the Zingaris of Hindostan. They are a people rather than a tribe, and have no fixed abode, dwelling under tents in summer, in huts during the winter or rainy season. They are the porters and carriers of India, and I saw how they worked during the insurrection of 1857. By a sort of tacit agreement between the belligerents, their convoys were permitted to pass through the disturbed provinces. In fact, they kept up the supply of provisions to both armies. If these Brinjarees belong to one part of India more than to another, I should say it was Rajpootana, and perhaps more particularly the kingdom of Milwar. Pray examine them attentively, my dear Maucler, as they pass before you in defile.”

Our equipage was prudently drawn up on one side of the great highway. Nothing could have withstood this avalanche of horned cattle, even wild beasts hasten out of their way.

Following Banks’ advice, I set myself to observe closely the enormous procession as it passed by, and the first thing I noticed was that our Steam Elephant, so accustomed to create surprise and admiration, seemed scarcely to attract the attention of these people at all; they looked as if nothing ever could astonish them.

Both men and women of the race were extremely handsome; the former tall and strong, with fine features, curly hair, and a clear bronze complexion. They wore long tunics and turbans, and carried lances, bucklers, or round shields, and large swords slung across their shoulders. The latter, also very tall and well formed, were dressed in becoming bodices with full skirts, a loose mantle enveloping the whole form in graceful drapery. They wore jewels in their ears, and necklaces, bracelets, bangles, and anklets, made of gold, ivory, or shells. Thousands of oxen paced quietly along with these men, women, old men, and children. They had neither harness nor halter, only bells or red tassels on their heads, and double packs thrown across their backs, which contained wheat and other grains.

A whole tribe journeyed in this manner, under the directions of an elected chief, called the naik, whose power is despotic while it lasts. He controls the movements of the caravan, fixes the hours for the start and the halt, and arranges the dispositions of the camp.

I was struck by the magnificent appearance of a large bull, who with superb and imperial step led the van. He was covered with a bright colored cloth, ornamented with bells and shell embroidery, and I asked Banks if he knew what was the special office of this splendid animal.

“Kalagani will of course be able to tell us,” answered he. “Where is the fellow?”

He was called, but did Tx t make his appearance, and search being made, it was found he had left Steam House.

“No doubt he has gone to renew acquaintance with some old comrade,” said Colonel Munro. “He will return before we resume our journey.”

This seemed very natural. There was nothing in the temporary absence of the man to occasion uneasiness, but somehow it haunted me uncomfortably.

“Well,” said Banks, “to the best of my belief this bull represents, or is an emblem of, their deity. Where he goes they follow; where he stops, there they encamp; but of course we are to suppose he is in reality under the secret control of the naik. Anyhow, he is to these wanderers an embodiment of their religion.”

The cortege seemed interminable, and for two hours there was no sign of an approaching end. Soon afterward, however, the rear guard came in sight, and at last I perceived Kalagani accompanied by a native who was not of the Brinjaree type. They were conversing together very coolly, and he was no doubt one who, as Kalagani had frequently done, had joined the caravan for a time only. Probably they were talking of the country which the caravan had just passed through, and across which lay the route by which our new guide had undertaken to lead us.

This man, who was the last of all the procession to pass us, paused for a moment before Steam House. He looked at the equipage with some interest, and I thought his eye rested particularly on Sir Edward Munro; but without uttering a word, he made a parting sign to Kalagani, rejoined the troop, and disappeared in a cloud of dust.

Kalagani then came up, and before any questions were asked, addressed himself to Colonel Munro, and simply saying, “One of my old comrades, who has been with the caravan for the last two months,” he resumed his place in our train, and we were speedily moving along a road now deeply marked by the footprints of thousands of men and oxen.

Next day, the 24th of September, we halted to pass the night a little to the east of Ourtcha on the left bank of the Bettwa, which is one of the chief tributaries of the Jumna.

There is nothing to see or say about Ourtcha. It is the old capital of Bundelkund, and was a flourishing town during the earlier part of the seventeenth century. But hard blows from the Mahrattas on one side, and the Mongols on the other, reduced it to a low condition, from which it has never recovered, so that, at the present time, one of the great cities of Central India is nothing more than a large village, miserably housing a few hundred peasants.

I said we encamped on the banks of the Bettwa, but the halt was made at some distance from the river, which, we learned, had considerably overflowed its banks. Night was coming on and it would be necessary next day to examine carefully the nature of the ground before attempting a passage. We therefore spent our evening in the usual way and retired to rest.

Except under very peculiar circumstances, we never kept watch by night. There seemed to be no occasion for it. Could anybody run away with our houses? No! Could they steal our elephant? Rather not! Nothing was more unlikely than an attack of thieves; but at all times our two dogs, Fan and Niger, were on the alert, and ready to give notice of approaching footsteps.

This very thing happened that night. Their violent barking aroused us about two in the morning. When I opened the door of my room, I found all my companions on foot. “Is anything the matter?” inquired Colonel Munro.

“The dogs seem to think so,” replied Banks. “I don’t believe they would bark like that for nothing.”

“I should not wonder if a panther had coughed in the jungle,” said Hood. “Let’s take our guns and make a search.”

McNeil, Kalagani, and Goinni were all out listening and trying to find out what was going on. We joined them.

“Well,” said the captain, “I suppose a few wild animals have passed on their way to the drinking-place?”

“Kalagani thinks this is something very different,” replied Sergeant McNeil.

“What then, Kalagani?”

“I don’t know yet, colonel,” said the Indian; “but certainly neither panthers, tigers, nor jackals. I fancy I can discern a confused mass among the trees — f “Let’s have at them at once!” exclaimed the captain, with eager hopes of his fiftieth tiger.

“Wait, Hood, wait,” said Banks; “caution is desirable in this case.”

“But we are in force, and well armed! I want to be at the bottom of this disturbance,” persisted the captain.

“All right then,” cried Banks. “Munro, you must remain in camp with McNeil and the other men, while Hood.

Maucler, Kalagani, and I go to reconnoiter.”

All this time the dogs continued to bark, but without any symptoms of the fury which they always displayed on the approach of wild beasts.

“Come along, Fox!” cried Captain Hood, beckoning to his servant.

Fan and Niger darted into the thicket. We followed them, and presently distinguished the sound of footsteps. It seemed as though the scouts of a large party were prowling round our camp. A few figures vanished silently among the bushes. The two dogs, barking loudly, ran backward and forward some paces in advance of us.

“Who goes there?” shouted Captain Hood.

No answer.

“These people either do not choose to speak or else understand no English,” said Banks.

“Well — give it them in Hindoostanee! Tell them we will fire if they don’t answer.”

In the dialect of Central India, Kalagani summoned the invisible rovers to advance and show themselves. Still no answer.

A rifle shot broke the silence. The impetuous captain could stand it no longer, and had taken aim apparently at a shadow flitting through the trees. The report was followed by a confused rushing sound, as if a multitude of people were dispersing right and left. Fan and Niger ran forward, and then returning to us quietly, showed no further uneasiness.

“Well, they beat a retreat double quick, these fellows, whoever they were,” exclaimed Hood.

“That is very certain,” returned Banks, “and now, whether they were robbers or rovers, all we have to do is to get back to Steam House. But we must set a watch till daybreak.”

In a very few minutes we had rejoined our party. McNeil, Goiami, and Fox arranged to take turns as sentries, and we once more retired to our cabins. The night passed without disturbance; it was clear, that seeing we were on our guard, the visitors had decamped.

Next day, the 25th of September, while preparation was being made for a start, Colonel Munro, Hood, McNeil.

Kalagani, and I set out to explore the borders of the forest. We saw no trace whatever of the nocturnal adventurers, and on our return found Banks busily arranging for they passage of the river Bettwa, whose tawny waters were flowing far beyond their accustomed bed. The current was running at so rapid a rate, that Behemoth would have to make head against it to avoid being carried down stream.

The engineer, field-glass in hand, was endeavoring to determine our landing-place on the opposite bank. The Bettwa was at this point about a mile in width. Our train had as yet crossed no river so broad.

“What,” said I, “becomes of travelers and traders when they are stopped by floods like this? These currents resemble rapids; ordinary ferry-boats could not resist them.”

“Why! it is quite simple,” replied Captain Hood, “they stay where they are.”

“They can always cross if they have elephants,” said Banks.

“You don’t mean to say elephants can swim such distances?”

“Of course they can, and the thing is managed thus,” answered the engineer. “All the baggage is placed on the back of these — “

“Proboscidians,” suggested Hood, recollecting his friend the Dutchman’s fine words.

“And the mahouts force them, at first reluctantly, to enter the stream. The animals hesitate, draw back, trumpet loudly; but finally make up their minds to face the difficulty, and beginning to swim, gallantly effect the passage. It must be admitted that some are occasionally swept away by the current and drowned, but that rarely happens if any experienced person is in charge.”

“Well,” said Hood, “Behemoth is thoroughly amphibious, and no doubt will make a fine passage.”

We all took our places; Kalouth by his furnace, Storr in the howdah, Banks acting as steersman. With gentle pace the elephant began his march. His great feet were covered, but the water was for about fifty feet too shallow to float him. Great caution was requisite, and the train moved slowly from terra firma.

All of a sudden we became aware that the sounds we had heard in the night were renewed and drawing near us.

About a hundred creatures, gesticulating and grimacing, issued from the woods.

“Monkeys, by Jove!” exclaimed Hood, with a burst of laughter, as a whole regiment of apes advanced in close order toward Steam House.

“What on earth do they want?” inquired McNeil.

“Of course they are going to attack us,” answered the belligerent captain.

“No, you have nothing to fear,” said Kalagani, who was watching them.

“Well, but what are they up to?” repeated McNeil.

“They only want to cross the river with us,” said the Indian.

And Kalagani was right. These were not insolent gibbons, with long hairy arms and importunate manners, nor were they members of the aristocratic family which inhabit the palace at Benares; but black monkeys, the largest in India, very active, and with white whiskers round their smooth faces, which make them look like old lawyers. In fantastic airs and attitudes they almost rivaled our friend Mathias van Guitt himself.

I then learned that these apes are sacred throughout India. One legend asserts that they are the descendants of Rama, who conquered the island of Ceylon. At Amber they occupy the Zenana palace, and do the honors to visitors. It is expressly forbidden to kill them, and several English officers have lost their lives through disregard of this law.

These monkeys are usually very gentle, and easily domesticated, but are dangerous if attacked, and when only slightly wounded, become, according to the statement of M. Louis Rousselet, quite as formidable as hyenas or panthers. But we had no intention of attacking them, and Captain Hood’s gun was not called into requisition. Could Kalagani be right in saying that these creatures, unable otherwise to cross the river, intended to avail themselves of our floating equipage?

We were speedily to see that it was so. When, after passing through the shallows, Behemoth reached the bed of the river, our train floated after him, and encountering a kind of eddy from a turn in the bank, remained at first almost stationary.

Just then the troop of monkeys approached, wading and dabbling in the shallow water. They made no demonstration of hostility; but suddenly the whole party, males, females, old and young, began to gambol and spring toward us, and, finally seizing each other by the hand, they fairly bounded up on our train, which actually seemed to be waiting for them.

In a few seconds there were a dozen on Behemoth’s back, thirty on the top of each carriage, and soon we had quite a hundred passengers, gay, familiar, even talkative (at least among themselves), no doubt congratulating one another on the fortunate chance by which they had secured their passage across the river.

Behemoth now fairly entered the current, and boldly facing it, proceeded on his way.

For an instant Banks looked anxiously at the apes, but they disposed themselves judiciously, so as to trim the flotilla. They sat or clung in all directions over the back of the elephant, on his neck, on his tusks, even on his upraised trunk, caring nothing for the jets of steam which it cast forth.

They clustered on the arched roofs of our carriages, some squatting down, some standing upright, some on all fours, others dangling by the tail from the veranda roofs. Stearn House maintained its equilibrium, and the excess of cargo proved to be quite immaterial.

Captain Hood was immensely amused, and his man Fox excessively astonished. He soon made friends with the free and easy creatures, who were grimacing on all sides of him, and began to do the honors of the house. He talked to them, shook hands, made his best bows, offered lumps of sugar, and would willingly have handed sweetmeats all round if Monsieur Parazard would have allowed it.

Behemoth worked his four feet strenuously; they beat the water, and acted like paddles.

Drifting downward in the current, he followed the direction which took us toward the landing-place. This we safely reached in about half an hour; and the moment our train touched the shore, the whole troop of monkeys sprang down, and with numberless absurd antics and capers, scampered off as hard as they could go.

“They might as well have said Thank’ee! ‘ “cried Fox, quite disgusted with the bad manners of his fellow passengers.

CHAPTER VIII

HOOD VERSUS BANKS

HAVING passed the Bettwa, we found ourselves already sixty-two miles from the station of Etawah, where we had left the Dutchman, Van Guitt.

Four days passed without incident — without even any sport for Captain Hood, wild animals being scarce in that part of Scind. “Upon my word,” he kept repeating in tones of great annoyance, “I begin to fear I shall arrive at Bombay without having bagged my fiftieth!”

Kalagani evidently knew this thinly-peopled region perfectly, and guided us across it most admirably. On the 29th of September our train began to ascend the northern slope of the Vindhyas, in order to reach the pass of Sirgour.

Hitherto we had met with no obstacle or difficulty, although this country is one of the worst in repute of all India, because it is a favorite retreat of criminals. Robbers haunt the highways, and it is here that the Dacoits carry on their double trade of thieves and poisoners. Great caution is desirable when traveling in this district.

Steam House was now about to penetrate the very worst part of the Bundelkund, namely, the mountainous region of the Vindhyas. We were within about sixty miles of Jubbulpore, the nearest station on the railway between Bombay and Allahabad; it was no great distance, but we could not expect to get over the ground as quickly as we had done on the plains of Scind. Steep ascents, bad roads, rocky ground, sharp turnings, and narrow defiles. All these must be looked for, and would reduce the rate of our speed. It would be necessary to reconnoiter carefully our line of march, as well as the halting-places, and during both day and night keep a very sharp lookout.

Kalagani was the first to urge these precautions. It was certainly wise to be prepared for every contingency; prudence is always a virtue.

Nevertheless, we had little to fear, being a numerous party, thoroughly armed, and, as it were, garrisoning two strong houses and a castle, which it was hardly likely marauders of any sort, Dacoits or even Thugs, supposing any still lurked in this wild part of the Bundelkund, would venture to assault.

The pass of Sirgour was attained with no great difficulty. In some places it was necessary to put on steam, when Behemoth instantly displayed power amply sufficient for the occasion.

Kalagani appeared so well acquainted with the winding passes among which we found ourselves, that we ceased to feel anxiety as to the route we were on. He never showed the smallest hesitation, but led the way confidently among deep gorges, lofty precipices, and dense forests of pines and other alpine trees, even where cross-roads would have puzzled many guides.

At times he stopped the train, and went forward to survey the road, but it was to ascertain its condition, which after the rainy season was often torn up by torrents, and retreat being difficult, it was awkward to come upon such chasms unawares.

The weather was perfect. The rains were over, and the burning sky was veiled by light mists, which tempered the solar rays, so that the heat we experienced was temperate, very endurable for travelers so well sheltered as we were. It was easy for our sportsmen to shoot what game we needed for the table without going any great distance from Steam House.

Captain Hood, however, and doubtless Fox also, regretted the absence of the wild beasts which abounded in the Terrai. But how could they hope to find lions, tigers, and panthers, where there was nothing for them to eat?

If, however, there was a lack of carnivora, we found occasion to make better acquaintance with Indian elephants — I mean wild elephants, of whom hitherto we had seen but rare examples.

It was about noon on the 30th of September that we perceived a pair of these superb animals in front of our train. On our approach, they left the road to let us pass, as though alarmed by the novel appearance of our equipage.

Even Captain Hood never thought of firing at the magnificent creatures unnecessarily. We all stood admiring them thus roaming at liberty their native wilds, where streams, torrents, and pastures afforded all they required.

“What a fine opportunity now for our friend Van Guitt to deliver a lecture on zoology!” cried the captain.

Everybody knows that India is, par excellence, the country for elephants; the species is rather smaller than the African elephant; it abounds in the various provinces of the peninsula, and is sought after also in Burmah, Siam, in the territories east of the Bay of Bengal.

They are usually captured by means of a keddah, which is an enclosure surrounded by palisades. Sometimes it is intended to secure a whole herd at once, and then the hunters assemble to the number of three or four hundred, under command of a jemidar, that is, a native sergeant, or headman, and drive them gradually toward the keddah.

This they are enticed to enter by the aid of tame elephants trained to the business; they are then separated, and have their hind legs shackled. The capture is then complete. But this method, besides being tedious, and troublesome, is generally unsuccessful with the large male elephants, who are bolder, and cunning enough to burst through the circle of beaters, thus escaping imprisonment in the keddah. The tame female elephants are appointed to follow these males for several days, the mahouts, wrapped in dark clothes, remain on their backs, and at last the unsuspecting elephants, when peacefully slumbering, are seized, chained, and led away captive before they recover from their first surprise.

In former times, as I have already had occasion to mention, elephants were taken in deep pits dug near their haunts, but by falling into these, which were about fifteen feet deep, the animals were often hurt or even killed, and the barbarous practice is now almost given up.

In Bengal and Nepaul, where the lasso is still in use, the chase becomes highly exciting and replete with adventure. Well-trained elephants are mounted by three men; one, the mahout, rides on the neck, and directs the animal’s movements; another behind, whose duty it is to spur and goad him, while the hunter is seated on his back, armed with a lasso, the noose ready prepared to fling. Thus equipped, the pursuit may last for hours, over plains and through forests, the hunters running great danger in the chase, but at length the huge quarry is lassoed, falls heavily, and is at the mercy of his captors.

By these different methods a vast number of elephants is annually caught in India. It is not a bad speculation. The price of a female elephant is sometimes 2801. of a male 8001. or even 2,000l. if he is of noble race.

But are the animals which cost such sums really so useful as to be worth it?

Yes, provided they are well fed. They must have six or seven hundred pounds’ weight of green fodder in every eighteen hours, that is about the amount allowed for average rations, and are then fit for active service; for the transport of troops and military stores, transport of artillery and wagons in mountainous countries, or through jungle impassable for horses; also in many great works of civil engineering, and other undertakings, where they are employed as beasts of burden.

These strong and docile giants are easily and quickly trained, seeming by instinct to be disposed to obedience; they are universally employed in Hindoostan, and as they do not multiply in captivity, it is necessary to keep up the supply for the country and for exportation, by continually hunting those which roam the forests. Notwithstanding this the herds of wild elephants appear in no way diminished. Numbers are still to be found in the different kingdoms of India.

Indeed, as far as we were concerned, far too many were at liberty, and this I shall presently show.

The two elephants in advance of us drew aside as I described, so as to allow our train to pass by them, immediately afterward resuming their march in the rear.

Presently several other elephants came in sight, and quickening their pace, overtook and joined the pair we had just passed. In a quarter of an hour as many as a dozen were behind us. They were evidently watching our equipage, and followed us at a distance of fifty yards. They did not try to overtake us, still less did they show any intention of leaving our company. They might easily have done so, for an elephant’s pace can be much more rapid than at first sight one would suppose, and among the rugged steeps of the Vindhyas, Behemoth could travel but slowly.

But their object evidently was to assemble in greater numbers. As they advanced they uttered peremptory calls, which appeared to be a summons to companions lingering behind, for cries, unmistakably in answer, sounded in the distance.

By one o’clock a troop of full thirty elephants followed us closely, and it was quite likely the number would increase.

Herds of these animals, consisting of thirty individuals, and forming a family party more or less nearly related, are frequently seen together; at times a formidable assemblage of at least a hundred are encountered with no great pleasure by travelers.

We all stood in the veranda behind our second carriage, and watched proceedings with some anxiety.

“The numbers continue to increase,” remarked Banks. “I suppose they mean to bring all the elephants in the district about us?”

“But,” said I, “they cannot call to each other at any great distance.”

“No,” replied the engineer; “but they have a very acute sense of smell, and we know it, because tame elephants detect the presence of wild ones three or four miles off.”

“Why it is like a migration — an exodus!” said Colonel Munro. “We ought to increase our speed, Banks.”

“Behemoth is doing his best, Munro. He has heavy work on this steep and rugged way.”

“What’s the use of hurrying?” cried Hood, always delighted with fresh adventure. “Let them come along with us, the jolly beasts! They form an escort just suited to us! The country, which seemed so desolate and deserted, is much more interesting now, and we go along with a retinue fit for a rajah!”

“We shall have to submit to their presence certainly,” said Banks. “I don’t see how we are to prevent it.”

“Why, what in the world are you afraid of?” asked the captain. “You know very well that a herd is always less dangerous than a solitary elephant. These are good, quiet beasts! Sheep, big sheep, with trunks — that’s all!”

“Hood’s enthusiasm is rising fast,” said Colonel Munro. “I am willing to believe that if these animals remain in the rear and keep their distance, we have nothing to fear; but if they take it into their heads to try to pass us on this narrow road, the consequences might be serious!”

“Besides,” I added, “what sort of reception will they give Behemoth, if they find themselves face to face with him?”

“Oh, nonsense! They will only salute him!” cried Hood. “They will make grand salaams to him as Prince Gourou Singh’s elephants did!”

“But those were tame elephants, sir, and well trained,” remarked Sergeant McNeil very sensibly.

“Well, those fellows behind there will become tame too. Their astonishment at meeting our giant will produce the deepest respect.”

Our friend’s admiration for the artificial elephant continued unabated; the chef-d’oeuvre of mechanism, created by the hand of an English engineer.

“Besides,” he continued, “these animals are intelligent; they reason, compare, and judge. They can associate ideas like human beings.”

“I question that,” said Banks.

“Question that, do you?” cried the captain. “One would almost think you had never lived in India! Are not these excellent fellows put to all manner of domestic service? Have we any servant to equal them? Is not the elephant always ready to be useful? Don’t you know, Maucler, what accounts of him are given by the best informed authors? According to them, the elephant is devoted to those he loves, carries their parcels, gathers flowers for them, goes out to shop in the bazaars, buys his own sugarcane, bananas, and mangoes, and pays for them himself, guards the house from wild beasts, and takes the children out walking more carefully than the best nurse in all England. He is kind, grateful, has a prodigious memory; and never forgets either a benefit or an injury. And then so tender-hearted! Why, an elephant won’t hurt a fly, if he can help it! Look here! a friend of mine told me this himself. He saw a ladybird placed on a big stone, and the elephant was ordered to crush the little insect. Not a bit of it! The good beast would not put his foot on the creature; neither commands nor blows could drive him to the cruel deed! But directly he was told to lift it, he picked it up most tenderly with the delicate tip of his trunk, and let it fly away! Now then, Banks, I hope you will admit that the elephant is good and generous, superior to every other animal in creation, even to the ape and the dog. Are not the natives in the right when they attribute to him almost human intelligence?”

And the captain wound up his tirade by taking off his hat, and making a flourishing bow to the formidable army, which, with measured pace, came marching after us.

“Well spoken, Hood!” exclaimed Colonel Munro, with a smile. “Elephants have in you a very warm advocate.”

“Don’t you think I am in the right, colonel?”

“Hood may possibly be right,” said Banks; “but I am disposed to agree with the opinion of Sanderson, a great hunter, and the best authority in such matters.”

“Well; and what may this Sanderson say?” cried the captain in a tone of contempt.

“He maintains that the elephant possesses no unusual amount of intelligence, and that his most wonderful performances are simply the result of absolute obedience to orders given more or less secretly by their drivers.”

“Oh! indeed!” exclaimed Hood with some warmth.

“And he points to the fact,” continued Banks, “that the Hindoos have never chosen the elephant to symbolize wisdom; but in their sculptures, and sacred carvings have given in this respect the preference to the fox, the crow, and the ape.”

“Oh! oh! I protest!” cried the captain vehemently.

“Protest as much as you like, but listen to me. Sanderson adds that in the elephant the organ of obedience is phrenologically developed to an extraordinary degree — any one may see the protuberance of his skull. Besides he lets himself be taken in traps which are perfectly childish in their simplicity, such as holes covered over with sticks and branches, from which he never contrives to escape. He is easily decoyed into enclosures which no other wild animal would go near. And if he escapes from captivity he is retaken with a facility which is very little credit to his good sense. Even experience does not teach him prudence.”

“Poor beggars!” interposed Hood in a comic tone, “what a character this engineer is giving you, to be sure!”

“I will add as my final argument,” continued Banks, “that it is often extremely difficult to domesticate and train these creatures, especially while they are young, and when they belong to the weaker sex.”

“Why that only proves more than ever that they resemble human beings!” exclaimed Hood joyfully. “Isn’t it much easier to manage men than children and women?”

“My dear fellow, I do not see that either you or I, as bachelors, can be competent to decide such a question as that.”

“Ha! ha! well answered!”

“In short,” added Banks, “I do not think we ought to place too much reliance on the amiability of the elephant; if anything were to excite a troop of them to fury, it would be impossible to resist them, and as for those who are at this moment escorting us to the south, I heartily wish that they had urgent business in the opposite direction!”

“While you and Hood have been disputing about them, my dear Banks, their number has increased to an alarming extent,” remarked Colonel Munro.

CHAPTER IX

A HUNDRED AGAINST ONE

SIR EDWARD was not mistaken. A herd of from fifty to sixty elephants was now behind our train. They advanced in close ranks and were already so near to Steam House — within ten yards — that it was possible to survey them minutely.

At their head marched one of the largest in the herd, although its height, measured from the shoulder, was certainly not more than nine feet. As I remarked before, the Asiatic elephant is smaller than the African, which is frequently twelve feet high, and its tusks are in proportion. In the island of Ceylon a certain number of animals are found deprived of these appendages, but mucknas, which is the name given them, are rare on the mainland of India.

Behind the first elephant came several females, who in general are the leaders, while the males remain in the rear. Apparently on this occasion the usual order was changed, because of our presence on the line of march. The males in fact have nothing to do with the guidance of the herd. They have not the charge of their young ones; they cannot know when the babies ought to have a rest, nor can they tell what sort of camping-place is most fit for them. It is the females who, figuratively, “carry the tusks “of the household and direct the great migrations.

It was really difficult to answer the question of why they were now on the move, whether it was to seek more abundant pasture or to escape the sting of certain venomous insects, or a mere fancy to follow our strange equipage, the country was open enough, and according to their usual custom when they are not in wooded regions, these elephants journey by daylight. Before long we should see whether they would stop at nightfall, as we should ourselves be obliged to do.

“Hood,” said I, “see how our rearguard has increased! Do you still persist in thinking there is no danger?”

“Pooh!” said the captain. “Why should those animals want to do us any harm? They are not like tigers, are they, Fox?”

“Nor even panthers!” was the answer of the servant, who always chimed in with his master’s ideas.

But at this reply I perceived Kalagani shake his head disapprovingly. He evidently did not share in the perfect equanimity of the two hunters.

“You seem to be uneasy, Kalagani,” said Banks, looking at him.

“Cannot the speed of the train be increased?” was the man’s only reply.

“It will be rather difficult,” returned the engineer, “but we will try.”

So saying, Banks left the veranda, and ascended to the howdah in which Storr was standing. Almost immediately the snorts of Behemoth increased, as well as the speed of the train.

Very little, though, for the road was rough. But even if our rate had been redoubled, the state of things would have remained the same. The herd of elephants also advanced more rapidly, and the distance between them and Steam House did not diminish.

Several hours passed thus without any important alteration taking place. After dinner we resumed our places on the veranda of the second carriage.

The road now stretched away behind us for two miles or so in a straight line. Our view of it was no longer intercepted by sudden turnings.

To our extreme uneasiness we perceived that the number of elephants had increased within the last hour! We now counted at least a hundred.

The creatures marched in double or treble file, according to the width of the road, silently, at an even step, with their trunks in the air. It was like the advance of the tide flowing quietly in. All was calm now, to continue the metaphor, but if a tempest lashed into fury this moving mass, to what danger might we not be exposed?

In the meantime evening came on. There would be no moon, nor would the stars give any light, for a sort of fog or haze shrouded the heavens.

As Banks said, it would be impossible to follow such a difficult road in the dark. He resolved, therefore, to halt as soon as the valley widened, or we met with some gorge into which we could go, and allow the alarming-looking herd to pass us, and continue their migration to the south.

But would they do so? Might they not halt in or near our encampment? This was the great question.

With nightfall came a sort of agitation among the elephants which we had not observed during the day. A sort of roar, powerful but dull, escaped from their mighty lungs. To this uproar succeeded another peculiar noise.

“What does that mean?” asked the colonel.

“That is the sound they make,” replied Kalagani, “when they are in presence of an enemy.”

“And it is we, it can only be we whom they consider as such,” said Banks.

“I fear so,” replied the native.

The sound now resembled distant thunder. It recalled that which is produced in the side-scenes of a theater by the vibration of sheets of iron. Rubbing the extremity of their trunks on the ground, the elephants sent forth prolonged breaths with a deep and sullen roar.

It was now nine in the evening.

We had reached a sort of little plain, almost circular, and half a mile in width, from which debouched the road to the lake Puturia, near which Kalagani had proposed our halting. But this lake being still ten miles off, it was hopeless to think of reaching it that night.

Banks now gave the signal to stop. Behemoth became stationary, but he was not unharnessed. The fires were not even raked out. Storr received orders to keep up the pressure so that the train might move on again at a moment’s notice. We were thus ready for any emergency.

Colonel Munro retired to his room. Banks and Hood did not care to go to bed, and I preferred sitting up with them. All our servants were also afoot. But what could we possibly do, if the elephants took it into their heads to attack Steam House?

For the first hour a dull murmur continued around our encampment. The herd was evidently spreading over the little plain. Were they merely crossing it, and pursuing their way southward?

“That’s possible, after all,” said Banks.

“It is even more than probable,” added Captain Hood, whose optimism was never at fault.

Toward eleven o’clock the sounds began to diminish and at ten minutes past it had totally ceased.

It was a perfectly calm night, so that the slightest noise would have reached our ears. Nothing was to be heard but the panting of Behemoth, and nothing was to be seen but the sparks which flew occasionally from his trunk.

“Well!” remarked Hood, “wasn’t I right? Those fine fellows have taken their departure.”

“And a pleasant journey to them,” I rejoined.

“I am not at all sure they are gone,” said Banks, shaking his head. “But we must find out.”

Then calling to the engine-driver,” Storr,” he said, “the signal lamps.”

“Ay, ay, sir!”

In twenty seconds’ time the two electric lights blazed from Behemoth’s eyes, and by automatic mechanism were directed in turn to every point of the horizon.

There lay the elephants in a great circle round Steam House motionless, perhaps asleep. The brilliant light turned upon their dark bodies seemed to animate them with supernatural life. By a natural optical illusion the monsters assumed gigantic proportions, rivaling our Behemoth. Aroused by the glare they started as if touched by a fiery sting. Trunks were raised and tusks pointed as if the creatures were making ready for a rush at the train. Roars issued from each vast throat. This sudden fury communicated itself to all, and round our encampment soon arose a deafening concert as if a hundred clarions at once were sounding a startling call.

“Out with the light!” called Banks.

The electric current was suddenly interrupted, and as suddenly the commotion ceased.

“They are there, you see, camped in a circle,” said the engineer; “and there they will still be at daybreak.”

“Hum!” observed Captain Hood, whose confidence appeared to be somewhat shaken.

What was to be done next? Kalagani was consulted. He did not attempt to conceal the anxiety he felt.

Could we leave the encampment under cover of the darkness? That was impossible. Besides, what use would it be? The herd of elephants would certainly follow us, and the difficulties of the road would be far greater than by day.

It was therefore agreed that the departure should not be attempted until dawn. We would then proceed with all possible prudence and celerity, but without startling or offending our formidable retinue.

“And suppose these animals persist in escorting us? “I asked.

“We will endeavor to reach some spot where Steam House can be put out of their reach,” answered Banks.

“Shall we find such a spot, before we get beyond the Vindhyas?” asked the captain.

“There is one,” said the Hindoo.

“What is it?” demanded Banks.

“Lake Puturia.”

“At what distance is it?”

“About nine miles.”

“But elephants swim,” replied Banks, “perhaps better than any other quadruped. They have been seen to keep themselves on the surface of the water for more than half a day! Now, is it not to be feared that they might follow us into Lake Puturia, and thus the situation of Steam House be made still more serious?”

“I cannot see any other way of escaping their attack!” said the native.

“Then we will try it!” said the engineer.

It was indeed the only thing to be done. The elephants might perhaps not venture to swim after us, and if they did, we might outstrip them.

We waited impatiently for day, which was not long in appearing. No hostile demonstration was made during the night, but at sunrise not an elephant had stirred, and Steam House was surrounded on all sides.

All at once a general move was made, as if the creatures were obeying a word of command. They shook their trunks, rubbed their tusks on the ground, made their toilet by squirting water all over their bodies, gathered several mouthfuls of the thick grass with which the ground was covered, and finally approached so near to Steam House that we could have touched them through the windows.

Banks, however, expressly forbade us to provoke them. It was important that no pretext should be given for a sudden attack.

In the meantime, several elephants pressed up close to Behemoth. They evidently wished to ascertain what the enormous animal, now standing so motionless, could be. Did they consider him as a relation? Did they suspect that he was endowed with marvelous power?

On the day before they had had no opportunity for seeing him at work, for their first ranks had always kept a certain distance from the rear of the train. But what would they do when they heard him snort and bellow, when his trunk ejected torrents of vapor, when they saw him raise and set down his great feet and begin to march, dragging the two great vans after him?

Colonel Munro, Captain Hood, Kalagani, and I took our places in the forepart of the train. Sergeant McNeil and his companions were at the back. Kalouth, at the furnaces, kept up the supply of fuel, so that the pressure of vapor had already reached five atmospheres. Banks was in the howdah with Storr, and kept his hand on the regulator.

The moment for departure came. At a sign from Banks, the driver touched the spring, and an ear-piercing whistle resounded through the air.

The elephants raised their heads, then drawing back a little, they left the way open for a few feet.

A jet of vapor started from the trunk, the wheels of the machine were put in motion, Behemoth and the train advanced together. None of my companions will contradict me when I assert that there was at first a lively movement of surprise among the foremost animals. A wider passage opened, and the road appeared free enough to allow the train to proceed at a pace equal to a horse’s trot.

But at the same moment all the “proboscidian herd,” to use an expression of the captain’s, moved too, both in front and rear. The first took the lead of the procession, the rest followed the train. All seemed quite determined not to abandon it.

At the same time, as the road was here wider, others walked at the sides, like horsemen accompanying a carriage. Male and female mingled, of all sizes, of all ages, adults of five-and-twenty years, and “grown men “of sixty, old fellows of more than a hundred, and little ones who had not yet left their mother’s side, but sucking with their lips and not with their trunks — as is sometimes supposed — got their breakfasts as they trotted along.

The entire troop kept a certain order, not hurrying, but regulating their pace to that of Behemoth.

“If they escort us like this to the lake,” said Colonel Munro, “I shall make no objection.”

“Yes,” replied Kalagani, “but what will happen when the road narrows?”

In this lay the danger.

No incident occurred during the three hours which were employed in traveling eight out of the ten miles to Lake Puturia. Two or three times only a few elephants stood across the road, as if it was their intention to bar it; but Behemoth pointed his tusks straight at them, sputtered out smoke in their faces, advancing all the time, so that they thought better of it, and started out of his way.

At ten o’clock two miles only lay between us and the lake. There — at least, so we hoped — we should be in comparative safety.

Of course, if no hostile demonstration was made before we reached the lake, Banks intended to leave Puturia on the west without stopping there, so as to quit the region of the Vindhyas the next day. From thence to the station of Jubbulpore was but a few hours’ journey.

I may here add that the country was not only very wild, but absolutely a desert. Not a village, not a farm — the insufficiency of pasture accounting for this — not a caravan, or even a solitary traveler. Since our entry into this mountainous part of Bundelkund, we had not met a single human being.

About eleven o’clock the valley through which Steam House was passing, between two great spurs of the chain, began to narrow.

The danger of our situation, already fraught with so much to cause uneasiness, was now aggravated.

If the elephants had simply gone on in front or followed the train, the difficulty would not have occurred. But those marching alongside could not remain there. We should either crush them against the rocky sides of the road, or tumble them over the precipices which bordered it in some places. Instinctively they tried to get either forward or back, the consequence being that it was no longer possible either to advance or retreat.

“This complicates matters,” remarked the colonel.

“Yes,” said Banks; “we are now under the necessity of breaking through the herd.”

“Well, break through, dash into them!” exclaimed Captain Hood. “By Jove! Behemoth’s iron tusks are worth much more than the ivory tusks of those idiotic brutes!”

The “proboscidians “were now only “idiotic brutes “in the eyes of our lively and changeable captain.

“No doubt,” said McNeil,”

“but we are one against a hundred.”

“Forward, whatever happens!” cried Banks, “or the herd will trample us under foot!”

Several puffs of steam now gave notice of more rapid movement on Behemoth’s part. His tusks ran into the elephant nearest him.

A cry of pain burst from the animal, which was answered by the furious clamor of the whole herd. A struggle, the issue of which we could not foresee, was imminent.

We had our weapons already in our hands, the rifles loaded with explosive ball and the revolvers charged. We were thus prepared to repel any aggression.

The first attack was made by a gigantic male, of ferocious aspect, who, planting his hind feet firmly on the ground, turned against Behemoth.

“A gunesh!” cried Kalagani.

“Pooh! he has only one tusk!” replied Hood, shrugging his shoulders disdainfully.

“He is the more terrible!” answered the native.

Kalagani had given to this elephant a name which hunters used to designate the males which have only one tusk. These are animals particularly reverenced by the natives, especially when it is the right tusk which is wanting. Such was the case with this one, and, as Kalagani said, it was, like all its species, uncommonly fierce.

This was soon proved.

The gunesh uttered a trumpet-note of defiance, turned back his trunk, which elephants never use for fighting, and rushed against Behemoth.

His tusk struck the iron side with such violence as to pierce through, but meeting with the thick armor of the inner plating, it broke against it.

The whole train felt the shock.

However, it continued to advance and drove back the gunesh, which boldly, but vainly, endeavored to resist it.

His call had been heard and understood.

The whole mass of animals stopped, presenting an insurmountable obstacle of living flesh.

At the same moment the hinder troops, continuing their march, pressed violently against the veranda. How could we resist such a crushing force?

Those which still remained at the side, raised their trunks, and twining them round the uprights of the carriages, shook them violently.

It would not do to stop, or it would soon be all up with the train, but we had to defend ourselves. No hesitation was possible. Guns and rifles were instantly aimed at our assailants.

“Don’t waste a single shot!” cried the captain. “Aim at the root of the trunk, or the hollow below the eye. Those are the vital parts!”

Captain Hood was obeyed. Several reports rang out, followed by yells of pain.

Three or four elephants, hit in a vital spot, had fallen behind us and at the side — a fortunate circumstance, since their corpses did not obstruct our road. Those in front drew to one side, and the train continued its advance.

“Reload and wait!” cried Hood.

If what he ordered us to wait for was the attack of the entire herd, there was no long delay. It was made with such violence that we almost gave ourselves up for lost.

A perfect chorus of hoarse and furious trumpeting suddenly burst forth. One might have supposed them to be an army of those fighting elephants, which, when possessed by the excitement called “must,” are treated by the natives so as to increase their rage.

Nothing can be more terrible, and the boldest elephantador, trained in Guicowar for the express purpose of fighting these formidable animals, would certainly have quailed before the assailants of Steam House.

“Forward!” cried Banks.

“Fire!” shouted Hood.

And with the snorts and shrieks of the engine were mingled the crack of our rifles. It was next to impossible to aim carefully, as the captain had advised, in such confusion. Every ball found a mark in the mass of flesh, but few hit a mortal part. The wounded animals, therefore, redoubled their fury, and to our shots they answered with blows of their tusks, which seriously damaged the walls.

To the reports of the guns, discharged both in front and rear of the train, and the bursting of the explosive balls in the bodies of the animals, was joined the hissing and whistling of the steam. Pressure rapidly increased.

Behemoth dashed into the bellowing crowd, dividing and repelling it. At the same time, his movable trunk, rising and falling like a formidable club, dealt repeated blows on the quivering bodies which he pierced with his tusks.

Thus we advanced along the narrow road.

Sometimes the wheels seemed about to stick fast, but on we struggled, till we were within a short distance of the lake.

“Hurrah!” shouted Captain Hood, like a soldier who is about to dash into the thick of the fight.

“Hurrah! hurrah!” we echoed.

All at once I caught sight of a huge trunk darting across the front veranda. In another minute Colonel Munro would be seized by this living lasso and be dashed under the monster’s feet. Just in time, however, Kalagani bounded forward and severed the trunk by a vigorous blow from a hatchet.

After this, while all were taking part in the common defence, the Hindoo never lost sight of Sir Edward. In his unfailing devotion and exposure of his own person to shield the colonel, he showed how sincere was his desire to protect him.

Behemoth’s power and strength of endurance were now put to the proof. How he worked his way, like a wedge, penetrating through the mass! And as at the same time the hindermost elephants butted at us with their heads the train advanced, not only without stopping, although with many a jolt and shock, but even faster than we could have hoped.

All at once a fresh noise arose amid the general din and clamor.

A party of elephants were crushing the second carriage against the rocks!

“Join us! join us!” shouted Banks to those of our friends who were defending the back of Steam House.

Already Fox, Goilmi, and the sergeant had darted into our house.

“Where is Parazard?” asked Captain Hood.

“He won’t leave his kitchen,” answered Fox.

“He must come! — haul him along!”

Doubtless our cook considered it a point of honor not to leave the post which had been confided to him. But to attempt to resist Gofirni’s powerful arms, when those arms had once grasped him, would have been of as much use as to endeavor to escape from the jaws of a crocodile.

Monsieur Parazard was soon deposited in the drawing-room.

“Are you all there?” cried Banks.

“Yes, sahib,” returned Goitmi.

“Cut through the connecting bar!”

“What, and leave half of our train behind!” cried Captain Hood.

“It must be done!” answered Banks.

The bar was cut through, the gangway hacked to pieces, and our second carriage was detached.

Not too soon! The carriage was crushed, heaved up, capsized, the elephants ending by pounding it beneath their feet. Nothing but a shapeless ruin was left, obstructing the road.

“Hum!” uttered Hood in a tone which would have made us laugh had the occasion allowed of it, “and those animals wouldn’t crush a ladybird!”

If the maddened elephants treated the first carriage as they had treated the last, we now knew the fate which awaited us.

“Pile up the fires, Kalouth!” called the engineer.

A few more yards — a last effort, and Lake Puturia might be reached.

Storr opened wide the regulator, thus showing Behemoth what was expected of him. He made a regular break through the rampart of elephants, and not contenting himself with merely thrusting them with his tusks, he squirted at them jets of burning steam, as he had done to the pilgrims of the Phalgou, scalding them with boiling water! It was magnificent!

The lake lay before us.

Ten minutes would put us in comparative safety.

The elephants no doubt knew this — which was a proof in favor of the intelligence Captain Hood had argued for. For the last time they bent all their efforts to capsize our train.

Still we used our firearms. The balls fell on the animals like hail. Only five or six elephants now barred our passage. Many fell, and the wheels ground over earth red with blood. These last remaining brutes had now to be got out of our way.

“Again! again!” shouted Banks to the driver.

At this Behemoth roared as if his inside was a workshop full of spinning-jennies. Steam rushed through the valves under the pressure of eight atmospheres. To increase this would have burst the boiler, which already vibrated. Happily this was needless.

Behemoth’s power was now irresistible. We could actually feel him bounding forward with the throbbing of the piston. The remains of the train followed him, jolting over the legs of the elephants which covered the ground, at the risk of being overset. If such an accident had happened, Steam House and its inhabitants would most certainly have come to an untimely end.

Mercifully this we were saved from; the edge of the lake was safely reached, into it dashed our brave Behemoth, and the train floated on the surface of its tranquil waters!

“Heaven be praised!” ejaculated the colonel.

Two or three elephants, blind with fury, rushed after us into the lake, attempting to pursue on its surface those whom they had vainly endeavored to annihilate on dry land. But Behemoth’s feet did their work well.

The train drew gradually from the shore, and a few well-directed shots soon freed us from the “marine monsters,” just as their trunks were getting closer than was pleasant to our back veranda.

“Well, captain,” remarked Banks, “what do you think of the gentleness of Indian elephants?”

“Pooh!” said Hood, “they aren’t worth being called wild beasts! Just suppose thirty tigers or so in the place of those hundred pachydermata, and I wager my commission that by this time not one of us would be alive to tell the tale!”

CHAPTER XIV

CAPTAIN HOOD’S FIFTIETH TIGER

COLONEL MUNRO and his party had now nothing further to fear either from the nabob and the natives who followed his fortunes, or from the Dacoits who had so long troubled this part of Bundelkund.

At the sound of the explosion, soldiers issued from the guard-house in imposing numbers. Finding themselves without a leader, the Dacoits no sooner perceived this reenforcement than they instantly took to flight.

Colonel Munro made himself known. In half an hour’s time they reached the station, where they were supplied with all they needed, and especially food, of which they were in great want.

Lady Munro was lodged in a comfortable hotel, until it was possible for her to be removed to Bombay. There Sir Edward trusted that his tender care would at last restore life to the soul of her whose body was at present the only living part, and who would be still dead to him unless her reason returned!

None of his friends despaired of the final recovery of Lady Munro. All confidently awaited it as the only thing which could entirely alter the colonel’s existence.

It was settled that the next day they should start for Bombay by the first train. This time they would be carried away by a common locomotive, instead of the indefatigable Behemoth, who now, alas! lay in shapeless ruins.

But neither his ardent admirer, Captain Hood, nor Banks, his ingenious inventor, nor indeed any of the members of the expedition could ever forget the “faithful animal,” to whom they all agreed in ascribing real life. Long did the noise of the explosion which annihilated him ring in their ears.

Before leaving Jubbulpore, Banks, Hood, Maucler, Fox, and Goilmi naturally wished to pay a visit to the scene of the catastrophe.

There was nothing to be feared from the band of Dacoits, yet as a precautionary measure, when the engineer and his companions reached the outpost, a detachment of soldiers joined them, and proceeded with them to the entrance of the defile.

On the ground lay five or six mutilated corpses, the bodies of those who had rushed on Behemoth for the purpose of freeing Nana Sahib.

Of the remainder of the band there was not a trace. Instead of returning to the ruined fortress, the last faithful followers of the Nana had dispersed through the Nerbudda Valley.

Poor Behemoth had been utterly destroyed by the bursting of his boiler. One of his huge feet was found at a great distance. A part of his trunk blown against the cliff, stuck fast, and now projected like a gigantic arm. To a great distance the ground was strewn with fragments of iron, screws, bolts, pins, remains of pipes, valves, and cylinders. At the moment of the explosion the tension of the force of steam must indeed have been terrific, perhaps exceeding twenty atmospheres.

And now, of that artificial elephant of which the dwellers in Steam House had been so proud, that colossal animal which had provoked the superstitious admiration of the natives, the mechanical masterpiece of Banks the engineer, the realized dream of the whimsical Rajah of Bhootan, what remained? Only a valueless and unrecognizable skeleton!

“Poor beast!” sighed Captain Hood as he gazed on the body of his beloved Behemoth.

“We can make another — another which shall be even still more powerful!” said Banks.

“No doubt,” returned the captain, heaving another deep sigh, “but it won’t be him!”

While pursuing their investigations, the engineer and his companions anxiously looked for the remains of Nana Sahib. Even if his face were not recognizable, the finding of a hand which had lost a finger would be sufficient to prove his identity. It would be satisfactory to have this unquestionable proof of the death of the man who could no longer be mistaken for his brother, Balao Rao.

But none of the bloody remains which strewed the ground appeared to belong to him who once was Nana Sahib. Had his followers carried away every trace and vestige of him? That was more than probable.

The result of this was, that there being no certain proof of the death of Nana Sahib, a legend sprang up among the population of Central India. To them their unseen nabob was still living; they regarded him as an immortal being.

Banks and his friends were, however, positive that Nana Sahib could not have survived the explosion.

They returned to the town, though not until Captain Hood had picked up a piece of one of Behemoth’s tusks, which he ever afterward treasured as a remembrance.

The next day, the 4th of October, all left Jubbulpore by train. Four-and-twenty hours later, they crossed the Western Ghauts, the Andes of Hindostan, which stretch their immense length through dense forests of banyans, sycamores, teaks, mingled with palms, cocoa-trees, arecas, pepper-trees, sandalwood, and bamboos. In a few hours more, the railway deposited them on the island of Bombay, which with the islands of Salsette, Elephanta, and others, forms a magnificent roadstead and port, at the southeastern extremity of which stands the capital of the presidency.

Colonel Munro did not wish to remain in this great town, swarming with Arabs, Persians, Banyans, Abyssinians, Parsees or Guebres, Scindes, Europeans of every nationality, and also Hindoos.

The physicians whom he consulted on the state of Lady Munro, recommended him to take her to a villa in the neighborhood, where perfect quiet, combined with their great attention and the incessant care of her husband, could not fail to produce a salutary effect.

A month passed. Not one of the colonel’s companions, not one of his servants, thought of leaving him; they wished to be near him on the not far-distant day which they hoped would witness the cure of the poor lady.

This joy came at last. Little by little Lady Munro’s senses returned. The mind resumed its natural balance. Of her who had been Roving Flame there remained not a trace, she herself had no recollection of that sad time.

“Laura, Laura!” exclaimed the colonel, as Lady Munro at last fully recognizing him, was clasped in his arms.

A week after this, the inhabitants of Steam House were united once more in the bungalow at Calcutta. Another life was beginning in the beautiful dwelling very different to that which had formerly been passed within its walls. Banks was entreated to pass his leisure time there, Hood to return whenever he could get leave. As to McNeil and Goilmi, they belonged to the house, and could never be separated from Colonel Munro. About this time Maucler was obliged to leave Calcutta to return to Europe. He took leave at the same time as Hood, whom the devoted Fox was to follow to the military cantonments of Madras.

“Good-by, captain,” said Colonel Munro; “I am glad to think that you have nothing to regret in your journey across Northern India, except not having shot your fiftieth tiger!”

“But I did shoot him, colonel.”

“What! the fiftieth? When was that?”

“Why,” returned the captain, with a flourish, “forty-nine tigers, and Kalagani. Does not that make fifty?”

THE END.

EIGHT HUNDRED LEAGUES ON THE AMAZON

Translated by W. J. Gordon

This novel was first published in 1881. It tells the story of Joam Garral, a ranch owner, living near the Peruvian-Brazilian border on the Amazon River, who is forced to travel down-stream when his past catches up with him.

The original frontispiece

CONTENTS

PART I. THE GIANT RAFT

CHAPTER I. A CAPTAIN OF THE WOODS

CHAPTER II. ROBBER AND ROBBED

CHAPTER III. THE GARRAL FAMILY

CHAPTER IV. HESITATION

CHAPTER V. THE AMAZON

CHAPTER VI. A FOREST ON THE GROUND

CHAPTER VII. FOLLOWING A LIANA

CHAPTER VIII. THE JANGADA

CHAPTER IX. THE EVENING OF THE FIFTH OF JUNE

CHAPTER X. FROM IQUITOS TO PEVAS

CHAPTER XI. FROM PEVAS TO THE FRONTIER

CHAPTER XII. FRAGOSO AT WORK

CHAPTER XIII. TORRES

CHAPTER XIV. STILL DESCENDING

CHAPTER XV. THE CONTINUED DESCENT

CHAPTER XVI. EGA

CHAPTER XVII. AN ATTACK

CHAPTER XVIII. THE ARRIVAL DINNER

CHAPTER XIX. ANCIENT HISTORY

CHAPTER XX. BETWEEN THE TWO MEN

PART II. THE CRYPTOGRAM

CHAPTER I. MANAOS

CHAPTER II. THE FIRST MOMENTS

CHAPTER III. RETROSPECTIVE

CHAPTER IV. MORAL PROOFS

CHAPTER V. MATERIAL PROOFS

CHAPTER VI. THE LAST BLOW

CHAPTER VII. RESOLUTIONS

CHAPTER VIII. THE FIRST SEARCH

CHAPTER IX. THE SECOND ATTEMPT

CHAPTER X. A CANNON SHOT

CHAPTER XI. THE CONTENTS OF THE CASE

CHAPTER XII. THE DOCUMENT

CHAPTER XIII. IS IT A MATTER OF FIGURES?

CHAPTER XIV. CHANCE!

CHAPTER XV. THE LAST EFFORTS

CHAPTER XVI. PREPARATIONS

CHAPTER XVII. THE LAST NIGHT

CHAPTER XVIII. FRAGOSO

CHAPTER XIX. THE CRIME OF TIJUCO

CHAPTER XX. THE LOWER AMAZON

PART I. THE GIANT RAFT

CHAPTER IV. HESITATION

MANOEL WAS in love with the sister of his friend Benito, and she was in love with him. Each was sensible of the other’s worth, and each was worthy of the other.

When he was no longer able to mistake the state of his feelings toward Minha, Manoel had opened his heart to Benito.

“Manoel, my friend,” had immediately answered the enthusiastic young fellow, “you could not do better than wish to marry my sister. Leave it to me! I will commence by speaking to the mother, and I think I can promise that you will not have to wait long for her consent.”

Half an hour afterward he had done so.

Benito had nothing to tell his mother which she did not know; Yaquita had already divined the young people’s secret.

Before ten minutes had elapsed Benito was in the presence of Minha. They had but to agree; there was no need for much eloquence. At the first words the head of the gentle girl was laid on her brother’s shoulder, and the confession, “I am so happy!” was whispered from her heart.

The answer almost came before the question; that was obvious. Benito did not ask for more.

There could be little doubt as to Joam Garral’s consent. But if Yaquita and her children did not at once speak to him about the marriage, it was because they wished at the same time to touch on a question which might be more difficult to solve. That question was, Where should the wedding take place?

Where should it be celebrated? In the humble cottage which served for the village church? Why not? Joam and Yaquita had there received the nuptial benediction of the Padre Passanha, who was then the curate of Iquitos parish. At that time, as now, there was no distinction in Brazil between the civil and religious acts, and the registers of the mission were sufficient testimony to a ceremony which no officer of the civil power was intrusted to attend to.

Joam Garral would probably wish the marriage to take place at Iquitos, with grand ceremonies and the attendance of the whole staff of the fazenda, but if such was to be his idea he would have to withstand a vigorous attack concerning it.

“Manoel,” Minha said to her betrothed, “if I was consulted in the matter we should not be married here, but at Para. Madame Valdez is an invalid; she cannot visit Iquitos, and I should not like to become her daughter without knowing and being known by her. My mother agrees with me in thinking so. We should like to persuade my father to take us to Belem. Do you not think so?”

To this proposition Manoel had replied by pressing Minha’s hand. He also had a great wish for his mother to be present at his marriage. Benito had approved the scheme without hesitation, and it was only necessary to persuade Joam Garral. And hence on this day the young men had gone out hunting in the woods, so as to leave Yaquita alone with her husband.

In the afternoon these two were in the large room of the house. Joam Garral, who had just come in, was half-reclining on a couch of plaited bamboos, when Yaquita, a little anxious, came and seated herself beside him.

To tell Joam of the feelings which Manoel entertained toward his daughter was not what troubled her. The happiness of Minha could not but be assured by the marriage, and Joam would be glad to welcome to his arms the new son whose sterling qualities he recognized and appreciated. But to persuade her husband to leave the fazenda Yaquita felt to be a very serious matter.

In fact, since Joam Garral, then a young man, had arrived in the country, he had never left it for a day. Though the sight of the Amazon, with its waters gently flowing to the east, invited him to follow its course; though Joam every year sent rafts of wood to Manaos, to Belem, and the seacoast of Para; though he had seen each year Benito leave after his holidays to return to his studies, yet the thought seemed never to have occurred to him to go with him.

The products of the farm, of the forest, and of the fields, the fazender sold on the spot. He had no wish, either with thought or look, to go beyond the horizon which bounded his Eden.

From this it followed that for twenty-five years Joam Garral had never crossed the Brazilian frontier, his wife and daughter had never set foot on Brazilian soil. The longing to see something of that beautiful country of which Benito was often talking was not wanting, nevertheless. Two or three times Yaquita had sounded her husband in the matter. But she had noticed that the thought of leaving the fazenda, if only for a few weeks, brought an increase of sadness to his face. His eyes would close, and in a tone of mild reproach he would answer:

“Why leave our home? Are we not comfortable here?”

And Yaquita, in the presence of the man whose active kindness and unchangeable tenderness rendered her so happy, had not the courage to persist.

This time, however, there was a serious reason to make it worth while. The marriage of Minha afforded an excellent opportunity, it being so natural for them to accompany her to Belem, where she was going to live with her husband. She would there see and learn to love the mother of Manoel Valdez. How could Joam Garral hesitate in the face of so praiseworthy a desire? Why, on the other hand, did he not participate in this desire to become acquainted with her who was to be the second mother of his child?

Yaquita took her husband’s hand, and with that gentle voice which had been to him all the music of his life:

“Joam,” she said, “I am going to talk to you about something which we ardently wish, and which will make you as happy as we are.”

“What is it about, Yaquita?” asked Joam.

“Manoel loves your daughter, he is loved by her, and in this union they will find the happiness — — ”

At the first words of Yaquita Joam Garral had risen, without being able to control a sudden start. His eyes were immediately cast down, and he seemed to designedly avoid the look of his wife.

“What is the matter with you?” asked she.

“Minha? To get married!” murmured Joam.

“My dear,” said Yaquita, feeling somewhat hurt, “have you any objection to make to the marriage? Have you not for some time noticed the feelings which Manoel has entertained toward our daughter?”

“Yes; and a year since — — ”

And Joam sat down without finishing his thoughts. By an effort of his will he had again become master of himself. The unaccountable impression which had been made upon him disappeared. Gradually his eyes returned to meet those of Yaquita, and he remained thoughtfully looking at her.

Yaquita took his hand.

“Joam,” she said, “have I been deceived? Had you no idea that this marriage would one day take place, and that it would give her every chance of happiness?”

“Yes,” answered Joam. “All! Certainly. But, Yaquita, this wedding — this wedding that we are both thinking of — when is it coming off? Shortly?”

“It will come off when you choose, Joam.”

“And it will take place here — at Iquitos?”

This question obliged Yaquita to enter on the other matter which she had at heart. She did not do so, however, without some hesitation, which was quite intelligible.

“Joam,” said she, after a moment’s silence, “listen to me. Regarding this wedding, I have got a proposal which I hope you will approve of. Two or three times during the last twenty years I have asked you to take me and my daughter to the provinces of the Lower Amazon, and to Para, where we have never been. The cares of the fazenda, the works which have required your presence, have not allowed you to grant our request. To absent yourself even for a few days would then have injured your business. But now everything has been successful beyond your dreams, and if the hour of repose has not yet come for you, you can at least for a few weeks get away from your work.”

Joam Garral did not answer, but Yaquita felt his hand tremble in hers, as though under the shock of some sorrowful recollection. At the same time a half-smile came to her husband’s lips — a mute invitation for her to finish what she had begun.

“Joam,” she continued, “here is an occasion which we shall never see again in this life. Minha is going to be married away from us, and is going to leave us! It is the first sorrow which our daughter has caused us, and my heart quails when I think of the separation which is so near! But I should be content if I could accompany her to Belem! Does it not seem right to you, even in other respects that we should know her husband’s mother, who is to replace me, and to whom we are about to entrust her? Added to this, Minha does not wish to grieve Madame Valdez by getting married at a distance from her. When we were married, Joam, if your mother had been alive, would you not have liked her to be present at your wedding?”

At these words of Yaquita Joam made a movement which he could not repress.

“My dear,” continued Yaquita, “with Minha, with our two sons, Benito and Manoel, with you, how I should like to see Brazil, and to journey down this splendid river, even to the provinces on the seacoast through which it runs! It seems to me that the separation would be so much less cruel! As we came back we should revisit our daughter in her house with her second mother. I would not think of her as gone I knew not where. I would fancy myself much less a stranger to the doings of her life.”

This time Joam had fixed his eyes on his wife and looked at her for some time without saying anything.

What ailed him? Why this hesitation to grant a request which was so just in itself — to say “Yes,” when it would give such pleasure to all who belonged to him? His business affairs could not afford a sufficient reason. A few weeks of absence would not compromise matters to such a degree. His manager would be able to take his place without any hitch in the fazenda. And yet all this time he hesitated.

Yaquita had taken both her husband’s hands in hers, and pressed them tenderly.

“Joam,” she said, “it is not a mere whim that I am asking you to grant. No! For a long time I have thought over the proposition I have just made to you; and if you consent, it will be the realization of my most cherished desire. Our children know why I am now talking to you. Minha, Benito, Manoel, all ask this favor, that we should accompany them. We would all rather have the wedding at Belem than at Iquitos. It will be better for your daughter, for her establishment, for the position which she will take at Belem, that she should arrive with her people, and appear less of a stranger in the town in which she will spend most of her life.”

Joam Garral leaned on his elbows. For a moment he hid his face in his hands, like a man who had to collect his thoughts before he made answer. There was evidently some hesitation which he was anxious to overcome, even some trouble which his wife felt but could not explain. A secret battle was being fought under that thoughtful brow. Yaquita got anxious, and almost reproached herself for raising the question. Anyhow, she was resigned to what Joam should decide. If the expedition would cost too much, she would silence her wishes; she would never more speak of leaving the fazenda, and never ask the reason for the inexplicable refusal.

Some minutes passed. Joam Garral rose. He went to the door, and did not return. Then he seemed to give a last look on that glorious nature, on that corner of the world where for twenty years of his life he had met with all his happiness.

Then with slow steps he returned to his wife. His face bore a new expression, that of a man who had taken a last decision, and with whom irresolution had ceased.

“You are right,” he said, in a firm voice. “The journey is necessary. When shall we start?”

“Ah! Joam! my Joam!” cried Yaquita, in her joy. “Thank you for me! Thank you for them!”

And tears of affection came to her eyes as her husband clasped her to his heart.

At this moment happy voices were heard outside at the door of the house.

Manoel and Benito appeared an instant after at the threshold, almost at the same moment as Minha entered the room.

“Children! your father consents!” cried Yaquita. “We are going to Belem!”

With a grave face, and without speaking a word, Joam Garral received the congratulations of his son and the kisses of his daughter.

“And what date, father,” asked Benito, “have you fixed for the wedding?”

“Date?” answered Joam. “Date? We shall see. We will fix it at Belem.”

“I am so happy! I am so happy!” repeated Minha, as she had done on the day when she had first known of Manoel’s request. “We shall now see the Amazon in all its glory throughout its course through the provinces of Brazil! Thanks, father!”

And the young enthusiast, whose imagination was already stirred, continued to her brother and to Manoel:

“Let us be off to the library! Let us get hold of every book and every map that we can find which will tell us anything about this magnificent river system! Don’t let us travel like blind folks! I want to see everything and know everything about this king of the rivers of the earth!”

CHAPTER XVII. AN ATTACK

HOWEVER, if Manoel, to avoid giving rise to a violent scene on board, said nothing on the subject of Torres, he resolved to have an explanation with Benito.

“Benito,” he began, after taking him to the bow of the jangada, “I have something to say to you.”

Benito, generally so good-humored, stopped as he looked at Manoel, and a cloud came over his countenance.

“I know why,” he said; “it is about Torres.”

“Yes, Benito.”

“And I also wish to speak to you.”

“You have then noticed his attention to Minha?” said Manoel, turning pale.

“Ah! It is not a feeling of jealousy, though, that exasperates you against such a man?” said Benito quickly.

“No!” replied Manoel. “Decidedly not! Heaven forbid I should do such an injury to the girl who is to become my wife. No, Benito! She holds the adventurer in horror! I am not thinking anything of that sort; but it distresses me to see this adventurer constantly obtruding himself by his presence and conversation on your mother and sister, and seeking to introduce himself into that intimacy with your family which is already mine.”

“Manoel,” gravely answered Benito, “I share your aversion for this dubious individual, and had I consulted my feelings I would already have driven Torres off the raft! But I dare not!”

“You dare not?” said Manoel, seizing the hand of his friend. “You dare not?”

“Listen to me, Manoel,” continued Benito. “You have observed Torres well, have you not? You have remarked his attentions to my sister! Nothing can be truer! But while you have been noticing that, have you not seen that this annoying man never keeps his eyes off my father, no matter if he is near to him or far from him, and that he seems to have some spiteful secret intention in watching him with such unaccountable persistency?”

“What are you talking about, Benito? Have you any reason to think that Torres bears some grudge against Joam Garral?”

“No! I think nothing!” replied Benito; “it is only a presentiment! But look well at Torres, study his face with care, and you will see what an evil grin he has whenever my father comes into his sight.”

“Well, then,” exclaimed Manoel, “if it is so, Benito, the more reason for clearing him out!”

“More reason — or less reason,” replied Benito. “Manoel, I fear — what? I know not — but to force my father to get rid of Torres would perhaps be imprudent! I repeat it, I am afraid, though no positive fact enables me to explain my fear to myself!”

And Benito seemed to shudder with anger as he said these words.

“Then,” said Manoel, “you think we had better wait?”

“Yes; wait, before doing anything, but above all things let us be on our guard!”

“After all,” answered Manoel, “in twenty days we shall be at Manaos. There Torres must stop. There he will leave us, and we shall be relieved of his presence for good! Till then we must keep our eyes on him!”

“You understand me, Manoel?” asked Benito.

“I understand you, my friend, my brother!” replied Manoel, “although I do not share, and cannot share, your fears! What connection can possibly exist between your father and this adventurer? Evidently your father has never seen him!”

“I do not say that my father knows Torres,” said Benito; “but assuredly it seems to me that Torres knows my father. What was the fellow doing in the neighborhood of the fazenda when we met him in the forest of Iquitos? Why did he then refuse the hospitality which we offered, so as to afterward manage to force himself on us as our traveling companion? We arrive at Tabatinga, and there he is as if he was waiting for us! The probability is that these meetings were in pursuance of a preconceived plan. When I see the shifty, dogged look of Torres, all this crowds on my mind. I do not know! I am losing myself in things that defy explanation! Oh! why did I ever think of offering to take him on board this raft?”

“Be calm, Benito, I pray you!”

“Manoel!” continued Benito, who seemed to be powerless to contain himself, “think you that if it only concerned me — this man who inspires us all with such aversion and disgust — I should not hesitate to throw him overboard! But when it concerns my father, I fear lest in giving way to my impressions I may be injuring my object! Something tells me that with this scheming fellow there may be danger in doing anything until he has given us the right — the right and the duty — to do it. In short, on the jangada, he is in our power, and if we both keep good watch over my father, we can spoil his game, no matter how sure it may be, and force him to unmask and betray himself! Then wait a little longer!”

The arrival of Torres in the bow of the raft broke off the conversation. Torres looked slyly at the two young men, but said not a word.

Benito was not deceived when he said that the adventurer’s eyes were never off Joam Garral as long as he fancied he was unobserved.

No! he was not deceived when he said that Torres’ face grew evil when he looked at his father!

By what mysterious bond could these two men — one nobleness itself, that was self-evident — be connected with each other?

Such being the state of affairs it was certainly difficult for Torres, constantly watched as he was by the two young men, by Fragoso and Lina, to make a single movement without having instantly to repress it. Perhaps he understood the position. If he did, he did not show it, for his manner changed not in the least.

Satisfied with their mutual explanation, Manoel and Benito promised to keep him in sight without doing anything to awaken his suspicions.

During the following days the jangada passed on the right the mouths of the rivers Camara, Aru, and Yuripari, whose waters instead of flowing into the Amazon run off to the south to feed the Rio des Purus, and return by it into the main river. At five o’clock on the evening of the 10th of August they put into the island of Cocos.

They there passed a “seringal.” This name is applied to a caoutchouc plantation, the caoutchouc being extracted from the “seringueira” tree, whose scientific name is siphonia elastica.

It is said that, by negligence or bad management, the number of these trees is decreasing in the basin of the Amazon, but the forests of seringueira trees are still very considerable on the banks of the Madeira, Purus, and other tributaries.

There were here some twenty Indians collecting and working the caoutchouc, an operation which principally takes place during the months of May, June, and July.

After having ascertained that the trees, well prepared by the river floods which have bathed their stems to a height of about four feet, are in good condition for the harvest, the Indians are set to work.

Incisions are made into the alburnum of the seringueiras; below the wound small pots are attached, which twenty-four hours suffice to fill with a milky sap. It can also be collected by means of a hollow bamboo, and a receptacle placed on the ground at the foot of the tree.

The sap being obtained, the Indians, to prevent the separation of its peculiar resins, fumigate it over a fire of the nuts of the assai palm. By spreading out the sap on a wooden scoop, and shaking it in the smoke, its coagulation is almost immediately obtained; it assumes a grayish-yellow tinge and solidifies. The layers formed in succession are detached from the scoop, exposed to the sun, hardened, and assume the brownish color with which we are familiar. The manufacture is then complete.

Benito, finding a capital opportunity, bought from the Indians all the caoutchouc stored in their cabins, which, by the way, are mostly built on piles. The price he gave them was sufficiently remunerative, and they were highly satisfied.

Four days later, on the 14th of August, the jangada passed the mouths of the Purus.

This is another of the large affluents of the Amazon, and seems to possess a navigable course, even for large ships, of over five hundred leagues. It rises in the southwest, and measures nearly five thousand feet across at its junction with the main river. After winding beneath the shade of ficuses, tahuaris, nipa palms, and cecropias, it enters the Amazon by five mouths.

Hereabouts Araujo the pilot managed with great ease. The course of the river was but slightly obstructed with islands, and besides, from one bank to another its width is about two leagues.

The current, too, took along the jangada more steadily, and on the 18th of August it stopped at the village of Pasquero to pass the night.

The sun was already low on the horizon, and with the rapidity peculiar to these low latitudes, was about to set vertically, like an enormous meteor.

Joam Garral and his wife, Lina, and old Cybele, were in front of the house.

Torres, after having for an instant turned toward Joam as if he would speak to him, and prevented perhaps by the arrival of Padre Passanha, who had come to bid the family good-night, had gone back to his cabin.

The Indians and the negroes were at their quarters along the sides. Araujo, seated at the bow, was watching the current which extended straight away in front of him.

Manoel and Benito, with their eyes open, but chatting and smoking with apparent indifference, walked about the central part of the craft awaiting the hour of repose.

All at once Manoel stopped Benito with his hand and said: “What a queer smell! Am I wrong? Do you not notice it?”

“One would say that it was the odor of burning musk!” replied Benito. “There ought to be some alligators asleep on the neighboring beach!”

“Well, nature has done wisely in allowing them so to betray themselves.”

“Yes,” said Benito, “it is fortunate, for they are sufficiently formidable creatures!”

Often at the close of the day these saurians love to stretch themselves on the shore, and install themselves comfortably there to pass the night. Crouched at the opening of a hole, into which they have crept back, they sleep with the mouth open, the upper jaw perpendicularly erect, so as to lie in wait for their prey. To these amphibians it is but sport to launch themselves in its pursuit, either by swimming through the waters propelled by their tails or running along the bank with a speed no man can equal.

It is on these huge beaches that the caymans are born, live, and die, not without affording extraordinary examples of longevity. Not only can the old ones, the centenarians, be recognized by the greenish moss which carpets their carcass and is scattered over their protuberances, but by their natural ferocity, which increases with age. As Benito said, they are formidable creatures, and it is fortunate that their attacks can be guarded against.

Suddenly cries were heard in the bow.

“Caymans! caymans!”

Manoel and Benito came forward and looked.

Three large saurians, from fifteen to twenty feet long, had managed to clamber on to the platform of the raft.

“Bring the guns! Bring the guns!” shouted Benito, making signs to the Indians and the blacks to get behind.

“Into the house!” said Manoel; “make haste!”

And in truth, as they could not attack them at once, the best thing they could do was to get into shelter without delay.

It was done in an instant. The Garral family took refuge in the house, where the two young men joined them. The Indians and the negroes ran into their huts and cabins. As they were shutting the door: “And Minha?” said Manoel.

“She is not there!” replied Lina, who had just run to her mistress’ room.

“Good heavens! where is she?” exclaimed her mother, and they all shouted at once: “Himha! Minha!”

No reply.

“There she is, on the bow of the jangada!” said Benito.

“Minha!” shouted Manoel.

The two young men, and Fragoso and Joam Garral, thinking no more of danger, rushed out of the house, guns in hand.

Scarcely were they outside when two of the alligators made a half turn and ran toward them.

A dose of buckshot to the head, close to the eye, from Benito, stopped one of the monsters, who, mortally wounded, writhed in frightful convulsions and fell on his side.

But the second still lived, and came on, and there was no way of avoiding him.

The huge alligator tore up to Joam Garral, and after knocking him over with a sweep of his tail, ran at him with open jaws.

At this moment Torres rushed from the cabin, hatchet in hand, and struck such a terrific blow that its edge sunk into the jaw of the cayman and left him defenseless.

Blinded by the blood, the animal flew to the side, and, designedly or not, fell over and was lost in the stream.

“Minha! Minha!” shouted Manoel in distraction, when he got to the bow of the jangada.

Suddenly she came into view. She had taken refuge in the cabin of Araujo, and the cabin had just been upset by a powerful blow from the third alligator. Minha was flying aft, pursued by the monster, who was not six feet away from her.

Minha fell.

A second shot from Benito failed to stop the cayman. He only struck the animal’s carapace, and the scales flew to splinters but the ball did not penetrate.

Manoel threw himself at the girl to raise her, or to snatch her from death! A side blow from the animal’s tail knocked him down too.

Minha fainted, and the mouth of the alligator opened to crush her!

And then Fragoso jumped in to the animal, and thrust in a knife to the very bottom of his throat, at the risk of having his arm snapped off by the two jaws, had they quickly closed.

Fragoso pulled out his arm in time, but he could not avoid the chock of the cayman, and was hurled back into the river, whose waters reddened all around.

“Fragoso! Fragoso!” shrieked Lina, kneeling on the edge of the raft.

A second afterward Fragoso reappeared on the surface of the Amazon — safe and sound.

But, at the peril of his life he had saved the young girl, who soon came to. And as all hands were held out to him — Manoel’s, Yaquita’s, Minha’s, and Lina’s, and he did not know what to say, he ended by squeezing the hands of the young mulatto.

However, though Fragoso had saved Minha, it was assuredly to the intervention of Torres that Joam Garral owed his safety.

It was not, therefore, the fazender’s life that the adventurer wanted. In the face of this fact, so much had to be admitted.

Manoel said this to Benito in an undertone.

“That is true!” replied Benito, embarrassed. “You are right, and in a sense it is one cruel care the less! Nevertheless, Manoel, my suspicions still exist! It is not always a man’s worst enemy who wishes him dead!”

Joam Garral walked up to Torres.

“Thank you, Torres!” he said, holding out his hand. The adventurer took a step or two backward without replying.

“Torres,” continued Joam, “I am sorry that we are arriving at the end of our voyage, and that in a few days we must part! I owe you — — ”

“Joam Garral!” answered Torres, “you owe me nothing! Your life is precious to me above all things! But if you will allow me — I have been thinking — in place of stopping at Manaos, I will go on to Belem. Will you take me there?”

Joam Garral replied by an affirmative nod.

In hearing this demand Benito in an unguarded moment was about to intervene, but Manoel stopped him, and the young man checked himself, though not without a violent effort.

CHAPTER XVIII. THE ARRIVAL DINNER

IN THE MORNING, after a night which was scarcely sufficient to calm so much excitement, they unmoored from the cayman beach and departed. Before five days, if nothing interfered with their voyage, the raft would reach the port of Manaos.

Minha had quite recovered from her fright, and her eyes and smiles thanked all those who had risked their lives for her.

As for Lina, it seemed as though she was more grateful to the brave Fragoso than if it was herself that he had saved.

“I will pay you back, sooner or later, Mr. Fragoso,” said she, smiling.

“And how, Miss Lina?”

“Oh! You know very well!”

“Then if I know it, let it be soon and not late!” replied the good-natured fellow.

And from this day it began to be whispered about that the charming Lina was engaged to Fragoso, that their marriage would take place at the same time as that of Minha and Manoel, and that the young couple would remain at Belem with the others.

“Capital! capital!” repeated Fragoso unceasingly; “but I never thought Para was such a long way off!”

As for Manoel and Benito, they had had a long conversation about what had passed. There could be no question about obtaining from Joam Garral the dismissal of his rescuer.

“Your life is precious to me above all things!” Torres had said.

This reply, hyperbolical and enigmatical at the time, Benito had heard and remembered.

In the meantime the young men could do nothing. More than ever they were reduced to waiting — to waiting not for four or five days, but for seven or eight weeks — that is to say, for whatever time it would take for the raft to get to Belem.

“There is in all this some mystery that I cannot understand,” said Benito.

“Yes, but we are assured on one point,” answered Manoel. “It is certain that Torres does not want your father’s life. For the rest, we must still watch!”

It seemed that from this day Torres desired to keep himself more reserved. He did not seek to intrude on the family, and was even less assiduous toward Minha. There seemed a relief in the situation of which all, save perhaps Joam Garral, felt the gravity.

On the evening of the same day they left on the right the island of Baroso, formed by a furo of that name, and Lake Manaori, which is fed by a confused series of petty tributaries.

The night passed without incident, though Joam Garral had advised them to watch with great care.

On the morrow, the 20th of August, the pilot, who kept near the right bank on account of the uncertain eddies on the left, entered between the bank and the islands.

Beyond this bank the country was dotted with large and small lakes, much as those of Calderon, Huarandeina, and other black-watered lagoons. This water system marks the approach of the Rio Negro, the most remarkable of all the tributaries of the Amazon. In reality the main river still bore the name of the Solimoens, and it is only after the junction of the Rio Negro that it takes the name which has made it celebrated among the rivers of the globe.

During this day the raft had to be worked under curious conditions.

The arm followed by the pilot, between Calderon Island and the shore, was very narrow, although it appeared sufficiently large. This was owing to a great portion of the island being slightly above the mean level, but still covered by the high flood waters. On each side were massed forests of giant trees, whose summits towered some fifty feet above the ground, and joining one bank to the other formed an immense cradle.

On the left nothing could be more picturesque than this flooded forest, which seemed to have been planted in the middle of a lake. The stems of the trees arose from the clear, still water, in which every interlacement of their boughs was reflected with unequaled purity. They were arranged on an immense sheet of glass, like the trees in miniature on some table epergne, and their reflection could not be more perfect. The difference between the image and the reality could scarcely be described. Duplicates of grandeur, terminated above and below by a vast parasol of green, they seemed to form two hemispheres, inside which the jangada appeared to follow one of the great circles.

It had been necessary to bring the raft under these boughs, against which flowed the gentle current of the stream. It was impossible to go back. Hence the task of navigating with extreme care, so as to avoid the collisions on either side.

In this all Araujo’s ability was shown, and he was admirably seconded by his crew. The trees of the forest furnished the resting-places for the long poles which kept the jangada in its course. The least blow to the jangada would have endangered the complete demolition of the woodwork, and caused the loss, if not of the crew, of the greater part of the cargo.

“It is truly very beautiful,” said Minha, “and it would be very pleasant for us always to travel in this way, on this quiet water, shaded from the rays of the sun.”

“At the same time pleasant and dangerous, dear Minha,” said Manoel. “In a pirogue there is doubtless nothing to fear in sailing here, but on a huge raft of wood better have a free course and a clear stream.”

“We shall be quite through the forest in a couple of hours,” said the pilot.

“Look well at it, then!” said Lina. “All these beautiful things pass so quickly! Ah! dear mistress! do you see the troops of monkeys disporting in the higher branches, and the birds admiring themselves in the pellucid water!”

“And the flowers half-opened on the surface,” replied Minha, “and which the current dandles like the breeze!”

“And the long lianas, which so oddly stretch from one tree to another!” added the young mulatto.

“And no Fragoso at the end of them!” said Lina’s betrothed. “That was rather a nice flower you gathered in the forest of Iquitos!”

“Just behold the flower — the only one in the world,” said Lina quizzingly; “and, mistress! just look at the splendid plants!”

And Lina pointed to the nymphaeas with their colossal leaves, whose flowers bear buds as large as cocoanuts. Then, just where the banks plunged beneath the waters, there were clumps of “mucumus,” reeds with large leaves, whose elastic stems bend to give passage to the pirogues and close again behind them. There was there what would tempt any sportsman, for a whole world of aquatic birds fluttered between the higher clusters, which shook with the stream.

Ibises half-lollingly posed on some old trunk, and gray herons motionless on one leg, solemn flamingoes who from a distance looked like red umbrellas scattered in the foliage, and phenicopters of every color, enlivened the temporary morass.

And along the top of the water glided long and swiftly-swimming snakes, among them the formidable gymnotus, whose electric discharges successively repeated paralyze the most robust of men or animals, and end by dealing death. Precautions had to be taken against the “sucurijus” serpents, which, coiled round the trunk of some tree, unroll themselves, hang down, seize their prey, and draw it into their rings, which are powerful enough to crush a bullock. Have there not been met with in these Amazonian forests reptiles from thirty to thirty-five feet long? and even, according to M. Carrey, do not some exist whose length reaches forty-seven feet, and whose girth is that of a hogshead?

Had one of these sucurijus, indeed, got on to the raft he would have proved as formidable as an alligator.

Very fortunately the travelers had to contend with neither gymnotus nor sucuriju, and the passage across the submerged forest, which lasted about two hours, was effected without accident.

Three days passed. They neared Manaos. Twenty-four hours more and the raft would be off the mouth of the Rio Negro, before the capital of the province of Amazones.

In fact, on the 23d of August, at five o’clock in the evening, they stopped at the southern point of Muras Island, on the right bank of the stream. They only had to cross obliquely for a few miles to arrive at the port, but the pilot Araujo very properly would not risk it on that day, as night was coming on. The three miles which remained would take three hours to travel, and to keep to the course of the river it was necessary, above all things, to have a clear outlook.

This evening the dinner, which promised to be the last of this first part of the voyage, was not served without a certain amount of ceremony. Half the journey on the Amazon had been accomplished, and the task was worthy of a jovial repast. It was fitting to drink to the health of Amazones a few glasses of that generous liquor which comes from the coasts of Oporto and Setubal. Besides, this was, in a way, the betrothal dinner of Fragoso and the charming Lina — that of Manoel and Minha had taken place at the fazenda of Iquitos several weeks before. After the young master and mistress, it was the turn of the faithful couple who were attached to them by so many bonds of gratitude.

So Lina, who was to remain in the service of Minha, and Fragoso, who was about to enter into that of Manoel Valdez, sat at the common table, and even had the places of honor reserved for them.

Torres, naturally, was present at the dinner, which was worthy of the larder and kitchen of the jangada.

The adventurer, seated opposite to Joam Garral, who was always taciturn, listened to all that was said, but took no part in the conversation. Benito quietly and attentively watched him. The eyes of Torres, with a peculiar expression, constantly sought his father. One would have called them the eyes of some wild beast trying to fascinate his prey before he sprang on it.

Manoel talked mostly with Minha. Between whiles his eyes wandered to Torres, but he acted his part more successfully than Benito in a situation which, if it did not finish at Manaos, would certainly end at Belem.

The dinner was jolly enough. Lina kept it going with her good humor, Fragoso with his witty repartees.

The Padre Passanha looked gayly round on the little world he cherished, and on the two young couples which his hands would shortly bless in the waters of Para.

“Eat, padre,” said Benito, who joined in the general conversation; “do honor to this betrothal dinner. You will want some strength to celebrate both marriages at once!”

“Well, my dear boy,” replied Passanha, “seek out some lovely and gentle girl who wishes you well, and you will see that I can marry you at the same time!”

“Well answered, padre!” exclaimed Manoel. “Let us drink to the coming marriage of Benito.”

“We must look out for some nice young lady at Belem,” said Minha. “He should do what everybody else does.”

“To the wedding of Mr. Benito!” said Fragoso, “who ought to wish all the world to marry him!”

“They are right, sir,” said Yaquita. “I also drink to your marriage, and may you be as happy as Minha and Manoel, and as I and your father have been!”

“As you always will be, it is to be hoped,” said Torres, drinking a glass of port without having pledged anybody. “All here have their happiness in their own hands.”

It was difficult to say, but this wish, coming from the adventurer, left an unpleasant impression.

Manoel felt this, and wishing to destroy its effect, “Look here, padre,” said he, “while we are on this subject, are there not any more couples to betroth on the raft?”

“I do not know,” answered Padre Passanha, “unless Torres — you are not married, I believe?”

“No; I am, and always shall be, a bachelor.”

Benito and Manoel thought that while thus speaking Torres looked toward Minha.

“And what should prevent you marrying?” replied Padre Passanha; “at Belem you could find a wife whose age would suit yours, and it would be possible perhaps for you to settle in that town. That would be better than this wandering life, of which, up to the present, you have not made so very much.”

“You are right, padre,” answered Torres; “I do not say no. Besides the example is contagious. Seeing all these young couples gives me rather a longing for marriage. But I am quite a stranger in Belem, and, for certain reasons, that would make my settlement more difficult.”

“Where do you come from, then?” asked Fragoso, who always had the idea that he had already met Torres somewhere.

“From the province of Minas Geraes.”

“And you were born — — ”

“In the capital of the diamond district, Tijuco.”

Those who had seen Joam Garral at this moment would have been surprised at the fixity of his look which met that of Torres.

CHAPTER XIX. ANCIENT HISTORY

BUT THE CONVERSATION was continued by Fragoso, who immediately rejoined:

“What! you come from Tijuco, from the very capital of the diamond district?”

“Yes,” said Torres. “Do you hail from that province?”

“No! I come from the Atlantic seaboard in the north of Brazil,” replied Fragoso.

“You do not know this diamond country, Mr. Manoel?” asked Torres.

A negative shake of the head from the young man was the only reply.

“And you, Mr. Benito,” continued Torres, addressing the younger Garral, whom he evidently wished to join in the conversation; “you have never had curiosity enough to visit the diamond arraval?”

“Never,” dryly replied Benito.

“Ah! I should like to see that country,” said Fragoso, who unconsciously played Torres’ game. “It seems to me I should finish by picking up a diamond worth something considerable.”

“And what would you do with this diamond worth something considerable, Fragoso?” queried Lina.

“Sell it!”

“Then you would get rich all of a sudden!”

“Very rich!”

“Well, if you had been rich three months ago you would never have had the idea of — that liana!”

“And if I had not had that,” exclaimed Fragoso, “I should not have found a charming little wife who — well, assuredly, all is for the best!”

“You see, Fragoso,” said Minha, “when you marry Lina, diamond takes the place of diamond, and you do not lose by the change!”

“To be sure, Miss Minha,” gallantly replied Fragoso; “rather I gain!”

There could be no doubt that Torres did not want the subject to drop, for he went on with: “It is a fact that at Tijuco sudden fortunes are realized enough to turn any man’s head! Have you heard tell of the famous diamond of Abaete, which was valued at more than two million contos of reis? Well, this stone, which weighed an ounce, came from the Brazilian mines! And they were three convicts — yes! three men sentenced to transportation for life — who found it by chance in the River Abaete, at ninety leagues from Terro de Frio.”

“At a stroke their fortune was made?” asked Fragoso.

“No,” replied Torres; “the diamond was handed over to the governor-general of the mines. The value of the stone was recognized, and King John VI. of Portugal, had it cut, and wore it on his neck on great occasions. As for the convicts, they got their pardon, but that was all, and the cleverest could not get much of an income out of that!”

“You, doubtless?” said Benito very dryly.

“Yes — I? Why not?” answered Torres. “Have you ever been to the diamond district?” added he, this time addressing Joam Garral.

“Never!” said Joam, looking straight at him.

“That is a pity!” replied he. “You should go there one day. It is a very curious place, I assure you. The diamond valley is an isolated spot in the vast empire of Brazil, something like a park of a dozen leagues in circumference, which in the nature of its soil, its vegetation, and its sandy rocks surrounded by a circle of high mountains, differs considerably from the neighboring provinces. But, as I have told you, it is one of the richest places in the world, for from 1807 to 1817 the annual return was about eighteen thousand carats. Ah! there have been some rare finds there, not only for the climbers who seek the precious stone up to the very tops of the mountains, but also for the smugglers who fraudulently export it. But the work in the mines is not so pleasant, and the two thousand negroes employed in that work by the government are obliged even to divert the watercourses to get at the diamantiferous sand. Formerly it was easier work.”

“In short,” said Fragoso, “the good time has gone!”

“But what is still easy is to get the diamonds in scoundrel-fashion — that is, by theft; and — stop! in 1826, when I was about eight years old, a terrible drama happened at Tijuco, which showed that criminal would recoil from nothing if they could gain a fortune by one bold stroke. But perhaps you are not interested?”

“On the contrary, Torres; go on,” replied Joam Garral, in a singularly calm voice.

“So be it,” answered Torres. “Well, the story is about stealing diamonds, and a handful of those pretty stones is worth a million, sometimes two!”

And Torres, whose face expressed the vilest sentiments of cupidity, almost unconsciously made a gesture of opening and shutting his hand.

“This is what happened,” he continued. “At Tijuco it is customary to send off in one delivery the diamonds collected during the year. They are divided into two lots, according to their size, after being sorted in a dozen sieves with holes of different dimensions. These lots are put into sacks and forwarded to Rio de Janeiro; but as they are worth many millions you may imagine they are heavily escorted. A workman chosen by the superintendent, four cavalrymen from the district regiment, and ten men on foot, complete the convoy. They first make for Villa Rica, where the commandant puts his seal on the sacks, and then the convoy continues its journey to Rio de Janeiro. I should add that, for the sake of precaution, the start is always kept secret. Well, in 1826, a young fellow named Dacosta, who was about twenty-two or twenty-three years of age, and who for some years had been employed at Tijuco in the offices of the governor-general, devised the following scheme. He leagued himself with a band of smugglers, and informed them of the date of the departure of the convoy. The scoundrels took their measures accordingly. They were numerous and well armed. Close to Villa Rica, during the night of the 22d of January, the gang suddenly attacked the diamond escort, who defended themselves bravely, but were all massacred, with the exception of one man, who, seriously wounded, managed to escape and bring the news of the horrible deed. The workman was not spared any more than the soldiers. He fell beneath he blows of the thieves, and was doubtless dragged away and thrown over some precipice, for his body was never found.”

“And this Dacosta?” asked Joam Garral.

“Well, his crime did not do him much good, for suspicion soon pointed toward him. He was accused of having got up the affair. In vain he protested that he was innocent. Thanks to the situation he held, he was in a position to know the date on which the convoy’s departure was to take place. He alone could have informed the smugglers. He was charged, arrested, tried, and sentenced to death. Such a sentence required his execution in twenty-four hours.”

“Was the fellow executed?” asked Fragoso.

“No,” replied Torres; “they shut him up in the prison at Villa Rica, and during the night, a few hours only before his execution, whether alone or helped by others, he managed to escape.”

“Has this young man been heard of since?” asked Joam Garral.

“Never,” replied Torres. “He probably left Brazil, and now, in some distant land, lives a cheerful life with the proceeds of the robbery which he is sure to have realized.”

“Perhaps, on the other hand, he died miserably!” answered Joam Garral.

“And, perhaps,” added Padre Passanha, “Heaven caused him to feel remorse for his crime.”

Here they all rose from the table, and, having finished their dinner, went out to breathe the evening air. The sun was low on the horizon, but an hour had still to elapse before nightfall.

“These stories are not very lively,” said Fragoso, “and our betrothal dinner was best at the beginning.”

“But it was your fault, Fragoso,” answered Lina.

“How my fault?”

“It was you who went on talking about the district and the diamonds, when you should not have done so.”

“Well, that’s true,” replied Fragoso; “but I had no idea we were going to wind up in that fashion.”

“You are the first to blame!”

“And the first to be punished, Miss Lina; for I did not hear you laugh all through the dessert.”

The whole family strolled toward the bow of the jangada. Manoel and Benito walked one behind the other without speaking. Yaquita and her daughter silently followed, and all felt an unaccountable impression of sadness, as if they had a presentiment of some coming calamity.

Torres stepped up to Joam Garral, who, with bowed head, seemed to be lost in thought, and putting his hand on his shoulder, said, “Joam Garral, may I have a few minutes’ conversation with you?”

Joam looked at Torres.

“Here?” he asked.

“No; in private.”

“Come, then.”

They went toward the house, entered it, and the door was shut on them.

It would be difficult to depict what every one felt when Joam Garral and Torres disappeared. What could there be in common between the adventurer and the honest fazender of Iquitos? The menace of some frightful misfortune seemed to hang over the whole family, and they scarcely dared speak to each other.

“Manoel!” said Benito, seizing his friend’s arm, “whatever happens, this man must leave us tomorrow at Manaos.”

“Yes! it is imperative!” answered Manoel.

“And if through him some misfortune happens to my father — I shall kill him!”

CHAPTER XX. BETWEEN THE TWO MEN

FOR A MOMENT, alone in the room, where none could see or hear them, Joam Garral and Torres looked at each other without uttering a word. Did the adventurer hesitate to speak? Did he suspect that Joam Garral would only reply to his demands by a scornful silence?

Yes! Probably so. So Torres did not question him. At the outset of the conversation he took the affirmative, and assumed the part of an accuser.

“Joam,” he said, “your name is not Garral. Your name is Dacosta!”

At the guilty name which Torres thus gave him, Joam Garral could not repress a slight shudder.

“You are Joam Dacosta,” continued Torres, “who, twenty-five years ago, were a clerk in the governor-general’s office at Tijuco, and you are the man who was sentenced to death in this affair of the robbery and murder!”

No response from Joam Garral, whose strange tranquillity surprised the adventurer. Had he made a mistake in accusing his host? No! For Joam Garral made no start at the terrible accusations. Doubtless he wanted to know to what Torres was coming.

“Joam Dacosta, I repeat! It was you whom they sought for this diamond affair, whom they convicted of crime and sentenced to death, and it was you who escaped from the prison at Villa Rica a few hours before you should have been executed! Do you not answer?”

Rather a long silence followed this direct question which Torres asked. Joam Garral, still calm, took a seat. His elbow rested on a small table, and he looked fixedly at his accuser without bending his head.

“Will you reply?” repeated Torres.

“What reply do you want from me?” said Joam quietly.

“A reply,” slowly answered Torres, “that will keep me from finding out the chief of the police at Manaos, and saying to him, ‘A man is there whose identity can easily be established, who can be recognized even after twenty-five years’ absence, and this man was the instigator of the diamond robbery at Tijuco. He was the accomplice of the murderers of the soldiers of the escort; he is the man who escaped from execution; he is Joam Garral, whose true name is Joam Dacosta.’”

“And so, Torres,” said Joam Garral, “I shall have nothing to fear from you if I give the answer you require?”

“Nothing, for neither you nor I will have any interest in talking about the matter.”

“Neither you nor I?” asked Joam Garral. “It is not with money, then, that your silence is to be bought?”

“No! No matter how much you offered me!”

“What do you want, then?”

“Joam Garral,” replied Torres, “here is my proposal. Do not be in a hurry to reply by a formal refusal. Remember that you are in my power.”

“What is this proposal?” asked Joam.

Torres hesitated for a moment.

The attitude of this guilty man, whose life he held in his hands, was enough to astonish him. He had expected a stormy discussion and prayers and tears. He had before him a man convicted of the most heinous of crimes, and the man never flinched.

At length, crossing his arms, he said: “You have a daughter! — I like her — and I want to marry her!”

Apparently Joam Garral expected anything from such a man, and was as quiet as before.

“And so,” he said, “the worthy Torres is anxious to enter the family of a murderer and a thief?”

“I am the sole judge of what it suits me to do,” said Torres. “I wish to be the son-in-law of Joam Garral, and I will.”

“You ignore, then, that my daughter is going to marry Manoel Valdez?”

“You will break it off with Manoel Valdez!”

“And if my daughter declines?”

“If you tell her all, I have no doubt she would consent,” was the impudent answer.

“All?”

“All, if necessary. Between her own feelings and the honor of her family and the life of her father she would not hesitate.”

“You are a consummate scoundrel, Torres,” quietly said Joam, whose coolness never forsook him.

“A scoundrel and a murderer were made to understand each other.”

At these words Joam Garral rose, advanced to the adventurer, and looking him straight in the face, “Torres,” he said, “if you wish to become one of the family of Joam Dacosta, you ought to know that Joam Dacosta was innocent of the crime for which he was condemned.”

“Really!”

“And I add,” replied Joam, “that you hold the proof of his innocence, and are keeping it back to proclaim it on the day when you marry his daughter.”

“Fair play, Joam Garral,” answered Torres, lowering his voice, “and when you have heard me out, you will see if you dare refuse me your daughter!”

“I am listening, Torres.”

“Well,” said the adventurer, half keeping back his words, as if he was sorry to let them escape from his lips, “I know you are innocent! I know it, for I know the true culprit, and I am in a position to prove your innocence.”

“And the unhappy man who committed the crime?”

“Is dead.”

“Dead!” exclaimed Joam Garral; and the word made him turn pale, in spite of himself, as if it had deprived him of all power of reinstatement.

“Dead,” repeated Torres; “but this man, whom I knew a long time after his crime, and without knowing that he was a convict, had written out at length, in his own hand, the story of this affair of the diamonds, even to the smallest details. Feeling his end approaching, he was seized with remorse. He knew where Joam Dacosta had taken refuge, and under what name the innocent man had again begun a new life. He knew that he was rich, in the bosom of a happy family, but he knew also that there was no happiness for him. And this happiness he desired to add to the reputation to which he was entitled. But death came — he intrusted to me, his companion, to do what he could no longer do. He gave me the proofs of Dacosta’s innocence for me to transmit them to him, and he died.”

“The man’s name?” exclaimed Joam Garral, in a tone he could not control.

“You will know it when I am one of your family.”

“And the writing?”

Joam Garral was ready to throw himself on Torres, to search him, to snatch from him the proofs of his innocence.

“The writing is in a safe place,” replied Torres, “and you will not have it until your daughter has become my wife. Now will you still refuse me?”

“Yes,” replied Joam, “but in return for that paper the half of my fortune is yours.”

“The half of your fortune?” exclaimed Torres; “agreed, on condition that Minha brings it to me at her marriage.”

“And it is thus that you respect the wishes of a dying man, of a criminal tortured by remorse, and who has charge you to repair as much as he could the evil which he had done?”

“It is thus.”

“Once more, Torres,” said Joam Garral, “you are a consummate scoundrel.”

“Be it so.”

“And as I am not a criminal we were not made to understand one another.”

“And your refuse?”

“I refuse.”

“It will be your ruin, then, Joam Garral. Everything accuses you in the proceedings that have already taken place. You are condemned to death, and you know, in sentences for crimes of that nature, the government is forbidden the right of commuting the penalty. Denounced, you are taken; taken, you are executed. And I will denounce you.”

Master as he was of himself, Joam could stand it no longer. He was about to rush on Torres.

A gesture from the rascal cooled his anger.

“Take care,” said Torres, “your wife knows not that she is the wife of Joam Dacosta, your children do not know they are the children of Joam Dacosta, and you are not going to give them the information.”

Joam Garral stopped himself. He regained his usual command over himself, and his features recovered their habitual calm.

“This discussion has lasted long enough,” said he, moving toward the door, “and I know what there is left for me to do.”

“Take care, Joam Garral!” said Torres, for the last time, for he could scarcely believe that his ignoble attempt at extortion had collapsed.

Joam Garral made him no answer. He threw back the door which opened under the veranda, made a sign to Torres to follow him, and they advanced toward the center of the jangada, where the family were assembled.

Benito, Manoel, and all of them, under a feeling of deep anxiety, had risen. They could see that the bearing of Torres was still menacing, and that the fire of anger still shone in his eyes.

In extraordinary contrast, Joam Garral was master of himself, and almost smiling.

Both of them stopped before Yaquita and her people. Not one dared to say a word to them.

It was Torres who, in a hollow voice, and with his customary impudence, broke the painful silence.

“For the last time, Joam Garral,” he said, “I ask you for a last reply!”

“And here is my reply.”

And addressing his wife: “Yaquita,” he said, “peculiar circumstances oblige me to alter what we have formerly decided as to the marriage of Minha and Manoel.”

“At last!” exclaimed Torres.

Joam Garral, without answering him, shot at the adventurer a glance of the deepest scorn.

But at the words Manoel had felt his heart beat as if it would break. The girl arose, ashy pale, as if she would seek shelter by the side of her mother. Yaquita opened her arms to protect, to defend her.

“Father,” said Benito, who had placed himself between Joam Garral and Torres, “what were you going to say?”

“I was going to say,” answered Joam Garral, raising his voice, “that to wait for our arrival in Para for the wedding of Minha and Manoel is to wait too long. The marriage will take place here, not later than to-morrow, on the jangada, with the aid of Padre Passanha, if, after a conversation I am about to have with Manoel, he agrees with me to defer it no longer.”

“Ah, father, father!” exclaimed the young man.

“Wait a little before you call me so, Manoel,” replied Joam, in a tone of unspeakable suffering.

Here Torres, with crossed arms, gave the whole family a look of inconceivable insolence.

“So that is you last word?” said he, extending his hand toward Joam Garral.

“No, that is not my last word.”

“What is it, then?”

“This, Torres. I am master here. You will be off, if you please, and even if you do not please, and leave the jangada at this very instant!”

“Yes, this instant!” exclaimed Benito, “or I will throw you overboard.”

Torres shrugged his shoulders.

“No threats,” he said; “they are of no use. It suits me also to land, and without delay. But you will remember me, Joam Garral. We shall not be long before we meet.”

“If it only depends on me,” answered Joam Garral, “we shall soon meet, and rather sooner, perhaps, than you will like. To-morrow I shall be with Judge Ribeiro, the first magistrate of the province, whom I have advised of my arrival at Manaos. If you dare, meet me there!”

“At Judge Ribeiro’s?” said Torres, evidently disconcerted.

“At Judge Ribeiro’s,” answered Joam Garral.

And then, showing the pirogue to Torres, with a gesture of supreme contempt Joam Garral ordered four of his people to land him without delay on the nearest point of the island.

The scoundrel at last disappeared.

The family, who were still appalled, respected the silence of its chief; but Fragoso, comprehending scarce half the gravity of the situation, and carried away by his customary vivacity, came up to Joam Garral.

“If the wedding of Miss Minha and Mr. Manoel is to take place to-morrow on the raft — — ”

“Yours shall take place at the same time,” kindly answered Joam Garral.

And making a sign to Manoel, he retired to his room with him.

The interview between Joam and Manoel had lasted for half an hour, and it seemed a century to the family, when the door of the room was reopened.

Manoel came out alone; his face glowed with generous resolution.

Going up to Yaquita, he said, “My mother!” to Minha he said, “My wife!” and to Benito he said, “My brother!” and, turning toward Lina and Fragoso, he said to all, “To-morrow!”

He knew all that had passed between Joam Garral and Torres. He knew that, counting on the protection of Judge Ribeiro, by means of a correspondence which he had had with him for a year past without speaking of it to his people, Joam Garral had at last succeeded in clearing himself and convincing him of his innocence. He knew that Joam Garral had boldly undertaken the voyage with the sole object of canceling the hateful proceedings of which he had been the victim, so as not to leave on his daughter and son-in-law the weight of the terrible situation which he had had to endure so long himself.

Yes, Manoel knew all this, and, further, he knew that Joam Garral — or rather Joam Dacosta — was innocent, and his misfortunes made him even dearer and more devoted to him. What he did not know was that the material proof of the innocence of the fazender existed, and that this proof was in the hands of Torres. Joam Garral wished to reserve for the judge himself the use of this proof, which, if the adventurer had spoken truly, would demonstrate his innocence.

Manoel confined himself, then, to announcing that he was going to Padre Passanha to ask him to get things ready for the two weddings.

Next day, the 24th of August, scarcely an hour before the ceremony was to take place, a large pirogue came off from the left bank of the river and hailed the jangada. A dozen paddlers had swiftly brought it from Manaos, and with a few men it carried the chief of the police, who made himself known and came on board.

At the moment Joam Garral and his family, attired for the ceremony, were coming out of the house.

“Joam Garral?” asked the chief of the police.

“I am here,” replied Joam.

“Joam Garral,” continued the chief of the police, “you have also been Joam Dacosta; both names have been borne by the same man — I arrest you!”

At these words Yaquita and Minha, struck with stupor, stopped without any power to move.

“My father a murderer?” exclaimed Benito, rushing toward Joam Garral.

By a gesture his father silenced him.

“I will only ask you one question,” said Joam with firm voice, addressing the chief of police. “Has the warrant in virtue of which you arrest me been issued against me by the justice at Manaos — by Judge Ribeiro?”

“No,” answered the chief of the police, “it was given to me, with an order for its immediate execution, by his substitute. Judge Ribeiro was struck with apoplexy yesterday evening, and died during the night at two o’clock, without having recovered his consciousness.”

“Dead!” exclaimed Joam Garral, crushed for a moment by the news — “dead! dead!”

But soon raising his head, he said to his wife and children, “Judge Ribeiro alone knew that I was innocent, my dear ones. The death of the judge may be fatal to me, but that is no reason for me to despair.”

And, turning toward Manoel, “Heaven help us!” he said to him; “we shall see if truth will come down to the earth from Above.”

The chief of the police made a sign to his men, who advanced to secure Joam Garral.

“But speak, father!” shouted Benito, mad with despair; “say one word, and we shall contest even by force this horrible mistake of which you are the victim!”

“There is no mistake here, my son,” replied Joam Garral; “Joam Dacosta and Joam Garral are one. I am in truth Joam Dacosta! I am the honest man whom a legal error unjustly doomed to death twenty-five years ago in the place of the true culprit! That I am quite innocent I swear before Heaven, once for all, on your heads, my children, and on the head of your mother!”

“All communication between you and yours is now forbidden,” said the chief of the police. “You are my prisoner, Joam Garral, and I will rigorously execute my warrant.”

Joam restrained by a gesture his dismayed children and servants.

“Let the justice of man be done while we wait for the justice of God!”

And with his head unbent, he stepped into the pirogue.

It seemed, indeed, as though of all present Joam Garral was the only one whom this fearful thunderbolt, which had fallen so unexpectedly on his head, had failed to overwhelm.

PART II. THE CRYPTOGRAM

CHAPTER VIII. THE FIRST SEARCH

THE SEARCH had to commence at once, and that for two weighty reasons.

The first of these was — and this was a question of life or death — that this proof of Joam Dacosta’s innocence must be produced before the arrival of the order from Rio Janeiro. Once the identity of the prisoner was established, it was impossible that such an order could be other than the order for his execution.

The second was that the body of Torres should be got out of the water as quickly as possible so as to regain undamaged the metal case and the paper it ought to contain.

At this juncture Araujo displayed not only zeal and intelligence, but also a perfect knowledge of the state of the river at its confluence with the Rio Negro.

“If Torres,” he said to the young men, “had been from the first carried away by the current, we should have to drag the river throughout a large area, for we shall have a good many days to wait for his body to reappear on the surface through the effects of decomposition.”

“We cannot do that,” replied Manoel. “This very day we ought to succeed.”

“If, on the contrary,” continued the pilot, “the corpse has got stuck among the reeds and vegetation at the foot of the bank, we shall not be an hour before we find it.”

“To work, then!” answered Benito.

There was but one way of working. The boats approached the bank, and the Indians, furnished with long poles, began to sound every part of the river at the base of the bluff which had served for the scene of combat.

The place had been easily recognized. A track of blood stained the declivity in its chalky part, and ran perpendicularly down it into the water; and there many a clot scattered on the reeds indicated the very spot where the corpse had disappeared.

About fifty feet down stream a point jutted out from the riverside and kept back the waters in a kind of eddy, as in a large basin. There was no current whatever near the shore, and the reeds shot up out of the river unbent. Every hope then existed that Torres’ body had not been carried away by the main stream. Where the bed of the river showed sufficient slope, it was perhaps possible for the corpse to have rolled several feet along the ridge, and even there no effect of the current could be traced.

The ubas and the pirogues, dividing the work among them, limited the field of their researches to the extreme edge of the eddy, and from the circumference to the center the crews’ long poles left not a single point unexplored. But no amount of sounding discovered the body of the adventurer, neither among the clumps of reeds nor on the bottom of the river, whose slope was then carefully examined.

Two hours after the work had begun they had been led to think that the body, having probably struck against the declivity, had fallen off obliquely and rolled beyond the limits of this eddy, where the action of the current commenced to be felt.

“But that is no reason why we should despair,” said Manoel, “still less why we should give up our search.”

“Will it be necessary,” exclaimed Benito, “to search the river throughout its breadth and its length?”

“Throughout its breadth, perhaps,” answered Araujo, “throughout its length, no — fortunately.”

“And why?” asked Manoel.

“Because the Amazon, about a mile away from its junction with the Rio Negro, makes a sudden bend, and at the same time its bed rises, so that there is a kind of natural barrier, well known to sailors as the Bar of Frias, which things floating near the surface are alone able to clear. In short, the currents are ponded back, and they cannot possibly have any effect over this depression.”

This was fortunate, it must be admitted. But was Araujo mistaken? The old pilot of the Amazon could be relied on. For the thirty years that he had followed his profession the crossing of the Bar of Frias, where the current was increased in force by its decrease in depth, had often given him trouble. The narrowness of the channel and the elevation of the bed made the passage exceedingly difficult, and many a raft had there come to grief.

And so Araujo was right in declaring that if the corpse of Torres was still retained by its weight on the sandy bed of the river, it could not have been dragged over the bar. It is true that later on, when, on account of the expansion of the gases, it would again rise to the surface, the current would bear it away, and it would then be irrevocably lost down the stream, a long way beyond the obstruction. But this purely physical effect would not take place for several days.

They could not have applied to a man who was more skillful or more conversant with the locality than Araujo, and when he affirmed that the body could not have been borne out of the narrow channel for more than a mile or so, they were sure to recover it if they thoroughly sounded that portion of the river.

Not an island, not an islet, checked the course of the Amazon in these parts. Hence, when the foot of the two banks had been visited up to the bar, it was in the bed itself, about five hundred feet in width, that more careful investigations had to be commenced.

The way the work was conducted was this. The boats taking the right and left of the Amazon lay alongside the banks. The reeds and vegetation were tried with the poles. Of the smallest ledges in the banks in which a body could rest, not one escaped the scrutiny of Araujo and his Indians.

But all this labor produced no result, and half the day had elapsed without the body being brought to the surface of the stream.

An hour’s rest was given to the Indians. During this time they partook of some refreshment, and then they returned to their task.

Four of the boats, in charge of the pilot, Benito, Fragoso, and Manoel, divided the river between the Rio Negro and the Bar of Frias into four portions. They set to work to explore its very bed. In certain places the poles proved insufficient to thoroughly search among the deeps, and hence a few dredges — or rather harrows, made of stones and old iron, bound round with a solid bar — were taken on board, and when the boats had pushed off these rakes were thrown in and the river bottom stirred up in every direction.

It was in this difficult task that Benito and his companions were employed till the evening. The ubas and pirogues, worked by the oars, traversed the whole surface of the river up to the bar of Frias.

There had been moments of excitement during this spell of work, when the harrows, catching in something at the bottom, offered some slight resistance. They were then hauled up, but in place of the body so eagerly searched for, there would appear only heavy stones or tufts of herbage which they had dragged from their sandy bed. No one, however, had an idea of giving up the enterprise. They none of them thought of themselves in this work of salvation. Benito, Manoel, Araujo had not even to stir up the Indians or to encourage them. The gallant fellows knew that they were working for the fazender of Iquitos — for the man whom they loved, for the chief of the excellent family who treated their servants so well.

Yes; and so they would have passed the night in dragging the river. Of every minute lost all knew the value.

A little before the sun disappeared, Araujo, finding it useless to continue his operations in the gloom, gave the signal for the boats to join company and return together to the confluence of the Rio Negro and regain the jangada.

The work so carefully and intelligently conducted was not, however, at an end.

Manoel and Fragoso, as they came back, dared not mention their ill success before Benito. They feared that the disappointment would only force him to some act of despair.

But neither courage nor coolness deserted the young fellow; he was determined to follow to the end this supreme effort to save the honor and the life of his father, and he it was who addressed his companions, and said: “To-morrow we will try again, and under better conditions if possible.”

“Yes,” answered Manoel; “you are right, Benito. We can do better. We cannot pretend to have entirely explored the river along the whole of the banks and over the whole of its bed.”

“No; we cannot have done that,” replied Araujo; “and I maintain what I said — that the body of Torres is there, and that it is there because it has not been carried away, because it could not be drawn over the Bar of Frias, and because it will take many days before it rises to the surface and floats down the stream. Yes, it is there, and not a demijohn of tafia will pass my lips until I find it!”

This affirmation from the pilot was worth a good deal, and was of a hope-inspiring nature.

However, Benito, who did not care so much for words as he did for things, thought proper to reply, “Yes, Araujo; the body of Torres is in the river, and we shall find it if — — ”

“If?” said the pilot.

“If it has not become the prey of the alligators!”

Manoel and Fragoso waited anxiously for Araujo’s reply.

The pilot was silent for a few moments; they felt that he was reflecting before he spoke. “Mr. Benito,” he said at length, “I am not in the habit of speaking lightly. I had the same idea as you; but listen. During the ten hours we have been at work have you seen a single cayman in the river?”

“Not one,” said Fragoso.

“If you have not seen one,” continued the pilot, “it was because there were none to see, for these animals have nothing to keep them in the white waters when, a quarter of a mile off, there are large stretches of the black waters, which they so greatly prefer. When the raft was attacked by some of these creatures it was in a part where there was no place for them to flee to. Here it is quite different. Go to the Rio Negro, and there you will see caymans by the score. Had Torres’ body fallen into that tributary there might be no chance of recovering it. But it was in the Amazon that it was lost, and in the Amazon it will be found.”

Benito, relieved from his fears, took the pilot’s hand and shook it, and contented himself with the reply, “To-morrow, my friends!”

Ten minutes later they were all on board the jangada. During the day Yaquit had passed some hours with her husband. But before she started, and when she saw neither the pilot, nor Manoel, nor Benito, nor the boats, she had guessed the search on which they had gone, but she said nothing to Joam Dacosta, as she hoped that in the morning she would be able to inform him of their success.

But when Benito set foot on the raft she perceived that their search had been fruitless. However, she advanced toward him. “Nothing?” she asked.

“Nothing,” replied Benito. “But the morrow is left to us.”

The members of the family retired to their rooms, and nothing more was said as to what had passed.

Manoel tried to make Benito lie down, so as to take a few hours’ rest.

“What is the good of that?” asked Benito. “Do you think I could sleep?”

CHAPTER X. A CANNON SHOT

BENITO THEN HAD disappeared beneath the vast sheet which still covered the corpse of the adventurer. Ah! If he had had the power to divert the waters of the river, to turn them into vapor, or to drain them off — if he could have made the Frias basin dry down stream, from the bar up to the influx of the Rio Negro, the case hidden in Torres’ clothes would already have been in his hand! His father’s innocence would have been recognized! Joam Dacosta, restored to liberty, would have again started on the descent of the river, and what terrible trials would have been avoided!

Benito had reached the bottom. His heavy shoes made the gravel on the bed crunch beneath him. He was in some ten or fifteen feet of water, at the base of the cliff, which was here very steep, and at the very spot where Torres had disappeared.

Near him was a tangled mass of reeds and twigs and aquatic plants, all laced together, which assuredly during the researches of the previous day no pole could have penetrated. It was consequently possible that the body was entangled among the submarine shrubs, and still in the place where it had originally fallen.

Hereabouts, thanks to the eddy produced by the prolongation of one of the spurs running out into the stream, the current was absolutely nil. Benito guided his movements by those of the raft, which the long poles of the Indians kept just over his head.

The light penetrated deep through the clear waters, and the magnificent sun, shining in a cloudless sky, shot its rays down into them unchecked. Under ordinary conditions, at a depth of some twenty feet in water, the view becomes exceedingly blurred, but here the waters seemed to be impregnated with a luminous fluid, and Benito was able to descend still lower without the darkness concealing the river bed.

The young man slowly made his way along the bank. With his iron-shod spear he probed the plants and rubbish accumulated along its foot. Flocks of fish, if we can use such an expression, escaped on all sides from the dense thickets like flocks of birds. It seemed as though the thousand pieces of a broken mirror glimmered through the waters. At the same time scores of crustaceans scampered over the sand, like huge ants hurrying from their hills.

Notwithstanding that Benito did not leave a single point of the river unexplored, he never caught sight of the object of his search. He noticed, however, that the slope of the river bed was very abrupt, and he concluded that Torres had rolled beyond the eddy toward the center of the stream. If so, he would probably still recover the body, for the current could hardly touch it at the depth, which was already great, and seemed sensibly to increase. Benito then resolved to pursue his investigations on the side where he had begun to probe the vegetation. This was why he continued to advance in that direction, and the raft had to follow him during a quarter of an hour, as had been previously arranged.

The quarter of an hour had elapsed, and Benito had found nothing. He felt the need of ascending to the surface, so as to once more experience those physiological conditions in which he could recoup his strength. In certain spots, where the depth of the river necessitated it, he had had to descend about thirty feet. He had thus to support a pressure almost equal to an atmosphere, with the result of the physical fatigue and mental agitation which attack those who are not used to this kind of work. Benito then pulled the communication cord, and the men on the raft commenced to haul him in, but they worked slowly, taking a minute to draw him up two or three feet so as not to produce in his internal organs the dreadful effects of decompression.

As soon as the young man had set foot on the raft the metallic sphere of the diving-dress was raised, and he took a long breath and sat down to rest.

The pirogues immediately rowed alongside. Manoel, Fragoso, and Araujo came close to him, waiting for him to speak.

“Well?” asked Manoel.

“Still nothing! Nothing!”

“Have you not seen a trace?”

“Not one!”

“Shall I go down now?”

“No, Manoel,” answered Benito; “I have begun; I know where to go. Let me do it!”

Benito then explained to the pilot that his intention was to visit the lower part of the bank up to the Bar of Frias, for there the slope had perhaps stopped the corpse, if, floating between the two streams, it had in the least degree been affected by the current. But first he wanted to skirt the bank and carefully explore a sort of hole formed in the slope of the bed, to the bottom of which the poles had evidently not been able to penetrate. Araujo approved of this plan, and made the necessary preparations.

Manoel gave Benito a little advice. “As you want to pursue your search on that side,” he said, “the raft will have to go over there obliquely; but mind what you are doing, Benito. That is much deeper than where you have been yet; it may be fifty or sixty feet, and you will have to support a pressure of quite two atmospheres. Only venture with extreme caution, or you may lose your presence of mind, or no longer know where you are or what to do. If your head feels as if in a vice, and your ears tingle, do not hesitate to give us the signal, and we will at once haul you up. You can then begin again if you like, as you will have got accustomed to move about in the deeper parts of the river.”

Benito promised to attend to these hints, of which he recognized the importance. He was particularly struck with the fact that his presence of mind might abandon him at the very moment he wanted it most.

Benito shook hands with Manoel; the sphere of the diving-dress was again screwed to his neck, the pump began to work, and the diver once more disappeared beneath the stream.

The raft was then taken about forty feet along the left bank, but as it moved toward the center of the river the current increased in strength, the ubas were moored, and the rowers kept it from drifting, so as only to allow it to advance with extreme slowness.

Benito descended very gently, and again found himself on the firm sand. When his heels touched the ground it could be seen, by the length of the haulage cord, that he was at a depth of some sixty-five or seventy feet. He was therefore in a considerable hole, excavated far below the ordinary level.

The liquid medium was more obscure, but the limpidity of these transparent waters still allowed the light to penetrate sufficiently for Benito to distinguish the objects scattered on the bed of the river, and to approach them with some safety. Besides, the sand, sprinkled with mica flakes, seemed to form a sort of reflector, and the very grains could be counted glittering like luminous dust.

Benito moved on, examining and sounding the smallest cavities with his spear. He continued to advance very slowly; the communication cord was paid out, and as the pipes which served for the inlet and outlet of the air were never tightened, the pump was worked under the proper conditions.

Benito turned off so as to reach the middle of the bed of the Amazon, where there was the greatest depression. Sometimes profound obscurity thickened around him, and then he could see nothing, so feeble was the light; but this was a purely passing phenomenon, and due to the raft, which, floating above his head, intercepted the solar rays and made the night replace the day. An instant afterward the huge shadow would be dissipated, and the reflection of the sands appear again in full force.

All the time Benito was going deeper. He felt the increase of the pressure with which his body was wrapped by the liquid mass. His respiration became less easy; the retractibility of his organs no longer worked with as much ease as in the midst of an atmosphere more conveniently adapted for them. And so he found himself under the action of physiological effects to which he was unaccustomed. The rumbling grew louder in his ears, but as his thought was always lucid, as he felt that the action of his brain was quite clear — even a little more so than usual — he delayed giving the signal for return, and continued to go down deeper still.

Suddenly, in the subdued light which surrounded him, his attention was attracted by a confused mass. It seemed to take the form of a corpse, entangled beneath a clump of aquatic plants. Intense excitement seized him. He stepped toward the mass; with his spear he felt it. It was the carcass of a huge cayman, already reduced to a skeleton, and which the current of the Rio Negro had swept into the bed of the Amazon. Benito recoiled, and, in spite of the assertions of the pilot, the thought recurred to him that some living cayman might even then be met with in the deeps near the Bar of Frias!

But he repelled the idea, and continued his progress, so as to reach the bottom of the depression.

And now he had arrived at a depth of from eighty to a hundred feet, and consequently was experiencing a pressure of three atmospheres. If, then, this cavity was also drawn blank, he would have to suspend his researches.

Experience has shown that the extreme limit for such submarine explorations lies between a hundred and twenty and a hundred and thirty feet, and that below this there is great danger, the human organism not only being hindered from performing his functions under such a pressure, but the apparatus failing to keep up a sufficient supply of air with the desirable regularity.

But Benito was resolved to go as far as his mental powers and physical energies would let him. By some strange presentiment he was drawn toward this abyss; it seemed to him as though the corpse was very likely to have rolled to the bottom of the hole, and that Torres, if he had any heavy things about him, such as a belt containing either money or arms, would have sunk to the very lowest point. Of a sudden, in a deep hollow, he saw a body through the gloom! Yes! A corpse, still clothed, stretched out like a man asleep, with his arms folded under his head!

Was that Torres? In the obscurity, then very dense, he found it difficult to see; but it was a human body that lay there, less than ten paces off, and perfectly motionless!

A sharp pang shot through Benito. His heart, for an instant, ceased to beat. He thought he was going to lose consciousness. By a supreme effort he recovered himself. He stepped toward the corpse.

Suddenly a shock as violent as unexpected made his whole frame vibrate! A long whip seemed to twine round his body, and in spite of the thick diving-dress he felt himself lashed again and again.

“A gymnotus!” he said.

It was the only word that passed his lips.

In fact, it was a “puraque,” the name given by the Brazilians to the gymnotus, or electric snake, which had just attacked him.

It is well known that the gymnotus is a kind of eel, with a blackish, slimy skin, furnished along the back and tail with an apparatus composed of plates joined by vertical lamellae, and acted on by nerves of considerable power. This apparatus is endowed with singular electrical properties, and is apt to produce very formidable results. Some of these gymnotuses are about the length of a common snake, others are about ten feet long, while others, which, however, are rare, even reach fifteen or twenty feet, and are from eight to ten inches in diameter.

Gymnotuses are plentiful enough both in the Amazon and its tributaries; and it was one of these living coils, about ten feet long, which, after uncurving itself like a bow, again attacked the diver.

Benito knew what he had to fear from this formidable animal. His clothes were powerless to protect him. The discharges of the gymnotus, at first somewhat weak, become more and more violent, and there would come a time when, exhausted by the shocks, he would be rendered powerless.

Benito, unable to resist the blows, half-dropped upon the sand. His limbs were becoming paralyzed little by little under the electric influences of the gymnotus, which lightly touched his body as it wrapped him in its folds. His arms even he could not lift, and soon his spear escaped him, and his hand had not strength enough left to pull the cord and give the signal.

Benito felt that he was lost. Neither Manoel nor his companions could suspect the horrible combat which was going on beneath them between the formidable puraque and the unhappy diver, who only fought to suffer, without any power of defending himself.

And that at the moment when a body — the body of Torres without a doubt! — had just met his view.

By a supreme instinct of self-preservation Benito uttered a cry. His voice was lost in the metallic sphere from which not a sound could escape!

And now the puraque redoubled its attacks; it gave forth shock after shock, which made Benito writhe on the sand like the sections of a divided worm, and his muscles were wrenched again and again beneath the living lash.

Benito thought that all was over; his eyes grew dim, his limbs began to stiffen.

But before he quite lost his power of sight and reason he became the witness of a phenomenon, unexpected, inexplicable, and marvelous in the extreme.

A deadened roar resounded through the liquid depths. It was like a thunder-clap, the reverberations of which rolled along the river bed, then violently agitated by the electrical discharges of the gymnotus. Benito felt himself bathed as it were in the dreadful booming which found an echo in the very deepest of the river depths.

And then a last cry escaped him, for fearful was the vision which appeared before his eyes!

The corpse of the drowned man which had been stretched on the sand arose! The undulations of the water lifted up the arms, and they swayed about as if with some peculiar animation. Convulsive throbs made the movement of the corpse still more alarming.

It was indeed the body of Torres. One of the suns rays shot down to it through the liquid mass, and Benito recognized the bloated, ashy features of the scoundrel who fell by his own hand, and whose last breath had left him beneath the waters.

And while Benito could not make a single movement with his paralyzed limbs, while his heavy shoes kept him down as if he had been nailed to the sand, the corpse straightened itself up, the head swayed to and fro, and disentangling itself from the hole in which it had been kept by a mass of aquatic weeds, it slowly ascended to the surface of the Amazon.

CHAPTER XIII. IS IT A MATTER OF FIGURES?

IT WAS SEVEN o’clock in the evening. Judge Jarriquez had all the time been absorbed in working at the puzzle — and was no further advanced — and had forgotten the time of repast and the time of repose, when there came a knock at his study door.

It was time. An hour later, and all the cerebral substance of the vexed magistrate would certainly have evaporated under the intense heat into which he had worked his head.

At the order to enter — which was given in an impatient tone — the door opened and Manoel presented himself.

The young doctor had left his friends on board the jangada at work on the indecipherable document, and had come to see Judge Jarriquez. He was anxious to know if he had been fortunate in his researches. He had come to ask if he had at length discovered the system on which the cryptogram had been written.

The magistrate was not sorry to see Manoel come in. He was in that state of excitement that solitude was exasperating to him. He wanted some one to speak to, some one as anxious to penetrate the mystery as he was. Manoel was just the man.

“Sir,” said Manoel as he entered, “one question! Have you succeeded better than we have?”

“Sit down first,” exclaimed Judge Jarriquez, who got up and began to pace the room. “Sit down. If we are both of us standing, you will walk one way and I shall walk the other, and the room will be too narrow to hold us.”

Manoel sat down and repeated his question.

“No! I have not had any success!” replied the magistrate; “I do not think I am any better off. I have got nothing to tell you; but I have found out a certainty.”

“What is that, sir?”

“That the document is not based on conventional signs, but on what is known in cryptology as a cipher, that is to say, on a number.”

“Well, sir,” answered Manoel, “cannot a document of that kind always be read?”

“Yes,” said Jarriquez, “if a letter is invariably represented by the same letter; if an a, for example, is always a p, and a p is always an x; if not, it cannot.”

“And in this document?”

“In this document the value of the letter changes with the arbitrarily selected cipher which necessitates it. So a b will in one place be represented by a k will later on become a z, later on an u or an n or an f, or any other letter.”

“And then?”

“And then, I am sorry to say, the cryptogram is indecipherable.”

“Indecipherable!” exclaimed Manoel. “No, sir; we shall end by finding the key of the document on which the man’s life depends.”

Manoel had risen, a prey to the excitement he could not control; the reply he had received was too hopeless, and he refused to accept it for good.

At a gesture from the judge, however, he sat down again, and in a calmer voice asked: “And in the first place, sir, what makes you think that the basis of this document is a number, or, as you call it, a cipher?”

“Listen to me, young man,” replied the judge, “and you will be forced to give in to the evidence.”

The magistrate took the document and put it before the eyes of Manoel and showed him what he had done.

“I began,” he said, “by treating this document in the proper way, that is to say, logically, leaving nothing to chance. I applied to it an alphabet based on the proportion the letters bear to one another which is usual in our language, and I sought to obtain the meaning by following the precepts of our immortal analyst, Edgar Poe. Well, what succeeded with him collapsed with me.”

“Collapsed!” exclaimed Manoel.

“Yes, my dear young man, and I at once saw that success sought in that fashion was impossible. In truth, a stronger man than I might have been deceived.”

“But I should like to understand,” said Manoel, “and I do not — — ”

“Take the document,” continued Judge Jarriquez; “first look at the disposition of the letters, and read it through.”

Manoel obeyed.

“Do you not see that the combination of several of the letters is very strange?” asked the magistrate.

“I do not see anything,” said Manoel, after having for perhaps the hundredth time read through the document.

“Well! study the last paragraph! There you understand the sense of the whole is bound to be summed up. Do you see anything abnormal?”

“Nothing.”

“There is, however, one thing which absolutely proves that the language is subject to the laws of number.”

“And that is?”

“That is that you see three h’s coming together in two different places.”

What Jarriquez said was correct, and it was of a nature to attract attention. The two hundred and fourth, two hundred and fifth, and two hundred and sixth letters of the paragraph, and the two hundred and fifty-eight, two hundred and fifty-ninth, and two hundred and sixtieth letters of the paragraph were consecutive h’s. At first this peculiarity had not struck the magistrate.

“And that proves?” asked Manoel, without divining the deduction that could be drawn from the combination.

“That simply proves that the basis of the document is a number. It shows a priori that each letter is modified in virtue of the ciphers of the number and according to the place which it occupies.”

“And why?”

“Because in no language will you find words with three consecutive repetitions of the letter h.”

Manoel was struck with the argument; he thought about it, and, in short, had no reply to make.

“And had I made the observation sooner,” continued the magistrate, “I might have spared myself a good deal of trouble and a headache which extends from my occiput to my sinciput.”

“But, sir,” asked Manoel, who felt the little hope vanishing on which he had hitherto rested, “what do you mean by a cipher?”

“Tell me a number.”

“Any number you like.”

“Give me an example and you will understand the explanation better.”

Judge Jarriquez sat down at the table, took up a sheet of paper and a pencil, and said: “Now, Mr. Manoel, let us choose a sentence by chance, the first that comes; for instance: Judge Jarriquez has an ingenious mind.

I write this phrase so as to space the letters different and I get: Judgejarriquezhasaningeniousmind.

“That done,” said the magistrate, to whom the phrase seemed to contain a proposition beyond dispute, looking Manoel straight in the face, “suppose I take a number by chance, so as to give a cryptographic form to this natural succession of words; suppose now this word is composed of three ciphers, and let these ciphers be 2, 3, and 4. Now on the line below I put the number 234, and repeat it as many times as are necessary to get to the end of the phrase, and so that every cipher comes underneath a letter. This is what we get: J u d g e j a r r I q u e z h a s a n I n g e n I o u s m I n d 2 3 4 2 3 4 2 3 4 2 3 4 2 3 4 2 3 4 2 3 4 2 3 4 2 3 4 2 3 4 2 3 4 And now, Mr. Manoel, replacing each letter by the letter in advance of it in alphabetical order according to the value of the cipher, we get: j + 2 = l u + 3 = x d + 4 = h g + 2 = i e + 3 = h j + 4 = n a + 2 = c r + 3 = u r + 4 = v i + 2 = k q + 3 = t u + 4 = y e + 2 = g a + 3 = c h + 4 = t a + 2 = c s + 3 = v a + 4 = e n + 2 = p i + 3 = l n + 4 = r g + 2 = i e + 3 = h n + 4 = r i + 2 = k o + 3 = r u + 4 = y s + 2 = u and so on.

“If, on account of the value of the ciphers which compose the number I come to the end of the alphabet without having enough complementary letters to deduct, I begin again at the beginning. That is what happens at the end of my name when the z is replaced by the 3. As after z the alphabet has no more letters, I commence to count from a, and so get the c. That done, when I get to the end of this cryptographic system, made up of the 234 — which was arbitrarily selected, do not forget! — the phrase which you recognize above is replaced by lxhihncuvktygclveplrihrkryupmpg.

“And now, young man, just look at it, and do you not think it is very much like what is in the document? Well, what is the consequence? Why, that the signification of the letters depends on a cipher which chance puts beneath them, and the cryptographic letter which answers to a true one is not always the same. So in this phrase the first j is represented by an l, the second by an n; the first e by an h, the second b a g, the third by an h; the first d is represented by an h, the last by a g; the first u by an x, the last by a y; the first and second a’s by a c, the last by an e; and in my own name one r is represented by a u, the other by a v. and so on. Now do you see that if you do not know the cipher 234 you will never be able to read the lines, and consequently if we do not know the number of the document it remains undecipherable.”

On hearing the magistrate reason with such careful logic, Manoel was at first overwhelmed, but, raising his head, he exclaimed: “No, sir, I will not renounce the hope of finding the number!”

“We might have done so,” answered Judge Jarriquez, “if the lines of the document had been divided into words.”

“And why?”

“For this reason, young man. I think we can assume that in the last paragraph all that is written in these earlier paragraphs is summed up. Now I am convinced that in it will be found the name of Joam Dacosta. Well, if the lines had been divided into words, in trying the words one after the other — I mean the words composed of seven letters, as the name of Dacosta is — it would not have been impossible to evolve the number which is the key of the document.”

“Will you explain to me how you ought to proceed to do that, sir?” asked Manoel, who probably caught a glimpse of one more hope.

“Nothing can be more simple,” answered the judge. “Let us take, for example, one of the words in the sentence we have just written — my name, if you like. It is represented in the cryptogram by this queer succession of letters, ncuvktygc. Well, arranging these letters in a column, one under the other, and then placing against them the letters of my name and deducting one from the other the numbers of their places in alphabetical order, I see the following result: Between n and j we have 4 letters — c — a — 2 — — u — r — 3 — — v — r — 4 — — k — i — 2 — — t — q — 3 — — y — u — 4 — — g — e — 2 — — c — z — 3 —

“Now what is the column of ciphers made up of that we have got by this simple operation? Look here! 423 423 423, that is to say, of repetitions of the numbers 423, or 234, or 342.”

“Yes, that is it!” answered Manoel.

“You understand, then, by this means, that in calculating the true letter from the false, instead of the false from the true, I have been able to discover the number with ease; and the number I was in search of is really the 234 which I took as the key of my cryptogram.”

“Well, sir!” exclaimed Manoel, “if that is so, the name of Dacosta is in the last paragraph; and taking successively each letter of those lines for the first of the seven letters which compose his name, we ought to get — — ”

“That would be impossible,” interrupted the judge, “except on one condition.”

“What is that?”

“That the first cipher of the number should happen to be the first letter of the word Dacosta, and I think you will agree with me that that is not probable.”

“Quite so!” sighed Manoel, who, with this improbability, saw the last chance vanish.

“And so we must trust to chance alone,” continued Jarriquez, who shook his head, “and chance does not often do much in things of this sort.”

“But still,” said Manoel, “chance might give us this number.”

“This number,” exclaimed the magistrate — “this number? But how many ciphers is it composed of? Of two, or three, or four, or nine, or ten? Is it made of different ciphers only or of ciphers in different order many times repeated? Do you not know, young man, that with the ordinary ten ciphers, using all at a time, but without any repetition, you can make three million two hundred and sixty-eight thousand and eight hundred different numbers, and that if you use the same cipher more than once in the number, these millions of combinations will be enormously increased! And do you not know that if we employ every one of the five hundred and twenty-five thousand and six hundred minutes of which the year is composed to try at each of these numbers, it would take you six years, and that you would want three centuries if each operation took you an hour? No! You ask the impossible!”

“Impossible, sir?” answered Manoel. “An innocent man has been branded as guilty, and Joam Dacosta is to lose his life and his honor while you hold in your hands the material proof of his innocence! That is what is impossible!”

“Ah! young man!” exclaimed Jarriquez, “who told you, after all, that Torres did not tell a lie? Who told you that he really did have in his hands a document written by the author of the crime? that this paper was the document, and that this document refers to Joam Dacosta?”

“Who told me so?” repeated Manoel, and his face was hidden in his hands.

In fact, nothing could prove for certain that the document had anything to do with the affair in the diamond province. There was, in fact, nothing to show that it was not utterly devoid of meaning, and that it had been imagined by Torres himself, who was as capable of selling a false thing as a true one!

“It does not matter, Manoel,” continued the judge, rising; “it does not matter! Whatever it may be to which the document refers, I have not yet given up discovering the cipher. After all, it is worth more than a logogryph or a rebus!”

At these words Manoel rose, shook hands with the magistrate, and returned to the jangada, feeling more hopeless when he went back than when he set out.

CHAPTER XV. THE LAST EFFORTS

THE MAGISTRATE, however, was not the only one who passed his time unprofitably. Benito, Manoel, and Minha tried all they could together to extract the secret from the document on which depended their father’s life and honor. On his part, Fragoso, aided by Lina, could not remain quiet, but all their ingenuity had failed, and the number still escaped them.

“Why don’t you find it, Fragoso?” asked the young mulatto.

“I will find it,” answered Fragoso.

And he did not find it!

Here we should say that Fragoso had an idea of a project of which he had not even spoken to Lina, but which had taken full possession of his mind. This was to go in search of the gang to which the ex-captain of the woods had belonged, and to find out who was the probable author of this cipher document, which was supposed to be the confession of the culprit of Tijuco. The part of the Amazon where these people were employed, the very place where Fragoso had met Torres a few years before, was not very far from Manaos. He would only have to descend the river for about fifty miles, to the mouth of the Madeira, a tributary coming in on the right, and there he was almost sure to meet the head of these “capitaes do mato,” to which Torres belonged. In two days, or three days at the outside, Fragoso could get into communication with the old comrades of the adventurer.

“Yes! I could do that,” he repeated to himself; “but what would be the good of it, supposing I succeeded? If we are sure that one of Torres’ companions has recently died, would that prove him to be the author of this crime? Would that show that he gave Torres a document in which he announced himself the author of this crime, and exonerated Joam Dacosta? Would that give us the key of the document? No! Two men only knew the cipher — the culprit and Torres! And these two men are no more!”

So reasoned Fragoso. It was evident that his enterprise would do no good. But the thought of it was too much for him. An irresistible influence impelled him to set out, although he was not even sure of finding the band on the Madeira. In fact, it might be engaged in some other part of the province, and to come up with it might require more time than Fragoso had at his disposal! And what would be the result?

It is none the less true, however, that on the 29th of August, before sunrise, Fragoso, without saying anything to anybody, secretly left the jangada, arrived at Manaos, and embarked in one of the egariteas which daily descend the Amazon.

And great was the astonishment when he was not seen on board, and did not appear during the day. No one, not even Lina, could explain the absence of so devoted a servant at such a crisis.

Some of them even asked, and not without reason, if the poor fellow, rendered desperate at having, when he met him on the frontier, personally contributed to bringing Torres on board the raft, had not made away with himself.

But if Fragoso could so reproach himself, how about Benito? In the first place at Iquitos he had invited Torres to visit the fazenda; in the second place he had brought him on board the jangada, to become a passenger on it; and in the third place, in killing him, he had annihilated the only witness whose evidence could save the condemned man.

And so Benito considered himself responsible for everything — the arrest of his father, and the terrible events of which it had been the consequence.

In fact, had Torres been alive, Benito could not tell but that, in some way or another, from pity or for reward, he would have finished by handing over the document. Would not Torres, whom nothing could compromise, have been persuaded to speak, had money been brought to bear upon him? Would not the long-sought-for proof have been furnished to the judge? Yes, undoubtedly! And the only man who could have furnished this evidence had been killed through Benito!

Such was what the wretched man continually repeated to his mother, to Manoel, and to himself. Such were the cruel responsibilities which his conscience laid to his charge.

Between her husband, with whom she passed all the time that was allowed her, and her son, a prey to despair which made her tremble for his reason, the brave Yaquita lost none of her moral energy. In her they found the valiant daughter of Magalhaes, the worthy wife of the fazender of Iquitos.

The attitude of Joam Dacosta was well adapted to sustain her in this ordeal. That gallant man, that rigid Puritan, that austere worker, whose whole life had been a battle, had not yet shown a moment of weakness.

The most terrible blow which had struck him without prostrating him had been the death of Judge Ribeiro, in whose mind his innocence did not admit of a doubt. Was it not with the help of his old defender that he had hoped to strive for his rehabilitation? The intervention of Torres he had regarded throughout as being quite secondary for him. And of this document he had no knowledge when he left Iquitos to hand himself over to the justice of his country. He only took with him moral proofs. When a material proof was unexpectedly produced in the course of the affair, before or after his arrest, he was certainly not the man to despise it. But if, on account of regrettable circumstances, the proof disappeared, he would find himself once more in the same position as when he passed the Brazilian frontier — the position of a man who came to say, “Here is my past life; here is my present; here is an entirely honest existence of work and devotion which I bring you. You passed on me at first an erroneous judgment. After twenty-three years of exile I have come to give myself up! Here I am; judge me again!”

The death of Torres, the impossibility of reading the document found on him, had thus not produced on Joam Dacosta the impression which it had on his children, his friends, his household, and all who were interested in him.

“I have faith in my innocence,” he repeated to Yaquita, “as I have faith in God. If my life is still useful to my people, and a miracle is necessary to save me, that miracle will be performed; if not, I shall die! God alone is my judge!”

The excitement increased in Manaos as the time ran on; the affair was discussed with unexampled acerbity. In the midst of this enthralment of public opinion, which evoked so much of the mysterious, the document was the principal object of conversation.

At the end of this fourth day not a single person doubted but that it contained the vindication of the doomed man. Every one had been given an opportunity of deciphering its incomprehensible contents, for the “Diario d’o Grand Para” had reproduced it in facsimile. Autograph copies were spread about in great numbers at the suggestion of Manoel, who neglect nothing that might lead to the penetration of the mystery — not even chance, that “nickname of Providence,” as some one has called it.

In addition, a reward of one hundred contos (or three hundred thousand francs) was promised to any one who could discover the cipher so fruitlessly sought after — and read the document. This was quite a fortune, and so people of all classes forgot to eat, drink, or sleep to attack this unintelligible cryptogram.

Up to the present, however, all had been useless, and probably the most ingenious analysts in the world would have spent their time in vain. It had been advertised that any solution should be sent, without delay, to Judge Jarriquez, to his house in God-the-Son Street; but the evening of the 29th of August came and none had arrived, nor was any likely to arrive.

Of all those who took up the study of the puzzle, Judge Jarriquez was one of the most to be pitied. By a natural association of ideas, he also joined in the general opinion that the document referred to the affair at Tijuco, and that it had been written by the hand of the guilty man, and exonerated Joam Dacosta. And so he put even more ardor into his search for the key. It was not only the art for art’s sake which guided him, it was a sentiment of justice, of pity toward a man suffering under an unjust condemnation. If it is the fact that a certain quantity of phosphorus is expended in the work of the brain, it would be difficult to say how many milligrammes the judge had parted with to excite the network of his “sensorium,” and after all, to find out nothing, absolutely nothing.

But Jarriquez had no idea of abandoning the inquiry. If he could only now trust to chance, he would work on for that chance. He tried to evoke it by all means possible and impossible. He had given himself over to fury and anger, and, what was worse, to impotent anger!

During the latter part of this day he had been trying different numbers — numbers selected arbitrarily — and how many of them can scarcely be imagined. Had he had the time, he would not have shrunk from plunging into the millions of combinations of which the ten symbols of numeration are capable. He would have given his whole life to it at the risk of going mad before the year was out. Mad! was he not that already? He had had the idea that the document might be read through the paper, and so he turned it round and exposed it to the light, and tried it in that way.

Nothing! The numbers already thought of, and which he tried in this new way, gave no result. Perhaps the document read backward, and the last letter was really the first, for the author would have done this had he wished to make the reading more difficult.

Nothing! The new combination only furnished a series of letters just as enigmatic.

At eight o’clock in the evening Jarriquez, with his face in his hands, knocked up, worn out mentally and physically, had neither strength to move, to speak, to think, or to associate one idea with another.

Suddenly a noise was heard outside. Almost immediately, notwithstanding his formal orders, the door of his study was thrown open. Benito and Manoel were before him, Benito looking dreadfully pale, and Manoel supporting him, for the unfortunate young man had hardly strength to support himself.

The magistrate quickly arose.

“What is it, gentlemen? What do you want?” he asked.

“The cipher! the cipher!” exclaimed Benito, mad with grief — “the cipher of the document.”

“Do you know it, then?” shouted the judge.

“No, sir,” said Manoel. “But you?”

“Nothing! nothing!”

“Nothing?” gasped Benito, and in a paroxysm of despair he took a knife from his belt and would have plunged it into his breast had not the judge and Manoel jumped forward and managed to disarm him.

“Benito,” said Jarriquez, in a voice which he tried to keep calm, “if you father cannot escape the expiation of a crime which is not his, you could do something better than kill yourself.”

“What?” said Benito.

“Try and save his life!”

“How?”

“That is for you to discover,” answered the magistrate, “and not for me to say.”

CHAPTER II.

HELENA CAMPBELL.

The house occupied by the uncles and their niece was situated three miles from the little hamlet of Helensburgh, on the banks of Gare Loch, one of the most picturesque lakes which capriciously indent the right bank of the Clyde.

During the winter they lived in Glasgow, at an old mansion in West George Street, in the most aristocratic part of the new town, not far from Blythswood Square. There they stayed for six months in the year, unless some whim of Helena’s, to which they yielded without a murmur, took them off for a visit to Italy, Spain, or France. In the course of these travels they saw everything from their niece’s point of view, going where she liked, stopping where it pleased her to stop, and admiring nothing but what she admired. Then, when Miss Campbell closed the book in which she jotted down her impressions of the journey, they quietly returned to Scotland, and very willingly resumed their comfortable quarters in West George Street.

About the third week in May the brothers generally experienced a great desire to be back in the country, and this happened just as Helena showed the same inclination to leave the noise of Glasgow, and fly from the hubbub of business, which sometimes inundated even the neighbourhood of Blythswood Square, to breathe a purer atmosphere than that of the commercial city.

Thus the whole household, masters and servants, set out for the country house about twenty miles distant.

The village of Helensburgh is a pretty little place, and has become a much frequented bathing-resort by those who are at leisure to vary excursions up the Clyde with tours to Loch Katrine and Loch Lomond.

The brothers had chosen the best place possible for their house, about a mile from the shores of Gare Loch, surrounded by magnificent trees, near a stream, and standing on undulating ground which had all the appearance of a private park. Cool, shady retreats, grassy slopes; clumps of trees, flower-beds, pastures kept especially for sheep, silvery lakes adorned with swans, those graceful birds of whom Wordsworth writes, —

“The swan floats double — swan and shadow.”

Finally, everything that nature could unite to gladden the eyes without betraying the handiwork of man. Such was the summer residence of this wealthy family.

It may be added that from one part of the park, lying above Gare Loch, the view is charming. Beyond the narrow gulf on the right the eye rests on the peninsula of Roseneath, on which stands a pretty Italian villa, belonging to the Duke of Argyll; to the left lies the little hamlet of Helensburgh, with its undulating line of houses along the coast, and here and there the spire of a church; its elegant pier running out into the waters of the lake for the service of steamers, and its background of hills enlivened with picturesque villas. Facing you on the left bank of the Clyde, Port Glasgow, the ruins of Newark Castle, Greenock and its forest of masts, decorated with many-coloured flags, form a very varied panorama, from which it is difficult to turn away.

From the top of the principal tower of the house, the view was more beautiful still, with a glimpse of two horizons.

The square tower, with pepper-boxes standing out airily from three angles of its summit, ornamented with battlements, and its parapet girt with stone lace-work, rose still higher at its fourth angle in an octagonal turret, with an inevitable flag-staff. This keep of modern construction thus overlooked the whole of the building proper with its irregular roofing, its windows capriciously placed here and there, and its numerous gables and chimneys.

Now it was on this highest platform of the turret, beneath the national colours floating in the breeze, that Miss Campbell loved to sit and dream for whole hours together. She had made it a cosy little place of refuge, where she could read, write, or sleep at any time, sheltered from the sun, wind, and rain. Here she was most often to be found; and if not here, she was wandering through the park, sometimes alone, sometimes accompanied by Dame Bess, unless she were riding her favourite little horse over the neighbouring country, followed by the faithful Partridge, who had to urge on his steed in order to keep up with his young mistress.

Among the numerous domestics, we must single out these two honest servants, who, from their childhood, had been attached to the Campbell family.

Elizabeth, the “Luckie,” as they call a housekeeper in the Highlands, could count as many years as she had keys on her bunch, and they were no less than forty-seven. She was a thorough manager: serious, orderly, skilful, superintending the whole household. Perhaps she imagined that she had reared the two brothers, although they were older than herself, but most certainly she had bestowed maternal care on Miss Campbell.

Next to this valuable stewardess figured Partridge, a servant entirely devoted to his masters, always faithful to the time-honoured customs of his clan, and invariably dressed in Highland costume.

With an Elizabeth to manage the household and a Partridge to look after it, what more could be wanted to ensure domestic felicity?

It has doubtless been remarked that when Partridge answered the brothers’ call he had spoken of their niece as Miss Campbell.

Had the Scotchman given her her baptismal name, and called her Miss Helena, he would have committed an infraction of Highland etiquette; never indeed is the eldest or the only daughter of good family called by her Christian name. If Miss Campbell had been the daughter of a peer, she would have been called Lady Helena. Now this branch of the Campbells to which she belonged was only collateral and but distantly connected with the direct branch of the Campbells whose origin goes back to the Crusades. For many centuries branches from the old tree had been separated from the direct line of the glorious ancestor now represented by the clans of Argyll and Breadalbane; but however distant the connexion might be, Helena, on her father’s side, had some of the blood of this illustrious family in her veins.

Still, though she was but Miss Campbell, she was a true Scotchwoman, one of those noble daughters of Thule, with blue eyes and fair hair, whose portrait, engraved by Finden or Edwards, and placed among the Minnas, Brendas, Amy Robsarts, Flora Maclvors, Diana Vernons, would have held its own in those “keepsakes” in which the English used to gather the feminine beauty of this great novelist.

Miss Campbell was indeed very charming, with her pretty face, blue eyes, blue as her native lakes, her elegant figure, and somewhat haughty demeanour, her dreamy expression, except when a gleam of humour animated her features, her whole person, in fact, so graceful and distingue.

Helena was good as well as beautiful. Heiress to her uncles’ wealth, she was not vain of riches, but by her charity endeavoured to verify the old Gaelic proverb, “May the hand which opens freely be always full!”

Attached above everything to her country, her clan, and her family, she was a true Scotchwoman, heart and soul, and would have given the preference to the most consummate Sawney over the most imposing of John Bulls. Her patriotic being thrilled like the strings of a harp when the voice of a mountaineer, singing some Highland pibroch, reached her across the country.

De Maistre has said, “There are in me two beings: myself and another.”

The “myself” of Miss Campbell was a serious, reflecting being, looking upon life from the point of view of its duties rather than its rights.

The “other” was a romantic being, somewhat prone to superstition, fond of the marvellous tales which spring up so naturally in the land of Fingal; following the example of the Lindamiras, those adorable heroines of chivalrous romance, she would visit the neighbouring glens to listen to the “bagpipes of Strathearne,” as the Highlanders call the wind when it whistles through the lonely alleys.

The brothers loved Miss Campbell’s two personalities equally well, but it must be confessed that if the first charmed them by her good sense, the second occasionally embarrassed them with her unexpected remarks, her capricious flights of imagination, and her sudden excursions into dream-land.

Had she not just now given them a most singular answer?

“I marry?” had said the one being. “Marry Mr. Ursiclos? We shall see about that; we will talk about it another time.”

“Never! until I have seen the Green Ray!” the other had replied.

The brothers looked at each other, without being able to understand, whilst Miss Campbell installed herself in a large Gothic armchair in the recess of the window.

“What does she mean by the Green Ray?” asked Sam.

“And why does she want to see this ray?” said Sib.

Why? We are about to hear.

CHAPTER IV.

DOWN THE CLYDE.

Very early the following day, the 2nd of August, Miss Campbell, accompanied by her uncles, and attended by Partridge and Dame Bess, took the train from Helensburgh. They were obliged to go to Glasgow to take the steamer, as it did not call anywhere along this part of the coast on its way to Oban.

At seven o’clock they reached Glasgow, where a carriage was waiting to take them to Broomielaw Bridge.

There the steamer Columbia lay, waiting for her passengers; a dense smoke pouring from her two funnels, and mingling with the thick fog hanging over the Clyde; but those mists were soon dispersed as the sun forced its way through the leaden-coloured clouds, and gave every promise of a fine day.

When their luggage had been put on board, Miss Campbell and her companions immediately embarked.

At this moment the bell summoning all tardy passengers rang out for the third and last time; the engines began to work, the paddle-wheels lashed the yellow water into foam, a shrill whistle sounded, the moorings were loosened, and the Columbia sped rapidly away with the tide.

Tourists in the United Kingdom have no cause for complaint, the companies everywhere place magnificent boats at their disposal. There is hardly a piece of water so inconsiderable, a lake so small, or a gulf so unimportant, ut what is every day ploughed by fine steam-packets. It is not to be wondered at that the Clyde should be one of the most favoured in this respect. Thus, the whole length of Broomielaw Street, alongside the wharfs of the steamboat quay were numbers of packets, with their paddle-boxes painted the brightest colours, from gold to vermilion, with steam up, ready to set off in all directions.

The Columbia was no exception to this rule; she was a fast boat, with long tapering bows, and provided with very powerful engines. In the saloons there was every possible comfort; the upper-deck, sheltered by awnings, under which were placed benches and luxurious seats, formed a delightful terrace, from whence the passengers could obtain a good view and plenty of fresh air.

There was no lack of tourists; tbey came from all parts, as many from Scotland as England. August is, par excellence, the month for excursions, and those up the Clyde and to the Hebrides are especial favourites. There were entire families, lively maidens, and children already used to the wonders of travelling; always, a plentiful number of clergymen, with high silk hats, long black overcoats, and stand-up collars, with white ties showing above their high waistcoats; then several farmers in Scotch caps, by their somewhat grave demeanour reminding one of the old “Bonnet-lairds” of sixty years ago; and, finally, half-a-dozen foreigners, Germans who lose none of their stolidity even out of Germany, and Frenchmen who still retain their genial amiability even out of France.

If Miss Campbell had been like the greater part of her fellow-countrymen, who religiously kept to the corners they had taken when first coming on board, and never moved from them the whole of the trip, she would have seen no more of the banks of the Clyde than actually passed before her eyes without turning her head. But she preferred to walk up and down from stem to stern of the steamer, looking at the towns, hamlets, and villages thickly scattered along its banks. Thus it was that the two brothers, who followed her, replying to, approving her observations, and confirming her remarks, were not allowed to take a moment’s rest between Glasgow and Oban; as for that matter, however, they never dreamt of complaining, it was part of their duties of guardianship, which they followed instinctively, exchanging, meanwhile, pinches of snuff which kept them in good humour.

Dame Bess and Partridge, sitting forward, were chatting pleasantly of bygone times, of customs now extinct, and of the old disorganized clans. Ah! those good old times, where were they now? In those days the clear horizon of the Clyde was not hidden by dense volumes of smoke from factory chimneys; its banks did not resound with the dull noise of hammering, and its calm waters were never lashed into foam by some hundreds of steamers.

“That time will return, and perhaps sooner than we think for!” said Dame Bess, with an air of conviction.

“I hope so,” gravely replied Partridge, “and with it we shall see the old customs of our ancestors!”

Meanwhile, the banks of the Clyde were passing rapidly from stem to stern of the Columbia like a moving panorama. To the right was seen the village of Partick, on the mouth of the Kelvin, and the immense docks, destined for the construction of iron ships, facing those of Govan, situated on the opposite shore. What noises of hammering, and what volumes of smoke and steam distressed the ears and eyes of Partridge and his companion!

But gradually all this busy din and smoky fog grew less and less. In the place of timber-yards, covered wharfs, tall factory chimneys, gigantic iron scaffoldings, which looked like the cages of a menagerie, now appeared coquettish houses, cottages buried among the trees, and villas of Anglo-Saxon design, scattered over the green hills. Between one town and another there was an uninterrupted succession of houses and country seats. After passing the royal borough of Renfrew, situated on the left bank of the river, were seen the wooded hills of Kilpatrick rising above the village of that name, which no Irishman can pass without betraying himself; for there was born St. Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland.

From a river the Clyde had now become an arm of the sea. Dame Bess and Partridge hailed the ruins of Douglas Castle, which recalls some old memories of Scottish history; but they averted their eyes when they passed the monument raised in honour of Harry Bell, the inventor of the first steamboat whose wheels had disturbed these peaceful waters.

A few miles further on, the tourists, Murray in hand, beheld the Castle of Dumbarton, standing on a basaltic rock which rises to the height of 500 feet, and the highest point of which still bears the name of Wallace’s seat.

At this moment a gentleman standing on the footbridge, without being asked, but also without objection from any one, thought it his duty to give a little historical lecture for the benefit of his fellow-travellers. In half an hour’s time, no one on board the Columbia, unless indeed he were deaf, need be ignorant of the fact that very probably the Romans had fortified Dumbarton; that this historical rock was transformed into a royal fortress at the beginning of the thirteenth century; that by the Act of Union it was privileged as one of the four places in Scotland to remain undismantled; that from this port in 1548, Mary Stuart, whose marriage with Francis II. was about to make her “Queen of a day,” left for France; finally, that Napoleon was to have been confined there in 1815, before Castlereagh had resolved to imprison him in St. Helena.

“Very instructive indeed,” said Sam.

“Instructive and interesting,” replied Sib; “this gentleman deserves our thanks.”

In fact, the two brothers had not lost a single word of the lecture, and accordingly thanked the self-improvised professor.

Miss Campbell, absorbed in her own thoughts, had heard nothing of this historical lesson. It had no power, just now, at least, to interest her. She did not even look at the ruins of Cardross Castle, where Robert Bruce died. A sea-horizon was what she vainly sought; but there was no chance of getting one till the Columbia had passed this succession of banks, promontories, and hill-sides, which bound the Frith of Clyde. Besides, the steamer was then passing the town of Helensburgh, Port Glasgow, the ruins of Newark Castle, and the peninsula of Roseneath, which she could see any day from her own home. And she began to wonder whether the steamer was going up the stream, winding through the park.

And, as they went farther on, why should she trouble herself to wonder at the hundreds of vessels crowding the docks of Greenock at the mouth of the river? What mattered it to her that the immortal Watt was born in this town? Why, three miles beyond this, need she look at the villages of Gourock on the left, and Dunoon on the right; at the indenting and winding fiords which encroach upon the shore of Argyle, and make it like a Norwegian coast?

No, Miss Campbell was watching impatiently for the ruined tower of Leven. Did she expect to see some hobgoblin there? Not in the least, she simply wished to be the first to signal Cloch light-house at the entrance of the Frith of Clyde.

At last, round a bend of the shore, the light-house appeared like a gigantic lamp.

“Cloch, Uncle Sam,” said she. “There is Cloch!”

“Yes, there is Cloch,” said he, re-echoing her words.

“There is the sea, Uncle Sib!”

“The sea, it is indeed,” replied Sib.

“How beautiful it is!” repeated the two uncles, as though they beheld it now for the first time!

There was no mistake about it. At the entrance to the Frith could be seen a distinct sea-horizon.

However, it was but midday, and it would be some hours before the sun sank beneath the waves — some hours yet of impatient waiting for Miss Campbell! Besides, this was a south-western horizon, over which the sun only set in winter, so it was of no use to look for the phenomenon in that direction; it must be more towards the north-west, since it wanted now but six weeks to the autumnal equinox.

But no matter, it was the sea which now lay before Helena’s eyes. Through the straits of the isles of Cumbrae, beyond the island of Bute, softly outlined against the sky, beyond the crests of Ailsa Craig and the hills of Arran, a clear line between sea and sky was distinctly visible.

Miss Campbell was watching it intently, absorbed in thought. As she stood motionless on the footbridge, she seemed to be measuring the length of the arc, to the point where the radiant orb must dip beneath the waters of the Archipelago of the Hebrides.

A voice roused the young dreamer from her reverie.

“It is quite time,” Sib was saying.

“Time for what, uncle?”

“Time for luncheon,” said Sam.

“Let us go, then,” replied Helena.

CHAPTER VIII.

A CLOUD ON THE HORIZON.

An explanation had become necessary; but as Aristobulus would have been none the wiser for it, Miss Campbell bowed stiffly to him, and went back to the hotel.

Aristobulus returned the young lady’s bow just as frigidly; he was evidently annoyed at being made subservient to a ray, of whatever colour it might be, and he took his way home along the shore muttering to himself.

The brothers felt very ill-at-ease, and when they were back in their private sitting-room, they waited for Miss Campbell’s explanation.

This was simple enough; they had come to Oban on purpose to get a sea-horizon, and there was not one to be seen, or so little that it was not worth mention.

The two uncles could but honestly argue that they did not know Oban! Who would ever have thought that they would not have the open sea here, since it was such a frequented bathing-place. It was perhaps the only point on the coast where, thanks to these tiresome islands, the sea-line was not visible!

“Ah! well,” said Miss Campbell, in a tone which she tried to make as stem as possible, “we must find out some other place than Oban, even if we have to sacrifice the advantage of Mr. Ursiclos’s company.”

The brothers looked down, and made no reply to this direct hint.

“We are going to pack up and leave here this very day,” said Helena.

“So be it!” replied both uncles, who now could only make amends for their folly by passive submission to her wishes.

And immediately Dame Bess was summoned.

The housekeeper came up, followed by Partridge; both were at once informed of the change, and knowing that their young mistress’s word was law, they did not dream of asking the reason of this hurried departure.

But they had reckoned without their host, Mr. MacFyne, the proprietor of the hotel.

They little knew the customs of these excellent institutions, even in hospitable Scotland, if they thought that they, a party of three gentry and two servants, would be allowed to depart without some effort being made to detain them, and this was what now happened.

When he had been informed of the reason of their departure, Mr. MacFyne declared that everything might be arranged to the general satisfaction, without saying anything of his own particular pleasure in being able to keep his distinguished guests.

What would please Miss Campbell, and consequently what did the gentlemen desire? A sea-view with a clear horizon? Nothing could be easier, since they only wanted to see this horizon at sunset. They could not see it from the shore of Oban? Very well! From Mull only a small part of the Atlantic towards the south-west could be seen. But a little way down the coast was the island of Seil, connected with the mainland by a bridge; there there was nothing to interrupt their view of the western sea.

Now it was only a four or five miles’ drive to the island, and when the weather was favourable, a carriage and pair of good horses would easily take Miss Campbell and her friends there in an hour or so.

In confirmation of this statement the glib hotel-keeper pointed out to them a large map hanging in the hall, so that Miss Campbell might not think he was trying to impose on her; and, indeed, facing the island of Seil was a large space comprising a third of that horizon over which the sun sets during the weeks preceding and following the equinox.

The matter was thus arranged to the extreme satisfaction of Mr. MacFyne, and to the perfect accommodation of the brothers. Miss Campbell generously granted them her pardon, and made no more disagreeable allusions to the presence of Aristobulus Ursiclos.

“But,” said Sam, “it really is strange that it should be precisely at Oban that one cannot get a sea-horizon.”

“Nature is so whimsical!” replied his brother.

Aristobulus was doubtless very glad to hear that Miss Campbell was not going elsewhere to make her meteorological observations; but he was so much absorbed in one of his abstruse problems, that he quite forgot to express his satisfaction.

The whimsical young lady did not seem to notice this delinquency, for whilst she was still utterly indifferent to him, her greeting was not quite so frigid when next they met.

Meanwhile, the state of the atmosphere had slightly improved; but though the weather remained fine, at sunrise and sunset the sky was generally flecked with clouds, so that it would only have been waste of time to go to Seil; they must exercise a little more patience.

During these long days Miss Campbell, leaving her uncles with the suitor of their choice, would wander along the sea-shore, sometimes accompanied by Dame Bess, but more often alone. She was glad to get away from the crowd of idle people one generally meets at bathing-places, whole families whose only occupation seems to be to sit on the beach and watch the tide come in and go out, whilst small boys and girls dig and roll about on the sands with a truly British freedom of attitude; grave phlegmatic gentlemen in their somewhat rudimentary bathing costumes, whose principal object in life seems to be to plunge up and down for ten minutes or so in the salt water; men and women of the highest respectability sitting motionless and stiff on the green benches, listlessly turning over the leaves of a book; tourists with telescopes slung over their shoulders; others with broad-brimmed hats, high gaiters, and umbrellas under their arms, who had arrived yesterday, and would leave again to-morrow; then in the midst of this crowd, sellers of all descriptions hawking their goods, electricians who for a few pence sell the fluid to any one who likes to pay for the fancy; itinerant piano-organists; photographers, in any number, printing off impromptu groups by the dozen; merchants in black overcoats; costermongers in broad-brimmed hats, pushing before them their little trucks, on which are displayed for sale the finest fruits in the world; negro minstrels with blackened faces, in various disguises, acting popular plays and singing comic songs, surrounded with a circle of children who gravely join in the choruses.

This sort of life at the sea-side had no charm for Miss Campbell; she preferred to get away as far as possible from the crowd, who seem as much strangers to each other as though they had come from the four quarters of the globe.

So, when her uncles, uneasy at her absence, wanted to find her, they had to search at the farther end of the beach, among the rocks overlooking the bay.

There Miss Campbell might be found, like Minna of “The Pirate,” leaning against a rock, her head resting on one hand, and with the other listlessly picking the seaweed growing here and there; her absent glance wandering from a “stack” whose rocky summit rose perpendicularly, to some obscure cavern, one of those “helyers,” as they call them in Scotland, echoing with the roaring of the sea.

In the distance might be seen rows of cormorants, sitting motionless like sacred birds, which she liked to watch when disturbed from their tranquillity they flew off, skimming the crests of the waves with their wings.

Of whom was the young girl thinking? Aristobulus Ursiclos undoubtedly would have had the conceit, and her uncles the simplicity to imagine that she was thinking of him, wherein they would have been much mistaken.

In her musings Miss Campbell’s thoughts would wander back to the scene in the Corjrvrechan. Again she saw the boat in peril, and the Glengary venturing to its assistance through the straits; again she experienced that keen emotion which had thrilled her when the boat with its two occupants had disappeared behind the breakers! Then there came the rescue, the rope thrown at the opportune moment, the graceful young man appearing on deck, calm and smiling, less moved than herself, and bowing with a dignified air to the passengers.

To an imaginative young girl here was matter for romance, but it seemed that the romance would be concluded in this first chapter; the book had been abruptly closed in Miss Campbell’s hands, and at what page might she ever open it again, since her “hero,” like some Woden of the Gaelic epoch, had never reappeared.

But had she ever looked out for him among the heedless crowds on the sea-shore? Perhaps. Had she met him? No; he would never have recognized her. Why should he have noticed her on board the Glengary? Why should he have come to her? How could he have guessed that it was to her he owed his safety? And yet it was she before any one else who had noticed the boat in danger; she who had been the first to entreat the captain to go to his rescue! And, in fact, it was owing to him that she had perhaps that evening lost the sight of the Green Ray; it was to be feared so at least.

During the three days following the arrival of the Melville family at Oban, the sky would have driven any astronomer to despair. It was covered with a kind of haze, more deceiving than clouds would have been; the most powerful glass or telescope, or even the reflector at Cambridge or Parsonstown, would have been incapable of piercing it. The sun alone was sufficiently powerful to penetrate it with its rays; but at sunset the sea-horizon was embanked with light mists, which were dyed with the most brilliant hues, so that it would have been impossible for the Green Ray to reach the eyes of an observer.

Carried away by a somewhat fanciful imagination, Miss Campbell, in her reverie, confused the hero of the Gulf of Coryvrechan and the Green Ray. Certain it was that neither one nor the other appeared, and if mists obscured one, incognito concealed the other.

The brothers Melville were ill-advised when they besought their niece to have patience. Miss Campbell did not trouble herself to make them responsible for these atmospheric disturbances. Thus they only had recourse to the excellent barometer which they had taken care to bring with them from Helensburgh, and which steadily refused to rise. In truth, they would have given their snuff-box to obtain a cloudless sunset!

As for the savant Ursiclos, one day, in speaking of these mists, he had the ill address to pronounce their formation quite natural, and this led to a short physical lecture, which he made in Miss Campbeirs presence. He spoke of clouds in general, of their downward motion which brought them to the horizon with a falling temperature, of mists reduced to a vesiculous state, of their scientific classing into nimbus, stratus, cumulus, cirrus! Needless to say he was not thanked for his display of wisdom. And this was so marked that the brothers did not know what attitude to assume during the inopportune discourse.

Yes, Miss Campbell pointedly “cut” the young savant; first of all she pretended to look in quite an opposite direction, so as not to hear him; then she kept her eyes persistently on Dunolly Castle, and appeared quite oblivious of his presence. Finally, she studiously examined her dainty sand-shoes, the most marked form of undisguised indifference, and the greatest proof of contempt the young Scotchwoman could have shown, and which was intended as much for the speaker as for his lecture.

Aristobulus, who was so entirely absorbed in his own self-importance and never spoke but for his own gratification, either did not or did not appear to, notice this treatment.

Thus passed the 3rd, 4th, 5th, and 6th of August; but during that last day, to the brothers’ great delight, the barometer rose some degrees above change.

The following day dawned fair and cloudless. At ten o’clock the sun was shining brilliantly, and the sky was of a pure, limpid azure.

Miss Campbell could not let this opportunity escape. A carriage belonging to the hotel, always kept at her disposal, was ordered; now, if ever, was the time to make use of it; so at five o’clock in the afternoon, she and her uncles took their places in this carriage and four, driven by a skilful “whip,” Partridge sitting in the rumble, and thus they started off on the road to Clachan.

Aristobulus Ursiclos, to his great reret — if not to Miss Campbell’s — being deeply engaged in some important scientific pursuit, was unable to make one of the party.

The drive was charming from every point of view; the carriage took the road along the sea-shore, the whole length of the strait which separates the isle of Kerera from the mainland. This island, of volcanic origin, is most picturesque; but it had one drawback in Miss Campbell’s eyes, namely, that it obstructed her view of the sea-horizon; however, as this would only last for about four miles and a half, she condescended to admire its harmonious outline, clearly defined against the sky, with the ruins of the Danish castle crowning its southern heights.

“That was formerly the abode of the MacDouglasses of Lorn — ” remarked Sam.

“And has a peculiar interest to our family,” added Sib; “since it was destroyed by the Campbells, who laid it in ruins, after having remorselessly massacred all its inhabitants!”

This fact seemed to win the particular approbation of Partridge, who quietly rubbed his hands in honour of the clan.

When they had passed the island of Kerera, the carriage took a narrow and slightly hilly road to the village of Clachan; from there they crossed the artificial isthmus, which, under the form of a bridge, spans the strait and unites the island of Seil with the mainland. Half an hour later, leaving the carriage at the foot of a ravine, the excursionists climbed the steep slopes of a hill, and seated themselves on the edge of the rocks overlooking the sea.

This time nothing could possibly obstruct the view of the western horizon; neither the isle of Easdale, nor that of Inish lying near Seil. Between the point of Ardalanish on the isle of Mull, one of the largest of the Hebrides to the north-east, and the island of Colonsay to the south-west, was a wide expanse of ocean, which would ere long be flooded with the crimson hues of sunset

Miss Campbell, filled with her one absorbing thought, stood a little in front of the others; a few birds of prey eagles and hawks, alone enlivened the stillness of the scene, hovering over their nests among the rocks.

Astronomically, at this time of year, and in these latitudes, the sun should set at ten minutes to eight o’clock, exactly in the direction of the point of Ardalanish. But a few weeks later it would be impossible to see it, as it would then set behind the island of Colonsay.

This evening, then, was well chosen, in point of time and place, for the observation of the phenomenon.

At this moment the sun was casting its rays obliquely on the cloudless horizon, and their eyes were scarcely able to bear the dazzling glare of its fiery disk, which the water reflected in a long train of light. Nevertheless, neither Miss Campbell nor her uncles would have consented to close their eyes — no! not even for a second.

But before the surface of the sun had touched the horizon, Miss Campbell uttered a cry of dismay!

A small cloud, slight as an arrow, and long as the flag of a man-of-war, had just appeared, and, floating across the solar disk, divided it into two unequal parts, and appeared to be sinking with it to the level of the sea.

It seemed as though the slightest breath of air would have been suflicient to drive it away! But no such breeze was forthcoming! And when the sun was reduced to a small arc, this light mist entirely circumscribed it. The Green Ray, lost in this little cloud, was hidden from the eyes of the intent observers.

CHAPTER XX.

FOR HELENA’S SAKE.

A few moments later, Oliver Sinclair, having rapidly crossed the causeway, reached the entrance of the cave, near the steps cut in the rock.

The brothers and Partridge followed him closely, but Dame Bess remained in Clam-shell Cave, waiting with inexpressible anxiety, and getting everything ready to receive Helena on her return.

The sea had already risen high enough to cover the ledge of rock forming the foot-path; it was dashing over the hand-rail, and made it quite out of the question to enter the cave this way.

As it was impossible to enter by this path, it was equally impossible for any one to get out of the cavern, and if Miss Campbell were there, she must be quite a prisoner! But how could they ascertain this, and how could they reach her?

“Helena! Helena!”

Could she possibly hear this name through the ceaseless crashing of breakers? A wild uproar of wind and waves filled the cavern, and it was of little use to look or call.

“Perhaps Helena is not there,” said Sam, who would willingly have clung to this hope.

“But where else can she be then?” replied his brother.

“Yes! where else can she be?” cried Sinclair. “Have I not searched for her in vain, in every nook and corner of the island? Would she not have returned before this if she could have done so? She is there! — there!”

And then they remembered the rash wish, which the imprudent young girl had often expressed, to see a storm in Fingal’s Cave. Had she then forgotten that the sea, in a storm, would rise higher and higher, till it made the cave a prison from which it would be impossible to escape?

What could they now do in order to rescue her?

The hurricane was venting its full force on this corner of the island, and sometimes the waves rose above the archway of the cave, where they broke with a deafening roar, and then fell back in sheets of foam, like the cataracts of Niagara, but the body of water rushed with overwhelming force, right into the cave, like a torrent suddenly overleaping its barrier, so that the farther end of the cavern received its full force.

In what niche could Miss Campbell have found a refuge which would not have been assailed by such terrific breakers? The arch of the cave was directly exposed to their force, and in their rise and fall they must have swept the foot-path with irresistible fury.

But still they refused to believe that the rash young girl was there! How could she have withstood the force of such a sea? Would not her torn and mutilated body have been carried out by the retreating waters? Would not the currents have swept her past the rocky causeway, right up to Clam-shell Cave?

“Helena! Helena!”

This name was persistently shouted through the hubbub of wind and wave, but there was no answer.

“No! no! she cannot be in the cave!” replied the brothers in despair.

“She is there!” persisted Oliver Sinclair.

And he pointed to a piece of ribbon which a retreating wave had cast on the steps of the rock.

He rushed to seize it.

It was the snood which Miss Campbell wore on her hair. Was it possible to doubt now?

But then, if this ribbon had been torn from her, must not the same blow have crushed her against the rock?

“I will know!” cried Oliver Sinclair.

And taking advantage of a receding wave, which left the foot-way almost clear, he seized the hand-rail, but a heavy sea immediately dashed him on to the landing-place.

Had not Partridge, at the risk of his life, rushed forward and caught him, Sinclair would have rolled down the steps and been carried off by the sea without a chance of being rescued.

The young man struggled to his feet. His determination to enter the cave was not in the least shaken.

“Miss Campbell must be there!” he repeated; “and she is alive, since her body has hot been swept past us, like this strip of ribbon! It is quite possible that she may have found refuge in some recess. But her strength will soon give way, and she cannot hold out until the tide goes down. We must manage to reach her somehow!”

“I will go,” said Partridge.

“No; leave it to me,” replied Sinclair.

He was about to attempt the last means of saving Helena, and yet it was one chance in a hundred whether it would succeed.

“Wait here for us, gentlemen,” said he to the brothers, “and we will be back in five minutes. Come on, Partridge.”

The two brothers stood in a corner, sheltered by the cliff, out of reach of the waves whilst Oliver Sinclair and Partridge hurried back to Clam-shell Cave.

It was then half-past eight. Five minutes later the young man and Partridge reappeared, dragging along the causeway the boat which the skipper had left them.

Could Oliver be thinking of attempting to enter the cave by sea, since it was impossible to do so by land?

Yes, he was about to make that venture; he was risking his life, and he knew it, but that did not make him hesitate for a moment.

The boat was brought to the foot of the staircase, where it was sheltered from the surf behind a projecting rock.

“I am going with you,” said the old servant.

“No, Partridge,” replied Oliver, “we must not laden this light boat uselessly, and if Miss Campbell is yet alive, I shall be able to manage by myself.”

“Oliver,” cried the brothers, with tears in their eyes; “Oliver, save our child!”

The young man pressed their hands, then, springing into the boat, he seized the oars and skilfully pushed out into the eddying sea; then, waiting an instant for the reflux of an enormous wave, he was carried right in front of the cave. Here the boat was nearly upset; but, with a dextrous movement of the oars, Oliver succeeded in keeping her straight. Had she ben aught amidships, she would inevitably have been capsized.

At first the waves carried the frail boat almost above the entrance of the cavern, and one would have thought the nutshell would have been dashed to pieces against the rock, but the receeding wave drew it swiftly back with irresistable force.

Three times the light craft was thus tossed to and fro, first precipitated towards the cave, then carried back again, without being able to effect a passage through the waters which barred the entrance, but Oliver retained his self-possession, and held his own with the oars.

At last the boat was balanced for a moment on the crest of an enormous breaker, which rose almost as high as the plateau of the island, then fell with tremendous rapidity right at the foot of the cave, and Sinclair was hurled down its liquid back as though he were shooting a rapid.

A cry of horror escaped the spectators of this scene, for it appeared that the boat must inevitably be dashed against the rocks to the left of the entrance.

But the intrepid young man, with a stroke of the oars, righted her. The mouth of the cavern was then free, and, with the rapidity of an arrow, he was carried forward on the huge mass of water and disappeared inside the cavern.

A second later, the liquid sheets broke in an avalanche of foam against the island.

Would the boat be dashed to pieces against the rocks at the end of the cavern, and would there be two victims now instead of one?

Such was not the case. Oliver Sinclair had been hurled swiftly past the uneven roof of the cavern, but, by lying flat in the boat, he had escaped being struck by the projections of rock. In the space of a second he had reached the further end of the cavern, his only fear being that he might be carried out again by the retreating waters, before he could seize hold of some ledge of rock.

The boat was dashed against the columns at the end of the cave, and was broken in two, but fortunately Sinclair had time to lay hold of a projecting rock, which he clutched with the tenacity of a drowning man, and by this means hoisted himself out of reach of the sea.

A moment later, the broken boat was carried out by the retreating wave, and at sight of the wreck, the brothers and Partridge could not but conclude that the gallant young man had perished.

The original frontispice

CHAPTER V

Turkey in Europe actually comprehends three principal provinces, Roumania (Thrace and Macedonia), Albania and Thessaly, and a tributary province, Bulgaria. It is only since the treaty of 1878, that the kingdom of Roumania, with the principalities of Servia and Montenegro, have been declared independent, and Austria occupied Bosnia, less the “sanjak” of Novi Bazar.

Seigneur Keraban, when he made up his mind to follow the littoral of the Black Sea, perceived he would have to proceed by the coasts of Roumelia, Bulgaria and Roumania to reach the Russian frontier. Thence crossing Bessarabia, the Chersonese, Tauridis, or even the Tcherkess country, over the Caucasus and Transcaucasia, the route would turn southward and eastward by the Euxine to the limit which separates Russia from the Ottoman Empire.

Afterwards, by the littoral of Anatolia to the south of the Black Sea, the most headstrong of Ottomans would reach the Bosphorus at Scutari once again without having paid the newly imposed tax.

In fact he had to make a journey of six hundred and fifty Turkish “agatchs,” which are equal to about two thousand, eight hundred kilometres, or to reckon by the Ottoman league — that is to say, the distance which a horse will ordinarily walk in an hour — the tour embraced a distance of seven hundred leagues, twenty-five to a degree. Now, from the 17 th August to 30th September, there are forty-five days; so Keraban must make fifteen leagues in four-and-twenty hours, if he wished to return by the 30th September, the last day on which the marriage of Amasia could take place if the conditions of the will respecting the hundred thousand pounds of her aunt must be fulfilled. In any case, Keraban and his guest would not be able to sit down at his table in Scutari, and eat the dinner there awaiting them, in less than forty-five days.

Nevertheless, by taking advantage of the several railway lines, the journey and the time could have been very considerably abridged. Thus, from Constantinople the railway may be traversed to Andrinople and a branch thence to Janboli. The Varna and Rutschuck line unites with the Roumanian railways, and these extend to southern Russia by Jassi, Kisscheneff, Kharkow, Taganrog, and so on up to the Caucasus. A line from Tiflis to Poti runs to the Black Sea shore, and reaches almost to the Russian frontier. Certainly there is no railway across Turkey in Asia nearer than Broussa, but thence Scutari may be reached by the iron road.

But to argue on the above lines with Seigneur Keraban, would have been so much time wasted. That he — one of the Old Turks — would condescend to make use of these modem appliances of locomotion, he, who for forty years had resisted all European encroachments! The idea was preposterous! Never! He would rather walk every step of the way than cede the point!

So that same evening when Van Mitten and the merchant had reached the office of the latter at Galata, the question had been already raised and settled. The Dutchman’s first suggestion respecting railroads was received with a shrug of the shoulders, and finally with a point-blank refusal, by Keraban.

“Nevertheless,” continued Van Mitten, who thought it right to insist, though without any hope of persuading his host, “Nevertheless, it seems to me — “

“When I say ‘No,’” interrupted Keraban, “I mean No. Besides, you are my guest, I have to take care of you, and you cannot proceed without me,” he added.

“So be it,” answered Van Mitten. “But putting railways aside, perhaps there are some simple means whereby we may reach Scutari without crossing the Bosphorus, but still without going all round the Black Sea.”

“What are they?” enquired Keraban frowning. “If they are good, I will adopt them; if bad, I decline.”

“I know an excellent way,” said Van Mitten.

“Speak quickly. We have to make all our preparations yet. We have not a minute to lose!”

“This is my idea,” said Van Mitten. “Let us go to one of the nearest ports and cross to Scutari by steamer.”

“By steamer! Use a steamboat!” exclaimed Keraban, raised to “boiling point” at once by the very mention of steam.

“Very well then, by a sailing vessel, a zebec, a felucca, a skiff — anything you please: starting from one of the Anatolian ports, Kirpih for instance. Thence we could reach Scutari in a day, and drink the health of the muchir on our arrival!”

Seigneur Keraban had permitted his friend to continue without interruption. Perhaps he was already inclined to adopt Van Mitten’s suggestion, which promised a solution of the difficulty, and, at the same time saved his own pride and amour propre. But after a while his eyes kindled, his fingers clenched and unclenched, and at length his fists, tightly closed, indicated a by no means reassuring temper to Nizib, who knew the signs.

“So, Van Mitten, you counsel me to embark upon the Black Sea to avoid crossing the Bosphorus? That is what your suggestion comes to.”

“That would be the best plan, I think,” replied Van Mitten.

“Have you ever heard any mention of a certain malady called sea sickness?” enquired Keraban, quickly.

“Of course I have,” replied the Dutchman.

“And you have never experienced it?”

“Never. Besides the transit is such a short one — “

“So short!” exclaimed Keraban. “And may I enquire what you call ‘ so short?’”

“Scarcely sixty leagues, I imagine.”

“Well, it does not matter whether it be only fifty, or twenty, or ten, or only five,” exclaimed Keraban, who always became excited when contradicted or opposed. “If it were only two leagues, they would be too long for me!”

“But just think for a moment — “

“Do you know the Bosphorus?”

“Yes.”

“There is scarce half-a-league of water between here and Scutari?”

“I believe so.”

“Well then, whenever there is the least wind, I am always ill when crossing in my caique.”

“Sea-sick?” enquired Van Mitten. “I should be equally upset on a pond or in a bath. So now speak to me again about crossing the Black Sea, if you dare. Just dare to suggest to me any transit by sailing vessel again! try it!”

We need scarcely add that the worthy Dutchman did not discuss the question farther and the suggestion dropped.

But how should they proceed? Communications were not easily made — at least in Turkey; but they are not impossible. On the ordinary routes relays could be found, and the travellers could journey on horseback, with provisions and supplies and with a guide — at least they could put themselves under the care of the Tartar courier who is charged with the postal service. But as the courier has only a limited time to proceed from one station to another, to follow him would induce too much fatigue; and to those unaccustomed to such rapid travelling, riding “post haste “was out of the question.

In any case the Seigneur Keraban did not intend to travel in this manner. He would proceed rapidly, but comfortably.

It was merely a question of expense, and that would have no weight with the rich merchant of Galata.

“Well,” said Van Mitten in a resigned tone, “since we can’t travel by railway, steamboat or sailing vessel, how do you propose that we shall proceed?”

“By post chaise.”

“With your own horses?”

“With relays”

“And do you expect to find relays all along the route? “Yes, I do.”

“They will be very expensive!”

“What it will cost, it will cost,” replied Keraban, who again began to feel ruffled.

“You won’t get out of this journey under a thousand pounds (Turkish) — perhaps fifteen hundred pounds,” said Van Mitten.

“Be it so! I will spend millions, I tell you: millions if necessary. Now have you come to the end of your objections?”

“Yes,” replied the Dutchman.

“And time too,” said Keraban, in a tone which suggested to Van Mitten the propriety of holding his tongue.

Nevertheless, he could not refrain from remarking to his imperious host that the journey would be attended with great expense; that he himself was expecting large remittances from Holland which he intended to place in the Bank at Constantinople; that in fact he had not much money with him; and — “

Here Keraban put his hand upon his friend’s mouth, and informed him that the expenses of the journey concerned him (Keraban) and him only; that Van Mitten was his guest; and that it was his custom to pay his guests’ expenses, etc, etc.

At the “etcs “the Dutchman gave in, and no more was said on that point Had Keraban not been the fortunate possessor of an old English-built carriage, he would have been driven to the necessity of hiring a Turkish “araba” drawn by oxen. But the old post-chaise which had made the journey from Rotterdam was there in the stable and quite ready for use.

This chaise was comfortably arranged for three travellers. In front a great box of provisions and luggage was secured, and behind a seat was carried up in the form of a hooded “rumble,” in which two servants could travel comfortably. There was no coachman’s “box,” so the journey must be accomplished by post-horses.

It no doubt appeared ridiculous to modern connoisseurs, but the vehicle was well-built, hung on good springs, had large wheels, and was capable of defying the roughest roads.

Van Mitten and Keraban occupied the interior of the chaise; Bruno and Nizib were perched up behind in the “cabriolet,” which afforded them shelter and was furnished with glasses which they could pull up at pleasure. Under such circumstances they felt equal to the journey to China, but fortunately the Black Sea did not extend so far, or Van Mitten would have been introduced to the “celestial “capital.

Preparations for the journey were at once commenced, and if Keraban could not start that very evening, as in the heat of the discussion he said he would do, he determined to leave the city at dawn next morning.

One night is not too long a period to make arrangements for such an expedition, and to put business matters in train. So the employers at the counting-house were “requisitioned “just as they were about to refresh themselves after a long day’s fast. And Nizib was there, invaluable on all such occasions.

As for Bruno he had to return to the Hotel de Pesth, Grande Rue de Pera, where his master and he had arrived that very morning, and arrange for the transfer of their luggage to the business premises of Keraban. The faithful Dutchman was accompanied by his master, for he would not have dared to leave him.

“So, sir, it is all decided; “he said, as soon as he and Van Mitten had quitted the merchant’s house.

“How can it be otherwise with such a man as Keraban?” said Van Mitten.

“And we are going all round the Black Sea?”

“Yes; unless my friend alters his course, which is almost an impossible contingency.”

“I never thought we should ever find such a pig-headed Mussulman as he is,” remarked Bruno.

“Your comparison, if not polite, is nevertheless correct,” replied his master; “so, as I have hurt my hand in trying to hammer sense into him, I will abstain from attempting it in future.”

“I was hoping to rest a little in Constantinople,” said Bruno. “This journey and I — “

“This is not a journey, Bruno; it is simply ‘another way’ that Keraban is taking me home to dine with him!”

But this way of looking at things did not suit Bruno. He did not like moving; and here he was destined to be travelling about for weeks — perhaps months — across various countries; interesting, no doubt, but difficult and dangerous. Besides, the fatigue consequent upon such a journey would reduce him considerably in size and weight, and he would lose some of those hundred and sixty-seven pounds which he valued so highly.

Then his lamentable refrain came to his master’s ears over and over again —

“Something will happen to you, sir; something evil will come of it, I tell you.”

“We shall see in good time,” replied the Dutchman. “Meanwhile collect our luggage, while I go and purchase a ‘Guide’ of the countries, and a note-book to record our impressions. Then you can return here and go to bed — or rest yourself.”

“When?”

“When we have made the tour of the Black Sea, for it is fated we must make it”

With this fatalism, which a Mussulman need not have been ashamed of, Bruno shook his head, and departed. The journey certainly did not commend itself to him.

Two hours later, Bruno came back with the baggage carried by stout porters. These were the natives whom Theophile Gautier called “two-footed camels without humps.”

The “gibbosity,” however, was not wanting in this instance, for the men carried heavy packs or trunks on their backs. These were deposited in the court yard, and the chaise was loaded.

Meantime Keraban was putting his affairs in order, and giving instructions to his clerks and managers. He wrote some letters, and drew a large sum in gold, as paper money was depreciated. He required Russian money, too, and he proposed to change his Ottoman gold at the caisse of his friend Selim, the banker, at Odessa.

The preparations were rapidly completed. Provisions were packed, and some defensive weapons deposited in the chaise, in readiness for an emergency. Keraban had not forgotten two narghiles, for Van Mitten and himself, an article quite indispensible to a Turk, and particularly for a tobacco-merchant The horses had been ordered to arrive at daybreak. From midnight to sunrise there was time for supper and some sleep. Next morning, when Seigneur Keraban sent to call the rest of the party, they jumped up and dressed in their travelling costumes.

The chaise was ready; the horses harnessed; the postillion mounted; he was waiting for the travellers.

Seigneur Keraban repeated his instructions to his men. All were ready to start.

Van Mitten, Bruno, and Nizib waited, silent, in the yard.

“So you have really determined?” whispered Van Mitten to his friend Keraban.

The latter merely pointed to the chaise, but made no verbal reply.

Van Mitten bowed, and gravely entered the carriage, taking the left-hand seat, Keraban entered after him. Nizib and Bruno climbed up into the “cabriolet” at the back.

“Ah, my letter!” exclaimed Keraban, just as the postillion was starting his horses.

Then, letting down the window, he handed a letter to one of his clerks, with directions to put it in the post.

This letter was addressed to his housekeeper at his villa at Scutari, and contained only these words —

“Dinner put off until my return. Change the menu. Soup au lait caille, shoulder of mutton aux ‘epices. Be sure it is not overdone.”

Then the chaise rolled away through the streets, crossed the Golden Horn on the bridge of Valideh Sultane, and quitted the town by Jene Kapoussi, the New-gate.

Seigneur Keraban has gone! May Allah protect him!

CHAPTER VI.

FROM an administrative point of view, Turkey in Europe is divided into “vilayets” (governments or departments), administered by a “vali “(governor-general) — a sort of prefect nominated by the sultan. These “vilayets “are subdivided into “sanjaks” or districts governed by a “moustesarif,” into “kazas “or cantons administered by a “caimacan”; and “nahaies “or communes, with a “moudir “or mayor. This, as will be perceived, is something like the French system of administration.

But, as a matter of fact, Keraban had few if any points of contact with the authorities of the “vilayets” of Roumelia, which cuts the route from Constantinople to the frontier. This route keeps, as nearly as possible, to the shore of the Black Sea, and shortened the journey he had to make.

The weather was very pleasant for travelling. The heat was tempered by a refreshing breeze from the sea, which came in an uninterrupted course across the somewhat flat country. First the fields of maize, barley, and rye, with vineyards, which are widely cultivated in the Ottoman empire, met the eye. Then came forests of oaks, pines, beech, birch; then clusters here and there of plantains, Judas-tree, laurels, figs, St John’s bread-tree, and, particularly near the sea, pomegranates and olives identical with those of the same latitude of lower Europe.

Leaving the gate of Jeni the carriage took the road to Choumla, whence a branch-road leads to Andrinople by way of Kirk-Kilisie. This road follows, and many times crosses, the railway which puts Andrinople, the second capital of the Ottoman empire, in communication with Constantinople.

As the carriage was being driven rapidly alongside the railway, the train overtook the travellers, and a man put his head out of a railway carriage to have a look at the chaise, which was proceeding at a great pace.

This traveller was no other than the Maltese captain, Yarhud, who was on his way to Odessa, where, thanks to the speed of the train, he would arrive long before the uncle of young Ahmet.

Van Mitten could not resist his impulse to call the attention of his companion to the train, which sped past them at a high speed. Keraban merely shrugged his shoulders.

“Eh, friend Keraban, they get to their destination very quickly,” said Van Mitten.

“Yes, when they do arrive at it,” replied Keraban.

Not an hour was lost in this the first day of the expedition. As money in plenty was forthcoming, there were no delays in procuring horses: the animals were quite as willing as the postillions to work for a master who paid so handsomely.

The travellers passed Tchataldje, by Buyuk Khan, by the watershed of the tributaries of the Sea of Marmora, by the valley of Tchorloxa, by the village of Yeni Keni; then by the valley of Galata, across which, if the legend be true, are dug subterranean canals which used to supply the capital with water.

At nightfall the carriage stopped, but only for an hour, at the long, straggling village of Serai. As the provisions the travellers carried with them were more particularly destined for consumption in the localities where it would be difficult to procure food even of inferior quality, it was decided to keep the store in reserve. So Keraban and his companions dined at Serai, and the journey was then resumed.

Bruno, we may venture to say, found it somewhat unpleasant to pass the night in the “dicky “of the carriage, but Nizib had no such feelings, and accepted the situation as a matter of course. He slept soundly, and set his companion such a good example that he could not do otherwise than profit by it The night passed without incident, thanks to the long and winding road which formed the approach to the town of Viga, and avoided the rude slopes and marshy ground of the valley. Van Mitten much regretted that he could not see that little town, which contains about a thousand people, almost all Greeks, and which is the seat of a bishop. But he had not come to see. He was the companion of the Inflexible Keraban who did not trouble himself to collect any impressions of his journey.

About five o’clock the next evening, after having passed the villages of Bounar-Hissan, Jena, and Uskup, the travellers threaded a little wood wherein were several tombs. In the graves underneath lay the remains of the victims of a band of brigands who had at one time infested the neighbourhood. The travellers then reached a fair-sized town containing about 16,000 inhabitants, called Kirk-Kilisse. This name, which signifies “Forty Churches,” is justified by the number of religious edifices. It is situated in a valley, the sides and bottom of which are occupied by the houses where Van Mitten and his valet explored in a few hours.

The carriage was put up in the courtyard of a respectable hotel, where Seigneur Keraban and his companions passed the night, and started again at daybreak.

During the day (19 August) the postillion cleared the village of Karabounar, and in the evening, late, arrived at Bourgaz, which is situated on the gulf of that name. The travellers slept that evening in a “khan,” or kind of rude inn, which certainly was not so comfortable as the post-chaise.

Next morning they found the road parted with the coast, and ran inland towards Aidos; in the evening the party arrived at Paravadi, one of the stations of the little railway from Choumla to Vama. They then traversed the province of Bulgaria to the southern extremity of the Dobroutcha, at the foot of the last spurs of the Balkan chain.

At this point the difficulties became serious: there were so many swampy valleys, so many forests of aquatic plants to be passed, through which it was almost impossible for the chaise to make way, and where its progress disturbed from their retreats thousands of wild-fowl The Balkans form a very important mountain chain. In its range between Bulgaria and Roumelia it detaches many spurs northward which extend in undulations almost to the Danube.

Hereabouts Keraban’s patience was sorely tried.

When it became necessary to cross the extremity of the chain before descending into the Dobroutcha the tremendously steep slopes and awkward comers rendered it quite impossible to drive the carriage round. So the horses had to be unharnessed several times in these narrow roads only suitable for horses alone, and all these arrangements took up a great deal of time, and gave rise to considerable ill-temper and much recrimination. When the horses were taken out, the carriage-wheels had to be blocked and lifted round, and above all “greased” with a considerable handful of piastres, which the postillions put into their pockets, declaring all the time that they must retrace their steps.

Keraban had good ground for inveighing against the existing government which permitted the roads to get so greatly out of repair, and which did so little to facilitate travelling in the provinces. The “divan” would not put itself out, except to impose taxes and restrictions of all kinds. Seigneur Keraban knew all about it! Ten paras to cross the Bosphorus indeed! He always harked back to this fixed idea, which continually oppressed him. Ten paras: ten: paras, forsooth!

Van Mitten took very good care not to answer Keraban. The very suspicion of contradiction would have enraged his inflexible companion. So Van Mitten, by way of appeasing his friend, found fault with all governments, and the Turkish administration in particular.

“But it is not possible that there could be such abuses in Holland!” exclaimed Keraban.

“On the contrary, there are, my friend;” replied Van Mitten, who was desirous to appease his companion at any cost.

“I tell you there are not,” retorted the latter. “It is only in Constantinople that such things are possible. Do you mean to tell me that they would put a tax upon caiques at Rotterdam P”

“We have no caiques there,” replied Van Mitten. “That is no matter.”

“No matter — what do you mean?”

“Well, supposing you had them there, your king would never venture to tax them. Now don’t tell me that this new-fangled Turkish government is not the very worst in the world.”

“The worst! not a doubt of it,” responded Van Mitten, who was anxious to bring the discussion to a close.

And so, the better to put an end to what after all was a mere conversation, he took out his long Dutch pipe, and the appearance of the pipe made Keraban anxious to stupefy himself also with the fumes of his narghili. The carriage was quickly filled with tobacco smoke and the glasses had to be let down to permit it to escape. So, by degrees and under the influence of the weed, the obstinate one became silent and even calm, until some trivial incident aroused him to the realities of the journey.

It became necessary, in the absence of shelter, to pass the night of the 20th of August in the carriage; and it was only when morning dawned that the last spurs of the Balkans were crossed, and the travellers found themselves beyond the Roumanian frontier in the more suitable roads of the Dobroutcha.

This region is almost a peninsula, formed by a great bend of the Danube, which, after turning northwards towards Galatz, bends to the east again towards the Black Sea, into which it discharges itself by many mouths. Indeed, the isthmus, so to speak, which unites the “peninsula” to the Balkans, is circumscribed by the portion of the province situated between Tchemavoda and Kustendjd, which are connected by railway. But south of the railroad, the country being essentially the same as the northern portion, topographical speaking, one may say that the plains of the Dobroutcha have their birth at the base of the last hills of the Balkan chain.

“The good country,” the Turks call this fertile tract wherein the land belongs to the first occupant. It is, if not inhabited, at any rate traversed by Tartar shepherds, and populated by Valaques in the portions near the river. The Ottoman Empire owns a considerable portion of this land, which exhibits a succession of plateaux, scarcely intersected by any valleys, which extend almost to the forests by the mouths of the Danube.

Upon the even roads the chaise proceeded rapidly. The post-masters had no occasion to grumble here when their horses were harnessed, or if they did it was only to keep themselves in practice.

Their progress was rapid, so fast indeed that on the 21st of August the travellers “changed” at Koslidcha and the same evening reached Bazardjik.

At the latter place Keraban determined to pass the night, and let every member of the party enjoy a good rest, of which Bruno was greatly in need, though he prudently kept his opinion to himself on this subject.

At daylight next morning the travellers proceeded with fresh horses in the direction of Lake Karasou, an immense shaft or reservoir, the waters of which pour themselves into the Danube in dry seasons when the river is low. About twenty-four leagues were accomplished in twelve hours, and at eight o’clock in the evening the carriage stopped at the station of Medjidie on the Kustendjd and Tchemavoda Railway. This town is quite a new one, but it already boasts of twenty thousand inhabitants, and promises to become more important.

At this station the travellers were obliged to wait till the line was clear, greatly to Keraban’s disgust, who was in a hurry to reach the “khan “in which he proposed to pass the night. But a train was on the line, and fifteen minutes elapsed before it proceeded. A torrent of invective was accordingly poured forth upon railway administration in general, which permitted all kinds of ill-doing, and not only smashed those travellers who were foolish enough to travel in the carriages, but hindered others who objected to use the railway.

“At any rate,” said Keraban to Van Mitten, “an accident will never happen to me in a train.”

“Who knows?” returned the Dutchman somewhat imprudently.

“I know it!” replied Keraban in a tone which brought the conversation to an abrupt conclusion.

At length the train moved away from the station; the gates were opened, and the carriage was permitted to pass. The travellers then reached the khan, where they were enabled to lodge comfortably in the place which was named after the Sultan Abdul Medjid.

Next day they crossed a desert to Babadagh, but so slowly was the journey made that it was deemed advisable to continue it through the night In the evening, about five o’clock, Toultcha was reached. This is one of the most important towns in Moldavia, and in such a city, containing representatives from nearly every country under heaven, Keraban had no difficulty in selecting a suitable hotel Van Mitten also had time to explore the town and the filled with tobacco smoke.”

amphitheatre, which is very picturesquely situated.

On the next day (24th August) the travellers crossed the Danube, and it need scarcely be said that the origin of the name of the river was the subject of a lively discussion between Keraban and Van Mitten, who argued from the Ister or Hister of the Greeks to the Roman name Danuvius, which in Thracian language signified “cloudy.” They argued from Celtic, Sanscrit, Greek, and. whether Professor Windish-man was wrong or Professor Bopp was right, till Keraban as usual reduced his adversary to silence by saying that Danube came from the Zend word “asdanu,” which means the “Rapid River.”

But rapid as it may be, its course is not sufficiently quick to carry away all its waters; and consequently inundations of the Danube have to be calculated on. Now Keraban in his obstinacy did not make any allowances for this, and notwithstanding all remonstrances persisted in crossing the Delta of the Danube.

He was not alone in this determination — that is, hundreds of aquatic birds were also crossing; but he ought to have recognized the fact that, if nature had made these residents web-footed, it was because they would have to inhabit a swampy region liable to inundations.

The horses and the carriage were, however, quite unfitted for such a transit; and the route was practically through a marsh which was almost impassable. Not withstanding the advice of the postillion, and Van Mitten’s remonstrances, Keraban gave the order to go on. So the men obeyed him. The consequence was that towards evening the carriage became embedded in the slough, and the horses were quite unable to extricate it.

“The roads are not properly attended to in this country,” said Van Mitten.

“They are as they are,” replied Keraban, “and just what you might expect under such a government!”

“We should do better if we retraced our steps and endeavoured to find another way,” said Van Mitten.

“On the contrary — we shall do better by continuing our journey and not changing our route at all.”

“But how are we to get on — ?”

“Get on? By sending for some more horses to the nearest village. It makes little difference whether we sleep in the carriage or in an inn, does it?”

There was nothing to be said to such an argument as this. The postillion and Nizib were dispatched for extra horses to the next village, which was not so very far away. They could not be expected to return, however, much before sunrise. So Keraban, Van Mitten, and Bruno had to reconcile themselves to the fact of passing the night in that vast plain, as desolate a “steppe” as the deserts of central Australia. Fortunately the carriage, already embedded to the axles, gave no signs of sinking any deeper in the quagmire.

The night was very dark. Great clouds came down very near the earth, chased by the winds from the Black Sea. Though there was no actual rain, a thick mist from the saturated ground arose like an Arctic fog. Nothing could be seen at a greater distance than ten paces, and the lamps of the carriage threw only a perplexing gleam through the mist, so that it would have been better, perhaps, to have extinguished them. It was possible that the light might attract some undesirable visitor; but when Van Mitten said so, the obstinate Keraban argued the point to such a length that it was quite lost. The Dutchman was right nevertheless, and had he been sharp enough to suggest their being left lighted, Keraban would no doubt have had them extinguished.

Ten o’clock came. Keraban, Van Mitten, and Bruno, after a light supper which consisted of some of the stores in the hampers, walked about smoking for about half an hour, pacing up and down a narrow path which was firm enough to sustain them.

“Now,” said Van Mitten, “I think, friend Keraban, that there is no objection to our going to sleep in the carriage until the fresh horses come.”

“I see no objection whatever,” replied Keraban, after a pause. This reply was somewhat extraordinary for a man who was always making objections.

“I do not think we have anything to fear in the middle of such an extensive plain,” said the Dutchman.

“I think not.”

“There is no attack likely to made upon us?”

“None.”

“Except, perhaps, the attacks of mosquitoes,” said Bruno, who had just succeeded in administering to himself a hard slap on the face, intended as a death-blow to half-a- dozen of those insects.

As a matter of fact, the worries of these insects became very trying. Attracted, perhaps, by the light of the carriage lamps the mosquitoes came singing in myriads around them.

“Hum,” said Van Mitten, “there is one thing needful, and that is a mosquito-net.”

“These are not mosquitoes,” said Keraban, as he scratched the back of his neck, “they are gnats.”

“I’ll be hanged if I can tell the difference then,” remarked Van Mitten, who did not wish to enter upon an entomological discussion.

“It is a very curious thing,” remarked Keraban, “that only the female insect attacks man.”

“I think I can understand that,” remarked Bruno, rubbing himself.

“I believe we should do well to get into the chaise,” said Van Mitten; “we shall be devoured if we remain here.”

“The countries of the Lower Danube are particularly plagued with these gnats, and one ought to sprinkle one’s bed and clothing with powder of pyrites.”

“Of which we have not a grain,” remarked Van Mitten.

“Precisely,” answered Keraban. “But who could have foreseen that we should have been stranded in the marshes of the Dobroutcha?”

“No one, friend Keraban.”

“I have heard it stated,” continued Keraban, “that a colony of Crimean Tartars, to whom the government had made a concession in this delta, was obliged to be broken up in consequence of the attacks of these gnats.”

“After our own experience, the tale does not seem improbable,” replied Van Mitten.

“Let us get into the carriage again,” said Keraban.

“We have remained out too long already,” said his friend, as the mosquitoes came buzzing round in myriads, beating their tiny wings thousands of times in a second.

Just as Keraban and his friend were about to enter the chaise, the former said —

“As we have nothing to fear, had not Bruno better remain outside and wait the return of the postillion?”

“He will not object,” said Van Mitten.

“I will not object because it is my duty to obey,” replied Bruno. “But I shall be eaten alive.”

“No,” replied Keraban. “I am informed that these gnats never bite twice in the same place; so that Bruno will soon be free from their attacks.”

“Yes, when I have been bitten in a million places,” said Bruno.

“That is what I mean,” retorted Keraban.

“But may I not, at any rate, keep watch in the ‘ dicky’?” asked Bruno.

“Certainly, so long as you do not go to sleep there.”

“And how is it possible for me to sleep in the middle of this swarm of mosquitoes?’

“Gnats,” replied Keraban; “merely gnats. Don’t forget that, Bruno.”

So saying, Keraban and Van Mitten shut themselves up in the carriage, while Bruno climbed into the ‘dicky,’ to keep watch over his master, or masters; for since Keraban and Van Mitten had met, Bruno could certainly count upon two masters.

Bruno, having carefully closed the carriage doors, went to see how the horses fared. The poor brutes, quite exhausted, lay prone upon the ground, breathing loudly, and mingling their hot breath with the fogs of the swamps.

“Old Nick himself will not drag them from this quagmire,” muttered Bruno. “Seigneur Keraban must have had some fine ideas concerning this route; but after all that is his business.”

Then the valet ascended to his perch, and let down the glasses, through which he could see the luminous bars projected by the carriage lamps through the mist.

What better could Bruno do to keep himself awake and his eyes open than endeavour to review all the circumstances which had carried him in the train of the inflexible Keraban, the most pig-headed of all Turks?

So he (Bruno), a native of ancient Batavia, a “loafer” in the streets and on the quays of Rotterdam, a fisherman of very slight pretence, a lounger by the canals which intersected his native town, had been carried away to the opposite end of Europe. He had made an enormous stride from Holland to Turkey. Scarcely disembarked in Constantinople, when fate dragged him to the steppes of the lower Danube. And there he was, perched up in the carriage, in the “dicky” of a post-chaise, in the midst of the marshes of the Dobroutcha, lost in the darkness of night, and fixed in the ground as firmly as the Gothic tower of Zuidekirk. And all this because he had undertaken to obey his master, who, without any necessity, had yielded to Keraban.

“Oh for the strangeness of human experience,” muttered Bruno. “Here I am, in a fair way to make the lour of the Black Sea — if we ever do make it — all to save ten paras, which I would willingly have paid out of my own pocket! Ah, this headstrong fellow will ruin me: I have already lost two pounds weight, and in four days! How much shall I have lost in four weeks? Oh, hang these insects!”

Though Bruno had carefully closed the “cabriolet,” some dozens of gnats had found their way in, and were feasting on him. So he rubbed and slapped and scratched, but so that Keraban should not hear him.

An hour passed; then another. Perhaps Bruno might have slept, had not the mosquitoes prevented any repose. But sleep under the circumstances was impossible.

It was nearly midnight when a brilliant idea occurred to Bruno: he would smoke, and so overcome the persistent attacks of the gnats with the puffs of tobacco. How did it happen he had not thought of it before? If the insects could live in such an atmosphere as he designed to create, they must be very hard to kill — these mosquitoes of the Danube.

So he drew his porcelain pipe — a sister of that which had been taken from him in Constantinople — and began to discharge thick volumes of tobacco smoke upon his enemies. The swarm hummed louder than ever, but soon dispersed and sought refuge in obscure corners of the cabriolet.

Bruno congratulated himself upon his manoeuvre. The battery which he had unmasked had routed his opponents, they had fled in disorder, but as he did not wish to make any prisoners — indeed, quite the contrary — he opened the glass and let the half stupefied insects escape, knowing that the tobacco would effectually keep the others at bay.

So, having gained the victory, Bruno paused to look around him over the field.

The night was very dark, and strong gusts of wind came tearing over the flats. Had not the carriage been so firmly embedded in the ground, it might have been overturned. But there was no fear of that.

Bruno stared northwards, endeavouring to distinguish some gleam of light which would indicate the approach of the postillion and Nizib with the horses. But the darkness was profound beyond the small space illumined by the carriage lamps. Nevertheless, while straining his eyes into the darkness, Bruno fancied he perceived, about 60 yards from his perch, some brilliant points of light, which moved about rapidly, and appeared sometimes on the ground, and sometimes about two or three feet above it The valet at first thought that the spots were the effects of “will-o’-the-wisp” or ignis fatuus, caused by the escape of gases from the marshy ground. But even if his reason led him into error, the horses would not have been conscious of the phenomenon, and they began to evince symptoms of uneasiness, and snorted loudly.

“Ah! what can this be?” said Bruno to himself. “Some new complication, no doubt. Perhaps they may be wolves yonder!”

This surmise was in no way extravagant; for these hungry animals are very numerous in the Delta of the Danube, and they had on this occasion no doubt been attracted by the smell of the horses.

“Diable,” muttered Bruno. “These are worse foes than mosquitos, or the gnats of our pig-headed friend. Tobacco will be no safeguard this time!”

CHAPTER IV.

All the occupants of the hut rose hurriedly and rushed to the windows to look out upon the sea. The waves, scattered in foam by the wind, were dashing more violently against the lighthouse. The darkness was profound, and it was impossible to see anything, even at a few paces distant, unless when the vivid flashes of lightning illuminated the horizon.

It was in one of these flashes that Ahmet reported some object which appeared and disappeared in the distance.

“It must be a ship!” he cried.

“If there be a ship there, the crew must have fired that cannon,” remarked Keraban.

“I will ascend into the gallery,” said one of the light-keepers as he advanced towards a little wooden staircase which opened and led upwards from one of the corners of the sitting-room.

“I will accompany you,” said Ahmet.

All this while, Keraban, Van Mitten, Bruno, and the other guardian, notwithstanding the tempest and the spray, remained standing in the bays of the broken windows.

Ahmet and his companion were not long in reaching the platform, which, on a level with the roof of the hut, served as a base for the scaffolding which sustained the lanthorn. Thence in the spaces between the beams which were fixed by cross-ties and formed the “tower,” a rough staircase ascended in sixty steps to the upper part of the structure which contained the light The hurricane was so fierce, that it was an undertaking of no small danger to ascend this stairway. The solid supports oscillated from their bases. Ahmet frequently was obliged to cling to the balustrade so firmly that he began to imagine he would never be able to let go; but, taking advantage of a slight lull, he was able to ascend a few more steps, and, following the keeper, who was quite as embarrassed as Ahmet himself, he managed to reach the upper gallery.

What a sight he beheld! A terrific sea dashing its enormous waves against the rocks; thick clouds of spray drove like rain above the lanthorn, while great mountains of water reared their crests in the offing still distinguishable by the atmospheric reflection; a sky of inky hue, covered with low clouds which chased each other with tremendous speed across the firmament, sometimes discovering as they parted, other masses of vapour more elevated, from which at times escaped the long livid flashes — so silent and so pale — reflections which told of another storm raging at a still greater distance above.

Ahmet and the light-keeper, crouching and holding tightly to the supports of the gallery, right and left, gazed seaward, seeking either the moving point already noticed or the flash of the cannon which would indicate the direction of the vessel.

Neither of the men spoke — it would have been impossible to hear each other, but their view embraced a considerable segment of the sea. The light of the lanthorn, surrounded by powerful reflectors, could not dazzle them, as it threw its brilliant rays of light before them to a distance of several miles.

But there was also a continual fear that the lanthom would be extinguished, and frequently the gusts of wind would reduce the flame to the very lowest ebb of light, threatening to extinguish it altogether. Birds, too, blinded by the storm, came dashing blindly against the lanthorn, like so many insects attracted by the light of a lamp, and bruised themselves against the iron grating which protected the apparatus. The force of the wind was so great that the upper part of the lighthouse oscillated frightfully. Nor need we be surprised at this, for the stone lighthouses in Europe, at times, rock so much that the pendulums of the clocks are stopped. All the more reason therefore for the oscillation of these wooden structures, which cannot possess the solidity of stone-work. In the particular case of which we are writing, Seigneur Keraban, who felt ill while crossing the Bosphorus, would have experienced all the horrors of sea-sickness had he stood on the gallery of the lighthouse.

Ahmet and the light-keeper sought to perceive the moving speck which they had already noticed in the sea. But, either it had disappeared or the flashes of lightning did not illuminate the spot it occupied. If it were a ship it was but too probable that the vessel had already been dashed to pieces by the tempest.

Suddenly Ahmet pointed towards the horizon. His eyes did not deceive him. An extraordinary meteor came along the surface of the sea, extending from the edges of the clouds.

Two columns, of vesicular shape, gaseous at the tops, liquid at the bases, united by a conical point and animated by a simultaneous rotatory movement of extreme velocity, presented a vast concavity to the wind, which was blowing fiercely over the waters, and causing the waves to form a whirlpool. In the intervals of the storm a sharp whistling noise could be heard, of such intensity that it must have been audible at a great distance. Frequent vivid flashes of forked lightning showed out the enormous body of the waterspout in strong relief, and then again it was lost in the darkness.

Suddenly, at a little distance from these waterspouts, the exact cause of which has never been accurately determined, a vivid flash was succeeded by a loud detonation.

“A cannon!” exclaimed Ahmet, extending his hand in the direction of the sound.

The light-keeper also concentrated his gaze upon the spot indicated.

“There, there!” he exclaimed; and by the glare of a tremendous flash of lightning, Ahmet perceived a vessel of considerable tonnage battling with the storm.

It was a felucca, disabled, her great lateen-sail in ribbons: without any power of resistance, she was driving helplessly on shore. With the rocks to leeward, and in the vicinity of the waterspouts which were proceeding towards her, it appeared impossible that she could escape destruction. It seemed merely a question of minutes, whether she was dashed to pieces or swamped.

Nevertheless, she bore up bravely. Perhaps, if she could escape the waterspouts, she would find a current which would carry her towards the harbour of Atina. Even scudding under bare poles, she might hit upon the channel, the direction of which was indicated by the lighthouse. It was her sole chance.

So the vessel was endeavouring to rid herself of the nearer of the two columns of water which threatened to drag her into the vortex around its base. Hence the firing of the Cannon: the shots were for defence, not signals of distress. It was necessary to break these columns of water, and the gunners succeeded in their aim, but imperfectly. A shot cut through the column about one-third of the way up; the two portions separated, floating in space like the “trunks “of some fantastic animal; then they re-united and resumed their rotatory movement, sucking up the air and water as they revolved.

It was then three o’clock in the morning, and the vessel was still driving towards the opening of the channel. At that moment, a tremendous blast shook the tower from base to summit Ahmet and the keeper feared the timbers would be uprooted from the ground. They found it therefore advisable to descend and seek shelter in the hut as quickly as possible. But the descent was not accomplished without difficulty and danger.

“Well?” asked Keraban, when they again appeared in the room.

“There is a ship,” replied Ahmet “In danger?”

“Yes,” replied the keeper — “at least unless it happens to find the channel of Atina.”

“But can it do so?”

“Yes, if the captain is acquainted with the straits; the light indicates their direction.”

“Can we do anything to guide the crew, or carry them assistance?” asked Keraban.

“Nothing!” was the reply.

As he spoke, a fearful flash of lightning, followed immediately by a tremendous peal of thunder, almost paralysed Keraban and his companions. It was a miracle that none of them were struck, if not directly, by the return-stroke. At the same time, a loud noise was heard, and a heavy mass came falling through the roof. The furious wind entered through the aperture, and levelled the wooden walls of the hut to the ground.

Providentially, none of those who were within were injured. The roof had fallen towards the right, while the travellers and their hosts were gathered in the left corner near the door.

“Outside, outside!” exclaimed one of the keepers, rushing out upon the rocks. They all followed him, and at once understood the cause of the catastrophe. The lightning had struck the lighthouse, and loosened the upper part, which in its fall, had demolished the roof, and the storm had completed the destruction of the hut.

Now, there was no longer a light to indicate the channel into the harbour of refuge. So, even if the vessel should escape the waterspouts, nothing could prevent her from being dashed to pieces on the reefs.

The spectators could perceive her carried helplessly along, while the columns of air and water whirled around her. Scarcely half a cable’s length intervened between the vessel and an enormous rock which stood out of the water, some fifty feet or more from the north-west extremity of the harbour. On this rock, the vessel would inevitably strike, break up, and perish.

Keraban and his companions paced the beach, regarding with horror the sad and terrible sight; powerless to assist the crew of the distressed ship; scarcely able themselves to resist the violence of the wind which covered them with spray and sand mixed with sea-water.

Some fishermen came hurrying up, perhaps to dispute over the timbers of the doomed ship which the hurricane was driving to destruction on the rocks. But Keraban and his companions did not regard the men in that light. They wished them to do all they could for the rescue of the shipwrecked crew: they desired more — that they would indicate the passage, and guide the steersman to the channel; for might not some current carry them in, and so avoid the shoals right and left?

“Torches! bring torches!” cried Keraban. Immediately some resinous pine-branches, torn from the adjacent trees, were lighted, and their dusky glare replaced in a measure the light of the lanthorn which had been extinguished.

Nevertheless, the doomed vessel rushed to destruction. While the lightning flashes lasted, the spectators could see the men on board working the ship. The captain was endeavouring to rig up a square sail, so as to steer her upon the beach, but, scarcely had he succeeded in getting it up when it was blown to ribbons, and the fragments were carried ashore like a covey of stormy petrels.

The prow of the little vessel was sometimes elevated high in air, and then plunged into a gulf where it was swallowed up, and appeared as if it had struck upon a submerged rock and would never rise again.

“Poor creatures!” cried Keraban. “Can nothing be done to save them?”

“Nothing,” replied the fishermen.

“A thousand piastres — ten thousand — a hundred thousand — to any who will afford them assistance,” exclaimed Keraban, excitedly.

But these offers were not accepted. It was impossible to swim in such a sea. Perhaps, with a rocket apparatus, one could have established communication; but no such apparatus was to be had, and the little port of Atina did not even boast a life-boat “But we cannot let the people perish!” repeated Keraban, who could contain himself no longer.

Ahmet and his companions were perfectly powerless.

Suddenly a cry from the deck of the doomed vessel made Ahmet start violently. He fancied he heard his name called — yes, his name had been pronounced distinctly amid all the uproar of the elements. In fact this was the case, for during a lull the cry was repeated plainly —

“Ahmet! Ahmet! Help!”

Who could be calling on him thus? His heart beat violently under the pressure of a terrible presentiment That vessel! he seemed to recognize it, he had seen it before! Where? Was it not at Odessa, in front of the villa of the banker Selim, on the very day when he had left it? “Ahmet — Ahmet!”

Again the cry resounded through the storm.

Keraban, Van Mitten, Bruno, Nizib came close to the young man, who with his arms extended towards the sea remained as if petrified.

“Your name — it is your name,” said Keraban.

“Yes, yes,” replied Ahmet — “my name.”

At that moment a flash of lightning which must have lasted two seconds — for it extended from one side of the horizon to the other — lit up the scene. In the midst of that brilliant illumination the vessel appeared as clearly as if it had been designed in white by some electrical effulgence. The main-mast was struck by the lightning, and burned like a torch in the midst of the hurricane.

At the stern of the felucca, two females, two young girls, stood wrapped in a close embrace, and from their lips escaped the supplication — ” Ahmet, Ahmet!”

“She! ‘Tis she — Amasia!” exclaimed the young man as he leaped upon one of the rocks.

Ahmet, Ahmet,” cried Keraban in his turn warningly.

He rushed towards his nephew, not to prevent but to assist him if necessary.

“Ahmet, Ahmet!”

Once more the name was carried across the raging water. Doubt was no longer possible.

“I come, I come,” screamed Ahmet, and precipitating himself from the rock into the foaming water, he disappeared.

Almost at the same moment, one of the waterspouts reached the bow of the vessel, which was sucked into the vortex and cast upon the reefs to the left, not far from that particular rock which rose from the waves near the north-west point On this the little vessel was beaten with a noise which was audible over the roaring of the tempest, then it sank in an instant, and the waterspout as if it too had been broken by the shock against the rock, exploded like a gigantic bomb-shell; the watery base mingling with the sea, while the whirling vapoury column was dissipated in the atmosphere.

It seemed certain that all on board the felucca had been lost, as well as the courageous young man who had gone to the assistance of the two girls.

Keraban himself wished to plunge into the waves, and was only withheld forcibly by his companions from certain death.

Meanwhile, by the light of the flashes, Ahmet could be perceived. He had, by almost superhuman efforts, succeeded in pulling himself up on the rock, holding on his arm one of the shipwrecked maidens. The other clinging to his garments climbed up with him. But no others appeared. No doubt the crew had all perished, as they had cast themselves into the sea when the waterspout struck the ship; so these two were the only survivors of the shipwreck.

Ahmet, as soon as he had climbed out of reach of the waves, paused for an instant to gaze upon the distance which separated him from the point of the channel The space was more than fifteen feet, but, taking advantage of the retreat of an enormous wave which left but little water upon the sand, he rushed ashore with his burthen, followed by the other young woman, and reached the beach in safety.

A moment later he was surrounded by his friends, and fell on the shingle, overcome by emotion and fatigue, after he had placed in their arms the girl he had saved.

“Amasia, Amasia I” cried Keraban.

Yes, it was Amasia, indeed: Amasia whom he had left at Odessa, the daughter of his friend Selim. She had been on board the felucca, and had been shipwrecked three hundred leagues away from Odessa, at the other extremity of the Black Sea! With her was Nedjeb, her servant. What could have happened? But neither Amasia nor the young Zingara could just then explain matters, for both girls had fainted.

Seigneur Keraban took Amasia in his arms, while one of the lighthouse keepers assisted Nedjeb. Ahmet soon came to himself, but seemed like a man in a dream; he did not appear to realize the actuality of the scene. The whole party then made their way towards the little town of Atina, where one of the fishermen had offered them shelter.

Amasia and Nedjeb were placed before the hearth, on which a bright fire of vine-stalks was burning.

Ahmet bent down and raised up Amasia’s head. He called her by her name, and said —

“Amasia, my dear Amasia! She does not hear me! She does not answer. Ah! she is dead. I will die too!”

“No, she is not dead,” replied Keraban. “She breathes, Ahmet. She is alive!”

At that very time Nedjeb recovered consciousness; and, throwing herself upon Amasia, exclaimed —

“My mistress, my dearest mistress! Yes, she lives — her eyes are opening.”

And in fact the lids were slowly rising and discovering the girl’s eyes.

“Amasia, Amasia,” cried Ahmet. “Ahmet, my dear Ahmet,” she replied. Keraban enfolded them both in his embrace, j “But what felucca was that?” asked Ahmet at length.

“The same we visited, Seigneur Ahmet, i after you left Odessa,” replied Nedjeb. “The Guidare, Captain Yarhud’s ship?”

“Yes, he carried us off.”

“For whom was he acting, then?”

“That we do not know.”

“Whither were you bound?”

“That we are also ignorant of,” replied Amasia. “But you are here: I can remember nothing else.”

“/will not forget,” said Keraban sternly. If he had turned round at that moment, he would have perceived a man, who had been spying at the door of the hut, huny away at top speed.

It was Yarhud, the Maltese Captain, the only sailor surviving. Almost immediately he rushed away unnoticed in a direction J opposite to the little town of Atina.

Yarhud had heard everything. He knew now that, by some inconceivable fatality, Ahmet had reached the coast when the Guidare was wrecked, just as Amasia was about to perish.

Having passed the last houses, Yarhud stopped at a tum of the road.

“It is a long way from Atina to the Bosphorus,” he muttered, “and on the road I will find a way to carry out Seigneur Saffar’s orders.”

CHAPTER V.

How our Travellers Talked, and what thev Saw, on the road between Atina and Trebizond.

How happy the young lovers were to be thus united again; how grateful they were to Allah for bringing Ahmet to the very place where the storm wrecked the vessel; and how they experienced one of those mingled impressions of joy and terror the remembrance of which is ineffaceable — it is useless to describe.

But it will be readily understood that Ahmet, as well as Keraban, was very anxious to know all that had taken place since their departure from Odessa; so Amasia, aided by Nedjeb, could not delay to inform them of all the details.

It is of course understood that change of costume had been procured for the young girls, and that Ahmet himself was arrayed in rustic garb; that everyone, master as well as servant, was enjoying the fire, without any regard for the storm which was now blowing itself out.

With what feelings did the listeners learn all that had passed at the villa a few hours after Keraban’s departure. No, it was not to sell precious stuffs that Yarhud had cast anchor in the little bay. It was to carry out his vile plot, and everyone perceived that the scheme must have been maturing for some time.

The vessel had put to sea as soon as the girls had been taken on board, but neither of them could tell that! Selim had heard their cries and that he had rushed out just as the Guidare had cleared the rocks at the extremity of the bay, that he had been wounded and had fallen — perhaps had died — without having been able to put anyone on the track of the ravishers.

Amasia had little to tell concerning their treatment on board. The captain had evidently taken particular care of her and: Nedjeb, under powerful authority. The: cabin occupied by the girls was most comfortable, and there they ate and slept. They; were permitted to go on deck when they: pleased; but they were closely watched, for fear they should attempt to escape by death the fate which threatened them.

Ahmet listened to their recital with beating heart. He wished to know whether the captain had acted on his own account, and carried off the girls to sell them in one of the slave-markets of Asia Minor; or whether he was acting for some rich citizen of Anatolia.

To that question neither Amasia nor Nedjeb could reply. To all their demands and protestations, Yarhud had vouchsafed no reply. They could not tell for whom the captain had acted, nor — and this was what Ahmet particularly desired to ascertain — whither the Guidare had been bound.

The passage had at first been good, but slow because of calms. These delays were evidently very galling to the captain, who was at no pains to conceal his impatience. So the prisoners concluded — and Ahmet and Keraban were of the same opinion — that Yarhud had arranged to arrive at a specified time; — but where? Of that they were ignorant, though it was certain that the Guidare was expected at some port of Asia Minor on the Black Sea.

At length the calms ceased, and the vessel sailed eastwards, or, as Amasia said, towards the rising sun. For two weeks she proceeded thus without incident to break the monotony of the voyage. Many times vessels were perceived; steamers, war ships, and merchantmen passed or overtook the Guidare; but Captain Yarhud always obliged the prisoners to go below on these occasions, for fear they would give the alarm or show some signal of distress.

Then the weather began to look threatening: it got worse, and then very bad indeed. Two days before the Guidare was wrecked, a violent tempest arose. Amasia and Nedjeb perceived, from the anger of the captain, that he had been obliged to alter his course and that the storm was forcing him out of his way. The girls rather enjoyed the storm, inasmuch as it was removing them from the dreaded termination of the voyage.

“Yes, dear Ahmet,” said Amasia in conclusion. “When I reflected on the fate that awaited me, carried away where I should never see you again, my resolve was taken. Nedjeb knew it: she would not have prevented me. Before the vessel had reached her destination, I would have thrown myself into the sea. But the tempest came. The very thing which threatened to destroy us, was the means of our safety. My own Ahmet, you came through the furious waves to my assistance. Never shall I forget that: never!”

“Dearest Amasia,” replied Ahmet, “Allah willed that you should be saved, and saved by me! But if I had not anticipated my uncle, he would have rushed to your assistance.”

“By Mahomet, that is true, I believe,” exclaimed Keraban.

“Fancy such a hard-headed man having such a soft heart!” murmured Nedjeb, involuntarily.

“Ah! that little lady aroused me,” said Keraban. “And now, my friends, confess that my obstinacy does good sometimes!”

“Sometimes?” exclaimed Van Mitten, very incredulous on this point; “I should just like to know — “

“No doubt, friend Van Mitten. If I had yielded to Ahmet’s fancies, if we had travelled by railway instead of skirting the shore, Ahmet would not have been at the place to save his fianc’ee from shipwreck.”

“No! quite right,” replied Van Mitten, “but if you had not compelled him to quit Odessa, the abduction would not have taken place, and — “

“Ah! that is the way you argue, is it?” retorted Keraban. “You want to discuss the subject?”

“No! no!” exclaimed Ahmet, who knew, that in a discussion of this kind, the Dutchman would come off second-best. “It is too late to go into all the pros and cons now; much better take some rest — “

“In view of our departure tomorrow,” added Keraban.

“Tomorrow, uncle! Tomorrow! Why Amasia and Nedjeb must have some repose.”

“Oh! I am quite strong, Ahmet, and tomorrow — “

“Ah! nephew,” said Keraban, “you are not in such a hurry now you have got my little Amasia with you. Nevertheless, the end of the month is approaching — the fatal day draws near, and we have interests we cannot afford to neglect. You must permit an old merchant to be more practical than you. So let each one sleep as well as he, or she, can; and tomorrow, when we have found a conveyance, we will continue our journey.”

They installed themselves as well as they could in the fisherman’s hut, and were quite as comfortable as they could possibly have been in one of the inns of Atina. Every member of the party, after so much excitement, was quite ready to rest for some hours. Van Mitten dreamt that he was again engaged in a discussion with his intractable friend: the latter dreamed that he was face to face with Seigneur Saffar, upon whom he was heaping all the maledictions of Allah and his prophet.

Ahmet only could not sleep. The desire to ascertain for what purpose Amasia had been carried away by Yarhud disquieted him, not only as regards the past, but for fear in the future. He kept thinking whether all danger had disappeared with the Guidare. Certainly he had reason to believe that not one of the crew had escaped, and he was quite unaware that Captain Yarhud had emerged from the shipwreck safe and sound. But the catastrophe would soon become known in the adjacent districts. The person for whom Yarhud had been acting — some rich merchant no doubt, or perhaps some pacha of the Anatolian provinces — would soon become acquainted with what had occurred. It would not be very difficult for him to put himself upon the girl’s track. Between Trebizond and Scutari, across the deserted province through which the highway ran — what dangers might hot be accumulated, what traps set, what ambushes prepared!

Ahmet, therefore, made up his mind to watch most carefully. He would never again separate himself from Amasia. He would himself undertake the leadership of the caravan, and would, when necessary, select some trustworthy guide who would be able to lead the party by the shortest route along the shore.

At the same time Ahmet determined to put the banker Selim in possession of all the circumstances relating to the abduction of his daughter. It was most important that Selim should be informed concerning Amasia’s safety, so that he might appear at Scutari on the appointed day — in a fortnight But a letter forwarded from Atina or Trebizond would not reach Odessa in time. So Ahmet resolved to “wire “without saying a word about it to his uncle — who would almost have a fit at the very mention of the word “telegram ” — and forward a telegraphic message to Selim via Trebizond. He made up his mind to advise him that probably all danger was not over, and that Selim must not hesitate to come to meet the little caravan, en route.

Next morning, the 15th September, as soon as Ahmet met Amasia he acquainted her with his designs — partly at least — and without laying any particular stress upon the dangers which he fancied would ensue. Amasia perceived only one idea, viz. that her father would be re-assured concerning her safety, and in the very shortest possible time. So Ahmet and Amasia were very anxious to reach Trebizond, whence a telegram might be despatched without Uncle Keraban knowing anything about it After some hours’ sleep, Keraban was more impatient than ever; Van Mitten resigned to all the caprices of his friend; Bruno endeavouring to ascertain how much of his figure still remained within his loose clothing, and only replying to his master in monosyllables.

First of all Ahmet searched Atina through. It is an unimportant town, which, as its name indicates, was formerly the “Athens “of the Black Sea. There are still existent some columns of the Doric order of architecture remaining in the Temple of Pallas. But if these ruins interested Van Mitten they had no attraction whatever for Ahmet. He would have much preferred to find some means of conveyance less rough, less primitive than the cart he had secured on the frontier. But it was absolutely necessary to return to the araba, which was specially reserved for the!

two young girls. Then there was need to provide mounts — horses, donkeys, or mules — so that masters and servants might reach Trebizond.

Ah, how Keraban regretted the post-chaise smashed at Poti! And what recriminations and menaces did he not send j to the address of the haughty Saffar, who was responsible, according to Keraban, for all the mischief.

As for Amasia and Nedjeb nothing could be more agreeable to them than the journey in the araba. It was a quite new and unexpected experience. They would not have exchanged the vehicle for the finest carriage of the Padischah. How comfortable they would be under the tilt upon a litter of fresh straw, which could be easily renewed at every stage. From time to time they would offer a place beside them to Seigneur Keraban, or young Ahmet, or Van Mitten! And the riders would escort them as if they were princesses! In fine it was perfectly charming!

It will be surmised that these foolish ideas emanated from the brain of the simple Nedjeb, who was so transported as to look upon things only on the good side. Amasia could not complain, since Ahmet was near her, and the journey was about to be completed under conditions so different, and with so little delay, to Scutari.

“I am certain,” repeated Nedjeb, “that if we stood on tip-toe we should see the place!”

In fact, in the whole company there were only two individuals who had any misgivings — Seigneur Keraban, who feared some delay in consequence of not finding a proper conveyance, and Bruno, who found that thirty-five leagues — and thirty-five leagues on mule-back — intervened between him and Trebizond, where, as Nizib confided to him, some more comfortable means of transport would surely be obtainable to cross the plains of Anatolia.

So, on the morning of the 15th September at eleven, the cavalcade quitted Atina. The tempest had been so violent that it had quickly subsided, and a perfect calm reigned in the atmosphere. The clouds which floated high in the air remained almost motionless though still lacerated by the wind. The sun shot out a few rays now and then, and lighted up the landscape. The sea alone was still agitated and beat fiercely on the beach.

Seigneur Keraban and his companions traversed Western Lazistan as quickly as possible, with the intention to reach Trebizond before nightfall. The roads were by no means deserted. The travellers passed many caravans in which camels were numbered by hundreds, and the ear was deafened by the clang and jingle of the various bells which the animals carried round their necks, while the eye was amused by the varied and brilliant colours of their trappings. These caravans, were coming from Persia or proceeding thither.

The sea-shore was not any less lively than the roads. The entire fishing population seemed to have assembled there. The fishermen at nightfall, their boats lighted up at the stern with burning resin, took in. considerable quantities of the species oPS anchovy known as khamsi, of which they cure thousands all along the coast of Anatolia, and even as far as Central Armenia. The hunters on the other hand had no-reason to envy the fishermen, for game was-quite as plentiful as fish. Thousands of sea-birds of the grebe species — konkarinas — flock to these districts of Asia Minor. So-the immense number slain for their feathers, which are much sought after, recompense the hunters for the time, the trouble, and the expense of ammunition incurred in procuring them.

About three o’clock in the afternoon the little caravan halted at Mapavra, situated at the mouth of the river of the same name, the waters of which are mixed with an oily stream of petroleum, which falls from the neighbouring springs. Three o’clock was a little too early for dinner, but as the party could not reach their camping place until quite late in the evening, it seemed only prudent to take some sustenance. This was at any rate Bruno’s advice, and it had due weight Of course there was an abundance of khamsis on the table, which are the most esteemed food of the district These anchovies are served cured and fresh, to please all palates; but there were, besides, more substantial dishes, to which our travellers paid their attention. So good humour reigned amongst them, and good humour is the best seasoning after all.

“Well, Van Mitten,” said Keraban, “do you regret the wilfulness — the legitimate obstinacy — of your friend and correspondent, which has compelled you to make this journey?”

“No, Keraban, no,” replied Van Mitten, “and I will continue it whenever you please.”

“We shall see — we shall see,” said Keraban. “And you, my little Amasia, what do you think of your wicked uncle who carried away your Ahmet?”

“That he is what I have always known him to be — the best of men,” replied Amasia.

“And the most accommodating,” added Nedjeb. “It seems to me that Seigneur Keraban is not quite so obstinate as he used to be.”

“Good!” cried Keraban, with a loud laugh, “that stupid girl is quizzing me!”

“No, indeed, seigneur — no, indeed.”

“But, yes, indeed! Bah! you are right: I no longer argue — I am no more obstinate. Even Van Mitten here would not succeed in provoking me.”

“Oh! that remains to be proved!” replied the Dutchman, shaking his head dubiously.

“It has been proved, Van Mitten.”

“If they were to get you on certain subjects — “

“You are quite mistaken, I swear!”

“Do not swear.”

“But I will swear!” replied Keraban, becoming excited. “Why should not I swear?”

“Because it’s so often difficult to keep an oath.”

“Less difficult to keep than to hold one’s tongue, in any case, Van Mitten; for it is quite evident at this moment, and just for the pleasure of contradicting me — “

“I, friend Keraban!”

“Yes, you; and when I tell you that I am resolved never again to be obstinate about trifles, I beg you will not be so, just to prove the contrary.”

“You see you are quite wrong this time, Monsieur Van Mitten,” said Ahmet, “absolutely wrong!”

“Entirely wrong,” continued Amasia, with a smile.

“Altogether wrong,” added Nedjeb.

So the worthy Dutchman, finding the majority against him, thought it best to say no more.

But, after all the lessons he had received, and particularly during this journey so imprudently entered upon, and which might yet end disastrously — was Keraban so “tamed “as he wished people to believe? That was to be seen; but no doubt everyone was secretly of Van Mitten’s opinion. It was indeed an open question whether the bump of combativeness was reduced on the head of this Inflexible One.

“En route” said Keraban, when dinner was over. “This meal has been an excellent one, but I know a better!”

“Which is that?” asked Van Mitten.

“The dinner which awaits us at Scutari!”

The party resumed their journey at four o’clock, and at eight the same evening reached the village of Rize. Then they found they must pass the night in a rather uncomfortable khan — so uncomfortable, indeed, that the young women of the party preferred to remain in the araba. The important question turned on rest and forage for the horses; fortunately straw and corn were in sufficiency in the racks. Keraban and his companions had only one litter at their disposal, but it was dry and fresh, and they contented themselves with it Next night they hoped to rest in Trebizond, with all the comfort that the best of the hotels in that town could afford.

As for Ahmet, whether the sleeping accommodation was good or bad, it made no difference to him. He would not be able to sleep with suspicion in his mind, for he was always in fear for the safety of Amasia, and confessed to himself that all danger had not been passed with the wreck of the Guidare; so he stood sentinel, well armed, near the khan.

Ahmet was right to do so. He had reason to fear, for Captain Yarhud had not lost sight of the party all day. He followed in their tracks, but kept out of sight; for Ahmet knew him as well as the two girls did. As he watched, he resolved upon his plans to recapture the prey which had escaped him, and at all hazards — he had written to Scarpante. This creature of Saffar’s, as had been already arranged, was waiting at Trebizond, and Yarhud had appointed to meet him at the caravanserai of Rissar, about three miles from the town, without, however, telling him of the shipwreck and its sad consequences.

So Ahmet had only too good reason to be on his guard. His presentiments did not deceive him. Yarhud approached near enough to assure himself that the young girls were sleeping in their araba. Fortunately for himself, he also saw Ahmet on the watch, and was enabled to retire without being perceived.

But this time, instead of remaining behind the caravan, he started westward along the road to Trebizond, so as to get in front of Keraban and his party. Before their arrival in the town he wished to confer with Scarpante. So, mounting his horse, which he had ridden from Atina, he proceeded rapidly towards the caravanserai of Rissar.

Next day, the 16th September, as soon as daylight appeared, the whole party were on foot and in high spirits, except Bruno, who was wondering how many more pounds he would lose before he reached Scutari.

“My little Amasia,” said Keraban, rubbing his hands together, “come and let me embrace you.”

“Willingly, uncle,” she replied, “if you will let me always call you so.”

“If I will permit you, my dear child! You may call me your father. Is not Ahmet as a son to me?”

“He is so, uncle Keraban,” said Ahmet, “so much so that he comes to give you an order, as it is right a son should do!”

“What order?”

“To depart at once. The horses are ready, and we must reach Trebizond this morning, you know.”

“And so we will,” cried Keraban, “and quit it at sunrise tomorrow. Well, Van Mitten, you see it is fated that you shall visit Trebizond.”

“Yes, Trebizond! What a splendid name for a town,” exclaimed the Dutchman. “Trebizond and its hill where the Ten Thousand under Xenophon exhibited their games and combats under the presidency of Dracentius, if I may believe my guide-book. In truth, friend Keraban, I shall not be at all sorry to see Trebizond.”

“Well, you will carry away some important reminiscences of this journey, Van Mitten.”

“They might have been fuller, perhaps.”

“At anyrate, you have had nothing to complain of.”

“It is not over yet,” whispered Bruno to his master, like an oracle of evil omen charged to remind men of the instability of human affairs.

The caravan left the khan at 7 o’clock a m. The weather was improving, and the sky was rapidly clearing.

At mid-day, they halted at Of, on the Ophis of the ancients, where the old Grecian race still survives. They dined at a small inn, on the supplies obtained from the araba, which were, however, nearly exhausted.

Besides, the innkeeper did not trouble himself about his guests, for his wife wa-s very ill, and he was at his wits’ end. There was no doctor in the district, and to send to Trebizond for one would be too great an expense for a poor hotel-keeper.

So it followed that Keraban, aided by Van Mitten, undertook the office of hakim, or physician, and prescribed some simple drugs which could be obtained easily at Trebizond.

“May Allah protect you, seigneur,” said the stingy husband; “but what will these drugs cost me?”

“Twenty piastres,” replied Keraban.

“Twenty piastres!” exclaimed the man; “why, for that sum I can buy another wife!”

And so saying he turned away, not without thanking the visitors for their advice, by which, however, he did not intend to profit.

“There is a practical husband for you,” said Keraban. “You ought to marry in this country, Van Mitten!”

“Perhaps I ought,” replied the Dutchman.

At five o’clock in the evening the travellers halted at Surmeneh. They continued their journey at six, with the intention to reach Trebizond before day declined. But there was delay occasioned by the breaking of a wheel of the araba some six miles from the town, — about nine o’clock in the evening, — and they were thus compelled to pass the night in the caravanserai at the road side, a building well known to all travellers in that part of Asia Minor.

CHAPTER VI.

The caravanserai of Rissar, like all other buildings of its class, is entirely appropriated to the service of travellers. The host, or guardian, of this particular halting-place near Trebizond, was a certain Turk named Kidros, a cunning rogue and more “tricky” than are members of his race: he usually took great care of the place. He sought to please his guests, with much advantage to his own interests, which he understood thoroughly; he was always of their opinion, even to the extent of reducing their bills (which he had previously “swollen “with a view to this very reduction, and still left himself a handsome profit) out of pure regard for such honourable travellers!

The arrangement of the caravanserai was as follows: — A vast courtyard, encircled by four walls, out of which a gate opened into the country. At each side of this gate were two watch-towers, whence one could overlook the environs in case the roads were unsafe. In the thickness of the walls were doors giving access to separate rooms in which travellers could pass the night, for they were seldom occupied during the day. A few sycamore trees planted round the courtyard threw a little shade upon it. In the centre was a well, worked by an endless chain pump, the buckets of which could empty themselves into a trough which formed a semi-circular basin. Outside was a line of boxes in sheds where the horses found food and litter. Behind were the pickets, to which mules and dromedaries were attached as being less particular than horses in the matter of accommodation.

That evening of which we are writing, the caravanserai without being full, had a good many occupants; some on the way to Trebizond, others to the eastern provinces, Armenia, Persia, or Kurdistan. Twenty chambers were full, and the occupants were for the most part asleep.

About nine o’clock, only two men were walking up and down the courtyard; they were talking earnestly, and only interrupted their conversation to cast a suspicious look around occasionally. These two individuals, dressed so as not to attract particular notice, were Seigneur Saffar and his steward Scarpante.

“I repeat that it is here, Seigneur, that Yarhud has appointed to meet us. Here is the caravanserai Rissar,” said the steward.

“Dog!” exclaimed Saffar. “Why is he not here then?”

“He will not tarry now.”

“And why has he thought of bringing Amasia here instead of carrying her diiect to Trebizond?”

Saffar and Scarpante, it must be remembered, were ignorant of the wreck of the Guidare, and of the succeeding events.

“Yarhud’s letter to me came from the harbour of Atina,” said Scarpante. “It makes no mention of the young lady, but begs me to meet him here.”

“And he is not come,” exclaimed Saffar, advancing towards the gate. “Ah, he had better beware how he tries my patience! I have a presentiment that some accident has occurred.”

“Why, seigneur? The weather has been stormy, and perhaps the vessel could not reach Trebizond, so she put in at Atina.”

“But who can tell whether Yarhud succeeded in the first instance in carrying Amasia away from Odessa?”

“Yarhud is not only a skilful seaman,” replied Scarpante, “he is also a very sharp fellow!”

“Yet his sharpness is not always successful,” replied the calm voice of the Maltese captain himself, who had for a few moments been standing motionless on the threshold of the caravanserai.

Seigneur Saffar and Scarpante both turned round suddenly, and the latter exclaimed —

“Yarhud!”

“At last you are here,” said Saffar, roughly, as he advanced towards the captain.

“Yes, Seigneur Saffar,” he replied, bowing. “Here I am — at last!”

“And Selim’s daughter? Did you succeed in carrying her away from Odessa?”

“The bankers daughter .“replied Yarhud, “was carried away by me about six weeks ago, soon after the departure of Ahmet, who was obliged to accompany his uncle in his journey round the Black Sea. I at once set sail for Trebizond, but my vessel was carried to the eastward, and, notwithstanding all my efforts, was wrecked on the rocks near Atina, and all my crew were drowned!”

“All your crew?” exclaimed Scarpante.

“Yes.”

“And Amasia?” enquired Saffar, who seemed little affected by the loss of the Guidare.

“She was saved: saved with the young servant, whom I carried off with her.”

“But if she was saved — ” said Scarpante.

“Where is she?” interrupted Saffar.

“Seigneur,” replied the Maltese. “Fate was adverse to me — or rather, to you.”

“Speak,” cried Saffar, menacingly.

“The banker’s daughter,” replied Yarhud, “was rescued by her fiance, Ahmet, who was by some unfortunate chance on the spot”

“Saved by him!” exclaimed Scarpante.

“And at this moment?” enquired Saffar.

“At this moment she is under the protection of Ahmet, of his uncle, and his companions on the way to Trebizond. Thence they propose to proceed to Scutari to celebrate their marriage.”

“Bungler!” roared Saffar. “Why did you let her escape instead of saving her yourself?”

“I would have done so at the peril of my life; if Ahmet had not come up, she would now be safe in your palace at Trebizond.”

“Ah, you are quite unworthy of any mission,” replied Saffar, who could not restrain an angry movement “Will you listen to me, seigneur?” said Scarpante. “When you are calmer you will recognize the fact that Yarhud did all that was possible.”

“All,” added the Maltese.

“All is not enough,” replied SafTar, “when the accomplishment of my orders fails.”

“The past is past, Seigneur Saffar,” said Scarpante. “Let us look at the present and see what chances it offers us. Amasia is not yet Ahmet’s wife — nothing is lost!”

“No, nothing,” added Yarhud. “After the shipwreck I followed her; I have watched Ahmet and his companions ever since their departure from Atina. They are travelling without any suspicion. The way is long across Anatolia from Trebizond to the shores of the Bosphorus. Now neither Amasia nor her servant have any idea whither the Guidare was bound. Besides, no one in the caravan knows Seigneur Saffar nor Scarpante. Can we not take them in a trap?”

“Scarpante,” said Saffar coldly: “this girl is necessary to me. If fate is against me I will fight against fate. It shall never be said that my wishes cannot be complied with.”

“It shall be as you desire,” replied Scarpante. “Yes; between Trebizond and Scutari, in those deserted plains, it is possible, even easy, to lie in wait for the caravan, perhaps to find a guide for it who will know how to lose his way: then you may attack it with your men. But that is force — better succeed by stratagem if we can.”

“But in what manner?” inquired Saffar.

“You said, Yarhud,” replied Scarpante, turning to the Maltese, “that Ahmet and his companions were making for Trebizond?”

“Yes, and they will soon arrive here, and will certainly pass the night in the caravanserai,” said Yarhud.

“Well then,” said Scarpante, “cannot we stir up some excitement which will detain them here — which will separate Amasia from her betrothed?”

“I have more faith in force,” remarked Saffar, brutally.

“Very well,” replied Scarpante. “We can use force if stratagem fail. But leave me here to watch what goes on.”

“Hush, Scarpante,” said the Maltese. “We are not alone.”

As he spoke, two men entered the courtyard. One was Kidros, the other an important personage — at least by repute — who must be introduced to the reader.

Seigneur Saffar, Scarpante, and Yarhua moved away into an obscure corner apart. There they could listen at their ease, and so much the more easily, as the personage in question always spoke in very loud tones, and very haughtily.

This person was a Kurdish “lord,” and his name was Yanar.

The mountainous region of Asia which includes ancient Assyria and Media, is now called Kurdistan. It is divided into Turkish and Persian Kurdistan, and the former province contains many hundreds of thousands of inhabitants, not the least considerable amongst them being this Seigneur Yanar, who, with his sister, the noble Saraboul, had arrived at the caravanserai the day before.

Seigneur Yanar and his sister had quitted Mossoul two months previously, and were travelling for pleasure. They came to Trebizond, where they intended to remain some weeks. The “noble Saraboul,” as she was generally called in her native pachalik, was at this time thirty or thirty-three years of age, and had been for some years a widow. The Turkish governor to whom she had been married had been only able to devote to her a very brief existence. The widow was of pleasing and agreeable appearance, and was not altogether unwilling to enter into matrimonial bonds for a second time. This was a more difficult aim to accomplish than at first sight would appear, for, though rich and well born, she was of a violent and impetuous temper; and, being a Kurd, extremely fond of her own way; so any suitor for her hand might not unnaturally be alarmed at her temper. Her brother Yanar, who also constituted himself her body-guard, had advised the journey — chances are so many while travelling! And that is the reason why these two “personages,” having quitted their native Kurdistan, found themselves on the highroad to Trebizond.

Seigneur Yanar was a man of about forty-five years old, tall, imperious, and with a stern countenance; one of those hectoring fellows who are born with a frown. His aquiline nose, his deep-set eyes, his shaven head, and enormous moustaches, indicated him as a specimen of the Armenian, rather than of the Turkish, type. His head was adorned with a felt cap, tied round with brilliantly red silk. He wore a robe with wide sleeves under an embroidered vest; large trousers which fell to his ankles, and embroidered leather boots. His middle was girt about with a scarf, in which he carried a varied assortment of poignards, pistols, and yataghans. He had a truly terrifying appearance.

So Kidros always addressed him with extreme deference, and bore himself like a person who was obliged to bow and scrape before a cannon loaded with grape-shot.

“Yes, Seigneur Yanar,” said Kidros emphasising his words with suitable gestures. “I repeat that the judge will arrive here this very evening, and to-morrow morning, at daybreak, will begin his quest.”

“Master Kidroe,” replied Yanar, “you are the host of this caravanserai, and may Allah choke you if you do not take care of your guests’ safety and comfort here.”

“Certainly, Seigneur Yanar. By all means.”

“Well then, last night some ruffians, robbers, or others, penetrated, had the audacity to enter the chamber in which my sister, the noble Saraboul, reposed.” And Yanar indicated the particular opening in the wall to which he referred.

“The ruffians!” exclaimed Kidros.

“And we will not quit this caravanserai,” continued Yanar, “until they have been discovered, arrested, condemned, and hanged!”

Master Kidros was not quite assured that any real attempt at robbery had been made. One thing alone was certain. For some reason or other the affrighted widow had rushed from her chamber, screaming and calling for her brother; the whole establishment had been upset, and the malefactors, supposing there had been any, had managed to escape, without leaving a trace of their presence.

At any rate, Scarpante, who had not lost a word of the conversation, at once began to think how he might turn this business to his own profit “Now we are Kurds,” continued Yanar, drawing himself up proudly to give full effect to his words, “we are Kurds of Mossoul, the splendid capital of Kurdistan, and we will never admit that any slight can be put upon Kurds without reparation being obtained by law, or by force!”

“But, seigneur, what injury has been done?” asked Master Kidros, with some temerity, but prudently retreating a pace or two as he spoke.

“What injury!” exclaimed Yanar.

“Yes, seigneur. No doubt some scoundrels did endeavour to enter last night, into the chamber apportioned to the noble Saraboul, but they took away nothing!”

“Nothing; as a matter of fact, nothing; but only thanks to my sister’s energy and courage! She can handle a pistol as well as a yataghan!”

“So the malefactors, whoever they might have been, ran away?” remarked Kidros.

“A very good thing for them that they did, Master Kidros. The noble and valiant Saraboul would have exterminated them two by two — four by four! That is the reason why she will remain armed, as I am, tonight; and woe to anyone who ventures near her room!”

“You may well believe, Seigneur Yanar, that there is nothing to fear now. The robbers — if there were any — will not again hazard — “

“How, if there were any robbers!” roared Yanar. “Who do you think these bandits were then?”

“Perhaps some venturesome — some foolish people; or some one who, smitten by the charms of the noble Saraboul, — “

“By Mahomet,” exclaimed Yanar, seizing his weapon. “Here is a pretty affair. The honour of a Kurd is at stake! Ah! arrest, imprisonment, impalement will not suffice in this case! No; the most horrible tortures will not be sufficient — unless the ruffian has position and fortune sufficient to repair his fault!”

“Calm yourself, Seigneur Yanar,” replied Master Kidros. “The enquiry, which will be instituted, will discover the author, or authors, of this insult. I tell you again, the judge has been summoned. I myself sought him in Trebizond, and when I told him the particulars he assured me that he possessed means of ascertaining — sure means of discovering — who the malefactors are.”

“And what means are these?” enquired Yanar ironically.

“I cannot tell,” replied Kidros, “but the judge maintains they are infallible.”

“Be it so,” replied Yanar. “We shall see when to-morrow comes. I will retire, but I will watch. I will watch, armed. Oh, my sister, my noble sister!”

So saying, the terrible Yanar turned away to his apartment, which was next to his sister’s. There he paused at the door for a moment, and shook his fist at the keeper of the caravanserai.

“You cannot play tricks with a Kurd,” he cried in a loud voice; then he disappeared within his chamber.

Master Kidros gave vent to a long sigh of relief.

“At last,” he said. “We shall soon see how this will end. Bat it is as well that the thieves — if there were any — have decamped!”

Meanwhile Scarpante was talking in an undertone with Saffar and Yarhud. “Yes,” he was saying, “thanks to this affair of Seigneur Yanar there can be some plan attempted.”

“You propose — ” said Saffar.

“I propose to stir up here some unpleasant circumstances which will have the effect of keeping that Ahmet here for some clays, and of separating him from his betrothed, perhaps.”

“Good; but if the ruse fail?”

“We must use force then,” replied Scarpante.

At that moment Kidros perceived Saffar.

Scarpante, and Yarhud, whom he had not previously noticed. He advanced towards them and in the most amiable manner said, “What do you require, gentlemen?”

“We are waiting for some travellers who may arrive at any moment now,” replied Scarpante.

Just then a noise was heard from the outside; a caravan was evidently approaching; mules and horses halted at the door.

“Here they are, no doubt,” said Master Kidros, as he crossed the courtyard to admit the travellers.

“Here are rich personages,” he muttered, “on horseback. I had better go out and offer them my services.” So he did.

But Scarpante had advanced to the door also, and looked out.

“Are these people Ahmet and his companions?” he enquired of the Maltese.

“Yes, yes; they are,” replied Yarhud, who retired hastily so as not to be recognized.

“They!” exclaimed Saffar advancing in his turn, but without going outside the door.

“I am not mistaken,” replied Yarhud, “there is Ahmet and his fiancee, with her servant.”

“Let us be on our guard,” said Scarpante, signing to Yarhud to keep out of sight.

“You can already recognize Keraban’s voice,” continued the Maltese.

“Keraban!” cried Saffar quickly, as he rushed towards the door.

“What is the matter, Seigneur Saffar?” asked Scarpante, much astonished. “Why does the name of Keraban agitate you so?”

“Ha! Yes he is there, ‘tis he indeed,” replied Saffar. “That is the traveller who encountered me on the Caucasian railway; and who wanted to prevent my carriage from crossing!”

“He knows you?”

“Yes, and he will not find it difficult to continue the quarrel; to stop him — “

“Ah! that will not stop the nephew,” remarked Scarpante.

“I know how to disembarrass myself of the nephew as well as of the uncle,” replied Saffar.

“No, no; we must have no quarrelling, no noise,” insisted Scarpante. “Take my advice, Seigneur Saffar. Let Keraban once suspect your presence, let him only be made aware that Yarhud carried off Amasia on your account, and all will be lost.”

“Very well, I will retire and trust to your skill, Scarpante. But succeed!”

“I wil! succeed, Seigneur Saffar, if you will allow me to act. Go back to Trebizond, tonight”

“I will,” replied Saffar.

“And you too, Yarhud, leave the caravanserai at once,” continued Scarpante. “They know you, and they may recognize you if you remain.”

“Here they are,” said Yarhud.

“Leave me; go,” cried Scarpante pushing the captain of the Guidare away.

“But how can we go unobserved?” asked Saffar.

“This way,” replied Scarpante, opening a door cut in the wall which led to the fields.

Signor Saffar and the Maltese passed out at once.

“Just in time,” muttered Scarpante, “and now I must keep my eyes and ears open.”

CHAPTER VIII.

While the trial was proceeding, Seigneur Keraban had taken his nephew and Van Mitten apart, and, forgetting all his good resolutions, sought to bend them to his own mode of proceeding.

“Well, my friends, this sorcerer is simply the biggest idiot — “

“Why?” interrupted Van Mitten.

“Because there is nothing to prevent the guilty parties, ourselves for instance, from appearing to caress the goat, and we can pass our hands over instead of upon its back, without touching it. The judge should at anyrate have tried this test with lights, so as to check any evasion. In this semi-darkness it is absurd!”

“Well,” said Van Mitten —

“That is what I am going to do, and I advise you strongly to follow my example,” said Keraban.

“But, uncle, whether we caress the goat or not, you know it cannot tell the innocent from the guilty.”

“Certainly not, Ahmet, but since that stupid judge is acting in this way, I claim to be less simple than he, and I will not touch the beast, and I beg you to do as I do.”

“But, uncle, — “

“Ah, are we going to have an argument?” exclaimed Keraban, who was beginning to get excited.

“Nevertheless,” began Van Mitten.

“Van Mitten, if you are so foolish as to put your hand on the back of that goat, I will never forgive you!”

“Very well; I will pat nothing at all, if I should disoblige you,” replied Van Mitten. “Besides, they will not see us in the dark.”

By this time the majority of the travellers had submitted to the test, and the goat had accused nobody.

“Now it is our turn, Bruno,” said Nizib. “How stupid these Orientals are!”

So, one after the other, they caressed the goat, which did not bleat for them any more than for the rest “But your animal says nothing!” remarked the noble Saraboul to the judge.

“Is this a practical joke?” demanded Seigneur Yanar. “You will find it expensive to joke with Kurds!”

“Patience,” replied the judge, bowing. “If the goat has not bleated, it is because the guilty person has not yet stroked her.”

“We are now the only ones left,” muttered Van Mitten, who, without knowing why, felt some vague presentiment of evil.

It is our turn,” said Ahmet “Yes, mine first,” said Keraban. So saying, he advanced before his nephew and Van Mitten.

“Now, take care you do not touch it,” he repeated in a low voice.

Then extending his hand above the animal’s back he pretended to caress it slowly, but without touching one of its silky hairs.

The goat did not bleat.

“That is so far comforting,” said Ahmet, and, following his uncle’s example, he passed his hand over the animal’s back, without touching it The goat did not bleat Then it came to the Dutchman’s turn. Van Mitten, last of all, was compelled to try the ordeal. He advanced towards the goat, which seemed to eye him askance; but he also, fearing to displease Keraban, only pretended to stroke the goat.

The goat did not bleat.

There was a general exclamation of astonishment “Ohs” and “ahs “were heard from every one of the audience.

“Decidedly your goat is a beast,” remarked Yanar, angrily.

“She has not discovered the culprit after all,” cried the noble Kurdish woman, “and nevertheless the guilty one is here.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Keraban, “this judge is making himself very ridiculous, Van Mitten.”

“Not a doubt about it,” replied Van Mitten, now reassured as to the result of the trial.

“Poor little goat,” cried Nedjeb to her mistress. “Are they going to do it any injury because it has said nothing?”

Every person present looked at the judge, whose eyes scintillated in the obscurity like carbuncles.

“Now, Monsieur le Juge,” said Keraban sarcastically, “now that your enquiry has terminated, there is no reason, I suppose, why we should not retire to our rooms?”

“That must not be,” exclaimed the angry Lady Kurd. “Certainly not: an assault has been attempted.”

“Eh, madame?” replied Keraban, not without some asperity. “You cannot have the assurance to keep honest people out of their beds when they want to go there!”

“You are giving yourself airs, Monsieur le Turc!” said Yanar.

“I speak as it suits me, Monsieur le Kurd,” retorted Keraban.

Scarpante, who deemed that the trial had failed, was not sorry to perceive this quarrel arising between Yanar and Keraban. Some further complication of a nature favourable to his own projects might arise from it.

In fact, the dispute was becoming serious, and Ahmet was about to assist his uncle, when the judge interposed and said quietly —

“Range yourselves in line, and let lights be brought.”

Master Kidros, to whom the latter order was addressed, hastened to comply with it. In a moment four servants, carrying torches, appeared, and the court was brilliantly illuminated.

“Let each one hold up his right hand,” said the judge.

At this order each right hand was elevated, and everyone was black — with the exception of those of Keraban, Ahmet, and Van Mitten!

The judge at once pointed to the three men.

“There are the culprits!” he said.

“What?” said Keraban.

“We?” exclaimed Van Mitten, who did not understand anything.

“Yes, you,” repeated the judge. “Whether these men were or were not afraid of being denounced by the goat, matters little. One thing is certain, and that is, knowing themselves to be guilty, instead of caressing the animal, whose back was rubbed with soot, they only passed their hands above the fur, and so accused themselves.”

A complimentary murmur pervaded the audience at the judge’s ingenuity, while Seigneur Keraban and his companions, greatly disappointed, hung their heads!

“So,” began Ya-nar, “these are the three culprits, who last night — “

“Last night we were ten leagues from here,” said Ahmet.

“Who can prove that!” exclaimed the judge. “In any case you have this evening attempted to make your way into the apartment of this lady.”

“Well, yes,” replied Keraban, who was furious at having been caught in such a snare. “Yes, we did enter the passage, but under a misapprehension on our part, or rather on the part of one of the servants of the caravanserai.”

“Indeed!” said Yanar ironically.

“Yes, indeed! The lady’s room was shown to us as ours.”

“That won’t do!” remarked the judge.

“They are caught,” muttered Bruno, “all three!”

Seigneur Keraban, indeed, was so absolutely put out of countenance that he had lost all his usual assurance; and he was entirely upset when he heard the judge say, “Let them be taken to prison.”

“Yes, to prison,” cried Seigneur Yanar, while all the crowd echoed the order, “To prison! To prison!”

When Scarpante perceived the turn things had taken he congratulated himself upon what he had done. Seigneur Keraban, Van Mitten, and Ahmet in custody, the journey would be interrupted and the wedding postponed Above all, an immediate separation would be effected be-j tween Amasia and her betrothed; and there was thus a possibility of acting with success, and of renewing the attempt in which the Maltese captain had failed.

Ahmet, when he thought of the consequences and of his separation from Amasia, felt very angry with his uncle. Was it not Keraban who by his obstinacy-had placed them in this dilemma? Had not he prevented them from caressing the animal in order to spite the foolish judge, who had nevertheless got the better ot them? It was Keraban’s fault that they had fallen into the trap, and were now menaced with imprisonment, for some days at least.

Keraban, too, on his part was very angry, for he remembered how little time remained to him to complete his journey, if he would arrive at Scutari at the appointed time, i One bit of obstinacy, as useless as absurd, had cost a fortune to his nephew.

As for Van Mitten he kept balancing himself on either leg alternately, very much embarrassed, and not daring to look Bruno in the face: while the valet seemed to be repeating the ominous words —

“Did I not tell you that we would come to grief sooner or later?”

Then Van Mitten, addressing Keraban, said —

“Now, why did you prevent us caressing the goat’s back?”

For the first time in his life Keraban was unable to make any answer to a question addressed to him.

Meanwhile the cries of, “To prison!” continued, and Scarpante joined in them heartily.

“Yes, send these malefactors to prison,” cried the vindictive Yanar, who was well disposed to aid the law by force. “Away with them, all three!”

“Yes, all three, unless one will take upon himself the responsibility of the act,” replied the noble Saraboul, who did not wish that two innocent persons should suffer with the guilty one.

“That is only fair,” assented the judge. “Well now, which of you really attempted to enter this lady’s apartment?”

There was a momentary indecision in the minds of the accused, but it was not of long duration. Keraban requested permission to confer with his friends. This favour was accorded. Then, taking Van Mitten and Ahmet aside, he said in a tone which admitted of no discussion —

“My friends, there is only one way out of this. One of us must be the scapegoat for the others: the matter is very serious.”

Here the Dutchman, as if he had a presentiment of what was coming,” pricked up his ears.”

“Now,” continued Keraban, “there can be no question of choice. The presence of Ahmet is necessary at Scutari to celebrate his marriage.”

“Yes, uncle, yes,” assented Ahmet.

“My attendance also is necessary,” proceeded Keraban, “in my capacity of guardian.”

“Ha!” ejaculated Van Mitten.

“So, friend Mitten, there is no alternative. You must sacrifice yourself.”

“I — ? What?”

“You must accuse yourself. What risk do you run? A few day’s imprisonment Bagatelle! We will soon have you out!”

Van Mitten, who felt he was being disposed of rather unceremoniously, began to protest “My dear M. Van Mitten, you really must,” said Ahmet “I beg you to do so in Amasia’s name. All her future will be blighted unless we reach Scutari at the appointed time.”

“Oh, Monsieur Van Mitten,” pleaded the young lady who had approached him.

“Well, as you will,” replied Van Mitten.

“Hum,” muttered Bruno, “here is another act of folly they are making my master commit!”

“Monsieur Van Mitten,” began Ahmet —

“Well done!” exclaimed Keraban, wringing his friend’s hand.

While this conversation was proceeding, the cries of “To prison!” became louder.

The unhappy Dutchman did not know what to say or do. He wished to say “Yes,” and then “No,” but the approach of the people to arrest the three culprits finally decided him.

“Stop,” he cried. “Stop, I confess that I am the person who — “

“Foiled,” muttered Scarpante, with an angry gesture of disappointment.

“It was you then,” said the judge.

“I — yes — I — “

“Dear M. Van Mitten!” murmured Amasia in his ear.

“Ah yes, indeed,” added Nedjeb.

But what was the noble Saraboul doing all this time? Well, that admirable lady was observing with some curiosity the man who had dared to attempt to enter her apartments.

“So then,” cried Yanar, “you are the individual who had the temerity to enter the rooms allotted to this noble Kurdish lady?”

“Yes, I,” replied Van Mitten.

“You have not the appearance of a thief!”

“A thief! I? I am a merchant — a Dutchman;” exclaimed Van Mitten, with much indignation.

“But then — ” continued Yanar.

“Then,” interrupted his sister, “you had other and more dishonourable motives.”

“To insult a Kurdish lady,” roared Yanar, grasping his yataghan.

“After all, he is not so bad, this Dutchman,” remarked the noble lady mincingly.

“Not all your blood will suffice to wash out this insult,” continued Yanar.

“Brother, brother!” remonstrated Saraboul.

“Ifyou refuse to make reparation,” added Yanar.

“Ah!” said Ahmet.

“You shall marry my sister, or else — “

“By Allah!” said Keraban, “here is another complication now.”

“Marry! I marry!” repeated Van Mitten, raising his hands to heaven.

“You refuse?” roared Yanar.

“If I refuse, — if I refuse,” replied Van Mitten, in the depths of despair. “But I am already — “

Van Mitten had not time to conclude his sentence. Keraban seized him by the arm, and said —

“Not another word. Consent you must. Don’t hesitate.”

“Consent? Why, I am married already,” pleaded Van Mitten. “It would be bigamy.”

“No matter in Turkey whether it be bigamy, trigamy, or quadrigamy, — it is perfectly lawful So now say ‘ Yes’!”

“But — “

“Marry her, Van Mitten, marry her. Then you will not have an hour in prison. We shall be able to continue our journey-all together. Once at Scutari you can be off the shortest way, and bid the new Madame Van Mitten good evening!”

“But you demand impossibilities, Keraban,” replied the Dutchman.

“You must, or all will be lost.”

At that moment Seigneur Yanar came over, and grasping Van Mitten by the arm, said —

“He must!”

“He must!” repeated the noble Saraboul, seizing the other arm.

“Since I must, then,” replied Van Mitten, whose shaking limbs could scarcely sustain him.

“What! are you going to give in again?” cried Bruno.

“Needs must, Bruno,” muttered Van Mitten, in a feeble voice.

“Come! stand up!” cried Yanar, giving his future brother-in-law a violent push.

“And firmly,” continued Saraboul, with a reminder on the other side to her intended husband.

“As becoming a brother-in-law!” said he.

“And the husband of a Kurdish lady!” added she.

Van Mitten stood upright under the influence of these repeated shocks, but his head was swimming round as if it was only half fixed on his shoulders.

“A Kurd,” he muttered. “I, a citizen of Rotterdam, the husband of a Kurd!”

“Have no fear, it is only a mock ceremonial,” whispered Keraban. “A joke.”

“You can’t joke with these people,” replied Van Mitten, piteously, and so comically withal, that his friends could scarcely keep from laughter.

Nedjeb, indicating the noble Saraboul, said to her mistress —

“I am very much mistaken it this is not all got up by the widow to secure a second husband.”

“Poor M. Van Mitten!” said Amasia.

“I would rather have eight months in prison than eight hours of such married life,” said Bruno, sadly.

Seigneur Yanar turned to the audience and said loudly —

“To-morrow we will celebrate, with all due pomp at Trebizond, the betrothal of Seigneur Van Mitten and the noble Saraboul.”

At the word “betrothal,“Van Mitten and his companions began to hope that the consequences of the adventure would be less serious than they had feared.

Here it may be remarked that, according to the usages of Kurdistan, these betrothals constitute an indissoluble bond of marriage. They may be compared to the “civil contract” of certain European nations, and that which follows it to the religious marriage. But in Kurdistan, though after the betrothal the man is only “engaged,” he is bound for life to the fiancee he has chosen — or, as in the present case, to the lady who had chosen him!

All this was duly explained to Van Mitten by Seigneur Yanar.

“But after all,” whispered Keraban, “it can make no difference to you whether you are betrothed or married.”

Scarpante, who quitted the caravanserai as soon as the gates were re-opened, muttered this threat —

“The trick has failed. Now we shall try force!”

Then he disappeared, unnoticed by either Keraban or any of his friends.

“Poor M. Van Mitten,” said Ahmet, as he watched the discomfited mien of the Dutchman.

“We must make light of it,” replied Keraban. “The betrothal is nothing. In ten days the whole affair will be at an end. That will not matter!”

“No; but ten days’ engagement to such an imperious lady as the Kurdish woman is, must count for something!” replied Ahmet.

Five minutes later the court of the caravanserai was empty. Everyone had gone to bed. Van Mitten was guarded by his terrible brother-in-law, and silence fell upon the scene of the tragic comedy, the principal part in which had fallen so heavily upon the unfortunate Dutchman.

CHAPTER IX.

A town which dates from the year (a m.) 4790, which owes its existence to the inhabitants of a Milesian colony which was conquered by Mithradates; fell under the power of Pompey; submitted to the rule of the Persians and Scythians: which was “Christian” under Constantine the Great, and Pagan to the middle of the 6th century (a d.): which was relieved by Belisarius and enriched by Justinian; which was owned by the Comneni, of whom Napoleon I. was said to be the descendant; then by the Sultan Mahomet; till the end of the 16th century, when the Empire of Trebizond came to an end, after lasting 250 years: — this town, as will readily be conceded, has some right to figure in the history of the World. So neither will any one be surprised that Van Mitten had been very anxious to see such a celebrated place, and one so renowned in the annals and romances of chivalry.

But when this delightful anticipation possessed Van Mitten, he had been free from all care. He had only to follow his friend Keraban round the antique Euxine; but now an engaged man, for some days provisionally, but still engaged to the noble lady who held him in leash; he was not altogether in the vein to appreciate the historic splendours of Trebizond.

It was on the 17th September, about 9 a m. two hours after quitting the Caravanserai of Rissar, that Keraban and his companions, Yanar, his sister, and their respective attendants, entered the capital of the modern pachalik, built in the midst of an Alpine country, including valleys, mountains, and waterfalls, which recall the scenes of central Europe, and make one fancy that a slice of Switzerland or of the Tyrol has been transported to the shores of the Black Sea.

Trebizond, situated 325 kilometres from Erzeroum, the important capital of Armenia, is now in direct communication with Persia, by a route which the Turkish government has opened by way of Garnuch Kane, Baiborut, and Erzeroum, and by this means something of its ancient commercial prosperity is preserved.

The city is divided into the Turkish and Latin quarters. The former bristles with the minarets of at least forty mosques, which rise above the orange and olive groves. The latter, the Christian quarter, is the commercial centre in which the Grand Bazaar is situated, wherein are found all kinds of stuffs, arms, money, and precious stones. The harbour is served by a weekly line of steamers which keep open the communication with the principal points of the Black Sea.

In the town lives, or vegetates, according to the various elements of which it is composed, a population of 40,000 inhabitants.

Turks, Persians, Christians of the Armenian and Latin churches, orthodox Greeks, Kurds and Europeans. But when our travellers entered the city the population was augmented more than five times beyond its normal strength by the numbers of the Faithful who had come from all parts of Asia Minor to attend the festivities which were about to be celebrated in honour of Mahomet The little caravan had some difficulty in finding a lodging for the twenty-four hours they intended to remain in Trebizond, as Keraban intended to quit the town the next morning for Scutari In fact he had not a day to lose if he would arrive there by the end of the month.

At length, in a regular district of caravanserais, khans, auberges, at a Franco-Italian hotel, they found accommodation near the Giaour Meidan, the commercial quarter, and consequently outside the Turkish city. But the hotel was comfortable, and Keraban had not the shadow of an excuse for finding fault Now when Seigneur Keraban and his friends had reached this stage in their journey, in the belief that they had passed all the danger, if they had not [escaped all the fatigues of the way — a plot was hatching in the Turkish town, where their mortal enemy resided.

It was at the palace of Seigneur Saffar, which was built on the slopes of the Boshpeh mountain, which slopes gently towards the sea, that, early in the morning, Scarpante arrived, two hours after he had quitted the caravanserai of Rissar.

Seigneur Saffar and Yarhud had been The Harbour awaiting him, and to them Scarpante related the incidents which had occurred the night before. He told them how Keraban and Ahmet had been saved from imprisonment which would have left Amasia virtually unprotected, and how they had been released by the stupid unselfish devotion of Van Mitten. The plans discussed by the three men ended in the resolve to interrupt of Trebizond.

the travellers between Trebizond and Scutari. What the plan was, the sequel will tell; but we may say that a commencement was made that very day, for Seigneur Saffar and Yarhud, without thinking of the fetes, quitted Trebizond, and took the western road through Anatolia, which leads to the Bosphorus shore.

Scarpante himself remained in Trebizond.

He was not known to either Keraban, Ahmet, or the ladies, and so could have full liberty of action. He was to play the important part in the drama which would in future substitute force in action for cunning.

So Scarpante was enabled to mingle with the crowd, and to stroll in the Giaour Meidan. He was not likely to be recognized by Keraban or his nephew, for they had only seen him in the semi-darkness of the court-yard at the caravanserai of Rissar. It was easy enough for Scarpante to spy upon them unsuspected.

This is how it happened, that he perceived Ahmet, soon after his arrival, proceed through the encumbered streets, and obtain the direction of the telegraph office. Scarpante also noticed that Ahmet despatched a long telegram to Amasia’s father.

“Bah,” muttered the spy, “that message will never reach the hand for which it is intended. Selim was mortally wounded by Yarhud, and there is nothing to alarm us in this.”

So Scarpante was quite easy in his mind, and thought no more of the telegram.

Then Ahmet returned to the hotel, and Amasia was convinced that in a few hours those at the Villa Selim would be reassured concerning her safety.

“A letter would have taken too long to reach Odessa,” added Ahmet, “and besides I am always afraid — “

He checked himself suddenly.

“You are afraid of what, my dearest Ahmet? What do you mean?” asked Amasia, somewhat surprised.

“Nothing, dearest,” replied Ahmet, “nothing, I wished to remind your father to be at Scutari to meet us, and even to be there before us, so as to make sure that no delay shall occur in our marriage.”

The truth was that Ahmet, still distrustful of new attempts to carry Amasia away, had notified the banker that all danger had not passed: but, fearful of alarming Amasia, he had quieted her apprehensions, vague and only founded on presentiments though they were.

Amasia thanked Ahmet tenderly for the forethought he had displayed in telegraphing to her father, and for running the risk of Keraban’s malediction for using the wire.

But what had become of Van Mitten all this time? He had most unwillingly become the affianced husband of Saraboul, and the pitiful brother-in-law of Yanar the Kurd.

How could he resist? On one side was Keraban, telling him he must carry out the sacrifice to the bitter end, or else the judge would send them all to prison — an act which would irreparably compromise the issue of the journey; that the marriage, though legal in Turkey, was a “dead letter “in Holland, where Van Mitten had a wife already: that he might if he pleased, have one wife in Europe or two in Turkey. But Van Mitten’s choice was made; he was not going to be made game of.

On the other side there were a brother and sister who were not likely to let their prey escape. It was then only prudent to satisfy them, to give them the slip beyond the Bosphorus, and prevent them from exercising their pretended rights as brother-in law and wife respectively.

So Van Mitten made no attempt to resist, and calmly awaited events.

Fortunately Keraban had got them to consent to proceed to Scutari, before returning to Mossoul, so that they might be present at the wedding of Ahmet and Amasia, and the Kurdish lady was not to carry off her fiance till three or four days after the marriage.

It was arranged that Bruno, though thinking his master had got only what he deserved for his weakness, was not to leave him under the control of that terrible female. But we must confess that Bruno was seized with a fit of laughter which Keraban could not repress, when they saw Van Mitten proceeding to attend the betrothal ceremony in the costume of Kurdistan.

“Is that really you, Van Mitten?” cried Keraban. “Have you arrayed yourself in. the Oriental dress?”

“It is I,” replied Van Mitten.

“As a Kurd?”

“As a Kurd! Exactly.”

“Well, it is not unbecoming to you, and I am sure when you become accustomed to it you will find the costume much more convenient than your scanty European garments.”

“You are very good, friend Keraban.”

“Look here, Van Mitten, banish this sad expression of yours. Tell yourself that it is carnival time, and that you are merely disguised for a mock marriage.”

“It is not the disguise that! troubles me,” replied Van Mitten.

“What is it then that does?”

“The marriage!”

“Bah! Merely a temporary arrangement, Van Mitten. Madame Saraboul must put up with the loss. Yes, when you tell her that these betrothals are not binding on you as you have a wife already in Rotterdam, when you take leave of her and her terrible brother, I shall be there, Van Mitten. Truly, people must not be married against their wills. It is quite bad enough when they consent to it”

As everything tended to this end the worthy Dutchman had finally accepted the situation. It was best after all to look at the matter from the comic side, since such a course helps one to resign oneself, while it also serves the interests of alL

Besides, on that day Van Mitten had hardly had time to look about him, or to think of himself. Yanar and his sister were not people to let the grass grow under their feet They were for summary “execution,” and the marriage gibbet was quite ready to hang up the child of Holland.

Still it must not be imagined that any custom or formality of Turkestan would be omitted or neglected. No, the brother-in- law took all these preparations under his own particular care, and in such a large town nothing would be wanting to give all possible solemnity to the marriage.

Amid the population of Trebizond are included a number of Kurds, and amongst them Yanar and his sister found some acquaintances and friends. These worthy people considered it their duty to assist their compatriots on the auspicious occasion, and to do all in their power to help their countrywoman to a second husband. So there was quite a clan on the side of the bride, while Ahmet, Keraban, and their companions were engaged to figure on the side of the bridegroom. Nevertheless Van Mitten was closely watched and had never been permitted to see his friends alone since the time he had spoken to Keraban about the change of dress.

But for one instant only Bruno was able to glide up to his side and whisper in a warning tone —

“Mind what you are about, master. Take care; you are risking a heavy stake in this game!”

“How can I act otherwise, Bruno?” replied Van Mitten in a resigned tone. “At any rate if I am guilty of folly it will relieve my friends from embarrassment, and the consequences of it will not be serious.”

“Hum!” muttered Bruno, “Master is going to be married, and says the consequences will not be — hum!”

If some one had not at that moment come for Van Mitten, there is no knowing what the termination of the sentence might have been.

It was mid-day and the Seigneur Yanar with the other Kurds came to Van Mitten whom they would not again leave until the ceremony had been performed.

Then the knot was tied with much ceremony. During the performance of the rite, Van Mitten would not permit his anxiety to appear; the noble Saraboul was delighted at having won a European to wed her a woman of Asia — what a glorious alliance was this of Holland with Kurdistan!

The bride was resplendent in her wedding-dress, which she carried about with her in case of need — a necessary precaution, as events proved. Her robe of cloth of gold, her jewellery and ornaments were all magnificent Never had such a splendid bride been seen in the streets of Trebizond, which ought to have been laid down with a purple carpet, as they were at the birth of Constantine.

But if the noble Saraboul was superb, Seigneur Van Mitten was magnificent; while Keraban congratulated him warmly — though the compliments could not fail to be of a somewhat ironical flavour from an old Believer who retained the ancient Oriental dress.

Van Mitten had quite a martial appearance in his new dress, a haughty air, and a somewhat forbidding aspect, quite at variance with the general appearance of a Rotterdam merchant. He could not be otherwise in such a costume, booted and spurred as he was; a fez ornamented with yeminis and the puskul, the enormous length of which indicated the rank which the Dutchman would shortly attain as the husband of the noble Saraboul.

The great Bazaar of Trebizond had furnished all these adjuncts, which, had they been made to measure, could not have fitted better. Van Mitten had also procured a perfect armoury of weapons, damascened poignards, double-edged and jade-hilted daggers, silver-mounted pistols, a short handled sabre, saw-bladed and ornamented with silver; and finally a long-hafted steel weapon with designs in relief, and with a curving blade like the blades of the old scythes.

Ah! Kurdistan might declare war against Turkey. The army of the Padischah could not hope to vanquish such warriors as these! Poor Van Mitten, who could have ever imagined you in such a position? Fortunately, all his friends, except Bruno, kept tellinghim tha t it was “only a joke!”

During the ceremony nothing particular occurred, and if the bridegroom had not been found somewhat cold by his terrible brother-in-law, and his not less terrible sister, all would have been well.

At Trebizond there is no want of judges, acting as ministerial officers, who would gladly register such a marriage contract — so much the more as it was not unattended with profit. But the magistrate who had so sagaciously unfolded the mystery at the caravanserai of Rissar, was the person entrusted with the honourable duty, and he complimented in proper terms the future pair.

Then when the contract had been signed, the fiances and their suite, in the midst of an enormous concourse of people, proceeded to the enclosed town, and to a mosque which had formerly been a Byzantine church, the walls of which were decorated with curious mosaics. Then there was some Kurdish chanting, which is more melodious and rythmical than the Turkish or Armenian chants, and some simple musical instruments of metallic tone, with some little flutes, united in the quaint concert Then the Imaum offered up a simple prayer, and Van Mitten was legally affianced, tightly tied up, as Keraban, with some “arritrc pensee,” assured the noble Saraboul when he felicitated her on her marriage.

Later on, the ceremony would be repeated in Kurdistan, where other fetes would be carried on for many weeks. Van Mitten would have to conform to the customs of the country, or, at least, he would have to try to do so. The husband there has to carry off his wife unexpectedly in his arms when she reaches her future house, no doubt to save her blushes at the idea of going of her own will into a strange home. When he arrived there Van Mitten would do nothing to slight the customs of Kurdistan; but, fortunately, that country was still far distant.

But at that time the ceremonies of the betrothal were naturally eclipsed by those which were performed to celebrate the night of the ascension of the Prophet, thzeil-et-ul-myrcidy, which usually takes place on the 29th month of Redjeb. That year, in consequence of the particular circumstances of a politico-religious ceremony, an ordinance of the chief Imaum had fixed the great fete for the same date as the marriage ceremony.

That evening, in the largest palace of the town, magnificently arranged for the purpose, thousands and thousands of the Faithful lent themselves to the ceremonial which had attracted them to Trebizond from every corner of Mussulman Asia.

The noble Saraboul could not resist the temptation to exhibit her husband in public. As for Seigneur Keraban, his nephew, the two young girls, and their servants, what could they do better in order to pass the evening than to attend this marvellous ceremony!

And marvellous it is indeed! and how could it fail to be so in that country of the East in which all the dreams of the rest of the world become realities. It would be more easy for the painter to depict the scene than for the writer, even though he could command all the hyperbole, the imagery, the periods, of the most illustrious poets of the world.

“Riches are in the Indies; wit in Europe; but pomp is in the Ottoman Empire,” is a Turkish proverb.

And it was really in the midst of incomparable pomp and magnificence that the poetic fable displayed itself, and to which the most charming daughters of Asia Minor lent their grace and beauty. The ceremony is based upon the legend imitated from the Christian record that, until his death, which happened in the 10th year of the Hegeira, his paradise was closed to all the faithful ones sleeping in the arms of space, pending the arrival of the Prophet. On that day he appeared on horseback on “El-borak,” the hippogriff which waited his arrival at the gate of the Temple of Jerusalem. Then his tomb miraculously quitted the earth, ascended to the heavens, and remained suspended between the zenith and the nadir in the midst of the splendours of the Paradise of Islam. All the Faithful then awoke to render homage to the Prophet. The period of eternal happiness promised to them began, and Mahomet raised himself up in a dazzling apotheosis, while the stars of heaven in the form of innumerable houris circled round the resplendent throne of Allah.

In a word this fete is as the realization of the dream of one of the poets, who best interpreted the Oriental poetry when he said, Apropos of the ecstatic performances of the dervishes, carried away by their dances and strange rhymes —

“What saw they in those visions in which they rocked themselves? Forests of emeralds bearing rubies as fruit; the mountains of amber and myrrh; the kiosks of diamonds, and the tents of pearl of the Paradise of Mahomet.”

CHAPTER X.

The next day, the 18th of September, as the sun was beginning to light up the highest minarets of the town, a little caravan came out by one of the gates of the old fortification, and the travellers waved a last adieu to poetic Trebizond.

This caravan, en route for the Bosphorus, was proceeding along the coast, led by a guide, whose sendees Keraban had willingly accepted. This guide ought, at any rate, to be acquainted with this part of Anatolia, for he was one of those nomads known in the country as loupeurs.

By this name are designated a certain class ofwoodcutterswhose occupation it is to scour the forests of the districts for walnuts. On those trees grow large natural excrescences of remarkable hardness, the wood of which, inasmuch as it lends itself to all the requirements of the cabinet-makers, is particularly sought after.

This guide, having learnt that the strangers were about to quit Trebizond for Scutari, had come the previous evening to offer his services. He appeared intelligent, quite conversant with all the routes, with the windings of which he was familiar. So, after giving distinct and straightforward replies to the questions put by Keraban, the loupeur had been engaged at a high price, which he was assured would be doubled if the caravan reached the hills above the Bosphorus within twelve days, the extreme period fixed for the celebration of the marriage of Amasia and Ahmet.

Ahmet, after having questioned the guide, and particularly having sought to discover in his inexpressive countenance and reserved manner that indescribable “something” which always speaks in favour of people, and to which one never hesitates to accord one’s confidence, was satisfied. No one could be more useful than a man who had been perfectly well acquainted with these regions all his life, nothing could be more reassuring under such circumstances, when a journey had to be accomplished so speedily. So, then, the loupeur became guide to Seigneur Keraban and his companions. To him the little troop turned for direction. He chose the halting places, and organized the encampments; he looked after them all; and when he was promised that his salary should be doubled on condition they arrived at Scutari with as little delay as possible, he replied —

“Seigneur Keraban may be assured I will do my best, and, since he has proposed to double the money for my services, I pledge my word I will demand nothing if before twelve days he is not in Scutari.”

“By Mahomet! that is the man for me,” said Keraban, when he told his nephew of the proposal.

“Yes, uncle,” replied Ahmet; “but, however good a guide he may be, do not let us forget how imprudent it is to venture on the roads of Anatolia.”

“Ah! always afraid of something, Ahmet!”

“Uncle Keraban, I shall not think we are safe until we are at Scutari.”

“And you will be married! Is it not so?” said Keraban, taking Ahmet’s hand. “Very well, in twelve days I promise you Amasia shall be the wife of the most distrustful of nephews.”

“And the niece of — “

“The best of uncles!” cried Keraban with a roar of laughter.

The little caravan was made up of two “talikas “(a “talika “is a kind of not uncomfortable open carriage, which can be closed in case of wet weather; with four horses each “talika”), and two horses saddled. Ahmet was glad, even at the high price, to find such vehicles in Trebizond, so that he might finish his journey in comfort.

Seigneur Keraban, Amasia, and Nedjeb were in the first talika, Nizib being in the seat at the back. At the back of the second the noble Saraboul was enthroned near her fianci, and opposite her brother, with Bruno to act as valet Ahmet was mounted on one of the saddle horses, the guide on the other; the latter sometimes rode by the talikas, and sometimes showing by which way to go.

As the country was not very safe, the travellers were provided with guns and revolvers, besides the usual arms that Yanar and his sister carried in their belts, and Seigneur Keraban’s famous pistols. Although the guide assured Ahmet that there was nothing to be afraid of on the roads, he determined to take precautions against all aggression.

After all, there was no absolute difficulty in travelling two hundred miles in twelve days, without changing horses (as post-houses were rare in the country), even letting the horses rest every night Then, unless any unseen or improbable accidents happened, this roundabout journey would be completed in the wished-for time.

The country that extends from Trebizond to Sinope is called “Djanik “by the Turks. It is on the other side that Anatolia — commonly called Ancient Bi-thynia — commences. It has become a great pachalic of Turkey in Asia, being on the west of Asia Minor. Kutaya is the capital, and Brusa, Smyrna, Angora, &c. the principal towns.

The little caravan started at 6 o’clock in the morning from Trebizond, arriving, at 9 o’clock at Platana, after a stage of five leagues.

Platana is the ancient Hermonassa. To get there one must pass through a sort of valley where barley, com, and maize grow; where magnificent tobacco plantations prosper marvellously. Seigneur Keraban could not help admiring these plantations, where the leaves become, without any drying preparation, a golden yellow. Very likely his correspondent and friend, Van Mitten, would also have been unable to restrain his admiration if he had not been altogether wrapt-up in the noble Saraboul. In all this country grow beautiful trees. The pines and the beeches may be compared to the most majestic trees of Holstein and Denmark; also the nut trees, the currant and wild raspberry bushes. Bruno, with an envious feeling, observed the natives of this country, even at an early age, were stout — this was rather humiliating for a Dutchman reduced to a skeleton.

At noon they passed the little market town of Tol, leaving on the left the first undulations of the Pontic Alps. Along the roads going towards Trebizond, or returning, were peasants, clothed in thick brown woollen stuff, and a bonnet made of sheep-skin for their head-dress, accompanied by their wives, wrapped in a piece of striped cotton cloth, which went well with their short red woollen petticoats.

All this country Xenophon made illustrious by his famous retreat of the Ten Thousand. But the unfortunate Van Mitten would cower under the menacing look of Yanar, without even being able to consult his guide book. So he had ordered Bruno to consult it for him and take notes. It is true Bruno would think of other things than the exploits of the great general, and that is why, in leaving Trebizond, he had forgotten to show his master the hill that overlooked the coast, and from the height of which the Ten Thousand saluted with their enthusiastic cries the waves of the Black Sea. In truth he was not a faithful servant!

That evening after a journey of 20 leagues, the caravan arrived and slept at Tirebola. There the “caiwak,” a sort of cream obtained by lukewarm milk, made with lamb’s rennet; and the “yaourk,” cheese made with sour milk by means of pressure, were thoroughly appreciated by the travellers, who had gained an appetite from the long journey. Besides, mutton in all forms was not absent at the repast, and Nizib could now regale without fear of infringing the Mussulman law. Bruno this time did not cheat him out of his part of the supper.

This little market town, which is only a simple village, was left on the morning of the 19th of September. During the day they passed Zepe and its narrow port where only three or four merchant ships of small draught are able to shelter. Then, still under the direction of the guide, who knew these roads perfectly, the party proceeded on the sometimes troublesome tracks, in the middle of long plains. They arrived, very late, at Keresoum, after a stage of 25 leagues.

Keresoum is built at the foot of a hill, in a double escarpment of its side. This, the ancient Pharnace, where the Ten Thousand stopped during ten days to recruit their strength, is very picturesque, with the ruins of its castle overlooking the entrance of the port. There Seigneur Keraban would have easily been able to make an ample provision of cheny-wood pipes, which are objects of an important trade. In fact the cherry tree abounds on this part of the pachalic, and Van Mitten thought he ought to relate again to his fiancee the great historical fact, that it was to this same Keresoum that the proconsul Lucullus sent the first cherry-trees that were acclimatized in Europe. Saraboul had never heard of the celebrated gourmet, and appeared to take but small interest in the learned dissertations of Van Mitten. The latter, under the dominion of this haughty person, became a sadder Kurd than one can imagine. In the meantime, his friend Keraban, without anyone being able to guess whether he jested or not, did not cease to congratulate Van Mitten on the way in which he wore his new costume, which made him shrug his shoulders at Bruno.

“Yes, Van Mitten, yes!” repeated Keraban, “that suits you perfectly; this robe, this ‘ chalwar,’ this turban; but to be a complete Kurd, you want larger and fiercer moustaches, like Seigneur Yanar’s.”

“I have never had moustaches,” replied Van Mitten.

“You never had moustaches?” cried Saraboul.

“He has never had moustaches?” repeated Seigneur Yanar disdainfully.

“Scarcely any, noble SarabouL”

“Very well, you shall have them,” replied the imperious Kurd, “and I undertake to make them grow.”

“Poor Monsieur Van Mitten!” murmured young Amasia, rewarding him with a kind look.

“Good! all that will end in smoke,” repeated Nedjeb, while Bruno shook his head like a bird of ill omen.

The following day, the 20th of September, after having followed an enticing Roman road that Lucullus had constructed, they said, to reunite Anatolia to the Armenian provinces, the little troop, favoured by the weather, left behind them the village of Aptas, then towards noon the market town of Ordu was gained. This stage skirted the verge of splendid forests, that clothed the hills on which abounded the most varied species of trees; oaks, witch-elms, elms, maples, planes, plum-trees, wild olives, junipers, white poplars, pomegranates, white and black mulberries, walnut trees and sycamore. There the vine is an exuberant vegetable that grows like ivy in some mild country, twining as far as the tree-tops. All these! without speaking of the shrubs, hawthorns, barberries, filbert-trees, laburnums, elders, medlar trees, jasmines, tamarisks, nor of various other plants, blue and white saffron flowers, iris, rhododendrons, scabiouses, yellow narcissi, mallows, centaury, gilliflowers, oriental clematis, and wild tulips — yes, even tulips! that Van Mitten could not see without all the instinct of the amateur awakening in him, indeed the sight of these plants was rather of a nature to evoke some displeasing remembrance of his first union. It is true the existence of the other Madam Van Mitten was now a guaranty against the matrimonial pretentions of the second. So far the worthy Dutchman was happy, and ten times happier because he had been already married.

The Cape Jessoun Bouroun once passed, the guide directed the caravan across the ruins of the old village of Polemonium, towards the market town of Fatisa, where travellers and horses slept soundly all night Ahmet, always on the alert, had not, so far, had any great cause of suspicion. Fifty odd leagues had been got over since leaving Trebizond; during that time no danger had threatened Seigneur Keraban and his companions. The guide was of a communicative nature, so was always discussing matters during the walks and stoppages, skilfully and shrewdly. Nevertheless, Ahmet felt for this man a certain mistrust that he could not overcome. So he neglected nothing that he ought to have done to assure the security of all, and he watched for the common safety without even letting them perceive his anxiety.

On the 21 st, at daybreak, they left Fatisa; about noon they left on the right the Ouruck port and its erection of woodyards, at the mouth of the ancient CEnus. Thence the road proceeded to cross immense plains of hemp, as far as the mouth of Tcher-cherebet (where a rumour has placed a tribe of Amazons), so as to “turn” the capes and the headlands, that are covered with ruins, like all those upon that historical coast The market town of Terma was passed in the afternoon, and in the evening the travellers halted at Sansoun for the night Sansoun is one of the most important ports on this slope of the Black Sea, although its roadstead is scarcely a safe one, and the harbour is rather shallow at the mouth of the Ekil-Irmak. However, trade is fairly active and cargoes of water-melons which flourish in the vicinity are forwarded, under the name of arbute-berries, to Con.

stantinople. An old fort, picturesquely placed upon the margin of the coast, defends but imperfectly the place from attack by sea. In the state of emaciation to which Bruno was reduced it seemed to him thatt the water-melons, on which Seigneu Keraban and his friends were regaling, were, scarcely sufficient nourishment, and he declined to partake of them. The fact was, the brave fellow, although already much reduced in size, found still an opportunity to grow thinner, and Keraban felt constrained to remark it.

“But,” he added, in a consolatory manner, “we are approaching Egypt; and there, Bruno, if he likes, may make a good bargain for his body.”

“In what way?” asked Bruno.

“By selling yourself as a mummy!”

If this joke displeased the unfortunate valet, and if he wished for Keraban a more unpleasant fate than his master’s second marriage, he kept his wishes to himself!

“But you will see that nothing will happen to this Turk,” muttered Bruno, “all the unpleasantness will fall upon the Christians, as we are!”

And indeed Keraban was in capital form, for he did not consider that his good! humour had been much tried, as all his plans were being accomplished under the best conditions of time and safety.

The travellers did not halt, except to rest the horses, either at Meletsch or by the Kysie, which was crossed by a bridge of boats, in the course of the 22nd September; nor at Gerse where they arrived next day, nor at Tschobanlar. Nevertheless Keraban would have liked to explore, if only for a few hours, Bafria, or Bafra, situated a little inland, where a gTeat trade in tobacco is carried on, the “tays” or packets of which, tied up between long laths, had so often replenished his stores in Constantinople; but it would have been necessary to make a detour of a dozen leagues or so, and it was thought wiser not to lengthen a journey already long enough.

On the 23rd the little caravan arrived without opposition at Sinope on the frontier of Anatolia proper.

Sinope, another important port of the Black Sea, situated on the isthmus of the same name, the ancient Sinope of Strabo and Polybius. The anchorage is always excellent, and ships are built in the place with the splendid woods of the Aio-Antonio mountains, which rise close by. There is a castle, with a double enceinte, but there are only five hundred houses at most, and scarcely six thousand inhabitants.

Ah, why had not Van Mitten been born two thousand or three thousand years sooner! How he would have admired that celebrated town, the origin of which is attributed to the Argonauts; which became such an important Milesian colony as to deserve the name of the Euxine Carthage; whose ships covered the Black Sea in the time of the Romans, and which ended by being ceded to Mahomet II. because it delighted the Commander of the Faithful! But it was now too late to recall the decayed splendour of the architecture of such various styles. It is only necessary here to recall the fact that it derived its name of Sinope from a daughter of the Asopus and Methone, who was carried away by Apollo to this place. On the present occasion the nymph was carrying away the object of her tenderness, and her name was Saraboul! This reflection caused Van Mitten some lively pangs.

The distance between Sinope and Scutari is about one hundred and twenty-five leagues, and Keraban had only seven days left in which to traverse that distance. If he was not behindhand neither was he much ahead of time. So it was absolutely necessary that no time should be lost.

On the 24th, at sunrise, the caravan quitted Sinope to follow the Anatolian coast-line. About ten o’clock the little troupe reached Istifan, at mid-day Apena was passed, and in the evening, after a day’s journey of fifteen leagues, the travellers stopped at Ineboli, which, open to all winds, has only unsafe anchorage for merchant vessels.

Ahmet then proposed to rest for two hours only, and to travel the rest of the night. Twelve hours gained would be well worth a little fatigue. Seigneur Keraban accepted the situation. No one objected, not even Bruno. Besides, Yanar and Saraboul were anxious to reach the Bosphorus, so as to proceed towards Kurdistan; and Van Mitten was in no less haste, but to fly as far as possible from Kurdistan, the very name of which made him shudder.

The guide made no objection to this plan, and declared himself ready to start whenever they liked. By day or night the road was all the same to him, and this lou-pcur, accustomed to traverse thick forests by instinct, had no difficulty in following the coast road.

So, at eight in the evening, they started under a beautiful full moon, which was rising in the east after the sun had set. Amasia, Nedjeb, Keraban, the noble Saraboul, Yanar, and Van Mitten stretched in the vehicles, permitted themselves to sleep, lulled by the quick motion of the carriages and the tramp of the horses.

They saw nothing of Cape Kerenebe, half hidden in the crowd of sea-birds whose cries filled the air. In the morning they passed Tenileh without any incident having occurred to trouble them: then they reached Kidros, and in the evening halted at Amastia. They had now a right to some hours’ rest, after having made more than sixty leagues in thirty-six hours.

Perhaps Van Mitten — for we must always turn to this excellent man, who had been diligently reading up his guide-book — perhaps Van Mitten, had he been a free agent, and had time and money not been wanting, would have dug out the harbour in the hope of seeking an archaeological object of which an antiquary would not dare to dispute the value.

Everyone knows that 290 years before Christ, Queen Amastris, wife of Lysimachus, one of Alexander’s captains, and the foundress of this town, was enclosed in a leathern sack, and thrown by her two brothers into the harbour she had constructed. Now, what a glorious thing it would be for Van Mitten, if on the faith of his guide-book he could fish up this famous sack. But, as we have said, time and money were wanting and, without imparting his idea to anyone, not even to the noble Saraboul, the subject of his reverie, he kept his archaeological regrets to himself.

Next morning, 26th September, at daybreak, they left this ancient metropolis of the Genoese, which is now only a miserable village of toy-makers. Three or four leagues further on is the little town of Bartan, which was passed close by, and in the afternoon Jelias; at nightfall Ozina, and towards midnight Eregli was gained.

There the party reposed until daylight This was indeed little enough rest, for the horses as well as the travellers began to feel greatly fatigued by the exigencies of the long journey, which had left them little time for repose since they had left Trebizond. Only four days remained — the 27th, 28th, 29th, and 30th of September — and the last day would have to be deducted from the total, as the 30th was intended to be passed in another fashion. So, if Seigneur Keraban and his companions did not reach the shores of the Bosphorus very early on the morning of the 30th, the situation would be seriously compromised. There was not a moment to lose, and Keraban hastened the start at sunrise.

Eregli is the ancient Heraclea, of Greek origin. It was formerly an immense city, whose walls, now in ruins, still indicate the extent. The harbour, at one time very important and well-sheltered, has degenerated with the town which boasts only six or seven thousand inhabitants. After the Romans, after the Greeks, after the Genoese, it fell under the domination of Mahomet II. and the city, which had known long days of splendour, became a simple market-town, devoid of any industry or commerce.

The happy fiance of Saraboul would have still had some curiosity to satisfy there. Was it not at Heraclea, that peninsula of Acherusias, that the mythological cavern, one of the entrances to Tartarus, opened. Does not Diodorus of Sicily tell us that it was by this gate Hercules brought back Cerberus, when returning from the infernal regions? But Van Mitten still kept his desires deep down in his heart. Besides, as to Cerberus, did not he recognise in Yanar his faithful image — his watchful guardian. Of course the Kurdish gentleman had not three heads, but one was enough for him, and when he held that up with a ferocious air, it seemed that his teeth appeared under his thick moustaches as ready to bite as were those of the tri-headed dog, which Pluto had enchained.

On the 27th September the little caravan passed through the town of Sacaria, and towards evening reached Cape KerpPS, where sixteen centuries before the Emperor Aure-lius was slain. There they halted for the night and took counsel as to the means by which the journey might be more readily completed, so as to reach Scutari within forty-eight hours — that is to say, on the morning of the last day fixed for their return.

CHAPTER XIV.

SEIGNEUR KERA-BAN’S villa occupied one of the most advantageous sites upon the hill on which Scutari is built.

Scutari — the Asiatic faubourg of Constantinople, the ancient Chryso-polis, with its gilt-roofed mosques, and all the medley throng of a population of fifty-thousand inhabitants; its floating landing-place, and the extensive grove of cypress-trees in the cemetery; — Scutari, the resting-place elected by rich Mussulmans, who are afraid lest the capital may be taken while the faithful are at prayers, according to the legend; then, a league farther on, is Mount Bouljourlon, which dominates the scene, and affords a prospect embracing the Sea of Marmora, the Gulf of Nicomedia, the canal of Constantinople: — nothing can give an idea of the grandeur of the panorama, which is unique, and of which the windows of the rich merchant’s villa commanded a view.

The exterior of the villa — its terraced gardens, its beautiful trees and shrubs-were in worthy keeping with the interior of; the mansion. Truly it was a pity to have deprived one’s self of all this for the sake of a few paras demanded daily for crossing the Bosphorus.

It was mid-day. For three hours the owner and his guests had been installed in that elegant villa. Having made their toilette, they were reposing after the fatigues and trials of the journey. Keraban, very proud of his success, was holding the Muchir and his imposts up to ridicule; Amasia and Ahmet, as happy as an engaged couple could be; Nedjeb, in a state of continuous laughter; Bruno, satisfied that he was growing fatter, but anxious on his master’s account! Nizib, always calm even in the midst of the grand surroundings of the place; Seigneur Yanar, more ferocious than ever, no one knew why; the noble Saraboul, as imperious as if she were in the capital of Kurdistan; and, finally, Van Mitten, much pre-occupied concerning the issue of this adventure.

It was not without reason that Bruno fancied he was gaining flesh. He had enjoyed a dejeuner as ample as magnificent! This was not the famous dinner to which Keraban had invited his friend Van Mitten six weeks before; but it was none the less magnificent. And now all the party, seated in the charming salon, whose bay windows opened on the Bosphorus, congratulated each other in animated sentences.

“My dear Van Mitten,” said Keraban, who moved about cordially among his guests, “I did invite you to a dinner, but you must not blame me if the hour has obliged us to — “

“I do not complain,” replied Van Mitten, “your cook has done very well.”

“Yes, excellently, in truth,” added Yanar, who had eaten more than was convenient, even for a Kurd with a voracious appetite.

“One could not have done better in Kurdistan,“replied Saraboul,“and, Seigneur Keraban, if ever you come to Mossoul to pay us a visit — “

“Oh, I will come,” replied Keraban. “I will come and see you and my friend Van Mitten.”

“And we will endeavour to make you forget your villa; and you will not regret your native Holland,” added the amiable woman, turning to her betrothed.

“Near you, noble Saraboul — ” Van Mitten ought to have said; but he could not manage to finish the phrase, and gave it up.

Then, while the Kurdish lady turned towards the window which opened upon the Bosphorus, he said to Keraban —

“The moment has come to tell her that the marriage is null and void.”

“As void as if it had never been celebrated, Van Mitten.”

“You will assist me a little, Keraban, in this business: it will be unpleasant.”

“Hum,” remarked Keraban, “there are some private matters which are best discussed tete-d-tete.”

“The devil!” was the Dutchman’s reply. Then he retired to a corner to consider the best mode of action.

“Worthy Van Mitten,” remarked Keraban, to his nephew, “what a scene he will have with this Kurdish woman!”

“We ought not to forget that he was impelled into this scrape by his devotion to us,” replied Ahmet.

“So we should assist him? Bah, he was married at the time he was affianced, and for an Occidental this is a final barrier. So he has nothing to fear.”

“I know that,” replied Ahmet, “but when Madame Saraboul receives this blow she will leap like an enraged panther! As for her brother, Yanar, he will explode like a powder-magazine.”

“By Mahomet, but we will make them listen to reason,” replied Keraban. “After all, Van Mitten is not guilty of any misconduct.”

“Certainly not, uncle, and it is equally certain that this tender widow wants to be married again at any price.”

“No doubt, and she did not hesitate to put her hand upon good M. Van Mitten.”

“A hand of iron, uncle Keraban.”

“Of steel, rather,” replied her uncle.

“At anyrate, uncle, if it is necessary to undo this pretended marriage, it is — “

“Also necessary to perform a real one, eh?” interrupted Keraban, rubbing his hands as if he were washing them.

“Precisely so — mine,” replied Ahmet.”

“Ours,” said Amasia, who had approached the pair. “We have deserved it.”

“Well deserved it,” said Selim.

“Yes, indeed, my little Amasia; deserved it ten, a hundred, a thousand times! Ah, my dear child, to think that by my obstinacy, by my fault — that you were nearly — “

“We will not speak of that,” said Ahmet.

“No, never, uncle Keraban,” said the girl putting her little hand on his mouth.

“So,” continued Keraban, “I made a vow — yes, I made a resolution — that I would never be ‘ pig-headed’ again, no matter what happened.”

“I must see that, to believe it,” laughed Nedjeb.

“Eh, what does that quizzical Nedjeb say?” exclaimed Keraban.

“Oh, nothing, Seigneur.”

“Yes,” continued Keraban: “I will never again be obstinate, except in my affection for you both.”

“When Seigneur Keraban ceases to be the most head-strong of men — ,” began Bruno.

“That will be when he has no longer a head,” remarked Nizib parenthetically.

“Just so,” said Bruno.

Meanwhile the noble Kurdish lady approached her fiance, who was seated very pensive in his corner — no doubt finding his task all the more difficult as the time approached for executing it alone and unaided.

“What is the matter with you, M. Van Mitten?” she asked. “You look very serious.”

“Yes, indeed, brother-in-law,” added Yanar. “What are you about? You surely have not brought us to Scutari for nothing, to see nothing. Show us the Bosphorus, as one of these days we will show you Kurdistan.”

At this celebrated name the Dutchman started as if he had received an electric shock.

“Come, let us go, M. Van Mitten,” said Saraboul, compelling him to rise.

“At your service, beautiful Saraboul,” replied Van Mitten, aloud; but, mentally, he was thinking how he best could break the subject of separation to her.

At that moment the young Zingara, having opened one of the great bay-windows which was shaded by an awning, exclaimed, “Look, look! Scutari is all alive. It would be very pleasant to walk about the city today!”

The guests at once advanced to the windows.

“Indeed,” remarked Keraban, “the Bosphorus is covered with gaily decked boats. In all the squares and streets there are jugglers and acrobats, there is music, and the quays are crowded with people!”: “Yes “said Selim, “the town is en fete.”

“I trust that will prove no bar to our marriage,” remarked Ahmet.

“Certainly not,” replied Keraban. “We are going to have at Scutari a repetition of the feast at Trebizond, and these appear to be in honour of our friend Van Mitten!”

“He will make game of me to the end,” muttered the Dutchman. “But he cannot help it, it is in the blood!”

“My friends,” said Selim, “let us look at this important affair. To-day is the last day — “

“And we will not forget that fact,” replied Keraban.

“I will proceed to the judge’s house, so that the contract may be drawn up,” said Selim.

“We will meet you there,” replied Ahmet. “You know, uncle, that your presence is indispensable.”

“Almost as much as your own,” replied Keraban, laughing loudly by way of confirmation.

“Yes, uncle, more indispensable, if one may say so, in your position as trustee.”

“Well,” said Selim, “in an hour we will meet you at the house of the judge of Scutari.”

As he quitted the room, Ahmet, addressing Amasia, said —

“Then, dear Amasia, after the signing of the contract, we pay a visit to the Imaun, who will put up his best prayer, and then — “

“Then we shall be married,” exclaimed Nedjeb, as if the ceremony included herself.

“Dear Ahmet,” murmured Amasia.

Meanwhile the noble Saraboul had a second time approached Van Mitten, who, more and more pensive, was seated in a corner of the room.

“Pending this ceremony,” she said, “why cannot we go as far as the Bosphorus?”

“The Bosphorus!” exclaimed Van Mitten, with an abstracted air; “you are speaking of the — Bosphorus?”

“Yes, the Bosphorus,” said Yanar. “One would almost imagine you did not understand.”

“Yes, yes, I am quite ready,” said Van Mitten, rising as his powerful brother-in-law placed his hand upon his shoulder. “Yes, the Bosphorus. But first I desire — I wish — “

“You wish?” repeated Saraboul.

“I would be happy to have an interview, a private interview with you, beautiful Saraboul.”

“A private conversation?”

“Very well, I will leave you,” said Yanar.

“No, stay where you are, brother,” replied Saraboul, who was staring her fiance out of countenance. “I have a presentiment that your presence will be needed.”

“By Mahomet! I wonder how he will get it done,” said Keraban in his nephew’s ear.

“It will be difficult,” replied Ahmet.

“We will not go far away, so that we may be at hand to support Van Mitten.”

“They will certainly tear him to pieces,” remarked Bruno.

Seigneur Keraban, Ahmet, Amasia, and Nedjeb, Bruno and Nizib, then moved towards the door so as to leave the field clear for the encounter.

“Courage, Van Mitten,” said Keraban, shaking his friend’s hand as he passed him. “I will not go far away. I will remain in the next room, and watch over your safety.”

“Courage, master,” said Bruno, “or beware Kurdistan!”

A moment later, Van Mitten and the two Kurds were left alone in the room, and the Dutchman, as he rubbed his head, made a melancholy “aside ” —

“If I only knew how to begin!”

Saraboul then advanced quickly towards him.

“What have you to say to us, Monsieur Van Mitten?” she asked in a tone which prevented too much pleasantness from being imported into the discussion.

“Yes, speak out,” added Yanar.

“If we might sit down,” began Van Mitten, who felt his limbs giving way beneath him.

“What you can say seated you can say standing up,” replied Saraboul. “We are listening.”

Van Mitten summoned all his courage, which had given way on hearing those words, so eminently calculated to embarrass a timid speaker.

“Beautiful Saraboul, you may be sure, first of all, and very much against my will, I regret that — “

“You regret?” said Saraboul, “you regret what? Is it our marriage? That is, after all, only a legitimate reparation — “

“Oh! reparation, reparation! “Van Mitten ventured to remark in an undertone.

“And I also regret,” continued Saraboul. “Yes, certainly I regret — “

“Ah! you also regret — ?”

“I regret that the intruder at Rissar was neither Seigneur Ahmet nor Keraban. In either case I should have married a man — “

“Well said, sister,” remarked Yanar.

“Instead of a — “

“Well said again, although you have not finished your sentence,” continued Yanar.

“Excuse me,” interrupted Van Mitten, who was injured by such personal remarks.

“Whoever would believe,” continued Saraboul, “that the author of such an attempt was a Dutchman preserved in ice!”

“Ah! I can’t stand this,” cried Van Mitten, absolutely hurt at being thus compared to a sweetmeat “First and foremost, Madame Saraboul, there was no intrusion at all!”

“Really?” said Saraboul, sacastically.

“No,” continued Van Mitten, “It was a mistake. We — or rather I — under a false and perfidious direction, mistook the room.”

“Indeed!” remarked Saraboul, sarcastically.

“A mere misdirection, which,under threat of imprisonment, has compelled me to perpetrate a preliminary marriage — “

“Preliminary or not,” remarked Saraboul, “you are not the less married — married to me; and you may depend upon it, monsieur, that the ceremonial begun at Trebizond will be completed in Kurdistan.”

“Yes? Let us talk of it in Kurdistan, then,” retorted Van Mitten, who was beginning to lose his temper.

“And,” continued Saraboul, “as I perceive that the society of your friends renders you insensible to my regard, we will leave Scutari this very day, and start for Mossoul, where I will infuse a little of the Kurd into your veins.”

“I protest,” exclaimed Van Mitten.

“Another word, and we will start this instant.”

“You may depart, Madame Saraboul,” replied Van Mitten, ironically, “you may depart if it is convenient, and no one will dream of detaining you, but I will not go!”

“You will not go?” cried Saraboul, much enraged at this defiance of two tigers by a sheep.

“No.”

“And you have the temerity to resist us?” asked Yanar, crossing his arms.

“I have.”

“Resist me, and her, a Kurdish lady!”

“Yes, were she ten times a Kurd!”

“Just remember, Mr. Dutchman, what kind of woman I am,” said Saraboul, marching towards her fiance, “and remember what I have been. Recollect that at fifteen I was already a widow.”

“Yes,” said Yanar, “and when one begins so early — “

“It may be so, madame,” replied Van Mitten, “but one thing you can never be, notwithstanding your early habits — “

“And that is?”

“You can never be my widow.”

“Monsieur Van Mitten,” said Yanar, putting his hand on his yataghan, “one blow of this would suffice — “

“That is where you are mistaken,” replied Van Mitten. “Your sabre would not make Madame Saraboul a widow, for the very excellent reason that I cannot be her husband.”

“Eh?”

“And our marriage would be null.”

“Null?”

“Because if Madame Saraboul has the happiness to be the widow of her first husband, I am not the widower of my first wife.”

“Married? He is already married!”

exclaimed the noble Saraboul, beside herself at the announcement.

“Yes,” replied Van Mitten, now fairly in for it. “Yes, married! It was only to save my friends, and to prevent our arrest at the caravanserai of Rissar that I sacrificed myself!”

“Sacrificed!” screamed Saraboul, falling back on the divan.

“Knowing quite well that the marriage was not valid,” continued Van Mitten, “since the first Madame Van Mitten is no more dead than I am a widower, for she is in Holland — “

The outraged “bride” rose, and, turning to Yanar, exclaimed —

“You hear him!”

“I hear.”

“Your sister has been jilted!”

“Insulted!”

“And this traitor still lives!”

“He has only a few seconds more to live!”

“How savage they are,” cried Van Mitten, really nervous at the turn the matter had taken.

“I will avenge you, sister,” exclaimed Yanar, who, with uplifted weapon, advanced upon Van Mitten.

“I will avenge myself!” she cried.

So saying, the noble Saraboul rushed at the Dutchman, uttering cries of rage, which were fortunately audible in the next room.

CHAPTER XV.

In which Keraban is more obstinate than he had ever been.

The door was immediately flung open, and Keraban, Ahmet, Amasia, Nedjeb, and Bruno appeared on the threshold.

Keraban quickly disengaged Van Mitten. “Come, madame,” said Ahmet, “you must not strangle people for a misunderstanding.”

“Diable!” muttered Bruno, “it was quite time we arrived!”

“Poor Monsieur Van Mitten,” said Amasia, who felt sincere pity for her travelling companion.

“She is decidedly not the wife for him,” added Nedjeb, shaking her head.

Meanwhile Van Mitten had recovered his spirits a little.

“It was rather hard, wasn’t it?” asked Keraban.

“Yes,” replied Van Mitten, “a little more and I would have died!”

At that moment the noble Saraboul turned to Keraban and, taking him aside, said —

“And have you lent yourself to this — “

“Mystification,” interrupted Keraban, “that is the proper word — mystification.”

“I will be revenged. There are judges in Constantinople.”

“Charming Saraboul,” replied Keraban, “you can only accuse yourself. You were anxious, on account of a pretended insult, to stop our journey. By Allah, we had to get out of the scrape as best we could. We extricated ourselves by a pretended marriage, and we assuredly had a right to this retaliation.”

At this answer Saraboul fell a second time upon the divan, a prey to one of those attacks of nerves of which women, even in Kurdistan, possess the secret.

Nedjeb and Amasia hastened to her assistance.

“I am going — I am going!” she cried.

“Bon voyage!” said Bruno.

At this juncture Nizib came in.

“What is it?” demanded Keraban.

“A telegram brought from the office at Galata,” replied Nizib.

“For whom?”

“For M. Van Mitten. It came to-day.”

“Give it to me,” said the Dutchman.

He took the telegram, opened it, and looked at the signature.

“It is from my managing clerk in Rotterdam,” he said. Then he read the message as follows —

“Madame Van Mitien — five weeks ago — died!”

The despatch was crushed in his hand. Van Mitten was thunderstruck, and (why conceal the fact?) his eyes filled with tears.

On hearing the last words Saraboul suddenly rose.

“Five weeks!” she exclaimed in rapture. “He said five weeks — “

“Imprudent man,” muttered Ahmet, “what business had he to divulge the date at such a moment!”

“Yes,” continued Saraboul triumphantly, “it is only ten days since he was affianced to me; and — “

“Mahomet choke you,” muttered Keraban, a little louder than he perhaps intended.

“You were then a widower, my dear spouse,” said Saraboul, triumphantly.

“Absolutely a widower, dear brother-in- law,” added Yanar.

“And our marriage is valid!”

Then Van Mitten, crushed by the logic of this argument, in his turn sank upon the divan.

“Poor man!” said Ahmet to his uncle, “nothing now remains for him but to throw himself into the Bosphorus.”

“Good,” replied Keraban. “She will then throw herself after him and save him — for revenge!”

The noble Saraboul had already seized her property by the arm!

“Get up,” she said.

“Yes, dear Saraboul,” replied Van Mitten, hanging his head, “I am quite ready.”

“And follow us,” said Yanar.

“Yes, dear brother-in-law,” replied Van Mitten, absolutely checkmated, “I am ready to follow you wherever you please.”

“To Constantinople, where we will take the first steamer,” said Saraboul.

“For — ?”

“For Kurdistan,” replied Yanar.

“Kurdistan! You will accompany me, Bruno? They live well there: that will fully compensate you.”

Bruno could only make a sign in the affirmative.

The noble Saraboul and the Seigneur Yanar then dragged the unfortunate Dutchman away, though his friends in vain attempted to detain him, and his faithful servant followed him, muttering —

“I told him that some evil would befall him!”

Keraban and the others remained stupefied and mute at this shock.

“Then he is married!” said Amasia.

“For his devotion to us,” said Ahmet.

“For good and all this time,” added Nedjeb.

“He will have only one resource in Kurdistan,” said Keraban with much seriousness.

“That will be, uncle — ?”

“That will be — in order to neutralise her, he must marry a dozen!”

At that moment the door opened and Selim appeared quite out of breath as if he had been running.

“Oh, father, what is the matter?” exclaimed Amasia.

“What has happened?” cried Ahmet.

“My friends,” replied Selim, “it is impossible to celebrate the marriage of Amasia and Ahmet.”

“What do you say?”

“At Scutari at least”

“At Scutari?”

“It can only take place at Constantinople.”

“At Constantinople!” cried Keraban, who began to prick up his ears, “why?”

“Because the judge of Scutari refuses to register the contract.”

“He refuses?” said Ahmet “Yes, on the pretext that Keraban’s domicile, and consequently Ahmet’s, is not Scutari but Constantinople!”

“In Constantinople,” said Keraban, frowning.

“Now,” continued Selim, “this is the last day appointed for the marriage of my daughter, if she is to succeed to the fortune to which she is entitled. We must, therefore, without losing a moment, hurry to the house of the judge who will register the contract in Constantinople.”

“Let us go,” cried Ahmet, turning to the door.

“Let us go,” added Amasia, following him. “Seigneur Keraban, can you refuse to go with us?”

Keraban remained silent and thoughtful.

“Well, uncle,” said Ahmet turning to him.

“Will not you come?” asked Selim.

“Must I use force;” said Amasia, gently taking Keraban by the arm.

“I have got a caique ready to cross the Bosphorus,” said Selim.

“The Bosphorus!” echoed Keraban, and then he added severely: “Is the tax of ten paras still demanded from those who cross?”

“Yes, certainly, friend Keraban j but now that you have played such a fine trick on the Ottoman authorities as to go from Constantinople to Scutari without paying, I think you will not refuse — “

“I will refuse,” replied Keraban.

“Then they will not let you cross.”

“Very well. I will not cross.”

“And our wedding,” exclaimed Ahmet. “Our marriage, which should take place to-day?”

“You can be married without me.”

“That is impossible. You are my guardian,” uncle Keraban, “and you know quite well your presence is indispensable.”

“Well then, Ahmet, wait till I have established my domicile at Scutari — and you can be married at Scutari.”

All these replies were given in a decided tone, which left little hope in the minds of the opponents of the headstrong personage.

“Friend Keraban, to-day is the last day, and all the fortune which ought to come to my daughter will be lost — if — “

Keraban shook his head, and accompanied the action with a more negative gesture.

“Uncle,” pleaded Ahmet, “you cannot wish to — “

“If they compel me to pay ten paras,” replied Keraban, “never — no never, will I cross the Bosphorus. By Allah, I would rather go round the Black Sea again!”

And indeed he was just the man to do it.

“Uncle,” said Ahmet, “this is bad — under such circumstances as these, let me tell you, this obstinacy is inexplicable in a man like you. You will cause misery to those who have always regarded you with true affection. It is wrong of you!”

“Ahmet, mind what you are saying,” cried Keraban, angrily.

“No, uncle, no. My heart is overflowing, and nothing shall prevent me from speaking. It is the act cf a bad man!”

“Ahmet, dearest Ahmet, be calm,” cried Amasia. “Do not address your uncle so.

If this fortune on which you counted escapes you — renounce the marriage ’”

“What — renounce you?” exclaimed the young man, catching her to his heart. “Never, no never. Come, let us leave this town forever. We have still enough left to pay the ten paras to cross to Constantinople.”

Ahmet, scarcely master of himself, dragged the maiden towards the door.

“Keraban,” said Selim, who wished to make a last attempt to turn his friend from his determination — ” Keraban!”

“Leave me, Selim — leave me alone!”

“Alas! Let us go, father,” said Amasia, casting a tearful look on Keraban; and, restraining her emotion with difficulty, she directed her steps towards the door of the room, where she stopped, with Ahmet “For the last time, uncle,” he said, “do you refuse to accompany us to Constantinople, to the house of the judge, where your presence is indispensable to our marriage?”

“What I refuse,” said Keraban, “is to pay the tax. That I will never submit to.”

“Keraban!” said Selim. “No, by Allah, no!”

“Well then, farewell, uncle,” said Ahmet, “your obstinacy will cost us a fortune, you will have ruined her who ought to be your niece. So be it It is not the fortune I regret, but you have deprived us of our happiness. We will never see you again.”

Then the young man led Amasia away, and, followed by Selim, Nedjeb, and Nizib, quitted the salon, then the villa, and shortly afterwards embarked for Constantinople.

Seigneur Keraban remained alone, a prey to the greatest agitation.

“No, by Allah! no, by Mahomet!” he muttered; “it would be undignified. To have made the circuit of the Black Sea to avoid the tax, and then to pay immediately on my return! No. Rather than thus put foot in Constantinople, I will sell my house at Galata; I will retire from business; I will give all my fortune to Ahmet to replace Amasia’s. He will be rich, I shall be poor; but then I shall not have yielded! I will not yield.”

As he continued, his anger became greater. “Yield — pay, — I, Keraban! To arrive before the chief of the police who defied me; who saw me depart; who is waiting my return; who will snap his fingers at me before all the crowd as he claims the hateful tax? Never!”

It was quite evident that Keraban was arguing against his conscience, and that he was fully aware that the consequences of his foolish obstinacy would fall on others as well as himself.

“Yes,” he continued, “but would Ahmet accept my offer? He has gone away desolate, and angry at my obstinacy. I can conceive it. He is proud. He will refuse anything from me now. Let me see. I am an honest man. Am I about to snatch happiness from those young people by my stupid resolve? May Mahomet choke the whole Divan, and all the new regime of Turks besides.”

Seigneur Keraban paced his room irresolutely. He pushed the cushions and chairs aside. He sought some fragile object with the intention to break it to assuage his anger, and very soon two vases were smashed. Then he returned to the question.

“Ahmet, Amasia, no! I cannot be the cause of their misery, and only for a point of self-love. To delay this marriage will be, perhaps, to prevent it altogether. But to yield — to give way — I! Ah, Allah, guide me.”

And with this invocation Keraban, impelled by a rage he could no longer interpret, or give vent to, by words or actions, rushed out of the salon.

CHAPTER XVI.

If Scutari was en fete, if on the quays from the harbour to the Sultan’s Kiosk the crowd was surging to and fro — there was no less a concourse on the other side of the strait on the quays of Galata from the first bridge of boats to the barracks of Top-hand. The tranquil waters were likewise covered with caiques and other craft, laden with Turks, Albanians, Greeks, Europeans or Asiatics, which passed constantly to and fro. Certainly it was no ordinary attraction which had brought together such multitudes of spectators.

So when Ahmet and Selim, Amasia and Nedjeb, having paid the new tax, disembarked at the Top-han6 steps, they found themselves in the midst of a regular “fair “with all its pleasures, in which however they had little inclination to take part.

But since the spectacle, whatever it was, had attracted such a crowd, it was only natural that Seigneur Van Mitten, who was quite well now and a Kurdish lord to boot, his fiancee, the noble Saraboul, and his brother-in-law, Seigneur Yanar, followed by the obedient Bruno, were among the curious.

So Ahmet found on the quay his former travelling companions. Was Van Mitten “shewing around” his new relatives, or were they showing him off? The latter case appeared the more probable.

However that might have been, the moment when Ahmet met them Saraboul was saying to her fiance —

“Yes, Seigneur Van Mitten, we have more beautiful fetes than this in Kurdistan.”

And Van Mitten replied in a resigned tone —

“I can quite believe that, beautiful Saraboul.”

This remark drew from Yanar the caustic comment, “You are wise to think so!”

However, some exclamations — one might say cries of impatience — were heard sometimes in the crowd; but Amasia and Ahmet paid scarcely any attention to them.

“No, dear Amasia,” said Ahmet, “I know my uncle well, and, nevertheless, I would not have deemed him capable of pushing his obstinacy so far as hardness of heart”

“Then,” said Nedjeb, “so long as this tax remains, will he never return to Constantinople?”

“He? Never!” replied Ahmet.

“If I regret the fortune which Seigneur Keraban has deprived us of, it is not for myself, it is on your account, dear Ahmet, for your sake only.”

“Let us forget all that,” said Ahmet; “and the easier to forget it, and to break with this intractable uncle, who has been hitherto a father to me, let us leave Constantinople, and return to Odessa.”

“That Keraban ought to be tortured,” said Selim, who felt greatly outraged.

“Yes,” replied Nedjeb, “married to this Kurdish lady, for instance — why did not she espouse him?”

It need scarcely be said that Saraboul heard neither Nedjeb’s pert observation, nor Selim’s reply to this effect —

“He? Why he would subdue her by his obstinacy as he would conquer a wild beast.”

“Perhaps so,” muttered Bruno, “but, meantime, it is my poor master who has entered the cage.”

So Ahmet and his companions took but a lukewarm interest in what was going on.

In such a temper the proceedings interested them but little, and they did not hear one Turk say to another —

“An audacious fellow, this Storchi, indeed, to venture to cross the Bosphorus in such a fashion.”

“Yes, in a manner never contemplated by the tax-gatherers.”

But if Ahmet paid no attention to these observations, he was obliged to reply when he heard himself accosted.

“Ah I here is Seigneur Ahmet!”

The speaker was the chief of the police, the man who had incited Keraban to make the tour of the Black Sea.

“Ah! it is you, monsieur,” said Ahmet.

“Yes, I congratulate you indeed I have just heard that Seigneur Keraban has performed his promise. He has reached Scutari without crossing the Bosphorus.”

“Yes, indeed,” replied Ahmet, bitterly.

“It is heroic. For the sake of ten paras he has spent thousands of pounds.”

“Just so.”

“Well, he has made great progress, truly,” continued the chief of police, ironically. “The tax still exists, and if he continues as obstinate, he will have to go back the same way to reach Constantinople again.”

“If he wishes to, he will,” answered Ahmet, who, furious as he was against his uncle, could not refrain from replying to the mocking observations of the officer.

“Bah, he will give in at last,” continued the man, “and he will cross the Bosphorus. But the tax-collectors let the caiques, and attend at the landing-places. So, unless he swim or fly across — “

“Why not, if it suits him?” replied Ahmet, coldly.

At this juncture a general movement of curiosity agitated the crowd. A murmur arose. Many hands were extended towards the Bosphorus in the direction of Scutari. All heads were elevated, and the people cried —

“There he is: Storchi, Storchi!”

Ahmet and Amasia, Selim and Nedjeb, Saraboul, Van Mitten, and Yanar, with Bruno, found themselves at the angle of the quay of the Golden Horn, near the landing-place of Top-hand, and all had an excellent view of the spectacle now offered to the public.

On the Scutari bank, about six hundred feet from the margin of the Bosphorus, in the water, rises a tower miscalled the Tower of Leander. This portion of the strait is the Hellespont, the real Dardanelles, across which the classic swimmer passed from Sestos to Abydos to join Hero, the beautiful priestess of Venus — an exploit afterwards performed by Lord Byron, who was very proud of having swam in one hour and ten minutes the twelve hundred mitres of water which stretch between the banks.

Was this feat going to be emulated by some amateur, jealous of the mythological hero, and the author of the Corsair 1

A long rope was stretched between the Scutari side and the Tower of Leander, the modern name of which is Keuz-Koulessi, which means the Tower of the Virgin. From that point the rope, about thirteen hundred metres in length, being thus firmly supported, crossed the strait, and was attached to an elevated scaffolding, raised at the angle of the quay of Galata with the Place Top-hand.

Now it was upon this rope that the celebrated acrobat Storchi, an imitator of Blondin, was about to try to cross the Bos phorus. True, Blondin had risked his life when crossing the Niagara Falls. Here Storchi had only to fear a plunge into the smooth waters, whence he could be rescued without serious injury.

But as Blondin had crossed Niagara carrying a very brave friend upon his shoulders, so Storchi was about to cross now with an acrobatic friend. Only he was not going to carry him on his back: he was going to wheel him in a barrow, the wheel of which traversed the rope securely in a groove.

Storchi appeared on the first portion of the cord which connected the Asiatic side with the Tower of the Virgin. He wheeled his companion in the barrow, and reached the tower without any misadventure. Cheers greeted this first success.

Then the gymnast adroitly descended the rope, which nearly touched the water in the centre, and wheeled him so far with consummate coolness. It was superb! When Storchi had reached the centre, the difficulty commenced; for he had to ascend the sloping cord to the top of the scaffolding. But his muscles were firm, his arms and legs worked mechanically. He continued to wheel the barrow, while his companion remained perfectly motionless, and did not by the slightest movement endanger the stability of the wheelbarrow.

At length a shout of relief and congratulation arose. Storchi had reached the summit of the scaffolding, and then he descended with his companion at the angle of the quay where Ahmet and his companions had remained as spectators. The bold enterprize had succeeded, but the man who I had been wheeled over had a right to half the congratulations which Asia sent to Europe in their honour. But why does Ahmet exclaim, “Can he believe his eyes? “The companion of the celebrated acrobat, after shaking hands with Storchi, stopped before Ahmet and smilingly regarded him!

“Keraban — my uncle Keraban,” cried Ahmet, while the ladies, with Van Mitten, Yanar, Selim, and Bruno pressed round him.

It was, indeed, Keraban himself.

“Yes, my friends, it is I — I, who, finding the brave acrobat ready to start, took the place of his companion. Yes, I have passed the Bosphorus — or rather over it — to sign the marriage contract, Ahmet”

“Ah, Seigneur Keraban — uncle,” cried Amasia, “I felt sure you would not abandon us.”

“This is splendid,” exclaimed Nebjeb, clapping her hands.

“What a man this is,” said Van Mitten.

“you would not find his equal in the whole of Holland!”

“Just my opinion,” remarked Saraboul drily.

“Well, you see, I have crossed without paying,” said Keraban to the chief of the police. “Yes, without paying — at least only two thousand piastres for my place in the barrow, and the eight hundred thousand expended in going round the Black Sea.”

“I congratulate you with all my heart,” replied the officer, who could only bow to this unparalleled obstinacy.

Loud cries greeted Seigneur Keraban from all sides, when that good-natured if inflexible man embraced Ahmet and Amasia heartily.

But he was not a man to lose time, even in the midst of his triumph.

“Now,” said he, “let us go to the judge of Constantinople.”

“Yes, uncle, to the judge’s house,” said Ahmet. “Oh, uncle, you are indeed the best of men.”

“Well, what did I tell you?” replied Keraban. “I am not at all headstrong unless I am thwarted!”

We need not dwell upon the succeeding events. That very afternoon the judge received the contract, the Imaum said prayers in the mosque; then, on returning to Galata, Ahmet was married, and well married, to his dear Amasia, the rich banker’s daughter, on that 30th September, before the clock struck midnight.

That same evening, Van Mitten, quite subdued, was preparing to depart for Kurdistan with Yanar and Saraboul, and in that distant country the last ceremony would finally make Saraboul his wife.

As they were bidding farewell to Ahmet, Amasia, Nedjeb, and Bruno, Van Mitten could not help saying to Keraban in a reproachful tone —

“When I think, Keraban, that because I did not like to thwart you, I am married a second time — !”

“My poor Van Mitten, if this marriage turns out anything but a dream, I will never forgive myself,” replied Keraban.

“A dream! Does it look like it! This telegram — “

As he spoke, he unfolded it again, and perused it mechanically.

“Yes, this despatch: — ‘ Madame Van Mitten, who Jive weeks ago deceased, — to rejoin her husband.’”

“Deceased to rejoin!” exclaimed Keraban, “what does that mean?”

Then, snatching the telegram, he read, “Madame Van Mitten, who five weeks ago decided to rejoin her husband, has started for Constantinople.”

“Decided, not deceased!” Then he is not a widower! These words escaped everyone, and Keraban, not without reason, added —

“Another error in these stupid telegrams. They never make anything else but mistakes.”

“No, I am not a widower, not a widower,” repeated Van Mitten, “and too delighted to return to my first wife, for fear of the second!”

When Yanar and Saraboul understood the case, there was a terrible explosion, but they were obliged to yield at last. Van Mitten was a married man, and that day he was reunited to his wife, who brought him, as a peace offering, a magnificent Valentia bulb. “We shall do better, my sister,” said Yanar, “much better than — “

“That icicle of a Dutchman,” said Saraboul. “That will not be a difficult matter.”

So they departed for Kurdistan, but it is probable that the handsome indemnity paid by Keraban tended to render their return less irksome.

However, Keraban could not always have a rope extended between Constantinople and Scutari, to cross the Bosphorus. Did he, therefore, cease to cross?

No. For some time he would not yield, and remained firm. But one day he offered to buy up the tax on caiques, and the offer was accepted by the government. This cost him a large sum, no doubt, but he became more popular than ever; and strangers never fail to pay a visit to Keraban the Inflexible as one of the most astonishing curiosities of the capital of the Ottoman Empire!

THE END

THE ARCHIPELAGO ON FIRE

Anonymous translation, 1885

This adventure novel is set during the Greek War of Independence 1821-1832.

The original frontispiece

THE ARCHIPELAGO ON FIRE

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I.

A SHIP IN THE OFFING.

CHAPTER II.

FACE TO FACE.

CHAPTER III.

GREEKS AGAINST TURKS.

CHAPTER IV.

A HOUSE OF SORROW.

CHAPTER V.

THE COAST OF MESSENIA.

CHAPTER VI.

DOWN WITH THE PIRATES OF THE ARCHIPELAGO!

CHAPTER VII.

THE UNEXPECTED.

CHAPTER VIII.

TWENTY MILLIONS AT STAKE.

CHAPTER IX.

THE ARCHIPELAGO IN FLAMES.

CHAPTER X.

THE CAMPAIGN IN THE ARCHIPELAGO.

CHAPTER XI.

UNANSWERED SIGNALS.

CHAPTER XII.

AN AUCTION AT SCARPANTO.

CHAPTER XIII.

ON BOARD THE “SYPHANTA.”

CHAPTER XIV.

SACRATIF.

CHAPTER XV.

CONCLUSION.

CHAPTER I.

A SHIP IN THE OFFING.

ON the 18th of October, 1827, about five o’clock in the evening, a small Levantine vessel was heading close-hauled for Vitylo, in the Gulf of Koron, endeavouring to reach that port before nightfall.

Vitylo, the ancient Oitylos of Homer, is situated in one of the three deep indentations which on the Ionian and Aegean coasts cut into the mulberry leaf to which southern Greece has been so aptly compared. This mulberry leaf is the Peloponnesus of the ancients, the Morea of the moderns. The first of its indentations on the west is the Gulf of Koron, between Messene and Maina; the second is the Gulf of Kolokythi, cutting back some distance into Laconia the severe the third is the Gulf of Nauplia, whose waters divide Laconia from Argolis.

Vitylo is in the first of these three bays. On its eastern shore, at the end of an irregular preek, it lies sheltered at the foot of one of the advanced buttresses of Taygetus, whose orographical prolongation forms the backbone of this district of Maina. The safety of its anchorages, the direction of its channels, and the covering heights around, make it one of the best of harbours on a coast ceaselessly swept by every wind of the Mediterranean.

The craft, laid as close as possible to the freshening breeze from the north north-west, was invisible from the wharves of Vitylo. She was six to seven miles away; and although the air was clear enough, the top edge of her higher canvas had not yet appeared above the luminous horizon.

But what could not be seen from below could be seen from above, that is to say, from the hills round the village. Vitylo is built in the form of an amphitheatre on the rugged rocks which defend the old acropolis of Kelapha. Above it rise several ruined towers of an origin long prior to that of the curious remains of the Temple of Serapis, whose Ionic columns and capitals now ornament the village church. Near the old towers are two or three chapels where the monks hold service, but which are seldom visited.

And here perhaps some explanation is required of this “hold service,” and even of “monks,” as applied to the Caloyers of the Messenian coast; one of the latter is just leaving the chapel, and we can study him from nature.

In those days religion in Greece was a curious mixture of pagan legend and Christian belief. Many of the faithful looked upon the goddesses of antiquity as the saints of the new religion, and, as Mr. Henry Bell has remarked,” amalgamated the saints with the demigods, the angels of Paradise with the elves of the enchanted valleys, and called on all the sirens and furies of the Panagia.” Hence many strange practices and many anomalies at which we might smile, and hence a clergy very little inclined to clear away so feebly orthodox a chaos.

During the first quarter of the present century more especially — for our story opens some fifty years ago — the clergy of the Peninsula were steeped in ignorance, and the monks — a careless, simple-minded, homely, genial set — seemed little fitted to guide a naturally superstitious people.

Would that the Caloyers had only been ignorant! In certain districts, however, and particularly in the wilder parts of Maina, these paupers by nature and necessity, these persistent beggars for the few drachmas thrown them by charitable travellers, having nothing to do beyond holding out to the faithful some apocryphal image of a saint to be kissed, or trimming the lamp in the saint’s niche, and despairing at the pitiful income from tithes, confessions, burials, and baptisms, had not been ashamed to act as look-outs — and such look-outs — for the people of the coast.

And so as soon as the Vitylo sailors caught sight of the Caloyer hurrying down to the village and signalling with his arms, they jumped to their feet, for they were lying sprawling about the harbour in the style of the Lazzaroni, who take hours to recover from a few minutes’ work. He was a man of from forty to fifty-five, corpulent, with that greasy corpulence due to idleness, and with a countenance whose cunning expression was anything but reassuring.

“What is the news, father?” exclaimed one of the sailors, running to meet him.

The Vitylian spoke in that nasal tone which leads us to believe that Naso must have been one of the ancestors of the Greeks, and in the Mainot dialect, in which Greek, Turkish, Italian, and Albanian are all mixed up as if it had existed at the time of the building of Babel.

“Have Ibrahim’s soldiers invaded the heights of Taygetus?” asked another sailor, with a careless gesture that said very little for his patriotism.

“Unless it is the French!” answered the first speaker.

“They are worth more!” replied a third.

And the reply showed what little interest the inhabitants of the Southern Peloponnesus took in the war which was then in its most critical stage — thereby differing considerably from the Mainots of the north, who distinguished themselves so brilliantly in the struggle for independence.

But the corpulent Caloyer would answer neither one nor the other. Out of breath from his rapid descent of the cliff, he stood there puffing and panting. He would have spoken, but could not. One of his ancestors in Hellas, the soldier of Marathon, before falling dead, had been able to announce the victory of Miltiades; but we are not now concerned with Miltiades nor with the wars of the Athenians, and Persians; we are hardly dealing with Greeks, but with the wildest race of the remotest point of Maina.

“Come, speak up, father, speak up!” exclaimed an old sailor, named Gozzo, who was more impatient than the rest, as if he guessed what the monk was going to say.

Slowly the fat man recovered his breath. Then, pointing towards the horizon, he said, —

“A sail in sight!”

And at these words every idler arose, clapped his hands, and scrambled up a rock that commanded a view of the harbour. Thence they could scan a wide expanse of the open sea.

A stranger might perhaps have thought that the movement was prompted by the interest naturally felt at a ship arriving from the open. Nothing of the sort, or rather if interest did excite these people, it was interest of quite a special character.

Even at the moment of writing, Maina is still a district apart from the rest of Greece. The Mainots, or rather those who bear the name, living at the extremities of the gulfs, remain in a half-savage state, thinking more of their own liberty than of that of their country. And these remote projections of Morea, it had been almost impossible to subdue; neither the Turkish janissaries nor the Greek gendarmes were equal to the task. Quarrelsome, vindictive, handing down, like the Corsicans, an inheritance of hate that can only be wiped out in blood, thieves from their birth, and although hospitable, assassins when the theft required an assassination, these rude mountaineers claimed to be the descendants of the old Spartans; but shut up in the ramifications of Taygetus, where the almost inaccessible little citadels or pyrgos can be counted in thousands, they lived the life of the robber barons of the middle ages, and exercised their feudal rights with the aid of the dagger and the gun.

And if the Mainots now are semi-savages, it is easy to imagine what they were fifty years ago. Before the steamers had swept them from the sea in the earlier third of the century, they were the most redoubtable pirates to be met with in the Levant.

And Vitylo by its situation at the very end of the Peloponnesus, at the gate of two seas, and its proximity to the island of Cerigo, so dear to the Corsairs, was admirably placed to receive the scoundrels who swarmed in the Archipelago and the neighbouring parts of the Mediterranean. The district into which the people of this part of Maina were principally concentrated bore the special name of Kakovonni, and the Kakovonniotes, planted across the promontory that terminates in Matapan, could operate as they pleased. On sea they could attack the ships; on land they could draw them to destruction by false signals. Every way they robbed and burnt. Little did it matter to them if the crews were Turkish, Maltese, Egyptian, or even Greek; pitilessly they were massacred, or sold as slaves. And when trade grew slack, and coasters appeared but rarely in the gulfs of Koron, or Kolokythi, or from Cerigo or Cape Gallo, public prayers were offered to God in the storms, that He would condescend to cast ashore some vessel of heavy tonnage and rich cargo. And the Caloyers never refused to offer such prayers for the greater profit of their flocks.

For many weeks no pillage had been possible. No vessel had come ashore on the coast of Maina. And it was like a burst of joy when the monk, between his asthmatic pantings, gave forth the words, —

“A sail in sight!”

Immediately there sounded the dull heavy strokes of the simander — that wooden bell with the iron tongue in use in these provinces where the Turks would allow no bells of metal — and the lugubrious strokes brought together the whole population, men, women, children, savage dogs and tame dogs, all equally eager for pillage and massacre. And the Vitylians gathered on tne cliff discussed in a loud tone the approach of the vessel signalled by the Caloyer.

With the nor’-nor’-westerly breeze freshening as the night fell, the ship advanced rapidly on the starboard tack. From her course it seemed as though she had come from Crete. Her hull began to appear above the white foam she was leaving behind her, but her sails formed as yet but a confused mass to the eye. It was no easy matter to make out her rig; and hence the shouts that each moment contradicted each other.

“She is a xebec!” said one of the sailors. “I see the square sails on her mizen.”

“No,” answered another, “she is a pink! see how high in the stern and broad in the bow she is.”

“Xebec or pink, who can tell one from the other at this distance?”

“Isn’t she a polacca with square sails?” remarked another sailor, making a telescope of his hands.

“Heaven help us anyhow!” said old Gozzo. “Polacca, pink, or xebec, they are all three-masters, and three masts are worth more than two when they come ashore with a good cargo of wine from Crete, or stuffs from Smyrna!”

After this judicious observation a still more attentive watch was kept on the vessel. She came nearer and nearer, and gradually grew in size, but owing to her sailing so close to the wind it was impossible to get a side view of her. It was not easy to say if she had three masts or two, and therefore the watchers were unable to ascertain what tonnage to expect.

“What miserably unlucky wretches we are!” said Gozzo. “She is only a felucca.”

“Or perhaps a speronare!” exclaimed the Caloyer, as much disappointed as his flock.

And that shouts of disappointment greeted both observations it is hardly necessary to say; but whatever the vessel might be, there could be no doubt that she ranged from about a hundred to a hundred and fifty tons. And after all it mattered not for the cargo to be large if it was rich. These simple feluccas and speronares are often laden with precious wines, fine oils, and expensive tissues. In that case it would be well worth the trouble to attack and capture her as she stood. There was no need to despair. Besides, the older men, who had a good deal of experience in the matter, were very much taken with the look of the craft. The sun began to sink behind the horizon on the west of the Ionian Sea. However, in the October twilight there would still be light enough for an hour to make out the vessel. After rounding Cape Matapan she dropped off a couple of points so as to make the entrance of the gulf more easily, and thus showed herself under better conditions to those who were watching her.

“A saccoleva!” exclaimed Gozzo.

“A saccoleva!” exclaimed his companions, whose disappointment betrayed itself in a volley of curses.

But the discussion was at an end; doubt was no longer possible. The vessel, which was manoeuvring to enter the Gulf of Koron, was a saccoleva. After all, the Vitylians were premature in bewailing their fate. Saccolevas very often carry valuable cargoes.

A saccoleva is a Levantine vessel of moderate tonnage, whose sheer, that is to say, the curve of her deck, gradually increases as it goes aft. Her two pole masts carry lateen sails. Her foremast has square sails, course, topsail, and top-gallant, and these with a couple of jibs complete her singular sail plan. The gay pictures painted on her hull, the curve of her deck, the variety of her masts, and the fantastic cut of her sails, make her one of the most curious specimens of those graceful craft which swarm in the Archipelago.

Nothing could be more elegant than this swift little vessel dipping and rising to the waves, crowned with spray, and bounding along without an effort like some enormous bird whose wings skim the sea as it sparkles in the parting rays of the setting sun.

Although the wind increased and the sky became covered with waterspouts, as the Levantines call a certain kind of cloud, the saccoleva took in none of her sail. She had even kept up her top-gallant sail, which a less audacious mariner would certainly have had down. Evidently the captain was coming into harbour, not caring to pass the night on the sea, which was already rough, and promised to be rougher. But if the sailors of Vitylo could no longer doubt that the saccoleva was going to enter the gulf, they were still able to ask themselves if their port was her destination.

“Ah!” exclaimed one, “she is only going to hug the wind; she is not coming ashore.”

“May the devil take her in tow!” remarked another. “Is she going about so as to get an offing on the other tack?”

“Perhaps she is bound for Koron?”

“Or Kalamata?”

Both hypotheses were admissible. Koron is on the Mainot coast, and is much frequented by the traders of the Levant. It exports a good deal of oil to the south of Greece. Kalamata is further up the gulf, and its bazaars are filled with manufactured goods, stuffs, and pottery, which are thence shipped to many of the western states of Europe. It was therefore possible that the saccoleva was bound for one or the other of these ports, much to the disappointment of the Vitylians, who were in eager quest of plunder.

While they were watching her with such interest, the saccoleva made rapid way. She soon got up as high as Vitylo. Now came the moment in which her fate would be decided. If she continued up the gulf, Gozzo and his companions could give up all hope of stopping her. In fact, if they had betaken themselves to the swiftest craft they possessed, they would have no chance of her capture, so superior was her speed under the cloud of canvas that she carried with such ease.

“She is coming in!”

So said the old sailor, launching his bent hand at the little vessel as if it was a grappling-iron.

Gozzo was right. Her helm was put down and the saccoleva came round. As she did so, her top-gallant sail and second jib were taken in. Then her topsail was clewed up. Thus relieved of some of her canvas, she was more under command.

Night was coming on apace. The saccoleva had only just time to get through the channels into Vitylo. Below the water level the entrance was dotted with numerous rocks which she would have to pass in safety or meet with instant and complete destruction. And the signal for a pilot had not yet been hoisted. The captain must know his way in among these dangerous depths, or he would ask for help. Perhaps he despised — so much the better — the Vitylian pilots, who were quite equal to landing him on one of the rocks, and adding his ship to the others that had been lost there.

Besides, at that time there was no such thing as a lighthouse in this part of Maina. A simple port fire was the only guide into the narrow channel.

Meanwhile the saccoleva approached. Soon she was only half a mile from Vitylo. She came on without the slightest hesitation. It was obvious that the man who handled her was no novice.

This was not quite satisfactory to the rascally Vitylians. It was to their interest that this vessel should go to pieces on one of the rocks. Once the ship was wrecked, the plunder would follow. Such was the customary routine, and it saved them a hand-to-hand fight, in which some of them might lose their lives.

Gozzo’s companions accordingly left their post of observation and ran down to the harbour. There they set to work on those familiar devices which all the wreck robbers use, either in the Levant or elsewhere. To lead the saccoleva to destruction in the narrow passages of the channel, by guiding her in a false direction, was easy enough in the darkness, which, without being profound, was deep enough to render her working difficult.

“A port fire!” said Gozzo, whom his comrades obeyed without hesitation.

The old sailor was understood. Two minutes afterwards, the fire — merely a lantern hoisted on a pole at the quay-head was suddenly extinguished.

At the same instant, the light was replaced by another which was at first placed in the same direction; but if the first, remaining motionless on the mole, showed the navigator a fixed point to steer by, the second, thanks to its mobility, would lead him out of the channel on to one of the rocks; for it was a lantern whose light was the same as that of the port fire, hung on to the horns of a goat, which was gently driven up the cliff. It consequently shifted its position as the goat moved, and ought to have led the saccoleva to destruction.

It was not the first time that the good folks of Vitylo had done this. Not by any means. And it was very rare that they failed in their little enterprise.

The saccoleva entered the channel. Having furled the mainsail, she was under mizen and’ jib, quite sufficient sail to bring her to her anchorage.

To the extreme surprise of the sailors on the watch, the little vessel came down the winding channel with incredible assurance. Of the moving light on the goat’s horns she seemed to take not the slightest notice. Had it been broad daylight, she could not have manoeuvred more correctly. Her captain had evidently been to Vitylo before, and knew the way well enough to bring his ship in during the darkest night.

At last the bold sailor could be seen. His figure stood out in the shadow on the bow of the saccoleva. He was wrapped in the large folds of his aba, a sort of linen mantle which has the hood falling on to the head. His attitude showed that he had nothing in common with those humble padrones such as are met with everywhere throughout the Archipelago, who hold a rosary between their fingers as they con the ship. No; this man only occupied himself in giving his orders in a deep calm voice to the helmsman at the stern. And now the lantern walking up the cliff was suddenly extinguished. It made no difference to the saccoleva, which imperturbably kept on her way. For an instant it seemed that she must run on a dangerous rock, whose surface was awash with the tide, and which about a cable’s length away it was impossible to see in the gloom. A slight movement of the helm brought the ship up a little; and nearly grazing the rock, she kept on in safety.

Another word to the steersman when it was necessary to skirt another rock that left but a narrow passage through the channel — a rock on which many a ship had struck on her way in, with or without thanks to an accomplice of the Vitylians.

All chance of the saccoleva being delivered into their hands by shipwreck was at an end. In a few minutes she would be at anchor. To capture her the Vitylians would have to board.

It was resolved to do so. After a little consultation the preparations were commenced in a darkness highly favourable for the attempt.

“To the boats!” said Gozzo, whose orders were never disobeyed — when he led on to plunder.

Thirty powerful men, some armed with pistols, more of them with daggers and axes, jumped into the boats moored to the quay, and advanced in number evidently superior to the crew of the saccoleva.

At this instant a word of command was heard on board, brief and decisive. The saccoleva, after leaving the channel, found herself in the centre of the harbour. Her halyards were let go, her anchor dropped, and she remained motionless after the slight grating as the chain ran out.

The boats were but a few fathoms off. Even without showing exaggerated defiance, the crew, knowing the evil reputation of the Vitylo people, might, have been armed so as to be, if needed, in a state of defence.

There was nothing of the sort in this case. THE captain of the saccoleva, after he had anchored, had gone aft, while his men, without troubling themselves about the arrival of the boats, were quietly getting the sails in order and clearing up the deck. And the sails were so stowed as to be available for use at a moment’s notice.

The first boat struck the saccoleva on the starboard quarter: the others followed immediately. And as the freeboard was very low, the assailants in full cry had only to stride over to reach the deck.

The most energetic rushed to the stern. One of them seized a lighted lantern and held it to the captain’s face.

The captain, with a movement of his hand, threw back his hood on to his shoulders; his face appeared in the full blaze of the light.

“Well!” said he, “then you Vitylo gentlemen do not recognize your old comrade, Nicholas Starkos?”

As the captain spoke, he coolly crossed his arms. A minute later the boats had fled from the ship and were moored to the quay.

CHAPTER II.

FACE TO FACE.

TEN minutes had hardly elapsed before a gig left the saccoleva and brought to the foot of the jetty, companionless and weaponless, the man before whom the Vitylians had so hastily fled.

He was the captain of the Karysta — such was the name of the little vessel just anchored in the port. He was of medium height, and under his broad sailor’s cap a high and haughty forehead was visible. Above his lip a pair of Klepht moustaches stuck out horizontally, ending in thick tufts instead of in a point. His chest was broad, his limbs were powerful. His black hair fell in ringlets on his shoulders. If he had passed thirty-five, it could be only by a few months. But his complexion, tanned by the breeze, the hard set look, and the wrinkle in his forehead like a furrow from which nothing honest could spring, made him appear older than he really was.

His costume, the same as he always wore, was neither the jacket, the waistcoat, nor the fustianello of Palikare. His caftan, with its brown hood, embroidered with its quiet coloured braid, his greenish pantaloons hanging in large folds and thrust into his high boots, resembled much more nearly the sailor’s dress of these barbarous coasts.

And Nicholas Starkos was not only a Greek by birth, but a native of Vitylo. Here he had passed his early youth. Boy and man, it was among these rocks that he had served his apprenticeship to the sea. It was in this neighbourhood that he had learnt the ways of the currents and the winds. Not a creek was there of which he could not tell the depths and the shores; not a reef, not a bank, not a submarine rock whose position was unknown to him; not a bend in the channel whose twists and turns he was not capable of following without compass or pilot. It is easy, then, to understand how, in spite of the false signals of his compatriots, he had been able to bring in the saccoleva with so sure a hand. Besides, he knew that caution was desirable in dealing with the Vitylians. He had seen them at work; and perhaps he did not disapprove of their plundering instincts, so long as he himself did not suffer by them.

But if he knew them, they knew Nicholas Starkos equally well. After the death of his father, who was one of the thousands of the victims of Turkish cruelty, his mother, maddened by hate, had hesitated not a moment to throw herself into the first rising against Ottoman tyranny. When he was eighteen, he had left Maina for the sea, and more especially for the Archipelago, where he not only followed the trade of a sailor, but added to it that of a pirate. No one knew on what ships he had served during this period of his life, under what filibusters or corsairs he had been, under what flag he had first borne arms, or what blood had first flowed at his hand — whether that of the enemies of Greece or that of her defenders. Frequently, however, had he returned to the different ports in the Gulf of Koron. A few of his companions had told of the feats of piracy in which they had taken part with him; of the merchant ships they had attacked and destroyed, of the rich cargoes they had shared amongst them. But a certain mystery surrounded the name of Nicholas Starkos, though, at the same time, he was so favourably known in Maina that every one greeted him with respect.

And thus is explained his reception by the natives of Vitylo, his meeting them alone, and their abandoning the plan of plundering the saccoleva as soon as they discovered who commanded her.

When the captain of the Karysta reached the wharf, a little beyond the mole, men and women ran up to receive him, and respectfully formed a line to welcome him as he passed. As he left the boat, not a sound was heard. It seemed as though Nicholas Starkos had sufficient prestige to command silence by merely a look. The people waited till he spoke, and if he did not speak which was possible none of them would dare address him.

After ordering his men to take the gig on board, Starkos started towards the angle the wharf makes at the harbour end. But in less than a dozen strides he stopped, and, turning to the old man who followed him as if waiting for some command, “Gozzo,” said he, “I want ten strong active men to complete my crew.”

“You shall have them, Nicholas Starkos,” was Gozzo’s answer.

The captain of the Karysta might have asked for a hundred if he could have found them, and taken first choice among the whole seafaring population. And the hundred, without asking where they were going, to what trade they were destined, or on whose account they were to sail or fight, would have followed their compatriot, ready to share his fate, knowing that in one way or another they would be in safe hands.

“Let the ten men be on board the Karysta in an hour!” added the captain.

“They shall be there!” replied Gozzo.

Starkos, showing by a gesture that he did not wish to be followed any further, walked off the quay and disappeared up one of the narrow roads opening on to the harbour.

Old Gozzo returned to his companions, and busied himself in selecting the ten men to complete the crew of the saccoleva.

Starkos gradually made his way up the slopes of the cliff on which the village is built. At the height he had reached, the only sound he could hear was the barking of the dogs — mastiff-looking dogs, with tremendous jaws, almost as formidable to travellers as jackals and wolves. A few gulls were sailing round below him, and with lazy little flaps of their large wings flying back to the shore.

Starkos was not long before he passed the last houses of Vitylo, and then he took a rough footpath leading up round the acropolis of Kerapha. After skirting the ruins of a citadel that had once been raised here by Villehardouin when many such spots in the Peloponnesus were occupied by the Crusaders, he reached the foot of the old towers with which the cliff is still crowned. There he stopped for a moment; then he turned and looked back.

On the horizon, this side of Cape Gallo, the moon’s crescent was just sinking in the waters of the Ionian Sea. A few stars were twinkling in the narrow gaps between the clouds. During the lulls in the breeze, absolute silence reigned round the acropolis. Two or three tiny sails, only just visible, were gliding across the gulf towards Koron, or farther up, towards Kalamata. Without the lamp at the mast-head it would have been impossible to discover them. Below burnt seven or eight fires at different points on the sea-shore, whose light was multiplied by the trembling reverberation of the water. Were the fires from fishingboats, or from houses lighting up for the night? No one could say.

Nicholas Starkos, with his eyes accustomed to the darkness, glanced round the wide stretch of sea. The eye of the sailor possessed a power of penetrating vision, which permitted him to see what others could not. But at the moment it seemed as though exterior things were making no impression on the captain of the Karysta, accustomed, as he doubtless was, to far different scenes. No. He was looking within, and not without. His native air, the breath of the country, he breathed almost unconsciously. And he remained motionless, thoughtful, his arms crossed, while his head, with his hood thrown off it, was as still as if it had been stone.

For nearly a quarter of an hour Starkos remained gazing towards the western horizon, and then he began to ascend the hill again. His footsteps were not guided by chance. A secret thought led him on; but it seemed as though his eyes avoided seeing what he had come to seek on the cliffs of Vitylo.

Nothing can be more desolate than this coast from Cape Matapan to the top of the gulf. It boasts neither orange, lemon, eglantine, laurel, jasmine, fig, arbutus, mulberry, nor any of the trees and bushes which make of certain parts of Greece a green and fruitful country. Not an oak, a plane, or pomegranate breaks the solemn curtain of its cypresses and cedars. Heaped up everywhere lie the masses of rock that the next volcanic outburst would precipitate into the waters of the gulf. Everywhere throughout Maina a sort of wild ruggedness reigns. A few gaunt pinetrees there are, distorted and fantastic, whose resin has been taken and whose sap has gone, and the deep wounds in whose trunks lie open. Here and there lie a few straggling cactuses, regular spiny thistles, whose leaves resemble half-skinned hedgehogs. Nowhere, in short, not even among the stunted bushes, or on the ground itself, which consists more of gravel than of vegetable mould, is there enough to feed the goats on; and little, indeed, do goats require.

After a few paces, Starkos stopped again. Then he returned towards the north-east, where the lengthening crest of Taygetus cut with its profile the less gloomy depths of the sky. One or two stars, gleaming like huge glow-worms, were just rising above the horizon.

Starkos remained motionless. His eyes rested on a small cottage, built of wood, on the ridge, about fifty yards away; a modest dwelling, isolated above the village, attainable only by the steep footpath, built in the centre of an enclosure of a few half-ruined trees, and surrounded by a spiny hedge. The house seemed to have been abandoned for some time; the hedge was in a bad state, here in thicket, there in gaps, and offered but a feeble barrier for its protection; the stray dogs and jackals that haunted the spot in the past had more than once laid waste this little corner of Mainot ground. Noxious herbs and bushes had been brought thither by Nature as soon as the place no longer felt the hand of man.

And why this abandonment? Because the owner of this piece of ground had been dead for many years. Because his widow, Andronika Starkos, had left the district to join those valiant women who played so conspicuous a part in the War of Independence., Because hereon, since his first going away, had never set foot in his father’s home.

There Nicholas Starkos had been born. There had he passed the early years of his childhood. His father, after a long and honest life as a sailor, had . retired thither, keeping himself apart from the people of Vitylo,” whose excesses he viewed with horror. Better educated, and in better circumstances than the natives of the harbour, he had been able to keep his wife and child aloof from them. He lived thus in this lonely retreat, forgotten and in peace, when one day, in a moment of anger, he tried to resist his country’s oppressors, and paid for his resistance with his life. There was no escape from Turkish emissaries even at the furthest ends of the peninsula.

The father was there no longer to guide his son; the mother was powerless to restrain him. Nicholas Starkos deserted his home to become a sea-rover, bringing to the aid of the pirates and piracy that marvellous genius for seamanship which he had inherited.

For ten years the house had been abandoned by the son; for six years by the mother. It was said in the neighbourhood, however, that Andronika occasionally returned thither. She was thought to have been seen there at rare intervals, and for but a few moments, without communicating in any way with the inhabitants of Vitylo.

As for Nicholas Starkos, never before to-day, although once or twice his voyages had by chance brought him to Maina, had he shown any intention of revisiting the humble cottage on the cliff. Never had he asked a question as to the state it was in. Never had he alluded to his mother, to ascertain if she had returned to the deserted home. But in the tales of the terrible events which deluged Greece in blood, the name of Andronika probably reached him — a name which should have filled him with remorse, had not his conscience been impenetrable.

And now Nicholas Starkos had come to Vitylo, not. alone to add ten men to the crew of the saccoleva, but because a desire — more than a desire — an imperious instinct, for which he could not account, had driven him there. He felt himself forced to return home, for the last time doubtless, to tread once more that spot of ground on which his earliest footsteps had trod; to breathe the air shut in by its walls which he had inhaled with his first breath, and with which he had lisped the first syllables of infancy. That was why he had mounted the rugged footpaths of the cliff, and that was why at this moment he found himself before the gate of the enclosure.

There he hesitated. His heart was not quite so hard that it could not soften a little in the presence of these memories of the past. The man does not live whose feelings are unthrilled when he revisits the spot where he first felt the touch of a mother’s hand. The fibres of a man’s frame are never so strung but that one does not vibrate at the remembrance of that touch.

And so it was with Nicholas Starkos as he stopped on the threshold of the deserted hut, as sombre, as silent, as dead within as it was without.

“Enter! Yes! Enter!”

These were the first words he had uttered. And these he only whispered, as if afraid that they would evoke some apparition of the past.

To enter the enclosure — what could be easier? The bar was out of place; the posts lay on the ground. There was not even a door to open, or a rail to push back.

Starkos entered. He stopped before the house whose weather-boards, half-rotted by the rain, held on by the worn and rusted ends of the ironwork.

As he did so, a brown owl gave a scream and flew out of a tuft of mastic-trees which grew in the doorway.

Again Starkos hesitated. Nevertheless, he was resolved to see the room in the cottage. But he was deeply hurt to find himself a prey to a sort of remorse. He was agitated, but he was angry as well. It seemed as though the paternal roof was as it were a protest against him, a parting malediction.

And so, before entering the house, he resolved to walk round it. The night was dark. No one would see him; he would not see himself. In broad daylight it might not have suggested itself to him. In the darkness of night he felt bold enough to brave its memories.

Then, with furtive step, like a criminal reconnoitring the surroundings of a house he is about to rob, see him skirt the walls that broke away at each angle, turning the corner whose crumbling edge stands hidden by the moss, feeling with his hand the tottering stones as if to see if a little life still dwells in this corpse of a house, listening if its heart still beats. At the back, the enclosure lay in deeper gloom. The slanting rays of the fast vanishing moon no longer reached there.

Starkos slowly made his way round. The dismal cottage maintained a disquieting silence. It seemed to be haunted. He returned to the front facing the west. Then he approached the door to open it if it was not locked; to force it if the bolt was still in the staple.

Then the blood mounted to his eyes. He grew red — red as fire. The house that he had come to visit once again, he dare not enter. It seemed to him that his father or his mother would appear on the threshold with arms stretched forth to curse him — the bad son and bad citizen, traitor to his family, and traitor to his country.

Slowly the door opened. A woman appeared on the threshold. She was clothed in the Mainot costume, black cotton skirt with narrow red border, dark coloured jacket cut to the figure, on her head a large brownish cap wrapped round with a handkerchief of the colours of the Greek flag.

The woman had an energetic face, with large black eyes of almost savage vivacity, and a complexion as brown as that of the fisherwomen of the coast. She was tall and upright, though certainly not less than sixty years of age.

It was Andronika Starkos. The mother and the son, separated so long, were face to face.

Nicholas Starkos had not expected to find himself in the presence of his mother. He was startled at the apparition.

Andronika stretched out her hand and forbade his entering the house. But a few words she spoke, and these were they, and these in a voice that made them terrible, —

“Never shall Nicholas Starkos set foot in his father’s house! Never!”

And the son, submitting to the command, gradually drew back. His feelings, however, urged him on as though they urged a traitor. He would advance — a still more energetic gesture that seemed to curse him — and he stopped.

He turned away. He escaped from the enclosure, he retook the path down the cliff, he descended it hurriedly, and never once turned back, as though some invisible hand were pushing him down by his shoulders.

Andronika, motionless on the threshold of her house, watched him disappear into the night.

Ten minutes later Starkos was again master of his feelings, and, reaching the harbour, hailed the gig and went on board the saccoleva.

Without a word he mounted the deck of the Karysta, and, by a sign, gave the order to get under way.

The manoeuvre was soon executed. The sails, arranged for a prompt farewell, had only to be run up. The land breeze, just rising, rendered his departure from the harbour quite easy.

Five minutes later the Karysta was moving down the channel surely and silently, without a single shout from the men on board or from the folks of Vitylo.

But the saccoleva had not got a mile out before a fire illuminated the crest of the cliff.

It was the cottage of Andronika Starkos, ablaze from its foundations. The mother’s hand had lighted the flames. She wished not a vestige to remain of the house in which her son was born.

For three miles or more the captain could not withdraw his gaze from the fire that burnt on the Mainot coast, and he followed it in the shadow to its last gleam.

Andronika had said, “Never shall Nicholas Starkos set foot in his father’s house! Never!”

CHAPTER III.

GREEKS AGAINST TURKS.

IN times prehistoric, when the earth’s crust was being slowly moulded into shape, Greece owed its birth to a cataclysm, which thrust it above sea level while the continent to the east and south of it sank beneath the waves. The hills of that old continent are the islands of the Archipelago. Greece is in fact on the line of volcanic force running through Cyprus and Tuscany.

It would seem as though the Hellenes owed to their country’s unstable soil the instinct of that physical and moral restlessness which led them to such excess in heroic deeds. Thanks to their natural gifts and their indomitable courage, their patriotism and their love of liberty, they have succeeded in making an independent state out of the provinces crushed for so many centuries beneath the Turkish yoke.

Pelasgic in the remotest times, when it was peopled by tribes from Asia; Hellenic from the sixteenth to the fourteenth century before the Christian Era in the days of the Hellenes — from one of whose tribes, the Graii, it obtained its name in the almost mythologie period of the Argonauts; the Heraclidae, and the Trojan war; Greek from the days of Lycurgus with Miltiades, Themistocles, Aristides, Leonidas, Aeschylus, Sophocles, Aristophanes, Herodotus, Thucydides, Pythagoras, Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Hippocrates, Phidias, Pericles, Alcibiades, Pelopidas, Epaminondas, Demosthenes; then Macedonian with Philip and Alexander; Greece ended by becoming a Roman province under the name of Achaia, B.C. 146, and continuing so for four centuries.

After then it was invaded in succession by Visigoths, Vandals, Ostrogoths, Bulgarians, Sclavs, Arabs, Normans, and Sicilians; conquered by the Crusaders at the beginning of the thirteenth century, and split up into a great number of fiefs in the fifteenth; and finally this much-troubled country sank into insignificance in the hands of the Turks.

For nearly two hundred years it may be said that the political life of Greece was absolutely extinct. The despotism of the Ottoman functionaries who then represented authority exceeded all limits. The Greeks were neither an annexed, a conquered, nor a vanquished people; they were slaves beneath the whip of the pasha, who had the imam or priest on his right hand, and the jellah or executioner on his left.

But all life had not yet abandoned the dying country. At last its heart began to beat under the very excess of its sorrow. The Montenegrins of Epirus in 1766, the Mainots in 1769, the Suliots of Albania, rose and proclaimed their independence; but in 1804 the whole of this attempt at insurrection was crushed by Ali Pasha of Yanina.

The time had not yet come when the European powers were to decline to help in the total annihilation of Greece. Left to itself, it could not but die in its attempt to recover its independence.

In 1821 the Pasha of Yanina himself revolted against the Sultan Mahmoud, and called the Greeks to his aid under promise of their liberty, Philhellenes gathered to help from all parts of Europe. Italians, Poles, Germans, and Frenchmen, ranged themselves against the oppressors. The names of Guy de Sainte Helene, of Gaillard, of Chauvassaigne, of Captains Baleste and Jourdain, of Colonel Fabvier, of Major Regnaud de Saint Jean d’Angely, of General.Maison, and last, but not least, those of the three Englishmen, Lord Cochrane, Lord Byron, and Colonel Hastings, will live for ever in the memory of the country for whom they came to fight and to die. With these men rendered illustrious by all that devotion to the cause of the oppressed could render heroic, Greece was represented — the three Hydriots, Tombasis, Tsamados, Miaoulis, and Colocotroni, Marco Bozzaris, Mavrocordato, Mavromichalis, Constantine Canaris, Negris, Constantine and Demetrius Ypsilanti, Ulysses, and many others. From the outset, the rising became a war to the knife, tooth for tooth, eye for eye, provoking the most horrible reprisals on either side.

In 1821 the Suliots and the Mainots broke into insurrection. At Patras, Bishop Germanos, cross in hand, took the lead. Morea, Moldavia, the Archipelago raised the standard of independence. The Hellenes, victorious on the sea, succeeded in taking Tripolizza. At the first news of these successes the Turks replied by the massacre of all the Greeks in Constantinople.

In 1822 Ali, besieged in his fortress of Yanina, was shamefully assassinated at a conference to which he had been invited by the Turkish general Kourschid. Not long afterwards Mavrocordato and the Philhellenes were routed at the battle of Arta, to recover the advantage, however, at the first siege of Missolonghi, which Omar Vrioni was obliged to raise after suffering considerable loss.

In 1823, foreign powers began to intervene.’ They proposed a mediation to the Sultan. The Sultan refused, and to give weight to his refusal landed ten thousand Asiatic soldiers in Euboea, and gave the command in chief of the Turkish Army to his vassal, Mehemet Ali, Pasha of Egypt. It was during this year that there occurred the death of Marco Bozzaris, the patriot, of whom it has been said, “He lived like Aristides, and died like Leonidas.”

In 1824, that year of misfortune for the cause of Independence, Lord Byron landed on the 24th of January, and on Easter Day died at Missolonghi, without finding any advance towards the accomplishment of his dream. The Ipsariots were massacred by the Turks, and the town of Candia in Crete surrendered to the soldiers of Mehemet Ali. The only consolation for the Greeks amid so many disasters was in the victories at sea.

In 1825, Ibrahim Pasha, the son of Mehemet Ali, landed at Modon in the Morea, with eleven thousand men. He captured Navarino, and defeated Colocotrini at Tripolizza. It was then that the Greek Government entrusted a body of regulars to the Frenchmen, Fabvier and Regnaud de Saint Jean d’Angely; but before these troops were ready to resist him, Ibrahim devastated Messenia and Maina. He abandoned his operations in those districts only to take part in the second siege of Missolonghi, which General Kioutagi could not succeed in capturing, although the Sultan had told him “Either Missolonghi or your head.”

In 1826, on the 5th of January, after the burning of Pyrgos, Ibrahim arrived before Missolonghi. For three days, from the 25th to the 28th, he rained on to the town eight thousand shells and shot, without being able to enter even after a triple assault, although he had to deal with only two thousand four hundred combatants enfeebled by famine. He was bound, however, to succeed, particularly after Miaoulis and his relieving squadron had been repulsed. On the 23rd of April, after a siege which had cost the lives of nineteen hundred of the defenders, Missolonghi fell into the power of Ibrahim, and his soldiers massacred men, women, and children, and nearly all that survived out of its nine thousand inhabitants. In the same year, the Turks under Kioutagi, after ravaging Phocis and Boeotia, arrived at Thebes on the 10th of July, entered Attica, invested Athens, and laid siege to the Acropolis, which was then defended by fifteen hundred Greeks. With the help of the citadel, the key of Greece, the new Government sent Karaiskakis, one of the combatants at Missolonghi, and Colonel Fabvier with his regulars. The battle fought at Chaidari was lost, and Kioutagi continued the siege of the Acropolis. At the same time, Karaiskakis was fighting in the defiles of Parnassus, and on the 5th of December beat the Turks at Arachova, and raised a trophy on the battle-field of three hundred of their heads. Northern Greece was then almost entirely freed.

Unfortunately, owing to these struggles, the Archipelago was handed over to the most formidable corsairs who had ever desolated those seas. And amongst these, it was said one of the boldest and most sanguinary was the pirate Sacratif, whose very name was a terror throughout the Levant.

Seven months before our story opens, the Turks had been obliged to take refuge in the strong places of Southern Greece. In February, 1827, the Greeks had reconquered their independence from the Gulf of Arta to the confines of Attica. The Turkish flag no longer floated over Missolonghi, Vonizza’, or Naupacte. On the 31st of March, under the influence of Lord Cochrane, the Greeks of the North and the Greeks of the Peloponnesus abandoned their intestine struggles, and united in sending representatives of the nation to Trezene, and concentrating all power in a single hand, that of a foreigner, a Russian diplomatist of Greek birth, Capo d’Istria, a native of Corfu.

But Athens was still in the hands of the Turks. Its citadel had capitulated on the 5th of June. Northern Greece was then compelled to submit. On the 6th of July France, England, Russia, and Austria signed a convention which, while admitting the suzerainty of the Porte, recognized the existence of the Greek nation, and by a secret article the signatory powers engaged to unite against the Sultan if he refused to accept a pacific arrangement.

Such are the general facts of this sanguinary war, which should be borne in mind by the reader, as they are very closely connected with what follows. And now for the special facts which concern the personages of this dramatic history, among the foremost of whom comes Andronika, the widow of the patriot Starkos.

The struggle for their country’s independence not only brought forth heroes, but heroines also appeared whose names are gloriously connected with the events of the period.

Amongst them was Bobolina, born in a small island at the entrance of the Gulf of Nauplia. In 1812 her husband was made prisoner, taken to Constantinople, and impaled by order of the Sultan. As soon as the War of Independence broke out, Bobolina in 1821, out of her own resources, equipped three ships, and as related by Mr. H. Bell from the information of an old Klepht, after hoisting her flag, which bore the motto of the Spartan women, “Over or under,” sailed away to Asia Minor, capturing and burning the Turkish ships with the intrepidity of a Tsamados or a Canaris; then having generously handed over her ships to the new government, she assisted at the siege of Tripolizza, organized a blockade round Nauplia, which lasted for fourteen months, and at last forced the citadel to surrender. This woman, whose whole life was a romance, met her death from being stabbed by her brother in a family quarrel.

Another grand figure deserves to be placed side by side with this valiant Hydriot. Similar effects invariably produce similar results. By the Sultan’s orders there was strangled at Constantinople the father of Modena Mavroeinis, a woman whose beauty was worthy of her birth. Modena immediately joined the insurrection, raised the people of Mycone in revolt, armed their ships, organized guerilla companies, and took the command, stopped the army of Selim Pasha in the narrow gorges of Pelion, and till the end of the war distinguished herself brilliantly, harassing the Turks in the mountain defiles of Phthiotis.

Another heroine worthy of mention was Kaidos, who destroyed by mines the walls of Vilia, and fought with indomitable courage at the monastery of St. Venerande; Moskos, her mother, fighting by her husband’s side and crushing the Turks beneath the masses of rock; Despo, who, to prevent herself falling into the hands of the Mussulmans, blew herself up with her daughters and grandchildren. And the Suliot women who, to protect the new government installed at Salamis, brought thither the fleet they commanded; and that Constance Zacharias, who after giving the signal of insurrection in the plains of Laconia, threw herself on Leondari at the head of four hundred peasants; and very many others whose generous blood was not spared in this war, during which it was clearly shown of what the descendants of the Hellenes were capable.

And like unto them had been the widow Starkos. Under the name of Andronika, she allowed herself to be drawn into the movement by an irresistible instinct of reprisal as much as by the love of independence.

Like Bobolina — a widow whose husband had been executed for attempting to defend his country — like Modena, like Zacharias, if she had not the means of arming ships or raising companies of volunteers, she could at least contribute her personal services in the great drama of the insurrection.

Since 1821 Andronika had joined the Mainots, whom Colocotroni — condemned to death, and a fugitive in the Ionian Islands — called to action, when, on the 18th of January in this year, he landed at Scardamoula. She took part in the first battle fought in Thessaly, when Colocotroni attacked the inhabitants of Phanari and Caritene, united under the Turks, on the banks of the Rhouphia. She was in the battle of Valtetsio on the 17th of May, which resulted in the rout of the army of Mustapha Bey. More especially did she distinguish herself at the siege of Tripolizza, where the Spartans taunted the Turks as “scoundrelly Persians,” and the Turks taunted the Greeks as “poor Laconian hares.” And the hares got the best of it. On the 5th of October the capital of the Peloponnesus, having been unrelieved by the Turkish fleet, was forced to capitulate, and, notwithstanding the Convention, was given to fire and sword for three days; and ten thousand Turks, irrespective of age or sex, were massacred.

The following year, on the 4th of March, during a naval combat, in which she had taken part under the orders of Miaoulis, Andro’nika, after a fight of five hours, beheld the Turkish vessels take to flight, and seek refuge in the port of Zante. But on one of these ships she had recognized her son, acting as pilot of the Ottoman squadron. From that day forward she threw herself even more desperately into the fight in search of death. And death would not come to her.

And Nicholas Starkos had advanced still further on his path of crime. A few weeks later he had joined Kara Ali in the bombardment of Scio, in the island of that name. He had taken part in those frightful massacres, in which there perished twenty-three thousand Christians, without counting forty-seven thousand who were sold for slaves in the markets of Smyrna. And one of the ships that transported the prisoners was commanded by him — the Greek who sold his brethren.

During the interval that followed, in which the Hellenes had to resist the combined forces of Turks and Egyptians, Andronika did not for an instant cease from imitating those heroic women whose names are more famous.

A grievous time it was, particularly for the Morea. Ibrahim let loose over it his ferocious Arabs, who were far more ferocious than the Turks. Andronika was one of those four thousand combatants whom Colocotroni, the commander-in-chief in the Peloponnesus, was able to keep round him. But Ibrahim had landed eleven thousand men on the Messenian coast to raise the sieges of Koron and Patras, and had occupied Navarino, whose citadel afforded him a base of operations, and whose harbour gave him a shelter for his fleet. Argos was soon burnt, Tripolizza seized, and, until the winter came, he extended his ravages over the adjoining provinces; and Messenia especially was horribly devastated.

Andronika had to flee to the south of Maina, to avoid falling into the hands of the Arabs. But she thought not of resting. Who could rest in an oppressed land? In 1825 and 1826 she was at the fight at the defiles of Verga, after which Ibrahim had to retire to Polyaravos, where the Mainots of the north again repulsed him. Then she joined the regulars under Colonel Fabvier during the battle of Chaidari in the month of July, 1826. There she was seriously wounded, and had it not been for the courage of a young Frenchman serving under the flag of the Philhellenes, she would have fallen into the hands of the ruffians of Kioutagi.

For many months Andronika was in danger of her life. Her robust constitution saved her; but the year 1826 ended without her being sufficiently recovered to take her place in the struggle.

It was under these circumstances that, in the month of August, 1827, she returned to the mountains of Maina. She wished to see her home at Vitylo once more. A singular chance brought her son thither on the same day. We know the result of the meeting of Andronika with Nicholas Starkos, and how her parting malediction was hurled at him on the threshold of his father’s house.

And now, having nothing to keep her to her native soil, Andronika returned to continue the fight until Greece gained her independence.

Matters were at this point on the 10th of March, 1827, when the widow Starkos again set out along the roads of Maina to rejoin the Greeks of the Peloponnesus, who, foot by foot, were disputing their native land with the soldiers of Ibrahim.

CHAPTER IV.

A HOUSE OF SORROW.

WHILE the Karysta sailed away to the north for a destination known only to the captain, an event happened at Corfu which, though of a private nature, attracted public attention to the principal persons in this history.

Since 1815, by the treaties of that year, the group of Ionian Islands had been under the protection of England. Of all the group, which comprises Cerigo, Zante, Ithaca, Cephalonia, St. Maura, Paxo, and Corfu, the last, the most northerly, is the most important. It is the ancient Corcyra. The island which had for its king Alcinous, the generous host of Jason and Medea, and who in later days received the crafty Ulysses after the Trojan war, might well be of considerable importance in ancient history. After having been attacked by the Franks, the Bulgarians, the Saracens, the Neapolitans; ravaged in the sixteenth century by Barbarossa; protected in the eighteenth by Count Schulemburg, and at the end of the first Napoleonic empire defended by General Donzelot, it was now the residence of the British High Commissioner.

At this time this High Commissioner was Sir Frederick Adam. In view of eventualities which might any time happen in this struggle between Greeks and Turks, there were on the station a few frigates to keep the peace on the sea, and several larger vessels to maintain order in the Archipelago, which was now given over to Greeks and Turks and bearers of letters of marque, to say nothing of pirates having no other commission than that they had given to themselves, to plunder at their convenience the ships of every nation.

At Corfu were many foreigners — more especially people who had been attracted thither during the last three or four years by the different phases of the war of independence. It was from Corfu that people started to take part in it. It was at Corfu that others who had taken part in it came to rest.

Amongst these latter was a young frenchman. Enraptured with the noble cause, he had for the last few years taken an active and glorious share in the events of which the Hellenic peninsula was the theatre.

Lieutenant Henry D’Albaret, of the French navy — one of the youngest officers of his rank, on protracted leave — had from the commencement of the war fought under the flag of the French Philhellenes. Aged twenty-nine, of medium height, and possessing a robust constitution that enabled him to support all the trials of a seafaring life, the young officer, by the grace of his manners, the distinction of his bearing, the frankness of his look, and the charm of his features, at the first glance inspired a sympathy which a long intimacy could not but increase.

Henry D’Albaret belonged to a rich family of Parisian origin. He had hardly known his mother; his father had died before his majority, that is to say, two or three years before he left the naval school. Having inherited an ample fortune, he had failed to understand that that was any reason for his abandoning his profession as a sailor. On the contrary, he remained in the service and had gained his lieutenancy when the Greek cross was unfurled in face of the Turkish crescent in Northern Greece and the Peloponnesus.

Henry D’Albaret did not hesitate. Like so many other brave men, he was irresistibly dragged into the movement. He accompanied the volunteers that the French officers led to Eastern Europe. He was one of the first of the Philhellenes to shed his blood for the cause of independence. He had found himself among the glorious vanquished of Mavrocordato at the famous battle of Arta, and among the conquerors at the first siege of Missolonghi.

He was present in the following year, when Marco Bo2zaris fell. During the year 1824 he took a distinguished part in the sea-fights with which the Greeks revenged the victories of Mehemet Ali. After the defeat at Tripolizza in 1825 he commanded a detachment of regulars, under the orders of Colonel Fabvier. In July, 1826, he fought at Chaidari, when he saved the life of Andronika Starkos, who fell among the feet of the horses of Kioutagi — that terrible battle in which the loss of the Philhellenes was irreparable.

However, Henry D’Albaret did not abandon his chief, but shortly afterwards rejoined him at Methenes.

The Acropolis of Athens was then being defended by Commandant Gomas, with fifteen hundred men under his orders. In the citadel there were four hundred women and children, who had been unable to escape when the Turks took possession of the town. Gomas had provisions for a year, and he had fourteen guns and three howitzers, but was short of ammunition.

Fabvier resolved to re-victual the Acropolis. He called for volunteers for the daring attempt. Five hundred and thirty came forward; among them were forty Philhellenes, and among them and at their head was Henry D’Albaret. Each of these bold partisans was furnished with a bag of powder, and under Fabvier’s orders embarked at Methenes.

On the 13th of December, the little troop landed almost at the foot of the Acropolis. A ray of moonlight discovered them. The musketry of the Turks rang out its welcome. Fabvier shouted, “Forward! “Each man, without abandoning his bag of powder, which might blow up at any instant, cleared the ditch, and made his way into the citadel, whose gates were standing open. The Turks were successfully repulsed, but Fabvier was wounded; his second was killed. Henry D’Albaret fell, hit by a bullet. The regulars and their leaders were now shut up in the citadel with those they came to help, and who would not let them leave.

There the young officer, down with a wound which, fortunately, was not a serious one, shared in the misery of the besieged, who were now reduced to rations of barley. “Six months elapsed before the capitulation of the Acropolis, agreed to by Kioutagi, gave him his liberty. It was not till the 5th of June, 1827, that Fabvier, his volunteers and the besieged, left the citadel of Athens and embarked on the ships which took them to Salamis.

Henry D’Albaret, who was still very weak, did not care to stop in that town, and sailed for Corfu. There for two months he recovered from his hardships, and was preparing to again take his place in the front rank, when chance gave a new motive to his life, which had hitherto been only that of a soldier.

There was at Corfu, at the end of the Strada Reale, an old, half-Greek, half-Italian, house. In this house lived a personage of whom little was seen and a good deal was said. This was the banker Elizundo. Was his age sixty or seventy? None could tell. For twenty years he had lived in this gloomy house, from which he seldom went out. But if he did not visit others, very many people of all countries and all conditions came to visit him. Assuredly he did a very large business in this house, and his credit was unimpeachable. Besides, Elizundo was supposed to be extremely rich. No one stood higher in the Ionian Islands, or amongst his Dalmatian rivals in Zara and Ragusa. A draft accepted by him was worth all its face-value. It is true he did nothing rashly. He was entirely immersed in his business. He required excellent references and complete guarantees; but his cash-box seemed inexhaustible. One thing is worth noting. Elizundo did nearly everything himself, employing only one man in his house, of whom we shall speak later on, to do such writing as was of slight importance. He was his own cashier and bookkeeper. Not an agreement was drafted, nor a letter written except by his own hand. No clerk from without ever sat at his desk; and thus the secrets of his business were carefully kept.

Whence came this banker? Some said he was an Illyrian, others a Dalmatian; but nothing definite was really known about him. Silent as to his past, silent as to his present, he made no attempt to mix in Corfiote society. While the islands were under French protection, he had lived as he did now under an English Governor. Popular rumour estimated his fortune at several millions, and he was really a rich man, although his wants and tastes were moderate enough.

Elizundo was a widower; he had been so when he first came to settle here with his little daughter, then only two years of age. Now this little daughter, whose name was Hadjine Elizundo, was twenty-two, and lived in the house, and took charge of it.

Even in the East, where the beauty of the women is undeniable, Hadjine Elizundo would have been considered remarkably handsome in spite of her slightly melancholy expression. How could it be otherwise when her youth had been passed without a mother to guide her, or a companion with whom to exchange her early girlish confidences?

Hadjine Elizundo was very graceful. Through her Greek origin on the mother’s side, she was of the type of those handsome young Laconian women who are the pride of the Peloponnesus.

Between father and daughter the intimacy was not and could not be very close. The banker lived alone — silent and reserved — one of those men who are always turning away their head, and shading their eyes as if the light hurt them. As uncommunicative in private as in public life, he never spoke about himself, even in his communications with the customers of his house. How could Hadjine Elizundo find a charm in her secluded life, when within these walls she had almost failed to find a father’s heart?

Fortunately she had near her one who was kind, devoted, and loving, who lived only for his young mistress, who sympathized in her sorrows, and whose face lighted up at her smiles. All her life he had been with Hadjine. From this it might be thought we were speaking of a faithful dog — that “aspirant to humanity,” according to Michelet, that “humble friend,” according to Lamartine. But we are speaking of a man, although he was worthy of being a dog. He had been at Hadjine’s birth; he had never left her; he had nursed her as a child, and been her servant as a girl.

He was a Greek, and his name was Xaris. He was a foster-brother of Hadjine’s mother, and had accompanied her when she married the banker of Corfu. He had been for more than twenty years in the house, in a superior position to that of an ordinary servant, and he it was that helped Elizundo when he had papers to copy.

Xaris, like others of the Laconians, was tall, broad-shouldered, and exceptionally strong, with good features, fine frank-looking eyes, and long aquiline nose above his superb black moustaches. On his head he wore the cap of dark-coloured linen, and round his waist he wore the elegant fustanello.

When Hadjine Elizundo went out on housekeeping business, or to attend the church of St. Spiridion, or to breathe a little of that sea air which rarely reached the house in the Strada Reale, Xaris accompanied her. Many of the young Corfiotes had seen her on the esplanade, and even in the streets of Kastrades, which stretch by the bay of the same name. More than one had endeavoured to gain an introduction to her father. Who could resist the attractions of the daughter’s beauty and — possibly — the father’s wealth? But all propositions of this kind Hadjine had met with a negative, and the banker had never interfered to alter her resolution.

Such, then, was the house, isolated, as it were, in a corner of the capital of ancient Corcyra, into which the chances of life were to introduce Henry D’Albaret.

At first it was merely a business acquaintance between the banker and the French officer. On leaving Paris he had taken his drafts on Elizundo, and it was from Corfu that he drew his money during his Philhellenic campaign. At different times he had returned to the island, and thus made the acquaintance of Hadjine Elizundo. He was smitten with her girlish beauty, and the remembrance of it followed him to the battlefields of the Morea.

After the surrender of the Acropolis, Henry D’Albaret found nothing better to do than to return to Corfu. He had had a painful recovery from his wound. The excessive hardships of the siege had affected his health. Hence, though not living in the banker’s house, he had been hospitably entertained, whenever he called, in a way that no stranger had ever been before.

Three months passed in this manner. Gradually his visits to Elizundo, which had at first been purely on business matters, became more interested and more frequent. The young officer was much charmed with Hadjine. And how could she help seeing this, when she found him so constant in his attentions, so entirely given over to listening to her and watching her?

And Xaris took no pains to hide the sympathy with which the frank, amiable character of Henry D’Albaret inspired him.

“You are right, Hadjine,” he often said to the young girl. “Greece is your country as well as mine, and we must not forget that if this young officer has suffered, it has been in fighting for her.”

“He loves me!” said she to Xaris one day.

And the girl said it with the same simplicity she showed in other things.

“Well, let him love you,” replied Xaris. “Your father is getting old, Hadjine. I shall not always be with you. Where in life will you find a more trustworthy protector than Henry D’Albaret?”

Hadjine said nothing. If he loved her, she loved him, and a very natural modesty forbade her confessing it, even to Xaris.

Such was the state of affairs, and it was no secret in Corfiote society. No official step had been taken, and yet the marriage of Henry D’Albaret and Hadjine Elizundo was spoken of as if it had been definitely arranged.

The banker showed no signs of regret at the attentions paid by D’Albaret to his daughter. As Xaris had said, he was getting old. Unfeeling as he was, he could hardly imagine that Hadjine would remain single all her life, and he must have been glad to know who would possess the fortune she would inherit from him. This question of money was, however, of little interest to Henry. The banker’s daughter might be rich or poor, but it made no difference to him. It was for her goodness as much as for her beauty that he loved her. It was for the keen sympathy which he felt for Hadjine in her sombre surroundings. It was for the elevation of her ideas, the grandeur of her views, and the true-hearted energy of which he felt her capable, if ever an opportunity arose for her to show it. And all this was clear enough to him when Hadjine spoke of her downtrodden country, and the superhuman efforts which its children were making for their liberty. On that subject the young people could never meet but to be in complete accord.

What pleasant hours did they pass discussing these events in that Greek language which D’Albaret spoke as if it were his mother tongue! What happiness they shared when a maritime success occurred to compensate for the reverses in Attica and the Morea! Of course D’Albaret had to relate at length all the adventures in which he had taken part, and give the names of the natives and foreigners who had distinguished themselves in the sanguinary strife, and those of the women whom, if Hadjine were free to choose, she would wish to imitate. Bobolina, Modena, Zacharias, Kaidos, not forgetting that brave Andronika whom he had saved from the massacre at Chaidari.

One day, after he had mentioned her name, Elizundo, who overheard the conversation, gave a sudden start that attracted his daughter’s attention.

“What is the matter, father?” asked she.

“Nothing,” replied the banker.

Then addressing the young man in the tone of a man who wished to appear indifferent to what he was asking, —

“You knew Andronika?” he said.

“Yes.”

“And do you know what has become of her?”

“I do not,” answered D’Albaret. “After the fight of Chaidari, I fancy she went back to Maina, which is her native place. Some day, however, I expect to see her reappear on the battlefield.”

“Yes,” added Hadjine, “her proper place.”

Why had Elizundo asked this question about Andronika? No one had asked him to do so. He had certainly answered evasively. And the daughter, who knew little of the banker’s business, could not help noticing it. Did her father know anything about this Andronika that she so much admired?

In all that concerned the War of Independence, Elizundo maintained a rigid reserve. To what party did he belong — the oppressors or the oppressed? It was difficult to say, even if he were a man to commit himself to any particular party. It was certain that the post brought him as many letters from Turkey as from Greece. But it is important to note that, although the young officer was devoted to the cause of the Hellenes, Elizundo had none the less given him a cordial welcome.

However, Henry D’Albaret could no longer delay his departure. He had recovered from his wounds, and decided to follow out to the end what he considered to be his duty. Often did he speak of it to Hadjine.

“It is your duty,” she replied. “Whatever grief your departure may cause me, Henry, I know that you ought to rejoin your companions-in-arms! Yes — so long as Greece has not recovered her independence, so long must the strife continue.”

“I must go, Hadjine. I am going,” said D’Albaret to her one day. “But if I can take with me the assurance that you love me as I love you — “

“Henry, I have no reason to hide what I feel to-, wards you,” answered Hadjine. “I am no longer a child, and I can seriously contemplate the future. I trust you,” she said, giving him her hand; “trust me! Just as you leave me, just will you find me.”

D’Albaret clasped the hand which Hadjine placed in his.

“I thank you with all my heart,” answered he. “Yes, we are everything to each other now! And if our separation is painful, none the less shall I carry away with me the assurance that I am loved by you! But before I go, Hadjine, I must speak to your father — I must make certain that he approves, and that no obstacle will come from him.”

“Yes,” replied Hadjine. “Obtain his promise, as you have mine.”

And D’Albaret had no time to lose, for he had decided to resume his service under Colonel Fabvier.

In truth, matters were going very badly for the cause of independence. The Convention of London had had no sensible result, and people were asking if the Powers intended it merely to end in purely officious and therefore platonic observations.

On the other hand, the Turks, infatuated with their success, appeared little disposed to yield any of their pretensions. Although two squadrons, an English one under Admiral Codrington, and a French one under Admiral de Rigny, were cruising in the Aegean, and although the Greek Government were installed at Egina to consider their best means of security, the Turks displayed an obstinacy which made them most formidable.

And this was more than ever apparent when a fleet of eighty ships, Turkish, Egyptian, and Tunisian, gathered in the roadstead of Navarino on the 7th of September. The fleet was bringing the immense commissariat stores which Ibrahim required for the expedition he was organizing against the Hydriots.

And so it was at Hydra that Henry D’Albaret resolved to rejoin the volunteers. This island, situated at the end of Argolis, is one of the richest in the Archipelago. After having done so much for the Hellenic cause in blood and treasure, under her intrepid seamen Tombasis, Miaoulis, and Tsamados, it was threatened with terrible reprisals.

D’Albaret must not delay leaving Corfu, if he wished to reach Hydra before the soldiers of Ibrahim; and so his departure was definitely fixed for the 21st of October.

A few days before this, the young officer went to Elizundo and asked him for his daughter’s hand. He did not conceal from him that Hadjine’s happiness could be assured if he gave his consent, and this he doubted not he would obtain. He did not wish the marriage to take place until after his return, though absence, he hoped, would not be of long duration.

The banker knew D’Albaret’s position, the state of his fortune, and the consideration in which his family was held in France, so that he had no need to make inquiries on that head. On the subject of his own fortune he said nothing, as D’Albaret had done, and as to the proposition itself, Elizundo replied that he accepted it.

It was said very coolly, but the important fact was that it was said. Henry D’Albaret had now Elizundo’s word, and in return the banker received from his daughter a thankful recognition, which he took with his accustomed coolness. All things seemed to work to the young people’s satisfaction — and, we may add, to the satisfaction of Xaris.

But Henry D’Albaret had no more time to stay with Hadjine Elizundo. He had decided to embark on a levantine brig, and the brig left Corfu on the 21st of the month for Hydra.

There is no need to dwell on what passed during the last few days in the house on the Strada Reale. Henry and Hadjine never left each other for an hour. The nobleness of their sentiments gave to their interviews a charm that softened their regrets. The future was for them, if the present escaped them; and it was the present that they thought about most. They calculated its chances, good or bad, but without discouragement.

One evening — that of the 20th of October — they were talking over these matters for the last time, and, perhaps, with rather more emotion. For on the morrow the young officer was to leave.

Suddenly Xaris entered the room. He could not speak. He was out of breath. He had been running; and at what a rate! In a few minutes his athletic limbs had brought him across the town from the citadel to the end of the Strada Reale.

“What do you want? What is the matter? Why this excitement?” asked Hadjine.

“When I — what I! News! Important!”

“Speak! Speak! Xaris!” said D’Albaret.

“I cannot, I cannot!” said Xaris, whose excitement positively suffocated him.

“Is it news from the war?” asked the girl, taking his hand.

“Yes! Yes!”

“Speak, then!” she repeated. “Speak, then, good Xaris! What is it?”

“Turks! to-day routed at Navarino!”

It was then that Henry D’Albaret and Hadjine heard the news of the naval battle on the 20th of October.

The banker entered the room at the moment. When he heard the cause of the disturbance his lips closed involuntarily, his brow contracted; but he showed neither satisfaction nor displeasure, while the younger folks freely expressed their joy.

The news of the battle of Navarino had, in fact, just reached Corfu. Scarcely had it spread in the town than its details were known, brought thither telegraphically along the Albanian coast.

The English, French, and Russian squadrons, comprising twenty-seven ships and twelve hundred and seventy-six guns, had attacked the Ottoman fleet in the roadstead of Navarino. Although the Turks were superior in numbers — although they amounted to sixty vessels, with nineteen hundred and ninety-four guns — they had been defeated. Many of their ships had been sunk or blown up, with a large number of officers and sailors. Ibrahim could no longer trust in the Sultan’s army helping him in the expedition against Hydra. “This was important; in fact, it ought to be a new departure in the affairs of Greece. Although the three Powers had resolved not to take advantage of their victory and annihilate the Porte, yet it seemed certain that their agreement would finish by freeing the country of the Hellenes from the Turkish domination, and certain also that sooner or later the new kingdom would gain its autonomy.

So it was thought at Elizundo’s, and Hadjine, Henry D’Albaret, and Xaris clapped their hands. Their joy found an echo in the town. The guns of Navarino brought independence to the children of Greece.

The young officer’s plans were changed by this victory of the allied Powers, or rather — for the expression is better — by this defeat of the Turkish navy. Ibrahim, in consequence, would have to renounce his intended campaign against Hydra; there could be no doubt of that.

It was no longer necessary for D’Albaret to join the volunteers mustering for the defence of Hydra. He resolved, then, to await at Corfu the course of events.

The fate of Greece could no longer be doubtful. Europe would not allow her to be crushed. In the Hellenic peninsula the crescent would have to give place to the banner of independence. Ibrahim, already forced to occupy the maritime towns, would have to withdraw even from them.

Under these circumstances, whither should D Albaret go? Doubtless, Fabvier was preparing to leave Mitylene to begin the campaign against the Turks of Scio; but his preparations were not complete, and would not be so for some time. There was no necessity, therefore, to dream of an early departure.

It was thus that the young officer summed up the position; it was thus that Hadjine agreed with him. Then there was no reason for postponing their marriage. Elizundo made no objection, and the date was fixed ten days in advance — on the last day of October.

There is no occasion to dwell on the feelings with which the young couple beheld the approach of their wedding-day. No more was said of that departure for the war, in which Henry D’Albaret might lose his life; no more of that sorrowful waiting, in which Hadjine might count the days and the hours in vain! Xaris, if it were possible, was the happiest in the house. Had it been his own marriage, he could not have been more demonstrative. Even the banker, in spite of his habitual coldness, allowed his satisfaction to be seen. The future of his daughter was assured.

Things were arranged as simply as possible, and there appeared to be no necessity to invite the whole town to the ceremony. Neither Hadjine nor Henry desired many witnesses of their happiness. But some preparations were necessary, and these were set about without ostentation.

It was the 23rd of October. There were seven days yet before the celebration. It seemed that no obstacle could intervene — no delay was to be feared; and yet something happened which would have very greatly disquieted Hadjine and D’Albaret, had they known of it.

That day the morning’s post brought Elizundo a letter, the reading of which seemed to startle him. He crumpled it, he tore it, he threw it into the fire — a fact which always denotes a certain amount of trouble in a man who was so much the master of himself as the banker.

And he could have been heard to mutter these words: —

“Why did not this letter come eight days later? Curse him who wrote it!”

CHAPTER V.

THE COAST OF MESSENIA.

THROUGHOUT the night, after leaving Vitylo, the Karysta steered south-west, so as to cross the Gulf of Koron. Nicholas Starkos retired to his cabin and did not appear till daybreak.

The wind was favourable — one of those fresh breezes from the south-west which generally prevail in these seas at the end of the summer or the beginning of spring about the time of the equinoxes, when the vapours of the Mediterranean are condensed into rain.

In the morning, Cape Gallo, at the extreme point of Messenia, was doubled, and the last summits of Taygetus were soon bathed in the mist of the rising sun.

When the point had been passed, Starkos appeared on the saccoleva’s deck. His first look was towards the east.

The land of Maina was no longer visible. On that side, a little behind the promontory, there now rose the mighty buttresses of Hagios-Dimitrios.

For a moment the captain stretched forth his hand in the direction of Maina. Was it in menace? Was it an eternal adieu to his native land? — who knows? But there boded no good to any one in the look which at that moment shone in the eyes of Nicholas Starkos.

The saccoleva, under her square sails and lateens, went about on the starboard tack, and headed for the north-west. She passed on her left the islands of OEnus, Kabrera, Sapienza, and Venetico; then she took her course between Sapienza and the mainland, so as to pass in sight of Modon.

The marvellous mountain panorama of the Messenian coast, with its well-marked volcanic character, unrolled before her as she went. This Messenia was destined to become, after the constitution of the kingdom had been definitely decided, one of the thirteen nomes of which modern Greece consists. But at this period it was only a collection of areas of strife held sometimes by Ibrahim, sometimes by the Greeks, according to the fortune of war, as it had formerly been the theatre of the three Messenian wars against the Spartans which rendered for ever illustrious the names of Aristomenes and Epaminondas.

Without a word, after having checked the saccoleva’s course with the compass and looked round at the weather, Nicholas Starkos sat himself down.

Meanwhile an exchange of news had been going on forward between the crew of the Karysta and the ten men picked up at Vitylo. These made twenty sailors in all, and were headed by a boatswain under the orders of the captain; for the mate of the saccoleva was not at present on board.

And this is the gist of the talk as to the vessel’s destination as she coasted the isles of Greece.

“Captain Starkos seldom speaks.”

“As seldom as possible; but when he speaks, it is very much to the point, and you have to obey orders.”

“Where is the Karysta bound?”

‘“You never know where the Karysta is bound.”

“Oh! Well, we were engaged honestly, and, after all, it does not matter.”

“Yes; and you can be sure that where the captain takes us, he will go himself.”

“But it isn’t with those two little carronades in the bow that the Karysta tickles up the merchantmen of the Archipelago.”

“But she is not intended to do so! Captain Starkos has other ships well armed and fitted out for that line of business. The Karysta is what you might call his pleasure yacht! Her innocent look deceives the cruisers, let them be English, French, Greek, or Turk.”

“But the prize money?”

“The prize money is for those who take it, and you will be amongst it when the saccoleva has finished her run. You will be busy enough, and if there is danger, there will also be profit.”

“Then there is nothing to do at present round about Greece and the islands?”

“Nothing — no more than in the Adriatic, if the captain’s fancy takes us there! So we are under fresh orders and have become honest mariners on board an honest saccoleva, honestly sailing up the Ionian Sea! But there will be a change some day!”

“The sooner the better!”

It was obvious that the newcomers, like the rest of the Karystas crew, would not hang back when the time came. Scruple, remorse, or even simple prejudice was unknown to the maritime population of Maina. In truth, they were worthy of him who commanded them, and he knew he could trust them.

But if the Vitylo men knew Captain Starkos, they did not know his mate, who combined the occupations of sailor and trader — his evil genius in fact. This was a certain Skopelo, a native of Cerigotto, a little island of ill-fame at the southern limit of the Archipelago, between Cerigo and Crete. And so one of the newcomers asked the boatswain, —

“What about the mate?”

“The mate is not on board,” was the reply.

“Shall we see him?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“When it is necessary to see him.”

“But where is he? ”’

“Where he should be.”

They had to be content with this answer, which meant nothing. And the boatswain’s whistle soon after sounded to call the men on deck to haul the sheets a little closer, so as to keep the vessel on her course along the Messenian coast. About noon the Karysta passed Modon. It was not her port of destination. She made no attempt to stop at the little town built on the ruins of the ancient Methone, at the end of the rocky promontory which juts out towards the island of Sapienza. Soon the lighthouse at the harbour mouth was lost behind the continuation of the cliffs.

A signal was, however, made on the saccoleva. A black pennant quartered with a red cross was hoisted at the end of the mainyard. But there was no answer from the land, and the cruise was continued towards the north.

That evening the Karysta arrived at the entrance of the roadstead of Navarino, a large maritime lake enclosed in a frame of lofty mountains. For a moment the town, capped by the confused mass of its citadel, appeared through a natural arch in a gigantic rock, at the extremity of that natural breakwater which checks the fury of north-west winds as they sweep down the long gulf of the Adriatic to pour their torrents on to the Ionian Sea.

The setting sun was still lighting up the summits of the higher ranges on the east, but the roadstead was already wrapped in gloom. This time the crew might well believe that the Karysta was going to anchor. She unhesitatingly entered the channel of Megalo-Thouro, to the south of the narrow island of Sphacteria. On the island, which is about three miles in length, there, even then, were two tombs to two of the noblest victims of the war. One to the French captain Mallet, who was killed in 1825, and, at the end of a cave, one to an Italian count, Santa Rosa, an old minister of Piedmont, who had died during the same year for the same cause.

When the saccoleva had arrived at about a dozen cable-lengths from the town she puffed up and lay to. A red lantern was run up to the mainyard-arm, as the red-crossed pennant had been. The signal met with no response.

The Karysta had nothing more to keep her in the roadstead, where a great number of Turkish vessels were lying. She fell off and coasted the whitish-looking island of Kouloneski, in the centre of the bay. Then the sheets were eased off at the boatswain’s order, the helm put a-starboard, and the course laid to skirt Sphacteria.

It was on this island of Kouloneski that many hundreds of Turks, surprised by the Greeks, had been shut up at the commencement of the war in 1821, and here they died of famine rather than surrender under promise to be shipped back to Turkey. Later, in 1825, when Ibrahim’s troops were besieging Mavrocordato in Sphacteria, eight hundred Greeks were here massacred in reprisal.

The saccoleva passed through to the Sikia Channel, two hundred yards across, between the northern point of the island and Cape Coryphasion. It is necessary to thoroughly know the channel before venturing through, as it is almost impracticable for ships of any considerable draught. But Nicholas Starkos, as if he were one of the best pilots in the roadstead, boldly took the ship among the precipitous rocks at the point and doubled the cape. Then perceiving several squadrons at anchor — in all, some thirty English, French, and Russian vessels — he prudently gave them a wide berth, and kept along during the night up the coast of Messenia, passing between the mainland and the island of Prodana; and at dawn the saccoleva, before a fresh south-easterly breeze, was following the irregularities of the coast on the peaceful waters of the Gulf of Arkadia.

The sun rose behind the peaks of that Ithome which had seen the site of the ancient Messene vanish on one side of it into the Gulf of Koron, and on the other into the gulf to which the town of Arkadia has given its name. And the sea sparkled along the ripples raised by the breeze as it was swept by the sun’s earliest rays.

Starkos sailed the ship so as to run close into the town which lies in one of the hollows in the coast, here sweeping round in a huge curve, and forming an open roadstead.

At ten o’clock the boatswain betook himself aft, and reported himself to the captain, as though he were waiting for orders.

All the immense entanglement of the Arkadian mountains was now in full view on the east; villages half-way up the hills peeping out of masses of olive-trees, almond-trees, and vines; brooks running into rivers among the clumps of myrtles and oleanders; and clinging at all heights and in all places and positions thousands of those famous Corinthian vines which leave not an inch of ground unoccupied. Lower, on the foreground ridges, the red houses of the town shone prominent, like pieces of bunting on the cypress curtain. Such is the magnificent panorama of one of the most picturesque coasts of the Peloponnesus.

But in approaching nearer to Arkadia — the ancient Cyparissia, the principal point of Messenia in the time of Epaminondas, and then one of the fiefs of the French Ville Hardouin, after the Crusades, — what a disheartening spectacle met the eyes!

Two years before, Ibrahim had destroyed the town, massacred the children, women, and old men! In ruins was its old castle, built on the site of its ancient acropolis; in ruins was the church of St. George, destroyed by the fanatical Moslem; in ruins were its houses and public edifices.

“You can see that our friends the Egyptians have been along there!” muttered Nicholas Starkos, who showed not the least emotion at the scene of desolation.

“And now the Turks are its masters!” answered the boatswain.

“Yes — for a time — and we may even hope for ever!” added the captain.

“Shall the Karysta speak them or leave them alone?”

Starkos carefully scanned the harbour, which was only a few cable-lengths away. Then his eyes sought the town itself, built about a mile off, on the flanks of Mount Psykro. He seemed to hesitate whether to signal to the shore, or to regain an offing.

The boatswain awaited the captain’s reply to his inquiry.

“Signal!” said Starkos.

The red pennant with a silver cross ran up to the end of the mainyard and fluttered in the breeze. A few minutes afterwards, a similar pennant was run up to the end of a flagstaff on the pierhead.

“Run in,” said the captain.

The helm was put down. As the entrance was a wide one, the passage was easy. The mizen was soon in, then the mainsail, and the Karysta glided down the channel under topsail and jib. Her way was enough to take her into the middle of the harbour. Then she dropped anchor.

Almost immediately the boat was launched the captain embarked, and the four men soon rowed him to a small staircase cut out of the solid rock of the quay. A man was waiting for him. and welcomed him in these words: —

“Skopelo is at the orders of Nicholas Starkos.”

A familiar gesture was all the captain’s reply. He sprang up the steps, and walked towards the town. After passing the ruins due to the last siege, through the streets crowded with Turkish and Arab soldiers, he stopped before an inn of the sign of the Minerva, into which his companion led the way.

A minute later Starkos and Skopelo were seated at a table with two glasses and a bottle of raki, a strong spirit extracted from asphodel. Cigarettes of the light-coloured, sweet-scented tobacco of Missolonghi were rolled, lighted, and puffed, and then the conversation began between the two men, of whom one was the very humble servant of the other.

An evil-looking, low, crafty, but withal intelligent face had Skopelo. If he was fifty, it was as much as he was, although he looked a little older. A pawnbroker’s face, with little glittering, false-looking eyes, snub nose, hair cut short, and hands with curved fingers; long feet, like those of the Albanians, of whom it is said that the toe is in Macedonia and the heel in Boeotia. With his round face, no moustaches, grey goat’s-beard on chin, shiny bald head, and miserable-looking body of medium height he was the very type of an Arab Jew of Christian birth; and he wore a very simple costume of waistcoat and trousers of the Levantine sailor cut, with an overcoat over all.

Skopelo was the business man, indispensable to the pirates of the Archipelago — clever in disposing of the prizes and selling the prisoners in the Turkish markets.

There is no difficulty in imagining what would be the subject of conversation between Starkos and Skopelo, or the way in which the events of the war would be appreciated.

“How is Greece getting on?” asked the captain.

“Not quite as you left it,” answered Skopelo. “A month ago the Karysta was off the coast of Tripoli, and since your departure you have probably had no news?”

“None.”

“Well, then, captain, the Turkish vessels are ready to take Ibrahim and his troops to Hydra.”

“Yes,” answered Starkos, “I saw them last night as I crossed the harbour of Navarino.”

“You have not been ashore since you left Tripoli?” asked Skopelo.

“Yes, once! I stopped a few hours at Vitylo to complete the crew of the Karysta. But since I lost sight of the coasts of Maina, I did not have an answer to my signals till I got here.”

“Nothing to say, perhaps,” said Skopelo.

“Tell me,” continued Starkos, “what are Miaoulis and Canaris doing now?”

“Reduced to little dashes and forays which can only give them partial successes and never a decisive victory. While they keep on chasing the Turkish vessels, the pirates will have a good time of it in the Archipelago.”

“And are they always talking of — “

“Of Sacratif?” answered Skopelo, slightly lowering his voice. “Yes, everywhere, and always — and they do not say much to his credit.”

“Let them talk about him.”

Starkos arose, having emptied his glass, which Skopelo refilled. He strode up and down the room; then with his arms crossed, he stopped before the window, and listened to the gruff singing of the Turkish soldiers, which was heard at a distance.

At length he sat down, facing Skopelo, and abruptly changed the conversation.

“I understood from your signal that you have a load of prisoners here?”

“Yes, Starkos, enough to fill a four hundred ton ship, all that were left after the massacre at Kremmydi. The Turks killed enough that time! If we had left them alone, there would not have been a prisoner left.”

“Are there men and women?”

“Yes, and children too.”

“Where are they?”

“In the citadel.”

“Did they cost much?”

“Well, the Pasha was not very accommodating,” answered Skopelo. “He thought the War of Independence was over — unfortunately. No more war, no more battles; no more battles, no more razzias; no more razzias, no more man-trade! But if prisoners are rare, the price goes up. That is some compensation, captain. I know from a good source that slaves are now in great demand in the African market, and we can sell them at a profit.”

“Be it so,” answered Starkos. “Is all ready, and can you come on the Karysta?”

“All is ready, and nothing keeps us here.”

“That is well, Skopelo. In eight or ten days or so, the ship sent from Skarpanto will be here for the cargo. They will hand it over without raising any difficulties?”

“That is understood,” answered Skopelo, “but for cash you must arrange with Elizundo about accepting the bills. His signature is all right, and the Pasha thinks it is as good as gold.”

“I will write to Elizundo that T will not forget to call at Corfu, where I can finish this affair.”

“This affair — and another no less important, Nicholas Starkos,” added Skopelo.

“Perhaps,” answered the captain.

/

/

“That is only right! Elizundo is rich, exceedingly rich, they say! And what has enriched him? Our trade, at the risk of ending our lives at a yardarm at a whistle from a boatswain! Ah! it is an excellent thing to be the banker of the pirates of the Archipelago! And so I repeat, Starkos, it is only right! “What is only right?” asked the captain, looking mate straight in the face.

“Eh? Don’t you know?” answered Skopelo.

Now, confess you only ask to hear me answer for the hundredth time!”

“Perhaps!”

“Elizundo’s daughter.”

“What is only right shall be done!” interrupted Nicholas Starkos as he rose.

Then he left the Minerva, and, followed by Skopelo, walked down to the harbour, where the boat was waiting for him.

“Get in,” said he to Skopelo; “we will arrange the drafts with Elizundo after our arrival at Corfu. That done, you can return to Arkadia to see about the cargo.”

An hour afterwards the Karysta sailed out of the gulf. But before the day had ended, Starkos heard a distant thundering, whose echo reached him from the south.

It was the guns of the combined squadrons thundering in the roadstead of Navarino.

CHAPTER VI.

DOWN WITH THE PIRATES OF THE ARCHIPELAGO!

THE north-north-westerly course kept by the saccoleva took her up among the picturesque group of Ionian Islands, of which one no sooner vanishes than another appears.

Fortunately for her safety, the Karysta, seemingly an honest Levantine — half pleasure yacht, half trader — in no way betrayed her real character; for to venture in this way among armed forts and British frigates was a very risky business.

From Arkadia to the island of Zante,” the flower of the Levant, “as it is poetically named by the Italians, about fifty miles have to be traversed. Far up the gulf as the Karysta crossed it, towered the green summits of Mount Scopos, on whose flanks clustered the orange and olive woods which have taken the place of the forests of Homer and Virgil.

The wind was favourable. A land breeze had sprung up from the south-west. The saccoleva under her studding-sails and all she could carry, ploughed through the Zante waters, which were now as smooth as those of a lake.

Towards evening she sighted the capital, bearing the same name as that of the island, a picturesque Italian city built on the land of Zacynthos, the son of Dardanus the Trojan.

The lights of the town, stretching along for over a mile at the end of the circular bay, were all that could be seen from the deck of the Karysta. These, scattered at different heights, from the wharves round the harbour to the crest of the Venetian castle built three hundred feet above, formed an enormous constellation, of which the principal stars marked the positions of the Renaissance palace, and the cathedral of St. Denis of Zacynthos.

With the Zantiot population, influenced as it was by contact with the Venetians, English, French, and Russians, Nicholas Starkos could have none of those commercial connections which he kept up with the Turks of the Morea. He had, therefore, no signals to make, nor any cause for delay off the island, which is known as the birthplace of two celebrated poets — the Italian, Ugo Foscolo, at the end of the eighteenth century, and Salomos, one of the glories of modern Greece.

The Karysta ran across the narrow arm of the sea which separates Achaia from Elis. Probably more than one on board of her had his ears tortured with the boat songs borne on the breeze from Lido. But the infliction had -to be borne. The saccoleva made her way through the Italian melodies, and on the morrow was off the Gulf of Patras, that deep indentation which is continued by the Gulf of Lepanto up to the Isthmus of Corinth.

Starkos was then on the bow of the Karysta, scanning the whole of the Acarnanian coast to the north of the gulf, that coast steeped with imperishable memories enough to thrill the heart of any child of Greece, had not that child for many years denied and betrayed her!

“Missolonghi!” said Skopelo, stretching his hand to the north-east. “A bad lot, who would be blown up rather than give in.”

There, two years before, the buyers of prisoners and sellers of slaves had, indeed, found their occupation gone. After a ten months’ struggle, the besieged in Missolonghi, crushed with hardship and exhausted with hunger, had blown up the fortress rather than - capitulate to Ibrahim. Men, women, and children, — all had perished in the explosion, which did not even spare the victors.

And the year before, almost on the same spot where Marco Bozzaris, one of the heroes of the War of Independence, was buried, there had come to die, in discouragement and despair, Lord Byron, whose corpse now rests at Westminster — though his heart remained in that land of Greece he loved so well, which gained not its freedom till he had passed away.

A sudden gesture was all the reply that Starkos vouchsafed. Then the saccoleva swiftly left the Gulf of Patras, and bore off towards Cephalonia.

With the favouring wind, the distance from Zante to Cephalonia was covered in a few hours. The Karysta was not headed for Argostoli, the capital, whose harbour, though shallow, is well adapted for ships of moderate tonnage. She kept on in the narrow channels along the eastern coast, and at half -past six in the evening rounded the point of Thiaki — the ancient Ithaka.

The island, some twenty-four miles in length, by five broad, is singularly rocky and wild, and rich in oil and wine, which it produces in abundance. It has about twelve thousand inhabitants. Without any history of its own, it has a name celebrated through all antiquity. It was the country of Ulysses and Penelope, whose memory lives in the crests of Anogi, in the depths of the cave in Mount St. Stephen, amid the ruins of Mount OEtos, among the fields of Eumoea, and at the foot of the rock of the Crows, over which flow the poetic waters of the fountain of Arethusa.

At nightfall the land of the son of Laertes had gradually disappeared into the gloom, five and forty miles beyond the last cape of Cephalonia. During the night the Karysta made more of an offing, so as to avoid the narrow passage which separates the northern point of Ithaka from the southern point of Santa Maura stretching for a couple of miles along the eastern coast of that island.

By the light of the moon, a whitish cliff could be seen rising from the sea, some hundred and eighty feet away. This was the leap of Leucadia, famous for Sappho and Artemis. But of the island which also bears the name of Leucadia, not a trace was left when the sun rose, and the saccoleva, skirting the Albanian coast, sped along under all her canvas to Corfu. Sixty miles had to be done that day, if Starkos wished to reach the capital before the night set in.

The sixty miles were rapidly covered by the bold Karysta, which, under a cloud of sail, tore along with her rail almost underwater. The breeze had freshened considerably, and the helmsman’s skill was required at its best to keep her straight and safe. Fortunately the spars held, and the rigging was nearly new and all of it good. Not a rope, not a sail, was carried away. The saccoleva behaved as if she had been built for ocean-racing, and was sailing at her very best in an international match.

Thus she ploughed past the little island of Paxo.

Already towards the north the first heights of Corfu appeared above the horizon. On her left the Albanian coast showed the jagged profile of the Acroceraunian hills. A few ships of war carrying the English and Turkish flags were sighted in the more-frequented parts of the Ionian Sea. The Karysta heeded neither one nor the other. Had a signal been made to heave to, she would have obeyed without hesitation, having on board neither cargo nor papers to betray her origin.

At four o’clock in the evening the saccoleva was a little closer hauled, so as to enter the strait which divides Corfu from the mainland. The sheets were hardened in a trifle, and the helmsman luffed a quarter point, so as to weather Cape Blanco at the southern extremity of the island.

The first portion of the channel is more pleasing than that to the north. It forms a happy contrast to the Albanian coast, which is almost uncultivated and half wild. A few miles further up, the strait widens as the Corfiote coast is cut away. The saccoleva had thus to wear a little to cross it obliquely. The many deep indentations give the island a circumference of nearly two hundred miles, although its extreme length is only sixty, and its breadth only eighteen.

About five o’clock the Karysta was off the islet of Ulysses, at the opening by which Lake Kalikiopulo, the ancient Hyllaic port, communicates with the sea. Then she followed the contours of that charming “cannone “planted with aloes and agaves, already crowded with carriages — coming for a league or more south of the town to seek with the fresh sea air all the charm of that admirable panorama of which the Albanian coast forms the horizon on the other side of the channel. She passed the Bay of Kardakio and the ruins above it; she passed the summer palace of the Lord High Commissioner, the Bay of Kastrades, along which extends the suburb of that name, the Strada Marina, which is less a road than a promenade, the penitentiary, the old fort of Salvador, and the first houses of the Corfiote capital. She doubled Cape Sidero, on which stands the citadel — a kind of small military town large enough to include the residence of the commandant, the lodgings of his officers, a hospital, and a Greek church, converted by the English into a Protestant temple. Then, steering full to the westward, Captain Starkos rounded Point San Nikolo, and after running along the shore, from which rise the houses at the north of the city, he dropped anchor about half a cable’s length from the wharf.

The boat was launched. Starkos and Skopelo took their seats in it, after the captain had stuck in his belt one of those short, broad daggers in use amongst the natives of the Messenian provinces. They landed at the Health Office and showed their papers, which were all in due order. They were then free to go where they pleased, after ordering the boat at eleven to take them on board.

Skopelo, on business connected with the Karysta, betook himself to the commercial quarter, down the narrow, tortuous streets with Italian names, with their shops in arcades, and all the ordinary confusion of a Neapolitan town.

Starkos, wishing to employ the evening in picking up the news, made his way to the esplanade, the most fashionable part of the Corfiote city.

This esplanade, or drill-ground, is planted with magnificent trees, and extends between the town and the citadel, from which it is separated by a wide ditch.

Natives and foreigners were moving about as if it were a holiday. Messengers were continually entering the palace, built on the north of the parade by General Maitland, and quitting it by the gates of St. George and St. Michael, which flank its front. A constant interchange of communications was in progress between the Governor and the citadel, where the drawbridge was down in front of the statue of Marshal Schulemburg.

Starkos mixed with the crowd. He saw at once that it was under some extraordinary excitement. Having no one to ask, he had to be content to listen. What struck him most was a name invariably repeated by all the groups with very unsympathetic qualifications. This name was Sacratif.

At first the name seemed to excite his curiosity. But after slightly shrugging his shoulders he continued his walk along the esplanade to the terrace at the end where it looks over the sea.

A few people had there taken up their positions round a small circular temple that had been recently erected to the memory of Sir Thomas Maitland. A few years later, an obelisk was to be erected there to one of his successors, Sir Howard Douglas, to balance the statue of the then Lord High Commissioner, Sir Frederick Adam, for which the site had already been selected opposite the Government House.

If there were any great differences of opinion, if among the seventy thousand inhabitants of the ancient Corcyra and the twenty thousand inhabitants of the capital, there were orthodox Christians, Greek Christians, Jews in large numbers, who at that period occupied a district by themselves as a sort of Ghetto, if in the daily life of these types of different races there were divergent ideas or antagonistic interests — in that day all disagreement seemed to have been sunk in one common thought, a sort of curse on the name which constantly recurred: — -

“Sacratif! Sacratif! Down with Sacratif!”

And whether the people spoke English, Italian, or Greek, although the pronunciation might differ, the curses were the same, and were none the less an expression of the same sentiment of horror.

Starkos heard all and said nothing. From the top of the terrace he could see over the greater part of the harbour of Corfu, shut in like a lake by the Albanian hills, whose summits were just being gilded by the setting sun.

The captain of the Karysta noticed an unmistakable movement going on at one side of the harbour. Numerous boats were pulling out to the ships of war. Signals were being exchanged between the ships and the flagstaff on the citadel, whose batteries and casemates were hidden behind their curtain of gigantic aloes. Evidently — and in these symptoms a sailor could not be mistaken — one of the many ships was preparing to leave Corfu. If so, the Corfiote population seemed to take a very unusual interest in the event.

But already the sun had disappeared behind the higher hills of the island, and with the twilight, short as it is in these latitudes, night would soon close in.

Starkos left the terrace and returned to the esplanade; then he walked along at a quiet pace towards the row of houses on the west side of the parade, where there was a group of cafes ablaze with light, with the chairs on the footway in front of them, already occupied by many customers. And again he could not help observing that they talked in an unusually excited way.

He sat down at a small table, determined not to lose a single word of his neighbours’ conversation.

“The fact is,” said an outfitter on the Strada Marina, “trade was no longer safe; you dared not send a cargo into the Levant.”

“And very soon,” said a portly Englishman, “you would not have got a crew for a vessel bound to the Archipelago.”

“Thanks to Sacratif!” and “Sacratif” was repeated in various tones of indignation by the various groups.

“At what time is the Syphanta going?” asked the merchant.

“At eight o’clock,” answered the Corfiote, “but,” added he in a tone which showed that his confidence was not quite absolute — ” it isn’t so much when she goes, as when she comes back.”

“Oh, she will come back all right,” exclaimed another Corfiote; “it will never be said that a pirate held the British navy at defiance — “

“And the French navy and the Italian navy and the Greek navy into the bargain,” added an English officer, who seemed to think that all nations ought to share in the blame.

“Then,” said the merchant, rising, “the time is nearly up, and if we are to see the Syphanta leave, we had better get on to the esplanade.”

“No,” answered the other, “there’s no hurry; we shall hear the gun when she is ready.”

And the conversation continued, and consisted, as before, chiefly of curses on this Sacratif.

Starkos thought the time had come for him to strike in, and with the least possible accent betraying him as a native of Southern Greece, addressed the party, —

“Gentlemen, may I ask, if you please, what is this Syphanta that everybody is talking about to-day?”

“A corvette, sir,” was the reply, “a corvette, bought and armed by an association of English, French, and Corfiote merchants, with a crew of mixed nationalities, under the command of the gallant Captain Stradena! Perhaps she may do what the English and French have failed in doing!”

“Oh, indeed,” said Starkos, “a corvette going out — and whither is she bound?”

She is bound to meet, capture, and hang the notorious Sacratif!”

“Indeed!” replied Starkos. “And may I ask who is this notorious Sacratif?”

“You ask who is Sacratif?” exclaimed the Corfiote, astounded, the Englishman coming to his aid with a long “Oh!” of surprise.

The fact that there existed a man who had never heard of Sacratif, and that in the town of Corfu, where his name was in every mouth, seemed to be quite a phenomenon.

The captain of the Karysta, seeing the effect produced by his ignorance, hastened to add, —

“I am a stranger here, gentlemen! I have only just come from Zara, at the top of the Adriatic, and I am not quite up to date in what is going on in these Ionian Islands.”

“Say rather what is going on in the whole Archipelago!” exclaimed the Corfiote; “for in truth the whole Archipelago has been taken by Sacratif for his piratical hunting-ground.”

“Oh!” said Starkos; “he is a pirate.”

“A pirate; a corsair; a skimmer of the seas!” added the Englishman. “Sacratif is worthy of all the names, and even of a few more you might invent to describe such a thorough-paced scoundrel.”

Then the Englishman gave a long breath, and added, —

“What puzzles me, though, is that I have met a man who never heard of Sacratif.”

“Oh!” said Starkos, “the name is not unknown to me, but I did not know that it was the same man who had upset all this town. Is Corfu threatened with a descent from the pirate?”

“He daren’t come here!” exclaimed the merchant. “He would never set foot in our island!”

“Oh, indeed!” said the captain of the Karysta.

“If he did, why the gallows — yes, the very gallows would rise of themselves and hang him!”

“But why this excitement?” asked Starkos. “I have hardly been here an hour, and I don’t quite understand — “

“Simply this,” said the Englishman. “Two vessels, the Three Brothers and the Carnatic, were taken by Sacratif about a month ago, and the survivors of the crews were sold by him in the Tripoli market.”

“Oh!” answered Starkos, “that is a dreadful thing, and Sacratif will repent it.”

“And so,” continued the Corfiote, “a certain number of merchants have combined together and armed a corvette, an excellent vessel, with a picked crew commanded by an intrepid seaman, Captain Stradena, and he is going out in chase of Sacratif. This time there is good reason to hope that the pirate who holds the trade of the Archipelago in check will meet with his doom.”

“He will not find it easy to escape,” replied Starkos.

“And,” added the Englishman, “you see the whole town is excited, and has collected on the esplanade to witness the departure of the Syphanta, who will be greeted with a thousand cheers as she drops down the harbour!”

Starkos had learnt all he wanted to know. He thanked his informants. Then he rose and joined the crowd with which the esplanade was thronged.

There had been no exaggeration in what he had been told by the Englishman and the Corfiotes. It was only too true. For some years the depredations of Sacratif had developed most revoltingly. Trading-ships of all nations had been attacked by the pirate, who was as daring as he was sanguinary. Whence came he? What was his origin? Did he belong to the race of Corsairs produced by the coast of Barbary? Who could say? No one knew. He had never been seen. Not one had returned of those who came under his guns. Some had been killed; the others had been sold into slavery. Who could detect the ships he sailed in? He was constantly moving from one to the other.

Sometimes he attacked in a swift-sailing Levantine brig, sometimes in a light corvette, but always under the same black flag. When in any of his encounters he found he was not strong enough, and had to seek safety in flight in the presence of some formidable warship, he would suddenly disappear.

And in what unknown shelter, in what corner of the Archipelago was he to be looked for? He knew the most secret lurking-places on its shores, whose hydrography at the time we are speaking of left much to be desired.

The pirate Sacratif was not only a good seaman, but a terrible leader in an attack. Invariably backed up by his crews, who stopped at nothing, he never forgot to give them, after victory, their “Devil’s allowance,” an hour or two of pillage and massacre. His companions thus followed him wherever he chose to lead, and executed his orders without a murmur. They would all have died for him. The threat of the most horrible punishments could never make them denounce their chief. With such men hurled on to board her, it was rare indeed that a ship could resist, especially if a merchant vessel without the means of defence.

In any case, had Sacratif, in spite of his cleverness, been surprised by a warship, he would have blown up his vessel rather than surrender. It was even told of him that on one occasion when shot had failed him, he had loaded his guns with the heads of the corpses that were lying on his decks.

Such was the man whom the Syphanta had to pursue; such was the redoubtable pirate whose cursed name so greatly excited the Corfiote city.

Soon a loud report was heard. A cloud of smoke rose near the citadel. It was the farewell gun. The Syphanta was under way for the Southern Ionian Sea.

The people rushed to the esplanade, and crowded round the monument to Sir Thomas Maitland.

Starkos, attracted by a sentiment more intense perhaps than that of simple curiosity, pushed his way through to the front.

Gradually in the moonlight the corvette came on. A second gun spoke from the citadel, then a third, and to them responded three from the ports of the Syphanta. To the guns succeeded cheer upon cheer until she had cleared the Bay of Kardakio.

Then silence fell on the scene. Gradually the crowd dispersed into the streets of Kastrades, and left the field free to those few strollers whom the cares of business or pleasure detained on the esplanade.

For nearly an hour Starkos, deep in thought, loitered on the parade, now almost deserted. But quiet had no place in his head or his heart. His eyes burnt with a fire that nothing could hide. His looks, by involuntary movements, followed the course of the corvette, which slowly disappeared in the confused mass of the distant island.

When eleven struck from the church of St. Spiridion, Starkos remembered his appointment to rejoin Skopelo at the quay. He strode along the street towards the fort, and soon reached the rendezvous.

Skopelo was waiting.

The captain of the saccoleva walked up to him.

“The corvette Syphanta has just gone out,” he said.

“Ah!” ejaculated Skopelo.

“Yes — to look for Sacratif!”

“Or somebody else. What does it matter?” answered Skopelo, pointing to the gig, which had appeared at the foot of the steps.

A few minutes later the boat reached the Karysta, and Starkos leaped on board, saying as he did so, —

“To-morrow — at Elizundo’s!”

CHAPTER VII.

THE UNEXPECTED.

ABOUT ten o’clock next morning Nicholas Starkos landed at the pier and walked off to the banker’s house. It was not his first visit, by any means, and he had always been welcomed as a client whose business was not to be despised.

Elizundo was well acquainted with him. He could not help knowing something about his mode of life. He was aware that he was the son of that heroine whom Henry D’Albaret had once mentioned. But nobody knew or could know who the captain of the Karysta really was.

Nicholas Starkos was evidently expected. He was admitted as soon as he presented himself. In fact the letter which had arrived forty-eight hours before, and dated from Arkadia, had come from him. He was immediately ushered into the office, and the banker took the precaution of locking the door. Elizundo and his client were now alone. No one could disturb them. No one could overhear what was said at their interview.

“Good morning, Elizundo,” said the captain of the Aarysta, dropping into an arm-chair with the familiarity of a man who was quite at home. “It is six months since I have seen you, although you have often heard of me! But I could not pass Corfu without making a call to shake hands with you.”

“It was not to see me; it was not to pass compliments that you came here, Nicholas Starkos,” said the banker quietly. “What do you want?”

“Eh!” exclaimed the captain. “There I recognize my old friend Elizundo! Away with sentiment; business only! It is a long time now since you put your heart in the secret drawer of your cash-box and lost the key!”

“Will you tell me what brings you here, and why you wrote to me?”

“You are right, Elizundo! No nonsense! Let us be serious. We have important matters to discuss to-day, and have no time to lose.”

“Your letter mentions two matters,” continued the banker. “One of them is an ordinary transaction, the other is a purely personal affair.”

“Quite so.”

“Well, go on then, Starkos, I shall be glad to hear about both.”

The banker was categorical in his manner. He wished to induce his visitor to explain without wasting time in digression or evasion. But what contrasted forcibly with the directness of the questions, was the low tone in which they were put. Of the two men, thus face to face, it was obviously not the banker who held the advantage. The captain of the Karysta could not help a slight smile, unperceived by Elizundo, who had his eyes cast down.

“Which of the questions shall we take first?” asked Starkos.

“The one that concerns you personally,” answered the banker quickly.

“I prefer to take the one that does not,” replied the captain in a decided tone.

“Be it so! What is it about?”

“A convoy of prisoners we have taken over at Arkadia. There are two hundred and thirty-seven head — men, women, and children — who are to go to Scarpanto, whence I am to ship them to the Barbary coast. Now you know, Elizundo, for you have done this sort of thing before, that the Turks only deliver their goods in exchange for cash, or paper with a good signature. I have come to ask for your signature, and I reckon on your giving it to Skopelo when he brings you the papers. There will be no difficulty about that, will there?”

The banker made no reply, but his silence could only be taken by the captain as consent. There were so many precedents in which he had committed himself.

“I ought to say,” continued Starkos in a careless tone, “that it will not be a bad business. The Turkish operations have taken a turn for the worse in Greece. The battle of Navarino will have serious consequences for the Turks if the European Powers are going to follow up their interference. If the struggle is given up, there will be no more prisoners, no more sales, no more profits. Hence this last lot, which we shall deliver under favourable circumstances, ought to fetch good prices in . Africa. We shall do well in this adventure — and so will you. I can reckon on your signature?”

“I will discount your bills,” answered Elizundo, “but I have no signature to give you.”

“As you please, Elizundo,” answered the captain, but we should be content with your signature. You never hesitated to give it before.”

“Before is not now,” said Elizundo, “and now I think differently.”

“Oh, indeed!” exclaimed the captain. “There is no reason why you shouldn’t! But is it true that you are thinking of retiring from business, as I have heard people say?”

“Yes, Starkos,” answered the banker in a firmer voice; “and as far as you are concerned this is the last transaction we shall have together; so see that you keep to your engagements.”

“I will do so, Elizundo,” replied Starkos drily. Then he rose and walked up and down the office, without, however, taking his eyes off the banker. Then he stopped and faced him.

“Elizundo,” said he in a bantering tone, “you must be well off, or you would not think of retiring from business.”

The banker made no reply.

“Well,” continued the captain, “what are you going to do with the millions you have amassed? You cannot take them to another world with you. They would be rather in the way during the last voyage! When you go, where are they to go? “Elizundo remained silent.

“They will go to your daughter,” continued Starkos, “the lovely Hadjine Elizundo! She will inherit her father’s fortune! Nothing could be more just. But what will she do with it? Alone in this world with so many millions?”

The banker rose, not without an effort, and like a man confessing something, the weight of which was choking him, said very quickly, — “My daughter will not be alone!”

“You will marry her?” answered the captain. “And to whom, if you please? What man will marry Hadjine Elizundo when he knows whence most of her father’s fortune came? and, I add, when she herself knows it, to whom will she dare to give her hand?”

“How should she know it?” replied the banker. “She does not know it now — who will tell her?”

“I will!”

“You?”

“I! Listen, Elizundo, and give heed to my words,” said the captain of the Karysta with intentional insolence. “Your huge fortune is due to me — is due to the schemes we have carried out together in which I have risked my head. It is in dealing with stolen cargoes, with prisoners bought and sold during this Independence War, that you have amassed the wealth which is now counted by millions! Well, is it not just that those millions should return to me? I am quite free from prejudice, as you know! I will not ask how you gained your wealth! When the war is over, I also will retire from business! But I shall not be alone in life, and I intend, understand me, I intend that Hadjine Elizundo shall be the wife of Nicholas Starkos! “The banker sank into his chair. He felt he was in the hands of the man who for so long had been his accomplice. He knew that the captain of the Karysta would stop at nothing to gain his ends. He did not doubt for a moment, that if he felt inclined he would proclaim the whole past history of the bank.

For an answer, even at the risk of provoking an explosion, Elizundo had only one thing to say, and, not without hesitation, he said it: “My daughter cannot be your wife, because she is to marry somebody else.”

“Somebody else!” exclaimed Starkos. “Verily, I have arrived in time! And Elizundo’s daughter is going to marry?”

“In five days!”

“And who is she going to marry?” asked the captain, his voice quivering with rage. “A French officer.”

“A French officer! doubtless one of the Philhellenes who have come to the help of Greece?”

“Yes.”

“And his name?”

“Captain Henry D’Albaret.”

“Well, Mr. Elizundo,” said Starkos, stepping up to the banker and glaring in his eyes, “I repeat, that when this Captain Henry D’Albaret knows who you are, he will have nothing to do with your daughter; and when your daughter knows the origin of her father’s fortune, she will give up all thoughts of becoming the wife of this Captain Henry D’Albaret. If, then, you do not break off this marriage this very day, it will be broken off tomorrow of itself, for tomorrow the two parties to it shall know all! Yes, yes, they shall! “The banker again rose from his chair. He looked straight at the captain of the Karysta, and then in a tone of despair, which could not be mistaken, —

“Be it so! I will kill myself, Starkos,” he said. “And my daughter need no longer be ashamed.”

“Do it,” answered the captain. “You will be in the future what you are now, and your death will never wipe out the fact that Elizundo was the banker of the pirates of the Archipelago.”

Elizundo fell back, overwhelmed, and had not a word to say in reply. The captain continued, —

“And why — if Hadjine Elizundo cannot be the wife of this Henry D’Albaret — why should she not, whether she likes it or not, be the wife of Nicholas Starkos? “For half an hour or more the interview continued, with pleadings on the part of one, and menaces on the part of the other. Assuredly there was no mention of love when Starkos demanded his daughter from Elizundo. The talk was only of the millions of which he wished to gain possession, and which no argument would induce him to resign.

Hadjine Elizundo knew nothing of this “letter which had announced the coming of the captain of the Karysta; but ever since the day it arrived, her father had appeared sadder and gloomier than was his wont, as if he were overwhelmed by some secret anxiety. And when Nicholas Starkos appeared at the bank, she could not help feeling uneasy.

She knew this personage from having seen him many times during the war. He inspired her with an abhorrence for which she could not account, and she noticed that for some time after his visits her father always remained in a sort of prostration, mingled with fear. Hence her antipathy, which up to then had no other justification.

Hadjine Elizundo had never mentioned his name to Henry D’Albaret. The bond which united him to the banking house could only be a business one, and of her father’s business she was ignorant, and never asked questions. Thus the young officer knew nothing of the connection between the banker and Nicholas Starkos, or between the captain and the valiant woman whose life he had saved at Chaidari, and whom he only knew under the name of Andronika.

Xaris, like Hadjine, had often seen and received Starkos at the office in the Strada Reale; and he had impressed him with exactly the same feelings as he had the young lady. But being gifted with a vigorous and decided temper, his feelings were displayed in another fashion. If Hadjine Elizundo shunned every occasion she could of being in the man’s presence, Xaris rather sought them “to break his back for him,” as he said.

“I have no right to do so now,” he thought; “but I feel sure I shall have!”

It follows, therefore, that this visit of the captain of the Karysta to Elizundo was not viewed with pleasure by either Xaris or Hadjine. Quite the contrary. And it was a relief to both of them when Starkos, after an interview of which nothing transpired, left the house, and walked off to the harbour.

For an hour Elizundo remained shut up in his room. They did not even hear him move. But his orders were precise: neither his daughter nor Xaris dare enter without being asked. As the visit had been a long one, they felt somewhat anxious.

Suddenly Elizundo’s bell was heard — a timid sort of a ring from a hesitating hand.

Xaris answered the call, opened the door, which was no longer locked from within, and entered the banker’s presence.

Elizundo was in his arm-chair, looking like a man who had just emerged from a violent struggle with himself. He raised his head, looked at Xaris as if he had some difficulty in recognizing him, and, passing his hand over his eyes, said in a choking voice, —

“Hadjine?”

Xaris bowed and went out. A moment afterwards the girl was with her father. At once, without any preamble, but with his eyes cast down, he said to her in a voice hoarse with emotion, —

“Hadjine — you must — you must give up your marriage with Henry D’Albaret.”

“What do you say, father?” exclaimed the girl, amazed at the unexpected blow.

“It must be so, Hadjine!”

“Father! why do you recall your promise to him and to me? I am not accustomed to disobey your wishes, as you know, and this time I shall not disobey them, hard though they be. But tell me, why must I give up Henry D’Albaret?”

“Because you must — because you must be the wife of another.”

His daughter heard him, though he spoke so low.

“Another!” she said, struck as cruelly by this blow as by the first; “and this other?”

“Is Captain Starkos.”

“That man! That man!”

The words escaped involuntarily from her lips as she grasped the table to prevent herself from falling.

Then in the final effort of revolt that the decision provoked in her, —

“Father,” said she, “there is something in this that I cannot understand! There is some secret you hesitate to tell me.”

“Ask me nothing!” exclaimed Elizundo, “nothing!”

“Nothing, father! Be it so! But if in obedience to you I give up being the wife of Henry D’Albaret, I would rather die than marry Nicholas Starkos. You cannot wish me to do that.”

“You must, Hadjine!” replied Elizundo.

“And my happiness?” exclaimed the girl.

“And my honour?” said the father.

“Does Elizundo’s honour depend on another than himself?” asked Hadjine.

“Yes — on another — on this other — Nicholas Starkos.”

And saying so, the banker rose, with his eyes haggard, his face contracted, as if in pain.

Seeing him thus, Hadjine recovered all her energy.

“Be it so, father; I will obey you.”

And she walked from the room.

Her life was to be rendered wretched for ever. She saw that there was some terrible secret in the connection between the banker and the Karystals captain! She saw that he was in the power of that hateful man. She would submit to the sacrifice! Her father’s honour required it.

Xaris caught her in his arms as she nearly fainted away. He carried her to her room. And then he learnt all that had passed, and the renunciation to which she had consented. And his hatred of Starkos was thereby in nowise diminished.

An hour afterwards, according to his custom, D’Albaret called at the banking house. One of the maids replied that Hadjine was not to be seen. He asked for the banker. The banker could not receive him. He asked for Xaris. Xaris was out.

D’Albaret returned to his hotel extremely weary. Never had he had such a reception before. He resolved to call again in the evening, and waited till then in deep anxiety.

At six o’clock a letter was sent to him at his hotel. The address was in Elizundo’s handwriting. It contained only a few lines: —

“M. Henry D’Albaret is requested to consider the projected marriage between himself and Elizundo’s daughter as at an end. For reasons with which he is in no way connected the marriage cannot take place, and M. D’Albaret is requested to abstain from visiting the banking house.”

At first the young officer could not understand what he read. Then he re-read the letter. Then he was astounded.

What had happened at Elizundo’s? Why this sudden change? The evening before, when he left the house, the preparations for the wedding were in progress! The banker had been the same to him as he had always been. Nothing in Hadjine’s manner had shown that her feelings towards him had changed.

“But the letter is not from Hadjine!” he said to himself. “It is from Elizundo! Hadjine does not know, could not know, that her father has written to me! It is without her knowledge that he has changed his plans! Why? I have given him no reason. Ah! I will know what obstacle has intervened between us.”

And then, as he was forbidden the house, he wrote — ” having an absolute right to know the reasons that could break off the marriage on the eve of its accomplishment.”

His letter elicited no reply. He wrote another — two others — and still the same silence.

Then he wrote to Hadjine. He implored her, in the name of their love, to reply to him, should she even refuse to ever see him again. No reply.

Probably his letter did not reach the girl. So at least did he think. He knew her character too well to be sure that she would have replied to him. Then the young officer, in despair, attempted to see Xaris. He never left the ‘Strada Reale. He loitered about the banking house for hours. It was useless. Xaris, in accordance perhaps with the banker’s orders, perhaps with those of Hadjine, never went out.

Thus passed the 24th and 25th of October. In his bitter anguish D’Albaret thought he had reached the very limit of suffering.

He was mistaken. .

On the 26th some news reached him which tortured him still more cruelly.

Not only was his marriage with Hadjine Elizundo broken off — a fact now known all over the town — but Hadjine was about to marry another.

Henry was overwhelmed when he heard the news. Another to be the husband of his Hadjine!

“I will know who the man is!” he exclaimed. “No matter who he is, or what he is, I will find him out! I will go to him, and he must answer me.”

He was not long in recognizing his rival. He saw him enter the banking house, he followed him at his departure, he watched him down to the harbour, where he entered his boat; he saw him board the saccoleva, moored about half a cable’s length away.

It was Nicholas Starkos, the captain of the Karysta. This was on the 27th of October. From the information D’Albaret obtained, it seemed that the marriage was to take place very shortly, and that the preparations were being urged on in haste. The religious ceremony had been arranged for at St. Spiridion’s on the 30th instant, that is to say, on the very date formerly fixed for the marriage with himself! But he would not be the bridegroom! His place would be taken by this captain, who had come, nobody knew whence, and was to go, nobody knew whither, and Henry D’Albaret, under an excitement he could not master, determined to provoke Starkos, to seek him at the foot of the altar If he did not kill him, he would himself be killed, and one way or the other the thing would be at an end.

In vain he told himself, if the marriage takes place it must be with Elizundo’s consent. In vain he said to himself that Hadjine’s hand was given away by her father.

“Yes — but it is against her will! She has submitted to some pressure to yield herself to that man! She is sacrificing herself!”

During the whole of the 28th of October, D’Albaret lay in wait for Starkos. He watched for him on the jetty, he watched for him at the house. In vain. In two days the hateful marriage would take place — two days, during which the young officer did his utmost to reach Hadjine, or come face to face with Starkos!

But on the 29th, about six o’clock in the evening, there occurred an unexpected event which precipitated the crisis.

In the afternoon a rumour spread that the banker had been struck with congestion of the brain.

And two hours afterwards Elizundo was dead.

CHAPTER VIII.

TWENTY MILLIONS AT STAKE.

THE consequences of this event no one could foresee. Henry D’Albaret, as soon as he learnt it, very naturally thought that the consequences could not be unfavourable as far as he was concerned. Anyhow, Hadjine Elizundo’s marriage must be postponed. As the girl must be grieving at her sudden loss, he did not hesitate to call at the house on the Strada Reale, but he could see neither Hadjine nor Xaris. All he could do was to wait.

“If in marrying this Captain Starkos,” he thought, “Hadjine had been sacrificed to her father’s wishes, the marriage would not take place now her father was dead.”

The reasoning was just. Hence the very natural deduction that if D’Albaret’s chances had improved, those of Starkos had diminished.

There is, therefore, no need to be astonished if during the morning a conversation on the subject was originated by Skopelo between the captain and himself, aboard the saccoleva.

The mate of the Karysta, coming on board about ten o’clock in the morning, had himself brought the news of Elizundo’s death — news which had made a great stir in the town.

It might be thought that Starkos at the first words he heard would give way to a paroxysm of anger. Nothing of the sort. He knew how to command himself, and had no curses for accomplished facts.

“Ah! Elizundo’s dead,” he said quietly.

“Yes, he is dead!”

“Did he kill himself?” asked Starkos in an undertone.

“No,” replied Skopelo, who understood the remark. “No — the doctors say that he died from congestion — “

“Suddenly?”

“Almost. He lost consciousness immediately, and did not speak a word before he died.”

“He is worth as much to us dead as alive.”

“Undoubtedly, particularly if the Arkadia matter is over.”

“Quite,” replied Starkos. “The bills are discounted, and now you can take over the convoy of prisoners in return for the cash.”

“And, by Jingo, it was time!” exclaimed the mate. “But if that transaction is over, how about the other?”

“The other?” quietly answered Starkos. “Well, the other will end as it ought to end! I see no change in the situation! Hadjine Elizundo will obey her father dead as if her father were alive, and for the same reasons!”

“Then, captain,” said Skopelo, “you have no intention of abandoning the game?”

“Abandon it!” exclaimed Starkos in a tone which showed his full intention to break down every obstacle.

“Tell me, Skopelo, do you think there is in this world a man who would hold his hand when twenty millions are ready to fall into it?”

“Twenty millions!” repeated Skopelo, smiling, as he shook his head. “Yes, it was at twenty millions that I estimated the fortune of our old friend Elizundo!”

“A fortune unencumbered and well invested,” continued Starkos, “and realizable without delay.”

“As soon as you get it, captain, for now the whole of it will come to the fair Hadjine — “

“And from her it will come to me! Never fear, Skopelo! By a word I can destroy the banker’s honour. And his daughter, now he is dead, will cling to that honour rather than the fortune, just as if he were living. But I will say nothing. I shall have nothing to say. The pressure I put on the father I shall keep upon her. The twenty millions she will only be too glad to bring as dowry to Nicholas Starkos, and if you doubt it, Skopelo, you don’t know the captain of the Karysta.”

Starkos spoke with such assurance, that the mate, although little inclined to indulge in illusions, persuaded himself that the tragedy of the previous evening would not prevent the marriage. It might delay it, and that was all.

The length of this delay was the only question that troubled Skopelo and even Starkos, although the latter would not admit it. He could not be absent from the funeral, which took place next day. There he met Henry D’Albaret, but they had only exchanged a few glances — that was all.

During the five days which followed Elizundo’s death, the captain of the Karysta tried in vain to see the daughter. The door was closed to all. It seemed that the banking house had died with the banker.

And Henry D’Albaret was no happier than Nicholas Starkos. He could not communicate with Hadjine, either by visit or letter. As Hadjine did not show herself, it was not improbable that she had left Corfu under the protection of Xaris.

However, the captain of the Karysta, far from abandoning his plans, affirmed that their realization was only retarded. Thanks to him, thanks to the manoeuvres of Skopelo, to the reports which they assiduously circulated, the marriage of Starkos and Hadjine Elizundo was public property. It would take place as soon as the mourning was over, and perhaps as soon as the financial arrangements were completed.

As for the fortune left by the banker — it was known to be enormous. Growing naturally as the amount passed from gossip to gossip, it had already been quintupled. Yes! It was even affirmed that Elizundo had left no less that a hundred millions! What an heiress was the youthful Hadjine! what a happy man was this Nicholas Starkos, to whom she had promised her hand! Nothing else was talked about in Corfu, in its two suburbs, in the further villages on the island. And strangers crowded into the Strada Reale, and in want of something better to do, stood and looked at the famous house in which so much money had entered, and so much remained, for so little had gone out.

The truth is that the fortune was enormous. It amounted to nearly twenty millions, and, as Starkos had told Skopelo, it was invested in easily realizable securities, and not in real estate.

Hadjine learnt this, and Xaris learnt it with her, during the few days following the banker’s decease, but they also discovered the means by which the fortune had been gained. In fact, Xaris knew enough of the business from his position in the office, so that when the books and papers were presented to him he was able to thoroughly unravel its history. Elizundo had doubtless intended to destroy them, but death had surprised him. They were there. They spoke for themselves.

Hadjine and Xaris now knew too well whence came these millions. On how much odious traffic, on how many miseries all this wealth reposed, they now learnt too clearly. This, then, was why Starkos had Elizundo in his power! He had been his accomplice. With a word he could dishonour him! If he chose to disappear, it would be impossible to find him! And he was making the father, pay for his silence by seizing the daughter.

“The scoundrel! the scoundrel!” exclaimed Xaris.

“Be silent!” said Hadjine.

And he was silent, for he understood that his words might go further than Nicholas Starkos.

The state of affairs must, however, end. In the interest of all, Hadjine took upon herself to bring matters to a crisis.

On the sixth day after Elizundo’s death, about seven o’clock in the evening, Xaris met Starkos at the steps on the jetty, and asked him to come immediately to the banking house.

To say that the message was politely delivered, would be going too far. The tone adopted by Xaris was anything but conciliatory when he addressed the captain of the Karysta. But Starkos was not the man to be disturbed by such trifles, and he followed Xaris to the house, and was instantly admitted.

He found Hadjine in her father’s room. She was seated at the desk, on which were a great number of papers, documents, and books. It at once occurred to the captain that the girl had made herself acquainted with the affairs of the bank; and he was not mistaken. But he asked himself, Did she know of the banker’s dealings with the pirates of the Archipelago?

As the captain entered, Hadjine rose — and thus dispensed with offering him a chair — and nodded to Xaris to leave them alone.

She was in mourning. Her serious face, her eyes wearied with sleeplessness, indicated great physical lassitude, but no mental weakness. In this interview, which was to be of grave consequence to both of them, her coolness must not for an instant abandon her.

“I am here, Hadjine Elizundo,” said the captain; “I am at your orders. Why have you sent for me?”

“For two reasons, Nicholas Starkos,” said the girl, going straight to the point. “In the first place to tell you that the projected marriage my father, as you know very well, imposed on me. is to be considered at an end.”

“And,” coolly replied Starkos, “I am content to say that in so speaking, Hadjine Elizundo has perhaps not considered the consequences.”

“I have considered them,” said Hadjine, “and you will understand that my resolution is irrevocable, and that I have nothing to learn concerning the nature of the business which the house of Elizundo has had with you and yours, Nicholas Starkos.”

This very clear reply was not very pleasant for the captain of the Karysta. He was waiting for Hadjine to give him his dismissal in due form, and then reckoned on breaking down her resistance by telling her the state of affairs between himself and her father, out now she knew all this. Hence his weapon, his best weapon perhaps, had broken in his hand. But he did not consider himself disarmed, and so he replied in a tone of irony, —

“And so you know all about the business, and knowing it, you hold to such language?”

“I hold to it, and I will always hold to it, for it is my duty to hold to it.”

“Then I am to believe,” answered Starkos, “that Captain Henry D’Albaret — “

“Don’t mention Henry D’Albaret’s name in this matter,” replied she quickly.

Then, more mistress of herself, and to prevent any provocation from intervening, she added, —

“You know well that Captain D’Albaret would never consent to marry Elizundo’s daughter.”

“It would be difficult.”

“It would not be honest.”

“And why?”

“Because no one would marry an heiress whose father had been the banker of the pirates of the Archipelago! No! An honest man would never accept a fortune acquired in so shameful a manner!”

“But,” answered Starkos, “it seems to me we are talking about things quite foreign to the question we were discussing.”

“That question is settled.”

“Permit me to observe that it was Captain Starkos and not Captain D’Albaret that Hadjine Elizundo was to marry! Her father’s death should no more change her intentions than it has mine.”

“I obeyed my father without knowing his motives for sacrificing me. I know now that I saved his honour by obeying him!”

“Well, if you knew — ” interrupted Starkos. “I know,” said Hadjine, not heeding the interruption, “that it was you, his accomplice, who dragged him into this hateful business; you who brought the millions into the bank, which was an honest one until you came. I know that you threatened to publicly disclose his infamy if he refused to give you his daughter! In truth, did you ever think, Nicholas Starkos, that in consenting to marry you, I could do anything but obey my father?”

“Be it so, Hadjine Elizundo! There is nothing left for me to tell you. But if you were jealous of your father’s honour during his life, you should be quite as jealous after his death, and if you persist in not keeping to your engagement with me — “

“You will tell all, Nicholas Starkos!” exclaimed the girl, with such an expression of disgust and contempt that a kind of blush overspread the insolent fellow’s forehead.

“Yes — everything,” he replied.

“You will do nothing of the sort, Nicholas Starkos.”

“And why?”

“Because you would accuse yourself!”

“Accuse myself, Hadjine Elizundo. Do you think the business has ever been transacted in my name? Do you imagine it is Nicholas Starkos that scares the Archipelago, and deals in prisoners of war? No! When I speak, I shall not compromise myself; and if you compel me, I shall speak.”

The girl looked him straight in the face. Her eyes, with all the boldness of honesty, did not quail before his, terrible as they looked.

“Nicholas Starkos!” she said, “I could get rid of you by one word. It is not for sympathy or for love that you require this marriage. It is simply for you to get hold of my father’s fortune! Yes, I could say to you, ‘ It is only the millions you want! Here they are. Take them! Be off! and may I never see you again! ‘ But I shall not say that, Nicholas Starkos. The millions I inherit you shall not have! I shall keep them! I shall do what I please with them! No! You shall never have them! And now, go! — leave the house! At once!”

Hadjine Elizundo, with her arm stretched forth and her head thrown back, seemed to curse the captain, as Andronika had cursed him a few weeks before on the threshold of his father’s house. But if on that day Starkos had recoiled before his mother, he now stepped up boldly to the girl.

“Hadjine Elizundo,” hissed he, “yes, I must have your money! One way or another I must have it — and I will!”

“No, and rather than part with it I will throw it into the sea!” answered Hadjine.

“I will have it, I tell you! I want it!”

Starkos seized her arm. His rage overmastered him. He was capable of murdering her!

Hadjine saw it all in an instant. To die! Well, what mattered it now? Death could not frighten her. But she had other plans for herself. She was condemned to live!

“Xaris!” she shouted.

The door opened — Xaris appeared.

“Turn this man out!”

Starkos had no time to look round before he was seized in two arms of iron. He could not even breathe. He would have spoken; he would have shouted. He could not do so any more than he could escape from that powerful embrace. And nearly squeezed to death, nearly choked to suffocation point, unable to utter a sound, he was dropped outside the door.

Then Xaris spoke, and all he said was, —

“I did not kill you because she did not tell me to kill you! When she does tell me, I will do so!”

And he shut the door.

There was then no one in the street. No one had seen that Starkos had been turned out of Elizundo’s house. But they had seen him enter it, and that was enough. Consequently, when D’Albaret heard that his rival had been received where he had been forbidden, he thought, as did every one else, that the captain of the Karysta had been invited as the lady’s accepted husband.

This was indeed a blow to him. Nicholas Starkos admitted to a house whence a pitiless command excluded him! At first he felt inclined to curse Hadjine, and who in his place would not have done so? But he checked himself; his love overpowered his anger, although appearances were so much against the girl.

“No! no!” he exclaimed; “it is not possible! She — to that man? It cannot be.”

In spite of his threats to Hadjine Elizundo, Starkos, after considering matters, thought it best to keep quiet. Of the secret of the banker’s life he decided to say nothing. This left him all freedom of action, and there would always be time to publish it later on if circumstances required.

This was the result of his consultation with Skopelo. He concealed nothing from the mate of the Karysta if what had passed at his visit. Skopelo approved his saying nothing and of keeping himself in reserve for a favourable opportunity. What puzzled them was that the heiress would not purchase their silence by abandoning her heritage! Why? They were quite at a loss.

During the following days up to the 12th of November Starkos never left his ship for an hour. He thought over every scheme that could lead him to attain his end. He trusted a little to chance, which had always turned in his favour during his abominable career. This time he trusted in vain.

D’Albaret also kept entirely indoors. He did not think he was justified in renewing his attempts to see Hadjine. But he did not despair.

On the 12th a letter was brought to his hotel. A presentiment told him it was from Hadjine Elizundo. He opened it. He glanced at the signature. He was not mistaken.

The letter contained but a few lines in the girl’s own handwriting. These were they: —

“HENRY, — My father’s death has set me free, but you must give up all thoughts of me. Elizundo’s daughter is not worthy of you. I shall never be the bride of Nicholas Starkos — a scoundrel! — nor shall I ever belong to you — an honest man! Forgive me, and — farewell.

“HADJINE ELIZUNDO.”

As soon as he had finished reading this letter, D’Albaret, without stopping to think, ran off to the house in the Strada Reale.

The house was shut up, and deserted, as if Hadjine Elizundo with her faithful Xaris had left it never to return.

CHAPTER IX.

THE ARCHIPELAGO IN FLAMES.

THE island of Scio, more generally at this period known as Chios, is situated in the Aegean, on the west of the Gulf of Smyrna, and not far from Asia Minor. With Lesbos on the north and Samos on the south, it belongs to the group of the Sporades in the east of the Archipelago. In circumference it is barely 120 miles. Mount Pelineus, now Mount Elias, which is its principal feature, rises to about 2400 feet above sea-level.

Of the principal towns in the island, Volysso, Pitys, Delphinium, Leuconia, Caucasa, Scio, the capital, is the most important. It was there, on the 30th October, 1827, that Colonel Fabvier had landed a small expeditionary force, whose effectives amounted to 700 regulars, 200 horse, and 1500 irregulars, in the pay of the Sciotes, with ten howitzers and ten guns.

The intervention of the European Powers, after the battle of Navarino, had not yet definitely settled the Greek question. England, France, and Russia wished to confine the new kingdom to the boundaries that the insurrection had not at any time exceeded. With this determination the Hellenic Government could hardly be expected to agree. They required the whole of continental Greece, with Crete and Scio. So that, while Miaoulis was despatched to Crete, and Ducas took charge of the mainland, Fabvier sailed for

Scio, and landed at Maurolimena on the date we have given.

The intention of the Hellenes was to deprive the Turks of this magnificent jewel in the chaplet of the Sporades. Its sky is the clearest in Asia Minor, its climate is a wonderful one, with neither extreme heat nor excessive cold. Swept by a gentle breeze, it is the healthiest island in the Archipelago In a hymn attributed to Homer — whom Scio claims as one of its children — the poet calls it “very fertile.” On the west it produces delicious wines which rival the best varieties of antiquity, and honey which can hold its own with that of Hymettus. On the east there ripen oranges and citrons whose excellence is known throughout Eastern Europe. On the south it abounds in lentisk-trees of different species, producing that precious gum-mastic, which is used so much in the arts and in medicine. In this country, blessed of the gods, there also grow the fig, the date, the almond, the pomegranate, the olive, and all the best trees of the south of Europe.

The Government, then, wished to include this island in the new kingdom, and the gallant Fabvier, in spite of all the rebuffs he had received, even at the hands of those for whom he had come to shed his blood, was ordered to effect its capture.

During the concluding months of the year the Turks had continued their massacres and razzias in the Hellenic peninsula, even up to the landing of Capo D’Istria at Nauplia. The diplomatist’s arrival had put a stop to the intestine quarrels of the Greeks, and concentrated the government in one hand. But although Russia was to declare war in six months and so come to the aid of the new kingdom, Ibrahim still kept possession of half the country and of the maritime towns of the Peloponnesus. And if eight months later, on the 6th of July, 1828, he was preparing to leave the land in which he had wrought so much havoc, if in September of that year there was to remain not a single Egyptian on the soil of Greece, their savage hordes none the less continued their excesses.

While the Turks or their allies occupied certain towns on the coast of the Peloponnesus and in Crete, it was not surprising that numerous pirates continued to overrun the neighbouring seas. If they were the cause of a good deal of damage to the vessels trading between the islands, it was not because Miaoulis, Canaris, and Tsamados had retired from the pursuit. But the corsairs were numerous and indefatigable, and the sea was no longer safe. From Crete to Mitylene, from Rhodes to Negropont, the Archipelago was in flames.

In Scio, even, bands composed of the scum of all nations scoured the surrounding sea, and helped the pacha in the citadel to which Fabvier had laid siege.

It will be remembered that the merchants of the Ionian Islands, alarmed at the state of things which prevailed throughout the Levant, had between them fitted out a corvette to look after these pirates. Five weeks had elapsed since the Syphanta left Corfu for the Archipelago. Her start had been encouraging. Two or three successful engagements had taken place, and several very justly suspected vessels had been captured. Round about Psara, Scyros, Zea, Lemnos, Paros and Santorin, Captain Stradena continued his work with as much bravery as good fortune. The only drawback was that he seemed unable to come across the unseizable Sacratif, whose appearance was always marked by some sanguinary catastrophe. Often did he hear of him; never could he catch sight of him.

On the 13th. of November the Syphanta was sighted from Scio. One of her prizes was sent into harbour, and Fabvier inflicted summary justice on the pirate crew. But since then there had been no news of the corvette. None could say in what part of the Archipelago she was tracking down the skimmers of the seas. Anxiety began to be felt on her account. In the narrow seas, so thick with islands, where there were so many opportunities of putting into port, it was rare, indeed, for many days to elapse without her being signalled.

It was while matters were in this state that, on the 27th of November, Henry D’Albaret arrived at Scio, eight days after leaving Corfu. He had come to rejoin his old commander in continuing the campaign against the Turks.

The disappearance of Hadjine Elizundo had proved a terrible blow to him. The girl had rejected Starkos because he was a scoundrel and unworthy of her, and had rejected the man she had accepted because she was unworthy of him! What was the mystery here? Where should he seek for it? In her life — so calm and so pure? Evidently not. Was it in her father’s life? But what was there in common between the banker Elizundo and Captain Nicholas Starkos?

To these questions who could reply? The banking house was abandoned. Xaris had left it at the same time as the young lady. There was no getting at him to elucidate the mystery.

He then thought of searching the town of Corfu, and then the whole island. Perhaps Hadjine had taken refuge in one of the out-of-the-way places? There were in the island several villages in which it would be easy to find a safe shelter. For those who wished to quit the world and forget it, Benizze, Santa Decca, Lucimne, and twenty others offered appropriate retreats. D’Albaret tried all the roads and all the hamlets and found no trace.

He found a clue, however, which showed that Hadjine might have left Corfu. At the small port of Alipa, in the west-north-west of the island, he learnt that a light speronare had recently gone to sea with two passengers by whom it had been secretly chartered.

But this was very vague. However, certain circumstances of dates and facts very soon after gave the young officer a new subject of alarm.

When he returned to Corfu, he learnt that the saccoleva had also left the harbour — and, what seemed serious, that she had left the same day that Hadjine Elizundo had disappeared. Was there any connection between the two events? . Had the girl been drawn into a trap with Xaris and taken away by force? Was she now in the power of the captain of the Karysta?

The thought was agony to D’Albaret. But what was to be done? Where should he look for Nicholas Starkos? Indeed, what was this adventurer? The Karysta, coming none knew whence, and going none knew whither, might well be considered a suspicious craft! But whenever the young officer became master of himself he thrust the thought far from him. As Hadjine Elizundo had declared herself unworthy of as she did not wish to see him again, what could be more natural than she should have voluntarily gone away attended by Xaris?

If so, D’Albaret might find her. Perhaps her patriotism had urged her to take part in the strife which was deciding the fate of her country. Perhaps the enormous fortune of which she was free to dispose, she was going to employ in the service of the War of Independence? Why should she not follow Bobolina, Modena, Andronika, and the many others for whom her admiration had been so great?

And so Henry D’Albaret, having assured himself that Hadjine Elizundo was no longer at Corfu, resolved to resume his place among the Philhellenes. Colonel Fabvier was at Scio with his regulars. He would rejoin him. He left the Ionian Islands, crossed the south of Greece, embarked in the Gulf of Aegina, escaped not without difficulty from some pirates about the Cyclades, and reached Scio after a speedy passage Fabvier greeted him most cordially, and thus showed the esteem in which he was held. The gallant soldier saw in him not only a companion-in-arms, but a true friend to whom he could confide his troubles — and they were many. The indiscipline of the irregulars, who formed an important part of the expedition, the bad and infrequent pay, and the disagreements among the Sciotes themselves, all checked and interfered with his operations.

However, the siege of the citadel of Scio had begun. D’Albaret had arrived in time to take part in the works of approach. On two occasions the allied Powers had enjoined Fabvier to withdraw, but the colonel, openly supported by the Hellenic Government, took no notice of the injunctions, and continued his works.

Soon the siege was converted into a sort of blockade, but so inefficient was it, that fire-arms and munitions were constantly passed in to the besieged. Nevertheless, it seemed as though Fabvier would eventually possess himself of the citadel, and his army, daily enfeebled by famine, did not disperse over the island for pillage and food. Such were the conditions when a Turkish fleet of five vessels forced the blockade of Scio and threw in a reinforcement of 2500 men. A little time afterwards Miaoulis appeared with his squadron, but it was too late, and he had to retire.

With the Greek admiral there came several vessels with volunteers for the force in Scio. Among them was a woman.

After struggling till the last against Ibrahim’s soldiers in the Peloponnesus, Andronika, who had been present at the beginning, determined to see the end of the war. Hence she had come to Scio, resolved, if need be, to die in the island which the Greeks wished to secure for their new kingdom. For her it was a sort of compensation for the harm that her unworthy son had done in these parts during the frightful massacres in 1822. In those days the Sultan had launched against Scio his mandate of bloodshed and slavery. The Capitan-Pacha Kara Ali was put in command. He accomplished his mission. His sanguinary hordes were landed. All the males above twelve, all the females above fourteen, were pitilessly massacred. The rest were seized as slaves and sold in the markets of Smyrna and Barbary. The entire island was put to the sword and overrun by 30,000 Turks; 23,000 Sciotes were killed, and 47,000 were sold as slaves.

Here it was that Starkos intervened. He and his companions, after taking part in the massacres and the

pillage, became the principal brokers of-the slave traffic. It was this renegade’s ships that transported thousands of the poor wretches to Asia Minor and Africa, and it was by means of this that Starkos had come in contact with Elizundo. Hence the enormous profits, of which the greater portion fell to Hadjine’s father.

Andronika knew too well the part her son had played in the Scio massacres. That was why she had come there. Had it been known she was the scoundrel’s mother, she would have been bitterly cursed. It seemed to her that to shed her blood for the cause of the Sciotes would be some reparation for her son’s crimes.

But from the moment that Andronika landed at Scio it was difficult for her to avoid meeting with D’Albaret, and, in fact, a few days after her arrival, on the 15th of January, Andronika found herself unexpectedly in the presence of the young officer who had saved her life at Chaidari.

She ran up to him, opened her arms, and said, “Henry D’Albaret!”

“You, Andronika! you!” said the officer; “you here?”

“Yes,” she answered, “is not my place where the oppressors are being fought?”

“Andronika,” answered Henry D’Albaret,” be proud of your country! Be proud of her children, who have defended her by your side! Before long not a Turkish soldier will be left on the soil of Greece.”

“I know it, Henry D’Albaret, and may Heaven grant me life to see it!”

And then Andronika told him how she had lived since they had left each other after the battle of Chaidari. She told him of her voyage to Maina, her native country, which she had revisited for the last time. Then of her reappearance in the army of the Peloponnesus. Then of her arrival at Scio.

On his part, Henry D’Albaret told her how he had gone back to Corfu, and how he had been received at Elizundo’s; how his marriage had been arranged and broken off, and how Hadjine had disappeared, and how one day he hoped to find her.

“Yes, Henry D’Albaret,” answered Andronika, “although you do not know the mystery that weighs on her, she is worthy of you. Yes! you will see her again, and you will both be happy, as you deserve to be.”

“But tell me, Andronika,” asked Henry. “Do you know who Elizundo really was?”

“No!” answered Andronika, “how should I know, and why do you ask me the question?”

“Because I once or twice happened to mention your name in his presence, and it seemed to attract his attention in a very strange way. One day he asked me if I knew what had become of you since Chaidari.”

“I know nothing about him, and I never heard his name.”

“Then there is some mystery I cannot explain, and which, now Elizundo is dead, never will be explained, 1 suppose.”

D’Albaret remained silent. He was thinking of Corfu. He was thinking of all he had suffered, and all he should suffer So long as he was away from Hadjine. Suddenly he said to Andronika, “When the war is over, what will become of you?”

God will then give me grace to retire from the world, in which I am sorry I ever lived.”

“Sorry — Andronika?”

“Yes.”

The mother meant that her life had been an evil one, because such a son had been born to her.

But dismissing the thought, she continued, — “You, Henry D’Albaret, are young, and Heaven will give you a long life. Employ it in finding her you have lost — and who loves you.”

“Yes, Andronika; and I will seek for her everywhere, and will seek out the hateful rival that came between her and me!”

“And who is this man?”

“A captain commanding some suspicious craft, I know not what,” answered D’Albaret. “And who left Corfu immediately after Hadjine had disappeared!”

“And his name?”

“Nicholas Starkos!”

“What!”

Another word and her secret would have escaped her, and Andronika would have proclaimed herself the mother of Nicholas Starkos!

The name uttered so unexpectedly by D’Albaret had frightened her. Strong-minded as she was, she grew pale at her son’s name. All the harm done to the man who had saved her life at the risk of his own was then due to Nicholas Starkos!

But D’Albaret had noticed the effect that the name had produced on Andronika.

“What is the matter with you?” he exclaimed. “Why this emotion at the name of the captain of the Karysta? Speak! speak! Do you know him who bears it?”

“No — Henry D’Albaret — no!” answered Andronika, who stammered in spite of herself.

“So! you know him? Andronika, I beg you tell me who is this man? What is he doing? Where is he now — where can I meet him?”

“I know not!”

“No — you do know it! You know it, Andronika, and you refuse to tell me — me — me! Perhaps by a single word you could put me on her track — on the track of Hadjine, and you refuse to speak.”

“Henry D’Albaret,” answered Andronika, “I know nothing! I do not know this captain! I don’t know Nicholas Starkos!”

And so saying she left the young officer, who remained in deep emotion. But every effort he made to again meet Andronika was useless. Doubtless she had abandoned Scio and returned to Greece. Henry D’Albaret had to give up all hope of finding her.

And Colonel Fabvier’s campaign soon after ended without result.

Desertion had set in amongst the expeditionary troops. The soldiers, notwithstanding the entreaties of their officers, deserted and left the island. The artillerymen, on whom Fabvier specially counted, abandoned their pieces. They would do no more in face of such discouragement as had fallen on the best of them.

The siege had to be raised, and a return made to Syra, where the unfortunate expedition had been organized. There, as the reward of his heroic resistance, Fabvier received only reproaches and the tokens of the blackest ingratitude.

Henry D’Albaret had arranged to leave Scio at the same time as his chief. But to what part of the Archipeiago should he shape his course? He was still undecided, when an unexpected event put an end to his hesitation.

The night before he was to embark for Greece a letter arrived by the post.

The letter, with the postmark of Corinth, was addressed to Captain Henry D’Albaret, and all it said was —

“There is a vacancy in the staff of the corvette Syphanta, of Corfu. Would Captain D’Albaret like to join her and continue the campaign against Sacratif and the pirates of the Archipelago? “In the early days of March the Syphanta will be off Cape Anapomera in the north of the island, and one of her boats will remain in the bay of Ora at the foot of the cape.

“Captain D’Albaret can act as his patriotism prompts him.”

No signature. An unknown handwriting. Nothing to indicate whence the letter came. At any rate, here was news of the corvette, which had not been heard of for some time. Also here was an opportunity for Henry D’Albaret to resume his profession as a sailor. Also the possibility of pursuing Sacratif, perhaps of ridding the Archipelago of him, perhaps also — and that was not without influence on his resolution — a chance of meeting Nicholas Starkos and his saccoleva.

D’Albaret’s decision was soon taken — to accept the offer made in the anonymous letter. He bade farewell to Fabvier as he embarked for Syra; and then, chartering a boat, sailed round to the north of the island.

The voyage, with the land breeze from the south-west, was not a long one., The boat passed Coloquinta between the island of Anossai and Cape Pampaca. Leaving this cape the course was laid to Cape Ora, and along it to the bay of the same name.

Here Henry D’Albaret landed, on the afternoon of the 1 st of March.

A boat was waiting near the rocks. A corvette was hove-to outside.

“I am Captain Henry D’Albaret,” said the young officer to the quartermaster in charge of the boat.

“Does Captain D’Albaret wish to go on board?”

“At once.”

The boat pushed off. The six oars rapidly cleared the mile that separated her from the corvette. As soon as D’Albaret reached the starboard quarter of the Syphanta a prolonged whistle was heard, then came the report of a gun, quickly followed by that of two others. As the young officer set his foot on the deck the whole crew in inspection order presented arms, and the Corfiote flag was run up to the peak.

The acting captain of the corvette stepped forward and said in a loud voice, so as to be heard by all, —

“The officers and crew of the Syphanta are glad to welcome their commander — Henry D’Albaret.”

CHAPTER XI.

UNANSWERED SIGNALS.

EIGHT days after the fight at Thasos, the Syphanta had searched the creeks on the Ottoman coast from Cavale to Orphana, had crossed the bay of Contessa and opened the gulfs of Monte Santa and Cassandra. On the 15th of April she began to lose sight of the summit of Mount Athos, whose loftiest point attains an elevation of 6800 feet above, the sea.

No suspicious sail was seen during this part of the cruise. Many times Turkish squadrons hove in sight, but the Syphanta, sailing under the Corfiote flag, thought better not to enter into communication with vessels who might receive her with a salute of shotted guns. She also met a few Greek coasters, from whom she obtained a good deal of information that might eventually be useful.

On the 26th of April, D’Albaret learnt a fact of great importance.. The allied Powers had decided that any reinforcement by sea for Ibrahim’s troops should be intercepted; and Russia officially declared war against the Sultan. The situation was thus improving, and although there might be some delay, Greece was surely advancing to the conquest of her independence.

On the 30th of April the corvette had made her way up to the end of the Gulf of Salonica, her extreme north-westerly point in the Archipelago during this cruise. She here had an opportunity of giving chase

to a few xebecs, snows, and polaccas, which only escaped by running on shore. If the crews did not perish to the last man, at least the ships were destroyed.

The Syphanta then headed south-east, so as to carefully examine the northern shore of the Gulf of Salonica. The alarm had doubtless been given, for not a single pirate appeared.

But a very singular and indeed almost inexplicable event happened on board the corvette. On the 10th of May, about seven in the evening, D’Albaret found a letter on his table. He took it up, held it to the swinging lamp suspended from the ceiling, and read the address. The address was: —

“To Captain Henry D’Albaret, commanding the corvette Syphanta, at sea.”

D’Albaret might well recognize the handwriting. It was that of the letter he had received at Scio, telling him of the vacancy on board the corvette.

The following were the contents of this letter which had so strangely arrived, independently this time of all postal assistance: —

“If Captain D’Albaret can arrange his plan of campaign so as to cross the Archipelago and visit the neighbourhood of the island of Scarpanto in the first week of September, he will act for the best for all the interests that are entrusted to him.”

No date, and no more signature than that of the letter he received at Scio; and when D’Albaret had compared them, he felt sure that they were both written by the same hand.

How was this? The first letter had come by post, but this one must have been placed on the table by some one on board. It followed, therefore, that this person must have had it in his possession since the commencement of the campaign, or that it had been given to him at one of the last halting-places of the Syphanta. The letter was not there when the captain left the cabin an hour before to make his arrangements for the night. Consequently it must have been placed on the cabin-table not an hour ago.

D’Albaret struck the bell. A sailor appeared.

“Who came in here while I was on deck?”

“Nobody, captain,” answered the sailor.

Nobody! But somebody may have come in without your seeing him.”

“No, captain, for I have not left the door for a moment.”

“Good.”

The sailor saluted and retired.

“It seems to me impossible that a man could come in at the door without being seen,” said D’Albaret. “But at nightfall might he not slip along the outside gallery and come in through one of the cabin windows?”

He went and examined the scuttles, but they were securely fastened from the inside. It was manifestly impossible for any one from without to have entered through these openings.

There was not much in all this to cause anxiety to D’Albaret; he was only rather surprised, and his curiosity was aroused owing to the affair being so difficult to explain. The fact, however, remained, that somehow or other the anonymous letter had reached its address, and that it was intended for no one else than the captain of the Syphanta.

After thinking the matter over, D’Albaret decided to say nothing about it even to Todros. What would be the use? His mysterious correspondent, whoever he might be, would not be discovered by his doing so.

And now, ought the captain to take any notice of the letter?

“Certainly,” he said. “Whoever wrote the first time at Scio did not deceive me in saying that there was a berth vacant on the Syphanta. Why should they deceive me the second time in inviting me to cruise off Scarpanto in the first week of September? It can only be in the interest of the mission entrusted to me! Yes! I will change my plan, and I will keep my appointment.”

D’Albaret carefully folded up the letter that gave him his new instructions. Then he took his charts and began to work out a new cruise, so as to occupy the four months before the end of August.

The isle of Scarpanto is in the south-east, at the other end of the Archipelago — that is, about three hundred miles away in a straight line from the Syphanta’s present position. There would, therefore, be time enough for the corvette to visit the shores of the Morea, as well as the group of the Cyclades scattered about the gulf of Aegina up to the island of Crete.

In fact, this appointment to appear in sight of Scarpanto on the date indicated would only very slightly modify the itinerary already decided upon. What he had resolved to do, he would do without shortening his programme. And so the Syphanta on the 20th of May, after sighting the small islands of Pelerissa, Peperi, Sarakino, and Skantxoura, to the north of Negropont, bore down for Scyros.

Scyros is the most important of the nine islands forming the group whose antiquity is remote enough to make them the domain of the nine Muses. In the harbour of St. George — safe, roomy, and affording good anchorage — the corvette could easily be re-victualled on fresh meat, sheep, partridges, corn, and barley; and take in a stock of that excellent wine which is one of the greatest riches of the country. The island, which played a considerable part in the semi-mythological events of the Trojan war, was soon to enter the Greek kingdom as part of the eparchy of Eubcea.

As the coast-line of Scyros is much cut up into bays and creeks, in which pirates might easily find shelter, D’Albaret had it most carefully searched. While the corvette lay-to a few cable-lengths away, her boats left not a creek unexplored.

But there was no result. The shelters were deserted. The only information that could be got from the authorities of the island was that about a month before, several merchantmen had been attacked, plundered, and destroyed by a vessel under a pirate ensign, and that the act of piracy had been attributed to the notorious Sacratif. But on what grounds the assertion was made they could not say, there being so much uncertainty even as to the existence of this personage.

After a stay of five or six days the corvette left Scyros. Towards the end of May she approached the shores of that large island of Euboea, known also as Negropont, and carefully coasted down its hundred and twenty miles. This island was one of the first to revolt at the outbreak of the war in 1821; but the Turks, after being shut up in the citadel of Negropont, had maintained an obstinate resistance and at the same time entrenched themselves at Carystos. Reinforced by the troops of Yussuf Pacha, they overran the island began their customary massacre, when one of the Greek leaders, Diamantis, arrived in September, 1823, to stop them. Having attacked the Ottoman soldiers by surprise, he killed them in great numbers and drove the fugitives across the strait into Thessaly.

But in the end the advantage remained with the Turks, who were superior in number. After a vain attempt on the part of Colonel Fabvier and Regnaud de Saint Jean d’Angely in 1826, they were definitely left in possession of the whole island.

They were still there when the Syphanta passed down the coast. From the ship D’Albaret could review the theatre of that sanguinary strife in which he had personally taken part. The fighting had, however, ceased, and after the recognition of the new kingdom, the island of Euboea, with its sixteen thousand inhabitants, became one of the nomarchies of Greece.

Although the danger was great within range of the Turkish guns, the corvette did not suspend her search, and a score of pirate vessels were destroyed on her way to the Cyclades.

These proceedings occupied the greater part of June. Then she moved off to the south-east. In the last days of the month she was off Andros, a patriotic island, whose people rose against the Ottoman rule at the same time as did those of Psara. Thence the captain of the corvette altered his course towards the Peloponnesus. On the 2nd of July he sighted the island of Zea, the ancient Ceos or Cos, with the commanding height of Mount Elia. For some days the Syphanta anchored in the harbour of Zea, which is one of the best in these parts.

There D’Albaret and his officers met many of the gallant Zeotes who had been their companions-in-arms in the earlier years of the war. The arrival of the corvette was warmly welcomed. But as no pirate would ever have thought of hiding in the creeks of that island, the Syphanta very soon resumed her cruise, and on the 5th of July doubled Cape Colonna, the southwest point of Attica.

At the end of the week the wind fell and little progress was made across the Gulf of Aegina, which cuts so deeply into Greece up to the Isthmus of Corinth. A careful watch had to be kept. The Syphanta was almost becalmed. The crew were kept ready to repel any attack. And they were wise. Several boats approached her with very suspicious intentions; but they dared not brave the guns and small arms of the corvette.

On the 10th of July the wind went round to the north, and the Syphanta, after sighting the little town of Damala, doubled Cape Skyli, at the extreme point of the Gulf of Nauplia. On the 11th she appeared off Hydra, and the next day but one off Spezzia. We need not enlarge on the part that the inhabitants of these two islands took in the War of Independence. At the beginning the Hydriotes, Spezziotes, and their cousins the Ipsariotes possessed more than three hundred trading-vessels. After altering them into ships of war they sent them out, not without success, against the Turkish fleet. Here was the cradle of the families of Condouriotis, “Tombasis, Miaoulis, Orlandos, and so many others of distinction, who first paid with their fortune, and then with their blood, the debt they owed to their country. Hence departed the redoubtable fire-ships which caused such terror to the Turks. And, in spite of revolt in the interior, never were the two islands soiled by the feet of the oppressor.

When Henry D’Albaret visited them the struggle was nearly over. The hour was not far distant when they would be united to the new kingdom, and form two eparchies in the department of Corinth and Argolis.

On the 20th of July the corvette anchored at Hermopolis, in the island of Syra, the land of the faithful Eumea, so poetically sung of by Homer, and at this time the refuge of all whom the Turks had chased from the continent. Syra, whose Catholic bishop is under French protection, put all its resources at D’Albaret’s disposal. In no port did the young captain meet a warmer reception. Only one regret mingled with the pleasure he felt at his reception. That was that he had not arrived the day before.

In course of conversation with the French Consul he learnt that a saccoleva bearing the name of the Karysta, and sailing under Greek colours, had left the harbour only sixteen hours previously. Hence the conclusion that the Karysta in escaping from Thasos, during the fight between the corvette and the pirates, had run down into the southern parts of the Archipelago.

“But perhaps somebody knows whither she has gone,” said D’Albaret.

“From all I hear,” replied the consul, “she is off to the south-eastern islands, even if she is not bound for one of the Cretan ports.”

” You have had no communication with her captain?”

“None.”

“And you do not know if his name was Nicholas Starkos?”

“No.”

“And nothing made you suspect that the saccoleva was part of the pirate flotilla which infests this part of the Archipelago?”

Nothing; but if so,” said the consul, “there is nothing extraordinary in her being bound for Crete, as several of its ports are open to the corsairs.”

This news was very disquieting to the captain of the Syphanta, as was everything bearing directly or indirectly on the disappearance of Hadjine Elizundo. It was unfortunate that he arrived so soon after the departure of the saccoleva. But as she had gone southwards, perhaps if the corvette took the same course she might fall in with her? And so D’Albaret, who ardently desired to find himself face to face with Starkos, left Syra in the evening of the 21 st of July, before a slight breeze which, according to the barometer, was likely to freshen.

For a fortnight, it must be admitted, the captain of the corvette was on the look out more for the saccoleva than for pirates. In his way of thinking, the Karysta ought to be treated in similar fashion, and for - the same reason.

However, the corvette came upon no trace of the saccoleva. At Naxos, all of whose ports were visited, the Karysta had not put in. Among the islets and reefs that surround that island the Syphanta was no more fortunate, and there was a complete absence of corsairs in this district, where they usually swarmed. There is a fair amount of trade between these rich Cyclades, and the chances of plunder were particularly attractive to them.

It was the same at Paros, which a channel about seven miles across separates from Naxos. Neither Parkia, Naussa, St. Mary, Angola, nor Dico had been visited by Starkos. Undoubtedly, as the consul at Syra had said, the saccoleva was bound for one of the Cretan ports.

On the 9th of August the Syphanta anchored off Milo. This island, now impoverished by its volcanic disturbances, was at the close of the eighteenth century very rich. It is poisoned by the noxious vapours of the soil, and the population is gradually decreasing.

Here the search was equally vain. Not only had the Karysta not been seen, but not a single pirate was found to give chase to. In fact it seemed as though the approach of the Syphanta was somehow notified in time for them to escape. The corvette had so served the corsairs in the north of the Archipelago that those in the south avoided meeting her. Never, for some reason or other, had the seas been so safe. It seems that merchantmen could henceforth use them in perfect security. Every one of the larger coasters, xebecs, snows, polaccas, tartans, feluccas, or caravellas met with on the road was questioned’; but from the answers of their masters nothing important could be ascertained.

It was now the 14th of August. Only a fortnight remained for the corvette to reach the island of Scarpanto on the 1 st of September. Leaving the Cyclades, the Syphanta kept her southerly course for nearly two hundred and forty miles. Ahead of her there appeared above the horizon the long stretch of Cretan coast with its high hills capped with perpetual snow.

The Syphanta, in leaving Milo, had gone away to the southwest to Santorin, and searched among the sombre cliffs of that island — a dangerous coast — whereon at any moment a new shoal may rise, thrust up by the volcanic fires below. Then taking as a beacon the ancient Mount Ida, the modern Psilanti, which towers up some seven thousand feet above the Cretan shore, the corvette spread her sails to a favouring breeze, and bore down on the island.

On the 15th of August the higher ground became clearly outlined on the horizon from Cape Spada to Cape Stavros. A sudden break in the line hid the inlet at the bottom of which stands Candia, the capital.

“Is it your intention to put in at any of the ports on the island?” asked Captain Todros.

“Crete is all in the hands of the Turks,” answered D’Albaret,” and I do not think we shall do any good there. According to the news I heard at Syra, Mustapha’s soldiers, after seizing on Retimo, have made themselves masters of the whole island, in spite of the valour of the Sphakiotes.”

“Gallant mountaineers those Sphakiotes,” said Captain Todros; “since the outbreak of the war they have made themselves a great reputation for bravery.”

“Yes, bravery and covetousness,” answered D’Albaret. “Scarcely two months ago they held the fate of Crete in their hands. Mustapha and his people were surprised in a ravine, and could have been exterminated; but at his orders the soldiers threw away their jewels, ornaments, and valuables, and while the Sphakiotes dispersed to seize them, the Turks escaped through the defile in which they might have met their deaths.”

“That is very sad, captain, but after all the Cretans are hardly Greeks.”

It may seem astonishing that Todros, who was of Greek origin, should say such a thing. Not alone in his eyes, despite their patriotism, were the Cretans not Greeks, but they did not become so at the final formation of the new kingdom. Like Samos, Crete remained under the Ottoman yoke, and in 1832 the Sultan ceded

to Mehemet Ali all his rights over the island. Such being the state of affairs, Captain D’Albaret gained little by running into the Cretan ports. Candia had become the principal arsenal of the Egyptians/ and it was thence that the pasha had sent his soldiery against Greece. As for Candia, at the instigation of the Ottoman authorities its inhabitants had given a very equivocal greeting to the Corfiote flag at the Syphanta’s peak. Neither at Gira-Petra, nor at Suda, nor at Cisamos did Henry D’Albaret obtain any information to enable him to crown his expedition with some notable exploit.

“No,” he said to Captain Todros, “it seems useless to keep a watch on the northern coast, but we can run round the north-west, and cruise for a day or two off Grabousa.”

This was obviously the best thing to do. In the ill-famed waters of Grabousa the Syphanta might have the opportunity, denied her for a month or more, of sending a broadside or so into the pirates of the Archipelago.

Besides, if the saccoleva, as they imagined, had sailed for Crete, it was not impossible that she had put in at Grabousa. And thus the more reason for Captain D’Albaret to watch the approaches to its harbour.

In those days Grabousa was a nest of pirates. About seven months before, it had required an Anglo-French fleet and a detachment of Greek regulars under Mavrogordato to bring this abode of scoundrels to reason. It was the Cretan authorities themselves who refused to surrender a dozen pirates claimed by the commander of the English squadron; and he had to open fire on the citadel, burn some of the ships, and effect a landing before he could obtain satisfaction.

It was, then, natural to suppose that since the departure of the allied squadron the pirates would gather at Grabousa, and Henry D’Albaret decided to lay his course for Scarpanto along the south of Crete so as to pass it. He gave orders to this effect, and Todros hastened to execute them.

The weather was splendid. In this agreeable climate December is the beginning of winter, and January is its end. A fortunate island is Crete, the country of King Minos and Daedalus the inventor.

The Syphanta doubled Cape Spada, which projects from the end of that tongue of land between the bays of Canea and Kisamo. The cape was passed, and during the night — one of those clear Eastern nights — the corvette turned the extreme point of the island. A veering wind took her to the south, and in the morning, under reduced sail, she tacked down to Grabousa.

For six days Captain D’Albaret kept a constant watch on this western coast of the island between Grabousa and Kisamo. Many ships came out of the port — feluccas or trading xebecs. The Syphanta hailed several of them, but none replied suspiciously. To questions about the pirates that might be sheltered in Grabousa they answered with considerable reserve. They were evidently afraid of committing themselves. D’Albaret was not able to ascertain if the saccoleva Karysta were then in the harbour.

The corvette then enlarged her field of observation. She cruised along between Grabousa and Cape Crio. On the 22nd, under a splendid breeze, that freshened as the day wore on, and moderated during the night, she doubled that cape, and coasted down the Lybian shore, which is less varied, less cut into, and less beset

with points and promontories than that of the opposite coast of the island. On the northern horizon there rose the mountain chain of Asprovouna, with Mount Ida to the east, whose snows never melt beneath the sun of the Archipelago.

Without stopping at the smaller ports of the island, the corvette lay-to off Roumeli, Anopoli, and Sphakia, but the look-outs did not report a single pirate.

On the 27th of August the Syphanta, after following the line of the large bay of Messara, doubled Cape Matala, the most southern point of Crete, which hereabouts is from thirty to thirty-three miles across. It did not appear that the search would be of the least use to the cruiser. There are very few ships crossing the Lybian Sea in this latitude. They go more to the north, across the Archipelago, or more to the south, along the coasts of Egypt. Hardly any were seen but fishing-boats moored to the rocks, and from time to time a few of those long boats laden with periwinkles, of which enormous quantities are collected in the islands.

If the corvette met with nothing off that part of the coast ending with Cape Matala, it was not probable that she would be more fortunate along the second half. D’Albaret, therefore, decided to sail straight away for Scarpanto, and get there a little earlier than requested in the mysterious letter. On the evening of the 29th of August, however, his plans were changed.

It was six o’clock. The captain and a few of the officers were on the poop, looking at Cape Matala. From the look-out at the topgallant cross-trees there came a shout of, —

“Sail ho! on the port bow.”

Telescopes were immediately brought to bear in the direction indicated.

“Yes,” said Captain D’Albaret,” there is a vessel close in shore.”

“And she ought to know it well to get as near in as that,” added Todros.

“Does she show any colours?”

“No, captain,” replied one of the officers.

“Ask the look-outs if they can tell what she is.”

The orders were given. In a few moments the reply came down that there was no flag either at her peak or masthead.

However, there was still light enough to take stock of her.

She was a brig, with a mainmast raking well aft; extremely long, finely built, heavily sparred, she promised to be very fast in all weathers. Her size showed her to be of from seven to eight hundred tons burden. But was she armed? Did she carry guns? Were her sides pierced with ports, whose mantlets were down? This was a puzzle the best of the telescopes could not solve.

The brig was about four miles away from the corvette. The sun was just disappearing behind the heights of Asprovouna, night was coming on, and the darkness along the foot of the land was profound.

“Strange craft!” said Captain Todros.

“You would think she was going between Platana Island and the coast,” added one of the officers.

“Yes; as if she was sorry to have been seen,” said the second, “and was anxious to get out of sight.”

D’Albaret made no reply, but evidently he shared in the opinion of his officers. The brig’s proceedings were very suspicious.

“Captain Todros,” said he at length, “we must not lose sight of that vessel during the night. We must arrange to remain in this neighbourhood till daybreak. But as we do not want them to see us, you will please have all the lights out on board.”

The necessary orders were given. A watch was still kept on the brig, which remained visible under the high sheltering land. When night fell, she disappeared completely, and not a single light betrayed her position.

In the morning, at the first streak of dawn, D’Albaret was on the forecastle of the Syphanta, waiting for the mist to clear away off the sea.

About seven o’clock the fog vanished, and all glasses were turned towards the east.

The brig was still there, close to the coast, off Cape Alikaporitha, some six miles ahead of the corvette. She had sensibly gained on her during the night, and that although she had made no sail since the evening before. Now, as then, she was under foresail, topsails, and fore-topgallant sail, with her mainsail and spanker reefed.

“That is not the trim of a vessel that tries to escape,” said Todros.

“It does not matter,” answered the captain. “Let us have a closer look at her. Take us down on to that brig.”

The boatswain’s whistle sounded, the upper sails were set, and the corvette’s speed sensibly increased.

But, doubtless, the brig wished to keep her distance, for she shook the reef out of the spanker, and set the main-topgallant sail — nothing more. If she did not want the corvette to approach, she did not apparently want to leave her behind. At the same time she kept close in shore — as close as possible.

About ten o’clock, whether it was owing to the wind or the unknown vessel having permitted the approach, the corvette had made up quite four miles, and could observe her at her ease. She was armed with twenty carronades, and there was room in her for a second deck, although it would be rather near to the water.

“Run up the ensign,” said D’Albaret.

The flag was hoisted at the peak and saluted by a gun. This meant that the corvette wished to ascertain the nationality of the vessel in sight. But to the signal there was no reply. The brig changed neither her course nor her speed, and held on so as to double the bay of Keraton.

“That fellow is not very polite,” said the sailors.

“But prudent, probably,” said an old foretopman, “with his raking mainmast he looks as though he carried his hat over his ear, and does not use it for saluting.”

A second gun was discharged from the bow of the corvette in vain. The brig took no notice, and continued on her way, paying no more attention to the corvette than if she were at the bottom of the sea.

And now there began a regular trial of speed between the two vessels. Every stitch of canvas was set on the Syphanta — studding-sails, water-sails, sky-sails, and fakers — but the brig crammed on her sail in reply, and inperturbably maintained her distance.

“She has got a steam-engine inside her,” exclaimed one of the sailors.

In fact all on board the corvette began to get excited at the chase; and the excitement spread from the crew to the officers, and above all to the impatient Todros.

He would have given all his prize-money to outsail this brig, no matter what might be her nationality.

The Syphanta carried in her bow a long-range gun capable of sending a thirty-pound shot a distance of nearly a couple of miles.

Captain D’Albaret, seemingly very calm, gave the order to fire.

The shot ricochetted, and fell about twenty fathoms behind the brig, whose only reply was to set her upper studding-sails and increase the distance between her and the corvette.

Would it then be necessary to give up the chase? A humiliating question for so speedy a vessel as the Syphanta.

The night began to close in. The corvette was almost off Peristera. The breeze began to freshen, and the studding-sails had to be taken in and all made snug for the night.

The captain thought that when day came he would see no more of the brig, not even the tops of her masts as she vanished on the eastern horizon.

He was mistaken.

At sunrise there was the brig under the same sail at the same distance. It looked as though she regulated her speed by that of the corvette.

“She has got us in tow,” said the men on the forecastle; “at least, it looks like it.”

Nothing could be truer.

And now the brig having entered the channel of Kouphonisi, between the island of that name and the mainland, turned the point of Kakialithi so as to hug the eastern coast of Crete.

Was she going to take refuge in some harbour, and vanish up one of the narrow creeks?

Not at all.

At seven o’clock the brig headed to the north-west, and laid her course straight out to sea.

“Is she going to Scarpanto?” asked D’Albaret, astounded.

And under a breeze that gradually increased, at the risk of carrying away his masts, he continued the interminable pursuit, which the interests of his mission and the honour of his ship enjoined him never to abandon.

Well away out in the Archipelago, open to all points of the compass and no longer sheltered by the highlands of Crete, the Syphanta at first appeared to gain on the brig.

About one o’clock in the afternoon the vessels were only three miles apart. A few shot were sent after the brig, but they fell short, and in no way provoked her to alter her course.

Already the heights of Scarpanto appeared on the horizon behind the small island of Caso, which hangs from the point of the island, as Sicily hangs from the point of Italy.

Captain D’Albaret and his officers and crew were thus led to hope that they would get alongside this mysterious vessel that so uncivilly refused to reply to either signal or shot.

But towards evening the wind abated, and the brig regained all she had lost.

“Ah! the beggar! Deuce take him! He will escape us!” exclaimed Todros.

And then all was done that an experienced seaman could do to increase the speed of his ship. The sails were skeeted to make them sit flatter, the hammocks were hung for the swing to help the vessel’s trim, everything was done — not without some success. About seven o’clock, a little after sunset, there were only about two miles between the vessels.

But night falls quickly in these latitudes. The twilight is very short. The speed of the corvette would have to be further increased to reach the brig before darkness set in.

And now they were passing between the islets of Caso-Poulo and the isle of Casos. As she turned into the narrow channel between Casos and Scarpanto they lost sight of her.

Half an hour afterwards the Syphanta reached the same spot, keeping close to the land to make the most of the wind. There was still light enough to distinguish a vessel at a range of several miles.

The brig had vanished.

CHAPTER XII.

AN AUCTION AT SCARPANTO.

IF Crete, according to the fable, was formerly the cradle of the gods, the ancient Carpathos, the Scarpanto of to-day, was the-cradle of the Titans — their boldest foes. In the attack of ordinary mortals the modern pirates were worthy of those mythological malefactors who feared not to assault Olympus.

At the date of our story, it seemed as though pirates and corsairs of every description had taken up their headquarters in the island which gave birth to the four sons of Japetus, the grandson of Titan and Terra.

And, in truth, Scarpanto was most convenient for those who plied the pirate trade in the Archipelago. It lies almost isolated in the extreme south-west of these seas, about forty miles from Rhodes. Its lofty hills proclaim it from afar. Its sixty miles of coastline are cut into by numberless indentations protected by an infinity of reefs and shoals. If it has given its name to the surrounding sea, it is because it was as formidable to the ancients as it has been to the moderns. Even for the experienced mariner, and the old experienced mariner of the Carpathian Sea, it was, and is still, a very dangerous coast to venture on.

But there are some good anchorages in the island, which forms the last pearl in the long chaplet of the Sporades. Between Cape Sidro and Cape Pernisa, and Capes Bonandrea and Andemo on its southern coast, there are several havens of shelter. Four harbours — Agata, Porto di Tristano, Porto Grato, and Porto Malo Nato — were formally much frequented by the coasters of the Levant before Rhodes had deprived them of their commercial importance. Now it is a very rare occurrence for a ship to call there.

Scarpanto is a Greek island, or rather it is inhabited by a Greek population, but belongs to the Ottoman empire. On the settlement of the Greek constitution, it remained in possession of the Turks under a cadi, who then lived in a sort of fortified house just outside the modern town of Arkassa. In the town were a great number of Turks, who were, it is only fair to say, on good terms with the natives, who took no part in the War of Independence. Having become the centre of the most rascally of commercial operations, Scarpanto welcomed alike Ottoman ships and piratical craft coming thither to tranship their cargoes of prisoners. There the brokers of Asia Minor and the Barbary coast thronged the marketplace, where the human merchandise was disposed of. There the auctions were held, and there the prices varied in accordance with slave supply and demand. And the cadi took sufficient interest in the transactions as to preside in person, and the brokers would have been considered to have failed in their duty had they not allowed him a certain percentage in the business done.

The transport of these unfortunates to the bazaars of Smyrna or Africa was principally carried on by vessels coming to Arkassa, on the western side of the island. If they were not equal to their task, an express was sent across to the eastern coast, and the pirates took their share in the odious trade.

At the time we speak of, in the east of Scarpanto, up the numerous — almost impenetrable — creeks, there were not less than a score of vessels, little and big, employing from twelve to thirteen hundred men. This flotilla was only waiting for the arrival of its chief to start upon some new criminal expedition. The Syphanta on the evening of the 2nd of September anchored about a cable’s length off the jetty at Arkassa, in some ten fathoms of water. D’Albaret, as he set foot on the island, did not for a moment doubt that the chances of the cruise had brought him to the headquarters of the slave-trade.

“Are you going to stop any time at Arkassa?” asked Todros, when the vessel had been brought safely to her anchor.

“I do not know,” answered D’Albaret. “Circumstances may cause me to leave pretty sharply, or they may keep me here some time.”

“Are the men to go ashore?”

“Yes, but in watches only. Half the crew must always be on board.”

“That is understood, captain,” answered Todros. “We are more in a Turkish country than a Greek one here, and it is only prudent to keep wide awake.”

It may be remembered that D’Albaret had said nothing to his officers as to the motives which had brought him to Scarpanto, nor how an appointment to be here in the early days of September had been given him in an anonymous letter which had arrived on board in such an inexplicable manner. Besides, he calculated on receiving some new communication indicating that his mysterious correspondent was awaiting the corvette in the waters of the Carpathian Sea.

But what was none the less strange, was the sudden disappearance of the brig in the Casos channel when the Syphanta was on the point of reaching her. And before anchoring at Arkassa, D’Albaret had not quite given up the chase. After coming as close to the shore as the draught of water allowed him, he set to work to examine all the windings of the shore-line. But amid the network of shoals which defend it, and under the shelter of the lofty cliffs which bound it, a vessel, such as the brig, could easily get out of sight. Behind the barrier of breakers that the Syphanta could not approach without risk of destruction, a captain knowing the channels could easily throw his pursuers off the track. If, then, the brig was in some secret creek, it would be very difficult to find her, but not more so than to find the other piratical vessels to whom the island had given shelter.

The explorations of the corvette lasted for two days, and were in vain. The brig seemed to have vanished in the waters, and D’Albaret in despair had to give up all thoughts of discovering her. He resolved to anchor at Arkassa and await events.

Between three and five o’clock on the following afternoon, the little town of Arkassa was invaded by a considerable portion of the population of the island, to say nothing of the strangers, Europeans and Asiatic, whom the crowd could not be without on such an occasion. It was, in fact, the day of the great market. Miserable creatures of every age and condition, who had recently been taken prisoners by the Turks, were to be duly put up for sale.

At this date there was in Arkassa a special bazaar for this trade, a “batistan,” such as is found in certain towns of the Barbary States. The batistan then contained about a hundred prisoners, men, women, and children, the fruits of the last razzias made in the Peloponnesus. They were crowded together in a heap, in a court without shade or shelter, under a burning sun, with their clothes in rags; and their disconsolate attitudes and despairing features bore witness to their sufferings. Ill and half-fed, they were huddled together in families, until the caprice of their purchasers would separate the wife from her husband, and the child from father and mother. They would have inspired the deepest pity in all but the cruel “bachis,” their guardians, whom no grief could move. And what were these tortures compared to those that awaited them in the bagnios of Algiers, Tunis, and Tripoli?

Nevertheless, all hope of freedom had not yet been lost by the captives. If the purchasers did well by purchasing them, they did none the less well by giving them their liberty for a consideration — above all, by giving it to those whose value was based on their social position in their own country. A good many were thus saved from slavery by public redemption when the State bought them back before their departure, when their buyers treated directly with their families, and when the monks with their contributions from the charitable of Europe came to deliver them in the chief centres of Barbary. Frequently also individuals, in the same spirit of charity, would set aside a part of their fortune for this benevolent work. In these later times considerable sums from unknown sources had been employed in these purchases, but principally for the benefit of slaves of Greek origin whom the chances of war had during the last six years handed over to the dealers of Africa and Asia Minor.

The market at Arkassa was conducted like a public auction. Every one, foreigners and natives, could take part in it; but on this occasion, as the buyers were only present for the Barbary trade, there was only one batch of captives. As this lot was disposed of to this or that broker, it would be despatched to Algiers, Tripoli, or Tunis.

Nevertheless, there were two classes of prisoners; some came from the Peloponnesus — these were the most numerous. Others had recently been captured on a Greek vessel outward bound from Tunis to Scarpanto. These were to be the last lot offered that day. The bidding would go on till five o’clock, when the gun from the Citadel of Arkassa would terminate the sale at the same time as it closed the harbour.

On this 3rd of September, there was no lack of dealers round the batistan. There were many agents from Smyrna and other neighbouring points of Asia Minor, who, so it was said, were all acting for the Barbary market.

The excitement was not unintelligible. Recent events foreshadowed an early close to the War of Independence. Ibrahim had been driven back into the Morea, while Marshal Maison had landed with an expeditionary force of two thousand French.’ The export of prisoners would thus be greatly reduced for the future, and their value, to the great satisfaction of the cadi, would considerably increase.

During the morning the dealers had visited the batistan and ascertained the quantity and quality of the prisoners, who, it seemed, would fetch very good prices.

“By the Prophet!” exclaimed a Smyrna merchant, who was holding forth to a group of his companions, “the good time has gone by! Do you remember when the ships used to bring the prisoners here by thousands, instead of hundreds?”

“Yes! As it was after the Scio massacres!” answered another dealer. “At one go, more than forty thousand slaves. The hulks could not hold them.”

“Quite so,” said a third dealer, who seemed to have a keen eye for trade. “But too many prisoners meant low prices. Better have them in moderation; for the expenses are always the same.”

“Yes! In Barbary in particular! Twelve per cent, on the gross profit for the pasha, the cadi, or the governor.”

“To say nothing of the one per cent, for the support of the wharf and the coast batteries.”

“And another one per cent, out of our pockets into those of the marabouts.”

“In fact it is ruinous for the shipowners as well as the dealers.”

Such were the opinions interchanged among the agents, who seemed to have no idea of the infamy of the trade. Always the same complaints against the same charges! And they would probably have continued to enlarge on their grievances, had not the clock put an end to them by announcing the opening of the market.

The cadi presided. His duty, as representing the Turkish Government, obliged him to do so, to say nothing of his personal interests. There he was, enthroned on a sort of platform in the shade of a tent above which floated the red flag and crescent, and lounging on large cushions with truly Turkish nonchalance.

Near him the public crier prepared for his duties. But there is no necessity to suppose that the crier would have to shout very loudly. No! In this business the dealers take “their time in out-bidding each other. If there is a struggle for the final decision, it takes place during the last quarter of an hour.

The first bid was a thousand pounds Turkish, by one of the Smyrna brokers.

“A thousand pounds Turkish!” repeated the crier. Then he shut his eyes, as if he had time to take a nap before another bid. For the first hour the bidding rose from a thousand to two thousand pounds Turkish, or about eighteen hundred pounds sterling. The dealers looked on and talked amongst themselves on other matters. Their plans were all agreed upon. They would not risk their best offers until the last minutes preceding the report of the gun.

But the arrival of a new-comer caused a change in their plans, and gave unexpected excitement to the bidding.

About four o’clock two men appeared in the marketplace of Arkassa. Whence came they? From the east of the island, doubtless, to judge from the direction taken by the araba which had brought them to the very gate of the batistan.

Their appearance caused a sudden movement of surprise and anxiety. Evidently the dealers had not expected any one to compete with them.

“By Allah!” exclaimed one, “it is Nicholas Starkos himself.”

“And his cursed Skopelo,” answered another.

These were the two men, and they were well known in the market of Arkassa. On more than one occasion they had done an enormous trade by buying prisoners for the African merchants. Money never failed them: none knew whence it came, but that nobody minded. And the cadi, who was much concerned, could not but be pleased at the arrival of such formidable bidders.

A single glance had sufficed for Skopelo to estimate the value of the prisoners. He had had much experience in such matters. He whispered a few words to Starkos, who answered affirmatively with a nod.

Those in the marketplace could not help noticing the movement of horror with which the arrival of Starkos was greeted by one of the prisoners.

She was an old woman, of very tall stature. Seated on a step in a corner of the batistan, she rose as if some irresistible force possessed her. She even made two or three steps forward, and a cry was about to escape from her lips. She had energy enough to restrain it. Then slowly recoiling, she wrapped herself from head to foot in the folds of a miserable cloak, and resumed her place behind a group of captives so as to be quite out of sight.

The dealers, without a word to him, continued to watch the captain of the Karysta, while he seemed to take no notice of them. Had he come to bid for their prisoners? They feared so, knowing the connection between Starkos and the beys and pashas of the Barbary States.

They were not long left in suspense. The crier raised his voice and repeated the last bid, —

“Two thousand pounds.”

“Two thousand four hundred,” said Skopelo, who on these occasions constituted himself the captain’s mouthpiece.

“Two thousand four hundred pounds!” announced the crier.

And the private conversations recommenced among the different groups, who noted it defiantly.

A quarter of an hour elapsed. No other bid had been made since Skopelo’s. Starkos, indifferent and haughty, Strolled round the batistan. No one doubted but that he would finally secure the lot, though it might be only after a sharp struggle.

Nevertheless, the Smyrna broker, after previously consulting his colleagues, made a bid of two thousand seven hundred pounds.

“Two thousand seven hundred pounds,” repeated the crier.

“Three thousand.”

It was Starkos who spoke this time.

What had happened? Why had he personally interfered in the struggle? Whence came the voice, customarily so cool, which showed such violent agitation as to surprise even Skopelo?

The fact was that Starkos, after passing the barrier of the batistan, had strolled among the prisoners. The old woman, as she saw him approach, hid herself more closely under her cloak. He did not notice her.

But suddenly his attention was arrested by two prisoners who formed a group apart. He stopped as if rooted to the spot.

By a tall man’s side a girl was lying exhausted on the ground.

As he caught sight of Starkos, the man suddenly rose, and at the same moment the girl opened her eyes. As soon as she saw the captain of the Karysta she drew back.

“Hadjine!” exclaimed Starkos.

It was Hadjine Elizundo, whom Xaris caught in his arms to protect her.

“Herself!” said Starkos.

Hadjine disengaged herself from the grasp of Xaris, and looked her father’s former client in the face.

It was at this moment that Starkos, who did not even think of what he was to do with Elizundo’s heiress thus exposed for sale in the marketplace of Arkassa, shouted in agitation his new bid of three thousand pounds.

“Three thousand pounds!” repeated the crier. It was then a little after half-past four. Still five and twenty minutes, and the gun would sound, and the lot would fall to the highest bidder.

But already the dealers having conferred together, were preparing to leave, resolved not to advance in their price. It seemed certain to them that the captain of the Karysta would remain in possession of the field. The Smyrna dealer, however, made a last effort to continue the struggle.

“Three thousand five hundred pounds!” he bid. “Four thousand!” immediately replied Starkos. Skopelo, who had not noticed Hadjine, failed to understand this immoderate ardour of the captain. In his opinion the value of the lot had already been exceeded, and greatly exceeded by this bid of four thousand pounds. And he was wondering what could have possessed Starkos to launch forth so strangely.

A long silence followed the crier’s last words. The Smyrna dealer, at a sign from his colleagues, was about to abandon the lot, which there was no reason to doubt would, in the few remaining minutes, finally fall to Starkos.

Xaris understood all. He clasped the girl tightly in his arms. They should not take her from him until they had killed him!

At this moment, in the midst of a deep silence, there was heard a clear, penetrating voice, and these three words were hurled at the crier,-

“Five thousand pounds!”

Starkos turned round. A group of sailors had just arrived in the batistan. In front of them stood an officer. “Henry D’Albaret!” exclaimed Starkos. “Henry D’Albaret! Here-at Scarpanto!”

Chance alone had brought the captain of the Syphanta to the marketplace. He did not even know that on this day — twenty-four hours after his arrival at Scarpanto — a slave sale was going on in the capital of the island. And on the other hand, as he had not seen the saccoleva at the anchorage, he was no less astonished to see Nicholas Starkos at Arkassa, than Starkos was to see him.

For Starkos did not know that D’Albaret commanded the corvette, although he knew she was at Arkassa.

We can imagine the feelings of these two enemies when they found themselves face to face.

And if Henry D’Albaret had made the unexpected bid, it was because he had just caught sight of Hadjine and Xaris — Hadjine about to fall into the power of Nicholas Starkos! But Hadjine had heard him — had seen him — :and would have rushed to him, had not the keepers prevented her.

With a gesture D’Albaret reassured her.

Great as was his indignation when he found himself in the presence of his hated rival, he kept his temper under control. Yes! If it were at the cost of his whole fortune, he would snatch from Nicholas Starkos the prisoners grouped in the batistan of Arkassa, and with them, her whom he had sought for so long, and whom he had never hoped again to see.

The contest was sure to be severe. In fact, if Starkos could not understand how Hadjine Elizundo had become one of the prisoners, he did understand that she was still the rich heiress of the Corfu banker. His millions could not have disappeared. They would always be there to buy her back from slavery. Hence at any price he must secure her. And he resolved to do it all the more passionately, as he had to contend with his rival, and his accepted rival.

“Six thousand pounds!” he shouted.

“Seven thousand,” answered the captain of the Syphanta without even a look at Starkos.

The cadi could not but be delighted at the turn matters had taken, and took no pains to hide his satisfaction beneath his Ottoman gravity.

But if the greedy magistrate was already counting up his gains, Skopelo was losing all his self-control. He had recognized Henry D’Albaret, and then Hadjine Elizundo. If, through his hatred, Starkos was obstinate, ‘ the matter, which might under certain circumstances turn out well, might on the other hand prove disastrous, particularly if the girl had lost her fortune as she had lost her liberty — and that was possible.

So taking Starkos aside, he tried in all humility to submit a few suggestions. But he met with such a reception that he did not dare to repeat them. The captain of the Karysta shouted his bids at the crier, and that in such a tone as to insult -his rival.

As may be supposed, the dealers, finding the battle become warm, remained to watch it. The curious crowd, in this struggle of thousand-pound shots, manifested their interest by noisy clamours. Most of them recognized the captain of the saccoleva, but none knew the captain of’ the Syphanta. They did not even know whence this corvette, sailing under the Corfiote flag, had come. But since the outset of the war, so many vessels of all nations had been employed in the transport of slaves, that they thought the Syphanta was also engaged in the traffic. Thus whether the prisoners were bought by D’Albaret or Starkos it still meant slavery for them.

In any case the question would be settled within the next five minutes.

To the last bid the crier had repeated, Starkos had replied —

“Eight thousand pounds!”

“Nine thousand!” said D’Albaret.

Silence again. The captain of the Syphanta as coolly as possible, looked round at Starkos, who was striding up and down in such a rage that Skopelo dared not approach him. Nothing could now stand in the way of his furious bidding.

“Ten thousand pounds!” shouted Starkos.

“Eleven thousand!” replied D’Albaret.

“Twelve thousand!” said Starkos, without stopping to think.

The captain of the Syphanta did not immediately reply. Not that he hesitated to do so, but he saw Skopelo rush up to Starkos to stop him in his work of folly, and this for a moment diverted his attention. At the same moment the old prisoner who had so obstinately concealed herself in her cloak had just risen as if to show her face to Starkos. As she did so, from the top of the citadel of Arkassa there shot forth a bright flash and a wreath of smoke, but before the report reached the batistan another bid had been shouted forth in a loud, clear voice, —

“Thirteen thousand pounds!”

And instantly came the report of the gun, followed by prolonged cheers.

Starkos had hurled back Skopelo with such violence that he fell to the ground. But it was too late. Starkos had no longer ‘ the right to bid. Hadjine Elizundo had escaped him, and perhaps for ever.

“Come,” he said gruffly to Skopelo, and he was heard to mutter, —

“It will be surer and cheaper.”

\

Starkos and Skopelo gained their araba-and disappeared at the turning in the road which led to the interior of the island.

Already Hadjine Elizundo, dragged along by Xaris, had passed the barrier of the batistan. Already she was in the arms of Henry D’Albaret, who said as he pressed her to his heart, —

“Hadjine! Hadjine! All I have, I gave to buy you back to me.”

“As I have given all mine to buy’ back the honour of my name! Yes, Henry, Hadjine Elizundo is now poor, and now worthy of you.”

CHAPTER XIII.

ON BOARD THE “SYPHANTA.”

ON the 3rd of September, the day following that of the auction, the Syphanta about ten o’clock got under way, and sailed out of the harbour of Scarpanto.

The prisoners brought back by D’Albaret were accommodated, some in the ‘tween decks, and some on the main deck. As the passage of the Archipelago would only take a few days, the officers and sailors made the poor people as comfortable as possible.

The captain had got everything ready to go to sea the evening before. For the thirteen thousand pounds he had given guarantees, with which the Cadi had been satisfied. The embarkation of the prisoners was easily effected, and in three days the captives, instead of being consigned to the tortures of the Barbary bagnios, would be landed in Northern Greece, where they need have no fears for their freedom.

For this deliverance they were indebted to him who had snatched them from the hands of Nicholas Starkos. And their gratitude was displayed in a touching manner as soon as they reached the deck of the corvette.

Amongst them was a “pappa,” an old priest from Leondari. Followed by his companions in misfortune, he advanced to the poop, on which Hadjine and D’Albaret were standing with some of the officers. There they all knelt down, and the old man, kneeling in front of them, stretched out his hands to the captain, and said, —

“Henry D’Albaret! receive the blessing of all those to whom you have given their liberty!”

“My friends, I have only done my duty,” answered the captain of the Syphanta, profoundly moved.

“Yes! blessed by all — by all — and by me, Henry! added Hadjine, as she also knelt before him.

D’Albaret raised her quickly j and then shouts of “Hurrah for Henry D’Albaret! Hurrah for Hadjine Elizundo!” thundered forth from the poop to the forecastle, from the main deck to the lower yards, on which some fifty sailors had clustered, and were cheering vigorously.

One prisoner only — she who the evening before had hid herself in the batistan — took no part in this manifestation. As she came on board she had done her utmost to pass in unnoticed among the crowd. She had succeeded in doing so, and no one noticed her, huddled in an obscure corner of the ‘tween decks. Evidently she hoped to land without being seen. But why such precautions? Was she known to any of the officers or sailors of the corvette? In any case, she seemed to have urgent reasons for remaining incognito during the three or four days it would take to cross the Archipelago.

But if D’Albaret merited the gratitude of the passengers in the corvette, what did Hadjine merit for all she had done since her departure from Corfu?

“Henry,” she had said the evening before, “Hadjine Elizundo is now poor, and worthy of you!”

Poor she indeed was. Worthy of him? Let us see. And if Henry D’Albaret loved Hadjine. when such serious matters had separated them from each other, how much did his love increase when he learnt what she had been doing during this long year of separation. The fortune which had been left her by her father, as soon as she knew whence it came, she had resolved to devote to the re-purchase of the prisoners in trading in whom it had been chiefly gained. Of these twenty millions so odiously acquired she would keep nothing. Her plan she confided to Xaris. Xaris approved of it, and all the securities of the house were rapidly realized.

D’Albaret received the letter in which the girl bid him farewell. Then, in company with the brave, devoted Xaris, Hadjine secretly left Corfu for the Peloponnesus.

At that time Ibrahim’s soldiers still waged fierce war on the people in the interior of the Morea. The unfortunates who escaped massacre were sent to the principal ports of Messenia, Patras, or Navarino, whence ships, some freighted by the Turkish Government, some by the pirates of the Archipelago, transported them in thousands to Scarpanto, to Smyrna, or wherever the slave-markets were held.

For two months Hadjine Elizundo and Xaris spared no price to buy back hundreds of prisoners from among those who had not left the coast, and to place them in safety, some in the Ionian Islands, others in the free portions of Northern Greece.

Then they went to Asia Minor and Smyrna, where the slave-trade was extensively carried on. There quantities of Greek prisoners arrived in convoys’, and these Hadjine Elizundo did her best to set free. Such were her offers — so superior to those of the dealers for the Barbary or Asiatic ports — that the Turkish authorities derived great profit from treating with her. That her generous efforts were taken advantage of by these agents was of course inevitable, but nevertheless many thousands of captives escaped the bagnios of the African beys.

There was, however, something else to do, and it occurred to Hadjine to attain her end by two different routes.

It was not enough to buy back the captives put up for sale at the public markets or to deliver them from the bagnios. It was also desirable to annihilate the pirates who captured the ships in the Archipelago.

Hadjine was at Smyrna when she learnt what had happened to the Syphanta during the early months of her cruise. She knew that the Corfiote merchants had fitted out the corvette, and the mission on which they had sent her. She knew that the outset of the campaign had been promising, but at this time the news arrived that the Syphanta had just lost her captain, some of her officers, and part of her crew in a fight against a pirate flotilla commanded, it was said, in person by Sacratif.

Hadjine immediately entered into communication with the agent who represented the owners of the Syphanta. She offered them such a price for the ship that they accepted it. The corvette was bought in the name of the banker at Ragusa, but it belonged to the heiress of Elizundo, who thus followed the example of Bobolina, Modena, Zacharias, and the other valiant patriots whose ships, armed at their own cost, had at the outbreak of the War of Independence done so much harm to the Turkish cause.

But in acting thus Hadjine had intended to offer the command of the Syphanta to Captain Henry D’Albaret. One of her servants, a nephew of Xaris, a sailor of Greek origin, like his uncle, had secretly followed the young officer at Corfu when he made his useless inquiries to discover her, and to Scio when he rejoined Colonel Fabvier.

By her orders this man had shipped as a sailor on the corvette when she recruited after the battle at Lemnos. He it was who conveyed to the captain the two letters written by Xaris, the first at Scio, which informed him of the vacancy on board the Syphanta, the second placed on the cabin table when he was at the door as sentry, which gave the rendezvous for the neighbourhood of Scarpanto in the early days of September.

There Hadjine expected to have finished her campaign of charity and devotion. She deemed that the Syphanta would take back the convoy of prisoners bought by all that remained of her fortune.

But during the following six months how great were the hardships and dangers to be borne!

She went to Barbary, to the ports infested by pirates on the African coast. There she risked her liberty, risked her life, in braving the dangers to which her beauty and youth exposed her.

Nothing could stop her. She went.

As a sister of mercy she appeared at Tripoli, at Algiers, at Tunis, and in the most infamous markets of the African coast. Everywhere she met with Greek prisoners she bought them back at a premium. Everywhere she heard of an auction for human beings she went with her money in her hand. Thus did she see all the horrors of slavery in a country where passion is unbridled.

Algiers was then in the power of an army of Mussulmans and renegades, the scum of the three continents that form the coast-line of the Mediterranean, who lived only on the sale of the prisoners brought by the pirates, and then re-purchased by the Christians. In the seventeenth century there were in Africa more than forty thousand slaves of both sexes, collected from France, Italy, Britain, Germany, Flanders, Holland, Greece, Hungary, Russia, Poland, and Spain, in all the seas of Europe.

At Algiers, in the bagnios of the pacha, of Ali Mauri, of the Kouloughis, and of Sidi Hassan; at Tunis, in those of Yussuf Dey, of Galere Patrone, and of Cicala; and at Tripoli, Hadjine Elizundo especially searched for those whom the Greek war had sent into slavery. As if protected by some talisman, she passed through all dangers and relieved much misery. From the thousand perils with which she was surrounded she escaped as if by a miracle. During the six months, in the small coasters of the country, she visited the remotest ports from Tripoli to the furthest limits of Morocco”; to Tetuan, which was formerly a regularly organized pirate republic; to Tangier, whose bay was the winter haunt of the corsairs; to Sallee on the western coast of Africa, where the unfortunate captives had to live in caverns dug twelve or fifteen feet under ground.

At length her mission was over. Nothing was left of all her father’s wealth, and Hadjine Elizundo thought of returning to Europe with Xaris. She embarked in a Greek vessel with the last prisoners she had purchased, and sailed for Scarpanto. There she hoped to meet Henry D’Albaret. Thence she hoped to return to Greece on the Syphanta. But three days after leaving Tunis, the ship was captured by a Turkish man-of-war, and she was taken to Arkassa to be sold for a slave with those she had come to free.

The results of Hadjine’s enterprise were that many thousands of prisoners had been bought back with the money gained by their sale. The girl, reduced to poverty, had repaired as well as she could the evil done by her father.

This was what D’Albaret now learnt! Yes! Hadjine, poor, was now worthy of him, and to save her from Nicholas Starkos he had become as poor!

At daybreak on the following morning the Syphanta sighted the coast of Crete. Her course lay northwesterly across the Archipelago. Her captain’s intention was to make the eastern coast of Greece about Euboea. There, either at Negropont or Aegina, the prisoners could safely disembark, well away from the Turks who were now shut up in the Peloponnesus.

The captives were well treated on the Syphanta, and some recovered from the frightful sufferings they had undergone. During the day they stood about the deck breathing the refreshing breeze of the Archipelago — children, mothers, and husbands and wives, threatened with eternal separation, henceforth re-united for ever. They knew also all that Hadjine Elizundo had done for them, and when she passed by on the arm of D’Albaret she was received with every mark of gratitude conveyed in the most touching manner.

In the early morning hours of the 4th of September, the Syphanta lost sight of the Cretan hills; but the breeze began to drop, and during the day, although under full canvas, her progress was very slight. The sea was smooth, the sky was superb. Nothing showed an approaching change in the weather. All that could be done was to “let her run,” as the sailors said, and wait.

This peaceful sailing was highly favourable for conversation. There was very little to do. The officers had only to stroll about the quarter-deck, while the look-outs forward signalled the land in sight or the ships in the offing.

Hadjine and D’Albaret used to sit on a seat that had been reserved for them on the poop. There they often talked, not only of the past, but of the future, which they now felt they could arrange for. Many were the plans they made, and submitted to Xaris, who was looked upon as one of the family. Their wedding was to take place as soon as they landed in Greece. That done, there would be no delay in dealing with purely business matters. The year spent in her charitable mission had simplified them considerably. As soon as he was married, D’Albaret. was to hand over the command of the corvette to Todros, and depart with his bride to France.

But on this particular evening they were thinking of something quite different. The gentle breeze hardly filled the Syphanta’s sails. A marvellous sunset had lighted up the horizon, and a few rays of gold still spread over the misty circle in the west. Opposite to them there shone the few first stars of evening. The sea gleamed beneath the undulation of the phosphorescent flakes that floated on its bosom. The night promised to be magnificent.

D’Albaret and Hadjine yielded themselves to the charm of this delightful time. They watched the vessel’s wake just faintly edged with white. The silence was only broken by the flapping of the sail as the folds softly swept across it. Lost in the thoughts of each other they saw nothing, but they were called back to reality by a voice behind D’Albaret. He turned and beheld Xaris.

“Captain,” said Xaris for the third time.

“What is the matter, my friend?” answered D’Albaret, seeing Xaris hesitate.

“What do you want, Xaris?” asked Hadjine.

“I have something to say to you, captain.”

“What?”

“This. The passengers on the corvette — the people you are taking back to their country — have had an idea, and they have asked me to tell you about it.”

“Well, I am listening, Xaris.”

“Well, captain, they know you are going to marry Hadjine.”

“Doubtless,” said D’Albaret with a smile,” that is a mystery to nobody!”

“Well, these people would be very pleased to be present at your wedding.”

“And so they shall, Xaris; they shall, and never would a bride have a better following if we could gather round her all those she had freed from slavery.”

“Henry!” said Hadjine, interrupting.

“The captain is right,” answered Xaris. “In any case the corvette’s passengers will be there, and — “

“On our arrival in Greece,” continued D’Albaret, “I will invite them all to the ceremony of our marriage.”

“Good!” answered Xaris. “But after having conceived that idea, the good people became possessed of a second.”

“As good?”

“Better! It is to ask you to let the marriage take place on board the Syphanta. Is not this gallant corvette a part of our country?”

“Quite so,” answered D’Albaret. “Will you consent, Hadjine?”

Hadjine in reply held out her hand.

“Well answered,” said Xaris.

“You can inform the passengers on the Syphanta that it shall be as they wish.”

“That is understood, captain. But,” added Xaris, hesitating slightly, “that is not all.”

“Go on then, Xaris,” said Hadjine.

“These excellent people having had a good idea, and then a better one, have had a third, which they think the best of all.”

“Indeed! a third!” exclaimed D’Albaret; “and what is the third?”

“Not only that the marriage should take place on the open sea-but tomorrow. There is amongst us an old priest — “

“Sail ho!” shouted the look-out on the foretopmast crosstrees.

D’Albaret arose and joined Todros, who was already looking in the direction indicated.

A flotilla composed of a dozen vessels of different sizes had appeared in sight about six miles to the eastward, and as the Syphanta was almost becalmed, the flotilla, urged by a fading breeze which had not reached the corvette, would certainly come up with her.

D’Albaret took his telescope, and attentively watched the approach of the ships.

“Captain Todros,” said he, “the flotilla is still too far off for us to make out its intentions or its strength.”

“Just so; and with this moonless night coming on we shall not be able to tell. We must wait till tomorrow.

“Yes,” said the captain; “but as the surroundings are not very safe, give orders to keep a very careful watch.

Take every precaution in ease the ships approach the Syphanta.”

Captain Todros gave the necessary orders, which were immediately executed.

In the presence of the accidents that might happen, the decision as to the marriage was postponed. Hadjine, at D’Albaret’s wish, returned to her cabin.

During the night there was little sleep on board. The presence of the flotilla in the offing was enough to cause uneasiness. As much us possible, a watch was kept on its movements. But a thick mist arose about nine o’clock and shut out the view.

In the morning the horizon at sunrise was masked with vapour. As the wind had fallen entirely, the mist did not clear off before ten o’clock. Nothing suspicious, however, appeared through the fog; but when it had vanished, the whole flotilla rose to view some four miles away. It had thus gained some two miles since the evening in the direction of the Syphanta, and if it had not come closer, it was because the fog had kept it back.

There were a dozen vessels coming along propelled by their sweeps. The corvette, whose size was too great to permit her of using such things, remained motionless; all she could do was to wait without being able to move.

And there could be no mistake about the intentions of the flotilla.

“That is a remarkably suspicious lot!” said Captain Todros.

“More than suspicious!” answered D’Albaret; “there is the brig we chased on the coast of Crete.”

The captain of the Syphanta was not mistaken. The brig that had so strangely vanished at Scarpanto was the leading vessel, sailing so as to keep with the other vessels.

A few light airs now reached them from the east. They favoured the advance of the flotilla. But they only slightly ruffled the sea, and died away to nothing a few cable-lengths from the corvette.

Suddenly, DAlbaret threw down the telescope.

“Beat to quarters,” he said.

A long jet of white vapour rose from the brig, and a flag floated up to her peak at the same moment as the report of a gun reached the corvette.

The flag was black, and a fiery-red S appeared across it.

It was the flag of the pirate SACRATIF.

CHAPTER XIV.

SACRATIF.

THE flotilla, composed of a dozen ships, had left Scarpanto the evening before. Whether they were to attack the corvette in front, or surround her, the fight would take place with all the chances in their favour. But the fight, in the absence of the wind, would have to be fought. Besides, had it been possible to avoid the struggle D’Albaret would have refused to do so. The Syphanta could not, without dishonour, retreat before the pirates of the Archipelago.

In the twelve ships were four brigs, carrying from sixteen to eighteen guns. The eight other vessels were of inferior tonnage, but armed with light artillery. They consisted of two-masted saics, snows, feluccas, and saccolevas. As far as the corvette’s officers could judge, there would be about a hundred pieces opened on to them, to which they would have to reply with twenty-two guns and six carronades. There would be nearly eight hundred men for the two hundred of their crew to battle with. An unequal combat, assuredly. The heavier artillery of the Syphanta might give her some chance of success, but only on condition that the enemy were not allowed too near. The flotilla must be kept at a distance so as to disable them with her broadsides. In a word, everything would have to be done to prevent them boarding, for then the numbers would tell — more so, in fact, than on land, for retreat being impossible, the men would be obliged to die or surrender.

An hour after the fog had risen the flotilla had sensibly gained on the corvette, which remained motionless as if at anchor.

D’Albaret kept a careful watch on the approach and preparations of the pirates. His men were all at their stations. The passengers who were well enough had all volunteered to take part in the fight, and arms had been served out to them. Absolute silence reigned on the decks, scarcely broken by the few words the captain exchanged with Todros.

“We must not let them board,” said he. “Wait till the leaders are well within range, and then let fly the starboard guns.”

“Shall we dismast them or sink them?”

“Sink them.”

This was the best thing to do in fighting these pirates — more particularly this Sacratif who had so insolently hoisted his flag, in the expectation, doubtless, that not a man in the corvette would escape to boast that he had seen him face to face.

About one o’clock the flotilla had advanced to within a mile of the corvette. It continued to be rowed along by its sweeps. The Syphanta, with her head to the north-west, could hardly keep from drifting off her course. The pirates came on in line of battle — two of the brigs in the middle of the line, and the others at the ends. They manoeuvred so as to surround the corvette, and close on to her. Their object was evidently to crush her under a converging fire; and then to board.

D’Albaret saw the manoeuvre, which would be so dangerous to him and which he could not prevent, owing to his being condemned to remain motionless.

But, perhaps, he might break the line with his guns before he was completely surrounded. Already the officers were asking themselves why the captain, in that quiet voice they knew so well, did not give the order to open fire.

No! D’Albaret intended to strike hard, and he wished to get well within range.

Ten minutes went by. Every one was ready; the captains of the guns with their eyes at the sights, the officers ready to transmit the captain’s orders, the sailors on the deck. Was the first broadside to come from the enemy now he was near enough to fire with effect?

D’Albaret said not a word. He looked at the line whose ends began to curve round. The brigs in the centre — from one of which flew the flag of Sacratif — were then less than a mile away.

But if the captain of the Syphanta was in no hurry to begin firing, it seemed as though the leader of the flotilla thought the same. Perhaps he intended to board the corvette without a gun being discharged.

At last D’Albaret thought he had waited long enough. A light breeze rose, just strong enough to enable him to get into position and rake the two brigs about half a mile off.

“Attention!” he shouted.

A slight noise was heard on board, and then all was still.

“Aim low!” said the captain.

The order was immediately repeated by the officers and their guns were pointed at the hulls, while those on deck were aimed at the rigging.

“Fire!” shouted D’Albaret The starboard broadside was discharged. Eleven guns and three carronades despatched their projectiles, and amongst them were several chain-shot to damage the rigging.

As soon as the smoke cleared away, the effect on the two vessels was apparent. It was not complete, but it was important.

One of the brigs had been struck above the water-line. Many of her shrouds and backstays had been cut. Her foremast, pierced a few feet above the deck, had fallen forward. She would then have to lose time in repairing damages, but could still advance on the corvette. The danger of being surrounded had not been diminished by this commencement of the fight.

The two other brigs on the right and left wings were now level with the Syphanta. They began to turn on to her, and gave her a raking broadside, which she could not avoid.

The consequences were unfortunate; the corvette’s mizenmast was cut off at the cheeks, and all the after rigging came down with a run, fortunately without hurting the mainmast. At the same time a boat was cut to pieces. An officer and two sailors were killed on the spot, and three or four men were seriously wounded and carried below.

Immediately D’Albaret gave orders to clear the poop, and this was done without delay. Rigging, sails, broken yards and spars were stowed away in a few minutes. The artillery fight began again. The corvette taken between two fires was fighting both broadsides.

The second broadside of the Syphanta was so well aimed that two of the fleet — a snow and a saic — were struck below the water-line, and sank. The crews had only just time to jump overboard and swim to the brigs.

Cheers arose from the crew of the corvette at this double success.

“Two down!” said Todros.

“Yes,” said D’Albaret,” but the fellows have got to the brigs, and I want to stop the boarding, which will give them such an advantage.”

For a quarter of an hour the cannonade continued on both sides. The pirate ships as well as the corvette disappeared in a cloud of powder smoke, and it would have to clear off before the damages done to each other could be distinguished. Unfortunately, the Syphanta suffered heavily. Many of the men were killed, others grievously wounded. One French officer was cut in two while the captain was speaking to him.

The dead and the wounded were taken below. The surgeon and his assistants were busy with dressings and operations necessitated by the state of those who were struck directly by the shots, or indirectly by the splinters. Although the musketry had not yet spoken, and the vessels remained within half gun-shot, the wounds were serious and terrible.

On this occasion the women, who had been sent into the hold, failed not in their duty. Hadjine Elizundo set them an example. They did their utmost to take care of the wounded, to encourage them and comfort them.

It was then that the old prisoner of Scarpanto left her retreat. The sight of the blood frightened her not; doubtless the chances of life had already brought her on many a battle-field. By the light of the lamps on the orlop-deck, she leant’ over the cots in which lay the wounded, assisted at the most dreadful operations, and when a fresh broadside made the corvette tremble to her keelson, not a movement of her eyes betrayed that the noise even startled her.

But the time was coming when the crew of the Syphanta would be obliged to fight the pirates with cold steel. The line had closed around her. The circle grew smaller and smaller. The corvette had become the target for all the converging guns.

But she defended herself well for the honour of the flag. Her artillery made huge ravages on board the flotilla. Two other vessels, a saic and a felucca, were destroyed. One sank; the other disappeared in flames.

But it was inevitable that she should be boarded. The Syphanta could only avoid being so by forcing the line that surrounded her. But there was not a breath of wind. She could not move, while the pirates kept at their long sweeps and rowed closer and closer.

The brig with the black flag was now but a pistol-shot away. She fired her broadside. One of the shots struck the pintle on the stern-post and unshipped the rudder.

D’Albaret prepared to receive the assault, and got ready the boarding-nettings. Then the small arms began. Swivels and blunderbusses, muskets and pistols, rained a hail of bullets on to the deck. Many of the sailors fell, most of them mortally wounded. Twenty times D’Albaret should have been hit, but motionless and calm on his quarter-deck, he gave his orders as coolly as if he were firing a salvo of honour at a royal review.

At this time, through the rifts in the smoke, the crews could see each other. The horrible curses of the bandits could be heard above the din. On board the brig with the black flag, D’Albaret sought in vain to descry this Sacratif, whose very name was a terror in the Archipelago.

It was then that to port and starboard of her, this brig and one of those that closed the ring, ranged alongside the corvette. The grappling-irons caught in the rigging and bound the three ships together. Their guns were silent, but as the Syphanta’s ports were so many open doorways for the pirates, the men remained at their posts to defend them with axes, pistols, and pikes.

Suddenly a shout arose on all sides, and with such fury that the noise of the musketry was for an instant drowned.

“All hands to board!”

The hand-to-hand combat became frightful. Neither the swivels, the blunderbusses, the guns, the axes, nor the pikes could keep off the pirates, who, drunk with rage and greedy for blood, leapt on to the corvette. From their tops they kept up a plunging fire of grenades, which rendered the deck of the Syphanta untenable.

D’Albaret beheld himself assailed on all sides. His nettings, although higher than those of the brigs, were carried by assault. The pirates passed along the yards, and, cutting the overhead nettings, dropped them on to the deck. What mattered it that a few were killed before they reached them! Their number was such that it made no difference.

The crew of the corvette, now reduced to less than two hundred men, had to deal with more than six hundred.

The two brigs kept passing on to the corvette the crews of the rest of the fleet, who mounted them on their off-sides, and rushed on to battle. They formed a mass it was impossible to resist. The blood flowed in streams on the Syphanta’s deck. The wounded, in their last convulsions, rose to give a last shot with their pistols, or a farewell stab with their daggers. All was confusion amid the smoke. But the Corfiote flag remained aloft while there was a man to defend it.

In the thick of the horrible fight Xaris fought like a lion. He had never left the poop. Twenty times his axe, looped to his powerful wrist, had cleft a pirate’s head, and saved D’Albaret’s life.

In the midst of all this the captain never lost his self-control. Of what was he thinking? Of surrender? No! But what was he doing? Was he going to imitate that heroic Bisson, who ten months before, under similar circumstances, had blown up his ship rather than surrender to the Turks? Was he going to annihilate with the corvette the two brigs on her sides? But that was to envelop in the same destruction the wounded of the Syphanta, the prisoners snatched from Starkos, the women, the children! To sacrifice Hadjine! And those who escaped the explosion, if Sacratif gave them their lives, how were they, this time, to escape the horrors of slavery?

“Look out, captain,” exclaimed Xaris, jumping before him.

Another second, and D’Albaret would have been killed. But Xaris seized the pirate who would have struck at him by the hands and hurled him into the sea. Thrice did others rush at; D’Albaret; thrice did Xaris stretch them at his feet.

And now the deck was completely invaded by the swarm of assailants. Scarcely was there heard a report. The fight was hand-to-hand with cold steel, and the shouts rose above the noise of the guns.

The pirates, already masters of the forecastle, had carried the deck to the foot of the mainmast. Gradually they were driving the crew towards the poop. They were ten to one. How was resistance possible?

Had Captain D’Albaret desired to blow up his ship he could not now do so. The pirates occupied the hatchways, giving access to below. They swarmed on to the main-deck, where the sanguinary struggle went on. To reach the magazine was not to be thought of. Everywhere the superior number of the pirates carried the day. A barrier of the bodies of their dead and wounded comrades kept them from the after part of the Syphanta. The front ranks, urged on from behind, came climbing over it to add more corpses to its height. Then, crowding over the barricade and soaking their feet in the blood, they rushed to the assault of the poop.

There some fifty men and five or six officers had gathered under Captain Todros. They surrounded their captain — determined to resist to death.

In that narrow space the fight was desperate. The flag had been hoisted on a boarding-pike. This was the last post that honour required the last man to defend.

But determined as they might be, what could this little group do against five or six hundred pirates who then occupied the forecastle, the deck, the tops, and rained down the grenades? The crews of the flotilla kept swarming to the help of their comrades. So many pirates were there that the combat had not in the least weakened their fighting force, although the defenders of the poop grew less and less every minute. The poop was, however, a fortress. Many times it had to be charged. None knows what blood was poured forth to carry it. At last it was taken! The men of the Syphanta recoiled beneath the avalanche which swept on to it. Then they closed round the flag and made a barricade of their bodies. D’Albaret was in the centre with his dagger in one hand and his pistol in the other.

The captain of the corvette would not surrender! He was overwhelmed by numbers! Then he would die! It was in vain! It seemed that those who attacked him had secret orders to take him alive — an order whose execution cost twenty lives beneath the axe of Xaris. He was at last taken with those of his officers who had survived. Xaris and the other sailors were reduced to helplessness. The flag of the Syphanta ceased to float on her poop.

At the same time, shouts, vociferations, and cheers resounded on all sides. They came from the victors, who were hailing their leader.

“Sacratif! Sacratif!”

He appeared in the boarding-nettings of the corvette. The mass of pirates divided to let him pass. Slowly he walked aft over the corpses of his comrades. Then mounting the steps of the poop, he advanced towards Henry DAlbaret.

The captain of the Syphanta could at last behold the man whom the crowd of pirates hailed as Sacratif.

It was Nicholas Starkos!

CHAPTER XV.

CONCLUSION.

THE fight between the corvette and the flotilla had lasted for more than two and a half hours. On the side of the assailants there were at least five hundred killed and wounded; of the crew of the Syphanta there were about two hundred and fifty. These figures tell how fierce had been the fight. But numbers only had won. Henry D’Albaret, his officers, his sailors, and his passengers were now in the hands of the pitiless Sacratif.

Sacratif and Starkos were in fact the same man. Up till then no one had known that under this name there lived a Greek, a child of Maina, a traitor gone over to the cause of the oppressors. Yes, it was Nicholas Starkos who commanded the flotilla, whose excesses had made it the terror of the seas. It was he who joined the trade of pirate to that of a still more infamous occupation! It was he who sold to the infidels of Barbary his fellow-countrymen who had escaped from the massacres of the Turks! Sacratif, the accursed, was the son of Andronika Starkos.

Sacratif — for it is better we should now call him so — Sacratif had for many years made Scarpanto the centre of his operations. There up the unknown creeks of its eastern coast had he fixed the chief stations of his fleet. There his companions, faithless and lawless, obeying him blindly and ready for any violence, formed the crews of the score of vessels of whom the command incontestably belonged to him.

After his departure from Corfu in the Karysta, Sacratif had sailed straight to Scarpanto. His idea was to begin a campaign in the Archipelago, in the hope of meeting the corvette he had seen go out in search of him. However, while thinking of the Syphanta, he had not given up the idea of recovering Hadjine Elizundo and her millions, or of being revenged on Henry DAlbaret. The pirate flotilla went in search of the corvette, but although Sacratif often heard of the reprisals she had inflicted on the skimmers of the seas in the north of the Archipelago, he had never been able to fall in with her. He had not been in command at Lemnos when the fight occurred in which Captain Stradena had lost his life, but he had been at Thasos on the saccoleva and escaped during the fight off the harbour. But he did not then know that the corvette was commanded by D’Albaret, and he did not ascertain it until the meeting in the market-place of Scarpanto.

Sacratif on leaving Thasos had stopped at Syra, and he only left the island sixteen hours before the corvette’s arrival. There was no mistake about the saccoleva’s sailing for Crete, and at Grabousa he left the saccoleva for the brig, which took him on to Scarpanto, there to prepare for another campaign. The corvette sighted the brig soon after she left Grabousa, and chased her in vain, as we know.

Sacratif had recognized the Syphanta. To turn on her and carry her by boarding to satisfy the hate which consumed him, had been his first thought. But on reflection he thought it better to let her follow him along the coast of Crete, inveigle her into the neighbourhood of Scarpanto, and then disappear in one of the hiding-places he alone knew.

This he did, and the pirate chief was preparing his flotilla to attack the Syphanta, when circumstances precipitated the end of the drama.

We know what passed’, we know how Sacratif had visited the market-place of Arkassa, and after finding Hadjine Elizundo among the prisoners in the batistan, came face to face with Henry D’Albaret, the captain of the corvette.

Sacratif, believing that Hadjine Elizundo was still the wealthy heiress of the Corfiote banker, wished at any price to become her master. D’Albaret’s intervention frustrated his attempt.

More resolved than ever to seize Hadjine Elizundo, to revenge himself on his rival, and to destroy the corvette, Sacratif dragged away Skopelo and returned to the west of the island. That D’Albaret would immediately leave Scarpanto with his prisoners could hardly be doubted. The flotilla was completed and got together, and the next morning went to sea. Circumstances had favoured its progress. The Syphanta had fallen into his power.

When Sacratif set foot on the corvette’s deck it was three o’clock in the afternoon. The breeze had begun to spring up so as to allow the other ships to take up their stations and keep the Syphanta under their guns. The two brigs on her sides were kept there until the chief went on board of them. At present, however, he had no thought of doing so, and a hundred pirates remained with him on the Syphanta.

Sacratif had not yet spoken to D’Albaret. He had contented himself with exchanging a few words with Skopelo who was ordering off the prisoners, officers, and men towards the hatchways. There they would join their comrades who had surrendered on the main-deck; but all were sent down into the hold, and the hatches fastened over them. What fate was reserved for them? Doubtless a horrible death awaited them when the Syphanta was destroyed.

D’Albaret and Todros were left on the poop, disarmed, handcuffed, and guarded.

Sacratif, surrounded by a dozen of the pirates, stepped towards them.

“I did not know,” he said, “that the Syphanta was commanded by Henry D’Albaret. If I had known it I should not have hesitated to fight him in the waters of Crete, and he would not have had to bid against the fathers of mercy at Scarpanto.”

“If Nicholas Starkos had waited for us in the waters of Crete,” answered D’Albaret,” he would long ago have been hanged at the Syphanta’s foreyard-arm.”

“Indeed?” exclaimed Sacratif; “Summary justice!”

“Yes, the justice that a pirate best deserves.”

“Take care, Henry D’Albaret,” said Sacratif; “take care; your foreyard is still on the mast, and I have only to give a sign.”

“Do it!”

“You don’t hang officers!” exclaimed Todros. “You shoot them! That scoundrel’s death — “

“Is all that a scoundrel can give!” said D’Albaret.

At these words Sacratif made a gesture whose meaning the pirates knew too well.

It was a sentence of death.

Five or six men threw themselves on to D’Albaret, while the others seized Todros, who tried in vain to break his bonds.

The captain of the Syphanta was dragged forward amid the most awful vociferations. Already a block and a line were in position at the yardarm, and but a few seconds would have elapsed before the captain was swung up, when Hadjine Elizundo appeared on the deck.

The girl had been brought there by Sacratif’s order. She knew that the pirate chief was Nicholas Starkos. But neither her composure nor her spirit deserted her.

And first her eyes sought Henry D’Albaret. She knew not if he had survived the carnage. She saw him! He was alive — alive, and about to submit to the last penalty!

Hadjine Elizundo ran to him.

“Henry! Henry!”

The pirates would have separated them, but Sacratif, who was walking forward, stopped a few paces from Hadjine and Henry D’Albaret.

He looked at them with cruel irony.

“Hadjine Elizundo is now in the power of Nicholas Starkos,” said he, crossing his arms; “I have now in my power the heiress of the rich banker of Corfu!”

“The heiress but not the heritage!” answered Hadjine coldly.

The distinction Sacratif could not understand, and he continued, —

“I believe that the betrothed of Nicholas Starkos will not refuse him her hand now she finds him under the name of Sacratif.”

“I!” exclaimed Hadjine.

“You!” answered Sacratif with still more irony. “That you should be so grateful towards the generous captain of the Syphanta, who bought you, is well. But what he did I tried to do. It was for you, not for these prisoners that I cared. Yes! for you alone it was that I was sacrificing my fortune! One moment longer, fair Hadjine, and I should have been your master — or rather your slave!”

And saying so Sacratif made a step in advance. The girl pressed more closely to D’Albaret.

“Miserable!” she exclaimed.

“Yes! rather miserable, Hadjine!” answered Sacratif. “And it is on your millions I rely to alleviate my misery!”

At the words the girl raised herself to her full height.

“Nicholas Starkos,” said she composedly, “Hadjine Elizundo has no longer the fortune you covet! That fortune she has spent in repairing some of the evil her father wrought to acquire it! Nicholas Starkos, Hadjine Elizundo is now poorer than most of the unfortunate people the Syphanta was taking home.”

For the moment Sacratif was quite staggered at the unexpected revelation; then his attitude suddenly changed. His eyes blazed with fury. Yes! he had reckoned that Hadjine would have sacrificed her millions to save Henry D’Albaret’s life! And of those millions — he had just been told in a tone whose truthfulness he could not doubt — there remained nothing.

Sacratif looked at Hadjine. He looked at D’Albaret. Skopelo kept his eyes fixed on him, knowing how the drama would end, for the orders as to the corvette’s destruction had already been given, and he was only waiting for a sign to put them into execution. Sacratif turned towards him.

“Go, Skopelo!” he said.

Skopelo, followed by a few of his companions, ran down the steps on to the main deck, and made for the magazine in the stern of the Syphanta.

At the same time Sacratif ordered the pirates to return to the brigs, which remained alongside the corvette.

D’Albaret understood. It was not by his death alone that Sacratif was going to gratify his revenge. Hundreds were condemned to perish with him to assuage the monster’s hate.

Already the two brigs had thrown off their grappling-irons and let fall some of their sails to help the sweeps to move them away. Of the pirates hardly a score remained on board the corvette. The boats were waiting alongside the Syphanta till Sacratif ordered his men to retire.

And now Skopelo and his men appeared on deck.

“To the boats!” said he.

“To the boats!” shouted Sacratif in a terrible voice. “In a few minutes not a timber will remain of this cursed ship! You did not wish to have a scoundrel’s death, Henry D’Albaret! Be it so. We will blow you up and spare neither the prisoners, the crew, nor the officers of the Syphanta! You ought to thank me for allowing you to die in such excellent company.”

“Yes, thank him. Henry,” said Hadjine. “Thank him for letting us die together!”

“You die, Hadjine?” answered Sacratif. “No! you shall live, and you shall be my slave. My slave! Do you understand?”

“Scoundrel!” said D’Albaret.

The girl clung closer to him. She to be in the power of such a man!

“Seize her!” said Sacratif.

“And to the boats!” said Skopelo. “There is only just time.”

Two pirates caught hold of Hadjine.

They dragged her to the gangway.

“And now,” sneered Sacratif, “that all will perish with the Syphanta, all — “

“Yes, all — and your mother with them!”

The old prisoner had just appeared on the deck — her face unveiled.

“My mother! on board here?” exclaimed Sacratif.

“Your mother, Nicholas Starkos,” replied Andronika, “and it is by your hand that I shall die.”

“Bring her away! bring her away!” shouted Sacratif.

Some of his comrades sprang towards Andronika; but at the same moment the survivors of the Syphanta swarmed on to the deck. They had cut through the hatches of the hold where they were imprisoned, and broken out through the forecastle.

“Here, here!” yelled Sacratif.

The pirates on the deck, under Skopelo, tried to rush to the rescue. The sailors with their daggers and boarding-axes cut them down to the last man.

Sacratif saw that he was lost. But at least all those he hated so cruelly would perish with him!

“Blow up, you cursed thing!” he exclaimed. “Up you go!”

“Blow up our Syphanta. Never!”

It was Xaris who appeared — with a torch in one hand, snatched from the powder-barrels, and a boarding-axe in the other. He made a leap at Sacratif, and with one swing of the axe cut him down to the deck.

Andronika shrieked. All the maternal feeling in a mother’s heart, even after such a career of crime, reacted within her. The blow that had killed her son she would have thrust aside.

She stepped up to the body, she knelt, as if to give it her last pardon and her last adieu. And she fell lifeless by its side.

D’Albaret bent over her.

“Dead!” he said. “May Heaven pardon the son for the sake of the mother!”

But some of the pirates in the boats had boarded the brigs. The news of Sacratif’s death spread like lightning.

It must be avenged! and the guns of the flotilla began again to thunder against the Syphanta.

But it was in vain. D’Albaret had resumed the command of the corvette. What remained of his crew — a hundred men — again took their places at the guns, and vigorously replied to the broadsides of the pirates.

Soon one of the brigs — the very one on which Sacratif had hoisted his flag — was struck below the water-line and sank amid the horrible imprecations of the bandits she bore to the bottom.

“Go it, my lads! go it,” exclaimed D’Albaret; “we shall yet save the Syphanta.”

And the fight spread around. But the redoubtable Sacratif was no longer there to cheer on the pirates, and they dared not again attempt to board.

Soon only four vessels remained out of the whole flotilla. These the guns of the Syphanta could sink at a distance, and as the breeze was strong enough, the pirates availed themselves of it and took to flight.

“Three cheers for Greece!” shouted Henry D’Albaret, as the Syphanta’s colours again mounted the mainmast.

It was then five o’clock. In spite of all that they had gone through, not a man would rest until the corvette was in a position to resume her course.

They bent new sails; they fished the lower masts; they raised a jury-mast to replace the broken mizen; they strung new halyards, set up new shrouds, and repaired the rudder. And that very evening the Syphanta resumed her voyage to the north-west.

The body of Andronika Starkos was laid out on the poop, and sentries placed over it, in recognition of her patriotism. D’Albaret resolved to bury her in her native ground.

As for the corpse of Nicholas Starkos, a shot was fastened to its feet and it vanished beneath the waters of the Archipelago which the pirate Sacratif had so long troubled with his crimes.

Twenty-four hours afterwards, on the 7th of September, about six o’clock in the evening, the Syphanta sighted the island of Aegina, and entered the harbour after a year’s cruise, in which she had henceforth given safety to the seas of Greece.

Her passengers rent the air with their cheers. Henry D’Albaret bid farewell to his officers and crew, and handed over the command of the corvette to Captain Todros; and Hadjine presented the ship to the new Government.

A few days afterwards, amid a great throng of the people, and in the presence of the officers, the crew, and the passengers of the Syphanta, the wedding took place between Henry D’Albaret and Hadjine Elizundo. On the morrow the happy couple departed for France, with Xaris, who would not leave them.

The surrounding seas began to calm down. The last pirates had disappeared, and the Syphanta, under Captain Todros, discovered not a trace of the black flag which had sunk with Sacratif. It was no longer the Archipelago in flames. It was the Archipelago after the flames had gone out, re-welcomed to the commerce of the East.

The Hellenic kingdom, thanks to the heroism of its children, took its place among the free states of Europe. On the 22nd of March, 1829, the Sultan signed the convention with the allied powers; on the 22nd of September the battle of Petra assured the victory of the Greeks. In 1832 the Treaty of London bestowed the Crown on Prince Otho of Bavaria. The kingdom of Greece was definitely founded.

And about that time Henry and Hadjine D’Albaret returned to settle in the country. Their fortune was but moderate, it is true, but happiness could not fail to be theirs — for they were happy in each other.

THE END

THE STAR OF THE SOUTH

Anonymous translation, 1885

Also known as The Vanished Diamond, this novel was first published in 1884. It takes place in South Africa and tells the story of French mining engineer Victor Cyprien, who moves to the Griquland district to study the formation of diamonds. While he is there he falls in love with the daughter of the wealthy landowner. However, the course of love does not run smooth…

The original front page of the French edition

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

ONE FOR THE FRENCHMAN

CHAPTER II

TO THE DIAMOND FIELDS

CHAPTER III

A LITTLE SCIENCE

CHAPTER IV

VANDERGAART KOPJE

CHAPTER V

THE DIGGERS AT WORK

CHAPTER VI

IN CAMP

CHAPTER VII

THE LANDSLIP

CHAPTER VIII

THE GREAT EXPERIMENT

CHAPTER IX

A SURPRISE

CHAPTER X

JOHN WATKINS THINKS MATTERS OVER

CHAPTER XI

THE STAR DISAPPEARS

CHAPTER XII

MAKING READY

CHAPTER XIII

ACROSS THE TRANSVAAL

CHAPTER XIV

THE NORTH OF THE LIMPOPO

CHAPTER XV

A PLOT

CHAPTER XVI

TREASON

CHAPTER XVII

AN AFRICAN STEEPLECHASE

CHAPTER XVIII

THE TALKING OSTRICH

CHAPTER XIX

THE WONDERFUL GROTTO

CHAPTER XX

THE RETURN

CHAPTER XXI

VENETIAN JUSTICE

CHAPTER XXII

A MINE OF A NEW SORT

CHAPTER XXIII

THE HOUR OF TRIUMPH

CHAPTER XXIV

THE FATE OF THE STAR

The first edition in English

CHAPTER I

ONE FOR THE FRENCHMAN

“GO on, I am listening.”

“I have the honor to ask you for your daughter’s hand.”

“Alice?”

“Yes. My request seems to surprise you. Perhaps you will forgive me if I have some difficulty in understanding why it appears so strange. I am twenty-six years old; my name is Victor Cyprien; I am a mining engineer, and left the Polytechnic as second on the list. My family is honest and respected, if it is not rich. The French consul at Capetown can answer any questions about me you are likely to ask, and my friend Pharamond Barthes, the explorer, whom you — like everybody else in Griqualand — know right well, can add his testimony. I am here on a scientific mission in the name of the Academy of Sciences and the French Government. Last year I gained the Houdart prize at the Institute for my researches on the chemistry of the volcanic rocks of Auvergne. My paper on the diamantiferous basin of the Vaal, which is nearly finished, is sure of a good reception from the scientific world. When I started on my mission I was appointed Assistant-Professor at the Paris School of Mines, and I have already engaged my rooms on the third floor at No. 104 of the Rue Universite. My appointments will, during the first year, bring me in two hundred pounds. That is hardly an El Dorado, I know, but with my private work I can nearly double it. My wants being few, I have enough to be happy on. And so, Mr. Watkins, I have the honor to ask you for your daughter’s hand.”

From the firm, decided tone of this little speech it was easy to see that Cyprien was accustomed to go straight to the point in what he did, and to speak his mind freely.

His looks did not belie his words. They were those of a young man habitually occupied in the abstrusest problems of science, and only giving to worldly vanities the time that was absolutely necessary. All about him showed an earnest and serious disposition, while his clear, keen glance proclaimed an untroubled conscience. He was by birth a Frenchman, but he spoke English as well as if he had lived all his life beneath the British flag.

Seated in his arm-chair, with his left leg thrust out on to a stool, and his elbow resting on the table, Mr. Watkins listened to Cyprien’s speech and puffed away at his pipe. The old man wore white trousers, a blue linen jacket, and a yellow flannel shirt, and had neither waistcoat nor cravat. His huge felt hat seemed to be screwed on to his gray head. The red, bloated face was cut into by a bristly beard, and lighted up by two little gray eyes that spoke of anything but patience and good-nature.

As some excuse for Mr. Watkins, it may be mentioned that he was a terrible sufferer from the gout — hence his bandaged leg; and the gout in Africa, as elsewhere, is not calculated to soften the asperities of a man’s character.

The scene is at Watkins’ Farm, in lat. 290 S. long. 250 E. on the western border of the Orange Free State, and nearly five hundred miles from Capetown. On the older maps the surrounding district bears the title of Griqualand, but for the last dozen years it has been better known as the Diamond Fields.

The parlor in which the interview is in progress is as remarkable for the luxury of some of its furniture as for the poverty of the rest. The floor is simply the natural earth leveled and beaten flat, and this is covered here and there with thick carpets and precious furs. The walls are destitute of paper or paint, and yet .they are decked with a magnificent candelabrum, and valuable weapons of various kinds hang side by side with gorgeously colored lithographs in resplendent frames. A velvet sofa stands next to a plain deal table, such as is generally found in kitchens. Arm-chairs direct from Europe offer their arms in vain to Mr. Watkins, who is taking his ease in a solid construction of his own design. On the whole, however, the heap of objects of value, and the numerous furs — panther-skins, leopard-skins, giraffe-skins, and tiger-cat- skins, that cover nearly every article of furniture, give the room a certain air of barbarous wealth.

The ceiling shows that the house is not built in stories; it can only boast of a ground floor. Like all the rest in the neighborhood, its walls are of planks and clay, and its roof of corrugated iron.

It is obviously a new house. From its windows, to the right and left of it, can be seen five or six abandoned buildings of the same order of architecture, but of different ages, in various stages of decay. These are the mansions that Mr. Watkins has successively built, inhabited, and deserted as he built up his fortune, and now serve to mark the several steps of his progress to affluence.

That farthest off is a hut of sods. Next to it comes one with walls of clay. The third has walls of clay and wood. The fourth rejoices in a little zinc.

The group of buildings is situated on a gentle rise that commands the junction of the Vaal and the Modder, the two principal tributaries of the Orange. Around, as far as the eye can see, there stretches the bare and dreary-looking plain. The Veld, as this plain is called, has a reddish soil, dry, barren, and dusty, with here and there at considerable intervals a straggling bush or a clump of thorn-shrubs.

The total absence of trees is characteristic; and as there is no coal, owing to the communication with the sea being so difficult and lengthy, the only fuel for domestic purposes is that yielded by the sheep’s droppings.

Through this dismal and monotonous plain there flow the two rivers, with their banks so low and sloping that it is difficult to understand why the water does not break its bounds and flood the country.

Eastward the horizon is cut by the distant outlines of two mountains, the Platberg and the Paardeberg, at whose base the dust and smoke and the little white spots of huts and tents denote a busy human colony.

It is in this Veld that the diamond mines are situated — Dutoit’s Pan, New Rush, and perhaps the richest of all, Vandergaart Kopje. These dry diggings, as mines open to the sky are called, have since 1870 yielded about 16,000,000l in diamonds and precious stones. They are all close together, and can be distinctly seen with a good glass from the windows of Watkins’ Farm, about four miles away.

Farm, by-the-bye, is rather a misnomer. There are no signs of cultivation in the neighborhood. Like all the so-called farmers of this part of South Africa, Mr. Watkins is rather a master shepherd, an owner of flocks and herds, than an agriculturist.

But Mr. Watkins has not yet replied to the question put to him so clearly and politely by our hero. After giving himself three minutes for reflection, he decided to remove his pipe from his lips. Then he made the following observation, which would seem to be but very distantly connected with the subject at issue.

“I think we shall have a change in the weather! My gout never worried me more than it has done since this morning.”

The young engineer frowned, and turned away his head for a moment. It was only by an effort that he concealed his disappointment.

“It might do you good if you were to give up your gin, Mr. Watkins,” replied he, very dryly, pointing to the jug on the table.

“Give up my gin! Well, that’s a good ‘un!” exclaimed the farmer. “Is it the gin that does it? Oh! I know what you are driving at. .You mean the medicine the Lord Mayor was recommended when he had the gout. Whose was it? Abernethy’s? Tf you want to be well, live on a shilling a day and earn it.’ That’s all very fine. But if you have to live on a shilling a day to be well, what’s the use of making a fortune? Such rubbish is unworthy of a sensible man like you. So don’t say any more about it. I’ll do as I please. I’ll eat well, drink well, and smoke a good pipe when I am worried. I have no other pleasure in this world, and you want me to give it up, do you?”

“It is a matter of no consequence,” answered Cyprien; “I only dropped a hint that I thought might be of use to you. But let it pass, Mr. Watkins, if you please, and get back to the special object of my visit.”

The farmer’s flow of eloquence came to a sudden pause. He relapsed into silence and puffed away at his pipe.

And now the door opened, and a young lady entered, carrying a glass on a salver.

And very charming she looked in her neat print dress and large white cap, such as is always worn by the ladies of the Veld. Aged about nineteen or twenty, with singularly clear complexion, fair, silky hair, pure blue eyes, and gentle, thoughtful face, she was quite a picture of health, grace, and good-nature.

“Good morning, Mr. Cyprien.”

“Good morning, Miss Watkins!” answered Cyprien, rising and bowing.

“I saw you come in,” said Alice, “and as I know you don’t care for papa’s horrible gin, I have brought you some orangeade, which I hope you will find to your taste.”

“It is very kind of you, I am sure.”

“Of course it is! Now, what do you think my ostrich Dada gobbled up this morning? The ivory ball I darn the stockings on! Yes, my ivory ball; and it is of good size, as you know. Well, that greedy Dada swallowed it as if it had been a pill. I know he will give me serious trouble some day.”

As she said this the laughing look in her eyes did not betray much alarm at the anticipated sorrow. In an instant, however, there was a change. With quick intuition she noticed the constraint that her father and Cyprien felt at her presence.

“I am an intruder, I see,” she said. “I am sorry I should have interrupted you, particularly as I have no time to lose. I must study my sonata before I begin to look after the dinner. I am sure no one could complain of your talkativeness today, gentlemen. I leave you to your conspiracies.”

She had reached the door, when she turned around and gravely said, as if the subject were of the deepest importance, “When you wish to talk about oxygen, Mr. Cyprien, I am quite prepared for you. Three times have I read over the chemical lesson you gave me to learn, and ‘the gaseous, colorless, scentless, and tasteless body’ has no longer any secrets from me.”

And with that Miss Watkins dropped a slight curtsy and disappeared like a meteor. A moment later the notes of an excellent piano, heard from one of the rooms at some distance from the parlor, announced that the daughter of the house was engaged in her musical exercises.

“Well, Mr. Watkins,” said Cyprien, reminded of his request by this apparition — if it had been possible for him to forget it — “will you give me an answer to the question I had the honor to ask you?”

Mr. Watkins removed his pipe from the corner of his mouth, expectorated with great majesty, abruptly raised his head, and looked at the young man with the air of a grand inquisitor.

“Was it by chance that you spoke about this to her?”

“Spoke about what? To whom?”

“What you have been talking about now; my daughter.”

“For whom do you take me, Mr. Watkins?” replied the young engineer, warmly. “I am a Frenchman, sir, and that is to say, that without your consent I should never think of speaking to your daughter about marriage.”

Mr. Watkins looked somewhat mollified, and his tongue seemed to move more freely. “So much the better, my boy. I expected no less of you,” answered he, in almost a cordial tone. “And now as I can trust you, you will give me your word of honor never to speak of it in the future.”

“And why, sir?”

“Because the marriage is impossible, and the best thing you can do is to drop all thoughts of it,” continued the farmer. “Mr. Cyprien, you are an honest young fellow, a perfect gentleman, an excellent chemist, a distinguished professor, and have a brilliant future; I do not doubt it at all. But you will never have my daughter, and that because I have quite different plans for her.”

“But, Mr. Watkins — “

“Say no more; it is useless,” interrupted the farmer. “If you were an English duke, you might convince me; but you are not even an English subject, and you have just told me with perfect frankness that you have no money! Look you here; do you seriously think that, educating Alice as I have done, giving her the best masters of Victoria and Bloemfontein, I had intended to send her, as soon as she was twenty, to Paris, on the third floor at No. 104 of the Roo University, to live with a man whose language I don’t even understand? Just give that a thought, and put yourself in my place. Suppose you were John Watkins, farmer and proprietor of Vandergaart Kopje Mine, and I was Victor Cyprien, on a scientific mission to the Cape; suppose that you here were seated in this chair, smoking your pipe; suppose that you were I, and I were you; would you for a moment think of giving me your daughter in marriage?”

“Certainly I would, Mr. Watkins,” replied Cyprien, “and without the slightest hesitation, if I thought you were likely to make her happy.”

“Oh! ah! Well, then, you would be wrong. You would act like a man unworthy of being the owner of Vandergaart Kopje, or rather, you never would have been the owner of it! For do you think I only had to hold my hand out as it came by? Do you think I wanted neither sense nor energy when I found it out and made it my property? Well, Mr. Cyprien, the sense I showed in that affair, I show and will show in every act of my life, and particularly in all that concerns my daughter. And so I say, drop it. Alice will never be yours.” And at this triumphant conclusion Mr. Watkins tossed off his glass.

The young engineer was silent, and the old man continued, “You Frenchmen are an astonishing lot! There is nothing very backward about you. You come here as if you had dropped from the moon into this out-of-the-way spot in Griqualand, call on a man who had never heard of you three months ago, and who has not set eyes on you a dozen times, and say to him, ‘John Stapleton Watkins, you have a nice daughter, well educated, everywhere known as the pride of the place, and, what is anything but a draw-back, the sole heiress of the richest diamond kopje in the world. I am Mr. Victor Cyprien, of Paris, an engineer with two hundred a year, and I should like you to give me your daughter, so that I can take her home, and you can never hear of her for the future, except by post or telegraph!’ And you think that is quite natural? I think it is consummate impudence!”

Cyprien rose, looking very pale. He picked up his hat and prepared to leave.

“Yes, consummate impudence!” continued the farmer.

“No gilded pills for me. I am an Englishman of the old sort, sir. I have been poorer than you — yes, much poorer. I have tried my hand at everything. I have been a cabin-boy on a merchant ship, a buffalo-hunter in Dakota, a digger in Arizona, and a shepherd in the Transvaal. I have known heat and cold and hunger and trouble. For twenty years I earned my crust by the sweat of my brow. When I married Alice’s mother, we hadn’t enough to feed a goat on. But I worked. I never lost courage. And now I am rich, and intend to profit by the fruit of my labors. I am going to keep my daughter to nurse me, to look after my gout, and to give me some music in the evening when I am tired. If she ever marries, she will marry here; and she will marry some fellow who lives here, a farmer or a digger like I am, and who will not talk to me of semi-starvation in a third floor in a country that I never had the slightest desire to go near. She will marry James Hilton or some fellow of that stamp. There will be no lack of offers.”

Cyprien had already reached the door.

“No animosity, my boy; I wish you no harm. I shall always be glad to see you as a tenant and a friend. We have got some people coming to dinner this evening. Will you make one?”

“No, thank you, sir,” answered Cyprien, coldly. “I have my letters to write for the mail.”

“One for the Frenchman!” chuckled Mr. Watkins.

CHAPTER II

TO THE DIAMOND FIELDS

WHAT most humiliated the young engineer in the answer he received from Mr. Watkins was the fact that, in spite of the rudeness in which it was couched, the decision was not unreasonable. When he came to think matters over, he was surprised at himself for not having seen the farmer’s very obvious objections.

But the fact is, that up till then he had never dreamed of the difference of fortune, race, and education between the young lady and himself. Accustomed for the last five or six years to regard minerals merely from their scientific point of view, diamonds were in his eyes but specimens of carbon adapted for exhibition in the museum of the School of Mines. In France he had moved in quite a different social circle from what he did here, and he had quite lost sight of the commercial value of the rich mine possessed by the farmer. The thought that there was a difference in station between the daughter of the owner of Vandergaart Kopje and himself had never entered his head.

The sharp reprimand he had received from Watkins awoke him from his illusion. Cyprien had too much sense not to appreciate the farmer’s reasons, and too much-honesty to be angry at a decision which he admitted was, in the main, a just one.

But the blow was none the less severe, and now that he had to give up Alice he found how dear she had become to him in those three months. For only three months had elapsed since his arrival in Griqualand.

How far off it all seemed!

Landing with his friend Pharamond Barthes — an old schoolfellow who had come out to South Africa on his third hunting and exploring expedition — he had separated from him at the Cape. Barthes started for Basutoland to engage an escort; Cyprien secured a seat in the heavy, lumbering, fourteen-horse wagon — the stage-coach of the Veld — and set out for the Diamond Fields.

Five or six huge cases — a complete chemical and min-eralogical laboratory, from which he was very loath to part — formed the luggage of the youthful scientist; but the coach only allowed a hundredweight of luggage to each passenger, and he had consequently been obliged to entrust his precious cases to the tender mercies of a bullock cart.

The “coach” held twelve passengers. It was covered with a canvas tilt, and had four enormous wheels constantly wet from crossing the fords. The horses, which were occasionally replaced by mules, were harnessed in pairs, and driven by two coachmen seated side by side on the front bench. One held the reins, while the other manipulated a tremendously long bamboo whip, not unlike a huge fishing-rod, and used it to guide the horses as well as to urge them on.

The road goes by Beaufort, a pleasant little place at the foot of the Nieuwveld Mountains, across the hills to Victoria, then to Hopetown on the Orange, and thence to Kimberley and the principal diamond centers, which are but a few miles away from it.

It is a wearying, monotonous journey across the Veld, and takes from eight to nine days. The landscape is most miserable — red plains, scattered stones like moraine rubbish on the surface, and gray rock cropping out from below, half-starved-looking bushes, and here and there a stunted sickly plant At long intervals a few dilapidated farms doing duty for inns. The hospitality of these inns is somewhat rudimentary. The “good accommodation for man and beast” comprises neither a bed for the man nor litter for the beast, and the provisions are tinned ones that have gone the round of the world, and sell at the buyer’s risk for their weight in gold.

There being nothing for the horses at the farms, the teams are unharnessed and allowed to wander about in search of their own food. They have to be caught again before a start can be made, and the loss of time thus occasioned may be imagined.

Great is the jolting of the primitive coach along the still more primitive roads. The seats are the lids of the wooden lockers which hold the light luggage of the passengers, and on them for a week or more their possessors go thump-jump, like so many forge hammers, as the wagon rolls along. Impossible to read, impossible to sleep, nay, even impossible to talk!

Cyprien’s fellow-travelers were fairly representative of the floating population peculiar to gold and diamond fields. There was an ungainly Neapolitan, with long black hair, a face like parchment, and a pair of glittering treacherous-looking eyes, who said his name was Annibale Pantalacci; a Portuguese Jew named Nathan, an expert in diamonds, who kept himself quiet in a corner and looked upon humanity like a philosopher; a tall collier, Thomas Steel, with a red beard and broad shoulders, who had left his native Lancashire to try his fortune in Griqualand; a German, Herr Fredel, who spoke like an oracle, and knew everything about diamonds and diamond digging — in theory; a thin-lipped Yankee, who reckoned to open a canteen and persuade the miners to waste their hard-earned wealth; a farmer from the Hartz; a Boer from the Orange Free State; an ivory trader on his way to Namaqualand; two Transvaal colonists; and a Chinaman named Li — like every other Chinaman — made up the most heterogeneous, noisy, and disorderly company in which it was ever given to a man to find himself.

At first Cyprien was amused, but not for long. There was only Steel, with his massive strength and loud laughter, and Li, with his gentle catlike ways, in whom he continued to take the slightest interest. To the Neapolitan, with his spiteful buffooneries, he felt the strongest aversion.

One of the most popular jokes of this personage consisted in his tying on to the Chinaman’s pigtail, whenever he got an opportunity, a collection of miscellaneous objects, such as bundles of greens, cabbage-stalks, a cow’s tail, and a horse’s bladebone, picked up on the road.

The Chinaman unconcernedly removed the articles from his appendage, and neither by word, look, nor gesture showed that he considered the pleasantry beyond the bounds of propriety. His yellow face and little almond eyes were as unalterably placid as if he were quite a stranger to what was passing around him. In fact it seemed as though he understood not a word of all that was spoken in this Noah’s Ark bound north for Griqualand.

And Annibale Pantalacci, in his broken English, was profuse in his very vulgar witticisms on the same subject, and kept the travelers in a roar of laughter. What made the laugh all the longer was that the Boers invariably took some time to see the joke, and burst out noisily about three minutes after everybody else.

Cyprien at last became indignant at the dead set thus made against the unfortunate Li, and told Pantalacci that he ought to be ashamed of himself. The Neapolitan would probably have made some insolent rejoinder, but a word from Steel put a sudden check on him.

“No,” said the Lancashire man, regretting that he had laughed with the others, “it isn’t fair play to keep on like that at a chap who doesn’t even understand your lingo.”

Here the matter dropped for a time. But a few minutes after, Cyprien was surprised to see the quietly ironical look of thanks with which the Chinaman regarded him, and which made him think that Li knew rather more English than he gave him credit for.

But it was in vain that at the next halt he tried to engage the Chinaman in conversation. Li remained mute and impassible. Henceforward the young engineer looked upon him as an enigma whose key might be found with perseverance, and made a constant study of the smooth yellow face, the mouth like a sword-cut opening on to the row of very white teeth, the short, broad nose, the large forehead, and the slanting eyes, always cast down, as if to hide the latent malice in their look.

What age was Li? Fifteen or sixty? Impossible to say. If his teeth, his eyes, and his hair, black as soot, made him look quite young, the wrinkles in his forehead, his cheeks, and even around his mouth, gave him the appearance of an old man. He was short and of slight active build, and seemed to be rather a good sort of fellow than otherwise.

Was he rich or poor? Another dubious question! His gray trousers, yellow blouse, plaited string hat, felt-soled shoes, and stockings of immaculate whiteness, might have belonged to a mandarin of the first class or to a man of the people. His luggage consisted of a solitary red box with an address in black ink, —

“H. Li, “From Canton to the Cape.”

The Chinaman was the very pattern of neatness, never smoked, nor drank anything but water, and took advantage of every halt to carefully shave his head. Cyprien found he could make nothing of him, and soon gave him up as a mystery.

The days went by, and the miles were slowly rolled off. Sometimes the horses would cover the ground in fine style, at others it seemed impossible to move them. Little by little the journey was completed, and one fine day the coach reached Hopetown. Another long spell and then Kimberley was passed. Then a few wooden huts appeared on the horizon. It was New Rush.

There the diggers’ camp differed but little from the temporary towns which spring from the ground, as if by enchantment, in all new countries — wooden huts of no great size and roughly built, a few tents, a dozen coffee bars or canteens, an alhambra or dancing-saloon, several “stores,” and the usual johnny-all-sorts shops.

In the shops were clothes and furniture, boots and glasses, books and saddles, weapons and drapery, brushes and brooms, blankets and cigars, green vegetables and patent medicines, wheel plows and toilet soaps, hair-combs and condensed milk, frying-pans and cheap lithographs — everything, in short, but buyers.

For the whole population of the camp was now at work at the mine, which is about a quarter of a mile from New Rush.

Cyprien, like the other fresh arrivals, hastened off thither, while dinner was being got ready at the Continental Hotel.

It was about six o’clock in the afternoon. Already the sun had begun to veil the horizon in a thin cloud of gold. Once again the engineer noticed the enormous apparent diameter assumed by the sun as well as the moon in these latitudes, a phenomenon of which no sufficient explanation has yet been advanced — the said diameter being about double as large as in Europe.

But a spectacle of much greater novelty for Cyprien awaited him at the Kopje, that is to say, at the diamond diggings. Before the opening of the works the site of the mine was an elliptical knoll, the only elevation in a plain as level as the sea. But now an immense gap with sloping sides, a sort of circus, oval in form and about forty yards across, had taken the place of the hill. The surface was cut up into three or four hundred “claims,” or concessions, each thirty-one feet long.

The ground, consisting chiefly of reddish sand and gravel, was being excavated by pickaxe and spade, and sent to the surface. Thence it was taken to the sorting-tables, to be washed, crushed, sifted, and, finally, examined with extreme care to see if it contained any of the precious stones.

The claims, having been excavated independently of each other, formed ditches of varying depths. Some went down for a hundred yards or more, others for thirty, twenty, or even fifteen. To give room for working and intercommunication, each holder is officially required to leave untouched on one of the sides of his claim a space of seven feet. This space, with that left by his neighbor, serves as a sort of gangway or embankment flush with the original level of the ground. On it joists are placed so as to overhang the claims for about a yard on each side, and by this means sufficient width is obtained to allow a couple of carts to pass abreast.

Unfortunately for the solidity of this hanging way and the safety of the miners, the holders of the claims gradually work in as the wall goes down, and as in some cases the depth is two or three hundred feet, the result is that the partition becomes a reversed pyramid, standing on its apex. The consequences can be guessed. The walls fall in, particularly during the rainy season, when, owing to the abrupt changes of temperature, the surface is seamed with cracks, and the sides split off along them. Nevertheless, the periodic recurrence of these disasters has no effect on the miners, and they persist in excavating their claims up to the very farthest limit of the dividing line.

As Cyprien approached the mine, he could see nothing but the carts moving about on the hanging roads; but when he had got near enough to peer into the depths of the curious quarry, he beheld a busy crowd of diggers of every nation, every color, and every costume at work in the claims. Negroes and whites, Europeans and Africans, Mongols and Celts — most of them in a state of semi-nudity, or wearing cotton drawers, flannel shirts, and straw hats, decked in many instances with ostrich plumes.

All were engaged in throwing the soil into leather buckets and sending them to the bank along wire ropes by means of cowskin halliards working over drams of open woodwork. There the buckets were emptied into the carts, and then sent down to the bottom of the claim to be returned with a fresh load.

These long iron ropes, stretched diagonally across the rectangular chasms, give a peculiar look to all dry diggings or diamond mines, and resemble the threads of a gigantic spider’s web, whose weaving has been suddenly interrupted.

For some time Cyprien amused himself with contemplating this human ant-hill. Then he returned to New; Rush, where the dinner-bell rang almost immediately after his arrival. There during the evening he had the pleasure of hearing of the wonderful finds that had been made, of miners poor as Job suddenly becoming rich men by finding a solitary diamond, of others ever down on their luck, of the greed of the brokers, of the dishonesty of the Kaffirs employed in the mines, who stole the best stones, and of many other technical matters. The talk was of nothing but diamonds, carats, and hundreds of pounds.

Every one seemed the picture of misery, and instead of the happy digger noisily calling for his champagne to wet his luck, there were a dozen lanky, long-faced fellows drinking nothing but small beer.

Occasionally a stone would be passed around the table to be weighed, examined, valued, and returned to its owner’s belt. That dull grayish pebble, with no more sparkle than a fragment of quartz rolled in a torrent, was a diamond in its gangue!

At night the coffee bars filled, and the same conversation, the same discussion which had occupied the dinner-hour, began again.

Cvprien went to bed early in the tent next to the hotel which had been assigned to him. There he soon fell asleep, despite the noise of a ball in the open air among the Kaffir diggers close by, and the piercing brays of a B-flat cornet from a neighboring dancing-saloon, in which the whites were amusing themselves with a few energetic lessons in choregraphy.

CHAPTER III

A LITTLE SCIENCE

To his honor, be it said, the young engineer had not come to Griqualand to spend his time in an atmosphere of greed, drunkenness, and tobacco smoke. His object was to make sundry topographical and geological surveys of certain parts of the country, to collect specimens of the rocks and diamantiferous gravels, and to conduct a few delicate analyses on the spot. His first care, therefore, was to procure a quiet dwelling-place, where he could set up his laboratory, and which would serve as the center of his explorations in the mining districts.

The knoll on which Watkins’ Farm was situated soon attracted his attention as a site particularly favorable for his work, far enough away to suffer but little from the noisy proximity of the camp, and at the same time within an hour’s walk of the farthest kopjes, for the diamond field is not more than ten miles in circumference. And so it happened that in the course of a single afternoon he had selected one of the houses abandoned by Mr. Watkins, agreed to take it, and installed himself therein. The farmer was most agreeable. At heart he was thoroughly tired of being alone, and highly pleased to find a young man anxious to take up his quarters close by, and break into the wearisome monotony.

But if Mr. Watkins expected to find in his tenant a mere table-companion or a partner in his assaults on the gin-bottle, he was very much mistaken. Almost before he had taken up his quarters with his retorts, furnaces, and reagents, almost before the chief articles of his laboratory had arrived, he was out on his geological excursions. Coming home in the evening nearly knocked up with fatigue, with rock specimens in his satchel, in his pockets, and even in his hat, he had much more inclination to go to sleep than to listen to the sub-fossil yarns of Mr. Watkins. Besides, he smoked very little, and drank much less; and take him altogether, he was hardly the jolly companion that the farmer had anticipated.

Nevertheless, Cyprien was so straightforward and considerate, so simple in his manner and speech, so well informed and so modest, that it was impossible to meet him frequently without liking him. And Mr. Watkins soon held him in more respect than any other man he knew.

“If he only knew how to drink! But what are you to do with a man who will not touch the least drop of gin?” Thus did the farmer conclude his frequent disquisition on his tenant’s merits.

Miss Watkins, for her part, found herself suddenly placed on a footing of unrestrained friendship with the young scientist. Finding in him a distinction of manner, an intellectual superiority which she had hardly met with before in her usual circle, she had taken advantage of the unexpected opportunity to complete experimentally, the varied chemical knowledge she had obtained by reading scientific works.

The young engineer’s laboratory, with its strange-looking apparatus, interested her greatly. She was above all things anxious to learn what she could about the nature of the diamond, that precious stone which played so important a part in the conversation and commerce of the country. In fact, Alice had almost come to look upon the gem as a worthless pebble. Cyprien, she could not but see, held much the same opinion on the subject as she did, and this community of sentiment had had no little influence on the friendship which speedily grew up between them. We may say without fear of contradiction that these two were alone in Griqualand in thinking that the sole object of life did %n%o%t% consist in finding, cutting, and selling the little stones so keenly coveted among the nations of the earth.

“The diamond,” said Cyprien to her on one occasion, “is only pure carbon. It is a fragment of crystallized coal; nothing more. You can burn it like a lump of coke, and it was its property of combustion that first led to the knowledge of its real nature. Newton, who observed so many things, noticed that the diamond refracted light more than any other transparent body; and as he knew that this property belonged to most combustibles, he, with his usual boldness, deducted from the fact the conclusion that the diamond ought to be combustible. And experience proved that he was right.”

“But, Mr. Cyprien, if the diamond is only carbon, why does it fetch such a price?” asked Alice.

“Because of its rarity,” answered Cyprien, “and because it has only as yet been found in small quantities. For a long time it came only from India, Brazil, and Borneo. And surely you can remember, when you were about seven or eight years old, how it was first discovered in South Africa.”

“Oh, yes! I remember!” said Miss Watkins. “Everybody seemed to go mad in Griqualand! There was nothing to be seen but people with pickaxes and shovels prospecting all over the place, changing the courses of the streams to examine their beds, and dreaming and speaking of nothing but diamonds. Young as I was, I can assure you that I was quite weary of it at times. But you say that the diamond is dear because it is rare. Is that its only merit?”

“Not entirely. Its transparency, its brilliancy when it has been cut so as to refract the light, even the difficulty of this cutting, and its extreme hardness, make it a very interesting body for the scientist, and, I should add, very useful in the arts. You know it can only be polished with its own dust, and that it is its peculiar hardness which has caused it to be used for many years for rock-boring purposes. Without its help, not only would it be very difficult to work in glass and other hard substances, but the boring of tunnels, mine-galleries, and deep wells would be much more difficult.”

“I understand now,” said Alice, who began to have a slight respect for the poor diamonds she had hitherto so despised. “But, Mr. Cyprien, this carbon. of which you say the diamond is composed, in a crystalline state — that is right, isn’t it? — this carbon, what is it?”

“A simple body, not a metal, and one of the most widely distributed bodies in nature,” answered Cyrien. “All organic matter without exception possesses it. Wood, meat, bread, vegetables, etc. all have it among their constituents!”

“How strange!” said Miss Watkins. “To think that those bushes, the grass, the tree, the flesh of my ostrich Dada, and my own, and yours, Mr. Cyprien, are all partly made of carbon — like diamonds! Is everything carbon in this world?”

“Well, some people have been suspecting something of the sort for a considerable time. And contemporary science is making rapid advances toward some such solution.. That is to say, the tendency is to reduce the number of simple bodies, and prove many of the old elements to be mere compounds. The spectroscope has lately thrown quite a new light on chemistry, and the sixty-two substances classed hitherto as elements would seem to be but forms of one — hydrogen perhaps — under different electric, dynamic, and calorific forms.”

“Oh! you frighten me, Mr. Cyprien, with your long words,” said Miss Watkins. “Let us only talk about carbon. Why do not you chemists crystallize it as you did the sulphur in those pretty needles the other day? It would be so much more convenient, surely, than having to dig among the rocks to find it.”

“People have often tried to do so,” replied Cyprien, “and attempted the manufacture of diamonds by the crystallization of pure carbon, and to a certain extent have succeeded. Despretz in 1883, and quite recently in England another experimenter, have produced diamond dust by employing a strong electric current in vacuo to act on carbon cylinders free from mineral substances, and prepared with sugar-candy. But up to the present, the problem has not met with solution that would bring it into trade. Notwithstanding, it may be only a question of time. Any day, perhaps at this very moment, the method of making diamonds may be discovered.”

It was thus they talked as they strolled along the sandy terrace which extended by the farm, or, seated under the veranda, watched the stars twinkling in the southern sky.

Sometimes Alice would leave the engineer and return to the house, at others she would take him to visit her flock of ostriches, kept in an enclosure at the foot of the knoll on which Watkins’ Farm was situated. Their small, white heads craning over their black bodies, and the bunches of yellowish feathers ornamenting their wings and tails, interested the young lady, who for a year or more had kept quite a poultry-yard full of the giants.

Ostriches are very seldom tamed, and the Cape farmers leave them in a half wild state, parked in an enclosure of vast extent, surrounded by wire fencing like that in many countries running alongside the railroad. There they live all the year around in a captivity they know not of, feeding on what they can find, and seeking quiet corners wherein to deposit their eggs, which very strict laws protect against marauders. It is only at moulting time, when they throw off the feathers so much in request by the ladies of Europe, that the beaters drive them into a series of enclosures, diminishing in size, until the birds can be easily seized and made to give up their plumage.

This industry has been thriving at the Cape for many years. Every ostrich reduced to slavery brings to his proprietor without further expense a revenue of from eight to twelve pounds, nothing very extraordinary when it is remembered that a large feather of good quality will fetch from two to three pounds, and that even the medium and smallest feathers are of considerable value.

But it was only for her private amusement that Miss Watkins had made pets of a dozen of these huge birds. It pleased her to see them with their eggs, and come up with their chickens to be fed as if they were fowls or turkeys. Cyprien often accompanied her to the ostrich-yard, and amused himself by stroking the best-looking of the lot, a certain black-headed ostrich with golden eyes — that very Dada who had swallowed the ivory ball which Alice used for darning on.

Little by little there had grown up in Cyprien a feeling of much depth and tenderness toward the young lady. He had persuaded, himself that never would he find a companion more simple-hearted, more intelligent, more amiable, or more accomplished in every way to share his life of labor and meditation. In fact, Miss Watkins, having lost her mother very early, had been obliged to take charge of her father’s house, and was an accomplished housewife, at the same time a true woman of the world. It was this curious mixture of perfect refinement and attractive simplicity that made her so charming. Having none of the silly scruples of so many of the young ladies of Europe, she was never afraid of soiling her white hands in the paste for the pudding, or of superintending the dinner, or keeping the linen in proper repair. And all this did not hinder her from playing Beethoven’s sonatas as well as, and perhaps better than, most people, from speaking two or three languages, from taking pleasure in reading, from appreciating the masterpieces in literature, and, finally, from being eminently successful at the little weekly assemblies among the rich farmers of the district.

Cyprien had seen all this, and now, alas, great was the fall in his hopes. For the first time he saw the almost impassable gulf which separated him from Alice, and heavy was his heart as he returned from the decisive interview. But he was not the man to give up to despair. He was resolved to fight his way in the world, and in his work he had a sure solace for his grief.

Taking his seat at the small table, he finished, in a quick, firm hand, the long, confidential letter which he had begun in the morning to his revered master, Mr. J , a member of the Academy of Sciences, and titular professor at the School of Mines.

“One thing,” he wrote, “I thought better not to put in my official memoir, because it is as yet only a hypothesis, and that is, the opinion I have been led by my geological researches to entertain on the subject of the diamond’s formation. Neither the hypothesis that assumes it to be of volcanic origin, nor that which attributes its appearance in the beds to violent disturbances satisfies me any more than it does you, my dear master, and I need not repeat the reasons which led us to abandon it. The formation of the diamond in situ by the action of fire is likewise too vague an explanation to satisfy me. What was the nature of this fire? and why did it not affect the limestones of all kinds which are invariably met with in diamantiferous deposits? The idea seems to me quite childish, and on a par with the theories of the vortices and hooked atoms.

“The only explanation which satisfies me, if not entirely, at least in a certain degree, is that of the transportation by water of the gem’s elements, and the subsequent formation of the crystal in position. I have been much struck with the peculiar outline, almost identical in all cases, of the different beds which I have noted and measured with great care. All more or less are in the general form of a basin, or rather, considering the shape of the overlying strata, that of a hunting-flask on its side. This appears to have been a reservoir of from thirty to forty thousand cubic yards in extent, in which there has been a deposit of sandy conglomerate, of mud, and of alluvial earth laid down, on the older rocks. This character is very marked at Vandergaart Kopje, one of the most recently discovered of the diggings, and, which belongs, by the way, to the owner of the house in which I am writing.

“When a liquid containing bodies in suspension is poured into a cup, what happens? The bodies arrange themselves at the bottom of the cup or around its sides. That is exactly what has happened in this kopje. It is at the bottom and in the center of the basin as well as around the outer edges that the diamonds are met with. And this is so well understood that the claims between rapidly fall to a lower value, while the central concessionHor those bordering on the boundary enormously increase as soon as the shape of the deposit is made out.

“Besides, several circumstances that you find mentioned in my memoir tend to show the formation of the crystal in position rather than its transport thither in a perfect state. To mention only two or three, diamonds are nearly always found in groups of the same kind and color, which would hardly be the case had they been formed afar and brought thither by a torrent. Frequently two are found together, united but detachable at the least blow. How could they have resisted the grinding and jarring if brought down by water? Again, the larger diamonds are always found under the shelter of a rock, which seems to show that the influence of the rock — its radiation of heat, if nothing else — has helped on the crystallization. It is rare — very rare — that large and small diamonds are found together. Whenever a large specimen is discovered, it is almost always isolated. It is as if all the adamantine elements in the depression had been concentrated into a single crystal under the influence of special causes.

“These and many other reasons urge me to think that the diamond is formed in position, and that the elements of crystallization were brought down to the spot by water.

“But whence came the waters which bore down the organic detritus destined to be formed into diamonds? This I have not yet been able to determine in spite of my careful study of the district.

“The determination, however, may prove of some value. If we can find the route taken by the streams, why should we not, in tracing it up, arrive at the starting-point whence came the diamonds? and there we should doubtless find them in large numbers compared to that in the beds at present worked. It would be a complete demonstration of my theory, and one that I should be very glad to make. But it will not be my lot to do so, as I have nearly completed the period for which I was sent out. I have been more successful in my analysis of the rocks — ” and the young engineer, continuing his story, plunged into technical details, which, though doubtless of much interest to himself and his correspondent, are hardly likely to please the uninitiated reader. As soon as he had finished his long letter, Cyprien extinguished his lamp, stretched himself in his hammock, and slept the sleep of the just.

Work had driven out grief — at least, for an hour or so — but a pleasing vision haunted the young student’s dream, and seemed to whisper that there yet was hope.

CHAPTER IV

VANDERGAART KOPJE

“I MUST be off,” said Cyprien, as he dressed himself next morning. “I must leave Griqualand. After what that man said to me, to remain here a day would be weakness. He won’t give me his daughter? Perhaps he is right. Anyhow, it will never do to look as if I wanted to plead extenuating circumstances. I must accept the verdict like a man, however painful it may be, and trust to the future to set things right.”

And without further hesitation he began to stow away the apparatus in the packing-cases, which had served him for tables and cupboards. He worked with a will for an hour or so, and then through the open window came a sweet, girlish voice, clear and full as the voice of the skylark : —

‘Tis the last rose of summer

Left blooming alone;

All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone.

He ran to the window and saw Alice on her way to the ostriches, with her apron full of scraps for their food. She it was, who was singing to the rising sun.

The young engineer was not particularly susceptible to poetical influences, but something in the song affected him deeply. He stood still at the window and listened intently.

The song ceased. Miss Watkins began to feed the ostriches, and as she did so it was pleasant to see the birds craning their long necks and dodging their huge awkward heads in front of her hand as she tantalizingly held out and withdrew the morsels of food. Then she finished her task, and as she returned resumed her song.

Cyprien was standing in the same place, with tears welling up into his eyes, as if under a charm.

The voice grew more distant. Alice was within twenty yards of the farm, when the sound of hurried footsteps caused her to pause and turn around.

Cyprien, by an irresistible impulse, had left his hut, and was running after her bare-headed.

“Miss Watkins.”

“Mr. Cyprien.”

They were face to face in the full glow of the rising sun on the path that bordered the farm. Their shadows were thrown sharp and clear on the white wood of the paling?. And now that Cyprien had reached Miss Watkins, he seemed astonished at what he had done and undecided what to say.

“You have something to say to me, Mr. Cyprien?” asked the lady anxiously.

“I have come to bid you good-bye. I am going away today,” was the answer.

The delicate rose tint which gave the life to Alice’s face suddenly disappeared.

“Going away! You are going away? Where?” she asked tremblingly.

“Home — to France,” replied Cyprien. “My work is done here. My mission has ended. I have nothing else to do in Griqualand. And I am obliged to get back to Paris.” This with a pause between each sentence, and as if he were craving pardon for some crime.

The girl was astounded. The news fell on her like a blow from a crowbar. Suddenly the teardrops showed themselves, and hung suspended on the long lashes which shaded her eyes. And then, as if recalled to the reality of the scene, she recovered herself, and said, with a slight smile, “Going away! And you are going to run away from your scholar before she has finished her chemistry? You are going to leave me in oxygen and those mysteries of azote which were always a dead-letter for me? It is hardly the correct thing, sir.”

She tried to put a good face on it, and to laugh it off, but the tone of her voice belied her words. Beneath her jesting there was a deep reproach which went straight to the young man’s heart. She continued, but the jesting tone was gone. “And I? Do you think I am nothing? You quietly drop me back into chaos! You come here that I may see among all these Boers and greedy diggers a superior privileged being, learned, proud, disinterested, apart from the rest! you make me help you in your study and work! you open your heart to me, and make me share your hopes, your literary preferences, and your artistic tastes! you reveal to me the distance between a thinker such as you and the mere bimana that surround me! you encourage me to admire you and to like you! you nearly succeeded in doing so! Then you come and coolly tell me that it is all over,’ that you are off to Paris, and are in a hurry to forget me! And you think I am going to take it all as coolly as if I were a philosopher!”

Yes, he had done all that Alice with her tearful eyes had reproached him with.

He was just about to say in defense, “It is necessary that I do so! I yesterday asked your father to allow me to ask you to be my wife! He has refused, and gives me no hope! Now do you understand why I am going?” Then the thought of his promise crossed his mind. He had promised John Watkins never to speak to his daughter on the subject of his dream, and he judged it dishonorable to break his word.

But at the same time he felt that his idea of immediate departure was brutally unkind. It seemed to him impossible to thus suddenly abandon the girl he loved, and who evidently — there could be no doubt of it — loved him. At first the thought of delay frightened him, then it seemed to ,, him as imperatively necessary.

“When I spoke of going away, Miss Watkins,” at last he said, “I did not mean this morning — nor today — nor — I have a few more notes to make — preparations to finish — Anyhow, I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again and — talking with you about — about — your studies!”

And then Cyprien abruptly turned away and ran off like a lunatic. He rushed into his hut, and throwing himself into an arm-chair, was immediately deep in thought.

And his thoughts were somewhat different from what they were before he spoke to Miss Watkins.

“Give her up because I have got no money!” he said to himself. “Knock under at the first blow! Is that the sort of man I am? Would it not be better to sacrifice a few prejudices and try and make myself worthy of her? How many fellows make their fortunes in a few months on the Diamond Fields? Why shouldn’t I turn up a hundred carat diamond as the others have done; or better still, find a new field? Surely I have more theoretical and practical knowledge than most of these men. Why should not knowledge give me what work and luck give them? After all, I risk little in having a try. Even from this standpoint of my mission it would not do me any harm to take a turn with shovel and pick and gain some practical experience as a digger. And, if I succeed; if I become rich in this primitive way, who knows but what Watkins may yield, and reverse his decision? The prize is well worth the trial!”

And Cyprien began to walk up and down the laboratory, but his hands were still, his brain only was at work. Suddenly he stopped, put on his hat, and walked out. He took the path down to the flat, and at a great pace set out for Vandergaart Kopje. In less than an hour he was there.

The miners were recrowding into the camp after their breakfast. Cyprien, as the bronzed visages passed by, was wondering to whom to apply for the information he wanted, when he recognized in one of the groups the honest face of Thomas Steel, the Lancashire miner. Two or three times had he met him since his arrival in Griqualand, and found that he was prospering, a fact sufficiently shown by his contented features, his brand-new clothes, and the large leather belt around his waist. Cyprien made up his mind to accost him and tell him of his intention.

“Buy a claim? Nothing easier if you have got the money!” answered the miner. “There is one now close to mine. Four hundred pounds! It is giving it away! With half a dozen niggers to work for you, you’ll make thirty pounds a week.”

“But I haven’t got four hundred pounds, and I don’t possess a nigger!”

“.Well, buv a share in a claim — an eighth or a six teenth — and work it yourselfi! You can get one for forty pounds.”

“That is more my figure,” answered the engineer; “but you, Mr. Steel, how have you done, if I may be allowed to ask. Did you have any capital?”

“I got here with my arms and three sovereigns in my pocket,” replied the Lancashire lad; “but I was lucky. I first worked half-shares with a man who had an eighth. The fellow liked hanging about the liquor-shop better than working, and so we halved. I made some excellent finds, one a five-carat stone that we sold for two hundred pounds! Then I left off working for the first cove and bought a sixteenth for myself. As I only found small stones I got clear of that in ten days and went halves with an Australian on his claim. But we have hardly made a fiver this first week.”

“If I found a share in a good claim that would not cost too much, will you go partners with me and work it?” asked the engineer.

“If you like,” answered Steel; “but on one condition. That is, we each keep what we find. Not that I mistrust you, Mr. Cyprien. But you see, since I have been here I always lose when the sharing comes, for I am a good hand at the pickaxe and shovel, and I do about three times the work of the other fellows!”

“That seems fair enough,” said Cyprien.

“Well, then here’s an idea, perhaps a good ‘un. Let us two take one of John Watkins’ claims.”

“One of his claims? I thought all the kopje belonged to him.”

“So it does, but the Colonial Government, you know, lays hold of it as soon as it is declared a diamond field. The Government looks after it, measures it out, cuts up the claims, and keeps the best part of the price, and pays only a fixed royalty. And the royalty, when the kopje is as large as this one, amounts to something. But the freeholder always has the preference in buying back as many claims as he can work. That is the case with Watkins. He has got several going besides his property in the kopje. But he cannot work them as he ought to, for the gout stops him from coming down here, and I think he would let you have one cheap if you made an offer.”

“I would rather you do the bargaining,” said Cyprien.

“It makes no difference to me,” replied Steel. “Just as you like.”

Three hours later half-claim No. 942, duly marked out with stakes and identified on the plan, was handed over to Messrs. Cyprien and Steel for the sum of ninety pounds. It was expressly stipulated in the deed that the concessionaries should share the profits with John Watkins, and as a royalty hand him over the three first diamonds weighing more than ten carats that they should find. There was nothing to show that such a find was likely to be made, but still it was possible — everything was possible.

On the whole the bargain was a good one for Cyprien, and Watkins, with his customary frankness, told him so as he signed the contract.

“You have acted like a sensible chap,” said he, as he tapped Cyprien on the shoulder. “There is some stuff in you. I shouldn’t be surprised if you turn out one of the luckiest diggers in Griqualand.”

Cyprien could not but see in these words a happy augury for the future.

And Miss Watkins, who was present at the interview, had she a look bright as sunshine in her blue eyes? No! Seemingly she had been crying all the morning.

By tacit consent nothing was said about the meeting early in the day. Cyprien was going to stay, that was evident.

The young engineer left with a light heart, and having made up his mind to vnsit the farm for the future only in his leisure moments, set to work to pack up a few of his things and take them down to his tent at Vandergaart Kopje.

CHAPTER V

THE DIGGERS AT WORK

THE next morning the two partners set to work. Their claim was near the boundary of the kopje, and, if Cyprien’s theory was correct, ought to prove a very rich one. Unfortunately the claim had already been overhauled, and had been driven down into for a hundred and fifty feet or more.

In one respect this was an advantage, as its owners, by finding themselves below the level of the neighboring claims, were entitled, by the custom of the country, to all the earth and all the diamonds that fell into it.

The proceedings were very simple. By means of the shovel and pickaxe the two men cut away a certain quantity of earth from the mass. That done one of them went to the surface, and hauled up along the wire rope the bucketfuls sent him from below.

This earth was then taken in a cart to Steel’s hut, and there, after being crushed with wooden billets, so as to clear away the worthless pebbles, was passed through a fine sieve and separated from the tiniest stones, which were all carefully picked over before being rejected. Then the earth was sifted through a still finer sieve to get rid of the dust, and then it was in a fit condition to be looked over for the diamonds.

When it had been turned out on to the table, the two diggers sat down, and, armed with a sort of scraper made out of a piece of tin, went over it carefully, handful by handful, and then threw it under the table, whence, when the examination was over, it was taken and thrown away as rubbish.

All this was to find out if it contained any diamonds, no matter how small. The partners thought themselves very lucky when the day had gone if they had found but one solitary specimen. They worked with great eagerness, and minutely tried through the earth, but during the earlier days the results were almost negative.

Cyprien seemed to stand no chance whatever. If a tiny diamond was found in the earth it was always Steel who noticed it. The first one he found did not weigh, gangue and all, more than the sixth of a carat.

The carat is a weight of four grains. A diamond of the first water — that is to say, pure, limpid, and colorless — is worth, once it is cut, about ten pounds if it weighs a carat. But if smaller, diamonds are very much less valuable in proportion. Larger ones increase in value at a very rapid rate. Generally speaking, a stone of pure water is equal to the square of its weight in carats multiplied by the current price per carat. Thus if the price per carat is ten pounds, a stone of the same quality weighing ten carats would be worth a thousand pounds.

But stones of ten carats, and even of one carat, are very rare, and that is why they are so dear. And, besides, the Griqualand diamonds are nearly always yellowish in color, and that greatly detracts from their value in jewelry.

The finding of a stone weighing the sixth of a carat after seven or eight days’ work, was a very poor return for the trouble it had cost. At that rate it would pay better to go out and dig, to look after sheep, or to break stones on the road. So thought Cyprien to himself. But the hope of coming across a splendid diamond, which would pay them at one stroke for the work of many weeks, or perhaps of many months, sustained him as it sustained all the other miners, even those least sanguine. Steel worked like a machine, and did not think at all — at least, he did not seem to do so.

The partners generally breakfasted together, contenting themselves with sandwiches brought from a bar close by; but they dined at one of the numerous ordinaries, like the rest of those in camp. The evenings they spent apart, Cyprien generally visiting the farm for an hour or two.

There he frequently had the disagreeable necessity of meeting his rival, James Hilton, a large man with red hair and freckled face. This rival was evidently making great progress in the esteem of John Watkins by dint of drinking more gin and smoking more tobacco than he did himself.

Alice, it is true, seemed to have the most perfect contempt for the clownish manners and commonplace conversation of young Hilton. But his presence was simply insupportable to Cyprien, who could not stand him at any price, and consequently took his departure,;; d left the field clear for him.

“The Frenchman is not satisfied!” Watkins would say to his companion, giving him a wink. “It seems that diamonds don’t come by themselves into the shovel;” and Hilton would laugh loudly at the joke.

Often on these occasions Cyprien would finish his evenings with an old Boer living near the camp, whose name was Jacobus Vandergaart.

It was from him that the kopje took its name, for he had been the freeholder in the early days of the concession. But if he was to be believed, he was, by some gross piece of injustice, dispossessed in favor of Watkins. Now he was completely ruined, and lived in an old mud hut, earning a living by diamond-cutting — a trade he had formerly followed in his native town of Amsterdam.

It often happened that the diggers, curious to know the exact weights that their diamonds would be once they were cut, would bring them to him sometimes to cleave them, sometimes to submit them to more delicate operations. But this work required a sure hand and keen eyesight, and old Jacobus Vandergaart, excellent workman though he had been in his time, had now great trouble in executing his orders. Cyprien had given him his first diamond to mount in a ring, and had immediately taken a fancy to him. He liked to come and sit in his humble workshop and have a chat, sometimes even merely to keep him company while he worked at his lapidary’s wheel. Jacobus Vandergaart, with his white beard, bald head, and black velvet cap, and long nose, surmounted by a pair of round spectacles, looked like an alchymist of the fifteenth century seated among his quaint old tools and acid flagons.

In a bowl on a bench near the window were the rough diamonds entrusted to Jacobus Vandergaart. Their value was something considerable. If he wished to cleave a specimen whose crystallization did not seem quite perfect he would begin by ascertaining by means of his magnify-ing-glass the direction of the cleavage planes. Then with a splinter of another diamond he would make an incision in the selected face, and then he would introduce a thin steel blade into this incision, and give it a sharp blow. In this way he would cleave the diamond’s faces one after the other.

If Jacobus Vandergaart wished to “cut” a diamond, or, to speak more accurately, to shape it into some desired form, he would begin by drawing in chalk on the gangue the facets he had selected. Then he would place each of the faces in succession in contact with a second diamond, and then he would submit them both to prolonged friction.

The two stones would mutually grind away each other and gradually the facets would be formed.

In this way Vandergaart would give the gem one of the customary forms, all of which can be classified under three headings, “double-cut brilliants,” “single-cut brilliants,” and “rose diamonds.”

A double brilliant has sixty-four facets, a “table,” and a “pavilion.”

A simple brilliant is just half a double brilliant.

A rose is flat below and has a faceted dome above.

Now and then Vandergaart had to cut a “briolette,” that is, a diamond with neither top nor bottom, and shaped like a pear. In India briolettes have a hole bored through the narrow ends, and by it are threaded in strings.

“Pendants,” which he very rarely had to cut, are half briolettes with table and pavilion and faceted on the inner side.

Once the diamond is cut, it has to be polished. This is done by means of a disk of steel or lead, about nine inches in diameter, spinning horizontally on a table at the rate of from two to three thousand revolutions per minute, and worked by a crank and fly-wheel. This disk is smeared with oil, and dusted over with diamond dust derived from previous cuttings, and against it Vandergaart would press the faces of his stone until they had acquired a perfect polish. The crank was worked sometimes by a little Hottentot boy, who was engaged by the day, sometimes by a friend like Cyprien, who was always very happy to oblige.

As the diamond-cutter worked he talked, and sometimes he would push his spectacles on to his forehead and stop short in his work to tell some story of the past. He had been forty years in South Africa, and knew nearly all its history, and what gave the charm to his conversation was that he spoke from personal experience, and honestly believed in the traditions and prejudices of his countrymen.

Often would he tell how in early days the colony had been captured by the British, and how the Boers, to avoid the restraints of laws to which they were unaccustomed, had moved farther and farther up the country. And he would enlarge on the perils and incidents of each exodus as with wagons and cattle and all their belongings the Dutch settlers penetrated into Kaffirland in search of a new home. And many were the stories he would tell of the wars with the natives occasioned by these irruptions into the countries of the savage kings.

“At last,” concluded he on one occasion, “I built this house where we are sitting, and started a farm. With me were my wife and two children. My kraal was on the site cf the present mine. Ten years later John Watkins arrived in these parts and built his first house. We did not then know that there were diamonds in this country, and so little occasion had I for thirty years to think of my old trade that I had almost forgotten the existence of such gems.

“Suddenly, in 1867, diamonds were discovered, the first recognized, as you know, while it was being thrown about by a child to whom it had been given as a pretty pebble for a plaything. In 1870 I lost my wife and children, and almost alone in the country I remained quite indifferent to the fever raging around me. I worked away on my farm just as if the deposit Dutoit’s Pan had been a thousand miles off instead of within musket-shot.

“One night I found the wall of my kraal had been knocked down and the boundary removed three hundred yards farther back, John Watkins, helped by a hundred Kaffirs, had built a wall joining on to his own so as to enclose a large patch of sandy, gravelly land, up to that moment always recognized as belonging to me.

“I complained to him. He only laughed. I threatened to go to law. He told me I might as soon as I liked.

“Three days later the mystery was solved. The patch of ground was a diamond mine. John Watkins had discovered it, and, hurrying off to Kimberley, had certified it as his own.

“I went %t%o% law, and you know what that means. One by one I lost my cattle, my horses, my sheep. I sold my furniture, I parted with everything. I lost my law-suit and I was ruined.

“The decision of the court was that I had made out no claim to the land in dispute, but that to avoid further trouble they would confirm me in possession of what I then held and certify the boundary. That boundary they took as the twenty-fifth degree of east longitude. The land to the west of it was adjudged to John Watkins, that to the east to Jacobus Vandergaart.

“The mine was to the west of the line, and so, although it bears my name, it became the property of John Watkins.”

CHAPTER VI

IN CAMP

THE subject of the conversation was not very agreeable to the young engineer. He scarcely liked to hear such imputations on the honor of the man whom he persisted in regarding as his future father-in-law. And so he came to consider Vandergaart’s statements as merely the pleadings in his law-suit and therefore liable to considerable alteration when compared with those of the other side.

Watkins, to whom he one day spoke on the subject, burst into a shout of laughter, and as his only reply tapped his head with his finger, thereby intimating that Vandergaart was simply mad.

Was it not possible that the old man, under the excitement of the discovery of the mine, had imagined that it was his property on insufficient evidence? The court had evidently decided against him all through, and it would be very strange had they no cause for doing so. And so Cyprien continued his visits to Watkins Farm, although he knew what Vandergaart thought of its owner.

There was another man in the camp with whom Cyprien was on visiting terms. This was Mathys Pretorius, a name well known to all Griqualand miners.

Although only forty years old, Pretorius had for many years roamed about the great valley of the Orange before settling here. But this nomadic existence had not, as in Vandergaart’s case, had the effect of souring him. On the contrary, he had grown good-humored, and so fat that he could scarcely walk. He was just like an elephant.

At home he was nearly always seated in a huge wooden chair, built specially to support his majestic form. Abroad he never went except in a carriage made of wickerwork, and drawn by a gigantic ostrich. The ease with which the bird drew the huge mass after him was a striking demonstration of his muscular power.

Mathys Pretorius always came to the camp to arrange about the sale of his vegetables. He was very popular, although his popularity, being due to his extreme cowardice, was scarcely an enviable one. The miners amused themselves by endeavoring to frighten him with all sorts of fantastic rumors.

One day they would tell him of an inroad of the Basutos or the Zulus; another they would pretend to read in a newspaper that an act had been passed making it punishable for a man to weigh more than three hundred pounds; another they would declare that a mad dog had been reported on the Driesfon.tein road; and poor Pretorius, who was obliged to take that road home, would find a thousand excuses for remaining in camp.

But these imaginary alarms were nothing to his actual terror lest a diamond mine should be discovered on his estate. A horrible picture of the future presented itself to him — avaricious men invading his kitchen garden, upsetting his vegetable borders, and ending by turning him out and taking possession! For how could he help thinking that the fate of Jacobus Vandergaart would be his?

One of his most relentless persecutors was Annibale Pantalacci. This mischievous Italian — who seemed to prosper exceedingly, judging from his employing three Kaffirs on his claim, and sporting an enormous diamond on his shirt-front — had discovered the Boer’s weakness, and at least once a week made it his business to go digging and pecking near Pretorius Farm. The farm lay along the left bank of the Vaal, about two miles above the camp, and consisted of alluvial land that might be diaman-tiferous, though nothing as yet had shown that it was so.

Pantalacci, entering thoroughly into the spirit of his cumbrous joke, would place himself full in view of the windows of the farm, often bringing with him a few companions to assist in the comedy. The portly farmer would be seen dodging behind his cotton curtains anxiously following all their gestures, ready to rush to the stable, hitch up his ostrich, and be off at the first sign of their success.

Why had he been foolish enough to tell one of his friends that he kept his ostrich harnessed night and day, and his carriage packed with provisions, ready to start at the first unmistakable symptom of invasion?

“I shall go up among the Bushmen, to the north of the Limpopo,” he said. “Ten years ago I traded ivory with them, and I would a hundred times rather do that than remain among such a lot of lions and jackals as we have here!”

And the confidant — as is the custom of confidants — immediately hastened to make the confidence public, and Pantalacci seized the opportunity, to the great amusement of the miners.

Another constant victim of the same facetious individual was the Chinaman Li. Li had settled at Vandergaart Kopje, and opened a laundry. The mysterious red box contained nothing but brushes, soda, soap, and washing-blue. Such was all that an intelligent Chinaman required to make his fortune with in this country.

Cyprien could hardly help laughing when he met the ever-silent and uncommunicative Li carrying a large basketful of dirty clothes on their way to the wash. But what angered him was that Pantalacci’s persecution of the unfortunate Celestial was absolutely cruel. He threw bottles of ink among the linen, stretched cords across the doorway so that Li tumbled over them, stuck him to his seat by a knife in the tail of his blouse, etc. Whenever he got a chance he would give him a sly kick, and call him a “pagan hound,” and this he did invariably when he paid his weekly bill. Never was his washing done as he wished, although Li got it up most marvelously. For the least false fold he would fly into a most frightful rage and thrash the unhappy Chinee as if he were his slave.

Such were the ordinary “amusements” of the camp. Occasionally, however, they partook of a more tragic character. If, for instance, it happened that a negro employed in one of the mines was accused of stealing a diamond, the whole population turned out to escort him to the magistrate, and urged him along with their clenched fists. But the crime of receiving was held in greater detestation than that of stealing.

Ward, the Yankee, who arrived in Griqualand at the same time as the young engineer, Had some cruel experience of the consequence of buying diamonds from Kaffirs. By law, a Kaffir on the works is not allowed to possess diamonds, or to buy a claim, or work on his own account.

No sooner was it known what the Yankee had done than an excited crowd rushed to Ward’s canteen, sacked it from top to bottom, set it on fire, and would have hanged the proprietor on the gallows that willing hands were preparing, had not a dozen of the mounted police opportunely arrived and marched him off to prison. . And such scenes of violence were frequent among this very mixed and half-savage population. Men of every race jostled each other in the incongruous crowd. The thirst for gold, the drunkenness, the torrid climate, the disappointments, and the dissipation combined to set their brains ablaze. Had all been lucky in their digging they would perhaps have been quieter and more patient. But for the one or two to whom the chance would come of finding a stone of great value there were hundreds who barely vegetated — who scarcely earned enough to keep themselves alive, even if they did not fall into absolute penury.

This Cyprien soon began to see, and he was asking himself if it were worth while or not to continue so un remunerative a trade when an opportunity offered for him to change his plan of operations.

One morning he found himself face to face with a dozen Kaffirs, who had arrived in camp in search of work. These men had come from the distant mountains that divide Kaffirland, properly so called, from the Basutos. For more than four hundred and fifty miles they had traveled in Indian file along the bank of the Orange, living on what they found on their way — roots, berries, and locusts. They were in a state of semi-starvation, and looked more like skeletons than living beings. With their emaciated limbs, long, naked bodies, parchment-like skins, bony sides, and hollow cheeks, they seemed more likely to devour a beefsteak of human flesh than to do a day’s work. No one offered to engage them, and they remained squatted by the side of the road, helpless, gloomy, and brutalized by misery and want.

Cyprien was much affected at their appearance, and took pity on them. He motioned them to wait a little, and then went off to the hotel, where he ordered a large potful of boiled maize-flour and some tins of preserved meat to be sent out, and then returned to amuse himself at seeing them enjoy these unaccustomed luxuries.

One would have thought they were shipwrecked sailors rescued from a raft after a fortnight’s fasting. They ate so much that for their health’s sake they had to be stopped to prevent their suffocation. Only one — the youngest and best-looking of the group — showed any signs of self-restraint, and — what was a still rarer thing for a Kaffir — he even went so far as to thank his benefactor. He stepped up to Cyprien, seized his hand, and solemnly passed it over his woolly head.

“What is your name?” asked Cyprien.

The Kaffir, understanding a few words of English, replied, “Mataki.”

Cyprien liked his straightforward look, and conceived the idea of engaging him to work on his claim.

“After all,” he said to himself, “it is what everybody does in these parts. Better for the Kaffir that he should have me for his master instead of some Pantalacci.” And so — “Well, Mataki, you are looking for work, are you?”

The Kaffir nodded.

“Will you work for me? I will board you, find you in tools, and give you a pound a month.”

Such was the customary rate, and Cyprien knew that he could not offer more without raising the whole camp against him. But he intended to make up the very poor pay with gifts of clothes, cooking utensils, and other things.

As his only reply, Mataki smiled, showed his white teeth, and again laid his protector’s hand on, his head.

The contract was signed.

Cyprien took him to his tent and gave him a flannel shirt, a pair of cotton trousers, and an old hat. Mataki could hardly believe his eyes. To see himself thus splendidly arrayed as soon as he arrived in camp surpassed his dreams. He knew not how to express his gratitude or his joy. He jumped and capered and laughed and cried again and again.

At the end of a week Mataki had picked up so many words that he was able to make himself understood, and Cyprien learned his history. He did not know the name of the country where he was born, but it was in the mountains, toward the sun-rising. All he could say about it was that he was very miserable, and, like many other warriors of his tribe, to make his fortune he had come to the Diamond Fields.

What did he hope to gain? A red cloak and ten times ten pieces of silver! For the Kaffirs hate gold pieces, their prejudice against them being due to their having been used by the first European traders.

And what did Mataki, the ambitious, think of doing with these pieces of silver?

His intention was to get a red cloak, a gun, and ammunition, and then to return to his kraal. There he would buy a wife, who would work for him, take care of his cow, and cultivate his mealie-field. Then would he become a great chief. Every one would envy his gun and his good fortune, and he would die full of years and respected. Nothing could be simpler.

Cyprien remained deep in thought after hearing the simple program. Could he change it; enlarge the poor savage’s horizon, and show him a better object in life than a red cloak and a shot-gun? Or should he leave him in his ignorance and let him return to his kraal in peace, and live the life he hoped for? A serious question, which the engineer dared not solve, but which Mataki did for himself.

For as soon as the Kaffir had picked up sufficient of the language to make himself understood, he betrayed an extraordinary thirst for information. His questions were incessant; he wished to know everything — the name of each object, its use, and its origin. Then he devoted himself to reading, writing, and to ciphering. In short, his thirst for knowledge was insatiable. And Cyprien encouraged him, and every evening gave him an hour’s lesson to help him on the road he had chosen.

Miss Watkins was also interested in his unusual eagerness, and undertook to give him lessons. And these the young Kaffir would repeat to himself as he worked at the bottom of the claim, dealing mighty strokes with the pickaxe below, drawing the buckets up above, or sorting out the pebbles at the sieves. So well did he work that his example was contagious, and the men on the neighboring claims made far more progress than they had ever done before.

On Mataki’s recommendation, Cyprien engaged another Kaffir of the same tribe, whose name was Bardik, and his zeal and intelligence were equally appreciated.

Soon after Bardik’s engagement, Cyprien had his first good find, a seven-carat stone, which he at once sold to Nathan, the broker, for twenty pounds. This was promising, and a miner who was only on the look-out for reasonable wages would have been content — but Cyprien was not.

“If I stay here for two or three months at this rate,” he said to himself, “shall I be any better off? It is not one seven-carat stone that I want, but a thousand or two, or else Miss Watkins will be handed over to James Hilton, or some other worthless fellow.”

Thus thought Cyprien as he returned to the kopje one sultry, dusty day — the dust, that reddish, blinding cloud, that hangs like a pall over the site of a diamond mine. Suddenly he stopped, and stepped back, horror-struck at what he saw in the yard of one of the isolated huts.

A man was hanging from the pole of an ox-cart, which had been drawn up by the wall. The body hung like a plummet against a background of snowy white linen — motionless, lifeless, with the feet stretched to the ground, and the arms dropped limply at its side.

Cyprien was for a moment aghast. But as he recognized the Chinaman Li, hanging by the pigtail, which had been hitched around his neck, his astonishment gave way to pity. He did not hesitate very long. He sprang to the pole, caught the body in his arms, and cut the tail with his pocket-knife. That done, he carefully laid his burden in the shadow of the hut.

It was time. Li was not quite cold. His heart beat feebly, but still it did beat. Soon he opened his eyes, and, strange to relate, seemed to come to his senses as soon as he saw the light. His impassible face betrayed neither fear nor astonishment at emerging from so horrible a trial. He seemed as though he had been awakened from some gentle sleep.

Cyprien made him drink a few drops of vinegar and water that he happened to have in his flask.

“Can you speak now?” asked he, mechanically, forgetting that Li could not understand him.

Li, however, gave an affirmative nod.

“Who hanged you, then?”

“I did,” replied the Chinaman, as if he had said the most natural thing in the world.

“You? You were committing suicide, then, you scoundrel! And why?”

“Li was too warm! Li was tired of it!” replied the Celestial. And then he shut his eyes, as if to escape further questioning.

It now struck Cyprien for the first time that the Chinaman was not supposed to know the language.

“You speak English?” asked he.

“Yes,” answered Li, lifting his eyelids, or rather the two oblique button-holes alongside his nose.

The look he gave reminded Cyprien of that ironical glance which had surprised him on the coach to Kimber-ley.

“Your reasons are absurd!” he said severely. “People do not commit suicide because the weather is too hot! Speak seriously. There is something in all this, I know. Has that Pantalacci been doing anything to you?”

The Chinaman bowed his head. “He threatened to cut off my pigtail,” said he, in a low voice, “and I am sure that he would have done so in an hour or two.”

At that moment Li perceived the very pigtail in Cyprien’s hand, and saw that the misfortune he dreaded above all things had come to pass.

“Oh! sir! what! you! You cut it!” he screamed in terror.

“It was necessary to do so to prevent your being strangled,” said Cyprien; “but it is of no consequence to you in this place. Be calm!”

The Chinaman seemed so broken-hearted at the amputation that Cyprien, fearing he might make another attempt on his life, took him along with him.

Li followed without a word, sat down near his rescuer, listened to his reprimands, promised never to renew the attempt, and, under the influence of a cup of hot tea, even favored him with some scraps of his biography.

He was a native of Canton, and had been brought up in an English commercial house. From Canton he had gone to Ceylon, thence to Australia, and thence to South Africa. Fortune had never smiled on him. The laundry trade had been as unprofitable as the twenty other trades he had tried his hands at. But Pantalacci had simply rendered his life insupportable, and to escape his persecution he had made up his mind to hang himself.

Cyprien comforted the poor fellow, promised to protect him against the Neapolitan, gave him all the dirty clothes to wash that he could find, and sent him away contented at the loss of his capillary appendage, and free from superstition regarding the consequences.

CHAPTER VII

THE LANDSLIP

A FORTNIGHT passed, and Cyprien found not a single diamond. More and more did he become disgusted with his trade. It seemed to him, without capital enough to buy a first-class claim and pay a dozen Kaffirs to work it properly, but little better than a swindle.

One morning, while Mataki and Bardik went out with Steel to work, he stayed in his tent to answer a letter from Pharamond Barthes, which had been brought in by an ivory trader.

Barthes was enchanted with his life of hunting and adventure. He had already killed three lions, sixteen elephants, and an incalculable number of giraffes, antelopes, and such small game.

“Like the conquerors of history,” he said, “we make war feed on war. It frequently happens that we not only feed the whole expedition on what we bag, but also make considerable profit by selling or bartering the skins and ivory.” And in conclusion he said, “Why don’t you come with me and have a turn on the Limpopo? I shall be there about the end of next month, and intend to go down to Delagoa Bay, to return by sea to Durban, whither I have promised to take %m%y% Basutos. Leave your horrible Griqualand for a few weeks and join me.”

Cyprien was reading the letter over again when a tremendous noise, followed by a loud shouting in the camp, made him rush out of his tent.

An excited crowd were running toward the diggings.

“A landslip!” was the cry from all sides.

The night had been very cold, while the preceding day had been one of the hottest for some time. This sudden change of temperature had, as usual, caused the earth to crack and break away. Cyprien hurried to the kopje. A glance showed him what had happened.

An enormous block of earth, about sixty yards high and two hundred long, had been cleft vertically, and a fissure formed in it like a breach in a rampart. Thousands of tons of gravel had been detached from the main mass and rolled down into the claims, filling them with sand, pebbles, and rubbish. Everything on the spot at the time — men, oxen, and carts — had been hurled below. Fortunately the majority of the diggers had not yet gone down to work, so that but a very few were buried by the fall.

Cyprien’s first thought was for Steel, and soon he had the pleasure of recognizing him among the men near the cleft. He ran up to ask him how it had happened.

“We are all right,” said the Lancashire man, as he shook hands.

“Where’s Mataki?” asked Cyprien.

“He is down under there,” answered Steel, pointing to the rubbish which had heaped up on their claim. “I was waiting here till he had filled his first bucket when the slip took place.”

“But we cannot leave him there without trying to rescue him. Perhaps he is still alive.”

Steel shook his head. “It is not likely that he can be living under fifteen or twenty tons of earth. Besides, it would take ten men two or three days to clear all that off.”

“Never mind,” answered the engineer; “it shall not be said that we left a fellow-creature down in that grave without trying to get him out.”

And then, through Bardik, who was standing near, he offered to the Kaffirs the high pay of five shillings a day to all who would help to clear out the claim.

Thirty negroes undertook the job, and without losing an instant set to work. Picks and shovels were there, buckets and ropes were ready, and the carts were standing by. A great number of the whites, hearing that they were trying to dig out a poor fellow buried alive by the landslip, volunteered their help, and Steel, thoroughly roused by Cyprien’s energy, was by no means the least active among them.

By noon several tons of gravel had been cleared away. At three o’clock Bardik uttered a hoarse cry. Beneath his pickaxe he had just caught sight of a black head. The men worked with a will, and a few minutes later Mataki’s body was exhumed. The unhappy man was lying on his back, motionless, and to all appearances dead. By a singular chance one of the leather buckets had been turned over on his face and covered it like a mask.

This Cyprien noticed at once, and it led him to think that he might recall the poor fellow to life. The hope, however, was very feeble, for the heart beat no longer, the skin was cold, the limbs had stiffened, the hands were clenched in agony, and the face — of that livid paleness peculiar to the negroes — was frightfully contracted by asphyxia.

Cyprien did not lose courage. He had Mataki carried to Steel’s hut, which was nearer than his own, and here he was laid on the table where the gravel was usually tried over. Systematic rubbing was then begun, particularly that chafing the thoracic cage, with a view to establish artificial respiration, which is employed in the case of the apparently drowned. Cyprien knew that this treatment was equally applicable to all kinds of asphyxia, and in the present instance he had nothing else to attend to, as no wound or fracture, or even serious bruise, was apparent.

“Look!” said Steel, who was rubbing away assiduously; “he is holding something in his hand!”

The result of these measures soon became apparent. The corpse-like stiffness of the young Kaffir gradually relaxed; the temperature of the skin sensibly changed. Cyprien, who was watching the heart for the least sign of life, thought he could feel a gentle trembling that augured well.

Soon the symptoms became more marked. The pulse began to beat, a slight inspiration seemed to insensibly inflate Mataki’s chest, and then a stronger expiration betrayed a manifest return of the vital functions.

Suddenly two vigorous sneezes shook the black carcass from head to foot. Mataki opened his eyes, breathed, recovered his consciousness.

“Hurrah! hurrah! he’s all right!” exclaimed Thomas Steel, as, dripping with perspiration, he suspended his rubbing. “But look! he has never let go of that piece of earth in his hand!”

Cyprien had other things to think of than such a trifle as that! He made his patient swallow a spoonful of spirits, and then raised him so as to facilitate his breathing. Finally, when he found he had really returned to life, he wrapped him up in blankets, and, with the help of three or four willing companions, carried him to his own hut at Watkins Farm.

There the poor Kaffir was put to bed, and Bardik made him take a mug of hot tea. In a quarter of an hour he peacefully fell asleep. He was saved!

Cyprien felt that incomparable gladness in his heart which a man experiences when he has snatched a human life from the jaws of death; and, sitting down by Mataki, took up a book, interrupting his reading from time to time to look at him as he slept — like a father watching the sleep of a convalescent son.

During the six weeks Mataki had been in his service Cyprien had had every reason to be satisfied with him. His intelligence, obedience, and ardor in his work were astonishing. He was fearless and obliging, and of a singularly quiet and cheerful disposition. He had, however, one fault — a very serious one — due evidently to his earlier education, and to the Spartan customs that prevailed in his father’s kraal. Mataki was just a little of a thief, but almost unconsciously so. When he saw anything he liked he thought it the most natural thing in the world to annex it.

In vain his master, alarmed at the tendency, talked to him and argued with him. In vain he had threatened to send him away if he found him out in another attempt. Mataki promised never to do so again, cried, begged pardon, and the very next day stole something else, as if nothing at all had happened.

His larcenies were not heavy, however. His covet-ousness was not excited by things of great value; a knife, a cravat, a pencil, or some such trifle would be enough for him. But Cyprien was none the less broken-hearted at finding such a failing in so sympathetic a nature.

“Wait! hope!” he said. “Perhaps I shall some day make him understand how wicked it is.”

Toward nightfall Mataki awoke, as well as if nothing had happened, and then he told his story.

The bucket that had accidentally covered his face, and a long ladder serving as a buttress above him, had kept off the pressure, and saved him for some time from complete asphyxia by leaving him a little air to breathe. He had made the best he could of this fortunate circumstance by breathing only at long intervals. But little by little the air became foul. Mataki found his senses gradually going, and fell off into a deep, painless sleep, whence he roused for a moment now and then to make a determined attempt at inspiration. Then all was a blank.

Cyprien let him talk for a minute or two, and then got him to drink and eat, and compelled him, in spite of his protests, to remain in bed for the night. Then, feeling sure that all danger was over, he left him alone, and went to pay his customary visit to Watkins Farm.

He wished to tell Alice what he thought of the events of the day, and of the dislike he had taken to the mine — a dislike which the deplorable accident of the morning could not but increase. He told her of his disappointments and vexations, and of the letter he had received from Pharamond Barthes. Would it not be better for him to take his friend’s advice? What would he lose by going to the Limpopo and trying his luck as a hunter? Surely it would be a nobler occupation than that of sifting the earth like a miser, or getting other people to sift it for him.

“What do you think, Miss Watkins?” he asked. “You have so much practical good sense, advise me. I have lost my moral equilibrium; I want a friendly hand to set me right again.”

Thus spoke he in all sincerity, pleased, he knew not why, at thus betraying his indecision to his gentle confidante, who listened with deep sympathy.

“I have long thought the same of you,” she answered. “I cannot understand how a scientific man like you can abandon yourself to such a life. Is it not a crime against yourself and against science itself? To give your precious time to mere hand labor, such as a Kaffir or a Hottentot could do much better, seems to me to waste it.”

Cyprien had only one explanation to give of the problem which so greatly astonished and shocked the young lady. Perhaps she was exaggerating her indignation a little to force him to an avowal? But that avowal he had promised not to make, and so he restrained himself, although it trembled on his lips.

Miss Watkins continued, “If you want to find diamonds so badly, why don’t you look where you are most likely to find them — in your crucible? What! you a chemist, knowing more than anybody what these wretched stones are which people value so highly, and set yourself to mere mechanical labor? If I were in your place I should try to make diamonds, not to find them!”

Unfortunately at this moment Watkins awoke from his sleep to ask the latest news from Vandergaart Kopje, but the seed had been thrown on good ground, and was sure to germinate.

As the young engineer returned home he pondered over Miss Watkins’ thrilling words. All that was fanciful about them disappeared when he thought of the generous and almost tender confidence that they had showed in him.

“And why not?” he asked himself. “The fabrication of the diamond may have appeared Utopian a century ago, but now it is as good as done. Fremy and Peil have made rubies, emeralds, and sapphires which are only differently colored crystals of alumina. MacTear and Han-nay, of Glasgow, really made diamonds, and their only fault was that they were so horribly dear — dearer than the natural diamonds of Brazil and Griqualand — and consequently the discovery was of no commercial value. But when the scientific solution of a problem has been arrived at, the industrial solution is not far off. Why should I not seek for it? The men who have failed hitherto have been mere theorists — men of the study and the laboratory. They have not studied the diamond in position — in its native earth — in its cradle, so to speak. I have the benefit of their work — of their experience — in addition to my own. I have extracted the diamond with my own hands. I have analyzed it, studied it under every aspect in which it has been found. If anybody had a good chance of succeeding, I am the man — at least, I ought to be the man.”

Thus thought Cyprien, as, turning the matter over in his mind, he lay awake during the greater part of the night.

His resolution was soon taken. On the following morning he told Steel that he did not intend to work his claim any more, and arranged with him to retire from the partnership as soon as some one could be found to take his place. Then he went back and shut himself up in his laboratory to think over his new scheme.

CHAPTER VIII

THE GREAT EXPERIMENT

“PERHAPS,” said Cyprien, “these diamond deposits are really carbonataras. If a lot of hydrogen and carbon hung about the streams and alluvial deposits in the form of marsh gas, why should there not have been an oxydation of the hydrogen with an accompanying partial oxydation of the carbon, such as would bring about a crystallization of the carbon in excess?”

With this idea to begin with, a chemist had little difficulty in selecting a compound to play the part of the oxygen in an analogous but artificial reaction, and Cyprien immediately entered on the investigation.

In the first place a state of things had to be devised experimentally to resemble as much as possible the supposed conditions under which the natural diamond was produced. This was simple enough. Everything great in science and art is simple. What can be less complicated than the greatest discoveries of humanity — gravitation, the compass, the printing-press, the steam-engine, the electric telegraph?

Cyprien himself went down to the lowest depths of the diggings and there selected samples of the earth which he thought best suited for his experiment. With it he made a thick pasty mortar, and with this he carefully lined a steel tube about half a yard long, two inches thick, and three inches in bore.

This tube was simply a piece of cannon condemned as unfit for service. He had managed to buy it at Kimberley from a company of volunteers who had been disbanded after a campaign against the neighboring Kaffirs. This cannon, sawed in segments in old Vandergaart’s work-shop, gave the very instrument that was required — namely a chamber of sufficient resistance to support enormous internal pressure.

After firmly closing one end of the tube, he placed in it a few fragments of copper and about three pints of water. Then he filled it with marsh gas, and then carefully luting it with his mortar he drove stoppers into each end and fastened them in strongly enough to withstand any force. Thus was the apparatus constructed. The next thing to do was to submit it to intense heat.

To obtain this it was put into a large reverberating furnace kept going night and day for a fortnight, so as to give a constant white heat.

Both the furnace and the tube were then enveloped in a thick coating of refractory earth, so as to retain the greatest possible quantity of heat, and to cool down as slowly as possible when the time came. The furnace looked like a huge beehive or an Eskimo hut.

And now Mataki was able to be of use. All the preparations had been watched by him with great attention, and when he found that they were going to try and make a diamond his interest in the experiment became intense. He soon learned how to stoke the furnace, and the charge of that department was entrusted to him.

As can be imagined, these arrangements took some time. In a European laboratory the experiment would have been begun within a couple of hours of its having been planned out, but in this half-civilized place it took three weeks before all was ready. And Cyprien was very lucky in several things; for instance, in finding the old gun, which just suited him, and in procuring coal for fuel. In fact, so rare was coal at Kimberley that he had to apply to three merchants to scrape together a single ton..

At length all difficulties were surmounted, and once the fire was lighted, Mataki took it in charge.

The young Kaffir was very proud of his functions. They were not quite novel to him, as once or twice in his native land he had assisted at a more or less diabolical act of cookery. For among his fellows it seemed that Mataki had the reputation of being a magician. A few secrets of elementary surgery, and two or three mesmeric passes learned from his father, were his whole stock in trade. But the Kaffirs came to consult him for all their ailments, real or imaginary, for the interpretation of their dreams and the settlement of their disputes. Mataki was never at fault, and had always some formula ready, some portent to explain, or some sentence to pronounce. The formulas were generally strange and the sentences preposterous, but his countrymen were satisfied. And what more would you have?

Besides, the flasks and retorts by which he was surrounded in Cyprien’s laboratory — to say nothing of the mysterious operations in which he was allowed to take part — could not but contribute to his prestige.

Cyprien often smiled at the solemn airs the black gave himself in performing this humble task of stoker and preparer, in putting on the coal and poking the fire, or dusting the rows of crucibles and test tubes. And in this gravity there was something even pathetic — that artless expression of the awe inspired by science in a nature degraded, but intelligent and greedy to learn.

But Mataki had his play hours like other men, especially when he was in the company of Li. A firm friendship had sprung up between these two, different as they were in their origin, during the now very frequent visits that the Chinaman paid to Watkins Farm. They had both been rescued by Cyprien from imminent death, and regarded him with the warmest gratitude. It was thus very natural that they should be first drawn toward each other by a sincere sympathy, and then that this sympathy should be changed into affection.

Between themselves Li and Mataki had given the young engineer a familiar name that well expressed the nature of the sentiment with which they regarded him. They called him “pa,” and never spoke of him except in terms of admiration and devotion.

On Li’s part this devotion showed itself “in the scrupulous attention with which he washed and got up Cyprien’s linen; on Mataki’s part by the rigid punctuality with which he carried out all his master’s instructions.

But sometimes the two friends went a little further in their endeavor to gratify their “pa.” Occasionally, for instance, Cyprien would find on his table certain fruits or dainties that he had never ordered, and which never appeared in the tradesmen’s bills. Now and then when his shirts returned from the wash they would be provided with gold studs of mysterious origin. An excellent easy-chair appeared among the furniture; an embroidered cushion, a panther-skin, and several costly nicknacks came into the hut none knew whence.

And if Cyprien asked Li or Mataki about them, all he could get were evasive responses, such as, “It wasn’t me, sir!” “I wonder who did it!” etc. etc.

Cyprien would have taken little notice of these things had he not suspected that the gifts had been very easily acquired. Had they cost more than the trouble of taking them? Nothing, however, happened to confirm his suspicions, and all his inquiries produced no result, while behind his back Li and Mataki exchanged sly looks, significant smiles, and cabalistic signs that seemed to afford them intense gratification.

Cyprien had, however, other cares to attend to. John Watkins seemed to have made up his mind to get Alice married as soon as possible, and with this in view seemed to keep open quite a museum of probable admirers. Not only was James Hilton there every evening, but all the bachelor diggers whose success in the kopje had in Watkins’ eyes given them the necessary qualifications for his son-in-law. The German Friedel and the Italian Pantalacci were among them, both having been among the lucky ones of the mine. Friedel was more pedantic and peremptory than ever; Pantalacci had blossomed out into a colonial swell, resplendent with gold chains and diamond pins. He wore a white linen suit, which made his yellow complexion look still yellower and more cadaverous.

With his buffooneries, his Neapolitan songs, and his attempts at being a fine gentleman, Pantalacci tried in vain to please Alice, who despised him heartily for the very obvious motive that brought him to the farm. She never listened to him if she could help it, and never gave the faintest smile either at his jokes or his attitudes.

And Cyprien was at work both night and day on other experiments which he intended to try should he fail in his first attempt at diamond-making. He was not content with theory and formula, though with them for hours he would fill notebook after notebook. Frequently did he visit the kopje, to bring home fresh specimens of the gravels and sands and submit them to a searching analysis, which, repeated in many ways, allowed of no margin for error. The greater the danger became of losing Alice Watkins, the more was he resolved to omit nothing that might give him the victory. And yet, so little confidence had he in himself that he whispered not a word to her of the experiment in progress. All Alice knew was that he had gone back to his chemistry — and she was very glad to hear it.

CHAPTER IX

A SURPRISE

IT was a great day when the experiment was completed. For two weeks the fire had been allowed to die out, so that the apparatus might gradually cool. Cyprien, considering that the crystallization of the carbon ought by now to have been effected, resolved to open the mound which covered the furnace.

This was no easy matter. The pickaxes had all their work to do to cut their way through the baked earth. It had been hardened like a brick. At length it yielded to the attacks of Mataki, and the upper part of the furnace, the capital, so to speak, was visible. Then the whole furnace was revealed to view.

Cyprien’s heart beat a hundred and twenty to the minute as the Kaffir, assisted by Bardik and Li, lifted off the top.

That the experiment had succeeded he could hardly believe. He was one of those who always doubt themselves.

But after all it was possible! And if it had! All his hopes of happiness, of glory, and of fortune were contained in that huge black cylinder which now met his sight after so many weeks of trial!

Horror! The cannon had burst!

Yes! Against the formidable pressure of the vapor of the water and the marsh gas raised to such a tremendous temperature the very steel had been unable to contend. The barrel, although two inches thick, had split like a test tube. On one of its sides about half-way down there gaped a huge fissure blackened and twisted by the flames, which seemed to grin in the face of the discomfited engineer.

This was indeed unfortunate! So much trouble to reach a negative! Indeed Cyprien would have felt less humiliated if, thanks to his precautions, the cylinder had resisted the fire — and been found empty. That there might be no diamond inside the tube he was prepared for. But to have heated up and cooled down and cherished for a month or more that old lump of steel, and then to end like this, was the acme of misfortune! He felt inclined to kick the whole concern over his hut — but its weight forbade him.

He was about to leave the spot in despair, when curiosity led him to hold a match at the gap in the tube so as to examine the interior.

“Perhaps,” he thought, “the earth I plastered around it has been baked into a brick like that outside.”

He was right. But a very curious phenomenon presented itself which at first he could not understand. A sort of clay nodule seemed to have detached itself from the lining of the tube and hardened separately.

The nodule was of a reddish color. It was about the size of an orange, and could easily pass through the gap. Cyprien drew it out, and held it up carelessly to examine it. Then remembering that it was only a piece of clay like the rest, but separately baked, he was going to throw it aside. But it sounded hollow like a piece of pottery.

It was a sort of closed cup in which something seemed to shake. “A regular money-box!” said Cyprien.

But had he under pain of death been obliged to explain the mystery he could not have done so.

However, he resolved to see what it meant He took up a hammer and smashed the “money-box.”

And it was a money-box, and contained a magnificent treasure. There could be no mistake as to the nature of the pebble which disclosed itself to the astonished eyes of the engineer. The stone was a diamond in its gangue, in every respect like an ordinary diamond, but a diamond of colossal dimensions.

It was as large as a fowl’s egg. It looked not unlike a potato. It weighed over half a pound.

“A diamond! An artificial diamond!” repeated Cyprien in an undertone. “I have solved the problem notwithstanding the accident to the tube. I am a rich man! Alice, my dear Alice, is mine!”

Then he doubted his eyesight.

“But it is impossible! It is an illusion, a mirage! But I’ll soon find out the truth.”

And without stopping to put on his hat, mad with joy, like Archimedes jumping from the bath when he discovered his famous principle, Cyprien tore down the road from the farm and bounded like a shot into the workshop of Jacobus Vandergaart.

He found the old lapidary examining some stones which Nathan the broker had brought to be cut.

“Ha! Mr. Nathan, you are just in time,” exclaimed Cyprien. “Look here! and you, Mr. Vandergaart, see what I have brought you, and tell me what it is.”

He put the stone on the table and crossed his arms. Nathan first took it up. He turned pale with surprise, his eyes opened wide, as he handed the stone to Vandergaart.

Jacobus held it up to the level of his eyes, looked at it in the light from the window, and then looked at it over his spectacles. Then he laid it on the table, looked at Cyprien, and said very quietly : “That is the biggest diamond in the world.”

“Yes! The biggest!” repeated Nathan. “Two or three times as large as the Kohinoor, the Mountain of Light, the pride of the royal jewels of England, and which weighs a hundred and seventy-nine carats.”

“Two or three times as large as the Grand Mogul, the largest known stone, which weighs two hundred and eighty carats,” said the lapidary.

“Four or five times as large as the Czar’s diamond, which weighs a hundred and ninety-three carats!” continued Nathan.

“Seven or eight times as large as the Regent, which weighs one hundred and thirty-six carats,” quoth Vandergaart.

“Twenty or thirty times as large as the Dresden diamond, which weighs only thirty-one!” said Nathan, adding immediately, “I should say that after it is cut it will weigh at least four hundred carats! But how can we dare to value it? It is beyond all calculation.”

“Why not?” answered Jacobus Vandergaart, who remained the coolest of the two. “The Kohinoor is estimated at a million and a quarter, the Grand Mogul at half a million, the Czar’s diamond at three hundred and fifty thousand, the Regent at two hundred and fifty thousand — and that certainly ought to be worth four millions of money!”

“It all depends on its color and quality,” said Nathan, who began to recover his senses, and to prepare for the future with a view to a future bargain. “If it is pure and of the first water its value will be inestimable; but if it is yellow, like most of our Griqualand stones, it will not be worth nearly so much. For a stone of that size, * I think I should prefer just a slight tinge of sapphire-blue, like the Hope diamond, or perhaps a rose tint, like that of the Grand Mogul, or even emerald shade, like that of the Dresden diamond.”

“No, no!” said the old lapidary, excitedly; “I believe in colorless diamonds! Give me the Kohinoor or the Regent! There are gems for you! By the side of them those others are but fancy stones.”

Cyprien had heard enough.

“Gentlemen, you must excuse me,” said he, hurriedly; “I must leave you for a minute,” and, picking up his precious pebble, he ran back along the road to the farm.

Without stopping to knock, he burst open the sitting-room door, found himself in Alice’s presence, and, without giving a thought, caught her in his arms and kissed her on both cheeks.

“Hallo! what’s up?” exclaimed Mr. Watkins, quite scandalized at the performance.

He was seated at a table in front of Annibale Pantalacci.

“Miss Watkins, I beg your pardon!” stammered Cyprien, surprised at his boldness, but radiant with joy. “I am so happy! I have gone mad with joy. Look! see what I have brought you!” and he threw rather than placed the diamond on the table between the two men.

Like Nathan and Jacobus Vandergaart, they at once recognized it. Mr. Watkins, it being early in the day, was sufficiently sober to take in the matter at a glance.

“You found that — you yourself — in your claim?” exclaimed he.

“Found it!” answered Cyprien, triumphantly. “I did better than that! I made it! Ah, Mr. Watkins, there is some good in chemistry after all!” and he laughed, and he clasped Alice’s delicate hand in his own, and she, surprised at his passionate demonstrations, but delighted at his happiness, stood smiling, as he said, “It is you to whom I owe the discovery! You advised me to return to chemistry. It was your daughter, Mr. Watkins, that made me make artificial diamonds! I render homage to her like the knights to the ladies of old, and proclaim that to her alone belongs the credit of the invention! I should never have dreamed of it without her.”

Watkins and Pantalacci looked at the diamond, then they looked at each other and shook their heads. They were completely bewildered.

“You say you made that — you yourself?” said Watkins. “Then it is a sham!”

“A sham!” exclaimed Cyprien. “Well, yes! a sham! But Jacobus Vandergaart and Nathan value it as worth two millions at the least, and perhaps four! Although it is an artificial diamond, obtained by a process of which I am the inventor, it is none the less perfectly authentic! You see, there is nothing missing — not even the gangue!”

“And you are going to make other diamonds like it?” continued Watkins.

“If I like. I can make them by the bushel, and I can make them ten times — a hundred times — as large as that! I will make enough of them to pave your terrace with — to macadamize the roads of Griqualand with if you wish! It is but the first step that costs. Once the first stone is made, the rest is merely a detail — a simple affair of working certain technical formulae.”

“But if that is so,” gasped the miner, turning ashy pale, “you will ruin all the mine-owners! You will ruin me! You will ruin all Griqualand!”

“Certainly!” replied Cyprien. “Who would go grubbing for little diamonds in the ground when you can manufacture big ones that will give you a fortune in no time?”

“But it is monstrous!” exclaimed Watkins. “It is a shame! it is abominable! If what you say is true, if you really possess this secret — “

He gasped for breath.

“Well, you see,” said Cyprien coldly, “I am not merely talking about it; I brought you my first specimen, and I think it is big enough to convince you.”

“Well, then,” said Watkins, who had at last recovered his breath, “if it is true — you — you ought to be shot, sir! That is my opinion!”

“And that is mine!” Pantalacci thought proper to add, with a threatening gesture.

Miss Watkins rose, looking very pale.

“Shot, because I have solved a chemical problem that men have been trying for the last fifty years?” answered the engineer, shrugging his shoulders. “That is rather too good!”

“There is nothing to laugh at in it, sir!” replied the furious farmer. “Think of the consequences of what you call your discovery — of all the work in the diggings stopped — of all Griqualand deprived of its glorious industry — of me reduced to beggary!”

“Well, I didn’t think of all that, I admit,” answered Cyprien, very frankly. “That is the inevitable consequence of industrial progress, and pure science cannot stop to worry itself about it! As to you personally, Mr. Watkins, you need not be alarmed. What is mine is yours, and you know very well the motive I had in working out the subject.”

Watkins took the hint, and, as he did not want the Italian to know too much, suddenly shifted his ground. “After all,” he said, “you may be right, and you speak like the plucky fellow you are. Perhaps we may understand each other yet. But why do you want to make a lot of diamonds that will soon make your discovery cheap? Why not carefully keep your secret, use it with moderation, and only make one or two stones like that, so as to raise sufficient capital, and become the richest man in these parts? No one would have anything to say against you, things would go on as they are, and you would not have to run counter to all the respectable people in the neighborhood.”

This was a new view of the question that Cyprien had never dreamed of. There was no mistake about the dilemma; either he must keep his secret, leave the world ignorant of it and abuse it for his own aggrandizement, or, as Watkins very truly said, depreciate at one blow all diamonds, natural and artificial, and consequently renounce the fortune. For what? To ruin every miner in Griqualand, India, and Brazil!

With the alternative thus placed before him, Cyprien hesitated, but it was only for an instant. He saw that to take the side of sincerity, honor, and fidelity to science was to renounce the very hope that had urged him to the discovery.

The sorrow was as bitter, as poignant as it was unexpected. To fall so suddenly from so sweet a dream!

“Mr. Watkins,” said he, gravely, “if I kept the secret of my discovery to myself I should be an impostor! I should trade with false weights, and deceive the public as to the quality of the goods. The results obtained by the man of science do not belong to him alone; they are part of the patrimony of us all. To keep for himself in his own personal interest the smallest part of it would be to commit as vile an act as a man can do! I will not do it! No; I will not wait a week, nor a day, to give to the public the formula which chance and a little thought put into my power. My only reservation will be to give it first of all to those who sent me here. Tomorrow I will send the secret of my process to the Academy of Sciences. Good-bye, sir; I thank you for having taught me my duty. Miss Watkins, I was merely dreaming;” and before Alice could move to stop him Cyprien had taken up his diamond and gone.

CHAPTER X

JOHN WATKINS THINKS MATTERS OVER

CYPRIEN left the farm, sad at heart but resolved to do his duty. He made his way to Jacobus Vandergaart. He found him alone. Nathan, the broker, had gone off to be the first to spread the news so likely to interest the diggers. The news did not cause so much excitement as might be supposed, for Nathan did not then know that the huge diamond was an artificial one.

Cyprien had come to old Vandergaart to verify the quality and color of the stone before drawing up his report.

“My dear Jacobus,” said he, as he sat down beside him, “first cut a facet on that boss, so that we can see what is underneath.”

“Nothing easier,” said the old lapidary, taking the pebble from him. “You have chosen a capital place,” added he, as he noticed a slight swelling on one of the sides of the gem, which but for it was an almost perfect oval. “We shall risk nothing in cutting it here.”

Without further delay Vandergaart set to work. He took from his wooden bowl a common boort-stone of about four or five carats, and fixed it firmly at the end of a sort of handle. He then began to rub together the exterior surfaces of the two stones.

“We could do it more quickly by cleavage,” said he; “but who would dare to amuse himself by hammering at a gem of this value?”

The task was a long and monotonous one. It took nearly two hours. When the facet was large enough to allow of the nature of the stone being seen it had to be polished on the wheel, and that also took some time.

At last the work was finished, and Cyprien and Vandergaart, yielding to their curiosity, took up the diamond to see the result.

A beautiful facet of the color of jet, but of matchless limpidity and splendor, revealed itself to their view.

The diamond was black!

But this almost unique peculiarity added to rather than diminished its value.

Vandergaart’s hands trembled with emotion as he flashed the facet in the sunshine.

“It is the finest and most curious gem that ever reflected the sunlight,” said he, in a tone of the deepest reverence. “What will it be like when we have cut all its facets so that it can refract the light as well as reflect it?”

“Will you undertake to do it?” asked Cyprien.

“Yes, certainly, my boy, and the honor will be the crowning point of my long career! But perhaps you had better choose a younger and firmer hand than mine.”

“No!” answered Cyprien. “Nobody, I am sure, would do the work more carefully or cleverly than you! Take the diamond and cut it at your leisure; you will make it a masterpiece.”

The old man turned the stone over and over in his fingers, and sat as if hesitating to tell what was passing in his mind.

“One thing troubles me,” he said at length. “The thought of having under my roof a jewel of such value. Here is a couple of millions’ worth at the least in the palm of my hand. It is not wise of me to take such a responsibility on myself.”

“None will know of it if you say nothing about it; and, as far as I am concerned, I will not betray your secret.”

“Perhaps. But you can be followed when you come here! Suppose you are? There are queer people about! I shall not sleep quietly!”

“Perhaps you are right,” replied Cyprien, as he understood the old man’s hesitation; “but what is to be done?”

“That is what I am thinking of,” said Vandergaart, and he remained silent for a moment or so.

Then he continued: “Listen, my dear fellow. What I am going to say is of some delicacy, and presupposes that in me you have absolute confidence. But you know me well enough to see nothing strange in my suggestion. I must leave here at once with my tools and this stone, and get out of the way into some corner where I am not known — in Hope-town or Bloemfontein, for example. I will hire a room

and there work in secret, and only return when my work is done. In that way I may perhaps out-manoeuvre these rascals. But, I repeat, I am very shy of proposing such a plan to you — “

“But it is a very good one,” interrupted Cyprien, “and I shall be very glad if you will start on it.”

“I shall want at least a month, and all sorts of accidents may happen to me on the road.”

“Never mind, if you think it is all right. And after all, if the diamond does go it does not much matter.”

Vandergaart looked at his young friend as if he were horror-stricken. “Has such a stroke of luck bereft him of reason?” asked he of himself.

Cyprien divined his thoughts, and smiled to himself. Then he explained to him whence the diamond had come, and how, if he liked, he could make many more. But the old lapidary — whether it was that he hardly believed the story, or that he did not care to be left alone with a jewel of such price — all the time busied himself in his preparations for starting.

Putting his tools and his clothes in an old leather bag, Vandergaart stuck on his door a notice to the effect that he was “away on business,” put the key in his pocket and the diamond in his waistcoat, and set out.

Cyprien accompanied him for a mile or two on the road to Bloemfontein. It was night when the engineer returned, thinking perhaps more of Miss Watkins than of his wonderful discovery.

However, having done but scant justice to the dinner Mataki had prepared, he sat himself down at his writing-table and began the report he intended to send off by next mail to the Academy of Sciences. It consisted of a detailed account of his experiment, and a highly ingenious theory of the reaction which had given birth to this magnificent carbon crystal.

“Its most remarkable characteristic,” wrote he, “is its complete identity with the natural diamond, and more especially its possession of a gangue.”

And Cyprien did not hesitate to attribute this curious result to the care with which he had coated his apparatus with the earth from Vandergaart Kopje. The mode in which a portion of this earth had detached itself from the rest and formed a coating around the crystal was not very easy to explain, but this was a point on which further experiments would doubtless throw some light. It was possible that he had discovered a new phenomenon of chemical affinity, and he proposed to carefully work out the subject. He did not attempt to commit himself straight off to a complete theory of his discovery. His object was rather to communicate the news without delay to the scientific world, and to invite discussion on these hitherto obscure and unexplained facts.

Having made good progress in his memoir, and advanced it so far that only a few additional observations were required for its completion, he sat down to supper, and then went to bed.

In the morning he went for a walk among the diggings. The greeting he received was hardly as friendly as it might have been but this he did not notice. He had forgotten all the consequences of his grand discovery as unfolded the evening before by John Watkins — that is to say, the ruin sooner or later of the Griqualand claims and their owners. This was enough, however, to make a man uneasy in a semi-civilized country, whose people never hesitated to take the law into their own hands when the whim seized them. If the manufacture of the diamond was to become a trade, the millions invested in the Brazilian as well as the South African mines would irrevocably be lost. Most assuredly the young engineer would have done wisely to have kept his secret. But his resolution had been distinctly declared, and he had decided to act otherwise.

On the other hand, during the night — a night of torpor, during which Watkins dreamed of diamonds by the score, worth millions apiece — Alice’s father had had time to consider. And his thoughts ran in this wise.

Nothing could be more natural than that Annibale Pantalacci and the other diggers should view with anger and anxiety the revolution which Cyprien’s discovery would effect. But for him, merely as the owner of Watkins’ Farm, the situation was somewhat different. If the claims were abandoned owing to the depreciation of the gems, if the whole mining population were to clear out from the Griqualand fields, the value of his farm would seriously diminish, his crops would not find buyers, his houses and huts would not let for want of tenants, and some day he might have to bid farewell to so poor a district “Good,” said Watkins to himself, “but some years will have to elapse before then. Diamond-making has not yet reached a practical stage, notwithstanding Mr. Cyprien. There may be a good deal of chance about it. But, chance or not, he has at least made a stone of enormous value, and if a natural diamond is worth so much, an artificial one under such circumstances is worth considerably more! Yes, we must keep our eyes on this young man. At any rate, we must stop him from proclaiming his proceedings on the housetops. The stone must come into our family, and must not leave it unless handsomely paid for. To keep the maker of it is easy enough, even without committing ourselves too deeply. Alice is there, and by means of Alice I can put the stopper on his going to Europe. Yes; I can promise he shall marry her. I can even let him marry her.”

Thus thought Watkins. Hither did his avarice lead him. Throughout he thought only of himself, he saw only himself. And if the old egotist gave a thought to his child, it was only to say, “And after all, Alice has nothing to complain of. The young fool is not so bad in his way. He loves her, and I fancy she is not indifferent to him. What can be better than to unite two hearts that have been made for each other — or rather to let them hope for the union, which need not take place until matters have shaped somewhat?”

So reasoned Watkins, pitting his daughter’s happiness against that little piece of crystallized carbon, and expecting he could keep the scales level. And in the morning he had made up his mind. He would see how things turned out, and act accordingly.

In the first place he wished to see his tenant again. Nothing could be easier, for the engineer came to the farm every day. In the second place he longed to gaze once more on the diamond that had assumed such fabulous proportions in his dreams. The second was if anything the greater attraction, and so Watkins strolled down to the laboratory. Cyprien was at home.

“Well, my young friend,” said he, most genially, “and how have you passed the night, the first night after your grand discovery?”

“Very well, Mr. Watkins, very well, thank you,” was the frigid reply.

“What! you went to sleep?”

“I did. As usual.”

“All the millions,” continued Watkins, “all the millions you have been making — did not the thought of them keep you awake?”

“Not at all,” replied Cyprien. “Don’t you see, Mr. Watkins, that the diamond is only worth millions when it is nature’s work. A chemist’s diamond — “

“Yes, yes, Mr. Cyprien! But are you sure you can make another? — many others?”

Cyprien hesitated. He knew well that in such an experiment something might happen to prevent his attaining a similar result.

“Ah! you twig!” continued Watkins. “You won’t answer. Until you have scored again your diamond will retain its value. Until then, why should you say it is an artificial stone?”

“I repeat, Mr. Watkins, that it is out of my power to retain so important a scientific secret “

“Yes, yes, I know,” continued Watkins, with a gesture to the engineer not to speak so loudly, as people outside might hear him. “We will talk about that. Never you fear Pantalacci and his lot; they won’t tell of you; it is not their interest to do so. Take my word for it. And look here. Alice and I are overjoyed at your success. We are really. Yes! Can I have a look at the diamond? I hardly had time to examine it yesterday. Will you allow me?”

“I haven’t got it now,” answered Cyprien.

“You have sent it to France!” exclaimed Watkins aghast at the thought.

“No, not yet. In its rough state no one could judge of its beauty.”

“Who have you given it to, then?”

“I gave it to Jacobus Vandergaart to cut, and I have not the slightest idea where he has gone to with it.”

“You trusted a diamond like that to that old lunatic!” exclaimed Watkins, perfectly furious. “You must be mad, sir! stark, staring mad, sir!”

“Bosh!” answered Cyprien. “What does it matter what Vandergaart does with it? How could he get rid of a stone worth so many millions? Do you think he could sell it on the quiet?”

Watkins seemed struck with the argument. It would evidently be rather a difficult matter to dispose of so valuable a stone. Nevertheless, the farmer was uneasy, and he would have given a good deal to prevent Cyprien handing over the jewel to the old lapidary, or rather to make the old lapidary bring it back again immediately.

But Vandergaart had demanded a month, and the impatient Watkins had to wait.

Of course his cronies, Pantalacci, Friedel, and their companions, said all they could against the character of the honest old lapidary. In Cyprien’s absence they had a good deal to say about him, and invariably remarked to Watkins that the month was nearly up and no Vandergaart had put in an appearance.

“And why,” said Friedel, “should he return to Griqualand? Why shouldn’t he keep the diamond of large value whose artificial origin is nowhere shown?”

“Because he would never find a buyer,” answered Watkins, reproducing Cyprien’s argument.

“That is a fine reason!”

“A very fine reason,” said Pantalacci. “And believe me, at this very moment the old crocodile is hundreds of miles away. Nothing could be easier than to doctor the stone so as to make it unrecognizable. You don’t even know what its color is! What is to hinder him from cutting it into five or six pieces and making a batch of good-sized stones?”

Greatly was the soul ‘ of Watkins troubled by these discussions. He began to think that Vandergaart would never come back. Cyprien alone believed in the old man’s honesty, and declared that he would return on the day he had said. He was right.

Vandergaart returned twenty-four hours before his time. Such had been his diligence, and so well had he worked, that in twenty-seven days he had cut the stone. He came back during the night to polish it on the wheel, worked at it till he had done, and in the morning of the twenty-ninth day Cyprien beheld him enter the door of the laboratory.

“There is your pebble,” was all that the old lapidary said as he placed a small wooden box on the table.

Cyprien opened the box and stood dazzled and motionless. On a pad of white cotton wool lay an enormous black crystal of the shape of a rhomboidal dodecahedron. From it streamed forth prismatic fires of such brilliancy as to light up the whole laboratory. The combination of ink-like color with absolutely perfect adamantine transparency and wondrous refractive power gave the most startling results conceivable.

It seemed as though he was in the presence of some unique phenomenon, of some unprecedented freak of nature. All idea of value apart, the splendor of the jewel was something to marvel at.

“It is not only the largest, it is the most beautiful diamond in the world,” said Vandergaart, with great gravity and in a tone of paternal pride. “It weighs four hundred and thirty-two carats! You have made something to be proud of, my friend. Your prentice hand has made a masterpiece.”

Cyprien gave no reply to the old lapidary’s compliments. In his own eyes he was but the author of a curious discovery, nothing more. Many others in the chemical field had failed where he had succeeded, it is true. But what use to humanity would be this manufacture of artificial diamonds? In the future it would inevitably ruin all who earn their living by trading in precious stones, and would enrich nobody.

Then he thought of his elation during the first few hours after his discovery. Now the diamond, beautiful as it had come from Vandergaart’s hands, appeared to him but as a worthless stone, to which even the prestige of rarity would not long remain.

Cyprien closed the box, and shaking hands with his old friend, hastened off to Watkins Farm.

The farmer was in the lower room, anxious and uneasy, and thinking of the doubtful chance of Vandergaart’s returning. His daughter was with him doing her best to allay his suspicions.

Cyprien opened the door and stood for an instant on the threshold.

“Well?” asked Watkins sharply, as he suddenly rose from his chair.

“Well, honest Jacobus Vandergaart came back this morning,” answered Cyprien.

“With the diamond?”

“With the diamond beautifully cut, and it even now weighs four hundred and thirty-two carats.”

“Four hundred and thirty-two carats!” exclaimed Watkins. “And you have brought it with you?”

“Here it is.”

The farmer took the box. He opened it, and his eyes sparkled almost as much as the diamond he looked at. Then when his fingers were allowed to close on the splendid crystal, he was so carried away with the thoughts of its colossal value that his excitement became quite laughable.

Tears came into his eyes, and he spoke to the gem as if it were some cherished friend.

“Oh! You love! You superb, you splendid stone! Here you are back again, my beauty! You are magnificent! You are a weight! How much are you worth in golden sovereigns? What shall we do with you, my darling? Send you to the Cape and on to London to be seen and admired? But who will be rich enough to buy you? The Queen herself could not afford so great a luxury! You would take two or three years of her income! She would want a Parliamentary vote! A national subscription! And they’ll do it, never fear! And you’ll go to the Tower of London and sleep by the Kohinoor, who is but a very little chap by the side of you. What are we to value you at, my pet?”

And then, betaking himself to his mental arithmetic, he continued : “For the Czar’s diamond Catherine II. paid a million roubles and an annuity of four thousand pounds. Surely you are worth a million sterling, cash down, and twenty thousand a year for ever afterward.”

Then, struck with the sudden idea: “Should not the owner of such a jewel be raised to the peerage? Look here, Alice! Two eyes are not enough to admire this with!”

For the first time in her life Miss Watkins looked at a diamond with some interest.

“It is really very beautiful. It glows like the piece of carbon that it is, but like the carbon when it is alight,” said she, as she carefully picked it up.

Then, by an instinctive movement, that every girl in her place would have had, she turned to the looking-glass and held the jewel to her forehead.

“A star set in gold!” said Cyprien gallantly.

“True. We’ll call it a star!” exclaimed Alice. “Let us christen it the %S%t%a%r% %o%f% %t%h%e% %S%o%u%t%h%.% What do you say, Mr. Cyprien? Is it not as black as our native beauties and as brilliant as the constellations of our southern sky?”

“Never mind the Star of the South,” said Watkins, who attached but little importance to a name, “but take care you don’t drop it, it will break like glass.”

“Indeed! Is it as fragile as that?” answered Alice, scornfully replacing the gem in its box. “Poor star! you are only a mockery — a vulgar bottle-stopper!”

“A bottle-stopper!” exclaimed Watkins, almost choked with horror. “You young people respect nothing!”

“Miss Alice,” said the engineer, “it was you who encouraged me to take up artificial diamond-making. It is owing to you that this stone now exists; and your father will allow me, I hope, to offer it to you in remembrance of your happy influence on my work!”

“What!” exclaimed the farmer unable to hide his delight at so unexpected an offer.

“Alice.” continued Cyprien, “the diamond is yours. If you will accept it, I give it!” and Miss Watkins, as her only reply, held out her hand to him, and he gently clasped it in his own.

CHAPTER XI

THE STAR DISAPPEARS

THE news of Vandergaart’s return promptly spread. Visitors to the farm soon began to arrive in crowds to gaze upon the wonder of the kopje. They were not long in learning that the diamond belonged to Miss Watkins, and that her father was its real owner. Hence a considerable increase in the public excitement.

It may be mentioned that the artificial origin of the stone had been kept veiy quiet. The Griqualand miners were not so ill-advised as to noise abroad a secret that might ruin them. And Cyprien, unwilling to trust to chance, had made up his mind to say nothing and to keep back his memoir until by a second experiment he had verified his facts. What he had done once he wished to be sure he could do again.

Public curiosity, then, was highly excited, and John Watkins could not with decency decline to gratify it. Greatly was his vanity flattered. He laid the Star on a pad of cotton wool, and placed it on the top of a small white marble column in the center of the mantelpiece in his parlor. There the whole day long did he remain seated in his arm-chair, admiring the incomparable jewel and exhibiting it to the public view.

James Hilton was the first to throw out a hint as to the imprudence of these proceedings. Had Watkins thought of the danger he was running in exhibiting to all comers a gem of such value? Ought he not immediately to send off to Kimberley for a special police guard? That very night, perhaps, might not pass without something occurring.

Watkins was rather scared at these warnings. He hastened to follow the judicious advice, and breathed very much more freely when toward evening a squadron of mounted police put in an appearance. These twenty-five men were put up in the outhouses of the farm.

.The crowds could not but increase during the following days, and the fame of the Star of the South extended beyond the boundaries of the district to the most distant towns. The colonial journals devoted article upon article to its dimensions, its figure, its color, and its brilliancy.

The telegraph cable from Durban carried its details by way of Zanzibar and Aden to Europe and Asia, and on to America and Australasia. Photographers begged to be allowed to take the portrait of the marvelous gem; special artists came from the illustrated journals to reproduce its image; in fact, the event became of world-wide celebrity.

And of course legend began to weave its web round the stone. Stories began to circulate among the miners of its mysterious properties. With bated breath they told how a black stone must necessarily bring bad luck. Practical men shook their heads, and vowed they would rather Watkins had the stone than they. In short, calumny, without which celebrity cannot exist, did its unenviable duty with the Star of South, and the Star very naturally was in no way troubled thereby, but continued to pour forth its brilliant rays on its obscure detractors.

Watkins, however, was much more sensitive to them. The gossip exasperated him. It seemed as though it depreciated the value of the stone, and he resented it as a personal insult. When the governor of the colony, the officers of the neighboring garrisons, the magistrates and all the high functionaries had done homage to his jewel, it seemed to him that such depreciatory comment was little less than sacrilege.

To create a reaction against this silly trash and to gratify his weakness for the pleasures of the table he resolved to give a grand banquet in honor of his cherished diamond, which, notwithstanding what Cyprien had said and Alice wished, he still dreamed of converting into coin.

Such, alas! is the influence of the stomach on the feelings of many men, that the mere announcement of the dinner effected quite a revolution in the opinion of Vandergaart Kopje. Those who had been most conspicuous in maligning the Star now changed their game, and confessed that after all the stone was innocent of the noxious influences they had ascribed to it, and that an invitation from Mr. Watkins would be thankfully received.

Long will the fame of that dinner continue. Eighty guests sat down in a tent pitched along one side of the parlor, the wall of which had been removed for the occasion. A baron of beef occupied the center of the table, and around it were samples of all the game in the district. Mountains of vegetables and fruit, and gallons of beer and wine, were the chief features of this truly pantagruelian repast.

The Star of the South, placed on its pedestal and begirt with lighted candles, presided behind John Watkins, at the festival given in its honor.

Twenty Kaffirs officiated as waiters under the directions of Mataki, who was loaned by his master for the occasion.

Besides the police, of whose services Mr. Watkins thus showed his appreciation, there were present all the chief personages of the camp and its neighborhood. Mathys Pretorius was there, and so were Nathan, James Hilton, Pantalacci, Friedel, Steel, and fifty others.

And even the dogs — and, above all, the ostriches — took part in the festivities and came in to beg during the meal.

Alice took the end of the table opposite to her father, and did the honors with her accustomed grace, but not without secret chagrin, for neither Cyprien nor Vandergaart was present, and she well knew the motives of their abstention.

The engineer had from the first avoided as much as possible the society of Friedel, Pantalacci, and their particular friends; and now, since his discovery, he was well aware of their anything but good wishes toward him, and even of their threats against the inventor of the process that would eventually ruin them. He therefore excused himself from appearing at the dinner. To Vandergaart, Watkins had made the most urgent offers of reconciliation, but the old lapidary had rejected them with scorn.

The banquet approached its end. Thanks to Alice’s presence, the boisterous spirits of the diners had been happily somewhat restrained. Watkins arose, rested both hands on the tablecloth, and began the speech of the occasion.

“This day,” he said, “is the greatest day of my colonial life. After the trials and struggles of my youth, to see myself here in wealthy Griqualand, surrounded by eighty friends assembled to do honor to the greatest diamond in the world, is a pleasure I shall never forget. It is true that tomorrow one of our honorable friends may find a bigger stone. That is the beauty and poetry of a digger’s life! (Cheers.) I wish you may have such luck! (Laughter and cheers.) I do not hesitate to affirm that it would be difficult to satisfy the man who in my place would not declare himself satisfied. But to conclude, I invite you all to drink to the prosperity of Griqualand and a rising diamond market — notwithstanding all that may have happened — and a happy voyage to the Star of the South down the country, around the Cape, and home, I hope, to England.”

“But,” said Steel, “won’t there be some danger in sending a stone of such value down to the Cape?”

“Oh, it will be strongly escorted!” replied Watkins. “Lots of diamonds have gone the same road in safety.”

“Even that of Durieux de Sancy,” said Alice; “although, had it not been for the servant’s devotion — “

“Eh!” said Hilton; “what was that?”

“The anecdote runs,” said Alice, “that De Sancy was a French gentleman of the Court of Henry III. He owned a famous diamond, still called after him. The diamond had already been through some remarkable adventures. It had belonged to Charles the Bold, and he was wearing it when he was killed under the walls of Nancy. A Swiss soldier found it on the Duke of Burgundy’s corpse, and sold it for a florin to a poor priest, who parted with it for five or six florins to a Jew. At the time it belonged to De Sancy the royal treasury was in difficulties, and he consented to put the stone in pawn to raise funds for the king. The money-lender at the time was at Metz, and De Sancy entrusted the jewel to one of his servants to take it there. ‘Are you not afraid that the man will run away with it to England?’ people asked. T am sure of him!’ was the answer. In spite of this assurance neither the man nor the diamond arrived at Metz, and the court made great fun of De Sancy. T am sure of my servant,’ he persisted. ‘He must have been assassinated!’ And in fact, when a search was made, the man’s body was found in a ditch by the roadside. ‘Cut him open!’ said De Sancy; ‘the diamond ought to be in his stomach!’ They did as he ordered, and it was found to be so. The humble hero, whose name is unknown to history, had been faithful to death to his duty and honor, ‘outshining,’ as the old chronicler says, ‘by the splendor of his deeds the splendor of the jewel he carried!’ I shall be very much surprised,” said Alice, as she concluded her story, “if the Star of the South does not inspire some similar instance of devotion during its travels.”

The sentiment was received with loud acclamation, eighty arms lifted high an equal number of glasses, and all eyes turned instinctively to the mantelpiece to render homage to the incomparable gem.

The Star had disappeared!

The astonishment on the eighty faces was so manifest that the host turned sharply around to see what was the matter.

He fell back in his chair as if thunderstruck.

They crowded around him, loosened his cravat, dashed cold water over his face — and he soon came to.

“The diamond!” he roared. “The diamond! Who has taken the diamond?”

“See that no one leaves the room,” said the chief of the police, ordering his men to the doors.

The guests looked at each other in dismay, or spoke in whispers. Not five minutes before all of them saw, or thought they saw, the diamond in its place.

“I propose we shall all be searched before we leave the room,” said Steel with his usual frankness.

“Yes! yes!” replied the company, seemingly unanimous.

The suggestion gave Watkins a ray of hope.

The police officer drew up the guests along one side of the room and began to search himself to begin with. He turned out his pockets, took off his boots, and patted his clothes in the customary professional manner. Then he proceeded to search the guests in similar fashion, and then one by one they passed before him and were subjected to a more minute examination.

The investigation produced no result.

Every nook and cranny in the place was then carefully pried into. Not a trace of the diamond was discovered.

“There are the Kaffirs who were waiting on us!” said the police officer, who did not yet like to own himself defeated.

“That is so!” was the reply. “The Kaffirs are quite thieves enough to have done it!”

The waiters had, however, gone out just as Watkins began his speech, and were now grouped around a fire outside, making merry with the scraps of the meal that had been reserved for them. Their guitars made out of calabashes, flutes blown by the nose, and tom-toms of different kinds, had already commenced that deafening cacophony which precedes the musical manifestations of the natives of South Africa. The Kaffirs hardly knew what to make of it when they were brought back and searched in their scanty garments. And the search was as useless as all that had gone before.

“If the thief is one of the Kaffirs — and he ought to be — he has had quite time enough to clear off,” remarked one of the guests, very sensibly.

“That is so,” said the police officer; “and there is perhaps only one way of finding him out, and that is to apply to one of the native medicine-men. That might succeed — “

“If you will let me,” said Mataki, “I will try.”

The offer was immediately accepted. The guests formed a circle around the natives, and Alataki, thoroughly accustomed to the work, began the ceremony.

He first breathed upon two or three pinches of tobacco, which he took from his pouch, and said :

“I will now try the wands.”

He then stepped to a neighboring bush and cut off a score of twigs. These he measured very carefully and cut them all down to the same length of about twelve inches. Then he distributed them one to each Kaffir, keeping one for himself.

“Now you can go away where you like for a quarter of an hour,” said he, in a solemn tone, “and you will come back when you hear the tom-tom! If one of you is the thief his wand will be three inches longer than the rest.”

The Kaffirs dispersed visibly affected by this little speech, knowing well that according to the summary proceedings of Griqualand justice they could be tried and hanged in a few minutes without a word being heard in their defense.

The guests, who had been much interested in the scene, were naturally impressed by it according to their different dispositions.

“The thief need not come back at all,” objected one.

“Well, then, that would show who -was the thief,” replied another.

“What bosh! He can easily do Mataki by cutting off three inches, so as to counterbalance the lengthening he is afraid of.”

“That is what the medicine-man is hoping for, perhaps, so as to catch him on the hop.”

However, the quarter of an hour elapsed, and Mataki beat the tom-tom and called in his compatriots. They all returned and handed back their sticks, Mataki formed a bundle of them, and found them all of the same length. He was going to put them on one side and declare that the honor of his friends was cleared, when he bethought him of measuring the bundle with the stick he had retained for himself.

He did so, and all the sticks in it were three inches short!

The Kaffirs had judged it best to provide against the lengthening, which, to their superstitious minds, was far from improbable.

A general shout of laughter saluted this unexpected result. Mataki seemed quite humiliated that this method whose efficacy he had frequently proved in his kraal, should turn out a failure in civilized life.

“We must give it up for the present,” said the police officer to Watkins, who was seated in his arm-chair, plunged in despair. “We may do better tomorrow if we offer a good reward for information that may put us on the track of the thief.”

“The thief!” exclaimed Pantalacci. “And why should he not be the man who was trying his comrades just now?”

“What do you say?” asked the officer.

“Why, Mataki, who played the medicine-man to divert your suspicions.”

Had Mataki been noticed at this moment he would have been seen to make a curious grimace and hurriedly leave the room and run inside his hut.

“Yes,” continued the Italian, “he was with his companions waiting on us during the dinner. He is a thorough cheating scoundrel, and why Mr. Cyprien has taken a fancy to him no one can make out.”

“Mataki is honest; I will answer for that,” said Miss Watkins, eager to defend Cyprien’s servant.

“Eh! How do you know?” exclaimed the farmer. “Yes, he is quite capable of laying hands on the Star!”

“He cannot be far off,” said the police officer. “We can soon search him.”

An instant later Mr. Watkins and his guests were at Mataki’s hut. The door was fastened. It was broken in. Mataki was not there, and they waited for him in vain throughout the night.

Nor did he come back next morning, and it seemed certain that he had fled from Vandergaart Kopje.

CHAPTER XII

MAKING READY

IN the morning, when Cyprien learned what had happened at the banquet, the first thing he did was to strenuously object to the serious charge brought against his servant. He agreed with Alice that Mataki could not be such a thief as was supposed. In fact he would rather have suspected Pantalacci and his companions who seemed to him very much more suspicious characters.

It was not likely, however, that a white man was the guilty party. To those who knew nothing of its origin, the Star of the South was a natural diamond, and consequently of such value that the getting rid of it would be difficult.

“All the same,” said Cyprien, “it cannot possibly be Mataki.”

But then he suddenly remembered certain petty larcenies of which the man had been guilty. In spite of all his master’s warning, the Kaffir had never been able to cure himself of his objectionable habits. What he had taken was, it is true, almost valueless, but still the tendency shown could not but tell against him in any judicial investigation.

And there were other things in favor of the presumption. There was his presence in the dining-room when the diamond was eclipsed as if by magic. There was his not having been found in his hut.

And then there was his flight.

For he had certainly left the district, and Cyprien waited in vain during the morning for Mataki to reappear. He could not believe in his servant’s guilt; but his servant did not return. And further examination showed that sundry objects and utensils such as a man would take with him for a journey across the African desert had also gone. There was no further room for doubt. Guilty or not guilty, the Kaffir had fled.

About ten o’clock the engineer, very much more grieved at the conduct of Mataki than at the loss of the diamond, called at Watkins Farm.

There he found the farmer in conference with Pantalacci, Hilton, and Friedel. As he presented himself, Alice, who had seen him coming, also entered the room where her father and his three cronies were noisily discussing what to do to recover the stolen diamond.

“We must follow Mataki!” exclaimed Watkins angrily. “We must get hold of him, and if the diamond is not handed over, we must rip him open to see if he has swallowed it! Ah, my lass, it was a capital notion of yours to tell us that story yesterday!”

“But,” said Cyprien, in a quiet tone, anything but pleasing to the farmer, “to swallow a stone of that size Mataki would have to have a stomach like an ostrich!”

“A Kaffir’s stomach is capable of anything, Mr. Cyprien,” replied Watkins. “And if you think there is anything to laugh at — “

“I did not laugh, Mr. Watkins,” said Cyprien seriously. “But if I am sorry about the diamond, it is only because you allowed me to give it to Miss Watkins.”

“I am just as grateful for it,” said Alice, “as if I still had it.”

“There’s a woman’s head for you!” exclaimed the farmer. “Just as grateful as if she still had it — a diamond whose equal exists not in the world!”

“Well, it is not quite the same thing,” said Hilton.

“Not quite!” added Friedel.

“On the contrary, it is the same thing!” answered Cyprien. “For as I made that diamond I can make another.”

“Oh, Mr. Engineer!” said Pantalacci, with a threatening look. “I should advise you not to try another experiment — in the interest of Griqualand — and of yourself!”

“Really?” replied Cyprien. “I am not aware that I had to ask your permission in the matter.”

“Don’t let us talk about that,” said Watkins. “Is Mr. Cyprien sure that he will succeed in a second attempt? Can he guarantee that the second diamond he makes will have the color, the weight, and consequently the value of the first? Can he even undertake to make a second stone, even of inferior value? Has not his success been due in a great measure to chance?”

The engineer could not but be struck with the reasonableness of these questions. His experiences were quite in accord with the teachings and practice of modern chemistry, but had not chance come in to make him succeed? And if he tried again, could he be certain of a triumph?

It was important then that the thief should be captured and the diamond recovered.

“By-the-bye, have you found any trace of Mataki?”

“None,” answered Cyprien.

“Have they searched the neighborhood?”

“Yes, and searched it well!” replied Friedel.

“The scoundrel probably cleared off during the night, and it is almost impossible to know where he has gone!”

“Has the police officer taken the matter in hand?” asked Watkins.

“Yes,” answered Cyprien, “and he has found no trace at present.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the farmer, “I will give five hundred pounds for him if they can catch him.”

“Very likely, Mr. Watkins,” said Pantalacci. “But I am afraid you will never see the diamond, nor the man who took it.”

“Why not?”

“Because once he has got a start,” replied the Italian, “he will never be fool enough to stop on the road. He will cross the Limpopo, plunge into the desert, and make for the Zambesi or Tanganyika, or go among the Bushmen if he thinks better.”

Did the astute Neapolitan really think what he said? Was he not speaking thus to prevent any pursuit of Mataki, in order that he mi Jit undertake it alone? Thus thought Cyprien as he watched him narrowly.

But Watkins was not the man to give up the game because it was difficult to play. He would have sacrificed his entire fortune to get back the incomparable stone, and through the open window his eyes in their angry impatience seemed to gleam across the green slopes of the Vaal as if he hoped to find the fugitive on the horizon.

“What does that matter? I must have my diamond! I must catch this scoundrel! If I hadn’t the gout it wouldn’t take long, I tell you!”

“Father!” said Alice, trying to soothe him.

“Look here! what do you want for your trouble?” asked the farmer, looking around him. “Who’ll go after the nigger? I’ll make it worth your while.”

And as nobody spoke he continued : “You four want to marry my daughter! Well, catch me the man who stole my diamond” — he now called it %”%m%y% %diamond” — “and I give you my word that the man who does so shall marry her.” . “Done!” exclaimed Hilton.

“Agreed!” said Friedel.

“Who would not endeavor to win so precious a prize?” simpered Pantalacci.

Alice blushed deeply and vainly endeavored to hide her confusion, ashamed at seeing herself thus put up to auction, and that in the presence of the young engineer.

“Miss Watkins,” said Cyprien in a low tone, and leaning respectfully toward her, “I should like to try my fortune in this, but have I your permission?”

“You have, and my best wishes, Mr. Cyprien!”

“Then I am ready to go to the end of the world!” exclaimed Cyprien, turning toward Mr. Watkins.

“You won’t be far out,” said Pantalacci, “for Mataki will lead you a nice dance. By tomorrow he ought to be at Potchefstroom, and he will have reached the hills before we have left our diggings.”

“And what prevents our starting immediately?” said Cyprien.

“You can go if you like.” replied the Italian. “But for my part I want some food with me — a wagon, a dozen oxen, and a couple of saddle-horses at the very least. And we cannot get that nearer than Potchefstroom.”

Again, was Pantalacci speaking seriously? Was it his object to discourage his rivals? Perhaps; but he was nevertheless quite right. Without such means of locomotion, without such resources, it would be folly to attempt a journey in Northern Griqualand.

But a team of oxen, as Cyprien knew, would cost about four hundred pounds, and he had only one hundred and sixty.

“An idea!” shouted Hilton, who, as an “Africander” of Scottish descent, had a strong vein of economy in his disposition. “Why shouldn’t we four go partners? The chances would be more equal, and the cost would be much less.”

“That seems reasonable,” said Friedel.

“I agree,” answered Cyprien.

“Then,” remarked Pantalacci, “it must be understood that each man retains his independence, and is free to leave his companions whenever he thinks fit.”

“Of course,” replied Hilton. “We club together to buy the wagon, the team, and the provender, but we can each leave when we please.”

“Agreed,” said Cyprien, Friedel, and Pantalacci.

“When will you start?” asked Watkins, whose chance of recovering his diamond was thus quadrupled.

“Tomorrow, by the coach to Potchefstroom,” answered Friedel; “there’s no good thinking of getting there earlier.” “Right!”

As soon as this was settled, Alice took Cyprien apart, and asked him if he really believed that Mataki was the author of the theft.

“I am forced to confess,” answered the engineer, “that all the presumptions arc against him, chiefly on account of his flight. But I feel sure that Pantalacci has some interest in spinning things out as long as he can in regard to it. What a partner to work with! Well, all is fair in war. It is better to keep him in hand, and I can watch his movements more easily than by letting him go off by himself.”

The four suitors soon bade farewell to Watkins and his daughter. As was only natural under the circumstances, the ceremony was a brief one, and consisted merely of a shake of the hand. What could the rivals say in thus going off together, each wishing the other at the bottom of the sea?

When he reached home, Cyprien found Li and Bardik. The young Kaffir, since he had entered his service, had done his work most zealously. He and the Chinaman were having a quiet chat together, when the young engineer announced that he was going away with Friedel, Hilton, and the Neapolitan in chase of Mataki.

A look passed between them — only one. Then, without an allusion to the fugitive, they came up to Cyprien and said : “Pa. take us with you.”

“Take you with me? And why?”

“To do your cooking,” said Bardik.

“To do your washing,” said Li.

“And to stop the rascals from doing you harm,” said both, in chorus.

Cyprien gave them a keen glance.

“Very well,” he replied, “I will take you both, if you wish it.”

Then he went out to bid good-bye to Vandergaart, who, without showing approval or disapproval of the expedition, shook him cordially by the hand and wished him success.

In the morning, as, followed by his two men, he walked down to the camp to join the coach for Potchefstroom, he lifted his eyes to Watkins Farm, which was still wrapped in sleep.

Was it an illusion? He thought he recognized behind the muslin curtain of one of the windows a slight, girlish form waving a hand in token of farewell.

CHAPTER XIII

ACROSS THE TRANSVAAL

ON arriving at Potchefstroom, the four travelers ascertained that a young Kaffir, whose description tallied with that of Mataki, had passed through there the evening before. This promised well for the success of the expedition. But it seemed as though the enterprise would take some time, as the fugitive had provided himself with a light carriage drawn by an ostrich, and thus rendered it no easy matter to catch him.

For there are few better goers than these birds, either on the score of endurance or speed. Ostriches of burden, however, are somewhat rare, owing to the difficulty in breaking them in. Hence neither Cyprien nor his companions could obtain any at Potchefstroom, and Mataki was off to the north with a good start and an animal that could put a dozen horses on their mettle.

The only thing left was to follow him as quickly as possible. He had a great advantage in his superior speed as against that obtainable from the mode of locomotion his pursuers intended to adopt. But the strength of the ostrich has its limits. Mataki would be obliged to halt for a time, and if the worst came to the worst, was sure to be caught at the end of his journey.

Cyprien soon had cause to congratulate himself on having brought Li and Bardik with him, when he set about procuring his outfit. It was no easy matter to select only such articles as were useful and necessary. There is no guide like experience. Cyprien was an excellent hand at the calculus, but of the A B C of Veld life, of life “on trek,” he knew nothing. And his companions, instead of helping him with their advice, showed rather a tendency to lead him astray.

As far as the tilted wagon, the team of oxen, and the bulk of the commissariat were concerned, there was no difficulty. Mutual interest commanded that these should be judiciously chosen, and Hilton acquitted himself to perfection. But it was not so with matters that were left to individual choice, such, for example, as buying a horse.

Cyprien had noticed in the market a good-looking three-year-old, whose price was not excessive. He had tried his seat, found it suited him, and was about to hand over the money, when Bardik took him aside, and said:

“Are you going to buy that horse?”

“Yes. It is the best I can find at the price.”

“It is not worth having as a gift,” answered the Kaffir. It won’t stand a week’s travel.”

“Why not? Are you trying the medicine-man business?”

“No, Pa; but Bardik knows the desert, and says that that horse is not salted.”

“Not salted? Do you want me then to buy a horse in a cask?”

“No, Pa; but it means that he has not had the Veld disease. He must have it soon, and then if it does not kill him, it will make him useless.”

“Oh!” said Cyprien, thinking there was something in the caution after all. “What is the disease?”

“A burning fever and a cough,” said Bardik. “You must not buy a horse that has not had it. You can easily see those that have — and once they have had it, they very seldom catch it again.”

There was no excuse for hesitation under such circumstances. Cyprien postponed matters, and went in search of further information. Everybody he asked confirmed what he had heard from Bardik. The fact was so notorious that it was seldom mentioned.

Having been put on his guard, the engineer became more prudent, and betook himself to a veterinary surgeon. Thanks to his guidance, he in a few hours secured the very mount most suitable for his purpose, in the shape of an old gray horse consisting of nothing but skin and bone, and only possessing a fragment of tail. That he had been “salted” was obvious enough from his appearance; and, although his trot was rather stilted, he was evidently a good one to go, if a poor one to look at. Templar — such was his name — enjoyed quite a reputation in the country for endurance, and when Bardik had inspected him — for the Kaffir was of course consulted — he declared himself thoroughly satisfied.

Bardik himself was specially entrusted with the management of the wagon and the team, and therein had considerable assistance from Li. No mounts had to be bought for them, and Cyprien’s horse-dealing terminated with his paying for his own steed.

Another difficult matter was the selection of the battery. Cyprien at last decided on a Martini-Henry and a Remington, which, though not very elegant in appearance, was a straight shooter and a rapid loader. One thing he would not have thought of, had the Chinaman not suggested it to him, and that was a stock of explosive bullets. He had imagined that five or six hundred cartridges would be sufficient, and was greatly surprised to find that four thousand was the minimum prudence demanded in this land of wild beasts and savage men.

Cyprien also purchased a couple of revolvers with ex-, plosive bullets, and completed his armament by securing a superb hunting-knife, which for five years had hung in the window of the gun-maker at Potchefstroom without any inquiry being made for it.

It was now bought to please Li, he having assured Cyprien that nothing would turn out more useful than this knife, and the trouble he afterward took in sharpening and polishing it, showed that confidence in the cold steel which he shared with the rest of his race.

Of course the famous red box went with the careful Chinaman. In it he stowed away, with other mysterious articles, about sixty yards of fine strong line. When he was asked what it was for, he replied, evasively:

“Have not your clothes got to be dried in the bush a? well as anywhere else?”

In twelve hours the purchases were all made. Waterproofs, wrappers, cooking utensils, tinned provisions, yokes, chains, spare harness, were stowed at the back of the wagon, and formed the basis of the general store. The front of the wagon was littered with straw, and served as the bedroom and shelter for Cyprien and his companions.

Hilton had done his part of the work thoroughly well, and seemed to have omitted nothing they were likely to require. He was very vain of his colonial experience, and to show his superiority, rather than from any feeling of friendliness, favored his companions with a good deal of information on the customs of the Veld.

At last Pantalacci interrupted with :

“What makes you want to tell the Frenchman all that? Do you want to see him win the prize? If I were you, I would keep all I knew to myself.”

Hilton regarded the Italian with sincere admiration.

“That is a good notion of yours. Such an idea would not have occurred to me.”

Cyprien had honestly told Friedel what he had learned about the horses of the country, but to no purpose. The German thought no one knew anything but himself, and bought the youngest and most fiery steed he could — the very one that Cyprien had refused. He also laid in a stock of fishing-tackle, asserting that there would be no lack of sport.

The preparations were finished at last, and the caravan formed up in the order it was to keep on the march.

The wagon, drawn by a dozen red and black oxen, went first, in charge of Bardik. Sometimes the Kaffir, whip in hand, walked by the side of his team; sometimes he took his seat in the front of the chariot, where, regardless of the jolting, he sat in triumph, enchanted with his mode of locomotion. The four horsemen formed the front and rear guards, except at such times as they separated to shoot a little game, or make a reconnaissance.

After a very brief consultation it had been decided to make for the source of the Limpopo. All advices tended to show that Mataki was following this road — and, in fact, he could not well take another, if his intention was to get as far from the British possessions as soon as he could. The Kaffir had an advantage over his pursuers in his perfect knowledge of the country, and the lightness of his equipage. He obviously knew where he was going, and the best road to take thither, and, thanks to his friends in the north, he was sure of welcome and shelter, and even help, if he wished it. There was, indeed, a chance that he might raise his tribe and turn to bay on those who were chasing him. Cyprien and his comrades were fully aware of this, and appreciated the need of their traveling together for their mutual safety and ultimate success.

The Transvaal, which they intended to cross from south to north, is that vast region of Equatorial Africa lying between the Vaal and the Limpopo. Geographically, it is divided into three regions — the table-land, or Hooge Veld; the hill country, or Banken Veld; and the Bush Veld.

The table-land is the most southerly; it is formed by the mountain chains which extend westward and southward from the Drakenberg. It is the mining country of the Transvaal, and the climate is as cold and as dry as that of the Bernese Oberland.

The Banken Veld is more particularly the agricultural district. Extending along the north of the Hooge Veld, its deep valleys, drained by pleasant watercourses, and shaded by evergreen trees, are inhabited by the descendants of the Dutch.

The Bush Veld — the hunting-ground of the Transvaal — comprises the wide, rolling plains stretching up to the banks of the Limpopo toward the north, and to Be-chuanaland toward the east.

Leaving Potchefstroom in the Banken Veld, they had to cross diagonally nearly the whole of it before reaching the Bush Veld. This first part of the Transvaal offered few difficulties to their progress. They were still in a half-civilized country. The worst that could happen was a wheel stuck fast in the mud, or a sick ox. Wild ducks, partridges, and antelopes abounded, and each day furnished an ample breakfast or dinner. The night was spent at some farm, whose inhabitants, isolated from the rest of the world for three-quarters of the year, were sincerely glad to receive their guests.

At almost every farm they stopped at, they heard news of Mataki. Everywhere he had been seen to pass in his ostrich carriage; at first, two or three days in advance, then five or six, then seven or eight. Evidently they were on his track, but evidently also he was gaining rapidly on his pursuers, who, however, felt sure of catching him at last.

Cyprien and his three companions began to take things easy, and to amuse themselves in their special ways. The engineer made a collection of rock specimens, the German botanized, Pantalacci tormented Bardik and Li, and atoned for his buffoonery by making delicious dishes of macaroni at every halt. Hilton’s business was to keep the caravan provisioned with game, and hardly a day passed in which he did not bring down his six brace of partridges, his score of quails, and occasionally a wild boar or an antelope.

By easy stages they reached the Bush Veld. The farms became fewer, and at last disappeared altogether. The travelers were on the extreme verge of civilization. Henceforth they had to camp out at nights; huge fires had to be lighted for men and cattle to sleep around, and a constant watch had to be kept.

The country became wilder. Stretches of yellow sand, clumps of thorn-bushes, and at long intervals a marshy stream or so, took the place of the green valleys of the Banken Veld. Now and then the underwood was so thick and thorny that, instead of keeping on its straight course the caravan had to go some distance around. The thorn-trees were from nine to fifteen feet high, with numerous branches spread out almost horizontally, and armed with spines from two to four inches in length, as hard and sharp as daggers.

This outer zone of the Bush Veld is generally known as the Lion Veld, but it hardly seemed to justify its name, for after three days’ working through it not a lion had been seen.

“The name,” said Cyprien, “is probably traditional, and the lions have long since retired to the desert.”

But Hilton laughed.

“You don’t believe in the lions? That is because you don’t know how to look for them.”

“Not see a lion in the middle of a naked flat like this!” said Cyprien ironically.

“Well, I will bet you ten pounds,” said Hilton, “that in less than an hour I show you one you didn’t see.”

“I never bet, on principle,” said Cyprien, “but I shall be glad to see your lion, all the same.”

The journey was continued. For about half an hour all went well, and nothing was said about lions, when suddenly Hilton exclaimed:

“Do you see that ant-hill over there on the right?”

“How beautiful!” said Friedel. “We have seen nothing else but those things for the last three days.”

And, in fact, nothing is more common in the Bush Veld than these huge, yellow mounds, built up by ants innumerable, and, with the few clumps of straggling mimosas, -forming the only break in the plain’s monotony.

Hilton laughed sarcastically.

“Mr. Cyprien,” he said, “if you like to take the trouble of galloping over there — where I am pointing with my finger — you will see what you want. Don’t you go too near, however, or you may come to grief.”

Cyprien gave his horse the spur, and trotted off.

“That is a family of lions over there,” said the German, as soon as he was out of earshot. “One out of every ten of those ant-hills is not an ant-hill.”

“Per Baccho!” exclaimed Pantalacci, “you need not have told him not to go too close.” And, noticing that Bardik and Li were listening, he added, “He’ll get awfully scared, and we shall have the pleasure of a good laugh at him.”

The Italian was wrong. Cyprien was not the man to get “awfully scared,” as he phrased it. A couple of hundred yards from the “ant-hill” he saw what it was. An enormous lion, a lioness, and three pups were stretched on the ground like cats, and quietly sleeping in the sun.

At the sound of Templar’s hoofs the lion opened his eyes, raised his huge head, and yawned. As he did so, there appeared between the two rows of powerful teeth, a deep, wide throat, down which a child might easily have dropped. Then he glared at the horseman, who had pulled up about twenty yards away.

Fortunately the lion was not hungry, and so he did not trouble himself to move.

Cyprien, with his hand on his rifle, waited for a minute or two, and then, seeing that the lion had no desire to commence hostilities, and not having the heart to spoil the happiness of the interesting family, turned around, and ambled off to his companions, who could not help recognizing his coolness and pluck.

“I should have lost my bet, Mr. Hilton,” was all he said.

That evening they halted near the right bank of the Limpopo. There, in spite of all that Hilton could say Friedel went out to fish.

“It is a dangerous game, I tell you,” said the Englishman. “In the Bush Veld people never hang about watercourses after sundown. Never — “

“So!” said the German. “Well, then, I’ll be different.”

“What harm can there be,” said Pantalacci, “in his going down to the river-bank for an hour or two? I have often spent half the day wet through to the armpits when I have been after wild duck.”

“That is not at all the same thing,” said Hilton, again endeavoring to stop Friedel.

“Oh! Bother!” answered the Italian. “My dear Hilton, just hand us over that tin of scraped cheese for the macaroni, and let our friend go and catch us a few fish for supper. We want a change!”

Friedel went off, and kept his line in so long that it was quite night when he returned. Then he made a hearty meal off the fish he had caught, and when he went to bed in the wagon, complained of a slight shivering. In the morning when they rose to depart, he was in a violent fever, and found it impossible to mount his horse. Nevertheless, he insisted on their starting, affirming that he would be all right on the straw. They did as he requested.

At noon he was delirious.

At three o’clock he was dead!

“You see.” said Hilton philosophically, “I was right when I said that you mustn’t hang about watercourses after sundown.”

They halted for a few minutes to bury the corpse, that they could not leave to the mercy of the wild beasts. It was that of a rival, perhaps of an enemy, and yet Cyprien felt profoundly moved as the last sad rites were accomplished. The spectacle of death, solemn and impressive as it is everywhere, seemed to gain increased solemnity in the desert, for in Nature’s presence man is more fully conscious of his own inevitable end. Far from his friends, far from all who loved him, his melancholy thoughts flew back to home. “Perhaps,” thought he, “I myself may lie on this plain, never again to rise; perhaps I may be buried in a sandhill, capped with a bare stone, and have np friend to soothe my last moments.” And thus putting himself in his comrade’s place, and pitying him, he felt as though a part of himself lay buried there.

The day after the mournful ceremony Friedel’s horse was seized with the Veld disease, and in a few hours followed his master to the grave.

CHAPTER XIV

THE NORTH OF THE LIMPOPO

THREE days elapsed before a ford could be found across the Limpopo. Even then it probably would not have been discovered, had not some Macalacca Kaffirs undertaken to act as guides.

These Kaffirs are the subject race held in slavery by the Bechuanas as the Helots were by the Spartans of old — made to work without pay, treated with great severity, and, worse than all, forbidden to eat any flesh. The unhappy Macalaccas can kill as many birds as they please, but only on condition that they hand them over to their masters.

A Macalacca possesses nothing of his own, not even a hut or a calabash. Lean and half starved, he goes about nearly naked, with a bandolier over his shoulders, serving him for a water-bottle, made of buffalo intestines, and looking at a distance like yards of black pudding.

Bardik’s commercial genius was soon displayed in the consummate art with which he extracted from these savages the avowal that, in spite of their misery, they were the owners of sundry ostrich plumes, hidden away in a neighboring thicket. He immediately proposed to buy them, and an appointment was made for the bargain to be completed in the evening.

“You have some money with you, then, to give them in exchange?” asked Cyprien, much surprised.

And Bardik, with a broad grin, showed him a handful of brass buttons which had taken him a month or so to collect.

“That is not proper money,” said Cyprien, “and I cannot allow you to pay these poor people with a few old buttons.”

But he found it impossible to make Bardik understand in what way his idea was reprehensible.

“If the Maealaccas accept my buttons in exchange for their feathers, what is there tc find fault with?” he answered. “You know that the plumes have cost them nothing to collect — they have not even a right to keep them, and can only show them to us on the sly. But a button is something useful, more useful than an ostrich feather. Why, then, do you stop me from offering a dozen for a dozen plumes?”

The reasoning was specious, but worthless. What the Kaffir did not see was that the Macalaccas took the brass buttons, not for the use they would make of them, but for the supposed value they attributed to the metal disks which resembled coins so much in shape. And therein lay the wrong.

Cyprien, however, saw that the distinction was too refined to be grasped by the intelligence of the savage, and so he had to leave him to act as he pleased.

In the evening, by torchlight, Bardik’s bartering was resumed. The Macalaccas were evidently afraid of being taken in by their friend, and not satisfied with the fires prepared by the whites, brought with them a number of corn cobs, which they lighted and stuck in the ground.

They then brought forward the ostrich plumes, and proceeded to examine Bardik’s buttons. And then began with much shouting and gesticulation a most animated debate on the nature of these pieces of metal.

What they said was unintelligible to all except themselves, but from their excited faces, eloquent grimaces, and occasional serious outbursts of anger, it was obvious that the debate was one of much interest to them.

Suddenly the impassioned discussion was interrupted by an unexpected apparition.

A tall black, wearing an old red cotton mantle and the usual diadem of sheep-gut of the Kaffir warriors, stalked out of the thicket where the bargaining was going on, and with his spear struck away right and left at the Macalaccas thus taken in the very act of disobedience.

“Lopepe! Lopepe!” yelled the unfortunate savages, scattering on all sides like a lot of rats.

But a ring of black warriors appeared from among the bush-clumps surrounding the camp and barred their passage.

Lopepe immediately possessed himself of the buttons. After carefully examining them by the light of the maize torches, he dropped them with signs of much satisfaction into his leather pouch. Then he stepped up to Bardik, and taking away the feathers that had already been handed over, he appropriated them in the same way as he had done the buttons.

Of this scene the whites had remained passive spectators, having no excuse for interfering in it. Lopepe, however, solved the difficulty by advancing toward them, stopping a few paces off, and in an imperious tone delivering a long address, which was almost unintelligible.

Hilton, understanding a few words of Bechuana, succeeded in catching its general drift. The Kaffir chief protested against Bardik being allowed to trade with the Macalaccas, when they possessed no property of their own, and expressed his intention of confiscating what he had found as contraband, and asked what they were going to do.

Opinions were divided. Pantalacci wished to give in at once rather than cause a disturbance with the Bechuanas. Hilton and Cyprien were afraid that by doing so Lopepe’s arrogance would be encouraged, and still greater risk run in consequence.

After a short whispered consultation it was agreed to abandon the buttons to the Bechuana and to claim the feathers, and this Hilton explained to the chief in a few Kaffir words eked out by pantomime.

Lopepe then assumed a diplomatic air, and seemed to hesitate; but the guns he caught sight of in the gloom soon decided him, and the plumes were given up.

Then the chief, who was really a very intelligent fellow, made himself somewhat more agreeable to the three whites, and to Bardik and Li he offered a pinch from his tobacco-pouch, and then sat down at the bivouac. A glass of something offered him by the Neapolitan put him into excellent humor, and when he rose, after an hour or so, during which silence not unfrequently reigned for *minutes at a time, it was to invite the travelers to visit him in the morning at his kraal.

This was promised, and after shaking hands Lopepe majestically retired.

He had not been gone long before all in camp were asleep except Cyprien, who, wrapped in his blanket, lay gazing at the stars. There was no moon, but the black field of the sky was aglow with its glittering dust.

He thought of his people, who knew nothing of this plunge of his into the South African desert. He thought of Alice, dearer than all to him, who was, perhaps, at that moment star-gazing, as he was; and sinking deeper and deeper into his reverie, he was about to fall asleep, when a trampling of hoofs, a curious agitation on the side where the bullock team was parked for the night, made him wake up and start to his feet.

In the shadow Cyprien fancied he saw a dwarfish figure, more compact than that of the oxen, and this he took to be the cause of the agitation. Without a thought as to what he was doing, Cyprien seized a whip lying close by, and stealthily moved toward the cattle.

He was not mistaken. In their midst, come to trouble their sleep, crept an intruder. Hardly awake, and not thinking what he did, Cyprien raised the whip and brought it down with full force on the animal’s snout.

A fearful growl arose as the reply to this sudden attack.

It was a lion! and the young engineer had treated it as if it were a cur.

He had only just time to snatch a revolver from his belt and step aside as the lion came leaping on to him and seized his outstretched arm. Cyprien felt the pointed teeth grip into his flesh, and was borne to the ground by the angry beast. Suddenly there was an explosion, the lion’s body gave a last writhe, stiffened, and fell back motionless.

With the hand that remained free Cyprien had coolly aimed his revolver at the monster’s ear, and an explosive bullet had shattered its head.

The sleepers, aroused by the growling and the report, came running on to the battle-field. Cyprien was half crushed under the weight of the beast, but his wounds were merely superficial. Li bathed them with a little lint steeped in brandy, and then the best place on the floor of the wagon was given up to the wounded man, and soon all were again asleep except Bardik, who remained on guard till the morning.

The day had hardly broken when the voice of James Hilton, begging his comrades to come to his aid, proclaimed that something else had happened. Hilton was lying fully dressed on the front of the wagon across the tarpaulin, and in an accent of the keenest terror told them, without daring to move, “I have got a snake curled around my right knee under my trousers. Don’t move, or I am a lost man. But see what you can do for me.”

His eyes were dilated by fright, and his face was of livid paleness. Under his trousers and around his knee was some foreign body, like a piece of rope rolled around the limb.

The situation was serious. As Hilton had said, the first movement he made the snake would strike him.

But amid the general indecision Bardik resolved to act. Having noiselessly drawn his master’s hunting-knife, he approached Hilton by a sort of worm-like movement that brought him almost imperceptibly toward him. Then with his eyes at the level of the snake he seemed for some seconds to carefully study the position of the dangerous reptile. Obviously he sought to discover how the animal’s head was placed.

Suddenly, by a quick movement, he rose. His arm dashed down, and the knife gleamed as it cut in deeply across Hilton’s knee.

“You can knock off the snake. He is dead!” said Bardik, showing all his teeth in a gigantic smile.

Hilton obeyed mechanically, and shook his leg. The reptile fell at his feet. It was a viper, and had a blackhead about an inch across. Its least bite meant death. The young Kaffir had decapitated it with marvelous precision. Hilton’s trousers had a gash in them about six inches long, but his skin was not even grazed.

It was a curious thing that Hilton did not appear to dream of thanking Bardik. Now that he was out of danger, he seemed to consider the intervention quite as a matter of course. The idea never occurred to him to seize the Kaffir’s hand and tell him he owed him his life, “Your knife is very sharp,” was all he said, as Bardik replaced it in his sheath, without appearing to think very much of what he had done.

The impressions of this eventful night all faded off during breakfast, which on this occasion consisted of a single ostrich egg cooked with butter, and quite sufficient to satisfy the appetites of the five travelers.

Cyprien had a slight fever, and his wounds were somewhat painful. He insisted, notwithstanding, on joining Pantalacci and Hilton in their visit to Lopepe’s kraal. The camp was thus left to Bardik and Li, who undertook to skin the lion — quite a monster of the so-called dog-muzzle species.

The Bechuana chief awaited his guests at the entrance of his kraal, surrounded by his warriors. Behind them, in the second rank, were grouped the women and children, eager with curiosity to look on the strangers. A few affected indifference. Seated in front of their hemispherical huts they continued at their work. Two or three were making a net with some long textile weeds twisted into string.

There was a general look of misery about everything, although the huts were fairly Built. That of Lopepe was raised a little in the center of the kraal. It was much larger than the others, and covered with straw mats.

The chief led his guests inside, pointed to three stools, and seated himself on one in front of them, while the guard of honor formed a circle behind him.

The interview began with the usual interchange of civilities; in short, the ceremonial mainly consisted of drinking a cup of fermented liquor, made by the host himself, and each time the chief, to show that no perfidious scheme lurked behind, first raised the cup to his own thick lips before passing it to his visitors. Not to drink after such a gracious invitation would have been a deadly insult. The three whites drank the Kaffir beer, not without violent grimacing on the part of Pantalacci, who said in a whisper that he would rather have had “a glass of spirits than this nasty brew of the Bechuanas.”

Business then began. Lopepe wished to buy a gun; but this was a satisfaction they could not grant him, although he offered for it a very passable horse, and a hundred and fifty pounds of ivory. In fact, the colonial edicts are very strict on this point, and forbid Europeans disposing of any weapons to the Kaffirs on the frontier, except under special authority from the Government. To make up for this, Lopepe’s guests had brought him a flannel shirt, a steel chain, and a bottle, which constituted a splendid present, and gave great pleasure.

The Bechuana chief, through Hilton, was only too happy to furnish all the information in his power. In the first place a traveler, answering in every respect to Mataki, had passed the kraal five days before. This was the first news the expedition had had of the fugitive for a fortnight, and it was received with gratitude. The young Kaffir had lost several days searching for the ford across the Limpopo, and now he was making for the mountains to the north. Would it take him many days to reach the mountains? Seven or eight at the least!

Was Lopepe the friend of the chief of the district to which Cyprien and his friends were going?

Lopepe gloried in being so! Who would not be the friend and ally of the great Tonaia, the invincible conqueror of the Kaffir lands?

Would Tonaia give a good welcome to the whites?

Yes, because he knew, like all the other chiefs, that the whites never failed to take vengeance when those belonging to them were hurt. What was the good of fighting the whites? Were they not always the stronger, thanks to the guns which loaded themselves? The best thing was to remain at peace with them, to receive them cordially and trade loyally.

Such was what was ascertained from Lopepe. One thing only was of much importance, and that was that Mataki had lost several days on the road, and that they were still on his track.

On returning to the camp, Cyprien, Pantalacci, and Hilton found Li and Bardik considerably alarmed. They had, they said, received a visit from a lot of Kaffirs of a different tribe from that to which Lopepe belonged, and these had subjected them to a strict cross-examination.

“Whence came they? Were they not spying on the Bechuanas, collecting information about them, finding out their number, force, and equipment? It was not for strangers to engage in such an enterprise! The great chief Tonaia would have nothing to say so long as they did not enter his territory, but he would look on things with a different eye if they did cross his frontier.”

This was the general drift of their remarks. The Chinese did not seem to be unreasonably scared. But Bardik, usually so composed, was suffering from quite a serious fright, and this Cyprien could not understand.

“Wicked Avarriors,” he said, rolling his large eyes, “warriors who hate the whites and their ‘be-quick’!”

What was to be done? Was much importance to be attributed to the incident? No! The warriors had done no harm and shown no disposition to pillage. Their threats were harmless. The great chief Tonaia only wanted a few civil remarks and explanations as to what really had brought the white men into the country, and all his suspicions would vanish and his good wishes would be gained.

It was agreed by all that they should keep on. The hope of catching Mataki and recovering the diamond overshadowed all other anxieties.

CHAPTER XV

A PLOT

IN another week the expedition arrived in a country which in no way resembled that they had traversed since leaving Griqualand. They were nearing the mountain chain to which Mataki had lied. The approach to the highlands whence the numerous water-courses flowed down to the Limpopo, was signaled by a flora and fauna differing entirely from those of the plain.

One of the first of these valleys was reached about sunset. A river, so limpid that they could see down to its bed, flowed through meadows of emerald green. Fruit trees, with varied foliage, clothed the slopes of the hills which circled around it. The plain in the center lay bathed in the sunshine, and beneath the shadows of the huge baobabs grazed herds of red antelopes, zebras, and buffaloes. A little farther off a white rhinoceros crossed the open, and slowly moved toward the river, snorting with joy at the thought of rolling his mass of flesh in the cooling stream. An onager was braying, and a troop of monkeys were chasing each other among the trees.

Cyprien and his two companions stopped on the top of the hill to contemplate the unaccustomed scene. At last they had reached the virgin country, where the wild beast, still the undisputed master of the soil, lived on in happiness, without a suspicion of danger. It was not so much the number of the animals that surprised the engineer, as the wonderful variety. It seemed like a diagram in which the painter had depicted each principal type of the animal kingdom.

Of other inhabitants there were few. The Kaffirs could not but be well scattered in a district of such extent. Cyprien felt that his artistic and scientific instincts were fully satisfied, and allowed himself to think that he had been transported into the pre-historic age of the megatherium.

“It only wants a mammoth or two to make the scene complete!” he exclaimed.

And immediately Li extended his arm and pointed to several gray masses in the distance. From afar they looked like rocks in their motionlessness and color. They were a troop of elephants. The plain was dotted with them for a space of several miles.

“You know something about elephants?” asked Cyprien of the Chinaman when they were halting for the night.

Li blinked his little oblique eyes. “I lived a couple of years in Ceylon as hunter’s help,” said he, with the marked reserve he maintained as to all that concerned his biography.

“If we could only bring down one or two!” exclaimed Hilton. “It is excellent sport.”

“And the game is worth the powder,” added Pantalacci. “The tusks are excellent booty, and we might easily carry three or four dozen behind the wagon. We might pay the costs of the expedition out of them.”

“That is an idea, and a good one!” exclaimed Hilton. “Why should we not have a try tomorrow before we start?”

The question was discussed, and it was decided that they would strike the camp at daylight, and try their fortune in the valley in which they had seen the elephants.

As soon as supper was over, they all retired under the tilt of the wagon with the exception of Hilton, whose turn it was to keep watch. He had been alone about two hours, and was beginning to nod, when, he felt a light touch on his elbow. He opened his eyes. Pantalacci was seated by his side.

“I could not sleep, and I thought I would keep you company,” said the Neapolitan.

“It is very kind of you, but I could do with a few hours’ sleep,” answered Hilton, stretching his arms. “If you like, we can arrange matters. I will take your place under the tilt, and you can stay here.”

“No, stop here. I have something to tell you,” answered Pantalacci in a low voice.

He cast a glance around to see that they were alone, and continued, “Have you ever hunted an elephant?”

“Yes,” answered Hilton, “twice before.”

“Well, you know it is a very dangerous business. The elephant is so ready and so well armed. A man does not always get the best of it against him.”

“You speak of the clumsy men,” said Hilton. “With a good gun and explosive bullets there is little to fear.”

“So I should think,” replied the Italian. “But there are such things as accidents. Suppose one was to happen to the Frenchman tomorrow; it would be a sad blow to science!”

“A great misfortune!” said Hilton, with a laugh.

“But for us the misfortune would not be so great,” continued Pantalacci, encouraged by the laugh. “There would only be two of us then to follow Mataki and his diamond, and between us we might — “

The two men remained silent, gazing into the fire, each thinking out the dastardly idea.

“Yes,” said the Neapolitan; “two can understand each other, but three cannot.”

Again there was silence. Suddenly Pantalacci lifted his head and gazed into the darkness around him.

“Did you see anything?” asked he in a whisper. “I thought I saw a shadow behind that baobab.”

Hilton looked in the direction indicated, but noticed nothing suspicious.

“There is nothing Here,” he said, “only the linen the Chinaman has put out to bleach.”

Soon the conversation was resumed between the conspirators, but in a whisper.

“I can draw the cartridges out of his gun without his knowing it,” said Pantalacci; “and when we ride up to the elephant, I can fire behind him, so as to attract the brute’s attention that wav, and then it would not take long!”

Hilton feebly objected, “It may not be so easy as you think.”

“Bah!” replied the Italian. “Leave me alone, and you will see.”

An hour later, when Pantalacci resumed his place among the sleepers, he lighted a match to assure himself that no one had moved. All was well. Cyprien, Bardik, and the Chinaman were sound asleep.

At least, they seemed to be. But if the Italian had been a little more artful, he might have suspected a certain artificiality about the energetic snoring of the Chinee.

At daybreak all were afoot. Pantalacci took advantage of Cyprien’s bathing in the river to extract the cartridges from the gun. It took him but twenty seconds to do this. He was alone; Bardik was making the coffee, and Li was collecting the clothes he had put out to bleach on the famous line he had stretched between a couple of baobabs. Assuredly no one had seen him.

The coffee having been finished, the party went off on horseback, and left Bardik in charge of the camp. Li had asked to accompany the hunters, and armed himself with his master’s knife.

In less than half an hour they reached the spot where, the evening before, they had seen the elephants. But now they had to go farther on, out into the open between the foot of the mountain and the right bank of the river, before they came up with them.

In the clear fresh atmosphere illuminated by the rising sun, on the wide stretch of verdant carpet, wet with the morning dew, a group of elephants, two or three hundred in number, were busy breakfasting. The youngsters were playing around their mothers. The old ones, with heads to the ground, swinging their trunks as they strolled along, were quietly feeding on the thick grass of the meadow. Nearly all were flapping their huge ears as if they were cloaks of leather, fanning from side to side like Indian punkahs.

There was in all this calm domestic happiness something so sacred that Cyprien was profoundly moved, and asked his companions to abandon their projected massacre.

“What is the good of killing the inoffensive creatures?” he said. “Better leave them in peace.”

But the proposition was not to the taste of Pantalacci. “What is the good?” he asked, with a grin. “The good is to fill our purses, to get a few hundredweights of ivory! Are you afraid of those big fellows, Mr. Cyprien?”

Cyprien shrugged his shoulders, and took no further notice of the impertinence. As he saw the Neapolitan and his companion continue their advance toward the clearing, he went with them.

And now they were within a couple of hundred yards of the elephants. If, with their fine sense of hearing, the victims had not noticed their approach, it was because the wind blew toward the hunters, who were advancing through a thick clump of baobab trees.

However, one of the elephants began to show signs of disquietude, and raised his trunk interrogatively.

“Now is the time,” said Pantalacci, in a whisper. “If we are to do any good, we had better scatter; let each take his own position, and we will fire together at an agreed signal; for at the first shot the whole troop will take to flight.”

The advice was adopted. Hilton moved off to the right, Pantalacci to the left, and Cyprien remained in the center. Then the march toward the clearing was silently resumed.

At this moment Cyprien was much surprised to find himself grasped in somebody’s arms, and to hear the voice of the Chinaman, “I have just jumped up behind you. Say nothing. You will soon see why.”

He had then reached the edge of the underwood, and found himself about thirty yards from the elephants. Already he lifted his gun, to be ready for what might happen. As he did so, the Chinaman whispered, “Your/

gun is not loaded! Never mind. It’s all right!” At the same instant there came the sound of a whistle — the signal of the attack — and immediately a gun, only one gun, was fired behind Cyprien.

Turning quickly, Cyprien saw Pantalacci gliding behind a tree. But at the instant his attention was called off in front of him.

One of the elephants had been hit, and, infuriated by his wound, came charging toward him. The others, as the Neapolitan had foretold, were off in flight in a terrible stampede that shook the ground for a mile or more.

“All right!” said Li, clutching tightly to Cyprien. “When he comes closer, jump Templar aside. Then turn around that bush, and cut, with the elephant after you. I will look after him!”

Cyprien mechanically obeyed the orders. He had barely time to do so. With trunk erect, eyes shot with blood, mouth open, and tusks at the charge, on came the elephant with fearful speed.

Templar behaved like an old campaigner. Obeying the pressure of the rider’s knee, he executed a violent swerve to the right, and the elephant shot past, without touching! him, straight across the spot the horse that moment had left.

Without a word the Chinaman slipped to the ground, and leaped behind the bush he had shown his master.

“Here! here! Turn around the bush! Let him follow you!” he shouted.

The elephant rushed back, more furious than ever from having failed in his first attack. Cyprien, though he did not understand Li’s maneuver, executed it most carefully. He galloped around the bush, followed by the panting elephant, and twice foiled his attack by a sudden swerve. But would the maneuver succeed in the long run? Did Li hope to tire out the animal?

This did Cyprien ask himself, without being able to reply; when suddenly, to his great surprise, the elephant fell on his knees.

Li, with incomparable address, had seized on the propitious moment, glided from the bush up to the very feet of the pursuer, and with one sweep of the hunting-knife had cut the heel tendon which in man is called the Achilles. Such is the usual practice of the Indian huntsmen, and the Chinaman, thanks to his experience in Ceylon, had been able to deal the stroke with marvelous coolness and precision.

Fallen and helpless, the elephant remained without a movement, with his head laid down among the grass. A stream of blood flowed from his wound, and with it his strength flowed away.

“Hurrah! Bravo!” exclaimed Pantalacci and Hilton, appearing on the scene.

“We must finish him with a shot in the eye,” said Hilton, who seemed to feel an irresistible desire to take some active part in the drama.

And saying so, he shouldered his gun and fired.

The instant the explosion was heard, the bullet was imbedded in the body of the elephant. Then came a last convulsion. Then he remained motionless, as if he were a piece of gray rock.

“All over!” exclaimed Hilton, riding close up to the animal to get a better view of him.

“Wait! wait!” said the Chinaman, with a look.

They had not long to wait. As soon as Hilton reached the elephant, he stood up in his stirrups, and in derision tried to lift one of the enormous ears. But the animal by a sudden movement hurled aloft his trunk, and with one mighty blow brought it down on the hunter, smashing his backbone and crushing his head before the affrighted witnesses of the horrible scene could snatch him away.

Hilton uttered but one sharp cry of pain.

In three seconds he was but a mangled mass of flesh, on which the elephant had fallen, never to rise again.

“I was sure he would kill him!” said the Chinaman shaking his head. “Elephants never fail, when they get a chance.”

Such was the funeral oration on James Hilton. The young engineer thought of the treason of which he was to have been the victim, and could not help recognizing in the death a just punishment for the share in the plot to deliver him over defenseless to the fury of the angry beast. Whatever were the thoughts of the Neapolitan, he deemed it best to say nothing.

The Chinaman was already digging down into the grass of the prairie, and, with the aid of a knife, scooping out the grave in which, with Cyprien’s aid, the corpse was placed. All this took some time, and the sun was high above the horizon when the three hunters returned to the camp.

When they reached it, Bardik had disappeared.

CHAPTER XVI

TREASON

WHAT, then, had passed in camp during the absence of Cyprien and his two companions? It was difficult to say, for the young Kaffir did not reappear.

They waited for Bardik, they shouted for Bardik, and they looked for him everywhere. Not a trace of him could they find. The breakfast he had got ready remained by the fire, which had gone out, and seemed to show that he had been away from two to three hours.

Cyprien was reduced to conjectures, but the conjectures did nothing toward an explanation. That the young Kaffir had been attacked by some wild beast was not improbable, but there was not a sign of any struggle having taken place. That he had deserted and gone back to his own country, as Kaffirs often do, was very unlikely, and the engineer absolutely declined to accept the hypothesis when proffered by Pantalacci.

To sum up, half a day was spent in search, yet the young Kaffir had not been found, and his disappearance remained absolutely inexplicable.

Pantalacci and Cyprien took counsel together. They decided to wait till the next day before they struck the camp. Perhaps in the interval Bardik, if he had only wandered off, might return. But in thinking matters over, particularly with regard to the visit of the Kaffirs to one of the previous camps, and the questions they had put to Bardik and Li, they could hardly help asking if Bardik had not fallen into the hands of the natives, and been taken by them to their capital.

The day ended sadly, and the evening was even more lugubrious. A breeze of misfortune seemed to play over the expedition. Pantalacci was savage and dumb. His accomplices, Friedel and Hilton, were dead, and now he alone remained to face his young rival. But he was more than ever resolved to get rid of him.

Cyprien — whom Li had told all that he had heard about the withdrawal of the cartridges — had now to watch night and day over his traveling companion, though the Chinaman intended to share the task with him.

Cyprien and Pantalacci passed the evening silently smoking, and retired under the wagon-tilt without even a “good-night.” It was Li’s turn to watch near the fire and keep off the wild beasts.

The morning came, and the young Kaffir did not return. Cyprien would have waited “four-and-twenty hours longer, to give his servant a chance of rejoining, but the Neapolitan insisted on an immediate departure.

“We can very well do without Bardik, and to stop here is to risk being unable to rejoin Mataki.”

Cyprien gave in, and the Chinaman set to work to put-to the team. And here came a discovery, and a serious one. The cattle were not to be found! The evening before, they had been sleeping in the high grass around the camp. Now they were nowhere visible.

And then they became fully aware of the loss the expedition had sustained in the person of Bardik. If that intelligent servant had been at his post, knowing as he did the peculiarities of the South African ox, he would not have omitted tying up to trees or pegs the beasts that had had a day’s rest. Usually when reaching the halting-places after a long march, the precaution was unnecessary; the tired cattle never thought of straying beyond the outskirts of the wagon. But it was different after a day of rest and feasting.

Evidently the beasts’ first care on awaking had been to seek for more delicate grasses than had satisfied them the day before. For the sake of mere wandering they had strayed off little by little, lost sight of the camp, and then, guided by that peculiar instinct that always leads them home, were probably on their way back again to the Transvaal.

The disaster is not an unusual one in Africa, but it is none the less serious. Without the team the wagon is useless, and the wagon is for the traveler his house, his store, and his fortress.

Great was the disappointment of Cyprien and Pantalacci when, after a wild chase of two or three hours along the track of the cattle, they found they must give up all hope of recovery. The position was thus changed greatly for the worse, and another consultation was held.

Only one practical solution could be arrived at, and that was to abandon the wagon, take as much provision and ammunition as they could carry, and continue the journey on horseback. If circumstances were propitious, they might be able to meet with some Kaffir chief, and from him buy a new team. As for Li, he could have Hilton’s horse, which now wanted a master.

A lot of the thorn-tree branches were then cut and stacked over the wagon, so as to hide it in a kind of artificial bush. Their food and ammunition were stowed away in their pockets and in the large linen bag which each carried. The Chinaman, to his great regret, had to abandon the famous red box, but he could not tear himself away from his cord, and so he coiled it around his waist under his shirt as if it were a belt.

All being ready, the three horsemen gave a last look into the valley which had been the scene of such tragic events, and then set out for the hills. The road, like the others in this country, was merely a path formed by the wild animals, who always take the shortest road to water.

It was past noon when Cyprien, Pantalacci, and Li started; and beneath a burning sun they kept on at a good pace till the evening. Then they camped in a deep gorge, and, well sheltered by a rock, and seated around a fire of dry wood, they said to themselves that after all the loss of the wagon was not irreparable.

For two days they continued their journey, fully persuaded that they were on the track of him they sought. And on the evening of the second day, just before sundown, as they were making for a clump of trees ahead of them, in which to camp, Li uttered a guttural exclamation of, “Heugh!” and pointed with his finger to a black figure which had moved into view on the horizon in the streaks of the twilight.

Cyprien and Pantalacci looked in the direction indicated by the Chinaman. “A traveler!” remarked the Italian.

“Mataki himself!” said Cyprien, looking through his glasses. “I can see his carriage and his ostrich.”

And he handed the glasses to Pantalacci for him to satisfy himself that it was so.

“How far off is he?” asked Cyprien.

“Seven or eight miles at the least; perhaps ten,” was the reply.

“Then we must give up any hope of catching him today.”

“Certainly,” said Pantalacci. “In half an hour it will be dark, and we could not think of moving then.”

“Good! Tomorrow we will start early and catch him.”

“That is what I say.”

The horsemen reached the trees and dismounted. As usual, they began by carefully rubbing down and seeing to their horses before tethering them where they were to feed, the Chinaman being busy lighting the fire.

Night came on while they were so employed. The meal was a little more cheerful perhaps than it had been for the last three days. As soon as it was over, the travelers rolled themselves in their wraps and lay down by the fire, with their saddles for pillows, to sleep till dawn.

Cyprien and the Chinaman were soon asleep — not a very prudent proceeding perhaps on their part.

The Italian did not sleep. For two or three hours he rolled and twisted about in his wrapper like a man laboring under some fixed idea. Temptation had again come to him. At last he could withstand it no longer. He rose stealthily and silently, went to the horses, and saddled his own; then setting free Templar and the Chinaman’s horse, he led them after him. The grass which carpeted the ground stifled the sound of the hoofs, and the animals followed in stupid resignation at being so suddenly awakened. Pantalacci took them down into the valley below the camp, fastened them to a tree, and returned. Neither of the sleepers had moved.

He took his rifle, his ammunition, and some provisions. Then he coolly and deliberately abandoned his comrades in the desert.

The idea which had possessed him since sundown had been that by seizing the horses Cyprien and Li would be prevented from reaching Mataki. He thus made sure of victory. Neither the odious character of the treason, nor the utter heartlessness of the robbery, had any influence over him. He descended the slope, jumped into the saddle, and rode off with the two horses in the first rays of the rising moon, that was just peeping over the distant hills.

Cyprien and Li slept on. About three o’clock in the morning the Chinaman opened his eyes, gazed at the stars growing dim on the eastern horizon, and said to himself, “It is time to get the coffee!”

And immediately he threw off his blanket, jumped up, and set about his morning toilet, which in the desert, as in the town, was anything but elaborate.

“Where is Pantalacci?” he asked himself as he glanced around.

The day had begun to break, and the objects around were growing clearer in the light.

“The horses are not there!” said Li to himself. Perhaps our gallant friend has — “

And suspecting what had happened, he ran up to the pegs to which he had seen the horses tethered the night before. Then he ran back to the camp, and at a glance assured himself that the Neapolitan’s baggage had gone with him.

There could be no mistake.

A white man would probably have been unable to resist the temptation of waking Cyprien to tell him the important news. But the Chinese was of the tawny race, and thought there was no need to hurry in telling bad news. And he quietly set to work to get the coffee, remarking as he did so, “It was very kind of the gentleman to leave a little behind him!”

The coffee having been strained through the linen bag he had made for it, Li filled two cups cut out of ostrich eggs, and went up to Cyprien, who was still asleep. “Here is your coffee, Pa,” said he, touching him on the shoulder.

Cyprien opened his eyes, stretched his limbs, smiled at the Chinaman, drew himself up, and drank the steaming liquor.

It was not till then that he noticed the absence of the Italian. “Where is Pantalacci?” he asked.

“Gone away,” answered Li, in the most natural way in the world, as if there was nothing at all unusual in his doing so.

“What! Gone away?”

“Yes, Pa — with the three horses.”

Cyprien threw off his rug and gave a glance around, which told him everything.

But he was too proud to show his anxiety or his anger. “Very well,” he said. “The fellow fancies he has seen the last of us, I suppose;” and he walked briskly to and fro, and thought. “We must be off at once,” he said to the Chinaman. “We must leave the saddles and bridles, and all that would encumber us, and take only the guns and the food we have left. We may get on quicker unmounted, and perhaps find the shortest roads.”

Li hastened to obey. In a few minutes the rugs were rolled up and the bags shouldered, and then all that it was necessary to abandon were heaped together and hidden under a pile of brushwood.

Cyprien was right in supposing that, under certain circumstances, it would be better to travel on foot. He could go a nearer way, and climb heights that a horse was unequal to, but at the cost of what fatigue!

About one o’clock in the afternoon they reached the northern slope of the chain they had been following for three days. According to the information given by Lopepe, they could not be very far from Tonaia’s capital. Unfortunately in the Bechuana language the indications were so vague as to the route to follow and the distance, that Cyprien was not sure if he had to travel two days or five days before he reached the kraal.

As he and Li were descending into the first valley, after crossing the ridge, the latter gave a short, sharp laugh. “Giraffes!” he said.

Cyprien looked below and saw about a score of these animals feeding in the valley. Nothing could be more graceful from afar than their long necks, held upright like masts, or thrust like long serpents into the herbage for two or three yards from their brown-spotted bodies.

“We might catch one of those things to take the place of Templar,” observed Li.

“Ride a giraffe! Whoever saw such a thing?” exclaimed Cyprien.

“I do not know if any one ever saw it, but that is no reason why you shouldn’t see it,” answered the Chinaman. “And so you shall, if you let me try!”

Cyprien, who had begun by thinking it impossible, ended by promising to help.

“We are to leeward of the giraffes,” said Li; “that is lucky, for they have very quick noses, and would have smelled us. You go away to the right and frighten them with the report of the gun, so as to drive them this way, and I will look after the rest.”

Cyprien dropped on the ground all that could hamper his movements, and hurried off.

Li lost but little time. He ran down the valley and reached a track along the bottom. This was evidently that used by the giraffes, for it was all marked with their hoofs. The Chinaman took up his position behind a large tree. He then unwound his long cord, which he was never without, and, cutting it in two, made two lengths, each of about a hundred feet. To one end of each of these he tied a heavy pebble, and the other ends he hitched to the lower branches of the tree. Then he coiled the free ends over his arm, stepped behind the tree, and .waited.

Five minutes had barely elapsed when the report of a gun sounded some distance off. Instantly a swift trampling began, as of a squadron of cavalry at the charge, and this increased from moment to moment, and announced that the giraffes were coming, as Li expected. They came right down on him along the track, little suspecting what was awaiting them.

With their nostrils dilated, their heads bristling, and their tongues hanging out, the giraffes looked really superb, but Li had something else to do than admire them. His post had been judiciously chosen at a narrowing of the way, where the animals could only pass two abreast, and where they would be sure to crowd.

He let two or three go by. Then, picking out one of extraordinary size, he flung his first cord. It .whistled as it flew and swung around the victim’s neck. Suddenly the cord stretched, squeezed the throat, and pulled the giraffe up short.

The Chinaman lost no time in looking on. Scarcely had he seen his first cord strike than he launched the second, and brought down another giraffe.

All was over in half a minute. The frightened herd escaped in all directions, and two half-strangled giraffes remained prisoners.

“Come on, Pa!” shouted the Chinaman, as Cyprien ran up, rather doubtful of the success of the scheme.

But the evidence was too much for him. There were two magnificent animals, strong, fleshy, with splendid hams and lustrous necks. But Cyprien thought only of admiring them; to ride them did not seem possible.

“How can you hang on a ridge which slopes at thirty degrees?” asked he, with a laugh.

“By sitting on the shoulders, and not on the flanks,” answered Li. “Besides, we can roll up a blanket to put under the saddle.”

“We have not got a saddle.”

“I will soon find you one.”

“And what is your bridle to be?”

“You’ll see.” The Chinese had a reply for every question, and with him acts and words were not far apart.

The dinner-hour had not arrived before, with part of his cord, he had made two strong halters, which he slipped over the giraffes. The poor beasts were so frightened at their misfortune, and were, besides, so gentle in disposition, that they made no resistance. The other end of the cord did for reins. This being finished, nothing was easier than to lead off the prisoners. Cyprien and Li went back to the camp and repossessed themselves of the saddles and other articles they had abandoned.

By the evening everything was arranged. The Chinaman was a marvel of cleverness. Not only did he alter Cyprien’s saddle so that it would seat him horizontally on the giraffe, but he made himself a saddle of twigs; and took the precaution of breaking in the giraffes during half the night, mounting first one and then the other, accustoming them to the rein, and teaching them that, henceforth they must obey.

CHAPTER XVII

AN AFRICAN STEEPLECHASE

THE aspect of the horsemen — or rather the giraffemen — when they started in the morning, was curious in the extreme. It is very doubtful if Cyprien would have cared to have appeared in such guise before Miss Watkins in the chief street of Vandergaart Kopje. But in Rome, people must do as do the Romans. Our hero was in the desert, and giraffes were just as good mounts as dromedaries. Their gait was very much the same. Their backs were horribly hard, and they rolled and pitched in a way that nearly made their riders sea-sick.

In two or three hours Cyprien and the Chinee were sufficiently acclimatized, and after a few attempts at rebellion, which were promptly suppressed, the giraffes became quite docile, and sped along at a rapid pace.

The object now was to hurry on as much as possible, so as to make up for the time lost during the last three or four days. Had Pantalacci caught Mataki? Cyprien resolved that nothing should keep him from reaching him.

On the third day the giraffemen entered the plains. They were following the right bank of a much-winding water-course which flowed to the northward, and was probably one of the secondary affluents of the Zambesi. The giraffes, thoroughly subdued and weakened by the long stages and spare diet to which Li subjected them, were driven with the greatest ease. Cyprien could even let go the rope reins, and direct his steed by the mere pressure of his knee. Free from anxiety as to his mount, he took a good deal of pleasure in noticing around him the traces of advancing civilization. In one unbroken series there stretched away fields of manioc or taro, carefully tended, properly irrigated by means of bamboos placed end to end, and reached by broad and well-made roads. In fact, the district had an air of general prosperity. On the hills which bordered the horizon there appeared the groups of white huts, built of rushes, which served as the homes of its scattered population.

One thing that showed they were nearly out of the desert was the extraordinary number of wild animals peopling the plain. Here and there innumerable swarms of birds, of all sizes and species, darkened the air. Herds of antelopes and gazelles crossed the road before them. Occasionally a monstrous hippopotamus lifted his head in the river, brayed noisily, and plunged again beneath the stream with a sounding splash.

The last thing in Cyprien’s thoughts was what greeted his eyes as he turned the flank of one of the small hills. This was no less than Pantalacci at full gallop in pursuit of Mataki! About a mile separated the men from each other, and Cyprien and Li were some four miles behind the Italian.

The delight of the latter was unbounded. Cyprien gave a loud “Hurrah!” Li a sounding “Hyugh!” meaning the same thing, and then they put their giraffes at the trot.

Evidently Mataki had seen the Neapolitan, who had begun to gain on him, though he could not see his old master and his companion, who were still too far off over the plain.

The young Kaffir, at sight of Pantalacci — who was not a man to give quarter, and who, without waiting for explanations, might kill him like a dog — hurried along furiously in his ostrich cart. The swift bird almost flew over the ground. It flew at such a rate that it suddenly crashed up against a large stone. The shock was so violent that the axletree broke, one of the wheels slipped off, and Mataki and the bits of his chariot were scattered in the road.

The unfortunate Kaffir was dreadfully injured by his fall, but the fright that possessed him was only thereby increased. Convinced that he would be killed, if caught by the Italian, he picked himself up, caught the ostrich, jumped astride of its back, and sped off at a run.

And then began an exciting steeplechase, such as the world had never seen since the days of the Roman hippodrome, when ostrich and giraffe races formed part of the program. While Pantalacci chased Mataki, Cyprien and Li chased them both. They wanted the Kaffir for the sake of the stolen diamond, they wanted the Italian to settle accounts with him for his cowardly treachery.

The giraffes were given the reins. They swept along, almost as fast as thorough-bred horses, as with their long necks stretched out, their mouths open, their ears flung back, they were spurred and whipped to their topmost speed.

Mataki’s ostrich proved a prodigy. No winner of the Derby would have had a chance against him. His short wings, though useless for flying, helped him greatly. So fast did he speed over the ground that in a few minutes the young Kaffir had regained all he had lost.

Mataki had chosen his mount well when he took the ostrich. If he could only keep up as he was going for another quarter of an hour, he would be safe from the Italian’s claws.

Pantalacci saw that the slightest halt would lose him all his advantage. Already the distance between him and the fugitive had sensibly increased. Beyond the mealy-field through which they were racing, a thick mass of lentisks and Indian figs lay waving in the wind and bounding the view. If Mataki once reached it, he would escape, as it would be impossible to keep him in sight.

At full gallop Cyprien and the Chinee followed in chase. They reached the foot of the hill; they were tearing across the field; but three miles still separated them from the Kaffir’s pursuer.

They could see that by a great effort the Italian had gained a little on the fugitive. Whether it was that the ostrich was exhausted, or had hurt itself against a stone, its speed had greatly slackened. Pantalacci was not more than three hundred feet from the Kafiir.

But Mataki had reached the edge of the wood. Suddenly he disappeared, and at the same moment Pantalacci was violently thrown, and his horse bolted.

“Mataki has escaped!” said Li.

“Yes; but Pantalacci is ours!” answered Cyprien.

And they pressed on their giraffes still faster.

In half an hour they had nearly crossed the mealy-field, and were only five hundred yards from where the Italian had come to grief. Had he gained the wood, or did he lie on the ground grievously wounded — or perhaps dead?

The unhappy man was where he had fallen. A hundred paces from him Cyprien and Li reined up their giraffes. And this is what they saw.

In the ardor of his pursuit the Neapolitan had not noticed a gigantic net which had been set by the Kaffirs to catch the birds that wage incessant war on their crops. In this net Pantalacci had become entangled.

And it was not a small net. It measured at least fifty yards along the side, and already contained several thousand birds of all sizes and plumage, and among them half a dozen of those enormous vultures, a yard and a half from wing-tip to wing-tip, which abound in South Africa. When the Neapolitan fell into their midst, the birds were naturally alarmed.

Pantalacci was stunned for a moment by his fall. Then he tried to rise. But his feet, legs, and hands were entangled in the meshes of the net, and he could not at first disengage them.

He had not much time to lose. He gave such terrible kicks and wrenches that he tore up the net from the pegs that fixed it to the ground. At the same time the birds, big and little, endeavored to escape.

But the more the Italian struggled, the more he was wrapped in the meshes. And a crowning humiliation was in store for him. One of the giraffes came up — the one that bore the Chinaman. Li jumped to the ground, and thinking that the best way to secure the prisoner was to roll him in the net, kicked it off the pegs in front of him, and began to throw it over.

But a most extraordinary thing happened. There came a tremendous gust of wind, bending down the trees as if a water-spout were sweeping over the ground. Pantalacci in his struggles had torn the net from many of the pegs, and seeing himself on the point of capture, made a desperate effort to get free. With a violent wrench the last peg was torn up, and the feathered colony that the net held down took flight with noisy tumult.

The small birds escaped, but the large ones were caught in the meshes by their talons at the same time as they spread their wings for flight, and together rose. All these aerial paddles and pectoral muscles working together, helped by the fury of the squall, formed so colossal a power that a hundredweight was but a featherweight to it.

The net, rolled and heaped and entangled on itself, became the sport of the wind, and, with Pantalacci hanging to it by his wrists and hands, rose thirty yards from the ground.

Cyprien arrived as the net rose, and beheld his enemy flying up to the clouds.

The vultures, tiring at their first effort, began to descend, describing a long parabola as they did so. In three seconds they had reached the lentisks and Indian figs to the west of the mealy-field. Then, having shaved the tops of the bushes at about a dozen feet from the ground, they rose again into the air.

Cyprien and Li looked on with horror at the sight of the unfortunate man borne upward for a hundred and fifty feet by the prodigious efforts of the vultures and the force of the breeze.

Suddenly a few meshes broke, and the Italian clutched wildly at the cords. But his hands missed their hold, and he fell in a heap to the earth.

The net, freed from his weight, shot up in the air, and was soon shaken off by the vultures.

When Cyprien reached him, his enemy was dead — killed in this horrible way.

And now there remained but one of the four rivals who had started on the Kaffir chase across the Transvaal.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE TALKING OSTRICH

AFTER this dreadful catastrophe Cyprien and Li thought only of hurrying from the spot as quickly as possible.

They skirted the north edge of the wood, and after an hour’s walk reached the bed of a torrent, which was then dry. The torrent-bed formed a path through the lentisks and figs. Into it they turned.

There a fresh surprise awaited them. The torrent led into a good-sized lake, surrounded with luxuriant vegetation. Cyprien tried to follow the banks, but these were in places too steep.

To return by the road he had come would have been to give up all hope of catching Mataki; and as on the other side of the lake there were ranges of hills leading up to mountains of considerable height, the travelers set off around the sheet of water in the hope that they would there obtain a good view over the surrounding district. The absence of any road made the operation a somewhat difficult one, owing to their having occasionally to dismount and lead the giraffes by the bridle. It took them more than three hours to advance five miles as the crow flies.

When they reached the point on the other side of the lake opposite to that they had started from, night came on; and, thoroughly tired out, they decided to camp. But with their scanty resources they could not be very comfortable.

Li busied himself with his usual zeal, and did what he could, but the result was not encouraging.

“You are very tired, Pa!” said he, sympathizingly. “Our provisions have nearly all gone! Let me go off in search of something to some village close by. I am sure to bring somebody to help you.”

“Leave me, Li?” asked Cyprien.

“It is necessary that I should,” said the Chinaman. “I will take one of the giraffes and strike off to the north. Tonaia’s town that Lopepe spoke of cannot be far off, and I will manage it so that they will welcome you. Then we can go back to Griqualand, where you need no longer trouble yourself about the three scoundrels that have died.”

Cyprien thought over the Chinaman’s proposition. He saw that if the Kaffir was to be caught, it would be in this neighborhood; consequently it would not do to leave it. On the other hand, more provisions must be obtained. And so he with great regret decided to separate from Li and wait where he was for forty-eight hours. In that time the Chinaman on his giraffe would be able to secure assistance and return.

Li did not delay an instant. Thinking nothing of his own rest, and abandoning all idea of sleep, he wished Cyprien good-bye, kissed his hand, jumped on his giraffe, and disappeared in the night.

For the first time since his departure from Vandergaart Kopje Cyprien found himself alone in the desert. He felt profoundly miserable, and as he lay rolled in his blanket, gave himself over to the gloomiest thoughts. Isolated, almost without food and ammunition, what was to become of him in this unknown country, hundreds of miles away from civilization? The chance of catching Mataki was now a very feeble one. He might be only half a mile from him, and yet be ignorant of his whereabouts. The whole expedition had been disastrous. Every hundred miles had cost the death of one of its members. One only remained — himself! Was he destined to die miserably, like the others?

Such were Cyprien’s reflections as he gradually fell asleep.

The freshness of the morning and the night’s rest gave a more confident tone to his thoughts when he awoke. While waiting for the Chinaman’s return he resolved to ascend the mountain at the foot of which he had camped. He could from the summit command an extensive view, and might with the help of his glasses discover some trace of Mataki. But to do so he had to leave his giraffe, for no naturalist has as yet grouped that animal with the climbers.

He began by taking off the halter so ingeniously contrived by Li. One end of it he tied to the animal’s leg, the other to a tree surrounded by long luscious grass; and he left sufficient length for the giraffe to feed at its ease. And if we add to the length of the rope the length of the giraffe’s neck we must admit that very little rope was required to give it an ample radius of action.

Having secured his mount, Cyprien threw his gun on to one shoulder and his blanket on to the other, and, giving the giraffe a friendly pat in token of farewell, began the ascent of the mountain.

The ascent was long and difficult. The whole of the day was passed in scaling its steep slopes, turning its rocks and unclimbable peaks, and recommencing on the east or south an attempt made unsuccessfully on the north or west. When the night came, Cyprien had only got halfway up, and he had to wait till morning to continue the ascent.

Starting at daybreak, after assuring himself by means of his glasses that Li had not returned to the camp, he reached the top of the mountain about eleven o’clock. There a cruel deception awaited him. The summit was wrapped in cloud, and a thick mist hung over its lower flanks. In vain Cyprien tried to pierce the curtain and see down into the neighboring valleys. The whole district had disappeared, covered with a mantle of shapeless vapor which hid everything beneath it.

Cyprien was obstinate, and waited, hoping the fog would clear off. He hoped in vain. As the day wore on, the clouds grew in density, and when night came, the mist turned to rain. He was on a bare plateau with not a single tree or rock to shelter him, and night coming on, with an increasing downpour of fine steady rain that gradually soaked through his blanket and his clothes, and wet him to the skin.

Matters were growing serious. To descend under such circumstances would have been foolish. Cyprien made up his mind to shiver in the rain all night, and dry himself in the morning in the sun.

The rain was most refreshing after the drought that had preceded it, and Cyprien soon persuaded himself that there was nothing very disagreeable about it after all. One of its most unpleasant consequences was that he would have to eat his dinner uncooked. To light a fire, or even a match, in such weather was out of the question, and so he had to content himself with opening a tin of meat and eating it as he found it.

In an hour or two, in a half-torpid state from the continual rain, he fell asleep on a large stone for a pillow and his dripping blanket for a bed. When he awoke, he was in a high state of fever.

Knowing that he was lost, if he remained any longer beneath the deluge — for the rain was still falling in torrents — Cyprien made an effort, rose to his feet, and, using his gun as a stick, began the descent of the mountain.

How did he reach the bottom? It would have puzzled him to say. Sometimes gliding down the greasy slope, sometimes scrambling down the slippery rocks, bruised and breathless, and weakened by the fever, he kept on his downward way, and about noon reached the camp where he had left the giraffe.

The animal had gone, impatient probably at having been left alone, and perhaps pinched with hunger, for the grass within the circle of which the halter formed the radius had all been cropped. The giraffe had bitten through the rope, and gained its liberty.

Cyprien would have keenly felt this new piece of ill-fortune, had he been in his normal state, but extreme lassitude and weariness had almost crushed the life out of him. He could only throw himself on his waterproof bag, which he fortunately found untouched, change his wet clothes for dry ones, and then drop back to sleep under the shelter of the baobab beneath which he had camped.

Then began a strange period of half-slumber, of fever, of delirium, in which everything was mixed up, wherein time, space, and distance retained not a ghost of reality. Was it night or day? Sunshine or rain? Had he been there twelve hours or sixty? Was he alive or dead? He did not know. Pleasant dreams and frightful nightmares followed each other without intermission. Paris, the School of Mines, his home, Vandergaart Kopje, Miss Watkins, Pantalacci, Hilton, Friedel, legions of elephants, Mataki, and flights of birds spread over a boundless sky, all his remembrances, sensations, sympathies, and antipathies jostled each other in his wandering brain as if in a straggling battle of incoherences. To the creations of the fever were added the impressions of what was going on around him. And what made things all the more horrible was that in the thick of a storm of jackals barking, tiger-cats molrowing, hyenas laughing, he painfully pursued the romance of his delirium, and thought that he heard the crack of a rifle, followed by a deep silence. Then the concert began again, and lasted till morning.

During this delirium Cyprien would probably have passed from the fever into everlasting rest, if the strangest, most extravagant event had not happened to bring him back to reason.

The morning came. It rained no longer; the sun was high on the horizon. Cyprien had just opened his eyes. He looked, not without curiosity, at an ostrich of large stature that, after approaching him, stood still a vard or two off.

“Is that Mataki’s ostrich?” asked he to himself, still pursuing his main line of thought.

It was the bird itself that spoke, and that in excellent English, “There’s no mistake! Cyprien! My poor fellow, whatever are you doing here?”

An ostrich that spoke English, an ostrich that knew his name, was certainly enough to astonish any man even in his sober senses. But Cyprien was not in the least astonished, and took the remarkable phenomenon as a matter of course. He had seen so many strange phenomena during the night, it seemed quite a natural consequence of his mental derangement.

“You are not very polite, Mrs. Ostrich,” he answered. “What business is it of yours?”

He spoke in that dry, jerky way peculiar to those suffering from fever, and which left no doubt as to the state he was in. The ostrich seemed greatly troubled.

“Cyprien, my friend, you are ill, and all alone in the desert!” exclaimed the bird as it knelt by his side.

This was a physiological phenomenon no less abnormal among struthious birds than that of the gift of speech, for kneeling is a movement generally denied to them by nature. But Cyprien in his fever persisted in showing no astonishment. It seemed just as natural when the ostrich felt under its left wing, and took out a leather flask, and gave him a mouthful of the contents.

The only thing that began to surprise him was when the strange animal rose and threw off what seemed to be his plumage, and took off his neck and head, and then changed into a tall, sturdy, active man, and no other than that mighty hunter, Pharamond Barthes!

“Yes, it’s nobody else!” exclaimed Barthes. “Did you not recognize my voice? You are astonished at my outfit? It is a dodge I learned from the Kaffirs to get nearer the real ostriches and reach them with their assegais! But let us talk about yourself my poor fellow. How came you here, sick and abandoned? It was the merest chance I saw you as I went by. I did not even know you were in these parts.”

Cyprien was hardly in a state to talk to his friend, and could only make a few signs. Barthes saw that what was wanted, was to get the sick man the help he needed, and to attack the fever as soon as possible.

His experience in the desert had been a long one, and the bold hunter had learned from the Kaffirs a method of treatment of great efficacy in marsh fever such as his companion was suffering from. He dug in the ground a sort of ditch, which he filled with wood, having arranged it so that there was a good draft through it. When the wood had been lighted and consumed, it converted the ditch into a veritable oven. Barthes laid Cyprien in the ditch, after carefully wrapping him up so as to leave only his head exposed to the air. Ten minutes had hardly elapsed before an abundant perspiration showed itself — a perspiration which the amateur doctor took care to foster with the help of five or six cups of an infusion he made with some herbs he had gathered; and then Cyprien dropped off into a refreshing sleep.

At sundown, when he awoke, he was sufficiently recovered to ask for something to eat. His ingenious friend was quite prepared for him, and immediately offered him some excellent soup which he had made out of the spoils of his rifle and different sorts of vegetables. A wing of roast bustard and a cup of cold water with just a suspicion of cordial completed the meal, which greatly strengthened Cyprien, and began to clear his brain of the fumes which clouded it.

About an hour afterward, Barthes having treated himself to some dinner, sat down by the engineer and told him how he came to be there so strangely disguised.

“You know what I am capable of in search of any novelty in sport. During the last six months I had killed so many elephants, zebras, giraffes, lions, and all sorts of big game and little game, fur and feather — without counting a cannibal eagle that is the pride of my collection — that a few days ago I was seized with the idea of making a change in my sporting proceedings. Up to then I had only traveled escorted by my Basutos — thirty resolute fellows whom I pay at the rate of a bag of glass beads a month, and who would throw themselves into the fire to please their lord and master. But I was very hospitably received by Tonaia, the great chief of this country, and with a view of obtaining the right of shooting, over his territory — a right of which he is as jealous as a Highland laird — I consented to lend my Basutos with four guns for an expedition that he was thinking of against one of his neighbors.The reinforcement rendered him simply in—

vincible, and he gained a signal triumph over his enemy. Hence a close friendship sealed in blood — that is to say, we mutually sucked a pin-prick in our forearms, and for the future Tonaia and I are brothers for life — and death! Assured of being let alone wherever I might wander throughout his possessions, I started off the day before yesterday in chase of tiger-cats and ostriches. As far as tiger-cats are concerned, I had the pleasure of shooting one last night, and I am rather surprised that you did not hear the row which preceded the shot. The fellow had been attracted by the odor of raw flesh, and two or three hundred jackals and hyenas had been favored with the same idea. You can imagine the concert that took place!”

“I think I heard it,” said Cyprien. “I even fancied it was given in my honor.”

“Not at all,” said Barthes. “It was in honor of a buffalo’s carcass at the bottom of the valley opening to your right. When day dawned, nothing was left of it but the bones. I will show you; it is a very creditable piece of anatomizing. You shall also see my prey, the biggest I have brought down since I landed in Africa.”

“But why the strange disguise you wore this morning?” asked Cyprien.

“It is an ostrich dress. As I told you, the Kaffirs often use it to approach the birds, for they are very shy and difficult to get within range. You will say that I have my capital rifle. So I have, but what of that? The fancy struck me to go out in the Kaffir style, and to that I owe my finding you, don’t I?”

“And just in time. Without you I shouldn’t have troubled the world much longer,” answered Cyprien, as he cordially clasped his friend’s hand.

He was now out of his ditch, and comfortably lying on a bed of leaves that his companion had arranged at the foot of the baobab. The gallant fellow’s kindness did not stop at that. He went down into the neighboring valley in search of his tent, which he always took with him on such expeditions, and a quarter of an hour afterward he had pitched it above the invalid.

“And now, Cyprien,” said he, “let us have your History, if you are not too tired to tell it.”

Cyprien felt himself well enough to satisfy Barthes’ very natural curiosity. Very shortly he told him of what had occurred in Griqualand, why he had come in pursuit of Mataki and his diamond, and what had been the chief incidents of the expedition. He told him of the deaths of Friedel, Hilton, and Pantalacci; the disappearance of Bardik; and how he was waiting for Li to return to the camp.

Barthes listened with profound attention. When asked if he had come across a young Kaffir whose appearance tallied with that given by Cyprien, he replied in the negative.

“But,” added he, “I found a horse that had been turned adrift, and which may be yours.” And he explained how the horse had fallen into his hands. “Two days ago,” he said, “I was out hunting with three young Basutos in the mountains to the south, when I suddenly saw a gray horse dash out of one of the ravines. He had no harness, only a halter and a rope trailing behind him. He seemed very undecided which way to go, and I called out to him and showed him a handful of sugar, and he came with me. I took him prisoner. He is an excellent brute, full of courage and fire, and ‘salted like a ham.’”

“He is mine! That is Templar!” exclaimed Cyprien.

“Well, Templar is yours, then,” answered Barthes, “and I am glad to return him to you. Now, good-night; go to sleep, and at daybreak tomorrow we clear off from here.”

Then, adding practice to precept, Barthes rolled himself in his blanket, and went to sleep by the side of Cyprien.

In the morning the Chinaman returned with provisions, and before Cyprien awoke, Barthes explained matters to Li, and left him in charge, while he went off to fetch the horse.

CHAPTER XIX

THE WONDERFUL GROTTO

IT was indeed Templar that Cyprien saw before him when he awoke. The interview was most affectionate. The horse seemed to be as much pleased as his master at again meeting his traveling companion.

After breakfast Cyprien felt well enough to mount and set out. Barthes put all the baggage on Templar and then took him by the bridle and led the way to Tonaia’s capital.

As they went along, Cyprien told his friend more in detail of the principal events of the expedition since leaving Griqualand. When he came to the final disappearance of Mataki, whose description he gave, Barthes burst out laughing.

“Oh!” said he; “that is news! I can tell you something about the thief, if not about the diamond!”

“What do you know?” asked Cyprien, much surprised.

“This,” replied Barthes, “that hardly twenty-four hours ago my Basutos took prisoner a young Kaffir, whom they found wandering about the country, and handed him over, bound hand and foot, to my friend Tonaia. I fancy he would have made it hot for him, for he doesn’t like spies, and the stranger evidently belonged to a tribe at war with his. But his life was saved! Fortunately they found out that he knew a little hanky-panky business, and was something of a medicine man — “

“That must be Mataki,” said Cyprien.

“Well, he got off easily,” said Barthes. “Tonaia has invented all sorts of punishments for his enemies; but you need not be the least alarmed for your old servant. His reputation as a wizard protects him, and you will see him this afternoon in excellent health.”

The news could not be otherwise than grateful to Cyprien. He would, after all, attain his object, having no doubt that if Mataki had the diamond in his possession, he would hand it over.

The two friends continued in conversation as they crossed the plain which Cyprien had galloped over on giraffe-back a few days before.

In the evening Tonaia’s capital appeared in sight, lying like a huge amphitheater on the side of a hill which formed the northern horizon. It was a regular town, of from ten to fifteen thousand inhabitants, with well-marked roads and good-sized huts, some of them almost elegant in shape, bearing outward signs of ease and affluence. The king’s palace, surrounded by high palisades, and guarded by black warriors armed with assegais, occupied almost a quarter of the city.

Barthes had only to show himself for the Darners to fall before him, and he and Cyprien were immediately conducted across a series of large courts to the hall of ceremony, where the “invincible conqueror” sat in state, surrounded by his officers and guards.

Tonaia was about forty years of age. He was tall and well built. A sort of diadem of boars’ teeth was on his head, and he wore a red, sleeveless tunic, and an apron of the same color richly embroidered with beads. On his arms and legs were numerous copper bracelets. His face showed intelligence and refinement, but he had a crafty, hard-hearted look.

He accorded a grand reception to Barthes, whom he had not seen for some days, and in it Cyprien shared, as the friend of his faithful ally.

“The friends of our friends are our friends,” said the chief.

And learning that his new guest was not very well, Tonaia bestirred himself to install him in one of the best rooms in the palace, and to provide him with an excellent supper.

Acting on the advice of Barthes, all mention of Mataki was deferred till the morrow, when Cyprien had sufficiently recovered to appear before the king.

The whole court was assembled in the great saloon of the palace. Tonaia and his two guests were in the center of the circle. Barthes opened the negotiations in the language of the country, which he spoke fluently.

“My Basutos,” he said, “have recently brought to you a young Kaffir. The young Kaffir turns out to be the servant of my comrade, the learned philosopher, Victor Cyprien, who trusts to your generosity to surrender him. And I, as he is my friend and your friend, ask you this favor.”

As soon as Barthes began his speech Tonaia assumed an appropriate diplomatic air.

“The great white philosopher is welcome!” he answered. “But what ransom does he offer for my prisoner?”

“An excellent gun, ten times ten cartridges, and a bag of beads,” answered Barthes.

A flattering murmur ran around the audience in recognition of the splendor of the offer. Tonaia alone did not appear dazzled at it.

“Tonaia is a great prince,” he said, rising on his throne, “and the gods watch over him! A month ago they sent Pharamond Barthes with his brave warriors and wonderful guns to help us conquer our foes! That is why, if Pharamond Barthes desires it, the servant shall be given over safe and sound to his master.”

“And where is he at this moment?” asked the hunter.

“In the sacred grotto, where he is guarded night and day,” answered Tonaia, with all the importance of one of the most powerful of the Kaffir chiefs.

Barthes translated the reply to Cyprien, and asked the king’s permission to go with his companion and seek the prisoner in the grotto.

As he said so, there was a murmur of disapproval among the assembly. The demand of the Europeans seemed unreasonable. Never under any pretext had a stranger been admitted within the mysterious grotto. A cherished tradition declared that the day the white men learned the secret, the empire of Tonaia would crumble to dust.

But the king was not particularly pleased at his decisions being prejudged in this way, and the murmur induced him, from mere caprice, to grant what, without it, he would probably have refused.

“Tonaia is the blood-brother of Pharamond Barthes, and there is nothing he need hide from him! Can you and your friend keep an oath?”

Barthes nodded affirmatively.

“Then,” said the Kaffir king, “swear to touch nothing that you see in the grotto! Swear to live ever afterward when you come out as though you had never known its existence! Swear to never seek to enter it again, nor even to attempt to do so! Swear that you will tell no one what you will see!”

Barthes and Cyprien raised their hands, and repeated word for word the formula of the oath that had been delivered to them; and then Tonaia gave a few orders in a low tone, the court rose, and the guards formed into two lines. Slaves brought in a few pieces of fine linen, with which the eyes of the strangers were bandaged. Then the king sat down between them in a large palanquin(

of straw, which several Kaffirs lifted to their shoulders, and then the procession moved off.

The journey was quite long enough; it took nearly two hours. From the motions of the palanquin the friends made out that they were being carried over hilly ground.

Then the coolness of the air and the echo of the steps of the escort resounding from walls quite close together indicated that they were journeying underground. Then the puffs of resinous smoke which floated into their faces told them that torches had been lighted to show the way.

A quarter of an hour afterward the palanquin was unshouldered. Tonaia made his guests step out, and ordered their bandages to be removed.

Dazzled with the light after so long a darkness, Barthes and Cyprien thought at first they were the prey of some ecstatic illusion, so splendid and unexpected was the sight that greeted their eyes.

They were in the center of an immense grotto. The ground was covered with fine sand bespangled with gold. The vault was as high as that of a Gothic cathedral, and stretched away out of sight into the distant darkness. The walls were covered with stalactites of varied hue and wondrous richness, and from them the light of the torches was reflected, flashing back with all the colors of the rainbow, with the glow of a furnace fire and the wealth of the aurora.

Colors of the most dazzling, shapes the most extraordinary, dimensions the most unexpected, distinguished these innumerable crystals. They were not, as in most grottoes, pendants, monotonously similar to each other, but nature had given free scope to fancy, and seemed to have exhausted every combination of tint and effect to which the marvelous brilliancy of the rocks could lend itself.

Blocks of amethyst, walls of sardonyx, masses of rubies, needles of emeralds, colonnades of sapphires deep and slender as forest pines, bergs of aquamarine, whorls of turquoise, mirrors of opal, masses of rose gypsum, and gold-veined lapis lazuli — all that the crystal kingdom could offer that was precious and rare and bright and dazzling had served as the materials for this astonishing specimen of architecture; and, further, every form, even of the vegetable kingdom, seemed to have been laid under contribution in the wondrous work. Carpets of mineral mosses soft and velvety as the finest gauze, crystalline trees loaded with flowers and fruits of jewels recalling the fairy gardens of Japanese art, lakes of diamonds, palaces of chalcedony, turrets and minarets of beryl and topaz, rose pile upon pile, and heaped together so many splendors that the eye refused to grasp them. The decomposition of the luminous rays by the thousands of prisms, the showers of brilliancy that flashed and flowed from every side, produced the most astonishing combination of light and color that had ever dazzled the eyes of man.

Cyprien doubted no longer. He beheld himself transported to one of those mysterious receptacles whose existence he had long suspected, in which nature stored and crystallized wholesale those precious gems which she only gives to man in favored spots and in fragmentary and isolated specimens. For a moment he was tempted to doubt the reality of his vision, but as he passed a huge heap of crystal he tried to scratch it with the ring on his finger, and found the attempt was in vain. The immense crypt was built up of genuine diamonds, rubies, and sapphires, and in masses so prodigious that their value was beyond all calculation.

Only astronomical numbers could be called in to give an approximate amount. In fact, there, buried in the earth, unknown and unproductive, lay a mass of wealth that could be reckoned in trillions and quadrillions.

Was Tonaia acquainted with the enormous wealth he here possessed? Probably not. Even Barthes who knew little about such matters, did not suspect for a moment that the marvelous crystals were precious stones. Most likely the Kaffir king thought himself simply the master and guardian of a particularly curious grotto, whose secret an oracle or some traditional superstition forbade him to reveal.

One thing seemed to confirm this opinion. In several corners of the cave Cyprien noticed heaps of human bones. Was this, then, the burial-place of the tribe, or — what was more horrible and more probable — did they here shed human blood in the rites of sacrifice or the practice of cannibalism?.

Barthes was of the latter opinion and whispered to Cyprien, “Tonaia told me that since his accession nothing of this sort had occurred, but the sight of those bones rather shakes my confidence in him;” and he pointed to a huge heap that had been recently formed, and which bore obvious marks of having been cooked.

The impression was confirmed a few minutes later.

The king and his guests reached the end of the grotto, before an opening which ran back into a recess similar to one of the lateral chapels in a basilica. Behind the iron grating which shut it in there was a wooden cage; in the cage was a prisoner. The cage was just large enough to allow him to crouch, while — the fact was too obvious — he was fattened up for an approaching feast!

The prisoner was Mataki.

“You! you! pa!” exclaimed the unfortunate Kaffir as soon as he recognized Cyprien. “Take me with you! Deliver me! I would rather go back to Griqualand and be hanged than remain in this poultry-coop for the horrible punishment Tonaia intends before he eats me!”

This was said in such a pitiful voice that Cyprien was quite moved by it.

“Be it so, Mataki,” he said; “I can obtain your liberty, but you cannot come out of that cage until you have given up the diamond — “

“The diamond, pa!” interrupted the Kaffir — “the diamond! I have no diamond! I never had it! I swear it! I swear it!”

He said this in such a tone of truth that Cyprien had no doubt of his veracity. Besides, he had always doubted that Mataki was the thief.

“But then, if you did not take the diamond,” he asked, “why did you run away?”

“Why? Because when my comrades were tried with the wands, they said that I must be the thief, and that I had acted as I did to disarm their suspicion. When in Griqualand you accuse a Kaffir, you know it is not long before he is sentenced and hanged; and, for fear that they should catch me. I ran away, as if I had been guilty.”

“He is speaking the truth, I think,” said Barthes.

“So do I,” said Cyprien; “and perhaps he was not far wrong in getting out of the way of Griqualand justice.”

Then he turned to Mataki. “Well, I do not doubt your innocence, but at Vandergaart Kopje they will not believe you when you tell your story. Are you willing to take your chance, and go back?”

“Yes; I will risk everything rather than remain here!” said Mataki, who seemed a prey to the keenest terror.

“We will see about it,” answered Cyprien — “my friend will do so at once.”

Barthes stepped up to the king. “Speak out,” he said. “What do you want for the prisoner?”

.Tonaia reflected for a moment, and then said, “Four guns, ten times ten cartridges, and four bags of beads. That is not too much, is it?”

“It is twenty times too much, but Pharamond Barthes is your friend, and he will give you what you ask;” and then he stopped for an instant, and continued, “Listen, Tonaia. You shall have the four guns, the ten times ten cartridges, and the four bags of beads; but you shall give us a team of bullocks to take us back across the Transvaal, with the necessary provisions and an escort of honor.”

“That I will do,” said Tonaia, in a tone of complete satisfaction.

Then he whispered confidentially into Barthes’ ear, “The team is all ready. They came out of your friend’s wagon when my men came across them on their way home.”

The prisoner was at once handed over; and after a final glance at the splendors of the grotto, Cyprien, Barthes, and Mataki were blindfolded, and returned to Tonaia’s palace, where a grand banquet was given in honor of the treaty.

It was agreed that Mataki should not appear immediately at Vandergaart Kopje, but should remain in the neighborhood and re-enter the engineer’s service when he was sure it was safe to do so.

On the morrow Barthes, Cyprien, Li, and Mataki departed with a numerous escort for Griqualand. But the Star of the South seemed to be irretrievably lost, and Mr. Watkins might as well give up his idea of sending it to the Tower of London to sparkle among the crown jewels of Great Britain.

CHAPTER XX

THE RETURN

JOHN WATKINS had never been in a worse humor than since the departure of the four rivals in search of Mataki. As the days and weeks went by it seemed to him that all chance of recovering the precious diamond was rapidly vanishing. And his companions had all gone; and Friedel, Hilton, Pantalacci, even Cyprien, whom he had been accustomed to see so often, were much missed. So he betook himself to his gin, and, as may be easily imagined, the alcoholic support he administered to his grief was not much calculated to sweeten his character.

At the farm the greatest anxiety prevailed as to the fate of the expedition, for Bardik had been carried off by a party of Kaffirs, and, escaping a few days afterward, had made his way back to Griqualand with the news of the deaths of Hilton and Friedel. Alice was very unhappy; she sang no longer, and her piano remained dumb. Even her ostriches but slightly interested her. Dada no longer made her smile at his greediness, and impudently swallowed the most extraordinary things without the slightest protest.

Miss Watkins had two causes of alarm. The first was lest Cyprien should never return; the second, lest Pantalacci, the most hated of her admirers, should bring back “The Star” and claim the reward of his success. The idea of becoming the wife of the Italian was absolutely abhorrent to her. She thought of it by day, and dreamed of it by night; and her bright cheeks grew paler and paler, and her blue eyes clouded still deeper with gloom.

Three months had passed. It was evening. She was sitting near the lamp in the parlor; her father was on the other side of the table, smoking and drinking as usual. Her head was bent over her woolwork, which she had taken up in place of her neglected music, and in silent and sorrowful reverie she was thinking over her fate.

There came a gentle tap at the door.

“Come in!” she said, somewhat surprised, and wondering who it could be at such an hour.

“It is only I, Miss Watkins,” said a voice which made her start — Cyprien’s voice!

He had come back — thin, sunburned, with a long beard which disguised him, and clothes faded and worn by travel, but active and courteous and cheery as ever.

Alice jumped up and uttered a cry of astonishment and gladness. With one hand she strove to check the beatings of her heart; the other she held out to the engineer, and he was clasping it in his when Mr. Watkins awoke from his slumbers and asked, “What’s up?”

It took the farmer two or three minutes to grasp the situation. But scarcely had the first gleam of intelligence struck him than a cry — a cry straight from the heart — escaped him — “And the diamond?”

The diamond, alas! had not come back.

Cyprien briefly told the story of the expedition. He related the death of Friedel, of Hilton, of Pantalacci, the pursuit of Mataki and his imprisonment by Tonaia — without mentioning his return to Griqualand — and explained his reasons for feeling sure of the Kaffir’s innocence. He did not forget to mention the devotion of Bardik and Li, and the friendship of Barthes, and enlarged on what he owed to the gallant hunter, and how, thanks to him, he had been able to return with his two servants from a journey that had proved fatal to his companions. He said nothing of the criminal schemes of his rivals, and he did not forget his promise to keep the secret of the wonderful grotto and its mineral riches, to which those of the Griqualand diamond field were as worthless ballast.

“Tonaia,” said he, in conclusion, “faithfully kept his engagements. Two days after I reached his capital, everything was ready for our return — provisions, teams, and escort. Under the command of the king in person about three hundred blacks with flour and smoked meat accompanied us to the camp where we had abandoned the wagon, which we found untouched beneath the brushwood we had heaped upon it. We then bade good-bye to our host, having given him five guns instead of the four he expected, and thus made him the most redoubtable potentate between the Limpopo and the Zambesi!”

“Bill how about your return journey when you left your camp?” asked Miss Watkins.

“Our return journey was slow, but devoid of accidents. Our escort left us at the Transvaal frontier, where Pharamond Barthes and his Basutos separated from us to go to Durban, and after a forty days’ march across the Veld, here we are, very much as we were before we left.”

“But why did Mataki run away?” asked Watkins, who had listened to the recital with much interest, without showing the slightest emotion about the three men who would never return.

“Mataki fled because he was afraid.”

“Is there no justice in Griqualand?” asked the farmer.

“Yes, but justice that is often too summary, Mr. Watkins; and I hardly blame the poor fellow, when wrongfully accused, for having thought it best to disappear during the first excitement at the diamond’s loss.”

“Nor do I,” said Alice.

“And I repeat that he is not guilty, and I think they will leave him alone for the future.”

“Hum!” said Watkins, apparently unconvinced. “Don’t you think Mataki shammed that fear, so as to get out of reach of the police?”

“No! He is innocent! I am sure of it,” said Cyprien rather dryly, “and I think that I have bought the assurance rather dear.”

“Oh! you are welcome to your opinion, and I am welcome to mine.”

Alice saw that the discussion was likely to end in a dispute, and so struck in by way of diversion with, “Do you know, Mr. Cyprien, that during your absence your claim has turned out a splendid one, and that your partner, Mr. Steel, is on the road to become one of the richest diggers in the Kopje?”

“No, I did not,” answered Cyprien frankly. “My first visit I paid to you, Miss Watkins, and I know nothing of what has happened during my absence.”

“Perhaps you have not had any dinner?” asked Alice, with the instinct of the thorough little housewife that she was.

“I am sorry to say I have not,” said Cyprien, blushing, though why he blushed, he did not know.

“Oh! But you must not go without food. An invalid like you — after such a trying journey. Why, it is nearly eleven o’clock!”

And without heeding his protestations she ran to the kitchen, and reappeared with a tray covered with a spotless cloth, and bearing some cold viands and a beautiful peach tart that she herself had made.

The tray was deposited in front of Cyprien, who seemed much confused, and as he hesitated to use the knife on a superb “biltong” —

“Shall I cut it for you?” asked Miss Watkins, with one of her sweetest smiles.

And the farmer, suddenly getting hungry at the sight of the gastronomic display, asked for another plate and a slice of biltong. Alice was delighted to wait on them, and merely to keep the gentlemen company, as she said, began to eat a few almonds.

The hurriedly-prepared supper was simply delightful. Never had the young engineer experienced such a triumphant appetite. He had three helpings of peach tart, and quite won the heart of Mr. Watkins, who, however, soon dropped off to sleep.

“And what have you been doing during the last three months?” asked Cyprien. “I am afraid you have forgotten all your chemistry.”

“No, sir; you are wrong. I have been working very hard, and I have been trying some experiments in your laboratory. Oh! I didn’t break anything! You needn’t look so frightened. I am very fond of chemistry, and cannot understand how you could leave such a splendid science to become a digger or a bushman.”

“But you know why I gave up chemistry.”

“I know nothing,” said Alice, with a blush, “and I think you were wrong. Were I in your place, I should try and make another diamond. That is much better than looking for one underground!”

“Is that an order, then?” asked Cyprien, with his voice all of a tremble.

“Oh, no!” answered Alice, with a smile, “only a request. Oh, Mr. Cyprien,” she continued more seriously, “if you only knew how unhappy I have been in knowing that you were exposed to all the fatigues and dangers you have been through. You have not told me all, but I can guess. A man like you, so learned, so well prepared to do good work and make great discoveries, ought not to have been exposed to perish in the desert from the bite of a snake or the grip of a lion without any gain to science or humanity. It was so wrong to let you go; and it was only by a miracle that you escaped to come back. Without your friend Mr. Barthes — “

She did not finish, but the tears welling up into her eyes completed the thought for her.

“Those tears,” said Cyprien, “are more precious to me than all the diamonds in the world, and make me forget all my troubles.”

There was a short silence, which Alice broke with her usual tact, by resuming her account of her chemical studies.

It was past midnight when Cyprien returned to his hut, where a packet of letters awaited him, carefully arranged on his work-table by Miss Watkins.

These letters, reaching him after so long an absence, he hardly dared open. If they brought him news of some misfortune! His father, his mother, his little sister Jane! So many things can happen in three months!

He rapidly glanced through them, and found they contained nothing but good news. All his people were well. There were the warmest congratulations on his excellent theory of diamond formation. He could stay another six months in Griqualand, if he thought his doing so would be in the interests of science. Everything was for the best, and Cyprien went to sleep with a lighter heart than he had had for many a day.

In the morning he visited his friends, and stayed some time with Thomas Steel, who had been working to considerable purpose. The hearty Lancashire lad received his partner with the greatest cordiality. Cyprien arranged with him for Bardik and Li to resume work as before, intending, if they were successful, to give them a share in the claim.

On his part, he had given up all thoughts of again trying his hand at digging, and, in accordance with Alice’s wish, resolved to resume his chemical researches.

His conversation with her had confirmed him in his own ideas. He had for some time thought that his true course was to abandon the rougher work, and leave travel and adventure alone. Too loyal and faithful to his word to think for an instant of abusing the confidence of Tonaia, and profiting by his knowledge of the cavern with its marvelous minerals, he found in it a valuable confirmation of his theory of gems, which could not but increase his ardor in research. And so he returned to his laboratory and resumed his investigations.

And he had a strong incentive to do so, for since the artificial diamond had been lost, Mr. Watkins said no more about his daughter’s marriage. If the engineer could make another gem of extraordinary value, the farmer might again be induced to entertain the subject.

And so Cyprien resolved to set to work without delay, and made no attempt to conceal his proceedings from the diggers of Vandergaart Kopje. It would have been well, perhaps, had he done so.

He obtained a new tube of great resisting power, and filled it in the same way.

“What I want,” said he to Alice, “to crystallize the carbon — that is to say, make the diamond — is a proper solvent, which by evaporation or cooling will give the crystallization. We have a solvent for aluminium in sulphide of carbon, and by analogy we must find something similar for carbon, such as boron or silicon.”

Although Cyprien was not in possession of this solvent, he went on with his work. Instead of Mataki, who prudently kept away from the camp, Bardik was employed in keeping in the fire night and day, a task he fulfilled as zealously as his predecessor.

In the meantime, foreseeing that after this prolongation of his stay in Griqualand he would have to leave for Europe, Cyprien started on another item in his program, which he had hitherto left untouched. This was the determination of the exact position of a certain depression in the north-east of the plain, which seemed to have been the spot where the waters debouched at the time the diamantiferous deposit was formed.

Five or six days after his return from the Transvaal he was working at this with all his usual precision. For an hour or more he had been placing his poles, and noting his bench-marks on a fully detailed map he had procured at Kimberley, and, strange to relate, in every case he found that nowhere did his figures agree with the plan! At last, after repeated trials, there was no resisting the evidence that the map was out of truth as regards its compass bearings, and that the latitudes and longitudes were erroneous.

He was using an excellent chronometer, that had been duly rated, and which he had specially brought out with him for the purpose of determining the longitude, and the time was high noon. Hence, feeling assured of the infallibility of his compass and his declination needle, he had no hesitation in deciding that the map on which he was marking his observations was entirely untrustworthy, owing to some serious oversight.

In fact, the north of the map, as shown by the arrow was really the north-north-west, and all the positions had necessarily to be altered.

“I see what it is,” Cyprien suddenly exclaimed, “the asses who did this forgot to allow for the variation, and that is nearly twenty-nine degrees west! All their latitude and longitude lines ought to be swung around twenty-nine degrees! They must have funny surveyors that produced this masterpiece.”

And he chuckled loudly at the blunder.

“Well, to err is human. Let him throw the first stone at these fellows who never made a mistake in his life.”

Cyprien had no reason for keeping secret the rectification he had made in the orientation of the diamantiferous beds of the district. As he was returning to the farm, he met Vandergaart, and casually mentioned it to him.

“It is very curious that such a huge mistake was not found out before. It affects all the maps of the district.”

The old lapidary pricked up his ears and looked Cyprien straight in the face.

“Are you sure you are right?” he asked.

“Oh, yes!”

“And will you swear it in a court of justice?”

“In a dozen courts, if you like.”

“And no one can deny what you say?”

“Certainly not; I should only have to point out the mistake. It is open, gross, palpable. They have omitted the magnetic variation, that is all.”

Vandergaart shook hands and walked off without another word, and Cyprien soon forgot the strange way in which the intelligence had affected him.

But two or three days afterward, when he went to call on the old lapidary, he found the door shut. On it was a notice, “AWAY ON BUSINESS.”

CHAPTER XXI

VENETIAN JUSTICE

DURING the following days Cyprien was busy attending to his experiment. He had introduced several changes in the construction of his furnace and contrived a better draft. By doing so he hoped to make his second diamond in much less time than he had done the first.

Miss Watkins took great interest in the attempt which she had really originated. Frequently was she seen at the furnace, watching through the grating the fire that roared within.

John Watkins was no less interested than his daughter, but from other motives. He wished to become once more the owner of a gem whose value could be reckoned in millions. Great was his fear that the experiment would not succeed a second time, and that chance would fail to play the important part in it that it had done on the previous occasion.

But if the farmer and Miss Watkins encouraged the experimenter to persevere, it was not so with the diggers. Their opinions were the same as those of Pantalacci, Hilton, and Friedel; and the Jew Nathan never ceased in his scheming to excite them against the young engineer. If this manufacture of diamonds was to become a trade — if, like white sapphires, amethysts, topazes, and emeralds made from crystals of alumina colored by metallic acids, diamonds were to be turned out from the laboratory without trouble — the market value of the stones would tend to diminish. If making diamonds was to become a recognized handicraft, the diamond-fields at the Cape and elsewhere would be ruined.

All this had been said after the first experiment, and now it was repeated with more violence and acrimony. The diggers wished little good to Cyprien or his works. But he thought little of the diggers, and went on his way, determined to see his experiment through. He was not going to hang back before public opinion, and had no intention of keeping a secret that might do good to all.

But if he continued his work without fear or hesitation, Miss Watkins, who heard what was going on, began to tremble for him. She reproached herself with having led him on to the track. To trust to the police protecting him was to trust to a broken reed. A murderous stroke is quickly dealt, and may fall before any one can intervene. Cyprien might have to atone with his life for the supposed injury he had done to the diggers of South Africa.

Alice grew anxious, and could not hide her anxiety from the engineer. He reassured her as well as he could, and thanked her for the motive that had prompted her to speak. In the interest she took in him he saw the proof of a tender sentiment, whose existence was now no secret between them. Cyprien was only too pleased that his experiment led to closer intimacy with Alice, and bravely continued his work.

“What I am doing is for us both,” he said to her. But Miss Watkins, noticing what people were saying down at the claims, lived a life of terror.

And not without reason. A regular agitation was organized against Cyprien, and the diggers did not confine themselves to threats and recriminations, but proceeded to do damage.

One evening, when Cyprien went off to look at the furnace, he found it had been broken down. During Bardik’s absence a lot of men had taken advantage of the darkness and in a couple of minutes destroyed what had been the work of days. The bricks had been thrown about, the furnaces had been smashed, the fires put out, and the tools scattered and rendered useless. Nothing was left of what had cost so much thought and trouble. All had to be begun over again, if he was the man not to give in to mere brute strength, or he would have to abandon the game.

“No!” he exclaimed. “No, I will not give in! And tomorrow I will give information against the scoundrels who have destroyed my property. We shall see if there is justice in Griqualand.”

There was justice, but not the sort Cyprien imagined.

Without saying a word to anybody, without even telling Miss Watkins, for fear of adding to her alarm, Cyprien regained his hut, and lay down to sleep, resolved to begin legal proceedings in the morning, even if he had to go eventually to the Governor of the Cape.

He had slept perhaps two hours, when the noise of his door opening awoke him with a start.

Five men in crape masks, armed with revolvers and rifles and carrying bull’s-eye lanterns, took up their position around the bed.

Cyprien had no idea that anything serious was intended. In fact, he would have laughed, had not the pleasantry seemed to him unworthy of such a compliment.

But a heavy hand struck him hard on the shoulder, and one of the masked men opened a paper he held, and in a gruff voice read as follows: —

“Victor Cyprien —

“This is to give you notice that the secret tribunal of Vandergaart Kopje, twenty-two members being present, acting in the name of the public safety, have this day, at twenty-five minutes past midnight, sentenced you to death. You have by a treacherous discovery threatened their interests, their lives, and the lives of their families, and of all men who earn their livelihood by the cutting and sale of diamonds. The tribunal in their wisdom have decided that such a discovery deserves annihilation, and that the death of one man is preferable to that of many thousands of his fellows. It has decreed that you shall now have ten minutes to prepare for death, and that you shall choose the manner in which you will die; that your papers shall be burned, with the exception of an open letter you can address to your relatives; and that your hut shall be razed to the ground.

“And thus be it with all traitors!”

As he heard this death warrant, Cyprien’s confidence began to quail, and he wondered if this curious comedy was one of the savage customs of the country or was really in earnest.

The man who held him by the shoulders soon cleared away his doubts.

“Get up at once,” he said gruffly; “we have no time to lose.”

“It is a murder!” replied Cyprien, as he rose and began to dress by his bedside.

He was more disgusted than frightened, and concentrated his thoughts on what had happened to him with the coolness with which he would have attacked a mathematical problem. Who were these men? He could not discover even by the sound of their voices. Evidently those among them who knew him personally were advisedly silent.

“Have you chosen what death you will die?” asked the masked man.

“I have no choice to make, and I protest against the odious crime of which you wish to be guilty,” said Cyprien in a firm voice.

“You can protest, but you will none the less be hanged. Don’t you want to write anything?”

“Nothing I would care to trust to assassins like you!”

“Forward, then!” said the chief.

Two men placed themselves on each side of the engineer, and the procession was formed to pass through the doorway.

But as the advance began, something very unexpected happened. Into the middle of the secret commissioners of Vandergaart Kopje a man rushed with a bound.

It was Mataki.

The young Kaffir, who often prowled around the camp after dark, had noticed the masked men, and followed them. He had heard all that passed, had understood the danger that threatened his master, and suddenly leaped in, scattered the diggers right and left, and threw himself at Cyprien’s feet.

“Why do these men want to kill you, pa?” asked he, clasping his master’s legs, while the masked men in vain endeavored to tear him away.

“Because I made an artificial diamond,” answered Cyprien, clasping Mataki’s hands to prevent his being torn away from him.

“Oh, pa! I am so sorry for the harm I have done!” said the Kaffir, bursting into tears.

“What?” asked Cyprien.

“Yes, I will confess everything now they want to kill you!” said Mataki. “Yes, they ought to kill me, not you, for I put the big diamond in the cannon!”

“Take this fellow away!” said the leader of the gang.

“I put it — I put the diamond in the tube!” said Mataki, struggling. “Yes, I swindled you, pa! I thought you would like to think that your experiment had come off!”

His protestations were so fierce in their energy that the masked men stopped to listen to them.

“Is that true?” asked Cyprien, surprised and disappointed at what he heard.

“Yes! a hundred times yes! I speak the truth!”

And then the men released him, and he sat on the ground and spoke as follows —

“The day of the landslip, when I was buried by the fall, I found the big diamond! I was holding it in my hand and wondering how I was to hide it, when the wall fell on me, to punish me for my wicked thought. When I came back to life, I found the stone in the bed you had put me in. I was going to give it you, but I was ashamed to confess that I was a thief, and I waited for a favorable opportunity. Not long afterward pa wanted to make a diamond, and set me to look after the fire. The second day, while I was there alone, the gun burst, and the furnace was all broken. Then I thought that pa would be sorry because his experiment had failed; and I squeezed a handful of clay around the big diamond and slipped it into the cracked gun; and I made the furnace all right again, so that pa could not see it had broken. I waited and said nothing, and when pa found the diamond, he was very glad.”

A burst of laughter that the five men could not restrain saluted these last words of Mataki.

Cyprien did not laugh; he bit his lips in vexation.

It was impossible to mistake the Kaffir’s story; it was obviously too true. In vain Cyprien sought for some reason for his telling a falsehood. In vain he said to himself, “A diamond exposed to such a temperature would have been volatilized!”

His sound sense showed him at once that, protected in its envelope of clay, the gem had escaped the heat, or been only partially affected by it. Perhaps, even, it was the torrefaction that had given it its sable tint. Perhaps it had been volatilized and recrystallized in its shell!

These thoughts crowded into his brain and associated themselves with extraordinary rapidity. He was stupefied.

“I remember seeing the piece of earth in the Kaffir’s hand on the day of the landslip,” said one of the men, when the laughter had somewhat subsided; “and he clutched it so tight in his fingers that we couldn’t get it out.”

“There is no doubt now,” said another. “Is it possible to make a diamond? We must have been mad to think so! As well try to make a star!”

And they began to laugh again.

Assuredly Cyprien suffered more from their mirth than their menaces.

After consulting together in a whisper, the leader said to him, “We are of opinion that the execution of the sentence passed on you, Victor Cyprien, may be respited. You are free! but remember that the sentence always hangs on you! One word — one sign, even — to the police, and you shall die! Your very good health!” and, followed by his companions, he disappeared through the doorway.

The room was left in darkness. Cyprien might have imagined he had been the prey of a nightmare. But the sobs of Mataki, who lay stretched on the ground, and wept noisily with his head between his hands, proclaimed the reality of what he had passed through.

It was cruelly true! He had escaped from death, but at the cost of a deep humiliation. He, a mining engineer, a pupil of the Polytechnique, a distinguished chemist, and well-known geologist, had been taken in by a miserable Kaffir! Or rather, it was his own vanity, his ridiculous presumption, that had led him to this unheard-of blunder. He had even thought out a theory accounting for his discovery! What could be more ridiculous?

“My paper!” he exclaimed. “Have the brutes taken it away with them?”

He lighted a candle. No! His memoir was there. No one had seen it. He could not rest until he had burned it.

Mataki’s grief was so intense that he endeavored to comfort him. This was not very difficult. At the first kind words of his “pa” he seemed to live again. And Cyprien assured him of his forgiveness on condition that he left off such tricks for ever.

Mataki promised by all that was sacred that he would do so, and Cyprien went to bed.

In the morning, when it became known that the Star of the South was neither more nor less than a natural diamond, that the diamond had been found by the young Kaffir, who was quite conversant with its value, all the suspicion against him was again awakened. Watkins made a tremendous noise. Mataki must be the thief! After having thought of stealing it once, it was evident that he had stolen it on the night of the dinner.

Cyprien protested, and offered to guarantee the Kaffir’s innocence, but no one would listen to him. And this showed him how well founded had been Mataki’s fear of returning to Griqualand.

But the young engineer had no idea of giving in, and so brought forward an argument which, to his mind, sufficiently cleared the Kaffir.

“I believe in his innocence,” said he to John Watkins; “and, besides, if he was guilty, it is my business, and no one else’s. Natural or artificial, the diamond belonged to me before I gave it to Miss Alice — “

“Oh, it belonged to you, did it?” said Watkins, with a sneer.

“Certainly,” said Cyprien. “Was it not found on my claim by Mataki, who was in my service?”

“Nothing could be more correct,” answered the farmer, “and consequently it belonged to me by the terms of our agreement, which gave me the three first stones which turned up.”

Cyprien gazed in astonishment. It was true, and he said nothing.

“My claim is just, I believe?” asked John .Watkins.

“Quite just,” answered Cyprien.

“I shall be very much obliged to you, then, if you will say so in writing, in case we come across the diamond which some scoundrel has so impudently stolen.”

Cyprien seized a sheet of blank paper, and wrote:

I beg to state that the diamond found on my claim by a Kaffir in my service is, under the terms of my agreement, the property of Mr. John Stapleton Watkins.

“VICTOR CYPRIEN.”

And with this vanished all the dreams of our youthful engineer. If the diamond ever did appear, it belonged of right to Watkins, and a new abyss that many millions could not fill had opened between Alice and him.

And if the farmer’s claim was disastrous to these two, it was none the less so to Mataki. The diamond had been stolen from John Watkins, and John Watkins was not the man to abandon the chase when he thought the thief was in his power.

And so Mataki was arrested, imprisoned, and in twelve hours had been sentenced to be hanged, in spite of all that Cyprien could say or do for him.

He would escape, if he would restore the Star of the South. But he could not restore it, for he had never taken it. And Cyprien did not know what to do to save the unfortunate man, in whose innocence he was obstinate enough still to believe.

CHAPTER XXII

A MINE OF A NEW SORT

Miss WATKINS notwithstanding Cyprien’s silence, soon heard all about the visit of the masked men.

“Ah!” she said to him. “Is not your life worth more than all the diamonds in the world?”

“Dearest Alice — “

“You must not experiment in that way any more.”

“You order me?”

“Yes! I order you to leave off, as I once ordered you to begin. That is, if you like to take orders from me.”

“As I like always to obey them,” said Cyprien, taking the hand that Alice held out to him.

But when he told her what had happened to Mataki, she was in despair, particularly when she learned that her father was the cause.

She, like Cyprien, did not believe in tlie poor Kaffir’s guilt She, like him, would do all she could to save him. But how to do so, and how to influence her father in his favor was more than she could discover.

Mr. Watkins had obtained no confession from Mataki. He had shown him the gallows on which he was to hang; .he had promised him pardon, if he would only confess; Ibut all to no purpose. Then, having to give up all hope ‘of ever recovering the Star of the South, he had gone quite mad with rage. No one dare come near him.

The day after the sentence, Mr. Watkins, suffering ‘rather less than usual from his gout, took advantage of the relief to put his papers in order. Seated in front of a large writing-table of ebony inlaid with yellow marqueterie, a relic of the old Dutch domination, stranded after many vicissitudes in this remote corner of Griqua-land, he was leisurely running through his different assignments, agreements, and correspondence.

Behind him, Alice, lost in her work, was stitching away, without noticing the big ostrich, Dada, who stalked about the room with his usual gravity, sometimes giving a glance out of the window, sometimes giving a long, scrutinizing look at Mr. Watkins.

An exclamation from the farmer made Alice look up.

“That bird is a nuisance!” he said. “Look, he has swallowed a deed! Here, Dada! Tsh! Tsh! Give it up! Give it up!” And then came a torrent of abuse. “You wretched old brute! You have swallowed it! A most important thing like that! The deed of assignment that gave me the Kopje! It is abominable! I’ll make you give it up — if I have to throttle you!”

And Watkins jumped off the chair and ran after the ostrich, which made two or three turns of the room, and then bounded out through the open window.

“Father!” said Alice, aghast at her favorite’s greediness, “do be calm! Listen to me! You will make yourself ill!”

But Watkins did not hear her. The ostrich’s escape had driven him to distraction; and, almost choking with rage, he hobbled after the bird, and roared out: “I have had too much of it! I will settle you! I am not going to give up my title-deeds in that way! I will put a bullet through you, and we’ll see!”

Alice burst into tears.

“Father! Do have mercy on the poor thing!” said she. “Is the paper so very important? Cannot you get a duplicate? Will you make me miserable and kill poor Dada for such a trifle as that?”

But John Watkins would hear nothing. He was looking around on all sides in search of the victim.

At last he caught sight of Dada standing by the side of the hut occupied by Cyprien. Bringing his gun to his shoulder he took aim, but the ostrich seemed to recognize the danger, and disappeared around the corner.

“Just wait! Wait! I’ll have you, you brute!” said Watkins.

And Alice, more frightened than ever, followed him, to make yet another appeal for mercy.

They reached the hut and walked around it. No ostrich! Dada had become invisible!

He could not have left the hill, for they would have seen him. He must have gone inside the hut through the door, or through one of the windows which were open at the back.

So thought Watkins. And he hurried up and knocked at the door. Cyprien opened it.

“Mr. Watkins? Miss Watkins? I am delighted to see you. Come in,” said he, looking very much surprised at the unexpected visit.

The farmer hastily explained matters. He was very much out of breath, and very much excited.

“Well, well, have a look for the culprit,” said Cyprien.

“And I’ll precious soon settle his hash for him!” added the farmer, brandishing his gun like a tomahawk.

At the same moment a glance from the young lady showed Cyprien the horror with which she regarded the projected execution. His mind was consequently made up immediately. He would not find the ostrich.

“Li,” he whispered to the Chinaman, “I expect the ostrich is in your room. Tie it up there, and let it get away as soon as I have taken Mr. Watkins in the opposite direction.”

Unfortunately this excellent plan proved a failure at the outset, for the ostrich had taken refuge in the very first room into which Mr. Watkins went. There it was, making itself as small as possible, with its head stuck under a chair, but as visible as the sun at noonday.

Watkins rushed at it.

“Now, you brute, your time has come!”

But, angry as he was, he hesitated. To fire a gun point-blank in a house that did not belong to him was rather too strong a proceeding.

Alice turned away and wept, and saw nothing of this hesitation.

Then a brilliant idea occurred to the engineer.

“Mr. Watkins! You only want to recover your paper? Well, you need not kill Dada to do that! We can open the stomach, for the document can hardly have got out of it yet. Will you allow me to try the operation? I have worked at zoology at the museum, and I know quite enough to manage a little surgical affair like that.”

Whether it was that the idea of vivisection flattered the vengeful instincts of the farmer, or that his anger was cooling down, or that he was touched by his daughter’s tears, any way, he allowed himself to be persuaded, and accepted the compromise.

“But we must not lose the document,” insisted he; “if it is not in the stomach, we must go farther down for it! I must have it at any price.”

The operation was not quite so easy as it looked at first sight, notwithstanding the resigned attitude of the wretched Dada. A small ostrich has prodigious strength, and once the patient felt the amateur surgeon’s knife, the gigantic Dada might turn on them in anger, and escape. And so Li and Bardik were called in to assist.

First of all the ostrich had to be secured. The lines which Li always kept in his room came in very handy. An arrangement of hitches and knots soon bound Dada beak and foot.

Cyprien did not stop there. In order to spare the sensibility of Miss Watkins, he resolved to save the ostrich all pain, and so covered its head with a handkerchief moistened with chloroform.

That done, he began the operation, not without considerable anxiety.

Alice, shuddering at these preliminaries and pale as death, had taken refuge in an adjoining room.

Cyprien began by feeling at the base of the bird’s neck so as to find the gizzard. This was not very difficult, for the gizzard forms at the upper part of the thoracic region a mass of some size, hard and prominent, which the fingers could easily distinguish among the softer parts of its vicinity.

With a sharp penknife the skin of the neck was carefully cut into. It was large and loose, like that of a turkey, and covered with gray down, which was easily pressed aside. The incision caused just a little blood to flow, and this was carefully wiped off with a wet rag.

Cyprien notice’d the position of ihe two or three important arteries, and carefully pulled them aside with the wire hooks he had given Bardik to hold. Then he opened a white, pearly tissue, which filled a large cavity above the collar-bone. He had reached the gizzard.

Imagine the gizzard of a fowl increased almost a hundred-fold in size, hardness, and weight, and you have the gizzard of the ostrich.

Dada’s gizzard looked like a large, brown pocket, greatly distended with the food or the foreign bodies that the voracious animal had swallowed during the day — or in the past. And it was quite enough to see this brawny, healthy organ to understand that there was little danger in resolutely attacking it.

With the sharp hunting-knife that Li placed in his hand, Cyprien cut deeply down into the mass.

Down the fissure it was easy to introduce the hand to the very bottom of the gizzard.

The first thing Cyprien lighted on was the deed so much regretted by Mr. Watkins. It was rolled lip into a ball, slightly creased perhaps, but still intact.

“There is something else,” said Cyprien, who had put back his hand into the hole. And bringing it back, he found an ivory ball. “The darning-ball belonging to Miss Watkins,” he exclaimed. “Only think, it is five months ago since it was swallowed! Evidently it could not pass the lower orifice.”

He handed the ball to Bardik, and resumed his investigations like an archaeologist amid the ruins of a Roman camp.

“A copper candlestick!” he exclaimed, extracting one of those useful articles, crushed, flattened, oxydized, but still recognizable.

Here the laughter of Bardik and Li became so noisy that Alice, who had just entered the room, could not help joining in.

“Some coins! A key! A small-tooth comb!” continued Cyprien, proceeding with his inventory.

Suddenly he turned pale. His fingers seemed to grasp an exceptional form! No! There could be no doubt of it! And yet he hardly dared to believe in such good fortune!

At length he pulled out his hand, and held up the object he had found.

And what a shout escaped from John Watkins!

“The Star of the South!”

Yes. The famous diamond was recovered intact, and had lost none of its brilliancy. It sparkled in the light from the window like a constellation.

One strange thing about it was noticed at once by all present. It had changed color!

Instead of being black, as formerly, the Star of the South was now rose-color. A beautiful rose, which added, if possible, to its limpidity and splendor.

“Do you think that will damage its value?” asked Watkins, as soon as he could speak, for surprise and delight had almost deprived him of breath.

“Not the least in the world,” said Cyprien. “On the contrary, it is an additional peculiarity which classes the stone among the rare family of chameleon diamonds. It does not seem to be very cold in Dada’s gizzard, though it is generally due to sudden changes of temperature that we get the alteration in tint of the colored diamonds.”

“Ah! At all events, I have found you again, my beauty,” said Watkins, clasping the diamond in his hand to assure himself it was not all a dream. “You have caused me so much anxiety by your flight, ungrateful Star, that I shall not let you go again.” And he lifted it to his eyes, and he gave such a longing look that he seemed about to swallow it, like another Dada.

Cyprien ordered Bardik to give him a needle threaded with coarse thread, and then he carefully replaced the gizzard of the ostrich. Then he sewed up the incision in the neck, and then he undid the bandages. Dada, much crestfallen, hung his head, and did not seem disposed to move.

“Do you think he will get over it?” asked Alice, more interested in the sufferings of her favorite than in the reappearance of the diamond.

“Get over it, Miss Watkins?” said Cyprien. “Do you think I should have tried the operation, if I had not been sure he would? In three days he will feel nothing of it, and in two hours he will have filled the curious pouch we have just emptied.”

Reassured by the promise, Alice gave the engineer a look of gratitude that fully recompensed him for all his trouble. As she did so, Mr. Watkins had just succeeded in convincing himself that he was in his sober senses, and that he had really recovered his wonderful diamond. He left the window.

“Mr. Cyprien,” he said, in majestic and solemn tones, “you have done me a great service, and I do not know how to reward you for it.”

Cyprien’s heart began to leap.

To reward him! Well, Mr. Watkins, there was a very simple way! Was it so difficult to keep your promise and give your daughter’s hand to the man who brought back the Star of the South? Was it not the same as if he had brought it from the depths of the Transvaal?

So Cyprien thought, but he was too proud to speak. And, besides, he thought the same idea might occur to the farmer. But Watkins said nothing at all about it, and having beckoned to his daughter, left the hut, and returned to the farm.

It need hardly be said that a few minutes afterward Mataki was set free. But he had had a narrow escape of paying with his life for the greediness of Dada, and had got off unexpectedly well.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE HOUR OF TRIUMPH

THE fortunate John Watkins, now the richest farmer in Griqualand, having already given a dinner in honor of the birth of the Star of the South, considered that he could not do better than give another in honor of its restoration. This time, however, precautions were taken against a disappearance, and Dada was not one of the guests.

The dinner took place in the afternoon of the day after that on which the Star was recovered. Watkins had invited all his friends, of high and low degree. He had ordered from the butcher sufficient meat to feed a squadron of dragoons, and bought up all the wines, liquors, and provisions, preserved and otherwise, that the neighborhood could furnish.

By four o’clock the table was laid in the large room, the wine was ready on the sideboard, and the beef and mutton were roasting at the fire. At six o’clock the guests arrived, all dressed in their very best. At seven the diapason of conversation had attained such volume that a trumpet would have had hard work to make itself heard above the uproar. There was Mathys Pretorius, who had regained his equanimity now that he had no longer to fear the persecutions of Pantalacci; there was Thomas Steel, the picture of health and strength; there was Nathan the broker; and there were the farmers, the diggers and all the leading tradesmen of Vandergaart Kopje.

Cyprien, thanks to Alice’s commands, had not been able to decline his invitation, and Alice herself was, of course, present. And both of them were very miserable, for the “more than millionaire,” John Watkins, could no longer dream of giving his daughter to “a mere engineer, who did not even know how to make a diamond!”

Thus did the worthy egotist speak of the man to whom he owed his newly-found wealth.

The dinner proceeded amid the unrestrained enthusiasm of the diners. In front of the fortunate farmer — and not behind him, as on the former occasion — the Star of the South reposed on a tiny cushion of blue velvet. It was placed inside a glass globe, and the glass was inside a cage of substantial iron bars. Ten toasts had already been drunk to its beauty, to its incomparable limpidity, to its unequaled brilliancy. The heat was overpowering.

Isolated and meditative, Miss Watkins seemed unconscious of the tumult around her. She looked at Cyprien, and the tears began to gather in her eyes. Suddenly three loud knocks were heard at the door. The noise was instantly hushed.

“Come in!” shouted Watkins, “whoever you are. If you are thirsty, you are just in time.”

The door opened. The long, lean figure of Jacobus Vandergaart appeared in the doorway.

The guests looked at each other in surprise. The animosity between Watkins and Vandergaart was so notorious that a murmur of expectancy ran around the table. Every one anticipated something serious. Every sound was hushed! Every eye was turned on the old lapidary. Standing erect, with his arms crossed, with his silver locks escaping from beneath his hat, with his long black coat that he wore only on high days and holidays, he seemed the very spirit of revenge.

John Watkins was seized with a vague terror, and a secret shudder passed through him. He turned pale, notwithstanding the fiery tint with which his devotions at the alcoholic shrine had been repaid. He seemed to struggle against some unaccountable presentiment as he broke silence with, “Well, it is a long time, neighbor Vandergaart, since you gave me the chance of seeing you in my house. What good wind has blown you here this evening?”

“The wind of justice,” said the old man coldly. “I come to tell you that right has triumphed after an eclipse of seven years! I come to tell you that the hour of atonement has struck, that I take back my own again, and that the Kopje, which has always borne my name, is now mine in law as it always has been mine in equity! John Watkins, you have been stripped of what belongs to me! Today it is you whom the law has despoiled and condemned to give back what you took from me!”

When Watkins first caught sight of Vandergaart and the vague fear of danger stole over him he felt the blood run cold in his veins; but now the danger had become distinct and defined, his sanguine, violent temperament made him advance to meet it.

And so, lolling back in his arm-chair, he said, with a scornful laugh, “The good man is mad! I always thought he was cracked, and it seems that the hole has got bigger!”

The guests applauded the pleasantry. Vandergaart remained impassive. “He laughs best who laughs last,” said he, as he drew a folded paper from his pocket. “John Watkins, you know that a formal judgment, confirmed on appeal, so that the Queen herself could not put it aside, assigned to you the land in this district lying to the west of the twenty-fifth degree of east longitude, and assigned to me all that lying to the east of that meridian?”

“Precisely so, my worthy historian,” exclaimed John Watkins; “and you would spend your time much better at home in bed than in coming here and interrupting a lot of fellows at their dinner who do not happen to owe a farthing to any one.”

Vandergaart unfolded the paper. “This is a certificate,” continued he, in his mildest voice, “of the Lands Department, countersigned by the governor, and duly registered at Victoria the day before yesterday, to the effect that there is a serious error in all the existing maps and plans of Griqualand. The error was committed ten years ago by the surveyors who plotted the district, and who forgot to make the necessary allowance for magnetic variation in their determination of the true north. The error affects every map and plan of the district they surveyed. The rectification of that error, which has now been made, takes the twenty-fifth degree of longitude three miles farther west. That rectification reinstates me in possession of the Kopje which was adjudged to you — for, in the opinion of the lawyers and of the chief justice himself, the original judgment still stands! That, Mr. Watkins, is what I came here to tell you!”

Whether it was that the farmer had imperfectly understood, or that he simply refused to understand, he again tried to answer the lapidary with a scornful laugh. But this time the laugh sounded hollow, and received no echo from those around the table. The witnesses of the scene sat lost in astonishment,” with their eyes fixed on Vandergaart, apparently as much struck by his gravity and assurance as by the confidence he evidently felt.

Nathan was the first to break silence, and give expression to the general feeling. “There is nothing absurd, at first sight, in what Vandergaart has said. The error might have been made in the longitude after all, and before doing anything either way, it may be as well to wait for further proofs.”

. “Wait for proofs!” exclaimed Watkins, slapping his fist down on the table. “I don’t want any proofs! I laugh at your proofs! Is this my house or is it not? Have I not been maintained in possession of the Kopje by a definite judgment, of which even this old crocodile recognizes the validity? Well, what does anything else matter to me? If I am to be molested in the peaceful possession of my own, I’ll do what I did before, I’ll go to the courts, and we’ll soon see who’ll win!”

“The courts,” replied Vandergaart, with his inexorable moderation, “have done all they can. There is now only a question of fact. Does the twenty-fifth degree of longitude run where it says it does on the plans, or does it not? And it has been officially decided that it does not; that there has been a mistake in the matter; and the conclusion is inevitable that the Kopje must be given back to me.” And so saying, Vandergaart displayed the official certificate, with all its seals and signatures.

The farmer’s embarrassment became manifestly serious. He fidgeted in his chair. He tried to laugh, and the attempt failed. His eyes by chance rested on the Star of the South. The sight seemed to restore the confidence that was fast forsaking him.

“And if so,” he replied, “if in defiance of all right and justice the property legally given to me, and peacefully enjoyed by me for the last seven years, has to be given back, what does it matter? Have I not something to console me in that solitary gem, which I can put in my waistcoat pocket and snap my fingers at the world?”

“You are wrong again, John Watkins,” answered Vandergaart very decidedly. “The Star of the South is now mine by the same title as that by which I hold the Kopje.

Everything is mine — your house and all it contains. And I am prepared to take it, as you see!”

And Vandergaart clapped his bony hands, and a file of police appeared at the open door, and a sheriff’s officer stepped in, seized a chair, and took possession in all due form. The guests had risen. The farmer remained in his chair, looking as crushed and helpless as if he had been struck by lightning.

Alice had thrown her arm around his neck, and was trying in vain to comfort him. Vandergaart never took his eyes off him. In his glance there was more of pity than of hate, as he followed the look which the farmer gave the Star of the South, now sparkling more brilliantly than ever in the center of the scene of disaster.

“Ruined! Ruined!” The words were all that escaped from the farmer’s quivering lips.

And then arose Cyprien. “Mr. Watkins,” he said, “now that your prosperity seems to be under a cloud, perhaps you will allow me to take advantage of the opportunity that offers. I have the honor to ask for your daughter’s hand!”

CHAPTER XXIV

THE FATE OF THE STAR

THE effect of the engineer’s speech was truly gratifying. Its complete disinterestedness touched the not very sensitive hearts of the guests, and there was a round of noisy applause.

Alice, with her eyes cast down and her heart beating violently, seemed the only one that betrayed no surprise at her lover’s proceedings; and she remained silent by her, father’s side. Watkins, still crushed by his terrible misfortune, raised his head. He knew enough of Cyprien to know that if he gave him his daughter, her happiness would be assured, but he would not yet admit that he saw no objection to the marriage. Cyprien, confused at the publicity to which his ardor had committed him, grew conscious of the strangeness of the position, and wished he had remained more master of his feelings.

The silence of mutual embarrassment was ended by Vandergaart, who stepped toward the farmer. “John Watkins,” said he, “I do not wish to abuse my victory, and I am not one of those that strike a man when he is down. In vindicating my right, I have only done my duty. But I know by experience that right may sometimes border closely on injustice, and I do not wish to visit your sins on the heads of those who are innocent. Besides, I am alone in the world, and not so very far from my grave. What is the use of so much wealth, if I cannot dispose of it? If, Watkins, you agree to the match between these two youngsters, I will give them the Star of the South as a wedding present! And I will make them my heirs; and thus, as fully as I can, repair the involuntary injury I have done to your daughter!”

At these words a murmur of sympathetic interest ran around the assemblage. Every one looked at John Watkins. His eyes seemed to glisten as he shaded them with his trembling hand. “Jacobus Vandergaart!” he cried, unable to restrain the tumultuous feelings which agitated him. “Yes! You are a real good fellow, and in thus ensuring the young people’s happiness you have nobly, avenged the wrong I did you.”

Neither Alice nor Cyprien could find words to reply, but their looks spoke for them. The old man held out his hand to his enemy, and Watkins clasped it eagerly. And every eye was moist; even the old police-sergeant, who looked as dry as an Admiralty biscuit, found it necessary to cough and use his handkerchief.

Watkins seemed quite a different man. His expression had changed to be as kindly and gentle as it had hitherto been hard and heartless. And Vandergaart had resumed his wonted look of placid good-nature. “Let us forget and forgive,” said he, “and let us wish the young couple every happiness.”

The storm having thus passed away, Vandergaart took his place at the table, and began to talk to Watkins of his plans for the future.

“Let us sell everything and go with the youngsters to Europe. We could settle near them, do some good with our money, and end our days in peace.”

Meanwhile the temperature continued to rise, the air becoming more and more oppressive, and converting the guests into so many electrical machines. In vain the windows and the doors were thrown open. Not a breath caused a candle-flame to flicker. Such pressure could only end in one way — there would be a storm with heavy thunder and torrential rain, and the relief that the storm would give was eagerly awaited.

Suddenly a blinding flash threw a sickly tint over all, and instantly the roar of the thunder, as it rolled over the plain, announced that the concert had begun. At the same moment a furious squall burst into the room and blew out all the lights. Then the cataracts of heaven were opened and the deluge commenced.

“Did you hear that sharp click after the thunderclap?” asked Thomas Steel, while the windows were being shut and the candles relighted. “I thought a glass globe had cracked.”

Immediately all eyes instinctively turned toward the Star of the South. The diamond had vanished!

But neither the iron cage nor the glass globe that covered it had changed its position. It was manifestly impossible that any one could have touched it.

The phenomenon seemed to verge on the miraculous. Cyprien eagerly leaned forward and noticed on the velvet cushion in place of the diamond, a little mound of ashy powder. He could not restrain a shout of surprise, and in a word told what had happened, “The Star of the South has crumbled into dust!”

Every one in Griqualand knows that this curious property is peculiar to the diamonds of the district. Though not often mentioned it is nevertheless true that, owing to some hitherto unintelligible molecular action, the most precious of the gems will sometimes fly to pieces like a bombshell, and leave nothing behind but a tiny pinch of dust, that may or may not be of use for industrial purposes.

The engineer was evidently thinking more of the scientific interest of the accident than of the enormous pecuniary loss it meant for him. “What is very curious,” he said, while all looked on amazed, “is not so much that the stone has crumbled up, but that it should have waited till today to go off. Diamonds generally break up so much sooner after cutting. About ten days is the usual time, is it not, Mr. Vandergaart?”

“That is so, and it is the first time in my life that I ever saw a diamond go three months after it had been cut!” said the old man with a sigh. “You see, it was destined that the Star of the South should belong to nobody. When I think that we might have prevented the disaster, had we given the diamond a trifling coat of grease — “

“Really?” exclaimed Cyprien, with the satisfaction of a man who at last sees a way out of a difficulty. “Then I can explain it all. The poor fragile Star received the coating of grease in Dada’s gizzard, and that is why it lasted till today. It might have been much better if it had gone to pieces four months ago, and saved us our scamper across the Transvaal!”

Watkins seemed very ill at ease in his arm-chair, and now he broke out with, “How can you take things so coolly? There you are, talking about the millions gone in smoke as if they were only a cigarette!”

“That shows we are philosophers,” said Cyprien. “There is nothing like being wise when wisdom has become a necessity.”

“Philosophers if you like,” said the farmer. “But millions are millions, and you don’t pick them up every day. Ah, Jacobus! you have done me a greater service than you think. I am afraid I should have gone off like a bombshell had the Star still been mine.”

“Why should it matter?” said Cyprien, with a tender look at Alice’s sunny face. “I have this evening won so precious a diamond that the loss of no other can trouble me.”

And thus ended, in a way well worthy of its brief and troubled history, the career of the largest cut diamond the world has seen.

THE END.

MATHIAS SANDORF

Translated by George Hanna

This 1885 adventure novel was first serialised in Le Temps in 1885 and is set in Trieste in 1867. The story concerns two petty criminals, Sarcany and Zirone, who intercept a carrier pigeon. They find a ciphered message attached to its leg and uncover a plot to liberate Hungary from Habsburg-Austrian rule. Interestingly, Verne dedicated the novel to the memory of Alexandre Dumas.

PART I

CHAPTER I.

THE CARRIER-PIGEON.

Trieste, the capital of Illyria, consists of two towns of widely dissimilar aspect. One of them — Theresienstadt — is is modern and well-to-do, and squarely built along the shore of the bay from which the land it occupies has been reclaimed; the other is old, and poor, and irregular, straggling from the Corso up the slopes of the Karst, whose summit is crowned by the picturesque citadel.

The harbor is guarded by the mole of San Carlo, with the merchant shipping berthed alongside. On this mole there may at most times be seen — and very often in somewhat disquieting numbers — many a group of those houseless and homeless Bohemians whose clothes might well be destitute of pockets, considering that their owners never had, and to all appearance never will have, the wherewithal to put into them.

To-day, however — it is the 18th of May, 1867 — two personages, slightly better dressed than the rest, are noticeable among the crowd. That they have ever suffered from a superabundance of florins or kieutzers is improbable, unless some lucky chance has favored them — and they certainly look as though they would stick at nothing that might induce that chance to come.

One of them calls himself Sarcany, and says he hails from Tripoli. The other is a Sicilian, Zirone by name. Together they have strolled up and down the mole at least a dozen times, and now they have halted at its furthest end, and are gazing away to the horizon, to the west of the Gulf of Trieste, as if they hoped to sight the ship which is bringing home their fortune.

“What time is it?” asked Zirone in Italian, which his comrade spoke as fluently as he did all the other tongues of the Mediterranean.

Sarcany made no reply.

“What a fool I am!” exclaimed the Sicilian. “It is the time you are hungry after you have had no breakfast!”

There is such a mixture of races in this part of Austria-Hungary that the presence of these two men, although they were obviously strangers to the place, provoked no attention. And besides, if their pockets were empty, no one had reason to think so, thanks to their long brown capes, which reached even to their boots.

Sarcany, the younger of the two, was about five-and-twenty, and of middle height, well set up, and of elegant manners and address. Sarcany, however, was not his baptismal name, and probably he had never been baptized, being of Tripolitan or Tunisian origin; but though his complexion was very dark, his regular features proclaimed him to be more of the white than the negro.

If ever physiognomy was deceptive, it was so in Sarcany’s case. It required a singularly keen observer to discover his consummate astuteness in that handsome, plausible face, with its large dark eyes, fine straight nose, and well-cut mouth shaded by the slight mustache. That almost impassible face betrayed none of the signs of contempt and hatred engendered by a constant state of revolt against society. If, as physiognomists pretend — and they are not unfrequently right — every rascal bears witness against himself in spite of all his cleverness, Sarcany could give the assertion the lie direct. To look at him no one would suspect what he was and what he had been. He provoked none of that irresistible aversion we feel toward cheats and scoundrels; and, in consequence, he was all the more dangerous.

Where had Sarcany spent his childhood? No one knew. How had he been brought up and by whom? In what corner of Tripoli had he nestled during his early years? To what protection did he owe his escape from the many chances of destruction in that terrible climate? No one could say — may be not even himself; born by chance, helped on by chance, destined to live by chance! Nevertheless, during his boyhood he had picked up a certain amount of practical instruction, thanks to his having to knock about the world, mixing with people of all kinds, trusting to expedient after expedient to secure his daily bread. It was owing to this and other circumstances that he had come to have business relations with one of the richest houses in Trieste, that of the banker, Silas Toronthal, whose name is intimately connected with the development of this history.

Sarcany’s companion, the Italian, Zirone, was a man faithless and lawless — a thorough-paced adventurer ever ready at the call of him who could pay him well, until he met with him who would pay him better, to undertake any task whatever. Of Sicilian birth and in his thirtieth year he was as capable of suggesting a villainy as of carrying it into effect. He might have told people where he had been born had he known, but he never willingly said where he lived or if he lived anywhere. It was in Sicily that the chances of Bohemian life had made him acquainted with Sarcany. And henceforth they had gone through the world, trying per fas et nefas to make a living by their wits. Zirone was a large, bearded man, brown in complexion and black of hair, taking much pains to hide the look of the scoundrel which would persist in revealing itself in spite of all his efforts. In vain he tried to conceal his real character beneath his exuberant volubility, and, being of rather a cheerful temperament, he was just as talkative about himself as his younger companion was reserved.

To-day, however, Zirone was very moderate in what he had to say. He was obviously anxious about his dinner. The night before fortune had been unkind to them at the gaming-table, and the resources of Sarcany had been exhausted. What they were to do next neither knew. They could only reckon on chance, and as that Providence of the Beggars did not seek them out on the mole of San Carlo, they decided to go in search of it along the streets of the new town.

There, up and down the squares, quays, and promenades on both sides of the harbor leading to the grand canal which runs through Trieste, there goes, comes, throngs, hastens and tears along in the fury of business a population of some seventy thousand inhabitants of Italian origin, whose mother tongue is lost in a cosmopolitan concert of all the sailors, traders, workmen, and officials, who shout and chatter in English, German, French, or Sclave. Although this new town is rich, it by no means follows that all who tread its streets are fortunate. No. Even the wealthiest could hardly compete with the foreign merchants — English, Armenian, Greeks, and Jews — who lord it at Trieste, and whose sumptuous establishments would do no discredit to the capital of Austria-Hungary. But, beyond these, how many are the poorer folks wandering from morning to night along the busy streets, bordered with lofty buildings closed like strong rooms, where lie the goods of all descriptions attracted to this free port, so happily placed at the furthest corner of the Adriatic! How many there are, breakfastless and dinnerless, loitering on the quays where the vessels of the wealthiest shipping firm of the Continent — the Austrian Lloyds — are unloading the treasures brought from every part of the world! How many outcasts there are, such as are found in London, Liverpool, Marseilles, Havre, Antwerp, and Leghorn, who elbow the opulent ship-owners, thronging around the warehouses, where admittance is forbidden them, around the Exchange, whose doors will never open for them, and everywhere around the Tergesteum, where the merchant has’planted his office and counting-house, and lives in perfect accord with the Chamber of Commerce.

It is admitted that in all the great maritime towns of the old and the new world there exists a class of unfortunates peculiar to these important centers. Whence they come we know not; whither they go we are equally ignorant. Among them the number of unclassed is considerable. Many of them are foreigners. The railroads and the steamers have thrown them in, as it were, on to a dust-heap, and there they lie crowding the thoroughfares, with the police striving in vain to clear them away.

Sarcany and Zirone, after a farewell look across the gulf to the light-house on St. Theresa Point, left the mole, passed between the Teatro Communale and the square, and reached the Piazza Grande, where they talked for a quarter of an hour in front of the fountain which is built of the stone from the neighboring Karst Hill, and stands by the statue to Charles VI.

Then they turned to the left and came back. To tell the truth, Zirone eyed the passers-by as if he had an irresistible desire to feed on them. Then they turned toward the large square of Tergesteum just as the hour struck to close the Exchange.

“There it is, empty — like we are!” said the Sicilian with a laugh, but without any wish to laugh.

But the indifferent Sarcany seemed to take not the slightest notice of his companion’s mistimed pleasantry as he indulged in a hungry yawn.

Then they crossed the triangle past the bronze statue of the Emperor Leopold I. A shrill whistle from Zirone — quite a street boy’s whistle — put to flight the flock of blue pigeons that were cooing on the portico of the old Exchange, like the gray pigeons in the square of St. Mark at Venice.

Then they reached the Corso which divides new from old Trieste. A wide street destitute of elegance, with well patronized shops destitute of taste, and more like the Regent Street of London or the Broadway of New York than the Boulevard des Italiens of Paris. In the street a great number of people, but of vehicles only a few, and these going between the Piazza Grande and the Piazza della Legna — names sufficiently indicating the town’s Italian origin.

Sarcany appeared insensible to all temptation, but Zirone as he passed the shops could not help giving an envious glance into those he had not the means to enter, And there was much there that looked inviting, particularly in the provision shops and chiefly in the “biereries,” where the beer flows more freely than in any other town in Austria-Hungary.

“There is rather more hunger and thirst about in this Corso,” said the Sicilian, whose tongue rattled against his parched lips with the click of a castanet.

Sarcany’s only reply to this observation was a shrug of his shoulders.

They then took the first turning to the left, and readied the bank of the canal near the Ponto Bosso — a swing bridge. This they crossed and went along the quays, where vessels of light draught were busy unloading. Here the shops and stalls looked much less tempting. When he reached the church of Sant Antonio, Sarcany turned sharply to the right. His companion followed him in silence. Then they went back along the Corso and crossed the old town whose narrow streets, impracticable for vehicles as soon as they begin to climb the slopes of the Karst, are so laid out as to prevent their being enfiladed by that terrible wind, the bora, which blows icily from the north-east. In this old town of Trieste, Zirone and Sarcany, the moneyless, found themselves more at home than among the richer quarters of the new.

It was, in fact, in the basement of a modest hotel not far from the church of Santa Maria Maggiore that they had lodged since their arrival in the Illyrian capital, But as the landlord, who remained unpaid, might become pressing as to his little bill, which grew larger from day to day, they sheered off from this dangerous shoal, crossed the square, and loitered for a few minutes near the Arco di Ricardo.

The study of Roman architecture did not prove very satisfying, and as nothing had turned up in the almost deserted streets, they began the ascent of the rough footpaths leading almost to the top of Karst, to the terrace of the cathedral.

“Curious idea to climb up here!” muttered Zirone, as he tightened his cape round his waist.

But he did not abandon his young companion, and away he went along the line of steps, called by courtesy roads, which lead up the slopes of the Karst. Ten minutes afterward, hungrier and thirstier than ever, they reached the terrace.

From this elevated spot there is a magnificent view extending across the Gulf of Trieste to the open sea, including the port, with its fishing boats passing and repassing, and its steamers and trading ships outward and homeward bound, and the whole of the town with its suburbs and furthest houses clustering along the hills. The view had no charm for them! They were thinking of something very different, of the many times they had come here already to ponder on their misery! Zirone would have preferred a stroll along the rich shops of the Corso. Perhaps the luck might reach them here which they were so impatiently waiting for!

At the end of the steps leading on to the terrace near the Byzantine Cathedral of Saint Just there was an inclosure, formerly a cemetery and now a museum of antiquities. There were no tombs, but odds and ends of sepulchral stones lying in disorder under the lower branches of the trees — Roman stelae, mediaeval cippi, pieces of triglyphs and metopes of different ages of the Renaissance, vitrified cubes with traces of cinders, all thrown anyhow among the grass.

The gate of the inclosure was open. Sarcany had only to push it. He entered, followed by Zirone, who contented himself with this melancholy reflection —

“If we wanted to commit suicide this is just place!”

“And if some one proposes it?” asked Sarcany, ironically.

“I should decline, my friend! Give me one happy day in ten, and I ask no more.”

“It shall be given you — and something else.”

“May all the saints of Italy hear you, and Heaven knows they are counted in hundreds.”

“Corne along,” said Sarcany.

They went along a semicircular path between a double range of urns and sat themselves down on a large Roman rose window, which had fallen flat on the ground.

At first they remained silent. This suited Sarcany, but it did not suit his companion. And, after one or two half-stifled yawns, Zirone broke out with —

“This something that we have been fools enough to wait for is a long time coming.”

Sarcany made no reply.

“What an idea,” continued Zirone, “to come and look for it among these ruins! I am afraid we are on the wrong tack, my friend. What are we likely to find in this old grave-yard? The spirits do not want it when they have left their mortal carcasses behind them. When I join them I shall not worry about a dinner that is late or a supper that never comes! Let us get away.”

Sarcany, deep in thought, with his looks lost in vacancy, never moved.

Zirone waited a few moments without saying anything. Then his habitual loquacity urged him to say:

“Sarcany,” he said, “do you know in what form I should like this something to appear? In the form of one of those cashier people from Toronthal’s with a pocket-book stuffed full of bank-notes, which he could hand over to us on behalf of the said banker with a thousand apologies for keeping us waiting so long.”

“Listen, Zirone,” answered Sarcany, knitting his brows; “for the last time I tell you that there is nothing to be hoped for from Silas Toronthal.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“Yes, all the credit I have with him is exhausted, and to my last demands he gave me a definite refusal.”

“That is bad.”

“Very bad, but it is so.”

“Good, if your credit is exhausted,” continued Zirone, “it is because you have had the credit! And to what is that due? To your having many times placed your intelligence and zeal at the service of his firm in certain matters of dellicacy. Now, during the first months of our stay in Trieste, Toronthal did not show himself too stingy in money matters. But it is impossible that there is not some way in which you have a hold over him, and by threatening him — “

“What was to be done has already been done,” replied Sarcany, with a shrug of his shoulders; “and you can not go to him for a meal! No! I have no hold over him now; but I may have and shall have, and when that day comes he shall pay me capital and compound interest for what he has refused me to-day! I fancy his business is under a cloud, and that he is mixed up in several doubtful things. Several of those failures in Germany, at Berlin and Munich, have had their effect in Trieste, and Silas Toronthal seemed rather upset when I saw him last. Let the water get troubled, and when it is troubled — “

“Quite so,” exclaimed Zirone; “but meanwhile we have only water to drink! Look here, Sarcany, I think you might try one more shot at Toronthal! You might tap his cash-box once more, and get enough out of it to pay our passage to Sicily by way of Malta.”

“And what should we do in Sicily?”

“That is my business. I know the country, and I can introduce yon to a few Maltese, who are a very tough lot and with them we might do something. If there is nothing to be done here we might as well clear out and let this wretched banker pay the cost. If you know anything about him he would rather see you out of Trieste.”

Sarcany shook his head.

“You will see it can not last much longer. We have come to the end now,” added Zirone.

He rose and stamped on the ground with his foot, as if it were a step-mother unwilling to help him. At the instant he did so he caught sight of a pigeon feebly fluttering down just outside the inclosure. The pigeon’s tired wings could hardly move as slowly it sunk to the ground.

Zirone, without asking himself to which of the 177 species of pigeons now known to ornithological nomenclature the bird belonged, saw only one thing — that the species it belonged to was edible.

The bird was evidently exhausted. It had tried to settle on the cornice of the cathedral. Not being able to reach it, it had dropped on to the roof of the small niche which gave shelter to the statue of St. Just; but its feeble feet could not support it there, and it had slipped on to the capital of a ruined column. Sarcany, silent and still, hardly followed the pigeon in its flight, but Zirone never lost sight of it. The bird came from the north. A long journey had reduced it to this state of exhaustion. Evidently it was bound for some more distant spot; for it immediately started to fly again, and the trajectory curve it traced in the air compelled it to make a fresh halt on one of the lower branches of the trees in the old cemetery.

Zirone received to catch it, and quietly ran off to the tree. He soon reached the gnarled trunk, climbed up it to the fork, and there waited motionless and mute like a dog pointing at the game perched above his head.

The pigeon did not see him and made another start; but its strength again failed it, and a few paces from the tree it fell into the grass.

To jump to the ground, stretch out his hands and seize the bird was the work of an instant for the Sicilian. And quite naturally he was about to wring its neck, when he stopped, gave a shout of surprise, and ran back to Sarcany. “A carrier-pigeon!” he said.

“Well, it is a carrier that has done its carrying,” replied Sarcany.

“Perhaps so,” said Zirone, “and all the worse for those who are waiting for the message.”

“A message!” exclaimed Sarcany. “Wait, Zirone, wait! Give him a reprieve!”

And he stopped his companion, who had again caught hold of the neck. Then he took the tiny packet, opened it, and drew forth — a cryptogram.

The message contained only eighteen words, arranged in three vertical columns, and this is what it said:

ihnalz

zaemen

ruiopn

arnuro

trvree

mtqssl

odxhnp

estlev

eeuart

aeeeil

ennios

noupvg

spesdr

erssur

ouitse

eedgnc

toeedt

artuee

CHAPTER II.

THE PIGEON’S HOME.

There was nothing to show whence the message came or whither it was being sent. Only these eighteen words, each composed of an equal number of letters. Could they be made into sense without the key? It was not very likely, at least unless it was by some very clever decipherer. And yet the cryptogram could not be indecipherable.

The characters told him nothing, and Sarcany, who was at first much disappointed, stood perplexed. Did the letter contain any important news, and, above all, was it of a compromising nature? Evidently these precautions had been taken to prevent its being read if it fell into other hands than those for whom it was intended. To make use of neither the post nor the telegraph, but the extraordinary means of the carrier-pigeon, showed that it must be some curious affair that it was desired to keep quite secret.

“Perhaps,” said Sarcany, “there lies in these lines a mystery that will make our fortune.”

“And then,” answered Zirone, “this pigeon will represent the luck we have been running after all morning. And I was going to strangle it! After all it is important to keep the message, and we can cook the messenger.”

“Not so fast, Zirone,” interrupted Sarcany, who again saved the bird’s life. “Perhaps the pigeon may tell us whither it was bound, providing, of course, that the person who ought to have the message, lives in Trieste.”

“And then? That will not tell you how to read the message, Sarcany.”

“No, Zirone.”

“Nor to know where it came from.”

“Exactly. But of two correspondents I shall know one, and that may tell me how I am to find the other. So, instead of killing this bird, we will feed it and recruit its strength and help it to reach its destination.”

“With the letter?” asked Zirone.

“With the letter — of which I am just going to make an exact copy; and that I shall keep until the time comes to use it.”

And Sarcany took a note-book from his pocket, and in pencil he made a careful fac-simile of the message. Knowing that in most cryptograms it was important not to alter in the least the form and arrangement, he took great care to keep the words in exactly the same order and position and at the same distances as in the document. Then he put the fac-simile in his pocket, the message in its case, and the case in its place under the pigeon’s wing.

Zirone looked on. He did not share the hopes of fortune founded on this incident.

“And now?” he asked.

“Now,” answered Sarcany, “do what you can for the messenger.”

The pigeon was more exhausted by hunger than fatigue. Its wings were intact, without strain or breakage, and showed that his temporary weakness was due neither to a shot from a sportsman nor a stone from a street boy. It was hungry — it was thirsty; that was all.

Zirone looked around and found on the ground a few grains of corn which the bird ate greedily. Then he quenched its thirst with a few drops of water which the last shower had left in a piece of ancient pottery. So well did he do his work that in half an hour the pigeon was refreshed and restored and quite able to resume its interrupted journey.

“If it is going far,” said Sarcany, “if its destination is beyond Trieste, it does not matter to us if it falls on the way, for we shall have lost sight of it, and it will be impossible for us to follow it. But if it is going to one of the houses in Trieste, its strength is sufficient to take it there, as it will only have to fly for a couple of minutes or so.”

“Right you are,” replied the Sicilian; “but how are we to see where it drops, even if it is in Trieste?”

“We can manage that, I think,” answered Sarcany And this is what they did.

The cathedral consists of two old Roman churches, one dedicated to the Virgin, one to St. Just, the patron saint of Trieste, and it is flanked by a very high tower which rises from the angle of the front pierced with a large rose window, beneath which is the chief door. This tower commands a view over the plateau of Karst Hill and over the whole city, which lies spread as on a map below. From this lofty stand-point they could see down on the roofs of all the houses, even on to those clustering on the earlier slopes of the hill away to the shore of the gulf, It was therefore not impossible to follow the pigeon in its flight and recognize the house on which it found refuge, provided it was not bound for some other city of the Illyrian peninsula.

The attempt might succeed. It was at least worth trying. They only had to set the bird at liberty.

Sarcany and Zirone left the old cemetery, crossed the open space by the cathedral and walked toward the tower. One of the ogival doors — the one under the dripstone beneath St. Just’s niche was open. They entered and began to ascend the stairs which led to the roof.

It took them two or three minutes to reach the top, They stood just underneath the roof, and there was no balcony. But there were two windows opening out on each side of the tower, and giving a view to each point of the double horizon of hills and sea.

Sarcany and Zirone posted themselves at the windows which looked out over Trieste toward the north-west.

The clock in the old sixteenth-century castle on the top of the Karst behind the cathedral struck four. It was still broad daylight. The air was clear and the sun shone brightly on the waters of the Adriatic, and most of the houses received the light with their fronts facing the tower. Thus far circumstances were favorable.

Sarcany took the pigeon in his hands, he stroked it, spoke to it, gave it a, last caress, and threw it free. The bird flapped its wings, but at first it dropped so quickly that it looked as though it was going to finish its career of aerial messenger by a cruel fall.

The excitable Sicilian could not restrain a cry of disappointment.

“No! It rises!” said Sarcany.

And the pigeon had found its equilibrium in the denser lower air; and then making a sudden curve it flew off toward the north-west.

Sarcany and Zirone followed it with their eyes.

In the flight of the bird there was no hesitation, it went straight to its home which it would have reached an hour before had it not been for its compulsory halt among the trees of the old grave-yard.

Sarcany and his companion watched it with the most anxious attention. They asked themselves if it was going beyond the town — and then all their scheming would come to naught.

It did nothing of the sort.

“I see it! I see it all the time!” said Zirone, whose sight was of the keenest.

“What you have to look for,” said Sarcany, “is where it stops, so as to fix the exact spot.”

A few minutes after its departure the pigeon settled on a house with one tall gable rising above the rest in the midst of a clump of trees in that part of the town near the hospital and public garden. Then it disappeared into a dormer window opening on the mansard, which was surmounted by a weather vane of wrought iron that ought to have been the work of Quentin Matsys — if Trieste had been in Flanders.

The general direction being ascertained, it would not be very difficult to find the weather vane and gable and window, and, in short, the house inhabited by the person for whom the cryptogram was intended.

Sarcany and Zirone immediately made their way down the tower and down the hill and along the roads leading to the Piazza della Legna. There they had to lay their course so as to reach the group of houses forming the eastern quarter of the city.

When they reached the junction of two main roads — the Corsa Stadion leading to the public garden, and the Acquedotto, a fine avenue of trees, leading to the large brewery of Boschetto — the adventurers were in some doubt as to the true direction. Should they take the right or the left? Instinctively they turned to the right, intending to examine one after the other every house along the avenue above which they had noted the vane among the trees.

They went along in this manner, inspecting in their turn every gable and roof along the Acquedotto, but they found nothing like the one they sought. At last they reached the end.

“There it is!” exclaimed Zirone.

And there was the weather vane, swinging slowly on its iron spindle above a dormer window, around which were several pigeons.

There was no mistake. It was the identical house to which the pigeon had flown.

The house was of modest exterior, and formed one of the block at the beginning of the Acquedotto.

Sarcany made inquiries at the neighboring shops, and learned all he wished to know.

The house for many years had belonged to, and been inhabited by, Count Ladislas Zathmar.

“Who is this Count Zathmar?” asked Zirone, to whom the name meant nothing.

“He is the Count Zathmar!” answered Sarcany.

“But perhaps if we were to ask him — “

“Later on, Zirone; there’s no hurry! Take it coolly, and now to our hotel!”

“Yes, it is dinner-time for those who have got something to dine on!” said Zirone, bitterly.

“If we do not dine to-day, it is possible that we shall dine to-morrow,” answered Sarcany.

“With whom?”

“Who knows? Perhaps with Count Zathmar!”

They walked along quietly — why should they hurry? — and soon reached their modest hotel, still much too rich for them, seeing they could not pay their bill. What a surprise was in store for them! A letter had arrived, addressed to Sarcany.

The letter contained a note for 200 florins and these words — nothing more: “Inclosed is the last money you will get from me. It is enough to pay your passage to Sicily. Go, and let me hear no more of you.

“Silas Toronthal.”

“Capital!” exclaimed Zirone: “the banker thinks better of it just in time. Assuredly we need never despair of those financial folks!”

“That is what I say,” said Sarcany.

“And the coin will do for us to leave Trieste.”

“No! we’ll stop here!”

CHAPTER IV.

TORONTHAL’S BANK.

At Trieste “society” is nearly non-existent. Between different races, as between different castes, it is seldom found. The Austrian officials assume the highest position and take precedence according to their respective ranks. Generally these men are distinguished, well educated, and well meaning; but their pay is so small for their position that they are unable to enter into competition with the trading and banking classes. These latter, as entertainments are rare among the rich, and the parties given by the officials are nearly all unambitious, have taken to display most of their wealth in outside show — in the streets by their sumptuous carriages, and at the theater by the extravagance of their dress and jewelry. Among these opulent families that of Silas Toronthal held a distinguished place.

The head of the house, whose credit extended far beyond the limits of Austro-Hungary, was then in his thirty-seventh year. With Mme. Toronthal, who was several years his junior, he occupied a mansion in the Acquedotto. He was supposed to be very rich — and he should have been. Bold and fortunate speculations on the Stock Exchange, a large business with the Austrian Lloyds and other extensive companies, and the issuing of several important loans, had, or ought to have, brought huge sums of money into his coffers. Hence his household was conducted on a scale of considerable splendor.

Nevertheless, as Sarcany had said to Zirone, there was a possibility that the affairs of Silas Toronthal were slightly embarrassed — at least for a time. Seven years before, when the funds were shaken by the Franco-Italian war, he had received a severe blow, and more recently the disastrous campaign which ended at Sadowa had sent down the prices on every exchange in Europe, more especially on those of Austria-Hungary, and chiefly those of Vienna, Pesth, and Trieste. The necessity of providing the large amounts then drawn out on the current accounts not improbably caused him serious inconvenience. But when the crisis had passed he doubtless recovered himself, and if what Sarcany had said was correct, it must have been his recent speculations only which had led him into difficulties.

During the last few months a great change had come over Toronthal. His whole look had altered without his knowledge. He was not, as formerly, master of himself. People had noticed that he no longer looked them in the face, as had been his custom, but rather eyed them askance. This had not escaped the notice of Mme. Toronthal, a confirmed invalid, without energy, and submissiveness itself, who knew very little about his business matters.

And if some disaster did menace Toronthal, it must be admitted that he would get very little sympathy. He had many customers, but few friends. The high opinion he held about his position, his native vanity, the airs he gave himself on all occasions, had not done him any good. And above all the people of Trieste looked upon him as a foreigner because he was born at Ragusa, and hence was a Dalmatian. No family ties attached him to the town to which he had come fifteen years before to lay the foundation of his fortune.

Such, then, was the position of Toronthal’s bank. Although Sarcany had his suspicions, nothing had occurred to give rise to a rumor that it was in difficulties. Its credit remained unshaken. And Count Sandorf, after realizing his investments, had deposited with it a considerable sum — on condition that it should always be available at twenty-four hours’ notice.

It may seem surprising that a connection of any sort should have been formed between a bank of such high reputation and such a very dubious character as Sarcany. It had existed, nevertheless, for two or three years. Toronthal had had a good deal of business with the Regency of Tripoli, and Sarcany had been employed as a kind of broker and general confidential agent, intrusted with the disposal of certain wine and other gifts under circumstances in which it was not always desirable that the Trieste banker should appear in person. Having been engaged in these and other rather suspicious schemes, Sarcany got his foot, or rather his hand, into the bank; and continued to carry on a sort of system of extortion on Toronthal, who was not, however, quite at his mercy; inasmuch as no material proof existed of their mutual dealings. But a banker’s position is one of extreme delicacy. A word may ruin him. And Sarcany knew how to take advantage of this.

But Toronthal knew what he was about. He had parted with certain sums, which had been dissipated in the gambling-houses with the recklessness of an adventurer who takes no thought of the future, and then Sarcany became too inoportunate, the banker suddenly drew his purse-strings and refused further credit. Sarcany threatened; Toronthal remained firm. And he was safe in doing so, after all, for Sarcany had no proofs, and no one would believe him.

This was the reason that Sarcany, and his comrade, Zirone, found themselves at the end of their resources, and without even the wherewithal to leave the town and seek their fortune elsewhere. And we know how Toronthal came to their help with sufficient funds to enable them to return to Sicily, where Zirone belonged to one of the secret societies. The banker thus hoped to get rid of the Tripolitan, and hoped never to see or hear of him again. He was doomed to disappointment in this, as in most other matters.

It was on the evening of the 18th of May that the two hundred florins had reached the adventurers at their hotel.

Six days afterward, on the 24th of the same month, Sarcany presented himself at the bank and demanded to see Silas Toronthal, and so much did he insist that he was at length received.

The banker was in his private office, and Sarcany carefully closed the door as soon as he had been introduced.

“You again!” exclaimed Toronthal. “What are you doing here? I sent you, and for the last time, quite enough to help you to leave Trieste! You will get nothing more from me, whatever you may say or do! Why have you not gone? I’ll take steps to put a stopper on you for the future! What do you want?”

Sarcany received the broadside very coolly. He was quite prepared for it. His attitude was what it had always been of late in his visits to the banker — insolent and provoking.

Not only was he master of himself, but he was quite serious. Ho had stepped up to a chair, without being invited to sit down, and waited until the banker’s bad temper had evaporated before he replied.

“Well, why don’t you speak?” continued Toronthal, who, after hurriedly striding to and fro, had sat down.

“I am waiting till you are calm,” replied Sarcany, very quietly; “and I’ll wait as long as is necessary.”

“What does it matter whether I am calm? For the last time, what do yon want?”

“Silas Toronthal,” answered Sarcany, “I have a little business to propose to you.”

“I do not want to talk business to you!” exclaimed the banker. “There is nothing in common between you and me, and I only expect to hear that you are off from Trieste to-day forever.”

“I expect to leave Trieste,” answered Sarcany, “but I do not like to go until I have repaid you what I owe!”

“You repay me — you?”

“Yes, repay you interest, capital, without saying anything of the — “

Toronthal shrugged his shoulders at this unexpected proposition.

“The sums I have advanced,” he said, “are charged to profit and loss, and are written off! I consider we are clear. I want nothing from you, and I am above such trifles.”

“And if it pleases me to remain your debtor?”

“And if it pleases me to remain your creditor?”

Then Toronthal and Sarcany looked at each other, and then Sarcany, with a shrug of his shoulders, continued: “These are only phrases, and there is nothing in phrases, I repeat, I come to bring you some very important business.”

“And suspicious business, too, I dare say?”

“Well, it is not the first time that you have come to me — “

“Words, nothing but words,” said the banker.

“Listen,” said Sarcany. “I will be brief.”

“And you had better.”

“If what I am going to tell you does not suit you, say go, and I’ll go.”

“From here or from Trieste?”

“From here and from Trieste.”

“To-morrow?”

“This evening!”

“Speak, then!”

“Well, then, this is it,” said Sarcany. “But,” added he, looking around, “you are sure no one can hear us?”

“You would like our interview to be secret then?” asked the banker ironically.

“Yes, Silas Toronthal, for you and I hold in our hands the lives of important personages.”

“You do, perhaps. I do not!”

“Well, then, see. I am on the track of a conspiracy What its object is I do not yet know. But after what has happened on the plains of Lombardy, after tho business at Sadowa, all that is not Austrian is against Austria. And I have some reason to think that a movement is on foot in favor of Hungary by which we can profit.”

Toronthal, as his only reply, contented himself with saying: “I have nothing to get out of your conspiracy.”

“Perhaps not.”

“But how?”

“By denouncing it!”

“Explain!”

“Listen.”

And Sarcany told him of all that had happened in the old cemetery, of the carrier-pigeon, of the intercepted message — of which he had taken a fac-simile — and of how he had found out the bird’s destination. He added that for five days he and Zirone had been watching the house; how the same people met there every night, not without great precautions; of some pigeons that had gone away, and others that had come; of how the house was guarded by an old servant, who carefully inspected all who approached; of how Sarcany and his companion had been obliged to act with circumspection to evade the attention of this old man, and of how, during the last few days, he had raised suspicions.

Toronthal began to listen more attentively to what Sarcany told him. He asked himself if it were true, and what gain he could get out of it. When the story was told, when Sarcany for the last time affirmed that there was a conspiracy against the State and that something could be made out of revealing its existence, the banker asked the following questions: “Where is this house?”

“No. 89 Avenue de Acquedotto.”

“To whom does it belong?”

“To a Hungarian gentleman.”

“What is the hungarian gentleman’s name?”

“Count Ladislas Zathmar.”

“And who are the people that visit him?”

“Two chiefly; two of Hungarian birth.”

“One is — ?”

“A professor of this town. His name is Stephen Bathory.”

“The other is — ?”

“Count Mathias Sandorf.”

Toronthal made a start of surprise, which did not escape Sarcany. He had easily found the three names by following Bathory to the Corsia Stadion, and Sandorf to the Hotel Delorme.

“You see, Toronthal,” continued Sarcany, “these are the names I have no hesitation in giving you. You see I am not playing with you.”

“All that is very vague!” replied the banker, who evidently wished to know more before committing himself.

“Vague?” said Sarcany.

“Yes! To begin with, you have no material proof.”

“And what is this then?”

The copy of the message was placed in Toronthal’s hands. The banker examined it, not without curiosity. But its cryptographic words gave no sign of sense to him, and there was nothing to prove that they were of the importance that Sarcany asserted. If he had any interest in the affiar it was merely so far as it affected his customer, Count Sandorf, and with him nothing could occur to make him uneasy, unless it came to pass that he desired to draw out at short notice the funds deposited in the bank.

“Well,” said he at length, “my opinion still is that it is very vague.”

“Nothing seems clearer to me, on the contrary,” answered Sarcany, whom the banker’s attitude in no way dismayed.

“Have you been able to decipher this letter?”

“No, but I know how to to so when the time comes.”

“And how?”

“I have had something to do with such matters before,” said Sarcany, “and a good many ciphered dispatches have passed though my hands. From a careful examination of that one I see that its key does not depend on a number or a conventional alphabet which attributes to a letter different meaning to its real meaning. In this letter an s is an s, a p is a p; but the letters are arranged in a certain order, which order can be discovered by a grating.”

Sarcany, as we know, was right. That was the system that had been used for the correspondence. We also know that it was the most indecipherable one that could be found.

“Be it so,” said the banker, “I do not deny but what you are right; but without the grating you can not read the message.”

“Evidently.”

“And how will you get the grating?”

“I do not know yet,” answered Sarcany; “but rest assured I shall get it.”

“Really! Well, if I were in your place, Sarcany, I should not give myself a good deal of trouble to do so.”

“I shall take the trouble that is necessary.”

“To what end? I should content myself with going to the police and handing them the message.”

“I will do so,” replied Sarcany coldly, “but not with these simple presumptions. What I want before I speak are material, undeniable proofs. I intend to become master of this conspiracy — yes! absolute master of it, to gain advantages in which I ask you to share! And who knows even if it may not be better to join the conspirators instead of taking part against them?”

Such language did not astonish Toronthal. He well knew of what Sarcany was capable. But if Sarcany did not hesitate to speak in this way, it was because he, too, knew of what Toronthal was capable. His conscience was elastic enough for anything. Sarcany knew him of old, and suspected that the bank had been in difficulties for some time, so that this conspiracy, surprised, betrayed and made use of, might come to its aid. Such was Sarcany’s idea.

Toronthal, on the other hand, was seeking to join in with his old broker. That there did exist some conspiracy against the Austrian Government, and that Sarcany had discovered the conspirators, he was inclined to admit. This house of Ladislas Zathmar, with the secret meetings, this cipher correspondence, the enormous sum held at call by Sandorf — all began to look very suspicious. Very likely Sarcany was right. But the banker was anxious to do the best he could for himself and sound the matter to the bottom, and would not yet give in. So he contented himself with saying: “And when you have deciphered the letter — if you ever do — you will find it only refers to private affairs of no importance, and consequently there will be no profit for you — or me!”

“No!” said Sarcany, in a tone of the deepest conviction. “No! I am on the track of a serious conspiracy, conducted by men of high rank, and I add, Silas Toronthal, that you doubt it no more than I do.”

“Well, what do you want?” asked the banker.

Sarcany rose, and, in a lower tone, looking straight at Toronthal, replied: “What I want is this: I want admission to Count Zathmar’s house, on some pretext, yet to be found, so that I can gain his confidence. Once there, where nobody knows me, I shall get hold of the grating and decipher this dispatch, which I can then make use of to further our interests.”

“Our interests? why do you want to mix me up in the affair?”

“Because it is well worth the trouble, and you will gain something out of it.”

“And could not you do that by yourself?”

“No! I have need of your help.”

“Explain.”

“To attain my end I want time, and while I am waiting I want money. I have none.”

“Your credit is exhausted here, you know!”

“Well, you will open another.”

“What good will that do to me?”

“This. Of the three men I have spoken to you about, two are poor — Zathmar and Professor Bathory — but the third is immensely rich. His possessions in Transylvania are considerable. You know that if he is arrested as a conspirator and found guilty, his goods will be confiscated and the greatest part of them will go to those who discovered and denounced the conspiracy! You and I, Silas Toronthal, we go shares!”

Sarcany was silent. The banker made no answer. He was thinking if it were worth while to join in the game. He was not the man to personally compromise himself in an affair of this nature; but he felt that his agent would be man enough to act for both. If he decided to join in the scheme he knew well how to make a treaty that would hold his man at his mercy and enable him to remain in the dark. He hesitated for all that. Good! To get all, what did he risk? He need not appear in this odious affair, and he would reap the profit — enormous profit, which would get the bank on a sound footing again.

“Well?” asked Sarcany.

“Well? No!” answered Toronthal, frightened at having such an associate, or to use the proper word, such an accomplice.

“You refuse?”

“Yes — I refuse — besides I do not believe in the success of your schemes.”

“Take care, Toronthal,” said Sarcany, is a threatening tone, which he could not restrain.

“Take care? And of what, if you please?”

“Of what I know of certain transactions — “

“Clear out!” answered Toronthal.

“I shall know how to compel you — “

“Go!”

At the moment there came a gentle knock at the door. As Sarcany quickly stepped to the window the door opened, and the messenger said in a loud voice: “Count Sandorf will be glad if Mr. Toronthal will give him a few moments’ conversation.”

Then he retired.

“Count Sandorf?” exclaimed Sarcany.

The banker was anything but pleased that Sarcany should know of this visit. And he also foresaw that considerable difficulties would result from the count’s unexpected arrival.

“And what does Count Sandorf do here?” asked Sarcany, ironically. “You, then, have something to do with the conspirators at Count Zathmar’s! In fact, I have been talking to one of them!”

“Again, I tell you to go.”

“I shall not go, Toronthal, and I shall find out why Count Sandorf comes to your banking house.”

And he stepped into a cupboard leading out of the office and shut the door.

Toronthal was about to call and have him turned out, but he thought better of it.

“No!” he muttered; “after all, it is better Sarcany should hear all that goes on!”

The banker rang for the messenger, and requested him to admit the count.

Sandorf entered the office, replied coldly, as was his wont, to the obsequious inquiries of the banker, and seated himself in a chair, which Toronthal brought forward.

“I did not know, count, that you were in Trieste, so that you call unexpectedly; but it is always an honor for the bank to receive a visit from you.”

“Sir,” replied the count, “I am one of your least important customers, and I never have much business, as you know. But I have to thank you for having taken charge of the money that I have with you.”

“Count,” observed Toronthal, “I would remind you that the money is on current account here, and that you are losing all interest for it.”

“I know,” replied Sandorf. “But I do not wish to make an investment with your house; it is left simply on deposit.”

“Quite so, count, but money is dear just now, and it does not seem right that yours should remain uuproductive. A financial crisis threatens to extend over the whole country. The position is not an easy one in the interior. Business is paralyzed. Many important failures have shaken public credit, and I am afraid others are coming — “

“But your house, sir, is safe enough,” said Sandorf, “and on very good authority I know that it has been but little affected by these failures.”

“Oh, very little,” answered Toronthal, with the greatest calmness. “The Adriatic trade keeps us going with a constant flood of maritime business that is wanting to the Pesth and Vienna houses, and we have only been very slightly touched by the crisis. We have nothing to complain of, count, and we do not complain.”

“I can only congratulate you, sir,” answered Sandorf, “By the bye, with regard to this crisis, is there any talk of political complications in the interior?”

Although Sandorf had asked the question without appearing to attach any importance to it, Toronthal regarded it with rather more attention. It agreed so well, in fact with what he had just heard from Sarcany.

“I do not know of anything,” said the banker. “And I have not heard that the Austrian Government has any apprehension on the subject. Have you, count, any reason to suppose that something is — “

“Not at all,” replied Sandorf, “but in banking circles things are frequently known which the public does not hear of till afterward. That is why I asked you the question, leaving it to you to answer or not as you felt inclined.”

“I have heard nothing in that way,” said Toronthal, “and, besides, with a customer like you, count, I should not think it right to remain silent if I knew anything, as your interests might suffer.”

“I am much obliged to you,” answered Sandorf; “and, like you, I do not think there is much to fear either in home or foreign matters. I am soon going to leave Trieste on urgent private affairs for Transylvania.”

“Oh, you are away?” asked Toronthal quickly.

“Yes, in a fortnight, or perhaps later.”

“And you will return to Trieste?”

“I do not think so,” answered Sandorf. “But before I go I want to get my accounts in order referring to the Castle of Artenak, which are standing over. I have received from my steward a quantity of notes, farm rents and forest revenues, and I have not time to check them. Do you know of any accountant, or could you spare one of your clerks to do it for me?”

“Nothing easier.”

“I should be much obliged.”

“When shall I send him to you, count?”

“As soon as possible.”

“To what address?”

“To my friend’s, Count Zathmar, whose house is 89, on the Acquedotto.”

“It shall be done, count.”

“It will take ten days or more, I should think; and when the accounts are in order I shall leave for Artenak. I shall be glad, therefore, if you will have the money ready, so that I can draw.”

Toronthal, at this request, could not restrain a slight movement, which, however, was unnoticed by Sandort.

“What date do you wish to draw?”

“The eighth of next month.”

“The money shall be ready.”

And Count Sandorf rose, and the banker accompanies him to the door of the anteroom.

When Toronthal re-entered his office he found Sarcany, who greeted him with: “Before two days are over it is necessary that I get admission to Count Zathmar’s house in the character of this accountant.”

And Toronthal answered: “It is indeed necessary.”

CHAPTER II.

THE LAUNCH OF THE TRABACOLO.

“And so this does not do?” asked Cape Matifou.

“What does not do?” replied Point Pescade.

“This business.”

“It might do better, it must be admitted, but it might do worse!”

“Pescade!”

“Matifou!”

“Don’t you wish to hear what I am going to say?”

“I do wish, on the contrary, if it is worth wishing for.”

“Well — you ought to leave me,” said the giant.

“What do yon mean by leaving you? To leave you to yourself?” asked Point Pescade.

“Yes.”

“Continue, Hercules of my dreams! You interest me!”

“Yes — I am sure that if you were alone you would draw the people! I prevent you. It is my fault that you don’t, and without me you would be able to — “

“Now, look here, Cape Matifou,” replied Pescade seriously. “You are big, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“And tall?”

“Yes.”

“Well, big and tall as you are, I do not understand how you could manage to hold such a huge stupidity as you have just uttered.”

“And why, Point Pescade?”

“Because it is bigger and taller than you are, Cape Matifou! Me to leave you! But if I was not here, with whom would you do the juggling?”

“With whom?”

“Whom would you have to do the dangerous jump on to your occiput?”

“I do not know — “

“Or the grand flight between your hands?”

“Booh!” answered the giant, embarrassed by these pressing questions.

“Yes — in presence of a delighted audience, when by chance there is an audience!”

“An audience!” murmured Matifou.

“There, shut up,” continued Pescade, “and just think of earning something for supper to-night.”

“I am not hungry.”

“You are always hungry, Cape Matifou; and even now you are hungry,” said Point Pescade, opening his companion’s enormous jaws with his hands. “I see your canines as big as those of a bull-dog! You are hungry, I tell you; and when we have earned half a florin or a quarter of a florin you shall eat.”

“But you, my little Pescade?”

“Me? a grain of millet will be enough. I don’t want to be strong like you, my son. This is how I look at it. The more you eat the more you grow. The more you grow the more you become a phenomenon — “

“A phenomenon — yes!”

“But with me, on the contrary, the less I eat the more I waste, and the more I waste the more I become a phenomenon. Is that true?”

“That is true,” answered Matifou, innocently. “And so, Point Pescade, in my own interest I ought to eat.”

“Just so, my big dog, and in mine I ought not to eat.”

“But suppose there is only enough for one?”

“Then it will be yours.”

“But suppose there is enough for two?”

“It would still be yours. *My dear Matifou, you are worth any two men.”

“Four — six — ten!” exclaimed the giant.

And putting aside the emphatic exaggeration so common to all giants, ancient and modern, Matifou had in truth thrown every wrestler hitherto opposed to him. Two facts were told of him which showed his prodigious strength. One evening in a circus at Nimes an upright supporting the wood-work began to give way. The cracking caused a good deal of alarm among the spectators, who were threatened with being crushed by the fall of the roof or crushed by one another as they thronged to the door. But Cape Matifou was there. He made a leap to the beam which was already out of the perpendicular, and as the frame-work sagged down he held it upon his shoulders as long as it was necessary to allow the audience to disperse. Then with another bound he jumped out, and the same moment the roof collapsed behind him. That was done by strength of shoulder. The following was done by strength of arm.

One day on the plains of Camargue a bull went mad and escaped from the inclosure and chased and injured several people, and would have done a great deal of damage had it not been for Cape Matifou. The giant ran at the animal, waited for it, and as it lowered its head for the rush he seized it by the horns, and with one twist of his arm he laid it on its back with its four hoofs kicking helplessly in the air.

Of his superhuman strength there had been other proofs, but these will serve to show not only Matifou’s muscularity, but also his courage and devotion, for he never hesitated to risk his life when he could help his fellows. So that he was as good as he was strong. But that he should lose none of his strength it was necessary, as Pescade had said, that he should eat, and his companion obliged him to eat, stinting himself when there was only enough for one. This night, however, supper — even for one — had not yet appeared above the horizon.

“We are in a fog,” said Point Pescade.

And to dissipate it he returned to his jokes and grimaces.

He strode along the platform, he gesticulated, he did a few dislocations, he walked on his hands when he did not walk on his feet, having observed that you do not feel so hungry with your head downward. He began again in his half Provencal, half Sclave lingo, that perpetual patter of the show-booth which the clown fires off at the crowd.

“Come in, gentlemen!” shouted Point Pescade. “There is nothing to pay till you go out — and then it’s only a krentzer.”

But to go out it was necessary to go in, and although five or six people stopped, no one attempted to enter the arena.

Then Point Pescade with a long switch pointed out the ferocious animals depicted on the canvas. Not that he had a menagerie to show the public! But these terrible creatures existed in some parts of Africa and India, and if ever Cape Matifou met them on the road, why they would only make a mouthful for Cape Matifou!

And thus he chattered on, interrupted every now and then by the giant with a bang on the big drum that echoed like a cannon-shot.

“The hyena, gentlemen, the hyena comes from the Cape of Good Hope. Active and sanguinary, you see him clearing the walls of the grave-yard, on which he preys.”

Then turning to the other side of the stand he pointed at a daub of yellow in a clump of blue trees.

“Here you are! The young and interesting rhinoceros, only fifteen mouths old! He came from Sumatra, and nearly wrecked the ship he was brought over in by sticking his horn through the hull.”

Then to the other end he turned again to show the lion amidst a greenish mass of the bones of his victims.

“Behold, gentlemen! The terrible lion of the Atlas! He lives in the depths of the Sahara, in the burning sands of the desert! When the heat gets too much for him he hides in the caves! If he finds any water dropping he opens his mouth and drinks it as it drops! And that’s why he’s called an humidian!”

But all the attractions seemed to fail. Point Pescade shouted in vain. In vain Cape Matifou banged the big drum. Things were growing desperate.

However, a few Dalmatians — powerful-looking mountaineers — came at last, and stopped before the athletic Matifou and coolly examined him with the air of connoisseurs.

Point Pescade immediately challenged them.

“Walk up, gentlemen! Come in! Now’s your time! Grand contest! Man to man ! A clear field! Cape Matifou will throw any amateur that honors him with his confidence! A pair of cotton tights as the prize for the conqueror! Are you game>>>, gentlemen?” added Point Pescade, addressing these big fellows who stared at him with astonishment.

But the big fellows did not see the fun of accepting the challenge, and Point Pescade had to announce that as no amateurs were forthcoming the contest would take place between Cape Matifou and himself. Yes! “Skill shall be pitted against strength.”

“Walk up! Walk up! Don’t all come at once!” vociferated poor Pescade. “You will see now what you never saw before! Point Pescade and Cape Matifou at it hammer and tongs! The twins of Provence! Yes-twins — but not of the same age, nor of the same mother! Eh? Aren’t we like each other — me particularly!”

A young man stopped in front of the platform. He listened gravely to these threadbare pleasantries.

The young man was about twenty-two or a little older, and was above the middle height. His handsome features, with a certain severity about them, denoted a pensive nature, disciplined probably in the school of suffering. His large black eyes, his beard which he kept short, his mouth rarely accustomed to smile, but clearly cut beneath his silky mustache, proclaimed unmistakably his Hungarian origin and the preponderance of Magyar blood. He was dressed quietly in a modern suit, without any pretense of being in the fashion. His bearing could not be mistaken; the young man was already a man.

He listened, we have said, to the useless patter of Point Pescade. With some sympathy he looked at him showing off on the platform. Having suffered himself he probably could not remain indifferent to the sufferings of others.

“Two Frenchmen,” he said to himself. “Poor fellows! They have not done much to-day.”

And then the idea occurred to him to constitute himself an audience — an audience that paid. It was only a bit of charity, perhaps, but it was a bit of charity in disguise, and it might be welcome.

So he advanced toward the door — that is, toward the piece of canvas, which, on being raised, gave admittance to the ring.

“Walk in, sir! walk in!” said Pescade. “We are just going to commence!”

“But — I am alone — ” said the young man goodnaturedly.

“Sir,” replied Point Pescade proudly, and somewhat chaffingly, “the true artist looks at the quality and not at the quantity of his audience.”

“However — you will allow me,” said the gentleman taking out his purse.

And he picked out two florins and placed them on a tin plate in a corner of the platform.

“Bravo!” said Pescade.

Then he turned to his companion with: “To the rescue, Matifou, to the rescue! We’ll give him something for his money.”

But as he was about to step in, the sole spectator of the French and Provencal arena, he stopped abruptly. He had just caught sight of the girl and her father, who a quarter of an hour before had been listening to the guzlar. Both he and she had had the same thought and done a charitable action. The one had given an alms to the gipsy, the other had given an alms to the acrobats.

But evidently the meeting in this way was not enough for him — for as soon as be saw the lady he forgot all about the arena and the money he had paid for his place, and dashed off toward the spot where she had again mixed with the crowd.

“Hi! sir! — sir!” shouted Pescade. “Your money! We haven’t earned it! What’s up? Where are you going? Vanished! Sir!”

But he sought to find his “audience” in vain. It had been eclipsed. Then he looked at Matifou, who, with bis mouth wide open, was quite as much astonished as he was.

“Just as we were going to commence!” said the giant. “We are unlucky.”

“Let us commence all the same!” said Pescade, running down the steps into the ring.

But at this moment there was a great shouting in the direction of the harbor. The crowd was growing excited, and moving toward the sea-side, and then was heard above the din of words: “The trabacolo! the trabacolo!”

The time had come for the launch of the small vessel, The sight, always an attractive one, was of a kind to excite the public curiosity. And the quays where the people had gathered were soon deserted for the yard in which the launch was to take place.

Point Pescade and Matifou saw that there was no chance of an audience at present, and being anxious to find the solitary stranger who had failed to fill their arena, they left it without even stopping to shut the door — and why should they shut it? — and walked off to the yard.

This yard was situated at the end of a point just beyond the harbor, where the beach sloped gradually to the sea. Pescade and his companion after a good deal of elbowing found themselves in the front row of spectators. Never, even on a benefit night, had they had such an audience.

The shores had been cleared away from the trabacolo, and she was now ready for the ceremony. The anchor was ready to be let go as soon as the hull entered the water, so as to stop her running too far out into the channel. Although the trabacolo measured only about fifty tons, the mass was considerable enough for every precaution to be taken against accident. Two of the workmen of the yard were on deck aft near the flagstaff that bore the Dalmatian colors, and two others were forward standing by the anchor.

The trabacolo was to be sent into the water stern first, as is done in all other launches. Her keel resting on the soaped slide was kept in its place by a key. When the key was removed the boat should begin to slip, and then with increasing swiftness she would rush down the ways into her natural element.

Half a dozen carpenters with sledge hammers were knocking in wedges under the keel forward, so as to increase the speed at which she would take the sea. Every one followed the operation with the greatest interest amidst general silence.

At this moment from behind the point to the south there suddenly glided into view a yacht. She was a schooner of about three hundred and fifty tons. She was keeping on past the point so as to open the entrance into the harbor. As the breeze was from the north-west, she was close-hauled on the port tack, so as to take her straight to her anchorage. In ten minutes after she had been sighted she had come up rapidly, as if she had been looked at through a telescope with continually lengthening tube.

To enter the harbor the schooner would have to pass in front of the yard where the trabacolo was ready for launching; and as soon as she was sighted it was thought best to suspend operations for a time, and wait until she had gone by. A collision between the two vessels, one broadside on, the other coming at great speed, would have caused a catastrophe on board the yacht.

The workmen then stopped driving in the wedges, and the man in charge of the key was then told to wait. It would only be for a minute or two. On came the schooner. She could be seen to be getting ready to anchor. Two of the jibs were taken in and the foresail hauled up. But she went on at a good speed under her fore, staysail and Spanish reefed mainsail.

All eyes were turned on this graceful vessel whose white sails were now gilded by the oblique rays of the sun. Her sailors, in Levantine uniform, with red caps, were running about at their various duties, while the captain, near the man at the helm, gave his orders in a quiet voice.

Very soon the schooner was abreast of the building-yard. Suddenly a shout arose. The trabacolo began to move. For some reason the key had given way, and she began to slide at the moment the yacht was passing with starboard side toward her.

A collision seemed inevitable. There was neither the time nor the means to prevent it. Nothing could be done. To the cries of the spectators there had come in reply a shout of alarm from the schooner’s crew.

The captain put down his helm, but it was impossible for his ship to get by in time to avoid the shock.

The trabacolo was slipping down the ways. A white smoke rose from the friction forward, and the stern had already plunged into the waters of the bay.

Suddenly a man jumped out from the crowd. He seized a rope which hung from the fore part of the trabacolo. But in vain he tried to hold it back at the risk of being dragged away. Close by them was an iron cannon stuck into the ground like a post. In an instant he slipped the rope over it, and let it out hand over hand at the risk of being dragged round with it. He kept it back, and with superhuman strength he checked it for ten seconds.

Then the rope broke. But the ten seconds were enough. The trabacolo had plunged into the waves and recovered as from a dive. She shot across the channel, grazing by hardly a foot the schooner’s stern, just as the anchor dropped into the depths, and brought her sharply up by the tension of the chain.

The schooner was saved.

The hero of this daring maneuver was no other than Cape Matifou.

“Well done! Very well done!” exclaimed Point Pescade, running up to the giant, who lifted him in his arms, not to juggle with him, but to embrace him as he always embraced him — that is, almost to the point of suffocation.

And then the applause resounded from all sides. Five minutes later the schooner had taken up her position in the center of the harbor; then an elegant whale-boat with six oars brought the owner ashore.

He was a tall man, about sixty, with almost white hair, and gray beard cut in the Oriental fashion. Large black eyes lit up his face and a curious vivacity displayed itself in his healthily brown face. The most striking thing about him was the air of nobility which distinguished him. As soon as he set foot on the shore he walked up to the two acrobats, whom the crowd was greeting and applauding.

The people stood back as he advanced. As soon as he reached Cape Matifou his first action was not to open his purse and take something from it. No! he held out his hand to the giant, and said to him in Italian: “Thank you, my friend, for what you did.”

Cape Matifou was too bashful to notice the compliment.

“Yes! It was good! It was superb!” said Pescade, with all the redundance of the Provencal idiom.

“You are Frenchmen?” asked the stranger.

“French of the French!” answered Pescade. “French of the south of France.”

The stranger looked at them with sympathy and feeling. Their misery was too apparent for him to pass over. Before him were two mountebanks, one of whom at the risk of his life had done him a great service, for a collision between the trabacolo and the schooner would have meant several victims.

“Come and see me on board!” he said.

“And when?” asked Pescade, with a most gracious salute.

“To-morrow morning.”

“To-morrow morning!” answered Pescade, while Matifou gave sign of consent by nodding his head.

But the crowd had not ceased to surround the hero of the adventure. He would have been carried about in triumph had he not been too big. But Point Pescade, always wide awake, thought he could make some money out of the public excitement. And as soon as the stranger after a gesture of friendship had left for the jetty, he broke out with —

“The match, sirs, the match between Pescade and Cape Matifou. Walk up, gentlemen, walk up. You don’t pay till you go out — or you can pay as you come in — just as you please.”

This time he was listened to and followed by a public he had never dreamed of before.

The ring was too small! They even had to refuse money!

The stranger passed on, but scarcely had he advanced a step in the direction of the quay when he found him near the young lady and her father who had been present throughout the scene.

Close by was the young man who had followed them, and to whose salute the father only had given a very haughty acknowledgment.

In this man’s presence the stranger experienced a movement he could hardly suppress. It was as if his whole body was repelled, while his eye flashed like the lightning.

The girl’s father stepped up to him and said, “You have just escaped a great danger, sir, thanks to the courage of that acrobat.”

“Quite so,” replied the stranger, whose voice voluntarily not was masked by emotion.

Then addressing his interlocutor he asked —

“To whom may I have the honor to speak?”

“To Silas Toronthal of Ragusa,” answered the old banker of Trieste. “And may I ask who is the owner of the yacht?”

“Dr. Antekirtt!” replied the stranger.

Then they parted, while shouts of applause were heard from the distant ring of the French gymnasts.

And that evening not only did Cape Matifou have enough to eat, — that is, to eat as much as four ordinary people, — but enough was left for one. And that did for the supper of his comrade, Point Pescade.

PART III

CHAPTER II.

“PAST AND PRESENT.”

And from the first the history of Dr. Antekirtt, which begins at the moment when Count Mathias Sandorf precipitated himself into the waters of the Adriatic.

“Through the midst of this hail of shot, with which the last discharge of police agents covered me, I passed safe and sound. The night was very dark. They could not see me. The current carried me out, and I could not have returned even had I wished. I did not wish it, moreover. Far better to die than be taken again and thrown into — perhaps slaughtered, in the donjon of Pisino. Should I succumb, all was ended. Should I succeed in saving myself, I could at least pass as one dead.

“Naught would longer impede me in the work of justice, which I had sworn to Count Zathmar, to your father, and to myself to accomplish, and which I shall accomplish.”

“A work of justice?” repeated Pierre, whose eyes shone at this word so unlooked for.

“Yes, Pierre, and this work you will know, for it is in order to associate you with myself in it, that I have snatched you, dead like myself, yet living as myself, from. the cemetery of Ragusa.”

At these words Pierre Bathory felt himself carried backward fifteen years, to the time when his father fell on the place of arms of the Pisino fortress.

“Before me,” resumed the doctor, “lay the sea as far as the Italian seaboard. Good swimmer as I was, I could not pretend to traverse it. Unless providentially succored, either by grasping a floating spar, or by a strange vessel perceiving me on board, I was destined to perish. But when one has risked one’s life, one is very strong to defend it, if possible.

“At first I had dived several times to escape their last shots. Then, when certain I was no longer perceived, I kept myself on the surface, and directed myself out to sea. My clothing troubled me little, being light and fitting close to the body.

“It must have been half past nine in the evening, according to my reckoning. I swam for more than an hour in a direction opposite from the coast, thus removing myself from Rovigno, whose lights disappeared one by one in the distance.

“Where was I going then, and what was my hope? I had none, Pierre, but I felt in me a strength to resist, a tenacity, a superhuman, sustaining will. It was not only my life which I sought to save, but my work in the future. And even at this moment, if any fishing-bark had passed I would have dived to avoid it. On this Austrian seaboard how many traitors might I not still find ready to deliver me up in order to receive their premium? How many Carpenas for an honest Andrea Ferrato?

“It was even this that happened at the end of the first hour. A craft appeared in the darkness, almost unexpectedly. She came from far out at sea and ran near as if to touch land. Being already fatigued, I lay upon my back, but instinctively turned over again in readiness to dive. A fishing-bark which lay to in one of the Istrian ports could not but suspect me.

“I was almost certain as to this. One of the sailors cried out in a Dalmatian language to tack about.

“Of a sudden I dived, and the vessel, before those in command could have seen me, passed above my head.

“After a deep respiration I breathed freely and continued on my way westward.

“The breeze became lighter; the waves fell with the wind, and I was carried out to sea on the wide sweeping surge.

“Sometimes swimming, sometimes floating, I kept on further and further for about another hour. I saw but the object to attain, and not the road to reach it. Fifty miles across the Adriatic! Yes! And I was willing to swim them. Yes! I would swim them. Ah! Pierre, you must go through such trials before you know of what man is capable, before you know what the human machine can do when all its mental and physical forces are combined.

“For the second hour I thus kept afloat. That part of the Adriatic was absolutely deserted. The last birds had left it to regain their hollows in the rocks. Overhead the gulls and mews no longer circled in couples nor uttered their despairing screams.

“Although I felt no fatigue my arms became heavy, my legs seemed like lead. My fingers began to open and I found it most difficult to keep my hands together. My head felt as if it were a shot on my shoulders, and I began to lose the power of keeping myself on the surface.

“A kind of hallucination seized me. The guidance of my thoughts escaped me. Strange associations of ideas arose in my troubled brain. I felt that I could no longer hear or see properly, but I fancied that some distance away from me a noise was being produced and a light was approaching and I was right in its road. And that proved to be the case.

“It must have been about midnight when a dull, distant booming arose in the east — a booming that I could not explain. A light flashed through my eyelids, which had shut in spite of all I could do. I tried to raise my head, and I could not do so without letting myself almost sink. Then I looked.

“I give you all these details, Pierre, because it is necessary you should know them, and through them know me as well!”

“There is no need of that, doctor, none!” answered the young man. “Do you think my mother has never told me what sort of a man was Mathias Sandorf?”

“She may have known Mathias Sandorf, Pierre, but Doctor Antekirtt she does not know! And he it is you must know! Listen then! Hear me out!

“The noise I heard was produced by a vessel coming from the east and bound for the Italian coast. The light was her white light hanging on her forestay — which showed her to be a steamer. Her side lights I also saw, red at port and green at starboard, and as I saw them both together the steamer must have been bearing straight down on me.

“That moment was a critical one. In fact the chances were that the steamer was an Austrian bound outward from Trieste. To ask help from her were to put myself again in the power of the gendarmes of Rovigno. I resolved to do nothing of the kind, but to take advantage of another means of safety that I had thought of.

“The steamer was a fast one. She grew rapidly larger as she neared me, and I saw the foam leaping off white from her bows. In less than two minutes she would cut through the place where I lay motionless.

“That the steamer was an Austrian I had no doubt. But there was nothing impossible in her destination being Brindisi and Otranto, or at least she might call there. If so, she would arrive in less than twenty-four hours.

“My decision was taken, and I waited. Sure of being unseen in the darkness, I kept myself in the steamer’s path, and fortunately she slowed slightly as she gently rose and fell with the waves.

“At length the steamer reached me; her bow, some twenty feet from the sea, towered above me. I was wrapped in foam as she cleft the sea, but I was not struck. I was grazed by the long iron hull, and I pushed myself away from it with my hands as it passed me. This only lasted for a second or so. Then I found her lines began to curve in for her stem, and at the risk of being cut up by the screw I caught hold of the rudder.

“Fortunately the steamer had a full cargo, and her screw was deep down and did not strike above the water, else I should not have been able to get out of the whirlpool or retain my hold of the support to which I had clung. Like all steamships, she had a pair of chains hanging from her stern and fixed on to the rudder, and I had seized one of these chains, pulled myself up to the ring to which it hung, and there I sat on the chain close to the stern-post and just a inches above the sea. I was in comparative safety.

“Three hours elapsed and day broke. I reckoned I would have to remain where I was for another twenty-four hours if the steamer was going to call at Brindisi or Otranto. What I should have to suffer most from would be hunger and thirst. The important thing for me was that I could not be seen from the deck nor even from the boat hanging by the stern davits. Some vessel meeting us might, it is true, see me and signal me. But very few ships met us that day, and they passed too far off for them to notice a man banging by the rudder chains.

“A scorching sun soon dried my clothes. Andrea Ferrato’s 300 florins were in my belt. They would make me feel safe once I got to land. There I should have nothing to fear. In a foreign country Count Mathias Sandorf would have nothing to fear from the Austrian police. There is no extradition for political refugees. But it was not enough that they should think my life was saved. I wished them to think I was dead. No one should know that the last fugitive from the donjon of Pisino had set foot on Italian soil.”

“What I wished happened. The day passed without adventure. Night came. About ten o’clock in the evening I saw a light at regular intervals away to the south-west. It was the light-house at Brindisi. Two hours afterward the steamer was just outside the harbor.

“But then before the pilot came on board, when we were about a mile from the land, after making a parcel of my clothes and tying them to my neck, I slipped off the rudder chain into the sea.

“A minute afterward I had lost sight of the steamer, whose steam-whistle then began its shrieking. In half an hour I had reached the shore, hidden among the rocks, resumed my clothes, and on a bed of sea-weed had fallen asleep. In the morning I entered Brindisi, found one of the humblest hotels in the place, and there awaited events before settling on the plan of an entirely new life.

“Two days afterward, Pierre, the newspapers informed me that the conspiracy of Trieste was at an end. They said that the search for Count Sandorf’s body had been fruitless. I was held to be dead — as dead as if I had fallen with my two companions, Ladislas Zathmar and your father, Stephen Bathory, in the donjon of Pisino.

“I, dead! No, Pierre, and they shall see that I am living!”

Pierre had listened greedily to the doctor’s story. He was as deeply moved by it as if the story had been told him from the tomb. Yes! It was Count Mathias Sandorf who thus had spoken. In the presence of him, the living portrait of his father, his habitual coldness had gradually abandoned him, he had revealed his real character, he had shown himself as he really was, after years of disguise. What he had said about the audacious voyage across the Adriatic was true in the minutest details. It was thus that he arrived at Brindisi, where Mathias Sandorf remained dead to the world.

But he had to leave Brindisi without delay. The town is only a transfer station. People come to it merely to embark for India or land for Europe. It is generally except on the two days of the week when the P. and 0. boats come in.

If the doctor had no further fear for his life, it was important that his death should be believed in. Thus he thought on the morning after his arrival, as he was walking at the foot of the terrace, which overlooks the column of Cleopatra, at the very spot where the old Appian Way begins. Already he had formed his plans. He would go to the East in search of wealth and power. But to embark on one of the steam-boats trading to Asia Minor among a crowd of passengers of all nations was not what he wanted. He wanted some more secret means of transport than he could find at Brindisi. And that evening he took train for Otranto.

In an hour and a half the train reached this town, situated almost at the end of the heel of the Italian boot. There, in this almost abandoned port, the doctor agreed with the captain of a xebec departing for Smyrna. In the morning the xebec sailed, and the doctor saw the light-house of Punta di Luca, the extreme point of Italy, sink beneath the horizon, while on the opposite coast the Aeroceraunian Mountains were hidden in the mist. A few days afterward, after a voyage without incident, Cape Matifou at the extremity of Southern Greece was doubled and Smyrna safely reached.

The doctor had succinctly related to Pierre this part of his voyage, and also how he had learned from the newspapers of the unexpected death of his daughter that had left him alone in the world.

“At last,” he said, “I was in the land of Asia Minor, where for so many years I was to live unknown. It was in studies of medicine, chemistry, natural science, that I had delighted during my youth, at the schools and universities of Hungary — where your father gained his renown — and it was to these studies that I was to trust to gain the means of livelihood.

“I was fortunate enough to succeed, and more promptly than I had hoped, first at Smyrna, where for seven or eight years I obtained great reputation as a physician. Some unexpected cures brought me into connection with the richest people of those countries in which the medical art is still in a rudimentary state. I then made up my mind to leave the town. And like the doctors of the days gone by, healing at the same time as I taught the art of healing, studying the almost unknown therapeutics of the talebs of Asia Minor, the pundits of India, I traveled through the whole of those provinces, stopping here a few weeks, there a few months, called for and asked for at Karabissar, Binder, Adana, Haleb, Tripoli, Damas, always preceded by a renown which increased without ceasing and brought me a fortune that increased with my renown.

“But that was not enough. What I wanted was unbounded power, such as that possessed by the wealthy rajahs of India, whose knowledge is equal to their wealth.

“My opportunity came.

“There was at Hans in Northern Syria a man dying of a slow disease. No physician had been able to tell what was the matter with him. Hence none of them knew how to treat him. This man was Faz-Rhat, and he had occupied very high posts in the Turkish Empire. He was then forty-five years of age, and an immense fortune allowed him to enjoy all the pleasures of life.

“Faz-Rhat had heard of me, for at the time my reputation was at its height. He invited me to Hans, and I accepted the invitation.

“‘Doctor,’ said he, ‘the half of my fortune is yours if you will give me back my life.’

“‘Keep the half of your fortune,’ I said. ‘I will take care of you and cure you if Heaven permits.’

“I carefully studied the malady the physicians had abandoned. A few months at the outside was all they had given him to live. But I was lucky enough to diagnose him unmistakably. For three weeks I remained with Faz-Rhat so as to follow the effects of the treatment I had prescribed. His cure was complete. When he wished to pay me I would accept only what seemed to me to be reasonable. And then I left Hans.

“Three years later by an accident when hunting, Faz-Rhat lost his life. He had no relatives whatever, and his will made me the sole heir of all his possessions. Their value was certainly not less than fifty millions of florins.

“Thirteen years had then elapsed since the fugitive of Pisino had taken refuge in Asia Minor. The name of Dr. Antekirtt, although somewhat legendary, was known throughout Europe. I had obtained the result I wished, and now I was ready to set to work at the object of my life.

CHAPTER XI.

THE FIGHT ON MOUNT ETNA.

When Point Pescade had told his story, a clasp from the doctor’s hand thanked him for what he had done. The next question was how to foil the brigands. To leave the Casa degli Inglesi, and retreat in the middle of the night down the flanks of the volcano, with Zirone and his people knowing every footpath and every refuge, was to expose themselves to complete destruction. To wait for daylight to entrench themselves and defend themselves in the house, would be a far more advantageous plan. When the day came, if they had to retreat, they could at least do so in broad daylight, and would not go out, like blind men, down the precipices and solfataras. The decision was, therefore, to remain and fight. The preparations for the defense immediately commenced.

At first the two windows of the Casa degli Inglesi had to be closed, and their shutters firmly fastened down. As embrasures there were the openings between where the rafters of the roof rested on the front wall. Each man was provided with a quick-firing rifle and twenty cartridges. The doctor, Pierre, and Luigi could assist with their revolvers, but Cape Matifou had only his arms, and Point Pescade had only his hands. Perhaps they were not the worst armed.

Nearly forty minutes passed and no attempt at attack had been made. Zirone, knowing that Dr. Antekirtt had been warned by Point Pescade, and could not be surprised, had possibly abandoned his idea. With fifty men under his command and all the advantage that a thorough knowledge of the ground could give him, he had certainly all the chances on his side.

Suddenly about eleven o’clock the sentry reported a number of men approaching in skirmishing order so as to attack the hut on three sides — the fourth side, for its backing on to the slope, afforded no possible retreat. The maneuver having been discovered, the door was shut and barricaded, and the men took their posts near the rafters with orders not to fire unless they were sure of their object.

Zirone and his men advanced slowly and cautiously, taking advantage of the cover of the rocks to reach the crest of the Piarro del Lago. On this crest there were heaped up enormous masses of trachyte and basalt, intended probably to protect the Casa degli Inglesi from being destroyed by the snow during the winter. Having reached this plateau the assailants could more easily charge up to the house, break through the door or windows, and with the aid of their superior numbers carry off the doctor and his people.

Suddenly there was a report. A light smoke drifted in between the rafters. A man fell mortally wounded. The bandits at once rushed back and disappeared behind the rocks. But gradually, profiting by the unevenness of the ground, Zirone brought his men to the foot of the Piarro del Lago; but he did not do so until a dozen shots had been fired from the eaves of the Casa degli Inglesi — and two more of his associates were stretched dead on the snow.

Zirone then gave the word to storm, and at the cost of several more wounded the whole band rushed on the Casa degli Inglesi. The door was riddled with bullets, and two sailors were wounded, but not seriously, and had to stand aside while the struggle grew brisker. With their pikes and hatchets the assailants attempted to break in the door and one of the windows, and a sortie had to be undertaken to repel them under an incessant fusillade from all sides. Luigi had his hand pierced by a bullet, and Pierre, without the assistance of Cape Matifou, would have been killed by a pike thrust, had not Hercules seized the pike and settled its possessor at one blow.

During this sortie Cape Matifou was quite a terror. Twenty times was he shot at, and not a bullet reached him. If Zirone won Point Pescade was a dead man, and the thought of this redoubled his anger. Against such resistance the assailants had again to retreat; and the doctor and his friends returned into the Casa and reviewed their position.

“What ammunition have you left?” asked he.

“Ten or a dozen cartridges per man,” said Luigi.

“And what o’clock is it?”

“Hardly midnight.”

Four hours still to daybreak! The men must be more careful with the ammunition, for some of it would be wanted to protect the retreat at the earliest streak of dawn.

But how could they defend the approaches or prevent the capture of the Casa degli Inglesi if Zirone and his band again tried an assault? And that is what he did in a quarter of an hour’s time, after taking all the wounded to the rear under shelter of a line of lava that did duty for an intrenchment. When they had done this the bandits, enraged at the resistance, and drunk with fury at the sight of five or six of their injured comrades, mounted the ridge and appeared on the crest of the plateau.

Not a shot was fired as they crossed the open, and hence Zirone concluded that the besieged were running short of ammunition. The idea of carrying off a millionaire was just the thing to excite the cupidity of the scoundrels that followed him. Such was their fury during this attack that they forced the door and the window, and would have taken the house by assault had not a volley point blank killed five or six of them. They had, therefore, to return to the foot of the plateau, not without wounding two of the sailors, who could take no further part in the fray.

Four or five rounds were all that remained to the defenders of the Casa degli Inglesi. Under these circumstances retreat even during daylight had almost become impossible. They felt that they were lost if help did not come. But where could help come from? Unfortunately they could not expect that Zirone and his companions would give up their enterprise. They were still nearly forty in number, unhurt and well armed. They knew that the besieged would soon be unable to reply to their fire, and they returned to the charge.

Suddenly enormous blocks like the rocks of an avalanche came rolling down the slope and crushed three between them before they had time to step aside.

Cape Matifou had started the rocks in order to hurl them over the crest of the Piarro del Lago. But this means of defense was not enough. The heap of rocks would soon be used up, and the besieged would have to surrender or seek help from outside.

Suddenly an idea occurred to Point Pescade which he did not care to mention to the doctor for fear that he would not give his consent. But he went and whispered it to Cape Matifou.

He knew from what he had heard at Santa Grotta that a detachment of gendarmes was at Cassone. To reach Cassone would only take an hour, and it would take another hour to get back. Could he not run away and fetch this detachment? Yes, but only by passing through the besiegers, and making off to the westward.

“It is necessary for me to go through, and I will through!” he said. “I am an acrobat, or I am not.”

And he told Cape Matifou what he proposed to do.

“But,” said Matifou, “your risk — “

“I will go!”

Cape Matifou never dared to resist Point Pescade.

Both then went to the right of the Casa degli Inglesi, where the snow had accumulated to a considerable depth.

Ten minutes afterward, while the struggle continued along the front, Cape Matifou appeared pushing before him a huge snowball, and among the rocks that the sailors continued to hurl on to their assailants he sent the snowball, which rolled down the slope past Zirone’s men, and stopped fifty yards in the rear at the bottom of a gentle hollow. It half broke with the shock; it opened and from it emerged a living man, active and “a little malicious,” as he said of himself.

It was Point Pescade. Inclosed in the carapace of hardened snow, he had dared being started on the slope of the mountain at the risk of being rolled into the depths of some abyss!

And now he was free, he made the best haste he could along the footpaths to Cassone.

It was then half past twelve.

At this moment the doctor, not seeing Pescade, thought he was wounded. He called him.

“Gone!” said Cape Matifou.

“Gone?”

“Yes! To get some help!”

“And how?”

“In a snowball!”

And Cape Matifou told him what Pescade had done.

“Ah! Brave fellow!” exclaimed the doctor. “Courage, my friends! The scoundrels will not have us after all.”

And the masses of rock continued to roll down on the assailants, although the means of defense were rapidly becoming exhausted.

About three o’clock in the morning the doctor, Pierre, Luigi, Cape Matifou, and the sailors, carrying their wounded, would have to evacuate the house and allow it to fall into the possession of Zirone, twenty of whose companions had been killed. The retreat would have to be up the central cone — that heap of lava, scoriae and cinders, whose summit, the crater, was an abyss of fire. All, however, were to ascend the cone, and carry their wounded with them. Of the 1000 feet they would have to climb over 700 feet would be through the sulphurous fumes that the winds beat down from the top.

The day began to break, and already the crests of the Calabrian Mountains above the eastern coast of the Straits of Messina were tipped with the coming light. But in the position in which the doctor and his men found themselves the day had no chance of being welcomed. They would have to fight as they retreated up the slope, using their last cartridges and hurling down the last masses of rock that Matifou sent flying along with such superhuman strength. They had almost given themselves up for lost when the sound of guns was heard below them. A moment of indecision was observed among the bandits; they hesitated; and then they broke into full flight down the mountain side. They had sighted the gendarmes who had arrrived from Cassone, Point Pescade at their head.

He had not had to go as far as the village. The gendarmes had heard the firing and were already on the road. All he had to do was to lead them to the Casa degli Inglesi.

Then the doctor and his men took the offensive. Cape Matifou, as if he were an avalanche himself, bounded on the nearest and knocked down two before they had time to get away, and then he rushed at Zirone.

“Bravo, old Cape! Bravo!” shouted Pescade, running up. “Down with him! Lay him flat! The contest, gentlemen, the desperate contest between Zirone and Cape Matifou!”

Zirone heard him, and with the hand that remained free he fired his revolver at Pescade, who fell to the ground.

And then there was a terrible scene. Cape Matifou had seized Zirone and was dragging him along by his neck. The wretch, half-strangled, could do nothing to help himself.

In vain the doctor, who wished to have him alive, shouted out for him to be spared. In vain Pierre and Luigi rushed up to stop him. Cape Matifou thought of one thing only — Zirone had mortally wounded Point Pescade! He heard nothing, he saw nothing. He gave one last leap on to the edge of the gaping crater of a solfatara, and hurled the bandit into the abyss of fire!

Point Pescade, seriously wounded, was lifted on to the doctor’s knee. He examined and bathed the wound. When Cape Matifou returned to him, great tears were rolling down his cheeks.

“Never fear, old Cape; never fear! It is nothing!” murmured Pescade.

Cape Matifou took him in his arms like a child, and followed by all, went down the side of the cone, while the gendarmes gave chase to the last fugitive of Zirone’s band.

Six hours afterward the doctor and his men had returned to Catania, and were on board the “Ferrato.” Point Pescade was laid in the cabin, with Dr. Antekirtt for surgeon, and Cape Matifou for nurse; he was well looked after. His wound, a bullet in the shoulder, was not of a serious kind. His cure was only a question of time. When he wanted sleep Cape Matifou told him tales, always the same tales and Point Pescade was soon in sound slumber.

However, the doctor’s campaign had opened unsuccessfully. After nearly falling into Zirone’s hands he had not been able to get hold of Sarcany’s companion and obtain the information from him that he wanted — and all owing to Cape Matifou! Although the doctor stayed at Catania for eight days he could obtain no news of Sarcany. If Sarcany had intended to rejoin Zirone in Sicily his plans had been changed probably when he heard the result of the attempt on Dr. Antekirtt.

The “Ferrato” put to sea on the 8th of September, bound for Antekirtta, and she arrived after a rapid passage.

Then the doctor, Pierre, and Luigi conferred as to their future plans. The first thing to do was obviously to get hold of Carpena, who ought to know what had become of Sarcany and Silas Toronthal.

Unfortunately for the Spaniard, although he escaped the destruction of Zirone’s band he remained at Santa Grotta, and his good fortune was of short duration. In fact, ten days afterward one of the doctor’s agents informed him that Carpena had been arrested at Syracuse — not as an accomplice of Zirone, but for a crime committed more than fifteen years ago, a murder at Almayate in the province of Malaga, which had caused his flight to Rovigno.

Three weeks later Carpena, whose extradition was obtained, was condemned to the galleys and sent to the coast of Morocco, to Ceuta, which is one of the chief penitentiary establishments of Spain.

“At last,” said Pierre, “there is one of the scoundrels settled for life!”

“For life? No!” answered the doctor. “If Andrea Ferrato died in prison, it is not in prison that Carpena ought to die.”

CHAPTER XV.

SEVENTEEN TIMES.

“Seventeen times?”

“Seventeen times!”

“Yes, the red has passed seventeen times!”

“Is it possible?”

“It may be impossible, but it is.”

“And the players are mad against it?”

“More than 900,000 francs won by the bank!”

“Seventeen times! Seventeen times!”

“At roulette or trente-et-quarante?”

“At trente-et-quarante.”

“It is fifteen years since anything like it!”

“Fifteen years three months and fourteen hours,” coolly replied an old gambler, belonging to the honorable class of the ruined. “Yes, sir, and a very strange thing — it was in the height of summer, on the 16th of June, 1867 — I know something about it.”

Such was the conversation, or rather the chorus of exclamation that was heard in the vestibule and peristyle of the Cercle des Etrangers at Monte Carlo, on the evening of the 3d of October, eight days after the escape of Carpena from the Spanish penitentiary.

Among the crowd of gamblers — men and women of all nations, ages, and classes — there was quite an uproar of enthusiasm. They would willingly have greeted the red as the equal of the horse that had carried off the Epsom Derby or the Longehamps Grand Prix. In fact, for the people that the Old and New Worlds daily pour into the little principality of Monaco, this series of seventeen had quite the importance of a political event affecting the laws and equilibrium of Europe.

It will easily be believed that the red in its somewhat extraordinary obstinacy had made a good many victims and the winnings of the bank had been considerable. Nearly a million of francs said some — which meant that nearly the whole of the players had become infuriated at the extraordinary series of passes.

Between them, two foreigners had paid a large part of what these gentlemen of the board of green cloth call the “deveine” — one, very cool, very self-restrained, although the emotions within him were traceable in his pallid face; the other with his features distorted, his hair in disorder, his look that of a madman or a desperado — and these had just descended the steps of the peristyle, and were strolling out under the trees on the terrace.

“That makes more than 400,000 francs that the cursed series has cost us,” said the elder.

“Yon may as well say 413,000,” said the younger in the tone of a cashier casting a column.

“And now I have only got 200,000 — and hardly that,” said the first gambler.

“One hundred and ninety-seven thousand,” said the other, in the same tone.

“Yes! Of nearly two millions that I once had, when you made me come with you.”

“One million seven hundred and seventy-five thousand francs!”

“And that in less than two months.”

“In one month and sixteen days.”

“Sarcany!” exclaimed the elder, whom his companion’s coolness seemed to exasperate as much as the ironical precision with which he rolled out the ciphers.

“Well, Silas?”

Toronthal and Sarcany were the speakers. Since leaving Ragusa, in the short space of three months, they had reached the verge of ruin. After dissipating all that they had received as the reward of their abominable treachery, Sarcany had hunted his accomplice out of Ragusa, taking Sava with them, and then had enticed him into gambling and every dissipation in which he could squander his wealth. It is only just, however, to say that the old banker, daring speculator as he was, had in times gone by more than once risked his fortune in hazardous adventures in which luck was his only guide.

How could Toronthal resist? Was he not more than ever in the power of the Tripolitan broker? Sometimes he revolted, but Sarcany had obtained an irresistible ascendency over him, and the wretched man fell so heavily that strength almost failed him to rise again, so that Sarcany was not at all uneasy about the occasional fancies that Toronthal had to withdraw from his influence. The brutality of his retorts and the implacability of his logic soon brought Toronthal back beneath the yoke.

In leaving Ragusa under circumstances which will not have been forgotten, their first care had been to put Sava in some safe place under the charge of Namir. And now in this retreat at Tetuan, on the borders of Morocco, it would have been difficult, if not impossible, to find her. There Sarcany’s pitiless companion undertook to break down the girl’s resolution and tear from her her consent to the marriage. Unshaken in her repulsion and strengthened by the recollection of Pierre, Sava hitherto had obstinately resisted. But could she always do so?

In the meantime Sarcany never ceased from exciting his companion to plunge into the follies of the gambling-table, although he had lost his own fortune in a similar way. In France, in Italy, in Germany, in the great centers where chance keeps house in all its forms, on the exchange, on the race-course, in the clubs of the great capitals, in the watering-places as in the sea-side towns, Silas Toronthal had followed as Sarcany led, and had soon been reduced to a few hundred thousand francs. While the banker risked his own money, Sarcany risked the banker’s, and down this double slope both went to ruin at double-quick time. What gamblers call the “deveine” had been dead against them, and it was not for want of trying every chance that offered. In short, their amusement cost them the best part of the millions received from the possessions of Count Sandorf, and it had even become necessary to offer for sale the house in the Stradone at Ragusa.

And so they had been at Monte Carlo for the last three weeks, never leaving the tables of the club, trying the most infallible dodges, working out schemes that went always awry, studying the rotation of the cylinder of the roulette when the croupier’s hand was tiring through his last quarter hour of duty, loading to the maximum numbers, which obstinately refused to come, combining simple combinations with multifold combinations, listening to the advice of ruined old stagers, becoming professional gamblers, trying in fact every imbecile device, employing every stupid fetish which could class the gambler between the child who has no reason and the idiot who has forever lost it. And not only did they risk their money, but they enfeebled their intelligence by imagining absurd combinations, and they compromised their personal dignity by the familiarity which the frequenting of the very mixed assembly imposed upon all. In short, at the close of this evening, which would hereafter be celebrated in the annals of Monte Carlo, owing to their obstinacy in struggling against a series of seventeen rouges at trente-et-quarante, they had left off with less than 200,000 francs between them.

But if they were nearly ruined, they had not yet lost their senses, and while they were talking on the terrace they noticed a gambler who had become suddenly deranged, and who was running through the gardens shouting: “It turns! It goes on turning!”

The unfortunate man imagined that he had just put his money on the coming number, and that the cylinder in a movement of fantastic gyration was turning and doomed to turn for ages. He was mad.

“Have you become calmer, Silas?” asked Sarcany of his companion. “Does not that lunatic teach you to keep cool? We have not won, it is true, but the luck will turn, for it must turn, and without our doing anything to make it. Why try to better it? It is dangerous, and besides it is useless. You can not change the run if it is bad, and you would not change it when it is good. Wait then, and when the luck turns, let us be bold and make our game while the run lasts.”

Did Toronthal listen to this advice — absurd as is all advice connected with games of chance? No! He was overwhelmed, and he had then but one idea — to escape from this domination of Sarcany, to get away, and to get away so far that his conscience could not reproach him! But such a fit of resolution could not last long in his enervated, helpless nature. Besides, he was watched by his accomplice. Before he left him to himself, Sarcany wanted him until his marriage had taken place with Sava. Then he would get rid of Silas Toronthal, he would forget him, and he would not even remember that that feeble individual had ever existed, or that he had ever been associated with him in any enterprise whatever! Until then it was necessary for the banker to remain under his thumb!

“Silas,” continued Sarcany, “we have been unfortunate to-day; chance was against us. To-morrow it will be for us!”

“And if I lose the little that is left?” answered Toronthal, who struggled in vain against these deplorable suggestions.

“There is still Sava, Toronthal!” answered Sarcany quickly. “She is an ace of trumps, and you can not overtrump her!”

“Yes! To-morrow! to-morrow!” said the banker, who was just in that mental condition in which a gambler would risk his head.

The two then entered their hotel, which was situated half-way down the road from Monte Carle to La Condamine.

The port of Monaco lies between Point Forcinana and Fort Antoine, and is an open bay exposed to the north-east and south-east winds. It rounds off between the rock on which stands the capital, and the plateau on which are the hotels and villas, at the foot of the superb Mount Agel, whose summit rising to 3600 feet towers boldly above the picturesque panorama of the Ligurian coast. The town has a population of some 1200 inhabitants, and is situated on the rock of Monaco, surrounded on three of its sides by the sea. It lies hidden beneath the never-fading verdure of palms, pomegranates, sycamores, pear-trees orange-trees, citron-trees, eucalyptuses, and arborescent bushes of geraniums, aloes, myrtles, lentisks and palmachristis heaped all over the place in marvelous confusion.

At the other side of the harbor Monte Carlo faces the tiny capital, with its curious pile of houses, built on all the ledges, its zigzags of narrow climbing roads running up to the Corniche suspending in mid-mountain its chessboard of gardens in perpetual bloom, its panorama of cottages of every shape, its villas of every style, of which some seem actually to hang over the limpid waters of this Mediterranean bay.

Between Monaco and Monte Carlo at the back of the harbor from the beach up to the throat of the winding valley which divides the group of mountains is a third city, La Condamine.

Above to the right rises a large mountain, whose profile, turned toward the sea, had gained it the name of Dog’s Head. On this head there is now a fort which is said to be impregnable, and which has the honor to be French. For it marks the limit on that side of the principality of Monaco.

From La Condamine to Monte Carlo vehicles have to ascend a superb hill, at the upper end of which are the private houses and the hotels, in one of which were now staying Toronthal and Sarcany. From the windows of their apartment the view extended from La Condamine to beyond Monaco, and was only stopped by the Dog’s Head, which seemed to be interrogating the Mediterranean as the Sphynx does the Lybian Desert.

Sarcany and Toronthal had retired to their rooms. There they examined the situation, each from his own point of view. Had the vicissitudes of fortune broken the community of interests which for fifteen years had bound them so closely together?

Sarcany when he entered had found a letter addressed to him. It came from Tetuan, and he hastily tore it open.

In a few lines Namir told him of the two things that interested him deeply. The first was the death of Carpena, drowned in the harbor of Ceuta under such extraordinary circumstances; the second was the appearance of Dr. Antekirtt on the Moorish coast, the way in which he had dealt with the Spaniard, and then his immediate disappearance.

Having read the letter, Sarcany opened the window. Leaning on the balcony he looked into space and set himself to think.

“Carpena dead? Nothing could be more opportune! Now his secrets are drowned with him! On that side I am at ease! Nothing more to fear there!”

Then coming to the second passage of his letter: “As to the appearance of Dr. Antekirtt at Ceuta, that is more serious! Who is this man? It would not matter much after all if I had not found him for some time more or less mixed up in my concerns! At Ragusa his interviews with the Bathory family! At Catania, the trap he laid for Zirone! At Ceuta, this interference, which has cost the life of Carpena! Then he is very near Tetuan, but it does not seem that he has gone there, nor that he has discovered Sava’s retreat. That would be the most terrible blow, and it may yet come! We shall see if we can not keep him off, not only in the future, but in the present. The Senousists will soon be masters of all the Cyrenaic, and there is only an arm of the sea to cross to get at Antekirtta! If they must be urged on — I know well.”

It is evident that Sarcany’s horizon was not without its black spots. In the dark schemes which he followed out step by step in face of the object he had set himself and which he had almost attained, he might stumble over the very smallest stone in his path, and perhaps never get up again. Not only was this intervention of Dr. Antekirtt enough to unsettle him, but the position of Toronthal was also beginning to cause him anxiety.

“Yes,” he said to himself, “we are in a corner! To-morrow we must stake everything! Either the bank goes, or we go! If I am ruined by his ruin. I know how to recoup myself! But for Silas it is different. He may become dangerous, he may talk, he may let out the secret on which all my future rests! I have been his master up to now, but he may become my master!”

The position was exactly as Sarcany had described it. He was under no mistake as to the moral courage of his accomplice. He had his lesson before; Silas Toronthal when he had nothing to lose, would only use him to make money out of him.

Sarcany pondered over what was best to be done. Absorbed in his reflections he did not see what was happening at the entrance to the harbor of Monaco a few hundred feet beneath him.

About a half cable-length away a long hull without mast or funnel, came gliding through the waves. Altogether, it did not show for more than three feet above the water level. Soon after, gradually nearing Point Focinana, it slipped into smoother water near the beach. Then there shot off from it a little boat, which had appeared like an incrustation on the side of the almost invisible hull. Three men were in the boat. In a few strokes of the sculls they reached the shore, two of them landed, and the third took back the boat. A few minutes afterward the mysterious craft, which had not betrayed its presence either by light or sound, was lost in the darkness, and had left no trace of its passage.

The two men as soon as they had left the beach went along by the edge of the rocks toward the railway station, and then went up the Avenue des Spelugues, which runs around the gardens of Monte Carlo.

Sarcany bad seen nothing of this. His thoughts were far away from Monaco — at Tetuan. But he would not go there alone, he would compel his accomplice to go with him.

“Silas my master!” he repeated. “Silas able to checkmate me with a word! Never! If to-morrow the game does not give us back what it has taken away from us, 1 shall be obliged to make him follow me! Yes! To follow me to Tetuan, and then on the coast of Morocco, if Silas Toronthal gives trouble, Silas Toronthal will disappear!”

As we know, Sarcany was not the man to recoil at one crime more, particularly when circumstances, the distance of the country, the wildness of the inhabitants, and the impossibility of seeking and finding the criminal, rendered its accomplishment so easy.

Having decided on his plans, Sarcany shut the window, went to bed, and was soon asleep without being in the least troubled by his conscience.

It was not so with Toronthal. He passed a horrible night. Of his former fortune what had he left? Hardly 200,000 francs — and these were to be squandered in play. It was the last throw! So his accomplice wished, and so he himself wished. His enfeebled brain, filled with chimerical calculations, was no longer able to reason coolly nor justly. He was even incapable, at this moment at least, of understanding his real position with regard to Sarcany. He could not see that the parts had shifted, and that he who had been the victor was in turn the vanquished. He only saw the present with its immediate ruin, and only dreamed of the morrow which might float him again or plunge him into the depths of misery.

Thus passed the night for the two associates. One was permitted to spend it in repose, the other to struggle with all the anguish of insomnia.

In the morning about ten o’clock Sarcany joined Toronthal. The banker was seated before a table, covering the pages of his note-book with figures and formulae.

“Well, Silas,” said he in a careless tone the tone of a man who would not assign more importance to the world’s miseries than he could help — “well, Silas, in your dreams did you give the preference to the red or the black?”

“I did not sleep a wink!” replied the banker.

“So much the worse, Silas, so much the worse. To-day you must be cool, and a few hours of repose were what you wanted. Look at me! I have had a little, and I am in the best condition to struggle with Fortune! She is a woman after all, and she loves best the men who can command her.”

“She has betrayed us all the same!”

“Bah! Merely caprice! And the caprice will pass, and she will smile on us!”

Toronthal made no reply. Did he even understand what Sarcany had said to him, while his eyes were fixed on the pages of his note-book and the useless combinations?

“What are you doing there?” asked Sarcany. “Tips? Diddles! Tut-tut. You are ill, Silas! You can’t mix up mathematics and luck; it is luck alone we want to-day!”

“Be it so!” said Toronthal, shutting up his book.

“Eh! 0f course, Silas! I only know one way to go to work,” said Sarcany, ironically. “But to do that we must have made special studies — and our education has been neglected on that point! Then stick to chance! She stuck to the bank yesterday! She may desert it to-day! And if she does, she’ll give back all she took!”

“All!”

“Yes, all, Silas! But don’t be cast down! Cheer up and keep cool!”

“And to-night if we are ruined?” asked the banker, looking straight at Sarcany.

“Well, we’ll clear out of Monaco.”

“Where to?” exclaimed Toronthal. “Cursed be the day I knew you, Sarcany! Cursed be the day I employed you! I should never have been where I am if it had not been for you!”

“It is too late to abuse me, my dear fellow, and it is not quite the thing to quarrel with people who are going to help you.”

“Be careful!” said the banker.

“I am careful,” said Sarcany.

And Toronthal’s threat confirmed him in his scheme to put it out of his power to injure him.

“My dear Silas,” he continued, “do not worry yourself! Why should you? It excites your nerves, and you must not be nervous to-day! Have confidence and don’t despair about me! If unfortunately the deveine goes against us think of the other millions that are waiting for me, in which you will share.”

“Yes! Yes! I must have my revenge!” said Toronthal with the gambler’s instinct. “The bank was too lucky yesterday — and to-night — “

“To-night we shall be rich, very rich,” said Sarcany. “And I engage that we shall get back all we have lost! And then we shall leave Monte Carlo! And start for — “

“For where?”

“For Tetuan, where we have another part to play! And that the finest and the best!”

CHAPTER XVI.

THE LAST STAKE.

The salon of the Cercle des Etrangers — otherwise the Casino — had been open since eleven o’clock. The number of players was still few, but some of the roulette tables were already in operation.

The equilibrium of these tables had previously been rectified, it being important that their horizontality should be perfect. In fact the slightest flaw affecting the movements of the ball thrown into the turning cylinder would be remarked and utilized to the detriment of the bank. At each of the six tables of roulette 16,000 francs in gold, silver, and notes had been placed; on each of the two tables of trente-et-quarante 150,000. This is the usual stake of the bank during the season, and it is very seldom that the administration has to replenish the starting fund. Except with a draw game or a zero the bank must win — and it always wins. The game is immoral in itself; but it is more than that, it is stupid, for its conditions are unfair.

Round each of the roulette tables are eight croupiers, rake in hand, occupying the places reserved for them. By their side, sitting or standing, are the players and spectators. In the saloons the inspectors stroll to and fro, watching the croupiers and the stakes, while the waiters move about for the service of the public and the administration, which employs not less than 150 people to look after the tables.

About half past twelve the train from Nice brings its customary contingent of players. To-day they were, perhaps, rather numerous. The series of seventeen for the rouge had produced its natural result. It was a new attraction, and all who worshiped chance came to follow its vicissitudes with increased ardor.

An hour afterward the rooms had filled. The talk was chiefly of that extraordinary run, but it was carried on in subdued voices. In these immense rooms with their prodigality of gilding, their wealth of ornamentation, the luxury of their furniture, the profusion of the lusters that poured forth their floods of gaslight, to say nothing ot the long pendent from which the green-shaded oil-lamps more especially illuminated the gaming-tables, the dominating sound, notwithstanding the crowd of visitors, was not that of conversation; it was the clatter and chinking of the gold and siver pieces as they were counted or thrown on the table, the rustling of the bank-notes, and the incessant “Rouge gagne et couleur,” or “dixsept, noir, impair et manque” in the indifferent voices of the chiefs of the parties and a very sad sound it was!

Two of the losers who had been among the most prominent the evening before had not yet appeared in the saloons. Already some of the players were following the different chances, endeavoring to tap the run of luck, some at roulette, others at trente-et-quarante. But the altercations of gain and loss seemed to be pretty equal, and it did not look as though the phenomenon of the night before would be repeated.

It was not till three o’clock that Sarcany and Toronthal entered the Casino. Before entering the gaming-room, they took a stroll in the hall, where they were the object of a little public curiosity. The crowd looked at them and watched them, and wondered if they would again try a struggle with this chance which had cost them so dear. Several of the profession would willingly have taken advantage of the occasion to favor them with infallible dodges — for a consideration — had they seemed more accessible. The banker, with a wild look in his eyes, did not seem to notice what was passing around him. Sarcany was cooler and firmer than ever. Both shrunk for a time from trying their last stake.

Among the people who were watching him with that special curiosity accorded chiefly to patients or convicts, there was one stranger, who seemed resolved never to lose sight of them. He was a knowing-looking young man of about three-and-twenty, with a thin face and pointed nose — one of those noses that seem to look at you. His eyes, of singular vivacity, were sheltered behind spectacles merely of preserved glass. As if he had live money in his veins, he kept his hands in his coat pocket to prevent their gesticulating, and he kept his feet close together in the first position, to make sure of remaining in his place. He was fashionably dressed, without any sacrifices to the latest exigencies of dandyism, and he gave himself no airs — but probably felt very ill at ease in his well-fitting clothes. For the young man — there could be no doubt about it — was nobody else but Point Pescade.

Outside, in the gardens, Cape Matifou was in attendance. The person on whose behalf these two had come on a special mission to this heaven or hell of Monte Carlo was Dr. Antekirtt.

The vessel that had dropped them the night before at Monte Carlo point was “Electric No. 2,” of the flotilla of Antekirtta, and this was their object:

Two days after the kidnapping on board the “Ferrato” Carpena had been brought ashore and in spite of his protests imprisoned in one of the casemates on the island. There he found that he had only changed one prison for another. Instead of being in the penitentiary of Ceuta, he was, although he knew it not, in the power of Dr. Antekirtt. Where was he? He could not tell. Had he gained by the change? He wondered much, and not without anxiety. He resolved at any rate to do all he could to improve his position.

And to the first question propounded by the doctor he replied with the utmost frankness.

Did he know Silas Toronthal and Sarcany?

Toronthal, no; Sarcany, yes; but he had only seen him at rare intervals.

Had Sarcany been in communication with Zirone and his band while they were in the neighborhood of Catania?

Yes; Sarcany was expected in Sicily, and he would certainly have come if it had not been for the unfortunate expedition which ended in the death of Zirone.

Where was he now?

At Monte Carlo, at least unless he had left that town, where he had been living for some time, and very likely with Silas Toronthal.

Carpena knew no more. But what he had just told the doctor was sufficient information for a fresh campaign.

Of course, the Spaniard did not know what object the doctor had in helping him to escape from Ceuta and carrying him off; he did not know that his treachery to Andrea Ferrato was known to him who interrogated him, and he did not know that Luigi was the son of the fisherman of Rovigno. In his casemate he was as strictly guarded as he had been in the penitentiary at Ceuta, without being able to communicate with any one until his fate had been decided.

One, then, of the three traitors who had brought about the sanguinary collapse of the conspiracy of Trieste was in the hands of the doctor. There were the other two still to be seized, and Carpena had just told where they could be found.

As the doctor was known to Toronthal, and Pierre was known to Toronthal and Sarcany, it seemed best for them not to appear until they could do so with some chance of success. But now they were on the track of the accomplices, it was important not to lose sight of them until circumstances favored the attack. And so Point Pescade, to follow them wherever they went, and Cape Matifou, to lend the strong hand when needed, were sent to Monaco, where the doctor, Pierre, and Luigi would come in the “Ferrato” as soon as they were wanted.

As soon as they arrived they set to work. They had no difficulty in discovering the hotel in which Toronthal and Sarcany had taken up their quarters. While Cape Matifou walked about the neighborhood till the evening, Point Pescade kept watch. He saw the two friends come out at about one o’clock in the afternoon. It seemed that the banker was much depressed and spoke little, while Sarcany was particularly lively. During the morning Pescade had heard what had happened the previous evening in the saloons of the Cercle, that is to say, of that extraordinary series which had made so many victims, among the chief of whom were Toronthal and Sarcany. He therefore assumed that their conversation was about that curious piece of bad luck. In addition he had learned how these two men had been heavy losers for some time, and he also assumed that they had almost exhausted their funds, and that the time was coming when the doctor could usefully intervene.

This information was contained in a telegram which Pescade, without mentioning names, sent off during the morning to Malta, whence it was forwarded by private wire to Antekirtta.

When Sarcany and Toronthal entered the hall of the Casino, Pescade followed them; and when they entered the gaming-saloons he was close behind.

It was then three o’clock in the afternoon. The play was growing animated. The banker and his companion first strolled round the rooms. For a minute or so they stopped at different tables and watched the game, but took no part in it.

Point Pescade strolled about among the spectators, but did not lose sight of them. He even thought it best, so as to disarm suspicion, to risk a few five-franc pieces on the columns and dozens of roulette, and, as was proper, he lost them — with the most exemplary coolness. But he did not avail himself of the excellent advice given him in confidence by a professor of great merit.

“To succeed, sir, you should study to lose the small stakes and win the big ones. That is the secret!”

Four o’clock struck, and then Sarcany and Toronthal thought the time had come for them to try their luck. There were several vacant places at one of the roulette-tables. They seated themselves, facing each other, and the chief of the table soon saw himself surrounded not only by players, but by spectators eager to assist at the revenge of the famous losers of the night before. Quite naturally, Pescade found himself in the front rank of the spectators, and he was not one of those least interested m the vicissitudes of the battle.

For the first hour the chances seemed about equal. To divide them better, Toronthal and Sarcany played independently of each other. They staked separately and won a few large amounts, sometimes on simple combinations, sometimes on multiple combinations, and sometimes on many combinations at once. Luck decided neither for nor against them, but between four and six o clock it seemed to be running in their favor. At roulette the maximum is six thousand francs, and this they gained several times on full numbers.

Toronthal’s hands shook as he stretched them across table to stake his money, or as he snatched from under the rake the gold and notes of the croupiers. Sarcany was quite master of himself, and his countenance gave no sign of his emotions. He contented himself with encouraging his companion with his looks, and it was Toronthal whom chance then followed with most constancy.

Point Pescade, although rather dazzled by the constant movement of the gold and notes, kept close watch on them, and wondered if they would be prudent enough to keep the wealth which was growing under their hands and if they would stop in time. Then the thought occured to him that if they had that good sense — which he doubted — they would leave Monte Carlo and fly to some other corner of Europe, where he would have to follow them. If money did not fail them they would not fall so easily into the power of Dr. Antekirtt.

“Certainly,” he thought, “in every way it will be better for them to get ruined, and I am very much mistaken if that scoundrel Sarcany is the man to stop once he is in the swim!”

Whatever were Pescade’s thoughts and fears, the luck did not abandon the two friends. Three times in fact they would have broken the bank if the chief of the table had not thrown in an additional 20,000 francs.

The strife was quite an event among the spectators, the majority of whom were in favor of the players. Was not this in revenge for the insolent series of rouge by which the administration had so largely profited during the previous evening?

At half past six, when they suspended their play, Toronthal and Sarcany had realized more than PS20,000. They rose and left the roulette table. Toronthal walked with uncertain step, as if he were slightly intoxicated, intoxicated with emotion and cerebral fatigue. His companion, impassible as ever, watched him, thinking if he would be tempted to escape with the money he had won and withdraw himself from his influence.

Without a word they passed through the hall, descended the peristyle, and walked toward their hotel.

Pescade followed them at a distance.

As he came out he saw near one of the kiosks in the garden Cape Matifou seated on a bench.

Point Pescade stepped up to him.

“Has the time come?” asked Matifou.

“What time?”

“To — to — “

“To come on the stage? No! not yet! You must wait at the wings! Have you had your dinner?”

“Yes.”

“My compliments to you! My stomach is in my heels — and that is not the place for a stomach! But I will get it up again if I have time! Do not move from here till I get back.”

And Pescade rushed off down the hill after Toronthal and Sarcany.

When he found that they were at dinner in their rooms he sat down at the table d’hote. He was only just in time, and in half an hour, as he said, he had brought back his stomach to the normal place that that organ occupies in the human machine.

Then he went out with a capital cigar in his mouth and took up his position opposite the hotel.

“Assuredly,” he said to himself, “I must have been made for a policeman! I have mistaken my profession!”

The question he then asked himself was: Were these gentlemen going back to the Casino this evening?

About eight o’clock they appeared at the hotel door.

Pescade saw and heard that they were in eager discussion.

Apparently the banker was trying to resist once more the entreaties and injunctions of his accomplice, for Sarcany in an imperious voice was heard to say:

“You must, Silas! I will have it so!”

They walked up the hill to the gardens of Monte Carlo. Point Pescade followed them without being able to overhear the rest of their conversation — much to his regret.

But this is what Sarcany was saying, in a tone which admitted of no reply by the banker, whose resistance was growing feebler every minute.

“To stop, Silas, when luck is with us is madness! You must have lost your head ! In the ‘deveine’ we faced our game like fools, and in the ‘veine’ we must face it like wise men. We have an opportunity, the only one perhaps, an opportunity that may never occur again, to be masters of our fate, masters of fortune, and by our own fault we shall let it escape us! Silas, do you not feel that luck — “

“If it is not exhausted,” said Toronthal.

“No! a hundred times no!” replied Sarcany. “It can not be explained, but it can be felt, and it thrills you even to your spinal cord! A million is waiting for us to-night on the Casino tables. Yes, a million, and I will not let it slip!”

“You play, then, Sarcany.”

“Me!. Play alone? No! Play with you, Silas? Yes; and if we have to choose between us, I will yield you my place. The ‘veine’ is personal, and it is manifest that to you it has returned. Play on then and win!”

In fact what Sarcany wished was that Toronthal should not be content with the few hundred thousand francs that would allow him to escape from his power; but that he would either become the millionaire he had been or be reduced to nothing. Rich, he would continue his former life. Ruined, he would have to follow Sarcany where he pleased. In either case he would be unable to injure him.

Resist as he might, Toronthal felt all the passions of the gambler rising within him. In the miserable abasement into which he had fallen he felt afraid to go, and at the same time longed to go back to the tables. Sarcany’s words set his blood on fire. Visible luck had declared in his favor, and during the last few hours with such constancy that it would be unpardonable to stop.

The madman! Like all gamblers he spoke in the present when he should have spoken only in the past! Instead of saying, “I have been lucky” — which was true — he said I am lucky — which was false. And in his brain, as in that of all who trust to chance, there was no other reasoning! They forget what was recently said by one of the greatest mathematicians of France, “Chance has its caprices, it has not its habits.”

Sarcany and Toronthal walked on to the Casino, followed by Pescade. There they stopped for a moment.

“Silas,” said Sarcany, “no hesitation! You have resolved to play, have you not?”

“Yes — resolved to risk everything for everything,” replied the banker, in whom all hesitation had ceased when he found himself on the steps of the peristyle.

“It is not for me to influence you,” continued Sarcany. “Trust to your own inspiration, not mine. It will not lead you astray. Are you going for roulette?”

“No — trente-et-quarante,” said Toronthal, as he entered the hall.

“You are right, Silas! Listen only to yourself. Roulette has almost given you a fortune! Trente-et-quarante will do the rest!”

They entered the saloons and walked round them. Ten minutes afterward Pescade saw them seat themselves at one of the trente-et-quarante tables.

There, in fact, they could play more boldly, for if the chances of the game are simple, the maximum is 12,000 francs, and a few passes can give considerable difference in gain or loss. Hence it is the favorite game with desperate players, and at it wealth and poverty can be made with a vertiginous rapidity sufficient to raise the envy of all the Stock Exchanges of the world.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE HOUSE OF SIDI HAZAM.

It was about nine o’clock. Musketry, music, shouting, all had suddenly ceased. The crowd had begun to disperse; some went back to Tripoli, others regained oasis of Menchie and the neighboring villages. In an hour the plain of Soung-Ettelate would be silent and empty. Tents would be folded up, camps would be raised, negroes and Berbers were already on the road to the different Tripolitan districts, while the Senousists were off toward the Cyrenaic, and more especially toward the vilayet of Ben Ghazi to join the concentration of the Caliph s forces.

The doctor, Pierre, and Luigi were the only people that did not leave the place during the night. Ready for all that might happen since the disappearance of Point Pescade, each of them had chosen his post of observation at the base of the walls of Sidi Hazam’s house.

Point Pescade had given a tremendous leap, as Matifou held the pole up at arm’s length, and fallen on the parapet of one of the terraces at the foot of the minaret which commanded the different court-yards of the house.

On that dark night no one within or without had noticed him. He was not even observed from the skifa in the court-yard, and in which there were a few Khouans, some of whom were asleep and some on the watch by order of the moquaddem.

Point Pescade, be it understood, had really no definite plan. The interior arrangement of the house was unknown to him and he did not know in what part the girl was detained, if she was alone or kept out of sight, or if he had sufficient strength to help her escape? Hence he must act a little at a venture, and this is what he thought: “Anyhow by force of stratagem, I must reach Sava Sandorf. If she can not come with me immediately, if I can not get her away to-night, she must be told that Pierre Bathory is alive; that be is here at the foot of these walls; that Doctor Antekirtt and his companions are ready to help her and that if her escape must be delayed she must not yield to any threats! I may, of course, be found out before I reach her! But then I must take care of that.”

Pescade’s first care was to unwind a slender, knotted cord that he had hidden under his clown’s dress. Then he tied one end of this around the angle of one of the battlements, and then over the other, so that it hung down to the ground. This was only a measure of precaution, a good one nevertheless. That done, Pescade, before going far, then lay down on his stomach. In this attitude, which prudence demanded, he waited without moving. If he had been seen, the terrace would soon be invaded by Sidi Hazam’s people, and then he would have to use the cord on his own account, instead of that of Sava Sandorf, as he intended.

Complete silence reigned in the moquaddem’s house. As neither Sidi Hazam, nor Sarcany, nor any of their people, had taken part in the Feast of the Storks, the door of the zaouiya had not been opened since sunrise.

After waiting some minutes, Point Pescade moved toward the angle from which arose the minaret. The staircase which led to the upper part of this minaret evidently ran down to the ground in the first court-yard. In fact, a door opening on to the terrace gave admission to the stairs leading to the rooms below.

This door was shut from the inside, not with a key, but with a bolt that it would be impossible to slip back from the outside unless a hole were made through the wood. This labor Point Pescade would have attempted, for he had in his pocket a many-bladed knife, a precious present from the doctor, of which he could make good use. But that would be a long and perhaps noisy task.

It was unnecessary. Three feet above the terrace a window in the form of a loop-hole opened in the minaret wall. If the window was small, Point Pescade was not large. Besides, was he not like a cat who can elongate herself to pass through where there seems to be no passage? And so he tried, and after some squeezing of the shoulders he found himself in the minaret.

“Cape Matifou could not have done that!” he thought.

Then feeling his way around, he returned to the door and unbolted it, so that it remained unfastened in case he had to return by the same road.

As he went down the winding stairs of the minaret, Point Pescade glided rather than stepped, so that his Weight would not cause the wooden stairs to creak. At the bottom he found a second door. It was shut, but he had only to push it for it to open.

The door opened on to a gallery of little columns, by which access was given to a certain number of rooms. After the complete darkness of the minaret the gallery seemed light to Pescade; but there was no light in the interior, and not a sound.

In the center of the court-yard was a basin of running water surrounded by large pots of shrubs, pepper-trees, palms, laurel roses, and cacti, the thick foliage forming a clump of verdure round the edge.

Point Pescade stole round this gallery like a wolf, stopping before each room. It seemed they were inhabited. Not all of them, however; but behind one of the doors he distinctly heard the murmur of a voice he knew.

He stepped back. It was Sarcany’s voice! The voice he had often heard at Ragusa; but, although he kept his ear to the door, he could near nothing of what was going on.

At this moment there suddenly came a loud noise, and Point Pescade had only just time to slip behind one of the flower pots round the water.

Sarcany came out of the room. An Arab of tall stature accompanied him. They continued their conversation, walking up and down the gallery of the court-yard.

Unfortunately Point Pescade could not understand what Sarcany and his companion were saying, for they were talking in that Arab tongue which he did not know. Two words he frequently heard, or rather two names. One of these was Sidi Hazam, for it was the moquaddem himself who was talking with Sarcany; the other was Antekirtta, which was mentioned several times during the conversation.

“That is strange,” thought Pescade. “Why are they talking about Antekirtta? Are Sidi Hazam, Sarcany, and all the pirates of Tripoli thinking of a campaign against an island? Confound it! And not to know the lingo these two rascals are using.”

And Point Pescade tried hard to catch another suspicious word, keeping himself well hid behind the flower-pots when Sarcany and Sidi Hazam came near. But the night was too dark for them to see him.

“And yet,” said he to himself “if Sarcany were alone in this court-yard I might have jumped at his throat, and put it out of his power to damage us. But that would not help Sava Sandorf, and it was for her I made that risky jump! Patience! Sarcany’s turn will come some day.”

The conversation between Sidi Hazam and Sarcany lasted about twenty minutes. The name of Sava was mentioned several times, with the qualification “arronee,” and Point Pescade remembered that, he had already heard the word, and that it meant betrothed in Arabic. Evidently the moquaddem knew of Sarcany’s projects, and was assisting him.

Then the two men retired through one of the doors in the angle of the court-yard which put this gallery in communication with the other parts of the house.

As soon as they had disappeared, Point Pescade glided along the gallery and stopped at this door. He had only to push it to find himself in a narrow corridor whose wall he felt his way along. At its end was a double arcade supported by a central column, and giving access to the second court-yard. A few bright lights from between the bays by which the skifa obtained its light from the court-yard were thrown in luminous sections on the earth, and at the moment it would not be prudent to cross them, for a noise of many voices was heard behind the door of this room.

Point Pescade hesitated a moment. What he sought was the room in which Sava was living, and he could only trust to chance to find it.

Suddenly a light appeared in the other end of the court-yard. A woman carrying an Arab lantern had just come out of the room in the far angle of the court-yard and turned along the gallery on to which the door of the skifa opened.

Point Pescade recognized her as Namir.

As it was possible that the Moor was going to the girl’s room, it was necessary to find the means of following her, and, in order to follow her, let her go by without her seeing him. The moment was decisive of the audacious attempt of Point Pescade and the fate of Sava Sandorf.

Namir came on. Her lantern swinging almost on the ground left the upper part of the gallery in as deep a gloom as the lower part was brightly lighted. And as she passed along the arcade Point Pescade did not know what to do.

A ray from the lantern, however, showed him that the upper part of the arcade was ornamented with open arabesques, in Moorish fashion.

To climb the central column, seize hold of one of these arabesques, draw himself up by main force, and crouch in the central oval, where he remained as motionless as a saint in a niche, was the work of a second.

Namir passed along the arcade without seeing him, and crossed to the opposite side of the gallery. Then, when she reached the door of the skifa, she opened it. A bright light shot across the court-yard, and was instantly extinguished as soon as the door was shut.

Point Pescade set himself to reflect, and where could he find a better position for reflection?

“That is Namir who has just gone into that room,” he said to himself. “It is evident she is not going to Sava Sandorf! But perhaps she came from her, and, in that case, her room will be that one in the angle over there — I will go and see!”

He waited a few minutes before he left his post. The light inside the skifa seemed to grow less, and the voices died out to a faint murmur. Doubtless the hour had come when Sidi Hazam’s household retired to rest. The circumstances were, therefore, more favorable for him, for that part of the habitation would be plunged in silence when the last light had gone out. And that was exactly what happened.

Pescade glided along the columns of the arcade, crept across the flags of the gallery, passed the door of the skifa, went round the end of the court-yard, and reached the angle near the room from which Namir had come. He opened the door, which was unlocked, and then, by the light of an Arab lamp, placed like a night-light beneath its shade, he gave a rapid glance round the room.

A few hangings suspended from the walls here and there, a stool of Moorish pattern, cushions piled in the angles, a double carpet on the mosaic floor, a low table, with the fragments of a meal, a divan covered with linen cloth — that was what he first saw.

He entered, and shut the door.

A woman, dozing rather than sleeping, was reclining on the divan, half covered in one of those burnouses with which the Arabs wrap themselves from head to foot.

It was Sava Sandorf.

Point Pescade had no difficulty in recognizing the young lady he had met so many times in the streets of Ragusa. How changed she seemed to be. Pale as she had been when in her wedding-carriage she had met the funeral procession of Pierre Bathory, her attitude and the expression of her face all told she had had to suffer.

There was not an instant to lose.

And in fact, as the door had not been locked, was not Namir coming back? Perhaps the Moor guarded her night and day! And if the girl could leave her room, how could she escape without help from the outside? Sidi Hazam’s house was walled like a prison.

Point Pescade bent over the divan. What was his astonishment at a resemblance which had never struck him before — the resemblance between Sava Sandorf and Dr. Antekirtt!

The girl opened her eyes.

In seeing a stranger standing near her in that fantastic dress of the acrobat, with his finger on his lips, and an appealing look in his eyes, she was at first bewildered rather than frightened. But she arose, and had sufficient coolness to make no sound.

“Silence!” said Point Pescade. “You have nothing to fear from me! I have come here to save you! Behind those walls your friends are waiting for you, friends who will give their lives to get you out of Sarcany’s hands! Pierre Bathory is alive — “

“Pierre — alive?” exclaimed Sava, restraining the beatings of her heart.

“Read!”

And Point Pescade gave the girl a letter, which contained these words —

“Sava, trust him who has risked his life to reach you! I am alive! I am here!

Pierre Bathory.”

Pierre was alive! He was at the foot of these walls! By what miracle? Sava would know later on! But Pierre was there.

“Let us escape!” she said.

“Yes! Let us escape,” answered Pescade. “But let us have all the chances on our side! One question, Is Namir accustomed to spend the night in this room?”

“No,” answered Sava.

“Does she take the precaution of locking you in when she is away?”

“Yes.”

“Then she will come back?”

“Yes! Let us go!”

“Now,” answered Pescade.

And first they must reach the staircase of the minaret to gain the terrace. Once they got there the rope that hung down outside would render escape easy.

“Come!” said Point Pescade, taking Sava’s hand.

And he was going to open the door when he heard steps coming along the gallery. At the same time a few words were pronounced in an imperious tone. Point Pescade recognized Sarcany’s voice. He stopped at the threshold.

“It is he!” whispered the girl. “You are lost if he finds you here!”

“He will not find me,” answered Pescade.

And throwing himself to the ground he then, by one of those acrobatic contortions he had often performed in sight of an audience, wrapped himself up in one of the carpets on the floor and rolled himself into the darkest corner of the room.

At the same moment the door opened to admit Sarcany and Namir, who shut it behind them.

Sava resumed her seat on the divan. Why had Sarcany come to her at that hour? Was this a new attempt to overcome her refusal? But Sava was strong now! She knew that Pierre Bathory was alive, that he was waiting outside.

Beneath the carpet which covered him Point Pescade, although he could not see, could hear everything.

“Sava,” said Sarcany, “to-morrow morning we are going to leave this for another residence. But I do not wish to leave here until you have consented to our marriage, until it has been celebrated. All is ready, and it is necessary that now — “

“Neither now nor later!” replied the girl, in a voice as cold as it was resolute.

“Sava,” continued Sarcany, as though he had not heard this reply, “in the interest of both of us, it is necessary that your consent should be free. In the interest of both of us; you understand?”

“We have not, and we never shall have, any interest in common.”

“Take care! I may remind you that you gave your consent at Ragusa.”

“For reasons which no longer exist.”

“Listen to me, Sava,” said Sarcany, whose apparent calm hid the most violent irritation; “this is the last time I shall ask you for your consent.”

“And I shall refuse it as long as I have strength to do so.”

“Well, that strength we will take away from you,” exclaimed Sarcany. “Do not drive me to extremes! Yes! the strength which you use against me Namir will take from you, and in spite of you if necessary. Do not resist me, Sava. The woman is here, ready to celebrate our marriage according to the custom of my own country. Follow me then!”

Sarcany advanced toward the girl, who quickly rose and stepped back to the end of the room.

“Scoundrel!” she exclaimed.

“You will come with me! You will come with me!” exclaimed Sarcany.

“Never!”

“Ah! Take care!”

And Sarcany, having seized the girl’s arm, was violently dragging her toward the skifa, with Namir’s help, where Sidi Hazam and the imam were waiting.

“Help! Help!” screamed Sava. “Help me — Pierre Bathory!”

“Pierre Bathory!” exclaimed Sarcany. “You are calling a dead man to your help!”

“No! He is alive! Help me — Pierre!”

The answer was so unexpected by Sarcany that he could not have been more frightened had he seen Pierre’s ghost. But he was himself again soon. Pierre alive! Pierre, whom he had stabbed with his own hand, and seen buried in the cemetery at Ragusa! In truth, it could only be the idea of a mad woman, and it was possible that Sava, in the excess of her despair, had lost her reason!

Point Pescade had heard all that passed. In telling Sarcany that Pierre was alive, Sava had staked her life, that was certain. And in case the scoundrel offered any violence, he so disposed his carpet as to be ready to appear on the scene instantly, knife in hand, and those who thought he would hesitate to strike did not know Point Pescade.

There was no necessity for him to do so. Sarcany abruptly dragged Namir out of the room. Then the key was turned in the lock while the girl’s fate was being decided.

At a bound Pescade had thrown off the carpet and was by her side.

“Come!” said he.

As the lock was inside the room, to unscrew it by means of his knife was neither a long, a difficult, nor a noisy job.

As soon as the door was opened, and then shut behind them, Pescade led the way along the gallery around the court-yard wall.

It was about half past eleven. A few beams of light filtered through the skifa’s bays. Pescade avoided crossing them on his way to the passage that led to the first court-yard.

They reached the passage and went along it; but when they were only a few yards from the minaret staircase Pescade suddenly stopped, and held back Sava, whose hand his had never left.

Three men were talking in this first court-yard by the side of the water. One of them — it was Sidi Hazam — was giving orders to the others. Almost immediately they disappeared up the minaret staircase, while the moquaddem went into one of the lateral chambers. Pescade perceived that Sidi Hazam had sent the men to watch the neighborhood, and that when he and the girl appeared on the terrace, it would be occupied and guarded.

“We must risk it, however,” said Point Pescade.

“Yes. Everything!” replied Sava.

Then they crossed the gallery and reached the staircase, which they mounted with extreme care. Then when Point Pescade had reached the upper landing he stopped.

No sound on the terrace, not even a sentinel’s step!

Point Pescade quietly opened the door, and followed by Sava he glided along the battlements.

Suddenly a shout came from the minaret above from one of the men on guard. At the same moment the other jumped on Pescade, while Namir rushed on to the terrace, and the whole household came hurrying across the court-yard.

Would Sava allow herself to be retaken? No! To be retaken by Sarcany was to be lost! A hundred times would she prefer death!

With a prayer to God the brave girl ran to the parapet, and, without hesitation, leaped from the terrace.

Pescade had not even time to interfere; but throwing off the man that held him, he caught hold of the rope and in a second was at the foot of the wall.

“Sava! Sava!” he shouted.

“Here is the young lady!” said a familiar voice, “and no bones broken! I was just in the way — “

A shout of fury, followed by a heavy thud, cut short Cape Matifou’s speech.

Namir, in a moment of rage, unwilling to abandon the prey that was escaping her, would have been smashed to pieces if two strong arms had not caught her as she fell.

Dr. Antekirtt, Pierre and Luigi had rejoined Cape Matifou and Point Pescade, who were running toward the shore. Although Sava had fainted, she weighed almost nothing in the arms of her rescuer.

A few minutes afterward Sarcany, with a score of armed men, came out in pursuit of the fugitives.

When he reached the creek where the “Electric” had been waiting, the doctor and his companions were already on board, and in a few turns of the screw the swift vessel Was out of range.

Sava, alone with the doctor and Pierre, soon regained her consciousness. She learned that she was the daughter of Count Mathias Sandorf! She was in her father’s arms!

CHAPTER XXVII.

JUSTICE.

Count Mathias Sandorf had paid his debt of gratitude to Maria and Luigi Ferrato, Mme. Bathory, Pierre, and Sava were at last reunited. After the reward came the punishment.

For some days following the defeat of the Senousists the colonists were actively employed in repairing damages. With the exception of a few trifling scars Pierre, Luigi, Point Pescade, and Cape Matifou — that is to say, all those who had been most intimately connected with the events of this drama — were safe and sound. That they had not spared themselves, however, needs no affirmation.

Great, therefore, was the rejoicing when they met together in the Stadthaus with Sava Sandorf, Maria Ferrato, Mme. Bathory, and her old servant Borik. After the funeral of those who had fallen in battle the little colony resumed its happy existence. Its future would be free from trouble. The defeat of the Senousists had been overwhelming, and Sarcany, who had persuaded them to undertake this campaign against Antekirtta, would no longer be with them to fan the flame of hatred and vengeance.

The doctor proposed completing his system of defense without delay. Not only would Artenak be promptly rendered secure from a sudden surprise, but the island itself would nowhere afford a landing-place. And it was intended to invite thither a few more colonists, to whom the fertility of the soil would prove an attraction and a guarantee of well-being.

Meanwhile no further obstacle existed to the marriage of Pierre and Sava. The ceremony had been fixed for the 9th of December; and it would take place on that date. And so Point Pescade was particularly busy with the preparations that had been interrupted by the invasion of the pirates from the Cyrenaic.

And now without delay the fate of Sarcany, Toronthal, and Carpena was to be decided.

On the 6th of December, two days after the retreat of the Senousists, the doctor ordered them to be brought to the Stadthaus. The prisoners were unaware of each other’s presence on the island, and for the first time found themselves together, when, under guard of a detachment of militia, they came before the tribunal of Artenak, presided over by the chief magistrate of Antekirtta.

Carpena appeared uneasy; but having lost nothing of his sneakish look, he merely threw furtive glances to the right and left of him, and dared not lift his eyes to his judges.

Toronthal seemed quite cast down, and bowed his head, and instinctively avoided the touch of his old accomplice.

Sarcany had only one feeling — he was furious at having fallen into the hands of this Dr. Antekirtt.

Luigi advanced toward the judges, and began by addressing the Spaniard.

“Carpena,” said he, “I am Luigi Ferrato, the son of the fisherman at Rovigno, whom you informed against and sent to prison at Stein, where he died.”

Carpena drew himself up for an instant. A paroxysm of anger sent the blood to his eyes. Then it was Maria whom he had recognized in the lanes of the Manderaggio, and it was her brother Luigi who thus accused him.

Pierre then advanced, and at first pointing to the banker, he said:

“Silas Toronthal, I am Pierre Bathory, the son of Stephen Bathory, the Hungarian patriot, whom you, with your accomplice Sarcany, most shamefully betrayed to the Austrian police at Trieste, and sent to death!”

Then to Sarcany he said:

“I am Pierre Bathory, whom you tried to assassinate in the road at Ragusa. I am the intended husband of Sava, the daughter of Count Mathias Sandorf, whom you stole fifteen years ago from the Castle of Artenak!”

Toronthal was struck as by a crowbar, when he recognized Pierre Bathory, who he thought was dead.

Sarcany stood with crossed arms, and except for a slight trembling of his eyelids, retained his impudent immobility.

Neither Toronthal nor Sarcany said a word in reply. And what could they say to their victim, who seemed to have risen from the tomb to accuse them?

But it was quite another thing when Dr. Antekirtt rose in his turn, and said in a grave voice:

“And I, I am the companion of Ladislas Zathmar and Stephen Bathory, whom your treachery caused to be shot in the donjon of Pisino! I am the father of Sava, whom you stole to get possession of her fortune! I am Count Mathias Sandorf!”

This time the effect of the declaration was such that the knees of Silas Toronthal bent to the ground, while Sarcany crouched down as if he would sink into himself.

Then the three accused were examined one after the other. Their crimes they could not deny, and for their crimes no pardon was possible. The chief magistrate reminded Sarcany that the attack on the island, undertaken in his own personal interest, had made many victims whose blood cried out for vengeance. Then having given the accused full liberty to reply, he gave sentence conformably to the right given him by this regularly constituted jurisdiction.

“Silas Toronthal, Sarcany, and Carpena, you have caused the deaths of Stephen Bathory, Ladislas Zathmar, and Andrea Ferrato! You are sentenced to death!”

“Whenever you like!” replied Sarcany, whose impudence again asserted itself.

“Pardon!” cried Carpena.

Toronthal had not the strength to speak.

The three were taken away to the casemates and there kept under guard.

How were these scoundrels to die? Were they to be shot in some corner of the island? That would be to defile the soil of Antekirtta with the blood of traitors! And it was decided that the execution should take place at Kencraf.

That evening one of the “Electrics,” commanded by Luigi Ferrato, took the prisoners on board and bore them off to the island, where they were to wait till sunrise for the firing-party.

Sarcany, Toronthal, and Carpena saw that their time had come; and, when they had been landed, Sarcany went up to Luigi, and asked him:

“Is it to be this evening?”

Luigi made no reply. The three doomed men were left there all alone, and night had fallen when the “Electric” returned to Antekirtta.

The island was now free from the presence of the traitors. That they could escape from Kencraf, which was twenty miles away from the mainland, was impossible.

“Before to-morrow,” said Point Pescade, “they will have eaten each other!”

“Porrao!” said Cape Matifou in disgust.

The night passed at the Stadthaus. Count Sandorf had not a moment’s repose. Locked in his room, he did not leave it until four o’clock in the morning, when he descended to the hall to meet Pierre and Luigi, who were immediately summoned.

A file of militia was waiting in the court-yard of the Stadthaus under orders to embark for Kencraf.

“Pierre Bathory, Luigi Ferrato,” said Count Sandorf, “have these traitors been justly condemned to die?”

“Yes, they deserve it,” answered Pierre.

“Yes,” replied Luigi, “and the scoundrels deserve no mercy.”

“Then let justice be done, and may God give the pardon that man can not — “

He had scarcely finished speaking when a fearful explosion shook the Stadthaus, and the whole of the island as if an earthquake had taken place.

Count Sandorf and his companions rushed out and the whole population in terror came streaming into the streets of Artenak.

An immense sheaf of flame, with enormous masses of rock and showers of stones, was blazing to a prodigious height toward the sky. Then the masses fell back round the islet, raining huge waves in the sea, and a thick cloud remained suspended in space.

Not a trace was left of the islet of Kencraf nor of the three men whom the explosion had annihilated.

What then had happened?

It will not have been forgotten that the island had been mined in preparation for the landing of the Senousists, and that in case the submarine cable which united it to Antekirtta were put out of action, certain electric batteries had been buried in the ground, so that the wires had only to be pressed by the feet to be brought in contact and fire the fougasses of panclastile.

What had happened was this. By chance one of the doomed men had trodden on these wires. And hence the complete and instantaneous destruction of the islet.

“Heaven has spared us the horrors of an execution!” said Count Sandorf.

*

Three days afterward the marriage of Pierre and Sava was duly celebrated at the church of Artenak. On that occasion Dr. Antekirtt signed his real name of Mathias Sandorf; which he would never again lay down, now justice had been done.

A few words will suffice to finish our story.

Three weeks afterward Sava Bathory was recognized as the heiress of the Sandorf property. The letter from Mme. Toronthal and a declaration obtained from the banker, in which the circumstances and the object of her being stolen were duly set forth, proved sufficient to establish her identity. As Sava was not yet eighteen all that remained of the Carpathian estates in Transylvania came back to her.

Count Sandorf himself could, if he had so chosen, have entered into possession of this property under an amnesty which had been issued in favor of political prisoners. But if he returned to public life as Mathias Sandorf he could not remain chief of the great family of Antekirtta. And he wished to pass his life among those who loved him.

The little colony, thanks to his renewed efforts, began to flourish exceedingly. In less than a year it had doubled its population. Scientists and inventors, invited thither by Count Sandorf, had come to make good use of discoveries that would have remained barren without his advice, and the wealth of which he was the master. And so Antekirtta would soon become the most important place in the Syrtic Sea, and with the accomplishment of its defensive system its security would become absolute.

Of Mme. Bathory, Maria and Luigi Ferrato, and of Pierre and Sava, we need say no more; who does not feel that their lives were happy? Nor need we say more about Point Pescade and Matifou, who were now, perhaps, the most famous colonists of Antekirtta.

If they regretted anything it was that they had no more occasion to display their devotion to him to whom they owed their happy existence.

Count Sandorf had accomplished his task, and had it not been for the remembrance of his two companions, Stephen Bathory and Ladislas Zathmar, he would have been as happy as a generous man can be on this earth when he is doing good around him.

In the whole Mediterranean, in all the other seas of the globe — even in the Fortunate Islands — we may seek in vain for an island whose prosperity rivals that of Antekirtta!

And when Cape Matifou, in the exuberance of his good fortune, thought fit to say — “Do you think we deserve to be so happy?” Point Pescade replied —

“No, my Cape! I don’t! But what can you do? Shall we resign?”

ROBUR THE CONQUEROR

Anonymous translation, 1887

This novel was first published in 1886. The narrative begins with strange lights and sounds reported in the skies all over the world. The events are capped by the mysterious appearance of black flags with gold suns atop tall historic landmarks such as the Statue of Liberty in New York, the Great Pyramid of Giza in Egypt, and the Eiffel Tower in Paris.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

MYSTERIOUS SOUNDS

CHAPTER II

AGREEMENT IMPOSSIBLE

CHAPTER III

A VISITOR IS ANNOUNCED

CHAPTER IV

IN WHICH A NEW CHARACTER APPEARS

CHAPTER V

ANOTHER DISAPPEARANCE

CHAPTER VI

THE PRESIDENT AND SECRETARY SUSPEND HOSTILITIES

CHAPTER VII

ON BOARD THE ALBATROSS

CHAPTER VIII

THE BALLOONISTS REFUSE TO BE CONVINCED

CHAPTER IX

ACROSS THE PRAIRIE

CHAPTER X

WESTWARD — BUT WHITHER?

CHAPTER XI

THE WIDE PACIFIC

CHAPTER XII

THROUGH THE HIMALAYAS

CHAPTER XIII

OVER THE CASPIAN

CHAPTER XIV

THE AERONEF AT FULL SPEED

CHAPTER XV

A SKIRMISH IN DAHOMEY

CHAPTER XVI

OVER THE ATLANTIC

CHAPTER XVII

THE SHIPWRECKED CREW

CHAPTER XVIII

OVER THE VOLCANO

CHAPTER XIX

ANCHORED AT LAST

CHAPTER XX

THE WRECK OF THE ALBATROSS

CHAPTER XXI

THE INSTITUTE AGAIN

CHAPTER XXII

THE GO-AHEAD IS LAUNCHED

CHAPTER XXIII

THE GRAND COLLAPSE

CHAPTER I

MYSTERIOUS SOUNDS

BANG! Bang!

The pistol shots were almost simultaneous. A cow peacefully grazing fifty yards away received one of the bullets in her back. She had nothing to do with the quarrel all the same.

Neither of the adversaries was hit.

Who were these two gentlemen? We do not know, although this would be an excellent opportunity to hand down their names to posterity. All we can say is that the elder was an Englishman and the younger an American, and both of them were old enough to know better.

So far as recording in what locality the inoffensive ruminant had just tasted her last tuft of herbage, nothing can be easier. It was on the left bank of Niagara, not far from the suspension bridge which joins the American to the Canadian bank three miles from the falls.

The Englishman stepped up to the American.

“I contend, nevertheless, that it was ‘Rule Britannia!’”

“And I say it was ‘Yankee Doodle!’” replied the young American.

The dispute was about to begin again when one of the seconds — doubtless in the interests of the milk trade — interposed.

“Suppose we say it was ‘Rule Doodle’ and ‘Yankee Britannia’ and adjourn to breakfast?”

This compromise between the national airs of Great Britain and the United States was adopted to the general satisfaction. The Americans and Englishmen walked up the left bank of the Niagara on their way to Goat Island, the neutral ground between the falls. Let us leave them in the presence of the boiled eggs and traditional ham, and floods enough of tea to make the cataract jealous, and trouble ourselves no more about them. It is extremely unlikely that we shall again meet with them in this story.

Which was right; the Englishman or the American? It is not easy to say. Anyhow the duel shows how great was the excitement, not only in the new but also in the old world, with regard to an inexplicable phenomenon which for a month or more had driven everybody to distraction.

Never had the sky been so much looked at since the appearance of man on the terrestrial globe. The night before an aerial trumpet had blared its brazen notes through space immediately over that part of Canada between Lake Ontario and Lake Erie. Some people had heard those notes as “Yankee Doodle,” others had heard them as “Rule Britannia,” and hence the quarrel between the Anglo-Saxons, which ended with the breakfast on Goat Island. Perhaps it was neither one nor the other of these patriotic tunes, but what was undoubted by all was that these extraordinary sounds had seemed to descend from the sky to the earth.

What could it be? Was it some exuberant aeronaut rejoicing on that sonorous instrument of which the Renommee makes such obstreperous use?

No! There was no balloon and there were no aeronauts. Some strange phenomenon had occurred in the higher zones of the atmosphere, a phenomenon of which neither the nature nor the cause could be explained. Today it appeared over America; forty-eight hours afterwards it was over Europe; a week later it was in Asia over the Celestial Empire.

Hence in every country of the world — empire, kingdom, or republic — there was anxiety which it was important to allay. If you hear in your house strange and inexplicable noises, do you not at once endeavor to discover the cause? And if your search is in vain, do you not leave your house and take up your quarters in another? But in this case the house was the terrestrial globe! There are no means of leaving that house for the moon or Mars, or Venus, or Jupiter, or any other planet of the solar system. And so of necessity we have to find out what it is that takes place, not in the infinite void, but within the atmospherical zones. In fact, if there is no air there is no noise, and as there was a noise — that famous trumpet, to wit — the phenomenon must occur in the air, the density of which invariably diminishes, and which does not extend for more than six miles round our spheroid.

Naturally the newspapers took up the question in their thousands, and treated it in every form, throwing on it both light and darkness, recording many things about it true or false, alarming and tranquillizing their readers — as the sale required — and almost driving ordinary people mad. At one blow party politics dropped unheeded — and the affairs of the world went on none the worse for it.

But what could this thing be? There was not an observatory that was not applied to. If an observatory could not give a satisfactory answer what was the use of observatories? If astronomers, who doubled and tripled the stars a hundred thousand million miles away, could not explain a phenomenon occurring only a few miles off, what was the use of astronomers?

The observatory at Paris was very guarded in what it said. In the mathematical section they had not thought the statement worth noticing; in the meridional section they knew nothing about it; in the physical observatory they had not come across it; in the geodetic section they had had no observation; in the meteorological section there had been no record; in the calculating room they had had nothing to deal with. At any rate this confession was a frank one, and the same frankness characterized the replies from the observatory of Montsouris and the magnetic station in the park of St. Maur. The same respect for the truth distinguished the Bureau des Longitudes.

The provinces were slightly more affirmative. Perhaps in the night of the fifth and the morning of the sixth of May there had appeared a flash of light of electrical origin which lasted about twenty seconds. At the Pic du Midi this light appeared between nine and ten in the evening. At the Meteorological Observatory on the Puy de Dome the light had been observed between one and two o’clock in the morning; at Mont Ventoux in Provence it had been seen between two and three o’clock; at Nice it had been noticed between three and four o’clock; while at the Semnoz Alps between Annecy, Le Bourget, and Le Leman, it had been detected just as the zenith was paling with the dawn.

Now it evidently would not do to disregard these observations altogether. There could be no doubt that a light had been observed at different places, in succession, at intervals, during some hours. Hence, whether it had been produced from many centers in the terrestrial atmosphere, or from one center, it was plain that the light must have traveled at a speed of over one hundred and twenty miles an hour.

In the United Kingdom there was much perplexity. The observatories were not in agreement. Greenwich would not consent to the proposition of Oxford. They were agreed on one point, however, and that was: “It was nothing at all!”

But, said one, “It was an optical illusion!” While the other contended that, “It was an acoustical illusion!” And so they disputed. Something, however, was, it will be seen, common to both “It was an illusion.”

Between the observatory of Berlin and the observatory of Vienna the discussion threatened to end in international complications; but Russia, in the person of the director of the observatory at Pulkowa, showed that both were right. It all depended on the point of view from which they attacked the phenomenon, which, though impossible in theory, was possible in practice.

In Switzerland, at the observatory of Sautis in the canton of Appenzell, at the Righi, at the Gabriss, in the passes of the St. Gothard, at the St. Bernard, at the Julier, at the Simplon, at Zurich, at Somblick in the Tyrolean Alps, there was a very strong disinclination to say anything about what nobody could prove — and that was nothing but reasonable.

But in Italy, at the meteorological stations on Vesuvius, on Etna in the old Casa Inglesi, at Monte Cavo, the observers made no hesitation in admitting the materiality of the phenomenon, particularly as they had seen it by day in the form of a small cloud of vapor, and by night in that of a shooting star. But of what it was they knew nothing.

Scientists began at last to tire of the mystery, while they continued to disagree about it, and even to frighten the lowly and the ignorant, who, thanks to one of the wisest laws of nature, have formed, form, and will form the immense majority of the world’s inhabitants. Astronomers and meteorologists would soon have dropped the subject altogether had not, on the night of the 26th and 27th, the observatory of Kautokeino at Finmark, in Norway, and during the night of the 28th and 29th that of Isfjord at Spitzbergen — Norwegian one and Swedish the other — found themselves agreed in recording that in the center of an aurora borealis there had appeared a sort of huge bird, an aerial monster, whose structure they were unable to determine, but who, there was no doubt, was showering off from his body certain corpuscles which exploded like bombs.

In Europe not a doubt was thrown on this observation of the stations in Finmark and Spitzbergen. But what appeared the most phenomenal about it was that the Swedes and Norwegians could find themselves in agreement on any subject whatever.

There was a laugh at the asserted discovery in all the observatories of South America, in Brazil, Peru, and La Plata, and in those of Australia at Sydney, Adelaide, and Melbourne; and Australian laughter is very catching.

To sum up, only one chief of a meteorological station ventured on a decided answer to this question, notwithstanding the sarcasms that his solution provoked. This was a Chinaman, the director of the observatory at Zi-Ka-Wey which rises in the center of a vast plateau less than thirty miles from the sea, having an immense horizon and wonderfully pure atmosphere. “It is possible,” said he, “that the object was an aviform apparatus — a flying machine!”

What nonsense!

But if the controversy was keen in the old world, we can imagine what it was like in that portion of the new of which the United States occupy so vast an area.

A Yankee, we know, does not waste time on the road. He takes the street that leads him straight to his end. And the observatories of the American Federation did not hesitate to do their best. If they did not hurl their objectives at each other’s heads, it was because they would have had to put them back just when they most wanted to use them. In this much-disputed question the observatories of Washington in the District of Columbia, and Cambridge in Massachusetts, found themselves opposed by those of Dartmouth College in New Hampshire, and Ann Arbor in Michigan. The subject of their dispute was not the nature of the body observed, but the precise moment of its observation. All of them claimed to have seen it the same night, the same hour, the same minute, the same second, although the trajectory of the mysterious voyager took it but a moderate height above the horizon. Now from Massachusetts to Michigan, from New Hampshire to Columbia, the distance is too great for this double observation, made at the same moment, to be considered possible.

Dudley at Albany, in the state of New York, and West Point, the military academy, showed that their colleagues were wrong by an elaborate calculation of the right ascension and declination of the aforesaid body.

But later on it was discovered that the observers had been deceived in the body, and that what they had seen was an aerolite. This aerolite could not be the object in question, for how could an aerolite blow a trumpet?

It was in vain that they tried to get rid of this trumpet as an optical illusion. The ears were no more deceived than the eyes. Something had assuredly been seen, and something had assuredly been heard. In the night of the 12th and 13th of May — a very dark night — the observers at Yale College, in the Sheffield Science School, had been able to take down a few bars of a musical phrase in D major, common time, which gave note for note, rhythm for rhythm, the chorus of the Chant du Depart.

“Good,” said the Yankee wags. “There is a French band well up in the air.”

“But to joke is not to answer.” Thus said the observatory at Boston, founded by the Atlantic Iron Works Society, whose opinions in matters of astronomy and meteorology began to have much weight in the world of science.

Then there intervened the observatory at Cincinnati, founded in 1870, on Mount Lookout, thanks to the generosity of Mr. Kilgour, and known for its micrometrical measurements of double stars. Its director declared with the utmost good faith that there had certainly been something, that a traveling body had shown itself at very short periods at different points in the atmosphere, but what were the nature of this body, its dimensions, its speed, and its trajectory, it was impossible to say.

It was then a journal whose publicity is immense — the “New York Herald” — received the anonymous contribution hereunder.

“There will be in the recollection of most people the rivalry which existed a few years ago between the two heirs of the Begum of Ragginahra, the French doctor Sarrasin, the city of Frankville, and the German engineer Schultze, in the city of Steeltown, both in the south of Oregon in the United States.

“It will not have been forgotten that, with the object of destroying Frankville, Herr Schultze launched a formidable engine, intended to beat down the town and annihilate it at a single blow.

“Still less will it be forgotten that this engine, whose initial velocity as it left the mouth of the monster cannon had been erroneously calculated, had flown off at a speed exceeding by sixteen times that of ordinary projectiles — or about four hundred and fifty miles an hour — that it did not fall to the ground, and that it passed into an aerolitic stage, so as to circle for ever round our globe.

“Why should not this be the body in question?”

Very ingenious, Mr. Correspondent on the “New York Herald!” but how about the trumpet? There was no trumpet in Herr Schulze’s projectile!

So all the explanations explained nothing, and all the observers had observed in vain. There remained only the suggestion offered by the director of Zi-Ka-Wey. But the opinion of a Chinaman!

The discussion continued, and there was no sign of agreement. Then came a short period of rest. Some days elapsed without any object, aerolite or otherwise, being described, and without any trumpet notes being heard in the atmosphere. The body then had fallen on some part of the globe where it had been difficult to trace it; in the sea, perhaps. Had it sunk in the depths of the Atlantic, the Pacific, or the Indian Ocean? What was to be said in this matter?

But then, between the 2nd and 9th of June, there came a new series of facts which could not possibly be explained by the unaided existence of a cosmic phenomenon.

In a week the Hamburgers at the top of St. Michael’s Tower, the Turks on the highest minaret of St. Sophia, the Rouennais at the end of the metal spire of their cathedral, the Strasburgers at the summit of their minister, the Americans on the head of the Liberty statue at the entrance of the Hudson and on the Bunker Hill monument at Boston, the Chinese at the spike of the temple of the Four Hundred Genii at Canton, the Hindus on the sixteenth terrace of the pyramid of the temple at Tanjore, the San Pietrini at the cross of St. Peter’s at Rome, the English at the cross of St. Paul’s in London, the Egyptians at the apex of the Great Pyramid of Ghizeh, the Parisians at the lighting conductor of the iron tower of the Exposition of 1889, a thousand feet high, all of them beheld a flag floating from some one of these inaccessible points.

And the flag was black, dotted with stars, and it bore a golden sun in its center.

CHAPTER II

AGREEMENT IMPOSSIBLE

“And the first who says the contrary — ”

“Indeed! But we will say the contrary so long as there is a place to say it in!”

“And in spite of your threats — ”

“Mind what you are saying, Bat Fynn!”

“Mind what you are saying, Uncle Prudent!”

“I maintain that the screw ought to be behind!”

“And so do we! And so do we!” replied half a hundred voices confounded in one.

“No! It ought to be in front!” shouted Phil Evans.

“In front!” roared fifty other voices, with a vigor in no whit less remarkable.

“We shall never agree!”

“Never! Never!”

“Then what is the use of a dispute?”

“It is not a dispute! It is a discussion!”

One would not have thought so to listen to the taunts, objurgations, and vociferations which filled the lecture room for a good quarter of an hour.

The room was one of the largest in the Weldon Institute, the well-known club in Walnut Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, U. S. A. The evening before there had been an election of a lamplighter, occasioning many public manifestations, noisy meetings, and even interchanges of blows, resulting in an effervescence which had not yet subsided, and which would account for some of the excitement just exhibited by the members of the Weldon Institute. For this was merely a meeting of balloonists, discussing the burning question of the direction of balloons.

In this great saloon there were struggling, pushing, gesticulating, shouting, arguing, disputing, a hundred balloonists, all with their hats on, under the authority of a president, assisted by a secretary and treasurer. They were not engineers by profession, but simply amateurs of all that appertained to aerostatics, and they were amateurs in a fury, and especially foes of those who would oppose to aerostats “apparatuses heavier than the air,” flying machines, aerial ships, or what not. That these people might one day discover the method of guiding balloons is possible. There could be no doubt that their president had considerable difficulty in guiding them.

This president, well known in Philadelphia, was the famous Uncle Prudent, Prudent being his family name. There is nothing surprising in America in the qualificative uncle, for you can there be uncle without having either nephew or niece. There they speak of uncle as in other places they speak of father, though the father may have had no children.

Uncle Prudent was a personage of consideration, and in spite of his name was well known for his audacity. He was very rich, and that is no drawback even in the United States; and how could it be otherwise when he owned the greater part of the shares in Niagara Falls? A society of engineers had just been founded at Buffalo for working the cataract. It seemed to be an excellent speculation. The seven thousand five hundred cubic meters that pass over Niagara in a second would produce seven millions of horsepower. This enormous power, distributed amongst all the workshops within a radius of three hundred miles, would return an annual income of three hundred million dollars, of which the greater part would find its way into the pocket of Uncle Prudent. He was a bachelor, he lived quietly, and for his only servant had his valet Frycollin, who was hardly worthy of being the servant to so audacious a master.

Uncle Prudent was rich, and therefore he had friends, as was natural; but he also had enemies, although he was president of the club — among others all those who envied his position. Amongst his bitterest foes we may mention the secretary of the Weldon Institute.

This was Phil Evans, who was also very rich, being the manager of the Wheelton Watch Company, an important manufactory, which makes every day five hundred movements equal in every respect to the best Swiss workmanship. Phil Evans would have passed for one of the happiest men in the world, and even in the United States, if it had not been for Uncle Prudent. Like him he was in his forty-sixth year; like him of invariable health; like him of undoubted boldness. They were two men made to understand each other thoroughly, but they did not, for both were of extreme violence of character. Uncle Prudent was furiously hot; Phil Evans was abnormally cool.

And why had not Phil Evans been elected president of the club? The votes were exactly divided between Uncle Prudent and him. Twenty times there had been a scrutiny, and twenty times the majority had not declared for either one or the other. The position was embarrassing, and it might have lasted for the lifetime of the candidates.

One of the members of the club then proposed a way out of the difficulty. This was Jem Chip, the treasurer of the Weldon Institute. Chip was a confirmed vegetarian, a proscriber of all animal nourishment, of all fermented liquors, half a Mussulman, half a Brahman. On this occasion Jem Chip was supported by another member of the club, William T. Forbes, the manager of a large factory where they made glucose by treating rags with sulphuric acid. A man of good standing was this William T. Forbes, the father of two charming girls — Miss Dorothy, called Doll, and Miss Martha, called Mat, who gave the tone to the best society in Philadelphia.

It followed, then, on the proposition of Jem Chip, supported by William T. Forbes and others, that it was decided to elect the president “on the center point.”

This mode of election can be applied in all cases when it is desired to elect the most worthy; and a number of Americans of high intelligence are already thinking of employing it in the nomination of the President of the Republic of the United States.

On two boards of perfect whiteness a black line is traced. The length of each of these lines is mathematically the same, for they have been determined with as much accuracy as the base of the first triangle in a trigonometrical survey. That done, the two boards were erected on the same day in the center of the conference room, and the two candidates, each armed with a fine needle, marched towards the board that had fallen to his lot. The man who planted his needle nearest the center of the line would be proclaimed President of the Weldon Institute.

The operation must be done at once — no guide marks or trial shots allowed; nothing but sureness of eye. The man must have a compass in his eye, as the saying goes; that was all.

Uncle Prudent stuck in his needle at the same moment as Phil Evans did his. Then there began the measurement to discover which of the two competitors had most nearly approached the center.

Wonderful! Such had been the precision of the shots that the measures gave no appreciable difference. If they were not exactly in the mathematical center of the line, the distance between the needles was so small as to be invisible to the naked eye.

The meeting was much embarrassed.

Fortunately one of the members, Truck Milnor, insisted that the measurements should be remade by means of a rule graduated by the micrometrical machine of M. Perreaux, which can divide a millimeter into fifteen-hundredths of a millimeter with a diamond splinter, was brought to bear on the lines; and on reading the divisions through a microscope the following were the results: Uncle Prudent had approached the center within less than six fifteenth-hundredths of a millimeter. Phil Evans was within nine fifteen-hundredths.

And that is why Phil Evans was only secretary of the Weldon Institute, whereas Uncle Prudent was president. A difference of three fifteen-hundredths of a millimeter! And on account of it Phil Evans vowed against Uncle Prudent one of those hatreds which are none the less fierce for being latent.

CHAPTER III

A VISITOR IS ANNOUNCED

The many experiments made during this last quarter of the nineteenth century have given considerable impetus to the question of guidable balloons. The cars furnished with propellers attached in 1852 to the aerostats of the elongated form introduced by Henry Giffard, the machines of Dupuy de Lome in 1872, of the Tissandier brothers in 1883, and of Captain Krebs and Renard in 1884, yielded many important results. But if these machines, moving in a medium heavier than themselves, maneuvering under the propulsion of a screw, working at an angle to the direction of the wind, and even against the wind, to return to their point of departure, had been really “guidable,” they had only succeeded under very favorable conditions. In large, covered halls their success was perfect. In a calm atmosphere they did very well. In a light wind of five or six yards a second they still moved. But nothing practical had been obtained. Against a miller’s wind — nine yards a second — the machines had remained almost stationary. Against a fresh breeze — eleven yards a second — they would have advanced backwards. In a storm — twenty-seven to thirty-three yards a second — they would have been blown about like a feather. In a hurricane — sixty yards a second — they would have run the risk of being dashed to pieces. And in one of those cyclones which exceed a hundred yards a second not a fragment of them would have been left. It remained, then, even after the striking experiments of Captains Krebs and Renard, that though guidable aerostats had gained a little speed, they could not be kept going in a moderate breeze. Hence the impossibility of making practical use of this mode of aerial locomotion.

With regards to the means employed to give the aerostat its motion a great deal of progress had been made. For the steam engines of Henry Giffard, and the muscular force of Dupuy de Lome, electric motors had gradually been substituted. The batteries of bichromate of potassium of the Tissandier brothers had given a speed of four yards a second. The dynamo-electric machines of Captain Krebs and Renard had developed a force of twelve horsepower and yielded a speed of six and a half yards per second.

With regard to this motor, engineers and electricians had been approaching more and more to that desideratum which is known as a steam horse in a watch case. Gradually the results of the pile of which Captains Krebs and Renard had kept the secret had been surpassed, and aeronauts had become able to avail themselves of motors whose lightness increased at the same time as their power.

In this there was much to encourage those who believed in the utilization of guidable balloons. But yet how many good people there are who refuse to admit the possibility of such a thing! If the aerostat finds support in the air it belongs to the medium in which it moves; under such conditions, how can its mass, which offers so much resistance to the currents of the atmosphere, make its way against the wind?

In this struggle of the inventors after a light and powerful motor, the Americans had most nearly attained what they sought. A dynamo-electric apparatus, in which a new pile was employed the composition of which was still a mystery, had been bought from its inventor, a Boston chemist up to then unknown. Calculations made with the greatest care, diagrams drawn with the utmost exactitude, showed that by means of this apparatus driving a screw of given dimensions a displacement could be obtained of from twenty to twenty-two yards a second.

Now this was magnificent!

“And it is not dear,” said Uncle Prudent, as he handed to the inventor in return for his formal receipt the last installment of the hundred thousand paper dollars he had paid for his invention.

Immediately the Weldon Institute set to work. When there comes along a project of practical utility the money leaps nimbly enough from American pockets. The funds flowed in even without its being necessary to form a syndicate. Three hundred thousand dollars came into the club’s account at the first appeal. The work began under the superintendence of the most celebrated aeronaut of the United States, Harry W. Tinder, immortalized by three of his ascents out of a thousand, one in which he rose to a height of twelve thousand yards, higher than Gay Lussac, Coxwell, Sivet, Croce-Spinelli, Tissandier, Glaisher; another in which he had crossed America from New York to San Francisco, exceeding by many hundred leagues the journeys of Nadar, Godard, and others, to say nothing of that of John Wise, who accomplished eleven hundred and fifty miles from St. Louis to Jefferson county; the third, which ended in a frightful fall from fifteen hundred feet at the cost of a slight sprain in the right thumb, while the less fortunate Pilatre de Rozier fell only seven hundred feet, and yet killed himself on the spot!

At the time this story begins the Weldon Institute had got their work well in hand. In the Turner yard at Philadelphia there reposed an enormous aerostat, whose strength had been tried by highly compressed air. It well merited the name of the monster balloon.

How large was Nadar’s Geant? Six thousand cubic meters. How large was John Wise’s balloon? Twenty thousand cubic meters. How large was the Giffard balloon at the 1878 Exhibition? Twenty-five thousand cubic meters. Compare these three aerostats with the aerial machine of the Weldon Institute, whose volume amounted to forty thousand cubic meters, and you will understand why Uncle Prudent and his colleagues were so justifiably proud of it.

This balloon not being destined for the exploration of the higher strata of the atmosphere, was not called the Excelsior, a name which is rather too much held in honor among the citizens of America. No! It was called, simply, the “Go-Ahead,” and all it had to do was to justify its name by going ahead obediently to the wishes of its commander.

The dynamo-electric machine, according to the patent purchased by the Weldon Institute, was nearly ready. In less than six weeks the “Go-Ahead” would start for its first cruise through space.

But, as we have seen, all the mechanical difficulties had not been overcome. Many evenings had been devoted to discussing, not the form of its screw nor its dimensions, but whether it ought to be put behind, as the Tissandier brothers had done, or before as Captains Krebs and Renard had done. It is unnecessary to add that the partisans of the two systems had almost come to blows. The group of “Beforists” were equaled in number by the group of “Behindists.” Uncle Prudent, who ought to have given the casting vote — Uncle Prudent, brought up doubtless in the school of Professor Buridan — could not bring himself to decide.

Hence the impossibility of getting the screw into place. The dispute might last for some time, unless the government interfered. But in the United States the government meddles with private affairs as little as it possibly can. And it is right.

Things were in this state at this meeting on the 13th of June, which threatened to end in a riot — insults exchanged, fisticuffs succeeding the insults, cane thrashings succeeding the fisticuffs, revolver shots succeeding the cane thrashings — when at thirty-seven minutes past eight there occurred a diversion.

The porter of the Weldon Institute coolly and calmly, like a policeman amid the storm of the meeting, approached the presidential desk. On it he placed a card. He awaited the orders that Uncle Prudent found it convenient to give.

Uncle Prudent turned on the steam whistle, which did duty for the presidential bell, for even the Kremlin clock would have struck in vain! But the tumult slackened not.

Then the president removed his hat. Thanks to this extreme measure a semi-silence was obtained.

“A communication!” said Uncle Prudent, after taking a huge pinch from the snuff-box which never left him.

“Speak up!” answered eighty-nine voices, accidentally in agreement on this one point.

“A stranger, my dear colleagues, asks to be admitted to the meeting.”

“Never!” replied every voice.

“He desires to prove to us, it would appear,” continued Uncle Prudent, “that to believe in guiding balloons is to believe in the absurdest of Utopias!”

“Let him in! Let him in!”

“What is the name of this singular personage?” asked secretary Phil Evans.

“Robur,” replied Uncle Prudent.

“Robur! Robur! Robur!” yelled the assembly. And the welcome accorded so quickly to the curious name was chiefly due to the Weldon Institute hoping to vent its exasperation on the head of him who bore it!

CHAPTER IV

IN WHICH A NEW CHARACTER APPEARS

“Citizens of the United States! My name is Robur. I am worthy of the name! I am forty years old, although I look but thirty, and I have a constitution of iron, a healthy vigor that nothing can shake, a muscular strength that few can equal, and a digestion that would be thought first class even in an ostrich!”

They were listening! Yes! The riot was quelled at once by the totally unexpected fashion of the speech. Was this fellow a madman or a hoaxer? Whoever he was, he kept his audience in hand. There was not a whisper in the meeting in which but a few minutes ago the storm was in full fury.

And Robur looked the man he said he was. Of middle height and geometric breadth, his figure was a regular trapezium with the greatest of its parallel sides formed by the line of his shoulders. On this line attached by a robust neck there rose an enormous spheroidal head. The head of what animal did it resemble from the point of view of passional analogy? The head of a bull; but a bull with an intelligent face. Eyes which at the least opposition would glow like coals of fire; and above them a permanent contraction of the superciliary muscle, an invariable sign of extreme energy. Short hair, slightly woolly, with metallic reflections; large chest rising and falling like a smith’s bellows; arms, hands, legs, feet, all worthy of the trunk. No mustaches, no whiskers, but a large American goatee, revealing the attachments of the jaw whose masseter muscles were evidently of formidable strength. It has been calculated — what has not been calculated? — that the pressure of the jaw of an ordinary crocodile can reach four hundred atmospheres, while that of a hound can only amount to one hundred. From this the following curious formula has been deduced: If a kilogram of dog produces eight kilograms of masseteric force, a kilogram of crocodile could produce twelve. Now, a kilogram of, the aforesaid Robur would not produce less than ten, so that he came between the dog and the crocodile.

From what country did this remarkable specimen come? It was difficult to say. One thing was noticeable, and that was that he expressed himself fluently in English without a trace of the drawling twang that distinguishes the Yankees of New England.

He continued: “And now, honorable citizens, for my mental faculties. You see before you an engineer whose nerves are in no way inferior to his muscles. I have no fear of anything or anybody. I have a strength of will that has never had to yield. When I have decided on a thing, all America, all the world, may strive in vain to keep me from it. When I have an idea, I allow no one to share it, and I do not permit any contradiction. I insist on these details, honorable citizens, because it is necessary you should quite understand me. Perhaps you think I am talking too much about myself? It does not matter if you do! And now consider a little before you interrupt me, as I have come to tell you something that you may not be particularly pleased to hear.”

A sound as of the surf on the beach began to rise along the first row of seats — a sign that the sea would not be long in getting stormy again.

“Speak, stranger!” said Uncle Prudent, who had some difficulty in restraining himself.

And Robur spoke as follows, without troubling himself any more about his audience.

“Yes! I know it well! After a century of experiments that have led to nothing, and trials giving no results, there still exist ill-balanced minds who believe in guiding balloons. They imagine that a motor of some sort, electric or otherwise, might be applied to their pretentious skin bags which are at the mercy of every current in the atmosphere. They persuade themselves that they can be masters of an aerostat as they can be masters of a ship on the surface of the sea. Because a few inventors in calm or nearly calm weather have succeeded in working an angle with the wind, or even beating to windward in a gentle breeze, they think that the steering of aerial apparatus lighter than the air is a practical matter. Well, now, look here; You hundred, who believe in the realization of your dreams, are throwing your thousands of dollars not into water but into space! You are fighting the impossible!”

Strange as it was that at this affirmation the members of the Weldon Institute did not move. Had they become as deaf as they were patient? Or were they reserving themselves to see how far this audacious contradictor would dare to go?

Robur continued: “What? A balloon! When to obtain the raising of a couple of pounds you require a cubic yard of gas. A balloon pretending to resist the wind by aid of its mechanism, when the pressure of a light breeze on a vessel’s sails is not less than that of four hundred horsepower; when in the accident at the Tay Bridge you saw the storm produce a pressure of eight and a half hundredweight on a square yard. A balloon, when on such a system nature has never constructed anything flying, whether furnished with wings like birds, or membranes like certain fish, or certain mammalia — ”

“Mammalia?” exclaimed one of the members.

“Yes! Mammalia! The bat, which flies, if I am not mistaken! Is the gentleman unaware that this flyer is a mammal? Did he ever see an omelette made of bat’s eggs?”

The interrupter reserved himself for future interruption, and Robur resumed: “But does that mean that man is to give up the conquest of the air, and the transformation of the domestic and political manners of the old world, by the use of this admirable means of locomotion? By no means. As he has become master of the seas with the ship, by the oar, the sail, the wheel and the screw, so shall he become master of atmospherical space by apparatus heavier than the air — for it must be heavier to be stronger than the air!”

And then the assembly exploded. What a broadside of yells escaped from all these mouths, aimed at Robur like the muzzles of so many guns! Was not this hurling a declaration of war into the very camp of the balloonists? Was not this a stirring up of strife between ‘the lighter’ and ‘the heavier’ than air?

Robur did not even frown. With folded arms he waited bravely till silence was obtained.

By a gesture Uncle Prudent ordered the firing to cease.

“Yes,” continued Robur, “the future is for the flying machine. The air affords a solid fulcrum. If you will give a column of air an ascensional movement of forty-five meters a second, a man can support himself on the top of it if the soles of his boots have a superficies of only the eighth of a square meter. And if the speed be increased to ninety meters, he can walk on it with naked feet. Or if, by means of a screw, you drive a mass of air at this speed, you get the same result.”

What Robur said had been said before by all the partisans of aviation, whose work slowly but surely is leading on to the solution of the problem. To Ponton d’Amecourt, La Landelle, Nadar, De Luzy, De Louvrie, Liais, Beleguir, Moreau, the brothers Richard, Babinet, Jobert, Du Temple, Salives, Penaud, De Villeneuve, Gauchot and Tatin, Michael Loup, Edison, Planavergne, and so many others, belongs the honor of having brought forward ideas of such simplicity. Abandoned and resumed times without number, they are sure, some day to triumph. To the enemies of aviation, who urge that the bird only sustains himself by warming the air he strikes, their answer is ready. Have they not proved that an eagle weighing five kilograms would have to fill fifty cubic meters with his warm fluid merely to sustain himself in space?

This is what Robur demonstrated with undeniable logic amid the uproar that arose on all sides. And in conclusion these are the words he hurled in the faces of the balloonists: “With your aerostats you can do nothing — you will arrive at nothing — you dare do nothing! The boldest of your aeronauts, John Wise, although he has made an aerial voyage of twelve hundred miles above the American continent, has had to give up his project of crossing the Atlantic! And you have not advanced one step — not one step — towards your end.”

“Sir,” said the president, who in vain endeavored to keep himself cool, “you forget what was said by our immortal Franklin at the first appearance of the fire balloon, ‘It is but a child, but it will grow!’ It was but a child, and it has grown.”

“No, Mr. President, it has not grown! It has got fatter — and this is not the same thing!”

This was a direct attack on the Weldon Institute, which had decreed, helped, and paid for the making of a monster balloon. And so propositions of the following kind began to fly about the room: “Turn him out!” “Throw him off the platform!” “Prove that he is heavier than the air!”

But these were only words, not means to an end.

Robur remained impassible, and continued: “There is no progress for your aerostats, my citizen balloonists; progress is for flying machines. The bird flies, and he is not a balloon, he is a piece of mechanism!”

“Yes, he flies!” exclaimed the fiery Bat T. Fynn; “but he flies against all the laws of mechanics.”

“Indeed!” said Robur, shrugging his shoulders, and resuming, “Since we have begun the study of the flight of large and small birds one simple idea has prevailed — to imitate nature, which never makes mistakes. Between the albatross, which gives hardly ten beats of the wing per minute, between the pelican, which gives seventy — ”

“Seventy-one,” said the voice of a scoffer.

“And the bee, which gives one hundred and ninety-two per second — ”

“One hundred and ninety-three!” said the facetious individual.

“And, the common house fly, which gives three hundred and thirty — ”

“And a half!”

“And the mosquito, which gives millions — ”

“No, milliards!”

But Robur, the interrupted, interrupted not his demonstration. “Between these different rates — ” he continued.

“There is a difference,” said a voice.

“There is a possibility of finding a practical solution. When De Lucy showed that the stag beetle, an insect weighing only two grammes, could lift a weight of four hundred grammes, or two hundred times its own weight, the problem of aviation was solved. Besides, it has been shown that the wing surface decreases in proportion to the increase of the size and weight of the animal. Hence we can look forward to such contrivances — ”

“Which would never fly!” said secretary Phil Evans.

“Which have flown, and which will fly,” said Robur, without being in the least disconcerted, “and which we can call streophores, helicopters, orthopters — or, in imitation of the word ‘nef,’ which comes from ‘navis,’ call them from ‘avis,’ ‘efs,’ — by means of which man will become the master of space. The helix — ”

“Ah, the helix!” replied Phil Evans. “But the bird has no helix; that we know!”

“So,” said Robur; “but Penaud has shown that in reality the bird makes a helix, and its flight is helicopteral. And the motor of the future is the screw — ”

“From such a maladee Saint Helix keep us free!” sung out one of the members, who had accidentally hit upon the air from Herold’s “Zampa.”

And they all took up the chorus: “From such a maladee Saint Helix keep us free!” with such intonations and variations as would have made the French composer groan in his grave.

As the last notes died away in a frightful discord Uncle Prudent took advantage of the momentary calm to say, “Stranger, up to now, we let you speak without interruption.” It seemed that for the president of the Weldon Institute shouts, yells, and catcalls were not interruptions, but only an exchange of arguments.

“But I may remind you, all the same, that the theory of aviation is condemned beforehand, and rejected by the majority of American and foreign engineers. It is a system which was the cause of the death of the Flying Saracen at Constantinople, of the monk Volador at Lisbon, of De Leturn in 1852, of De Groof in 1864, besides the victims I forget since the mythological Icarus — ”

“A system,” replied Robur, “no more to be condemned than that whose martyrology contains the names of Pilatre de Rozier at Calais, of Blanchard at Paris, of Donaldson and Grimwood in Lake Michigan, of Sivel and of Croce-Spinelli, and others whom it takes good care, to forget.”

This was a counter-thrust with a vengeance.

“Besides,” continued Robur, “With your balloons as good as you can make them you will never obtain any speed worth mentioning. It would take you ten years to go round the world — and a flying machine could do it in a week!”

Here arose a new tempest of protests and denials which lasted for three long minutes. And then Phil Evans look up the word.

“Mr. Aviator,” he said “you who talk so much of the benefits of aviation, have you ever aviated?”

“I have.”

“And made the conquest of the air?”

“Not unlikely.”

“Hooray for Robur the Conqueror!” shouted an ironical voice.

“Well, yes! Robur the Conqueror! I accept the name and I will bear it, for I have a right to it!”

“We beg to doubt it!” said Jem Chip.

“Gentlemen,” said Robur, and his brows knit, “when I have just seriously stated a serious thing I do not permit anyone to reply to me by a flat denial, and I shall be glad to know the name of the interrupter.”

“My name is Chip, and I am a vegetarian.”

“Citizen Chip,” said Robur, “I knew that vegetarians had longer alimentary canals than other men — a good foot longer at the least. That is quite long enough; and so do not compel me to make you any longer by beginning at your ears and — ”

“Throw him out.”

“Into the street with him!”

“Lynch him!”

“Helix him!”

The rage of the balloonists burst forth at last. They rushed at the platform. Robur disappeared amid a sheaf of hands that were thrown about as if caught in a storm. In vain the steam whistle screamed its fanfares on to the assembly. Philadelphia might well think that a fire was devouring one of its quarters and that all the waters of the Schuyllkill could not put it out.

Suddenly there was a recoil in the tumult. Robur had put his hands into his pockets and now held them out at the front ranks of the infuriated mob.

In each hand was one of those American institutions known as revolvers which the mere pressure of the fingers is enough to fire — pocket mitrailleuses in fact.

And taking advantage not only of the recoil of his assailants but also of the silence which accompanied it.

“Decidedly,” said he, “it was not Amerigo that discovered the New World, it was Cabot! You are not Americans, citizen balloonists! You are only Cabo — ”

Four or five shots cracked out, fired into space. They hurt nobody. Amid the smoke, the engineer vanished; and when it had thinned away there was no trace of him. Robur the Conqueror had flown, as if some apparatus of aviation had borne him into the air.

CHAPTER V

ANOTHER DISAPPEARANCE

This was not the first occasion on which, at the end of their stormy discussions, the members of the Weldon Institute had filled Walnut Street and its neighborhood with their tumult. Several times had the inhabitants complained of the noisy way in which the proceedings ended, and more than once had the policemen had to interfere to clear the thoroughfare for the passersby, who for the most part were supremely indifferent on the question of aerial navigation. But never before had the tumult attained such proportions, never had the complaints been better founded, never had the intervention of the police been more necessary.

But there was some excuse for the members of the Weldon Institute. They had been attacked in their own house. To these enthusiasts for “lighter than air” a no less enthusiast for “heavier than air” had said things absolutely abhorrent. And at the moment they were about to treat him as he deserved, he had disappeared.

So they cried aloud for vengeance. To leave such insults unpunished was impossible to all with American blood in their veins. Had not the sons of Amerigo been called the sons of Cabot? Was not that an insult as unpardonable as it happened to be just — historically?

The members of the club in several groups rushed down Walnut Street, then into the adjoining streets, and then all over the neighborhood. They woke up the householders; they compelled them to search their houses, prepared to indemnify them later on for the outrage on their privacy. Vain were all their trouble and searching. Robur was nowhere to be found; there was no trace of him. He might have gone off in the “Go-Ahead,” the balloon of the Institute, for all they could tell. After an hour’s hunt the members had to give in and separate, not before they had agreed to extend their search over the whole territory of the twin Americas that form the new continent.

By eleven o’clock quiet had been restored in the neighborhood of Walnut Street. Philadelphia was able to sink again into that sound sleep which is the privilege of non-manufacturing towns. The different members of the club parted to seek their respective houses. To mention the most distinguished amongst them, William T. Forbes sought his large sugar establishment, where Miss Doll and Miss Mat had prepared for him his evening tea, sweetened with his own glucose. Truck Milnor took the road to his factory in the distant suburb, where the engines worked day and night. Treasurer Jim Chip, publicly accused of possessing an alimentary canal twelve inches longer than that of other men, returned to the vegetable soup that was waiting for him.

Two of the most important balloonists — two only — did not seem to think of returning so soon to their domicile. They availed themselves of the opportunity to discuss the question with more than usual acrimony. These were the irreconcilables, Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans, the president and secretary of the Weldon Institute.

At the door of the club the valet Frycollin waited for Uncle Prudent, his master, and at last he went after him, though he cared but little for the subject which had set the two colleagues at loggerheads.

It is only an euphemism that the verb “discuss” can be used to express the way in which the duet between the president and secretary was being performed. As a matter of fact they were in full wrangle with an energy born of their old rivalry.

“No, Sir, no,” said Phil Evans. “If I had had the honor of being president of the Weldon Institute, there never, no, never, would have been such a scandal.”

“And what would you have done, if you had had the honor?” demanded Uncle Prudent.

“I would have stopped the insulter before he had opened his mouth.”

“It seems to me it would have been impossible to stop him until he had opened his mouth,” replied Uncle Prudent.

“Not in America, Sir; not in America.”

And exchanging such observations, increasing in bitterness as they went, they walked on through the streets farther and farther from their homes, until they reached a part of the city whence they had to go a long way round to get back.

Frycollin followed, by no means at ease to see his master plunging into such deserted spots. He did not like deserted spots, particularly after midnight. In fact the darkness was profound, and the moon was only a thin crescent just beginning its monthly life. Frycollin kept a lookout to the left and right of him to see if he was followed. And he fancied he could see five or six hulking follows dogging his footsteps. Instinctively he drew nearer to his master, but not for the world would he have dared to break in on the conversation of which the fragments reached him.

In short it so chanced that the president and secretary of the Weldon Institute found themselves on the road to Fairmount Park. In the full heat of their dispute they crossed the Schuyllkill river by the famous iron bridge. They met only a few belated wayfarers, and pressed on across a wide open tract where the immense prairie was broken every now and then by the patches of thick woodland — which make the park different to any other in the world.

There Frycollin’s terror became acute, particularly as he saw the five or six shadows gliding after him across the Schuyllkill bridge. The pupils of his eyes broadened out to the circumference of his iris, and his limbs seemed to diminish as if endowed with the contractility peculiar to the mollusca and certain of the articulate; for Frycollin, the valet, was an egregious coward.

He was a pure South Carolina Negro, with the head of a fool and the carcass of an imbecile. Being only one and twenty, he had never been a slave, not even by birth, but that made no difference to him. Grinning and greedy and idle, and a magnificent poltroon, he had been the servant of Uncle Prudent for about three years. Over and over again had his master threatened to kick him out, but had kept him on for fear of doing worse. With a master ever ready to venture on the most audacious enterprises, Frycollin’s cowardice had brought him many arduous trials. But he had some compensation. Very little had been said about his gluttony, and still less about his laziness.

Ah, Valet Frycollin, if you could only have read the future! Why, oh why, Frycollin, did you not remain at Boston with the Sneffels, and not have given them up when they talked of going to Switzerland? Was not that a much more suitable place for you than this of Uncle Prudent’s, where danger was daily welcomed?

But here he was, and his master had become used to his faults. He had one advantage, and that was a consideration. Although he was a Negro by birth he did not speak like a Negro, and nothing is so irritating as that hateful jargon in which all the pronouns are possessive and all the verbs infinitive. Let it be understood, then, that Frycollin was a thorough coward.

And now it was midnight, and the pale crescent of the moon began to sink in the west behind the trees in the park. The rays streaming fitfully through the branches made the shadows darker than ever. Frycollin looked around him anxiously. “Brrr!” he said, “There are those fellows there all the time. Positively they are getting nearer! Master Uncle!” he shouted.

It was thus he called the president of the Weldon Institute, and thus did the president desire to be called.

At the moment the dispute of the rivals had reached its maximum, and as they hurled their epithets at each other they walked faster and faster, and drew farther and farther away from the Schuyllkill bridge. They had reached the center of a wide clump of trees, whose summits were just tipped by the parting rays of the moon. Beyond the trees was a very large clearing — an oval field, a complete amphitheater. Not a hillock was there to hinder the gallop of the horses, not a bush to stop the view of the spectators.

And if Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans had not been so deep in their dispute, and had used their eyes as they were accustomed to, they would have found the clearing was not in its usual state. Was it a flour mill that had anchored on it during the night? It looked like it, with its wings and sails — motionless and mysterious in the gathering gloom.

But neither the president nor the secretary of the Weldon Institute noticed the strange modification in the landscape of Fairmount Park; and neither did Frycollin. It seemed to him that the thieves were approaching, and preparing for their attack; and he was seized with convulsive fear, paralyzed in his limbs, with every hair he could boast of on the bristle. His terror was extreme. His knees bent under him, but he had just strength enough to exclaim for the last time, “Master Uncle! Master Uncle!”

“What is the matter with you?” asked Uncle Prudent.

Perhaps the disputants would not have been sorry to have relieved their fury at the expense of the unfortunate valet. But they had no time; and neither even had he time to answer.

A whistle was heard. A flash of electric light shot across the clearing.

A signal, doubtless? The moment had come for the deed of violence. In less time that it takes to tell, six men came leaping across from under the trees, two onto Uncle Prudent, two onto Phil Evans, two onto Frycollin — there was no need for the last two, for the Negro was incapable of defending himself. The president and secretary of the Weldon Institute, although taken by surprise, would have resisted.

They had neither time nor strength to do so. In a second they were rendered speechless by a gag, blind by a bandage, thrown down, pinioned and carried bodily off across the clearing. What could they think except that they had fallen into the hands of people who intended to rob them? The people did nothing of the sort, however. They did not even touch Uncle Prudent’s pockets, although, according to his custom, they were full of paper dollars.

Within a minute of the attack, without a word being passed, Uncle Prudent, Phil Evans, and Frycollin felt themselves laid gently down, not on the grass, but on a sort of plank that creaked beneath them. They were laid down side by side.

A door was shut; and the grating of a bolt in a staple told them that they were prisoners.

Then there came a continuous buzzing, a quivering, a frrrr, with the rrr unending.

And that was the only sound that broke the quiet of the night.

Great was the excitement next morning in Philadelphia Very early was it known what had passed at the meeting of the Institute. Everyone knew of the appearance of the mysterious engineer named Robur — Robur the Conqueror — and the tumult among the balloonists, and his inexplicable disappearance. But it was quite another thing when all the town heard that the president and secretary of the club had also disappeared during the night.

Long and keen was the search in the city and neighborhood! Useless! The newspapers of Philadelphia, the newspapers of Pennsylvania, the newspapers of the United States reported the facts and explained them in a hundred ways, not one of which was the right one. Heavy rewards were offered, and placards were pasted up, but all to no purpose. The earth seemed to have opened and bodily swallowed the president and secretary of the Weldon Institute.

CHAPTER VI

THE PRESIDENT AND SECRETARY SUSPEND HOSTILITIES

A bandage over the eyes, a gag in the mouth, a cord round the wrists, a cord round the ankles, unable to see, to speak, or to move, Uncle Prudent, Phil Evans, and Frycollin were anything but pleased with their position. Knowing not who had seized them, nor in what they had been thrown like parcels in a goods wagon, nor where they were, nor what was reserved for them — it was enough to exasperate even the most patient of the ovine race, and we know that the members of the Weldon Institute were not precisely sheep as far as patience went. With his violence of character we can easily imagine how Uncle Prudent felt. One thing was evident, that Phil Evans and he would find it difficult to attend the club next evening.

As to Frycollin, with his eyes shut and his mouth closed, it was impossible for him to think of anything. He was more dead than alive.

For an hour the position of the prisoners remained unchanged. No one came to visit them, or to give them that liberty of movement and speech of which they lay in such need. They were reduced to stifled sighs, to grunts emitted over and under their gags, to everything that betrayed anger kept dumb and fury imprisoned, or rather bound down. Then after many fruitless efforts they remained for some time as though lifeless. Then as the sense of sight was denied them they tried by their sense of hearing to obtain some indication of the nature of this disquieting state of things. But in vain did they seek for any other sound than an interminable and inexplicable f-r-r-r which seemed to envelop them in a quivering atmosphere.

At last something happened. Phil Evans, regaining his coolness, managed to slacken the cord which bound his wrists. Little by little the knot slipped, his fingers slipped over each other, and his hands regained their usual freedom.

A vigorous rubbing restored the circulation. A moment after he had slipped off the bandage which bound his eyes, taken the gag out of his mouth, and cut the cords round his ankles with his knife. An American who has not a bowie-knife in his pocket is no longer an American.

But if Phil Evans had regained the power of moving and speaking, that was all. His eyes were useless to him — at present at any rate. The prison was quite dark, though about six feet above him a feeble gleam of light came in through a kind of loophole.

As may be imagined, Phil Evans did not hesitate to at once set free his rival. A few cuts with the bowie settled the knots which bound him foot and hand.

Immediately Uncle Prudent rose to his knees and snatched away his bandage and gag.

“Thanks,” said he, in stifled voice.

“Phil Evans?”

“Uncle Prudent?”

“Here we are no longer the president and secretary of the Weldon Institute. We are adversaries no more.”

“You are right,” answered Evans. “We are now only two men agreed to avenge ourselves on a third whose attempt deserves severe reprisals. And this third is — ”

“Robur!”

“It is Robur!”

On this point both were absolutely in accord. On this subject there was no fear of dispute.

“And your servant?” said Phil Evans, pointing to Frycollin, who was puffing like a grampus. “We must set him free.”

“Not yet,” said Uncle Prudent. “He would overwhelm us with his jeremiads, and we have something else to do than abuse each other.”

“What is that, Uncle Prudent?”

“To save ourselves if possible.”

“You are right, even if it is impossible.”

“And even if it is impossible.”

There could be no doubt that this kidnapping was due to Robur, for an ordinary thief would have relieved them of their watches, jewelry, and purses, and thrown their bodies into the Schuyllkill with a good gash in their throats instead of throwing them to the bottom of — Of what? That was a serious question, which would have to be answered before attempting an escape with any chance of success.

“Phil Evans,” began Uncle Prudent, “if, when we came away from our meeting, instead of indulging in amenities to which we need not recur, we had kept our eyes more open, this would not have happened. Had we remained in the streets of Philadelphia there would have been none of this. Evidently Robur foresaw what would happen at the club, and had placed some of his bandits on guard at the door. When we left Walnut Street these fellows must have watched us and followed us, and when we imprudently ventured into Fairmount Park they went in for their little game.”

“Agreed,” said Evans. “We were wrong not to go straight home.”

“It is always wrong not to be right,” said Prudent.

Here a long-drawn sigh escaped from the darkest corner of the prison. “What is that?” asked Evans.

“Nothing! Frycollin is dreaming.”

“Between the moment we were seized a few steps out into the clearing and the moment we were thrown in here only two minutes elapsed. It is thus evident that those people did not take us out of Fairmount Park.”

“And if they had done so we should have felt we were being moved.”

“Undoubtedly; and consequently we must be in some vehicle, perhaps some of those long prairie wagons, or some show-caravan — ”

“Evidently! For if we were in a boat moored on the Schuyllkill we should have noticed the movement due to the current — ”

“That is so; and as we are still in the clearing, I think that now is the time to get away, and we can return later to settle with this Robur — ”

“And make him pay for this attempt on the liberty of two citizens of the United States.”

“And he shall pay pretty dearly!”

“But who is this man? Where does he come from? Is he English, or German, or French — ”

“He is a scoundrel, that is enough!” said Uncle Prudent. “Now to work.” And then the two men, with their hands stretched out and their fingers wide apart, began to feel round the walls to find a joint or crack.

Nothing. Nothing; not even at the door. It was closely shut and it was impossible to shoot back the lock. All that could be done was to make a hole, and escape through the hole. It remained to be seen if the knives could cut into the walls.

“But whence comes this never-ending rustling?” asked Evans, who was much impressed at the continuous f-r-r-r.

“The wind, doubtless,” said Uncle Prudent.

“The wind! But I thought the night was quite calm.”

“So it was. But if it isn’t the wind, what can it be?”

Phil Evans got out the best blade of his knife and set to work on the wall near the door. Perhaps he might make a hole which would enable him to open it from the outside should it be only bolted or should the key have been left in the lock. He worked away for some minutes. The only result was to nip up his knife, to snip off its point, and transform what was left of the blade into a saw.

“Doesn’t it cut?” asked Uncle Prudent.

“No.”

“Is the wall made of sheet iron?”

“No; it gives no metallic sound when you hit it.”

“Is it of ironwood?”

“No; it isn’t iron and it isn’t wood.”

“What is it then?”

“Impossible to say. But, anyhow, steel doesn’t touch it.” Uncle Prudent, in a sudden outburst of fury, began to rave and stamp on the sonorous planks, while his hands sought to strangle an imaginary Robur.

“Be calm, Prudent, be calm! You have a try.”

Uncle Prudent had a try, but the bowie-knife could do nothing against a wall which its best blades could not even scratch. The wall seemed to be made of crystal.

So it became evident that all flight was impracticable except through the door, and for a time they must resign themselves to their fate — not a very pleasant thing for the Yankee temperament, and very much to the disgust of these eminently practical men. But this conclusion was not arrived at without many objurgations and loud-sounding phrases hurled at this Robur — who, from what had been seen of him at the Weldon Institute, was not the sort of man to trouble himself much about them.

Suddenly Frycollin began to give unequivocal signs of being unwell. He began to writhe in a most lamentable fashion, either with cramp in his stomach or in his limbs; and Uncle Prudent, thinking it his duty to put an end to these gymnastics, cut the cords that bound him.

He had cause to be sorry for it. Immediately there was poured forth an interminable litany, in which the terrors of fear were mingled with the tortures of hunger. Frycollin was no worse in his brain than in his stomach, and it would have been difficult to decide to which organ the chief cause of the trouble should be assigned.

“Frycollin!” said Uncle Prudent.

“Master Uncle! Master Uncle!” answered the Negro between two of his lugubrious howls.

“It is possible that we are doomed to die of hunger in this prison, but we have made up our minds not to succumb until we have availed ourselves of every means of alimentation to prolong our lives.”

“To eat me?” exclaimed Frycollin.

“As is always done with a Negro under such circumstances! So you had better not make yourself too obvious — ”

“Or you’ll have your bones picked!” said Evans.

And as Frycollin saw he might be used to prolong two existences more precious than his own, he contented himself thenceforth with groaning in quiet.

The time went on and all attempts to force the door or get through the wall proved fruitless. What the wall was made of was impossible to say. It was not metal; it was not wood; it was not stone, And all the cell seemed to be made of the same stuff. When they stamped on the floor it gave a peculiar sound that Uncle Prudent found it difficult to describe; the floor seemed to sound hollow, as if it was not resting directly on the ground of the clearing. And the inexplicable f-r-r-r-r seemed to sweep along below it. All of which was rather alarming.

“Uncle Prudent,” said Phil Evans.

“Well?”

“Do you think our prison has been moved at all?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Because when we were first caught I distinctly remember the fresh fragrance of the grass and the resinous odor of the park trees. While now, when I take in a good sniff of the air, it seems as though all that had gone.”

“So it has.”

“Why?”

“We cannot say why unless we admit that the prison has moved; and I say again that if the prison had moved, either as a vehicle on the road or a boat on the stream, we should have felt it.”

Here Frycollin gave vent to a long groan, which might have been taken for his last had he not followed it up with several more.

“I expect Robur will soon have us brought before him,” said Phil Evans.

“I hope so,” said Uncle Prudent. “And I shall tell him — ”

“What?”

“That he began by being rude and ended in being unbearable.”

Here Phil Evans noticed that day was beginning to break. A gleam, still faint, filtered through the narrow window opposite the door. It ought thus to be about four o’clock in the morning for it is at that hour in the month of June in this latitude that the horizon of Philadelphia is tinged by the first rays of the dawn.

But when Uncle Prudent sounded his repeater — which was a masterpiece from his colleague’s factory — the tiny gong only gave a quarter to three, and the watch had not stopped.

“That is strange!” said Phil Evans. “At a quarter to three it ought still to be night.”

“Perhaps my watch has got slow,” answered Uncle Prudent.

“A watch of the Wheelton Watch Company!” exclaimed Phil Evans.

Whatever might be the reason, there was no doubt that the day was breaking. Gradually the window became white in the deep darkness of the cell. However, if the dawn appeared sooner than the fortieth parallel permitted, it did not advance with the rapidity peculiar to lower latitudes. This was another observation — of Uncle Prudent’s — a new inexplicable phenomenon.

“Couldn’t we get up to the window and see where we are?”

“We might,” said Uncle Prudent. “Frycollin, get up!”

The Negro arose.

“Put your back against the wall,” continued Prudent, “and you, Evans, get on his shoulders while I buttress him up.”

“Right!” said Evans.

An instant afterwards his knees were on Frycollin’s shoulders, and his eyes were level with the window. The window was not of lenticular glass like those on shipboard, but was a simple flat pane. It was small, and Phil Evans found his range of view was much limited.

“Break the glass,” said Prudent, “and perhaps you will be able to see better.”

Phil Evans gave it a sharp knock with the handle of his bowie-knife. It gave back a silvery sound, but it did not break.

Another and more violent blow. The same result.

“It is unbreakable glass!” said Evans.

It appeared as though the pane was made of glass toughened on the Siemens system — as after several blows it remained intact.

The light had now increased, and Phil Evans could see for some distance within the radius allowed by the frame.

“What do you see?” asked Uncle Prudent.

“Nothing.”

“What? Not any trees?”

“No.”

“Not even the top branches?”

“No.”

“Then we are not in the clearing?”

“Neither in the clearing nor in the park.”

“Don’t you see any roofs of houses or monuments?” said Prudent, whose disappointment and anger were increasing rapidly.

“No.”

“What! Not a flagstaff, nor a church tower, nor a chimney?”

“Nothing but space.”

As he uttered the words the door opened. A man appeared on the threshold. It was Robur.

“Honorable balloonists” he said, in a serious voice, “you are now free to go and come as you like.”

“Free!” exclaimed Uncle Prudent.

“Yes — within the limits of the “Albatross!”

Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans rushed out of their prison. And what did they see?

Four thousand feet below them the face of a country they sought in vain to recognize.

CHAPTER VII

ON BOARD THE ALBATROSS

“When will man cease to crawl in the depths to live in the azure and quiet of the sky?”

To this question of Camille Flammarion’s the answer is easy. It will be when the progress of mechanics has enabled us to solve the problem of aviation. And in a few years — as we can foresee — a more practical utilization of electricity will do much towards that solution.

In 1783, before the Montgolfier brothers had built their fire-balloon, and Charles, the physician, had devised his first aerostat, a few adventurous spirits had dreamt of the conquest of space by mechanical means. The first inventors did not think of apparatus lighter than air, for that the science of their time did not allow them to imagine. It was to contrivances heavier than air, to flying machines in imitation of the birds, that they trusted to realize aerial locomotion.

This was exactly what had been done by that madman Icarus, the son of Daedalus, whose wings, fixed together with wax, had melted as they approached the sun.

But without going back to mythological times, without dwelling on Archytas of Tarentum, we find, in the works of Dante of Perugia, of Leonardo da Vinci and Guidotti, the idea of machines made to move through the air. Two centuries and a half afterwards inventors began to multiply. In 1742 the Marquis de Bacqueville designed a system of wings, tried it over the Seine, and fell and broke his arm. In 1768 Paucton conceived the idea of an apparatus with two screws, suspensive and propulsive. In 1781 Meerwein, the architect of the Prince of Baden, built an orthopteric machine, and protested against the tendency of the aerostats which had just been invented. In 1784 Launoy and Bienvenu had maneuvered a helicopter worked by springs. In 1808 there were the attempts at flight by the Austrian Jacques Degen. In 1810 came the pamphlet by Denian of Nantes, in which the principles of “heavier than air” are laid down. From 1811 to 1840 came the inventions and researches of Derblinger, Vigual, Sarti, Dubochet, and Cagniard de Latour. In 1842 we have the Englishman Henson, with his system of inclined planes and screws worked by steam. In 1845 came Cossus and his ascensional screws. In 1847 came Camille Vert and his helicopter made of birds’ wings. In 1852 came Letur with his system of guidable parachutes, whose trial cost him his life; and in the same year came Michel Loup with his plan of gliding through the air on four revolving wings. In 1853 came Beleguic and his aeroplane with the traction screws, Vaussin-Chardannes with his guidable kite, and George Cauley with his flying machines driven by gas. From 1854 to 1863 appeared Joseph Pline with several patents for aerial systems. Breant, Carlingford, Le Bris, Du Temple, Bright, whose ascensional screws were left-handed; Smythies, Panafieu, Crosnier, &c. At length, in 1863, thanks to the efforts of Nadar, a society of “heavier than air” was founded in Paris. There the inventors could experiment with the machines, of which many were patented. Ponton d’Amecourt and his steam helicopter, La Landelle and his system of combining screws with inclined planes and parachutes, Louvrie and his aeroscape, Esterno and his mechanical bird, Groof and his apparatus with wings worked by levers. The impetus was given, inventors invented, calculators calculated all that could render aerial locomotion practicable. Bourcart, Le Bris, Kaufmann, Smyth, Stringfellow, Prigent, Danjard, Pomes and De la Pauze, Moy, Penaud, Jobert, Haureau de Villeneuve, Achenbach, Garapon, Duchesne, Danduran, Pariesel, Dieuaide, Melkiseff, Forlanini, Bearey, Tatin, Dandrieux, Edison, some with wings or screws, others with inclined planes, imagined, created, constructed, perfected, their flying machines, ready to do their work, once there came to be applied to thereby some inventor a motor of adequate power and excessive lightness.

This list may be a little long, but that will be forgiven, for it is necessary to give the various steps in the ladder of aerial locomotion, on the top of which appeared Robur the Conqueror. Without these attempts, these experiments of his predecessors, how could the inquirer have conceived so perfect an apparatus? And though he had but contempt for those who obstinately worked away in the direction of balloons, he held in high esteem all those partisans of “heavier than air,” English, American, Italian, Austrian, French — and particularly French — whose work had been perfected by him, and led him to design and then to build this flying engine known as the “Albatross,” which he was guiding through the currents of the atmosphere.

“The pigeon flies!” had exclaimed one of the most persistent adepts at aviation.

“They will crowd the air as they crowd the earth!” said one of his most excited partisans.

“From the locomotive to the aeromotive!” shouted the noisiest of all, who had turned on the trumpet of publicity to awaken the Old and New Worlds.

Nothing, in fact, is better established, by experiment and calculation, than that the air is highly resistant. A circumference of only a yard in diameter in the shape of a parachute can not only impede descent in air, but can render it isochronous. That is a fact.

It is equally well known that when the speed is great the work of the weight varies in almost inverse ratio to the square of the speed, and therefore becomes almost insignificant.

It is also known that as the weight of a flying animal increases, the less is the proportional increase in the surface beaten by the wings in order to sustain it, although the motion of the wings becomes slower.

A flying machine must therefore be constructed to take advantage of these natural laws, to imitate the bird, “that admirable type of aerial locomotion,” according to Dr. Marcy, of the Institute of France.

In short the contrivances likely to solve the problem are of three kinds: —

1. Helicopters or spiralifers, which are simply screws with vertical axes.

2. Ornithopters, machines which endeavour to reproduce the natural flight of birds.

3. Aeroplanes, which are merely inclined planes like kites, but towed or driven by screws.

Each of these systems has had and still has it partisans obstinately resolved to give way in not the slightest particular. However, Robur, for many reasons, had rejected the two first.

The ornithopter, or mechanical bird, offers certain advantages, no doubt. That the work and experiments of M. Renard in 1884 have sufficiently proved. But, as has been said, it is not necessary to copy Nature servilely. Locomotives are not copied from the hare, nor are ships copied from the fish. To the first we have put wheels which are not legs; to the second we have put screws which are not fins. And they do not do so badly. Besides, what is this mechanical movement in the flight of birds, whose action is so complex? Has not Doctor Marcy suspected that the feathers open during the return of the wings so as to let the air through them? And is not that rather a difficult operation for an artificial machine?

On the other hand, aeroplanes have given many good results. Screws opposing a slanting plane to the bed of air will produce an ascensional movement, and the models experimented on have shown that the disposable weight, that is to say the weight it is possible to deal with as distinct from that of the apparatus, increases with the square of the speed. Herein the aeroplane has the advantage over the aerostat even when the aerostat is furnished with the means of locomotion.

Nevertheless Robur had thought that the simpler his contrivance the better. And the screws — the Saint Helices that had been thrown in his teeth at the Weldon Institute — had sufficed for all the needs of his flying machine. One series could hold it suspended in the air, the other could drive it along under conditions that were marvelously adapted for speed and safety.

If the ornithopter — striking like the wings of a bird — raised itself by beating the air, the helicopter raised itself by striking the air obliquely, with the fins of the screw as it mounted on an inclined plane. These fins, or arms, are in reality wings, but wings disposed as a helix instead of as a paddle wheel. The helix advances in the direction of its axis. Is the axis vertical? Then it moves vertically. Is the axis horizontal? Then it moves horizontally.

The whole of Robur’s flying apparatus depended on these two movements, as will be seen from the following detailed description, which can be divided under three heads — the platform, the engines of suspension and propulsion, and the machinery.

Platform. — This was a framework a hundred feet long and twelve wide, a ship’s deck in fact, with a projecting prow. Beneath was a hull solidly built, enclosing the engines, stores, and provisions of all sorts, including the watertanks. Round the deck a few light uprights supported a wire trellis that did duty for bulwarks. On the deck were three houses, whose compartments were used as cabins for the crew, or as machine rooms. In the center house was the machine which drove the suspensory helices, in that forward was the machine that drove the bow screw, in that aft was the machine that drove the stern screw. In the bow were the cook’s galley and the crew’s quarters; in the stern were several cabins, including that of the engineer, the saloon, and above them all a glass house in which stood the helmsman, who steered the vessel by means of a powerful rudder. All these cabins were lighted by port-holes filled with toughened glass, which has ten times the resistance of ordinary glass. Beneath the hull was a system of flexible springs to ease off the concussion when it became advisable to land.

Engines of suspension and propulsion. — Above the deck rose thirty-seven vertical axes, fifteen along each side, and seven, more elevated, in the centre. The “Albatross” might be called a clipper with thirty-seven masts. But these masts instead of sails bore each two horizontal screws, not very large in spread or diameter, but driven at prodigious speed. Each of these axes had its own movement independent of the rest, and each alternate one spun round in a different direction from the others, so as to avoid any tendency to gyration. Hence the screws as they rose on the vertical column of air retained their equilibrium by their horizontal resistance. Consequently the apparatus was furnished with seventy-four suspensory screws, whose three branches were connected by a metallic circle which economized their motive force. In front and behind, mounted on horizontal axes, were two propelling screws, each with four arms. These screws were of much larger diameter than the suspensory ones, but could be worked at quite their speed. In fact, the vessel combined the systems of Cossus, La Landelle, and Ponton d’Amecourt, as perfected by Robur. But it was in the choice and application of his motive force that he could claim to be an inventor.

Machinery. — Robur had not availed himself of the vapor of water or other liquids, nor compressed air and other mechanical motion. He employed electricity, that agent which one day will be the soul of the industrial world. But he required no electro-motor to produce it. All he trusted to was piles and accumulators. What were the elements of these piles, and what were the acids he used, Robur only knew. And the construction of the accumulators was kept equally secret. Of what were their positive and negative plates? None can say. The engineer took good care — and not unreasonably — to keep his secret unpatented. One thing was unmistakable, and that was that the piles were of extraordinary strength; and the accumulators left those of Faure-Sellon-Volckmar very far behind in yielding currents whose amperes ran into figures up to then unknown. Thus there was obtained a power to drive the screws and communicate a suspending and propelling force in excess of all his requirements under any circumstances.

But — it is as well to repeat it — this belonged entirely to Robur. He kept it a close secret. And, if the president and secretary of the Weldon Institute did not happen to discover it, it would probably be lost to humanity.

It need not be shown that the apparatus possessed sufficient stability. Its center of gravity proved that at once. There was no danger of its making alarming angles with the horizontal, still less of its capsizing.

And now for the metal used by Robur in the construction of his aeronef — a name which can be exactly applied to the “Albatross.” What was this material, so hard that the bowie-knife of Phil Evans could not scratch it, and Uncle Prudent could not explain its nature? Simply paper!

For some years this fabrication had been making considerable progress. Unsized paper, with the sheets impregnated with dextrin and starch and squeezed in hydraulic presses, will form a material as hard as steel. There are made of it pulleys, rails, and wagon-wheels, much more solid than metal wheels, and far lighter. And it was this lightness and solidity which Robur availed himself of in building his aerial locomotive. Everything — framework, hull, houses, cabins — were made of straw-paper turned hard as metal by compression, and — what was not to be despised in an apparatus flying at great heights — incombustible. The different parts of the engines and the screws were made of gelatinized fiber, which combined in sufficient degree flexibility with resistance. This material could be used in every form. It was insoluble in most gases and liquids, acids or essences, to say nothing of its insulating properties, and it proved most valuable in the electric machinery of the “Albatross.”

Robur, his mate Tom Turner, an engineer and two assistants, two steersman and a cook — eight men all told — formed the crew of the aeronef, and proved ample for all the maneuvers required in aerial navigation. There were arms of the chase and of war; fishing appliances; electric lights; instruments of observation, compasses, and sextants for checking the course, thermometers for studying the temperature, different barometers, some for estimating the heights attained, others for indicating the variations of atmospheric pressure; a storm-glass for forecasting tempests; a small library; a portable printing press; a field-piece mounted on a pivot; breech loading and throwing a three-inch shell; a supply of powder, bullets, dynamite cartridges; a cooking-stove, warmed by currents from the accumulators; a stock of preserves, meats and vegetables sufficient to last for months. Such were the outfit and stores of the aeronef — in addition to the famous trumpet.

There was besides a light india-rubber boat, insubmersible, which could carry eight men on the surface of a river, a lake, or a calm sea.

But were there any parachutes in case of accident? No. Robur did not believe in accidents of that kind. The axes of the screws were independent. The stoppage of a few would not affect the motion of the others; and if only half were working, the “Albatross” could still keep afloat in her natural element.

“And with her,” said Robur to his guests — guests in spite of themselves — “I am master of the seventh part of the world, larger than Africa, Oceania, Asia, America, and Europe, this aerial Icarian sea, which millions of Icarians will one day people.”

CHAPTER VIII

THE BALLOONISTS REFUSE TO BE CONVINCED

The President of the Weldon Institute was stupefied; his companion was astonished. But neither of them would allow any of their very natural amazement to be visible.

The valet Frycollin did not conceal his terror at finding himself borne through space on such a machine, and he took no pains whatever to hide it.

The suspensory screws were rapidly spinning overhead. Fast as they were going, they would have to triple their speed if the “Albatross” was to ascend to higher zones. The two propellers were running very easily and driving the ship at about eleven knots an hour.

As they leaned over the rail the passengers of the “Albatross” could perceive a long sinuous liquid ribbon which meandered like a mere brook through a varied country amid the gleaming of many lagoons obliquely struck by the rays of the sun. The brook was a river, one of the most important in that district. Along its left bank was a chain of mountains extending out of sight.

“And will you tell us where we are?” asked Uncle Prudent, in a voice tremulous with anger.

“I have nothing to teach you,” answered Robur.

“And will you tell us where we are going?” asked Phil Evans.

“Through space.”

“And how long will that last?”

“Until it ends.”

“Are we going round the world?” asked Phil Evans ironically.

“Further than that,” said Robur.

“And if this voyage does not suit us?” asked Uncle Prudent.

“It will have to suit you.”

That is a foretaste of the nature of the relations that were to obtain between the master of the “Albatross” and his guests, not to say his prisoners. Manifestly he wished to give them time to cool down, to admire the marvelous apparatus which was bearing them through the air, and doubtless to compliment the inventor. And so he went off to the other end of the deck, leaving them to examine the arrangement of the machinery and the management of the ship or to give their whole attention to the landscape which was unrolling beneath them.

“Uncle Prudent,” said Evans, “unless I am mistaken we are flying over Central Canada. That river in the northwest is the St. Lawrence. That town we are leaving behind is Quebec.”

It was indeed the old city of Champlain, whose zinc roofs were shining like reflectors in the sun. The “Albatross” must thus have reached the forty-sixth degree of north latitude, and thus was explained the premature advance of the day with the abnormal prolongation of the dawn.

“Yes,” said Phil Evans, “There is the town in its amphitheater, the hill with its citadel, the Gibraltar of North America. There are the cathedrals. There is the Custom House with its dome surmounted by the British flag!”

Phil Evans had not finished before the Canadian city began to slip into the distance.

The clipper entered a zone of light clouds, which gradually shut off a view of the ground.

Robur, seeing that the president and secretary of the Weldon Institute had directed their attention to the external arrangements of the “Albatross,” walked up to them and said: “Well, gentlemen, do you believe in the possibility of aerial locomotion by machines heavier than air?”

It would have been difficult not to succumb to the evidence. But Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans did not reply.

“You are silent,” continued the engineer. “Doubtless hunger makes you dumb! But if I undertook to carry you through the air, I did not think of feeding you on such a poorly nutritive fluid. Your first breakfast is waiting for you.”

As Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans were feeling the pangs of hunger somewhat keenly they did not care to stand upon ceremony. A meal would commit them to nothing; and when Robur put them back on the ground they could resume full liberty of action.

And so they followed into a small dining-room in the aftermost house. There they found a well-laid table at which they could take their meals during the voyage. There were different preserves; and, among other things, was a sort of bread made of equal parts of flour and meat reduced to powder and worked together with a little lard, which boiled in water made excellent soup; and there were rashers of fried ham, and for drink there was tea.

Neither had Frycollin been forgotten. He was taken forward and there found some strong soup made of this bread. In truth he had to be very hungry to eat at all, for his jaws shook with fear, and almost refused to work. “If it was to break! If it was to break!” said the unfortunate Negro. Hence continual faintings. Only think! A fall of over four thousand feet, which would smash him to a jelly!

An hour afterwards Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans appeared on the deck. Robur was no longer there. At the stem the man at the wheel in his glass cage, his eyes fixed on the compass, followed imperturbably without hesitation the route given by the engineer.

As for the rest of the crew, breakfast probably kept them from their posts. An assistant engineer, examining the machinery, went from one house to the other.

If the speed of the ship was great the two colleagues could only estimate it imperfectly, for the “Albatross” had passed through the cloud zone which the sun showed some four thousand feet below.

“I can hardly believe it,” said Phil Evans.

“Don’t believe it!” said Uncle Prudent. And going to the bow they looked out towards the western horizon.

“Another town,” said Phil Evans.

“Do you recognize it?”

“Yes! It seems to me to be Montreal.”

“Montreal? But we only left Quebec two hours ago!”

“That proves that we must be going at a speed of seventy-five miles an hour.”

Such was the speed of the aeronef; and if the passengers were not inconvenienced by it, it was because they were going with the wind. In a calm such speed would have been difficult and the rate would have sunk to that of an express. In a head-wind the speed would have been unbearable.

Phil Evans was not mistaken. Below the “Albatross” appeared Montreal, easily recognizable by the Victoria Bridge, a tubular bridge thrown over the St. Lawrence like the railway viaduct over the Venice lagoon. Soon they could distinguish the town’s wide streets, its huge shops, its palatial banks, its cathedral, recently built on the model of St. Peter’s at Rome, and then Mount Royal, which commands the city and forms a magnificent park.

Luckily Phil Evans had visited the chief towns of Canada, and could recognize them without asking Robur. After Montreal they passed Ottawa, whose falls, seen from above, looked like a vast cauldron in ebullition, throwing off masses of steam with grand effect.

“There is the Parliament House.”

And he pointed out a sort of Nuremburg toy planted on a hill top. This toy with its polychrome architecture resembled the House of Parliament in London much as the Montreal cathedral resembles St. Peter’s at Rome. But that was of no consequence; there could be no doubt it was Ottawa.

Soon the city faded off towards the horizon, and formed but a luminous spot on the ground.

It was almost two hours before Robur appeared. His mate, Tom Turner, accompanied him. He said only three words. These were transmitted to the two assistant engineers in the fore and aft engine-houses. At a sign the helmsman changed the-direction of the “Albatross” a couple of points to the southwest; at the same time Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans felt that a greater speed had been given to the propellers.

In fact, the speed had been doubled, and now surpassed anything that had ever been attained by terrestrial Engines. Torpedo-boats do their twenty-two knots an hour; railway trains do their sixty miles an hour; the ice-boats on the frozen Hudson do their sixty-five miles an hour; a machine built by the Patterson company, with a cogged wheel, has done its eighty miles; and another locomotive between Trenton and Jersey City has done its eighty-four.

But the “Albatross,” at full speed, could do her hundred and twenty miles an hour, or 176 feet per second. This speed is that of the storm which tears up trees by the roots. It is the mean speed of the carrier pigeon, and is only surpassed by the flight of the swallow (220 feet per second) and that of the swift (274 feet per second).

In a word, as Robur had said, the “Albatross,” by using the whole force of her screws, could make the tour of the globe in two hundred hours, or less than eight days.

Is it necessary to say so? The phenomenon whose appearance had so much puzzled the people of both worlds was the aeronef of the engineer. The trumpet which blared its startling fanfares through the air was that of the mate, Tom Turner. The flag planted on the chief monuments of Europe, Asia, America, was the flag of Robur the Conqueror and his “Albatross.”

And if up to then the engineer had taken many precautions against being recognized, if by preference he traveled at night, clearing the way with his electric lights, and during the day vanishing into the zones above the clouds, he seemed now to have no wish to keep his secret hidden. And if he had come to Philadelphia and presented himself at the meeting of the Weldon Institute, was it not that they might share in his prodigious discovery, and convince “ipso facto” the most incredulous? We know how he had been received, and we see what reprisals he had taken on the president and secretary of the club.

Again did Robur approach his prisoners, who affected to be in no way surprised at what they saw, of what had succeeded in spite of them. Evidently beneath the cranium of these two Anglo-Saxon heads there was a thick crust of obstinacy, which would not be easy to remove.

On his part, Robur did not seem to notice anything particular, and coolly continued the conversation which he had begun two hours before.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “you ask yourselves doubtless if this apparatus, so marvelously adapted for aerial locomotion, is susceptible of receiving greater speed. It is not worth while to conquer space if we cannot devour it. I wanted the air to be a solid support to me, and it is. I saw that to struggle against the wind I must be stronger than the wind, and I am. I had no need of sails to drive me, nor oars nor wheels to push me, nor rails to give me a faster road. Air is what I wanted, that was all. Air surrounds me as it surrounds the submarine boat, and in it my propellers act like the screws of a steamer. That is how I solved the problem of aviation. That is what a balloon will never do, nor will any machine that is lighter than air.”

Silence, absolute, on the part of the colleagues, which did not for a moment disconcert the engineer. He contented himself with a half-smile, and continued in his interrogative style, “Perhaps you ask if to this power of the “Albatross” to move horizontally there is added an equal power of vertical movement — in a word, if, when, we visit the higher zones of the atmosphere, we can compete with an aerostat? Well, I should not advise you to enter the “Go-Ahead” against her!”

The two colleagues shrugged their shoulders. That was probably what the engineer was waiting for.

Robur made a sign. The propelling screws immediately stopped, and after running for a mile the “Albatross” pulled up motionless.

At a second gesture from Robur the suspensory helices revolved at a speed that can only be compared to that of a siren in acoustical experiments. Their f-r-r-r-r rose nearly an octave in the scale of sound, diminishing gradually in intensity as the air became more rarified, and the machine rose vertically, like a lark singing his song in space.

“Master! Master!” shouted Frycollin. “See that it doesn’t break!”

A smile of disdain was Robur’s only reply. In a few minutes the “Albatross” had attained the height of 8,700 feet, and extended the range of vision by seventy miles, the barometer having fallen 480 millimeters.

Then the “Albatross” descended. The diminution of the pressure in high altitudes leads to the diminution of oxygen in the air, and consequently in the blood. This has been the cause of several serious accidents which have happened to aeronauts, and Robur saw no reason to run any risk.

The “Albatross” thus returned to the height she seemed to prefer, and her propellers beginning again, drove her off to the southwest.

“Now, sirs, if that is what you wanted you can reply.” Then, leaning over the rail, he remained absorbed in contemplation.

When he raised his head the president and secretary of the Weldon Institute stood by his side.

“Engineer Robur,” said Uncle Prudent, in vain endeavoring to control himself, “we have nothing to ask about what you seem to believe, but we wish to ask you a question which we think you would do well to answer.”

“Speak.”

“By what right did you attack us in Philadelphia in Fairmount Park? By what right did you shut us up in that prison? By what right have you brought us against our will on board this flying machine?”

“And by what right, Messieurs Balloonists, did you insult and threaten me in your club in such a way that I am astonished I came out of it alive?”

“To ask is not to answer,” said Phil Evans, “and I repeat, by what right?”

“Do you wish to know?”

“If you please.”

“Well, by the right of the strongest!”

“That is cynical.”

“But it is true.”

“And for how long, citizen engineer,” asked Uncle Prudent, who was nearly exploding, “for how long do you intend to exercise that right?”

“How can you?” said Robur, ironically, “how can you ask me such a question when you have only to cast down your eyes to enjoy a spectacle unparalleled in the world?”

The “Albatross” was then sweeping across the immense expanse of Lake Ontario. She had just crossed the country so poetically described by Cooper. Then she followed the southern shore and headed for the celebrated river which pours into it the waters of Lake Erie, breaking them to powder in its cataracts.

In an instant a majestic sound, a roar as of the tempest, mounted towards them and, as if a humid fog had been projected into the air, the atmosphere sensibly freshened. Below were the liquid masses. They seemed like an enormous flowing sheet of crystal amid a thousand rainbows due to refraction as it decomposed the solar rays. The sight was sublime.

Before the falls a foot-bridge, stretching like a thread, united one bank to the other. Three miles below was a suspension-bridge, across which a train was crawling from the Canadian to the American bank.

“The falls of Niagara!” exclaimed Phil Evans. And as the exclamation escaped him, Uncle Prudent was doing all could do to admire nothing of these wonders.

A minute afterwards the “Albatross” had crossed the river which separates the United States from Canada, and was flying over the vast territories of the West.

CHAPTER IX

ACROSS THE PRAIRIE

In one, of the cabins of the after-house Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans had found two excellent berths, with clean linen, change of clothes, and traveling-cloaks and rugs. No Atlantic liner could have offered them more comfort. If they did not sleep soundly it was that they did not wish to do so, or rather that their very real anxiety prevented them. In what adventure had they embarked? To what series of experiments had they been invited? How would the business end? And above all, what was Robur going to do with them?

Frycollin, the valet, was quartered forward in a cabin adjoining that of the cook. The neighborhood did not displease him; he liked to rub shoulders with the great in this world. But if he finally went to sleep it was to dream of fall after fall, of projections through space, which made his sleep a horrible nightmare.

However, nothing could be quieter than this journey through the atmosphere, whose currents had grown weaker with the evening. Beyond the rustling of the blades of the screws there was not a sound, except now and then the whistle from some terrestrial locomotive, or the calling of some animal. Strange instinct! These terrestrial beings felt the aeronef glide over them, and uttered cries of terror as it passed. On the morrow, the 14th of June, at five o’clock, Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans were walking on the deck of the “Albatross.”

Nothing had changed since the evening; there was a lookout forward, and the helmsman was in his glass cage. Why was there a lookout? Was there any chance of collision with another such machine? Certainly not. Robur had not yet found imitators. The chance of encountering an aerostat gliding through the air was too remote to be regarded. In any case it would be all the worse for the aerostat — the earthen pot and the iron pot. The “Albatross” had nothing to fear from the collision.

But what could happen? The aeronef might find herself like a ship on a lee shore if a mountain that could not be outflanked or passed barred the way. These are the reefs of the air, and they have to be avoided as a ship avoids the reefs of the sea. The engineer, it is true, had given the course, and in doing so had taken into account the altitude necessary to clear the summits of the high lands in the district. But as the aeronef was rapidly nearing a mountainous country, it was only prudent to keep a good lookout, in case some slight deviation from the course became necessary.

Looking at the country beneath them, Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans noticed a large lake, whose lower southern end the “Albatross” had just reached. They concluded, therefore, that during the night the whole length of Lake Erie had been traversed, and that, as they were going due west, they would soon be over Lake Michigan. “There can be no doubt of it,” said Phil Evans, “and that group of roofs on the horizon is Chicago.”

He was right. It was indeed the city from which the seventeen railways diverge, the Queen of the West, the vast reservoir into which flow the products of Indiana, Ohio, Wisconsin, Missouri, and all the States which form the western half of the Union.

Uncle Prudent, through an excellent telescope he had found in his cabin, easily recognized the principal buildings. His colleague pointed out to him the churches and public edifices, the numerous “elevators” or mechanical, granaries, and the huge Sherman Hotel, whose windows seemed like a hundred glittering points on each of its faces.

“If that is Chicago,” said Uncle Prudent, “it is obvious that we are going farther west than is convenient for us if we are to return to our starting-place.”

And, in fact, the “Albatross” was traveling in a straight line from the Pennsylvania capital.

But if Uncle Prudent wished to ask Robur to take him eastwards he could not then do so. That morning the engineer did not leave his cabin. Either he was occupied in some work, or else he was asleep, and the two colleagues sat down to breakfast without seeing him.

The speed was the same as that during last evening. The wind being easterly the rate was not interfered with at all, and as the thermometer only falls a degree centigrade for every seventy meters of elevation the temperature was not insupportable. And so, in chatting and thinking and waiting for the engineer, Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans walked about beneath the forest of screws, whose gyratory movement gave their arms the appearance of semi-diaphanous disks.

The State of Illinois was left by its northern frontier in less than two hours and a half; and they crossed the Father of Waters, the Mississippi, whose double-decked steam-boats seemed no bigger than canoes. Then the “Albatross” flew over Iowa after having sighted Iowa City about eleven o’clock in the morning.

A few chains of hills, “bluffs” as they are called, curved across the face of the country trending from the south to the northwest, whose moderate height necessitated no rise in the course of the aeronef. Soon the bluffs gave place to the large plains of western Iowa and Nebraska — immense prairies extending all the way to the foot of the Rocky Mountains. Here and there were many rios, affluents or minor affluents of the Missouri. On their banks were towns and villages, growing more scattered as the “Albatross” sped farther west.

Nothing particular happened during this day. Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans were left entirely to themselves. They hardly noticed Frycollin sprawling at full length in the bow, keeping his eyes shut so that he could see nothing. And they were not attacked by vertigo, as might have been expected. There was no guiding mark, and there was nothing to cause the vertigo, as there would have been on the top of a lofty building. The abyss has no attractive power when it is gazed at from the car of a balloon or deck of an aeronef. It is not an abyss that opens beneath the aeronaut, but an horizon that rises round him on all sides like a cup.

In a couple of hours the “Albatross” was over Omaha, on the Nebraskan frontier — Omaha City, the real head of the Pacific Railway, that long line of rails, four thousand five hundred miles in length, stretching from New York to San Francisco. For a moment they could see the yellow waters of the Missouri, then the town, with its houses of wood and brick in the center of a rich basin, like a buckle in the iron belt which clasps North America round the waist. Doubtless, also, as the passengers in the aeronef could observe all these details, the inhabitants of Omaha noticed the strange machine. Their astonishment at seeing it gliding overhead could be no greater than that of the president and secretary of the Weldon Institute at finding themselves on board.

Anyhow, the journals of the Union would be certain to notice the fact. It would be the explanation of the astonishing phenomenon which the whole world had been wondering over for some time.

In an hour the “Albatross” had left Omaha and crossed the Platte River, whose valley is followed by the Pacific Railway in its route across the prairie. Things looked serious for Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans.

“It is serious, then, this absurd project of taking us to the Antipodes.”

“And whether we like it or not!” exclaimed the other.

“Robur had better take care! I am not the man to stand that sort of thing.”

“Nor am I!” replied Phil Evans. “But be calm, Uncle Prudent, be calm.”

“Be calm!”

“And keep your temper until it is wanted.”

By five o’clock they had crossed the Black Mountains covered with pines and cedars, and the “Albatross” was over the appropriately named Bad Lands of Nebraska — a chaos of ochre-colored hills, of mountainous fragments fallen on the soil and broken in their fall. At a distance these blocks take the most fantastic shapes. Here and there amid this enormous game of knucklebones there could be traced the imaginary ruins of medieval cities with forts and dungeons, pepper-box turrets, and machicolated towers. And in truth these Bad Lands are an immense ossuary where lie bleaching in the sun myriads of fragments of pachyderms, chelonians, and even, some would have us believe, fossil men, overwhelmed by unknown cataclysms ages and ages ago.

When evening came the whole basin of the Platte River had been crossed, and the plain extended to the extreme limits of the horizon, which rose high owing to the altitude of the “Albatross.”

During the night there were no more shrill whistles of locomotives or deeper notes of the river steamers to trouble the quiet of the starry firmament. Long bellowing occasionally reached the aeronef from the herds of buffalo that roamed over the prairie in search of water and pasturage. And when they ceased, the trampling of the grass under their feet produced a dull roaring similar to the rushing of a flood, and very different from the continuous f-r-r-r-r of the screws.

Then from time to time came the howl of a wolf, a fox, a wild cat, or a coyote, the “Canis latrans,” whose name is justified by his sonorous bark.

Occasionally came penetrating odors of mint, and sage, and absinthe, mingled with the more powerful fragrance of the conifers which rose floating through the night air.

At last came a menacing yell, which was not due to the coyote. It was the shout of a Redskin, which no Tenderfoot would confound with the cry of a wild beast.

CHAPTER X

WESTWARD — BUT WHITHER?

The next day, the 15th of June, about five o’clock in the morning, Phil Evans left his cabin. Perhaps he would today have a chance of speaking to Robur? Desirous of knowing why he had not appeared the day before, Evans addressed himself to the mate, Tom Turner.

Tom Turner was an Englishman of about forty-five, broad in the shoulders and short in the legs, a man of iron, with one of those enormous characteristic heads that Hogarth rejoiced in.

“Shall we see Mr. Robur to-day?” asked Phil Evans.

“I don’t know,” said Turner.

“I need not ask if he has gone out.”

“Perhaps he has.”

“And when will he come back?”

“When he has finished his cruise.”

And Tom went into his cabin.

With this reply they had to be contented. Matters did not look promising, particularly as on reference to the compass it appeared that the “Albatross” was still steering southwest.

Great was the contrast between the barren tract of the Bad Lands passed over during the night and the landscape then unrolling beneath them.

The aeronef was now more than six hundred miles from Omaha, and over a country which Phil Evans could not recognize because he had never been there before. A few forts to keep the Indians in order crowned the bluffs with their geometric lines, formed oftener of palisades than walls. There were few villages, and few inhabitants, the country differing widely from the auriferous lands of Colorado many leagues to the south.

In the distance a long line of mountain crests, in great confusion as yet, began to appear. They were the Rocky Mountains.

For the first time that morning Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans were sensible of a certain lowness of temperature which was not due to a change in the weather, for the sun shone in superb splendor.

“It is because of the “Albatross” being higher in the air,” said Phil Evans.

In fact the barometer outside the central deck-house had fallen 540 millimeters, thus indicating an elevation of about 10,000 feet above the sea. The aeronef was at this altitude owing to the elevation of the ground. An hour before she had been at a height of 13,000 feet, and behind her were mountains covered with perpetual snow.

There was nothing Uncle Prudent and his companion could remember which would lead them to discover where they were. During the night the “Albatross” had made several stretches north and south at tremendous speed, and that was what had put them out of their reckoning.

After talking over several hypotheses more or less plausible they came to the conclusion that this country encircled with mountains must be the district declared by an Act of Congress in March, 1872, to be the National Park of the United States. A strange region it was. It well merited the name of a park — a park with mountains for hills, with lakes for ponds, with rivers for streamlets, and with geysers of marvelous power instead of fountains.

In a few minutes the “Albatross” glided across the Yellowstone River, leaving Mount Stevenson on the right, and coasting the large lake which bears the name of the stream. Great was the variety on the banks of this basin, ribbed as they were with obsidian and tiny crystals, reflecting the sunlight on their myriad facets. Wonderful was the arrangement of the islands on its surface; magnificent were the blue reflections of the gigantic mirror. And around the lake, one of the highest in the globe, were multitudes of pelicans, swans, gulls and geese, bernicles and divers. In places the steep banks were clothed with green trees, pines and larches, and at the foot of the escarpments there shot upwards innumerable white fumaroles, the vapor escaping from the soil as from an enormous reservoir in which the water is kept in permanent ebullition by subterranean fire.

The cook might have seized the opportunity of securing an ample supply of trout, the only fish the Yellowstone Lake contains in myriads. But the “Albatross” kept on at such a height that there was no chance of indulging in a catch which assuredly would have been miraculous.

In three quarters of an hour the lake was overpassed, and a little farther on the last was seen of the geyser region, which rivals the finest in Iceland. Leaning over the rail, Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans watched the liquid columns which leaped up as though to furnish the aeronef with a new element. There were the Fan, with the jets shot forth in rays, the Fortress, which seemed to be defended by waterspouts, the Faithful Friend, with her plume crowned with the rainbows, the Giant, spurting forth a vertical torrent twenty feet round and more than two hundred feet high.

Robur must evidently have been familiar with this incomparable spectacle, unique in the world, for he did not appear on deck. Was it, then, for the sole pleasure of his guests that he had brought the aeronef above the national domain? If so, he came not to receive their thanks. He did not even trouble himself during the daring passage of the Rocky Mountains, which the “Albatross” approached at about seven o’clock.

By increasing the speed of her wings, as a bird rising in its flight, the “Albatross” would clear the highest ridges of the chain, and sink again over Oregon or Utah, But the maneuver was unnecessary. The passes allowed the barrier to be crossed without ascending for the higher ridges. There are many of these canyons, or steep valleys, more or less narrow, through which they could glide, such as Bridger Gap, through which runs the Pacific Railway into the Mormon territory, and others to the north and south of it.

It was through one of these that the “Albatross” headed, after slackening speed so as not to dash against the walls of the canyon. The steersman, with a sureness of hand rendered more effective by the sensitiveness of the rudder, maneuvered his craft as if she were a crack racer in a Royal Victoria match. It was really extraordinary. In spite of all the jealousy of the two enemies of “lighter than air,” they could not help being surprised at the perfection of this engine of aerial locomotion.

In less than two hours and a half they were through the Rockies, and the “Albatross” resumed her former speed of sixty-two miles an hour. She was steering southwest so as to cut across Utah diagonally as she neared the ground. She had even dropped several hundred yards when the sound of a whistle attracted the attention of Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans. It was a train on the Pacific Railway on the road to Salt Lake City.

And then, in obedience to an order secretly given, the “Albatross” dropped still lower so as to chase the train, which was going at full speed. She was immediately sighted. A few heads showed themselves at the doors of the cars. Then numerous passengers crowded the gangways. Some did not hesitate to climb on the roof to get a better view of the flying machine. Cheers came floating up through the air; but no Robur appeared in answer to them.

The “Albatross” continued her descent, slowing her suspensory screws and moderating her speed so as not to leave the train behind. She flew about it like an enormous beetle or a gigantic bird of prey. She headed off, to the right and left, and swept on in front, and hung behind, and proudly displayed her flag with the golden sun, to which the conductor of the train replied by waving the Stars and Stripes.

In vain the prisoners, in their desire to take advantage of the opportunity, endeavored to make themselves known to those below. In vain the president of the Weldon Institute roared forth at the top of his voice, “I am Uncle Prudent of Philadelphia!” And the secretary followed suit with, “I am Phil Evans, his colleague!” Their shouts were lost in the thousand cheers with which the passengers greeted the aeronef.

Three or four of the crew of the “Albatross” had appeared on the deck, and one of them, like sailors when passing a ship less speedy than their own, held out a rope, an ironical way of offering to tow them.

And then the “Albatross” resumed her original speed, and in half an hour the express was out of sight. About one o’clock there appeared a vast disk, which reflected the solar rays as if it were an immense mirror.

“That ought to be the Mormon capital, Salt Lake City,” said Uncle Prudent. And so it was, and the disk was the roof of the Tabernacle, where ten thousand saints can worship at their ease. This vast dome, like a convex mirror, threw off the rays of the sun in all directions.

It vanished like a shadow, and the “Albatross” sped on her way to the southwest with a speed that was not felt, because it surpassed that of the chasing wind. Soon she was in Nevada over the silver regions, which the Sierra separates from the golden lands of California.

“We shall certainly reach San Francisco before night,” said Phil Evans.

“And then?” asked Uncle Prudent.

It was six o’clock precisely when the Sierra Nevada was crossed by the same pass as that taken by the railway. Only a hundred and eighty miles then separated them from San Francisco, the Californian capital.

At the speed the “Albatross” was going she would be over the dome by eight o’clock.

At this moment Robur appeared on deck. The colleagues walked up to him.

“Engineer Robur,” said Uncle Prudent, “we are now on the very confines of America! We think the time has come for this joke to end.”

“I never joke,” said Robur.

He raised his hand. The “Albatross” swiftly dropped towards the ground, and at the same time such speed was given her as to drive the prisoners into their cabin. As soon as the door was shut, Uncle Prudent exclaimed, “I could strangle him!”

“We must try to escape.” said Phil Evans.

“Yes; cost what it may!”

A long murmur greeted their ears. It was the beating of the surf on the seashore. It was the Pacific Ocean!

CHAPTER XI

THE WIDE PACIFIC

Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans had quite made up their minds to escape. If they had not had to deal with the eight particularly vigorous men who composed the crew of the aeronef they might have tried to succeed by main force. But as they were only two — for Frycollin could only be considered as a quantity of no importance — force was not to be thought of. Hence recourse must be had to strategy as soon as the “Albatross” again took the ground. Such was what Phil Evans endeavored to impress on his irascible colleague, though he was in constant fear of Prudent aggravating matters by some premature outbreak.

In any case the present was not the time to attempt anything of the sort. The aeronef was sweeping along over the North Pacific. On the following morning, that of June 16th, the coast was out of sight. And as the coast curves off from Vancouver Island up to the Aleutians — belonging to that portion of America ceded by Russia to the United States in 1867 — it was highly probable that the “Albatross” would cross it at the end of the curve, if her course remained unchanged.

How long the night appeared to be to the two friends! How eager they were to get out of their cabins! When they came on deck in the morning the dawn had for some hours been silvering the eastern horizon. They were nearing the June solstice, the longest day of the year in the northern hemisphere, when there is hardly any night along the sixtieth parallel.

Either from custom or intention Robur was in no hurry to leave his deck-house, When he came out this morning be contented himself with bowing to his two guests as he passed them in the stern of the aeronef.

And now Frycollin ventured out of his cabin. His eyes red with sleeplessness, and dazed in their look, he tottered along, like a man whose foot feels it is not on solid ground. His first glance was at the suspensory screws, which were working with gratifying regularity without any signs of haste. That done, the Negro stumbled along to the rail, and grasped it with both hands, so as to make sure of his balance. Evidently he wished to view the country over which the “Albatross” was flying at the height of seven hundred feet or more.

At first he kept himself well back behind the rail. Then he shook it to make sure it was firm; then he drew himself up; then he bent forward; then he stretched out his head. It need not be said that while he was executing these different maneuvers he kept his eyes shut. At last he opened them.

What a shout! And how quickly he fled! And how deeply his head sank back into his shoulders! At the bottom of the abyss he had seen the immense ocean. His hair would have risen on end — if it had not been wool.

“The sea! The sea!” he cried. And Frycollin would have fallen on the deck had not the cook opened his arms to receive him.

This cook was a Frenchman, and probably a Gascon, his name being Francois Tapage. If he was not a Gascon he must in his infancy have inhaled the breezes of the Garonne. How did this Francois Tapage find himself in the service of the engineer? By what chain of accidents had he become one of the crew of the “Albatross?” We can hardly say; but in any case be spoke English like a Yankee. “Eh, stand up!” he said, lifting the Negro by a vigorous clutch at the waist.

“Master Tapage!” said the poor fellow, giving a despairing look at the screws.

“At your service, Frycollin.”

“Did this thing ever smash?”

“No, but it will end by smashing.”

“Why? Why?”

“Because everything must end.

“And the sea is beneath us!”

“If we are to fall, it is better to fall in the sea.”

“We shall be drowned.”

“We shall be drowned, but we shall not be smashed to a jelly.”

The next moment Frycollin was on all fours, creeping to the back of his cabin.

During this day the aeronef was only driven at moderate speed. She seemed to skim the placid surface of the sea, which lay beneath. Uncle Prudent and his companion remained in their cabin, so that they did not meet with Robur, who walked about smoking alone or talking to the mate. Only half the screws were working, yet that was enough to keep the apparatus afloat in the lower zones of the atmosphere.

The crew, as a change from the ordinary routine, would have endeavored to catch a few fish had there been any sign of them; but all that could be seen on the surface of the sea were a few of those yellow-bellied whales which measure about eighty feet in length. These are the most formidable cetaceans in the northern seas, and whalers are very careful in attacking them, for their strength is prodigious. However, in harpooning one of these whales, either with the ordinary harpoon, the Fletcher fuse, or the javelin-bomb, of which there was an assortment on board, there would have been danger to the men of the “Albatross.”

But what was the good of such useless massacre? Doubtless to show off the powers of the aeronef to the members of the Weldon Institute. And so Robur gave orders for the capture of one of these monstrous cetaceans.

At the shout of “A whale! A whale!” Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans came out of their cabin. Perhaps there was a whaler in sight! In that case all they had to do to escape from their flying prison was to jump into the sea, and chance being picked up by the vessel.

The crew were all on deck. “Shall we try, sir?” asked Tom Turner.

“Yes,” said Robur.

In the engine-room the engineer and his assistant were at their posts ready to obey the orders signaled to them. The “Albatross” dropped towards the sea, and remained, about fifty feet above it.

There was no ship in sight — of that the two colleagues soon assured themselves — nor was there any land to be seen to which they could swim, providing Robur made no attempt to recapture them.

Several jets of water from the spout holes soon announced the presence of the whales as they came to the surface to breathe. Tom Turner and one of the men were in the bow. Within his reach was one of those javelin-bombs, of Californian make, which are shot from an arquebus and which are shaped as a metallic cylinder terminated by a cylindrical shell armed with a shaft having a barbed point. Robur was a little farther aft, and with his right hand signaled to the engineers, while with his left, he directed the steersman. He thus controlled the aeronef in every way, horizontally and vertically, and it is almost impossible to conceive with what speed and precision the “Albatross” answered to his orders. She seemed a living being, of which he was the soul.

“A whale! A whale!” shouted Tom Turner, as the back of a cetacean emerged from the surface about four cable-lengths in front of the “Albatross.”

The “Albatross” swept towards it, and when she was within sixty feet of it she stopped dead.

Tom Turner seized the arquebus, which was resting against a cleat on the rail. He fired, and the projectile, attached to a long line, entered the whale’s body. The shell, filled with an explosive compound, burst, and shot out a small harpoon with two branches, which fastened into the animal’s flesh.

“Look out!” shouted Turner.

Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans, much against their will, became greatly interested in the spectacle.

The whale, seriously wounded, gave the sea such a slap with his tail, that the water dashed up over the bow of the aeronef. Then he plunged to a great depth, while the line, which had been previously wetted in a tub of water to prevent its taking fire, ran out like lightning. When the whale rose to the surface he started off at full speed in a northerly direction.

It may be imagined with what speed the “Albatross” was towed in pursuit. Besides, the propellers had been stopped. The whale was let go as he would, and the ship followed him. Turner stood ready to cut the line in case a fresh plunge should render this towing dangerous.

For half an hour, and perhaps for a distance of six miles, the “Albatross” was thus dragged along, but it was obvious that the whale was tiring. Then, at a gesture from Robur the assistant engineers started the propellers astern, so as to oppose a certain resistance to the whale, who was gradually getting closer.

Soon the aeronef was gliding about twenty-five feet above him. His tail was beating the waters with incredible violence, and as he turned over on his back an enormous wave was produced.

Suddenly the whale turned up again, so as to take a header, as it were, and then dived with such rapidity that Turner had barely time to cut the line.

The aeronef was dragged to the very surface of the water. A whirlpool was formed where the animal had disappeared. A wave dashed up on to the deck as if the aeronef were a ship driving against wind and tide.

Luckily, with a blow of the hatchet the mate severed the line, and the “Albatross,” freed from her tug, sprang aloft six hundred feet under the impulse of her ascensional screws. Robur had maneuvered his ship without losing his coolness for a moment.

A few minutes afterwards the whale returned to the surface — dead. From every side the birds flew down on to the carcass, and their cries were enough to deafen a congress. The “Albatross,” without stopping to share in the spoil, resumed her course to the west.

In the morning of the 17th of June, at about six o’clock, land was sighted on the horizon. This was the peninsula of Alaska, and the long range of breakers of the Aleutian Islands.

The “Albatross” glided over the barrier where the fur seals swarm for the benefit of the Russo-American Company. An excellent business is the capture of these amphibians, which are from six to seven feet long, russet in color, and weigh from three hundred to four hundred pounds. There they were in interminable files, ranged in line of battle, and countable by thousands.

Although they did not move at the passage of the “Albatross,” it was otherwise with the ducks, divers, and loons, whose husky cries filled the air as they disappeared beneath the waves and fled terrified from the aerial monster.

The twelve hundred miles of the Behring Sea between the first of the Aleutians and the extreme end of Kamtschatka were traversed during the twenty-four hours of this day and the following night. Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans found that here was no present chance of putting their project of escape into execution. Flight was not to be thought of among the deserts of Eastern Asia, nor on the coast of the sea of Okhotsk. Evidently the “Albatross” was bound for Japan or China, and there, although it was not perhaps quite safe to trust themselves to the mercies of the Chinese or Japanese, the two friends had made up their minds to run if the aeronef stopped.

But would she stop? She was not like a bird which grows fatigued by too long a flight, or like a balloon which has to descend for want of gas. She still had food for many weeks and her organs were of marvelous strength, defying all weakness and weariness.

During the 18th of June she swept over the peninsula of Kamtschatka, and during the day there was a glimpse of Petropaulovski and the volcano of Kloutschew. Then she rose again to cross the Sea of Okhotsk, running down by the Kurile Isles, which seemed to be a breakwater pierced by hundreds of channels. On the 19th, in the morning, the “Albatross” was over the strait of La Perouse between Saghalien and Northern Japan, and had reached the mouth of the great Siberian river, the Amoor.

Then there came a fog so dense that the aeronef had to rise above it. At the altitude she was there was no obstacle to be feared, no elevated monuments to hinder her passage, no mountains against which there was risk of being shattered in her flight. The country was only slightly varied. But the fog was very disagreeable, and made everything on board very damp.

All that was necessary was to get above this bed of mist, which was nearly thirteen hundred feet thick, and the ascensional screws being increased in speed, the “Albatross” was soon clear of the fog and in the sunny regions of the sky. Under these circumstances, Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans would have found some difficulty in carrying out their plan of escape, even admitting that they could leave the aeronef.

During the day, as Robur passed them he stopped for a moment, and without seeming to attach any importance to what he said, addressed them carelessly as follows: “Gentlemen, a sailing-ship or a steamship caught in a fog from which it cannot escape is always much delayed. It must not move unless it keeps its whistle or its horn going. It must reduce its speed, and any instant a collision may be expected. The “Albatross” has none of these things to fear. What does fog matter to her? She can leave it when she chooses. The whole of space is hers.” And Robur continued his stroll without waiting for an answer, and the puffs of his pipe were lost in the sky.

“Uncle Prudent,” said Phil Evans, “it seems that this astonishing “Albatross” never has anything to fear.”

“That we shall see!” answered the president of the Weldon Institute.

The fog lasted three days, the 19th, 20th, and 21st of June, with regrettable persistence. An ascent had to be made to clear the Japanese mountain of Fujiyama. When the curtain of mist was drawn aside there lay below them an immense city, with palaces, villas, gardens, and parks. Even without seeing it Robur had recognized it by the barking of the innumerable dogs, the cries of the birds of prey, and above all, by the cadaverous odor which the bodies of its executed criminals gave off into space.

The two colleagues were out on the deck while the engineer was taking his observations in case he thought it best to continue his course through the fog.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “I have no reason for concealing from you that this town is Tokyo, the capital of Japan.”

Uncle Prudent did not reply. In the presence of the engineer he was almost choked, as if his lungs were short of air.

“This view of Tokyo,” continued Robur, “is very curious.”

“Curious as it may be — ” replied Phil Evans.

“It is not as good as Peking?” interrupted the engineer.

“That is what I think, and very shortly you shall have an opportunity of judging.”

Impossible to be more agreeable!

The “Albatross” then gliding southeast, had her course changed four points, so as to head to the eastward.

CHAPTER XII

THROUGH THE HIMALAYAS

During the night the fog cleared off. There were symptoms of an approaching typhoon — a rapid fall of the barometer, a disappearance of vapor, large clouds of ellipsoid form clinging to a copper sky, and, on the opposite horizon, long streaks of carmine on a slate-colored field, with a large sector quite clear in the north. Then the sea was smooth and calm and at sunset assumed a deep scarlet hue.

Fortunately the typhoon broke more to the south, and had no other result than to sweep away the mist which had been accumulating during the last three days.

In an hour they had traversed the hundred and twenty-five miles of the Korean strait, and while the typhoon was raging on the coast of China, the “Albatross” was over the Yellow Sea. During the 22nd and 23rd she was over the Gulf of Pechelee, and on the 24th she was ascending the valley of the Peiho on her way to the capital of the Celestial Empire.

Leaning over the rail, the two colleagues, as the engineer had told them, could see distinctly the immense city, the wall which divides it into two parts — the Manchu town, and the Chinese town — the twelve suburbs which surround it, the large boulevards which radiate from its center, the temples with their green and yellow roofs bathed in the rising sun, the grounds surrounding the houses of the mandarins; then in the middle of the Manchu town the eighteen hundred acres of the Yellow town, with its pagodas, its imperial gardens, its artificial lakes, its mountain of coal which towers above the capital; and in the center of the Yellow town, like a square of Chinese puzzle enclosed in another, the Red town, that is the imperial palace, with all the peaks of its outrageous architecture.

Below the “Albatross” the air was filled with a singular harmony. It seemed to be a concert of Aeolian harps. In the air were a hundred kites of different forms, made of sheets of palm-leaf, and having at their upper end a sort of bow of light wood with a thin slip of bamboo beneath. In the breath of the wind these slips, with all their notes varied like those of a harmonicon, gave forth a most melancholy murmuring. It seemed as though they were breathing musical oxygen.

It suited Robur’s whim to run close up to this aerial orchestra, and the “Albatross” slowed as she glided through the sonorous waves which the kites gave off through the atmosphere.

But immediately an extraordinary effect was produced amongst the innumerable population. Beatings of the tomtoms and sounds of other formidable instruments of the Chinese orchestra, gun reports by the thousand, mortars fired in hundreds, all were brought into play to scare away the aeronef. Although the Chinese astronomers may have recognized the aerial machine as the moving body that had given rise to such disputes, it was to the Celestial million, from the humblest tankader to the best-buttoned mandarin, an apocalyptical monster appearing in the sky of Buddha.

The crew of the “Albatross” troubled themselves very little about these demonstrations. But the strings which held the kites, and were tied to fixed pegs in the imperial gardens, were cut or quickly hauled in; and the kites were either drawn in rapidly, sounding louder as they sank, or else fell like a bird shot through both wings, whose song ends with its last sigh.

A noisy fanfare escaped from Tom Turner’s trumpet, and drowned the final notes of the aerial concert. It did not interrupt the terrestrial fusillade. At last a shell exploded a few feet below the “Albatross,” and then she mounted into the inaccessible regions of the sky.

Nothing happened during the few following days of which the prisoners could take advantage. The aeronef kept on her course to the southwest, thereby showing that it was intended to take her to India. Twelve hours after leaving Peking, Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans caught a glimpse of the Great Wall in the neighborhood of Chen-Si. Then, avoiding the Lung Mountains, they passed over the valley of the Hoangho and crossed the Chinese border on the Tibet side.

Tibet consists of high table-lands without vegetation, with here and there snowy peaks and barren ravines, torrents fed by glaciers, depressions with glittering beds of salt, lakes surrounded by luxurious forests, with icy winds sweeping over all.

The barometer indicated an altitude of thirteen thousand feet above the level of the sea. At that height the temperature, although it was in the warmest months of the northern hemisphere, was only a little above freezing. This cold, combined with the speed of the “Albatross,” made the voyage somewhat trying, and although the friends had warm traveling wraps, they preferred to keep to their cabin.

It need hardly be said that to keep the aeronef in this rarefied atmosphere the suspensory screws had to be driven at extreme speed. But they worked with perfect regularity, and the sound of their wings almost acted as a lullaby.

During this day, appearing from below about the size of a carrier pigeon, she passed over Garlock, a town of western Tibet, the capital of the province of Cari Khorsum.

On the 27th of June, Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans sighted an enormous barrier, broken here and there by several peaks, lost in the snows that bounded the horizon.

Leaning against the fore-cabin, so as to keep their places notwithstanding the speed of the ship, they watched these colossal masses, which seemed to be running away from the aeronef.

“The Himalayas, evidently,” said Phil Evans; “and probably Robur is going round their base, so as to pass into India.”

“So much the worse,” answered Uncle Prudent. “On that immense territory we shall perhaps be able to — ”

“Unless he goes round by Burma to the east, or Nepal to the west.”

“Anyhow, I defy him to go through them.”

“Indeed!” said a voice.

The next day, the 28th of June, the “Albatross” was in front of the huge mass above the province of Zang. On the other side of the chain was the province of Nepal. These ranges block the road into India from the north. The two northern ones, between which the aeronef was gliding like a ship between enormous reefs are the first steps of the Central Asian barrier. The first was the Kuen Lung, the other the Karakorum, bordering the longitudinal valley parallel to the Himalayas, from which the Indus flows to the west and the Brahmapootra to the east.

What a superb orographical system! More than two hundred summits have been measured, seventeen of which exceed twenty-five thousand feet. In front of the “Albatross,” at a height of twenty-nine thousand feet, towered Mount Everest. To the right was Dhawalagiri, reaching twenty-six thousand eight hundred feet, and relegated to second place since the measurement of Mount Everest.

Evidently Robur did not intend to go over the top of these peaks; but probably he knew the passes of the Himalayas, among others that of Ibi Ganim, which the brothers Schlagintweit traversed in 1856 at a height of twenty-two thousand feet. And towards it he went.

Several hours of palpitation, becoming quite painful, followed; and although the rarefaction of the air was not such as to necessitate recourse being had to the special apparatus for renewing oxygen in the cabins, the cold was excessive.

Robur stood in the bow, his sturdy figure wrapped in a great-coat. He gave the orders, while Tom Turner was at the helm. The engineer kept an attentive watch on his batteries, the acid in which fortunately ran no risk of congelation. The screws, running at the full strength of the current, gave forth a note of intense shrillness in spite of the trifling density of the air. The barometer showed twenty-three thousand feet in altitude.

Magnificent was the grouping of the chaos of mountains! Everywhere were brilliant white summits. There were no lakes, but glaciers descending ten thousand feet towards the base. There was no herbage, only a few phanerogams on the limit of vegetable life. Down on the lower flanks of the range were splendid forests of pines and cedars. Here were none of the gigantic ferns and interminable parasites stretching from tree to tree as in the thickets of the jungle. There were no animals — no wild horses, or yaks, or Tibetan bulls. Occasionally a scared gazelle showed itself far down the slopes. There were no birds, save a couple of those crows which can rise to the utmost limits of the respirable air.

The pass at last was traversed. The “Albatross” began to descend. Coming from the hills out of the forest region there was now beneath them an immense plain stretching far and wide.

Then Robur stepped up to his guests, and in a pleasant voice remarked, “India, gentlemen!”

CHAPTER XIV

THE AERONEF AT FULL SPEED

If ever Prudent and Evans despaired on escaping from the “Albatross” it was during the two days that followed. It may be that Robur considered it more difficult to keep a watch on his prisoners while he was crossing Europe, and he knew that they had made up their minds to get away.

But any attempt to have done so would have been simply committing suicide. To jump from an express going sixty miles an hour is to risk your life, but to jump from a machine going one hundred and twenty miles an hour would be to seek your death.

And it was at this speed, the greatest that could be given to her, that the “Albatross” tore along. Her speed exceeded that of the swallow, which is one hundred and twelve miles an hour.

At first the wind was in the northeast, and the “Albatross” had it fair, her general course being a westerly one. But the wind began to drop, and it soon became impossible for the colleagues to remain on the deck without having their breath taken away by the rapidity of the flight. And on one occasion they would have been blown overboard if they had not been dashed up against the deck-house by the pressure of the wind.

Luckily the steersman saw them through the windows of his cage, and by the electric bell gave the alarm to the men in the fore-cabin. Four of them came aft, creeping along the deck.

Those who have been at sea, beating to windward in half a gale of wind, will understand what the pressure was like. But here it was the “Albatross” that by her incomparable speed made her own wind.

To allow Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans to get back to their cabin the speed had to be reduced. Inside the deck-house the “Albatross” bore with her a perfectly breathable atmosphere. To stand such driving the strength of the apparatus must have been prodigious. The propellers spun round so swiftly that they seemed immovable, and it was with irresistible power that they screwed themselves through the air.

The last town that had been noticed was Astrakhan, situated at the north end of the Caspian Sea. The Star of the Desert — it must have been a poet who so called it — has now sunk from the first rank to the fifth or sixth. A momentary glance was afforded at its old walls, with their useless battlements, the ancient towers in the center of the city, the mosques and modern churches, the cathedral with its five domes, gilded and dotted with stars as if it were a piece of the sky, as they rose from the bank of the Volga, which here, as it joins the sea, is over a mile in width.

Thenceforward the flight of the “Albatross” became quite a race through the heights of the sky, as if she had been harnessed to one of those fabulous hippogriffs which cleared a league at every sweep of the wing.

At ten o’clock in the morning, of the 4th of July the aeronef, heading northwest, followed for a little the valley of the Volga. The steppes of the Don and the Ural stretched away on each side of the river. Even if it had been possible to get a glimpse of these vast territories there would have been no time to count the towns and villages. In the evening the aeronef passed over Moscow without saluting the flag on the Kremlin. In ten hours she had covered the twelve hundred miles which separate Astrakhan from the ancient capital of all the Russias.

From Moscow to St. Petersburg the railway line measures about seven hundred and fifty miles. This was but a half-day’s journey, and the “Albatross,” as punctual as the mail, reached St. Petersburg and the banks of the Neva at two o’clock in the morning.

Then came the Gulf of Finland, the Archipelago of Abo, the Baltic, Sweden in the latitude of Stockholm, and Norway in the latitude of Christiania. Ten hours only for these twelve hundred miles! Verily it might be thought that no human power would henceforth be able to check the speed of the “Albatross,” and as if the resultant of her force of projection and the attraction of the earth would maintain her in an unvarying trajectory round the globe.

But she did stop nevertheless, and that was over the famous fall of the Rjukanfos in Norway. Gousta, whose summit dominates this wonderful region of Tellermarken, stood in the west like a gigantic barrier apparently impassable. And when the “Albatross” resumed her journey at full speed her head had been turned to the south.

And during this extraordinary flight what was Frycollin doing? He remained silent in a corner of his cabin, sleeping as well as he could, except at meal times.

Tapage then favored him with his company and amused himself at his expense. “Eh! eh! my boy!” said he. “So you are not crying any more? Perhaps it hurt you too much? That two hours hanging cured you of it? At our present rate, what a splendid air-bath you might have for your rheumatics!”

“It seems to me we shall soon go to pieces!”

“Perhaps so; but we shall go so fast we shan’t have time to fall! That is some comfort!”

“Do you think so?”

“I do.”

To tell the truth, and not to exaggerate like Tapage, it was only reasonable that owing to the excessive speed the work of the suspensory screws should be somewhat lessened. The “Albatross” glided on its bed of air like a Congreve rocket.

“And shall we last long like that?” asked Frycollin.

“Long? Oh, no, only as long as we live!”

“Oh!” said the Negro, beginning his lamentations.

“Take care, Fry, take care! For, as they say in my country, the master may send you to the seesaw!” And Frycollin gulped down his sobs as he gulped down the meat which, in double doses, he was hastily swallowing.

Meanwhile Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans, who were not men to waste time in wrangling when nothing could come of it, agreed upon doing something. It was evident that escape was not to be thought of. But if it was impossible for them to again set foot on the terrestrial globe, could they not make known to its inhabitants what had become of them since their disappearance, and tell them by whom they had been carried off, and provoke — how was not very clear — some audacious attempt on the part of their friends to rescue them from Robur?

Communicate? But how? Should they follow the example of sailors in distress and enclose in a bottle a document giving the place of shipwreck and throw it into the sea? But here the sea was the atmosphere. The bottle would not swim. And if it did not fall on somebody and crack his skull it might never be found.

The colleagues were about to sacrifice one of the bottles on board when an idea occurred to Uncle Prudent. He took snuff, as we know, and we may pardon this fault in an American, who might do worse. And as a snuff-taker he possessed a snuff-box, which was now empty. This box was made of aluminum. If it was thrown overboard any honest citizen that found it would pick it up, and, being an honest citizen, he would take it to the police-office, and there they would open it and discover from the document what had become of the two victims of Robur the Conqueror!

And this is what was done. The note was short, but it told all, and it gave the address of the Weldon Institute, with a request that it might be forwarded. Then Uncle Prudent folded up the note, shut it in the box, bound the box round with a piece of worsted so as to keep it from opening it as it fell. And then all that had to be done was to wait for a favorable opportunity.

During this marvelous flight over Europe it was not an easy thing to leave the cabin and creep along the deck at the risk of being suddenly and secretly blown away, and it would not do for the snuff-box to fall into the sea or a gulf or a lake or a watercourse, for it would then perhaps be lost. At the same time it was not impossible that the colleagues might in this way get into communication with the habitable globe.

It was then growing daylight, and it seemed as though it would be better to wait for the night and take advantage of a slackening speed or a halt to go out on deck and drop the precious snuff-box into some town.

When all these points had been thought over and settled, the prisoners, found they could not put their plan into execution — on that day, at all events — for the “Albatross,” after leaving Gousta, had kept her southerly course, which took her over the North Sea, much to the consternation of the thousands of coasting craft engaged in the English, Dutch, French, and Belgian trade. Unless the snuff-box fell on the deck of one of these vessels there was every chance of its going to the bottom of the sea, and Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans were obliged to wait for a better opportunity. And, as we shall immediately see, an excellent chance was soon to be offered them.

At ten o’clock that evening the “Albatross” reached the French coast near Dunkirk. The night was rather dark. For a moment they could see the lighthouse at Grisnez cross its electric beam with the lights from Dover on the other side of the strait. Then the “Albatross” flew over the French territory at a mean height of three thousand feet.

There was no diminution in her speed. She shot like a rocket over the towns and villages so numerous in northern France. She was flying straight on to Paris, and after Dunkirk came Doullens, Amiens, Creil, Saint Denis. She never left the line; and about midnight she was over the “city of light,” which merits its name even when its inhabitants are asleep or ought to be.

By what strange whim was it that she was stopped over the city of Paris? We do not know; but down she came till she was within a few hundred feet of the ground. Robur then came out of his cabin, and the crew came on to the deck to breathe the ambient air.

Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans took care not to miss such an excellent opportunity. They left their deck-house and walked off away from the others so as to be ready at the propitious moment. It was important their action should not be seen.

The “Albatross,” like a huge coleopter, glided gently over the mighty city. She took the line of the boulevards, then brilliantly lighted by the Edison lamps. Up to her there floated the rumble of the vehicles as they drove along the streets, and the roll of the trains on the numerous railways that converge into Paris. Then she glided over the highest monuments as if she was going to knock the ball off the Pantheon or the cross off the Invalides. She hovered over the two minarets of the Trocadero and the metal tower of the Champ de Mars, where the enormous reflector was inundating the whole capital with its electric rays.

This aerial promenade, this nocturnal loitering, lasted for about an hour. It was a halt for breath before the voyage was resumed.

And probably Robur wished to give the Parisians the sight of a meteor quite unforeseen by their astronomers. The lamps of the “Albatross” were turned on. Two brilliant sheaves of light shot down and moved along over the squares, the gardens, the palaces, the sixty thousand houses, and swept the space from one horizon to the other.

Assuredly the “Albatross” was seen this time — and not only well seen but heard, for Tom Turner brought out his trumpet and blew a rousing tarantaratara.

At this moment Uncle Prudent leant over the rail, opened his hand, and let his snuff-box fall.

Immediately the “Albatross” shot upwards, and past her, higher still, there mounted the noisy cheering of the crowd then thick on the boulevards — a hurrah of stupefaction to greet the imaginary meteor.

The lamps of the aeronef were turned off, and the darkness and the silence closed in around as the voyage was resumed at the rate of one hundred and twenty miles an hour.

This was all that was to be seen of the French capital. At four o’clock in the morning the “Albatross” had crossed the whole country obliquely; and so as to lose no time in traversing the Alps or the Pyrenees, she flew over the face of Provence to the cape of Antibes. At nine o’clock next morning the San Pietrini assembled on the terrace of St. Peter at Rome were astounded to see her pass over the eternal city. Two hours afterwards she crossed the Bay of Naples and hovered for an instant over the fuliginous wreaths of Vesuvius. Then, after cutting obliquely across the Mediterranean, in the early hours of the afternoon she was signaled by the look-outs at La Goulette on the Tunisian coast.

After America, Asia! After Asia, Europe! More than eighteen thousand miles had this wonderful machine accomplished in less than twenty-three clays!

And now she was off over the known and unknown regions of Africa!

It may be interesting to know what had happened to the famous snuff-box after its fall?

It had fallen in the Rue de Rivoli, opposite No. 200, when the street was deserted. In the morning it was picked up by an honest sweeper, who took it to the prefecture of police. There it was at first supposed to be an infernal machine. And it was untied, examined, and opened with care.

Suddenly a sort of explosion took place. It was a terrific sneeze on the part of the inspector.

The document was then extracted from the snuff-box, and to the general surprise, read as follows: “Messrs. Prudent and Evans, president and secretary of the Weldon Institute, Philadelphia, have been carried off in the aeronef Albatross belonging to Robur the engineer.”

“Please inform our friends and acquaintances.”

“P. and P. E.”

Thus was the strange phenomenon at last explained to the people of the two worlds. Thus was peace given to the scientists of the numerous observatories on the surface of the terrestrial globe.

CHAPTER XV

A SKIRMISH IN DAHOMEY

At this point in the circumnavigatory voyage of the “Albatross” it is only natural that some such questions as the following should be asked. Who was this Robur, of whom up to the present we know nothing but the name? Did he pass his life in the air? Did his aeronef never rest? Had he not some retreat in some inaccessible spot in which, if he had need of repose or revictualing, he could betake himself? It would be very strange if it were not so. The most powerful flyers have always an eyrie or nest somewhere.

And what was the engineer going to do with his prisoners? Was he going to keep them in his power and condemn them to perpetual aviation? Or was he going to take them on a trip over Africa, South America, Australasia, the Indian Ocean, the Atlantic and the Pacific, to convince them against their will, and then dismiss them with, “And now gentlemen, I hope you will believe a little more in heavier than air?”

To these questions, it is now impossible to reply. They are the secrets of the future. Perhaps the answers will be revealed. Anyhow the bird-like Robur was not seeking his nest on the northern frontier of Africa. By the end of the day he had traversed Tunis from Cape Bon to Cape Carthage, sometimes hovering, and sometimes darting along at top speed. Soon he reached the interior, and flew down the beautiful valley of Medjeida above its yellow stream hidden under its luxuriant bushes of cactus and oleander; and scared away the hundreds of parrots that perch on the telegraph wires and seem to wait for the messages to pass to bear them away beneath their wings.

Two hours after sunset the helm was put up and the “Albatross” bore off to the southeast; and on the morrow, after clearing the Tell Mountains, she saw the rising of the morning star over the sands of the Sahara.

On the 30th of July there was seen from the aeronef the little village of Geryville, founded like Laghouat on the frontier of the desert to facilitate the future conquest of Kabylia. Next, not without difficulty, the peaks of Stillero were passed against a somewhat boisterous wind. Then the desert was crossed, sometimes leisurely over the Ksars or green oases, sometimes at terrific speed that far outstripped the flight of the vultures. Often the crew had to fire into the flocks of these birds which, a dozen or so at a time, fearlessly hurled them selves on to the aeronef to the extreme terror of Frycollin.

But if the vultures could only reply with cries and blows of beaks and talons, the natives, in no way less savage, were not sparing of their musket-shots, particularly when crossing the Mountain of Sel, whose green and violet slope bore its cape of white. Then the “Albatross” was at last over the grand Sahara; and at once she rose into the higher zones so as to escape from a simoom which was sweeping a wave of ruddy sand along the surface of the ground like a bore on the surface of the sea.

Then the desolate tablelands of Chetka scattered their ballast in blackish waves up to the fresh and verdant valley of Ain-Massin. It is difficult to conceive the variety of the territories which could be seen at one view. To the green hills covered with trees and shrubs there succeeded long gray undulations draped like the folds of an Arab burnous and broken in picturesque masses. In the distance could be seen the wadys with their torrential waters, their forests of palm-trees, and blocks of small houses grouped on a hill around a mosque, among them Metlili, where there vegetates a religious chief, the grand marabout Sidi Chick.

Before night several hundred miles had been accomplished above a flattish country ridged occasionally with large sandhills. If the “Albatross” had halted, she would have come to the earth in the depths of the Wargla oasis hidden beneath an immense forest of palm-trees. The town was clearly enough displayed with its three distinct quarters, the ancient palace of the Sultan, a kind of fortified Kasbah, houses of brick which had been left to the sun to bake, and artesian wells dug in the valley — where the aeronef could have renewed her water supply. But, thanks to her extraordinary speed, the waters of the Hydaspes taken in the vale of Cashmere still filled her tanks in the center of the African desert.

Was the “Albatross” seen by the Arabs, the Mozabites, and the Negroes who share amongst them the town of Wargla? Certainly, for she was saluted with many hundred gunshot, and the bullets fell back before they reached her.

Then came the night, that silent night in the desert of which Felicien David has so poetically told us the secrets.

During the following hours the course lay southwesterly, cutting across the routes of El Golea, one of which was explored in 1859 by the intrepid Duveyrier.

The darkness was profound. Nothing could be seen of the Trans-Saharan Railway constructing on the plans of Duponchel — a long ribbon of iron destined to bind together Algiers and Timbuktu by way of Laghouat and Gardaia, and destined eventually to run down into the Gulf of Guinea.

Then the “Albatross” entered the equatorial region below the tropic of Cancer. Six hundred miles from the northern frontier of the Sahara she crossed the route on which Major Laing met his, death in 1846, and crossed the road of the caravans from Morocco to the Sudan, and that part of the desert swept by the Tuaregs, where could be heard what is called “the song of the sand,” a soft and plaintive murmur that seems to escape from the ground.

Only one thing happened. A cloud of locusts came flying along, and there fell such a cargo of them on board as to threaten to sink the ship. But all hands set to work to clear the deck, and the locusts were thrown over except a few hundred kept by Tapage for his larder. And he served them up in so succulent a fashion that Frycollin forgot for the moment his perpetual trances and said, “these are as good as prawns.”

The aeronef was then eleven hundred miles from the Wargla oasis and almost on the northern frontier of the Sudan. About two o’clock in the afternoon a city appeared in the bend of a large river. The river was the Niger. The city was Timbuktu.

If, up to then, this African Mecca had only been visited by the travelers of the ancient world Batouta, Khazan, Imbert, Mungo Park, Adams, Laing, Caille, Barth, Lenz, on that day by a most singular chance the two Americans could boast of having seen, heard, and smelt it, on their return to America — if they ever got back there.

Of having seen it, because their view included the whole triangle of three or four miles in circumference; of having heard it, because the day was one of some rejoicing and the noise was terrible; of having smelt it, because the olfactory nerve could not but be very disagreeably affected by the odors of the Youbou-Kamo square, where the meatmarket stands close to the palace of the ancient Somai kings.

The engineer had no notion of allowing the president and secretary of the Weldon Institute to be ignorant that they had the honor of contemplating the Queen of the Sudan, now in the power of the Tuaregs of Taganet.

“Gentlemen, Timbuktu!” he said, in the same tone as twelve days before he had said, “Gentlemen, India!” Then he continued, “Timbuktu is an important city of from twelve to thirteen thousand inhabitants, formerly illustrious in science and art. Perhaps you would like to stay there for a day or two?”

Such a proposal could only have been made ironically. “But,” continued he, “it would be dangerous among the Negroes, Berbers, and Foullanes who occupy, it — particularly as our arrival in an aeronef might prejudice them against you.”

“Sir,” said Phil Evans, in the same tone, “for the pleasure of leaving you we would willingly risk an unpleasant reception from the natives. Prison for prison, we would rather be in Timbuktu than on the “Albatross.””

“That is a matter of taste,” answered the engineer. “Anyhow, I shall not try the adventure, for I am responsible for the safety of the guests who do me the honor to travel with me.”

“And so,” said Uncle Prudent, explosively, “you are not content with being our jailer, but you insult us.”

“Oh! a little irony, that is all!”

“Are there any weapons on board?”

“Oh, quite an arsenal.”

“Two revolvers will do, if I hold one and you the other.”

“A duel!” exclaimed Robur, “a duel, which would perhaps cause the death of one of us.”

“Which certainly would cause it.”

“Well! No, Mr. President of the Weldon Institute, I very much prefer keeping you alive.”

“To be sure of living yourself. That is wise.”

“Wise or not, it suits me. You are at liberty to think as you like, and to complain to those who have the power to help you — if you can.”

“And that we have done, Mr. Robur.”

“Indeed!”

“Was it so difficult when we were crossing the inhabited part of Europe to drop a letter overboard?”

“Did you do that?” said Robur, in a paroxysm of rage.

“And if we have done it?”

“If you have done it — you deserve — ”

“What, sir?”

“To follow your letter overboard.”

“Throw us over, then. We did do it.”

Robur stepped towards them. At a gesture from him Tom Turner and some of the crew ran up. The engineer was seriously tempted to put his threat into execution, and, fearful perhaps of yielding to it, he precipitately rushed into his cabin.

“Good!” exclaimed Phil Evans.

“And what he will dare not do,” said Uncle Prudent, “I Will do! Yes, I Will do!”

At the moment the population of Timbuktu were crowding onto the squares and roads and the terraces built like amphitheaters. In the rich quarters of Sankere and Sarahama, as in the miserable huts at Raguidi, the priests from the minarets were thundering their loudest maledictions against the aerial monster. These were more harmless than the rifle-bullets; though assuredly, if the aeronef had come to earth she would have certainly been torn to pieces.

For some miles noisy flocks of storks, francolins, and ibises escorted the “Albatross” and tried to race her, but in her rapid flight she soon distanced them.

The evening came. The air was troubled by the roarings of the numerous herds of elephants and buffaloes which wander over this land, whose fertility is simply marvelous. For forty-eight hours the whole of the region between the prime meridian and the second degree, in the bend of the Niger, was viewed from the “Albatross.”

If a geographer had only such an apparatus at his command, with what facility could he map the country, note the elevations, fix the courses of the rivers and their affluents, and determine the positions of the towns and villages! There would then be no huge blanks on the map of Africa, no dotted lines, no vague designations which are the despair of cartographers.

In the morning of the 11th the “Albatross” crossed the mountains of northern Guinea, between the Sudan and the gulf which bears their name. On the horizon was the confused outline of the Kong mountains in the kingdom of Dahomey.

Since the departure from Timbuktu Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans noticed that the course had been due south. If that direction was persisted in they would cross the equator in six more degrees. The “Albatross” would then abandon the continents and fly not over the Bering Sea, or the Caspian Sea, or the North Sea, or the Mediterranean, but over the Atlantic Ocean.

This look-out was not particularly pleasing to the two friends, whose chances of escape had sunk to below zero. But the “Albatross” had slackened speed as though hesitating to leave Africa behind. Was Robur thinking of going back? No; but his attention had been particularly attracted to the country which he was then crossing.

We know — and he knew — that the kingdom of Dahomey is one of the most powerful on the West Coast of Africa. Strong enough to hold its own with its neighbor Ashantee, its area is somewhat small, being contained within three hundred and sixty leagues from north to south, and one hundred and eighty from east to west. But its population numbers some seven or eight hundred thousand, including the neighboring independent territories of Whydah and Ardrah.

If Dahomey is not a large country, it is often talked about. It is celebrated for the frightful cruelties which signalize its annual festivals, and by its human sacrifices — fearful hecatombs intended to honor the sovereign it has lost and the sovereign who has succeeded him. It is even a matter of politeness when the King of Dahomey receives a visit from some high personage or some foreign ambassador to give him a surprise present of a dozen heads, cut off in his honor by the minister of justice, the “minghan,” who is wonderfully skillful in that branch of his duties.

When the “Albatross” came flying over Dahomey, the old King Bahadou had just died, and the whole population was proceeding to the enthronization of his successor. Hence there was great agitation all over the country, and it did not escape Robur that everybody was on the move.

Long lines of Dahomians were hurrying along the roads from the country into the capital, Abomey. Well kept roads radiating among vast plains clothed with giant trees, immense fields of manioc, magnificent forests of palms, cocoa-trees, mimosas, orange-trees, mango-trees — such was the country whose perfumes mounted to the “Albatross,” while many parrots and cardinals swarmed among the trees.

The engineer, leaning over the rail, seemed deep in thought, and exchanged but a few words with Tom Turner. It did not look as though the “Albatross” had attracted the attention of those moving masses, which were often invisible under the impenetrable roof of trees. This was doubtless due to her keeping at a good altitude amid a bank of light cloud.

About eleven o’clock in the morning the capital was sighted, surrounded by its walls, defended by a fosse measuring twelve miles round, with wide, regular streets on the flat plain, and a large square on the northern side occupied by the king’s palace. This huge collection of buildings is commanded by a terrace not far from the place of sacrifice. During the festival days it is from this high terrace that they throw the prisoners tied up in wicker baskets, and it can be imagined with what fury these unhappy wretches are cut in pieces.

In one of the courtyards which divide the king’s palace there were drawn up four thousand warriors, one of the contigents of the royal army — and not the least courageous one. If it is doubtful if there are any Amazons an the river of that name, there is no doubt of there being Amazons at Dahomey. Some have a blue shirt with a blue or red scarf, with white-and-blue striped trousers and a white cap; others, the elephant-huntresses, have a heavy carbine, a short-bladed dagger, and two antelope horns fixed to their heads by a band of iron. The artillery-women have a blue-and-red tunic, and, as weapons, blunderbusses and old cast cannons; and another brigade, consisting of vestal virgins, pure as Diana, have blue tunics and white trousers. If we add to these Amazons, five or six thousand men in cotton drawers and shirts, with a knotted tuft to increase their stature, we shall have passed in review the Dahomian army.

Abomey on this day was deserted. The sovereign, the royal family, the masculine and feminine army, and the population had all gone out of the capital to a vast plain a few miles away surrounded by magnificent forests.

On this plain the recognition of the new king was to take place. Here it was that thousands of prisoners taken during recent razzias were to be immolated in his honor.

It was about two o’clock when the “Albatross” arrived over the plain and began to descend among the clouds which still hid her from the Dahomians.

There were sixteen thousand people at least come from all parts of the kingdom, from Whydah, and Kerapay, and Ardrah, and Tombory, and the most distant villages.

The new king — a sturdy fellow named Bou-Nadi — some five-and-twenty years old, was seated on a hillock shaded by a group of wide-branched trees. Before him stood his male army, his Amazons, and his people.

At the foot of the mound fifty musicians were playing on their barbarous instruments, elephants’ tusks giving forth a husky note, deerskin drums, calabashes, guitars, bells struck with an iron clapper, and bamboo flutes, whose shrill whistle was heard over all. Every other second came discharges of guns and blunderbusses, discharges of cannons with the carriages jumping so as to imperil the lives of the artillery-women, and a general uproar so intense that even the thunder would be unheard amidst it.

In one corner of the plain, under a guard of soldiers, were grouped the prisoners destined to accompany the defunct king into the other world. At the obsequies of Ghozo, the father of Bahadou, his son had dispatched three thousand, and Bou-Nadi could not do less than his predecessor. For an hour there was a series of discourses, harangues, palavers and dances, executed not only by professionals, but by the Amazons, who displayed much martial grace.

But the time for the hecatomb was approaching. Robur, who knew the customs of Dahomey, did not lose sight of the men, women, and children reserved for butchery.

The minghan was standing at the foot of the hillock. He was brandishing his executioner’s sword, with its curved blade surmounted by a metal bird, whose weight rendered the cut more certain.

This time he was not alone. He could not have performed the task. Near him were grouped a hundred executioners, all accustomed to cut off heads at one blow.

The “Albatross” came slowly down in an oblique direction. Soon she emerged from the bed of clouds which hid her till she was within three hundred feet of the ground, and for the first time she was visible from below.

Contrary to what had hitherto happened, the savages saw in her a celestial being come to render homage to King Bahadou. The enthusiasm was indescribable, the shouts were interminable, the prayers were terrific — prayers addressed to this supernatural hippogriff, which “had doubtless come to” take the king’s body to the higher regions of the Dahomian heaven. And now the first head fell under the minghan’s sword, and the prisoners were led up in hundreds before the horrible executioners.

Suddenly a gun was fired from the “Albatross.” The minister of justice fell dead on his face!

“Well aimed, Tom!” said Robur,

His comrades, armed as he was, stood ready to fire when the order was given.

But a change came over the crowd below. They had understood. The winged monster was not a friendly spirit, it was a hostile spirit. And after the fall of the minghan loud shouts for revenge arose on all sides. Almost immediately a fusillade resounded over the plain.

These menaces did not prevent the “Albatross” from descending boldly to within a hundred and fifty feet of the ground. Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans, whatever were their feelings towards Robur, could not help joining him in such a work of humanity.

“Let us free the prisoners!” they shouted.

“That is what I am going to do!” said the engineer.

And the magazine rifles of the “Albatross” in the hands of the colleagues, as in the hands of the crew, began to rain down the bullets, of which not one was lost in the masses below. And the little gun shot forth its shrapnel, which really did marvels.

The prisoners, although they did not understand how the help had come to them, broke their bonds, while the soldiers were firing at the aeronef. The stern screw was shot through by a bullet, and a few holes were made in the hull. Frycollin, crouching in his cabin, received a graze from a bullet that came through the deck-house.

“Ah! They will have them!” said Tom Turner. And, rushing to the magazine, he returned with a dozen dynamite cartridges, which he distributed to the men. At a sign from Robur, these cartridges were fired at the hillock, and as they reached the ground exploded like so many small shells.

The king and his court and army and people were stricken with fear at the turn things had taken. They fled under the trees, while the prisoners ran off without anybody thinking of pursuing them.

In this way was the festival interfered with. And in this way did Uncle Prudent and, Phil Evans recognize the power of the aeronef and the services it could render to humanity.

Soon the “Albatross” rose again to a moderate height, and passing over Whydah lost to view this savage coast which the southwest wind hems round with an inaccessible surf. And she flew out over the Atlantic.

CHAPTER XVI

OVER THE ATLANTIC

Yes, the Atlantic! The fears of the two colleagues were realized; but it did not seem as though Robur had the least anxiety about venturing over this vast ocean. Both he and his men seemed quite unconcerned about it and had gone back to their stations.

Whither was the “Albatross” bound? Was she going more than round the world as Robur had said? Even if she were, the voyage must end somewhere. That Robur spent his life in the air on board the aeronef and never came to the ground was impossible. How could he make up his stock of provisions and the materials required for working his machines? He must have some retreat, some harbor of refuge — in some unknown and inaccessible spot where the “Albatross” could revictual. That he had broken off all connections with the inhabitants of the land might be true, but with every point on the surface of the earth, certainly not.

That being the case, where was this point? How had the engineer come to choose it? Was he expected by a little colony of which he was the chief? Could he there find a new crew?

What means had he that he should be able to build so costly a vessel as the “Albatross” and keep her building secret? It is true his living was not expensive. But, finally, who was this Robur? Where did he come from? What had been his history? Here were riddles impossible to solve; and Robur was not the man to assist willingly in their solution.

It is not to be wondered at that these insoluble problems drove the colleagues almost to frenzy. To find themselves whipped off into the unknown without knowing what the end might be doubting even if the adventure would end, sentenced to perpetual aviation, was this not enough to drive the President and secretary of the Weldon Institute to extremities?

Meanwhile the “Albatross” drove along above the Atlantic, and in the morning when the sun rose there was nothing to be seen but the circular line where earth met sky. Not a spot of land was insight in this huge field of vision. Africa had vanished beneath the northern horizon.

When Frycollin ventured out of his cabin and saw all this water beneath him, fear took possession of him.

Of the hundred and forty-five million square miles of which the area of the world’s waters consists, the Atlantic claims about a quarter; and it seemed as though the engineer was in no hurry to cross it. There was now no going at full speed, none of the hundred and twenty miles an hour at which the “Albatross” had flown over Europe. Here, where the southwest winds prevail, the wind was ahead of them, and though it was not very strong, it would not do to defy it and the “Albatross” was sent along at a moderate speed, which, however, easily outstripped that of the fastest mail-boat.

On the 13th of July she crossed the line, and the fact was duly announced to the crew. It was then that Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans ascertained that they were bound for the southern hemisphere. The crossing of the line took place without any of the Neptunian ceremonies that still linger on certain ships. Tapage was the only one to mark the event, and he did so by pouring a pint of water down Frycollin’s neck.

On the 18th of July, when beyond the tropic of Capricorn, another phenomenon was noticed, which would have been somewhat alarming to a ship on the sea. A strange succession of luminous waves widened out over the surface of the ocean with a speed estimated at quite sixty miles an hour. The waves ran along at about eight feet from one another, tracing two furrows of light. As night fell a bright reflection rose even to the “Albatross,” so that she might have been taken for a flaming aerolite. Never before had Robur sailed on a sea of fire — fire without heat — which there was no need to flee from as it mounted upwards into the sky.

The cause of this light must have been electricity; it could not be attributed to a bank of fish spawn, nor to a crowd of those animalculae that give phosphorescence to the sea, and this showed that the electrical tension of the atmosphere was considerable.

In the morning an ordinary ship would probably have been lost. But the “Albatross” played with the winds and waves like the powerful bird whose name she bore. If she did not walk on their surface like the petrels, she could like the eagles find calm and sunshine in the higher zones.

They had now passed the forty-seventh parallel. The day was but little over seven hours long, and would become even less as they approached the Pole.

About one o’clock in the afternoon the “Albatross” was floating along in a lower current than usual, about a hundred feet from the level of the sea. The air was calm, but in certain parts of the sky were thick black clouds, massed in mountains, on their upper surface, and ruled off below by a sharp horizontal line. From these clouds a few lengthy protuberances escaped, and their points as they fell seemed to draw up hills of foaming water to meet them.

Suddenly the water shot up in the form of a gigantic hourglass, and the “Albatross” was enveloped in the eddy of an enormous waterspout, while twenty others, black as ink, raged around her. Fortunately the gyratory movement of the water was opposite to that of the suspensory screws, otherwise the aeronef would have been hurled into the sea. But she began to spin round on herself with frightful rapidity. The danger was immense, and perhaps impossible to escape, for the engineer could not get through the spout which sucked him back in defiance of his propellers. The men, thrown to the ends of the deck by centrifugal force, were grasping the rail to save themselves from being shot off.

“Keep cool!” shouted Robur.

They wanted all their coolness, and their patience, too. Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans, who had just come out of their cabin, were hurled back at the risk of flying overboard. As she spun the “Albatross” was carried along by the spout, which pirouetted along the waves with a speed enough to make the helices jealous. And if she escaped from the spout she might be caught by another, and jerked to pieces with the shock.

“Get the gun ready!” said Robur.

The order was given to Tom Turner, who was crouching behind the swivel amidships where the effect of the centrifugal force was least felt. He understood. In a moment he had opened the breech and slipped a cartridge from the ammunition-box at hand. The gun went off, and the waterspouts collapsed, and with them vanished the platform of cloud they seemed to bear above them.

“Nothing broken on board?” asked Robur.

“No,” answered Tom Turner. “But we don’t want to have another game of humming-top like that!”

For ten minutes or so the “Albatross” had been in extreme peril. Had it not been for her extraordinary strength of build she would have been lost.

During this passage of the Atlantic many were the hours whose monotony was unbroken by any phenomenon whatever. The days grew shorter and shorter, and the cold became keen. Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans saw little of Robur. Seated in his cabin, the engineer was busy laying out his course and marking it on his maps, taking his observations whenever he could, recording the readings of his barometers, thermometers, and chronometers, and making full entries in his log-book.

The colleagues wrapped themselves well up and eagerly watched for the sight of land to the southward. At Uncle Prudent’s request Frycollin tried to pump the cook as to whither the engineer was bound, but what reliance could be placed on the information given by this Gascon? Sometimes Robur was an ex-minister of the Argentine Republic, sometimes a lord of the Admiralty, sometimes an ex-President of the United States, sometimes a Spanish general temporarily retired, sometimes a Viceroy of the Indies who had sought a more elevated position in the air. Sometimes he possessed millions, thanks to successful razzias in the aeronef, and he had been proclaimed for piracy. Sometimes he had been ruined by making the aeronef, and had been forced to fly aloft to escape from his creditors. As to knowing if he were going to stop anywhere, no! But if he thought of going to the moon, and found there a convenient anchorage, he would anchor there! “Eh! Fry! My boy! That would just suit you to see what was going on up there.”

“I shall not go! I refuse!” said the Negro, who took all these things seriously.

“And why, Fry, why? You might get married to some pretty bouncing Lunarian!”

Frycollin reported this conversation to his master, who saw it was evident that nothing was to be learnt about Robur. And so he thought still more of how he could have his revenge on him.

“Phil,” said he one day, “is it quite certain that escape is impossible?”

“Impossible.”

“Be it so! But a man is always his own property; and if necessary, by sacrificing his life — ”

“If we are to make that sacrifice,” said Phil Evans, “the sooner the better. It is almost time to end this. Where is the “Albatross” going? Here we are flying obliquely over the Atlantic, and if we keep on we shall get to the coast of Patagonia or Tierra del Fuego. And what are we to do then? Get into the Pacific, or go to the continent at the South Pole? Everything is possible with this Robur. We shall be lost in the end. It is thus a case of legitimate self-defence, and if we must perish — ”

“Which we shall not do,” answered Uncle Prudent, “without being avenged, without annihilating this machine and all she carries.”

The colleagues had reached a stage of impotent fury, and were prepared to sacrifice themselves if they could only destroy the inventor and his secret. A few months only would then be the life of this prodigious aeronef, of whose superiority in aerial locomotion they had such convincing proofs! The idea took such hold of them that they thought of nothing else but how to put it into execution. And how? By seizing on some of the explosives on board and simply blowing her up. But could they get at the magazines?

Fortunately for them, Frycollin had no suspicion of their scheme. At the thought of the “Albatross” exploding in midair, he would not have shrunk from betraying his master.

It was on the 23rd of July that the land reappeared in the southwest near Cape Virgins at the entrance of the Straits of Magellan. Under the fifty-second parallel at this time of year the night was eighteen hours long and the temperature was six below freezing.

At first the “Albatross,” instead of keeping on to the south, followed the windings of the coast as if to enter the Pacific. After passing Lomas Bay, leaving Mount Gregory to the north and the Brecknocks to the west, they sighted Puerto Arena, a small Chilean village, at the moment the churchbells were in full swing; and a few hours later they were over the old settlement at Port Famine.

If the Patagonians, whose fires could be seen occasionally, were really above the average in stature, the passengers in the aeronef were unable to say, for to them they seemed to be dwarfs. But what a magnificent landscape opened around during these short hours of the southern day! Rugged mountains, peaks eternally capped with snow, with thick forests rising on their flanks, inland seas, bays deep set amid the peninsulas, and islands of the Archipelago. Clarence Island, Dawson Island, and the Land of Desolation, straits and channels, capes and promontories, all in inextricable confusion, and bound by the ice in one solid mass from Cape Forward, the most southerly point of the American continent, to Cape Horn the most southerly point of the New World.

When she reached Fort Famine the “Albatross” resumed her course to the south. Passing between Mount Tam on the Brunswick Peninsula and Mount Graves, she steered for Mount Sarmiento, an enormous peak wrapped in snow, which commands the Straits of Magellan, rising six thousand four hundred feet from the sea. And now they were over the land of the Fuegians, Tierra del Fuego, the land of fire. Six months later, in the height of summer, with days from fifteen to sixteen hours long, how beautiful and fertile would most of this country be, particularly in its northern portion! Then, all around would be seen valleys and pasturages that could form the feeding-grounds of thousands of animals; then would appear virgin forests, gigantic trees-birches, beeches, ash-trees, cypresses, tree-ferns — and broad plains overrun by herds of guanacos, vicunas, and ostriches. Now there were armies of penguins and myriads of birds; and, when the “Albatross” turned on her electric lamps the guillemots, ducks, and geese came crowding on board enough to fill Tapage’s larder a hundred times and more.

Here was work for the cook, who knew how to bring out the flavor of the game and keep down its peculiar oiliness. And here was work for Frycollin in plucking dozen after dozen of such interesting feathered friends.

That day, as the sun was setting about three o’clock in the afternoon, there appeared in sight a large lake framed in a border of superb forest. The lake was completely frozen over, and a few natives with long snowshoes on their feet were swiftly gliding over it.

At the sight of the “Albatross,” the Fuegians, overwhelmed with terror — scattered in all directions, and when they could not get away they hid themselves, taking, like the animals, to the holes in the ground.

The “Albatross” still held her southerly course, crossing the Beagle Channel, and Navarin Island and Wollaston Island, on the shores of the Pacific. Then, having accomplished 4,700 miles since she left Dahomey, she passed the last islands of the Magellanic archipelago, whose most southerly outpost, lashed by the everlasting surf, is the terrible Cape Horn.

CHAPTER XVII

THE SHIPWRECKED CREW

Next day was the 24th of July; and the 24th of July in the southern hemisphere corresponds to the 24th of January in the northern. The fifty-sixth degree of latitude had been left behind. The similar parallel in northern Europe runs through Edinburgh.

The thermometer kept steadily below freezing, so that the machinery was called upon to furnish a little artificial heat in the cabins. Although the days begin to lengthen after the 21st day of June in the southern hemisphere, yet the advance of the “Albatross” towards the Pole more than neutralized this increase, and consequently the daylight became very short. There was thus very little to be seen. At night time the cold became very keen; but as there was no scarcity of clothing on board, the colleagues, well wrapped up, remained a good deal on deck thinking over their plans of escape, and watching for an opportunity. Little was seen of Robur; since the high words that had been exchanged in the Timbuktu country, the engineer had left off speaking to his prisoners. Frycollin seldom came out of the cook-house, where Tapage treated him most hospitably, on condition that he acted as his assistant. This position was not without its advantages, and the Negro, with his master’s permission, very willingly accepted it. Shut up in the galley, he saw nothing of what was passing outside, and might even consider himself beyond the reach of danger. He was, in fact, very like the ostrich, not only in his stomach, but in his folly.

But whither went the “Albatross?” Was she in mid-winter bound for the southern seas or continents round the Pole? In this icy atmosphere, even granting that the elements of the batteries were unaffected by such frost, would not all the crew succumb to a horrible death from the cold? That Robur should attempt to cross the Pole in the warm season was bad enough, but to attempt such a thing in the depth of the winter night would be the act of a madman.

Thus reasoned the President and Secretary of the Weldon Institute, now they had been brought to the end of the continent of the New World, which is still America, although it does not belong to the United States.

What was this intractable Robur going to do? Had not the time arrived for them to end the voyage by blowing up the ship?

It was noticed that during the 24th of July the engineer had frequent consultations with his mate. He and Tom Turner kept constant watch on the barometer — not so much to keep themselves informed of the height at which they were traveling as to be on the look-out for a change in the weather. Evidently some indications had been observed of which it was necessary to make careful note.

Uncle Prudent also remarked that Robur had been taking stock of the provisions and stores, and everything seemed to show that he was contemplating turning back.

“Turning back!” said Phil Evans. “But where to?”

“Where he can reprovision the ship,” said Uncle Prudent.

“That ought to be in some lonely island in the Pacific with a colony of scoundrels worthy of their chief.”

“That is what I think. I fancy he is going west, and with the speed he can get up it would not take, him long to get home.”

“But we should not be able to put our plan into execution. If we get there — ”

“We shall not get there!”

The colleagues had partly guessed the engineer’s intentions. During the day it became no longer doubtful that when the “Albatross” reached the confines of the Antarctic Sea her course was to be changed. When the ice has formed about Cape Horn the lower regions of the Pacific are covered with icefields and icebergs. The floes then form an impenetrable barrier to the strongest ships and the boldest navigators. Of course, by increasing the speed of her wings the “Albatross” could clear the mountains of ice accumulated on the ocean as she could the mountains of earth on the polar continent — if it is a continent that forms the cap of the southern pole. But would she attempt it in the middle of the polar night, in an atmosphere of sixty below freezing?

After she had advanced about a hundred miles to the south the “Albatross” headed westerly, as if for some unknown island of the Pacific. Beneath her stretched the liquid plain between Asia and America. The waters now had assumed that singular color which has earned for them the name of the Milky Sea. In the half shadow, which the enfeebled rays of the sun were unable to dissipate, the surface of the Pacific was a milky white. It seemed like a vast snowfield, whose undulations were imperceptible at such a height. If the sea had been solidified by the cold, and converted into an immense icefield, its aspect could not have been much different. They knew that the phenomenon was produced by myriads of luminous particles of phosphorescent corpuscles; but it was surprising to come across such an opalescent mass beyond the limits of the Indian Ocean.

Suddenly the barometer fell after keeping somewhat high during the earlier hours of the day. Evidently the indications were such as a shipmaster might feel anxious at, though the master of an aeronef might despise them. There was every sign that a terrible storm had recently raged in the Pacific.

It was one o’clock in the afternoon when Tom Turner came up to the engineer and said, “Do you see that black spot on the horizon, sir — there away to due north of us? That is not a rock?”

“No, Tom; there is no land out there.”

“Then it must be a ship or a boat.”

Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans, who were in the bow, looked in the direction pointed out by the mate.

Robur asked for the glass and attentively observed the object.

“It is a boat,” said he, “and there are some men in it.”

“Shipwrecked?” asked Tom.

“Yes! They have had to abandon their ship, and, knowing nothing of the nearest land, are perhaps dying of hunger and thirst! Well, it shall not be said that the “Albatross” did not come to their help!”

The orders were given, and the aeronef began to sink towards the sea. At three hundred yards from it the descent was stopped, and the propellers drove ahead full speed towards the north.

It was a boat. Her sail flapped against the mast as she rose and fell on the waves. There was no wind, and she was making no progress. Doubtless there was no one on board with strength enough left to work the oars. In the boat were five men asleep or helpless, if they were not dead.

The “Albatross” had arrived above them, and slowly descended. On the boat’s stern was the name of the ship to which she belonged — the “Jeannette” of Nantes.

“Hallo, there!” shouted Turner, loud enough for the men to hear, for the boat was only eighty feet below him.

There was no answer. “Fire a gun!” said Robur.

The gun was fired and the report rang out over the sea.

One of the men looked up feebly. His eyes were haggard and his face was that of a skeleton. As he caught sight of the “Albatross” he made a gesture as of fear.

“Don’t be afraid,” said Robur in French, “we have come to help you. Who are you?”

“We belong to the barque “Jeannette,” and I am the mate. We left her a fortnight ago as she was sinking. We have no water and no food.”

The four other men had now sat up. Wan and exhausted, in a terrible state of emaciation, they lifted their hands towards the “Albatross.”

“Look-out!” shouted Robur.

A line was let down, and a pail of fresh water was lowered into the boat. The men snatched at it and drank it with an eagerness awful to see.

“Bread, bread!” they exclaimed.

Immediately a basket with some food and five pints of coffee descended towards them. The mate with difficulty restrained them in their ravenousness.

“Where are we?” asked the mate at last.

“Fifty miles from the Chili coast and the Chonos Archipelago,” answered Robur.

“Thanks. But we are becalmed, and — ?”

“We are going to tow you.”

“Who are you?”

“People who are glad to be of assistance to you,” said Robur.

The mate understood that the incognito was to be respected. But had the flying machine sufficient power to tow them through the water?

Yes; and the boat, attached to a hundred feet of rope, began to move off towards the east. At ten o’clock at night the land was sighted — or rather they could see the lights which indicated its position. This rescue from the sky had come just in time for the survivors of the “Jeannette,” and they had good reason to believe it miraculous.

When they had been taken to the mouth of the channel leading among the Chonos Islands, Robur shouted to them to cast off the tow-line. This, with many a blessing to those who had saved them, they did, and the “Albatross” headed out to the offing.

Certainly there was some good in this aeronef, which could thus help those who were lost at sea! What balloon, perfect as it might be, would be able to perform such a service? And between themselves Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans could not but admire it, although they were quite disposed to deny the evidence of their senses.

CHAPTER XVIII

OVER THE VOLCANO

The sea was as rough as ever, and the symptoms became alarming. The barometer fell several millimeters. The wind came in violent gusts, and then for a moment or so failed altogether. Under such circumstances a sailing vessel would have had to reef in her topsails and her foresail. Everything showed that the wind was rising in the northwest. The storm-glass became much troubled and its movements were most disquieting.

At one o’clock in the morning the wind came on again with extreme violence. Although the aeronef was going right in its teeth she was still making progress at a rate of from twelve to fifteen miles an hour. But that was the utmost she could do.

Evidently preparations must be made for a cyclone, a very rare occurrence in these latitudes. Whether it be called a hurricane, as in the Atlantic, a typhoon, as in Chinese waters a simoom, as in the Sahara, or a tornado, as on the western coast, such a storm is always a gyratory one, and most dangerous for any ship caught in the current which increases from the circumference to the center, and has only one spot of calm, the middle of the vortex.

Robur knew this. He also knew it was best to escape from the cyclone and get beyond its zone of attraction by ascending to the higher strata. Up to then he had always succeeded in doing this, but now he had not an hour, perhaps not a minute, to lose.

In fact the violence of the wind sensibly increased. The crests of the waves were swept off as they rose and blown into white dust on the surface of the sea. It was manifest that the cyclone was advancing with fearful velocity straight towards the regions of the pole.

“Higher!” said Robur.

“Higher it is,” said Tom Tumor.

An extreme ascensional power was communicated to the aeronef, and she shot up slantingly as if she was traveling on a plane sloping downwards from the southwest. Suddenly the barometer fell more than a dozen millimeters and the “Albatross” paused in her ascent.

What was the cause of the stoppage? Evidently she was pulled back by the air; some formidable current had diminished the resistance to the screws. When a steamer travels upstream more work is got out of her screw than when the water is running between the blades. The recoil is then considerable, and may perhaps be as great as the current. It was thus with the “Albatross” at this moment.

But Robur was not the man to give in. His seventy-four screws, working perfectly together, were driven at their maximum speed. But the aeronef could not escape; the attraction of the cyclone was irresistible. During the few moments of calm she began to ascend, but the heavy pull soon drew her back, and she sunk like a ship as she founders.

Evidently if the violence of the cyclone went on increasing the “Albatross” would be but as a straw caught in one of those whirlwinds that root up the trees, carry off roofs, and blow down walls.

Robur and Tom could only speak by signs. Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans clung to the rail and wondered if the cyclone was not playing their game in destroying the aeronef and with her the inventor — and with the inventor the secret of his invention.

But if the “Albatross” could not get out of the cyclone vertically could she not do something else? Could she not gain the center, where it was comparatively calm, and where they would have more control over her? Quite so, but to do this she would have to break through the circular currents which were sweeping her round with them. Had she sufficient mechanical power to escape through them?

Suddenly the upper part of the cloud fell in. The vapor condensed in torrents of rain. It was two o’clock in the morning. The barometer, oscillating over a range of twelve millimeters, had now fallen to 27.91, and from this something should be taken on account of the height of the aeronef above the level of the sea.

Strange to say, the cyclone was out of the zone to which such storms are generally restricted, such zone being bounded by the thirtieth parallel of north latitude and the twenty-sixth parallel of south latitude. This may perhaps explain why the eddying storm suddenly turned into a straight one. But what a hurricane! The tempest in Connecticut on the 22nd of March, 1882, could only have been compared to it, and the speed of that was more than three hundred miles an hour.

The “Albatross” had thus to fly before the wind or rather she had to be left to be driven by the current, from which she could neither mount nor escape. But in following this unchanging trajectory she was bearing due south, towards those polar regions which Robur had endeavored to avoid. And now he was no longer master of her course; she would go where the hurricane took her.

Tom Turner was at the helm, and it required all his skill to keep her straight. In the first hours of the morning — if we can so call the vague tint which began to rise over the horizon — the “Albatross” was fifteen degrees below Cape Horn; twelve hundred miles more and she would cross the antarctic circle. Where she was, in this month of July, the night lasted nineteen hours and a half. The sun’s disk — without warmth, without light — only appeared above the horizon to disappear almost immediately. At the pole the night lengthened into one of a hundred and seventy-nine hours. Everything showed that the “Albatross” was about to plunge into an abyss.

During the day an observation, had it been possible, would have given 66deg 40’ south latitude. The aeronef was within fourteen hundred miles of the pole.

Irresistibly was she drawn towards this inaccessible corner of the globe, her speed eating up, so to speak, her weight, although she weighed less than before, owing to the flattening of the earth at the pole. It seemed as though she could have dispensed altogether with her suspensory screws. And soon the fury of the storm reached such a height that Robur thought it best to reduce the speed of her helices as much as possible, so as to avoid disaster. And only enough speed was given to keep the aeronef under control of the rudder.

Amid these dangers the engineer retained his imperturbable coolness, and the crew obeyed him as if their leader’s mind had entered into them. Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans had not for a moment left the deck; they could remain without being disturbed. The air made but slight resistance. The aeronef was like an aerostat, which drifts with the fluid masses in which it is plunged.

Is the domain of the southern pole a continent or an archipelago? Or is it a palaeocrystic sea, whose ice melts not even during the long summer? We know not. But what we do know is that the southern pole is colder than the northern one — a phenomenon due to the position of the earth in its orbit during winter in the antarctic regions.

During this day there was nothing to show that the storm was abating. It was by the seventy-fifth meridian to the west that the “Albatross” crossed into the circumpolar region. By what meridian would she come out — if she ever came out?

As she descended more to the south the length of the day diminished. Before long she would be plunged in that continuous night which is illuminated only by the rays of the moon or the pale streamers of the aurora. But the moon was then new, and the companions of Robur might see nothing of the regions whose secret has hitherto defied human curiosity, There was not much inconvenience on board from the cold, for the temperature was not nearly so low as was expected.

It seemed as though the hurricane was a sort of Gulf Stream, carrying a certain amount of heat along with it.

Great was the regret that the whole region was in such profound obscurity. Even if the moon had been in full glory but few observations could have been made. At this season of the year an immense curtain of snow, an icy carapace, covers up the polar surface. There was none of that ice “blink” to be seen, that whitish tint of which the reflection is absent from dark horizons. Under such circumstances, how could they distinguish the shape of the ground, the extent of the seas, the position of the islands? How could they recognize the hydrographic network of the country or the orographic configuration, and distinguish the hills and mountains from the icebergs and floes?

A little after midnight an aurora illuminated the darkness. With its silver fringes and spangles radiating over space, it seemed like a huge fan open over half the sky. Its farthest electric effluences were lost in the Southern Cross, whose four bright stars were gleaming overhead. The phenomenon was one of incomparable magnificence, and the light showed the face of the country as a confused mass of white.

It need not be said that they had approached so near to the pole that the compass was constantly affected, and gave no precise indication of the course pursued. Its inclination was such that at one time Robur felt certain they were passing over the magnetic pole discovered by Sir James Ross. And an hour later, in calculating the angle the needle made with the vertical, he exclaimed: “the South Pole is beneath us!”

A white cap appeared, but nothing could be seen of what it bid under its ice.

A few minutes afterwards the aurora died away, and the point where all the world’s meridians cross is still to be discovered.

If Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans wished to bury in the most mysterious solitudes the aeronef and all she bore, the moment was propitious. If they did not do so it was doubtless because the explosive they required was still denied to them.

The hurricane still raged and swept along with such rapidity that had a mountain been met with the aeronef would have been dashed to pieces like a ship on a lee shore. Not only had the power gone to steer her horizontally, but the control of her elevation had also vanished.

And it was not unlikely that mountains did exist in these antarctic lands. Any instant a shock might happen which would destroy the “Albatross.” Such a catastrophe became more probable as the wind shifted more to the east after they passed the prime meridian. Two luminous points then showed themselves ahead of the “Albatross.” There were the two volcanos of the Ross Mountains — Erebus and Terror. Was the “Albatross” to be shriveled up in their flames like a gigantic butterfly?

An hour of intense excitement followed. One of the volcanoes, Erebus, seemed to be rushing at the aeronef, which could not move from the bed of the hurricane. The cloud of flame grew as they neared it. A network of fire barred their road. A brilliant light shone round over all. The figures on board stood out in the bright light as if come from another world. Motionless, without a sound or a gesture, they waited for the terrible moment when the furnace would wrap them in its fires.

But the storm that bore the “Albatross” saved them from such a fearful fate. The flames of Erebus were blown down by the hurricane as it passed, and the “Albatross” flew over unhurt. She swept through a hail of ejected material, which was fortunately kept at bay by the centrifugal action of the suspensory screws. And she harmlessly passed over the crater while it was in full eruption.

An hour afterwards the horizon hid from their view the two colossal torches which light the confines of the world during the long polar night.

At two o’clock in the morning Balleny Island was sighted on the coast of Discovery Land, though it could not be recognized owing to its being bound to the mainland by a cement of ice.

And the “Albatross” emerged from the polar circle on the hundred and seventy-fifth meridian. The hurricane had carried her over the icebergs and icefloes, against which she was in danger of being dashed a hundred times or more. She was not in the hands of the helmsman, but in the hand of God — and God is a good pilot.

The aeronef sped along to the north, and at the sixtieth parallel the storm showed signs of dying away. Its violence sensibly diminished. The “Albatross” began to come under control again. And, what was a great comfort, had again entered the lighted regions of the globe; and the day reappeared about eight o’clock in the morning.

Robur had been carried by the storm into the Pacific over the polar region, accomplishing four thousand three hundred and fifty miles in nineteen hours, or about three miles a minute, a speed almost double that which the “Albatross” was equal to with her propellers under ordinary circumstances. But he did not know where he then was owing to the disturbance of the needle in the neighborhood of the magnetic pole, and he would have to wait till the sun shone out under convenient conditions for observation. Unfortunately, heavy clouds covered the sky all that day and the sun did not appear.

This was a disappointment more keenly felt as both propelling screws had sustained damage during the tempest. Robur, much disconcerted at this accident, could only advance at a moderate speed during this day, and when he passed over the antipodes of Paris was only going about eighteen miles an hour. It was necessary not to aggravate the damage to the screws, for if the propellers were rendered useless the situation of the aeronef above the vast seas of the Pacific would be a very awkward one. And the engineer began to consider if he could not effect his repairs on the spot, so as to make sure of continuing his voyage.

In the morning of the 27th of July, about seven o’clock, land was sighted to the north. It was soon seen to be an island. But which island was it of the thousands that dot the Pacific? However, Robur decided to stop at it without landing. He thought, that he could repair damages during the day and start in the evening.

The wind had died away completely and this was a favorable circumstance for the maneuver he desired to execute. At least, if she did not remain stationary the “Albatross” would be carried he knew not where.

A cable one hundred and fifty feet long with an anchor at the end was dropped overboard. When the aeronef reached the shore of the island the anchor dragged up the first few rocks and then got firmly fixed between two large blocks. The cable then stretched to full length under the influence of the suspensory screws, and the “Albatross” remained motionless, riding like a ship in a roadstead.

It was the first time she had been fastened to the earth since she left Philadelphia.

CHAPTER XIX

ANCHORED AT LAST

When the “Albatross” was high in the air the island could be seen to be of moderate size. But on what parallel was it situated? What meridian ran through it? Was it an island in the Pacific, in Australasia, or in the Indian Ocean? When the sun appeared, and Robur had taken his observations, they would know; but although they could not trust to the indications of the compass there was reason to think they were in the Pacific.

At this height — one hundred and fifty feet — the island which measured about fifteen miles round, was like a three-pointed star in the sea.

Off the southwest point was an islet and a range of rocks. On the shore there were no tide-marks, and this tended to confirm Robur in his opinion as to his position for the ebb and flow are almost imperceptible in the Pacific.

At the northwest point there was a conical mountain about two hundred feet high.

No natives were to be seen, but they might be on the opposite coast. In any case, if they had perceived the aeronef, terror had made them either hide themselves or run away. The “Albatross” had anchored on the southwest point of the island. Not far off, down a little creek, a small river flowed in among the rocks. Beyond were several winding valleys; trees of different kinds; and birds — partridges and bustards — in great numbers. If the island was not inhabited it was habitable. Robur might surely have landed on it; if he had not done so it was probably because the ground was uneven and did not offer a convenient spot to beach the aeronef.

While he was waiting for the sun the engineer began the repairs he reckoned on completing before the day was over. The suspensory screws were undamaged and had worked admirably amid all the violence of the storm, which, as we have said, had considerably lightened their work. At this moment half of them were in action, enough to keep the “Albatross” fixed to the shore by the taut cable. But the two propellers had suffered, and more than Robur had thought. Their blades would have to be adjusted and the gearing seen to by which they received their rotatory movement.

It was the screw at the bow which was first attacked under Robur’s superintendence. It was the best to commence with, in case the “Albatross” had to leave before the work was finished. With only this propeller he could easily keep a proper course.

Meanwhile Uncle Prudent and his colleague, after walking about the deck, had sat down aft. Frycollin was strangely reassured. What a difference! To be suspended only one hundred and fifty feet from the ground!

The work was only interrupted for a moment while the elevation of the sun above the horizon allowed Robur to take an horary angle, so that at the time of its culmination he could calculate his position.

The result of the observation, taken with the greatest exactitude, was as follows: Longitude, 176deg 10’ west.

Latitude, 44deg 25’ south.

This point on the map answered to the position of the Chatham Islands, and particularly of Pitt Island, one of the group.

“That is nearer than I supposed,” said Robur to Tom Turner.

“How far off are we?”

“Forty-six degrees south of X Island, or two thousand eight hundred miles.”

“All the more reason to get our propellers into order,” said the mate. “We may have the wind against us this passage, and with the little stores we have left we ought to get to X as soon as possible.”

“Yes, Tom, and I hope to get under way tonight, even if I go with one screw, and put the other to-rights on the voyage.”

“Mr. Robur,” said Tom “What is to be done with those two gentlemen and their servant?”

“Do you think they would complain if they became colonists of X Island?”

But where was this X? It was an island lost in the immensity of the Pacific Ocean between the Equator and the Tropic of Cancer — an island most appropriately named by Robur in this algebraic fashion. It was in the north of the South Pacific, a long way out of the route of inter-oceanic communication. There it was that Robur had founded his little colony, and there the “Albatross” rested when tired with her flight. There she was provisioned for all her voyages. In X Island, Robur, a man of immense wealth, had established a shipyard in which he built his aeronef. There he could repair it, and even rebuild it. In his warehouses were materials and provisions of all sorts stored for the fifty inhabitants who lived on the island.

When Robur had doubled Cape Horn a few days before his intention had been to regain X Island by crossing the Pacific obliquely. But the cyclone had seized the “Albatross,” and the hurricane had carried her away to the south. In fact, he had been brought back to much the same latitude as before, and if his propellers had not been damaged the delay would have been of no importance.

His object was therefore to get back to X Island, but as the mate had said, the voyage would be a long one, and the winds would probably be against them. The mechanical power of the “Albatross” was, however, quite equal to taking her to her destination, and under ordinary circumstances she would be there in three or four days.

Hence Robur’s resolve to anchor on the Chatham Islands. There was every opportunity for repairing at least the fore-screw. He had no fear that if the wind were to rise he would be driven to the south instead of to the north. When night came the repairs would be finished, and he would have to maneuver so as to weigh anchor. If it were too firmly fixed in the rocks he could cut the cable and resume his flight towards the equator.

The crew of the “Albatross,” knowing there was no time to lose, set to work vigorously.

While they were busy in the bow of the aeronef, Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans held a little conversation together which had exceptionally important consequences.

“Phil Evans,” said Uncle Prudent, “you have resolved, as I have, to sacrifice your life?”

“Yes, like you.”

“It is evident that we can expect nothing from Robur.”

“Nothing.”

“Well, Phil Evans, I have made up my mind. If the “Albatross” leaves this place tonight, the night will not pass without our having accomplished our task. We will smash the wings of this bird of Robur’s! This night I will blow it into the air!”

“The sooner the better,” said Phil Evans.

It will be seen that the two colleagues were agreed on all points even in accepting with indifference the frightful death in store for them. “Have you all you want?” asked Evans.

“Yes. Last night, while Robur and his people had enough to do to look after the safety of the ship, I slipped into the magazine and got hold of a dynamite cartridge.”

“Let us set to work, Uncle Prudent.”

“No. Wait till tonight. When the night comes we will go into our cabin, and you shall see something that will surprise you.”

At six o’clock the colleagues dined together as usual. Two hours afterwards they retired to their cabin like men who wished to make up for a sleepless night.

Neither Robur nor any of his companions had a suspicion of the catastrophe that threatened the “Albatross.”

This was Uncle Prudent’s plan. As he had said, he had stolen into the magazine, and there had possessed himself of some powder and cartridge like those used by Robur in Dahomey. Returning to his cabin, he had carefully concealed the cartridge with which he had resolved to blow up the “Albatross” in mid-air.

Phil Evans, screened by his companion, was now examining the infernal machine, which was a metallic canister containing about two pounds of dynamite, enough to shatter the aeronef to atoms. If the explosion did not destroy her at once, it would do so in her fall. Nothing was easier than to place this cartridge in a corner of the cabin, so that it would blow in the deck and tear away the framework of the hull.

But to obtain the explosion it was necessary to adjust the fulminating cap with which the cartridge was fitted. This was the most delicate part of the operation, for the explosion would have to be carefully timed, so as not to occur too soon or too late.

Uncle Prudent had carefully thought over the matter. His conclusions were as follows. As soon as the fore propeller was repaired the aeronef would resume her course to the north, and that done Robur and his crew would probably come aft to put the other screw into order. The presence of these people about the cabin might interfere with his plans, and so he had resolved to make a slow match do duty as a time-fuse.

“When I got the cartridge,” said he to Phil Evans, “I took some gunpowder as well. With the powder I will make a fuse that will take some time to burn, and which will lead into the fulminate. My idea is to light it about midnight, so that the explosion will take place about three or four o’clock in the morning.”

“Well planned!” said Phil Evans.

The colleagues, as we see, had arrived at such a stage as to look with the greatest nonchalance on the awful destruction in which they were about to perish. Their hatred against Robur and his people had so increased that they would sacrifice their own lives to destroy the “Albatross” and all she bore. The act was that of madmen, it was horrible; but at such a pitch had they arrived after five weeks of anger that could not vent itself, of rage that could not be gratified.

“And Frycollin?” asked Phil Evans, “have we the right to dispose of his life?”

“We shall sacrifice ours as well!” said Uncle Prudent. But it is doubtful if Frycollin would have thought the reason sufficient.

Immediately Uncle Prudent set to work, while Evans kept watch in the neighborhood of the cabin. The crew were all at work forward. There was no fear of being surprised. Uncle Prudent began by rubbing a small quantity of the powder very fine; and then, having slightly moistened it, he wrapped it up in a piece of rag in the shape of a match. When it was lighted he calculated it would burn about an inch in five minutes, or a yard in three hours. The match was tried and found to answer, and was then wound round with string and attached to the cap of the cartridge. Uncle Prudent had all finished about ten o’clock in the evening without having excited the least suspicion.

During the day the work on the fore screw had been actively carried on, but it had had to be taken on board to adjust the twisted blades. Of the piles and accumulators and the machinery that drove the ship nothing was damaged.

When night fell Robur and his men knocked off work. The fore propeller not been got into place, and to finish it would take another three hours. After some conversation with Tom Turner it was decided to give the crew a rest, and postpone what required to be done to the next morning.

The final adjustment was a matter of extreme nicety, and the electric lamps did not give so suitable a light for such work as the daylight.

Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans were not aware of this. They had understood that the screw would be in place during the night, and that the “Albatross” would be on her way to the north.

The night was dark and moonless. Heavy clouds made the darkness deeper. A light breeze began to rise. A few puffs came from the southwest, but they had no effect on the “Albatross.” She remained motionless at her anchor, and the cable stretched vertically downward to the ground.

Uncle Prudent and his colleague, imagining they were under way again, sat shut up in their cabin, exchanging but a few words, and listening to the f-r-r-r-r of the suspensory screws, which drowned every other sound on board. They were waiting till the time of action arrived.

A little before midnight Uncle Prudent said, “It is time!” Under the berths in the cabin was a sliding box, forming a small locker, and in this locker Uncle Prudent put the dynamite and the slow-match. In this way the match would burn without betraying itself by its smoke or spluttering. Uncle Prudent lighted the end and pushed back the box under the berth with “Now let us go aft, and wait.”

They then went out, and were astonished not to find the steersman at his post.

Phil Evans leant out over the rail.

“The “Albatross” is where she was,” said he in a low voice. “The work is not finished. They have not started!”

Uncle Prudent made a gesture of disappointment. “We shall have to put out the match,” said he.

“No,” said Phil Evans, “we must escape!”

“Escape?”

“Yes! down the cable! Fifty yards is nothing!”

“Nothing, of course, Phil Evans, and we should be fools not to take the chance now it has come.”

But first they went back to the cabin and took away all they could carry, with a view to a more or less prolonged stay on the Chatham Islands. Then they shut the door and noiselessly crept forward, intending to wake Frycollin and take him with them.

The darkness was intense. The clouds were racing up from the southwest, and the aeronef was tugging at her anchor and thus throwing the cable more and more out of the vertical. There would be no difficulty in slipping down it.

The colleagues made their way along the deck, stopping in the shadow of the deckhouses to listen if there was any sound. The silence was unbroken. No light shone from the portholes. The aeronef was not only silent; she was asleep.

Uncle Prudent was close to Frycollin’s cabin when Phil Evans stopped him. “The look-out!” he said.

A man was crouching near the deckhouse. He was only half asleep. All flight would be impossible if he were to give the alarm. Close by were a few ropes, and pieces of rag and waste used in the work at the screw.

An instant afterwards the man was gagged and blindfolded and lashed to the rail unable to utter a sound or move an inch. This was done almost without a whisper.

Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans listened. All was silent within the cabins. Every one on board was asleep. They reached Frycollin’s cabin. Tapage was snoring away in a style worthy of his name, and that promised well.

To his great surprise, Uncle Prudent had not even to push Frycollin’s door. It was open. He stepped into the doorway and looked around. “Nobody here!” he said.

“Nobody! Where can he be?” asked Phil Evans.

They went into the bow, thinking Frycollin might perhaps be asleep in the corner. Still they found nobody.

“Has the fellow got the start of us?” asked Uncle Prudent.

“Whether he has or not,” said Phil Evans, “we can’t wait any longer. Down you go.”

Without hesitation the fugitives one after the other clambered over the side and, seizing the cable with hands and feet slipped down it safe and sound to the ground.

Think of their joy at again treading the earth they had lost for so long — at walking on solid ground and being no longer the playthings of the atmosphere!

They were staring up the creek to the interior of the island when suddenly a form rose in front of them. It was Frycollin. The Negro had had the same idea as his master and the audacity to start without telling him. But there was no time for recriminations, and Uncle Prudent was in search of a refuge in some distant part of the island when Phil Evans stopped him.

“Uncle Prudent,” said he. “Here we are safe from Robur. He is doomed like his companions to a terrible death. He deserves it, we know. But if he would swear on his honor not to take us prisoners again — ”

“The honor of such a man — ”

Uncle Prudent did not finish his sentence.

There was a noise on the “Albatross.” Evidently, the alarm had been given. The escape was discovered.

“Help! Help!” shouted somebody. It was the look-out man, who had got rid of his gag. Hurried footsteps were heard on deck. Almost immediately the electric lamps shot beams over a large circle.

“There they are! There they are!” shouted Tom Turner. The fugitives were seen.

At the same instant an order was given by Robur, and the suspensory screws being slowed, the cable was hauled in on board, and the “Albatross” sank towards the ground.

At this moment the voice of Phil Evans was heard shouting, “Engineer Robur, will you give us your word of honor to leave us free on this island?”

“Never!” said Robur. And the reply was followed by the report of a gun, and the bullet grazed Phil’s shoulder.

“Ah! The brutes!” said Uncle Prudent. Knife in hand, he rushed towards the rocks where the anchor had fixed itself. The aeronef was not more than fifty feet from the ground.

In a few seconds the cable was cut, and the breeze, which had increased considerably, striking the “Albatross” on the quarter, carried her out over the sea.

CHAPTER XX

THE WRECK OF THE ALBATROSS

It was then twenty minutes after midnight. Five or six shots had been fired from the aeronef. Uncle Prudent and Frycollin, supporting Phil Evans, had taken shelter among the rocks. They had not been hit. For the moment there was nothing to fear.

As the “Albatross” drifted off from Pitt Island she rose obliquely to nearly three thousand feet. It was necessary to increase the ascensional power to prevent her falling into the sea.

When the look-out man had got clear of his gag and shouted, Robur and Tom Turner had rushed up to him and torn off his bandage. The mate had then run back to the stern cabin. It was empty! Tapage had searched Frycollin’s cabin, and that also was empty.

When he saw that the prisoners had escaped, Robur was seized with a paroxysm of anger. The escape meant the revelation of his secret to the world. He had not been much concerned at the document thrown overboard while they were crossing Europe, for there were so many chances that it would be lost in its fall; but now!

As he grew calm, “They have escaped,” said he. “Be it so! But they cannot get away from Pitt Island, and in a day or so I will go back! I will recapture them! And then — ”

In fact, the safety of the three fugitives was by no means assured. The “Albatross” would be repaired, and return well in hand. Before the day was out they might again be in the power of the engineer.

Before the day was out! But in two hours the “Albatross” would be annihilated! The dynamite cartridge was like a torpedo fastened to her hull, and would accomplish her destruction in mid-air. The breeze freshened, and the aeronef was carried to the northeast. Although her speed was but moderate, she would be out of sight of the Chatham Islands before sunrise. To return against the wind she must have her propellers going, particularly the one in the bow.

“Tom,” said the engineer, “turn the lights full on.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And all hands to work.”

“Yes, Sir.”

There was no longer any idea of putting off the work till tomorrow. There was now no thought of fatigue. Not one of the men of the “Albatross” failed to share in the feelings of his chief. Not one but was ready to do anything to recapture the fugitives!

As soon as the screw was in place they would return to the island and drop another anchor, and give chase to the fugitives. Then only would they begin repairing the stern-screw; and then the aeronef could resume her voyage across the Pacific to X Island.

It was important, above all things, that the “Albatross” should not be carried too far to the northeast, but unfortunately the breeze grew stronger, and she could not head against it, or even remain stationary. Deprived of her propellers she was an unguidable balloon. The fugitives on the shore knew that she would have disappeared before the explosion blew her to pieces.

Robur felt much disappointment at seeing his plans so interfered with. Would it not take him much longer than he thought to get back to his old anchorage?

While the work at the screw was actively pushed on, he resolved to descend to the surface of the sea, in the hope that the wind would there be lighter. Perhaps the “Albatross” would be able to remain in the neighborhood until she was again fit to work to windward.

The maneuver was instantly executed. If a passing ship had sighted the aerial machine as she sunk through the air, with her electric lights in full blaze, with what terror would she have been seized!

When the “Albatross” was a few hundred feet from the waves she stopped. Unfortunately Robur found that the breeze was stronger here than above, and the aeronef drifted off more rapidly. He risked being blown a long, way off to the northeast, and that would delay his return to Pitt Island. In short, after several experiments, he found it better to keep his ship well up in the air, and the “Albatross” went aloft to about ten thousand feet. There, if she did not remain stationary, the drifting was very slight. The engineer could thus hope that by sunrise at such an altitude he would still be in sight of the island.

Robur did not trouble himself about the reception the fugitives might have received from the natives — if there were any natives. That they might help them mattered little to him. With the powers of offense possessed by the “Albatross” they would be promptly terrified and dispersed. The capture of the prisoners was certain, and once he had them again, “They will not escape from X Island!”

About one o’clock in the morning the fore-screw was finished, and all that had to be done was to get it back to its place. This would take about an hour. That done, the “Albatross” would be headed southwest and the stern-screw could be taken in hand.

And how about the match that was burning in the deserted cabin? The match of which more than a third was now consumed? And the spark that was creeping along to the dynamite?

Assuredly if the men of the aeronef had not been so busy one of them would have heard the feeble sputtering that was going on in the deck-house. Perhaps he would have smelt the burning powder! He would doubtless have become uneasy! And told Tom Turner! And then they would have looked about, and found the box and the infernal machine; and then there would have been time to save this wonderful “Albatross” and all she bore!

But the men were at work in the bow, twenty yards away from the cabin. Nothing brought them to that part of the deck; nothing called off their attention from their work. Robur was there working with his hands, excellent mechanic as he was. He hurried on the work, but nothing was neglected, everything was carefully done. Was it not necessary that he should again become absolute master of his invention? If he did not recapture the fugitives they would get away home. They would begin inquiring into matters. They might even discover X Island, and there would be an end to this life, which the men of the “Albatross” had created for themselves, a life that seemed superhuman and sublime.

Tom Turner came up to the engineer. It was a quarter past one. “It seems to me, sir, that the breeze is falling, and going round to the west.”

“What does the barometer say?” asked Robur, after looking up at the sky.

“It is almost stationary, and the clouds seem gathering below us.”

“So they are, and it may be raining down at the sea; but if we keep above the rain it makes no difference to us. It will not interfere with the work.”

“If it is raining it is not a heavy rain,” said Tom. “The clouds do not look like it, and probably the wind has dropped altogether.”

“Perhaps so, but I think we had better not go down yet. Let us get into going order as soon as we can, and then we can do as we like.”

At a few minutes after two the first part of the work was finished. The fore-screw was in its place, and the power was turned on. The speed was gradually increased, and the “Albatross,” heading to the southwest, returned at moderate speed towards the Chatham Islands.

“Tom,” said Robur, “it is about two hours and a half since we got adrift. The wind has not changed all the time. I think we ought to be over the island in an hour.”

“Yes, sir. We are going about forty feet a second. We ought to be there about half-past three.”

“All the better. It would suit us best to get back while it is dark, and even beach the “Albatross” if we can. Those fellows will fancy we are a long way off to the northward, and never think of keeping a look-out. If we have to stop a day or two on the island — ”

“We’ll stop, and if we have to fight an army of natives?”

“We’ll fight,” said Robur. “We’ll fight then for our “Albatross.””

The engineer went forward to the men, who were waiting for orders. “My lads,” he said to them, “we cannot knock off yet. We must work till day comes.”

They were all ready to do so. The stern-screw had now to be treated as the other had been. The damage was the same, a twisting from the violence of the hurricane during the passage across the southern pole.

But to get the screw on board it seemed best to stop the progress of the aeronef for a few minutes, and even to drive her backwards. The engines were reversed. The aeronef began to fall astern, when Tom Turner was surprised by a peculiar odor.

This was from the gas given off by the match, which had accumulated in the box, and was now escaping from the cabin. “Hallo!” said the mate, with a sniff.

“What is the matter?” asked Robur.

“Don’t you smell something? Isn’t it burning powder?”

“So it is, Tom.”

“And it comes from that cabin.”

“Yes, the very cabin — ”

“Have those scoundrels set it on fire?”

“Suppose it is something else!” exclaimed Robur. “Force the door, Tom; drive in the door!”

But the mate had not made one step towards it when a fearful explosion shook the “Albatross.” The cabins flew into splinters. The lamps went out. The electric current suddenly failed. The darkness was complete. Most of the suspensory screws were twisted or broken, but a few in the bow still revolved.

At the same instant the hull of the aeronef opened just behind the first deck-house, where the engines for the fore-screw were placed; and the after-part of the deck collapsed in space.

Immediately the last suspensory screw stopped spinning, and the “Albatross” dropped into the abyss.

It was a fall of ten thousand feet for the eight men who were clinging to the wreck; and the fall was even faster than it might have been, for the fore propeller was vertical in the air and still working!

It was then that Robur, with extraordinary coolness, climbed up to the broken deck-house, and seizing the lever reversed the rotation, so that the propeller became a suspender. The fall continued, but it was checked, and the wreck did not fall with the accelerating swiftness of bodies influenced solely by gravitation; and if it was death to the survivors of the “Albatross” from their being hurled into the sea, it was not death by asphyxia amid air which the rapidity of descent rendered unbreathable.

Eighty seconds after the explosion, all that remained of the “Albatross” plunged into the waves!

CHAPTER XXI

THE INSTITUTE AGAIN

Some weeks before, on the 13th of June, on the morning after the sitting during which the Weldon Institute had been given over to such stormy discussions, the excitement of all classes of the Philadelphia population, black or white, had been much easier to imagine than to describe.

From a very early hour conversation was entirely occupied with the unexpected and scandalous incident of the night before. A stranger calling himself an engineer, and answering to the name of Robur, a person of unknown origin, of anonymous nationality, had unexpectedly presented himself in the club-room, insulted the balloonists, made fun of the aeronauts, boasted of the marvels of machines heavier than air, and raised a frightful tumult by the remarks with which he greeted the menaces of his adversaries. After leaving the desk, amid a volley of revolver shots, he had disappeared, and in spite of every endeavor, no trace could be found of him.

Assuredly here was enough to exercise every tongue and excite every imagination. But by how much was this excitement increased when in the evening of the 13th of June it was found that neither the president nor secretary of the Weldon Institute had returned to their homes! Was it by chance only that they were absent? No, or at least there was nothing to lead people to think so. It had even been agreed that in the morning they would be back at the club, one as president, the other as secretary, to take their places during a discussion on the events of the preceding evening.

And not only was there the complete disappearance of these two considerable personages in the state of Pennsylvania, but there was no news of the valet Frycollin. He was as undiscoverable as his master. Never had a Negro since Toussaint L’Ouverture, Soulouque, or Dessaline had so much talked about him.

The next day there was no news. Neither the colleagues nor Frycollin had been found. The anxiety became serious. Agitation commenced. A numerous crowd besieged the post and telegraph offices in case any news should be received. There was no news.

And they had been seen coming out of the Weldon Institute loudly talking together, and with Frycollin in attendance, go down Walnut Street towards Fairmount Park! Jem Chip, the vegetarian, had even shaken hands with the president and left him with “Tomorrow!”

And William T. Forbes, the manufacturer of sugar from rags, had received a cordial shake from Phil Evans who had said to him twice, “Au revoir! Au revoir!”

Miss Doll and Miss Mat Forbes, so attached to Uncle Prudent by the bonds of purest friendship, could not get over the disappearance, and in order to obtain news of the absent, talked even more than they were accustomed to.

Three, four, five, six days passed. Then a week, then two weeks, and there was nothing to give a clue to the missing three. The most minute search had been made in every quarter. Nothing! In the park, even under the trees and brushwood. Nothing! Always nothing! Although here it was noticed that the grass looked to be pressed down in a way that seemed suspicious and certainly was inexplicable; and at the edge of the clearing there were traces of a recent struggle. Perhaps a band of scoundrels had attacked the colleagues here in the deserted park in the middle of the night!

It was possible. The police proceeded with their inquiries in all due form and with all lawful slowness. They dragged the Schuyllkill river, and cut into the thick bushes that fringe its banks; and if this was useless it was not quite a waste, for the Schuyllkill is in great want of a good weeding, and it got it on this occasion. Practical people are the authorities of Philadelphia!

Then the newspapers were tried. Advertisements and notices and articles were sent to all the journals in the Union without distinction of color. The “Daily Negro,” the special organ of the black race, published a portrait of Frycollin after his latest photograph. Rewards were offered to whoever would give news of the three absentees, and even to those who would find some clue to put the police on the track. “Five thousand dollars! Five thousand dollars to any citizen who would — ”

Nothing was done. The five thousand dollars remained with the treasurer of the Weldon Institute.

Undiscoverable! Undiscoverable! Undiscoverable! Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans, of Philadelphia!

It need hardly be said that the club was put to serious inconvenience by this disappearance of its president and secretary. And at first the assembly voted urgency to a measure which suspended the work on the “Go-Ahead.” How, in the absence of the principal promoters of the affair, of those who had devoted to the enterprise a certain part of their fortune in time and money — how could they finish the work when these were not present? It were better, then, to wait.

And just then came the first news of the strange phenomenon which had exercised people’s minds some weeks before. The mysterious object had been again seen at different times in the higher regions of the atmosphere. But nobody dreamt of establishing a connection between this singular reappearance and the no less singular disappearance of the members of the Weldon Institute. In fact, it would have required a very strong dose of imagination to connect one of these facts with the other.

Whatever it might be, asteroid or aerolite or aerial monster, it had reappeared in such a way that its dimensions and shape could be much better appreciated, first in Canada, over the country between Ottawa and Quebec, on the very morning after the disappearance of the colleagues, and later over the plains of the Far West, where it had tried its speed against an express train on the Union Pacific.

At the end of this day the doubts of the learned world were at an end. The body was not a product of nature, it was a flying machine, the practical application of the theory of “heavier than air.” And if the inventor of the aeronef had wished to keep himself unknown he could evidently have done better than to try it over the Far West. As to the mechanical force he required, or the engines by which it was communicated, nothing was known, but there could be no doubt the aeronef was gifted with an extraordinary faculty of locomotion. In fact, a few days afterwards it was reported from the Celestial Empire, then from the southern part of India, then from the Russian steppes.

Who was then this bold mechanician that possessed such powers of locomotion, for whom States had no frontiers and oceans no limits, who disposed of the terrestrial atmosphere as if it were his domain? Could it be this Robur whose theories had been so brutally thrown in the face of the Weldon Institute the day he led the attack against the utopia of guidable balloons? Perhaps such a notion occurred to some of the wide-awake people, but none dreamt that the said Robur had anything to do with the disappearance of the president and secretary of the Institute.

Things remained in this state of mystery when a telegram arrived from France through the New York cable at 11-37 A.M. on July 13. And what was this telegram? It was the text of the document found at Paris in a snuff-box revealing what had happened to the two personages for whom the Union was in mourning.

So, then, the perpetrator of this kidnapping “was” Robur the engineer, come expressly to Philadelphia to destroy in its egg the theory of the balloonists. He it was who commanded the “Albatross!” He it was who carried off by way of reprisal Uncle Prudent, Phil Evans and Frycollin; and they might be considered lost for ever. At least until some means were found of constructing an engine capable of contending with this powerful machine their terrestrial friends would never bring them back to earth.

What excitement! What stupor! The telegram from Paris had been addressed to the members of the Weldon Institute. The members of the club were immediately informed of it. Ten minutes later all Philadelphia received the news through its telephones, and in less than an hour all America heard of it through the innumerable electric wires of the new continent.

No one would believe it! “It is an unseasonable joke,” said some. “It is all smoke,” said others. How could such a thing be done in Philadelphia, and so secretly, too? How could the “Albatross” have been beached in Fairmount Park without its appearance having been signaled all over Pennsylvania?

Very good. These were the arguments. The incredulous had the right of doubting. But the right did not last long. Seven days after the receipt of the telegram the French mail-boat “Normandie” came into the Hudson, bringing the famous snuff-box. The railway took it in all haste from New York to Philadelphia.

It was indeed the snuff-box of the President of the Weldon Institute. Jem Chip would have done on at day to take some more substantial nourishment, for he fell into a swoon when he recognized it. How many a time had he taken from it the pinch of friendship! And Miss Doll and Miss Mat also recognized it, and so did William T. Forbes, Truck Milnor, Bat T. Fynn, and many other members. And not only was it the president’s snuff-box, it was the president’s writing!

Then did the people lament and stretch out their hands in despair to the skies. Uncle Prudent and his colleague carried away in a flying machine, and no one able to deliver them!

The Niagara Falls Company, in which Uncle Prudent was the largest shareholder, thought of suspending its business and turning off its cataracts. The Wheelton Watch Company thought of winding up its machinery, now it had lost its manager.

Nothing more was heard of the aeronef. July passed, and there was no news. August ran its course, and the uncertainty on the subject of Robur’s prisoners was as great as ever. Had he, like Icarus, fallen a victim to his own temerity?

The first twenty-seven days of September went by without result, but on the 28th a rumor spread through Philadelphia that Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans had during the afternoon quietly walked into the president’s house. And, what was more extraordinary, the rumor was true, although very few believed it.

They had, however, to give in to the evidence. There could be no doubt these were the two men, and not their shadows. And Frycollin also had come back! The members of the club, then their friends, then the crowd, swarmed into the president’s house, and shook hands with the president and secretary, and cheered them again and again. Jem Chip was there, having left his luncheon’s joint of boiled lettuces, and William T. Forbes and his daughters, and all the members of the club. It is a mystery how Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans emerged alive from the thousands who welcomed them.

On that evening was the weekly meeting of the Institute. It was expected that the colleagues would take their places at the desk. As they had said nothing of their adventures, it was thought they would then speak, and relate the impressions of their voyage. But for some reason or other both were silent. And so also was Frycollin, whom his congeners in their delirium had failed to dismember.

But though the colleagues did not tell what had happened to them, that is no reason why we should not. We know what occurred on the night of the 27th and 28th of July; the daring escape to the earth, the scramble among the rocks, the bullet fired at Phil Evans, the cut cable, and the “Albatross” deprived of her propellers, drifting off to the northeast at a great altitude. Her electric lamps rendered her visible for some time. And then she disappeared.

The fugitives had little to fear. Now could Robur get back to the island for three or four hours if his screws were out of gear? By that time the “Albatross” would have been destroyed by the explosion, and be no more than a wreck floating on the sea; those whom she bore would be mangled corpses, which the ocean would not even give up again. The act of vengeance would be accomplished.

Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans looked upon it as an act of legitimate self-defence, and felt no remorse whatever. Evans was but slightly wounded by the rifle bullet, and the three made their way up from the shore in the hope of meeting some of the natives. The hope was realized. About fifty natives were living by fishing off the western coast. They had seen the aeronef descend on the island, and they welcomed the fugitives as if they were supernatural beings. They worshipped them, we ought rather to say. They accommodated them in the most comfortable of their huts.

As they had expected, Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans saw nothing more of the aeronef. They concluded that the catastrophe had taken place in some high region of the atmosphere, and that they would hear no more of Robur and his prodigious machine.

Meanwhile they had to wait for an opportunity of returning to America. The Chatham Islands are not much visited by navigators, and all August passed without sign of a ship. The fugitives began to ask themselves if they had not exchanged one prison for another.

At last a ship came to water at the Chatham Islands. It will not have been forgotten that when Uncle Prudent was seized he had on him several thousand paper dollars, much more than would take him back to America. After thanking their adorers, who were not sparing of their most respectful demonstrations, Uncle Prudent, Phil Evans, and Frycollin embarked for Auckland. They said nothing of their adventures, and in two weeks landed in New Zealand.

At Auckland, a mail-boat took them on board as passengers, and after a splendid passage the survivors of the “Albatross” stepped ashore at San Francisco. They said nothing as to who they were or whence they had come, but as they had paid full price for their berths no American captain would trouble them further. At San Francisco they took the first train out on the Pacific Railway, and on the 27th of September, they arrived at Philadelphia, That is the compendious history of what had occurred since the escape of the fugitives. And that is why this very evening the president and secretary of the Weldon Institute took their seats amid a most extraordinary attendance.

Never before had either of them been so calm. To look at them it did not seem as though anything abnormal had happened since the memorable sitting of the 12th of June. Three months and a half had gone, and seemed to be counted as nothing. After the first round of cheers, which both received without showing the slightest emotion, Uncle Prudent took off his hat and spoke.

“Worthy citizens,” said he, “the meeting is now open.”

Tremendous applause. And properly so, for if it was not extraordinary that the meeting was open, it was extraordinary that it should be opened by Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans.

The president allowed the enthusiasm to subside in shouts and clappings; then he continued: “At our last meeting, gentlemen, the discussion was somewhat animated — (hear, hear) — between the partisans of the screw before and those of the screw behind for our balloon the “Go-Ahead.” (Marks of surprise.) We have found a way to bring the beforists and the behindists in agreement. That way is as follows: we are going to use two screws, one at each end of the car.” Silence, and complete stupefaction.

That was all.

Yes, all! Of the kidnapping of the president and secretary of the Weldon Institute not a word! Not a word of the “Albatross” nor of Robur! Not a word of the voyage! Not a word of the way in which the prisoners had escaped! Not a word of what had become of the aeronef, if it still flew through space, or if they were to be prepared for new reprisals on the member’s of the club!

Of course the balloonists were longing to ask Uncle Prudent and the secretary about all these things, but they looked so close and so serious that they thought it best to respect their attitude. When they thought fit to speak they would do so, and it would be an honor to hear. After all, there might be in all this some secret which would not yet be divulged.

And then Uncle Prudent, resuming his speech amid a silence up to then unknown in the meetings of the Weldon Institute, said, “Gentlemen, it now only remains for us to finish the aerostat ‘Go-Ahead.’ It is left to her to effect the conquest of the air! The meeting is at an end!”

CHAPTER XXII

THE GO-AHEAD IS LAUNCHED

On the following 19th of April, seven months after the unexpected return of Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans, Philadelphia was in a state of unwonted excitement. There were neither elections nor meetings this time. The aerostat “Go-Ahead,” built by the Weldon Institute, was to take possession of her natural element.

The celebrated Harry W. Tinder, whose name we mentioned at the beginning of this story, had been engaged as aeronaut. He had no assistant, and the only passengers were to be the president and secretary of the Weldon Institute.

Did they not merit such an honor? Did it not come to them appropriately to rise in person to protest against any apparatus that was heavier than air?

During the seven months, however, they had said nothing of their adventures; and even Frycollin had not uttered a whisper of Robur and his wonderful clipper. Probably Uncle Prudent and his friend desired that no question should arise as to the merits of the aeronef, or any other flying machine.

Although the “Go-Ahead” might not claim the first place among aerial locomotives, they would have nothing to say about the inventions of other aviators. They believed, and would always believe, that the true atmospheric vehicle was the aerostat, and that to it alone belonged the future.

Besides, he on whom they had been so terribly — and in their idea so justly — avenged, existed no longer. None of those who accompanied him had survived. The secret of the “Albatross” was buried in the depths of the Pacific!

That Robur had a retreat, an island in the middle of that vast ocean, where he could put into port, was only a hypothesis; and the colleagues reserved to themselves the right of making inquiries on the subject later on. The grand experiment which the Weldon Institute had been preparing for so long was at last to take place. The “Go-Ahead” was the most perfect type of what had up to then been invented in aerostatic art — she was what an “Inflexible” or a “Formidable” is in ships of war.

She possessed all the qualities of a good aerostat. Her dimensions allowed of her rising to the greatest height a balloon could attain; her impermeability enabled her to remain for an indefinite time in the atmosphere; her solidity would defy any dilation of gas or violence of wind or rain; her capacity gave her sufficient ascensional force to lift with all their accessories an electric engine that would communicate to her propellers a power superior to anything yet obtained. The “Go-Ahead” was of elongated form, so as to facilitate her horizontal displacement. Her car was a platform somewhat like that of the balloon used by Krebs and Renard; and it carried all the necessary outfit, instruments, cables, grapnels, guide-ropes, etc. and the piles and accumulators for the mechanical power. The car had a screw in front, and a screw and rudder behind. But probably the work done by the machines would be very much less than that done by the machines of the “Albatross.”

The “Go-Ahead” had been taken to the clearing in Fairmount Park, to the very spot where the aeronef had landed for a few hours.

Her ascensional power was due to the very lightest of gaseous bodies. Ordinary lighting gas possesses an elevating force of about 700 grams for every cubic meter. But hydrogen possesses an ascensional force estimated at 1,100 grams per cubic meter. Pure hydrogen prepared according to the method of the celebrated Henry Gifford filled the enormous balloon. And as the capacity of the “Go-Ahead” was 40,000 cubic meters, the ascensional power of the gas she contained was 40,000 multiplied by 1,100 or 44,000 kilograms.

On this 29th of April everything was ready. Since eleven o’clock the enormous aerostat had been floating a few feet from the ground ready to rise in mid-air. It was splendid weather and seemed to have been made specially for the experiment, although if the breeze had been stronger the results might have been more conclusive. There had never been any doubt that a balloon could be guided in a calm atmosphere; but to guide it when the atmosphere is in motion is quite another thing; and it is under such circumstances that the experiment should be tried.

But there was no wind today, nor any sign of any. Strange to say, North America on that day omitted to send on to Europe one of those first-class storms which it seems to have in such inexhaustible numbers. A better day could not have been chosen for an aeronautic experiment.

The crowd was immense in Fairmount Park; trains had poured into the Pennsylvania capital sightseers from the neighboring states; industrial and commercial life came to a standstill that the people might troop to the show-master, workmen, women, old men, children, members of Congress, soldiers, magistrates, reporters, white natives and black natives, all were there. We need not stop to describe the excitement, the unaccountable movements, the sudden pushings, which made the mass heave and swell. Nor need we recount the number of cheers which rose from all sides like fireworks when Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans appeared on the platform and hoisted the American colors. Need we say that the majority of the crowd had come from afar not so much to see the “Go-Ahead” as to gaze on these extraordinary men?

Why two and not three? Why not Frycollin? Because Frycollin thought his campaign in the “Albatross” sufficient for his fame. He had declined the honor of accompanying his master, and he took no part in the frenzied declamations that greeted the president and secretary of the Weldon Institute.

Of the members of the illustrious assembly not one was absent from the reserved places within the ropes. There were Truck Milnor, Bat T. Fynn, and William T. Forbes with his two daughters on his arm. All had come to affirm by their presence that nothing could separate them from the partisans of “lighter than air.”

About twenty minutes past eleven a gun announced the end of the final preparations. The “Go-Ahead” only waited the signal to start. At twenty-five minutes past eleven the second gun was fired.

The “Go-Ahead” was about one hundred and fifty feet above the clearing, and was held by a rope. In this way the platform commanded the excited crowd. Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans stood upright and placed their left hands on their hearts, to signify how deeply they were touched by their reception. Then they extended their right hands towards the zenith, to signify that the greatest of known balloons was about to take possession of the supra-terrestrial domain.

A hundred thousand hands were placed in answer on a hundred thousand hearts, and a hundred thousand other hands were lifted to the sky.

The third gun was fired at half-past eleven. “Let go!” shouted Uncle Prudent; and the “Go-Ahead” rose “majestically” — an adverb consecrated by custom to all aerostatic ascents.

It really was a superb spectacle. It seemed as if a vessel were just launched from the stocks. And was she not a vessel launched into the aerial sea? The “Go-Ahead” went up in a perfectly vertical line — a proof of the calmness of the atmosphere — and stopped at an altitude of eight hundred feet.

Then she began her horizontal maneuvering. With her screws going she moved to the east at a speed of twelve yards a second. That is the speed of the whale — not an inappropriate comparison, for the balloon was somewhat of the shape of the giant of the northern seas.

A salvo of cheers mounted towards the skillful aeronauts. Then under the influence of her rudder, the “Go-Ahead” went through all the evolutions that her steersman could give her. She turned in a small circle; she moved forwards and backwards in a way to convince the most refractory disbeliever in the guiding of balloons. And if there had been any disbeliever there he would have been simply annihilated.

But why was there no wind to assist at this magnificent experiment? It was regrettable. Doubtless the spectators would have seen the “Go-Ahead” unhesitatingly execute all the movements of a sailing-vessel in beating to windward, or of a steamer driving in the wind’s eye.

At this moment the aerostat rose a few hundred yards. The maneuver was understood below. Uncle Prudent and his companions were going in search of a breeze in the higher zones, so as to complete the experiment. The system of cellular balloons — analogous to the swimming bladder in fishes — into which could be introduced a certain amount of air by pumping, had provided for this vertical motion. Without throwing out ballast or losing gas the aeronaut was able to rise or sink at his will. Of course there was a valve in the upper hemisphere which would permit of a rapid descent if found necessary. All these contrivances are well known, but they were here fitted in perfection.

The “Go-Ahead” then rose vertically. Her enormous dimensions gradually grew smaller to the eye, and the necks of the crowd were almost cricked as they gazed into the air. Gradually the whale became a porpoise, and the porpoise became a gudgeon. The ascensional movement did not cease until the “Go-Ahead” had reached a height of fourteen thousand feet. But the air was so free from mist that she remained clearly visible.

However, she remained over the clearing as if she were a fixture. An immense bell had imprisoned the atmosphere and deprived it of movement; not a breath of wind was there, high or low. The aerostat maneuvered without encountering any resistance, seeming very small owing to the distance, much as if she were being looked at through the wrong end of a telescope.

Suddenly there was a shout among the crowd, a shout followed by a hundred thousand more. All hands were stretched towards a point on the horizon. That point was the northwest. There in the deep azure appeared a moving body, which was approaching and growing larger. Was it a bird beating with its wings the higher zones of space? Was it an aerolite shooting obliquely through the atmosphere? In any case, its speed was terrific, and it would soon be above the crowd. A suspicion communicated itself electrically to the brains of all on the clearing.

But it seemed as though the “Go-Ahead” had sighted this strange object. Assuredly it seemed as though she feared some danger, for her speed was increased, and she was going east as fast as she could.

Yes, the crowd saw what it meant! A name uttered by one of the members of the Weldon Institute was repeated by a hundred thousand mouths: “The “Albatross!” The “Albatross!””

CHAPTER XXIII

THE GRAND COLLAPSE

It was indeed the “Albatross!” It was indeed Robur who had reappeared in the heights of the sky! It was he who like a huge bird of prey was going to strike the “Go-Ahead.”

And yet, nine months before, the aeronef, shattered by the explosion, her screws broken, her deck smashed in two, had been apparently annihilated.

Without the prodigious coolness of the engineer, who reversed the gyratory motion of the fore propeller and converted it into a suspensory screw, the men of the “Albatross” would all have been asphyxiated by the fall. But if they had escaped asphyxia, how had they escaped being drowned in the Pacific?

The remains of the deck, the blades of the propellers, the compartments of the cabins, all formed a sort of raft. When a wounded bird falls on the waves its wings keep it afloat. For several hours Robur and his men remained unhelped, at first on the wreck, and afterwards in the india-rubber boat that had fallen uninjured. A few hours after sunrise they were sighted by a passing ship, and a boat was lowered to their rescue.

Robur and his companions were saved, and so was much of what remained of the aeronef. The engineer said that his ship had perished in a collision, and no further questions were asked him.

The ship was an English three-master, the “Two Friends,” bound for Melbourne, where she arrived a few days afterwards.

Robur was in Australia, but a long way from X Island, to which he desired to return as soon as possible.

In the ruins of the aftermost cabin he had found a considerable sum of money, quite enough to provide for himself and companions without applying to anyone for help. A short time after he arrived in Melbourne he became the owner of a small brigantine of about a hundred tons, and in her he sailed for X Island.

There he had but one idea — to be avenged. But to secure his vengeance he would have to make another “Albatross.” This after all was an easy task for him who made the first. He used up what he could of the old material; the propellers and engines he had brought back in the brigantine. The mechanism was fitted with new piles and new accumulators, and, in short, in less than eight months, the work was finished, and a new “Albatross,” identical with the one destroyed by the explosion, was ready to take flight. And he had the same crew.

The “Albatross” left X Island in the first week of April. During this aerial passage Robur did not want to be seen from the earth, and he came along almost always above the clouds. When he arrived over North America he descended in a desolate spot in the Far West. There the engineer, keeping a profound incognito, learnt with considerable pleasure that the Weldon Institute was about to begin its experiments, and that the “Go-Ahead,” with Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans, was going to start from Philadelphia on the 29th of April.

Here was a chance for Robur and his crew to gratify their longing for revenge. Here was a chance for inflicting on their foes a terrible vengeance, which in the “Go-Ahead” they could not escape. A public vengeance, which would at the same time prove the superiority of the aeronef to all aerostats and contrivances of that nature!

And that is why, on this very day, like a vulture from the clouds, the aeronef appeared over Fairmount Park.

Yes! It was the “Albatross,” easily recognizable by all those who had never before seen her.

The “Go-Ahead” was in full flight; but it soon appeared that she could not escape horizontally, and so she sought her safety in a vertical direction, not dropping to the ground, for the aeronef would have cut her off, but rising to a zone where she could not perhaps be reached. This was very daring, and at the same time very logical.

But the “Albatross” began to rise after her. Although she was smaller than the “Go-Ahead,” it was a case of the swordfish and the whale.

This could easily be seen from below and with what anxiety! In a few moments the aerostat had attained a height of sixteen thousand feet.

The “Albatross” followed her as she rose. She flew round her flanks, and maneuvered round her in a circle with a constantly diminishing radius. She could have annihilated her at a stroke, and Uncle Prudent and his companions would have been dashed to atoms in a frightful fall.

The people, mute with horror, gazed breathlessly; they were seized with that sort of fear which presses on the chest and grips the legs when we see anyone fall from a height. An aerial combat was beginning in which there were none of the chances of safety as in a sea-fight. It was the first of its kind, but it would not be the last, for progress is one of the laws of this world. And if the “Go-Ahead” was flying the American colors, did not the “Albatross” display the stars and golden sun of Robur the Conqueror?

The “Go-Ahead” tried to distance her enemy by rising still higher. She threw away the ballast she had in reserve; she made a new leap of three thousand feet; she was now but a dot in space. The “Albatross,” which followed her round and round at top speed, was now invisible.

Suddenly a shout of terror rose from the crowd. The “Go-Ahead” increased rapidly in size, and the aeronef appeared dropping with her. This time it was a fall. The gas had dilated in the higher zones of the atmosphere and had burst the balloon, which, half inflated still, was falling rapidly.

But the aeronef, slowing her suspensory screws, came down just as fast. She ran alongside the “Go-Ahead” when she was not more than four thousand feet from the ground.

Would Robur destroy her?

No; he was going to save her crew!

And so cleverly did he handle his vessel that the aeronaut jumped on board.

Would Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans refuse to be saved by him? They were quite capable of doing so. But the crew threw themselves on them and dragged them by force from the “Go-Ahead” to the “Albatross.”

Then the aeronef glided off and remained stationary, while the balloon, quite empty of gas, fell on the trees of the clearing and hung there like a gigantic rag.

An appalling silence reigned on the ground. It seemed as though life were suspended in each of the crowd; and many eyes had been closed so as not to behold the final catastrophe. Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans had again become the prisoners of the redoubtable Robur. Now he had recaptured them, would he carry them off into space, where it was impossible to follow him?

It seemed so.

However, instead of mounting into the sky the “Albatross” stopped six feet from the ground. Then, amid profound silence, the engineer’s voice was heard.

“Citizens of the United States,” he said, “The president and secretary of the Weldon Institute are again in my power. In keeping them I am only within my right. But from the passion kindled in them by the success of the “Albatross” I see that their minds are not prepared for that important revolution which the conquest of the air will one day bring, Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans, you are free!”

The president, the secretary, and the aeronaut had only to jump down.

Then Robur continued.

“Citizens of the United States, my experiment is finished; but my advice to those present is to be premature in nothing, not even in progress. It is evolution and not revolution that we should seek. In a word, we must not be before our time. I have come too soon today to withstand such contradictory and divided interests as yours. Nations are not yet fit for union.

“I go, then; and I take my secret with me. But it will not be lost to humanity. It will belong to you the day you are educated enough to profit by it and wise enough not to abuse it. Citizens of the United States — Good-by!”

And the “Albatross,” beating the air with her seventy-four screws, and driven by her propellers, shot off towards the east amid a tempest of cheers.

The two colleagues, profoundly humiliated, and through them the whole Weldon Institute, did the only thing they could. They went home.

And the crowd by a sudden change of front greeted them with particularly keen sarcasms, and, at their expense, are sarcastic still.

And now, who is this Robur? Shall we ever know?

We know today. Robur is the science of the future. Perhaps the science of tomorrow. Certainly the science that will come!

Does the “Albatross” still cruise in the atmosphere in the realm that none can take from her? There is no reason to doubt it.

Will Robur, the Conqueror, appear one day as he said? Yes! He will come to declare the secret of his invention, which will greatly change the social and political conditions of the world.

As for the future of aerial locomotion, it belongs to the aeronef and not the aerostat.

It is to the “Albatross” that the conquest of the air will assuredly fall.

THE LOTTERY TICKET

Translated by Laura E. Kendall

First published in 1886, this adventure novel tells the story of Hulda Hansen of Norway, who anxiously awaits the return of her betrothed, Ole Kamp who promised her great fortune on his return. Ole works on the fishing boat, Viking, which is expected to return soon, but when it doesn’t, it is feared lost.

An original illustration

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHAPTER XX.

CHAPTER I.

“What time is it?” inquired Dame Hansen, shaking the ashes from her pipe, the last curling rings from which were slowly disappearing between the stained rafters overhead.

“Eight o’clock, mother,” replied Hulda.

“It isn’t likely that any travelers will come to-night. The weather is too stormy.”

“I agree with you. At all events, the rooms are in readiness, and if any one comes, I shall be sure to hear them.”

“Has your brother returned?”

“Not yet.”

“Didn’t he say he would be back to-night?”

“No, mother. Joel went to take a traveler to Lake Tinn, and as he didn’t start until very late, I do not think he can get back to Dal before to-morrow.”

“Then he will spend the night at Moel, probably.”

“Yes; unless he should take it into his head to go on to Bamble to see Farmer Helmboe.”

“And his daughter Siegfrid.”

“Yes. Siegfrid, my best friend, whom I love like a sister!” replied the young girl, smiling.

“All, well, Hulda, shut up the house, and let’s go to bed.”

“You are not ill, are you, mother?”

“No; but I want to be up bright and early to-morrow morning. I must go to Moel.”

“What for?”

“Why, we must be laying in our stock of provisions for the coming summer, and — “

“And I suppose the agent from Christiania has come down with his wagon of wines and provisions.”

“Yes; Lengling, the foreman at the saw-mill, met him this afternoon, and informed me of the fact as he passed. We have very little left in the way of ham and smoked salmon, and I don’t want to run any risk of being caught with an empty larder. Tourists are likely to begin their excursions to the Telemark almost any day now; especially, if the weather should become settled, and our establishment must be in a condition to receive them. Do you realize that this is the fifteenth of April?”

“The fifteenth of April!” repeated the young girl, thoughtfully.

“Yes, so to-morrow I must attend to these matters,” continued Dame Hansen. “I can make all my purchases in two hours, and I will return with Joel in the kariol.”

“In case you should meet the postman, don’t forget to ask him if there is a letter for us — “

“And especially for you. That is quite likely, for it is a month since you heard from Ole.”

“Yes, a month — a whole month.”

“Still, you should not worry, child. The delay is not at all surprising. Besides, if the Moel postman has nothing for you, that which didn’t come by the way of Christiania may come by the way of Bergen, may it not?”

“Yes, mother,” replied Hulda. “But how can I help worrying, when I think how far it is from here to the Newfoundland fishing banks. The whole broad Atlantic to cross, while the weather continues so bad. It is almost a year since my poor Ole left me, and who can say when we shall see him again in Dal?”

“And whether we shall be here when he returns,” sighed Dame Hansen, but so softly that her daughter did not hear the words.

Hulda went to close the front door of the inn which stood on the Vesfjorddal road; but she did not take the trouble to turn the key in the lock. In hospitable Norway, such precautions are unnecessary. It is customary for travelers to enter these country inns either by night or by day without calling any one to open the door; and even the loneliest habitations are safe from the depredations of thieves or assassins, for no criminal attempts against life or property ever disturb the peace of this primitive land.

The mother and daughter occupied two front rooms on the second story of the inn — two neat and airy, though plainly furnished rooms. Above them, directly under the sloping roof, was Joel’s chamber, lighted by a window incased in a tastefully carved frame-work of pine.

From this window, the eye, after roaming over the grand mountain horizon, returned with delight to the narrow valley through which flowed the Maan, which is half river, half torrent.

A wooden staircase, with heavy balusters and highly polished steps, led from the lower hall to the floors above, and nothing could be more neat and attractive than the whole aspect of this establishment, in which the travelers found a comfort that is rare in Norwegian inns.

Hulda and her mother were in the habit of retiring early when they were alone, and Dame Hansen had already lighted her candle, and was on her way upstairs, when a loud knocking at the door made them both start.

“Dame Hansen! Dame Hansen!” cried a voice.

Dame Hansen paused on the stairs.

“Who can have come so late?” she exclaimed.

“Can it be that Joel has met with an accident?” returned Hulda, quickly.

And she hastened toward the door.

She found a lad there — one of the young rascals known as skydskarls, that make a living by clinging to the back of kariols, and taking the horse back when the journey is ended.

“What do you want here at this hour?” asked Hulda.

“First of all to bid you good-evening,” replied the boy, mischievously.

“Is that all?”

“No; that isn’t all; but a boy oughtn’t to forget his manners, ought he?”

“You are right. But who sent you?”

“Your brother Joel.”

“And what for?” asked Dame Hansen, advancing to the door with the slow and measured tread that is a characteristic of the inhabitants of Norway. There is quicksilver in the veins of their soil, but little or none in the veins of their bodies.

The reply had evidently caused the mother some anxiety, however, for she added hastily: “Has anything happened to my son?”

“No, but the Christiania postman gave him a letter, and — “

“A letter from Drammen?” repeated Dame Hansen, in a lower tone.

“I don’t know about that,” replied the youth. “All I do know is, that Joel can’t get home before to-morrow, and he sent me here to deliver the letter.”

“It is important then?”

“I should judge so.”

“Hand it here,” said Dame Hansen, in a tone that betrayed keen anxiety.

“Here it is, clean and not wrinkled in the least. But the letter is not for you.”

Dame Hansen seemed to breathe more freely.

“Then who is it for?” she asked.

“For your daughter.”

“For me!” cried Hulda. “It is a letter from Ole! I am sure it is — a letter that came by way of Christiania. My brother did not want me to be kept waiting.”

Hulda had snatched the letter from the boy’s hand, and now taking it to the table upon which her mother had deposited the candle, she examined the address.

“Yes, it is from him. It is certainly from him! Heaven grant that he writes to announce the speedy return of the ‘Viking’!”

“Won’t you come in?” said Dame Hansen, turning to the boy.

“Only for a minute. I must get back home to-night, for I am to go with a kariol to-morrow morning.”

“Very well. Tell Joel, from me, that I expect to go to Moel to-morrow, and that he must wait for me there.”

“To-morrow evening?”

“No; to-morrow morning, and he must not leave Moel until he sees me. We will return to Dal together.”

“Very well, Dame Hansen.”

“Won’t you take a drop of brandevin?”

“With pleasure.”

The boy approached the table, and Dame Hansen handed him a glass of the beverage which is such a powerful protection against the evening fogs. It is needless to say that he drained the glass, then, “God-aften!” he said.

“God-aften, my son!”

This is the Norwegian good-night. It was simply spoken, without even an inclination of the head, and the lad instantly departed, without seeming to mind in the least the long walk that he had before him. The sound of his footsteps soon died away beneath the trees that border the swiftly flowing river.

Hulda still stood gazing at Ole’s letter. Think of it! This frail envelope must have crossed the broad ocean to reach her, the broad ocean in which the rivers of western Norway lose themselves. She examined the different postmarks. Though mailed on the 15th of March, the missive had not reached Dal until the 15th of April. Why! a month had already elapsed since the letter was written! How many things might have happened in a month on the shores of Newfoundland! Was it not still winter, the dangerous season of equinoxes? Are not these fishing banks the most dangerous in the world, swept by terrible gales from the North Pole? A perilous and arduous vocation was this business of fishing which Ole followed! And if he followed it was it not that she, his betrothed, whom he was to marry on his return, might reap the benefits?

Poor Ole! What did he say in this letter? Doubtless that he loved Hulda as faithfully and truly as Hulda loved him, that they were united in thought, in spite of the distance that separated them, and that he longed for the day of his return to Dal.

Yes, he said all this, Hulda was sure of it. But perhaps he might add that the day of his return was near at hand — that the fishing cruise which had enticed the inhabitants of Bergen so far from their native land, was nearly at an end. Perhaps Ole would tell her that the “Viking” had finished taking aboard her cargo, that she was about to sail, and that the last days of April would not pass without a blissful meeting in the pleasant home at Vesfjorddal. Perhaps, too, he would assure her, at last, that she might safely appoint the day for the pastor to come to Moel to unite them in the little chapel whose steeple rose from a small grove not a hundred yards from Dame Hansen’s inn.

To learn all this, it might only be necessary to break the seal, draw out Ole’s letter, and read it, through the tears of joy or sorrow that its contents would be sure to bring to Hulda’s eyes, and doubtless more than one impatient girl of the south, or even of Denmark or Holland, would already have known all! But Hulda was in a sort of a dream, and dreams terminate only when God chooses to end them, and how often one regrets them, so bitter is the reality.

“Is it really a letter from Ole that your brother has sent you, my daughter?” inquired Dame Hansen.

“Yes; I recognize the handwriting.”

“Well, are you going to wait until to-morrow to read it?”

Hulda took one more look at the envelope, then, after slowly breaking the seal, she drew out the carefully written letter, which read as follows: “Saint-Pierre-Miquelon, March 17th, 1862.

“My Dearest Hulda, — You will hear, with pleasure, that our fishing venture has prospered, and that it will be concluded in a few days. Yes; we are nearing the end of the season, and after a year’s absence how glad I shall be to return to Dal and find myself in the midst of the only friends I have in the world — yours and mine.

“My share in the profits of the expedition amounts to quite a handsome sum, which will start us in housekeeping. Messrs. Help Bros. the owners of the ship, have been informed that the ‘Viking’ will probably return by the 15th or 20th of May; so you may expect to see me at that time; that is to say, in a few weeks at the very longest.

“My dear Hulda, I trust to find you looking even prettier than at my departure, and in the best of health, you and your mother as well, also that hardy, brave comrade, my cousin Joel, your brother, who asks nothing better than to become mine.

“On receipt of this, give my very best respects to Dame Hansen — I can see her now, sitting in her wooden arm-chair by the old stove in the big hall — and tell her I love her with a twofold love, for she is my aunt as well as your mother.

“Above all, don’t take the trouble to come to Bergen to meet me, for it is quite possible that the ‘Viking’ will arrive at an earlier date than I have mentioned. However that may be, my dear Hulda can count upon seeing me at Dal twenty-four hours after we land. Don’t be too much surprised if I should arrive considerably ahead of time.

“We have had a pretty rough time of it, this past winter, the weather having been more severe than any our fishermen have ever encountered; but fortunately fish have been plenty. The ‘Viking’ brings back nearly five thousand quintals, deliverable at Bergen, and already sold by the efforts of Help Bros. And last, but not least, we have succeeded in selling at a handsome profit, and I, who have a share in the venture, will realize something quite handsome from it.

“Besides, even if I should not bring a small competence home with me, I have an idea, or rather, I have a presentiment that it is awaiting me on my return. Yes; comparative wealth, to say nothing of happiness! In what way? That is my secret, my dearest Hulda, and you will forgive me for having a secret from you! It is the only one! Besides, I will tell you all about it. When? Well, as soon as an opportunity offers — before our marriage, if it should be delayed by some unforeseen misfortune — afterward, if I return at the appointed time, and you become my wife within a week after my arrival, as I trust you will.

“A hundred fond kisses, my darling Hulda. Kiss Dame Hansen, and Joel, too, for me. In fancy, I imprint another kiss upon your brow, around which the shining crown of the brides of the Telemark will cast a saint-like halo. Once more, farewell, dearest Hulda, farewell!

“Your devoted lover, “OLE KAMP.”

CHAPTER II.

Dal is a modest hamlet consisting of but a few houses; some on either side of a road that is little more than a bridle-path, others scattered over the surrounding hills. But they all face the narrow valley of Vesfjorddal, with their backs to the line of hills to the north, at the base of which flows the Maan.

A little church erected in 1855, whose chancel is pierced by two narrow stained-glass windows, lifts its square belfry from out a leafy grove hard by. Here and there rustic bridges cross the rivulets that dance merrily along toward the river. In the distance are two or three primitive saw-mills, run by water-power, with a wheel to move the saw, as well as a wheel to move the beam or the tree; and seen from a little distance, the chapel, saw-mills, houses, and cabins, all seem to be enveloped in a soft olive haze that emanates from the dark-green firs and the paler birches which either singly or in groups extend from the winding banks of the Maan to the crests of the lofty mountains.

Such is the fresh and laughing hamlet of Dal, with its picturesque dwellings, painted, some of them, in delicate green or pale pink tints, others in such glaring colors as bright yellow and blood-red. The roofs of birch bark, covered with turf, which is mown in the autumn, are crowned with natural flowers. All this is indescribably charming, and eminently characteristic of the most picturesque country in the world. In short, Dal is in the Telemark, the Telemark is in Norway, and Norway is in Switzerland, with thousands of fiords that permit the sea to kiss the feet of its mountains.

The Telemark composes the broad portion of the immense horn that Norway forms between Bergen and Christiania.

This dependency of the prefecture of Batsberg, has the mountains and glaciers of Switzerland, but it is not Switzerland. It has gigantic water-falls like North America, but it is not America. The landscape is adorned with picturesque cottages, and processions of inhabitants, clad in costumes of a former age, like Holland, but it is not Holland. The Telemark is far better than any or all of these; it is the Telemark, noted above all countries in the world for the beauty of its scenery. The writer has had the pleasure of visiting it. He has explored it thoroughly, in a kariol with relays of post-horses — when he could get them — and he brought back with him such a vivid recollection of its manifold charms that he would be glad to convey some idea of it to the reader of this simple narrative.

At the date of this story, 1862, Norway was not yet traversed by the railroad that now enables one to go from Stockholm to Drontheim, by way of Christiania. Now, an extensive network of iron rails extends entirely across these two Scandinavian countries, which are so averse to a united existence. But imprisoned in a railroad-carriage, the traveler, though he makes much more rapid progress than in a kariol, misses all the originality that formerly pervaded the routes of travel. He misses the journey through Southern Sweden on the curious Gotha Canal, in which the steamboats, by rising from lock to lock, manage to reach an elevation of three hundred feet. Nor does he have an opportunity to visit the falls of Trolletann, nor Drammen, nor Kongsberg, nor any of the beauties of the Telemark.

In those days the railroad existed only upon paper. Twenty years were to elapse before one could traverse the Scandinavian kingdom from one shore to the other in forty hours, and visit the North Cape on excursion tickets to Spitzberg.

In those days Dal was, and may it long remain, the central point for foreign or native tourists, these last being for the most part students from Christiania. From Dal they could wander over the entire Telemark and Hardanger region, explore the valley of Vesfjorddal between Lakes Mjos and Tinn, and visit the wonderful cataracts of the Rjukan Tun. The hamlet boasts of but one inn, but that is certainly the most attractive and comfortable imaginable, and one of the most important also, for it can offer four bed-chambers for the accommodation of its guests. In a word, it is Dame Hansen’s inn.

A few benches surround the base of its pink walls, which are separated from the ground by a substantial granite foundation. The spruce rafters and weather-boarding have acquired such hardness and toughness with age that the sharpest hatchet can make little or no impression upon them. Between the roughly hewn rafters, which are placed horizontally one above the other, a mixture of clay and turf forms a stanch roof, through which the hardest winter rains can not force their way.

Upstairs, in the bedrooms, the ceilings are painted in dark red or black tints to contrast with the more cheerful and delicate hues of the wood-work.

In one corner of the large hall stands a huge cylinder stove, the pipe of which rises nearly to the ceiling, before it disappears in the kitchen chimney. In another corner stands a tall clock which emits a sonorous tick-tack, as its carved hands travel slowly around its enameled face. Here is a secretary, black with age, side by side with a massive iron tripod. Upon the mantel is an immense terra-cotta candlestick which can be transformed into a three-branched candelabrum by turning it upside down. The handsomest furniture in the house adorns this spacious hall — the birch-root table, with its spreading feet, the big chest with its richly wrought brass handles, in which the Sunday and holiday clothing is kept, the tall arm-chair, hard and uncomfortable as a church-pew, the painted wooden chairs, and the spinning-wheel striped with green, to contrast with the scarlet petticoat of the spinner.

Yonder stands the pot in which the butter is kept, and the paddle with which it is worked, and here is the tobacco-box, and the grater of elaborately carved bone.

And, finally, over the door which opens into the kitchen is a large dresser, with long rows of brass and copper cooking-utensils and bright-colored dishes, the little grindstone for sharpening knives, half-buried in its varnished case, and the egg-dish, old enough to serve as a chalice.

And how wonderful and amusing are the walls, hung with linen tapestries representing scenes from the Bible, and brilliant with all the gorgeous coloring of the pictures of Epinal.

As for the guests’ rooms, though they are less pretentious, they are no less comfortable, with their spotless neatness, their curtains of hanging-vines that droop from the turf-covered roof, their huge beds, sheeted with snowy and fragrant linen, and their hangings with verses from the Old Testament, embroidered in yellow upon a red ground.

Nor must we forget that the floor of the main hall, and the floors of all the rooms, both upstairs and down, are strewn with little twigs of birch, pine, and juniper, whose leaves fill the house with their healthful and exhilarating odor.

Can one imagine a more charming posada in Italy, or a more seductive fonda in Spain? No. And the crowd of English tourists have not yet raised the scale of prices as in Switzerland — at least, they had not at the time of which I write. In Dal, the current coin is not the pound sterling, the sovereign of which the travelers’ purse is soon emptied. It is a silver coin, worth about five francs, and its subdivisions are the mark, equal in value to about a franc, and the skilling, which must not be confounded with the English shilling, as it is only equivalent to a French sou.

Nor will the tourist have any opportunity to use or abuse the pretentious bank-note in the Telemark. One-mark notes are white; five-mark notes are blue; ten-mark notes are yellow; fifty-mark notes, green; one hundred mark notes, red. Two more, and we should have all the colors of the rainbow.

Besides — and this is a point of very considerable importance — the food one obtains at the Dal inn is excellent; a very unusual thing at houses of public entertainment in this locality, for the Telemark deserves only too well its surname of the Buttermilk Country. At Tiness, Listhus, Tinoset, and many other places, no bread is to be had, or if there be, it is of such poor quality as to be uneatable. One finds there only an oaten cake, known as flat brod, dry, black, and hard as pasteboard, or a coarse loaf composed of a mixture of birch-bark, lichens, and chopped straw. Eggs are a luxury, and a most stale and unprofitable one; but there is any quantity of poor beer to be had, a profusion of buttermilk, either sweet or sour, and sometimes a little coffee, so thick and muddy that it is much more like distilled soot than the products of Mocha or Rio Nunez.

In Dame Hansen’s establishment, on the contrary, cellar and larder were alike well-stored. What more could the most exacting tourist ask than salmon, either salt or smoked — fresh salmon that have never tasted tainted waters, fish from the pure streams of the Telemark, fowls, neither too fat nor too lean, eggs in every style, crisp oaten and barley cakes, fruits, more especially strawberries, bread — unleavened bread, it is here, but of the very best quality — beer, and some old bottles of that Saint Julien that have spread the fame of French vineyards even to this distant land?

And this being the case, it is not strange that the inn at Dal is well and favorably known in all the countries of Northern Europe.

One can see this, too, by glancing over the register in which many travelers have not only recorded their names, but paid glowing tributes to Dame Hansen’s merits as an inn-keeper. The names are principally those of Swedes and Norwegians from every part of Scandinavia; but the English make a very respectable showing; and one of them, who had waited at least an hour for the summit of Gousta to emerge from the morning mist that enveloped it, wrote upon one of the pages:

“Patientia omnia vincit?”

CHAPTER III.

Without being very deeply versed in ethnography, one may be strongly inclined to believe, in common with many savants, that a close relationship exists between the leading families of the English aristocracy and the oldest families of Scandinavia. Numerous proofs of this fact, indeed, are to be found in the ancestral names which are identical in both countries. There is no aristocracy in Norway, however; still, though the democracy everywhere rules, that does not prevent it from being aristocratic to the highest degree. All are equals upon an exalted plane instead of a low one. Even in the humblest hut may be found a genealogical tree which has not degenerated in the least because it has sprung up anew in humble soil; and the walls are adorned with the proud blazons of the feudal lords from whom these plain peasants are descended.

So it was with the Hansens of Dal, who were unquestionably related, though rather remotely, to the English peers created after Rollo’s invasion of Normandy, and though rank and wealth had both departed they had at least preserved the old pride, or rather dignity, which becomes all social ranks.

It was a matter of very little consequence, however. Whether he had ancestors of lofty lineage or not, Harald Hansen was simply a village inn-keeper. The house had come down to him from his father and from his grandfather, who were widely known and respected, and after his death his widow continued the business in a way that elicited universal commendation.

Whether or not Harald had made a fortune in the business, no one was able to say; but he had been able to rear his son Joel and his daughter Hulda in comfort; and Ole Kamp, a son of his wife’s sister, had also been brought up like one of his own children. But for his uncle Harald, this orphan child would doubtless have been one of those poor creatures who come into the world only to leave it; and Ole Kamp evinced a truly filial devotion toward his parents by adoption. Nothing would ever sever the tie that bound him to the Hansen family, to which his marriage with Hulda was about to bind him still more closely.

Harald Hansen had died about eighteen months before, leaving his wife, in addition to the inn, a small farm on the mountain, a piece of property which yielded very meager returns, if any. This was especially true of late, for the seasons had been remarkably unpropitious, and agriculture of every kind had suffered greatly, even the pastures. There had been many of those “iron nights,” as the Norwegian peasants call them — nights of north-easterly gales and ice that kill the corn down to the very root — and that meant ruin to the farmers of the Telemark and the Hardanger.

Still, whatever Dame Hansen might think of the situation of affairs, she had never said a word to any living soul, not even to her children. Naturally cold and reserved, she was very uncommunicative — a fact that pained Hulda and Joel not a little. But with that respect for the head of the family innate in Northern lands, they made no attempt to break down a reserve which was eminently distasteful to them. Besides, Dame Hansen never asked aid or counsel, being firmly convinced of the infallibility of her own judgment, for she was a true Norwegian in that respect.

Dame Hansen was now about fifty years old. Advancing age had not bowed her tall form, though it had whitened her hair; nor had it dimmed the brightness of her dark-blue eyes, whose azure was reflected in the clear orbs of her daughter; but her complexion had taken on the yellow hue of old parchment, and a few wrinkles were beginning to furrow her forehead.

The madame, as they say in Scandinavia, was invariably attired in a full black skirt, for she had never laid aside her mourning since her husband’s death. Below the shoulder-straps of a brown bodice appeared the long full sleeves of an unbleached cotton chemise. On her shoulders she wore a small dark-colored fichu that crossed upon her breast, which was also covered by the large bib of her apron. She always wore as a head-dress a close-fitting black-silk cap that covered almost her entire head, and tied behind, a kind of head-dress that is rarely seen nowadays.

Seated stiffly erect in her wooden arm-chair, the grave hostess neglected her spinning-wheel only to enjoy a small birchwood pipe, whose smoke enveloped her in a faint cloud.

Really, the house would have seemed very gloomy had it not been for the presence of the two children.

A worthy lad was Joel Hansen. Twenty-five years of age, well built, tall, like all Norwegian mountaineers, proud in bearing, though not in the least boastful or conceited. He had fine hair, verging upon chestnut, with blue eyes so dark as to seem almost black. His garb displayed to admirable advantage his powerful shoulders, his broad chest, in which his lungs had full play, and stalwart limbs which never failed him even in the most difficult mountain ascents. His dark-blue jacket, fitting tightly at the waist, was adorned on the shoulders with epaulets, and in the back with designs in colored embroidery similar to those that embellish the vests of the Breton peasantry. His yellow breeches were fastened at the knee by large buckles. Upon his head he wore a broad-brimmed brown hat with a red-and-black band, and his legs were usually incased either in coarse cloth gaiters or in long stout boots without heels.

His vocation was that of a mountain guide in the district of the Telemark, and even in the Hardanger. Always ready to start, and untiring in his exertions, he was a worthy descendant of the Norwegian hero Rollo, the walker, celebrated in the legends of that country. Between times he accompanied English sportsmen who repair to that region to shoot the riper, a species of ptarmigan, larger than that found in the Hebrides, and the jerpir, a partridge much more delicate in its flavor than the grouse of Scotland. When winter came, the hunting of wolves engrossed his attention, for at that season of the year these fierce animals, emboldened by hunger, not unfrequently venture out upon the surface of the frozen lake. Then there was bear hunting in summer, when that animal, accompanied by her young, comes to secure its feast of fresh grass, and when one must pursue it over plateaus at an altitude of from ten to twelve thousand feet. More than once Joel had owed his life solely to the great strength that enabled him to endure the embraces of these formidable animals, and to the imperturbable coolness which enabled him to eventually dispatch them.

But when there was neither tourist nor hunter to be guided through the valley of the Vesfjorddal, Joel devoted his attention to the soetur, the little mountain farm where a young shepherd kept guard over half a dozen cows and about thirty sheep — a soetur consisting exclusively of pasture land.

Joel, being naturally very pleasant and obliging, was known and loved in every village in the Telemark; but two persons for whom he felt a boundless affection were his cousin Ole and his sister Hulda.

When Ole Kamp left Dal to embark for the last time, how deeply Joel regretted his inability to dower Hulda and thus avert the necessity for her lover’s departure! In fact, if he had been accustomed to the sea, he would certainly have gone in his cousin’s place. But money was needed to start them in housekeeping, and as Dame Hansen had offered no assistance, Joel understood only too well that she did not feel inclined to devote any portion of the estate to that purpose, so there was nothing for Ole to do but cross the broad Atlantic.

Joel had accompanied him to the extreme end of the valley on his way to Bergen, and there, after a long embrace, he wished him a pleasant journey and a speedy return, and then returned to console his sister, whom he loved with an affection which was at the same time fraternal and paternal in its character.

Hulda at that time was exactly eighteen years of age. She was not the piga, as the servant in a Norwegian inn is called, but rather the froken, the young lady of the house, as her mother was the madame. What a charming face was hers, framed in a wealth of pale golden hair, under a thin linen cap projecting in the back to give room for the long plaits of hair! What a lovely form incased in this tightly fitting bodice of red stuff, ornamented with green shoulder-straps and surmounted by a snowy chemisette, the sleeves of which were fastened at the wrist by a ribbon bracelet! What grace and perfect symmetry in the waist, encircled by a red belt with clasps of silver filigree which held in place the dark-green skirt, below which appeared the white stocking protected by the dainty pointed toed shoe of the Telemark!

Yes, Ole’s betrothed was certainly charming, with the slightly melancholy expression of the daughters of the North softening her smiling face; and on seeing her one instantly thought of Hulda the Fair, whose name she bore, and who figures as the household fairy in Scandinavian mythology.

Nor did the reserve of a chaste and modest maiden mar the grace with which she welcomed the guests who came to the inn. She was well known to the world of tourists; and it was not one of the smallest attractions of the inn to be greeted by that cordial shake of the hand that Hulda bestowed on one and all. And after having said to her, “Tack for mad” (Thanks for the meal), what could be more delightful than to hear her reply in her fresh sonorous voice: “Wed bekomme!” (May it do you good!)

CHAPTER IV.

Ole Kamp had been absent a year; and as he said in his letter, his winter’s experience on the fishing banks of Newfoundland had been a severe one. When one makes money there one richly earns it. The equinoctial storms that rage there not unfrequently destroy a whole fishing fleet in a few hours; but fish abound, and vessels which escape find ample compensation for the toil and dangers of this home of the tempest.

Besides, Norwegians are excellent seamen, and shrink from no danger. In the numberless fiords that extend from Christiansand to Cape North, among the dangerous reefs of Finland, and in the channels of the Loffoden Islands, opportunities to familiarize themselves with the perils of ocean are not wanting; and from time immemorial they have given abundant proofs of their courage. Their ancestors were intrepid mariners at an epoch when the Hanse monopolized the commerce of northern Europe. Possibly they were a trifle prone to indulge in piracy in days gone by, but piracy was then quite common. Doubtless commerce has reformed since then, though one may perhaps be pardoned for thinking that there is still room for improvement.

However that may be, the Norwegians were certainly fearless seamen; they are to-day, and so they will ever be. Ole Kamp was not the man to belie his origin; besides, he had served his apprenticeship under his father, who was the master of a Bergen coasting vessel. His childhood had been spent in that port, which is one of the most frequented in Scandinavia. Before he ventured out upon the open sea he had been an untiring fisher in the fiords, and a fearless robber of the sea-birds’ nests, and when he became old enough to serve as cabin-boy he made a voyage across the North Sea and even to the waters of the Polar Ocean.

Soon afterward his father died, and as he had lost his mother several years before, his uncle Harald Hansen invited him to become a member of his family, which he did, though he continued to follow the same calling.

In the intervals between his voyages he invariably spent his time with the friends he loved; but he made regular voyages upon large fishing vessels, and rose to the rank of mate when he was but twenty-one. He was now twenty-three years of age.

When he visited Dal, Joel found him a most congenial companion. He accompanied him on his excursions to the mountains, and across the highest table-lands of the Telemark. The young sailor seemed as much at home in the fields as in the fiords, and never lagged behind unless it was to keep his cousin Hulda company.

A close friendship gradually sprung up between Joel and Ole, and quite naturally the same sentiment assumed a different form in respect to the young girl. Joel, of course, encouraged it. Where would his sister ever find a better fellow, a more sympathetic nature, a warmer and more devoted heart? With Ole for a husband, Hulda’s happiness was assured. So it was with the entire approval of her mother and brother that the young girl followed the natural promptings of her heart. Though these people of the North are undemonstrative, they must not be accused of a want of sensibility. No! It is only their way; and perhaps their way is as good as any other, after all.

So it came to pass that one day, when all four of them were sitting quietly together, Ole remarked, without any preamble whatever: “An idea occurs to me, Hulda.”

“What is it?”

“It seems to me that we ought to marry.”

“I think so too.”

“And so do I,” added Dame Hansen as coolly as if the matter had been under discussion for some time.

“I agree with you,” remarked Joel, “and in that case I shall naturally become your brother-in-law.”

“Yes,” said Ole; “but it is probable that I shall only love you the better for it.”

“That is very possible.”

“We have your consent, then?”

“Upon my word! nothing would please me better,” replied Joel.

“So it is decided, Hulda?” inquired Dame Hansen.

“Yes, mother,” replied the girl, quietly.

“You are really willing?” asked Ole. “I have loved you a long time, Hulda, without saying so.”

“And I you, Ole.”

“How it came about, I really do not know.”

“Nor I.”

“But it was doubtless seeing you grow more beautiful and good day by day.”

“That is saying a little too much, my dear Ole.”

“No; I certainly ought to be able to say that without making you blush, for it is only the truth. Didn’t you see that I was beginning to love Hulda, Dame Hansen?”

“I suspected as much.”

“And you, Joel?”

“I was sure of it.”

“Then I certainly think that you ought to have warned me,” said Ole, smiling.

“But how about your voyages, Ole?” inquired Dame Hansen. “Won’t they seem intolerable to you after you are married?”

“So intolerable that I shall not follow the sea any more after my marriage.”

“You will not go to sea any more?”

“No, Hulda. Do you think it would be possible for me to leave you for months at a time?”

“So this is to be your last voyage?”

“Yes, and if we have tolerable luck, this voyage will yield me quite a snug little sum of money, for Help Bros. have promised me a share in the profits.”

“They are good men,” remarked Joel.

“The best men living,” replied Ole, “and well known and highly respected by all the sailors of Bergen.”

“But what do you expect to do after you cease to follow the sea, my dear Ole?” inquired Hulda.

“I shall go into partnership with Joel in his business, I have pretty good legs, and if they are not good enough, I will improve them by going into regular training. Besides, I have thought of a plan which will not prove a bad one perhaps. Why can’t we establish a messenger service between Drammen, Kongsberg and a few other towns in the Telemark Communication now is neither easy nor regular, and there might be money in the scheme. Besides, I have other plans, to say nothing of — “

“Of what?”

“Never mind, now. I will tell you on my return. But I warn you that I am firmly resolved to make my Hulda the happiest woman in the country. Yes, I am.”

“If you but knew how easy that will be!” replied Hulda, offering him her hand. “Am I not that already, and is there a home in all Dal as pleasant as ours?”

Dame Hansen hastily averted her head.

“So the matter is settled?” asked Ole, cheerfully.

“Yes,” replied Joel.

“And settled beyond recall?”

“Certainly.”

“And you feel no regret, Hulda?”

“None whatever, my dear Ole.”

“I think, however, that it would be better not to appoint the day for your marriage until after your return,” remarked Joel.

“Very well, but it will go hard with me if I do not return in less than a year to lead Hulda to the church at Moel, where our friend, Pastor Andersen, will not refuse to make his best prayer for us!”

And it was in this way that the marriage of Hulda Hansen and Ole Kamp had been decided upon.

The young sailor was to go aboard his vessel a week later; but before they parted the lovers were formally betrothed in accordance with the touching custom of Scandinavian countries.

In simple and honest Norway lovers are almost invariably publicly betrothed before marriage. Sometimes the marriage is not solemnized until two or three years afterward, but one must not suppose that the betrothal is simply an interchange of vows which depend only upon the honesty of the parties interested. No, the obligation is much more sacred, and even if this act of betrothal is not binding in the eyes of the law, it is, at least, so regarded by that universal law called custom.

So, in this case, it was necessary to make arrangements for a ceremony over which Pastor Andersen should preside. There was no minister in Dal, nor in any of the neighboring hamlets. In Norway they have what they call Sunday towns, in which the minister resides, and where the leading families of the parish assemble for worship. They even lease apartments there, in which they take up their abode for twenty-four hours or more — time to perform their religious duties — and people return from the town as from a pilgrimage.

Dal, it is true, boasted of a chapel, but the pastor came only when he was summoned.

After all, Moel was not far off, only about eight miles distant, at the end of Lake Tinn, and Pastor Andersen was a very obliging man, and a good walker; so the worthy minister was invited to attend the betrothal in the twofold capacity of minister and family friend. The acquaintance was one of long standing. He had seen Joel and Hulda grow up, and loved them as well as he loved that young sea-dog, Ole Kamp, so the news of the intended marriage was very pleasing to him.

So Pastor Andersen gathered together his robe, his collar, and his prayer-book, and started off for Dal one misty, moisty morning. He arrived there in the company of Joel, who had gone half-way to meet him, and it is needless to say that his coming was hailed with delight at Dame Hansen’s inn, that he had the very best room in the house, and that the floor was freshly strewn with twigs of juniper that perfumed it like a chapel.

At one o’clock on the following day the little church was thrown open, and there, in the presence of the pastor and a few friends and neighbors, Ole and Hulda solemnly promised to wed each other when the young sailor should return from the last voyage he intended to make. A year is a long time to wait, but it passes all the same, nor is it intolerable when two persons can trust each other.

And now Ole could not, without good cause, forsake her to whom he had plighted his troth, nor could Hulda retract the promise she had given to Ole; and if Ole had not left Norway a few days after the betrothal, he might have profited by the incontestable right it gave him to visit the young girl whenever he pleased, to write to her whenever he chose, walk out with her arm in arm, unaccompanied by any member of the family, and enjoy a preference over all others in the dances that form a part of all fetes and ceremonies.

But Ole Kamp had been obliged to return to Bergen, and one week afterward the “Viking” set sail for the fishing banks of Newfoundland, and Hulda could only look forward to the letters which her betrothed had promised to send her by every mail.

And these impatiently expected letters never failed her, and always brought a ray of happiness to the house which seemed so gloomy after the departure of one of its inmates. The voyage was safely accomplished; the fishing proved excellent, and the profits promised to be large. Besides, at the end of each letter, Ole always referred to a certain secret, and of the fortune it was sure to bring him. It was a secret that Hulda would have been glad to know, and Dame Hansen, too, for reasons one would not have been likely to suspect.

Dame Hansen seemed to have become even more gloomy and anxious and reticent than ever, and a circumstance which she did not see fit to mention to her children increased her anxiety very considerably.

Three days after the arrival of Ole’s last letter, as Dame Hansen was returning alone from the saw-mill, to which place she had gone to order a bag of shavings from the foreman, Lengling, she was accosted near her own door by a man who was a stranger in that part of the country.

“This is Dame Hansen, is it not?” he inquired.

“Yes; but I do not know you,” was the reply.

“That doesn’t matter,” rejoined the man. “I arrived here only this morning from Drammen, and am now on my way back.”

“From Drammen?” repeated Dame Hansen, quickly.

“You are acquainted, I think, with a certain Monsieur Sandgoist, who lives there?”

“Monsieur Sandgoist!” repeated Dame Hansen, whose face paled at the name. “Yes, I know him.”

“Ah, well! When Monsieur Sandgoist heard that I was coming to Dal, he asked me to give his respects to you.”

“Was that all?”

“And to say to you that it was more than probable that he would pay you a visit next month. Good health to you, and good-evening, Dame Hansen.”

CHAPTER V.

Hulda was considerably surprised at the persistency with which Ole alluded in his letters to the fortune that was to be his on his return. Upon what did the young man base his expectations? Hulda could not imagine, and she was very anxious to know. Was this anxiety due solely to an idle curiosity on her part? By no means, for the secret certainly affected her deeply. Not that she was ambitious, this modest and honest young girl; nor did she in looking forward to the future ever aspire to what we call wealth. Ole’s affection satisfied, and would always satisfy her. If wealth came, she would welcome it with joy. If it did not come, she would still be content.

This is precisely what Hulda and Joel said to each other the day after Ole’s last letter reached Dal. They agreed perfectly upon this subject, as upon all others, by the way. And then Joel added:

“No; it is impossible, little sister. You certainly must be keeping something from me.”

“Keeping something from you!”

“Yes; for I can not believe that Ole went away without giving you some clew to his secret.”

“Did he say anything to you about it?”

“No; but you and I are not one and the same person.”

“Yes, we are, brother.”

“I am not Ole’s betrothed, at all events.”

“Almost,” said the young girl; “and if any misfortune should befall him, and he should not return from this voyage, you would be as inconsolable as I would be, and your tears would flow quite as freely as mine.”

“Really, little sister. I forbid you to even speak of such a thing,” replied Joel. “Ole not return from his last voyage to the great fishing banks! What can have put such an idea into your head? You surely can not mean what you say, Hulda!”

“No, certainly not. And yet, I do not know. I can not drive away certain presentiments — the result, perhaps, of bad dreams.”

“Dreams are only dreams.”

“True, brother, but where do they come from?”

“From ourselves, not from heaven. You are anxious, and so your fears haunt you in your slumber. Besides, it is almost always so when one has earnestly desired a thing and the time when one’s desires are to be realized is approaching.”

“I know it, Joel.”

“Really, I thought you were much more sensible, little sister. Yes, and more energetic. Here you have just received a letter from Joel saying that the ‘Viking’ will return before the end of the month, and it is now the 19th of April, and consequently none too soon for you to begin your preparations for the wedding.”

“Do you really think so, Joel?”

“Certainly I think so, Hulda. I even think that we have delayed too long already. Think of it. We must have a wedding that will not only create a sensation in Dal, but in all the neighboring villages. I intend it shall be the grandest one ever known in the district, so I am going to set to work immediately.”

An affair of this kind is always a momentous occasion in all the country districts of Norway, particularly in the Telemark, so that every day Joel had a conversation with his mother on the subject. It was only a few moments after Dame Hansen’s meeting with the stranger, whose message had so deeply agitated her, and though she had seated herself at her spinning-wheel as usual, it would have been plain to a close observer that her thoughts were far away.

Even Joel noticed that his mother seemed even more despondent than usual, but as she invariably replied that there was nothing the matter with her when she was questioned on the subject, her son decided to speak only of Hulda’s marriage.

“Mother,” he began, “you, of course, recollect that Ole announced in his last letter that he should probably return to Dal in a few weeks.”

“It is certainly to be hoped that he will,” replied Dame Hansen, “and that nothing will occur to occasion any further delay.”

“Do you see any objection to our fixing upon the twenty-fifth of May as the day of the marriage?”

“None, whatever, if Hulda is willing.”

“Her consent is already given. And now I think I had better ask you, mother, if you do not intend to do the handsome thing on that occasion?”

“What do you mean by the handsome thing?” retorted Dame Hansen, without raising her eyes from her spinning-wheel.

“Why, I am anxious, if you approve, of course, that the wedding should correspond with the position we hold in the neighborhood. We ought to invite all our friends to it, and if our own house is not large enough to accommodate them, our neighbors, I am sure, will be glad to lodge our guests.”

“Who will these guests be, Joel?”

“Why, I think we ought to invite all our friends from Moel, Tiness and Bamble. I will attend to that. I think, too, that the presence of Help Bros. the shipowners, would be an honor to the family, and with your consent, I repeat, I will invite them to spend a day with us at Dal. They are very fine men, and they think a great deal of Ole, so I am almost sure that they will accept the invitation.”

“Is it really necessary to make this marriage such an important event?” inquired Dame Hansen, coldly.

“I think so, mother, if only for the sake of our inn, which I am sure has maintained its old reputation since my father’s death.”

“Yes, Joel, yes.”

“And it seems to me that it is our duty to at least keep it up to the standard at which he left it; consequently, I think it would be advisable to give considerable publicity to my sister’s marriage.”

“So be it, Joel.”

“And do you not agree with me in thinking that it is quite time for Hulda to begin her preparations, and what do you say to my suggestion?”

“I think that you and Hulda must do whatever you think necessary,” replied Dame Hansen.

Perhaps the reader will think that Joel was in too much of a hurry, and that it would have been much more sensible in him to have waited until Ole’s return before appointing the wedding-day, and beginning to prepare for it, but as he said, what was once done would not have to be done over again; besides, the countless details connected with a ceremonial of this kind would serve to divert Hulda’s mind from these forebodings for which there seemed to be no foundation.

The first thing to be done was to select the bride’s maid of honor. That proved an easy matter, however, for Hulda’s choice was already made. The bride-maid, of course, must be Hulda’s intimate friend, Farmer Helmboe’s daughter. Her father was a prominent man, and the possessor of a very comfortable fortune. For a long time he had fully appreciated Joel’s sterling worth, and his daughter Siegfrid’s appreciation, though of a rather different nature, was certainly no less profound; so it was quite probable that at no very distant day after Siegfrid had served as Hulda’s maid of honor, Hulda, in turn, would act in the same capacity for her friend. This is the custom in Norway, where these pleasant duties are generally reserved for married women, so it was rather on Joel’s account that Siegfrid Helmboe was to serve Hulda Hansen in this capacity.

A question of vital importance to the bride-maid as well as to the bride, is the toilet to be worn on the day of the wedding.

Siegfrid, a pretty blonde of eighteen summers, was firmly resolved to appear to the best possible advantage on the occasion. Warned by a short note from her friend Hulda — Joel had kindly made himself responsible for its safe delivery — she immediately proceeded to devote her closest attention to this important work.

In the first place, an elaborately embroidered bodice must be made to incase Siegfrid’s charming figure as if in a coat of enamel. There was also much talk about a skirt composed of a series of jupons which should correspond in number with the wearer’s fortune, but in no way detract from her charms of person. As for jewelry, it was no easy matter to select the design of the collar of silver filigree, set with pearls, the heart-shaped ear-rings, the double buttons to fasten the neck of the chemisette, the belt of red silk or woolen stuff from which depend four rows of small chains, the finger-rings studded with tiny bangles that tinkle musically, the bracelets of fretted silver — in short, all the wealth of country finery in which gold appears only in the shape of the thinnest plating, silver in the guise of tin and pearls, and diamonds in the shape of wax and crystal beads. But what does that matter so long as the tout ensemble is pleasing to the eye? Besides, if necessary, Siegfrid would not hesitate to go to the elegant stores of M. Benett, in Christiania, to make her purchases. Her father would not object — far from it! The kind-hearted man allowed his daughter full liberty in such matters; besides, Siegfrid was sensible enough not to draw too heavily upon her father’s purse, though everything else was of secondary importance provided Joel would see her at her very best on that particular day.

As for Hulda, her anxiety on the subject was no less serious, for fashions are pitiless, and give, besides, not a little trouble in the selection of their wedding-toilet.

Hulda would now be obliged to abandon the long plaits tied with bright ribbons, which had heretofore hung from under her coquettish cap, the broad belt with fancy buckles that kept her apron in place upon her scarlet skirt, the girdle to which were appended several small embroidered leather cases containing a silver tea-spoon, knife, fork, needle-case and scissors — articles which a woman makes constant use of in the household.

No, on the fast approaching day of the nuptials, Hulda’s hair would be allowed to float down upon her shoulders, and it was so abundant that it would not be necessary for her to have recourse to the jute switches used by Norwegian girls less favored by nature. Indeed, for her clothing, as well as for her ornaments, Hulda would only be obliged to resort to her mother’s big chest. In fact, these articles of clothing are transmitted from marriage to marriage through all the different generations of the same family. So one sees reappearing again and again upon the scene the bodice embroidered in gold, the velvet sash, the skirt of striped silk, the gold chain for the neck, and the crown — the famous Scandinavian crown — carefully preserved in the most secure of all the chests, and made of pasteboard covered with embossed gilt paper, and studded with stars, or garlanded with leaves — that takes the place of the wreath of orange-blossoms worn by brides in other European countries.

In this case the crowned betrothed, as the bride is styled, would certainly do honor to her husband; and he would be worthy of her in his gay wedding suit: a short jacket trimmed with silver buttons, silk-embroidered waistcoat, tight breeches fastened at the knee with a bunch of bright ribbons, a soft felt hat, yellow top-boots, and in his belt the Scandinavian knife — the dolknife — with which the true Norwegian is always provided.

Consequently, there was plenty to occupy the attention of the young ladies for some time to come. Two or three weeks would barely suffice if they wished to have everything in readiness before Ole’s return; but even if Ole should arrive sooner than he expected, and Hulda should not be quite ready, she would not be inconsolable, nor would he.

The last weeks of April and the first weeks of May were devoted to these matters. Joel assumed charge of the invitations, taking advantage of the fact that his vocation of guide gave him considerable leisure at this season of the year. One would have supposed that he had a large number of friends in Bamble, for he went there very often. He had already written to Help Bros. inviting them to attend his sister’s wedding, and in accordance with his prediction, these worthy shipowners had promptly accepted the invitation.

The fifteenth of May came, and any day now they might expect Ole to alight from his kariol, throw open the door, and shout in his hearty, cheerful voice:

“It is I! Here I am!”

A little patience was all that was needed now, for everything was in readiness, and Siegfrid needed only a word to appear before them in all her splendor.

The 16th and 17th passed, and still no Ole, nor did the postman bring any letter from Newfoundland.

“There is no cause for anxiety, little sister,” Joel said, again and again. “A sailing-vessel is always subject to delays. It is a long way from St. Pierre-Miquelon to Bergen. How I wish the ‘Viking’ were a steamer and I the engine. How I would drive along against wind and tide, even if I should burst my boiler on coming into port.”

He said all this because he saw very plainly that Hulda’s uneasiness was increasing from day to day.

Just at this time, too, the weather was very bad in the Telemark. Violent gales swept the high table-lands, and these winds, which blew from the west, came from America.

“They ought to have hastened the arrival of the ‘Viking,’” the young girl repeated again and again.

“Yes, little sister,” replied Joel; “but they are so strong that they may have hindered its progress, and compelled it to face the gale. People can’t always do as they like upon the sea.”

“So you are not uneasy, Joel?”

“No, Hulda, no. It is annoying, of course, but these delays are very common. No; I am not uneasy, for there is really not the slightest cause for anxiety.”

On the 19th a traveler arrived at the inn, and asked for a guide to conduct him over the mountains to the Hardanger, and though Joel did not like the idea of leaving Hulda, he could not refuse his services. He would only be absent forty-eight hours at the longest, and he felt confident that he should find Ole at Dal on his return, though, to tell the truth, the kind-hearted youth was beginning to feel very uneasy. Still, he started off early the next morning, though with a heavy heart, we must admit.

On the following day, at precisely one o’clock, a loud rap resounded at the door of the inn.

“It is Ole!” cried Hulda.

She ran to the door.

There, in a kariol, sat a man enveloped in a traveling-cloak, a man whose face was unknown to her.

CHAPTER VI.

“Is this Dame Hansen’s inn?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” answered Hulda.

“Is Dame Hansen at home?”

“No; but she will soon return, and if you wish to speak to her — “

“I do not. There is nothing I want to say to her.”

“Would you like a room?”

“Yes; the best in the house.”

“Shall we prepare dinner for you?”

“As soon as possible, and see to it that everything is of the very best quality.”

These remarks were exchanged between Hulda and the traveler before the latter had alighted from the kariol, in which he had journeyed to the heart of the Telemark across the forests, lakes, and valleys of Central Norway.

Every one who has visited Scandinavia is familiar with the kariol, the means of locomotion so dear to the hearts of her people. Two long shafts, between which trots a horse wearing a square wooden collar, painted yellow and striped with black, and guided with a simple rope passed, not through his mouth, but around his nose, two large, slender wheels, whose springless axle supports a small gay-colored, shell-shaped wagon-body, scarcely large enough to hold one person — no covering, no dash-board, no step — but behind, a board upon which the skydskarl perches himself. The whole vehicle strongly reminds one of an enormous spider between two huge cobwebs represented by the wheels of the vehicle.

At a sign from the traveler the skydskarl sprung to the horse’s head, and the stranger rose, straightened himself out, and finally alighted, though not without some difficulty, judging from two or three muttered curses.

“Will they put my kariol under shelter?” he asked, curtly, pausing upon the threshold.

“Yes, sir,” replied Hulda.

“And find my horse?”

“I will have him put in the stable immediately.”

“Have him well cared for.”

“Certainly, sir. May I ask if you intend to remain in Dal several days?”

“I don’t know yet.”

The kariol and horse were taken to a small barn built under the shelter of some trees at the foot of the mountain. It was the only stable connected with the inn, but it sufficed for the requirements of its guests.

In a few moments the traveler was duly installed in the best chamber, where, after removing his cloak, he proceeded to warm himself before the fire he had ordered lighted. In the meantime, Hulda, to satisfy this exacting guest, bade the piga (a sturdy peasant-girl, who helped in the kitchen, and did the rough work of the inn during the summer) prepare the best dinner possible.

A strong, hardy man was this new-comer, though he had already passed his sixtieth year. Thin, slightly round-shouldered, of medium stature, with an angular head, smoothly shaven face, thin, pointed nose, small eyes that looked you through and through from behind large spectacles, a forehead generally contracted by a frown, lips too thin for a pleasant word ever to escape them, and long, crooked fingers, he was the very personification of an avaricious usurer or miser, and Hulda felt a presentiment that this stranger would bring no good fortune to Dame Hansen’s house.

He was a Norwegian unquestionably, but one of the very worst type. His traveling costume consisted of a broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat, a snuff-colored suit, the breeches fastened at the knee with a leather strap, and over all a large brown cloak, lined with sheep-skin to protect its wearer from the chilly night air.

Hulda did not ask him his name, but she would soon learn it, as he would have to enter it upon the inn register.

Just then Dame Hansen returned, and her daughter announced the arrival of a guest who demanded the best room and the best food that the inn afforded, but who vouchsafed no information in regard to the probable length of his stay.

“And he did not give his name?” asked Dame Hansen.

“No, mother.”

“Nor say whence he came?”

“No.”

“If he is not a tourist, what can have brought him to Dal?” said Dame Hansen to herself rather than to her daughter, and in a tone that indicated some uneasiness.

But Hulda could not answer this question, as the new-comer had acquainted her with none of his plans.

About an hour after his arrival the man came out into the main hall, from which his door opened, but seeing Dame Hansen sitting there, he paused upon the threshold.

Evidently he was as much of a stranger to his hostess as his hostess was to him; but he finally walked toward her, and after a long look at her from over his spectacles: “You are Dame Hansen, I suppose?” he said, without even touching the hat he had not yet removed from his head.

“Yes, sir.”

In the presence of this man the widow, strange to say, experienced, like her daughter, an uneasiness for which she could not account, but which her guest must have noticed.

“So you are really Dame Hansen, of Dal?” he continued.

“Certainly, sir. Have you anything particular to say to me?”

“Nothing; I only wished to make your acquaintance. Am I not your guest? And now I should like you to see that I have my dinner as soon as possible.”

“Your dinner is ready,” interposed Hulda, “and if you will step into the dining-room — “

“I will.”

As he spoke, the stranger directed his steps toward the door indicated, and a moment afterward he was seated near the window in front of a small, neatly spread table.

The dinner was certainly good. The most fastidious traveler could not have found fault with it; nevertheless, this ill-tempered individual was not sparing in his signs and words of dissatisfaction — especially signs, for he did not appear to be very loquacious. One could hardly help wondering whether this fault-finding was due to a poor digestion or a bad temper. The soup of cherries and gooseberries did not suit him, though it was excellent, and he scarcely tasted his salmon and salt-herring. The cold ham, broiled chicken and nicely seasoned vegetables did not seem to please him, and his bottle of claret and his half bottle of champagne seemed to be equally unsatisfactory, though they came from the best cellars in France; and when the repast was concluded the guest had not even a “tack for mad” for his hostess.

After dinner the old curmudgeon lighted his pipe and went out for a walk along the river bank.

On reaching the stream he turned and fixed his eyes upon the inn. He seemed to be studying it under all its varied aspects, as if trying to form a correct estimate of its value.

He counted every door and window, and finally on his return to the inn he stuck his knife into the horizontal beams at its base, as if to test the quality of the wood and its state of preservation. Could it be that he was trying to find out how much Dame Hansen’s inn was really worth? Did he aspire to become the owner of it, though it was not for sale? All this was certainly very strange, especially as he afterward turned his attention to the little yard, the trees and shrubs of which he counted carefully, and finally measured both sides of the inclosure with regular strides, after which the movement of his pencil over a page of his memorandum-book seemed to indicate that he was multiplying one by the other.

All the while Dame Hansen and her daughter were watching him from one of the windows of the inn. What strange creature was this, and what could be the object of his visit? It was greatly to be regretted that all this took place during Joel’s absence, especially as the eccentric individual was going to spend the night at the inn.

“What if he is a madman?” said Hulda.

“A madman? no,” replied Dame Hansen. “But he is a very eccentric person, to say the least.”

“It is always unpleasant to be ignorant of the name of the person you are entertaining,” remarked the young girl.

“Before he re-enters the house, Hulda, be sure that you carry the register into his room. Perhaps he will conclude to write his name in it.”

“Yes, mother.”

Just at dusk a fine rain began to fall, so the stranger returned to the inn. He asked for a small glass of brandy, then without saying a word, or even bidding any one good-night, he took his wooden candlestick, and entering his room bolted the door behind him, and nothing further was heard from him that night.

The skydskarl had taken refuge in the barn, where he was already sound asleep in company with the sorrel horse.

Dame Hansen and her daughter rose with the sun the next morning, but no sound came from the room of their guest, who was probably still sleeping. A little after nine o’clock he made his appearance even more glum and ill-tempered than the evening before, complaining that his bed had been hard, and that the noise in the house had kept, him awake; then he opened the door and looked out at the sky.

The prospect was not very cheering, certainly, for the wind was blowing a gale, and the stranger concluded not to venture out. Still he did not waste his time. With his pipe in his mouth he walked about the inn as if trying to familiarize himself with the arrangement of the interior. He visited all the different rooms, examined the furniture, and peered into cupboards and sideboards with as much coolness as if he had been in his own house.

Though the man was singular in appearance, his actions were certainly even more singular. Finally he seated himself in the big arm-chair, and proceeded to question Dame Hansen in a curt, almost rude tone. How long had the inn been built? Was it her husband that built it, or did he inherit it? How much land was there around it, and what was the extent of the adjoining souter? Was the inn well patronized, and did it pay well? How many tourists came there on an average during the summer? Did they usually spend one or several days there? etc. etc.

It was evident that the stranger had not looked at the register that had been placed in his room, for that would have given him all the information he desired upon this last point.

In fact, the book was still on the table where Hulda had placed it the evening before, and the traveler’s name was not in it.

“I do not understand how and why these matters can interest you, sir,” said Dame Hansen at last; “but if you wish to know the state of our business, nothing could be easier. You have only to examine the register, in which you would greatly oblige me by entering your name according to custom.”

“My name? I will write my name in it, certainly. I will write it there before I leave, which will be immediately after breakfast, as I am anxious to get back to Drammen by to-morrow evening.”

“Drammen!” repeated Dame Hansen, hastily.

“Yes. Will you give me my breakfast as soon as possible?”

“Do you live in Drammen?”

“Yes. May I ask if there is anything astonishing about the fact that I reside in Drammen?”

So, after spending scarcely twenty-four hours in Dal, or rather at the inn, the traveler left without making the slightest effort to see anything of the surrounding country, Gousta, and Rjukanfos, and the wonders of the valley of the Vesfjorddal were entirely ignored.

It certainly could not have been for pleasure that he left Drammen, so he must have come on business, and the sole object of his visit seemed to have been a careful examination of Dame Hansen’s establishment.

It was plain to Hulda that her mother was deeply troubled, for she seated herself in her big arm-chair, and pushing aside her spinning-wheel, remained there silent and motionless.

In the meantime the traveler had gone into the dining-room and seated himself at the table. Though the breakfast was as carefully prepared as the dinner of the evening before, it seemed to give no better satisfaction; and yet the guest eat and drank in the same leisurely fashion. His attention seemed to be chiefly bestowed upon the silver — a luxury highly prized among Norwegian peasants, where the few forks and spoons which are handed down from father to son are carefully preserved with the family jewels.

Meanwhile the skydskarl busied himself with his preparations for departure; and by eleven o’clock the horse and kariol were standing before the door of the inn.

The weather was still threatening; the sky was dull and overcast, and now and then big drops of rain dashed against the window-panes; but this traveler with his heavy cloak lined with sheep-skin was not a man to worry about the weather.

Breakfast over, he called for one more glass of brandy, lighted his pipe, and put on his coat, then stepping out into the hall he called for his bill.

“I will make it out immediately,” replied Hulda, seating herself at a small desk.

“Be quick about it,” said the traveler. “And now,” he added, “you had better bring me your book so I can write my name in it.”

Dame Hansen rose and left the room to get the register, which, on her return, she placed upon the large table.

The stranger picked up a pen and took one more long look at Dame Hansen over his spectacles; then he wrote his name in a large, round hand, and closed the book.

Just at that moment Hulda handed him his bill. He took it, examined each item separately, and then proceeded to add up the figures, grumbling all the while.

“Hum!” he exclaimed. “This is very dear! Seven marks and a half for a night’s lodging and two meals!”

“You forget the skydskarl and the horse,” remarked Hulda.

“Nevertheless, I think your charge very high. I really don’t see how you can expect to prosper if you are so exorbitant in your charges.”

“You owe me nothing, sir,” said Dame Hansen, in a voice that trembled so that it was scarcely audible.

She had just opened the register and read the name inscribed upon it, and now taking the bill and tearing it up, she repeated: “You owe me nothing.”

“That is exactly my opinion,’” replied the stranger.

And without bidding them good-bye on his departure any more than he had bidden them good-day on his arrival, he climbed into his kariol, and the skydskarl jumped upon the board behind him. A few seconds later he had disappeared around a turn in the road. When Hulda opened the book she found there only this name —

“Sandgoist, from Drammen.”

CHAPTER VII.

It was on the afternoon of the following day that Joel was to return home; and Hulda, who knew that her brother would come back by the table-lands of the Gousta and along the left bank of the Maan, went to meet him at the ferry across that impetuous stream. On arriving there she seated herself on the little wharf which serves as a landing-place for the ferry-boat, and abandoned herself to her thoughts.

To the deep uneasiness caused by the non-arrival of the “Viking” was now added another great anxiety. This last was caused by the mysterious visit of Sandgoist, and Dame Hansen’s agitation in his presence. Why had she destroyed the bill and declined to accept the money due her as soon as she learned her guest’s name? There must be some secret concealed under all this — and a grave one.

Hulda was finally aroused from her reverie by the approach of Joel. She first caught a glimpse of him as he was descending the topmost slope; soon he reappeared in the midst of a narrow clearing between the burned and fallen trees. Then he vanished from sight behind a clump of pines, and at last reached the opposite bank and jumped aboard the ferry-boat. With a few vigorous strokes of the oar he propelled the boat swiftly through the rapids, and then leaped upon the little pier beside his sister.

“Has Ole returned?” he asked, hastily.

It was of Ole that he thought first of all; but his question remained unanswered.

“Have you received no letter from him?”

“Not one.”

And Hulda burst into tears.

“Don’t cry, little sister,” exclaimed Joel, “don’t cry. You make me wretched. I can not bear to see you weep. Let me see! You say you have received no letter. The matter is beginning to look a little serious, I must admit, though there is no reason to despair as yet. If you desire it, I will go to Bergen, and make inquiries there. I will call on Help Bros. Possibly they may have some news from Newfoundland. It is quite possible that the ‘Viking’ may have put into some port for repairs, or on account of bad weather. The wind has been blowing a hurricane for more than a week, and not unfrequently ships from Newfoundland take refuge in Iceland, or at the Faroe Islands. This very thing happened to Ole two years ago, when he was on board the ‘Strenna,’ you remember. I am only saying what I really think, little sister. Dry your eyes. If you make me lose heart what will become of us?”

“But I can’t help it, Joel.”

“Hulda! Hulda! do not lose courage. I assure you that I do not despair, not by any means.”

“Can I really believe you, Joel?”

“Yes, you can. Now, to reassure you, shall I start for Bergen to-morrow morning, or this very evening?”

“No, no, you must not leave me! No, you must not!” sobbed Hulda, clinging to her brother as if he was the only friend she had left in the world.

They started toward the inn. Joel sheltered his sister from the rain as well as he could, but the wind soon became so violent that they were obliged to take refuge in the hut of the ferryman, which stood a few hundred yards from the bank of the Maan.

There they were obliged to remain until the wind abated a little, and Joel was glad of an opportunity to have a longer conversation with his sister.

“How does mother seem?” he inquired.

“Even more depressed in spirits than usual,” replied Hulda.

“Has any one been here during my absence?”

“Yes, one traveler, but he has gone away.”

“So there is no tourist at the inn now, and no one has asked for a guide?”

“No, Joel.”

“So much the better, for I would much rather not leave you. Besides, if this unpleasant weather continues, it is not likely that many tourists will visit the Telemark this season. But tell me, was it yesterday that your guest left Dal?”

“Yes, yesterday morning.”

“Who was he?”

“A man who resides in Drammen, and whose name is Sandgoist.”

“Sandgoist?”

“Do you know him?”

“No.”

Hulda had asked herself more than once if she should tell her brother all that had occurred in his absence. When Joel heard how coolly their guest had conducted himself, and how he seemed to have come merely to appraise the house and its contents, what would he think? Would not he, too, fear that his mother must have had grave reasons for acting as she had? What were these reasons? What could there be in common between her and Sandgoist? Joel would certainly desire to know, and would be sure to question his mother, and as Dame Hansen, who was always so uncommunicative, would doubtless persist in the silence she had maintained hitherto, the relations between her and her children, which were so unnatural and constrained now, would become still more unpleasant.

But would Hulda be able to keep anything from Joel? A secret from him! Would it not be a violation of the close friendship that united them? No, this friendship must never be broken! So Hulda suddenly resolved to tell him all.

“Have you ever heard any one speak of this Sandgoist when you were in Drammen?” she asked.

“Never.”

“But our mother knew him, Joel; at least by name.”

“She knew Sandgoist?”

“Yes.”

“I certainly never heard the name before.”

“But she has, though she had never seen the man until day before yesterday.”

Then Hulda related all the incidents that had marked Sandgoist’s sojourn at the inn, not neglecting to mention Dame Hansen’s singular conduct at the moment of his departure. Then she hastened to add: “I think, Joel, it would be best not to say anything to mother about it at present. You know her disposition, and it would only make her still more unhappy. The future will probably reveal what has been concealed from us in the past. Heaven grant that Ole may be restored to us, and then if any misfortune should befall the family there will at least be three of us to share it.”

Joel had listened to his sister with profound attention. Yes, it was evident that Dame Hansen must be at this man’s mercy, and it was impossible to doubt that he had come to take an inventory of the property. And the destruction of the bill at the time of his departure — a destruction that seemed only right and proper to him — what could be the meaning of that?

“You are right, Hulda,” said Joel. “I had better not say anything to mother about it. Perhaps she will feel sorry by and by that she has not confided in us. Heaven grant that it may not be too late! She must be wretched, poor woman! How strange it is that she can not understand that her children were born to sympathize with her.”

“She will find it out some day, Joel.”

“Yes; so let us wait patiently, little sister. Still, there is no reason why I should not try to find out who the man is. Perhaps Farmer Helmboe knows him. I will ask him the first time I go to Bamble, and if need be I will push on to Drammen. There it will not be difficult for me to at least learn what the man does, and what people think of him.”

“They do not think well of him, I am sure,” replied Hulda. “His face is very unprepossessing, and I shall be very much surprised if there is a noble soul concealed under such a repulsive exterior.”

“Come, come, little sister, it will not do to judge people by outward appearances,” exclaimed Joel. “Don’t be so suspicious, Hulda, and cheer up. Ole will soon be with us, and we will scold him roundly for having kept us waiting.”

The rain having ceased the pair left the hut and started up the path leading to the inn.

“By the way, I must go away again to-morrow, little sister,” said Joel.

“Go away again to-morrow!” repeated Hulda.

“Yes, early in the morning. On leaving the Hardanger I was informed by a comrade that a traveler, coming from the north by way of the Rjukanfos would arrive to-morrow.”

“Who is this traveler?”

“I don’t know his name, but I must be on hand to conduct him to Dal.”

“Ah, well! go, then, as there is no help for it,” replied Hulda, with a sigh.

“Yes, I must start to-morrow at sunrise. Do you really feel so badly about it, Hulda?”

“Yes, brother, I feel much more unhappy when you leave me, even if it is only for a few hours.”

“Ah, well, this time I shall not go alone.”

“Why, who is to accompany you?”

“You, little sister. You need diversion, and I am going to take you with me.”

“Oh, thank you, Joel, thank you!”

CHAPTER VIII.

The brother and sister left the inn at sunrise the next morning. The fifteen mile walk from Dal to the celebrated falls of the Rjukan, and back again, was a mere trifle for Joel, but it was necessary to economize Hulda’s strength, so Joel hired foreman Lengling’s kariol. This, like all kariols, had but one seat, but the worthy man was so large that he had been obliged to have his kariol built to order, and this being the case the vehicle was large enough to enable Hulda and Joel to sit side by side quite comfortably; and if the expected tourist was waiting for them at Rjukanfos as they anticipated, he could take Joel’s place and the latter could either return afoot or mounted upon the step behind the kariol.

The road from Dal to the falls is very rough but indescribably charming. It is really rather a footpath than a road. The bridges across the countless streams that dance merrily along to the Maan are all constructed of unhewn logs, but the Norwegian horse traverses them with a sure step, and though the kariol has no springs, its long and slightly elastic shafts soften the jolting at least to some extent.

The day was charming, and Hulda and Joel drove along at a brisk pace through the flowery fields, bathed on the left by the clear waters of the Maan. Clumps of birches here and there shaded the sunny road, and the dew still glittered on the blades of grass. To the right of the torrent towered the snow-clad summit of the Gousta, which rises to an altitude of six thousand feet.

For nearly an hour, the vehicle moved on rapidly, the ascent being comparatively slight; but soon the valley became narrower, the gay rivulets were transformed into foaming torrents, and though the road wound in and out it could not avoid all the inequalities of the ground. Beyond came really dangerous passes, through which Joel guided the vehicle with no little skill; besides, with him Hulda feared nothing. When the road was very rough she clung to his arm, and the freshness of the morning air brought a glow to the pretty face which had been unusually pale for some time.

But it was necessary for them to ascend to still greater heights, for the valley here contracted into merely a narrow channel for the passage of the river, a channel inclosed on either side by massive walls of rock. Over the neighboring fields were scattered a few dilapidated farm-houses, the remains of soeters, which were now abandoned, and a few shepherd’s huts almost hidden from view by clumps of birches and oaks. Soon it became impossible for them to see the river, though they could distinctly hear it dashing along in its rocky channel, and the country assumed an indescribably wild and imposing aspect.

A drive of two hours brought them to a rough saw-mill perched upon the edge of a water-fall at least fifteen hundred feet in height. Water-falls of this height are by no means rare in the Vesfjorddal, but the volume of water is usually small. This is not the case with the falls of the Rjukanfos however.

On reaching the saw-mill, Joel and Hulda both alighted.

“A half hour’s walk will not be too much for you, will it, little sister?” asked Joel.

“No, brother; I am not tired, and a little exercise will do me good.”

“It will be a good deal instead of a little, for you will have some pretty hard climbing to do.”

“I can cling to your arm, Joel.”

It was evident that the kariol must be abandoned at this point, for it would be impossible for it to make its way through the rough paths, the narrow passes, and over the big, fantastically shaped rocks that heralded the close proximity of the great falls.

Already, they could see in the distance a thick mist, the spray from the seething waters of Rjukan.

Hulda and Joel took a shady path which is well known to guides, and which leads to the end of the valley. A few moments afterward they found themselves upon a moss-covered rock almost in front of the fall. In fact there was no chance of getting any nearer to it on that side.

The brother and sister would have had considerable difficulty in making themselves heard if they had wished to speak; but their thoughts were those that could be exchanged without the agency of the lips.

The volume of the Rjukan fall is enormous, its height very considerable, and its roar deafening. The earth makes an abrupt descent of nine hundred feet to the bed of the Maan midway between Lake Mjos and Lake Tinn, nine hundred feet, that is to say six times the height of Niagara, though the width of this last water-fall from the American to the Canadian shore is three miles.

The Rjukan is so grand and unique in its aspect that any description falls far short of the reality, and even a painting can not do justice to it. There are certain wonders of nature that must be seen if one would form any adequate conception of their beauty; and this water-fall, which is one of the most widely celebrated in Europe, belongs to this category.

These were the very thoughts that were passing through the mind of a tourist who was at that very moment sitting perched upon a rock on the right bank of the Maan, from which spot he could command a nearer and more extended view of the fall.

Neither Joel nor his sister had yet noticed him, though he was plainly visible from the rock on which they were seated.

In a few minutes the traveler rose and very imprudently ventured out upon the rocky slope that is rounded like a dome on the side next the Maan. What the adventurous tourist wished to see was evidently the two caverns under the fall, the one to the left, which is ever filled to the top with a mass of seething foam, and the one to the right, which is always enshrouded in a heavy mist. Possibly he was even trying to ascertain if there were not a third cavern midway down the fall to account for the fact that the Rjukan at intervals projects straight outward into space a mass of water and spray, making it appear as if the waters had suddenly been scattered in a fine spray over the surrounding fields by some terrific explosion in the rear of the fall.

And now the daring tourist was slowly but persistently making his way over the rough and slippery ledge of rock, destitute alike of shrubbery or grass, know as the Passe de Marie, or the Maristien.

It is more than probable, however, that he was ignorant of the legend that has made this pass so widely know. One day Eystein endeavored to reach his betrothed, the beautiful Marie of Vesfjorddal, by this dangerous path. His sweetheart was holding out her arms to him from the other side of the gorge, when suddenly he lost his footing, fell, slipped further and further down the ledge of rock which is as smooth as glass, and disappeared forever in the seething rapids of the Maan.

Was this rash traveler about to meet a similar fate?

It seemed only too probable; and in fact he soon perceived the danger of his position, though not until it was too late. Suddenly his foot slipped, he uttered a cry, and after rolling nearly twenty feet, he finally succeeded in securing a hold upon a projecting rock on the very edge of the abyss.

Joel and Hulda, though they had not yet caught sight of him, heard his cry.

“What is that?” exclaimed Joel, springing to his feet.

“A cry!” replied Hulda.

“Yes, a cry of distress.”

“From what direction did it come?”

“Let us listen.”

Both looked first to the right, and then to the left of the fall, but they saw nothing, though they had certainly heard the words “Help! help!” uttered during one of the intervals between each rebound of the Rjukan.

The cry was repeated.

“Joel, some one who is in danger is calling for help,” cried Hulda. “We must go to his aid.”

“Yes, sister; and he can not be far off. But in what direction? Where is he? I see no one.”

Hulda hastily climbed a little knoll behind the mossy rock upon which she had been sitting.

“Joel!” she cried, suddenly.

“Do you see him?”

“There, there!”

As she spoke she pointed to the imprudent man whose body seemed to be almost overhanging the abyss. If his foothold upon a tiny ledge of rock failed him, or he was seized with dizziness, he was lost.

“We must save him!” said Hulda.

“Yes,” replied Joel, “if we can keep our wits about us we shall perhaps be able to reach him.”

Joel gave a loud shout to attract the attention of the traveler, who immediately turned his head toward the spot from which the sound proceeded; then the worthy fellow devoted a few moments to deciding how he could best rescue the stranger from his dangerous position.

“You are not afraid, are you, Hulda?” he asked.

“No, brother.”

“You know the Maristien well, do you not?”

“I have crossed it several times.”

“Then walk along the brow of the cliff, gradually getting as near the traveler as you possibly can; then allow yourself to slide down gently toward him, and take him by the hand, so as to prevent him from falling any further; but do not let him try to lift himself up, because if he should be seized with vertigo he would certainly drag you down with him, and you would both be lost.”

“And you, Joel?”

“While you are traversing the brow of the cliff I will creep along the edge of it on the river-side. I shall reach him about as soon as you do, and if you should slip I shall perhaps be able to prevent you both from falling.”

Then, taking advantage of another interval in the roaring of the torrent, Joel shouted in stentorian tones: “Don’t move, sir. Wait; we will try to get to you!”

Hulda had already disappeared behind the trees that crowned the ledge, in order to ascend the Maristien from the other side of the declivity, and Joel soon caught a glimpse of the fast-receding form of the brave girl at the turn in the path where the last trees grew.

He, in turn, at the peril of his life, had begun to creep slowly along the shelving edge of the ledge that surrounds the Rjukan. What wonderful coolness, what steadiness of foot and of hand were required to thus advance in safety along the edge of an abyss whose borders were drenched with the spray of the cataract!

In a parallel direction, but at least one hundred feet above his head, Hulda was advancing obliquely in order to reach the traveler more easily; but the position of the latter was such that she could not see his face, that being turned toward the cataract.

Joel, on reaching a spot directly below the unfortunate man paused, and after planting his foot firmly in a small crevice in the rock, called out: “Hallo, sir!”

The traveler turned his head.

“Don’t move, sir; don’t move an inch, but hold fast!”

“I’ll do that, my friend, never fear,” replied the stranger in a tone that reassured Joel. “If I hadn’t a good grip, I should have gone to the bottom of the Rjukan a quarter of an hour ago.”

“My sister is also coming to help you,” continued Joel. “She will take hold of your hand, but don’t attempt to get upon your feet until I reach you. Don’t even move.”

“No more than a rock,” replied the traveler.

Hulda had already begun to descend the ledge, carefully selecting the less slippery parts of the slope with the clear head of a true daughter of the Telemark.

And she, too, now called out as Joel had done: “Holdfast, sir.”

“Yes; I am holding fast, and I assure you that I shall continue to do so as long as I can.”

“And above all don’t be afraid!” added Hulda.

“I am not afraid.”

“We’ll save you yet!” cried Joel.

“I hope so, indeed; for by Saint Olaf I shall never succeed in getting out of this scrape myself.”

It was evident that the tourist had lost none of his presence of mind; but his fall had probably disabled him, and all he could do now was to keep himself upon the narrow shelf of rock that separated him from the abyss.

Meanwhile Hulda continued her descent, and in a few minutes reached the traveler; then, bracing her foot against a projecting point in the rock, she caught hold of his hand.

The traveler involuntarily attempted to raise himself a little.

“Don’t move, sir, don’t move,” cried Hulda. “You will be sure to drag me down with you, for I am not strong enough to keep you from falling! You must wait until my brother reaches us. When he gets between us and the fall you can then try to get up.”

“That is more easily said than done I fear.”

“Are you so much hurt, sir? I hope you have broken no bones.”

“No; but one leg is badly cut and scratched.”

Joel was about twenty yards from them, the rounded shape of the brow of the cliff having prevented him from joining them at once. He was now obliged to climb this rounded surface. This was, of course, the most difficult and also the most dangerous part of his task.

“Don’t make the slightest movement, Hulda!” he cried. “If you should both slip while I am not in a position to break your fall you would both be killed.”

“You need not fear that, Joel!” replied Hulda. “Think only of yourself, and may God help you!”

Joel began to crawl slowly up the rock, dragging himself along on his belly like a veritable reptile. Two or three times he narrowly escaped sliding down into the abyss below, but finally he succeeded in reaching the traveler’s side.

The latter proved to be an elderly but still vigorous-looking man, with a handsome face, animated with a very genial and kindly expression.

“You have been guilty of a very imprudent act, sir,” remarked Joel as soon as he recovered his breath.

“Imprudent!” repeated the traveler. “Yes, and as absurd as it was imprudent.”

“You have not only risked your life, but — “

“Made you risk yours.”

“Oh! that is my business,” replied Joel, lightly. Then he added, in an entirely different tone: “The thing to be done now is to regain the brow of the cliff, but the most difficult part of the task is already accomplished.”

“The most difficult?”

“Yes, sir. That was to reach you. Now we have only to ascend a much more gradual slope.

“Still, you had better not place much dependence upon me, my boy. I have a leg that isn’t of much use to me just now, nor will it be for some time to come I fear.”

“Try to raise yourself a little.”

“I will gladly do so if you will assist me.”

“Then take hold of my sister’s arm. I will steady you and push you from below.”

“Very well, my friends, I will be guided entirely by you; as you have been so kind as to come to my assistance, I can not do less than yield you implicit obedience.”

Joel’s plan was carried out in the most cautious manner, and though the ascent was not made without considerable difficulty and danger, all three accomplished it more easily and quickly than they had thought possible. Besides, the injury from which the traveler was suffering was neither a sprain nor dislocation, but simply a very bad abrasion of the skin; consequently, he could use his limbs to much better purpose than he had supposed, and ten minutes later he found himself safe on the other side of the Maristien.

Once there, he would have been glad to rest awhile under the pines that border the upper field of the Rjukanfos, but Joel persuaded him to make one more effort. This was to reach a hut hidden among the trees, a short distance from the rock, on which the brother and sister had seated themselves on first arriving at the fall. The traveler yielded to their solicitations, and supported on one side by Hulda, and on the other by Joel, he finally succeeded in reaching the door of the humble dwelling.

“Let us go in, sir,” said Hulda. “You must want to rest a moment.”

“The moment will probably be prolonged to a quarter of an hour.”

“Very well, sir; but afterward you must consent to accompany us to Dal.”

“To Dal? Why, that is the very place I was going to!”

“Can it be that you are the tourist who was expected from the north?” asked Joel.

“Precisely.”

“Had I foreseen what was going to happen, I should have gone to the other side of the Rjukanfos to meet you.”

“That would have been a good idea, my brave fellow. You would have saved me from a foolhardy act unpardonable at my age.”

“Or at any age,” replied Hulda.

The three entered the hut which was occupied by a family of peasants, a father and two daughters, who received their unexpected guests with great cordiality.

Joel was able to satisfy himself that the traveler had sustained no injury beyond a severe abrasion of the skin a little below the knee; but though the wound would necessitate a week’s rest, the limb was neither broken nor dislocated.

Some excellent milk, an abundance of strawberries, and a little black bread were offered and accepted. Joel gave incontestable proofs of an excellent appetite, and though Hulda eat almost nothing, the traveler proved a match for her brother.

“My exertions have given me a famous appetite,” he remarked; “but I must admit that my attempt to traverse the Maristien was an act of the grossest folly. To play the part of the unfortunate Eystein when one is old enough to be his father — and even his grandfather — is absurd in the highest degree.”

“So you know the legend?” said Hulda.

“Of course. My nurse used to sing me to sleep with it in the happy days when I still had a nurse. Yes, I know the story, my brave girl, so I am all the more to blame for my imprudence. Now, my friends, Dal seems a long way off to a cripple like myself. How do you propose to get me there?”

“Don’t worry about that, sir,” replied Joel. “Our kariol is waiting for us at the end of the road, about three hundred yards from here.”

“Hum! three hundred yards!”

“But downhill all the way,” added Hulda.

“Oh, in that case, I shall do very well if you will kindly lend me an arm.”

“Why not two, as we have four at your disposal?” responded Joel.

“We will say two then. It won’t cost me any more, will it?”

“It will cost you nothing.”

“Except my thanks; and that reminds me that I have not yet thanked you.”

“For what, sir?” inquired Joel.

“Merely for saving my life at the risk of your own.”

“Are you quite ready to start?” inquired Hulda, rising to escape any further expression of gratitude.

“Certainly, certainly. I am more than willing to be guided by the wishes of the other members of the party.”

The traveler settled the modest charge made by the occupants of the cottage; then, supported by Joel and Hulda, he began the descent of the winding path leading to the river bank.

The descent was not effected without many exclamations of pain; but these exclamations invariably terminated in a hearty laugh, and at last they reached the saw-mill, where Joel immediately proceeded to harness the horse into the kariol.

Five minutes later the traveler was installed in the vehicle, with Hulda beside him.

“But I must have taken your seat,” he remarked to Joel.

“A seat I relinquish to you with the utmost willingness.”

“But perhaps by a little crowding we might make room for you?”

“No, no, I have my legs, sir — a guide’s legs. They are as good as any wheels.”

Joel placed himself at the horse’s head, and the little party started for Dal. The return trip was a gay one, at least on the part of the traveler, who already seemed to consider himself an old friend of the Hansen family. Before they reached their destination they found themselves calling their companion M. Silvius; and that gentleman unceremoniously called them Hulda and Joel, as if their acquaintance had been one of long standing.

About four o’clock the little belfry of Dal became visible through the trees, and a few minutes afterward the horse stopped in front of the inn. The traveler alighted from the kariol, though not without considerable difficulty. Dame Hansen hastened to the door to receive him, and though he did not ask for the best room in the house, it was given to him all the same.

CHAPTER IX.

Sylvius Hogg was the name that the stranger inscribed upon the inn register, that same evening, directly underneath the name of Sandgoist, and there was as great a contrast between the two names as between the men that bore them. Between them there was nothing whatever in common, either mentally, morally, or physically. One was generous to a fault, the other was miserly and parsimonious; one was genial and kind-hearted, in the arid soul of the other every noble and humane sentiment seemed to have withered and died.

Sylvius Hogg was nearly sixty years of age, though he did not appear nearly so old. Tall, erect, and well built, healthy alike in mind and in body, he pleased at first sight with his handsome genial face, upon which he wore no beard, but around which clustered curling locks of silvery hair; eyes which were as smiling as his lips, a broad forehead that bore the impress of noble thoughts, and a full chest in which the heart beat untrammeled. To all these charms were added an inexhaustible fund of good humor, a refined and liberal nature, and a generous and self-sacrificing disposition.

Sylvius Hogg, of Christiania — no further recommendation was needed. That told the whole story. And he was not only known, appreciated, loved and honored in the Norwegian capital, but throughout the entire country, though the sentiments he inspired in the other half of the Scandinavian kingdom, that is to say in Sweden, were of an entirely different character.

This fact can easily be explained.

Sylvius Hogg was a professor of law at Christiania. In some lands to be a barrister, civil engineer, physician, or merchant, entitles one to a place on the upper rounds of the social ladder. It is different in Norway, however. To be a professor there is to be at the top of the ladder.

Though there are four distinct classes in Sweden, the nobility, the clergy, the gentry, and the peasantry, there are but three in Norway — the nobility being utterly wanting. No aristocracy is acknowledged, not even that of the office-holder, for in this favored country where privileged persons are unknown, the office-holder is only the humble servant of the public. In fact, perfect social equality prevails without any political distinctions whatever.

Sylvius Hogg being one of the most influential men in the country, the reader will not be surprised to learn that he was also a member of the Storthing; and in this august body, by the well-known probity of his public and private life even more than by his mighty intellect, he wielded a powerful influence even over the peasant deputies elected in such large numbers in the rural districts.

Ever since the adoption of the Constitution of 1814, it may be truly said that Norway is a republic with the King of Sweden for its president; for Norway, ever jealous of her rights, has carefully guarded her individuality. The Storthing will have nothing whatever to do with the Swedish parliament; hence it is only natural that the most prominent and patriotic members of the Storthing should be regarded with distrust on the other side of the imaginary frontier that separates Sweden from Norway.

This was the case with Sylvius Hogg. Being extremely independent in character, and utterly devoid of ambition, he had repeatedly declined a position in the Cabinet; and a stanch defender of all the rights of his native land, he had constantly and unflinchingly opposed any threatened encroachment on the part of Sweden.

Such is the moral and political gulf between the two countries that the King of Sweden — then Oscar XV. — after being crowned at Stockholm, was obliged to go through a similar ceremony at Drontheim, the ancient capital of Norway. Such too is the suspicious reserve of Norwegian men of business, that the Bank of Christiania is unwilling to accept the notes of the Bank of Stockholm! Such too is the clearly defined line of demarkation between the two nations that the Swedish flag floats neither over the public buildings of Norway, nor from the masts of Norwegian vessels. The one has its blue bunting, bearing a yellow cross; the other a blue cross upon a crimson ground.

Sylvius Hogg was a thorough Norwegian in heart and in soul, and stoutly defended her rights upon all occasions; so, when in 1854 the Storthing was discussing the question of having neither a viceroy nor even a governor at the head of the state, he was one of the most enthusiastic champions of the measure.

Consequently, though he was by no means popular in the eastern part of Scandinavia, he was adored in the western part of it, even in the most remote hamlets. His name was a household word throughout Norway from the dunes of Christiansand to the bleak rocks of the North Cape, and so worthy was he of this universal respect that no breath of calumny had ever sullied the reputation of either the deputy or the professor. But though he was a Norwegian to the core he was a hot-blooded man, with none of the traditional coldness and apathy of his compatriots; but much more prompt and resolute in his thoughts and acts than most Scandinavians, as was proved by the quickness of his movements, the ardor of his words, and the vivacity of his gestures. Had he been born in France, one would have unhesitatingly pronounced him a Southerner.

Sylvius Hogg’s fortune had never exceeded a fair competence, for he had not entered into politics for the purpose of making money. Naturally unselfish, he never thought of himself, but continually of others; nor was he tormented by a thirst for fame. To be a deputy was enough for him; he craved no further advancement.

Just at this time Sylvius Hogg was taking advantage of a three months’ vacation to recuperate after a year of severe legislative toil. He had left Christiania six weeks before, with the intention of traveling through the country about Drontheim, the Hardanger, the Telemark, and the districts of Kongsberg and Drammen. He had long been anxious to visit these provinces of which he knew nothing; and his trip was consequently one of improvement and of pleasure. He had already explored a part of the region, and it was on his return from the northern districts that the idea of visiting the famous falls of the Rjukan — one of the wonders of the Telemark — first occurred to him. So, after surveying the route of the new railroad — which as yet existed only on paper — between the towns of Drontheim and Christiania, he sent for a guide to conduct him to Dal. He was to meet this guide on the left bank of the Maan; but lured on by the beauties of the Maristien, he ventured upon the dangerous pass without waiting for his guide. An unusual want of prudence in a man like him and one that nearly cost him his life, for had it not been for the timely assistance rendered by Joel and Hulda Hansen, the journey would have ended with the traveler himself in the grim depths of the Rjukanfos.

CHAPTER X.

The people of Scandinavia are very intelligent, not only the inhabitants of the cities, but of the most remote rural districts. Their education goes far beyond reading, writing, and arithmetic. The peasant learns with avidity. His mental faculties are ever on the alert. He takes a deep interest in the public welfare and no mean part in all political and local affairs. More than half of the Storthing is made up of members of this rank in life. Not unfrequently they attend its sessions clad in the costume of their particular province; but they are justly noted for their remarkable good sense, acute reasoning powers, their clear though rather slow understanding, and above all, for their incorruptibility.

Consequently it is not at all strange that the name of Sylvius Hogg was a household word throughout Norway, and was uttered with respect even in the wilds of the Telemark; so Dame Hansen on receiving such a widely known and highly esteemed guest, thought it only proper to tell him how highly honored she felt at having him under her roof, if only for a few days.

“I don’t know that I am doing you much honor, Dame Hansen,” replied Sylvius Hogg, “but I do know that it gives me great pleasure to be here. I have heard my pupils talk of this hospitable inn for years. Indeed, that is one reason I intended to stop here and rest for about a week, but by Saint Olaf! I little expected to arrive here on one leg!”

And the good man shook the hand of his hostess most cordially.

“Wouldn’t you like my brother to fetch a doctor from Bamble?” inquired Hulda.

“A doctor! my little Hulda! Why! do you want me to lose the use of both my legs?”

“Oh, Mr. Sylvius!”

“A doctor! Why not send for my friend, the famous Doctor Bork, of Christiania? All this ado about a mere scratch, what nonsense!”

“But even a mere scratch may become a very serious thing if not properly attended to,” remarked Joel.

“Well, Joel, will you tell me why you are so very anxious for this to become serious?”

“Indeed, I am not, sir; God forbid!”

“Oh, well, He will preserve you and me, and all Dame Hansen’s household, especially if pretty little Hulda here will be kind enough to give me some attention.”

“Certainly, Mr. Sylvius.”

“All right, my friends. I shall be as well as ever in four or five days. How could a man help getting well in such a pretty room? Where could one hope for better care than in this excellent inn? This comfortable bed, with its mottoes, is worth a great deal more than all the nauseous prescriptions of the faculty. And that quaint window overlooking the valley of the Maan! And the stream’s soft, musical murmur that penetrates to the remotest corner of my cozy nest! And the fragrant, healthful scent of the pines that fills the whole house! And the air, this pure exhilarating mountain air! Ah! is not that the very best of physicians? When one needs him one has only to open the window and in he comes and makes you well without cutting off your rations.”

He said all this so gayly that it seemed as if a ray of sunshine had entered the house with him. At least, this was the impression of the brother and sister, who stood listening to him, hand in hand.

All this occurred in a chamber on the first floor, to which the professor had been conducted immediately upon his arrival; and now, half reclining in a large arm-chair, with his injured limb resting upon a stool, he gratefully accepted the kindly attentions of Joel and Hulda. A careful bathing of the wound with cold water was the only remedy he would use, and in fact no other was needed.

“Thanks, my friends, thanks!” he exclaimed, “this is far better than drugs. And now do you know that but for your timely arrival upon the scene of action, I should have become much too well acquainted with the wonders of the Rjukanfos! I should have rolled down into the abyss like a big stone, and have added another legend to those already associated with the Maristien. And there was no excuse for me. My betrothed was not waiting for me upon the opposite bank as in the case of poor Eystein!”

“And what a terrible thing it would have been to Madame Hogg!” exclaimed Hulda. “She would never have got over it.”

“Madame Hogg!” repeated the professor. “Oh! Madame Hogg wouldn’t have shed a tear — “

“Oh, Mister Sylvius.”

“No, I tell you, for the very good reason that there is no Madame Hogg. Nor can I ever imagine what Madame Hogg would be like, stout or thin, tall or short.”

“She would, of course, be amiable, intelligent and good, being your wife,” replied Hulda, naively.

“Do you really think so, mademoiselle? Well, well, I believe you! I believe you!”

“But on hearing of such a calamity, Mister Sylvius,” remarked Joel, “your relatives and many friends — “

“I have no relatives to speak of, but I have quite a number of friends, not counting those I have just made in Dame Hansen’s house, and you have spared them the trouble of weeping for me. But tell me, children, you can keep me here a few days, can you not?”

“As long as you please, Mister Sylvius,” replied Hulda. “This room belongs to you.”

“You see, I intended to stop awhile at Dal as all tourists do, and radiate from here all over the Telemark district; but now, whether I shall radiate, or I shall not radiate, remains to be seen.”

“Oh, you will be on your feet again before the end of the week, I hope, Mister Sylvius,” remarked Joel.

“So do I, my boy.”

“And then I will escort you anywhere in the district that you care to go.”

“We’ll see about that when Richard is himself again. I still have two months leave before me, and even if I should be obliged to spend the whole of it under Dame Hansen’s roof I should have no cause for complaint. Could I not explore that portion of the valley of Vesfjorddal lying between the two lakes, make the ascent of Gousta, and pay another visit to the Rjukanfos? for though I very narrowly escaped falling head foremost into its depths I scarcely got a glimpse of it, and am resolved to see it again.”

“You shall do so, Mister Sylvius,” replied Hulda.

“And we will visit it next time in company with good Dame Hansen if she will be kind enough to go with us. And now I think of it, my friends, I must drop a line to Kate, my old housekeeper, and Fink, my faithful old servant in Christiania. They will be very uneasy if they do not hear from me, and I shall get a terrible scolding. And now I have a confession to make to you. The strawberries and milk were delicious and extremely refreshing, but they scarcely satisfied my hunger, and as I won’t submit to being put upon short allowance may I not ask if it is not nearly your dinner hour?”

“Oh! that makes no difference whatever, Mister Sylvius.”

“On the contrary, it does make a great deal of difference. Do you think that I am going to sit in solitary grandeur at the table, and in my own room, all the time I stay at Dal? No, I want to take my meals with you and your mother if Dame Hansen has no objections.”

Of course Dame Hansen could but assent when she was apprised of the professor’s request, especially as it would be a great honor to her and hers to have a member of the Storthing at her table.

“It is settled, then, that we are to eat together in the living room,” remarked Sylvius Hogg.

“Yes, Mister Sylvius,” replied Joel. “I shall only have to wheel you out in your arm-chair when dinner is ready.”

“Indeed, Mister Joel! Why don’t you propose a kariol? No; with the aid of a friendly arm, I shall be able to reach the table. I haven’t had my leg amputated yet, that I am aware of.”

“As you please, Mister Sylvius,” replied Hulda. “But don’t be guilty of any imprudence, I beg of you, or Joel will have to hurry off in search of a doctor.”

“More threats! Oh, well, I will be as prudent and docile as possible; provided you do not put me on short allowance, you will find me the most tractable of patient. Can it be that you are not hungry, my friends?”

“Give us only a quarter of an hour,” replied Hulda; “and we will set before you a nice trout from the Maan, a grouse that Joel shot in the Hardanger yesterday, and a bottle of French wine.”

“Thank you, my dear child, thank you!”

Hulda left the room to superintend the dinner and set the table, while Joel took the kariol back to Lengling’s stable. Sylvius Hogg was left alone, and his thoughts very naturally reverted to the honest family whose guest and debtor he was. What could he do to repay Hulda and Joel for the inestimable service they had rendered him?

He had not much time for reflection, however, for scarcely ten minutes had elapsed before he was seated in the place of honor at the family table. The dinner was excellent. It corresponded with the reputation of the inn, and the professor ate very heartily.

The rest of the evening was spent in conversation in which Sylvius Hogg took the leading part. As Dame Hanson found it well-nigh impossible to overcome her habitual reserve, Joel and Hulda were obliged to respond to their genial host’s advances, and the sincere liking the professor had taken to them from the very first naturally increased.

When night came, he returned to his room with the assistance of Joel and Hulda, gave and received a friendly good-night, and had scarcely stretched himself out upon the big bed before he was sound asleep.

The next morning he woke with the sun, and began to review the situation.

“I really don’t know how I shall get out of the scrape,” he said to himself. “One can not allow one’s self to be saved from death, nursed and cured without any other return than a mere thank you. I am under deep obligations to Hulda and Joel, that is undeniable; but the services they have rendered me are not of a kind that can be repaid with money. On the other hand, these worthy people appear to be perfectly happy, and I can do nothing to add to their happiness! Still, we shall probably have many talks together, and while we are talking, perhaps — “

During the three or four days the professor was obliged to keep his leg upon a stool he and the young Hansens had many pleasant chats together, but unfortunately it was with some reserve on the brother’s and sister’s part. Neither of them had much to say about their mother, whose cold and preoccupied manner had not escaped Sylvius Hogg’s notice, and from a feeling of prudence they hesitated to reveal to their guest the uneasiness excited by Ole Kamp’s delay, for might they not impair his good humor by telling him their troubles?

“And yet we perhaps make a great mistake in not confiding in Mister Sylvius,” Joel remarked to her sister, one day. “He is a very clever man, and through his influential acquaintances he might perhaps be able to find out whether the Naval Department is making any effort to ascertain what has become of the ‘Viking.’”

“You are right, Joel,” replied Hulda. “I think we had better tell him all; but let us wait until he has entirely recovered from his hurt.”

“That will be very soon,” rejoined Joel.

By the end of the week Sylvius Hogg was able to leave his room without assistance, though he still limped a little; and he now began to spend hours on the benches in front of the house, gazing at the snow-clad summit of Gousta, while the Maan dashed merrily along at his feet.

People were continually passing over the road that led from Dal to the Rjukanfos now. Most of them were tourists who stopped an hour or two at Dame Hanson’s inn either to breakfast or dine. There were also students in plenty with knapsacks on their backs, and the little Norwegian cockade in their caps.

Many of them knew the professor, so interminable greetings were exchanged, and cordial salutations, which showed how much Sylvius Hogg was loved by these young people.

“What, you here, Mister Sylvius?” they would exclaim.

“Yes, my friend.”

“You, who are generally supposed to be in the remotest depths of the Hardanger!”

“People are mistaken, then. It was in the remotest depths of the Rjukanfos that I came very near staying.”

“Very well, we shall tell everybody that you are in Dal.”

“Yes, in Dal, with a game leg.”

“Fortunately you are at Dame Hansen’s inn, where you will have the best of food and care.”

“Could one imagine a more comfortable place?”

“Most assuredly not.”

“Or better people?”

“There are none in the world,” responded the young travelers merrily.

Then they would all drink to the health of Hulda and Joel, who were so well known throughout the Telemark.

And then the professor would tell them all about his adventure, frankly admitting his unpardonable imprudence, and telling how his life had been saved, and how grateful he felt to his preservers.

“And I shall remain here until I have paid my debt,” he would add. “My course of lectures on legislation will not be resumed for a long time, I fear, and you can enjoy an extended holiday.”

“Good! good! Mister Sylvius,” cried the light-hearted band. “Oh, you can’t fool us! It is pretty Hulda that keeps you here at Dal.”

“A sweet girl she is, my friends, and as pretty as a picture, besides; and by Saint Olaf! I’m only sixty.”

“Here’s to the health of Mister Sylvius!”

“And to yours, my dear boys. Roam about the country, gather wisdom, and yet be merry. Life is all sunshine at your age. But keep away from the Maristien. Joel and Hulda may not be on hand to rescue such of you as are imprudent enough to venture there.”

Then they would resume their journey, making the whole valley ring with their joyful God-aften.

Once or twice Joel was obliged to act as guide to some tourists who wished to make the ascent of Gousta. Sylvius Hogg was anxious to accompany them. He declared that he was all right again. In fact, the wound on his leg was nearly healed; but Hulda positively forbade him to undertake a trip which would certainly prove too fatiguing for him, and Hulda’s word was law.

A wonderful mountain, though, is this Gousta, whose lofty summit traversed by deep snow-covered ravines, rises out of a forest of pines that form a thick green ruff about its snowy throat! And what a superb view one enjoys from its summit. To the east lies the bailiwick of Numedal; On the west, the Hardanger and its magnificent glaciers; down at the base of the mountain, the winding valley of Vesfjorddal between Lakes Tinn and Mjos, Dal, and its miniature houses, and the bright waters of the Maan leaping and dancing merrily along through the verdant meadows to the music of its own voice.

To make the ascent Joel was obliged to leave Dal at five o’clock in the morning. He usually returned about six o’clock in the evening, and Sylvius Hogg and Hulda always went to meet him. As soon as the primitive ferry-boat landed the tourists and their guide a cordial greeting ensued, and the three spent yet another pleasant evening together. The professor still limped a little, but he did not complain. Indeed, one might almost have fancied that he was in no haste to be cured, or rather to leave Dame Hansen’s hospitable roof.

The time certainly passed swiftly and pleasantly there. He had written to Christiania that he should probably spend some time at Dal. The story of his adventure at the Rjukanfos was known throughout the country. The newspapers had got hold of it, and embellished the account after their fashion, so a host of letters came to the inn, to say nothing of pamphlets and newspapers. All these had to be read and answered, and the names of Joel and Hulda which were necessarily mentioned in the correspondence, soon became known throughout Norway.

Nevertheless, this sojourn at Dame Hansen’s inn could not be prolonged indefinitely, though Sylvius Hogg was still as much in doubt as ever, in regard to the manner in which he should pay his debt of gratitude. Of late, however, he had begun to suspect that this family was not as happy as he had at first supposed. The impatience with which the brother and sister awaited the arrival of the daily mail from Christiania and Bergen, their disappointment and even chagrin on finding no letters for them, all this was only too significant.

It was already the ninth of June, and still no news from the “Viking!” The vessel was now more than a fortnight overdue, and not a single line from Ole! No news to assuage Hulda’s anxiety. The poor girl was beginning to despair, and Sylvius Hogg saw that her eyes were red with weeping when he met her in the morning.

“What can be the matter?” he said to himself, more than once. “They seem to be concealing some misfortunes from me. Is it a family secret, I wonder, with which a stranger can not be allowed to meddle? But do they still regard me as a stranger? No. Still, they must think so; but when I announce my departure they will perhaps understand that it is a true friend who is about to leave them.”

So that very day he remarked: “My friends, the hour is fast approaching when, to my great regret, I shall be obliged to bid you good-bye.”

“So soon, Mister Sylvius, so soon?” exclaimed Joel, with a dismay he could not conceal.

“The time has passed very quickly in your company, but it is now seventeen days since I came to Dal.”

“What! seventeen days!” repeated Hulda.

“Yes, my dear child, and the end of my vacation is approaching. I have only a week at my disposal if I should extend my journey to Drammen and Kongsberg. And though the Storthing is indebted to you for not being obliged to elect another deputy in my place, the Storthing will know no better how to compensate you than I do.”

“Oh! Mister Sylvius,” cried Hulda, placing her little hand upon his lips to silence him.

“Oh, I understand, Hulda. That is a forbidden subject, at least here.”

“Here and everywhere,” replied the girl, gayly.

“So be it! I am not my own master, and I must obey. But you and Joel must come and pay me a visit at Christiania.”

“Pay you a visit?”

“Yes, pay me a visit; spend several weeks at my house in company with your mother, of course.”

“And if we should leave the inn who will attend to things in our absence?” replied Joel.

“But your presence here is not necessary after the excursion season is over, I imagine; so I have fully made up my mind to come for you late in the autumn.”

“It will be impossible, my dear Mister Sylvius, for us to accept — “

“On the contrary, it will be perfectly possible. Don’t say no. I shall not be content with such an answer. Besides, when I get you there in the very best room in my house, in the care of my old Kate and faithful Fink, you will be my own children, and then you can certainly tell me what I can do for you.”

“What you can do for us?” repeated Joel, with a glance at his sister.

“Brother!” exclaimed Hulda, as if divining his intention.

“Speak, my boy, speak!”

“Ah, well, Mister Sylvius, you can do us a great honor.”

“How?”

“By consenting to be present at my sister Hulda’s marriage, if it would not inconvenience you too much.”

“Hulda’s marriage!” exclaimed Sylvius Hogg. “What! my little Hulda is going to be married, and no one has said a word to me about it!”

“Oh, Mister Sylvius!” exclaimed the girl, her eyes filling with tears.

“And when is the marriage to take place?”

“As soon as it pleases God to bring her betrothed, Ole Kamp, back to us,” replied the girl.

CHAPTER II.

At the time I speak of, as I have read in history-books, Germany was divided into ten circles. Later on new arrangements were made which established the Confederation of the Rhine in 1806 under the protectorate of Napoleon; and then came the Germanic Confederation of 1815. One of these circles, comprising the electorates of Saxony aud Brandenburg, then bore the name of Upper Saxony.

This electorate of Brandenburg became later on one of the provinces of Prussia, and was divided into two districts, the district of Brandenburg and the district of Potsdam. I say this so that you will know where to find the little town of Belzingen, which is in the district of Potsdam — in the north-western part — a few leagues from the frontier.

It was on this frontier that I arrived on the 16th of June, after traversing the one hundred and fifty leagues that separated it from France. I had taken nine days on the journey, and that will show you that the communications were not easy. I had worn out more nails in my boots than in horse’s shoes or wheels of carriages — or rather carts, to be more correct. I was not quite reduced to my eggs, as they say in Picardy, but I had not saved much from my pay, and wished to be as economical as possible. Fortunately, during my stay in garrison on the frontier I had picked up a few words of German, which came in useful in getting me out of difficulties. It was, however, difficult to hide that I was a Frenchman; and consequently more than a passing look was given to me as I went by. I took care not to say that I was Quartermaster Natal is Del-pierre. You will think me wise under the circumstances, when a war was threatened between us and Prussia and Austria, the whole of Germany in fact.

At the frontier of the district I had a pleasant surprise. I was on foot. I was walking toward an inn to get my breakfast, the inn of Ecktvende — in French the Tourne Coin. After a coldish night a beautiful morning. The seven-o’clock sun was drinking the dew of the meadows. There was quite a swarm of birds on the beeches, oaks, elms, and birches. The country was but little cultivated. Many of the fields lay fallow. The climate is a severe one in these parts.

At the door of the Ecktvende a small cariole was waiting, drawn by a wiry-looking nag, able perhaps to do a couple of leagues an hour if there were not too many hills.

With it was a woman, a tall, strong, well-built woman, with a corsage with laced straps, straw hat with yellow ribbons, and red and violet banded skirt, all well fitting and very clean, as if it was a Sunday or holiday costume.

And it was a holiday for the woman, although it was not Sunday.

She looked at me, and I looked at her looking at me.

Suddenly she opened her arms, and ran toward me, exclaiming: “Natalis!”

“Irma!”

It was my sister. She had recognized me. Truly women have better eyes for remembrances that come from the heart — or rather quicker eyes. It was thirteen years since we had seen each other. How well she had kept herself! She reminded me of our mother, with her large, quick eyes, and her black hair just beginning to turn gray on the temples. I kissed her on her two plump cheeks, reddened by the morning breeze, and I leave you to imagine what smacks she gave mine!

It was for her, to see her, that I had obtained my leave. I was uneasy at her being out of France now the clouds had begun to gather. A French woman among the Germans would be in an awkward position should war be declared. It would be better for her to be in her own country; and, if my sister chose, I intended to take her back with me. To do that she would have to leave her mistress, Mme. Keller, and I doubted if she would consent. That was to be inquired into.

“How glad I am to see you, Natalis,” she said; “to find ourselves together again so far from Picardy! It feels as though you had brought some of our native air with you! It is time enough since we saw each other!”

“Thirteen years, Irma!”

“Yes, thirteen years! Thirteen years of separation! That is a long time, Natalis!”

“Dear Irma!” I replied.

And there we were, my sister and I, with arms linked together walking up and down the road.

“And how are you?” asked I.

“Always pretty well, Natalis. And you?”

“The same!”

“And you are a quartermaster! There is an honor for the family!”

“Yes, Irma, and a great honor! Who would have thought that the little goose-minder of Grattepanche would become a quartermaster! But we must not talk about it too much.”

“Why not?”

“Because to tell everybody I am a soldier would not be without its inconveniences in this country When rumors of war are flying about, it is a serious matter for a Frenchman to find himself in Germany. No! I am your brother, Monsieur Nothing-at-all, who has come to see his sister.”

“Good, Natalis; we shall be silent about it, I promise you.”

“That will be best, for German spies have good ears.”

“Do not be uneasy.”

“And if you will take my advice, Irma, I will take you back with me to France.”

A look of sorrow came into my sister’s eyes, as she gave me the answer I expected: “Go away from Madame Keller, Natalis! when you will see and understand that I can not leave her alone.”

I understood this as it was, and I thought it best to postpone what I had to say.

And then Irma resumed her bright eyes and sweet voice, asking me for the news of the country and our people.

“And our sister Firminie?”

“She is well. I have had news of her from our neighbor Letocard, who came to Charleville two months ago. You remember Letocard?”

“The wheelwright’s son?”

“Yes! You know, or you do not know, that he is married to a Matifas!”

“The daughter of the old woman at Fouencamps?”

“Herself. He told me that our sister does not complain of her health. Ah! they have to work, and work hard, at Escarbotin! They have four children now, and the last one — a troublesome boy! Luckily, she has an honest husband, a good workman, and not much of a drunkard, except on Mondays. But she has had much trouble in her time.”

“She is getting old.”

“She is five years older than you, Irma, and fourteen older than I am! That is something! But what would you have? She is a brave woman, and so are you.”

“Oh! Natalis! If I have known sorrow, it has only been the sorrow of others. Since I left Grattepanche I have had no trouble of my own. But to see people suffer near you when you can do nothing — “

My sister’s face clouded again. She turned the conversation.

“And your journey?” she asked.

“All right! The weather has been good enough, for the season. And, as you see, my legs are pretty strong. Besides, who cares for fatigue, when he is sure of a welcome when he arrives?”

“As you are, Natalis, and they will give you a good welcome, and they will love you in the family as they love me.”

“Excellent Madame Keller! Do you know, sister, I shall not recognize her. For me she is still the daughter of Monsieur and Madame Acloque, the good people of Saint Sauflieu. When she was married, twenty-five years ago, I was only a boy. But father and mother used to tell us about her.”

“Poor woman,” said Irma, “she is much changed. What a wife she has been, Natalis; and what a mother she is still!”

. “And her son?”

“The best of sons, who has bravely set to work to take the place of his father, who died fifteen months ago.”

“Brave Monsieur Jean!”

“He adores his mother; he lives only for her, as she lives only for him.”

“I have never seen him, Irma, and I am impatient to know him. It seems that I love the young man already.”

“There is nothing astonishing in that, Natalis.”

“Then let us be off.”

“Come along, then.”

“In a minute! How far are we from Belzingen?”

“Five long leagues.”

“Bah!” was my answer. “If I was alone I would do that in three hours. But we must — “

“I will do it quicker than you, Natalis.”

“On your legs?”

“No, on my horse’s legs.”

And Irma pointed to the cariole at the inn door.

“Did you come to look for me in that cariole?”

“Yes, Natalis; to bring you to Belzingen. I started early this morning, and I was here at seven o’clock to the minute. And if the letter you sent had come sooner, I should have gone further to meet you.”

“Oh! there would have been no good in that. Come, let us get off. You have nothing to pay at the inn? I have a few kreutzers — “

“Thanks, Natalis, it is done, and all we have to do is to start.”

“While we were talking, the innkeeper of the Ecktvende, leaning against the door, seemed to be listening, without taking much notice of us.

I thought this unsatisfactory. Perhaps it would have been better for us to have spoken to each other further off. He was a fat man, quite a mountain, with a disagreeable face, eyes deeply set, folded eyelids, small nose, and a large mouth, as if he had eaten his soup with a sword when he was young.

After all, we had not said anything that could damage us. Perhaps he had not heard all that passed. If he did not know French he would not know that I came from France.

We got into the cariole. The innkeeper saw us leave without making the slightest move.

I took the reins. I started the nag briskly; we spun along like the wind in January. That did not keep us from talking, and Irma told me how matters stood. And from what I knew already, and what she told me, I will now say something about the Keller family.

CHAPTER IX.

WAITING.

SUCH were the first consequences of the generous action of freeing his slaves before the Federals were masters of the territory.

Texar and his partisans were now in power, and could indulge in any deed of violence that their brutal natures suggested. By his vague denunciations the Spaniard had not been able to put James Burbank in prison, but he had gained his end none the-less by taking advantage of the excitement of the people at the conduct of the magistrates. After the acquittal of the anti-slavery planter, who was going to proclaim emancipation on the estate, Texar had raised a crowd of malcontents and headed a revolution in the town. He had superseded the old magistrates by the most advanced members of his party, formed a committee of small whites and Floridans of Spanish origin, and assured himself of the co-operation of the militia, with whom he had been in treaty for a long time, and who at once fraternized with the people. The fate of every person in the county was now in his hands.

James Burbank’s conduct had not been approved by the majority of the planters on the banks of the St. John’s, who feared that their own slaves would compel them to follow his example. Most of them being ardent Southerners, pledged to withstand the pretensions of the Unionists, saw with extreme irritation the advance of the Federal armies, and declared that Florida should resist them as the other Southern States were resisting them. At the outset of the war they had treated the question of enfranchisement with indifference, but they had hastened to range themselves under the flag of Jefferson Davis, and to do their utmost to second the efforts of the rebels against the Government of Abraham Lincoln.

Under such circumstances there was little wonder that Texar, having the same opinions and interests to defend, should have succeeded as he had done, notwithstanding his evil reputation. He had seized his post, however, not so much to organize resistance and repulse Commodore Dupont’s flotilla as to gratify his evil instincts; and that is why, on account of the hatred he bore towards the Burbank family, his first care had been to reply to the liberation at Camdless Bay by the edict which obliged the slaves who had been freed to leave the territory in forty-eight hours.

“In acting thus,” he said, “I protect the interests of the planters. They cannot but approve of a measure which will prevent the rising of the slaves in Florida.”

The majority had thus applauded without reservation this order of Texar’s, arbitrary though it was. It was arbitrary, unique, and indefensible. In freeing his slaves, James Burbank was only acting within his right which he had always possessed. He could have done it before the war had divided the United States on the question of slavery. Nothing had occurred to supersede this right, and Texar’s action was neither just nor legal.

But Camdless Bay would be deprived of its natural defenders, and Texar’s object would be attained.

This was well understood at Castle House; and it would perhaps have been better if James Burbank had waited till he could act without danger. But, as we know, he had been charged before the Jacksonville magistrates with acting contrary to his opinions, and so placed that he must conform to them; and, incapable of mastering his indignation, he had declared himself publicly, and had publicly proceeded before the people of his plantation to give his slaves their freedom. By doing so he had injured his own position and that of his guests, and now it must be decided in all haste what was to be done.

In the first place — and this very evening the discussion was entered upon — could they go back on this act of emancipation? No. That would make no difference in the state of affairs. Texar would not recognize such a tardy going back. Besides, the negroes, when they learnt what the Jacksonville authorities had decided to do, would unanimously imitate Zermah’s example. Rather than leave Camdless Bay and be hunted from the State, they would return to their condition as slaves until the time when they would have the right to be free and live freely where they pleased.

But what would be the good of this? They would, under their old master, defend the plantation which had become their home, and with all the more ardour now they had been freed. This Zermah guaranteed. James Burbank therefore decided that’ he would not recall what he had done. All the rest were of his opinion.

And they were not mistaken. In the morning, when the new decree of the Jacksonville Committee was known, marks of devotion and tokens of fidelity came in from all sides. If Texar attempted to put his edict in force they would resist it. If he used force, they would use force to repel him.

“And, besides,” said Carrol, “events are hurrying on. In a couple of days, in twenty-four hours perhaps, the slave question in Florida will be settled. To-morrow the Federal flotilla may force the mouths of the St. John’s, and then — “

“And if the militia, aided by the Confederate troops, make any resistance?” asked Mr. Stannard.

“If they resist, their resistance will not last long,” said Carrol. “Without ships or gunners, how can they oppose the passage of Commodore Dupont, the landing of Sherman, the occupation of the ports of Fernandina, Jacksonville, and St. Augustine? When these points are occupied, the Federals will be masters of Florida. Then Texar and his friends will have to run.”

“If they could only catch him,” said James Burbank, “then we should see if, when he is in the hands of Federal justice, he could substantiate some alibi to escape the punishment he deserves.”

The night passed without the security of Castle House being disturbed. In the morning the rumours that were flying about were inquired into. The plantation was not threatened that day. Texar’s decree had ordered the expulsion of the blacks in forty-eight hours. James Burbank had determined to resist the order, and occupied the time in preparing for the defence of his house.

It was, however, important to get at all the reports from the theatre of war. Any moment the state of affairs might be changed; and James Burbank and his brother-in-law set off on horseback to learn what they could. Descending the right bank of the St. John’s, they rode towards the mouth of the river, so as to explore for a dozen miles the widening of the river, which ends at San Pablo, where the lighthouse stands. As they passed Jacksonville they would be able to see if there was any gathering of boats indicating an approaching attack on Camdless Bay. In half an hour they had passed the boundary of the plantation.

Meanwhile Mrs. Burbank and Alice were walking in the park of Castle House. In vain Mr. Stannard tried to calm their apprehensions. They both had a presentiment of a coming catastrophe.

Zermah had been among the barracoons. Although the threat of expulsion was known, the blacks heeded it not. They had returned to their usual work. Like their old master, they had made up their minds to resist If they were free, by what right were they to be expelled from the country of their adoption?, Nothing could be more satisfactory than Zermah’s report — the blacks of Camdless Bay could be trusted.

“Yes,” said she, “my companions will all return to slavery, as I have done, rather than leave their master! And if they are obliged, they will defend their rights.”

Nothing more was to be done than to wait for the return of James Burbank and Edward Carrol.

At this date, the 1st of March, it was not impossible that the Federal flotilla had arrived in sight of Pablo lighthouse, ready to occupy the mouth of the St. John’s. The Confederates had not too many militia to oppose their passage, and the authorities of Jacksonville would have none to spare to carry out their threats against the former slaves of Camdless Bay.

Mr. Perry made his daily visit to the different workshops and storehouses on the estate. He also could bear witness to the good disposition of the negroes. Although he did not care to admit it, he saw that if they had changed their condition, their assiduity at their work and devotion to the Burbank family had not changed. To resist all that the Jacksonville populace attempted against them they were firmly resolved. But, in Mr. Perry’s opinion, these fine feelings would not last. Nature would reclaim her rights. After tasting independence, these enfranchised negroes would return to slavery, and descend to the place that Nature intended for them, between the man and the animal.

As he was thinking of these things, who should he run against but the conceited Pygmalion, strutting like a peacock with his head on high, his hands behind his back, and evidently thinking very much of himself as a free man. One thing was certain, and that was that he was not doing much work.

“Good morning, Mr. Perry!” said he superbly.

“What are you doing, Mr. Idle?”

“I am taking a walk! Have I not the right to do nothing now I am no longer a vile slave, and have the certificate of liberation in my pocket?”

“And who is to feed you, Pyg?”

“I am, Mr. Perry.”

“And how?”

“By eating.”

“And who is to give you what you eat?”

“My master.”

“Your master! Have you forgotten that now you have no master, noodle?”

“No. I had one, and I shall have one; and Mr. Burbank will not send me away from the plantation, where, I can say without boasting, I am of some use.”

“But he will send you away!”

“Will he?”

“Certainly. When yen belonged to him he could keep you to do nothing. But now you do not belong to him he will show you the door if you do not work, and we shall see what you will do with your liberty, poor lunatic!”

Evidently Pyg had not studied the question from that point of view.

“What, Mr. Perry? Do you think Mr. Eurbank would be so cruel — “

“It is not cruel; it is only logical. Besides, whether Mr. James wishes it or no, there is, a decree of the Committee at Jacksonville ordering every freed slave out of Florida.”

“Then that is true, then?”

“Quite true; and we shall now see how you and your companions will get out of the difficulty now you have lost your master.”

“I am not going to leave Camdless Bay even if I am free.”

“You are free to go, but not free to stop! You had better pack up.”

“And what’s to become of me?”

“That is your business.”

“But if I am free,” said Pygmalion, returning again to that point, “If I am free — “

“That is not enough, it seems!”

“Tell me what I ought to do, Mr. Perry.”

“What you ought to do? Well; listen, and follow me, if you can.”

“I follow.”

“You are free, are you not?”

“Yes, and I have got the certificate in my pocket”

“Well; tear it up.”

“Never.”

“Then there is only one way I can see for you to stop here.” —

“What is that?”

“Change your colour, Pyg! When you are white you can live at Camdless Bay; till then you cannot.”

The overseer, chuckling at having given Pyg’s vanity such a lesson, turned on his heel.

Pyg remained deep in thought. He saw that to be no longer a slave was not enough to keep him his place. He must be white? And how could he become white, when Nature had made him black as ebony? And as he returned to Castle House he scratched his head as if he were tearing the hair from the skin.

A little before noon James Burbank and Edward Carrol returned to Castle House. They had seen nothing alarming at Jacksonville. The boats were in their usual place, some moored to the pier, others anchored out in the stream. A few detachments of Confederates had been seen on the left bank of the river, marching towards the north towards Nassau county. Nothing seemed to threaten Camdless Bay.

When they reached the end of the estuary, Burbank and his companion had looked out over the open sea. There was not a sail in sight. Not a cloud of smoke from some steamer could be traced on the horizon to indicate the presence or approach of a squadron. Preparations for defence there were none. There were no batteries, no earthworks. If the Federal ships appeared either at Nassau Creek or at the mouth of the St. John’s, there was nothing to stop them. Only Pablo lighthouse was dismantled; the lantern was unshipped; and the passes were thus unlighted. But that would only prevent the entrance of a flotilla during the night.

Such was the report they brought back with them. There seemed to be nothing doing at Jacksonville to indicate an approaching attack on Camdless Bay.

“That is well,” said Mr. Stannard, “but it is unsatisfactory that Dupont’s ships are not yet in sight; there is a delay there that I cannot understand!”

“Yes,” said Carrol; “if the fleet sailed the day before yesterday from St. Andrew’s Bay, it ought now to be off Fernandina.”

“It has been very bad weather during these last two or three days,” said James Burbank. “It is possible that with these westerly winds Dupont has had to go out to sea.

The wind went down this morning, and I should not be surprised if this very night — “

“May heaven listen to you, my dear James,” said Mrs. Burbank, “and come to our help.”

“If Pablo lighthouse,” said Alice, “is not lighted, how could the flotilla get into the St. John’s to-night?”

“It would be impossible for them to get into the St. John’s,” said Burbank. “But before attacking the mouths of the river the Federals would have to capture Amelia Island and then Fernandina, so as to command the railway to Cedar Keys. I do not expect Dupont’s vessels up the St. John’s for three or four days.”

“That is so, James,” said Carrol. “But I hope the capture of Fernandina would force the Confederates to retreat. The militia might even abandon Jacksonville before the arrival of the gunboats. Then Camdless Bay would no longer be threatened by Texar and his accomplices — “

“That is possible,” said James Burbank. “Once the Federals set foot in Florida, our safety will be, to a certain extent, secured. Is there any news on the plantation?”

“None,” said Alice. “I heard from Zermah that the blacks had gone to work as usual, and that they are ready to fight to the last in defence of Camdless Bay.”

“Let us hope we shall not have to put their devotion to the proof! I shall not be at all surprised if the scoundrels-who have got the upper hand at Jacksonville take themselves off as soon as the Federal fleet is signalled. But we must be on our guard. After lunch, Stannard, come with Carrol and me over to the most exposed part of the estate. I do not want you and Alice to be in as much danger here as at Jacksonville. In truth, I shall never forgive myself for bringing you here, if things turn out badly.”

“My dear James,” said Stannard, “if we had stayed in our house at Jacksonville we should have been exposed to the exactions of the authorities, like all the rest who hold anti-slavery opinions.”

“In any case, Mr. Burbank,” said Alice, “even if the danger is greater here, is it not better for us to share it with you?”

“Yes, my dear girl,” said James Burbank. “Come on! I hope and think that Texar will not have time to put his scheme against our men into execution.”

During the afternoon Burbank and his friends visited the barracoons with Mr. Perry. They could see for themselves that the feeling among the blacks was excellent. Burbank called the overseer’s attention to the zeal with which the newly freed negroes had returned to work. Not one was absent from his post.

“Yes, yes!” answered Perry. “But we have to see how the work will turn out in the end.”

“But they did not change their arms when they changed their condition, did they?”

“Not yet; but you will soon see that they have not the same hands at the end of the arms.”

“Well, Perry,” replied Burbank gaily, “their hands will always have five fingers, I imagine; and we cannot expect them to have more.”

As soon as the round had been made, Mr. Burbank and his friends returned to Castle House. The evening passed as quietly as the last. In the absence of all news from Jacksonville there seemed to be ground for hope that Texar had given up his threat, or that he had no time to execute it.

Careful precautions were, however, taken during the night. Perry and the assistant overseers stationed sentries round the estate, and particularly watched the banks of the river. The blacks had been cautioned to retreat on the palisades in case of an alarm, and a sentry was on guard at the gate.

Many times did James Burbank and his friends go out to see that their orders had been attended to. When the sun rose nothing had happened. The night had passed without incident.

CHAPTER X.

THE MORNING OF THE 2ND OF MARCH.

NEXT day, March 2nd, James Burbank had news by one of his assistant overseers, who had crossed the river and returned to Jacksonville without awaking suspicion.

The news was undoubtedly correct and it was important.

Commodore Dupont had anchored at daybreak in St. Andrew’s Bay, on the coast of Georgia. The Wabash, on which he had hoisted his flag, was at the head of a squadron of twenty-six vessels, of which eighteen were gunboats, one a cutter, one an armed transport, and six were ordinary transports with General Wright’s brigade on board. And, as Gilbert had said in his last letter, General Sherman accompanied the expedition.

Commodore Dupont, whom the bad weather had kept back, had at once set to work to take possession of the passes of the St. Mary’s. These channels, difficult enough of access, open off the mouth of the river of the same name to the north of Amelia Island on the frontier of Georgia and Florida.

Fernandina, the principal position of the island, was protected by Fort Clinch with a garrison of fifteen hundred men behind its thick stone walls. Would the Southerners hold out against the Federals in this fortress,1 wherein they might make a lengthened defence? It would be thought so.

Nothing of the kind was done. According to the assistant-overseer’s report, a rumour had reached Jacksonville that the Confederates had evacuated Fort Clinch as soon as the squadron appeared in St. Mary’s Bay; and not only had they abandoned Fort Clinch, but they had cleared out of Fernandina, Cumberland Island, and all that part of the Florida coast.

This was all the news that reached Castle House, but there is no need to dwell on its importance with regard to the position at Camdless Bay. Now that the Federals had at last landed in Florida, the whole State would soon be in their power. Obviously a few days would elapse before the gunboats crossed the bar of the St. John’s. But their presence would have its effect on the new authorities of Jacksonville, and there was room to hope that, in fear of reprisals, Texar and his supporters would not dare to take action against the plantation of so prominent a Northerner as James Burbank.

This was reassuring for the family, whose fear was suddenly changed to hope. And Alice Stannard and Mrs. Burbank ceased to tremble for Gilbert’s safety, with the certainty that he was not far off and the assurance that he would soon return. The young lieutenant at St. Andrew’s was within thirty miles of Camdless Bay. He was on board the gunboat Ottawa, which had just been distinguished by a feat of arms unexampled in naval annals.

What had happened on the morning of the 2nd of March was this. The assistant-overseer had not ascertained these details during his visit to Jacksonville, but it is important that they should be known on account of the events that followed.

As soon as Commodore Dupont. discovered that Fort Clinch had been evacuated by the Confederate garrison, he sent a few vessels of light draught across St. Mary’s Channel. Already the white population had retired into the interior of the country with the Southern troops, abandoning the towns, villages, and plantations on the coast. There was a regular panic due to the fear of the reprisals which, the Secessionists falsely stated, were intended by the Federal chief. Not only in Florida, but along the Georgian frontier, along the whole extent of country between the bays of Ossabaw and St. Mary’s, the people beat a precipitate retreat so as to escape from the troops landed by General Wright. Under these circumstances, Commodore Dupont did not have to fire a shot to get possession of Fort Clinch and Fernandina. The gunboat Ottazva, on which was Gilbert, accompanied by Mars, acted as second, and had to use its guns in the manner following.

The town of Fernandina is connected with the west coast of Florida on the Gulf of Mexico by a branch railway which runs to Cedar Keys. The railway runs along the coast of Amelia Island; then before it reaches the mainland it crosses Nassau Creek on a long bridge of piles.

When the Ottawa reached the centre of the creek a train was on the bridge. The garrison of Fernandina was in flight, taking its provisions with it, and followed by many of the more or less important people of the town. Immediately the gunboat started at full speed towards the bridge and fired her bow-chasers at the piles and the train. Gilbert was in charge of the firing, and many good shots were made; among them a shell struck the last carriage of the train and broke the axle and the coupling. The train did not stop for an instant — to do so would have been dangerous — and leaving the carriage to look after itself, steamed off full speed to the south-west. A detachment of Federal troops landed at Fernandina appeared at this moment, and rushed on to the bridge. The carriage was captured with the fugitives it contained, who were chiefly civilians. The prisoners were taken to the superior officer, Colonel Gardner, in command at Fernandina, who took their names, kept them for twenty-four hours on one of the vessels of the squadron, as an example, and then released them.

When the train had run out of sight, the Ottawa went off to attack and seize a vessel laden with war material, which had taken refuge in the bay. These events were calculated to spread discouragement among the Confederate troops and the people of the Floridan towns; and this was particularly the case at Jacksonville. The estuary of the St. John’s would be forced as easily as had been that of the St. Mary’s; that was very evident, and probably the Unionists would meet with no more resistance at Jacksonville than at St. Augustine and the other coast towns.

This was good news for James Burbank. He might well believe that Texar dared not now give effect to his plans. He and his partisans would be superseded, and in due course the honest folks would resume the power of which an outbreak of the mob had deprived them.

There was every reason to think in this way and to hope; and as soon as the staff at Camdless Bay heard the important news, which was soon known at Jacksonville, their joy showed itself in noisy cheering, in which Pygmalion took a prominent part. Nevertheless, it would not do to abandon the precautions which had been taken to secure the safety of the estate, at least until the gunboats appeared in the river.

Unfortunately — and this James Burbank could neither imagine nor suppose — a whole week was to elapse before the Federals were ready to enter the St. John’s. And during that time what dangers were to threaten Camdless Bay!

Commodore Dupont’s plan was to show the Federal flag at every point where vessels could go. He split up his squadron into detachments. One gunboat was sent up the St. Mary’s River to occupy the little town of that name, and advance some sixty miles up the country. To the south were sent three other gunboats, commanded by Captain Godon, to explore the bays, seize Jekyll and St. Simon’s islands, and take possession of the small towns of Brunswick and Darien, which had been partly abandoned by their inhabitants. Six steamers of light draught were destined, under the orders of Commandant Stevens, to enter the St. John’s and reduce Jacksonville. The rest of the squadron, under Dupont, was to take care of St. Augustine’s and blockade the coast down to Mosquito Inlet, the passes of which would .be then closed against contraband of war.

But this series of operations could not be accomplished in twenty-four hours, and twenty-four hours would be enough for the devastation of the country by the Southerners.

About three o’clock in the afternoon James Burbank had his first suspicions of what was being devised against him. Mr. Perry, after a round of inspection on the frontier of the plantation, came hurriedly into Castle House and said —

“Mr. Burbank, they have reported that some suspicious vagabonds are on their way to Camdless Bay.”

“From the north?”

“From the north.”

Almost at the same moment Zermah, returning from the landing-place, told her master that there was a lot of boats crossing the river and approaching the right bank.

“They are coming from Jacksonville?”

“Certainly.”

“Go into the house,” said Burbank, “and don’t go out again, Zermah, on any pretence.”

“No, master”

Burbank went off to reconnoitre. When he returned, he could not but tell his friends that matters looked threatening. An attack seemed almost certain, and it was better that all should be forewarned.

“And so,” said Mr. Stannard, “these scoundrels, on the eve of being curbed by the Federals, dare — “

“Yes,” said Burbank coldly. “Texar could not miss such an opportunity of being revenged when he is free to disappear as soon as his vengeance is satisfied. Then with more animation he resumed, “But will this man’s crimes always remain unpunished? Will he always get away? In truth after doubting the justice of man are we to doubt the justice of Heaven — “

“James,” said Mrs. Burbank, “at a time when we may only have the help of God to trust to, do not reproach Him — “

“And let us put ourselves under His care,” said Alice Stannard.

James Burbank, recovering his coolness, set about giving his orders for the defence of the house.

“Have the blacks been told?” asked Edward Carrol.

“They will be.” said Burbank. “My idea is to defend the palisades. We cannot think of defending the whole boundary of Camdless Bay against an armed mob, for it is likely that the assailants will be in large numbers. We must get all the defenders into the inner ring. If, unfortunately, the palisade is forced, Castle House, which once defied the Seminoles. may perhaps be held against Texar’s bandits. My wife, Alice, and Dy and Zermah, to whom I entrust them, must not leave the house without my order. If matters become serious, everything is prepared for them to save themselves by the tunnel which communicates with the little Marine Creek of the St. John’s; there a boat will be found in charge of two of our men. It is hidden in the bushes; and, Zermah, you must go in it up the river to Cedar Rock.”

“But you, James?”

“And you, father?”

Mrs. Burbank had seized the planter by the arm, and Alice had caught hold of Mr. Stannard, as if the time had come for them to escape from Castle House.

“We will do all we can to rejoin you,” said Burbank, “when the position is no longer tenable. But you must promise, if the danger becomes too great, to get away to safety at Cedar Rock. We shall want all we have of courage and audacity to keep back the scoundrels, and resist them till our ammunition fails.”

Evidently this is what would have to be done if the assailants were too numerous and succeeded in forcing the palisades and invading the park so as to make a direct attack on Castle House.

James Burbank then called together his men, and Perry and his assistants ran off to the barracoons with his orders. In less than an hour the blacks, in fighting trim, were drawn up near the gate in the palisades. Their wives and children had gone off to seek safety in the woods round Camdless Bay.

Unfortunately the means of organizing a serious defence were limited. Since the beginning of the war it had been almost impossible to procure arms and ammunition in efficient quantity. Burbank had in vain tried to buy .hem at Jacksonville; and he had to be content with what remained in the house after the last siege by the Seminoles.

His plan was to preserve Castle House from being burnt Dr stormed. He could not dream of protecting the estate, saving the workshops, stores, factories, or barracoons, or preventing the plantation from being devastated. He had hardly four hundred negroes in a state to oppose the assailants, and these were insufficiently armed. A few dozen muskets were distributed to the best men, while the arms of precision were kept in reserve for James Burbank, his friends, Perry, and the assistant-overseers.

The whole force was drawn up at the gate in such a manner as to repulse the threatened assault on the palisades, which were also defended by the creek that ran round them.

Amid the confusion Pygmalion was very busy and exited, bustling hither and thither and doing nothing. He vas like one of those circus clowns who pretend to do everything and do nothing, much to the amusement of the audience. Pyg, considering himself as belonging specially:o the defenders of the house, did not dream of associating with his comrades outside. Never had he felt himself so devoted to James Burbank.

All was ready in the garrison. On what side was the attack to come? If the assailants appeared on the northern side the defence could be most easily conducted. If, on:he contrary, they attacked on the river-front, the defence Lou Id be more difficult, owing to Camdless Bay being open on that side. A landing is always a difficult operation, it is:rue, and, under any circumstances, it would require a good many boats to transport an armed band from one bank of he St. John’s to the other. Thus said Burbank, Carrol, and Stannard as they watched the return of the scouts who lad been sent to the boundary of the plantation. It would lot do to be in the dark as to the manner of attack.

About half-past four in the evening the scouts returned from the northern side of the estate and made their report.

A column of armed men were advancing in that direction. Was this a detachment of the county militia or only a division of the mob, attracted by the hope of pillage, and charged with the execution of Texar’s decree concerning the freed slaves? In any case, the column was a thousand strong, and nothing could be done against it with the force on the plantation. It might perhaps be hoped that, if the palisades were carried by assault, Castle House would offer a longer and more serious resistance.

It was evident that the column had avoided a landing under difficulties in the little harbour of Camdless Bay, and had crossed the river below Jacksonville in some fifty boats three or four journeys being sufficient to ferry it over. And Burbank’s precaution of collecting his men within the palisades had been a wise one, for it would have been impossible for him to defend his frontier against such an army.

Who was at the head of the assailants — Texar in person? Probably not. At the time when the approach of the Federals was threatened the Spaniard might consider it too risky to place himself at the head of his men. If lie had done so, it would be because, when his work of vengeance was accomplished, the plantation devastated, the Burbanks massacred or fallen into his hands, he had made up his mind to escape to the south, perhaps even to the Everglades (the backwoods of Southern Florida), where it would be difficult to get at him.

This was the most serious of the possibilities, and Burbank had given it anxious thought. Hence it was that he had decided to put in safety his wife and child, and Alice Stannard, entrusted to the devotion of Zermah, at Cedar Rock, which was about a mile above Camdless Bay. If they had to abandon Castle House to the assailants, he and his friends could there rejoin the family, and wait till safety was assured to the honest people of Florida under the protection of the Federal army.

And so a boat had been hidden in the reeds of the St.

John’s, and left to the keeping of two negroes at the end of the tunnel which, led from the house to Marine Creek.But before the parting took place, it would be necessary to defend the house for a few hours — at least until nightfall, when, in the darkness, the boat could go up the river in secret, without risk of pursuit from the suspicious-looking canoes that were prowling about in such numbers.

CHAPTER XI.

THE EVENING OF THE 2ND OF MARCH.

James Burbank, with his companions, and most of the blacks were ready for the fight. He had now nothing to do but to wait. His arrangements were to make his first stand at the palisades round the private park, and then, if driven back, to make another stand behind the walls of Castle House.

About five o’clock the increasing tumult showed that the assailants were not far off. From the shouting it was only too easy to understand that they were in possession of the northern part of the estate. On the right, thick columns of smoke began to rise above the trees. The sawmills had been set on fire, and the barracoons, after being pillaged, were in flames. The poor people had not had time to put in safety the few things that the act of liberation had made their own the evening before; and loud were the cries of despair and anger that answered the shouts of the marauders.

Gradually the shouters approached Castle House. A strange light appeared in the northern horizon, as if the sun was setting in that direction. Occasional puffs of warm smoky air swept up against the house. Violent detonations produced by the burning of the dry wood in the workshops were heard every now and then. Once a louder explosion than the rest showed that the boiler at one of the sawmills had been blown up. Devastation in all its horrors was evidently in progress.

Burbank, Carrol, and Stannard were at the gate in the palisades. There they received and disposed of the last detachment of negroes that were gradually coming in.

The assailants might appear at any moment. The increasing crackle of the musketry showed that they could not be far from the ring, which was easy of assault, for the nearest trees were not fifty yards away. The. Confederates could keep in cover to the last moment; and the bullets began to rain on the palisades, while the rifles remained invisible.

After consideration it was thought best to withdraw all the men within the fortress. There the armed negroes would be less exposed, as they could fire between the angles at the top of the timbers; and when the assailants tried to cross the stream and carry the stronghold by storm, they might manage to repulse them.

The negroes were all withdrawn, and the gate was about to be shut, when James Burbank, throwing a last glance around without, caught sight of a man at full run towards him, as if seeking safety amongst the defenders of Castle House. A few shots were aimed at him from the woods close by, but did not hit him. With a bound he jumped on the drawbridge and was in safety within the palisades. The gate was immediately shut and firmly fastened.

“Who are you?” asked James Burbank.

“One of the servants of Mr. Harvey, your correspondent at Jacksonville.”

“Did Mr. Harvey send you here with a message?”

“Yes, and as the river was guarded, I could not cross it hereabouts.”

“And you came with the militia without being suspected?”

“Yes. They are followed by a mob of looters. I came with them, and as soon as I was within range, 1 ran and risked a few shots.”

“Good, my friend! Thanks! You have Mr. Harvey’s message?”

“Yes, Mr. Burbank. Here it is.”

Burbank took the letter and read it. Mr. Harvey said he might put implicit confidence in his messenger, John Bruce, of whose sincerity there could be no doubt. After hearing the news he brought, Mr. Burbank would see what was best to be done.

At this instant a volley was heard from without. There was not a moment to lose.

“What would Mr. Harvey have me understand?” asked Burbank.

“That in the first place,” said Bruce, “the armed mob which is attacking Camdless Bay is from fourteen to fifteen hundred strong.”

“I did not reckon them at less. What next? Is Texar at their head?”

“Mr. Harvey found it impossible to ascertain. One thing is certain, and that is that Texar has not been at Jacksonville for the last four-and-twenty hours!”

“That ought to indicate some new scheme of the scoundrel’s,” said Burbank.

“Yes,” answered Bruce. “That is what Mr. Harvey thinks. Besides, Texar need not be there to execute the order as to setting adrift the freed slaves — “

“Setting them adrift!” exclaimed Burbank. “Setting them adrift and helping them in incendiarism and robbery — “

“And Mr. Harvey thinks that while there is time, you would do well to* put your family in safety by sending them away at once from Castle House.”

“Castle House,” said Burbank, “can be defended, and we will only leave it when it is untenable. Is there any fresh news from Jacksonville?”

“None.”

“Have not the Federal troops made any movement into Florida?”

“None since they occupied Fernandina and the Bay of St. Mary’s.”

“And what is the chief reason of your being sent?”

“To tell you that the dispersal of the slaves was only a pretext got up by Texar to enable him to lay waste the plantation, and make you his prisoner.”

“Yea do not know if Texar is at the head of these rascals?”

“No, Mr. Burbank. Mr. Harvey tried to find out, but could not. And I have tried since I left Jacksonville, but without success.”

“Are there many of the militia with this mob?”

“A hundred, at the outside,” replied Bruce, “but the mob is composed of the very worst characters. Texar had them supplied with weapons, and they will not stop at any excess. I repeat, Mr. Burbank, Mr. Harvey’s opinion is that you should abandon Castle House at once. He ordered me to invite you to his cottage at Hampton Red. It is about a dozen miles up stream on the right bank, and there you would be safe for some days — “

“Yes, I know.”

“I could take you and your family there without risk of discovery, if you will go at once, before retreat is impossible.”

“I thank Mr. Harvey, and you too, my friend,” said Burbank, “but we have not yet come to that.”

“As you wish, Mr. Burbank,” answered Bruce. “I shall none the less remain until you require my services.”

The attack, which now began, required all James Burbank’s attention.

A violent fusillade burst out, although the assailants could not be seen owing to the shelter of the trees. The bullets rained on the palisades, but did little damage. Unfortunately, Burbank and his companions could only reply feebly, having only forty guns amongst them. Being stationed in the best positions for firing effectively, their shots did more execution than those of the militiamen at the head of the column, a few of whom were hit, though hidden in the wood.

This long-range fight lasted for about half an hour, rather to the advantage of the defenders. Then the assailants rushed at the palisades to storm them. > As the attack was to be delivered On several sides at once, they brought with them planks and beams from the workshops, now in flames. In twenty places these beams were thrown across the stream, and over them rushed’ the Spaniard’s men to the foot of the palisades, losing several of their number in killed and wounded. And then they climbed up the planks and hoisted one another up; but they did not succeed in getting over. The negroes, infuriated against the incendiaries, repulsed them with great bravery. But it was evident that the defenders of Camdless Bay could not for long hold out at all points, against the murderous foe. Until nightfall they might .keep them at bay, providing they were not seriously wounded. Burbank and Stannard had, however, not been touched. Carrol alone had been hit, by a ball that tore open his shoulder. He had to retire to the hall, where Mrs. Burbank, Alice, and Zermah gave him every attention.

But night was coming to the help of the besiegers. Under cover of the darkness some fifty of the most determined amongst them ran up to the gate, axe in hand. Probably they would not have been able to force it had not a breach been opened by a daring manoeuvre.

A part of the outbuildings suddenly took fire, and the flames, fed by the dry w .god, seized on the,palisades against which the building leant.

Burbank rushed towards the fire, if .not to put it out, at least to defend the breach.

By the light of the flames he saw a man run through the smoke, climb the palisades, and escape over the planks across the stream.

It was one of the assailants, who had penetrated into the park on the St. John’s side, from among the reeds. Unseen, he had entered the stables, and at the risk of perishing in the flames, had set fire to some trusses of straw.

A breach was thus opened. In vain Burbank and his companions endeavoured to bar the way. A mass of assailants threw themselves into it, and the park was invaded by several hundred men.

Many fell in the hand-to-hand fight. The noise of the firing was heard on all sides. Soon Castle House was entirely surrounded, while the negroes, overwhelmed by the numbers, were forced out of the park to take flight in the woods of Camdless Bay. They had fought as long as they could, with courage and devotion; but if they had resisted longer, they would have been massacred to the last man.

Burbank, Stannard, Perry, the assistant-overseers, John Bruce, who had fought bravely, and a few blacks had to take refuge in Castle House.

It was then nearly eight o’clock in the evening. The night was dark in the west. In the north the sky was ablaze with the glare of the conflagration.

Burbank and Stannard came hurriedly into the house. “You must escape,” said Burbank. “You must go at . once. Whether the thieves force their way in, or are kept outside till we are obliged to surrender, there is danger in your remaining. The boat is ready. It is time to part. My wife, Alice, I implore you to follow Zermah with Dy to Cedar Rock. There you will be in safety, and if we are compelled to escape in our turn, we will find you there, we will join you.”

“My father,” said Alice, “come with us, and you too, Mr. Burbank.”

“Yes, James I Yes! Come!” said Mrs. Burbank.

“I!” answered Burbank, “I abandon Castle House to these scoundrels! Never, while resistance is possible! We can hold out for some time yet. And when you are in safety we shall be stronger to defend ourselves!”

. “James!”

“It is necessary!”

A terrible tumult was heard as he spoke. The door resounded with the blows dealt on it by the assailants, who were attacking the principal or river front of the house.

“Go!” exclaimed Burbank. “The night is already dark; they will not see you in the shadow! Go! you are only paralyzing us by remaining here! For God’s sake, go!”

Zermah went first, holding little Dy by the hand. Mrs. Burbank tore herself from her husband’s arms, Alice left her father’s. They disappeared down the staircase which led below the ground into the tunnel to Marine Creek.

“And now,” said Burbank, addressing himself to Perry, the assistant-overseers, and the few negroes remaining, “now, my friends, we must resist. to the death.”

Then they all ascended the grand staircase from the hall, and took up their positions at the windows on the first floor. There, to the hundreds of bullets that honeycombed the front of the house, they answered by fewer but more effective discharges, firing, as they did, into the mass of the ‘assailants, who came on to force their way through the door either by axe or flame. There was no one this time to open a breach into the house. Such an attempt as that against the wooden palisades would have been useless against stone walls.

Nevertheless, a score of men, stealing along in the darkness, which now was profound, gathered on the steps. The door was then attacked furiously. It needed all its solidity to withstand the blows of the picks and axes. The attempt cost many of the assailants their lives, for the position of the loopholes admitted of a cross fire on to the step.

And now something happened to make matters worse. Ammunition began to fail. Burbank, his friends and overseers, and the blacks, armed with guns, had used the greater part during the three hours the assault had lasted. I f they had to hold out much longer, how could they do it after the last cartridges had gone? Would they have to abandon Castle House to the mob, who would leave nothing of it but ruins?

And this would certainly have to be done if the assailants broke in the door, which had already begun to shake. Burbank saw this, but he resolved to wait till the last. At any moment might not a diversion take place? There was now nothing to fear for Mrs. Burbank, his daughter, nor Alice Stannard. And as men they could fight to the end against this rabble of murderers, incendiaries, and thieves.

“We have still ammunition for an hour,” said Burbank. “Use it all, my friends, and don’t let us give up Castle House.”

He had hardly finished speaking when a loud report was heard in the distance.

“A cannon-shot I” he exclaimed.

Another report was heard to the westward, on the other side of the river.

“A second shot!” said Stannard.

“Listen!” said Burbank.

A third report was heard, the wind bringing it more distinctly to Castle House.

“Is that a signal to recall the assailants to the right bank?” asked Stannard.

“Perhaps,” said Bruce. “It is possible that there has been an alarm over there.”

“Yes,” said the overseer “and if these cannon-shots have not been fired from Jacksonville — “

“They have been fired from the Federal fleet!” said Burbank. “Has the flotilla forced the entrance of the St. John’s and mounted the river?”

And there was nothing impossible in Commodore Dupont’s being now master of the river, at least in the lower part of its course.

But it was not so. The three gunshots had been fired from the battery at Jacksonville; that was quite evident, as no more firing was heard. There had been no engagement between the Northerners and Confederates on the St. John’s or in the plains of Duval county.

And there could be no doubt that this had been the signal of recall to the commander of the militia when Perry, who was stationed at one of the side loopholes, exclaimed, —

“They are retiring! They are retiring!”

Burbank and his companions hurried to the central window, which they opened.

The sounds of the axe were no longer heard against the door. Not one of the assailants was in sight. If their shouts and yells were still heard in the air, they were heard further and further away.

Evidently something had happened to oblige the authorities at Jacksonville to recall this mob to the other bank of the St. John’s. Doubtless it had been agreed that three gunshots should be fired in case any movement of the squadron should threaten the Confederate position.

So the assailants bad abruptly abandoned their final assault, and across the devastated fields of the estate had taken their way, lighted by the fires they had kindled. An hour later they re-crossed the river two miles below Camdless Bay, where the boats were waiting for them.

Soon their shouts died away in the distance. To the uproar succeeded absolute silence. It was as the silence of death over the plantation.

It was then half-past nine o’clock. Burbank and his companions went downstairs to the hall. There lay Edward Carrol, stretched on the sofa, slightly wounded, and somewhat weakened by the loss of blood.

They told him what had happened since the signal from Jacksonville. For the moment, at least, Castle House had nothing to fear from Texar’s gang.

“Yes,” said James Burbank. “But the scoundrel wished to disperse my liberated slaves, and they are dispersed 1 He wished to lay waste the plantation in revenge, and only its ruins are left!”

“James,” said Walter Stannard, “worse misfortunes might still happen to us. None of us fell in defending Castle House; but your wife, your daughter, and my daughter might have passed into the hands of these rascals, and they are safe.”

“You are right, Stannard, and God be praised for it! What has been done by Texar’s orders shall not go unpunished, and I will have justice to the last drop of his blood.”

“It is a pity,” said Carrol, “that Mrs. Burbank, Alice, Dy, and Zermah left us! I know we seemed to be in great danger then; but I would rather know they were here.”

“Before the morning,” said Burbank, “I will rejoin them. They will be dreadfully anxious, and we must set their minds at rest. I will then see if we can bring them back to Camdless Bay, or leave them for a day or two at Cedar Rock.”

“Yes,” said Stannard. “We must not be hasty. All may not be over; and as long as Jacksonville is under Texar’s control we have something to fear.”

“That is why I will act prudently,” answered Burbank. “Perry, you will see that a boat is ready a little before daybreak. I shall only want one man to go with me — “

A cry of grief, .a shout of despair, suddenly interrupted him.

The cry came from that part of the park where the lawn lay in front of the house. It was immediately followed by the words ‘ Father! Father!”

“My daughter’s voice!” exclaimed Mr. Stannard.

“What new misfortune!” asked Burbank. And opening the door they rushed out.

Alice was standing a few yards away, and at her feet lay Mrs. Burbank.

Neither Dy nor Zermah, were with them.

“My child!” exclaimed Burbank. At the sound of his voice his wife rose. She could not speak. She stretched out her arms towards the river.

“Carried off? Carried off?”

“Yes! by Texar!” said Alice.

And then she fell senseless by Mrs. Burbank’s side.

CHAPTER XII.

THE SIX DAYS THAT FOLLOWED.

when Mrs. Burbank and Alice were in the tunnel leading to Marine Creek, Zermah was in front. The slave held the little girl with one hand; with the other she carried a lantern, by whose feeble light they walked. When she reached the end of the tunnel Zermah asked Mrs. Burbank to wait for her. She intended to make sure that the boat and the two negroes that were to take them to Cedar Rock were at their post. Opening the door at the end of the tunnel she stepped out towards the river.

For a minute — only a minute — Mrs. Burbank and Alice waited for Zermah’s return, when Alice noticed that Dy was not with them.

“Dy! Dy!” shouted Mrs. Burbank, at the risk of betraying her presence.

The child did not answer. Accustomed to follow Zermah, she had gone with her out of the tunnel towards the creek before her mother had noticed her.

Suddenly a groaning was heard. Fearing some new danger, and thinking not for a moment of their own safety, they ran out to the bank of the creek, and reached it just in time to see a boat disappearing in the darkness.

“Help! Help! It is Texar!” shouted Zermah.

“Texar! Texar!” shouted Alice in reply. And with her hand she pointed to the Spaniard, revealed by the reflection of the fires at Camdless Bay. He was standing upright in the boat which rapidly shot away.

Then all was silent.

The two negroes with their throats cut lay dead on the ground.

Then Mrs. Burbank, in distraction, followed by Alice who in vain tried to stop her, ran along the bank, calling after her little daughter. No cry answered to hers. The boat had become invisible, either because the gloom had veiled it from her sight, or because it had crossed the river to some point on the left bank.

For an hour this vain pursuit continued. At last Mrs. Burbank fell exhausted. Alice, with extraordinary energy, helped the unfortunate mother to rise, supported her, and almost carried her. In the distance, in the direction of Castle House, rang out the reports of the firearms, mingled every now and then with the terrible yells of the besiegers. But it was necessary to go back in that direction, to try and get back to the house along the tunnel, to open the door which communicated with the underground stairs. When she reached that spot how would Alice make her-, self heard?

She dragged Mrs. Burbank along, but the mother was unconscious of what she was doing. Twenty times did they stop as they returned along the riverside. At any instant they might fall into the hands of those who were wrecking the plantation. Would it be better to wait till daylight? But how in this place could she give Mrs. Burbank the attention her state required? And so, cost what it might, Alice resolved to get back to Castle House. And as the winding of the river lengthened the way, she thought it would be better to go straight across the fields, guided by the light of the burning barracoons. This she did, and thus it was she came near the house.

There Mrs. Burbank fell motionless at her feet. She could support her no longer.

By this time the detachment of militia, followed by the ‘horde of pillagers, had given up the assault, and were far from the palisades. Not a shout was heard within or without. Alice imagined that the assailants had captured the house and abandoned it without leaving one of its defenders alive. Supreme was her anguish; her strength failed her, and she, too, fell to the ground, while a last groan escaped from her, a last appeal. It had been heard.

Burbank and his friends had rushed out. Now they knew all that had passed at Marine Creek. What mattered it to them that the plunderers had gone? What mattered it to them that there was no fear of falling into their power? A dreadful misfortune had come to them. Little Dy was in the hands of Texar!

This was the story told by Alice, broken with many sobs, and listened to by Mrs. Burbank, who had returned to consciousness and was bathed in tears. This is what was learnt by Burbank, Stannard, Carrol, Perry, and their few companions. The poor child, taken they knew not where, in the hands of her father’s cruellest enemy! What could be worse than that? Could the future have greater griefs in store?

All were overwhelmed at the blow. Mrs. Burbank was taken to her room and laid on her bed, and Alice remained with her.

Below, in the hall, Burbank and his friends endeavoured to devise some plan by which they could recover Dy and rescue Zermah from Texar’s hands. The devoted half-breed would certainly endeavour to defend the child to the death! But as the prisoner of a scoundrel animated by personal hatred, would she not pay with her life for the curses she hurled at him?

Then James Burbank blamed himself for having forced his wife to leave Castle House, for having arranged such a means of flight which had turned out so badly. Was Texar’s presence at Marine Creek to be attributed to chance? Evidently not. Texar, in some way or another, had heard of the existence of the tunnel. He had said to himself that the defenders of Camdless Bay would endeavour to escape by it when they could no longer hold out in the house. And, after leading his men to the right bank of the river, after forcing the palisades, and driving Burbank behind the walls of the house, there could be no doubt he and some of .his accomplices had posted themselves near Marine Creek. There he had suddenly, surprised the two blacks in charge of the boat, and cut their throats, their cries being unheard amid the tumult made by the besiegers of the house. The Spaniard had waited till Zermah appeared with little Dy close behind. Seeing them alone, he probably thought that neither Mrs. Burbank, nor her husband, nor her. friends were going to leave Castle House. Then he would have to be content with this prey, and had seized on the child and the half-breed to carry them off to some retreat whence it would be impossible to recover them.

And with what more terrible blow could the scoundrel have visited the Burbanks?

A horrible night was passed by the survivors. Was there not a chance that the assailants might return in greater numbers and better armed? Fortunately, they did not. When the day broke there had been no renewal of the attack.

But it was important to know why the three cannon-shots had been fired the night before, and why the assailants had retired when one effort more — an hour’s effort at the outside — would have given them the house. Was the recall due to some demonstration of the Federals at the mouth of the Sit. John’s? Had Commodore Dupont’s ships become masters of Jacksonville? Nothing in Burbank’s interest could be more desirable. In all safety he could begin his search to recover Dy and Zermah, and openly attack Texar — if the Spaniard had not retreated with his partisans — and prosecute him as the promoter of the havoc at Camdless Bay and the double abduction of the half-breed and child.

This time no such alibi was possible as that which the Spaniard had produced at the opening of this history, when he appeared before the magistrate at Saint Augustine. If Texar was not at the head of this band of scoundrels who had invaded Camdless Bay — as Mr. Harvey’s messenger had been unable to ascertain — the last cry of Zermah had only too clearly revealed the part he took in the abduction. And had not Alice recognized him as the boat was rowing away?

Yes! Federal justice would make the scoundrel confess where he had taken his victims, and punish the crimes which he could not deny.

Unfortunately, nothing happened to confirm this hypothesis concerning the arrival of the Northern flotilla in the waters of the St. John’s. At this date, the 3rd of March, no ship had left the bay of St. Mary’s, as was only too clearly ascertained by the news which one of the assistant-overseers brought in during the day from the other bank of the river, to which he had gone to inquire. No vessel had appeared off Pablo light. The whole fleet was employed at Fernandina and Fort Clinch. It seemed as though Commodore Dupont could only advance into the centre of Florida with extreme circumspection. At Jacksonville the rioters were still in power. After the expedition to Camdless Bay the Spaniard had again appeared in the town, and was organizing the defence against Stevens’s gunboats, should they try to cross the bar. Doubtless some false alarm the evening before had called back the looters. After all, was not Texar’s vengeance sufficient, now that the plantation had been wasted, the factories fired, the negroes dispersed in the forests with nothing but the ruins of the barracoons left to them, and little Dy taken away from her father and mother, with no trace as to where she had gone?

Of this James Burbank felt only too certain, when during the morning he and Walter Stannard explored the right bank of the river. In vain they searched the smaller creeks for some clue as to the direction taken by the boat. The search could at the best be but incomplete, unless the left bank was searched as well.

But at this time, was not this impossible? Would it not be necessary to wait till Texar and his partisans were reduced to impotence by the arrival of the Federals? With Mrs. Burbank in such a state, Alice unable to leave her, and Carrol laid up for some days, would it not be imprudent to leave them alone at Castle House, when the return of the assailants was not unlikely?

And what was even more maddening was, that Burbank could not dream of proceeding against Texar, either for the devastation of his estate, nor the abduction of Zermah and his daughter. The only magistrate to whom he could address himself was the author of the crime. All that could be done was to wait until regular justice had resumed its course at Jacksonville.

“James,” said Mr. Stannard, “if the dangers which threaten your child are terrible, at least Zermah is with her, and you can depend on her devotion — “

“Till death — quite so!” said Burbank. “And when will Zermah be dead?”

“Listen, my dear James. Consider for a moment. It is not Texar’s interest to proceed to such extremities. He has not yet left Jacksonville, and until he has I think his victims have no act of violence to fear. Your child will be a guarantee, a hostage against the reprisals which he has to guard against, not only from you, but from the Federals, for having suspended the regular authorities of Jacksonville, and devastated a Northerner’s plantation. It is his interest to spare them, and wait till Dupont and Sherman are masters of the territory before you do anything against him.”

“And when will that be?” asked Burbank.

“Tomorrow! To-day, perhaps 1 I tell you, Dy is Texar’s safeguard. It is for that purpose he took the opportunity of carrying her off, knowing that it would also break your heart, my poor James; and the scoundrel has succeeded only too well.”

Thus reasoned Mr. Stannard, and he had good grounds for doing so. Would he convince James Burbank? Doubtless, no. Would he give him any hope? None. It was impossible. But Burbank saw that he must force himself to talk before his wife as Stannard had talked to him. Otherwise she would not survive the blow. And when he reached home, he made much use of the arguments which had no effect upon himself.

Meanwhile, Perry and his assistant overseers visited Camdless Bay. It was a heartrending spectacle which even made a great impression on Pygmalion, who accompanied them. The “free man” had never dreamt of following the freed slaves dispersed by Texar. The liberty to sleep in the woods and suffer cold and hunger seemed to him excessive. As he preferred to remain at Castle House, he ought, like Zermah, to have torn up his act of enfranchisement to gain the right to live there.

“You see, Pyg!” said Mr. Perry, “the plantation is laid waste, our workshops are in ruins. That is what has been the cost of giving liberty to people of your colour.”

“Mr. Perry,” replied Pygmalion, “it is not my fault — “

“It is your fault. If fellows like you had not applauded the speechifiers who thundered against slavery, if you had protested against the ideas of the North, if you had taken arms to repulse the Federal troops, Mr. Burbank would never have to think of freeing you, and disaster would never have come to Camdless Bay.”

“But what can I do now?” said the disconsolate Pyg. “What can I do, Mr. Perry?”

“I will tell you, Pyg, if you have the least feeling of justice about you. You are free, are you not?”

“It seems so.”

“And consequently, you belong to yourself?”

“Certainly.”

“And if you belong to yourself, there is nothing to stop you from doing what you like with yourself?”

“Nothing, Mr. Perry.”

“Well, in your place, Pyg, I should not hesitate. I would go to the nearest plantation and again become a slave, and the price I realized by my sale I would bring back to my old master, to indemnify him for the wrong I did him when he set me free!”

Did the overseer speak seriously? It was impossible to know what nonsense the witty man might talk once he had mounted his hobby. Pygmalion, the piteous Pygmalion, disconcerted, irresolute, abashed, did not know what to reply.

It was only too evident that James Burbank’s act of generosity had brought misfortune and ruin on the plantation. The disaster would cost him a considerable amount of money. There were no barracoons left; they had fallen after they had been sacked. The sawmills and workshops were only heaps of cinders from which grey wreaths of smoke still rose. In place of the stores where the timber was kept, of the factories where the cotton was heckled, of the hydraulic presses where it was squeezed into bales, of the sugar-mills, there were only blackened walls ready to fall, and where the chimney of the factory rose, there was now but a mound of reddened bricks. The fields of coffee and rice, the kitchen garden, the enclosures for the domestic animals, had been completely laid waste, as if a herd of wild beasts had ravaged them for hours. At the sight of this lamentable spectacle, Mr. Perry could hardly contain himself. His anger escaped in threatening words. Pygmalion felt anything but comfortable at the fierce looks the overseer gave him; and he ended by leaving, to return to Castle House, in order that, as he said, he might reflect more at his ease on the proposition as to selling himself, which the overseer had made. And, doubtless, the day was not long enough for his reflection, for when evening came, he was still undecided.

During the day a few of the old slaves returned in secret to Camdless Bay. It may be imagined what was their distress when they found not a single hut undestroyed. James Burbank gave orders that as much as possible should be done for them. A certain number were lodged within the palisades in the servants’ quarters that the fire had not touched. They were, at first, employed in burying their companions who had died in the defence of the house, and also the corpses of the assailants who had fallen in the attack — the wounded had been carried away by their comrades. And they also buried the two negroes who had been killed by Texar and his accomplices when surprised at their post near Marine Creek.

This done, James Burbank could not set about getting his estate again into order until the question between North and South was settled in Florida. Other cares, equally serious but very different, absorbed his attention night and day. All in his power to do to recover some trace of his little daughter he did. Mrs. Burbank’s health was in a precarious state, although Alice had not left her for a moment, and watched over her with filial solicitude; and it was necessary to find a doctor for her.

There was one in Jacksonville who possessed the full confidence of the Burbanks; and as soon as he was sent for he did not hesitate to come to Camdless Bay. He prescribed a few remedies. But would they be efficacious so long as Dy remained unrestored to her mother?

Leaving Carrol, who would have to keep to his room for some days, Burbank and Stannard went out each day to explore both banks of the river. They searched the islands in the St. John’s; they asked the country people; they inquired in the smallest villages in the county; they promised a heavy reward to any one who would bring them any clue. Their efforts remained useless. How could they learn what was going on in Black Creek where the Spaniard hid himself? No one knew of it. And, besides, to withdraw his victims the better from all search, had not Texar taken them further up the river? Was not the county large enough, were there not enough hiding-places in the vast forests in the centre, amid the immense marshes in the South of Florida, in the region of the inaccessible Everglades, for Texar to hide his victims so that they could not be reached?

At the same time, through the doctor coming to Camdless Bay, Burbank was kept informed of what was passing at Jacksonville and in the north of Duval County.

The Federals had made no new demonstration. Had special instructions arrived from Washington forbidding them to cross the frontier? Such a proceeding would be disastrous for the Unionists in the South, and particularly so for James Burbank.

Nevertheless, Commodore Dupont’s squadron remained in the estuary of the St. Mary’s, and if Texar’s men had been recalled by the three canon-shots fired on the 2nd of March, it was because the Jacksonville authorities had been deceived by a false alarm; and, through the error, Castle House had escaped from pillage and ruin.

But would not the Spaniard send another expedition to complete his work, seeing that James Burbank was not in his hands? An unlikely hypothesis! At present, the attack on Castle House and the carrying off of Dy and Zermah were probably enough for him. Besides, some of the better-class citizens had not hesitated to show their disapprobation of the affair at Camdless Bay, and their disgust at the chief of the Jacksonville rioters, although their opinion might matter little to Texar. The Spaniard was more powerful than ever in Duval County. His vagabonds and unscrupulous adventurers were quite at their ease. Each day they gave themselves up to pleasures of all sorts, degenerating into orgies. The noise of the merry-makings even reached the plantation; and the sky glowed with the public illuminations, which might be taken for the light of another incendiary fire. Moderate men were reduced to silence, and had to submit to the yoke of this faction, which was supported by the populace of the county.

The temporary inaction of the Federal army opportunely came in to help the new authorities, who profited by it to spread the report that the Northerners would not pass the frontier; that they had received orders to retreat into Georgia and the Carolinas; that Florida would not be subjected to the invasion of the anti-slavery troops; that its position as an old Spanish colony put it outside the question the United States were seeking to solve by force of arms, &c. &c. And in all the counties there was produced a certain current favourable rather than contrary to the ideas which the partizans of violence represented. This was apparent in many places, particularly in the north, on the Georgian frontier, where the planters with Northern sympathies were atrociously treated, their slaves put to flight, their sawmills and factories destroyed by fire, Lair establishments devastated by the Confederate troops, as Camdless Bay had just been by the populace of Jacksonville.

It did not, however, seem — at present at least-that there was a chance of the plantation being again invaded. But much did James Burbank chafe at the delay of the Federals in making themselves masters .bf the territory.

As things stood, nothing could be done against Texar; either to bring him to justice for what could not be denied, or compel him to reveal the hiding-place of Dy and Zermah.

Burbank could not bring himself to believe that the Federals were going to remain quietly on the frontier. Gilbert’s last letter had expressly stated that the expedition of Commodore Dupont and Sherman was destined for Florida. Since this letter, had the Federal Government sent different orders to Edisto Bay, where the squadron was waiting.? Had a success of the Confederate troops in Virginia or the Carolinas obliged the army of the Union to halt in its march to the South?

Thus passed the five days which followed the attack on Camdless Bay. There was no news of a movement of the Federals. No news of Dy and Zermah, although Burbank had done his best to come on their track, and not a day had passed without some fresh effort.

The 9th of March had come. Edward Carrol had completely recovered. He was now fit to join in the work of his friends. Mrs. Burbank continued extremely weak. It seemed as though her life threatened to take flight with her tears. In her delirium she called her little daughter in heartrending tones; she attempted to go in search of her. These crises were followed by syncopes, which put her life in danger. Often and often Alice feared that the unhappy mother would die in her arms.

A war rumour reached Jacksonville on the morning of the 9th of March. Unfortunately, it was calculated to give new encouragement to the partizans of Secession.

The Confederate general, Van Dorn, had repulsed the soldiers of Curtis on the 6th of March at the battle of Betonville, in Arkansas, and obliged them to retreat. Really this w s an engagement with the rear-guard of a small Northern corps; and the success was more than compensated 1 r a few days afterwards by the victory of Pea Ridge. I however, provoked an increase of insolence among the Southerners. At Jacksonville, the unimportant action was celeb ted as a complete check to the Federal army; and there were new festivities and new orgies, the murmur of which rolled mournfully over Camdless Bay.

When James Burbank returned, about six o’clock in the evening, from his exploration of the left bank of the river, he had ascertained the following facts.

A native of Putnam county fancied he had discovered some trace of the abduction on an island of the St. John’s a few miles above Black Creek. During the preceding night this man thought he had heard a cry of despair, and had come to report the fact to James Burbank. Squambo, the Indian, Texar’s confidant, had been seen in the neighbourhood in his skiff. There was no doubt about the Indian’s being seen, for the fact was confirmed by a passenger on board the Shannon, who, on his return to St. Augustine, had landed during the day at Camdless Bay.

It need not be said how eagerly James Burbank started on the track. Carrol and two negroes accompanied him in the boat with which he started up the river. They speedily reached the island in question, thoroughly searched it, and visited a few fishermen’s huts that did not seem to have been recently occupied. Among the almost impenetrable underwood in the interior there was not a vestige of ‘human beings. There was nothing on the bank to show that a boat had put in. Squambo could nowhere be seen, and if he had been prowing round the island he had probably not landed. The expedition was thus without result, like the others. The return had to be made to the plantation with the knowledge that a false track had been followed. In the evening, Burbank, Stannard, and Carrol, as they were together in the hall, talked over this useless search. About nine o’clock, Alice, having left Mrs. Burbank asleep, came to join them, and found that the last attempt had been without result.

The night was to be a dark one. The moon, in its first quarter, had already disappeared below the horizon. A deep silence enveloped Castle House, the plantation, and the river. The few blacks in the servants’ apartments were asleep. When the silence was troubled it was by the distant clamour and the reports of the fireworks at Jacksonville, where, with great uproar, the people were celebrating the successes of the Confederates.

Each time the noise was heard in the hall another blow was struck at the Burbanks.

“We ought to find out what it means,” said Carrol, “and see if the Federals really have renounced their plans on Florida.”

“Yes! It must be done,” answered Stannard. “We cannot exist in this uncertainty.”

“Well,” said Burbank, “I will go to Fernandina tomorrow — and then I will see — “

At this moment there came a gentle tap on the front door of Castle House, on the side facing the river.

A scream escaped from Alice, who rushed to the door. Burbank vainly tried to keep the girl back. And as no, reply had come, another knock was heard, this time morel distinctly.

CHAPTER XIII.

A FEW HOURS.

JAMES BURBANK stepped to the door. He did not expect anybody. It might be some important news from Jacksonville brought by John Bruce from his correspondent, Mr. Harvey.

A third time there came a knock, and from a more impatient hand.

“Who is there?” asked James Burbank.

“I am,” was the reply.

“Gilbert!” exclaimed Alice.

She was not mistaken. Gilbert at Camdless Bay! Gilbert appearing among his people, glad to come and pass a few hours with them, knowing nothing, doubtless, of the disasters that had fallen on them!

In a moment the young lieutenant was in his father’s arms; while the man who accompanied him carefully shut the door, after taking a last look round outside.

It was Mars, Zermah’s husband, Gilbert Burbank’s devoted follower.

After embracing his father, Gilbert turned round. Then, seeing Alice, he took her hand and clasped it with an irresistible movement of affection.

“My mother “he said. “Where is mother? Is it true that she is dying?”

“You know all, then?” said James Burbank.

“I know all: the plantation laid waste by the Jacksonville ruffians, the attack on Castle House, my mother — dead perhaps!”

The young man’s presence in the county where he ran such peril was immediately explained.

This is what had happened: That evening, some gunboats from Commodore Dupont’s squadron had come to the mouth of the St. John’s. Ascending the river, they had had to stop at the bar, four miles below Jacksonville. A few hours later, a man, calling himself one of the lighthouse-keepers at Pablo, had boarded Stevens’s gunboat, on which Gilbert was second in command. The man had related all that had passed at Jacksonville, including the attack on Camdless Bay, the dispersal of the blacks, and the serious condition of Mrs. Burbank. It may be guessed what were Gilbert’s feelings on listening to the story of these deplorable events.

Then he was seized with an irresistible desire to see his mother. With the permission of Commandant Stevens he had left the flotilla in the gig. Accompanied by the faithful Mars, he passed unnoticed in the darkness — by the way he knew so well — and landed half a mile below Camdless Bay, so as to avoid touching at the pier, which would probably be watched.

But what he did not know, and could not know, was that he had fallen into a snare spread by Texar. At any price the Spaniard desired to obtain the proof required by the magistrates — the proof that James Burbank was in correspondence with the enemy. To entice the young lieutenant to Camdless Bay, a lighthouse-keeper at Pablo had been sent to acquaint Gilbert with what had occurred at Castle House, particularly the condition of his mother. The young lieutenant had set out, as we know; and he had been watched as he went up the river. As he glided along by the reeds that bordered the high bank of the St John’s he had, however, thrown the Spaniard’s men off the track; but though the spies had not seen him land below Camdless Bay, they hoped to capture him on his return, particularly as all that part of the river was under their surveillance.

“Mother!” continued Gilbert, “where is she?”

“Here, my son!” said Mrs. Burbank.

She had just appeared on the landing of the hall stair-case; she descended slowly, holding the rail, and fell on a couch, while Gilbert covered her with kisses.

In her troubled sleep she had heard the knock at the door. Recognizing her son’s voice, she had collected sufficient strength to get up and meet Gilbert, to weep with him and the others. The young man clasped her in his arms.

“Mother! mother!” said he, “I see you again, after all. How you are suffering But you live I Ah! we will cure you! Yes! These evil days will soon end. We shall be re-united — soon We will give you back your health.

Fear nothing for me, mother. No one knows that Mars and I are here.” And as he spoke, Gilbert saw his mother was fainting, and tried to revive her by his caresses.

But Mars seemed to understand that he and Gilbert did not know the full extent of the calamity. James Burbank, Carrol, and Stannard stood silent with bowed heads. Alice could not restrain her tears. Dy was not there, nor was Zermah, who ought to have guessed that her husband was at Camdless Bay, that he was in the house, that he was waiting So, with his heart torn by anguish, he looked into all the corners of the hall, and then asked Mr. Burbank, —

`. Master, what is the matter?”

At this moment Gilbert rose.

“And Dy?” he asked. “Has Dy gone to bed? Where is my little sister?”

“Where is my wife?” said Mars.

An instant afterwards the young officer and Mars knew all. In coming from the St. John’s, from the place where their canoe was waiting for them, they had seen enough in the darkness of the ruins of the plantation. But they might naturally think that, with the disaster consequent on the enfranchisement of the blacks, the limit had been reached! Now nothing was hid from them. One did not find his sister at home, the other did not find his wife, and no one could tell them where Texar had hidden them for these seven days.

Gilbert returned to kneel near Mrs. Burbank. His tears mingled with hers. Mars, with bloodshot face and panting chest, walked to and fro, unable to contain himself.

At last his rage exploded.

“I will kill Texar!” he said. “I will go to Jacksonville — to-morrow — this very night — this very instant — “

“Yes, come, Mars! come!” said Gilbert.

James Burbank stopped them.

“If that was what ought to be done,” said he, “I should not have waited for you to come, my son! The scoundrel would already have paid with his life for his evil deeds. But, before that is done, it is necessary that he should say what he alone can say. And when I speak thus, Gilbert — when I advise you and Mars to wait — it is because it is necessary to wait.”

“Be it so, father!” said the young man. “But at least I will ransack the country; I will search — “

“And do you think I have not done so? Not a day has passed without our exploring the river-banks and islands which might serve as a refuge for Texar, and not a trace have we found, not a thing to put us on your sister’s track. Carrol and Stannard have helped me, and up to now our search has been fruitless.”

“Why did you not lodge a complaint at Jacksonville?” asked the young officer. “Why have you not brought an action against Texar for having caused the pillage of Camdless Bay and the abduction — “

“Why?” answered James Burbank. ‘“Because Texar is now the master; because all honest men tremble before the scoundrels who are devoted to him; because the populace is with him, and the county militia is with him.”

“I will kill Texar!” said Mars, as if he were possessed by some fixed idea.

“You shall kill him when the time comes,” said James Burbank. “At present it would make matters worse.”

“And when will the time come?” asked Gilbert.

“When the Federals are masters of Florida — when they have occupied Jacksonville.”

“And if it is then too late?”

“My son! my son! I beseech you do not say that!” exclaimed Mrs. Burbank.

“No, Gilbert, do not say that,” added Alice.

James Burbank took his son’s hand.

“Gilbert, listen to me,” he said. “We, like you and Mars, will do instant justice on Texar if he refuses to tell us what he has done with his victims. But for your sister’s sake, Gilbert — for your wife’s sake, Mars — our anger must give place to our prudence. There is good reason to believe that in Texar’s hands Dy and Zermah are hostages for his safety. The scoundrel is afraid of having to answer for turning out the honest magistrates of Jacksonville and letting loose on Camdless Bay the mob of scoundrels to burn and pillage a Northerner’s plantation. If I did not believe this, Gilbert, would I speak with such conviction? Would I be strong enough to wait?”

“And would I still be alive?” asked Mrs. Burbank. The unfortunate woman felt that if her son went to Jacksonville he would fall into Texar’s power. And what could save an officer of the Federal navy fallen into the power of the Southerners when the Federals were threatening Florida?

Nevertheless, the young officer was not master of himself. He was obstinate in his wish to go; and, like Mars, he repeated, “I will kill Texar!”

“Come, then!” he said.

“You shall not go, Gilbert!”

Mrs. Burbank raised herself from the sofa. She placed herself before the door; but, exhausted by the effort, she could not support herself, and she fainted.

“Mother! mother!” exclaimed the young man.

Mrs. Burbank had to be carried to her room, where Alice remained with her. Then James Burbank rejoined Carrol and Stannard in the hall.

Gilbert was sitting on the sofa with his face in his hands. Mars was standing apart, and silent.

“Now, Gilbert,” said James Burbank, “you are in your right senses. Speak! On what you say depends what we shall do. Our only hope is in a prompt arrival of the Federals in the county. Have they given up their project of occupying Florida?”

“No.”

“Where are they?”

*’ A part of the squadron at this moment is on the way to Saint Augustine, to blockade the coast.”

“But is not the Commodore going to take possession of the St. John’s?” asked Carrol.

“The lower course of the St. John’s is ours. Our gunboats are anchored in the river under the orders of Commandant Stevens.”

“In the river, and they have not yet endeavoured to seize on Jacksonville?” asked Stannard.

“No, for they have had to stop at the bar, four miles below the town.”

“The gunboats stopped,” said James Burbank, “and by an insurmountable obstacle?”

“Yes, father,” answered Gilbert; “stopped by want of water. The tide must be high for them to pass the bar, and even then the passage would be difficult. Mars knows the channel, and he is to be the pilot.”

“Waiting! always waiting!” exclaimed James Burbank. “And for how long?”

Three days or twenty-four hours — how long the time would be for the people in Castle House! And if the Confederates saw that they could not defend the town! If they abandoned it, as they had abandoned Fernandina, Fort Clinch, and the other points of Georgia and northern Florida! If Texar did not run away! Then where would they search!

Mr. Stannard then asked if it was true that the Federals had met with a repulse in the North. What was thought of the defeat at Bentonville?

“The victory of Pea Ridge has enabled Curtis to re-occupy the ground he for a moment lost. The situation of the Northerners is .excellent; their success is assured in a delay which it was difficult to foresee. When they have occupied the principal points in Florida, they will stop contraband of war from entering through the coast passes; and arms and ammunition will no longer reach the Confederates. Then, in a little time, the territory will resume its calm and security under the protection of our squadron. Yes, in a few days 1 But now — “

The idea of his sister being exposed to such peril returned to him with such force that Mr. Burbank, to divert his attention, changed the conversation. How did the belligerents stand? Could Gilbert give them any news which had not reached Jacksonville or rather Camdless Bay?

Several things he could tell them, some of them of great importance for the Northerners in Florida.

It will be remembered that after the victory of Donelson, the State of Tennessee had almost entirely fallen under Federal domination. By a simultaneous combined attack of army and fleet, the Federals endeavoured to make themselves masters of the entire course of the Mississippi. They had descended it to Island 10, where the troops came in contact with Beauregard’s division, which had charge of the defence of the river. Already, on the 24th of February, General Pope’s brigade, after landing at Commerce, on the right bank of the Mississippi, had repulsed J. Thomson’s corps. Arrived at Island 10 and the village of New Madrid, they had, it is true, to halt before a formidable system of redoubts prepared by Beauregard. Since the fall of Donelson and Nashville, all the positions on the river above Memphis had been considered as lost to the Confederates, but those below could still be defended, and here it was a battle would soon be fought which might be decisive.

But meanwhile, Hampton Roads, at the entrance of the James River, had been the scene of a memorable combat. The battle had been between the first examples of armour-plated ships, the employment of which has modified the navies and naval tactics of both the Old and New World.

On the 1st of March the Monitor, an armour-plated vessel built by the Swedish engineer Ericcsen, and the Virginia, the old Merrimac much altered, had been ready to put to sea, one at New York, the other at Norfolk.

At this time a Federal division, under the orders of Captain Marston, was at anchor in Hampton Roads, near Newport News. This division was composed of the Congress, the Saint Lawrence, the Cumberland, and two steam frigates.

Suddenly, on the 2nd of March, in the morning, there appeared the Virginia, commanded by the Confederate Captain Buchanan. Followed by a few other vessels of minor importance, she attacked the Congress, and then the Cumberland, which latter she rammed and sank with a hundred and twenty men of her crew. Returning then to the Congress, stranded on the mud, she shelled her and set her on fire. Only the night stopped her from destroying the other three vessels of the Federal squadron.

It is difficult to imagine the effect produced by the victory of a small armour-plated ship over the broadside ships of the Union. The news was propagated with marvellous rapidity. Great was the consternation among the partizans of the North, for the Virginia might enter the Hudson and sink every ship at New York. Great was the joy of the Southerners, who saw the blockade raised and trade again untramelled along their coast.

It was this naval success which was being so noisily celebrated at Jacksonville. The Confederates now fancied themselves safe from the Federal vessels. Following on the victory at Hampton Roads, might not Commodore Dupont’s squadron be immediately recalled to the Potomac or the Chesapeake? No landing would threaten Florida. The slavery ideas supported by the most violent of the Southerners would triumph without a contest. And this would strengthen Texar and his partizans in a position in which they could do so much evil.

But the Confederates were in too great a hurry. And the news already known in Florida, Gilbert was able to supplement with that which was current when he left Commandant Stevens’s gunboat.

The second fight in Hampton Roads had been very different from the first. On the morning of the 9th of March, when the Virginia was preparing to attack the Minnesota, one of the two Federal frigates, an enemy whose presence was unsuspected by the Southerners suddenly appeared before her. A strange machine came away from the frigate’s side, “a cheese-box on a raft,” as the Confederates called it. This “cheese-box “was the Monitor, commanded by Lieutenant Warden. He had been sent to destroy the batteries on the Potomac, but on reaching the mouth of the James River, had heard the firing in Hampton Roads, and during the night had brought the Monitor on to the scene.

At half a dozen yards from each other these two formidable engines of war fought for four hours, and then the Virginia, struck on the water-line and in danger of sinking, took flight in the direction of Norfolk. The Monitor, which was to sink nine months later, had completely defeated her rival. Thanks to her, the ‘ Federal Government resumed its superiority in Hampton Roads.

“No, father,” said Gilbert, as he ended his story, “our squadron has not been recalled to the north. Stevens’s six gunboats are anchored in the St. John’s in front of the bar. I tell you that in three days, at least, we shall be masters of Jacksonville.”

“Then you must see, Gilbert, that you had better wait and return on board! But on your way to Camdless Bay do you not think you have been followed?”

“No. Mars and I have escaped all observation.”

“And this man who told you what had passed at the plantation, the fire, the robbery, the illness of your mother. Who is he?”

“He said he was one of the lighthouse-keepers at Pablo, and had come to warn Captain Stevens of the danger run by the Northerners in this part of Florida.”

“Did he know of your presence on board?”

“No, and he seemed much surprised at it. But why these questions?”

“Because I am afraid it is some plot of Texar’s. He more than suspected — he knew that you were in the Federal navy. He learnt that you were under the orders of Commandant Stevens. If he wished to entice you here — “

“Never fear. We have got to Camdless Bay without being seen coming up the river, and it will be the same when we go back.”

“If you go on board — not otherwise!”

“I promise you, father, Mars and I shall be on board before daybreak.”

“When will you go?”

“When the tide turns. That is about half-past two o’clock.”

“Who knows?” said Carrol. “Perhaps the gunboats will not stop three days at the bar?”

“The wind must freshen to give enough water on the bar,” said the lieutenant. “May it blow a gale! And then we can get at the scoundrels 1 And then — “

“I will kill Texar,” said Mars..

“It was a little after midnight. Gilbert and Mars would not leave Castle House for two hours, waiting for the ebb to return to the flotilla. The darkness was great, and there was every chance of their getting away un-perceived although several boats were on guard on the St. John’s below Camdless Bay.

The young officer went up to his mother. He found Alice seated at the bedside. Mrs. Burbank, exhausted by the efforts she had made, had fallen into a deep slumber — a very sorrowful one to judge by the way she sobbed.

Gilbert would not interfere with this state of torpor in which there was more prostration than sleep. He sat near the bed after Alice had motioned him not to speak. There in silence they watched together the poor woman whom misfortune had struck so cruelly. Had they words in which to exchange their thoughts? No! They felt the same suffering, they understood each other and said nothing — it was their hearts that spoke.

At last the time arrived for Gilbert to leave. He gave his hand to Alice, and both bent over Mrs. Burbank, whose eyes were half-closed and could not see them.

Then Gilbert pressed his lips to his mother’s forehead.

which the girl kissed after him. Mrs. Burbank gave a sorrowful sob, but she did not see her son go, nor Alice follow him to bid him a last farewell. —

Mars went out to see if the coast was clear. He came back as Gilbert and Alice entered the hall.

“It is time to go,” said he.

“Yes, Gilbert,” said James Burbank. “Go! we shall meet again at Jacksonville.”

“Yes! At Jacksonville, and to-morrow if the tide allows us to cross the bar. As for Texar — “

“We must have him living! Do not forget that!”

“Yes, living!”

The young man embraced his father and shook hands with his uncle Carrol and Stannard.

“Come, Mars,” said he.

And following the right bank of the river they kept along for half an hour. They met no one. They reached the place where they had left the gig, and embarked in her to get into the stream, which would take them rapidly to the bar of the St. John’s.

CHAPTER II.

A STRANGE OPERATION.

IN the morning, at eight o’clock — it was the 3rd of March — Squambo entered the room where Zermah had passed the night. He brought some food — bread, a piece of cold venison, fruits, a jug of strong beer, a pitcher of water, and the different utensils for the table. At the same time, one of the blacks placed in one of the corners an old piece of furniture with toilet necessaries, towels, and other things for the half-breed’s own use and that of the little girl.

Dy was still asleep. By a gesture Zermah had besought Squambo not to wake her.

When the negro had gone out, Zermah asked the Indian in a low voice, —

“What are they going to do with us?”

“I do not know,” said Squambo. “What orders have you had from Texar?”

“Whether they come from Texar or from somebody else they are these, and you would do well to conform to them. So long as you are here, this room will be yours, and you will be kept in it during the night.”

“And during the day?”

“You can walk about the enclosure.”

“While we are here. But where are we?”

“Where I was told to bring you.”

“And are we to remain here?”

“I have said what I had to say,” said the Indian. “It is useless to ask me more; I shall not answer.”

And Squambo, whose manner gave no hope of further conversation, left the roc-m.

Zermah looked at the girl. A few tears rose to her eyes, tears which she at once wiped away. It would never do for Dy, when she awoke, to see that she had been crying. It was necessary that the child should gradually become accustomed to her new position, precarious as it might be, for all depended on the Spaniard.

Zermah thought over what had passed during the night. She had seen Mrs. Burbank and Alice on the bank while the boat moved away. Their desperate appeals, their heartrending cries, had reached her. But had they been able to get back to Castle House along the tunnel, reach the besieged, and tell James Burbank and his companions of the new misfortune that had fallen on them? Had they been captured by the Spaniard’s men, dragged far from Camdless Bay, killed perhaps? If so, James Burbank would not know that his child had been carried off with Zermah. He would think that his wife, Alice, his daughter, and the half-breed had got safe away from Marine Creek and reached Cedar Rock in safety. He would then make no immediate search for their recovery 1

Supposing that Mrs. Burbank and Alice had got back to Castle House, and James Burbank knew everything, was there not cause to fear that the house had been entered by the assailants, pillaged, burnt, destroyed? In that case, what had become of its defenders? If they had been made prisoners or killed in the struggle, Zermah could not hope for any assistance on their part. Even if the Northerners had become masters of the St. John’s she was lost. Neither Gilbert Burbank nor Mars would know that the sister of one and the wife of the other were imprisoned in this islet in Black Creek.

And although these things were so, and Zermah had only herself to look to, her energy would not leave her. She would do all she could to save this child who had perhaps only her in the world to look to. Her life would centre in this idea — escape! Not an hour should pass without her doing something towards doing so.

But was it possible to escape from the fortress watched by Squambo and his companions, to get away from the ferocious bloodhounds that prowled round the enclosure, to fly from this island lost in the thousand windings of the lagoon? Yes, it was possible, but only on condition that she was secretly helped by one of the slaves who knew the channels of Black Creek. Why should not the temptation of a large reward induce one of the men to help her in her escape? That was the direction in which she must work.

Dy had just awoke. The first word she uttered was a call for her mother. Then she looked round the room. The remembrance of last night’s events returned to her. She saw the half-breed, and ran to her.

“Good Zermah! Good Zermah!” she murmured, “I am afraid! I am afraid!”

“You must not be afraid, my dear.”

“Where is mamma?”

“She will come — soon. We have been obliged to save ourselves — as you know 1 We are now in safety. There is nothing to fear. As soon as they have helped your father, he will come to us.”

Dy looked at Zermah, as much as to say —

“Is that really true?”

“Yes,” said Zermah, who wished to give the child confidence at any cost. “Yes, Mr. Burbank told us to wait for him here.”

“But the men who took us away in the boat?” said the child, returning to the charge.

“They are the servants of Mr. Harvey, my dear. You know Mr. Harvey, your father’s friend who lives at Jacksonville. We are in his cottage at Hampton Red.”

“And mamma and Alice, who were with us, why are they not here?”

“Mr. Burbank called them back as they were going to get into the boat. Do you not remember? As soon as the naughty men have been hunted from Camdless Bay, they will come and look for you. See now! Don’t cry! Don’t be afraid, my dear, even if we stay here for some days. We are well hidden. And now let me put you straight.”

Dy kept her eyes obstinately fixed on Zermah, and not-withstanding what she had been told, a heavy sigh escaped her lips. She had not woke with a smile as she usually did. It was important to keep her busy to distract her attention.

And Zermah tried to do so with the most tender solicitude. She performed her toilet with as much care as if the child were at Castle House, and at the same time tried to amuse her with her stories. Then Dy ate a little, and Zermah shared her first breakfast with her.

“Now, my dear, if you like, we will go out into the enclosure.”

“Is Mr. Harvey’s cottage very nice?” asked the child.

“Nice? No!” said Zermah. “I think it is an old hovel. But there are trees and watercourses, and a place where we can walk. We shall stay here for some days, and if you are not too tired, and are very good, mamma will be pleased.”

“Yes, good Zermah, I will be good!” said the little girl.

The door of the room was not locked. Zermah took the child’s hand and went out with her. They first found themselves in the central redoubt where it was dark. A moment afterwards they were in full daylight beneath the foliage of the great trees through which the sun shot its rays.

The enclosure was not large; it was about an acre in extent, and of this the blockhouse occupied the greater portion. The palisade which surrounded it did not allow Zermah to reconnoitre the position of the island in the lagoon. All she could see through the old gateway was a tolerably wide channel, with troubled waters separating it from the neighbouring islands. A woman and a child could not but find it difficult to escape. Even supposing Zermah could get possession of a boat, how could she get out of the interminable labyrinth? She did not know that Texar and Squambo alone knew the way, for the negroes rarely left the blockhouse. To reach the St. John’s, or the marshes to the west of the creek, she would have to trust to chance. And was not that running to certain destruction?

During the next day or two Zermah, on thinking matters over, saw that no help could be hoped from Texar’s slaves. They were for the most part half-brutish negroes of forbidding appearance. The Spaniard did not keep them chained, but they had not more liberty than if he had. With plenty to eat grown on the island, and addicted to strong drink, which Squambo was not at all stingy in giving them, and specially kept for defending the blockhouse, they had no interest in changing their existence for another. The slave question debated a few miles from Black Creek had no interest for them. To gain their freedom? Why? And what would they do with it? Texar assured their existence, and Squambo did not ill-treat them, although he would have smashed the head of the first man who advised them to mutiny. They never dreamt of such a thing. They were, indeed, brutes inferior to the hounds prowling round the palisade. And without exaggeration it could be said that the hounds excelled them in intelligence, for they knew all the ins and outs of the creek, and swam its multiple passes, running from islet to islet, guided by a marvellous instinct which never led them astray. Often their bark would be heard along the left bank of the river, and before night they would come back to the blockhouse all by themselves. No boat could enter Black Creek without being at once discovered by these formidable guardians. Except Squambo and Texar, no one would dare to leave the fortress without running the risk of being devoured by these savage Carib dogs.

When Zermah saw how the enclosure was watched, when she saw she could expect no help from those who guarded her, it might be thought that she gave up all thought of escape in despair. But she did not. Help might come from outside, and in that case it would come from James Burbank, if he was free to act, or from Mars when Mars learnt how his wife had disappeared. Failing these she must depend on herself for the child’s safety. And she would be equal to the task.

Isolated in this lagoon, she saw herself surrounded only by brutish men. Sometimes she thought that one of the negroes, who was still young, looked at her with pity. Was there any hope in that? Could she trust him to tell her the way to Camdless Bay, and help her to escape to Castle House? It was doubtful. And Squambo had evidently noticed that the slave was taking an interest in her, for now he was kept away, and Zermah met him no more in her walks about the enclosure.

Several days passed and there was no change in the circumstances. From morning till night Zermah and Dy were at liberty to move about as they chose. When night came, although Squambo did not lock them in their room, yet he did not allow them to leave the central redoubt. He never spoke to them, and Zermah had given up all attempts to question him. Not for a moment did he seem to leave the island. She felt that his watch over them was unceasing. And she employed herself in looking after the child, who constantly asked for her mother.

“She will come!” Zermah would reply. “I have had news of her. Your father will come too, my dear, and with Miss Alice.”

And when she had said this she knew not what else to imagine; and then she did her best to amuse the child, who showed more sense than could be expected at her age.

The 4th, 5th, and 6th of March went by. Although Zermah listened for some distant detonation to announce the presence of the Federal flotilla on the waters of the St. John’s, no sound reached her. All was silence at Black Creek. It was reasonable to suppose that Florida did not yet belong to the soldiers of the North. And this increased the half-breed’s anxiety to the utmost. Failing James Burbank, she must trust to Gilbert and Mars. And what was very strange was that the Spaniard had not once shown himself at the blockhouse, either in the day or the night. At least, Zermah saw nothing to make her think so. And she scarcely slept, passing her long hours of insomnia in listening — always in vain.

What could she do if Texar came to Black Creek Would he listen to her prayers or her threats? Was not the Spaniard’s presence more to be feared than his absence?

It was the night of the 6th of March, and about eleven o’clock. For the thousandth time Zermah was thinking over these things, as little Dy quietly slept. The room which served them for a cell was in deep darkness. No sound was heard without, except the whistling of the wind along the crumbling planks of the blockhouse.

Suddenly she heard some one walking into the central redoubt. At first she supposed it was the Indian going to his room opposite hers, after making his usual round to see that all was safe.

Then she heard a few words spoken by two voices. She glided to the door, and placed her ear close to it, and listened. She recognized Squambo’s voice, and almost immediately afterwards Texar’s.

A shudder seized her. What did the Spaniard want at this hour? Was it some new scheme against her and the child? Were they going to take them from their room, carry them to some more unknown retreat, more impenetrable than this of Black Creek? In a moment all these suppositions presented themselves. Then her energy took the upper hand, and she leant against the door and listened.

“Nothing new?” said Texar.

“Nothing, master,” said Squambo.

“And Zermah?”

“I refused to answer her questions.”

“Have any attempts been made to reach them from Camdless Bay?”

“Yes, but none have succeeded.”

From this reply Zermah learnt that people were searching for them. Who could they be?

“How do you know?”

“I have been several times to the river-bank,” said the Indian. “And a day or two ago I saw a boat laying off the Creek. The two men in her landed on one of the islands by the bank.”

“Who were these two men?”

“James Burbank and Walter Stannard.”

Zermah could hardly restrain her emotion. James Burbank and Walter Stannard! And so the defenders of Castle House had not perished in the attack on the plantation. And if they had begun to search, it was because (they knew that she and the child had been carried off. And if they knew that, it must be because Mrs. Burbank and Alice had told them so. So that they were alive, and they must have got back to Castle House after hearing her last shout for help against Texar. James Burbank thus knew what had happened. He knew the scoundrel’s name. Perhaps he even suspected where he had hidden his victims. He might even reach them!

This chain of thought linked itself together instantly in Zermah’s mind. A great hope took possession of her — a hope that vanished immediately when she heard the Spaniard answer —

“Yes! Let them search, and they will never find them. In a few days we need have no fear of James Burbank!”

What these words meant Zermah could not divine; but, coming from the man whom Jacksonville obeyed, they were a formidable menace.

“And now, Squambo, I want you for an hour,” said the Spaniard. “Right.”

“Follow me.”

A moment afterwards they had entered the Indian’s room. — *

What were they doing there? Was it some secret that Zermah ought to know? In her position she should neglect nothing that might be of use to her.

Her room door, as we know, was not locked during the night. The precaution would have been useless, as the redoubt was locked, and Squambo kept the key. It was impossible to get out of the blockhouse, and consequently to attempt escape.

Zermah could thus open her door and step out. She held her breath as she did so.

The darkness was intense. Only a few streaks of light came from the Indian’s room.

Zermah crept to the door, and peeped through the crack between two planks. What she saw was too strange for her to understand its meaning.

Although the room was lighted only by the fag-end of a resinous torch, the light was enough for the Indian, who was occupied in a work of great delicacy.

Texar was seated in front of him, with his leather coat thrown back, and with his left arm bare and stretched out on a little table just under the light of the torch. A piece of paper of curious shape, pierced with little holes, was laid on the inner part of the fore-arm. With a fine needle, Squambo pricked the skin in every place where there was a hole in the paper. The Indian was ‘tattooing, and, as a Seminole, he was an expert at such work. He did it with such skill and lightness of hand that the epidermis was only just touched by the needle-point, and the Spaniard felt not the least discomfort.

When he had done, Squambo lifted the paper then, taking a few leaves of a plant Texar had brought with him, he rubbed them over the fore-arm. The sap of the plant rubbed into the needle punctures caused a sharp itching, but the Spaniard was not the man to trouble himself about such small matters.

This part of the operation over, Squambo held the torch close to the tattooed place. A reddish design then appeared on the skin. The design was an exact copy of that formed by the needle-holes in the paper. It was a series of inter-crossed lines, representing one of the symbolic figures of the Seminole religion. The mark could never more be effaced from the arm on which Squambo had put it.

Zermah had seen it all, and, as we have said, could understand nothing of it. What interest could Texar have in being thus tattooed? Why this “particular -sign,” as the passports say? Did he wish to pass as an Indian? Neither his complexion nor his features would admit of his doing so. Was there any connection between this mark and that which had been put on the Floridans who had been robbed by the Seminoles? And, on account of it, was he going to prove one of those inexplicable alibis which had hitherto stood him in such good stead?

Perhaps this was one of the secrets of his life which the future would reveal.

Another question presented itself to Zermah. Had not the Spaniard come to the blockhouse to avail himself of Squambo’s cleverness as a tattooer? Was he going back to Jacksonville, where his partisans were still in power.? Or was he going to stop at the blockhouse day after day and make fresh arrangements regarding his prisoners?

Zermah’s anxiety was not of long duration. She had slipped back to her room as soon as the Spaniard rose to enter the central chamber. Hidden by the door, she heard the few” words exchanged between the Indian and his master. . .

“Watch them with more care than ever,” he said.

“Yes,” replied Squambo. “But if we are closely pressed by James Burbank — “

“James Burbank, I tell you, will not trouble you after a few days. Besides, you know where to take the half-breed and child — where I shall meet you again.”

“Yes, master,” said Squambo; “for we must provide against Gilbert Burbank, or Mars, Zermah’s husband — ” Before forty-eight hours they will both be in my power, and when I get them — “

Zermah did not hear the end of the sentence which threatened her husband and Gilbert so seriously.

Texar and Squambo then left the redoubt, and the door shut behind them.

A few minutes later the skiff paddled by the Indian left the island, traversed the sombre sinuosities of the lagoon, and put the Spaniard on board a boat that was waiting for him off the creek. Squambo and his master then separated, Texar going down with the tide to Jacksonville.

He arrived there at dawn, in time to put his plans into execution. And soon afterwards Mars disappeared in the waters of the St. John’s, and Gilbert Burbank was condemned to death.

CHAPTER XIII

WINTER QUARTERS

THE winter season had definitely set in on Charman Island at the beginning of May. How long would it last? Five months or less if the latitude was the same as that of New Zealand. And therefore Gordon prepared for the rigours of a long winter.

The young American made careful note of his meteorological observations. He found that as the winter did not begin until May, that is, two months before July, which answers to January in the northern hemisphere, it would probably last for two months afterwards, or about the middle of September, when the storms prevalent about the time of the equinox would follow on to prolong it. Consequently the young colonists might be kept at French Den till the early days of October before they were able to make a long excursion either across or round Charman Inland. He had thus to draw up a programme of daily work such as would be the best for the life in the cave.

And in the first place he decided to have nothing to do with faggism such as they had been used to at Charman’s school. His whole effort was directed to accustoming the boys to the idea that they were almost men, and had to act as such. There were to be no fags at French Ten, that is to say, the younger boys were not to be the servants of the elders.

The library of French Den contained only a few books of science and travel, so that the bigger boys could only pursue their studies to a limited extent. But the difficulties of existence, the constant struggle to supply their wants, the necessity of exercising the judgment or imagination in the presence of eventualities of all sorts would teach them to regard life seriously, and as they were naturally designed to be the educators of their young companions, it would be their duty to be their teachers.

In order not to overburden the youngsters with work too great for their age, every opportunity would be taken of exercising their bodies as well as their minds. When the weather permitted they would be allowed out, in suitable clothes of course, to run and enjoy themselves in the fresh air, or work at such manual labour as their strength allowed them. In short, the scheme was drawn up on the four main principles which form the basis of English education: —

“If you are frightened at a thing, do it.”

“Never lose a chance of doing your very best.”

“Never fear fatigue, for nothing you can do is useless.”

“A healthy body means a healthy mind.”

And this is what was agreed upon after discussion at a general meeting of the boys.

For two hours every morning, and two hours every evening, all would work in the hall. Taking it in turns, Briant, Donagan, Cross, and Baxter of the fifth form, and Wilcox and Webb of the fourth, would hold classes for their schoolfellows of the third, second, and first forms. They would teach them mathematics, geography, history, supplementing the knowledge they had acquired at school by that obtained from the books in the library. This would prevent their forgetting what they already knew. Twice a week, on Sunday and Thursday, there would be a debate on some subject of science, or history, or actual occurrence, in which all would take part.

Gordon, as chief of the colony, would see that the programme was carried out without modification, unless something occurred that rendered it impossible.

To begin with, an arrangement was made regarding the duration of time. They had the yacht’s almanac, but each day had to be regularly run through, and they had watches, but it was necessary for them to be regularly wound up and adjusted so as to keep exact time. Two of the bigger boys were entrusted with this duty. Wilcox had charge of the watches. Baxter had charge of the almanac. And to Webb fell the duty of daily recording the readings of the barometer and thermometer.

The next thing done was to start a log of all that happened during their stay on Charman Island. Baxter volunteered for this, and thanks to him the “Journal of French Den “was written up with minute exactitude.

A work of no less importance, and which could be no longer delayed, was the washing of the linen, for which there was no scarcity of soap; and this was lucky considering the mess into which the youngsters got when they played on the terrace or fished in the stream. In vain Gordon cautioned them, and growled at them, and threatened to punish them; dirty they would get in spite of all he could do. There was no doubt as to who would do the washing. Moko knew all about it; but as he could not manage it all, the bigger boys had to assist him, under his directions.

The day after this programme had been agreed upon was Sunday, and the way in which that day is kept in England and America is well known. In the morning the young colonists went out for a walk along the banks of Family Lake. But as it was extremely cold the boys, after an outing of a couple of hours, were glad to get back to their warm hall and a hot dinner in the storeroom, carefully prepared by the clever master cook of French Den. In the evening there was a concert, in which Garnett’s accordion took the place of orchestra, and the singing, more or less out of tune, was of the true Anglo-Saxon type. The only boy with a really musical voice was Jack, but in his present inexplicable humour he would take no part in his companions’ occupations, and refused to sing when they asked him.

The day, which had begun with a short address by “the Reverend Gordon,” as Service called him, ended with a few minutes’ prayer in the hall: and by ten o’clock all the boys were asleep under the protection of Fan, to whom they could trust in the event of any suspicious approach.

During June the cold gradually increased. Webb reported that the barometer was steady at just above twenty-seven inches, and the thermometer was from eighteen to twenty degrees below freezing. As soon as the wind, which blew from the south, shifted towards the west the temperature rose a little, and the surroundings of French Den were covered with a deep snow. The snow was not unwelcome, as it afforded an opportunity for a grand snowballing match, in which a few of the boys suffered severely, notably Jack, who stood looking on. A ball thrown furiously by Cross missed its mark and hit him hard enough to make him cry.

“I did not do it on purpose,” said Cross, with the usual excuse of the clumsy.

“Perhaps not,” said Briant, who had noticed his brother’s eye, “but you shouldn’t throw so hard.”

“Well, why did he get in the way?” asked Cross, “Why isn’t he playing?”

“What a fuss about a little bruise,” said Donagan. “Perhaps it is not very serious,” answered Briant, seeing that Donagan wished to interfere in the matter; but I’ll ask Cross not to do it again.”

“How can he manage that,” asked Donagan jeeringly. if he didn’t do it on purpose?”

“I don’t know what business it is of yours, Donagan,”

said Briant; it only concerns Cross and me — “

“And it concerns me too. Briant, if that is the tone you take, said Donagan.

“As you please — and when you please,” replied Briant. crossing his arms.

‘ Let us have it now, then,” said Donagan.

At this moment Gordon came up, just in time to prevent the quarrel ending in a fight.

He decided that Donagan was in the wrong. And Donagan had to submit, and much to his disgust went back to French Den. But it was to be feared that some other incident would soon bring the rivals to blows.

The snow continued to fall for two days. To amuse the little ones Service and Garnett made a large snow man, with a big head, and an enormous nose — a regular Croquemitaine. And it may as well be confessed that although during the day Dote and Costar were brave enough to pelt the man with snowballs, vet at night, when the darkness had made the figure look larger, they could not look at it without being frightened.

“Oh! the cowards!” said Iverson and Jenkins, who pretended to be very brave, although they were no less terrified than their young companions.

At the end of June their amusements had to be given up. The snow, piled up to three or four feet in thickness, rendered it almost impossible to get out. To venture more than a few hundred yards from French Den was to run the risk of being unable to return.

The young colonists were thus kept in for a fortnight — until the 9th of July. The work did not suffer; on the contrary, the daily programme was strictly adhered to. The discussions took place on the proper days. In them all took delight, and it is not surprising that Donagan, with his facility of speech and advanced education, held the first place. But why was he so vain of it? His vanity spoilt all his brilliant qualities.

Although the hours of recreation had to be passed in the hall, the general health did not suffer, thanks to the ventilation obtained by means of the passage. The question of hygiene was an important one. If one of the boys was to fall ill how could they give him the needful attention? Fortunately they escaped with a few colds and sore throats, which rest and warm drinks soon got rid of.

There was another question to be solved. In practice the water had been got from the stream at low tide when the brackishness had disappeared. But when the surface of the stream was frozen over this would not be possible. Gordon consulted with Baxter, his” engineer in ordinary, as to what was best to be done. Baxter, after consideration, proposed to run a conduit a few feet below the bank so that the water in it would not freeze on its way to the storeroom. This would have been a difficult job if Baxter had not had at his disposal the leaden pipes which served the lavatory on the yacht; and so, after many attempts, the water was at last laid on into the interior of the storeroom. For lighting there was still enough oil for the lanterns,” but after the winter it would be necessary to make candles out of the fat which Moko carefully preserved.

The feeding of the little colony was another subject of more trouble during this time, for neither the shooters nor the fishermen could furnish their usual tribute. A few animals, driven by hunger, came prowling about Game Terrace; but these were the jackals that Donagan and Cros3 scared away with the report of a gun. One day they came in a troop — there were about twenty of them — and the doors of the hall and storeroom had to be barricaded against them. An invasion of carnivores made fierce by hunger was a formidable affair. However, Fan gave the alarm in time, and they did not force their way into French Den.

Under these unfortunate conditions Moko was obliged to attack the provisions from the yacht, which it had been agreed to make last as long as possible. Gordon never gave his permission willingly for them to be used, and it was with disgust he saw his column of expenses lengthening while that of his receipts remained stationary. “However, as there was a large stock of ducks and bustards which had been hermetically sealed in casks after being half cooked, Moko was able to make use of them, in addition to a certain quantity of salmon preserved in brine. But it should not be forgotten that French Den had fifteen mouths to satisfy, and these with appetites of from eight to fourteen years old.

Nevertheless, during this winter, there was not an entire want of fresh meat. Wilcox, who was quite an expert in trapping, kept several “figure of 4 “traps going on the river-bank with success, and with the aid of his companions he rigged up a few vertical nets on high sticks, in the meshes of which the birds flying across the stream from South Moor were often caught; and although most of them got away, yet occasionally enough were taken to form a welcome addition to the day’s two meals.

But it was the nandu which gave the greatest trouble in the matter of food; and it must be confessed that the taming of this wild animal made no progress, although service was specially charged with his education.

“What a racer it will be!” he would repeat, although he did not yet see how he could mount it.

As the nandu did not eat flesh. Service had to go out and search for its daily provision of herbs and roots under two or three feet of snow. But what would he not have done for the nourishment of his pet? If the nandu got rather thin during this interminable winter, it was not the fault of its faithful guardian, and there was reason to hope that when the spring came it would recover its normal plumpness.

On the 9th of July, when Briant went out first thing in the morning, he found that the wind had suddenly got back to the south.

The cold had become so keen that Briant at once went into the hall, and told Gordon of the change of temperature.

“That is what I feared,” said Gordon, “and I shall not be surprised if we have to put up with several months of very severe winter.”

“That would show,” said Briant, “that the yacht drifted much farther to the south than we supposed.”

“Doubtless,” said Gordon; “but our atlas has no island like this on the boundary of the Antarctic Ocean!”

“It is inexplicable, and really I do not know where we shall go if we manage to leave Charman Island.”

“Leave our island!” exclaimed Gordon. “Are you always thinking of that?”

“Always!” said Briant. “If we could build a boat that would be seaworthy, I should not hesitate to go on a voyage of discovery.”’

“All right!” said Gordon. “But there is no hurry. Wait a little till we have got our colony into order.”

“Eh?” said Briant. “You forget we have left behind us our fathers and mothers.”

“Of course — of course,” said Gordon. “But we are not so badly off here! We are getting on, and I am beginning to ask myself what it is we have not got.”

Many things, Gordon,” said Briant, not caring to prolong the conversation on this subject. ” For instance, we are running short of fuel.”

“Oh! all the forests in the island are not yet burnt.”

“No. But we ought to replenish our stock of wood, for it is nearly at an end.”

“We’ll see about that to-day. What does the thermometer register?”

The thermometer in the storeroom showed only 41 degrees although the stove was doing its best. But when the instrument bad been taken outside, and exposed against the outer wall, it went down to zero.

This cold was intense, and it would certainly increase if the weather remained clear and dry for a few weeks. Already, notwithstanding the roaring of the stoves in the hall, and the cooking-range, the temperature sensibly decreased in the interior of French Den.

About nine o’clock, after breakfast, it was decided to be off to Trap Woods, and bring in a stock of fuel.

When the atmosphere is calm the lowest temperatures can be supported with impunity. It is during the bitter wind that hands and face are frost-bitten, and life is in danger. Fortunately, on this day the wind was extremely feeble, and the sky without a cloud, as if the air was frozen. In place of the soft snow into which the night before the legs would sink, the surface was now as hard as iron, and to avoid falling the boys had to walk as carefully as if they were on Family Lake or Zealand River, which were now entirely frozen over. With a few pairs of snow-shoes, such as are used by the natives of polar regions, or even with a sledge drawn by dogs or reindeer, the lake could have been explored front north to south in a few hours.

But no such long expedition was intended to-day. To go to the neighbouring forest to replenish the stock of fuel, that was the immediate necessity; and to bring a sufficient quantity to the cave would be arduous work, if it had to be transported in the arms or on the back.

But Moko had an idea which he proceeded to put into execution. The big table in the storeroom, strongly built, and measuring twelve feet in length by four in breadth, would that not do for a sledge if the legs were turned uppermost? Why, certainly, and that is what was done; and with four of the bigger boys dragging it by cords attached to its legs, the departure was made to Trap Woods.

The little ones, with red noses and healthy cheeks, frisked along in front, and Fan set them the example. Occasionally they caught hold of the table, not without disputes and running fights, but all in fun, and at the risk only of a fall, which could do them no harm. Their shouts resounded with extraordinary clearness in the cold, dry atmosphere. And, in truth, it was quite refreshing to see all the little colony in good humour and good health.

Everything was white as far as the eye could see between Auckland Hill and Family Lake. The trees, with their rimy branches loaded with glittering crystals, rose near and far in masses, as in a faery garden. Over the surface of the lake the birds flew in flocks. Donagan and Cross had not forgotten to bring their guns with them — a wise precaution, for footprints were noticed that must have been made by other wild animals than jackals, cougars, and jaguars.

“Perhaps they are the wild cats they call ‘pajeros,’” said Gordon.

“Oh!” said Costar, shrugging his shoulders, “if they are only cats — “

“And tigers are only cats,” said Jenkins.

“Is it true. Service,” asked Costar, “that these cats are dangerous?”

“Quite true,” said Service. “And they scare little boys as easily as they do mice.”

And the answer made Costar rather uneasy.

The half-mile between French Den and Trap Woods was soon accomplished, and the young wood-cutters got to work. The axe was only laid to such trees as were of a certain size; these were stripped of their smaller branches, so as to yield not only faggots which would blaze away in a moment, but good-sized blocks that would come in useful for the stoves and range. Then the table-sledge was heavily loaded, but it slipped along so easily that before twelve o’clock it had made two journeys.

After a meal the work went on till four o clock, when the day began to close in. It was tiring work, and, as there was no need to carry anything to excess, Gordon called the boys intending to return in the morning. And when Gordon ordered they had to obey.

Besides, as soon as they returned to French Den, they could employ themselves in sawing the blocks, splitting them, and stowing them away, and that would occupy them till it was time to go to bed.

For six days this wood-cutting went on without a break, and enough fuel was collected to last for many weeks Of course all this wood could not be stowed in the storeroom; but there was no reason why the greater part should not remain in safety against the cliff near the door.

The 15th of July, according to the almanac, was St. Swithin’s Day, which in England corresponds to St. Medard’s Day in France.

“Then,” said Briant, “as it rains to-day, are we going to have forty days’ rain?”

“Well,” said Service, “I don’t see how that can matter, as we are in the winter. If it had been summer — “

And, in fact, the inhabitants of the southern hemisphere have no occasion to bother themselves with the sinister influences of either of the wet saints, who are winter Baints in the antipodes.

But the rain did not continue, the wind returned to the south-east, and it became so cold that Gordon would not allow any of the little ones to set foot out of doors.

In the first week in August the thermometric column rank to 14deg below zero, and the breath of those who for a moment exposed themselves to the air condensed into snow. The hand could not touch a piece of metal without a sharp pain as of burning. The most careful precautions had to be taken to keep the temperature indoors sufficiently high.

A most painful fortnight followed. All suffered, more or less, from the want of exercise. Briant could not see, without feeling anxious, the pale looks of the little ones, whose colour had quite disappeared. However, thanks to the hot drinks, which were always procurable, with the exception of a few colds and bronchial troubles, the young people escaped without much damage.

On the 16th of August the air underwent a change, as the wind shifted into the west, and the thermometer rose to 10deg, a temperature that was supportable if the atmosphere was calm.

Donagan, Briant, Service, Wilcox, and Baxter decided to make an excursion to Schooner Bay. By starting early they could get back before night.

They wanted to find out if the coast were visited by any number of those amphibians of which they had seen a few at the time of the wreck; and at the same time they would replace the flag, of which only a few rags could remain after the storms of winter. And, at Briant’s suggestion, they could fix to the signal-mast a plate indicating the position of French Den, in case any sailors landed on the coast after seeing the flag.

Gordon gave his assent to the expedition, although he laid stress on the necessity of their getting back before night and the boys started early on the 19th, before it was daylight. The sky was clear, and the moon lighted up the landscape with the pale rays of its last quarter. Six miles to the bay was not much of a distance for the well-rested legs.

The distance was soon covered. The swamp of Bog Wood being frozen over, there was no need to go round it, and by nine o’clock Donagan and his comrades had reached the beach.

“There is a flock of birds,” said Wilcox. And he pointed to the reef, where thousands of birds, like large ducks, with their beaks elongated like a mussel-shell, were giving vent to a cry as piercing as disagreeable.

“You would say they were little soldiers, whose general was reviewing them,” said Service.

“They are only penguins,” answered Baxter, “and they are not worth a shot.”

These stupid birds, holding themselves almost upright, owing to their feet being placed so far back, did not attempt to move, and could have been knocked down with a stick. Donagan might, perhaps, have indulged in useless carnage; but Briant having had the wisdom to say nothing, the penguins were left alone. But if the birds were of no use, there were other animals whose fat would do for lighting French Den during the next winter. These were the seals, of the horn seal species, who were taking their ease on the reef, which was then covered with a thick bed of ice. But to kill any the boys would have to cut off their retreat, as when Briant and his comrades approached they took to flight with many extraordinary antics, and disappeared in the sea. Evidently an expedition for the capture of these animals would have to be organized later on.

After having lunched on the few provisions they had brought with them, the boys set to work to examine the whole stretch of the bay.

One long white sheet extended from Zealand River to False Point. Except the penguins and sea-birds, such as petrels and gulls, it seemed as though the other birds had abandoned the beach for the interior in search of food.

Two or three feet of snow lay on the beach, and all that remained of the schooner had been hidden by it. The lines of seaweed on the near side of the breakers showed that Schooner Bay had not been invaded by the high tides of the equinox.

The sea was still deserted, as far as could be seen, up to the very limit of the horizon that Briant had not looked upon for three long months. And beyond, hundreds of miles away, was this New Zealand that he did not despair of seeing again.

Baxter busied himself in hoisting the new flag which he had brought with him, and nailing to the flagstaff the plate giving the position of French Den at six miles up the course of the stream. Then, about one o’clock in the afternoon, they started homewards.

On the way Donagan shot a brace of pintail and lapwing which were skimming over the river; and towards four o’clock, as dusk was coming on, they reached the cave. Gordon was told of all that had passed, and agreed that the seals should be attacked as soon as the weather permitted.

In fact, the winter was nearly over. During the last week of August and the first week of September, the sea-breeze regained its supremacy. A series of squalls brought on a great increase of temperature. The snow began to melt, the surface of the lake began to break up with a deafening noise. The bergs that did not melt in the lake were swept into the river, and, piled one on the other, formed a barrier that did not clear away till the 10th of September.

And so the winter had passed. Owing to the precautions that had been taken, the little colony had not suffered excessively. All had kept in good health, and the studies having been attended to zealously, Gordon had had hardly one complaint to deal with.

One day, however, he had had to chastise Dole, whose conduct required an exemplary punishment.

Several times the obstinate boy had refused to do what he was told, and Gordon had reprimanded him, but he took no notice of his observations. And in the end Gordon sentenced him to be flogged.

And so Dole received a birching at the hands of Wilcox, who had been selected by lot for the post of public executioner. And the example had its effect, in preventing any recurrence of insubordination.

On September the 10th six months had elapsed since the schooner was lost on the reefs of Charman Island.

PART II

CHAPTER VIII.

AN ANNIVERSARY.

IT was five o’clock in the afternoon when Jean left the Champlain. He was about three leagues from the village of Chambly, to which he was going.

What was he to do at Chambly? Had he not already finished his propagandist work through the south-western counties before his arrival at the Villa Montcalm? Yes, certainly. But he had not yet visited this parish. Why? No one could have said; he had told no one, and he could scarcely have told himself. He went to Chambly as if he were being attracted there and repelled at the same time, and he was fully cognizant of the battle that was raging within him.

Twelve years had passed since Jean had left the village where he had been born. He had never returned to it. There was no fear of his being recognized. After so long an absence, would he himself have forgotten the street in which stood the house in which he had passed his childhood?

No! These souvenirs of early life could not be effaced from so vivacious a memory. As he came out of the riverside forest he saw himself again among the prairies which he had formerly crossed to the ferry over the St. Lawrence. It was no longer a stranger wandering in the land, but a child of the country. He showed no hesitation in crossing certain fords, in taking certain cross roads, and cutting off certain corners, to shorten his road. And when he reached Chambly he would have no hesitation in recognizing the little square in which stood the paternal house, the narrow read by which he oftenest entered it, the church to which his mother took him, the school where he had begun his studies before he had gone to finish them at Montreal.

Once again Jean wished to see the places he had kept away from for so long. When he was about to risk his head in a desperate struggle an irresistible desire had brought him back to the spot where his miserable existence had commenced. It was not Jean-Sans-Nom visiting the reformists of the county, but the boy returning, perhaps for the last time, to the village where he had been born.

Jean walked quickly, so as to reach Clambly before night and leave it before morning. Absorbed in his painful remembrances, his eyes saw nothing of what would formerly have attracted his attention, neither the elk passing in the woods, nor the birds of a thousand kinds that flitted among the branches, nor the game which ran along the furrows.

A few labourers were still at work in the fields. He turned off, so as not to have to reply to their cordial greeting, desiring to cross the country unobserved and enter Chambly without being seen.

It was seven o’clock when he saw the church-steeple rising among the trees. In little more than a mile he would be there. The sound of the bell was borne to him on the wind. And instead of exclaiming, “Yes, it is I! I, who have returned to what I once loved so well — to my nest — to my cradle!” he was silent, and asked himself in terror, “What have I come to do here?”

However, the interrupted ringing of the bell told him it could not be the Angelus that was ringing. To what service, then, were the faithful of Chambly being summoned at so late an hour?

“So much the better,” said Jean, “they will be at church. I shall not have to pass the open doors; they will not see me; they will not speak to me; and if I do not ask shelter of any one, no one will know that I have been.”

And he continued his journey. But for an instant the idea of returning came to him. No. It was an invincible force which drew him forwards.

As he approached Chambly, Jean looked about him with more attention. Notwithstanding the changes that had taken place in the twelve years, he recognized the houses, the enclosures, and the farms on the skirts of the village.

When he reached the main street he glided along by the houses, whose aspect was so French that it might have been the capital of a bailiwick in the seventeenth century. Here lived a friend of the family, with whom Jean had passed his holidays. There lived the cure of the parish, who had given him his first lessons. Were these worthy men alive? Then a higher building rose on the right. It was the school he had gone to each morning.

The road led him up to the church. The paternal house occupied a corner of the square on the left, with its back overlooking a garden, in which the trees grouped with the belt of trees that surrounded the village. The night was dark. The half-open door of the church allowed a glimpse to be seen within, where a crowd was just visible in the light of the lustre hanging from the roof.

Jean, having lost his fear of being recognized, would have mingled with this crowd. He would have entered the church and taken part in the service, and knelt on the benches where he had used to pray. But at first he felt himself drawn towards the other side of the square, and he turned to the left, and reached the corner where his father’s house used to stand.

He remembered it. All the details returned to him — the gate which shut off the little front garden, the dovecot on the gable to the right, the four windows on the ground floor, the door in the middle, the window to the left on the first floor where he had so often seen his mother among the flowers that framed it. He was fifteen when he had left Chambly for the last time. At that age things are already deeply graven on the memory. Here it was that the house ought to be which had been built by his ancestors at the beginning of the colony — but house there was none!

In its place there was nothing but ruins. Gloomy ruins, not such as time had made, but such as had been made by violence. There could be no mistake. Burnt stones, blackened walls, charred beams, heaps of ashes, white now, and telling of the time when the house had been the prey of the flames!

A horrible thought crossed Jean’s mind. Who had lighted the flame? Was it the work of chance or carelessness? Was it the hand of justice?

Irresistibly he was attracted, and he glided among the ruins. He stumbled against some ashes heaped on the ground. A few owls flew off; doubtless no one came there. Why, then, in this most frequented part of the village, had these ruins been allowed to remain? Why, after the fire, had the ground not been cleared?

During the twelve years he had been away Jean had never heard that the house had been destroyed, that it was now but a pile of stones blackened by the fire.

He stood still, full at heart, and thinking of the sorrowful past and the more sorrowful present.

“Eh! What are you doing there, sir?” asked an old man, stopping on his way to church.

Jean did not hear him, and did not reply.

“Hallo!” the old man shouted. “Are you deaf? You must not stop there. If they see you there, you may hear something you won’t like.”

Jean came out of the ruins on to the road, and said to the man, —

“Were you speaking to me?”

“Yes, to you. You must not go in there.”

“And why not?”

“Because the place is accursed.”

“Accursed!” murmured Jean, but in so low a tone that the old man did not hear him.

“You are a stranger here, sir?”

“Yes,” said Jean.

“And you have not been to Chambly for many years?”

“Yes, many years.”

“Then it is not surprising that you do not know. Believe me, it is good advice I am giving you — do not go back into those ruins.”

“And why?”

“Because you can only soil yourself with the cinders. It is the house of a traitor!”

“Of a traitor?”

“Yes, of Simon Morgaz.”

Which the unhappy man knew only too well!

And so, of the house from which his father had been driven twelve years before, of the dwelling which he had wished to see for the last time, and which he thought was still standing, there remained only a few bare walls. And tradition had made the place so infamous that no one dare approach it, and none of the people of Chambly could pass it without a malediction! Twelve years had gene, and in this village, as throughout Lower Canada, there had been no diminution in the horror inspired by the name of Simon Morgaz!

Jean had lowered his eyes, his hands trembled, he felt as though he would faint. Had it not been for the darkness, the old man would have seen the blush of shame overspread his face.

“You are a French-Canadian?”

“Yes,” answered Jean.

“Then you cannot be ignorant of the crime that Simon Margaz committed?”

“Who docs not know it?”

“No one, in truth. You come from the eastern counties, doubtless?”

“Yes — from the east — from New Brunswick.”

“That is a long way off. Perhaps you did not know that the house had been destroyed?”

“No! An accident, probably?”

“Not at all, sir; not at all. It would have been better, perhaps, if it had been destroyed by the fire of Heaven 1

And that will happen some day, for God is just! But we have anticipated His justice! The day after Simon Morgaz had been hunted from Chambly, we burnt down his house. And that his memory might never perish we left the ruins in the state you see. And it is forbidden to go near them; and no one would soil himself with the dust of this house.”

Jean stood motionless, and listened. The animation with which the old man spoke showed that the feeling against all belonging to Simon Morgaz was as violent as ever. Where Jean had come for souvenirs of his family there were only souvenirs of shame.

But as the old man spoke, he drew further and further away from the ruins towards the church. The bell had just ceased its last call. The service was about to begin. The chanting could already be heard, interrupted by long pauses, and the old man said, —

“I must now leave you, sir, unless it is your intention to accompany me into the church. You will hear a sermon that will have much influence hereabouts — “

“I cannot,” said Jean. “I must be at Laprairie before daylight.”

“Then you have no time to lose, sir. The roads are safe enough. For some time the police have been out day and night, in pursuit of Jean-Sans-Nom, whom, thanks be to Heaven, they have not caught. We think a good deal of that young hero, sir, and if I can believe what rumour says, he will here find all the gallant fellows ready to follow him.”

“As in all the county,” said Jean.

“Much more, sir. Have we not to atone for the shame of having been the neighbours of Simon Morgaz?”

The old man was fond of talking, that was evident. But at last he was really going, had turned to go, when Jean asked him, —

“My friend, perhaps you knew the family of this Simon Morgaz?”

“I did, and well. I am seventy now, and I was fifty-eight at the time of this abominable affair. What has become of him? I don’t know! Perhaps he is dead. Perhaps he has gone to a foreign land, under another name, so that they cannot throw his own in his face! But his wife, his children! Ah! how I pity the poor things! Madame Bridget I used to see so often, always good and kind, though she was not very rich! All the village loved her! What she has had to suffer, poor woman — what she must have suffered!”

How can we describe what was passing in Jean’s mind. Before the ruins of the house, where the last act of the treason had been accomplished, where the companions of Simon Morgaz had been betrayed, to hear the name of his mother, to be reminded of the misery of her life, it was almost more than human nature could bear. Jean must have been a man of extraordinary strength of will to restrain the cry of anguish which rose to his lips.

And the old man continued, —

“And I knew the two sons, sir! They took after her! Ah! the poor boys! Where are they at this moment? Every one here liked them for their frankness and good-heartedness. The elder was more serious and studious, and the younger more playful and determined, taking up the defence of the weak against the strong. His name was Jean. His brother’s was Joann, just the same as that of the young preacher who is to address us tonight.”

“The Abbe Joann?” exclaimed Jean.

“Do you know him?”

“No. But I have heard of his sermons.”

“Well, sir, if you do not know him, you ought to make his acquaintance. He has come through the western counties, and every one has been rushing to hear him. You will see what enthusiasm he will arouse. If you can delay your departure an hour — “

“I am with you,” said Jean.

With the old man he entered the church, where they found some trouble in finding scats.

The first prayers had been said, and the preacher had just entered the pulpit. — _

The Abbe Joann was thirty years of age. In his impassioned face, his penetrating look, his full, persuasive, voice, lie resembled his brother, being beardless, like him. In both could be traced the characteristic features of their mother. To see him, or to listen to him, it was easy to understand the influence he had over the crowd attracted by his reputation. As the mouthpiece of the Roman Catholic faith and the national faith, he was an apostle in the true sense of the word, a child of the brave race of the missionaries capable of yielding their lives for their belief.

The Abbe Joann began his sermon. All that he said for his God could, it was evident, be said for his country. His allusions to the state of affairs in Lower Canada were designed to incite his hearers, with whom patriotism only waited an opportunity for declaring itself openly. His gestures, his words, so worked on his hearers, that a murmur ran through the church when he appealed to Heaven for help against the spoilers. His thrilling voice sounded like A trumpet as his arm seemed to lift on high the flag of independence.

Jean, in the shadow, sat and listened. It seemed as though he himself were speaking through his brother’s lips. The ideas were the same, the aspirations were the same. Both were working for their country, each in his own way, one with words, the other with deeds, and both ready to sacrifice their lives for the cause.

In these days the Catholic clergy possessed a real influence in Lower Canada, from both a social and intellectual point of view. The priests were looked upon as sacred persons. There was a struggle in progress between the old Catholic beliefs, implanted by the French element in the colony, and the Protestant beliefs which the English sought to introduce among all classes. The Catholics rallied round their cures, and the political movement that sought to wrest the Canadian provinces from English hands received no slight encouragement from this alliance between the clergy and their flock.

The Abbe Joann belonged to the order of Sulpicians. And this order, as the reader may not be aware, had possessed large tracts of land since the early conquest, and drew from them important revenues. Thus it followed that the Sulpicians were one of the most honoured and powerful corporations in Canada, and their priests, as the richest landowners, were the most influential of the inhabitants.

The sermon, or rather the patriotic harangue of the Abbe Joann, lasted three quarters of an hour. It aroused such enthusiasm among the congregation, that had it not been for the sanctity of the place, it would have been greeted with repeated applause. The heart-strings of the people had been stirred by the patriotic appeal. It may be thought strange that the authorities allowed a reformist propaganda to be conducted under the cloak of religion. But it would have been difficult to seize on any sentence clearly appealing for insurrection, and the pulpit enjoyed a liberty which the Government could not lightly interfere with.

The sermon over, Jean remained in a corner of the church while the crowd passed out Would he then recognize the Abbe, clasp him by the hand, exchange a few words with him, before rejoining his companions at the farm of Chipogan? Probably the two brothers had not seen each other for several months, when they had parted each to take up his own side in the work of revolution.

Jean was waiting behind the farthest pillars of the nave, when a violent tumult was heard without. It seemed as though the people were manifesting their angry feelings with extraordinary violence. At the same time there were flashes of light, which even penetrated the church.

The congregation went out, and Jean, carried with them in spite of himself, reached the middle of the square.

What was the matter?

Before the ruins of the traitor’s house a great fire had just been lighted. A few men, who were soon joined by children and some women, were feeding the fire with armfuls of dry wood.

Cries of horror and shouts of hatred rent the air.

“To the fire with the traitor! To the fire with Simon Morgaz!”

And then a figure of a man, clothed in rags, was dragged towards the flames.

Jean understood. The population of Chambly were proceeding to burn Simon in effigy, just as in London they used to burn the effigy of Guy Fawkes.

It was the 27th of September, the anniversary of the day on which Walter Hodge and his companions, Clerc and Farran, had died on the scaffold.

Seized with horror, Jean would have fled. He could not move from the ground, where his feet seemed to be fastened. He looked at his father, overwhelmed with blows and insults, dragged in the mud, a prey to a delirium of hate. And it seemed that all this opprobrium recoiled on him, Jean Morgaz.

At this moment the Abbe Joann appeared. The crowd divided to let him pass.

He also understood the meaning of the popular manifestation. And at the same instant he recognized his brother, whose livid face was lighted by the flames, as a hundred voices shouted the odious date and the infamous name.

The Abbe could not restrain himself. He stretched out his arm, and rushed towards the fire as they were going to hurl the effigy into it.

“In the name of the God of mercy,” said he, “have pity for this unhappy man’s memory! Has not God a pardon for all crimes?”

“Not for the crime of treason against your country, of treason against those who have fought for her!” replied one of the men. And in a moment the fire had devoured the effigy of Simon Morgaz, as it did at each anniversary.

The shouts redoubled, and ceased not till the fire was extinct.

In the gloom no one noticed that Jean and Joann stood hand in hand together, and bowed their heads. And then, without uttering a word, they left the horrible scene, and fled from the village to which they were never to return.

CHAPTER IX.

THE MAISON-CLOSE.

Six leagues from Saint Denis lies the town of Saint Charles, on the north bank of the Richelieu in the county of Saint Hyacinthe which adjoins that of Montreal. It is in descending the Richelieu, one of the largest affluents of the St. Laurence, that we reach the little town of Sorel, where the Champlain had put in during her last fishing cruise.

At this time an isolated house stood a few hundred yards this side of the sudden bend made by the main street of Saint Charles.

It was a humble and cheerless-looking dwelling, consisting of only one floor, with a door and two windows facing the small front yard where weeds abounded. As a rule the door was shut; the windows were never open, not even behind open-panelled shutters which were closed over them. If daylight reached the interior, it was only through the two other windows which opened on the garden at the back.

This garden was but a small square patch, surrounded by high walls, festooned with much long pellitory, and having a bordered well in one of the corners. In the small space were a few vegetables, a few fruit trees, pears, nuts and apples, left to the care of nature. A small yard taken from the garden close to the house, contained five or six fowls to furnish the quantity of eggs needed by the daily consumption.

Inside, the house had but three rooms, with only such furniture as was strictly necessary. One of the rooms to the left as you entered, served as a kitchen; the others to the right were bedrooms. The narrow passage which separated them formed the communication between the front door and the garden.

The house was humble and miserable, but it was evident that it was designedly so, and that it was of their own choice that those who lived there, lived in misery and humility. If a mendicant knocked at the door of Maison-Close — as it was called in the town — never was he allowed to depart without a small gift. Maison-Close might well have been called Maison-Charitable, for charity was there to be had at all hours.

Who lived there? A woman, alone, dressed in black, and never without a long widow’s veil. She rarely left the house — once or twice a week, only when some in-indispensable errand obliged her to go, or on Sundays to attend the service. But when she went on her errand, she waited till night, or rather till evening had come, and glided through the dark streets, quickly entered the shop, spoke in a low voice but few words, paid what was asked without attempting to bargain, and returned with her head bowed, her eyes on the ground, like a poor creature who was ashamed of being seen. When she went to church it was at dawn to the first service, and she kept herself apart, in an obscure corner, kneeling as if absorbed in herself. Beneath her veil her immobility was terrible; she would have seemed to be dead if it had not been for the sighs which escaped her. Once or twice some good people would have assisted her, would have offered their services, would have interested themselves in her, would have spoken words of sympathy; but she wrapped herself more closely in her widow’s veil, and recoiled from them as if she were an object of horror.

The inhabitants of Saint Charles knew nothing of this stranger — or rather this recluse. Twelve years before she had arrived in the town to take possession of this house, which had been bought on her account at a very low price, for the people to whom it belonged had been trying to sell it for some time, and had found no applicant.

One day the inhabitants learnt that the new owner had arrived in the night, though none had seen her enter. Who had helped her to remove her scanty furniture, they knew not. Never did anybody enter her house. As she lived then so had she lived ever since her appearance at Saint Charles, in a sort of coenobitic isolation. The walls of Maison-Close were those of a cloister, and no one had been inside them.

But did not the people of the town endeavour to pry into this woman’s life, to learn her secret? A first they were rather astonished, and there was some gossip about the owner of Maison-Close. It was supposed this, and it was supposed that. Then they began not to trouble about her. Within her means she seemed charitable to the poor, and that went for much in the esteem of all.

Tall, bent more by grief than age, the stranger seemed to be about fifty. Under the veil which fell almost to her waist was hidden a face which had once been beautiful, a high forehead, and large black eyes. Her hair was quite white, and her look as though it were impregnated with the ineffaceable tears which had filled her eyes for so long. The character of the face, formerly so gentle and smiling, was now one of gloomy energy and implacable will.

But had public curiosity kept careful watch on Maison-Close it would have discovered that it was not absolutely closed to visitors. Three or four times a year, invariably at night, the door was opened to one stranger, sometimes to two, who neglected no precaution in arriving and leaving unseen. Did they remain a few days in the house, or only a few hours? No one could say. Whenever they left, it was before daylight. There could be no doubt the woman was in communication with some one outside.

It was the 30th of September, 1837, and eleven o’clock at night. The high road after crossing the county of South Hyacinthe from west to cast, passes Saint Charles and runs on.

It was then” deserted. Profound obscurity enwrapped the sleeping town. There was no one to see the two men who came along the road, glided up to the wall of Maison-Close, opened the gate, which was only fastened with a latch, and knocked at the door in a way that was evidently a preconcerted signal.

The door was opened, and shut almost instantly. The two visitors entered the first room to the right, lighted by a night-lamp giving too feeble a light to be seen outside.

The woman seemed in no way surprised at the arrival of these two men. They clasped her in her arms and kissed her forehead with quite filial affection.

They were Jean and Joann. The woman was their mother, Bridget Morgaz.

Twelve years before, after the expulsion of Simon Morgaz, driven away by the people of Chambly, no one had doubted but that the unhappy family had left Canada to expatriate themselves in some part of North or South America or in some distant corner of Europe. The money obtained by the traitor would enable him to live comfortably wherever he might go; and, taking another name, he would escape the contempt which would have pursued him round the world.

As we know, things did not happen in this way. One night Simon Morgaz shot himself, and no one knew that his body lay in some undiscoverable spot on the northern bark of Lake Ontario.

Bridget Morgaz, Jean and Joann saw all the horror of their position. Mother and sons might be innocent of the crime of her husband and their father, but prejudices were such that they would have neither pity nor pardon. In Canada their name would be an object of universal reprobation. They resolved to renounce the name without thinking of taking another. What did they want with a name, poor creatures! when the world had only disgrace for them?

The mother and her sons did not leave the country.

Before leaving Canada, they had a task to fulfil, and this task, even if they gave their lives for it, they all three resolved to accomplish.

It was to repair the wrong Simon Morgaz had done his country. Had it not been for the treason suggested by that hateful tempter, Rip, the plot of 1825 had a good chance of success. Had the Governor-General and the leaders of the British army been carried off, the troops could not have been able to resist the French-Canadians, who would have risen to a man. But an act of infamy had betrayed the secret of the conspiracy, and Canada had remained under the English yoke.

Jean and Joann would resume the work interrupted by their father’s treachery. Bridget, who boldly faced the terrible position, showed them that it ought to be the object of their existence. The brothers, who were then seventeen and eighteen, understood their duty, and devoted themselves entirely to the work of reparation.

Bridget Morgaz resolved to live only on her own private income, and would keep none of the money found in the suicide’s pocket-book. All of it ought to be used for the Reformist cause. It was secretly deposited in the hands of Mr. Nick, at Montreal, under the conditions we know. A part was kept by Jean to be distributed by him to the Reformists. It was thus that in 1851 and 1835 the committees had received the money needful for the purchase of arms and ammunition. In 1837 the balance, which was still considerable, had been sent to the committee at the Villa Montcalm and confided to M. de Vaudreuil.

Bridget had retired to the house at Saint Charles, and there her sons came secretly to see her. For the last few years each had followed a different road to arrive at the same end.

Joann, the eldest, had, under the influence of religious ideas, developed by the bitterness of his position, resolved to be a priest — but a priest militant. He had entered the congregation of the Sulpicians, with the intention of upholding the imprescriptible rights of his country. His natural eloquence, fortified by the most ardent patriotism, attracted the people to him. And in these later days his renown had increased, and he was then at the height of his power.

Jean had taken part in the revolutionary movement not so much by his words as by his deeds. Although rebellion had failed in 1831 and 1835, his reputation had not diminished. Among the masses he was looked upon as the mysterious chief of the Sons of Liberty. We know to what a high place he had risen in the Opposition councils. It seemed as though the cause of independence was in the hands of one man, and that Jean-Sans-Nom, as he called himself, was the only man from whom the patriots were waiting for the signal of a new insurrection.

The hour was at hand. Before making the attempt, Jean and Joann had met by chance at Chambly, and come to Maison-Close to see their mother, perhaps for the last time.

And now they were here with her, seated by her side. They held her lizards; they spoke to her in a low voice. Jean and Joann told her how things stood. The struggle would be terrible, like every supreme struggle.

Bridget, imbued with the sentiments with which their hearts were full, gave herself over to the hope that at last their father’s crime would be atoned for by her sons.

“My Jean, my Joann,” she said, “I want to share your hopes, to believe in your success.”

Yes, mother,” said Jean, “you must believe in it. In a few days the movement will have begun — “

“And may God give us the triumph a sacred cause deserves!” added Joann.

“May God help us!” said Bridget. “And perhaps I shall at last have the right to pray for — “

Up to then never had a prayer escaped the lips of this unhappy woman for the soul of him who had been her husband.

“Mother,” said Joann, “mother — “

“And you, my son,” said Bridget, “have you prayed for your father, you, a priest of the God who pardons?”

Joann bowed his head, and did not reply.

Bridget resumed, —

“My sons, up to now you have both done your duty; but do not forget that you have only done your duty. And if our country owes to you the day of its independence, the name you formerly bore, the name of Morgaz — “

“Exists no longer!” said Jean. There is no rehabilitation possible for it. You can no more restore it to honour than you can restore to life the men whom our father’s treason sent to the scaffold. What Joann and I are doing is not that the infamy attached to our name may disappear. That is impossible! It is not a bargain of that sort we would conclude. Our efforts are to repair the wrong done to our country, not the wrong done to ourselves. Is that not so, Joann?”

“Yes,” said the young priest. “If God can pardon, I know man cannot. Our name will always be a hateful one.”

“But cannot it be forgotten?” asked Bridget, kissing her sons on their foreheads, as if she would efface the indelible stigma.”

“Forgotten!” exclaimed Jean. “Go to Chambly, and you’ll see if it is forgotten.”

“Jean,” said Joann. “Be silent!”

“No, Joann. Our mother ought to know. She has strength enough to hear all, and I would not leave her the hope that rehabilitation is possible.”

And Jean, in a low voice and in broken speech, told her what had happened at Chambly.

Bridget listened without even a tear rising to her eyes. She could not even weep.

But was it, then, true that hope there was none? Was >>>t possible that the remembrance of the treason was unforgettable, and that the responsibility of the crime would descend to the innocent? Was it written in the human conscience that the stain on the family name could never be effaced?

For some minutes not a word was exchanged between the mother and her sons. They did not even look at one another. Their hands parted; they suffered terribly. Everywhere, as at Chambly, they were pariahs, outlaws, repulsed by society, under the ban of humanity.

About three o’clock Jean and Joann began to think of leaving their mother. They must go without the risk of being seen. They intended to separate as they left the town. They must not be seen together on the road by which they crossed the country. No one must know that that night the door of Maison-Close had opened to the only visitors who ever crossed it.

The brothers rose. At the moment of a separation which might be eternal they felt how strong was the tie which bound them together. Fortunately, Bridget was unaware that a reward had been offered for Jean’s apprehension. Although Joann was not ignorant of this, the terrible news had not yet reached his mother’s solitude. Jean said nothing of it to his mother. What was the good of adding to her sorrows? And had not Bridget cause enough to fear that she would never see her son again?

The moment of separation had come.

“Where are you going, Joann?” asked Bridget.

“Into the southern parishes,” said the young priest. “There I will wait to rejoin my brother when he is at the head of the patriots.”

“And you, Jean?”

“I am going to the farm of Chipogan, in the county of Laprairie. There I will rejoin my companions, and concert the final measures — amid those family joys which are denied to us, mother. Those gallant fellows have received me like a son. They will give their lives for mine. But if they knew who I was, if they knew the name I bear! Ah! wretches that we are, whose contact is defilement! But they shall not know it, neither they nor any one else.”

Jean had fallen back into the chair, with his head in his hands, overwhelmed beneath the weight which every day lay more heavily on him.

“Arise!” said Joan. “That is the expiation! Be strong enough to suffer! Arise, and let us go!”

“Where shall I see you again?” asked Bridget. “Not here any more,” said Jean. “If we win, we win all three leave the country. We will go far away where no one will recognize us. If we give our country her independence, it must never be known that she owes it to the sons of Simon Morgaz.”

“And if all is lost?” asked Bridget. “Then, mother, you will not see us again, in this country or in any other. We shall be dead!”

The brothers threw themselves for the last time into Bridget’s arms. The door opened and shut again.

Jean and Joann walked for about a hundred yards together, and then they separated after a last look at Maison-Close, where the mother was praying for her sons.

CHAPTER X.

THE FARM OF CHIPOGAN

The farm of Chipogan was about seven leagues from THE town of Laprairie, in the county of that name. It occupied a gentle rise in the ground on the right bank of a small tributary of the St. Lawrence. By repute it was a fine property, extending over some four hundred acres, belonging to M. de Vaudreuil, and rented by Thomas Harcher.

In front of the house, and along the stream, lay a vast chessboard of prairie, in quite a triumph of geometrical design, squares upon squares all duly fenced, and in flourishing cultivation. The soil was a rich black mould, three or four feet thick, resting on a bed of clay, as is usually the case in the district all the way up to the slopes of the Laurentides.

In the square fields, which were in the highest state of cultivation, grew different kinds of such cereals as are common in Central Europe. Behind the house, and extending to the hilly woodland which closed the view, lay a wide stretch of rich pasture, which served as the grazing-ground of the usual domestic animals and several horses of the vigorous Canadian breed so esteemed by the Americans.

The forest once covered all the country bordering on the St. Lawrence from its estuary to the great lakes. But what vast clearings have been made in them by the hand of man! What superb trees, rising a hundred and fifty feet in the air, are still falling under the thousands of axes which trouble the silence of the mighty woods where the birds swarm in myriads! The lumbermen find profitable but regrettable work in felling the oaks, maples, ashes, chestnuts, aspens, birches, elms, walnuts, hernbeams, pines and firs, which, sawn and trimmed, go to form the strings of rafts that descend the river. If, at the end of the eighteenth century, Cooper’s hero — Natty Bumppo, Hawk-eye, the Deerslayer, or the Leatherstocking — could regret the massacre of the trees, what would he have said to the pitiless destroyers who exhaust the fecundity of the soil by their reckless waste?

But this reproach could not apply to the lessee of Chipogan. Thomas Harcher knew what he was about, and his men served him well. His farm worthily bore the reputation of being a model of scientific cultivation at a time when Canadian agriculture was two centuries behind the age.

The farm of Chipogan then was one of the best in the district of Montreal. The rotation of crops saved the land from impoverishment. The fruit trees in the large kitchen garden were of the different kinds that flourish in Europe, and they were cut and pruned, and trained with care. All of them fruited well except, perhaps, the apricot and the peach, which succeed better in the south of Ontario than in the province of Quebec. But the others did honour to the grower, particularly the apples which were of the “famous “sort with red translucent flesh. With regard to the vegetables, the red cabbages, pumpkins, melons, sweet potatoes, bluets — the name given to the blackish bilberries eaten at dessert — there were gathered enough, twice a week, to supply the market at Laprairie. In short, with the hundreds of bushels of cereals, the crop of fruit and vegetables, and the thinning of the few acres of forest, the farm was a profitable investment for M. de Vaudreuil, and there was no likelihood that in Thomas Harcher’s hands it would become exhausted, and sink into a mere waste of weeds and briars.

The Canadian climate is well suited for agriculture. In place of rain it has the snow which falls from the end of November to the end of March, and protects the green carpet of the fields. The keen dry cold is preferable to continual rain storms. In no part of the temperate zone is vegetation so rapid; the corn sown in March is ripe in August, and the hay is made in June and July.

The farm buildings were grouped within a fence of palisades, twelve feet high. A gate with stone pillars gave the sole means of access — an arrangement due to the time when precautions had to be taken against Indian attacks. At the time of my story the Indians were living on good terms with the colonists. And two leagues to the eastward, at the village of Walhatta, there was prospering the Huron tribe of Mahogannis, who often visited Thomas Harcher to exchange the spoils of the chase for the products of the farm.

The principal building consisted of a two-storey house, quite square, containing the number of rooms required by Harcher’s family. A large room occupied the greater part of the ground floor between the kitchen and the larder on one side, and the apartment specially reserved for the farmer, his wife and younger children on the other.

In the yard in front of the house, and behind abutting on the kitchen garden, stood the outhouses extending up to the palisades. There were the stables, cattle-sheds and stores; the houses and runs of the American rabbits whose skins woven in strips yield an extremely warm fabric, and the poultry yard with the prairie hens, who multiply more abundantly in the domesticated than in the wild state.

The large room on the ground floor was simply but comfortably furnished with articles of American manufacture. It was there that the family had their meals and passed their evenings, the gathering place for the Harchers of all ages, who liked to be together when the day’s work was over. We need not be astonished at finding that a library of books held the first place, and that the second was occupied by a piano, to the music of which every Sunday the boys and girls danced French waltzes and quadrilles with much enthusiasm.

The work of the farm required a large staff. But Thomas Harcher found enough hands in those of his own family, and not a single hired servant was employed.

The farmer was then in his fiftieth year. A French-Canadian by birth, he was a descendant of those hardy fishermen who had settled in Nova Scotia the century before. He was the perfect type of the Canadian settlers, who are not called peasants but “habitants” in North America. Tall, broad-shouldered, powerful in body and limbs, a strong head, greyish hair, keen-sighted, with we’ll set teeth and a large mouth, which looked as though it could deal with an ample supply of food, and a good-tempered, frank physiognomy, he had made many firm friends in the neighbouring parishes. And he was an implacable enemy of the English.

He would have sought in vain throughout the valley of the St. Lawrence for a better companion than his wife, Catherine. She was then about forty-five, as strong as her husband, and as young as he was in body and mind, a little rough, perhaps, in features and bearing, but good-natured and brave, and in fact quite the “mother “as he was the “father,” in every acceptation of the word. They were an excellent couple, and so healthy that they promised to live to a hundred, for the Canadian climate is very favourable to longevity.

One reproach, perhaps, might be levelled at Catherine Harcher, a reproach, however, that she shared with all the women of the district, who are excellent housekeepers on condition that their husbands clean the house, make the beds, lay the table, pluck the fowls, milk the rows, churn the butter, peel the potatoes, light the fire, wash the crockery, dress the children, scrub the furniture, and do the washing. However, Catherine did not push to the extreme that spirit of domination which makes the husband the; lave of the wife in most of the French-Canadian houses. To be just, it should be said that she did her share of the daily work. Nevertheless Thomas Harcher willingly submitted to her wishes and whims, and a fine family she had given him, ranging from Pierre, the first-born, down to the last baby, aged only a few weeks, who was soon to be christened. In Canada the fruitfulness of marriage is really extraordinary. Families of twelve and fifteen are quite common. Those of twenty are not rare, and even those of twenty-five are occasionally heard of. It is not so much the family as the tribe which is developed under the influence of the patriarchal customs.

If Ishmael Bush, Fennimore Cooper’s old pioneer in The Prairie, could point with pride to his seven sons, without counting his daughters, the issue of his marriage with the robust Esther, with what a feeling of superiority he would have been overwhelmed by Thomas Marcher, who was the father of twenty-six children, all very much alive at the farm of Chipogin!

fifteen sons and eleven daughters, of all ages within a few weeks of thirty. Of the fifteen sons four were married; and of the eleven girls two were married, and with the seventeen grandchildren of their marriages and their mothers and fathers, the Harcher family numbered just fifty-two in the direct line!

The five eldest we know. They formed the crew of the Cham plain, the devoted companions of Jean. We need not give the names of the other children, or say anything about their peculiarities of character. Sons, daughters, grandsons and granddaughters never left the farm. They worked at it under the direction of their chief. Some were in the fields, where work never failed them. Some were in the woods, employed as lumbermen, and they had plenty to do. Two or three went hunting in the forests near Chipogan, and furnished the game for the large family table. In these woods there still abounded elk, cariboo — a kind of large reindeer — bison, deer, roebuck, without mentioning the diversity of smaller game, furred and feathered, divers, wild geese, ducks, woodcock, snipe, partridges, quail and plover.

Pierre Harcher and his brothers, Remy, Michael, Tony and Jacques, when the cold obliged them to abandon the waters of the St. Lawrence, came to winter at the farm, and took to hunting for furs. They were among the most intrepid and indefatigable of backwoodsmen, and sent their more or less valuable furs to the markets at Montreal and Quebec. At that time, black bears, lynxes, wild cats, martens, badgers, minks, foxes, beavers, ermine”, otters, and musk rats had not gone off towards the north, and there was a good trade in furs, for it was not necessary to travel in search of them to the distant shores of Hudson’s Bay.

To lodge all this family of children and grandchildren quite a barracks was required, and the huge square building contained in addition a few spare rooms for the guests that Thomas Harcher occasionally received, county friends, farmers of the vicinity, and voyageurs who worked the rafts down the tributaries to the main river. And there were rooms reserved for M. de Vaudreuil and his daughter when he came to visit the farmer’s family.

It was on the 5th of October that M. de Vaudreuil and his daughter arrived. It was not only a business relationship which united M. de Vaudreuil and Thomas Harcher, it was a reciprocal affection of friendship on one side and devotion on the other, which had not failed for many years. And much were they bound together by their politics, for the farmer and his master were devoted body and soul to the reformist cause.

The family was now complete. Three days before Pierre and his brothers had left the cutter dismantled at the quay of Laprairie, and taken up their winter quarters at the farm. There was absent only the adopted son, who was not the least loved of the dwellers at Chipogan.

But Jean was expected during the day. If Jean did not arrive, he must have fallen into the hands of the emissaries of Rip, and the news of his arrest would soon have spread throughout the country.

The time was not far distant when the lord of the manor was the godfather of all the children of his copyholders, which might be counted by hundreds. M. de Vaudreuil had up to the present only stood for two of the farmer’s family. This time it was Clary who was to be godmother to the twenty-sixth child, and Jean was to be godfather. And the girl was pleased at this bond which united them for a few short moments.

It was not only for a christening, however, that the farm of Chipogan was to make holiday.

When Thomas Harcher received his five sons, “My boys,” he said, “you are welcome. You have come at a good time.”

“As we always do, father,” said Jacques.

“No better than always. To-day we are united for the christening of the last baby. To-morrow there is the first communion of Clement and Cecile, and the day after there is the wedding of your sister Rose with Bernard Miquelon.”

“Things are flourishing in our family!” said Tony.

“Yes, not bad, my boys,” said the farmer, “and it is not unlikely that next year I shall call you together on an exactly similar occasion.”

And Thomas Harcher laughed a sonorous laugh, while Catherine embraced the five manly boys.

The christening was to take place at three o’clock in the afternoon. As soon as Jean came they would go in procession to the parish church, rather more than half a mile away.

Thomas, his wife, his sons, his daughters, his sons-in-law, and his daughters-in-law, and his grandchildren, had all pi t on their best clothes for the occasion, and seemingly would not put them off again for the next three days. The daughters had white bodices and glaringly coloured skirts, with their hair floating over their shoulders. The sons had put off their working waistcoats and Norman caps, and wore their Sunday costume of black hooded cloak, parti-coloured belt, and shoes of plaited cowskin.

The evening before M. and Mdlle. de Vaudreuil had taken the boat to cross the St. Lawrence opposite Laprairie, and had been met by Thomas Harcher, who had brought them on in the buggy.

On the way M. de Vaudreuil had warned the farmer that he must be on his guard. The police were sure to know he had left the Villa Montcalm, and it was possible that he was the object of special surveillance.

“We will keep our eyes open, master,” said Harcher, in whose use of the word there was nothing servile.

“Up to the present you have seen nothing suspicious in the neighbourhood?”

“Not even a Canouache!” such being the term of contempt by which he spoke of certain Indians in the west.

“And your adopted son,” said Clary, “has he arrived at the farm?”

“Net yet; and that makes me anxious.”

“Since he left his companions at Laprairie you have had no news?”

“None.”

And since the visitors had been installed in the two best rooms of the farm, Jean had not come. However, everything had been prepared for the ceremony of baptism, and if the godfather did not arrive during the afternoon they would not know what to do.

Pierre and two or three of the others had gone a good league on the road to meet him. But Jean had not been there, and twelve o’clock was just about to strike.

Thomas and Catherine were talking together on the subject.

“What shall we do, if he docs not come before three o’clock?” asked the farmer.

“We will wait!” said Catherine.

“What will we wait for?”

“Well, not for the arrival of our twenty-seventh!” said the lady.

. “And how many more?”

“You are merry, Monsieur Harcher.”

“I am not merry! But if Jean is too late, we may have to do without him.”

“Do without him!” exclaimed Catherine. “Not at all. I told him he should be godfather to one of our children, and we will wait till he comes.”

“But if he does not come?” asked Thomas, who did not understand the christening being put off indefinitely. “If something has happened to make it impossible for him to come — “

“No evil prophesying, Thomas,” said Catherine. “If we do not christen to-day, we can christen to-morrow, I suppose?”

“Well, to morrow is the first communion of Clement and Cecile, our sixteenth and seventeenth!”

“Well, the day after?”

“That is the wedding of Rose with Bernard Miquelon!”

“That is enough, Thomas! We can do them all at once if necessary. But when a baby has the chance of having a godfather like Jean, and a godmother like Mademoiselle Clary, we need not be in a hurry to get others in their place!”

“And the cure has been told!” said Thomas to his intractable better half.

“That is my business,” said Catherine. “Our cure is an excellent man, and he shall not lose his fee; and he would not like to disoblige clients like us!”

And in truth there were few of his parishioners who gave him so much to do as Thomas and Catherine.

As time went by the anxiety grew greater. If the Harchers did not know that their adopted son was Jean-Sans-Nom, the Vaudreuils did, and were in great (ear about him.

And they asked Pierre Harcher under what circumstances Jean had left the Champlain.

“It was at the village of Caughnawaga that we landed him,” said Pierre.

“On what day?”

“On the 26th of September, about five in the afternoon.”

“Then he has been away for nine days?” said M. de Vaudreuil.

“Yes, nine days!”

“And he did not say what he was going to do?”

“His intention,” said Pierre, “was to visit the county of Chambly, where we had not been during the whole of our fishing cruise.”

“Yes, that is a reason,” said M. de Vaudreuil. “But I am sorry he ventured alone in a place where the police are sure to be on the watch.”

“I offered to let Jacques and Tony go with him,” said Pierre; “but he refused.”

“And what is your idea about it all?” asked Clary.

“My idea is that Jean had long intended to go to Chambly, but said nothing about it to us. As we had agreed to land at Laprairie and return together to the farm, he did not tell us until we were off Caughnawaga.”

“And when he went away, did he promise to come here for the christening?”

“Yes,” said Pierre; “he knew he was to hold the baby with you, and that without him the family would not Le complete.”

After this formal promise the only thing to do was to wait.

But if the day went by and Jean did not appear, alarm would be justifiable. For a resolute man such as he was not to appear on the appointed day meant that the police had got hold of him. And then, as M. and Mdlle de Vaudreuil knew only too well, he was lost.

At this moment the gate in the fence opened, and a savage appeared.

A savage — for in Lower Canada all Indians are so called, even in official documents.

The savage was a Huron, and of pure race — as was obvious from his beardless face, his prominent cheekbones, his small sparkling eyes. His tall stature, his quick, penetrating glance, the colour of his skin, the fashion of his hair, made him an unmistakable type of the indigenous American.

The Huron was clothed almost in the Canadian manner. He belonged to the tribe of the Mahogannis, who occupied a village of fourteen or fifteen fires in the north of the county. The tribe, as we have said, had frequent dealings with the farmer of Chipogan.

“What is the matter, Huron?” asked Thomas Harcher as the Indian advanced and solemnly shook hands.

“Will Thomas Harcher reply to the question I will ask him?” replied the Huron, in the guttural tone peculiar to his race.

“And why not,” asked the farmer, “if my reply will be of interest to you?”

“Then my brother will listen, and judge what he ought to say.”

By this one form of speech, in which the savage asks in the third person, with the most dignified air, for probably some very simple reply, there can be recognized the descendant of the four great nations who formerly possessed the territory of North America. They were divided into Algonquins, Hurons, Montagnais, and Iroquois, who comprised the tribes of Mohawks, Oncidas, Onondagas, Tuscaroras, Delawares, Mohicans, which one chiefly meets with in the works of Fenimore Cooper. Really there remain but the scattered fragments of the ancient races.

After a short silence, the Indian, with an imposing gesture, resumed: —

“My brother knows the notary, Nicholas Sagamore, of Montreal?”

“I have that honour.”

“Is he not coming to the farm of Chipogan?”

“That is true.”

“Can my brother inform me if Nicholas Sagamore has arrived?”

“Not yet,” said Thomas Harcher. “We do not expect him till to-morrow to draw up the marriage settlements between my daughter Rose and Bernard Miquelon.”

“I thank my brother for the information.”

“Have you an important communication for Mr. Nick?”

“Very important,” replied the Huron. “To-morrow the warriors of my tribe will leave our village of Walhatta and come to visit him.”

“You will be welcome at Chipogan,” said Thomas Harcher.

And thereupon the Indian stretched out his hand to the farmer and solemnly retired.

A quarter of an hour afterwards the gate was again opened. This time it was Jean, whose arrival was welcomed with shouts of joy.

Thomas and Catherine Harcher, their children and grandchildren, rushed on to him, and it took him some time to reply to the greetings of all those who were so pleased to see him again.

Time was pressing, and M. de Vaudreuil, Clary and Jean could only exchange a few words. But as they were to pass three days at the farm together, they would have leisure enough to talk over affairs later on. Thomas Harcher and his wife were in a hurry to get to the church. They did not want to keep the cure waiting. The godfather and godmother were ready, and it was time to start.

“Let us get away,” said Catherine, who had been going from one to the other, scolding and ordering them about. “Come along, my son,” she said to Jean; “give your arm to Mademoiselle Clary. And Thomas? where is Thomas? There will be no end to this! Where is Thomas?”

“Here I am, wife.”

“You have got to carry the baby.”

“All right.”

“And don’t let it fall.”

“All right. I have carried twenty-five to the cure, and now I’ve got in the way of it.”

That’ll do!” said Catherine, interrupting him. “Be The procession left the farm in the following order: — At the head was Thomas, with the baby in his arms, and Catherine close by. M. de Vaudreuil, his daughter, and Jean came next; then followed the family of three generations, in which the ages had become so intermixed that the baby just born had many nephews and nieces older than himself among the children of his brothers and sisters.

It was a bright, sunshiny day, but at this time of the year the temperature would have been rather low if the sun had been hidden by the clouds. The procession passed under the trees, along the winding footpath at the end of which rose the spire of the church. A carpet of dry leaves covered the ground. The autumnal tints were thick on the chestnuts, birches, oaks, beeches, aspens, which here and there had their branches bare, while the firs and pines still retained their foliage of green.

As the procession passed on, several friends of Thomas Harcher, farmers in the neighbourhood, joined in. And it was quite a hundred strong when it reached the church, including a few strangers who had been attracted by curiosity.

Among the strangers, Pierre Harcher noticed a man whose manner seemed suspicious. Evidently he had come from a distance. Pierre had never seen him before, and it seemed to him that the intruder was taking stock of the farmer’s family.

Pierre had good reason to mistrust the man. He was one of the police-officers who had received orders to keep an eye on M. de Vaudreuil since his departure from the Villa Montcalm. Rip, engaged in searching for Jean-Sans- Nom, whom he believed to be hidden in the suburbs of Montreal, had sent off the man with orders to watch not only M. de Vaudreuil, but also the Harcher family, whose reformist opinions were known to him.

As they walked side by side, M. de Vaudreuil and his daughter and Jean talked over the reasons of Jean’s delay in reaching the farm.

“I heard from Pierre,” said Clary, “that you had left him to go to Chambly and the parishes in the vicinity.”

“Quite so,” said Jean.

“Did you come here straight from Chambly?”

“No; I had to go into the county of St. Hyacinthe, and I could not get back at once, as I had hoped. I had to go a long way round — “

“Were the police on your track?” asked M. de Vaudreuil.

“Yes,” said Jean; “but I was able with a little difficulty to again escape them.”

“Every hour of your life you are in danger,” said Mdlle de Vaudreuil. “There is not a moment but your friends tremble for you. Since you left the Villa Montcalm our anxiety has been unceasing.”

“That,” said Jean, “is why I am so eager to end this life which I have to fight for so unceasingly, so eager to act in broad daylight face to face with the foe! Yes! the time has come when the battle should begin! But at this moment let us forget the future for the present. This is a truce, a halt before the battle! Here, Monsieur de Vaudreuil, I am only the adopted son of this brave and honest family.”

The procession had arrived, and the little church could hardly hold the crowd.

The cure was on the threshold, near the modest stone vase which served for the baptismal ceremonies of the many new-comers of the parish.

Thomas Harcher presented, not without some pride, the twenty-sixth offspring of his marriage with the no less proud Catherine. Clary de Vaudreuil and Jean stood side by side while the cure went through the usual ceremony.

“And you name this child?” asked the cure.

“Jean, like his godfather!” said Thomas Harcher, holding out his hand to the young man.

One of the ancient customs of France still exists in the towns and villages of Lower Canada. In the rural parishes the Catholic clergy are supported by the so-called tithes, but the tithe there is the twenty-sixth of the fruit and crops of the land, and by a strange tradition this twenty-sixth is not confined to the crops alone.

And so Thomas Harcher was not astonished, when the baptism was over, to hear the cure say, in a loud voice, —

“This child belongs to the Church, Thomas Harcher. He may be the godson of the godfather and godmother you have chosen, but he is my pupil! Are not children the fruit of the family? As you have given me the twenty-sixth of your corn harvest, so is the twenty-sixth of your children given to the Church this day!”

“We recognize your right,” replied Thomas Harcher, “and my wife and I submit to it with good grace.”

The child was then taken to the vicarage, where it was received in triumph.

Henceforth, by the tradition of the tithe, little Jean belonged to the Church, and as such he would be brought up at the expense of the parish.

And when the procession was formed to return to the farm of Chipogan there was cheering again and again in honour of Thomas and Catherine Harcher.

CHAPTER XI.

THE LAST OF THE SAGAMORES.

Next day the ceremonies were resumed. There was another procession to the church, with a similar reception in going, and a similar gathering on the return.

Young Clement and Cecil Harcher, the one in his black coat, looking like a little man, the other in her white dress looking like a little bride, figured among the first communicants from the neighbouring farms. If the other “habitants “were not as rich in offspring as Thomas Harcher of Chipogan, yet they had a very respectable number of olive branches. The county of Laprairie was quite crowded with the blessings of the Lord, and could vie with the most prolific villages of Nova Scotia.

This day Pierre saw no more of the stranger whose presence had given him some anxiety the day before. The detective had disappeared. Had he suspected anything with regard to Jean-Sans-Nom? Had he gone to report to his chief at Montreal?

When the family returned to the farm, their chief business was to do justice to the luncheon. Everything was ready, thanks to the multiple directions Thomas Harcher had received from Catherine. He had to see after the table, the kitchen, the cellar, with the help of his sons be it understood, who had their share of the maternal scoldings.

“It is well for them to get used to it,” said Catherine. “It will come more natural to them when they have a house of their own.”

And it really was an excellent apprenticeship.

But if the luncheon of the day took a deal of seeing after, what about that of the morrow? A table to be laid for a hundred? Yes! that was the number, reckoning the friends of the bridegroom. And we must not forget Mr. Nick and his second clerk, who would attend for the signing of the settlements. An incomparable wedding in which Farmer Harcher came into rivalry with Farmer Gamache, of Cervantesque memory!

But that was to take place to-morrow. To-day all that could be done was to welcome the notary. One of the Harchers had gone off to Laprairie to bring him at three o’clock with the buggy.

Catherine remembered that Mr. Nick was a hearty cater as well as a man of taste, and she did not expcct that his food would be quite to his liking.

“It will be all right,” said the farmer. “You can take things quietly, Catherine.”

“I shall not take things quietly,” said Catherine. “There is sure to be something wanting at the last moment, and I won’t hear of that if I can help it.”

Thomas Harcher went his way saying to himself, —

“Excellent woman! A little fussy undoubtedly. She won’t hear of this! And she won’t hear of that! And yet she isn’t at all deaf nevertheless!”

M. de Vaudreuil and Clary had had a long conversation with Jean regarding his journey through the counties of Lower Canada. They told Jean the state of affairs in Montcalm county since his departure. Farran, Clerc, and Hodge had frequently been to the Villa as also had the advocate Gramont, who had then gone to Quebec to interview the chief deputies of the opposition.

After luncheon M. de Vaudreuil had gone in the buggy to confer with the president of Laprairie County and return with the notary.

His daughter and Jean accompanied him along the lovely road from Chipogan, shaded with huge elms, which bordered a little stream running into the St. Lawrence. He had started before the buggy, and was not overtaken till he was half a league from the farm. He took his scat by Pierre Harcher and soon disappeared at a rapid trot.

Jean and Clary returned through the shady tranquil woods that lay beside the stream. They had a clear road among the underwood and beneath the branches, which in Canadian forests grow upwards. From time to time the axe of the lumberman resounded as it struck the tree trunks. The reports of a gun were heard in the distance, and occasionally a couple of deer would appear amid the bushes, which they would clear at a bound. But hunters and woodcutters remained hidden in the thickets, and it was through a profound solitude that Clary and Jean walked slowly towards the farm.

They were soon to separate. Where and when would they see each other again? Sore were their hearts at the thought of the coming parting.

“Do you think you will soon come back to the Villa Montcalm?” asked Clary.

“M. de Vaudreuil’s house will be carefully watched,” said Jean. “And for his sake it would be better. I should keep our friendship secret.”

“But you are not going to take refuge in Montreal?”

“No, although it would be easy to avoid pursuit in so large a town. I should be safer with Vincent Hodge, or Farran or Clerc than in the Villa Montcalm.”

“But not more welcome!”

“I know that, and I never shall never forget that during the few days I spent with you, your father and you treated me like a son, like a brother!”

“And so we ought to do,” said Clary. “To be united by the fame sentiments is to be united by the same blood. It sometimes seems to me as though you were always one of our family. And now if you are alone in the world — “

“Alone in the world,” repeated Jean, hanging his head. “Yes — alone - alone.”

“Well, after the triumph of our cause our house will be yours! But meanwhile, I understand you require a safer retreat than the Villa Montcalm. You will find it, for where is the habitant who would shut the door against a fugitive?”

“Nowhere that I know of,” said Jean, “and there is not one who would betray me.”

“Betray you!” exclaimed Mademoiselle de Vaudreuil. “No! the time for treason has passed! In all Canada we shall never again see a Simon Morgaz!”

The name uttered with such horror made the blush rise to the young man’s forehead, and he had to turn away to hide his emotion. Clary had not noticed it; but when he returned his face betrayed such suffering that she asked anxiously, —

“What is the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” he said, “nothing. Palpitation to which I am occasionally subject! It seemed as though my heart would burst. It is now over!”

Clary looked at him as if to read his innermost thoughts.

To change the conversation, he continued, —

“The best thing for me would be to take refuge in one of the neighbouring countries where I can remain in communication with M. de Vaudreuil and his friends.”

“But without going far from Montreal?”

“No. For probably it will be in the neighbouring parishes that the insurrection will break out. Besides it does not matter much where I go.”

“Perhaps,” said Clary, “the farm of Chipogan might still be the safest place.”

“Perhaps.”

“It would be difficult to discover your retreat among the farmer’s numerous family.

“Probably, but if it were discovered, it might have serious consequences for Thomas Harcher I He docs not know that I am Jean-Sans-Nom, on whose head a price has been set.”

“Do you think, then,” said Clary, “if you were to tell him that he would hesitate.”

“No, certainly not,” said Jean. “He and his sons are patriots. I have seen that clearly enough while we were engaged on our propagandist campaign together. But I would not have Thomas Harcher a victim to his affection for me. And if the police were to find me with him, they would arrest him. I would rather give myself up.”

“Give yourself up!” murmured Clary, in a voice that sorrowfully declared her anguish of mind.

Jean bowed his head. He understood only too well the nature of the feelings to which he had given way almost in spite of himself. He felt the chain that was binding him more and more closely to Chry de Vaudreul. But could he love the girl? The love of a son of Simon Morgaz! What opprobrium! And what treason, too, for he could never tell the name of the family from which he came! No! He must flee away and never see her again!

When he was himself again, he said, —

“To-morrow night I shall leave the farm of Chipogan, and I shall not appear again until the hour of the struggle. Then I shall have no need of concealment!”

His features grew animated for a moment, and then resumed their usual calm.

Clary looked at him with an indefinable expression of sorrow. She would have known something of his former life. But how could she ask him without paining him by some indiscreet question?

However, after giving him her hand, which he only just touched, she said, —

“Jean, pardon me if my sympathy for you makes me put aside a reserve I ought perhaps to retain. There is a mystery in your life — a past of misfortune! You have suffered much?”

“Much!” said Jean.

And as if the avowal had escaped him unawares, he immediately added, —

“Yes, much, because I have not been able to give my country that which she has the right to expect from me.”

“The right to expect,” said Clary, “the right to expect from you?”

“Yes, from me,” said Jean, “as from all Canadians, whose duty it is to sacrifice themselves to give their country her independence.”

Clary saw well enough that there was a load of misery hidden under this burst of patriotism. She would have known what it was to share it, to lighten it, perhaps! But how could she if Jean persisted in these evasive replies?

“Jean,” she said, “I hope the national cause will triumph! The triumph will be chiefly due to your devotion, your courage, the ardour with which you have inspired its partisans. You will have a right to their recognition.”

“Their recognition, Clary de Vaudreuil?” said Jean, starting suddenly. “No! never!”

‘“Never? If the French Canadians to whom you have given liberty demand that you remain at their head.”

“I should refuse!”

“You could not!”

“I should refuse, I tell you!” in a tone so positive that Clary remained silent. But more gently lie added, —

“Clary de Vaudreuil, we cannot read the future. I hope that events will turn to. the advantage of our cause. But it would be better for me to die in defending it.”

“To die! you!” exclaimed Clary, her eyes filling with tears, “to die, Jean! And your friends?”

“Friends? My friends? “.

And his expression was that of some miserable wretch, who throughout an opprobrious life had been put under the ban of humanity.

“Jean,” said Clary, “you have had much trouble in the past, and you are in trouble now! And what makes your position all the more sad is that you cannot, or rather will not, confide in any one, not even in me, who would so willingly share in your trouble. Well, I can wait, and I ask you only to believe in my friendship.”

“Your friendship!” murmured Jean; and he took a step backwards as if even his friendship might disgrace her.

But were not the only consolations that could help him support his horrible existence those he would find in the friendship of Clary de Vaudreuil? While he was at the Villa Montcalm he had felt his heart full of the ardent sympathy with which he had inspired her, and which he felt for her. But, no! it was impossible! Unhappy man! If ever Clary learnt whose son he was, she would repulse him with horror! A Morgaz! And as he had told his mother, if he and Joann survived this last attempt, they would disappear! Yes, once their duty was accomplished, the dishonoured family would go far away, so far away that people would never hear of them again.

Silently and sadly Clary and Jean returned together to the farm.

About four o’clock there was a great uproar at the gate. The buggy was returning, signalled from afar by the shouts of joy with which the guests welcomed the arrival of M. de Vaudreuil, Mr. Nick, and his young clerk.

What a welcome they gave to the notary!

“Mr. Nick! How do you do, Mr. Nick?” exclaimed the elders, while the younger members of the family hugged him in their arms, and the little ones jumped on his knees.

“Yes, my friends, here I am!” he said, all smiles. “It is really I, and no one else! But be calm I It is not necessary to tear my coat, I assure you.”

“Now, children, clear off,” said Catherine.

“Truly,” said the notary, “I am enchanted to see you, and to be here with my dear client, Thomas Harcher.”

“Mr. Nick,” said the farmer, “it is very kind of you to come!”

“And I would have come from much farther, if necessary from the end of the world, from the sun, from the stars, yes, Thomas, from the stars!”

That is an honour for us, Mr. Nick,” said Catherine, Signalling to her eleven daughters to drop a curtsey.

“And for me,” said Mr-Nick, “a pleasure I Ah.

Madame Catherine, you are always charming! When will you cease to grow young!”

“Never! never!” said the fifteen sons of the family. “I must have a kiss, Madame Catherine!” said Mr. Nick. “You will allow me?” he asked the farmer, after he had bestowed a loud smack on the lady’s cheek. “As often as you like,” said Thomas Harcher. “Now it is your turn, Lionel,” said the notary ”Kiss Madame Catherine!”

“Willingly,” said Lionel, who received a double kiss in exchange for his own.

“And now,” said Mr. Nick, “I hope the charming Rose will have a happy wedding. I used to dance her on my knee. Where is she?”

“Here I am, Mr. Nick,” said Rose, blooming with health and good-humour.

“Yes, you are charming,” said the notary, “and so charming that I must really plant a kiss on each of those cheeks, which are worthy of the name they bear!”

And he kissed them well and truly. But this time Lionel was not invited to share in the tribute — very much to his regret.

“Where is the intended?” asked Mr. Nick. “Has he forgotten the day? where is he?”

“Here,” said Bernard Miquelon.

“Ah! He’s a fine lad, a good-natured lad!” exclaimed Mr. Nick. “I would kiss him too, to complete — “

“Come on, Mr. Nick,” said the young man, opening his arms.

“Good! “said Mr. Nick, shaking his head. “I fancy Bernard Miquelon would rather have one kiss from Rose than two from me! And so, Rose, kiss your future husband in my place!”

Which Rose in some confusion did, amid the applause of the whole family.

“Eh!” said Catherine, “I think you must be thirsty, Mr. Nick, and your clerk also?”

“Very thirsty,” said Mr. Nick.

“Extremely thirsty,” said Lionel.

“Now, Thomas, what are you looking at? Go and get a good drink for Mr. Nick, and as good a one for his clerk? Shall I have to ask you again?”

No! once was enough, and the farmer hurried off, followed by two or three of his daughters, while Mr. Nick, who had just caught sight of Clary de Vaudreuil, went up to speak to her.

“Well, my dear young lady,” he said, “at the last visit I paid to the Villa Montcalm we made an appointment to meet at the farm of Chipogan, and I am happy — “

He was interrupted by an exclamation from Lionel, whose surprise was very natural. Was he not face to face with the young unknown who had so sympathetically received his poetical effort a few weeks before?

“But, it is Monsieur — Monsieur — ” he repeated. M. de Vaudreuil and Clary looked at each other anxiously. How did Lionel know Jean? and if he knew him, did he know that the Harchers did not knew they had given shelter to Jean-Sans-Nom?

“Quite so,” said the notary, turning to the young man. “I recognize you, monsieur! You were our travelling companion, when my clerk and I went in the buggy to the Villa Montcalm at the beginning of September.

“That is right, Mr. Nick,” answered Jean, “and it is with much pleasure, believe me, that I find you here, accompanied by the young poet.”

“Whose poem received honourable mention at the Lyre Amicale!” said the notary. “It is evidently a nursling of the Muses that I keep in my office to draught my deeds!”

“Accept my compliments, my young friend,” said Jean, “I have not forgotten your charming “To be born with you, my frolicsome flame.

To die with you, my will-o’-the-wisp.”

“Ah! monsieur!” said Lionel, very proud of the praise of the two lines that had lingered in the memory of so good a judge.

In listening to this exchange of compliments Clary and her father were much relieved. Mr. Nick then told them how they had met Jean on the way from Montreal to Jesus Island, and Jean was introduced to Mr. Nick and his clerk as the adopted son of the H archers. The explanations ended by a hearty shake of the hands all round.

Then Catherine’s imperious voice was heard, —

“Now then, Thomas! Come along! Will you never have done? Are you going to let Mr. Nick and Mr. Lionel die of thirst?”

“It is ready, Catherine, it is ready!” said the farmer. “Don’t be impatient!”

And he invited the notary to follow him into the dining-room.

Neither Mr. Nick nor Lionel wanted much pressing. Taking their places at a table on which were some coloured cups, and napkins of startling whiteness, they refreshed themselves with toddy, an agreeable beverage composed of gin, sugar and cinnamon, and flanked with crisp toast-a little something to enable them to wait till dinner-time without fainting.

Then all set to work on the last preparations for the grand fete of the morrow, which would doubtless be long remembered at the farm of Chipogan.

Mr. Nick strolled about from one to the other. He had a kind word for every one, while M. de Vaudreuil, Clary and Jean talked of more serious matters as they walked under the trees in the garden.

About five o’clock all the relatives and guests assembled in the larger room for the signature of the marriage contract. Mr. Nick, of course, presided at this important ceremony, and that he comported himself with all due dignity and notarial grace can be imagined.

The various wedding presents were then handed to the young couple. Not one of the brothers or brothers-in-law, not one of the sisters or sisters-in-law, but had made some purchase for Rose Harcher and Bernard Miquelon. And so numerous were the articles of ornament and use that the young couple could well have set up housekeeping on them. But when Rose had become Madame Miquelon she would still remain at Chipogan. Bernard and the children would merely be a welcome increase to the family of Thomas Harcher.

The most valuable presents were given by M. de Vaudreuil and his daughter. For Bernard Miquelon there was an excellent gun that rivalled the favourite weapon of Leatherstocking. Rose had a necklace which made her look more charming than ever. Jean gave the sister of his companions a box fitted with such a set of the needful implements for cutting, sewing and embroidery, as could but give the greatest of pleasure to a good housewife.

And at each gift there were clapping of hands and shouts of applause, which were redoubled when Mr. Nick solemnly placed on the young couple’s fingers their wedding ring which he had bought from the best jeweller of Montreal, and which already bore their names.

Then the marriage contract was read, in a loud, intelligible voice in proper notarial style. There was some sign of emotion when Mr. Nick announced that M. de Vaudreuil, out of friendship to his tenant, Thomas Harcher, added a sum of five hundred dollars to the bride’s dowry.

Five hundred dollars! when, half a century before, a bride with a dowry of fifty francs was considered a rich match in the Canadian provinces.

“And now, my friends,” said Mr. Nick, “we will proceed to the signature of the contract. The young couple first, then the father and mother, then Monsieur and Mademoiselle de Vaudreuil, then — “

“We will all sign!” exclaimed all present, with a shout that deafened the notary.

And then old and young, friends and relatives, came one after the other to add their signatures to the contract which was to assure the future of the two young people.

That took some time! In fact, the passers-by now entered the farm, attracted by the joyous tumult within, and put their signatures to the deed, so that pages and pages would have to be added if the state of things were to continue. And why should not all the village and all the country crowd in when Thomas Harcher offered his visitors the choice of the most varied drinks, in addition to the whisky that flows as naturally towards Canadian throats as the St. Lawrence towards the Atlantic.

Mr. Nick inquired if the ceremony were ever to end. The worthy man beamed with joy; he was inexhaustible; he had a cheery word for all, while Lionel, passing the pen from one to another, found he would soon require a new one, as it was being used up by the interminable column of signatures that grew longer and longer.

“Is that all?” asked Mr. Nick, after an hour.

“Not yet!” said Pierre Harcher, who had gone to the door to sec if any one were on the road.

“Who is coming now?” asked Mr. Nick.

“A troop of Hurons!”

“Let them come in! let them come in!” said the notary. “Their signatures will do no dishonour to the contracting parties. What a contract it is, my friends! I have drawn up hundreds in the course of my life, but never have I seen the names of so many good people at the bottom of the last page!”

The Indians now appeared on the scene and were welcomed with loud shouts of welcome. They did not wait for an invitation, but swarmed in, fifty in number — men and women. And amongst them Thomas Harcher recognized the Huron who had presented himself the day before to ask if Mr. Nick were coming to the farm of Chipogan.

Why had the tribe of Mahogannis come from their village of Walhatta? Why had they arrived in gala costume to visit the notary of Montreal?

It was for a reason of great importance, as we shall see immediately.

The Hurons were all in their war-paint. Their heads were surmounted by feathers, their long thick hair fell on to their shoulders from which hung a multi-coloured cloak; their bodies were clothed in deerskin, their feet were shod with moccasins of elk leather; they were armed with the long rifles which for many years had replaced among the Indian tribes the bows and arrows of their ancestors. But the traditional axe, the war-tomahawk, hung from their belts.

A coat of fresh paint bedecked their faces. Azure blue, lampblack and vermilion, accentuated the astonishing relief of their aquiline noses, their large nostrils, and huge mouths furnished with a double row of curved and regular teeth, their high, square check-bones and their small, keen eyes, whose black orbits glowed like embers.

The deputation was accompanied by a few of the Walhatta women — doubtless the youngest and best-looking of the tribe. These squaws wore a bodice of embroidered stuff with the sleeves leaving the forearm bare, a petticoat of glaring colours, “mitasses “of cariboo leather, ornamented with hedgehog quills and laced on their limbs, and soft moccasins braided with glass beads imprisoned their feet whose smallness a Frenchwoman might envy.

The Indians had, if possible, doubled the gravity which was habitual to them. With much ceremony they advanced to the threshold of the large room where stood Monsieur and Mademoiselle de Vaudreuil, the notary, and Thomas and Catherine Harcher, while the rest of the party occupied the courtyard.

Then the one who seemed to be the chief, a Huron of tall stature and about fifty years of age, holding in his hand a cloak of native work, addressed the farmer solemnly as follows, —

“Is Nicholas Sagamore at the farm of Chipogan?”

“He is!” said Thomas Harcher.

“And I add that I am he,” said the notary, much surprised that he could be the object of the visit.

The Huron turned towards him, raised his head proudly, and in a more imposing tone, continued, —

“The chief of our tribe,” said he, “has been called by the great Wacondah, the Mitsimanitou of our fathers. Five moons have passed since he went to the happy hunting-grounds. His heir is now Nicholas, the last of the Sagamores. To him henceforth belongs the right of burying the tomahawk of peace, or unearthing the tomahawk of war.”

A profound silence greeted this unexpected declaration. It was well known in the country that Mr. Nick was of Huron origin, and that he was descended from the great chief of the tribe of Mahogannis; but no one had imagined, and he least of all, that the order of heredity would call him to the head of an Indian people.

And then, amid a silence that none dare disturb, the Indian resumed, —

“At what time will my brother take his scat at the fire of the Great Council of his tribe, clothed in the traditional mantle of his ancestors?”

The spokesman of the deputation never supposed that the notary would refuse, and presented him with the mantle.

And as Mr. Nick, absolutely dumbfounded, hesitated to answer, there was a shout — in which fifty others joined — of “Honour! Honour to Nicholas Sagamore!”

It was Lionel who had raised the enthusiastic shout. That he was proud of the good fortune that had come to his master, and considered that the distinction was reflected on the clerks in his office, and more especially on himself, and rejoiced at the idea of henceforth marching by the side of the great chief of the Mahogannis, we need not waste time in insisting.

De Vaudreuil and his daughter could not help smiling at the astounded look of Mr. Nick. Poor man! While the farmer and his children and friends offered him their sincere felicitations, he did not know what to reply.

Then the Indian again asked him the question from which there was no escape.

“Will Nicholas Sagamore follow his brothers to the wigwams of Walhatta?”

Mr. Nick remained silent. Be it well understood he would never consent to resign his profession to reign over a Huron tribe. But, on the other hand, he did not like to hurt by a refusal the Indians of his race who called him by the right of succession to such an honour.

“Mahogannis,” said he at last, “I did not expect this. I am indeed unworthy of it. You understand — my friends — I am only here as a notary! — “

He stammered; he was at a loss for words; he was unable to reply.

Thomas Harcher came to his assistance. “Hurons!” said he, “Mr. Nick is Mr. Nick at least till this ceremony of marriage is completed. After that, if it pleases him, he will leave the farm of Chipogan free to return with his brothers to Walhatta!”

“Yes! After the wedding!” shouted the throng who wished to keep the notary.

The Huron shook his head, and took counsel with the deputation.

“My brother cannot hesitate,” he said. “The blood of the Mahogannis runs in his veins and imposes on him rights and duties which he will not refuse — “

“Rights! rights! Be it so!” murmured Mr. Nick, “But duties-”

“Does he accept?” asked the Indians. “He accepts!” said Lionel, “I am sure of it! And in witness of his sentiments he should at once be clothed with the royal mantle of the Sagamores!”

“The imbecile!” said Mr. Nick between his teeth. “Why will he not be quiet!”

And with a thump the pacific notary strove to calm the stormy enthusiasm of his clerk.

Monsieur de Vaudreuil saw that Mr. Nick only wished to gain time. Addressing the Indian, he said that assuredly the descendant of the Sagamores did not think of withdrawing from the duties his descent imposed upon him. But a few days, a few weeks perhaps, were necessary for him to put matters in order at Montreal. It was necessary, therefore, to give him time to set his affairs in order.

“That is wise,” said the Indian. “And as my brother accepts, let him receive as the pledge of his acceptance the tomahawk of the great chief called by the Wacondah to the happy hunting-grounds, and let him wear it in his belt!”

Mr. Nick took the favourite weapon of the Indian tribes, and, much puzzled by not having a belt, he rested it piteously on his shoulder.

The deputation then uttered the traditional “liugh” of their race, a sort of exclamation of approval in use in the Indian languages.

Lionel could hardly restrain himself for joy, although his master appeared particularly embarrassed at a position which might make him a laughing-stock in the brotherhood of Canadian notaries. With his poetic gifts he saw that he was already called upon to celebrate the mighty deeds of the Mahogannis, and shout in lyric verse the watery of the Sagamores — though how he was to find a rhyme for tomahawk he did not quite see.

The Hurons were about to retire, regretting that Mr. Nick’s duties prevented him from accompanying them, when Catherine had an idea.

“Mahogannis,” she said, “it is a marriage feast that brings us together to day at the farm of Chipogan. Will you remain in the company of your new chief? We offer you hospitality, and to-morrow you take your places at the feast, in which Nicolas Sagamore will occupy the seat of honour.”

There were thunders of applause when Catherine Harcher had formulated her thoughtful proposition, and they rose even louder and longer when the Mahogannis accepted an invitation made with such goodwill.

Thomas Harcher had only to lay the wedding-table for fifty more — and this did not embarrass him in the least, for the room was large enough for even this increase of the party.

Mr. Nick had to resign himself to his fate — for he could not do otherwise — and he received the accolade of the warriors of his tribe, whom he would willingly have sent to perdition.

And with the merry dancing of the young folk in rounds and reels, the second day of the festivities at Chipogan came to an end.

CHAPTER XII.

TIIE DINNER.

THE great day had arrived — the last of the successive ceremonies of baptism, communion, and marriage, in which the good folks of Chipogan had taken such delight. The marriage of Rose Harcher and Bernard Miquelon had been celebrated in the morning before the State official, and would now take place at the church. Then, in the afternoon, the wedding feast would bring together the guests, whose numbers had received such a large addition. In truth it was time to finish, or the county of Laprairie and even the district of Montreal would have gathered at Thomas Harcher’s hospitable table.

On the morrow the party would break up. The De Vaudreuils would return to the Villa Montcalm. Jean would leave the farm, and would not reappear until the day he put himself at the head of the reformist party. His companions on the Champlain would continue their occupation as hunters and trappers, and wait till the time came to rejoin their adopted brother, while the family generally would return to the customary work of the farm. The Hurons would go back to the village of Walhatta, where they expected to give Nicholas Sagamore a triumphant reception when he came for the first time to smoke the calumet by the hearth of his ancestors.

But Mr. Nick had been as little pleased as possible with the homage he had received. He had no intention of giving up his office for the chieftainship of any tribe, and he had been talking the matter over with Monsieur de Vaudreuil and Thomas Harcher, and his perplexity was such that they had some difficulty in keeping from laughing at him.

“You are amusing yourselves,” he said. “It is easy to see that you have no throne ready to open at your feet.”

“My dear Nick,” said M. de Vaudreuil, “there is no need to take it seriously.”

“And how can I take it otherwise?”

“The men will not insist on it when they see you are in no hurry to betake yourself to the wigwam of the Mahogannis.”

“You do not understand them,” said Mr. Nick. “They will never leave me alone. They will follow me to Montreal! They will make demonstrations I cannot escape! They will besiege my door! And what will old Dolly say? You will see it will end by my marching forth with moccasins on my feet and feathers on my head!”

And Nick, who was always ready for a laugh, ended by sharing in the hilarity of his friends.

But it was with his clerk that he had the chief crow to pick. Lionel — out of malice — treated him already as if he had accepted the succession of the defunct Huron. He no longer called him Mr. Nick! He spoke to him only in the third person, and employed only the emphatic language of the Indians. And as it was the appropriate thing for every warrior of the prairies, he had given him a choice of surnames, such as Elkhorn or the Subtle Lizard, corresponding to those of Hawkeye or the Longue Carabine.

About eleven o’clock the procession was formed in the courtyard. It was admirably arranged, and such as would have inspired a young poet, if Lionel’s muse had not been occupied with higher themes.

At the head marched Bernard Miquelon and Rose Harcher, one holding the little finger of the other, and both of them beaming with happiness. Then came the De Vaudreuils, with Jean by their side; then the fathers and mothers and sisters and brothers of the happy pair; then Mr. Nick and his clerk, escorted by the members of the Huron deputation. The notary would have dispensed with this honour had he been able to. To Lionel’s extreme regret, his master required only the native costume, the tattooing of the body and the colouring of his lace, to worthily represent the line of the Sagamores.

The ceremony was performed with all the pomp suitable to the position occupied by the Harcher family in the district. There was a great ringing of bells, a grand accompaniment of hymns and prayers, and much firing of gun?. And in this noisy concert of gun-firing the Hurons took part with a skill and precision that would have won the approval of Natty Bumppo, the celebrated friend of the Mohicans.

Then the procession returned to the farm. Rose Miquelon on her husband’s arm this time, nothing having occurred to mar the proceedings in any way.

Then the party separated for a time. Mr. Nick being in no way loath to leave his Mahogannis, and breathe more at his ease in the society of his Canadian friends. And more piteously than ever he continued to say to M. de Vaudreuil, “In truth, I do not know how I shall get rid of these savages!”

Meanwhile if any man was busy, driven about, and stormed at from noon to three o’clock — the hour at which the wedding feast was to begin in accordance with ancient custom — that man was Thomas Harcher. True, Catherine and her sons and daughters did all they could to help him; but the preparation of a feast of this importance left him not a minute’s respite.

It was not only the number of diners he had to satisfy, as the diversity of tastes. And the bill of fare comprised all the ordinary and extraordinary dishes known in Canadian cookery.

On the immense table — at which one hundred and fifty guests were to sit — were disposed as many spoons and forks wrapped in a white napkin and flanked by a metal cup. There were no knives, for each guest had to use his or her own. There was no bread, only the maple-sugared cake being admissible at a wedding feast. The cold meats were on the table, the hot were served in due order.

There were earthen pots of hot soup, from which perfumed vapours escaped; there were fried fish and boiled fish from the sweet waters of the St. Lawrence and the lakes, trout, salmon, eels, pike, white fish, shad, touradis and maskinongis; there were ducks, pigeons, quails, woodcock, snipe, and fricasseed squirrels; there were turkeys, geese, bustards, fattened on the farm, some of them roasted a sparkling golden brown, some of them drowned in a sea of spices; then there were hot oyster patties, forcemeat pies, huge onions, legs of mutton, chines of roast boar, maize puddings, fawn cutlets, and deer steaks; then those wonderful haunches of venison, which make Canada the envy of the epicures of the two worlds, the bison hump so much esteemed by the hunters of the prairies, cooked in its natural fur and garnished with fragrant leaves! Add to all these, the sauce-boats in which floated relishes of a score of kinds; mountains of vegetables, brought to perfection in the last days of the Indian summer; pastry of all kinds, particularly those cracknels or fritters, for the making of which Catherine Harcher’s daughters enjoyed an unequalled reputation; varieties of fruit from the orchard; and a hundred flagons of different forms of cider, beer, wine, and spirits for dessert.

The large room had been very artistically decorated in honour of Bernard and Rose Miquelon. Garlands of leaves ornamented the walls, appropriate shrubs stood in the angles, hundreds of nosegays of fragrant flowers ornamented the window bay. At the same time, guns, pistols, carbines — all the weapons of a family of many sportsmen — were arranged in glittering trophies.

The newly-married couple occupied the middle of the table, which was of horseshoe shape, like the Falls of Niagara, which, a hundred and fifty leagues to the southwest, precipitate their deafening cataracts. And they were indeed cataracts which were to be engulfed in the abysses of these French-Canadian stomachs!

On each side of the newly-married pair were the DeVaudreuils. Jean and his companions of the Champlain were opposite to them, between Thomas and Catherine Harcher. Mr. Nick was enthroned with the principal warriors of his tribe, anxious to witness, no doubt, how their new chief comported himself. And in this respect Nicholas Sagamore promised to display an appetite worthy of his lineage. Contrary to tradition, and for this special occasion, the children were admitted to the large table among their relatives and friends, and around them circulated a squad of negroes, engaged for this particular service.

By five o’clock the first assault had been delivered. At >ix there was a truce, not to carry away the dead, but to give the living time to recover their breath. Then it was that the toasts and speeches began.

Then followed happy wedding songs, according to ancient custom, for at every meeting at dinner, as at supper, the women and the men sang alternately the old songs of France.

Then Lionel recited a flattering epithalamium composed expressly for the occasion.

“Bravo, Lionel, bravo!” shouted Mr. Nick, who had drowned in the bowl the cares of his future sovereignty.

The good old fellow was very proud of his young poet’s success, and he proposed the health of the gallant laureate of the Lyre Amicale!

At this proposal the glasses were filled to the brim, and held towards Lionel, who was so happy and confused that he could think of no better reply than the toast, —

“To Nicholas Sagamore! To the last branch of the noble tree on which the Great Spirit has hung the destinies of the Huron nation!”

There were thunders of applause. The Mahogannis stood up round the table and brandished their tomahawks as if they were about to hurl themselves against the Iroquois, or Mungos, or any other tribe of their enemies.

Mr. Nick, with his placid figure, seemed much too pacific for such bellicose warriors! In truth this blockhead of a Lionel had much better have kept silence.

When the effervescence had calmed down, the second course was attacked with renewed vigour.

Amid the noisy manifestations, Jean, Clary, and Lerfillier had every facility for conversation in a low tone. In the evening they were to separate. If the De Vaudreuils did not leave till the morning, Jean had resolved to go that night so as to seek a safer retreat away from the farm of Chipogan.

“But,” said M. de Vaudreuil, “would the police think of looking for Jean-Sans-Nom among Thomas Harcher’s family?”

“Who knows if the detectives are not on my traces?” answered Jean, as if he had a presentiment of evil, “and if that should happen, when the farmer and his sons learn who I am — “

“They will defend you,” said Clary. “They would die for you”

“I know it,” said Jean, “and then in return for the hospitality they have given me I should leave behind inc ruin and misfortune! Thomas Marcher and his children would by obliged to quit their home for having defended me! And so I am anxious to get away from the firm.”

“Why do you not return secretly to the Villa Montcalm?” said M. de Vaudreuil. “The risks which you would spare Thomas Harcher ate those to which it is my duty to expose myself, and I am ready to do so! In my house the secret of your retreat would be well kept.”

“That proposition Mademoiselle de Vaudreuil has already made to me in your name, but I have had to decline it.”

“But,” said M. de Vaudreuil, “it would be convenient for the final measures you have to devise. You could communicate with the members of the committee every day. When the rising takes place Farran, Clerc, Hodge and are ready to follow you. Is it not probable that the first outbreak will occur in Montreal county?”

“That is so,” said Jean, “or rather in one of the adjoining counties, according to the positions occupied by the royal troops.”

“Well, then,” said Clary, “why do you not accept my father’s offer? Is it your intention to again traverse the neighbouring parishes? Have you not ended your propagandist campaign?”

“It is ended,” said Jean, “and I have now only to give the signal.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” asked M. de Vaudreuil.

“I am waiting for something to complete the exasperation of the reformists,” said Jean, “and which will soon happen. In a few days the deputies of the opposition will refuse the Governor the right he assumes to dispose of the public revenues without the authority of the Chamber. Besides, I know from a sure source that the English Parliament intends to pass a law permitting Lord Gosford to suspend the constitution of 1791. The result of that will be that the French-Canadians will be without any guarantee of a share in the representative system attributed to the colony, and which as it is leaves them so little freedom of action! Our friends, and with them the liberal deputies, will resist this excess of power. Probably Lord Gosford, to put a check on the reformist demands, will dissolve or prorogue the Chamber. The day he does so the country will rise, and we shall only have to guide the revolution.”

“There is no doubt,” said M. de Vaudreuil, “that such a provocation on the part of the loyalists will bring about a general revolt. But the English Parliament will hardly dare to go so far. If this attempt against the rights of the Franco-Canadians does take place, are you sure it will be soon?”

“In a few days,” said Jean. “Sebastien Gramont told me so.”

“And till then,” asked Clary, “how are you to escape?

“I must throw the detectives off the track.”

“Have you a hiding-place in view?”

“I have.”

“Where you will be safe?”

“Safer than elsewhere.”

“Far from here?”

“At St. Charles, in the country of Vercheres.”

“Be it so,” said M. de Vaudreuil. “No one can be a better judge of the matter than yourself. If you think you can keep the place of your retreat secret, we do not insist on our offer. But do not forget that at any hour of the day or night the Villa Montcalm is open to you.”

“I know it, Monsieur de Vaudreuil, and I thank you.”

Amid the incessant exclamations of the feasters, in the increasing tumult of the room, it can easily be believed that no one had heard this conversation, which was carried on in a low tone. Occasionally it was interrupted by some noisy toast or striking repartee, or rousing chorus. And it seemed about to finish when Clary asked a question that produced a very surprising reply.

What was it urged the girl to put this question? Was it a suspicion or a regret that Jean thought it his duty to still retain a certain reserve towards her?

“There is, then, somewhere a house in which you can hide that is more hospitable than ours?”

“More hospitable? No! But as hospitable,” said Jean, not without emotion.

“And which is it?”

“My mother’s.”

Jean uttered the words in such a tone of filial affection that Clary was deeply moved. It was the first time that Jean, whose past had been so mysterious, had alluded to his family. He was not then alone in the world as his friends believed. He had a mother who was living in secret in the village of Saint Charles. Doubtless Jean went to see her sometimes. The house was open to him when he required quiet and repose. And it was there lie was going to wait for the strife to begin.

Clary made no answer. Her thoughts were drawn towards this distant house. How happy she would be to know this mother! She must be a heroic woman, a patriot she would love, a patriot she loved already! Assuredly she would sec her some day. Was not her life indissolubly bound up with that of Jean-Sans-Nom, and who was it could break the bond? Yes, at the moment of separating from him, perhaps for ever, she felt the power of the attraction that drew them towards each other.

The feast was near its close, and the gaiety of the guests, excited by the frequent libations, was showing itself in many ways. Compliments to the happy couple flew in from all sides. It was an extremely good-humoured uproar, amid which could be heard ever, now and then —

“Honour and happiness to the young people.”

“Long live Bernard and Rose Miquelon.”

And there was health-drinking to Monsieur de Vaudreuil and his daughter, and to Catherine and Thomas Harcher.

Mr. Nick had given the feast a grand reception. If lie had not been able to retain the austere dignity of a Mahoganni it was because that was quite contrary to his open and communicative nature. But it is well to add that the representatives of his tribe had somewhat departed from their ancestral gravity under the influence of the good cheer and good wine.

They had filled their glasses in the French style to salute the Harcher family, whose guests they were, when Lionel, who could not keep still, went round the table with a compliment addressed to all he passed. It occurred to him to say to Mr. Nick in a very loud voice, —

“Nicholas Sagamore, will you not say a few words in the name of the tribe of Mahogannis?”

In the happy temper in which Mr. Nick found himself, lie did not receive the suggestion unkindly.

“Do you think so, Lionel?” he asked.

“I think, great chief, that the time is come for you to wish happiness to the bride and bridegroom.”

“If you think this is the time I will do so! “And the excellent man asose and claimed silence by a gesture full of Huron dignity.

There was a lull immediately.

“Young people,” he said, “an old friend of your family cannot leave you without expressing his acknowledgments for — “

Suddenly Mr. Nick stopped. The sentence remained incomplete on his lips. His look was directed towards the door.

A man stood on the threshold, whose arrival no one-had noticed.

Mr. Nick had recognized him, and he exclaimed in a tone in which surprise mingled with uneasiness, —

“Mr. Rip I”

CHAPTER XIII.

MUSKETRY AT DESSERT.

The head of the house of Rip and Co. was not accompanied by his own men.

Behind him were a dozen of Gilbert Argall’s force, in addition to forty of the volunteers, who occupied the main entrance into the courtyard. It seemed as though the house was surrounded.

Was it a simple domiciliary visit or was it an arrest with which the head of the Harcher family was threatened. In either case it must be a matter of importance to induce the minister of police to send so strong a detachment to the farm of Chipogan.

Monsieur De Vaudreuil and his daughter were terror-stricken when the notary uttered Rip’s name. They knew that Jean-Sans-Nom was in the room. They knew that to Rip in particular had been entrusted the duty of tracing him. And what could they think but that he had discovered his retreat and was about to arrest him? If Jean fell into Gilbert Argall’s hands he was lost.

By a supreme effort of the will, Jean had not even started when he heard the name. There was hardly a change in his colour. No movement, not even an involuntary one, betrayed him; and yet he had just recognized Rip, whom he had met the day the buggy took Nick and Lionel from Montreal to Jesus Island! Rip, who had been in pursuit of him for two months! Rip, the tempter, who had caused the infamy of his family in urging his father, Simon Morgaz, on to treachery.

And yet he remained cool and collected and showed no sign of the hatred which raged within him, while M. de Vaudreuil and his daughter trembled at his side.

But if Jean knew Rip, Rip did not know him. He did not know that the traveller he had met for a moment on the road from Montreal was the man on whose head a price had been put. What he knew was that Jean-Sans- Nom ought to be at the farm of Chipogan. And this is how he had again got on his track.

A few days before Jean had been met five or six leagues from Saint-Charles, after leaving Maison Close, and had been reported as a suspicious stranger as he left the country of Vercheres. Noticing that the alarm had been given, he had fled into the interior of the county, and, not without many narrow escapes of falling into the hands of the police, he had reached Thomas Harcher’s farm.

But Rip’s men had not lost sight of him, as he thought, and they were soon almost certain that he had taken refuge at Chipogan. Rip was at once communicated with. Knowing not only that the farm belonged to M. de Vaudreuil, but that M. de Vaudreuil was there at that very time, Rip had no doubt but that the stranger was Jean-Sans-Nom; and giving orders to some of his men to mix with the guests at Harcher’s, he reported to Gilbert Argall, who put at his disposal a squad of police and a detachment of Montreal volunteers. And under such circumstances, Rip had just reached the doorway, assured that Jean-Sans-Nom was among the guests of the farmer of Chipogan.

It was five o’clock in the afternoon. The lamps were not alight, and it was still daylight in the room. In an instant Rip had looked round the company, but Jean-Sans-Nom received no more of his attention than the rest.

Thomas Harcher, seeing his courtyard invaded by a body of men, rose and said to Rip, —

“Who are you?”

“I have my orders from the minister of police.”

“What to do?”

“You will hear. Are you not Thomas Harcher of Chipogan?”

“Yes, and I demand by what right you enter my house.”

“In accordance with the duty that has been entrusted to me. I am about to make an arrest.”

“An arrest!” exclaimed the farmer — ” an arrest in my house! — and who is it to be?”

“A man for whose apprehension a reward has been offered by the Governor, and who is here!”

“His name.”

“He calls himself,” said Rip, in a loud voice, “or rather he is called, Jean-Sans-Nom!”

The reply was followed by a long murmur. What! It was Jean-Sans-Nom whom Rip had come to arrest, and whom he affirmed was at the farm of Chipogan.

The attitude of the farmer, of his wife and his children, and all present, was so obviously that of profound astonishment, that Rip thought his men must have been on a false scent Nevertheless he reiterated his demand, and this time still more decidedly.

“Thomas Harcher,” he said, “the man I seek is here, and I summon you to deliver him up.”

At these words Thomas Harcher looked at his wife, and Catherine, seizing his arm, said, —

“Answer him.”

“Yes, Thomas,” said Mr. Nick, “answer him. It seems to me that the reply is easy enough.”

“Very easy in fact,” said the farmer, who, turning towards Rip, continued, “Jean-Sans-Nom is not at the farm of Chipogan.”

“And I say he is, Thomas Harcher!” said Rip quietly.

“No, I tell you, he is not! He has never been here! I do not even know him! But I say that if he had come to ask me for shelter I would have given it him, and if he was in this house; I would not surrender him.”

There could be no mistake about the significant demonstrations with which the farmer’s announcement was received. Thomas Harcher had expressed the sentiment of all who were with him. If Jean-Sans-Nom had taken refuge at the farm there was not one who could be base enough to betray him.

Jean, impassable all the time, heard all that passed. M. de Vaudreuil and Clary dared not even look at him for fear of drawing Rip’s attention towards him.

“Thomas Harcher,” continued Rip, “you are doubtless aware that by a proclamation, dated the 3rd of September, 1837, a reward of six thousand dollars is offered to whoever will arrest or cause to be arrested this Jean-Sans-Nom!”

“I know it,” said the farmer, “and all in Canada know it. But there has not yet been found a Canadian scoundrel enough to commit so odious a betrayal, and he never will be found.”

“Well said, Thomas!” exclaimed Catherine, and her children and friends supported her.

Rip continued unmoved, —

“Thomas Harcher,” he said, “if you know of the proclamation of the 3rd September, 1837, perhaps you do not know of the new announcement which the Governor-General made yesterday, under date of the 6th October!”

“I do not know of it,” said the farmer, “and if it is like the other, and offers an encouragement to traitors, you need not inform me of it.”

“You shall hear it all the same,” replied Rip, and unfolding a paper, he read as follows: —

“‘It is required of all inhabitants of the Canadian towns and territories that they should refuse help and protection to Jean-Sans-Nom, on pain of death to all who give him shelter.

”’ For the Governor-General.

”’ Gilbert Argall.

Minister of Police.’”

And so the Government had gone to this length! After TART I. — M

offering a reward for Jean-Sans-Nom, they had now threatened the death penalty against whoever gave him shelter!

The act provoked the most violent protests on the part of all present. Thomas Harcher, his sons, his guests had risen from their seats to rush at Rip, and chase him from the farm with all his police and volunteers, when Mr. Nick interposed.

His look was serious. Like the rest of those in the room, he felt a very natural horror at the new announcement of Lord Gosford which Rip had just read.

“Monsieur Rip,” he said, “he whom you seek is not at the farm of Chipogan. Thomas Harcher has told you so, and I reiterate it. You have therefore nothing to do here, and you would have done better to have kept that regrettable document in your pocket. Believe me, Monsieur Rip, you would be well advised not to force your presence on us any longer.”

“Well said, Nicholas Sagamore!” said Lionel.

“Yes! Go away — at once!” said the farmer, whose voice trembled with anger. “Jean-Sans-Nom is not here! But if he comes — in spite of the governor’s menaces — I will receive him! Now, leave the house! Leave it, I say!”

“Yes! Yes! leave it!” said Lionel, whose exasperation Mr. Nick tried in vain to calm.

“Take care, Thomas Harcher!” replied Rip, “you will do no good against the law, nor against the force I have to support me. Police and volunteers, I have fifty men with me. Your house is surrounded.”

“Get out! clear out!”

And shouts arose, and threats were directed against Rip.

“I will not go until I have made sure of the identity of all those who are here! “said Rip.

At a sign from him the police from the courtyard approached the door ready to enter the room.

Through the windows Monsieur de Vaudreuil and his daughter could see the volunteers posted round the house.

In view of an imminent collision, the children and women, with the exception of Clary and Catherine, hurried into the neighbouring rooms. Pierre Marcher and his brothers and friends had taken down the weapons hung on the walls. But inferior as they were in numbers, how could they prevent Rip from doing his duty?

Monsieur de Vaudreuil went from window to window to see if Jean could escape in the rear of the farm by crossing the garden. But in this direction, as in the other=, flight was impracticable.

Amid the tumult Jean remained motionless by the side of Clary, who would not leave him.

Mr. Nick then tried a List effort at conciliation, as the police were about to enter the room.

“Mr. Rip! Mr. Rip!” he said, “you are going to cause bloodshed, and quite uselessly, I assure you! I repeat, and I give you my word, Jean-Sans-Nom is not at the farm.”

“And if he were,” said Thomas Marcher, “I repeat, I would fight for him till death!”

“Good! Good!” said Catherine, rendered enthusiastic by her husband’s attitude.

“Do not you interfere in this matter, Mr. Nick!” said Rip. “It does not concern you, and you may have to repent too late! I will do my duty whatever happens! And now, make room there! Make room there!”

A dozen police entered the room, and Thomas Harcher and his friends rushed at them to turn them out and shut the door.

And Mr. Nick shouted as a last effort, — “Jean-Sans-Nom is not here. Mr. Rip, I assure you he is not here!”

“He is here!” said a loud voice that made itself heard above the uproar.

There was silence for a moment.

Jean, motionless, with his arms crossed, looked straight at Rip and said, —

“I am Jean-Sans-Nom!”

Monsieur de Vaudreuil had seized the young man’s arm, while Thomas Harcher and the others exclaimed, —

“He! Is he Jean-Sans-Nom?”

Jean showed with a gesture that he wished to speak. There was silence again.

“I am the man you seek,” he said to Rip; “I am Jean-Sans-Nom.”

And then, turning to the farmer and his sons, he continued —

“Forgive me, Thomas Harcher, forgive me, my brave companions, if I have hidden from you who I was, and thank you for the hospitality which for five years I have received at the farm of Chipogan. But the hospitality, which I accepted so long as it caused you no danger, I can accept no longer now it means death to all who give me shelter! Yes, thanks on the part of him who was here but your adopted son, and who is Jean Sans-Nom for his country!”

An indescribable movement of enthusiasm received this declaration.

“Vive Jean-Sans-Nom! Vive Jean-Sans-Nom!” resounded on all sides.

And when the shouts had ceased, Thomas Harcher said. —

“And now, as I said we would fight for Jean-Sans-Nom, let us fight for him till death.”

In vain Jean would have interposed to stop so unequal a strife. No one would listen to him. Pierre and the elder ones threw themselves on the police who obstructed the doorway and thrust them out. The door was immediately shut and barricaded with the heavy furniture. To get into the room or even into the house, the only way was by the windows, which were a dozen feet from the ground.

An attack would have to be made, and that in the dark.

for the night had begun to fall. Rip, who was not a man to give way, took his measures for executing his warrant and launching the volunteers against the house.

Pierre Harcher, with his friends and companions, posted himself at the windows ready to fire.

“We will defend you, in spite of yourself, if necessary!” said they to Jean, who was now powerless to stop them.

The farmer had prevailed on Clary de Vaudreuil and Catherine to rejoin the other women in one of the side rooms, where they would be safe out of gunshot. Only the men were left in the room, thirty all told.

For the Mahogannis could not be reckoned among the defenders of the farm. The Indians were indifferent to all that had passed, and had maintained their habitual reserve. The matter did not concern them no more than it did Mr. Nick and his clerk, who had no side to take either for or against authority: and the notary intended to remain absolutely neutral. Resolved to receive no blow and to give none, he did not cease to appeal to Lionel, who was breathing forth fire and flame. Bah! the young clerk would hardly listen to him, so excited was he at the chance of fighting for Jean-Sans-Nom, who was not only the popular hero, but also the sympathetic listener who had so favourably received his attempts at poetry.

“For the last time,” said Mr. Nick, “I forbid you from mixing yourself up in this matter!”

“And for the last time,” said Lionel, “I am astonished that a descendant of the Sagamores refuses to follow me on the war-path!”

“I will follow no other path but that of peace, you stupid boy, and you will do me the favour of leaving the room, where you can only get some injury done you.”

“Never!” exclaimed the bellicose poet.

And from one of the Mahogannis he seized the tomahawk that hung from his belt.

Jean began to organize the resistance as soon as he saw that his companions had decided to meet force with force. During the struggle he might manage to escape, and now, whatever might happen, the farmer and his people were in open rebellion against authority, and could not be more compromised than they were already. Rip and his men must first be driven off. Then he could see what was best to be clone. If the assailants tried to break in the doors of the house, it would take time. And before reinforcements arrived from Laprairie and Montreal, the police and volunteers might be driven out of the courtyard. And so Jean resolved to make a sortie and clear the approaches.

Arrangements were made accordingly. To begin with, a score of gunshots rattled from the front windows, and Rip and his men were obliged to retreat to the palisades. Then the door was quickly opened, and Jean, followed by Monsieur de Vaudreuil, Thomas Harcher, Pierre, and his brothers and friends, rushed into the courtyard.

A few volunteers lay on the ground. Some of the defenders were also wounded, as in the semi-darkness they hurled themselves on the besiegers. A hand-to-hand struggle followed, in which Rip bravely took his share. But his men began to lose ground; if they were to be driven out of the gate and have it shut against them, they would find it very difficult to get over the high palisading.

To drive them out, Jean and his brave companions tried every effort. If he could do so, he might get away across country, and even beyond the Canadian frontier, to wait till the time came for him to reappear at the head of the insurgents.

It need not be said, that although Lionel had gallantly joined the combatants, Mr. Nick had not left the house. Resolved to maintain strict neutrality, he did no more than wish well to Jean-Sans-Nom and all the defenders, among whom he had so many personal friends.

But notwithstanding their bravery, the inhabitants of the farm could not make head against the police and volunteers, who began to get the better of them. They had to retreat little by little towards the house for shelter. The room would then be invaded. All issue would be cut off, and Jean-Sans-Nom would have to surrender.

And the forces of the besieged were sensibly diminish-in”-. Already two of the elder Harchers, Michael and Jacques, and three or four of their companions had been carried into one of the adjoining rooms, where Clary de Vaudreuil, Catherine, and the other women took care of them. And the battle would be lost if some reinforcement did not come to Jean’s rescue.

Suddenly a change occurred in the state of affairs.

Lionel had just run into the room covered with blood from a flesh wound in his shoulder.

Mr. Nick caught sight of him.

“Lionel! Lionel!” he exclaimed, “you would not listen to me, you insupportable boy!”

And seizing the young clerk in his arms lie would have dragged him into the room with the wounded.

Lionel refused.

“It is nothing! It is nothing!” said he. “But, Nicholas Sagamore will you let your friends be beaten, when your warriors are only waiting for a word from you to help them?”

“No! No!” exclaimed Mr. Nick, “I have no right to give it! To take part against the constituted authorities!”

And as one very last effort he threw himself among the combatants, to stop them by his objurgations.

And he met with no success, but was immediately surrounded by the police and dragged out into the courtyard.

This was too much for the Mahoganni warriors, whose bellicose instincts could not stand this sort of thing. What! Their great chief arrested and ill-treated! A Sagamore in the hands of his enemies, the Pale Faces!

It was too much! And the war-cry was heard above the din of battle.

“Forward! Forward, Hurons!” shouted Lionel, who was quite beside himself.

The intervention of the Indians suddenly changed the fortunes of the strife. Tomahawk in hand, they hurled themselves at their assailants, who, exhausted by the hour’s battle, began to retreat.

Jean-Sans-Nom, Thomas Harcher, and their friends felt that a well-sustained effort would drive Rip and his men out of the enclosure. They re-took the offensive. The Hurons vigorously helped them, after rescuing Mr. Nick, who was astonished to find himself encouraging them with his voice if not with his hand, which was still incapable of flourishing the tomahawk of his ancestors.

And that was how a notary of Montreal, the most pacific of men, got into trouble for defending a cause which concerned neither the Mahogannis nor their chief.

The police and volunteers were soon forced through the gate, and as the Indians pursued them for a mile beyond the neighbourhood, Chipogan was completely cleared.

It was a bad business, evidently, and would figure on the wrong side in the next profit and loss account of Messrs Rip and Co.

CHAPTER IV

THE NEXT WEEK

Maison-Close had thus for a time afforded shelter — precarious, no doubt — to De Vaudreuil and his daughter. They were under the roof of the ‘ family without a name,’ under the same roof as the traitor’s wife and son. That they knew nothing of the ties that bound to Simon Morgaz the old woman and young man who had risked their lives in sheltering them, Bridget and Jean realised only too well.

Towards the morning of 26th November, De Vaudreuil regained a little consciousness. His daughter’s voice awoke him from his torpor and his eyes opened.

‘Clary!’ he murmured.

‘Yes, father! I’m here! ‘ Clary assured him. ‘ I’m near you! I won’t leave you.’

Jean was standing at the foot of the bed, in the shadow, as though he were anxious not to be seen. The wounded man’s glance rested on him, and he murmured: ‘Jean! Ah! I remember!’

Then seeing Bridget bending over his bed, he seemed to be asking who she was.

‘It’s my mother,’ Jean explained. ‘ You’re in my mother’s house, Monsieur de Vaudreuil. You’ll never lack for her care, nor for that of your daughter.’

‘Their care! ‘ De Vaudreuil repeated feebly. ‘ Yes — I remember — wounded — beaten — my companions in flight — dead, perhaps! Ah! my poor country, my poor country — worse enslaved than ever!’

His head fell back, and his eyes closed.

‘Father!’ said Clary, kneeling beside him. As she took his hand she felt a light pressure answering to hers.

Jean reminded her: ‘We’ll have to get a doctor to come to Maison-Close. Where shall be find one? To whom shall we apply now that the whole region is occupied by the loyalists? Perhaps at Montreal! Yes! There alone will it be possible! Tell me some doctor in whom you’ve got confidence, and I’ll go to Montreal.’

‘To Montreal!’ repeated Bridget.

‘I’ll have to, mother! For Monsieur de Vaudreuil’s life it’s worth risking my own.’

‘It isn’t for you I’m frightened, Jean. But if you go to Montreal you may be watched; and if anyone suspects Monsieur de Vaudreuil is hidden here, he’s lost.’

‘Lost!’ murmured Clary.

‘And won’t he be even more surely lost if he doesn’t get proper attention?’ asked Jean.

‘If the wound is mortal,’ Bridget reminded him, ‘ nobody can cure it. If it isn’t mortal, Heaven will give him recovery at the hands of his daughter and myself. The wound is a sabre-stroke which has only cut into the flesh. He’s weak now from the loss of blood. It should be enough, I hope, to bathe the wound, and keep on with the cold water compresses so as to make it heal. Believe me, my son, Monsieur de Vaudreuil is comparatively safe here, and if we can help it, it’s better for nobody to know where he is.’

Bridget spoke with an assurance whose first effect was to give Clary a little hope. It was above all things essential that no one should be allowed into Maison-Close. The life of Jean-Sans-Nom depended on it, as did that of De Vaudreuil. At the slightest alarm, indeed, Jean might get away across the country to the American frontier, but De Vaudreuil could not.

After the first day, the wounded man’s condition justified the confidence Bridget had inspired. As soon as the loss of blood was checked. De Vaudreuil was, if still as weak, at least in possession of his senses. What he wanted above all things was freedom from anxiety, and that he would have now that his daughter was by his side at Maison-Close.

Wetherall’s soldiers were soon to leave St. Charles and scour the country, so that the village would be relieved of their presence.

Bridget made arrangements for more comfortably installing her guests in her tiny home. De Vaudreuil occupied the room usually reserved for Joann or Jean. The other room, Bridget’s, became Clary’s, and the two women took it in turns to watch by the patient’s bedside.

As to Jean, there was no need to worry about him, or about his brother, if ever the Abbe Joann did venture to visit his mother after what had happened. Any corner of the house would do for them.

Besides, Jean was not thinking of staying on at St. Charles. As soon as he was assured of De Vaudreuil’s safety, as soon as he had consulted with him on the possibilities he foresaw, he would again get to work. The defeat at St. Charles could not have finally assured the ruin of the patriots’ cause. Jean-Sans-Nom would know how to lead them on to their revenge.

The 26th November passed quietly enough. Bridget was able, without arousing suspicion, to leave Maison Close, as was her custom, to get some extra food, as well as suitable remedies, for as soon as the troops evacuated the village many of the houses were reopened.

But what a disaster, what ruin, especially in the upper part of the town, beside the camp; after a defence pushed to the extremes of heroism, this had been burned and devastated. A hundred of the patriots had shed their blood in this tragic fight, most of them killed or mortally wounded. Another forty had been taken prisoner. And then had come the excesses committed by the maddened soldiery, whom their leader had been unable to restrain.

De Vaudreuil slept for some hours quietly enough. There was no more delirium, no more of those incoherent words with which he had called for his daughter. He realised that Clary was near him, safe from the dangers to which she would have been subjected had the soldiery re-entered St. Denis.

While he was asleep, Jean explained to Clary the events of the previous day. She learnt all that had passed since her father had left with Judge Froment to join his comrades at St. Charles; how the reformists had fought to the last man; and how he had been carried from the scene of the battle into Maison-Close.

Clary listened with her heart oppressed, her eyes full of tears, but she steeled herself against despair. Misfortunes, it seemed, were being heaped up on Jean and herself; for both of them realised how much they were to each other.

Often Jean would rise in great distress, horrified at himself, and longing to escape from this friendship, which their position made even more dangerous. After the few days he had spent with Clary at the Villa Montcalm, he had calculated on the events he was preparing to take up all his attention. And now it was these very events which had brought her to his mother’s home at the same time as they had forced him to seek its shelter.

Bridget soon realised the nature of her son’s feelings. The terror which she felt was not less than that of Jean. The son of Simon Morgaz! The determined woman allowed no sign of her trouble to appear, but what suffering she foresaw for the future!

In the morning De Vaudreuil was told that the soldiers had gone. Feeling himself less enfeebled, he asked Jean what would be the consequences of the defeat at St. Charles, and what had become of his companions who had fought so bravely.

The others came and sat by his bed, and Jean replied by begging him not to tire himself with too much talking.

‘I’ll tell you what I know about your friends,’ he began. ‘ They fought to the last, and were only overborne by numbers. One of my brave comrades at Chipogan, poor Remy Harcher, was killed at the very outset without my being able to help him. Then Michel and Jacques were also wounded, and they had to leave the battlefield, carried off by their father and their two other brothers. Where did they go when resistance became impossible? I don’t know, but I hope they reached the American frontier. Gramont was made prisoner, and should now be in prison at Montreal, and we may guess the fate in store for him. Farran and Clerc have, I think, escaped from their pursuers. Were they unhurt? I cannot say. As for Vincent Hodge, I cannot say.

‘Vincent Hodge has escaped,’ Clary told him. ‘ That night he was roaming round St. Charles, looking for you, father. Madame Bridget and I met him on our way here. Thanks to him, we escaped from some drunken soldiers, who were molesting us. Probably he’s now safe in some village in the United States.’

‘He is a noble fellow, a brave patriot,’ Jean agreed. ‘ What he did for Mademoiselle de Vaudreuil and my mother he’s already done for me in the thick of the fight. He saved my life, and perhaps it would have been better for him to leave me to die! I ought not to have survived the defeat of the Sons of Freedom!

‘Jean,’ asked Clary, ‘ do you despair of the cause?’

‘My son despair?’ exclaimed Bridget. ‘ I shall never believe it.’

‘No, mother! ‘ Jean assured her. ‘ After the victory at St. Denis, the insurrection will spread through the whole St. Lawrence valley. After the defeat at St. Charles, mastery has to be regained, and I mean to regain it. The reformists aren’t beaten yet. Already they ought to be well enough reorganised to resist Sir John Colborne. I’ve been away from them too long, and I’ll be off this very night.’

‘Where shall you go?’ asked De Vaudreuil.

‘To St. Denis to begin with. There I hope to meet the leaders, under whom we repulsed the soldiers of Colonel Gore’s troops.’

‘Go on, then! Jean? ‘ Bridget gave her son a penetrating glance. ‘ Go. Your place isn’t here. It’s there — in the forefront.’

‘Yes, Jean, you must go! ‘ Clary urged him. ‘ You must rejoin your comrades, and re-appear at their head! The loyalists must realise that Jean-Sans-Nom isn’t dead!’

She could say no more.

De Vaudreuil raised himself in bed, and took Jean’s hand.

‘Go, Jean,’ he said. ‘ Leave me to the care of your mother and my daughter! If you see my friends, tell them they’ll find me with them as soon as I’ve strength enough to leave this house. But,’ he added, in a voice which showed his extreme weakness, ‘ if you can keep us in touch with what’s going on — if you can possibly return here — ah, Jean! I want so much to know what has become of all those who are so dear to me, and whom I may never see again.’

‘You shall know it, Monsieur de Vaudreuil,’ Jean assured’ him. ‘ Take some rest now. Forget — until the time comes to fight.’

The wounded man was in such a state that all emotion ought to be avoided. He had fallen asleep, and the sleep lasted into the middle of the night. And he was still asleep when Jean left the house at eleven, after bidding farewell to Clary and embracing his mother, whose strength did not fail her even at the moment of separation from her son.

The conditions were not the same as they were when Bridget had dissuaded Jean from going to St. Denis. After Wetherall’s departure the danger was negligible. St. Denis was now as quiet as St. Charles. After defeating the reformists on the 25th, the Government were temporising. It was astounding that they were making no effort to complete their victory at St. Charles. Sir John Colborne was not the man to draw back before the reprisals which an offensive would provoke, and Colonel Gore was probably eager to avenge his defeat.

For some reason or other, at St. Charles, and consequently at Maison-Close, there was no news of such an aggression. Confidence had to some extent returned to the villagers. After their dispersal most of them had come back and set to work repairing the damage. In her occasional errands Bridget asked no questions, but she listened and reported to De Vaudreuil and his daughter. There was no serious news, no threats of an advance along the road from Montreal.

During the three days that followed, this calm was untroubled. Did the Government consider the rebellion finally crushed by the blow struck at St. Charles? It seemed so. Were they only in pursuit of the leaders of the opposition, those who had given the signal of revolt? Probably. But what no one would admit was that the reformists had given up the struggle, that they acknowledged themselves so completely defeated that they could do nothing but give in. No! And at Maison-Close, as in all Lower Canada, they were waiting for a new call to arms.

Thanks to Bridget and Clary, De Vaudreuil continued to improve. He was still very weak, but his wound began to heal. Unfortunately his recovery would be slow, and it would be long before he was able to leave his bed. At the end of the third day he was able to take a little food. The fever which had racked him had almost entirely disappeared. There was nothing serious to fear so long as no complication set in.

During these long hours Bridget and Clary sat beside his bed and told him all they knew about what was happening outside. Jean’s name occurred frequently in their conversation. Had he been able to join his companions at St. Denis? Would he leave his friends at Maison-Close without any news?

And while Clary remained silent, her eyes cast down, and her thoughts far away, her father would praise the young patriot in whom was symbolised the national cause. Yes! Madame Bridget ought to be proud of such a son.

Bridget hung her head and did not often reply, if she did, it was simply to say that Jean was only doing his duty, no more.

There was nothing surprising in Clary’s feeling a lively friendship, almost a daughter’s love, for Bridget. It seemed natural for her to call her mother] But when she took her by the hand Bridget seemed to be trying to withdraw it, and when Clary kissed her she would suddenly turn her head away. Why this was, the girl could not understand. How gladly would she have known the history of this family, which had not even a name. But Bridget remained silent on the subject. On the one side was confidence and almost filial affection; on the other was extreme reserve; and an inexplicable distance separated the old woman and the young.

In the evening of 2nd December St. Charles was alarmed by disquieting news — by news so disquieting indeed that Bridget, who had heard it in the village, did not think it wise to report it to De Vaudreuil. Clary agreed, as it was useless to trouble the rest which her father needed so badly.

The report was that the loyalists had again fought the insurgents.

The Government had in fact not been satisfied with having put down the insurrection at St. Charles. They had now to avenge the check Colonel Gore had suffered at St. Denis. If they succeeded, they would have no more to fear from the reformists, who could be hunted down by the police, as they scattered about the countryside. Then all that would remain to be done was to inflict heavy penalties on their leaders, now imprisoned in Quebec and Montreal.

Two guns, five companies of infantry, and a squadron of cavalry had been put under the orders of Colonel Gore, who had arrived at St. Denis on 1st December.

The news of this expedition, somewhat vaguely at first, reached St. Charles that very evening, and a few people returning from the fields confirmed it.

It was this which Bridget heard and which, though she told Clary, she thought it wise to withhold from De Vaudreuil. The anxiety and anguish of the two women can well be imagined.

It was at St. Denis that Jean had gone to rejoin his companions, and to reorganise the insurrection. Would they be numerous enough, and well enough armed, to withstand the loyalists?

Unfortunately it was not likely that they would. And then would not the loyalists, once embarked on reprisals, pursue them to the bitter end? Would they not make requisitions on the villages chiefly concerned, and more especially on St. Charles? Would it not be subject to police surveillance, which was bound to have serious results? Would not the mystery of Maison-Close be revealed? What would become of De Vaudreuil, confined to his bed, whom it would be impossible to take across the frontier?

In what agonies Bridget and Clary heard these rumours! Already there was news from St. Denis, and it was heart-breaking. Colonel Gore had found the village abandoned by its defenders. Before so unequal a struggle they had decided to beat a retreat. The people had left their homes, and taken refuge in the woods, crossed the river, or sought shelter in the neighbouring villages. As to what had happened when the town was handed over to the soldiery — if they did not know it, this was only too easy to imagine.

The night had come. Bridget and Clary were at De Vaudreuil’s bedside. Time and again they had to explain to him why the streets of St. Charles, which had been so quiet during the last few days, were now so full of noise. Clary racked her brain to find a reason which would not alarm her father. Then her thoughts flew further, and she wondered if the cause of independence had not received a last blow, from which it would never recover; whether Jean and his comrades had been forced to cross the frontier; whether some of them had fallen into the hands of the loyalists. And Jean, had be been able to get away? Or was he trying to return to Maison-Close?

Clary had a presentiment that this was so, and then it would be impossible to conceal the defeat of the reformists from De Vaudreuil.

Perhaps Bridget feared this also? And the two women, absorbed in the same thought, understand one another without exchanging a word.

About half-past eleven there were three knocks at the door.

‘It’s him!’ exclaimed Clary.

Bridget had recognised the signal. It was indeed one of her sons who had knocked.

She thought it might be Joann, who had not been there for two months. But Clary was not mistaken. She repeated: ‘It’s him! Jean!’

And as soon as the door was opened, Jean appeared; he entered at once.

CHAPTER V

THE INVESTIGATION

The door had hardly closed when Jean put his ear against it to listen. At the same time he gestured to his mother and Clary not to speak a word, not to make any movement.

And Bridget, who was just going to ask, ‘ Why have you come back, my son?’ kept silent.

Outside they could hear people tramping up and down the road. There was a discussion going on between half a dozen men, who had just halted in front of Maison-Close.

‘Which way has he gone?’

‘He can’t have stopped here.’

‘He’ll have gone into hiding in one of the houses higher up.’

‘But he wasn’t a hundred yards ahead of us.’

‘To have let Jean-Sans-Nom give us the slip!’

‘And those six thousand dollars on his head!’

As she heard the voice of the man who had last spoken, Bridget gave an involuntary start. She seemed to recognise the voice, without being able to remember whom it belonged to.

But Jean had recognised it, as he had the man who was on his track. It was Rip! And if he said nothing to his mother, it was because he dare not recall the horrible past which the name would bring back.

Soon, however, all was again silent. The police agents had gone up the road without suspecting that Jean had gone into hiding in Maison-Close.

Then Jean returned towards his mother and Clary, who were still standing motionless in the darkness of the passage.

Before Bridget could say anything, they heard the voice of De Vaudreuil. He had realised that Jean had come back, and was asking: ‘Jean! Is that you?’

The three at once entered the invalid’s room, and, deeply distressed, stood by the side of the bed.

‘I’ve got strong enough now to bear anything,’ he told them, ‘ and I want to know everything.’

‘So you shall,’ Jean replied; and he went on, while Clary and Bridget listened without interrupting him: ‘The other night, two hours after I left you, I reached St. Denis. There I found several of the survivors of the disaster; Vincent Hodge, Farran and Clerc were among them. They were getting ready to defend the place, and all the people wanted was to help them. But yesterday we heard that Colborne had sent from Sorel a column of regulars and volunteers to pillage and burn the town.

‘The column arrived in the evening, and it was in vain that we tried to resist it. Useless! It came right into St. Denis, and the villagers had to abandon their homes. More than fifty houses were destroyed by the flames. Then, so as not to have their throats cut by the ruffians, my comrades had to escape and make for the frontier, where Papineau and the others were waiting for them. And now the soldiers have invaded the district south of the St. Lawrence, burning and devastating, reducing the children and women to beggary, sparing them no ill-treatment or insult, and you can see their progress by the light of the fires they’ve raised. That’s what has happened, Monsieur de Vaudreuil, and yet I don’t despair. I will not despair of our cause!’

A distressed silence followed Jean’s explanation, and De Vaudreuil let himself fall back on the bed.

Bridget was the first to speak. Addressing her son, and looking him straight in the face, she said: ‘Then why are you here? Why aren’t you with your comrades?’

‘Because I’ve got reason to fear that the loyalists will return to St. Charles, that a house-to-house search will be made, that fire will destroy what’s left of the village.’

‘And can you stop it, Jean?’

‘No, mother!’

‘Then, I repeat, what are you doing here?’

‘I’m here because I wished to see if it wouldn’t be possible for Monsieur de Vaudreuil to leave Maison-Close, which will not be spared any more than the other houses.’

‘It isn’t possible,’ said Bridget.

‘Then I’ll stay, mother, and I’ll die defending you.’

‘It’s for your country you should die, Jean, and not for us,’ De Vaudreuil pointed out. ‘ Your place is with the other patriotic leaders.’

‘That’s where your place is, too, Monsieur de Vaudreuil! Listen to me. You can’t stay in this house, where you’d soon be discovered. This very night, half a mile from St. Charles, I was chased by a squad of police. There’s no doubt they recognised me, for you heard them saying my name. They’ll ransack the town, and even if I wasn’t here, Maison-Close would not be overlooked. It’s you that the police will find, Monsieur de Vaudreuil, it’s you that they’ll arrest, and you may expect no mercy.’

‘What does that matter, Jean? ‘ De Vaudreuil replied. ‘ What does it matter so long as you’re able to rally our friends on the frontier?’

‘Listen, I’ll tell you,’ Jean insisted. ‘ All I can do for the cause I will do. But it is you who will have to be considered, Monsieur de Vaudreuil. Perhaps it may not be impossible for you to reach the United States. Once you are out of this district you’ll be safe, and it’ll only be a few miles before you’re in American territory. That you aren’t strong enough to drag yourself there, even if I’m with you to help you along, that’s true. But in a cart, lying on a bed of straw just as you are now, couldn’t you stand the journey? Well, my mother could get you this cart on some pretext or another — that of escaping like the others perhaps — or at least she can try! And when night comes, your daughter and yourself, and my mother and me, we’ll leave this house, and we can be out of reach before the troops have come to do to St. Charles what they’ve done to St. Denis!’

Jean’s scheme was worth consideration. A few miles further south, De Vaudreuil could find the safety which Maison-Close could no longer offer him, if the loyalists were to enter the village and make a house-to-house visitation. It was only too certain that Jean-Sans-Nom had been recognised by Rip’s men. He had escaped them, but they would assume that he had taken refuge in one of the houses in St. Charles, and every effort would be made to capture him. The position was ominous. At all costs it was important that not only Jean, but De Vaudreuil and his daughter, should leave Maison-Close.

And flight was not impracticable if only Bridget could hire a cart, and De Vaudreuil could stand the jolting for a few hours. Even if he were too weak to reach the frontier, he could be sure of shelter at some farm in the south of the country. Anyhow, they would certainly have to leave St. Charles, for the police would search the house.

Jean had little difficulty in convincing De Vaudreuil and his daughter, and even Bridget agreed. Unfortunately, they could not start that night. Next day his mother could see about hiring the cart, and the following night they could put the plan into execution.

The day came. Bridget thought it was better to act openly. There would be nothing strange in her trying to get away from the scene of the insurrection. Many people had already done so, and her attempt would surprise nobody.

She had at first meant not to accompany De Vaudreuil with Clary and Jean. But her son easily made her understand that once her departure had been announced, if her neighbours were to see her still at St. Charles, they would suspect that the cart had been used by some other fugitive, and then the police would arrest her. In the interest of all, it was better for nothing of that sort to happen. Bridget had to give way. When the troubles were over she would return to St. Charles, and end her miserable life in the house which she had hoped never to leave.

Everything thus being decided, Bridget set about procuring the means of transport. If she could get a cart all would be well. She left the house next morning provided by De Vaudreuil with the money need to hire it — or rather to purchase it outright.

During her absence Jean and Clary did not leave the invalid’s room. Already he had regained his strength and was bracing himself for the journey; a sort of reaction had set in. Despite his weakness, which was still very great, he was ready to get up; ready to travel in the cart when the moment came to leave. He could answer for himself at least for a few hours, but after that he would be in the hands of God. Nothing else mattered, so long as he again saw his comrades and could assure his daughter’s safety, and so long as Jean-Sans-Nom was back among the French-Canadians ready for a final struggle.

Yes, their departure was essential. If De Vaudreuil did not survive his wounds, what would become of his daughter at Maison-Close, alone in the world, and with only an old woman to depend on? On the frontier he would meet his brothers-in-arms and his most devoted friends. And amongst them was one of whose feelings he approved. He knew that Vincent Hodge loved Clary, and he felt that Clary would not refuse to become the wife of him who had risked his life to save her. To what more generous, what more ardent patriot could she entrust her future? He was worthy of her, and she was worthy of him.

With God’s help he himself would have the strength to reach his goal. He would not die until he had set foot on American soil, where the survivors of the Reformist party were waiting to take up their arms once more.

Such were the thoughts of De Vaudreuil, while Jean and Clary, seated at his bedside, exchanged only a few words.

Often Jean would rise and go across to one of the windows which opened on to the road, and whose shutters were always closed. Then he listened for any further noise that he could hear outside.

Bridget returned to Maison-Close after an absence of two hours. She had been to several people to ask about the horse and cart. She had mentioned her desire to leave St. Charles, and this had surprised nobody. The owner of a neighbouring farm had agreed to let her have a cart at a reasonable price, and it should be at the door of Maison-Close at nine that evening.

When he heard of her success De Vaudreuil felt a burden lifted from him.

‘At nine o’clock we’ll set out,’ he said ‘ and I’ll get up to take my place in the cart.’

‘No, Monsieur de Vaudreuil,’ Jean protested, ‘ you mustn’t tire yourself needlessly. I’ll carry you out to the cart; we’ll spread a good thick layer of straw, and on that we’ll put one of the mattresses from your bed. Then we’ll go slowly, so as to avoid jolting, and I hope you’ll be able to bear the journey. But as the temperature is low, you must see that you’re well covered up. As to incidents on the road — have you heard anything fresh, mother?’

‘No,’ said Bridget,’ but they’re still expecting the troops.’

‘And these police agents who’ve been after me?’

‘I didn’t see them, and they may have gone off on a false trail.’

‘But they may return! ‘ Clary reminded her.

‘We’ll go as soon as the cart is at the door,’ said De Vaudreuil.

‘At nine o’clock,’ added Bridget.

‘You can trust the man who sold you the cart?’ asked Jean.

‘Yes! He’s an honest farmer, and what he undertakes to do he’ll do.’

In the meantime De Vaudreuil wished to take some nourishment, so Bridget, helped by Clary, quickly prepared a frugal lunch, which they all shared.

The hours went by without further incident. There was no noise outside. From time to time Bridget opened the door, and cast a rapid glance to right and left. The weather was fairly cold. The grey tint of the sky showed the complete calmness of the atmosphere. If the wind veered to the south-west, if the mist turned into snow, De Vaudreuil’s journey would be very painful — at least, until he got far enough away to be safe.

However, everything seemed in favour of the journey — until three in the afternoon, when another alarm took place.

Distant sounds could be heard in the upper part of the town.

Jean opened the door and listened. He could not restrain a gesture of anger.

‘Bugles!’ he exclaimed. ‘ Troops advancing on St. Charles, probably!’

‘What are we to do?’ asked Clary.

‘Wait,’ replied Bridget. ‘ The soldiers may be only passing through the village.’

Jean shook his head.

But as it was impossible for De Vaudreuil to leave during the daytime, all that could be done, as Bridget had said, was to wait, unless Jean should decide to escape by himself.

Indeed, if he were, to leave Maison-Close at once, might he not be able to reach safety, before St. Charles was occupied by the loyalists? But that would mean leaving De Vaudreuil and Clary exposed to the greatest peril. Jean never even thought of it. Yet how, if their hiding-place were discovered, was he to defend them?

The sound of bugles came nearer. Then it ceased. The troops had reached the end of the village.

‘All isn’t lost yet,’ said Bridget. ‘ The road is clear on the Laprairie side. The night will come, and we needn’t change our plans. My house is not the sort to attract robbers; it stands by itself, and quite possibly it won’t be visited.’

This was certainly to be hoped.

The preparations for departure were therefore continued. They would have to be ready for the cart as soon as it arrived. If the road were free for an hour, and the fugitives could get three miles away, De Vaudreuil could, if necessary, find shelter in one of the farmhouses.

The night arrived without any fresh alarm. A few detachments of volunteers, who had advanced along the main road, retraced their steps, but Maison-Close did not seem to have attracted their attention. The bulk of the column was encamped around St. Charles. Thence came a deafening uproar, which foreboded no good to the villagers.

At six Bridget asked Jean and Clary to have dinner, which she had just prepared, but De Vaudreuil hardly ate anything. Over-excited at the danger of the circumstances which he had to meet, he waited impatiently for the time to start.

A little before seven there came a gentle tap at the door. Was it the farmer who had brought the cart before the appointed time? It certainly could not be an enemy’s hand that knocked so gently.

Jean and Clary went into De Vaudreuil’s room, leaving the door half open. Bridget went along the passage and opened the front door, having recognised the voice of the farmer who had sold her the cart.

The honest man had come to say that it was impossible for him to keep to his bargain, and he had brought back the money that had been paid him. There were troops quartered on his farm, as on all the other farms nearby. The village was surrounded, and even if Bridget had the cart, she would not be able to use it. She must wait, whether she liked it or not, until St. Charles was evacuated.

Jean and Clary, from the patient’s room, had heard what the farmer had said, as had De Vaudreuil.

The farmer added that there was nothing to be afraid of at Maison-Close, as the troops had only returned to St. Charles to help the police, who were making an investigation throughout the village. And why? Because of certain rumours that Jean-Sans-Nom was in hiding there, every means was being employed for his discovery.

When she heard the farmer mention her son’s name, Bridget was careful not to make any movement that might betray her.

The farmer went away and, returning to the room, Bridget said: ‘Jean! You must go, this instant!’

‘You must! ‘ De Vaudreuil agreed.

‘Go without you?’

‘You have no right to sacrifice your life,’ Clary told him. ‘ Before us, there’s your country…’

‘I won’t go! ‘ Jean declared. ‘ I won’t leave you exposed to these scoundrels’ brutalities.’

‘And what will you do, Jean?’

‘I don’t know, but I won’t leave you.’

Jean’s decision was so positive that De Vaudreuil did not attempt to argue with him.

Besides, it was obvious that flight would now be dangerous. According to the farmer, the village was surrounded, and the roads were being watched by the infantry and the country scoured by detachments of cavalry. Jean was too well known to escape. Would it not be better for him to stop at Maison-Close?

But it was not this he had thought of in coming to his resolution. He could not abandon his mother and Clary and De Vaudreuil.

His decision being final, did the three rooms of Maison-Close or the attic over them offer any hiding-place?

Jean had no time to find out.

Almost at once there was a violent knocking, which made the outer door rattle again.

The front yard was occupied by half a dozen of the police.

‘Open!’ came a voice from outside as the knocking redoubled. ‘ Open! or we’ll break down the door!’

The door of De Vaudreuil’s room was at once shut, while Jean and Clary tip-toed into Bridget’s room, where they could hear better.

As Bridget went along the passage the door fell into fragments.

The passage was brightly lit by the torches which the police agents were carrying.

‘What do you want?’ asked Bridget.

‘To search your house!’ snapped one of the men. ‘ If Jean-Sans-Nom is here, we’ll take him first, and then it will go badly with you.’

‘Jean-sans-Nom is not here! ‘ Bridget told them calmly, ‘ and I don’t know…’

The leader of the party suddenly stepped up to her.

It was Rip — Rip whose voice she had heard when her son had entered Maison-Close — Rip who had tempted Simon Morgaz into the most abominable of crimes.

Bridget, horror-stricken, recognised him at once.

‘Eh!’ exclaimed Rip, much surprised. ‘ Why, it’s Madame Bridget! It’s the wife of the brave Simon Morgaz!’

When he heard his father’s name Jean recoiled to the end of the room.

Bridget, thunderstruck at this unexpected revelation, lacked the strength to reply.

‘ Eh? Yes? Madame Morgaz!’ Rip continued. ‘ Really, I thought you were dead! Who would have expected to have found you in this place after twelve years?’

Bridget still kept silent.

‘ Come on, my friends! ‘ Rip turned to his men. ‘ There’s nothing here! A brave woman, Bridget Morgaz! She’s not the one to hide a rebel! Come, and let’s look somewhere else. If Jean-Sans-Nom is in St. Charles, neither God nor the devil shall keep me from finding him.’

And, followed by his men, Rip had soon vanished up the road.

But the secret of Bridget and her son was now revealed! Even if De Vaudreuil had heard nothing, Clary had not lost a word.

So Jean-Sans-Nom was the son of Simon Morgaz! And with a movement of horror Clary fled from Bridget’s room into her father’s as though she were mad.

Jean and Bridget were left alone. Now Clary knew everything.

At the thought of appearing before her, before De Vaudreuil, before the friend of those patriots whom the treachery of Simon Morgaz had sent to the scaffold, Jean thought he would have gone insane.

‘Mother!’ he declared, ‘ I cannot stay here another instant. Monsieur and Mademoiselle de Vaudreuil no longer need me to defend them! They’ll be safe enough — in the house of a Morgaz! Adieu!’

‘My son — my son!’ murmured Bridget. ‘ Do you think I haven’t guessed it? You! the son of — you love Clary de Vaudreuil!’

‘ Yes, mother, but I’ll die before I ever tell her! ‘ And he rushed from the house.

CHAPTER VI

WALHATTA

After the affair at Chipogan Farm, where the police and volunteers had been defeated, Thomas Harcher and his older sons had sought refuge beyond the Canadian frontier, whence they had returned to take part in the fight at St. Charles. After that tragic failure, which had cost Remy his life, Thomas and his four other sons had rejoined the reformists on the American frontier.

Mr. Nick had been careful not to return to Montreal. How could he explain his behaviour at Chipogan? Whatever might be the respect in which he was held, the police would not have hesitated to proceed against him for rebellion against the representatives of authority. The gates of the Montreal jail would certainly have closed on him, and in his company Lionel would have had plenty of leisure to cultivate the Muses intra muros.

Mr. Nick had acted for the best in the circumstances. He had followed the Mahogannis to Walhatta, and there he was waiting under his ancestral roof for the excitement to calm down. Then he would abandon the chieftainship of his tribe, and return modestly to business at his office.

Lionel was not of the same way of thinking. The young poet hoped that the lawyer would once and for all break his bonds with his office, and perpetuate among the Hurons the illustrious name of the Sagamores.

Two leagues from Chipogan Farm was the village of Walhatta, where Mr. Nick had been installed for some weeks. This was a new life for the placid notary. That Lionel was enthusiastic at the reception which all in the village gave his master need not be insisted on, but the notary failed to look at matters in the same light. The volleys of musketry that had welcomed him, the homage accorded to him, the palavers held in his honour, the flowery speeches addressed to him, the acknowledgements he had to make in the florid phraseology of the Far West, might be all very flattering to human vanity; but none the less the worthy man bitterly regretted the unfortunate affair which he had involuntarily engaged in. And if Lionel preferred the free air of the prairies to the stuffiness of the office and the parchments, and the eloquence of the Mahoganni warriors to the technical jargon of the law, Mr. Nick in no way shared his opinion. And between the master and the clerk there went on a vast amount of discussion which certainly did not increase their friendship.

Mr. Nick’s fear was that matters could not remain as they were. He could foresee the Hurons having to take part in the struggle and throw in their lot with the patriots. And would he be able to stop them if they wanted to, if Jean-Sans-Nom called them to his side, if Thomas Harcher and his people came to Walhatta? Already he was dangerously compromised, but what would he be when he marched at the head of a savage tribe against the Anglo-Canadian authorities? How could he ever hope to take up his duties as a lawyer at Montreal?

But he comforted himself with the reflection that time is a great adjuster. Many weeks had elapsed since the outbreak at Chipogan, and if this were regarded merely as an isolated act of resistance to the police it might well be forgotten. Moreover the insurrectionist movement had not yet broken out, and nothing showed that a rising was imminent. If tranquillity continued to prevail in Canada, the authorities might show themselves tolerant and Mr. Nick might safely return to Montreal.

But this hope Lionel had no wish to see realized. To return to the office and practise engrossing for ten hours a day? Better become a backwoodsman or a bee-hunter! Let his master abandon the high position he held among the Mahogannis? Never! He was Mr. Nick no longer, he had become the legitimate descendant of the ancient race of the Sagamores! The Hurons would never permit him to exchange the tomahawk of the warrior for the quill of the lawyer.

Since he had reached Walhatta, Mr. Nick had resided in the wigwam whence his predecessor had departed to join his ancestors in the Happy-Hunting-grounds. Lionel would have given up every building in Montreal for this uncomfortable shelter where the young folks of the tribe did their best to serve his master. The Mahogannis regarded him as their chief’s right hand man, and when Nicholas Sagamore had to make a speech at the council fire, Lionel could not keep from accompanying him with a wealth of impassioned gesture.

It follows that the young clerk would have been the happiest of mortals, had his master not obstinately refused to realize his dearest wish — for Mr. Nick to don the costume of the Mahogannis. Lionel desired nothing so much as to see him in full Huron attire, with moccasins on his feet, feathers on his head, and embroidered mantle on his shoulder. Many times he had broached the subject without success, but he did not despair.

‘He’ll come to it,’ he said; ‘ I won’t let him reign disguised as a lawyer. With his long coat, his velvet waistcoat and his white cravat, what does he look like, pray? He hasn’t as yet put off the old Adam, and he must! Whenever he opens his mouth before the assembly of the notables of his tribe, I always expect him to say, ‘ In the presence of Mr. Nick and his colleagues.’ That’s not to be endured. I mean him to dress like the warriors, and when I get a chance to persuade him I shan’t miss it.’

And a very simple idea occurred to him. In the conversations he had with the notables of Walhatta, he found that it was not without keen disappointment that they could see the descendant of the Sagamores clad in the European style; and at his suggestion the Mahogannis decided to proceed solemnly to the enthronisation of their new chief. Then was drawn up the programme of a ceremony to which were to be invited all the Indians in the neighbourhood. There would be shooting-matches, dances, feasts, at which Mr. Nick could not preside except in the national costume.

This resolution was definitely adopted during the last half of November, and preparations were at once begun, so that things could be done really well.

The duties Mr. Nick would have to perform when on the day fixed he received the homage of his people were kept a secret, to take him by surprise; but as he would have to dress and behave as a Huron chief the young clerk had to inform him of the fact. And this he did on 22nd November, much to Mr. Nick’s displeasure.

When the lawyer heard that the tribe were preparing a festival in his honour, he promptly wished it to the devil, along with his young clerk.

‘May Nicholas Sagamore deign to listen to the advice of the Paleface!’ said Lionel. * Of what Paleface? ‘ Mr. Nick did not understand. ‘ Of your humble servant, great chief.’

‘ Well, take care I don’t turn your pale face into a red one by a good slap!’

Lionel took no notice of the threat and continued cheerfully: ‘May Nicholas Sagamore never forget that I am profoundly devoted to him! If he should ever become a prisoner of the Sioux, the Oneidas, or the Iroquois, if he is ever bound to the stake, it is I who will defend him from the insults and the claws of the old women; and when he is dead, it is I who will place on his grave his calumet and his tomahawk!’

Mr. Nick decided to let him talk, but to terminate the interview in a way that would leave its mark on his clerk’s ears. He contented himself with saying: ‘And so I must yield to the wishes of the Mahogannis?’

‘ To their prayers!’

‘Well, if it comes to that I shall be present at the festival.’

‘You cannot refuse, for the blood of the Sagamores runs in your veins!’

‘The blood of the Sagamores mixed with a lawyer’s! grumbled Mr. Nick. And then Lionel approached the delicate point. ‘ It is understood,’ he said, ‘ that the great chief will preside at the ceremony. And he will present himself in the garb appropriate to his rank with a scalp-lock rising stiffly from the summit of his cranium.’

‘And why?’

‘Out of respect for tradition.’

‘What! Tradition requires it?’

‘Yes; and besides, should the chief of the Mahogannis ever fall on the war-path, is it not essential so that his enemy may brandish his head in sign of victory?’

‘Indeed!’ said Mr. Nick. ‘ My enemy must be able to brandish my head, must he? Holding it up by this scalp-lock, eh?’

‘Such is the Indian custom, and no warrior would refuse to follow it. No other style of hairdressing would be in harmony with the costume which Nicholas Sagamore will assume on the day of the ceremony.’

‘Ah! So I’m to assume…’

‘At this very moment they are at work on the festive attire. It will be magnificent. The deer-skin jacket, the elk-skin moccasins, the mantle as worn by the predecessor of Nicholas Sagamore, the facial decoration as…’

‘Facial decoration?’

‘The most accomplished artists of the tribe are now preparing for the tattooing of the arms and chests…’

‘Pray go on,’ Mr. Nick clenched his teeth. ‘ This is most interesting. The facial decoration, indeed, the scalp-lock on my head, the moccasins of elk-skin, the tattooing of my chest. You have forgotten nothing.’

‘Nothing,’ the clerk assured him. ‘ And when the great chief shows himself to his warriors draped in the garb which will show him off at his best, I do not doubt but that the Indian ladies will fight for the honour of sharing his wigwam…’

‘The Indian women will fight for the honour?’

‘For the honour of assuring a long line of descendants to the elect of the Great Spirit!’

‘And so it will be to the general satisfaction if I take a Huron squaw?’

‘And who else could it be for the future of the Mahogannis? Already have they made choice of a squaw of high degree who will devote herself to the happiness of the great chief.’

‘And may we inquire who is this red-skinned princess who is going to devote herself to me?’

‘Certainly,’ Lionel assured him; ‘ she is worthy of the lineage of the Sagamores.’

‘ And who may she be?’

‘ The widow of your predecessor.’ It was lucky for the young clerk that he was able to dodge the blow that Mr. Nick levelled at him. But he had judged his distance, and his master had to content himself with saying: ‘Listen to me, Lionel. If ever you return to the subject I’ll pull your ears until they are as long as those of David La Gamme’s donkey.’

At this comparison, which recalled one of the heroes of The Last of the Mohicans, Lionel very wisely retired. As to Mr. Nick, he was not more irritated against his clerk than against the notables of the tribe. To impose the Mahogannian costume upon him for this ceremony! To make him grow a scalp-lock, clothe himself, paint himself, tattoo himself, like his ancestors! But would he yield to the necessities of the case? Dare he present himself before his warriors in these civilian garments, the sombre attire of a lawyer, the most pacific of all the lawyers? Here was a problem that troubled him the more as the great day approached.

Fortunately — for the heir of the Sagamores — serious events created a diversion in the Mahoganni plans.

Important news reached Walhatta on the 23rd. The patriots of St. Denis had, it was reported, repulsed Colonel Gore’s troops. The news provoked demonstrations of delight among the Hurons. At Chipogan Farm their sympathies had been won over for the cause of independence, and only an opportunity was needed for them to throw in their lot with the French-Canadians.

The victory — as Mr. Nick realised only too well — would not induce the warriors of his tribe to suspend the preparations for the festival in his honour. On the contrary, it would make them celebrate it with more enthusiasm, and their chief would escape none of the honours of his enthronisation. But three days later came bad news to follow the good. After the victory at St. Denis, the defeat at St. Charles.

On hearing of the bloody reprisals carried out by the loyalists, the atrocities, plunderings, burnings, murders, the destruction of both townships, the Mahogannis could hardly restrain their indignation. To rise as one man and rush to the help of the patriots was only a step, and Mr. Nick might well fear it would be taken. Was the lawyer, already somewhat compromised, to commit himself irretrievably? Would he have to put himself at the head of his warriors and make common cause with the insurrection? Anyhow, there could now be no question of ceremonies. But what was the reception he gave to Lionel when the clerk informed him that the time had come to dig up the tomahawk and to brandish it upon the war-path!

Thenceforward his one anxiety was to soothe his bellicose followers. When they came to him to be harangued, expecting him to declare himself against the oppressors, he exhausted his ingenuity in ways of saying neither yes nor no. They must be careful, he told them, not to act without careful thought, without seeing what would be the consequences of the defeat at St. Charles. Perhaps the whole region had already been invaded by the loyalists? Nothing was known of the plans of the reformists, who might be already dispersed. Where had they taken refuge? Where could they join them? Might they not have given up until a better opportunity presented itself? Were not the leaders in the power of the bureaucrats, and imprisoned at Montreal?

These were good reason enough for Mr. Nick to give his impatient Pretorian Guards, but they were not accepted without dispute. One of these days the warriors’ rage might possess them and carry them away, and then their chief would naturally have to follow them. Perhaps he had some notion of giving his tribe the slip, but this would have been difficult, for they were watching him much more closely than he imagined. But where could he go? He did not care to leave Canada, where he had been born; and to hide himself in some village where the police were on the alert, would be to risk falling into their hands.

Besides, Mr. Nick did not know what had become of the leaders of the insurrection. Although some of the Mahogannis had gone up the banks of the Richelieu as far as the St. Lawrence, they had been unable to learn anything about this. Even at Chipogan Farm, Catherine Harcher knew nothing of what had happened to her husband or his sons, nothing of the De Vaudreuils, nothing of Jean-Sans-Nom, nothing of what had happened at Maison-Close after the affair at St. Charles.

All that could be done was to watch events, and this was not displeasing to Mr. Nick. To gain time, and with the time to see the excitement settle down, that was all he wanted.

But on this point there were further disputes with his clerk, who hated the loyalists. The latest news had overwhelmed Lionel. There was no longer anything here for him to make fun of. He no longer made jokes about the war-path, about digging up the tomahawk, about the blood of the Sagamores. All he could think of was the cause now so seriously compromised, what had become of the heroic Jean-Sans-Nom? Had he fallen at St. Charles? No! The news of his death would have spread abroad, and the authorities would have done their best to spread it, so that it would have been known at Chipogan as at Walhatta. But if he had survived, where was he? Lionel would have risked his life to know.

Several days elapsed, but there was no change in the situation. Were the patriots getting ready to take the offensive? Once or twice rumours of this reached the Mahogannis, but they were not confirmed. By Lord Gosford’s orders the regions round Montreal and Laprairie were being searched. Large bodies of troops were occupying both banks of the Richelieu. Incessant house-to-house searches kept the people of the farms and villages on the alert. Sir John Colborne had his columns ready to march on the flag of rebellion wherever it might be raised. If the fugitives tried to recross the American frontier, they would find themselves faced with considerable forces.

On 5th December, Lionel, who had gone out towards Chambly in search of information, learnt that martial law had been proclaimed in the district of Montreal. At the same time the Governor-General had offered a reward of four thousand dollars for the apprehension of the Deputy Papineau. Among the other rewards offered were those for De Vaudreuil and Vincent Hodge. Some of the reformists were said to be imprisoned at Montreal and Quebec, where they were to be tried by martial law, so that the political scaffold would soon be claiming further victims.

This was serious news. To the measures decreed against them would the Sons of Freedom respond by another call to arms? On the other hand, would they not be discouraged by this pitiless repression? That was Mr. Nick’s opinion. He realised that if the reformists did not succeed at the outset, they had little chance of succeeding at all.

But this was not the opinion of his Mahoganni warriors, nor was it that of Lionel.

‘No! ‘he told the lawyer repeatedly, ‘ No! The cause is not lost, and so long as Jean-Sans-Nom is still alive we shall not despair of regaining our independence.’

On 7th December something occurred to thrust Mr. Nick back among the difficulties from which he fancied he had escaped, and to raise almost to madness the bellicose instincts of the Hurons.

For some days the presence of the Abbe Joann had been reported in the neighbourhood. He had traversed the Laprairie region, calling upon the French-Canadians to rise as one man. His fiery eloquence contended not without difficulty with the discouragement that had fallen upon the patriots after their defeat at St. Charles. But the Abbe Joann would never give in; he went straight ahead, he urged the people to take once again to arms as soon as their leaders reappeared in the district.

But his brother was not with him; the Abbe did not know what had become of him. Before setting out on his mission he had been to Maison-Close to embrace his mother, to have news of Jean.

Maison-Close had not been opened to him.

Joann had gone in search of his brother. He too could not think the man was dead, for the news of his death would have been reported far and wide. He told himself that Jean would reappear at the head of his comrades.

Meanwhile his efforts tended to raise the Indians, especially the Huron warriors, who were only waiting to be asked to intervene. It was in such circumstances that he arrived among the Mahogannis.

Mr. Nick could not but give him a cordial welcome; nor could he any longer resist the pressure brought to bear on him by his tribe.

‘ Well,’ he said at last with a shake of his head, ‘ nobody can escape from his destiny. I don’t know how the race of the Sagamores began, but I know only too well how it will end! It will end before a court-martial.’

The Hurons were in fact ready for the war-path, and Lionel had done not a little to rouse them.

As soon as the Abbe arrived at Walhatta, the young clerk had become one of his warmest supporters. Not only had he found in him all the ardour of his own patriotism, but he had been struck by the strange resemblance between the young priest and Jean-Sans- Nom, almost the same eyes, the same fiery look, almost the same voice and the same gestures. He thought his hero had returned disguised as a priest, he thought he could hear… Was it an illusion of his senses? He could not say.

For two days the Abbe Joann had now been among the Mahogannis, whose only demand was to join the patriots. These had concentrated their forces about fifty leagues to the south-west, at Navy Island, on the Niagara River.

Mr. Nick saw himself doomed to follow the warriors of his tribe. Their preparations were almost complete. As soon as they left the village the Mahogannis would traverse the neighbouring regions, raise the other Indians, reach the shore of Lake Ontario, and then, advancing to the Niagara, they would join the last supporters of the national cause.

On the evening of 9th December, one of the Hurons now returned from Montreal announced that Jean-Sans- Nom had been arrested by the police on the Ontario frontier, and that he was imprisoned in Fort Frontenac.

The effect of this news can be imagined. Jean-Sans- Nom in the power of the loyalists! The Mahogannis were aghast; and it is easy to imagine their emotion when the Abbe Joann, as soon as he heard of the arrest, had exclaimed: ‘ My brother! ‘ Then he added: ‘ I’ll save him from death!’

‘ Let me go with you!’ pleaded Lionel. ‘ Come, my child!’ the Abbe replied.

CHAPTER VII

FORT FRONTENAC

Jean was like a madman when he left Maison-Close. The incognito of his life so brutally torn apart; Rip’s dreadful words, overheard by Clary, who now realised that it was in the home of the wife and the son of Simon Morgaz that her father had found refuge; De Vaudreuil having to be told all this if he had not already heard it in his room — it was enough to fill him with despair.

Stay in the house he could not — not even for a moment. Without asking what would become of the De Vaudreuils, without asking if his mother’s infamous name could protect them further, without even remembering that Bridget would no longer be able to live in the place where she had been recognised, and from which she would undoubtedly be driven, he had fled into the forest, nor did he stop running throughout the night. He felt he could never get far enough from those to whom, for the future, he could be nothing but an object of horror and scorn.

And his work — not yet accomplished! His duty was to fight, simply because he was still alive! His duty was to get himself killed before his real name was revealed! When he was dead, when he had died for his country, if he could not gain the esteem of his fellow-countrymen, he might at least claim their pity.

At length he grew calmer, and with his self-control he regained that energy which no weakness could henceforth overcome.

As he fled he made for the frontier, to rejoin the patriots, and continue the struggle for independence.

At six in the morning Jean found he had got twelve miles from St. Charles, and near the right bank of the St. Lawrence, on the borders of Montreal County. The district was patrolled by detachments of cavalry, and it swarmed with the police agents; he would have to get away from it as soon as possible. But to strike direct for the United States seemed impracticable, and so he continued his flight obliquely through Laprairie County, which was watched as carefully as that of Montreal. The best thing he could do was to keep along the St. Lawrence to reach Lake Ontario, and then to cross the eastern territories to the nearest American village. And this is what he decided to do.

But he had to push on very carefully. The difficulties were great. To get through somehow, no matter how long it might take him, was his programme, which he could modify to suit contingencies. The loyalist volunteers were afoot. The police were making constant domiciliary visits in search of the insurgent leaders, and among them was Jean-Sans-Nom, the reward for whose apprehension he could see announced on the proclamations posted up on the walls.

It was only during the night that he could move; during the day he hid in abandoned huts, in the midst of impenetrable thickets where he found a thousand difficulties in getting food. And he would certainly have died of hunger had it not been for the charity of the local people, who gave him what he wanted without asking who he was or whence he came. But his progress was slow. It was not until he was out of Laprairie County, and in Ontario Province, that he could hope to make up for lost time.

From 4th to 8th December Jean hardly covered sixty miles. During these five days — it would be more exact to say these live nights — he had only just got away from the bank of the St. Lawrence, and reached the centre of Beauharnais county. The most difficult part of his task was over, for the western and southern parishes were much less patrolled at this distance from Montreal. Yet the dangers were thickening round him. A squad of police had come on his track on the county boundary. Once or twice his coolness managed to throw them off his trail.

During the night of 8th December, however, he realised that he was surrounded by a dozen men, with orders to take him dead or alive. After defending himself with truly terrific energy, and seriously wounding several of the police, he was captured. It was not Rip who had effected the capture, but Superintendent Comeau, so that six thousand dollars were absent from the right side on the books of the famous commercial house of Rip and Co.

The news of Jean-Sans-Nom’s arrest soon spread far and wide, for the authorities had good reasons for making it known, and it reached the village of Walhatta the same day.

Fort Frontenac is situated on the north shore of Ontario, a few leagues from Kingson. It dominates the left bank of the St. Lawrence, the river which forms the frontier between Canada and the United States. The fort was then commanded by Major Sinclair, who had under his orders four officers and a hundred men of the 20th Regiment. It completed the defensive system which protected the outlying territories from Indian depredations.

It was to Fort Frontenac that Jean-Sans-Nom was taken. The Governor-General, informed of the important capture made by Comeau’s detachment, did not think tit to send the prisoner to Montreal, or to any of the other important cities where his presence might provoke a popular rising. Hence the order from Quebec to take him to Fort Frontenac, and to hold the trial there. Normally Jean would have been executed within twenty-four hours, but there was a special reason for some delay in bringing him before the court-martial, convened under the presidency of Major Sinclair.

That the prisoner was the Jean-Sans-Nom, the determined agitator who had been the soul of the insurrections of 1832, 1835, and 1837 there was no doubt, but the Government wanted to know the real name of this man who concealed his identity under this pseudonym. Then they could inquire into his past life, and obtain information which might help them to unravel certain secret proceedings, and to identify his accomplices in the cause of independence. It was thus important to make out, if not the identity, at least the origin of this person, whose real name was still unknown, and which he might have some reason for keeping back. The court-martial therefore waited before proceeding to sentence, and Jean was closely interrogated. He refused point-blank to give any information, and declined even to answer any questions. So the attempt had to be given up, and on 10th December he was brought before his judges.

There was nothing to discuss. Jean declared that he had borne arms during the present as during the past revolts, and he proudly acclaimed the rights of Lower Canada, now withheld by England; he faced his accusers boldly; he spoke as if his words could cross the walls of the fort, and be heard throughout the country.

When Major Sinclair questioned him for the last time about his name, his birthplace and his family, he replied: ‘ I am Jean-Sans-Nom, a French-Canadian by birth, and that should be enough for you. It matters very little what the man is called when he is to be shot. Do you really want a name for a corpse?’

Jean was condemned to death, and Major Sinclair ordered him to be taken back to his cell. Then, in accordance with his instructions, he sent off a despatch-rider to Quebec, informing the Governor-General that he had been unable to ascertain his prisoner’s real name, and asking whether, in the circumstances, he was to proceed with his execution?

For over a fortnight Lord Gosford had been very busy prosecuting those who had taken part in the insurrections at St. Denis and St. Charles. Forty-five of the leading patriots were in Montreal jail, eleven in that of Quebec. The Law Courts were in action with their three judges, the prosecutor general and the solicitor who represented the Crown, and there was also a Court Martial presided over by a major-general and composed of fifteen of the senior officers who had dealt with the insurrection.

While waiting for sentence, which would involve the most appalling penalties, the prisoners were subjected to treatment whose severity no political feeling could excuse. The jails contained hundreds of poor wretches, who were suffering intensely from the harshness of the Canadian winter. Tortured by hunger — for their rations were barely sufficient — they longed for the verdict and for their sentence, however pitiless it might be But before bringing them to trial, Lord Gosford wanted to wait until the police had completed their enquiries, so as to get into his hands as many of the patriots as he could.

When the news of Jean’s capture reached Quebec, it was felt that the cause of independence had been struck to the heart.

It was nine in the evening when, on 12th December, Joann and Lionel came in sight of the fort. Like Jean, they had gone up the right bank of the St. Lawrence and crossed the river, at the risk of arrest at any moment. Though Lionel was in no special danger because of his behaviour at Chipogan. the Abbe was now “wanted by the police,’ so that they had to take the needful precautions and this delayed them.

Moreover, the weather was frightful. For twenty-four hours there raged one of those snow-storms to which the meteorologists of the country give the name of blizzards. During such blizzards the temperature may sink thirty degrees, and the cold become so intense that its claims many victims.*

What did the Abbe hope for in coming to Fort Frontenac? What plan had he formed? Could he possibly get into touch with the prisoner? If he could make some prior arrangement, could he plot an escape? But it was certain that he felt it important to get into the cell that night.

Lionel, like the Abbe, was ready to lay down his life to save that of Jean-Sans-Nom. But what could they do? On coming within half a mile of the fort, they had skirted a copse which stretched down to the shore of the lake. There, through the trees, already stripped by the wintry breezes, swept the icy simoon which lifted the *In some parts of Canada, in the St. John Valley, the thermometer has been seen to fall to 40deg or 45deg below zero. — J.V.

waters of Lake Ontario into tumultuous whirlpools.

‘Lionel.’ the Abbe told him, ‘ you stay here, but don’t show yourself, and wait till I get back. The sentries at the gate mustn’t see you. I’ll try to get into the fort and get in touch with my brother. If I succeed, we can consider the chances of escape. If that’s impossible, we’ll discuss the possibility of an attack the reformists might make if the garrison of Frontenac isn’t too strong.’

Such an attack would take some time to prepare, and the Abbe did not then know — for the tidings had not yet spread — that Jean had been sentenced to death, and that at any moment the order for execution might arrive. But he regarded the attack only as a last resource, and his real object was to enable Jean to escape.

‘Monsieur l’Abbe,’ asked Lionel, ‘ have you any hope of seeing your brother?’

‘They cannot refuse admittance to a minister who comes to offer his services to a prisoner condemned to death.’

‘That would be unworthy even of them! ‘ Lionel agreed. ‘ They can’t refuse you. Go on, then, Monsieur l’Abbe, and I’ll wait here for you.’

The Abbe gripped the clerk’s hand, and disappeared along the edge of the wood.

In less than a quarter of an hour he had reached the gate of Fort Frontenac.

The fort was on the bank of the lake, and consisted of a central blockhouse, surrounded by high palisades. At the foot of the palisades, on the side facing the lake, was a bare, narrow beach, then hidden under a bed of snow which merged imperceptibly into the ice which covered the edge of the lake. On the other side was a village consisting of a few houses, inhabited chiefly by a population of fishermen.

Was an escape possible? Could Jean get away across the country? Could he slip out of his cell, clear the palisades, and outwit the guard? This was what must be looked into if Joann could get an interview with him. Once at liberty they could join Lionel, and make off, not towards the American frontier, but towards Niagara and Navy Island, where the patriots were rallying for a final effort.

The Abbe crossed the beach, reached the gate, and went up to the sentry, whom he asked to take him to the commanding officer.

A sergeant came out of the guard-room, accompanied by a soldier who carried a lantern, for the darkness was already deep.

‘What do you want?’ asked the sergeant.

‘I want to see the commanding officer.’

‘And who are you?’

‘A priest, come to offer his services to the prisoner, Jean-Sans-Nom.’

* You want a word with the condemned man?’

‘Sentence has been pronounced?’

‘The day before yesterday. And he’s been sentenced to death!’

Joann was sufficiently master of himself to show no sign of his emotion. He contented himself with replying: ‘That is another reason why you should not refuse.’

‘I will inform Major Sinclair, the commanding officer,’ replied the sergeant.

And he went off towards the blockhouse, after letting the Abbe into the guard-room.

Joann sat down in a dark corner, thinking over what he had just heard. If sentence had been passed, was there time for his plans to succeed? But if the sentence — pronounced over twenty-four hours ago — had not yet been executed, was that because Major Sinclair had received orders to postpone it? The Abbe hoped so. But how long was it to be postponed, and would this be long enough for the prisoner to escape? Would the major let the Abbe enter the prison? But what would happen if he refused to call him until the very moment of execution? The agonies Joann suffered when he thought he might not be given time to act will be readily understood.

The sergeant returned and said: ‘Major Sinclair will see you.’

Preceded by the sergeant, whose lantern lighted his way, Joann crossed the inner courtyard in whose centre rose the blockhouse. As well as the darkness allowed him he tried to make out the size of this courtyard, and the distance which separated the building from the gate, the only exit from the fort unless the palisades could be scaled. If Jean did not know the layout of the fort, Joann might describe it to him.

The door of the blockhouse was open. The sergeant entered, followed by the Abbe, and an orderly closed the door behind them. They climbed a narrow staircase to the floor above; and there the sergeant opened a door on the landing, and Joann found himself in the presence of Major Sinclair.

The major was a man of about fifty, typically English in his stiff manner and typically Saxon in his lack of sympathy for suffering. He might even have refused the condemned man the consolations of a priest had he not received orders too categorical to be infringed. He neither rose from his chair nor laid aside the pipe with which he was filling with tobacco smoke a room dimly lit by a small lamp.

‘ You say you’re a priest?’ he asked Joann.

‘ Yes, major.’

‘ You want to see the prisoner?’

‘ If you will permit me.’

‘ Where have you come from?’

‘ From Laprairie county.’

‘ You heard of his capture there, did you?’

‘ Yes.’

‘ And of his sentence?’

‘I learnt that only when I arrived at Fort Frontenac, and I thought that Major Sinclair would not refuse me an interview with the prisoner.’

‘ Quite so, and I’ll let you know when the time comes,’ the major replied.

‘It is never too soon,’ the Abbe reminded him, ‘ when a man is condemned to death . ..’

‘I tell you I’ll let you know when the time comes. Wait in the village, where one of my men will come to fetch you.’

‘ Excuse my insistence, major,’ the Abbe pleaded. ‘ I might be away just when the prisoner requires my services, so would you let me see him at once…’

‘ I’ve told you that I’ll let you know,’ the officer repeated. ‘ There is to be no communication with the prisoner until the time of execution. I’m expecting the order from Quebec, and when that order arrives the man will have two hours to prepare for death. Surely two hours is enough, devil take it, and you can use them in any way you think fit to save his soul. The sergeant will escort you back to the gate.’

With this answer Joann had to be content. But not to see his brother, not to be able to consult him, was to render impracticable any attempt at flight, and he was about to appeal further to the officer to alter his decision when the door opened and the sergeant appeared.

‘Sergeant,’ the major gave orders, ‘ show this priest out of the fort, and don’t admit him again until I send for him.’

‘ Very good, sir,’ the sergeant replied; ‘ but I came to tell you that an orderly has just arrived at the fort, sir.’

‘From Quebec?’

‘Yes, sir; and he has brought this letter.’

‘Give it to me.’

And he snatched, rather than took, it from the sergeant.

The Abbe had become so pale, he felt so faint, that his weakness and pallor would have been noticed had the major looked up. But he did not, his attention being directed to the letter bearing Lord Gosford’s seal, which he had torn out of the envelope.

He read it. Then he turned to the sergeant.

‘Take this priest to the cell of Jean-Sans-Nom,’ he told him. ‘ You’ll leave him alone with the condemned man, and when he wants to leave, you’ll escort him back to the gate.’

It was the order for the prisoner’s execution.

Jean-Sans-Nom had but two hours to live.

CHAPTER VIII

JOANN AND JEAN

The Abbe left Major Sinclair’s room much more fully in control of himself than when he had entered it. The thunder-clap of this news had only shaken him; God had inspired him with a plan, and the plan might succeed.

Jean knew nothing of the order which had just arrived from Montreal, and to Joann fell the sad task of telling him.

Well, he would not! He would not tell him! He would hide the terrible news that the sentence was to be carried out within two hours. If Joann’s plan were to succeed, Jean must know nothing about it.

They could no longer count on a carefully prepared escape, nor on an attack on Fort Frontenac. Jean could escape death only by immediate flight. If two hours later he were still in the cell, he would leave it only to fall before a volley at the foot of the palisades.

Was the Abbe’s plan feasible? Perhaps, if his brother would agree to it. It was certainly the only plan possible under the circumstances. But it was absolutely essential that Jean should not know that Major Sinclair had received the order for his execution.

Led by the sergeant, the Abbe descended the staircase. The prisoner’s cell was in an angle of the ground-floor of the blockhouse, at the end of a long corridor. The sergeant lit the way with his lantern, and stopped at a low door secured on the outside with two bolts. As he was about to open it, the sergeant said quietly: ‘You know that when you leave the prisoner my orders are to take you to the gate!’

‘I know!’ said the Abbe. ‘ Wait in this passage and I’ll call you!’

The door of the cell was thrown open.

In the darkness, on a rough bed, Jean was asleep. He was not aroused by the noise the sergeant made.

The sergeant advanced to touch him on the shoulder, when Joann signed to him not to do so.

Instead he put the lantern on a table, went out, and gently shut the door.

The two brothers were alone, one asleep, the other on his knees.

Then Joann arose, and looked for a moment at this other self whom their father’s crime had doomed to so miserable a life; he murmured: ‘God, grant me Thy aid.’

Time was too short for him to lose even a few minutes. He touched his brother’s shoulder.

Jean awoke, opened his eyes, sat up, and recognised him.

‘Joann!’

‘Quiet — Jean, speak quietly!’ said Joann. ‘ They can hear us.’

And with his hand he made a sign that the door was guarded on the outside, where the sergeant’s footsteps could be heard as he strode up and down the corridor.

Jean, half-dressed, under a coarse blanket that barely protected him against the chill of the cell, rose noiselessly and embraced his brother.

‘How’s mother?’ he asked.

‘She’s not at Maison-Close.’

‘Not there?’

‘No.’

‘And Monsieur de Vaudreuil and his daughter whom our house sheltered?’

‘The house was empty when I last went to St. Charles.’

‘When?’

‘A week ago.’

‘And since then you’ve had no news of mother or our friends?’

‘None.’

What had happened? Had another search ended in the arrest of Bridget and the De Vaudreuils? Or, not wanting her father to remain another day under the roof of the Morgaz family, had Clary taken her father away in spite of the danger which threatened him? And Bridget, had she fled from St. Charles when the shame of her identity had been made public?

All this passed like lightning through Jean’s mind. And he was about to tell his brother what had happened during his last visit to Maison-Close, when Joann leaned towards him and whispered in his ear.

‘Listen, Jean. It isn’t a brother who’s here, but a priest come to fulfil his duty to a condemned man. It’s in that capacity that the commander of the fort has allowed me to enter your cell. We haven’t a moment to lose. You must escape this instant.’

‘This instant? And how?

‘Take my clothes and get away disguised as a priest. We resemble each other enough for nobody to see through the trick. Besides, it’s still night, and there will hardly be any light from the lantern as you go down the passage, and across the courtyard. Your face will never be recognised under this hat. When we’ve changed clothes, I will get to the back of the cell there, and call out. As agreed, the sergeant will open the door. He has orders to escort me back to the gate. It’s you he will be escorting . .

‘Brother,’ Jean grasped Joann’s hand, ‘ you thought I’d ever consent to this sacrifice?’

‘You must, Jean. Your presence among the reformists is more necessary than ever.’

‘Haven’t they despaired of the cause after their defeat?’

‘No! They’re concentrating at Niagara, on Navy Island, ready to continue the struggle.’

‘They can do that without me, Joann. The success of our cause doesn’t depend upon any one man. I won’t let you risk your life to save mine.’

‘And isn’t it my duty, Jean? You know what our aim is? Have we attained it? No, we haven’t even known how to die to atone for the evil…’

Joann’s words moved his brother deeply, but he would not give in.

Joann continued: ‘Listen once more. You’re afraid for me, Jean; but what have I to fear? Tomorrow, when they find me in the cell, what can happen to me? Nothing. Here there’s only a poor priest instead of a condemned man, and what can they do but let him go…’

‘No! ‘ Jean was struggling with himself and against his brother’s arguments.

‘Enough talk! ‘ Joann told him. ‘ You must go, and you shall go. Do your duty as I am doing mine. You alone are popular enough to arouse a general revolt…’

‘And if they make you responsible for my escape?’

‘They won’t condemn me without a trial, without an order from Quebec, and that will take several days.’

‘Several days!’

‘During which you will have time to join your comrades on Navy Island and bring them to Fort Frontenac to rescue me.’

‘It’s sixty miles from Frontenac to Navy Island, Joann. I shan’t have time.’

‘You refuse? Well, up to now I’ve implored you, now I command you. It is no longer a brother who is speaking to you, but a priest. If you do not die fighting for our cause, you will have done nothing to accomplish the task that has been assigned to you. If you refuse, I will make my identity known, and the Abbe Joann will fall before the firing-squad side by side with Jean-Sans- Nom!’

‘Brother!’

‘Go, Jean! Go! I will have it so! Our mother will have it so! Your country will have it so!’

Overcome by Joann’s urgency, Jean could do nothing but obey. Moreover the chance of returning to Fort Frontenac in a few days with some hundreds of his followers overcame his last resistance.

‘I’m ready!’ he said.

The change of clothes did not take long. Under the Abbe’s cloak it would have been difficult to recognise that the brother had taken his place.

And then for a few moments the brothers talked of what was going on among the Reformists and their foes. Then Joann said: ‘Now I’ll call the sergeant. When he opens the door, you go out and follow him along the passage. Once out of the blockhouse, you’ve only to cross the courtyard, about fifty yards wide, and then you’ll reach the guardroom on the right hand of the palisading. Turn your head away as you pass it. The gate will be in front of you. When you get through it, keep along the shore until you reach the edge of a wood about half a mile from the fort. There you’ll find Lionel.’

‘ Lionel? The lawyer’s clerk?’

‘ Yes! He came with me and he’ll take you to Navy Island. Now, goodbye!’

‘Brother! ‘ Jean threw himself into his brother’s arms.

The moment had come. Joann called loudly and went across to the back of the cell.

The sergeant opened the door and, turning to Jean, said: ‘ You’re ready? ‘ Jean answered by a gesture. ‘ Come this way.’

The sergeant took the lantern, followed Jean oat of the cell, and shut the door.

In what agony did Joann pass the next few minutes! What would happen if Major Sinclair were in the corridor or the courtyard when Jean went by? If he stopped him; if he asked him about the prisoner? If the trick were discovered, the prisoner would at once be shot! And he knew that the preparations for execution had begun, that the garrison had received their orders, that the sergeant, thinking he was dealing with a priest, might mention this to Jean on the way out! And then Jean, learning that the execution was going to be carried out, would return; for he would never allow his brother to die in his place. With his ear at the door, the Abbe listened. His heart beat so violently that he could scarcely hear the sounds outside. At last a distant noise reached him. He fell on his knees and gave thanks to God.

The gate had just been shut.

‘Free!’ murmured Joann.

And indeed Jean had not been recognised. The sergeant, walking before him lantern in hand, had led him to the gate without saying a word. Officers and men alike were still unaware that the execution was to take place in an hour. As he passed through the gate Jean had turned aside his head, as his brother had told him.

‘Will you come back to the prisoner?’ asked the sergeant.

Jean nodded.

And a moment later he was free.

Yet he moved but slowly from the fort, as if some bond held him to the prison — a bond he dare not break. He reproached himself with having given in to his brother, in allowing him to take his place. All the perils of the substitution appeared before him with an alarming clearness. A few hours later, he thought, they’ll go into the cell, at daybreak; the escape will be discovered, and Joann will be treated very harshly as he waits for the death with which they might punish his heroic sacrifice.

And then Jean felt himself seized with an irresistible desire to go back. But no! He must hurry on to join the patriots at Navy Island, to begin anew the insurrectional campaign, and to hurl himself against Fort Frontenac, to set his brother free. And for that there would not be a moment to lose.

He crossed the beach obliquely, turned along the edge of the lake, and made for the wood where Lionel ought to be waiting for him.

The blizzard was then raging in all its violence. The ice on the shore of the lake was piled up like the floes of the Arctic Ocean, and a blinding snow-storm swept along over them in furious squalls.

Jean, lost for a time in the storm and hardly knowing whether he were on the land or the lake, strove to find his way to the clump of trees he could just see in the darkness. At last he reached it, after taking nearly half an hour to cover the half-mile.

Lionel could not possibly have seen him, or he would certainly have come to meet him.

Jean went on under the trees, uneasy at not finding the young clerk at the appointed place, and not liking to shout to him for fear of running into danger if he were overheard by some belated fisherman.

Then the last two lines of the young poet’s ballad recurred to his memory, and as he went into the wood he softly repeated: ‘To be born with you, my frolicsome flame, To die with you, my will-o’-the-wisp.’

A moment afterwards Lionel emerged from a thicket and exclaimed: ‘You, Monsieur Jean, you?’

‘Yes, Lionel.’

‘And the Abbe Joann?’

‘He’s in my cell! But now for Navy Island! In forty-eight hours we must be back with our comrades at Fort Frontenac.’

Jean and Lionel left the wood, and went southwards, so as to follow the shores of the Ontario to Niagara. It was the shortest way as well as the least dangerous.

Fifteen miles off they would cross the American frontier; then, safe from any pursuit, they could hurry on to Navy Island.

But to take this direction they had to pass the fort. In this terrible night, amid the thick whirlwinds of snow, they were not likely to be seen by the sentinels, even as they went along the beach.

If the lake had been navigable, instead of being choked with the masses of ice, it would have been better for them to have appealed to some fisherman, who could soon have taken them to the mouth of the Niagara river. But that was impossible now.

Jean and Lionel went along as fast as the storm would let them. They were scarcely a hundred yards from the palisades of the fort, when the sharp crackle of musketry rent the air.

There could be no mistake. A platoon had fired a volley somewhere inside the palisade.

‘Joann!’ exclaimed Jean.

And he fell, as if he had been hit when the soldiers opened fire.

Joann had died for his brother, for his country.

Half an hour after Jean had gone, Major Sinclair had given orders to proceed with the execution in conformity with the orders he had received from Quebec.

Joann had been taken out of the cell and out into the courtyard where he was to be shot.

The major read the order aloud.

Joann did not reply. At that moment he need only have said, ‘ I am not Jean-Sans-Nom! I am the priest who took his place to save him!’

And the major would have had to suspend the execution, and to get fresh instructions from the Governor-General.

But Jean was too near Fort Frontenac. The soldiers would have started out after him. He would inevitably be retaken. He would have been shot. And Jean-Sans-Nom must not die anywhere except on the battlefield.

Joann held his peace, and died with the thoughts in his mind of his mother, his brother, his country.

The soldiers had not recognised him when he was alive, nor did they recognise him when he was dead. They at once buried him in a grave dug just outside the palisades.

In him the Government believed they had struck down the hero of Canadian independence.

He was the first victim offered in expiation of the crime of Simon Morgaz.

CHAPTER IX

NAVY ISLAND

Navy Island is situated about three miles above Niagara Falls, and it was there that the Reformists had raised the last rampart of insurrection, at a camp midway between Canada and the United States on the Niagara River, the natural boundary between the two countries.

The leaders who, after St. Denis and St. Charles, had escaped from pursuit by the loyalists, had left Canadian territory and crossed the frontier in order to concentrate on Navy Island. If the fortune of war should betray them, if the royalists were to cross the left arm of the river and drive them from the island, they would still be able to escape to the other bank, where there were sympathisers in plenty. But doubtless those who sought shelter among the Americans would be few in number, for this last game they would play out to the end.

The Reformists, and more particularly the so-called Bonnets-bleus, occupied Navy Island, although the river no longer sufficed to protect it. For although the cold was very severe, thanks to the speed of its current the Niagara was still navigable, and communication was still possible by means of boats between Navy Island and both of the banks. The Canadians and Americans kept coming and going between the camp and the village of Schlosser, on the right bank of the Niagara; and many of these boats were carrying ammunition and arms and stores in readiness for the approaching attack by the royalists.

A citizen of the United States, named Wills, the owner of the small steamer Caroline, allowed his boat to be used for these purposes in return for a small fee.

On the opposite bank of the Niagara, and consequently facing Schlosser, the British were stationed in the village of Chippewa, under the orders of Colonel MacNab. There were quite enough of them to overwhelm the reformists on Navy Island whenever they decided to attack. A number of large boats had been collected at Chippewa with a view to this attack, which would take place as soon as Colonel MacNab had completed his preparations. The end of the struggle was thus imminent on the Canadian frontier and within view of the Americans.

It is not surprising that those who have played the chief parts in this narrative were assembled at Navy Island. Farran, recently cured of his wound, as well as William Clerc, had hastened to the camp, where Vincent Hodge soon joined them. Sebastien Gramont, then in prison at Montreal, was the only one who did not take his place among his comrades.

After making certain that thanks to his intervention Bridget and Clary de Vaudreuil had been able to reach Maison-Close, Vincent Hodge had got away from the drunken soldiers who had surrounded him and threatened to cut off his retreat. He had then taken to the woods, and by daybreak was out of danger of falling into the hands of the royalists. Forty-eight hours later he had reached St. Albans, beyond the frontier. When the camp was formed at Navy Island he had gone there, accompanied by a few Americans, who were devoted to the cause of independence.

There too were Thomas Harcher, and four of his sons, Pierre, Tony, Jacques and Michel. To return to Chipogan after the disaster of St. Charles would have been to endanger not only themselves but Catherine Harcher. They had therefore taken refuge at St. Albans, where Catherine had been able to send them news of herself and her children. During the first week of December they had come to Navy Island, ready for another struggle, and determined to avenge the death of Remy, who had fallen under the bullets of the loyalists.

As to Mr. Nick, if the most far-seeing medicine man of the Far West had ever prophesied, ‘ The day will come when you, a respectable lawyer, peaceful by character and prudent by profession, will be fighting at the head of a Huron tribe against the constituted authorities of your country!’ he would have been thought worthy of being shut up in the local lunatic asylum. But, nevertheless, there Mr. Nick was at the head of his warriors.

At a solemn palaver, the Mahogannis had decided to join the reformists, and a great chief, in whose veins flowed the blood of the Sagamores, could not remain behind. He might object, but his objections were not even listened to. And the day after Lionel and the Abbe Joann had left Walhatta, as soon as the council fire had been extinguished, Mr. Nick followed — no, preceded — by fifty warriors had set out for Lake Ontario.

It may well be imagined what a reception he met with. Thomas Harcher had gripped his hand so vigorously that for twenty-four hours afterwards Mr. Nick would have found it impossible to wield bow or tomahawk. And he was as warmly welcomed by all those who had been his friends or clients at Montreal.

‘Yes… yes…’ he stammered. ‘ I thought it my duty, or rather these brave fellows…’

‘The warriors of your tribe?’ they asked.

‘Yes — of my tribe!’ he repeated.

In short, although the excellent man looked so pitiful that Lionel was ashamed of him, it was an important development that the Hurons had lent their aid to the reformist cause. If the other Indian tribes followed their example, if their warriors, animated by the same sentiments, allied themselves with the Reformists, the authorities would no longer find it easy to cope with the insurrection. Events had, however, compelled the reformists to pass from the offensive to the defensive, and if Navy Island were to fall into the hands of Colonel MacNab, the cause of independence would be definitely lost.

The leaders of the Bonnets-bleus were busy organising resistance in every way possible. A number of entrenchments had been dug in various parts of the island, obstacles were devised against attempts at landing, and arms, ammunition, and stores were brought in from Schlosser — and all this was done hastily but with enthusiasm. It was unfortunate for the Reformists that they had to wait for an attack which they could not provoke, for they were not in a position to cross the Niagara. With their scanty equipment, how could they launch an assault on Chippewa, on a camp so strongly placed on the river bank?

And the longer this state of affairs lasted the worse it would be for them. The forces of Colonel MacNab were daily increasing, while preparations for crossing the Niagara were being actively pushed forward. Driven to the frontier, the last defenders of the insurrection had vainly endeavoured to get into touch with the people of the regions about Ontario and Quebec. Under these circumstances how could the people unite in an armed rising, and what leader would put himself at the head of the rebellion now that the royal columns had overrun the regions bordering the St. Lawrence?

Only one man could do this. Only one had influence enough to raise the people, and that was Jean-Sans-Nom. But since the disaster at St. Denis he had disappeared. It seemed probable that he had perished obscurely, for he had not appeared anywhere on the American frontier. To suppose that he had fallen into the hands of the police was impossible; such a capture would never have been kept secret by the authorities at Quebec or Montreal.

It was the same with De Vaudreuil. Neither Hodge, Farran, nor Clerc knew what had become of him. That he had been wounded at St. Charles they knew. But nobody had seen Jean carry him off the field of battle, and no news had come that he had been taken prisoner. And as for Clary de Vaudreuil, Hodge had been unable to trace her since he had saved her from the violence of those drunkards.

Imagine then their delight when, on 10th December, they saw De Vaudreuil land on Navy Island, accompanied by his daughter and by an old woman who was unknown to them.

It was Bridget.

After Jean had left them their best plan would doubtless have been to remain at Maison-Close, where De Vaudreuil was in no danger of being found. Where could his daughter find a safer hiding-place? The Villa Montcalm had been burnt by the volunteers and was now in ruins. But De Vaudreuil did not know why Rip had kept Maison-Close from being searched by the police. Clary had kept the shameful secret that had protected them, and he did not know he was the guest of — Bridget Morgaz.

Fearing the consequences of another visitation by the police, and more on account of his daughter than of himself, he had made no change in his plans. And on the following evening, as soon as he learnt that the royalists had left St. Charles, he had taken his place with Clary and Bridget in that friendly farmer’s cart, and the three had gone into the south of St. Hyacinthe. Then, as soon as they heard that the patriots were concentrating on Navy Island, they had hastened across the American frontier, and after a dangerous eight days’ journey they were now among their friends.

And had Bridget consented to follow Clary de Vaudreuil, who knew of her past life?

Yes! The unhappy woman had been unable to resist Clary’s entreaties.

After Jean’s flight, and seeing, as he did, that she could inspire nothing but horror in her guests, Bridget had retired to her room. And terrible was the night she had spent! Would Clary conceal from her father what she had just heard? No! And in the morning he would more than hasten — he would fly — from Maison-Close! Yes! Fly — at the risk of falling into the hands of the royalists, he would fly, rather than remain an hour longer beneath the roof of a Morgaz!

Moreover, Bridget could no longer stay at St. Charles. She would not wait to be driven away by public scorn.

She would go far away, and ask only that God would free her from her odious existence.

But next morning, at dawn, Bridget saw Clary enter her room. She would have hastened away to avoid meeting her had not Clary spoken to her in a voice of sorrowful affection: ‘Madame Bridget, I have kept your secret from my father. He does not know, he shall not know anything of your past, and I want to forget it myself. I will only remember that you are the most unfortunate and the most honourable of women! ‘ Bridget did not raise her head. ‘ Listen to me,’ Clary pleaded. ‘ I respect as you deserve to be respected. For your misfortune you’ve all the pity and sympathy they deserve. No, you are not responsible for the crime you have so cruelly expiated. That abominable treachery has been atoned for, and more than atoned for, by your son. Justice will be done you some day; and meanwhile let me love you as if you were my own mother. Give me your hand, Madame Bridget, your hand!’

At this touching manifestation of feelings to which she was quite unaccustomed, the unhappy woman broke down completely; and she clasped the proffered hand, while her eyes flowed with tears.

‘Now,’ said Clary, ‘ as there’s an end of all that, let’s talk about the present. My father is afraid your house will not escape further investigation. He wants us to go away together — this very night if the roads are clear. You cannot stay at St. Charles; and I want you to promise to go with us. We will go to our friends, we will find your son, and I will tell him what I have told you, that I feel a truth far above all human prejudice, the truth of my own heart. Have I your promise, Madame Bridget?’

‘I will go, Clary de Vaudreuil.’

‘With my father and me?’

‘Yes, though it might be better for you to leave me to die far away in shame and misery.’

Clary stooped to raise Bridget, who knelt sobbing at her feet. And next evening all three left Maison-Close.

It was at Navy Island, twenty-four hours after their arrival, that they learnt the news so disastrous for the reformist cause, that Jean-Sans-Nom had been arrested by Commeau and taken to Fort Frontenac.

This last blow overwhelmed Bridget. What had become of Jean, she knew not. What had become of Jean she knew she was going to die.

‘But at least, may no one ever know that they are the sons of Simon Morgaz!’ she murmured.

Mademoiselle de Vaudreuil alone knew her secret. But what could she say to console Bridget? Moreover, in the grief she felt when she heard of the arrest, she knew that her love for Jean was still unchanged. All she could see in him was the ardent patriot devoted to death!

The capture of Jean-Sans-Nom spread deep discouragement throughout Navy Island; this was the result the authorities had counted on when they spread the news. As soon as it reached Chippewa Colonel MacNab had given orders that it should be proclaimed far and wide.

But how had the news crossed the frontier? No one knew. It seemed inexplicable that it could have been known at Navy Island before it was even heard of at Schlosser. But this was of little importance.

Unfortunately, it was only too true; and Jean-Sans- Nom would be missing at the very time when the fate of Canada would be in the balance on the last field of battle.

As soon as his arrest was reported on 11th December a conference took place between such leaders as Hodge, Farran and Clerc, while De Vaudreuil, who commanded the camp at Navy Island, acted as president.

Vincent Hodge opened the discussion by suggesting that some attempt should be made to rescue Jeans-Sans- Nom.

‘It’s at Frontenac that he’s in prison,’ he pointed out. ‘ The garrison is a small one, and a hundred determined men would compel its surrender. It would not be impossible for us to get there in twenty-four hours.’

‘Twenty-four hours!’ exclaimed M. de Vaudreuil. ‘ Are you forgetting that he was condemned before he was taken? It’s within twelve hours, it’s this very night that we should have to be at Frontenac.’

‘We’ll be there,’ Hodge assured him. ‘ All along the shore of Ontario there’s no obstacle to stop us until we reach the frontier at the St. Lawrence, and as the royalists haven’t had any notice of our plan they can’t offer us any resistance.’

‘Go, then,’ M. de Vaudreuil decided, ‘ but in the greatest secrecy. The spies from Chippewa Camp must know nothing of your movements.’

The expedition having been decided on, it was not difficult to collect the hundred men who were to take part in it. To save Jean-Sans-Nom from death, there was no lack of volunteers. The detachment, commanded by Vincent Hodge, went off along the right bank of the Niagara; and after crossing the United States territory obliquely, arrived at about three in the morning on the right bank of the St. Lawrence, which could easily be crossed on the ice. Fort Frontenac was not more than five leagues to the northward, and before daylight Vincent Hodge would have surprised the garrison and rescued the condemned man.

But he had been anticipated by a despatch-rider sent from Chippewa. The troops who were guarding the frontier had occupied the left bank of the river.

The attempt to cross the river had to be abandoned. The reformists would have been annihilated. The cavalry would have cut off their retreat, and not one of them would have returned to Navy Island. Vincent Hodge and his companions had to take the road back to Schlosser.

And so warning of the attempted surprise attack on Fort Frontenac had been given to the camp at Chippewa?

That the preparations necessitated by the mustering of a hundred men could not be kept quite secret, that was probable enough. But how could Colonel MacNab have heard of them? Were there spies among the Reformists, spies in touch with the camp at Chippewa? Already suspicions had been aroused that the English knew everything that took place on the island. This time there could be no doubt of it, for the troops stationed on the Canadian frontier had been warned in sufficient time to stop Vincent Hodge.

But in any case the attempt to reach Fort Frontenac would not have saved the prisoner. Vincent Hodge would have arrived too late.

The very next day, on the morning of the 12th, the news spread abroad that on the previous evening Jean-Sans-Nom had been shot.

And the loyalists were congratulating themselves at having no more to fear from the popular hero who had been the soul of the insurrection.

CHAPTER X

BRIDGET MORGAZ

Meanwhile two more blows, not one whit less terrible, fell upon the reformist party, and discouraged the last defenders of Navy Island. And, indeed, there was every chance of their being seized with despair at the series of disasters with which ill-fortune now assailed them.

In the first place, the proclamation of martial law in the district of Montreal rendered a common understanding among the parishes of the St. Lawrence almost impossible. On the one hand the French clergy, though they did not abandon their hopes for the future, advised the insurgents to submit. On the other, it was not easy to succeed without the aid of the United States; but, notwithstanding what was being done by the Americans on the frontier, it did not seem that any help was to be obtained from that quarter. The Federal Government carefully abstained from openly assisting the French. Good wishes, yes! but deeds, no! And then there were a number of Canadians who, though still protesting against manifest abuses and claiming their rights, were doing their utmost to bring about peace.

From this state of things it resulted that the insurgents in arms in this last month of 1837 did not amount to a thousand, scattered through the whole country. In place of a revolution history would only have to chronicle a revolt.

A few isolated attempts were made at Swanton. On the advice of Papineau, a small party of eighty men entered Canadian territory, reached Moore’s Corner, and came across a detachment of four hundred volunteers who had been sent to bar their way. The Reformists fought with admirable courage, but they were driven back in confusion across the frontier. And the Government, having nothing further to fear in that district, concentrated its forces in the north.

On 14th December there was a fight at St. Eustache in Deux Montagnes county. There, among his brave companions, Doctor Chenier, for whose head a reward had been offered, especially distinguished himself. Two thousand infantry sent by Sir John Colborne, nine guns, a hundred and twenty cavalry, and a company of eighty volunteers, attacked St. Eustache. The resistance of Chenier and his people was heroic: exposed to cannon-balls and bullets, they fortified themselves in the presbytery, the convent, and the church. Many of them had no fire-arms.

‘Take those of the men who are killed,’ Chenier advised them coldly.

But the circle of assailants crept closer round the village, and fire came to the aid of the royalists. Chenier realised that he had to abandon the church. A bullet struck him to the ground. He rose and fired again. A second bullet struck him in the chest. He fell. He was dead.

Seventy of his companions perished with him.

The damage done to the church is still visible, and the French still visit the spot where the brave doctor fell. In the country the saying still persists: ‘ As brave as Chenier.

After the rout of the insurgents at St. Eustache, Sir John Colborne ordered his troops to St. Benoit, where they arrived next day. It was a beautiful and wealthy village, situated a few miles to the northward in Deux Montagnes county.

This was the scene of a massacre of unarmed men who were prepared to surrender. How could they possibly defend themselves against the troops from St. Eustache and the volunteers from St. Andrew, more than six thousand in all, with the general himself at their head?

Devastation, destruction, plunder, arson, all the excesses of an infuriated soldiery, who respected neither age nor sex, profanation of the churches, the sacred vessels given to the most odious use, priestly vestments draped round the necks of the horses, such were the acts of vandalism and inhumanity of which this parish became the scene. And, it must be admitted, though these crimes were mostly committed by the volunteers, the regular forces were restrained little, or not at all, by their leaders. More than once, these gave the orders to deliver the houses of the local gentry to the flames.

When, on 16th December, these tidings reached Navy Island, they aroused great excitement. The Bonnets-bleus demanded to be led across the Niagara to the attack on MacNab’s camp, and it was with difficulty that De Vaudreuil could keep them back. But the wave of anger was soon over, and deep discouragement set in. And at last desertions began and a hundred of the insurgents fled across the American frontier.

The leaders saw their influence lessening, and they were divided amongst themselves. Vincent Hodge.

Farran, Clerc, were in frequent disagreement with the other patriots, and De Vaudreuil alone seemed to be able to moderate the rivalries produced by this desperate state of affairs. And unfortunately, although he had lost none of his old energy and strength of character, he felt that his bodily strength was diminishing from day to day, and he was only too well aware that he could never survive another defeat.

And amid his apprehensions for the future of the cause was his growing anxiety regarding the fate in store for his daughter.

Farran, Clerc, and Hodge did not cease to struggle against their companions’ discouragement. If the attempt had failed this time, they repeated, they could wait till the time came to try again. After leaving behind them the leaven of a future rising, they could retire to the United States and prepare for a new struggle against the oppressors. No, there was no need to despair of the future; so even Mr. Nick thought, as he explained to De Vaudreuil: ‘Though the rebellion hasn’t yet succeeded, the reforms we demand will be granted through the force of circumstances. Sooner or later Canada will regain her rights; she will get her autonomy; she will be only nominally dependent on England. You will live to see it, Monsieur de Vaudreuil. We shall find ourselves together once again at the Villa Montcalm, and I shall get rid of this mantle of the Sagamores, which is so uncomfortable on my legal shoulders, and I shall return to my office in Montreal.’

When De Vaudreuil mentioned his anxiety on his daughter’s account to Thomas Harcher, the farmer replied: ‘If you have any fear about Mademoiselle Clary, why don’t you send her to my wife Catherine? At Chipogan she’d be in perfect safety, and you could come to her there as soon as circumstances allow you.’

But M. de Vaudreuil had no illusions about himself; he knew his life was nearing its end, and he was anxious to arrange Clary’s future in the way he had always desired. Knowing Hodge’s love for his daughter, he had reason to believe that his love was reciprocated. He had no suspicion that Clary could be thinking of anyone else. If she were to consider the position in which the death of her father would leave her, she would feel the need of support. And where could she feel herself safer than with Vincent Hodge, to whom she was bound not only by love but by patriotism? De Vaudreuil resolved to bring about at once the realisation of his fondest hopes. He had no doubt of Hodge’s feelings; he could not doubt those of Clary! He would bring them together; he would speak to them; he would join their hands; and when he died, he would only have one regret — that he had not been able to gain independence for his country.

So Vincent Hodge was invited to come on the evening of 16th December.

It was a small house on the eastern shore of the island and facing the village that De Vaudreuil occupied with his daughter. Bridget lived there too, but she never went out in the daytime. Generally the poor woman went out only at nightfall, absorbed in the memory of her two sons, of Jean, who was dead for the cause, and Joann, of whom she had heard nothing, and who was probably awaiting his death-hour in the prisons of Quebec or Montreal. Nobody ever saw her in the house where De Vaudreuil and his daughter returned the hospitality she had given them at Maison-Close. Who would have suspected that she was the wife of Simon Morgaz?

Vincent Hodge arrived at the time appointed, eight in the evening.

Bridget had already gone out, and was wandering about the island.

Hodge shook hands with De Vaudreuil, and turned towards Clary, whose hand was extended towards him.

‘I have something serious to talk to you about, my dear Hodge,’ said De Vaudreuil.

‘I’ll leave you, father,’ Clary turned towards the door.

‘No, my child, stay here. What I have to say concerns both of you.’

He motioned to Vincent Hodge to be seated in front of his arm-chair, and Clary sat down by his side.

‘My friend,’ he began, ‘ I haven’t long to live. I feel I’m growing weaker from day to day. Listen to me, then, as if you were at the death-bed of a dying man, listening to his last words.’

‘My dear Vaudreuil,’ Vincent Hodge protested, ‘ you’re exaggerating!’

‘And you are making us very unhappy, father,’ Clary added.

‘It will make me even more so,’ replied De Vaudreuil, ‘ if you refuse to believe me.’

He looked at them fixedly for a moment. Then, turning towards Hodge, he said: ‘My friend, up to the present we have only spoken of the cause to which you and I have devoted our lives. On my part, nothing could be more natural, for I am of French blood, and it is for the triumph of French Canada that I have fought. You, who are not bound to our country by ties of birth, have not hesitated to put yourself in the front rank of the Reformists…’

‘And aren’t the Americans and the Canadians brothers?’ asked Vincent Hodge. ‘And who knows but that some day Canada will form part of the American Confederation?’

‘ Would that that day were come!’ sighed De Vaudreuil.

‘Yes, father,’ said Clary, ‘ it will come, and you will see it…’

‘ No, my child, I shall never see it.’

‘ Do you think our cause is lost for ever because we’ve been defeated?’ asked Hodge.

‘ A cause which is based on justice and right,’ De Vaudreuil assured him, ‘ will always conquer in the end. The time which will fail me will not fail you. Yes, Hodge, you will see the success of the cause, and at the same time you will have avenged your father who died on the scaffold through the treachery of a Morgaz.’

At this name, so unexpectedly mentioned, Clary felt struck to the heart. Did she fear that the blush which rose to her face would be visible? Apparently she did, for she rose and went to the window.

‘ What’s the matter, Clary? ‘ Vincent Hodge rose and went across to her.

‘ You’re not well?’ asked De Vaudreuil, making an effort to rise from his chair.

‘ No, father, it’s nothing! A little air will soon put me right!’

Hodge opened one of the windows and went back to De Vaudreuil.

They waited a few moments, till Clary returned to them. Then her father took one of her hands, and at the same time he said to Hodge: ‘My friend, although patriotism has filled your whole life, it has nevertheless left room in your heart for other feelings. Yes, Hodge, I know that. You love my daughter, and I also know how highly she thinks of you. I shall die more at ease if you have the right and the duty to look after her, left alone in the world after I am gone! If she consents, will you take her for your wife?’

Clary had withdrawn her hand from her father’s grasp. Looking at Vincent Hodge, she awaited his reply.

‘My dear Vaudreuil.’ he said ‘ you are offering me the realisation of the greatest happiness I could dream of. Yes, Clary, I love you, and I have loved you for a long time and with my whole heart. Before I spoke of my love, I wanted to see the triumph of our cause. But the position has become serious, and recent events have made a great difference to the Reformists. A few years may well elapse before we can continue the struggle. Will you spend these years in this America, which is almost your native land? Will you give me the right to take your father’s place, and give me the happiness of calling myself his son? Tell me, Clary, will you do this? ‘ The girl was silent.

His head lowered in response to her silence, Vincent Hodge dared not repeat his question.

‘Well, my child,’ said De Vaudreuil, ‘ you have heard me. You have heard what Hodge has said. It depends on you whether I am to be his father, and, after all the sorrows of my life, whether I shall have the supreme consolation of seeing you united to a patriot who is worthy you, and who loves you.’

Then Clary in a voice broken with emotion, gave the reply which left them no hope.

‘My father,’ she said, ‘ I have the greatest respect for you! Hodge, I have more than a high esteem for you. I feel for you as if I were your sister. But I can never be your wife.’

‘You cannot… Clary? ‘ De Vaudreuil grasped her arm.

‘No, father.’

‘And why not?’

‘Because my life belongs to another.’

‘Another! ‘ Vincent Hodge could not restrain a spasm of jealousy.

‘You must not be jealous, Hodge! ‘ Clary assured him. ‘ He whom I love, and to whom I have never spoken of my love, but who loved me and never has spoken to me of his love, is no more! Perhaps, even if he had lived, I should never have been his wife! But he is dead, dead for his country, and I shall remain faithful to his memory.’

‘It is Jean, then?’ asked De Vaudreuil.

‘Yes father, it is Jean…’

Clary was unable to complete her sentence.

‘Morgaz! Morgaz!’ such was the name which could be heard shouted in a distant tumult that was rapidly getting nearer. The uproar came from the north of the island, from the bank of the Niagara on which stood De Vaudreuil’s house.

At the sound of the name thus loudly shouted, Clary turned alarmingly pale.

‘What’s that noise?’ asked De Vaudreuil.

‘And why that name? ‘ Vincent Hodge got up and went across to the open window.

The bank was ablaze with light. A hundred and more of the reformists, carrying blazing torches, were coming towards the house.

These were men and women and children, all yelling the accursed name of Morgaz, and thronging round an old woman who could not escape from their insults, for she was hardly able to drag herself along.

It was Bridget!

Clary rushed to the window, and, seeing the victim of the demonstration, whose cause she knew only too well, she screamed: ‘Bridget!’

She ran to the door; she opened it; she rushed out, without even replying to her father, who was following her with Vincent Hodge.

The crowd was not fifty yards from the house. The uproar was increasing. Mud was being thrown at Bridget’s face; angry fists were being shaken at her; stones were being picked up to be hurled at her.

In an instant Clary de Vaudreuil was at Bridget’s side, and had covered her with her arms, while the yells resounded with greater fury: ‘It’s Bridget Morgaz! She’s the wife of Simon Morgaz! Death to her! Death to her!’

De Vaudreuil and Vincent Hodge, who were about to intervene between her and the mob, suddenly checked themselves.

Bridget, the wife of Simon Morgaz! Bridget, who bore that name — that odious name!

Clary supported the wretched woman, who otherwise would have fallen on her knees.

‘Kill me! Kill me!’ she murmured.

‘Wretches! ‘ Clary turned on those who were threatening her. ‘ Respect this woman!’

‘The wife of Morgaz, the traitor!’ repeated a hundred furious voices.

‘Yes, the wife of the traitor!’ said Clary, ‘ but the mother of him…’

She would have uttered the name of Jean — the only one, perhaps, that could give Bridget protection.

But, recovering all her strength, Bridget stood erect and whispered: ‘ No, Clary! No. Out of pity for my son — out of pity for his memory!

Then the shouts broke out with renewed violence, and with them came the threats. The crowd had increased, a prey to one of those irresistible paroxysms that lead to the most dastardly deeds.

De Vaudreuil and Hodge tried to rescue the victim, while some of their friends, attracted by the tumult, came to their help. But in vain they strove to drag away Bridget — and Clary who was clinging to her.

‘Death! Death to the wife of Simon Morgaz!’ yelled the frantic mob.

Then, tearing his way through the crowd, and hurling them aside, there suddenly came a man.

Freeing Bridget from the hands raised to deal her the death-blow, he cried: ‘Mother!’

It was Jean-Sans-Nom; it was Jean Morgaz!

CHAPTER XI

EXPIATION

These were the circumstances in which the name of Morgaz had been revealed to the defenders of Navy Island.

On several occasions the preparations made for resistance, the points which had been fortified to repulse a royalist attack, and the attempts which had been made to force the crossing of the Niagara, had all been known in the British camp. It was clear that there was a spy among the Reformists who kept the enemy informed of everything that happened on the island. In vain was a search made for this spy, so that he might be brought to summary justice. He had escaped every attempt to find him in the villages on the American side of the river.

The spy was none other than Rip.

Infuriated at his lack of success, which meant a heavy loss to his business, the head of the house of Rip and Co. was endeavouring to recover himself by a bold stroke that would fully atone for his recent failures. He had failed at Chipogan Farm, where his men had had to beat a retreat. At St. Charles he had inadvertently given Jean-Sans-Nom, then hiding in Maison-Close, his only chance of escape. And then it had not been his own men, but those of Comeau, who had captured the fugitive.

Rip, eager for revenge, gave no further thought to Jean-Sans-Nom who, he had every reason to suppose, had been executed at Fort Frontenac. He had come in disguise to Navy Island; and there, by means of a prearranged code of signals, he kept Colonel MacNab informed of the defensive works and the places at which a descent on the island was practicable.

To venture among the reformists was obviously to risk his life. If they recognised him, he could hope for no mercy: they would kill him like a dog. But a considerable sum of money would fall to him if he helped in capturing the island, inasmuch as the insurrection would end with the disappearance of its leaders. And so Rip landed on the American bank of the Niagara, and at Schlosser he took passage on the Caroline, like any ordinary visitor, and so he had crossed to Navy Island.

Thanks to his disguise, to his beard which he now sported, to the changes he had made in his gait and in the tone of his voice, the audacious detective was unrecognisable. And although he was amongst people who should have known him — such as De Vaudreuil and his daughter, Thomas Harcher and his sons, whom he had met at Chipogan, and also Mr. Nick, whom he had never expected to meet on the island — fortunately for him his disguise was so perfect that no one had any suspicion regarding him. So he could without difficulty pursue his occupation as a spy, and when necessary he could communicate with Chippewa. He it was who had warned Colonel MacNab of Hodge’s attack against Fort Frontenac.

A chance encounter might have been his ruin. During the eight days he had been on the island he had often met Thomas Harcher, Mr. Nick, and the others, but he had never met Bridget. And how could he have suspected that she was there? The wife of Simon Morgaz among the Reformists was the most unlikely thing in the world. Had he not left her at Maison-Close, after sparing her the reprisals taken against the inhabitants of St. Charles? And then for twelve years, since he had known her at Chambly, they had met only once, during the house-to- house search. So Bridget would not have recognised him any more than Mr. Nick or Thomas Harcher.

And indeed Bridget had not recognised him. He it was who betrayed himself under circumstances which he could not possibly have foreseen.

That evening — 16th December — Bridget had left the house where Vincent Hodge had been asked to meet De Vaudreuil. The darkness of night covered the whole of the Niagara valley. There was no sound, neither in the village occupied by the British troops, nor in the reformist camp. A few sentries were pacing up and down the bank and guarding the left arm of the river.

Without taking any notice of them, Bridget had reached the farthest point of the island up-stream. There, after a rest of a few seconds, she was preparing to return, when her eye was caught by a light which was moving about at the water’s edge.

Surprised and uneasy, she went down to the rocks, which here rose above the Niagara.

Here there was a man swinging a lantern, whose light could easily be seen on the Chippewa shore; and, what was more, a light from the camp at once flashed out in reply.

Bridget could not help crying aloud at seeing this exchange of suspicious signals.

On hearing her cry, the man scrambled up the rocks.

Standing before her, he held the lantern up to her face.

‘Bridget Morgaz!’ he exclaimed.

Bridget stepped back astounded that the man should know her name. But he had not taken the precaution of changing his voice, and the voice betrayed the spy.

‘Rip!’ stammered Bridget. ‘ Rip! — here!’

‘ Yes, Rip himself.’

‘ Rip… at this trade…’

‘Well, Bridget,’ Rip spoke very quietly. ‘ What I’m doing is what you’re here to do, isn’t it? Why is the wife of Simon Morgaz in this camp, if it isn’t to communicate…’

‘You scoundrel!’

‘Silence! ‘ Rip seized her roughly by the arm. ‘ Be quiet, or…’

And with one push he could have hurled her into the current of the Niagara.

‘ Kill me? ‘ Bridget took a step backwards. ‘ Not before I’ve given the alarm — not before I’ve denounced you.’ And she began shouting for help.

At once there came a sound that showed the sentries were on the alert and were running towards her.

Rip saw he would have no time to get rid of Bridget before they came up.

‘Take care, Bridget,’ he warned her. ‘ If you say who I am, I’ll say who you are.’

‘Say it, then! ‘ Not even this threat made her hesitate.

Then, even more loudly, she shouted, ‘ Help! Help!’

A dozen men had already surrounded them, and others were running up from all sides.

‘This man,’ Bridget told them,’ he’s the detective Rip, and he’s a spy in the service of the royalists.’

‘And this woman,’ Rip snarled, ‘ is the wife of the traitor Simon Morgaz.’

The effect of the detested name was immediate; it wiped out all thoughts of Rip. Shouts of ‘ Bridget Morgaz! Bridget Morgaz!’ rose above the din, and it was towards this woman that all the threats and insults were turned. Rip took advantage of this. Cool as ever, seeing that attention had been diverted from him, he disappeared. And no doubt he crossed the Niagara and took refuge in Chippewa Camp long before any search could be made for him.

And this was how Bridget, pursued by the infuriated mob, had come to De Vaudreuil’s house.

And it was just as she was about to fall under their blows that Jean had appeared, and with the one word ‘ Mother!’ had revealed the secret of his birth.

Jean-Sans-Nom was the son of Simon Morgaz.

After the sound of the firing from within Fort Frontenac, he had fainted in Lionel’s arms. He had at once realised what had happened: Joann had just died in his place. His young companion brought him to, and then having crossed the St. Lawrence on the ice, they had followed the shore of the Ontario, and at daybreak they were far from the fort. To reach Navy Island, to rally the insurgents against the royal troops, and to die if he failed in this last effort, that was what Jean had resolved to do. As he traversed the shore of the lake, where the news of his execution had been made known, he could see for himself that the Anglo-Canadians believed they were finished with him. Very well! He would reappear at the head of the reformists, he would fall like a thunderbolt on Colborne’s soldiers. Perhaps his reappearance, which might almost be thought miraculous, would spread terror in their ranks, while at the same time it would arouse irresistible enthusiasm among the Sons of Freedom.

But however anxious Jean and Lionel might be to reach the Niagara, they had to go a long way round, and this took time. The risks they ran were so great, until they reached American territory, that they could travel only by night. Hence it was not until the evening of 16th December that they reached first the village of Schlosser, and then the camp on Navy Island.

And now Jean was face to face with the howling mob, which had closed up around him. But such was the horror inspired by the name of Simon Morgaz that the shouts did not cease. They had recognised him. Yes, it was Jean-Sans-Nom, the popular hero, whom they had thought fallen under the English bullets! Yet his legend had lost its power. To the threats hurled at Bridget were added those hurled at her son.

Jean was unmoved. Supporting his mother on one arm, he kept off this enraged multitude with the other. In vain De Vaudreuil, Farran, Clerc, and Lionel tried to restrain them.

Vincent Hodge, finding himself in the presence of the son of the man who had betrayed his father, of the man he knew Clary loved, was seized with an impulse of anger and hatred, Then, overcoming his instincts of vengeance, he thought only of defending the girl against the hostile demonstrations brought upon her by her devotion to Bridget Morgaz.

And, indeed, that such feeling should be showed against the unhappy woman, that she should be held responsible for the treachery of Simon Morgaz, was a revolting injustice. But this was something the crowd had not realised: from the outset they had not stopped to think.

But that the presence of Jean-Sans-Nom should not have calmed their frenzy after what they knew of him, that went beyond all bounds.

Jean’s indignation at this abominable conduct was so great that, no longer red with shame but pale with anger, he shouted in a voice that was heard even above the uproar: ‘Yes! I am Jean Morgaz, and this is Bridget Morgaz! Strike us down, then! We care no more for your pity than for your scorn. But, mother, look up, and forgive those who would hurt you — you, the most worthy of women!’

Before his attitude the threatening arms were lowered. Then once again the shouting began: ‘Get out of this, family of the traitor! Get out of this, Morgaz!’

And the crowd pressed closer round to the victims of this hateful outburst to drive them from the island.

Clary threw herself before them.

‘You wretches!’ she cried. ‘ Before you drive out his mother and himself you must listen.’

Taken aback by the girl’s energetic protest, the crowd recoiled.

And then Jean continued, in a voice in which scorn was mingled with indignation: ‘There’s no need to dwell on what my mother has suffered on account of the infamy of the name she bears. But what she has done to atone for that infamy you ought to know. Her two sons she has brought up to become accustomed to the idea of sacrificing and renouncing every earthly happiness. Their father had betrayed the Canadian fatherland; they were to live only to restore its independence. Renouncing a name which horrified them, while one went from county to county and parish to parish, rousing support for the national cause, the other threw himself into the very front rank in every insurrection. He stands before you. The elder of the two brothers was that patriot, the Abbe Joann, who took my place in the prison of Frontenac, where he fell shot by the executioners…’

‘Joann! Joann dead!’ exclaimed Bridget.

‘Yes, mother, dead as you made us swear we should die — dead for his country!’

Bridget knelt beside Clary de Vaudreuil, who threw her arms around her, and the two mingled their tears.

From the crowd, who were touched by this moving scene, there came only a low murmur, in which, however, there could still be detected the insurmountable horror inspired by the name of Morgaz.

Jean continued in more excited tones: ‘You see what we have done; not in the hope of rehabilitating a name which is for ever disgraced, a name which you learnt by sheer accident, and which we had hoped to bury in oblivion with our accursed family! But God has willed it otherwise. And now that you know everything, will you reply by cries of hatred or words of scorn!’

Yes! Such was the horror provoked by the traitor’s memory that one of the most frantic in the crowd dared to reply: ‘Never will we suffer the wife and son of Simon Morgaz to soil with their presence our patriotic camp!

‘No! No!’ shouted his hearers, transported with fury.

‘Wretches!’ exclaimed Clary.

Bridget had risen to her feet.

‘My son!’ she said, * forgive them; all we have is the right to forgive them…’

‘Forgive them!’ exclaimed Jean, his whole being roused against this injustice. ‘ Forgive those who hold us responsible for a crime which is not ours, and in spite of all we have done to atone for it! Forgive those who would visit treachery on the wife, and on the children, of whom one had shed his blood for them, while the other asks only to do the same! No! Never! We will never remain with the patriots, who would think themselves defiled by our touch! Come, my mother, come!’

‘My son,’ Bridget replied, ‘we have to suffer! It is our lot here below. It is our expiation!’

‘Jean!’ murmured Clary.

A few more shouts were heard; then there was silence. The ranks opened before Bridget and her son, who made their way towards the shore. Bridget had hardly the strength to move. The horrible scene had exhausted her. Clary, helped by Lionel, supported but could not console her, while Vincent Hodge, Clerc, and Farran stayed among the crowd to calm them. De Vaudreuil had followed his daughter. Like her, he felt his heart revolt against this flood of injustice; against the abominable prejudices of this mob, who carried, beyond all bounds, this doctrine of human responsibility. With him, as with her, the past of the father was effaced by that of the sons. And when Bridget and Jean had reached one of the boats that was going to take them across the stream, he said: ‘Your hand, Madame Bridget! Your hand, Jean! Think no more of these wretches who have insulted you; they will soon see that you are above their insults. Some day they will come and ask you to forgive them…’

‘Never!’ said Jean, as he entered the boat.

* Where are you going?’ asked Clary.

‘Where we shall be safe from these men’s insults!’

‘Madame Bridget,’ the girl spoke in a voice that was heard by all; ‘ I respect you as if you were my own mother! Only a few minutes ago, believing that your son was dead, I swore to be faithful to the memory of him to whom I would willingly have devoted my life. Jean, I love you! Shall I come with you?’

Jean, pale with emotion, almost fell at the feet of this noble girl.

‘Clary,’ he replied, ‘ you have given me the only happiness I have ever had in my wretched existence! But as you see that nothing can lessen the horror that our name inspires, this horror I could never ask you to share.’

‘No,’ exclaimed Bridget, ‘ Clary de Vaudreuil must never become the wife of a Morgaz!’

‘ Come away, mother,’ Jean implored her. ‘ Come.’ And he helped Bridget into the boat, which left the shore while the traitor’s name still resounded amid the clamours of the mob.

***

On the morrow, in a lonely hut outside the village of Schlosser, to which he had taken his mother, Jean knelt by her side, to receive her last words.

No one knew that the hut was sheltering the wife and son of Simon Morgaz. But it would not shelter them long. Bridget was dying. In a few hours she would end this existence in which there had been heaped upon her all the suffering and misery by which a human creature could be overwhelmed.

When his mother was no more, when he should have closed her eyes, when he should have seen the earth close over her poor body, Jean had made up his mind to leave the country which had thus driven him out. He would disappear; no more would be heard of him, not even after death had come to deliver him also.

But the last words of his mother led him to give up his idea of abandoning the task which had been set him, of making reparation for his father’s crime.

‘My son, your brother is dead, and after my long sufferings I am dying at last. I do not complain. God is just! This was our expiation! To make it complete, Jean, you must forget those insults. You must return to your work! You have no right to desert it. Your duty, Jean, is to sacrifice yourself for your country until you fall . .

And Bridget died with these words on her lips.

Jean kissed the dead woman and closed the eyes which had shed so many tears.

CHAPTER XII

THE LAST DAYS

The position of the reformists on Navy Island had become extremely critical, and could not possibly last. It might be only a question of days, perhaps only of hours.

Although Colonel MacNab still hesitated to attempt the crossing of the Niagara River, he began to render the camp of the besieged untenable. A battery installed on the Chippewa side had just been brought into action, and the Bonnets-bleus were unable to reply to it, as they did not possess even a solitary gun. A few hundred muskets — the only weapons they could use at a distance to hinder a landing — were helpless against the royal artillery.

Though the Americans were interested in the success of the Franco-Canadian insurrection it was deplorable that the United States Government had kept the strictest neutrality since the outbreak of the struggle. They alone could have furnished the guns which the reformists lacked; but such an action would have provoked recriminations from England at a time when the slightest incident might have brought about a rupture — as indeed happened a few months later. The means of defence of Navy Island were very limited. Even ammunition and provisions were running out. although, as far as the resources of the country permitted, food was obtainable from Schlosser, Buffalo, and Niagara Falls. There was a

continual coming and going of boats large and small, across the right arm of the river, although Colonel MacNab, so as to command this means of access obliquely, had stationed his guns both up and down stream. The little steamer Caroline still ensured speedy communication between the camp and the Schlosser bank, and she was especially patronised by the sightseers who came to visit the defenders of Navy Island.

In such circumstances it demanded an extraordinary display of energy from the leaders of this handful of men not to abandon the struggle. Unfortunately the number of the combatants was diminishing every day, large groups, now completely discouraged, went over to Schlosser never to return.

Since the lamentable scene which had resulted in Jean’s departure, De Vaudreuil had not been out of his house. He could scarcely keep alive, and his daughter did not leave him for an instant. They both felt as though they had been soiled by the filth of the insults hurled at Bridget and her son. Nobody had suffered more than they from the taunts with which their comrades had overwhelmed this unhappy family, already crushed beneath a name they had renounced. Yet when they thought of the crime of Simon Morgaz, of the heroic victims that the traitor’s work had sent to the scaffold, they bowed their heads beneath the weight of a destiny against which no justice could prevail.

In the house where De Vaudreuil’s friends met every day, no allusion was ever made to what had passed. Vincent Hodge, with a discretion worthy of his character, maintained extreme reserve, not wishing to let it be suspected that he blamed Clary in any way for expressing her sentiments. And indeed had not the brave girl been right to protest against this odious prejudice, which would extend to the innocent the responsibility of the guilty, and would transmit a heritage of shame from father to son. as if it were some physical or moral resemblance?

And when he thought of this terrible state of affairs, Jean, now quite alone in the world, felt his whole being revolt. Joann dead for his country, Bridget dead from the insults she had received, was not that enough to compensate for the past? No! And when he exclaimed, ‘ It is unjust!’ he seemed to hear the voice of conscience replying: ‘ Perhaps it is only justice!’

Then Jean remembered Clary, braving the insults of the crowd that was pursuing him. Yes! She had had the courage to defend a Morgaz! She had almost offered to link her existence with his! But he had refused her: he would always refuse her! And yet how sincerely did he love her! And he would wander along the banks of the Niagara, like Natty Bumppo of the Mohicans, who had preferred to engulf himself in its cataracts, rather than to leave Mabel Denham.

During the whole of the 18th, Jean stayed beside his mother’s body, envying the rest which she now enjoyed. His only wish was to rejoin her. But he remembered her last words: he had no right to die except at the head of the Reformists. That was his duty — he would fulfil it.

When the night came, a sombre night, hardly lighted by the * Blink ‘ of the snow — a sort of whitish reflection, which fills the sky in the polar regions — Jean left the hut where Bridget lay, and a few yards away, beneath the trees heavy with rime, he began to dig a grave with his large Canadian knife — alone. Alone, on the outskirts of the forest; lost in the darkness where no one could see him — nor did he wish to be seen. No one should ever know where Bridget Morgaz lay buried. No cross would indicate her tomb. If Joann lay in some unknown corner, at the base of Fort Frontenac, his mother at least was buried on American soil, the soil of her native country. Jean would get killed in the coming attack, and his body would disappear, borne away with many others in the rapids of the Niagara. And then there would remain nothing, not even a memory, of what had once been the Morgaz family.

When the trench was deep enough for the corpse to be safe from the talons of the wild beasts, Jean returned to the hut; he lifted his mother’s body in his arms, he carried it under the trees, he pressed a last kiss on its forehead and laid it in the grave, wrapped the cloak about it, and covered it with the soil. And then he knelt and prayed, and his last words were: ‘My poor mother, rest in peace.’

And when, in spite of everything, MacNab’s forces tried to land on Navy Island, Jean would be in the first line of the defenders, where he might seek his death.

He had not long to wait.

In the early hours of the morning of 19th December, it was obvious that Colonel MacNab was preparing a direct attack. Large flat-boats were drawn up along the shore below Chippewa Camp. Having no artillery, the Bonnets-bleus were without means either of destroying these boats before they moved off or of stopping them when they tried to cross. Their one resource was to withstand the attacking forces as they landed, and to concentrate at the threatened points. But what resistance could a few hundred men offer to the assailants if they attacked several points at the same time? As soon as the royalists had gained a footing, the camp would be carried and the defenders, too numerous to escape in the boats to Schlosser, would be massacred before they could take refuge on American soil.

It was these possibilities which made De Vaudreuil and his friends anxious. They fully realised the danger of the position. To escape, it is true, all they had to do was to get to Schlosser, while it was still possible to cross the Niagara. But nobody was willing to retreat without defending the camp to the last.

Perhaps after all they imagined themselves strong enough to offer serious resistance, and over-estimated the difficulties of making a landing.

But one of them was under no illusions. That was Mr. Nick. But his position at the head of the Mahoganni Indians did not allow him to say anything.

As for Lionel, his patriotism allowed of no hesitation whatever. The young clerk no longer concerned himself about the revelations which had followed the unexpected reappearance of his hero. What! Jean-Sans-Nom, the son of Simon Morgaz! The Abbe Joann the son of a traitor!

‘No matter,’ he said to himself. ‘ Are they any the less good patriots for all that? And was not Mademoiselle Clary right to stand up for Jean and his mother? Ah! the brave girl! That was splendid! That was noble! That was worthy of a Vaudreuil!’

Thus reasoned Lionel, who never spared his enthusiasm, and could not believe that Jean had left Navy Island never to return. Yes! Jean-Sans-Nom would reappear, were it only to die in defending the national cause!

And then the young clerk was led to this reflection, certainly judicious enough: ‘Why shouldn’t the children of Simon Morgaz be the most loyal of men when the last descendant of a warlike race has none of the qualities of his ancestors, when the race of the Sagamores ends in a lawyer?’

As Lionel thought of Jean-Sans-Nom, so likewise did Thomas Harcher and his sons. Had they not seen him at work for many a year? In risking his life a hundred times, had he not atoned for the crime of Simon Morgaz? Truly, if they had been present at the hateful scene they would have been unable to restrain themselves, they would have thrown themselves upon the crowd, and made them pay for so abominable an outrage. And if they knew where Jean had gone they would go and bring him back to the Bonnets-bleus and put him at their head.

And it must be added, for the honour of humanity, that since Jean and Bridget had been driven off, a change had come over the mood of the crowd. The feelings of Lionel and the Harchers were now shared by most of the patriots.

About eleven in the morning the preliminaries of the attack began. The first shots from the batteries of Chippewa came ploughing through the camp, and the shells brought destruction and fire upon the island. No shelter was possible from the projectiles on what was almost a flat plain dotted with clumps of trees, divided by narrow hedges, and having only a few earthworks along the riverside.

Colonel MacNab was striving to breach the banks before attempting to cross, but this operation was not without its difficulties in spite of the restricted number of the defenders.

These were mustered around De Vaudreuil’s house, less exposed to the artillery because of its position on the right bank opposite Schlosser.

As soon as the firing began De Vaudreuil ordered all non-combatants to cross to the American territory. The wives and the children, whose presence had so far been tolerated, now had to embark, after bidding farewell to their husbands, their fathers, and their brothers. This was not without danger, for the guns above and below Chippewa menaced them with their cross-fire. A few shots even reached the United States frontier, provoking justifiable protests from the Federal Government.

De Vaudreuil urged his daughter to take refuge in Schlosser, and there to await the outcome of the attack. Clary refused to leave him.

‘Father,’ she said, ‘ I ought to stay with you, and I shall stay with you. It is my duty.’

‘And if I fall into the hands of the royalists?’

‘Well; they won’t refuse to let me share your prison.’

‘And if I should be killed, Clary?’

The girl made no reply; but De Vaudreuil could not overcome her opposition. And so she was by his side when he went to take his place among the leaders who were assembled in front of his house.

The sound of the guns was getting louder. The position of the camp was becoming untenable. But the attempt at landing had not yet been made. Otherwise the Bonnets-bleus posted behind the entrenchments would have given the alarm.

In front of the house were Vincent Hodge, Clerc and Farran, Thomas, Pierre, Michel, and Jacques Harcher.

And there too were Mr. Nick and Lionel and the Mahoganni warriors, as coldly impassive as usual.

De Vaudreuil addressed them: ‘Comrades,’ he began, ‘ we have to defend the last rampart of our independence. If MacNab gains this fight the insurrection is at an end and who knows when new leaders and new men will again begin the struggle? If we repulse the assailants, if we manage even to hold our own, help will come to us from other parts of Canada. Our partisans will again take hope, and we shall convert this island into an impregnable fortress, where the national cause will always find a stronghold. Are you determined to defend it?’

‘To the death!’ replied Vincent Hodge.

‘To the death!’ repeated his companions.

At this moment several bullets struck the ground a few yards away, and ricochetted into the distance, throwing up a cloud of snow.

Not one of the Bonnets-bleus had moved. They were awaiting their chief’s orders.

‘It is time to get to the river-bank,’ M. de Vaudreuil continued. ‘ The Chippewa artillery will soon stop firing, for the royalists are going to force a landing. Scatter along the bank, take cover behind the rocks, and wait until the boats are within range — MacNab’s men must not land.’

‘They shall not land,’ Clerc assured him, ‘ and if they do we’ll hurl them back into the Niagara.’

‘To your posts, my friends!’ exclaimed Vincent Hodge.

‘I shall go with you,’ De Vaudreuil told them, ‘ although my strength is failing me…’

‘Stay here, Vaudreuil,’ replied Farran; ‘ we shall keep in touch with you…’

‘No, my friends,’ said De Vaudreuil, ‘ I shall be where I ought to be! Forward!’

‘Yes! Forward! The boats have already begun to leave the Canadian shore!’

The words were spoken in a ringing voice. The men turned towards the speaker.

It was Jean. During the previous night a boat had landed him on the island. No one had recognised him. Hidden on the shore opposite Chippewa, he had watched MacNab’s preparations, heedless of the shot that battered the ground nearby. Then seeing that the assailants were getting ready to force a landing, he had come — openly — to take his place among his former comrades.

‘I knew he would!’ exclaimed Lionel.

Clary de Vaudreuil stepped towards the young patriot just as Thomas Harcher and his sons ranged themselves around him. De Vaudreuil held out his hand but Jean did not take it.

‘Defenders of Navy Island,’ he addressed them, ‘ my mother is dead, dead under the insults to which you subjected her. Now I alone am left of this family devoted to horror and scorn. Submit to the shame of seeing a / Morgaz fight on your side, and die for the Franco-Canadian cause.’

These words evoked thunders of applause. Every hand was raised towards Jean. And again he refused to touch them.

‘Adieu, Clary de Vaudreuil!’ he said.

‘Adieu, Jean!’ the girl replied.

Then, ahead of De Vaudreuil and his companions, and all who like him were marching to their death, he led the way to the island’s left bank.

CHAPTER XIII

THE NIGHT OF THE 28th OF DECEMBER

Three o’clock was striking from the little church at Schlosser. A grey, glacial mist filled the humid valley of the Niagara. The air was very cold. The sky was covered with motionless clouds, which the least rise in the temperature would condense into snow, under the influence of the easterly wind.

The roar of the Chippewa guns was rending the air. In the intervals between the salvoes there could be distinctly heard the distant roaring of the cataract.

A quarter of an hour after they had left De Vaudreuil’s house, the Reformists, advancing among the clumps of trees and defiling along the hedges and the walls, had reached the left bank of the river.

Many had already fallen. Some, hit by shell fragments, had had to return to the rear; others were lying stretched on the snow never to rise again. Altogether twenty had been lost from the two hundred who had remained.

The guns of Chippewa had done great damage. The earthworks that were to serve as cover for the Bonnets-bleus had been almost entirely destroyed. The defenders had therefore to take up their position at the foot of the bank among the rocks around which swirled the impetuous current. It was there that Jean and his men would strive to prevent the landing until their supply of ammunition gave out.

But their movements had been seen from Chippewa. Colonel MacNab, already advised by the signals Rip had sent, and now by word of mouth — for the spy was then in his camp — redoubled the fire, concentrating it on the fortified positions. Around Jean thirty of his comrades were struck by the fragments of rock wrenched away by the projectiles.

In spite of the shot which fell at his feet or rent the air above his head, Jean was moving about the beach observing the manoeuvres of the foe. A number of large flat-boats were being rowed out from the Canadian shore, and as a last effort to clear the ground three or four volleys were fired over them, falling upon the island to ricochet into the distance.

Jean did not move.

‘Patriots!’ he shouted, ‘ get ready!’

They waited till the boats came within range.

The attackers, lying down in the boats so as to offer the smallest possible targets, numbered from four to five hundred, half of them volunteers and half regular soldiers.

A few minutes later, and the boats had reached midstream, and were near enough to the island for the artillery to have to cease fire.

The first shots were at once fired from the shelter of the rocks. The men in the boats replied, and as they were now badly exposed to the fire from the island they plied their oars more vigorously than ever.

A few minutes were enough to bring them to the beach, and both sides prepared for a hand-to-hand conflict.

Jean took command amid a hail of bullets, which whistled around him like machine-gun fire.

‘Get into cover! ‘ Vincent Hodge told him.

‘Me? ‘ Jean replied.

Then, in a voice of thunder he shouted to the men who were about to leap from the boats: ‘I am Jean-Sans-Nom!’

The name was received with bewilderment, for the royalists believed that Jean-Sans-Nom had been shot at Fort Frontenac.

And then, hurling himself at those in the first boat, he shouted: ‘Forward, Bonnets-bleus! On to the red-coats!’

The struggle was very fierce. The first of the men who strove to land were repulsed, some falling into the water and being swept towards the cataract. The reformists, leaving the shelter of the rocks, spread along the bank, and fought with such fury that the advantage at first lay with them. There was even a moment when the boats had to recoil. But more of the boats were coming to reinforce them. Hundreds of men landed on the island, and numbers gained the advantage over valour.

Before so numerous an enemy, the defenders had to retire from the bank. Though they did not yield until they had inflicted severe losses on the assailants, they too had suffered cruelly.

Among them Thomas Harcher, Pierre and Michel had been shot, and were despatched by the volunteers, who gave no quarter. William Clerc and Andrew Farran had been wounded and were taken prisoners, and had it not been for the intervention of an officer, they would have shared the fate of the farmer and his sons. But Colonel MacNab had given orders that the leaders should be spared wherever possible, so that the Government might try them by court martial at Quebec or Montreal. It was for this reason alone that the two had escaped the general slaughter.

The Bonnets-bleus fought desperately. The Mahogannis, after defending themselves with that cool courage and contempt of death which distinguishes the Indian race, had to take cover among the trees, and were pursued from wall to wall, attacked from their flanks, and charged from the rear. It was a miracle that Lionel was not killed a score of times, and that Mr. Nick likewise escaped the carnage. How many of the Hurons would never again see their wigwams at Walhatta!

When Mr. Nick reached De Vaudreuil’s house, he tried to persuade Clary to enter one of the boats and escape to Schlosser.

‘So long as my father is on the island,’ she declared, ‘ I shall never forsake him.’

Yes! Her father, and perhaps also Jean, although she knew he had come back only to die.

At five, De Vaudreuil saw that resistance was no longer possible against the hundreds of assailants who had now mastered much of the island. If the survivors were to save their lives, they could do so only by escaping to the right bank of the river.

But he himself had scarcely strength enough to stand upright or to regain the house where his daughter was waiting for him.

Vincent Hodge tried to help him away, but at that very moment De Vaudreuil fell shot through the chest. He died murmuring: ‘My daughter! Hodge! My daughter!’

Jean-Sans-Nom had heard him.

‘Save Clary!’ he shouted to Vincent Hodge.

Then a dozen volunteers threw themselves upon him. They had recognised him. To capture the celebrated Jean-Sans-Nom, to drag him alive to the camp at Chippewa, that indeed would be a stroke of luck!

With a last effort Jean struck down two of the volunteers who were trying to seize him, and disappeared in the midst of a volley that left him unharmed.

Vincent Hodge, dangerously wounded, was taken prisoner.

Where had Jean gone? Did he then think of surviving now that the finest of his comrades had been killed or were in the hands of the royalists?

No! Had not De Vaudreuil’s last word been his daughter’s name?

Very well! As Vincent Hodge could not save her, he, Jean would save her, he would take her across to the American shore; then he would return to his comrades, who would still be fighting on.

Clary de Vaudreuil, standing alone before the house, heard the sounds of the battle, the shouts of fury, the cries of pain, the crackle of the musketry, and watched all this tumult approach her amid the flashing of the firearms. Already fifty or more of the Reformists, most of them wounded, had taken to the boats, and were on the way to Schlosser. Only the little steamboat Caroline remained, crowded with fugitives, to make the journey across the river.

Suddenly Jean appeared, covered with blood — the blood of the royalists — safe and sound, after vainly seeking that death which twenty times he had given to others.

Clary rushed towards him.

‘My father?’ she asked.

‘Dead!’

Jean answered unhesitatingly, for it was essential that Clary should be willing to leave the island.

She fainted, and he caught her in his arms just as the volunteers came running round the house to cut off his retreat. Carrying his burden, he ran to the Caroline and laid the girl on her deck; then he rose: ‘Adieu, Clary!’ he said.

As he stepped on the steamer’s rail to jump ashore, there came the crackle of musketry, and Jean, shot in two places, fell backwards, just as the Caroline put off under full steam.

But, by the light of the gun-flashes, he had been recognised by the volunteers who had pursued him across the island, and there arose a shout of: ‘Jean-Sans-Nom is dead!’

At the sound Clary recovered consciousness.

‘Dead!’ she murmured, as she dragged herself towards him.

A few minutes later the Caroline was moored alongside the quay at Schlosser. There the fugitives might deem themselves to be in safety under the protection of the American authorities.

Some landed at once, but as the only inn in the village was full and the hotels at Niagara Falls were three miles away, many of them preferred to stay on board.

It was then eight in the evening.

Jean lay on the deck; he was still breathing. Kneeling by his side, Clary raised his head and spoke to him. He did not reply. Perhaps he could not hear her.

She looked around. Where could she seek for help in this confusion, in a village crowded with fugitives, encumbered with so many wounded but without surgeons or medical supplies?

Then Clary saw all her past life return to her memory. Her father dead for the cause! The man she loved dying in her arms after fighting to the very last! Now she was alone in the world, friendless, in despair…

She covered Jean with a boat-cloth to shelter him from the cold, and tried to ascertain whether his heart was still beating, whether a sigh did not escape from his lips.

On the other side of the river the firing was nearly over, but the flashes could still be seen among the trees on Navy Island.

At last all was silent, and the whole Niagara valley seemed asleep.

The girl unconsciously murmured her father’s name, and that of Jean, saying to herself — a supreme anguish! — that the young patriot had died with the thought that the curses of mankind would pursue him even beyond the tomb! And she prayed for both of them.

Suddenly, Jean moved, his heart began to beat a little more strongly. Clary spoke to him. He did not answer.

Two hours went by. Now all was quiet aboard the Caroline. No sound either in the cabins or on the deck. Watching alone, Clary de Vaudreuil knelt, like a sister of charity, at the bedside of the dying.

The night was very dark. The clouds began to swirl down on the river — great wreaths of mist swathed the skeletons of the trees, whose branches, heavy with hoarfrost, were drooping over the river.

Nobody noticed that four boats were coming round the upstream end of the island and that they were noiselessly making for Schlosser bank.

They were manned by fifty volunteers, commanded by Lieutenant Drew of the militia. By the orders of Colonel MacNab, this officer was about to perform an act of revolting cruelty, in defiance of the law of nations. Among his men was a certain MacLeod, whose cruelties were to bring about serious international complications a few months later.

The four boats came silently across the river and ran alongside the Caroline. The men at once climbed on deck, went down into the cabin, and began a frightful slaughter. Wounded or asleep, their victims were unable to defend themselves. Their cries were heart-rending, but it was all in vain. Nothing could stop the scoundrels, among whom MacLeod, pistol in one hand and axe in the other, was howling like a cannibal Jean had not regained consciousness; so Clary, in her terror, dragged the sail-cloth over her so that it covered them both.

At last some of the victims managed to escape, either by jumping on to the quay, or by throwing themselves overboard to reach some point on the shore, where MacLeod and his cut-throats could not follow them; and the alarm had been given in the village, where the people were rushing out of their homes to the rescue.

The massacre had not lasted long, and many of the victims would have escaped, had not MacLeod been leading the assassins. He had brought a supply of inflammable materials with him, and he now piled them up on the deck and set them on fire. In a few minutes hull and rigging were ablaze. Meanwhile he had cut through the hawsers, and the steamer, thrust forcibly from the quay, had drifted out into the current.

Her position was terrible.

Three miles down stream the Niagara was engulfed in the abyss of its cataract.

It was then that five or six of the poor wretches, mad with fear, jumped into the river, but only a few of them reached the shore after struggling against the ice that floated on the water. Nor was it ever known how many victims had been suffocated or had drowned in trying to escape the flames.

The Caroline drifted away down between the river banks like a blazing fireship.

The fire spread aft and Clary, desperate with terror, stood up and shouted for help.

Jean at last heard her. He opened his eyes, he raised himself a little, he looked around.

In the light of the flames the banks of the river swept rapidly by.

Jean realised that the girl was close beside him.

‘Clary!’ he murmured.

If he had had the strength, he would have taken her in his arms; with her he would have thrown himself into the stream; he would have tried to save her. But, unable to support himself, he collapsed on the deck. The roar of the cataract could be heard less than half a mile away. It was death for her and for him, as for the other victims which the Caroline was carrying down the Niagara.

‘Jean,’ Clary told him, ‘ we are going to die — to die together! Jean, I love you. I should have been proud to bear your name! God would not have it so.’

Jean had just strength enough to clasp her hand. Then his lips repeated the last words his mother had spoken: ‘Expiation! Expiation!’

The boat sped along with frightful rapidity as she swept round Goat Island, which separates the American from the Canadian fall. And there, in the middle of the horseshoe, where the current has cleft its gorge, the Caroline leaned over the abyss and disappeared into the gulf of the cataract.

CHAPTER XIV

THE LAST PHASES OF THE INSURRECTION

This act perpetrated by the English, in violation of international law and the rights of humanity, had endless repercussions in the Old and the New Worlds alike. An enquiry was ordered by the authorities at Niagara Falls. MacLeod had been recognised by several of those who had escaped the massacre and the flames. Moreover, the wretch was not slow in boasting quite openly of having ‘ got the better of those dam’ Yankees.’

The question now arose of demanding an indemnity from England when in November 1840 MacLeod was arrested in New York.

The British representative demanded his release; the Federal Government refused to give him up. So, by Lords and Commons alike, the Minister was instructed to get him set free, as he had acted under orders from the Throne. Congress replied to this claim by publishing a claim setting out the rights of New York State. The report might have been considered as a real casus belli, and the United Kingdom took measures accordingly.

On their side, after having ordered the assassin to be brought to trial on a charge of murder, the Federal Government voted subsidies. And no doubt war would have been declared had not McLeod, under the pretext of an alibi which was barely justified but which allowed English and Americans alike to hush up the affair, put an end to the action.

It was thus that the victims of the horrible attack on the Caroline were to be avenged!

After the defeat of the insurgents at Navy Island, Lord Gosford received information that the Reformists would no longer resist the constituted authorities. Their principal leaders had been dispersed or imprisoned, and Jean-Sans-Nom was no more.

In 1838, however, a few risings took place at several points in the Canadian provinces. The first attempt occurred during March under Robert Nelson, the brother of him who had taken command at St. Denis, and it failed at the very outset. At Napierville, in a second attempt, two thousand insurgents were attacked by Sir John Colborne at the head of six hundred regulars, with five hundred Indians and four hundred volunteers, and put to flight in one day at Odeltown. In November there was a third attempt at insurrection, the reformists rising in two groups each of one hundred men. One attacked a seignorial manor, the other seized upon a steamboat at Beauharnais quay. At Chateauguay the insurgents forced the Indians to surrender their arms, and began a campaign which ended in disaster. Then came the last of these movements, which marked the end of the insurrectional period of 1837 and 1838.

Then came the reprisals, and the government acted with an energy so pitiless that it amounted to cruelty. On 4th November, Sir John Colborne, having been invested with superior authority, proclaimed martial law, and suspended the Habeas Corpus Act throughout the province. The Court Martial was set up, and over a dozen men, whose names were never to be forgotten in Franco Canadian martyrology, were sent to the scaffold. To their names must be added those which have appeared in this record, the lawyer Sebastien Gramont and Vincent Hodge, who died as his father had died, with the same courage and for the same cause.

William Clerc had succumbed to his wounds in American territory, and Andrew Farran, who also had fled to the United States, was the sole survivor of this group of comrades.

The list of exiles included fifty-eight of the foremost patriots, and many years were to elapse before they were allowed to return to their country.

The Deputy Papineau, the statesman whose personality had dominated all this period of national demands, had managed to escape. A long life enabled him to see Canada in possession, if not of her complete independence, at least of her autonomy, and he died in an honoured old age.

There remains to be told what became of Catherine Harcher. Of her five sons who had accompanied their father to St. Charles and Navy Island, only two returned to Chipogan Farm, after several years of exile, and they did not leave it again.

As to the Mahogannis, who had taken part in the climax of the insurrection, the Government wanted to forget them just as it wanted to forget that excellent man who, in spite of himself, had been forced to meddle in matters for which he cared but little. So Mr. Nick returned to Montreal and there, disgusted with the honours he had never sought, he resumed his former life. And if Lionel returned to his desk in the office on Bon Secours marketplace in the employment of a Sagamore, it was with a heart which would always remember those for whom he would gladly have sacrificed his life. Never would he forget the family of the Vaudreuils, nor that of Jean-Sans- Nom, rehabilitated by death, and now one of the legendary heroes of Canada.

The insurrection had failed, but it had sowed its seed in good ground. In course of time the seed bore fruit. It was not in vain that patriots had shed their blood in seeking to recover their rights. The governors sent to the colony gradually gave up many of the claims of the Crown. And then the Constitution of 1867 established the Canadian Confederation on a sound basis. It was at this time that the question of removing the capital to Quebec was finally settled in favour of Ottawa.

Today all control by the mother-country has virtually ceased.

Canada is now, practically speaking, a free power under the name of the Dominion of Canada, and all its inhabitants, French-Canadian and Anglo-Saxon alike, now enjoy equal rights. And of a population of five millions, about a quarter still belong to the French race.

Every year an affecting ceremony unites the patriots of Montreal at the foot of a column erected to the memory of the political victims of 1837 and 1838. There, on the day of its inauguration, an address was given by M. Euclide Roy, President of the Institute, and his closing words well sum up the moral of this narrative: ‘ To glorify self-sacrifice, is to make heroes.’

CHAPTER II.

THE CASCABEL FAMILY.

CASCABEL! — A name, you might say, “pealed and chimed on all the tongues of fame,” throughout the five parts of the globe, and “other localities,” proudly added the man who bore that patronymic so honorably.

Caesar Cascabel, a native of Pontorson, right in the heart of Normandy, was a master in all the dodges, knacks, and trickeries of Norman folks. But, sharp and knowing as he was, he had remained an honest man, and it were not right to confound him with the too often suspicious members of the juggling confraternity; in him, humbleness of birth and professional irregularities were fully redeemed by the private virtues of the head of the family circle.

At this period, Mr. Cascabel looked his age, forty-five, not a day more or less. A child of the road in the full acceptation of the word, his only cradle had been the pack that his father shouldered as he tramped along from fairs to markets throughout Normandy. His mother having died shortly after his coming into the world, he had been very opportunely adopted by a traveling troupe on the death of his father, a few years after. With them he spent his youth in tumbles, contortions and somersaults, his head down and his feet in the air. Then he became in turn a clown, a gymnast, an acrobat, a Hercules at country fairs, — until the time when, the father of three children, he appointed himself manager of the little family he had brought out conjointly with Mrs. Cascabel, nee Cornelia Vadarasse, all the way from Martigues in Provence (France).

An intelligent and ingenious man, if on the one hand his muscle and his skill were above the common, his moral worth was in no way inferior to his physical abilities. True, a rolling stone gathers no moss; but, at least, it rubs against the rough knobs on the road, it gets polished, its angles are smoothed off, it grows round and shiny. Even so, in the course of the twenty-five years that he had been rolling along, Caeser Cascabel had rubbed so hard, had got so thoroughly polished and rounded off, that he knew about all that can be known of life, felt surprised at nothing, wondered at nothing. By dint of roughing it through Europe from fair to fair, and acclimatizing himself quite as readily in America as in the Dutch or the Spanish Colonies, he wellnigh understood all languages, and spoke them more or less accurately, “even those he did not know,” as he used to say, for it was no trouble to him to express his meaning by gestures whenever his power of speech failed him.

Caeser Cascabel was a trifle above the middle height; his body was muscular; his limbs were “well oiled”; his lower jaw, somewhat protruding, indicated energy; his head was large, and shagged over with bushy hair, his skin marbled by the sun of every clime, tanned by the squalls of every sea; he wore a mustache cut short at the ends, and half-length whiskers shaded his ruddy cheeks; his nose was rather full; he had blue eyes glowing with life and very keen, with a look of kindness in them; his mouth would have boasted thirty-three teeth still, had he got one put in, Before the public, he was a real Frederic Lemaitre, a tragedian with grand gestures, affected poses, and oratorical sentences, but in private, a very simple, very natural man, who doted on his wife and children.

Blessed with a constitution that could stand anything, although his advancing years now forbade him all acrobatic performances, he was still wonderful in those displays of strength that “require biceps.” He was possessed, moreover, of extraordinary talent in that branch of the showman’s profession, the science of the engastrimuth or ventriloquism, a science which goes back a good many centuries if, as Bishop Eustachius asserts, the pythoness of Edon was nothing more than a ventriloquist. At his will his vocal apparatus slipped down from his throat to his stomach. You wonder if he could have sung a duet, all by himself? Well, you had better not have challenged him to!

To give one last stroke to this picture, let us notice that Caeser Cascabel had a weakness for the great conquerors of history in general, and for Napoleon in particular. Yes! He did love the hero of the first Empire just as much as he hated his “tormentors,” those sons of Hudson Lowe, those abominable John Bulls. Napoleon! That was “the man for him!” Wherefore he had never consented to perform before the Queen of England, “although she had requested him to do so through her first Steward of the Household,” a statement he had made so earnestly and so repeatedly that he had eventually acquired a belief in it, himself.

And still, Mr. Cascabel was no circus manager; no Franconi was he with a troupe of horsemen and women, of clowns and jugglers. By no means. He was merely a showman, performing on the public commons in the open air when the weather was fine, and under a tent when it rained. At this business, of which he had known the ups and downs for a quarter of a century, he had earned, as we know, the goodly lump sum just now put away in the safe with the combination lock.

What labor, what toils, what misery at times, had gone to the making up of this sum! The hardest was now over. The Cascabels were preparing to return to Europe. After they had crossed the United States, they would take passage on a French or an American vessel, — an English one — no, never!

As to that, Caeser Cascabel never let himself be beaten by anything. Obstacles were a myth for him. Difficulties, at most, did turn up on his path; but, extricating, disentangling himself through life was his speciality. He had gladly repeated the words of the Duke of Dantzic, one of the marshals of his great man:

“You make a hole for me, and I’ll make my way through it.”

And many indeed were the holes he had wriggled through!

“Mrs. Cascabel, nee Cornelia Vadarasse, a genuine native of Provence, the unequaled clairvoyant of things to come, the queen of electrical women, adorned with all the charms of her sex, graced with all the virtues that are a mother’s pride, the champion of the great female tournaments to which Chicago challenged the ‘first athletes of the universe.’”

Such were the terms in which Mr. Cascabel usually introduced his wife to the public. Twenty years before, he had married her in New York. Had he taken his father’s advice in the matter? He had not! Firstly, he said, because his father had not consulted him in reference to his own wedding, and, secondly, because the worthy man was no longer on this planet. And the thing had been done in a very simple way, I can tell you, and without any of those preliminary formalities which, in Europe, prove such drawbacks to the speedy union of two beings predestined for one another.

One evening, at Barnum’s theater in Broadway, where he was one of the spectators, Caesar Cascabel was dazzled by the charms, the agility and the strength shown in horizontal bar exercises by a young French acrobat, Mlle. Cornelia Vadarasse.

Associating his own talents with those of this graceful performer, of their two lives making but one, foreseeing yonder in the future a family of little Cascabels worthy of their father and mother, all this appeared as if mapped out before the honest showman’s eye. Rushing behind the scenes between two acts, introducing himself to Cornelia Vadarasse with the fairest proposals in view of the wedding of a Frenchman and a Frenchwoman; then, eyeing a respectable clergyman in the audience, hauling him off to the green-room and asking him to bless the union of so well-matched a couple, that is all that was needed in that happy land of the United States of America. Do those life-contracts, sealed with full steam on, turn out the worse for it? Be the answer what it may, the union of Cascabel and Cornelia Vadarasse was to be one of the happiest ever celebrated in this nether world.

At the time when our story begins, Mrs. Cascabel was forty years old. She had a fine figure, rather stoutish perhaps, dark hair, dark eyes, a smiling mouth, and, like her husband, a good show of teeth. As to her uncommon muscular strength, she had proved it in those memorable Chicago encounters, where she had won a “Chignon of honor” as a prize. Let us add that Cornelia still loved her husband as she did on the first day, feeling as she did an unshakable trust, an absolute faith in the genius of this extraordinary man, one of the most remarkable beings ever produced by Normandy.

The first-born of our itinerant performers was a boy, John, now nineteen years old. If he did not take after his parents with regard to muscle or to the performances of a gymnast, an acrobat or a clown, he showed his true blood by a wonderfully dexterous hand and an eye ever sure of its aim, two gifts that made him a graceful, elegant juggler. Nor was his success marred with self-conscious pride. He was a gentle, thoughtful youth with blue eyes, and dark-complexioned like his mother. Studious and reserved, he sought to improve himself wherever and whenever he could. Though not ashamed of his parents’ profession, he felt there was something better to do than performing in public, and he looked forward to giving up the craft as soon as he would be in France. At the same time his genuine love for his father and his mother prompted him to keep extremely reserved on this subject; indeed, besides, what prospects had he of making another position for himself in the world?

Then, there was the second boy, the last but one of the children, the contortionist of the troupe. He was really the logical joint-product of the Cascabel couple. Twelve years old, as nimble as a cat, as handy as a monkey, as lively as an eel, a little three-foot-six clown who had tumbled into this world heels over head, so his father said, a real gamin as ready-witted as full of fun and frolic, and a good heart withal, sometimes deserving of a thump on his head, but taking it with a grin, for it was never a very hard one.

It was stated above that the eldest scion of the Cascabels was called John. Whence came this name? The mother had insisted upon it in memory of one of her grand-uncles, Jean Vadarasse, a sailor from Marseilles, who had been eaten by the Caribbean islanders, an exploit she was proud of. To be sure, the father who had the good luck to have been christened Caeser, would have preferred another name, one better known in history and more in accordance with his secret admiration for warriors. But he was unwilling to thwart his wife’s wishes on the advent of their first-born, and he had accepted the name John, promising himself to make up for it, should a second heir be born to him.

This event came to pass, and the second son was called Alexander, after having a narrow escape of being named Hamilcar, Attila, or Hannibal. For shortness sake, however, he was familiarly known as Sander.

After the first and the second boy, the family circle was joined by a little girl who received the name of Napoleona, in honor of the martyr at St. Helena, although Mrs. Cascabel would have loved to call her Hersilla.

Napoleona was now eight years old. She was a pretty child, with every promise of growing to be a handsome girl, and a handsome girl she did become. Fair and rosy, with a bright, animated countenance, graceful and clever, she had mastered the art of tight-rope walking; her tiny feet seemed to glide along the wire for play, as though the little sylph had had wings to bear her up.

It were idle to say Napoleona was the spoilt child of the family. She was worshipped by all, and she was fit to be. Her mother fondly cherished the thought that she would make a grand match some day. Is not that one of the contingencies of these people’s nomadic life? Why might not Napoleona, grown up into a handsome young girl, come across a prince who would fall in love with her, and marry her?

“Just as in fairytales?” Mr. Cascabel would suggest, his turn of mind being more practical than his wife’s.

“No, Caeser, just as in real life.”

“Alas, Cornelia, the time is gone when kings married shepherdesses, and, my word! in these days of ours, I have yet to know that shepherdesses would consent to marry kings!”

Such was the Cascabel family, father, mother and three children. It might have been better perhaps, if a fourth olive branch had increased the number, seeing there are certain human-pyramid exercises in which the artists climb on top of each other in even numbers. But this fourth member did not appear.

Luckily, Clovy was there, the very man to lend a hand on extraordinary occasions.

In truth, Clovy was the complement of the Cascabels. He was not one of the show, he was one of the family; and he had every claim to the membership, an American though he was by birth. He was one of those poor wretches, one of those “nobody’s children,” born Heaven knows where, — they hardly know it themselves, — brought up by charity, fed as luck will have it, and taking the right road in life, if they happen to be rightly inclined, if their innate sense of what is good enables them to resist the evil examples and the evil promptings of their miserable surroundings. And should we not feel some pity for these unfortunates if, in the majority of cases, they are led to evil deeds, and come to an evil end?

Such was not the case with Ned Harley, on whom Mr. Cascabel had thought it funny to bestow the name of Clovy. And why? First, because he had as much spare fat about him as a dried clove; second, because he was engaged to receive, during the “parades,” a greater number of five-fingered stingers than any cruciferous shrub could produce of cloves in a year!

Two years before, when Mr. Cascabel lighted upon him, in his round through the States, the unfortunate man was at death’s door through starvation. The troupe of acrobats, to which he belonged, had just broken up, the manager having run away. With them, he was in the “minstrels,” a sad business, even when it manages to pay, or nearly so, for the food of the wretch who plies it! Daubing your face with boot-blacking, “niggering” yourself, as they say; putting on a black coat and pants, a white vest and necktie; then singing stupid songs whilst scraping on a ludicrous fiddle in company with four or live outcasts of your kin, what a position that is in society! Well, Ned Harley had just lost that social position; and he was but too happy to meet Providence on his path, in the person of Mr. Cascabel.

It happened just then that the latter had lately dismissed the artist who generally played the clown in the parade scenes. Will it ever be believed? This clown had passed himself off as an American, and was in reality of English origin! A John Bull in the troupe! A countryman of those heartless tormentors who — The rest of the story is known. One day, by mere chance, Mr. Cascabel heard of the intruder’s nationality.

“Mr. Waldurton,” said he to him, “since you are an Englishman, you’ll take yourself off this very moment, or else it’s not my hand on your face you shall get, a clown though you be!”

And a clown though he was, it is the tip of a boot he would have felt if he had not disappeared instantly.

It was then that Clovy stepped into the vacant berth. The late “minstrel” now engaged himself as a “man of all work”; he would perform on the boards, groom the horses, or, just as readily, do the kitchen work, whenever the mistress needed a helping hand. Naturally, he spoke French, but with a very strong accent.

He still was, on the whole, a simple-minded fellow, though now five-and-thirty years of age, as full of mirth when he gratified the public with his drolleries as he was melancholy in private life. He was rather inclined to view things on their dark side; and, to be candid, that was not to be wondered at, for it would have been hard for him to look upon himself as one of the favored ones here below. With his tapering head, his long-drawn face, his yellowish hair, his round, sheepish eyes, his phenomenal nose on which he was able to place half a dozen pairs of spectacles, a great source of laughter, — his flabby ears, his long neck like a stork’s, his thin body stuck up on skeleton legs, he looked indeed a strange being. Still, he was not a man to complain, unless — this was his favorite way of qualifying a statement, — unless ill-luck gave him cause to complain. In addition, ever since his joining the Cascabels, he had become greatly attached to the good people, and they, on their part, could not have done without their Clovy.

Such was, if it may be put thus, the human element in this itinerant troupe.

As to the animal element, it was represented by two fine dogs, a spaniel — a first-rate hunter and a reliable watch-dog for the house on wheels — and a clever, intelligent poodle, sure to become a member of the “Institute,” whenever the intellectual powers of the canine race are rewarded in France on a par with those of men.

Next to the two dogs, it is right we should introduce to the public a little ape that proved a worthy rival of Clovy himself when they vied with one another in distorting their faces, and puzzled the spectators as to who should carry off the palm. Then, there was a parrot, Jako, a native of Java, who talked and prattled and sang and jabbered ten hours out of twelve, thanks to the teaching of his friend Sander. Lastly two horses, two good old horses, drew the wagon, and God knows if their legs, somewhat stiffened with years, had been stretched out over the miles and miles they had measured across country.

And, should you care to know the names of these two good steeds? One was called Vermont like Mr. Delamarre’s winning horse, the other Gladiator like Count de Lagrange’s.

Yes, they bore those names so famous on the French turf; yet they never had a thought of getting themselves entered for the Paris Grand Prix.

As to the dogs, they were called: the spaniel, Wagram, the poodle, Marengo; and, no need to tell who the godfather was to whom they were indebted for those renowned historical names.

The ape — why, he had been christened John Bull, for the simple reason that he was ugly.

What can be done? We must overlook this mania of Mr. Cascabel’s, proceeding as it did, after all, from a patriotic sentiment which is very pardonable — even though at an epoch when such strong feelings are but little justified.

“Were it possible,” he would say sometimes, “not to worship the man who exclaimed under a shower of bullets: ‘Follow the white feather on my hat; you will ever find it, etc?’”

And, when he would be reminded that it was Henry IV who had uttered those beautiful words:

“That may be,” he would reply; “but Napoleon could have said as much!”

CHAPTER III.

THE SIERRA NEVADA.

HOW many people have had dreams, at one time or other, of a journey performed in a movable house, after gypsy fashion! of a journey exempt of all worry concerning hotels, and inns, and unreliable beds, and still more unreliable cooks, when the country to be traversed is no more than besprinkled with hamlets or villages! That which wealthy amateurs do daily on board their pleasure yachts, surrounded by all the comfort of their transplanted home, few are the people who have done it by means of a vehicle ad hoc. And still, is not a carriage a movable house? Why do gypsies enjoy a monopoly of the pleasures of “yachting on terra firma?”

In reality, the showman’s wagon constitutes a complete flat, with its various rooms and furniture; it is “home” on wheels; and Caeser Cascabel’s was beautifully adapted to the requirements of his gypsy life.

The Fair Rambler was the name they had given it, as though it were a Norman schooner; and that name was justified after so many peregrinations through the length and breadth of the United States. They had bought it three years ago, with the first money they had saved, as a substitute for the old primitive van, just covered over with an awning and unsupported by a single spring, that had nestled them so long. Now, as it was over twenty years since Mr. Cascabel had begun visiting the fairs and markets of the United States, it is needless to say his wagon was of American manufacture.

The Fair Rambler rested on four wheels. Supplied with good steel springs, it combined lightness with strength. Well looked after, scrubbed and washed with soap, it shone in all the glow of its brightly-painted panels on which gold yellow blended harmoniously with cochineal red, and displayed to the public gaze the already famous trade name and mark:

THE CAESAR CASCABEL FAMILY.

As to length, it would have been a match for those wagons that still ply the prairies of the Far West, in parts where the Great Trunk Railroad has not hitherto pushed its way. It is evident that two horses could only walk with so heavy a vehicle. In truth the load was no light one. Not to speak of its inhabitants, did not the Fair Rambler convey, on its roof, the canvas for the tent, and the poles, and the ropes, and, underneath between the fore and the hind wheels, a swinging board laden with various articles, a large drum and a smaller one, a horn, a trombone and other utensils and accessories, the real tools of the showman? Let us put on record likewise the costumes of a noted pantomine, “The Brigands of the Black Forest,” on the repertory of the Cascabel family.

The internal arrangements were well devised, and we need not add that scrupulous cleanliness, Flemish cleanliness, reigned supreme, thanks to Cornelia, who could stand no trifling in this respect.

In the fore part, closing by means of a sliding glass-door, was the first compartment heated by the cooking-stove. Next came a drawing or dining-room, where the fortune-teller gave her consultations; then a bed-room with bunks, superposed on each other as on board ship, which, with a curtain for a division, afforded sleeping accommodation, on the right to the two brothers, and on the left to their little sister; lastly at the further end, Mr. and Mrs. Cascabel’s room. Here, a bed with thick mattresses and a patchwork quilt, near which the famous safe had been deposited. All the recesses were taken up with little boards on hinges, which might be used as tables or toilet-stands, or with narrow cupboards where the costumes, the wigs and the false beards for the pantomine, were put by. The whole was lighted by two paraffine lamps, veritable ship lamps that swung to and fro with the motion of the vehicle when the roads were unlevel; moreover, so as to allow the light of day to penetrate the various compartments, half a dozen little windows, with lead-cased panes, light muslin curtains and colored bands, gave to the Fair Rambler the appearance of the saloon on a Dutch galliot.

Clovy, naturally easy to please, slept in the first compartment, on a hammock that he hung up at night and took down at day-break next morning.

We have yet to mention that the two dogs, Wagram and Marengo, in consequence of their being on night-duty, slept among the baggage under the wagon, where they tolerated the company of John Bull, the ape, in spite of his restlessness and his propensity for playing tricks, and that Jako, the parrot, was housed in a cage hooked on to the ceiling in the second compartment.

As to the horses, Gladiator and Vermont, they were quite free to graze round about the Fair Rambler nor was there any necessity to fetter them. And when they had done cropping the grass of those vast prairies where their table was ever laid, and their bed, or rather their litter ever ready, they had only to pick out a spot whereon to lay themselves to sleep, on the very ground that had supplied them with food.

One thing certain is, that, when night had closed around, what with the guns and the revolvers of its occupants, what with the two dogs that kept watch over it, the Fair Rambler was in perfect safety.

Such was this family coach. How many a mile it had rambled along for the past three years through the States, from New York to Albany, from Niagara to Buffalo, to St. Louis, to Philadelphia, to Boston, to Washington, down the Mississippi to New Orleans, all along the Great Trunk, up to the Rocky Mountains, to the Mormon district, to the furthermost ends of California! A healthy mode of traveling, if ever there was one, seeing that not one member of the little troupe had ever been ill, save and except John Bull, whose fits of indigestion were anything but few, his instinctive knavery making it easy for him to satisfy his inconceivable gluttony.

And how glad they would be to bring back the Fair Rambler to Europe, to drive it along on the highways of the old continent! What sympathetic curiosity it would awaken as it went through France, through the village homesteads of Normandy! Ah! seeing France again, “seeing his Normandie once more” as in Berat’s well-known song, such was the aim of all Caesar Cascabel’s thoughts, the goal of all his aspirations.

Once in New York, the wagon was to be taken to pieces, packed up and put on board ship for Havre, where it would only need to be set up on its wheels again, to ramble away toward the French capital.

How Mr. Cascabel, his wife and children, longed to be off! and so, doubtless, did their companions, their four-footed friends we might say. That is why, at day-break, on the 15th of February, they left Circus Place in Sacramento, some on foot, others riding, each one to his fancy.

The temperature was very cool still, but it was fine weather. It may be surmised the anchor was not weighed without a due supply of biscuits on board, or if you like, without various preserves of meat and vegetables. As to that, it was an easy matter to renew the stocks in the towns and villages. And then, was not the country swarming with game, buffaloes, deer, hares and partridges? And would John be sparing of his gun or his shot when shooting was subject to no restriction, when no European gun license was demanded in those boundless wilds of the Far West? And a dead shot was John, I tell you; and Wagram, the spaniel, showed hunting qualities of no mean standard, if Marengo the poodle was deficient in that respect.

On leaving Sacramento, the Fair Rambler took a north-east course. The object was to reach the frontier by the shortest road, and to cross the Sierra Nevada, say, to travel a distance of about six hundred miles to the Sonora Pass, which opens on to the endless plains of the East.

This was not the Far West, properly so-called, yet, where villages are only to be found at long intervals; it was not the prairie with its far-distant horizon, its immense waste, its wandering Indians gradually driven back toward the less frequented parts of North America. Almost as soon as you were out of Sacramento, the land already began to rise. You already perceived the ramifications of the Sierra which so nobly enclasps old California within the dark frame of its pine-covered mountains, overtopped here and there with peaks 15,000 feet high. It is a barrier of verdure thrown up by nature around that country on which she had lavished such wealth of gold, now carried away by the rapacity of man.

Along the road followed by the Fair Rambler there was no lack of important towns: Jackson, Mokelumne, Placerville, the world-known outposts of the Eldorado, and the Calaveras. But Mr. Cascabel halted in these places barely long enough to make a few purchases, or to have a specially good night’s rest, when needed. He longed to get to the other side of the Nevada, the Great Salt Lake district, and the huge rampart of the Rocky Mountains, where his horses would have many a hard tug to give. Then as far as the Erie or Ontario region, all they need do would be to follow, through the prairies, the trails already beaten by the feet of the horses and furrowed by the wagons of preceding caravans.

Still, progress was slow through these hilly districts. Unavoidable detours increased the length of the journey. And again, although the country lay in the thirty-eighth parallel, which, in Europe, is the latitude of Sicily and Spain, the last lingering chill of winter had lost none of its sting. In consequence, as the reader knows, of the deviation of the Gulf Stream — that warm current which, when leaving the Gulf of Mexico, winds obliquely toward Europe, — the climate of North America is much colder, on the same latitudes, than that of the old Continent. But, a few weeks more, and once again California would be the land exuberant among all others, that fruitful land, where cereals multiply a hundredfold, where the most varied productions, both of the tropics and of the temperate zone, luxuriate side by side, sugar cane, rice, tobacco, oranges, lemons, olives, pineapples, bananas. The wealth of the Californian soil is not the gold it contains, it is the marvelous vegetation it brings forth.

“We shall be sorry to leave this country,” said Cornelia, who did not look with an indifferent eye on the good things of the table.

“You glutton!” her husband would answer.

“Oh, it is not for myself I speak, it is for the children!”

Several days were spent journeying along the edge of the forests, through prairies gradually resuming their fresh tint of green. Despite their numbers, the ruminants fed by these prairies are unable to wear out the carpet of grass that nature keeps on renewing for ever under their feet. Too great emphasis could not be laid on the vegetative power of that Californian soil, to which no other can be compared. It is the granary of the Pacific, and the merchant navy, that takes its produce away, cannot exhaust it. The Fair Rambler went on its way, at its usual speed, a daily average of eighteen or twenty miles — not more. It is at this rate it had already conveyed its freight throughout all the States, where the name of the Cascabels was so favorably known, from the mouth of the Mississippi to New England. True, they then stopped in every town of the Confederacy to increase the amount of their takings; while in this journey, from west to east, there was no thought of dazzling the populations. No artistic tour was this; this time, it was the journey home toward old Europe, with the Norman farms away in perspective.

A merry journey it was, too! How many sedentary dwellings would have envied the happiness of this house on wheels? There was laughing, and singing, and joking; and at times the horn, on which young Sander exhibited all his skill, would set the birds to flight, just as noisy a tribe as our frolicsome troupe.

All this was very fine, but days spent traveling need not, of necessity, be schoolboys’ holidays.

“My children,” Mr. Cascabel would often say, “we must not get rusty for all this!”

And so, during the halts, if the horses took a rest, the family did not do so. More than once did the Indians eagerly watch John going over his juggling, Napoleona rehearsing a few graceful steps, Sander dislocating himself as though his limbs were India-rubber, Mrs. Cascabel indulging in muscular exercises, and Mr. Cascabel in ventriloquial effects, not to forget Jako prattling in its cage, the two dogs performing together, and John Bull exhausting himself in contortions.

Let it be noticed, however, that John did not neglect his studying by the roadside. Over and over again did he read the few books that made up the little library of the Fair Rambler, a small geography, a small arithmetic, and various volumes of travels; he it was, moreover, who wrote up the log-book, in which were pleasantly recorded the incidents of the cruise.

“You will know too much!” his father sometimes said to him. “Still, if your taste runs that way, — “

And far was it from Mr. Cascabel to thwart the literary instincts of his first-born. As a fact, his wife and himself were very proud to have a “scholar” in the family.

One afternoon, about the 27th of February, the Fair Rambler reached the foot of the Sierra Nevada gorges. For four or five days to come, this rugged pass through the chain would cause them much toil and labor. It would be no light task, for man or beast, to climb half-way up the mountain. The men would have to put their shoulders to the wheels along the narrow paths which skirt the giant’s sides. Although the weather continued to grow milder, thanks to the early influence of Californian spring, the climate would still be inclement at certain latitudes. Nothing is to be dreaded more than the floods of rain, the fearful snowdrifts, the bewildering squalls you encounter at the turns of those gorges in which the wind gets imprisoned as in a gulf. Besides, the upper portion of the passes rises above the zone of the permanent snow, and you must ascend to a height of at least six thousand feet before reaching the downward slope toward the Mormon district.

Mr. Cascabel proposed to do as he had already done on similar occasions: he would hire extra horses in the villages or the farms on the mountain, as well as men, Indians or Americans, to drive them. It would be an additional expense, of course, but a necessary one, if they cared not to break down their own horses.

On the evening of the 27th, the entrance into the Sonora Pass was reached. The valleys they had hitherto followed presented but a slight gradient; Vermont and Gladiator had walked them up with comparative ease. But farther up they could not have gone, even with the help of every member of the troupe.

A halt was made within a short distance of a hamlet that lay in a gorge of the Sierra. Just a few houses, and, at a couple of gunshots’ distance, a farm to which Mr. Cascabel determined to repair that very evening. There he would engage, for the following morning, some extra horses that Vermont and Gladiator would gladly welcome.

First, the necessary measures had to be taken for spending the night in this spot.

As soon as the camp was organized in the usual manner, the inhabitants of the hamlet were communicated with and readily consented to supply fresh food for the masters, and forage for the horses.

On this evening, the rehearsing of exercises was out of the question. All were worn out with fatigue. It had been a heavy day: for, in order to lighten the load, they had had to go on foot a great part of the journey. Manager Cascabel therefore granted absolute rest on this and every other night while they crossed the Sierra.

After the “master’s searching eye” had been cast over the encampment, Cascabel took Clovy, and, leaving the Fair Rambler to the charge of his wife and children, made his way toward the farm over which ringlets of smoke were seen curling up through the trees.

This farm was kept by a Californian and his family by whom the showman was well received. The farmer undertook to supply him with three horses and two drivers. The latter were to pilot the Fair Rambler as far as where the eastward declivity begins, and then return with the extra horses. But, that would cost a deal of money.

Mr. Cascabel bargained like a man who is anxious not to throw his money away, and, eventually, a sum was agreed on, which did not exceed the subsidy allowed on the budget for this portion of the trip.

The next morning, at six o’clock, the two men arrived; their three horses were put to, in front of Vermont and Gladiator, and the Fair Rambler began climbing up a narrow gorge thickly wooded on each side. About eight o’clock, at one of the turnings of the pass, that marvelous land of California, which our travelers were not leaving without a pang, had entirely disappeared behind the Sierra.

The farmer’s three steeds were fine animals, which could be relied upon in every way. Could the same be said of the drivers? The thing seemed, to say the least, doubtful.

Both were strong fellows, half-breeds, half Indian, half English. Ah! had Mr. Cascabel known it, how soon he had parted company with them!

Cornelia was anything but prepossessed by their looks on the whole. John held the same views as his mother, and these views were shared by Clovy. It did not seem as though Mr. Cascabel had made a good hit. After all, these men were but two, and they would find their match, should they harbor any evil design.

As to dangerous encounters in the Sierra, they were not to be dreaded. The roads should be safe by this time. The days were gone when Californian miners, the “loafers” and the “rowdies” as they were styled, joined the ranks of the criminals who had thronged here from every quarter of the globe, to become the plague of respectable people. Lynch law had succeeded in bringing them to reason.

However, as a prudent man, Mr. Cascabel determined to keep on the alert.

The men hired at the farm were skillful drivers; that could not be denied. The first day passed by without any accident: that was something to be thankful for, first of all. A wheel giving way, an axle tree in halves, and the occupants of the Fair Rambler, away from all human dwellings, without any means of repairing the damage, would have been in a sorry plight.

The pass now wore the wildest aspect. Nothing but black-looking pine trees, no vegetation but the moss hugging the soil. Here and there, enormous heaps of piled-up rocks necessitated many a detour, especially along one of the affluents of the Walkner, which came out of the lake of that name and bellowed its mad career into the precipices below. Far away, lost in the clouds, Castle Peak pointed to the skies, and looked down on the other spurs picturesquely shot upwards by the Sierra.

About five o’clock, when the shades of evening were already creeping up from the depths of the narrow gorges, they came to a sudden turn of the road. The gradient in this spot was so steep that it was found necessary to unload a portion of the freight and leave behind, for a time, most of the articles laid on the top of the wagon, as well as those underneath it.

Every one worked with a will, and, it must be confessed, the two drivers gave proofs of zeal in this circumstance.

Mr. Cascabel and his people had their first impression of those men slightly modified. Besides, in another couple of days, the highest point of the pass would be attained; their downhill journey would commence; and all that belonged to the farm would return thereto.

When the halting station had been agreed upon, whilst the drivers looked after the horses, Mr. Cascabel, his two sons and Clovy, walked back a few hundred paces for the things that had been left behind.

A good supper terminated the day, and nobody thought of aught else but a sound rest.

The “boss” offered to the drivers to make room for them in one of the compartments of the Fair Rambler; but they declined, assuring him that the shelter of the trees was all that they needed. There, well wrapped in thick rugs, they could watch all the better after their master’s horses.

A few moments more, and the encampment was buried in sleep.

The following morning, all were on foot at the first dawn of day.

Mr. Cascabel, John and Clovy, the earliest risers in the Fair Rambler, went to the spot where Vermont and Gladiator had been penned up, the night before.

Both were there, but the three horses of the farmer had disappeared.

As they could not be very far off, John was about telling the drivers to go look for them; neither was to be seen about the camping-ground.

“Where are they?” said he.

“Very likely,” answered his father, “they are running after the horses.”

“Hallo! Hallo!” shouted Clovy in a tone of voice that should be heard a considerable distance away.

No answer came.

New cries were uttered, as loud as the force of human lungs would permit, by Mr. Cascabel and by John, who went a little way down the track.

No sign of the missing drivers.

“Could it be that their appearance only told too plainly what they were?”

“Why would they have run away?” asked John.

“Because they’ll have done something wrong.”

“What?”

“What? Wait a bit! — We shall soon know!”

And, with John and Clovy on his heels, he ran toward the Fair Rambler.

Jumping up the wagon step, opening the door, two strides through the compartments and on to the end room where the precious safe had been laid, all that was the work of an instant, and Mr. Cascabel reappeared, shouting:

“Stolen!”

“What, the safe?” said Cornelia.

“Yes, stolen by those ruffians!”

CHAPTER IV.

A GREAT RESOLUTION.

RUFFIANS!

This was indeed the only name suitable to such wretches. The robbery, however, was none the less an accomplished fact.

Each evening Mr. Cascabel had been in the habit of seeing whether the safe lay still in its nook. Now, the day before, well he remembered it, worn out with the hardships of the day and overpowered with sleep, he had omitted his habitual inspection. No doubt, while John, Sander and Clovy had gone down with him for the articles that had been left at the turning of the pass, the two drivers had made their way unnoticed into the inner compartment, removed the safe, and hidden it among the brushwood around the camping-ground. That was the reason why they had declined to sleep inside the Fair Rambler. They had afterward waited until everybody was asleep, and had then run away with the farmer’s horses.

Out of all the savings of the little troupe, there was nothing left now but a few dollars that Mr. Cascabel had in his pocket. And was it not lucky that the rascals had not taken Vermont and Gladiator away as well!

The dogs, already grown accustomed to the presence of the two men for the past twenty-four hours, had not even given the alarm, and the evil deed had been done without any difficulty.

Where were the thieves to be caught, now that they had made for the Sierra? Where was the money to be recovered? And without the money, how was the Atlantic to be crossed?

The poor people gave vent to their grief, some with tears, others with outbursts of indignation. At the very first, Mr. Cascabel was a prey to a real fit of rage, and his wife and children found it very difficult to calm him down. But, after having thus given way to his passion, he recovered possession of himself, as a man who has no time to waste in vain recriminations.

“Accursed safe!” burst from Cornelia’s lips in the midst of her tears.

“Sure enough!” said John, “if we had had no safe, our money — “

“Yes! — A brilliant idea I hatched that day, to go buy that devil of a chest!” exclaimed Mr. Cascabel. “I guess the best thing to do when you have a safe is to put nothing in it! A great boon, to be sure, that it was proof against fire, as the shopman told me, when it was not proof against thieves!”

It must be admitted, the blow was a hard one for the poor people, and it is no wonder they felt utterly crushed by it. Robbed of two thousand dollars that had been earned at the cost of so much toil!

“What shall we do now?” inquired John.

“Do?” replied Mr. Cascabel, whose gnashing teeth seemed to grind his words as he spoke. “It is very simple! — Nay, it is most uncommonly simple! Without extra horses we can’t possibly go on climbing up the pass. Well, I vote we go back to the farm! It may be, those ruffians are there!”

“Unless they did not go back!” suggested Clovy.

And, truly, this was more than likely. However, as Mr. Cascabel said once more, the only course open to them was returning on their steps, since going ahead was out of the question.

Thereupon Vermont and Gladiator were put to, and the wagon began its journey down through the pass of the Sierra.

This was but too easy a task alas! You can put on speed when you go downhill; but it was with heads hanging down and without a word our folks jogged down, save and except when a volley of curses broke forth from Cascabel.

At twelve o’clock in the day the Fair Rambler stopped in front of the farm. The two thieves had not returned. On hearing what had taken place the farmer flew into a passion in which sympathy for the show-people played not the slightest part. If they had lost their money, he had been robbed of his three horses, he had! Once away in the mountain, the thieves must have cut across to the other side of the pass. A nice race he might have after them now! And the farmer, beside himself with excitement, had wellnigh held Mr. Cascabel responsible for the loss of his horses!

“That’s a rich idea!” said the latter. “Why do you keep such scoundrels in your service, and why do you hire them to respectable people?”

“How did I know?” the farmer replied. “Not a word of complaint had I ever against them!”

In any case the robbery had been perpetrated, and the situation was heart-breaking.

But, if Mrs. Cascabel found it hard to master her own feelings, her husband with that solid foundation of gypsy philosophy so peculiarly his own, succeeded in recovering his coolness.

And when they were assembled together in the Fair Rambler, a conversation was engaged among all the members of the family, — a most important conversation, “out of which was to come forth a great resolution,” so said Mr. Cascabel, strongly rolling his r’s as he spoke: “Children, there are circumstances in life, when a strong-willed man must be able to make up his mind on the spur of the moment. Indeed I have observed that those circumstances are generally unpleasant ones. Witness those in which we now are, thanks to those rascals. Well, this is no time to hesitate to the right or to the left, the more so as we have not half a dozen roads before us. We have but one, and that’s the road we shall take immediately.”

“Which?” asked Sander.

“I am going to tell you what I have in my head,” answered Mr. Cascabel. “But, to know if my idea is practicable, John must fetch his book with the maps in it.”

“My atlas?” said John.

“Yes, your atlas. You must be a good fellow at geography! Run for your atlas.”

“Straight off, father.”

And when the atlas had been laid on the table, the father continued as follows: “It is an understood thing, my children, that, although those ruffians have stolen our safe — why did I ever think of buying a safe! — it is an understood thing, I say, that we don’t give up our idea of going back to Europe.”

“Give it up? — never!” exclaimed Mrs. Cascabel.

“A good answer, Cornelia! We want to go back to Europe, and go back we shall! We want to see France again, and see her again we shall! It is not because we have been robbed by scoundrels that — I, for one, must breathe my native air once more, or I am a dead man.”

“And you shan’t die, Caesar! We have made our start for Europe, we shall get there, no matter what — “

“And how shall we?” reiterated John. “How? I should like to know.”

“How, that’s the question,” answered Mr. Cascabel, scratching his forehead. “Of course, by giving performances along the road, we shall be able to get day by day what will land the Fair Rambler in New York. But, when there, no money left to pay for our passage, no boat to take us across! And without a boat, no possibility of crossing the sea except we swim! Now, I fancy that will be rather hard.”

“Very hard, boss,” replied Clovy, “unless we had fins.”

“Have you any?”

“Not that I know of.”

“If so, hold your peace, and listen.”

Then addressing his eldest son: “John, open your atlas, and show us the exact spot where we are!”

John found out the map of North America, and laid it under his father’s eyes. All eagerly looked whilst he pointed with his finger to a spot in the Sierra Nevada a little to the east of Sacramento.

“This is it!” he said.

“Very well,” answered Mr. Cascabel. “And so, if we were on the other side of the range, we should have the whole territory of the United States to cross, right through to New York?”

“We should, father.”

“And how many miles might that be?”

“Somewhere about four thousand miles.”

“Very good; then we should have the ocean to cross?”

“Of course.”

“And how many miles to the other side of that ocean?”

“Three thousand or thereabouts.”

“And once on French soil, we may say we are in Normandy?”

“We may.”

“And all that, put together, gives a total of — “

“Seven thousand miles!” cried out little Napoleona, who had been reckoning it to herself.

“See, the little one!” said Mr. Cascabel. “Isn’t she quick at figures! So, we say seven thousand miles?”

“About that, father,” answered John, “and I think I’m allowing good measure.”

“Well, children, that little strip of ribbon would be nothing for the Fair Rambler, if there was not a sea between America and Europe, an unfortunate sea blocking up the road for the wagon! And that sea can’t be got over without money, that is, without a boat — “

“Or without fins!” repeated Clovy.

“Clovy has got fins on the brain!” said Mr. Cascabel with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Well then, it is beyond all evidence,” remarked John, “that we can’t go home by the east!”

“Can’t is the word, my son, as you say; the thing can’t possibly be done. But, who knows if by the west?”

“By the west?” exclaimed John, looking up at his father.

“Yes! Look it up, will you? And show me what track we should follow by the west?”

“First, we should go up through California, Oregon and Washington Territory up to the Northern frontier of the United States.”

“And from there?”

“From that time, we should be in British Columbia.”

“Pugh!” said Mr. Cascabel. “And could we not avoid that Columbia by any means?”

“No, father.”

“Well, go on! And after that?”

“After we had reached the frontier to the north of Columbia, we should find the province of Alaska.”

“Which is English?”

“No, Russian — at least up to the present, for there is talk of its being annexed — “

“To England?”

“No! To the United States.”

“That’s right! And after Alaska, where are we?”

“In the Behring Strait, which separates the two continents, America and Asia.”

“And how many miles to this strait?”

“Three thousand three hundred, father.”

“Keep that in your head, Napoleona; you’ll add it all up by and by.”

“And so shall I?” asked Sander.

“And you too.”

“Now, your strait, John, how wide might it be?”

“Maybe sixty miles, father.”

“What! sixty miles!” remarked Mrs. Cascabel.

“A mere stream, Cornelia; we may as well call it a stream.”

“How’s that? — A stream?”

“Of course! Is not your Behring Strait frozen over in winter, John?”

“It is, father! For four or five months, it is one solid mass.”

“Bravo! and at that time people might walk across it on the ice?”

“People can and do so.”

“That’s what I call an excellent strait!”

“But, after that,” inquired Cornelia, “will there be no more seas to cross?”

“No! After that, we have the continent of Asia, which stretches along as far as Russia in Europe.”

“Show us that, John.”

And John took, in the atlas, the general map of Asia, which Mr. Cascabel examined attentively.

“Well! There is everything shaping itself as if to order,” said he; “so long as there are not too many wild countries in your Asia?”

“Not too many, father.”

“And Europe, where is it?”

“There,” replied John, laying the tip of his finger on the Oural.

“And what is the distance from this strait — this little stream called Behring — to Russia in Europe?”

“They reckon nearly five thousand miles.”

“And from that to France?”

“About eighteen hundred.”

“And all that makes up, from Sacramento?”

“Ten thousand one hundred and sixty,” cried at the same time Sander and Napoleona.

“You’ll both get the prize!” said Mr. Cascabel. “So then, by the east we have about seven thousand miles?”

“Yes, father.”

“And by the west, roughly speaking, ten thousand?”

“Yes, say a difference of three thousand miles.”

“Three thousand miles more on the western route, but no sea on the road! Well, then, children, since we can’t go one way, we must needs go the other, and that’s what I vote we do, as any donkey would.”

“A funny thing! Walking home backwards!” cried Sander.

“No, not backwards! It is going home by an opposite direction!”

“Quite so, father,” replied John. “Still, I would have you bear in mind that, seeing the enormous distance, we shall never reach France this year, if we go by the west!”

“Why so?”

“Because, three thousand miles in the difference is something for the Fair Rambler, — and for its team!”

“Well, children, if we are not in Europe this year, we shall be next year! And, now I think of it, as we shall have to go through Russia, where are held the fairs of Perm, Kazan and Nijni, that I so often hear of, we shall stop in those places, and I promise you the famous Cascabel family will gather fresh laurels there, and a fresh supply of cash, too!”

What objections can you make to a man when he has his answer for everything?

In truth, it is with the human soul as with iron. Under repeated blows, its molecules get more firmly kneaded together, it becomes thoroughly wrought, it acquires a greater power of resistance. And that was exactly the effect now being produced on these honest show-people. In the course of their laborious, adventurous, nomadic life in which they had had so many trials to bear, they surely never had been in such a sorry plight, with all their savings lost, and their return home by the usual means a matter of impossibility. Yet this last blow of the sledge hammer of ill-luck had so mercilessly battered them that they now felt a match for anything the future might have in store for them.

Mrs. Cascabel, her two sons and her daughter all joined in unanimous applause of the father’s proposal. And still, could anything seem more unreasonable? Mr. Cascabel must indeed have “lost his head” in his desire to return to Europe, to think of carrying such a plan into execution. Pshaw! What was it, to have to rough it across the West of America and the whole of Siberia, so long as it was in the direction of France!

“Bravo! Bravo!” exclaimed Napoleona.

“Encore! Encore!” added Sander, who could find no more suitable words to express his enthusiasm.

“Say, father,” asked Napoleona, “shall we see the Emperor of Russia?”

“Of course we shall, if his Majesty the Czar is in the habit of coming to the Nijni fair to enjoy himself.”

“And we shall perform before him?”

“No doubt! — if he will express the least desire to see us!”

“Oh, how I should love to kiss him on both cheeks!”

“You may have to be satisfied with one cheek, my little girlie!” answered Mr. Cascabel. “But, if you do kiss him, take good care you don’t spoil his crown!”

As to Clovy, the feeling he experienced toward his master was nothing short of admiration.

And so, the itinerary being now regularly planned out, the Fair Rambler was to trail it up through California, Oregon and Washington Territory to the Anglo-American frontier. They had some fifty dollars left, — the pocket-money which, luckily, had not been put up in the safe. However, as so trifling a sum could not suffice to the daily wants of such a journey, it was agreed that the little troupe would give performances in the towns and villages. There was no regret to be felt, either, at the delay occasioned by these halts. Had they not to wait until the strait should be entirely frozen over and afford safe passage to the wagon? Now, this could not come to pass before seven or eight months.

“And, to wind up, it will be ill-luck with a vengeance,” said Mr. Cascabel, “if we don’t get a few good takings before we reach the end of America!”

In truth, throughout the whole of Alaska, “making money” among wandering tribes of Indians, was very problematical. But, as far as the western frontier of the United States, in that portion of the new continent hitherto unvisited by the Cascabel family, there was no doubt but the public, on the mere faith of its reputation, should gladly give its members the welcome they deserved.

Beyond that point, our travelers would be in British Columbia, and although, there, the towns were numerous, never, no, never would Mr, Cascabel stoop so low as to open his hands for English shillings or pence. It was bad enough already, it was too bad, that the Fair Rambler and its occupants should be compelled to journey a distance of over six hundred miles on the soil of a British colony!

As to Siberia, with its long desert steppes, all they would meet there would be perhaps some of those Samoyedes or Tchuktchis who seldom leave the coast. There, no takings in perspective; that was a foregone conclusion; proof evident thereof would be forthcoming in due time.

All being agreed upon, Mr. Cascabel decided that the Fair Rambler would start off next morning at daybreak. Meanwhile, there was supper wanted. Away Cornelia set to work with her usual heartiness, and while she was at her cooking-stove, with her kitchen-help Clovy: “All the same,” said she, “that’s a grand idea of Mr. Cascabel’s.”

“I believe you, mistress, a grand idea like all those that simmer in his pot, — I mean, that gallop through his brain.”

“And then, Clovy, no sea to cross on this road, and no sea-sickness.”

“Unless — the ice should heave up and down in the strait!”

“That’s enough, Clovy, and no ill omens!”

Meanwhile, Sander was doing a few somersaults, with which his father was delighted. Napoleona, on her side, was executing some graceful steps, while the dogs frisked about her. Nor was it needless now to keep in good form, since the performances were going to be resumed.

Suddenly, Sander called out: “Why, the animals of the troupe! Nobody thought of asking their opinion about our great journey!”

And running to Vermont: “Well, my old fellow, what do you think of it, eh? A little nine thousand miles of a jog?”

Then, turning toward Gladiator: “What will your old legs say about it?”

Both horses neighed at the same time as if in token of cheerful assent.

It was now the turn of the dogs.

“Here, Wagram! here, Marengo, what jolly old capers you are going to cut, eh?”

A merry bark and a gambol seemed to supply the desired reply. It was plain that Wagram and Marengo were ready to go the wide world over at the beck of their master.

The ape was next called upon to speak his mind.

“Come, John Bull!” exclaimed Sander, “don’t put on such a long face! You’ll see lots of countries, my old boy! And, if you are cold, we’ll put your warm jacket on you! And those funny faces of yours? I do hope you have not forgotten how to make them, have you?”

No! John Bull had not forgotten any such thing, and the antics he made there and then excited the laughter of all around him.

Remained the parrot.

Sander took it out of its cage. The bird strutted about, nodding its head and “squaring itself” on its legs.

“Well, Jako,” asked Sander, “you say nothing? Have you lost your tongue? — We are going on such a glorious journey! Are you pleased, Jako?”

Jako drew from the depths of its throat a series of articulate sounds in which the r’s rolled as if they had come out of Mr. Cascabel’s powerful larynx. “Bravo!” cried Sander. “He is quite satisfied — Jako approves the motion! Jako votes with the ayes!”

And the young lad, his hands on the ground, and his feet up in the air, began a series of somersaults and contortions which gained him the applause of his father Just then, Cornelia appeared.

“Supper is laid,” she cried.

One moment later, all the guests were sitting down in the dining-room, and the meal was consumed to the last crumb of bread.

It would have seemed as though everything was forgotten already, when Clovy brought the conversation back to the famous safe: “Why, the thought now strikes me, boss. What a sell for those two scoundrels!”

“How’s that?” inquired John.

“As they haven’t the word for the lock, they’ll never be able to open the safe.”

“And that’s why I feel sure they’ll bring it back!” answered Mr. Cascabel with an outburst of laughter.

And this extraordinary man, wholly absorbed by his new project, had already forgotten both the theft and the thieves!

CHAPTER III.

ADRIFT.

THE reader now knows what the position of our shipwrecked party was on the date of the 27th of October. Could they have deluded themselves respecting their fate or preserved the faintest hope? Adrift through Behring Strait, their last chance had been to get into the southern current and be brought to the Asiatic coast; and it was the northern stream that was bearing them away to the open.

When shifting about in the Polar Sea, what would become of their berg, on the supposition that it would not dissolve, that it would resist all the shocks it would receive? Would it get aground on some Arctic land? Driven for a few hundred leagues by the east winds that were then predominant, would it not be cast on the shores of Spitzberg or Nova Zembla? In this case, even though at the price of untold fatigues, would the wanderers succeed in reaching the continent?

Mr. Sergius was weighing the consequences of this last hypothesis, and talked about it with Mr. Cascabel and John while scanning the fog-shrouded horizon.

“My friends,” he said, “we are evidently in a great peril, since this berg may break up at any moment; and on the other hand there is no possibility of our leaving it.”

“Is that the greatest danger we are threatened with?” asked Mr. Cascabel.

“For the time being, it is. But when the weather gets cold again, this danger will diminish and eventually disappear, even. Now, at this time of the year and in this latitude, the present rise in the temperature cannot possibly last beyond a few days.”

“You are right, Mr. Sergius.” said John. “But in the event of this ice-block keeping intact, where will it go?”

“In my opinion, it cannot go very far, and it will soon adhere to some icefield. Then, as soon as the sea is thoroughly frozen over, we shall try to get back to the continent and resume our old itinerary.”

“And what shall we do, now that our horses are gone?” exclaimed Mr. Cascabel. “Ah, my poor horses! my poor horses! — Mr. Sergius, those noble things! they were like two of our own selves! and it is all through my fault!”

Cascabel could not be consoled. His heart overflowed. He blamed himself for being the cause of this catastrophe. Horses crossing a sea on foot! Who had ever heard of such an idea? — And he thought more of the old steeds than of the inconvenience their loss would entail.

“Yes, in the conditions we are in, owing to this thaw, that is an irretrievable misfortune,” said Mr. Sergius. “That we men should put up with the privations and the fatigues resulting from this loss, goes for nothing. But what will Mrs. Cascabel do, what will Kayette and Napoleona do, who are but children yet, when we have abandoned the Fair Rambler — “

“Abandon it!” exclaimed Cascabel.

“We shall have to do so, father!”

“Verily,” exclaimed Mr. Cascabel, threatening himself with his own fist, “it was tempting Providence to undertake such a journey! — Following such a road to return to Europe!”

“Do not break down in such a way, my friend,” replied Mr. Sergius. “Let us face danger without flinching. It is the surest way to overcome it!”

“Come, father,” John added, “what is done cannot be undone, and we all agreed that it should be done. Do not blame yourself alone, then, for lack of caution, and recover your old pluck!”

But despite all these encouragements Mr. Cascabel felt crushed; his self-reliance, his innate philosophy, had received a severe blow.

Meanwhile Mr. Sergius used all the means at his disposal, his mariner’s compass, certain landmarks he fancied he had fixed, and what not, so as to ascertain the direction of the current. Indeed it was at these observations that he spent the few hours during which daylight somewhat brightens up the horizon in this latitude. Nor was it an easy task when the landmarks were forever changing.

Beyond the strait the sea seemed to be free for a considerable distance. Evidently, with this anomalous temperature, the Arctic icefield had never been completely formed. If it had appeared to be so for a few days, it is because the blocks of ice traveling north or south under the influence of the two currents had met together in this narrow portion of the sea between the two continents.

As the result of his manifold calculations, Mr. Sergius thought himself justified in stating that the course they were following was sensibly northwest. This was doubtless due to the fact that the Behring current, hugging the Siberian coast after having repelled the Kamtchatka current, was describing, as it got out of Behring Strait, a wide curve, subtended by the parallel of the polar circle.

At the same time, Mr. Sergius was able to ascertain that the wind, still very violent, blew straight from the southeast. Just for a moment it had veered to the south; that was due to the lay of the coasts on each side; now in the open sea, it had resumed its former direction.

As soon as this state of things had been discovered, Mr. Sergius returned to Caeser Cascabel and straightway told him that under the circumstances nothing more fortunate could have happened. This good item of news restored a little peace of mind to the head of the family.

“Yes,” he said, “it is a lucky thing we are going in the very direction we wanted to go! — But, what a round we shall have made! Gracious goodness, what a round!”

Thereupon our friends set about making the best possible arrangements, as if their stay on the drifting islet was to be of long duration. First of all, it was decided they should continue to dwell inside the Fair Rambler, less exposed as it now was to be thrown on its side, since they were traveling with the wind.

Cornelia, Kayette, and Napoleona could now return to their household work, and see to the cuisine, which had been absolutely neglected for the past twenty-four hours. The meal was soon prepared, they sat to table, and if this dinner was not seasoned with the gay conversation of former days, it at least revived the guests who had been so sorely tried since their departure from Diomede Island.

The day closed in these conditions. The squalls kept up with unabated violence. The air now swarmed with birds, petrels, ptarmigans, and others, so justly named the harbingers of storms.

The next day and the subsequent days, the 28th, 29th, 30th, and 31st of October, brought no change in the situation. The wind, keeping steadily in the east, did not modify the state of the atmosphere.

Mr. Sergius had carefully taken the shape and dimensions of the iceberg. It was a sort of irregular trapezium, from three hundred and fifty to four hundred feet long and about a hundred wide. This trapezium, a good half-fathom above the water at its borders, swelled up slightly toward its center. No fissure was visible on its surface, although dull, crackling sounds sometimes ran through its mass. It seemed, therefore, as if, until now at least, the billows and the blast had been powerless against it.

Not without great efforts, the Fair Rambler had been drawn to the center. There the ropes and poles belonging to the tent used for the performances held it down so tight that there was no chance of its being knocked over.

What was most alarming was the shocks they received every time they knocked against enormous icebergs, which moved about at unequal speed, according as they obeyed the impulse of the currents or turned round on their own axes in the middle of whirlpools. Some of them, measuring at times fifteen or twenty feet in height, came straight toward them as though going to board an enemy’s ship.

They were perceived from a distance, they were seen drawing near — but how could their assault be possibly avoided? There were some that tipped over with a loud clash when the displacing of their center of gravity disturbed their equilibrium; but when collisions took place they were terrible indeed. The shock was often such that, but for timely precautions, everything would have been smashed inside the wagon. They were continually threatened with a possible and sudden dislocation. Hence as soon as the approach of a large block was announced, Mr. Sergius and his companions gathered around the Fair Rambler and clung to each other. John always tried to get near Kayette. Of all dangers, the most frightful for them would have been to be carried away separately on different broken pieces of the berg; and naturally they were safer on its central part, where it was thickest, than along its borders.

At night, Mr. Sergius and Cascabel, John and Clow, mounted guard in turns, and strained every nerve to watch over their wreck in the midst of that profound darkness, haunted by huge white figures that glided about like gigantic specters.

Although the air was still full of the mist that was swept about by the never-relenting gale, the moon, which was very low in the horizon, permeated it with its pale rays, and the icebergs could be perceived at a certain distance. On the first cry of whoever was on guard, everybody was on foot, and awaited the result of the meeting. Frequently the direction of the approaching enemy would change and it would float clear away; but sometimes a clash would occur, and the shock snapped the ropes and pulled up the stakes that held the Fair Rambler. It looked as though everything should come to pieces; surviving the collision was something to be thankful for.

Meanwhile, the temperature kept on contrary to all records. This sea, not frozen yet in the first week of November. These regions still navigable a few degrees above the polar circles! All this, surely, was extraordinary ill-luck! With all this, if some belated whaler had passed by within sight, they would have made signals to him, they would have attracted his attention by firing a few shots. After picking up the shipwrecked party, he might have brought them to some port on the American coast, to Victoria, San Francisco, San Diego, or on the Siberian coast, to Petropaulovski or Okhotsk. But no, not a sail! Nothing but floating icebergs! Nothing but the immense, solitary sea, bounded to the north by an impassable barrier of ice! Very fortunately, unless in the event of a most unlikely continuance of this anomalous condition of the temperature, there was no anxiety to be felt concerning the question of food, even though they kept adrift for several weeks. In view of a lengthy journey through Asiatic regions, where it would not be easy to procure victuals, they had made ample provisions of preserves, flour, rice, grease, etc. They had no longer, either, to trouble themselves about food for the horses, alas!

In truth, if Vermont and Gladiator had been spared until now, how would it be possible to provide for them?

On the 2d, 3d, 4th, 5th, and 6th of November, nothing new happened save that the wind showed a tendency to fall, and shifted somewhat to the north. Scarcely did daylight last for a couple of hours, — which added still to the horror of the situation.

In spite of Mr. Sergius’s incessant observations, it became very difficult to judge of the course of the drift; and, unable as they were to dot it on the map, they no longer knew where they were. However, on the 7th, a landmark was discovered, recognized, and fixed with a certain amount of accuracy.

On that day, about eleven o’clock, just as the vague rays of dawn whitened the space, Mr, Sergius and John, accompanied by Kayette, had just gone to the fore part of the iceberg. There happened to be, in the showman’s material, a pretty good telescope with which Clovy used to show country people the equator, — represented by a thread stretched across the object-glass, — and the inhabitants of the moon, personified by insects which he had previously introduced inside the tube. Having carefully cleaned this telescope, John had taken it with him, and endeavored with its help to discover some land away in the open.

For a few moments he had been examining the horizon very carefully, when Kayette, pointing toward the north, said:

“I fancy, Mr. Sergius, that I perceive something yonder! — Why, isn’t it a mountain I see?”

“A mountain?” replied John. “No, it is probably nothing more than an iceberg!”

And he turned his telescope in the direction shown by the young girl.

“Kayette is right!” he said, almost immediately.

And he gave the instrument to Mr. Sergius, who pointed it, in his turn, in the same direction.

“Quite right,” said he, “it is even a pretty high mountain. Kayette was not mistaken.”

On further observation, it was found that there should be land to the northward, at a distance of some sixteen or eighteen miles.

That was a fact of the utmost importance.

“To be o’ertopped by so great an elevation, a piece of land must be of considerable extent,” remarked John.

“It must, John,” answered Mr. Sergius; “and when we go back to the Fair Rambler, we must try and find it out on the map. That will enable us to ascertain our own situation.”

“John, it seems to me as if there was smoke coming out of the mountain,” suggested Kayette.

“It would be a volcano then!” said Mr. Sergius.

“It is so, quite so,” added John, who was again peering through his glass. “The smoke can be seen distinctly.”

But daylight was already dying away, and even with the magnifying power of the instrument, they were soon unable to perceive the outline of the mountain.

One hour later, however, when it was almost quite dark, vivid flashes of light appeared in the direction which had been recorded by means of a line traced on the surface of the berg.

“Now let us go and consult the map,” said Mr. Sergius.

And all three returned to the encampment.

John looked in the atlas for the general map of the boreal regions beyond Behring Strait, and this is what was calculated.

As Mr. Sergius had already ascertained, on one hand, that the current, after flowing north, curved toward the northwest about one hundred and fifty miles outside the strait, and, on the other hand, that their ice-raft had been following that direction for several days, what they had to find out was whether there were lands ahead to the northwest.

And sure enough, at a distance of some twenty leagues from the continent, the map showed a large island to which geographers have given the name of Wrangell, and the outline of which, on its northern side, is but vaguely defined. It was very probable, indeed, that the iceberg would not come in contact with it, if the current continued to carry it through the wide arm of the sea which separates the island from the coast of Siberia.

Mr. Sergius felt no doubt on the identity of Wrangell Island. Between the two capes on its southern coast. Cape Hawan and Cape Thomas, it is surmounted by a live volcano, which is marked on the recent maps. This could be no other than the volcano that Kayette had discovered, and the glare of which had been distinctly perceived at the fall of day.

Now it was an easy matter to make out the course followed by the berg since it had come out of Behring Strait. After having turned round with the coast, it had doubled Cape Serdze-Kamen, Koliutchin Bay, Wankarem Promontory, Cape North, then it had entered Long Strait, which separates Wrangell Island from the coast of the Tchutki province.

To what regions would the iceberg be borne away when it had cleared Long Strait, it was impossible to foresee. What was of a nature to alarm Mr. Sergius the more was, that, to the northward, the map showed no other land; ice alone spread over that immense space, the center of which is the pole itself.

The only hope to which they could cling now was that the sea might get entirely frozen up under the action of a more intense cold, — an eventuality which could not be delayed much longer; one which should have come to pass several weeks since. Our rovers should then get stranded on to the icefield, and by directing their steps toward the south, they might try to reach the Siberian continent. True, they would be under the necessity of abandoning the Fair Rambler for want of a team; and what would they do, if they had a long distance to cover?

Meanwhile the wind kept blowing violently from the east, though no longer in the hurricane fashion of the preceding days. Such are these horrible seas, huge waves would unfurl with a loud roar and come dashing against the crest of the floating block; then rebounding off, they would sweep right over its surface, and give it such shocks that it trembled to its very center, as though it would burst open.

Besides, those giant waves, hurled on as far as the wagon, threatened to wash away any one who was not inside it. Hence measures of precaution were taken, on the advice of Mr. Sergius.

As there had been an abundant fall of snow during the first week in November, it was easy to construct a kind of rampart, aft of the iceberg, to protect it against the waves, which, most frequently struck it from behind. Everybody set to work; and when the snow, duly trodden and beaten, had been heaped to a height and thickness of four or five feet, and had become quite hard, it presented an obstacle to the fury of the billows, the spray alone oversprinkling its summit. It was like a sort of barricade erected astern of a disabled vessel.

While this work was going on, Sander and Napoleona could not refrain from throwing an occasional snow-ball at each other, and aiming not a few at Clovy’s back. And although the present was not exactly the time for play, Mr. Cascabel did not scold too severely, except on one occasion when a ball, missing its aim, fell full on Mr. Sergius’s hat.

“Who is the good-for-nothing — ?” He had not time to finish.

“It was I, father,” cried little Napoleona, quite confused.

“You good-for-nothing child!” exclaimed Cascabel. “You will excuse her, will you, Mr. Sergius?”

“Leave the child alone, friend Cascabel,” replied the latter. “Let her come and give me a kiss; and it will be all over.”

And it was done accordingly.

Not only was a bank erected on the back part of the iceberg, but soon the Fair Rambler itself was surrounded with a kind of rampart of ice, so as to protect it more efficiently still, whilst its wheels, being packed up with ice, right up to the axle, made the wagon absolutely steady. Inside this rampart, which went up to the height of the gallery, a narrow space had been left which permitted to circulate all around the vehicle. You might have fancied it was a ship wintering in the midst of icebergs, with its hull protected by a cuirass of snow against the cold and the squalls. If the block itself did not give way, our shipwrecked party had nothing more to apprehend from the billows, and, in these conditions, they might perhaps find it possible to wait until the Arctic winter had taken entire possession of these hyperborean regions.

But then, when that time had come, they would have to start off for the continent! They would have to leave the home on wheels that had conveyed them through the length and breadth of the New World, and in which they had found so comfortable and so safe a shelter! Abandoned among the bergs of the Polar Sea, the Fair Rambler would disappear at the breaking up of the ice when the warm weather came.

And when Cascabel thought over all that, he who was always so ready to look at things on their bright side, he raised his hands to heaven, he cursed his ill luck, and blamed himself for all these disasters, forgetting that they were due to the ruffians who had robbed him in the gorges of the Sierra Nevada, and who were entirely responsible for the present state of things.

In vain did good Cornelia endeavor to drive his gloomy thoughts away, at first by gentle words and afterwards by stinging reproaches. In vain did his children and Clovy himself claim their share in the consequences of the fatal resolutions that had been adopted. In vain did they assert over and over again that this route had been unanimously agreed upon by the family. In vain did Mr. Sergius and “little Kayette” try to console the inconsolable Caeser. He would heed nothing.

“You are no longer a man, then, aren’t you?” said Cornelia to him one day, giving him a good shaking.

“Not so much as you are, wifey!” he replied, as he tried to recover his equilibrium, that had been slightly disturbed by his wife’s muscular admonition.

In reality, Mrs. Cascabel was full of anxiety for the future. And still, she felt the necessity of reacting against the dejection of her husband, hitherto so unyielding to the blows of evil fortune.

And now the question of food was beginning to trouble Mr. Sergius. It was of the greatest importance that the provisions should last, not only till such time as they would set out on the icefield, but right up to the day when they would reach Siberia. Needless to rely on their guns at a time of the year when sea-birds would be seen but seldom flying across the mist. Prudence, therefore, made it obligatory to cut down the rations in view of a journey that might last a long time.

It was under these conditions that the iceberg, irresistibly drawn along by the currents, reached the latitude of the Aion Islands, situated to the north of the Asiatic coast.

CHAPTER XII.

THE LAST EFFORTS.

THIS disappearance of the blacks, with the saddle cars and the pack camels, made the situation nearly desperate for Mrs. Branican and those who remained faithful to her.

“Treason “was the word pronounced first by Zach Fren; the word repeated by Godfrey. Treason was only evident under the circumstances. Such was the opinion of Tom Marix, who did not forget the malign influence exercised by Len Burker over the natives of the escort. Dolly would still have doubted. She could not believe in so much duplicity, in so much infamy.

“Len Burker could not have been swept away as it were?”

“Swept away with the blacks,” said Zach Fren, “at same time as the camels with our provisions!”

“And my poor Jane!” murmured Dolly, “separated from me without my noticing it.”

“Len Burker would not even let her remain with you,” said Zach Fren, “the scoundrel!”

“Scoundrel! Good! oh! very good!” said Jos. “If all that is not treachery I will give up the search — the historic hat which — ” and he turned to Gin-Ghi. “What do you think, Gin-Ghi?”

“Ai ya, Master Jos! I think I would rather a thousand and ten thousand times never have set foot in so comfortless a country!”

“Perhaps so!” replied Jos Meritt.

Treachery was so obvious, in short, that Mrs. Branican had to give in.

“But why have deceived me?” she asked; “what have I done to Len Burker? Did I not forget the past? Did I not receive them like my relations, him and his unhappy wife? And he abandons us, he leaves us without resources, he has stolen from me the price of John’s freedom! But why?”

No one knew Len Burker’s secret, and no one could answer Mrs. Branican. Jane alone could have revealed what she knew of her husband’s abominable plans, and Jane was not there.

It was only too true, however, that Len Burker had just put in execution a plan he had long prepared, a plan which seemed to have every chance of success. Under promise of being well paid, the blacks of the escort had easily listened to him. At the height of the storm, while two of the natives had dragged off Jane without its being possible to hear her screams, the others had pushed northwards with the camels around the encampment.

No one had seen them amid the profound obscurity, deepened by the whirlwinds of dust, and before the day Len Burker and his accomplices were several miles to the east of Joanna Spring.

Jane being separated from Dolly, her husband had no further .fear that, tortured by remorse, she would betray the secret of Godfrey’s birth. Besides, deprived of provisions and the means of transport, there was reason to believe that Mrs. Branican and her companions would perish in the solitudes of the Great Sandy Desert.

In fact, at Joanna Spring the caravan was still three hundred miles from the Fitzroy. In the course of this long journey how could Tom Marix provide for the wants of the expedition reduced as it now was?

Oakover Creek is one of the chief affluents of Grey River, which flows into the Indian Ocean by one of the estuaries in De Wilt Land.

On the banks of this river, which the excessive heat never dries up, Tom Marix would find the same shade, the same country which Colonel Warburton eulogizes with such a burst of joy.

There verdure and running waters take the place of t interminable plains of sand-hills and spinifex! But Colonel Warburton, arrived at this point, was almost sure of attaining his object, for he had only to descend to the creek to the settlement of Rockborne on the coast, it was not so with Mrs. Branican. The situation would, on the contrary, become worse on traversing the arid region which separate the Oakover from the Fitzroy.

The caravan now only consisted of twenty-two persons out of the forty-three which left Alice Spring — Dolly and the native woman Harriett, Zach Fren, Tom Mari Godfrey, Jos Meritt, Gin-Ghi, and with them; the fifteen whites of the escort, of whom two were seriously ill. There were only four camels, the others having been carried off by Len Burker, including the male which served as guide, and the one that carried the kibitka. The brute whose good qualities Jos Meritt appreciated so much had also disappeared, and this obliged the Englishman to travel on foot like his servant. In the matter of provisions there remained a very few tins of preserves found in a box, which one of the camels had let fall. There was no flour, nor coffee, nor tea, nor sugar, nor salt; no alcoholic drink no medicines; and how could Dolly attend to them who were suffering from the fever? It was absolute destitution in a country in which no supplies could be had.

At once Mrs. Branican called the men together. The valiant woman had lost nothing of her energy, which was really superhuman, and by her encouraging words managed to raise the spirits of her companions. What she pointed out to them was their nearness to the object of the expedition.

The journey was resumed and under such painful conditions that the most confident of the men could not hope it would end well. Of the four camels that remained, two had been reserved for the sick, whom they could not abandon at Joanna Spring, one of those uninhabited stations of which Colonel Warburton found so many in his journey. But would these poor fellows be strong enough to bear being taken to the Fitzroy, whence it might be possible to send them down to some settlement on the coast? This was doubtful, and Mrs. Branican’s heart almost broke at the idea that two more victims would be added to those already due to the loss of the Franklin. But Dolly did not give up her plans. No; she would not even delay her search. Nothing would stop her in the accomplishment of her duty, even if she alone remained.

Leaving the right bank of Oakover Creek, the bed of which was crossed at a ford about a mile above Joanna Spring, the caravan went north-north-east. In taking this direction Tom Marix hoped to strike the Fitzroy at the nearest bend it makes before running into King’s Sound. —

The heat was more bearable. It required the most urgent persuasion, almost the command, on the part of Tom Marix and Zach Fren, before Dolly would ride one of the camels. Godfrey and Zach Fren walked along at a good pace; so did Jos Meritt, whose long (legs were as’ rigid as a pair of stilts, and when Dolly offered him her mount he declined, saying, —

“Good! Oh! very good! An Englishman is an Englishman, madam, but a Chinaman is a Chinaman, and I do not sec why you should not make the same offer to Gin-Ghi — only I forbid him to accept it.”

And so Gin-Ghi went on foot, not without grumbling, thinking of the distant delights of Sou-Teheow, the city of the flower-boats,, the town adored by the Celestials.

The fourth camel was used by Tom Marix or Godfrey when they went ahead reconnoitring. The water taken from Oakover Creek would soon be consumed, and then the well question would again become serious.

Leaving the banks of the creek, the journey continued towards the north over a gently undulating plain furrows by sand-hills, extending to the extreme limits of the horizon. The tufts of spinifex were in closer clumps, and different shrubs, made yellow by autumn, gave the region a monotonous aspect. An opportunity might occur of shooting some game. Tom Marix, Godfrey, and Zack Fren, who never laid aside their weapons, had fortunately kept their guns and revolvers, and would know how to use them. It is true there was very little ammunition and it would have to be used with great care.

The advance continued for some hours; a morning stage and an afternoon stage. The bed of the crops which furrowed this territory were only strewn with calcined pebbles among the vegetation discoloured by drought. The sand showed not the least trace of humidity. It was thus necessary to find a well, and to find one within twenty-four hours, as Tom Marix had no more water at his disposal.

And so Godfrey went off right and left of the route in search of one.

“My child,” said Mrs. Branican, “be careful! Do not run into danger.”

“Run into danger!” said Godfrey, “when it concerns you and Captain John!”

Owing to his devotion, and owing also to a certain instinct which guided him, a few wells were discovered when occasionally exploring several miles from the track.

Thus if sufferings from thirst were not quite spared, then at least they were not excessive in this part of Tasman Land between Oakover Creek and Fitzroy River. What added to their fatigues were the insufficient means of transport, and the meagre rations now reduced to a few preserves, the want of tea and coffee, the want of tobacco so painful to the men of the escort, the impossibility of adding a few drops of alcohol to the brackish water. After two hours on the road the strongest were attacked by lassitude, exhaustion, and misery.

And then the camels found scarcely anything to drink among the brushwood which yielded no edible twig or leaf. There were none of those dwarf acacias, the gum of which is nutritious and sought for by the natives during these periods of drought. Nothing but the thorns of the slender mimosas and the tufts of spinifex. The camels, with their heads thrust forward, their bodies limp, dragged their feet along, and fell on their knees, and it was only by great efforts they could be kept on their legs.

On the 25th, in the afternoon, Tom Marix, Godfrey, and Zach Fren managed to obtain a little fresh food; some migrating pigeons flew by in flocks. Very wild and very quick in escaping from among the mimosa clumps, they were not easy of approach. But a few were shot. They could not but be excellent, and they were so in reality, and the famished travellers appreciated them as if they were the most savoury game. They were grilled in front of a fire of dry roots, and for a few hours Tom Marix was able to save the preserves.

But what was food for the man was not food for the camels. And in the morning of the 26th, the one that carried the sick, men fell heavily to the ground and had to be abandoned, as nothing could get him to resume the journey.

To Tom Marix fell the task of finishing him by a bullet in the head. Then, not wishing to lose the flesh, which represented food for some days, although the animal was very much emaciated by privation, he set to work to cut him up in Australian fashion. Tom Marix was not unaware that every part of the camel could be used as food. With the bones and some of the skin which they boiled in the only pot they had left, they obtained a soup which was well received by the famished stomachs; the brains, the tongue, the cheeks, properly cooked, afforded more substantial nourishment. Even the flesh cut into thin strips and quickly dried in the sun was kept, as were also the feet which are the best part of the animal. It was a pity there was no salt, for the salted flesh would have kept better.

The journey was continued under these conditions at the rate of a few miles a day. Unfortunately the sick men grew no better, more owing to the want of remedies than the want of attention. All would not reach the spot to which every effort of Mrs. Branican was directed, to this Fitzroy River where the misery would in a certain degree be relieved.

And in fact, on the 26th of March and the following day the two men succumbed to their prolonged exhaustion. They were natives of Adelaide, one being only twenty-five years of age, the other being fifteen years older, and death had struck them both on this journey through the Australian desert.

Poor fellows! They were the first that perished at this work, and their companions were very painfully affected. Was not the same fate awaiting all, since Len Burker’s treachery, abandoned amid these regions, where even the animals could not find means of subsistence?

And what could Zach Fren reply when Tom Marix said to him, —

“Two men dead to save one, without reckoning those who are still to go!”

Mrs. Branican gave free vent to her grief, in which everyone shared. She prayed for these two victims, and their grave was marked by a little cross which the heat of the climate would soon reduce to dust.

The caravan resumed its journey.

The three camels that remained would mount the most tired of the men in turn, so as not to delay their companions, and Mrs. Branican refused to reserve one of the animals for her own use. During the halts the camels were used in searching for wells, sometimes by Godfrey, sometimes by Tom Marix, for not a solitary native was met with from whom information could be obtained. This appeared to indicate that the tribes had moved into the north-east of Tasman Land. In that case the Indas would have to be followed down the valley of the Fitzroy, a very serious matter, inasmuch as it would add several hundred miles to the length of the journey.

In the beginning of April Tom Marix noticed that the provisions were nearly exhausted. It consequently became necessary to sacrifice one of the three camels. A few days’ food being assured, they would doubtless be able to reach Fitzroy River, from which the caravan could not be more than fifteen stages away.

The sacrifice being indispensable, they had to resign themselves to it. The animal least fit for service was chosen. It was killed, cut up, and reduced to strips which, dried in the sun, possessed fairly nutritive properties after being cooked for some time. The other parts of the animal, including the heart and the liver, were carefully put by.

Meanwhile Godfrey managed to kill several brace of pigeons — a poor addition, it is true, to the food of twenty-people. Tom Marix also noticed that clumps of acacia began to reappear on the plain, and it was possible to use the seeds as food if they were first roasted on the fire.

Yes! It was time they were at the Fitzroy River, to find there the supplies they had vainly demanded from this accursed country. A delay of a few days, and the majority of the expedition would not have strength to reach it.

On the 5th of April there remained none of the provisions, and none of the camel meat. Mrs. Branican and her companions were reduced to a few acacia seeds.

In fact Tom Marix hesitated to sacrifice the two last camels. In consideration of the distance he had still to traverse he could not make up his mind to kill them. But he would have to do so that very evening, for nobody had had anything to cat for fifteen hours. . But just as they stopped one of the men ran up shouting, —

“Tom Marix! Tom Marix! the two camels have just fallen.”

“Try to get them up.”

“It is impossible.”

“Then we must kill them at once.”

“Kill them?” answered the man. “But they are dying if they arc not already dead.”

“Dead!” exclaimed Tom Marix. And he could not restrain a gesture of despair, for the flesh of these animals is intractable unless they are killed.

Followed by Mrs. Branican, Zach Fren, Godfrey Jos Meritt, Tom Marix went to the spot where the animals had just fallen.

There, stretched on the ground, they were shaking convulsively, foaming at the mouth, their limbs contracting, their stomachs panting. They were about to die, and not of a natural death.

“What has happened to them?” asked Dolly. “This not fatigue: that is not exhaustion.”

“No,” replied Tom Marix, “I fear it is the effect of some noxious plant.”

“Good! Oh! very good! I know what it is,” Jos Meritt; “I have seen it in the eastern colonies… Queensland. These camels have been poisoned.”

“Poisoned?” repeated Dolly.

“Yes,” said Tom Marix, “poisoned.”

“Well,” continued Jos Meritt, “since we have no more supplies, we must follow the example of the camels, unless we die of hunger. What would you have? The country has its usages, and the best thing is to conform to them.”

The gentleman said these words in such a tone of irony that with his eyes enlarged by hunger, and his lips thinner than ever, he was quite alarming to look at.

Thus the two camels were dying of poison, and that poison — for Jos Meritt was right — was due to a spray of poisonous nettles, somewhat rare on the plains of the north-west; this is the Moroides laporlea, producing a scent like raspberry, with the leaves bristling with sharp edges. Even their contact causes intense and lasting pain; fruit is a deadly poison, if not treated with the juice of Colocaria macrorhisa, another plant generally grown in the same localities as the Moroides.

The instinct which prevents animals from touching hurtful substances had been this time overcome, and the two animals had not been able to resist feeding on these nettles, and were dying in horribie suffering.

How the two following days passed neither Mrs. Branican nor any of her companions can remember. They had to abandon the two dead animals, for an hour afterwards they were in a state of complete decomposition, so rapid is the effect of the vegetable poison. Then the caravan, crawling along towards the Fitzroy, tried to make out the country that surrounds the valley. Would they all reach it? No, and some were asking to be killed on the spot, so as to be spared the most frightful agony.

Mrs. Branican went from one to the other. She tried to cheer them up. She begged them to make a last effort. The end was not far off. A few more marches. Beyond was safety. But what could she get from these unfortunates?

On the 8th of April, in the evening, no one had strength enough to pitch the camp. The unfortunates crept to the foot of the spinifex to chew the dusty leaves. They could not speak — they could not go beyond. They had fallen at this last halt.

Mrs. Branican still refused to give way. Kneeling near her, Godfrey fixed his eyes on hers. He called her “mother I mother!” like a child begging of her who bore him not to let him die.

And Dolly standing amid her companions swept the horizon with a look, and shouted, “John! John!”

As if it was from Captain John that the last help could come.

CHAPTER XIII.

AMONG THE INDAS.

The tribe of the Indas, composed of several hundreds of natives, men, women and children, at this time occupied the banks of the Fitzroy River, about one hundred and forty miles from its mouth. These natives had returned from the regions of Tasman Land which are watered by the upper course of the river. For some days the chances of their wandering life had brought them within five-and- twenty miles of that part of the Great Sandy Desert, where the caravan had reached its last halt, after a chain of misery exceeding the power of man to bear.

It was among these Indas that Captain John and his mate, Harry Felton, had lived for nine years. With the aid of the events which arc to follow, we are able to narrate their history during this long period, and complete the story told by Harry Felton on his death-bed.

Between the years 1875 and 1881 — it will not have been forgotten — the crew of the Franklin had taken refuge on an island in the Indian Ocean, Browse Island, situated about two hundred and fifty miles from York Sound, the nearest point on the coast which rounds off the Australian Continent on the north-west. Two of the sailors had been lost during the storm, and the shipwrecked men, to the number of twelve, had lived for six years on this island, without any means of leaving it, when a boat drifted on to the shore.

Captain John, wishing to use this boat for the common Safety, put it in a state to reach the Australian mainland, and prepared it for a voyage of some weeks. But as the boat could only hold seven passengers, Captain John and Harry Felton embarked in it with five of their companions, leaving five others on Browse Island, to wait until a ship was sent to them. We know how these unfortunates died before they were rescued, and under what circumstances Captain Ellis discovered their remains during the second cruise of the Dolly Hope in 1883.

After a dangerous passage through these detestable regions of the Indian Ocean, the boat reached the continent in the latitude of Cape Leveque, and entered the gulf into which flows the Fitzroy. But misfortune willed it that Captain John should be attacked by the natives, an attack in which four of his men were killed in defending themselves.

These natives, belonging to the tribe of the Indas, dragged away into the interior Captain John, Harry Felton and the sailor who escaped the massacre. The sailor, who was wounded, could not be cured of his wounds. A few weeks later, John Branican and Harry Felton were the only survivors of the wreck of the Franklin.

Then commenced for them an existence which at first was seriously menaced. . As we have said, these Indas, like all the sedentary or wandering tribes of Northern Australia, are fierce and sanguinary. The prisoners made in their incessant tribal wars are pitilessly killed and eaten. There is no more inveterate custom than cannibalism among these aborigines, who are veritable wild beasts.

Why were Captain John and Harry Felton spared? That depended on the circumstances.

We are not unaware that among the natives of the interior and the coast, a state of war is perpetuated from generation to generation. The sedentaries attack village after village, destroying and taking prisoners. So it is with the nomads; they pursue their enemies from camp to camp, and their battles always end with the most frightful scenes of cannibalism. These massacres will inevitably bring about the destruction of the Australian race as surely as the proceedings of the Anglo-Saxons, which, under certain circumstances, have been of unavoidable barbarity. How can we describe such acts? Blacks chased by the whites as if they were game, with all the refined emotions derivable from this kind of sport, fires widely spread so that the inhabitants would no longer be spared their bark “gunyos” which serve them for dwellings. The conquerors have even gone almost as far as poisoning them with strychnine, so as to destroy them more rapidly. We have only to quote this sentence from the pen of an Australian colonist; “All the men I meet on my pasturages I shoot, because they are cattle-slayers; all the women because they bring cattle-slayers into the world, and all the children because they will become cattle-slayers!”

We can thus understand the hatred the Australians have vowed against their executioners, a hatred which is hereditary. It is seldom that the whites who fall into their hands are not massacred without mercy. Why then had the survivors of the Franklin been spared by the Indas?

If the sailor had not died soon after he was taken prisoner, he would very probably have suffered the usual fate. But the chief of the tribe, a native named Willi, had had dealings with the colonists on the coast, and knew enough to notice that Captain Branican and Harry Felton were two officers, out of whom he might make something in two ways. As a warrior, Willi could make use of their talents in his contests with his rivals; and as a trader, who knew how to trade, he saw the possibility of a lucrative speculation in the shape of a substantial ransom for the two prisoners, who consequently had their lives respected, although they had to submit to a wandering existence, which was all the more painful from the constant watch the Indas kept over them. Never out of sight day or night, never allowed far away from the camp, they had tried now and then to escape at the risk of their lives, but all in vain.

In the meantime their advice was asked with regard to the frequent tribal encounters, and their advice was valuable to Willi, who derived much advantage from it, owing to its always assuring him the victory. Thanks to his successes, his tribe had become one of the most powerful in the country of Western Australia.

These natives of the north-west are apparently a cross between the Australians and the Papuans. Like the recongeners, the Indas have long and curly hair; their colour is not so dark as that of the natives of the southern districts, who seem to be a more vigorous race; their height is not so great, and rarely exceeds fifty-two inches. The men are more strongly built than the women; if their forehead is somewhat retreating, their superciliary arches are rather prominent — which, if ethnologists are to be believed, is a sign of intelligence; their eyes, the iris of which is dark are remarkably brilliant in the pupil; their hair, very brown in colour, is not woolly like that of the African negroes; their skulls are not large, and nature has not given them too much in the way of brains. They are called blacks, although they have nothing of the Nubian black in them; they are chocolate, if we may coin a word which exactly describes their general colour.

The Australian negro is gifted with an extraordinary keenness of scent, which rivals that of the best dogs of the chase. They will recognize the traces of a human being or any animal by the mere smell of the ground or of the vegetation. Their auditory nerve is also of extreme sensibility, and they can even distinguish, it would appear, the sound of ants working in the interior of an ant-hill. There would be a certain amount of justice in classifying these natives among the order of climbers, for there is no gum tree too high or too smooth for them to climb by means of a reed of flexible rattan, to which they give the name of “kamin,” and by the prehensile conformation of their great toes.

As we have already noted with regard to the natives of Finke River, the Australian woman is short-lived, and rarely reaches forty years of age; the men attaining about twelve more in certain districts of Queensland. These unfortunate creatures have as their share the roughest work of the household; they are slaves, under the yoke of their pitiless masters, compelled to carry the bundles, the utensils, the weapons, and to seek for the edible roots, and lizards, worms and snakes which form the food of the tribe. But it is as well to mention that they take affectionate care of their children, whom the fathers hardly trouble themselves about, for the child is a burden to the mother, who is thereby prevented from giving her exclusive attention to the cares of this nomad existence; hence among some tribes the blacks have cut off the woman’s breasts in order to make it impossible for them to give their children nourishment. And yet, horrible as the custom may be, and discordant as it may appear with the precautions taken to diminish the numbers — these little beings in time of famine are eaten in certain tribes where cannibalism is still carried to excess.

Among the Australian blacks, who are scarcely worthy of being called human, life is concentrated as one sole object. “Ammeri! arnmeri!” recurs incessantly in the native speech, the word meaning “hungry.” The most frequent gesture of these savages consists in slapping the stomach, which is only too often empty. In these lands, without game and without cultivation, the people eat at all hours of the day and night, when an opportunity offers, on account of this constant fear of a near and lengthy fast. And, after all, what food is there for these aborigines — the most miserable, assuredly, of all those whom nature has scattered over the globe? A sort of coarse cake called “damper,” made of a little flour Without yeast, and cooked, not in an oven, but under glowing embers — honey, which they sometimes collect by felling the tree, at the summit of which the bees have established their hives — ” kadjerah,” a kind of white porridge, made by the” pounding of poisonous palm-roots, from which the poison has been extracted by delicate manipulation — eggs of the jungle birds laid in the ground — which the heat hatches artificially — and of the pigeons, peculiar to Australia, which hang their nests from the end of the tree branches — and, finally, certain kinds of the larvae of beetles, some gathered among the boughs of the acacia trees, others dug up from the rotten deposits about the roots of the thickets. And that is all.

In this hourly struggle for existence, we have the explanation of cannibalism, with all its horrible monstrosities. It is not a sign of natural ferocity, but the. consequence of the commanding necessity to which the Australian is given to escape dying Of hunger.

At the lower course of the Murray, and among the tribes of the north, it is the custom to kill the children, and feed on them, and to the mother is given the joint of a finger of each child she is forced to hand over to these cannibal feasts. It is dreadful to think that when the mother has nothing else to eat, she has to devour her own child, and yet travellers have heard these miserable women talk of this abomination as if it were a most natural act.

But at the same time it is not hunger alone which forces the Australian to cannibalism; they have a decided taste for human flesh, the flesh they call “talgoro,”

“the meat that speaks,” according to one of their horribly realistic expressions. If they do not gratify this taste on the people of their own tribe, they none the less do it by man-hunting. Their incessant wars had no other object than talgoro, which they eat fresh; as well as preserve for future use. It is stated by Dr. Carl Lumholtz, that during his daring journey across the North-Eastern Provinces, the blacks were continually discussing this food question, saying that “for Australians there was nothing like human flesh,” but this was not so much the flesh of the white man, which had a saltish after-taste that was very disagreeable.

There is another motive which predisposes these tribes to exterminate each other. The Australians are extraordinarily credulous. They are terrified at the voice of the “Kvin’gan,” an evil spirit which haunts the fields and the gorges of the mountainous districts, although this voice is merely the melancholy call of a charming bird, one of the most curious in Australian ornithology. But if they believe in the existence of a superior and wicked being, according to the best authorities, no native ever says a prayer, and not a trace can be found of religious practices.

In reality they are very superstitious, and as they firmly believe their enemies can kill them by witchcraft, they are eager to destroy them; and this, added to the habit of cannibalism, exposes these countries to constant depopulation.

It may as well be noted, in passing, that some of the Australians respect their dead; they wrap the body in strips of foliage or bark, and deposit it in a shallow grave, with the feet towards the east, unless they bury it upright, as they do among certain tribes. The grave of a chief is then covered by a hut, the entrance to which is towards the rising sun. It should also be said that among certain tribes the strange belief prevails that blacks are re-incarnated as whites, and, according to the observations of Carl Lumholtz, the language of the country has the same word for the spirit of a man, and a man of white colour. According to another native superstition, the animals have formerly been human creatures — which is metempsychosis the wrong way round.

Such are the tribes of the Australian continent destined evidently to disappear, as have also the natives of Tasmania. Such were the Indas, into whose hands had fallen John Branican and Harry Felton.

After the sailor’s death, John Branican and Harry Felton had had to follow the Indas in their continual peregrinations in the central and north-western regions. Sometimes attacking hostile tribes, sometimes attacked by them, they obtained an incontestable superiority over them, thanks to the advice of their prisoners, by which Willi profited. Hundreds of miles were traversed from King’s Sound to Van Diemen’s Gulf, between the Fitzroy Valley and that of the Victoria, and even on the plains of Alexandra Land. In this way Captain John and his mate travelled across countries unknown to geographers, which are left blank on modern maps, east of Tasman Land, and Arnheim Land and the’ confines of the Great Sandy Desert.

Although these interminable journeyings appeared extremely laborious to them, the Indas made nothing of it. This was their usual mode of life, taking no notice of either distance or time, of which they have hardly a notion. In fact an event which could only take place within five or six months would be described by a native in all good faith as taking place in two or three days, or the next week. They have no notion of age; and know of no time but the hour that exists. It would seem as though the Australian belongs to a special division in the scale of beings — as do certain animals of the country.

In these customs John Branican and Harry Felton were obliged to conform. To these fatigues due to the daily movements, they had to submit. With this food, often so insufficient, and always so repugnant, they had to be contented. To say nothing of those frightful scenes of cannibalism, the horrors of which they never could mitigate, after the battles in which the enemies fell in hundreds.

And in thus submitting, the intention of Captain John and Harry Felton was to lull the vigilance of the tribe to sleep until an opportunity for flight presented itself. That an escape into the deserts of the north-west had its chances we have seen in the case of the mate of the Franklin. But the two prisoners were watched so closely that opportunities of flight were extremely rare, and hardly one presented itself during the nine years. Once only — the very year preceding Mrs. Branican’s expedition — escape might have succeeded, and that under these circumstances.

After a series of battles with the tribes of the interior, the Indas were in camp on the shores of Lake Amadeus, in the south-west of Alexandra Land. It was not often they advanced so far into the centre of the continent. Captain John and Harry Felton, knowing they were within three hundred miles of the Overland Telegraph Line, thought the opportunity was favourable, and resolved to take advantage of it. After reflection it seemed best to escape separately, and meet a few miles from the camp. Outwitting the vigilance of the aborigines, Harry Felton was fortunate in gaining the spot where he was to wait for his companion. Unfortunately John had been summoned to Willi, who required him to attend to a wound he had received in the last engagement. John could not get away, and Harry Felton waited for him in vain for some days. Then, thinking he might reach one of the villages in the interior, or on the coast, and there organize an expedition for the deliverance of his captain, Felton set off towards the south-west. But such were the fatigues, privations and misery he had to undergo, that four months after his departure he fell dying on the banks of the Parroo, in the Ulakara district of New South Wales. Taken to the hospital at Sydney, he had lingered for some weeks and then died, after being able to tell Mrs. Branican what he knew concerning Captain John.

It was a terrible trial for John to be without his companion, and his energy of mind had to equal his physical energy, or he would have given way to despair. To whom now could he talk of what had been so dear to him — his country, San Diego, the loved creatures he had left there, his courageous wife, his son Wat growing up far from him, and whom he would never probably know, Mr. William Andrew, and all his friends, in fact? For nine years John had been the prisoner of the Indas; and how many years would roll by before his liberty was restored to him? However, he never lost hope, being sustained by the hope that he would succeed in reaching one of the towns of the Australian coast, and that Harry Felton would do all that was humanly possible to rescue his captain.

During the early period of his captivity John had learnt to speak the native language, which by the logic of its grammar, the precision of its terms, the delicacy of its expressions, seemed to show that the Australian aborigines must at one time have enjoyed a certain amount of civilization. He had often spoken to Willi of the advantages he would gain by leaving his prisoners free to return to Queensland or South Australia, where he would be in a position to send him any ransom that might be required. But Willi was not of a trusting nature, and would not entertain the idea. If the ransom arrived he would give John and his mate their liberty. As to trusting to their promises, judging probably that others were like himself, he would never consent to it.

It naturally followed that Harry Felton’s escape, which made him furiously angry, rendered Willi more severe towards Captain John. He stopped him from moving about during the halts or marches, and put him under the guard of a native, who had to answer for him with his life.

Long months elapsed, and the “prisoner had received no news from his companion. Was there not every probability that Harry Felton had died on the journey? If the fugitive had succeeded in reaching Queensland or Adelaide, would he not have already made some attempt to rescue him from the Indas?

During the first three months of the year 1891 — that is to say at the beginning of the Australian summer — the tribe had returned to the Fitzroy Valley, where Willi generally passed the hottest period of the summer season, and where he found the requisite resources for his tribe.

The Indas were there in the first days of April, and their camp occupied a bend of the river, into which flowed a small affluent from the northern plains.

Since the tribe had taken up their quarters here, Captain John, knowing they were near the coast had thought of reaching it. If he could do so, it would not perhaps be impossible for him to take refuge in one of the stations more to the south, where Colonel Warburton had ended his journey.

John had resolved to risk everything to put an end to this hateful life, even if he died in the attempt.

Unfortunately a change in the plans of the Indas nipped in the bud the prisoner’s hopes. During the first fortnight in April it was evident that Willi was preparing to depart so as to fix his winter encampment on the upper part of the river.

What had happened, and to what was to be attributed this change in the habits of the tribe?

Captain John managed to learn, but not without some trouble: the tribe was to move further east, because the black police had been reported on the lower course of the Fitzroy.

It will not have been forgotten that Tom Marix had spoken about these black police, who, since Harry Felton’s revelations, had been ordered into the north-west territories.

These police are much feared by the natives, and display a keenness of which we can have no idea when they are in pursuit of them. They are commanded by a captain called a “mani,” having under his orders a sergeant, thirty white men and eighty blacks mounted on good horses, and armed with guns, swords and pistols. Known under the name of the native police, they are sufficiently strong to guarantee the security of the inhabitants of the regions they visit at different times. Pitiless in their repression of the aborigines, they are blamed by some in the name of humanity, and approved by others in the name of public safety. They are most active in their movements, and journey from place to place with incredible rapidity. The natives fear to meet them, and that is why Willi, when he learnt they were in his neighbourhood, was preparing to ascend the course of the Fitzroy.

But what was a danger for the Indas might be the safety of Captain Branican. If he could join a detachment of this police, his deliverance was assured and his return home certain. When the camp was being struck could he not find it possible to elude the vigilance of the natives?

Willi, it would seem, had some suspicion of the prisoner’s plans, for on the morning of. the 20th of April the door of the hut in which John was confined was not opened at the usual hour. A native was on guard close to the hut. To the questions John put to him he made no reply. When he asked to be taken to Willi they refused to comply with his request, and the chief did not even come to visit him.

What had happened? Were the Indas hastening their preparations-to leave their encampment? It was probable, and John heard them rushing about in front of the hut, where Willi had sent him some food.

A whole day went by, then another. No change took place in his position. The prisoner was narrowly watched all the time. But during the night of the 22nd and 23rd of April he noticed that the noise outside had ceased, and he wondered if the Indas had definitely abandoned their project of camping on Fitzroy River.

At daybreak next morning the door of the hut suddenly opened.

A man — a white — appeared before Captain John.

It was Len Burker.

CHAPTER XIV.

LEN BURKER’S GAME.

Thirty-two days had passed since the night of the 22nd of March, when Len Burker had separated from Mrs. Branican and her companions. The simoom so fatal to the caravan, had given him an opportunity of executing his plans. Dragging away Jane, and followed by the blacks of the escort, he had driven in front of him the healthy camels, and among them those which carried Captain John’s ransom.

Len Burker found himself in more favourable circumstances than Dolly for meeting the Indas in the valley watered by the Fitzroy. Already during his wandering life he had had frequent intercourse with the Australian nomads, with whose language and customs he was acquainted. The ransom he had stolen assured him a warm welcome from Willi, and Captain John, once rescued, would be in his power, and then —

On abandoning the caravan Len Burker had hastened north-west, and at sunrise he and his companions were many miles away.

Jane implored her husband, and begged of him not to abandon Dolly and her people in the desert; she reminded him it was another crime added to that committed at Godfrey’s birth, and besought him to atone for his abominable conduct in taking the child from its mother by joining his efforts to those being made for the rescue of Captain John.

Jane gained nothing. It was in vain. To prevent Len Burker from advancing towards his object was in no one’s power. A few days more and he would have reached it. Dolly and Godfrey dead of privation and misery, John Branican disappeared, Edward Starter’s inheritance would pass into the hands of Jane, that is to say into his own, and he would know how to use those millions well.

Nothing was to be expected from this rascal. He ordered his wife to be silent, and she had to yield, knowing well that if he had not need of her to enter into possession of Dolly’s fortune, he would have abandoned her long ago, and perhaps worse. As to getting away and attempting to reach the caravan, how could she think of it? What would have become of her, all alone? Besides, two of the blacks had orders not to leave her for an instant.

We need not dwell on the incidents which Len Burker met with on his journey. Neither camels nor provisions failed him. In this way he was able to make long stages as he approached the Fitzroy with men accustomed to the life, and who had suffered less than the whites since the departure from Adelaide.

In seventeen days, on the 8th of April, Len Burker had reached the left bank of the river, on the very day that Mrs. Branican and her companions made their last halt.

On the river bank Len Burker met with a few natives, and obtained information from them regarding the position of the Indas.

Learning that the tribe had followed the valley more to the westward, he resolved to go down it so as to enter into communication with Willi.

The task was not difficult. During the month of April, in this part of Northern Australia, the climate is less excessive, however low it may be in latitude. It was evident that if Mrs. Branican’s caravan could reach the Fitzroy its miseries would be at an end in a few days. She could enter into communication with the Indas, for scarcely eighty-five miles then separated John and Dolly from each other.

When Len Burker was certain that he had only two or three days more to travel he stopped. To take Jane with him among the Indas, to bring her face to face with Captain John, to run the risk of being denounced by her, did not at all suit him. By his orders a halt was organized on the left bank, and, in spite of her supplications, there the unfortunate woman was left in charge of the two blacks.

When that was done, Len Burker and his companions continued their journey towards the west, with the saddle camels and the two beasts laden with the articles of barter.

It was on the 20th of April that Len Burker met the tribe who were then in a state of alarm at the neighbourhood of the black police, whose presence had been reported a dozen miles down the river. Willi was already preparing to leave his camp to seek refuge in the upper-regions of Arnheim Land, which belongs to the province of Northern Australia. -

At this moment, by Willi’s orders, and with a view to prevent any attempt at escape on his part, John was shut up in a hut, so that he could learn nothing of the communications entered into between Len Burker and the chief of the Indas.

These communications occasioned no difficulty. Len Burker had had previous acquaintance with these natives. He knew their chief, and had only to treat concerning the amount of Captain John’s ransom.

Willi was disposed to surrender the prisoner for a ransom. The display of what Len Burker had brought in fabrics, toys, and, above all, in the stock of tobacco that was offered, favourably impressed him. But, like an experienced merchant, he required a higher price, as he could not separate without regret from a man of as much importance as Captain John, who for so many years had lived with the tribe and rendered it such valuable services, etc. etc. Besides, he knew that the Captain was an American, and he was not ignorant that an expedition had been formed with a view of obtaining his deliverance — which Len Burker confirmed by observing that he was the chief of the expedition. Then, when he learned that Willi was easy at the presence of the black police on the lower arse of the Fitzroy, he took advantage of the circumstance to urge him to complete the bargain without ay. In fact, for his own interest it was necessary that Captain Branican’s rescue should remain secret, and if he t him away from the Indas there was every probability his actions remaining unknown. The final disappearance of John Branican could not be imputed to him, and;he men of his escort could not keep silent on the matter would know how to make sure of their silence. It follows that as the ransom was accepted by Willi the bargain was concluded on the 22nd of April. That very evening the Indas abandoned their camp and went away the Fitzroy River.

That is what Len Burker had done, that was how he had attained his object, and now we have to see how he drifted by it.

It was about eight o’clock in the morning when the or of the hut opened and John Branican found himself Len Burker’s presence.

Fourteen years had elapsed since the day when the Captain had given him the last shake of the hand at the departure of the Franklin from San Diego bay. He did t recognize him, but Len Burker was struck with the le change that had taken place in him. He had, of course, aged — he was then forty-three — but less than could believed after so long a stay among the natives; he J the same well-marked features, the same resolute look,; fire of which was not at all dulled, and his hair was as thick, although it had whitened. He had remained strong and robust, and better, perhaps, than Harry Felton lid have borne the fatigues of a journey across the Australian desert — fatigues to which his companion had succumbed.

When he saw Len Burker, Captain John stepped back.

It was the first time he had found himself face to face with a white since he had been the prisoner of the Indas. It was the first time a stranger had come to say a word to him.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“An American of San Diego.”

“Of San Diego?”

“I am Len Burker.”

“You!”

Captain John threw himself on Len Burker. He took him by the hands, he clasped him in his arms. What! This man was Len Burker. No! It was impossible. It was only an appearance. John had not clearly heard. He was under the influence of some hallucination.” Len Burker — Jane’s husband —

And at that moment John hardly thought of the antipathy with which Len Burker had formerly inspired him, of the man whom he had so justly suspected.

“Len Burker?” he repeated.

“Myself, John.”

“Here — in these parts! Ah, you also, Len — you have been taken prisoner.”

How could John in any other way explain the presence of Len Burker in a camp of the Indas?

“No!” quickly replied Len Burker. “No, John, I came here to ransom you from the chief of this tribe — to rescue you — “

“To rescue me!”

Captain John could only control himself by a violent effort. It seemed that he had. gone mad, that his reason was at the point of leaving him.

Then when he had become master of himself he thought of darting out of the hut. He dared not. Len Burker had spoken of his deliverance. But was he free? And Willi? And the Indas?

“Speak, Len, speak!” said he, crossing his arms as if he would keep his chest down.

Then Len Burker, faithful to the plan he had formed to tell him only a part of the story, and attribute to himself all the merit of this campaign, began to relate the facts in his way, when John, in a voice strangled by emotion, cried, —

“And Dolly? Dolly?”

“She is living, John.”

“And Wat, my child?”

“Living — both of them — at San Diego.”

“My wife — my son!” murmured John, his eyes filling with tears.

Then he added, —

“Now speak — Len — speak! I have strength to listen to you.”

And Len Burker, coolly looking him in the face all the time, said, —

“A few years ago, John, when no one had any further doubt about the loss of the Franklin my wife and I had to leave San Diego and America. Business matters called me to Australia, and I came to Sydney, where I started an office. Since our departure Jane and Dolly never ceased their correspondence, for you know the affection they bore each other, an affection which neither time nor distance could weaken.

“Yes! I know!” replied John. “Dolly and Jane were friends, and the separation must have been cruel to them.”

“Very cruel, John,” said Len Burker, “but after some years the day came when this separation was about to end. About eleven months ago we were preparing to leave Australia for San Diego, when an unexpected piece of news put an end to our plans of departure. We then learnt what had become of the Franklin, in what parts she had been lost, and at the same time the rumour spread that the sole survivor of the wreck was the prisoner of the Australian tribe, and that was you, John.”

“But how did you know that, Len? Was it through Harry Felton?”

“Yes, the news was brought by Harry Felton.

Almost at the end of his journey your companion had been met with on the banks of the Parroo, in the south of Queensland, and brought to Sydney — “

“Harry — my brave Harry!” exclaimed Captain John. “Ah! I knew well he would never forget me! As soon as he got to Sydney he organized an expedition — “

“He is dead!” said Len Burker; “dead of the fatigues he had endured.”

“Dead!” said John. “My God — dead! Harry Felton — Harry!”

And the tears flowed from his eyes.

“But before he died,” continued Len Burker, “Harry Felton related all that occurred after the wreck of the Franklin, the wreck on Browse Island, your reaching the west of the continent. It was at his bedside that I — I learnt this from his lips — all. And’ as his eyes closed, John, he uttered your name.”

“Harry, my poor Harry!” murmured John, as he thought of the terrible miseries to which the faithful companion had succumbed, whom he would never see again.

“John,” continued Len Burker, “the loss of the Franklin, of which there had been no news for fourteen years, made a considerable sensation. You may judge of the effect produced by the news that you were alive, and that Harry Felton had left you a few months before a prisoner with a northern tribe. I immediately telegraphed to Dolly, informing her that I was getting ready to rescue you from the hands of the Indas, for it could only be a question, of ransom after what Harry Felton had said. Then, having organized a caravan, of which I took the command, Jane and I left Sydney. That was seven months ago. It has taken us all that time to teach the Fitzroy. At last here we arc at the camp of the Indas.”

“Thanks, Len, thanks!” said Captain John. “What you have done for me — “

“You would have done for me under similar circumstances,” replied Len Burker.

“Certainly! And your wife, Len, this courageous Jane, who has not feared to face such fatigue — where is she?”

“Three days’ march up the river with two of my men,” replied Len Burker.

“I will go and see her.”

“Yes, John, and if she is not here it is because I did not wish her to accompany me, not knowing what sort of welcome the natives would give our little caravan — “

“But you did not come alone?” asked John.

“No; I had my escort, composed of a dozen blacks. We arrived in the valley two days ago — “

“Two days?”

“Yes, and I have spent them in concluding my bargain. The Willi thought much of you, my dear John. He knew your importance, or rather your value. It took a lot of talking to obtain your liberty in exchange for the ransom — “

“Then I am free?”

“As free as I am.”

“But the natives?”

“They have all gone off with their chief, and art no longer in the camp.”

“Gone?” exclaimed John.

“Look!”

Captain Branican bounded out of the hut. On the bank of the river there were only the blacks of Len Burker’s escort: the Indas were there no longer.

It will be seen what was true and what was false in Len Burker’s story. Of Mrs. Branican’s madness he had said nothing. Of the fortune which had fallen to Dolly through Edward Starter’s death he had said nothing; nothing .of the voyages of the Dolly Hope in the sea of the Philippines and Torres Straits during the years 1879 and 1882; nothing of what had passed between Mrs. Branican and Harry Felton on his deathbed; nothing of the expedition organized by this intrepid woman, now abandoned in the Great Sandy Desert, the whole credit of which the .unworthy Len Burker had taken to himself.

It was he who had done all, he who, at the risk of his life, had delivered Captain John!

And why should John doubt the truth of the story? Why should he not thank with effusion him who after so many perils had just snatched him from the Indas, and who was going to take him home to his wife and child?

This he did, and in terms which would have touched a less hardened being. But remorse had never troubled Len Burker’s conscience, and nothing would hinder him from carrying out his criminal projects. Now John Branican would go with him to the camp where Jane was waiting for him. Why should he hesitate? And during this journey Len Burker would find an opportunity of getting rid of him, without being suspected by the blacks of his escort, who could not afterwards bear witness against him.

Captain John was impatient to set out, and it was agreed that the departure would take place that very day. His great wish was to see Jane, the devoted friend of his wife, to talk to her about Dolly and his son, about Mr. William Andrew, and all those he would meet again at San Diego.

They started during the afternoon of the 23rd of April. Len Burker had provisions for several days. During the journey the Fitzroy would yield the water necessary for the little caravan. The camels on which John and Len Burker were mounted would permit them to get several stages in advance of their escort. That would facilitate Len Burker’s designs. It would not do for Captain John to reach the camp, and he would not reach it.

At eight o’clock in the evening Len Burker pitched his . camp on the left bank of the river for the night. He was still too far off to put into execution his plan of getting on in advance of his escort, amid regions where dangers were always to be feared.

At daybreak the march was resumed.

The following day was divided into two stages, divided by a halt of two hours. It was not always easy to follow the course of the Fitzroy, the banks of which were often cut into by deep ravines, and sometimes barred by inextricable masses of gum trees and eucalyptus, obliging the caravan to go round them.

It was a hard day’s march, and after their meal the blacks went to sleep.

A few moments later Captain John was plunged in a deep slumber.

Here was an opportunity of which Len Burker might take advantage, for he was not asleep. To kill John, drag his body about twenty yards, and throw it into the river — it seemed as though circumstances had united to facilitate the perpetration of the crime. Then in the morning Captain Branican would be sought for in vain.

About two o’clock Len Burker got up noiselessly, and crept towards his victim, knife in hand. He was just about to strike when John awoke.

“I thought you called me,” said Len Burker.

“No, my dear Len,” replied John, “just as I awoke I was dreaming of my dear Dolly and our child.”

At six o’clock John and Len Burker resumed their journey along the Fitzroy.

During the midday halt Len Burker resolved to accomplish his purpose, for they would reach the camp that night He proposed to John to ride on in advance of the escort.

John agreed, for he was anxious to get to Jane and be able to speak to her more intimately than he had done to Len Burker.

The two were starting when one of the blacks descried a white advancing with a certain amount of precaution, about a hundred yards off.

An exclamation escaped Len Burker.

He had recognized Godfrey.

CHAPTER XV.

THE LAST ENCAMPMENT.

IMPELLED by a sort of instinct, and almost unconscious of what he did, Captain John had rushed up to the boy.

Len Burker had remained immovable, as if his feet were nailed to the ground.

Godfrey was face to face with him — Godfrey, the son of Dolly and of John! Then Mrs. Branican’s caravan had not succumbed P She was, then, a few miles away — a few yards away, perhaps — unless Godfrey was the sole survivor of those the scoundrel had abandoned?

In any case, this meeting, so unexpected, must shatter Len Burker’s plan. If the boy spoke, he would say that Mrs. Branican was at the head of this expedition. He would say that Dolly had dared a thousand fatigues, a thousand dangers, amid the Australian deserts to bring help to her husband. He would say that she was there — that she was following him up the course of the Fitzroy.

And she was there.

On the morning of the 22nd of March, after Len Burker had abandoned her, the little caravan had resumed its march towards the northwest. On the 8th of April, as we know, the poor people, exhausted from hunger and tortured by thirst, had fallen half dead.

Sustained by her superior strength, Mrs. Branican had endeavoured to revive her companions, imploring them to continue their advance, to make a last effort to reach the river, where they might obtain relief. It was as if she were speaking to corpses, and even Godfrey was unconscious.

But the soul of the expedition survived in Dolly, and Dolly did what her companions could not do. Towards the northwest was their course; it was towards the northwest that Tom Marix and Zach Fren had stretched their sinking arms. Dolly set off in that direction.

Across the plain, which stretched away out of sight towards the west, without food, without the means of transport, what could this energetic woman hope? Was her object to reach the Fitzroy, to seek assistance among the whites of the coast, or among the wandering natives? She did not know, but she struggled on for some miles — twenty in three days. Then her strength failed her; she fell, and she would have died if help had not arrived providentially, as one may say.

At this time the black police were out on the boundary of the Great Sandy Desert. Leaving thirty of them near the Fitzroy, their chief, the mani, had started off on a reconnaissance into these parts with sixty of his men.

He it was who fell in with Mrs. Branican. As soon as she recovered consciousness she was able to tell him where her companions were, and she took him to them. The mani and his men revived the poor fellows, whom they would not have found alive twenty-four hours later.

Tom Marix, who had known the mani in Queensland, told him what had happened since they left Adelaide. The officer was acquainted with the object of the expedition in these distant countries of the northwest, and, as Providence had brought him to its help, he offered to join it. When Tom Marix asked him about the Indas, he replied that they were then on the banks of the Fitzroy, about sixty miles off.

There was no time to lose if they wished to spoil Len Burker’s plans, whom the mani was already after for some bush ranging crime in Queensland. He did not doubt that if Len Burker succeeded in rescuing Captain John, who had no reason to mistrust him, it would be impossible to get on his track.

Mrs, Branican might reckon on the mani and his men, who shared their provisions with her companions and lent them their horses. The party set off that evening, and in the afternoon of the 2ist of April were in sight of the heights of the valley, near the seventeenth parallel of latitude.

Here the mani picked up his men who had been on the watch along the Fitzroy. They told him that the Indas were then in camp a hundred miles further up the river. It was important to come up with them as soon as possible, although Mrs. Branican had no objects of exchange with which to ransom her husband. But the mani, reinforced by his whole detachment, assisted by Torn Marix, Zach Fren, Godfrey, Jos Meritt, and their companions, would not hesitate to employ force to rescue Captain John from the Indas. But when they reached the native camp it had been abandoned. The mani followed up the natives, halt by halt, and it was in this way that, on the 25th of April, Godfrey, who had gone on half a mile in advance, found himself suddenly in Captain John’s presence.

Len Burker had begun to recover himself, looking at Godfrey without uttering a word, waiting for what the boy was going to do or say.

Godfrey had not even seen him. He could not take his eyes off the captain. Although he had never seen him, he knew his features from the photograph Mrs. Branican had given him. No doubt was possible. This man was Captain John.

On his part, John looked at Godfrey with an emotion none the less extraordinary. Although he could not imagine who the boy was, he devoured him with his eyes, he held out hands to him, he called him with a trembling voice — yes, he called him as if he were his son.

Godfrey threw himself into his arms, exclaiming, —

“Captain John!”

“Yes, I; it is I!” said Captain John. “But you, my child, who are you? Willie do you come from? How come you know my name?”

Godfrey could not reply. He became frightfully pale as he caught sight of Len Burker, and could not conceal the horror he felt at seeing the scoundrel.

“Len Burker!” he exclaimed.

Len Burker, after reflecting on the consequences of this meeting, could not but congratulate himself. Was not this a lucky chance which had given him over both Godfrey and John? Was it not incredible luck to have at his mercy both father and child? Turning to the blacks, he made a sign to them to separate John and Godfrey, and seize them.

“Len Burker!” repeated Godfrey.

“Yes, my boy,” answered John. “It is Len Burker, who has saved me — “

“Saved!” said Godfrey, “No, Captain John, no. Len Burker has not saved you! He wants to destroy you, he ran away from us, he stole your ransom from Mrs. Branican — “

At this name John answered with a cry, and, seizing Godfrey’s hand, said, “Dolly? Dolly?”

“Yes. Mrs. Branican, Captain John — your wife, who is close by here!”

“Dolly?” said John.

“This boy is mad!” said Len Burker, approaching Godfrey.

“Yes! mad!” murmured Captain John. “The poor child is mad!”

“Len Burker!” said Godfrey, trembling with passion, “you “are a traitor; you are a murderer! And this murderer is here, Captain John, to make away with you after abandoning Mrs. Branican and her companions.”

“Dolly! Dolly!” exclaimed Captain John. “No — you are not mad, my boy! I believe you! I believe you! Come! come!”

Len Burker and his men threw themselves on John and Godfrey, who, taking a revolver from his belt, shot one of the blacks in the chest. But John and he were seized, and the blacks were dragging them towards the river.

Fortunately the report was heard. Shouts came in reply from a few hundred yards down stream, and almost immediately the mani and his men, Tom Marix and his companions, Mrs. Branican, Zach Fren, Jos Meritt and Gin-Ghi came running up.

Len Burker and his blacks were not strong enough to make any resistance, and a moment afterwards John was in Dolly’s arms.

The game was up for Len Burker. If they captured him he could expect no mercy; and, followed by his blacks, he fled up the river.

The mani, Zach Fren, Tom Marix, Jos Meritt and twelve of the police went off in pursuit.

How can we paint the feelings, how can we describe the emotion which overflowed in the hearts of Dolly and John? They wept, and Godfrey shared in their embraces, their kisses, and their tears.

So great was Dolly’s joy and so much had she suffered, that her strength abandoned her and she fainted away.

Godfrey knelt near her and helped Harriett to revive her. John did not know it, but they knew that once before Dolly had lost her reason through excess of grief. Would she now lose it under excess of joy?

“Dolly! Dolly!” said John.

And Godfrey, taking her hands, called, “Mother! mother!”

Dolly’s eyes opened. Her hand clasped that of her husband, whose joy was overflowing, and who held out his arms to Godfrey, saying, —

“Come, Wat! Come, my son!”

But Dolly could not have him thus mistaken in believing that Godfrey was his child.

“No, John!” said she, “no, Godfrey is not our son. Our poor little Wat is dead — dead soon after you left us.”

“Dead!” exclaimed John, still keeping his eyes on Godfrey.

Dolly was about to tell him of the misfortune which had befallen fifteen years before, when there was the sound of a shot in the direction taken by the mani in pursuit of Len Burker.

Had justice been done on the rascal, or had he added another to his long list of crimes?

Almost immediately they all came into view on the bank of the Fitzroy. Two of the police were holding up a woman from whom the blood was flowing from a large wound and reddening the ground.

It was Jane.

What had happened was this.

Notwithstanding the swiftness of his flight, the pursuers had not lost sight of Len Burker, and a few hundred yards only separated them from him when he stopped as he caught sight of Jane.

During the evening before this wretched woman had managed to escape, and she had fled along the Fitzroy. She went as chance led her, and when the first shot was heard she was not a quarter of a mile from the spot where John and Godfrey had just met. She hastened her pace and immediately found herself in presence of her husband, who was running towards her.

Len Burker, seizing her by the arms, would have dragged her away with him. At the thought that Jane would again meet Dolly, and reveal the secret of Godfrey’s birth, his anger reached its height. And as Jane resisted he stabbed her.

The next moment there was the report of a gun, accompanied by these words — appropriate enough on this occasion, —

“Good! Oh! very good!”

It was Jos Meritt, who had coolly aimed at Len Burker and” rolled him over into the water of the Fitzroy.

And that was the scoundrel’s end, shot dead in the heart by the hand of the gentleman.

Tom Marix ran towards Jane, who still breathed, but feebly. Two of the police took the unhappy woman between them and brought her to Mrs. Branican.

Seeing Jane in this state, Dolly uttered a heartrending shriek. Leaning over the dying woman, she tried to listen to the beating of her heart, to feel the breath escaping from her mouth. But Jane’s wound was mortal, the knife had been driven into her lungs.

“Jane! Jane!” said Dolly, loudly.

At this voice, which recalled the only love she had ever known, Jane opened her eyes, looked at Dolly, and smiled as she murmured, —

.“Dolly! dear Dolly!”

Suddenly life came into her look. She had just seen Captain John.

“John — you — John!” she said, but so feebly they could hardly hear her.

“Yes, Jane!” said the captain, “it is I — I, whom Dolly has come to save.”

“John — John is there!” murmured she.

“Yes — with us, Jane,” said Dolly. “He will leave us no more. We will take him back with you, with you — there — “

Jane heard no longer. Her eyes seemed to be looking for someone, and she uttered the name, —

“Godfrey! Godfrey!”

And anguish was depicted on her features, already drawn with agony.

Mrs. Branican made a sign to Godfrey, who came near.

“Him! Him! At last!” said Jane, rising with a last effort.

Seizing Dolly’s hand, —

“Come near, Dolly! come near!” she said. “John and you listen to what I have still to tell you.”

And they leant over her so as not to lose any of her words.

“John, Dolly,” she said, “Godfrey — Godfrey who is there — Godfrey is your child.”

“Our child!” murmured Dolly. And she became as pale as if she were dying, the blood having violently flowed back to her heart.

“We have a son no longer,” said John, “he’s dead.”

“Yes!” said Jane, “little Wat — over there — in San Diego Bay. But you had a second child, and that child is Godfrey.”

In a few sentences, broken by the gaspings of death, she told them what had happened after John’s departure; of Godfrey’s birth at Prospect House, of Dolly deprived of reason, a mother without knowing it, of the little child abandoned by Len Burker’s orders, found a few hours afterwards, brought up afterwards at Wat House under the name of Godfrey.

And Jane added, —

“If I am guilty of not having had the courage to tell you all, Dolly, forgive me — forgive me, John!”

‘ Do you need forgiveness, Jane — you, who have just given us back our child?”

“Yes — your child!” said Jane. “Before God — John, Dolly, I swear it — Godfrey is your child.”

And seeing them both clasp Godfrey in their arms, Jane smiled with happiness, and the smile died away with her last breath.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE END.

We need not linger over the Incidents with which this adventurous journey across the Australian continent came to an end, nor dwell on the different conditions which marked the return to Adelaide.

At the outset the question was discussed: Should they make for the Settlements on the coast by going down the Fitzroy — among others that of Rockbourne — or should they go to Prince Frederick harbour in York Sound? But some time might elapse before a ship visited the coast, and it seemed preferable to return by the route they had come. Escorted by the black police, abundantly supplied with provisions by the mani, having at its disposal the saddle and pack camels recovered from Len Burker, the caravan had nothing to fear from anything it might meet.

Before they started, the body of Jane Burker was laid in a grave dug at the foot of a group of gum trees. Dolly knelt at the grave and prayed for the poor woman’s soul.

Captain John, his wife, and their companions left the camp on the Fitzroy on the 25th of April, under the direction of the mani, who offered to accompany them as far as the nearest station of the Overland Telegraph line.

Everyone was so happy that none felt the fatigues of the journey, and Zach Fren, in his joy, said to Tom Marix, — “Well, Tom, we have found the captain!”

“Yes, Zach, but to what was it due?”

“To Providence having put the helm down, and we should always reckon on Providence.”

However, there was a black spot on Jos Meritt’s horizon. If Mrs. Branican had found Captain John, the famous collector had not found the hat, the search after which had cost him so much trouble and sacrifice. To be just within range of the Indas, and not enter into communication with this Willi, who was perhaps wearing the historic head-gear-what misfortune! Jos Meritt found some consolation, it is true, in hearing from the mani that the fashion of European head-coverings had not extended to the people of the north-west, contrary to what Jos Meritt had already observed among the natives of the north-east. Thus his desideratum could not be realized among the tribes of Northern Australia. On the other hand, he could congratulate himself on the splendid shot with which he had disembarrassed the Branican family of “that abominable Len Burker,” as Zach Fren called him.

The return was made as rapidly as possible. The caravan had no more to suffer from thirst, for the wells were already replenished by the heavy showers of autumn, and the heat was not insupportable. Acting on the mani’s advice, they headed direct for the regions crossed by the telegraph line, where there was no scarcity of well-provisioned stations nor of means of communication with the capital of South Australia. Thanks to the telegraph, it was soon known all over the world that Mrs. Branican had brought her daring expedition to a successful end.

It was in the latitude of Lake Wood that Dolly and her companions reached a station on the Overland Telegraph line. There the mani and the black police took leave of John and Dolly Branican. They did not depart without having received the cordial thanks they deserved, to be followed by the reward the captain would send them as soon as he reached Adelaide. There was now no more to do than to pass south through Alexandra Land to Alice Spring, where the caravan arrived on the 19th of June, after a seven weeks’ journey.

There, under the care of Mr. Flint, the chief of the station, Tom Marix recovered the means of transport he had left behind, the cattle, the drays, the buggies, the horses for the distance remaining to be traversed. And on the 3rd of July the expedition reached the railway at Farina Town, and the next day arrived in Adelaide.

What a welcome awaited Captain John and his courageous wife! The whole town turned out to receive them, and when Captain John Branican appeared between his wife and child on the balcony of the hotel in King William Street,,the cheers were so terrific that, according to Gin-Ghi, they might have been heard at the other end of the Celestial Empire.

The stay at Adelaide was not of long duration. John and Dolly were eager to return to San Diego, to see their friends and take up their abode at Prospect House, where happiness awaited them. They parted from Tom Marix and his men, who were liberally rewarded, and whose services could never be forgotten.

Neither did they forget that character, Jos Meritt, who also resolved to leave Australia with his faithful domestic.

But how about the hat he had not found? Did he find it? Where? In a royal palace, where it was kept with all the respect which was its due. Yes! Jos Meritt, led astray on a false scent, had been running about the five parts of the world in vain to find a hat which was all the time in Windsor Castle, as he learned six months later. It was the hat worn by Her Gracious Majesty at the visit of King Louis Philippe in 1845, and he must have been mad at the very least, to have supposed that this masterpiece of a Parisian milliner would have finished its career on the woolly cranium of an Australian savage!

The peregrinations of Jos Meritt consequently ceased, to the extreme joy of Gin-Ghi, but to the extreme displeasure of the celebrated curio-hunter, who returned to Liverpool, much amazed that he had not been able to complete his collection by the acquisition of the only hat of its kind in the world. Three weeks after leaving Adelaide, where they embarked on the Abraham Lincoln, John, Dolly, and Godfrey Branican, accompanied by Zach Fren and the woman Harriett, arrived at San Diego.

There Mr. William Andrew and Captain Ellis received them amid the inhabitants of that generous city, proud of having recovered Captain John, and. welcoming in him one of the most glorious of its children.

THE END

THE CARPATHIAN CASTLE

Anonymous translation, 1883

First published in 1893, this novel is set in the village of Werst in the Carpathian Mountains of Transylvania, where mysterious happenings are occurring and the villagers believe that the devil occupies the castle.

The original frontispiece

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER IV.

In a few minutes the news brought by the shepherd had spread in the village. Master Koltz, carrying the precious telescope, went back into his house, followed by Nic Deck and Miriota. There now remained on the terrace only Frik surrounded by about twenty men, women, and children, among whom were a few Tsiganes, who were not the least excited among the Werst population. They surrounded Frik, they bombarded him with questions, and the shepherd replied with the superb importance of a man who had just seen something quite extraordinary.

“Yes!” he repeated, “the castle was smoking, it still smokes, and it will smoke until not one stone of it remains on another.’

“But who could have lighted the fire?” asked an old woman with her hands clasped.

“The Chort!” said Frik, giving the devil the name he is known by in the district. “And he is the rascal who knows how to light a fire much better than how to put it out!”

And at that reply every one looked to try and find the smoke on the top of the donjon. In the end most of them.

affirmed they could distinguish it perfectly, although it was quite invisible at that distance.

The effect produced by this singular phenomenon exceeded everything imaginable. It is necessary to insist on this point. The reader must put himself in the place of the people of Werst and he will not be astonished at what follows. I do not ask him to believe in the supernatural, but to understand that this ignorant people believed in it without reservation. To the mistrust inspired by the Castle of the Carpathians, which up to then was supposed to be deserted, was to be added the terror that it now seemed to be inhabited, and by such beings! Good heavens!

There was at Werst a meeting-place frequented by drinkers, and even beloved by those who, without drinking, delighted in talking over matters at the close of the day — the latter in small numbers, be it understood. This place, open to all, was the chief, or rather the only, inn in the village.

Who was the proprietor of this inn? A Jew of the name of Jonas, a fine fellow of about sixty, of pleasing physiognomy, although rather Semitic, with black eyes, hook nose, long lip, smooth hair, and the traditional beard. Obsequious and obliging, he willingly lent little sums to one or the other without being too particular as to security nor too usurious as regards interest, although he expected to be paid on the dates named by the borrower. Would to heaven that the Jews in Transylvania were always as accommodating as the innkeeper of Werst!

Unfortunately this excellent Jonas was an exception. His fellows in religion, his brethren by profession — for they are all innkeepers, selling drinks and groceries — carry on the trade of money-lenders with a bitterness that is not promising for the future of the Roumanian peasant. Gradually the land is passing from the native to the foreigner. In default of being repaid their advances, the Jews are becoming the proprietors of the finest farms mortgaged to their advantage; and if the Promised Land is not to be that of Israel, it may one day make its appearance on the maps of Transylvanian geography.

The inn of the “King Mathias” — such is its name occupies one of the corners of the terrace which crosses the main street of Werst, and is immediately opposite the biro’s house. It is an old structure, half wood, half stone, much patched in places, but a good deal covered with verdure, and of very attractive appearance. It consists only of the ground floor, with a glass door giving access to the terrace. Inside one first entered a large room furnished with tables for the glasses and benches for the drinkers, with a sideboard in varnished oak on which gleamed the dishes, pots, and bottles, and a counter of black wood, behind which Jonas stood ready for his -customers.

Light was obtained from two windows which were in the wall facing the terrace, and two others opposite each other in the outer walls. Of these, one was veiled by a thick curtain of climbing and hanging plants, which screened the outer view and only allowed a little light to pass, while the other when opened gave an extensive view over the lower valley of the Vulkan. A few feet below it rolled the tumultuous waters of the Nyad torrent. On one side the torrent descended the slopes of the range from its rise on the plateau of Orgall, which was crowned by the castle buildings; on the other, abundantly fed by the mountain streams, even during summer time it flowed along to the Wallachian Syl, which absorbed it in its course.

On the right, adjoining the large room, a half-dozen of small rooms were enough to accommodate the few travellers who before crossing the frontier desired to rest at the “King Mathias.” They were sure of a good welcome at moderate charges, from an attentive and obliging landlord, who was always well provided with good tobacco, which he bought in the best “trafiks “of the neighbourhood. As for Jonas himself, he occupied a narrow attic, the old-fashioned window of which patched the thatch with flowers, and looked out on to the terrace.

In this inn, on this very night of the 29th of May, there were gathered all the wise-heads of Werst — Master Koltz, Magister Hermod, the forester Nic Deck, a dozen of the chief inhabitants, and also the shepherd Frik, who was not the least important of these personages. Doctor Patak was absent from this meeting of notables. Sent for in all haste by one of his old patients who was only waiting for him in order to pass away into another world, he had agreed to come to the inn as soon as his attentions were no longer necessary to the defunct.

While waiting for the doctor the company talked about the serious event of the day, but they did not talk without eating or drinking. To the hungry Jonas offered that kind of hasty pudding or maize pudding known under the name of “mamaliga,” which is not at all disagreeable when _ taken with new milk. To the others he offered many a small glass of those strong liqueurs which roll like pure water down Roumanian throats, or “schnapps,” costing about a farthing a glass, and more particularly “rakiou,” a strong spirit from plums, of which the consumption is considerable among the Carpathians.

It should be mentioned that the landlord Jonas — it was the custom of the inn — only served the customers when they were sitting down, as he had observed that seated consumers consume more copiously than consumers on their feet. This evening matters looked promising, for all the seats were full; and Jonas was going from one table to another, jug in hand, filling up the glasses which were . constantly empty.

It was half-past eight in the evening. They had been talking since dusk without deciding what they should do. But they were agreed on one point, and that was that if the Castle of the Carpathians was inhabited by the unknown, it had become as dangerous to Werst as a powder-magazine would be at the gate of a town.

“It is a serious affair,” said Master Koltz.

“Very serious,” said the Magister, between two puffs of his inseparable pipe.

“Very serious,” said the company.

“There is no doubt,” said Jonas, “that the evil repute of the castle does much harm to the country round about — “

“And now,” said Magister Hermod, “there is this thing also — “

“Strangers do not come here often,” said Master Koltz with a sigh “And now they will not come at all!” added Jonas, sighing in unison with the biro.

“Some of the people will be going away,” said one of the drinkers. —

“I shall go first of all,” said a peasant from the outskirts; “and I will go as soon as I can sell my vines.”

“For which you will find no buyers, old man,” said the tavern-keeper.

One can see what these worthies were driving at in their talk. Amid the personal terrors occasioned them by the Castle of the Carpathians, rose the anxiety for their interests so regrettably injured. If there were no more travellers, Jonas would suffer in the revenue of his inn. If there were no more strangers, Master Koltz would suffer in the receipt of the tolls, which gradually grew less. If there were no more buyers, the owners could not sell their lands even at a low price. That would last for years, and the situation, already very unsatisfactory, would become worse In fact, if it had been so while the spirits of the castle had kept out of sight, what would it be now that they manifested their presence by material acts?

Then the shepherd Frik thought he ought thing, but in a hesitating sort of way, —

“Perhaps we may have to — “

“What?” asked Master Koltz.

“Go there, master, and see.”

The company looked at each other, and then lowered -their eyes, and the question remained without reply.

Then Jonas, addressing Master Koltz, took up the word in a firm voice.

“Your shepherd,” he said, u has just pointed out the only thing we can do.”

“Go to the castle?”

“Yes, my good friends,” said the innkeeper. “If there is a smoke from the donjon chimney, it is because there is a fire, and if there is a fire it must have been lighted by a hand — “

“A hand! — at least a claw!” said an old peasant, shaking his head.

“Hand or claw,” said the innkeeper, “what does it matter? We must know what it means. It is the first time that smoke has come out of the castle chimneys since Baron Rodolphe of Gortz left it.”

“But there might have been smoke without anybody noticing it,” said Master Koltz.

“That I will never admit!” said Magister Hermod suddenly.

“But it might be,” replied the biro, “if we had not got the telescope to watch what was happening at the castle.”

It was well said. The phenomenon might have happened frequently and escaped even the shepherd Frik, good as were his eyes. But anyhow, whether the said phenomenon were recent or not, it was certain that human beings were actually living at the Castle of the Carpathians; and this fact constituted an extremely disturbing state of things for the inhabitants of Vulkan and Werst.

Then Magister Hermod made this remark in support of his belief, —

“Human beings, my friends? You will allow me not to believe it. Why should human beings think of taking refuge in the castle? for what reason? and how did they get there?”

“What do you think these intruders are, then?” exclaimed Master Koltz.

“Supernatural beings!” said Magister Hermod in an imposing voice. “Why should they not be spirits, goblins, perhaps even those dangerous lamias which present themselves under the form of beautiful women?”

During this enumeration every look was directed towards the door, towards the windows, or towards the chimney of the big saloon of the “King Mathias.” And in truth the company asked themselves if they were not about to see one or other of these phantoms successively evoked by the schoolmaster.

“However, my good friends,” said Jonas, “if these beings are of that kind, I don’t understand why they should have lighted a fire, for they have no cooking to do — “

“And their sorceries?” said the shepherd. “Do you forget that they want a fire for their sorceries?”

“Evidently!” said the Magister in a tone which admitted of no reply.

The reply was accepted without protest, and in the opinion of all there could be no doubt that it must be supernatural and not human beings who had chosen the Castle of the Carpathians as the scene of their operations.

Up to this point Nic Deck had taken no part in the conversation. He had been content to listen attentively to what was said by one and the other. The old castle with its mysterious walls, its ancient origin, its feudal appearance, had always inspired him with as much curiosity as respect. And being very brave, although he was as credulous as any inhabitant of Werst, he had more than once even manifested a desire to enter the old stronghold.

As may be imagined, Miriota had obstinately set her face against so adventurous a project. He might have such ideas when he was free to do as he liked, but an engaged man was no longer his own master, and to embark in such adventures was the act of a madman, not of a lover. But notwithstanding her prayers, the lovely girl was always afraid that the forester would make some such attempt. What reassured her a little was that Nic Deck had not formally declared that he would go to the castle, for no one had sufficient influence over him to stop him — not even herself. She knew him to be an obstinate, resolute man, who would never go back on his promise. If he said a thing, the thing was as good as done. And Miriota would have been all anxiety had she suspected what the young man was thinking about.

However, as Nic Deck said nothing, the shepherd’s proposition received no reply. Visit the Castle of the Carpathians now that it was haunted? Who would be mad enough to do that? And all those present discovered the best reasons for not doing anything. The biro was no longer of an age to venture over so rough a road. The magister had to look after his school. Jonas had to look after his inn. Frik had his sheep to attend to; and the other peasants had to busy themselves with their cattle and their pastures.

No! not one would venture, all of them saying to themselves, —

“He who dares go to the castle may never come back!”

At this moment the door suddenly opened to the great alarm of the company.

It was only Doctor Patak, and it would have been difficult to mistake him for one of those bewitching lamias of whom Magister Hermod had been speaking.

His patient being dead — which did honour to his medical acumen, if not to his talent — Doctor Patak had hurried on to the meeting at the “King Mathias”

“Here he is at last!” said Master Koltz.

Doctor Patak hastily shook hands with everybody, much as if he were distributing drugs, and, in a somewhat ironical tone, remarked, —

“Then, my friends, it is the castle, the Castle of the Chort, you are busy about! Oh! you cowards. But if the old castle wants to smoke, let it smoke! Does not our learned Hermod smoke, and smoke all day? Really, the whole country is in a state of terror! I have heard of nothing else during my visits. Somebody has returned and made a fire over there! And why not, if they have got a cold in the head? It would seem that it freezes in the month of May in the rooms of the donjon, unless there is some bread cooking for the other world. I suppose they want food in that place — that is if they come to life again? Perhaps they are some of the heavenly bakers who hare come to start their oven.”

And so on in a series of jests that were much to the distaste of the Werst people, who made no attempt to stop him.

At last the biro asked, —

“And so, doctor, you attach no importance to what is taking place at the castle?”

“None, Master Koltz.”

“Have you never said you are ready to go there — if any one dared you to do so?”

“I?” answered the doctor, with a certain look of annoyance at any one reminding him of his words.

“Yes. Have you not said so more than once?” asked the magister.

“I have said so, certainly, and there is no need to repeat it.”

“But there is need to do it!” said Hermod.

“To do it?”

“Yes; and instead o* daring you, we are content to ask you to do it,” added Master Koltz.

“You understand — my friends, certainly — such a proposal — “

“Well, since you hesitate,” said the innkeeper, we will not ask you — we dare you!”

“Dare me?”

“Yes, doctor.”

“Jonas,” said the biro, “you are going too far. There is no need to dare Patak. We know he is a man of his word. What he has said he will do — if only to render a -service to the village and to the whole country.”

“But is this serious? You want me to go to the Castle of the Carpathians?” said the doctor, whose red face had become quite pale.

“You cannot get out of it,” said Master Koltz.

“I beg you, my good friends — I beg you to be reasonable, if you please.”

“We are reasonable,” said Jonas.

“Be just, then. What is the use of my going there? What shall I find? A few good fellows have taken refuge in the castle, who are doing no harm to any one — “

“Well,” replied Magister Hermod, “if they are good fellows you have nothing to fear from them, and it will be an opportunity for you to offer them your services.”

“If they need them,” said Doctor Patak, “if they send for me, I should not hesitate to go to the castle. But I do not go without an invitation, and I do not pay visits for nothing.”

“We will pay you,” said Master Koltz, “and at so much an hour.”

“Who will pay me?”

“I will — we will — at any rate you like!” replied the majority of Jonas’s customers.’

Evidently, in spite of his bluster, the doctor was as big a coward as the rest of Werst. But after having posed as a superior person, after having ridiculed the popular legends, he found it difficult to refuse the service he was asked to render. But to go to the Castle of the Carpathians”, even if he were paid for his journey, was in no way agreeable to him. He therefore endeavoured to show that the visit would produce no result, that the village was covering itself with ridicule in sending him to explore the castle — but his arguments hung fire.

“Look here, doctor,” said Magister Hermod, “it seems to me you have absolutely nothing to fear. You do not believe in spirits?”

“No; I do not believe in them.”

“Well, then, if they are not spirits who have returned to the castle, they are human beings who have taken up their quarters there, and you can get on all right with them.”

The schoolmaster’s reasoning was logical enough; it was difficult to get out of it.

“Agreed, Hermod,” said the doctor; “but I might be detained at the castle.”

“Then you will be welcomed there,” said Jonas. “Certainly; but if my absence is prolonged, and if some one in the village wants me — “

“We are all wonderfully well,” said Master Koltz, “and there is not a single invalid in Werst now your last patient has taken his departure for the other world.”

“Speak frankly,” said the innkeeper. “Will you go?”” No, I will not!” said the doctor. “Oh! it is not because I am afraid. You know I have no faith in these sorceries. The truth is, it seems to me absurd, and, I repeat, ridiculous. Because a smoke has appeared at the donjon chimney — a smoke which may not be a smoke — certainly not! I will not go to the Castle of the Carpathians.”

“I will go!”

It was the forester Nic Deck who had suddenly joined in the conversation.

“You, Nic?” exclaimed Master Koltz.

“I — but on condition that Patak goes with me.”

This was a direct thrust for the doctor, who gave a jump as if to avoid it.

“You think that, forester?” said he, “I — to go with you? Certainly. It will be a pleasant expedition for both of us, if it is of any use. Look here, Nic, you know well enough there is no road to the castle. We shall not get there.”

“I have said I will go to the castle,” replied Nic Deck, “and as I have said so I will go.”

“But I have not said so!” exclaimed the doctor, struggling as if some one had gripped him by the collar.

“But you have!” said Jonas.

“Yes! yes!” replied the company unanimously.

The doctor, pressed on all sides, did not know how to escape. Ah! how much he regretted that he had so imprudently committed himself by his rodomontades. Never had he imagined they would have been taken seriously, or that he would have to account for them in person. And now there was no chance of escape without becoming the laughing-stock of Werst; and in all the Vulkan district they would badger him unmercifully. He decided to accept the inevitable with a good grace.

“Well, since you wish it,” he said, “I will go with Nic Deck, although it will be useless.”

“Well done, Patak!” shouted all the company at the “King Mathias.”

“And when shall we start, forester?” asked Doctor Patak, affecting to speak in a tone of indifference which poorly disguised his poltroonery.

“To-morrow morning,” said Nic Deck.

These last words were followed by a long silence which showed how real were the feelings of Master Koltz and the others. The glasses were empty, so were the pots, but no one rose, no one thought of leaving the place although it was late, nor of returning home. It occurred to Jonas that there was a good opportunity for serving another round of schnapps and rakiou.

Suddenly a voice was heard distinctly amid the general silence, and these words were slowly pronounced, —

“Nicolas Deck, do not go to the castle to-morrow! Do not go there, or misfortune will happen to you.”

Who was it said this? Whence came the voice which no one knew, and which seemed to come from an invisible mouth? It could not be a voice from a phantom, a supernatural voice, a voice from another world.

Terror was at its height. The men dared not look at one another; they dared not even utter a word.

The bravest — and that evidently was Nic Deck —

endeavoured to discover what it all meant. It was evident that the words had been uttered in the room. The forester went up to the box and opened it.

Nobody.

He then looked into the rooms which opened into the saloon.

Nobody.

He opened the door, went outside, ran along the terrace to the main street of Werst.

Nobody.

A few minutes afterwards Master Koltz, Magister Hermod, Doctor Patak, Nic Deck, Shepherd Frik, and the others had left the inn and its keeper Jonas, who hastened to double-lock the door.

That night, as if they had been menaced by some apparition, the inhabitants of Werst strongly barricaded themselves in their houses.

Terror reigned in the village.

CHAPTER V.

In the morning Nic Deck and Doctor Patak prepared to start at nine o’clock. The forester’s intention was to ascend the Vulkan and take the shortest way to - the suspicious castle.

After the phenomenon of the smoke on the donjon, after the phenomenon of the voice heard in the saloon of the “King Mathias,” we need not be astonished at the people being as if deranged. Some of the Tsiganes already spoke of leaving the district. During the night nothing else had been spoken of at home — and in a low voice. Could there be any doubt that it was the Chort who had spoken in so threatening a way to the young forester? At Jonas’s inn there had been about fifty people, and these the most worthy of belief, who had all heard the strange words. To suppose that they had all been duped by some illusion of the senses was inadmissible. There could be no doubt that Nic Deck had been formally warned that misfortune would overtake him if he persisted in his intention of visiting the Castle of the Carpathians.

And yet the young forester was preparing to leave Werst, and without being forced to do so. In fact, whatever advantage Master Koltz might gain in clearing up the mystery of the castle, whatever interest the village might have in knowing what was taking place, a powerful effort had been made to get Nic Deck to go back on his word. Weeping and in despair, with her beautiful eyes wet with tears, Miriota had besought him not to persist in this adventure. After the warning given by the voice it was a serious matter; it was a mad adventure. On the eve of his marriage Nic Deck was about to risk his life in the attempt, and his betrothed clung to his knees to prevent him, but all in vain.

Neither the objurgations of his friends, nor the tears of Miriota had any effect on the young forester.

And no one was surprised at it. They knew his indomitable character, his tenacity, his obstinacy, if you will. He had said he would go to the Castle of the Carpathians, and nothing would stop him; not even the threat which had been addressed straight to him. Yes! he would go to the castle even if he never returned.

When the hour of parting came, Nic Deck pressed Miriota for the last time to his heart, while the poor girl made the sign of the thumb and two first fingers, according to Roumanian custom, which is an emblem of the Holy Trinity.

And Doctor Patak? Well, Doctor Patak had tried to get out of it, but without success. All that could be said he had said. All the objections imaginable he had mentioned. He tried to entrench himself behind the formal injunction not to go to the castle, which had been so distinctly heard.

“That menace only concerns me,” said Nic Deck. n But if anything happens to you, forester,” said Doctor Patak, “shall I get away without injury?”

“Injury or not, you have promised to come with me to the castle, and you will come because I am going.”

Seeing that nothing would prevent his keeping his promise, the people of Werst had resolved to help the forester. It was better that Nic Deck should not enter alone on this affair. And, much to his disgust, the doctor, feeling that he could not go back, that it would compromise his position in the village, that it would be a disgrace for him to go back after all his boastings, resigned himself to the adventure with terror in his soul, and fully resolved to profit by the least obstacle on the road to make his companion turn back.

Nic Deck and Doctor Patak set out, and Master Koltz, Magister Hermod, Frik, and Jonas accompanied them up to a turning out of the main road, where they stopped.

Here Master Koltz for the last time brought his telescope — which he was never without — to bear on the castle. There was now no smoke from the donjon chimney, and it would have been easy to see it on the clear horizon of a beautiful spring morning. Were they to conclude that the guests, natural or supernatural, of the caste had vanished on finding that the forester took no heed of their threats? Some of them thought so, and therein appeared a decisive reason for bringing the adventure to a satisfactory termination. And so they all shook hands, and Nic Deck, dragging the doctor away with him, disappeared round the hill.

The young forester was in full visiting costume, laced cap with large peak, belted vest with a cutlass in its sheath, baggy trousers, iron-shod boots, cartridge-belt at his waist, and long gun on his shoulder. He had the deserved reputation of being a first-rate shot, and in default of ghosts it was as well to be prepared for robbers, or even bears with evil intentions.

The doctor had armed himself with an old flint pistol, which missed fire three times out of five. He also carried a hatchet which his companion had given him in case it was necessary to cut a way through the thick underwoods of Plesa. He wore a large country hat, and was buttoned up in a thick travelling cape, and shod with big iron-soled boots; but this heavy costume would not have stopped him from running away if opportunity presented itself.

Both he and Nic Deck carried a few provisions in their wallets, so as to prolong the exploration if necessary.

After leaving the by-road, Nic Deck and the doctor went along the right bank of the Nyad for a few hundred yards. Had they followed the road which winds through the valleys, they would have gone too far to the westward. It was a pity they could not follow the river and thereby reduce their distance by a third, for the Nyad rises in the folds of the Orgall plateau. But though it was practicable at first, the bank became eventually so deeply cut into by ravines and barred with rocks that progress along it was impossible even to pedestrians. They had therefore to bear away obliquely to the left, so as to return to the castle after traversing the lower belt of the Plesa forests.

And this was the only side on which the castle was approachable from where they were. When it had been inhabited by Count Rodolphe de Gortz, the communication between the village of Werst, the Vulkan Hill, and the valley of the Syl had been through a gap which had been opened in this direction. But abandoned for twenty years to the invasions of vegetation, it had become obstructed by an inextricable thicket of underwood, and the trace of a footpath or a passage would be sought for in vain.

When they left the deep bed of the Nyad, which was filled with roaring water, Nic Deck stopped to take his bearings. The castle was no longer visible. It would only appear again beyond the curtain of forests which stood in rows one above the other on the lower slopes of the mountain, an arrangement common to the whole orographic system of the Carpathians. As there was no landmark the direction was not easily made out. It could only be arrived at from the position of the sun, whose rays were lighting up the distant crests in the southwest.

“You see, forester,” said the doctor, “you see there is not even a road, or, rather, no more road.”

“There will be one,” said Nic Deck.

“That is easy to say, Nic.”

“And easy to do, Patak.”

“You are resolved, then?”

The forester was content to reply by an affirmative gesture, and started off towards the trees.

The doctor had a strong inclination to retrace his steps, but his companion, happening to turn round, gave him such a determined look that he thought it better not to remain behind.

Doctor Patak then conceived another hope: Nic Deck might get lost amid this labyrinth of woods, where his duties had not yet called him. But he reckoned without that marvello is scent, that professional instinct, that animal aptitude, so to speak, which takes notice of the least indications, projections of branches in such and such directions, irregularities of the ground, colours of the bark, hues of the mosses as they are exposed to different winds. Nic Deck was a perfect master of his trade, and practised it with too much sagacity to go astray even in localities unknown to him. He was worthy to be ranked with Leatherstocking or Chingachgook in the land of Cooper.

But the crossing of this zone of trees was not free from real difficulties. Elms, beeches, a few of those maples known as false planes, mighty oaks, occupied the first line up to the line of the birches, pines, and spruces, massed on the higher shoulders of the col to the left. Magnificent were these trees with their powerful stems, their boughs warm with the new sap, their thick leafage intermingling to form a roof of verdure which the sun’s rays could not pierce.

By stooping beneath their lower branches a passage was relatively easy; but many were the obstacles on the surface of the ground, and much work was needed to clear them away, to get through the nettles and briars, to avoid the thousands of thorns that clung to them at the least touch. Nic Deck was not a man to become anxious about these matters; and, providing he got through the wood, he did not worry himself about a few scratches. The advance, however, under such conditions was necessarily slow, and that was regrettable, for Nic Deck and Doctor Patak wished to reach the castle in the afternoon, in order that they might return to Werst before night.

Hatchet in hand, the forester worked at clearing a passage through these thick thorn-bushes, bristling with vegetable bayonets, in which the foot met a rugged soil, hummocky, broken, with roots or stumps to stumble over when it did not sink in a swampy bed of dead leaves which the wind had never swept away. Myriads of pods shot off like fulminating peas to the great alarm of the doctor, who started back at the crackle, and came again when some twig would catch on to his vest like a claw that wished to keep him. No! poor man, he was not at all comfortable.’ But now he dared not return alone, and he had to make an effort to keep up with his intractable companion.

Occasionally capricious clearings appeared in the forest. A shower of light would penetrate it. A couple of black storks, disturbed in their solitude, escaped from the higher branches and flew off with powerful strokes of the wing. The crossing of these clearings made the advance still more fatiguing. In them were piled up enormous masses of trees blown down by the storm or fallen from old age, as if the axe of the woodman had given them their death-stroke. There lay enormous trunks eaten into with decay, which no tool would ever cut into billets, and no waggon would ever carry to the bed of the Wallachian Syl. Faced by these obstacles, which were difficult to clear and at times impossible to turn, Nic Deck and his companion had no easy time of it. If the young forester, active, supple, vigorous, managed well, the doctor with his short legs, his large corporation, breathless and exhausted, could not save himself from occasional falls, and Nic had to come to his assistance.

“You will see, Nic, that I shall end by breaking one of my limbs!” he said.

“You will soon patch it up, if you do.”

“Come, forester, be reasonable; we need not strive against the impossible!”

But Nic Deck was already on in front, and the doctor, obtaining no reply, hastened to rejoin him.

Were they in the right direction to come out in front of the castle? They would have been puzzled to prove it. But as the ground was on the rise all the time, they must be reaching the edge of the forest; and they arrived there at three o’clock in the afternoon.

Beyond, up to the plateau of Orgall extended the curtain of green trees, much more scattered the farther they were up the mountain.

The Nyad appeared among the rocks, either because it had curved to the north-west, or because Nic Deck had struck off obliquely towards it. The young forester was thus assured he had made a good course, for the brook took its rise in the Orgall plateau.

Nic Deck could not refuse the doctor an hour’s rest on the bank of the torrent. Besides, the stomach claimed its due as well as the limbs. The wallets were well furnished; rakiou filled the doctor’s flask as well as Nic’s. Besides, water, fresh and limpid, filtered amid the pebbles below, and flowed a few paces off. What more could they desire? They had lost much; they must repair the loss.

Since their departure the doctor had scarcely had the leisure to talk with Nic Deck, who had been in front of him all the time. But he made up for lost time when they were seated on the bank of the Nyad. If one was not talkative, the other fully made up for it; and we need not be astonished if the questions were prolix and the answers brief.

“Let us talk a little, forester, and talk seriously,” said the doctor.

“I am listening to you,” replied Nic Deck.

“I think we halted here to recover our strength “Nothing could be more correct.”

“Before returning to Werst?”

“No; before going to the castle.”

“But, Nic, we have been walking for six hours, and we are hardly halfway.”

“That shows we have no time to lose.”

“But we shall not reach the castle before night, and as I imagine, forester, you will not be mad enough to run any risks until you have had a clear view of it, we shall have to wait for daylight.”

“We will wait for daylight.”

“And so you will not give up this project, which has no common sense in it?”

“No.”

w What! Here we are exhausted, wanting a good table in a good room, and a good bed in a good room, and you are going to pass the night in the open air?”

“Yes. if any obstacle prevents us from penetrating into the castle.”

“And if there is no obstacle?”

“We will sleep in the rooms in the donjon.”

“The rooms in the donjon!” exclaimed Doctor Patak. “Do you think, forester, that I shall ever consent to spend a whole night inside that cursed castle?”

“Certainly, unless you prefer to stay outside alone.”

“Alone, forester! That was not in the bargain; and if we are to separate, I would rather start at once and go back to the village.”

“It was in the bargain that you would follow me into the castle.”

“In the day, yes! In the night, no!”

“Well, you can go if you like; but take care you do not get lost in the thickets.”

Lost! That was what troubled the doctor. Abandoned to himself, unaccustomed to these interminable circuits in the Plesa forests, he felt he was incapable of finding the way back to Werst. Besides, to be alone when night fell — a very dark night, perhaps — to descend the slopes of the hill, at the risk of collapsing in the bottom of a ravine, that certainly was not agreeable to him. He was freed from having to enter the castle when the sun was down, and if the forester persisted, he had better follow him up to the enclosure. But the doctor made a last effort to stop his companion.

“You know, well, my dear Nic,” he continued, “that I will never consent to separate from you. If you persist in going to the castle, I will not allow you to go there alone.”

Well spoken, Doctor Patak, and I think you ought to stick to that.”

“No! One word more, Nic. If it is night when we arrive, promise me not to try and enter the castle.”

“What I promise you, doctor, is not to go back one footstep until I have discovered what is going on there.”

“What is going on there, forester!” said Doctor Patak, shrugging his shoulders. “But what do you want to go on there?”

“I know nothing, and as I have made up my mind to know, I will know.”

“But shall we ever reach this devil’s castle?” asked the doctor, whose arguments were exhausted. “To judge by the difficulty we have had up to now, and the time it has taken us to get through the Plesa forests, the day will end before we are in sight of the wall.”

“I do not think so,” said Nic Deck. “In the higher ranges the pines have no such thickets as do the elms or maples or beeches.”

“But the ground is rough.”

“What does that matter, if it is not impracticable?”

“But I believe that bears-are met with on the outskirts of the plateau.”

“I have my gun, and you have your pistol to defend yourself with, doctor.”

“But if night falls we may be lost in the darkness”

“No; for we now have a guide, which guide will, I hope, not leave us any more.”

“A guide?” exclaimed the doctor. And he rose abruptly to cast an anxious look around him.

“Yes,” said Nic, “and this guide is the Nyad. We have only to go up the right bank to reach the very crest of the plateau where it takes its source. I think we shall be at the castle gate in two hours, if we get on the road without delay.”

“In two hours if not in six!” replied the doctor.

“Are you ready?”

“Already? Nic, already? Why, our halt has only lasted a few minutes — “

“A few minutes which make a good half-hour. For the last time, are you ready?”

“Ready — when my legs are like lumps of lead? You know well enough, Nic Deck, my legs are not forester’s legs. My feet are swollen in my boots, and it is cruel to make me follow you — “

“Ah! You annoy me, Patak! You can go back alone if you like! Pleasant journey to you!”

And Nic rose.

“For the love of God, forester,” cried Doctor Patak, “listen to me.”

“Listen to your foolery?”

“It is already late, why not remain here? why not encamp under the shelter of these trees? We can start at daylight, and have all the morning to reach the plateau.”

“Doctor,” replied Nic Deck, “I tell you again it is my intention to spend the night in the castle.”

“No!” cried the doctor; “no, you shall not do it, Nic! I will stop you — “

“You?”

“I will cling to you! I will drag you back! I will thrash you, if necessary!”

The unfortunate doctor did not know what he was saying.

As to Nic Deck, he did not even reply. Putting his arm through the gun-strap, he started to go up the Nyad.

“Wait — wait!” cried the doctor piteously. “What a fiend of a man! One moment! My limbs are stiff, my joints will not work.”

But they soon had to work, for the doctor had to trot along on his little legs to catch up the forester, who never looked back.

It was four o’clock. The solar rays just tipped the crest of Plesa, which intercepted them, and by an oblique reflection lighted up the higher branches of the pine-forest, Nic Deck had cause to hurry, for the woods below were growing dark at the decline of day.

Of a different character were the higher forests, which consisted mainly of the commoner Alpine species. Instead of being deformed and twisted and gnarled, the stems were straight and upright and far apart, and bare of branches for fifty or sixty feet from their roots, and then their evergreen verdure spread out like a roof. There was little brushwood or entanglement at their base; but the long roots crept along the ground as if they were snakes grown torpid with the cold. The ground was carpeted with close yellowish moss, scattered over with dry twigs, and dotted with cones which crackled under the feet. The slope was rough and furrowed with crystalline rocks, the sharp edges of which made themselves felt through the thickest leather. For a quarter of a mile the passage through the pine-wood was difficult. To climb these blocks required a suppleness, a vigour, and a sureness of foot which Doctor Patak could no longer claim. Nic Deck would have got through in an hour if he had been alone but it took him three with the hindrance of his companion, whom he had to stop to attend to, and to help over rocks too high for his little legs The doctor had but one fear — a terrible fear — that of being left alone in these gloomy solitudes.

However, if the slopes became more painful to climb, the trees began to get thinner and thinner on the Plesa ridge. They were now in isolated clumps and of small size. Between these clumps could be seen the ranges of mountains in the background, with their outline still traceable in the evening mist.

The torrent of the Nyad, which the forester had continued to follow, was now not larger than a brook, and rose not so very far off. A few hundred feet above the last folds of the ground lay the rounded plateau of Orgall, crowned by the castle buildings.

Nic Deck at length reached the plateau after a final effort which reduced the doctor to the state of an inert mass. The poor man had not strength to drag himself twenty yards farther, and he fell like the ox before the axe of the butcher.

Nic Deck hardly felt the fatigue of this painful ascent. Erect, motionless, he devoured with his gaze this Castle of the Carpathians he had never before been so near.

Before his eyes lay a crenellated wall defended by a deep ditch, the only drawbridge of which was drawn up against a gate surrounded by a ring of stone.

Around the wall, on the plateau, all was bare and silent.

In the twilight the mass of castle buildings was confusedly distinguishable. There was no one visible on either wall or donjon, nor on the circular terrace. Not a trace of smoke curled round the vane.

“Well, forester,” said Doctor Patak, “are you convinced that it is possible to cross the ditch, lower the drawbridge, and open the gate?”

Nic Deck did not reply. He saw that it would be necessary to halt before the castle walls. Amid the darkness, how could he descend into the ditch and climb the slope so as to enter the wall? Evidently the best thing to do was to wait for the coming dawn, and work in broad daylight.

And that was what it was decided to do, to the great annoyance of the forester and the extreme satisfaction of the doctor.

CHAPTER VI

The thin crescent of the moon, like a silver sickle, disappeared almost as soon as the sun set. A few clouds rising in the west, soon extinguished the last gleams of twilight Darkness gradually rose from below and covered all. The ring of mountains was blotted out in obscurity, and the castle soon disappeared beneath the pall of night.

If the night promised to be very dark, there was nothing to indicate that it would be troubled by any atmospheric disturbance, rain or storm; and this was fortunate for Nic Deck and his companion, who were about to encamp in the open air.

There was no clump of trees on this barren plateau of Orgall. Here and there were a few shrubs, which afforded no shelter against the nocturnal cold There were rocks in plenty, some half-buried in the ground, others in such a state of equilibrium that the slightest push would have sent them rolling down into the fir-woods.

The only plant that grew in profusion on the rocky soil was the thistle known as Russian thorn, whose seeds, says Elisee Reclus, were carried in their coats by the Muscovite horses — ” a present of cheerful conquest which the Russians gave the Transylvanians.”

A search was made for a more comfortable place in which to pass the night, and which would afford some shelter against the fall in temperature which is remarkable in these altitudes.

“We have more than chances enough — to be miserable!” murmured Doctor Patak.

“Are you not satisfied, then?” asked Nic Deck.

“Certainly not! What a splendid place to catch a good cold or the rheumatism, which I do not know how I shall ever get cured of!”

A very artless confession on the part of the old quarantine officer. How he regretted his comfortable little house at Werst, with its room so snug and its bed so well furnished with pillows and counterpane!

Among the stones on the Orgail plateau one had to be selected whose position offered the best shelter against the south-west wind, which was beginning to freshen. This was what Nic Deck did, and soon the doctor joined him behind a large rock which was as flat as a table on its upper surface.

This stone was one of those stone benches amid the scabiouses and saxifrages which are frequently met with at the turnings of the road in Wallachia While the traveller sits on them he can quench his thirst with the water contained in a vase placed on them, and which is every day renewed by the country people. When Baron Rodolphe de Gortz lived at the castle, this bench bore a bowl which the family servants never left empty. But now it was dirty and worn and covered with green mosses, and the last shock would have reduced it to dust.

At the end of the seat rose a granite shaft, the remains of an ancient cross, nothing being left of the arms, although a half-effaced groove showed where they had been.

Doctor Patak, being a strong-minded man, was unable to admit that this cross could protect him against supernatural apparitions. But by an anomaly common to a good many of the incredulous, although he did not believe in God, he was not very far from believing in the devil. In his heart he believed the Chort was not far off; he it was that haunted the castle, and neither the closed gate, the raised drawbridge, the lofty wail, nor the deep ditch would keep him from coming out, if the fancy took him, to come and twist both their necks.

And when the doctor saw that he had to spend a whole night under these conditions, he shuddered with terror. No! It was too much to require of a human creature, and it would be more than the most energetic of characters could bear.

And then an idea came to him tardily — an idea he had not thought of before he left Werst. It was Thursday evening, and on that day the people of the district, the country people, were careful not to go out after sundown. Thursday they knew to be a day of evil deeds. Their legends told them that if they ventured abroad on that day, they ran the risk of meeting with some evil spirit. And so no one moved about on the roads and by-ways after nightfall.

And here was Doctor Patak not only away from home, but close to a haunted castle, two or three miles from the village. And here he would have to stop until the dawn came — if it ever came again! In truth, this was simply tempting the devil!

Deep in these thoughts, the doctor saw the forester carefully take out of his bag a piece of cold meat, after having a good drink from his flask. The best thing, it occurred to him, was to do likewise, and he did so. A leg of a goose, a thick slice of bread, the whole well moistened with rakiou, was the least he could take to revive his strength. But if that calmed his hunger, it did not calm his fears.

“Now let us sleep,” said Nic Deck, as soon as he had put his bag at the foot of the stone.

“Sleep, forester?”

“Good-night, doctor.”

“Good-night — that is easy to wish, but I am afraid it will not end well.”

Nic Deck, being in no humour for conversation, made no reply. Accustomed by his vocation to sleep amid the woods, he threw himself down close to the stone seat and was soon in a deep sleep. And the doctor could but grumble between his teeth when he heard his companion breathing at regular intervals. .

As for him, it was impossible for him for some minutes to deaden his senses of hearing and seeing. In spite of his fatigue he continued to see and to listen. His brain was a prey to those extravagant visions which are due to the troubles of insomnia.

What was he looking for in the depths of darkness? — the hazy shapes of the objects which surrounded him, the scattered clouds across the sky, the almost imperceptible mass of the castle? The rocks on the Orgall plateau seemed to be moving in a sort of infernal saraband. And if they were to crumble on their bases, slip down the slope, roll on to the two adventurers, and crush them at the castle gate to which admission was denied them!

The unhappy doctor got up; he listened to the noises which are ever present on lofty table-lands — those disquieting murmurs which seem to whisper and groan and sigh. He heard the nyctalops fanning the rocks with frenzied wing, the stryges in their nocturnal flight, and two or three pairs of funereal owls whose hooting echoed like a cry of pain. Then his muscles contracted all at once, and his body trembled, bathed in icy perspiration.

In this way the long hours went by until midnight. If the doctor had been able to talk, to exchange but a few words now and then, to give free course to his recriminations, he would have been less afraid. But Nic Deck slept and slept in a deep slumber.

Midnight — that terrible hour for all, the hour of apparitions, the hour of evil deeds!

What could it be?

The doctor had just got up again. He was asking himself if he were awake, or if he were suffering from a nightmare.

Overhead he thought he saw — no! he really did see — the strangest of shapes, lighted by a spectral light, pass from one horizon to the other, rise, fall, and drift down with the clouds. They looked like monsters, dragons with serpents’ tails, hippogryphs with huge wings, gigantic krakens, enormous vampires, fighting to seize him in their claws or swallow him in their jaws.

Then everything appeared to be in motion, on the Orgall plateau — the rocks, the trees at its edge. And very distinctly a clanging at short intervals reached his ear.

“The bell!” he murmured, “the castle bell!”

Yes! It was indeed the bell of the old chapel, and not that of the church at Vulkan, which the wind would have borne in the opposite direction.

And now the strokes became more hurried. The hand that struck no longer tolled a funeral knell. No! It was an alarm, whose urgent strokes were awaking the echoes of the Transylvanian frontier.

As he listened to these dismal vibrations, Doctor Patak was seized with a convulsive fear, an insurmountable anguish, an irresistible terror which thrilled his whole body with cold shudderings.

But the forester had been awakened by the alarming clanging of the bell. He rose while Doctor Patak seemed as if beside himself.

Nic Deck listened, and his eyes tried to pierce the deep darkness which overhung the castle.

“That bell! That bell!” repeated Doctor Patak. “It is the Chort that is ringing it!”

Decidedly the poor terrified doctor was thinking more than, ever of the devil The forester remained motionless, and did not reply.

Suddenly a series of roars as if from some huge animal at a harbour’s mouth broke forth in tumultuous undulations.

For a long distance around the air resounded with this deafening growl.

Then a light darted from the centre of the donjon, an intense light, from which rapt flashes of penetrating clearness and blinding coruscations. From what could come this powerful light, the irradiations of which spread in long sheets over the Orgall plateau? From what furnace came this photogenic stream, which seemed to embrace the rocks at the same time as it bathed them with a strange lividity?

“Nic — Nic!” exclaimed the doctor. “Look at me! Am I a corpse like you?”

In fact they had both assumed a corpse-like look. Their faces were pallid, their eyes seemed to have gone, the orbits being apparently empty; their checks were greyish green, like the mosses which the legend says grow on the heads of those that are hanged.

Nic Deck was astounded at what he saw, at what he heard. Doctor Patak was in the last stage of fright; his muscles retracted, his skin bristled, his pupils dilated, his body was seized with tetanic rigidity. As the poet of the “Contemplations “remarks, he breathed in terror.”

A minute — a minute or more — lasted this terrifying phenomenon. Then the strange light gradually went out, the groaning ceased, and the Orgall plateau resumed its silence and obscurity.

Neither of the men thought any more of sleep. The doctor overwhelmed with stupor, the forester’ upright against the stone seat, awaited the return of the dawn.

What did Nic Deck think of these things, which were evidently so supernatural to his eyes? Were they not enough to shake his resolution? Did he still intend to pursue this reckless adventure?

Certainly he had said that he would enter the castle, that he would explore the donjon. But was it not enough for him to have come to its insurmountable wall, to have evoked the anger of its guardian spirits, and provoked this trouble of the elements? Would he be reproached with not having kept to his promise if he returned to the village without having urged his folly to the end in entering this diabolic castle?

Suddenly the doctor threw himself upon him, seized him by the hand, and strove to drag him away, saying in a hoarse voice, “Come! come “No!” said Nic Deck.

And in turn he caught hold of Doctor Patak, who fell at this last effort.

At last the night ended, and such was their mental state that neither forester nor doctor knew the time that elapsed until daybreak. They remembered nothing of the hours which preceded the first rays of the morning.

At that moment a rosy streak appeared on the crest of Paring, on the eastern horizon, on the other side of the valley of the two Syls. The faint white rays of dawn dispersed over the depth of the sky, and striped it as if it were a zebra-skin.

Nic Deck turned towards the castle. He saw it grow clearer and clearer: the donjon revealed itself from the high mists which came floating down the Vulkan slope; the chapel, the galleries, the outer walls emerged from the nocturnal mists; and there on the corner bastion appeared the beech-tree, with its leaves rustling in the easterly breeze.

There was no change in the ordinary aspect of the castle. The bell was as motionless as the old feudal weather-vane. No smoke arose from the donjon chimneys, and the barred windows remained obstinately closed.

Above the platform, in the higher zones of the sky, a few birds were flying and gently calling to each other.

Nic Deck turned to look at the principal entrance to the castle. The drawbridge up against the bay closed the postern between the two stone pillars which bore the arms of the barons of Gortz.

Had the forester resolved to continue this adventurous expedition to the end? Yes; and his resolution had not been shaken by the events of the night. A thing said was a thing done — that was his motto as we know. Neither the mysterious voice which had threatened him personally in<.the saloon of the “King Mathias,” nor the inexplicable phenomenon of sound and light he had just witnessed, would stop him from entering the castle. An hour would be enough for him to hurry through the galleries, visit the keep, and then, having fulfilled his promise, he would return to Werst, where he would arrive during the morning.

As to Doctor Patak, he was now only an inert machine, without either the strength to resist or to insist. He would go where he was driven. If he fell, it would be impossible to lift him again. The terrors of the night had reduced him to complete imbecility, and he made no observation when the forester pointed to the castle and said, “Come on!”

And yet the day had returned, and the doctor could have got back to Werst without fear of losing himself in the Plesa forests. He had no reason to wish to remain with Nic Deck, and if he did not abandon his companion to return to the village, it was that he was no longer conscious of the state of affairs, and was merely a body without a mind. And so when the forester dragged him towards the slope of the counterscarp he made no resistance.

But was it possible to enter the castle otherwise than by the gate? That was what Nic Deck endeavoured to discover.

The wall showed no breach, no falling in, no excavation, giving access to the interior. It was indeed surprising that these old walls were in such a state of preservation, but this was doubtless due to their thickness. To climb to the line of crenellations which crowned them appeared to be impracticable, as they rose some forty feet above the ditch. And it seemed as though Nic Deck, at the very moment of reaching the Castle of the Carpathians, was to fail owing to insurmountable obstacles.

Fortunately — or very unfortunately for him — there stood above the postern a sort of loophole, or rather an embrasure, through which formerly pointed the muzzle of a culverin. By making use of one of the chains of the drawbridge which hung down to the ground, it would not be very difficult for an active, vigorous man to hoist himself up to this embrasure. Its width was sufficient to allow of a man to pass, unless it was barred on the inside, and Nic Deck could probably manage to get through it within the castle wall.

The forester saw at once that this was the only way open to him, and that is why, followed by the unconscious doctor, he went obliquely down the inner slope of the counterscarp.

They were soon at the bottom of the ditch, which was strewn with stones amid the thickets of wild plants. They could hardly find a place to step, and they were not sure that myriads of venomous beasts did not swarm in the herbage of this humid excavation.

In the middle of the ditch, and parallel to the wall, was the ancient trench, now nearly dry, which they could just stride across.

Nic Deck, having lost nothing of his mental or bodily energy, went on coolly and quietly, while the doctor followed him mechanically, like an animal at the end of a string.

After crossing the trench, the forester went along the base of the curtain for some twenty yards, and stopped underneath the gate close to one end of the chain of the drawbridge. By the help of his hands and feet he could thence easily reach the line of stonework that jutted out just below the embrasure.

Evidently Nic did not intend to compel the doctor to take part with him in this escalade. So heavy a man could not have done so. He therefore contented himself with giving him a vigorous shake to make him understand, and then advised him to wait without moving at the bottom of the ditch.

Then Nic Deck commenced to climb the chain; and this was merely child’s play for his mountaineer’s muscles.

But when the doctor found himself alone, the true position of things, to a certain extent, recurred to him. He understood, he looked, he saw his companion already suspended a dozen feet from the ground, and in a voice choking with the bitterness of fear, he cried, —

“Stop — Nic — stop!”

The forester heard him not.

“Come — come — or I will go away!” cried the doctor.

“Go, then,” said Nic.

And he continued to raise himself along the chain of the drawbridge.

Doctor Patak, in a paroxysm of terror, would have gone back again up the slope of the counterscarp, so as to reach the crest of the Orgall plateau and return full speed to Werst But — prodigy to which the wonders of the preceding night were as nothing — he could not move. His feet were held fast as if they had been seized in the jaws of a vice. Could he place one before the other? No. They stuck by the heels and soles of his boots. Had the doctor been taken in a trap? He was too much frightened to look, but it seemed as though he was held by the nails in his boots.

Whatever it was, the poor man was immovable. He was fixed to the ground. Not having strength to cry out, he stretched out his hands in despair. It looked as though he sought to be rescued from the embrace of some tarask hidden in the bowels of the earth.

Meanwhile Nic Deck had got as high as the postern, and was placing his hand on the ironwork in which the hinges of the drawbridge were embedded.

A cry of pain escaped him; then throwing himself back, as if he had been struck by lightning, he slipped along the chain, which a final instinct made him clutch, and rolled to the bottom of the ditch.

“The voice truly said that mi fortune would come to me,” he murmured, and then he lost consciousness.

CHAPTER VII.

How can we describe the anxiety to which the village of Werst had been a prey since the departure of the young forester and Doctor Patak? And it had constantly increased as the hours elapsed, and seemed interminable.

Master Koltz, the innkeeper Jonas, Magister Hermod, and a few others had remained all the time on the terrace, each of them keeping a constant watch on the distant castle to see if any wreath of smoke appeared over the donjon. No smoke showed itself — as was ascertained by means of the telescope, which was incessantly brought to bear in that direction, Assuredly the two florins sunk in the acquisition of that instrument had been well invested. Never had the biro, although so much interested in the matter, betrayed the slightest regret at so opportune an expenditure.

At half-past twelve, when the shepherd Frik returned from the pasture, he was eagerly interrogated. Was there anything new, anything extraordinary, anything supernatural?

Frik replied that he had just come along the valley of the Wallachian Syl without seeing anything suspicious.

After dinner, about two o’clock, the people went back to their post of observation. No one dreamt of remaining at home, and no one would certainly have dreamt of setting foot within the grand saloon of the “King Mathias,” where comminatory voices made themselves heard. That walls have ears is all very well, it is a popular proverb — but a mouth!

And so the worthy innkeeper might well fear that his inn had been put into quarantine, and consequently his anxiety was extreme. Would he have to shut up shop, and drink his own stock for want of customers? And with a view of restoring confidence among the people of Werst, he had undertaken a lengthy search throughout the “King Mathias he had searched the rooms, under the beds, explored the cupboards and the sideboard, and every corner of the large saloon, the cellar, and the store-room, from which any ill-disposed practical joker might have worked the mystification.

Nothing could he find, not even along the side of the house overlooking the Nyad. The windows were too high for it to be possible for any one to climb to them along a perpendicular wall, the foundation of which went sheer down into the impetuous torrent It mattered not! Fear does not reason, and considerable time would doubtless elapse before Jonas’s habitual guests would return to their confidence in his inn, his schnapps, and his rakiou.

Considerable time? That is a mistake, and, as we shall see, this gloomy prognostic was never realized.

In fact, a few days later, in a quite unexpected way, the village notables were to resume their daily conferences, varied with refreshments, in the saloon of the “King Mathias.”

But we must first return to the young forester and his companion, Doctor Patak.

It will be remembered that when he left Werst, Nic Deck had promised the disconsolate Miriota that he would make his visit to the Cattle of the Carpathians as brief as possible. If no harm happened to him, if the threats fulminated against him were not realized, he expected to get back early in the evening. He was therefore waited for, and with what impatience! Neither the girl, nor her father, nor the schoolmaster could foresee that the difficulties of the road would prevent the forester from reaching the crest of the Orgall plateau before nightfall.

And, in consequence, the anxiety, which had been intense during the day, exceeded all bounds when eight o’clock struck in the Vulkan clock, which could be heard distinctly at Werst. What could have happened to prevent both Nic and the doctor from returning after a day’s absence? Nobody thought of going home before they came back. Every minute they were seen in imagination coming round some turning in the road or along some gap in the hills.

Master Koltz and his daughter had gone to the end of the road, where the shepherd had been placed on the lookout. Many times they thought they saw somebody in the distance through the clearings among the trees. A pure illusion! The hillside was deserted, as usual, for it was not often that the frontier folk ventured there at night. And it was Thursday evening — the Thursday of evil spirits — and on that day the Transylvanian never willingly stirs, abroad after sundown. It seemed that Nic Deck must have been mad to have chosen such a day for his visit to the castle; the truth being that the young forester had hot given it a thought, as indeed had no one else in the village.

But Miriota was thinking a good deal about it now. And what terrible imaginings occurred to her! In imagination she had followed her lover hour by hour, through the thick forests of the Plesa as he made his way up to the Orgall plateau. And now that night had come she seemed to see him within the wall, endeavouring to escape from the spirits which haunted the Castle of the Carpathians. He had become the sport of their malevolence. He was the victim devoted to their vengeance. He was imprisoned in the depths of some subterranean gaol — dead, perhaps.

Poor girl, what would she not have given to throw herself on his track! And as she could not do that, at least she could wait all night in this place. But her father insisted on her going home, and, leaving the shepherd on the watch, returned with her to his house.

As soon as she was in her little room Miriota abandoned herself to tears. She loved him with all her heart, this brave Nic, and with a love all the more grateful owing to the young forester not having sought her under the conditions on which marriages are generally arranged in these Transylvanian countries.

Every year, at the feast of St. Peter, there opens “the fair of the betrothed.” On that day all the marriageable girls of the district are assembled. They come in their best carriages drawn by their best horses; they bring with them their dowry, that is to say, the clothes they nave spun, and sewn, and embroidered with their hands, and these are all packed in gaudily coloured boxes; their relatives and women friends and neighbours accompanying them. And then the young men arrive dressed in their best clothes and girt with silken sashes; proudly they strut through the fair; they choose the girl they take a fancy to, they give her a ring and a handkerchief in token of betrothal, and the marriages take place at the close of the fair.

But it was not in one or these marriage fairs that Nic Deck had met Miriota Their acquaintanceship had not come about by chance. They had known each other from childhood; they had loved as soon as they were old enough to love. The young forester had not had to seek her out at a sale. But why was Nic Deck of so resolute a character? why was he so obstinate in keeping an imprudent promise? And yet he loved her, although she had not enough influence over him to stop his going to this wretched castle.

What a night the sorrowful Miriota had amid her terrors and her tears! She could not sleep. Stooping at her window, looking out on the rising road, she seemed to hear a voice that whispered, —

“Nicolas Deck has defied the warning. Miriota has no longer a lover.”

But that was but a mistake of her troubled senses. No voice came across the silence of the night. The phenomenon of the saloon of the “King Mathias “was not reproduced in the house of Master Koltz.

At dawn next morning the population of Werst were astir. From the terrace to the rise of the hill, some went one way, some another, along the main road — some asking for news, some giving it. They said that Frik the shepherd had gone off about a quarter of a mile from the village, not to enter the forest, but to skirt it, and that he had some reason for doing so.

The people were waiting for him, and in order to communicate more promptly with him, Master Koltz, Miriota, and Jonas went to the end of the village.

Half an hour afterwards Frik was observed a few hundred yards away up the rising road.

As he did not appear to be in a hurry, good news was not expected.

“Well, Frik,” said Master Koltz as soon as the shepherd came up, “what have you discovered?”

“I have seen nothing and discovered nothing,” said Frik.

“Nothing!” murmured the girl, whose eyes filled with tears.

“At daybreak,” continued the shepherd, “I saw two men about half a mile away. At first I thought it was Nic Deck accompanied by the doctor, but it was not.”

“Do you know who the men were?” asked Jonas.

“Two travellers who had crossed the frontier in the morning.”

“You spoke to them?”

“Yes.”

“Were they coming towards the village?

“No; they were going towards Retyezat, bound for the summit.”

“Two tourists?”

“They looked like it, Master Koltz.”

“And as they crossed the Vulkan during the night, they saw nothing near the castle?”

“No — for they were then on the other side of the frontier,” replied Frik.

“Have you no news of Nic Deck?”

“None.”

There was a sigh from poor Miriota.

“Besides,” said Frik, “you can have a talk to these travellers in a day or two, for they are thinking of staying at Werst before setting out for Kolosvar.”

“Provided some one does not speak evil of my inn!” thought Jonas. “They would never care to stay there!”

For the last thirty-six hours the excellent landlord had been possessed by this fear that no traveller dare henceforth eat and sleep at the “King Mathias.”

In short, these questions and answers between the shepherd and his master had in no way cleared matters up. And as neither the young forester nor Doctor Patak had reappeared by eight o’clock in the morning, could it be reasonably hoped that they would ever reappear? The Castle of the Carpathians was not to be approached with impunity.

Crushed by the emotions of that sleepless night, Miriota could bear up no longer. She almost fainted away, and hardly had strength to walk. Her father took her home. There her tears redoubled. She called Nic in a heartrending voice. She would have gone out to find him. And all pitied her and feared she was going to have a serious illness.

However, it was necessary and urgent to do something. Some one ought to go to the help of the forester and the doctor without losing a moment. That he would have to run into danger, in exposing himself to the attack of the beings, human or otherwise, who occupied the castle, mattered little. The important thing was to know what had become of Nic and the doctor. This duty fell not only to their friends, but to every inhabitant of the village. The bravest could not refuse to cross the Plesa forests and ascend to the Castle of the Carpathians.

That was decided after many discussions. The bravest were found to consist of three: these were Master Koltz, the shepherd Frik, and the innkeeper Jonas — not one more. As for Magister Hermod he was suddenly seized with gout in the leg, and had to stretch himself out on two chairs while he taught in his school.

About nine o’clock Master Koltz and his companions, well armed in case of eventualities, took the road to the Vulkan. And at the very turning where Nic Deck had left it, they left it to plunge into the woods.

In fact they said to themselves, not without reason, that if the young forester and the doctor were on their way back to the village, this was the road by which they would come; and it would be easy to get on their track once the three were through the outer line of trees.

We will leave them, to relate what happened at Werst as soon as they were out of sight. If it had appeared indispensable that volunteers should go off to the rescue of Nic Deck and Patak, it was considered to be unreasonably imprudent now that they were gone. It would be a fine conclusion if the first catastrophe were to be doubled by a second! That the forester and the doctor had been the victims of their attempt, no one doubted; and what was the use of Master Koltz and Frik and Jonas exposing themselves to another disaster? They would indeed be getting on when the girl had to weep for her father as she had to weep for her betrothed; when the friends of the shepherd and the innkeeper had to reproach themselves with their loss!

The grief became general at Werst, and there was no sign that it would soon end. Even supposing that no harm happened to them, the return of Master Koltz and his two companions could not be reckoned upon before night had fallen on the heights of the Plesa.

What, then, was the surprise when they were sighted about two o’clock in the afternoon some distance along the road! With what eagerness did Miriota, who was at once told of their approach, run to meet them!

There were not three, there were four; and the fourth appeared in the shape of the doctor.

“Nic — my poor Nic!” exclaimed the girl, “Nic is not there?”

Yes — Nic Deck was there, stretched on a litter of boughs, which Jonas and the shepherd bore with difficulty.

Miriota rushed towards her betrothed, she stooped over him, she clasped him in her arms.

“He is dead!” she exclaimed, “he is dead!”

“No, he is not dead,” replied Doctor Patak, “but he deserves to be — and so do I!”

The truth is, the forester was unconscious. His limbs were stiff, his face bloodless, his respiration hardly moved his chest. As for the doctor, his face was not as colourless as his companion’s, owing to the walk having restored his usual brick-red tint.

Miriota’s voice, so tender, so heartrending, could not awake Nic Deck from the torpor in which he was plunged. When he had been brought into the village and laid in a room in Master Koltz’s house, he had not uttered a word. A few moments afterwards, however, his eyes opened, and when he saw the girl stooping over him, a smile played on his lips; but when he tried to raise himself he could not. A part of his body was paralyzed as if he had been struck with hemiplegia. At the same time, wishing to comfort Miriota, he said to her — in a very feeble voice, it is true, —

“It will be nothing, it will be nothing.”

“Nic — my poor Nic!” said the girl.

“A little over-fatigue, dear Miriota, and a little excitement. It will be over soon, with your nursing.” . But. the patient required calm and repose; and so Master Koltz went away, leaving Miriota near the young forester, who could not have wished for a more attentive nurse, and soon fell asleep.

Meanwhile, the innkeeper Jonas related to a numerous audience, and in a loud voice so as to be heard by all, what had happened after their departure.

Master Koltz, the shepherd, and himself, after finding the footpath cut by Nic Deck and the doctor, had gone on towards the Castle of the Carpathians. For two hours they made their way up the Plesa slopes, and the edge of the forest was not more than half a mile off, when two men appeared. These were the doctor and the forester, one quite helpless in his legs, the other just about to fall at the foot of a tree, owing to exhaustion.

To run to the doctor, to interrogate him, but without being able to obtain a single word, for he was too stupefied to reply; to make a litter with the branches, to lay Nic Deck on it, to put Patak on his feet, — did not take very long. Then Master Koltz and the shepherd, who relieved Jonas from time to time, resumed the road to Werst.

As to saying why Nic Deck was in such a state, and if he had entered the ruins of the castle, the innkeeper knew no more than Master Koltz or the shepherd Frik, and the doctor had not yet sufficiently recovered his spirits to satisfy their curiosity.

But if Patak had not yet spoken, it was necessary for him to speak now. He was in safety in the village, surrounded by his friends, and in the midst of his patients. He had nothing to fear from the things at the castle. And even if they had wrung from him an oath to be silent, to say nothing of what he had seen at the Castle of the Carpathians, the public interest required that he should ignore that oath.

“Compose yourself, doctor,” said Master Koltz, “and try and remember.”

“You wish me to speak?”

“In the name of the inhabitants of Werst, and for the sake of the safety of the village, I order you to do so.”

A large glass of rakiou, brought in by Jonas, had the effect of restoring to the doctor the use of his tongue, and in broken sentences he expressed himself in these terms: —

“We went off, both of us, Nic and I. Fools, fools! It took nearly all day to get through those wretched forests. We did not get up to the castle before it was getting dark. I still tremble at it — I will tremble at it all my life. Nic wanted to go in. Yes! He wanted to spend the night in the donjon, as much as to say to sleep in the bedroom of Beelzebub.”

Doctor Patak said these things in a voice so cavernous that all who heard him shuddered.

“I did not consent!” he continued; “no, I did not consent. And what would have happened if I had yielded to Nic Deck’s desires? My hair stands on end to think of it.”

And if the doctor’s hair did not stand on end, it was because his hand wandered mechanically over his poll.

“Nic accordingly resigned himself to camping on the Orgall plateau. What a night! my friends, what a night! Try to rest when the spirits will not let you sleep an hour — no, not even one hour. Suddenly fiery monsters appeared in the clouds, regular balauris! They hurled themselves on to the plateau to devour us.”

Every look was turned towards the sky, to make sure that a few spectres were not there in full gallop.

“And a few moments after,” continued the doctor, “the chapel bell began to clang!”

Every ear was stretched towards the horizon, and more than one of the crowd believed they could hear the distant ringing in the direction of the castle, so much had the doctor’s recital impressed his audience.

“Suddenly,” he went on, “fearful bellowings filled the air, or rather the roaring of wild beasts. Then a bright light darted from the windows of the donjon. An infernal flame illumined all the plateau up to the fir forest. Nic Deck and I looked at one another. Ah! the terrible vision! We were like two corpses — two corpses which the lurid light set making horrible grimaces at each other.”

And to look at Doctor Patak, with his convulsed face and his wild eyes, there really would have been some excuse for asking if he had not returned from that other world whither he had already sent so many of his kind.

He had to be left to recover his breath, for he was incapable of continuing his story. This cost Jonas a second glass of rakiou, which appeared to bring back to the doctor some portion of the senses which the other spirits had made him lose.

“But what happened to poor Nic Deck?” asked Master Koltz.

And, not without reason, the biro attached extreme importance to the doctor’s reply, for it was the young forester who had been personally threatened by the voice of the spirits in the saloon of the “King Mathias.”

“As far as I remember,” continued the doctor, “the daylight returned I besought Nic Deck to abandon his projects. But you know him — he could not be more obstinate if he would. He went down into the ditch, and I was forced to follow him, for he dragged me along with him. Besides, I really do not know what I did. Nic went on up to the gate. He caught hold of the chain of the drawbridge, with which he pulled himself up the wall. At this moment the sense of our position occurred. There was still time to stop him, that rash — I say more — that sacrilegious young man. For the last time I ordered him to come down, to come back on the road to Werst. ‘No!’ he shouted to me. I would have run away — yes, my friends, I confess it — I would have fled, and there is not one of you who would not have had the same thought in my place! But it was in vain I tried to move from the ground. My feet were nailed, screwed, rooted. I tried to free them — it was impossible. I tried to struggle — it was useless!”

And Doctor Patak imitated the desperate movements of a man held by the legs, as a fox is held in a trap. Then, resuming his story, he said, —

“At this moment there was a cry — and such a cry! It was Nic Deck who uttered it. His hands had let go the chain, and he fell to the bottom of the ditch as if he had been struck by an invisible hand.”

The doctor, it is clear, had told what had happened, and his imagination had added nothing, excited though it might be. Just as he had described them, so had the prodigies appeared of which the Orgall plateau had been the scene during the preceding night.

What had happened after Nic Deck’s fall was as follows — The forester had fainted, and Doctor Patak was incapable of helping him, for his boots were stuck to the ground, and he could not get his swollen feet out of them. Suddenly the invisible force that detained him vanished. His legs were free. He rushed towards his companion, and, what must be considered a noble act of courage, he bathed Nic Deck’s face with his handkerchief, which he dipped in the water of the stream. The forester recovered consciousness, but his left arm and a part of his body were helpless after the frightful shock he had had. However, with the doctor’s aid he managed to get up and climb the slope of the counterscarp and regain the plateau. Then he set out for the village. After an hour’s progress the pain in his arm and side became so violent that he had to stop. And it was just as the doctor was about to start off alone in search of help from Werst, that Master Koltz and Jonas and Frik arrived most opportunely.

The doctor carefully avoided saying that the young forester had been seriously hurt, although he was generally very positive when consulted on medical matters.

“When the ailment is a natural ailment,” he said in a dogmatic tone, “it is serious. But when we have to deal with a supernatural ailment sent by the Chort, it is only the Chort who can cure it.”

In default of a diagnosis it cannot be said that this prognosis was reassuring for Nic Deck. There have, however, been many physicians since Hippocrates and Galen who have made mistakes, and these have been far better men than Doctor Patak. The young forester was a healthy lad; with his vigorous constitution there was reason to hope that without any diabolic intervention he would recover, on condition that he was not too careful to accept the advice of the old quarantine officer.

CHAPTER VIII.

SUCH things were not calculated to calm the terrors of the people of Werst. There could now be no doubt that the threats uttered by the “mouth of darkness,” as the poet said in the “King Mathias,” were to be taken seriously. Nic Deck, struck in this inexplicable manner, had been punished for his disobedience and temerity Was not this a warning to all those who might be tempted to follow his example? Here, clearly enough, was a formal prohibition against entering the Castle of the Carpathians. Whoever tried it would risk his life. Most certainly if the forester had got within the wall he would never have returned to the village.

And so the fright was more complete than ever at Werst, and even at Vulkan, and also throughout the valley of the two Syls. Nothing less was spoken of than leaving the district, and a few gipsy families moved off rather than live in the vicinity of the castle. That it should be a refuge for supernatural and maleficent beings was more than the popular feeling could put up with. The only thing to do was to go into some other part of the country, unless the Hungarian Government decided to destroy this inaccessible haunt. But was the Castle of the Carpathians destructible by the only means man had at his disposal?

During the first week of June no one would venture out of the village, not even to work in the fields. Might not the least stroke of a spade provoke the apparition of some phantom buried in the ground? The coulter of the plough as it cut the furrow, might it not set in flight a flock of staffii or stryges? Where the seed of corn was sown, might not the seed of demons spring up?

“That could not fail to happen!” said the shepherd Frik in a tone of conviction.

And, as far as he was concerned, he took good care not to return with his sheep to the pastures of the Syl.

And so the village was in a state of terror. No one went to work in the fields. Every one remained at home with doors and windows closed. Master Koltz did not know what to do to restore confidence among those under his rule. Evidently the only way was to go to Kolosvar and invoke the intervention of the authorities.

And had the smoke reappeared at the top of the donjon chimney? Yes; many times the telescope had made it visible among the mists which swept the Orgall plateau.

And when night came, had the clouds assumed a rosy hue as if from the reflection of a fire? Yes; and it was said that fiery plumes could be seen curling and whirling over the castle.

And that roaring which had frightened Doctor Patak, was it heard from among the woods of Plesa, to the terror of the people of Werst? Yes; or at least, notwithstanding the distance, the north-west wind brought along fearful growlings which were augmented by the echoes of the hills.

According to some of the more terror-stricken, the ground was shaken by subterranean tremblings as if some ancient volcano had become active again in the Carpathian chain But possibly there was a good deal of exaggeration in what the Werstians thought they saw and heard and felt. Under any circumstances there were positive, tangible reasons, it will be admitted, why living in such a strangely troubled country was no longer possible.

The King Mathias “remained deserted in consequence. A lazaretto in an epidemic could not have been more shunned. No one had the audacity to cross the threshold, and Jonas was asking himself if for want of customers he would not have to retire from trade, when the arrival of two travellers altered matters considerably.

In the evening of the month of June, about eight o’clock, the latch of the door was lifted from the outside; but the door, being bolted inside, could not be opened.

Jonas, who had already retired to his attic, hastily came down. To the hope of finding himself face to face with a customer was added the fear that the customer might be some evil-looking ghost, to whom he would be only too ready to refuse board and lodging.

Jonas proceeded to hold a parley through the door without opening it.

“Who is there?” he asked.

“Two travellers.”

“Alive?”

“Very much alive.”

“Are you sure of it?”

“As much alive as we can be, Mr. Innkeeper; but we shall die of hunger if you keep us outside.”

Jonas decided to draw back the bolts, and two men entered the room.

As soon as they were in, their first demand was for a room each, as they intended to stay a day at Werst.

By the light of the lamp Jonas examined the newcomers with great attention, and made sure that he had really to deal with human beings. How fortunate for the “King Mathias “!

The younger of the travellers might be about thirty-two years old, of tall stature, with a noble, handsome face, black eyes, dark-brown hair, a well-cut brown beard, a somewhat sad but proud look about him — in fact he was a gentleman, and an experienced innkeeper like Jonas could not be mistaken in such a matter.

Besides, when he asked what names he was to enter ill his visitors’ book, the younger man replied, —

“The Count Franz de Telek and his man Rotzko.”

“Of what place?”

“Krajowa.”

Krajowa is one of the chief towns of the State of Roumania, which borders the Transylvanian provinces south of the Carpathian chain.

Franz de Telek was thus of Roumanian nationality, as Jonas had seen from the very first.

Rotzko was a man of about forty, solidly built and strong, with a thick moustache, bristly hair, and quite a military bearing. He carried a soldier’s knapsack strapped to his shoulders, and a valise small enough to be carried in his hand.

That was all the baggage of the young count, who travelled generally on foot, as could be seen from his costume — a cloak in a roll over his shoulder, a light cap on his head, a short jacket with a belt, from which hung the leather sheath of the Wallachian knife, and he wore the gaiters strapped down to the broad, thick-soled shoes.

These travellers were the two whom the shepherd Frik had met twelve days before on the road to the hills, when they were going to Retyezat. After seeing the country up to Maros, and making the ascent of the mountain, they had come for a little rest to Werst before exploring the valley of the two Syls.

“You have two rooms we can have?” asked Franz de Telek.

“Two — three — four — as many as the count pleases,” said Jonas.

“Two will do,” said Rotzko, “but they must be near each other.”

“Will these suit you?” asked Jonas, opening two doors at the end of the large saloon.

“Very well indeed” said Franz de Telek.

Evidently Jonas had nothing to fear from his new customers. These were no supernatural beings, no phantoms who had assumed the shape of men. No! This gentleman was one of those personages of distinction whom an innkeeper is always honoured in welcoming, and who might perhaps bring the “King Mathias “into fashion again.

“How far are we from Kolosvar?” asked the count “About fifty miles, if you go by the road, through Petroseny and Karlsburg,” replied Jonas.

“Is it a tiring sort of walk?”

“Yes, very tiring for walkers; and if I may be permitted to say so, the count would seem to require a rest of a few days before undertaking it — “

“Can we have anything to eat?” asked Franz de Telek, cutting short the innkeeper’s remarks.

“In half an hour’s time I shall have the honour of offering the count a repast worthy of him.”

“Bread, wine, eggs, and cold meat will be enough for to-night.”

“I will go and see about them.”

“As soon as possible.”

“This moment.”

And Jonas was hurrying off to the kitchen when a question stopped him, —

“You do not seem to have many people at your inn?” said Franz de Telek.

“No — not just at the moment, sir.”

“Is not this the time for people to come and have a drink and smoke a pipe?”

“It is too late now, sir. They go to bed with the chickens in the village of Werst.”

Never would he have said why the “King Mathias “was without a customer.

“Are there not three or four hundred people in this village?”

“About that, sir.”

“Why did we not meet a living soul as we came down the main street?”

“That is because — to-day — well, it is Saturday, you see — and the day before Sunday is — “

Franz de Telek did not persist, luckily for Jonas, who did not know what to reply. Nothing in the world would have induced him to reveal the true state of affairs. Strangers would learn that only too soon, and who could tell if they would not hasten to leave a village so deservedly suspected?

“It is to be hoped that that voice will not begin to chatter in the big room while they are at supper!” thought Jonas as he laid the table.

A few minutes afterwards the very simple meal ordered by the young count was neatly served on a clean white cloth. Franz de Telek sat down, and Rotzko seated himself facing him, as they usually did on their travels. Both of them ate with a good appetite; and when the repast was over they retired to their rooms.

As the young count and Rotzko had hardly spoken ten words during their meal, Jonas had not been able to take part in their conversation — to his great displeasure. Besides, Franz de Telek did not seem to be communicative. As to Rotzko, the innkeeper, after due survey, gathered that he would not be able to get anything out of him regarding his master’s family.

Jonas had, therefore, to content himself with bidding his visitors good-night. Before he went up to his attic he gave a good look around the room, and lent an anxious ear to the least noises within and without, saying to himself, —

“May that abominable voice not awake them from their sleep!”

The night passed tranquilly.

At daybreak next morning the news began to spread in the village that two travellers had arrived at the “King Mathias,” and a number of people gathered in front of the inn.

Franz de Telek and Rotzko were still sleeping, tired after their excursion the day before. There was little likelihood of their rising before seven or eight o’clock. And consequently there was great impatience among the spectators, who had none of them the courage to enter the room before the travellers.

At eight o’clock they came in together. Nothing regrettable had happened. They could be seen walking about in the inn. Then they sat down to breakfast. All of which was particularly reassuring.

Jonas stood at the front door and smiled amiably, inviting his old customers to give him another trial. The traveller who honoured the “King Mathias “with his presence was a gentleman — a Roumanian gentleman, if you please, and of one of the oldest Roumanian families — what was to be feared in such noble company?

In short, it happened that Master Koltz, thinking it his duty to set an example, took the risk of the first step.

About nine o’clock the biro entered the room in rather a hesitating way. Almost immediately he was followed by Magister Hermod and three or four other customers, as well as the shepherd Frik. As to Doctor Patak, it had been impossible to persuade him to accompany them.

“Set foot again in Jonas’s!” he said, “Never, until he pays me two florins a visit.”

We may here remark, as it is a matter of some importance, that if Master Koltz had consented to return to the “King Mathias,” it was not solely with a view of satisfying his curiosity, nor with the intention of making the acquaintance of Count Franz de Telek. No! self-interest was his chief motive.

As a traveller the young count had become liable for a tax on self and man, and it must not be forgotten that these tares went direct into the pocket of the chief magistrate of Werst.

The biro at once went forward and politely stated his demand, and Franz de Telek, although taken somewhat by surprise, immediately settled the claim.

He even begged the biro and the schoolmaster to be seated for a moment at his table, and the offer was so politely made that they could not refuse.

Jonas hastened to serve them with drinks, the best he had in his cellar, and then a few of the natives of Werst asked for a drink on their own account, and it seemed as though the old customers, for a moment dispersed, would soon be as plentiful as ever in the “King Mathias.”

Having paid the traveller’s tax, Franz de Telek wished to know if it was productive.

“Not as much as we wish,” replied Master Koltz.

“Do strangers only come here occasionally, then?”

“Very occasionally,” said the biro, “and yet the country is worth a visit.”

“So I think,” said the count. “What I have seen appeared to me to be well worth a traveller’s attention. From the top of the Retyezat I much admired the valley of the Syls, the villages away to the east, and the range of mountains which closes in the view.”

“It is very fine, sir, very fine!” said Magister Hermod; “and to complete your tour you should make the ascent of Paring.”

“I am afraid I shall not have the necessary time,” said the count.

“One day would be enough.”

“Probably; but I am going to Karlsburg, and I must start to-morrow morning.”

“What!” said Jonas with his most amiable air. “Does the count think of leaving us so soon?”

And he would not have been sorry if the visitors could have stayed s. me time at the ‘ King Mathias.”

“It must be so,” said the Count de Telek, “Besides, what would be the use of my making a longer stay at Werst?”

“Believe me, our village is well worth a tourist’s making some stay at,” said Master Koltz.

“But it does not seem to be much frequented,” said the count, “and that is probably because its neighbourhood has nothing remarkable about it.”

“Quite so — nothing remarkable,” said the biro, thinking of the castle.

“No — nothing remarkable,” said the schoolmaster.

“Oh! ah!” said the shepherd Frik, the exclamation escaping involuntarily.

What looks he received from Master Koltz and the others, particularly from the innkeeper!

Was it then advisable to let the stranger into the secrets of the district? Should they reveal to him what had passed on the plateau of Orgall, and direct his attention to the Castle of the Carpathians? Would that not frighten him and make him anxious to leave the village? And in the future what travellers would come by the Vulkan road into Transylvania?

Truly the shepherd had shown no more intelligence than if he were one of his own sheep.

“Be quiet, you imbecile, be quiet!” said Master Koltz to him in a whisper.

But as the young count’s curiosity had been awakened, he addressed himself directly to Frik, and asked him what he meant by his “Oh! ah!”

The shepherd was not a man to retreat, and perhaps really thought that Franz de Telek might give some advice which the village might profitably adopt.

“I said, ‘Oh, ah!’” replied the shepherd, “and I will not go back on my word.”

“Is there any marvel, then, to visit in the neighbourhood of Werst?”

“Any marvel?” replied Master Koltz.

“No! no!” exclaimed the bystanders. And they were already in fear at the thought lest a fresh attempt at entering the castle would bring fresh misfortunes on them.

Franz de Telek, not without some surprise, took notice of those people whose faces were expressive of alarm in all sorts of ways, but all equally unmistakable.

“What is this all about?” he asked.

“What is it, sir?” replied Rotzko. “Well, it seems there is the Castle of the Carpathians.”

“The Castle of the Carpathians?”

“Yes! That is the name this shepherd has just whispered in my ear.”

And as he spoke Rotzko pointed to Frik, who nodded his head without daring to look at his master.

But a breach was now made in the wall of the private life of the superstitious village, and all its history could not help going forth through this breach.

In fact, Master Koltz, who had made up his mind how to act, resolved to explain matters himself to the count,, and told him all he knew about the Castle of the Carpathians.

Naturally Franz de Telek could not hide the astonishment the story caused him, nor the feelings it suggested to him. Although he knew little of scientific matters, like other young people of his class who live in their castles in these Wallachian byways, he was a sensible man. He believed but little in apparitions and laughed at legend. A castle haunted by spirits merely excited his incredulity. In his opinion, in all that Master Koltz had told him there was nothing of the marvellous, but only a few facts, more or less proved, to which the people of Werst attributed a supernatural origin. The smoke from the donjon, the bell ringing violently, could be very easily explained, and the lightnings and roarings from within the wall might be purely imaginary.

Franz de Telek did not hesitate to say so, and to joke about it, to the great scandal of his listeners.

“But, count, there is something else,” said Master Koltz.

“What is that?”

“Well, it is impossible to get into this Castle of the Carpathians.”

“Indeed?”

“Our forester and our doctor tried to get in a few days ago, for the benefit of the village, and they paid dearly for their attempt.”

“What happened to them?” asked Franz de Telek, somewhat ironically.

Master Koltz related in detail the adventures of Nic Deck and Doctor Patak.

“And so,” said the count, “when the doctor wanted to get out of the ditch his feet were so stuck to the ground that he could not take a step forward?”

“Neither a step forward nor a step behind,” added Magister Hermod.

“Your doctor thought so,” replied Franz de Telek. “But it was fear which stuck him by the heels.”

“Be it so,” replied Master Koltz. “But Nic Deck received a frightful shock when he put his hand on the ironwork of the drawbridge.”

“A terrible shock — “

“So terrible,” replied the biro, “that he has been in bed ever since.”

“Not in danger of his life, I hope?” said the count.

“No, fortunately.”

That was a fact, an undeniable fact, and Master Koltz waited for the explanation Franz de Telek would give.

“In all I have just heard there is nothing, I repeat, but what is very simple. I have no doubt but what somebody is now living in the castle — who, I know not. Anyhow, they are not spirits, but people who wish to lie hidden there after taking refuge there — criminals probably.

“Criminals!” exclaimed Master Koltz.

“Probably; and as they do not want any one to hunt them out, they wish it to be believed that the castle is haunted by supernatural beings.”

“What!” said Magister Hermod. “You think — “

“I think you are very superstitious in these parts, that the people in the castle know it, and that they wish to keep off visitors in that way.”

That this was the true explanation was not unlikely, but we need not be astonished if nobody at Werst would admit it.

The young count saw that he had in no way convinced an audience who did not wish to be convinced, and so he contented himself with adding, —

“If you do not care to agree with me, gentlemen, you can continue to think what you please about the Castle of the Carpathians.”

“We believe what we have seen,” replied Master Koltz.

“And what is — ” said the magister.

“Well. Really, I am sorry I have not a day to spare, for Rotzko and I would have paid a visit to your famous castle, and I assure you we would soon have found out — “

“Visit the castle!” exclaimed Master Koltz.

“Without hesitation, and the devil himself would not have stopped us from getting in.”

On listening to Franz de Telek express himself so positively, so ironically even, the villagers were seized with terror. In treating the spirits of the castle with such indifference, would he not bring some disaster on the village? Did not these spirits hear all that passed in the inn of the “King Mathias”? Would the voice be heard a second time in this room?

And thereupon Master Koltz told the young count of the circumstances under which the forester had been personally threatened when he decided on entering the Castle of the Carpathians. Franz de Telek simply shrugged his shoulders; then he rose, saying that no voice had ever been heard in the room as they pretended. Whereupon some of the company made for the door, not caring to remain any longer in a place where a young sceptic dared say such things.

But Franz de Telek stopped them with a gesture.

“Assuredly, gentlemen,” he said. “I see that the village of Werst is under the empire of fear.”

“And not without reason,” replied Master Koltz.

“Well, there is a very simple way of putting a stop to the performances which according to you are going on at the Castle of the Carpathians. After to-morrow I shall be at Karlsburg, and if you like I will tell the town authorities. They will send you a few police, and I will answer for it that these brave fellows will know how to get into the castle and clear out the jokers who arc practising on your credulity, or arrest the scoundrels, who are perhaps preparing for some new iniquity.”

Nothing could be more acceptable than this proposal, but yet it was not to the taste of the notables of Werst. In their opinion neither the police nor the army itself would succeed against these superhuman beings, who would know how to defend themselves by supernatural means.

“But I believe,” continued the young count, “that you have not yet told me to whom this Castle of the Carpathians belongs or belonged?”

“To an old country family, the family of the Barons of Gortz,” said Master Koltz.

“The family of Gortz!” exclaimed Franz de Telek.

“The same.”

“Is that the family to which Baron Rodolphe belonged?”

“Yes.”

“And do you know what has become of him?”

“No; for the baron has not come back to the castle for years.”

Franz de Telek had become quite pale, and mechanically in an altered voice he repeated the name, —

“Rodolphe de Gortz!”

CHAPTER IX

The family of the Counts of Telek was one of the most ancient and illustrious in Roumania, having been of considerable importance there before the country conquered its independence in the beginning of the sixteenth century. With all the political movements which abound in the history of these provinces the name of the family is gloriously connected.

Less favoured than the famous beech of the Castle of the Carpathians, which still possessed three branches, the house of Telek was now reduced to one, that of Telek of Krajowa, whose last offspring was the young gentleman who had just, arrived at the village of Werst.

During his infancy he had never left the patrimonial castle where the Count and Countess of Telek lived. The descendants of the family were held in great esteem in the country, where they spent their wealth generously. Living the liberal, easy life of the country nobility, it was seldom that they left their estate at Krajowa more than once a year, and that when business took them to the town of that name, which was only a few miles away.

This kind of life had of necessity an influence on the education of their only son, and for long afterwards Franz felt the effects of the surroundings amid which his childhood was passed. His only tutor was an old Italian priest, who could only teach him what he knew, and he did not know much. And so when the boy had become a young man he had but a very inadequate knowledge of science or art or contemporary literature. To be an enthusiastic sportsman, afoot night and day through the forests and on the plains, hunting the stag and the wild bear, and attacking the wild beasts of the mountains, knife in hand, such were the ordinary pastimes of the young count, who, being very brave and very resolute, accomplished wonders in these rough occupations.

The Countess of Telek died when her son was scarcely fifteen, and he was only one-and-twenty when his father died in a hunting accident.

The grief of young Franz was extreme. As he had wept for his mother he wept for his father, who had just been taken from him, one after the other, within these few years. All his tender feelings, all the affectionate impulses of his heart, were then centred in this filial love which had been sufficient for him during his childhood and youth. But when this love failed him, having no friends and his tutor being dead, he found himself alone in the world.

For three years the young count remained at the Castle of Krajowa. He could not make up his mind to leave it. He lived there without seeking to make any acquaintances outside. Once or twice he had been to Bucharest, but that was because certain matters obliged him to go there; and these were but short absences, for he was in haste to return to his domain.

This life could not, however, last for ever, and Franz began to feel the want of enlarging the horizon which was so restricted by the Roumanian mountains; and he wished to fly beyond it.

The young count was about twenty-three years old when he made up his mind to travel. His wealth enabled him to fully gratify his wishes. One day he left the Castle of Krajowa to his old servants and left the Wallachian country. He took with him Rotzko, an old Roumanian soldier, who had been for ten years in the family, and who had been the young count’s companion in all his hunting expeditions. He was a man of courage and resolution, entirely devoted to his master. t The young count’s intention was to visit Europe and to stay a few months in the capitals and important towns of the Continent. He considered, not without cause, that his education, which had been only begun at the Castle of Krajowa, might be completed by what he learnt on a carefully planned tour.

It was to Italy that Franz de Telek wished to go first, for he could speak Italian fairly well, the old priest having taught him. The attraction of this country, so rich in memories, was such that he stayed there four years. He only left Venice to go to Florence, he left Rome but to go to Naples,, constantly returning to these artistic centres, from which he could not tear himself away. France, Germany, Spain, Russia, England, he would see later on; he would even study them to better advantage — so it seemed to him — when age had matured his ideas. On the other hand, he must be in all the effervescence of youth to enjoy the charms of the great Italian cities.

Franz de Telek was twenty-seven when he went to Naples for the last time. He intended to spend only a few hours there before leaving for Sicily. By the exploration of the ancient Trinacria he purposed to end his tour, and then return to his Castle of Krajowa and have a year’s rest.

An unexpected circumstance not only changed his plans, but decided his life and changed its course.

During the few years he had lived in Italy the young count had not learned much of the sciences, for which he felt no aptitude, but the sense of the beautiful had been revealed to him like light to a blind man. With his mind widely opened to the splendours of art, he had become enthusiastic over the masterpieces of painting, in visiting the galleries of Naples, Rome, and Florence. At the same time the theatres had made him acquainted with the lyric works of the time, and he became powerfully interested in their interpretation by the great artistes.

It was during his last stay at Naples, and under circumstances we are about to relate, that a sentiment of a more personal character, of more intensive penetration, took possession of his heart.

There was then at the theatre of San Carlo a celebrated singer whose pure voice, finished method, and dramatic ability had won the admiration of all the dilettanti. Up to then La Stilla had never sought the applause of foreigners, and had never sung any other music than Italian, which then held the first place in the art of composition. The Carignan Theatre at Turin, the Scala at Milan, the Fenice, at Venice, the Alfieri at Florence, the Apolio at Rome, the San Carlo at Naples, introduced her in turn, and her triumphs left her no room for regret that she had not appeared at the other theatres of Europe.

La Stilla, then aged five-and-twenty, was a woman of ideal beauty, with her long golden hair, the ardour of her deep-black eyes, the purity of her complexion, and a figure which the chisel of a Praxiteles could not have made more perfect. And this woman had become a sublime artiste, another Malibran, of whom Musset could also say, —

“And thy songs in the skies bore away sorrow.”

But this voice which the most adored of poets has celebrated in his immortal stanzas, “that voice of the heart which only finds the heart,” that voice was La Stilla’s in all its inexpressible magnificence.

However, this incomparable prima-donna, who reproduced with such perfection the accents of tenderness, the fury of the passions, the most powerful feelings of the soul, had never, so they said, experienced their effect. Never had she loved, never had her eyes responded to the thousand looks which were concentrated on her on the stage.

It seemed that she lived but for her art and only for her art.

The first time he saw La Stilla, Franz experienced that irresistible ardour which is the essence of a first love. And he gave up his plan of leaving Italy, after visiting Sicily, and resolved to remain at Naples until the close of the season. As if some invisible bond he could not break had attached him to the singer, he was at all the performances, which the enthusiasm of the public converted into veritable triumphs. Many times, incapable of mastering his passion, he had tried to obtain access to her house; but La Stilla’s door remained as pitilessly closed against him as against so many other fanatic admirers.

And so it came about that the young count became the most to be pitied of men. Always in sight of his love, thinking only of the great artiste, living but to see her and hear her, he sought no longer to make friends in the world to which his name and fortune called him.

Soon this excitement so increased with Franz that his health was in danger. We can imagine what he might have suffered if he had had to bear the tortures of jealousy, if La Stilla’s heart had belonged to another. But the young count had no rival, as he knew, and none could give him umbrage — not even a certain peculiar personage, of whose appearance and character our story requires more notice.

He was a man between fifty and fifty-five at the time Franz de Telek last went to Naples. This incommunicative individual apparently strove to live outside the social conventionalities that prevail in the higher circles. Nothing was known of his family, his position, his past life. He was met with to-day at Rome, to-morrow at Florence, provided that La Stilla was at Florence or at Rome. In fact, he lived but to listen to the renowned singer, who then occupied the foremost place in the art of song.

If Franz de Telek had lived only in the delirium of his idolatry for La Stilla since the day he had applauded her or rather had seen her on the stage at Naples, this eccentric dilettante had been following her about for six years. But he was not like the young count; in his case it was not the woman but the voice which had become so necessary to his life as the air he breathed. Never had he sought to see her except on the stage, never had he called at her house or attempted to write to her. But every time La Stilla appeared, in no matter what theatre of Italy, there passed in among the audience a man of tall stature, wrapped in a long dark overcoat, and wearing a large hat which hid his face. This man would hurry to his seat in a private box previously engaged for him, and there he would remain, silent and motionless, throughout the performance. But as soon as La Stilla had finished her last air, he would go away furtively, and no other singer would detain him — he had not even heard them.

Who was this spectator, so strangely assiduous at these performances? La Stilla had in vain sought to know; and, being of a very impressionable nature, she had become quite frightened at this curious man — an unreasonable terror, but still a very real one. Although she could not see him in the back of his box, she knew he was there, she felt his look imperiously fixed on her, and, greatly troubled by his presence, she no longer heard the cheers with which the public welcomed her appearance on the scene.

We have said that this personage had never approached La Stilla. Nothing could be truer. But if he had not tried to make her acquaintance — and we must particularly insist on this point — all that could remind him of the artiste had been the object of his constant attention. Thus he possessed the finest of the portraits which the great painter, Michel Gregorio, had made of the singer. This was, indeed, La Stilla impassioned, vibrating, sublime, incarnate in one of her finest characters, and the portrait acquired for its price in gold was well worth the price her wealthy admirer had paid for it.

If this eccentric individual was invariably alone when he occupied his box during La Stilla’s performances, if he never went out of his rooms but to go to the theatre, it must not be supposed that he lived in absolute isolation. No; a companion no less eccentric shared his existence.

This individual was known as Orfanik. How old was he? whence came he? where was he born? No one could have answered those three questions. To listen to him — for he was only too glad to talk — he was one of those unrecognized geniuses who have taken an aversion to the world; and it was supposed, and not without reason, that he was some poor devil of an inventor who was chiefly supported by the purse of his protector.

Orfanik was of middle height, thin, sickly, consumptive, and pale. He was remarkable for a black patch over his right eye, which he had lost in some experiment; and on his nose was a pair of spectacles, the only lens being that over his left eye, which glowed with a greenish look. During his solitary walks, he gesticulated as if he were talking to some invisible being who listened without ever answering.

These two characters, the strange melomaniac and the no less strange Orfanik, were known, at least as much as they wished to be, in all the towns of Italy to which the theatrical season regularly took them. They had the privilege of exciting public curiosity; and although the admirer of La Stilla had always repulsed the reporters and their indiscreet interviews, they had at last discovered his name and nationality. He was of Roumanian birth, and the first time Franz de Telek asked who he was, they told him, —

“The Baron Rodolphe de Gortz.”

Such was the state of affairs when the young count arrived at Naples. For two months the theatre of San Carlo had been full, and the success of La Stilla grew greater every evening. Never had she done herself more justice in her different characters, never had she called forth more enthusiastic ovations.

At each performance, while Franz occupied his orchestra stall, the Baron de Gortz sat at the back of his box, absorbed in this ideal song, impregnated with this divine voice, without which it seemed he could not live.

It was then that a rumour spread at Naples — a rumour the public refused to believe, but which eventually alarmed the dilettanti.

It was said that at the close of the season La Stilla was going to retire from the stage. What! In all the possession of her talent, in all the plenitude of her beauty, in the apogee of her artistic career, was it possible she thought of retiring?

Unlikely as it seemed, it was true, and undoubtedly the Baron de Gortz had something to do with her resolve.

This spectator with his mysterious proceedings, always there, although invisible behind the railing of his box, had at length provoked in La Stilla a nervous, persistent emotion which she could not overcome. Whenever she came on the stage she felt an influence come over her, and the excitement, which was apparent enough to the public, had gradually injured her health.

To leave Naples, to fly to Rome, to Venice, or to some other town of the peninsula, would not, she knew, deliver her from the presence of Baron de Gortz. She would not even escape him by abandoning Italy for Germany, Russia, or France. He would follow her wherever she made herself heard; and to deliver herself from this besetting importunity, her only chance was to abandon the stage.

Two months before the rumour of her retirement had been heard, Franz de Telek had taken a step with regard to the singer, the consequences of which were to be an irreparable catastrophe.

Free to do as he liked, and master of an immense fortune, he had succeeded in obtaining admission to La Stilla’s house, and had made her the offer of becoming Countess of Telek.

La Stilla had long known of the feelings with which she had inspired the young count. She had said to herself that he was a gentleman to whom any woman, even of the highest rank, would be happy to trust her life and happiness. And in the state of mind she then was, when Franz de Telek offered her his name, she received the offer with a sympathy she took no pains to hide. She felt herself loved in such a way that she consented to become the wife of Count Telek, and without regret abandon her dramatic career.

The news was then true; La Stilla would not appear again on any stage, as soon as the San Carlo season came to an end. In fact, her marriage, of which there had been some suspicions, was announced as certain.

This, as may be imagined, caused considerable excitement not only in the professional world, but in the fashionable world of Italy. After refusing to believe in the realization of this project, they had to admit it. Hatred and jealousy arose against the young count who was to take her away from her art, her success, the idolatry of the dilettanti, the greatest singer of her age. Even personal threats were directed against Franz de Telek — which threats in no way troubled him.

But if it was thus with the public, we can imagine what Rodolphe de Gortz felt at the thought of losing La Stilla, and that he would lose with her all that was life to him. There was a rumour that he was about to commit suicide.

t w as certain that from this day Orfanik was not seen on the streets of Naples. He never left Baron Rodolphe. Many times he was with him in the box which the baron occupied at every performance — and that he had never done before, being, like other learned men, absolutely refractory to the sensual charm of music.

The days, however, went by; the excitement did not subside, and it was at its height the last time La Stilla was to appear on the stage. It was in the superb character of Angelica in “Orlando,” the masterpiece of Arconati, that she was to bid her farewell to the public.

That night San Carlo was but a tenth large enough to hold the people who crowded at its doors and for the most part remained outside. It was feared that there would be a manifestation against Count de Telek, if not while La Stilla was on the stage, at least when the curtain fell on the last act.

The Baron de Gortz had taken his place in his box, and this time Orfanik was again with him.

La Stilla appeared, more agitated than she had ever been. She recovered herself, however; she abandoned herself to her inspiration, and sang with such perfection, such ineffable talent, that the indescribable enthusiasm she excited among the audience rose almost to delirium.

During the performance the young count waited at the wing, impatient, nervous, feverish, cursing the length of the scenes, and angry at the delays provoked by the applause and recalls. Ah! how they hindered him from carrying off from this theatre her who was to be the Countess of Telek; the adored woman he would take far, far away, so far that she would belong but to him, to him alone.

At last came the final most dramatic scene, in which the heroine of Orlando dies. Never had the admirable music of Arconati appeared more impressive, never had La Stilla interpreted it with more impassioned emphasis. All her soul seemed to distil itself through her lips. And yet one would have said that this voice was about to break, for it was to be no longer heard.

At this moment the railing of the Baron de Gortz’s box was lowered. Over it there appeared that strange head with the long grizzly hair and the eyes of flame. It showed itself, that ecstatic face, frightful in its pallor, and from the wing Franz saw it in the light for the first time.

La Stilla was then revelling in the full power of that ravishing stretto of the final air, She had just repeated that phrase with the sublime sentiment, —

“Inamorata, mio cuore tremante Vogiio morire.”

Suddenly she stopped.

Baron de Gortz’s face terrified her. An inexplicable terror paralyzed her. She put her hand to her mouth; it reddened with blood. She staggered; she fell —

The audience rose, trembling, bewildered, distracted.

A cry escaped from Baron de Gortz’s box.

Franz rushed on to the stage; he took La Stilla in his arms; he lifted her, he looked at her, he called her.

“Dead I dead!” he cried. She is dead!”

Yes! La Stilla was dead. A blood-vessel had broken. Her song died with her last sigh.

The young count was taken back to his hotel in such a state that his reason was despaired of. He was unable to be present at La Stilla’s funeral, which took place amid an immense crowd of the Neapolitan population.

It was at the cemetery of Campo Santo Nuovo that the singer was buried, and all that could be read on the marble was — “Stilla.”

The night of the funeral a man went to the Campo Santo Nuovo. There with haggard eyes, bowed head, and lips clenched as if they had been sealed by death, he looked for a long time at the spot where La Stilla lay; and he seemed to listen as if the voice of the great artiste was to be heard for the last time from her grave It was Rodolphe de Gortz.

That very night the Baron de Gortz, accompanied by Orfanik, left Naples, and no one knew what became of him. But the next morning a letter was received by the young count. The letter contained but these words: —

“It is you who have killed her. Woe to you, Count de Telek!

“Rodolphe de Gortz.”

CHAPTER X

SUCH had been this lamentable history.

For a month Franz de Telek’s life was in danger. He recognized nobody — not even his man Rotzko. In the height of his fever but one name escaped his lips, which were ready to part with their last breath: it was that of La Stilla.

The young count did not die. The skill of the doctors, the incessant care of Rotzko, together with his own youth and constitution, saved Franz de Telek. His reason emerged uninjured from this terrible struggle. But when memory returned to him, when he recalled the final tragic scene in “Orlando” in which the soul of the artiste had left her, —

“Stilla! my Stilla!” he cried, stretching out his hands as if he were applauding.

As soon as his master could leave his bed, Rotzko persuaded him to leave this accursed town, and allow himself to be carried home to the Castle of Krajowa. But before he left Naples the young count wished to go and pray over the grave of the dead, and bid her a last and eternal farewell.

Rotzko accompanied him to Campo Santo Nuovo.

There Franz threw himself on the cruel ground — he would have torn it up with his finger-nails to bury himself by her side. Rotzko at last managed to get him away from the grave, where he had left all his life and ail his happiness.

A few days afterward, Franz de Telek had return d to Krajowa, to his old family estate. Here he lived for four years in absolute retirement, never leaving the castle. Neither time nor distance could alleviate his grief. He would have forgotten, but it was impossible. The remembrance of La Stilla, vivid as on the first day was bound up with his life, and the wound would close only with death.

At the time our story begins the young count had left the castle for some weeks. What long and pressing arguments Rotzko had had to prevail on his master to abandon the solitude in which he was wasting away! Consolation might be impossible, but an attempt at distraction might at least be made.

A plan of a tour was then decided on, which consisted in first visiting the Transylvanian provinces. Later, Rotzko hoped that the young count would agree to resume the European journey which had been interrupted by the sad events at Naples Franz de Telek had set out for only a short exploration. He and Rotzko had crossed the Wallachian plains up to the imposing mass of the Carpathians; they had been among the Vulkan defiles, and after an ascent of Retyezat and an excursion across the valley of the Maros, they had come for a rest to the village of Werst, to the “King Mathias “inn.

We know the state of affairs when Franz de Telek Arrived, and how he had been informed of the incomprehensible occurrences of which the castle had been the scene. We also know how he had ascertained that the castle belonged to Baron Rodolphe de Gortz.

The effect produced by this name was too apparent for Master Koltz and the other notables not to notice it. And Rotzko would have cheerfully sent to the devil this Master Koltz, who had so inopportunely uttered it, and his stupid stories. Why should some ill-chance have brought Franz de Telek to this very village of Werst, in the neighbourhood of the Castle of the Carpathians!

The young count had become silent. His look, wandering from one to the other, only too clearly indicated the deep trouble of his mind, which he was seeking in vain to calm.

Master Koltz and his friends understood that some mysterious tie must exist between the Count de Telek and the Baron de Gortz; but, inquisitive as they were, they maintained a seemly reserve, and did not seek to take an advantage. Later on they would see what they could do.

A few minutes afterwards every one had left the “King Mathias,” much perplexed at this extraordinary chain of adventures, which foreboded no good to the village.

And now that the young count knew to whom the Castle of the Carpathians belonged, would he keep his promise? If he went to Karlsburg, would he report the matter to the authorities and demand their intervention? That was what the biro, the schoolmaster, Doctor Patak, and others were asking. If he did not do so, Master Koltz had resolved to do so. The police being informed of what had occurred, they would visit the castle, they would see if it were haunted by spirits or inhabited by criminals, for the village could remain no longer under such a state of affairs.

This would, it is true, be quite useless in the opinion of most of the inhabitants. To attack the spirits! The swords of the gendarmes would be broken like glass, and their guns would miss fire each time.

Franz de Telek, left alone in the large room of the “King Mathias,” abandoned himself to the recollections which the name of Baron de Gortz had so unhappily evoked.

After remaining in an armchair for an hour, as if he were quite exhausted, he rose, left the saloon, and went out to the end of the terrace and looked away in the distance.

On the Plesa ridge, bounded by the Orgall plateau, rose the Castle of the Carpathians.

There had lived that strange personage, the frequenter of San Carlo, the man who had inspired such insurmountable terror in the unfortunate La Stilla. But at present the castle was deserted, and Baron de Gortz had not returned to it since he had fled from Naples. None knew what had become of him, and it was possible he had put an end to his existence after the death of the great artiste.

Franz wandered in this way across the field of supposition, knowing not where to stop. On the other hand, the adventure of the forester Nic Deck to a certain extent troubled him, and he would have liked to have unravelled the mystery, if it were only to reassure the people of Werst.

Added to this, the young count had no doubt that it was a band of thieves who had taken refuge in the castle, and he had resolved to keep his promise, and put a stop to the manoeuvres of these sham ghosts by giving information to the police at Karlsburg.

But before taking steps in the matter, Franz resolved to have the most circumstantial details of the affair. For this object the best thing to do was to apply to the young forester in person; and about three o’clock in the afternoon, before returning to the inn, he presented himself at the biro’s house.

Master Koltz showed that ne was much honoured to receive a gentleman like the Count de Telek, this descendant of a noble Roumanian race, to whom the village of Werst would be indebted for the recovery of its peace and prosperity, for then travellers would return to visit the country, and pay the customary tolls, without having to fear the malevolent spirits of the Castle of the Carpathians, etc. etc.

Franz de Telek thanked Master Koltz for his compliments, and asked to be allowed to see Nic Deck if there were no objection.

“None at all, count,” replied the biro. “The gallant Nic is going on as well as possible, and will soon return to his work.”

And turning to his daughter, who had just entered the room, he said, —

“Is that not true, Miriota?”

“May Heaven grant it so, my father!” replied Miriota in an agitated voice.

Franz was charmed by the girl’s graceful greeting. And seeing she was still anxious regarding the state of her betrothed, he hastened to ask her for some explanation on the subject “From what I have heard,” he said, “Nic Deck has not been seriously hurt.”

“No, count,” said Miriota, “and Heaven be praised for it.”

“You have a physician at Werst?”

“Hum!” said Master Koltz in a tone that was not very flattering to the old quarantine man.

“We have Doctor Patak,” replied Miriota.

“He who accompanied Nic Deck to the Castle of the Carpathians?”

“Yes.”

“I should like to see your betrothed for his own sake, and obtain the most precise details of this adventure.”

“He will be glad to give you them, even though it may fatigue him a little.”

“Oh! I will not abuse the opportunity, and I will do nothing that can injure Nic Deck,”

“I know that.”

“When is your marriage to take place?”

“Ina fortnight,” said the biro.

“Then I shall have the pleasure of being present, if Master Koltz will give me an invitation — “

“Such an honour, count — “

“In a fortnight, then, it is understood; and I am sure that Nic Deck will be well again as soon as he can take a walk with his good-looking betrothed.”

“God protect him!” replied the girl as she blushed.

And her charming face betrayed such apparent anxiety that Franz asked her the reason.

“Yes, may God protect him!” replied Miriota; “for in endeavouring to enter the castle in spite of the prohibition, Nic has defied the spirits. And who knows if they may not set themselves to injure him all his life — “

“Oh! as for that,” replied Franz, “we will have it all put straight, I promise you.”

“Nothing will happen to my poor Nic?”

“Nothing; and, thanks to the police, you will be able to visit the castle in a few days, and be quite as safe as in the street at Werst.”

The young count, thinking it inopportune to discuss the question of the supernatural, asked Miriota to show him the way to the forester’s room.

This the girl hastened to do, and then she left him alone with her betrothed.

Nic Deck had been informed of the arrival of the two travellers at the “King Mathias “inn. Seated in an old armchair as large as a sentry-box, he rose to receive his visitor. As he now suffered but little from the paralysis with which he had been momentarily struck, he was sufficiently well to reply to the count’s questions.

“Nic Deck,” said Franz, after a friendly shake of the hand, “I would first ask you if you really believe in the presence of evil spirits at the Castle of the Carpathians?”

“I am compelled to believe it,” replied Nic Deck.

“And it was they who kept you from getting over the castle wall?”

“I have no doubt of it.”

“And why, if you please?”

“Because if they were not spirits, what happened to me would be inexplicable.”

“Will you have the goodness to tell me, without omitting anything, what really did happen?”

“Willingly.”

Nic Deck told his story item by item. He could only confirm the facts which Franz had heard in his conversation with the guests at the “King Mathias ” — facts on which, as we know, the young count put a purely natural interpretation.

In short, the occurrences of this night of adventure could be easily explained if human beings, criminal or otherwise, occupied the castle, and had the machinery capable of producing these phantasmal effects. As to Doctor Patak’s peculiar assertion that he was chained to the ground by some force, it could only be supposed that he had been the sport of some illusion. What was most likely was that his limbs had failed him simply because he was mad with terror, and that Franz declared to the young forester.

“What!” said Nic Deck, “would it be at the moment he wanted to run that his legs would fail the coward? That is hardly likely, you must admit.”

“Well,” continued Franz, “let us admit that his legs were caught in some trap, probably hidden under the grass at the bottom of the ditch.”

“When a trap closes,” said the forester, “it hurts you cruelly, it tears your flesh, and Doctor Patak’s legs have no trace of a wound.”

“Your observation is correct, Nic Deck; but if it be true that the doctor could not get away, it must be that his legs were caught in some snare.”

“Then I will ask you how this snare could open of itself to set the doctor at liberty?”

Franz was too much puzzled to reply.

“But, count, I leave to you all that concerns Doctor Patak. After all, I can only speak of what I know of myself.”

“Yes, let us leave the doctor, and speak of what happened to you, Nic Deck.”

“What happened to me was clear enough. There is no doubt I received a terrible shock, and that in a way that is unnatural.”

“There is no appearance of a wound on your body?” asked Franz.

“None; and yet I was struck with terrible violence.”

“Was it just when you put your hand on the ironwork of the drawbridge?”

“Yes; just as I touched it, I seemed as if I were paralyzed. Fortunately my hand which held the chain did not leave go, and I slipped down into the bottom of the ditch, where the doctor found me senseless.”

Franz shook his head with the air of a man whom these explanations left incredulous.

“You see,” continued Nic Deck, “what I have told you is no dream; and if for eight days I remained full length on the bed, without the use of arms or legs, it is not reasonable to say I must have imagined it all.”

“I do not attempt to do that,” said the count; “it is only too certain you received a brutal shock.”

“Brutal and diabolic,”

“No — and in that we differ, Nic Deck. You believe you were struck by some supernatural being, and I do not believe there are supernatural beings, either good or evil — “

“Will you then explain what happened to me?”

“I cannot do that yet, Nic Deck; but rest assured all will be explained, and in a most simple manner.”

“May God grant it so!”

“Tell me,” said Franz, “has this castle belonged all along to the Gortz family?”

“Yes; and it belongs to it now, although the last descendant of the family, Baron Rodolphe, disappeared and no one has heard of him since.”

“When did he disappear?”

“About twenty years ago.”

“Twenty years?”

“Yes. One day Baron Rodolphe left the castle, of which the last servant died a few months after his departure; and no one has seen him since.”

“And since then no one has set foot in the castle?”

“No one.”

“And what is thought about him in the neighbourhood?”

“It is supposed that Baron Rodolphe died abroad a short time after he disappeared.”

“Then it is supposed wrong, Nic Deck. The baron is still alive — at least he was so five years ago.”

“He is alive?”

“Yes, in Italy — at Naples.”

“You have seen him?”

“I have seen him?”

“And during the five years?”

“I have heard nothing about him.”

The young forester thought for a moment or so. An idea had occurred to him, an idea he hesitated to formulate. At length he made up his mind, and, raising his head and knitting his brow, he said, —

“It is not supposable that Baron de Gortz has returned to the country with the intention of shutting himself up in the castle?”

“No — it is not supposable, Nic Deck.”

“What object would he have in hiding himself, in never letting anybody come near him?”

“None,” replied Franz de Telek.

And yet this was the thought which had begun to take shape in the mind of the young count. Was it not possible that this personage, whose existence had always been so enigmatic, had taken refuge in the castle after he left Naples? There, thanks to superstitious beliefs skilfully acted upon, would it not be easy for him to live in isolation, to defend himself against every unwelcome search, it being understood that he knew the state of mind that prevailed in the surrounding country?

But yet Franz thought it useless to launch the Werstians on this hypothesis. It would have been necessary to have put them in possession of facts which were too personal to him. Besides, he would have convinced nobody, and that he saw clearly enough when Nic Deck added, —

“If it is Baron Rodolphe who is in the castle, we shall have to believe that Baron Rodolphe is the Chort, for only the Chort could have treated me in that way.“Desirous of not returning over the same ground, Franz changed the course of the conversation. After employing every means to reassure the young forester as to the consequences of his attempt, he made him promise not to renew it. That was not his affair, it was the business of the authorities, and the Karlsburg police would know how to discover the mystery of the Castle of the Carpathians.

The young count then took leave of Nic Deck, recommending him to get well as quickly as possible, so as not to delay his marriage with the fair Miriota, at which he promised to be present.

Absorbed in his reflections, Franz returned to the “King Mathias “and did not go out again that day.

At six o’clock Jonas served his dinner in the large room, when by a praiseworthy feeling of reserve neither Master Koltz nor any of the villagers came to trouble his solitude.

About eight o’clock Rotzko said to the young count, —

“You have no further need of me, master?”

“No, Rotzko.”

“Then I will go and smoke my pipe on the terrace.““Go, Rotzko, go.”

Lounging in an armchair, Franz again began to think of all that had passed. He was at Naples during the last performance at the San Carlo Theatre. He saw the Baron de Gortz at the moment when, for the first time, this man appeared to him, his head out of the box, his look ardently fixed on the artiste as if he would fascinate her.

Then his thoughts recurred to the letter signed by this strange personage, which accused him, Franz de Telek, of having killed La Stilla.

Lost in his recollections. Franz felt sleep come over him little by little. But he was still in that transition state when one can perceive the least noise, when a surprising phenomenon took place.

It seemed that a voice sweet and modulated made itself heard in this room where Franz was alone, quite alone.

Without knowing whether he dreamt or not, Franz rose and listened.

Yes! It seemed as though a mouth came close to his ear, and invisible lips gave forth the expressive melody of Stefano inspired by these words, —

“Nel giardino de’ mille fiori Andiamo, mio cuore…”

This romance Franz knew. This romance of ineffable sweetness La Stilla had sung in the concert she had given at the San Carlo Theatre before her farewell performance.

Unconsciously Franz abandoned himself to the charm of hearing it once again.

Then the phrase ended, and the voice, gradually growing fainter, died away with the last vibrations of the air.

But Franz roused himself from his torpor. He straightened himself up abruptly. He held his breath to seize some distant echo of this voice which went to his heart.

All was silent within and without. “Her voice!” he murmured. “Yes! it was really her voice — the voice I loved so much.”

Then returning to himself he said, —

“I was asleep, and I dreamed,”

CHAPTER XI

The count awoke at dawn, his mind still troubled with the visions of the night.

In the morning he was to leave the village of Werst on the road to Kolosvar.

After visiting the manufacturing towns of Petroseny and Livadzel, Franz’s intention was to stay an entire day at Karlsburg, before stopping some time in the capital of Transylvania. From there the railway would take him across the provinces of Central Hungary, where his journey would end Franz had left the inn, and, walking on the terrace with his field-glass at his eyes, he was examining with deep emotion the outlines of the castle, which the sun was showing up so clearly on the Orgall plateau.

And his reflections bore on this point: — When he reached Karlsburg, would he keep the promise he had made to the people of Werst? Would he inform the police of what had happened at the Castle of the Carpathians?

When the young count had undertaken to restore peace to the village, he had no doubt but that the castle was the refuge of some gang of criminals, or, at least, of people of doubtful repute, who having some interest in not being sought after, had taken steps to prevent any one approaching them.

But since the previous day Franz had been thinking the matter over. A change had come over his thoughts, and he now hesitated.

For five years the last descendant of the family of Gortz, Baron Rodolphe, had disappeared, and what had become of him no one knew. Doubtless rumour had said he was dead, a short time after his departure from Naples. But was that true? What proof had they of his death? Perhaps the Baron de Gortz was alive; and if he lived, why should he not have returned to the castle of his ancestors? Why should not Orfanik, his only familiar friend, have accompanied him, and why should not this strange physician be the author and manager of these phenomena which caused such terror in the country?

It will be admitted that this hypothesis appeared somewhat plausible; and if Baron Rodolphe de Gortz and Orfanik had taken refuge in the castle, it was natural that they would try and make it unapproachable, so as to live that life of isolation which was in accordance with their habits and characters.

If this were the case, what ought the count to do? Was it desirable that he should interfere in the private affairs of the Baron de Gortz? This he was asking himself, weighing the pros and cons of the question, when Rotzko came to rejoin him on the terrace.

When he bad told him of what he had been thinking, —

“Master,” replied Rotzko, “it is possible that this may be the Baron de Goltz who is giving himself over to every diabolic imagination. Well, if that is so, my advice is not to mix ourselves up with his affairs. The poltroons of Werst will get out of their difficulty in their own way — that is their business, and we have no reason for troubling ourselves about bringing peace to this village.”

“Quite so,” said Franz; “and all things considered, I think you are right, my brave Rotzko.”

“I think so,” said Rotzko simply.

“As to Master Koltz and the others, they now know what to do to finish up with the pretended spirits at the castle.”

“Undoubtedly. All they have to do is to tell the Karlsburg police.”

“We will start after breakfast.”

“All will be ready.”

“But before we return down the valley of the Syl, we will go round towards Plesa.”

“And why?”

“I wish to see this Castle of the Carpathians a little nearer, if possible.”

“For what purpose?”

“Fancy, Rotzko; a mere fancy, which will not delay us half a day.”

Rotzko was much annoyed at this decision, which he looked upon as useless. All it could do would be to recall the memory of the past, which he tried his best to avoid. This time he tried in vain, and he had to yield to his master’s inflexible resolution.

Franz, as if he had become subject to some irresistible influence, felt himself drawn towards the castle. Without his being aware of it, this attraction might be due to the dream in which he had heard the voice of La Stilla murmur the plaintive melody of Stefano.

But had he been dreaming? Yes, that is what he was asking himself now that he remembered that in this same room of the “King Mathias “a voice had already made itself heard — that voice which Nic Deck had so imprudently defied. In the count’s mental condition there was nothing surprising in his forming the plan of going to the castle, to the foot of its wall, without any thought of entering.

Franz de Telek had, of course, no intention of telling the inhabitants of Werst of his journey. These people would doubtless have joined Rotzko in dissuading him from approaching the castle, and he had ordered his man to be silent regarding it. When they saw him descending the village towards the valley of the Syl, everybody imagined they were on their way to Karlsburg. But from the terrace he had remarked that another road skirted the base of Retyezat up to the Vulkan. It would thus be possible to climb the ridge of Plesa towards the castle without passing again through the village, and consequently without being seen by Master Koltz or the others.

About noon, having settled without discussion the somewhat inflated bill which Jonas presented to the accompaniment of his best smile, Franz prepared to leave Werst.

Master Koltz, the fair Miriota, Magister Hermod.

Doctor Patak, the shepherd Frik, and a number of the other inhabitants had come to bid him farewell.

The young forester had even left his room, and it was clear enough would soon be on his legs again — for which the doctor took all the honour to himself.

“I congratulate you, Nic Deck,” said Franz to him, “both you and your betrothed.”

“We are much obliged to you,” said the girl, radiant with happiness.

“May your journey be fortunate!” added the forester.

“Yes — may it be so!” replied Franz, though his forehead was a little clouded.

“Monsieur le Comte,” said Master Koltz, “we beg that you will not forget the information you promised to give at Karlsburg.”

“I will not forget it, Master Koltz,” replied Franz; “but should I be delayed on my journey, you know the very simple means of disembarrassing yourselves of your troublesome neighbours, and the castle will soon inspire no fear among the brave people of Werst.”

“That is easily said,” murmured the magister.

“And easily done,” replied Franz. “Before forty-eight hours, if you like, the police will have settled up with whoever is hiding in the castle.”

“Except in the very probable case that they are spirits,” said the shepherd Frik.

“Even then,” said Franz, slightly shrugging his shoulders.

“Monsieur le Comte,” said Doctor Patak, “if you had accompanied me and Nic Deck, you might not talk about them as you do!”

“I should be astonished if I did not,” replied Franz, “even if, like you, I had been so strangely detained by the feet in the castle ditch.” .

“By the feet — yes, count, or rather by the boots! Unless you suppose that in my state of mind I dreamt — “

“I suppose nothing,” said Franz, “and will not try to explain what appears inexplicable. But be assured that if the gendarmes come to visit the Caste of the Carpathians, their boots, which are accustomed to discipline, will not take root like yours.”

And with that parting shot at the doctor the count received for the last time the respects of the innkeeper of the “King Mathias ” — so honoured to have had the honour of the honourable Franz de Telek, etc. After a salute to Master Koltz, Nic Deck, his betrothed, and the inhabitants in the road, he made a sign to Rotzko, and both set out at a good pace down the road.

In less than an hour Franz and his man had reached the right bank of the river which flowed round the southern base of Retyezat.

Rotzko had made up his mind to make no observation to his master; it would have been useless to have done so. Accustomed to obey him in military style, if the young count met with some perilous adventure he would know how to get him out of it.

After two hours’ walking Franz and Rotzko stopped for a short rest.

At this place the Wallachian Syl, which had been curving gently towards the right, approached the road by rather a sharp turn. On the other side was the Plesa and the Orgall plateau, at the distance of about a league. Franz then had to leave the Syl if he wished to cross the hill in the direction of the castle.

Evidently this roundabout way, chosen for the purpose of avoiding a return through Werst, must have doubled the distance which separated the castle from the village. Nevertheless it was still broad daylight when Franz and Rotzko reached the crest of the Orgall plateau. The young count would thus have time to see the castle from the outside. Then he could wait until evening before going back towards Werst, and it would be easy to follow the road without being seen. Franz’s intention was to pass the night at Livadzel, a little town situated at the confluence of the Syls, and to resume the road to Karlsburg in the morning.

The halt lasted half an hour. Franz, deep in his remembrances, much agitated at the thought that Baron de Gortz had perhaps concealed his existence in this castle, said not a word.

And Rotzko had to make a great effort to keep from saying to him, —

“It is useless to go further, master! Turn your back on this cursed castle and let us be off.”

They began to follow the thalweg of the valley; but first they had to cross a thicket in which there was no footpath. Patches of the ground had been deeply cut into, for in the rainy season the Syl frequently overflows, and flows in tumultuous torrents over the ground, which it converts into marsh. This caused some difficulty in the advance, and consequently some delay; and it took an hour to get back on the Vulkan road, which was reached about five o’clock.

The right flank of Plesa is not covered with the forest such as Nic Deck had to cut his way through with an axe; but its difficulties were of another kind. There were heaps of moraines, among which they could not venture without caution; sudden changes of level, deep excavations, great blocks dangerously unsettled on their bases and standing up like the seracs of Alpine regions, all the confusion of the piles of enormous stones which avalanches had precipitated from the summit of the mountain — in fact, a veritable chaos in all its horror.

To climb a slope like this took a good hour’s hard work. It seemed indeed that the Castle of the Carpathians was sufficiently defended by the impracticability of its approaches. And perhaps Rotzko hoped that there would be obstacles it would be impossible to surmount, although there were none.

Beyond the zone of blocks and hollows, the outer crest of the Orgall plateau was eventually reached. From there the outline of the castle was clear enough in the midst of this mournful desert, from which for so many years fear had kept away the natives of the district.

It should be noticed that Franz and Rotzko had approached the castle on its northern face; Nic Deck and Doctor Patak had attacked it on the east by taking the left of the Plesa and leaving the torrent of Nyad to the right. The two directions formed a somewhat wide angle, of which the apex was the central donjon. On the northern side it was impossible to obtain admittance, for there was neither gate nor drawbridge, and the wall, in following the irregularities of the plateau, ran to a considerable height.

But it mattered little that access was impossible on this side, for the young count had no intention of entering within the walls.

It was half-past seven when Franz de Telek and Rotzko stopped at the extreme end of the Orgall plateau. Before them rose this barbaric pile of buildings spread out in the gloom, and of much the same colour as that of the Plesa rocks. To the left, the wall made a sudden bend, flanked by the bastion at the angle. There, on the platform above the crenellated parapet, stood the beech whose twisted branches bore witness to the violent south-westerly breezes at this height.

The shepherd Frik was not deceived; the legend gave but three more years of life to the old castle of the Barons of Gortz.

Franz in silence looked at the mass of buildings dominated by the stumpy donjon in the centre. There, without doubt, under that confused mass, were still hidden vaulted chambers long and sonorous, long daedalian corridors, and redoubts concealed in the ground such as the old Magyar fortresses still possess. No dwelling could have been more fit for the last descendant of the family of Gortz to bury himself in oblivion, of which none knew the secret. And the more the young count thought, the more he clung to the idea that Rodolphe de Gortz had taken refuge in the isolation of his Castle of the Carpathians.

But there was nothing to show that the donjon was inhabited. No smoke rose from its chimneys, no sound came from its closed windows. Nothing — not even the cry of a bird — troubled the silence of the gloomy dwelling.

For some minutes Franz eagerly-gazed at this ring of wall, which once was full of the tumult of festival and the clash of arms. But he said nothing, for his mind was laden with oppressive thoughts and his heart with remembrances.

Rotzko, who respected the young count’s mournful silence, took care to keep away from him, and did not interrupt him by a single remark. But when the sun went down behind the shoulder of the Plesa, and the valley of the two Syls began to be bathed in shadow, he did not hesitate to approach him.

“Master,” he said, “the evening has come. It will soon be eight o’clock.”

Franz did not appear to hear.

a It is time to start, “said Rotzko, “if we are to reach Livadzel before the inns close.”

“Rotzko — in a minute — yes — in a minute I will go with you,” said Franz.

“It will take us quite an hour, master, to return to the hill road, and as the night will then have fallen, we shall run no risk of being seen.”

“A few minutes more,” said Franz, “and we will go down towards the village.”

The count had not moved from the spot he had stopped at when he reached the plateau.

“Do not forget, master,” continued Rotzko, “that in the dark it will be difficult to pass among those rocks. We could hardly do it in broad daylight. You must excuse me if I insist — “

“Yes — we will go, Rotzko. I am with you,”

And it seemed as though Franz was helplessly detained before the castle, perhaps by one of those secret presentiments which the heart cannot account for. Was he, then, chained to the ground like Doctor Patak said he had been in the ditch at the foot of the curtain? No; his feet were free from every fetter. He could move about on the plateau as he chose, and, if he wished, nothing could have prevented him from going round the walls, skirting the edge of the counterscarp.

Perhaps he would do so?

So thought Rotzko, who said for. the last time, —

“Are you coming, master?”

“Yes, yes!” replied Franz.

And he remained motionless.

The Orgall plateau was already in darkness. The shadow of the hills had spread over the buildings, whose outlines were all vague and misty. Soon nothing would be visible if no light shone from the windows of the donjon.

“Come, master, come!” said Rotzko. And Franz was about to follow him, when on the platform of the bastion, where stood the legendary beech, there appeared an indistinct shape.

Franz stopped, looking at the shape, whose outline gradually became clearer.

It was a woman with her hair undone, her hands stretched out, enveloped in a long white robe.

But this costume, was it not that which La Stilla wore in that final scene in “Orlando “in which Frans de Telek had seen her for the last time?

Yes! And it was La Stilla; motionless, with her arms stretched out towards the young count, her penetrating gaze fixed on him.

“She!” he cried.

And rushing towards the ditch he would have rolled to the foot of the wall if Rotzko had not stopped him.

But the apparition suddenly faded, and La Stilla was hardly visible for a minute.

Little did it matter. A second would have sufficed for Franz to recognize her, and these words escaped him: “She! and alive!”

CHAPTER XII

Was it possible? La Stilla, whom Franz de Telek thought never to see again, had just appeared on the platform of the bastion! He had not been the sport of an illusion, and Rotzko had seen her as he had done! It was indeed the great artiste in her costume of Angelica, such as she had worn in public at her last performance at San Carlo The terrible truth flashed across the young count. This adored woman, who was to have been the Countess of Telek, had been shut up for five years in this castle amid the Transylvanian mountains! She whom Franz had seen fall dead on the stage had survived! While he had been carried almost dying to the hotel, the Baron Rodolphe must have found her and carried her off to the Castle of the Carpathians; and it was an empty coffin that the whole population had followed to the Santo Campo Nuovo of Naples!

It all appeared incredible, inadmissible, contrary to probability; and Franz said so to himself over and over again. Yes! But one thing was indubitable: La Stilla must have been carried off by the Baron de Gortz, for she was in the castle! She was alive, for she had just appeared above the wall! That was an absolute fact.

The young count endeavoured to collect his thoughts, which were centred on one single object: to rescue from Rodolphe de Gortz La Stilla, who for five years had been a prisoner in the Castle of the Carpathians.

“Rotzko,” said Franz in a breathless voice, “listen to me. Understand me at least; it seems as though my brain were going, —

“My master — my dear master!”

“At all costs I must enter this castle this very night.”

“No; to-morrow.”

“This night, I tell you! She is there. She has seen me as I saw her. She is waiting for me —

“Well, I will follow you.”

“No. I will go alone.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“But how can you get into the castle when Nic Deck was not able to?”

“I will go in, I tell you.”

“The gate is shut.”

“It will not be so for me. I will seek for and I will find a breach. I will get through it.”

“You do not wish me to accompany you, master? You do not wish it?”

“No! We will separate; and it is by leaving me that you will serve me.”

“Shall I wait for you here?”

“No, Rotzko.”

“Where shall I go, then?”

“To Werst — or rather — no — not to Werst,” replied Franz. “There would be no use in those people knowing. Go down to Vulkan and stay the night there. If you do not see me, leave Vulkan in the morning — that is to say — no — wait a few hours. Then go to Karlsburg. There go to the chief of the police. Tell him all that has happened. Then return with his men. If necessary, storm the castle. Deliver her! Ah! She — alive — in the power of Rodolphe de Gortz!”

And as the young count uttered these broken sentences Rotzko noticed that his excitement increased, and manifested itself in the disordered ideas of one who was no longer master of himself.

“Go, Rotzko!” he cried for the last time.

“You wish me to?”

“I do.”

At this formal injunction Rotzko could but obey; particularly as Franz had begun to leave him, and the darkness hid him, from view.

Rotzko remained a few moments where he was, unable to decide on going away. Then the idea occurred to him that the count’s efforts would be in vain; that he would not be able to enter the castle, nor even to get through the outer wall; that he would be compelled to return to the village of Vulkan — perhaps next morning, perhaps that night. The two of them would then go to Karlsburg, and what neither of them could do alone would be done by the police. They would settle with this Baron de Gortz; they would rescue the unfortunate La Stilla; they would search this Castle of the Carpathians; they would not leave one stone upon another, if necessary, even if all the fiends imaginable united to defend it.

And Rotzko descended the slopes of the Orgall plateau, so as to return to the Vulkan road.

Following the edge of the counterscarp, Franz had already gone round the bastion which flanked, it on the left.

A thousand thoughts crowded in his mind. There was now no doubt about the presence of the Baron de Gortz in the castle, for La Stilla was a prisoner therein. It could only be the baron. La Stilla alive! But how could Franz get to her? How could he get her out of the castle? He did not know, but it must be done — and it would be done. The obstacles which Nic Deck could not overcome he would overcome. It was not curiosity which had brought him among these ruins, it was love for the woman he had found alive, yes, alive! After believing her to be dead, he would rescue her from Rodolphe de Gortz!

Doubtless Franz had said to himself that he could only obtain admission to the interior by means of the south curtain, in which the gate opened opposite the drawbridge; and seeing that it was impossible for him to scale the high walls, he continued to skirt the crest of the Orgall plateau, as soon as he had turned the angle at the bastion.

In broad daylight there would not have been much difficulty in this. At night — the moon was not yet up —

a night all the darker from the mists which thicken on the mountains, it was more dangerous. To the danger of a false step, to the danger of a fall to the bottom of the ditch, was added that of stumbling against the rocks, and perhaps causing them to fall over him.

Franz went on, however, keeping as near as possible to the zigzags of the counterscarp, feeling his way hand and foot, to make sure he was not going astray. Sustained by superhuman strength, he also felt himself guided by an extraordinary instinct that could not deceive him.

Beyond the bastion stretched the south wall, that with which the drawbridge established communication when it was not raised against the gate.

When the bastion was passed, obstacles appeared to multiply. Among the huge rocks which covered the plateau, to follow the counterscarp was impossible, and he had to leave it. Figure a man endeavouring to traverse a field of Carnac in which the dolmens and menhirs were on no plan whatever; and not a mark to guide him, not a ray of light in the dark night.

Franz kept on, here climbing over a rock which barred his way, there creeping among the rocks, his hands torn with the thistles and brushwood, his head skimmed by the pairs of ospreys disturbed in their resting-places and flying off, uttering their horrible scream.

Ah! why did not the chapel bell clang as it had clanged for Nic Deck and the doctor? Why did not the intense light which had enveloped them stream up from between the battlements of the donjon? He would have headed towards the sound, he would have made towards the light, as the sailor towards the siren’s whistle or the lighthouse rays.

No! nothing but deep night bordered his view a few yards away.

This lasted for nearly an hour. When the ground began to slope to the left, Franz felt he was going wrong. Perhaps he had gone lower than the gate? Perhaps he was beyond the drawbridge?

He stopped, stamping his foot and wringing his hand. Which way should he go? Ah! how angry he was when he thought he would have to wait for the daylight! But then he would be seen by the people in the castle, he could not take them by surprise. Rodolphe de Gortz would be on his guard.

It was in the night-time that he must get into the enclosure, and Franz could not find his way in this darkness!

A cry escaped him — a cry of despair: “Stilla!” he cried, “my Stilla!”

Did he think that the prisoner could hear him, that she could reply to him?

And yet a score of times he shouted the name, and the echoes of Plesa repeated it.

Suddenly Franz’s eyes were on the alert. A ray of light pierced the darkness — a dazzling ray, and its source was at a considerable elevation.

“There is the castle — there!” he said, and from its position the light could only come from the central donjon.

In his mental excitement Franz did not hesitate to believe that it was La Stilla who showed him this light. There could be no doubt she had recognized him at the moment he had perceived her through the battlements of the bastion. And now she it was who had given the signal and showed him the road to follow to reach the gate.

Franz went towards the light, which increased with every step he took. As he had gone too far to the left on the plateau, he had to go back about twenty yards to the right, and after a few trials he regained the edge of the counterscarp.

The light shone in his face, and its height showed that it came from one of the windows of the donjon.

Franz was about to find himself faced by the last obstacles — insurmountable, perhaps.

In fact, if the gate were shut, the drawbridge raised, he would have to go down to the foot of the wall, and what would he do then, where it was fifty feet high in front of him?

Franz went on towards the place where the drawbridge would rest if the gate were open.

The drawbridge was down.

Without even stopping to think, Franz rushed on to the bridge and laid his hand on the gate.

The gate opened.

Franz rushed under the dark arch. But before he had taken a dozen steps the drawbridge was raised with a clatter against the gate.

Count Franz de Telek was a prisoner in the Castle of the Carpathians.

CHAPTER XIII.

The country people and travellers who passed backwards or forwards over the Vulkan hill knew only the Castle of the Carpathians from its exterior aspect. At the respectful distance at which fear kept the bravest of Werst and its environs, it presented to the eye but an enormous mass of rocks which they might take to be ruins.

But within the enclosure was the castle as dilapidated as they supposed? No; and within the shelter of its solid walls and buildings, the old feudal fortress could have accommodated quite a garrison.

Vast vaulted halls, deep excavations, innumerable corridors, courts of which the stonework was hidden beneath the lofty fence of herbage, subterranean redoubts to which the light of day never penetrated, narrow staircases contrived in the thickness of the walls, casemates lighted by narrow loopholes in the external wall, a central donjon with three floors of apartments sufficiently habitable, crowned by a crenellated platform; and among the other buildings of the enclosure, interminable corridors capriciously entangled, mounting to the platform of the bastions, diving to the depths of the lower structure, with a few cisterns in which the rain-water was caught, the overflow feeding the torrent of the Nyad, and then long tunnels, not stopped up as was believed, but giving access to the Vulkan road — such was the state of the Castle of the Carpathians, the geometrical plan of which was as complicated as that of the labyrinths of Porsena, of Lemnos, or of Crete.

As Theseus was led on by his love for the daughter of Minos, so was it the power of love, more intense and more irresistible, which had led the count within the intricacies of the castle. Would he find an Ariadne’s thread to guide him, as the Greek hero had done?

Franz had had but one thought — to get within the enclosure, and he had got there. But one thing might have struck him, and that was that the drawbridge, which had always been raised, seemed to have been expressly lowered to admit him. Perhaps he might have been uneasy when the gate shut suddenly behind him? But he gave no thought to these things. He was at last in the castle where Rodolphe de Gortz was keeping La Stilla, and he would sacrifice his life to reach her.

The gallery into which Franz had advanced was wide, lofty, and with a vaulted roof, and it was quite dark, and its pavement was broken up, so that it had to be trodden carefully.

Franz took to the left wall, and kept to it, feeling his way along the facing, the efflorescent surface of which rubbed off on his hands. He heard no sound except that of his steps, which echoed in the distance. A draught of warm air with an ancient, frowsy smell swept gently past him, as if there were an opening at the other end of the gallery After passing a stone pillar which served as a buttress in the last angle to the left, Franz found himself in a much narrower corridor. He had only to open his arms to touch the walls.

He went on in this way, his body bent forward, feeling with hands and feet, and endeavouring to discover if the passage were a straight one.

Two hundred yards after passing the buttress Franz felt the wall curving off to the left, to take the exactly opposite direction fifty paces farther on. Did it return to the outer wall, or did it lead to the foot of the donjon?

Franz endeavoured to quicken his advance, but every moment he was hindered by a rise in the ground, against which he stumbled, or by some sharp angle which changed his direction. From time to time he would reach some opening in the wall leading off to lateral ramifications. But all was dark, unfathomable, and it was in vain he sought to make out where he was in this maze in a molehill.

He had to retrace his steps several times on ascertaining that he had gone where there was no thoroughfare. One thing he had to fear was that some badly-fastened trapdoor would give way under his feet and drop him into some underground cell from which he could not escape. And so whenever he touched a piece that sounded hollow he took care to cling to the walls, though he went forward with an ardour that hardly left him time for reflection.

At the same time, as he had neither gone upwards nor downwards, the floor was clearly on the level of the inner courts arranged among the different buildings within the enclosure, and it was possible that the passages ended in the central donjon, perhaps at the foot of the staircase.

Certainly there ought to exist a more direct means of communication between the gate and the central buildings. When the Gortz family had lived there it had not been necessary to enter these interminable passages. A second gate, which faced the gate opposite the first gallery, opened on to the place of arms, in the centre of which rose the keep; but it had been stopped up, and Franz had not been able to see where it had been.

For an hour the young count continued his advance at a venture, listening if he could hear any distant sound, and not daring to shout for La Stilla lest the echoes should carry it to the upper floors of the donjon. He was in no way discouraged, and would go on until strength failed him, or some impassable obstacle compelled him to stop.

But although he took no notice of it, Franz was already nearly exhausted. Since he left Werst he had eaten nothing. He suffered from hunger and thirst. His step was net sure, his legs were failing him. In this warm, humid air his respiration had become irregular, and his heart beat violently.

It was nearly nine o’clock when Franz, putting out his left foot, found no ground to tread upon.

He stooped down and felt there was a step, and then another below it.

It was a staircase.

Did these stairs go down to the foundations of the castle, with no way of exit?

Franz did not hesitate to go down them, and he counted the steps, which went off obliquely from the passage.

Seventy-seven steps were thus descended to the level of a second passage which led to many gloomy windings.

Franz went along these for half an hour, and, tired out, had just stopped when a luminous point appeared several hundred feet in advance.

Whence came this light? Was it merely a natural phenomenon, the hydrogen of some will-o’-the-wisp that had lighted itself at this depth? Was it a lantern carried by one of the inhabitants of the castle?

“Can it be La Stilla?” murmured Franz. And the thought occurred to him that a light had already appeared as if to show him the way into the castle when he was wandering among the rocks on the Orgall plateau. If it had been La Stilla who had shown this light at one of the windows of the donjon, was it not La Stilla who was now trying to guide him amid the sinuosities of these subterranean passages?

Hardly master of himself, Franz bent down and looked ahead without moving. It was more a diffused effulgence than a luminous point that seemed to fill a sort of vault at the end of the passage.

Franz crawled towards it, for his limbs could scarcely support him, and passing through a narrow entrance he fell on the threshold of a crypt.

This crypt was in a good state of preservation, about twelve feet high, and circular in shape. The arches of the vault sprang from the capitals of eight dwarf columns, and met in a hanging boss, in the centre of which was a glass vase filled with a yellowish light.

Facing the entrance, between two of the columns, was another door which was closed, and the large rounded bolts showed where the outer ironwork of the hinges was fastened.

Franz dragged himself up to this second door and tried to move it.

His efforts were in vain.

Some old furniture was in the crypt; there was a bed, or rather a bench, in old heart-of-oak, on which were a few bedclothes; there was a stool with twisted feet; there was a table fixed to the wall with iron tenons. On the table were a large jug full of water, a dish with a piece of cold venison, a thick piece of bread like a sea-biscuit. In a corner murmured a fountain fed by a narrow stream, the overflow of which passed away at the base of one of the columns.

Did not these arrangements show that some guest was expected in this crypt, or rather a prisoner in this prison? Was this prisoner Franz? and had he been lured by a stratagem into the interior of the castle?

In the trouble of his thoughts Franz had no suspicion of this. Exhausted by want and fatigue, he dashed at the food on the table, quenched his thirst with the contents of the jug, and then fell on the rough bed, where a sleep of a few minutes might recruit his strength.

But when he tried to collect his thoughts it seemed as though they escaped like the water he might try to hold in his hand.

Would he then have to wait for daylight to recommence his search? Had his will so far forsaken him that he was no longer master of his acts?

“No,” said he, “I will not wait! To the donjon! I must reach the donjon to-night.”

Suddenly the light in the vase went out, and the crypt was plunged in complete darkness.

Franz would have risen. He could not do so, and his thoughts went to sleep, or rather stopped suddenly, like the hand of a clock when the spring breaks. It was a strange sleep, or rather an overpowering torpor, an absolute annihilation of being, which did not proceed from the soothing of the mind.

How long the sleep lasted Franz did not know. His watch had run down and did not show the time. But the crypt was again bathed in artificial light.

Franz jumped off the bed, and stepped towards the first door, which was open all the time, then towards the second, which was still closed.

He began to reflect, and found he could not do so without difficulty.

If his body had recovered from the fatigues of the night before, he felt his head empty and heavy.

“How long have I slept?” he asked. “Is it night or is it day?”

Within the crypt nothing had changed, except that the light had been renewed, the food replaced, and the jug filled with clear water.

Some one, then, must have been there while Franz was deep in this overpowering slumber? It was known that he was in the depths of the castle! He was in the power of Baron Rodolphe de Gortz! Was he doomed to have no further communication with his fellow-men?

That was not possible, and, besides, he would escape, for he could do so; he would re-traverse the gallery that led to the gate, he would leave the castle.

Leave? He then remembered that the gate was closed behind him.

Well! He would try to reach the outer wall, and by one of the embrasures he would try to slip down into the ditch. Cost what it might, in an hour he would have escaped from the castle.

But La Stilla? Would he give up reaching her? Would he go away without rescuing her from Rodolphe de Gortz?

Yes! And what he could not do single-handed he would do with the help of the police, which Rotzko would bring from Karlsburg to the village of Werst. They would rush to the assault of the old stronghold, they would search the castle from top to bottom.

Having come to this determination, he decided to put it into execution without losing an instant.

Franz rose, and was walking towards the passage by which he had come, when he heard a noise behind the other door.

It was certainly the sound of footsteps approaching very slowly.

Franz put his ear against the door and, holding his breath, he listened intently.

The steps seemed to come at regular intervals, as if they were going upstairs. No doubt there was a second staircase which connected the crypt with the interior courts.

In readiness for whatever might happen, Franz drew from the sheath his hunting-knife, which he wore at his belt, and gripped it firmly.

If it were to be one of the Baron de Gortz’s servants who entered, he would throw himself on him, take away the keys, and make it impossible for him to follow him. And then Franz would rush along this new road and try to reach the donjon.

If it were the Baron de Gortz — and he would recognize him, although he had only seen him once, at the moment La Stilla fell on the stage of San Carlo — he would attack him without mercy.

However, the footsteps stopped on the landing which formed the outer threshold.

Franz did not move, but waited until the door was opened.

It did not open, but a voice of infinite sweetness was heard by the young count.

It was the voice of La Stilla — yes! — her voice a little weakened, her voice which had lost nothing of its inflections, of its inexpressible charm, of its caressing modulations, that admirable instrument of its marvellous art, which seemed to have died with the artiste.

And La Stilla repeated the plaintive melody which he had heard in his dream when he slept in the saloon of the inn at Werst:-

“Nel giardino de mille fiori Andiamo, mio cuore. . .”

The song entered into Franz to the depths of his soul. He breathed it, he drank it like a divine liquor, while La Stilla seemed to invite him to follow her, repeating, —

“Andiamo, mio cuore… andiamo.”

But why did not the door open to let him through? Could he not reach her, clasp her in his arms, take her with him out of the castle?

“Stilla — my Stilla!” he shouted, and he threw himself against the door, which stood firm against his efforts.

Already the song seemed to grow fainter, the footsteps were heard going away.

Franz knelt down, trying to shake the planks, tearing his hands with the ironwork, calling all the time to La Stilla, whose voice had died away in the distance.

It was then that a terrible thought flashed through his mind, “Mad!” he exclaimed. “She is mad, for she did not recognize me and did not reply to me. For five years she has been shut up in this castle, in the power of this man — my poor Stilla — her reason has left her!”

Then he rose, his eyes haggard, his head as if on fire. “I also — I feel that I am going mad!” he repeated; “J am going mad — mad like her!”

He strode backwards and forwards across the crypt like a wild beast in its cage.

“No!” he repeated. “No! I must not go mad. I must get out of this castle. I will go!”

And he went towards the first door. It had just shut silently.

Franz had not noticed it while he was listening to the voice of La Stilla.

He had been imprisoned within the enclosure, and now he was a prisoner within the crypt.

CHAPTER XIV.

FRANZ was thoroughly astounded. As he had feared, the faculty of thinking, of comprehending matters, the intelligence necessary for him to reason on them, was gradually leaving him. The only feeling that remained was the remembrance of La Stilla, the impression of the song he had just heard, and which the echoes of this gloomy crypt no longer repeated.

Had he been the sport of an illusion? No, a thousand times no! It was indeed La Stilla he had just heard, it was indeed her he had seen on the castle bastion.

Then the thought returned to him, the thought that she was deprived of reason, and this horrible blow struck him as if he were about to go out of his mind a second time.

“Mad!” he repeated. “Yes! Mad — for she did not recognize my voice — mad — mad!”

And that seemed to be only too likely. Ah! if he could only rescue her from this place, take her to his Castle of Krajowa, devote himself entirely to her, his care and love would soon restore her to sanity.

So said Franz, a prey to a terrible delirium, and many hours went by before he was himself again.

Then he tried to reason coolly, to collect himself amid the chaos of his thoughts.

“I must get away from here,” he said. “How? As soon as they reopen that door! Yes! During my sleep they come and renew this food. I will wait — I will pretend to sleep.”

A suspicion occurred to him. The water in the jug must contain some soporific substance. If he had been plunged in this heavy sleep, in this complete unconsciousness, the duration of which he did not know, it was because he had drunk this water. Well, he would drink no more of it. He would not even touch the food on the table. Somebody would come soon and then —

Then! What did he know of it? At this moment was the sun mounting towards the zenith or sinking on the horizon? Was it day or night?

Then Franz listened for the sound of footsteps at either door. But no sound reached him. He crept along the walls of the crypt, his head burning, his eyes glaring, his ears throbbing, his breath panting amid this heavy atmosphere, which was only just renewed through the chink around the doors.

Suddenly near the angle of one of the columns on the right he felt a fresher breath than usual reach his lips.

Was there an opening here through which air came in from the outside?

Yes; there was a passage he had not noticed in the shade of the column.

To glide between the wails, to make for an indistinct clearness which seemed to come from above, was what Franz did in an instant.

There was a small court five or six yards across, with the walls a hundred feet high. It seemed to be a well which served as an outer court for this subterranean cell, and gave it a little air and light.

Franz could see it was still day. At the top of the well was a small angle of light which just shone on the upper margin.

The sun had accomplished at least half its diurnal course, for this luminous angle was slowly decreasing.

It must be about five o’clock in the afternoon.

Consequently Franz must have slept for at least forty hours, and he had no doubt this must have been due to a soporific draught. As he and Rotzko had left Werst on the nth of June, this must be the 13th which was about to finish in a few hours.

So humid was the air at the bottom of this court, that Franz breathed it deeply and felt all the better for it. But if he had hoped that an escape was possible up this long stone, tube he was soon undeceived. To try and climb that smooth, lofty wall, was impracticable.

Franz returned to the interior of the crypt. As he could only get out through one of the doorways, he came to see what state they were in.

The first door — that by which he had come — was very solid and very thick, and was kept in its place on the other side by bolts working into iron staples; it was, therefore, useless to try and force it.

The second door — behind which he had heard La Stilla’s voice — did not seem to be so well preserved. The boards were rotten in places, and it might be possible to clear a way through them.

“Yes — this is the way!” said Franz, who had recovered his coolness; “this is the way!”

But he had no time to lose, as it was probable some one would enter the crypt as soon as he was supposed to be asleep under the influence of the soporific draught.

The work went on more quickly than he had expected, The moisture had eaten into the wood around the metal clasp which held the bolts against the embrasure. With his knife Franz managed to get the round part off, working noiselessly, and stopping now and then to listen and make sure that nothing was moving on the other side.

Three hours afterwards the bolts were free and the door opened with a scroop on its hinges.

Franz then returned to the little court so as to breathe a less stifling air.

At this moment the sun no longer shone across the opening of the well, and consequently must have sunk behind Retyezat. The court was in complete darkness. A few stars gleamed above, as if they were seen through the tube of a long telescope. A few small clouds drifted along in the intermittent breath of the night breeze. A peculiar haze in the atmosphere showed that the moon must have risen above the eastern mountains. It was evidently about nine o’clock at night.

Franz went back to the crypt, where he ate some of the food and quenched his thirst from the spring, after throwing away the liquid in the jug. Then, with his knife at his belt, he went out by the door, which he shut behind him.

Arid now would he meet the unfortunate La Stilla wandering in these subterranean galleries? At the thought his heart beat almost ready to burst.

As soon as he had made a few steps he stumbled. As he had thought, there was a flight of stairs, of which he counted the steps; sixty only instead of the seventy-seven he had come down to the threshold of the crypt Consequently he was about eight feet below the level of the ground.

Having nothing better to do than to follow the dark corridor, the sides of which he could touch with his outstretched hands, he hurried on in that direction.

And he went on for half an hour without being stopped by door or railing. But the large number of turns had prevented him from knowing in what direction he was going with regard to the wall which faced the Orgall plateau.

After halting a few minutes to get his breath, Franz continued his advance, and it seemed as though the corridor were to be interminable, when an obstacle stopped him.

This was a wall of bricks.

Tapping it at different heights, he could find no sign of an opening.

This was the only way out from the corridor.

Franz could not help exclaiming. All his hopes were shattered against this obstacle. His knees bent, his legs gave way, and he fell at the foot of the wall.

But just on the ground the wall had a narrow crack in it, and the bricks, being rather loose, shook as he touched them.

“That is the way!” said Franz. “Yes! that is the way!”

And he began to pull out the bricks one by one, when there was a noise of something metallic on the other side.

Franz stopped.

The noise had not ceased, and at the same time a ray of light swept across the hole.

Franz looked through.

It was the old chapel that he saw. To what a lamentable state of dilapidation time and neglect had reduced it! — the roof half fallen in, a few only of the ribs perfect on their swelling columns, two or three pointed arches threatening to fall, a window-frame with flamboyant mullions thrust out of place; here and there a dusty tomb beneath which slept some ancestor of the family of Gortz, and at the end a fragment of an altar with the reredos still showing traces of sculpture; then the remains of the roof still over the apse which had been spared by the storms, and then over the ridge above the entrance the shaking belfry from which hung a rope to the ground — the rope of the bell which occasionally rang to the terror of the people of Werst.

Into this chapel, deserted for so long, open to all the rigours of the Carpathian climate, a man had just entered, holding in his hand a lantern, the brilliant light of which shone full on his face.

Franz instantly recognized him. It was Orfanik, that eccentric individual whom the baron had made his only companion during his sojourn in the large Italian towns, that oddity he had seen along the streets gesticulating and talking to himself, that incomprehensible scientist, that inventor ever in search of some chimera, and who doubtless put all his inventions at the service of Rodolphe de Gortz.

If Franz had retained any doubt as to the presence of the baron at the Castle of the Carpathians, even after the apparition of La Stilla, this doubt was changed to certainty when he saw Orfanik.

What was he going to do in this ruined chapel at this advanced hour of the night?

Franz tried to discover, and this is what he saw.

Orfanik, stooping over the ground, was lifting up a few iron cylinders to which he was attaching a line, which he unrolled from a reel placed in one of the corners of the chapel. And such was the attention he gave to his work, that he would not even have seen the young count if he had been able to get near him.

Ah! why was not the hole Franz had begun to enlarge sufficient to let him pass? He would have entered the chapel, he would have hurled himself on Orfanik, he would have compelled him to lead him to the donjon.

But perhaps it was as well that he could not do so, for if the attempt failed, the Baron de Gortz would have doubtless made him pay with his life for the secrets he had discovered.

A few minutes after the arrival of Orfanik another man entered the chapel.

It was Baron Rodolphe de Gortz. The never-to-be-forgotten physiognomy of this personage had not changed. He did not even seem to have aged, with his pale, long face, which the lantern illuminated from top to bottom, his long grey hair thrown back behind his ears, and his look glittering from the depths of his black orbits.

Rodolphe de Gortz went near to examine the work on which Orfanik was engaged.

And this was the conversation exchanged between the men in short, sharp tones.

CHAPTER XV.

“Is the connection with the chapel finished, Orfanik?”

“I have just done it.”

“Every thing is ready in the casemates of the bastions?”

“Everything.”

“The bastions and chapel are in direct connection with the donjon?”

“They are.”

“And after the instrument has made the current, we shall have time to get away?”

“We shall.”

“Have you made sure that the tunnel on to the Vulkan is clear?”

“It is.”

They were silent for a few minutes while Orfanik took up his lantern and directed its light into the corners of the chapel.

“Ah! my old castle!” exclaimed the baron. “You will cost them dear who would storm your walls.”

And Rodolphe de Gortz pronounced these words in a tone which made the count shudder.

“You have heard what they say at Werst?” the baron asked Orfanik.

“Fifty minutes ago I heard on the wire what they were talking about at the King Mathias.’”

“Is the attack to be to-night?”

“No, not until daybreak.”

“When did this Rotzko return to Werst?”

“Two hours ago, with the police he brought from Karlsburg.”

“Well! as the castle cannot defend itself,” said the baron, “at least it can crush under its ruins this Franz de Telek and ail his people with him.”

Then, after a few moments he continued, — “And this wire, Orfanik? Will they ever know that it put the castle in communication with the village of Werst?”

“I will destroy it, and they will know nothing about it.”

And now the hour would seem to have come to explain certain phenomena which have occurred in the course of our story, the origin of which ought no longer to be concealed.

At this period — it must be remembered that these events happened in one of the closing years of the nineteenth century — the use of electricity, which has justly been called the soul of the universe, had been brought to its highest perfection. The illustrious Edison and his disciples had finished their work.

Among other electrical instruments, the telephone then worked with such wonderful’ precision that the sounds collected by the diaphragms could be freely heard without the aid of ear-trumpets. What was said, what was sung, what was even whispered, could be heard at any distance, and two persons separated by thousands of leagues could converse as easily as if they were side by side.

For some years Orfanik, the baron’s inseparable companion, had been in all that concerns the practical application of electricity an inventor of the first order. But, as we know, his admirable discoveries had not been welcomed as they deserved. The learned world had taken him for a madman, whereas he was a man of genius; and hence the inappeasable hatred which the despised inventor bore to his fellow-men.

It was under these circumstances that Baron de Gortz had met Orfanik, who was then in the depths of misery. He encouraged him in his work, he helped him with money, and finally he engaged him to be his companion on condition that he alone should profit by his inventions.

In fact, these two eccentric personages were made to understand one another, and since their meeting they had never separated, not even when the Baron de Gortz was following La Stilla from town to town in Italy.

While the melomaniac was intoxicating himself with the singing of the incomparable artiste, Orfanik was busy in completing the discoveries made by electricians during these later years, perfecting their adaptations and obtaining the most extraordinary results from them.

After the events which terminated the dramatic career of La Stilla, the baron had disappeared without any one knowing what had become of him. When he left Naples ft was in the Castle of the Carpathians that he had taken refuge, accompanied by Orfanik, who had no hesitation in shutting himself up with him.

When he resolved to bury his existence in this old castle, the baron’s intention was that no inhabitant of the district should suspect his return, and no one try to visit him. We need not say that Orfanik and he had the means of providing liberally for their daily wants; in fact, a secret communication existed with the road over the Vulkan, and by this road an old servant of the baron’s, whom nobody knew, brought in all that was necessary for the existence of Baron Rodolphe and his companion.

In reality what remained of the castle — and particularly the central donjon — was less dilapidated than was believed, and even more habitable than its inmates required. Orfanik, provided with all he wanted for his experiments, busied himself with immense researches in physics and chemistry, and of these he proposed to avail himself in his attempt to keep off unwelcome visitors.

The Baron de Gortz received the propositions with eagerness, and Orfanik built special machinery for spreading terror in the country by producing phenomena which could only be ascribed to diabolic agencies.

But in the first place it was necessary for the Baron de Gortz to be kept informed of what was passing in the nearest village. Was there any means of hearing what its people were talking about without their suspecting anything? Yes, if a telephone communication could be established between the castle and the large saloon of the “King Mathias,” where the notables of Werst were accustomed to meet every evening.

Orfanik managed this very skilfully and very secretly, and in the most simple manner. A copper wire covered with an insulating sheath had one end fastened on the first floor of the donjon and was then laid under the waters of the Nyad up to the village of Werst. This part of the work being accomplished, Orfanik, going himself out as a tourist, came to spend a night at the “King Mathias”, and there connect the wire with the inn saloon. It was easy for him to bring up the end from the bed of the torrent to the height of the back window, which was never opened. He then fixed a telephonic instrument, which was hidden by the thick foliage, and with that connected the cable. As the instrument was ingeniously adapted to emit as well as to receive sound, Baron de Gortz could hear all that was said at the “King Mathias,” and make himself heard whenever he chose.

During the first years the tranquillity of the castle was not troubled. The evil reputation it enjoyed was enough to keep the people of Werst away from it. But one day, that on which our story began, the purchase of the telescope led to the smoke being noticed escaping from the donjon chimney. From that moment interest was reawakened, and we know what happened.

It was then that the telephonic communication proved useful, for the baron and Orfanik could keep themselves posted up in what was passing in the village. It was by the wire that they knew that Nic Deck had undertaken to visit the castle, and by the wire the threatening voice entered the room to endeavour to keep him away. When the young forester persisted in his determination in spite of the menace, the baron resolved to give him such a lesson that he would have no desire to try it again. That night, Orfanik’s machinery, which was always in working order, produced a series of purely physical phenomena intended to carry terror throughout the district; the bell was rung in the old chapel, intense flames were shot forth mingled with sea-salt, giving a spectral appearance to everything; powerful sirens were worked from which the compressed air escaped in terrible groans; diagram outlines of monsters were projected on to the clouds by means of huge reflectors; iron plates were laid about the ditch in communication with electric batteries, and one of these plates caught the doctor by his iron-shod boots, while another had given the forester a shock at the moment he laid his hand on the drawbridge.

And so the baron thought that after the apparition of these prodigies, after the attempt of Nic Deck which had ended so badly, terror would reach its height in the district, and that neither for gold nor silver would any one approach even within two good miles of this Castle of the Carpathians, evidently haunted by supernatural beings.

Rodolphe de Gortz thought himself safe from all unwelcome curiosity when Franz de Telek arrived in the village of Werst.

All that passed between him and Jonas and Master Koltz and the others was immediately known to him along the wire in the Nyad. The baron’s hatred of the young count was rekindled by the memory of the events which had occurred at Naples. And not only was Franz de Telek in the village, a few miles from the castle, but there before the notables he was deriding their absurd superstitions, and demolishing that fantastic reputation which protected the Castle of the Carpathians; and he was even undertaking to warn the Karlsburg authorities, so that the police might come and scatter the legends to the winds!

And so the Baron de Gortz resolved to allure Franz de Telek to the castle, and we know by what means he had succeeded. The voice of La Stilla, sent into the inn saloon by means of the telephone, had led the young Count to turn aside from his road to visit the castle; the apparition of the singer on the platform of the bastion had given him an irresistible desire to enter; a light shown at one of the windows of the donjon had guided him to the gate, which was opened to let him in. In this crypt, lighted electrically, in which he had again heard that wonderful voice, and where food was brought him while he was in a lethargic sleep; in that crypt in the depths of the castle, the door of which was closed on him, Franz de Telek was in the power of the Baron de Gortz, and the Baron de Gortz intended he should never get out of it.

Such were the results obtained by this mysterious collaboration between Rodolphe de Gortz and his accomplice Orfanik. But to his extreme disgust, the baron knew that the alarm had been given by Rotzko, who not having followed his master into the castle, had warned the authorities at Karlsburg. A detachment of police had arrived at the village of Werst, and the Baron de Gortz would have a strong force to contend with. How could he and Orfanik defend themselves against a numerous party? The means employed against Nic Deck and Doctor Patak would not be enough, for the police do not believe in diabolic intervention. And so they had resolved to destroy the castle completely, and were only waiting for the moment to act. An electric current had been prepared for firing the charges of dynamite which had been buried in the donjon,- the bastions, and the old chapel, and the arrangement would allow of the baron and his accomplice having time to escape by the tunnel on to the Vulkan road. After the explosion, of which the count and a number of those who had scaled the castle wall would be the victims, the two would get so far away that no trace of them would be discoverable.

What he had just heard had given Franz the explanation of many things that had happened. He now knew that telephonic communication existed between the Castle of the Carpathians and the village of Werst. He also knew that the castle was about to be destroyed in an explosion which would cost him his life and be fatal to the police brought by Rotzko. He knew that the Baron de Gortz and Orfanik would have time to get away, dragging with them the unconscious La Stilla.

Ah! why could not Franz rush into the chapel and throw himself on these men? He would have knocked them down, he would have stopped their injuring any one, he would have prevented the catastrophe.

But what was impossible at the moment might not be so after the baron’s departure. When the two had left the chapel Franz would throw himself on their track, pursue them to the castle, and with God’s help would settle with them.

The baron and Orfanik were already in the apse. Franz had not lost sight of them. Which way were they going out? Was there a door opening on to the enclosure? or was there some corridor connecting the chapel with the donjon? for it seemed as though all the castle buildings were in communication with each other. It mattered little if the count did not meet with an obstacle he could not surmount.

At this moment a few words were interchanged between Baron de Gortz and Orfanik: —

“There is nothing more to do here?”

“Nothing.”

“Then we can leave each other.”

“You still intend that I should leave you alone in the castle?”

“Yes, Orfanik; and you get off at once by the tunnel on to the Vulkan road.”

“But you?”

“I shall not leave the castle until the last moment.”

“It is understood that I am to wait for you at Bistritz?”

“At Bistritz.”

“Remain here, Baron Rodolphe, and remain alone, if that is your wish.”

“Yes — for I wish to hear her — to hear her once again during this last night I shall pass in the Castle of the Carpathians.”

A few moments afterwards the Baron de Gortz and Orfanik had left the chapel.

Although La Stilla’s name had not been mentioned in this conversation, Franz understood; it was of her that Rodolphe de Gortz had just spoken.

CHAPTER XVI.

The catastrophe was imminent. Franz could only prevent it by rendering the baron incapable of executing his plan.

It was then eleven o’clock at night. With no further fear of being discovered, Franz resumed his work. The bricks were easily taken out of the wall, but its thickness was such that half an hour elapsed before the opening was large enough to admit him through.

As soon as he set foot in this chapel, open to all the winds that blew, he felt himself refreshed by the night air. Through the gaps in the roof and window-frames the sky could be seen, with the light clouds driving before the breeze. Here and there were a few stars, which were growing pale in the light of the moon now rising on the horizon.

Franz’s object was to find the door which opened at the end of the chapel, by which the Baron de Gortz and Orfanik had gone out; and, crossing the nave obliquely, he advanced towards the apse.

This was in the darkness where none of the moonlight penetrated, and his foot stumbled against the ruins of the tombs and the fragments fallen from the roof.

At last, at the very end of the apse, behind the reredos, in a dark corner Franz felt a mouldy door yield before his hand.

This door opened on a gallery which apparently traversed the outer wall.

By it the baron and Orfanik had entered the chapel, and by it they had just departed.

As soon as Franz was in the gallery, he again found himself in complete darkness. After winding about a good deal without either a rise or a fall, he was certain that he was now on a level with the interior courts.

Half an hour later the darkness did not seem to be so deep; a kind of half-light glided through several lateral openings in the gallery.

Franz was able to walk faster, and reached a large casemate contrived under the platform of the bastion which flanked the left angle of the outer wall.

This casemate was pierced with narrow loopholes, through which streamed the rays of the moon.

In the opposite wall was an open door.

Franz’s first care was to place himself at one of the joopholes so as to breathe the fresh night breeze for a few seconds.

But just as he was moving away he thought he saw two or three shadowy shapes moving at the lower end of the Orgall plateau, which was now full in the moonlight up to the sombre masses of the pine-forest Franz looked again.

A few men were moving about on the plateau just in front of the trees — doubtless the Karlsburg police brought by Rotzko. Had they, then, decided to attack that night in the hope of surprising the occupants of the castle, or were they waiting for daybreak?

It required considerable effort on Franz’s part not to shout and call Rotzko, who would have heard and recognized his voice. But the shout might reach the donjon, and before the police had scaled the wall Rodolphe de Gortz would have had time to put his device in action and escape by way of the tunnel.

Franz succeeded in restraining himself and moved away from the loophole. Crossing the casemate, he went out at the other door and continued along the gallery.

Five hundred yards farther on he arrived at the foot of a staircase which rose in the thickness of the walls.

Had he, then, at last arrived at the donjon, in the centre of the place of arms? It seemed so.

But this staircase might not be the principal one giving access to the different floors. It was composed of a series of circular steps, arranged like the thread of a screw, within a dark, narrow cage.

Franz went up quietly, listening but hearing nothing, and after twenty steps reached a landing.

There a door opened on to the terrace which surrounded the donjon at the height of the first floor.

Franz glided along this terrace, and, taking care to keep in shelter behind the parapet, looked out over the Orgall plateau.

Several men were still on the edge of the fir-wood, and there was no sign of their coming nearer the castle.

Resolved to meet the baron before he fled through the tunnel, Franz went round the terrace, and reached another door where the staircase resumed its upward course.

He put his foot on the first step, rested both his hands against the wall, and began to ascend.

All was silent.

The room on the first floor was not inhabited.

Franz hurried on up to the landings which gave access to the higher floors.

When he reached the third landing his foot found no further steps. There the staircase ended at the highest floor of the donjon, that which was crowned by the crenellated parapet from which formerly floated the standard of the Barons of Gortz.

In the wall to the left of the landing there was a door which was shut.

Through the keyhole filtered a ray of light.

Franz listened and heard no sound inside the apartment.

Looking through the keyhole he could see only the left side of the room, which was in a bright light, the rest being in darkness.

Franz gently opened the door.

A spacious apartment occupied the whole of this upper floor. On its circular walls rested a panelled roof, the ribs of which met in a heavy boss in the centre. Thick tapestry with figure subjects covered the walls. Some old furniture, cupboards, sideboards, armchairs, and stools, were scattered about in artistic disorder. At the windows hung thick curtains which prevented any of the light within from shining without. On the floor was a thick woollen carpet on which no footstep made a sound.

The arrangement of the room was at least peculiar, and as he entered it Franz was struck with the contrast between its light and dark portions.

To the right of the door its end was invisible in the deep gloom.

To the left, on the contrary, was a sort of platform, the black draping of which received a powerful light, due to some apparatus of concentration so placed in front of it as to be unseen.

About twelve feet from this platform, from which it was separated by a screen about breast-high, was an ancient, long-backed armchair, which the screen kept in a half-light.

Near the chair was a little table with a cloth on it, and on this was a rectangular box.

This box was about twelve or fifteen inches long and five or six wide, and the cover, encrusted with jewels, was raised, showing that it contained a metallic cylinder.

As he entered the room Franz saw that the armchair was occupied.

Its occupant did not move, but sat with his head leant against the back of the chair, his eyes closed, his right arm extended on the table, his hand resting against the box.

It was Rodolphe de Gortz.

Was it to abandon himself to sleep for a few hours that the baron desired to pass this last night on the upper floor of the donjon?

No; that could not be after what Franz had heard him say to Orfanik.

The Baron de Gortz was alone in this room, and, conformably to the orders he had received, there could be no doubt that Orfanik had already escaped along the tunnel.

And La Stilla? Had not Rodolphe de Gortz said that he would hear her for a last time in this Castle of the Carpathians before it was destroyed by the explosion? And for what other reason would he have come back to this room, where doubtless she came each evening to fascinate him with her song?

Where, then, was La Stilla?

Franz saw her not, heard her not.

After all, what did it matter, now that Rodolphe de Gortz was at his mercy? Franz restrained himself from speaking. But in his present state of excitement, would he not throw himself on this man he hated as he was hated, this man who had carried off La Stilla — La Stilla living and mad — mad for him? Would he not kill him?

Franz stole up stealthily to the armchair. He had but to make a step to seize the baron, and he had already raised his hand —

Suddenly La Stilla appeared.

Franz let his knife fall on the .carpet.

La Stilla was standing on the platform in the full blaze of the light, her hair undone, her arms stretched out, supremely lovely in the white costume of Angelica in “Orlando,” just as she had appeared on the bastion of the castle. Her eyes, fixed on the young count, gazed to the very depths of his soul.

It was impossible that Franz could not be seen by her, and yet she made no gesture to call him to her, she opened not her lips to speak to him. Alas! she was mad.

Franz was about to rush on to the stage, to seize her in his arms, to carry her off.

La Stilla had begun to sing. Without stirring from his chair, Baron de Gortz had leant forward to listen. In the paroxysm of ecstasy, the dilettante breathed her voice as if it were a perfume. Such as he had been at the performances in the theatres of Italy, so was he now in this room, in infinite solitude, at the summit of this donjon which towered over Transylvania!

Yes, La Stilla sang! She sang for him — only for him! It was as though a breath exhaled from her lips, which seemed to remain without a movement But if reason had left her, at least her artist soul remained in its plenitude.

Franz also stood intoxicated with the charm of this voice he had not heard for five long years. He was absorbed in the ardent contemplation of this woman he had thought he should never see again, and who was there, alive, as if some miracle had resuscitated her before his eyes!

And the song she sang, was it not one of those which.

would ever make his heart-strings vibrate? Yes! It was the finale of the tragic scene in “Orlando,” the finale in which the singer’s heart breaks in the final phrase, —

“Inamorata, mio cuore tremante Voglio morire.”

This ineffable phrase. Franz followed note by note And he said to himself that it would not be interrupted as it had been at the San Carlo Theatre! No! It would not die between La Stilla’s lips as it had done at her farewell.

Franz hardly breathed. His whole life was bound up in the music.

A few measures more and it would end in all its incomparable purity.

But the voice began to fail. It seemed as though La Stilla hesitated as she repeated the words of poignant grief, —

“Voglio morire.”

Would she fall on this stage as she had done on the other?

She did not fall, but her song fell silent on the very same note it had done at San Carlo. She uttered a cry, and it was the same cry Franz had heard on that night.

And yet La Stilla still stood there, with her adored look, the look that awoke all the deepest feelings of the young man’s heart.

Franz leapt towards her. He would carry her away from this room, away from this castle.

And he found himself face to face with the baron, who had just risen.

“Franz de Telek!” exclaimed Rodolphe de Gortz. “Franz de Telek, escaped — “

But Franz did not answer, and, running towards the stage, he cried, —

“Stilla, my dear Stilla! Here I find you — alive!”

“Alive! La Stilla alive!” exclaimed Baron de Gortz.

And the ironical phrase ended in a shout of laughter in which was apparent all the fury of revenge.

“Alive!” continued Rodolphe de Gortz. “Well, then, Franz de Telek, try and take her away from me!”

Franz stretched out his arms to her, whose eyes were ardently fixed on his.

At the same instant Rodolphe stooped, picked up the knife that Franz had let fall, and rushed at the motionless figure.

Franz threw himself on him to turn away the blow with which she was threatened.

He was too late, and the knife struck her to the heart.

And as the blow was given there was a crash of breaking glass, and with the fragments which flew to all parts of the room, La Stilla vanished.

Franz remained as if lifeless. He could not understand. Had he also gone mad?

And then Rodolphe de Gortz cried, —

“La Stilla again escapes, Franz de Telek! But her voice — her voice remains to me! Her voice is mine, mine alone, and will never belong to another.”

Franz would have thrown himself on the baron, but his strength failed him, and he fell unconscious at the foot of the stage.

Rodolphe de Gortz did not even notice the young count. He took the box from the table, he rushed from the room down to the first terrace of the donjon, and was running round it to gain the other door when there was the report of a gun.

It was Rotzko who, from the slope of the counterscarp, had just shot at the Baron de Gortz.

The baron was unhurt, but the bullet shattered the box he held in his arms.

He uttered a terrible cry.

“Her voice — her voice!” he repeated. “Her soul — La Stilla’s soul — it is ruined — ruined — ruined!”

And then with his hair bristling and his hands clenched, he was seen to run along the terrace, shouting, —

“Her voice — her voice! They have taken away from me her voice! Curse them!”

And he disappeared through the door at the moment Rotzko and Nic Deck were, without waiting for the police, striving to scale the wall.

Almost immediately a tremendous explosion shook the whole extent of Plesa. Sheaves of flame sprang to the clouds, and an avalanche of stones fell on the Vulkan road.

Bastions, curtain, donjon, chapel, were nothing but a pile of ruins scattered over the Orgall plateau.

CHAPTER XVII.

IT will not have been forgotten that according to the conversation between the baron and Orfanik, the explosion should only have destroyed the castle after the departure of Rodolphe de Gortz. But at the time the explosion took place it was impossible for the baron to have had time to escape through the tunnel. In the transport of grief, in the folly of despair, unconscious of what he did, had then Rodolphe de Gortz brought on an immediate catastrophe of which he could but be the first victim? After the incomprehensible words which had escaped him when Rotzko’s bullet had broken the box he carried, had he intended to bury himself beneath the ruins of the castle?

In any case it was very fortunate that the police, surprised by Rotzko’s shot, were at a considerable distance when the explosion shook the ground. Only a few of them were struck by the fragments which fell over the plateau. Rotzko and the forester were alone at the base of the curtain, and it was indeed a miracle that they were not killed by the shower of stones.

The explosion had done its work when Rotzko, Nic Deck, and the police entered the enclosure over the ditch, which had been nearly filled up by the fall of the walls.

Fifty yards within the wall, at the base of the donjon, a body was found among the ruins.

It was that of Rodolphe de Gortz. A few old people of the district — among others Master Koltz — recognized him perfectly.

Rotzko and Nic Deck sought only to discover the young count. As Franz had not appeared in the time arranged with his man, it followed that he had been unable to escape from the castle.

But could Rotzko hope that he had survived, that he was not one of the victims of the catastrophe? And so he cried, and Nic Deck did not know what to do to soothe him.

However, in about half an hour the young count was found on the first floor of the donjon, beneath one of the buttresses, which had saved him from being crushed.

“My master — my poor master!”

“Count — “

Such were the first words uttered by Rotzko and Nic Deck as they bent over Franz. They believed him dead; he had only fainted.

Franz opened his eyes, but his wandering look did not seem to recognize Rotzko, nor did he hear him.

Nic Deck, who had raised the young count in his arms, spoke to him again, but he made no reply.

The last words of La Stilla’s song alone escaped from his lips, —

“Inamorata — voglio morire.”

Franz de Telek was mad!

CHAPTER XVIII.

As the young count had gone mad, no one would probably have ever heard an explanation of the events of which the Castle of the Carpathians had been the theatre, if it had not been for the revelations which came about in this manner: —

For four days Orfanik had waited as agreed for the baron to meet him at the town of Bistritz. But as he did not appear, he began to wonder if he had perished in the explosion. Urged as much by curiosity as anxiety, he had left the town, gone back towards Werst, and was prowling about the ruins of the castle, when he was arrested by the police, who knew him from the description given by Rotzko.

Once in the chief town of the district, in the presence of the magistrates before whom he had been taken, Orfanik made no difficulty about replying to the questions put to him in the course of the inquiry ordered into the circumstances of this catastrophe.

But it must be confessed that the sad end of the Baron de Gortz seemed in no way to affect this learned egotist and maniac, whose heart was entirely in his inventions.

In the first place, on the urgent demand of Rotzko, Orfanik stated that La Stilla was dead, really dead and — such was his expression — buried, and well buried, for more than five years in the cemetery of Santo Nuovo Campo at Naples.

This statement was not ‘the least astonishing of those provoked by this curious adventure.

If La Stilla were dead, how came it that Franz could hear her voice in the saloon of the inn, see her on the bastion, and listen to her song when he was in the crypt? And how could he have found her alive in the donjon?

The explanation of this apparently inexplicable phenomena was as follows: —

It will be remembered how deep was the baron’s despair when the rumour spread that La Stilla had resolved to retire from the stage and become Countess of Telek. The artiste’s admirable talent and all his dilettante gratifications would thus escape him. Then it was that Orfanik suggested that by means of the phonograph he should collect the principal airs from the operas she would appear in during her farewell performances at San Carlo. This instrument had reached a high state of perfection at this period, and Orfanik had so improved it that the human voice underwent no change, and lost none of its charm or purity.

The baron accepted Orfanik’s offer. Phonographs were successively and secretly introduced into the private box at the theatre during the last weeks of the season; and in this way their cylinders received the cavatinas and romances from the operas and concerts, including the melody from “San Stefano,” and the final air from “Orlando,” which was interrupted by La Stilla’s death.

These were the circumstances under which the baron had shut himself up in the Castle of the Carpathians, and there, each night, he listened to the music given out by the phonograph. And not only did he hear La Stilla as if he were in his box, but — and that would appear absolutely incomprehensible — he saw her as if she were alive, before his eyes.

It was a simple optical illusion.

It will be remembered that Baron de Gortz had obtained a magnificent portrait of the singer. This portrait represented her in the white costume of Angelica in “Orlando,” her magnificent hair in disorder, her arms extended. By means of glasses inclined at a certain angle calculated by Orfanik, when a light was thrown on the portrait placed in front of a glass, La Stilla appeared by reflection as real as if she were alive, and in all the splendour of her beauty. It was by means of this apparatus, taken for the night to the bastion platform, that Rodolphe de Gortz had made her appear when he wished to lure Franz de Telek’s into the castle; and by its means the young count had seen her in the room of the donjon, while her fanatic admirer was in full enjoyment of the voice reproduced by the phonograph.

Such very briefly were the explanations given in much detail, by Orfanik during his examination. And it was with infinite pride that he declared himself the author of these ingenious inventions, which he had brought to the highest pitch of perfection.

But if Orfanik had explained these phenomena, he did not explain why it was that the Baron de Gortz had not had time to escape by the tunnel on to the Vulkan road. When, however, he heard that a bullet had shattered the object Rodolphe de Gortz bore in his hands, he understood how it had happened. This box was the phonographic apparatus containing La Stilla’s last song, that which the baron had wished to hear for the last time in the donjon before destroying it. With its destruction his life was destroyed, and, mad with despair, he had resolved to bury himself under the ruins of his castle.

Baron Rodolphe was buried in the graveyard at Werst with the honours due to the ancient family that ended with him.

The young Count Franz de Telek was taken by Rotzko to the Castle of Krajowa, and there he devoted himself entirely to watching over his master. Orfanik had willingly handed over the phonographs containing the other songs of La Stilla, and when Franz heard the voice of the great artiste, he seemed to listen to them and recover a little of his old intelligence, and it seemed as though his mind were struggling to revive in the memories of the unforgettable past.

In fact, a few months later he recovered his reason, and through him became known what had passed during the last night in the Castle of the Carpathians.

The marriage of the charming Miriota and Nic Deck took place during the week following the catastrophe. After receiving the benediction from the pope of the village of Vulkan, they returned to Werst, where Master Koltz had reserved for them the best room in his house.

But although these different phenomena have been explained in so natural a manner, it must not be imagined that Miriota ceased to believe in their supernatural nature. Nic Deck found reasoning in vain — so did Jonas, who had as many customers as ever at the “King Mathias ” — she would not be convinced. And neither would Master Koltz, nor the shepherd Frik, nor Magister Hermod, nor the other inhabitants of Werst; and many years will elapse before they will renounce their superstitious beliefs.

Doctor Patak, who has resumed his customary swagger, is often heard to say, —

“Well, did I not tell you so? Spirits in the castle! Just as if there ever were any spirits!”

But no one listens to him, and he is invariably asked to be silent when his facetiousness exceeds due bounds.

And Magister Hermod continues to base the lessons he gives to the young folk of Werst on the study of the Transylvanian legends; and for many years yet the villagers will believe that spirits from the other world haunt the ruins of the Castle of the Carpathians.

THE END

CLAUDIUS BOMBARNAC

Anonymous translation, 1894

This 1893 adventure novel concerns Claudius Bombarnac, a reporter, who is assigned by the Twentieth Century to cover the travels of the Grand Transasiatic Railway which runs between Uzun Ada, Turkestan and Peking, China. Accompanying him on this journey is an interesting collection of characters, including one who is trying to beat the round the world record and another who is a stowaway.

An original illustration

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHAPTER XX.

CHAPTER XXI.

CHAPTER XXII.

CHAPTER XXIII.

CHAPTER XXIV.

CHAPTER XXV.

CHAPTER XXVI.

CHAPTER XXVII.

CHAPTER I.

CLAUDIUS BOMBARNAC,

Special Correspondent,

“Twentieth Century.”

Tiflis, Transcaucasia.

Such is the address of the telegram I found on the 13th of May when I arrived at Tiflis.

This is what the telegram said:

“As the matters in hand will terminate on the 15th instant Claudius Bombarnac will repair to Uzun Ada, a port on the east coast of the Caspian. There he will take the train by the direct Grand Transasiatic between the European frontier and the capital of the Celestial Empire. He will transmit his impressions in the way of news, interviewing remarkable people on the road, and report the most trivial incidents by letter or telegram as necessity dictates. The Twentieth Century trusts to the zeal, intelligence, activity and tact of its correspondent, who can draw on its bankers to any extent he may deem necessary.”

It was the very morning I had arrived at Tiflis with the intention of spending three weeks there in a visit to the Georgian provinces for the benefit of my newspaper, and also, I hoped, for that of its readers.

Here was the unexpected, indeed; the uncertainty of a special correspondent’s life.

At this time the Russian railways had been connected with the line between Poti, Tiflis and Baku. After a long and increasing run through the Southern Russian provinces I had crossed the Caucasus, and imagined I was to have a little rest in the capital of Transcaucasia. And here was the imperious administration of the Twentieth Century giving me only half a day’s halt in this town! I had hardly arrived before I was obliged to be off again without unstrapping my portmanteau! But what would you have? We must bow to the exigencies of special correspondence and the modern interview!

But all the same I had been carefully studying this Transcaucasian district, and was well provided with geographic and ethnologic memoranda. Perhaps it may be as well for you to know that the fur cap, in the shape of a turban, which forms the headgear of the mountaineers and cossacks is called a “papakha,” that the overcoat gathered in at the waist, over which the cartridge belt is hung, is called a “tcherkeska” by some and “bechmet” by others! Be prepared to assert that the Georgians and Armenians wear a sugar-loaf hat, that the merchants wear a “touloupa,” a sort of sheepskin cape, that the Kurd and Parsee still wear the “bourka,” a cloak in a material something like plush which is always waterproofed.

And of the headgear of the Georgian ladies, the “tassakravi,” composed of a light ribbon, a woolen veil, or piece of muslin round such lovely faces; and their gowns of startling colors, with the wide open sleeves, their under skirts fitted to the figure, their winter cloak of velvet, trimmed with fur and silver gimp, their summer mantle of white cotton, the “tchadre,” which they tie tight on the neck — all those fashions in fact so carefully entered in my notebook, what shall I say of them?

Learn, then, that their national orchestras are composed of “zournas,” which are shrill flutes; “salamouris,” which are squeaky clarinets; mandolines, with copper strings, twanged with a feather; “tchianouris,” violins, which are played upright; “dimplipitos,” a kind of cymbals which rattle like hail on a window pane.

Know that the “schaska” is a sword hung from a bandolier trimmed with studs and silver embroidery, that the “kindjall” or “kandijar” is a dagger worn in the belt, that the armament of the soldiers of the Caucasus is completed by a long Damascus gun ornamented with bands of chiseled metal.

Know that the “tarantass” is a sort of berline hung on five pieces of rather elastic wood between wheels placed rather wide apart and of moderate height; that this carriage is driven by a “yemtchik,” on the front seat, who has three horses, to whom is added a postilion, the “faletre,” when it is necessary to hire a fourth horse from the “smatritel,” who is the postmaster on the Caucasian roads.

Know, then, that the verst is two-thirds of a mile, that the different nomadic people of the governments of Transcaucasia are composed of Kalmucks, descendants of the Eleuthes, fifteen thousand, Kirghizes of Mussulman origin eight thousand, Koundrof Tartars eleven hundred, Sartof Tartars a hundred and twelve, Nogais eight thousand five hundred, Turkomans nearly four thousand.

And thus, after having so minutely absorbed my Georgia, here was this ukase obliging me to abandon it! And I should not even have time to visit Mount Ararat or publish my impressions of a journey in Transcaucasia, losing a thousand lines of copy at the least, and for which I had at my disposal the 32,000 words of my language actually recognized by the French Academy.

It was hard, but there was no way out of it. And to begin with, at what o’clock did the train for Tiflis start from the Caspian?

The station at Tiflis is the junction of three lines of railway: the western line ending at Poti on the Black Sea, where the passengers land coming from Europe, the eastern line which ends at Baku, where the passengers embark to cross the Caspian, and the line which the Russians have just made for a length of about a hundred miles between Ciscaucasia and Transcaucasia, from Vladikarkaz to Tiflis, crossing the Arkhot range at a height of four thousand five hundred feet, and which connects the Georgian capital with the railways of Southern Russia.

I went to the railway station at a run, and rushed into the departure office.

“When is there a train for Baku?” I asked.

“You are going to Baku?” answered the clerk.

And from his trap-door he gave me one of those looks more military than civil, which are invariably found under the peak of a Muscovite cap.

“I think so,” said I, perhaps a little sharply, “that is, if it is not forbidden to go to Baku.”

“No,” he replied, dryly, “that is, if you are provided with a proper passport.”

“I will have a proper passport,” I replied to this ferocious functionary, who, like all the others in Holy Russia, seemed to me an intensified gendarme.

Then I again asked what time the train left for Baku.

“Six o’clock to-night.”

“And when does it get there?”

“Seven o’clock in the morning.”

“Is that in time to catch the boat for Uzun Ada?”

“In time.”

And the man at the trap-door replied to my salute by a salute of mechanical precision.

The question of passport did not trouble me. The French consul would know how to give me all the references required by the Russian administration.

Six o’clock to-night, and it is already nine o’clock in the morning! Bah! When certain guide books tell you how to explore Paris in two days, Rome in three days, and London in four days, it would be rather curious if I could not do Tiflis in a half day. Either one is a correspondent or one is not!

It goes without saying that my newspaper would not have sent me to Russia, if I could not speak fluently in Russian, English and German. To require a newspaper man to know the few thousand languages which are used to express thought in the five parts of the world would be too much; but with the three languages above named, and French added, one can go far across the two continents. It is true, there is Turkish of which I had picked up a few phrases, and there is Chinese of which I did not understand a single word. But I had no fear of remaining dumb in Turkestan and the Celestial Empire. There would be interpreters on the road, and I did not expect to lose a detail of my run on the Grand Transasiatic. I knew how to see, and see I would. Why should I hide it from myself? I am one of those who think that everything here below can serve as copy for a newspaper man; that the earth, the moon, the sky, the universe were only made as fitting subjects for newspaper articles, and that my pen was in no fear of a holiday on the road.

Before starting off round Tiflis let us have done with this passport business. Fortunately I had no need for a “poderojnaia,” which was formerly indispensable to whoever traveled in Russia. That was in the time of the couriers, of the post horses, and thanks to its powers that official exeat cleared away all difficulties, assured the most rapid relays, the most amiable civilities from the postilions, the greatest rapidity of transport, and that to such a pitch that a well-recommended traveler could traverse in eight days five hours the two thousand seven hundred versts which separate Tiflis from Petersburg. But what difficulties there were in procuring that passport!

A mere permission to move about would do for to-day, a certificate attesting in a certain way that you are not a murderer or even a political criminal, that you are what is called an honest man, in a civilized country. Thanks to the assistance I received from our consul at Tiflis, I was soon all in due order with the Muscovite authorities.

It was an affair of two hours and two roubles. I then devoted myself entirely, eyes, ears, legs, to the exploration of the Georgian capital, without taking a guide, for guides are a horror to me. It is true that I should have been capable of guiding no matter what stranger, through the mazes of this capital which I had so carefully studied beforehand. That is a natural gift.

Here is what I recognized as I wandered about haphazard: first, there was the “douma,” which is the town hall, where the “golova,” or mayor, resides; if you had done me the honor to accompany me, I would have taken you to the promenade of Krasnoia-Gora on the left bank of the Koura, the Champs Elysees of the place, something like the Tivoli of Copenhagen, or the fair of the Belleville boulevard with its “Katchelis,” delightful seesaws, the artfully managed undulations of which will make you seasick. And everywhere amid the confusion of market booths, the women in holiday costume, moving about with faces uncovered, both Georgians and Armenians, thereby showing that they are Christians.

As to the men, they are Apollos of the Belvedere, not so simply clothed, having the air of princes, and I should like to know if they are not so. Are they not descended from them? But I will genealogize later on. Let us continue our exploration at full stride. A minute lost is ten lines of correspondence, and ten lines of correspondence is — that depends on the generosity of the newspaper and its managers.

Quick to the grand caravanserai. There you will find the caravans from all points of the Asiatic continent. Here is one just coming in, composed of Armenian merchants. There is one going out, formed of traders in Persia and Russian Turkestan. I should like to arrive with one and depart with the other. That is not possible, and I am sorry for it. Since the establishment of the Transasiatic railways, it is not often that you can meet with those interminable and picturesque lines of horsemen, pedestrians, horses, camels, asses, carts. Bah! I have no fear that my journey across Central Asia will fail for want of interest. A special correspondent of the Twentieth Century will know how to make it interesting.

Here now are the bazaars with the thousand products of Persia, China, Turkey, Siberia, Mongolia. There is a profusion of the fabrics of Teheran, Shiraz, Kandahar, Kabul, carpets marvelous in weaving and colors, silks, which are not worth as much as those of Lyons.

Will I buy any? No; to embarrass oneself with packages on a trip from the Caspian to the Celestial Empire, never! The little portmanteau I can carry in my hand, the bag slung across my shoulders, and a traveling suit will be enough for me. Linen? I will get it on the road, in English fashion.

Let us stop in front of the famous baths of Tiflis, the thermal waters of which attain a temperature of 60 degrees centigrade. There you will find in use the highest development of massage, the suppling of the spine, the cracking of the joints. I remember what was said by our great Dumas whose peregrinations were never devoid of incidents; he invented them when he wanted them, that genial precursor of high-pressure correspondence! But I have no time to be shampooed, or to be cracked or suppled.

Stop! The Hotel de France. Where is there not a Hotel de France? I enter, I order breakfast — a Georgian breakfast watered with a certain Kachelie wine, which is said to never make you drunk, that is, if you do not sniff up as much as you drink in using the large-necked bottles into which you dip your nose before your lips. At least that is the proceeding dear to the natives of Transcaucasia. As to the Russians, who are generally sober, the infusion of tea is enough for them, not without a certain addition of vodka, which is the Muscovite brandy.

I, a Frenchman, and even a Gascon, am content to drink my bottle of Kachelie, as we drank our Chateau Laffite, in those regretted days, when the sun still distilled it on the hillsides of Pauillac. In truth this Caucasian wine, although rather sour, accompanied by the boiled fowl, known as pilau — has rather a pleasant taste about it.

It is over and paid for. Let us mingle with the sixteen thousand inhabitants of the Georgian capital. Let us lose ourselves in the labyrinth of its streets, among its cosmopolitan population. Many Jews who button their coats from left to right, as they write — the contrary way to the other Aryan peoples. Perhaps the sons of Israel are not masters in this country, as in so many others? That is so, undoubtedly; a local proverb says it takes six Jews to outwit an Armenian, and Armenians are plentiful in these Transcaucasian provinces.

I reach a sandy square, where camels, with their heads out straight, and their feet bent under in front, are sitting in hundreds. They used to be here in thousands, but since the opening of the Transcaspian railway some years ago now, the number of these humped beasts of burden has sensibly diminished. Just compare one of these beasts with a goods truck or a luggage van!

Following the slope of the streets, I come out on the quays by the Koura, the bed of which divides the town into two unequal parts. On each side rise the houses, one above the other, each one looking over the roof of its neighbors. In the neighborhood of the river there is a good deal of trade. There you will find much moving about of vendors of wine, with their goatskins bellying out like balloons, and vendors of water with their buffalo skins, fitted with pipes looking like elephants’ trunks.

Here am I wandering at a venture; but to wander is human, says the collegians of Bordeaux, as they muse on the quays of the Gironde.

“Sir,” says a good little Jew to me, showing me a certain habitation which seems a very ordinary one, “you are a stranger?”

“Quite.”

“Then do not pass this house without stopping a moment to admire it.”

“And why?”

“There lived the famous tenor Satar, who sang the contre-fa from his chest. And they paid him for it!”

I told the worthy patriarch that I hoped he would be able to sing a contre-sol even better paid for; and I went up the hill to the right of the Koura, so as to have a view of the whole town.

At the top of the hill, on a little open space where a reciter is declaiming with vigorous gestures the verses of Saadi, the adorable Persian poet, I abandon myself to the contemplation of the Transcaucasian capital. What I am doing here, I propose to do again in a fortnight at Pekin. But the pagodas and yamens of the Celestial Empire can wait awhile, here is Tiflis before my eyes; walls of the citadels, belfries of the temples belonging to the different religions, a metropolitan church with its double cross, houses of Russian, Persian, or Armenian construction; a few roofs, but many terraces; a few ornamental frontages, but many balconies and verandas; then two well-marked zones, the lower zone remaining Georgian, the higher zone, more modern, traversed by a long boulevard planted with fine trees, among which is seen the palace of Prince Bariatinsky, a capricious, unexpected marvel of irregularity, which the horizon borders with its grand frontier of mountains.

It is now five o’clock. I have no time to deliver myself in a remunerative torrent of descriptive phrases. Let us hurry off to the railway station.

There is a crowd of Armenians, Georgians, Mingrelians, Tartars, Kurds, Israelites, Russians, from the shores of the Caspian, some taking their tickets — Oh! the Oriental color — direct for Baku, some for intermediate stations.

This time I was completely in order. Neither the clerk with the gendarme’s face, nor the gendarmes themselves could hinder my departure.

I take a ticket for Baku, first class. I go down on the platform to the carriages. According to my custom, I install myself in a comfortable corner. A few travelers follow me while the cosmopolitan populace invade the second and third-class carriages. The doors are shut after the visit of the ticket inspector. A last scream of the whistle announces that the train is about to start.

Suddenly there is a shout — a shout in which anger is mingled with despair, and I catch these words in German:

“Stop! Stop!”

I put down the window and look out.

A fat man, bag in hand, traveling cap on head, his legs embarrassed in the skirts of a huge overcoat, short and breathless. He is late.

The porters try to stop him. Try to stop a bomb in the middle of its trajectory! Once again has right to give place to might.

The Teuton bomb describes a well-calculated curve, and has just fallen into the compartment next to ours, through the door a traveler had obligingly left open.

The train begins to move at the same instant, the engine wheels begin to slip on the rails, then the speed increases.

We are off.

CHAPTER II.

We were three minutes late in starting; it is well to be precise. A special correspondent who is not precise is a geometer who neglects to run out his calculations to the tenth decimal. This delay of three minutes made the German our traveling companion. I have an idea that this good man will furnish me with some copy, but it is only a presentiment.

It is still daylight at six o’clock in the evening in this latitude. I have bought a timetable and I consult it. The map which accompanies it shows me station by station the course of the line between Tiflis and Baku. Not to know the direction taken by the engine, to be ignorant if the train is going northeast or southeast, would be insupportable to me, all the more as when night comes, I shall see nothing, for I cannot see in the dark as if I were an owl or a cat.

My timetable shows me that the railway skirts for a little distance the carriage road between Tiflis and the Caspian, running through Saganlong, Poily, Elisabethpol, Karascal, Aliat, to Baku, along the valley of the Koura. We cannot tolerate a railway which winds about; it must keep to a straight line as much as possible. And that is what the Transgeorgian does.

Among the stations there is one I would have gladly stopped at if I had had time, Elisabethpol. Before I received the telegram from the Twentieth Century, I had intended to stay there a week. I had read such attractive descriptions of it, and I had but a five minutes’ stop there, and that between two and three o’clock in the morning! Instead of a town resplendent in the rays of the sun, I could only obtain a view of a vague mass confusedly discoverable in the pale beams of the moon!

Having ended my careful examination of the timetable, I began to examine my traveling companions. There were four of us, and I need scarcely say that we occupied the four corners of the compartment. I had taken the farthest corner facing the engine. At the two opposite angles two travelers were seated facing each other. As soon as they got in they had pulled their caps down on their eyes and wrapped themselves up in their cloaks — evidently they were Georgians as far as I could see. But they belonged to that special and privileged race who sleep on the railway, and they did not wake up until we reached Baku. There was nothing to be got out of those people; the carriage is not a carriage for them, it is a bed.

In front of me was quite a different type with nothing of the Oriental about it; thirty-two to thirty-five years old, face with a reddish beard, very much alive in look, nose like that of a dog standing at point, mouth only too glad to talk, hands free and easy, ready for a shake with anybody; a tall, vigorous, broad-shouldered, powerful man. By the way in which he settled himself and put down his bag, and unrolled his traveling rug of bright-hued tartan, I had recognized the Anglo-Saxon traveler, more accustomed to long journeys by land and sea than to the comforts of his home, if he had a home. He looked like a commercial traveler. I noticed that his jewelry was in profusion; rings on his fingers, pin in his scarf, studs on his cuffs, with photographic views in them, showy trinkets hanging from the watch-chain across his waistcoat. Although he had no earrings and did not wear a ring at his nose I should not have been surprised if he turned out to be an American — probably a Yankee.

That is my business. To find out who are my traveling companions, whence they come, where they go, is that not the duty of a special correspondent in search of interviews? I will begin with my neighbor in front of me. That will not be difficult, I imagine. He is not dreaming or sleeping, or looking out on the landscape lighted by the last rays of the sun. If I am not mistaken he will be just as glad to speak to me as I am to speak to him — and reciprocally.

I will see. But a fear restrains me. Suppose this American — and I am sure he is one — should also be a special, perhaps for the World or the New York Herald, and suppose he has also been ordered off to do this Grand Asiatic. That would be most annoying! He would be a rival!

My hesitation is prolonged. Shall I speak, shall I not speak? Already night has begun to fall. At last I was about to open my mouth when my companion prevented me.

“You are a Frenchman?” he said in my native tongue.

“Yes, sir,” I replied in his.

Evidently we could understand each other.

The ice was broken, and then question followed on question rather rapidly between us. You know the Oriental proverb: “A fool asks more questions in an hour than a wise man in a year.”

But as neither my companion nor myself had any pretensions to wisdom we asked away merrily.

“Wait a bit,” said my American.

I italicize this phrase because it will recur frequently, like the pull of the rope which gives the impetus to the swing.

“Wait a bit! I’ll lay ten to one that you are a reporter!”

“And you would win! Yes. I am a reporter sent by the Twentieth Century to do this journey.”

“Going all the way to Pekin?”

“To Pekin.”

“So am I,” replied the Yankee.

And that was what I was afraid of.

“Same trade?” said I indifferently.

“No. You need not excite yourself. We don’t sell the same stuff, sir.”

“Claudius Bombarnac, of Bordeaux, is delighted to be on the same road as — “

“Fulk Ephrinell, of the firm of Strong, Bulbul & Co. of New York City, New York, U.S.A.”

And he really added U.S.A.

We were mutually introduced. I a traveler in news, and he a traveler in — In what? That I had to find out.

The conversation continues. Ephrinell, as may be supposed, has been everywhere — and even farther, as he observes. He knows both Americas and almost all Europe. But this is the first time he has set foot in Asia. He talks and talks, and always jerks in Wait a bit, with inexhaustible loquacity. Has the Hunson the same properties as the Garonne?

I listen to him for two hours. I have hardly heard the names of the stations yelled out at each stop, Saganlong, Poily, and the others. And I really should have liked to examine the landscape in the soft light of the moon, and made a few notes on the road.

Fortunately my fellow traveler had already crossed these eastern parts of Georgia. He pointed out the spots of interest, the villages, the watercourses, the mountains on the horizon. But I hardly saw them. Confound these railways! You start, you arrive, and you have seen nothing on the road!

“No!” I exclaim, “there is none of the charm about it as there is in traveling by post, in troika, tarantass, with the surprises of the road, the originality of the inns, the confusion when you change horses, the glass of vodka of the yemtchiks — and occasionally the meeting with those honest brigands whose race is nearly extinct.”

“Mr. Bombarnac,” said Ephrinell to me, “are you serious in regretting all those fine things?”

“Quite serious,” I reply. “With the advantages of the straight line of railway we lose the picturesqueness of the curved line, or the broken line of the highways of the past. And, Monsieur Ephrinell, when you read of traveling in Transcaucasia forty years ago, do you not regret it? Shall I see one of those villages inhabited by Cossacks who are soldiers and farmers at one and the same time? Shall I be present at one of those merry-makings which charm the tourist? those djiquitovkas with the men upright on their horses, throwing their swords, discharging their pistols, and escorting you if you are in the company of some high functionary, or a colonel of the Staniza.”

“Undoubtedly we have lost all those fine things,” replies my Yankee. “But, thanks to these iron ribbons which will eventually encircle our globe like a hogshead of cider or a bale of cotton, we can go in thirteen days from Tiflis to Pekin. That is why, if you expect any incidents, to enliven you — “

“Certainly, Monsieur Ephrinell.”

“Illusions, Mr. Bombarnac! Nothing will happen either to you or me. Wait a bit, I promise you a journey, the most prosaic, the most homely, the flattest — flat as the steppes of Kara Koum, which the Grand Transasiatic traverses in Turkestan, and the plains of the desert of Gobi it crosses in China — “

“Well, we shall see, for I travel for the pleasure of my readers.”

“And I travel merely for my own business.”

And at this reply the idea recurred to me that Ephrinell would not be quite the traveling companion I had dreamed of. He had goods to sell, I had none to buy. I foresaw that our meeting would not lead to a sufficient intimacy during our long journey. He was one of those Yankees who, as they say, hold a dollar between their teeth, which it is impossible to get away from them, and I should get nothing out of him that was worth having.

And although I knew that he traveled for Strong, Bulbul & Co. of New York, I had never heard of the firm. To listen to their representative, it would appear that Strong, Bulbul & Co. ought to be known throughout the world.

But then, how was it that they were unknown to me, a pupil of Chincholle, our master in everything! I was quite at a loss because I had never heard of the firm of Strong, Bulbul & Co.

I was about to interrogate Ephrinell on this point, when he said to me: “Have you ever been in the United States, Mr. Bombarnac?”

“No, Monsieur Ephrinell.”

“You will come to our country some day?”

“Perhaps.”

“Then you will not forget to explore the establishment of Strong, Bulbul & Co.?”

“Explore it?”

“That is the proper word.”

“Good! I shall not fail to do so.”

“You will see one of the most remarkable industrial establishments of the New Continent.”

“I have no doubt of it; but how am I to know it?”

“Wait a bit, Mr. Bombarnac. Imagine a colossal workshop, immense buildings for the mounting and adjusting of the pieces, a steam engine of fifteen hundred horse-power, ventilators making six hundred revolutions a minute, boilers consuming a hundred tons of coals a day, a chimney stack four hundred and fifty feet high, vast outhouses for the storage of our goods, which we send to the five parts of the world, a general manager, two sub-managers, four secretaries, eight under-secretaries, a staff of five hundred clerks and nine hundred workmen, a whole regiment of travelers like your servant, working in Europe, Asia, Africa, America, Australasia, in short, a turnover exceeding annually one hundred million dollars! And all that, Mr. Bombarnac, for making millions of — yes, I said millions — “

At this moment the train commenced to slow under the action of its automatic brakes, and he stopped.

“Elisabethpol! Elisabethpol!” shout the guard and the porters on the station.

Our conversation is interrupted. I lower the window on my side, and open the door, being desirous of stretching my legs.

Ephrinell did not get out.

Here was I striding along the platform of a very poorly lighted station. A dozen travelers had already left the train. Five or six Georgians were crowding on the steps of the compartments. Ten minutes at Elisabethpol; the timetable allowed us no more.

As soon as the bell begins to ring I return to our carriage, and when I have shut the door I notice that my place is taken. Yes! Facing the American, a lady has installed herself with that Anglo-Saxon coolness which is as unlimited as the infinite. Is she young? Is she old? Is she pretty? Is she plain? The obscurity does not allow me to judge. In any case, my French gallantry prevents me from claiming my corner, and I sit down beside this person who makes no attempt at apology.

Ephrinell seems to be asleep, and that stops my knowing what it is that Strong, Bulbul & Co. of New York, manufacture by the million.

The train has started. We have left Elisabethpol behind. What have I seen of this charming town of twenty thousand inhabitants, built on the Gandja-tchai, a tributary of the Koura, which I had specially worked up before my arrival? Nothing of its brick houses hidden under verdure, nothing of its curious ruins, nothing of its superb mosque built at the beginning of the eighteenth century. Of its admirable plane trees, so sought after by crows and blackbirds, and which maintain a supportable temperature during the excessive heats of summer, I had scarcely seen the higher branches with the moon shining on them. And on the banks of the stream which bears its silvery murmuring waters along the principal street, I had only seen a few houses in little gardens, like small crenelated fortresses. All that remained in my memory would be an indecisive outline, seized in flight from between the steam puffs of our engine. And why are these houses always in a state of defence? Because Elisabethpol is a fortified town exposed to the frequent attacks of the Lesghians of Chirvan, and these mountaineers, according to the best-informed historians, are directly descended from Attila’s hordes.

It was nearly midnight. Weariness invited me to sleep, and yet, like a good reporter, I must sleep with one eye and one ear open.

I fall into that sort of slumber provoked by the regular trepidations of a train on the road, mingled with ear-splitting whistles and the grind of the brakes as the speed is slowed, and tumultuous roars as passing trains are met with, besides the names of the stations shouted out during the short stoppages, and the banging of the doors which are opened or shut with metallic sonority.

In this way I heard the shouts of Geran, Varvara, Oudjarry, Kiourdamir, Klourdane, then Karasoul, Navagi. I sat up, but as I no longer occupied the corner from which I had been so cavalierly evicted, it was impossible for me to look through the window.

And then I began to ask what is hidden beneath this mass of veils and wraps and petticoats, which has usurped my place. Is this lady going to be my companion all the way to the terminus of the Grand Transasiatic? Shall I exchange a sympathetic salute with her in the streets of Pekin? And from her my thoughts wander to my companion who is snoring in the corner in a way that would make all the ventilators of Strong, Bulbul & Co. quite jealous. And what is it these big people make? Is it iron bridges, or locomotives, or armor plates, or steam boilers, or mining pumps? From what my American told me, I might find a rival to Creusot or Cokerill or Essen in this formidable establishment in the United States of America. At least unless he has been taking a rise out of me, for he does not seem to be “green,” as they say in his country, which means to say that he does not look very much like an idiot, this Ephrinell!

And yet it seems that I must gradually have fallen sound asleep. Withdrawn from exterior influences, I did not even hear the stentorian respiration of the Yankee. The train arrived at Aliat, and stayed there ten minutes without my being aware of it. I am sorry for it, for Aliat is a little seaport, and I should like to have had a first glimpse of the Caspian, and of the countries ravaged by Peter the Great. Two columns of the historico-fantastic might have been made out of that, with the aid of Bouillet and Larousse.

“Baku! Baku!”

The word repeated as the train stopped awoke me.

It was seven o’clock in the morning.

CHAPTER III.

The boat did not start until three o’clock in the afternoon. Those of my companions who intended to cross the Caspian hurried off to the harbor; it being necessary to engage a cabin, or to mark one’s place in the steamer’s saloon.

Ephrinell precipitately left me with these words: “I have not an instant to lose. I must see about the transport of my baggage.”

“Have you much?”

“Forty-two cases.”

“Forty-two cases!” I exclaimed.

“And I am sorry I have not double as many. Allow me — “

If he had had a voyage of eight days, instead of one of twenty-four hours, and had to cross the Atlantic instead of the Caspian, he could not have been in a greater hurry.

As you may imagine, the Yankee did not for a moment think of offering his hand to assist our companion in descending from the carriage. I took his place. The lady leaned on my arm and jumped — no, gently put her foot on the ground. My reward was a thank you, sir, uttered in a hard, dry, unmistakably British voice.

Thackeray has said somewhere that a well-brought-up Englishwoman is the completest of the works of God on this earth. My only wish is to verify this gallant affirmation in the case of my companion. She has put back her veil. Is she a young woman or an old girl? With these Englishwomen one never knows! Twenty-five years is apparently about her age, she has an Albionesque complexion, a jerky walk, a high dress like an equinoctial tide, no spectacles, although she has eyes of the intense blue which are generally short-sighted. While I bend my back as I bow, she honors me with a nod, which only brings into play the vertebrae of her long neck, and she walks off straight toward the way out.

Probably I shall meet this person again on the steamboat. For my part, I shall not go down to the harbor until it is time to start. I am at Baku: I have half a day to see Baku, and I shall not lose an hour, now that the chances of my wanderings have brought me to Baku.

It is possible that the name may in no way excite the reader’s curiosity. But perhaps it may inflame his imagination if I tell him that Baku is the town of the Guebres, the city of the Parsees, the metropolis of the fire-worshippers.

Encircled by a triple girdle of black battlemented walls, the town is built near Cape Apcheron, on the extreme spur of the Caucasian range. But am I in Persia or in Russia? In Russia undoubtedly, for Georgia is a Russian province; but we can still believe we are in Persia, for Baku has retained its Persian physiognomy. I visit a palace of the khans, a pure product of the architecture of the time of Schahriar and Scheherazade, “daughter of the moon,” his gifted romancer, a palace in which the delicate sculpture is as fresh as it came from the chisel. Further on rise some slender minarets, and not the bulbous roofs of Moscow the Holy, at the angles of an old mosque, into which one can enter without taking off one’s boots. True, the muezzin no longer declaims from it some sonorous verse of the Koran at the hour of prayer. And yet Baku has portions of it which are real Russian in manners and aspect, with their wooden houses without a trace of Oriental color, a railway station of imposing aspect, worthy of a great city in Europe or America, and at the end of one of the roads, a modern harbor, the atmosphere of which is foul with the coal smoke vomited from the steamer funnels.

And, in truth, one asks what they are doing with coal in this town of naphtha. What is the good of coal when the bare and arid soil of Apcheron, which grows only the Pontic absinthium, is so rich in mineral oil? At eighty francs the hundred kilos, it yields naphtha, black or white, which the exigencies of supply will not exhaust for centuries.

A marvelous phenomenon indeed! Do you want a light or a fire? Nothing can be simpler; make a hole in the ground, the gas escapes, and you apply a match. That is a natural gasometer within the reach of all purses.

I should have liked to visit the famous sanctuary of Atesh Gah; but it is twenty-two versts from the town, and time failed me. There burns the eternal fire, kept up for centuries by the Parsee priests from India, who never touch animal food.

This reminds me that I have not yet breakfasted, and as eleven o’clock strikes, I make my way to the restaurant at the railway, where I have no intention of conforming myself to the alimentary code of the Parsees of Atesh Gah.

As I am entering, Ephrinell rushes out.

“Breakfast?” say I.

“I have had it,” he replies.

“And your cases?”

“I have still twenty-nine to get down to the steamer. But, pardon, I have not a moment to lose. When a man represents the firm of Strong, Bulbul & Co. who send out every week five thousand cases of their goods — — “

“Go, go, Monsieur Ephrinell, we will meet on board. By the by, you have not met our traveling companion?”

“What traveling companion?”

“The young lady who took my place in the carriage.”

“Was there a young lady with us?”

“Of course.”

“Well you are the first to tell me so, Mr. Bombarnac. You are the first to tell me so.”

And thereupon the American goes out of the door and disappears. It is to be hoped I shall know before we get to Pekin what it is that Strong, Bulbul & Co. send out in such quantities. Five thousand cases a week — what an output, and what a turnover!

I had soon finished my breakfast and was off again. During my walk I was able to admire a few magnificent Lesghians; these wore the grayish tcherkesse, with the cartridge belts on the chest, the bechmet of bright red silk, the gaiters embroidered with silver, the boots flat, without a heel, the white papak on the head, the long gun on the shoulders, the schaska and kandijar at the belt — in short men of the arsenal as there are men of the orchestra, but of superb aspect and who ought to have a marvelous effect in the processions of the Russian emperor.

It is already two o’clock, and I think I had better get down to the boat. I must call at the railway station, where I have left my light luggage at the cloakroom.

Soon I am off again, bag in one hand, stick in the other, hastening down one of the roads leading to the harbor.

At the break in the wall where access is obtained to the quay, my attention is, I do not know why, attracted by two people walking along together. The man is from thirty to thirty-five years old, the woman from twenty-five to thirty, the man already a grayish brown, with mobile face, lively look, easy walk with a certain swinging of the hips. The woman still a pretty blonde, blue eyes, a rather fresh complexion, her hair frizzed under a cap, a traveling costume which is in good taste neither in its unfashionable cut nor in its glaring color. Evidently a married couple come in the train from Tiflis, and unless I am mistaken they are French.

But although I look at them with curiosity, they take no notice of me. They are too much occupied to see me. In their hands, on their shoulders, they have bags and cushions and wraps and sticks and sunshades and umbrellas. They are carrying every kind of little package you can think of which they do not care to put with the luggage on the steamer. I have a good mind to go and help them. Is it not a happy chance — and a rare one — to meet with French people away from France?

Just as I am walking up to them, Ephrinell appears, drags me away, and I leave the couple behind. It is only a postponement. I will meet them again on the steamboat and make their acquaintance on the voyage.

“Well,” said I to the Yankee, “how are you getting on with your cargo?”

“At this moment, sir, the thirty-seventh case is on the road.”

“And no accident up to now?

“No accident.”

“And what may be in those cases, if you please?

“In those cases? Ah! There is the thirty-seventh!” he exclaimed, and he ran out to meet a truck which had just come onto the quay.

There was a good deal of bustle about, and all the animation of departures and arrivals. Baku is the most frequented and the safest port on the Caspian. Derbent, situated more to the north, cannot keep up with it, and it absorbs almost the entire maritime traffic of this sea, or rather this great lake which has no communication with the neighboring seas. The establishment of Uzun Ada on the opposite coast has doubled the trade which used to pass through Baku. The Transcaspian now open for passengers and goods is the chief commercial route between Europe and Turkestan.

In the near future there will perhaps be a second route along the Persian frontier connecting the South Russian railways with those of British India, and that will save travelers the navigation of the Caspian. And when this vast basin has dried up through evaporation, why should not a railroad be run across its sandy bed, so that trains can run through without transhipment at Baku and Uzun Ada?

While we are waiting for the realization of this desideratum, it is necessary to take the steamboat, and that I am preparing to do in company with many others.

Our steamer is called the Astara, of the Caucasus and Mercury Company. She is a big paddle steamer, making three trips a week from coast to coast. She is a very roomy boat, designed to carry a large cargo, and the builders have thought considerably more of the cargo than of the passengers. After all, there is not much to make a fuss about in a day’s voyage.

There is a noisy crowd on the quay of people who are going off, and people who have come to see them off, recruited from the cosmopolitan population of Baku. I notice that the travelers are mostly Turkomans, with about a score of Europeans of different nationalities, a few Persians, and two representatives of the Celestial Empire. Evidently their destination is China. .

The Astara is loaded up. The hold is not big enough, and a good deal of the cargo has overflowed onto the deck. The stern is reserved for passengers, but from the bridge forward to the topgallant forecastle, there is a heap of cases covered with tarpaulins to protect them from the sea.

There Ephrinell’s cases have been put. He has lent a hand with Yankee energy, determined not to lose sight of his valuable property, which is in cubical cases, about two feet on the side, covered with patent leather, carefully strapped, and on which can be read the stenciled words, “Strong, Bulbul & Co. Now York.”

“Are all your goods on board?” I asked the American.

“There is the forty-second case just coming,” he replied.

And there was the said case on the back of a porter already coming along the gangway.

It seemed to me that the porter was rather tottery, owing perhaps to a lengthy absorption of vodka.

“Wait a bit!” shouted Ephrinell. Then in good Russian, so as to be better understood, he shouted: “Look out! Look out!”

It is good advice, but it is too late. The porter has just made a false step. The case slips from his shoulders, falls — luckily over the rail of the Astara — breaks in two, and a quantity of little packets of paper scatter their contents on the deck.

What a shout of indignation did Ephrinell raise! What a whack with his fist did he administer to the unfortunate porter as he repeated in a voice of despair: “My teeth, my poor teeth!”

And he went down on his knees to gather up his little bits of artificial ivory that were scattered all about, while I could hardly keep from laughing.

Yes! It was teeth which Strong, Bulbul & Co. of New York made! It was for manufacturing five thousand cases a week for the five parts of the world that this huge concern existed! It was for supplying the dentists of the old and new worlds; it was for sending teeth as far as China, that their factory required fifteen hundred horse power, and burned a hundred tons of coal a day! That is quite American!

After all, the population of the globe is fourteen hundred million, and as there are thirty-two teeth per inhabitant, that makes forty-five thousand millions; so that if it ever became necessary to replace all the true teeth by false ones, the firm of Strong, Bulbul & Co. would not be able to supply them.

But we must leave Ephrinell gathering up the odontological treasures of the forty-second case. The bell is ringing for the last time. All the passengers are aboard. The Astara is casting off her warps.

Suddenly there are shouts from the quay. I recognize them as being in German, the same as I had heard at Tiflis when the train was starting for Baku.

It is the same man. He is panting, he runs, he cannot run much farther. The gangway has been drawn ashore, and the steamer is already moving off. How will this late comer get on board?

Luckily there is a rope out astern which still keeps the Astara near the quay. The German appears just as two sailors are manoeuvring with the fender. They each give him a hand and help him on board.

Evidently this fat man is an old hand at this sort of thing, and I should not be surprised if he did not arrive at his destination.

However, the Astara is under way, her powerful paddles are at work, and we are soon out of the harbor.

About a quarter of a mile out there is a sort of boiling, agitating the surface of the sea, and showing some deep trouble in the waters. I was then near the rail on the starboard quarter, and, smoking my cigar, was looking at the harbor disappearing behind the point round Cape Apcheron, while the range of the Caucasus ran up into the western horizon.

Of my cigar there remained only the end between my lips, and taking a last whiff, I threw it overboard.

In an instant a sheet of flame burst out all round the steamer The boiling came from a submarine spring of naphtha, and the cigar end had set it alight.

Screams arise. The Astara rolls amid sheaves of flame; but a movement of the helm steers us away from the flaming spring, and we are out of danger.

The captain comes aft and says to me in a frigid tone: “That was a foolish thing to do.”

And I reply, as I usually reply under such circumstances: “Really, captain, I did not know — “

“You ought always to know, sir!

These words are uttered in a dry, cantankerous tone a few feet away from me.

I turn to see who it is.

It is the Englishwoman who has read me this little lesson.

CHAPTER IV.

I am always suspicious of a traveler’s “impressions.” These impressions are subjective — a word I use because it is the fashion, although I am not quite sure what it means. A cheerful man looks at things cheerfully, a sorrowful man looks at them sorrowfully. Democritus would have found something enchanting about the banks of the Jordan and the shores of the Dead Sea. Heraclitus would have found something disagreeable about the Bay of Naples and the beach of the Bosphorus. I am of a happy nature — you must really pardon me if I am rather egotistic in this history, for it is so seldom that an author’s personality is so mixed up with what he is writing about — like Hugo, Dumas, Lamartine, and so many others. Shakespeare is an exception, and I am not Shakespeare — and, as far as that goes, I am not Lamartine, nor Dumas, nor Hugo.

However, opposed as I am to the doctrines of Schopenhauer and Leopardi, I will admit that the shores of the Caspian did seem rather gloomy and dispiriting. There seemed to be nothing alive on the coast; no vegetation, no birds. There was nothing to make you think you were on a great sea. True, the Caspian is only a lake about eighty feet below the level of the Mediterranean, but this lake is often troubled by violent storms. A ship cannot “get away,” as sailors say: it is only about a hundred leagues wide. The coast is quickly reached eastward or westward, and harbors of refuge are not numerous on either the Asiatic or the European side.

There are a hundred passengers on board the Astara — a large number of them Caucasians trading with Turkestan, and who will be with us all the way to the eastern provinces of the Celestial Empire.

For some years now the Transcaspian has been running between Uzun Ada and the Chinese frontier. Even between this part and Samarkand it has no less than sixty-three stations; and it is in this section of the line that most of the passengers will alight. I need not worry about them, and I will lose no time in studying them. Suppose one of them proves interesting, I may pump him and peg away at him, and just at the critical moment he will get out.

No! All my attention I must devote to those who are going through with me. I have already secured Ephrinell, and perhaps that charming Englishwoman, who seems to me to be going to Pekin. I shall meet with other traveling companions at Uzun Ada. With regard to the French couple, there is nothing more at present, but the passage of the Caspian will not be accomplished before I know something about them. There are also these two Chinamen who are evidently going to China. If I only knew a hundred words of the “Kouan-hoa,” which is the language spoken in the Celestial Empire, I might perhaps make something out of these curious guys. What I really want is some personage with a story, some mysterious hero traveling incognito, a lord or a bandit. I must not forget my trade as a reporter of occurrences and an interviewer of mankind — at so much a line and well selected. He who makes a good choice has a good chance.

I go down the stairs to the saloon aft. There is not a place vacant. The cabins are already occupied by the passengers who are afraid of the pitching and rolling. They went to bed as soon as they came on board, and they will not get up until the boat is alongside the wharf at Uzun Ada. The cabins being full, other travelers have installed themselves on the couches, amid a lot of little packages, and they will not move from there.

As I am going to pass the night on deck, I return up the cabin stairs. The American is there, just finishing the repacking of his case.

“Would you believe it!” he exclaims, “that that drunken moujik actually asked me for something to drink?”

“I hope you have lost nothing, Monsieur Ephrinell?” I reply.

“No; fortunately.”

“May I ask how many teeth you are importing into China in those cases?”

“Eighteen hundred thousand, without counting the wisdom teeth!”

And Ephrinell began to laugh at this little joke, which he fired off on several other occasions during the voyage. I left him and went onto the bridge between the paddle boxes.

It is a beautiful night, with the northerly wind beginning to freshen. In the offing, long, greenish streaks are sweeping over the surface of the sea. It is possible that the night may be rougher than we expect. In the forepart of the steamer are many passengers, Turkomans in rags, Kirghizes wrapped up to the eyes, moujiks in emigrant costume — poor fellows, in fact, stretched on the spare spars, against the sides, and along the tarpaulins. They are almost all smoking or nibbling at the provisions they have brought for the voyage. The others are trying to sleep and forget their fatigue, and perhaps their hunger.

It occurs to me to take a stroll among these groups. I am like a hunter beating the brushwood before getting into the hiding place. And I go among this heap of packages, looking them over as if I were a custom house officer.

A rather large deal case, covered with a tarpaulin, attracts my attention. It measures about a yard and a half in height, and a yard in width and depth. It has been placed here with the care required by these words in Russian, written on the side, “Glass — Fragile — Keep from damp,” and then directions, “Top — Bottom,” which have been respected. And then there is the address, “Mademoiselle Zinca Klork, Avenue Cha-Coua, Pekin, Petchili, China.”

This Zinca Klork — her name showed it — ought to be a Roumanian, and she was taking advantage of this through train on the Grand Transasiatic to get her glass forwarded. Was this an article in request at the shops of the Middle Kingdom? How otherwise could the fair Celestials admire their almond eyes and their elaborate hair?

The bell rang and announced the six-o’clock dinner. The dining-room is forward. I went down to it, and found it already occupied by some forty people.

Ephrinell had installed himself nearly in the middle. There was a vacant seat near him; he beckoned to me to occupy it, and I hastened to take possession.

Was it by chance? I know not; but the Englishwoman was seated on Ephrinell’s left and talking to him. He introduced me.

“Miss Horatia Bluett,” he said.

Opposite I saw the French couple conscientiously studying the bill of fare.

At the other end of the table, close to where the food came from — and where the people got served first — was the German passenger, a man strongly built and with a ruddy face, fair hair, reddish beard, clumsy hands, and a very long nose which reminded one of the proboscidean feature of the plantigrades. He had that peculiar look of the officers of the Landsturm threatened with premature obesity.

“He is not late this time,” said I to Ephrinell.

“The dinner hour is never forgotten in the German Empire!” replied the American.

“Do you know that German’s name?”

“Baron Weissschnitzerdorfer.”

“And with that name is he going to Pekin?”

“To Pekin, like that Russian major who is sitting near the captain of the Astara.”

I looked at the man indicated. He was about fifty years of age, of true Muscovite type, beard and hair turning gray, face prepossessing. I knew Russian: he ought to know French. Perhaps he was the fellow traveler of whom I had dreamed.

“You said he was a major, Mr. Ephrinell?”

“Yes, a doctor in the Russian army, and they call him Major Noltitz.”

Evidently the American was some distance ahead of me, and yet he was not a reporter by profession.

As the rolling was not yet very great, we could dine in comfort. Ephrinell chatted with Miss Horatia Bluett, and I understood that there was an understanding between these two perfectly Anglo-Saxon natures.

In fact, one was a traveler in teeth and the other was a traveler in hair. Miss Horatia Bluett represented an important firm in London, Messrs. Holmes-Holme, to whom the Celestial Empire annually exports two millions of female heads of hair. She was going to Pekin on account of the said firm, to open an office as a center for the collection of the Chinese hair crop. It seemed a promising enterprise, as the secret society of the Blue Lotus was agitating for the abolition of the pigtail, which is the emblem of the servitude of the Chinese to the Manchu Tartars. “Come,” thought I, “if China sends her hair to England, America sends her teeth: that is a capital exchange, and everything is for the best.”

We had been at the table for a quarter of an hour, and nothing had happened. The traveler with the smooth complexion and his blonde companion seemed to listen to us when we spoke in French. It evidently pleased them, and they were already showing an inclination to join in our talk. I was not mistaken, then; they are compatriots, but of what class?

At this moment the Astara gave a lurch. The plates rattled on the table; the covers slipped; the glasses upset some of their contents; the hanging lamps swung out of the vertical — or rather our seats and the table moved in accordance with the roll of the ship. It is a curious effect, when one is sailor enough to bear it without alarm.

“Eh!” said the American; “here is the good old Caspian shaking her skin.”

“Are you subject to seasickness?” I asked.

“No more than a porpoise,” said he. “Are you ever seasick?” he continued to his neighbor.

“Never,” said Miss Horatia Bluett.

On the other side of the table there was an interchange of a few words in French.

“You are not unwell, Madame Caterna?”

“No, Adolphe, not yet; but if this continues, I am afraid — “

“Well, Caroline, we had better go on deck. The wind has hauled a point to the eastward, and the Astara will soon be sticking her nose in the feathers.”

His way of expressing himself shows that “Monsieur Caterna” — if that was his name — was a sailor, or ought to have been one. That explains the way he rolls his hips as he walks.

The pitching now becomes very violent. The majority of the company cannot stand it. About thirty of the passengers have left the table for the deck. I hope the fresh air will do them good. We are now only a dozen in the dining room, including the captain, with whom Major Noltitz is quietly conversing. Ephrinell and Miss Bluett seem to be thoroughly accustomed to these inevitable incidents of navigation. The German baron drinks and eats as if he had taken up his quarters in some bier-halle at Munich, or Frankfort, holding his knife in his right hand, his fork in his left, and making up little heaps of meat, which he salts and peppers and covers with sauce, and then inserts under his hairy lip on the point of his knife. Fie! What behavior! And yet he gets on splendidly, and neither rolling nor pitching makes him lose a mouthful of food or drink.

A little way off are the two Celestials, whom I watch with curiosity.

One is a young man of distinguished bearing, about twenty-five years old, of pleasant physiognomy, in spite of his yellow skin and his narrow eyes. A few years spent in Europe have evidently Europeanized his manners and even his dress. His mustache is silky, his eye is intelligent his hair is much more French than Chinese. He seems to me a nice fellow, of a cheerful temperament, who would not ascend the “Tower of Regret,” as the Chinese have it, oftener than he could help.

His companion, on the contrary, whom he always appears to be making fun of, is of the type of the true porcelain doll, with the moving head; he is from fifty to fifty-five years old, like a monkey in the face, the top of his head half shaven, the pigtail down his back, the traditional costume, frock, vest, belt, baggy trousers, many-colored slippers; a China vase of the Green family. He, however, could hold out no longer, and after a tremendous pitch, accompanied by a long rattle of the crockery, he got up and hurried on deck. And as he did so, the younger Chinaman shouted after him, “Cornaro! Cornaro!” at the same time holding out a little volume he had left on the table.

What was the meaning of this Italian word in an Oriental mouth? Did the Chinaman speak the language of Boccaccio? The Twentieth Century ought to know, and it would know.

Madame Caterna arose, very pale, and Monsieur Caterna, a model husband, followed her on deck.

The dinner over, leaving Ephrinell and Miss Bluett to talk of brokerages and prices current, I went for a stroll on the poop of the Astara. Night had nearly closed in. The hurrying clouds, driven from the eastward, draped in deep folds the higher zones of the sky, with here and there a few stars peeping through. The wind was rising. The white light of the steamer clicked as it swung on the foremast. The red and green lights rolled with the ship, and projected their long colored rays onto the troubled waters.

I met Ephrinell, Miss Horatia Bluett having retired to her cabin; he was going down into the saloon to find a comfortable corner on one of the couches. I wished him good night, and he left me after gratifying me with a similar wish.

As for me, I will wrap myself in my rug and lie down in a corner of the deck, and sleep like a sailor during his watch below.

It is only eight o’clock. I light my cigar, and with my legs wide apart, to assure my stability as the ship rolled, I begin to walk up and down the deck. The deck is already abandoned by the first-class passengers, and I am almost alone. On the bridge is the mate, pacing backward and forward, and watching the course he has given to the man at the wheel, who is close to him. The paddles are impetuously beating into the sea, and now and then breaking into thunder, as one or the other of the wheels runs wild, as the rolling lifts it clear of the water. A thick smoke rises from the funnel, which occasionally belches forth a shower of sparks.

At nine o’clock the night is very dark. I try to make out some steamer’s lights in the distance, but in vain, for the Caspian has not many ships on it. I can hear only the cry of the sea birds, gulls and scoters, who are abandoning themselves to the caprices of the wind.

During my promenade, one thought besets me: is the voyage to end without my getting anything out of it as copy for my journal? My instructions made me responsible for producing something, and surely not without reason. What? Not an adventure from Tiflis to Pekin? Evidently that could only be my fault! And I resolved to do everything to avoid such a misfortune.

It is half-past ten when I sit down on one of the seats in the stern of the Astara. But with this increasing wind it is impossible for me to remain there. I rise, therefore, and make my way forward. Under the bridge, between the paddle boxes, the wind is so strong that I seek shelter among the packages covered by the tarpaulin. Stretched on one of the boxes, wrapped in my rug, with my head resting against the tarpaulin, I shall soon be asleep.

After some time, I do not exactly know how much, I am awakened by a curious noise. Whence comes this noise? I listen more attentively. It seems as though some one is snoring close to my ear.

“That is some steerage passenger,” I think. “He has got under the tarpaulin between the cases, and he will not do so badly in his improvised cabin.”

By the light which filters down from the lower part of the binnacle, I see nothing.

I listen again. The noise has ceased.

I look about. There is no one on this part of the deck, for the second-class passengers are all forward.

Then I must have been dreaming, and I resume my position and try again to sleep.

This time there is no mistake. The snoring has begun again, and I am sure it is coming from the case against which I am leaning my head.

“Goodness!” I say. “There must be an animal in here!”

An animal? What? A dog? A cat? Why have they hidden a domestic animal in this case? Is it a wild animal? A panther, a tiger, a lion?

Now I am off on the trail! It must be a wild animal on its way from some menagerie to some sultan of Central Asia. This case is a cage, and if the cage opens, if the animal springs out onto the deck — here is an incident, here is something worth chronicling; and here I am with my professional enthusiasm running mad. I must know at all costs to whom this wild beast is being sent; is it going to Uzon Ada, or is it going to China? The address ought to be on the case.

I light a wax vesta, and as I am sheltered from the wind, the flame keeps upright.

By its light what do I read?

The case containing the wild beast is the very one with the address: “Mademoiselle Zinca Klork, Avenue Cha-Coua, Pekin, China.”

Fragile, my wild beast! Keep from damp, my lion! Quite so! But for what does Miss Zinca Klork, this pretty — for the Roumanian ought to be pretty, and she is certainly a Roumanian — for what does she want a wild beast sent in this way?

Let us think about it and be reasonable. This animal, whatever it may be, must eat and drink. From the time it starts from Uzon Ada it will take eleven days to cross Asia, and reach the capital of the Celestial Empire. Well, what do they give it to drink, what do they give it to eat, if he is not going to get out of his cage, if he is going to be shut up during the whole of the journey? The officials of the Grand Transasiatic will be no more careful in their attentions to the said wild beast than if he were a glass, for he is described as such; and he will die of inanition!

All these things sent my brain whirling. My thoughts bewildered me. “Is it a lovely dream that dazes me, or am I awake?” as Margaret says in Faust, more lyrically than dramatically. To resist is impossible. I have a two-pound weight on each eyelid. I lay down along by the tarpaulin; my rug wraps me more closely, and I fall into a deep sleep.

How long have I slept? Perhaps for three or four hours. One thing is certain, and that is that it is not yet daylight when I awake.

I rub my eyes, I rise, I go and lean against the rail.

The Astara is not so lively, for the wind has shifted to the northeast.

The night is cold. I warm myself by walking about briskly for half an hour. I think no more of my wild beast. Suddenly remembrance returns to me. Should I not call the attention of the stationmaster to this disquieting case? But that is no business of mine. We shall see before we start.

I look at my watch. It is only three o’clock in the morning. I will go back to my place. And I do so with my head against the side of the case. I shut my eyes.

Suddenly there is a new sound. This time I am not mistaken. A half-stifled sneeze shakes the side of the case. Never did an animal sneeze like that!

Is it possible? A human being is hidden in this case and is being fraudulently carried by the Grand Transasiatic to the pretty Roumanian! But is it a man or a woman? It seems as though the sneeze had a masculine sound about it.

It is impossible to sleep now. How long the day is coming! How eager I am to examine this box! I wanted incidents — well! and here is one, and if I do not get five lines out of this — —

The eastern horizon grows brighter. The clouds in the zenith are the first to color. The sun appears at last all watery with the mists of the sea.

I look; it is indeed the case addressed to Pekin. I notice that certain holes are pierced here and there, by which the air inside can be renewed. Perhaps two eyes are looking through these holes, watching what is going on outside? Do not be indiscreet!

At breakfast gather all the passengers whom the sea has not affected: the young Chinaman, Major Noltitz, Ephrinell, Miss Bluett, Monsieur Caterna, the Baron Weissschnitzerdorfer, and seven or eight other passengers. I am careful not to let the American into the secret of the case. He would be guilty of some indiscretion, and then good-by to my news par!

About noon the land is reported to the eastward, a low, yellowish land, with no rocky margin, but a few sandhills in the neighborhood of Krasnovodsk.

In an hour we are in sight of Uzun Ada, and twenty-seven minutes afterward we set foot in Asia.

CHAPTER V.

Travelers used to land at Mikhailov, a little port at the end of the Transcaspian line; but ships of moderate tonnage hardly had water enough there to come alongside. On this account, General Annenkof, the creator of the new railway, the eminent engineer whose name will frequently recur in my narrative, was led to found Uzun Ada, and thereby considerably shorten the crossing of the Caspian. The station was built in three months, and it was opened on the 8th of May, 1886.

Fortunately I had read the account given by Boulangier, the engineer, relating to the prodigious work of General Annenkof, so that I shall not be so very much abroad during the railway journey between Uzun Ada and Samarkand, and, besides, I trust to Major Noltitz, who knows all about the matter. I have a presentiment that we shall become good friends, and in spite of the proverb which says, “Though your friend be of honey do not lick him!” I intend to “lick” my companion often enough for the benefit of my readers.

We often hear of the extraordinary rapidity with which the Americans have thrown their railroads across the plains of the Far West. But the Russians are in no whit behind them, if even they have not surpassed them in rapidity as well as in industrial audacity.

People are fully acquainted with the adventurous campaign of General Skobeleff against the Turkomans, a campaign of which the building of the railway assured the definite success. Since then the political state of Central Asia has been entirely changed, and Turkestan is merely a province of Asiatic Russia, extending to the frontiers of the Chinese Empire. And already Chinese Turkestan is very visibly submitting to the Muscovite influence which the vertiginous heights of the Pamir plateau have not been able to check in its civilizing march.

I was about to cross the countries which were formerly ravaged by Tamerlane and Genghis Khan, those fabulous countries of which the Russians in 1886 possessed six hundred and fifteen thousand square kilometres, with thirteen hundred thousand inhabitants. The southern part of this region now forms the Transcaspian province, divided into six districts, Fort Alexandrovski, Krasnovodsk, Askhabad, Karibent, Merv, Pendjeh, governed by Muscovite colonels or lieutenant-colonels.

As may be imagined, it hardly takes an hour to see Uzun Ada, the name of which means Long Island. It is almost a town, but a modern town, traced with a square, drawn with a line or a large carpet of yellow sand. No monuments, no memories, bridges of planks, houses of wood, to which comfort is beginning to add a few mansions in stone. One can see what this, first station of the Transcaspian will be like in fifty years; a great city after having been a great railway station.

Do not think that there are no hotels. Among others there is the Hotel du Czar, which has a good table, good rooms and good beds. But the question of beds has no interest for me. As the train starts at four o’clock this afternoon, to begin with, I must telegraph to the Twentieth Century, by the Caspian cable, that I am at my post at the Uzun Ada station. That done, I can see if I can pick up anything worth reporting.

Nothing is more simple. It consists in opening an account with those of my companions with whom I may have to do during the journey. That is my custom, I always find it answers, and while waiting for the unknown, I write down the known in my pocketbook, with a number to distinguish each:

1. Fulk Ephrinell, American.

2. Miss Horatia Bluett, English.

3. Major Noltitz, Russian.

4. Monsieur Caterna, French.

5. Madame Caterna, French.

6. Baron Weissschnitzerdorfer, German.

As to the Chinese, they will have a number later on, when I have made up my mind about them. As to the individual in the box, I intend to enter into communication with him, or her, and to be of assistance in that quarter if I can do so without betraying the secret.

The train is already marshaled in the station. It is composed of first and second-class cars, a restaurant car and two baggage vans. These cars are painted of a light color, an excellent precaution against the heat and against the cold. For in the Central Asian provinces the temperature ranges between fifty degrees centigrade above zero and twenty below, and in a range of seventy degrees it is only prudent to minimize the effects.

These cars are in a convenient manner joined together by gangways, on the American plan. Instead of being shut up in a compartment, the traveler strolls about along the whole length of the train. There is room to pass between the stuffed seats, and in the front and rear of each car are the platforms united by the gangways. This facility of communication assures the security of the train.

Our engine has a bogie on four small wheels, and is thus able to negotiate the sharpest curves; a tender with water and fuel; then come a front van, three first-class cars with twenty-four places each, a restaurant car with pantry and kitchen, four second-class cars and a rear van; in all twelve vehicles, counting in the locomotive and tender. The first class cars are provided with dressing rooms, and their seats, by very simple mechanism, are convertible into beds, which, in fact, are indispensable for long journeys. The second-class travelers are not so comfortably treated, and besides, they have to bring their victuals with them, unless they prefer to take their meals at the stations. There are not many, however, who travel the complete journey between the Caspian and the eastern provinces of China — that is to say about six thousand kilometres. Most of them go to the principal towns and villages of Russian Turkestan, which have been reached by the Transcaspian Railway for some years, and which up to the Chinese frontier has a length of over 1,360 miles.

This Grand Transasiatic has only been open six weeks and the company is as yet only running two trains a week. All has gone well up to the present; but I ought to add the significant detail that the railway men carry a supply of revolvers to arm the passengers with if necessary. This is a wise precaution in crossing the Chinese deserts, where an attack on the train is not improbable.

I believe the company are doing their best to ensure the punctuality of their trains; but the Chinese section is managed by Celestials, and who knows what has been the past life of those people? Will they not be more intent on the security of their dividends than of their passengers?

As I wait for the departure I stroll about on the platform, looking through the windows of the cars, which have no doors along the sides, the entrances being at the ends.

Everything is new; the engine is as bright as it can be, the carriages are brilliant in their new paint, their springs have not begun to give with wear, and their wheels run true on the rails. Then there is the rolling stock with which we are going to cross a continent. There is no railway as long as this — not even in America. The Canadian line measures five thousand kilometres, the Central Union, five thousand two hundred and sixty, the Santa Fe line, four thousand eight hundred and seventy-five, the Atlantic Pacific, five thousand six hundred and thirty, the Northern Pacific, six thousand two hundred and fifty. There is only one line which will be longer when it is finished, and that is the Grand Transsiberian, from the Urals to Vladivostock, which will measure six thousand five hundred kilometres.

Between Tiflis and Pekin our journey will not last more than thirteen days, from Uzun Ada it will only last eleven. The train will only stop at the smaller stations to take in fuel and water. At the chief towns like Merv, Bokhara, Samarkand, Tashkend, Kachgar, Kokhand, Sou Tcheou, Lan Tcheou, Tai Youan, it will stop a few hours — and that will enable me to do these towns in reporter style.

Of course, the same driver and stoker will not take us through. They will be relieved every six hours. Russians will take us up to the frontier of Turkestan, and Chinese will take us on through China.

But there is one representative of the company who will not leave his post, and that is Popof, our head guard, a true Russian of soldierly bearing, hairy and bearded, with a folded overcoat and a Muscovite cap. I intend to talk a good deal with this gallant fellow, although he is not very talkative. If he does not despise a glass of vodka, opportunity offered, he may have a good deal to say to me; for ten years he has been on the Transcaspian between Uzun Ada and the Pamirs, and during the last month he has been all along the line to Pekin.

I call him No. 7 in my notebook, and I hope he will give me information enough. I only want a few incidents of the journey, just a few little incidents worthy of the Twentieth Century.

Among the passengers I see on the platform are a few Jews, recognizable more by their faces than their attire. Formerly, in Central Asia, they could only wear the “toppe,” a sort of round cap, and a plain rope belt, without any silk ornamentation — under pain of death. And I am told that they could ride on asses in certain towns and walk on foot in others. Now they wear the oriental turban and roll in their carriages if their purse allows of it. Who would hinder them now they are subjects of the White Czar, Russian citizens, rejoicing in civil and political rights equal to those of their Turkoman compatriots?

There are a few Tadjiks of Persian origin, the handsomest men you can imagine. They have booked for Merv, or Bokhara, or Samarkand, or Tachkend, or Kokhand, and will not pass the Russo-Chinese frontier. As a rule they are second-class passengers. Among the first-class passengers I noticed a few Usbegs of the ordinary type, with retreating foreheads and prominent cheek bones, and brown complexions, who were the lords of the country, and from whose families come the emirs and khans of Central Asia.

But are there not any Europeans in this Grand Transasiatic train? It must be confessed that I can only count five or six. There are a few commercial travelers from South Russia, and one of those inevitable gentlemen from the United Kingdom, who are inevitably to be found on the railways and steamboats. It is still necessary to obtain permission to travel on the Transcaspian, permission which the Russian administration does not willingly accord to an Englishman; but this man has apparently been able to get one.

And he seems to me to be worth notice. He is tall and thin, and looks quite the fifty years that his gray hairs proclaim him to be. His characteristic expression is one of haughtiness, or rather disdain, composed in equal parts of love of all things English and contempt for all things that are not. This type is occasionally so insupportable, even to his compatriots, that Dickens, Thackeray and others have often made fun of it. How he turned up his nose at the station at Uzun Ada, at the train, at the men, at the car in which he had secured a seat by placing in it his traveling bag! Let us call him No. 8 in my pocketbook.

There seem to be no personages of importance. That is a pity. If only the Emperor of Russia, on one side, or the Son of Heaven, on the other, were to enter the train to meet officially on the frontier of the two empires, what festivities there would be, what grandeur, what descriptions, what copy for letters and telegrams!

It occurs to me to have a look at the mysterious box. Has it not a right to be so called? Yes, certainly. I must really find out where it has been put and how to get at it easily.

The front van is already full of Ephrinell’s baggage. It does not open at the side, but in front and behind, like the cars. It is also furnished with a platform and a gangway. An interior passage allows the guard to go through it to reach the tender and locomotive if necessary. Popof’s little cabin is on the platform of the first car, in the left-hand corner. At night it will be easy for me to visit the van, for it is only shut in by the doors at the ends of the passage arranged between the packages. If this van is reserved for luggage registered through to China, the luggage for the Turkestan stations ought to be in the van at the rear.

When I arrived the famous box was still on the platform.

In looking at it closely I observe that airholes have been bored on each of its sides, and that on one side it has two panels, one of which can be made to slide on the other from the inside. And I am led to think that the prisoner has had it made so in order that he can, if necessary, leave his prison — probably during the night.

Just now the porters are beginning to lift the box. I have the satisfaction of seeing that they attend to the directions inscribed on it. It is placed, with great care, near the entrance to the van, on the left, the side with the panels outward, as if it were the door of a cupboard. And is not the box a cupboard? A cupboard I propose to open?

It remains to be seen if the guard in charge of the luggage is to remain in this van. No. I find that his post is just outside it.

“There it is, all right!” said one of the porters, looking to see that the case was as it should be, top where top should be, and so on.

“There is no fear of its moving,” said another porter; “the glass will reach Pekin all right, unless the train runs off the metals.”

“Or it does not run into anything,” said the other; “and that remains to be seen.”

They were right — these good fellows — it remained to be seen — and it would be seen.

The American came up to me and took a last look at his stock of incisors, molars and canines, with a repetition of his invariable “Wait a bit.”

“You know, Monsieur Bombarnac,” he said to me, “that the passengers are going to dine at the Hotel du Czar before the departure of the train. It is time now. Will you come with me?”

“I follow you.”

And we entered the dining room. All my numbers are there: 1, Ephrinell, taking his place as usual by the side of 2, Miss Horatia Bluett. The French couple, 4 and 5, are also side by side. Number 3, that is Major Noltitz, is seated in front of numbers 9 and 10, the two Chinese to whom I have just given numbers in my notebook. As to the fat German, number 6, he has already got his long nose into his soup plate. I see also that the Guard Popol, number 7, has his place at the foot of the table. The other passengers, Europeans and Asiatics, are installed, passim with the evident intention of doing justice to the repast.

Ah! I forgot my number 8, the disdainful gentleman whose name I don’t yet know, and who seems determined to find the Russian cookery inferior to the English.

I also notice with what attention Monsieur Caterna looks after his wife, and encourages her to make up for the time lost when she was unwell on board the Astara. He keeps her glass filled, he chooses the best pieces for her, etc.

“What a good thing it is,” I hear him say, “that we are not to leeward of the Teuton, for there would be nothing left for us!”

He is to windward of him — that is to say, the dishes reach him before they get to the baron, which, however, does not prevent his clearing them without shame.

The observation, in sea language, made me smile, and Caterna, noticing it, gave me a wink with a slight movement of the shoulder toward the baron.

It is evident that these French people are not of high distinction, they do not belong to the upper circles; but they are good people, I will answer for it, and when we have to rub shoulders with compatriots, we must not be too particular in Turkestan.

The dinner ends ten minutes before the time fixed for our departure. The bell rings and we all make a move for the train, the engine of which is blowing off steam.

Mentally, I offer a last prayer to the God of reporters and ask him not to spare me adventures. Then, after satisfying myself that all my numbers are in the first-class cars, so that I can keep an eye on them, I take my place.

The Baron Weissschnitzerdorfer — what an interminable name — is not behindhand this time. On the contrary, it is the train this time which is five minutes late in starting; and the German has begun to complain, to chafe and to swear, and threatens to sue the company for damages. Ten thousand roubles — not a penny less! — if it causes him to fail. Fail in what, considering that he is going to Pekin?

At length the last shriek of the whistle cleaves the air, the cars begin to move, and a loud cheer salutes the departure of the Grand Transasiatic express.

CHAPTER VI.

The ideas of a man on horseback are different to those which occur to him when he is on foot. The difference is even more noticeable when he is on the railway. The association of his thoughts, the character of his reflections are all affected by the speed of the train. They “roll” in his head, as he rolls in his car. And so it comes about that I am in a particularly lively mood, desirous of observing, greedy of instruction, and that at a speed of thirty-one miles an hour. That is the rate at which we are to travel through Turkestan, and when we reach the Celestial Empire we shall have to be content with eighteen.

That is what I have just ascertained by consulting my timetable, which I bought at the station. It is accompanied by a long slip map, folded and refolded on itself, which shows the whole length of the line between the Caspian and the eastern coast of China. I study, then, my Transasiatic, on leaving Uzun Ada, just as I studied my Transgeorgian when I left Tiflis.

The gauge of the line is about sixty-three inches — as is usual on the Russian lines, which are thus about four inches wider than those of other European countries. It is said, with regard to this, that the Germans have made a great number of axles of this length, in case they have to invade Russia. I should like to think that the Russians have taken the same precautions in the no less probable event of their having to invade Germany.

On either side of the line are long sandhills, between which the train runs out from Uzun Ada; when it reaches the arm of the sea which separates Long Island from the continent, it crosses an embankment about 1,200 yards long, edged with masses of rock to protect it against the violence of the waves.

We have already passed several stations without stopping, among others Mikhailov, a league from Uzun Ada. Now they are from ten to eleven miles apart. Those I have seen, as yet, look like villas, with balustrades and Italian roofs, which has a curious effect in Turkestan and the neighborhood of Persia. The desert extends up to the neighborhood of Uzun Ada, and the railway stations form so many little oases, made by the hand of man. It is man, in fact, who has planted these slender, sea-green poplars, which give so little shade; it is man who, at great expense, has brought here the water whose refreshing jets fall back into an elegant vase. Without these hydraulic works there would not be a tree, not a corner of green in these oases. They are the nurses of the line, and dry-nurses are of no use to locomotives.

The truth is that I have never seen such a bare, arid country, so clear of vegetation; and it extends for one hundred and fifty miles from Uzun Ada. When General Annenkof commenced his works at Mikhailov, he was obliged to distil the water from the Caspian Sea, as if he were on board ship. But if water is necessary to produce steam, coal is necessary to vaporize the water. The readers of the Twentieth Century will ask how are the furnaces fed in a country in which there is neither coal nor wood? Are there stores of these things at the principal stations of the Transcaspian? Not at all. They have simply put in practice an idea which occurred to our great chemist, Sainte-Claire Deville, when first petroleum was used in France. The furnaces are fed, by the aid of a pulverizing apparatus, with the residue produced from the distillation of the naphtha, which Baku and Derbent produce in such inexhaustible quantities. At certain stations on the line there are vast reservoirs of this combustible mineral, from which the tenders are filled, and it is burned in specially adapted fireboxes. In a similar way naphtha is used on the steamboats on the Volga and the other affluents of the Caspian.

I repeat, the country is not particularly varied. The ground is nearly flat in the sandy districts, and quite flat in the alluvial plains, where the brackish water stagnates in pools. Nothing could be better for a line of railway. There are no cuttings, no embankments, no viaducts, no works of art — to use a term dear to engineers, very “dear,” I should say. Here and there are a few wooden bridges from two hundred to three hundred feet long. Under such circumstances the cost per kilometre of the Transcaspian did not exceed seventy-five thousand francs.

The monotony of the journey would only be broken on the vast oases of Merv, Bokhara and Samarkand.

But let us busy ourselves with the passengers, as we can do all the more easily from our being able to walk from one end to the other of the train. With a little imagination we can make ourselves believe we are in a sort of traveling village, and I am just going to take a run down main street.

Remember that the engine and tender are followed by the van at the angle of which is placed the mysterious case, and that Popof’s compartment is in the left-hand corner of the platform of the first car.

Inside this car I notice a few Sarthes of tall figure and haughty face, draped in their long robes of bright colors, from beneath which appear the braided leather boots. They have splendid eyes, a superb beard, arched nose, and you would take them for real lords, provided we ignore the word Sarthe, which means a pedlar, and these were going evidently to Tachkend, where these pedlars swarm.

In this car the two Chinese have taken their places, opposite each other. The young Celestial looks out of window. The old one — Ta-lao-ye, that is to say, a person well advanced in years — is incessantly turning over the pages of his book. This volume, a small 32mo, looks like our Annuaire du Bureau des Longitudes, and is covered in plush, like a breviary, and when it is shut its covers are kept in place by an elastic band. What astonishes me is that the proprietor of this little book does not seem to read it from right to left. Is it not written in Chinese characters? We must see into this!

On two adjoining seats are Ephrinell and Miss Horatia Bluett. Their talk is of nothing but figures. I don’t know if the practical American murmurs at the ear of the practical Englishwoman the adorable verse which made the heart of Lydia palpitate:

“Nee tecum possum vivere sine te,”

but I do know that Ephrinell can very well live without me. I have been quite right in not reckoning on his company to charm away the tedium of the journey. The Yankee has completely “left” me — that is the word — for this angular daughter of Albion.

I reach the platform. I cross the gangway and I am at the door of the second car.

In the right-hand corner is Baron Weissschnitzerdorfer. His long nose — this Teuton is as short-sighted as a mole — rubs the lines of the book he reads. The book is the timetable. The impatient traveler is ascertaining if the train passes the stations at the stated time. Whenever it is behind there are new recriminations and menaces against the Grand Transasiatic Company.

In this car there are also the Caternas, who have made themselves quite comfortable. In his cheery way, the husband is talking with a good deal of gesticulation, sometimes touching his wife’s hands, sometimes putting his arms round her waist; and then he turns his head toward the platform and says something aside. Madame Caterna leans toward him, makes little confused grimaces, and then leans back into the corner and seems to reply to her husband, who in turn replies to her. And as I leave I hear the chorus of an operetta in the deep voice of Monsieur Caterna.

In the third car, occupied by many Turkomans and three or four Russians, I perceive Major Noltitz. He is talking with one of his countrymen. I will willingly join in their conversation if they make me any advances, but I had better maintain a certain reserve; the journey has only begun.

I then visit the dining car. It is a third longer than the other cars, a regular dining room, with one long table. At the back is a pantry on one side, a kitchen on the other, where the cook and steward are at work, both of them Russians. This dining car appears to me capitally arranged. Passing through it, I reach the second part of the train, where the second-class passengers are installed. Kirghizes who do not look very intelligent with their depressed heads, their prognathous jaws stuck well out in front, their little beards, flat Cossack noses and very brown skins. These wretched fellows are Mahometans and belong either to the Grand Horde wandering on the frontier between China and Siberia, or to the Little Horde between the Ural Mountains and the Aral Sea. A second-class car, or even a third-class car, is a palace for these people, accustomed to the encampments on the Steppes, to the miserable “iourts” of villages. Neither their beds nor their seats are as good as the stuffed benches on which they have seated themselves with true Asiatic gravity.

With them are two or three Nogais going to Eastern Turkestan. Of a higher race than the Kirghizes, being Tartars, it is from them that come the learned men and professors who have made illustrious the opulent cities of Bokhara and Samarkand. But science and its teaching do not yield much of a livelihood, even when reduced to the mere necessaries of life, in these provinces of Central Asia. And so these Nogais take employment as interpreters. Unfortunately, since the diffusion of the Russian language, their trade is not very remunerative.

Now I know the places of my numbers, and I know where to find them when I want them. As to those going through to Pekin, I have no doubt of Ephrinell and Miss Horatia Bluett nor the German baron, nor the two Chinese, nor Major Noltitz, nor the Caternas, nor even for the haughty gentleman whose bony outline I perceive in the corner of the second car.

As to these travelers who are not going across the frontier, they are of most perfect insignificance in my eyes. But among my companions I have not yet found the hero of my chronicle! let us hope he will declare himself as we proceed.

My intention is to take notes hour by hour — what did I say? To “minute” my journey. Before the night closes in I go out on the platform of the car to have a last look at the surrounding country. An hour with my cigar will take me to Kizil Arvat, where the train has to stop for some time. In going from the second to the first car I meet Major Noltitz. I step aside to let him pass. He salutes me with that grace which distinguishes well-bred Russians. I return his salute. Our meeting is restricted to this exchange of politeness, but the first step is taken.

Popof is not just now in his seat. The door of the luggage van being open, I conclude that the guard has gone to talk with the driver. On the left of the van the mysterious box is in its place. It is only half-past six as yet, and there is too much daylight for me to risk the gratification of my curiosity.

The train advances through the open desert. This is the Kara Koum, the Black Desert. It extends from Khiva over all Turkestan comprised between the Persian frontier and the course of the Amou Daria. In reality the sands of the Kara Koum are no more black than the waters of the Black Sea or than those of the White Sea are white, those of the Red Sea red, or those of the Yellow River yellow. But I like these colored distinctions, however erroneous they may be. In landscapes the eye is caught by colors. And is there not a good deal of landscape about geography?

It appears that this desert was formerly occupied by a huge central basin. It has dried up, as the Caspian will dry up, and this evaporation is explained by the powerful concentration of the solar rays on the surface of the territories between the Sea of Aral and the Plateau of the Pamir.

The Kara Koum is formed of low sandy hills which the high winds are constantly shifting and forming. These “barkans,” as the Russians call them, vary in height from thirty to ninety feet. They expose a wide surface to the northern hurricanes which drive them gradually southward. And on this account there is a well-justified fear for the safety of the Transcaspian. It had to be protected in some efficacious way, and General Annenkof would have been much embarrassed if provident Nature had not, at the same time as she gave the land favorable for the railway to be laid along, given the means of stopping the shifting of the barkanes.

Behind these sand hills grow a number of spring shrubs, clumps of tamarisk, star thistles, and that Haloxylon ammodendron which Russians call, not so scientifically, “saksaoul.” Its deep, strong roots are as well adapted for binding together the ground as those of Hippophae rhamnoides, an arbutus of the Eleagnaceous family, which is used for binding together the sands in southern Europe.

To these plantations of saksaouls the engineers of the line have added in different places a series of slopes of worked clay, and in the most dangerous places a line of palisades.

These precautions are doubtless of use; but if the road is protected, the passengers are hardly so, when the sand flies like a bullet hail, and the wind sweeps up from the plain the whitish efflorescences of salt. It is a good thing for us that we are not in the height of the hot season; and it is not in June or July or August that I would advise you to take a trip on the Grand Transasiatic.

I am sorry that Major Noltitz does not think of coming out on the gangway to breathe the fresh air of the Kara Koum. I would offer him one of those choice regalias with which my case is well provided. He would tell me if these stations I see on my timetable, Balla-Ischem, Aidine, Pereval, Kansandjik, Ouchak, are of any interest — which they do not seem to be. But it would not do for me to disturb his siesta. And yet his conversation ought to be interesting, for as a surgeon in the Russian army he took part in the campaigns of Generals Skobeleff and Annenkof. When our train ran through the little stations that it honors only with a whistle, he could tell me if this one or that one had been the scene of any incident of the war. As a Frenchman I am justified in questioning him about the Russian expedition across Turkestan, and I have no doubt that my fellow passenger will be pleased to gratify me. He is the only one I can really trust besides Popof.

But why is Popof not in his seat? He also is not insensible to the charms of a cigar. It would seem that his conversation with the engineer has not finished yet.

Ah! Here he is coming from the front of the luggage van. He comes out of it and shuts the door; he remains for a moment and is about to take a seat. A hand which holds a cigar, is stretched out toward him. Popof smiles and soon his perfumed puffs are mingling voluptuously with mine.

For fifteen years I think I said our guard had been in the Transcaspian service. He knows the country up to the Chinese frontier, and five or six times already he has been over the whole line known as the Grand Transasiatic.

Popof was on duty on the section between Mikhailov and Kizil Arvat when the line opened — a section which was begun in the December of 1880 and finished in ten months, in November, 1881. Five years later the locomotive entered Merv, on the 14th July, 1886, and eighteen months later it was welcomed at Samarkand. Now the road through Turkestan joins the road through the Celestial Empire, and the ribbon of iron extends without interruption from the Caspian Sea to Pekin.

When Popof had given me this information, I asked if he knew anything of our fellow travelers, I meant those who were going through to China. And in the first place of Major Noltitz?

“The major,” said Popof, “has lived a long time in the Turkestan provinces, and he is going to Pekin to organize the staff of a hospital for our compatriots, with the permission of the Czar, of course.”

“I like this Major Noltitz,” I said, “and I hope to make his acquaintance very soon.”

“He would be equally pleased to make yours,” replied Popof.

“And these two Chinese, do you know them?”

“Not in the least, Monsieur Bombarnac; all I know is the name on the luggage.”

“What is that?”

“The younger man’s name is Pan-Chao, the elder’s is Tio-King. Probably they have been traveling in Europe for some years. As to saying where they come from, I cannot. I imagine that Pan-Chao belongs to some rich family, for he is accompanied by his doctor.”

“This Tio-King?”

“Yes, Doctor Tio-King.”

“And do they only speak Chinese?”

“Probably; I have not heard them speak any other language together.”

On this information from Popof, I will keep to the number nine I have given to young Pan-Chao, and to the ten with which I have labelled Doctor Tio-King.

“The American,” began Popof.

“Ephrinell?” I exclaimed, “and Miss Horatia Bluett, the Englishwoman? Oh! You can tell me nothing about them I don’t know.”

“Shall I tell you what I think about that couple, Monsieur Bombarnac?”

“What do you think?”

“That as soon as they reach Pekin, Miss Bluett will become Mrs. Ephrinell.”

“And may Heaven bless their union, Popof, for they are really made for each other.”

I saw that on this subject Popof and I held similar ideas.

“And the two French people, that couple so affectionate.” I asked, “who are they?”

“Have they not told you?”

“No, Popof.”

“You need not be anxious, Monsieur Bombarnac. Besides, if you wish to know their profession, it is written at full length on all their luggage.

“And that is?”

“Stage people who are going to a theater in China.”

Stage people! If that explains the attitudes, and mobile physiognomy, and demonstrative gestures of Caterna, it does not explain his maritime allusions.

“And do you know what line these players are in?”

“The husband is comic lead.”

“And the wife?”

“She is leading lady.”

“And where are these lyrical people going?”

“To Shanghai, where they have an engagement at the French theater.”

That is capital. I will talk about the theater, and behind the scenes, and such matters, and, as Popof said, I shall soon make the acquaintance of the cheery comedian and his charming wife. But it is not in their company that I shall discover the hero of romance who is the object of my desire.

As to the scornful gentleman, our guide knew nothing beyond that his luggage bore the address in full: Sir Francis Trevellyan, Trevellyan Hall, Trevellyanshire.

“A gentleman who does not answer when he is spoken to!” added Popof.

Well, my number eight will have to be dumb man, and that will do very well.

“Now we get to the German,” said I.

“Baron Weissschnitzerdorfer?”

“He is going to Pekin, I think.”

“To Pekin and beyond.”

“Beyond?”

“Yes; he is on a trip round the world.”

“A trip round the world?”

“In thirty-nine days.”

And so after Mrs. Bisland who did the famous tour in seventy-three days, and Train who did it in seventy, this German was attempting to do it in thirty-nine?

True, the means of communication are more rapid the line is more direct, and by using the Grand Transasiatic which puts Pekin within a fortnight of the Prussian capital, the baron might halve the old time by Suez and Singapore — but —

“He will never do it!” I exclaimed.

“Why not?” asked Popof.

“Because he is always late. He nearly missed the train at Tiflis, he nearly missed the boat at Baku — “

“But he did not miss the start from Uzun Ada.”

“It doesn’t matter, Popof. I shall be much surprised if this German beats an American at globe trotting.”

CHAPTER VII.

The train arrived at Kizil Arvat, two hundred and forty-two versts from the Caspian, at thirteen minutes past seven in the evening instead of seven o’clock. This slight delay provoked thirteen objurgations from the baron, one for each minute.

We have two hours to wait at Kizil Arvat. Although the day is closing in, I could not employ my time better than in visiting this little town, which contains more than two thousand inhabitants, Russians, Persians and Turkomans. There is not much to see, however, either within it or around it; there are no trees — not even a palm tree — only pasturages and fields of cereals, watered by a narrow stream. My good fortune furnished me with a companion, or I should rather say a guide, in Major Noltitz.

Our acquaintance was made very simply. The major came up to me, and I went up to him as soon as we set foot on the platform of the railway station.

“Sir,” said I, “I am a Frenchman, Claudius Bombarnac, special correspondent of the Twentieth Century, and you are Major Noltitz of the Russian army. You are going to Pekin, so am I. I can speak your language, and it is very likely that you can speak mine.”

The major made a sign of assent.

“Well, Major Noltitz, instead of remaining strangers to each other during the long transit of Central Asia, would it please you for us to become more than mere traveling companions? You know all about this country that I do not know, and it would be a pleasure for me to learn from you.”

“Monsieur Bombarnac,” replied the major in French, without a trace of accent, “I quite agree with you.”

Then he added with a smile:

“As to learning from me, one of your most eminent critics, if I remember rightly, has said that the French only like to learn what they know.”

“I see that you have read Sainte Beuve, Major Noltitz; perhaps this sceptical academician was right in a general way. But for my part, I am an exception to the rule, and I wish to learn what I do not know. And in all that concerns Russian Turkestan, I am in a state of ignorance.”

“I am entirely at your disposal,” said the major, “and I will be happy to tell you all about General Annenkof, for I was all through the work with him.”

“I thank you, Major Noltitz. I expected no less than the courtesy of a Russian towards a Frenchman.”

“And,” said the major, “if you will allow me to quote that celebrated sentence in the Danicheffs, ‘It will be always thus so long as there are Frenchmen and Russians.’”

“The younger Dumas after Sainte Beuve?” I exclaimed. “I see, major, that I am talking to a Parisian — “

“Of Petersburg, Monsieur Bombarnac.”

And we cordially shook hands. A minute afterwards, we were on our way through the town, and this is what Major Noltitz told me:

It was towards the end of 1885 that General Annenkof finished, at Kizil Arvat, the first portion of this railway measuring about 140 miles, of which 90 were through a desert which did not yield a single drop of water. But before telling me how this extraordinary work was accomplished, Major Noltitz reminded me of the facts which had gradually prepared the conquest of Turkestan and its definite incorporation with the Russian Empire.

As far back as 1854 the Russians had imposed a treaty of alliance on the Khan of Khiva. Some years afterwards, eager to pursue their march towards the east, the campaigns of 1860 and 1864 had given them the Khanats of Kokhand and Bokhara. Two years later, Samarkand passed under their dominion after the battles of Irdjar and Zera-Buleh.

There remained to be conquered the southern portion of Turkestan, and chiefly the oasis of Akhal Tekke, which is contiguous to Persia. Generals Sourakine and Lazareff attempted this in their expeditions of 1878 and 1879. Their plans failed, and it was to the celebrated Skobeleff, the hero of Plevna, that the czar confided the task of subduing the valiant Turkoman tribes.

Skobeleff landed at the port of Mikhailov — the port of Uzun Ada was not then in existence — and it was in view of facilitating his march across the desert that his second in command, Annenkof, constructed the strategic railway which in ten months reached Kizil Arvat.

This is how the Russians built the line with a rapidity superior, as I have said, to that of the Americans in the far west, a line that was to be of use for commerce and for war.

To begin with, the general got together a construction train consisting of thirty-four wagons. Four of these were two-decked for the officers, twenty more had two decks and were used by the workmen and soldiers; one wagon served as a dining room, four as kitchens, one as an ambulance, one as a telegraph office, one as a forge, one as a provision store, and one was held in reserve. These were his traveling workshops and also his barracks in which fifteen hundred workmen, soldiers and otherwise, found their board and lodging. The train advanced as the rails were laid. The workmen were divided into two brigades; they each worked six hours a day, with the assistance of the country people who lived in tents and numbered about fifteen thousand. A telegraph wire united the works with Mikhailov, and from there a little Decauville engine worked the trains which brought along the rails and sleepers.

In this way, helped by the horizontality of the ground, a day’s work yielded nearly five miles of track, whereas in the plains of the United States only about half that rate was accomplished. Labor cost little; forty-five francs a month for the men from the oasis, fifty centimes a day for those who came from Bokhara.

It was in this way that Skobeleff’s soldiers were taken to Kizil Arvat, and then eighty-four miles beyond to Gheok Tepe. This town did not surrender until after the destruction of its ramparts and the massacre of twelve thousand of its defenders; but the oasis of Akhal Tekke was in the power of the Russians. The inhabitants of the Atek oasis were only too ready to submit, and that all the more willingly as they had implored the help of the czar in their struggle with Kouli Khan, the chief of the Mervians. These latter to the number of two hundred and fifty thousand, followed their example, and the first locomotive entered Merv station in July, 1886.

“And the English?” I asked Major Noltitz. “In what way have they looked upon the progress of the Russians through Central Asia?”

“Jealously, of course. Think for a moment what it means when the Russian railways are united with the Chinese, instead of the Indian. The Transcaspian in connection with the line between Herat and Delhi! And consider that the English have not been as fortunate in Afghanistan as we have been in Turkestan. You have noticed the gentleman in our train?”

“I have. He is Sir Francis Trevellyan of Trevellyan Hall, Trevellyanshire.”

“Well, Sir Francis Trevellyan has nothing but looks of contempt and shrugs of the shoulder for all we have done. His nation’s jealousy is incarnate in him, and England will never be content that our railways should go from Europe to the Pacific Ocean, while the British railways end at the Indian Ocean.”

This interesting conversation had lasted for the hour and a half during which we walked about the streets of Kizil Arvat. It was time to return to the station, and we did so.

Of course, matters did not end here. It was agreed that the major should leave his seat in the third car and occupy that next to mine in the first. We had already been two inhabitants of the same town; well, we would become two neighbors in the house, or, rather, two friends in the same room.

At nine o’clock the signal to start was given. The train leaving Kizil Arvat went off in a southwesterly direction towards Askhabad, along the Persian frontier.

For another half hour the major and I continued to talk of one thing or another. He told me that if the sun had not set, I should have been able to see the summits of the Great and Little Balkans of Asia which rise above the bay of Krasnovodsk.

Already most of our companions had taken up their quarters for the night on their seats, which by an ingenious mechanism could be transformed into beds, on which you could stretch yourself at full length, lay your head on a pillow, wrap yourself in rugs, and if you didn’t sleep well it would be on account of a troubled conscience.

Major Noltitz had nothing to reproach himself with apparently, for a few minutes after he had said good night he was deep in the sleep of the just.

As for me, if I remained awake it was because I was troubled in my mind. I was thinking of my famous packing case, of the man it contained, and this very night I had resolved to enter into communication with him. I thought of the people who had done this sort of thing before. In 1889, 1891, and 1892, an Austrian tailor, Hermann Zeitung, had come from Vienna to Paris, from Amsterdam to Brussels, from Antwerp to Christiania in a box, and two sweethearts of Barcelona, Erres and Flora Anglora, had shared a box between them from Spain into France.

But I must wait until Popof had retired to rest. The train would not stop until it reached Gheok Tepe at one o’clock in the morning. During the run from Kizil Arvat to Gheok Tepe I reckoned that Popof would have a good sleep, and then, or never, I would put my plan into execution.

Hold! an idea! Suppose it is Zeitung who makes a trade of this sort of thing and manages to make a little money out of public generosity? It ought to be Zeitung, it must be! Confound it! he is not at all interesting! And here was I reckoning on this fellow. Well, we shall see. I shall know him by his photographs, and perhaps I may make use of him.

Half an hour went by, and the noise of a door shutting on the platform of the car told me that our guard had just entered his little box. In spite of my desire to visit the baggage car I waited patiently, for it was possible that Popof was not yet sound asleep.

Within, all is quiet under the veiled light of the lamps.

Without, the night is very dark, and the rattle of the train mingles with the whistling of the rather high wind.

I rise. I draw aside the curtain of one of the lamps. I look at my watch.

It is a few minutes past eleven. Still two hours to Gheok Tepe.

The moment has come. I glide between the seats to the door of the car. I open it gently and shut it after me without being heard by my companions, without waking any one.

Here I am on the platform, which shakes as the train travels. Amid the unfathomable darkness which envelops the Kara Koum, I experience the feeling of a night at sea when on shipboard.

A feeble light filters through the blind of the guard’s box. Shall I wait till it is extinct, or, as is very probable, will it not last till the morning?

Anyhow, Popof is not asleep, as I discover by the noise he makes in turning over. I keep quiet, leaning against the balustrade of the platform.

Leaning forward my looks are attracted by the luminous ray thrown forward by the headlight of the engine. It seems as though we are running on a road of fire. Above me the clouds are racing across with great rapidity, and a few constellations glitter through their rifts, Cassiopeia, the Little Bear, in the north, and in the zenith Vega of Lyra.

At length absolute silence reigns on the platforms. Popof, who is in charge of the train, has his eyes closed in sleep. Assured of safety I cross the gangway and am in front of the baggage van.

The door is only fastened with a bar which is hung between two staples.

I open it and shut it behind me.

I do this without noise, for if I do not want to attract Popof’s attention, I do not want as yet to attract the attention of the man in the packing case.

Although the darkness is deep in the van, although there is no side window, I know my position. I know where the case is placed; it is in the left corner as I enter. The thing is not to knock against any other case — not against one of those belonging to Ephrinell, for what a row there would be if I set all those artificial teeth chattering!

Carefully feeling with feet and hands, I reach the case. No cat could have been more gentle or more silent as I felt its edges.

I leaned over and placed my ear timidly against the outer panel.

There was no sound of breathing.

The products of the house of Strong, Bulbul & Co. of New York, could not be more noiseless in their boxes.

A fear seizes upon me — the fear of seeing all my reporter’s hopes vanish. Was I deceived on board the Astara? That respiration, that sneeze; had I dreamed it all? Was there no one in the case, not even Zeitung? Were these really glass goods exported to Miss Zinca Klork, Avenue Cha-Coua, Pekin, China?

No! Feeble as it is, I detect a movement inside the case! It becomes more distinct, and I ask if the panel is going to slide, if the prisoner is coming out of his prison to breathe the fresh air?

What I had better do to see and not to be seen is to hide between two cases. Thanks to the darkness there is nothing to fear.

Suddenly a slight cracking greets my ear. I am not the sport of an illusion; it is the crack of a match being lighted.

Almost immediately a few feeble rays pierce the ventilation holes of the case.

If I had had any doubts as to the position held by the prisoner in the scale of being, I have none now. At the least it must be an ape who knows the use of fire, and also the handling of matches. Travelers tell us that such animals exist, but we have to take the statement on trust.

Why should I not confess it? A certain emotion came over me and I had to take care I did not run away.

A minute elapsed. Nothing shows that the panel has been moved, nothing gives me reason to suppose that the unknown is coming out.

Cautiously I wait. Then I have an idea to make something out of this light. The case is lighted within; if I were to peep through those holes?

I creep toward the case. A single apprehension chills my brain. If the light were suddenly extinguished!

I am against the panel, which I take care not to touch, and I put my eyes close to one of the holes.

There is a man in the box, and it is not the Austrian tailor, Zeitung! Thank Heaven! I will soon make him my No. 11.

The man’s features I can make out clearly. He is from twenty-five to twenty-six years of age. He does not shave, and his beard is brown. He is of the true Roumanian type, and that confirms me in my notion regarding his Roumanian correspondent. He is good-looking, although his face denotes great energy of character, and he must be energetic to have shut himself up in a box like this for such a long journey. But if he has nothing of the malefactor about him, I must confess that he does not look like the hero I am in search of as the chief personage in my story.

After all, they were not heroes, that Austrian and that Spaniard who traveled in their packing cases. They were young men, very simple, very ordinary, and yet they yielded columns of copy. And so this brave No. 11, with amplifications, antonyms, diaphoreses, epitases, tropes, metaphors, and other figures of that sort, I will beat out, I will enlarge, I will develop — as they develop a photographic negative.

Besides to travel in a box from Tiflis to Pekin is quite another affair than traveling from Vienna or Barcelona to Paris, as was done by Zeitung, Erres and Flora Anglora.

I add that I will not betray my Roumanian; I will report him to no one. He may rely on my discretion; he may reckon on my good offices if I can be of use to him when he is found out.

But what is he doing now? Well, he is seated on the bottom of his case and placidly eating his supper by the light of a little lamp. A box of preserves is on his knee, biscuit is not wanting, and in a little cupboard I notice some full bottles, besides a rug and overcoat hooked up on the wall.

Evidently No. 11 is quite at home. He is there in his cell like a snail in his shell. His house goes with him; and he saves the thousand francs it would have cost him to journey from Tiflis to Pekin, second-class. I know he is committing a fraud, and that the law punishes such fraud. He can come out of his box when he likes and take a walk in the van, or even at night venture on the platform. No! I do not blame him, and when I think of his being sent to the pretty Roumanian, I would willingly take his place.

An idea occurs to me which may not perhaps be as good as it seems. That is to rap lightly on the box so as to enter into communication with my new companion, and learn who he is, and whence he comes, for I know whither he goes. An ardent curiosity devours me, I must gratify it. There are moments when a special correspondent is metamorphosed into a daughter of Eve.

But how will the poor fellow take it? Very well, I am sure. I will tell him that I am a Frenchman, and a Roumanian knows he can always trust a Frenchman. I will offer him my services. I will propose to soften the rigors of his imprisonment by my interviews, and to make up the scarcity of his meals by little odds and ends. He will have nothing to fear from my imprudences.

I rap the panel.

The light suddenly goes out.

The prisoner has suspended his respiration.

I must reassure him.

“Open!” I say to him gently in Russian.

“Open — — — “

I cannot finish the sentence; for the train gives a sudden jump and slackens speed.

But we cannot yet have reached Gheok Tepe?

There is a noise outside.

I rush out of the van and shut the door behind me.

It was time.

I have scarcely reached the platform before Popofs door opens, and without seeing me he hurries through the van on to the engine.

Almost immediately the train resumes its normal speed and Popof reappears a minute afterwards.

“What is the matter, Popof?”

“What is often the matter, Monsieur Bombarnac. We have smashed a dromedary.”

“Poor brute!”

“Poor brute? He might have thrown us off the line!”

“Stupid brute, then!”

CHAPTER VIII.

Before the train reaches Gheok Tepe I am back in the car. Confound this dromedary! If he had not managed to get smashed so clumsily No. 11 would no longer be unknown to me. He would have opened his panel, we would have talked in a friendly way, and separated with a friendly shake of the hand. Now he will be full of anxiety, he knows his fraud is discovered, that there is some one who has reason to suspect his intentions, some one who may not hesitate to betray his secret. And then, after being taken out of his case, he will be put under guard at the next station, and it will be useless for Mademoiselle Zinca Klork to expect him in the capital of the Chinese Empire!

Yes! It would be better for me to relieve his anxiety this very night. That is impossible, for the train will soon stop at Gheok Tepe, and then at Askhabad which it will leave in the first hour of daylight. I can no longer trust to Popof’s going to sleep.

I am absorbed in these reflections, when the locomotive stops in Gheok Tepe station at one o’clock in the morning. None of my companions have left their beds.

I get out on to the platform and prowl around the van. It would be too risky to try and get inside. I should have been glad to visit the town, but the darkness prevents me from seeing anything. According to what Major Noltitz says it still retains the traces of Skobeleffs terrible assault in 1880 — dismantled walls, bastions in ruins. I must content myself with having seen all that with the major’s eyes.

The train starts at two o’clock in the morning, after having been joined by a few passengers who Popof tells me are Turkomans. I will have a look at them when daylight comes.

For ten minutes I remained on the car platform and watched the heights of the Persian frontier on the extreme limit of the horizon. Beyond the stretch of verdant oasis watered by a number of creeks, we crossed wide cultivated plains through which the line made frequent diversions.

Having discovered that Popof did not intend to go to sleep again, I went back to my corner.

At three o’clock there was another stop. The name of Askhabad was shouted along the platform. As I could not remain still I got out, leaving my companions sound asleep, and I ventured into the town.

Askhabad is the headquarters of the Transcaspian, and I opportunely remembered what Boulangier, the engineer, had said about it in the course of that interesting journey he had made to Merv. All that I saw on the left as I went out of the station, was the gloomy outline of the Turkoman Fort, dominating the new town, the population of which has doubled since 1887. It forms a confused mass behind a thick curtain of trees.

When I returned at half-past three, Popof was going through the luggage van, I know not why. What must be the Roumanian’s anxiety during this movement to and fro in front of his box!

As soon as Popof reappeared I said to him: “Anything fresh?”

“Nothing, except the morning breeze!” said he.

“Very fresh!” said I. “Is there a refreshment bar in the station?”

“There is one for the convenience of the passengers.”

“And for the convenience of the guards, I suppose? Come along, Popof.”

And Popof did not want asking twice.

The bar was open, but there did not seem to be much to choose from. The only liquor was “Koumiss,” which is fermented mare’s milk, and is the color of faded ink, very nourishing, although very liquid. You must be a Tartar to appreciate this koumiss. At least that is the effect it produced on me. But Popof thought it excellent, and that was the important point.

Most of the Sarthes and Kirghizes who got out at Askhabad, have been replaced by other second-class passengers, Afghan merchants and smugglers, the latter particularly clever in their line of business. All the green tea consumed in Central Asia is brought by them from China through India, and although the transport is much longer, they sell it at a much lower price than the Russian tea. I need not say that their luggage was examined with Muscovite minuteness.

The train started again at four o’clock. Our car was still a sleeper. I envied the sleep of my companions, and as that was all I could do, I returned to the platform.

The dawn was appearing in the east. Here and there were the ruins of the ancient city, a citadel girdled with high ramparts and a succession of long porticos extending over fifteen hundred yards. Running over a few embankments, necessitated by the inequalities of the sandy ground, the train reaches the horizontal steppe.

We are running at a speed of thirty miles an hour in a southwesterly direction, along the Persian frontier. It is only beyond Douchak that the line begins to leave it. During this three hours’ run the two stations at which the train stops are Gheours, the junction for the road to Mesched, whence the heights of the Iran plateau are visible, and Artyk where water is abundant although slightly brackish.

The train then traverses the oasis of the Atek, which is an important tributary of the Caspian. Verdure and trees are everywhere. This oasis justifies its name, and would not disgrace the Sahara. It extends to the station of Douchak at the six hundred and sixtieth verst, which we reach at six o’clock in the morning.

We stop here two hours, that is to say, there are two hours for us to walk about. I am off to look at Douchak with Major Noltitz as my cicerone.

A traveler precedes us out of the railway station; I recognize Sir Francis Trevellyan. The major makes me notice that this gentleman’s face is more sullen than usual, his lip more scornful, his attitude more Anglo-Saxon.

“And do you know why, Monsieur Bombarnac? Because this station at Douchak might be the terminus of a line from British India through the Afghan frontier, Kandahar, the Bolan Pass and the Pendjeh oasis, that would unite the two systems.”

“And how long would the line be?”

“About six hundred miles. But the English will not meet the Russians in a friendly way. But if we could put Calcutta within twelve days of London, what an advantage that would be for their trade!”

Talking in this way the major and I “did” Douchak. Some years ago it was foreseen how important this village would be. A branch line unites it with Teheran in Persia, while there has, as yet, been no survey for a line to India. While gentlemen cast in the mould of Sir Francis Trevellyan are in the majority in the United Kingdom, the Asiatic network of railways will never be complete.

I was led to question the major regarding the safety of the Grand Transasiatic across the provinces of Central Asia.

In Turkestan, he told me, the safety is well assured. The Russian police keep constant watch over it; there is a regular police force at the stations, and as the stations are not far apart, I don’t think the travelers have much to fear from the nomad tribes. Besides, the Turkomans are kept in their place by the Russian administration. During the years the Transcaspian has been at work, there has been no attack to hinder the train service.

“That is comforting, Major Noltitz. And as to the section between the frontier and Pekin?”

“That is another matter,” replied the major. “Over the Pamir plateau, up to Kachgar, the road is carefully guarded; but beyond that, the Grand Transasiatic is under Chinese control, and I have not much confidence in that.”

“Are the stations very far from each other?” I asked.

“Very far, sometimes.”

“And the Russians in charge of the train are replaced by Chinese, are they not?”

“Yes, with the exception of Popof, who goes through with us.”

“So that we shall have Chinese engine drivers and stokers? Well, major, that seems rather alarming, and the safety of the travelers — “

“Let me undeceive you, Monsieur Bombarnac. These Chinese are just as clever as we are. They are excellent mechanics, and it is the same with the engineers who laid out the line through the Celestial Empire. They are certainly a very intelligent race, and very fit for industrial progress.”

“I think, major, that they will one day become masters of the world — after the Slavs, of course!”

“I do not know what the future may have in store,” said Major Noltitz, with a smile. “But, returning to the Chinese, I say that they are of quick comprehension, with an astonishing facility of assimilation. I have seen them at work, and I speak from experience.”

“Agreed,” said I; “but if there is no danger under this head, are there not a lot of scoundrels prowling about Mongolia and Northern China?”

“And you think these scoundrels will be daring enough to attack the train?”

“Exactly, major, and that is what makes me feel easy.”

“What? Makes you feel easy?”

“Quite so, for my sole anxiety is that our journey may not be devoid of incident.”

“Really, Mr. Special Correspondent, I admire you. You must have incidents — “

“As a doctor must have patients. Now a real good adventure — “

“Well, Monsieur Bombarnac, I am afraid you will be disappointed, as I have heard that the company has treated several chiefs of the robber bands — “

“As the Greek Government treated Hadji Stavros in About’s romance.”

“Precisely; and who knows that if in their wisdom — “

“I don’t believe it.”

“Why not? It would be quite in the modern style, this way of assuring the safety of the trains during the run through the Celestial Empire. Anyhow, there is one of these highwaymen, who has retained his independence and liberty of action, a certain Ki-Tsang.”

“Who is he?”

“A bold bandit chief, half-Chinaman, half-Mongol. Having for some time been a terror to Yunnan, he was being too closely pursued, and has now moved into the northern provinces. His presence has ever been reported in that part of Mongolia served by the Grand Transasiatic.”

“Well, he ought to furnish a few paragraphs.”

“The paragraphs Ki-Tsang will furnish you with may cost you too dearly.”

“Bah! major, the Twentieth Century is quite rich enough to pay for its glory.”

“To pay with its money, perhaps, but we may have to pay with our lives! Luckily our companions have not heard you talk in this way, or they might come in a body and demand your expulsion from the train. So be careful, and keep a guard on your desires as a newspaper man in quest of adventures. Above all, don’t have anything to do with this Ki-Tsang. It would be all the better in the interest of the passengers.”

“But not of the passage, major.”

We returned towards the station. The stoppage at Douchak had another half hour to last. As I walked on the quay, I observed something going on which would change the make-up of our train.

Another van had arrived from Teheran by the branch line to Mesphed, which puts the Persian capital in communication with the Transcaspian.

This van was bolted and barred, and accompanied by a squad of Persian police, whose orders seemed to be not to lose sight of it.

I don’t know what made me think so, but it seemed as though this van had something mysterious about it, and as the major had left me, I went and spoke to Popof, who was watching over the proceedings.

“Popof, where is that van going?”

“To Pekin.”

“And what has it got in it?”

“What has it got in it? An exalted personage.”

“An exalted personage?”

“Are you surprised?”

“I am. In this van?”

“It is his own idea.”

“Well, Popof, when this exalted personage gets out perhaps you will let me know?”

“He Will not get out.”

“Why not?”

“Because he is dead.”

“Dead?”

“Yes, and it is his body they are taking to Pekin, where he will be interred with all the honors due to him.”

So that we were to have an important personage in our train — in the shape of a corpse, it is true. Never mind! I asked Popof to discover the name of the defunct. He ought to be some mandarin of mark. As soon as I knew it I would send a telegram to the Twentieth Century.

While I was looking at this van, a new passenger came up and examined it with no less curiosity than I did.

This traveler was a fine-looking man of about forty, wearing gracefully the costume of the richer Mongols, a tall fellow, with rather a gloomy look, a military moustache, tawny complexion, and eyes that never shut.

“Here is a splendid fellow,” I said to myself. “I don’t know if he will turn out the hero of the drama I am in search of, but, anyhow, I will number him twelve in my traveling troupe.”

This leading star, I soon learned from Popof, bore the name of Faruskiar. He was accompanied by another Mongol, of inferior rank, of about the same age, whose name was Ghangir. As they looked at the van being attached to the tail of the train in front of the luggage van, they exchanged a few words. As soon as the arrangements were complete the Persians took their places in the second-class car, which preceded the mortuary van, so as to have the precious corpse always under their surveillance.

At this moment there was a shout on the station platform I recognized the voice. It was the Baron Weissschnitzerdorfer shouting: “Stop! stop!”

This time it was not a train on the start, but a hat in distress. A sudden gust had swept through the station and borne off the baron’s hat — a helmet-shaped hat of a bluish color. It rolled on the platform, it rolled on the rails, it skimmed the enclosure and went out over the wall, and its owner ran his hardest to stop it.

At the sight of this wild pursuit the Caternas held their sides, the young Chinaman, Pan Chao, shouted with laughter, while Dr. Tio-King remained imperturbably serious.

The German purple, puffling and panting, could do no more. Twice he had got his hand on his hat, and twice it had escaped him, and now suddenly he fell full length with his head lost under the folds of his overcoat; whereupon Caterna began to sing the celebrated air from “Miss Helyett”: “Ah! the superb point of view — ew — ew — ew!

Ah! the view unexpected by you — you — you — you!”

I know nothing more annoying than a hat carried away by the wind, which bounds hither and thither, and spins and jumps, and glides, and slides, and darts off just as you think you are going to catch it. And if that should happen to me I will forgive those who laugh at the comic endeavor.

But the baron was in no mood for forgiveness. He bounded here, and bounded there, he jumped on to the line. They shouted to him, “Look out! look out!” for the Merv was coming in at some speed. It brought death to the hat, the engine smashed it pitilessly, and it was only a torn rag when it was handed to the baron. And then began again a series of imprecations on the Grand Transasiatic.

The signal is given. The passengers, old and new, hurry to their places. Among the new ones I notice three Mongols, of forbidding appearance, who get into the second-class car.

As I put my foot on the platform I hear the young Chinese say to his companion: “Well, Dr. Tio-King, did you see the German with his performing hat? How I laughed!”

And so Pan Chao speaks French. What do I say? Better than French — he speaks Persian! Most extraordinary! I must have a talk with him.

CHAPTER IX.

We started to time. The baron could not complain this time. After all, I understood his impatience; a minute’s delay might cause him to lose the mail boat from Tien Tsin to Japan.

The day looked promising, that is to say, there might have been a wind strong enough to put out the sun as if it were a candle, such a hurricane as sometimes stops the locomotives of the Grand Transasiatic, but to-day it is blowing from the west, and will be supportable, as it blows the train along. We can remain out on the platforms.

I want to enter into conversation with Pan Chao. Popof was right; he must be the son of some family of distinction who has been spending some years in Paris for education and amusement. He ought to be one of the most regular visitors at the Twentieth Century “five o’clocks.”

Meanwhile I will attend to other business. There is that man in the case. A whole day will elapse before I can relieve his anxiety. In what a state he must be! But as it would be unwise for me to enter the van during the day, I must wait until night.

I must not forget that an interview with the Caternas is included in the programme. There will be no difficulty in that, apparently.

What will not be so easy is to get into conversation with my No. 12, his superb lordship Faruskiar. He seems rather stiff, does this Oriental.

Ah! There is a name I must know as soon as possible, that of the mandarin returning to China in the form of a mortuary parcel. With a little ingenuity Popof may manage to ascertain it from one of the Persians in charge of his Excellency. If it would only be that of some grand functionary, the Pao-Wang, or the Ko-Wang, or the viceroy of the two Kiangs, the Prince King in person!

For an hour the train is running through the oasis. We shall soon be in the open desert. The soil is formed of alluvial beds extending up to the environs of Merv. I must get accustomed to this monotony of the journey which will last up to the frontier of Turkestan. Oasis and desert, desert and oasis. As we approach the Pamir the scenery will change a little. There are picturesque bits of landscape in that orographic knot which the Russians have had to cut as Alexander cut the gordian knot that was worth something to the Macedonian conqueror of Asia. Here is a good augury for the Russian conquest.

But I must wait for this crossing of the Pamir and its varied scenery. Beyond lay the interminable plains of Chinese Turkestan, the immense sandy desert of Gobi, where the monotony of the journey will begin again.

It is half-past ten. Breakfast will soon be served in the dining car. Let us take a walk through the length of the train.

Where is Ephrinell? I do not see him at his post by the side of Miss Horatia Bluett, whom I questioned on the subject after saluting her politely.

“Mr. Ephrinell has gone to give an eye to his cases,” she replies.

In the rear of the second car Faruskiar and Ghangir have installed themselves; they are alone at this moment, and are talking together in a low tone.

As I return I meet Ephrinell, who is coming back to his traveling companion. He shakes my hand Yankee fashion. I tell him that Miss Horatia Bluett has given me news of him.

“Oh!” says he, “what a woman yonder! What a splendid saleswoman! One of those English — “

“Who are good enough to be Americans!” I add.

“Wait a bit!” he replies, with a significant smile.

As I am going put, I notice that the two Chinamen are already in the dining car, and that Dr. Tio-King’s little book is on the table.

I do not consider it too much of a liberty for a reporter to pick up this little book, to open it and to read the title, which is as follows: The temperate and regular life, Or the art of living long in perfect health.

Translated from the Italian of Louis Cornaro, a Venetian noble.

To which is added the way of correcting a bad constitution, and enjoying perfect felicity to the most advanced years.

and to die only from the using up of the original humidity in extreme old age.

Salerno,

1782.

And this is the favorite reading of Dr. Tio-King! And that is why his disrespectful pupil occasionally gives him the nickname of Cornaro!

I have not time to see anything else in this volume than Abstinentia adjicit vitam; but this motto of the noble Venetian I have no intention of putting in practice, at least at breakfast time.

There is no change in the order in which we sit down to table. I find myself close to Major Noltitz, who is looking attentively at Faruskiar and his companion, placed at the extremity of the table. We are asking ourselves who this haughty Mongol could be.

“Ah!” said I, laughing at the thought which crossed my mind, “if that is — “

“Who?” asked the major.

“The chief of the brigands, the famous Ki-Tsang.”

“Have your joke, Monsieur Bombarnac, but under your breath, I advise you!”

“You see, major, he would then be an interesting personage and worth a long interview!”

We enjoyed our meal as we talked. The breakfast was excellent, the provisions having come freshly on board at Askhabad and Douchak. For drink we had tea, and Crimean wine, and Kazan beer; for meat we had mutton cutlets and excellent preserves; for dessert a melon with pears and grapes of the best quality.

After breakfast I went to smoke my cigar on the platform behind the dining car. Caterna almost immediately joins me. Evidently the estimable comedian has seized the opportunity to enter into conversation with me.

His intelligent eyes, his smooth face, his cheeks accustomed to false whiskers, his lips accustomed to false moustaches, his head accustomed to wigs red, black, or gray, bald or hairy, according to his part, everything denoted the actor made for the life of the boards. But he had such an open, cheery face, such an honest look, so frank an attitude, that he was evidently a really good fellow.

“Sir,” said he to me, “are two Frenchmen going all the way from Baku to Pekin without making each other’s acquaintance?”

“Sir,” I replied, “when I meet a compatriot — “

“Who is a Parisian — “

“And consequently a Frenchman twice over,” I added, “I am only too glad to shake hands with him! And so, Monsieur Caterna — “

“You know my name?”

“As you know mine, I am sure.”

“Of course, Monsieur Claudius Bombarnac, correspondent of the Twentieth Century.”

“At your service, believe me.”

“A thousand thanks, Monsieur Bombarnac, and even ten thousand, as they say in China, whither Madame Caterna and I are bound.”

“To appear at Shanghai in the French troupe at the residency as — “

“You know all that, then?”

“A reporter!”

“Quite so.”

“I may add, from sundry nautical phrases I have noticed, that you have been to sea.”

“I believe you, sir. Formerly coxswain of Admiral de Boissondy’s launch on board the Redoubtable.”

“Then I beg to ask why you, a sailor, did not go by way of the sea?”

“Ah, there it is, Monsieur Bombarnac. Know that Madame Caterna, who is incontestably the first leading lady of the provinces, and there is not one to beat her as a waiting maid or in a man’s part, cannot stand the sea. And when I heard of the Grand Transasiatic, I said to her, ‘Be easy, Caroline! Do not worry yourself about the perfidious element. We will cross Russia, Turkestan, and China, without leaving terra firma!’ And that pleased her, the little darling, so brave and so devoted, so — I am at a loss for a word — well, a lady who will play the duenna in case of need, rather than leave the manager in a mess! An artiste, a true artiste!”

It was a pleasure to listen to Caterna; he was in steam, as the engineer says, and the only thing to do was to let him blow off. Surprising as it may seem, he adored his wife, and I believe she was equally fond of him. A well-matched couple, evidently, from what I learned from my comedian, never embarrassed, very wide awake, content with his lot, liking nothing so much as the theater — above all the provincial theater — where he and his wife had played in drama, vaudeville, comedy, operetta, opera comique, opera, spectacle, pantomime, happy in the entertainment which began at five o’clock in the afternoon and ended at one o’clock in the morning, in the grand theaters of the chief cities, in the saloon of the mayor, in the barn of the village, without boots, without patches, without orchestra, sometimes even without spectators — thus saving the return of the money — professionals fit for anything, no matter what.

As a Parisian, Caterna must have been the wag of the forecastle when he was at sea. As clever with his instrument of brass or wood, he possessed a most varied and complete assortment of jokes, songs, monologues, and dialogues. This he told me with an immense amount of attitude and gesture, now here, now there, legs, arms, hands, and feet all going together. I should never feel dull in the company of such a merry companion.

“And where were you before you left France?” I asked.

“At La Ferte-sous-Jouarre, where Madame Caterna achieved a genuine success as Elsa in ‘Lohengrin,’ which we played without music. But it is an interesting piece, and it was well done.”

“You must have been a good deal about the world, Monsieur Caterna?”

“I believe you; Russia, England, both Americas. Ah! Monsieur Claudius.”

He already called me Claudius.

“Ah! Monsieur Claudius, there was a time when I was the idol of Buenos Ayres, and the pet of Rio Janeiro! Do not think I would tell you an untruth! No! I know myself. Bad at Paris, I am excellent in the provinces. In Paris you play for yourself; in the provinces you play for the others! And then what a repertory!”

“My compliments, my dear compatriot!”

“I accept them, Monsieur Claudius, for I like my trade. What would you haye? All the world cannot expect to be a senator or — a special correspondent.”

“There, that is wicked, Monsieur Caterna,” said I, with a laugh.

“No; it is the last word.”

And while the unwearied actor ran on in this way, stations appeared one after the other between the shrieks of the whistle, Kulka, Nisachurch, Kulla Minor and others, not particularly cheerful to look at; then Bairam Ali at the seven hundred and ninety-fifth verst and Kourlan Kala at the eight hundred and fifteenth.

“And to tell you the truth,” continued Caterna, “we have made a little money by going about from town to town. At the bottom of our boxes are a few Northern debentures, of which I think a good deal, and take much care, and they have been honestly got, Monsieur Claudius. Although we live under a democratic government, the rule of equality, the time is still far off when you will see the noble father dining beside the prefect at the table of the judge of appeal, and the actress open the ball with the prefect at the house of the general-in-chief! Well! We can dine and dance among ourselves — “

“And be just as happy, Monsieur Caterna.”

“Certainly no less, Monsieur Claudius,” replied the future premier comic of Shanghai, shaking an imaginary frill with the graceful ease of one of Louis XV.‘s noblemen.

At this point, Madame Caterna came up. She was in every way worthy of her husband, sent into the world to reply to him in life as on the stage, one of those genial theater folks, born one knows not where or how, but thoroughly genuine and good-natured.

“I beg to introduce you to Caroline Caterna,” said the actor, in much the same tone as he would have introduced me to Patti or Sarah Bernhardt.

“Having shaken hands with your husband,” said I, “I shall be happy to shake hands with you, Madame Caterna.”

“There you are, then,” said the actress, “and without ceremony, foot to the front, and no prompting.”

“As you see, no nonsense about her, and the best of wives — “

“As he is the best of husbands.”

“I believe I am, Monsieur Claudius,” said the actor, “and why? Because I believe that marriage consists entirely in the precept to which husbands should always conform, and that is, that what the wife likes the husband should eat often.”

It will be understood that it was touching to see this honest give-and-take, so different from the dry business style of the two commercials who were in conversation in the adjoining car.

But here is Baron Weissschnitzerdorfer, wearing a traveling cap, coming out of the dining car, where I imagine he has not spent his time consulting the time-table.

“The good man of the hat trick!” said Caterna, after the baron went back into the car without favoring us with a salute.

“He is quite German enough!” said Madame Caterna.

“And to think that Henry Heine called those people sentimental oaks!” I added.

“Then he could not have known that one!” said Caterna. “Oak, I admit, but sentimental — “

“Do you know why the baron has patronized the Grand Transasiatic?” I asked.

“To eat sauerkraut at Pekin!” said Caterna.

“Not at all. To rival Miss Nelly Bly. He is trying to get around the world in thirty-nine days.”

“Thirty-nine days!” exclaimed Gaterna. “You should say a hundred and thirty-nine!”

And in a voice like a husky clarinet the actor struck up the well-known air from the Cloches de Corneville: “I thrice have been around the world.”

Adding, for the baron’s benefit: “He will not do the half.”

CHAPTER X.

At a quarter-past twelve our train passed the station of Kari Bata, which resembles one of the stations on the line from Naples to Sorrento, with its Italian roofs. I noticed a vast Asiatico-Russian camp, the flags waving in the fresh breeze. We have entered the Mervian oasis, eighty miles long and eight wide, and containing about six hundred thousand hectares — there is nothing like being precise at the finish. Right and left are cultivated fields, clumps of fine trees, an uninterrupted succession of villages, huts among the thickets, fruit gardens between the houses, flocks of sheep and herds of cattle among the pastures. All this rich country is watered by the Mourgab — the White Water — or its tributaries, and pheasants swarm like crows on the plains of Normandy. At one o’clock in the afternoon the train stopped at Merv Station, over five hundred miles from Uzun Ada.

The town has been often destroyed and rebuilt. The wars of Turkestan have not spared it. Formerly, it seems, it was a haunt of robbers and bandits, and it is a pity that the renowned Ki-Tsang did not live in those days. Perhaps he would have become a Genghis Khan?

Major Noltitz told me of a Turkoman saying to the following effect: “If you meet a Mervian and a viper, begin by killing the Mervian and leave the viper till afterwards.”

I fancy it would be better to begin with killing the viper now that the Mervian has become a Russian.

We have seven hours to stop at Merv. I shall have time to visit this curious town. Its physical and moral transformation has been profound, owing to the somewhat arbitrary proceedings of the Russian administration. It is fortunate that its fortress, five miles round, built by Nour Verdy in 1873, was not strong enough to prevent its capture by the czar, so that the old nest of malefactors has become one of the most important cities of the Transcaspian.

I said to Major Noltitz:

“If it is not trespassing on your kindness, may I ask you to go with me?”

“Willingly,” he answered; “and as far as I am concerned, I shall be very pleased to see Merv again.”

We set out at a good pace.

“I ought to tell you,” said the major, “that it is the new town we are going to see.”

“And why not the old one first? That would be more logical and more chronological.”

“Because old Merv is eighteen miles away, and you will hardly see it as you pass. So you must refer to the accurate description given of it by your great geographer Elisee Reclus.”

And certainly readers will not lose anything by the change.

The distance from the station to new Merv is not great. But what an abominable dust! The commercial town is built on the left of the river — a town in the American style, which would please Ephrinell, wide streets straight as a line crossing at right angles; straight boulevards with rows of trees; much bustle and movement among the merchants in Oriental costume, in Jewish costume, merchants of every kind; a number of camels and dromedaries, the latter much in request for their powers of withstanding fatigue and which differ in their hinder parts from their African congeners. Not many women along the sunny roads which seem white hot. Some of the feminine types are, however, sufficiently remarkable, dressed out in a quasi-military costume, wearing soft boots and a cartouche belt in the Circassian style. You must take care of the stray dogs, hungry brutes with long hair and disquieting fangs, of a breed reminding one of the dogs of the Caucasus, and these animals — according to Boulangier the engineer — have eaten a Russian general.

“Not entirely,” replies the major, confirming the statement. “They left his boots.”

In the commercial quarter, in the depths of the gloomy ground floors, inhabited by the Persians and the Jews, within the miserable shops are sold carpets of incredible fineness, and colors artistically combined, woven mostly by old women without any Jacquard cards.

On both banks of the Mourgab the Russians have their military establishment. There parade the Turkoman soldiers in the service of the czar. They wear the blue cap and the white epaulettes with their ordinary uniform, and drill under the orders of Russian officers.

A wooden bridge, fifty yards long, crosses the river. It is practicable not only for foot-passengers, but for trains, and telegraph wires are stretched above its parapets.

On the opposite bank is the administrative town, which contains a considerable number of civil servants, wearing the usual Russian cap.

In reality the most interesting place to see is a sort of annexe, a Tekke village, in the middle of Merv, whose inhabitants have retained the villainous characteristics of this decaying race, the muscular bodies, large ears, thick lips, black beard. And this gives the last bit of local color to be found in the new town.

At a turning in the commercial quarter we met the commercials, American and English.

“Mr. Ephrinell,” I said, “there is nothing curious in this modern Merv.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Bombarnac, the town is almost Yankee, and it will soon see the day when the Russians will give it tramways and gaslights!”

“That will come!”

“I hope it will, and then Merv will have a right to call itself a city.”

“For my part, I should have preferred a visit to the old town, with its mosque, its fortress, and its palace. But that is a little too far off, and the train does not stop there, which I regret.”

“Pooh!” said the Yankee. “What I regret is, that there is no business to be done in these Turkoman countries! The men all have teeth — “

“And the women all have hair,” added Horatia Bluett.

“Well, miss, buy their hair, and you will not lose your time.”

“That is exactly what Holmes-Holme of London will do as soon as we have exhausted the capillary stock of the Celestial Empire.”

And thereupon the pair left us.

I then suggested to Major Noltitz — it was six o’clock — to dine at Merv, before the departure of the train. He consented, but he was wrong to consent. An ill-fortune took us to the Hotel Slav, which is very inferior to our dining car — at least as regards its bill of fare. It contained, in particular, a national soup called “borchtch,” prepared with sour milk, which I would carefully refrain from recommending to the gourmets of the Twentieth Century.

With regard to my newspaper, and that telegram relative to the mandarin our train is “conveying” in the funereal acceptation of the word? Has Popof obtained from the mutes who are on guard the name of this high personage?

Yes, at last! And hardly are we within the station than he runs up to me, saying:

“I know the name.”

“And it is?”

“Yen Lou, the great mandarin Yen Lou of Pekin.”

“Thank you, Popof.”

I rush to the telegraph office, and from there I send a telegram to the Twentieth Century.

“Merv, 16th May, 7 p.m.

“Train, Grand Transasiatic, just leaving Merv. Took from Douchak the body of the great mandarin Yen Lou coming from Persia to Pekin.”

It cost a good deal, did this telegram, but you will admit it was well worth its price.

The name of Yen Lou was immediately communicated to our fellow travelers, and it seemed to me that my lord Faruskiar smiled when he heard it.

We left the station at eight o’clock precisely. Forty minutes afterwards we passed near old Merv, and the night being dark I could see nothing of it. There was, however, a fortress with square towers and a wall of some burned bricks, and ruined tombs, and a palace and remains of mosques, and a collection of archaeological things, which would have run to quite two hundred lines of small text.

“Console yourself,” said Major Noltitz. “Your satisfaction could not be complete, for old Merv has been rebuilt four times. If you had seen the fourth town, Bairam Ali of the Persian period, you would not have seen the third, which was Mongol, still less the Musalman village of the second epoch, which was called Sultan Sandjar Kala, and still less the town of the first epoch. That was called by some Iskander Kala, in honor of Alexander the Macedonian, and by others Ghiaour Kala, attributing its foundation to Zoroaster, the founder of the Magian religion, a thousand years before Christ. So I should advise you to put your regrets in the waste-paper basket.”

And that is what I did, as I could do no better with them.

Our train is running northeast. The stations are twenty or thirty versts apart. The names are not shouted, as we make no stop, and I have to discover them on my time-table. Such are Keltchi, Ravina — why this Italian name in this Turkoman province? — Peski, Repetek, etc. We cross the desert, the real desert without a thread of water, where artesian wells have to be sunk to supply the reservoirs along the line.

The major tells me that the engineers experienced immense difficulty in fixing the sandhills on this part of the railway. If the palisades had not been sloped obliquely, like the barbs of a feather, the line would have been covered by the sand to such an extent as to stop the running of the trains. As soon as this region of sandhills had been passed we were again on the level plain on which the rails had been laid so easily.

Gradually my companions go to sleep, and our carriage is transformed into a sleeping car.

I then return to my Roumanian. Ought I to attempt to see him to-night? Undoubtedly; and not only to satisfy a very natural curiosity, but also to calm his anxiety. In fact, knowing his secret is known to the person who spoke to him through the panel of his case, suppose the idea occurred to him to get out at one of the stations, give up his journey, and abandon his attempt to rejoin Mademoiselle Zinca Klork, so as to escape the company’s pursuit? That is possible, after all, and my intervention may have done the poor fellow harm — to say nothing of my losing No. 11, one of the most valuable in my collection.

I am resolved to visit him before the coming dawn. But, in order to be as careful as possible, I will wait until the train has passed Tchardjoui, where it ought to arrive at twenty-seven past two in the morning. There we shall stop a quarter of an hour before proceeding towards the Amu-Daria. Popof will then retire to his den, and I shall be able to slip into the van, without fear of being seen.

How long the hours appear! Several times I have almost fallen asleep, and twice or thrice I have had to go out into the fresh air on the platform.

The train enters Tchardjoui Station to the minute. It is an important town of the Khanate of Bokhara, which the Transcaspian reached towards the end of 1886, seventeen months after the first sleeper was laid. We are not more than twelve versts from the Amu-Daria, and beyond that river I shall enter on my adventure.

I have said that the stop at Tchardjoui ought to last a quarter of an hour. A few travelers alight, for they have booked to this town which contains about thirty thousand inhabitants. Others get in to proceed to Bokhara and Samarkand, but these are only second-class passengers. This produces a certain amount of bustle on the platform.

I also get out and take a walk up and down by the side of the front van, and I notice the door silently open and shut. A man creeps out on to the platform and slips away through the station, which is dimly lighted by a few petroleum lamps.

It is my Roumanian. It can be no one else. He has not been seen, and there he is, lost among the other travelers. Why this escape? Is it to renew his provisions at the refreshment bar? On the contrary, is not his intention, as I am afraid it is, to get away from us?

Shall I stop him? I will make myself known to him; promise to help him. I will speak to him in French, in English, in German, in Russian — as he pleases. I will say to him: “My friend, trust to my discretion; I will not betray you. Provisions? I will bring them to you during the night. Encouragements? I will heap them on you as I will the refreshments. Do not forget that Mademoiselle Zinca Klork, evidently the most lovely of Roumanians, is expecting you at Pekin, etc.”

Behold me then following him without appearing to do so. Amid all this hurry to and fro he is in little danger of being noticed. Neither Popof nor any of the company’s servants would suspect him to be a swindler. Is he going towards the gate to escape me?

No! He only wants to stretch his legs better than he can do in the van. After an imprisonment which has lasted since he left Baku — that is to say, about sixty hours — he has earned ten minutes of freedom.

He is a man of middle height, lithe in his movements, and with a gliding kind of walk. He could roll himself up like a cat and find quite room enough in his case. He wears an old vest, his trousers are held up by a belt, and his cap is a fur one — all of dark color.

I am at ease regarding his intentions. He returns towards the van, mounts the platform, and shuts the door gently behind him. As soon as the train is on the move I will knock at the panel, and this time —

More of the unexpected. Instead of waiting at Tchardjoui one-quarter of an hour we have to wait three. A slight injury to one of the brakes of the engine has had to be repaired, and, notwithstanding the German baron’s remonstrances, we do not leave the station before half-past three, as the day is beginning to dawn.

It follows from this that if I cannot visit the van I shall at least see the Amou-Daria.

The Amou-Daria is the Oxus of the Ancients, the rival of the Indus and the Ganges. It used to be a tributary of the Caspian, as shown on the maps, but now it flows into the Sea of Aral. Fed by the snows and rains of the Pamir plateau, its sluggish waters flow between low clay cliffs and banks of sand. It is the River-Sea in the Turkoman tongue, and it is about two thousand five hundred kilometres long.

The train crosses it by a bridge a league long, the line being a hundred feet and more above its surface at low water, and the roadway trembles on the thousand piles which support it, grouped in fives between each of the spans, which are thirty feet wide.

In ten months, at a cost of thirty-five thousand roubles, General Annenkof built this bridge, the most important one on the Grand Transasiatic.

The river is of a dull-yellow color. A few islands emerge from the current here and there, as far as one can see.

Popof pointed out the stations for the guards on the parapet of the bridge.

“What are they for?” I asked.

“For the accommodation of a special staff, whose duty it is to give the alarm in case of fire, and who are provided with fire-extinguishers.”

This is a wise precaution. Not only have sparks from the engines set it on fire in several places, but there are other disasters possible. A large number of boats, for the most part laden with petroleum, pass up and down the Amou-Daria, and it frequently happens that these become fire-ships. A constant watch is thus only too well justified, for if the bridge were destroyed, its reconstruction would take a year, during which the transport of passengers from one bank to the other would not be without its difficulties.

At last the train is going slowly across the bridge. It is broad daylight. The desert begins again at the second station, that of Karakoul. Beyond can be seen the windings of an affluent of the Amou-Daria, the Zarafchane, “the river that rolls with gold,” the course of which extends up to the valley of the Sogd, in that fertile oasis on which stands the city of Samarkand.

At five o’clock in the morning the train stops at the capital of the Khanate of Bokhara, eleven hundred and seven versts from Uzun Ada.

CHAPTER XI.

The Khanates of Bokhara and Samarkand used to form Sogdiana, a Persian satrapy inhabited by the Tadjiks and afterwards by the Usbegs, who invaded the country at the close of the fifteenth century. But another invasion, much more modern, is to be feared, that of the sands, now that the saksaouls intended to bring the sandhills to a standstill, have almost completely disappeared.

Bokhara, the capital of the Khanate, is the Rome of Islam, the Noble City, the City of Temples, the revered centre of the Mahometan religion. It was the town with the seven gates, which an immense wall surrounded in the days of its splendor, and its trade with China has always been considerable. Today it contains eighty thousand inhabitants.

I was told this by Major Noltitz, who advised me to visit the town in which he had lived several times. He could not accompany me, having several visits to pay. We were to start again at eleven o’clock in the morning. Five hours only to wait and the town some distance from the railway station! If the one were not connected with the other by a Decauville — a French name that sounds well in Sogdiana — time would fail for having even a slight glimpse of Bokhara.

It is agreed that the major will accompany me on the Decauville; and when we reach our destination he will leave me to attend to his private affairs. I cannot reckon on him. Is it possible that I shall have to do without the company of any of my numbers?

Let us recapitulate. My Lord Faruskiar? Surely he will not have to worry himself about the mandarin Yen Lou, shut up in this traveling catafalque! Fulk Ephrinell and Miss Horatia Bluett? Useless to think of them when we are talking about palaces, minarets, mosques and other archaeological inutilities. The actor and the actress? Impossible, for Madame Caterna is tired, and Monsieur Caterna will consider it his duty to stay with her. The two Celestials? They have already left the railway station. Ah! Sir Francis Trevellyan. Why not? I am not a Russian, and it is the Russians he cannot stand. I am not the man who conquered Central Asia. I will try and open this closely shut gentleman.

I approach him; I bow; I am about to speak. He gives me a slight inclination and turns on his heel and walks off! The animal!

But the Decauville gives its last whistle. The major and I occupy one of the open carriages. Half an hour afterwards we are through the Dervaze gate, the major leaves me, and here am I, wandering through the streets of Bokhara.

If I told the readers of the Twentieth Century that I visited the hundred schools of the town, its three hundred mosques — almost as many mosques as there are churches in Rome, they would not believe me, in spite of the confidence that reporters invariably receive. And so I will confine myself to the strict truth.

As I passed along the dusty roads of the city, I entered at a venture any of the buildings I found open. Here it was a bazaar where they sold cotton materials of alternate colors called “al adjas,” handkerchiefs as fine as spider webs, leather marvelously worked, silks the rustle of which is called “tchakhtchukh,” in Bokhariot, a name that Meilhac and Halevy did wisely in not adopting for their celebrated heroine. There it was a shop where you could buy sixteen sorts of tea, eleven of which are green, that being the only kind used in the interior of China and Central Asia, and among these the most sought after, the “louka,” one leaf of which will perfume a whole teapot.

Farther on I emerged on the quay of the Divanbeghi, reservoirs, bordering one side of a square planted with elms. Not far off is the Arche, which is the fortified palace of the emir and has a modern clock over the door. Arminius Vambery thought the palace had a gloomy look, and so do I, although the bronze cannon which defend the entrance appear more artistic than destructive. Do not forget that the Bokhariot soldiers, who perambulate the streets in white breeches, black tunics, astrakan caps, and enormous boots, are commanded by Russian officers freely decorated with golden embroidery.

Near the palace to the right is the largest mosque of the town, the mosque of Mesjidi Kelan, which was built by Abdallah Khan Sheibani. It is a world of cupolas, clock towers, and minarets, which the storks appear to make their home, and there are thousands of these birds in the town.

Rambling on at a venture I reach the shores of the Zarafchane on the northeast of the town. Its fresh limpid waters fill its bed once or twice a fortnight. Excellent this for health! When the waters appear men, women, children, dogs, bipeds, quadrupeds, bathe together in tumultuous promiscuousness, of which I can give no idea, nor recommend as an example.

Going northwest towards the centre of the city, I came across groups of dervishes with pointed hats, a big stick in their hands, their hair straggling in the breeze, stopping occasionally to take their part in a dance which would not have disgraced the fanatics of the Elysee Montmartre during a chant, literally vociferated, and accentuated by the most characteristic steps.

Let us not forget that I went through the book market. There are no less than twenty-six shops where printed books and manuscripts are sold, not by weight like tea or by the box like vegetables, but in the ordinary way. As to the numerous “medresses,” the colleges which have given Bokhara its renown as a university — I must confess that I did not visit one. Weary and worn I sat down under the elms of the Divanbeghi quay. There, enormous samovars are continually on the boil, and for a “tenghe,” or six pence three farthings, I refreshed myself with “shivin,” a tea of superior quality which only in the slightest degree resembles that we consume in Europe, which has already been used, so they say, to clean the carpets in the Celestial Empire.

That is the only remembrance I retain of the Rome of Turkestan. Besides, as I was not able to stay a month there, it was as well to stay there only a few hours.

At half-past ten, accompanied by Major Noltitz, whom I found at the terminus of the Decauville, I alighted at the railway station, the warehouses of which are crowded with bales of Bokhariot cotton, and packs of Mervian wool.

I see at a glance that all my numbers are on the platform, including my German baron. In the rear of the train the Persians are keeping faithful guard round the mandarin Yen Lou. It seems that three of our traveling companions are observing them with persistent curiosity; these are the suspicious-looking Mongols we picked up at Douchak. As I pass near them I fancy that Faruskiar makes a signal to them, which I do not understand. Does he know them? Anyhow, this circumstance rather puzzles me.

The train is no sooner off than the passengers go to the dining car. The places next to mine and the major’s, which had been occupied since the start, are now vacant, and the young Chinaman, followed by Dr. Tio-King, take advantage of it to come near us. Pan Chao knows I am on the staff of the Twentieth Century, and he is apparently as desirous of talking to me as I am of talking to him.

I am not mistaken. He is a true Parisian of the boulevard, in the clothes of a Celestial. He has spent three years in the world where people amuse themselves, and also in the world where they learn. The only son of a rich merchant in Pekin, he has traveled under the wing of this Tio-King, a doctor of some sort, who is really the most stupid of baboons, and of whom his pupil makes a good deal of fun.

Dr. Tio-King, since he discovered Cornaro’s little book on the quays of the Seine, has been seeking to make his existence conform to the “art of living long in perfect health.” This credulous Chinaman of the Chinese had become thoroughly absorbed in the study of the precepts so magisterially laid down by the noble Venetian. And Pan Chao is always chaffing him thereupon, though the good man takes no notice.

We were not long before we had a few specimens of his monomania, for the doctor, like his pupil, spoke very good French.

“Before we begin,” said Pan Chao, “tell me, doctor, how many fundamental rules there are for finding the correct amounts of food and drink?”

“Seven, my young friend,” replied Tio-King with the greatest seriousness. “The first is to take only just so much nourishment as to enable you to perform the purely spiritual functions.”

“And the second?”

“The second is to take only such an amount of nourishment as will not cause you to feel any dullness, or heaviness, or bodily lassitude. The third — — “

“Ah! We will wait there, to-day, if you don’t mind, doctor,” replied Pan Chao. “Here is a certain maintuy, which seems rather good, and — — “

“Take care, my dear pupil! That is a sort of pudding made of hashed meat mixed with fat and spices. I fear it may be heavy — — “

“Then, doctor, I would advise you not to eat it. For my part, I will follow these gentlemen.”

And Pan Chao did — and rightly so, for the maintuy was delicious — while Doctor Tio-King contented himself with the lightest dish on the bill of fare. It appeared from what Major Noltitz said that these maintuys fried in fat are even more savory. And why should they not be, considering that they take the name of “zenbusis,” which signifies “women’s kisses?”

When Caterna heard this flattering phrase, he expressed his regret that zenbusis did not figure on the breakfast table. To which his wife replied by so tender a look that I ventured to say to him:

“You can find zenbusis elsewhere than in Central Asia, it seems to me.”

“Yes,” he replied, “they are to be met with wherever there are lovable women to make them.”

And Pan Chao added, with a laugh:

“And it is again at Paris that they make them the best.”

He spoke like a man of experience, did my young Celestial.

I looked at Pan Chao; I admired him.

How he eats! What an appetite! Not of much use to him are the observations of the doctor on the immoderate consumption of his radical humidity.

The breakfast continued pleasantly. Conversation turned on the work of the Russians in Asia. Pan Chao seemed to me well posted up in their progress. Not only have they made the Transcaspian, but the Transsiberian, surveyed in 1888, is being made, and is already considerably advanced. For the first route through Iscim, Omsk, Tomsk, Krasnojarsk, Nijni-Ufimsk, and Irkutsk, a second route has been substituted more to the south, passing by Orenburg, Akmolinsk, Minoussinsk, Abatoni and Vladivostock. When these six thousand kilometres of rails are laid, Petersburg will be within six days of the Japan Sea. And this Transsiberian, which will exceed in length the Transcontinental of the United States, will cost no more than seven hundred and fifty millions.

It will be easily imagined that this conversation on the Russian enterprise is not very pleasing to Sir Francis Trevellyan. Although he says not a word and does not lift his eyes from the plate, his long face flushes a little.

“Well, gentlemen,” said I, “what we see is nothing to what our nephews will see. We are traveling to-day on the Grand Transasiatic. But what will it be when the Grand Transasiatic is in connection with the Grand Transafrican.”

“And how is Asia to be united by railway with Africa?” asked Major Noltitz.

“Through Russia, Turkey, Italy, France and Spain. Travelers will go from Pekin to the Cape of Good Hope without change of carriage.”

“And the Straits of Gibraltar?” asked Pan Chao.

At this Sir Francis Trevellyan raised his ears.

“Yes, Gibraltar?” said the major.

“Go under it!” said I. “A tunnel fifteen kilometres long is a mere nothing! There will be no English Parliament to oppose it as there is to oppose that between Dover and Calais! It will all be done some day, all — and that will justify the vein:

“Omnia jam fieri quae posse negabam.”

My sample of Latin erudition was only understood by Major Noltitz, and I heard Caterna say to his wife:

“That is volapuk.”

“There is no doubt,” said Pan Chap, “that the Emperor of China has been well advised in giving his hand to the Russians instead of the English. Instead of building strategic railways in Manchouria, which would never have had the approbation of the czar, the Son of Heaven has preferred to continue the Transcaspian across China and Chinese Turkestan.”

“And he has done wisely,” said the major. “With the English it is only the trade of India that goes to Europe, with the Russians it is that of the whole Asiatic continent.”

I look at Sir Francis Trevellyan. The color heightens on his cheeks, but he makes no movement. I ask if these attacks in a language he understands perfectly will not oblige him to speak out. And yet I should have been very much embarrassed if I had had to bet on or against it.

Major Noltitz then resumed the conversation by pointing out the incontestable advantages of the Transasiatic with regard to the trade between Grand Asia and Europe in the security and rapidity of its communications. The old hatreds will gradually disappear under European influence, and in that respect alone Russia deserves the approbation of every civilized nation. Is there not a justification for those fine words of Skobeleff after the capture of Gheok Tepe, when the conquered feared reprisals from the victors: “In Central Asian politics we know no outcasts?”

“And in that policy,” said the major, “lies our superiority over England.”

“No one can be superior to the English.”

Such was the phrase I expected from Sir Francis Trevellyan — the phrase I understand English gentlemen always use when traveling about the world. But he said nothing. But when I rose to propose a toast to the Emperor of Russia and the Russians, and the Emperor of China and the Chinese, Sir Francis Trevellyan abruptly left the table. Assuredly I was not to have the pleasure of hearing his voice to-day.

I need not say that during all this talk the Baron Weissschnitzerdorfer was fully occupied in clearing dish after dish, to the extreme amazement of Doctor Tio-King. Here was a German who had never read the precepts of Cornaro, or, if he had read them, transgressed them in the most outrageous fashion.

For the same reason, I suppose, neither Faruskiar nor Ghangir took part in it, for they only exchanged a few words in Chinese.

But I noted rather a strange circumstance which did not escape the major.

We were talking about the safety of the Grand Transasiatic across Central Asia, and Pan Chao had said that the road was not so safe as it might be beyond the Turkestan frontier, as, in fact, Major Noltitz had told me. I was then led to ask if he had ever heard of the famous Ki Tsang before his departure from Europe.

“Often,” he said, “for Ki Tsang was then in the Yunnan provinces. I hope we shall not meet him on our road.”

My pronunciation of the name of the famous bandit was evidently incorrect, for I hardly understood Pan Chao when he repeated it with the accent of his native tongue.

But one thing I can say, and that is that when he uttered the name of Ki Tsang, Faruskiar knitted his brows and his eyes flashed. Then, with a look at his companion, he resumed his habitual indifference to all that was being said around him.

Assuredly I shall have some difficulty in making the acquaintance of this man. These Mongols are as close as a safe, and when you have not the word it is difficult to open them.

The train is running at high speed. In the ordinary service, when it stops at the eleven stations between Bokhara and Samarkand, it takes a whole day over the distance. This time it took but three hours to cover the two hundred kilometres which separate the two towns, and at two o’clock in the afternoon it entered the illustrious city of Tamerlane.

CHAPTER XII.

Samarkand is situated in the rich oasis watered by the Zarafchane in the valley of Sogd. A small pamphlet I bought at the railway station informs me that this great city is one of the four sites in which geographers “agree” to place the terrestrial paradise. I leave this discussion to the exegetists of the profession.

Burned by the armies of Cyrus in B.C. 329, Samarkand was in part destroyed by Genghis Khan, about 1219. When it had become the capital of Tamerlane, its position, which certainly could not be improved upon, did not prevent its being ravaged by the nomads of the eighteenth century. Such alternations of grandeur and ruin have been the fate of all the important towns of Central Asia.

We had five hours to stop at Samarkand during the day, and that promised something pleasant and several pages of copy. But there was no time to lose. As usual, the town is double; one half, built by the Russians, is quite modern, with its verdant parks, its avenues of birches, its palaces, its cottages; the other is the old town, still rich in magnificent remains of its splendor, and requiring many weeks to be conscientiously studied.

This time I shall not be alone. Major Noltitz is free; he will accompany me. We had already left the station when the Caternas presented themselves.

“Are you going for a run round the town, Monsieur Claudius?” asked the actor, with a comprehensive gesture to show the vast surroundings of Samarkand.

“Such is our intention.”

“Will Major Noltitz and you allow me to join you?”

“How so?”

“With Madame Caterna, for I do nothing without her.”

“Our explorations will be so much the more agreeable,” said the major, with a bow to the charming actress.

“And,” I added, with a view to save fatigue and gain time, “my dear friends, allow me to offer you an arba.”

“An arba!” exclaimed Caterna, with a swing of his hips. “What may that be, an arba?”

“One of the local vehicles.”

“Let us have an arba.”

We entered one of the boxes on wheels which were on the rank in front of the railway station. Under promise of a good “silao,” that is to say, something to drink, the yemtchik or coachman undertook to give wings to his two doves, otherwise his two little horses, and we went off at a good pace.

On the left we leave the Russian town, arranged like a fan, the governor’s house, surrounded by beautiful gardens, the public park and its shady walks, then the house of the chief of the district which is just on the boundary of the old town.

As we passed, the major showed us the fortress, round which our arba turned. There are the graves of the Russian soldiers who died in the attack in 1868, near the ancient palace of the Emir of Bokhara.

From this point, by a straight narrow road, our arba reached the Righistan square, which, as my pamphlet says, “must not be confounded with the square of the same name at Bokhara.”

It is a fine quadrilateral, perhaps a little spoiled by the fact that the Russians have paved it and ornamented it with lamps — which would certainly, please Ephrinell, if he decides upon visiting Samarkand. On three sides of the square are the well-preserved ruins of three medresses, where the mollahs give children a good education. These medresses — there are seventeen of these colleges at Samarkand, besides eighty-five mosques — are called Tilla-Kari, Chir Dar and Oulong Beg.

In a general way they resemble each other; a portico in the middle leading to interior courts, built of enameled brick, tinted pale blue or pale yellow, arabesques designed in gold lines on a ground of turquoise blue, the dominant color; leaning minarets threatening to fall and never falling, luckily for their coating of enamel, which the intrepid traveller Madame De Ujfalvy-Bourdon, declares to be much superior to the finest of our crackle enamels — and these are not vases to put on a mantelpiece or on a stand, but minarets of good height.

These marvels are still in the state described by Marco Polo, the Venetian traveler of the thirteenth century.

“Well, Monsieur Bombarnac,” asked the major, “do you not admire the square?”

“It is superb,” I say.

“Yes,” says the actor, “what a splendid scene it would make for a ballet, Caroline! That mosque, with a garden alongside, and that other one with a court — — “

“You are right, Adolphe,” said his wife; “but we would have to put those towers up straight and have a few luminous fountains.”

“Excellent notion, Caroline! Write us a drama, Monsieur Claudius, a spectacle piece, with a third act in this square. As for the title — “

“Tamerlane is at once suggested!” I reply. The actor made a significant grimace. The conqueror of Asia seemed to him to be wanting in actuality. And leaning toward his wife, Caterna hastened to say:

“As a scene, I have seen a better at the Porte-Saint Martin, in the Fils de la Nuit — “

“And I have at the Chatelet in Michael Strogoff.”

We cannot do better than leave our comedians alone. They look at everything from the theatrical point of view. They prefer the air gauze and the sky-blue foliage, the branches of the stage trees, the agitated canvas of the ocean waves, the prospectives of the drop scene, to the sites the curtain represents, a set scene by Cambon or Rube or Jambon to no matter what landscape; in short, they would rather have art than nature. And I am not the man to try and change their opinions on the subject.

As I have mentioned the name of Tamerlane, I asked Major Noltitz if we were going to visit the tomb of the famous Tartar. The major replied that we would see it as we returned; and our itinerary brought us in front of the Samarkand bazaar.

The arba stopped at one of the entrances to this vast rotunda, after taking us in and out through the old town, the houses of which consist of only one story, and seem very comfortless.

Here is the bazaar in which are accumulated enormous quantities of woollen stuffs, velvet-pile carpets in the brightest of colors, shawls of graceful patterns, all thrown anyhow on the counters of the shops. Before these samples the sellers and buyers stand, noisily arriving at the lowest price. Among the fabrics is a silk tissue known as Kanaous, which is held in high esteem by the Samarkand ladies, although they are very far from appreciating the similar product of Lyons manufacture, which it excels neither in quality nor appearance.

Madame Caterna appeared extraordinarily tempted, as if she were among the counters of the Bon Marche or the Louvre.

“That stuff would do well for my costume in the Grande Duchesse!” she said.

“And those slippers would suit me down to the ground as Ali Bajou in the Caid!” said Caterna.

And while the actress was investing in a remnant of Kanaous, the actor paid for a pair of those green slippers which the Turkomans wear when they enter a mosque. But this was not without recourse to the kindness of the major, who acted as interpreter between the Caternas and the merchant, whose “Yoks! Yoks!” sounded like a lot of crackers in his large mouth.

The arba started again and went off toward the square of Ribi-Khanym, where stands the mosque of that name which was that of one of Tamerlane’s wives. If the square is not as regular as that of Righistan, it is in my opinion rather more picturesque. There are strangely grouped ruins, the remains of arcades, half-unroofed cupolas, columns without capitals, the shafts of which have retained all the brightness of their enamelling; then a long row of elliptical porticoes closing in one side of the vast quadrilateral. The effect is really grand, for these old monuments of the splendor of Samarkand stand out from a background of sky and verdure that you would seek in vain, even at the Grand Opera, if our actor does not object. But I must confess we experienced a deeper impression when, toward the northeast of the town, our arba deposited us in front of the finest of the mosques of Central Asia, which dates from the year 795 of the Hegira (1392 of our era).

I cannot, writing straight away, give you an idea of this marvel. If I were to thread the words, mosaics, pediments, spandrels, bas-reliefs, niches, enamels, corbels, all on a string in a sentence, the picture would still be incomplete. It is strokes of the brush that are wanted, not strokes of the pen. Imagination remains abashed at the remains of the most splendid architecture left us by Asiatic genius.

It is in the farthest depths of this mosque that the faithful go to worship at the tomb of Kassimben-Abbas, a venerated Mussulman saint, and we are told that if we open the tomb a living man will come forth from it in all his glory. But the experiment has not been made as yet, and we prefer to believe in the legend.

We had to make an effort to throw off our contemplative mood; and fortunately the Caternas did not trouble our ecstasy by evoking any of their recollections of the theater. Doubtless they had shared in our impressions.

We resumed our seats in the arba, and the yemtchik took us at the gallop of his doves along shady roads which the Russian administration keeps up with care.

Along these roads we met and passed many figures worthy of notice. Their costumes were varied enough, “Khalats,” in startling colors, and their heads enturbaned most coquettishly. In a population of forty thousand there was, of course, a great mingling of races. Most of them seemed to be Tadjiks of Iranian origin. They are fine strong fellows, whose white skin has disappeared beneath the tan of the open air and the unclouded sun. Here is what Madame de Ujfalvy-Bourdon says of them in her interesting book: “Their hair is generally black, as is also their beard, which is very abundant. Their eyes are never turned up at the corners, and are almost always brown. The nose is very handsome, the lips are not thick, the teeth are small. The forehead is high, broad, and the general shape of the face is oval.”

And I cannot refrain from mentioning a note of approval from Caterna when he saw one of these Tadjiks superbly draped in his many-colored Khalat.

“What a splendid lead! What an admirable Melingue! You can see him in Richepins’s Nana Sahib or Meurice’s Schamyl.”

“He would make a lot of money! replied Madame Caterna.

“He just would — I believe you, Caroline!” replied the enthusiastic actor.

And for him, as for all other theatrical folks, is not the money the most serious and the least disputable manifestation of the dramatic art?

It was already five o clock, and in this incomparable city of Samarkand scene succeeded scene. There! I am getting into that way of looking at it now. Certainly the spectacle should finish before midnight. But as we start at eight o’clock, we shall have to lose the end of the piece. But as I considered that, for the honor of special correspondents in general, it would never do to have been at Samarkand without seeing Tamerlane’s tomb, our arba returned to the southwest, and drew up near the mosque of Gour Emir, close to the Russian town. What a sordid neighborhood, what a heap of mud huts and straw huts, what an agglomeration of miserable hovels we have just been through!

The mosque has a grand appearance. It is crowned with its dome, in which the raw blue of the turquoise is the chief color, and which looks like a Persian cap; and on its only minaret, which has now lost its head, there glitter the enamelled arabesques which have retained their ancient purity.

We visited the central hall beneath the cupola. There stands the tomb of the lame Timour the Conqueror. Surrounded by the four tombs of his sons and his patron saint, beneath a stone of black jade covered with inscriptions, whiten the bones of Tamerlane, in whose name is gathered the whole fourteenth century of Asiatic history. The walls of the hall are covered with slabs of jade, on which are engraven innumerable scrolls of foliage, and in the southwest stands a little column marking the direction of Mecca. Madame De Ujfalvy-Bourdon has justly compared this part of the mosque of Gour Emir to a sanctuary, and we had the same impression. This impression took a still more religious tone when, by a dark and narrow stairway, we descended to the crypt in which are the tombs of Tamerlane’s wives and daughters.

“But who was this Tamerlane?” asked Caterna. “This Tamerlane everybody is talking about.”

“Tamerlane,” replied Major Noltitz, “was one of the greatest conquerors of the world, perhaps the greatest, if you measure greatness by the extent of the conquests. Asia to the east of the Caspian Sea, Persia and the provinces to the north of it, Russia to the Sea of Azof, India, Syria, Asia Minor, China, on which he threw two hundred thousand men — he had a whole continent as the theater of his wars.”

“And he was lame!” said Madame Caterna.

“Yes, madame, like Genseric, like Shakespeare, like Byron, like Walter Scott, like Talleyrand, but that did not hinder his getting along in the world. But how fanatic and bloodthirsty he was! History affirms that at Delhi he massacred a hundred thousand captives, and at Bagdad he erected an obelisk of eighty thousand heads.”

“I like the one in the Place de la Concorde better,” said Caterna, “and that is only in one piece.”

At this observation we left the mosque of Gour Emir, and as it was time to “hurry up,” as our actor said, the arba was driven briskly toward the station.

For my part, in spite of the observations of the Caternas, I was fully in tone with the local color due to the marvels of Samarkand, when I was roughly shaken back into modern reality.

In the streets — yes — in the streets near the railway station, in the very center of Tamerlane’s capital, I passed two bicyclists.

“Ah!” exclaimed Caterna. “Messrs. Wheeler!”

And they were Turkomans!

After that nothing more could be done than leave a town so dishonored by the masterpiece of mechanical locomotion, and that was what we did at eight o’clock.

CHAPTER XIII.

We dined an hour after the train left. In the dining car were several newcomers, among others two negroes whom Caterna began to speak of as darkies.

None of these travelers, Popof told me, would cross the Russo-Chinese frontier, so that they interested me little or not at all.

During dinner, at which all my numbers were present — I have twelve now, and I do not suppose I shall go beyond that — I noticed that Major Noltitz continued to keep his eye on his lordship Faruskiar. Had he begun to suspect him? Was it of any importance in his opinion that this Mongol seemed to know, without appearing to do so, the three second-class travelers, who were also Mongols? Was his imagination working with the same activity as mine, and was he taking seriously what was only a joke on my part? That I, a man of letters, a chronicler in search of scenes and incidents, should be pleased to see in his personage a rival of the famous Ki Tsang, or Ki Tsang himself, could be understood; but that he, a serious man, doctor in the Russian army, should abandon himself to such speculations no one would believe. Never mind now, we shall have something more to say about it by and by.

As for me, I had soon forgotten all about the Mongol for the man in the case. Tired as I am after that long run through Samarkand, if I get a chance to visit him to-night I will.

Dinner being over, we all begin to make ourselves comfortable for the night, with the intention of sleeping till we reach Tachkend.

The distance from Samarkand to Tachkend is three hundred kilometres. The train will not get in there before seven o’clock in the morning. It will stop three times at small stations for water and fuel — circumstances favorable to the success of my project. I add that the night is dark, the sky overcast, no moon, no stars. It threatens rain; the wind is freshening. It is no time for walking on platforms, and nobody walks there. It is important to choose the moment when Popof is sound asleep.

It is not necessary for the interview to be a long one. That the gallant fellow should be reassured — that is the essential point — and he will be, as soon as I have made his acquaintance. A little information concerning him, concerning Mademoiselle Zinca Klork, whence he comes, why he is going to Pekin, why he chose such a mode of transport, his provisions for the journey, how he gets into the case, his age, his trade, his birthplace, what he has done in the past, what he hopes to do in the future, etc. etc. and I have done all that a conscientious reporter can do. That is what I want to know; that is what I will ask him. It is not so very much.

And in the first place let us wait until the car is asleep. That will not be long, for my companions are more or less fatigued by the hours they have spent in Samarkand. The beds were ready immediately after dinner. A few of the passengers tried a smoke on the platform, but the gust drove them in very quickly. They have all taken up their places under the curtained lamps, and toward half-past ten the respiration of some and the snoring of others are blended with the continued grinding of the train on the steel rails.

I remained outside last of all, and Popof exchanged a few words with me.

“We shall not be disturbed to-night,” he said to me, “and I would advise you to make the most of it. To-morrow night we shall be running through the defiles of the Pamir, and we shall not travel so quietly, I am afraid.”

“Thanks, Popof, I will take your advice, and sleep like a marmot.”

Popof wished me good night and went into his cabin.

I saw no use in going back into the car, and remained on the platform. It was impossible to see anything either to the left or right of the line. The oasis of Samarkand had already been passed, and the rails were now laid across a long horizontal plain. Many hours would elapse before the train reached the Syr Daria, over which the line passes by a bridge like that over the Amou-Daria, but of less importance.

It was about half-past eleven when I decided to open the door of the van, which I shut behind me.

I knew that the young Roumanian was not always shut up in his box, and the fancy might just have taken him to stretch his limbs by walking from one end to the other of the van.

The darkness is complete. No jet of light filters through the holes of the case. That seems all the better for me. It is as well that my No. 11 should not be surprised by too sudden an apparition. He is doubtless asleep. I will give two little knocks on the panel, I will awake him, and we will explain matters before he can move.

I feel as I go. My hand touches the case; I place my ear against the panel and I listen.

There is not a stir, not a breath! Is my man not here? Has he got away? Has he slipped out at one of the stations without my seeing him? Has my news gone with him? Really, I am most uneasy; I listen attentively.

No! He has not gone. He is in the case. I hear distinctly his regular and prolonged respiration. He sleeps. He sleeps the sleep of the innocent, to which he has no right, for he ought to sleep the sleep of the swindler of the Grand Transasiatic.

I am just going to knock when the locomotive’s whistle emits its strident crow, as we pass through a station. But the train is not going to stop, I know, and I wait until the whistling has ceased.

I then give a gentle knock on the panel.

There is no reply.

However, the sound of breathing is not so marked as before.

I knock more loudly.

This time it is followed by an involuntary movement of surprise and fright.

“Open, open!” I say in Russian.

There is no reply.

“Open!” I say again. “It is a friend who speaks. You have nothing to fear!”

If the panel is not lowered, as I had hoped, there is the crack of a match being lighted and a feeble light appears in the case.

I look at the prisoner through the holes in the side.

There is a look of alarm on his face; his eyes are haggard. He does not know whether he is asleep or awake.

“Open, my friend, I say, open and have confidence. I have discovered your secret. I shall say nothing about it. On the other hand, I may be of use to you.”

The poor man looks more at ease, although he does not move.

“You are a Roumanian, I think,” I add, “and I am a Frenchman.”

“Frenchman? You are a Frenchman?”

And this reply was given in my own language, with a foreign accent.

One more bond between us.

The panel slips along its groove, and by the light of a little lamp I can examine my No. 11, to whom I shall be able to give a less arithmetical designation.

“No one can see us, nor hear us?” he asked in a half-stifled voice.

“No one.”

“The guard?”

“Asleep.”

My new friend takes my hands, he clasps them. I feel that he seeks a support. He understands he can depend on me. And he murmurs: “Do not betray me — do not betray me.”

“Betray you, my boy? Did not the French newspapers sympathize with that little Austrian tailor, with those two Spanish sweethearts, who sent themselves by train in the way you are doing? Were not subscriptions opened in their favor? And can you believe that I, a journalist — — “

“You are a journalist?”

“Claudius Bombarnac, special correspondent of the Twentieth Century.”

“A French journal — — “

“Yes, I tell you.”

“And you are going to Pekin?”

“Through to Pekin.”

“Ah! Monsieur Bombarnac, Providence has sent you onto my road.”

“No, it was the managers of my journal, and they delegated to me the powers they hold from Providence, courage and confidence. Anything I can do for you I will.”

“Thanks, thanks.”

“What is your name?”

“Kinko.”

“Kinko? Excellent name!”

“Excellent?”

“For my articles! You are a Roumanian, are you not?”

“Roumanian of Bucharest.”

“But you have lived in France?”

“Four years in Paris, where I was apprentice to an upholsterer in the Faubourg Saint Antoine.”

“And you went back to Bucharest?”

“Yes, to work at my trade there until the day came when it was impossible for me to resist the desire to leave — “

“To leave? Why?”

“To marry!”

“To marry — Mademoiselle Zinca — “

“Zinca?”

“Yes, Mademoiselle Zinca Klork, Avenue Cha-Coua, Pekin, China!”

“You know?”

“Certainly. The address is on the box.”

“True.”

“As to Mademoiselle Zinca Klork — “

“She is a young Roumanian. I knew her in Paris, where she was learning the trade of a milliner. Oh, charming — “

“I am sure upon it. You need not dwell on that.”

“She also returned to Bucharest, until she was invited to take the management of a dressmaker’s at Pekin. We loved, monsieur; she went — and we were separated for a year. Three weeks ago she wrote to me. She was getting on over there. If I could go out to her, I would do well. We should get married without delay. She had saved something. I would soon earn as much as she had. And here I am on the road — in my turn — for China.”

“In this box?”

“What would you have, Monsieur Bombarnac?” asked Kinko, reddening. “I had only money enough to buy a packing case, a few provisions, and get myself sent off by an obliging friend. It costs a thousand francs to go from Tiflis to Pekin. But as soon as I have gained them, the company will be repaid, I assure you.”

“I believe you, Kinko, I believe you; and on your arrival at Pekin?”

“Zinca has been informed. The box will be taken to Avenue Cha-Coua, and she — “

“Will pay the carriage?”

“Yes.”

“And with pleasure, I will answer for it.”

“You may be sure of it, for we love each other so much.”

“And besides, Kinko, what would one not do for a sweetheart who consents to shut himself up in a box for a fortnight, and arrives labelled ‘Glass,’ ‘Fragile,’ ‘Beware of damp — ’”

“Ah, you are making fun of a poor fellow.”

“Not at all; and you may rest assured I will neglect nothing which will enable you to arrive dry and in one piece at Mademoiselle Zinca Klork’s — in short, in a perfect state of preservation!”

“Again I thank you,” said Kinko, pressing my hands. “Believe me, you will not find me ungrateful.”

“Ah! friend Kinko, I shall be paid, and more than paid!”

“And how?”

“By relating, as soon as I can do so without danger to you, the particulars of your journey from Tiflis to Pekin. Think now — what a heading for a column: ‘A LOVER IN A BOX!

ZINCA AND KINKO! !

1,500 LEAGUES THROUGH CENTRAL ASIA IN A

LUGGAGE VAN! ! !’”

The young Roumanian could not help smiling.

“You need not be in too much of a hurry!” he said.

“Never fear! Prudence and discretion, as they say at the matrimonial agencies.”

Then I went to the door of the van to see that we were in no danger of surprise, and then the conversation was resumed. Naturally, Kinko asked me how I had discovered his secret. I told him all that had passed on the steamer during the voyage across the Caspian. His breathing had betrayed him. The idea that at first I took him for a wild beast seemed to amuse him. A wild beast! A faithful poodle, rather! Then with a sneeze he went up the animal scale to human rank.

“But,” said he to me, lowering his voice, “two nights ago I thought all was lost. The van was closed. I had just lighted my little lamp, and had begun my supper when a knock came against the panel — — “

“I did that, Kinko, I did that. And that night we should have become acquainted if the train had not run into a dromedary.”

“It was you! I breathe again!” said Kinko. “In what dreams I have lived! It was known that some one was hidden in this box. I saw myself discovered, handed over to the police, taken to prison at Merv or Bokhara, and my little Zinca waiting for me in vain; and never should I see her again, unless I resumed the journey on foot. Well, I would have resumed, yes, I would.”

And he said it with such an air of resolution that it was impossible not to see that the young Roumanian had unusual spirit.

“Brave Kinko!” I answered. “I am awfully sorry to have caused you such apprehensions. Now you are at ease again, and I fancy your chances have improved now we have made friends.”

I then asked Kinko to show me how he managed in his box.

Nothing could be simpler or better arranged. At the bottom was a seat on which he sat with the necessary space for him to stretch his legs when he placed them obliquely; under the seat, shut in by a lid, were a few provisions, and table utensils reduced to a simple pocket knife and metal mug; an overcoat and a rug hung from a nail, and the little lamp he used at nighttime was hooked onto one of the walls.

The sliding panel allowed the prisoner to leave his prison occasionally. But if the case had been placed among other packages, if the porters had not deposited it with the precautions due to its fragility, he would not have been able to work the panel, and would have had to make a friend somehow before the end of the journey. Fortunately, there is a special Providence for lovers, and divine intervention in favor of Kinko and Zinca Klork was manifested in all its plenitude. He told me that very night he had taken a walk either in the van or else on the station platform where the train had stopped.

“I know that, Kinko. That was at Bokhara. I saw you!”

“You saw me?”

“Yes, and I thought you were trying to get away. But if I saw you, it was because I knew of your presence in the van, and I was there watching you, no one else having an idea of spying on you. Nevertheless, it was dangerous; do not do it again; let me replenish your larder when I get an opportunity.”

“Thank you, Monsieur Bombarnac, thank you! I do not believe I am in danger of being discovered, unless at the Chinese frontier — or rather at Kachgar.”

“And why?”

“The custom house is very keen on goods going into China. I am afraid they will come round the packages, and that my box — “

“In fact, Kinko,” I replied, “there are a few difficult hours for you.”

“If they find me out?”

“I shall be there, and I will do all I can to prevent anything unpleasant happening.”

“Ah! Monsieur Bombarnac!” exclaimed Kinko, in a burst of gratitude. “How can I repay you?”

“Very easily, Kinko.”

“And in what way?”

“Ask me to your marriage with the lovely Zinca.”

“I will! And Zinca will embrace you.”

“She will be only doing her duty, friend Kinko, and I shall be only doing mine in returning two kisses for one.”

We exchanged a last grip of the hand; and, really, I think there were tears in the good fellow’s eyes when I left him. He put out his lamp, he pushed back the panel, then through the case I heard one more “thanks” and an “au revoir.”

I came out of the van, I shut the door, I assured myself that Popof was still asleep. In a few minutes, after a breath or two of the night air, I go into my place near Major Noltitz.

And before I close my eyes my last thought is that, thanks to the appearance of the episodic Kinko, the journey of their energetic “Special” will not be displeasing to my readers.

CHAPTER XIV.

In 1870 the Russians endeavored without success to establish a fair at Tachkend which would rival that at Nijni-Novgorod. Some twenty years later the attempt would have succeeded, and as a matter of fact the fair now exists, owing to the making of the Transcaspian to unite Samarkand and Tachkend.

And now not only do merchants with their merchandise crowd into this town, but pilgrims with their pilgrimage outfits. And there will be quite a procession, or rather an exodus, when the time comes for the Mussulman faithful to ride to Mecca by railway.

Meanwhile we are at Tachkend, and the time-table shows that we stop here two hours and a half.

Of course I shall not have time to visit the town, which would be worth my while to do. But I must confess that these cities of Turkestan are very much alike, and to have seen one is to have seen another, unless we can go into details.

Crossing a fertile region where poplars like distaffs rise gracefully erect, skirting fields bristling with vines, running by gardens where fruit trees abound, our train stops at the new town.

As is inevitable since the Russian conquest, there are two towns side by side at Tachkend as at Samarkand, as at Bokhara, as at Merv. Here the old town has tortuous streets, houses of mud and clay, bazaars of poor appearance, caravanserais built of bricks dried in the sun, a few mosques, and schools as numerous as if the czar had decreed by ukase that everything French should be imitated. It is true that the scholars are wanting, but there is no want of schools.

The population of Tachkend does not differ very much from that met with in other parts of Turkestan. It comprises Sarthes, Usbegs, Tadjiks, Khirgizes, Nogais, Israelites, a few Afghans and Hindoos and — as may be naturally supposed — a fair supply of Russians.

It is perhaps at Tachkend that the Jews are gathered in the greatest numbers. And from the day that the town passed under Russian administration their situation has considerably improved. From that epoch dates the complete civil and political liberty they now enjoy.

I have only two hours to spare in visiting the town, and I do my work in true reporter style. You should have seen me dashing through the grand bazaar, a mere wooden building, which is crammed with Oriental stuffs, silk goods, metal ware, specimens of Chinese manufacture, including some very fine examples of porcelain.

In the streets of old Tachkend a certain number of women are to be met with. I need hardly say that there are no slaves in this country, much to the displeasure of the Mussulmans. Nowadays woman is free — even in her household.

“An old Turkoman,” said Major Noltitz, “once told me that a husband’s power is at an end now that he cannot thrash his wife without being threatened with an appeal to the czar; and that marriage is at an end!”

I do not know if the fair sex is still beaten, but the husbands know what they may expect if they knock their wives about. Will it be believed that these peculiar Orientals can see no progress in this prohibition to beat their wives? Perhaps they remember that the Terrestrial Paradise is not far off — a beautiful garden between the Tigris and Euphrates, unless it was between the Amou and the Syr-Daria. Perhaps they have not forgotten that mother Eve lived in this preadamite garden, and that if she had been thrashed a little before her first fault, she would probably not have committed it. But we need not enlarge on that.

I did not hear, as Madam Ujfalvy-Bourdon did, the band playing the Pompiers de Nanterre in the governor-general’s garden. No! On this occasion they were playing Le Pere la Victoire, and if these are not national airs they are none the less agreeable to French ears.

We left Tachkend at precisely eleven o’clock in the morning. The country through which the Grand Transasiatic is now running is not so monotonous. The plain begins to undulate, for we are approaching the outer ramifications of the eastern orographic system. We are nearing the tableland of the Pamirs. At the same time we continue at normal speed along this section of a hundred and fifty kilometres which separates us from Khodjend.

As soon as we are on the move I begin to think of Kinko. His little love romance has touched me to the heart. This sweetheart who sent himself off — this other sweetheart who is going to pay the expenses — I am sure Major Noltitz would be interested in these two turtle doves, one of which is in a cage; he would not be too hard on this defrauder of the company, he would be incapable of betraying him. Consequently I have a great desire to tell him of my expedition into the baggage van. But the secret is not mine. I must do nothing that might get Kinko into trouble.

And so I am silent, and to-night I will, if possible, take a few provisions to my packing case — to my snail in his shell, let us say. And is not the young Roumanian like a snail in his shell, for it is as much as he can do to get out of it?

We reach Khodjend about three in the afternoon. The country is fertile, green, carefully cultivated. It is a succession of kitchen gardens, which seem to be well-kept immense fields sown with clover, which yield four or five crops a year. The roads near the town are bordered with long rows of mulberry trees, which diversify the view with eccentric branches.

Again, this pair of cities, old and new. Both of them had only thirty thousand inhabitants in 1868 and they have from forty-five to fifty thousand now. Is it the influence of the surroundings which produces the increase of the birth rate? Is the province affected by the prolific example of the Celestial Empire? No! It is the progress of trade, the concentration of merchants of all nations onto these new markets.

Our halt at Khodjend has lasted three hours. I have made my professional visit and walked on the banks of the Syr-Dana. This river, which bathes the foot of the high mountains of Mogol-Taou, is crossed by a bridge, the middle section of which gives passage to ships of moderate tonnage.

The weather is very warm. The town being protected by its shelter of mountains, the breezes of the steppe cannot reach it, and it is one of the hottest places in Turkestan.

I met the Caternas, delighted with their excursion. The actor said to me in a tone of the best humor:

“Never shall I forget Khodjend, Monsieur Claudius.”

“And why will you never forget Khodjend, Monsieur Caterna?”

“Do you see these peaches?” he asked, showing me the fruit he was carrying.

“They are magnificent — “

“And not dear! A kilo for four kopeks — that is to say, twelve centimes!”

“Eh!” I answer. “That shows that peaches are rather common in this country. That is the Asiatic apple and it was one of those apples that Mrs. Adam took a bite at — “

“Then I excuse her!” said Madame Caterna, munching away at one of these delicious peaches.

After leaving Tachkend the railway had curved toward the south, so as to reach Khodjend; but after leaving town it curved to the east in the direction of Kokhan. It is at Tachkend that it is nearest to the Transsiberian, and a branch line is being made to Semipalatinsk to unite the railway systems of Central and Northern Asia.

Beyond we shall run due east, and by Marghelan and Och pass through the gorges of the Pamirs so as to reach the Turkesto-Chinese frontier.

The train had only just started when the travelers took their seats at the table, where I failed to notice any fresh arrival. We shall not pick up any more until we reach Kachgar. There the Russian cookery will give place to the Chinese, and although the name does not recall the nectar and ambrosia of Olympus, it is probable that we shall not lose by the change.

Ephrinell is in his usual place. Without going as far as familiarity, it is obvious that a close intimacy, founded on a similarity in tastes and aptitudes exists between Miss Horatia Bluett and the Yankee. There is no doubt, in our opinion, but what it will end in a wedding as soon as the train arrives. Both will have their romance of the rail. Frankly, I like that of Kinko and Zinca Klork much better. It is true the pretty Roumanian is not here!

We are all very friendly, and by “we” I mean my most sympathetic numbers, the major, the Caternas, young Pan Chao, who replies with very Parisian pleasantries to the actor’s fooleries.

The dinner is a pleasant one and a good one. We learn what is the fourth rule formulated by Cornaco, that Venetian noble, and with the object of determining the right amount for drinking and eating. Pan Chao pressed the doctor on this subject, and Tio-King replied, with a seriousness truly buddhic:

“The rule is founded on the quantity of nourishment proportionate for each temperament as regards the difference of ages, and the strength and the food of various kinds.”

“And for your temperament, doctor?” asked Caterna, “what is the right quantity?”

“Fourteen ounces of solid or liquid — — “

“An hour?”

“No, sir, a day,” replied Tio-King. “And it was in this manner that the illustrious Cornaro lived from the age of thirty-six, so as to leave himself enough strength of body and mind to write his fourth treatise when he was eighty-five, and to live to a hundred and two.”

“In that case, give me my fifth cutlet,” said Pan Ghao, with a burst of laughter.

There is nothing more agreeable than to talk before a well-served table; but I must not forget to complete my notes regarding Kokham. We were not due there till nine o’clock, and that would be in the nighttime. And so I asked the major to give me some information regarding this town, which is the last of any importance in Russian Turkestan.

“I know it all the better,” said the major, “from having been in garrison there for fifteen months. It is a pity you have not time to visit it, for it remains very Asiatic, and there has not been time yet for it to grow a modern town. There is a square there unrivalled in Asia, a palace in great style, that of the old Khan of Khondajar, situated on a mound about a hundred yards high, and in which the governor has left his Sarthe artillery. It is considered wonderful, and there is good reason for it. You will lose by not going there a rare opportunity of bringing in the high-flown words of your language in description: the reception hall transformed into a Russian church, a labyrinth of rooms with the floors of the precious Karagatch wood, the rose pavilion, in which visitors receive a truly Oriental hospitality, the interior court of Moorish decoration recalling the adorable architectural fancies of the Alhambra, the terraces with their splendid views, the harem where the thousand wives of the Sultan — a hundred more than Solomon — live in peace together, the lacework of the fronts, the gardens with their shady walks under the ancient vines — that is what you would have seen — — “

“And which I have already seen with your eyes, dear major,” said I. “My readers will not complain. Pray tell me if there are any bazaars in .”

“A Turkestan town without bazaars would be like London without its docks.”

“And Paris without its theaters!” said the actor.

“Yes; there are bazaars at Kokhan, one of them on the Sokh bridge, the two arms of which traverse the town and in it the finest fabrics of Asia are sold for tillahs of gold, which are worth three roubles and sixty kopeks of our money.”

“I am sure, major, that you are going to mention mosques after bazaars.”

“Certainly.”

“And medresses?”

“Certainly; but you must understand that some of them are as good as the mosques and medresses of Samarkand of Bokhara.”

I took advantage of the kindness of Major Noltitz and thanks to him, the readers of the Twentieth Century need not spend a night in Kokhan. I will leave my pen inundated with the solar rays of this city of which I could only see a vague outline.

The dinner lasted till rather late, and terminated in an unexpected manner by an offer from Caterna to recite a monologue.

I need scarcely say that the offer was gladly accepted.

Our train more and more resembled a small rolling town It had even its casino, this dining-car in which we were gathered at the moment. And it was thus in the eastern part of Turkestan, four hundred kilometres from the Pamir plateau, at dessert after our excellent dinner served in a saloon of the Grand Transasiatic, that the Obsession was given with remarkable talent by Monsieur Caterna, grand premier comique, engaged at Shanghai theater for the approaching season.

“Monsieur,” said Pan Chao, “my sincere compliments. I have heard young Coquelin — — “

“A master, monsieur; a master!” said Caterna.

“Whom you approach — — “

“Respectfully — very respectfully!”

The bravos lavished on Caterna had no effect on Sir Francis Trevellyan, who had been occupying himself with onomatopic exclamations regarding the dinner, which he considered execrable. He was not amused — not even sadly, as his countrymen have been for four hundred years, according to Froissart. And yet nobody took any notice of this grumbling gentleman’s recriminations.

Baron Weissschnitzerdorfer had not understood a single word of this little masterpiece, and had he understood it, he would not have been able to appreciate this sample of Parisian monologomania.

As to my lord Faruskiar and his inseparable Ghangir, it seemed that in spite of their traditional reserve, the surprising grimaces, the significant gestures, the comical intonations, had interested them to a certain extent.

The actor had noticed it, and appreciated this silent admiration.

As he rose from the table he said to me:

“He is magnificent, this seigneur! What dignity! What a presence! What a type of the farthest East! I like his companion less — a third-rate fellow at the outside! But this superb Mongol! Caroline, cannot you imagine him as ‘Morales’ in the Pirates of the Savannah?”

“Not in that costume, at any rate,” said I.

“Why not, Monsieur Claudius? One day at Perpignan I played ‘Colonel de Monteclin’ in the Closerie des Genets in the costume of a Japanese officer — — “

“And he was applauded!” added Madame Caterna.

During dinner the train had passed Kastakos station, situated in the center of a mountainous region. The road curved a good deal, and ran over viaducts and through tunnels — as we could tell by the noise.

A little time afterward Popof told us that we were in the territory of Ferganah, the name of the ancient khanate of Kokhan, which was annexed by Russia in 1876, with the seven districts that compose it. These districts, in which Sarthes are in the majority, are administered by prefects, sub-prefects, and mayors. Come, then, to Ferganah, to find all the machinery of the constitution of the year VIII.

Beyond there is an immense steppe, extending before our train. Madame de Ujfalvy-Bourdon has justly compared it to a billiard table, so perfect in its horizontality. Only it is not an ivory ball which is rolling over its surface, but an express of the Grand Transasiatic running at sixty kilometres an hour.

Leaving the station of Tchontchai behind, we enter station at nine o’clock in the evening. The stoppage is to last two hours. We get out onto the platform.

As we are leaving the car I am near Major Noltitz, who asks young Pan Chao:

“Have you ever heard of this mandarin Yen Lou, whose body is being taken to Pekin?”

“Never, major.”

“But he ought to be a personage of consideration, to be treated with the honor he gets.”

“That is possible,” said Pan Chao; “but we have so many personages of consideration in the Celestial Empire.”

“And so, this mandarin, Yen Lou?”

“I never heard him mentioned.”

Why did Major Noltitz ask the Chinaman this question? What was he thinking about?

CHAPTER XVI.

Kachgaria is Oriental Turkestan which is gradually being metamorphosed into Russian Turkestan.

The writers in the New Review have said: “Central Asia will only be a great country when the Muscovite administration have laid hands on Tibet, or when the Russians lord it at Kachgar.”

Well, that is a thing half done! The piercing of the Pamir has joined the Russian railway with the Chinese line which runs from one frontier of the Celestial Empire to the other. The capital of Kachgaria is now as much Russian as Chinese. The Sclav race and the Yellow race have rubbed elbows and live in peace. How long will it last? To others leave the future; I am content with the present.

We arrive at half-past four; we leave at eleven. The Grand Transasiatic shows itself generous. I shall have time to see Kachgar, on condition of allowing myself an hour less than the time stated.

For what was not done at the frontier has to be done at Kachgar. Russians and Chinese are one as bad as the other when there are vexing formalities; papers to verify, passports to sign, etc. etc. It is the same sort of meddling, minute and over-fastidious, and we must put up with it. We must not forget the terrible threat of the formula the functionary of the Celestial Empire affixes to his acts — “Tremble and obey!” I am disposed to obey, and I am prepared to appear before the authorities of the frontier. I remember the fears of Kinko, and it is with regard to him that the trembling is to be done, if the examination of the travelers extends to their packages and luggage.

Before we reached Kachgar, Major Noltitz said to me:

“Do not imagine that Chinese Turkestan differs very much from Russian Turkestan. We are not in the land of pagodas, junks, flower boats, yamens, hongs and porcelain towers. Like Bokhara, Merv and Samarkand, Kachgar is a double town. It is with the Central Asian cities as it is with certain stars, only they do not revolve round one another.”

The major’s remark was very true. It was not so long ago since emirs reigned over Kachgaria, since the monarchy of Mohammed Yakoub extended over the whole of Turkestan, since the Chinese who wished to live here had to adjure the religion of Buddha and Confucius and become converts to Mahometanism, that is, if they wished to be respectable. What would you have? In these days we are always too late, and those marvels of the Oriental cosmorama, those curious manners, those masterpieces of Asiatic art, are either memories or ruins. The railways will end by bringing the countries they traverse down to the same level, to a mutual resemblance which will certainly be equality and may be fraternity. In truth, Kachgar is no longer the capital of Kachgaria; it is a station on the Grand Transasiatic, the junction between the Russian and Chinese lines, and the strip of iron which stretches for three thousand kilometres from the Caspian to this city runs on for nearly four thousand more to the capital of the Celestial Empire.

I return to the double town. The new one is Yangi-Chahr: the old one, three and a half miles off, is Kachgar. I have seen both, and I will tell you what they are like.

In the first place, both the old and the new towns are surrounded with a villainous earthen wall that does not predispose you in their favor. Secondly, it is in vain that you seek for any monument whatever, for the materials of construction are identical for houses as for palaces. Nothing but earth, and not even baked earth. It is not with mud dried in the sun that you can obtain regular lines, clean profiles and finely worked sculptures. Your architecture must be in stone or marble, and that is precisely what you do not get in Chinese Turkestan.

A small carriage quickly took the major and myself to Kachgar, which is three miles round. The Kizil-Sou, that is to say the Red River, which is really yellow, as a Chinese river ought to be, clasps it between its two arms, which are united by two bridges. If you wish to see a few ruins of some interest, you must go a short distance beyond the town, where there are the remains of fortifications dating from five hundred or two thousand years ago, according to the imagination of the archaeologist. What is certain is that Kachgar submitted to the furious assault of Tamerlane, and we will agree that without the exploits of this terrible cripple the history of Central Asia would be singularly monotonous. Since his time there have been fierce sultans, it is true — among others that Ouali-Khan-Toulla, who, in 1857, strangled Schlagintweit, one of the most learned and most daring explorers of the Asiatic continent. Two tablets of bronze, presented by the Geographical Societies of Paris and Petersburg, ornament his commemorative monument.

Kachgar is an important centre of trade, which is almost entirely in Russian hands. Khotan silks, cotton, felt, woolen carpets, cloth, are the principal articles in the markets, and these are exported beyond the frontier between Tachkend and Koulja, to the north of Oriental Turkestan.

Here, as the major told me, Sir Francis Trevellyan should have special cause for manifesting his ill humor. In fact, an English embassy under Chapman and Gordon in 1873 and 1874 had been sent from Kashmir to Kachgar by way of Kothan and Yarkand. At this time the English had reason to hope that commercial relations could be established to their advantage. But instead of being in communication with the Indian railways, the Russian railways are in communication with the Chinese, and the result of this junction has been that English influence has had to give place to Russian.

The population of Kachgar is Turkoman, with a considerable mixture of Chinese, who willingly fulfil the duties of domestics, artisans or porters. Less fortunate than Chapman and Gordon, Major Noltitz and I were not able to see the Kachgarian capital when the armies of the tumultuous emir filled its streets. There were none of those Djiguit foot soldiers who were mounted, nor of those Sarbaz who were not. Vanished had those magnificent bodies of Taifourchis, armed and disciplined in the Chinese manner, those superb lancers, those Kalmuck archers, bending bows five feet high, those “tigers” with their daubed shields and their matchlocks. All have disappeared, the picturesque warriors of Kachgaria and the emir with them.

At nine o’clock we are on our return to Yangi-Chahr. There, at the end of the streets near the citadel, what do we see? The Caternas in ecstatic admiration before a troop of musical dervishes.

Who says dervish says beggar, and who says beggar evokes the completest type of filth and laziness. But with what an extraordinary combination of gestures, with what attitudes in the management of the long-stringed guitar, with what acrobatic swingings of the body do they accompany their singing of their legends and poetry which could not be more profane. The instinct of the old actor was awakened in Caterna. He could not keep still; it was too much for him.

And so these gestures, these attitudes, these swingings he imitated there with the vigor of an old topman joined to that of a leading premier, and I saw him as he was figuring in this quadrille of dancing dervishes.

“Eh! Monsieur Claudius!” he said, “it is not difficult to copy the exercises of these gallant fellows! Make me a Turkestan operetta, let me act a dervish, and you will see if I don’t do it to the very life.”

“I do not doubt it, my dear Caterna,” I replied; “but before you do that, come into the restaurant at the railway station and bid farewell to Turkestan cookery, for we shall soon be reduced to Chinese.”

The offer is accepted all the more willingly, for the reputation of the Kachgarian cooks is well justified, as the major made us remark.

In fact, the Caternas, the major, young Pan Chao and I were astonished and enchanted at the quantity of dishes that were served us, as well as at their quality. Sweets alternated capriciously with roasts and grills. And as the Caternas could never forget — any more than they could forget the famous peaches of Khodjend — there are a few of these dishes which the English embassy wished to retain in remembrance, for they have given the composition in the story of their journey: pigs’ feet dusted with sugar and browned in fat with a dash of pickles; kidneys fried with sweet sauce and served with fritters.

Caterna asked for the first twice, and for the other three times.

“I take my precautions,” said he. “Who knows what the dining-car kitchen will give us on the Chinese railways? Let us beware of shark fins, which may perhaps be rather horny, and of swallows’ nests which may not be quite fresh!”

It is ten o’clock when a stroke of the gong announces that the police formalities are about to begin. We leave the table after a parting glass of Choa-Hing wine, and a few minutes afterward are in the waiting room.

All my numbers are present, with the exception, of course, of Kinko, who would have done honor to our breakfast if it had been possible for him to take part in it. There was Doctor Tio-King, his Cornaro under his arm; Fulk Ephrinell and Miss Horatia Bluett, mingling their teeth and hair, figuratively, be it understood; Sir Francis Trevellyan, motionless and silent, intractable and stiff, smoking his cigar on the threshold; Faruskiar, accompanied by Ghangir; Russian, Turkoman, Chinese travelers — in all from sixty to eighty persons. Every one had in his turn to present himself at the table, which was occupied by two Celestials in uniform; a functionary speaking Russian fluently, an interpreter for German, French and English.

The Chinese was a man about fifty, with a bald head, a thick moustache, a long pigtail, and spectacles on his nose. Wrapped in a flowery robe, fat as if he belonged to the most distinguished people in the country, he had not a prepossessing face. After all, it was only a verification of our papers, and as ours were in order it did not much matter how repulsive he looked.

“What an air he has!” murmured Madame Caterna.

“The air of a Chinaman!” said her husband, “and frankly I do not want to have one like it.”

I am one of the first to present my passport, which bears the visas of the consul at Tiflis and the Russian authorities at Uzun-Ada. The functionary looks at it attentively. When you are dealing with a mandarin, you should always be on the lookout. Nevertheless, the examination raises no difficulty, and the seal of the green dragon declares me all in order.

The same result with regard to the actor and actress. Nevertheless it was worth while looking at Caterna while his papers were being examined. He assumed the attitude of a criminal endeavoring to mollify a magistrate, he made the sheepiest of eyes, and smiled the most deprecating of smiles, and seemed to implore a grace or rather a favor, and yet the most obdurate of the Chinamen had not a word to say to him.

“Correct,” said the interpreter.

“Thank you, my prince!” replied Caterna, with the accent of a Paris street boy.

As to Ephrinell and Miss Bluett, they went through like a posted letter. If an American commercial and an English ditto were not in order, who would be? Uncle Sam and John Bull are one as far as that goes.

The other travelers, Russian and Turkoman, underwent examination without any difficulty arising. Whether they were first-class or second-class, they had fulfilled the conditions required by the Chinese administration, which levies a rather heavy fee for each visa, payable in roubles, taels or sapeks.

Among the travelers I noticed an American clergyman bound to Pekin. This was the Reverend Nathaniel Morse, of Boston, one of those honest Bible distributors, a Yankee missionary, in the garb of a merchant, and very keen in business matters. At a venture I make him No. 13 in my notebook.

The verification of the papers of young Pan Chao and Doctor Tio-King gave rise to no difficulty, and on leaving they exchanged “ten thousand good mornings” with the more amiable of the Chinese representatives.

When it came to the turn of Major Noltitz, a slight incident occurred. Sir Francis Trevellyan, who came to the table at the same moment, did not seem inclined to give way. However, nothing resulted but haughty and provoking looks. The gentleman did not even take the trouble to open his mouth. It is evidently written above that I am not to hear the sound of his voice! The Russian and the Englishman each received the regulation visa, and the affair went no further.

My lord Faruskiar, followed by Ghangir, then arrived before the man in spectacles, who looked at him with a certain amount of attention. Major Noltitz and I watched him. How would he submit to this examination? Perhaps we were to be undeceived regarding him.

But what was our surprise and even our stupefaction at the dramatic outburst which at once took place!

After throwing a glance at the papers presented to him by Ghangir, the Chinese functionary rose and bowed respectfully to Faruskiar, saying:

“May the General Manager of the Grand Transasiatic deign to receive my ten thousand respects!”

General Manager, that is what he is, this lord Faruskiar! All is explained. During our crossing of Russian Turkestan he had maintained his incognito like a great personage in a foreign country; but now on the Chinese railways he resumed the rank which belonged to him.

And I — in a joke, it is true — had permitted myself to identify him with the pirate Ki-Tsang. And Major Noltitz, who had spent his time suspecting him! At last I have some one of note in our train — I have him, this somebody, I will make his acquaintance, I will cultivate it like a rare plant, and if he will only speak Russian I will interview him down to his boots!

Good! I am completely upset, and I could not help shrugging my shoulders, when the major whispers to me:

“Perhaps one of the bandit chiefs with whom the Grand Transasiatic had to make terms!”

“Come, major, be serious.”

The visit was nearing its end when Baron Weissschnitzerdorfer appeared.

He is preoccupied, he is troubled, he is anxious, he is confused, he is fidgety. Why is he shaking, and bending, and diving into his pockets like a man who has lost something valuable?

“Your papers!” demands the interpreter in German.

“My papers!” replies the baron, “I am looking for them. I have not got them; they were in my letter case.”

And he dived again into his trousers pockets, his waistcoat pockets, his coat pockets, his great-coat pockets — there were twenty of them at the least — and he found nothing.

“Be quick — be quick!” said the interpreter. “The train cannot wait!”

“I object to its going without me!” exclaimed the baron. “These papers — how have they gone astray? I must have let them drop out of my case. They should have given them back to me — “

At this moment the gong awoke the echoes of the interior of the railway station.

“Wait! wait! Donner vetter! Can’t you wait a few moments for a man who is going round the world in thirty-nine days — “

“The Grand Transasiatic does not wait,” says the interpreter.

Without waiting for any more, Major Noltitz and I reach the platform, while the baron continues to struggle in the presence of the impassible Chinese functionaries.

I examine the train and see that its composition has been modified on account of there being fewer travelers between Kachgar and Pekin. Instead of twelve carriages, there are now only ten, placed in the following order: engine, tender, front van, two first-class cars, dining car, two second-class cars, the van with the defunct mandarin, rear van.

The Russian locomotives, which have brought us from Uzun-Ada, have been replaced by a Chinese locomotive, burning not naphtha but coal, of which there are large deposits in Turkestan, and stores at the chief stations along the line.

My first care is to look in at the front van. The custom-house officers are about to visit it, and I tremble for poor Kinko.

It is evident that the fraud has not been discovered yet, for there would have been a great stir at the news. Suppose the case is passed? Will its position be shifted? Will it be put hind side before or upside down? Kinko will not then be able to get out, and that would be a complication.

The Chinese officers have come out of the van and shut the door, so that I cannot give a glance into it. The essential point is that Kinko has not been caught in the act. As soon as possible I will enter the van, and as bankers say, “verify the state of the safe.”

Before getting into our car, Major Noltitz asks me to follow him to the rear of the train.

The scene we witness is not devoid of interest; it is the giving over of the corpse of the mandarin Yen Lou by the Persian guards to a detachment of soldiers of the Green Standard, who form the Chinese gendarmerie. The defunct passes into the care of twenty Celestials, who are to occupy the second-class car in front of the mortuary van. They are armed with guns and revolvers, and commanded by an officer.

“Well,” said I to the major, “this mandarin must be some very exalted personage if the Son of Heaven sends him a guard of honor — “

“Or of defence,” replies the major.

Faruskiar and Ghangir assist at these proceedings, in which there is nothing surprising. Surely the general manager of the line ought to keep an eye on the illustrious defunct, entrusted to the care of the Grand Transasiatic?

The gong was struck for the last time; we hasten into our cars.

And the baron, what has become of him?

Here he comes out on to the platform like a whirlwind. He has found his papers at the bottom of his nineteenth pocket. He has obtained the necessary visa — and it was time.

“Passengers for Pekin, take your seats!” shouts Popof in a sonorous voice.

The train trembles, it starts, it has gone.

CHAPTER XVII.

We are off on a Chinese railway, single line, the train drawn by a Chinese engine, driven by a Chinese driver. Let us hope we shall not be telescoped on the road, for among the passengers is one of the chief functionaries of the company in the person of Faruskiar.

After all, if an accident should happen it will break the monotony of the journey, and furnish me with an episode. I am forced to admit that up to the present my personages have not behaved as I expected. The drama does not run well, the action languishes. We want something startling to bring all the actors on — what Caterna would call “a good fourth act.”

But then Ephrinell and Miss Bluett are all the time absorbed in their commercial tete-a-tete. Pan Chao and the doctor amused me for a time, but they are not equal to it now. The actor and the actress are of no use without opportunity. Kinko, Kinko himself, on whom I had built such hopes, has passed the frontier without difficulty, he will reach Pekin, he will marry Zinca Klork. Decidedly there is a want of excitement. I cannot get anything out of the corpse of Yen Lou! and the readers of the Twentieth Century who looked to me for something sensational and thrilling.

Must I have recourse to the German baron? No! he is merely ridiculous, stupidly ridiculous, and he has no interest for me.

I return to my idea: I want a hero, and up to the present no hero has appeared on the scene.

Evidently the moment has come to enter into more intimate relations with Faruskiar. Perhaps he will not now be so close in his incognito. We are under his orders, so to say. He is the mayor of our rolling town, and a mayor owes something to those he governs. Besides, in the event of Kinko’s fraud being discovered I may as well secure the protection of this high functionary.

Our train runs at only moderate speed since we left Kachgar. On the opposite horizon we can see the high lands of the Pamir; to the southwest rises the Bolor, the Kachgarian belt from which towers the summit of Tagharma lost among the clouds.

I do not know how to spend my time. Major Noltitz has never visited the territories crossed by the Grand Transasiatic, and I am deprived of the pleasure of taking notes from his dictation. Dr. Tio-King does not lift his nose from his Cornaro, and Pan Chao reminds me more of Paris and France than of Pekin and China; besides, when he came to Europe he came by Suez, and he knows no more of Oriental Turkestan than he does of Kamtschatka. All the same, we talk. He is a pleasant companion, but a little less amiability and a little more originality would suit me better.

I am reduced to strolling from one car to another, lounging on the platforms, interrogating the horizon, which obstinately refuses to reply, listening on all sides.

Hello! there are the actor and his wife apparently in animated conversation. I approach. They sing in an undertone. I listen.

“I’m fond of my turkeys — eys — eys,” says Madame Caterna.

“I’m fond of my wethers — ers — ers,” says Monsieur Caterna, in any number of baritones.

It is the everlasting duet between Pipo and Bettina; and they are rehearsing for Shanghai. Happy Shanghai! They do not yet know the Mascotte!

Ephrinell and Miss Bluett are talking away with unusual animation, and I catch the end of the dialogue.

“I am afraid,” said she, “that hair will be rising in Pekin — “

“And I,” said he, “that teeth will be down. Ah! If a good war would only break out in which the Russians would give the Chinaman a smack on the jaw.”

There now! Smack them on the jaw, in order that Strong, Bulbul & Co. of New York, might have a chance of doing a trade!

Really I do not know what to do, and we have a week’s journey before us. To Jericho with the Grand Transasiatic and its monotonous security! The Great Trunk from New York to San Francisco has more life in it! At least, the redskins do sometimes attack the trains, and the chance of a scalping on the road cannot but add to the charm of the voyage!

But what is that I hear being recited, or rather intoned at the end of our compartment?

“There is no man, whoever he may be, who cannot prevent himself from eating too much, and avoid the evils due to repletion. On those who are intrusted with the direction of public affairs this is more incumbent than on others — “

It is Dr. Tio-King reading Cornaro aloud, in order that he may remember his principles better. Eh! after all, this principle is not to be despised. Shall I send it by telegram to our cabinet ministers? They might, perhaps, dine with more discretion after it.

During this afternoon I find by the guide-book that we shall cross the Yamanyar over a wooden bridge. This stream descends from the mountains to the west, which are at least twenty-five thousand feet high, and its rapidity is increased by the melting of the snows. Sometimes the train runs through thick jungles, amid which Popof assures me tigers are numerous. Numerous they may be, but I have not seen one. And yet in default of redskins we might get some excitement out of tiger-skins. What a heading for a newspaper, and what a stroke of luck for a journalist! TERRIBLE CATASTROPHE. A GRAND TRANSASIATIC EXPRESS ATTACKED BY TIGERS. FIFTY VICTIMS. AN INFANT DEVOURED BEFORE ITS MOTHER’S EYES — the whole thickly leaded and appropriately displayed.

Well, no! The Turkoman felidae did not give me even that satisfaction! And I treat them — as I treat any other harmless cats.

The two principal stations have been Yanghi-Hissar, where the train stops ten minutes, and Kizil, where it stops a quarter of an hour. Several blast furnaces are at work here, the soil being ferruginous, as is shown by the word “Kizil,” which means red.

The country is fertile and well cultivated, growing wheat, maize, rice, barley and flax, in its eastern districts. Everywhere are great masses of trees, willows, mulberries, poplars. As far as the eye can reach are fields under culture, irrigated by numerous canals, also green fields in which are flocks of sheep; a country half Normandy, half Provence, were it not for the mountains of the Pamir on the horizon. But this portion of Kachgaria was terribly ravaged by war when its people were struggling for independence. The land flowed with blood, and along by the railway the ground is dotted with tumuli beneath which are buried the victims of their patriotism. But I did not come to Central Asia to travel as if I were in France! Novelty! Novelty! The unforeseen! The appalling!

It was without the shadow of an accident, and after a particularly fine run, that we entered Yarkand station at four o’clock in the afternoon.

If Yarkand is not the administrative capital of eastern Turkestan, it is certainly the most important commercial city of the province.

“Again two towns together,” said I to Major Noltitz. “That I have from Popof.”

“But this time,” said the major, “it was not the Russians who built the new one.”

“New or old,” I added, “I am afraid is like the others we have seen, a wall of earth, a few dozen gateways cut in the wall, no monuments or buildings of note, and the eternal bazaars of the East.”

I was not mistaken, and it did not take four hours to visit both Yarkands, the newer of which is called Yanji-Shahr.

Fortunately, the Yarkand women are not forbidden to appear in the streets, which are bordered by simple mud huts, as they were at the time of the “dadkwahs,” or governors of the province. They can give themselves the pleasure of seeing and being seen, and this pleasure is shared in by the farangis — as they call foreigners, no matter to what nation they may belong. They are very pretty, these Asiatics, with their long tresses, their transversely striped bodices, their skirts of bright colors, relieved by Chinese designs in Kothan silk, their high-heeled embroidered boots, their turbans of coquettish pattern, beneath which appear their black hair and their eyebrows united by a bar.

A few Chinese passengers alighted at Yarkand, and gave place to others exactly like them — among others a score of coolies — and we started again at eight o’clock in the evening.

During the night we ran the three hundred and fifty kilometres which separate Yarkand from Kothan.

A visit I paid to the front van showed me that the box was still in the same place. A certain snoring proved that Kinko was inside as usual, and sleeping peacefully. I did not care to wake him, and I left him to dream of his adorable Roumanian.

In the morning Popof told me that the train, which was now traveling about as fast as an omnibus, had passed Kargalik, the junction for the Kilian and Tong branches. The night had been cold, for we are still at an altitude of twelve hundred metres. Leaving Guma station, the line runs due east and west, following the thirty-seventh parallel, the same which traverses in Europe, Seville, Syracuse and Athens.

We sighted only one stream of importance, the Kara-kash, on which appeared a few drifting rafts, and files of horses and asses at the fords between the pebbly banks. The railroad crosses it about a hundred kilometres from Khotan, where we arrived at eight o’clock in the morning.

Two hours to stop, and as the town may give me a foretaste of the cities of China, I resolve to take a run through it.

It seems to be a Turkoman town built by the Chinese, or perhaps a Chinese town built by Turkomans. Monuments and inhabitants betray their double origin. The mosques look like pagodas, the pagodas look like mosques.

And I was not astonished when the Caternas, who would not miss this opportunity of setting foot in China, were rather disappointed.

“Monsieur Claudius,” said the actor to me, “there is not a single scene here that would suit the Prise de Pekin!”

“But we are not at Pekin, my dear Caterna.”

“That is true, and it has to be remembered, if we are to be thankful for little.”

“‘Thankful for very little,’ as the Italians say.”

“Well, if they say that, they are no fools.”

As we were about to board the car again, I saw Popof running toward me, shouting:

“Monsieur Bombarnac!”

“What is the matter, Popof?”

“A telegraph messenger asked me if there was any one belonging to the Twentieth Century in the train.”

“A telegraph messenger?”

“Yes, on my replying in the affirmative, he gave me this telegram for you.”

“Give it me! give it me!”

I seize the telegram, which has been waiting for me for some days. Is it a reply to my wire sent from Merv, relative to the mandarin Yen Lou?

I open it. I read it. And it falls from my hand.

This is what it said:

“Claudius Bombarnac,

“Correspondent,

“Twentieth Century.

“Khotan, Chinese Turkestan.

“It is not the corpse of a mandarin that the train is taking to Pekin, but the imperial treasure, value fifteen millions, sent from Persia to China, as announced in the Paris newspapers eight days ago; endeavor to be better informed for the future.”

CHAPTER XVIII.

“Millions — there are millions in that pretended mortuary van!”

In spite of myself, this imprudent phrase had escaped me in such a way that the secret of the imperial treasure was instantly known to all, to the railway men as well as to the passengers. And so, for greater security, the Persian government, in agreement with the Chinese government, has allowed it to be believed that we were carrying the corpse of a mandarin, when we were really taking to Pekin a treasure worth fifteen million of francs.

Heaven pardon me, what a howler — pardonable assuredly — but what a howler I had been guilty of! But why should I have doubted what Popof told me, and why should Popof have suspected what the Persians had told him regarding this Yen Lou? There was no reason for our doubting their veracity.

I am none the less deeply humiliated in my self-esteem as a journalist, and I am much annoyed at the call to order which I have brought upon myself. I shall take very good care not to breathe a word of my misadventure, even to the major. Is it credible? In Paris the Twentieth Century is better informed of what concerns the Grand Transasiatic than I am! They knew that an imperial treasure is in the van, and I did not! Oh! the mistakes of special correspondents!

Now the secret is divulged, and we know that this treasure, composed of gold and precious stones, formerly deposited in the hands of the Shah of Persia, is being sent to its legitimate owner, the Son of Heaven.

That is why my lord Faruskiar, who was aware of it in consequence of his position as general manager of the company, had joined the train at Douchak so as to accompany the treasure to its destination. That is why he and Ghangir — and the three other Mongols — had so carefully watched this precious van, and why they had shown themselves so anxious when it had been left behind by the breakage of the coupling, and why they were so eager for its recovery. Yes, all is explained!

That is also why a detachment of Chinese soldiers has taken over the van at Kachgar, in relief of the Persians! That is why Pan-Chao never heard of Yen Lou, nor of any exalted personage of that name existing in the Celestial Empire!

We started to time, and, as may be supposed, our traveling companions could talk of nothing else but the millions which were enough to enrich every one in the train.

“This pretended mortuary van has always been suspicious to me,” said Major Noltitz. “And that was why I questioned Pan-Chao regarding the dead mandarin.”

“I remember,” I said; “and I could not quite understand the motive of your question. It is certain now that we have got a treasure in tow.”

“And I add,” said the major, “that the Chinese government has done wisely in sending an escort of twenty well-armed men. From Kothan to Lan Teheou the trains will have two thousand kilometres to traverse through the desert, and the safety of the line is not as great as it might be across the Gobi.”

“All the more so, major, as the redoubtable Ki-Tsang has been reported in the northern provinces.”

“Quite so, and a haul of fifteen millions is worth having by a bandit chief.”

“But how could the chief be informed of the treasure being sent?”

“That sort of people always know what it is their interest to know.”

“Yes,” thought I, “although they do not read the Twentieth Century.”

Meanwhile different opinions were being exchanged on the gangways. Some would rather travel with the millions than carry a corpse along with them, even though it was that of a first-class mandarin. Others considered the carrying of the treasure a danger to the passengers. And that was the opinion of Baron Weissschnitzerdorfer in a furious attack on Popof.

“You ought to have told us about it, sir, you ought to have told us about it! Those millions are known to be in the train, and they will tempt people to attack us. And an attack, even if repulsed, will mean delay, and delay I will not submit to! No, sir, I will not!”

“No one will attack us,” replied Popof. “No one will dream of doing it!”

“And how do you know that? how do you know that?”

“Be calm, pray.”

“I will not be calm; and if there is a delay, I will hold the company responsible!”

That is understood; a hundred thousand florins damages to Monsieur le Baron Tour de Monde.

Let us pass to the other passengers.

Ephrinell looked at the matter, of course, from a very practical point of view.

“There can be no doubt that our risks have been greatly increased by this treasure, and in case of accident on account of it, the Life Travelers’ Society, in which I am insured, will, I expect, refuse to pay, so that the Grand Transasiatic Company will have all the responsibility.”

“Of course,” said Miss Bluett; “and if they had not found the missing van the company would have been in a serious difficulty with China. Would it not, Fulk?”

“Exactly, Horatia!”

Horatia and Fulk — nothing less.

The Anglo-American couple were right, the enormous loss would have had to be borne by the Grand Transasiatic, for the company must have known they were carrying a treasure and not a corpse — and thereby they were responsible.

As to the Caternas, the millions rolling behind did not seem to trouble them. The only reflection they inspired was, “Ah! Caroline, what a splendid theater we might build with all that money!”

But the best thing was said by the Reverend Nathaniel Morse, who had joined the train at Kachgar.

“It is never comfortable to be dragging a powder magazine after one!”

Nothing could be truer, and this van with its imperial treasure was a powder magazine that might blow up our train.

The first railway was opened in China about 1877 and ran from Shanghai to Fou-Tcheou. The Grand Transasiatic followed very closely the Russian road proposed in 1874 by Tachkend, Kouldja, Kami, Lan Tcheou, Singan and Shanghai. This railway did not run through the populous central provinces which can be compared to vast and humming hives of bees — and extaordinarily prolific bees. As before curving off to Lan Tcheou; it reaches the great cities by the branches it gives out to the south and southeast. Among others, one of these branches, that from Tai Youan to Nanking, should have put these two towns of the Chan-Si and Chen-Toong provinces into communication. But at present the branch is not ready for opening, owing to an important viaduct not having finished building.

The completed portion gives me direct communication across Central Asia. That is the main line of the Transasiatic. The engineers did not find it so difficult of construction as General Annenkof did the Transcaspian. The deserts of Kara Koum and Gobi are very much alike; the same dead level, the same absence of elevations and depressions, the same suitability for the iron road. If the engineers had had to attack the enormous chain of the Kuen Lun, Nan Chan, Amie, Gangar Oola, which forms the frontier of Tibet, the obstacles would have been such that it would have taken a century to surmount them. But on a flat, sandy plain the railway could be rapidly pushed on up to Lan Tcheou, like a long Decauville of three thousand kilometres.

It is only in the vicinity of this city that the art of the engineer has had a serious struggle with nature in the costly and troublesome road through the provinces of Kan-Sou, Chan-Si and Petchili.

As we go along I must mention a few of the principal stations at which the train stops to take in coal and water. On the right-hand side the eye never tires of the distant horizon of mountains which bounds the tableland of Tibet to the north. On the left the view is over the interminable steppes of the Gobi. The combination of these territories constitutes the Chinese Empire if not China proper, and we shall only reach that when we are in the neighborhood of Lan Tcheou.

It would seem, therefore, as though the second part of the journey would be rather uninteresting, unless we are favored with a few startling incidents. But it seems to me that we are certainly in the possession of the elements out of which something journalistic can be made.

At eleven o’clock the train left Kothan station, and it was nearly two o’clock in the afternoon when it reached Keria, having left behind the small stations of Urang, Langar, Pola and Tschiria.

In 1889-90 this road was followed by Pevtsoff from Kothan to Lob-Nor at the foot of the Kuen Lun, which divides Chinese Turkestan from Tibet. The Russian traveler went by Keria, Nia, Tchertchen, as we are doing so easily, but then his caravan had to contend with much danger and difficulty — which did not prevent his reporting ten thousand kilometres of surveys, without reckoning altitude and longitude observations of the geographical points. It is an honor for the Russian government to have thus continued the work of Prjevalsky.

From Keria station you can see to the southwest the heights of Kara Korum and the peak of Dapsang, to which different geographers assign a height of eight thousand metres. At its foot extends the province of Kachmir. There the Indus rises in a number of inconsiderable sources which feed one of the greatest rivers of the Peninsula. Thence from the Pamir tableland extends the mighty range of the Himalaya, where rise the highest summits on the face of the globe.

Since we left Kothan we have covered a hundred and fifty kilometres in four hours. It is not a high rate of speed, but we cannot expect on this part of the Transasiatic the same rate of traveling we experienced on the Transcaspian. Either the Chinese engines are not so fast, or, thanks to their natural indolence, the engine drivers imagine that from thirty to forty miles an hour is the maximum that can be obtained on the railways of the Celestial Empire.

At five o’clock in the afternoon we were at another station, Nia, where General Pevtsoff established a meterological observatory. Here we stopped only twenty minutes. I had time to lay in a few provisions at the bar. For whom they were intended you can imagine.

The passengers we picked up were only Chinese, men and women. There were only a few for the first class, and these only went short journeys.

We had not started a quarter of an hour when Ephrinell, with the sferious manner of a merchant intent on some business, came up to me on the gangway.

“Monsieur Bombarnac,” he said, “I have to ask a favor of you.”

Eh! I thought, this Yankee knows where to find me when he wants me.

“Only too happy, I can assure you,” said I. “What is it about?”

“I want you to be a witness — “

“An affair of honor? And with whom, if you please?”

“Miss Horatia Bluett.”

“You are going to fight Miss Bluett!” I exclaimed, with a laugh.

“Not yet. I am going to marry her.”

“Marry her?”

“Yes! a treasure of a woman, well acquainted with business matters, holding a splendid commission — “

“My compliments, Mr. Ephrinell! You can count on me — “

“And probably on M. Caterna?”

“He would like nothing better, and if there is a wedding breakfast he will sing at your dessert — “

“As much as he pleases,” replied the American. “And now for Miss Bluett’s witnesses.”

“Quite so.”

“Do you think Major Noltitz would consent?”

“A Russian is too gallant to refuse. I will ask him, if you like.”

“Thank you in advance. As to the second witness, I am rather in a difficulty. This Englishman, Sir Francis Trevellyan — “

“A shake of the head is all you will get from him.”

“Baron Weissschnitzerdorfer?”

“Ask that of a man who is doing a tour of the globe, and who would never get through a signature of a name of that length!”

“Then I can only think of Pan-Chao, unless we try Popof — “

“Either would do it with pleasure. But there is no hurry, Mr. Ephrinell, and when you get to Pekin you will have no difficulty in finding a fourth witness.”

“What! to Pekin? It is not at Pekin that I hope to marry Miss Bluett!”

“Where, then? At Sou Tcheou or Lan Tcheou, while we stop a few hours?”

“Wait a bit, Monsieur Bombarnac! Can a Yankee wait?”

“Then it is to be — “

“Here.”

“In the train?”

“In the train.”

“Then it is for me to say, Wait a bit!”

“Not twenty-four hours.”

“But to be married you require — “

“An American minister, and we have the Reverend Nathaniel Morse.”

“He consents?”

“As if he would not! He would marry the whole train if it asked him!”

“Bravo, Mr. Ephrinell! A wedding in a train will be delightful.”

“We should never put off until to-morrow what we can do to-day.”

“Yes, I know, time is money.”

“No! Time is time, simply, and I do not care to lose a minute of it.”

Ephrinell clasped my hand, and as I had promised, I went to take the necessary steps regarding the witnesses necessary for the nuptial ceremonial.

It needs not be said that the commercials were of full age and free to dispose of themselves, to enter into marriage before a clergyman, as is done in America, and without any of the fastidious preliminaries required in France and other formalistic countries. Is this an advantage or otherwise? The Americans think it is for the best, and, as Cooper says, the best at home is the best everywhere.

I first asked Major Noltitz, who willingly agreed to be Miss Bluett’s witness.

“These Yankees are astonishing,” he said to me.

“Precisely because they are astonished at nothing, major.”

I made a similar proposition to Pan-Chao.

“Delighted, Monsieur Bombarnac,” he replied. “I will be the witness of this adorable and adored Miss Bluett! If a wedding between an Englishwoman and an American, with French, Russian and Chinese witnesses, does not offer every guarantee of happiness, where are we likely to meet with it?”

And now for Caterna.

The actor would have consented for any number of weddings.

“What a notion for a vaudeville or an operetta!” he exclaimed. “We have the Mariage au tambour, the Mariage aux olives, the Mariage aux lanternes — well, this will be the Mariage en railway, or the Marriage by Steam! Good titles, all those, Monsieur Claudius! Your Yankee can reckon on me! Witness old or young, noble father or first lover, marquis or peasant, as you like, I am equal to it — — “

“Be natural, please,” said I. “It will have a good effect, considering the scenery.”

“Is Madame Caterna to come to the wedding?”

“Why not — -as bridesmaid!”

In all that concerns the traditional functions we must have no difficulties on the Grand Transasiatic.

It is too late for the ceremony to take place to-day. Ephrinell understood that certain conventionalities must be complied with. The celebration could take place in the morning. The passengers could all be invited, and Faruskiar might be prevailed on to honor the affair with his presence.

During dinner we talked of nothing else. After congratulating the happy couple, who replied with true Anglo-Saxon grace, we all promised to sign the marriage contract.

“And we will do honor to your signatures,” said Ephrinell, in the tone of a tradesman accepting a bill.

The night came, and we retired, to dream of the marriage festivities of the morrow. I took my usual stroll into the car occupied by the Chinese soldiers, and found the treasure of the Son of Heaven faithfully guarded. Half the detachment were awake and half were asleep.

About one o’clock in the morning I visited Kinko, and handed him over my purchases at Nia. The young Roumanian was in high spirits. He anticipated no further obstacles, he would reach port safely, after all.

“I am getting quite fat in this box,” he told me.

I told him about the Ephrinell-Bluett marriage, and how the union was to be celebrated next morning with great pomp.

“Ah!” said he, with a sigh. “They are not obliged to wait until they reach Pekin!”

“Quite so, Kinko; but it seems to me that a marriage under such conditions is not likely to be lasting! But after all, that is the couple’s lookout.”

At three o’clock in the morning we stopped forty minutes at Tchertchen, almost at the foot of the ramifications of the Kuen Lun. None of us had seen this miserable, desolate country, treeless and verdureless, which the railway was now crossing on its road to the northeast.

Day came; our train ran the four hundred kilometres between Tchertchen and Tcharkalyk, while the sun caressed with its rays the immense plain, glittering in its saline efflorescences.

CHAPTER XIX.

When I awoke I seemed to have had an unpleasant dream. A dream in no way like those we interpret by the Clef d’Or. No! Nothing could be clearer. The bandit chief Ki Tsang had prepared a scheme for the seizure of the Chinese treasure; he had attacked the train in the plains of Gobi; the car is assaulted, pillaged, ransacked; the gold and precious stones, to the value of fifteen millions, are torn from the grasp of the Celestials, who yield after a courageous defence. As to the passengers, another two minutes of sleep would have settled their fate — and mine.

But all that disappeared with the vapors of the night. Dreams are not fixed photographs; they fade in the sun, and end by effacing themselves.

In taking my stroll through the train as a good townsman takes his stroll through the town, I am joined by Major Noltitz. After shaking hands, he showed me a Mongol in the second-class car, and said to me, “That is not one of those we picked up at Douchak when we picked up Faruskiar and Ghangir.”

“That is so,” said I; “I never saw that face in the train before.”

Popof, to whom I applied for information, told me that the Mongol had got in at Tchertchen. “When he arrived,” he said, “the manager spoke to him for a minute, from which I concluded that he also was one of the staff of the Grand Transasiatic.”

I had not noticed Faruskiar during my walk. Had he alighted at one of the small stations between Tchertchen and Tcharkalyk, where we ought to have been about one o’clock in the afternoon?

No, he and Ghangir were on the gangway in front of our car. They seemed to be in animated conversation, and only stopped to take a good look toward the northeastern horizon. Had the Mongol brought some news which had made them throw off their usual reserve and gravity? And I abandoned myself to my imagination, foreseeing adventures, attacks of bandits, and so on, according to my dream.

I was recalled to reality by the Reverend Nathaniel Morse, who said to me, “It is fixed for to-day, at nine o’clock; do not forget.”

That meant the marriage of Fulk Ephrinell and Horatia Bluett. Really, I was not thinking of it. It is time for me to go and dress for the occasion. All I can do will be to change my shirt. It is enough that one of the husband’s witnesses should be presentable; the other, Caterna, will be sure to be magnificent!

In fact, the actor had gone into the luggage van — how I trembled for Kinko! — and there, with Popof’s assistance, had got out of one of his boxes a somewhat free-and-easy costume, but one certain of success at a wedding: A primrose coat with metal buttons, and a buttonhole, a sham diamond pin in the cravat, poppy-colored breeches, copper buckles, flowered waistcoat, clouded stockings, thread gloves, black pumps, and white beaver hat. What a number of bridegrooms and uncles of bridegrooms our friend had been in this traditional attire! He looked superb, with his beaming face, his close-shaven chin, and blue cheeks, and his laughing eyes and rosy lips.

Madame Caterna was quite as glorious in her array. She had easily discovered a bridesmaid’s costume in her wardrobe, bodice with intercrossing stripes, short petticoat in green woolen, mauve stockings, straw hat with artificial flowers, a suspicion of black on the eyelids and of rouge on the cheeks. There you have the provincial stage beauty, and if she and her husband like to play a village piece after the breakfast, I can promise them bravos enough.

It was at nine o’clock that this marriage was to take place, announced by the bell of the tender, which was to sound full clang as if it were a chapel bell. With a little imagination, we could believe we were in a village. But whither did this bell invite the witnesses and guests? Into the dining car, which had been conveniently arranged for the ceremony, as I had taken good care.

It was no longer a dining car; it was a hall car, if the expression is admissible. The big table had been taken away, and replaced by a small table which served as a desk. A few flowers bought at Tchertchen had been arranged in the corners of the car, which was large enough to hold nearly all who wished to be present — and those who could not get inside could look on from the gangways.

That all the passengers might know what was going on, we had put up a notice at the doors of the first and second-class cars, couched in the following terms: “Mr. Fulk Ephrinell, of the firm of Messrs. Strong, Bulbul & Co. of New York City, has the honor to invite you to his wedding with Miss Horatia Bluett, of the firm of Messrs. Holmes-Holme, London, which will take place in the dining car on this the 22d of May, at nine o’clock precisely. The Reverend Nathaniel Morse, of Boston, U.S.A. will officiate.

“Miss Horatia Bluett, of the firm of Messrs. Holmes-Holme, of London, has the honor to invite you to her wedding with Mr. Fulk Ephrinell, of the firm of Messrs. Strong, Bulbul & Co. of New York City, etc. etc.”

If I do not make half a dozen pars out of all this I am no newspaper man!

Meanwhile I learn from Popof the precise spot where the ceremony will take place.

Popof points it out on the map. It is a hundred and fifty kilometres from Tcharkalyk station, in the middle of the desert, amid the plains which are traversed by a little stream which flows into the Lob Nor. For twenty leagues there is no station, and the ceremony is not likely to be interrupted by any stoppage.

It need hardly be said that at half-past eight I and Caterna were ready for the call.

Major Noltitz and Pan-Chao had got themselves up in all due form for the solemnity. The major looked as serious as a surgeon who was going to cut off a leg. The Chinaman looked as gay as a Parisian at a village bridal.

Doctor Tio-King and Cornaro, one carrying the other, were to be at this little festivity. The noble Venetian was a bachelor, if I am not mistaken, but I do not think he gives any opinion on marriage, at least I have no recollection of its being in the chapter headed “Safe and easy means of promptly remedying the different accidents that threaten life.”

“And,” added Pan-Chao, who has just quoted this Cornarian phrase, “I suppose marriage ought to be included among those accidents!”

A quarter to nine. No one has yet seen the happy couple. Miss Bluett is in one of the toilet cabinets in the first van, where she is probably preparing herself. Fulk Ephrinell is perhaps struggling with his cravat and giving a last polish to his portable jewelry. I am not anxious. We shall see them as soon as the bell rings.

I have but one regret, and that is that Faruskiar and Ghangir should be too busy to join us. Why do they continue to look out over the immense desert? Before their eyes there stretches not the cultivated steppe of the Lob Nor region, but the Gobi, which is barren, desolate and gloomy, according to the reports of Grjimailo, Blanc and Martin. It may be asked why these people are keeping such an obstinate lookout.

“If my presentiments do not deceive me,” said Major Noltitz, “there is some reason for it.”

What does he mean? But the bell of the tender, the tender bell, begins its joyous appeal. Nine o’clock; it is time to go into the dining car.

Caterna comes near me, and I hear him singing: “It is the turret bell, Which suddenly is sounding.”

While Madame Caterna replies to the trio of the Dame Blanche by the refrain of the Dragons de Villars: “And it sounds, sounds, sounds, It sounds and resounds — — “

The passengers move in a procession, the four witnesses first, then the guests from the end of the village — I mean of the train; Chinese, Turkomans, Tartars, men and women, all curious to assist at the ceremony. The four Mongols remain on the last gangway near the treasure which the Chinese soldiers do not leave for an instant.

We reach the dining car.

The clergyman is seated at the little table, on which is the certificate of marriage he has prepared according to the customary form. He looks as though he was accustomed to this sort of thing, which is as much commercial as matrimonial.

The bride and bridegroom have not appeared.

“Ah!” said I to the actor, “perhaps they have changed their minds.”

“If they have,” said Caterna, laughing, “the reverend gentleman can marry me and my wife over again. We are in wedding garments, and it is a pity to have had all this fuss for nothing, isn’t it, Caroline?”

“Yes, Adolphe — — “

But this pleasing second edition of the wedding of the Caternas did not come off. Here is Mr. Fulk Ephrinell, dressed this morning just as he was dressed yesterday — and — detail to note — with a pencil behind the lobe of his left ear, for he has just been making out an account for his New York house.

Here is Miss Horatia Bluett, as thin, as dry, as plain as ever, her dust cloak over her traveling gown, and in place of jewelry a noisy bunch of keys, which hangs from her belt.

The company politely rise as the bride and bridegroom enter. They “mark time,” as Caterna says. Then they advance toward the clergyman, who is standing with his hand resting on a Bible, open probably at the place where Isaac, the son of Abraham, espouses Rebecca, the daughter of Rachel.

We might fancy we were in a chapel if we only had a harmonium.

And the music is here! If it is not a harmonium, it is the next thing to it. An accordion makes itself heard in Caterna’s hands. As an ancient mariner, he knows how to manipulate this instrument of torture, and here he is swinging out the andante from Norma with the most accordionesque expression.

It seems to give great pleasure to the natives of Central Asia. Never have their ears been charmed by the antiquated melody that the pneumatic apparatus was rendering so expressively.

But everything must end in this world, even the andante from Norma. and the Reverend Nathaniel Morse began to favor the young couple with the speech which had clone duty many times before under similar circumstances. “The two souls that blend together — Flesh of my flesh — Increase and multiply — — “

In my opinion he had much better have got to work like a notary: “Before us, there has been drawn up a deed of arrangement regarding Messrs. Ephrinell, Bluett & Co. — — “

My thought remained unfinished. There are shouts from the engine. The brakes are suddenly applied with a scream and a grind. Successive shocks accompany the stoppage of the train. Then, with a violent bump, the cars pull up in a cloud of sand.

What an interruption to the nuptial ceremony!

Everything is upset in the dining car, men, furniture, bride, bridegroom and witnesses. Not one kept his equilibrium. It is an indescribable pell-mell, with cries of terror and prolonged groans. But I hasten to point out that there was nothing serious, for the stoppage was not all at once.

“Quick!” said the major. “Out of the train!”

CHAPTER XX.

In a moment the passengers, more or less bruised and alarmed, were out on the track. Nothing but complaints and questions uttered in three or four different languages, amid general bewilderment.

Faruskiar, Ghangir and the four Mongols were the first to jump off the cars. They are out on the line, kandijar in one hand, revolver in the other. No doubt an attack has been organized to pillage the train.

The rails have been taken up for about a hundred yards, and the engine, after bumping over the sleepers, has come to a standstill in a sandhill.

“What! The railroad not finished — and they sold me a through ticket from Tiflis to Pekin? And I came by this Transasiatic to save nine days in my trip round the world!”

In these phrases, in German, hurled at Popof, I recognized the voice of the irascible baron. But this time he should have addressed his reproaches not to the engineers of the company, but to others.

We spoke to Popof, while Major Noltitz continued to watch Faruskiar and the Mongols.

“The baron is mistaken,” said Popof, “the railway is completed, and if a hundred yards of rails have been lifted here, it has been with some criminal intention.”

“To stop the train!” I exclaim.

“And steal the treasure they are sending to Pekin!” says Caterna.

“There is no doubt about that,” says Popof. “Be ready to repulse an attack.”

“Is it Ki-Tsang and his gang that we have to do with?” I asked.

Ki-Tsang! The name spread among the passengers and caused inexpressible terror.

The major said to me in a low voice: “Why Ki-Tsang? Why not my lord Faruskiar?”

“He — the manager of the Transasiatic?”

“If it is true that the company had to take several of these robber chiefs into its confidence to assure the safety of the trains — “

“I will never believe that, major.”

“As you please, Monsieur Bombarnac. But assuredly Faruskiar knew that this pretended mortuary van contained millions.”

“Come, major, this is no time for joking.”

No, it was the time for defending, and defending one’s self courageously.

The Chinese officer has placed his men around the treasure van. They are twenty in number, and the rest of the passengers, not counting the women, amount to thirty. Popof distributes the weapons which are carried in case of attack. Major Noltitz, Caterna, Pan-Chao, Ephrinell, driver and stoker, passengers, Asiatic and European, all resolve to fight for the common safety.

On the right of the line, about a hundred yards away, stretches a deep, gloomy thicket, a sort of jungle, in which doubtless are hidden the robbers, awaiting the signal to pounce upon us.

Suddenly there is a burst of shouting, the thicket has given passage to the gang in ambush — some sixty Mongols, nomads of the Gobi. If these rascals beat us, the train will be pillaged, the treasure of the Son of Heaven will be stolen, and, what concerns us more intimately, the passengers will be massacred without mercy.

And Faruskiar, whom Major Noltitz so unjustly suspected? I look at him. His face is no longer the same; his fine features have become pale, his height has increased, there is lightning in his eyes.

Well! If I was mistaken about the mandarin Yen Lou, at least I had not mistaken the general manager of the Transasiatic or the famous bandit of Yunnan.

However, as soon as the Mongols appeared, Popof hurried Madame Caterna, Miss Horatia Bluett, and the other women into the cars. We took every means for putting them in safety.

My only weapon was a six-shot revolver, and I knew how to use it.

Ah! I wanted incidents and accidents, and impressions of the journey! Well, the chronicler will not fail to chronicle, on condition that he emerges safe and sound from the fray, for the honor of reporting in general and the glory of the Twentieth Century in particular.

But is it not possible to spread trouble among the assailants, by beginning with blowing out Ki-Tsang’s brains, if Ki-Tsang is the author of this ambuscade? That would bring matters to a crisis.

The bandits fire a volley, and begin brandishing their arms and shouting. Faruskiar, pistol in one hand, kandijar in the other, has rushed onto them, his eyes gleaming, his lips covered with a slight foam. Ghangir is at his side, followed by four Mongols whom he is exciting by word and gesture.

Major Noltitz and I throw ourselves into the midst of our assailants. Caterna is in front of us, his mouth open, his white teeth ready to bite, his eyes blinking, his revolver flourishing about. The actor has given place to the old sailor who has reappeared for the occasion.

“These beggars want to board us!” said he. “Forward, forward, for the honor of the flag! To port, there, fire! To starboard, there, fire! All together, fire!”

And it was with no property daggers he was armed, nor dummy pistols loaded with Edouard Philippe’s inoffensive powder. No! A revolver in each hand, he was bounding along, firing, as he said, right and left and everywhere.

Pan-Chao also exposed himself bravely, a smile on his lips, gallantly leading on the other Chinese passengers. Popof and the railwaymen did their duty bravely. Sir Francis Trevellyan, of Trevellyan Hall, took matters very coolly, but Ephrinell abandoned himself to true Yankee fury, being no less irritated at the interruption to his marriage as to the danger run by his forty-two packages of artificial teeth.

And in short, the band of robbers met with a much more serious resistance than they expected.

And Baron Weissschnitzerdorfer? Well, he is one of the most furious of us all. He sweats blood and water, his fury carries him away at the risk of his being massacred. Many times we have to rescue him. These rails lifted, this train stopped, this attack in the open Gobi desert, the delays that it will all occasion, the mailboat lost at Tientsin, the voyage round the world spoiled, his plan come to grief before he had half accomplished it! What a shock to his German self-esteem!

Faruskiar, my hero — I cannot call him anything else — displays extraordinary intrepidity, bearing himself the boldest in the struggle, and when he had exhausted his revolver, using his kandijar like a man who had often faced death and never feared it.

Already there were a few wounded on both sides, perhaps a few dead among the passengers who lay on the line. I have had my shoulder grazed by a bullet, a simple scratch I have hardly noticed. The Reverend Nathaniel Morse does not think that his sacred character compels him to cross his arms, and, from the way he works, one would not imagine that it was the first time he has handled firearms. Caterna has his hat shot through, and it will be remembered that it is his village bridegroom’s hat, the gray beaver, with the long fur. He utters a gigantic maritime oath, something about thunder and portholes, and then, taking a most deliberate aim, quietly shoots stone dead the ruffian who has taken such a liberty with his best headgear.

For ten minutes or so the battle continues with most alarming alternations. The number of wounded on both sides increases, and the issue is still doubtful. Faruskiar and Ghangir and the Mongols have been driven back toward the precious van, which the Chinese guard have not left for an instant. But two or three of them have been mortally wounded, and their officer has just been killed by a bullet in the head. And my hero does all that the most ardent courage can do for the defence of the treasure of the Son of Heaven.

I am getting uneasy at the prolongation of the combat. It will continue evidently as long as the chief of the band — a tall man with a black beard — urges on his accomplices to the attack on the train. Up till now he has escaped unhurt, and, in spite of all we can do, he is gaining ground. Shall we be obliged to take refuge in the vans, as behind the walls of a fortress, to entrench ourselves, to fight until the last has succumbed? And that will not be long, if we cannot stop the retrograde movement which is beginning on our side.

To the reports of the guns there are now added the cries of the women, who in their terror are running about the gangways, although Miss Bluett and Madame Caterna are trying to keep them inside the cars. A few bullets have gone through the panels, and I am wondering if any of them have hit Kinko.

Major Noltitz comes near me and says: “This is not going well.”

“No, it is not going well,” I reply, “and I am afraid the ammunition will give out. We must settle their commander-in-chief. Come, major — “

But what we are about to do was done by another at that very instant.

This other was Faruskiar. Bursting through the ranks of the assailants, he cleared them off the line, in spite of the blows they aimed at him. He is in front of the bandit chief, he raises his arm, he stabs him full in the chest.

Instantly the thieves beat a retreat, without even carrying off their dead and wounded. Some run across the plain, some disappear in the thickets. Why pursue them, now that the battle has ended in our favor? And I must say that without the admirable valor of Faruskiar, I do not expect any of us would have lived to tell the story.

But the chief of the bandits is not dead, although the blood flows abundantly from his chest.

He has fallen with one knee on the ground, one hand up, with the other he is supporting himself.

Faruskiar stands over him, towering above him.

Suddenly he rises in a last effort, his arm threatens his adversary, he looks at him.

A last thrust of the kandijar is driven into his heart.

Faruskiar returns, and in Russian, with perfect calmness, remarks:

“Ki-Tsang is dead! So perish all who bear weapons against the Son of Heaven!”

CHAPTER XXI.

And so it was Ki-Tsang who had just attacked the Grand Transasiatic on the plains of Gobi. The pirate of Vunnan had learned that a van containing gold and precious stones of enormous value had formed part of this train! And was there anything astonishing in that, considering that the newspapers, even those of Paris, had published the fact many days before? So Ki-Tsang had had time to prepare his attempt, and had lifted a portion of the rails, and would probably have succeeded in carrying off the treasure if Faruskiar had not brought him to his feet. That is why our hero had been so uneasy all the morning; if he had been looking out over the desert so persistently, it was because he had been warned of Ki-Tsang’s plans by the last Mongol who had joined the train at Tchertchen! Under any circumstances we had now nothing to fear from Ki-Tsang. The manager of the company had done justice on the bandit — speedy justice, I admit. But we are in the midst of the deserts of Mongolia, where there are no juries as yet, which is a good thing for the Mongols.

“Well,” said I to the major, “I hope you have abandoned your suspicions with regard to my lord Faruskiar?”

“To a certain extent, Monsieur Bombarnac!” Only to a certain extent? Evidently Major Noltitz is difficult to please.

But let us hasten on and count our victims. On our side there are three dead, including the Chinese officer, and more than twelve wounded, four of them seriously, the rest slightly, so that they can continue their journey to Pekin. Popof escaped without a scratch, Caterna with a slight graze which his wife insists on bathing.

The major has the wounded brought into the cars and does the best for them under the circumstances. Doctor Tio-King offers his services, but they seem to prefer the Russian army surgeon, and that I understand. As to those who have fallen it is best for us to take them on to the next station and there render them the last services.

The thieves had abandoned their dead. We covered them over with a little sand, and that is all we need say.

The place where we had been stopped was halfway between Tcharkalyk and Tchertchen, the only two stations from which we could procure help. Unfortunately they were no longer in telegraphic communication, Ki-Tsang having knocked down the posts at the same time as he lifted the rails.

Hence a discussion as to what was the best thing to be done, which was not of long duration.

As the engine had run off the rails, the very first thing to do was evidently to get it onto them again; then as there was a gap in the line, the simplest thing to do was to run back to Tchertchen, and wait there until the company’s workmen had repaired the damage, which they could easily do in a couple of days.

We set to work without losing a moment. The passengers were only too glad to help Popof and the officials who had at their disposal a few tools, including jacks, levers and hammers, and in three hours the engine and tender were again on the line.

The most difficult business is over. With the engine behind we can proceed at slow speed to Tchertchen. But what lost time! What delays! And what recriminations from our German baron, what donnervetters and teufels and other German expletives!

I have omitted to say that immediately after the dispersal of the bandits we had in a body thanked Faruskiar. The hero received our thanks with all the dignity of an Oriental.

“I only did my duty as general manager of the company,” he replied, with a truly noble modesty.

And then at his orders the Mongols had set to work, and I noticed that they displayed indefatigable ardor, for which they earned our sincere felicitations.

Meanwhile Faruskiar and Ghangir were often talking together in a whisper, and from these interviews arose a proposition which none of us expected.

“Guard,” said Faruskiar, addressing Popof, “it is my opinion that we had much better run on to Tcharkalyk than go back; it would suit the passengers much better.”

“Certainly, sir, it would be preferable,” said Popof; “but the line is broken between here and Tcharkalyk, and we cannot get through.”

“Not at present, but we could get the cars through if we could temporarily repair the line.”

That was a proposal worth consideration, and we assembled to consider it, Major Noltitz, Pan-Chao, Fulk Ephrinell, Caterna, the clergyman, Baron Weissschnitzerdorfer, and a dozen others — all who understood Russian.

Faruskiar spoke as follows:

“I have been looking at the portion of the line damaged by the band of Ki-Tsang. Most of the sleepers are still in place. As to the rails, the scoundrels have simply thrown them onto the sand, and by replacing them end to end it would be easy to get the train over to the uninjured track. It would not take a day to do this, and five hours afterward we should be at Tcharkalyk.”

Excellent notion, at once approved of by Popof, the driver, the passengers, and particularly by the baron. The plan was possible, and if there were a few rails useless, we could bring to the front those we had already run over, and in this way get over the difficulty.

Evidently this Faruskiar is a man, he is our true chief, he is the personage I was in want of, and I will sound his name over the entire universe in all the trumpets of my chronicle!

And yet Major Noltitz is mistaken enough to see in him only a rival to this Ki-Tsang, whose crimes have just received their final punishment from his hand!

We set to work to replace the sleepers that had been shifted aside from where they had left their mark, and we continued our task without intermission.

Having no fear of being noticed amid the confusion which followed the attack, I went into the luggage van to assure myself that Kinko was safe and sound, to tell him what had passed, to caution him on no account to come put of his box. He promised me, and I was at ease regarding him.

It was nearly three o’clock when we began work. The rails had been shifted for about a hundred yards. As Faruskiar remarked, it was not necessary for us to fix them permanently. That would be the task of the workmen the company would send from Tcharkalyk when we reached that station, which is one of the most important on the line.

As the rails were heavy we divided ourselves into detachments. First-class and second-class, all worked together with good will. The baron displayed tremendous ardor. Ephrinell, who thought no more of his marriage than if he had never thought about it, devoted strict attention to business. Pan-Chao was second to nobody, and even Doctor Tio-King strove to make himself useful — in the fashion of the celebrated Auguste, the fly on the chariot wheel.

“It is hot, this Gobi sun!” said Caterna.

Alone sat Sir Francis Trevellyan of Trevellyanshire, calm and impassive in his car, utterly regardless of our efforts.

At seven o’clock thirty yards of the line had been repaired. The night was closing in. It was decided to wait until the morning. In half a day we could finish the work, and in the afternoon we could be off again.

We were in great want of food and sleep. After so rude a task, how rude the appetite! We met in the dining car without distinction of classes. There was no scarcity of provisions, and a large breach was made in the reserves. Never mind! We can fill up again at Tcharkalyk.

Caterna is particularly cheery, talkative, facetious, communicative, overflowing. At dessert he and his wife sang the air — appropriate to the occasion — from the Voyage en Chine, which we caught up with more power than precision:

“China is a charming land

Which surely ought to please you.”

Oh! Labiche, could you ever have imagined that this adorable composition would one day charm passengers in distress on the Grand Transasiatic? And then our actor — a little fresh, I admit — had an idea. And such an idea! Why not resume the marriage ceremony interrupted by the attack on the train?

“What marriage?” asked Ephrinell.

“Yours, sir, yours,” replied Caterna. “Have you forgotten it? That is rather too good!”

The fact is that Fulk Ephrinell, on the one part, and Horatia Bluett, on the other part, seemed to have forgotten that had it not been for the attack of Ki-Tsang and his band they would now have been united in the gentle bonds of matrimony.

But we were all too tired. The Reverend Nathaniel Morse was unequal to the task; he would not have strength enough to bless the pair, and the pair would not have strength enough to support his blessing. The ceremony could be resumed on the day after to-morrow. Between Tcharkalyk and Lan Tcheou there was a run of nine hundred kilometres, and that was quite long enough for this Anglo-American couple to be linked together in.

And so we all went to our couches or benches for a little refreshing sleep. But at the same time the requirements of prudence were not neglected.

Although it appeared improbable, now that their chief had succumbed, the bandits might still make a nocturnal attack. There were always these cursed millions of the Son of Heaven to excite their covetousness, and if we are not on our guard —

But we feel safe. Faruskiar in person arranges for the surveillance of the train. Since the death of the officer he has taken command of the Chinese detachment. He and Ghangir are on guard over the imperial treasure, and according to Caterna, who is never in want of a quotation from some comic opera:

“This night the maids of honor will be guarded well.”

And, in fact, the imperial treasure was much better guarded than the beautiful Athenais de Solange between the first and second acts of the Mousquetaires de la Reine.

At daybreak next morning we are at work. The weather is superb. The day will be warm. Out in the Asian desert on the 24th of May the temperature is such that you can cook eggs if you only cover them with a little sand.

Zeal was not wanting, and the passengers worked as hard as they had done the night before. The line was gradually completed. One by one the sleepers were replaced, the rails were laid end to end, and about four o’clock in the afternoon the gap was bridged.

At once the engine began to advance slowly, the cars following until they were over the temporary track and safe again. Now the road is clear to Tcharkalyk; what do I say? to Pekin.

We resume our places. Popof gives the signal for departure as Caterna trolls out the chorus of victory of the admiral’s sailors in Haydee.

A thousand cheers reply to him. At ten o’clock in the evening the train enters Tcharkalyk station.

We are exactly thirty hours behind time. But is not thirty hours enough to make Baron Weissschnitzerdorfer lose the mail from Tient-Tsin to Yokohama?

CHAPTER XXII.

I, who wanted an incident, have had one to perfection. I am thankful enough not to have been one of the victims. I have emerged from the fray safe and sound. All my numbers are intact, barring two or three insignificant scratches. Only No. 4 has been traversed by a bullet clean through — his hat.

At present I have nothing in view beyond the Bluett-Ephrinell marriage and the termination of the Kinko affair. I do not suppose that Faruskiar can afford us any further surprises. I can reckon on the casual, of course, for the journey has another five days to run. Taking into account the delay occasioned by the Ki-Tsang affair that will make thirteen days from the start from Uzun Ada.

Thirteen days! Heavens! And there are the thirteen numbers in my notebook! Supposing I were superstitious?

We remained three hours at Tcharkalyk. Most of the passengers did not leave their beds. We were occupied with declarations relative to the attack on the train, to the dead which the Chinese authorities were to bury, to the wounded who were to be left at Tcharkalyk, where they would be properly looked after. Pan-Chao told me it was a populous town, and I regret I was unable to visit it.

The company sent off immediately a gang of workmen to repair the line and set up the telegraph posts; and in a day everything would be clear again.

I need scarcely say that Faruskiar, with all the authority of the company’s general manager, took part in the different formalities that were needed at Tcharkalyk. I do not know how to praise him sufficiently. Besides, he was repaid for his good offices by the deference shown him by the staff at the railway station.

At three in the morning we arrived at Kara Bouran, where the train stopped but a few minutes. Here the railway crosses the route of Gabriel Bonvalot and Prince Henri of Orleans across Tibet in 1889-90, a much more complete journey than ours, a circular trip from Paris to Paris, by Berlin, Petersburg, Moscow, Nijni, Perm, Tobolsk, Omsk, Semipalatinsk, Kouldja, Tcharkalyk, Batong, Yunnan, Hanoi, Saigon, Singapore, Ceylon, Aden, Suez, Marseilles, the tour of Asia, and the tour of Europe.

The train halts at Lob Nor at four o’clock and departs at six. This lake, the banks of which were visited by General Povtzoff in 1889, when he returned from his expedition to Tibet, is an extensive marsh with a few sandy islands, surrounded by two or three feet of water. The country through which the Tarim slowly flows had already been visited by Fathers Hue and Gabet, the explorers Prjevalski and Carey up to the Davana pass, situated a hundred and fifty kilometres to the south. But from that pass Gabriel Bonvalot and Prince Henri of Orleans, camping sometimes at fifteen thousand feet of altitude, had ventured across virgin territories to the foot of the superb Himalayan chain.

Our itinerary lay eastwards toward Kara Nor, skirting the base of the Nan Chan mountains, behind which lies the region of Tsaidam. The railway dare not venture among the mountainous countries of the Kou-Kou-Nor, and we were on our way to the great city of Lan Tcheou along, the base of the hills.

Gloomy though the country might be, there was no reason for the passengers to be so. This glorious sun, with its rays gilding the sands of the Gobi as far as we could see, announced a perfect holiday. From Lob Nor to Kara Nor there are three hundred and fifty kilometres to run, and between the lakes we will resume the interrupted marriage of Fulk Ephrinell and Horatia Bluett, if nothing occurs to again delay their happiness.

The dining car has been again arranged for the ceremony, the witnesses are ready to resume their parts, and the happy pair cannot well be otherwise than of the same mind.

The Reverend Nathaniel Morse, in announcing that the marriage will take place at nine o’clock, presents the compliments of Mr. Ephrinell and Miss Bluett.

Major Noltitz and I, Caterna and Pan-Chao are under arms at the time stated.

Caterna did not think it his duty to resume his costume, nor did his wife. They were dressed merely for the grand dinner party which took place at eight o’clock in the evening — the dinner given by Ephrinell to his witnesses and to the chief first-class passengers. Our actor, puffing out his left cheek, informed me that he had a surprise for us at dessert. What? I thought it wise not to ask.

A little before nine o’clock the bell of the tender begins to ring. Be assured it does not announce an accident. Its joyous tinkling calls us to the dining car, and we march in procession toward the place of sacrifice.

Ephrinell and Miss Bluett are already seated at the little table in front of the worthy clergyman, and we take our places around them.

On the platforms are grouped the spectators, anxious to lose nothing of the nuptial ceremony.

My lord Faruskiar and Ghangir, who had been the object of a personal invitation, had just arrived. The assembly respectfully rises to receive them. They will sign the deed of marriage. It is a great honor, and if it were my marriage I should be proud to see the illustrious name of Faruskiar figure among the signatures to the deed.

The ceremony begins, and this time the Reverend Nathaniel Morse was able to finish his speech, so regrettably interrupted on the former occasion.

The young people rise, mud the clergyman asks them if they are mutually agreed as to marriage.

Before replying, Miss Bluett turns to Ephrinell, and says:

“It is understood that Holmes-Holme will have twenty-five per cent. of the profits of our partnership.”

“Fifteen,” said Ephrinell, “only fifteen.”

“That is not fair, for I agree to thirty per cent, from Strong, Bulbul & Co.”

“Well, let us say twenty per cent. Miss Bluett.”

“Be it so, Mr. Ephrinell.”

“But that is a good deal for you!” whispered Caterna in my ear.

The marriage for a moment was in check for five per cent!

But all is arranged. The interests of the two houses have been safeguarded. The Reverend Nathaniel Morse repeats the question.

A dry “yes” from Horatia Bluett, a short “yes” from Fulk Ephrinell, and the two are declared to be united in the bonds of matrimony.

The deed is then signed, first by them, then by the witnesses, then by Faruskiar, and the other signatures follow. At length the clergyman adds his name and flourish, and that closes the series of formalities according to rule.

“There they are, riveted for life,” said the actor to me, with a little lift of his shoulder.

“For life — like two bullfinches,” said the actress, who had not forgotten that these birds are noted for the fidelity of their armours.

“In China,” said Pan-Chao, “it is not the bullfinch but the mandarin duck that symbolizes fidelity in marriage.”

“Ducks or bullfinches, it is all one,” said Caterna philosophically.

The ceremony is over. We compliment the newly married pair. We return to our occupation, Ephrinell to his accounts, Mrs. Ephrinell to her work. Nothing is changed in the train. There are only two more married people.

Major Noltitz, Pan-Chao and I go out and smoke on one of the platforms, leaving to their preparations the Caternas, who seem to be having a sort of rehearsal in their corner. Probably it is the surprise for the evening.

There is not much variety in the landscape. All along is this monotonous desert of Gobi with the heights of the Humboldt mountains on the right reaching on to the ranges of Nan Chan. The stations are few and far between, and consist merely of an agglomeration of huts, with the signal cabin standing up among them like a monument. Here the tender fills up with water and coal. Beyond the Kara Nor, where a few towns appear, the approach to China Proper, populous and laborious, becomes more evident.

This part of the desert of Gobi has little resemblance to the regions of Eastern Turkestan we crossed on leaving Kachgar. These regions are as new to Pan-Chao and Doctor Tio-King as to us Europeans.

I should say that Faruskiar no longer disdains to mingle in our conversation. He is a charming man, well informed and witty, with whom I shall become better acquainted when we reach Pekin. He has already invited me to visit him at his yamen, and I will then have an opportunity of putting him to the question — that is, to the interview. He has traveled a good deal, and seems to have an especially good opinion of French journalists. He will not refuse to subscribe to the Twentieth Century. I am sure — Paris, 48 francs, Departments, 56, Foreign, 76.

While the train is running at full speed we talk of one thing and another. With regard to Kachgaria, which had been mentioned, Faruskiar gave us a few very interesting details regarding the province, which had been so greatly troubled by insurrectionary movements. It was at this epoch that the capital, holding out against Chinese covetousness, had not yet submitted to Russian domination. Many times numbers of Celestials had been massacred in the revolts of the Turkestan chiefs, and the garrison had taken refuge in the fortress of Yanghi-Hissar.

Among these insurgent chiefs there was one, a certain Ouali-Khan-Toulla, whom I have mentioned with regard to the murder of Schlagintweit, and who for a time had become master of Kachgaria. He was a man of great intelligence, but of uncommon ferocity. And Faruskiar told us an anecdote giving us an idea of these pitiless Orientals.

“There was at Kachgar,” he said, “an armorer of repute, who, wishing to secure the favors of Ouali-Khan-Toulla, made a costly sword. When he had finished his work he sent his son, a boy of ten, to present the sword, hoping to receive some recompense from the royal hand. He received it. The Khan admired the sword, and asked if the blade was of the first quality. ‘Yes,’ said the boy. ‘Then approach!’ said the Khan, and at one blow he smote off the head, which he sent back to the father with the price of the blade he had thus proved to be of excellent quality.”

This story he told really well. Had Caterna heard it, he would have asked for a Turkestan opera on the subject.

The day passed without incident. The train kept on at its moderate speed of forty kilometres an hour, an average that would have been raised to eighty had they listened to Baron Weissschnitzerdorfer. The truth is that the Chinese driver had no notion of making up the time lost between Tchertchen and Tcharkalyk.

At seven in the evening we reach Kara Nor, to stay there fifty minutes. This lake, which is not as extensive as Lob Nor, absorbs the waters of the Soule Ho, coming down from the Nan Chan mountains. Our eyes are charmed with the masses of verdure that clothe its southern bank, alive with the flight of numerous birds. At eight o’clock, when we left the station, the sun had set behind the sandhills, and a sort of mirage produced by the warming of the lower zones of the atmosphere prolonged the twilight above the horizon.

The dining car has resumed its restaurant appearance, and here is the wedding banquet, instead of the usual fare. Twenty guests have been invited to this railway love feast, and, first of them, my lord Faruskiar. But for some reason or other he has declined Ephrinell’s invitation.

I am sorry for it, for I hoped that good luck would place me near him.

It occurred to me then that this illustrious name was worth sending to the office of the Twentieth Century, this name and also a few lines relative to the attack on the train and the details of the defense. Never was information better worth sending by telegram, however much it might cost. This time there is no risk of my bringing a lecture down on myself. There is no mistake possible, as in the case of that pretended mandarin, Yen-Lou, which I shall never forget — but then, it was in the country of the false Smerdis and that must be my excuse.

It is agreed that as soon as we arrive at Sou-Tcheou, the telegraph being repaired at the same time as the line, I will send off a despatch, which will reveal to the admiration of Europe the brilliant name of Faruskiar.

We are seated at the table. Ephrinell has done the thing as well as circumstances permit. In view of the feast, provisions were taken in at Tcharkalyk. It is not Russian cookery, but Chinese, and by a Chinese chef to which we do honor. Luckily we are not condemned to eat it with chopsticks, for forks are not prohibited at the Grand Transasiatic table.

I am placed to the left of Mrs. Ephrinell, Major Noltitz to the right of her husband. The other guests are seated as they please. The German baron, who is not the man to refuse a good dinner, is one of the guests. Sir Francis Trevellyan did not even make a sign in answer to the invitation that was tendered him.

To begin with, we had chicken soup and plovers’ eggs, then swallows’ nests cut in threads, stewed spawn of crab, sparrow gizzards, roast pig’s feet and sauce, mutton marrow, fried sea slug, shark’s fin — very gelatinous; finally bamboo shoots in syrup, and water lily roots in sugar, all the most out-of-the-way dishes, watered by Chao Hing wine, served warm in metal tea urns.

The feast is very jolly and — what shall I say? — very confidential, except that the husband takes no notice of the wife, and reciprocally.

What an indefatigable humorist is our actor? What a continuous stream of wheezes, unintelligible for the most part, of antediluvian puns, of pure nonsense at which he laughs so heartily that it is difficult not to laugh with him. He wanted to learn a few words of Chinese, and Pan-Chao having told him that “tching-tching” means thanks, he has been tching-tchinging at every opportunity, with burlesque intonation.

Then we have French songs, Russian songs, Chinese songs — among others the “Shiang-Touo-Tching,” the Chanson de la Reverie, in which our young Celestial repeats that the flowers of the peach tree are of finest fragrance at the third moon, and those of the red pomegranate at the fifth.

The dinner lasts till ten o’clock. At this moment the actor and actress, who had retired during dessert, made their entry, one in a coachman’s overcoat, the other in a nurse’s jacket, and they gave us the Sonnettes with an energy, a go, a dash — well, it would only be fair to them if Claretie, on the recommendation of Meilhac and Halevy, offers to put them on the pension list of the Comedie Francaise.

At midnight the festival is over. We all retire to our sleeping places. We do not even hear them shouting the names of the stations before we come to Kan-Tcheou, and it is between four and five o’clock in the morning that a halt of forty minutes retains us at the station of that town.

The country is changing as the railway runs south of the fortieth degree, so as to skirt the eastern base of the Nan Shan mountains. The desert gradually disappears, villages are not so few, the density of the population increases. Instead of sandy flats, we get verdant plains, and even rice fields, for the neighboring mountains spread their abundant streams over these high regions of the Celestial Empire. We do not complain of this change after the dreariness of the Kara-Koum and the solitude of Gobi. Since we left the Caspian, deserts have succeeded deserts, except when crossing the Pamir. From here to Pekin picturesque sites, mountain horizons, and deep valleys will not be wanting along the Grand Transasiatic.

We shall enter China, the real China, that of folding screens and porcelain, in the territory of the vast province of Kin-Sou. In three days we shall be at the end of our journey, and it is not I, a mere special correspondent, vowed to perpetual movement, who will complain of its length. Good for Kinko, shut up in his box, and for pretty Zinca Klork, devoured by anxiety in her house in the Avenue Cha-Coua!

We halt two hours at Sou-Tcheou. The first thing I do is to run to the telegraph office. The complaisant Pan-Chao offers to be my interpreter. The clerk tells us that the posts are all up again, and that messages can be sent through to Europe.

At once I favor the Twentieth Century with the following telegram:

“Sou-Tcheou, 25th May, 2:25 P.M.

“Train attacked between Tchertchen and Tcharkalyk by the gang of the celebrated Ki-Tsang; travelers repulsed the attack and saved the Chinese treasure; dead and wounded on both sides; chief killed by the heroic Mongol grandee Faruskiar, general manager of the company, whose name should be the object of universal admiration.”

If this telegram does not gratify the editor of my newspaper, well — —

Two hours to visit Sou-Tcheou, that is not much.

In Turkestan we have seen two towns side by side, an ancient one and a modern one. Here, in China, as Pan-Chao points out, we have two and even three or four, as at Pekin, enclosed one within the other.

Here Tai-Tchen is the outer town, and Le-Tchen the inner one. It strikes us at first glance that both look desolate. Everywhere are traces of fire, here and there pagodas or houses half destroyed, a mass of ruins, not the work of time, but the work of war. This shows that Sou-Tcheou, taken by the Mussulmans and retaken by the Chinese, has undergone the horrors of those barbarous contests which end in the destruction of buildings and the massacre of their inhabitants of every age and sex.

It is true that population rapidly increases in the Celestial Empire; more rapidly than monuments are raised from their ruins. And so Sou-Tcheou has become populous again within its double wall as in the suburbs around. Trade is flourishing, and as we walked through the principal streets we noticed the well-stocked shops, to say nothing of the perambulating pedlars.

Here, for the first time, the Caternas saw pass along between the inhabitants, who stood at attention more from fear than respect, a mandarin on horseback, preceded by a servant carrying a fringed parasol, the mark of his master’s dignity.

But there is one curiosity for which Sou-Tcheou is worth a visit. It is there that the Great Wall of China ends.

After descending to the southeast toward Lan-Tcheou, the wall runs to the northeast, covering the provinces of Kian-Sou, Chan-si, and Petchili to the north of Pekin. Here it is little more than an embankment with a tower here and there, mostly in ruins. I should have failed in my duty as a chronicler if I had not noticed this gigantic work at its beginning, for it far surpasses the works of our modern fortifications.

“Is it of any real use, this wall of China?” asked Major Noltitz.

“To the Chinese, I do not know,” said I; “but certainly it is to our political orators for purposes of comparison, when discussing treaties of commerce. Without it, what would become of the eloquence of our legislators?”

CHAPTER XXIII.

I have not seen Kinko for two days, and the last was only to exchange a few words with him to relieve his anxiety.

To-night I will try and visit him. I have taken care to lay in a few provisions at Sou-Tcheou.

We started at three o’clock. We have got a more powerful engine on. Across this undulating country the gradients are occasionally rather steep. Seven hundred kilometres separate us from the important city of Lan-Tcheou, where we ought to arrive to-morrow morning, running thirty miles an hour.

I remarked to Pan-Chao that this average was not a high one.

“What would you have?” he replied, crunching the watermelon seeds. “You will not change, and nothing will change the temperament of the Celestials. As they are conservatives in all things, so will they be conservative in this matter of speed, no matter how the engine may be improved. And, besides, Monsieur Bombarnac, that there are railways at all in the Middle Kingdom is a wonder to me.”

“I agree with you, but where you have a railway you might as well get all the advantage out of it that you can.”

“Bah!” said Pan-Chao carelessly.

“Speed,” said I, “is a gain of time — and to gain time — “

“Time does not exist in China, Monsieur Bombarnac, and it cannot exist for a population of four hundred millions. There would not be enough for everybody. And so we do not count by days and hours, but always by moons and watches.”

“Which is more poetical than practical,” I remark.

“Practical, Mr. Reporter? You Westerners are never without that word in your mouth. To be practical is to be the slave of time, work, money, business, the world, everybody else, and one’s self included. I confess that during my stay in Europe — you can ask Doctor Tio-King — I have not been very practical, and now I return to Asia I shall be less so. I shall let myself live, that is all, as the cloud floats in the breeze, the straw on the stream, as the thought is borne away by the imagination.”

“I see,” said I, “we must take China as it is.”

“And as it will probably always be, Monsieur Bombarnac. Ah! if you knew how easy the life is — an adorable dolce far niente between folding screens in the quietude of the yamens. The cares of business trouble us little; the cares of politics trouble us less. Think! Since Fou Hi, the first emperor in 2950, a contemporary of Noah, we are in the twenty-third dynasty. Now it is Manchoo; what it is to be next what matters? Either we have a government or we have not; and which of its sons Heaven has chosen for the happiness of four hundred million subjects we hardly know, and we hardly care to know.”

It is evident that the young Celestial is a thousand and ten times wrong, to use the numerative formula; but it is not for me to tell him so.

At dinner Mr. and Mrs. Ephrinell, sitting side by side, hardly exchanged a word. Their intimacy seems to have decreased since they were married. Perhaps they are absorbed in the calculation of their reciprocal interests, which are not yet perfectly amalgamated. Ah! they do not count by moons and watches, these Anglo-Saxons! They are practical, too practical!

We have had a bad night. The sky of purple sulphury tint became stormy toward evening, the atmosphere became stifling, the electrical tension excessive. It meant a “highly successful” storm, to quote Caterna, who assured me he had never seen a better one except perhaps in the second act of Freyschutz. In truth the train ran through a zone, so to speak, of vivid lightning and rolling thunder, which the echoes of the mountains prolonged indefinitely. I think there must have been several lightning strokes, but the rails acted as conductors, and preserved the cars from injury. It was a fine spectacle, a little alarming, these fires in the sky that the heavy rain could not put out — these continuous discharges from the clouds, in which were mingled the strident whistlings of our locomotive as we passed through the stations of Yanlu, Youn Tcheng, Houlan-Sien and Da-Tsching.

By favor of this troubled night I was able to communicate with Kinko, to take him some provisions and to have a few minutes’ conversation with him.

“Is it the day after to-morrow,” he asked, “that we arrive at Pekin?”

“Yes, the day after to-morrow, if the train is not delayed.”

“Oh, I am not afraid of delays! But when my box is in the railway station at Pekin, I have still to get to the Avenue Cha-Coua — — “

“What does it matter, will not the fair Zinca Klork come and call for it?”

“No. I advised her not to do so.”

“And why?”

“Women are so impressionable! She would want to see the van in-which I had come, she would claim the box with such excitement that suspicions would be aroused. In short, she would run the risk of betraying me.”

“You are right, Kinko.”

“Besides, we shall reach the station in the afternoon, very late in the afternoon perhaps, and the unloading of the packages will not take place until next morning — — “

“Probably.”

“Well, Monsieur Bombarnac, if I am not taking too great a liberty, may I ask a favor of you?”

“What is it?”

“That you will be present at the departure of the case, so as to avoid any mistake.”

“I will be there, Kinko, I will be there. Glass fragile, I will see that they don’t handle it too roughly. And if you like I will accompany the case to Avenue Cha-Coua — — “

“I hardly like to ask you to do that — — “

“You are wrong, Kinko. You should not stand on ceremony with a friend, and I am yours, Kinko. Besides, it will be a pleasure to me to make the acquaintance of Mademoiselle Zinca Klork. I will be there when they deliver the box, the precious box. I will help her to get the nails out of it — — “

“The nails out of it, Monsieur Bombarnac? My panel? Ah, I will jump through my panel!”

A terrible clap of thunder interrupted our conversation. I thought the train had been thrown off the line by the commotion of the air. I left the young Roumanian and regained my place within the car.

In the morning — 26th of May, 7 A.M. — we arrived at Lan-Tcheou. Three hours to stop, three hours only.

“Come, Major Noltitz, come, Pan-Chao, come, Caterna, we have not a minute to spare.”

But as we are leaving the station we are stopped by the appearance of a tall, fat, gray, solemn personage. It is the governor of the town in a double robe of white and yellow silk, fan in hand, buckled belt, and a mantilla — a black mantilla which would have looked much better on the shoulders of a manola. He is accompanied by a certain number of globular mandarins, and the Celestials salute him by holding out their two fists, which they move up and down as they nod their heads.

“Ah! What is this gentleman going to do? Is it some Chinese formality? A visit to the passengers and their baggage? And Kinko, what about him?”

Nothing alarming, after all. It is only about the treasure of the Son of Heaven. The governor and his suite have stopped before the precious van, bolted and sealed, and are looking at it with that respectful admiration which is experienced even in China before a box containing many millions.

I ask Popof what is meant by the governor’s presence, has it anything to do with us?

“Not at all,” says Popof; “the order has come from Pekin to telegraph the arrival of the treasure. The governor has done so, and he is awaiting a reply as to whether he is to send it on to Pekin or keep it provisionally at Lan-Tcheou.”

“That will not delay us?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then come on,” said I to my companions. But if the imperial treasure was a matter of indifference to us, it did not seem to be so to Faruskiar. But whether this van started or did not start, whether it was attached to our train or left behind, what could it matter to him? Nevertheless, he and Ghangir seemed to be much put about regarding it, although they tried to hide their anxiety, while the Mongols, talking together in a low tone, gave the governor anything but friendly glances.

Meanwhile the governor had just heard of the attack on the train and of the part that our hero had taken in defence of the treasure, with what courage he had fought, and how he had delivered the country from the terrible Ki-Tsang. And then in laudatory terms, which Pan-Chao translated to us, he thanked Faruskiar, complimented him, and gave him to understand that the Son of Heaven would reward him for his services.

The manager of the Grand Transasiatic listened with that tranquil air that distinguished him, not without impatience, as, I could clearly see. Perhaps he felt himself superior to praises as well as recompenses, no matter from how great a height they might come. In that I recognized all the Mongol pride.

But we need not wait. The treasure van may remain here or go on to Pekin, but it makes no difference to us! Our business is to visit Lan-Tcheou.

What we did briefly I will more briefly tell.

There is an outer town and an inner one. No ruins this time. A very lively city, population swarming like ants and very active, familiarized by the railway with the presence of strangers whom they do not follow about with indiscreet curiosity as they used to do. Huge quarters occupy the right of the Hoang Ho, two kilometres wide. This Hoang Ho is the yellow river, the famous yellow river, which, after a course of four thousand four hundred kilometres, pours its muddy waters into the Gulf of Petchili.

“Is not its mouth near Tien Tsin, where the baron thinks of catching the mail for Yokohama?” asks the major.

“That is so,” I reply.

“He will miss it,” says the actor.

“Unless he trots, our globe-trotter.”

“A donkey’s trot does not last long,” says Caterna, “and he will not catch the boat.”

“He will catch it if the train is no later,” said the major. “We shall be at Tien Tsin on the 23d at six o’clock in the morning, and the steamer leaves at eleven.”

“Whether he misses the boat or not, my friends, do not let us miss our walk.”

A bridge of boats crosses the river, and the stream is so swift that the footway rises and falls like the waves of the sea. Madame Caterna, who had ventured on it, began to turn pale.

“Caroline, Caroline,” said her husband, “you will be seasick! Pull yourself together; pull yourself together!”

She “pulled herself together,” and we went up towards a pagoda which rises over the town.

Like all the monuments of this kind, the pagoda resembles a pile of dessert dishes placed one on the other, but the dishes are of graceful form, and if they are in Chinese porcelain it is not astonishing.

We get an outside view of a cannon foundry, a rifle factory, the workmen being natives. Through a fine garden we reach the governor’s house, with a capricious assemblage of bridges, kiosks, fountains and doors like vases. There are more pavilions and upturned roofs than there are trees and shady walks. Then there are paths paved with bricks, among them the remains of the base of the Great Wall.

It is ten minutes to ten when we return to the station, absolutely tired out; for the walk has been a rough one, and almost suffocating, for the heat is very great.

My first care is to look after the van with the millions. It is there as usual behind the train under the Chinese guard.

The message expected by the governor has arrived; the order to forward on the van to Pekin, where the treasure is to be handed over to the finance minister.

Where is Faruskiar? I do not see him. Has he given us the slip?

No! There he is on one of the platforms, and the Mongols are back in the car.

Ephrinell has been off to do a round of calls — with his samples, no doubt — and Mrs. Ephrinell has also been out on business, for a deal in hair probably. Here they come, and without seeming to notice one another they take their seats.

The other passengers are only Celestials. Some are going to Pekin; some have taken their tickets for intermediate stations like Si-Ngan, Ho Nan. Lou-Ngan, Tai-Youan. There are a hundred passengers in the train. All my numbers are on board. There is not one missing. Thirteen, always thirteen!

We were still on the platform, just after the signal of departure had been given, when Caterna asked his wife what was the most curious thing she had seen at Lan-Tcheou.

“The most curious thing, Adolphe? Those big cages, hung on to the walls and trees, which held such curious birds — — “

“Very curious, Madame Caterna,” said Pan-Chao. “Birds that talk — — “

“What — parrots?”

“No; criminals’ heads.”

“Horrible!” said the actress, with a most expressive grimace.

“What would you have, Caroline?” said Caterna. “It is the custom of the country.”

CHAPTER XXIV.

On leaving Lan-Tcheou, the railway crosses a well-cultivated country, watered by numerous streams, and hilly enough to necessitate frequent curves. There is a good deal of engineering work; mostly bridges, viaducts on wooden trestles of somewhat doubtful solidity, and the traveler is not particularly comfortable when he finds them bending under the weight of the train. It is true we are in the Celestial Empire, and a few thousand victims of a railway accident is hardly anything among a population of four hundred millions.

“Besides,” said Pan-Chao, “the Son of Heaven never travels by railway.”

So much the better.

At six o’clock in the evening we are at King-Tcheou, after skirting for some time the capricious meanderings of the Great Wall. Of this immense artificial frontier built between Mongolia and China, there remain only the blocks of granite and red quartzite which served as its base, its terrace of bricks with the parapets of unequal heights, a few old cannons eaten into with rust and hidden under a thick veil of lichens, and then the square towers with their ruined battlements. The interminable wall rises, falls, bends, bends back again, and is lost to sight on the undulations of the ground.

At six o’clock we halt for half an hour at King-Tcheou, of which I only saw a few pagodas, and about ten o’clock there is a halt of three-quarters of an hour at Si-Ngan, of which I did not even see the outline.

All night was spent in running the three hundred kilometres which separate this town from Ho Nan, where we had an hour to stop.

I fancy the Londoners might easily imagine that this town of Ho Nan was London, and perhaps Mrs. Ephrinell did so. Not because there was a Strand with its extraordinary traffic, nor a Thames with its prodigious movement of barges and steamboats. No! But because we were in a fog so thick that it was impossible to see either houses or pagodas.

The fog lasted all day, and this hindered the progress of the train. These Chinese engine-drivers are really very skilful and attentive and intelligent.

We were not fortunate in our last day’s journey before reaching Tien Tsin! What a loss of copy! What paragraphs were melted away in these unfathomable vapors! I saw nothing of the gorges and ravines, through which runs the Grand Transasiatic; nothing of the valley of Lou-Ngan, where we stopped at eleven o’clock; nothing of the two hundred and thirty kilometres which we accomplished amid the wreaths of a sort of yellow steam, worthy of a yellow country, until we stopped about ten o’clock at night at Tai-Youan.

Ah! the disagreeable day.

Luckily the fog rose early in the evening. Now it is night — and a very dark night, too.

I go to the refreshment bar and buy a few cakes and a bottle of wine. My intention is to pay a last visit to Kinko. We will drink to his health, to his approaching marriage with the fair Roumanian. He has traveled by fraud, I know, and if the Grand Transasiatic only knew! But the Grand Transasiatic will not know.

During the stoppage Faruskiar and Ghangir are walking on the platform and looking at the train. But it is not the van at the rear that is attracting their attention, but the van in front, and they seem to be much interested in it.

Are they suspicious of Kinko? No! the hypothesis is unlikely. The driver and stoker seem to be the object of their very particular attention. They are two brave Chinamen who have just come on duty, and perhaps Faruskiar is not sorry to see men in whom he can trust, with this imperial treasure and a hundred passengers behind them!

The hour for departure strikes, and at midnight the engine begins to move, emitting two or three loud whistles.

As I have said, the night is very dark, without moon, without stars. Long clouds are creeping across the lower zones of the atmosphere. It will be easy for me to enter the van without being noticed. And I have not been too liberal in my visits to Kinko during these twelve days on the road.

At this moment Popof says to me: “Are you not going to sleep to-night, Monsieur Bombarnac?”

“I am in no hurry,” I reply; “after this foggy day, spent inside the car, I am glad of a breath of fresh air. Where does the train stop next?”

“At Fuen-Choo, when it has passed the junction with the Nanking line.”

“Good night, Popof.”

“Good night, Monsieur Bombarnac.”

I am alone.

The idea occurs to me to walk to the rear of the train, and I stop for an instant on the gangway in front of the treasure van.

The passengers, with the exception of the Chinese guard, are all sleeping their last sleep — their last, be it understood, on the Grand Transasiatic.

Returning to the front of the train, I approach Popof’s box, and find him sound asleep.

I then open the door of the van, shut it behind me, and signal my presence to Kinko.

The panel is lowered, the little lamp is lighted. In exchange for the cakes and wine I receive the brave fellow’s thanks, and we drink to the health of Zinca Klork, whose acquaintance I am to make on the morrow.

It is ten minutes to one. In twelve minutes, so Popof says, we shall pass the junction with the Nanking branch. This branch is only completed for five or six kilometres, and leads to the viaduct over the Tjon valley. This viaduct is a great work — I have the details from Pan-Chao — and the engineers have as yet only got in the piers, which rise for a hundred feet above the ground.

As I know we are to halt at Fuen-Choo, I shake hands with Kinko, and rise to take my leave.

At this moment I seem to hear some one on the platform in the rear of the van.

“Look out, Kinko!” I say in a whisper.

The lamp is instantly extinguished, and we remain quite still.

I am not mistaken. Some one is opening the door of the van.

“Your panel,” I whisper.

The panel is raised, the car is shut, and I am alone in the dark.

Evidently it must be Popof who has come in. What will he think to find me here? The first time I came to visit the young Roumanian I hid among the packages. Well, I will hide a second time. If I get behind Ephrinell’s boxes it is not likely that Popof will see me, even by the light of his lantern.

I do so; and I watch.

It is not Popof, for he would have brought his lantern.

I try to recognize the people who have just entered. It is difficult. They have glided between the packages, and after opening the further door, they have gone out and shut it behind them.

They are some of the passengers, evidently; but why here — at this hour?

I must know. I have a presentiment that something is in the wind Perhaps by listening?

I approach the front door of the van, and in spite of the rumbling of the train I hear them distinctly enough.

Thousand and ten thousand devils! I am not mistaken! It is the voice of my lord Faruskiar. He is talking with Ghangir in Russian. It is indeed Faruskiar. The four Mongols have accompanied him. But what are they doing there? For what motive are they on the platform which is just behind the tender? And what are they saying?

What they are saying is this.

Of these questions and answers exchanged between my lord Faruskiar and his companions, I do not lose a word.

“When shall we be at the junction?”

“In a few minutes.”

“Are you sure that Kardek is at the points?”

“Yes; that has been arranged.”

What had been arranged? And who is this Kardek they are talking about?

The conversation continues.

“We must wait until we get the signal,” says Faruskiar.

“Is that a green light?” asks Ghangir.

“Yes — it will show that the switch is over.”

I do not know if I am in my right senses. The switch over? What switch?

A half minute elapses. Ought I not to tell Popof? Yes — I ought.

I was turning to go out of the van, when an exclamation kept me back.

“The signal — there is the signal!” says Ghangir.

“And now the train is on the Nanking branch!” replies Faruskiar.

The Nanking branch? But then we are lost. At five kilometres from here is the Tjon viaduct in course of construction, and the train is being precipitated towards an abyss.

Evidently Major Noltitz was not mistaken regarding my lord Faruskiar. I understand the scheme of the scoundrels. The manager of the Grand Transasiatic is a scoundrel of the deepest dye. He has entered the service of the company to await his opportunity for some extensive haul. The opportunity has come with the millions of the Son of Heaven I Yes! The whole abominable scheme is clear enough to me. Faruskiar has defended the imperial treasure against Ki-Tsang to keep it from the chief of the bandits who stopped the train, whose attack would have interfered with his criminal projects! That is why he had fought so bravely. That is why he had risked his life and behaved like a hero. And thou, poor beast of a Claudius, how thou hast been sold! Another howler! Think of that, my friend!

But somehow we ought to prevent this rascal from accomplishing his work. We ought to save the train which is running full speed towards the unfinished viaduct, we ought to save the passengers from a frightful catastrophe. As to the treasure Faruskiar and his accomplices are after, I care no more than for yesterday’s news! But the passengers — and myself — that is another affair altogether.

I will go back to Popof. Impossible. I seem to be nailed to the floor of the van. My head swims — —

Is it true we are running towards the abyss? No! I am mad. Faruskiar and his accomplices would be hurled over as well. They would share our fate. They would perish with us!

But there are shouts in front of the train. The screams of people being killed. There is no doubt now. The driver and the stoker are being strangled. I feel the speed of the train begin to slacken.

I understand. One of the ruffians knows how to work the train, and he is slowing it to enable them to jump off and avoid the catastrophe.

I begin to master my torpor. Staggering like a drunken man, I crawl to Kinko’s case. There, in a few words, I tell him what has passed, and I exclaim: “We are lost!”

“No — perhaps” he replies.

Before I can move, Kinko is out of his box. He rushes towards the front door; he climbs on to the tender.

“Come along! Come along!” he shouts.

I do not know how I have done it, but here I am at his side, on the foot-plate, my feet in the blood of the driver and stoker, who have been thrown off on to the line.

Faruskiar and his accomplices are no longer here.

But before they went one of them has taken off the brakes, jammed down the regulator to full speed, thrown fresh coals into the fire-box, and the train is running with frightful velocity.

In a few minutes we shall reach the Tjon viaduct.

Kinko, energetic and resolute, is as cool as a cucumber. But in vain he tries to move the regulator, to shut off the steam, to put on the brake. These valves and levers, what shall we do with them?

“I must tell Popof!” I shout.

“And what can he do? No; there is only one way — — “

“And what is that?”

“Rouse up the fire,” says Kinko, calmly; “shut down the safety valves, and blow up the engine.”

And was that the only way — a desperate way — of stopping the train before it reached the viaduct?

Kinko scattered the coal on to the fire bars. He turned on the greatest possible draught, the air roared across the furnace, the pressure goes up, up, amid the heaving of the motion, the bellowings of the boiler, the beating of the pistons. We are going a hundred kilometres an hour.

“Get back!” shouts Kinko above the roar. “Get back into the van.”

“And you, Kinko?”

“Get back, I tell you.”

I see him hang on to the valves, and put his whole weight on the levers.

“Go!” he shouts.

I am off over the tender. I am through the van. I awake Popof, shouting with all my strength: “Get back! Get back!”

A few passengers suddenly waking from sleep begin to run from the front car.

Suddenly there is an explosion and a shock. The train at first jumps back. Then it continues to move for about half a kilometre.

It stops.

Popof, the major, Caterna, most of the passengers are out on the line in an instant.

A network of scaffolding appears confusedly in the darkness, above the piers which were to carry the viaduct across the Tjon valley.

Two hundred yards further the train would have been lost in the abyss.

CHAPTER XXV.

And I, who wanted “incident,” who feared the weariness of a monotonous voyage of six thousand kilometres, in the course of which I should not meet with an impression or emotion worth clothing in type!

I have made another muddle of it, I admit! My lord Faruskiar, of whom I had made a hero — by telegraph — for the readers of the Twentieth. Century. Decidedly my good intentions ought certainly to qualify me as one of the best paviers of a road to a certain place you have doubtless heard of.

We are, as I have said, two hundred yards from the valley of the Tjon, so deep and wide as to require a viaduct from three hundred and fifty to four hundred feet long. The floor of the valley is scattered over with rocks, and a hundred feet down. If the train had been hurled to the bottom of that chasm, not one of us would have escaped alive. This memorable catastrophe — most interesting from a reporter’s point of view — would have claimed a hundred victims. But thanks to the coolness, energy and devotion of the young Roumanian, we have escaped this terrible disaster.

All? No! Kinko has paid with his life for the safety of his fellow passengers.

Amid the confusion my first care was to visit the luggage van, which had remained uninjured. Evidently if Kinko had survived the explosion he would have got back into his box and waited till I put myself in communication with him.

Alas! The coffer is empty — empty as that of a company which has suspended payment. Kinko has been the victim of his sacrifice.

And so there has been a hero among our traveling companions, and he was not this Faruskiar, this abominable bandit hidden beneath the skin of a manager, whose name I have so stupidly published over the four corners of the globe! It was this Roumanian, this humble, this little, this poor fellow, whose sweetheart will wait for him in vain, and whom she will never again see! Well, I will do him justice! I will tell what he has done. As to his secret, I shall be sorry if I keep it. If he defrauded the Grand Transasiatic, it is thanks to that fraud that a whole train has been saved. We were lost, we should have perished in the most horrible of deaths if Kinko had not been there!

I went back on to the line, my heart heavy, my eyes full of tears.

Assuredly Faruskiar’s scheme — in the execution of which he had executed his rival Ki-Tsang — had been cleverly contrived in utilizing this branch line leading to the unfinished viaduct. Nothing was easier than to switch off the train if an accomplice was at the points. And as soon as the signal was given that we were on the branch, all he had to do was to gain the foot-plate, kill the driver and stoker, slow the train and get off, leaving the steam on full to work up to full speed.

And now there could be no doubt that the scoundrels worthy of the most refined tortures that Chinese practice could devise were hastening down into the Tjon valley. There, amid the wreck of the train, they expected to find the fifteen millions of gold and precious stones, and this treasure they could carry off without fear of surprise when the night enabled them to consummate this fearful crime. Well! They have been robbed, these robbers, and I hope that they will pay for their crime with their lives, at the least. I alone know what has passed, but I will tell the story, for poor Kinko is no more.

Yes! My mind is made up. I will speak as soon as I have seen Zinca Klork. The poor girl must be told with consideration. The death of her betrothed must not come upon her like a thunderclap. Yes! To-morrow, as soon as we are at Pekin.

After all, if I do not say anything about Kinko, I may at least denounce Faruskiar and Ghangir and the four Mongols. I can say that I saw them go through the van, that I followed them, that I found they were talking on the gangway, that I heard the screams of the driver and stoker as they were strangled on the foot-plate, and that I then returned to the cars shouting: “Back! Back!” or whatever it was.

Besides, as will be seen immediately, there was somebody else whose just suspicions had been changed into certainty, who only awaited his opportunity to denounce Faruskiar.

We are now standing at the head of the train, Major Noltitz, the German baron, Caterna, Ephrinell, Pan-Chao, Popof, about twenty travelers in all. The Chinese guard, faithful to their trust, are still near the treasure which not one of them has abandoned. The rear guard has brought along the tail lamps, and by their powerful light we can see in what a state the engine is.

If the train, which was then running at enormous velocity, had not stopped suddenly — and thus brought about its destruction — it was because the boiler had exploded at the top and on the side. The wheels being undamaged, the engine had run far enough to come gradually to a standstill of itself, and thus the passengers had been saved a violent shock.

Of the boiler and its accessories only a few shapeless fragments remained. The funnel had gone, the dome, the steam chest; there was nothing but torn plates, broken, twisted tubes, split cylinders, and loose connecting rods — gaping wounds in the corpse of steel.

And not only had the engine been destroyed, but the tender had been rendered useless. Its tank had been cracked, and its load of coals scattered over the line. The luggage-van, curious to relate, had miraculously escaped without injury.

And looking at the terrible effects of the explosion, I could see that the Roumanian had had no chance of escape, and had probably been blown to fragments.

Going a hundred yards down the line I could find no trace of him — which was not to be wondered at.

At first we looked on at the disaster in silence; but eventually conversation began.

“It is only too evident,” said one of the passengers, “that our driver and stoker have perished in the explosion.”

“Poor fellows!” said Popof. “But I wonder how the train could have got on the Nanking branch without being noticed?”

“The night was very dark,” said Ephrinell, “and the driver could not see the points.”

“That is the only explanation possible,” said Popof, “for he would have tried to stop the train, and, on the contrary, we were traveling at tremendous speed.”

“But,” said Pan-Chao, “how does it happen the Nanking branch was open when the Tjon viaduct is not finished? Had the switch been interfered with?”

“Undoubtedly,” said Popof, “and probably out of carelessness.”

“No,” said Ephrinell, deliberately. “There has been a crime — a crime intended to bring about the destruction of the train and passengers — — “

“And with what object?” asked Popof.

“The object of stealing the imperial treasure,” said Ephrinell. “Do you forget that those millions would be a temptation to scoundrels? Was it not for the purpose of robbing the train that we were attacked between Tchertchen and Tcharkalyk?”

The American could not have been nearer the truth.

“And so,” said Popof, “after Ki-Tsang’s attempt, you think that other bandits — — “

Up to now Major Noltitz had taken no part in the discussion. Now he interrupted Popof, and in a voice heard by all he asked:

“Where is Faruskiar?”

They all looked about and tried to discover what had become of the manager of the Transasiatic.

“And where is his friend Ghangir?” asked the major.

There was no reply.

“And where are the four Mongols who were in the rear van?” asked Major Noltitz.

And none of them presented themselves.

They called my lord Faruskiar a second time.

Faruskiar made no response.

Popof entered the car where this personage was generally to be found.

It was empty.

Empty? No. Sir Francis Trevellyan was calmly seated in his place, utterly indifferent to all that happened. Was it any business of his? Not at all. Was he not entitled to consider that the Russo-Chinese railways were the very apex of absurdity and disorder? A switch opened, nobody knew by whom! A train on the wrong line! Could anything be more ridiculous than this Russian mismanagement?

“Well, then!” said Major Noltitz, “the rascal who sent us on to the Nanking line, who would have hurled us into the Tjon valley, to walk off with the imperial treasure, is Faruskiar.”

“Faruskiar!” the passengers exclaimed. And most of them refused to believe it.

“What!” said Popof. “The manager of the company who so courageously drove off the bandits and killed their chief Ki-Tsang with his own hand?”

Then I entered on the scene.

“The major is not mistaken. It was Faruskiar who laid this fine trap for us.”

And amid the general stupefaction I told them what I knew, and what good fortune had enabled me to ascertain. I told them how I had overheard the plan of Faruskiar and his Mongols, when it was too late to stop it, but I was silent regarding the intervention of Kinko. The moment had not come, and I would do him justice in due time.

To my words there succeeded a chorus of maledictions and menaces.

What! This seigneur Faruskiar, this superb Mongol, this functionary we had seen at work! No! It was impossible.

But they had to give in to the evidence. I had seen; I had heard; I affirmed that Faruskiar was the author of this catastrophe in which all our train might have perished, was the most consummate bandit who had ever disgraced Central Asia!

“You see, Monsieur Bombarnac,” said Major Noltitz, “that I was not mistaken in my first suspicion.”

“It is only too true,” I replied, without any false modesty, “that I was taken in by the grand manners of the abominable rascal.”

“Monsieur Claudius,” said Caterna, “put that into a romance, and see if anybody believes it likely.”

Caterna was right; but unlikely as it may seem, it was. And, besides, I alone knew Kinko’s secret. It certainly did seem as though it was miraculous for the locomotive to explode just on the verge of the abyss.

Now that all danger had disappeared we must take immediate measures for running back the cars on to the Pekin line.

“The best thing to do is for one of us to volunteer — — “

“I will do that,” said Caterna.

“What is he to do?” I asked.

“Go to the nearest station, that of Fuen Choo, and telegraph to Tai-Youan for them to send on a relief engine.”

“How far is it to Fuen Choo?” asked Ephrinell.

“About six kilometres to Nanking junction, and about five kilometres beyond that.”

“Eleven kilometres,” said the major; “that is a matter of an hour and a half for good walkers. Before three o’clock the engine from Tai-Youan ought to be here. I am ready to start.”

“So am I,” said Popof! “I think several of us ought to go. Who knows if we may not meet Faruskiar and his Mongols on the road?”

“You are right, Popof,” said Major Noltitz, “and we should be armed.”

This was only prudent, for the bandits who ought to be on their way to the Tjon viaduct could not be very far off. Of course, as soon as they found that their attempt had failed, they would hasten to get away. How would they dare — six strong — to attack a hundred passengers, including the Chinese guard?

Twelve of us, including Pan-Chao, Caterna, and myself, volunteered to accompany Major Noltitz. But by common accord we advised Popof not to abandon the train, assuring him that we would do all that was necessary at Fuen Choo.

Then, armed with daggers and revolvers — it was one o’clock in the morning — we went along the line to the junction, walking as fast as the very dark night permitted.

In less than two hours we arrived at Fuen Choo station without adventure. Evidently Faruskiar had cleared off. The Chinese police would have to deal with the bandit and his accomplices. Would they catch him? I hoped so, but I doubted.

At the station Pan-Chao explained matters to the stationmaster, who telegraphed for an engine to be sent from Tai-Youan to the Nanking line.

At three o’clock, just at daybreak, we returned to wait for the engine at the junction. Three-quarters of an hour afterwards its whistle announced its approach, and it stopped at the bifurcation of the lines. We climbed up on to the tender, and half an hour later had rejoined the train.

The dawn had come on sufficiently for us to be able to see over a considerable distance. Without saying anything to anybody, I went in search of the body of my poor Kinko. And I could not find it among the wreck.

As the engine could not reach the front of the train, owing to their being only a single line, and no turning-table, it was decided to couple it on in the rear and run backwards to the junction. In this way the box, alas! without the Roumanian in it, was in the last carriage.

We started, and in half an hour we were on the main line again.

Fortunately it was not necessary for us to return to Tai-Youan, and we thus saved a delay of an hour and a half. At the junction the engine was detached and run for a few yards towards Pekin, then the vans and cars, one by one, were pushed on to the main line, and then the engine backed and the train proceeded, made up as before the accident. By five o’clock we were on our way across Petchili as if nothing had happened.

I have nothing to say regarding this latter half of the journey, during which the Chinese driver — to do him justice — in no way endeavored to make up for lost time. But if a few hours more or less were of no importance to us, it was otherwise with Baron Weissschnitzerdorfer, who wanted to catch the Yokohama boat at Tien Tsin.

When we arrived there at noon the steamer had been gone for three-quarters of an hour; and when the German globetrotter, the rival of Bly and Bisland, rushed on to the platform, it was to learn that the said steamer was then going out of the mouths of the Pei-Ho into the open sea.

Unfortunate traveler! We were not astonished when, as Gaterna said, the baron “let go both broadsides” of Teutonic maledictions. And really he had cause to curse in his native tongue.

We remained but a quarter of an hour at Tien Tsin. My readers must pardon me for not having visited this city of five hundred thousand inhabitants, the Chinese town with its temples, the European quarter in which the trade is concentrated, the Pei-Ho quays where hundreds of junks load and unload. It was all Faruskiar’s fault, and were it only for having wrecked my reportorial endeavors he ought to be hanged by the most fantastic executioner in China.

Nothing happened for the rest of our run. I was very sorry at the thought that I was not bringing Kinko along with me, and that his box was empty. And he had asked me to accompany him to Mademoiselle Zinca Klork! How could I tell this unfortunate girl that her sweetheart would never reach Pekin station?

Everything ends in this world below, even a voyage of six thousand kilometres on the Grand Transasiatic; and after a run of thirteen days, hour after hour, our train stopped at the gates of the capital of the Celestial Empire.

CHAPTER XXVI.

“Pekin!” shouted Popof. “All change here.”

And Caterna replied with truly Parisian unction: “I believe you, my boy!”

And we all changed.

It was four o’clock in the afternoon. For people fatigued with three hundred and twelve hours of traveling, it was no time for running about the town — what do I say? — the four towns inclosed one within the other. Besides, I had plenty of time. I was going to stop some weeks in this capital.

The important thing was to find a hotel in which one could live passably. From information received I was led to believe that the hotel of Ten Thousand Dreams, near the railway station, might be sufficiently in accord with Western notions.

As to Mademoiselle Klork, I will postpone my visit till tomorrow. I will call on her before the box arrives, and even then I shall be too soon, for I shall take her the news of Kinko’s death.

Major Noltitz will remain in the same hotel as I do. I have not to bid him farewell, nor have I to part with the Caternas, who are going to stay a fortnight before starting for Shanghai. As to Pan-Chao and Dr. Tio-King, a carriage is waiting to take them to the yamen in which the young Chinaman’s family live. But we shall see each other again. Friends do not separate at a simple good-by, and the grip of the hand I gave him as he left the car will not be the last.

Mr. and Mrs. Ephrinell lose no time in leaving the station on business, which obliges them to find a hotel in the commercial quarter of the Chinese town. But they do not leave without receiving my compliments. Major Noltitz and I go up to this amiable couple, and the conventional politenesses are reciprocally exchanged.

“At last,” said I to Ephrinell, “the forty-two packages of Strong, Bulbul & Co. have come into port. But it is a wonder the explosion of our engine did not smash your artificial teeth.”

“Just so,” said the American, “my teeth had a narrow escape. What adventures they have had since we left Tiflis? Decidedly this journey has been less monotonous than I expected.”

“And,” added the major, “you were married on the way — unless I am mistaken!”

“Wait a bit!” replied the Yankee in a peculiar tone. “Excuse me; we are in a hurry.”

“We will not keep you, Mr. Ephrinell,” I replied, “and to Mrs. Ephrinell and yourself allow us to say au revoir!”

“Au revoir!” replied the Americanized lady, rather more dryly at her arrival than at her departure.

Then, turning, she said: “I have no time to wait, Mr. Ephrinell.”

“Nor have I, Mrs. Ephrinell,” replied the Yankee.

Mr! Mrs! And not so long ago they were calling each other Fulk and Horatia.

And then, without taking each other’s arm, they walked out of the station. I believe he turned to the right and she to the left; but that is their affair.

There remains my No. 8, Sir Francis Trevellyan, the silent personage, who has not said a word all through the piece — I mean all through the journey. I wanted to hear his voice, if it was only for one second.

Eh! If I am not mistaken, here is the opportunity at last.

There is the phlegmatic gentleman contemptuously looking up and down the cars. He has just taken a cigar from his yellow morocco case, but when he looks at his match-box he finds it empty.

My cigar — a particularly good one — is alight, and I am smoking it with the blessed satisfaction of one who enjoys it, and regretting that there is not a man in all China who has its equal.

Sir Francis Trevellyan has seen the light burning at the end of my cigar, and he comes towards me.

I think he is going to ask me for a light. He stretches out his hand, and I present him with my cigar.

He takes it between his thumb and forefinger, knocks off the white ash, lights up, and then, if I had not heard him ask for a light, I at least expected him to say, “Thank you, sir!”

Not at all! Sir Francis Trevellyan takes a few puffs at his own cigar, and then nonchalantly throws mine on to the platform. And then without even a bow, he walks leisurely off out of the railway station.

Did you say nothing? No, I remained astounded. He gave me neither a word nor a gesture. I was completely dumfounded at this ultra-Britannic rudeness, while Major Noltitz could not restrain a loud outburst of laughter.

Ah! If I should see this gentleman again. But never did I see again Sir Francis Trevellyan of Trevellyan Hall, Trevellyanshire.

Half an hour afterwards we are installed at the Hotel of Ten Thousand Dreams. There we are served with a dinner in Chinese style. The repast being over — towards the second watch — we lay ourselves on beds that are too narrow in rooms with little comfort, and sleep not the sleep of the just, but the sleep of the exhausted — and that is just as good.

I did not wake before ten o’clock, and I might have slept all the morning if the thought had not occurred to me that I had a duty to fulfil. And what a duty! To call in the Avenue Cha Coua before the delivery of the unhappy case to Mademoiselle Zinca Klork.

I arise. Ah! If Kinko had not succumbed, I should have returned to the railway station — I should have assisted, as I had promised, in the unloading of the precious package. I would have watched it on to the cart, and I would have accompanied it to the Avenue Cha Coua, I would even have helped in carrying him up to Mademoiselle Zinca Klork! And what a double explosion of joy there would have been when Kinko jumped through the panel to fall into the arms of the fair Roumanian!

But no! When the box arrives it will be empty — empty as a heart from which all the blood has escaped.

I leave the Hotel of Ten Thousand Dreams about eleven o’clock, I call one of those Chinese carriages, which look like palanquins on wheels, I give the address of Mademoiselle Klork, and I am on the way.

You know, that among the eighteen provinces of China Petchili occupies the most northerly position. Formed of nine departments, it has for its capital Pekin, otherwise known as Chim-Kin-Fo, an appellation which means a “town of the first order, obedient to Heaven.”

I do not know if this town is really obedient to Heaven, but it is obedient to the laws of rectilineal geometry. There are four towns, square or rectangular, one within the other. The Chinese town, which contains the Tartar town, which contains the yellow town, or Houng Tching, which contains the Red Town, or Tsen-Kai-Tching, that is to say, “the forbidden town.” And within this symmetrical circuit of six leagues there are more than two millions of those inhabitants, Tartars or Chinese, who are called the Germans of the East, without mentioning several thousands of Mongols and Tibetans. That there is much bustle in the streets, I can see by the obstacles my vehicle encounters at every step, itinerating peddlers, carts heavily laden, mandarins and their noisy following. I say nothing of those abominable wandering dogs, half jackals, half wolves, hairless and mangy, with deceitful eyes, threatening jaws, and having no other food than the filthy rubbish which foreigners detest. Fortunately I am not on foot, and I have no business in the Red Town, admittance to which is denied, nor in the yellow town nor even in the Tartar town.

The Chinese town forms, a rectangular parallelogram, divided north and south by the Grand Avenue leading from the Houn Ting gate to the Tien gate, and crossed east and west by the Avenue Cha-Coua, which runs from the gate of that name to the Cpuan-Tsa gate. With this indication nothing could be easier than to find the dwelling of Mademoiselle Zinca Klork, but nothing more difficult to reach, considering the block in the roads in this outer ring.

A little before twelve I arrived at my destination. My vehicle had stopped before a house of modest appearance, occupied by artisans as lodgings, and as the signboard said more particularly by strangers.

It was on the first floor, the window of which opened on to the avenue, that the young Roumanian lived, and where, having learned her trade as a milliner in Paris, she was engaged in it at Pekin.

I go up to the first floor. I read the name of Madame Zinca Klork on a door. I knock. The door is opened.

I am in the presence of a young lady who is perfectly charming, as Kinko said. She is a blonde of from twenty-two to twenty-three years old, with the black eyes of the Roumanian type, an agreeable figure, a pleasant, smiling face. In fact, has she not been informed that the Grand Transasiatic train has been in the station ever since last evening, in spite of the circumstances of the journey, and is she not awaiting her betrothed from one moment to another?

And I, with a word, am about to extinguish this joy. I am to wither that smile.

Mademoiselle Klork is evidently much surprised at seeing a stranger in her doorway. As she has lived several years in France, she does not hesitate to recognize me as a Frenchman, and asks to what she is indebted for my visit.

I must take care of my words, for I may kill her, poor child.

“Mademoiselle Zinca — — ” I say.

“You know my name?” she exclaims.

“Yes, mademoiselle. I arrived yesterday by the Grand Transasiatic.”

The girl turned pale; her eyes became troubled. It was evident that she feared something. Had Kinko been found in his box? Had the fraud been discovered? Was he arrested? Was he in prison?

I hastened to add: “Mademoiselle Zinca — certain circumstances have brought to my knowledge — the journey of a young Roumanian — — “

“Kinko — my poor Kinko — they have found him?” she asks in a trembling voice.

“No — no — — ” say I, hesitating. “No one knows — except myself. I often visited him in the luggage-van at night; we were companions, friends. I took him a few provisions — — “

“Oh! thank you, sir!” says the lady, taking me by the hands. “With a Frenchman Kinko was sure of not being betrayed, and even of receiving help! Thank you, thank you!”

I am more than ever afraid of the mission on which I have come.

“And no one suspected the presence of my dear Kinko?” she asks.

“No one.”

“What would you have had us do, sir? We are not rich. Kinko was without money over there at Tiflis, and I had not enough to send him his fare. But he is here at last. He will get work, for he is a good workman, and as soon as we can we will pay the company — — “

“Yes; I know, I know.”

“And then we are going to get married, monsieur. He loves me so much, and I love him. We met one another in Paris. He was so kind to me. Then when he went back to Tiflis I asked him to come to me in that box. Is the poor fellow ill?”

“No, Mademoiselle Zinca, no.”

“Ah! I shall be happy to pay the carriage of my dear Kinko.”

“Yes — pay the carriage — — “

“It will not be long now?”

“No; this afternoon probably.”

I do not know what to say.

“Monsieur,” says mademoiselle, “we are going to get married as soon as the formalities are complied with; and if it is not abusing your confidence, will you do us the honor and pleasure of being present?”

“At your marriage — certainly. I promised my friend Kinko I would.”

Poor girl! I cannot leave her like this. I must tell her everything.

“Mademoiselle Zinca — Kinko — — “

“He asked you to come and tell me he had arrived?”

“Yes — but — you understand — he is very tired after so long a journey — — “

“Tired?”

“Oh! do not be alarmed — — “

“Is he ill?”

“Yes — rather — rather ill — — “

“Then I will go — I must see him — I pray you, sir, come with me to the station — — “

“No; that would be an imprudence — remain here — remain — — “

Zinca Klork looked at me fixedly.

“The truth, monsieur, the truth! Hide nothing from me — Kinko — — “

“Yes — I have sad news — to give you.” She is fainting. Her lips tremble. She can hardly speak.

“He has been discovered!” she says. “His fraud is known — they have arrested him — — “

“Would to heaven it was no worse. We have had accidents on the road. The train was nearly annihilated — a frightful catastrophe — “

“He is dead! Kinko is dead!”

The unhappy Zinca falls on to a chair — and to employ the imaginative phraseology of the Chinese — her tears roll down like rain on an autumn night. Never have I seen anything so lamentable. But it will not do to leave her in this state, poor girl! She is becoming unconscious. I do not know where I am. I take her hands. I repeat: “Mademoiselle Zinca! Mademoiselle Zinca!”

Suddenly there is a great noise in front of the house. Shouts are heard. There is a tremendous to do, and amid the tumult I hear a voice.

Good Heavens! I cannot be mistaken. That is Kinko’s voice!

I recognize it. Am I in my right senses?

Zinca jumps up, springs to the window, opens it, and we look out.

There is a cart at the door. There is the case, with all its inscriptions: This side up, this side down, fragile, glass, beware of damp, etc. etc. It is there — half smashed. There has been a collision. The cart has been run into by a carriage, as the case was being got down. The case has slipped on to the ground. It has been knocked in. And Kinko has jumped out like a jack-in-the-box — but alive, very much alive!

I can hardly believe my eyes! What, my young Roumanian did not perish in the explosion? No! As I shall soon hear from his own mouth, he was thrown on to the line when the boiler went up, remained there inert for a time, found himself uninjured — miraculously — kept away till he could slip into the van unperceived. I had just left the van after looking for him in vain, and supposing that he had been the first victim of the catastrophe.

Then — oh! the irony of fate! — after accomplishing a journey of six thousand kilometres on the Grand Transasiatic, shut up in a box among the baggage, after escaping so many dangers, attack by bandits, explosion of engine, he was here, by the mere colliding of a cart and a carriage in a Pekin Street, deprived of all the good of his journey — fraudulent it may be — but really if — I know of no epithet worthy of this climax.

The carter gave a yell at the sight of a human being who had just appeared. In an instant the crowd had gathered, the fraud was discovered, the police had run up. And what could this young Roumanian do who did not know a word of Chinese, but explain matters in the sign language? And if he could not be understood, what explanation could he give?

Zinca and I ran down to him.

“My Zinca — my dear Zinca!” he exclaims, pressing the girl to his heart.

“My Kinko — my dear Kinko!” she replies, while her tears mingle with his.

“Monsieur Bombarnac!” says the poor fellow, appealing for my intervention.

“Kinko,” I reply, “take it coolly, and depend on me. You are alive, and we thought you were dead.”

“But I am not much better off!” he murmurs.

Mistake! Anything is better than being dead — even when one is menaced by prison, be it a Chinese prison. And that is what happens, in spite of the girl’s supplications and my entreaties. And Kinko is dragged off by the police, amid the laughter and howls of the crowd.

But I will not abandon him! No, if I move heaven and earth, I will not abandon him.

CHAPTER XXVII.

If ever the expression, “sinking in sight of port,” could be used in its precise meaning, it evidently can in this case. And I must beg you to excuse me. But although a ship may sink by the side of the jetty, we must not conclude that she is lost. That Kinko’s liberty is in danger, providing the intervention of myself and fellow passengers is of no avail, agreed. But he is alive, and that is the essential point.

But we must not waste an hour, for if the police is not perfect in China, it is at least prompt and expeditious. Soon caught, soon hanged — and it will not do for them to hang Kinko, even metaphorically.

I offer my arm to Mademoiselle Zinca, and I lead her to my carriage, and we return rapidly towards the Hotel of the Ten Thousand Dreams.

There I find Major Noltitz and the Caternas, and by a lucky chance young Pan-Chao, without Dr. Tio-King. Pan-Chao would like nothing better than to be our interpreter before the Chinese authorities.

And then, before the weeping Zinca, I told my companions all about Kinko, how he had traveled, how I had made his acquaintance on the journey. I told them that if he had defrauded the Transasiatic Company it was thanks to this fraud that he was able to get on to the train at Uzun Ada. And if he had not been in the train we should all have been engulfed in the abyss of the Tjon valley.

And I enlarged on the facts which I alone knew. I had surprised Faruskiar at the very moment he was about to accomplish his crime, but it was Kinko who, at the peril of his life, with coolness and courage superhuman, had thrown on the coals, hung on to the lever of the safety valves, and stopped the train by blowing up the engine.

What an explosion there was of exclamatory ohs and ahs when I had finished my recital, and in a burst of gratitude, somewhat of the theatrical sort, our actor shouted:

“Hurrah for Kinko! He ought to have a medal!”

Until the Son of Heaven accorded this hero a green dragon of some sort, Madame Caterna took Zinca’s hand, drew her to her heart and embraced her — embraced her without being able to restrain her tears. Just think of a love story interrupted at the last chapter!

But we must hasten, and as Caterna says, “all on the scene for the fifth” — the fifth act, in which dramas generally clear themselves up.

“We must not let this brave fellow suffer!” said Major Noltitz; “we must see the Grand Transasiatic people, and when they learn the facts they will be the first to stop the prosecution.”

“Doubtless,” I said, “for it cannot be denied that Kinko saved the train and its passengers.”

“To say nothing of the imperial treasure,” added Caterna, “the millions of his majesty!”

“Nothing could be truer,” said Pan-Chao. “Unfortunately Kinko has fallen into the hands of the police, and they have taken him to prison, and it is not easy to get out of a Chinese prison.”

“Let us be off,” I replied, “and see the company.”

“See here,” said Madame Caterna, “is there any need of a subscription to defray the cost of the affair?”

“The proposal does you honor, Caroline,” said the actor, putting his hand in his pocket.

“Gentlemen,” said pretty Zinca Klork, her eyes bathed in tears, “do save him before he is sentenced — — “

“Yes, my darling,” said Madame Caterna, “yes, my heart, we will save your sweetheart for you, and if a benefit performance — — “

“Bravo, Caroline, bravo!” exclaimed Caterna, applauding with the vigor of the sub-chief of the claque.

We left the young Roumanian to the caresses, as exaggerated as they were sincere, of the worthy actress. Madame Caterna would not leave her, declaring that she looked upon her as her daughter, that she would protect her like a mother. Then Pan-Chao, Major Noltitz, Caterna, and I went off to the company’s offices at the station.

The manager was in his office, and we were admitted.

He was a Chinese in every acceptation of the word, and capable of every administrative Chinesery — a functionary who functioned in a way that would have moved his colleagues in old Europe to envy.

Pan-Chao told the story, and, as he understood Russian, the major and I took part in the discussion.

Yes! There was a discussion. This unmistakable Chinaman did not hesitate to contend that Kinko’s case was a most serious one. A fraud undertaken on such conditions, a fraud extending over six thousand kilometres, a fraud of a thousand francs on the Grand Transasiatic Company and its agents.

We replied to this Chinesing Chinee that it was all very true, but that the damage had been inconsiderable, that if the defrauder had not been in the train he could not have saved it at the risk of his life, and at the same time he could not have saved the lives of the passengers.

Well, would you believe it? This living China figure gave us to understand that from a certain point of view it would have been better to regret the deaths of a hundred victims — —

Yes! We knew that! Perish the colonies and all the passengers rather than a principle!

In short, we got nothing. Justice must take its course against the fraudulent Kinko.

We retired while Caterna poured out all the locutions in his marine and theatrical vocabulary.

What was to be done?

“Gentlemen,” said Pan-Chao, “I know how things are managed in Pekin and the Celestial Empire. Two hours will not elapse from the time Kinko is arrested to the time he is brought before the judge charged with this sort of crime. He will not only be sent to prison, but the bastinado — — “

“The bastinado — like that idiot Zizel in Si j’etais Roi?” asked the actor.

“Precisely,” replied Pan-Chao.

“We must stop that abomination,” said Major Noltitz.

“We can try at the least,” said Pan-Chao. “I propose we go before the court when I will try and defend the sweetheart of this charming Roumanian, and may I lose my face if I do not get him off.”

That was the best, the only thing to do. We left the station, invaded a vehicle, and arrived in twenty minutes before a shabby-looking shanty, where the court was held.

There was a crowd. The affair had got abroad. It was known that a swindler had come in a box in a Grand Transasiatic van free, gratis, and for nothing from Tiflis to Pekin. Every one wished to see him; every one wanted to recognize the features of this genius — it was not yet known that he was a hero.

There he is, our brave companion, between two rascally looking policemen, yellow as quinces. These fellows are ready to walk him off to prison at the judge’s order, and to give him a few dozen strokes on the soles of his feet if he is condemned to that punishment.

Kinko is thoroughly disheartened, which astonishes me on the part of one I know to be so energetic. But as soon as he sees us his face betrays a ray of hope.

At this moment the carter, brought forward by the police, relates the affair to a good sort of fellow in spectacles, who shakes his head in anything but a hopeful way for the prisoner, who, even if he were as innocent as a new-born child, could not defend himself, inasmuch as he did not know Chinese.

Then it is that Pan-Chao presents himself. The judge recognized him and smiled. In fact, our companion was the son of a rich merchant in Pekin, a tea merchant in the Toung-Tien and Soung-Fong-Cao trade. And these nods of the judge’s head became more sympathetically significant.

Our young advocate was really pathetic and amusing. He interested the judge, he excited the audience with the story of the journey, he told them all about it, and finally he offered to pay the company what was due to them.

Unfortunately the judge could not consent. There had been material damages, moral damages, etc. etc.

Thereupon Pan-Chao became animated, and although we understood nothing he said, we guessed that he was speaking of the courage of Kinko, of the sacrifice he had made for the safety of the travelers, and finally, as a supreme argument, he pleaded that his client had saved the imperial treasure.

Useless eloquence? Arguments were of no avail with this pitiless magistrate, who had not acquitted ten prisoners in is life. He spared the delinquent the bastinado; but he gave him six months in prison, and condemned him in damages against the Grand Transasiatic Company. And then at a sign from this condemning machine poor Kinko was taken away.

Let not my readers pity Kinko’s fate. I may as well say at once that everything was arranged satisfactorily.

Next morning Kinko made a triumphal entry into the house in the Avenue Cha-Coua, where we were assembled, while Madame Caterna was showering her maternal consolations on the unhappy Zinca Klork.

The newspapers had got wind of the affair. The Chi Bao of Pekin and the Chinese Times of Tien-Tsin had demanded mercy for the young Roumanian. These cries for mercy had reached the feet of the Son of Heaven — the very spot where the imperial ears are placed. Besides, Pan-Chao had sent to his majesty a petition relating the incidents of the journey, and insisting on the point that had it not been for Kinko’s devotion, the gold and precious stones would be in the hands of Faruskiar and his bandits. And, by Buddha! that was worth something else than six months in prison.

Yes! It was worth 15,000 taels, that is to say, more than 100,000 francs, and in a fit of generosity the Son of Heaven remitted these to Kinko with the remittal of his sentence.

I decline to depict the joy, the happiness, the intoxication which this news brought by Kinko in person, gave to all his friends, and particularly to the fair Zinca Klork. These things are expressible in no language — not even in Chinese, which lends itself so generously to the metaphorical.

And now my readers must permit me to finish with my traveling companions whose numbers have figured in my note-book.

Nos. 1 and 2, Fulk Ephrinell and Miss Horatia Bluett: not being able to agree regarding the various items stipulated in their matrimonial contract, they were divorced three days after their arrival in Pekin. Things were as though the marriage had never been celebrated on the Grand Transasiatic, and Miss Horatia Bluett remained Miss Horatia Bluett. May she gather cargoes of heads of hair from Chinese polls; and may he furnish with artificial teeth every jaw in the Celestial Empire!

No. 3, Major Noltitz: he is busy at the hospital he has come to establish at Pekin on behalf of the Russian government, and when the hour for separation strikes, I feel that I shall leave a true friend behind me in these distant lands.

Nos. 4 and 5, the Caternas: after a stay of three weeks in the capital of the Celestial Empire, the charming actor and actress set out for Shanghai, where they are now the great attraction at the French Residency.

No. 6, Baron Weissschnitzerdorfer, whose incommensurable name I write for the last time: well, not only did the globe-trotter miss the steamer at Tien-Tsin, but a month later he missed it at Yokohama; six weeks after that he was shipwrecked on the coast of British Columbia, and then, after being thrown off the line between San Francisco and New York, he managed to complete his round of the world in a hundred and eighty-seven days instead of thirty-nine.

Nos. 9 and 10, Pan-Chao and Dr. Tio-King: what can I say except that Pan-Chao is always the Parisian you know, and that if he comes to France we shall meet at dinner at Durand’s or Marguery’s. As to the doctor, he has got down to eating only the yolk of an egg a day, like his master, Cornaro, and he hopes to live to a hundred and two as did the noble Venetian.

No. 8, Sir Francis Trevellyan, and No. 12, Seigneur Faruskiar: I have never heard of the one who owes me an apology and a cigar, nor have I heard that the other has been hanged. Doubtless, the illustrious bandit, having sent in his resignation of the general managership of the Grand Transasiatic, continues his lucrative career in the depths of the Mongol provinces.

Now for Kinko, my No. 11: I need hardly say that my No. 11 was married to Zinca Klork with great ceremony. We were all at the wedding, and if the Son of Heaven had richly endowed the young Roumanian, his wife received a magnificent present in the name of the passengers of the train he had saved.

That is the faithful story of this journey. I have done my best to do my duty as special correspondent all down the line, and perhaps my editors may be satisfied, notwithstanding the slip or two you have heard about.

As to me, after spending three weeks in Pekin, I returned to France by sea.

And now I have to make a confession, which is very painful to my self-esteem. The morning after I arrived in the Chinese capital I received a telegram thus worded, in reply to the one I had sent from Lan-Tcheou:

Claudius Bombarnac,

Pekin, China.

Twentieth Century requests its correspondent, Claudius Bombarnac, to present its compliments and respects to the heroic Seigneur Faruskiar.

But I always say that this telegram never reached him, so that he has been spared the unpleasantness of having to reply to it.

THE END.

FOUNDLING MICK

Anonymous translation, 1894

Also known as A Lad of Grit, this novel was first published in 1893. Foundling Mick is an orphan growing up in Ireland. Overcoming a number of obstacles, he and his friend Dick start a small business that proves profitable for the pair. Seeking larger opportunities, they move to Dublin, where Foundling Mick’s keen sense of business wins them great fortune.

The original frontispiece

CONTENTS

PART I

CHAPTER 1

IN FAR CONNAUGHT

CHAPTER 2

LITTLE MICK

CHAPTER 3

THE POOR SCHOOL

CHAPTER 4

CONCERNING A SEAGULL

CHAPTER 5

MORE OF THE POOR SCHOOL

CHAPTER 6

LIMERICK

CHAPTER 7

ROCKS AHEAD

CHAPTER 8

KIRWAN’S FARM

CHAPTER 9

FOUNDLING MICK’S INSTALLATION

CHAPTER 10

WHAT HAPPENED IN DONEGAL

CHAPTER 11

LIFE INSURANCE

CHAPTER 12

THE RETURN

CHAPTER 13

CHANGE

CHAPTER 14

CATASTROPHE

PART II

CHAPTER 15

TRELINGAR CASTLE

CHAPTER 16

IN SERVICE

CHAPTER 17

A YOUNG ENGLISH NOBLEMAN

CHAPTER 18

EIGHTEEN YEARS BETWEEN THEM

CHAPTER 19

SEVEN MONTHS IN CORK

CHAPTER 20

THE FIRST FIREMAN ON THE VULCAN

CHAPTER 21

ON THE WAY TO DUBLIN

CHAPTER 22

DUBLIN

CHAPTER 23

THE BOYS BAZAAR

CHAPTER 24

FOUND

CHAPTER 25

A CHANGE OF COLOUR AND CONDITION

CHAPTER 26

THE VOYAGE OF THE DORIS

CHAPTER 27

THE WAGES OF FOUNDLING MICK

PART I

CHAPTER 1

IN FAR CONNAUGHT

Ireland, which has an area of31,759 square miles, or 20,326,209 acres, formerly formed a part of the insular tract of land now called the United Kingdom. This we learn from the geologists; but it is history and fact that the islands are now two, and more widely divided by moral discord than by physical barriers. The Irish, who are friends of France, are, as they always have been, enemies of England.

A fair country for tourists is Ireland, but a sad one for the dwellers in it. They cannot fertilise it, and it cannot feed them, especially in some of the northern districts. But although the motherland has no flowing breast to give to her children, she is passionately loved by them. They call her by the sweetest of names; she is ‘Green Erin’, — and indeed her verdure is unequalled — she is ‘The Land of Song’; she is ‘The Island of Saints’; she is ‘The Emerald Gem of the Western World’; she is ‘First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea’. Poor Ireland! She ought to be called ‘The Isle of Poverty’, for that name has befitted her for many centuries. In 1845 the population of ‘the most distressful country that ever yet was seen’ reached its highest point, 8,295,061; in 1891 when the last Census was taken, it had fallen to 4,706,162, and the terrible preponderance of indigence is maintained at the old figures, 3 to 8.

The island is hollowed out like a basin, in which there is no lack of water, for the chief feature of the country is the beautiful series of lakes (Hibernice loughs). Lough Neagh alone — the lakes of the drowned towns and round towers — covers a surface of 98,255 acres. The harbours of Ireland are some of the finest in the world, and the Shannon is renowned among rivers.

The town of Westport, in the province of Connaught, is situated on Clew Bay, which resembles Morbihan on the coast of Brittany in the number of islets (365) which dot the surface of its waters. This bay is one of the most beautiful along the entire seaboard of Ireland; its capes, promontories, and points are ranged like so many sharks’ teeth which bite the incoming rollers. Connaught — the birthplace of the MacMahons — produces those special Celtic types which are preserved in the families of the persecuted people of past generations, the original owners of the soil. The country is very poor and wretched; to behold it is to have the interpretation of the old saying: ‘To Hell or Connaught!’

It is at Westport that we are to find little Mick in the dawn of his life’s story; we shall see where, when, and how that story comes to its end.

The great majority of the population of Westport are Catholics. On Sunday, the 17th of June, 1875, most of the inhabitants were at Mass, and a large number of the congregation had come barefoot, carrying their shoes in their hands almost to the church door, partly to economise those articles of attire, although few of them were in good case, and partly because they walked more freely without the restraint of shoe-leather.

For the moment there was only one person in the main street of Westport, a man who was pushing from the back a queerly shaped vehicle drawn by a small and manifestly ill-used pony, and shouting, with wasted energy in the vacant space: ‘Puppets! Puppets!’

This travelling showman had come from Castlebar in County Mayo. He had not journeyed by the railroad which places Westport in communication with Dublin; he had not conveyed his luggage by any of the carts or cars which traverse the country; he had ‘footed it’ like a stroller, ‘crying’ his puppets everywhere, and urging on his wretched pony with blows, and loud cracking of his whip, which was occasionally accompanied by a sort of prolonged moan from the interior of the vehicle. And then, after the man had sworn at the miserable beast, he would seem to address some other lower animal, saying, with a hideous prefix, ‘You — will you hold your tongue?’

The moaning would cease, and the — shall we say covered cart? — would rumble on.

The man’s name was Hornpipe. It matters little what was his birthplace; enough that he was one of those Anglo — Saxons, too frequendy to be met with among the lowest classes in the British Isles, who have no more feeling than a wild beast, no more heart than a granite rock. The showman had passed through the outskirts of the town, and was now going along the principal street, which was lined with fairly good houses, and shops displaying pompous signs, but where customers would not find much to buy. Out of this street ran several dirty lanes, and the cobblestones with which it was paved bumped and rattled Hornpipe’s cart, doubtless to the detriment of the puppets destined to afford a mild diversion to the people of the province of Connaught.

As the public still declined to put in an appearance, Hornpipe trudged along dejectedly, until he reached the entrance to the Mall which is crossed by the street, between a double row of elms. Beyond the Mall stretches a park, with well-kept, sanded paths, which lead to the port on Clew Bay. This park is open to the public by permission of the Marquis of Sligo, and gives access to the port at the distance of a mile from the town.

Town, port, park, streets, river, bridges, churches, houses, hovels, in a word, the whole place, belongs to the Marquis of Sligo, one of those wealthy landlords, owners of the soil over almost the whole of Ireland. The Marquis is of old nobility, and is not a bad landlord.

Every few yards Hornpipe stopped his cart, looked about him, and shouted, in a voice which resembled the creaking of an ill-greased machine, —

‘Puppets! Royal puppets!’

Nobody opened the closed doors of the shops, not a head was put out of window. Here and there a bundle of rags would appear at the top of a lane, and out of the bundle would peer a hungry, hollow, red-eyed face. After a while a group of half-naked children appeared from somewhere, and five or six of the urchins ventured up to the cart when it was halted on the ‘broad walk’ of the Mall, and began to whine, — ‘Giv’ us a ha’penny,’ in chorus. The poor brats addressed their pitiful prayer to a man much more disposed to ask than to give alms, and they scurried away from his threatening hands and feet, and put a safe distance between their ragged bodies and his whip. No responsible spectator responded to the blandishments of the showman, and the cart, wearily dragged by the half-starved pony, resumed its rumbling way, and soon reached the park, which was as empty of people as the Mall. That Hornpipe should have come there at the hour of divine service to seek spectators among Catholics, was sufficient to prove that he did not belong to that part of the country. Perhaps he might have a better chance in the afternoon. At any rate there was no harm in trying the port, and thither he proceeded, grumbling and swearing.

The harbour of Westport is but little frequented, although it is the largest and most sheltered on this coast, and no foreign ships put into it. Some trading craft and fishing boats were lying there at low tide. The ships, which had come from the west of Scotland, freighted with grain — the great scarcity in Connaught — would sail away to the east, having landed their cargoes. To see large ships in Irish ports, one must go to Dublin, Belfast, Londonderry and Cork, where the transatlantic steamers of the Liverpool and London lines call.

Evidently it was not from the pockets of the fishermen and sailors who were lounging and smoking on the quay that Hornpipe could extract the few shillings he was seeking, so he stopped his cart, and allowed the pony to slumber, with hanging head, between the shafts, while he took a parcel from under the dirty carpet-covering of the vehicle, and complacently surveyed its contents — a lump of bread, some cold potatoes, and a salt herring. Of these choice viands he disposed with the appetite of a man who is breaking a rather long fast. A slight movement in the interior of the cart attracted his attention, and he raised the covering which hid the box of puppets (having looked cautiously around to make sure that he was not observed) and slipped into it a piece of bread, saying in a fierce tone, —

‘If you don’t hold your tongue — ‘

He was answered by a sound of ravenous mastication, as though a famished animal, dying of hunger, were crouching inside the box. He returned to his breakfast; the fluid portion of the meal consisted of buttermilk, carried in a tin can.

Presently the bell of the Catholic Church announced that Mass was over. Hornpipe roused the pony by an application of his whip, and set off briskly towards the Mall, in order to catch the congregation on coming out of the church. There would be a good half hour to spare before dinner-time, and he might pick up, not shillings, but a few pence in that interval, and give a second entertainment under better auspices in the afternoon. He recommenced his cry, —

‘Puppets! Royal puppets!’

In a few minutes Hornpipe was surrounded by a crowd of perhaps twenty persons; not the most important among the inhabitants of Westport indeed, but still typical of the place. The children were in the majority; the men and women for the most part carried their shoes in their hands, as we have already stated, chiefly because it was so much easier to walk barefooted, according to their usual custom.

There were certain exceptions to this rule, in the persons of a few of the trades people of Westport; for instance, the baker, who paused to look on at the spectacle with his wife and their two children. It is true that his coat was already of a respectable age, and that in rainy Ireland years count double in the case of garments; nevertheless, the worthy man was quite presentable. Was it not due to the pompous signboard of his shop, ‘Central Public Bakery’, that he should be so? And indeed so central was his bakery that there was not another in Westport. The druggist also was in the little crowd; he insisted on the title of ‘apothecary’, although his shelves were destitute of very ordinary drugs, but then his shopfront bore the inscription ‘Medical Hall’ in such resplendent letters that the mere sight of them might have cured his customers.

A priest also had joined the group in front of Hornpipe’s cart. He wore the ordinary ecclesiastical dress, a plain black coat, single-breasted, with a high-buttoned waistcoat and Roman collar. He was the parish priest, and many and various are the functions of such an individual in Ireland, outside of the services of the Catholic Church and the administration of its sacraments. He is the adviser of his parishioners in their business and family affairs, their friend and helper in trouble and sickness, and as he is neither appointed nor paid by the state, he acts with complete independence. His ‘dues’, voluntarily subscribed by his flock, certain tributes in kind, and the fees which are paid on all occasions of religious ceremonial — what is called ‘casualty’ in other countries, secure to him a modest but easy livelihood. He is the natural administrator of the schools and charitable institutions belonging to his creed, and an active party to the public amusements of the place when the regatta or the steeplechase is ‘to the fore’. He holds a foremost place in the family life of his ‘people’; he is respected because he deserves respect, although there is not a trace of the puritan about him. Against the purity of his life no whisper of doubt has ever been uttered. Why, indeed, should not the influence of the priest be powerful in a country so deeply imbued with Catholicism that an Irish peasant dreads nothing that can possibly happen to him so much as he fears being refused the sacraments?

Hornpipe then had a public, and one possibly more productive than he had hoped. His show might even be a success, for Westport had not previously been favoured with one of a similar kind. So the showman again uttered his cry: ‘Great attraction! Royal puppets! Puppets!’

CHAPTER 2

LITTLE MICK

Hornpipe’s Thespian cart was very simply constructed; it consisted merely of a pair of shafts, a quadrangular box, or body, placed upon two wheels, and a couple of projections at the back which admitted of its being pushed uphill; the body, was sheltered from the chary sunshine, and also, but imperfecdy, from the liberal rain of the west of Ireland, by a canvas awning stretched on four upright iron rods. The whole thing resembled the barrel organs which travel through towns and villages uttering their strident sounds, but Hornpipe’s machine was not a barrel organ, although, as we shall presently see, music of a sort had a share in the matter.

The body had a lid which fitted over one-fourth of its depth from the top. This cover being lifted off and turned down along the side, forming a kind of tablet, the public were admitted to the following spectacle, after a preliminary announcement from Hornpipe in the following words: —

‘Ladies and gentlemen! You are about to see the Great Hall in the Queen’s palace of Osborne, in the Isle of Wight.’ And, in fact, the reversed cover presented a saloon in miniature, contained between the four sides of the square lid, on which draped doors and windows were painted; here and there articles of furniture of the highest style in cardboard were pinned down upon a strip of crimson baize, the tables, chairs, and sofas being so arranged as not to interfere with the free circulation of the princes, princesses, dukes, marquises, earls and baronets, who, with their noble spouses, formed the guests at this great Court function.

‘At the end,’ continued Hornpipe, ‘you will remark the throne of Queen Victoria, with the canopy of crimson velvet spangled with gold, the exact model of that on which her Majesty takes her place during the Court ceremonies.’

The throne in question is three or four inches high, the velvet is flock paper, the spangles are spots of yellow paint, but the whole is quite satisfactory to the simple people who have never beheld the real and essentially monarchical article.

‘On the throne,’ resumes the showman, ‘contemplate the Queen — a perfect likeness — in her robes of state, the royal mantle attached to her shoulders, the crown on her head, and the sceptre in her hand.’

His audience, entirely relying upon the statement of the speaker, were delighted with the royal image, especially with the sceptre, which was modelled upon the trident of Neptune!

‘On the right of the Queen, I call the attention of the spectators to their Royal Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales, as they appeared on their last visit to Ireland.’

No deception in this! There was the Prince of Wales in the costume of a Field Marshal of the British Army, and the daughter of the King of Denmark, clad in a superb lace gown cut out of the silvered paper with which the contents of sweetmeat boxes are covered. On the other side are the Dukes of Edinburgh, Connaught and Albany, Princess Mary of Teck, and in short, the whole royal family, ranged in a semicircle round the throne. In a second group are the great officers of the Crown, and Hornpipe points out each of them with his wand, to the admiration of the little crowd, adding that each of these noble personages is placed according to his rank. These gentlemen are regarded with only a mild interest, but there is more than curiosity in the stir excited by the showman’s indication of a figure to the right in the vicinity of the prime minister, for the figure is that of Mr Gladstone, even then an illustrious ‘Grand old man’.

And then occurs an extraordinary anachronism, for Hornpipe, swelling out his gruff voice into a stentorian roar, shouts: ‘I present to you, ladies and gentlemen, your celebrated patriot O’Connell, whose name will always find an echo in every Irish heart!’

Yes, there was O’Connell, at a Court ceremony in England, in 1874, although he had then been dead for six-and-twenty years. A number of other celebrities were included, starred and gartered, His Royal Highness the Duke of Cambridge in a tete-a-tete with the Iron Duke, the late Lord Palmerston smiling on the late Mr Pitt, members of the Upper and Lower Houses, and behind them a line of Horse Guards in full uniform on horseback in the middle of the Hall — a rare spectacle even at a royal fete at Osborne. Not only was the military, political and official life of Great Britain represented by this motley collection of painted dolls, but the English fleet was not forgotten. The Victoria and Alberf was not there under steam indeed, but several vessels were painted on the glass of the windows, from whence the harbour of Cowes was supposed to be visible.

It must be acknowledged that Hornpipe had not deceived his public in declaring his exhibition to be unique. Great was the astonishment which it produced, not only among the assembled urchins, but among the older spectators, whose world did not extend beyond the province of Connaught, or, perhaps, even the confines of Westport.

‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, that is nothing to what you are going to see,’ resumed Hornpipe. ‘You suppose, no doubt, that these royal and other personages can make neither movements nor gestures; but they are alive, I tell you, like you and me, and you shall see that it is so. First, I will take the liberty of walking round, trusting to the generosity of you all.’

This ‘walking round’ is the critical moment for the showman of all kinds of curiosities; when the wooden platter begins to circulate. As a general rule the spectators of strolling shows may be divided into two classes; those who go away to avoid putting their hands into their pockets, and those who stay on with the intention of amusing themselves gratis — the latter are much the more numerous. A third category does exist, but it is so limited as to be hardly worth mentioning, and therefore, on the present occasion, Hornpipe ‘walked round’, with a smile on his bulldog face, which he endeavoured to render amiable, but which was merely fierce, with evil eyes and a mouth that looked as though it were always ready to bite. Among the ragged crowd there was nothing to get. A few of the spectators, who had been attracted by the showman’s harangue, merely turned away their heads. Hornpipe’s receipts, extracted from a few of his decently clothed auditors, amounted to one shilling and threepence. He looked at the coins with a scornful grimace; but it could not be helped. Perhaps there might be more people about later in the day, now he must make the best of the position, and go on with his programme. Thereupon the admiration became demonstrative, and amid stamping of feet and clapping of hands Hornpipe struck a blow with his wand under the body of the cart, to which a moan, unheard by any but himself, responded, and a sudden animation pervaded the mimic scene.

The puppets, moved by an interior mechanism, seemed to be endowed with real life. Queen Victoria did not indeed descend from her throne, for that would have been contrary to etiquette, she did not even rise, but she moved her head, wagged her crowned cap, and waved her sceptre after the fashion of the conductor of an orchestra ruling the waves of sound with his baton. The members of the royal family turned stiffly round, solemnly exchanging bows, while the dukes, marquises, earls and other personages passed before them with great demonstrations of respect. The prime minister bent towards Mr Gladstone, and Mr Gladstone bent towards the prime minister. The other figures moved about in their turn, and the horses pranced and flourished their tails.

The whole of this ‘business’ was accomplished to the accompaniment of the shrill and rasping sounds of a bird-organ minus several of its notes. Certainly, it was all very fine, and the audience, who were not familiar with European drama, were quite excusably delighted.

‘I would like to know what it is that sets them going,’ said the baker.

‘Sure, it’s the divil himself,’ replied an old fisherman.

‘Is it, then?’ muttered a woman, turning her head towards the priest, who was looking on thoughtfully.

‘Ah, then, how could the divil fit into that box?’ demanded a young shop-boy, who was a well-known simpleton. ‘The divil’s a good size, ye know.’

‘Well, as he isn’t inside, he’s outside!’ retorted one of the old women. ‘It’s himself that’s showin’ it, anyhow.’

This remark passed unchallenged; the unfavourable impression produced by Hornpipe’s personal appearance was general.

Whether witchcraft were in question or not, it had to be admitted that something inside the box was moving the puppets, and yet no one had seen Hornpipe turn a handle or touch a spring. And yet — a peculiarity which had not escaped the notice of the priest — no sooner did the motion of the little crowd slacken than it was quickened by a slash of the showman’s whip against the bottom of the box. For whom was this slash, always followed by a moan, intended?

The priest meant to know, and said to Hornpipe, ‘You have a dog in the bottom of that box?’

The man, who seemed to resent the question, looked frowningly at the speaker.

‘No matter what I have there. That’s my business; I’m not bound to tell it to you.’

‘You are not bound,’ answered the priest, ‘but we have a right to suppose it is a dog that works your show.’

‘Well, then, it is a dog,’ growled Hornpipe, ‘a dog in a turning cage. It took a lot of time and patience to train him. And what do I get for my trouble? Not half as much as you’d get for a Mass!’

At the moment when Hornpipe uttered these insolent words the mechanism came to a dead stop, to the vexation of the spectators, whose curiosity was not half satisfied. And, as the showman was about to replace the lid of his box, announcing that the performance was over, the druggist inquired whether he intended to give a second.

‘No,’ replied Hornpipe roughly. He perceived that he was regarded with suspicion.

‘Not even if you are sure of getting at least two shillings?’

‘Neither for two nor for three.’

His only object now was to get away, but the little crowd did not seem disposed to make way for him. He had begun to drag the wretched pony off the ground when a prolonged sobbing wail issued from the show-box.

Then Hornpipe, in a fury, shouted, —

‘Hold your noise, you cursed whelp!’

‘That is not a dog inside there,’ said the priest, laying hold of the cart.

‘Yes, it is,’ growled Hornpipe.

‘No, it is a child!’

‘A child! A child!’ echoed the crowd.

The feelings of the spectators had undergone a sudden revulsion. It was no longer curiosity, but pity that actuated them. A child, shut up in the interior of that box, where he could hardly breathe, and lashed with a whip when he ceased to turn the wheel, having no longer strength to move in his cage!

‘The child! The child!’ was the angry demand of the incensed people.

The popular sentiment was too strong for Hornpipe. Nevertheless he tried to resist, and pushed the cart from behind in vain. The baker seized it on one side, the druggist on the other, and it was well shaken between them. Never had the Court been placed in such a predicament. Hornpipe was quickly reduced to submission, although he fought fiercely. Everybody joined in. The cart was searched; the druggist slipped between the wheels and lifted a child out of the show-box.

Yes! a little creature of three years old, pale, sickly, wretched-looking, with legs covered with weals from the lash, and hardly able to breathe.

No one in Westport recognised the child.

Such was the entry upon the scene of Foundling Mick, the hero of this veracious history. How he had fallen into the hands of the brutal showman, who was not his father, is easily told. Hornpipe had picked him up nine months previously by a roadside in Donegal, and we know to what purpose he had put the unhappy foundling.

A good woman took him in her arms, and tried to revive him. All the people pressed around him. He had an intelligent and gentle little face, this poor human squirrel, condemned to keep his cage turning under the box of puppets, to earn his livelihood. To earn his livelihood — at that age! At length he opened his eyes, and shrank back at the approach of Hornpipe, who called out angrily, ‘Give him back to me!’

‘Are you his father?’ asked the priest.

‘Yes,’ answered Hornpipe.

‘No, he is not my daddy!’ cried the child, clinging to the woman who held him in her arms.

‘He is not yours!’ exclaimed the druggist.

‘He has been stolen!’ added the baker.

‘And we will not give him back to you!’ said the priest.

Hornpipe made a rush forward, his face was scarlet and his eyes blazed with rage. But two strong fellows flung themselves upon him and overpowered him.

‘Hunt him! Hunt him!’ cried the women.

‘Be off, you vagabond!’ shouted the druggist.

‘And don’t let us see you hereabouts again,’ said the priest with a threatening gesture.

Hornpipe gave a savage slash of the whip to the starved pony, and the cart rattled along the principal street of Westport.

‘What a wretch!’ said the druggist. ‘He’ll come to be hanged, sure enough!’

‘What is your name, my child?’ asked the priest of the trembling child.

‘Mick,’ was the answer. He had no other name.

CHAPTER 3

THE POOR SCHOOL

And No. 13, what has he got?’

‘The fever.’

‘And No. 9?’

‘The whooping cough.’

‘And No. 17?’

‘He’s got the whooping cough too.’ ‘And No. 23?’

‘I think it’s goin’ to be scarlatina.’

As each of these answers was made to his questions, Mr Mulvany inscribed them upon an admirably kept register under the heading of the respective numbers. There was a column devoted to the name of the malady, the hour of the doctor’s visit, the nature of the remedies prescribed and the manner of their administration after the patients should have been taken to the hospital. The entries were made in a remarkably fine and legible hand, and the register was a model of accurate book-keeping.

‘Some of these children are rather seriously ill,’ added the doctor. ‘Give directions for care to be taken that they don’t get cold in the removal.’

‘Yes, yes,’ answered Mr Mulvany carelessly. ‘Once they’re out of this, they’re no more business of mine, and so long as my books are posted —

‘And then, if they are carried off by one thing or another,’ interrupted the doctor, as he took up his hat, ‘it will be no great loss, I suppose?’

‘In that case,’ said Mulvany, ‘I shall enter them in the death column, and their account will be balanced. Now, when an account is balanced, it seems to me that nobody has anything to complain of.’

Then the worthy pair shook hands and the doctor went his way.

Mr Mulvany was the schoolmaster of the poor school of Galway, a small town on the coast of Galway Bay. He was a stout, fat man, one of those elderly bachelors who have never been young, and who will never be quite old, who have no life-troubles or family cares, are not moved by any sentiments of love, sympathy, or compassion, and possess just enough heart to enable them to live. He was one of those beings who pass through life doing neither good nor harm, and are never unhappy — not even in the unhappiness of others.

Such was Mulvany, and he was the right man in the right place as the master of a poor school. The establishment indeed merited the epithet ragged school, which was in use twenty or thirty years ago, but has now ceased to be employed. He kept its books with great accuracy, but his solicitude was confined to that branch of his business. His charges were indeed a ‘ragged regiment’. He was assisted by an old woman called Chris, who was seldom seen without a black pipe in her mouth, and a former pupil, a boy of sixteen, named Grip. The latter was a cheerful, even merry fellow, with a good face, bright eyes, and a turned-up nose. The school was a sort of refuge for the destitute; the scholars were the poorest of the poor, many of them forsaken children of nameless parents; the funds were precarious, and the condition of the school was wretched.

Of the forlorn dwellers in Mr Mulvany’s gaunt and comfortless abode Foundling Mick was the youngest. He was under five years of age, and so far he seemed to be set apart for misfortune. After he had been treated as we have seen by Hornpipe, then rescued from his tormentor through the compassion of some good souls in Westport, he was now an object of charity in the Galway poor school. When he must leave that dismal refuge, what was to become of him?

The parish priest who had rescued him from the showman had vainly endeavoured to discover the child’s previous history. Foundling Mick was unable to furnish him with any clue to it. He remembered only that he had lived somewhere with an unkind woman, a little girl who kissed him sometimes, and another child who died. Where had this happened? He did not know. No one could tell whether he had been a lost child or one forsaken by his parents.

At Westport, he had been taken care of by first one person, then another. Women pitied him, and lamented over his wretched fate. The name of Foundling Mick remained with him. He lived for a week here, for a fortnight there; but the priest and his people were poor; there was no orphanage in which to place the little boy, and so he drifted into the poor school, where he had now been living for nine months among a pack of young ragamuffins, confided to the tender mercies of old Chris, Grip the good-natured, and Mr Mulvany, a human machine. He had not yet figured on Mr Mulvany’s list among the cases of scarlatina or whooping cough, or his account would soon have been settled — at the bottom of a pauper’s grave in the churchyard. But, although he had not suffered in bodily health, of what was the moral atmosphere composed in which the poor litde boy lived? For the most part it was deplorable. There was in the school a boy named Carker, whose mother was ‘doing’ a long term of penal servitude, whose father had been hanged for murder, and whose own character and conduct indicated the probability of his following in the footsteps of his parents. He was only twelve years old, but his perversity was already remarkable; he was a ringleader in every kind of mischief and ill doing, and was, naturally, a person of consideration among the ragged crew of juvenile flatterers and followers.

This boy was Foundling Mick’s special aversion, detested and feared by him, and yet regarded with constant wonder! A boy whose father had been hanged! Just think of it!

The school bore no resemblance to modern educational establishments, where cubic feet of air are mathematically distributed. The scholars had to breathe in the allotted space as best they could, and to be satisfied with straw to sleep on, and scanty food, rarely more choice than bread and potatoes, to eat. As for the instruction given in the place, Mr Mulvany was supposed to dispense that article to the poor scholars of Galway. His duty was to teach the three Rs, but as he did not compel any of his pupils to learn, it would have been difficult to find two of the number who could have read off a poster at sight after two or three years of education. Litde Mick, although he was so young, offered a contrast to his schoolfellows by evincing a desire for instruction, and thereby laid himself open to much ridicule. The only part of the school-house which approached to being clean was Mr Mulvany’s own room; this was not accessible to any other person. He was best pleased with his pupils when they were out of doors, ranging the countryside at their own sweet will, and when the pressing need of food and sleep brought the vagabond band back to their wretched headquarters, their return always took place too early for him.

The intelligence and the good instincts of Foundling Mick exposed him not only to the senseless ridicule of Carker and five or six others who followed his lead, but to rough treatment at their hands as well. He did not complain, but oh, how he longed to be strong enough to enforce respect, to be able to give blow for blow, kick for kick, and how fiercely the fire of anger burned in the heart of the litde creature who was too weak to defend himself! Mick would remain in a corner of the sordid schoolroom when the others were away on their excursions of vagabondage and depredation, to enjoy the quietness, and to be with Grip.

‘You don’t go out?’ said the latter to him.

‘No, Grip.’

‘Carker will give you a licking if you haven’t brought home something this evening.’

‘I would rather be licked.’

Grip reciprocated Micky’s affection. He was not without intelligence, and he could read and write; so he tried to teach the child the little he himself had learned, and Foundling Mick began very quickly to do honour to his instructor, at least in the matter of reading. Grip was also a capital storyteller, and he would entertain his little pupil for hours together, while Foundling Mick’s laughter cheered and brightened the dismal schoolroom. Presently, the others included Grip in their spite and malice, to the great distress of Micky, but Grip regarded this development with philosophical resignation.

‘Grip,’ said Micky.

‘Yes; what is it?’

‘Carker is very bad-natured?’

‘Indeed he is — very.’

‘Why don’t you lick him?’

‘What for?’

‘Aye, and the others too.’

Grip shrugged his shoulders.

Aren’t you strong, Grip?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But you have big arms and legs.’

Grip was tall, and as thin as a ramrod.

‘Well, then, Grip, why don’t you beat them, the brutes?’

‘Cos it isn’t worth while.’

‘Ah! if I only had had your arms and legs — ‘

‘It would be far better, my litde chap,’ answered Grip, ‘to use them for working with.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Certain sure.’

‘Well, then, we will work together; we will try. Shall we, Grip?’

Grip gave a ready assent.

Sometimes Grip would take the child out with him when he was sent on an errand. The two were on a par in point of clothing; their garments were mere rags. This did not so much matter in fine weather, but under the rain and the snow, their pinched blue faces, red eyes, and shivering forms were pitiable to behold, as hand in hand they walked or ran to warm themselves, along the streets of the little town. Foundling Mick would have dearly liked to see what was inside the houses. To him they represented untold splendours. And the hotels at which the travellers alighted, what a pleasure it would be to see the fine rooms, especially those of the Royal Hotel! But the servants would have driven them away like dogs, or rather like beggars, for dogs do get a friendly pat sometimes. And the shabby shops, with the poor displays in their windows, what wonders did they present to the hapless boys! A grand display of clothing, to them, who were in tatters; an array of boots and shoes, to them, who were barefooted! Was it ever to be the lot of either to have a new coat made for his own self, a new pair of shoes, for which he had been measured? No, doubtless, never, any more than so many other poor creatures condemned to live on the leavings of the more fortunate. What pangs of longing assailed the half-starved pair, as they looked upon the big joints of meat on the butcher’s stall, and inhaled the odour of hot bread and delicious cakes which pervaded the neighbourhood of the baker’s and confectioner’s shops!

‘How good cakes must be,’ said Foundling Mick.

‘They just are!’ responded Grip.

‘Did you ever eat any?’

‘I did once.’

‘Ah!’ sighed little Mick.

One day a lady, taking pity on his pale face, gave him a cake.

‘I would rather have a loaf, ma’am,’ said he.

‘Why, my child?’

‘Because it would be bigger.’

Once, however, Grip, having earned a few pence by an errand, bought a week-old cake and gave it to Mick.

‘It is good?’ he asked.

‘Oh! — it is, just as if it had sugar in it.’

‘So it has,’ said Grip, ‘and good sugar too.’

On occasions, Grip and Foundling Mick went as far as Salthill, from whence the whole spectacle of the bay of Galway is visible, with the Aran Islands, the Burren, and the Cliffs of Moher. Then they would return towards the port, along the quays, and the docks which were begun at a period when it was contemplated to make Galway the point of departure of a line of transatlantic steamers. They always lingered to gaze at the few vessels in the bay or moored at the entrance of the port. These objects had an irresistible attraction for the two boys, who, no doubt, had a vague notion that the sea is less cruel than the land to poor people, that it promises them a more secure existence, that life is better in the fresh, free air of the ocean, far from the ill-smelling dens of towns, in which the toilers are packed, that the sea is of all sources of health and sustenance the best for the youth and the man.

‘It must be fine, Grip, to go on those boats, with their great sails,’ said Mick.

‘If you only knew how I’ve been tempted,’ answered Grip, nodding his head.

‘Then why aren’t you a sailor on the sea?’

‘You’re right. Why ain’t I a sailor?’

‘You would go far — far away.’

Perhaps it may come to that,’ said Grip.

On their way back to the school, they had to pass through narrow streets and a squalid quarter of the town. Their way lay in the midst of ruins, but not such ruins as possess interest, being the work of time. These produced only a mournful and wearisome impression, for they were but the ruins of half-or quarter-built houses, left unfinished for want of money, roofless and rotting.

There was, however, something worse than the poor part of Galway, more repulsive than the last straggling hovels of its outlying quarter; the wretched place that represented all those two disinherited ones knew of home; and Grip and Micky were in no hurry to re-enter the poor school.

CHAPTER 4

CONCERNING A SEAGULL

Did Foundling Mick, in the midst of his sordid existence, ponder at times upon his past and strive to call it up before his dim vision? A happy child, living amid plenty, care, and affection, may naturally be altogether given up to the mere happiness of living, without a thought of what may come, but it is not so with one whose past has been all suffering. To such a child the future is a pressing care, an ever-present terror; he has to look forward, having to look back.

In Mick’s retrospect there was always Hornpipe’s figure; the brutal, pitiless rascal whom he sometimes dreaded to meet at a street-corner, with his big, hard, cruel hands ready to clutch him. Then he would be visited by a vague, terrifying recollection of the woman who had ill-treated him, but also by a gleam of remembrance of the girl who had been so tender to him in his pain.

‘I can remember now,’ he said one day to his companion, ‘she was called Cissy.’

‘A pretty name,’ replied Grip, who rather thought, however, that the said Cissy was a figment of Foundling Mick’s fancy, for nothing had ever been ascertained concerning her. But, when he had seemed to cast a doubt upon her existence, Mick had grown angry. Yes, he could see her in his thoughts. Should he not find her again one day? What had become of her? Was she still with that hateful hag? He loved her and she loved him. This was the first affection he had ever felt before he met Grip, and he talked of Cissy as though she were a big girl. She was kind and gentle, she caressed him, she dried his tears, she gave him kisses, she shared her potatoes with him.

‘I would have liked to defend her when the old woman beat her,’ said Foundling Mick.

‘So should I,’ answered Grip, to please the child, ‘and I think I’d have hit hard.’

And indeed, if this fellow did not defend himself when he was attacked, he could defend others at need, and he had given proof of his prowess in the case of Mick and his persecutors.

One Sunday, soon after he had been sent to the poor school, Foundling Mick, being attracted by the sound of the church bells, found his way into the Catholic cathedral of Galway. The child was timid, and ashamed of his rags, when he saw how large and grand the building was; but he forgot his shyness in the delight of the organ music, the singing voices, the golden vestments of the priest at the altar, and the lights that burned in the sanctuary. He had not forgotten that the good parish priest of Westport had told him about God — God who is the Father of all; but neither had he forgotten that when Hornpipe uttered the name of God it was to garnish his vile oaths, and this recollection disturbed his thoughts in the midst of the religious ceremonies. Hidden behind a pillar, he looked at the priests with the same sort of curiosity as soldiers inspired. Then, when the whole congregation knelt, at the tinkling of the bell for the Elevation, he stole away unperceived, as noiselessly as a mouse goes back into its hole.

When Foundling Mick rejoined Grip in the school-house he said nothing about the church, and indeed Grip had but vague notions of the meaning of Mass and vespers; but, some time afterwards, having made a second visit to the cathedral, and finding himself alone with Chris, he asked her what was God?

‘God?’ replied the old woman, suspending the activity of her pipe for a moment.

‘Yes, God?’

‘God is the devil’s brother,’ said she, ‘and he sends him all the bad children to be burned in his fire in hell.’

Foundling Micky turned pale on hearing this, and although he wanted very much to know the whereabouts of this hell filled with flames and children, he did not venture to cross-question Chris on the subject. However, he thought a great deal about God, whose sole occupation seemed to be the punishing of babies in so horrible a fashion, if Chris were to be believed, and one day, being very anxious, he began to talk to his friend Grip.

‘Grip,’ said he, earnestly, ‘have you ever heard tell of hell?’

‘Sometimes, Micky.’

‘Where is it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But listen — if children who are wicked are burned there, they will burn Carker?’

‘Yes, and in a big fire too!’

‘Grip — there’s me — I’m not bad, am I?’

‘You bad? No. I should think not, indeed!’

‘Then I shall not be burned?’

‘Not a hair of you.’

‘Nor you, Grip?’

‘Nor I — you may be sure of that, Micky.’

This was all that Foundling Mick knew about God, the whole of his catechism; and yet he knew, in a confused way, the difference between right and wrong, good and evil.

Mr Mulvany was not pleased with him, and if he were safe from the penalties described by Chris, he was by no means secure from those entailed by the schoolmaster’s private code. Foundling Mick figured in the books of Mr Mulvany on the wrong side, in the columns of expenses, not in those of receipts. Here was a brat costing — not much.

Mr Mulvany — and producing nothing! One day the schoolmaster called him up and severely rebuked him.

‘You won’t do anything, then?’ he concluded, impatiently.

‘Yes, I will, sir,’ answered the child, while he bravely repressed his tears. ‘Tell me what you wish me to do.’

‘Something that will pay what you cost.’

‘I wish I could, but I don’t know how.’

‘You can follow people in the street, and ask for errands.’

‘I am too little, they won’t have me.’

‘Indeed! Have you hands?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you legs?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, then, run after the cars, and pick up ha’pence, since you can’t do anything else!’

‘Beg for ha’pence. Oh, Mr Mulvany, I could not do that!’

‘Ah! You couldn’t?’

‘No, sir.’

‘And can you live without eating? No. I thought not. Well, I give you notice that one day or another I will make you try, if you don’t find out some way of earning your living. Be off with you!’

Earning his living! And he was not five years old! He shrank away into a corner and hung his head. When these little creatures are not utterly stupefied by misery in their infancy, no one can imagine what they suffer, and they can never be sufficiently pitied.

After the admonition of Mulvany came the incitements of the scamps of the school, who were enraged by the better feelings and conduct of the little boy. They delighted in urging him to evil, and did so, not by wicked counsel alone, but by blows. Carker was his most active persecutor, and brought to the task an amount of zeal only to be explained by his own depravity.

‘You won’t ask charity, then?’ he said one day.

‘No,’ replied Foundling Mick, firmly.

‘Well, then, you stupid fool, you need not ask — take!’

‘Take?’

‘Yes. This is the way of it. When you see a well-dressed gentleman with the end of his handkerchief sticking out of his pocket, you pull the handkerchief and out it comes.’

‘Let me alone, Carker!’

‘And sometimes a purse comes out with the pocket handkerchief.’

‘That’s stealing!’

‘And it is not ha’pence that’s in rich people’s purses; it’s shillings, and half-crowns, and pound notes, and sovereigns, and then you share them with your comrades, you little sneak!’

‘Yes,’ said another, ‘and you run away and laugh at the policeman.’

‘And besides,’ added Carker, ‘suppose you do go to prison — what harm’s that? It’s just as good as here, and better. You get soup and bread, and potatoes, and eat as much as you like.’

‘I won’t! I won’t!’ cried the child, as he struggled to get away from the young ruffians, who were knocking him from one to the other like a ball.

Grip, who had just entered the schoolroom, tore him from them.

‘You let that child alone, d’ye hear?’ cried he, doubling his fists. This time Grip was angry in good earnest.

‘You know, I’m not fond of hitting,’ he said to Carker, ‘and I don’t hit often, but when I begin — ‘

The young rascals drew off from their victim, but threw him parting glances, which promised that they would begin again when Grip should not be available for his protection, and settle their little account with him ‘between themselves’.

‘Sure, you’ll be burned, Carker,’ said the child, with a comical air of commiseration.

‘Burned?’

‘Yes — in hell; if you go on being so wicked.’

At this the whole band of miscreants set up a shout of ridicule; but this did not affect the fixed idea of the roasting of Carker which had taken possession of Foundling Mick.

The intervention of Grip in his favour was not likely to produce good results to little Mick. Carker and the others were bent upon vengeance on Grip and his favourite. Of this Grip was well aware, and he vigilantly mounted guard over Micky, keeping him under his own eye as much as possible all day, and at night sharing with him the garret which he occupied under the roof. This was a cold and miserable retreat, but it protected Foundling Mick from evil counsels and ill treatment.

One day Grip and he had walked out to the beach at Salthill, where they occasionally bathed. Grip, who was a good swimmer, gave Mick lessons in natation, and the little fellow loved to plunge into the limpid water on which floated the beautiful ships which he saw afar off.

They were in the midst of the long waves that broke upon the beach, and Grip, holding Mick by the shoulders, was showing him the first movements, when a band of the schoolboys appeared at the side of the rocks, howling like jackals. There were a dozen of them, the worst of the whole lot, and Carker was the ringleader.

The cause of their vociferations was their having caught sight of a seagull with a disabled wing, which was trying to fly away, and might have succeeded had not Carker struck it with a stone.

Foundling Mick uttered such a cry that it might have been thought he had received the blow.

‘Poor gull! Poor gull!’ he moaned.

Sudden anger seized upon Grip, and he would probably have inflicted upon Carker a chastisement that he would have remembered, but that he saw the little boy rush up the beach into the midst of the group, imploring pity for the seagull.

‘Carker! Carker!’ he cried, ‘I beg of you — beat me, beat me, but don’t hurt the bird!’

A roar of ridicule greeted him as he came along the sand, naked, with his delicate limbs, and his thin ribs showing under the skin. And still he cried, ‘Carker! Carker! Don’t hurt the bird!’

No one listened to him; they all mocked at his entreaties, and pursued the wretched bird, as it strove to rise from the earth, hopping lamely from one foot to the other, and seeking a shelter amid the rocks. Vain were its efforts.

‘Cowards! Cowards!’ cried Foundling Mick, with streaming tears.

Carker had seized the seagull by one wing, and now whirled it about in the air; it fell on the sand; another of the band picked it up and dashed it on the pebbles.

‘Grip! Grip!’ shrieked Mick, ‘save it! save it!’

Grip rushed upon the boys, but he was too late. Carker had crushed the seagull’s head under his heel, and his companions greeted the exploit with shouts of laughter. Foundling Mick was incensed. Blind rage took possession of him; he picked up a large pebble and flung it with all his strength at Carker, whom it hit full in the chest.

‘Ah! You shall pay for this,’ shouted Carker, and, before Grip could prevent it, he seized hold of Mick, dragged him to the edge of the water, and struck him repeatedly. Then, while the others held Grip by the arms, he pushed the little boy’s head under the incoming wave and kept it there at the imminent risk of suffocating him.

Grip set himself free from the detaining grasp of the young ruffians who held him, by dint of kicks and cuffs, and ran towards Carker, who fled with his rabble rout. The wave would have carried Foundling Mick with it in its ebb, had not Grip laid hold of him and dragged him back, half-fainting. Then Grip rubbed him vigorously, and having brought him to, re-dressed him in his tattered clothes, and taking him by the hand, said, ‘Come away.’

Foundling Mick found the dead bird among the stones, and making a hole in the sand, he buried it therein.

CHAPTER 5

MORE OF THE POOR SCHOOL

On his return to the school, Grip thought it right to inform Mr Mulvany of the conduct of Carker and the other boys. It was not that he cared to tell of the tricks they were in the habit of playing on him, for these he hardly noticed. Foundling Mick was in question now, and the ill treatment to which he was exposed was quite otherwise serious. This time persecution had been carried so far that but for Grip’s interference the corpse of a child would have been carried in by the waves upon the beach of Salthill.

Mr Mulvany’s sole answer to the complaint of Grip was a surly nod of the head. Grip ought to have known that such things did not concern him. He had to keep his books, and he could not have one column for cuffs and another for kicks. So Mr Mulvany merely sent the superintendent about his business. Upon this, Grip resolved from that day forth never to leave his poor little friend alone in the schoolroom, and when he went out he locked him into the garret, where the child was at least in safety.

The summer was ended, September had come,- and September is almost winter in Galway. With the last days of that month winter came in earnest that year.

The dwellers on the coast of the bay had a hard time of it. The days were short and the nights were long in the hovels where both coal and turf were sadly scarce. In the poor school the temperature was low in every room except Mr Mulvany’s own. Now or never was the time to roam through the streets and along the roads, picking up everything that could be used as fuel, the fallen branches of trees, the bits of coal spilled at back doors or around cellar-gratings, the fragments for which the poor clamoured at the unlading of the lighters at the quay. The school children were employed in this humble harvest field, where the gleaners were so many.

Foundling Mick took his share in the hard task, and every day he brought home a little combustible matter. This was not begging, and, at any rate, there was some warmth on the hearth, and therewithal he had to be content. The whole school, shivering in their rags, crowded about the fireplace — the big ones got the best places, needless to say — while their supper was being prepared. What a supper! When it did not consist simply of ‘stirabout’ (oatmeal porridge), it was composed of crusts, potatoes, and scraps of coarse meat made into an unappetising Irish stew, with plenty of grease in the gravy, and a very slender allowance of the mess was given to each of the hungry crowd. The bigger boys, of course, fared the best; for Foundling Mick there was neither a place by the fire nor a bowl of stew as a matter of right or custom, but Grip would take the child into his own den and share his own portion of the meagre daily meal with him. There was no fire up there, but by cowering under the straw and huddling close together they managed to defeat the cold, and to go asleep. Perhaps they were warm in their sleep; we may hope so.

One day Grip had a real turn of luck. He was strolling along the principal street, when a traveller who was going into the Royal Hotel asked him to take a letter to the post office. Grip gladly executed the commission, and received a shilling for his trouble. A whole, bright, new shilling! The employment of his capital was indicated easily — much should be placed in the stomach of Foundling Mick, a little in Grip’s own. He bought a goodly supply of cold boiled beef, which lasted for three days, and was safely consumed without the knowledge of Carker and the others. Naturally, Grip had no notion of sharing with those who never shared with him.

Moreover, the worthy gentleman so fortunately encountered close to the Royal Hotel observed the wretched clothing of his messenger, and presented Grip with a knitted jersey of his own in good condition. Grip did not dream of keeping this adventitious garment for his personal use. Oh, no! It would be ‘splendid’ for Mick to wear under his rags. ‘He’ll be like a sheep in its wool in the likes of that,’ said the good fellow to himself, exultingly.

But the sheep did not wish Grip to give up his wool to him, and a dispute arose between them, which was ultimately arranged to their common satisfaction. The gentleman was tall, and the jersey would have covered little Micky from head to foot. It was not impossible to divide the ample garment between the two friends. They might as well have asked the drunken old woman, Chris, to give up her pipe as to unmake and remake the jersey, so Grip, shutting himself up in his garret, applied himself to the task, bringing all his intelligence to bear upon it, and so skilfully did he execute it that Micky had a warm body-covering out of the stranger’s charitable gift, and Grip himself had a short sleeveless vest, which, after all, was something.

Of course, the child was carefully instructed to conceal the addition to his wardrobe from the others, who would have torn it to shreds rather than leave him in possession of it. He contrived to hide his treasure successfully, and we may guess how highly he appreciated it during the long and bitter winter which brought privation of many kinds upon the district, and in particular to the poor school.

The parish did what it could for the poor, but the demands of several charitable institutions had to be considered and met to some extent before those of the destitute children in that chill shelter could be entertained. There was nothing for it but that the children should beg from door to door, and beg they did.

Foundling Mick had to follow the example of his companions, but he departed from their methods, for it had seemed to him the first time he lifted a door-knocker to ask for alms, that the blow had fallen upon his own breast. Instead of holding out his childish hand he falteringly asked — could they give him something to do? Such a question from an urchin of five years old was easily answered; he was given a hunch of bread, and ate it with tears. What would you have? He was hungry.

At last the hard winter of 1876 came to a close. The spring of 1877 was mild, and summer came early. It was very warm from the beginning of June. On the 17th of August Foundling Mick, who was then five years and a half old, had an adventure which brought about most unexpected consequences. He was returning to the school at seven o’clock in the evening in a melancholy mood, for he knew he should be ill received as he was coming back empty-handed. Unless Grip chanced to have some odd crust or other in reserve, there would be no supper for the little fellow that evening. He was within a few yards of the door when he stumbled and fell at full length, but without hurting himself. He got up and looked around him for the object which had caused his tumble; it proved to be an earthenware gallon jar, lying unbroken on its side in a soft mud puddle. The cork had been drawn, but replaced, and the jar had probably rolled off the sloping back of one of the low cars of the locality, unnoticed by its proprietor, who had made himself too familiarly acquainted with its contents. Micky set the jar up on end, and twitched out the cork. He did not know many of the good things of this world by sight, but he did know whiskey when he smelt it, and this was whiskey. Nearly a gallon too! What a welcome he should have now! All the ragamuffins might have their fill of Foundling Mick’s find. Nobody was in the street, nobody had seen him, and he was close to the school.

But then certain ideas occurred to Micky — ideas which would not have come to Carker or the others. This jar did not belong to him, it was somebody’s property and had evidently been lost. It might be difficult to discover the rightful owner; but no matter, his conscience told Micky that he must not dispose of other people’s goods. He knew this by instinct only, for neither Hornpipe nor Mulvany had ever taught him the difference between right and wrong. Happily, there are children in whose hearts that lesson is inscribed by a Divine hand.

Micky, much disconcerted by his find, resolved to consult Grip, who would surely be able to return the jar to its owner. The great thing was to get the awkward receptacle up to the garret without its being seen by the young scamps, who would not trouble themselves about its proprietor. If it got into their hands, there would not be a drop in the jar by nightfall; but Micky could answer for Grip as he could for himself. He would not touch the jar, he would hide it under the straw, and tomorrow he would find out who had lost it, or if he could not do that, the two of them would go from house to house and inquire — they would not be begging this time. So Foundling Mick approached the school, laboriously endeavouring to hide the big jar with his tattered clothes.

Unfortunately, just as he reached the door, Carker came rudely out and bumped against him. The bully had seen the child coming, and thought it a fine opportunity for paying him off for the interference of Grip upon the beach at Salthill. He seized hold of Micky, felt the jar, and snatched it from him.

‘Ha! What’s this?’ he cried.

‘That! It’s none of yours.’

Then it’s yours?’

‘No, it’s not mine!’

Micky tried to push past Carker, but he, with a savage kick, sent him reeling against the doorpost, and rushed back into the schoolroom, whither Micky limped after him, crying with anger.

He tried again to protest, but as Grip was not there to protect him, he was pushed, struck, and kicked. Chris joined in the fun so soon as she saw the jar.

‘Whiskey!’ she exclaimed, ‘and enough for every one of uz!’

What could the little fellow do? To go to Mr Mulvany and tell him what was taking place would have been to ensure a warm reception for himself. And as for the jar, what would have happened to it? Mr Mulvany would have sent for the jar, and nothing drinkable that went into the schoolmaster’s room ever came out of it.

Micky could do nothing else but hasten up to Grip’s garret and tell him what had occurred.

‘So it’s Carker that took it from you, is it?’ said Grip, threateningly, when his little friend had told the tale. ‘We will go down, and I’ll soon see who’ll keep it!’

But when Grip got to the door he found it bolted on the outside. He shook the door vigorously, but it resisted all his efforts, to the great joy of the rabble rout below, who shouted, —

‘Ha, ha, Grip!’

‘Ho, ho! Foundling Mick.’

‘We’re drinking yer good health.’

Grip, finding that he could not burst open the door, resigned himself to facts, according to his custom, and endeavoured to quiet his angry companion.

‘Let them alone,’ he said, ‘never mind the fools.’

‘Oh, if we were only the strongest!’

‘Yes! but we’re not, you see. And what good would it do? Look here, Mick, I’ve kept some potatoes for you. Come and eat them.’

‘I’m not hungry, Grip!’

‘Never mind, eat all the same, and then we’ll get into the straw and go to sleep.’

The very best thing to be done after such a supper.

Carker had bolted the door of the garret, because he did not mean to be disturbed that evening. With Grip securely shut in, the boys could drain the stone jar at their ease. Chris would not interfere, provided she had her share of the whiskey. So the liquor, which the young wretches sipped raw out of mugs, went round merrily, and as none except perhaps Carker were accustomed to the taste of spirits, they rapidly became intoxicated; in fact the jar was still more than half full when the whole company was drunk, some noisily, some stupidly. The noise did not arouse Mulvany from his usual indifference. He cared nothing for what might be going on downstairs, provided he were left undisturbed.

Nevertheless, he was about to be routed out of his den in a very summary manner, not without damage to his cherished account books.

The greater number of the young scamps had succumbed to their potations, and were lying about the schoolroom; there they would have fallen asleep had it not occurred to Carker that it would be great fun to set fire to some whiskey and drink it burning. This device, he thought, would ‘finish’ Chris, and two or three others who were not yet quite drunk; accordingly, he poured a good deal of the spirit into a saucepan — the only one at Chris’s disposal — lighted a match, and set fire to it. The room was illuminated by the ghastly blue flame, the ragamuffins — such of them as were able to stand — took hands and danced round the blazing saucepan. Had there been any passers-by they would have thought a legion of devils had invaded the school; but the place was lonely at night.

Suddenly a great light appeared in the interior of the house. One of the dancers had tripped, and kicked over the saucepan; the blazing spirit, spilt upon the straw, instantly ignited, and the flames spread to the farthest corners of the room. The fire was everywhere in a moment. Those who were not quite drunk, and those who were startled out of their stupor by the glare and the crackling of the flames, had barely time to open the door and rush into the street, dragging old Chris with them.

At that moment Grip and Foundling Mick, who had just awoke, were endeavouring to get out of the garret, which was filled with suffocating smoke.

The flames had already been perceived, and some inhabitants of the quarter ran to the spot, bringing buckets and ladders. Fortunately, the poor school was a detached building, and as the wind was blowing from the opposite quarter the houses in front of it were not in danger. There was little hope of saving the school; it was on those who were shut up in it, and whose egress was barred by the flames, that attention was turned. Then a window on the first floor was opened; it was that of Mr Mulvany’s own room, and the fire was approaching it. The schoolmaster appeared, staggering with terror and gesticulating wildly.

‘My books! My books!’ he cried, and tried to get down the stairs, but was driven back by the dense smoke. Shouts from the street warned him that he had not a moment to lose; he hastily collected his cherished registers and account books, and threw them out of the window. Those treasures fell into the street, were promptly trampled on by the men who were placing a ladder, by which Mr Mulvany was to be rescued, against the wall, pounced upon by the urchins outside, and torn to atoms, most of which the wind carried away and dispersed far and wide, to the high glee of the perpetrators of this act of mischief.

Mr Mulvany had been able to get out, not so Grip and Foundling Mick. The garret was lighted by a small window in the roof, and the staircase leading to it was already a prey to the flames. Presently the school-house would be merely a big bonfire. Then Grip’s cries rose above the noise of the conflagration.

‘There is some one in that attic!’ exclaimed a person who had just arrived at the scene of the catastrophe. The newcomer was a lady, dressed in travelling costume; she had left her carriage at the end of the street, and was looking on at the fire. Her maid stood, pale and frightened, at her side. By this time the fire had spread so widely that it could not be subdued, and, the schoolmaster having been rescued, no farther effort was made to save the house, which was supposed to be empty.

‘Help! Help, for those who are there!’ cried the lady, throwing her arms up with a grand dramatic gesture. ‘Ladders, ladders, my good people, and to the rescue!’

‘Who is in the attic?’ asked some one of Mr Mulvany, who was stooping over the poor remains of his books.

‘Who? I don’t know,’ he answered in a bewildered voice; he was conscious only of his own disaster.

Then, with sudden recollection, he added, —

‘Ah, yes! Two boys — Grip and Foundling Mick.’

‘Poor creatures!’ exclaimed the lady. ‘My money, my jewels, all I have shall be theirs who save those lives!’

It was, however, no longer possible to get into the school-house, the walls were wrapped in flames, and the interior was burning fiercely.

Suddenly the thatched roof gave way at the side of the little window. Grip had contrived to tear away a rafter at the moment when the fire had reached the floor of the garret. He squeezed himself through the hole thus made, dragging the half-suffocated child after him, and crept along the sloping thatch to the edge of the side wall of the house. There he steadied himself against the abutment and looked down, holding Mick in his arms. At this moment a jet of flame burst upwards from the roof, carrying fragments of the thatch with it, which were dispersed around in glittering sparks.

‘Save him!’ cried Grip, ‘save him!’ and he threw the child from him on the street-side, where, happily, he was caught in a man’s arms before he reached the ground. Then Grip flung himself down, and rolled, almost stifled, to the foot of a wall which immediately afterwards came down in a heap.

The stranger-lady advanced to the man who held Foundling Mick, and asked him in a voice which trembled with emotion, —

‘To whom does that innocent creature belong?’

‘To nobody. He is only a foundling,’ was the man’s reply.

‘Then he is mine! Mine!’ and she took the child and pressed him to her bosom.

‘Madam! Madam!’ said the maid, in a tone of remonstrance.

‘Silence, Eliza! Silence, I say. Heaven has sent me an angel.’

As the angel had neither parents, relatives, nor friends, it was just as well to leave him in the hands of this lovely lady, who had so generous a heart, and she was heartily cheered by the crowd as she carried off her prize at the very moment when the last remnants of the poor school crumbled to the earth in a swirl of flame.

CHAPTER 6

LIMERICK

The charitable lady who had come upon the stage of our story in rather melodramatic fashion, but had played her part with so much scenic earnestness that nobody was surprised by her performance, could hardly have treated Foundling Mick with greater tenderness had he really been her own child. She carried him to her carriage in her arms, although the maid requested permission to relieve her of the precious charge.

‘No, no, Eliza,’ said she, in a tone vibrating with emotion. ‘He is mine. Heaven has permitted me to snatch him from the ruins of that burning house. Thank God! Thank God! Ah! the darling! the darling!’

The darling was half-stifled, his eyes were closed, his mouth was open, his breath was coming in gasps. Plenty of space and fresh air would have been better for him than the tumultuous tenderness of his benefactress.

‘Quick! to the station,’ she cried to the driver when she was seated in the vehicle — a sufficiently shabby cab — ‘double fare if you don’t miss the nine forty-seven train.’

And now, who was this providential traveller? Had Foundling Mick fallen into hands which would not let him go?

Miss Anna Watson, the leading lady of an important London theatre, was on tour just then, and engaged to appear at Limerick, after a short trip for recreation to Co. Galway, which she had just made, accompanied by her maid, a staid person named Elizabeth Corbett. The actress, a good-hearted, impulsive woman, who was always acting off as well as on the stage, open-handed, generous, but very vain and sensitive on every point where her self-appreciation was concerned, was on her way to take the train for Limerick, where she was to appear on the following day, when cries of distress and a volume of smoke and flame attracted her attention. The poor school was on fire.

What a chance! To see a real conflagration, so different from the stage mimicry! Notwithstanding the observations of Eliza, Miss Watson persisted in forcing her way to the front row of the spectators, with the result which has already been narrated.

The spectacle had not lacked interest, and the ‘situation’ had been admirably worked up. Two human beings shut up in a garret, a staircase in flames, and no outlet! Two boys — one big, one little (a little girl would have been more scenic, perhaps) — but it all did very well. And the cries which Miss Watson had uttered — how heart-rending, how ear-piercing! She would have rushed to the rescue in person only that her dust cloak might have fed the flame anew. And besides, the roof had already been rent asunder. The two poor boys had appeared in the midst of the smoke, the big one carrying the little one! Ah, what a hero was that big boy! How artistic was his attitude! What skill of gesture, what truth of expression! Poor Grip little thought he had produced so much effect. As for the other, the nice little boy, how pretty he looked! ‘Like an angel coming through the flames of a hell,’ said the complacently retrospective Miss Watson to herself. And this was the very first occasion in his life on which any cherubic or celestial idea had been associated with Foundling Mick. Miss Watson’s quick eye had caught the stage effect in every particular. She had cried, as she would have cried on the boards: ‘My money, my jewels, all that I have to him who saves them!’ but nobody could have scaled the tottering walls to reach the crumbling roof. The cherub had been received into arms that were opportunely there to receive him, and had passed from those to Miss Watson’s. And, now, Foundling Mick possessed a mother; nay, it was even rumoured among the crowd that Miss Watson was a great lady who had recognised her son in the midst of the fire at the poor school.

It is characteristic of actresses to imagine themselves always on the stage; for them the most ordinary circumstances of life are ‘situations.’

When Miss Watson found herself comfortably installed in a first-class compartment in the train which the driver had caught without any trouble, with her maid and her newly acquired treasure, she indulged in all the transports of a real mother on a similar (stage) occasion.

‘He is my child… my blood… my life!’ she exclaimed. ‘None shall tear him from me!’

‘We shall see how long this will last,’ said Eliza to herself.

For some time after the train started, Foundling Mick remained in a state of stupor, notwithstanding the efforts of Miss Watson to arouse him, and her outpouring of the traditional phrases of endearment. With the calm and deliberate assistance of the unemotional Eliza, the child was undressed to his woollen vest, the only article on his body that was not ragged, and provisionally attired in a warm dressing-jacket taken from Miss Watson’s travelling bag, and a thick shawl. But he did not seem conscious of the process of getting rid of his smoke-tainted clothing, or that he was wrapped in warm garments and cradled in soft arms.

At length a junction was reached, and there was a short delay.

‘Eliza,’ said Miss Watson, ‘you must see whether there is a doctor in the train.’

Eliza made inquiry; there was not a doctor.

‘Just like the wretches,’ said Miss Watson; ‘they are never at hand when they’re wanted.’

‘I assure you, ma’am,’ said Eliza, ‘there is nothing the matter with the child. He will come round at once if you will only not smother him.’

‘Do you really think so, Eliza? Ah, the darling! I am so inexperienced about children. Do as you think best, Eliza, for the sweet, sweet baby.’

Eliza released the child from Miss Watson’s arms, and deposited him comfortably on the well-cushioned seat; then, after looking at him attentively, she replied to her mistress’s anxious observations upon his long-enduring quiescence.

‘May I tell you my opinion, ma’am?’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘Well, then, I believe he is asleep.’

Not only was this the case, but Foundling Mick and Miss Watson also slept soundly all through the remainder of the journey. At five o’clock in the morning the train ran into the station at Limerick, and Foundling Mick, awakened from his restorative slumber, sat up and gazed with great eyes filled with wonder upon the lady who was gazing at him. Then she kissed him repeatedly, exclaiming, ‘He lives! He lives! God, who gave him to me, has not been so cruel as to take him away again.’

Eliza assented to this remark, and so it was that our poor little boy passed, without any intermediate experience, from the garret in the Galway poor school to the fine rooms occupied by Miss Watson at the Royal George Hotel, Limerick.

The fair and fashionable actress, who was not averse to being talked about, certainly had no reason for desiring to conceal the leading incident of her tour in Galway. Discretion was not enjoined upon or practised by any of the people of the hotel or the theatre, and the day after her first appearance all Limerick had heard of the romantic adventure of the poor school and the rescued foundling. The story ran that the heroine of so many dramas had rushed into the flames to save the little fellow, and Miss Watson did not contradict this improved version.

It was, at least, indisputable that she had brought with her to the Royal George Hotel a child whom she meant to adopt, an orphan to whom she would give her name, since he did not possess one, for ‘Foundling Mick’, that by which he called himself, could hardly rank as serious. In the meantime, she called him by all sorts of caressing baby-names, not at all appropriate to the poor child who had already served so rude an apprenticeship to life; but it must be remembered that Miss Watson knew nothing about this, and also that Foundling Mick was a very little fellow.

He was profoundly puzzled by his novel existence; he understood not at all the objects that surrounded him, or the ways of his new friends. He submitted to everything; he was not used to caresses, and he was caressed; or to kisses, and he was kissed; he was not used to fine clothes, and he was well dressed and well shod, moreover, his hair was curled. Besides all this startling novelty, he was fed like a prince, and given dainties in profusion.

The actress’s friends of both sexes flocked to her rooms at the Royal George Hotel. What compliments she received, and how graciously she accepted them! The story of the fire at the poor school assumed such dimensions that it was only a wonder the whole of Galway had not been burned down before the subject was exhausted.

Of course, the child was not forgotten during these visits, and Miss Watson ‘trotted him out’ with rare dexterity. Nevertheless, his memory was at work; he remembered that if he had never before been petted he had at least been loved. And one day he asked suddenly, —

‘Where is Grip?’

‘Who is Grip, my baby?’ said Miss Watson.

He made her understand not only whom but what Grip was. But for him, Foundling Mick must certainly have perished in the flames; but for Grip, only the corpse of a child would have been found amid the ashes of the school-house. This was very well indeed on the part of Grip, but his heroism — the word was accepted — could not at all diminish Miss Watson’s share in the rescue. Supposing that admirable woman had not providentially appeared on the scene of the conflagration, where would Foundling Mick have been now? Who would have taken him? In what wretched hovel would he have found shelter with the other houseless outcasts, his former companions?

The truth was that nobody had inquired about Grip. Nobody either knew or wanted to know what had become of him. Foundling Mick would forget him, at last he would leave off talking of him. This was a mistake; the image of him who had fed and protected the helpless foundling would never be effaced from his heart.

And yet the life of the adopted child might well have diverted his mind. He accompanied Miss Watson when she went out in her carriage at the fashionable hour, and showed herself in the fair city of Limerick. Never was a more beribboned, a more dressed-up, a more decorative child offered to the public gaze. He had as many costumes as an actor; and as he had replaced Miss Watson’s late spiteful little lapdog, no doubt she would have put him into her muff, with his curly head protruding, if he had been of a convenient size. Everybody looked at the litde figure seated by the side of the actress, now attired in a Scotch costume, again as a Court page, and sometimes as a sailor-boy after stage fashion, and everybody spoke of him as ‘the angel saved from the flames’.

Now and again he was taken to the theatre, where he was a sight to behold, in a velvet tunic and white gloves! — sitting up primly in a box under the stern eye of Eliza, hardly daring to move, and striving to keep awake until the end of the play. He did not understand a great deal that he saw, but he thought it was all real. When Miss Watson appeared in the costume of a queen with a crown and a royal mantle, and afterwards as a ‘woman of the people’ in cap and apron, or as a poor person in ragged garments, he could not believe that it was she whom he should presently find at the hotel. Hence the profound disturbance of his childish imagination; he knew not what to think. He dreamed of the plays at night, as though the sombre drama were continued; with it were mingled the puppets and the showman, Carker and the other wicked schoolboys, and he would wake in terror, but not daring to call anyone to him.

A few days after her arrival at Limerick Miss Watson had a grand opportunity of exhibiting Foundling Mick at the races, a favourite institution of the place. He was more gorgeously dressed than ever, her affection was more lavishly displayed; the ‘angel’ and his ‘saviour’ enjoyed a complete triumph.

Well, we must accept Miss Watson for what she was; a little extravagant, a litde ‘cracked’, but kind and compassionate when she could be so with the accompaniment of display. The attention she paid to the child was visibly theatrical, the kisses she showered on him were the conventional kisses of the stage, but Foundling Mick was not capable of discerning the difference. And yet he did not feel himself loved as he would fain have been, and perhaps he said to himself unconsciously what Eliza oftentimes repeated to herself, —

‘We shall see how long all this will last — supposing it to last at all.’

CHAPTER 7

ROCKS AHEAD

Six weeks elapsed, and it was not surprising that Foundling Mick became accustomed to his pleasant life. Poverty grows easy, or at least endurable, why not wealth? As yet things were taking their usual course, but was it not probable that Miss Watson would tire of her own exaggeration of sentiment and prodigality of petting? To use a phrase of her own, she had had a ‘craze’ for the child, who served her as a pastime, a plaything, and an advertisement, and although she continued to take excellent care of him, her caresses fell off in number and effusiveness. At first she had the ‘cherub’ brought to her room before she rose; she played with him, acting the part of the young mother, and acting it very well. Then, as this pretty performance curtailed the hours of sleep, an indulgence very dear to Miss Anna Watson, she discontinued it, sending for her live plaything at the luncheon-hour only. She was quite pleased and amused to see him seated on a tall chair which had been bought expressly for him, and eating with a fine appetite.

‘Ha! That’s good, isn’t it?’ she would say. The first time she put the question to him he replied, —

‘Oh, yes, ma’am, it is good, like what we get to eat at the hospital when we are sick.’

Foundling Mick had not been taught manners, as may be supposed — it was not from Hornpipe or Mr Mulvany that he would have learned them — but he was by nature reserved, discreet, and of a gentle and affectionate disposition, very different from the scamps of the poor school. He was, in fact, superior to his condition, just as he was beyond his years in his feelings and his ways. Flighty and futile as she was, Miss Watson had not failed to remark this. She knew nothing of his history beyond what he had been able to tell her of his little life with the puppet-show man. He was really and truly a foundling. Miss Watson longed to prove him what she persisted in declaring his ‘natural distinction’ gave her reason to believe he was, namely, the son of some great lady whose social position had obliged her to desert him after the fashion of the current drama. Thereupon she constructed a whole romance, not remarkable for its novelty, imagining ‘situations’ which might be ‘adapted’ for the stage, and composing in her imagination a fine ‘piece’ with ‘tearful effects’ in it. She would bring out the piece, play the chief part, and make it the most brilliant success of her dramatic career. In it she would be overwhelming, and why not sublime?

Then, having reached these heights of fancy, she would seize the child and strain him to her heart as though she were embracing him on the stage, amid the applause of a crowded audience.

One day, Foundling Mick, who was disturbed by these demonstrative proceedings, said to her, —

‘Miss Anna!’

‘Yes, darling, what do you want?’

‘I want to ask you something.’

‘Ask it, my pet, ask it.’

‘You won’t scold me?’

‘Scold you? No!’

‘Everybody has had a mamma, haven’t they?’

‘Yes, dear; everybody has had a mamma.’

Then why don’t I know mine?’

‘Why? Because — ‘ Miss Watson was somewhat embarrassed — ‘because — there are reasons. But a day will come — yes! I believe you will see her.’

‘I have heard you say — isn’t it true? — that she must be a lady?’

‘Yes, to be sure, a beautiful lady.’

‘And why must she be a beautiful lady?’

‘Because your face, your air — ah, what queer questions the darling asks! — Then the situation, the situation in the piece requires her to be a beautiful lady, a great lady. You cannot understand.’

‘No, I do not understand,’ answered Foundling Mick, very sadly, ‘and sometimes I think my mamma must be dead.’

‘Dead? Oh, no. You must not think such a thing. If she were dead, there would be no piece.’

‘What piece?’

Miss Watson gave him no answer beyond a kiss.

‘But if she’s not dead,’ persisted Mick, with the logical tenacity of his age, ‘if she is a beautiful lady, why has she gone away from me?’

‘She must have been forced to do it, my pet, against her will. But, at the end — ‘

‘Miss Anna!’

‘Well, what do you want now?’

‘My mamma — is — not you?’

‘I? Your mamma?’

‘Since you — call me your child?’

‘That is what everyone says to little people of your age. Poor little fellow! So he actually thought — No! I am not your mother! If I had been, I would not have deserted you. I would not have doomed you to poverty! Oh, no, no!’

And Miss Watson, who was much moved, ended the conversation by another stage embrace of Mick, who went away downcast.

Poor child! Whether he belonged to a rich or to a poor family, he was no more likely to learn anything about his origin than many another waif picked up at a street-corner.

One day, Miss Watson, who perceived that Foundling Mick’s intelligence was developing itself rather rapidly, conceived the notion that it would soon become necessary to have him taught something. She began dimly to see that she had undertaken a future charge by her impulsive adoption of the child, who would grow up in time and have to be provided for. What was to become of him? He could not be taken in her train from town to town, from theatre to theatre, especially on the foreign tours which she intended to make. She would be obliged to place him at a boarding school. Of course it should be a very good boarding school, first-rate in fact. The only thing certain was that she never would desert him.

One day she said to Eliza, —

‘He grows more and more charming; his nature is so affectionate. He will well repay me for what I shall have done for him. And then, he is so precocious, he likes to know things; indeed, I think he is even too thoughtful for his age. And to fancy that he was my child! Poor little fellow! I do not imagine I am like the mother he once had. She must have been a grave, serious sort of person. We must think well, Eliza.’

‘About what, ma’am?’

‘About what we shall make of him.’

‘Now?’

‘No, not now. Now, we have only to let him grow like a plant. But later on — when he is seven or eight years old. Don’t children usually go to school at that age?’

Eliza was about to suggest that as the little boy was already used to school life — (we know, although Eliza did not, what sort of life he had found it) — the best plan would be to send him back to it, under far different condiuons, of course; but Miss Watson did not give her time to reply.

‘Tell me, Eliza,’ she resumed, ‘don’t you think he ought to have a turn for the stage?’ ‘He?’

‘Yes. Just look at him! He will be very handsome, he has magnificent eyes and a fine carriage. I am sure he would make a first-rate stage lover.’

‘Dear bless us, ma’am; there you are, off again!’

‘Not at all! I am quite in earnest. I will teach him to act. The pupil of Miss Anna Watson. You perceive the effect?’

‘In fifteen years.’

‘In fifteen years, Eliza, if you like; but I tell you again he will be the most charming young man that can be imagined. All the women will be-‘

‘Jealous! Ah, yes! I know that old tune. May I tell you what I really think, ma’am?’

‘Yes. Tell me.’

‘Well, then, I think that child will never let you make an actor of him.’

‘And why?’

‘Because he is too serious.’

‘Perhaps that is true,’ said Miss Watson; ‘however, we shall see.’

‘We have plenty of time, ma’am.’

Eliza was right; they had plenty of time, and if Foundling Mick would but manifest an inclination for the stage, all would be well.

In the meantime a splendid idea occurred to Miss Watson, one of those brilliant ideas which were hers alone; it was to bring Foundling Mick out at once at the Limerick theatre.

She must have been mad! will be the natural exclamation of the reader; but she was not mad in the ordinary sense of the word, and under the circumstances. Miss Watson was just then rehearsing a machine-made play of a kind which is not rare on the English stage. It was a drama, or rather a melodrama, entitled A Mother’s Remorse and it had already drawn copious tears from the eyes of a whole generation of playgoers.

In this work there was, of course, a part for a child, — the child whom the mother could not keep, whom she was forced to desert a year after its birth, whom she finds in a wretched state, and who is the object of a secret enmity, and in danger of being again torn from her, etc. etc. etc.

The part was a ‘dumb’ one, of course. The little person who was to play it would merely have to allow himself to be embraced, pressed to the maternal bosom, wept over and pulled from one side to the other, without uttering a word.

Evidently Foundling Mick was cut out for the part. He was of the right age and size, he still had a pale face and eyes that were used to weeping. What an effect he would produce when he should ‘come on’, with his mother by adoption! With what force and fire would Miss Watson carry off Act 3 Scene 5, the great scene, in which she defends her son at the moment when he is about to be torn from her arms. Would not the imaginary situation be doubled in intensity by the real situation? Would not the cries of the persecuted mother be genuinely inspired cries, and her tears real tears? Here was a sure success for Miss Watson, perhaps the most brilliant of her dramatic career.

She set to work at once, and Foundling Mick was taken to the last rehearsals.

During the first he was much astonished by everything that he saw and heard. Miss Watson called him ‘my child’, in speaking her lines, but it seemed to him that she did not press him very closely to her breast, and that she did not cry over him at all. In truth, it is quite unnecessary to weep at rehearsals. Tears ought to be stricdy reserved for the public.

The little boy was a good deal disturbed. The ‘behind the scenes’ aspect of the place, the gloom and vagueness overhead, the crowd of objects which he could not make out, the spacious, empty house, the grey light filtered through the distant windows of the far-off corridors, made him uneasy. Nevertheless, Harry — he was Harry in the piece — did what was required of him, and Miss Watson confidently foretold a great success for him, and for herself.

Miss Watson’s confidence was not shared by the company generally. Among her fellow actors and actresses some were envious of her, and she also gave a good deal of offence by her somewhat aggressive personality, and her incessant parade of her ‘leading’ position. And now she made herself more than usually obnoxious, by asserting, with her customary exaggeration, that under her training this child would one day excel Kean, Macready, and every leading actor on the modern stage.

This was, really, going a good deal too far.

At last the great day arrived. It was Thursday, the 19th of October. Needless to say that Miss Watson was in a state of excusable nervous excitement. Now she would lay hold of’Harry’ and kiss him repeatedly, with a good deal of shaking thrown in, again he would irritate her by his mere presence, she would send him away, and the child understood nothing at all about the matter.

A good ‘house’ might fairly have been expected, but as a matter of fact the doors of the theatre were besieged, so widely was the story of the rescued foundling known, and so attractive was the announcement of —

‘A MOTHER’S REMORSE.’

A thrilling drama by the celebrated John Smith.

The Duchess of Kendal — Miss Anna Watson. Harry —

‘Foundling Mick’, aged five years and a half.

Our little lad would have been proud had he stopped before the big poster. He knew how to read, and there was his own name — such as it was — in great red letters on a white ground.

Unfortunately, his pride was very soon hurt; real trouble was awaiting him in Miss Anna Watson’s dressing room.

Until that evening he had not rehearsed in costume, and indeed it would hardly have been worthwhile. He had come to the theatre in his ordinary handsome attire. But now, in the dressing room where the rich toilet of the Duchess of Kendal was performed, lo! here was Eliza proceeding to dress him in a whole suit of shabby clothes. Mere rags were these, clean underneath it is true, but on the outside soiled, torn, and patched. In the thrilling drama, Harry is a deserted child whom his mother finds in his wretched livery of poverty; his mother, a duchess, a beautiful lady in silk, velvet and lace.

At sight of these garments, the idea occurred to Foundling Mick that he was about to be sent back to the Galway school.

‘Miss Anna! Miss Anna!’ he cried.

‘What’s the matter?’ she answered.

‘Don’t send me back! Oh, don’t send me back!’

‘Send you back? What for?’

‘These ugly clothes — ‘

‘Why — he actually imagines — ‘

‘No, no, you little fool! Keep still,’ said Eliza, giving him a by no means gentle shake.

‘Ah, the darling!’ exclaimed Miss Watson, in a fit of tenderness, as she daintily arched her eyebrows by the aid of a camel’s-hair brush.

‘The dear angel — if they only knew that in front!’

And then she put some rouge on her cheeks.

‘But it shall be known, Eliza. It shall be in the papers tomorrow. He actually thought — ‘

She paused, and passed the ‘white’ puff over her shapely shoulder.

‘No, no, you extraordinary little darling! Those ugly things are only for fun.’

‘For fun, Miss Anna?’

‘Yes, and you must not cry.’

She would have cried herself, had she not been afraid of damaging her artificial complexion.

Eliza shook her head, and obstinately repeated, —

‘You see, ma’am, that we shall never make an actor of him.’

Meanwhile, Foundling Mick, in growing trouble, with a beating heart and tearful eyes, had his fine clothes taken off, and was arrayed in ‘Harry’s’ tatters. Then it came into Miss Watson’s head to console him with the gift of a new sovereign. The coin should be his ‘handsel’ she said, and in fact it did console Mick, who took the piece of gold with evident satisfaction and pushed it well down into his pocket after he had minutely inspected it.

This done, Miss Watson gave him a last kiss and went down to the green-room, having charged Eliza to keep Mick in the dressing room, as he had not to ‘go on’ until the third act The first act went off well. Miss Watson was warmly applauded, and she deserved it. She played with great fire and spirit, and created a strong impression upon the audience.

After the first act the Duchess of Kendal returned to her dressing room, and, to the great surprise of’Harry’, she took off her grand dress of silk and velvet, and assumed the plain attire of a servant. It is unnecessary to explain the dramatic complications which made this transformation imperative. Foundling Mick contemplated the velvet woman who turned into a woman of serge, with great uneasiness, and a sense of confusion, as though some fairy had wrought the fantastic transformation before his eyes.

When the call-boy’s stentorian voice summoned Miss Watson, it made Mick start. The ‘servant’ made him a sign with her hand, saying, —

‘Wait, my little fellow, it will be your turn soon.’ Then she disappeared for the second time.

In the second act the servant had a success equal to that of the duchess in the first, and the act-drop descended amid loud applause.

Clearly, no opportunity of being disagreeable was open to the good friends of Miss Watson and their allies in the ‘house’.

On reaching her dressing room she threw herself on a sofa, a litde tired, although she had reserved her great dramatic effort for the third act.

Once more she changes her costume. This time she is not a servant, but a lady, a lady in mourning, not so young as formerly, for five years have elapsed between the second act and the third.

Foundling Mick sat still in a corner of the room, with wide open, wondering eyes, not venturing to move or speak. Miss Watson paid no attention to him until she was completely dressed. Then she said, —

‘Now, child, it’s going to be all for you.’

‘For me, Miss Anna?’

‘And remember that your name is Harry.’

‘Harry? Yes!’

‘Eliza, you must keep reminding him that his name is Harry, until you leave him with the stage-manager close to the door.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘And take care he does not miss his entrance.’ No, he should not miss it, even if she had to help him with a good slap.

‘You know,’ added Miss Watson, shaking her finger at the child, ‘your sovereign might be taken from you if you are not good. So beware the fine!’

‘And prison too!’ added Eliza, making a face at him which he knew well.

‘Harry’ felt for his sovereign at the bottom of his pocket, and resolved that it should not be taken from him.

The moment had come. Eliza took Harry by the hand and led him downstairs to the back of the stage. He was dazzled by the flaring gas-jets, and the great circles of light overhead, and confused and frightened by the coming and going of actors, supers, and scene-shifters, all of whom looked at him and laughed.

No wonder! He was a shameful object in those ragged clothes of a beggar boy!

The bell rang, and ‘Harry’ started at the sound.

The curtain rose, and the Duchess of Kendal was ‘discovered’, alone, in a cottage interior, soliloquising. Presently the door at the back would open, a child would come in, advance towards her, and hold out his hand to beg, and that child would be hers.

p It must be noted here, that at the rehearsals Foundling Mick had been much annoyed by finding himself reduced to the necessity of asking alms. We remember his repugnance on a former and real occasion. Miss Watson had told him that it was ‘not in earnest’, but still he did not like it at all. In his innocent ignorance, he took things seriously, and ended by believing he was really the unfortunate little Harry.

While waiting for his entrance — the stage-manager holding his little hand — the child had been peeping through the doorway. He regarded with bewilderment the vast space filled with people, the clusters of lights over the boxes, the enormous lustre like a fire-balloon suspended in the air. It was all so different from what he had seen when he had sat in the front of a box, looking on at a play.

‘Attention, Harry!’ said the stage-manager.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You know what you have to do. Go straight before you to your mamma, and take care you don’t fall.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And hold your hand out well.’

‘Yes, sir, like that.’

And he showed a shut hand.

‘No, you dunce! That’s a fist! Stretch out an open hand; you are begging.’

‘Yes, sir,’

‘And, above all, do not say one single word — remember, not one.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The cottage door opened, and the stage-manager pushed ‘Harry’ in at the cue.

Foundling Mick had made his debut in the dramatic profession! Ah, how loudly his heart beat!

A murmur ran all round the house, a touching murmur of sympathy, while Harry, with faltering steps, downcast eyes and outstretched trembling hand, advanced towards the lady in mourning. It was easy to see that he had been accustomed to wear rags, and was not ill at ease in his tattered garments.

Suddenly the duchess rises, she looks around, she throws herself back, then she opens her arms.

What a cry she utters! One of those traditional cries which tear the chest.

‘It is he! It is he! I recognise him! It is Harry! It is my son!’

And she catches him to her heart, she covers him with kisses, he quietly submits. She weeps, real tears this time, and cries, —

‘My child, it is my child — this wretched creature, who begs from me!’

Poor Harry is stirred up by this, and forgets that he has been ordered not to speak.

‘Your child, ma’am?’ he says.

‘Hush! hold your tongue!’ mutters Miss Watson, under her breath.

Then she continues: ‘Heaven took him from me to punish me, and today brings him back to me.’

She devours Harry with kisses, she bathes him with tears, her words are interrupted by sobs.

Never, never had Foundling Mick been so fondly caressed, never had he felt himself so maternally loved!

The duchess rises, as though a sound from the outside had starded her.

‘Harry!’ she cries, you will not leave me!’

‘No, Miss Anna!’

‘Hold your tongue! Hold your tongue!’ she whispers, at the risk of being heard by the audience.

The cottage door is pushed open, and two men appear upon the threshold.

One is the husband of the lady in mourning, the other is a police officer.

‘Seize that child! He belongs to me!’

‘No, he is not your son!’ replies the duchess, drawing Harry away.

‘You are not my father!’ exclaims Foundling Mick.

Miss Watson’s fingers nip his arm so sharply that he can hardly restrain a cry. After all, what he has said fits into the piece; there is no harm done.

Now it is a mother who holds him with fierce tenacity. None shall tear him from her. The lioness is defending her cub.

And in fact the cub, who takes the scene seriously, is very well able to resist. The duke lays hold of him, but he struggles manfully, escapes from his Grace, and, running to the duchess, he cries, —

‘Ah, Miss Anna, why did you say you were not my mamma?’

‘Will you hold your tongue, you little wretch? Will you be silent?’ she whispers, while the duke and the police officer are manifestly disconcerted by these unexpected ‘lines’.

‘Yes, yes,’ says Harry, you are mamma. I told you so, Miss Anna, my real mamma!’

The audience begin to see that all this is ‘not in the piece’. Whispers and jests go round. Some of the spectators applaud ironically. In truth, they ought to weep, for there is pathos in that improvised ‘situation’, a drama within the play upon the stage.

Nonetheless the piece was ruined! If for any reason laughter be heard where tears ought to be seen, the play and the players are done for.

Miss Watson keenly felt all the absurdity of the position. Some cutting remarks reached her from the actors standing about at the sides.

Bewildered and overcome, she was filled with sudden fury. She would gladly have killed the little wretch who had done the mischief; but her strength failed her, she fell on the stage in a dead faint, and the green curtain was lowered amid the laughter of the entire audience.

That same night, Miss Watson left the town with Eliza Corbett. She refused to give the performances announced for the week, preferring to pay forfeit. Never again would she appear at the Theatre Royal, Limerick.

As for Foundling Mick, she did not trouble herself about him. She left him there as she might have left any object that had ceased to please and become odious in her sight. There is no affection that can stand before injured self-love.

Foundling Mick had been pushed aside in the confusion, and left alone, understanding not at all what had happened, but feeling that he had been somehow the cause of a misfortune. He got out of the theatre unperceived by anybody, and roamed about the streets of Limerick until at length he found himself in a churchyard, and close to a huge building which was very dark at the side on which the moonlight did not fall. That building was St Mary’s Church, and the weary child crouched down upon a flat gravestone in the shadow, trembling at the slightest sound, and wondering whether that wicked man the Duke of Kendal was searching for him, to take him away to a place where ‘wild beasts’ were. And there was no Miss Anna to defend him! He should see his mamma no more.

Shortly after it was light in the morning Foundling Mick heard a voice calling to him.

A man and a woman were standing near him. In crossing the road they had perceived the child, and paused to ascertain what he was doing there. The kindly couple were on their way to the coach-office, intending to take places in the public conveyance which plied between Limerick and the southern part of the county.

‘What are you doing there, my boy?’ asked the farmer.

Foundling Mick answered by sobs only.

‘Come, tell me! What are you doing there?’ said the farmer’s wife.

Foundling Mick did not speak.

‘Where’s your father?’ she continued.

‘I have no father,’ stammered the child.

‘And your mother?’

‘I have not got one any more.’ And he stretched his arms towards the farmer’s wife.

‘He is a deserted child,’ said the man.

If Foundling Mick had been dressed in his fine clothes, the farmer would have inferred that he was a strayed child, and taken steps to restore him to his people; but in ‘Harry’s’ costume, the poor little fellow could only be taken for one of those unfortunates whom ‘nobody owns’.

‘Come along, then,’ said the farmer, taking the child by the hand, and then placing him in the woman’s arms.

‘A little mite like that won’t make much difference at the farm, will he, Mary?’

‘No, indeed, Murtagh,’ replied the good woman with hearty assent, and she instantly dried Mick’s tears with motherly kisses.

CHAPTER 8

KIRWAN’S FARM

The experiences of Foundling Mick in Ulster and Connaught had not been very pleasant, as we have seen. He was now destined to an entirely new scene of existence, for his new-found benefactors conveyed him to the County Kerry, at the south-west of Ireland. This time he had fallen into good hands; would he be allowed to remain in them?

Kirwan’s Farm lies within twelve miles of the town of Tralee, and in a district of the country which is almost exclusively held by ‘foreigners’ that is to say, by landlords who are not Irish, but English and Scotch men. ‘Ireland for the Irish’ has little meaning in any part of the ‘distressful country’, in Kerry it is a vain saying indeed. Nor were these stranger landlords ever resident; they expended the large sums which their agents extracted from the tenant-farmers in the English capital, and in foreign places of resort, on their families and their pleasures, and furnished striking examples of the absenteeism which is the great grievance of Ireland, leaving the people whose labour produced their wealth to the tender mercies of the agent or ‘middleman’ who is her curse.

Kirwan’s Farm, with several others, was the property of the Earl of C — , a Scottish peer, who had not even once taken the trouble to visit the estate since it had come into his possession, and his lordship’s tenantry were metaphorically ground into fine dust by Mr John Eldon, his agent.

Kirwan’s Farm was a small place, only 100 acres in extent, and the land was stiff and difficult of cultivation. It was by severe toil alone that the farmer forced the soil to yield sufficient produce to pay the heavy rent of one pound an acre.

There are good landlords in Ireland, no doubt, men with consciences, who make themselves acquainted with the fellow men who earn the gold of which the toiler’s share is so small; but these good landlords form a meagre minority, and for the most part the people are in the hands of persons who, as a class — in their case also exceptions must be admitted — are hard and pitiless.

Murtagh MacCarthy, the tenant of Kirwan’s Farm, was one of the best, and most hardworking of the farmers on Lord C — ‘s estate. He was a naturally intelligent man, he had received a good education for his station in life, he thoroughly understood the business of agriculture, and he had managed, being well seconded by his stricdy brought-up sons, to lay by a little money, notwithstanding the heavy charges that fall upon the budget of an Irish peasant. His wife, whose name was Mary, was an excellent housewife, and as active at 50 as she had been at 20 years of age. She was a dexterous spinner, and the hum of her spinning wheel might be heard in the cottage sitting room all through the winter months.

The MacCarthy family consisted, first and foremost in every sense, of the farmer’s mother, a venerable woman of 75, whose husband had formerly farmed the land. ‘Granny had no other occupation now than spinning, in her daughter-in-law’s company, and no other desire than to be of as little cost as possible to her children.

The eldest son, Murdoch, was 27, and still better educated than his father. He was deeply interested in the questions which always have interested and will ever continue to interest Ireland, and his parents felt considerable anxiety at times lest he should get into some trouble by his devotion to the party of Home Rule. Murdoch, who was a strong, good-looking young man of a rather silent and reserved disposition, had recently married the daughter of a neighbouring farmer. His young wife was a beautiful woman, such as may frequently be seen among persons of her class in Ireland. Her features were regular, her face was singularly proud and calm, her complexion was like milk and roses, her eyes were of the deepest blue, with long, black lashes, and her ‘ravens-wing’ hair lay in shining masses upon her well-formed head. Her carriage was noble and distinguished, and she walked with the free, unembarrassed tread which has come down with the Spanish strain in them to the women of many families in the south of Ireland. Kitty MacCarthy loved her husband devoudy, after the fashion of her countrywomen, and Murdoch, albeit not given much to smiling, would smile when he turned his dark, serious eyes on her. Kitty had a salutary influence over her husband, and she employed it by restraining him from unwise action each time that the emissaries of political agitation came into the district, to proclaim that a good understanding between landlord and tenant was impossible.

Murdoch attended the meetings, and Kitty’s heart sank when she saw him setting out for Tralee, or some small town in the nearer neighbourhood. On these occasions he would speak with the eloquence so often found among the better educated of his class, and on his return, Kitty could read the thoughts by which he was pervaded, in his troubled face. To her exhortation to patience and resignation, most gently urged, he would reply: ‘Patience — when time is passing, and nothing is done! By dint of patience and resignation, Kitty, people come to putting up with everything, to losing all sense of their rights, and putting their necks under the yoke. That I will never do! Never!’

MacCarthy had two other sons, Patrick and Peter, aged respectively 25 and 19 years. Patrick, or Pat, as he was more generally called, was a sailor on board of a Liverpool trading vessel. Peter, like Murdoch, had never quitted the farm, and the two rendered their father most valuable assistance. A perfectly good understanding existed between the brothers, although they differed widely in disposition and temperament. Peter was a jovial, happy-minded fellow, full of fun and frolic, the life and soul of the house, and his quick, though sunny temper contrasted with the more sombre nature of his brother Murdoch.

Such was the family into whose bosom Foundling Mick was about to be taken. What a difference between Kirwan’s Farm and the poor school in Galway! Would not the contrast strike the child’s precocious imagination forcibly? No doubt it would. It is true that our hero had passed a few weeks in bodily comfort with the capricious Miss Watson, but he had not enjoyed real affection; her theatrical caresses had brought him no conviction that he was loved, they were as uncertain, fugitive, and ephemeral as the stage-scenes themselves.

The dwelling-house of the MacCarthys was small; it consisted of two ‘floors’ only. The ground floor consisted of a large room which was at once kitchen and family sitting-room, and three sleeping-rooms, appropriated respectively to ‘Granny’, to MacCarthy and his wife, and to their son and daughter-in-law. Above, was a spacious garret, and a bedroom, occupied by Peter, and shared by Pat in the intervals of his voyages.

On one side of the house were the farm buildings, heavily thatched, and much in need both of substantial and ornamental repair. Capacious pigsties, a duck-pond, a big manure-heap, a haggard with two large haystacks, well protected from weather, a poultry-yard, and a fruit and vegetable garden, divided by a hedge from the farm land proper, formed the chief points in the aspect of Kirwan’s Farm, which was anything but picturesque. Of course the potato was cultivated on a large scale, also turnips and huge cabbages. The potato, as everybody knows, is the basis of food in Ireland, especially in those parts of the island where the land is poor and hard to cultivate. We may well ask on what the rural population lived before Parmentier had made known his precious edible tuber? It may be that he rendered the cultivator imprudent by accustoming him to count upon that product, but at least it saved him from famine, unless all the chances were against him.

Murtagh MacCarthy owned four cart and plough horses and a strong, well-fed ass, at no loss for thistles; in that respect at least Kirwan’s farm was productive. Half-a-dozen milch cows, about a hundred sheep, a few goats, and a dozen pigs, kept chiefly for consumption by the family, as MacCarthy did not care to enter upon the bacon business, complete the list of the livestock, without reckoning the noisy tenants of the poultry-yard.

Fowls, geese, ducks and eggs found a ready sale at the Tralee market, but turkeys and pigeons were not reared on Kirwan’s farm. These are but rarely found in the poultry-farms in Ireland. A Scotch collie, kept as a sheepdog, was a great pet at the farm. No sporting-dog was to be seen there. Sport is a pleasure for the landlords and their agents exclusively.

Kirwan’s farm was not the worst on the estate of the Earl of C — , but it was of only middling quality. Indeed, the whole county of Kerry, with its superb scenery in places, its renowned lakes of Killarney, and its beautiful expanses of richly-timbered country, is a stern land to the farmer, and he who has to extract his livelihood from it after the terrible exactions of the lords of the soil have been satisfied must be prepared to work hard, and to live frugally.

CHAPTER 9

FOUNDLING MICK’S INSTALLATION

On the 20th of October, at about three o’clock in the afternoon, a joyful stir was manifest about the farmhouse.

‘Here they come!’ cried Kitty and Peter, who espied Murtagh and Mary MacCarthy from the turn of the road.

The farmer and his wife had left Limerick by that primitive vehicle known as ‘the long car’, and as they had 30 miles to travel and the weather was cold, they were glad to arrive at their journey’s end, to see and smell the cheerful turf fire which had been maintained at the point of perfection to greet them. The ‘long car’ having set down its passengers at the corner, went on its way to Tralee.

While the four were exchanging greetings in the porch, Murdoch came in from the back of the house.

‘You have done well, father?’ asked Kitty, after she had embraced her mother-in-law, ‘Did you get the cabbage-plants in Limerick market?’ said Murdoch.

‘Yes. They will be sent to us tomorrow.’

‘And the turnip-seed?’

‘Yes, of the best sort.’

‘That’s right, father.’

‘And a new kind of grain, Murdoch; a good sort too, I think. Look at it.

Murdoch and his brother stared at the child, half-hidden in Mary’s skirts, to which he was clinging.

‘Here’s a fine boy,’ Murtagh went on, jocosely ‘while we’re waiting for Kitty’s.’

‘The little fellow is frozen,’ said Kitty.

‘I had him well wrapped up in the shawl,’ replied Mary, ‘but the drive was cold.’

‘Put him before the fire and warm him well,’ said MacCarthy, ‘and the mother and I’ll go see Granny.’

Kitty took charge of Foundling Mick and in a short time the whole family was assembled in the common sitting room where Granny’s old armchair with cushions occupied the warmest corner of the fireplace.

The child was presented to her. She took him in her arms and set him on her knees. He made no resistance, but turned his eyes solemnly first upon one then upon another of the little group. He did not understand what was going on. Today was not like yesterday. Was this a son of dream? He saw kind faces, young and old, around him. Since his waking he had heard none but kind words. He had been amused by the drive in the car which carried him quickly through the country, and the sweet morning air, laden with the scent of shrubs and flowers, expanded his chest. He had been given a good meal before the car started, and Mary MacCarthy had supplemented it with biscuits on the way, while he told her all he knew how to tell of his life — his existence in the poor school, the kindness of Grip, whose name recurred frequently in the narrative, then Miss Anna, who had called him her son and who was not his mamma; a gentleman in a passion, who was called ‘the duke’, and wanted to take him away — he could not remember the duke’s name — lastly, his being forsaken, and how he had wandered all alone into the churchyard at Limerick. Mr and Mrs MacCarthy did not make much out of his story beyond the facts that he had neither parents nor friends, and was a deserted child whom Providence had confided to their care.

Granny, who was much moved, kissed the poor little waif, and he was caressed by all in turn.

‘And what is his name?’ asked Granny.

‘He can tell us of no other name than Foundling Mick,’ answered Mary.

‘He does not want any other,’ said Murtagh; ‘and we will continue to call him by the name he knows.’

Such was the welcome accorded to our hero on his arrival at the farm. The old clothes in which he had been dressed for the part of ‘Harry’ were taken off, and clean, warm garments were substituted for them. These were not new, indeed they were the last that Pat had worn at little Mick’s age, and had been carefully preserved by his loving mother. Then he had his supper at the table of these good people, seated in a high chair too, and all the time he wondered whether everything were not going once more to vanish!

What a feast that homely supper was, where none but pleasant faces were seen around the table, except, perhaps, that of the elder brother, always serious, even sad. And yet, all of a sudden Foundling Mick’s eyes were suffused, and tears ran down his cheeks.

‘What ails you, Mick?’ asked Kitty.

‘You mustn’t cry, my child,’ said Granny. ‘We will all be good to you here.’

‘And I’ll make playthings for you,’ said Peter.

‘Come, come,’ said Murtagh, good-humouredly, ‘that’s all very well for once, my boy, but you must know that nobody’s let to cry here.’

‘I won’t cry any more, sir,’ said Foundling Mick, and he drew closer to Granny’s side.

Murtagh and Mary were tired; besides, bedtime came early at the farm, where all the family rose with the sun.

‘Where’s the child to sleep?’ asked the farmer.

‘In my room, and I will give him the half of my bed,’ said Peter.

‘No, no,’ said Granny; ‘make a bed for him near mine; he will not disturb me, and I’ll like to see him sleeping.’

No wish of Granny’s was ever contested. A bed was arranged for the little waif alongside of hers, and he was soon fast asleep, peaceful and happy in the shelter which Providence had provided for him.

The cold season had come, harvest time was over. There was not much to be done on the land, but no one at the farm led an idle life, as Foundling Mick soon found out. From the first, the little fellow tried to make himself useful. Early in the morning he went to the farmyard, thinking he might find something to do. Why not? At the end of the year he would be six years old, and at six a little chap can keep geese, cows, even sheep, with the aid of a good dog.

Then, after having had a good look round, he went into the house at breakfast-time, and being seated in front of a plate of stirabout and a mug of milk, he gravely requested to be allowed ‘to begin’.

‘Very well, my boy,’ replied Murtagh; ‘you want to work, and you are right. Everybody ought to learn to earn a living.’

‘And I will, sir.’

‘He’s very young,’ said Granny.

‘Never mind that, ma’am,’ said Mick, firmly.

‘Call me Granny, child, like the rest.’

‘I will. Never mind about my youngness, Granny. I shall be so glad to work — ‘

‘And you shall work,’ said Murtagh, wondering at the sense and intelligence of the child, who had known only the most wretched kind of existence.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘I will teach you to take care of the horses,’ said Murdoch, ‘and to ride them if you are not afraid.’

‘I’d like that.’

‘And I’ll teach you to mind the cows,’ said Mary, ‘and to milk them, if you are not afraid of their horns.’

‘I’d like that well, ma’am.’

‘And I’ll show you how to mind the sheep in the fields,’ said Patrick.

‘That’ll be grand,’ said Micky, with beaming eyes.

‘Can you read?’ asked the farmer.

‘A little, and write large hand.’

‘And reckon?’

‘Oh, yes! up to a hundred, sir.’

‘Good!’ said Kitty, with a smile. ‘I’ll teach you to reckon up to a thousand, and write small hand.’

‘I’ll like that, ma’am.’

He was quite serious about it all. To be the little servant of the farm was the height of his ambition.

Murtagh laughed heartily.

‘You’re going to be a broth of a boy, entirely, Micky,’ said he. ‘Horses, cows, sheep, if you mind all those there will be nothing left for us to do. Tell me, now, how much wages will you ask?’

‘Wages?’

‘Yes, wages. You’re not going to work for nothing, I suppose.’

‘Oh, no, sir.’

‘What!’ exclaimed Mary; ‘he is to be fed, lodged, and clothed, and he wants to be paid as well?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

They looked at the child, seemingly a little shocked.

Murdoch, observing him attentively, said, —

‘Let him tell us what he means.’

‘Yes,’ said Granny; ‘tell us what you wish to have. Is it money?’

Foundling Mick shook his head.

‘Come! Is it five shillings a day?’ asked Kitty.

‘Oh! Ma’am!’

‘A month?’ said Mary.

‘A year, perhaps,’ suggested Peter, laughing. ‘Five shillings a year.’

‘Well, now, what is it you do want?’ inquired Murdoch, gravely. ‘I see, you have the idea of earning your living, as we all have. However little you get, it will teach you to count. What do you want? A penny a day?’

‘No, Mr Murdoch.’

‘Then tell us.’

‘Well, Mr MacCarthy, I want you to give me a little stone every evening.’

‘A litde stone?’ cried Peter. ‘Is it with litde stones you’ll make your fortune?’

‘No; but I would like the master would give them to me all the same, and afterwards, when I’ll be big, if you have always been pleased with me — ‘

‘I see, I see,’ said MacCarthy; ‘we’ll change your little stones into shillings and pence.’

Everybody complimented Foundling Mick on his excellent idea, and that very evening MacCarthy gave him a little pebble from the river’s bed, where they lay in millions. Micky deposited it carefully in an old delft jug which Granny gave him to serve the purpose of a money-box.

‘A queer child!’ observed Murdoch to his father.

Yes, he was a queer child, and his good disposition had not been spoiled by either the ill-treatment of Hornpipe, or the evil communications of the poor school. Day by day, as time went on, the family at the farm found out more and more good in the foundling, who was not wanting even in that lightness of heart which lies at the bottom of the national Irish temperament, and exists in the poorest sons and daughters of poor Ireland. He was of a thoughtful and inquiring turn of mind; he sought into ‘the whys and wherefores’ of things, questioned everybody intelligently concerning the particular business of each, and delighted in gaining knowledge. His eyes were ferrets — nothing could escape them. He never let anything be lost or mislaid, were it of ever so little value; he would pick up a pin or a shilling with equal care. He took great care of his clothes, and was exceedingly orderly in all his ways, keeping everything that belonged to him, and the simple articles of his toilet, neatly arranged. Order was innate in him. He replied politely when he was addressed, and did not hesitate to press for farther explanation when he had not fully understood the answers made to his questions. It was plain that his progress in writing would be rapid, and he learned figures with ease. More than by these evidences of capacity, Murdoch was surprised and interested by the reasoning power which seemed to direct all the little boy’s actions. Before long he was thoroughly instructed in the Catholic religion, so deeply rooted in the hearts of the Irish nation. This he owed chiefly to the zealous care of Granny.

The winter came, very hard and cruel. The farmhouse and the outbuildings were woefully out of repair, but John Eldon, the agent, would do nothing in that matter; to make and keep them habitable was for the overtaxed farmer alone, and he and his sons worked at the task almost incessantly.

During this time the women were variously employed; Granny spinning at the fireside, Mary and Kitty attending to the cows and the poultry, helped to the best of his ability by Foundling Mick. He kept accurate account of everything relating to the house and the farm. He was too young to be allowed to look after the horses, and so he formed a close friendship with the ass, an excellent, willing and indefatigable animal, who returned his affection in dumb but eloquent fashion.

He wished his donkey to be as clean as himself, and this pleased Mary greatly. He would have had the pigs equally natty, but in that direction he was forced to confine his efforts to very elementary principles. After he had reckoned the sheep over and over again he entered the total of their numbers in an old pocketbook which had been presented to him by Kitty, and his taste for figures and methodical account-keeping developed gradually, until he might have done credit to the lessons of Mr Mulvany, had he ever received any.

One day, Mrs MacCarthy brought a dozen eggs out of the place where they were stored for winter consumption, into the kitchen.

‘Not those, not those, ma’am!’ cried Foundling Mick.

‘And why, Micky?’

‘Because they’re not in rotation.’

‘What rotation? Aren’t all the eggs alike?’

‘Of course not, ma’am. You have taken the forty-eighth; it’s the thirty-seventh you ought to have begun with. Look!’

Mary looked, and found on every shell a number written in ink by Micky. She ought to have taken the eggs according to their numbering — from 37 to 48 and not from 48 to 59. She immediately rectified her mistake, and praised the little fellow for his good sense.

When Mrs MacCarthy told the story at dinner, Murdoch said, —

‘It is to be hoped, Micky, you have reckoned the hens and chickens in the hen-house?’

‘Certainly.’ He took out his pocketbook. ‘There are 43 hens and 69 chickens.’

Thereupon Peter remarked, —

‘You ought to reckon the grains of wheat in every sack — ‘

‘Don’t joke him, boys,’ said MacCarthy. ‘If he’s orderly in little things, he’ll be the same in big things, and in life.’ Then addressing the little boy, he said, —

‘And your pebbles, the little stones I give you every evening — ‘

‘I put them away in my jug, sir. I have 57, already.’

He had been 57 days at Kirwan’s Farm.

‘Ha!’ said Granny, ‘that makes fifty-seven pence at a penny a pebble.’

‘What a lot of cakes you can buy for all that,’ said Peter.

‘Cakes, Peter? No, no. Copybooks. That’s what I want to buy.’

The year was drawing to a close, and the weather was very cold. This was no novelty to Foundling Mick, he had seen harder winters than this one in Galway. At that miserable period of his life he had run barefoot in the snow, and the cold wind had penetrated his wretched clothing. And when he returned to the poor school, there was no place for the little waif by the fireside. How well off was Foundling Mick now! How pleasant it was to live with people who loved him! It seemed to him that their affection warmed him more thoroughly than the clothes which kept him from the wind, the wholesome food he ate, and the cheerful fire that burned upon the hearth. And it was better still, now that he was beginning to make himself useful, to feel that kind hearts were all around him. He was truly one of the family. He had a grandmother, a mother, brothers, kinsmen, and it would be among them, never leaving them, that his life should be passed. There he should earn his livelihood, as Murdoch had said to him one day. To do this, was his constant thought and desire.

Christmas came, a great event for Foundling Mick, who was, indeed, not ignorant of the meaning of the season, but had never shared in the ‘keeping’ of the day as a family festival. Great was his pleasure when his particular friend, Peter, presented him with a many-bladed knife as his first ‘Christmas-box’, and he ate plum pudding for the first time in his life.

CHAPTER 10

WHAT HAPPENED IN DONEGAL

Murtagh MacCarthy had made some attempts to discover the birthplace and parentage of his adopted child. The only clue he possessed was Mick’s vague recollection that he had lived with an old woman and two little girls in a village in Donegal, and on following this up he ascertained that a child, eighteen months old, had been found on a doorstep in a small town, taken to the workhouse, and afterwards placed with a woman of the class now known as baby-farmers, in the outskirts of the town, which we shall denote by the letter R — and which was chiefly supported by the manufacture of linen. We are in a position to supplement the scanty information obtained by the farmer, and can give our readers a brief sketch of the history of the poor deserted infant, between the period of his being found by a policeman at R — , and his falling into the cruel hands of Hornpipe.

The woman to whose tender mercies the child was committed, at a time when there was much less care bestowed on such arrangements, and when inspection was very rare and superficial, if indeed it was exercised at all, was a bad specimen of a bad class. Her name was Murphy, she passed for a widow, but she was not a native of the place, and her previous history was unknown. Her neighbours described her as ‘a hard sort of a woman’, and her features justified the definition. She was an ill-looking hag, between 40 and 50, tall, thin, and big-boned; her small eyes were half-hidden under bristling red eyebrows; her big hands had fingers like claws, her nose resembled the beak of a bird of prey, and she invariably exhaled an odour of whiskey.

With this female dragon the poor little workhouse waif was destined to remain until he should be five or six years old, when he would be taken back to the prison of the poor, until he might be put out in the world in some self-supporting way. We have seen that the official programme was not carried out in the case of Foundling Mick; a simple incident prevented its fulfilment.

Mrs Murphy was in no dread of the visits of inspectors; no such impertinent intruders had darkened her door since she had added the profession of’caretaker’ to the industry by which she had previously lived, that of flax spinning. Neither had she to fear the interference of her neighbours on behalf of her unhappy ‘boarders’; the district was very poor, and its inhabitants were immersed in and hardened by their own struggle for a bare existence. The hag had two little girls in her charge when Foundling Mick was sent to her. One of these children was four, the other was six years old. We need not dwell on the former, she was soon to die; the latter, who was called Cissy, was a pretty, fair-haired child, with large blue eyes, soft and intelligent, but already dimmed by tears, while her features were pinched, her chest was hollow, and her limbs were emaciated. To such a condition had she been reduced by ill-treatment. Cissy was a gentle, patient, resigned little creature; she accepted the life to which she was condemned without a notion that it might have been otherwise. Where, indeed, could she have learned that children existed who were petted by their mothers, cherished with care and caresses, to whom good clothes, good food, and good kisses were never denied? Assuredly not at the workhouse, where children like herself were treated no better than the young of the beasts of the field.

Foundling Mick — this name had been given him in the workhouse nursery, and it had stuck to him — the youngest of the ‘boarders’, was a dark-complexioned child, with bright eyes which promised intelligence and energy some day, if death did not close them prematurely, a constitution which would become robust if the bad air of the hag’s hovel and insufficient food did not stunt his growth. The boy possessed strong vitality, and no ordinary endurance. He was always hungry, and weighed half what he ought to have weighed at his age. He was half-naked and barefooted, but he stood stoutly on his chilblained feet, and his legs were straight and sturdy.

A word will suffice in the case of the younger of the two little girls. She was consumed by a slow fever; her life was ebbing away like water out of a cracked jar. She ought to have had medicines, but medicines cost money; she ought to have been visited by a doctor, but a doctor has to be paid. So, the ‘hard sort of a woman’ did not go out of her way to provide either for her little boarder. After all, when the child should be dead, the workhouse would send her another; she would be no loser by the event.

Whiskey and porter cost money even in the little town of R — , and the drinking propensities of Mrs Murphy laid a heavy tax on the pitiful sum which was paid to her for the maintenance of the children. At that moment only a few shillings of the pittance remained, and although she need not suffer from thirst, seeing that there were some hidden bottles still in reserve, it was certain that the boarders would have to suffer from hunger. Such was the situation upon which the hag was musing, in so far as her half-drunken condition permitted her to reflect upon anything. Should she ask for an advance from the workhouse? No, it would be refused. Should she restore the children to the care of the legal guardians of the poor? No, she would lose her little income. And yet the children had not been fed since yesterday.

As the result of these reflections, Mrs Murphy took to one of the hidden bottles, and then she beat the starving children, being disturbed by their moans.

It was October, and the hovel was very cold; the wind whistled through the chinks in the walls, and the rain dripped from holes in the roof. The meagre turf fire did not suffice to warm the chilled limbs of Cissy and Foundling Mick, who sat in a corner on the floor, huddled together and shivering. The sick child lay on a truss of straw, burning with fever; the hag was staggering to and fro, holding on by the wall now and then, and muttering to herself as she cast angry glances towards the hearth. There was no pot upon the turf sods, and for a good reason, there was nothing to put in it.

A grunt was heard outside, and the door was pushed open by the intruding snout of a pig. Mrs Murphy looked stupidly at the animal as it began to root in the corners, grunting, but made no attempt to turn it out. Cissy and Foundling Mick stood up to avoid the pig, and the animal made for the hearth, where it routed out a big potato from beneath the turf ashes, turned it over with its snout, and took it in its mouth. Foundling Mick sprang at the pig, tore the potato out of its jaws at the risk of being bitten and knocked down, and, calling Cissy, he and she devoured the choice morsel between them. The drunken woman then seemed to awaken to what was happening; she seized a ragged old broom, and chased the pig, not without hitting poor Micky a hard blow in the process.

As the angry animal bolted out of the door, a man who had just reached it, narrowly escaped being thrown down, and Mrs Murphy was partly sobered by her surprise and alarm on perceiving that a stranger proposed to enter her abode. Whom could this intruder be? She had no visitors, her habits were to the last degree, and for sound reasons, unsocial. What if this person should be the inspector from the workhouse, and the children should betray their famished state to him. She made a stealthy threatening motion with her hand to Cissy and Foundling Mick, and planting herself in the doorway addressed the stranger abruptly —

‘What do you want? Who are you?’

He was one of those persons who travel through the towns and villages in England and Ireland, getting insurances upon the lives of children, in other words ensuring their death.1 The monthly payments of a few pence secured to the parents, guardians, or kinsmen, or to horrible creatures like Mrs Murphy, a sum of three or four pounds on the death of the children insured by companies who employed these agents. A notable amelioration in this system has been produced by the law of 1889, and the creation of ‘The National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children’, is a decided step in the right direction. But, how sad it is to think that a law should be required in a case where the natural instincts alone ought to suffice!

The agent who had called on Mrs Murphy was a man between 45 and 50, smooth-faced, smooth-tongued, of sly and hypocritical demeanour. His business was to inveigle this hag into becoming a customer, by affecting not to perceive the neglected and abject condition of the children, and pretending to believe that they were treated with affection and solicituOde.

‘My good lady,’ he resumed, ‘if it’s not troubling you too much, will you step outside for a few minutes?’

‘Do you want to speak to me?’ said the hag, who was always suspicious of a stranger.

CHAPTER 11

LIFE INSURANCE

‘I am an agent, my good lady,’ replied the man, in an insinuating tone.

An agent! Whose? From whence? What did he mean. Had he come to report on the children sent to the country in the R — district? Impossible to tell, so Mrs Murphy proceeded to overwhelm her visitor with her volubility.

‘Excuse me, sir, excuse me. I am just cleaning up, after the children’s dinner. You can see how well they look; the boy and this little girl, I mean, for the other is sick. Yes, indeed, she has a fever that can’t be stopped. I’m just going to the town for a doctor. The darlints! I just doat on them.’ All this, while she looked like a tigress trying to pass for a tame cat.

‘Mr Inspector,’ she went on, ‘if the guardians would allow me some money for medicine — we have only just enough for their keep — ‘

‘I am not an inspector, my good lady!’

‘Who are you, then?’

‘An insurance agent.’

‘I do, ma’am. I want to speak to you about these three children, and I can’t very well speak before them.’

She went out, closing the door of the hovel, and the two walked a few paces in silence. Then the man began, —

‘You have three children?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are they your own?’

‘No.’

‘Are you any relation to them?

‘No.’

‘Then they have been sent to you from the workhouse in Donegal?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sure they could not be in better hands. And yet, in spite of the best of care, these little creatures sometimes fall sick. Children are delicate, and I notice that one of your little girls — ‘

‘I do the best I can, sir. I mind them day and night. I often go hungry myself that they may have full and plenty. I’m badly paid for them — three pounds a year, sir, only three pounds a year.’

‘It’s not enough, ma’am; it’s not near enough. You must be the kindest of women to mind these dear children at such a loss. You have now two girsheens and a little boy in your care, I think?’

‘Yes.’

‘Orphans, no doubt?’

‘I believe so.’

‘I’m so accustomed to seeing children that I guess the age of the little girls at four and six years; and the boy’s at two and a half.’

‘Why are you asking me these questions?’

‘I’m going to tell you.’

Mrs Murphy looked askance at the insurance agent, who continued, —

‘The air is good hereabouts; it’s a healthy place, but the children are sickly, in spite of all your care, and it might happen you to lose one of them. You ought to insure their lives.’

‘Insure their lives?’

‘Yes; for your own advantage. It is easy to understand that.’ He noted the gleam of greed that came into the woman’s eyes. ‘By paying a few pence monthly to my company, you would secure a sum of from two to three pounds if one of the children were to die.’

‘Two to three pounds!’

The agent perceived that the job was nearly done.

‘It is generally done, ma’am, I assure you. We have several hundred children insured in Donegal, and although nothing can be a consolation for the loss of an object of so much care and affection, still there is a compensation — of course only a slight one — in having a snug sum to take from our company.’

‘And can it be got — without difficulty?’ asked the hag, casting a stealthy look around her.

‘Without any difficulty, ma’am. As soon as the death is certified, there’s nothing to do but to apply to our representative.’

Here he produced a folded paper, saying, —

‘I have some policies all ready, and if you consent to put your signature to them you will be more easy in your mind for the future. And in case one of these children was to die — a thing that may happen any time, the money would help you to keep the others.’

‘What would it cost?’

‘Threepence a month for each child. Ninepence in all.’

‘You would even insure the youngest girl?’

‘Certainly; although she seems to me to be very ill. If your good care does not save her after all, it will be two pounds. Listen to that now! Two pounds! And mark this, ma’am, what our company does is for the good of the children. It is our interest that they should live, for they bring us in money? We are very sorry when a child dies.’

No, the insurance company was not sorry on such occasions, provided that the mortality did not go beyond a certain point. In offering to take the dying child, the agent was actually doing good business. Had not a director who knew what he was talking about, stated that ‘the day after the interment of an insured child they took more “lives” than ever’?

This was true, and it was also true that wretches existed who did not hesitate to resort to crime in order to obtain the insurance money; these, it must be freely admitted, were very few.

‘Come,’ said the agent, in an insinuating tone, ‘don’t you see where your interest lies?’

Nevertheless the woman hesitated to give the ninepence, even with the prospect of her gain by the little girl’s death to encourage her. She tried to bargain, to get a reduction.

‘It cannot be done,’ said the agent. ‘Just think, ma’am, that in spite of all your care, this child may die tomorrow, or indeed, today, and our company have to pay your two pounds. Come, now, sign your name. Be advised by me.’

He produced pen and ink, the woman signed the paper, and reluctantly placed in the agent’s hand ninepence out of the little hoard in her pocket. While the man walked away from the cabin, Mrs Murphy stood near its door, motionless, for some minutes. The children had not ventured to come out. Until now she had thought only of the few pounds which their existence was worth to her each year, but their death would bring her in more than that. Did it not depend upon herself whether she should have to pay any more ninepences?

The hag flung the look of a poising hawk at the bird in the grass at the unhappy children, when she re-entered the hovel. It seemed as though Cissy and Foundling Mick had understood! They shrank from her instinctively, as from hands extended to strangle them.

Still, she felt that she must act prudently. Three dead children might arouse suspicion. She would expend a little of her remaining money in feeding them; she knew how to make a little go a long way. Three or four weeks longer; that would surely be enough; but then the agent must come once more for his ninepence. She had abandoned the idea of taking the children back to the workhouse.

It was the morning of the 6th of October. Mrs Murphy, having gone out to drink, had left the children in the cabin, and the door was shut. The sick child was sinking rapidly; she could not swallow, and Cissy could only wet her lips with water. Her eyes were wide open, and she seemed to ask, —

‘Why was I born? Why?’

Foundling Mick, huddled up in a corner, looked at her as he might have looked at a cage which was about to open and let out a bird.

Presently the little sufferer moaned, and he asked, —

‘Is she going to die?’ But he did not know what the word meant.

‘Yes,’ answered Cissy, ‘and she will go to Heaven.’

‘Can’t we go to Heaven without dying?’

‘No — we can’t.’

A few minutes later a brief convulsion shook the frail little body, and then with one sigh the child’s spirit departed.

Cissy fell on her knees terrified. Foundling Mick, to imitate her, knelt also by the side of the motionless form.

An hour later, Mrs Murphy came in, screamed ‘Dead! dead!’ and rushed out to proclaim her grief among her neighbours, who paid very little attention to her.

Mrs Murphy had two pieces of pressing business on hand: one was to get a doctor’s certificate of the death of the child, who would be buried by the parish; the other was to get the insurance money, after as brief delay as possible. No doctor had been sent for to attend the child, but that circumstance would not hinder the dispensary practitioner from doing the needful in the case, and she must set about the matter at once. The dispensary was three miles away, and it would take her a long time to go and return, for she would be sure to stop on the way wherever drink was to be had. She set out as speedily as possible, having ordered Cissy to look after the dead child, and given herself no trouble at all about Foundling Mick; but she locked the cabin door and took the key with her.

Cissy immediately busied herself with the poor little corpse, bestowing more care upon it than the living child had ever enjoyed. She washed the face, smoothed the hair, removed the ragged chemise, and replaced it by a towel that had been hung upon a nail to dry, and would serve as a shroud for the destitute litde orphan. When she had done these things in her careful, unchildlike way, so little suitable to her tender years, Cissy kissed her poor little companion on both cheeks, and Foundling Mick, who had remained in his corner, afraid to move, would have done likewise, but he was seized with terror, and dared not.

‘Come! Come!’ he cried out to Cissy.

‘Where?’

‘Outside! Come! Come!’

‘No, no; we must stay here.’

And Cissy tried to quiet him. She told him also that the door was locked. But all was in vain; he continued to scream that he must get out.

‘She is cold, and I am cold!’ he cried. ‘Come, Cissy, or she will take us with her!’

The child was wild with terror; he felt that he must die also, if he did not get away.

It was growing dusk. Cissy lighted a bit of candle which was stuck in the neck of a bottle; but then Foundling Mick was more frightened still, for shadows came, and things seemed to move about him. He loved Cissy; she was the only person who had ever caressed him in his little life; but he could not stay there — no, he could not stay.

There was a hole in the earthen floor under the broken door, and it had been roughly filled up with stones to keep out small dogs, and cats, which would otherwise have made themselves free of the cabin; to this Mick applied himself with the strange strength lent by fear to his half-starved but sturdy litde frame, tearing out the stones with his hands, and scratching up the clay under them with an old shovel, in frantic haste. When the hole was empty, he called once more to Cissy, who could not have crept under the door in any case: ‘Come! Come!’

‘No!’ said Cissy, ‘I will not. She would be alone.’

Foundling Mick ran to her, put his arms round her neck and kissed her, and then, laying himself flat on the floor, wriggled through the hole, and disappeared on the outside of the door. Cissy, who concluded that he would make his way to the nearest dwelling, and thought only of the severe punishment which he would be certain to receive on Mrs Murphy’s return, sat quietly by the side of the dead child.

We know what really did befall Foundling Mick, who had strayed into the country, knowing nothing of neighbours, and how he had been picked up by the itinerant showman.

CHAPTER 12

THE RETURN

Foundling Mick was happy, and did not imagine that it was possible to be more happy. He lived entirely in the present, and thought nothing at all about the future.

His memory occasionally brought back to him pictures from the past. He remembered the little girl who had lived with him at the wicked woman’s house. Cissy would be eleven years old now; what had become of her? Had not death set her free also as it had delivered the other child? If not, then he should find her again some day. He owed her much gratitude for her affection and care, and he would have regarded her as a sister, in his great need of attaching himself to any who had loved him.

Then there was Grip, to whom he was as grateful as to Cissy. Six months had elapsed since the burning of the poor school at Galway, six months during which he had undergone such strange vicissitudes!

What had become of Grip? Surely, he too could not be dead? It would be so much better that people like Hornpipe and Mrs Murphy should go. No one would be the worse, and there would be none to miss them. But such brutes are long-lived!

Thus argued Foundling Mick, and we may be sure he talked of his former friends to the good people at Kirwan’s Farm, who were all interested in the subject.

Thereupon Murtagh MacCarthy had made inquiry, but, as we already know, he had been unable to discover anything relating to Cissy; the little girl had disappeared from R — .

An answer had been received from Galway respecting Grip. The poor lad, scarcely recovered from the injury he had received at the fire, and having no employment, had left the town, and was no doubt on the tramp in search of work. Foundling Mick felt as though it were wrong for him to be so well off when Grip was probably in a very different case. MacCarthy took an interest in Grip and would have been glad to give him work on the farm, but no one knew what had become of him.

The MacCarthy family led an industrious and regular life at Kirwan’s Farm. They had few neighbours, the nearest were three miles away, and the farm was twelve miles from Tralee. MacCarthy and Murdoch visited the town on market days occasionally, but not more frequently than was necessary for their affairs.

The farm was in the parish of S — , and Kitty seldom left home except on Sundays and holy-days, when the family, with the exception of Granny, who was dispensed from the obligatory attendance at Mass by reason of her age and infirmity, went in their best attire to the parish church. These were great occasions for Foundling Mick, who presented a far different appearance from that of the ragged urchin who had hidden behind a pillar of the church in Galway lest he should be driven out. Now, he had nothing to fear; he occupied his own appointed place between Mary and Kitty, listened with delight to the singing, and followed the service with his own prayer book, a present from Granny. He was a boy to be proud of, in his neat tweed suit, which was always scrupulously brushed. Care of his clothes and person continued to be a marked characteristic of Foundling Mick.

The season was advancing. February was cold, and March was wet. The winter had not been severe, and did not seem likely to be prolonged. The sowing would be done under favourable conditions, and the tenants might hope to be able to meet the exactions of the landlords when the terrible ‘rent day’ should arrive, without having the penalty of eviction, entailed by a bad harvest, suspended over their heads.

This was all well; nevertheless, there was a black spot on the horizon of Kirwan’s Farm.

Two years previously, the second son, Pat, had gone to sea in the trading ship Guardian, belonging to a mercantile firm in Liverpool. Two letters from Pat had been received at the farm, after his voyage across the southern seas, but ten months had elapsed since the arrival of the second, and no farther news of him had reached his parents. The inquiries made by MacCarthy at Liverpool had not produced a satisfactory result; he learned only that Messrs Maxwell were uneasy respecting the fate of the Guardian. Naturally, the chief topic of conversation at the farm was Pat, and the post-cart was looked for with eager expectation, fully shared by Foundling Mick, who kept watch at the gate every day for its passage. The whole family was disquieted, but Granny talked more of her fears than the others. Pat was her favourite grandchild, her ‘white-headed boy’. She was very old — should she live to see him again? The old woman would confide her fears to Mick, and he would try to console her.

‘He will come back,’ he said. ‘I don’t know him; and I must know him, since he is one of the family.’

‘And he will be as fond of you as the rest of us are.’

‘It’s a grand thing to be a sailor, Granny; only it’s a pity to have to go away, and stay away so long! Couldn’t a whole family go on the big sea, all together?’

‘No, Micky, no. When Pat went, it fretted me greatly. It’s well for them that need never part! The boy might have stayed on the farm and worked with the rest. Then we wouldn’t have been fretted this way. But he couldn’t content himself, he had to go. God send him safe back. Don’t forget to pray for him.’

‘No, Granny, I won’t. I always pray for him, and for you all!’

The beginning of April saw great activity at the farm, and Foundling Mick was as busy as the best, making himself useful in every department of labour that was at all within his strength, and developing especial ability as a shepherd. After a short time the sheep were left to his proud charge, and he and Ranger, the sheepdog, were firm friends and allies.

The little boy was much more given to observe the practical than the curious side of things. He did not inquire how it was that a whole ear came from a grain, but how many grains of corn or barley the ear would produce. And he formed the intention of counting them at harvest time, and writing down the result in his cherished pocketbook. This was his nature. He would have been more ready to count the stars than to admire them.

Foundling Mick was usually alone on the pastureland with his sheep for the greater part of the day. Occasionally, however, Murdoch or Peter would stop, on their way to some other portion of the farm, not to look after the ‘herd’, for he might be fully trusted, but for a short talk with him.

‘Well, Micky,’ one of them would say, ‘is your flock all right and the grass thick?’

‘Very thick, Mr Murdoch.’

‘And are your sheep good?’

‘Very good, Peter. Ask Ranger — he never has to bite them.’

Ranger was not a handsome dog, but he was very intelligent and hard-working, and he had become a faithful companion to Mick. The two talked together for hours at a time, saying the most interesting things to each other. When the boy looked the dog in the face while speaking to him, Ranger seemed to drink in his words, and his long nose quivered; his tail waved, like the ‘portable semaphore’, to which an expressive canine tail has been aptly likened. The friends were of about the same age, and a perfect understanding existed between them.

Foundling Mick had his little troubles, nevertheless. In the first place were his enemies, with whom he had to reckon, the marauding birds which swarm in Ireland. He did not mind the swallows, they lived on insects only during their brief sojourn, but the impudent and greedy sparrows, the mice of the air, these attacked the grain crops, and then, the rooks and the crows, how he raged against them! He would try to chase the clouds of rooks that would settle on the newly sown fields, and set Ranger to bark at them with all the power of his lungs, but of what avail were their puny efforts? The birds would merely rise in the air, make a mocking circle, and sweep down again out of his reach as before.

And then, the scarecrows were not of the smallest use! Peter had fabricated awful figures with outstretched arms and ragged garments fluttering in the wind. Children would certainly have been frightened by them, but the birds, not in the very least! Perhaps he might contrive something more startling and less silent. After long cogitation, he hit upon a promising idea. Peter’s scarecrow moved its arms when the wind was strong, it is true, but it did not speak, it did not creak. It must be made to make a noise. So Foundling Mick got Peter to fasten a rattle which the wind would turn on the head of each scarecrow, and awaited the result with joyful expectation.

The rooks and the crows arrived as usual, and on the first and second day they evinced some surprise, and even a little distress and disquiet, but on the third they took no more notice of the scarecrow with the rattle than they had taken of that futile device without it, but perched comfortably on the outstretched arms of the fluttering figure, and out-cawed the harmless clash.

Then Foundling Mick, vexed and defeated, bethought himself that something is wanting to the perfection of this lower world.

These annoyances apart, things were going well at Kirwan’s Farm, and Mick was as happy there as possible. During the winter his education in ‘the three Rs’ had made serious progress, and now he put his accounts in order every evening. His lists comprised the eggs and chickens, the little piglings, and the large families of rabbits. All these were duly entered, with correct dates. MacCarthy observed the boy’s orderly ways with pleased interest, and regularly every evening gave him the stipulated little stone, which was duly deposited in the earthenware jug. These stones had all the value of shillings to Foundling Mick. The jug contained also the golden sovereign which had been the reward of his memorable sole appearance upon the boards at Limerick, and of which he had made no mention at the farm, from some unexplained instinct. Besides, as he had no use for this coin, wanting nothing, he attributed less value to it than to the little stones which bore witness to his zeal and his good conduct.

The season had been favourable, and harvest work began earlier than usual. All the hands on the farm were fully employed, and perhaps Foundling Mick neglected his flock just a little in his ardour to assist in the delightful task of binding, stacking, and carrying. He was so proud of helping Mary and Kitty, and of being ‘wanted’ everywhere! Surely the happiest and most grateful of hearts was that which beat in the bosom of the once deserted, nameless boy.

That year was one of the most prosperous that Murtagh MacCarthy had passed on Kirwan’s Farm. It would have been completely happy had any news of Pat reached the family. It seemed as though the presence of Foundling Mick had brought good luck to his benefactors. The rent was paid in full, all other charges were met. The following winter, which was not a cold one, was succeeded by an early spring, so that the farmers had reasonable hope of an equally good harvest to come.

Foundling Mick had resumed his long days with Ranger and his sheep. Again he saw the fields decked in their emerald green, and heard the little noises which the corn and the barley make when the ear is swelling. He liked to see ‘the plumed and bearded barley’ swaying to the touch of the light wind’s breath. And then, there was talk of a newcomer at the farm, one eagerly looked for, who would be warmly welcomed. Granny was very happy and smiling over the expected arrival of the child of Murdoch and Kitty in three months’ time.

During the heaviest press of the harvest work in August, one of the farm labourers fell sick and was unable to continue his labour. It was necessary to find a reaper out of work somewhere in the neighbourhood, if possible, but as all the farmers were equally busy, this was not by any means sure of accomplishment, and to procure a substitute for the disabled man, MacCarthy would have to sacrifice half a day in going to S — and returning. The latter was a serious inconvenience, and Foundling Mick, who understood the difficulty, prompdy offered to go to S — in the farmer’s stead. MacCarthy gladly consented; he knew that Mick might safely be trusted to carry a note to the right person, and that five miles of road with which he was familiar would not trouble the boy. By leaving the farm early in the morning, he could get back by noon.

Foundling Mick started in the morning, at a deliberate pace, and with a purposeful demeanour, having in his pocket the farmer’s letter to an innkeeper at S — , and a tidy little packet of bacon-sandwiches for his refreshment on the way.

The weather was fine, a light wind was blowing, and the boy’s heart and step for the first three miles were as light as the breeze. Presently Foundling Mick turned into a little wood, or ‘plantation’ as the country people called it, in order to take a short cut which would lead him out on the high road beyond, and after he had gone about a hundred yards he stood stock-still at the sight of a man stretched on the ground at the foot of a tree.

The boy looked for a few moments at this unaccustomed object, wondering whether anything ailed the man, or whether he had merely lain down to rest at so odd a place and hour.

The man remained motionless, and Mick drew near to him. He was fast asleep, his arms were crossed, his hat was pulled down to shade his eyes. He appeared to be young, and his dust-covered clothes and clay-stained boots told of a long tramp, probably from Tralee.

Mick’s attention, however, was specially attracted by the fact that the sleeper was evidently a sailor. Yes, he could tell that by his costume and by the bag that lay beside him, for it was made of tarred sailcloth. There was an address upon it, too, and the boy read it at a glance.

‘Pat,’ he cried, ‘it is Pat!’

Yes, it was Pat, and he might have been recognised by his likeness to Murdoch and Peter. Pat, who had not been heard of for so long, and was so longed for!

Foundling Mick was on the point of awakening the sleeper, when an idea arrested him. If Pat were to turn up quite suddenly at the farm, his mother, and especially his Granny, might get such a shock as would make them ill. He had better run back and prepare Mr MacCarthy, who would arrange everything nicely. Pat’s father would prepare the women for the arrival of their son and grandson. As for the message to the innkeeper at S — , no matter about that; he could take it tomorrow. Why, here was Pat, one of themselves, might not he replace the sick reaper, and no stranger at all be wanted? Of course he might! And then, the young sailor was weary (as a matter of fact he had walked on from Tralee in the night, and was tired after his railway journey), he would come on to the farm quickly when he had his sleep out. The important thing was for Foundling Mick to get there first, and to bring Pat’s father and brothers out to meet him.

But why should the weary sailor have to carry his bag for the last three miles? It would be much better for Mick, who was not at all tired, and quite strong enough to carry it on his back, to take charge of it for him. Besides, it would give him so much pleasure to carry a sailors bag! A bag that had sailed the big sea! Only think!

He took up the bag by the loop of the rope which fastened it, hitched it up on his back, and set off at full speed in the direction of the farm. He had barely regained the high road, which lay in front of him perfectly straight for half a mile, before he heard shouts behind him; but he did not slacken his pace; he was more than ever anxious to get on. The person who was shouting was, however, also running.

Pat, on waking, had missed his bag, and starting up in a fury, he caught sight of the boy just as he turned into the high road.

‘Stop, stop, you young thief!’ he cried; but on and on ran Foundling Mick, unheeding. It was, however, vain for him to hope that he could escape from the young sailor, especially weighted as he was with the bag; so, when the shouting pursuer was only a few yards behind him, Mick suddenly dropped his load, without turning his head, and scampered off with surprising velocity.

Pat picked up the bag and continued his pursuit. The farm came in view at the same moment when he came up with Mick, and caught him by the collar of his jacket.

MacCarthy, Murdoch, and Peter were in the yard unloading bundles of forage, and each uttered a cry of astonishment.

‘Pat, my son!’

‘Brother!’

In a few moments the sailor had received the fond embrace of welcome from Granny, Mary and Kitty.

Foundling Mick stood by, his eyes beaming with joy, wondering when he should be noticed.

‘Ah, my robber!’ exclaimed Pat.

All was explained in a few words, and Mick ran to Pat and clasped him round the neck, as though the sailor had been a mast and he was clinging to it.

Great joy reigned at the farm in those days. Pat was at home again, the family circle was once more unbroken, and times were good with them.

The crops were abundant, especially fine was the promise of potatoes, the ready-made bread of the Irish people.

‘Have you come back to us for a whole year, Pat?’ asked his mother.

‘No, mother, only for six weeks. I don’t want to give up the sea, it’s a good life. In six weeks I must go back to Liverpool, and ship again on the Guardian, but as mate this time.’

‘That’s grand, Pat,’ said Murdoch, and he clapped his brother on the back approvingly.

‘While I’m at home,’ said the young sailor, you must let me work for you, father.’

MacCarthy accepted the offer.

Pat was especially pleased to make acquaintance with his brother’s wife, whom he rightly judged to be a worthy and amiable young woman. Murdoch’s marriage had taken place during Pat’s absence. Foundling Mick had his share in the rejoicing. His story was told to Pat, who was touched by it, and from that moment the two became great friends.

To Mick, Pat was quite a wonderful and important personage. A sailor — that meant something altogether out of the common. No wonder that Granny kept her hand on his sleeve while he was talking, lest he should go off again to the sea. Pat’s story was speedily told; his explanation of the long time that had gone by without his having sent his parents any news of him was simple enough. The Guardian had run aground on one of the small islands in the Indian Ocean, and for thirteen months her crew had lived upon a desert island, without any communication with the rest of the world. At length by dint of incessant labour they had succeeded in floating the ship. Vessel and cargo were all saved, and Pat had distinguished himself so much by his zeal and courage, that, on the recommendation of the captain, Messrs Maxwell, of Liverpool, the owners, had re-engaged him as mate for an approaching voyage to Liverpool.

CHAPTER 13

CHANGE

The next day the MacCarthy household resumed its customary routine, and Kirwan’s Farm had gained a sturdy workman to replace the disabled labourer.

The state of things was, then, fairly prosperous, but not all his toil and frugality could avail to enable MacCarthy to accumulate any savings, or permit him to contemplate the possibility of even one bad harvest without grave alarm. He lived on his earnings at the present, but what of the future? Ah, that future of the Irish tenant farmer, always at the mercy of the climate! On this Murdoch’s thoughts were constantly fixed, and his brooding made him hate more and more deeply a social condition which could have no solution except in the abolition of landlordism, and the restoration of the soil to the cultivators by means of payments at stated intervals.

In September Kitty’s baby, a girl, was born. The newcomer was welcomed warmly by every member of the family, and Foundling Mick’s happiness when he was permitted to kiss the infant was supreme. The christening was fixed for an early day, and a ‘party’ was arranged for the occasion. Pat would be able to be present, as his ship was not to sail until late in the month. The baby was to be named Jane, Granny was to be godmother, for the good old lady’s pleasure only, as it was not to be supposed the child would ever profit by her vicarious care, temporal or spiritual, and it was Granny that made the startling proposal that Foundling Mick should be godfather. What! The orphan child, the foundling? Yes, Granny considered that to constitute a ‘spiritual affinity’ would be the very best way to consolidate the tie between Mick and his benefactors, and Granny’s wish was law. To be sure he was very young, not eight years old ‘all out’, and might be regarded as hardly admissible, but Granny disposed of this objection, timidly offered by Kitty, by an ingenious argument. If the godfather were too young, she said, the godmother’s years would make up for that; their united ages came to 84, they would divide the number, and each claim 42, surely a discreet and proper time of life! Everything else was in the boy’s favour; he was hard-working, honest, devoted, loved, esteemed, appreciated by all at the farm.

On the 26th of September the whole party repaired to the parish church, which Granny had not entered for a considerable time. The women were taken there in the farm-cart; the men went on foot. On their arrival the parish priest raised an unexpected difficulty.

‘Who’s the godfather?’ he asked.

‘Foundling Mick,’ replied Murdoch.

‘What’s his age?’

‘Seven and a half,’

‘That’s rather young; but it is not forbidden. He has some other name beside Foundling Mick, I suppose?’

‘We don’t know whether he has or not, father,’ answered Granny.

Turning to the boy, the priest said, —

‘You must have a Christian name of your own.’

‘I have not, sir.’

‘Can it be that he is unbaptised?’

On this point Foundling Mick was entirely ignorant. It would seem surprising that MacCarthy and his wife, who were such good, pious, practical Catholics, had not thought about this matter; but the fact is, it had never entered their minds that anybody could be unbaptised. No one could answer, and Mick was put to confusion. Would this doubt which no one could solve be an insurmountable objection to his becoming godfather to little Jane? Then came Murdoch to the rescue with a timely suggestion.

‘Well, if he hasn’t been christened, father, can’t your reverence christen him now?’

‘But if he has been christened?’ said Granny.

‘Never mind,’ interrupted Peter, ‘he’ll only be a Christian twice over. Christen him first.’

‘I can do that,’ said the priest, smiling at this novel experience, ‘but he will want a godfather and godmother on his own account.’

‘I will stand for him,’ said MacCarthy.

‘And so will I,’ said Mary.

‘What shall his name be?’ asked his reverence.

After a few minutes’ consultation it was agreed that that name of the archangel which had been given by chance to the child should be retained, and he was promptly baptised ‘Michael’. He then proudly officiated, by the side of Granny, as godfather to little Jane, and the family returned to the farm, where the day was kept as a holiday, and several neighbours came to partake of the homely but plentiful dinner which was provided on the occasion. This family festival afforded Mick his first glimpse of social amenities.

And now we have to pass away from these pleasant scenes and prosperous days, and, with a brief mention of the extreme severity of the ensuing winter, in which disastrous floods occurred in the province of Munster and did great damage in Co. Kerry in particular, take up the fortunes of the MacCarthy family at a later period. Those fortunes were at a low ebb at the beginning of the winter of 1881, as will be evident from a brief review of the disasters in which the occupants of Kirwan’s Farm, in common with all the other tenants on the estate of the Earl of C — , were involved in the interval which we have allowed to elapse.

Weather of such severity as had not been known in Ireland within a generation. Floods which had destroyed crops, farm buildings and stock, and so damaged the dwelling-house that MacCarthy had been obliged to expend the little money which he gathered together for the working of the farm in the spring, on repairs, to keep it habitable, without receiving any assistance or even the smallest abatement of rent from Mr Eldon, the agent, who acted for the absentee Scotch landlord, had been succeeded by the last worst trouble that can come to the Irish agriculturist. The harvest had proved hopelessly deficient, and now the potato crop was utterly ruined! What was to become of the small farmers? Where were they to find means for the payment of the next gale of rent and the next instalment of the heavy taxation imposed upon their unfortunate class in Ireland? We have seen that MacCarthy, although in better times he had lived decently, and honestly discharged all his obligations, however unreasonable and tyrannical these were held to be by his son Murdoch, and by the farmer himself in his soul’s conscience, had been inevitably unable to accumulate any savings. Now he was face to face with ruin, and want stared the industrious, frugal, pious family in the face. What was to be done? The misfortune that had fallen on the country ought to have been regarded and treated as a common misfortune, but well the tenants knew this would not be so; they, and they only, would have to pay the penalty of’the dispensation of God’; those who could not satisfy the collector when he should come round, must prepare for eviction and starvation.

Where were the happy days of Foundling Mick’s remembrance now? Where were the animals for him to tend, the busy population of the poultry-yard for him to reckon? There was but little work for the men to do now, and less for him, and during those long days the family watched the gradual but certain fading away of the loved and revered grandmother.

The disasters that had befallen the district had reawakened the ever-smouldering agrarian discontent. Boycotting was rife in the district — a useless proceeding which proved ruinous to both farmers and landlords. Agitation was rife in Kerry, and Murdoch MacCarthy threw himself headlong into the movement. None so violent as he in his denunciation of land-grabbers: he was perpetually travelling about the country to prevent the hiring of evicted farms. His father and Peter vainly endeavoured to restrain him. And indeed, their efforts were prompted by apprehension for his safety, for how could they fail to approve of his purpose, they who had toiled so hard and so long only to fall into the depths of poverty at last, and who had now to expect eviction from Kirwan’s Farm, on which their family had lived so long?

The government, ‘the Castle’, as that obnoxious administration was then and is still called, knowing that the cultivators of the soil would be easily ‘raised’, after so ruinous a year, had taken its precautions. Already bodies of mounted constabulary patrolled the country, ready to lend armed aid to the process-servers and ‘emergency men’, to disperse the meetings, by force, if necessary, and to arrest the most zealous of the fanatics who were made known to the police. Evidently Murdoch would soon be of that number, if, indeed, he were not already a marked man. What could the Irish do against a system which rests upon 30,000 soldiers ‘encamped’ — that is the word in use — in Ireland?

The anxiety and terror in which Murdoch’s parents lived may readily be imagined. A step on the road would turn Mary’s face pale, Kitty’s eyes would tell of fear, and Granny would lift her head, then let it droop again upon her breast. Was that the tread of the police coming to the farm to arrest Murdoch, and perhaps his father and brother as well? Arrests had been made in the towns, why not in country places also? Mary had besought her son, when the agitation became very marked, to elude the measures with which the chief agents of the Land League were threatened, but where could Murdoch have hidden himself? And supposing he could have found safety in the North, where the police were not so watchful, how could he have earned a livelihood for Kitty, himself, and their child, among strangers? He remained at the farm, trusting to be able to escape if the police should come thither in search of him. A watch was kept on all comers and goers on the road. Foundling Mick and Ranger were always on the alert; no one could have approached within half a mile of the farm unperceived.

And now MacCarthy was awaiting the inevitable visit of the rent-collector, coming to demand the ‘gale’ due at Christmas.

The Scotch peer who was MacCarthy’s landlord had never even seen his Irish estates. Even supposing this personage to have meant well towards his tenants, he did not know them, he could not take any interest in them, nor could they have recourse to him. The estate agent, Mr Eldon, who had the management of the property, lived in Dublin, and left the task of exacting the revenues at the appointed periods to his subagent, a man named Herbert, who presented himself at Kirwan’s Farm twice a year. Herbert was a hard-natured, bitter-minded person, inaccessible to the emotions of pity and sympathy. He had already given a large taste of his quality in other parts of the county, mercilessly driving families from their poor homes in the bitter weather, refusing to allow time for payment when a short delay could have saved the situation. It is true that he ‘had his orders’, but he took a savage pleasure in carrying them out with the utmost rigour.

Great was the suspense and apprehension with which Herbert’s appearance was looked for at Kirwan’s Farm.

Early in the day, on the 29th of December, Foundling Mick, who has espied him from afar, ran to the house, and gave notice of Herbert’s coming. The whole family, even to the infant who was in Kitty’s arms, was assembled in the large room on the ground floor.

The subagent pushed the gate open, strode up to the house with a determined step — the step of a master — opened the room door — the outer door of the house was rarely shut, even in winter — and without removing his hat, or uttering a word of greeting, seated himself on a chair in front of the table, like a man much more at home than those whose dwelling he invades, took some papers out of his leather bag, and said roughly, —

‘It’s a hundred pounds for the two half years. I suppose we’re agreed upon that, MacCarthy?’

‘Yes, Mr Herbert,’ replied the farmer in a slightly uncertain voice. ‘It is a hundred pounds. But I have to ask for some delay. You have given it to me — ‘

‘Delay! Oh, delay indeed!’ cried Herbert, interrupting him. “What does that mean? I hear nothing but the one tune everywhere. Is it with delays that Mr Eldon is going to satisfy his lordship?’

‘It has been a bad year for us all, Mr Herbert, and you may be sure my farm came off no better than the rest.’

That’s no business of mine, MacCarthy, and I can’t give you any delay.’

Foundling Mick stood in a dark corner, his arms crossed, his big eyes wide open, listening.

Mr Herbert,’ said the farmer, mildly, ‘you might take compassion on us. We only ask for a little time. Half the winter is over, and it has not been too hard. We’ll recover ourselves in the season that’s coming.’

‘Will you pay, or won’t you, MacCarthy?’

‘We would if we could, Mr Herbert. Do listen to me. I assure you it is impossible for us to do it.’

‘Impossible!’ repeated the subagent. ‘Very well, then, sell your stock and get the money.’

‘We have done so, all that was left after the floods. The furniture would not bring five pounds.’

‘And now that you won’t be able to carry on the farm at all, you reckon on paying the rent out of the next harvest? Is it a fool you take me for, MacCarthy?’

‘No, Mr Herbert, God forbid. But, for God’s sake, don’t take our last hope from us!’

Murdoch and his brother, motionless and silent, could hardly restrain their indignation on seeing their father standing humbly before this man.

At that moment, Granny, half-raising herself in her armchair, said in distinct, grave tones, —

‘Mr Herbert, I am 77 years old, and I have been on this farm for 67 years. My father had it before my husband and my son. Until now we have always paid our rent, and for the first time we ask for one year’s grace. I do not believe that Lord C — wants to hunt us off the land.’

‘It has nothing to do with Lord C — ,’ replied Herbert, roughly. ‘He does not even know you. But Mr Eldon knows you, and he has given me strict orders. If you don’t pay me, out of Kirwan’s Farm you shall go.’

‘Leave the farm!’ murmured Mary, who was as white as a sheet.

‘In a week.’

‘And where shall we find shelter?’

‘Where you please.’

Foundling Mick had seen many sad sights in his short life; he had suffered much misery himself, and yet it seemed to him that never had he beheld such a thing as this. Here was no scene of tears or cries, but it was nonetheless terrible.

Herbert now rose from his seat, and pausing before he replaced the papers in his bag, he said, —

‘For the last time, will you pay?’

‘And with what?’

It was Murdoch who broke in with these words, in a loud and angry voice.

Herbert knew Murdoch of old. He was aware that the young man was an active adherent of the Land League, and no doubt regarded the present as a favourable opportunity for ridding the country of him. So, as he did not think it necessary to handle Murdoch gently, he answered with a shrug of his shoulders, —

‘What with? Not with what you’ll make by attending meetings, mixing yourself up with rebels, and boycotting the landlords. It’s by working — ‘

‘Working!’ said Murdoch, stretching out his toil-hardened hands. ‘Have those hands done no work? Have my father, my brothers, and my mother sat down idle all these years in the farm? Don’t say such things, Mr Herbert, for I won’t hear them.’

He finished his sentence with a gesture from which the subagent drew back, and then, giving vent to all the wrath that social injustice had kindled and kept burning in his honest and manly breast, he poured out a torrent of accusation and recrimination.

A dead silence, which MacCarthy, who had listened with head bowed down to Murdoch’s violent words, did not break, succeeded to this outburst. Herbert regarded the stricken group with a gaze of arrogant contempt. Then Mary rose and addressed the subagent.

‘Sir,’ she said, ‘it is I who implore you to grant us a delay. It will enable us to pay you — a few months only. Sir, I beg you on my knees, have pity on us.’

And the poor woman sank on her knees before the man whose mere attitude was an insult.

‘No more of this,’ cried Murdoch sternly, as he obliged his mother to rise. ‘We have borne too much. Prayers are not the answer due to such wretches as he.’

‘No,’ said Herbert, ‘and I don’t want any more of your talk. The money, the money, down on the nail, or before a week is out you’ll be hunted off the farm.’

‘Very well; before a week is out, so be it,’ said Murdoch, ‘but before another minute I’m going to fling you out of the door of this house, which is still ours.’

Then, rushing at the man, he seized him round the body, dragged him to the outer door, and thrust him forth headlong.

‘Oh, Murdoch, what have you done?’ cried MacCarthy.

‘I’ve done what every Irishman ought to do to the landlords,’ answered Murdoch, ‘turn them out of Ireland as I have turned their agent out of this farm!’

CHAPTER 14

CATASTROPHE

The situation described in the foregoing chapter was that of the MacCarthy family in the beginning of 1882. Foundling Mick was then ten years old; a short life if measured by years only, but already long if tested by its trials. Only three happy years, those which he passed at the farm, were to be counted in its sum.

And now, the poverty that he had formerly known had fallen upon the beings whom he loved, the family that had become his own. Misfortune was about roughly to sever the links that united the mother, the brother, and the children. They would be forced to separate, to disperse, perhaps even to leave Ireland. This had happened to many other families of the agricultural class, why should it not be their lot also?

Emigration was in fact the destined lot of the MacCarthy family, and it was to be of speedy fulfilment. Nothing but danger to himself could come of Murdoch’s proceedings, the police were everywhere, and authority, on the side of the wealthy, and deaf to the protestations of the poor, supported the merciless exactions of the landlords, while it repressed with a strong hand the demonstrations of popular feeling. It would have been prudent for Murdoch to have remained quiet under a condition of things so hopeless for the cause which he espoused, and for his own interests, but he could not be induced to take any such reasonable course, and the violence with which he had recently spoken at a meeting, appealing to the people to rise against their oppressors, had so seriously compromised him and his, that MacCarthy feared a descent upon the place by the police at any minute. And now the terrible threat of eviction had come as the culminating blow, and it was evident that the end of the beloved grandmother was approaching. During the week of perplexity and suspense which followed Herbert’s visit to the farm, she became more weak hour by hour, and did not leave her bed. Foundling Mick was constantly with her, and little Jane, now two years and a half old, would sit on his knees and gaze solemnly at the aged and sunken face. How sad were Granny’s thoughts concerning the future of the unconscious child! One day she said to Mick, —

‘You are very fond of little Jane, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, Granny.’

You will never forsake her?’

‘Never.’

‘You’re her godfather, remember that; and you will be quite a man while she is still only a little girl. If her father and mother were gone — ‘

‘Oh, Granny, you must not think of such things. We’ll not always be so ill off. You’ll get better, and sit in your big chair again, and little Jane will play about you.’

But while Mick talked in this way, his heart was heavy, and tears stood in his eyes, for he knew that Granny was very, very ill. But he must not let the tears fall, lest she should see them. And not only did he grieve for his dear old friend, but he was in constant fear of the arrival of Herbert to carry out his threat.

The dispensary doctor from S — had visited Granny some weeks previously, and had spoken to MacCarthy about the improbability of his mother’s life being prolonged to the end of the winter; he had prescribed medicine for her, which Foundling Mick had fetched from the dispensary at S — , but he had also advised that his patient should have a glass of good port wine daily. The latter counsel was beyond MacCarthy’s means to follow. There was no wine in the house, and no money to buy so expensive a luxury. Granny protested strongly against the mere idea of such an extravagance; her cup of tea had sufficed for her always, and she wanted no other refreshment. But Foundling Mick, being stricken to the heart by the conviction that Granny was going from them, conceived the idea that she might be kept with them a little longer if some wine could be procured for her, and formed a bold plan for getting it.

He had seen port wine at Miss Watson’s table; he remembered its rich red colour, and the care with which the hotel waiter poured it into the glasses of the lady and her guests. He had gained fair ideas of the price of most things in the last three years, but he had no knowledge of the cost of wine. No matter; there lay at the bottom of the jug that held his little store of pebbles the golden coin which Miss Watson had given him, and which he had never mentioned to anybody at the farm. He could surely get a big bottle of the rich red wine for his golden coin, a bottle that would hold a good many glasses? Yes, but where? They did not sell such grand drinks at S — , he was sure of that; for did not Mr MacCarthy or Murdoch go all the way to Tralee when they wanted to get really good things for farm use or house use? Therefore, to Tralee Foundling Mick would go, without saying anything to anybody, and the big bottle of port wine Granny should have. He would not say a word about it, but just slip away in the night. Twelve miles to Tralee and twelve miles back again would be a good long tramp for a little fellow like him, but Mick did not give a thought to that part of the matter.

He could not possibly get back until late in the following day, but he did not think he would be missed; at all events, he should be very soon able to account for himself. Any uneasiness that might be felt would be explained after a short delay, and he was generally either with Granny, or on the outskirts of the farm on the watch for Mr Herbert and his myrmidons, so that he might not be missed at all. This would mean his having remarkably good luck; but he was well aware, without being at all affected on his own account by the knowledge, that the attention of the family was now so much absorbed by the terrible condition of affairs at the farm, that it had become impossible for him to attract so much of it to himself as he had done in better days. The cold wind of neglect never blew upon Foundling Mick, but he was so truly, so essentially one of themselves that he came and went unnoticed, in the sense of being specially considered, at this crisis of their fate.

On the 7th of January, at two o’clock in the morning, Foundling Mick stole into the old woman’s room noiselessly as a mouse, and kissed her sleeping face. Then he let himself out at the front door, with a loving goodbye pat to Ranger, who asked him very plainly in dog’s language, ‘Am I not to come too?’ In a few minutes he was on the high road to Tralee. It was still black night, and half his journey would have to be made in the dark, but Foundling Mick was not afraid. He had started at two o’clock a m. and he hoped to get back before dark. At Tralee he would take a rest, and break his fast at a public house, at the cost of a few pence. Then he would buy the big bottle of wine and start on his homeward journey.

The night was fine, the sky was clear, and Foundling Mick, who was very strong and active, did the first six miles in two hours. It was then four o’clock in the morning. The darkness, very deep towards the west, was already traversed by light streaks of pale colour, and the late stars were beginning to wane; but the sun would not be above the horizon for three hours yet. Foundling Mick sat down on the stump of a tree by the wayside, and ate a cold roasted potato, which he carried in his pocket, with appetite. The road was completely empty. Foundling Mick would not have cared to meet pedestrians, but the sight of a cart faring towards Tralee, with an obliging driver of whom he might have begged a lift, would not have been unwelcome. However, there was no such thing, and he must rely solely upon his own sturdy little legs.

At half-past seven he was within two miles of Tralee, and the pale wintry dawn was extending over the landscape. At the top of the road stretching before him Foundling Mick perceived a group of men coming from the direction of the town. His first impulse was to hide himself — and yet, what should these men have to do with a child like him? All the same, he crouched behind a hedge and watched their approach unseen.

The group was composed of police; this he recognised at a glance, and it cannot be said that he was surprised to see them. But he could hardly refrain from a cry when he recognised Herbert in the midst of them, accompanied by two or three of the assistants whose faces were only too familiar at evictions.

The boy’s heart sank. Was the subagent going to the farm, and were the policemen there for the purpose of arresting Murdoch? Mick could not remain still and think of this. He started again so soon as the group had passed him; and, now running, now walking, he reached Tralee shortly after eight o’clock.

Having carefully selected the grandest-looking wine merchant’s shop in the town, Mick walked boldly in, asked for a big bottle of ‘the best’ port, and tendered his precious sovereign, his entire fortune, in payment. The bottle, carefully wrapped in paper, was handed to him, with fifteen shillings, and he left the shop, a proud and happy boy, Herbert and the police notwithstanding, to go in search of a humble breakfast of bread and milk. This he easily obtained, and by ten o’clock he was out of the town of Tralee and on his way to Kirwan’s Farm.

He walked steadily and at a good pace; for although he was tired, his spirits had risen with the acquisition of the wine, and the sense of success in the accomplishment of his purpose. At two o’clock in the afternoon the footsore boy was near enough to his destination to see the roof of the farmhouse and the outline of the farm buildings in the hollow below the road. There was no wind, and the wintry day was bright with cold sunshine. Mick was surprised to perceive that no smoke from the kitchen chimney rose into the air, and he ran on as quickly as his feet would carry him until he arrived at the gate of the farm.

It was broken! All the space between the gate and the house was trodden by numerous footsteps. The haggard, the stable, the cow-house, were unroofed; the thatch had been torn off, and tumbled on the ground, only a few bare gaunt rafters remained. The door had been beaten in; the window frames had been torn out. The house had been rendered uninhabitable, so that it should no longer afford shelter to human beings! Their ‘voluntary ruin’ had been effected by the hand of man!

Foundling Mick stopped short, petrified by terror. He dared not enter the yard; he dared not enter the house. And yet he must do both, for if the farmer or any of his family were still there, he must know it.

He forced himself to approach the gaping door, and called aloud to Murdoch. There was no answer. Then he sank down on the threshold and began to cry.

The scene that had taken place during Foundling Mick’s absence was only one among many of those abominable spectacles which have disgraced Ireland in instances beyond counting, scenes that have ended in the abandonment of not only farms but whole villages by their inhabitants. These poor people, driven from the place of their birth and their life-toil, where they had hoped to die, might they not, perhaps, try to get back to them, to force the doors, to find a refuge there that they could not get elsewhere? Certainly they might and would, so an easy method of preventing them from doing this has been resorted to. The house is simply rendered uninhabitable. A battering-ram — the latest improvement on this instrument of savage social war, is due to the scientific ingenuity of a distinguished statesman, and known as ‘Balfour’s Maiden’ — is reared against the house, and quickly demolishes everything. The roof is stripped off, the chimney is dragged down, the hearth-place is demolished, the doors are broken, the window-frames are forced out, nothing remains but the walls. And from the moment that all the breezes blow through this ruin, that it is flooded by the rain, and the snow lies in heaps in it, the landlord and his agent may rest easy; the destitute and shelterless family cannot crouch within it any more.

After the sight of such ferocious deeds, what wonder is it that deadly hatred of the doers of them dwells in the heart of the Irish peasant?

At Kirwan’s Farm, the eviction had been carried out under still more atrocious conditions, for revenge had had its share in the work of inhumanity. Herbert, who wanted to pay Murdoch for his violent conduct, had not been satisfied with merely having recourse to the usual proceedings on behalf of the agent, he had denounced the young man to the authorities, and arrived at the farm with constables armed with a warrant for his arrest.

MacCarthy, his wife, Peter, Kitty and her child were turned out of the house, while it was ransacked from top to bottom by the police. The poor old grandmother, who had been dragged out of her bed into the yard, had raised herself up from the ground for a moment to curse her own and her country’s assassins, and then fallen back — dead.

At that moment, Murdoch, who might have had time to fly, flung himself upon these wretches. Mad with rage, he brandished an axe, and his father and brother also strove, like him, to defend their home. Numbers were against them; strength was on the side of the law, if that name can be given to such an outrage on all justice and humanity.

MacCarthy and his younger son were arrested together with Murdoch; their resistance to the police was undeniable. In consequence, they were deprived of the benefit of the law of 1870.

The body of the poor old woman was placed in a cart and removed, with the prisoners, under the escort of the police, and the miserable procession was closed by Mary and Kitty, the latter carrying her frightened child in her arms.

Could a more sad and ghastly spectacle be witnessed than that funereal train, composed of a captive family and the corpse of an aged woman, which took its way towards S — , followed by the gloomy looks and muttered curses of the few spectators whom it encountered on the road!

Foundling Mick, when his first thrill of terror had subsided, rushed through the dismantled ruin, calling, calling; but there was no answer.

Then he bethought him of his treasure, of the little stones which marked the number of days since he had arrived at Kirwan’s Farm, and he looked about for the earthenware jug, which he found in a corner, intact, with its contents — 1,540 pebbles.

And now, he must say goodbye to the place of his abode during four years and eighty days, and endeavour to rejoin the family that had been his. But first, he searches among the heap of smashed furniture for the little chest of drawers in which his small stock of linen was kept, and he fortunately found it, broken indeed; but his own particular drawer had not been pillaged. He made up the contents, to which he added the bottle of port, into a bundle, and slung it upon his shoulders. Then he scooped a hole at the foot of a tree, and buried the earthenware jug with his pebbles in it, and forgetful of his stiffness and footsoreness in the tumultuous trouble of his mind, he fled from the ruins of his home into the high road on which the shadow of the coming evening was already falling.

PART II

CHAPTER 15

TRELINGAR CASTLE

The Marquis of Trelingar was a great personage in fact, but a much greater in fiction, the fiction of his own conceit. Unfortunately, the fact of his importance had a wide-spreading and sinister influence upon the fate of a large number of honest and industrious persons, his tenants and others, who were more or less at the mercy of his pride and inhumanity. The Marquis was English, the Marchioness was Scotch; they enjoyed large possessions in Ireland, and not only were they entirely unsympathetic with the people whose toil supplied the luxury in which they lived, but they regarded them with antagonism composed partly of dislike and partly of disdain. The Marquis was 50 years old, and his family had been noble for centuries. He was a much esteemed member of the Upper House, where he was an unvarying and implacable opponent of every measure whereby any class or interests except his own might hope to be benefited. His pride was almost maniacal; he was sincerely convinced that a great wrong had been done to the aristocracy (and none but aristocrats had a right to consideration) by the abolition of the extremest privileges of the feudal times; that he ought still to hold the position of a high justiciary, dispensing life and death at his good will and pleasure, and receiving the slavish homage of the lieges. He recognised no rank beneath his own as rank at all; the inferior orders of persons possessing minor titles and the undistinguished gentry were all ‘common people’ to this absurd and contemptible peer, whose follies were, unhappily, sources of misery to people far superior in the hierarchy of humanity. In person, he belonged to a type which is becoming rare, ortunately for the future of British aristocracy; he was tall, thin, stiff, with a parchment-coloured complexion, a flabby, high-featured face, dull eyes, and thin hair; his manner was pompous, self-conscious and awkward, his speech was hesitating and formal; in short, his physical attributes corresponded with his poor and ignorant mental condition. His marriage had been an admirable arrangement. The Marchioness was a woman ‘made for him’, his match in pride, in narrowness, in lack of heart, and scantness of intelligence. Harmoniously the two led together their life of grand parade; in the amity of two selfish natures they sat aloft upon their perch, resolved never to descend from it. No doubt this lord and his lady believed that they would be received with distinguished honours in the Court of Heaven, having got in by the privileged entree.

The Marquis of Trelingar was not in a fuss; so plebeian a manifestation as fidgety discomposure would have belied the first principles of his manner of existence. He was seated in front of a writing table in his elaborately furnished library, but his lordship’s attitude was not reposeful, he moved the papers before and at both sides of him, looked under them, searched the pockets of his morning coat, and finally touched the electric bell at his elbow, and frowningly waited a response to the summons. Almost immediately a footman appeared and stood motionless at the door.

‘See whether my letter-case has fallen under the table,’ said the Marquis.

John advanced, stooped, inspected the carpet, and rose with empty hands.

His lordship frowned.

‘Where is her ladyship?’ he asked.

‘Her ladyship is in her room, my lord.’

‘Where is Lord Ashton?’

‘His lordship is in the park, my lord.’

‘Let her ladyship know that I wish to see her as soon as possible.’

John turned round, all of a piece, and walked away to execute his lordship’s orders. After the lapse of a few minutes the library door was again opened, and the Marchioness advanced into the room with a slow and stately step. She was a heaven-sent match for her husband, 40 years old, tall, thin, scraggy, angular, aquiline-nosed, low-shouldered, flat-chested; she never could have been good looking, even in her youth, but she was aristocratic in her carriage and manners, and equalled, if she did not surpass, her husband, in her lofty notions of the privileges and traditions of their ‘Order’.

John placed a chair for her ladyship, and withdrew. The Marquis then solemnly addressed her.

‘You will excuse me, I hope, for disturbing you and asking you to come here — ‘

‘I am quite at liberty,’ returned Lady Trelingar. (These personages never departed from the most formal courtesy in their interviews.) ‘What do you wish to say to me?’

‘I wish to ask you to recall everything that occurred yesterday, as accurately as possible. You remember that we left the castle yesterday, at about three o’clock in the afternoon, for the purpose of calling on Mr Laird, at N — ?’

‘Yes, certainly.’

‘Ashton was with us.’

‘Yes.’

‘And the men?’

As usual.’

‘You will remember that I had with me a letter-case containing the papers relating to the lawsuit with which we are threatened by the parish authorities — ‘

‘A gross injustice and unheard-of insolence!’ said Lady Trelingar, with a significant emphasis upon the last word.

‘There was a bank-note for one hundred pounds in the letter-case, in addition to the papers; but you will remember that Laird said he preferred that I should hold over both until the proper time for acting in opposition to the parish claim should have arrived, that I did not leave the letter-case or its contents at his office, and that we got back to the Casde at about seven, when it was growing dark.’

‘I remember all that,’ said the Marchioness, rather wondering what her pompous lord was driving at.

‘Well, then,’ he resumed, ‘that letter-case, which I replaced in the left pocket of my overcoat, is not to be found!’

‘Have you searched among the things on the table for it?’

‘Yes, I have turned over all the papers, and looked everywhere.’ i ‘Nobody has been in the room since yesterday,’ said Lady Trelingar, ,“except the housemaids and John. It is not likely any servant would take it; although people of that class are rarely to be trusted.’

‘It is just possible it might have slipped behind the carriage cushions,’ suggested the Marquis.

‘They would have found it in that case. The papers are of great importance?’

‘Of the greatest. If I cannot produce them we shall inevitably lose our cause.’

‘That would be an abominable shame!’

‘Abominable indeed, like everything else that threatens the sanctity of property in Ireland.’

His lordship was checked at the beginning of his harangue by the entrance of a third person. This was a youth of about fifteen years old, at sight of whom the Marquis exclaimed, ‘Ha, Ashton, here you are!’

Lord Ashton had regular features, but a wholly insignificant face; time could not endow it with vivacity or intelligence. The instinct of race manifested itself in his carriage and demeanour; he was of gentlemanly bearing, although he had been spoilt by his mother and indulged in every caprice by the subservient dependants in the castle. In reality, he possessed none of the qualities of his age; he had neither the good impulses, the warm heart nor the natural enthusiasm of youth. He was, in fact, a sprig of effete nobility, the product to be expected from the union of two such individuals as his parents; brought up to regard all who approached him as inferiors, without pity for the poor; learned enough in matters of sport, racing, hunting, tennis and croquet, but almost entirely ignorant of all besides, notwithstanding the succession of tutors who had vainly undertaken the task of his education.

Lord Ashton was a prime specimen of the young gentlemen of high birth who are destined to become complete imbeciles, while retaining the distinction that marks their class. The number of these peculiarly English types is diminishing, but it is still considerable.

The matter in question was explained to him, and he recalled to mind that he had seen his father place the letter-case behind his back on one of the carriage cushions on leaving N — .

Are you sure, Ashton?’ asked his mother.

‘Quite sure, and I don’t think it could have fallen out of the carriage.’

‘Then it must have been in the carriage when we returned to the Castle,’ remarked Lady Trelingar, ‘and we can only conclude that one of the servants has taken it.’

Lord Ashton was entirely of his mother’s opinion. He had not the slightest confidence in these fellows, who are always spies even when they are not thieves, but are generally both, and with whom people of the Trelingar quality ought to be empowered to deal summarily, and would be, were it not for the detestable modern spirit. For his part, he only wished he had a footman ‘all to himself, or a little groom at least; he would soon let him know what a master meant!

After some edifying talk in this tone, the worthy trio arrived at the conclusion that the letter-case had been stolen, that the thief could be none other than one of the servants, and that an inquiry must be instituted, and those upon whom suspicion should light be handed over at once to police custody.

Thereupon Lord Ashton summoned John, and a few minutes later the steward, Mr Scarlett, stood in the august presence of his employer.

Mr Scarlett was a plausible and cunning person, who successfully assumed an air of benevolence, while he ill-treated everybody over whom his power extended. He was cordially detested by all the household of Trelingar Castle; for, under cover of a mild manner and gentle tones, he exercised a grinding tyranny, without anger, without arrogance, caressing while he scratched.

The story of the letter-case was told to Scarlett. The article had undoubtedly been placed on the carriage cushion, and ought to have been found in that place. Such was the opinion of Lord and Lady Trelingar, and therefore it became the conviction of Mr Scarlett. To suggest that the letter-case might have fallen out on the road would have been disrespectful to the Marquis, and the steward did not make any suggestion of the kind; he merely ventured to ‘suppose’ that the papers contained in the case were of great value. Indeed, how could they be otherwise, seeing that they belonged to his lordship?

‘Yes, there has been theft — theft,’ repeated the Marquis, ‘and the papers, to say nothing of the money, are most important. They establish my rights in the matter of this claim made by the parish.’

The attitude of the steward was a complete model of indignation, zeal, fand servility, as he stood, with downcast eyes and raised hands which trembled at the mere mention of such iniquity as that implied by a parish claim against the noble lord of the soil!

‘The theft can only have been committed — ‘ he began, softly, and with hesitation.

‘By one of our people,’ interrupted Lord Ashton, shaking the riding-whip he carried in a truly feudal fashion.

‘You will set an inquiry on foot at once,’ commanded the Marquis in his most pompous tones, ‘so as to discover the guilty party or parties, and you will send for a constable on the spot.’

‘If the inquiry should not be successful?’ asked the steward in a timid and deprecatory manner.

‘The entire household shall be dismissed, Scarlett; every one of them,’ was Lord Trelingar’s reply.

That the letter-case had fallen out of the carriage Mr Scarlett did not entertain the smallest doubt, but this consideration did not weigh with him. A theft had to be established in order that the judgement of the Marquis might be confirmed; it was for him to establish the theft and to find the thief. After a few more words, he left the room and was about to proceed to the nearest police station, in order to secure the services of a constable (for he by no means intended to charge the servants indiscriminately with theft, unsupported by the potent symbol of the law, after the high and mighty fashion dictated by the Marquis), when his purpose was frustrated by an unexpected incident. He was crossing the yard to order a horse to be saddled for his use, when a bell in the wall was rung, the latch of a side door was lifted, and a boy, standing in the aperture, took off his cap deferentially to the steward.

The boy was Foundling Mick.

CHAPTER 16

IN SERVICE

Nearly four months had elapsed since the never-to-be-forgotten day on which the adopted child of the MacCarthys had quitted Kirwan’s Farm. All that had happened to Foundling Mick during that period may be related in a brief space.

It was already growing dark when Mick turned his back forever on the ruins of his home. Having failed to come up with the MacCarthys and the others on the road to Tralee, he thought at first of bending his steps towards Limerick, whither the constables had, he concluded, been ordered to conduct their prisoners. To find the family, and to rejoin them and share their fate, whatever that might be, was Mick’s clearly indicated object. He was too young to work for them at present, in the sense of earning money to assist them, but later on he might hope to find profitable employment, and still later, when he should have made his fortune, for he would do that, he would restore them to the welfare and comfort which he had enjoyed at the farm.

In the meantime, on that lonely road, in a region waste and desolated by poverty, forsaken by the miserable creatures whom it could not feed, with the cold, dark night coming on apace, Mick had never before felt so solitary. It is rarely that children of his age are not bound by some tie, if not to a family home, at least to a charitable establishment where they are sheltered and brought up; but what was he any more than a leaf plucked from a tree and flung down upon the roadway? There was no one to take pity on him; if he should not succeed in finding the MacCarthys, what was to become of him? And if he did, and that they were not to be imprisoned, but should make up their minds, like so many others, to immigrate to the New World, what was he to do then?

Our little lad resolved to journey on in the direction of Limerick. He was unacquainted with the road, and the evening was very cold, although calm. He trudged on for two miles without meeting a living soul, and then the previous fatigue of his walk to Tralee told suddenly upon him; his knees bent under him, his feet stumbled in the ruts, his sight grew dim. But Mick would not give in; he struggled along somehow for half a mile, and then coming to a cross-road, and not knowing which direction to take, his heart and his strength failed him simultaneously, and he sank down with a pitiful moan on a patch of grass by the wayside. Almost immediately afterwards the distant barking of a dog caught his dull ear, then the sound came nearer, and presently a dog ran round the turn of the road, his nose in the searching position, his tongue protruding, and his eyes shining like a cat’s. With three or four bounds, the dog was upon the boy, but not to devour, only to caress him, and make him warm by lying down at his side.

Foundling Mick soon recovered his senses. He opened his eyes, felt that a warm tongue was licking his ice-cold hands, and murmured, ‘Ranger! Ranger!’

How eagerly did Mick return the joyful greeting of his faithful companion at Kirwan’s Farm, while his shivering body regained warmth from the welcome contact of his four-footed friend! He felt and said to himself that he was no longer alone in the world. He and Ranger together would seek the MacCarthys. He had no doubt that Ranger had wanted to accompany them after the eviction; but why had he returned? No doubt because the land agent and the myrmidons of the law had driven him away with stones and blows. In fact this was exactly what had occurred, and Ranger, thus roughly repulsed, had returned towards the farm. Now Mick would be able to follow the track of the police; he might safely trust to the dog’s instinct for rejoining the evicted family.

He began to talk with Ranger as he had been in the habit of doing during their long hours on the pastureland at Kirwan’s Farm. Ranger answered him in his own fashion, uttering short barks easy to interpret.

‘Come on, my doggie, come on,’ said Micky, ‘let us go.’

Ranger darted off with a bound in front of his young master on one of the two roads.

But the dog, remembering the ill-treatment he had received from the escort of the prisoners and the others, had no desire to take the road to Limerick; accordingly, he selected that which lies alongside the boundary of County Kerry, and leads to one of the townlets of County Cork. Foundling Mick was unconsciously increasing the distance between himself and the MacCarthys, and when day dawned, he stopped, worn out with fatigue and half dead with hunger, to ask for food and shelter at a public house a dozen miles south-east of the farm. He had just fifteen shillings in his pocket, a sum on which one cannot do much travelling, even with great economy, when there are two to be fed, and Foundling Mick was forced by his exhausted condition to remain 24 hours in the garret which was his sleeping-place and Ranger’s.

In answer to his questions the publican said he knew nothing about the MacCarthys, and, indeed, evictions had been so numerous during that winter that no attention had been paid to the proceedings at Kirwan’s Farm.

When Mick resumed his journey he still followed Ranger along the road to N — , in a bewildered kind of way, and did not discover his mistake until his little store was so much diminished that he knew he should have to beg his way to Limerick, and this he was resolved he would not do. He was a smart little fellow, but he was only a child, after all; in the few days that elapsed while he wandered ignorantly farther and farther from his goal, he lost the sense of time and the power of hope. To get to a town, a real town, where he might learn something of his lost friends, where, if going farther should be impossible for want of money, he might get some trifling occupation, became his only distinct idea. As he painfully toiled along the dreary high road, his great fear was that notice might be taken of his solitary condition and his tender age, that he might be questioned, stopped, and taken to a workhouse or a poor school. Any and every hardship of a wandering life rather than either of these degrading alternatives for Foundling Mick! Besides, either would mean his being separated from Ranger, and that — never, never!

‘No, no!’ he said, pulling the dog’s big head down upon his knees. ‘We could not live without each other; could we, Ranger?’

As plainly as ever such a sentiment was expressed Ranger replied, with eyes and tail and dog-talk, that the thing was morally and absolutely impossible. It would be tedious and monotonous to dwell on the boy’s wanderings, and on the sinking of his hopes. With his arrival at N — the vision of rejoining the MacCarthys faded from his fancy, to return no more. He had just sixpence in the world; he was once more ‘lost’. We may pass over the long weeks of his sojourn there, and resume his history in the spring. He managed to live, by selling matches in the street, sometimes, and by the doing of odd jobs in the small farms and stable yards of the place. He was not molested, he even found a few friends, as humble and almost as poor as himself.

If any one of that small number had been in a position to observe the boy closely on the 16th of April, he might have been struck by the change in his countenance and manner since the preceding day. Foundling Mick’s face was overcast with anxiety, and he looked about him furtively, as though he were beset by a fear that he was watched, as he started from his poor lodging in a loft over a little chandler’s shop, early in the morning, and took the road that led to Cork.

He walked as quickly as he could, and with an impatient gait as though he would fain have run, and went straight on, eyes front, heeding nothing external to his concentrated thoughts. Of course he was accompanied by Ranger, but this time the dog did not lead his young master, at whom he occasionally glanced with wistful and glistening eyes.

It was nearly noon when Foundling Mick rang the bell at the door in the wall of the stable yard at Trelingar Castle.

Scarlett was just preparing to start on his errand to K — . In the yard were Lord Ashton’s dogs, and those animals, apparently displeased by the aspect of Foundling Mick, barked at him furiously.

Mick, who was afraid lest a battle, in which Ranger would be at a disadvantage, should ensue on this hostile manifestation, made a sign to that obedient animal, and Ranger trotted back and retired behind some bushes in the vicinity of the open gate.

On catching sight of the boy, Scarlett called to him to come near.

‘What do you want?’ he asked, harshly. Mr Scarlett, who could be all amiability to grown-up persons who were not afraid of him, made it a point to be rough with children.

But a loud voice did not frighten our little lad. He had been used to such voices when he was with Mrs Murphy, with Hornpipe, and at the poor school. He took off his cap respectfully, but before he could answer Mr Scarlett’s question he was shouted at again.

‘Will you tell me what it is you want here? If it’s to beg you’re come, just be off with yourself.’

While Scarlett was speaking the dogs continued to bark, and Foundling Mick had some difficulty in keeping clear of the horse’s heels.

‘I have not come to beg, sir,’ answered the boy, ‘I never have begged, and — ‘

‘I suppose you would not take anything if you got the offer,’ said Scarlett, ironically.

‘No! Not from anybody.’

‘Then what brings you here?’

‘I have come to speak to Lord Trelingar.’

‘To his lordship?’

‘Yes, to his lordship.’

‘And you imagine that he will see you?’

‘I do, because it is important.’

‘Important!’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What is it, then?’

‘I cannot tell that to anybody except Lord Trelingar.’

‘Then you may be off, his lordship is not at home.’

‘I will wait.’

‘You won’t wait here, anyway.’

‘I will come back.’

‘You can’t speak to his lordship,’ growled the steward. ‘I’m the person to be spoken to, and if you don’t tell me what you’ve got to say — ‘

‘I can’t, sir, indeed I can’t. I can only tell it to Lord Trelingar, and I beg — ‘

‘Get out, you vagabond!’ shouted the steward, threatening the boy with his whip. ‘Off with you, or I’ll set the dogs on you!’

At the raised voice of the steward, the dogs began to approach, to the terror of Mick, lest Ranger should abandon his shelter and come to the rescue, thus complicating the position.

At this moment Lord Ashton appeared at the far end of the yard, and, coming up to the group, asked what was to do there.

‘It’s a boy, begging, my lord,’ answered Scarlett.

‘I am not begging!’ repeated Mick.

A tramp.’

‘Be off, you scoundrel,’ cried Lord Ashton, ‘or I will set my dogs on you!’

At that moment the Marquis appeared on the scene, and perceiving that Mr Scarlett had not yet set out for K — , he inquired into the cause of this delay, and of the noise that had assailed his aristocratic ears.

‘I beg pardon, my lord,’ began the steward, ‘this young vagabond, a beggar, insists — ‘

‘I tell you again, sir,’ persisted Mick, ‘that I am not a beggar.’

‘What does the boy want?’ asked the Marquis.

‘To speak to your lordship.’

Lord Trelingar stepped back, struck a feudal attitude, and drawing himself up, said haughtily, —

‘You want to speak to me. Speak, then.’

‘My lord, you went yesterday to N — ‘

‘Yes.’

In the afternoon?’

‘Yes.’

The steward was utterly astonished. Here was the ‘tramp’ questioning the Marquis, and his lordship actually answering the tramp.

My lord,’ said the boy, ‘have you not lost a letter-case?’

‘Yes, that is the fact. Well?’

‘I found it on the N — road, and I have brought it back to you.’

With this he held out to Lord Trelingar the article which had been the cause of so much trouble by its disappearance, and the origin of so much unfounded suspicion of innocent persons. Thus, at no matter what cost to his dignity and self-esteem, the Marquis was proved to be in fault, the accusation against the servants was brought to nought, and, to Mr Scarlett’s profound disgust, his expedition to K — became unnecessary.

Lord Trelingar took the letter-case, which had his name and address printed inside, from the hand of Foundling Mick, and proceeded to examine its contents. Having ascertained that the papers and the bank-note were intact, he addressed the boy.

‘It was you who picked up the letter-case?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘And you opened it, no doubt?’

‘I did, my lord, to see who it belonged to.’

‘You saw that there was a bank-note in it, but perhaps you did not know its value?’

‘It is a bank-note for a hundred pounds,’ answered Foundling Mick without hesitation.

‘Ah! you know that, but you did not think of keeping it for yourself?’

‘I am not a thief, my lord, any more than I am a beggar,’ replied Mick proudly.

Lord Trelingar had closed the letter-case, and carefully transferred the bank-note to his breast pocket. The boy bowed and made a few steps backward, before his lordship, who had shown no sense of the propriety of Mick’s conduct, said, —

‘What reward do you ask for having brought back this letter-case?’

‘Give him a few shillings,’ said Lord Ashton.

‘Or a few pence; it’s as much as his trouble’s worth,’ added the steward, quickly.

Foundling Mick, indignant at such bargaining for a reward he had not demanded, remarked, —

‘Neither shillings nor pence are due to me,’ and walked away.

‘Stop!’ Lord Trelingar called after him, and the boy paused, but did not re-approach the speaker.

‘How old are you?’

‘Ten and a half.’

‘And your father and mother?’

‘I have neither father nor mother.’

‘Your relations?’

‘I have no relations.’

‘Where do you come from?’

‘From Kirwan’s Farm, where I lived for four years until four months ago.’

‘Why did you leave it?’

‘Because the farmer was hunted out by the police.’

‘Is not that one of Lord C — ‘s farms?’ asked the Marquis, turning to Scarlett.

‘Yes, my lord,’ replied the steward.

‘And what are you going to do now?’ inquired his lordship.

‘I am going back to N — where I earn my living.’

‘If you like to remain at the Castle, some kind of work can be found for you.’

This was a charitable offer; yet it was the pride and not the heart of Lord Trelingar that suggested it. Foundling Mick understood this perfecdy, and instead of replying at once, he paused to reflect. He was not at all attracted by either the Marquis or his son, and the rough reception he had had from Scarlett made the latter odious to him.

Then there was Ranger. They might take him into their service, but they would not have Ranger, and he could not make up his mind to part with the comrade of his good and evil days.

And yet, was not the proposal of the Marquis a stroke of luck for the poor boy who had no certainty of being able to make a livelihood of the humblest description? His reason told him that he ought to close with it, and that if he returned to N — he might repent his decision.

True, the dog was embarrassing, but he should find an opportunity of speaking on that matter. They would surely let Ranger in, if only as a watch dog, a capacity in which the faithful animal was eminently admirable. And then, he would not be employed at the Castle without some pay, and by economising —

‘Well, have you made up your mind?’ growled the steward, who would gladly have seen him sent off about his business without more ado.

‘How much should I be paid?’ asked Mick, boldly, the practical side of him coming uppermost.

‘Two pounds a month,’ answered the Marquis.

Two pounds a month! This seemed an immense sum to Mick, and indeed it was large wages for a child of his age.

‘I thank your lordship,’ said the boy, with all his native courtesy; ‘I accept your lordship’s offer, and will do my best to please you.’

And thus it was that Foundling Mick took his place on that very day among the servants in the Castle, with the assent of the Marchioness, and a week later was raised to the rank and dignity of groom or little ‘tiger’ to Lord Ashton.

And Ranger? what had become of him during that week? Had his master ventured to present him at the Casde? No, he would have been too ill received. The fact was that Lord Ashton possessed three dogs, and loved them almost as well as he loved himself. To live with them satisfied alike his tastes and his intelligence. The dogs were highly bred Scotch terriers, and excessively ill tempered; they tolerated no intruders, and their instinct towards their own kind was aggressive and combative. Therefore Ranger hung about the place at a more than respectful distance, and Mick brought him food at night, saved from his own allowance. Both the dog and his master grew thin under this arrangement; but, no matter, they were not quite parted, and better days, in which they should grow fat together, might be in store for the faithful pair.

From this time a different life began for the young hero of this melancholy history. We need not refer to the years passed with Mrs Murphy and at the poor school, but only draw the comparison with his existence at Kirwan’s Farm. There he was one of the MacCarthy family; the yoke of servitude did not gall him; but here, at the Castle, he was regarded with the most complete indifference. The Marquis looked upon him in the light of one of the ‘poor’s boxes’ into which he dropped an alms at stated periods; the Marchioness regarded him as no more than an additional animal in the place, but not at all as a pet one; and to Lord Ashton he represented a toy which had been given to him without any caution against breaking it. Scarlett formed an exception to this negative rule; he had resolved to testify his antipathy to Foundling Mick by incessandy molesting him, and he found plenty of opportunity. As for the English servants, they looked on the foundling whom his lordship had brought into the Castle as entirely beneath them, and declined to associate, beyond the inevitable meals in common, with such ‘scum’; making him feel their contempt in every small detail of his service. Foundling Mick made no complaint, returned no answer, but performed his tasks to the very best of his ability. But oh! how thankful he was when night came, and after he had executed his master’s last orders, he took refuge in the little room which he had all to himself.

Nevertheless, in the midst of all this ill-will and indifference, there was one woman who took an interest in Foundling Mick. She was only a laundress in the service of the Castle, named Kate Brady. Kate was 50 years of age, and had always lived on the domain; she would probably end her days there, unless Mr Scarlett should turn her out. This he had already attempted to do, for Irish Kate was not so fortunate as to please him. To this good woman Mick would sometimes confide his trouble when he had suffered any special slight or spite from the servants.

‘Patience, patience!’ Kate would say to him. ‘Don’t mind what they say. The best among them is no great things, and I don’t know one that would have brought back the letter-case.’

Very likely the laundress was right, and these persons looked upon Foundling Mick as a fool for his honesty.

Fortified by his one friend, Mick was not unhappy, although he had to comply with every caprice of his young master. This state of things would last so long as the plaything had not ceased to please; but the young gendeman was so spoilt, selfish, and whimsical that it was hard to tell for how long that condition would hold good. Children always tire of their playthings, and throw them away, even if they do not break them. Foundling Mick, however, had no notion of allowing himself to be smashed. He regarded his situation at Trelingar only as a temporary expedient; he had accepted it in lieu of something better, hoping that a farther opportunity of gaining his livelihood would soon occur. His youthful ambition rose above the functions of a ‘tiger’. His pride rebelled against servitude, and was humiliated by the effacement of himself in the presence of Lord Ashton, whose superior he felt himself to be. Yes, his superior, although Lord Ashton had lessons in Latin history and other things. Professors came to instruct him, trying to fill him with knowledge as a jug might be filled with water. Foundling Mick knew nothing about these fine things, but he knew how to reflect. At ten years old he was a thinker. He appraised this young sprig of nobility at his true value, and sometimes blushed at the service he was bound to do for him. How deeply he regretted the salutary and invigorating labour of the farm, and his life with the MacCarthys, of whom he could hear nothing.

An opportunity soon arose for putting the friendship of the laundress, Kate Brady, to the test.

It is well to mention here that the dispute between the parish and Lord Trelingar had been settled in favour of the latter, owing to the production of the paper which had been restored by Foundling Mick; but the boy’s action seemed to be quite forgotten now, and, indeed, why should any gratitude be felt towards him?

May, June and July had passed away, and Ranger had been fed somehow; he had also shown great prudence in keeping clear of the dangers of the park. Foundling Mick had carefully stored up, and with equal care inscribed in his pocketbook, the large sum of six pounds sterling, his wages for three months.

During those three months the Marquis and Marchioness of Trelingar had been occupied in receiving and returning the visits of the great folk of the county. A portion of the summer had gone by, and the period had arrived at which the Marquis usually visited Scodand and his wife’s family. This year, however, the noble family contemplated an excursion to the celebrated Lakes of Killarney, as a preliminary to the autumnal tour, and their departure was fixed for the 3rd of August.

If Foundling Mick hoped that he was to be left at the Castle, for a short spell of leisure and peace, he deceived himself. Lord Ashton would by no means dispense with the services of his litde groom. Then arose a grave consideration for poor Mick. What would become of Ranger? Who would take care of him? Who would feed him?

He decided on taking Kate Brady into his confidence, and the good woman at once settled the matter for him by promising to take charge of Ranger, unknown to anybody.

‘Don’t be uneasy, my child,’ said Kate, ‘I’m a’most as fond of your dog as you are yourself, and nothing shall happen to him while you are away.’

Thereupon Foundling Mick kissed Kate Brady with fervent gratitude, and on the evening before his departure he placed Ranger in her charge, and bade farewell to the faithful animal with a comparatively light heart.

CHAPTER 17

A YOUNG ENGLISH NOBLEMAN

Our readers will readily excuse a hiatus in the narrative of Foundling Mick’s adventures at the point which that narrative has reached. The district of Killarney and its famous lakes are too well known to require, or indeed to bear, description, and a record of the tour of the noble travellers in the picturesque region to which some of the most poetic legends and the most harrowing facts in Irish history, both ancient and modern, are attached, would be only a tedious interruption of a story which boasts of only a humble hero. The travellers did not leave their several natures behind them at Trelingar Castle; their respective characteristics were freely displayed everywhere they went, and thoroughly appreciated by the intelligent people, who were quite capable of ‘taking the length of the foot’ of the Marquis, the Marchioness, and the lordling. Of course they were received everywhere with well-simulated respect, which was in many instances even servile, but only the few persons of rank approaching to theirs failed to note the emptiness of their heads, the coldness of their hearts, the narrowness of their minds, and the arrogance of their pretensions as those qualities deserved. They had one recommendation only; they could, and did, spend money in the places through which they passed; for their own gratification, it is true, but still the money was actually put in circulation, and that was a good thing! As for themselves, the scenes of beauty, whether mournful or majestic, the interesting people, the suggestive spectacle of the lavish loveliness of nature in sad contrast with the poverty and suffering of humanity, said nothing to these soulless personages, who visited Killarney because it was ‘the thing’ to do so. If the truth concerning this expedition is to be told, as it may be told in a few words, the one individual of the party who saw, admired, understood, and enjoyed the objects which it disclosed to eyes endowed with the true faculty of seeing, was poor Foundling Mick. To the nameless deserted child, the ill-used waif, the twice-orphaned exile from Kirwan’s Farm, the little victim of the capricious tyranny and bullying of the ill-conditioned cub who was heir to all the Trelingar greatness, the voice of Nature spoke, on him she smiled, and to her his seared and timid heart was opened.

We pass over the incidents of the excursion, and take up the thread of our little lad’s story on the auspicious day that witnessed the return of the Marquis and Marchioness with their hopeful son and heir to Trelingar Castle.

They were very glad to be done with the traditional excursion to the Lakes of Killarney and the mountainous regions of Kerry.

‘It wasn’t worth the trouble and fatigue,’ said her ladyship, and his lordship echoed the sentiment.

As for Foundling Mick, he returned with his head full of pictures and of remembrance. His first care was to inquire of Kate Brady for news of Ranger.

Ranger was well. He came punctually every evening to the appointed place, where the kind-hearted laundress waited for him with his food. That same evening the boy and his canine friend met again; the interview was most affectionate on both sides, and they parted with poignant regret. Prudence was necessary. Ranger had been seen more than once in the neighbourhood of the Castle, and the dogs had signified the presence of an intruder on those occasions.

The Castle resumed its usual course of existence — the vegetative existence which suited such exalted personages as its owners. Lord and Lady Trelingar were to go to Scotland in September, and to London for the winter. The monotonous routine of visits began again. Foundling Mick, who had nothing to do with that side of life at the Casde, found his own little share of another side of it anything but pleasant. He was continually exposed to the malicious devices of Scarlett, who found a ready-to-hand victim in the friendless boy. On the other hand he had no respite from the whims of Lord Ashton, and he was laughed at by all the servants, indoor and outdoor, when they saw him treated like a toy jerked by wires, perpetually called, dismissed, commanded and countermanded. All this humiliated the boy profoundly. At night, when he was at last safe in his little room, he gave himself up to reflecting upon the position into which his extreme poverty had forced him. What would his post as ‘tiger’ to Lord Ashton lead to? Nothing. He was made for something better. To be only a servant, a machine made to obey, was unspeakably repugnant to his independent spirit; it hampered the ambition that he felt within himself. At least, when he lived at the farm, it was on the footing of equality. He was regarded as the child of the house. Where were now Granny’s caresses, the affection of Mary and Kitty, the encouraging kindness of MacCarthy and his sons? He prized far more the pebbles he had received each night, and had buried amid the ruins of the farm, than the sovereigns with which his slavery was now paid by the month. While he lived at Kirwan’s Farm he was learning, he was working; he was gaining the means of making a livelihood for himself one day. Here, nothing but a distasteful task without an outlook; of submission to the whims of a vainglorious, spoilt, selfish, ignorant youth. He was constantly occupied in putting in order — not the books, there were none — but everything in the young lord’s disorderly rooms.

And then, the young lord’s cabriolet was Mick’s despair! Oh, that cabriolet! At the risk of overturning the vehicle into a ditch, Lord Ashton seemed to take delight in driving recklessly on the worst roads in the county in order to swing the little groom, holding on by the straps at the back, from side to side more violently. The dog-cart was less of an instrument of torture to Mick; in it he could sit bolt upright and steady, in the regulation attitude with his arms crossed.

There was, however, hardly a day on which the cabriolet experience had not to be gone through. In the long drives in the Trelingar district, the dashing vehicle with its smart attendant would pass by groups of ragged children, running barefooted on the stony highway, with outstretched hands, and the too familiar beggar’s whine: ‘Give us a ha’penny!’ At the sight Foundling Mick’s heart swelled; he had known such misery himself. Lord Ashton replied to the entreaties of the poor creatures by jeering at them, and threatening them with his whip, while his ‘boy’ longed to throw a few of the coveted ha’pence among them. But this he was too much afraid of his heartless young master to do.

Once, however, the temptation proved too strong for him. A little girl, with fair curls and blue eyes, a pretty child despite her rags and her lean, half-starved body, looked piteously at him as the dog-cart passed her, and he threw her a penny from his seat at the back. The child picked up the coin with a cry of joy, and Lord Ashton heard that unusual sound. He had caught his groom in flagrante delicto of charity!

‘How dared you do that, boy?’ he asked, angrily.

‘My lord, the little girl — she was so glad — it was only a penny.’

‘Just what you had thrown to yourself, when you ran the roads, eh?’

‘No, never,’ protested Foundling Mick, revolting against this reiterated charge of mendicancy.

‘Why did you give that beggar a penny?’

‘She looked at me — I looked at her.’

‘I forbid you to look at the beggar children on the roads. Mind that, now.’

And Foundling Mick had to obey, but he was exasperated by the hardness of heart of this scion of a noble house. He did not again venture to give a penny to any poor creature in passing, but early in September an incident occurred which caused him to depart from the wholesome path of caution.

On that particular day, Lord Ashton had ordered his dog-cart to go to K — . As usual, Foundling Mick accompanied him, sitting back-to-back with his lordship, with folded arms, and motionless as a statue. The dog-cart reached the little town without accident; and the driver made the horse prance and foam at the mouth, much to the admiration of the idle spectators. Lord Ashton got out and went into two or three shops, while Mick stood right in front of the horses head, to the wonder of the gaping street boys, whose envy was excited by the young groom in his trim livery.

When Lord Ashton had sufficiently displayed his equipage and himself in the town, he took the homeward road, making the horse go at a foot-pace, with all sorts of equine airs and graces. At a short distance the dog-cart encountered a tribe of beggar children who went through the usual routine of useless supplication, but on this occasion, being encouraged by the slow movement, they followed closely behind the dog-cart. Being presently deterred by the backward sweep of Lord Ashton’s ever ready and merciless whip, however, all but one dropped off and stood in the road disconsolate.

That one persisted. He was a litde boy of seven, full of intelligence and high spirits, truly Irish in that particular. Slow as the pace of the horse was, the little fellow had to run over the stones, which cut his bare feet, in order to keep up with the dog-cart. Still he persisted, braving the menace of the whip, and offering a bunch of heather for the sorely needed ha’penny.

Foundling Mick, in alarm lest the child should be hurt, made urgent signs to him to desist, but in vain; the little boy still ran after the dog-cart. Lord Ashton had, of course, ordered him off several times, but he persisted, and ran along so close to the wheels that he was in danger of being crushed.

A touch of the reins would have started the horse at the trot, but that did not suit Lord Ashton’s humour, he chose to go at a walking-pace, and at a walking-pace he went. At last he grew weary of the child’s importunity, and struck at him with the whip. The long lash, ill-directed, caught round the neck of the little boy, who was dragged along, half-strangled for a few seconds; then with a pull the lash was loosed and he fell back upon the road.

Foundling Mick jumped off the dog-cart and ran to the child, who was screaming with pain. A red line encircled his neck. Our little lad’s heart swelled with indignation; he would have felt a fierce joy in flinging himself upon Lord Ashton, who might have paid dearly for his cruelty, although he was five years older than his groom.

‘Come here, boy!’ he shouted. He had stopped his horse.

‘The child, my lord?’

‘Come here, this instant!’ he shouted again, and flourished his whip. ‘Come! or I’ll flog you too!’

It was fortunate that he did not put his threat into execution, for there is no saying what might have happened had he done so. Foundling Mick had sufficient self-control to master his feelings, and having pushed a few pence into the pocket of the little fellow’s ragged jacket, he got up behind the dog-cart.

‘The first time you presume to get down without orders,’ said Lord Ashton, ‘I shall first give you a good horsewhipping, and then turn you away!’

Mick’s eyes flashed, but he made no reply. The dog-cart rolled rapidly out of sight, leaving the little boy on the roadside, quite consoled, and jingling his pennies in his hand.

From that day forward Lord Ashton’s evil instincts prompted him to make his groom’s life as hard as possible. Every vexation and exaction was heaped on Mick; no humiliation was spared him. All that he had formerly had to suffer physically he now had to suffer morally, and as a matter of fact, he was no less miserable than he had formerly been in Mrs Murphy’s cabin, or under Hornpipe’s tyranny. He constantly thought of leaving Trelingar Castle, but whither was he to go? He had heard nothing of the MacCarthys, and even if he could rejoin them what would they be able to do for him, homeless and destitute as they were? Nevertheless, he was resolved not to remain in the service of Lord Ashton.

Mick had another pressing cause of anxiety. The family at the Castle would soon be leaving Trelingar for Scotland, and ultimately England; if he should be taken with them, he must relinquish all hope of finding the MacCarthys. Then, again, there was Ranger. What would become of him?

‘I will keep him,’ said Kate Brady, one day, ‘and take good care of him.’

‘I know you would, for you are kind,’ answered Mick. ‘I could trust him to you, and I would pay for his food.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Kate, ‘I did not mean that. I’m very fond of the dog.’

‘No matter, he must not cost you anything; but, if I go away, I shall not see him again for the whole winter or, perhaps, ever.’

‘Why, my dear? When you come back — ‘

‘When I come back, Kate? How do I know I’ll ever come back? How do I know they won’t send me away, over there, where they’re going, or maybe I’ll go away of my own accord — ‘

‘Go away?’

‘Yes — on chance — straight before me, as I have always done.’

‘Poor boy! Poor boy!’

‘I wonder, Kate, whether it wouldn’t be the best thing I could do, if I set off out of this at once with Ranger, and looked for work among the farmers, in a village or near a town, not too far off, on the sea coast?’

‘Why, child, you’re not eleven!’

‘No, Kate, not quite eleven yet. Ah, if I was only twelve or thirteen, I should be big, I’d have strong arms, I’d soon find work to do. How long of coming the years are when one is poor!’

‘And long of going, too,’ might have been Kate Brady’s answer.

Such was the tone of Mick’s reflections, and he knew not what course to take. A fortuitous circumstance speedily put an end to his uncertainty.

The 13th of September arrived, and Lord and Lady Trelingar were to leave the Castle within a fortnight. Preparations for the departure had already begun, and Foundling Mick was anxious to discover whether Scarlett was to remain in charge of the Casde during the winter. He soon learned that the steward would be left there, and immediately came to the conclusion that poor Ranger’s presence in the vicinity would be revealed, and Kate Brady would be forbidden to keep him in her quarters. She would have to feed him in secret, as she had hitherto done. Ah! had Mr Scarlett only known that the stray dog he had noticed once or twice, belonged to the little groom, with what glee he would have told Lord Ashton, and with what relish that worthy young aristocrat would have put a bullet into Ranger.

On this unlucky day Ranger had strayed into the neighbourhood of the Castle, contrary to his custom, and in the afternoon, by an evil chance, one of Lord Ashton’s dogs espied him at some distance. Immediately on perceiving each other, the two dogs manifested their hostile sentiments by growling. There was a racial feud between them, the lordly dog could not but entertain a deep disdain of the peasant dog; but, being of an evil nature, the former was the more aggressive of the two. No sooner had he observed Ranger standing motionless on the edge of a clump of trees than he dashed down upon him, with distended jaws and fangs ready for use.

Ranger let the terrier get within half a length of him, watching him askance so as not to be taken by surprise, tail down, and planted firmly on his legs. Suddenly, after two or three more barks, the lordly dog flung himself on Ranger and bit him in the thigh, whereupon Ranger sprang at his enemy’s throat and bowled him over in an instant. This skirmish was not effected without ear-piercing howls. The two other dogs shut up in the yard joined in the concert, and Lord Ashton came running out of the yard gate, accompanied by Scarlett, to behold the terrier choking in the hold of Ranger’s terrible teeth. He could only scream and stamp with rage; he dared not go to the aid of his dog lest the victor should turn on him. Ranger saw the young lord, finished the terrier with one more snap of his jaw, took his teeth out of the dog’s neck, and scampered off through the trees. Then Lord Ashton and Scarlett advanced, but when they reached the scene of the crime the lordly terrier was dead.

‘Scarlett, Scarlett! My dog is dead!’ cried Lord Ashton. ‘That brute has choked my dog! Where is he? Come! We shall find him, and I will kill him!’

The steward was not by any means disposed to pursue the slayer of the terrier; nor did he find it at all difficult to restrain the ardour of that defunct animal’s master, who was, as a matter of fact, terrified at the idea that Ranger might return in an offensive mood.

‘Take care, my lord, take care!’ said Scarlett. ‘Don’t attempt to go after that fierce brute. The men will catch him some other day, never fear.’

‘Whose dog is he?’

‘Nobody’s. There are lots of those curs going about.’

‘Then he’ll escape.’

‘Not likely, my lord. That dog has been lurking about the Castle for weeks past.’

‘For weeks, Scarlett! And I have not been told, and he has not been got rid of! And now, you see, he has killed my terrier!’

It must be admitted that there was just a streak of good in the nature of this selfish and unfeeling lad; he cared for his dogs, and especially for his favourite, Rangers victim, as he did not and could not care for any human creature. It was in a whirl of mingled grief and fury that Lord Ashton returned to the courtyard of the Castle and gave orders for the dead terrier to be brought thither. Fortunately, his lordships ‘tiger’ had not witnessed this scene; for he might have allowed the secret of his intimacy with the assassin to escape him, and Ranger, on seeing Mick, might have run to him and made a compromising demonstration. But it was not long before he learned what had happened, for Lord Ashton filled Trelingar Castle with his lamentations. The Marquis and the Marchioness offered him their best ‘compliments of condolence’, but he refused to be comforted, and vowed a cruel vengeance upon the vile brute to whose base-born audacity he owed his bereavement. The obsequies of the terrier were performed with an absurd exaggeration of respect, and when the last spadeful of earth had been replaced upon the dog’s grave in a shady corner of the park, Lord Ashton re-entered the house with a dark scowl upon his face and shut himself up in his room for the whole evening.

It is easy to imagine the uneasiness and the forebodings of Foundling Mick. Before he went to bed, he contrived to see Kate Brady (who fully shared his anxiety for the fate of Ranger) in secret.

‘You must be on your guard, my boy,’ she said earnesdy, ‘and above all take care that they don’t find out that he is your dog. It would all come down upon you, and I don’t know what might happen.’

Foundling Mick thought little enough about the possibility of his being held responsible for the death of the terrier. He was thinking only that now it would be very hard, if not impossible, for him to continue to take care of Ranger. The steward would keep a look out for him in the neighbourhood of the Castle, and even though the sagacious creature was to keep out of sight successfully, how should he get to Kate at night, and how could she contrive to feed him secretly?

Our lad passed a wakeful night; he was far more anxious about Ranger than on his own account, and the course of his reflections led him to consider whether he had not better leave Lord Ashton’s service on the morrow. After his thoughtful fashion he examined the matter coolly, weighing the for and against, and finally decided on putting the project that had occupied his mind for some weeks into execution.

He did not fall asleep until three o’clock in the morning. On awaking, he jumped out of bed in great surprise that he had not been aroused by the imperious summons of his master’s bell, and instantly took up the thread of his thoughts. Looked at by daylight his decision remained unaltered. He would leave the Castle that very day, assigning as his reason that he felt himself unsuited to the occupation of a groom. No one had the right to prevent his departure, and he resigned himself beforehand to any insult that his demand might provoke. Then, in the prevision of a rough and immediate expulsion, Foundling Mick carefully dressed himself in the clothes he had worn at the farm, for he had preserved them, and although a good deal the worse for wear, the garments were clean and decent. He put into his pocket the accumulated wages of his three months’ service; but it was his purpose, after he had respectfully informed Lord Trelingar of his intention of leaving the Castle, to ask his lordship for the fortnight’s pay then due to him. He would try to see Kate Brady, and bid her farewell without getting her into trouble, and then, when he should have picked up Ranger at one or other of the poor animal’s haunts, the two friends would turn their backs on Trelingar Castle with common and uncommon satisfaction.

It was nearly nine o’clock when Mick went down to the stable yard, and great was his astonishment to learn that Lord Ashton had gone out an hour earlier. Generally, the boy had to attend at his master’s toilet, and he dreaded no duty of the day more, or with greater reason, for the young gentleman delighted in taunting, ridiculing, and abusing him during its fulfilment.

Mick’s surprise was quickly followed by well-founded apprehension when he perceived that Bill (one of the stablemen) and the surviving terriers were not in their respective places. At this moment Kate appeared at the door of the laundry, made a sign to him to draw near, and said in a low voice, ‘Lord Ashton has gone out with Bill and the two dogs. They are going to hunt Ranger.’

Mick could not answer, he was choked with grief and anger.

‘Take care, my boy; here comes the steward, and you must not — ‘

‘Ranger must not be killed,’ said the boy, impetuously, ‘and I shall — ‘

Scarlett, who had overheard this colloquy, came up to the speakers and called out to Mick roughly, —

‘What’s that you’re saying, boy, and what are you doing there?’

Mick, not wishing to enter into a discussion with the steward, answered simply, —

‘I wish to speak to Lord Ashton.’

‘You can speak to him when he returns,’ replied Scarlett, ‘after he has caught that brute of a dog.’

‘He will not catch him,’ said Mick, with forced calmness.

‘Indeed!’

‘No, Mr Scarlett, and if he does catch him, I tell you he will not kill him.’

‘And why?’

‘Because I’ll prevent him. I, Mr Scarlett. The dog is mine, and I shall not let him be killed.’

And Mick, leaving the steward confounded by this answer, rushed out of the yard, and sped away towards the plantation with incredible swiftness. For half an hour he vainly searched for any trace of Lord Ashton, hearing no sound to guide him. At length the barking of dogs became audible, but at a distance. He ran with all his speed in the direction of the sounds (he had recognised the ‘tongue’ of the terriers), and presendy came to a thick grove of coniferous trees which extended all along the edge of a great pond, one of the features of the domains of Trelingar. No doubt they were hunting Ranger in that direction. Presently, Mick could distinguish the words of the unseen speakers; the dogs were silent.

‘Attention, my lord! We have him now.’

‘Yes, yes, Bill! here! here!’

The dogs again barked furiously, and, as Mick ran into the grove towards the voices, he was startled by a shot.

‘Missed! missed!’ cried Lord Ashton. ‘Your turn now, Bill; mind you don’t miss!’

A second shot was fired near enough for Mick to see the flash through the foliage.

‘He’s got it this time,’ cried Bill, while Lord Ashton’s dogs barked furiously.

Foundling Mick’s legs gave way as though the bullet had struck himself, and he was falling, when the branches within about six feet of him were moved with a slight noise, and through a gap in the paling a dog appeared. The animal’s coat was wet, and he foamed at the mouth. It was Ranger, who had been hit in the side by Bill’s bullet, and had jumped into the pond.

Ranger recognised his master, who instantly caught him by the muzzle, and held his mouth firmly shut while he dragged him into a thicket, trembling lest the pursuers should come again upon the victim. But this did not happen. The boy and the dog lay safely hidden amid the underwood, while their enemies, tired by the cruel sport of the morning, passed so near them that Mick heard Lord Ashton say to Bill, in a tone of gloomy suggestiveness, —

‘I wish I had caught him alive!’

CHAPTER 18

EIGHTEEN YEARS BETWEEN THEM

Foundling Mick drew a deeper breath than he had ever before drawn in his life, so soon as Lord Ashton, Bill and the dogs had disappeared. And we may be sure Ranger did the same when after a time Mick ventured to let go his hold of the dog’s jaws, saying to him, —

‘Don’t bark, Ranger; don’t bark!’

Ranger did not bark.

It was fortunate that Foundling Mick, having thoroughly made up his mind that morning to leave Trelingar, had dressed himself in his old clothes, tied up his little bundle, and put his purse in his pocket. This spared him the unpleasant necessity of re-entering the Castle, where Lord Ashton would very soon learn who was the owner of the slayer of his favourite dog. What sort of reception Mick would have met with from him may easily be guessed.

It is true that by not reappearing he sacrificed the wages due to him, and which he intended to claim, but he resigned himself to that necessity. He was out of Trelingar Casde; he had escaped from Lord Ashton and Scarlett, and that was all he and his dog desired. His only thought now was to get as far off as possible in the shortest time; at the pond side he was only two miles away from the Castle gates; there must be no lingering so near his late detested prison. He had mechanically carried his little bundle under his arm when hurrying out of the stable yard after his rash speech to the steward, and it had fallen on the ground when he used his two hands to prevent Ranger from barking. With a warning gesture well understood by the dog, Mick left him, retraced his steps to the spot at which he had appeared after his plunge into the pond, and picked up the small roll of linen that constituted his wardrobe. Then, after a cursory examination of Ranger’s wound, a very slight one, for Bill’s bullet had merely grazed the dog’s skin, he and his companion made their way out of the plantation and started off at a great pace on the high road, where neither pedestrian nor vehicle was visible. Ranger was not too much hurt to be in good spirits, and he expressed his joy in dog fashion, but Foundling Mick, although he exulted in his emancipation, was anxious about the future.

This time, however, he knew where he was going, and it was intentionally that he took a southern direction, for it was his purpose to make for Cork. From thence ships sail — merchant ships — large ones, real ones, not small coasting vessels or mere fishing-boats such as he was familiar with at Westport or Galway. Our lad found a great attraction in the idea of these ships; things commercial had an irresistible attraction for him.

The chief matter was to get to Cork; the journey on foot would take time, and must cost some money; but not much, for Mick would try to earn something by the way, as he had done before. The weather was fine, the road was good; there was neither mud nor dust; excellent conditions for a long walk.

Let us briefly record that the tired boy and dog found themselves two days later within three miles of Woodside, where Mick proposed to remain and rest for a night before entering upon the serious task of seeking employment in the fair city of Cork. They were walking along a path by the side of a little river, an affluent of the far-famed Lee, when Ranger suddenly stopped, and uttered a low growl.

Foundling Mick stopped also, and looked forwards and backwards along the road. There was nothing to be seen.

‘What’s the matter, Ranger?’

Ranger barked this time, and then bounded away to the brink of the river.

‘He’s thirsty,’ said Mick to himself, ‘and for that matter, so am I.’ Then he too turned off the raised path towards the river; but he had taken only two steps, when the dog, with a loud bark, sprang into the water.

Mick ran forward, reached the edge, and was about to recall the dog, when he perceived the cause of Ranger’s action. This was a drowning child, whom the dog had seized by his clothes, or rather by his rags, and was striving to drag to the bank. But the current was running strongly, and Ranger had a tough job to effect his feat of salvage. Mick could swim; it will be remembered that Grip had taught him; he promptly pulled off his jacket, and was kicking off his shoes, preparatory to joining Ranger in the river, when the dog deposited the child on the slope at Mick’s feet. Mick seized the unconscious form, and carried it to a safe place. The rescued child was a little boy, seven years old at the most; his eyes were shut, and his head hung helplessly over Mick’s arm. What was the surprise of the older lad to recognise in the pale face from which he cleared away the wet hair, that of the little boy whom Lord Ashton had slashed with his driving whip on the road to Trelingar.

The child must have been wandering ever since upon the roads! His haggard face, his thin, light body, told of all that he had suffered, of fatigue, cold and hunger. Mick put his hand on the child’s stomach; it was as flat as an empty bag. He employed all his little skill to restore the poor human waif to consciousness, an operation closely observed by Ranger, and after some time he succeeded. The child breathed, opened his eyes, and said, feebly, —

‘I’m hungry.’

Foundling Mick still had in his bundle some of the provisions for the day’s tramp, consisting of a few slices of cold bacon, a hunch of bread, a piece of cheese, and some cold potatoes. He put a mouthful of the bread between the child’s lips, and he swallowed it eagerly. After a few minutes Mick fed him very moderately, and he regained some strength. Then he fixed his eyes on Mick, and said, —

‘You! you!’

‘Yes. You remember me?’

‘On the road — I don’t know when — ‘

‘But I know,’ said Mick, soothingly.

‘Oh! don’t leave me!’

‘No, no! I’ll take care of you. Where were you going?’

‘Nowhere.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘I don’t know. Nowhere.’

‘How did you fall into the river? Were you getting a drink?’

‘No; I fell in — on purpose.’

‘On purpose?’

‘Yes, yes. But I don’t want to do it now — if you stay with me.’

‘I’ll stay; never fear.’

Foundling Mick’s eyes filled with tears at the terrible idea of this child of seven, driven to seek death by the despair that comes of destitution, abandonment, hunger!

The little boy again closed his eyes, and Mick asked him no more questions. There would be time enough for them afterwards. And besides, did he not know the story? Was it not that of all poor forsaken creatures? Was it not the story of Foundling Mick himself, except that he, being gifted with exceptional strength of mind, would not ever have thought of taking that way out of his troubles.

What was to be done? The child could not possibly walk to Woodside, nor could Mick carry him thither. Night was approaching, and it was essential to find a shelter. Neither a farmhouse, a cabin nor a public house was within sight. On the left of the road was a large plantation of fine umbrageous trees; the wanderers might pass the night in its shelter at the foot of one of those forest-lords, on a grassy bed, by the side of a fire of sticks. At sunrise, when the child should have regained his strength, the two would be able to reach Woodside, and perhaps, even Cork. There was enough food remaining to afford them a frugal supper, and a morsel to spare for breakfast in the morning. Having arranged this plan in his mind in a few seconds, Mick took up the sleeping boy in his arms, crossed the road, and entered the plantation on the other side.

Within a few feet of the edge the plantation was almost dark, and Mick made his way with some litde difficulty towards a group of majestic trees where the space was more open. There it was his good fortune to find a stump, about three feet high, the remains of a giant elm which had been blown down. The whole depth of the stump, which was five feet in diameter, and had wide-spreading roots, was filled with leaves, and as no rain had fallen for some days, these were dry; before the searcher’s eyes was a bed ready prepared for his protege — Foundling Mick’s protege! — one in which he too might lie down, if he did not mind a tight fit. Mick undressed the sleeping child, rubbed his body as nearly dry as possible, and placed him deep among the leaves, with a wisp of grass for a pillow, and then set to work to gather materials for a fire. He did not forget that the light might be seen and might attract attention to his act of’trespass’, but he was indifferent to this contingency. If anyone should think it worthwhile to investigate the origin of the light in the wayside wood, that individual could hardly be so formidable as Mr Scarlett; it was not likely his destiny had conducted Mick to a second Trelingar. He soon collected a litde heap of twigs, bits of timber and dry leaves, and kindled a fire by the aid of the matches which he had prudently included in his small purchases on the day before. This done, he carefully dried the little boy’s ragged clothes, and hung them on a neighbouring branch. And now it was time to think of supper. Ranger at least was decidedly of that opinion, and his master adjudged to him the larger portion of the meal. When the two had eaten, Mick wrapped up the remnants, with a view to breakfast, and confiding his bundle and the child’s clothes to Ranger with unhesitating confidence, he climbed into the hollow tree-trunk, clasped its occupant in his arms, and before long was sleeping soundly, while Ranger kept unwinking watch upon the wanderers.

In the morning, the little waif awoke first, much surprised to find himself in so good a bed. Ranger saluted him with a soft-toned protecting bark. Was he not to some extent his preserver? Mick opened his eyes almost immediately, and the child put his arms round his neck and kissed him.

‘What is your name?’ he asked.

‘Foundling Mick. What’s yours?’

‘Dick.’

‘All right, Dick. Come and dress yourself.’

Dick did as he was desired, promptly. He was in the best of spirits; he hardly remembered that only yesterday he had wanted to drown himself. He had got a big brother now, one who had consoled him, and given him pennies, on the road to Trelingar Castle. He gave himself up at once to that youthful confidence with its characteristic natural familiarity, which is remarkable in Irish children. As for Foundling Mick, his feelings towards Dick were almost fatherly. Conscientiousness was very strong in the nameless boy, and his meeting with Dick had invested him with a whole set of new duties.

And was not Dick pleased when he had on a clean shirt of Mick’s underneath his dry clothes? Did he not open his eyes, as well as his mouth, at sight of a slice of bread, a bit of cheese, and a big potato, warmed in the ashes? Was not that breakfast the best he had ever eaten in his life?

Dick had not known his father, but, more favoured by fate in that one respect than Foundling Mick, he had known his mother, who had died of want, two, or three, years? (Dick did not know exacdy) previously. Then he had been taken into a refuge somewhere — he did not know the name of the place — but soon there was no more money, and the refuge was closed. Dick found himself in the street; he did not know why. Dick did not know anything! He had lived on the roads, sleeping where he could sleep, eating whatever he could get to eat. He did the best he could, poor little Dick! until the day came when, after fasting for forty-eight hours, he thought the best he could do was to die.

Such was his history, as he related it, while he ate his big potato, and in it there was nothing new or startling to the former pauper ‘boarder’ of Mrs Murphy, pauper handle-turner to Hornpipe’s puppets, pauper pupil at the Galway poor school!

But suddenly, in the current of his talk, the child’s intelligent countenance changed, he turned pale.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Mick.

‘You’re not going to leave me alone?’

‘No, Dick.’

‘You’ll take me with you?’

‘Yes, where I am going,’

Where was that? Dick did not ask, or care to know, provided Mick took him ‘there’ also.

‘But your mammy and your daddy?’

‘I have no mammy and no daddy.’

‘Ah!’ cried Dick, ‘I’ll love you.’

‘And I’ll love you, Dick, and we’ll try to get on somehow together.’

‘Ah, you’ll see how I can run after cars,’ said Dick, all elate again, ‘and the ha’pence I pick up I’ll give to you.’ The little fellow had no notion of any other profession than the beggar’s.

‘No, Dick, you must not run after the cars any more.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it is not right to beg.’

‘Ah!’ said Dick, and relapsed into thought.

‘Tell me, have you good legs?’

‘Yes, but they’re little.’

‘Well, we are going to have a long trot today, to get to Cork this evening.’

‘To Cork?’

‘Yes. It is a fine town, beyond there — with boats — ‘

‘Boats. Yes, I know.’

‘And the sea. Have you ever seen it?’

‘No.’

‘You will see it, then. It goes ever, ever so far! And now we must be off.’

The wanderers, attended by Ranger, returned to the edge of the plantation, and took to the high road, which presently turned away from the bank of the little river and bordered the ‘silver Lee’. After a time they passed, or were passed by, several vehicles, and Dick, yielding to the influence of habit, started off to pursue one of these with the old cry, ‘Gi’ me a ha’penny’, but Foundling Mick caught hold of him.

I told you, you weren’t to do that any more,’ he said sternly.

‘But why?’

‘Because it is not right to beg.’

‘Not even when you’re hungry?’

Mick did not answer, and Dick felt uneasy about the prospects of dinner, until he found himself sitting at a table in a decent little tavern, where the big brother, the little brother and the dog had a good meal.

Dick could not believe his eyes. Mick actually had a purse, and the purse had silver shillings in it, even after the score was paid.

‘How did you get those shillings?’ asked Dick, wondering.

‘I earned them, Dick, by working.’

‘By working! I’d like to work too, but I don’t know how.’

‘I’ll teach you, Dick.’

‘Now?’

No, not now, but when we get to Cork.’

‘How soon will that be?’

‘This evening, if you’re not too tired.’

‘No, no, no. I can go on!’

And, after a good rest, they resumed their way. At six o’clock in the evening, they reached one of the suburbs of the great southern city, and found a humble lodging for the night.

CHAPTER 20

THE FIRST FIREMAN ON THE VULCAN

The year 1882, which had brought to Foundling Mick so much good and evil fortune, in the ruin and dispersion of the MacCarthy family, of whom he had not since heard, the three months at Trelingar Castle, his meeting with Dick, his taking up his abode at Cork and his prospering there, was now at an end. During the first quarter of the new year, if the boys’ trade did not slacken, it seemed to have reached its maximum. Foundling Mick, feeling sure that it would not increase, was haunted by the idea of going to Dublin. If only an opportunity would offer! January, February, and March passed away. The lads lived as sparingly as possible, putting by penny after penny, and Foundling Mick was lucky enough to get a commission for the sale of a certain political pamphlet by Mr Parnell, which proved very profitable.

At the beginning of April, their friend had thirty pounds in his keeping, and eighteen shillings and sixpence to boot. The boys, who had never been so rich, held long conferences on the question of whether they should or should not venture to rent a little shop in the vicinity of the railway station. It would be so delightful to have a place of their own! Dick was for the shop. We can imagine it, with its display of newspapers and cheap bookseller’s and stationer’s wares; its shopkeeper of eleven, and its shopman of eight! Surely these children, so well worthy of interest and patronage, would not have lacked customers!

Patiently and gravely Mick revolved in his mind the for and against, feeling all the time that he was urged by some presentiment of his fate to dwell upon his idea of transporting himself and his commerce to Dublin. He was hesitating, resisting the entreaties of Dick, when an incident occurred which decided the matter.

It was Sunday, the 8th of April, and the two boys had agreed to pass the day at Queenstown. They started early, neatly dressed, with their shoes well polished, and Ranger, also brushed-up for the occasion, accompanied them. They enjoyed the ‘run’ on the steamboat even more than usual, because the weather was fine, and landed on the quay in high good-humour. The first thing to be thought of was a good meal, and this they proposed to procure at a neighbouring eating-house, from whence they would have a fine view of the big ships in the port. Mick and Dick were about to enter the tavern when their attention was attracted by a large vessel which had come into harbour on the previous evening and was being ‘dressed’ for Sunday. On questioning an old sailor in a yellow cap, they learned that it was the Vulcan, a steamer of nine hundred tons, coming from America, and bound on the morrow for Dublin. The boys were standing on the edge of the quay, eagerly observing the proceedings on board the Vulcan, when a tall young fellow, with black hands and a face smeared with coal dust, approached Foundling Mick, looked at him, shut his eyes, opened his big mouth, and exclaimed, —

‘It’s you; it’s really you!’

Foundling Mick was taken aback, much more so was Dick. Here was a stranger, and a black one, addressing him. There must be a mistake! But the Negro, wagging his head gleefully, became still more demonstrative.

‘It’s myself,’ he said. ‘Don’t you know me? Its me, the poor school — Grip!’

‘Grip!’ cried Foundling Mick, and rushed into the tall young fellow’s arms with such precipitation that he came out of them nearly as black as Grip himself. What a joyful meeting that was! The former superintendent of Mr Mulvany’s scholastic establishment was now a vigorous, active, well set-up young man of twenty, bearing no resemblance to the ragged lad of the Galway poor school, with the exception that he still had the same pleasant countenance.

Mick could not leave off exclaiming, ‘Grip! Grip! it is you; it is really you!’

‘Yes, it’s me, and I’ve never forgotten you, my boy!’

‘And you are a sailor?’

‘No, I’m a fireman on board the Vulcan.’

Thereupon he had to explain the duties of a fireman to Dick, who had been hastily presented to Mick’s former protector at the poor school.

‘He’s a sort of brother,’ said Mick. ‘I picked him up on the road. He knows you well, Grip, I’ve often told him about us two. Oh, Grip, what a lot of things you have to tell me! It’s six years since we parted.’

‘And yourself, Mick?’

‘Oh, yes, I’ve a lot to tell you. Come and breakfast with us, we were just going in there.’ He pointed to the eating-house.

‘No, no,’ said Grip. ‘It’s you that must breakfast with me; but come on board first.’

‘On board the Vulcan?

‘Yes.’

On board — both of them? Dick and Mick could hardly believe their ears. It was as though Grip had quietly proposed to take them into paradise.

‘But our dog?’

‘What dog?’

‘Ranger. Look, he’s making friends with you.’

‘So he’s your dog,’ and with this Grip gave a cordial pat to the delighted animal.

‘And our friend, a friend of your own sort, Grip.’

‘The captain?’ suggested Mick, with some natural hesitation.

‘The captain’s ashore, and the boatswain’s mate will make you as welcome as a couple of lords. Besides, I must clean myself up a bit now that I’m off duty.’

‘And are you free for the whole day?’

‘Yes, for the whole day.’

‘It’s a lucky thing we came to Queenstown, Dick.’

‘It’s just that, Mick.’

‘And I’ve blackened you as well, so you’ll want a wash, Foundling Mick, — is it that you’re called still?’

‘It is, Grip.’

‘I’m glad of it. Come along.’

In two minutes the three friends were on board the Vulcan, and the first fireman, who had received a friendly nod from the second mate in passing, took his guests down to the scene of his labours, and to his narrow sleeping quarters, where they found a basin and fresh water, and Grip proceeded to wash and dress himself. During this process he briefly related his own history since the hurried and unconscious parting between Foundling Mick and himself.

He had been taken to the hospital after the fire at the school, and was found to be severely hurt. There he remained for six weeks, when he was dismissed in good health, but entirely destitute. The poor school was in process of rebuilding, but Grip felt that he could not return to his former life there. No, that was impossible, now that Foundling Mick was gone. Grip knew that he had been taken away by a grand lady, but whither? This he did not know, and all his efforts to discover the truth after he came out of the hospital proved unsuccessful. So then, Grip left Galway, and took to a wandering life in the adjacent country places. Sometimes he got work at the farms, but no certain employment, and this troubled him sorely. A year later he had made his way to Dublin, with the notion of going to sea. But as he was too old at eighteen to become a cabin boy, and knew nothing of the work of a sailor, he resolved to embark as a fireman, and soon found employment on board the Vulcan. His post was not one of ideal felicity, but Grip was resolute, patient and industrious. He soon became accustomed to the discipline of the ship, never incurred a reprimand, and by his zeal and sobriety aroused the interest of the officers, who inquired into the story of the lad who had neither home nor kin. The Vulcan made voyages from Dublin to New York or other ports on the eastern seaboard of America. Grip crossed the ocean several times in two years, being charged with the filling of the bunkers and the supply of fuel. Then, becoming ambitious, he applied for the post of fireman under the orders of the engineers. He was taken on trial and proved so satisfactory, that, on the termination of his apprenticeship he was promoted to the post of first fireman, and in this distinguished position did Foundling Mick find his former school companion on the quay at Queenstown.

Grip had no taste for the coarse dissipation in which too many sailors indulge when ashore, and therefore he was able to save a little fund out of his wages, and to this he added something regularly every month. He already possessed sixty pounds at the present time, and it had never occurred to him to do anything with it except save it. To put it out at interest was an idea that never could have suggested itself to Grip.

Such was the story that Grip told in his light-hearted way. Mick followed with a narrative of his own experiences, which were of so different a kind, and these inspired Grip with profound astonishment. When it came to Dick’s turn there was very little to be told. Merely that he had no life story at all; for his real history began on the day of his rescue from drowning by Ranger and Mick. Ranger’s history was that of his master.

Grip would have carried his friends off to the eating-house where he proposed to give them a sumptuous meal, immediately after his toilet was finished, but they were eager to go over the Vulcan in the first instance, and the first fireman good-humouredly yielded the point. Nothing could exceed the pleasure which this exploration afforded the two boys, but in a different measure. The commercial side of all that they saw appealed to the deep-rooted trading instincts of Foundling Mick, the nautical and unknown to the careless and happy nature of Dick.

The good meal at the eating-house, of which the three companions disposed with the appetite of their respective ages, did not interrupt their conversation, and the interchange of reminiscences between Grip and Foundling Mick was brisk and continuous. Of course, the incidents of the seagull, and the gift of the jersey were not omitted, nor were the abominable deeds of Carker.

‘What has become of the wretch?’ asked Grip.

‘I don’t know, and I don’t want to know,’ answered Foundling Mick. ‘The worst thing that could happen to me would be to meet him.’

‘Never mind, that will never happen; but as you sell newspapers, I advise you to read them sometimes.’

‘So I do.’

‘Well then, one of these fine days you’ll read that Carker is dead of hemp-fever.’

‘Hanged! Oh, Grip!’

‘Yes, hanged! And serve him right!’

Then they talked of the fire at the school-house, when Grip had saved the little boy at the peril of his own life. This was the first chance Foundling Mick had had of thanking Grip for the deed, and close was the handgrip with which he emphasised his gratitude.

Grip was then questioned concerning his travels in America. He told of the great cities of the United States, their industries and their commerce, and Foundling Mick listened so eagerly that he forgot to eat.

‘And then,’ Grip went on to say, ‘there are big towns in England also, and if you ever go to London, to Liverpool, to Glasgow — ‘

‘Yes, Grip, I know. I have read of them in newspapers; trading towns; but so far off.’

‘Not at all far.’

‘Not for sailors who go there in ships, but for others — ‘

Well then, there’s Dublin, isn’t there?’ cried Grip. ‘It’s not so very far. The trains take you there in a day, and there’s no sea to cross.’

‘Ah! Dublin!’ said Mick, musingly. And he remained silent and thoughtful while Grip continued, —

It’s a very fine place, and there’s thousands of businesses doing there. It’s just as good as Cork for ships.’

Foundling Mick heard, and his mind travelled far.

‘You ought to go and set up in Dublin,’ said Grip. ‘I’m sure you’d get on better than here, and if you wanted a trifle of money — ‘

Dick and I have some saved,’ replied Mick.

Yes, indeed,’ said Dick, proudly, producing from his pocket one shilling and sixpence.

So have I,’ said Grip, ‘and I don’t know what place to put it in for safety.’

‘Why don’t you put it in a bank somewhere?’

‘I don’t trust banks.’

‘But then you are losing the interest it would bring in.’

‘That’s better than losing all one has, Micky! But you see, if I haven’t confidence in other people I should have confidence in you, my boy, and if you were in Dublin, where the Vulcan goes to constantly, we could see each other often! That would be delightful, and I tell you again, if you want a little money to take up a trade, I’ll give you all I have with a heart and a half.’

The good fellow would have done this on the spot, so happy was he to get his little Micky back again. Surely the bond that united those two would never again be broken.

‘Come to Dublin,’ repeated Grip. ‘Shall I tell you what I think?’

‘Yes, do.’

‘Well, it’s this. I have always had the notion that you would make a fortune — ‘

‘And I too! I have always had the same idea,’ said Mick, simply, while his eyes shone with a singular light.

‘Yes, Micky. Some day I shall see you rich, very rich. But you will not make much money at Cork. Reflect on what I am saying to you now, for you must not act without reflection.’

‘Of course not, Grip.’

‘And now let us go for a walk.’

They set out, and many were the projects formed by the three friends while they strolled about the streets and quays of Queenstown, escorted by Ranger.

At last the moment of parting came, and Grip went with the two boys to the ferry.

‘We shall meet again,’ he said cheerily. ‘We have not come across each other for only this meeting.’

‘Yes, Grip, at Cork, the first time the Vulcan puts in there.’

‘Why not in Dublin, for she stays there for weeks sometimes. Yes, in Dublin, if you decide.’

‘Goodbye, Grip.’

Hearty farewells, in which Ranger had his share, were exchanged, and Grip gazed for a long time after the river steamboat.

CHAPTER 21

ON THE WAY TO DUBLIN

A few days later, Foundling Mick, Dick and Ranger had taken leave of the fair city of Cork, and were wending their way towards the Irish capital. Grip’s representations had had the desired effect; they had induced Foundling Mick to yield to the promptings of his own inclination, to which he had begun to listen before his meeting with the first fireman of the Vulcan, and to abandon the secure for the uncertain. But the young trader had considered the matter very carefully. At Cork, there was no progress, no expansion for him; Dublin, on the contrary, offered an extensive field for his activity. Dick, it is needless to say, was all for starting at once so soon as his young ‘principal’ broached the idea to him. Foundling Mick then withdrew his little capital from the care of the friendly publisher, who regarded the boy’s resolution with serious misgiving, but could not induce him to forego it, and laid out his plan for the journey.

The shortest way to reach Dublin was, of course, to take the train to Limerick and thence to the capital city; but this mode of locomotion was open to the objection that it cost money, and Mick wanted to stick to his money. The season was fine for a journey on foot and time was of litde consequence. What an advantage it would be, to begin with, if, instead of costing money, the journey could be made to earn some! Supposing, instead of paying travelling expenses, the juvenile itinerants were to carry on their trade on the way, selling newspapers, pamphlets, stationery, in short all their stock-in-trade in the villages and small towns which lie between Cork and Dublin. What would be needed for this novel kind of peddling? Only a light little hand-cart such as Mick could draw, while Dick pushed it from behind when necessary — (was there a vague remembrance of the Hornpipe time in this notion?) — to carry their wares and their changes of clothing, with a waterproof covering to protect the whole from rain and dust. The country was peaceful and honest; the boys had nothing to fear, and Ranger would be a guard as well as a companion. They would take the coast road, because it leads to Waterford, Wexford, Wicklow, and other seaside health resorts and bathing places much frequented at that time of year. The journey would be long, but what matter, if they could but sell and renew their humble wares on the way, and live on their slender gains.

This programme — an adventurous one, it will be admitted, involving no small amount of self-confidence, and capacity of endurance, on the part of the leader of the expedition, and great trust, docility, and good will on that of Dick — was fully and faithfully carried out. Foundling Mick had a stroke of luck at the beginning of the enterprise; he got a light hand-cart, second-hand, from a grocer in the town, for a very small price. The little vehicle held his slender stock of merchandise conveniendy, and from the first the trifling articles, all very cheap but sold at a good profit, found a ready sale. In some places they passed through the two boys created a general feeling of interest; the one as serious as any old-established shopkeeper, the other so light-hearted and childish that it was not possible to refuse to buy of him. The little party of three was kindly treated at the places where it halted for the night, and Mick did not exact too much of his companions. The boys and the dog enjoyed sundry good spells of rest. We shall not follow them step by step in the ey At Youghal they laid in an entirely new stock of commodities, so well had they prospered since their start, and at Dungarvan a happy idea occurred to Foundling Mick. This was, to purchase some woollen articles at a very low price, which he might sell in the small villages where his other goods would not be in so much demand. It is sufficient to say that his litde venture out of the usual course of his business proved successful. So they went on, and the day came on which Foundling Mick, having reached the boundary of Munster, was to pass out of the province within which he had known so much vicissitude. But he had already forgotten all those old troubles; he allowed his mind to dwell only on his three happy years at Kirwan’s Farm; he thought only of the MacCarthys. Where were those good friends? He regretted them, as one regrets home and kin.

‘Dick,’ said he, ‘did I not promise you that we would take a good rest at Waterford?’

‘I think you did,’ said Dick, ‘but I am not tired, and if you wish to get on — ‘

‘No. We will stay here for a few days.’

‘Doing nothing?’

‘There is always something to do, Dick.’

And, indeed, Foundling Mick found something very interesting to do, in studying the pleasant city and the busy port. The boys chose their lodging at a decent inn, saw their cart safely disposed of, and set out for a long stroll along the quays. What endless interest and amusement was provided for them by the vessels coming and going out! How could anybody ever tire of such a spectacle?

Ha!’ said Dick, ‘supposing Grip should just chance to come upon us now?’

No, Dick, that could not happen,’ answered Mick. ‘The Vulcan does not put in at Waterford, and I have reckoned that he must be far away now — over in America.’

Over there?’ said Dick, stretching out his arm towards the horizon bounded by the sea and sky.

Yes, in that direction. I think he will be back by the time we get to Dublin.’

‘How nice it will be to see Grip again! Will he be black this time?’

‘Very likely.’

‘Anyhow, that does not prevent us from caring for him.’

‘No, indeed, Dick, for he cared for me when I was so wretched.’

‘Yes, as you did for me!’ answered the little fellow, whose eyes sparkled with gratitude.

Three days later they were at Wexford; their little cart was amply supplied, and they pushed along cheerily, by way of Arklow and Wicklow, and so, by the beautiful road which borders the coastline to Bray, where they did some profitable business on the strand. Their cart was empty when they sought a night’s rest in the fashionable seaside town, and after a long sleep, and a look round at the Wicklow hills, the shining sea, and Howth in the distance, they started in the morning for the unknown goal of their hopes — Dublin.

CHAPTER 22

DUBLIN

Again we spare our reader the details of the last stage of the journey of our two lads; nor shall we dwell upon their first sight of the Irish capital, for they reached the city footsore and weary, and having found a decent lodging in Patrick Street, and seen their hand-cart securely sheltered in an outhouse, they retired to much needed rest, promising themselves an early start on a tour of investigation in the morning.

The boys were, in fact, afoot early, much to the contrary of the generality of the dwellers in Patrick Street, and they set out, pretty much at random, accompanied by Ranger, resolved to have a good look at everything on their way, but to make for the riverside and landing-stage as directly as observation and inquiry would enable them. The poplin factories, the distilleries, the vast breweries of Guinness and Co. and D’Arcy and Sons, the public buildings, railway stations, etc. should all have their turn in due time, but the first, the chief object, the prime necessity, was to discover whether the Vulcan had arrived, and they might have the felicity of finding her first fireman at leisure to welcome them to this strange place whither he had, in a measure, guided them. No doubt the boys went a good deal astray, and probably doubled the distance, but they passed through a fine quarter of the city, and saw some grand sights, between the poor neighbourhood in which their lodging was situated, and Carlisle Bridge, with its noble view of the quays on either side. Many were the expressions of astonishment and admiration which they interchanged, but they made no pause, pressing steadily on until the forest of masts in the distance below Carlisle Bridge came into view, and their goal was near. Was the Vulcan among those ships? They would know her again most certainly. Who ever fails to recognise a ship he has gone all over from stem to stern, — especially with such a guide as Grip?

The Vulcan was not alongside the quays of the Liffey; possibly she had not yet arrived; or she might be in the dock, or under repair.

Foundling Mick and Dick followed the quay, going down the river on the left bank. Dick was too much taken up with the notion of the Vulcan to pay any attention to the Custom House, a magnificent structure, but strangely dull and inanimate as a centre of business. Foundling Mick paused for a moment to contemplate it. Should he ever have important transactions with that great place? What could be more enviable than to have to pay duties on cargoes brought from distant lands? Was such a satisfaction ever to be his?

The boys arrived at the Victoria Docks. What a number of ships, loading and unloading, the great basin, which forms the heart of the trading city, contained!

‘There she is!’ cried Dick, ‘the Vulcanl There! There!’ He was right. The Vulcan was at the quay, taking in her cargo.

A few minutes later, Grip, who was off duty, stepped ashore and joined his two friends.

‘At last, here you are!’ he repeated, with a cordial grasp of the hand for each.

Then the three friends strolled back along the quay towards the point at which the Royal Canal debouches on the Liffey. This was a quiet spot and they could talk at their ease. Grip wanted to hear all about their proceedings from the time of his departure from Queenstown to the moment of this happy meeting, and he listened with both wonder and interest to Foundling Mick’s narrative of their long but lucrative tramp, while he had been crossing the Atlantic Ocean twice. He was eager to learn particulars; the boys had to recall everything that had happened to them, and every impression they had formed of the country and the people He regarded Foundling Mick with unconcealed admiration. What an instinct the boy had for commercial affairs! What a genius for buying and selling! Why, he knew at least as much about figures as Mr Mulvany! And when Foundling Mick told him that his capital now amounted to one hundred and fifty pounds — safely bestowed about his person — Grip exclaimed, —

‘Then you are as rich as myself, my boy, only what it took me six years to earn you have made in six months! I say again what I said before, you’ll do well in your business; you’ll make a fortune.’

‘Where?’ asked Mick.

‘Everywhere. Anywhere you may go. In Dublin, if you stay here; somewhere else if you don’t.’

‘And what about me?’ said Dick.

‘You’ll do right well also,’ said Grip, encouragingly, ‘so as you never do anything without consulting the boss.’

‘Who? The boss?’

‘Why, Mick, of course. Don’t you think he looks like a boss?’

‘We will talk about that,’ said Mick.

‘Yes, after breakfast,’ replied Grip. ‘I am free all day. I know the town as well as I know the Vulcan’s furnaces. I must pilot you, and we’ll see Dublin together. Then you will know what it will be best for you to do.’

The three friends procured a good meal at a tavern much frequented by sailors, and while they sat at table Grip related his last two ocean trips, to the great contentment of Dick. Foundling Mick listened in thoughtful silence. He was much older than his years by the development of his intelligence, the gravity of his ideas, and the permanent tension of his mind. He might have been twenty years old at his birth and thirty now!

Grip took the boys to the centre of the city, the rich quarter which contrasts so strongly with the poor, for there is but little transition in the capital of Ireland. He showed them the fine bridges and Sackville Street3, with its statues, Nelson’s pillar, the vast post office, its handsome houses and fine shops. Alas! also its poor and shabby pedestrians, and many signs, impossible of concealment, of the poverty that abounds in Dublin, and which no authority or watchfulness can hinder from obtruding itself upon the sight of the well-to-do inhabitants. Foundling Mick took particular notice of the great number of young boys who are employed in selling papers, the leading journals, both Catholic and Protestant, Conservative and Nationalist, having their respective offices in the streets on either side of Nelson’s pillar.

‘Ha!’ said Grip, looking about him, ‘what a number of newspaper boys there are hereabouts, and it’s just the same down on the quays and at the railway stations.’

‘No business to be done in that way,’ said Foundling Mick, nodding his head decisively. ‘It succeeded in Cork, but it won’t do here.’

They continued their walk, and Grip pointed out the principal buildings, the post office, which would be the depository of a vast correspondence in the future, he persisted in saying, between Mr Foundling Mick, Merchant, and all the big commercial towns at home and abroad. Then came the Four Courts, and Grip told Mick he might admire the building, but avoid it when he should have money to lose, for it was a greater consumer of hard-earned wealth than the Vulcan was of coals. Before a superb edifice, of aspect at once classic and palatial, Grip paused, and gravely saluted it.

‘The Bank of Ireland, once the Parliament House, and will be again, please God! Dick, there’s cellars full of gold as big as houses inside there, my boy. And it’s there Mick will be putting his money for safety some day.’

And so he went on with his merry exaggerations, all coming from his heart. Mick only half heard him, so fixed was his attention upon this spacious edifice wherein so many accumulated fortunes formed ‘heaps of thousands on top of each other’, according to the fireman of the Vulcan. After they had explored the principal streets, and made the circuit of St Stephen’s Green, the three friends got into a tramcar and were conveyed to the entrance of the Phoenix Park. We need not expatiate upon their delight with the great expanse, the noble trees, and the various uses of this unequalled public resort. After they had gazed at the Viceregal Lodge, and speculated on their chances of getting a glimpse of the Lord Lieutenant — a stroke of luck which was withheld — it was time for them to part, so they returned by the tram to Carlisle Bridge, Grip turned off along the quay, and the two boys, once more thoroughly tired out, made their way to Patrick Street. It had been arranged that they should see Grip every day until the sailing of the Vulcan. But before they parted the following colloquy had taken place between Grip and Foundling Mick.

‘Well, Mick,’ asked Grip, ‘has any good idea come into your head today?’

‘About what I’ll do, is it?’

‘Yes, have you made your mind up to anything?’

‘No, I haven’t, Grip, but I’ve made it up against something, I’ll not try newspaper-selling here. There’s too many in the trade.’

‘That’s what I think too, Mick.’

And as for hawking things in the street in the cart, I don’t know. What is there to sell in that way? Besides there are a great many at that trade, too, I am sure. No — perhaps,’ he went on, in an anxious, hesitating tone, ‘it would be the best plan to set up for myself, to rent a little shop — ‘

‘Just the very thing, my boy!’

‘A shop in a part of the town where there’s a good deal of traffic, not rich people, you know, but people that want cheap things, and are constantly coming and going. Some place in the Liberties, now.’

‘You could not do better.’

‘But what should we sell?’ asked Dick.

‘Useful things,’ replied Foundling Mick, ‘things that are most generally wanted.’

‘Things to eat, then, cakes?’

‘You greedy litde chap!’ exclaimed Grip, ‘cakes aren’t useful.’

‘Yes, they are — for they’re good — ‘

‘That is not enough,’ said Mick, ‘our wares must be necessary above all. However, we shall see. I will go about in that quarter and see into things. There are second-hand places where there’s a look of good business. I think a sort of bazaar — ‘

‘A bazaar! That’s it!’ cried Grip, whose mind’s eye already beheld Foundling Mick’s shop with a gaily painted front, and a sign with his name in gold letters.

‘I’ll think of it, Grip. We must not be too impatient. We must think well before we decide.’

‘And don’t forget, Mick, that all my money is at your service. I don’t know what to do with it, and it is a great bother to have it always about me.’

‘Always about you?’

‘In my belt, Mick.’

‘Why don’t you put it out?’

‘Well, I will, with you. Will you have it?’

‘We’ll see, later on, if our trade does well. It is not the money we’re short of, it’s the way to use it, with profit and without too much risk.’

‘Don’t be afraid, my boy. I tell you again, you will make a fortune. That’s sure and certain. I can see you with hundreds and thousands of pounds.’

‘When does the Vulcan start, Grip?’

‘In a week.’

‘And when does she come back?’

‘Not for two months, for we have to go to Boston, to Baltimore, and I don’t know where else; anywhere that we get a cargo to take.’

‘And another to bring back!’ said Foundling Mick, with a sigh.

CHAPTER 23

THE BOYS BAZAAR

Our hero was at this time eleven and a half years old; Dick was eight, — their combined ages falling short of one legal majority. The idea of Foundling Mick starting in business, founding a commercial house! Could there be anyone but Grip, that is to say a person who loved him with a blind, unreasoning affection, to believe that he would succeed from the beginning, that his trade would become extended, and that he would make a fortune?

Nevertheless, it is a fact that two months after the arrival of the boys in Dublin, Bedford Street boasted a bazaar, which had the privilege of attracting attention, and also customers, in that humble but busy quarter of the town. The commercial experience of the young shopkeeper, gained at Cork, and during his long tramp with his hand-cart, had convinced him that purchasers can always We have not space to follow day by day the progress of the Boys’ Bazaar in the esteem and also in the confidence of the public. Suffice it to say that the unique establishment was a success from the first. Mr O’Brien was astonished at Foundling Mick’s capacity for business. To buy and to sell is well, but to know how to buy and sell is better, it is all. Mr O’Brien had done these good things in his own time, but he had begun at 25 years of age, not at twelve; hence he shared the ideas of Grip, and confidently expected that Foundling Mick would make a fortune. But he would sometimes say: ‘Don’t go too fast, my boy!’

‘No, sir,’ Mick would answer, ‘I will go slowly and carefully, for there’s a long road to travel, and I must spare my legs.’

It must be observed, in order to explain its phenomenal prosperity, that the fame of the Boys’ Bazaar had spread rapidly in Dublin. A shop set up and kept by two boys, the older of the two at the age when boys are at school, the younger in the toy period of life, was the sort of thing to attract attention, bring customers, and make the concern fashionable. Foundling Mick had gone to the expense of a few advertisements in the daily papers at so much a line, but the Freeman’s Journal and the Irish Times gave him gratuitous paragraphs, which did the Boys’ Bazaar solid service. Real ladies actually took the trouble of coming from the genteel quarters of the town, and were waited upon by Foundling Mick with the most scrupulous politeness, while Dick pleased them by his lively ways, his quick intelligence, his bright eyes and his curly head. Then the toy-shelves were emptied in no time, the carts, the boats, and the sand-buckets and spades were carried off by the dozen, and children were brought to buy their own toys from a little shopkeeper of their own age.

Whether this happy state of things would last was a question, but in any case, Foundling Mick devoted himself to his business with indomitable industry and keen intelligence.

As a matter of course, Grip’s first thought on the arrival of the Vulcan at Dublin, was to visit his friends. To describe him as ‘astonished’ is insufficient, he was transfixed with wonder and admiration. Never had he seen anything like the shop in Bedford Street, and, according to him, since it boasted the Boys’ Bazaar, Bedford Street itself might have challenged comparison with Sackville Street in Dublin, the Strand in London, Broadway in New York, and the Boulevard des Italiens in Paris. At each visit he regarded it as an obligation that he should buy one thing or another ‘to keep trade going’. Today it would be a pocketbook to replace one which he had never had; tomorrow it would be a pretty painted boat, that he wanted to give to the children of one of his comrades on the Vulcan who was not a father. His grandest purchase was a mock meerschaum pipe with an amber mouthpiece of yellow glass. And he would repeat to Foundling Mick, to whom he insisted on handing the price of his purchases, —

‘Ha! my boy, you’re getting on! Look at yourself, now, there you are, skipper of the Boys’ Bazaar, and you have only to keep your steam up! It’s a long day to the time when we were ragged boys in the Galway school and shivered with cold and hunger in the garret! By-the-bye, that ruffian, Carker, has he been hanged?’

‘Not yet, that I know of, Grip.’

‘It will come! It will come, I tell you, and you must be sure to send me a paper with a report of the performance.’

Then Grip returned on board, the Vulcan steamed out of port again, and after a few weeks the fireman reappeared at the Boy’s Bazaar and began to ruin himself in superfluous purchases as before.

One day Foundling Mick said to him, —

‘You still believe, Grip, that I shall make a fortune?’

‘Believe it, my boy! Just as sure as I believe that Carker will swing at the end of a rope.’

This was Grip’s notion of the most forcible asseveration of certitude here below.

‘Well, my dear Grip, don’t you think at all of the future for yourself?’

‘I? Why should I think about it? Haven’t I an employment I would not change for anything?’

‘A hard one, and ill paid.’

What? Four pounds a month, and fed, and lodged, and warmed — indeed roasted sometimes?’

And in a ship!’ put in Dick, who remained constant to his earliest ideal of bliss.

No matter, Grip,’ resumed Mick, ‘a fireman has never yet made a fortune, and we are intended by God to make our fortunes in this world.’

‘Are you so sure of that?’ asked Grip, with a dubious shake of the head. ‘Is it in His commandments?’

‘Yes,’ answered Mick, prompdy. ‘He desires that we should grow rich, not only to be happy ourselves, but to make those happy who deserve to be so, yet are not.’ And then the boy’s mind wandered afar; to Cissy, his companion in Mrs Murphy’s cabin, and to the MacCarthys, of whom he could get no tidings, to litde Jenny — all poor and suffering, no doubt, while he…

‘Stay, Grip,’ he said, ‘think well what you will answer to this. Why should you not remain on land?’

‘Leave the Vulcan?’

‘Yes — leave the Vulcan and be our partner. You know — Mick, Dick and Co.? Well, Co. is not sufficiently represented, and if you would join us — ‘

‘Do, Grip, do, dear Grip!’ entreated Dick. ‘It would make us both so happy if you would.’

‘Me, too,’ said Grip, who was touched by this proposal, ‘but there’s something I must say — ‘

‘Say it, Grip.’

‘Well, then, I’m too tall!’

‘Too tall?’

‘Yes. If a long lath of a fellow like me made his appearance in the shop it wouldn’t be the same thing at all. It wouldn’t be the Boys’ Bazaar. Mick, Dick and Co. must be little fellows if they’re to draw customers. I should injure the firm, I should do you a wrong. It’s because you’re children that you’re doing so well.’

‘Perhaps you’re right, Grip,’ said Foundling Mick, regretfully, ‘but we shall grow.’

‘We are growing!’ added Dick, raising himself on tiptoe.

‘Of course you are, and take care you don’t grow too quick.’

‘We can’t help that, Grip.’

‘No, you can’t. That’s why you must try to make sure of all you can while you are boys. Now, I am five feet six and a little over, and in your line nothing over five feet is any use! However, if I cannot be your partner, Mick, you know my money is yours all the same.’

‘I don’t want it.’

‘Well, well, just as you like; but if you take it into your head to extend your trade…’

‘We could not do it with only us two.’

‘Well, then, why don’t you hire a woman to do your housework?’

‘I had thought of that, Grip, and Mr O’Brien advised me to do it.’

‘He is right — bravo, Mr O’Brien. You don’t know any good servant whom you could trust?

‘No, Grip.’

‘Look about you; you’ll find one, never fear.’

‘Wait a minute, I’ve thought of some one — an old friend — Kate Brady!’

At the sound of this name Ranger intervened with a joyous bark, and wagged his tail hilariously.

‘Ah, you remember her, Ranger!’ said his young master, fondly caressing the dog. ‘Kate! Our good Kate!’

Ranger bounded towards the door as though he awaited only an order from his master to rush away at the top of his speed to Trelingar Castle and bring Kate to the Boys’ Bazaar.

Grip was then told all about Kate, and was immediately convinced that nothing could be better than to send for her and to install her at once in the kitchen. Fortunately, the upper floor of the house was to let; a room might be rented for the occupation of the partners, and a corner of the kitchen screened off for Kate. She need not show at all; her grown-up-ness would not be detrimental to the firm of Mick, Dick and Co.

But was she still at Trelingar Casde? Was she still living?

Foundling Mick wrote by the same day’s post, and the next day but one he received a letter, written in a large legible hand. Forty-eight hours later, Kate arrived at the Kingsbridge Station.

She was warmly welcomed by her former protege, who hugged her fervendy, and by Ranger, who jumped at her and laid his paws on her shoulders. She could respond to this welcome only by tears, and when she was installed in her kitchen, and had been introduced to Dick, she wept afresh for joy.

On that day Grip had the honour and happiness of partaking with his young friends of the first dinner cooked by their own housekeeper in their own house. On the morrow the Vulcan set out to sea, and the happiest fireman afloat was in her engine room.

It may be asked whether Kate was to have wages? She would have been content with board and lodging only, these being given her by her dear child’; but such was not Foundling Mick’s notion of the right method of doing things. She was not to be worse off, instead of better, for serving him whose existence at Trelingar Castle she only had made endurable. Wages she should have, and all the care and comfort that the boys in their small way could give her.

Very soon Foundling Mick discovered the economical value of the bold step he had taken. Kate kept the shop and the rooms in perfect order; cleanliness reigned in that little domain; their clothes and the scanty household linen were washed and mended; their food was purchased with judgement and admirably cooked, at less cost than the comfordess meals at a small eating-house in the neighbourhood on which they had hitherto subsisted. Kate was in short a model servant, her capacity was equal to her honesty — that great quality which had exposed her to the ridicule of the servants at Trelingar Casde. But why should we waste time by recalling to mind the Trelingar people in gilded saloon or servants’ hall? Let the marquis and his happily adapted consort vegetate in their pompous uselessness, and let us trouble ourselves no more with those samples of the great.

It is really important, on the other hand, to mention that the year 1883 ended in a very respectable balance to the credit of Mick, Dick and Co. The resources of the Boys’ Bazaar hardly sufficed for the demands of Christmas and the New Year. The toys-shelves were cleared twenty times over. To say nothing of other toys, Dick sold every kind of craft, even to clockwork steamboats, by scores, and all the boy-partners’ wares were disposed of in proportion. Foundling Mick had no cause to repent of having left Cork and renounced the sale of newspapers. Mr O’Brien continued to take a lively interest in the young head partner in this unique firm, and to give Foundling Mick wise counsel, which was respectfully accepted; not so the aid in money, which he had also offered when he had tested the feasibility of the enterprise and the worth and ability of his young friend. Foundling Mick would not borrow, would not incur responsibility; would not share either loss or gain. In the case of Mr O’Brien, as in that of Grip, he respectfully declined a loan.

In short, at the end of six months, Foundling Mick had a very good right to be satisfied; he had trebled his capital since his arrival in Dublin.

CHAPTER 24

FOUND

‘Any persons who may be possessed of information of any kind respecting the family of Murtagh MacCarthy, formerly the tenant of Kirwan’s Farm, in the parish of S — , County of Kerry, are earnestly requested to transmit the same to Mick, Dick and Co. the Boys’ Bazaar, Bedford Street, Dublin.’

The above advertisement was inserted in several of the Irish papers at the beginning of the New Year, and Mick had neither compunction nor regret in expending the money which this proceeding cost. Could the adopted child forget his best friends, especially when fortune was smiling on his modest efforts? It was his bounden duty to endeavour by every means in his power to find them, and come to their assistance. What would be his joy and thankfulness if he could ever repay to them any part of all their care and affection!

Whither had these good people gone in search of shelter after the destruction of the farm? Had they remained in Ireland, earning hard their daily bread? Had they exiled themselves, for the sake of Murdoch’s safety, in some far-distant land, in Australia or America? Was Pat still traversing the sea? The thought that his benefactor and his family were in want was a constant and sore grief to Foundling Mick.

No result was attained by the advertisement. Had Murdoch been in a prison in Ireland news of him would have been received. The conclusion to be drawn was that the whole family had emigrated. Whither? How was Mick to solve that question? Would they succeed in making a new country for themselves in the far colony? Had they forsaken the old land for good and all?

Mr O’Brien applied himself to the solution of the matter that was troubling the spirit of his young friend, and discovered, through one of his correspondents in Belfast, that six members of the MacCarthy family had sailed for Melbourne two years previously. He had no means of tracing them farther. Then Foundling Mick applied to Messrs Maxwell for information respecting Pat, but there also failure awaited him. He received for answer that Pat had quitted the service of the firm fifteen months before, and no one knew on what ship he had embarked. One chance remained. Pat might return to one of the Irish ports and learn there that inquiry was being made respecting his family. This was a slender chance, it must be admitted, but Mick clung to it nevertheless, and his good friend O’Brien also tried to cheer him up.

‘I should not be surprised,’ he said to the boy one day, ‘if you were to see all the MacCarthys again.’

‘See them — in Australia — thousands of miles away! Oh, no, Mr O’Brien.’

‘Why should you talk in that way, my boy? Is not Australia next door to us? There is no distance nowadays. Steam has suppressed it. They will come back to this country, I am sure. Irish people do not abandon Ireland, and, if they have succeeded over there — ‘

‘Is it reasonable to hope, Mr O’Brien?’

‘Certainly it is; if they are hard-working and intelligent as you say.’

‘Industry and intelligence are not always enough, sir. Luck is wanted too, and the MacCarthys never had any luck.’

‘What they had not formedy they may yet have, Mick. Do you suppose that I have always been lucky? No, I had many ups and downs, affairs that I could not manage, reverses of fortune, until the day that saw me master of the situation. And look at yourself, Mick, are you not an example? Did not you begin by being the sport of poverty and wretchedness, and how is it with you now?’

‘What you say is true, Mr O’Brien, and sometimes I wonder whether it is not all a dream.

‘No, Mick, it is sound, solid reality. It is very extraordinary, for you have gone far beyond what could have been expected from a mere child, as you actually are. A little lad of twelve! But reason is not always to be measured by age, and by reason you have been continually guided.’

‘By reason? Yes, perhaps — and yet, when I think of my present situation, it seems to me that chance has something to do with it.’

‘There is less of chance in life than you think, and things are more closely linked together than is generally supposed. You will observe that a piece of ill, rarely fails to be accompanied by a piece of good, fortune.’

‘Do you think so, Mr O’Brien?’

‘Yes, and I believe it all the more that there is no doubt of it in your own case, my boy. This reflection occurs to me whenever I think of what your existence has been. You were sent to Mrs Murphy; that was evil fortune — ‘

‘And good fortune that I knew Cissy there, and the first kindness I ever received was from her. What has become of her, my litde companion, and shall I ever see her again? Yes, that was good fortune.’

‘And it was well also that Mrs Murphy was an abominable old hag, for otherwise you would have been left with her until the time came for your being taken back to the workhouse. Then you ran away, and this threw you into the hands of the puppet-showman — ‘

Oh! the monster!’

It was well he was such a wretch, for otherwise you would still have been in his service, tramping the country with him and his puppets. Then you were put into the poor school at Galway — ‘

Where I met Grip, who has been so good to me; who saved my life at the risk of his own.’

‘And this led to your being taken up by that foolish actress. Quite another existence, I acknowledge, but it would not have resulted in any honourable and worthy career, and I regard it as fortunate that after having amused herself with you, one fine day she forsook you.’

‘I don’t resent it to her, Mr O’Brien. After all, she did take pity on me, she was good to me — and, since then, I have come to understand many things. So then, following out your reasoning, it is due to her forsaking me that I was received into the MacCarthy family at Kirwan’s Farm — ‘

‘Just so, and there again — ‘

‘Oh, Mr O’Brien, you can never persuade me that the ruin of those good people could possibly be a fortunate circumstance.’

‘Yes, and no,’ said Mr O’Brien gravely.

‘No, Mr O’Brien, no! And though I may be a successful man some day, I shall always regret that the starting-point of my good fortune should have been MacCarthy’s ruin. I would willingly have passed my whole life at the farm as a son of the house — ‘

‘I understand your feelings perfectly; but for all that it is no less true that this series of circumstances will enable you, I hope, one day to recompense those good people for what they did for you.’

‘But it would be so much better if they had not required assistance from anyone.’

‘Well, well, I will not insist, and I respect your feelings. But let us go on arguing and come to Trelingar Castle.’

‘Ah! those horrid people, the lord, and the lady, and their odious son! What humiliation I had to endure there. That was the worst part of my existence.’

‘And, according to my line of reasoning, it is well that it was so. If you had been well treated at Trelingar Casde, you would probably be there still.’

‘In the position of a groom! No, no, Mr O’Brien, never. I was only waiting while there — so soon as I had saved something, I — ‘

‘Ah! by-the-bye,’ interposed Mr O’Brien, ‘Kate must be enchanted that an accident brought you into the Castle.’

‘Yes, the dear woman.’

‘And Dick must be enchanted that an accident took you out of it, for otherwise you would not have met him on the high road, you would not have saved his life, you would not have brought him to Cork, where you both worked so bravely, and where you found Grip. And at this moment, you would not be in Dublin —

‘Talking with the best of men, who has become our friend,’ answered Foundling Mick eagerly, and he clasped the good man’s hand with fervent gratitude.

‘And who will not spare you his advice when he sees you need it.’

‘Thank you, Mr O’Brien. Yes, you are right, and your experience cannot err. The things of life are linked together! God grant that I may yet be useful to all those whom I love and who have loved me!’

The business of the Boys’ Bazaar continued to prosper. Public favour was not capricious in its regard, and before long Mr O’Brien had a second shop to let which adjoined the Boys’ Bazaar, and Foundling Mick took it for his new enterprise. What was that? A grocery business, no less, and soon a flourishing one. All the neighbours bought their groceries at the, extended Boys’ Bazaar, and Kate had a hand in the sale now, she was not out of place among the serious articles of household consumption, while the partners attended most to the fancy goods, and Dick in particular presided with even increased zeal over the toys. The whole of the floor above the first shop now belonged to the firm, the boys had a comfortable sitting-room as well as their neat bedroom, and Kate no longer had to be ‘screened off’ in a corner of the kitchen. A more orderly and respectable little household could not have been found. And how hard they worked, those two! The day was hardly long enough for their commerce, and when the evening came there were the books — Foundling Mick’s unfailing joy — to be made up, and the receipts to be verified. Dick’s education was progressing also, and the visits of Grip were punctual and regular. Let us pass over an interval of monotonous occupation and steadily augmenting prosperity, but which was not marked by any incident more special than Foundling Mick’s success in persuading Grip to transfer his savings from his belt to the Post Office Savings’ Bank; and take up the fortunes of the Boys’ Bazaar at a more advanced point.

In January 1885 Foundling Mick had entered his fourteenth year, and Dick was nine and a half. The two boys were in perfect health, well grown for their respective ages, and strong. The ills of their early years had left no traces upon them. The bazaar was in the full tide of prosperity, and the firm actually found it necessary to procure assistance in keeping their books. Mr Simpson, a trustworthy young man, recommended by Mr O’Brien, had been engaged in the capacity of book-keeper. Foundling Mick had money in the Bank of Ireland by this time, and was unmistakably on the road to fortune. He had not relinquished his efforts to discover the fate of the MacCarthys, but he was still unsuccessful, and this failure was the black spot on his horizon. The agent in Melbourne whom he had employed failed to trace the emigrants beyond that city. Nothing had been heard of Pat after he left Messrs Maxwell’s service, and it was not impossible that he was with his parents in Australia.

Foundling Mick did not allow his thoughts to dwell on any of those whom he had known, except the MacCarthys and Cissy. As for Mrs Murphy, Hornpipe, Mr Mulvany, and the august house of Trelingar, he put them as far from his mind as though they never had existed.

And Carker? Has he been hanged?’

This was Grip’s invariable question each time that he turned up at the Boys’ Bazaar on landing from the Vulcan. The invariable reply was that nothing had been heard of Carker. Then Grip would look over the police reports in the newspapers accumulated since his last departure, and having failed to discover any reference to his former schoolfellow, he would say, —

‘Let us wait! We must have patience!’

‘But why may not this Carker have become an estimable person?’ asked Mr O’Brien one day, in a remonstrating mood.

‘He!’ cried Grip, ‘he, that rascal! Why, it would turn one against good behaviour!’

Kate, who knew the story of the Galway school and its pupils, was entirely of Grip’s opinion.

It was November and winter had set in severely. The weather was such as might fairly predispose anybody to remain indoors, nevertheless, Foundling Mick started by an early train for Belfast. The occasion for his forsaking the Boys’ Bazaar for even a short time was a misunderstanding with a wholesale firm in Belfast, with whom the lad had recently had certain dealings, and Mr O’Brien, who deprecated very strongly anything that might possibly involve a lawsuit, had advised his young friend to settle the matter in person. Mick acted on this prudent counsel, and duly arrived at Belfast, without the slightest prevision that the day would be one to be marked henceforth in his life for remembrance. He looked about him on his arrival at the important commercial city of the north of Ireland, with the intelligent interest which such a seat of industry could not fail to inspire in a mind of the cast of Foundling Mick’s, and promised himself an inspection of the main points of interest after he should have finished his business with Messrs MacMullen, to whose warehouse he repaired forthwith. Mick was conducted after a short delay to the private room of the head of the firm, and received politely, but with unconcealed surprise, by Mr Alexander MacMullen. The interview was a satisfactory one, the misunderstanding was easily removed, the relations between the Belfast merchant and his young customer (whose intelligence and smartness in the discussion of the matter in question astonished that astute person equally with his youth and self-possession) were placed upon a sure footing, and Foundling Mick found himself free to see a good deal of the city before dark. He had heard, and read in the newspapers, much about the division between classes and creeds in Belfast; he knew that capital and labour were upon terms anything but friendly there, and that in the northern capital the hardships which the Irish poor have to endure everywhere, have the aggravation of detestation of their religion, and a bitter persecuting spirit on the part of the wealthy and powerful classes; but he also knew that the Irish faith has never been shaken, and that no efforts to impose an alien creed upon the Irish race has succeeded; so that the strife rages always without result. But these things concerned Foundling Mick not at all; he was interested in the trade of Belfast, not in its factions, and he walked briskly through the town, not failing to observe all its features, and to admire the evidences of its industry and prosperity, but not loitering, for the day was very cold, and he wanted to see as much as possible before he should have to return to the station, where he intended to dine before starting for Dublin. He was turning his steps in the direction of the station, and having taken what his accurate eye told him was a short cut through a narrow street — for Foundling Mick possessed the bump of locality — had emerged upon a broad thoroughfare, when he found himself in front of a great factory. An angry crowd was assembled before the doors of the building, and the concourse blocked the street. Foundling Mick had to get through the mass somehow, and in doing this he learned the cause of the tumult. It was pay-day, and a number of male and female ‘hands’, already discontent, had come to protest against a decrease of their wages which had been announced for the next week. These poor people had been refused a hearing, and their anger was thoroughly roused. Muttered threats had been followed by shouts, and the doors and windows of the factory were assailed by showers of stones. At the moment when Mick had all but wormed his way to the edge of the crowd on the factory side of the street, a body of police rushed upon the malcontents with intent to disperse the assemblage, and arrest the ringleaders.

Foundling Mick, fearing lest he should have no time for his dinner at the station, tried to get away, but could not succeed, and only escaped from being trodden down in the charge, by forcing himself into a doorway, just as five or six workmen, brutally struck by the truncheons of the police, fell down alongside the factory wall.

Close to him, just beyond the doorstep, lay a young girl — a factory hand, pale, thin and sickly looking — who was eighteen years old, but might have been twelve from her appearance. She had been dashed down and lay there moaning, and feebly imploring help. Foundling Mick started at the sound of her voice. It reached him like a far-off remembrance. His heart beat quickly; he could not speak, and he was unable to move near to the prostrate figure. In a few minutes the crush was lessened, the crowd was giving way before authority (supported by truncheons), and the way was cleared in front of the doorway in which he stood. He bent over the girl; she was insensible. He raised her head, turned her face so that a gleam from a gas lamp was thrown upon it, and murmured, ‘Cissy! Cissy!’ It was Cissy, but she did not hear him.

Without a moment’s hesitation he procured assistance, had the fainting girl placed in a cab, and conveyed her to the railway station. She recovered sufficiently before they arrived there to be able to walk along the platform without attracting attention from either busy officials or self-engrossed travellers, and when the train started she was comfortably ensconced in a corner seat of a first class carriage, without any other passengers, and Foundling Mick was kneeling by her side, holding her hands in his, and speaking to her in words of consolation and endearment which she was still unable to comprehend.

In such fashion was accomplished the abduction of Cissy by Foundling Mick; and who had so good a right to carry her away from her misery as he whom she had so often defended against ill-treatment in Mrs Murphy’s wretched cabin?

CHAPTER 25

A CHANGE OF COLOUR AND CONDITION

A happier little party than that which was assembled in the Boys’ Bazaar on the following day could not have been discovered in all Ireland, or for that matter in all Europe, or perhaps anywhere short of Paradise. Cissy had been installed in the best room, and Foundling Mick was by her bedside at every spare moment. She had come to herself completely, recollected what had happened, and recognised in the vigorous and well-grown youth who had rescued her, the little child who had escaped from Mrs Murphy’s den through a mousehole, so to speak.

And she, who was but seven years old then, and was now eighteen, worn out by toil and want, could she ever become the handsome young woman she might have been had she not lived in the vitiated atmosphere of factories?

It was ten years since they had met, and yet Foundling Mick had recognised Cissy by her voice, more surely than he would have known her by her face. Cissy, for her part, had not forgotten any of the incidents of their woeful childhood. It was of these that they talked, holding each others hands, looking together into that miserable past as into a mirror.

As for Kate Brady, she could not hide her emotion. Dicks joy found utterance in the strangest exclamations addressed to Ranger, who responded with short barks of sympathy. Mr O’Brien, who had called early at the Bazaar to learn how Foundling Mick had fared in his mission, was much touched by the simple story. They had all heard of Cissy; it was not like the arrival of a stranger, however interesting; it was the coming home of Foundling Mick’s elder sister.

Grip’s presence only was wanted to complete the content of the little party, and no doubt he would have recognised his ‘boy’s’ Cissy at the first glance. But the Vulcan was expected to arrive very shortly, and then all would be right.

Cissy’s history may be told in a few lines; it is that of too many of the Irish children. Six months after the disappearance of Foundling Mick, Mrs Murphy died in a drunken fit, and Cissy was taken back to the workhouse at R — , where she remained for two years. She was then sent to a linen factory in Belfast, where she earned a few pence a day in the midst of the unwholesome flax dust, pushed about and beaten, having none to defend her, but always gentle, nevertheless, amiable, docile and seemingly inured to the hardships of existence.

Cissy did not contemplate any possible amelioration of this state of things. And, at the moment when she felt most sure that it was destined to remain always the same, it was suddenly changed by the touch of a hand — the hand of a child who had received from her the first caress he had ever known, and who was now at the head of a prosperous house of business. Yes! he had taken her away from her hateful life at Belfast, and here she was, in his house, and about to be the mistress of it! Yes! the mistress, he told her over and over again; not the servant.

Cissy a servant! Would Kate Brady hear of such a thing? Or Dick? Or Foundling Mick permit it?

So you wish to keep me with you?’ she said.

‘Wish it, Cissy!’

‘But at least I may work, so as not to be a burthen to you?’

‘Yes, Cissy.’

‘Then what shall I do?’

‘Nothing, Cissy.’

And to this he adhered. Nevertheless, a week later, in the full exercise of her own sweet will, Cissy was installed behind the counter, having been instructed in the duties of a saleswoman. And the Boys’ Bazaar was all the more frequented on account of her presence there; for the new and happy life to which she was introduced soon told on her, and she became as pretty as she was amiable and intelligent.

Cissy’s greatest wish was for the arrival of the first fireman of the Vulcan. She knew all about Grip’s conduct during the wretched years of the poor school; that he had succeeded her as Foundling Mick’s protector, and that but for him Mick must have perished in the fire. The first fireman might reckon on a warm welcome on his return, but that happy event was unexpectedly deferred. Owing to certain commercial necessities, the year 1886 came to a close before the Vulcan appeared once more in the Irish Sea.

On the last day of that year Mr O’Brien had the pleasure of congratulating his young friend on the fact that the capital of the Boys’ Bazaar had reached a sum of over PS4,000 free of all debts. He expressed his gratification in the kindest manner, and at the same time recommended Mick to act with great prudence.

‘It is often more difficult to keep one’s gains,’ he said, ‘than to acquire them.’

‘I know you are right, sir,’ replied Foundling Mick, ‘and I shall not let myself be led away. But I do wish the money in the Bank was doing something more profitable. It is money that’s asleep, and sleepers are not workers. Now, Mr O’Brien, if some good opportunity were to arise?’

‘It would not be enough for it to be good, Mick, it would have to be excellent.’

‘In that case, then, I am sure you would be the first to advise me — ‘

‘To profit by it? Certainly, provided you did so in your own line of business.’

‘That is just what I mean, Mr O’Brien. I should never think of running risks in operations that I know nothing about. But one may endeavour to extend one’s trade while acting with prudence.’

‘On those conditions it would be hard if I didn’t approve, my boy, and if I hear of anything that would be perfectly safe, — well — we shall see!’

Mr O’Brien was as cautious as he was sagacious, and did not think proper to pledge himself any farther.

The 23rd of February was a date to be marked with a red cross in the calendar of the Boys’ Bazaar, for, on that day, Dick having mounted a step-ladder in the shop in order to get at the topmost toy-shelf, very nearly tumbled off on being hailed from below.

‘Ahoy, there, parrot-perch! ahoy!’

‘Grip!’ cried Dick, and slid down the ladder, as a boy slips down a stair-rail.

‘It’s myself, Dick! How’s Mick, my lad? And Kate? And Mr O’Brien? I don’t think I’ve left out anyone, eh?’

‘Not anyone? Not me, Grip?’

Who said these words? A young girl who came from the back of the shop, and held out her two hands to the first fireman of the Vulcan.

‘Beg pardon, miss,’ said Grip, in some confusion. ‘I — I don’t — ‘

‘Why, it’s Cissy, Grip! Cissy! Cissy!’ repeated Dick, with shouts of laughter.

Those were pleasant days that followed the completion of the little company at the Boys’ Bazaar. It might truly have been called a ‘family’ party, although not one of its members was related to any of the others, and all belonged to the class of the ‘disinherited’. Whenever he was free from his fireman’s duties, Grip was to be found at the Boys’ Bazaar, and it was not long before Foundling Mick became aware (but prior to Grip’s making the discovery) that there was an attraction at the shop counter, which had exerted its charm from the first, was growing stronger every day, and from which the first fireman of the Vulcan had neither the power nor the desire to escape. What would you have? It is the common lot!

Is not my big sister a pretty girl?’ was the ingenuous question put to Grip by Foundling Mick one day.

Your big sister, my boy! But if she wasn’t, she would be, all the same! If she was ugly, she wouldn’t be, all the same!’

‘Grip! What do you mean?’

Oh, I’m talking stupidness, I know; but I can’t express myself, that’s the reason. If I could express myself — ‘

On the contrary, he expressed himself very well, in Kate Brady’s opinion at least, and in less than in three weeks after Grip’s appearance on the scene she said to Foundling Mick, —

‘Our Grip is changing his skin. He used to be black, and now he’s getting back to his own white colour. I don’t think he will be on the Vulcan much longer!’

This was the opinion of Mr O’Brien also. Nevertheless, on the 15th of March, when the Vulcan steamed out of port, bound for New York, her first fireman was on board, having been accompanied to the water’s edge by the whole family.

He returned on the 15 th of May, and it seemed that the change in his colour was more distinct. He was received with the usual warmth, but he was not so demonstrative on his own part, and his demeanour towards Cissy bordered on the ceremonious. She was more serious and reserved than before, especially when by any chance she found herself alone with Grip. Somehow, the evenings did not pass so pleasantly as before, and when the hour came for Grip’s withdrawal, Foundling Mick would say, —

‘Tomorrow, old fellow?’

‘No, not tomorrow, Mick. There’s too much to be done. I can’t possibly come.’

The next day Grip would arrive exactly as he had done the day before, or perhaps an hour earlier, and most certainly his skin became whiter each time.

It will be evident to the reader that Grip was in a psychological condition favourable to his acceptance of Foundling Mick’s proposal that he should relinquish his employment on board the Vulcan, and become a partner in the house of Mick, Dick & Co. Foundling Mick was aware of this, but he took good care not to sound Grip on the subject. He judged it better to let the advance be made by Grip himself.

About the beginning of June the advance was made in the following fashion.

‘Business is brisk, Mick, isn’t it?’ asked Grip.

‘You can judge for yourself. The shops are pretty full.’

‘Yes; there are a lot of customers.’

‘Yes, indeed, Grip; especially since Cissy’s been at the counter.’

‘That’s not surprising. I can’t think why in all Dublin, or even in all Ireland, any one should want to buy anything unless she sells it!’

‘Well, it certainly would be hard to find a nicer girl.’

‘Or more — more — ‘ replied Grip, who was quite unequal to finding a comparative worthy of Cissy.

‘And so intelligent,’ added Mick.

‘So, then, things are all right?’

‘I’ve told you so.’

‘And Mr Simpson?’

‘He’s very well.’

‘I was not asking for him,’ said Grip, with some irritation. ‘What do I care about Mr Simpson’s health?’

‘But I do, Grip. He is very useful to us. He’s an excellent book-keeper.’

And understands his business?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘I think he is rather old.’

‘No — he does not look so.’

‘Hm!’

The conversation stopped there, and when Foundling Mick repeated it to Mr O’Brien and Kate Brady, each of them listened with a smile.

Even that rogue of a Dick let himself into the joke, and a few days afterwards said to Grip, —

‘Is not the Vulcan starting soon?’

‘So they say,’ answered Grip, and his countenance fell perceptibly.

‘And then,’ resumed Dick, you will light the furnace by only looking at it.’

As a fact the remarkably fine eyes of the first fireman were sparkling at the moment, but no doubt that was because Cissy was going about the shop, in her pleasant, smiling way, and presently she paused to say, —

Grip, would you reach up to that box of chocolate? I am not tall enough.’

Grip reached up to the box.

Would you just hand down that sugar-loaf? I am not strong enough.’

Grip handed down the sugar-loaf.

Will your trip be a long one?’ inquired Dick, whose roguish tone and laughing eyes seemed to mock poor Grip.

‘Very long, I think,’ said the fireman, shaking his head. ‘At least five weeks.’

‘Five weeks! Why, that’s nothing! I thought you were going to say five months!’

‘Five months? Why not five years?’ exclaimed Grip, in the tone of a poor wretch who has been sentenced to imprisonment.

‘Then you are very happy, Grip?’

‘And why not? Of course I am.’

‘You’re a big fool!’ said Dick, and he ran away with a grin on his roguish face.

The fact was, that Grip’s life was not exactly lively since he chose to pass it mostly with his head in an angle of the wall. It was therefore just as well that he should go, since he could not make up his mind to stay, and accordingly he did go, on the 22nd of June.

During Grip’s absence on this occasion, Mick, Dick & Co. did a very successful stroke of business, with the approval of Mr O’Brien. This was the purchase of the patent of a rather expensive mechanical toy from the inventor, a person known to Mr O’Brien. The novel article of commerce took the fancy of the customers at once, and the receipts of the Boys’ Bazaar were raised both directly and indirectly by its vogue. Numbers of children of the ‘gentry’ wanted the toy, numbers of mothers bought it for them, and rarely failed to discover that other purchases might be made on Foundling Mick’s premises with an advantage over the shops in a more fashionable quarter. So well were things looking that Mick indulged in the calculation of how much he might be able to give Cissy for her ‘fortune’, when Grip should be induced to have his mind made up for him on the important point of matrimony. That Cissy would have Grip if he could summon up courage to ask her, Mick was quite certain, in fact everybody in the house knew that. And why not? Grip was a fine, handsome young man, and Cissy was well aware of all his good qualities. Of course, she believed that her feelings were unsuspected by anybody.

It ensued from this condition of things, that on the return of the Vulcan, on the 29th of July, the first fireman was more awkward, embarrassed and moody — in short, more unhappy — than before. His ship was to start again on the 15th of September. Would he go with her this time?

Foundling Mick had made up his mind on one point. His sister Cissy should not marry a fireman. He intended to impose, as a first condition, that Grip should relinquish his post on the Vulcan, and enter the firm in the character of a partner. If he would not do this, then no Cissy for Grip.

One day when the disconsolate one was hanging about the kitchen where Kate Brady was at work — he was more at ease with that good woman — Kate said to him with apparent carelessness, —

‘Haven’t you remarked, Grip, that our Cissy grows prettier and prettier?’

‘No, I haven’t,’ replied Grip, ‘I haven’t remarked it. Why should I remark it? I don’t look — ‘

‘Ah! you don’t look? Well, then, open your eyes, and you will see what a pretty girl our girl is. Do you know that she is close on nineteen?’

‘What, already?’ — Grip knew Cissy’s age accurately — ‘You must be mistaken, Kate.’

‘I’m not in the least mistaken; she’s just nineteen, and she ought to be getting married. Mick must look out for a good, honest boy for her, about 26 or 27, just like yourself, you know. Someone we could all trust with her; not a sailor, though, not a sailor! People that go to sea, no, no! Sea-faring folks needn’t be coming this way. And Mr Mick will give her a snug little fortune, I’m thinking — ‘

‘She doesn’t want it.’

‘That’s true, Grip, but a little money’s a good thing in setting-up house. Our young master has someone in his eye, I think.’

‘Is it someone that comes to the Bazaar often?’

‘Yes, pretty often.’

‘Do I know him?’

‘No, it seems you don’t know him,’ answered Kate, looking at Grip, who looked away from her.

‘And — does Cissy like him?’ asked Grip, as though the words stuck in his throat.

Well, — we’re not altogether sure. When people can’t make up their minds to speak — ‘

What stupid fools some people are!’ said Grip.

‘That’s just what I think,’ rejoined Kate, readily.

In spite of this very broad hint, the first fireman embarked on the Vulcan a week later; but when he returned on the 29th of October, it was evident that he had formed a great resolution. He did not, however, speak at once. The ship was to be laid up for repairs, and Grip had two months before him.

He had walked into the Bazaar immediately after his arrival, and finding Kate Brady dusting the shop, had asked her point blank, —

‘Is Cissy married?’

‘No,’ replied Kate, ‘but she soon will be. It’s coming.’

As the Vulcan was in the repairing dock, Grip had nothing to do on board, and so he was much with his friends. Indeed, short of living there altogether, he could hardly have been more constant to the Boys’ Bazaar. And yet, things did not progress. In fact the Vulcan had been repaired, was in process of lading, and within a week of putting to sea, and that unbearable Grip had not yet opened his handsome mouth, when an unexpected occurrence that had a reflex action upon the lagging swain took place.

A letter arrived from Australia, addressed to Mr O’Brien, and containing the following news: —

Mr and Mrs MacCarthy, Murdoch, his wife and their little girl, with Peter and Pat, who had rejoined them, had just sailed from the port of Melbourne for Ireland. Fortune had not smiled upon them, and they were returning to their own country well nigh as poor as when they left its shores. They were on board the Queensland, a sailing ship; the voyage would no doubt be slow and difficult, and their arrival could not be anticipated for nearly three months from the date of their departure.

Foundling Mick was greatly relieved by the arrival of this letter. To have any news at all of his friends was a boon of price, but the nature of the news grieved him sorely. However, he would be able to help them. How ardently did he long to be tenfold more prosperous, so that they might have tenfold the aid he could now offer them.

Foundling Mick requested Mr O’Brien to let him have this letter, and Mr O’Brien consented to do so. Mick locked it up in his safe, and, strange to say, did not allude to it after that day. Indeed, after the receipt of the letter, he seemed to avoid any mention of the former occupants of Kirwan’s Farm.

Grip took the news very seriously. It had an aspect personal to himself of which he entirely disapproved. These MacCarthys, these two brothers.

Peter and Pat, were coming back; no doubt they were very fine fellows, and Foundling Mick was greatly attached to them. What if Cissy should think one of them a specially fine fellow, and Foundling Mick discover that he would be the best of husbands for the girl whom Mick regarded as an elder sister? In short, Grip became frightfully jealous, and on a certain day in December he made up his mind that there must be an end to this state of things. He had only just reached that conclusion when Foundling Mick took him aside, and asked him to come into his private room, as he had something to say to him.

The stricken Grip followed Mick, with a pale face and a sinking heart.

When they were seated face to face, Foundling Mick said, in a business-like tone, —

‘I am probably going to undertake a rather important affair, and I shall want your money.’

‘At last!’ said Grip, you haven’t been too quick about it. How much do you want?’

‘All you have in the Savings’ Bank.’

‘Take what you want, then.’

‘Here’s your book. Sign, please, so that I may draw out the money today.’

Grip opened the book and signed.

‘As for the interest,’ said Mick, ‘I shan’t say anything — ‘

‘That does not matter.’

‘Because — from this day forth you are in the “house” of Mick, Dick & Co.’

‘As what?’

‘As a partner.’

‘But — my ship?’

‘You will give up your berth.’

‘And — my business?’

‘You will leave it.’

‘Why should I leave it?’

‘Because you’re going to marry Cissy.’

I m going — to marry — Cissy!’ repeated Grip in bewilderment.

‘Yes; she wishes it.’

‘Ah! It is she — ‘

‘Yes! And as you wish it also — ‘

‘I? I wish it — ‘

Grip did not know what he was saying, or understand a word of the farther discourse of Foundling Mick. He took up his hat, put it on his head, took it off, placed it on a chair, and sat down upon it without perceiving that it was there.

‘No matter,’ said Foundling Mick. ‘Any way, you’ll have to buy a new one for the wedding.’

No doubt he did buy a new hat for the occasion, but he never had any clear idea of how his marriage was brought about. Even Cissy herself could not extricate him from the confusion and bewilderment in which he passed the intervening days. It came to pass, however, that on the 24th of December, Christmas Eve, Grip put on a black coat, as though he were going to a funeral, and Cissy arrayed herself in a white gown, as though she were going to a party, Mr O’Brien, Foundling Mick, and Dick assumed their best clothes, and Kate Brady made a noble appearance in a black silk gown and a shawl of many colours, the gift of her young master. Thus festively attired, the whole party proceeded in two cabs to the nearest Catholic Church, and when Grip and Cissy came out, leading the way, half-an-hour later, they were safely and certainly man and wife.

CHAPTER VII.

DURING the night of the 9th of February the travellers at the Hotel de l’Union would have run some risk of being troubled in their sleep if the door of Room No. 17 had not been shut, and draped with a heavy curtain, which prevented any noise from being heard outside.

In fact two men, or rather one of the two therein, spent the night in recriminations and menaces that bore witness to extreme irritation, while the other tried in vain to calm him, with supplications engendered by fear.

It is not likely that anybody would have understood what this stormy conversation was about, for it was held in Turkish, which is not a familiar language to the natives of the West.

A large wood fire blazed in the grate, and a candle on the table threw its light on to certain papers half-hidden within the pockets of a portfolio much worn by use.

One of these men was Ben Omar, who, in a helpless way, looked at the flames in the fire-place, which were far less ardent than those that blazed in the eyes of his companion.

This companion was the unprepossessing foreigner, to whom the notary had given the almost imperceptible signal, while he and Antifer were talking at the end of the harbour.

For the twentieth time this personage remarked, - “And so you have failed?”

“Yes, Excellency, and Allah is my witness -”

“I have nothing to do with the evidence of Allah or of anybody else! There is the fact - you failed.”

“To my great regret.”

“This Antifer refused to give up the letter?

“He did.”

“And he refused to sell it?”

“To sell it! He consented -

“And you did not buy it, you dunderhead! Is it not in your possession? You came here without bringing it?”

“Do you know what he asked?”

“What does that matter?”

“Fifty millions of francs!”

“Fifty millions -” And there was a volley of oaths.

“And so, you imbecile, this sailor knows of what importance this might be to him?”

“There is no doubt of it.”

“May Mahomet strangle me - and you, too!” exclaimed the irascible personage, striding about the room; “or, rather, that is my business as far as you are concerned, for I hold you responsible for all the misfortunes that may happen -”

‘ But it is not my fault, Excellency! I was not in the secrets of Kamylk Pasha.”

“You ought to have been, then; you ought to have found them out when he was alive; you were his notary I”

And then came another broadside of oaths.

This terrible man was Saouk, the son of Mourad, the cousin of Kamylk. He was then thirty-one. His father being dead, he found himself the direct heir of his rich uncle, and would have inherited an immense fortune if this fortune had not been put out of reach of his covetousness in the way we know.

What had happened after Kamylk had left Aleppo, taking his treasure with him, to bury it on some unknown island, was briefly this: -

In October, 1831, Ibrahim, with twenty-two ships of war and thirty thousand men, had captured Gazza, Jaffa, Caiffa, and Acre had fallen into his hands the year following, on the 27th of March. 1832.

It seemed as though the territories of Palestine and Syria were to be finally severed from the Sublime Porte, when the intervention of the European powers stopped the son of Mehemet AH in his career of conquest. In 1833 the treaty of Kataya was imposed on the Sultaa and the Viceroy, and things remained as they had been.

Fortunately for his safety during this much-troubled period, Kamylk had placed his riches in the cavity sealed by the double K, and had continued his voyages. Whither went the brigantine under the command of Captain Zo? In what parts, far or near, did he plough the seas? Did he visit farthest Asia or farthest Europe? No one knew save his captain and himself, for none of the crew were allowed to land, and none of them knew whether they were in the west or the east, the north or the south, for such was their master’s whim.

But after their many peregrinations Kamylk was imprudent enough to return to the Levant. The treaty of Kataya having stopped the ambitious march of Ibrahim, the northern part of Syria having submitted to the Sultan, the rich Egyptian had good reason to suppose that there was no danger in his returning to Aleppo.

As ill-luck would have it, however, in the middle of the year 1834 his vessel was driven by bad weather into Acre. Ibrahim’s fleet was then cruising off the coast, and Mourad, invested with official functions by Mehemet Ali, was on board one of the ships of war.

The brigantine was flying Turkish colours. Was it known that she belonged to Kamylk Pasha! It matters little. She was chased, caught, carried by boarding, after a stout defence, which meant the massacre of the crew, the destruction of the ship and the capture of her owner and captain.

Kamylk was at once recognized by Mourad. A few weeks later he and Captain Zo were secretly carried to Egypt, and imprisoned in the fortress of Cairo.

But even if Kamylk had returned to his house at Aleppo it is probable that he would not have found the safety on which he reckoned. That part of Syria under Egyptian administration groaned under an odious yoke. This lasted until 1839, when the excesses of Ibrahim’s agents were such that the Sultan withdrew the concessions to which he had been forced to yield. The result of this was a new campaign on the part of Mehemet AH, whose troops I gained the victory of Nezib; whereupon Mahmoud began! to fear for the safety of the capital of Turkey in Europe; and England, Russia and Austria had to intervene to stay the march of the conqueror, and assure him hereditary possession of Egypt, and the governorship for life of Palestine west of the Jordan.

It is true that the Viceroy, intoxicated with victory, and encouraged by French diplomacy, refused the offer of the Allied Powers. But their fleets were sent against him. Sir Charles Napier captured Beyrouth and then Sidon, and then bombarded and captured Acre, so that Mehemet AH had to yield, and recall his son to Egypt, leaving Syria entirely to Sultan Mahmoud.

Kamylk Pasha had been too hasty in his endeavour to return to the country of his choice, where he thought of peacefully ending his troubled life. There he intended to remove his treasure, and with some portion of it pay his debts of gratitude - debts perhaps forgotten by those who had helped him. And instead of Aleppo it was Cairo that he found, thrown into a prison, where he was at the mercy of his pitiless enemies.

Kamylk understood that he was lost. The idea of regaining his liberty at the cost of his fortune did not occur to him - or rather such was the force of his character, and his indomitable determination never to abandon his wealth to the Viceroy or Mourad, that he contented himself with an obstinacy that can only be ascribed to Ottoman fatalism.

The years he passed in solitary confinement, separated from Captain Zo, whose discretion he never doubted, were anything but pleasant to him. In 1842, in the eighth year of his imprisonment, he managed, through the connivance of a gaoler, to send away a few letters, one of them to Captain Thomas Antifer of St. Malo. An envelope containing his will also reached the hands of Ben Omar, who had formerly been his notary at Alexandria.

Three years afterwards Captain Zo died, and Kamylk remained the only one who knew where the treasure had been buried. But his health declined visibly, and the severity of his imprisonment could not but shorten a life which would have lasted for years beyond the walls of his cell. At length in 1852 he died, forgotten by those who had known him, without either menaces or ill-treatment forcing him to reveal his secret.

Next year his unworthy cousin followed him to the grave, without having enjoyed the immense riches he coveted, and which had led him to such criminal devices.

But Mourad left a son, Saouk, who inherited all his father’s evil instincts. Although he was then but twenty-three, he had lived a violent, unscrupulous life among the political and other bandits who then swarmed in Egypt. As the only heir of Kamylk Pasha, it was to him that the inheritance would have come had it not been put beyond his reach, and consequently his anger knew no bounds when - as he thought - the secret of the whereabouts of this immense fortune disappeared with the death of the Pasha.

Ten years went by, and Saouk had given up all hopes of ever ascertaining what had become of the lost treasure.

Judge then of the effect on him of a letter received early in 1862, inviting him to visit the office of the notary Ben Omar on important business.

Saouk knew this notary: timid to excess, an arrant poltroon, with whom a determined man like himself could do anything he pleased. So he went to Alexandria, and unceremoniously asked Ben Omar for what reason he wished to see him.

Ben Omar was most obsequious in his reception of this client whom he believed capable of everything, even of strangling him straightaway. He apologized for having put him to inconvenience, and said to him in his sweetest tone, -

“But is it not the sole heir of Kamylk Pasha that I have the honour of addressing?

“Just so, the sole heir,” said Saouk, “for I am the son of Mourad, who was his cousin.”

“Are you sure that there is no other relative in the line of succession than you?”

“None. Kamylk Pasha has no heir but me. Only, where is the inheritance?”

“Here - at your Excellency’s disposal.”

Saouk grasped at the envelope handed him by the notary.

“What is in this envelope?” he asked.

“The will of Kamylk Pasha.”

“And how did it get into your hands?”

“It reached me a few years after he was imprisoned in the fortress at Cairo.”

“How long ago?”

“Twenty years.”

“Twenty years!” exclaimed Saouk. “And he has teen dead ten years now - and you have waited -”

“Read, Excellency.”

Saouk read the writing on the envelope. It said that this will was not to be opened until ten years after the testator’s death.

“Kamylk Pasha died in 1852,” said the notary. “It is -now 1862, and that is why I sent for your Excellency.”

“Cursed formalist!” exclaimed Saouk. “For ten years I ought to have been in possession.”

If the will is in your favour?” suggested the notary.

In my favour. Who else can there be? I will soon know -”

And he was about to break the seal when Ben Omar stopped him.

“In your own interest, Excellency, it had better be done In the proper form, in the presence of witnesses.” And opening the door Ben Omar introduced two merchants of the neighbourhood, whom he had asked to-attend. These were to testify that the envelope was intact, and that it had been opened in their presence.

The will was not very long, it was in French and as follows: -

“I appoint as my executor Ben Omar, notary of Alexandria, to whom I leave a commission of one per centum on my fortune in gold, diamonds and precious stones, of the estimated value of four million pounds sterling. In the month of September, 1831, three casks containing this treasure were buried in a hole du at the southern point of a certain islet. Of this islet it will be easy to discover the position by combining the longitude of fifty-four degrees fifty-seven minutes east, with a latitude secretly sent in 1842 to Thomas Antifer, of St. Malo, in France. Ben Omar in person is to take this longitude of fifty-four degrees fifty-seven minutes east to the said Thomas Antifer, or his nearest heir. But he is to accompany the said heir in the search for the discovery of the treasure, which is buried at the base of a rock marked with the double K of my name. To the exclusion of my unworthy cousin Mourad, and his still more unworthy son Saouk, Ben Omar will hasten to put himself in communication with Thomas Antifer, or his direct heirs, and with, him follow the formal instructions that will be found in the course of the said search. Such is my last will, and I desire that it shall be respected in all its bearings and consequences.

“Written this 9th of February, 1842, in the prison at Cairo, by my own hand.

“Kamylk Pasha.”

We need not dwell on the reception given by Saouk to this curious will, nor to the agreeable surprise manifested by Ben Omar at the one per cent, on four millions which was to come to him on handing over the treasure. But the treasure had to be found, and the only way to discover the position of the islet was by combining the longitude given in the will with the latitude known only to Thomas Antifer.

Saouk immediately devised a scheme, and Ben Omar, under terrible threats, became his accomplice in it. They soon discovered that Thomas Antifer had died in 1854, leaving an only son. To this son they would go, and by skilful management obtain from him the secret of the latitude and then they would take possession of the fortune,-and Ben Omar should have his commission.

This scheme Saouk and the notary set about without delay. They left Alexandria, landed at Marseilles, took the Paris express, and then went on to St. Malo, where they had arrived that morning.

Neither Saouk nor Ben Omar expected that there would be any difficulty in obtaining from Antifer the letter, of which they knew the value, and which contained the precious latitude - and they were prepared to buy it if necessary. We know how the attempt had failed. We shall not be astonished, therefore, at the irritation which his Excellency displayed, at his endeavouring to hold Ben Omar responsible for his ill-success, and at the noisy” scene in the hotel, from which the unfortunate notary feared he would never emerge alive.

“Yes,” said Saouk, “it is your bungling that has caused it all! You did not know what you were about! You let yourself be played with by this sailor, you, a notary! But do not forget what I told you! Woe to you if Kamylk’s millions escape me!”

“I swear to you, Excellency -”

“And I swear to you, that if I do not attain my object you shall pay for it, and pay well!”

And Ben Omar knew only too well that Saouk was the man to keep his word. “You must remember, Excellency, that this sailor is not one of those miserable fellahs, easily deceived and easily frightened”

“No matter.”

“No! He is a violent man, who will listen to nothing -”

He might have added, “a man like you,” but he took care not to complete the sentence in that fashion.

“I think,” he continued,” we shall have to give up -”

“Give up!” exclaimed Saouk, slapping the table,” give up four millions?”

“No, your Excellency; give up - let the Breton know - the longitude the will orders us to give him.”

“For him to take advantage of it, imbecile; for him to unearth the millions!” Anger is a bad councillor, and this Saouk, who was not destitute of intelligence or astuteness, finally came to think. He calmed down as much as he could, and thought of the-proposal submitted by Ben Omar. It was certain that nothing would be got from Antifer by stratagem, and that some other scheme must be thought of.

The plan agreed upon was this. His Excellency and his very humble servant would call in the morning on Captain Antifer, give him the longitude and learn from him in exchange what was the latitude. When the information was obtained Saouk would endeavour to forestall the sailor, and if he could not do this he would accompany Antifer during the search and endeavour to carry off the treasure. If, as was probable, the islet was situated in some distant part of the world, the plan had many chances of success, and the affair would end to Saouk’s advantage.

When this plan had been definitely agreed upon Saouk added, - “I rely on you, Ben Omar, to be straightforward; if not -”

“You can rely on me, your Excellency; but you promised me my commission.”

“Yes, for according to the will the commission is due to you - on the express condition that you do not leave Antifer for an instant during the journey.”

“I will not leave him I”

“Nor will I! I will accompany him!”

“In what capacity? Under what name?”

“As the chief clerk of Ben Omar, and under the name of Nazim!”

“You?” And this “you “was said in a tone of despair that indicated only too clearly what violence and misery Ben Omar anticipated.

CHAPTER VIII.

When Captain Antifer reached the door of his house he opened it, entered the dining-room, and sitting down at the corner of the fireplace, began to warm his feet, without saying a word.

Enogate and Juhel were talking near the window, but he took no notice of their presence. Nanon was busy cooking in the kitchen, and he did not worry as usual by asking a dozen times,” if it would soon be ready?”

Evidently Antifer was deep in thought; but it would not do to tell his sister, and his nephew and niece, what had happened at his interview with Ben Omar, the notary of Kamylk Pasha. During the meal he said nothing. He even refrained from any second helpings, and contented himself with prolonging his dessert by mechanically disposing of several dozen periwinkles, which he extracted from their greenish shells by means of a long copper-headed pin.

Several times Juhel spoke to him; but he answered not a word.

Enogate asked him what was the matter, as he did not seem to hear.

“Brother, what ails you?” asked Nanon, as he rose to retire to his room.

“I have got a wisdom tooth coming through!” he replied.

And each of them thought that it would not be too late if it could make him wise in his old age.

Then, without lighting his pipe, which he was so fond of smoking night and morning on the rampart, he went up- - stairs without saying good-night to anybody.

“Uncle is troubling about something,” remarked Enogate.

“Has he had any news?” said Nanon, as she cleared the table.

“Perhaps we had better send for Tregomain?” replied Juhel.

The truth is that Captain Antifer was more uneasy and anxious than he had ever been since he had been expecting the indispensable messenger. Had he not failed in presence of mind, in acuteness, during his interview with Ben Omar? Had he done right in being so categorical and reserved with this fellow, instead of winning him over, of discussing the main points of the business, of trying to bargain with him? Had he done wisely in calling him a rascal, a crocodile, and so on? Would it not have been better, without showing so much caution as to his own interests, to have temporized, to have appeared disposed to hand over the letter, to have pretended to have been ignorant of its importance, instead of asking fifty million francs for it? Of course, it was worth it; there was no doubt about that, but it would have been wise to have acted more circumspectly. And if the notary declined to submit to a similar reception? If he strapped up his portmanteau, left St. Malo and returned to Alexandria, how would the problem be solved? Would Captain Antifer have to go to Egypt after his longitude?

And so when he went to bed, he administered to himself quite a shower of hard knocks. He did not close his eyes during the night. The next morning he had firmly resolved to go in search of Ben Omar, to apologize for his rudeness, to enter into an arrangement at the expense of a few slight concessions.

But as he was reflecting on all this, and dressing himself, about eight o’clock, the bargeman gently pushed open the door of his room.

Nanon had sent for him, and he had come, the excellent man, to offer himself to his neighbour’s blows.

What brings you here?”

“The flood, friend,” said Tregomain, hoping that this maritime locution would provoke a smile.

“The flood!” replied Antifer, sternly. “Well, the ebb is just taking me out.”

“You arc getting ready to go out?”

“Yes, with or without your permission.”

“Where are you going?”

“Where it suits me to go.”

“Nowhere else, of course, but you do not wish me to know what you are going to do?”

“I am going to repair a mistake.”

“And to make it worse, perhaps?”

This reply, although given as a general observation, made Antifer uneasy. And so he decided to let his friend know what had happened. Continuing his dressing, he told him of his meeting with Ben Omar, of the notary’s attempts to gain possession of the latitude, and his offer to sell the letter for fifty millions of francs.

“He should have made you an offer,” observed Tregomain.

“He had no time, for I turned my back on him - in which I was wrong.”

“That is my opinion. And so this notary came expressly to St. Malo to try and get this letter from you?”

“Instead of giving me the communication he ought to have done. This Ben Omar is the messenger spoken of by Kamylk Pasha, and expected for the last twenty years “Ah, then this matter is serious after all,” Tregomain could not help saying.

The remark brought him such a terrible look and such a contemptuous epithet from Antifer, that he lowered his eyes and twiddled his thumbs after crossing his hands over the vast rotundity of his corporation.

A moment afterwards Antifer had finished dressing, and was picking up his hat when the door opened.

Nanon appeared.

What is the matter now?” asked her brother.

“There is a stranger downstairs. He wants to speak to you.”

“His name?”

“Here it is.”

And she produced a card on which were these words: Ben Omar, Notary, Alexandria.

“The man!” exclaimed Antifer.

“Who?” asked Tregomain.

“The Omar in question. Ah I like that! That he has come back is a good sign! Show him up, Nanon.”

“But he is not alone -”

“Not alone?” exclaimed Antifer. “And who then is with him?”

“A younger man whom I don’t know, and who looks like a foreigner.”

“Ah! There are two of them? Well, we shall be two to receive them! Stop here, Tregomain.”

“Do you wish it?”

An imperious gesture kept the worthy neighbour in his place. Another gesture indicated to Nanon that she was to show the visitors upstairs.

A minute afterwards they had been ushered into the room, the door of which was carefully shut. If the secrets that were to be revealed were to escape it would have to be through the keyhole.

“Ah! It is you, Mr. Ben Omar!” said Antifer, in a careless and haughty tone, very different to what he would have adopted had he gone to make the first advances at the hotel.

“Myself, Mr. Antifer.”

“And the person who accompanies you?

“My head clerk.”

Antifer and Saouk, who was introduced under the name of Nazim, exchanged a look of indifference.

“Your clerk is acquainted with this business?” asked Antifer.

“He is, and his assistance is indispensable to me throughout this matter.”

“Be it so, Mr. Ben Omar. May I ask to what I owe the honour of this visit?”

“Another interview I wish to have with you, Mr. Antifer, with you alone,” he added, casting a side look at Tregomain, whose thumbs continued their twiddling.

“Gildas Tregomain, my friend,” replied Antifer,” late captain of the barge Chamante Amelie, who is also acquainted with this business, and whose assistance is no less indispensable than that of your clerk Nazim.”

It was impossible for Ben Omar to object. Immediately the four sat down round the table, on which the notary placed his portfolio. Then a certain silence reigned in the room until it pleased one or the other to speak.

Antifer broke the silence by addressing Ben Omar: “Your clerk speaks French, I suppose?”

“No,” replied the notary.

“But he understands it?”

“Not much.”

This had been agreed between Saouk and Ben Omar, in the hope that Antifer, having no fear of being understood by the false Nazim, might let fall a few words of which advantage might be taken.

“And now, proceed, Mr. Ben Omar,” said Antifer, carelessly. “Your intention is to resume the conversation that ended abruptly yesterday?”

“Certainly.”

“Then you have brought me the fifty millions?

“Let us be serious, sir -”

“Yes, let us be serious, Mr. Ben Omar; my friend Tregomain is not one of those who will consent to lose time in useless pleasantries. That is so, Tregomain?”

Never had the bargeman a more serious countenance, a more composed demeanour; and when he enveloped his nasal appendage in the folds of his flag - we mean handkerchief-never had he produced more magisterial trumpetings.

“Mr. Ben Omar, I am afraid there has been some misunderstanding between us. It is better it should end, or no good will come of this. You know who I am, and I know who you are -”

“A notary.”

“A notary, who is also the messenger of the deceased Kamylk Pasha, whom my family have been expecting for the last twenty years.”

“You will excuse me, Mr. Antifer, but in admitting that that is so I may say that I was not allowed to come sooner.”

“And why?”

“Because it is only a fortnight ago, that by the opening of the will, I ascertained under what conditions your father had received this letter.”

“Ah, the letter with the double K! We return to that, Mr. Ben Omar?”

“Yes, and my only idea in coming to St. Malo was to put myself in communication with you.”

“That is the only object of your journey? “The only one.”

During this exchange of question and answer Saouk remained impassible, and did not seem to understand a word that was said. He played his game so naturally that Tregomain, who was quietly watching him, saw nothing suspicious in his behaviour.

“Then, Mr. Ben Omar,” said Antifer. “I have for you the most profound respect, and as you know, I would not say an unkind word to you -”

Really this was sublime - what about” rascal,”

“mummy,”

“crocodile,” etc. etc.? “But,” he continued,” I cannot help observing that you just lied -”

“Sir!”

“Yes, lied like a steward’s mate, when you asserted that your journey had no other object than to know what was in my letter!”

“I swear - “said the notary, lifting his hand.

“Keep your hand down, old Omar!” said Antifer, waking up in spite of his good resolutions. “I know perfectly well why you have come -” Believe me -”

“And on whose behalf you have come - “Nobody, I assure you -”

“So - on behalf of the deceased Kamylk Pasha - “He died ten years ago.”

“Never mind. It is in execution of his last wishes that you are here to-day with Pierre Servan Malo, son of Thomas Antifer, and your orders are not to demand the letter in question but to give him certain figures -”

“Certain figures?”

“Yes, the figures of a longitude he requires for the completion of a latitude Kamylk Pasha gave twenty years ago to his good father.”

“Well hit!” said Tregomain, tranquilly shaking his handkerchief as if he were signalling to the semaphores on the coast.

But the so-called clerk remained impassible, although he knew now that Antifer quite understood the position.

“And you, Mr. Ben Omar, have changed your errand, and have been trying to steal my latitude.”

Steal?”

“Yes, steal! And probably to make use of it in a way that only I ought to do -”

“Mr. Antifer,” replied Omar, much disconcerted,” believe me, as soon as you give me this letter I will give you the figures -”

“Then you admit that you have them?”

The notary was fairly caught. Practised as he was at evasion, he saw that his adversary had him at his mercy, and that the best thing for him to do was to submit, as had been agreed the night before between him and Saouk. And now Antifer said -

“Come, play fairly, Mr. Ben Omar! You have been long enough on that tack - try another.”

“I will,” he replied.

He opened his portfolio, and drew from it a sheet of parchment streaked with lines of large handwriting.

This was Kamylk Pasha’s will, and he handed it to Antifer, who, as it was written in French, readily understood it. He read it through in a loud voice, so that Tregomain did not lose a word of what the will contained, and then drew his note-book from his pocket, so as to inscribe therein the figures indicating the longitude of the islet - those four figures for each of which he would have given one of the fingers of his right hand, and Tregomain also brought out a note-book and wrote down the figures - 54 57” east.

The will was then returned to the notary, who put it into his portfolio, which was passed under the arm of Nazim, who remained seemingly indifferent to all that was going on, although the interview had now reached a point of considerable interest for him and Ben Omar. Antifer, knowing both the meridian and the parallel of the island, had only to cross these two lines to find the position. And this he was very naturally somewhat eager to do.

But as he rose, there could be no mistake as to the meaning of the bow he made his visitors, and the gesture with which he indicated the stairs. Evidently Saouk and Ben Omar were invited to depart.

The bargeman quietly watched the proceedings with considerable amusement. Nevertheless, neither the notary nor Nazim seemed disposed to rise. It was clear that their host would put them out, but either they did not understand or did not wish to understand. Ben Omar, who was much embarrassed, felt that Saouk was, by a look, giving him express orders to ask a final question.

He obeyed, and said, -

“Now that I have fulfilled the mission entrusted to me by the will of Kamylk Pasha ii “We have only to take leave of each other politely,” said Antifer, “and the first train being at 10.37-”

“10.23, since yesterday!’ corrected Tregomain.

“Yes, 10.23, and I would not, my dear Mr. Ben Omar, make you or your clerk Nazim miss this express.”

Saouk’s feet began to beat a double shuffle on the floor, and as he looked at his watch, it seemed as though he was anxious to be off.

“If you have any luggage to register,” continued Antifer,” there is barely time.”

“All the more so,” added the bargeman,” as there is no end of it at this station.”

Ben Omar saw that he must say something further, and half rising, he remarked, lowering his eyes, -

“Pardon me, but it seems to me that we have not said all we have to say.”

“Quite the contrary, Mr. Ben Omar; as far as I am concerned I have nothing more to ask you.”

“But I have a question to ask, Mr. Antifer.”

“I am surprised, Mr. Ben Omar; but if you think so, what is it?”

“I have given you the figures of the longitude indicated in the will of Kamylk Pasha “You have, and my friend Tregomain and I have entered them in our note-books.”

“And now you have to give me those of the latitude indicated in the letter.”

“The letter addressed to my father?”

“The same.”

“Pardon. Mr. Ben Omar!” replied Antifer, frowning. “Did you not have orders to bring me the longitude in question?”

“Yes, and those orders I have fulfilled.”

“With as much kindness as zeal, I admit. But, as far as I am concerned, I have nowhere seen either in the will or in the letter that I should reveal to you the figures of the latitude sent to my father.”

“However -”

“However, if you have any orders concerning this, we might perhaps discuss them.”

“It seems to me,” replied the notary,” that between gentlemen who esteem each other-”

“It seems wrong then, Mr. Ben Omar. Esteem has nothing to do with it, however much we may have for each other.” Evidently the irritation which was taking the place of impatience with Captain Antifer would not be long in showing itself. And so, in his anxiety to avoid an explosion, Tregomain went to open the door so as to facilitate the departure of the visitors. Saouk never budded. It was, however, not his business as clerk and a foreigner ignorant of the language, to move before his master gave him the order.

Ben Omar quitted his chair, rubbed his head, adjusted his spectacles upon his nose, and, in the tone of a man who does the best with what he cannot prevent, remarked, -

“Excuse me, Mr. Antifer, you have made up your mind not to trust me.”

“The more so, Mr. Ben Omar, because Kamylk Pasha’s letter required my father to keep it a profound secret, and that this secret my father also required me to keep.”

“Well, Mr. Antifer,” said Ben Omar,” will you accept good advice?”

“What is it?”

“To take no further steps in this matter.”

“And why?”

“Because you may meet on the way a certain person who may make you repent it.”

“And who is that?”

“Saouk. the son of Kamylk Pasha’s cousin, disinherited to your advantage, and who is not at all the man -”

“Do you know this son, Mr. Ben Omar?”

“No,” replied the notary, “but I know that he is a formidable adversary -”

“Well, if you ever meet this Saouk, tell him I don’t care a snap for him, nor for all the Saoukery of Egypt!”

Nazim did not move a muscle. And then Antifer went out on the landing. “Nanon!” he shouted.

The notary moved towards the door, and this time Saouk, clumsily upsetting his chair, followed him, not without a furious desire to kick him downstairs.

But as he was at the door, Ben Omar suddenly stopped, and said to Antifer,” you have not forgotten one of the clauses in Kamylk Pasha’s will?”

“Which is that, Mr. Ben Omar?”

“That which compels me to accompany you until you have taken possession of your legacy, of being present when the three casks are exhumed.”

“Well, you shall accompany me, Mr. Ben Omar.”

“Then I must know where you are going.”

“You will know when we are there.”

“But if it is at the other end of the world?”

“It will be at the other end of the world.”

“But remember that I cannot do without my head clerk.”

“That is as you please, and I shall be no less honoured by his presence than by yours.”

Leaning over the balusters, he shouted in a voice that showed he considered the interview at an end -

“Nanon!”

Nanon appeared.

“Show these gentlemen a light!”

“Good!” said Nanon; “it is broad daylight.

“Show them a light all the same.”

And thus it was that Saouk and Ben Omar were shown out of this inhospitable house, the door of which was slammed behind them.

Then Captain Antifer was seized with such an attack of delirious delight as had seldom come to him before. But if he was not joyful on that occasion, when should he have been?

He had it, this famous longitude so impatiently expected. He had the power to change into reality what had hitherto been but a dream. The possession of this immense fortune depended only on the haste with which he went in search of the islet where it awaited him.

“Four millions - four millions!” he repeated.

“That is to say a thousand times a hundred thousand francs!” added the bargeman.

And then Antifer hopped on one leg, then on the other, then stooped and rose, and swung his hips and spun round like a gyroscope, and finally completed his performance with a furious hornpipe. Then he seized Tregomain, and setting that massive form in motion, he worked up the dance to such impetuosity, that the house shook to its foundations as he broke out in a voice that made the windows rattle, -

“I have my Ion - Ion - gi - f .

I have my gi - gi - tude; My ton, my gi, my tude -I have my longitude!”

CHAPTER XXVIII.

The house in which Mr. Tyrcomel lodged was in the neighbourhood of the Canon-gate, the windows looking out on to the valley in which runs the railway. It was a gloomy, uncomfortable house up one of those sordid, insanitary alleys known as closes, running out of this historic thoroughfare, which, under different names, extends from the Palace of Holyrood to the Castle of Edinburgh - one of the four Scottish fortresses which by the articles of the treaty of Union have always to be kept in repair.

It was at the door of this house, that on the morning of the 26th of June, Captain Antifer and the banker Zambuco accompanied by Juhel, arrived, just as eight o’clock was striking from the neighbouring church. Ben Omar had not been asked to join them, his presence being useless at this first interview, and consequently, much to his disgust, Saouk was also absent. If the minister divulged the secret of the latitude he would not be there to hear it, and it would therefore be impossible for him to outstrip Antifer in the search for island number three.

As to the bargeman, he remained at the hotel, and, while awaiting the return of the visitors, amused himself by contemplating the marvels of Princes Street, and the pretentious elegancies of the Scott monument. As far as Juhel was concerned, it had not been possible to dispense with him, as his uncle required his services as interpreter. It can be imagined how eager they were to find where island number three was situated.

Saouk, it may be observed, was furious when he found himself left behind, and as usual vented his anger on Ben Omar.

“Yes! It is your fault,” he shouted, knocking over some of the furniture,” and I have a great mind to pay you out with a good thrashing!”

“Excellency, I did all I could -”

“No, you did not do all you could. You should have forced yourself on this rascally sailor, and told him that your presence was necessary, and that you would be there. You would then have found out and told me about this new island, and I might have perhaps got there before the others. My plans were spoilt at Muscat, they were spoilt again at Ma-Yumba; do you think they are going to fail again because you remain stuck there on your feet like an old ibis stuffed with straw?”

“I beg-”

“And I swear, that if I fail, it is your skin that will pay for it.”

The scene continued in this way, and became so violent that the bargeman heard the noise. He went to the door of the room, and it was lucky for Saouk that he was speaking in Egyptian. If he had assailed Ben Omar in French, Tregomain would have discovered his abominable schemes, and learnt who the so-called Nazim really was, and treated that personage as he deserved.

But although this was not revealed to him, he was thoroughly surprised at the violence with which Ben Omar was treated by his clerk, and saw that the young captain’s suspicions were fully justified.

Entering the minister’s house, Captain Antifer, Zambuco and Juhel began to ascend a wooden staircase with the aid of the greasy rope hanging on the wall. Never would the bargeman, thin as he might have become, have been able to make his way up these dark, narrow stairs.

The visitors reached the landing on the third floor, the last on this side of the house. In front of them was a small door in a recess, on which was the name Tyrcomel. Antifer uttered a vigorous grunt of satisfaction, and knocked.

The reply was a long time coming. Was not the minister at home? Why not? A man to whom you are bringing a million or so -

A second knock, rather louder than the first.

This time there was a slight noise in the interior of the room. It was not the door that opened, but a little hole just above the name.

Through this hole appeared a head, that of the minister.

“What do you want?” asked the minister, in a tone that showed he was not over-pleased at being disturbed.

“We wish to speak to you for a few minutes,” said Juhel.

“What about?”

“A matter of important business.”

“I have no business - important or otherwise.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Antifer, annoyed at so much delay. “Is he going to let us in?”

But as soon as the minister heard him speak in French, he answered as if it were his native tongue.

“Are you Frenchmen, then?”

“Frenchmen,” replied Juhel.

And imagining that it might facilitate their introduction into the minister’s room, he added,” Frenchmen, who heard your sermon yesterday.”

“And who think of becoming converts to my teaching?” asked the minister.

Perhaps.”

“On the contrary,” said Antifer,” he must be converted to ours, unless he chooses to give up his share -”

The door was opened, and the three visitors found themselves in the minister’s presence.

It was one room, lighted at the end by the window looking out over the ravine. In one corner was an iron bedstead, with a straw mattress and a counterpane; in another corner was a table with a few toilet utensils. There was a bench for a seat. There was a cupboard in which the minister kept his clothes. On a shelf were a few books and writing materials. There were no curtains. and the walls were bare. There was a table with a reading lamp, the shade of which was very low. It was a bedroom and a study, in which there was nothing that was not strictly necessary.

The minister, who was all in black except his collar and tie, did not ask his visitors to sit down, as he had but one seat to one of them. In truth, if ever millions would be welcome anywhere, it ought to be in this cell, the whole contents of which were not worth thirty shillings.

Captain Antifer and Zambuco looked at one another. How were they to open fire? As soon as their co-legatee began to speak French, Juhel’s intervention was unnecessary, and he became merely a spectator. He preferred to be so, and it was not without a certain feeling of curiosity that he awaited the encounter. Who would be the conqueror?

At the outset Captain Antifer felt more embarrassed than he ever expected to be. After what he knew of this revolutionary minister, of his opinions regarding this world’s goods, he judged it advisable to proceed with caution, to feel his way, to break the news gently, so as to persuade the minister to hand over the letter of Kamylk Pasha, which ought to be in his possession, and which there could be no doubt contained the figures of the new and - let us hope - the last latitude.

But Antifer had no chance of beginning. While his three visitors were forming a group in the back of the room, the minister placed himself in front of them in the attitude of a preacher.

Persuaded that these men had come of their own free will to accept his teaching, his only thought was to enlarge on his principles with as much eloquence as he could muster.

“My brethren,” he said, clasping his hands in an outburst of gratitude, “I thank the Author of all things for not having refused me that gift of persuasion, which has enabled me to instil into your hearts that contempt of wealth -”

Imagine the faces of the two legatees at this exordium!

“By destroying the wealth you possess -” continued the minister, -

“Which we do not yet possess “- Antifer could not help saying.

“You will give an admirable example, which will be followed by all those whose minds are capable of rising above the materialities of life.”

Antifer, by a sudden movement of his jaw, jerked the pebble from one side of his mouth to the other, while Zambuco whispered, -

“Are you not going to explain the object of our visit?”

An affirmative sign was Antifer’s reply, while he muttered to himself,” I must not let him give us his yesterday’s sermon over again.”

The minister, opening his arms as if to receive repentant sinners, said in a voice full of unction, -

“Your names, my brethren, in order that -”

“Our names, Mr. Tyrcomel,” interrupted Captain Antifer,” are these. I am Pierre Servan Malo Antifer, retired coasting captain; this is Juhel Antifer, my nephew, master mariner; this is Mr. Zambuco, banker of Tunis.”

The clergyman stepped to the table in order to write down these names.

“And doubtless you bring me your worldly wealth, thousands perhaps?”

“Well, Mr. Tyrcomel we have come about millions, and when you have got your share you can destroy it as you please. But as far as we are concerned, that is another matter.”

Antifer was off’ on the wrong tack. Juhel and Zambuco saw this at once by the change which took place in the minister’s face. His forehead wrinkled, his eyes half turned, his arms, which he had opened wide, fell on his chest as if they were shutting the door of a safe.

“What, then, is all this about, gentlemen?” he asked, stepping back.

“What is it all about?” asked Antifer. “Come, Juhel, unroll the thing, for I should not be able to measure my words.”

And Juhel “unrolled “the thing without reticence. He related all that he knew about Kamylk Pasha, the services rendered by his great-uncle Thomas Antifer, the obligations contracted with the banker Zambuco, the visit to St. Malo of Ben Omar, notary of Alexandria, the voyage to the Gulf of Oman, where lay island number one, followed by the voyage to Ma-Yumba Bay, where lay island number two, the discovery of the second document which sent the two co-legatees to a third legatee, who was no other than the reverend gentleman to whom he was speaking.

While Juhel spoke, the clergyman listened, without making a movement, without permitting his eyes to brighten or his muscles to twitch. A statue of marble or bronze could not have been more motionless. And when the young captain finished his story, and asked him if he had ever had any business with Kamylk Pasha, the minister simply replied, -

“No.”

“But your father?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe is not an answer,” observed Juhel, calming his uncle, who was turning about as if he had been stung by a tarantula.

“It is the only answer I think it necessary to give,” replied the minister, drily.

“Insist, Mr. Juhel, insist,” said the banker.

“In every possible way, Mr. Zambuco,” replied Juhel.

And addressing the minister, who evidently intended to maintain extreme reserve.

“May I ask you one question,” he said - “only one?”

“Yes, and I can answer it or not as I please.”

“Is it within your knowledge that your father was ever in Egypt”?”

“No.”

“But if it was not Egypt, it might be Syria, or to be more precise, Aleppo?”

It will not be forgotten that it was in this town that Kamylk Pasha had resided for some years before he returned to Cairo.

After a moment of hesitation, Mr. Tyrcomel admitted that his father had lived at Aleppo, where he had met Kamylk Pasha. There, no doubt, he had been of service to the Pasha, as had Thomas Antifer and Zambuco.

“I will now ask you,” continued Juhel, “if your father received a letter from Kamylk Pasha?”

“Yes.”

“A letter in which there was some mention of the position of an island in which treasure was buried?”

“Yes.”

“And did not this letter contain the latitude of this island?”

“Yes.”

“And did it not say that one day a certain Antifer and a certain Zambuco would come and see you on this subject?”

“Yes.”

Every “yes” fell like a hammer stroke, louder and louder.

“Well,” continued Juhel, “Captain Antifer and the banker Zambuco are in your presence, and if you will show them the Pasha’s letter, they will have only to make a note of its contents, and be off to fulfil the intentions of the testator, of whom you and they are the three legatees.”

As Juhel spoke, Captain Antifer struggled in vain to keep still. The minister paused before he replied.

“And when you have reached the place where the treasure is, what are your intentions?”

“To unearth it, of course!” said Antifer.

“And when you have unearthed it?”

“To divide it into three shares.”

“And what are you going to do with your shares?”

“Whatever we please.”

“That is it, gentlemen!” replied the minister, while his eyes glowed like fire. You intend to take advantage of these riches to satisfy your instincts, your appetites, your passions. That is to say, to contribute towards the increase of the iniquities of the world!”

“Allow me - “interrupted Zambuco.

“No, I will not allow you; and I ask you this simple question: If this treasure falls into your hands, will you undertake to destroy it?”

“Each will do with his legacy as he judges best,” said the banker, evasively.

Antifer exploded.

“That is not it, at all!” he shouted. “Do you know what this treasure is worth?”

“It makes no difference.”

“It is worth four million pounds, and there is a third of that for you.”

The minister shrugged his shoulders.

“Are you aware that you are not allowed to refuse us the information the testator requires you to give?”

“Really?”

“Do you know that you have no more right to leave four millions unproductive than to steal them?”

“That is not my opinion.”

“Do you know that if you persist in your refusal,” yelled Captain Antifer in a fury, “we shall not hesitate to bring you to justice - to denounce you as a fraudulent legatee, as a criminal.”

“As a criminal!” repeated the minister, angry but cool. “Really, gentlemen, your audacity equals your absurdity. Do you imagine that I shall agree to spreading four millions over the earth to become the cause of four million sins the more? To stultify all my teachings, and give my congregation the chance of flinging four millions in my face!”

Juhel could not help admiring the preacher, while his uncle, wild with anger, was ready to spring on him.

“Yes or no!” hissed Antifer, clenching his fists and stepping forward - “yes or no, will you give us the Pasha’s letter?”

“No.”

Antifer foamed at the mouth.

“No.”

“No.”

“Ah. I will make you give it to us!”

Juhel interposed. His uncle pushed him aside. Antifer would have strangled the minister, searched the rooms, ransacked the cupboard, and it would not take him long to do so. But he was stopped dead by this simple and peremptory reply, -

“It is useless for you to search for the letter.”

“And why?” asked Zambuco.

“Because I have not got it”

“What have you done with it?”

“I have burnt it.”

“He has put it in the fire!” gasped Antifer. “The wretch! A letter containing the secret of four millions - a secret never to be discovered now!”

And it was only too true. Doubtless for fear of being tempted to make use of it - a use contrary to all his principles - the reverend gentleman had burnt the letter several years before.

“And now you can go!” said he, showing his visitors the door.

Antifer was overwhelmed at the blow. The document destroyed! The finding of the island impossible!

And so it was with Zambuco, who burst into tears, like a child deprived of his plaything.

Juhel had to help the two legatees out on to the stairs, then into the road; and then sorrowfully they went back to the hotel.

CHAPTER XIII.

The Society Islands, otherwise the Tahiti Archipelago are comprised between the fifteenth and seventeeth degrees c f south latitude and the hundred and fiftieth and hundred and fifty-sixth west longitude. The area of the archipelago is two thousand two hundred superficial kilometres.

There are two groups; first the Windward Islands, Taiti or Tahiti Tahau, Tapamanoa, Moorea or Simeo, Tetiaroa, Meetia, which are under the protectorate of France; and secondly the Leeward Islands, Tubuai, Manu, Huahmi, Kaiateathao, Bora-Bora, Moffy-Iti, Maupiti, Mapetia, Bellinghausen, Scilly, governed by native sovereigns. Cook, their discoverer, called them the Society Islands, in honour of the Royal Society of London. Situated some two hundred and fifty marine leagues from the Marquesas, this group, according to the most recent census, contains but forty thousand inhabitants.

Coming from the north-east, Tahiti is the first of the Windward Islands to be sighted by navigators. And it was Tahiti that the look-outs of the observatory reported at a great distance, thanks to Mount Maiao or Diadem, which rises for a thousand two hundred and thirty-nine metres above the level of the sea.

The voyage was accomplished without incident. Aided Dy the trade winds, Floating Island crossed these admirable waters above which the sun moves as it descends towards the tropic of Capricorn. Still two months and a few days more and it would reach the tropic and return towards the equatorial line, and Floating Island would have it in its zenith during several weeks of burning heat; then the island would follow it as a dog follows his master, keeping it at the regulation distance.

It was the first time the Milliardites were to put in at Tahiti. The preceding year their voyage had begun too late; they had not gone so far to the westward, and after leaving Paumotu they had steered for the equator. Yet this archipelago of the Society Islands is the most beautiful in the Pacific. As they passed through it our Parisians would realize all that was enchanting in the moving island, free to choose its anchorages and its climate.

“Yes; but we shall see what will be the end of this absurd adventure!” was the invariable conclusion of Sebastien Zorn.

“May it never finish! That is all I ask!” exclaimed Yvernes.

Floating Island arrived in sight of Tahiti at dawn on the 17th of October. It was the north shore of the island that was seen first. During the night the lighthouse on Point Venus had been sighted. During the day they could reach Papaete, situated in the north-west, beyond the point. But the council of notables had assembled under the presidency of the governor. Like every well-balanced council it was divided into two camps. One section with Jem Tankerdon wished to go west; the other with Nat Coverley wished to go east. Cyrus Bikerstatf”, having a vote when the sides were equal, decided to reacn Papaete by passing round the south of the island. This decision could but satisfy the quartette, for it would allow of their admiring in all its beauty this Jewel of the Pacific, the New Cythera of Bougainville.

Tahiti possesses an area of a hundred and four thousand two hundred and fifteen hectares, about nine times that of Paris. Its population, which in 1875 comprised seven thousand six hundred natives, three hundred French and eleven hundred foreigners, is now but seven thousand.

In shape it is exactly like a flask turned upside down, the body of the flask being the principal island, joined to the mouth, represented by the peninsula of Tatarapu, by the narrow isthmus of Taravao.

It was Frascolin who made this comparison in studying the large scale map of the archipelago, and his comrades thought it so good that they christened Tahiti “the Flask of the Tropics.”

Administratively, Tahiti is divided into six sections, subdivided into twenty-one districts, since the establishment of the protectorate on the 9th of September, 1842. It will be remembered what difficulties occurred between Admiral Dupetit-Thouars, Queen Pomare, and England at the instigation of that abominable trafficker in bibles and cotton goods who called himself Pritchard, and was so humorously caricatured in the Guepes of Alphonse Karr.

But that is ancient history, quite as much fallen into oblivion as the performances of the famous Anglo-Saxon apothecary.

Floating Island could venture without danger within a mile of the shore of the Flask of the Tropics. This flask reposes on a coral base, whose foundations descend sheer down into the depths of the ocean. But before approaching so near, the Milliardites were able to contemplate its imposing mass, its mountains more generously favoured by nature than those of the Sandwich Islands, its verdant summits, its wooded gorges, its peaks rising like the pinnacles of some vast cathedral, its belt of cocoa-nut trees watered by the white foam of the surf on the ridge of breakers.

During the day the course lay along the western side; the sightseers, glasses in hand, gathered in the environs of Starboard Harbour, watching the thousand details of the shore. The district of Papenoo, the river of which they saw across, the wide valley from the base of the mountains, and which falls into the sea where there is a break of several miles in width; Hitiia, a safe port from which millions and millions of oranges are exported to San Francisco; Mahaeua, where the conquest of the island was completed in 1845, after a terrible battle with the natives.

In the afternoon, they had arrived off the narrow isthmus of Taravao. In rounding the peninsula the Commodore approached close enough for the fertile fields of the Tautira district, the numerous water-courses of which make it one of the richest in the archipelago, to be admired in all its splendour. Tatarapu, reposing on its plate of coral, lifts majestically the rugged cones of its extinct craters. As the sun sinks on the horizon, the summits grow purple for the last time, and the colours fade into the hot transparent mist. Soon it is no more than a confused mass from which the evening breeze arises laden with the fragrance of oranges and lemons, and after a short twilight the darkness is profound.

Floating Island then rounded the extreme south-east point of the peninsula, and next morning at daybreak was moving up the western side of the island.

The district of Taravao, much cultivated, and thickly populated, displayed its fine roads among the orange woods which link it to the district of Papeiri. At the highest point is a fort, commanding both sides of the isthmus, defended by a few cannon, whose muzzles project from the embrasures like gargoyles of bronze. Below is Port Phaeton.

“Why has the name of that presumptuous driver of the solar chariot lighted on this isthmus?” asked Yvernes.

The day was spent in coasting at slow speed along the more varied contours of the coralline substructure which distinguishes the west of Tahiti. New districts rose into view — Papeiri with its marshy plains, Mataiea with its excellent harbour of Papeiriri, then a wide valley watered by the river Vaihiria, and at the head this mountain of five hundred metres, as a sort of washstand supporting a basin half a kilometre in circumference. This ancient crater, doubtless full of fresh water, did not appear to have any communication with the sea.

After the district of Ahauraono, devoted to vast cotton fields, after the district of Papara, which is principally given over to agriculture, Floating Island, beyond Point Mara, opened the wide valley of Paruvia, cut off from the Diadem, and watered by the Punarnu. Beyond Tapuna, Cape Tatao and the mouth of the Faa, the Commodore headed slightly to the north-east, cleverly avoiding the islet of Motu-Uta, and at six o’clock in the evening stopped before the gap giving access to the Bay of Papaete.

At the entrance lay in capricious windings through the coral reef the channel buoyed with obsolete guns up to Point Fareute. Ethel Simcoe, thanks to his charts, had no need for the services of the pilots who cruise in whale-boats off the entrance of the channel. A boat, however, came out, with a yellow flag at its stern. This was the quarantine boat, bound for Starboard Harbour. People are strict at Tahiti, and no one can land before the health officer accompanied by the harbour master has given free pratique.

Landing at Starboard Harbour, the doctor put himself in communication with the authorities. It was only mere formality. Sick there were none, either in Milliard City or its environs. In any case epidemic maladies, cholera, influenza, yellow fever, were absolutely unknown. A clear bill of health was given according to custom. But as the night was rapidly closing in, landing was postponed until the morning, and Floating Island slept until daybreak.

At dawn there were reports of cannon. It was Prow Battery saluting with twenty-one guns the group of the Windward Islands and Tahiti the capital of the French Protectorate. At the same time, on the observatory tower, the red flag with the golden sun rose and fell three times.

Immediately an identical salvo was given by the Ambuscade Battery at the head of the main passage into Tahiti.

Starboard Harbour was crowded from the earliest hour. The trams had brought a considerable crowd of tourists, on their way to the capital of the archipelago. Doubt not that Sebastien Zorn and his friends were as impatient as any. As the boats were not numerous enough to take all this crowd, the natives were busy offering their services to cross the six cables’ length which separated Starboard Harbour from the port.

At the same time it was necessary for the Governor to be the first to land. He must have the customary interview with the civil and military authorities of Tahiti, and pay the no less official visit to the Queen.

Consequently about nine o’clock Cyrus Bikerstaff and his assistants, Barthelemy Ruge, and Hubley Harcourt, all in full uniform, the chief notables of both sections, among others Nat Coverley and Jem Tankerdon, Commodore Simcoe and his officers in brilliant uniforms, Colonel Stewart and his escort, took their places in the boats and were rowed towards Papaete.

Sebastien Zorn, Frascolin, Yvernes, Pinchinat, Athanase Doremus, and Calistus Munbar occupied another boat with a certain number of functionaries.

Canoes and native boats formed in procession behind the official world of Milliard City, worthily represented by its Governor, its authorities, its notables, of whom the two chief were rich enough to buy Tahiti right out, and even the Society Islands, including their sovereign.

This harbour of Papaete is an excellent one, and of such depth that ships of heavy tonnage can anchor there. There are three channels into it: the main channel on the north, seventy metres wide and eighty long, narrowed by a small bank marked with buoys, the Tanoa channel on the east, and Tapuna channel on the west.

The electric launches majestically skirted the beach dotted with villas and country houses, and the quays at which the vessels were moored. The landing took place at the foot of an elegant fountain which serves as a watering-place and is fed by the streams from the neighbouring mountains, on one of which is a semaphore.

yCyrus Bikerstaff and his suite landed amid a large crowd of the French, native and foreign population, who welcomed the Pearl of the Pacific as the most extraordinary of the marvels made by the genius of man. After the first outbursts of enthusiasm the procession moved towards the palace of the Governor of Tahiti.

Calistus Munbar, superb in his state costume, which he only wore on ceremony days, invited the quartette to follow him, and they were only too happy to accept the superintendent’s invitation.

The French protectorate not only embraces the island of Tahiti and the island of Moorea, but also the neighbouring group. The chief is a commandant-commissioner, having under his orders an “ordonnateur “who manages the troops, the shipping, the colonial and local finances and the judicial administration. The general secretary of the commissioner has charge of the civil affairs of the country. Several Residents are located in the islands, at Moorea, at Farakava in the Paumotus, at Taio-Hahe, at Nuka-Hiva, and a justice of the peace, whose jurisdiction extends over the Marquesas. Since 1861 there has been a consultative committee for agriculture and trade, which sits once a year at Papaete. There also are the headquarters of the artillery and the engineers. The garrison comprises detachments of colonial gendarmerie, artillery, and marine infantry. A cure and a vicar appointed by the government, and nine missionaries scattered among the islands, assure the practice of the Catholic religion. In truth the Parisians might believe themselves in France, in a French port, and there was nothing displeasing to them in that.

As to the villages on the different islands, they are administered by a sort of native municipal council presided over by a tarana, assisted by a judge, a chief mutoi, and two councillors elected by the inhabitants.

Under the shade of beautiful trees the procession marched towards the palace of the government. On every side were cocoa-nut trees of superb growth, miros with rosy foliage, bancoulias, clumps of orange trees, guava trees, caoutchoucs, etc. The palace stood amid this charming verdure, which rose as high as its roof, which was decorated with charming mansardes; its front was of considerable elegance and embraced a ground floor and one storey. The principal French functionaries were here assembled, and the colonial gendarmerie formed a guard of honour.

The commandant-commissioner received Cyrus Bikerstaff with a graciousness that he certainly would not have met with in the English archipelagoes of these parts. He thanked him for having brought Floating Island into the waters of this archipelago. He hoped that the visit would be renewed every year, regretting that Tahiti could not return the compliment. The interview lasted half an hour, and it was agreed that Cyrus Bikerstaff might expect the authorities next day at the town hall.

“Do you intend to remain some time at Papaete?” asked the commandant-commissioner.

“A fortnight,” replied the Governor.

“Then you will have the pleasure of seeing the French naval division which is expected here at the end of the week.”

“We shall be happy to do them the honours of our island.”

Cyrus Bikerstaff presented the members of his suite, his assistants, Commodore Ethel Simcoe, the commandant of the militia, the different functionaries, the superintendent of fine arts, and the artistes of the Quartette Party, who were welcomed as they ought to be by a compatriot.

Then there was a slight embarrassment with regard to the delegates of the sections of Milliard City. How was he to avoid giving offence to Jem Tankerdon and Nat Coverley, those two irritable personages who had the right —

“To march both at once,” said Pinchinat.

The difficulty was evaded by the commandant-commissioner himself. Knowing the rivalry between the two famous millionaires, he was of such perfect tact, so rigid in his official correctness, and acted with such diplomatic address, that the matter passed over as if it had been all arranged.

It is needless to say that Sebastien Zorn, Yvernes, Pinchinat, and Frascolin had intended to leave Athanase Doremus, who was already out of breath, to get back to his house in Twenty-Fifth Avenue. They hoped to spend as much time as possible at Papaete, in visiting the environs, making excursions into the principal districts, even as far as the peninsula of Tatarapu, even to exhaust to the last drop this Flask of the Pacific.

Having decided on this, they informed Calistus Munbar, who could but approve of the plan.

“But,” he said, “you had better wait a couple of days before starting on your journey.”

“And why not to-day?” asked the impatient Yvernes.

“Because the authorities of Floating Island wish to pay their respects to the Queen, and you will have to be presented to her and her court.”

“And to-morrow?” said Frascolin.

“To-morrow the commandant-commissioner of the archipelago is to return the visit he has received from the authorities of Floating Island, and it is the proper thing — “

“For us to be there,” replied Pinchinat. “Well, Mr. Superintendent, we shall be there, we shall be there.”

Leaving the palace of the Government, Cyrus Bikerstaff and his procession directed their steps to the palace of her Majesty. It was a simple promenade under the trees, which did not take more than a quarter of an hour.

The royal dwelling is very agreeably situated amid masses of verdure. It is a quadrilateral in two storeys, with a chalet-like roof overhanging two tiers of verandahs. From the upper windows the view embraces the large plantations which extend up to the town, and beyond is a large section of sea. In short a charming house, not luxurious, but comfortable.

The Queen had lost nothing of her prestige in passing under the rule of a French protectorate. If the flag of France is displayed from the masts of the vessels moored in the port of Papaete or anchored in the roadstead, on the civil and military edifices of the city, at least the standard of the sovereign displays over her palace the ancient colours of the archipelago — red and white stripes, horizontal, with a tricolour in the upper canton.

It was in 1706 that Quiros discovered the island of Tahiti, to which he gave the name of Sagittaria. After him Walter in 1767, Bougainville in 1768, completed the exploration of the group. At the time of the first discovery Queen Oberea was reigning, and after her death the celebrated dynasty of the Pomares appeared in the history of Oceania.

Pomare I. (1762-1780) having reigned under the name of Otoo, the Black Heron, changed it for that of Pomare.

Her son, Pomare II. (1780-1819), favourably welcomed in 1797 the first English missionaries, who converted him to the Christian religion ten years afterwards. This was a period of dissensions and internecine war, and the population of the archipelago gradually decreased from a hundred thousand to sixteen thousand.

Pomare III. son of the preceding, reigned from 1819 to 1827, and his sister Aimata, born in 1812, became Queen of Tahiti and the neighbouring islands. Having no children by Tapoa, her first husband, she repudiated him to marry Ariifaaite. From this union there was born in 1849 Arione, the heir presumptive, who died at the age of thirty-five. From the following year afterwards the Queen presented four children to her husband, who was the finest man in the islands — a daughter, Teriimaevarua, princess of the island of Bora-Bora since 1860; Prince Tamatoa, born in 1842, King of the island of Raiatea, who was overthrown by his subjects revolting against his brutality; Prince Teriitapunui, born in 1846, afflicted with lameness, and Prince Tuavira, born in 1848, who finished his education in France.

The reign of Queen Pomare was not absolutely peaceful. In 1835 the Catholic missionaries began a struggle with the Protestant missionaries. Being sent out of the country, they were browght back by a French expedition in 1838. Four years afterwards the protectorate of France was accepted by the five chiefs of the island. Pomare protested, the English protested. Admiral Dupetit-Thouars proclaimed the deposition of the Queen in 1843. But the admiral having been disavowed to a certain extent, Admiral Bruat was sent to bring the matter to a conclusion.

Tahiti submitted in 1846, and Pomare accepted the protectorate by the treaty of June 19th, 1847, receiving the sovereignty of the islands of Raiatea, Huahine and Bora-Bora. There were further troubles in 1852; an outbreak overthrew the Queen, and a republic was even proclaimed. At last the French Government reinstated the sovereign, who abandoned three of her crowns; in favour of her eldest son that of Raiatea and Tahaa, in favour of her second son that of Huahine, and in favour of her daughter that of Bora-Bora.

In these days it is one of her descendants, Pomare IV. who occupies the throne of the archipelago.

The complaisant Frascolin continued to justify his title of the Larousse of the Pacific which Pinchinat had given him. These historical and biographical details he gave to his comrades, declaring that it was always better to know the people among whom they went and to whom they spoke. Yvernes and Pinchinat replied that he was right in instructing them as to the genealogy of the Pomares, and Sebastien Zorn observed that it was a matter of indifference to him.

The sensitive Yvernes became entirely steeped in the charm of this poetic Tahitian nature. To his memory returned the enchanting narratives of the voyages of Bougainville and Dumont-D’Urville. He did not hide his emotion at the thought that he was to find himself in the presence of this sovereign of New Cy thera, of a real Queen Pomare, whose name —

“Signifies ‘ right of coughing,’” said Frascolin.

“Good!” exclaimed Pinchinat, “as if you were to say the goddess of catarrh, the empress of coryza! Beware, Yvernes, and don’t forget your handkerchief.”

Yvernes was furious at this unseasonable attempt at wit, but the others laughed so heartily that he finished by joining in with them.

The reception of the Governor of Floating Island, his assistants, and the delegation of the notables took place in great state. The honours were rendered by the mutoi, the chief of the gendarmerie, with whom were some of the native auxiliaries.

Queen Pomare IV. was about forty years of age. She wore, like her family who surrounded her, a ceremonial costume of pale rose, the colour preferred by the Tahitian populace. She received the compliments of Cyrus Bikerstaff with an affable dignity, if such an expression is permissible, which would not have disgraced a European monarch. She replied graciously and in very correct French, for our language is current in the Society Archipelago. She had besides a very great wish to see this Floating Island, of which there had been so much talking in the Pacific, and hoped that its stay would not be the last. Jem Tankerdon was the object of particular attention — much to the disgust of Nat Coverley. This was because the royal family are of the Protestant religion, and Jem Tankerdon was the most notable personage of the Protestant section of Milliard City.

The Quartette Party were not forgotten in the presentations. The Queen deigned to inform its members that she would be charmed to hear them and applaud them. They bowed respectfully, affirming that they were at her Majesty’s command, and the superintendent would arrange for the Queen to be gratified.

After the audience, which lasted for half an hour, the honours given to the procession as it entered the royal palace were repeated as it retired.

The visitors returned to Papaete. A halt was made at the military club, where the officers had prepared a luncheon in honour of the Governor and his companions. The champagne flowed, toasts succeeded, and it was six o’clock when the launches left the Papaete quays for Starboard Harbour.

In the evening, when the Parisian artistes found themselves in the casino, —

“We have a concert in view,” said Frascolin. “What shall we play to her Majesty? Will she understand Mozart or Beethoven?”

“We will play Offenbach, Varney, Lecoq, or Audran!” replied Sebastien Zorn.

“Not at all! The bamboula is plainly suggested!” said Pinchinat, indulging in the characteristic hip motions of this negro dance

CHAPTER XIV.

THE island of Tahiti was destined to become a stopping place for Floating Island. Every year, before pursuing its route towards the tropic of Capricorn, its inhabitants would sojourn in the neighbourhood of Papaete. Received with sympathy by the French authorities as well as by the natives, they showed their gratitude by opening wide their gates, or rather their ports. Soldiers and civilians crowded onto the island, exploring the country, the park, the avenues, and probably no incident would happen to alter this satisfactory state of affairs. At the departure, it is true, the Governor’s police would have to assure themselves that the population had not been fraudulently increased by the intrusion of a few Tahitians, not authorized to take up their abode on his floating domain.

It followed, that by reciprocity, every latitude was given to the Milliardites to visit the islands of the group, when Commodore Simcoe called at one or the other of them.

In view of the stay here, a few rich families had rented villas in the environs of Papaete, and secured them in advance by telegraph. They intended to take up their quarters there, as the Parisians do in the neighbourhood of Paris, with their servants and horses, so as to live the life of large landowners, as tourists, excursionists, sportsmen even although they had little taste for sport. In short, they would have a little country life without having anything to fear from the salubrious climate, the temperature of which ranges between thirty and forty degrees centigrade between April and December the other months of the year constituting the winter in the southern hemisphere.

Among the notables who left their mansions on the island for their country houses ashore were the Tankerdons and the Coverleys. Mr. and Mrs. Tankerdon, their sons and their daughters, departed next day for a picturesque chalet on the heights of Tatao Point. Mr. and Mrs. Coverley, Miss Diana and her sisters left their palace in Fifteenth Avenue for a delightful villa, hidden beneath the big trees of Venus Point. Between these habitations there was a distance of several miles, which Walter Tankerdon perhaps thought a little too long. But it was not in his power to bring these two points of the Tahitian coast any nearer. Besides, there were carriage roads, conveniently arranged to place them in direct communication with Papaete.

Frascolin remarked to Calistus Munbar that if they started in the morning, the two families could not be present at the visit of the commandant to the Governor.

“Well, so much the better!” replied the superintendent, his eyes brightening with diplomatic acuteness. “That will avoid any conflict between them. If the representative of France paid his first visit to the Coverleys, what would the Tankerdons say, and if he went to the Tankerdons, what would the Coverleys say? Cyrus Bikerstaff must be glad of their departure.”

“Is there no reason for hoping that the rivalry of these families will end?” asked Frascolin.

“Who knows?” replied Calistus Munbar.

“It may perhaps depend on the amiable Walter and the charming Diana.”

“Up to the present, however,” observed Yvernes, “it does not seem that this heir and this heiress — “

“Good! good!” replied the superintendent. “It wants an opportunity, and if chance does not bring it about, we may have to take the place of chance — for the good of our beloved island.”

And Calistus Munbar performed a pirouette on his heels, which would have been applauded by Athanase Doremus, and would not have been disavowed by a marquis in the days of Louis Quatorze.

In the afternoon of the 20th of October, the commander and his staff landed at Starboard Harbour. They were received by the Governor with the honours due to their rank. There was a salute from both batteries. Cars decorated with the French and Milliardite colours took the procession to the capital, where the rooms at the town hall were prepared for this interview. On the road there was a flattering reception from the population, and before the steps of the municipal palace an exchange of official speeches of regulation length.

Then came a visit to the temple, the cathedral, the observatory, the two electric works, the two harbours, the park, and finally a circular trip on the trams round the coast. On the return a luncheon was served in the grand hall of the casino. It was six o’clock when the commandant and his staff embarked for Papaete amid the thunders of the artillery of Standard Island, taking away with him a pleasing remembrance of this reception.

The next morning, the 21st of October, the four Parisians landed at Papaete. They had invited no one to accompany them, not even the professor of deportment, whose legs were not suited for lengthy peregrinations. They were free as the air — like schoolboys on a holiday, happy to have under foot a real soil of rocks and vegetable mould.

In the first place they must visit Papaete. The capital of the archipelago is incontestably a pretty town. The quartette took a real pleasure in wandering about under the lovely trees which shaded the houses on the beach, and the offices and trading establishments near the harbour. Then passing up one of the streets abutting on the quay, where a railway on the American system was working, our artistes ventured into the interior of the city.

There the streets are wide, as well planned with rule and square as the avenues of Milliard City, among gardens of verdure and freshness. Even at this early hour there was a constant passing and re-passing of Europeans and natives, and this animation, which would be greater after sight o’clock in the evening, would last all through the night. You understand that the tropical nights, and particularly Tahitian nights, are not made to spend in bed, although the beds of Papaete are composed of a network of cocoa fibre, a palliasse of banana leaves, and a mattress of tufts of the silk cotton tree, to say nothing of the net protecting the sleeper against the irritating attacks of mosquitoes.

As to the houses, it is easy to distinguish those which are European from those which are Tahitian. The former, built almost entirely of wood, are raised a few feet on blocks of masonry, and leave nothing to be desired in the way of comfort. The latter, of which there are not many in the town, scattered here and there under the shade of the trees, are made of jointed bamboos covered with matting, which renders them clean, airy and agreeable.

But the natives?

“The natives!” said Frascolin to his comrades. “There are no more here than at the Sandwich Islands; we shall not find those gallant savages, who, before the conquest, dined on a human cutlet, and reserved for their sovereign the eyes of a vanquished warrior roasted according to the recipe of Tahitian cookery!”

“Ah, is that it?” asked Pinchinat. “Then there are no more cannibals in Oceania. What! we shall have voyaged thousands of miles without meeting one of them!”

“Patience!” remarked the violoncellist, beating the air with his right hand like Rodin in the Mysteries of Paris; “we may find one, if it is only to gratify your foolish curiosity.”

The Tahitians are of Malay origin, very probably, and of the race known as Maori. Raiatea, the Holy Island, was the cradle of their kings — a charming cradle washed by the limpid waters of the Pacific in the Windward group.

Before the arrival of the missionaries, Tahitian society comprised three classes: those of the princes, privileged persons who were recognized as possessing the gift of performing miracles; chiefs, or owners of the soil, of little consideration, ana reduced to servitude by the princes; the common people, possessing nothing, or when they did possess it, having nothing beyond a life interest in the land.

All this has been changed since the conquest, and even before, under the influence of the English and Catholic missionaries. But that which has not changed is the intelligence of the natives, their lively speech, their cheerful disposition, their unfailing courage, their physical beauty. The Parisians could not help admiring this in the town and in the country.

“What fine men!” said one.

“And what fine girls!” said another.

Men of a stature above the average, their skin copper-coloured as if impregnated with the ardour of their blood, their proportions as admirable as those of antique statues, their faces gentle and prepossessing. These Maories are truly superb, with their large bright eyes, their rather thick but well-cut lips. Their tattooing for war purposes is disappearing with the occasions which formerly rendered it necessary.

The more wealthy natives clothe themselves in European fashion, and yet they look well with shirts cut to the figure, vest of pale rose stuff, trousers falling over the boots. But these did not attract the attention of the quartette. No! To the trousers of modern cut, our tourists preferred the pareo of cotton, coloured and striped, draped from the belt to the ankle, and in place of the high hat, and even the Panama hat, the headdress common to both sexes, the hei, composed of leaves and flowers.

The women are still the poetic and graceful Otaheitans of Bougainville. The white petals of the tiara, a sort of gardenia, mingle with the black mats unrolled on their shoulders their heads covered with the light hat made of the epidermis of a cocoa-nut, but of which the sweet name of revareva “seems to come from reverie,” as Yvernes said. Add to the charm of this costume, with its colours like those of a kaleidoscope modifying at every movement, the gracefulness of the walk, the freedom of the attitudes, the sweetness of the smile, the penetration of the look, the harmonious sonorousness of the voice, and you will understand why, as soon as one of our artistes exclaimed, “What fine men!” the others should have answered in chorus, —

“And what fine girls!”

When the Creator had fashioned such marvels of beauty, would it have been possible for Him not to have given them a frame worthy of them? And what could be imagined more delightful than the Tahitian landscapes, in which the vegetation is so luxuriant under the influence of the running streams and abundant dews of the night?

During their excursions across this island, and in the neighbourhood of Papaete, the four Parisians did not cease to admire this world of vegetable wonders. Leaving the borders of the sea, which are more suited to cultivation, where the forests are replaced by plantations of lemon trees, orange trees, arrowroot, sugarcane, coffee-plants/cotton trees, fields of yams, manioc, indigo, sorghum, and tobacco, they ventured under the masses of trees in the interior up to the foot of the mountains, whose summits rose above the dome of foliage. Everywhere were elegant cocoa-nut trees of magnificent growth, miros or rosewood trees, casuarinas or ironwood trees, tiairi or bancoulias, puraus, tamanas, ahis or santals, guava trees, mango trees, taccas, whose roots are edible, and also the superb taro, the precious breadfruit tree, high in the stem, slender and white, with large brownish-green leaves, amid which are groups of large fruits, with chiselled bark, and of which the white pulp forms the principal food of the natives.

The tree which with the cocoa-nut is the commonest is the guava tree, which grows all the way up the mountains, and whose name in the Tahitian tongue is tuava. It grows in thick forests, while the puraus form gloomy thickets, difficult to get through, when you are imprudent enough to venture among them.

There were no dangerous animals. The only native quadruped is a sort of pig. As to the horses and cattle, they have been imported into the island, where they prosper like the sheep and goats. The fauna is much less rich than the flora, even with the birds included. There are pigeons and swallows as at the Sandwich Islands. There are no reptiles. There are centipedes and scorpions. And for insects there are wasps and mosquitoes.

)The products of Tahiti are mainly cotton and sugarcane, the cultivation of which is largely developed, to the detriment of tobacco and coffee; besides these there are cocoa-nut oil, arrowroot, oranges, nacre and pearls. This is, however, enough for an important trade with America, Australia, and New Zealand, with China in Asia, with France and England in Europe, to a value of three million two hundred thousand francs of imports, counterbalanced by four millions and a half of exports.

The excursions of the quartette extended to the peninsula of Tabaratu. A visit to Fort Phaeton introduced them to a detachment of marine infantry, who were delighted to welcome their compatriots.

At an inn near the harbour, kept by a colonist, Frascolin stood treat. To the natives of the neighbourhood, to the mutoi of the district, there were glasses round of French wine, which the innkeeper did not forget to charge for. in return the locals offered their entertainers some of the products of the country, such as the preparation from a species of banana known as fei, of beautiful yellow colour, yams prepared in a succulent fashion, maiore, which is the breadfruit cooked to bursting in a hole full of hot stones, and finally a confection sourish in flavour, made from grated cocoa nut, and which, under the name of taiero, is kept in bamboo twigs.

This luncheon was very jolly. The party smoked many hundreds of cigarettes made of tobacco leaf dried at the fire, and rolled within a pandanus leaf. Only, instead of imitating the Tahitian men and women, who pass them from mouth to mouth after taking a few whiffs, the Frenchmen preferred to smoke them in French fashion. And when the mutoi offered his, Pinchinat thanked him with a “mea maitai,” that is to say “very well,” with such a grotesque intonation that it put the whole crowd into good humour.

In the course of their excursions it need not be said that the quartette returned every evening to Papaete or to Floating Island. Everywhere, in the villages, in the scattered habitations, among the colonies, among the natives, they were received with as much sympathy as comfort.

On the 7th of November they decided to visit Point Venus, an excursion undertaken by every tourist worthy of the name.

They started at dawn, crossing the river Fantalina by the bridge. They ascended the valley up to the noisy cascade, double that of Niagara in height, but much narrower, which falls with superb uproar from a height of 200 feet. In this way they arrived, by following the road along the flank of Paharahi Hill, on the edge of the sea, at the hillock to which Captain Cook gave the name of Tree Cape — a name justified at that time by the presence of an isolated tree, since dead of old age. An avenue planted with magnificent trees led them from the village of Paharahi to the lighthouse at the extreme end of the island.

It was in this place, half-way up a verdant hill, that the Coverley family had fixed their residence. There was no apparent reason for Walter Tankerdon, whose villa was on the other side of Papaete, to be in the neighbourhood of Point Venus. The young man was, however, on horseback, close to the cottage of the Coverleys, and he exchanged a salute with the quartette, and asked them if they intended to return to Papaete that evening.

“No, Mr. Tankerdon,” replied Frascolin. “We have received an invitation from Mrs. Coverley, and it is probable that we shall spend the evening at the villa.”

“Then, gentlemen, I bid you good-bye,” said Walter Tankerdon.”

And it seemed as if the young man’s face darkened as if a cloud had for a moment veiled the sun.

He then spurred his horse and went off at a gentle trot, giving a glance at the villa, which stood out white among the trees.

“Eh!” said Pinchinat. “Perhaps he would like to have accompanied us, this charming cavalier?”

“Yes,” added Frascolin, “and it is evident that our friend Munbar may be right. He did not seem happy at not being able to meet Miss Coverley.”

“That proves that millions do not bring happiness,” replied Yvernes, like a great philosopher.

During the afternoon and evening a delightful time was spent with the Coverleys. At the villa the quartette met with as warm a welcome as at the house in the Fifteenth Avenue. A sympathetic meeting in which art was agreeably mingled. The music was excellent — at the piano, be it understood. Mrs. Coverley played a few new pieces, Miss Coverley sang like a true artiste, and Yvernes, who had a fine voice, mingled his tenor with her soprano.

We do not know why — perhaps designedly — Pinchinat slipped into the conversation that he and his comrades had met Walter Tankerdon in the neighbourhood of the villa. Was this clever on his part, or had he done better to have been silent? No, and if the superintendent had been there he could not but have approved of his Highness. A slight smile, almost imperceptible, flitted across Miss Coverley’s lips, her beautiful eyes sparkled, and it seemed when she sang again as though her voice had become more penetrating.

Mrs. Coverley looked at her for a moment, and was content to say, while Mr. Coverley frowned: “You are not tired, my child?”

“No, mother.”

“And you, Monsieur Yvernes?”

“Not the least in the world, madam. Before my birth I ought to have been a chorister boy in one of the chapels of Paradise.”

The evening came to an end, and it was nearly midnight when Mr. Coverley thought the time had come to retire to rest.

Next morning the quartette, enchanted at their simple and cordial reception, went back again down the road to Papaete.

The stay at Tahiti could not last longer than a week; according to the programme which had been laid down in advance, Floating Island would then resume its route to the south-west. And without doubt there would have been nothing to distinguish this last week, during which the quartette completed their excursions, if a very pleasant incident had not happened on the nth of November. The division of the French squadron of the Pacific was signalled in the morning by the semaphore on the hill behind Papaete.

At eleven o’clock a cruiser of the first class, the Paris, escorted by two cruisers of the second class and a gunboat, dropped anchor in the roadstead.

The regulation salutes were exchanged, and the rear-admiral, whose flag was flying on the Paris, landed with his officers.

After the official salutes, in which the Floating Island batteries took part, the rear-admiral and the commandant of the Society Islands returned each other’s visits.

It was fortunate for the ships of the divisions, their officers and crews, to have arrived in the roadstead of Tahiti while Floating Island was there. Here were new opportunities for receptions and festivities. The Pearl of the Pacific was open to the French sailors, who crowded to admire its wonders. For two days the uniforms of our navy mingled with the Milliardite costumes. Cyrus Bikerstaff did the honours at the observatory, the superintendent did the honours at the casino and the other establishments under his superintendence.

It was under these circumstances that an idea occurred to that astonishing Calistus Munbar, a genial idea, the realization of which would never be forgotten, and this idea he communicated to the Governor, who adopted it at the advice of his council of notables.

Yes! A grand festival was decreed for the 15th of November. Its programme included a set dinner and a ball given in the rooms of the town hall.

By this time all the Milliardites would have returned to the island, for the departure would take place two days afterwards.

The high personages of both sections would not fail to be present at this festival in honour of Queen Pomare IV. the Tahitians, native or European, and the French squadron.

Calistus Munbar was entrusted with the management of the festival, and his imagination and zeal could be relied on. ,, The quartette offered their services, and it was agreed that a concert should figure among the most attractive features of the programme.

As far as the invitations were concerned, the Governor undertook to send them out.

In the first place Cyrus Bikerstaff went in person to Queen Pomare and the princes of her court to assist at the festivities, and the Queen deigned to reply by accepting the invitation. There were similar thanks on the part of the commandant and the chief French functionaries, and of the rear-admiral and his officers, who showed themselves deeply sensible of the kindness.

In short a thousand invitations were issued. It must be understood that the thousand guests could not sit down at the municipal table. No! Only a hundred: the royal personages, the officers of the squadron, the authorities of the protectorate, the chief functionaries and council of notables and superior clergy of Floating Island. But there would be in the park, refreshments, games, and fireworks, with which to satisfy the populace.

The King and Queen of Malecarlie were not forgotten, that need scarcely be said. But their Majesties, averse to all pomp, living retired in their modest habitation in the Thirty-Second Avenue, thanked the Governor for an invitation they regretted to be unable to accept.

“Poor sovereigns!” said Yvernes.

The great day arrived, and the island was decked with the French and Tahitian colours mingled with the Milliardite colours.

Queen Pomare and her court, in gala costume, were received at Starboard Harbour amid a salute from the island’s artillery, replied to by the guns of Papaete and the guns of the fleet.

About six o’clock in the evening, after a promenade in the park, all the great ones went to the municipal palace, which was superbly decorated. What a splendid sight was the monumental staircase, every step of which cost at least ten thousand francs, like that at Vanderbilt’s house in New York! And in the splendid dining-hall the guests sat down at the tables.

The code of precedence was observed by the Governor with perfect tact. There was no reason for conflict between the great rival families of the two sections. Everyone was contented with the places reserved for them, among others Miss Coverley, who found herself opposite Walter Tankerdon. That was as much as the young people could expect, for they could not be brought much nearer.

There is no need to say that the French artistes had nothing to complain of. They were placed at the table of honour, a new proof of esteem and sympathy for their talent and for themselves.

As to the bill of fare of this memorable repast, studied, meditated, and composed by the superintendent, it proved that even from the culinary point of view Milliard City had nothing to fear from old Europe.

Here is this bill of fare as printed in gold on vellum by Calistus Munbar: —

At the table of the Queen of England, of the Emperor of Russia, of the German Emperor, or the President of the French Republic, was there ever any better combination for an official dinner, and could the most famous cooks of both continents have produced a better one?

At nine o’clock the guests went to the casino for the concert. The programme contained four items: —

Fifth quartette in A major: Op. 18, Beethoven.

Second quartette in D minor: Op. 10, Mozart.

Second quartette in D major: Op. 64 (2nd part), Haydn.

Twelfth quartette in E flat. Onslow.

This concert was a fresh triumph for the Parisian executants so fortunately embarked — no matter what the recalcitrant violoncellist might say — on Floating Island.

Meanwhile Europeans and strangers took part in the different games in the park. Open-air dances were organized on the lawns, and — why should we not admit it? — there was dancing to the music of accordions, which are instruments much in vogue among the natives of the Society Islands. French sailors have a weakness for this pneumatic apparatus, and as the men on leave from the Paris and other ships of the squadron had landed in great numbers, accordions became the rage. Voices joined in, and ship songs responded to the “himerre,” which are the popular and favourite airs of the Oceanic peoples.

Besides, the natives of Tahiti, men and women, have a decided taste for singing and dancing in which they excel On this occasion they many times repeated the figures of the “repanipa,” which may be considered a national dance, of which the measure is marked by beating the tambourine. Thus dancers of all kinds, natives and foreigners, enjoyed themselves immensely, thanks to the stimulus of refreshments of all kinds provided by the municipality.

At the same time there were dances of more select arrangement and composition, at which, under the direction of Athanase Doremus, the families gathered in the saloons of the town hall. The Milliardite and the Tahitian ladies tried to surpass each other in their dresses, but we need not be surprised at the former, who were faithful customers of the Parisian dressmakers, easily eclipsing even the most elegant Europeans of the colony. The diamonds rippled on their heads, their shoulders, their necks, and it was amongst them only that the contest was of any interest. But who would dare say if Mrs. Coverley or Mrs. Tankerdon were the more dazzling? Certainly not Cyrus Bickerstaff, always so careful to preserve a perfect equilibrium between the two sections of the island.

In the quadrille of honour there figured the sovereign of Tahiti and her august spouse, Cyrus Bikerstaff and Mrs. Coverley, the rear-admiral and Mrs. Tankerdon, the commodore and the first lady of honour to the Queen. At the same time other quadrilles were formed, in which the couples took part according to their tastes and sympathies. All this was charming, and yet Sebastien Zorn kept himself apart in an attitude, if not of protest, at least of disdain, like the two snarling Romans in the famous picture of the Decadence. But Yvernes, Pinchinat, Frascolin waltzed and danced polkas and mazurkas with the prettiest Tahitians and the most delightful young ladies of Floating Island. And who knows if, this evening, a few weddings \vere not decided as a finish to the ball — which would doubtless give a little more work to the civil officials?

Besides, what was the general surprise when chance made Walter Tankerdon Miss Coverley’s cavalier in a quadrille? Was it chance, or had not that astute diplomatist, the superintendent, managed to assist it in some way? In any case it was the event of the evening, great perhaps in its consequences, if it marked a first step towards the reconciliation of these two powerful families.

After the fireworks on the large lawn, dancing was resumed in the park and at the town hall, and continued until daylight.

Such was the memorable festival, of which the remembrance would be perpetuated through the long and happy series of ages that the future — it was hoped — had in store for Floating Island.

Two days afterwards the stay terminated and Commodore Simcoe gave orders to get under way at dawn. The roar of cannon saluted the departure of the island as it had saluted its arrival, and it returned the salutes gun for gun from both Tahiti and the naval division.

The direction was north-west, so as to pass in review the other isles of the archipelago. Thus it coasted along the picturesque outline of Moorea, bristling with superb peaks; Raiatea, the Holy Island, the cradle of the native royalty; Bora-Bora, dominated by a mountain a thousand metres high; then the islets of Motu-Iti, Mapeta, Tubuai, Manu, the heads of the Tahitian chain stretched across these regions.

On the 19th of November, as the sun descended towards the horizon, the last summits of the archipelago disappeared.

Floating Island then steered south-west, as shown by the charts displayed on the windows of the casino.

And who at this moment would notice Captain Sarol, as, with a gloomy look in his eye and a fierce expression on his face, with a menacing hand he showed his Malays the route to the New Hebrides, situated twelve hundred leagues to the westward?

PART II

CHAPTER I.

FOR six months, Floating Island, after leaving Madeleine Bay, had been voyaging from archipelago to archipelago across the Pacific. Not an accident had occurred in the course of this marvellous journey. At this period of the year the equatorial regions are calm, the trade winds blowing steadily between the tropics. Even if there had been a storm, the solid basis which bore Milliard City, the two harbours, the park and the country, would not have experienced the least shock. The squall would have passed, the tempest would have abated. Hardly would it have been noticed on the surface of the Pearl of the Pacific.

That which was rather to be feared under these circumstances was the monotony of too uniform an existence. But our Parisians would have been the first to agree that there was none of this. On this immense desert of ocean oasis succeeded oasis, such as the groups they had already visited, the Sandwich Isles, the Marquesas, Paumotu, the Society Islands, such as those they would explore before turning northwards, the Cook Islands, Samoa, Fiji, the New Hebrides, and others perhaps. So many stopping places, so many opportunities of exploring these countries so interesting from an ethnographic point of view.

As far as the Quartette Party were concerned how could they think of complaining even if they had the time? Perhaps they might consider themselves separated from the rest of the world. Were not the postal services with the two continents regular? Not only did the petroleum ships bring their cargoes for the wants of the electric works almost to the day, but there was not a fortnight without steamers unloading at Starboard Harbour or Larboard Harbour, their cargoes of all sorts and the batches of newspapers with which the inhabitants filled up their leisure time.

The salaries of the artistes were paid with a punctuality that bore witness to the inexhaustible resources of the Company. Thousands of dollars found their way into their pockets, and accumulated there, and they would be rich, very rich at the expiration of such an engagement. Never had instrumentalists been made so much of, and they could not regret the results, “relatively mediocre,” of their tour across the United States of America.

“Come,” said Frascolin one day to the violoncellist, “have you got over your prejudices against Floating Island?”

“No,” replied Sebastien Zorn.

“And yet,” added Pinchinat, “we shall have a good bag when the campaign is over?”

“To have a good bag is not everything, you must be sdre of carrying the bag away with you.”

“And you are not sure?”

“No.”

What answer could there be to that? And yet there was nothing to fear for the said bag, as the instalments in the form of bills had been sent to America, and paid into the Bank of New York. The best thing to do was to leave the obstinate man alone to his unjustifiable suspicions.

In fact, the future appeared more settled than ever. It seemed as though the rivalry of the two sections had entered on a period of appeasement. Cyrus Bikerstaff and his assistants had reason to congratulate themselves. The superintendent assumed more airs than ever since “the great event of the ball at the town hall.” Yes! Walter Tankerdon had danced with Miss Coverley. Were people to conclude that the estrangement between the families had become easier? It was certain that Jean Tankerdon and his friends no longer spoke of making Floating Island an industrial and commercial island. In the best society the incident at the ball was much spoken of. A few perspicacious persons saw in it a reconciliation, perhaps a union which might put an end to dissensions private and public.

And if these previsions were realized, a young man and a young woman assuredly worthy of one another would accomplish their dearest wish we have every reason to believe.

There was no doubt that Walter Tankerdon had not remained insensible to the charms of Miss Coverley. He had been so for a year already. Under the circumstances he had confided the secret of his feelings to no one. Miss Coverley had guessed it, she had understood him, and had been pleased at his discretion. Perhaps she had clearly read her own heart — and was this heart ready to respond to Walter’s? She had let no sign of it appear. She was as distant as her dignity and the estrangement between the families demanded.

But an observer might have remarked that Walter and Miss Coverley never took part in the discussions which occasionally arose in the mansion in the Fifteenth Avenue or in that in the Nineteenth. When the intractable Jean Tankerdon abandoned himself to some fulminating diatribe against the Coverleys, his son would bow his head, remain silent, and retreat. When Nat Coverley stormed against the Tankerdons his daughter lowered her eyes, her pretty face turned pale, and she tried to turn the conversation, without succeeding, it is true. That these two personages saw nothing is the common lot of fathers over whose eyes Nature has put a bandage. But — at least Calistus Munbar affirmed it — neither Mrs. Coverley nor Mrs. Tankerdon were in a similar state of blindness. The mothers had not eyes to see nothing, and this state of mind in their children was a subject of constant apprehension, as the only remedy possible was inapplicable. They felt that in face of the enmity between the rivals, in face of their self-esteem, constantly injured by questions of precedence, any reconciliation, any union was inadmissible. And yet Walter and Di loved one another. Their mothers had found that out.

More than once the young man had been asked to make his choice among the marriageable girls of the Larboard section. There were many charming ones amongst them, perfectly educated, with fortunes almost equal to his own, and whose families would have been delighted at such a union. His father had spoken to him pretty plainly on the subject, and so had his mother, though not so pressingly. Walter had always refused, giving as a reason that he had no desire to be married. But the old Chicago merchant would not listen to this — when you can get hundreds of millions as a wedding present you ought not to remain unmarried. If his son could not find a girl to his taste on Floating Island — among his own circle — well, let him travel through America or through Europe. With his name, his fortune, to say nothing of his appearance, he would have only too many to choose from — would he like a princess of the imperial or royal blood? Thus said John Tankerdon. Each time his father brought him to the foot of the wall, Walter declined to clear it, to go in search of a wife abroad. And once when his mother said to him, —

“My dear child, is there any girl here that you like?”

“Yes, mother,” he replied.

And as Mrs. Tankerdon did not ask which girl, her son did not think it necessary to tell her.

A similar state of affairs existed in the Coverley family. That the old New Orleans banker wished to marry his daughter to one of the young fellows visiting the house, where the receptions were very fashionable, could not be doubted. If none of them were agreeable to her, well, her father and mother would willingly have consented to her marriage with a foreigner. They would visit France, Italy, England. Miss Coverley’s answer was that she did not wish to leave Milliard City. She was very well on Floating Island; she only asked to be left there. Mr. Coverley was very uneasy at this reply, the real motive of which escaped him.

Besides, Mrs. Coverley had not put the question to her daughter as bluntly as Mrs. Tankerdon had to Walter, as need scarcely be said, and it is presumable that Miss Coverley would hardly have dared to reply with the same frankness — even to her mother.

This was how matters stood. Although neither of them could doubt the state of their feelings, and they had often exchanged looks, they had never said a word to each other. If they had met, it was only at official entertainments, at the receptions of Cyrus Bikerstaff, at some ceremony at which the Milliardite notables felt it necessary to be present, if only to maintain their position. Under these circumstances Walter Tankerdon and Miss Coverley maintained complete reserve, being so placed that any imprudence might have the most unfortunate consequences.

Judge then of the effect produced by the extraordinary incident at the Governor’s ball, an incident in which many endeavoured to see a scandal, and of which the whole town was talking next day. The superintendent had asked Miss Coverley to dance with him: he was not there at the opening of the quadrille; that artful Munbar! Walter Tankerdon, had offered himself in his place, and the lady had accepted him as her partner. That explanation would be asked for regarding this fact, of such importance to the fashionable world of Milliard City, was probable, even certain. Mr. Tankerdon would question his son; Mr. Coverley would question his daughter on the subject. What would Miss Coverley say? What would Walter say? Had Mrs. Coverby and Mrs. Tankerdon interfered, and what had been the result? With all his ferret-like perspicacity, all his diplomatic acuteness, Calistus Munbar could not discover. When Frascolin asked him about it, he was content to reply with a wink of his right eye, which was worth nothing, for he knew absolutely nothing. The interesting thing to notice was that, since this memorable day, whenever Walter met Mrs. Coverley and Miss Coverley, he bowed respectfully, and the girl and her mother returned his salute.

According to the superintendent this was “an immense step in advance.”

In the morning of the 25th of November an event happened which had nothing to do with the position of the two preponderating families of Floating Island.

At daybreak the look-out at the observatory reported several large vessels steering south-west. These ships were in line, keeping their distances. Evidently they formed a division of one of the Pacific squadrons.

Commodore Simcoe telegraphically informed the governor, who gave orders for salutes to be exchanged with the ships of war.

Frascolin, Yvernes, and Pinchinat went to the observatory tower, in the hope of seeing this exchange of international courtesy.

The glasses were directed at these ships, to the number of four, which were from five to six miles distant. There was no flag at their peaks, and the Frenchmen could not recognize their nationality.

“Nothing indicates to what navy they belong?” said Frascolin to the officer.

“Nothing,” he replied; “but from their appearance they are evidently British. Besides, in these parts we hardly ever meet with any men-of-war that are not either English, French, or American.”

The ships were approaching at very moderate speed, and if they did not change their course they would pass very close to Floating Island.

A good many sight-seers went out to the Prow Battery to watch the approach of the ships.

An hour later the vessels were within two miles of them. From their large funnels the smoke poured forth, which the westerly breeze bore to the furthest limits of the horizon.

When they were within a mile and a half, the officer was able to announce that they formed the British West Pacific division — Great Britain possessing or having under its protection certain archipelagoes in these parts, such as Tonga, Samoa, and Cook’s Islands.

In the morning of the 29th of November the look-outs caught sight of the first heights of Cook’s Archipelago, situated in 20 deg. south latitude and 160 deg. west longitude. Known as the Mangaia Islands and the Hervey Islands, and then named after Cook, who landed here in 1770, it is composed of the Islands of Mangaia, Rarotonga, Watson, Mittri, Hervey, Palmerston, Hagemeister, &c. Its population, of Maori origin, decreased from twenty thousand to twelve thousand, is formed of Malay Polynesians, whom the European missionaries have converted to Christianity. The islanders, pertinacious as to their independence, have always resisted foreign invasion. They believe they are still their own masters, although they have gradually submitted to the protecting influence — we know what that means — of the British.

The first island of the group to be met with was Mangaia, the most important and the most peopled — in fact the capital of the archipelago. The plan of campaign allowed of a stay here of a fortnight.

Was it then in this archipelago that Pinchinat was to make the acquaintance of veritable savages — savages like those of Robinson Crusoe, whom he had vainly sought in the Marquesas, in the Society Islands, and at Nuka Hiva? Was his Parisian curiosity about to be satisfied? Would he see absolutely authentic cannibals?

“My dear Zorn,” said he one day to his comrade, “il there are not cannibals here, there are none anywhere else!”

“I might say what does that matter to me? But let me ask why nowhere else?”

“Because an island which is called Mangaia could only be peopled by cannibals.”

And Pinchinat had only just time to evade the punch that his miserable attempt at a pun deserved.

But whether there were cannibals or not at Mangaia, his Highness was not to have the chance of entering into communication with them.

In fact, when Floating Island had arrived within a mile of Mangaia, a canoe put out and came alongside the pier at Starboard Harbour. It bore the minister, a German, who, more than the Mangaian chiefs, exercises his provoking tyranny over the archipelago. In this island — measuring thirty miles in circumference, peopled by four thousand inhabitants — which is carefully cultivated, rich in plantations of taros, in fields of arrowroot and yams, it was this gentleman who owned the best lands. His was the most comfortable house in Ouchora, the capital of the island, at the foot of a hill crowded with breadfruit trees, cocoanut trees, mango-trees, bourras, pimentos, to say nothing of a flower-garden, in which coleas, gardenias, and paeonies were in full bloom. His power was due to the mutois, those native policemen before whom their Mangaian Majesties have to bow.

When this fat little man landed, the officer of the port went to meet him, and salutes were exchanged.

“In the name of the King and Queen of Mangaia,” said the minister, “I present the compliments of their Majesties to his Excellency the Governor of Floating Island.”

“I am under orders to accept them, and to thank you,” replied the officer, “until our Governor goes in person to present his respects.”

“His Excellency will be welcome,” said the minister. “The sanitary state of Floating Island leaves nothing to be desired, I suppose?”

“Never has it been better.”

“There might, however, be a few slight epidemics, influenza, typhus, smallpox — “

“Not even a cold, sir. Will you then give us a clean bill, and as soon as we are at our moorings we can enter into communication in all due form.”

“That,” said the minister, not without a certain hesitation, “can only be done if the epidemic — “

“I tell you there is no trace of one.”

“Then the inhabitants of Floating Island intend to land.”

“Yes, as they have recently done in the other groups to the eastward.”

“Very well, very well,” replied the stout little man. “Be sure they will be heartily welcome, from the moment that no epidemic — “

“None, I tell you.”

“Let them land then in large numbers. The inhabitants will do their utmost to make them welcome, for the Mangaians are hospitable. Only — “

“Only?”

“Their Majesties, in accordance with the advice of the chiefs, have decided that at Mangaia, as at the other islands of the archipelago, strangers must pay a landing tax.”

“A tax?”

“Yes, two piastres. It is very little, you see; two piastres for every person landing on the island.”

It was very evident that the minister was the author of this proposal, which the king and queen and council of chiefs had readily adopted, and of which a fair share was reserved for his Excellency. As in the groups of the Eastern Pacific there had never been such a tax heard of before, the officer of the port could not help expressing his surprise.

“Are you in earnest?” asked he.

“Quite in earnest,” affirmed the minister, “and in default of payment we shall not let anybody — “

“All right!” replied the officer.

Then bowing to his Excellency, he stepped into the telegraphic office, and reported the matter to the Commodore. Ethel Simcoe put himself in communication with the Governor. Was it advisable for Floating Island to stop off Mangaia uuder the circumstances?

The reply was not long in coming. After conferring with his assistants, Cyrus Bikerstaff refused to submit to this vexatious tax. Floating Island would not stop at Mangaia, nor at any island of the archipelago. The greedy minister would get nothing by his proposition, and the Milliardites would, in the neighbouring archipelagoes, visit natives less rapacious and less exacting.

Orders were sent to the engineers to give the rein to their million horses, and that is why Pinchinat was deprived of the pleasure of shaking hands with cannibals — if there were any. But they do not eat each other now in Cook’s Islands — which is perhaps regrettable.

Floating Island crossed the wide arm which projects up to the group of four islands, the line of which lies northward. A number of canoes were seen, some fairly well built and rigged, others merely dug out of the trunk of a tree, but manned with hardy fishermen who venture in pursuit of the whales so numerous in these seas.

These islands are very verdant, very fertile. When off Mangaia, there could be seen its rocky coasts, bordered by a bracelet of coral, its houses of dazzling whiteness, rough cast with quicklime made from the coral reefs, its hills clothed with the sombre verdure of tropical vegetation, their altitude not exceeding two hundred metres.

Next morning Commodore Simcoe sighted the wooded heights of Rarotonga. Near the centre rises a volcano, fifteen hundred metres high, whose summit emerges from a crown of brushwood. Among the foliage is a white building with Gothic windows. This is the Protestant temple, built amid large forests of mape trees, which descend to the shore. The trees — of great height, and much branched and with curious trunks — are crooked and gnarled, like the old apple-trees of Normandy or the old olive-trees of Provence.

Cyrus Bikerstaflf did not think it convenient to land at this island, and he was supported by the council of notables, who were accustomed to be received like kings on their travels.

At the end of the day no more of the island could be seen than the peak of the volcano, rising like a pillar on the horizon. Myriads of sea birds landed without permission and flew over Floating Island, but when night came they flew off to regain the islets incessantly lashed by the surges to the north of the archipelago.

Then a meeting was held, presided over by the Governor, in which it was proposed to modify the route of Floating Island. Continuing to the westward along the twentieth parallel, as had been decided, they would pass the Tonga Islands and the Fijis. But what had happened at Cook’s Islands was not very encouraging. Would it not be better to make for New Caledonia and the Loyalty Archipelago, where the Pearl of the Pacific would be received with French urbanity? Then after the December solstice they could return towards the Equator. It is true this would take them away from the New Hebrides, where they had promised to land the shipwrecked crew of the ketch.

During this deliberation as to a new route, the Malays were evidently a prey to very intelligible anxiety, for if the change were adopted their return home would be difficult. Captain Sarol could not conceal his disappointment, or even his anger, and anyone who had heard him speaking to his men would probably have thought his irritation rather suspicious.

“You see,” he said, “they will drop us at the Loyalties or at New Caledonia. And our friends are expecting us at Erromango. Our plans were so well arranged for the New Hebrides! Is this stroke of fortune to escape us?”

Fortunately for the Malays — unfortunately for Floating Island — the proposal for changing the route was not carried. The campaign would be proceeded with according to the programme arranged at the departure from Madeleine Bay. Only, so as to make up for the fortnight which was to have been spent at Cook’s Islands, it was decided to go to Samoa, steering north-west so as to touch at the Tonga Islands.

When this decision was known the Malays could not hide their satisfaction.

After all, what could be more natural, and had they not reason to be glad that the council of notables had not renounced its plan of putting them ashore at the New Hebrides?

CHAPTER II.

IF the horizon of Floating Island seemed to be clearer in one respect, inasmuch as relations were much less acute between the Larboardites and Starboardites owing to the feelings mutually experienced by Walter Tankerdon and Di Coverley, so that the governor and superintendent believed that the future would not be complicated by intestine quarrels, the Pearl of the Pacific was none the less in danger of its existence. It was difficult to see how it could escape a catastrophe which had been so long in preparation. The farther it went towards the west the nearer it became to the regions where its destruction was certain. And the author of this criminal machination was no other than Captain Sarol.

In fact it was not by mere accident that the Malays had come to the Sandwich Islands. The ketch had put in at Honolulu with the intention of waiting for Floating Island at its annual visit. To follow it after its departure, to cruise in its waters without exciting suspicion, to be received as a shipwrecked crew, as they could not obtain admittance as passengers, and then, under pretext of being returned to their own country, to direct it towards the New Hebrides, had been Captain Sarol’s plan all through.

We know how this plan in its first developments had been put into execution. The collision between the ketch and the other vessel was imaginary. No ship had run into them in the vicinity of the Equator. It was the Malays who had scuttled their ship, but in such a way that they could keep it afloat until the arrival of the assistance demanded by the signal of distress, and then sink when the launch from Starboard Harbour had taken off the crew. In this manner no suspicion could exist with regard to the collision, and no one could doubt they were a shipwrecked crew when their ship was seen to sink, so that a shelter could not well be denied them.

It is true that the governor might not care to keep them. Perhaps there were regulations forbidding strangers to reside on the island? Perhaps it might be decided to land them on the nearest archipelago? That was a risk to run, and Captain Sarol ran it. But after the favourable opinion of the company it was resolved to keep the shipwrecked crew on the island, and take them within sight of the New Hebrides.

Such had been the course of events. For four months Captain Sarol and his ten Malays had been living at liberty on Floating Island. They had been exploring it throughout and penetrating all its secrets, and had neglected nothing in this respect. That suited them exactly. Fora moment they had reason to fear that the itinerary would be modified by the council of notables, and they had been anxious to such an extent that their anxiety might seem suspicious. Fortunately for their plans, the itinerary had not been altered. In another three months Floating Island would arrive among the New Hebrides, and then would take place a catastrophe unequalled among disasters of the sea.

This archipelago of the New Hebrides is dangerous to navigation, not only by reason of the reefs which are scattered about it, and the rapidity of the currents, but also on account of the native ferocity of a part of its population. Since the epoch when it had been discovered by Quiros in 1706, since it had been explored by Bougainville in 1768, and by Cook in 1773, it had been the theatre of horrible massacres, and its evil reputation was enough to justify the fears of Sebastien Zorn regarding the result of this maritime campaign. Kanakas, Papuans, Malays, are there mingled with Australian blaoks — perfidious, dastardly, refractory to every attempt at civilization. A few of the islands of the group are regular nests of rascals, and their inhabitants only live by piracies.

Captain Sarol, a Malay by birth, belonged to this class of pirates, whalers, sandalwood traders, slave dealers, who, as has been noticed by Doctor Hagon in his voyage in the New Hebrides, infest these regions. Audacious, enterprising, well acquainted with these archipelagoes of ill-repute, thoroughly master of his trade, having more than once been in command of bloodthirsty expeditions, this Sarol was no novice, and his deeds had made him notorious in this part of the Western Pacific.

A few months before, Captain Sarol and his companions having for their accomplices the murderous population of the Island of Erromango, one of the New Hebrides, had prepared an attempt which, if it succeeded, would enable them to live as respectable people wherever they pleased. They knew the reputation of this Floating Island, which the year before had voyaged in the tropics. They knew what incalculable riches were to be found in this opulent Milliard City. But as it was not likely to venture so far to the west, it was necessary to allure it within sight of this savage Erromango, where everything was prepared for assuring its complete destruction.

On the other hand, although they would be reinforced by the natives of the neighbouring islands, these New Hebrideans had no intention of attacking Floating Island when in the open sea as if it were an ordinary merchant vessel, nor of boarding it from a fleet of canoes. Thanks to the sentiments of humanity the Malays had been able to take advantage of, without awaking suspicion, Floating Island would arrive in the neighbourhood of Erromango. She would anchor a short distance from the island. Thousands of natives would invade her by surprise. They would throw her on the rocks. They would smash her. They would hand her over to pillage, to massacre. In truth this horrible plot had many chances of success. In return for the hospitality accorded to Captain Sarol and his accomplices, the Milliardites were advancing to a supreme catastrophe.

On the 9th of December, Commodore Simcoe reached the hundred and seventy-first meridian, at its intersection with the fifteenth parallel. Between this meridian and the hundred and seventy-fifth lies the group of Samoa, visited by Bougainville in 1768, by La Perouse in 1787, by Edwards in 1791. Rose Island was first sighted in the north-west — an inhabited island which did not even deserve the honour of a visit.

Two days afterwards the island of Manona was sighted, flanked by the two islets of Olosaga and Ofou. Its highest point rises seven hundred and sixty metres above sea level. Although it contains about two thousand inhabitants, it is not the most interesting island of the archipelago, and the governor gave no order to stop at it. It was better to stay a fortnight at the islands of Tetuila, Upolu, Savai, the most beautiful of the group. Manona rejoices in a certain celebrity in maritime annals. It was on its shores at Ma Oma that many of Cook’s companions perished, at the head of a bay which still retains its well justified name of Massacre Bay.

Twenty leagues separate Manona from Tetuila, its neighbour. Floating Island approached it during the night of the 14th of December. That evening the quartette, who were walking in the vicinity of Prow Battery, had “smelt” Tetuila, although it was still several miles away. The air was laden with the most delicious perfumes.

“It is not an island,” said Pinchinat, “it is Piver’s shop, it is Lubin’s manufactory, it is a fashionable perfumer’s warehouse.”

“If your Highness does not object,” observed Yvernes, “I prefer to compare it to a casket of perfumes.”

“Well, a scent-box, then,” replied Pinchinat, who had no wish to oppose the poetic flights of his comrade.

And in truth it seemed as though a current of perfumes were being borne by the breeze over the surface of these wonderful waters. These were the emanations of that scented tree to which the Kanakas of Samoa have given the name of moussooi.

At sunrise, Floating Island was coasting along Tetuila, at about six cables’ length from its northern shore. It looked like a basket of verdure, or rather tier upon tier of forests, rising to the summits, of which the highest exceeds seventeen hundred metres. A few islets lay in front of it, among others that of Amru. Hundreds of elegant canoes manned by powerful, half naked natives, working their paddles to a Samoan song in two-four time, were acting as an escort. From fifty to sixty men were in some of them. This is no exaggeration for these long vessels, which are strongly enough built to go far out to sea. Our Parisians then understood why the early Europeans had given this archipelago the name of Navigators’ Islands. But its true geographical name is Hamoa, or preferably Samoa.

Savai, Upolu, Tetuila, stretching from north-west to southeast; Olosaga, Ofou, Manona, scattered to the southeast, such are the principal islands of this group of volcanic origin. Its total area is about two thousand eight hundred square kilometres, and it has a population of thirty-five thousand six hundred inhabitants. It is necessary therefore to reduce the estimates of the first explorers by one half.

Be it observed that none of these islands could offer such favourable climatic conditions as Floating Island. The temperature ranges between twenty-six and thirty-four degrees centigrade. July and August are the coldest months, and the highest temperature occurs in February. From December to April the Samoans are deluged with abundant rains, and this is also the period when occur the storms and hurricanes so fruitful of disasters.

The trade, which is chiefly in the hands of the English, and in a minor degree of the Americans and Germans, amounts to about eighteen hundred thousand francs of imports and nine hundred thousand francs for exports. It consistsmainly of agricultural products, cotton — the cultivation of which increased every year — and coprah, that is, the dried kernel of the cocoanut.

The population, which is of Malayo-Polynesian origin, contains about three hundred whites and a few thousand labourers from different islands of Melanesia. Since 1830 the missionaries have converted the Samoans to Christianity, but they retain a few of the practices of their ancient religious rites. The great majority of the natives are Protestants, owing to the influence of Germany and England. Nevertheless Catholicism has a few thousand converts, which the Mariste Fathers are doing their best to increase in number with a view of opposing Anglo-Saxon proselytism.

Floating Island stopped at the south of Tetuila, at the opening of Pago — Pago roadstead. This is the real port of the island, whose capital is Leone, situated in the central portion. This time there was no difficulty between Cyrus Bikerstaff and the Samoan authorities. Free pratique was accorded. It is not at Tetuila but at Upolu that the sovereign of the archipelago resides, and where the English, American, and German residencies are established. There were no official receptions. A certain number of Samoans took advantage of the opportunity of visiting Milliard City and its environs, while the Milliardites were assured that the population of the group would give them a cordial welcome.

The port is at the head of the bay. The shelter it offers against the winds from the offing is excellent and its access easy. Ships of war often put in there.

Among the first to land we need not be astonished at meeting Sebastien Zorn and his three comrades, accompanied by the superintendent, who had asked to join them. Calistus Munbar was as usual delightful and in high spirits. He had ascertained that an excursion to Leone in carriages drawn by New Zealand horses had been arranged among three or four families of notables. As the Coverleys and Tankerdons were going, perhaps there might be a meeting between Walter and Di, which would anything but displease him.

During the walk with the quartette he began talking about this great event in his usual grandiose way.

“My friends,” he said, “we are in a regular comic opera. With a lucky accident we shall arrive at the end of the piece. A horse runs away — a carriage upsets — “

“An attack of brigands!” said Yvernes.

“A general massacre of the excursionists!” added Pinchinat.

“And that might happen!” growled the violoncellist in a funereal voice, as if he were down in the depths of his fourth string.

“No, my friends, no!” said Calistus Munbar. “Don’t let us go as far as a massacre! We need not go to that. Let us have a nice sort of accident, in which Walter Tankerdon will be lucky enough to save the life of Miss Coverley.”

“And then a little music from Boieldieu or Auber!” said Pinchinat, working his hand as if he were turning the handle of a barrel-organ.

“And so,” said Frascolin, “you are still thinking of this marriage?”

“Think of it, my dear Frascolin! I dream of it night and day! I am losing my good humour, though I do not look like it! I am getting thinner, though you would not think so! I shall die if it does not take place.”

“It will,” said Yvernes, in a voice of prophetic sonority, “for God does not at present require the death of your Excellency.”

And they entered a native inn, and drank to the health of the future couple in several glasses of cocoa milk, while they ate some luscious bananas.

Quite a joy to the eyes of the Parisians was this Samoan population in the streets of Pago-Pago, and amid the trees which surrounded the harbour. The men are of a stature above the average, their colour of a yellowish brown, their heads round, their bodies powerful, their limbs mus-cular, their faces gentle and jovial. Perhaps there was too much tattooing on their arms and bodies and even on their thighs, which were imperfectly hidden under a petticoat of grass and leaves. Their hair was black, straight or waved, according to the taste of native dandyism. But under the coating of white lime with which it was plastered it formed a wig.

“Savages in the style of Louis XV!” said Pinchinat. “They only want the cloak, the sword, the breeches, the stockings, the red-heeled shoes, the plumed hat, and the snuff-box, to figure at the receptions at Versailles.”

The Samoans, women or girls, are as rudimentarily clothed as the men, tattooed on the hands and breast, their heads garlanded with gardenias, their necks ornamented with collars of red hibiscus, fully justifying the admiration with which they were described by the early navigators — at least, such as were young. But they were distant, and of rather affected prudery. Graceful and smiling, they enchanted the quartette, wishing them the kalofa, that is, the good morning, in a sweet and melodious voice.

An excursion, or rather a pilgrimage, which our tourists had wished for, and which they performed on the morrow, gave them the opportunity of traversing the island from one shore to the other. One of the country carriages took them to the opposite coast at Franca Bay, the name of which recalls a remembrance of France. There, on a monument of white coral, raised in 1884, is a plate of bronze bearing in engraved letters the never-to-be-forgotten names of Commandant De Langle, the naturalist Lamanon, and nine sailors, the companions of La Perouse, who were massacred here on the nth of December, 1787.

Sebastien Zorn and his comrades returned to Pago-Pago through the interior of the island. What wonderful masses of trees, interlaced with lianas, cocoanut-trees, wild bananas, and many native species suitable for cabinet-making. Over the country stretched fields of taro, sugar-cane, coffee plantations, cotton plantations, cinnamon-trees. Everywhere orange-trees, guava-trees, mangoes, avocado-trees, and climbing-plants, orchids and arborescent shrubs. A flora astonishingly rich from this fertile soil, fertilized by a humid and warm climate. The Samoan fauna, reduced to a few birds, a few almost inoffensive reptiles, contains among its mammals only a small rat, the sole representative of the rodents.

Four days afterwards, on the 18th of December, Floating Island left Tetuila without any such providential accident as had been desired by the superintendent. But it was evident that the state of affairs between the two families continued to improve.

Hardly a dozen leagues separate Tetuila from Upolu. In the morning of the next day Commodore Simcoe passed in succession, at a distance of a quarter of a mile, the three islets of Nom-tua, Samusu, Salafuta, which defend the island as if they were detached forts. He took Floating Island along with great ability, and in the afternoon reached his moorings in front of Apia.

Upolu is the most important island of the archipelago, with its sixteen thousand inhabitants. Here Germany, America, and England have established their representatives, united in a sort of council for the protection of the interests of their nations. The sovereign of the group reigns amid his court at Malinuu, at the eastern extremity of Apia Point.

The aspect of Upolu is similar to that of Tetuila, a mass of mountains, dominated by the peak of Mount Mission, which constitutes the backbone of the island. These ancient extinct volcanoes are covered with thick forests, which clothe them up to their craters. At the foot of these mountains are plains and fields, joining on to the alluvial strip along the shore, in which the vegetation is in all the luxuriant variety of the tropics.

In the morning, the governor and his assistants and a few notabilities landed at the fort of Apia. Their object was to pay an official visit to the representatives of Germany, England, and the United States of America, this composite municipality in whose hands are concentrated the administrative services of the archipelago.

While Cyrus Bikerstaff and his suite visited the residents, Sebastien Zorn, Frascolin, Yvernes, and Pinchinat, who had landed with them, occupied their leisure by visiting the town.

And at first sight they were struck with the contrast presented by the European houses with the huts of the old Kanaka village, in which the natives obstinately persist in living. These dwellings are comfortable, healthy, charming in a word. Scattered along the banks of the Apia river, their low roofs are sheltered under an elegant sunshade of palm trees. There was no lack of animation in the harbour. This is the most frequented harbour of the group, and the headquarters of the Commercial Company of Hamburg, which owns a fleet employed in the local service between Samoa and the neighbouring islands.

But if the influence of the English, Americans, and Germans preponderates in this archipelago, France is represented by Catholic missionaries, whose devotion and zeal keep them in good repute among the Samoans. Genuine satisfaction, profound emotion even, seized our artists when they perceived the little church of the Mission, which has not the Puritan severity of the Protestant chapels, and a little beyond, on the hill, a school-house, on which the tricolour was flying.

They walked in this direction, and a few minutes afterwards they were being welcomed in the French quarters. The Maristes gave them a patriotic welcome. Three fathers were in residence, employed in the services of the Mission, which includes two others at Savai, and a certain number of sisters stationed in the islands.

What a pleasure it was to converse with the Superior, already advanced in years, who had lived in Samoa for a long time. He was so happy to welcome his fellow-countrymen, and what was more — artistes of his nation. The conversation was varied with refreshing drinks of which the Mission possesses the recipe.

“But first,” said the old man, “do not think, my dear sons, that the islands of our archipelago are in a savage state. It is not here that you will find natives who practise cannibalism.”

“We have not met with any up to the present,” said Frascolin.

“To our great regret,” added Pinchinat.

“Why do you regret?”

“Excuse me, father, that is the confession of a curious Parisian! It is for love of local colour!”

“Oh!” said Sebastien Zorn, “we are not at the end of our campaign yet; and we may see more than we want to of these cannibals mentioned by our comrade.”

“That is possible,” replied the Superior. “Among the approaches to the Western groups, the New Hebrides, the Solomons, navigators can only venture with extreme prudence; but in Tahiti, the Marquesas, the Society Islands, as at Samoa, civilization has made remarkable progress. I know that the massacre of the companions of La Perouse has given the Samoans the reputation of being ferocious aborigines, devoted to the practice of cannibalism; but there has been a great change since then, owing to the influence of the religion of Christ. The natives of these times are looked after by the police, rejoicing in a European Government, with two chambers in the European style — and revolutions.”

“In European style?” observed Yvernes.

“As you say, my dear son, the Samoans are not exempt from political dissensions.”

“We have them on Floating Island,” replied Pinchinat. “We are even expecting to have a dynastic war between two royal families.”

“In fact, my friends, there has been a struggle between King Tupua, who is descended from the ancient sovereigns of the archipelago, and whom we supported with our influence, and King Malietoa, the man of the English and Germans. Much blood was shed, particularly in the great battle of December, 1887. These kings saw themselves successively proclaimed and dethroned, and finally Malietoa was declared sovereign by the three powers, in conformity with the arrangements stipulated by the court of Berlin — Berlin!”

And the old missionary could not restrain a convulsive movement as the name escaped from his lips.

“You see,” said he, “up to now the influence of the Germans has been the dominating one at Samoa. Nine-tenths of the cultivated lands are in their hands. In the environs of Apia, at Suluafata, they have obtained from the Government a very important concession in the proximity of the port, which could serve as a victualling station for their ships of war. Quick-firing guns have been introduced by them. But all that will end some day.”

“To the advantage of France?” asked Frascolin.

“No; to the advantage of the United Kingdom!”

“Oh!” said Yvernes. “England or Germany!”

“No, my dear child,” replied the Superior; “there is a notable difference.”

The conversation ended, after the Superior had given divers details as to the customs of the Samoans. He added that if the majority belonged to the Wesleyan religion, Catholicism seemed to be making more progress every day. The church of the Mission was already too small for their services, and the school required early enlargement. He appeared very happy, and his guests rejoiced with him.

The stay of Floating Island at the island of Upolu lasted three days.

The missionaries came to return the visit they had received. The French artistes took them through Milliard City, and they were struck with wonder. And why should we not say that in the room at the casino the quartette party entertained the Father and his colleagues with a few selections from their repertory? He wept with emotion, did the good old man, for he adored classical music, and to his great regret had never had an opportunity of hearing it at the festivals of Upolu.

The day before the departure, Sebastien Zorn, Frascolin, Pinchinat, Yvernes, accompanied this time by the professor of dancing and deportment, went to bid farewell to the missionaries The parting was most affectionate — the parting of people who had only known each other for a few days, and would never see each other again. The old man gave them his benediction and embraced them, and they retired in deep emotion.

Next day, the 23rd of December, Commodore Simcoe got under way at dawn, and Floating Island moved off amid a procession of canoes, who were to escort it to the neighbouring island of Savai.

This island is separated from Upolu by a strait of some seven or eight leagues. But the port of Apia being situated on the northern shore, it is necessary to coast along this shore all day before reaching the strait.

According to the itinerary arranged by the Governor, it was not intended to make the tour of Savai, but to manoeuvre between it and Upolu, so as to run down southwest to the Tonga Archipelago. For this reason Floating Island advanced at very moderate speed, it being undesirable to venture during the night through this strait, which is flanked by the small islands of Apolinia and Manono.

At daybreak Commodore Simcoe manoeuvred between these two islands, of which one, Apolinia, contains only two hundred and fifty inhabitants, and the other, Manono, a thousand. These natives have the reputation of being the bravest and most honest Samoans in the archipelago.

From this place Savai could be admired in all its splendour. It is protected by impregnable cliffs of granite against the attacks of the sea which the hurricanes, tornadoes and cyclones of the winter season make more formidable. Savai is covered with thick forests, dominated by an ancient volcano twelve hundred metres high, dotted with gleaming villages beneath the domes of gigantic palm trees, watered by tumultuous cascades, penetrated by deep caverns, from which escaped the violent echoes of the beating of the waves on the shore.

And, if legend is to be believed, this island is the cradle of the Polynesian races, of which its eleven thousand inhabitants have retained the purest type. Its real name is Savaiki, the famous Eden of the Maori divinities.

Floating Island slowly moved away, and lost sight of its last heights in the evening of the 24th of December.

CHAPTER IV.

DURING the last week of the year, devoted to Christmas joys, numerous invitations were given for dinners, parties, and official receptions; a banquet given by the Governor to the principal personages of Milliard City, attended by the Starboard and Larboard notables, testified to a certain fusion between the two sections of the town. The Tankerdons and the Coverleys found themselves at the same table. On New Year’s Day there was an exchange of cards between the mansion in the Nineteenth Avenue and that in the Fifteenth. Walter Tankerdon even received an invitation for one of Mrs. Coverley’s concerts. The welcome with which he was received by the mistress of the house appeared to be of good augury. But it was a long way from that to closer ties, although Calistus Munbar, in his characteristic way, was continually repeating to those who cared to listen to him, —

“It is done, my friends, it is done.”

Floating Island continued its peaceful navigation towards the archipelago of Tonga-Tabou. Nothing seemed likely to trouble it, when on the night of the 30th of December there occurred an unexpected meteorologie phenomenon.

Between two and three in the morning distant detonations were heard. The look-outs did not trouble about this more than was necessary. They did not suppose that it meant a naval combat, unless it was between the ships of those South American Republics who are frequently at war. After all, why should they trouble about it on Floating Island, an independent island at peace with the powers of the two worlds?

Besides, these detonations, which came from the eastern parts of the Pacific, lasted until daylight, and certainly could not be mistaken for the full regular roar of distant artillery.

Commodore Simcoe, informed by one of his officers, went to observe the horizon frorn the top of the observatory tower. There was no light visible on the surface of the wide segment of sea that lay before his eyes. But the sky had not its usual aspect. Reflections of flames coloured it up to the zenith. The air appeared misty, although the weather was fine and the barometer did not indicate by a sudden fall any perturbation in the atmosphere.

At daybreak the early risers of Milliard City had a strange surprise. Not only did the detonations continue, but the air was full of red and black mist, a kind of impalpable dust, which began to fall like rain. You might call it a shower of fuliginous molecules. In a few moments the streets of the town, the roofs of the houses were covered with a substance in which were combined the colours of carmine, madder, nacarat, and purple with blackish ashes.

The people were all out of doors — except Athanase Doremus, who never got up before eleven after going to bed at eight. The quartette had, of course, jumped out of bed and gone to the observatory, where the Commodore, his officers, his astronomers, without forgetting the new royal functionary, were endeavouring to discover the cause of the phenomenon.

“It is regrettable,” remarked Pinchinat, “that this red matter is not liquid, and that this liquid is not a shower of Pomard or Chateau Lafitte!”

“Tippler!” said Sebastien Zorn.

But what was the cause of this phenomenon? There have been many examples of these showers of red dust,composed of silica, alumina, chromic oxide and ferric oxide. At the beginning of the century Calabria and the Abruzzi were inundated with these showers, which the superstitious inhabitants took for drops of blood when, as at Blancen-berghe, in 1819, they were merely chloride of cobalt. There have also been clouds of molecules of soot or carbon borne from distant fires. There have even been showers of soot at Fernambouc in 1820, yellow showers at Orleans in 1829, and in the Basses Pyrenees in 1836 shqyers of pollen drifted from firs in bloom.

What origin could be attributed to this fall of dust mingled with scoriae, with which the air seemed laden and which fell on Floating Island and the surrounding sea in thick reddish masses?

The King of Malecarlie gave it as his opinion that these substances came from some volcano in the islands to the west. His colleagues at the observatory agreed with him. They collected several handfuls of these scoriae, the temperature of which was above that of the air, and which had not cooled down in their passage through the atmosphere. An eruption of great violence would explain the irregular detonations that had been heard. These regions are strewn with craters, some in activity, others extinct, but susceptible of revival under subterranean action; without counting those which geologic upheavals occasionally lift from the ocean’s depths, the force of their projection being often extraordinary.

And in the midst of this archipelago of Tonga to which Floating Island was going, had not a few years before the peak of Tufua been covered with its eruptive matters for an area of more than a hundred kilometres? And for hours had not the detonations of the volcano been heard two hundred kilometres away?

Then, in the month of August, 1883, the eruption of Krakatoa had desolated the parts of the islands of Java and Sumatra adjoining Sunda Strait, destroying entire villages, causing earthquakes, covering the soil with compact mud, raising the sea in formidable waves, infecting the atmosphere with sulphurous vapours, and wrecking ships. Really, it might be asked if Floating Island were not threatened with dangers of this kind.

Commodore Simcoe began to be uneasy, for navigation threatened to become very difficult. He gave orders to slacken speed, and Floating Island began to move with extreme slowness.

A certain amount of alarm seized on the Milliardites. Were the dismal prognostics of Sebastien Zorn regarding the issue of the campaign on the point of realization?

Towards noon the darkness was profound. The people had left their houses which could not stand if the metal hull were lifted by plutonian forces. There was equal danger in the case of the sea rising and sweeping over the coast.

The governor and the commodore went to Prow Battery, followed by some of the people. Officers were sent to both harbours with orders to remain there. The engineers were at their posts ready to manoeuvre the island if it became necessary to retreat in the opposite direction. The misfortune was that the navigation became more difficult as the sky grew darker.

About three o’clock in the afternoon the people could hardly see ten yards in front of them. There was no trace of diffused light, such was the mass of cinders which absorbed the solar rays. It was feared that Floating Island, laden with the weight of the scoria fallen on its surface, would not be able to maintain its water line on the surface of the ocean.

It was not a ship that could be lightened by throwing overboard cargo, or clearing it of its weight. All that could be done was to trust in the strength of the construction.

The evening, or rather the night came, and still the only way to tell the time was by the clock. The darkness was complete. Beneath the shower of scoriae it was impossible to keep the electric moons aloft, and they were brought down. But the lighting of the streets and houses which had gone on through the day was to be continued as long as the phenomenon lasted.

The night came; the situation remained unchanged. It seemed, however, that the detonations were less frequent and also less violent. The fury of the eruption was diminishing and the rain of cinder, carried away to the south by rather a strong breeze, began to abate.

The Milliardites, regaining confidence a little, went into their houses, hoping that next day Floating Island would find itself under normal conditions. And then they could proceed to a long and complete clearing up.

No matter! What a miserable New Year’s Day for the Pearl of the Pacific, and by how little Milliard City had escaped the fate of Pompeii and Herculaneum. Although it was not situated at the foot of Vesuvius, did not its voyage bring it within range of the volcanoes with which the bed of the Pacific is strewn?

The governor, his assistants, and the council of notables remained in constant attendance at the town hall. The look-outs on the tower watched every change on the horizon or at the zenith. So as to maintain its south westerly direction, Floating Island had not stopped its progress, but its speed was only two or three miles an hour. When day came — or at least when the darkness cleared off — its course would be laid for the Tonga Archipelago. Then doubtless it would be ascertained which of the islands of this part of the ocean had been the theatre of such an eruption.

In any case it was manifest as the night advanced that the phenomenon was passing away.

About three o’clock in the morning there was a fresh incident which caused another outbreak of alarm among the dwellers in Milliard City.

Floating Island received a shock which was felt through all the compartments of its hull. The shock was not sufficient force to cause the destruction of the houses or throw the engines out of work. The screws were not stopped in their propulsive movement. Nevertheless there was no doubt there had been a collision at the fore-end.

What had happened? Had Floating Island grounded on a shoal? No, for it continued to move. Had it then struck against a reef? Amid this profound darkness had it run into some vessel crossing its course, which had not been able to see it lights?

From this collision had there resulted any serious injuries, if not of a nature to imperil its safety, at least sufficient to require important repairs at the next stopping-place?

Cyrus Bikerstaff and Commodore Simcoe made their way not without difficulty through the thick bed of scoriae and cinders to the Prow Battery.

There the customs’ officers informed them that the shock was due to a collision. A ship of large tonnage, a steamer passing from west to east, had been rammed by the prow of Floating Island. The shock had not been serious for the island, but perhaps it had been different for the steamer. They had only sighted her at the moment of the collision. Shouts had been heard, but they had lasted only a few moments. The chief of the station and his men had run to the battery, but had seen nothing and heard nothing. Had the vessel gone down where she was? The hypothesis was unfortunately only too probable.

As to Floating Island, they had found that the collision had not caused it any serious damage. Its mass was such that even at reduced speed it would crumple in any vessel, no matter how strong she might be — even an ironclad of the first class — and sink it there and then. Something of this sort had doubtless happened.

As to the nationality of this ship, the chief of the station thought he had heard orders given in a rough voice — one of those roars peculiar to the commanders of English vessels. He could not, however, say so positively.

This was a serious matter, and might have consequences no less serious. What would the United Kingdom say? An English vessel was a part of England, and we know that Great Britain does not allow amputation with impunity. What claims and responsibilities Floating Island might expect!

Thus the New Year began. At ten o’clock in the morning Commodore Simcoe was still unable to make any observations. The air was still thick with vapours, although the freshening breeze was beginning to blow away the rain of cinders. At length the sun pierced the mists of the horizon.

In what a state were Milliard City, the park, the country, the works, the ports! What a lot of cleaning had to be done! After all, that concerned the road officers. It was merely a question of time and money, and neither was wanting.

The most urgent work was started on first. The engineers went to Prow Battery on the side of the coast where the collision had occurred. The damages were insignificant. The solid hull of steel was no more injured than the wedge driven into a piece of wood — the ship, for instance.

On the sea there was no wreckage. From the observatory tower the most powerful glasses could see nothing, although Floating Island had not moved two miles since the collision.

It was only right to prolong the investigations in the name of humanity.

The governor conferred with Commodore Simcoe. Orders were given to the engineers to stop the engines, and to the electric launches of both ports to proceed to sea.

The search, which extended over a range of five or six miles, yielded no result. It seemed only too true that the vessel, rammed below the water line, had sunk without leaving a trace of her disappearance.

Commodore Simcoe then resumed his ordinary speed.

At noon the observation indicated that Floating Island was a hundred and fifty miles south-west of Samoa.

Meanwhile, the look-outs were instructed to watch with extreme care.

About five o’clock in the evening they reported thick smoke in the south-west.

Was this smoke due to the final eruptions of the volcano which had so greatly troubled these regions? This wa3 hardly likely as the charts showed neither an island nor an islet in the vicinity. Had a new crater arisen from the sea?

No, and it was manifest that the smoke was approaching Floating Island.

An hour afterwards three vessels came in sight together, approaching rapidly.

Half an hour later they were recognized as ships of war. It was the division of the British squadron which, five weeks before, had passed Floating Island.

At nightfall the ships were within four miles of Prow Battery. Were they going to pass in the offing and continue their course? It was not probable, as from their lights they seemed to be remaining stationary.

“These vessels evidently intend to communicate with us,” said the commodore to the governor.

“Wait and see,” replied Cyrus Bikerstaff.

But in what way would the governor reply to the commander of the division if he had come to make a claim with regard to the recent collision? It was possible, in fact, that such was his intention; perhaps the crew had been picked up, perhaps they had been saved in their boats. It would be time to act when they knew what was the matter.

They knew in the morning very early.

At sunrise, the flag of the rear-admiral floated from the mizen of the leading cruiser, which slowly approached within two miles of Larboard Harbour. A boat was launched, and came towards the port.

A quarter of an hour afterwards Commodore Simcoe received the message, —

“Captain Turner, of Her Britannic Majesty’s cruiser Herald, desires to be conducted at once to the governor of Floating Island.”

Cyrus Bikerstaff, being informed of this, authorized the officer of the port to allow the landing to take place, and replied that he would await Captain Turner at the town Ten minutes afterwards a car placed at the disposal of the chief of the staff, who was accompanied by a lieutenant, deposited these two personages before the municipal palace.

The governor immediately received them in the room adjoining his office.

The usual salutations were exchanged — very stiffly on both sides.

Then carefully punctuating his words, as if he were reciting some quotations from current literature, Captain Turner expressed himself thus in one long interminable sentence, —

“I have the honour to acquaint his Excellency the Governor of Floating Island, at this moment in a hundred and seventy-seven degrees thirteen minutes east of the meridian of Greenwich, and in sixteen degrees fifty-four minutes south latitude, that during the night of the 31st of December and the ist of January, the steamer Glen, of Glasgow, of three thousand five hundred tons, laden with wheat, indigo, rice, and wine, a cargo of considerable value, was run into by Floating Island, belonging to the Floating Island Company, Limited, whose offices are at Madeleine Bay, Lower California, United States of America, although the steamer was showing the regulation lights, a white at the foremast, green at the starboard side, and red at the port side, and that having got clear after the collision she was met with next morning thirty-five miles from the scene of the disaster, ready to sink on account of a gap in her port side, and that she did sink after fortunately putting her captain, his officers and crew on board the Herald, Her Britannic Majesty’s cruiser of the first-class under the flag of Rear-Admiral Sir Edward Collinson, who reports the fact to his Excellency Governor Cyrus Bikerstaff, requesting him to acknowledge the responsibility of the Floating Island Company, Limited, under the guarantee of the inhabitants of the said Floating Island, in favour of the owners of the said Glen} the value of which in hull, engines, and cargo amounts to the sum of twelve hundred thousand pounds sterling, that is six millions of dollars, which sum should be paid into the hands of the said Admiral Sir Edward Collinson, or in default he will forcibly proceed against the said Floating Island.”

One long sentence of about three hundred words, cut up with commas, but without a single full-stop. But it said all and left no way of escape. Yes or no, would the governor decide to admit the claim made by Sir Edward Collinson, and accept the statement as to the responsibility of the Company and the estimated value of twelve hundred thousand pounds attributed to the steamer Glen, of Glasgow?

Cyrus Bikerstaff replied by the usual arguments in cases of collision.

The weather was very obscure on account of a volcanic eruption which had happened in the westward. If the Glen had her lights going, so had Floating Island. Neither of them could see each other. The matter was beyond the control of either party; and according to the usual practice in such matters, each had to bear his own losses, and there was no question of claim or responsibility.

Captain Turner’s reply, —

“His Excellency would doubtless be right in the case of two vessels navigating under ordinary conditions. If the Glen fulfilled these conditions, it was manifest that Floating Island did not; it could not be considered a ship; it constituted a constant danger in moving its enormous mass across the maritime routes; it was like an island, an islet, a reef which shifted its position in such a way that it could not be placed on the chart. England had always protested against this obstacle to which it was impossible to give a definite position hydrographically, and Floating Island would always be responsible for accidents of this nature, &c. &c.”

It was evident that Captain Turner’s arguments were not devoid of a certain logic. In his heart Cyrus Bikerstaff felt that they were just. But he could not himself give a decision. The matter would be brought before those who had the right to do so, and all he could do was to acknowledge the receipt of Sir Edward Collinson’s claim. Fortunately there had been no loss of life.

“Very fortunately,” replied Captain Turner, “but there has been the loss of the ship, and thousands have been swallowed up in the damage done by Floating Island. Will the Governor consent to hand over to Admiral Sir Edward Collinson the estimated value of the Glen and her cargo?”

How could the governor consent to this payment? After all, Floating Island offered a sufficient guarantee. It was there to answer for any damage, if the tribunals decided that it was responsible, after investigating the causes of the accident and the value of the loss.

“That is your Excellency’s last word?” asked Captain Turner.

“That is my last word,” said Cyrus Bikerstaff, “for I am not in a position to admit the Company’s responsibility.”

Further salutes, stiffer than ever, exchanged between the governor and the English captain. Departure of the latter by the car which took him to Larboard Harbour, and return to the Herald by the steam launch.

When Cyrus Bikerstaff’s reply was made known to the council of notables, it received their full and entire approbation, as it did that of the whole population of Floating Island.

That being settled, Commodore Simcoe gave orders for Floating Island to resume its voyage at full speed.

But if Admiral Collinson persisted, would it be possible to evade his pursuit? Were not his vessels of much superior speed? And if he enforced his claim with a few melinite shells, would it be possible to resist it? Doubtless the batteries of the island were capable of replying to the Armstrongs with which the cruisers of the division were armed. But the field offered to the English fire was infinitely greater. What would become of the women and children under the impossibility of finding shelter? Every shot would tell, while the batteries of the Prow and Stern would lose about fifty per cent, of her projectiles in aiming at a small and moving target.

It was therefore necessary to wait and see what Admiral Sir Edward Collinson would do.

They had not to wait long.

At nine forty-five a blank cartridge was fired from the central turret of the Herald, at the same time as the flag of the United Kingdom ran up to the mast-head.

Under the presidency of the governor and his assistants the council of notables was in session at the town hall. This time Jem Tankerdon and Nat Coverley were of the same opinion. These Americans, being practical men, did not think of attempting a resistance which might endanger the safety of everybody and everything on Floating Island.

A second gun was fired. This time a shell whistled over, aimed in such a way as to fall half a cable’s length off in the sea, where it exploded with formidable violence, throwing up enormous masses of water.

By the governor’s orders Commodore Simcoe hauled down the flag which had been hoisted in reply to that of the Herald. Captain Turner returned to Larboard Harbour. There he received securities signed by Cyrus Bikerstaff, and endorsed by the chief notables, for the sum of twelve hundred thousand pounds.

Three hours later the smoke of the squadron disappeared in the west, and Floating Island continued its course towards the Tonga archipelago.

CHAPTER V.

“AND then,” said Yvernes, “we shall put in at the principal islands of Tonga-Tabou.”

“Yes, my dear fellow,” replied Calistus Munbar, “you will have time to make acquaintance with this archipelago, which you can call the archipelago of Hapai, and even the Friendly Islands, as they were called by Captain Cook in acknowledgment of the good welcome he received.”

“And we shall probably be better treated than we were at Cook’s Islands,” said Pinchinat.

“That is probable.”

“Shall we visit all the islands of this group?” inquired Frascolin.

“Certainly not, considering that there are about a hundred and fifty of them.”

“And afterwards?” asked Yvernes.

“Afterwards, we shall go to the Fijis, then to the New Hebrides, then as soon as we have landed those Malays we shall return to Madeleine Kay, where our campaign will end.”

“Will Floating Island stop at many places in the Tonga Islands?”

“At Vavao and at Tonga-Tabou only,” replied the superintendent, “and it is not there that you will find the real savages of your dreams, my dear Pinchinat.”

Evidently there are none in the West Pacific,” replied his Highness.

“Pardon me, there are a respectable number in the New Hebrides and Solomon Islands. But at Tonga the sub jects of George the First are almost civilized, and I may add the ladies are charming. I would not, however, advise you to marry one of these delightful Tongans.”

“For what reason?”

“Because marriages between foreigners and natives are not usually happy. There is generally incompatibility of temper.”

“Good!” exclaimed Pinchinat, “and yet this old fiddler Zorn was thinking of getting married at Tonga-Tabou!”

“I!” retorted the violoncellist, shrugging his shoulders. “Neither at Tonga-Tabou nor elsewhere, understand, you clumsy joker.”

“Evidently our conductor is a wise man,” replied Pinchinat. “You see, my dear Calistus — and even allow me to call you Eucalistus, so much do you inspire me with sympathy — “

“I have no objection, Pinchinat.”

“Well, my dear Eucalistus, a man does not scrape the strings of a violoncello for forty years without becoming a philosopher, and philosophy teaches that the only way of being happy in marriage is not to get married.”

In the morning of the 6th of January the heights of Vavao appeared on the horizon, the most important island of the northern group. This group is very different, owing to its volcanic formation, from the two others, Hapai and Tonga-Tabou. The three lay between seventeen and twenty-two degrees south latitude and a hundred and seventy-six and a hundred and seventy-eight degrees west latitude. They have an area of two thousand four hundred square kilometres distributed over a hundred and fifty islands, peopled by sixty thousand inhabitants. < The ships of Tasman were there in 1643, and Cook’s ships in 1773, during his second voyage of discovery in the Pacific. After the overthrow of the dynasty of Finare-Finare, and the foundation of a Federal State in 1797, a civil war decimated the population of the archipelago.

Navigation is difficult enough amid this maze of islands and islets planted with cocoanut trees which it is necessary to follow to reach Nu-Ofa, the capital of the Vavao group. Vavao is volcanic, and being such is subject to earthquakes. This is taken into account in building the houses, not one of which has a nail in it. Wattled rushes form the walls with laths of cocoanut wood, and on piles or trunks of trees an oval roof is laid. The whole is very fresh and neat. This more particularly attracted the notice of our artistes posted at Prow Battery, while Floating Island passed along the channels bordered with Kanaka villages. Here and there a few European houses displayed the flags of Germany or England.

But if this part of the archipelago is volcanic, it was not to one of its volcanoes that could be attributed the formidable eruption of scoriae and cinders that had been spread over these regions. The Tongans had not even been plunged into darkness, the western breezes having driven the clouds of eruptive matter towards the opposite horizon. Probably the crater from which they came belonged to some isolated island in the east, unless it was a volcano of recent formation between Samoa and Tonga.

The stay at Vavao lasted but a week. This island was worth visiting, although a few years before it had been ravaged by a terrible cyclone, which had thrown down the little church of the French Maristes and destroyed a quantity of native dwellings. Nevertheless the country remained very attractive with its numerous villages, enclosed by belts of orange trees, its fertile plains, its fields of sugarcane and yams, its clumps of banana trees, mulberry trees, bread-fruit trees, and sandalwood trees. The only domestic animals were pigs and poultry. The only birds were thousands of pigeons and noisy parrots of brilliant colours. For reptiles there were only a few harmless serpents and lovely green lizards, which could be mistaken for leaves fallen from the trees.

The superintendent had not exaggerated the beauty of the native type — which is common to the Malay race of the different archipelagoes of the central Pacific. Superb men of tall stature, rather stout, perhaps, but of admirable build and noble attitude, and a colour as of copper shaded with olive. The women graceful and well proportioned, hands and feet of a delicacy of form and a smallness that must move to envy the Germans and English of the European colony. The women are employed only in the making of mats, baskets, and fabrics like those of Tahiti, and their fingers are not deformed by such manual labour. And then it is easy to judge of the perfection of Tongan beauty. Neither the abominable trousers nor the trained skirt had been adopted in the native fashions. Mere cotton drawers or a belt for the men, the caraco and short petticoat with ornaments in fine dried bark for the women, who are at once distant and coquettish. In both sexes the headdress is elaborate, the girls raising their hair over their foreheads and piling it up on a trellis of cocoanut fibre in the shape of a comb.

But there was nothing in all this to make Sebastien Zorn recall his resolution. He would not marry either at Vavao or at Tonga-Tabou or anywhere else in this sublunary world.

It was always a great satisfaction for his comrades and himself to land on these archipelagoes. They were pleased enough with Floating Island, but to set foot on firm ground was none the less pleasing to them. Real mountains, real country, real water-courses were a change from imitation streams and artificial shores. It required a Calistus Munbar to assign to his Pearl of the Pacific a superiority over the works of nature.

Although Vavao is not the usual residence of King George, he possesses at Nu-ofa a palace, let us say a pretty cottage, at which he frequently lives. But on this island of Tonga-Tabou are found the royal palace and the establishments of the English residents.

Floating Island was to make its last stoppage there almost at the limit of the Tropic of Capricorn, the extreme point it would reach in the course of its voyage across the southern hemisphere.

After leaving Vavao, the voyage of the Milliardites for two days was one of considerable variety. One island was not lost sight of until another rose to view; all of them presenting the same volcanic character due to the action of plutonian force. It was with this northern group as with the central group of Hapai. The hydrographie charts of these regions are extremely accurate, and allowed Commodore Simcoe to venture without danger amid the channels of the labyrinth between Hapai and Tonga-Tabou. Besides there was no paucity of pilots if he had wanted their services. A number of vessels were moving among the islands — for the most part schooners under the German flag employed in the coasting trade, while the larger merchant vessels take away the cotton and coprah and coffee and maize, the principal productions of the archipelago. Not only would pilots have hastened to come if Ethel Simcoe had asked them, but also the crews of their double canoes, united by a platform and able to carry two hundred men. Yes! Hundreds of natives would have come at the first signal, and what a harvest they would have had if the pilotage dues were calculated on the tonnage of Floating Island. Two hundred and fifty-nine million tons! But Commodore Simcoe, to whom all these figures were familiar, had no want of their good offices. He had confidence in himself, and trusted to the merit of the officers who executed his orders with absolute precision.

Tonga-Tabou was sighted on the morning of the 9th of January, when Floating Island was but three or four miles away from it. Very low, its foundation not being due to geologic effort, it has not been thrust up from below like so many other islands that seem to have remained motionless after coming to the surface of the sea to breathe. It has been gradually built by infusorians, who have raised tier upon tier of coral, and what labour! A hundred kilometres in circumference, an area of from seven to eight hundred superficial kilometres on which live twenty thousand inhabitants.

Commodore Simcoe stopped off the port of Maofuga.

Communications were immediately opened between the sedentary island and the movable island, a sister of the Latona of mythologic memory. What a difference there was between this archipelago and the Marquesas, Pau-motu, and the Society Islands! English influence is here predominant, and King George the First was in no hurry to offer a cordial welcome to these Milliardites of American origin.

However, at Maofuga the quartette discovered a small French centre. There resides the Bishop of Oceania, who was then making a pastoral tour among the different groups. There are the Catholic mission, the house of the sisters, the schools for the boys and girls. Needless to say, the Parisians were received with cordiality by their compatriots. As to their excursions, there were only two places of importance for them to go to, Nakualofa, the capital, and the village of Mua, where four hundred inhabitants profess the Catholic religion.

When Tasman discovered Tonga-Tabou he gave it the name of Amsterdam — a name hardly justified by its houses of pandanus leaves at d cocoanut fibres. It is true that European habitations are not wanting; but the native name is more appropriate for this island.

The port of Maofuga is situated on the northern coast. If Floating Island had taken up its position a few miles more to the west of Nakualofa, its royal gardens and its royal palace would have been in sight of it. If, on the contrary, Commodore Simcoe had gone more to the east, he would have found a bay cut deeply into the coast, the head of which is occupied by the village of Mua. He did not do this because the island would have run the risk of being wrecked among the hundreds of islets, the channels between which only give passage to vessels of moderate tonnage. Floating Island had therefore to remain off Maofuga during the whole of the stay.

Though a certain number of Milliardites landed, there were not many who thought of exploring the interior of the island. It is charming nevertheless, and deserves the praises which Elisee Reclus has showered upon it. Doubtless the heat is very great, the atmosphere stormy, the rains of extreme violence and calculated to calm the ardour of an excursionist, and a man must be touched with the tourist’s mania who would venture into the country. Nevertheless this is what Frascolin, Pinchinat, and Yvernes did, for it was impossible to persuade the violoncellist to leave his comfortable room in the casino before the evening, when the sea-breeze refreshed the beach of Maofuga. Even the superintendent begged to be excused for being unable to accompany the enthusiasts.

“I should melt on the road,” he told them.

“Well, we could carry you along in a bottle!” replied his Highness.

This engaging prospect did not persuade Calistus Mun-bar, who preferred to retain his solid state.

Very fortunately for the Milliardites, the sun had been moving northward for three weeks, and Floating Island could keep it at a distance, so as to maintain a normal temperature.

Next morning the three friends left Maofuga at daybreak, and started for the capital of the island. Certainly it was warm; but the warmth was bearable under cover of the cocoanut trees, the leki-lekis, the toui-touis, which are the candle trees, the cocas, whose red and black berries formed bunches of dazzling gems.

It was nearly noon when the capital showed itself in full bloom — an expression which is not inappropriate at this season of the year. The king’s palace seemed to rise from a gigantic bouquet of verdure. There was a striking contrast between the native huts covered with flowers and the houses of English aspect which belonged to the Protestant missionaries. The influence of these Wesleyan ministers has been considerable, and after massacring a certain number of them the Tongans have adopted their creed. Observe, however, that they have not entirely renounced the practices of their Kanaka mythology; with them the high priest is superior to the king. In the teachings of their curious cosmogony good and evil geniuses play an important part. Christianity will not easily uproot the taboo which is always held in honour, and when it has been decided to break it, it cannot be done without expiatory sacrifices in which human life is sometimes sacrificed.

It should be mentioned that according to the accounts of explorers — particularly that of Aylie Marin in his travels in 1882 — Nakualofa is still but half-civilized.

Frascolin, Pinchinat, and Yvernes had no desire to pay their respects at the feet of King George. This is not to be understood in a metaphoric sense, as the custom is to kiss the sovereign’s feet. And our Parisians congratulated themselves when, in the square of Nakualofa, they noticed the “tui” whom they call his Majesty, clothed in a sort of white shirt, with a little skirt of native stuff tied round his waist. This kissing of the feet would certainly have been among the most disagreeable remembrances of the voyage.

“You can see,” said Pinchinat, “that water-courses are not very abundant in this country.”

At Tonga-Tabou, at Vavao, as in the other islands of the archipelago, the maps show neither stream nor lagoon. The rain-water is collected in cisterns, and that is all the natives have, the subjects of George I. being as careful with it as their sovereign.

During the day the three tourists, greatly fatigued, returned to the port of Maofuga, and regained their rooms in the casino with great satisfaction. To the incredulous Sebastien Zorn they affirmed that their excursion had been most interesting. But the poetic inducements of Yvernes could not prevail on the violoncellist to start next morning for the village of Mua.

The journey promised to be long and very fatiguing. They might have easily spared themselves this fatigue by using one of the electric launches that Cyrus Bikerstaff offered to put at their disposal. But to explore the interior of this curious country was a consideration of some value, and the tourists started on foot for Mua Bay along the coral shore which bordered the islets, where there seemed to have collected all the cocoanut trees in Oceania.

Their arrival at Mua could not take place before the afternoon. There was a place evidently pointed out for the Frenchmen to stay at. This was the residence of the Catholic missionaries. In welcoming his guests the Superior’s delight was most affecting — the welcome recalled the way in which they had been received by the Maristes of Samoa. What an excellent evening! What interesting conversation, in which France was more talked of than the Tongan colony! These good men could not think without regret of their native land so far away.

It was with a certain pride that the Superior showed, to the admiration of his visitors, the establishments of the Mission — the house which was built for nothing by the natives of Mua, and the beautiful church due to the Tongan architects, of which their brethren in France would not be ashamed.

During the evening they took a walk in the environs of the village and visited the ancient tombs of Tui-Tonga, where schist and coral are intermingled with primitive and charming art. They even visited that old plantation of meas, banyans or monstrous fig-trees, with their roots interlaced like serpents, the circumference of which, in places, exceeds sixty metres. Frascolin measured them, and having entered the figures in his note-book, had them certified as correct by the Superior. After that, there could be no doubt as to the existence of such a vegetable phenomenon.

A good supper was followed by a good night in the best rooms of the mission. After that was a good breakfast and hearty farewells from the missionaries, and the return to Floating Island as five o’clock was striking from the belfry of the town hall. This time the three excursionists had not to have recourse to metaphorical amplification to assure Sebastien Zorn that their journey had left them with pleasant memories.

Next day Cyrus Bikerstaff received a visit from Captain Sarol under the following circumstances.

A certain number of Malays — about a hundred — had been recruited at the New Hebrides and taken to Tonga-Tabou to work in the clearings — an indispensable importation considering the indifference, or rather idleness, of the Tongans, who live from day to day. These clearings had been finished a short time before, and the Malays were awaiting an opportunity of returning to their country. Would the Governor allow them to take passage on Floating Island? It was this permission which Captain Sarol had come to ask. In five or six weeks they would arrive at Erromango, and the carriage of these natives would not be much expense.

It would not have been generous to refuse these men a service so easy to render; and so the Governor gave his permission, for which he was thanked by Captain Sarol, and also by the Maristes of Tonga-Tabou, for whom these Malays had been imported.

Who could doubt that Captain Sarol had in this way increased the number of his accomplices? that these New Hebrideans would come to his assistance when he had need of them, and that he could only congratulate himself at having met with them at Tonga-Tabou and introduced them on to Floating Island?

This was the last day the Milliardites were to spend in the archipelago, the departure being fixed for the morning.

During the afternoon they were able to be present at one of those half-civil, half-religious festivals in which the natives take part with extraordinary enthusiasm.

The programme of these festivals, to which the Tongans are as partial as their congeners in Samoa and the Marquesas, comprises several dances. As these were of a kind to interest our Parisians, they went ashore about three o’clock.

The superintendent accompanied them, and this time Athanase Doremus expressed a wish to join them. The presence of a professor of dancing and deportment was surely appropriate at a ceremony of this kind? Sebastien Zorn decided to follow his comrades, more desirous, doubtless of hearing the Tongan music than of looking at the choregraphic eccentricities of the population.

When they arrived on the spot, the festival was in full swing. The Kava liquor extracted from the dried root of the pepper plant was circulating in gourds and flowing down the throats of a hundred dancers, men and women, young men and girls, the girls having coquettishly decorated their long hair, which they had to wear in that fashion until their wedding-day.

The orchestra was of the simplest. For instruments, the nasal flute known as the fanghu-fanghu, more than a dozen nafas, as the drums are called, on which they thump vigorously, “and even in time,” as Pinchinat remarked.

Evidently the highly superior Athanase Doremus felt the most perfect contempt for the dances, which did not enter into the category of quadrilles, polkas, mazurkas, and waltzes of the French school. And he did not fail to shrug his shoulders in protest against Yvernes, to whom these dances appeared to be marked with real originality.

First there were seated dances, composed of attitudes, pantomimic gestures, balancings of the body, to a rhythm slow and sad and of strange effect.

To these succeeded standing dances, in which the Tongans abandoned themselves to all the impetuosity of their temperament, representing in pantomime the fury of warriors on the war-path. The quartette looked at this spectacle from an artistic point of view, and wondered what the natives would have done if they had been excited by the fascinating music of a Parisian ball-room.

And then Pinchinat — the idea was characteristic — Proposed to his comrades to send for their instruments trom the casino, and treat these dancers to the wildest six-eights and most formidable two-fours of Lecoq, Audran, and Offenbach.

The proposal was agreed to, and Calistus Munbar had no doubt that the effect would be prodigious.

Half an hour afterwards the instruments had been brought, and the players began.

Immense surprise of the natives, and also immense delight at listening to this violoncello and these three violins, going at their loudest, and giving off music that was ultra-French.

The natives remained not unaffected, and it was clearly proved that their characteristic dances are instinctive, that they learn without masters — whatever Athanase Doremus might think. The men and women strove to outdo each other in leaping and swaying when Sebastien Zorn, Yvernes, Frascolin, and Pinchinat attacked the furious rhythms of Orphee aux Enfers. The superintendent could not contain himself, and took part in a wild quadrille, while the professor of dancing and deportment veiled his face before such horrors. At the height of this cacophony, in which mingled the nasal flutes and the sonorous drums, the fury of the dancers attained its maximum of intensity, and we know not where it would have stopped, if something had not happened to put an end to this infernal choregraphy.

A Tongan — tall and very strong — wonder-struck at the notes which the violoncellist drew from his instrument, hurled himself on the violoncello, seized it, and rushed away with it, shouting, “Taboo! taboo!”

The violoncello was tabooed! It could not be touched again without sacrilege! The high priest, King George, the dignitaries of his court, the whole population of the island would rise, if this sacred custom were violated.

Sebastien Zorn did not care about this. He had no idea of parting with this masterpiece of Gand and Benardel. Off he went after the thief. In a moment his comrades were following in pursuit. There was a general stampede But the Tongan sprang along with such speed that they had to give up their attempt to catch him. In a few minutes he was far away, very far away.

Sebastien Zorn and the others, unable to do more, returned to find Calistus Munbar, out of breath. To say that the violoncellist was in a state of indescribable fury would be insufficient. He foamed, he choked! Tabooed or not, they would have to give him back his instrument. Even if Floating Island had to declare war against Tonga-Tabou — and had not war broken out for less serious motives? — the violoncello must be restored to its owner.

Fortunately, the authorities of the island had intervened in the matter. An hour later they had caught the native, and obliged him to bring back the instrument. The restitution was not effected without trouble, and a crisis was only just avoided in which the ultimatum of Cyrus Bikerstaff might, on this question of taboo, have perhaps raised the religious passions of the whole archipelago.

But the breaking of the taboo had to take place in regular form, according to the usual ceremonies. As was customary, a considerable number of pigs had their throats cut, and were cooked in a hole filled with hot stones, and there were sweet potatoes, taros, and macore fruits, which were also afterwards eaten, to the extreme satisfaction of the Tongan stomachs.

The violoncello had its strings let down in the fray, and Sebastien Zorn had to tune it up again, after ascertaining that it had lost none of its qualities by reason of the incantations of the natives.

CHAPTER VI.

IN leaving Tonga-Tabou, Floating Island steered northwest towards the Fiji archipelago, moving away from the tropic in the track of the sun, which was mounting towards the Equator. There was no need for haste. Two hundred leagues only separated it from the Fijian group, and Commodore Simcoe took it along at moderate speed.

The breeze was variable, but what mattered the breeze to this powerful concern? If, now and then, violent storms broke on this twenty-third parallel, the Pearl of the Pacific did not even dream of being anxious. The electricity which saturated the atmosphere was drawn off by the numerous conductors with which its buildings were provided. As to the rain, even in the torrents that the storm-clouds poured down, it was welcome. The park and the country grew verdant under it, rare as it was. Life passed under the most fortunate conditions, amid festivals, concerts, receptions. At this time, friendly communications between the sections were frequent, and it seemed as though nothing would threaten their safety in the future.

Cyrus Bikerstaff had no reason to repent of having given a passage to the New Hebrideans embarked at Captain Sarol’s request. These natives endeavoured to make themselves useful. They set to work in the fields, as they had done at Tonga. Sarol and his Malays hardly left them during the day, and at night they returned to the two ports in which the municipality had given them quarters. No complaint was made against them. Perhaps opportunity offered for converting them. Up to then they had not adopted Christianity, like a large number of the New Hebrides population, despite the efforts of the Anglican and Catholic missionaries. The clergy of Floating Island had considered this, but the Governor would allow no attempt of such a nature.

These New Hebrideans are between twenty and forty years of age. Darker in hue than the Malays, although they are not so well built as the natives of Tonga or Samoa, they were apparently endowed with more endurance. The little money that they had earned in the service of the Maristes of Tonga-Tabou, they kept with great care, and did not attempt to spend in alcoholic drinks, which would not readily have been sold to them. Being free of all expense, they had probably never been so happy in their savage archipelago.

Thanks to Captain Sarol, these natives would unite with their compatriots, and connive at the work of destruction, the hour of which was approaching. Then all their native ferocity would appear. Were they not the descendants of the murderers who have so formidable a reputation among the people of this part of the Pacific?

Meanwhile, the Milliardites lived in the thought that nothing could compromise an existence which had been so logically provided for and so wisely organized. The quartette continued their successful career. People were never tired of hearing them or applauding them. The works of Mozart, Beethoven, Haydn, Mendelssohn, were run through completely.

Besides the regular concerts at the casino, Mrs. Coverley gave musical evenings, which were largely attended. The king and queen of Malecarlie many times honoured them with their presence. If the Tankerdons had not yet visited the mansion in the Fifteenth Avenue, at least alter had become assiduous in his attendance at the concerts. It was certain that his marriage with Miss Coverley would come off some day or other. It was talked about openly in the Starboardite and Larboardite drawing-rooms. Even the witnesses to the inevitable marriage were named. The only thing wanting was the announcement from the heads of the families. Would anything happen that would oblige Jem Tankerdon and Nat Coverley to make it?

This circumstance, so impatiently expected, was soon about to take place. But at the cost of what danger and how greatly the safety of Floating Island was menaced!

In the afternoon of the 16th of January, at about halfway between Tonga and Fiji,, a ship was signalled in the south-east. It seemed to be heading for Starboard Harbour, and was apparently a steamer of some eight hundred tons. No flag floated from its peak, and none was hoisted when it was within a mile of the island.

The ship did not attempt to enter one of the harbours, but apparently was passing, and doubtless would soon be out of sight.

The night came, very dark and moonless. The sky was covered with lofty fleecy clouds, which absorbed all the light and reflected none. There was no wind. The calm was absolute in sea and sky. The silence was profound amid the thick darkness.

About eleven o’clock came an atmospheric change. The weather became very stormy. The air was rent by lightning until midnight, and the growls of the thunder continued, without a drop of rain falling.

Perhaps these rumblings, due to some distant storm, prevented the Customs’ officers on duty about the Stern Battery from hearing strange hissings and curious roarings, which troubled this part of the coast. These were not the hiss of the lightning or the rumbling oi the thunder. The phenomenon, whatever it was, did not occur until between two and three o’clock in the morning.

Next day a new cause of uneasiness spread in the outer quarters of the town. The men engaged in watching the flocks pasturing in the country were seized with a sudden panic and dispersed in all directions, some towards the Sorts and some towards the gate of Milliard City.

A serious fact was that fifty sheep had been half devoured during the night, and their remains were found in the vicinity of Stern Battery. A few dozen cows, hinds, bucks, in the enclosures of the park, and some twenty horses had met with the same fate.

No doubt these animals had been attacked by wild beasts. What wild beasts? Lions, tigers, leopards, hyenas? Was that improbable? Had any of these formidable carnivores ever appeared on Floating Island? Could it be possible for these animals to arrive by sea? Was the Pearl of the Pacific in the neighbourhood of the Indies, of Africa, of Malaysia, the former of which comprises these varieties of ferocious animals?

No! Floating Island was not near the mouth of the Amazon, or the mouth of the Nile, and yet, about seven o’clock in the morning two women ran into the square of the town hall who had been pursued by an enormous alligator, which had regained the banks of the Serpentine River and disappeared in the water. At the same time the agitation of the plants along the banks indicated that other saurians were struggling there at that very moment.

The effect of this incredible news can be judged. An hour afterwards the look-outs noticed several tigers, lions, and leopards bounding across the country. Several sheep running towards Prow Battery were attacked by two immense tigers. The domestic animals began to run about in all directions, terrified at the roar of the wild beasts. And so did the men whose occupations called them out into the fields in the morning. The first tram for Larboard Harbour had barely time to run into the siding. Three lions had pursued it, and in a hundred yards more would have reached it.

There was no doubt that during the night Floating land had been invaded by a band of ferocious animals, and so would Milliard City if precautions were not immediately taken.

It was Athanase Doremus who brought our artistes the news. The professor of dancing and deportment had gone out earlier than usual, and had not dared to return to his house. He had taken refuge in the casino, from which no human power could remove him.

“Come, now!” said Pinchinat. “Your lions and tigers and alligators are imaginary.”

But he had to yield to the evidence. The municipality had given orders to shut the town gates and bar the entrance to the ports and the custom-house stations along the coast. At the same time the service of trams was suspended, and people were prohibited from venturing into the park or the country until the dangers of this inexplicable invasion had been removed.

Then at the moment the gates were being closed at the extremity of the First Avenue near the square of the observatory, a couple of tigers had bounded from fifty yards beyond with eyes aflame and mouths open. A few seconds more and these ferocious animals would have been through the gate.

At the side of the town hall the same precaution had been taken, and Milliard City had nothing to fear from an attack.

What an incident, what a subject for copy, what varied reports in the Starboard Chronicle, the New Herald and other journals of Floating Island!

Terror was at its height. Mansions and houses were barricaded. The shops closed their shutters. Not a door remained open. At the windows of the upper storeys affrighted faces appeared. The only people in the streets were the detachments of militia under the orders of Colonel Stewart and the police under the command of their officers.

Cyrus Bikerstaff and his assistants, Barthelemy Ruge and Hubley Harcourt, who had met at the earliest moment, remained on duty at the town hall. By the telegraph from the two ports, the batteries and the posts along the shore, the municipality received the most disquieting news. There were wild beasts almost everywhere, hundreds at least, said the telegrams, to which haps fear had added a cipher too many. It was undoubtedly the case that a number of lions, tigers, oanthers, and caymans were at large in the island.

What, then, had happened? Had a menagerie broken out of its cages and taken refuge on Floating Island? But whence had this menagerie come? What ship had brought it? Was it the steamer that had been seen the evening before? If so, where had this steamer come from? Had she communicated with the shore during the night? Had the animals swum ashore and landed on the low part of the coast near the mouth of Serpentine River? Had the ship sunk immediately afterwards? And yet, as far as the look-outs could see, as far as Commodore Simcoe’s glasses could carry, there was not a fragment of wreckage on the surface of the sea, and Floating Island had hardly moved during the night! Besides, if this ship had foundered, why had not the crew taken refuge on the island as the carnivores had done?

The telephone from the town hall questioned the different posts on this subject, and the posts replied that there had been neither collision nor shipwreck. There could be no mistake in this matter, although the darkness had been profound. Evidently, of all the hypotheses this was the least likely.

“Mystery! mystery! “Yvernes continued to repeat. He and his comrades were gathered at the casino, where Athanase Doremus was sharing their early breakfast, which would be followed by their luncheon and their dinner at six o’clock.

“My word!” said Pinchinat, munching his chocolate journal, which he had soaked in the smoking basin. “I give up these dogs or wild beasts. Anyhow, let us eat Mormein, Doremus, until we are eaten.”

“Who knows?” replied Zorn. “Perhaps by lions, or tigers, or cannibals.”

“I would rather have cannibals!” replied his Highness every one to his taste, eh?”

He laughed, this indefatigable joker, but the professor of dancing and deportment did not laugh, and Milliard City, a prey to terror, had no cause for laughter.

At eight o’clock in the morning, the council of notables, convoked at the town hall, had all attended the Governor’s summons. There was nobody in the avenues nor in the streets except the squads of militia and police going to the positions assigned to them.

The council, at which Cyrus Bikerstaff presided, immediately began its deliberations.

“Gentlemen,” said the Governor, “you are acquainted with the cause of this well-justified panic which has seized on the people of Floating Island. During the night our island has been invaded by a band of carnivores and saurians. It is urgent that we proceed to the destruction of these animals, and we shall certainly do so. But the people must conform to the measures we decide upon. If traffic is still authorized in Milliard City, the gates of which are shut, it cannot be permitted in the park and in the country. Hence, until fresh orders, communications are forbidden between the town, the two ports and the batteries.”

These measures being approved, the council passed to the discussion of the means which would permit of the destruction of the formidable animals which infested Floating Island.

“Our militia and our sailors,” continued the Governor, “are organizing expeditions to the different points of the island. Those of you who are sportsmen we would like to join us, to direct their movements so as to prevent any possible catastrophe.”

“Years ago,” said Jem Tankerdon, “I had some shooting in India and in America, and it will not be my first attempt. I am ready, and my eldest son will accompany me.”

“We thank the honourable Jem Tankerdon,” replied Cyrus Bikerstaff, “and for my part I will follow his example. At the same time as Colonel Stewart’s militia, a squad of sailors will be in the field, under Commodore Simcoe’s orders, and their ranks are open to you, gentlemen.”

Nat Coverley made a similar proposition to that of Jem Tankerdon, and finally all the notables whose age allowed, offered their services. Magazine rifles of long range were not wanting at Milliard City. There was little doubt that, thanks to everyone’s devotion and courage, Floating Island would soon be cleared of this formidable band. But, as Cyrus Bikerstaff repeated, the main point was not to have to regret anyone’s death.

“These wild beasts, of which we cannot estimate the number,” he added, “must be destroyed as quickly as possible. To leave them time to acclimatize themselves, to multiply, would be to endanger the safety of our island.”

“It is not likely,” said one of the notables, “that there are many of these animals.”

“Quite so. It could only come from some ship which was carrying a menagerie,” replied the Governor, “some ship from India, from the Philippines, or the Sunda Islands, on account of some Hamburg house, which is noted for its trade in these animals. The animals may have escaped or been thrown overboard owing to their becoming unmanageable.”

The principal market for wild beasts is at Hamburg, the current prices being two thousand francs for elephants, twenty-seven thousand for giraffes, twenty-five thousand for hippopotamuses, five thousand for lions, four thousand for tigers, two thousand for jaguars — good prices, as will be seen, which have a tendency to rise, while those for snakes are going down.

A member of the council having observed that the menagerie in question might have some representatives of the ophidians, the Governor replied that no ophidians had as yet been reported. Besides if lions, tigers, and alligators had been able to swim ashore, that would not have been possible with snakes.

Cyrus Bikerstaff remarked, —

“I think we have nothing to fear from the presence of boas, coral-snakes, rattle-snakes, najas, vipers, and other examples of that kind. Nevertheless, we will do all that is necessary to reassure the people on this subject. ,, But we must not lose time, gentlemen, and before inquiring into the cause of this invasion of wild beasts, let us destroy them. They are here, and they must not remain here.”

Nothing could be more sensible, and it could not have een better put.

CHAPTER VII.

THE total destruction of the animals which had invaded Floating Island must be proceeded with. Not a single pair of these formidable beasts must escape, as the future safety of the island was in danger. This pair would multiply, and the people might just as well live in the forests of India or Africa.

And at the outset, contrary to what had been asked by certain families under their influence of terror, there was no reason why the population should take refuge on the steamers at the two ports, and escape from Floating Island. Besides, the ships were not large enough.

The Milliardites set to work without losing a moment. A few had not hesitated to propose extreme methods; amongst others that of introducing the sea on to the island, of burning down the trees in the parks so as to drown or burn all this vermin. But in any case the means would not be efficacious as regards the amphibians, and it would be better to proceed by means of well-organized shooting parties.

This is what was done.

Captain Sarol, the Malays, and the New Hebrideans had offered their services, which had been eagerly accepted by the Governor. These gallant fellows were desirous of showing their gratitude to the Governor. In reality Captain Sarol was afraid that this incident would interrupt his plans, that the Milliardites and their families would abandon Floating Island. That would oblige the management to go back direct to Madeleine Bay, and thus foil his intentions.

The quartette showed themselves equal to the circumstances and worthy of their nationality. It would not be said that four Frenchmen had not risked their lives when danger was to be incurred. They put themselves under the direction of Calistus Munbar, who, according to his account, had been in a worse plight before, and shrugged his shoulders in sign of contempt for lions, tigers, panthers, and other-inoffensive beasts I Perhaps he had been a tamer, this grandson of Barnum, or at least a manager of a travelling menagerie?

The hunt began that morning, and opened well.

During the first hour two crocodiles had the imprudence to venture out of Serpentine River, and as we know saurians, though formidable in their liquid element, are much less so on land owing to the difficulty they have in turning, Captain Sarol and his Malays attacked them with courage, and not without one receiving a wound, cleared the park.

Meanwhile twelve more were observed, which doubtless constituted the band. These were animals of large size, measuring from four to five metres, and consequently very dangerous. As they had taken refuge under the water, the sailors stood ready to send them a few of their explosive bullets, which would shatter the hardest carapaces.

On the other hand the detachments of hunters went out over the country. One of the lions was killed by Jem Tankerdon, who had reason to say that this was not his first attempt, and who recovered his coolness and skill as an old hunter in the Far West. The beast was superb — one of those worth from five to six thousand francs. A steel slug had passed through its heart at the moment it bounded on the quartette, and Pinchinat affirmed that he felt the wind of its tail as it went by!

In the afternoon, during an attack in which one of the militia was bitten in the shoulder, the Governor brought down a lioness of remarkable beauty.

The day did not end before a couple of tigers had fallen under the bullets of Commodore Simcoe, at the head of a detachment of sailors, one of whom, seriously wounded by a claw, had to be taken to Starboard Harbour. According to report, these terrible felines appeared to be the most numerous of the carnivores landed on Floating Island. At the fall of night, the wild beasts on being resolutely pursued had retired under the trees at Prow Battery, whence it was proposed to dislodge them at break of day.

From the evening to the morning frightful growls spread terror among the female and infant population of Milliard City.

At daybreak the hunt commenced as on the day before. At the Governor’s orders, conformably to the advice of Commodore Simcoe, Colonel Stewart brought up his artillery against the carnivores so as to sweep their hiding-places. Two cannons from Starboard Harbour, working on the Hotchkiss system in firing charges of bullets, were brought into the vicinity of Prow Battery.

At this place the clumps of nettle-trees were traversed by the tramway which branched towards the observatory. It was under the shelter of these trees that a certain number of the wild beasts had passed the night. A few heads of lions and tigers with gleaming eyes appeared among the lower branches. The sailors, the militia, the hunters, led by Jem and Walter Tankerdon, Nat Coverley, and Hubley Harcourt, took up their position on the left of this clump, waiting for the rush of wild beasts which the discharge from the cannon did not kill on the spot.

At Commodore Simcoe’s signal the two pieces of cannon were fired simultaneously. Formidable growls were heard in reply. There was no doubt many of the carnivores had been hit. The others (about twenty) rushed out, and Passing near the quartette, were saluted with a fusillade, which struck two mortally. At this moment an enormous ]ger jumped on to the group, and Frascolin was struck by so terrible a leap that he rolled for ten paces.

“is comrades rushed to his help. They raised him, almost unconscious. But he almost immediately recovered. He had only received a shock. Ah! what a shock!

Meanwhile the caymans were being pursued under the waters of the Serpentine River, but how could they be got rid of with certainty? Fortunately, Hubley Harcourt thought of raising the sluices of the river, and it was possible to attack the saurians under the best conditions, not without success.

The only victim to be regretted was a magnificent dog belonging to Nat Coverley. Seized by an alligator, the poor animal was cut in two by a bite. But a dozen of these saurians had succumbed under the bullets of the militia, and it was possible that Floating Island was definitely delivered from these redoubtable reptiles.

On the whole it had been a good day. Six lions, eight tigers, five jaguars, nine panthers, male and female, were among the beasts slain.

The evening came, and the quartette, including Frascolin, recovered from his shock, had just sat down at the table in the restaurant.

“I should like to believe that we are at the end of our troubles,” said Yvernes.

“Unless this steamer, like a second Noah’s Ark, contained all the animals in creation,” said Pinchinat.

This was not probable, and Athanase Doremus felt himself sufficiently reassured to return to his house in the Twenty-fifth Avenue. There in the barricaded house he found his old servant in despair at the thought that nothing was left of her old master but a few shapeless fragments.

This night was tranquil enough. Only a few distant roars had been heard on the Larboard Harbour side. It was to be hoped that next day, by proceeding to a general hunt across the country, the destruction of these wild beasts would be complete.

The group of hunters met in the early morning. During the twenty-four hours, it need scarcely be said that Floating Island had remained stationary, all the machinery staff being engaged with the rest.

The squads, each comprising twenty men with magazine rifles, had orders to advance through the island. Colonel Stewart did not consider it advisable to use cannon against the wild beasts, now they had dispersed. Thirteen tracked to the vicinity of Stern Battery fell to his gun. But he had to rescue, not without difficulty, two customs officers from the neighbouring post, who had been knocked down by a tiger and a panther, and had received serious wounds.

This last attack brought up to fifty-three the number of animals killed since the beginning of the day before.

It was four o’clock in the morning. Cyrus Bikerstaff and Commodore Simcoe, Jem Tankerdon and his son, Nat Coverley and the two assistants, escorted by a detachment of militia, were proceeding towards the town hall, where the council were awaiting the reports from the two ports and the two batteries.

At their approach, when they were within a hundred yards of the hall, loud shouts arose. A number of people, women and children, seized with a sudden panic, were running along First Avenue.

Immediately the Governor, Commodore Simcoe, and their companions rushed towards the square, the gate of which ought to have been shut. But by some inexplicable negligence this gate was open, and there could be no doubt that one of the wild beasts — the last perhaps — had entered by it.

Nat Coverley and Walter Tankerdon were the first to run into the square.

Suddenly, while be was within three yards of Nat Coverley, Walter Tankerdon was knocked down by an enormous tiger.

Nat Coverley, having no time to slip a cartridge into his gun, drew the hunting knife at his belt, and jumped to the rescue of Walter at the moment the animal’s claws strusk the young man’s shoulder.

Walter was saved, but the tiger turned and attacked Nat Coverley.

He stabbed the animal with his knife without reaching the heart, and fell under.

The tiger recoiled, his throat roaring, his jaws open, his tongue bleeding —

There was the report of a gun.

It was Jem Tankerdon who had fired.

There was a second report It was the bullet which had exploded in the tiger’s body.

They raised Walter, his shoulder wounded.

As to Nat Coverley, if he was not hurt, he had at least been close to death.

He rose, and advancing towards Jem Tankerdon, said in a solemn voice: “You have saved me — thanks!”

“You have saved my son — thanks!” replied Jem Tankerdon.

And they shook hands in token of a reconciliation which might end in a sincere friendship.

Walter was immediately taken to the mansion in Nineteenth Avenue, where his family had taken refuge; while Nat Coverley regained his house on the arm of Cyrus Bikerstaff.

We need not be astonished if next morning Mrs. Tankerdon visited Mrs. Coverley to express her thanks for the service rendered to Walter, and if Mrs. Coverley visited Mrs. Tankerdon to express her thanks for the service ren<<< dered Mat Coverley. Let us even say that Miss Coverley accompanied her mother, and was it not natural that both should ask how the young man was progressing?

In fact everything was for the best, and, rid of its formidable visitors, Floating Island could safely resume its voyage towards the Fijis,

CHAPTER VIII.

“HOW many did you say?” asked Pinchinat.

“Two hundred and fifty-five, my friends,” replied Frascolin. “Yes, there are two hundred and fifty-five islands and islets in the Fiji Archipelago.”

“And how does that interest us,” replied Pinchinat, “if the Pearl of the Pacific does not make two hundred and fifty-five stoppages?”

“You will never learn geography!” proclaimed Frascolin.

“And you — you know too much,” replied his Highness.

And that was always the sort of welcome the second violin received when he tried to instruct his recalcitrant comrades.

However, Sebastien Zorn, who listened more willingly, allowed himself to be taken before the map at the casino, on which the position was marked each day. It was easy to follow the itinerary of Floating Island since its departure from Madeleine Bay. This itinerary formed a sort of large S, of which the lower loop curved up to the Fiji group.

. Erascolin showed the violoncellist this collection of islands, discovered by Tasman in 1643 — an archipelago comprised between the sixteenth and twentieth parallels ot south latitude, and between the hundred and seventy-ourth and hundred and seventy-ninth meridians of east longitudes.

“So we are going to take our cumbrous machine among those hundreds of pebbles scattered on the road?” observed Sebastien Zorn.

“Yes, xy old string-fellow,” replied Frascolin, “and if you look with attention — “

“And shut your mouth,” added Pinchinat. “Why?”

“Because the proverb says that the fly cannot enter a closed mouth!”

“Of what fly are you speaking?”

“The one that stings you whenever you want to break out against Floating Island!”

Sebastfen Zorn shrugged his shoulders disdainfully, and turned to Frascolin. “You were saying?”

“I was saying that to reach the two large islands of Viti-Levu and Vanua-Levu, there are three passages which cross the eastern group, those of Nanuku, La-kemba, and Oneata.”

“To say nothing of the passage where you are smashed into a thousand pieces!” exclaimed Sebastien Zorn. “That w ill be the end of it! Is it possible to navigate such seas with such a town, and a large population in that town? No, it is contrary to the laws of nature!”

“The fly!” retorted Pinchinat. “That is Zorn’s fly; see it!”

In fact, the obstinate violoncellist was always full of these dismal prognostics, and made no attempt to control them.

In this part of the Pacific the first group of the Fijis forms quite a barrier to ships arriving from the East. But there were passages wide enough for Commodore Simcoe to venture to bring Floating Island through them besides those pointed out by Frascolin. Among these islands the most important are the two Levus, situated in the west, and Ono, Ngaloa, Kandavu, &c.

A sea is enclosed within their summits emerged from the depths of the ocean, the Koro Sea, and if this archipelago, discovered by Cook, visited by Bligh in 1789, by Wilson in 1792, is so minutely known, it is because the remarkable voyages of Dumont D’Urville in 1828 and in 1833, of the American Wilkes in 1839, of the English Erskine in 1853, and the Herald expedition, under Captain Durham of the British Navy, have enabled them to be charted with a precision that does honour to the hydro-graphers.

Hence there was no hesitation on the part of Commodore Simcoe. Coming from the southeast, he entered the Voulanga passage, leaving to port the island of that name, in shape like a cut cake served on a coral dish. Next morning Floating Island entered the interior sea, which is protected against the ocean surges by substantial submarine chains.

It need hardly be said that all fears had not been allayed regarding the wild beasts. The Milliardites remained constantly on the alert. Constant expeditions were organized through the woods, fields and waters. No trace of wild beasts was discovered. No growling was heard by day or night.

The most positive result was the complete reconciliation that had been effected between the two sections of the town. After the Coverley-Tankerdon affair, the Star-boardite and Larboardite families visited each other, invited each other, received each other. Every evening there was a ball and concert at one of the chief notables’, particularly at the mansion in Nineteenth Avenue and the mansion in the Fifteenth. The Quartette Party had more than they could do; the enthusiasm they provoked did not diminish; on the contrary it increased.

At last the great news came one morning while Floating Island was beating with its powerful screws the tranquil surface of this Koro Sea. Jem Tankerdon had gone officially to the house of Nat Coverley, and demanded the hand of Miss Di Coverley for his son Walter. And Nat Coverley had given Miss Coverley’s hand to Walter Tankerdon, the son of Jem Tankerdon. The question of dowry had led to no difficulty. It would be two hundred millions for each of the young couple.

“They should have enough to live on — even in Europe,” remarked Pinchinat, judiciously.

Felicitations reached both families from all parts. The Governor, Cyrus Bikerstaff, made no attempt to hide his extreme satisfaction. Thanks to this marriage, there would disappear all those causes of rivalry which had menaced the future of Floating Island. The king and queen of Malecarlie were among the first to send their compliments and good wishes. Visiting cards, printed in gold on aluminium, rained into the boxes at the mansions. The journals had paragraph after paragraph regarding the splendours in preparation — such as had never been seen at Milliard City, nor anywhere else on the globe. Cablegrams were sent to Paris with regard to the trousseau. The linendrapers’ shops, the establishments of the great dressmakers, the jewellers, received the most extraordinary orders. A special steamer, starting from Marseilles, would come by Suez and the Indian Ocean, bringing these marvels of French industry. The wedding day was to be five weeks from then, on the 27th of February. The tradesmen of Milliard City had their share of profit in the affair. They had - to furnish their contingent to this wedding outfit, and fortunes were to be made out of the orders they received from the nabobs of Floating Island.

There could be no doubt who would organize the entertainments. Calistus Munbar was evidently the man. His state of mind was indescribable when the marriage of Walter Tankerdon and Miss Coverley was publicly announced. We know how he desired it, how he would have done everything to bring it about. It was the realization of his dream, and as the municipality intended to give him a free hand, rest assured that he would be at the height of his powers in organizing an ultra-marvellous festival.

At the date chosen for the nuptial ceremony, Commodore Simcoe announced in a note to the newspapers that Floating Island would be in that part of the sea between Fin and the New Hebrides. Before then it would stop at Viti-Levu, where the stay would last twelve days — the only one it was proposed to make amid this vast archipelago.

The voyage was delightful. Many whales played on the surface of the sea. With the thousand jets of water from their blowholes, it seemed like an immense basin of Neptune, in comparison with which that of Versailles was but a child’s toy, as Yvernes said. But also in hundreds appeared enormous sharks, escorting Floating Island as if they were following a ship under way.

This portion of the Pacific is the boundary of Polynesia, which here is bordered by Melanesia, in which the group of the New Hebrides is situated.

(These positions are according to the French charts, the rero meridian of which passes through Paris — a meridian which was generally adopted at this period.) It is cut by the hundred and eightieth degree of longitude — the conventional line which forms the boundary between the two parts of this immense ocean. When they reach this meridian, sailors coming from the east omit a day from their calendar, and, inversely, those coming from the west add one. Without this precaution there would be no concordance of dates. The preceding year Floating Island had not had to make this change, for it had not advanced to the westward beyond this meridian. But this time it had to conform to the rule, and as it came from the east, the 22nd of January had to become the 23rd.

Of the two hundred and fifty-five islands of which the archipelago of Fiji is composed, only a hundred are inhabited. The total population does not exceed a hundred and twenty-eight thousand inhabitants — a very slight density for an extent of twenty-one thousand square kilometres.

Of these islets, mere fragments of atolls, or summits of submarine mountains, fringed with coral, there are none that measure more than a hundred and fifty superficial kilometres. This political domain England has annexed to her colonial empire. If the Fijians have at length decided to submit to a British Protectorate, it is because they were in 1859 threatened with a Tongan invasion, which was checked by the United Kingdom. The archipelago is divided into seventeen districts, administered by the native chiefs, more or less related to the royal family of the last king, Thakumbau.

“Is it the consequence of the English system,” asked Commodore Simcoe, who was talking on this subject with Frascolin, “that the Fijis will be like Tasmania? I do not know, but it is certain that the natives are disappearing. The colony does not prosper, nor does the population increase, as is shown by the numerical inferiority of the women compared to the men.”

“That is a sign of the approaching extinction of a race,” said Frascolin; “and in Europe there are already a few States which this inferiority menaces.”

“Here,” said the commodore, “the natives are really but serfs, like the natives of the neighbouring islands, recruited by the planters for the work of clearing the ground. Diseases decimate them, and in 1875 small-pox swept off more than thirty thousand. But it is an admirable country, as you can see. If the temperature is high in the interior of the islands, it is at least moderate on the shore. The country is very fertile in fruits and vegetables, in trees — cocoanut trees, bananas, etc. There is little more than the trouble of gathering the yams and taros, and the nourishing sap of the palm which produces sago.”

“Sago!” exclaimed Frascolin, “what a remembrance of our ‘ Swiss Family Robinson ‘!”

“As to the pigs and the fowls,” said the commodore, “these animals have multiplied since their importation with extraordinary prolificness. They furnish all the means of subsistence. Unfortunately, the natives are inclined to indolence, although they are intelligent and witty.”

“And as they have high spirits — ” said Frascolin.

<<< The children amuse themselves,” replied Commodore Simcoe.

In fact, all these natives, Polynesians, Melanesians, and others, are nothing but children.

In approaching Viti-Levu, Floating Island sighted many intermediate islands, such as Vanua-Vatu, Moala, Ngau, without stopping at them.

From all parts came scudding along the coast flotillas of those long out-rigger canoes with intersecting bamboos, which serve to maintain the equilibrium of the vessel and carry the cargo. They were gracefully handled, but did not seek to enter Starboard Harbour or Larboard Harbour. Probably they would not have been allowed to on account of the evil reputation of these Fijians. These natives have embraced Christianity, it is true. Since the European missionaries established themselves at Lecumba, in 1835, they have nearly all become Wes-leyans, mingled with a few thousand Catholics. But previously they were so addicted to the practice of cannibalism that perhaps they have not yet quite lost the taste for human flesh. Besides, it is a matter of religion. Their gods love blood. Kindness is regarded among these people as weakness, and even sin. To eat an enemy is to do him honour. They cook the man they despise, but they do not eat him. Children furnished the principal joints at their festivities, and the time is not so distant when King Thakumbau delighted to sit under a tree, from every branch of which hung a human limb reserved for the royal table. Sometimes a tribe — as happened to the Nulocas in Viti-Levu near Namosi — was devoured completely except a few females, one of whom died in 1880 . Decidedly if Pinchinat did not meet on one of these islands the grandchildren of cannibals retaining the customs of their ancestors, he would have to give up asking for local colour in these archipelagoes of the Pacific. . The western group of the Fijis comprises two large isands, Viti-Levu and Vanua-Levu, and two smaller islands, Kandavu and Taviuni. More to the north-west lie the Wassava Islands and the Ronde Passage, by which Commodore Simcoe would make his way out towards the New Hebrides.

On the afternoon of the 25th of January the heights of Viti-Levu appeared on the horizon. This mountainous island is the largest of the archipelago, being a third larger than Corsica. Its peaks run from twelve to fifteen hundred metres above the level of the sea. These are volcanoes, extinct, or rather dormant, and apt to be disagreeable when they wake up. Viti-Levu has an area of six thousand four hundred and seventy-five square kilometres, and is connected with Vanua-Levu, its neighbour to the north, by a submarine barrier of reefs, which were doubtless above water when the land was formed. Above this barrier Floating Island could venture without danger. To the north of Viti-Levu the depths are estimated at from four to five hundred metres, and to the south from five hundred metres to two thousand.

Formerly the capital of the archipelago was Levuka, in the island of Ovalau, to the east of Viti-Levu. Perhaps the offices founded by English houses are still more important than those of Suva, the present capital, in the island of Viti-Levu. But the harbour of the latter has many advantages, being situated at the southeast extremity of the island, between two deltas. The port of call used by steamers in the Fijis occupies the head of Ngalao Bay, at the south of the island of Kandavu, the position of which is the nearest to New Zealand, Australia, and the French islands of New Caledonia and the Loyalties.

Floating Island stopped at the mouth of Suva harbour. The formalities were completed the same day and free pratique was accorded. As the visit would be a source of profit to both colonist, and natives, the Milliardites were sure of an excellent welcome, in which there was probably more interest than sympathy.

Next day, the 26th of January, the tradesmen of Floating Island who had purchases to make or sales to effect went ashore early in the morning. The tourists, and among them our Parisians, were almost as early. Although Pinchinat and Yvernes made fun of Frascolin — the distinguished pupil of Commodore Simcoe — concerning his ethno-geographical studies, they none the less availed themselves of his knowledge. To the questions of his comrades on the inhabitants of Viti-Levu, their customs, their practices, the replies of the second violin were always instructive. Sebastien Zorn did not disdain to refer to him occasionally, and when Pinchinat learnt that these regions were not long ago the principal theatre of cannibalism, he could not restrain a sigh as he said: “Yes — but we shall arrive too late, and you will see that these Fijians, enervated by civilization, have corae down to fricasseed fowl and pigs’ feet a la Sainte Mene-hould!”

“Cannibal!” exclaimed Frascolin, “you deserve to have figured on the table of King Thakumbau. Ah! ah! Entrecote de Pinchinat a la Bordelaise.”

“Come,” said Sebastien Zorn, “if we are to waste our time in these useless recriminations — “

“We shall make no progress by a forward movement,” said Pinchinat. “That is the sort of phrase you like, isn’t it, my old Violoncelluloidist? Well, forward, march!”

The town of Suva, built on the right of a little bay, ha3 its buildings scattered on the back of a green hill. It has quays for mooring ships, roads furnished with plank sideways, like the beaches of our large bathing places. The wooden houses have but one floor; a few of them have two floors, but all are cheerful and fresh-looking. In the suburbs the native huts display their gable-ends raised into horns and ornamented with shells. The roofs are substantial, to resist the winter rains from May to October, which fall in torrents. In fact in March, 1871, according to Frascolin, who was very strong on statistics, Mbua, situated in the east of the island, had a rainfall in one day thirty-eight centimetres.

Viti-Levu, like the other islands of the archipelago, is subject to great differences in climate, and the vegetation differs on each shore. On the side exposed to the southeast trades the atmosphere is humid, and magnificent forests cover the soil. On the other side are immense savannahs suitable for cultivation. But it is noticeable that certain trees tend to disappear, among others the sandal-wood, almost entirely exhausted, and also the dakua, a pine peculiar to Fiji.

However, in their promenades, the quartette discovered that the flora of the island is of tropical luxuriance. Everywhere are forests of cocoanut trees and palms, their trunks covered with parasitic orchids, clumps of casuarinas, pandanus, acacias, tree ferns, and in the marshy parts numbers of mangrove trees with roots winding out of the ground. But the cultivation of cotton and tea has not given the results the climate had led people to expect. The soil of Viti-Levu, as in the rest of the group, is clayey and yellowish in colour, formed of volcanic cinders to which decomposition has given the productive qualities.

The fauna is not more varied than in other parts of the Pacific; some forty species of birds, acclimatized parrots and canaries, bats, rats in legions, reptiles of non-venomous species, much appreciated by the natives from a commissariat point of view, lizards, and horrible cockroaches of cannibalistic voracity. But of wild beasts there were none which provoked this sally from Pinchinat.

“Our Governor, Cyrus Bikerstaff, should have kept a few lions, tigers, panthers, crocodiles, and landed these useful carnivores in the Fijis. It would be a curious experiment in acclimatisation.”

The natives, of mixed Polynesian and Melanesian race, still yield some fine examples, less remarkable, however, than those of Samoa and the Marquesas. The men are copper-coloured, almost black, their heads covered with a thick mass of hair, among them being a number of half-breeds, and they are tall and strong. Their clothing is rudimentary enough, oftenest being but mere cotton drawers made of the native fabric called “masi,” produced by a species of mulberry tree, which also produces paper. In its first stage this fabric is quite white, but the Fijians know how to dye it and stripe it, and it is in demand in all the archipelagoes of the Eastern Pacific. It must be added that the men do not disdain to clothe themselves, when opportunity offers, in old European garments sent out from the old clothes stores of the United Kingdom or Germany. A fine field for joking was thus offered to a Parisian, when he saw these Fijians clad in worn-out trousers, a great-coat the worse for age, and even a black coat, which, after many phases of decadence, had come to end its days on the back of a native of Viti-Levu.

“You might make a romance out of one of those coats!” observed Yvernes.

“A romance that might end in a waistcoat!” replied Pinchinat.

The women have the short petticoat and masi jacket, which they wear in a fashion more or less decent. They are well-built, and with the attractions of youth some of them might pass for pretty. But what a detestable habit they have — as have also the men — in plastering their hair with lime so as to form a sort of calcareous hat to preserve themselves against sunstroke. And then they smoke as much as their husbands and brothers the tobacco of the country, which has the odour of burning hay, and when the cigarette is not between their teeth it is stuck into the lobe of their ears in the place where in Europe you have the pendants of diamonds and pearls.

In general these women are reduced to the condition of slaves, doing the hardest of household work, and the time is not distant when, after toiling to encourage the indolence of their husband, they were strangled on his tomb.

On many occasions, during the three days they devoted to their excursions round Suva, our tourists endeavoured to visit the native huts. They were repulsed, not by the hospitality of their owners, but by the abominable odour was given forth. All these natives, rubbed over with ocoanut oil, live in promiscuity with the pigs, the fowls, the dogs, the cats, in evil-smelling huts, the choking light being obtained by burning the resinous gum of the dammana. No! They could not stop there. And if they had taken their places at the Fijian fireside, would they not, at the risk of failing in politeness, have had to steep their lips in the bowl of kava, the special Fijian drink? Though extracted from the dried bark of the pepper plant, this pimentoed kava is unpleasing to European palates owing to the way in which it is prepared. Is it not enough to provoke the most insurmountable repugnance? They do not grind their pepper, they chew it, they triturate it through their teeth, then they spit it out into the water in a vase, and offer it you with a savage insistence that will hardly bear refusal. And nothing remains but to thank them by pronouncing these words, which are current in the archipelago, E mana ndina, otherwise amen.

Do not let us forget the cockroaches which swarm in the huts, the white ants which devastate them, and mosquitoes — mosquitoes in thousands — that can be seen on the walls, on the ground, on the clothes in innumerable bands.

CHAPTER IX.

WHILE our artistes were passing their time in walking about, and taking note of the customs of the archipelago, a few notables of Floating Island had not disdained to enter into communication with the native authorities of the archipelago. The “papalangis,” as strangers are called in these islands, had no fear of being badly received.

During the stay the Tankerdon and Coverley families organized excursions in the neighbourhood of Suva, and in the forests which clothe its heights up to their topmost peaks.

And with regard to this, the superintendent made a very just observation to his friends the quartette.

“If our Milliardites are so fond of these excursions into high altitudes, it shows that Floating Island is not sufficiently undulating. It is too flat, too uniform. But I hope that some day we shall have an artificial mountain, rivalling the loftiest summits of the Pacific. Meanwhile, every time they have an opportunity our citizens are eager to ascend a few hundred feet, and breathe the Pure and refreshing air of space. It meets a want of human nature.”

“Very well,” said Pinchinat. “But a suggestion, my dear Eucalistus! When you build your mountain in sheet steel or aluminium, do not forget to put a nice volcano inside it — a volcano with plenty of fireworks.”

“And why, Mr. Facetious?” replied Calistus Munbar.

“And why not?” replied his Highness As a matter of course Walter Tankerdon and Miss Coverley took part in these excursions arm-in-arm.

The curiosities of the capital of Viti-Levu were visited their “mbure-kaiou,” the temples of the spirits, and also the place used for the political assemblies. These constructions, raised on a base of dry stones, are composed of plaited bamboos, of beams covered with a sort of vegetable lace-work, of laths ingeniously arranged to support the thatch of the roofs. The tourists went to see the hospital, the botanic garden, laid out like an amphitheatre, behind the town. These walks often lasted until late, and the tourists returned, lantern in hand, as in the good old times.

And Captain Sarol and his Malays and the New Hebrideans embarked at Samoa. What were they doing during this stay? Nothing out of their usual way. They did not go ashore, knowing Viti-Levu and its neighbours, some by having frequented these parts during their coasting cruises, others by having worked there for the planters. They very much preferred to remain on Floating Island, exploring it in every part — town, harbours, park, country, and batteries. A few weeks more, and thanks to the kindness of the company, thanks to Governor Cyrus Bikerstaff these fellows would land in their own country, after a sojourn of five months on Floating Island.

Occasionally our artistes talked to Sarol, who was very intelligent, and spoke English fluently. Sarol spoke to them enthusiastically of the New Hebrides, of the natives of the group, of their way of living, their cooking — which interested his Highness particularly. The secret ambition of Pinchinat was to discover some new dish, the recipe for which he could communicate to the gastronomic societies of Old Europe.

On the 30th of January, Sebastien Zorn and his comrades, at whose disposal the Governor put one of the electric launches of Starboard Harbour, went away with the intention of ascending the course of the Rewa, one of the principal rivers of the island. The captain of the launch, an engineer, and two sailors were on board, with a Fijian pilot. In vain had Athanase Doremus been asked to join the excursionists; the feeling of curiosity was extinct in the professor of dancing and deportment. And then, during his absence, a pupil might apply, and he would therefore rather not leave the dancing-room.

At six o’clock in the morning, well armed, and furnished with a few provisions, for they would not return until the evening, the launch left the Bay of Suva, and ran along the coast to the bay of the Rewa.

Not only reefs, but sharks showed themselves in great numbers in these parts, and as much care had to be taken of one as of the other.

“Phew!” said Pinchinat. “Your sharks are only saltwater cannibals! I’ll undertake to say that those fellows have lost the taste for human flesh.”

“Do not trust them,” replied the pilot, “any more than you would trust the Fijians of the interior.”

Pinchinat contented himself with shrugging his shoulders. He was getting weary of these pretended cannibals, who did not even become cannibalistic on festival days!

The pilot was thoroughly acquainted with the bay and the course of the Rewa. Up this important river, called also the Wai-Levu, the tide is apparent for a distance of forty-five kilometres, and vessels can go up as far as eighty.

The width of the Rewa exceeds two hundred yards at its mouth. It runs between sandy banks, low on the left, steep on the right, from which the banana and cocoa-nut trees rise luxuriantly from a wide stretch of verdure. Its name is Rewa-Rewa, conformably to that duplication of the word which is almost general among the people of the Pacific. And, as Yvernes remarked, is this not an Citation of the childish pronunciation one finds In such words as papa, dada, bonbon, etc.? In fact, these natives have barely emerged from childhood.

Ahe true Rewa is formed by the Wai-Levu (the great water) and the Wai-Manu, and its principal mouth bears the name of Wai-Ni-Ki.

After the circuit of the delta, the launch ran past the village of Kamba, half hidden in its basket of flowers. It did not stop here, so as to lose nothing of the flood-tide, nor did it stop at the village of Naitasiri. Besides, at this epoch the village had been declared “taboo,” with its houses, its trees, its inhabitants, up to the waters of the Rewa which bathed its beach. The natives would permit no one to set foot in it.

As the excursionists ran along in front of Naitasiri, the pilot pointed out a tall tree, a tavala, which rose in an angle of the bank.

“And what is there remarkable about that tree?” asked Frascolin.

“Nothing,” replied the pilot, “except that its bark is gashed from its roots to the fork. These indicate the number of human bodies that were cooked there and then eaten.”

“Like the notches of a baker on his sticks,” observed Pinchinat, shrugging his shoulders as a sign of incredulity.

But he was wrong. The Fiji Islands are pre-eminently the country of cannibalism, and, it is necessary to repeat it, these practices are not entirely extinct. The love of good living will keep them alive for a long time yet among the tribes of the interior. Yes, the love of good living! for, in the opinion of the Fijians, nothing is comparable in taste and delicacy to human flesh, which is much superior to beef. If the pilot were to be believed, there was a certain chief, Ra-Undrenudu, who set up stones on his estate, and when he died these stones numbered eight hundred and twenty-two.

“And do you know what these stones indicated?”

“It is impossible for us to guess,” said Yvernes, “even if we apply all our intelligence as instrumentalists!”

“They showed the number of human bodies this chief had devoured.”

“By himself?”

“By himself.”

“He was a large eater!” replied Pinchinat, whose opinion was made up regarding these “Fijian fairytales.”

About eleven o’clock a bell rang on the right bank. The village of Naililii, composed of a few straw huts, appeared among the foliage, under the shade of cocoa-nut trees and banana trees. A Catholic mission is established in this village. Could the tourists stop an hour and shake hands with the missionary, a compatriot? The pilot saw no reason why they should not, and the launch was moored to the root of a tree.

Sebastien Zorn and his comrades landed, and they had not walked for two minutes before they met with the Superior of the mission.

He was a man of about fifty, of pleasant face and energetic figure. Happy to be able to welcome Frenchmen, he took them to his hut in the village, which comprises about a hundred Fijians. He insisted that his guests must accept some of the refreshments of the country. He assured them that this did not mean the repugnant kava, but a sort of drink, or rather soup, of agreeable flavour, obtained by cooking the cyrenae, molluscs very abundant on the beaches of the Rewa.

This missionary admitted that it was a hard task to withdraw his faithful from the lord of “bukalo,” that is to say, human flesh. “And as you are going towards the interior, my dear guests,” added he, “be prudent, and keep on your guard.”

“Do you hear that, Pinchinat?” said Sebastien Zorn.

They left a little before the noonday angelus sounded from the bell of the little church. As they proceeded the launch met several canoes laden with bananas. This is the local currency in which the natives pay their taxes. The river banks continued to be bordered with laurels, acacias, citron trees, and cactus with blood-red flowers. Over them the banana and cocoa-nut trees raise their lofty branches laden with bunches, and all this verdure stretches back to the mountains dominated by the peak of Mbugge-Levu.

Among these masses of foliage are one or two European factories, little in keeping with the savage nature of the country. These are sugar factories, fitted up with the best modern machinery, and their products, as a traveller, M. Verschnur, says, “can advantageously bear comparison with the sugars of the Antilles and other colonies.”

About one o’clock the launch reached the end of its voyage on the Rewa. In two hours the ebb would begin, and it was as well to take advantage of it for the return journey. The run down would not take long, as the tide ebbs quickly. The excursionists ought to be back on Floating Island before ten o’clock in the evening.

A little time could be spent here, and it could not be better employed than in visiting the village of Tampoo, the first huts of which were visible about half a mile away.

It was arranged that the engineer and two sailors should remain in charge of the launch, while the pilot piloted his passengers to the village, where the ancient customs were preserved in all their Fijian purity. In this part of the island the missionaries have wasted their trouble and their sermons. There still reign the sorcerers; there still are worked the sorceries, particularly those bearing the complicated name of “Vaka-Ndran-in-Kan-Tacka,” that is to say, “incantation by leaves.” Here the people worship the Katvavous, the gods whose existence had no beginning, and will have no end, and who do not disdain special sacrifices that the governor-general is powerless to prevent, and even to punish.

Perhaps it would have been more prudent not to venture among these suspicious tribes. But our artistes, quite Parisian in their curiosity, insisted on it, and the pilot consented to accompany them, advising them not to get far away from each other.

On entering Tampoo, which consisted of a hundred straw huts, they met some women, real savages, wearing but cotton drawers knotted round their waist: they betrayed no surprise at the sight of the strangers. They were occupied in the preparation of curcuma, made of roots preserved in trenches previously lined with grasses and banana leaves. These roots were taken out, grilled, scraped, pressed into baskets lined with ferns, and the juice which ran out was poured into bamboos. This juice serves as food and pomatum, and in both respects is very widely used.

The partv enterefr the village. There was no welcome on the part of the natives, who were in no hurry to greet the visitors, or to offer them hospitality. The exterior of the huts was not attractive. Considering the odour that issued from them in which that of rancid cocoa-nut oil prevailed, the quartette congratulated themselves that the laws of hospitality were not much honoured here.

However, when they arrived before the habitation of the chief — a Fijian of tall stature, and stern and ferocious look — he advanced towards them amid an escort of natives. His woolly hair was white with lime. He had assumed his ceremonial garb, a striped shirt, a belt round his body, an old carpet slipper on his left foot, and — how did Pinchinat restrain a burst of laughter? — an old blue coat with gold buttons, patched in many places, and its unequal tails flapping against his calves. As he advanced towards the papalangis, the chief stumbled against a stump, lost his equilibrium, and fell to the ground.

Immediately, conformably to the etiquette of the “bale muri,” the whole of the escort fell down flat “in order to take their share in the absurdity of this fall.”

This was explained by the pilot, and Pinchinat approved of the formality as being no more ridiculous than many others in use in European courts — at least in his opinion.

-When the natives had got up, the chief and the pilot exchanged a few sentences in Fijian, of which the quartette did not understand a word. These sentences, translated by the pilot, were merely asking why the strangers had come to the village of Tampoo. The reply being that they wished to visit the village and take a walk round the neighbourhood, permission was given, after an exchange of several questions and replies.

The chief, however, manifested neither pleasure nor displeasure at this arrival of tourists in Tampoo, and at a sign from him the natives returned to their huts.

“After all,” said Pinchinat, “they do not seem to be so very bad.”

“That is no reason for our not being careful,” replied Frascolin.

For an hour our artistes walked about the village without being interfered with by the natives. The chief in his blue coat had gone into his hut, and it was obvious that the visit was treated as a matter of indifference.

After moving about Tampoo without any hut being opened to welcome them, Sebastien Zorn, Yvernes, Pinchinat, Frascolin, and the pilot strolled towards the ruins of some temples, like abandoned huts, which were not far from the dwelling of one of the sorcerers of the place.

This sorcerer, who was seated at his door, gave them anything but an encouraging look, and his gestures appeared to indicate that he certainly was not giving them a blessing.

Frascolin tried to enter into conversation with him through the pilot; but he assumed so repulsive a look, and so threatening an attitude, that they had to abandon any hope of a word from this Fijian porcupine.

Meanwhile, in spite of the advice which had been given him, Pinchinat had strolled off through a thick clump of bananas on the side of a hill.

When Sebastien Zorn, Yvernes and Frascolin had been rebuffed by the sorcerer’s surliness, and were preparing to leave Tampoo, their comrade was out of sight.

The time had come for them to get back to the launch. The tide had begun to ebb, and there were none too many hours for them to run down the Rewa.

Frascolin, uneasy at not seeing Pinchinat, hailed him in a loud voice.

There was no reply.

“Where is he, then?” asked Sebastien Zorn.

“I do not know,” replied Yvernes.

“Did any of you see him go away?” asked the pilot.

No one had seen him.

“Probably he has gone back to the launch by the footpath from the village,” said Frascolin.

“Then he was wrong,” said the pilot “But let us lose no time, and rejoin him.”

They left, not without considerable anxiety. As they went through Tampoo the pilot remarked that not a Fijian was visible. All the doors of the huts were shut. There was no gathering in front of the chief’s house. The women who were occupied in the preparation of curcuma had disappeared. It seemed that the village had been abandoned for some time.

The party hurried along. Frequently they shouted for the absent one, and the absent one did not reply. Had he not, then, got back to the shore where the launch was moored? Or was the launch no longer then in charge of the engineer and two sailors?

There remained but a few hundred yards to traverse. They hurried along, and as soon as they were through the trees saw the launch and the three men at their posts.

“Our comrade?” shouted Frascolin.

“Is he not with you?” replied the engineer.

“No — not for the last half-hour.”

“Has he not come back?” asked Yvernes.

“No.”

“What had become of him? The pilot did not conceal his extreme uneasiness.

“We must return to the village,” said Sebastien Zorn.

We cannot abandon Pinchinat.”

The launch was left in charge of one of the sailors, although it was dangerous to do so. But it was better to return to Tampoo in force and well armed this time. If they had to search all the huts, they would not leave the village, they would not return to Floating Island until they had found Pinchinat.

They went back along the road to Tampoo. The same solitude in the village and its surroundings. Where had the population gone? Not a sound was heard in the streets, and the huts were empty.

There could be no doubt as to what had happened. Pinchinat had ventured into the banana wood; he had been seized and dragged away — where? As to the fate reserved for him by these cannibals whom he derided, it was only too easy to imagine it! A search in the environs of Tampoo produced no result. How could you find a track through this forest region, which is known only to the Fijians? Besides, was it not to be feared that they would try to capture the launch, guarded only by a single sailor? If that misfortune happened, all hope of rescuing Pinchinat was at an end, the safety of his companions would be endangered.

The despair of Frascolin, Yvernes, and Sebastien Zorn was indescribable. What could be done? The pilot and the engineer did not know what to do.

Frascolin, who had preserved his coolness, said, —

“We must return to Floating Island.”

“Without our comrade?” asked Yvernes.

“Do you think so?” added Sebastien Zorn.

“I do not see what else to do,” replied Frascolin. “The governor of Floating Island should be informed; the authorities of Viti-Levu should be communicated with and asked to take action — “

“Yes; let us go!” said the pilot, “and if we are to take advantage of the tide, we have not a minute to lose.”

“It is the only way of saving Pinchinat,” said Frascolin, “if it is not too late.”

The only way, in fact.

They left Tampoo, fearing that they might not find the launch at her post. In vain the name of Pinchinat was shouted by all! And if they had been less excited they might have seen among the bushes a few savage Fijians watching their departure.

The launch had not been interfered with. The sailor had seen no one prowling on the banks of the Rewa.

It was with inexpressible sadness that Sebastien Zorn, Frascolin and Yvernes decided to take their places in the boat. They hesitated; they shouted again. But they had to go, as Frascolin said, and they were right in doing so.

The engineer set the dynamos going, and the launch with the tide under her flew down the Rewa at prodigious speed.

At six o’clock the western point of the delta was rounded, and half an hour afterwards they were alongside the pier at Starboard Harbour.

In a quarter of an hour Frascolin and his two comrades had by means of the tram reached Milliard City, and were at the town hall.

As soon as he had heard what had occurred, Cyrus Bikerstaff started for Suva, and there he asked for an interview with the governor-general of the archipelago, which was granted him.

When this official learned what had passed at Tampoo, he admitted that it was a very serious matter. This Frenchman was in the hands of one of the tribes of the interior who evaded all authority.

“Unfortunately,” he added, “we cannot do anything before tomorrow. Our boats cannot get up to Tampoo against the tide. Besides, it is indispensable for us to go in force, and the best way would be to go through the bush.”

“Quite so,” replied Cyrus Bikerstaff; “but it is not tomorrow, but to-day — this very moment — that we should start.”

“I have not the necessary men at my disposal,” said the governor.

“We have them, sir,” replied Cyrus Bikerstaff. “Under the orders of one of your officers who know the country — “

“Very well, sir, you can start at once.”

Half an hour afterwards, a hundred men, sailors and militia, landed at Suva, under the orders of Commodore Simcoe, who had asked to take the command of the expedition. The superintendent, Sebastien Zorn, Yvernes, Frascolin, were at his side. A detachment of the Viti-Levu police went with them.

The expedition started into the bush under the guidance of the pilot, who knew these difficult regions of the interior. They went the shortest way, and at a rapid rate, so as to reach Tampoo as quickly as possible.

It was not necessary to go as far as the village. About an hour after midnight orders were given for the column to halt.

In the deepest part of an almost impenetrable thicket the glare of a fire was noticed. Doubtless the natives of Tampoo were gathered here, the village being within half an hour’s march to the east.

Commodore Simcoe, the pilot, Calistus Munbar, the three Parisians, went on in front.

They had not gone a hundred yards before they stopped.

In the light of the fire, surrounded by a tumultuous crowd of men and women, Pinchinat, half naked, was tied to a tree, and the Fijian chief was advancing towards him axe in hand.

“Forward! Forward!” shouted Commodore Simcoe to his sailors and militia.

Sudden surprise and well-grounded terror on the part of the natives, on whom the detachment spared neither fire nor steel. In a moment the place was deserted, and the whole band had dispersed under the trees.

Pinchinat, detached from the tree, fell into the arms of his friend Frascolin.

How can we describe the joy of these artistes, these brothers — in which were mingled a few tears, and also well-merited reproaches.

“But, you wretch,” said the violoncellist, “what possessed you to go away from us?”

“Wretch as much as you like, my old Sebastien,” replied Pinchinat, “but do not sit upon an alto as poorly clothed as I am at this moment. Pass me my clothes, so that I can present myself before the authorities in a more suitable fashion.”

His clothes were found at the foot of a tree, and he put them on with the greatest coolness imaginable. Then when he was “presentable “he went to shake hands with the commodore and superintendent.

“Well,” said Calistus Munbar, “do you now believe in the cannibalism of the Fijians?”

CHAPTER XII.

FLOATING ISLAND left the neighbourhood of Sandwich Island on the 3rd of March. Before its departure, the French colony and their native allies were the object of cordial gratitude on the part of the Milliardites. These were friends whom they would see again; they were brothers whom Sebastien Zorn and his comrades left on this island of the New Hebrides group, who would for the future appear in the annual itinerary.

Under Commodore Simcoe’s direction, the repairs were quickly made. The damages were not extensive. The electrical machinery was uninjured. With what remained of the stock of petroleum, the working of the dynamos was assured for many weeks. Besides, Floating Island would soon be back in that part of the Pacific where its submarine cables would allow of its communicating with Madeleine Bay. There was, consequently, the certainty of the campaign ending without disaster. Within four months Floating Island would be on the American coast.

“Let us hope so,” said Sebastien Zorn, when the Superintendent was as usual enlarging on the future of this marvellous maritime invention.

“But,” observed Calistus Munbar, “what a lesson we have received! These Malays, so obliging, this Captain Sarol, no one would have suspected them. This is the last time Floating Island will give shelter to strangers.”

“Not even if a shipwreck throws them in the way?” asked Pinchinat.

“I do not believe any more in shipwrecks or shipwrecked crews!”

But though Commodore Simcoe had charge as before of the navigation of Floating Island, it did not follow that the civil powers were in his hands. Since the death of Cyrus Bikerstaff Milliard City had had no mayor, and, as we know, the assistants had resigned their positions. Consequently it would be necessary to nominate a new governor of Floating Island.

As there was no official of the civil power they could not proceed to the marriage of Walter Tankerdon and Di Coverley. Here was a difficulty which would not have arisen had it not been for the machinations of that scoundrel Sarol! And not only the couple themselves, but all the notables of Milliard City, and all the population, were anxious that this marriage should be definitely settled. In it was one of the safest guarantees of the future. That there might be no delay, Walter Tankerdon was already talking of embarking on one of the Starboard Harbour steamers with the two families to the nearest archipelago, where a mayor could proceed with the nuptial ceremony. There were mayors at Samoa, at Tonga, at the Marquesas, and in less than a week, if they went full steam —

The wiser minds argued with the impatient young man. The people were busy getting ready for the election. In a few days the new governor would be nominated. The first act of his administration would be to celebrate with great pomp the marriage so ardently expected. The programme of the festivities would be resumed. A mayor! a mayor! That was the cry in every mouth.

“Let us hope that these elections may not revive the rivalries that may not be entirely extinct!” said Frascolin.

No, and Calistus Munbar had resolved to do his best to bring matters to an end.

“Besides,” he exclaimed, “have we not our lovers? You will, I think, agree with me that self-esteem has no chance against love?”

Floating Island continued its course to the northeast, towards the point where the twelfth degree of south latitude crosses the hundred and seventy-fifth of west longitude.

It was in these parts that the last cablegrams sent before the stay at the New Hebrides had communicated with the supply ships loading at Madeleine Bay. Commodore Simcoe was not at all anxious regarding provisions. The reserves were enough for more than a month, and there could be no trouble on this point. It is true that foreign news was running short. The political chronicle was meagre. The Starboard Chronicle complained, the New Herald was in despair. But what mattered it? Was not Floating Island a little world in itself, and what had it to do with what happened on the rest of the terrestrial spheroid? Did it want politics? Well, there would soon be politics enough for it — perhaps too much.

In fact the electoral contest began. The council of notables, in which the Larboardites equalled the Starboardites, was busy. It was certain that the choice of a new governor would give rise to discussions, for Jem Tankerdon and Nat Coverley would be on opposite sides.

A few days were spent in preliminary meetings. From the outset it was evident that the parties would not agree. Secret agitation arose in the town and ports. The agents of the two sections tried to provoke a popular movement to bring pressure on the notables. As time went on, it did not seem as though an agreement could be brought about. It began to be feared that Jem Tankerdon and the principal Larboardites would now endeavour to carry out their ideas, so objected to by the Starboardites, and make Floating Island an industrial and commercial island. Never would the other section consent to that! The more the Coverley party grew angry, the more the Tankerdon party persisted. Hence offensive recriminations, bitterness between the two camps, manifest coolness between the two families — a coolness which Walter and Di did not care to notice. What had all this rubbish about politics to do with them?

There was a very simple way of arranging these matters, at least from an administrative point of view; that was to resolve that the two competitors should take it in turn to be governor, six months one and six months the other, even a year apiece if that seemed preferable. Then there would be no rivalry, and the arrangement would satisfy both parties. But good sense has never a chance of being adopted in this world, and though it was independent of the terrestrial continents, Floating Island was none the less subject to all the passions of sub-lunary humanity.

“There,” said Frascolin one day to his companions. “There you have the difficulties I feared.”

“And what do these dissensions matter to us?” replied Pinchinat. “How can they damage us? In a few months we shall be at Madeleine Bay, and our engagement will be at an end, and we can set foot on firm ground, with a little million in our pockets.”

“If some catastrophe does not take place?” added the intractable Sebastien Zorn. “Is such a floating machine ever sure of a future? After the collision with the English ship, the invasion of the wild beasts; after the wild beasts the invasion of the New Hebrideans; after the savages the — “

“Silence, bird of ill augury!” exclaimed Yvernes. “Silence, we will put a padlock on your beak!”

Nevertheless, it was greatly to be regretted that the marriage had not been celebrated at the date fixed. The families being united by a new tie, the problem would be less difficult of solution. The newly married couple might intervene in a more efficacious fashion. After all, the agitation would not last, as the election would take place on the 15th of March.

Commodore Simcoe tried to bring about an understanding between the two sections of the town. He was asked not to interfere in what did not concern him. He had to navigate the island, let him navigate it. He had reefs to avoid, let him avoid them. Politics were not his business.

Commodore Simcoe did as he was told.

Religious passions began to enter into the debate, and the clergy — in which they were perhaps wrong — interfered more than was desirable. They had been living in such accord, the temple and the cathedral, the pastor and the bishop.

The newspapers, of course, descended into the arena. The New Herald fought for the Tankerdons, The Starboard Chronicle for the Coverleys. Ink flowed in deluges, and it was to be feared that the ink would be mingled with blood! Great Heaven! Had it not already been too much sprinkled, this virgin soil of Floating Island, during the struggle with the savages of the New Hebrides!

The bulk of the population were chiefly interested in the two young people, whose romance had been interrupted at the first chapter. But what could they do to make them happy? Already communications had ceased between the two sections of Milliard city. No more receptions, invitations, musical evenings. If this sort of thing lasted, the instruments of the Quartette Party might go mouldy in their cases, and our artistes earn their enormous salaries with their hands in their pockets.

The Superintendent, although he would not admit it, was in an agony of anxiety. He was in a false position, for his whole mind was occupied in displeasing nobody — a sure means of displeasing everybody.

On the 12th of March, Floating Island was approaching the Equator, although it had not reached the latitude in which it would meet the ships sent from Madeleine Bay. It would not be long before they did so, but apparently the elections would take place beforehand, as they were fixed for the 15th.

Meanwhile the Starboardites and Larboardites took to forecasting the result. Always the same promise of equality. No majority was possible, unless some voters would change sides. And the voters remained as firm as the teeth in a tiger’s jaw.

Then arose a genial idea. It seemed to have occurred at the same moment to the minds of all. This idea was simple, it was an honourable one, it would put an end to the rivalry. The candidates themselves would doubtless bow to this just solution.

Why not offer the government of Floating Island to the King of Malecarlie? The ex-sovereign was a wise man, of firm and liberal mind. His toleration and his philosophy would be the best guarantee against the surprises of the future. He knew men from having lived amongst them. He knew that he had to reckon with their weaknesses and their ingratitude. Ambition was not his failing, and never would the thought occur to him to substitute the personal power for the democratic institutions which existed on Floating Island. He would never be more than the president of the council of administration of the new company, Tankerdon, Coverley & Co.

An important group of merchants and functionaries of Milliard City, with whom were a certain number of the officers and sailors at the ports, decided to convey this proposal to their royal fellow-citizen.

It was in the room on the ground floor of the house in Thirty-ninth Avenue that their Majesties received the deputation. They listened with friendliness, and answered with a decided refusal. The deposed sovereigns remembered the past, and under this impression the King replied, —

“I thank you, gentlemen. We are not insensible to your request, but we are happy at present, and we hope that nothing will trouble our future. Believe me, we have finished with the illusions that are inherent to any sovereignty whatever. I am now only an astronomer at the observatory of Floating Island, and I do not wish to be anything else.”

There was no opportunity to persist, after so formal a reply, and the deputation retired.

During the few days preceding the election the excitement increased. It was impossible to arrive at an understanding. The partisans of Jem Tankerdon and Nat Coverley avoided meeting each other, even in the streets. People no longer went from one section to the other. Neither the Starboardites nor the Larboardites crossed First Avenue. Milliard City was now formed into two hostile camps. The only personage who went from one to the other, agitated, crushed, knocked up, perspiring water and blood, exhausting himself in good advice, repulsed to the right, repulsed to the left, was the despairing Superintendent, Calistus Munbar. And three or four times a day he ran aground, like a rudderless ship, in the rooms of the casino, where the quartette overwhelmed him with vain consolations.

Commodore Simcoe confined himself to his special duties. He navigated Floating Island according to the itinerary. Having a holy horror of politics, he would accept whatever governor was given him. His officers, like those of Colonel Stewart, were quite as little interested in the question which had set so many heads on the boil. It was not in Floating Island that pronunciamentos were to be feared.

However, the council of notables, in permanent session at the town hall, discussed and disputed. They were taking to personalities. The police were compelled to take certain precautions, for the crowd thronged from morning to night in front of the town hall, and raised seditious cries.

On the other hand, deplorable news got abroad. Walter Tankerdon had called at the Coverley mansion, and not been admitted. The two young people were forbidden to see one another, and as the marriage had not been celebrated before the attack of the New Hebridean bands, who dared say if it ever would be accomplished?

At last the 15th of March arrived. The election was to take place in the principal room of the town-hall. A noisy crowd blocked the square, as the Roman populace formerly did before the palace of the Quirinal, when the conclave proceeded to the elevation of a Pope to the throne of Saint Peter.

What would come out of this supreme deliberation? The forecast showed that there would be an equality of votes. If the Starboardites remained faithful to Nat Coverley and the Larboardites to Jem Tankerdon, what would happen?

The great day arrived. Between one and three o’clock the ordinary life seemed to be suspended on Floating Island. From five to six thousand people stood excited beneath the windows of the municipal edifice. They awaited the result of the voting of the notables — a result which would be immediately communicated by telephone to the two sections and the two ports.

A first scrutiny took place at thirty-five minutes past one.

The candidates had obtained the same number of suffrages.

An hour afterwards there was a second scrutiny.

It in no way modified the figures of the first.

At thirty-five minutes past three there was the third and last scrutiny.

This time neither had a vote in excess of the other.

The council then separated, and it was best to do so. If it had remained sitting, the members would have become so exasperated that they would have taken to blows. As they crossed the square on their way, some of them to the Tankerdon mansion, and some to the Coverley mansion, the crowd greeted them with the most disagreeable murmurs.

But it was necessary to put an end to this state of affairs, which was most damaging to the interests of Floating Island.

“Between ourselves,” said Pinchinat, when they had heard from the Superintendent the result of the three scrutinies, “it seems that there is a very simple way of settling the question.”

“And what is that?” asked Calistus Munbar, lifting his arms in despair to heaven. “What?”

“Cut the island in half; divide it into two equal parts, like a cake; let the two halves go on as they please, each with a governor of its own!”

“Cut our island in half!” gasped the Superintendent, as if Pinchinat had proposed to cut off a limb.

“With a cold chisel, a mallet, and a screw-wrench, the question would be solved, and there would be two moving islands instead of one on the surface of the Pacific Ocean.”

Pinchinat could never be serious, even when circumstances were of such gravity.

His advice was not accepted — at least in a material sense; but if there were no mallet and screw-wrench, if no division was made down the middle of First Avenue from Prow Battery to Stern Battery, the separation was none the less accomplished from a political point of view. The Larboardites and Starboardites had become as much strangers to each other as if a hundred leagues of sea separated them. In fact, the thirty notables had decided to vote separately in default of an understanding. On one side, Jem Tankerdon was appointed governor of his section, and he could govern it as he pleased. On the other, Nat Coverley was appointed governor of his section, and he could govern it as he pleased. Each of them would keep his port, his ships, his officers, his sailors, his militiamen, his functionaries, his tradesmen, his electrical works, his engines, his motors, his engineers, his stokers.

This was very well, but what would Commodore Simcoe do when he wanted to turn, and how could Calistus Munbar perform his duties to the common satisfaction?

As regards the latter, it is true, it was not of much importance. His place had become a sinecure. There could be no question as to amusements and festivities when Floating Island was menaced by civil war — for a reconciliation was not possible.

This was evident from a single indication. On the 17th of March the newspapers announced that the marriage between Walter Tankerdon and Miss Coverley was definitely broken off.

Yes! Broken off — in spite of their prayers, in spite of their supplications; and yet Calistus Munbar had once said that love was the strongest! Well, no! Walter and Di would not separate. They would abandon their relatives; they would marry in some foreign country; they would find a corner in the world where they could be happy without so many millions hanging round their hearts!

After the nomination of Jem Tankerdon and Nat Coverley, nothing had been changed with regard to the course of Floating Island. Commodore Simcoe continued to steer northeast. Once they reached Madeleine Bay, it was probable, if the present state of things continued, that several of the Milliardites would seek on the Continent the quiet which was no longer offered them by the Pearl of the Pacific. Perhaps even Floating Island would be abandoned. And then they would liquidate it; they would put it up to auction; they would sell it at so much a pound, like old and useless iron, and it would be melted down!

But the five thousand miles it had to travel would take another five months to accomplish. During the voyage would the direction be interfered with by the obstinacy of the two chiefs? The spirit of revolt had begun to show itself among the people. Would the Larboardites and Starboardites come to blows, and take to firing on each other, and bathing with blood the steel sidewalks of Milliard City?

No! The parties would not, apparently, go to these extremities. There would not be another secession war between north and south, or rather between the Larboard and Starboard sections of Floating Island. But the inevitable happened, at the risk of provoking a catastrophe.

In the morning of the 19th of March, Commodore Simcoe was in his office at the observatory, waiting for the first observation of altitude to be communicated to him. In his opinion Floating Island could not be far from the spot where it would meet with the supply ships. Look-outs on the tower surveyed the vast circuit of sea, so as to signa \ the steamers as soon as they appeared on the horizon. With the Commodore were the King of Malecarlie, Colonel Stewart, Sebastien Zorn, Pinchinat, Frascolin, Yvernes, and a few officers and functionaries — who might all be classed as neutrals, for they had not yet taken part in the intestine dissensions. The essential point for them was to arrive as soon as possible at Madeleine Bay, where this deplorable state of things would end.

At this moment two bells sounded, and two orders were transmitted to the Commodore by telephone. They came from the town hall, where Jem Tankerdon and Nat Coverley, with their respective supporters, were in different wings. Here they administered Floating Island, and we need not be astonished at the orders being contradictory.

This very morning the two governors had resolved to disagree regarding the course hitherto followed by Ethel Simcoe. Nat Covcrley had decided that Floating Island should go northeast, so as to touch at the Gilbert Islands. Jem Tankerdon, with the object of opening up commercial relations, decided to go southwest, towards Australia.

Thus had the rivals committed themselves, and their friends had sworn to support them.

When he received the two orders sent simultaneously to the observatory, the Commodore remarked, —

“This is what I feared.”

“And which must not last, in the public interest,” said the King of Malecarlie.

“What do you decide?” asked Frascolin.

“I am curious to see how you will manoeuvre,” said Pinchinat.

“Inform Jem Tankerdon and Nat Coverley,” said the Commodore, “that we cannot execute their orders, as they contradict each other. Besides, it is better for Floating Island to remain where it is, and wait for the ships which are to meet it here.”

This very wise reply was immediately telephoned to the town hall.

An hour passed without the observatory receiving any other orders. Probably the two governors had given up their intentions.

Suddenly Floating Island began to move in a strange manner. What did this movement indicate? That Jem Tankerdon and Nat Coverley had persisted in their obstinacy to the furthest limits.

All the persons present looked at each other interrogatively.

“What is the matter? What is the matter?”

“What is the matter?” answered the Commodore, shrugging his shoulders; “Jem Tankerdon has sent his orders direct to Watson, the engineer at Larboard Harbour, and Nat Coverley has sent contradictory orders to Somwah, the engineer at Starboard Harbour. One has given orders to go northeast, the other to go southwest. The result is that Floating Island is swinging round on its centre, and the gyration will last as long as the caprice of these two obstinate personages.”

“Well!” said Pinchinat. “This ought to end in a waltz! Athanase Doremus might as well resign. The Milliardites do not want his lessons!”

This absurd situation — comic from one point of view — probably caused a laugh. Unfortunately the double manoeuvre was extremely dangerous, as the Commodore observed. Driven round and round by six million horsepower, Floating Island was in danger of being shaken to pieces.

In fact, the engines were going full speed, the screws working at their maximum power, and the steel subsoil was all of a tremble. The motion became more noticeable. Floating Island pirouetted on its centre. The park, the country described concentric circles, and the places on the shore swung round at from ten to twelve miles an hour.

To argue with the engineers was not to be thought of. Commodore Simcoe had no authority over them. They were subject to the same passions as the Starboardites and Larboardites. Faithful servants of their chiefs, Watson and Somwah would drive on to the bitter end, engine for engine, dynamo for dynamo.

Then occurred a phenomenon, the unpleasantness of which should have calmed the heads by softening the hearts.

On account of the rotation of Floating Island, a number of Milliardites, especially the women, began to feel strangely unwell. Within the houses there were attacks of sickening nausea, principally in those which, being farthest from the centre, were most affected by this waltzing motion.

At this farcical result, Yvernes, Pinchinat, and Frascolin burst out int,o peals of laughter, although matters were getting most serious.

Under the influence of this continuous whirling, Sebastien Zorn became pale, very pale. He “struck his colours,” as Pinchinat said, and his heart mounted to his lips. Was this ill-timed joke never to finish? To be a prisoner on this immense turning table, which did not even have the gift of revealing the secrets of the future.

For a whole week Floating Island continued to spin round on its centre, which was Milliard City. In vain the King of Malecarlie, Commodore Simcoe, and Colonel Stewart attempted to intervene between the two powers which shared the municipal palace. Neither would lower his flag! Cyrus Bikerstaff himself, if he could have come to life again, would have found his efforts fail against such ultra-American tenacity.

Then, to add to the misfortune, the sky had been so constantly covered with clouds during this week, that it was not possible to take an altitude. Commodore Simcoe did not know where Floating Island was. Driven round by its powerful screws, it trembled in every wall of its compartments. No one thought of staying indoors. The park was crowded with people camping in the open air. On either side were heard cries of “Hurrah for Tankerdon!” and “Hurrah for Coverley!” Eyes flashed lightnings, fists were clenched threateningly. Was civil war going to break out, with its worst excesses, now that the people had reached a paroxysm of madness?

Neither one side nor the other would see anything of the approaching danger. They would not give in, even if the Pearl of the Pacific were to break into a thousand fragments, and it would continue to spin until the dynamos ceased to drive the screws.

Amid this general irritation, in which he took no part, Walter Tankerdon was a prey to the keenest anguish. He feared not for himself, but for Miss Coverley, that some sudden breaking up would annihilate Milliard City. For eight days he had not seen her. Twenty times he had begged his father to have done with this deplorable manoeuvre; but all was in vain.

Then on the night of the 27th of March, taking advantage of the darkness, he endeavoured to see Miss Coverley. He wished to be near her when the catastrophe occurred. Gliding through the crowd which blocked First Avenue, he penetrated into the hostile section, so as to reach the Coverleys’ house.

A little before daybreak a terrific explosion shook the air. Driven beyond the pressure they would bear, the boilers of the Lai board section blew up with the buildings and machinery. And as the source of electrical energy suddenly gave out on this side, half Floating Island was plunged into profound darkness.

CHAPTER XIII

IF the engines of Larboard Harbour were now useless, on account of the bursting of the boilers, those of Starboard Harbour were uninjured. But it was as if Floating Island had lost all power of locomotion. Reduced to its starboard screws, all it could do was to turn round and round on itself, for it could not go ahead.

This accident consequently made matters worse. While Floating Island had two sets of engines, capable of acting together, it was only necessary for an understanding to be arrived at between the Tankerdon and Coverley parties for this state of things to be put an end to. The motors would then resume their customary task of working together, and the island, after its delay of a few days, could have resumed its course to Madeleine Bay.

Now this was impossible, and Commodore Simcoe had not the propelling force necessary to enable him to leave his present position.

If Floating Island had remained stationary during the last week, if the steamers came up it might still be possible to regain the northern hemisphere.

But it was not, for an astronomic observation taken this day showed that Floating Island had drifted to the south during its prolonged gyration. It had drifted from the twelfth parallel to the seventeenth.

In fact, between the New Hebrides group and the Fiji group there are certain currents, due to the proximity of the two archipelagoes to each other, which flow to the southeast. While the engines worked together Floating Island could easily make headway against the current.

But as soon as it became afflicted with vertigo it had been irresistibly drawn towards the tropic of Capricorn.

When this was recognized, Commodore Simcoe did not hide from those we have called neutrals the gravity of the circumstances.

“We have drifted,” he said, “five degrees south. What a sailor can do with a steamer when her engines break down I cannot do with Floating Island. An island has no sails, and we are at the mercy of the currents. Where will they take us? I do not know. As to the steamers despatched from Madeleine Bay, they will seek us in vain in the place agreed upon, and it is towards the least frequented portion of the Pacific that we are drifting, at the rate of from eight to ten miles an hour.”

In these few sentences Ethel Simcoe stated the position, which it was impossible to modify. Floating Island was like an immense wreck delivered over to the caprices of the currents. If they ran towards the north, it would go north; if they ran towards the south, it would go south — perhaps to the extreme limits of the Antarctic Ocean. And then —

This state of things soon became known to the people at Milliard City, as at both harbours. A feeling of great fear arose. Hence — which was very human — a certain softening of asperities under the fear of this new peril. They no longer dreamt of coming to blows in a fratricidal strife, and if hatreds continued, they would not at least lead to violence. Gradually every one returned to his section, his quarter, his house. Jem Tankerdon and Nat Coverley gave up their dispute for first place. At the proposal of the two governors, the council of notables came to the only reasonable decision dictated by the circumstances, and transferred its powers to the hands of Commodore Simcoe, the only chief to whom the safety of Floating Island was henceforth entrusted.

Ethel Simcoe accepted the task without hesitation. He reckoned on the devotion of his friends, his officers, his staff. But what could he do with this vast floating apparatus, with an area of twenty-seven square kilometres, become unmanageable, now that it had no longer its two sets of engines?

And was there not some foundation for saying that this was the condemnation of Floating Island, up to then regarded as the masterpiece of marine construction, inasmuch as such accidents would render it the sport of the winds and waves?

It is true that this accident was not due to the forces of nature, over which the Pearl of the Pacific had triumphed since its foundation. It was the fault of these intestine dissensions, these rivalries of the Milliardites, this unreasonable obstinacy of some to go south and others to go north. It was their immeasurable madness that had brought about the explosion of the Larboard boilers.

But what was the good of recriminations? What was necessary was to inquire into the damages at Larboard Harbour. Commodore Simcoe assembled his officers and his engineers. The King of Malecarlie went with them. It was assuredly not this royal philosopher who was surprised at human passions bringing about such a catastrophe.

The commission went to the Larboard engine works. The explosion of the over-driven boilers had caused the deaths of two engineers and six stokers. The ravages were no less complete in the workshops where the electricity was produced for the different services of this half of Floating Island. Fortunately, the starboard dynamos continued to work, and as Pinchinat observed, —

“We have got off with the loss of one eye.”

“That may be,” replied Frascolin, “but we have also lost a limb, and the one that is left is of little use to us.”

To be blind and lame was too much.

The result of the inquiry was that the damages could not be repaired, and that it would be impossible to arrest the movement towards the south. Hence the need of waiting until Floating Island got out of the current which was taking it below the tropic.

This being ascertained, the next thing was to examine the state of the compartments of the hull. Had they not suffered from the gyratory movement which had so violently shaken them? Were the plates strained, the rivets started?

If leaks had opened, what means were there of stopping them?

The engineers proceeded to this second inquiry. Their reports, communicated to Commodore Simcoe, were anything but comforting. In many places the shaking had cracked the plates and broken the ties. Thousands of rivets had been started, and there had been a good deal of breakage. Certain compartments had already been invaded by the sea. But as the line of flotation had not been lowered, the strength of the hull had not been seriously affected, and the new proprietors of Floating Island had nothing to fear for their property. It was near the Stern Battery that the cracks were most numerous. At Larboard Harbour one of the piers had dropped off into the sea when the explosion occurred. But Starboard Harbour was all right, and its docks afforded every safety for vessels against the waves of the sea.

Orders were given to repair all that was repairable. It was important that the population should be tranquillized. It was enough, it was too much, that without its larboard screws Floating Island could not make for the nearest land. For that there was no remedy.

There remained the serious question of hunger and thirst. Would the reserves be sufficient for a month, for two months?

These particulars were furnished to Commodore Simcoe.

With regard to the water there was nothing to fear. One of the distilling apparatus had been destroyed by the explosion, but the other, which continued at work, could furnish all requirements.

With regard to provisions, the state of affairs was not so promising. Taking everything into account, their duration would not exceed a fortnight, unless these ten thousand people were placed on short rations. The fruits and vegetables came, as we know, from the outside. And outside — where was that? Where was the nearest land, and how could it be reached?

Then, whatever might be the effect, Commodore Simcoe had to make instant arrangements as to putting the people on rations. That evening the telephones and telautographs spread this melancholy news.

Whereupon general dismay in Milliard City and the two ports, and a presentiment of worse catastrophes. Would not the spectre of famine, to adopt a familiar image, soon appear on the horizon, as there existed no means of replenishing the stock of provisions? In fact, Commodore Simcoe had not a single ship to send to the American continent. Fate had so willed it that the last had been sent away three weeks before with the mortal remains of Cyrus Bikerstaff and the defenders in the battle at Erromango. It was to be feared that matters of mere self-esteem would put Floating Island in a worse position than when it was invaded by the New Hebrideans.

What is the use of possessing millions, of being as rich as Rothschilds, Mackays, Astors, Vanderbilts, Goulds, when no riches can keep away famine? Doubtless, these nabobs had the greater part of their fortunes safely placed in the banks of the new and old continents. But who knew if the day were not approaching when a million would not procure a pound of meat or a pound of bread!

After all, the fault was in their absurd dissensions, their stupid rivalries, their desire to seize upon power! The culprits were the Tankerdons and the Coverleys, who had caused all the trouble. Let them take care of reprisals, of the rage of the officers, and functionaries, and employees, and tradesmen, of the whole of the population they had brought into such danger! To what excesses might not these betake themselves when they were suffering the tortures of hunger.

Let us say, that no reproaches were levelled against Walter Tankerdon nor Miss Coverley, who shared none of the blame deserved by their families. No! The young man and the girl were not responsible! They were the bond that might have assured the future of both sections, and it was not they who had broken it!

For two days, owing to the state of the sky, no observation could be taken, and the position of Floating Island could not be ascertained with any certainty.

On the 31st of March the zenith at dawn was clear enough, and the mists in the offing soon died away. There was reason to hope that an altitude could be taken under good conditions.

The observation was awaited with feverish impatience. Many hundreds of the inhabitants went out to Prow Battery. Walter Tankerdon joined them. But neither his father, nor Nat Coverley, nor any of the notables, who could be justly accused of having brought about this state of affairs, left their houses, where they were kept indoors by public indignation.

A little before noon the observers prepared to catch the solar disc at the instant of its culmination. Two sextants, one in the hands of the King of Malecarlie, the other in the hands of Commodore Simcoe, were directed towards the horizon.

As soon as the altitude was taken, the calculations began, with the needful corrections, and the result gave 290 17’ latitude south. About two o’clock a second observation, made under the same favourable conditions, indicated 1790 32’ longitude east.

And so, since Floating Island had been a prey to this gyratory folly, the currents had carried it about a thousand miles to the southeast.

When the position was marked on the map, this was what appeared.

The nearest islands — a hundred miles distant at least — were the Kermadecs, barren rocks, hardly inhabited, without resources; and, besides, how could they be reached? Three hundred miles to the south was New Zealand, and how could that be reached if the currents took them along the open sea? To the west, fifteen hundred miles, was Australia — to the east, several thousand miles, was South America, in the neighbourhood of Chili. Beyond New Zealand was the Antarctic Ocean. Was it there, on the lands of the Pole, that Floating Island was to be wrecked? Was it there that navigators would one day find a whole population dead of misery and hunger?

Commodore Simcoe proceeded to study the currents of these seas with the greatest care. But what would happen if they did not change, if they did not meet opposing currents, if one of those formidable tempests broke out which are so frequent in the circumpolar regions?

The news was well calculated to provoke alarm. Feeling rose higher and higher against the authors of the trouble — these mischievous nabobs of Milliard City, who were responsible for this state of affairs. It required all the influence of the King of Malecarlie, all the energy of Commodore Simcoe and Colonel Stewart, all the devotion of their officers, all their authority over the sailors and soldiers of the militia to prevent an insurrection.

The day passed without change. All had to submit to be rationed, and to restrict themselves to the absolutely necessary as regards food — the wealthiest as well as those who were not so wealthy.

Meanwhile a service of look-outs was carefully arranged, and the horizon strictly watched. If a ship appeared, they would signal it, and perhaps it would be possible to enter into communication with it. Unfortunately Floating Island had drifted out of the maritime routes, there being few vessels which traverse these regions bordering on the Antarctic Ocean. And beyond to the south, there arose before the affrighted imagination the spectre of the Pole lighted by the volcanic gleams of Erebus and Terror.

A fortunate circumstance occurred in the night of the 3rd of April. The north wind, which had been violent for some hours, fell suddenly. A dead calm succeeded, and the breeze went suddenly round to the southeast, in one of those atmospheric caprices so frequent at the periods of the equinox.

Commodore Simcoe began to hope. Floatii g Island need only be forced a hundred miles to the westward for the counter-current to take it near Australia or New Zealand. Anyhow, its progress towards the Polar Sea would be checked, and it was possible that ships might be met with in the vicinity of the large islands of Australasia.

As the sun rose, the breeze freshened from the southeast. Floating Island was plainly enough affected by it. Its high buildings, the observatory, the town hall, the temple, the cathedral, offered a certain resistance to the wind. They acted as sails for this enormous vessel of four hundred and thirty-two million tons.

Although the sky was swept by swift clouds, the solar disc appeared at intervals, and a good observation would probably be taken. In fact, on two occasions the sun was caught between the clouds, and the calculation showed that since the day before, Floating Island had mounted two degrees towards the north-west.

It was difficult to admit that this was entirely due to the influence of the wind. The conclusion was that the Island had drifted into one of the eddies which divide the great currents of the Pacific; that it had had the good fortune to enter one that was taking it to the north-west, and that its chances of safety were considerable. But there must be no delay, for it was necessary to further reduce the rations. The reserves were diminishing at a rate which caused anxiety in the presence of ten thousand inhabitants to feed.

When the last astronomical observation was communicated to the ports and the town it somewhat allayed the excitement. We know how suddenly a crowd will pass from one sentiment to another, from despair to hope. That is what happened. These people, very different to the miserable masses of the great continental cities, ought to be and were less subject to panic, more reflective, more patient. But with a threatened famine was not everything to be feared?

During the morning the wind showed a tendency to freshen. The barometer fell slowly. The sea rose in long, powerful waves, proving that it was subject to great agitation in the southeast. Floating Island, hitherto impassible, was no longer insensible to these enormous disturbances of level. Some of the houses shook from top to bottom, and the things in them began to shift, as if there were an earthquake. The phenomenon was new to the Milliardites, and gave rise to considerable uneasiness.

Commodore Simcoe and his staff remained constantly on duty at the observatory, where the whole administration was concentrated. The shocks began to affect the observatory, and the extreme seriousness of the matter was recognized.

“It is too evident,” said the Commodore, “that Floating Island has been injured below. Its compartments have opened. Its hull has no longer the rigidity which rendered it so solid.”

“It is to be hoped,” said the King of Malecarlie,” that it will not have to stand a violent storm, for it is no longer strong enough to resist it.”

Yes! And now the people began to lose confidence in the artificial soil. They felt that their foothold was about to fail them. Better a hundred times be smashed on the rocks of the Antarctic lands. To fear every moment that Floating Island would open and be swallowed up in the depths of the Pacific, which had never yet been sounded, was enough to make the bravest hearts fail as they thought of it.

It was impossible to doubt that fresh injuries had cocurred in some of the compartments. Partitions had given way, and the rivets of the plates must have been torn out. In the park, along the Serpentine, on the surface of the outer streets of the town, there were strange undulations resulting in dislocations of the soil. Already some of the buildings had begun to lean, and if they fell, they would break in the substructure on which their foundation rested. That the sea had made its way into the subsoil was unmistakable, for the water line had altered. Nearly all round, at the two ports as at the batteries, the line had sunk a foot, and if it sunk more the waves would come over the coast. Floating Island was in danger; its foundering was only a question of a few hours.

Commodore Simcoe would have kept this quiet, for it would probably cause a panic and worse perhaps. To what excesses might not the people be led against those responsible for this disaster? They could not seek safety in flight like the passengers of a ship, throw themselves into boats, or construct a raft, as a crew does, in the hope of being saved from the sea. No! The raft was Floating Island itself; and it was going down.

From hour to hour during the day Commodore Simcoe noted the changes in the water line. Floating Island continued to settle down. Hence infiltration must be taking place in the compartments, slow, but incessant and irresistible.

At the same time the weather was getting worse. The sky was covered with red, coppery hues. The barometer was falling more quickly. The atmosphere had every sign of an approaching storm. Behind the accumulated vapours the horizon became so restricted that it seemed to be limited to the shore of Floating Island.

As the evening came on, terrible gusts of wind arose. In the fury of the surge the compartments burst, the crossbars broke, the plates were torn away. Everywhere was a sound of the cracking of metal. The avenues of the town, the lawns of the park, threatened to gape open. As night approached, Milliard City was abandoned for the country, which, less laden with heavy buildings, seemed to be safer. The whole population lay scattered between the ports and the batteries.

About nine o’clock a violent shock shook Floating Island to its foundations. The works at Starboard Harbour, which furnished the electric light, fell into the sea. The darkness was so profound that neither sky nor sea was visible.

Immediately more quakings of the ground took place, and the houses began to fall as if they were built of cards. In a few hours nothing would be left of the superstructure of Floating Island.

“Gentlemen,” said Commodore Simcoe, “we can no longer remain at the observatory, which is in danger of being a heap of ruins. Let us get into the country, and wait until the storm is over.”

“It is a cyclone,” replied the King of Malecarlie, showing the barometer, fallen to 713 millimetres.

Floating Island had been caught in one of those cyclonic movements which act like powerful condensers. These eddying tempests formed by a mass of water, whose gyration takes place round an almost vertical axis, move from east to west along the north of the southern hemisphere. A cyclone is the atmospheric phenomenon most fraught with disasters, and to escape from it, its comparatively calm centre must be reached, or at least the right side of its trajectory, the workable semicircle which is free from the fury of the waves. But this manoeuvre was impossible for want of motors. This time it was not human stupidity nor the imbecile obstinacy of its leaders which was ruining Floating Island, but a formidable atmospheric disturbance which would end by annihilating it.

The King of Malecarlie, Commodore Simcoe, Colonel Stewart, Sebastien Zorfl and his comrades, the astronomers, and the officers, abandoned the observatory, where they were no longer safe. It was time. Scarcely had they gone a hundred yards, before the lofty tower collapsed with a horrible noise, fell through the ground, and disappeared into the abyss.

A moment afterwards the entire edifice was a mass of ruins.

Nevertheless the quartette thought of going up First Avenue and running to the casino, where their instruments were, which they wished to save if possible. The casino was still standing. They reached it, they mounted to their rooms, they carried off the two violins, the alto, and the violoncello to the park, in which they sought refuge.

There were gathered several thousand persons of both sections. The Tankerdon and Coverley families were there, and perhaps it was fortunate for them that amid the darkness they could not see each other, could not recognize each other.

Walter had, however, been fortunate enough to meet with Di. He would try and save her at the moment of the supreme catastrophe. He would cling with her to some piece of wreckage.

The girl divined that the young man was near her, and this cry escaped her, —

“Ah! Walter!”

“Di, dear Di! I am here! I will not leave you any more.”

As to our Parisians, they would not leave each other. They would remain together. Frascolin had lost nothing of his coolness. Yvernes was very nervous. Pinchinat was ironically resigned. Sebastien Zorn said to Athanase Doremus, who had at last decided to join his compatriots, —

“I told them it would end badly! I predicted it!”

“Enough of your tremolos in a minor key, old Isaiah,” said his Highness; “start on your penitential psalms.”

Towards midnight the force of the cyclone increased. The converging winds raised monstrous waves and hurled them against Floating Island. Where would this strife of the elements take them? To be sheltered on some reef? To be rent asunder in mid-ocean?

The hull was now rent in a thousand places. The joints were cracking everywhere. St. Mary’s church, the temple, the town hall, had fallen through the gaping fissures through which the sea came leaping up. Of these magnificent edifices not a vestige remained. What riches, what treasures, pictures, statues, objects of art had vanished for ever! The people would see no more of this superb Milliard City when daylight came, if ever the daylight came for them.

The sea began to spread over the country, over the park. The island sank lower and lower in the water. The surface of Floating Island was at the level of the sea, and the cyclone was driving the waves over on to it.

No shelter now anywhere. Prow Battery, which was then to windward, afforded no protection against the waves or the squalls which swept on to it. The compartments opened, and the dislocation continued, with a noise that was heard above the most violent rolls of thunder. The supreme catastrophe was approaching.

About three in the morning the park cracked along a length of two kilometres in the bed of Serpentine River, and through this the sea flowed. Instant flight was inevitable, and the people dispersed into the country. Some ran towards the ports, others towards the batteries. Families were separated; mothers in vain sought for their children; while the sea rolled over Floating Island as if in an enormous tidal wave.

Walter Tankerdon, who had not left Di, tried to lead her towards Starboard Harbour. She had not strength to follow him. He lifted her, almost inanimate; he carried her in his arms; and in this way he went through the terror-stricken crowd, amid this horrible darkness.

At five o’clock in the morning, more cracking and rending of metal were heard in the east.

A piece about half a square mile in area had been detached from Floating Island.

It was Starboard Harbour, with its works, its engines, its warehouses, that had drifted off.

Beneath the redoubled blows of the cyclone, then at the height of its violence, Floating Island was thrown about like a wreck. Its hull became broken up. The compartments divided; and some, as the waves leapt over them, disappeared in the depths of the ocean.

“After the burst-up of the company,” said Pinchinat, “the burst-up of Floating Island.”

That was the summing-up of the situation.

Of the marvellous Floating Island there now remained but a few scattered pieces, like the sporadic fragments of a shattered comet, floating not in space, but on the surface of the wide Pacific.

CHAPTER XIV.

WHEN the day broke, a spectator from a height of a few hundred feet would have seen three fragments of Floating Island, measuring two or three hectares each, floating on the sea, and about a dozen of smaller size at a short distance from one another.

The cyclone began to die away with the first appearance of daylight. With the rapidity peculiar to these great atmospheric disturbances, its centre moved thirty miles towards the east. But the sea, so terribly lashed, continued tremendous, and the wrecks large and small rolled and pitched like vessels on an ocean in fury.

The part of Floating Island which had suffered most was that which had formed the base of Milliard City. It had sunk beneath the weight of its edifices. In vain would you search for any vestige of its monuments, of the houses which bordered the main avenues of both sections. Never had the separation between Larboardites and Star-boardites been more complete, and never assuredly had they dreamt of such.

Was the number of victims considerable? It was to be feared so, although the people had taken refuge in time in the centre of the country, where the ground offered more resistance to dismemberment.

Well! Were they satisfied, these Coverleys and Tankerdons, of the result due to their culpable rivalry? It was not one of them who would govern, to the exclusion of the other. Swallowed up was Milliard City, and with it the enormous price they had paid for it. But do not pity their fate! There remained to them millions enough in the coffers of the American and European banks to assure them of their daily bread in their old age.

The largest fragment comprised that portion of the country which extended between the observatory and Prow Battery. Its area was about three acres, and on it the shipwrecked people — if we can so describe them — were gathered to the number of three thousand.

On the next largest portion were some of the buildings in the neighbourhood of Larboard Harbour, the port, with some of the storehouses of provisions and one of the tanks of fresh water. The electric works, the buildings in which were the machinery and boilers, had disappeared at the time of the explosion. On this second fragment two thousand people had taken refuge.

With regard to Starboard Harbour, it will not have been forgotten that this part of Floating Island had been violently forced off at three o’clock in the morning. It had doubtless sunk, for as far as the eye could reach, nothing could be seen of it.

With the first two fragments floated a third, of an area of from four to five hectares, comprising that portion of the country about Stern Battery, on which were about four thousand people. And there were twelve more pieces, measuring a few hundred square metres each, on which the rest of the people saved from the disaster had taken refuge.

That was all that was left of the Pearl of the Pacific.

There must, therefore, have been many hundred victims of the catastrophe; and the survivors might be thankful that Floating Island had not been swallowed up entirely in the waters of the Pacific.

But if they were far from land, how were these fragments to reach a coast? Were the people to perish by famine? And would there survive a single witness of this disaster, unequalled in maritime necrology?

No, there was no need to despair. These drifting fragments bore energetic men, and all that was possible to do for the common safety would be done.

It was on the fragment around Prow Battery that wero gathered Commodore Ethel Simcoe, the King and Queen of Malecarlie, the staff of the observatory, Colonel Stewart, some of the officers, a certain number of the notables of Milliard City, the clergy — in fact, an important part of the population.

There also were the Coverley and Tankerdon families, overwhelmed by the frightful responsibility which rested on their chiefs. And were they not also smitten in their dearest affections, for Walter and Di had disappeared! Were they on one of the other fragments? Could they ever hope to see them again?

The Quartette Party with their precious instruments were complete. To use a well-known formula, “death alone would separate them.” Frascolin was still taking matters coolly, and had not lost all hope. Yvernes, who was accustomed to look at things on their extraordinary side, remarked; “It would be difficult to imagine a grander finish.”

Sebastien Zorn was nearly crazy. To have been the prophet predicting the misfortunes of Floating Island, as Jeremiah did the misfortunes of Sion, did not console him. He was hungry, he was cold, he was continually coughing.

And Calistus Munbar? Well, the superintendent was simply sublime — yes, sublime! He would not despair of the safety of the people, or the safety of Floating Island. Floating Island could be repaired. The fragments were sound, and it could not be said that the elements had triumphed over this masterpiece of naval architecture.

It was certain that danger was no longer imminent. All that could sink during the cyclone had sunk with Milliard City — its hotels, its houses, the works, the batteries, all the heavy superstructure. The fragments now were in good condition. They were floating higher than before, and the waves were not sweeping over their surface.

Here was a respite, a tangible amelioration, and as the fear of immediate sinking was removed, the people’s spirits had improved. They were much calmer. Only the women and children, incapable of reasoning, had failed to overcome their terror.

And what had happened to Athanase Doremus? At the commencement of the breaking up, the professor of dancing and deportment had been carried away with his old servant on one of the fragments. But a current had brought him towards the piece on which were his compatriots of the quartette.

Commodore Simcoe, like the captain of a disabled ship, aided by his devoted staff, had set to work. In the first place, would it be possible to join up the pieces that were floating separately? If it were impossible, could they establish communications between them? This last question was easily answered in the affirmative, for several boats had remained uninjured in Larboard Harbour. By sending them from one fragment to another, Commodore Simcoe could ascertain what resources were left, what amount of fresh water and provisions.

But was he able to find out the longitude and latitude of this flotilla of wreckage?

No! For want of instruments to take an altitude, the position could not be determined, and hence they could not know if they were near any island or continent.

About nine o’clock in the morning, Commodore Simcoe embarked with two of his officers in a boat which had come from Larboard Harbour to fetch him. In this boat he visited the different fragments, and this was what he ascertained in the course of the inquiry.

The distilling apparatus at Larboard Harbour had been destroyed, but the tank contained enough drinking water for a fortnight, if the consumption were reduced to what was strictly necessary. The reserves in the storehouses were sufficient for the food of the people for nearly as long.

It was therefore necessary that in two weeks at the outside a landing should be effected on some point in the Pacific.

This information was in a certain measure reassuring.

But Commodore Simcoe could not help discovering that there had been many hundred victims of this terrible night. The grief of the Tankerdon and Coverley families was inexpressible. Neither Walter nor Di had been found on any of the fragments visited by the boat. At the moment of the catastrophe the young man, carrying his betrothed, was going towards Starboard Harbour, and of this part of Floating Island nothing remained on the surface of the Pacific.

In the afternoon the wind abated from hour to hour, the sea fell, and the fragments were barely affected by the undulations of the surge. By means of the boats from Larboard Harbour, Commodore Simcoe provided for the food of the people, sending them what was necessary to save them from dying of hunger.

Communications became easier and more rapid. The different pieces, obedient to the laws of attraction, like fragments of cork on the surface of a basin of water, approached one another. And was not that of good augury to the confident Calistus Munbar, who saw in it the re-constitution of the Pearl of the Pacific?

The night went by in darkness. The time had gone when the avenues of Milliard City, the streets of the commercial quarters, the lawns in the park, the fields and prairies were bright with electric lights, when the aluminium moons poured in profusion a dazzling effulgence over the surface of Floating Island!

Amid the darkness there were a few collisions between the fragments. These shocks could not be avoided, but fortunately they were not violent enough to cause serious damage.

At daybreak it was seen that the pieces were all very near together, and floating on a tranquil sea. In a few strokes of the oar it was easy to pass from one to the other. Commodore Simcoe had every facility for regulating the consumption of food and fresh water. That was the important point, and the people understood it and were resigned.

The boats took several families about. They went in search of those they had not yet found. What happiness among these who were met with again, who gave no thought to the dangers with which they were still threatened. What sorrow for those who vainly sought for the absent?

It was evidently a fortunate circumstance that the sea had calmed down-But it was perhaps regrettable that the wind had not continued blowing from the south-east. It would have helped the current which in this part of the Pacific runs towards the Australian coast.

By order of Commodore Simcoe, look-outs were posted to watch every point of the horizon. If a ship appeared, they would make signals. But ships are few in these distant regions at this period of the year when the equinoctial storms prevail.

There was, therefore, a very poor chance of noticing either smoke or masts and sails along the line of sky and water. And yet about two in the afternoon Commodore Simcoe received the following communication from one of the look-outs: “In the northeast there is something on the move, and although the hull cannot be distinguished, it is certain that a vessel is passing in the offing.”

This news caused extraordinary excitement. The King of Malecarlie, Commodore Simcoe, the officers and engineers, all went to the side where the vessel had been signalled from. Orders were given to attract attention by hoisting flags at the end of spars and by simultaneous discharges of the firearms they had left. If the night came before these signals were noticed, a fire would be lighted, and during the night, as it would be visible at a great distance, it was impossible that it could escape being perceived.

It was not necessary to wait until the evening. The mass in question visibly approached. Clouds of smoke rolled overhead, and there could be no doubt it was making for the fragments of Floating Island.

The glasses kept it in view, although its hull was very little above the sea, and it possessed neither masts nor sails.

“My friends,” Commodore Simcoe soon exclaimed, “I am not mistaken! It is a piece of our island! It is Starboard Harbour which was carried away by the currents. Doubtless Mr. Somwah has repaired his engines, and is coming to us.”

Demonstrations verging on madness welcomed the news. It seemed that the safety of all was now assured-It was as it were a vital part of Floating Island which came back with this piece of Starboard Harbour.

Matters had, in fact, happened as Commodore Simcoe supposed. After the breaking off, Starboard Harbour, seized by a counter-current, had drifted off to the northeast. When day came Mr. Somwah had repaired the slight damages to his engines, and returned to the scene of the wreck, bringing with him several hundred more survivors.

Three hours afterwards, Starboard Harbour was not more than a cable’s length from the flotilla. And what transports of joy, what shouts of enthusiasm welcomed its arrival. Walter Tankerdon and Di Coverley, who had taken refuge there before the catastrophe, were there side by side.

With the arrival of Starboard Harbour, with its reserves of provisions and water, there was some chance of safety. The stores contained enough oil to drive the engines and dynamos and work the screws for some days. Its five million horse-power would enable it to reach the nearest land. This land, according to the observations made by the officer of the port, was New Zealand.

But the difficulty was that these thousands of people could not take passage on Starboard Harbour, its area being only from six to seven thousand square metres. Would it have to be sent fifty miles away in search of help?

No! The voyage would require considerable time, and there were not many hours to spare. There was not a day to lose If the people were to be preserved from the horrors of famine.

“We can do better than that,” said the King of Malecarlie. “The fragments of Starboard Harbour and the batteries can carry all the survivors of Floating Island. Fasten these three fragments together by strong chains, and tow them one behind the other as if they were barges. Then, with Starboard Harbour at the head, its five million horse-power can take us to New Zealand.”

The advice was excellent, it was practicable, it had every chance of success, now that Starboard Harbour possessed such enormous locomotive power. Confidence returned to the people as if they were already in sight of port.

The rest of the day was employed in the work necessitated by the fixing of the chains which were furnished by the stores of Starboard Harbour. Commodore Simcoe estimated that in this way a speed of from eight to ten miles a day could be obtained. In five days they would, if assisted by the current, accomplish the fifty miles which separated them from New Zealand. There was no doubt that the provisions would last until then. But to provide against delays, the rations were prudently maintained as before.

The preparations being complete, Starboard Harbour took the head of the procession about seven o’clock in the evening. Under the propulsion of its screws the two other fragments were slowly towed over the calm sea.

Next morning at daylight the look-outs had lost sight of the fragments left behind.

Nothing of importance occurred during the 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th, and 8th of April. The weather was favourable, the motion of the sea was hardly perceptible, and the voyage continued under excellent conditions.

About eight o’clock on the morning of the 9th of April; the land was sighted on the port bow — a high land that could be seen from a considerable distance.

Observations being taken with the instruments at Starboard Harbour, there was no doubt as to the identity of this land. It was the northern island of New Zealand.

A day and a night passed, and on the ioth of April, in the morning, Starboard Harbour ran aground about a cable length from the shore in Ravaraki Bay.

What satisfaction, what security the people experienced when they felt the real ground beneath their feet, and not the artificial soil of Floating Island. And yet how long might not this substantial maritime apparatus have lasted, if human passions, stronger than the winds and the sea, had not driven it to destruction.

The shipwrecked people were very hospitably received by the New Zealanders, who gave everybody food who required it.

As soon as they arrived at Auckland, the marriage of Walter Tankerdon with Di Coverley was at last celebrated with all the pomp the circumstances deserved. Let us add that the Quartette Party were heard for the last time at this ceremony, at which all the Milliardites were present. It would be a happy union — would it had taken place sooner, in the interest of all! Doubtless the young couple only possessed a poor million each —

“But,” as Pinchinat said, “there is every reason to believe that they will still find happiness with such a moderate fortune.”

The Tankerdons and Coverleys and other notables intended to return to America, where they would no longer dispute over the government of a Floating Island.

The same determination was come to by Commodore Simcoe, Colonel Stewart and their officers, the staff of the observatory, and even the superintendent, Calistus Munbar, who had not given up the idea of building a new artificial island.

The King and Queen of Malecarlie made no secret as to their regret for Floating Island, in which they had hoped to peacefully terminate their existence. Let us hope that these ex-sovereigns found a corner of the earth where they could spend their last days sheltered from political discussions.

And the Quartette Party?

Well, the Quartette Party, whatever Sebastien Zorn might say, had not done so badly, and if they bore any ill-will to Calistus Munbar for having taken them against their will, it would have been sheer ingratitude.

From the 25th of May the preceding year until the 10th of April a little more than eleven months had elapsed, during which our artistes had lived the luxurious life we know. They had received the fourth instalment of their salary, three instalments of which were deposited in the banks of San Francisco and New York, payable to them on demand.

After the marriage ceremony at Auckland, Sebastien Zorn, Yvernes, Frascolin, and Pinchinat went to take leave of their friends, not forgetting Athanase Doremus. Then they embarked on a steamer bound for San Diego.

Arriving on the 3rd of May in this capital of Lower California, their first care was to apologize through the newspapers for having failed to keep their appointment eleven months before, and to express their sincere regret at what had happened.

“Gentlemen, we would have waited for you for twenty years!”

That was the reply they received from the amiable director of concerts at San Diego.

Nobody could have been more accommodating or more gracious. The only way to acknowledge such courtesy was to give this concert which had been announced for so long.

And before a public as numerous as enthusiastic, the quartette in F major, from Op. 9 of Mozart, was for these virtuosos escaped from the wreck of Floating Island one of the greatest successes of their artistic career.

Such is the end of the story of the ninth wonder of the orld, this incomparable Pearl of the Pacific! All is well that ends well, as people say, but all is bad that ends badly, and was such the case with Floating Island?

Ended, no! It will be rebuilt some day — at least Calistus Munbar says so.

And yet — we cannot repeat it too often — to create an artificial island, an island that moves on the surface of the seas, is it not to overstep the limits assigned to human genius, and is it not forbidden to man, who disposes not of the winds or the waves, to so recklessly usurp the functions of the Creator?

THE END.

FACING THE FLAG

Anonymous translation, 1896

This 1896 novel is set in France, which is depicted as being under threat with the rest of the world by a super weapon. The novel resonates with French patriotism and it is a precursor work of fiction to deal with problems that would later affect our world, like nuclear war and terrorism.

Verne, close to the time of publication

CHAPTER III.

KIDNAPPED.

Half an hour later the Count d’Artigas and Captain Spade were following the beech-lined road that separated the Healthful House estate from the right bank of the Neuse. Both had taken leave of the director, the latter declaring himself greatly honored by their visit, and the former thanking him warmly for his courteous reception. A hundred-dollar bill left as a tip for the staff of the establishment had certainly not belied the Count’s reputation for generosity. He was — there could be no doubt about it — a foreigner of the highest distinction, if distinction be measured by generosity.

Issuing by the gate at the main entrance to Healthful House, they had skirted the wall that surrounded the property, and which was high enough to preclude the possibility of climbing it. Not a word passed between them for some time; the Count was deep in thought and Captain Spade was not in the habit of addressing him without being first spoken to.

At last when they stood beneath the rear wall behind which, though it was not visible, the Count knew Pavilion No. 17 was situated, he said:

“You managed, I presume, to thoroughly explore the place, and are acquainted with every detail of it?”

“Certainly, Count” replied Captain Spade, emphasizing the title.

“You are perfectly sure about it?”

“Perfectly. I could go through the park with my eyes shut. If you still persist in carrying out your scheme the pavilion can be easily reached.”

“I do persist, Spade.”

“Notwithstanding Thomas Roch’s mental condition?”

“Notwithstanding his condition; and if we succeed in carrying him off — — “

“That is my affair. When night comes on I undertake to enter the park of Healthful House, and then the pavilion garden without being seen by anybody.”

“By the entrance gate?”

“No, on this side.”

“Yes, but on this side there is the wall, and if you succeed in climbing it, how are you going to get over it again with Thomas Roch? What if the madman cries out — what if he should resist — what if his keeper gives the alarm?”

“Don’t worry yourself in the least about that. We have only got to go in and come out by this door.”

Captain Spade pointed to a narrow door let into the wall a few paces distant, and which was doubtless used by the staff of the establishment when they had occasion to go out by the river.

“That is the way I propose to go in. It’s much easier than scaling the wall with a ladder.”

“But the door is closed.”

“It will open.”

“Has it no bolts?”

“Yes, but I shot them back while we were strolling about, and the director didn’t notice what I had done.”

“How are you going to open it?” queried the Count, going to the door.

“Here is the key,” replied Spade, producing it.

He had withdrawn it from the lock, where it happened to be, when he had unbolted the door.

“Capital!” exclaimed the Count. “It couldn’t be better. The business will be easier than I expected. Let us get back to the schooner. At eight o’clock one of the boats will put you ashore with five men.”

“Yes, five men will do,” said Captain Spade. “There will be enough of them to effect our object even if the keeper is aroused and it becomes necessary to put him out of the way.”

“Put him out of the way — well, if it becomes absolutely necessary of course you must, but it would be better to seize him too and bring him aboard the Ebba Who knows but what he has already learned a part of Roch’s secret?”

“True.”

“Besides, Thomas Roch is used to him, and I don’t propose to make him change his habitudes in any way.”

This observation was accompanied by such a significant smile that Captain Spade could entertain no doubt as to the role reserved for the warder of Healthful House.

The plan to kidnap them both was thus settled, and appeared to have every chance of being successful; unless during the couple of hours of daylight that yet remained it was noticed that the key of the door had been stolen and the bolts drawn back, Captain Spade and his men could at least count upon being able to enter the park, and the rest, the captain affirmed, would be easy enough.

Thomas Roch was the only patient in the establishment isolated and kept under special surveillance. All the other invalids lived in the main building, or occupied pavilions in the front of the park. The plan was to try and seize Roch and Gaydon separately and bind and gag them before they could cry out.

The Count d’Artigas and his companion wended their way to a creek where one of the Ebba’s boats awaited them. The schooner was anchored two cable lengths from the shore, her sails neatly rolled upon her yards, which were squared as neatly as those of a pleasure yacht or of a man-of-war. At the peak of the mainmast a narrow red pennant was gently swayed by the wind, which came in fitful puffs from the east.

The Count and the captain jumped into the boat and a few strokes of the four oars brought them alongside of the schooner. They climbed on deck and going forward to the jib-boom, leaned over the starboard bulwark and gazed at an object that floated on the water a few strokes ahead of the vessel. It was a small buoy that was rocked by the ripple of the ebbing tide.

Twilight gradually set in, and the outline of New-Berne on the left bank of the sinuous Neuse became more and more indistinct until it disappeared in the deepening shades of night. A mist set in from the sea, but though it obscured the moon it brought no sign of rain. The lights gleamed out one by one in the houses of the town. The fishing smacks came slowly up the river to their anchorage, impelled by the oars of their crews which struck the water with sharp, rhythmical strokes, and with their sails distended on the chance of catching an occasional puff of the dropping wind to help them along. A couple of steamers passed, sending up volumes of black smoke and myriads of sparks from their double stacks, and lashing the water into foam with their powerful paddles.

At eight o’clock the Count d’Artigas appeared on the schooner’s deck accompanied by a man about fifty years of age, to whom he remarked:

“It is time to go, Serko.”

“Very well, I will tell Spade,” replied Serko.

At that moment the captain joined them.

“You had better get ready to go,” said the Count.

“All is ready.”

“Be careful to prevent any alarm being given, and arrange matters so that no one will for a minute suspect that Thomas Roch and his keeper have been brought on board the Ebba.”

“They wouldn’t find them if they came to look for them,” observed Serko, shrugging his shoulders and laughing heartily as though he had perpetrated a huge joke.

“Nevertheless, it is better not to arouse their suspicion,” said d’Artigas.

The boat was lowered, and Captain Spade and five sailors took their places in it. Four of the latter got out the oars. The boatswain, Effrondat, who was to remain in charge of the boat, went to the stern beside Captain Spade and took the tiller.

“Good luck, Spade,” said Serko with a smile, “and don’t make more noise about it than if you were a gallant carrying off his lady-love.”

“I won’t — unless that Gaydon chap — “

“We must have both Roch and Gaydon,” insisted the Count d’Artigas.

“That is understood,” replied Spade.

The boat pushed off, and the sailors on the deck of the schooner watched it till it was lost to sight in the darkness.

Pending its return, no preparations for the Ebba’s departure were made. Perhaps there was no intention of quitting the port after the men had been kidnapped. Besides, how could the vessel have reached the open sea? Not a breath of air was now stirring, and in half an hour the tide would be setting in again, and rising strongly and rapidly for several miles above New-Berne.

Anchored, as has already been said, a couple of cable-lengths from the shore, the Ebba might have been brought much nearer to it, for the water was deep enough, and this would have facilitated the task of the kidnappers when they returned from their expedition. If, however, the Count d’Artigas preferred to let the vessel stay where she was, he probably had his reasons.

Not a soul was in sight on the bank, and the road, with its borders of beech trees that skirted the wall of Healthful House estate, was equally deserted. The boat was made fast to the shore. Then Captain Spade and his four sailors landed, leaving the boatswain in charge, and disappeared amid the trees.

When they reached the wall Captain Spade stopped and the sailors drew up on each side of the doorway. The captain had only to turn the key in the lock and push the door, unless one of the servants, noticing that the door was not secured as usual, had bolted it. In this event their task would be an extremely difficult one, even if they succeeded in scaling the high wall.

The captain put his ear to the key-hole and listened.

Not a sound was to be heard in the park. Not even a leaf was rustling in the branches of the beeches under which they were standing. The surrounding country was wrapt in the profoundest silence.

Captain Spade drew the key from his pocket, inserted it in the lock and turned it noiselessly. Then he cautiously pushed the door, which opened inward.

Things were, then, just as he had left them, and no one had noticed the theft of the key.

After assuring himself that nobody happened to be in the neighborhood of the pavilion the captain entered, followed by his men. The door was left wide open, so that they could beat a hurried and uninterrupted retreat in case of necessity. The trees and bushes in this shady part of the park were very thick, and it was so dark that it would not have been easy to distinguish the pavilion had not a light shone brightly in one of the windows.

No doubt this was the window of the room occupied by Roch and his guardian, Gaydon, seeing that the latter never left the patient placed in his charge either by night or day. Captain Spade had expected to find him there.

The party approached cautiously, taking the utmost precaution to avoid kicking a pebble or stepping on a twig, the noise of which might have revealed their presence. In this way they reached the door of the pavilion near which was the curtained window of the room in which the light was burning.

But if the door was locked, how were they going to get in? Captain Spade must have asked himself. He had no key, and to attempt to effect an entrance through the window would be hazardous, for, unless Gaydon could be prevented from giving the alarm, he would rouse the whole establishment.

There was no help for it, however. The essential was to get possession of Roch. If they could kidnap Gaydon, too, in conformity with the intentions of the Count d’Artigas, so much the better. If not —

Captain Spade crept stealthily to the window, and standing on tiptoe, looked in. Through an aperture in the curtain he could see all over the room.

Gaydon was standing beside Thomas Roch, who had not yet recovered from the fit with which he had been attacked during the Count d’Artigas’ visit. His condition necessitated special attention, and the warder was ministering to the patient under the direction of a third person.

The latter was one of the doctors attached to Healthful House, and had been at once sent to the pavilion by the director when Roch’s paroxysm came on. His presence of course rendered the situation more complicated and the work of the kidnappers more difficult.

Roch, fully dressed, was extended upon a sofa. He was now fairly calm. The paroxysm, which was abating, would be followed by several hours of torpor and exhaustion.

Just as Captain Spade peeped through the window the doctor was making preparations to leave. The Captain heard him say to Gaydon that his (the doctor’s) presence was not likely to be required any more that night, and that there was nothing to be done beyond following the instructions he had given.

The doctor then walked towards the door, which, it will be remembered, was close to the window in front of which Spade and his men were standing. If they remained where they were they could not fail to be seen, not only by the doctor, but by the warder, who was accompanying him to the door.

Before they made their appearance, however, the sailors, at a sign from their chief, had dispersed and hidden themselves behind the bushes, while Spade himself crouched in the shadow beneath the window. Luckily Gaydon had not brought the lamp with him, so that the captain was in no danger of being seen.

As he was about to take leave of Gaydon, the doctor stopped on the step and remarked:

“This is one of the worst attacks our patient has had. One or two more like that and he will lose the little reason he still possesses.”

“Just so,” said Gaydon. “I wonder that the director doesn’t prohibit all visitors from entering the pavilion. Roch owes his present attack to a Count d’Artigas, for whose amusement harmful questions were put to him.”

“I will call the director’s attention to the matter,” responded the doctor.

He then descended the steps and Gaydon, leaving the door of the pavilion ajar, accompanied him to the end of the path.

When they had gone Captain Spade stood up, and his men rejoined him.

Had they not better profit by the chance thus unexpectedly afforded them to enter the room and secure Roch, who was in a semi-comatose condition, and then await Gaydon’s return, and seize the warder as he entered?

This would have involved considerable risk. Gaydon, at a glance, would perceive that his patient was missing and raise an alarm; the doctor would come running back; the whole staff of Healthful House would turn out, and Spade would not have time to escape with his precious prisoner and lock the door in the wall after him.

He did not have much chance to deliberate about it, for the warder was heard returning along the gravel path. Spade decided that the best thing to be done was to spring upon him as he passed and stifle his cries and overpower him before he could attempt to offer any resistance. The carrying off of the mad inventor would be easy enough, inasmuch as he was unconscious, and could not raise a finger to help himself.

Gaydon came round a clump of bushes and approached the entrance to the pavilion. As he raised his foot to mount the steps the four sailors sprang upon him, bore him backwards to the ground, and had gagged him, securely bound him hand and foot, and bandaged his eyes before he began to realize what had happened.

Two of the men then kept guard over him, while Captain Spade and the others entered the house.

As the captain had surmised, Thomas Roch had sunk into such a torpor that he could have heard nothing of what had been going on outside. Reclining at full length, with his eyes closed, he might have been taken for a dead man but for his heavy breathing. There was no need either to bind or gag him. One man took him by the head and another by the feet and started off with him to the schooner.

Captain Spade was the last to quit the house after extinguishing the lamp and closing the door behind him. In this way there was no reason to suppose that the inmates would be missed before morning.

Gaydon was carried off in the same way as Thomas Roch had been. The two remaining sailors lifted him and bore him quietly but rapidly down the path to the door in the wall. The park was pitch dark. Not even a glimmer of the lights in the windows of Healthful House could be seen through the thick foliage.

Arrived at the wall, Spade, who had led the way, stepped aside to allow the sailors with their burdens to pass through, then followed and closed and locked the door. He put the key in his pocket, intending to throw it into the Neuse as soon as they were safely on board the schooner.

There was no one on the road, nor on the bank of the river.

The party made for the boat, and found that Effrondat, the boatswain, had made all ready to receive them.

Thomas Roch and Gaydon were laid in the bottom of the boat, and the sailors again took their places at the oars.

“Hurry up, Effrondat, and cast off the painter,” ordered the captain.

The boatswain obeyed, and pushed the boat off with his foot as he scrambled in.

The men bent to their oars and rowed rapidly to the schooner, which was easily distinguishable, having hung out a light at her mizzenmast head.

In two minutes they were alongside.

The Count d’Artigas was leaning on the bulwarks by the gangway.

“All right, Spade?” he questioned.

“Yes, sir, all right!”

“Both of them?”

“Both the madman and his keeper.”

“Doesn’t anybody know about it up at Healthful House?

“Not a soul.”

It was not likely that Gaydon, whose eyes and ears were bandaged, but who preserved all his sang-froid, could have recognized the voices of the Count d’Artigas and Captain Spade. Nor did he have the chance to. No attempt was immediately made to hoist him on board. He had been lying in the bottom of the boat alongside the schooner for fully half an hour, he calculated, before he felt himself lifted, and then lowered, doubtless to the bottom of the hold.

The kidnapping having been accomplished it would seem that it only remained for the Ebba to weigh anchor, descend the estuary and make her way out to sea through Pamlico Sound. Yet no preparations for departure were made.

Was it not dangerous to stay where they were after their daring raid? Had the Count d’Artigas hidden his prisoners so securely as to preclude the possibility of their being discovered if the Ebba, whose presence in proximity to Healthful House could not fail to excite suspicion, received a visit from the New-Berne police?

However this might have been, an hour after the return of the expedition, every soul on board save the watch — the Count d’Artigas, Serko, and Captain Spade in their respective cabins, and the crew in the fore-castle, were sound asleep.

CHAPTER IV.

THE SCHOONER EBBA.

It was not till the next morning, and then very leisurely, that the Ebba began to make preparations for her departure. From the extremity of New-Berne quay the crew might have been seen holystoning the deck, after which they loosened the reef lines, under the direction of Effrondat, the boatswain, hoisted in the boats and cleared the halyards.

At eight o’clock the Count d’Artigas had not yet appeared on deck. His companion, Serko the engineer, as he was called on board, had not quitted his cabin. Captain Spade was strolling quietly about giving orders.

The Ebba would have made a splendid racing yacht, though she had never participated in any of the yacht races either on the North American or British coasts. The height of her masts, the extent of the canvas she carried, her shapely, raking hull, denoted her to be a craft of great speed, and her general lines showed that she was also built to weather the roughest gales at sea. In a favorable wind she would probably make twelve knots an hour.

Notwithstanding these advantages, however, she must in a dead calm necessarily suffer from the same disadvantages as other sailing vessels, and it might have been supposed that the Count d’Artigas would have preferred a steam-yacht with which he could have gone anywhere, at any time, in any weather. But apparently he was satisfied to stick to the old method, even when he made his long trips across the Atlantic.

On this particular morning the wind was blowing gently from the west, which was very favorable to the Ebba, and would enable her to stand straight out of the Neuse, across Pamlico Sound, and through one of the inlets that led to the open sea.

At ten o’clock the Ebba was still rocking lazily at anchor, her stem up stream and her cable tautened by the rapidly ebbing tide. The small buoy that on the previous evening had been moored near the schooner was no longer to be seen, and had doubtless been hoisted in.

Suddenly a gun boomed out and a slight wreath of white smoke arose from the battery. It was answered by other reports from the guns on the chain of islands along the coast.

At this moment the Count d’Artigas and Engineer Serko appeared on deck. Captain Spade went to meet them.

“Guns barking,” he said laconically.

“We expected it,” replied Serko, shrugging his shoulders. “They are signals to close the passes.”

“What has that to do with us %” asked the Count d’Artigas quietly.

“Nothing at all,” said the engineer.

They all, of course, knew that the alarm-guns indicated that the disappearance of Thomas Roch and the warder Gaydon from Healthful House had been discovered.

At daybreak the doctor had gone to Pavilion No. 17 to see how his patient had passed the night, and had found no one there. He immediately notified the director, who had the grounds thoroughly searched. It was then discovered that the door in rear of the park was unbolted, and that, though locked, the key had been taken away. It was evident that Roch and his attendant had been carried out that way. But who were the kidnappers? No one could possibly imagine. All that could be ascertained was that at half-past seven on the previous night one of the doctors had attended Thomas Roch, who was suffering from one of his fits, and that when the medical man had left him the invalid was in an unconscious condition. What had happened after the doctor took leave of Gaydon at the end of the garden-path could not even be conjectured.

The news of the disappearance was telegraphed to New Berne, and thence to Raleigh. On receipt of it the Governor had instantly wired orders that no vessel was to be allowed to quit Pamlico Sound without having been first subjected to a most rigorous search. Another dispatch ordered the cruiser Falcon, which was stationed in the port, to carry out the Governor’s instructions in this respect. At the same time measures were taken to keep a strict lookout in every town and village in the State.

The Count d’Artigas could see the Falcon, which was a couple of miles away to the east in the estuary, getting steam up and making hurried preparations to carry out her mission. It would take at least an hour before the warship could be got ready to steam out, and the schooner might by that time have gained a good start.

“Shall I weigh anchor?” demanded Captain Spade.

“Yes, as we have a fair wind; but you can take your time about it,” replied the Count d’Artigas.

“The passes of Pamlico Sound will be under observation,” observed Engineer Serko, “and no vessel will be able to get out without receiving a visit from gentlemen as inquisitive as they will be indiscreet.”

“Never mind, get under way all the same,” ordered the Count. “When the officers of the cruiser or the Custom-House officers have been over the Ebba the embargo will be raised. I shall be indeed surprised if we are not allowed to go about our business.”

“With a thousand pardons for the liberty taken, and best wishes for a good voyage and speedy return,” chuckled Engineer Serko, following the phrase with a loud and prolonged laugh.

When the news was received at New-Berne, the authorities at first were puzzled to know whether the missing inventor and his keeper had fled or been carried off. As, however, Roch’s flight could not have taken place without the connivance of Gaydon, this supposition was speedily abandoned. In the opinion of the director and management of Healthful House the warder was absolutely above suspicion. They must both, then, have been kidnapped.

It can easily be imagined what a sensation the news caused in the town. What! the French inventor who had been so closely guarded had disappeared, and with him the secret of the wonderful fulgurator that nobody had been able to worm out of him? Might not the most serious consequences follow? Might not the discovery of the new engine be lost to America forever? If the daring act had been perpetrated on behalf of another nation, might not that nation, having Thomas Roch in its power, be eventually able to extract from him what the Federal Government had vainly endeavored to obtain? And was it reasonable, was it permissible, to suppose for an instant that he had been carried off for the benefit of a private individual?

Certainly not, was the emphatic reply to the latter question, which was too ridiculous to be entertained. Therefore the whole power of the State was employed in an effort to recover the inventor. In every county of North Carolina a special surveillance was organized on every road and at every railroad station, and every house in town and country was searched. Every port from Wilmington to Norfolk was closed, and no craft of any description could leave without being thoroughly overhauled. Not only the cruiser Falcon, but every available cutter and launch was sent out with orders to patrol Pamlico Sound and board yachts, merchant vessels and fishing smacks indiscriminately whether anchored or not and search them down to the keelson.

Still the crew of the Ebba prepared calmly to weigh anchor, and the Count d’Artigas did not appear to be in the least concerned at the orders of the authorities and at the consequences that would ensue, if Thomas Roch and his keeper, Gaydon, were found on board.

At last all was ready, the crew manned the capstan bars, the sails were hoisted, and the schooner glided gracefully through the water towards the Sound.

Twenty miles from New-Berne the estuary curves abruptly and shoots off towards the northwest for about the same distance, gradually widening until it empties itself into Pamlico Sound.

The latter is a vast expanse about seventy miles across from Swan Island to Roanoke. On the seaward side stretches a chain of long and narrow islands, forming a natural breakwater north and south from Cape Lookout to Cape Hatteras and from the latter to Cape Henry, near Norfolk City, in Virginia.

Numerous beacons on the islands and islets form an easy guide for vessels at night seeking refuge from the Atlantic gales, and once inside the chain they are certain of finding plenty of good anchoring grounds.

Several passes afford an outlet from the Sound to the sea. Beyond Swan Island lighthouse is Ocracoke inlet, and next is the inlet of Hatteras. There are also three others known as Logger Head inlet, New inlet, and Oregon inlet. The Ocracoke was the one nearest the Ebba, and she could make it without tacking, but the Falcon was searching all vessels that passed through. This did not, however, make any particular difference, for by this time all the passes, upon which the guns of the forts had been trained, were guarded by government vessels.

The Ebba, therefore, kept on her way, neither trying to avoid nor offering to approach the searchers. She seemed to be merely a pleasure-yacht out for a morning sail.

No attempt had up to that time been made to accost her. Was she, then, specially privileged, and to be spared the bother of being searched? Was the Count d’Artigas considered too high and mighty a personage to be thus molested, and delayed even for an hour? It was unlikely, for though he was regarded as a distinguished foreigner who lived the life of luxury enjoyed by the favored of fortune, no one, as a matter of fact, knew who he was, nor whence he came, nor whither he was going.

The schooner sped gracefully over the calm waters of the sound, her flag — a gold crescent in the angle of a red field — streaming proudly in the breeze. Count d’Artigas was cosily ensconced in a basket-work chair on the after-deck, conversing with Engineer Serko and Captain Spade.

“They don’t seem in a hurry to board us,” remarked Serko.

“They can come whenever they think proper,” said the Count in a tone of supreme indifference.

“No doubt they are waiting for us at the entrance to the inlet,” suggested Captain Spade.

“Let them wait,” grunted the wealthy nobleman.

Then he relapsed into his customary unconcerned impassibility.

Captain Spade’s hypothesis was doubtless correct. The Falcon had as yet made no move towards the schooner, but would almost certainly do so as soon as the latter reached the inlet, and the Count would have to submit to a search of his vessel if he wished to reach the open sea.

How was it then that he manifested such extraordinary unconcern? Were Thomas Roch and Gaydon so safely hidden that their hiding-place could not possibly be discovered?

The thing was possible, but perhaps the Count d’Artigas would not have been quite so confident had he been aware that the Ebba had been specially signalled to the warship and revenue cutters as a suspect.

The Count’s visit to Healthful House on the previous day had now attracted particular attention to him and his schooner. Evidently, at the time, the director could have had no reason to suspect the motive of his visit. But a few hours later, Thomas Roch and his keeper had been carried off. No one else from outside had been near the pavilion that day. It was admitted that it would have been an easy matter for the Count’s companion, while the former distracted the director’s attention, to push back the bolts of the door in the wall and steal the key. Then the fact that the Ebba was anchored in rear of, and only a few hundred yards from, the estate, was in itself suspicious. Nothing would have been easier for the desperadoes than to enter by the door, surprise their victims, and carry them off to the schooner.

These suspicions, neither the director nor the personnel of the establishment had at first liked to give expression to, but when the Ebba was seen to weigh anchor and head for the open sea, they appeared to be confirmed.

They were communicated to the authorities of New-Berne, who immediately ordered the commander of the Falcon to intercept the schooner, to search her minutely high and low, and from stem to stern, and on no account to let her proceed, unless he was absolutely certain that Roch and Gaydon were not on board.

Assuredly the Count d’Artigas could have had no idea that his vessel was the object of such stringent orders; but even if he had, it is questionable whether this superbly haughty and disdainful nobleman would hove manifested any particular anxiety.

Towards three o’clock, the warship which was cruising before the inlet, after having sent search parties aboard a few fishing-smacks, suddenly manoeuvred to the entrance of the pass, and awaited the approaching schooner. The latter surely did not imagine that she could force a passage in spite of the cruiser, or escape from a vessel propelled by steam. Besides, had she attempted such a foolhardy trick, a couple of shots from the Falcon’s guns would speedily have constrained her to lay to.

Presently a boat, manned by two officers and ten sailors, put off from the cruiser and rowed towards the Ebba. When they were only about half a cable’s length off, one of the men rose and waved a flag.

“That’s a signal to stop,” said Engineer Serko.

“Precisely,” remarked the Count d’Artigas.

“We shall have to lay to.”

“Then lay to.”

Captain Spade went forward and gave the necessary orders, and in a few minutes the vessel slackened speed, and was soon merely drifting with the tide.

The Falcon’s boat pulled alongside, and a man in the bows held on to her with a boat-hook. The gangway was lowered by a couple of hands on the schooner, and the two officers, followed by eight of their men, climbed on deck.

They found the crew of the Ebba drawn up in line on the forecastle.

The officer in command of the boarding-party — a first lieutenant — advanced towards the owner of the schooner, and the following questions and answers were exchanged:

“This schooner belongs to the Count d’Artigas, to whom, I presume, I have the honor of speaking?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What is her name?”

“The Ebba.”

“She is commanded by? — “

“Captain Spade.”

“What is his nationality?”

“Hindo-Malay.”

The officer scrutinized the schooner’s flag, while the Count d’Artigas added:

“Will you be good enough to tell me, sir, to what circumstance I owe the pleasure of your visit on board my vessel?”

“Orders have been received,” replied the officer, “to search every vessel now anchored in Pamlico Sound, or which attempts to leave it.”

He did not deem it necessary to insist upon this point since the Ebba, above every other, was to be subjected to the bother of a rigorous examination.

“You, of course, sir, have no intention of refusing me permission to go over your schooner?”

“Assuredly not, sir. My vessel is at your disposal from peaks to bilges. Only I should like to know why all the vessels which happen to be in Pamlico Sound to-day are being subjected to this formality.”

“I see no reason why you should not be informed, Monsieur the Count,” replied the officer. “The governor of North Carolina has been apprised that Healthful House has been broken into and two persons kidnapped, and the authorities merely wish to satisfy themselves that the persons carried off have not been embarked during the night.”

“Is it possible?” exclaimed the Count, feigning surprise. “And who are the persons who have thus disappeared from Healthful House?”

“An inventor — a madman — and his keeper.”

“A madman, sir? Do you, may I ask, refer to the Frenchman, Thomas Roch?”

“The same.”

“The Thomas Roch whom I saw yesterday during my visit to the establishment — whom I questioned in presence of the director — who was seized with a violent paroxysm just as Captain Spade and I were leaving?”

The officer observed the stranger with the keenest attention, in an effort to surprise anything suspicious in his attitude or remarks.

“It is incredible!” added the Count, as though he had just heard about the outrage for the first time.

“I can easily understand, sir, how uneasy the authorities must be,” he went on, “in view of Thomas Roch’s personality, and I cannot but approve of the measures taken. I need hardly say that neither the French inventor nor his keeper is on board the Ebba. However, you can assure yourself of the fact by examining the schooner as minutely as you desire. Captain Spade, show these gentlemen over the vessel.”

Then saluting the lieutenant of the Falcon coldly, the Count d’Artigas sank into his deck-chair again and replaced his cigar between his lips, while the two officers and eight sailors, conducted by Captain Spade, began their search.

In the first place they descended the main hatchway to the after saloon — a luxuriously-appointed place, filled with art objects of great value, hung with rich tapestries and hangings, and wainscotted with costly woods.

It goes without saying that this and the adjoining cabins were searched with a care that could not have been surpassed by the most experienced detectives. Moreover, Captain Spade assisted them by every means in his power, obviously anxious that they should not preserve the slightest suspicion of the Ebba’s owner.

After the grand saloon and cabins, the elegant dining-saloon was visited. Then the cook’s galley, Captain Spade’s cabin, and the quarters of the crew in the forecastle were overhauled, but no sign of Thomas Roch or Gaydon was to be seen.

Next, every inch of the hold, etc. was examined, with the aid of a couple of lanterns. Water-kegs, wine, brandy, whisky and beer barrels, biscuit-boxes, in fact, all the provision boxes and everything the hold contained, including the stock of coal, was moved and probed, and even the bilges were scrutinized, but all in vain.

Evidently the suspicion that the Count d’Artigas had carried off the missing men was unfounded and unjust. Even a rat could not have escaped the notice of the vigilant searchers, leave alone two men.

When they returned on deck, however, the officers, as a matter of precaution looked into the boats hanging on the davits, and punched the lowered sails, with the same result.

It only remained for them, therefore, to take leave of the Count d’Artigas.

“You must pardon us for having disturbed you, Monsieur the Count,” said the lieutenant.

“You were compelled to obey your orders, gentlemen.”

“It was merely a formality, of course,” ventured the officer.

By a slight inclination of the head the Count signified that he was quite willing to accept this euphemism.

“I assure you, gentlemen, that I have had no hand in this kidnapping.”

“We can no longer believe so, Monsieur the Count, and will withdraw.”

“As you please. Is the Ebba now free to proceed?”

“Certainly.”

“Then au revoir, gentlemen, au revoir, for I am an habitue of this coast and shall soon be back again. I hope that ere my return you will have discovered the author of the outrage, and have Thomas Roch safely back in Healthful House. It is a consummation devoutly to be wished in the interest of the United States — I might even say of the whole world.”

The two officers courteously saluted the Count, who responded with a nod. Captain Spade accompanied them to the gangway, and they were soon making for the cruiser, which had steamed near to pick them up.

Meanwhile the breeze had freshened considerably, and when, at a sign from d’Artigas, Captain Spade set sail again, the Ebba skimmed swiftly through the inlet, and half an hour after was standing out to sea.

For an hour she continued steering east-northeast, and then, the wind, being merely a land breeze, dropped, and the schooner lay becalmed, her sails limp, and her flag drooping like a wet rag. It seemed that it would be impossible for the vessel to continue her voyage that night unless a breeze sprang up, and of this there was no sign.

Since the schooner had cleared the inlet Captain Spade had stood in the bows gazing into the water, now to port, now to starboard, as if on the lookout for something. Presently he shouted in a stentorian voice:

“Furl sail!”

The sailors rushed to their posts, and in an instant the sails came rattling down and were furled.

Was it Count d’Artigas’ intention to wait there till daybreak brought a breeze with it? Presumably, or the sails would have remained hoisted to catch the faintest puff.

A boat was lowered and Captain Spade jumped into it, accompanied by a sailor, who paddled it towards an object that was floating on the water a few yards away.

This object was a small buoy, similar to that which had floated on the bosom of the Neuse when the Ebba lay off Healthful House.

The buoy, with a towline affixed to it, was lifted into the boat that was then paddled to the bow of the Ella, from the deck of which another hawser was cast to the captain, who made it fast to the towline of the buoy. Having dropped the latter overboard again, the captain and the sailor returned to the ship and the boat was hoisted in.

Almost immediately the hawser tautened, and the Elba, though not a stitch of canvas had been set, sped off in an easterly direction at a speed that could not have been less than ten knots an hour.

Night was falling fast, and soon the rapidly receding lights along the American coast were lost in the mist on the horizon.

CHAPTER V.

WHERE AM I?

(Notes by Simon Hart, the Engineer.)

Where am I? What has happened since the sudden aggression of which I was the victim near the pavilion.

I had just quitted the doctor, and was about to mount the steps, close the door and resume my post beside Thomas Roch when several men sprang upon me and knocked me down. Who are they? My eyes having been bandaged I was unable to recognize them. I could not cry for help, having been gagged. I could make no resistance, for they had bound me hand and foot. Thus powerless, I felt myself lifted and carried about one hundred paces, then hoisted, then lowered, then laid down.

Where? Where?

And Thomas Roch, what has become of him? It must have been he rather than I they were after. I was but Gaydon, the warder. None suspected that I was Simon Hart, the engineer, nor could they have suspected my nationality. Why, therefore, should they have desired to kidnap a mere hospital attendant?

There can consequently be no doubt that the French inventor has been carried off; and if he was snatched from Healthful House it must have been in the hope of forcing his secret from him.

But I am reasoning on the supposition that Thomas Roch was carried off with me. Is it so? Yes — it must be — it is. I can entertain no doubt whatever about it. I have not fallen into the hands of malefactors whose only intention is robbery. They would not have acted in this way. After rendering it impossible for me to cry out, after having thrown me into a clump of bushes in the corner of the garden, after having kidnapped Thomas Roch they would not have shut me up — where I now am.

Where? This is the question which I have been asking myself for hours without being able to answer it.

However, one thing is certain, and that is that I have embarked upon an extraordinary adventure, that will end? — In what manner I know not — I dare not even imagine what the upshot of it will be. Anyhow, it is my intention to commit to memory, minute by minute, the least circumstance, and then, if it be possible, to jot down my daily impressions. Who knows what the future has in store for me? And who knows but what, in my new position, I may finally discover the secret of Roth’s fulgurator? If I am to be delivered one day, this secret must be made known, as well as who is the author, or who are the authors, of this criminal outrage, which may be attended with such serious consequences.

I continually revert to this question, hoping that some incident will occur to enlighten me:

Where am I?

Let me begin from the beginning.

After having been carried by the head and feet from Healthful House, I felt that I was laid, without any brutality, I must admit, upon the stretchers of a row-boat of small dimensions.

The rocking caused by the weight of my body was succeeded shortly afterwards by a further rocking — which I attribute to the embarking of a second person. Can there be room for doubt that it was Thomas Roch? As far as he was concerned they would not have had to take the precaution of gagging him, or of bandaging his eyes, or of binding him. He must still have been in a state of prostration which precluded the possibility of his making any resistance, or even of being conscious of what was being done. The proof that I am not deceiving myself is that I could smell the unmistakable odor of ether. Now, yesterday, before taking leave of us, the doctor administered a few drops of ether to the invalid and — I remember distinctly — a little of this extremely volatile substance fell upon his clothing while he was struggling in his fit. There is therefore nothing astonishing in the fact that this odor should have clung to him, nor that I should have distinguished it, even beneath the bandages that covered my face.

Yes, Thomas Roch was extended near me in the boat. And to think that had I not returned to the pavilion when I did, had I delayed a few minutes longer, I should have found him gone!

Let me think. What could have inspired that Count d’Artigas with the unfortunate curiosity to visit Healthful House? If he had not been allowed to see my patient nothing of the kind would have happened. Talking to Thomas Roch about his inventions brought on a fit of exceptional violence. The director is primarily to blame for not heeding my warning. Had he listened to me the doctor would not have been called upon to attend him, the door of the pavilion would have been locked, and the attempt of the band would have been frustrated.

As to the interest there could have been in carrying off Thomas Roch, either on behalf of a private person or of one of the states of the Old World, it is so evident that there is no need to dwell upon it. However, I can be perfectly easy about the result. No one can possibly succeed in learning what for fifteen months I have been unable to ascertain. In the condition of intellectual collapse into which my fellow-countryman has fallen, all attempts to force his secret from him will be futile. Moreover, he is bound to go from bad to worse until he is hopelessly insane, even as regards those points upon which he has hitherto preserved his reason intact.

After all, however, it is less about Thomas Roch than myself that I must think just now, and this is what I have experienced, to resume the thread of my adventure where I dropped it:

After more rocking caused by our captors jumping into it, the boat is rowed off. The distance must be very short, for a minute after we bumped against something. I surmise that this something must be the hull of a ship, and that we have run alongside. There is some scurrying and excitement. Indistinctly through my bandages I can hear orders being given and a confused murmur of voices that lasts for about five minutes, but I cannot distinguish a word that is said.

The only thought that occurs to me now is that they will hoist me on board and lower me to the bottom of the hold and keep me there till the vessel is far out at sea. Obviously they will not allow either Thomas Roch or his keeper to appear on deck as long as she remains in Pamlico Sound.

My conjecture is correct. Still gagged and bound I am at last lifted by the legs and shoulders. My impression, however, is that I am not being raised over a ship’s bulwark, but on the contrary am being lowered. Are they going to drop me overboard to drown like a rat, so as to get rid of a dangerous witness? This thought flashes into my brain, and a quiver of anguish passes through my body from head to foot. Instinctively I draw a long breath, and my lungs are filled with the precious air they will speedily lack.

No, there is no immediate cause for alarm. I am laid with comparative gentleness upon a hard floor, which gives me the sensation of metallic coldness. I am lying at full length. To my extreme surprise, I find that the ropes with which I was bound have been untied and loosened. The tramping about around me has ceased. The next instant I hear a door closed with a bang.

Where am I? And, in the first place, am I alone? I tear the gag from my mouth, and the bandages from my head.

It is dark — pitch dark. Not a ray of light, not even the vague perception of light that the eyes preserve when the lids are tightly closed.

I shout — I shout repeatedly. No response. My voice is smothered. The air I breathe is hot, heavy, thick, and the working of my lungs will become difficult, impossible, unless the store of air is renewed.

I extend my arms and feel about me, and this is what I conclude:

I am in a compartment with sheet-iron walls, which cannot measure more than four cubic yards. I can feel that the walls are of bolted plates, like the sides of a ship’s water-tight compartment.

I can feel that the entrance to it is by a door on one side, for the hinges protrude somewhat. This door must open inwards, and it is through here, no doubt, that I was carried in.

I place my ear to the door, but not a sound can be heard. The silence is as profound as the obscurity — a strange silence that is only broken by the sonorousness of the metallic floor when I move about. None of the dull noises usually to be heard on board a ship is perceptible, not even the rippling of the water along the hull. Nor is there the slightest movement to be felt; yet, in the estuary of the Neuse, the current is always strong enough, to cause a marked oscillation to any vessel.

But does the compartment in which I am confined, really belong to a ship? How do I know that I am afloat on the Neuse, though I was conveyed a short distance in a boat? Might not the latter, instead of heading for a ship in waiting for it, opposite Healthful House, have been rowed to a point further down the river? In this case is it not possible that I was carried into the collar of a house? This would explain the complete immobility of the compartment. It is true that the walls are of bolted plates, and that there is a vague smell of salt water, that odor sui generis which generally pervades the interior of a ship, and which there is no mistaking.

An interval, which I estimate at about four hours, must have passed since my incarceration. It must therefore be near midnight. Shall I be left here in this way till morning? Luckily, I dined at six o’clock, which is the regular dinner-hour at Healthful House. I am not suffering from hunger. In fact I feel more inclined to sleep than to eat. Still, I hope I shall have energy enough to resist the inclination. I will not give way to it. I must try and find out what is going on outside. But neither sound nor light can penetrate this iron box. Wait a minute, though; perhaps by listening intently I may hear some sound, however feeble. Therefore I concentrate all my vital power in my sense of hearing. Moreover, I try — in case I should really not be on terra firma — to distinguish some movement, some oscillation of my prison. Admitting that the ship is still at anchor, it cannot be long before it will start — otherwise I shall have to give up imagining why Thomas Roch and I have been carried off.

At last — it is no illusion — a slight rolling proves to me, beyond a doubt, that I am not on land. We are evidently moving, but the motion is scarcely perceptible. It is not a jerky, but rather a gliding movement, as though we were skimming through the water without effort, on an even keel.

Let me consider the matter calmly. I am on board a vessel that was anchored in the Neuse, waiting under sail or steam, for the result of the expedition. A boat brought me aboard, but, I repeat, I did not feel that I was lifted over her bulwarks. Was I passed through a porthole? But after all, what does it matter? Whether I was lowered into the hold or not, I am certainly upon something that is floating and moving.

No doubt I shall soon be let out, together with Thomas Roch, supposing them to have locked him up as carefully as they have me. By being let out, I mean being accorded permission to go on deck. It will not be for some hours to come, however, that is certain, for they won’t want us to be seen, so that there is no chance of getting a whiff of fresh air till we are well out at sea. If it is a sailing vessel, she must have waited for a breeze — for the breeze that freshens off shore at daybreak, and is favorable to ships navigating Pamlico Sound.

It certainly cannot be a steamer. I could not have failed to smell the oil and other odors of the engine-room. And then I should feel the trembling of the machinery, the jerks of the pistons, and the movements of the screws or paddles.

The best thing to do is to wait patiently. I shan’t be taken out of this hole until to-morrow, anyway. Moreover, if I am not released, somebody will surely bring me something to eat. There is no reason to suppose that they intend to starve me to death. They wouldn’t have taken the trouble to bring me aboard, but would have dropped me to the bottom of the river had they been desirous of getting rid of me. Once we are out at sea, what will they have to fear from me? No one could hear my shouts. As to demanding an explanation and making a fuss, it would be useless. Besides, what am I to the men who have carried us off? A mere hospital attendant — one Gaydon, who is of no consequence. It is Thomas Roch they were after. I was taken along too because I happened to return to the pavilion at the critical moment.

At any rate, no matter what happens, no matter who our kidnappers may be, no matter where we are taken, I shall stick to this resolution: I will continue to play my role of warder. No one, no! none, can suspect that Gaydon is Simon Hart, the engineer. There are two advantages in this: in the first place, they will take no notice of a poor devil of a warder, and in the second, I may be able to solve the mystery surrounding this plot and turn my knowledge to profit, if I succeed in making my escape.

But whither are my thoughts wandering? I must perforce wait till we arrive at our destination before thinking of escaping. It will be time enough to bother about that when the occasion presents itself. Until then the essential is that they remain ignorant as to my identity, and they cannot, and shall not, know who I am.

I am now certain that we are going through the water. But there is one thing that puzzles me. It is hot a sailing vessel, neither can it be a steamer. Yet it is incontestably propelled by some powerful machine. There are none of the noises, nor is there the trembling that accompanies the working of steam engines. The movement of the vessel is more continuous and regular, it is a sort of direct rotation that is communicated by the motor, whatever the latter may be. No mistake is possible: the ship is propelled by some special mechanism. But what is it?

Is it one of those turbines that have been spoken of lately, which, fitted into a submerged tube, are destined to replace the ordinary screw, it being claimed that they utilize the resistance of the water better than the latter and give increased speed to a ship?

In a few hours’ time I shall doubtless know all about this means of locomotion.

Meanwhile there is another thing that equally puzzles me. There is not the slightest rolling or pitching. How is it that Pamlico Sound is so extraordinarily calm? The varying currents continuously ruffle the surface of the Sound, even if nothing else does.

It is true the tide may be out, and I remember that last night the wind had fallen altogether. Still, no matter, the thing is inexplicable, for a ship propelled by machinery, no matter at what speed she may be going, always oscillates more or less, and I cannot perceive the slightest rocking.

Such are the thoughts with which my mind is persistently filled. Despite an almost overpowering desire to sleep, despite the torpor that is coming upon me in this suffocating atmosphere, I am resolved not to close my eyes. I will keep awake till daylight, and there will be no daylight for me till it is let into my prison from the outside. Perhaps even if the door were open it would not penetrate to this black hole, and I shall probably not see it again until I am taken on deck.

I am squatting in a corner of my prison, for I have no stool or anything to sit upon, but as my eyelids are heavy and I feel somnolent in spite of myself, I get up and walk about. Then I wax wrathful, anger fills my soul, I beat upon the iron walls with my fists, and shout for help. In vain! I hurt my hands against the bolts of the plates, and no one answers my cries.

Such conduct is unworthy of me. I flattered myself that I would remain calm under all circumstances and here I am acting like a child.

The absence of any rolling or lurching movement at least proves that we are not yet at sea. Instead of crossing Pamlico Sound, may we not be going in the opposite direction, up the River Neuse? No! What would they go further inland for? If Thomas Roch has been carried off from Healthful House, his captors obviously mean to take him out of the United States — probably to a distant island in the Atlantic, or to some point on the European continent. It is, therefore, not up the Neuse that our maritime machine, whatever it may be, is going, but across Pamlico Sound, which must be as calm as a mirror.

Very well, then, when we get to sea I shall soon, know, for the vessel will rock right enough in the swell off shore, even though there be no wind, — unless I am aboard a battleship, or big cruiser, and this I fancy can hardly be!

But hark! If I mistake not — no, it was not imagination — I hear footsteps. Some one is approaching the side of the compartment where the door is. One of the crew no doubt. Are they going to let me out at last? I can now hear voices. A conversation is going on outside the door, but it is carried on in a language that I do not understand. I shout to them — I shout again, but no answer is vouchsafed.

There is nothing to do, then, but wait, wait, wait! I keep repeating the word and it rings in my ears like a bell.

Let me try to calculate how long I have been here. The ship must have been under way for at least four or five hours. I reckon it must be past midnight, but I cannot tell, for unfortunately my watch is of no use to me in this Cimmerian darkness.

Now, if we have been going for five hours, we must have cleared Pamlico Sound, whether we issued by Ocracoke or Hatteras inlet, and must be off the coast a good mile, at least. Yet I haven’t felt any motion from the swell of the sea.

It is inexplicable, incredible! Come now, have I made a mistake? Am I the dupe of an illusion? Am I not imprisoned in the hold of a ship under way?

Another hour has passed and the movement of the ship suddenly ceases; I realize perfectly that she is stationary. Has she reached her destination? In this event we can only be in one of the coast ports to the north or south of Pamlico Sound. But why should Thomas Roch be landed again? The abduction must soon have been discovered, and our kidnappers would run the greatest risk of falling into the hands of the authorities if they attempted to disembark.

However this may be, if the vessel is coming to anchor I shall hear the noise of the chain as it is paid out, and feel the jerk as the ship is brought up. I know that sound and that jerk well from experience, and I am bound to hear and feel them in a minute or two.

I wait — I listen.

A dead and disquieting silence reigns on board. I begin to wonder whether I am not the only living being in the ship.

Now I feel an irresistible torpor coming over me. The air is vitiated. I cannot breathe. My chest is bursting. I try to resist, but it is impossible to do so. The temperature rises to such a degree that I am compelled to divest myself of part of my clothing. Then I lie me down in a corner. My heavy eyelids close, and I sink into a prostration that eventually forces me into heavy slumber.

How long have I been asleep? I cannot say. Is it night? Is it day? I know not. I remark, however, that I breathe more easily, and that the air is no longer poisoned carbonic acid.

Was the air renewed while I slept? Has the door been opened? Has anybody been in here?

Yes, here is the proof of it!

In feeling about, my hand has come in contact with a mug filled with a liquid that exhales an inviting odor. I raise it to my lips, which, are burning, for I am suffering such an agony of thirst that I would even drink brackish water.

It is ale — an ale of excellent quality — which refreshes and comforts me, and I drain the pint to the last drop.

But if they have not condemned me to die of thirst, neither have they condemned me to die of hunger, I suppose?

No, for in one of the corners I find a basket, and this basket contains some bread and cold meat.

I fall to, eating greedily, and my strength little by little returns.

Decidedly, I am not so abandoned as I thought I was. Some one entered this obscure hole, and the open door admitted a little of the oxygen from the outside, without which I should have been suffocated. Then the wherewithal to quench my thirst and appease the pangs of hunger was placed within my reach.

How much longer will this incarceration last? Days? Months? I cannot estimate the hours that have elapsed since I fell asleep, nor have I any idea as to what time of the day or night it may be. I was careful to wind up my watch, though, and perhaps by feeling the hands — Yes, I think the little hand marks eight o’clock — in the morning, no doubt. What I do know, however, is that the ship is not in motion. There is not the slightest quiver.

Hours and hours, weary, interminable hours go by, and I wonder whether they are again waiting till night comes on to renew my stock of air and provisions. Yes, they are waiting to take advantage of my slumbers. But this time I am resolved to resist. I will feign to be asleep — and I shall know how to force an answer from whoever enters!

CHAPTER VI.

ON DECK.

Here I am in the open air, breathing freely once more. I have at last been hauled out of that stifling box and taken on deck. I gaze around me in every direction and see no sign of land. On every hand is that circular line which defines earth and sky. No, there is not even a speck of land to be seen to the west, where the coast of North America extends for thousands of miles.

The setting sun now throws but slanting rays upon the bosom of the ocean. It must be about six o’clock in the evening. I take out my watch and it marks thirteen minutes past six.

As I have already mentioned, I waited for the door of my prison to open, thoroughly resolved not to fall asleep again, but to spring upon the first person who entered and force him to answer my questions. I was not aware then that it was day, but it was, and hour after hour passed and no one came. I began to suffer again from hunger and thirst, for I had not preserved either bite or sup.

As soon as I awoke I felt that the ship was in motion again, after having, I calculated, remained stationary since the previous day — no doubt in some lonely creek, since I had not heard or felt her come to anchor.

A few minutes ago — it must therefore have been six o’clock — I again heard footsteps on the other side of the iron wall of my compartment. Was anybody coming to my cell? Yes, for I heard the creaking of the bolts as they were drawn back, and then the door opened, and the darkness in which I had been plunged since the first hour of my captivity was illumined by the light of a lantern.

Two men, whom I had no time to look at, entered and seized me by the arms. A thick cloth was thrown over my head, which was enveloped in such a manner that I could see absolutely nothing.

What did it all mean? What were they going to do with me? I struggled, but they held me in an iron grasp. I questioned them, but they made no reply. The men spoke to each other in a language that I could not understand, and had never heard before.

They stood upon no ceremony with me. It is true I was only a madhouse warder, and they probably did not consider it necessary to do so; but I question very much whether Simon Hart, the engineer, would have received any more courtesy at their hands.

This time, however, no attempt was made to gag me nor to bind either my arms or legs. I was simply restrained by main force from breaking away from them.

In a moment I was dragged out of the compartment and pushed along a narrow passage. Next, the steps of a metallic stairway resounded under our feet. Then the fresh air blew in my face and I inhaled it with avidity.

Finally they took their hands from off me, and I found myself free. I immediately tore the cloth off my head and gazed about me.

I am on board a schooner which is ripping through the water at a great rate and leaving a long white trail behind her.

I had to clutch at one of the stays for support, dazzled as I was by the light after my forty-eight hours’ imprisonment in complete obscurity.

On the deck a dozen men with rough, weather-beaten faces come and go — very dissimilar types of men, to whom it would be impossible to attribute any particular nationality. They scarcely take any notice of me.

As to the schooner, I estimate that she registers from two hundred and fifty to three hundred tons. She has a fairly wide beam, her masts are strong and lofty, and her large spread of canvas must carry her along at a spanking rate in a good breeze.

Aft, a grizzly-faced man is at the wheel, and he is keeping her head to the sea that is running pretty high.

I try to find out the name of the vessel, but it is not to be seen anywhere, even on the life-buoys.

I walk up to one of the sailors and inquire:

“What is the name of this ship?”

No answer, and I fancy the man does not understand me.

“Where is the captain?” I continue.

But the sailor pays no more heed to this than he did to the previous question.

I turn on my heel and go forward.

Above the forward hatchway a bell is suspended. Maybe the name of the schooner is engraved upon it. I examine it, but can find no name upon it.

I then return to the stern and address the man at the wheel. He gazes at me sourly, shrugs his shoulders, and bending, grasps the spokes of the wheel solidly, and brings the schooner, which had been headed off by a large wave from port, stem on to sea again.

Seeing that nothing is to be got from that quarter, I turn away and look about to see if I can find Thomas Roch, but I do not perceive him anywhere. Is he not on board? He must be. They could have had no reason for carrying me off alone. No one could have had any idea that I was Simon Hart, the engineer, and even had they known it what interest could they have had in me, and what could they expect of me?

Therefore, as Roch is not on deck, I conclude that he is locked in one of the cabins, and trust he has met with better treatment than his ex-guardian.

But what is this — and how on earth could I have failed to notice it before? How is this schooner moving? Her sails are furled — there is not an inch of canvas set — the wind has fallen, and the few puffs that occasionally come from the east are unfavorable, in view of the fact that we are going in that very direction. And yet the schooner speeds through the sea, her bows down, throwing off clouds of foam, and leaving a long, milky, undulating trail in her wake.

Is she a steam-yacht? No — there is not a smokestack about her. Is she propelled by electricity — by a battery of accumulators, or by piles of great power that work her screw and send her along at this rate?

I can come to no other conclusion. In any case she must be fitted with a screw, and by leaning over the stern I shall be able to see it, and can find out what sets it working afterwards.

The man at the wheel watches me ironically as I approach, but makes no effort to prevent me from looking over.

I gaze long and earnestly, but there is no foaming and seething of the water such as is invariably caused by the revolutions of the screw — naught but the long white furrow that a sailing vessel leaves behind is discernible in the schooner’s wake.

Then, what kind of a machine is it that imparts such a marvellous speed to the vessel? As I have already said, the wind is against her, and there is a heavy swell on.

I must — I will know. No one pays the slightest attention, and I again go forward.

As I approach the forecastle I find myself face to face with a man who is leaning nonchalantly on the raised hatchway and who is watching me. He seems to be waiting for me to speak to him.

I recognize him instantly. He is the person who accompanied the Count d’Artigas during the latter’s visit to Healthful House. There can be no mistake — it is he right enough.

It was, then, that rich foreigner who abducted Thomas Roch, and I am on board the Ebba his schooner-yacht which is so well known on the American coast!

The man before me will enlighten me about what I want to know. I remember that he and the Count spoke English together.

I take him to be the captain of the schooner.

“Captain,” I say, “you are the person I saw at Healthful House. You remember me, of course?”

He looks me up and down but does not condescend to reply.

“I am Warder Gaydon, the attendant of Thomas Roch,” I continue, “and I want to know why you have carried me off and placed me on board this schooner?”

The captain interrupts me with a sign. It is not made to me, however, but to some sailors standing near.

They catch me by the arms, and taking no notice of the angry movement that I cannot restrain, bundle me down the hatchway. The hatchway stair in reality, I remark, is a perpendicular iron ladder, at the bottom of which, to right and left, are some cabins, and forward, the men’s quarters.

Are they going to put me back in my dark prison at the bottom of the hold?

No. They turn to the left and push me into a cabin. It is lighted by a port-hole, which is open, and through which the fresh air comes in gusts from the briny. The furniture consists of a bunk, a chair, a chest of drawers, a wash-hand-stand and a table.

The latter is spread for dinner, and I sit down. Then the cook’s mate comes in with two or three dishes. He is a colored lad, and as he is about to withdraw, I try to question him, but he, too, vouchsafes no reply. Perhaps he doesn’t understand me.

The door is closed, and I fall to and eat with an excellent appetite, with the intention of putting off all further questioning till some future occasion when I shall stand a chance of getting answered.

It is true I am a prisoner, but this time I am comfortable enough, and I hope I shall be permitted to occupy this cabin for the remainder of the voyage, and not be lowered into that black hole again.

I now give myself up to my thoughts, the first of which is that it was the Count d’Artigas who planned the abduction; that it was he who is responsible for the kidnapping of Thomas Roch, and that consequently the French inventor must be just as comfortably installed somewhere on board the schooner.

But who is this Count d’Artigas? Where does he hail from? If he has seized Thomas Roch, is it not because he is determined to secure the secret of the fulgurator at no matter what cost? Very likely, and I must therefore be careful not to betray my identity, for if they knew the truth, I should never be afforded a chance to get away.

But what a lot of mysteries to clear up, how many inexplicable things to explain — the origin of this d’Artigas, his intentions as to the future, whither we are bound, the port to which the schooner belongs, and this mysterious progress through the water without sails and without screws, at a speed of at least ten knots an hour!

The air becoming keener as night deepens, I close and secure the port-hole, and as my cabin is bolted on the outside, the best thing I can do is to get into my bunk and let myself be gently rocked to sleep by the broad Atlantic in this mysterious cradle, the Ebba.

The next morning I rise at daybreak, and having performed my ablutions, dress myself and wait.

Presently the idea of trying the door occurs to me. I find that it has been unbolted, and pushing it open, climb the iron ladder and emerge on deck.

The crew are washing down the deck, and standing aft and conversing are two men, one of whom is the captain. The latter manifests no surprise at seeing me, and indicates my presence to his companion by a nod.

This other man, whom I have never before seen, is an individual of about fifty years of age, whose dark hair is streaked with gray. His features are delicately chiselled, his eyes are bright, and his expression is intelligent and not at all displeasing. He is somewhat of the Grecian type, and T have no doubt that he is of Hellenic origin when I hear him called Serko — Engineer Serko — by the Captain of the Ebba.

As to the latter, he is called Spade — Captain Spade — and this name has an Italian twang about it. Thus there is a Greek, an Italian, and a crew recruited from every corner of the earth to man a schooner with a Norwegian name! This mixture strikes me as being suspicious.

And that Count d’Artigas, with his Spanish name and Asiatic type, where does he come from?

Captain Spade and Engineer Serko continue to converse in a low tone of voice. The former is keeping a sharp eye on the man at the wheel, who does not appear to pay any particular attention to the compass in front of him. He seems to pay more heed to the gestures of one of the sailors stationed forward, and who signals to him to put the helm to port or to starboard.

Thomas Roch is near them, gazing vacantly out upon the vast expanse which is not limited on the horizon by a single speck of land. Two sailors watch his every movement. It is evidently feared that the madman may possibly attempt to jump overboard.

I wonder whether I shall be permitted to communicate with my ward.

I walk towards him, and Captain Spade and Engineer Serko watch me.

Thomas Roch doesn’t see me coming, and I stand beside him. Still he takes no notice of me, and makes no movement. His eyes, which sparkle brightly, wander over the ocean, and he draws in deep breaths of the salt, vivifying atmosphere. Added to the air surcharged with oxygen is a magnificent sunset in a cloudless sky. Does he perceive the change in his situation? Has he already forgotten about Healthful House, the pavilion in which he was a prisoner, and Gaydon, his keeper? It is highly probable. The past has presumably been effaced from his memory and he lives solely in the present.

In my opinion, even on the deck of the Ebba, in the middle of the sea, Thomas Roch is still the helpless, irresponsible man whom I tended for fifteen months. His intellectual condition has undergone no change, and his reason will return only when he is spoken to about his inventions. The Count d’Artigas is perfectly aware of this mental disposition, having had a proof of it during his visit, and he evidently relies thereon to surprise sooner or later the inventor’s secret. But with what object?

“Thomas Roch!” I exclaim.

My voice seems to strike him, and after gazing at me fixedly for an instant he averts his eyes quickly.

I take his hand and press it. He withdraws it brusquely and walks away, without having recognized me, in the direction of Captain Spade and Engineer Serko.

Does he think of speaking to one or other of these men, and if they speak to him will he be more reasonable than he was with me, and reply to them?

At this moment his physiognomy lights up with a gleam of intelligence. His attention, obviously, has been attracted by the queer progress of the schooner. He gazes at the masts and the furled sails. Then he turns back and stops at the place where, if the Ebba were a steamer, the funnel ought to be, and which in this case ought to be belching forth a cloud of black smoke.

What appeared so strange to me evidently strikes Thomas Roch as being strange, too. He cannot explain what I found inexplicable, and, as I did, he walks aft to see if there is a screw.

On the flanks of the Ebba a shoal of porpoises are sporting. Swift as is the schooner’s course they easily pass her, leaping and gambolling in their native element with surprising grace and agility.

Thomas Roch pays no attention to them, but leans over the stern.

Engineer Serko and Captain Spade, fearful lest he should fall overboard, hurry to him and drag him gently, but firmly, away.

I observe from long experience that Roch is a prey to violent excitement. He turns about and gesticulates, uttering incoherent phrases the while.

It is plain to me that another fit is coming on, similar to the one he had in the pavilion of Healthful House on the night we were abducted. He will have to be seized and carried down to his cabin, and I shall perhaps be summoned to attend to him.

Meanwhile Engineer Serko and Captain Spade do not lose sight of him for a moment. They are evidently curious to see what he will do.

After walking towards the mainmast and assuring himself that the sails are not set, he goes up to it and flinging his arms around it, tries with all his might to shake it, as though seeking to pull it down.

Finding his efforts futile, he quits it and goes to the foremast, where the same performance is gone through. He waxes more and more excited. His vague utterances are followed by inarticulate cries.

Suddenly he rushes to the port stays and clings to them, and I begin to fear that he will leap into the rigging and climb to the cross-tree, where he might be precipitated into the sea by a lurch of the ship.

On a sign from Captain Spade, some sailors run up and try to make him relinquish his grasp of the stays, but are unable to do so. I know that during his fits he is endowed with the strength of ten men, and many a time I have been compelled to summon assistance in order to overpower him.

Other members of the crew, however, come up, and the unhappy madman is borne to the deck, where two big sailors hold him down, despite his extraordinary strength.

The only thing to do is to convey him to his cabin, and let him lie there till he gets over his fit. This is what will be done in conformity with orders given by a new-comer whose voice seems familiar to me.

I turn and recognize him.

He is the Count d’Artigas, with a frown on his face and an imperious manner, just as I had seen him at Healthful House.

I at once advance toward him. I want an explanation and mean to have it.

“By what right, sir?” — I begin.

“By the right of might,” replies the Count.

Then he turns on his heel, and Thomas Roch is carried below.

CHAPTER VII.

TWO DAYS AT SEA.

Perhaps — should circumstances render it necessary — I may be induced to tell the Count d’Artigas that I am Simon Hart, the engineer. Who knows but what I may receive more consideration than if I remain Warder Gaydon? This measure, however, demands reflection. I have always been dominated by the thought that if the owner of the Ebba kidnapped the French inventor, it was in the hope of getting possession of Roch’s fulgurator, for which, neither the old nor new continent would pay the impossible price demanded. In that case the best thing I can do is to remain Warder Gaydon, on the chance that I may be allowed to continue in attendance upon him. In this way, if Thomas Roch should ever divulge his secret, I may learn what it was impossible to do at Healthful House, and can act accordingly.

Meanwhile, where is the Ebba bound? — first question.

Who and what is the Count d’Artigas? — second question.

The first will be answered in a few days’ time, no doubt, in view of the rapidity with which we are ripping through the water, under the action of a means of propulsion that I shall end by finding out all about. As regards the second, I am by no means so sure that my curiosity will ever be gratified.

In my opinion this enigmatical personage has an all important reason for hiding his origin, and I am afraid there is no indication by which I can gauge his nationality. If the Count d’Artigas speaks English fluently — and I was able to assure myself of that fact during his visit to Pavilion No. 17, — he pronounces it with a harsh, vibrating accent, which is not to be found among the peoples of northern latitudes. I do not remember ever to have heard anything like it in the course of my travels either in the Old or New World — unless it be the harshness characteristic of the idioms in use among the Malays. And, in truth, with his olive, verging on copper-tinted skin, his jet-black, crinkly hair, his piercing, deep-set, restless eyes, his square shoulders and marked muscular development, it is by no means unlikely that he belongs to one of the extreme Eastern races.

I believe this name of d’Artigas is an assumed one, and his title of Count likewise. If his schooner bears a Norwegian name, he at any rate is not of Scandinavian origin. He has nothing of the races of Northern Europe about him.

But whoever and whatever he may be, this man abducted Thomas Roch — and me with him — with no good intention, I’ll be bound.

But what I should like to know is, has he acted as the agent of a foreign power, or on his own account? Does he wish to profit alone by Thomas Roch’s invention, and is he in the position to dispose of it profitably? That is another question that I cannot yet answer. Maybe I shall be able to find out from what I hear and see ere I make my escape, if escape be possible.

The Ebba continues on her way in the same mysterious manner. I am free to walk about the deck, without, however, being able to go beyond the fore hatchway. Once I attempted to go as far as the bows where I could, by leaning over, perceive the schooner’s stem as it cut through the water, but acting, it was plain, on orders received, the watch on deck turned me back, and one of them, addressing me brusquely in harsh, grating English, said:

“Go back! Go back! You are interfering with the working of the ship!”

With the working of the ship! There was no working.

Did they realize that I was trying to discover by what means the schooner was propelled? Very likely, and Captain Spade, who had looked on, must have known it, too. Even a hospital attendant could not fail to be astonished at the fact that a vessel without either screw or sails was going along at such a speed. However this may be, for some reason or other, the bows of the Ebba are barred to me.

Toward ten o’clock a breeze springs up — a northwest wind and very favorable — and Captain Spade gives an order to the boatswain. The latter immediately pipes all hands on deck, and the mainsail, the foresail, staysail and jibs are hoisted. The work could not have been executed with greater regularity and discipline on board a man-of-war.

The Ebba now has a slight list to port, and her speed is notably increased. But the motor continues to push her along, as is evident from the fact that the sails are not always as full as they ought to be if the schooner were bowling along solely under their action. However, they continue to render yeoman’s service, for the breeze has set in steadily.

The sky is clear, for the clouds in the west disappear as soon as they attain the horizon, and the sunlight dances on the water.

My preoccupation now is to find out as near as possible where we are bound for. I am a good-enough sailor to be able to estimate the approximate speed of a ship. In my opinion the Ebba has been travelling at the rate of from ten to eleven knots an hour. As to the direction we have been going in, it is always the same, and I have been able to verify this by casual glances at the binnacle. If the fore part of the vessel is barred to Warder Gaydon he has been allowed a free run of the remainder of it. Time and again I have glanced at the compass, and noticed that the needle invariably pointed to the east, or to be exact, east-southeast.

These are the conditions in which we are navigating this part of the Atlantic Ocean, which is bounded on the west by the coast of the United States of America.

I appeal to my memory. What are the islands or groups of islands to be found in the direction we are going, ere the continent of the Old World is reached?

North Carolina, which the schooner quitted forty-eight hours ago, is traversed by the thirty-fifth parallel of latitude, and this parallel, extending eastward, must, if I mistake not, cut the African coast at Morocco. But along the line, about three thousand miles from America, are the Azores. Is it presumable that the Ebba is heading for this archipelago, that the port to which she belongs is somewhere in these islands which constitute one of Portugal’s insular domains? I cannot admit such an hypothesis.

Besides, before the Azores, on the line of the thirty-fifth parallel, is the Bermuda group, which belongs to England. It seems to me to be a good deal less hypothetical that, if the Count d’Artigas was entrusted with the abduction of Thomas Roch by a European Power at all, it was by the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. The possibility, however, remains that he may be acting solely in his own interest.

Three or four times during the day Count d’Artigas has come aft and remained for some time scanning the surrounding horizon attentively. When a sail or the smoke from a steamer heaves in sight he examines the passing vessel for a considerable time with a powerful telescope. I may add that he has not once condescended to notice my presence on deck.

Now and then Captain Spade joins him and both exchange a few words in a language that I can neither understand nor recognize.

It is with Engineer Serko, however, that the owner of the Ebba converses more readily than with anybody else, and the latter appears to be very intimate with him. The engineer is a good deal more free, more loquacious and less surly than his companions, and I wonder what position he occupies on the schooner. Is he a personal friend of the Count d’Artigas? Does he scour the seas with him, sharing the enviable life enjoyed by the rich yachtsman? He is the only man of the lot who seems to manifest, if not sympathy with, at least some interest in me.

I have not seen Thomas Roch all day. He must be shut in his cabin, still under the influence of the fit that came upon him last night.

I feel certain that this is so, when about three o’clock in the afternoon, just as he is about to go below, the Count beckons me to approach.

I do not know what he wishes to say to me, this Count d’Artigas, but I do know what I will say to him.

“Do these fits to which Thomas Roch is subject last long?” he asks me in English.

“Sometimes forty-eight hours,” I reply.

“What is to be done?”

“Nothing at all. Let him alone until he falls asleep. After a night’s sleep the fit will be over and Thomas Roch will be his own helpless self again.”

“Very well, Warder Gaydon, you will continue to attend him as you did at Healthful House, if it be necessary.”

“To attend to him!”

“Yes — on board the schooner — pending our arrival.”

“Where?”

“Where we shall be to-morrow afternoon,” replies the Count.

To-morrow, I say to myself. Then we are not bound for the coast of Africa, nor even the Azores. There only remains the hypothesis that we are making for the Bermudas.

Count d’Artigas is about to go down the hatchway when I interrogate him in my turn:

“Sir,” I exclaim, “I desire to know, I have the right to know, where I am going, and — — “

“Here, Warder Gaydon,” he interrupted, “you have no rights. All you have to do is to answer when you are spoken to.” “I protest!”

“Protest, then,” replies this haughty and imperious personage, glancing at me menacingly.

Then he disappears down the hatchway, leaving me face to face with Engineer Serko.

“If I were you, Warder Gaydon, I would resign myself to the inevitable,” remarks the latter with a smile. “When one is caught in a trap — — “

“One can cry out, I suppose?”

“What is the use when no one is near to hear you?”

“I shall be heard some day, sir.”

“Some day — that’s a long way off. However, shout as much as you please.”

And with this ironical advice, Engineer Serko leaves me to my own reflections.

Towards four o’clock a big ship is reported about six miles off to the east, coming in our direction. She is moving rapidly and grows perceptibly larger. Black clouds of smoke pour out of her two funnels. She is a warship, for a narrow pennant floats from her main-mast, and though she is not flying any flag I take her to be an American cruiser.

I wonder whether the Ebba will render her the customary salute as she passes.

No; for the schooner suddenly changes her course with the evident intention of avoiding her.

This proceeding on the part of such a suspicious yacht does not astonish me greatly. But what does cause me extreme surprise is Captain Spade’s way of manoeuvring.

He runs forward to a signalling apparatus in the bows, similar to that by which orders are transmitted to the engine room of a steamer. As soon as he presses one of the buttons of this apparatus the Ebba veers off a point to the south-west.

Evidently an order of “some kind” has been transmitted to the driver of the machine of “some kind” which causes this inexplicable movement of the schooner by the action of a motor of “some kind” the principle of which I cannot guess at.

The result of this manoeuvre is that the Ebba slants away from the cruiser, whose course does not vary. Why should this warship cause a pleasure-yacht to turn out of its way? I have no idea.

But the Ebba behaves in a very different manner when about six o’clock in the evening a second ship comes in sight on the port bow. This time, instead of seeking to avoid her, Captain Spade signals an order by means of the apparatus above referred to, and resumes his course to the east — which will bring him close to the said ship.

An hour later, the two vessels are only about four miles from each other.

The wind has dropped completely. The strange ship, which is a three-masted merchantman, is taking in her top-gallant sails. It is useless to expect the wind to spring up again during the night, and she will lay becalmed till morning. The Ebba, however, propelled by her mysterious motor, continues to approach her.

It goes without saying, that Captain Spade has also begun to take in sail, and the work, under the direction of the boatswain Effrondat, is executed with the same precision and promptness that struck me before.

When the twilight deepens into darkness, only a mile and a half separates the vessels.

Captain Spade then comes up to me — I am standing on the starboard side — and unceremoniously orders me to go below.

I can but obey. I remark, however, ere I go, that the boatswain has not lighted the head-lamps, whereas the lamps of the three-master shine brightly — green to starboard, and red to port.

I entertain no doubt that the schooner intends to pass her without being seen; for though she has slackened speed somewhat, her direction has not been in any way modified.

I enter my cabin under the impression of a vague foreboding. My supper is on the table, but uneasy, I know not why, I hardly touch it, and lie down to wait for sleep that does not come.

I remain in this condition for two hours. The silence is unbroken save by the water that ripples along the vessel’s sides.

My mind is full of the events of the past two days, and other thoughts crowd thickly upon me. To-morrow afternoon we shall reach our destination. To-morrow, I shall resume, on land, my attendance upon Thomas Roch, “if it be necessary,” said the Count d’Artigas.

If, when I was thrown into that black hole at the bottom of the hold, I was able to perceive when the schooner started off across Pamlico Sound, I now feel that she has come to a stop. It must be about ten o’clock.

Why has she stopped? When Captain Spade ordered me below, there was no land in sight. In this direction, there is no island until the Bermuda group is reached — at least there is none on the map — and we shall have to go another fifty or sixty miles before the Bermudas can be sighted by the lookout men. Not only has the Ebba stopped, but her immobility is almost complete. There is not a breath of wind, and scarcely any swell, and her slight, regular rocking is hardly perceptible.

Then my thoughts turn to the merchantman, which was only a mile and a half off, on our bow, when I came below. If the schooner continued her course towards her, she must be almost alongside now. We certainly cannot be lying more than one or two cables’ length from her. The three-master, which was becalmed at sundown, could not have gone west. She must be close by, and if the night is clear, I shall be able to see her through the porthole.

It occurs to me, that perhaps a chance of escape presents itself. Why should I not attempt it, since no hope of being restored to liberty is held out to me? It is true I cannot swim, but if I seize a life buoy and jump overboard, I may be able to reach the ship, if I am not observed by the watch on deck.

I must quit my cabin and go up by the forward hatchway. I listen. I hear no noise, either in the men’s quarters, or on deck. The sailors must all be asleep at this hour. Here goes.

I try to open the door, and find it is bolted on the outside, as I might have expected.

I must give up the attempt, which, after all, had small chance of success.

The best thing I can do, is to go to sleep, for I am weary of mind, if not of body. I am restless and racked by conflicting thoughts, and apprehensions of I know not what. Oh! if I could but sink into the blessed oblivion of slumber!

I must have managed to fall asleep, for I have just been awakened by a noise — an unusual noise, such as I have not hitherto heard on board the schooner.

Day begins to peer through the glass of my porthole, which is turned towards the east. I look at my watch. It is half-past four.

The first thing I wonder is, whether the Ebba has resumed her voyage.

No, I am certain she has not, either by sail, or by her motor. The sea is as calm at sunrise as it was at sunset. If the Ebba has been going ahead while I slept, she is at any rate, stationary now.

The noise to which I referred, is caused by men hurrying to and fro on deck — by men heavily laden. I fancy I can also hear a similar noise in the hold beneath my cabin floor, the entrance to which is situated abaft the foremast. I also feel that something is scraping against the schooner’s hull. Have boats come alongside? Are the crew engaged in loading or unloading merchandise?

And yet we cannot possibly have reached our journey’s end. The Count d’Artigas said that we should not reach our destination till this afternoon. Now, I repeat, she was, last night, fully fifty or sixty miles from the nearest land, the group of the Bermudas. That she could have returned westward, and can be in proximity to the American coast, is inadmissible, in view of the distance. Moreover, I have reason to believe that the Ebba has remained stationary all night. Before I fell asleep, I know she had stopped, and I now know that she is not moving.

However, I shall see when I am allowed to go on deck. My cabin door is still bolted, I find on trying it; but I do not think they are likely to keep me here when broad daylight is on.

An hour goes by, and it gradually gets lighter. I look out of my porthole. The ocean is covered by a mist, which the first rays of the sun will speedily disperse.

I can, however, see for a half a mile, and if the three-masted merchantman is not visible, it is probably because she is lying off the other, or port, side of the Ebba.

Presently I hear a key turned in my door, and the bolts drawn. I push the door open and clamber up the iron ladder to the deck, just as the men are battening down the cover of the hold.

I look for the Count d’Artigas, but do not see him. He has not yet left his cabin.

Aft, Captain Spade and Engineer Serko are superintending the stowing of some bales, which have doubtless been hoisted from the hold. This explains the noisy operations that were going on when I was awakened. Obviously, if the crew are getting out the cargo, we are approaching the end of our voyage. We are not far from port, and perhaps in a few hours, the schooner will drop anchor.

But what about the sailing ship that was to port of us? She ought to be in the same place, seeing that there has been and is no wind.

I look for her, but she is nowhere to be seen. There is not a sail, not a speck on the horizon either east, west, north or south.

After cogitating upon the circumstance I can only arrive at the following conclusion, which, however, can only be accepted under reserve: Although I did not notice it, the Ebba resumed her voyage while I slept, leaving the three-master becalmed behind her, and this is why the merchantman is no longer visible.

I am careful not to question Captain Spade about it, nor even Engineer Serko, as I should certainly receive no answer.

Besides, at this moment Captain Spade goes to the signalling apparatus and presses one of the buttons on the upper disk. Almost immediately the Ebba gives a jerk, then with her sails still furled, she starts off eastward again.

Two hours later the Count d’Artigas comes up through the main hatchway and takes his customary place aft. Serko and Captain Spade at once approach and engage in conversation with him.

All three raise their telescopes and sweep the horizon from southeast to northeast.

No one will be surprised to learn that I gaze intently in the same direction; but having no telescope I cannot distinguish anything.

The midday meal over we all return on deck — all with the exception of Thomas Roch, who has not quitted his cabin.

Towards one o’clock land is sighted by the lookout man on the foretop cross-tree. Inasmuch as the Elba is bowling along at great speed I shall soon be able to make out the coast line.

In effect, two hours later a vague semicircular line that curves outward is discernible about eight miles off. As the schooner approaches it becomes more distinct. It is a mountain, or at all events very high ground, and from its summit a cloud of smoke ascends.

What! A volcano in these parts? It must then be — —

CHAPTER XIV.

BATTLE BETWEEN THE “SWORD” AND THE TUG.

Through all this sleepless night I have followed the keg in fancy. How many times I seem to see it swept against the rocks in the tunnel into a creek, or some excavation. I am in a cold perspiration from head to foot. Then I imagine that it has been carried out to sea. Heavens! if the returning tide should sweep it back to tho entrance and then through the tunnel into the lagoon! I must be on the lookout for it.

I rise before the sun and saunter down to the lagoon. Not a single object is floating on its calm surface.

The work on the tunnel through the side of the cavern goes on, and at four o’clock in the afternoon on September 23, Engineer Serko blows away the last rock obstructing the issue, and communication with the outer world is established. It is only a very narrow hole, and one has to stoop to go through it. The exterior orifice is lost among the crannies of the rocky coast, and it would be easy to obstruct it, if such a measure became necessary.

It goes without saying that the passage will be strictly guarded. No one without special authorization will be able either to go out or come in, therefore there is little hope of escape in that direction.

September 25. — This morning the tug rose from the depth of the lagoon to the surface, and has now run alongside the jetty. The Count d’Artigas and Captain Spade disembark, and the crew set to work to land the provisions — boxes of canned meat, preserves, barrels of wine and spirits, and other things brought by the Ebba, among which are several packages destined for Thomas Roch. The men also land the various sections of Roch’s engines which are discoid in shape.

The inventor watches their operations, and his eyes glisten with eagerness. He seizes one of the sections, examines it, and nods approval. I notice that his joy no longer finds expression in incoherent utterances, that he is completely transformed from what he was while a patient at Healthful House. So much is this the case that I begin to ask myself whether his madness which was asserted to be incurable, has not been radically cured.

At last Thomas Roch embarks in the boat used for crossing the lake and is rowed over to his laboratory. Engineer Serko accompanies him. In an hour’s time the tug’s cargo has all been taken out and transported to the storehouses.

Ker Karraje exchanges a word or two with Engineer Serko and then enters his mansion. Later, in the afternoon, I see them walking up and down in front of the Beehive and talking earnestly together.

Then they enter the new tunnel, followed by Captain Spade. If I could but follow them! If I could but breathe for awhile the bracing air of the Atlantic, of which the interior of Back Cup only receives attenuated puffs, so to speak.

From September 26 to October 10. — Fifteen days have elapsed. Under the directions of Engineer Serko and Thomas Roch the sections of the engines have been fitted together. Then the construction of their supports is begun. These supports are simple trestles, fitted with transverse troughs or grooves of various degrees of inclination, and which could be easily installed on the deck of the Ebba, or even on the platform of the tug, which can be kept on a level with the surface.

Thus Ker Karraje, will be ruler of the seas, with his yacht. No warship, however big, however powerful, will be able to cross the zone of danger, whereas the Ebba will be out of range of its guns. If only my notice were found! If only the existence of this lair of Back Cup were known! Means would soon be found, if not of destroying the place, at least of starving the band into submission!

October 20. — To my extreme surprise I find this morning that the tug has gone away again. I recall that yesterday the elements of the piles were renewed, but I thought it was only to keep them in order. In view of the fact that the outside can now be reached through the new tunnel, and that Thomas Roch has everything he requires, I can only conclude that the tug has gone off on another marauding expedition.

Yet this is the season of the equinoctial gales, and the Bermudan waters are swept by frequent tempests. This is evident from the violent gusts that drive back the smoke through the crater and the heavy rain that accompanies it, as well as by the water in the lagoon, which swells and washes over the brown rocks on its shores.

But it is by no means sure that the Ebba has quitted her cove. However staunch she may be, she is, it seems to me, of too light a build to face such tempests as now rage, even with the help of the tug.

On the other hand, although the tug has nothing to fear from the heavy seas, as it would be in calm water a few yards below the surface, it is hardly likely that it has gone on a trip unless to accompany the schooner.

I do not know to what its departure can be attributed, but its absence is likely to be prolonged, for it has not yet returned.

Engineer Serko has remained behind, but Ker Karraje, Captain Spade, and the crew of the schooner, I find, have left.

Life in the cavern goes on with its usual dispiriting monotony. I pass hour after hour in my cell, meditating, hoping, despairing, following in fancy the voyage of my little barrel, tossed about at the mercy of the currents and whose chances of being picked up, I fear, are becoming fainter each day, and killing time by writing my diary, which will probably not survive me.

Thomas Roch is constantly occupied in his laboratory manufacturing his deflagrator. I still entertain the conviction that nothing will ever induce him to give up the secret of the liquid’s composition; but I am perfectly aware that he will not hesitate to place his invention at Ker Karraje’s service.

I often meet Engineer Serko when my strolls take me in the direction of the Beehive. He always shows himself disposed to chat with me, though, it is true, he does so in a tone of impertinent frivolity. We converse upon all sorts of subjects, but rarely of my position. Recrimination thereanent is useless and only subjects me to renewed bantering.

October 22. — To-day I asked Engineer Serko whether the Ebba had put to sea again with the tug.

“Yes, Mr. Simon Hart,” he replied, “and though the clouds gather and loud the tempest roars, be in no uneasiness in regard to our dear Ebba.”

“Will she be gone long?”

“We expect her back within forty-eight hours. It is the last voyage Count d’Artigas proposes to make before the winter gales render navigation in these parts impracticable.”

“Is her voyage one of business or pleasure?”

“Of business, Mr. Hart, of business,” answered Engineer Serko with a smile. “Our engines are now completed, and when the fine weather returns we shall resume offensive operations.”

“Against unfortunate merchantmen.”

“As unfortunate as they are richly laden.”

“Acts of piracy, whose impunity will, I trust, not always be assured,” I cried..

“Calm yourself, dear colleague, be calm! Be calm! No one, you know, can ever discover our retreat, and none can ever disclose the secret! Besides, with these engines, which are so easily handled and are of such terrible power, it would be easy for us to blow to pieces any ship that attempted to get within a certain radius of the island.”

“Providing,” I said, “that Thomas Roch has sold you the composition of his deflagrator as he has sold you that of his fulgurator.”

“That he has done, Mr. Hart, and it behooves me to set your mind at rest upon that point.”

From this categorical response I ought to have concluded that the misfortune had been consummated, but a certain hesitation in the intonation of his voice warned me that implicit reliance was not to be placed upon Engineer Serko’s assertions.

October 25. — What a frightful adventure I have just been mixed up in, and what a wonder I did not lose my life! It is only by a miracle that I am able to resume these notes, which have been interrupted for forty-eight hours. With a little luck, I should have been delivered! I should now be in one of the Bermudan ports — St. George or Hamilton. The mysteries of Back Cup would have been cleared up. The description of the schooner would have been wired all over the world, and she would not dare to put into any port. The provisioning of Back Cup would be impossible, and Ker Karraje’s bandits would be condemned to starve to death!

This is what occurred: At eight o’clock in the evening on October 23, I quitted my cell in an indefinable state of nervousness, and with a presentiment that a serious event was imminent. In vain I had tried to seek calmness in sleep. It was impossible to do so, and I rose and went out.

Outside Back Cup the weather must have been very rough. Violent gusts of wind swept in through the crater and agitated the water of the lagoon.

I walked along the shore on the Beehive side. No one was about. It was rather cold, and the air was damp. The pirates were all snugly ensconced in their cells, with the exception of one man, who stood guard over the new passage, notwithstanding that the outer entrance had been blocked. From where he was this man could not see the lagoon, moreover there were only two lamps alight, one on each side of the lake, and the forest of pillars was wrapt in the profoundest obscurity.

I was walking about in the shadow, when some one passed me.

I saw that he was Thomas Roch.

He was walking slowly, absorbed by his thoughts, his brain at work, as usual.

Was this not a favorable opportunity to talk to him, to enlighten him about what he was probably ignorant, namely, the character of the people into whose hands he had fallen?

“He cannot,” I argued, “know that the Count d’Artigas is none other than Ker Karraje, the pirate. He cannot be aware that he has given up a part of his invention to such a bandit. I must open his eyes to the fact that he will never be able to enjoy his millions, that he is a prisoner in Back Cup, and will never be allowed to leave it, any more than I shall. Yes, I will make an appeal to his sentiments of humanity, and point out to him what frightful misfortunes he will be responsible for if he does not keep the secret of his deflagrator.”

All this I had said to myself, and was preparing to carry out my resolution, when I suddenly felt myself seized from behind.

Two men held me by the arms, and another appeared in front of me.

Before I had time to cry out the man exclaimed in English: “Hush! not a word! Are you not Simon Hart?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“I saw you come out of your cell.”

“Who are you, then?”

“Lieutenant Davon, of the British Navy, of H.M.S. Standard, which is stationed at the Bermudas.”

Emotion choked me so that it was impossible for me to utter a word.

“We have come to rescue you from Ker Karraje, and also propose to carry off Thomas Roch,” he added.

“Thomas Roch?” I stammered.

“Yes, the document signed by you was found on the beach at St. George — — “

“In a keg, Lieutenant Davon, which I committed to the waters of the lagoon.”

“And which contained,” went on the officer, “the notice by which we were apprised that the island of Back Cup served as a refuge for Ker Karraje and his band — Ker Karraje, this false Count d’Artigas, the author of the double abduction from Healthful House.”

“Ah! Lieutenant Davon — — “

“Now we have not a moment to spare, we must profit by the obscurity.”

“One word, Lieutenant Davon, how did you penetrate to the interior of Back Cup?”

“By means of the submarine boat Sword, with which we have been making experiments at St. George for six months past.”

“A submarine boat!”

“Yes, it awaits us at the foot of the rocks. And now, Mr. Hart, where is Ker Karraje’s tug?”

“It has been away for three weeks.”

“Ker Karraje is not here, then?”

“No, but we expect him back every day — every hour, I might say.”

“It matters little,” replied Lieutenant Davon. “It is not after Ker Karraje, but Thomas Roch, we have come — and you also, Mr. Hart. The Sword will not leave the lagoon till you are both on board. If she does not turn up at St. George again, they will know that I have failed — and they will try again.”

“Where is the Sword, Lieutenant?”

“On this side, in the shadow of the bank, where it cannot be seen. Thanks to your directions, I and my crew were able to locate the tunnel. We came through all right, and ten minutes ago rose to the surface of the lake. Two men landed with me. I saw you issue from the cell marked on your plan. Do you know where Thomas Roch is?”

“A few paces off. He has just passed me, on his way to his laboratory.”

“God be praised, Mr. Hart!”

“Amen, Lieutenant Davon.”

The lieutenant, the two men and I took the path around the lagoon. We had not gone far when we perceived Thomas Roch in front of us. To throw ourselves upon him, gag him before he could utter a cry, bind him before he could offer any resistance, and bear him off to the place where the Sword was moored was the work of a minute.

The Sword was a submersible boat of only twelve tons, and consequently much inferior to the tug, both in respect of dimensions and power. Her screw was worked by a couple of dynamos fitted with accumulators that had been charged twelve hours previously in the port of St. George. However, the Sword would suffice to take us out of this prison, to restore us to liberty — that liberty of which I had given up all hope. Thomas Roch was at last to be rescued from the clutches of Ker Karraje and Engineer Serko. The rascals would not be able to utilize his invention, and nothing could prevent the warships from landing a storming party on the island, who would force the tunnel in the wall and secure the pirates!

We saw no one while the two men were conveying Thomas Roch to the Sword, and all got on board without incident. The lid was shut and secured, the water compartments filled, and the Sword sank out of sight. We were saved!

The Sword was divided into three water-tight compartments. The after one contained the accumulators and machinery. The middle one, occupied by the pilot, was surmounted by a periscope fitted with lenticular portholes, through which an electric search-lamp lighted the way through the water. Forward, in the other compartment, Thomas Roch and I were shut in.

My companion, though the gag which was choking him had been removed, was still bound, and, I thought, knew what was going on.

But we were in a hurry to be off, and hoped to reach St. George that very night if no obstacle was encountered.

I pushed open the door of the compartment and rejoined Lieutenant Davon, who was standing by the man at the wheel. In the after compartment three other men, including the engineer, awaited the lieutenant’s orders to set the machinery in motion.

“Lieutenant Davon,” I said, “I do not think there is any particular reason why I should stay in there with Roch. If I can help you to get through the tunnel, pray command me.”

“Yes, I shall be glad to have you by me, Mr. Hart.”

It was then exactly thirty-seven minutes past eight.

The search-lamp threw a vague light through the water ahead of the Sword. From where we were, we had to cross the lagoon through its entire length to get to the tunnel. It would be pretty difficult to fetch it, we knew, but, if necessary, we could hug the sides of the lake until we located it. Once outside the tunnel the Sword would rise to the surface and make for St. George at full speed.

“At what depth are we now?” I asked the lieutenant.

“About a fathom.”

“It is not necessary to go any lower,” I said. “From what I was able to observe during the equinoctial tides, I should think that we are in the axis of the tunnel.”

“All right,” he replied.

Yes, it was all right, and I felt that Providence was speaking by the mouth of the officer. Certainly Providence could not have chosen a better agent to work its will.

In the light of the lamp I examined him. He was about thirty years of age, cool, phlegmatic, with resolute physiognomy — the English officer in all his native impassibility — no more disturbed than if he had been on board the Standard, operating with extraordinary sang-froid, I might even say, with the precision of a machine.

“On coming through the tunnel I estimated its length at about fifty yards,” he remarked.

“Yes, Lieutenant, about fifty yards from one extremity to the other.”

This calculation must have been pretty exact, since the new tunnel cut on a level with the coast is thirty-five feet in length.

The order was given to go ahead, and the Sword moved forward very slowly for fear of colliding against the rocky side.

Sometimes we came near enough to it to distinguish a black mass ahead of it, but a turn of the wheel put us in the right direction again. Navigating a submarine boat in the open sea is difficult enough. How much more so in the confines of a lagoon!

After five minutes’ manoeuvring, the Sword, which was kept at about a fathom below the surface, had not succeeded in sighting the orifice.

“Perhaps it would be better to return to the surface, Lieutenant,” I said. “We should then be able to see where we are.”

“I think you are right, Mr. Hart, if you can point out just about where the tunnel is located.”

“I think I can.”

“Very well, then.”

As a precaution the light was turned off. The engineer set the pumps in motion, and, lightened of its water ballast, the boat slowly rose in the darkness to the surface.

I remained at my post so that I could peer through the lookouts.

At last the ascensional movement of the Sword stopped, and the periscope emerged about a foot.

On one side of me, lighted by the lamp by the shore, I could see the Beehive.

“What is your opinion?” demanded the lieutenant.

“We are too far north. The orifice is in the west side of the cavern.”

“Is anybody about?”

“Not a soul.”

“Capital, Mr. Hart. Then we will keep on a level with the surface, and when we are in front of the tunnel, and you give the signal, we will sink.”

It was the best thing to be done. We moved off again and the pilot kept her head towards the tunnel.

When we were about twelve yards off I gave the signal to stop. As soon as the current was turned off the Sword stopped, opened her water tanks and slowly sank again.

Then the light in the lookout was turned on again, and there in front of us was a black circle that did not reflect the lamp’s rays.

“There it is, there is the tunnel!” I cried.

Was it not the door by which I was going to escape from my prison? Was not liberty awaiting me on the other side?

Gently the Sword moved towards the orifice.

Oh! the horrible mischance! How have I survived it? How is it that my heart is not broken?

A dim light appeared in the depth of the tunnel, about twenty-five yards in front of us. The advancing light could be none other than that, projected through the lookout of Ker Karraje’s submarine boat.

“The tug! The tug!” I exclaimed. “Lieutenant, here is the tug returning to Back Cup!”

“Full speed astern,” ordered the officer, and the Sword drew back just as she was about to enter the tunnel.

One chance remained. The lieutenant had swiftly turned off the light, and it was just possible that we had not been seen by the people in the tug. Perhaps, in the dark waters of the lagoon, we should escape notice, and when the oncoming boat had risen and moored to the jetty, we should be able to slip out unperceived.

We had backed close in to the south side and the Sword was about to stop, but alas, for our hopes! Captain Spade had seen that another submarine boat was about to issue through the tunnel, and he was making preparations to chase us. How could a frail craft like the Sword defend itself against the attacks of Ker Karraje’s powerful machine?

Lieutenant Davon turned to me and said: “Go back to the compartment where Thomas Roch is and shut yourself in. I will close the after-door. There is just a chance that if the tug rams us the water-tight compartments will keep us up.”

After shaking hands with the lieutenant, who was as cool as though we were in no danger, I went forward and rejoined Thomas Roch. I closed the door and awaited the issue in profound darkness.

Then I could feel the desperate efforts made by the Sword to escape from or ram her enemy. I could feel her rushing, gyrating and plunging. Now she would twist to avoid a collision. Now she would rise to the surface, then sink to the bottom of the lagoon. Can any one conceive such a struggle as that in which, like two marine monsters, these machines were engaged in beneath the troubled waters of this inland lake?

A few minutes elapsed, and I began to think that the Sword had eluded the tug and was rushing through the tunnel.

Suddenly there was a collision. The shock was not, it seemed to me, very violent, but I could be under no illusion: the Sword had been struck on her starboard quarter. Perhaps her plates had resisted, and if not, the water would only invade one of her compartments, I thought.

Almost immediately after, however, there was another shock that pushed the Sword with extreme violence. She was raised by the ram of the tug which sawed and ripped its way into her side. Then I could feel her heel over and sink straight down, stern foremost.

Thomas Roch and I were tumbled over violently by. this movement. There was another bump, another ripping sound, and the Sword lay still.

Just what happened after that I am unable to say, for I lost consciousness.

I have since learned that all this occurred many hours ago.

I however distinctly remember that my last thought was: “If I am to die, at any rate Thomas Roch and his secret perish with me — and the pirates of Back Cup will not escape punishment for their crimes.”

CHAPTER XV.

EXPECTATION.

As soon as I recover my senses I find myself lying on my bed in my cell, where it appears I have been lying for thirty-six hours.

I am not alone. Engineer Serko is near me. He has attended to me himself, not because he regards me as a friend, I surmise, but as a man from whom indispensable explanations are awaited, and who afterwards can be done away with if necessary.

I am still so weak that I could not walk a step. A little more and I should have been asphyxiated in that narrow compartment of the Sword at the bottom of the lagoon.

Am I in condition to reply to the questions that Engineer Serko is dying to put to me? Yes — but I shall maintain the utmost reserve.

In the first place I wonder what has become of Lieutenant Davon and the crew of the Sword. Did those brave Englishmen perish in the collision? Are they safe and sound like us — for I suppose that Thomas Roch has also survived?

The first question that Engineer Serko puts to me is this: “Will you explain to me what happened, Mr. Hart?”

Instead of replying it occurs to me to question him myself.

“And Thomas Roch?” I inquire.

“In good health, Mr. Hart.” Then he adds in an imperious tone: “Tell me what occurred!”

“In the first place, tell me what became of the others.”

“What others?” replies Serko, glancing at me savagely.

“Why, those men who threw themselves upon Thomas Roch and me, who gagged, bound, and carried us off and shut us up, I know not where?”

On reflection I had come to the conclusion that the best thing to do was to pretend that I had been surprised before I knew where I was or who my aggressors were.

“You will know what became of them later. But first, tell me how, the thing was done.”

By the threatening tone of his voice, as he for the third time puts this question, I understand the nature of the suspicions entertained of me. Yet to be in the position to accuse me of having had relations with the outside he would have had to get possession of my keg. This he could not have done, seeing that it is in the hands of the Bermudan authorities. The pirates cannot, I am convinced, have a single proof to back up their suspicions.

I therefore recount how about eight o’clock on the previous evening I was walking along the edge of the lagoon, after Thomas Roch had passed me, going towards his laboratory, when I felt myself seized from behind; how having been gagged, bound, and blindfolded, I felt myself carried off and lowered into a hole with another person whom I thought I recognized from his groans as Thomas Roch; how I soon felt that I was on board a boat of some description and naturally concluded that it was the tug; how I felt it sink; how I felt a shock that threw me violently against the side, and how I felt myself suffocating and lost consciousness, since I remember nothing further.

Engineer Serko listens with profound attention, a stern look in his eyes and a frown on his brow; and yet he can have no reason that authorizes him to doubt my word.

“You claim that three men threw themselves upon you?” he asks.

“Yes. I thought they were some of your people, for I did not see them coming. Who were they?”

“Strangers, as you must have known from their language.”

“They did not utter a word!”

“Have you no idea as to their nationality?”

“Not the remotest.”

Do you know what were their intentions in entering the cavern?”

“I do not.”

“What is your opinion about it?”

“My opinion, Mr. Serko? I repeat I thought they were two or three of your pirates who had come to throw me into the lagoon by the Count d’Artigas’ orders, and that they were going to do the same thing to Thomas Roch. I supposed that having obtained his secrets — as you informed me was the case — you had no further use for him and were about to get rid of us both.”

“Is it possible, Mr. Hart, that you could have thought such a thing!” continued Serko in his sarcastic way.

“I did, until having been able to remove the bandage from my eyes, I perceived that I was in the tug.”

“It was not the tug, but a boat of the same kind that had got through the tunnel.”

“A submarine boat?” I ejaculate.

“Yes, and manned by persons whose mission was to kidnap you and Thomas Roch.”

“Kidnap us?” I echo, continuing to feign surprise.

“And,” adds Engineer Serko, “I want to know what you think about the matter.”

“What I think about it? Well, it appears to me that there is only one plausible explanation possible. If the secret of your retreat has not been betrayed — and I cannot conceive how you could have been betrayed or what imprudence you or yours could have committed — my opinion is that this submarine boat was exploring the bottom of the sea in this neighborhood, that she must have found her way into the tunnel, that she rose to the surface of the lagoon, that her crew, greatly surprised to find themselves inside an inhabited cavern, seized hold of the first persons they came across, Thomas Roch and myself, and others as well perhaps, for of course I do not know — — “

Engineer Serko has become serious again. Does he realize the inanity of the hypothesis I try to pass off on him? Does he think I know more than I will say? However this may be, he accepts my professed view, and says: “In effect, Mr. Hart, it must have happened as you suggest, and when the stranger tried to make her way out through the tunnel just as the tug was entering, there was a collision — a collision of which she was the victim. But we are not the kind of people to allow our fellow-men to perish before our eyes. Moreover, the disappearance of Thomas Roch and yourself was almost immediately discovered. Two such valuable lives had to be saved at all hazards. We set to work. There are many expert divers among our men. They hastily donned their suits and descended to the bottom of the lagoon. They passed lines around the hull of the Sword — — “

“The Sword?” I exclaim.

“That is the name we saw painted on the bow of the vessel when we raised her to the surface. What satisfaction we experienced when we recovered you — unconscious, it is true, but still breathing — and were able to bring you back to life! Unfortunately all our attentions to the officer who commanded the Sword, and to his crew were useless. The shock had torn open the after and middle compartments, and they paid with their lives the misfortune — due to chance, as you observe — of having discovered our mysterious retreat.”

On learning that Lieutenant Davon and his companions are dead, my heart is filled with anguish; but to keep up my role — as they were persons with whom, presumably, I was not acquainted, and had never seen — I am careful not to display any emotion. I must, on no account, afford ground for the suspicion that there was any connivance between the commander of the Sword and me. For aught I know, Engineer Serko may have reason to be very skeptical about the discovery of the tunnel being accidental.

What, however, I am most concerned about is that the unlooked-for occasion to recover my liberty was lost. Shall I ever be afforded another chance? However this may be, my notice reached the English authorities of the archipelago, and they now know where Ker Karraje is to be found. When it is seen that the Sword does not return to Bermuda, there can be no doubt that another attempt will be made to get inside Back Cup, in which, had it not been for the inopportune return of the tug, I should no longer be a prisoner.

I have resumed my usual existence, and having allayed all mistrust, am permitted to wander freely about the cavern, as usual.

It is patent that the adventure has had no ill effect upon Thomas Roch. Intelligent nursing brought him around, as it did me. In full possession of his mental faculties he has returned to work, and spends the entire day in his laboratory.

The Ebba brought back from her last trip bales, boxes, and a quantity of objects of varied origin, and I conclude that a number of ships must have been pillaged during this marauding expedition.

The work on the trestles for Roch’s engine goes steadily forward, and there are now no fewer than fifty engines. If Ker Karraje and Engineer Serko are under the necessity of defending Back Cup, three or four will be sufficient to render the island unapproachable, as they will cover a zone which no vessel could enter without being blown to pieces. And it occurs to me that they intend to put Back Cup in a state of defence after having argued as follows: “If the appearance of the Sword in the lagoon was due to chance the situation remains unchanged, and no power, not even England, will think of seeking for the Sword inside the cavern. If, on the other hand, as the result of an incomprehensible revelation, it has been learned that Back Cup is become the retreat of Ker Karraje, if the expedition of the Sword was a first effort against the island, another of a different kind — either a bombardment from a distance, or an attack by a landing party — is to be expected. Therefore, ere we can quit Back Cup and carry away our plunder, we shall have to defend ourselves by means of Roch’s fulgurator.”

In my opinion the rascals must have gone on to reason still further in this wise: “Is there any connection between the disclosure of our secret — if it was, and however it may have been made — and the double abduction from Healthful House? Is it known that Thomas Roch and his keeper are confined in Back Cup? Is it known that the abduction was effected in the interest of Ker Karraje? Have Americans, English, French, Germans, and Russians reason to fear that an attack in force against the island would be doomed to failure?”

Ker Karraje must know very well that these powers would not hesitate to attack him, however great the danger might be. The destruction of his lair is an urgent duty in the interest of public security and of humanity. After sweeping the West Pacific the pirate and his companions are infesting the West Atlantic, and must be wiped out at all costs.

In any case, it is imperative that the inhabitants of Back Cup should be on their guard. This fact is realized, and, from the day on which the Sword was destroyed, strict watch has been kept. Thanks to the new passage, they are able to hide among the rocks without having recourse to the submarine tunnel to get there, and day and night a dozen sentries are posted about the island. The moment a ship appears in sight the fact is at once made known inside the cavern.

Nothing occurs for some days, and the latter succeed each other with dreadful monotony. The pirates, however, feel that Back Cup no longer enjoys its former security. Every moment an alarm from the sentries posted outside is expected. The situation is no longer the same since the advent of the Sword. Gallant Lieutenant Davon, gallant crew, may England, may the civilized nations, never forget that you have sacrificed your lives in the cause of humanity!

It is evident that now, however powerful may be their means of defence, even more powerful than a network of torpedoes, Engineer Serko and Captain Spade are filled with an anxiety that they vainly essay to dissemble. They hold frequent conferences together. Maybe they discuss the advisability of quitting Back Cup with their wealth, for they are aware that if the existence of the cavern is known means will be found to reduce it, even if the inmates have to be starved out.

This is, of course, mere conjecture on my part. What is essential to me is that they do not suspect me of having launched the keg that was so providentially picked up at Bermuda. Never, I must say, has Engineer Serko ever made any allusion to any such probability. No, I am not even suspected. If the contrary were the case I am sufficiently acquainted with Ker Karraje to know that he would long ago have sent me to rejoin Lieutenant Davon and the Sword at the bottom of the lagoon.

The winter tempests have set in with a vengeance. The wind howls though the hole in the roof, and rude gusts sweep through the forest of pillars producing sonorous sounds, so sonorous, so deep, that one might sometimes almost fancy they were produced by the firing of the guns of a squadron. Flocks of seabirds take refuge in the cavern from the gale, and at intervals, when it lulls, almost deafen us with their screaming.

It is to be presumed that in such weather the schooner will make no attempt to put to sea, for the stock of provisions is ample enough to last all the season. Moreover, I imagine the Count d’Artigas will not be so eager in future to show his Ebba along the American coast, where he risks being received, not, as hitherto, with the consideration due to a wealthy yachtsman, but in the manner Ker Karraje so richly merits.

It occurs to me that if the apparition of the Sword was the commencement of a campaign against the island, a question of great moment relative to the future of Back Cup arises.

Therefore, one day, prudently, so as not to excite any suspicion, I ventured to pump Engineer Serko about it.

We were in the neighborhood of Thomas Roch’s laboratory, and had been conversing for some time, when Engineer Serko touched upon the extraordinary apparition of an English submarine boat in the lagoon. On this occasion he seemed to incline to the view that it might have been a premeditated expedition against Ker Karraje.

“That is not my opinion,” I replied, in order to bring him to the question that I wanted to put to him.

“Why?” he demanded.

“Because if your retreat were known a fresh attempt, if not to penetrate to the cavern, at least to destroy Back Cup, would ere this have been made.”

“Destroy it!” cried Serko. “It would be a dangerous undertaking, in view of the means of defence of which we now dispose.”

“They can know nothing about this matter, Mr. Serko. It is not imagined, either in the new world or the old, that the abduction from Healthful House was effected for your especial benefit, or that you have succeeded in coming to terms with Thomas Roch for his invention.”

Engineer Serko made no response to this observation, which, for that matter, was unanswerable.

I continued: “Therefore a squadron sent by the maritime powers who have an interest in breaking up this island would not hesitate to approach and shell it. Now, I argue from this that as this squadron has not yet appeared, it is not likely to come at all, and that nothing is known as to Ker Karraje’s whereabouts, and you must admit that this hypothesis is the most cheerful one, as far as you are concerned.”

“That may be,” Engineer Serko replied, “but what is, is. Whether they are aware of the fact or no, if warships approach within five or six miles of this island they will be sunk before they have had time to fire a single shot!”

“Well, and what then?”

“What then? Why the probability is that no others would care to repeat the experiment.”

“That, again, may be. But these warships would invest you beyond the dangerous zone, and the Ebba would not be able to put in to the ports she previously visited with the Count d’Artigas. In this event, how would you be able to provision the island?”

Engineer Serko remained silent.

This argument, which he must already have brooded over, was too logical to be refuted or dismissed, and I have an idea that the pirates contemplate abandoning Back Cup.

Nevertheless, not relishing being cornered, he continued: “We should still have the tug, and what the Ebba could not do, this would.”

“The tug?” I cried. “But if Ker Karraje’s secrets are known, do you suppose the powers are not also aware of the existence of the Count d’Artigas’ submarine boat?”

Engineer Serko looked at me suspiciously.

“Mr. Hart,” he said, “you appear to me to carry your deductions rather far.”

“I, Mr. Serko?”

“Yes, and I think you talk about all this like a man who knows more than he ought to.”

This remark brought me up abruptly. It was evident that my arguments might give rise to the suspicion that I was not altogether irresponsible for the recent incident. Engineer Serko scrutinized me sharply as though he would read my innermost thoughts.

“Mr. Serko,” I observed, “by profession, as well as by inclination, I am accustomed to reason upon everything. This is why I communicated to you the result of my reasoning, which you can take into consideration or not, as you like.”

Thereupon we separate. But I fancy my lack of reserve may have excited suspicions which may not be easy to allay.

From this interview, however, I gleaned a precious bit of information, namely, that the dangerous zone of Roch’s fulgurator is between five and six miles off. Perhaps, during the next equinoctial tides, another notice to this effect in another keg may also reach a safe destination.

But how many weary months to wait before the orifice of the tunnel will again be uncovered!

The rough weather continues, and the squalls are more violent than ever. Is it the state of the sea that delays another campaign against Back Cup? Lieutenant Davon certainly assured me that if his expedition failed, if the Sword did not return to St. George, another attempt under different conditions would be made with a view to breaking up this bandits’ lair. Sooner or later the work of justice must be done, and Back Cup be destroyed, even though I may not survive its destruction.

Ah! why can I not go and breathe, if only for a single instant, the vivifying air outside? Why am I not permitted to cast one glance over the ocean towards the distant horizon of the Bermudas? My whole life is concentrated in one desire: to get through the tunnel in the wall and hide myself among the rocks. Perchance I might be the first to catch sight of the smoke of a squadron heading for the island.

This project, alas! is unrealizable, as sentries are posted day and night at each extremity of the passage. No one can enter it without Engineer Serko’s authorization. Were I to attempt it, I should risk being deprived of my liberty to walk about the cavern, and even worse might happen to me.

Since our last conversation, Engineer Serko’s attitude towards me has undergone a change. His gaze has lost its old-time sarcasm and is distrustful, suspicious, searching and as stern as Ker Karraje’s.

November 17. — This afternoon there was a great commotion in the Beehive, and the men rushed out of their cells with loud cries.

I was reclining on my bed, but immediately rose and hurried out.

All the pirates were making for the passage, in front of which were Ker Karraje, Engineer Serko, Captain Spade, Boatswain Effrondat, Engine-driver Gibson and the Count d’Artigas’ big Malay attendant.

I soon learn the reason for the tumult, for the sentries rush in with shouts of alarm.

Several vessels have been sighted to the northwest — warships steaming at full speed in the direction of Back Cup.

CHAPTER 5

FOR some minutes after the cook had left the forecastle, Augustus abandoned himself to despair, never hoping to leave the berth alive. He now came to the resolution of acquainting the first of the men who should come down with my situation, thinking it better to let me take my chance with the mutineers than perish of thirst in the hold, — for it had been ten days since I was first imprisoned, and my jug of water was not a plentiful supply even for four. As he was thinking on this subject, the idea came all at once into his head that it might be possible to communicate with me by the way of the main hold. In any other circumstances, the difficulty and hazard of the undertaking would have prevented him from attempting it; but now he had, at all events, little prospect of life, and consequently little to lose, he bent his whole mind, therefore, upon the task.

His handcuffs were the first consideration. At first he saw no method of removing them, and feared that he should thus be baffled in the very outset; but upon a closer scrutiny he discovered that the irons could be slipped off and on at pleasure, with very little effort or inconvenience, merely by squeezing his hands through them, — this species of manacle being altogether ineffectual in confining young persons, in whom the smaller bones readily yield to pressure. He now untied his feet, and, leaving the cord in such a manner that it could easily be readjusted in the event of any person’s coming down, proceeded to examine the bulkhead where it joined the berth. The partition here was of soft pine board, an inch thick, and he saw that he should have little trouble in cutting his way through. A voice was now heard at the forecastle companion-way, and he had just time to put his right hand into its handcuff (the left had not been removed) and to draw the rope in a slipknot around his ankle, when Dirk Peters came below, followed by Tiger, who immediately leaped into the berth and lay down. The dog had been brought on board by Augustus, who knew my attachment to the animal, and thought it would give me pleasure to have him with me during the voyage. He went up to our house for him immediately after first taking me into the hold, but did not think of mentioning the circumstance upon his bringing the watch. Since the mutiny, Augustus had not seen him before his appearance with Dirk Peters, and had given him up for lost, supposing him to have been thrown overboard by some of the malignant villains belonging to the mate’s gang. It appeared afterward that he had crawled into a hole beneath a whale-boat, from which, not having room to turn round, he could not extricate himself. Peters at last let him out, and, with a species of good feeling which my friend knew well how to appreciate, had now brought him to him in the forecastle as a companion, leaving at the same time some salt junk and potatoes, with a can of water, he then went on deck, promising to come down with something more to eat on the next day.

When he had gone, Augustus freed both hands from the manacles and unfastened his feet. He then turned down the head of the mattress on which he had been lying, and with his penknife (for the ruffians had not thought it worth while to search him) commenced cutting vigorously across one of the partition planks, as closely as possible to the floor of the berth. He chose to cut here, because, if suddenly interrupted, he would be able to conceal what had been done by letting the head of the mattress fall into its proper position. For the remainder of the day, however, no disturbance occurred, and by night he had completely divided the plank. It should here be observed that none of the crew occupied the forecastle as a sleeping-place, living altogether in the cabin since the mutiny, drinking the wines and feasting on the sea-stores of Captain Barnard, and giving no more heed than was absolutely necessary to the navigation of the brig. These circumstances proved fortunate both for myself and Augustus; for, had matters been otherwise, he would have found it impossible to reach me. As it was, he proceeded with confidence in his design. It was near daybreak, however, before he completed the second division of the board (which was about a foot above the first cut), thus making an aperture quite large enough to admit his passage through with facility to the main orlop deck. Having got here, he made his way with but little trouble to the lower main hatch, although in so doing he had to scramble over tiers of oil-casks piled nearly as high as the upper deck, there being barely room enough left for his body. Upon reaching the hatch he found that Tiger had followed him below, squeezing between two rows of the casks. It was now too late, however, to attempt getting to me before dawn, as the chief difficulty lay in passing through the close stowage in the lower hold. He therefore resolved to return, and wait till the next night. With this design, he proceeded to loosen the hatch, so that he might have as little detention as possible when he should come again. No sooner had he loosened it than Tiger sprang eagerly to the small opening produced, snuffed for a moment, and then uttered a long whine, scratching at the same time, as if anxious to remove the covering with his paws. There could be no doubt, from his behaviour, that he was aware of my being in the hold, and Augustus thought it possible that he would be able to get to me if he put him down. He now hit upon the expedient of sending the note, as it was especially desirable that I should make no attempt at forcing my way out at least under existing circumstances, and there could be no certainty of his getting to me himself on the morrow as he intended. After-events proved how fortunate it was that the idea occurred to him as it did; for, had it not been for the receipt of the note, I should undoubtedly have fallen upon some plan, however desperate, of alarming the crew, and both our lives would most probably have been sacrificed in consequence.

Having concluded to write, the difficulty was now to procure the materials for so doing. An old toothpick was soon made into a pen; and this by means of feeling altogether, for the between-decks was as dark as pitch. Paper enough was obtained from the back of a letter — a duplicate of the forged letter from Mr. Ross. This had been the original draught; but the handwriting not being sufficiently well imitated, Augustus had written another, thrusting the first, by good fortune, into his coat-pocket, where it was now most opportunely discovered. Ink alone was thus wanting, and a substitute was immediately found for this by means of a slight incision with the penknife on the back of a finger just above the nail — a copious flow of blood ensuing, as usual, from wounds in that vicinity. The note was now written, as well as it could be in the dark and under the circumstances. It briefly explained that a mutiny had taken place; that Captain Barnard was set adrift; and that I might expect immediate relief as far as provisions were concerned, but must not venture upon making any disturbance. It concluded with these words: “I have scrawled this with blood — your life depends upon lying close.”

This slip of paper being tied upon the dog, he was now put down the hatchway, and Augustus made the best of his way back to the forecastle, where he found no reason to believe that any of the crew had been in his absence. To conceal the hole in the partition, he drove his knife in just above it, and hung up a pea-jacket which he found in the berth. His handcuffs were then replaced, and also the rope around his ankles.

These arrangements were scarcely completed when Dirk Peters came below, very drunk, but in excellent humour, and bringing with him my friend’s allowance of provision for the day. This consisted of a dozen large Irish potatoes roasted, and a pitcher of water. He sat for some time on a chest by the berth, and talked freely about the mate and the general concerns of the brig. His demeanour was exceedingly capricious, and even grotesque. At one time Augustus was much alarmed by odd conduct. At last, however, he went on deck, muttering a promise to bring his prisoner a good dinner on the morrow. During the day two of the crew (harpooners) came down, accompanied by the cook, all three in nearly the last stage of intoxication. Like Peters, they made no scruple of talking unreservedly about their plans. It appeared that they were much divided among themselves as to their ultimate course, agreeing in no point, except the attack on the ship from the Cape Verd Islands, with which they were in hourly expectation of meeting. As far as could be ascertained, the mutiny had not been brought about altogether for the sake of booty; a private pique of the chief mate’s against Captain Barnard having been the main instigation. There now seemed to be two principal factions among the crew — one headed by the mate, the other by the cook. The former party were for seizing the first suitable vessel which should present itself, and equipping it at some of the West India Islands for a piratical cruise. The latter division, however, which was the stronger, and included Dirk Peters among its partisans, were bent upon pursuing the course originally laid out for the brig into the South Pacific; there either to take whale, or act otherwise, as circumstances should suggest. The representations of Peters, who had frequently visited these regions, had great weight, apparently, with the mutineers, wavering, as they were, between half-engendered notions of profit and pleasure. He dwelt on the world of novelty and amusement to be found among the innumerable islands of the Pacific, on the perfect security and freedom from all restraint to be enjoyed, but, more particularly, on the deliciousness of the climate, on the abundant means of good living, and on the voluptuous beauty of the women. As yet, nothing had been absolutely determined upon; but the pictures of the hybrid line-manager were taking strong hold upon the ardent imaginations of the seamen, and there was every possibility that his intentions would be finally carried into effect.

The three men went away in about an hour, and no one else entered the forecastle all day. Augustus lay quiet until nearly night. He then freed himself from the rope and irons, and prepared for his attempt. A bottle was found in one of the berths, and this he filled with water from the pitcher left by Peters, storing his pockets at the same time with cold potatoes. To his great joy he also came across a lantern, with a small piece of tallow candle in it. This he could light at any moment, as he had in his possession a box of phosphorus matches. When it was quite dark, he got through the hole in the bulkhead, having taken the precaution to arrange the bedclothes in the berth so as to convey the idea of a person covered up. When through, he hung up the pea-jacket on his knife, as before, to conceal the aperture — this manoeuvre being easily effected, as he did not readjust the piece of plank taken out until afterward. He was now on the main orlop deck, and proceeded to make his way, as before, between the upper deck and the oil-casks to the main hatchway. Having reached this, he lit the piece of candle, and descended, groping with extreme difficulty among the compact stowage of the hold. In a few moments he became alarmed at the insufferable stench and the closeness of the atmosphere. He could not think it possible that I had survived my confinement for so long a period breathing so oppressive an air. He called my name repeatedly, but I made him no reply, and his apprehensions seemed thus to be confirmed. The brig was rolling violently, and there was so much noise in consequence, that it was useless to listen for any weak sound, such as those of my breathing or snoring. He threw open the lantern, and held it as high as possible, whenever an opportunity occurred, in order that, by observing the light, I might, if alive, be aware that succor was approaching. Still nothing was heard from me, and the supposition of my death began to assume the character of certainty. He determined, nevertheless, to force a passage, if possible, to the box, and at least ascertain beyond a doubt the truth of his surmises. He pushed on for some time in a most pitiable state of anxiety, until, at length, he found the pathway utterly blocked up, and that there was no possibility of making any farther way by the course in which he had set out. Overcome now by his feelings, he threw himself among the lumber in despair, and wept like a child. It was at this period that he heard the crash occasioned by the bottle which I had thrown down. Fortunate, indeed, was it that the incident occurred — for, upon this incident, trivial as it appears, the thread of my destiny depended. Many years elapsed, however, before I was aware of this fact. A natural shame and regret for his weakness and indecision prevented Augustus from confiding to me at once what a more intimate and unreserved communion afterward induced him to reveal. Upon finding his further progress in the hold impeded by obstacles which he could not overcome, he had resolved to abandon his attempt at reaching me, and return at once to the forecastle. Before condemning him entirely on this head, the harassing circumstances which embarrassed him should be taken into consideration. The night was fast wearing away, and his absence from the forecastle might be discovered; and indeed would necessarily be so, if he should fail to get back to the berth by daybreak. His candle was expiring in the socket, and there would be the greatest difficulty in retracing his way to the hatchway in the dark. It must be allowed, too, that he had every good reason to believe me dead; in which event no benefit could result to me from his reaching the box, and a world of danger would be encountered to no purpose by himself. He had repeatedly called, and I had made him no answer. I had been now eleven days and nights with no more water than that contained in the jug which he had left with me — a supply which it was not at all probable I had hoarded in the beginning of my confinement, as I had every cause to expect a speedy release. The atmosphere of the hold, too, must have appeared to him, coming from the comparatively open air of the steerage, of a nature absolutely poisonous, and by far more intolerable than it had seemed to me upon my first taking up my quarters in the box — the hatchways at that time having been constantly open for many months previous. Add to these considerations that of the scene of bloodshed and terror so lately witnessed by my friend; his confinement, privations, and narrow escapes from death, together with the frail and equivocal tenure by which he still existed — circumstances all so well calculated to prostrate every energy of mind — and the reader will be easily brought, as I have been, to regard his apparent falling off in friendship and in faith with sentiments rather of sorrow than of anger.

The crash of the bottle was distinctly heard, yet Augustus was not sure that it proceeded from the hold. The doubt, however, was sufficient inducement to persevere. He clambered up nearly to the orlop deck by means of the stowage, and then, watching for a lull in the pitchings of the vessel, he called out to me in as loud a tone as he could command, regardless, for the moment, of being overheard by the crew. It will be remembered that on this occasion the voice reached me, but I was so entirely overcome by violent agitation as to be incapable of reply. Confident, now, that his worst apprehensions were well founded, he descended, with a view of getting back to the forecastle without loss of time. In his haste some small boxes were thrown down, the noise occasioned by which I heard, as will be recollected. He had made considerable progress on his return when the fall of the knife again caused him to hesitate. He retraced his steps immediately, and, clambering up the stowage a second time, called out my name, loudly as before, having watched for a lull. This time I found voice to answer. Overjoyed at discovering me to be still alive, he now resolved to brave every difficulty and danger in reaching me. Having extricated himself as quickly as possible from the labyrinth of lumber by which he was hemmed in, he at length struck into an opening which promised better, and finally, after a series of struggles, arrived at the box in a state of utter exhaustion.

CHAPTER 6

THE leading particulars of this narration were all that Augustus communicated to me while we remained near the box. It was not until afterward that he entered fully into all the details. He was apprehensive of being missed, and I was wild with impatience to leave my detested place of confinement. We resolved to make our way at once to the hole in the bulkhead, near which I was to remain for the present, while he went through to reconnoiter. To leave Tiger in the box was what neither of us could endure to think of, yet, how to act otherwise was the question. He now seemed to be perfectly quiet, and we could not even distinguish the sound of his breathing upon applying our ears closely to the box. I was convinced that he was dead, and determined to open the door. We found him lying at full length, apparently in a deep stupor, yet still alive. No time was to be lost, yet I could not bring myself to abandon an animal who had now been twice instrumental in saving my life, without some attempt at preserving him. We therefore dragged him along with us as well as we could, although with the greatest difficulty and fatigue; Augustus, during part of the time, being forced to clamber over the impediments in our way with the huge dog in his arms — a feat to which the feebleness of my frame rendered me totally inadequate. At length we succeeded in reaching the hole, when Augustus got through, and Tiger was pushed in afterward. All was found to be safe, and we did not fail to return sincere thanks to God for our deliverance from the imminent danger we had escaped. For the present, it was agreed that I should remain near the opening, through which my companion could readily supply me with a part of his daily provision, and where I could have the advantages of breathing an atmosphere comparatively pure.

In explanation of some portions of this narrative, wherein I have spoken of the stowage of the brig, and which may appear ambiguous to some of my readers who may have seen a proper or regular stowage, I must here state that the manner in which this most important duty had been per formed on board the Grampus was a most shameful piece of neglect on the part of Captain Barnard, who was by no means as careful or as experienced a seaman as the hazardous nature of the service on which he was employed would seem necessarily to demand. A proper stowage cannot be accomplished in a careless manner, and many most disastrous accidents, even within the limits of my own experience, have arisen from neglect or ignorance in this particular. Coasting vessels, in the frequent hurry and bustle attendant upon taking in or discharging cargo, are the most liable to mishap from the want of a proper attention to stowage. The great point is to allow no possibility of the cargo or ballast shifting position even in the most violent rollings of the vessel. With this end, great attention must be paid, not only to the bulk taken in, but to the nature of the bulk, and whether there be a full or only a partial cargo. In most kinds of freight the stowage is accomplished by means of a screw. Thus, in a load of tobacco or flour, the whole is screwed so tightly into the hold of the vessel that the barrels or hogsheads, upon discharging, are found to be completely flattened, and take some time to regain their original shape. This screwing, however, is resorted to principally with a view of obtaining more room in the hold; for in a full load of any such commodities as flour or tobacco, there can be no danger of any shifting whatever, at least none from which inconvenience can result. There have been instances, indeed, where this method of screwing has resulted in the most lamentable consequences, arising from a cause altogether distinct from the danger attendant upon a shifting of cargo. A load of cotton, for example, tightly screwed while in certain conditions, has been known, through the expansion of its bulk, to rend a vessel asunder at sea. There can be no doubt either that the same result would ensue in the case of tobacco, while undergoing its usual course of fermentation, were it not for the interstices consequent upon the rotundity of the hogsheads.

It is when a partial cargo is received that danger is chiefly to be apprehended from shifting, and that precautions should be always taken to guard against such misfortune. Only those who have encountered a violent gale of wind, or rather who have experienced the rolling of a vessel in a sudden calm after the gale, can form an idea of the tremendous force of the plunges, and of the consequent terrible impetus given to all loose articles in the vessel. It is then that the necessity of a cautious stowage, when there is a partial cargo, becomes obvious. When lying-to (especially with a small bead sail), a vessel which is not properly modelled in the bows is frequently thrown upon her beam-ends; this occurring even every fifteen or twenty minutes upon an average, yet without any serious consequences resulting, provided there be a proper stowage. If this, however, has not been strictly attended to, in the first of these heavy lurches the whole of the cargo tumbles over to the side of the vessel which lies upon the water, and, being thus prevented from regaining her equilibrium, as she would otherwise necessarily do, she is certain to fill in a few seconds and go down. It is not too much to say that at least one-half of the instances in which vessels have foundered in heavy gales at sea may be attributed to a shifting of cargo or of ballast.

When a partial cargo of any kind is taken on board, the whole, after being first stowed as compactly as may be, should be covered with a layer of stout shifting-boards, extending completely across the vessel. Upon these boards strong temporary stanchions should be erected, reaching to the timbers above, and thus securing every thing in its place. In cargoes consisting of grain, or any similar matter, additional precautions are requisite. A hold filled entirely with grain upon leaving port will be found not more than three fourths full upon reaching its destination — this, too, although the freight, when measured bushel by bushel by the consignee, will overrun by a vast deal (on account of the swelling of the grain) the quantity consigned. This result is occasioned by settling during the voyage, and is the more perceptible in proportion to the roughness of the weather experienced. If grain loosely thrown in a vessel, then, is ever so well secured by shifting-boards and stanchions, it will be liable to shift in a long passage so greatly as to bring about the most distressing calamities. To prevent these, every method should be employed before leaving port to settle the cargo as much as possible; and for this there are many contrivances, among which may be mentioned the driving of wedges into the grain. Even after all this is done, and unusual pains taken to secure the shifting-boards, no seaman who knows what he is about will feel altogether secure in a gale of any violence with a cargo of grain on board, and, least of all, with a partial cargo. Yet there are hundreds of our coasting vessels, and, it is likely, many more from the ports of Europe, which sail daily with partial cargoes, even of the most dangerous species, and without any precaution whatever. The wonder is that no more accidents occur than do actually happen. A lamentable instance of this heedlessness occurred to my knowledge in the case of Captain Joel Rice of the schooner Firefly, which sailed from Richmond, Virginia, to Madeira, with a cargo of corn, in the year 1825. The captain had gone many voyages without serious accident, although he was in the habit of paying no attention whatever to his stowage, more than to secure it in the ordinary manner. He had never before sailed with a cargo of grain, and on this occasion had the corn thrown on board loosely, when it did not much more than half fill the vessel. For the first portion of the voyage he met with nothing more than light breezes; but when within a day’s sail of Madeira there came on a strong gale from the N. N. E. which forced him to lie-to. He brought the schooner to the wind under a double-reefed foresail alone, when she rode as well as any vessel could be expected to do, and shipped not a drop of water. Toward night the gale somewhat abated, and she rolled with more unsteadiness than before, but still did very well, until a heavy lurch threw her upon her beam-ends to starboard. The corn was then heard to shift bodily, the force of the movement bursting open the main hatchway. The vessel went down like a shot. This happened within hail of a small sloop from Madeira, which picked up one of the crew (the only person saved), and which rode out the gale in perfect security, as indeed a jolly boat might have done under proper management.

The stowage on board the Grampus was most clumsily done, if stowage that could be called which was little better than a promiscuous huddling together of oil-casks {*1} and ship furniture. I have already spoken of the condition of articles in the hold. On the orlop deck there was space enough for my body (as I have stated) between the oil-casks and the upper deck; a space was left open around the main hatchway; and several other large spaces were left in the stowage. Near the hole cut through the bulkhead by Augustus there was room enough for an entire cask, and in this space I found myself comfortably situated for the present.

By the time my friend had got safely into the berth, and readjusted his handcuffs and the rope, it was broad daylight. We had made a narrow escape indeed; for scarcely had he arranged all matters, when the mate came below, with Dirk Peters and the cook. They talked for some time about the vessel from the Cape Verds, and seemed to be excessively anxious for her appearance. At length the cook came to the berth in which Augustus was lying, and seated himself in it near the head. I could see and hear every thing from my hiding-place, for the piece cut out had not been put back, and I was in momentary expectation that the negro would fall against the pea-jacket, which was hung up to conceal the aperture, in which case all would have been discovered, and our lives would, no doubt, have been instantly sacrificed. Our good fortune prevailed, however; and although he frequently touched it as the vessel rolled, he never pressed against it sufficiently to bring about a discovery. The bottom of the jacket had been carefully fastened to the bulkhead, so that the hole might not be seen by its swinging to one side. All this time Tiger was lying in the foot of the berth, and appeared to have recovered in some measure his faculties, for I could see him occasionally open his eyes and draw a long breath.

After a few minutes the mate and cook went above, leaving Dirk Peters behind, who, as soon as they were gone, came and sat himself down in the place just occupied by the mate. He began to talk very sociably with Augustus, and we could now see that the greater part of his apparent intoxication, while the two others were with him, was a feint. He answered all my companion’s questions with perfect freedom; told him that he had no doubt of his father’s having been picked up, as there were no less than five sail in sight just before sundown on the day he was cut adrift; and used other language of a consolatory nature, which occasioned me no less surprise than pleasure. Indeed, I began to entertain hopes, that through the instrumentality of Peters we might be finally enabled to regain possession of the brig, and this idea I mentioned to Augustus as soon as I found an opportunity. He thought the matter possible, but urged the necessity of the greatest caution in making the attempt, as the conduct of the hybrid appeared to be instigated by the most arbitrary caprice alone; and, indeed, it was difficult to say if he was at any moment of sound mind. Peters went upon deck in about an hour, and did not return again until noon, when he brought Augustus a plentiful supply of junk beef and pudding. Of this, when we were left alone, I partook heartily, without returning through the hole. No one else came down into the forecastle during the day, and at night, I got into Augustus’ berth, where I slept soundly and sweetly until nearly daybreak, when he awakened me upon hearing a stir upon deck, and I regained my hiding-place as quickly as possible. When the day was fully broke, we found that Tiger had recovered his strength almost entirely, and gave no indications of hydrophobia, drinking a little water that was offered him with great apparent eagerness. During the day he regained all his former vigour and appetite. His strange conduct had been brought on, no doubt, by the deleterious quality of the air of the hold, and had no connexion with canine madness. I could not sufficiently rejoice that I had persisted in bringing him with me from the box. This day was the thirtieth of June, and the thirteenth since the Grampus made sad from Nantucket.

On the second of July the mate came below drunk as usual, and in an excessively good-humor. He came to Augustus’s berth, and, giving him a slap on the back, asked him if he thought he could behave himself if he let him loose, and whether he would promise not to be going into the cabin again. To this, of course, my friend answered in the affirmative, when the ruffian set him at liberty, after making him drink from a flask of rum which he drew from his coat-pocket. Both now went on deck, and I did not see Augustus for about three hours. He then came below with the good news that he had obtained permission to go about the brig as he pleased anywhere forward of the mainmast, and that he had been ordered to sleep, as usual, in the forecastle. He brought me, too, a good dinner, and a plentiful supply of water. The brig was still cruising for the vessel from the Cape Verds, and a sail was now in sight, which was thought to be the one in question. As the events of the ensuing eight days were of little importance, and had no direct bearing upon the main incidents of my narrative, I will here throw them into the form of a journal, as I do not wish to omit them altogether.

July 3. Augustus furnished me with three blankets, with which I contrived a comfortable bed in my hiding-place. No one came below, except my companion, during the day. Tiger took his station in the berth just by the aperture, and slept heavily, as if not yet entirely recovered from the effects of his sickness. Toward night a flaw of wind struck the brig before sail could be taken in, and very nearly capsized her. The puff died away immediately, however, and no damage was done beyond the splitting of the foretopsail. Dirk Peters treated Augustus all this day with great kindness and entered into a long conversation with him respecting the Pacific Ocean, and the islands he had visited in that region. He asked him whether he would not like to go with the mutineers on a kind of exploring and pleasure voyage in those quarters, and said that the men were gradually coming over to the mate’s views. To this Augustus thought it best to reply that he would be glad to go on such an adventure, since nothing better could be done, and that any thing was preferable to a piratical life.

July 4th. The vessel in sight proved to be a small brig from Liverpool, and was allowed to pass unmolested. Augustus spent most of his time on deck, with a view of obtaining all the information in his power respecting the intentions of the mutineers. They had frequent and violent quarrels among themselves, in one of which a harpooner, Jim Bonner, was thrown overboard. The party of the mate was gaining ground. Jim Bonner belonged to the cook’s gang, of which Peters was a partisan.

July 5th. About daybreak there came on a stiff breeze from the west, which at noon freshened into a gale, so that the brig could carry nothing more than her trysail and foresail. In taking in the foretopsail, Simms, one of the common hands, and belonging also to the cook’s gang, fell overboard, being very much in liquor, and was drowned — no attempt being made to save him. The whole number of persons on board was now thirteen, to wit: Dirk Peters; Seymour, the black cook; Jones, Greely, Hartman Rogers and William Allen, all of the cook’s party; the mate, whose name I never learned; Absalom Hicks, Wilson, John Hunty Richard Parker, of the mate’s party; — besides Augustus and myself.

July 6th. The gale lasted all this day, blowing in heavy squalls, accompanied with rain. The brig took in a good deal of water through her seams, and one of the pumps was kept continually going, Augustus being forced to take his turn. Just at twilight a large ship passed close by us, without having been discovered until within hail. The ship was supposed to be the one for which the mutineers were on the lookout. The mate hailed her, but the reply was drowned in the roaring of the gale. At eleven, a sea was shipped amidships, which tore away a great portion of the larboard bulwarks, and did some other slight damage. Toward morning the weather moderated, and at sunrise there was very little wind.

July 7th. There was a heavy swell running all this day, during which the brig, being light, rolled excessively, and many articles broke loose in the hold, as I could hear distinctly from my hiding-place. I suffered a great deal from sea-sickness. Peters had a long conversation this day with Augustus, and told him that two of his gang, Greely and Allen, had gone over to the mate, and were resolved to turn pirates. He put several questions to Augustus which he did not then exactly understand. During a part of this evening the leak gained upon the vessel; and little could be done to remedy it, as it was occasioned by the brigs straining, and taking in the water through her seams. A sail was thrummed, and got under the bows, which aided us in some measure, so that we began to gain upon the leak.

July 8th. A light breeze sprang up at sunrise from the eastward, when the mate headed the brig to the southwest, with the intention of making some of the West India islands in pursuance of his piratical designs. No opposition was made by Peters or the cook — at least none in the hearing of Augustus. All idea of taking the vessel from the Cape Verds was abandoned. The leak was now easily kept under by one pump going every three quarters of an hour. The sail was drawn from beneath the bows. Spoke two small schooners during the day.

July 9th. Fine weather. All hands employed in repairing bulwarks. Peters had again a long conversation with Augustus, and spoke more plainly than he had done heretofore. He said nothing should induce him to come into the mate’s views, and even hinted his intention of taking the brig out of his hands. He asked my friend if he could depend upon his aid in such case, to which Augustus said, “Yes,” without hesitation. Peters then said he would sound the others of his party upon the subject, and went away. During the remainder of the day Augustus had no opportunity of speaking with him privately.

CHAPTER 7

JULY 10. Spoke a brig from Rio, bound to Norfolk. Weather hazy, with a light baffling wind from the eastward. To-day Hartman Rogers died, having been attacked on the eighth with spasms after drinking a glass of grog. This man was of the cook’s party, and one upon whom Peters placed his main reliance. He told Augustus that he believed the mate had poisoned him, and that he expected, if he did not be on the look-out, his own turn would come shortly. There were now only himself, Jones, and the cook belonging to his own gang — on the other side there were five. He had spoken to Jones about taking the command from the mate; but the project having been coolly received, he had been deterred from pressing the matter any further, or from saying any thing to the cook. It was well, as it happened, that he was so prudent, for in the afternoon the cook expressed his determination of siding with the mate, and went over formally to that party; while Jones took an opportunity of quarrelling with Peters, and hinted that he would let the mate know of the plan in agitation. There was now, evidently, no time to be lost, and Peters expressed his determination of attempting to take the vessel at all hazards, provided Augustus would lend him his aid. My friend at once assured him of his willingness to enter into any plan for that purpose, and, thinking the opportunity a favourable one, made known the fact of my being on board. At this the hybrid was not more astonished than delighted, as he had no reliance whatever upon Jones, whom he already considered as belonging to the party of the mate. They went below immediately, when Augustus called to me by name, and Peters and myself were soon made acquainted. It was agreed that we should attempt to retake the vessel upon the first good opportunity, leaving Jones altogether out of our councils. In the event of success, we were to run the brig into the first port that offered, and deliver her up. The desertion of his party had frustrated Peters’ design of going into the Pacific — an adventure which could not be accomplished without a crew, and he depended upon either getting acquitted upon trial, on the score of insanity (which he solemnly avowed had actuated him in lending his aid to the mutiny), or upon obtaining a pardon, if found guilty, through the representations of Augustus and myself. Our deliberations were interrupted for the present by the cry of, “All hands take in sail,” and Peters and Augustus ran up on deck.

As usual, the crew were nearly all drunk; and, before sail could be properly taken in, a violent squall laid the brig on her beam-ends. By keeping her away, however, she righted, having shipped a good deal of water. Scarcely was everything secure, when another squall took the vessel, and immediately afterward another — no damage being done. There was every appearance of a gale of wind, which, indeed, shortly came on, with great fury, from the northward and westward. All was made as snug as possible, and we laid-to, as usual, under a close-reefed foresail. As night drew on, the wind increased in violence, with a remarkably heavy sea. Peters now came into the forecastle with Augustus, and we resumed our deliberations.

We agreed that no opportunity could be more favourable than the present for carrying our designs into effect, as an attempt at such a moment would never be anticipated. As the brig was snugly laid-to, there would be no necessity of manoeuvring her until good weather, when, if we succeeded in our attempt, we might liberate one, or perhaps two of the men, to aid us in taking her into port. The main difficulty was the great disproportion in our forces. There were only three of us, and in the cabin there were nine. All the arms on board, too, were in their possession, with the exception of a pair of small pistols which Peters had concealed about his person, and the large seaman’s knife which he always wore in the waistband of his pantaloons. From certain indications, too — such, for example, as there being no such thing as an axe or a handspike lying in their customary places — we began to fear that the mate had his suspicions, at least in regard to Peters, and that he would let slip no opportunity of getting rid of him. It was clear, indeed, that what we should determine to do could not be done too soon. Still the odds were too much against us to allow of our proceeding without the greatest caution.

Peters proposed that he should go up on deck, and enter into conversation with the watch (Allen), when he would be able to throw him into the sea without trouble, and without making any disturbance, by seizing a good opportunity, that Augustus and myself should then come up, and endeavour to provide ourselves with some kind of weapons from the deck, and that we should then make a rush together, and secure the companionway before any opposition could be offered. I objected to this, because I could not believe that the mate (who was a cunning fellow in all matters which did not affect his superstitious prejudices) would suffer himself to be so easily entrapped. The very fact of there being a watch on deck at all was sufficient proof that he was upon the alert, — it not being usual except in vessels where discipline is most rigidly enforced, to station a watch on deck when a vessel is lying-to in a gale of wind. As I address myself principally, if not altogether, to persons who have never been to sea, it may be as well to state the exact condition of a vessel under such circumstances. Lying-to, or, in sea-parlance, “laying-to,” is a measure resorted to for various purposes, and effected in various manners. In moderate weather it is frequently done with a view of merely bringing the vessel to a stand-still, to wait for another vessel or any similar object. If the vessel which lies-to is under full sail, the manoeuvre is usually accomplished by throwing round some portion of her sails, so as to let the wind take them aback, when she becomes stationary. But we are now speaking of lying-to in a gale of wind. This is done when the wind is ahead, and too violent to admit of carrying sail without danger of capsizing; and sometimes even when the wind is fair, but the sea too heavy for the vessel to be put before it. If a vessel be suffered to scud before the wind in a very heavy sea, much damage is usually done her by the shipping of water over her stern, and sometimes by the violent plunges she makes forward. This manoeuvre, then, is seldom resorted to in such case, unless through necessity. When the vessel is in a leaky condition she is often put before the wind even in the heaviest seas; for, when lying-to, her seams are sure to be greatly opened by her violent straining, and it is not so much the case when scudding. Often, too, it becomes necessary to scud a vessel, either when the blast is so exceedingly furious as to tear in pieces the sail which is employed with a view of bringing her head to the wind, or when, through the false modelling of the frame or other causes, this main object cannot be effected.

Vessels in a gale of wind are laid-to in different manners, according to their peculiar construction. Some lie-to best under a foresail, and this, I believe, is the sail most usually employed. Large square-rigged vessels have sails for the express purpose, called storm-staysails. But the jib is occasionally employed by itself, — sometimes the jib and foresail, or a double-reefed foresail, and not unfrequently the after-sails, are made use of. Foretopsails are very often found to answer the purpose better than any other species of sail. The Grampus was generally laid-to under a close-reefed foresail.

When a vessel is to be laid-to, her head is brought up to the wind just so nearly as to fill the sail under which she lies when hauled flat aft, that is, when brought diagonally across the vessel. This being done, the bows point within a few degrees of the direction from which the wind issues, and the windward bow of course receives the shock of the waves. In this situation a good vessel will ride out a very heavy gale of wind without shipping a drop of water, and without any further attention being requisite on the part of the crew. The helm is usually lashed down, but this is altogether unnecessary (except on account of the noise it makes when loose), for the rudder has no effect upon the vessel when lying-to. Indeed, the helm had far better be left loose than lashed very fast, for the rudder is apt to be torn off by heavy seas if there be no room for the helm to play. As long as the sail holds, a well modelled vessel will maintain her situation, and ride every sea, as if instinct with life and reason. If the violence of the wind, however, should tear the sail into pieces (a feat which it requires a perfect hurricane to accomplish under ordinary circumstances), there is then imminent danger. The vessel falls off from the wind, and, coming broadside to the sea, is completely at its mercy: the only resource in this case is to put her quietly before the wind, letting her scud until some other sail can be set. Some vessels will lie-to under no sail whatever, but such are not to be trusted at sea.

But to return from this digression. It had never been customary with the mate to have any watch on deck when lying-to in a gale of wind, and the fact that he had now one, coupled with the circumstance of the missing axes and handspikes, fully convinced us that the crew were too well on the watch to be taken by surprise in the manner Peters had suggested. Something, however, was to be done, and that with as little delay as practicable, for there could be no doubt that a suspicion having been once entertained against Peters, he would be sacrificed upon the earliest occasion, and one would certainly be either found or made upon the breaking of the gale.

Augustus now suggested that if Peters could contrive to remove, under any pretext, the piece of chain-cable which lay over the trap in the stateroom, we might possibly be able to come upon them unawares by means of the hold; but a little reflection convinced us that the vessel rolled and pitched too violently for any attempt of that nature.

By good fortune I at length hit upon the idea of working upon the superstitious terrors and guilty conscience of the mate. It will be remembered that one of the crew, Hartman Rogers, had died during the morning, having been attacked two days before with spasms after drinking some spirits and water. Peters had expressed to us his opinion that this man had been poisoned by the mate, and for this belief he had reasons, so he said, which were incontrovertible, but which he could not be prevailed upon to explain to us — this wayward refusal being only in keeping with other points of his singular character. But whether or not he had any better grounds for suspecting the mate than we had ourselves, we were easily led to fall in with his suspicion, and determined to act accordingly.

Rogers had died about eleven in the forenoon, in violent convulsions; and the corpse presented in a few minutes after death one of the most horrid and loathsome spectacles I ever remember to have seen. The stomach was swollen immensely, like that of a man who has been drowned and lain under water for many weeks. The hands were in the same condition, while the face was shrunken, shrivelled, and of a chalky whiteness, except where relieved by two or three glaring red blotches like those occasioned by the erysipelas: one of these blotches extended diagonally across the face, completely covering up an eye as if with a band of red velvet. In this disgusting condition the body had been brought up from the cabin at noon to be thrown overboard, when the mate getting a glimpse of it (for he now saw it for the first time), and being either touched with remorse for his crime or struck with terror at so horrible a sight, ordered the men to sew the body up in its hammock, and allow it the usual rites of sea-burial. Having given these directions, he went below, as if to avoid any further sight of his victim. While preparations were making to obey his orders, the gale came on with great fury, and the design was abandoned for the present. The corpse, left to itself, was washed into the larboard scuppers, where it still lay at the time of which I speak, floundering about with the furious lurches of the brig.

Having arranged our plan, we set about putting it in execution as speedily as possible. Peters went upon deck, and, as he had anticipated, was immediately accosted by Allen, who appeared to be stationed more as a watch upon the forecastle than for any other purpose. The fate of this villain, however, was speedily and silently decided; for Peters, approaching him in a careless manner, as if about to address him, seized him by the throat, and, before he could utter a single cry, tossed him over the bulwarks. He then called to us, and we came up. Our first precaution was to look about for something with which to arm ourselves, and in doing this we had to proceed with great care, for it was impossible to stand on deck an instant without holding fast, and violent seas broke over the vessel at every plunge forward. It was indispensable, too, that we should be quick in our operations, for every minute we expected the mate to be up to set the pumps going, as it was evident the brig must be taking in water very fast. After searching about for some time, we could find nothing more fit for our purpose than the two pump-handles, one of which Augustus took, and I the other. Having secured these, we stripped off the shirt of the corpse and dropped the body overboard. Peters and myself then went below, leaving Augustus to watch upon deck, where he took his station just where Allen had been placed, and with his back to the cabin companionway, so that, if any of the mates gang should come up, he might suppose it was the watch.

As soon as I got below I commenced disguising myself so as to represent the corpse of Rogers. The shirt which we had taken from the body aided us very much, for it was of singular form and character, and easily recognizable — a kind of smock, which the deceased wore over his other clothing. It was a blue stockinett, with large white stripes running across. Having put this on, I proceeded to equip myself with a false stomach, in imitation of the horrible deformity of the swollen corpse. This was soon effected by means of stuffing with some bedclothes. I then gave the same appearance to my hands by drawing on a pair of white woollen mittens, and filling them in with any kind of rags that offered themselves. Peters then arranged my face, first rubbing it well over with white chalk, and afterward blotching it with blood, which he took from a cut in his finger. The streak across the eye was not forgotten and presented a most shocking appearance.

CHAPITRE VIII

VIII

Un nuage de poussiere a l’horizon

On pourrait appeler la Urbana la capitale du moyen Orenoque. C’est la bourgade la plus importante entre Caicara et San-Fernando de Atabapo, situes chacun aux deux angles que fait le fleuve, — le premier a l’endroit ou il quitte la direction de l’est a l’ouest pour prendre celle du sud, le second a l’endroit ou il quitte la direction du sud pour prendre celle de l’ouest a l’est.

Il va sans dire que cette disposition hydrographique n’est la veritable que si l’opinion de M. Miguel prevaut contre celles de MM. Felipe et Varinas, et conformement au trace de l’Orenoque, tel qu’il est indique sur les cartes modernes.

Au surplus, encore six cents kilometres environ, et les geographes auraient atteint le triple confluent ou serait tranchee cette question, — on devait l’esperer du moins.

Un cerro, — colline de moyenne altitude, — s’eleve sur la rive droite et porte le meme nom que la bourgade batie a son pied. A cette epoque, la Urbana possedait une population de trois cent cinquante a quatre cents habitants, repartis en une centaine de cases, pour la plupart de race mulatre, metis d’Espagnols et d’Indiens. Ils ne sont point cultivateurs, et quelques-uns seulement s’occupent de l’elevage des bestiaux. A part la recolte de la sarrapia et des oeufs de tortues dont le temps est tres limite, ils ne font rien que pecher ou chasser et, en somme, montrent un penchant naturel a l’oisivete. Ils vivent a l’aise, d’ailleurs, et les habitations disseminees entre les bananiers de la rive offrent l’aspect d’un bien-etre rare en ces lointaines regions.

MM. Miguel, Felipe et Varinas, le sergent Martial et Jean de Kermor, comptaient ne rester qu’une nuit a la Urbana. Arrives vers cinq heures, la soiree leur suffirait au renouvellement de leurs provisions en viande et legumes, car la Urbana etait en mesure de fournir amplement a tous leurs besoins.

Ce qu’il y avait de mieux a faire, c’etait de s’adresser au chef civil de la localite, lequel s’empressa d’offrir ses services et mit sa demeure a la disposition des passagers.

C’etait un mulatre d’une cinquantaine d’annees, ce chef civil, dont l’autorite s’etend sur les llanos du district et auquel incombe la police du fleuve. Il vivait la avec sa femme d’origine metisse, et une demi-douzaine d’enfants de six a dix-huit ans, garcons et filles, vigoureux et de sante florissante.

Lorsqu’il sut que M. Miguel et ses deux collegues etaient de hauts personnages de Ciudad-Bolivar, il leur fit encore meilleur accueil, et les invita a passer la soiree dans sa case.

L’invitation s’etendit jusqu’aux passagers de la Gallinetta. Jean de Kermor en fut d’autant plus heureux qu’il aurait peut-etre la l’occasion de se renseigner relativement a ses deux compatriotes, dont le sort ne laissait pas de le preoccuper.

En premier lieu, les patrons Valdez et Martos se chargerent de ravitailler les pirogues, de les reapprovisionner de sucre, d’ignames et surtout de cette farine de manioc, ecrasee a la rape de pierre, le rayo, qu’on emploie communement, pour ne pas dire exclusivement, a la fabrication du pain dans les regions du moyen Orenoque.

Les deux falcas avaient accoste le revers meme de la berge assez escarpee au fond d’une petite anse qui formait port et dans lequel quelques curiares et canots de peche etaient sur leurs amarres.

On y voyait aussi une troisieme falca sous la garde d’un patron indigene.

C’etait l’embarcation des deux explorateurs francais, MM. Jacques Helloch et Germain Paterne. Leurs mariniers les attendaient a la Urbana depuis six semaines, n’ayant recu aucune nouvelle d’eux, et pris d’une tres vive inquietude, on peut le croire.

Apres avoir dine a bord des falcas, les passagers se rendirent a la case du chef civil.

La famille se tenait dans la salle principale, qui etait simplement meublee d’une table, de sieges en cuir de cerf, et ornee de quelques attributs de chasse.

Plusieurs “notables” de la Urbana avaient ete convies a cette soiree, et, avec eux, un habitant des environs. Ce personnage ne fut pas tout a fait un inconnu pour Jean, grace au portrait que M. Chaffanjon en fait dans son recit, et chez lequel le voyageur francais avait recu une tres cordiale et tres genereuse hospitalite. Et voici ce qu’il en dit:

“M. Marchal, un Venezuelien deja d’un age avance, est venu, depuis une quinzaine d’annees, se fixer a la Tigra, situee en amont de la Urbana. C’est un vrai sage, M. Marchal. Il a abandonne la politique pour l’elevage des bestiaux. Il a fonde un hato, dont le corral renferme une centaine d’animaux, soignes par quelques peons et leurs familles. Autour du hato s’etendent des champs de manioc, de mais, de canne a sucre, delimites par des bordures de bananiers superbes, et qui pourvoient largement a l’alimentation de ce petit monde heureux et tranquille.”

Ce M. Marchal, dont quelques affaires avaient exige la presence a la Urbana, s’y trouvait donc a l’arrivee des pirogues. Il s’y etait transporte avec sa curiare, conduite par deux de ses hommes, et, descendu chez le chef civil, son ami, il faisait tout naturellement partie des personnes invitees a cette soiree.

Qu’on ne s’attende pas a une reception du high-life dans cette petite bourgade, au fond des llanos de l’Orenoque. Mais, a defaut des patisseries fines, des confiseries delicates, des vins de grande marque, des liqueurs recherchees, il y eut des gateaux confectionnes par la maitresse de maison et ses filles, — sans parler d’un franc et cordial accueil. On servit quelques tasses de ce delicieux cafe de bruquilla, qui provient d’une legumineuse herbacee, cultivee au hato de M. Marchal.

Cet excellent vieillard prit un extreme plaisir a causer avec Jean de Kermor en la langue du pays. Il lui rappela que, cinq ans avant, son compatriote avait sejourne quelque temps dans son hato, — trop peu a son vif regret.

“Mais il avait une telle impatience de continuer son aventureux voyage! ajouta M. Marchal. C’est un hardi pionnier, mon cher enfant. Dedaigneux du danger, il a reconnu notre fleuve national jusqu’a ses sources, et au risque de sa vie. Voila un Francais qui honore la France!”

Ces paroles, prononcees avec une veritable animation, temoignaient de la chaleur que conservait le coeur de ce venerable Venezuelien.

Lorsque M. Marchal et le chef civil surent quel but poursuivaient MM. Miguel, Felipe et Varinas, Jean crut bien s’apercevoir qu’ils se regardaient non sans quelque surprise. Pour eux, la question de l’Orenoque n’etait-elle pas tranchee depuis longtemps, et en faveur de M. Miguel?

Bien que M. Marchal n’en fut plus a connaitre San-Fernando, et que son opinion fut etablie relativement a l’Atabapo et le Guaviare, il ne laissa pas d’encourager les trois membres de la Societe de Geographie a pousser leur recherche jusqu’au confluent des trois fleuves.

“La science ne pourra qu’en profiter, dit-il, et qui sait, messieurs, si vous ne rapporterez pas de cette expedition quelque decouverte personnelle?…

— C’est notre espoir, repondit M. Miguel, car il s’agit de visiter une region presque inconnue, s’il faut aller au-dela de San-Fernando…

— Et nous irons… affirma M. Felipe.

— Aussi loin qu’il le faudra!” ajouta M. Varinas.

Le sergent Martial ne saisissait qu’imparfaitement le sens de cette conversation, dont son neveu lui traduisait quelques mots. Cela l’etonnait toujours, que des gens, a moins qu’ils ne fussent prives de raison, eussent la curiosite de savoir de “quel trou sortait une riviere”.

“Enfin, murmura-t-il, si tous les hommes etaient sages, on ne batirait pas tant d’hospices pour les fous!”

L’entretien porta alors sur les deux Francais dont on attendait vainement le retour a la Urbana.

Le chef civil les avait recus a leur arrivee. M. Marchal les connaissait aussi, car, en partant, ils s’etaient arretes un jour au hato de la Tigra.

“Et depuis leur depart, demanda M. Miguel, vous n’avez plus entendu parler d’eux?…

— Ni d’une facon, ni d’une autre, repondit le chef civil. Les llaneros, qui revenaient de l’est, que nous avons interroges a plusieurs reprises, affirment ne point les avoir rencontres.

— Est-ce que leur intention, reprit Jean, n’etait pas de remonter le cours de l’Orenoque?…

— Oui, mon cher enfant, repondit M. Marchal, et ils comptaient stationner aux divers villages riverains. Ils voyagent un peu a l’aventure, m’ont-ils declare. L’un, M. Germain Paterne, herborise avec la curiosite d’un naturaliste qui risquerait sa vie pour decouvrir une plante inconnue. L’autre, M. Jacques Helloch, chasseur determine, est passionne pour les choses geographiques, le relevement d’une contree, la determination d’un cours d’eau. Ces passions-la conduisent loin… tres loin souvent… trop loin peut-etre… et quand il s’agit de revenir…

— Esperons, dit M. Varinas, qu’il n’est rien arrive de facheux a ces deux Francais!

— Il faut l’esperer, repondit le chef civil, bien que leur absence se soit deja trop prolongee!

— Est-il certain, questionna M. Felipe, qu’ils devaient revenir a la Urbana?…

— Aucun doute a cet egard, puisque leur pirogue les y attend avec les collections qu’ils ont recueillies deja et le materiel de campement.

— Lorsqu’ils sont partis, dit Jean, avaient-ils un guide… une escorte?…

— Oui… quelques Mapoyos que je leur avais procures, repliqua le chef civil.

— Des hommes dont vous etiez sur?… demanda M. Miguel en insistant.

— Aussi sur qu’on peut l’etre, lorsqu’il s’agit des Indiens de l’interieur.

— Et, reprit Jean, sait-on quelle partie du territoire ils s’appretaient a visiter?…

— D’apres ce que je connais de leurs projets, repondit M. Marchal, ils ont du se diriger vers la sierra Matapey, a l’est de l’Orenoque, contree peu connue, et que les Yaruros ou les Mapoyos sont seuls a parcourir. Vos deux compatriotes et le chef de l’escorte etaient a cheval, les autres Indiens, au nombre d’une demi-douzaine, les accompagnaient a pied en portant les sacs.

— Est-ce que le pays a l’est de l’Orenoque est sujet aux inondations?… demanda Jean de Kermor.

— Non, repondit M. Miguel, et la surface de ses llanos est sensiblement au-dessus du niveau de la mer.

— En effet, monsieur Miguel, ajouta le chef civil, mais il est sujet aux tremblements de terre, et vous savez qu’ils ne sont pas rares au Venezuela.

— En tout temps?… dit le jeune garcon.

— Non, declara M. Marchal, a certaines epoques, et, precisement, depuis un mois, nous avons ressenti d’assez violentes secousses jusqu’au hato de la Tigra.”

On a reconnu, en effet, que le sol venezuelien est souvent trouble par les poussees volcaniques, bien que ses montagnes n’aient point de crateres en activite. Humboldt a meme pu l’appeler “le pays des tremble-terre par excellence”. Et cette appellation n’etait-elle pas justifiee par la destruction de la ville de Cumana au seizieme siecle, qui fut renversee de nouveau cent cinquante ans apres, et dont les environs “tremblerent” pendant quinze mois? Est-ce qu’une autre ville du territoire des Andes, Mesida, n’a pas ete cruellement eprouvee par ces terribles commotions? En 1812, douze mille habitants ne furent-ils pas ecrases sous les ruines de Caracas? Ces desastres, qui ont fait des milliers de victimes, sont donc toujours a redouter pour ces provinces hispano-americaines, et il etait vrai que, depuis quelque temps, on sentait le sol fremir dans la contree orientale du moyen Orenoque.

Lorsque tout eut ete demande et repondu au sujet des deux Francais, M. Marchal fut conduit a interroger le sergent Martial et son neveu.

“Nous savons, maintenant, dit-il, pourquoi

MM. Miguel, Varinas et Felipe ont entrepris cette campagne sur l’Orenoque. Votre voyage n’a sans doute pas le meme objet…”

Le sergent Martial eut un enorme geste de denegation; mais, sur un signe de Jean, il dut s’abstenir d’exprimer son dedain pour ces questions geographiques, bonnes tout au plus a interesser les fabricants de manuels et d’atlas.

Le jeune garcon raconta alors son histoire, quels motifs l’avaient entraine a quitter la France, a quel sentiment filial il obeissait en remontant le cours de l’Orenoque dans l’espoir de se procurer quelques nouveaux renseignements a San-Fernando, d’ou etait partie la derniere lettre ecrite par le colonel de Kermor, son pere.

Le vieux M. Marchal ne put cacher l’emotion que lui causa cette reponse. Il prit les mains de Jean, il l’attira dans ses bras, il l’embrassa au front, — ce qui fit peut-etre sourdement grommeler le sergent, — et ce fut comme une benediction qu’il lui donna, avec les souhaits les plus ardents pour la reussite de ses projets.

“Mais ni vous, monsieur Marchal, ni monsieur le chef civil, vous n’avez entendu parler du colonel de Kermor?…” demanda le jeune garcon.

Reponse negative.

“Peut-etre, reprit le chef civil, le colonel ne s’est-il pas arrete a la Urbana?… Cela m’etonnerait, cependant, car il est rare que les pirogues ne viennent pas s’approvisionner ici… C’etait en 1879, dites-vous…

— Oui, monsieur, repondit Jean. Est-ce que vous habitiez deja cette bourgade?…

— Assurement, et je n’ai jamais appris que le colonel de Kermor y ait passe.”

Toujours cet incognito, dont il semblait que le colonel eut voulu se couvrir depuis son depart.

“Peu importe, mon cher enfant, affirma M. Miguel, il est impossible que votre pere n’ait pas laisse trace de son sejour a San-Fernando, et la, vous obtiendrez les renseignements qui assureront le succes de vos recherches.”

La reunion se prolongea jusqu’a dix heures, et les hotes du chef civil, apres avoir pris conge de cette obligeante famille, retournerent a bord de leurs pirogues, qui devaient demarrer le lendemain au jour levant.

Jean alla s’etendre sur sa couchette a l’arriere du rouf, et, sa chasse ordinaire aux moustiques terminee, le sergent Martial vint s’etaler sur la sienne.

Tous les deux s’endormirent, mais leur sommeil ne fut pas de longue duree.

Vers deux heures, une rumeur lointaine, continue, croissante, les reveilla.

C’etait comme un sourd bruissement qu’on ne pouvait confondre avec le roulement meme eloigne de la foudre. En ce moment aussi, les eaux du fleuve, soumises a une agitation singuliere, imprimaient un balancement de roulis a la Gallinetta.

Le sergent Martial et le jeune garcon se releverent, sortirent du rouf, vinrent se poster au pied du mat.

Le patron Valdez et ses mariniers, debout a l’avant de la falca, interrogeaient l’horizon.

“Qu’y a-t-il, Valdez?… demanda Jean.

— Je ne sais…

— Est-ce un orage qui s’approche?…

— Non… le ciel est sans nuages… la brise souffle du levant… elle est faible…

— D’ou vient ce trouble?…

— Je ne sais… je ne sais…” repetait Valdez.

En effet, c’etait inexplicable, a moins qu’il ne se produisit, en amont ou en aval du village, une sorte de mascaret, du a la crue subite du fleuve. On peut s’attendre a tout de la part de ce capricieux Orenoque.

A bord de la Maripare, meme etonnement chez les passagers et chez l’equipage.

M. Miguel et ses deux amis, hors du rouf, cherchaient vainement a reconnaitre la cause de ce phenomene.

Des propos, echanges entre les deux pirogues, il ne resulta aucune explication plausible.

D’ailleurs, si ce mouvement des eaux se ressentait dans les deux falcas, le sol riverain n’en etait pas exempt.

Aussi, presque au meme instant, les habitants de la Urbana, abandonnant leurs cases, se dirigerent-ils vers la berge.

M. Marchal et le chef civil ne tarderent pas a rejoindre la population qu’un peu d’epouvante commencait a gagner.

Il etait, alors quatre heures et demie du matin, et le jour allait poindre.

Les passagers des deux embarcations debarquerent aussitot et vinrent interroger le chef civil.

“Que se passe-t-il?… demanda M. Miguel.

— Il y a sans doute un tremblement de terre dans la sierra Matapey, repondit le chef civil, et les secousses se propagent jusque sous le lit du fleuve…”

M. Miguel emit la meme opinion.

Nul doute que la region ne fut soumise a ces trepidations dues aux commotions sismiques, tres frequentes dans les terrains des llanos.

“Mais… il y a autre chose… fit observer M. Miguel. Entendez-vous cette sorte de bourdonnement qui vient de l’est?”

Et, en pretant l’oreille, on percevait comme une espece de ronflement, une basse continue, sur la nature de laquelle on ne pouvait se prononcer.

“Attendons, dit M. Marchal. Je ne crois pas que la Urbana ait rien a craindre…

— C’est mon avis, declara le chef civil, et il n’y a aucun danger a rentrer dans les cases.”

C’etait probable, et cependant il n’y eut que la minorite des habitants a suivre ce conseil. Au surplus, le jour s’accentuait, et peut-etre les yeux donneraient-ils l’explication d’un phenomene que n’avaient pu donner les oreilles.

Pendant trois heures, la lointaine rumeur ne cessa de s’accroitre d’une facon etrange. Il semblait qu’il se produisit une espece de glissement, une puissante reptation a la surface du territoire. Lourd et cadence, ce glissement se transmettait jusqu’a la rive droite du fleuve, comme si le sol eut ete tourbeux. Que les secousses fussent attribuees a un tremblement de terre dont le centre se trouvait a la sierra Matapey, rien que de tres admissible, et ce n’etait pas la premiere fois que la bourgade les subissait. Quant a ce roulement, semblable a celui qui proviendrait du materiel d’une armee en marche, personne n’en soupconnait encore la veritable cause.

Le chef civil et M. Marchal, accompagnes des passagers des deux falcas, se dirigerent vers les premieres assises du cerro d’Urbana, afin d’observer la campagne dans un plus large rayon.

Le soleil montait sur un ciel tres pur, pareil a un enorme ballon gonfle d’un gaz lumineux que la brise eut pousse vers les rives de l’Orenoque. Aucun nuage a l’horizon, nul indice meme que la journee dut etre orageuse.

Lorsque les observateurs se furent eleves d’une trentaine de metres, ils dirigerent leurs regards vers l’est.

L’immensite se developpait devant eux, la vaste plaine verdoyante, cette “mer silencieuse des herbes”, suivant la poetique metaphore d’Elisee Reclus. Il est vrai, cette mer n’etait pas au calme plat, et il fallait qu’elle fut serieusement troublee dans ses fonds, car, a quatre ou cinq kilometres de distance, les llanos se couronnaient de volutes sablonneuses.

“Cela, dit M. Marchal, c’est une poussiere intense… la poussiere du sol qui se degage…

— Ce n’est cependant pas le vent qui la souleve… affirma M. Miguel.

— En effet, puisqu’il est a peine sensible, repondit M. Marchal. Seraient-ce donc les trepidations?… Non… cette explication ne tient pas…

— Et puis, ajouta le chef civil, il y a ce bruit… qui semble venir d’une marche pesante…

— Qu’est-ce donc alors?…” s’ecria M. Felipe.

Et, en ce moment, comme une reponse qui lui eut ete adressee, une detonation se fit entendre, la detonation d’une arme a feu que repercuterent les echos du cerro d’Urbana, et a laquelle d’autres succederent.

“Des coups de fusil!… affirma le sergent

Martial. Ce sont des coups de feu, ou je ne m’y connais plus!

— Il faut qu’il y ait des chasseurs en chasse sur la plaine… observa Jean.

— Des chasseurs… mon cher enfant?… repondit M. Marchal. Ils ne souleveraient pas une telle masse de poussiere… a moins d’etre legion…”

Il n’etait pas contestable, cependant, que les detonations entendues ne provinssent d’armes a feu, revolvers ou carabines. Et meme on pouvait apercevoir une vapeur blanchatre, qui tranchait sur la teinte jaune du nuage de poussiere.

Du reste, de nouveaux coups eclaterent, et si eloignes qu’ils fussent encore, la legere brise suffisait a les apporter jusqu’a la bourgade.

“A mon avis, messieurs, dit M. Miguel, nous devrions aller reconnaitre ce qui se passe de ce cote…

— Et porter secours a des gens qui en ont besoin peut-etre… ajouta M. Varinas.

— Qui sait, dit Jean, en regardant M. Marchal, si ce ne sont pas mes compatriotes…

— Ils auraient donc affaire a une armee, repondit le vieillard. Il n’y a que des milliers d’hommes qui puissent soulever tant de poussiere!… Vous avez raison, M. Miguel, descendons sur la plaine…

— Bien armes!” ajouta M. Miguel.

Mesure de prudence tres indiquee, en effet, si les pressentiments de Jean de Kermor ne l’avaient pas trompe, si c’etaient les deux Francais, que les Indiens de cette region attaquaient et qui se defendaient a coups de fusil.

En quelques instants, chacun eut regagne l’un sa case, l’autre sa pirogue. Le chef civil et quelques-uns des habitants, les trois geographes, le sergent Martial et son neveu, le revolver a la ceinture, la carabine sur l’epaule, prirent direction a travers les llanos, en contournant le pied du cerro d’Urbana.

M. Marchal avait voulu se joindre a eux, tant son impatience etait grande de savoir a quoi s’en tenir.

La petite troupe allait d’un bon pas, et comme le nuage venait au-devant d’elle, les trois ou quatre kilometres qui les separaient alors ne tarderaient pas a etre franchis.

D’ailleurs, meme a cette distance, il eut ete possible de distinguer des formes humaines, si les volutes de poussiere n’eussent ete si epaisses. Cependant on apercevait la lueur des detonations, qui eclataient par instants, de plus en plus perceptibles a l’oreille.

Le bruit lourd et rythme s’accusait aussi davantage, a mesure que se rapprochait la masse basse et rampante qui se derobait encore aux regards.

A un kilometre de la, M. Miguel, qui marchait en tete a cote du chef civil, leurs carabines pretes a etre epaulees, s’arreta soudain. Une exclamation d’extreme surprise lui echappa…

En verite, si jamais mortel eut l’occasion de voir sa curiosite satisfaite, si jamais homme fut confondu dans son incredulite, ce fut bien le sergent Martial. Ah! le vieux soldat ne croyait pas a la presence de ces milliers de cheloniens, qui, a l’epoque de la ponte, envahissaient les plages de l’Orenoque, entre l’embouchure de l’Arauca et les bancs de sable de Cariben…

“Des tortues… ce sont des tortues!” s’ecria M. Miguel, et il ne se trompait pas.

Oui!… des tortues, une centaine de mille, plus peut-etre, s’avancaient vers la rive droite du fleuve. Et pourquoi cet exode anormal, en dehors de leurs habitudes, puisqu’on n’etait plus a l’epoque de la ponte?…

M. Marchal repondit a cette question, qui venait a l’esprit de tous:

“Je pense que ces betes auront ete effrayees par les secousses du tremblement de terre… Sans doute chassees par les eaux du Tortuga ou du Suapure qui ont ete rejetees hors de leur lit… elles viennent chercher un abri dans l’Orenoque, et meme au-dela… poussees par l’irresistible instinct de la conservation…”

C’etait la une explication tres naturelle, et meme la seule admissible. La sierra Matapey et ses environs avaient du etre profondement bouleverses par ce tremblement de terre. Deja, en ces conditions, pareil envahissement s’etait produit en dehors des mois de mars et d’avril ou il s’opere d’une facon reguliere, et il n’y avait pas lieu, pour des riverains du fleuve, d’en etre autrement surpris. Toutefois, dans une certaine mesure, ils pouvaient s’en montrer inquiets.

Et maintenant, l’exode des tortues une fois admis, d’ou provenaient ces coups de feu?… Qui donc avait a se defendre contre ces cheloniens?… Et, d’ailleurs, que feraient des balles contre leurs impenetrables carapaces?…

On le reconnut bientot a travers les dechirures de l’epais nuage.

En effet, les myriades de tortues s’avancaient en masse compacte, serrees les unes contre les autres. C’etait comme une immense surface d’ecailles, couvrant plusieurs kilometres carres, qui se deplacait.

Or, sur cette surface mouvante, s’agitaient nombre d’animaux, lesquels, pour eviter d’etre ecrases, avaient du y chercher refuge. La, surpris par cette invasion a travers les llanos, courait et gambadait une troupe de singes hurleurs, qui semblaient “la trouver drole”, pour employer une locution du sergent Martial. Puis, on apercevait aussi plusieurs couples de ces fauves, habitues des vastes campagnes venezueliennes, des jaguars, des pumas, des tigres, des ocelots, non moins redoutables que s’ils eussent librement couru la foret ou la plaine.

Et c’etait contre ces bandes que se defendaient deux hommes, a coups de fusil et de revolver.

Deja quelques cadavres gisaient sur le dos des carapaces, dont le mouvement ondulatoire ne pouvait que gener des etres humains qui ne pouvaient y assurer leur pied, alors que les quadrupedes et les singes n’y prenaient garde.

Quels etaient ces deux hommes?… Ni M. Marchal ni le chef civil ne parvinrent a les reconnaitre, a cause de la distance. Toutefois, a leur costume, il y avait lieu d’affirmer que ce n’etaient point des Yaruros, ni des Mapoyos; ni aucun des Indiens qui frequentent les territoires du moyen Orenoque.

S’agissait-il donc des deux Francais aventures sur les plaines de l’est, et dont on attendait vainement le retour?… Jean de Kermor, — la pensee lui en etait venue, — allait-il eprouver cette joie de retrouver des compatriotes?…

MM. Marchal, Miguel, Felipe et Varinas, le chef civil et ceux des habitants qui l’accompagnaient, avaient suspendu leur marche… Convenait-il de se porter plus avant?… Non, assurement… Arretes par le premier rang des tortues, obliges bientot de revenir en arriere, ils n’auraient pu rejoindre les deux hommes, cernes de tous cotes par la bande des fauves.

Cependant Jean insista afin qu’on se lancat a leur secours, ne mettant pas en doute que ces deux hommes fussent l’explorateur et le naturaliste francais…

“C’est impossible, dit M. Marchal, et c’est inutile… On s’exposerait sans leur venir en aide… Mieux vaut laisser les tortues arriver jusqu’au fleuve… La… leur masse se disloquera d’elle-meme…

— Sans doute, dit le chef civil, mais nous sommes menaces d’un grave danger!…

— Lequel?…

— Si ces milliers de tortues rencontrent la Urbana sur leur route… si leur marche ne devie pas en gagnant le fleuve… c’en est fait de notre bourgade!”

Par malheur, on ne pouvait rien pour empecher cette catastrophe. Apres avoir contourne la base du cerro, la lente et irresistible avalanche gagnait vers la Urbana, dont deux centaines de metres la separaient alors. Tout serait renverse, ecrase, aneanti a l’interieur du village… L’herbe ne pousse plus la ou les Turcs ont passe, a-t-on pu dire… Eh bien… il ne resterait pas une case, pas une hutte, pas un arbre, pas un arbrisseau, la ou aurait passe la masse des tortues…

“Le feu… le feu!” s’ecria M. Marchal.

Le feu, — c’etait la seule barriere que l’on put opposer a cet envahissement.

Les habitants du village, a la pensee du danger qu’ils couraient, les femmes et les enfants, pris de panique, jetaient des cris d’epouvante…

M. Marchal avait ete compris, et les passagers des pirogues, leurs equipages, tous se mirent a l’oeuvre.

En avant de la bourgade s’etendaient de larges prairies, revetues d’une herbe epaisse, que deux jours d’un soleil ardent avaient dessechee, et sur lesquelles quelques goyaviers et autres arbres dressaient leurs branches chargees de fruits.

Il ne fallait pas hesiter a sacrifier ces plantations, et il n’y eut pas une hesitation.

En dix ou douze places, a cent pas de la Urbana, le feu fut mis simultanement aux herbes.

Des flammes jaillirent comme si elles sortaient des entrailles du sol. Une intense fumee vint se meler au nuage de poussiere qui se rabattait vers le fleuve.

Et, neanmoins, la masse des tortues avancait toujours, et elle avancerait, sans doute, tant que le premier rang ne serait pas atteint par l’incendie. Mais, peut-etre, les derniers rangs pousseraient-ils les premiers jusque dans les flammes qui s’eteindraient alors?…

Le peril n’aurait donc pas ete conjure, et la Urbana, ecrasee, detruite, ne serait bientot plus qu’un monceau de ruines…

Il en arriva autrement, et le moyen, propose par M. Marchal, devait reussir.

Tout d’abord, les fauves furent accueillis par les coups de fusil du sergent Martial, de M. Miguel et de ses amis, des habitants qui etaient armes, tandis que les deux hommes, sur la masse mouvante, epuisaient contre eux leurs dernieres munitions.

Pris de deux cotes, quelques-uns de ces fauves tomberent sous les balles. Les autres, effrayes par les volutes de flammes qui tourbillonnaient, chercherent a s’echapper en remontant vers l’est, et ils parvinrent a se sauver a la suite des singes qui les precedaient, remplissant l’air de hurlements.

On put voir, a cet instant, les deux hommes se precipiter vers la barriere de feu, avant qu’elle eut gagne le premier rang des tortues, qui s’avancaient toujours avec lenteur…

Une minute plus tard, Jacques Helloch et Germain Paterne, — c’etaient eux, — se trouvaient en surete pres de M. Marchal, apres y avoir gagne le revers du cerro.

Alors, se detournant de ce rideau de flammes tendu sur une longueur d’un demi-kilometre, la masse des cheloniens inclina vers la gauche de la bourgade, puis, descendant la rive, disparut sous les eaux de l’Orenoque.

CHAPITRE III

III

Une halte de deux jours a Danaco

Deja, depuis quarante-huit heures, se dessinait a l’horizon de l’est la cime d’une montagne que les deux patrons Valdez et Parchal disaient etre le cerro Yapacana. Ils ajoutaient meme que cette montagne etait hantee, que les esprits, chaque annee, en fevrier et mars, allument sur sa pointe un grand feu dont le reflet s’etend sur toute la contree en s’elevant jusqu’au ciel.

Ce cerro, les pirogues eurent atteint, dans la soiree du 11 octobre, l’endroit d’ou il se montre sous ses veritables dimensions, — long de quatre kilometres, large d’un kilometre et demi, haut d’environ douze cents metres.

Pendant les trois jours qui avaient suivi leur depart de Carida, la navigation des falcas, servie par une brise constante, s’etait accomplie rapidement et sans obstacles. On avait depasse l’ile Luna, remonte le fleuve entre des rives bordees d’epaisses palmeraies, n’ayant eu d’autre difficulte que de franchir un petit raudal qu’on appelle la “Traversee du Diable”. Seulement, le diable ne s’etait pas mis en travers.

Le cerro de Yapacana occupe la plaine qui se developpe sur la droite de l’Orenoque. Ainsi que l’indique M. Chaffanjon, il se presente sous la forme d’un enorme sarcophage.

“Et des lors, fit observer Germain Paterne, pourquoi ne recelerait-il pas des devas, des myagres, des trolls, des cucufas et autres esprits d’origine mythologique?”

En face du cerro, la rive gauche, au-dela de l’ile Mavilla, etait occupee par l’etablissement du commissaire venezuelien. C’etait un metis, nomme Manuel Assomption. Cet homme vivait la avec sa femme, egalement une metisse, et plusieurs enfants, — au total, une interessante famille.

Lorsque les falcas s’arreterent devant Danaco, il faisait deja nuit, la navigation ayant ete retardee par une avarie survenue a la Gallinetta. Malgre toute son habilete, Valdez n’avait pu empecher la pirogue, prise dans un remous, de heurter un angle de roche. A la suite de ce choc, une voie d’eau s’etait declaree, peu importante, il est vrai, puisqu’elle put etre aveuglee avec quelques poignees d’herbes seches. Mais, en vue de la continuation du voyage, il fallait que cette avarie fut solidement reparee, et il serait aise de le faire a Danaco.

Les passagers resterent toute la nuit au pied de la berge, sur la cote meridional de l’ile Mavilla, sans que leur arrivee eut ete signalee au commissaire.

Le lendemain, au jour levant, les pirogues traverserent le petit bras du fleuve, et vinrent accoster une sorte d’appontement, destine aux chargements et dechargements des embarcations.

Danaco etait alors un village, non un simple rancho, tel que le voyageur francais l’a note dans son recit.

En effet, grace a l’intelligente activite de Manuel Assomption, cet etablissement avait grandi en quelques annees, et sa prosperite tendait toujours a s’accroitre. Une heureuse idee qu’avait eue ce metis de quitter son sitio de Guachapana, plus rapproche de San-Fernando, ou l’atteignaient trop aisement les tracassantes requisitions du gouverneur. Ici, a Danaco, il etait a peu pres libre d’exercer son commerce, et cette liberte produisait d’excellents resultats.

Des le point du jour, Manuel avait eu connaissance de l’arrivee des pirogues. Aussi, accompagne de quelques-uns de ses peons, accourut-il afin de recevoir les voyageurs.

Ceux-ci descendirent immediatement sur la berge. La, tout d’abord, Jean crut devoir presenter une des lettres qui lui avait remises le gouverneur de San-Fernando pour les commissaires du haut Orenoque.

Manuel Assomption prit la lettre, la lut, et, avec une certaine fierte, dit:

“Je n’avais pas besoin de cette lettre pour faire bon accueil a des voyageurs qui venaient relacher a Danaco. Les etrangers, et surtout des Francais, sont toujours assures d’etre bien recus dans nos villages du Venezuela.

— Nous vous remercions, monsieur Manuel, repondit Jacques Helloch. Mais une reparation que necessite l’avarie de l’une de nos falcas, nous obligera peut-etre a devenir vos hotes pendant quarante-huit heures…

— Pendant huit jours, si vous le voulez, monsieur… Danaco est a jamais ouvert aux compatriotes du Francais Truchon, auquel les planteurs du haut Orenoque doivent de la reconnaissance.

— Nous savions que nous serions parfaitement accueillis, monsieur Manuel… affirma Jean.

— Et comment le saviez-vous, mon jeune ami?…

— Parce que cette hospitalite que vous nous offrez, vous l’avez offerte, il y a cinq ans, a l’un de nos compatriotes qui a remonte l’Orenoque jusqu’a ses sources…

— M. Chaffanjon! s’ecria le commissaire. Oui! un audacieux explorateur, et dont j’ai conserve bon souvenir, ainsi que de son compagnon, M. Moussot…

— Et qui en a conserve un non moins bon de vous, monsieur Manuel, ajouta Jean, comme des services que vous lui avez rendus, — ce qu’il a consigne dans le recit de son voyage.

— Vous avez ce recit?… demanda Manuel avec un vif sentiment de curiosite.

— Je l’ai, repondit Jean, et, si vous le desirez, je vous traduirai le passage qui vous concerne…

— Cela me fera plaisir”, repondit le commissaire, en tendant la main aux passagers des falcas.

Et, dans ce recit, non seulement il etait parle en termes excellents de M. Manuel Assomption et de son etablissement de Danaco, mais aussi de ce M. Truchon, qui valait aux Francais d’etre en grand honneur sur le cours superieur du fleuve.

M. Truchon vint, il y a quelque quarante ans, fonder un etablissement en ce territoire du haut Orenoque. Or, avant lui, les Indiens n’entendaient rien a l’exploitation du caoutchouc, et c’est grace aux procedes qu’il introduisit que cette exploitation si fructueuse a fait la fortune de ces lointaines regions. De la cette legitime popularite du nom francais dans toutes les provinces dont cette culture forme la principale industrie.

Manuel Assomption comptait soixante ans d’age. Il avait l’apparence d’un homme vigoureux encore, le teint basane, la physionomie intelligente, le regard plein d’ardeur, sachant se faire obeir, car il savait commander, mais bon, attentif, prevenant pour les Indiens engages a son rancho.

C’etaient des Mariquitares, l’une des meilleures races autochtones du Venezuela, et le village, qui avait ete fonde autour du rancho, possedait une population uniquement mariquitare.

Lorsque les passagers eurent accepte l’hospitalite offerte par le commissaire, des ordres furent donnes pour que l’on procedat immediatement a la reparation des avaries de la Gallinetta. Il allait etre necessaire d’en debarquer le materiel, de la tirer sur la greve, de la retourner pour calfater ses fonds. Avec les ouvriers que le commissaire proposait de mettre a la disposition de Valdez, ce travail serait certainement acheve en deux jours.

Il etait alors sept heures du matin. Temps couvert, nuages tres eleves, sans menace de pluie, temperature supportable, ne depassant pas vingt-sept degres centigrades.

On partit dans la direction du village, enfoui sous l’epais dome des arbres, et qu’un demi-kilometre separait de la rive gauche.

Manuel Assomption, Jacques Helloch et Jean precedaient, en suivant un large sentier, bien trace, bien entretenu, le sergent Martial et Germain Paterne.

Tout en marchant, le commissaire faisait admirer aux voyageurs les riches produits du rancho, dont les cultures s’etendaient presque jusqu’au fleuve, ses plants de manguiers, citronniers, bananiers, cacaoyers, palmiers de l’espece macanille, — auxquels le sergent Martial trouvait que ce nom convenait parfaitement. Au-dela se developpaient de vastes bananeraies en plein rapport, des champs de mais, de manioc, de canne a sucre, de tabac. Quant aux caoutchoucs, ces euphorbiacees formaient la principale recolte du domaine, et aussi les tonkas, arbrisseaux qui donnent cette feve appelee sarrapia.

Et M. Manuel de repeter:

“Si votre compatriote vient nous revoir, quel changement il trouvera au rancho de Danaco, sans parler du village, qui est deja l’un des plus importants du territoire…

— Plus important que la Esmeralda?… demanda Jacques Helloch, en citant le nom de l’un des villages de l’amont.

— Assurement, car cette petite bourgade est abandonnee desormais, repondit le commissaire, tandis que Danaco est en pleine prosperite. Vous en jugerez, lorsque vous passerez devant la Esmeralda. D’ailleurs, les Mariquitares sont des Indiens travailleurs et industrieux, et vous pouvez observer que leurs cases sont autrement confortables que celles des Mapoyos ou des Piaroas du moyen Orenoque.

— Cependant, reprit Jacques Helloch, nous avons fait connaissance a la Urbana d’un M. Marchal…

— Je sais… je sais! repondit Manuel Assomption. C’est le proprietaire du hato de la Tigra… Un homme intelligent… J’en ai entendu dire du bien… Mais, en somme, son hato ne deviendra jamais bourgade, et bourgade sera un jour notre village de Danaco dans lequel nous arrivons en ce moment.”

Peut-etre y avait-il un peu de jalousie du commissaire envers M. Marchal.

“Et ou la jalousie va-t-elle se nicher?…” put se demander fort a propos Jacques Helloch.

Du reste, Manuel Assomption n’avait dit que la verite relativement au village dont il parlait avec un juste orgueil. A cette epoque, Danaco se composait d’une cinquantaine d’habitations, auxquelles le nom de paillotes n’eut point convenu.

Ces cases reposent sur une sorte de soubassement cylindro-conique, que domine un haut toit en feuilles de palmier, termine par une pointe agrementee de quelques pendeloques a sa base. Le soubassement est entrelace de branches solidement reliees entre elles, et cimentees d’un gachis de terre, dont les fendillements lui donnent l’apparence d’une maconnerie de brique.

Deux portes, l’une a l’oppose de l’autre, permettent de s’introduire a l’interieur; au lieu de la chambre unique, il forme deux chambres distinctes a l’usage des membres de la meme famille, et separees par la salle commune. Notable progres sur l’amenagement des paillotes indiennes, qui empeche toute promiscuite. Puis, progres non moins egal pour l’ameublement qui, tout rudimentaire qu’il soit, bahuts, table, escabeaux, paniers, hamacs, etc. temoigne d’un besoin de confort.

En traversant le village, les voyageurs purent observer la population masculine et feminine de Danaco, car les femmes et les enfants ne s’enfuirent point a leur approche.

Les hommes, d’un type assez beau, robustes, de saine constitution, etaient peut-etre moins “couleur locale” qu’au temps ou leur costume ne comportait que le guayuco serre a la ceinture. De meme pour les femmes, qui se contentaient autrefois d’un simple tablier dont l’etoffe, semee de dessins en verroteries, se retenait au-dessus des hanches par une ceinture de perles. Actuellement, leur costume, se rapprochant de celui des metis ou des Indiens civilises, ne choquait plus les regles de la decence. En somme, on retrouvait l’equivalent du poncho mexicain chez les chefs, et quant aux femmes, elles n’auraient pas ete de leur sexe si elles n’eussent porte nombre de bracelets aux bras et aux jambes.

Apres avoir fait une centaine de pas dans le village, le commissaire dirigea ses hotes vers la gauche. A deux minutes de la, ils s’arretaient devant la principale habitation de Danaco.

Que l’on se figure une case double ou plutot deux cases accouplees, communiquant entre elles, tres elevees sur leur soubassement, les murs perces de fenetres et de portes. Elles etaient entourees d’une haie en clayonnage, protegee par des palissades, avec cour d’entree devant la facade. De magnifiques arbres les ombrageaient lateralement, et, de chaque cote, plusieurs hangars ou l’on deposait les instruments de culture, ou l’on enfermait les bestiaux, constituaient les annexes de cette importante exploitation.

La reception se fit dans la premiere piece de l’une des cases, ou se tenait la femme de Manuel Assomption, metisse d’Indien du Bresil et d’une negresse, accompagnee de ses deux fils, vigoureux gaillards de vingt-cinq et trente ans, d’un teint moins fonce que leurs pere et mere.

Jacques Helloch et ses compagnons recurent un accueil tres cordial. Comme toute cette famille comprenait et parlait l’espagnol, la conversation put s’etablir sans difficultes.

“Et d’abord, puisque la Gallinetta est en reparation pour quarante-huit heures, le sergent et son neveu demeureront ici, dit M. Manuel en s’adressant a sa femme. Tu leur prepareras une chambre ou deux a leur convenance.

— Deux… si vous le voulez bien… repondit le sergent Martial.

— Deux, soit, reprit le commissaire, et si M. Helloch et son ami veulent coucher au rancho…

— Nous vous remercions, monsieur Manuel, repondit Germain Paterne. Notre pirogue, la Moriche, est en bon etat, et, desireux de ne point vous occasionner tant de peine, nous retournerons ce soir a bord…

— Comme il vous plaira, repliqua le commissaire. Vous ne nous generiez pas, mais nous ne voulons vous gener en rien.”

Puis, a ses fils:

“Il faudra envoyer quelques-uns de nos meilleurs peons afin d’aider les equipages des falcas…

— Et nous y travaillerons avec eux”, repondit le plus age des garcons.

Il prononca ces mots en s’inclinant respectueusement devant son pere et sa mere, — marques de respect qui sont habituelles chez les familles du Venezuela.

Apres le dejeuner, tres abondant en gibier, en fruits et en legumes, M. Manuel interrogea ses hotes sur le but de leur voyage. Jusqu’alors, le haut Orenoque n’etait guere frequente que par les rares marchands qui se rendaient au Cassiquiare, en amont de Danaco. Au-dela, la navigation ne comportait plus aucun commerce, et, seuls, des explorateurs pouvaient avoir la pensee de se rendre aux sources du fleuve.

Le commissaire fut donc assez surpris, lorsque Jean eut enonce les raisons qui lui avaient fait entreprendre cette campagne a laquelle s’etaient associes ses deux compatriotes.

“Ainsi vous etes a la recherche de votre pere?… dit-il, avec une emotion que partageaient ses fils et sa femme.

— Oui, monsieur Manuel, et nous esperons retrouver ses traces a Santa-Juana.

— Vous n’avez pas entendu parler du colonel de Kermor?… demanda Jacques Helloch a M. Manuel.

— Jamais ce nom n’a ete prononce devant moi.

— Et pourtant, dit Germain Paterne, vous etiez deja etabli a Danaco, il y a douze ans…

— Non… nous occupions encore le sitio de Guachapana, mais il n’est pas a notre connaissance que l’arrivee du colonel de Kermor ait ete signalee en cet endroit.

— Cependant, insista le sergent Martial, qui comprenait assez pour prendre part a la conversation, entre San-Fernando et Santa-Juana, il n’y a pas d’autre route a suivre que celle de l’Orenoque…

— C’est la plus facile et la plus directe, repondit M. Manuel, et un voyageur y est moins expose que s’il s’engageait a travers les territoires de l’interieur parcourus par les Indiens. Si le colonel de Kermor s’est dirige vers les sources du fleuve, il a du le remonter comme vous le faites.”

En parlant de la sorte, Manuel Assomption ne se montrait certainement pas trop affirmatif. Il etait donc surprenant que le colonel de Kermor, lorsqu’il gagnait Santa-Juana, n’eut laisse aucun vestige de cette navigation sur le cours de l’Orenoque a partir de San-Fernando.

“Monsieur Manuel, demanda alors Jacques

Helloch, avez-vous visite la Mission?…

— Non, et je n’ai pas ete, dans l’est, au-dela de l’embouchure du Cassiquiare.

— Vous a-t-on quelquefois parle de Santa-Juana?…

— Oui… comme d’un etablissement prospere, grace au devouement de son chef.

— Vous ne connaissez pas le Pere Esperante?…

— Si… je l’ai vu une fois… voila trois ans environ… Il avait descendu le fleuve pour les affaires de Mission, et il s’est arrete un jour a Danaco.

— Et quel homme est-ce, ce missionnaire?…” demanda le sergent Martial.

Le commissaire fit du Pere Esperante un portrait qui s’accordait avec ce qu’en avait dit l’Espagnol Jorres. Il n’etait certainement pas douteux que celui-ci eut rencontre le missionnaire a Caracas, ainsi qu’il l’avait affirme.

“Et depuis son passage a Danaco, reprit Jean, vous n’avez plus eu de rapport avec le Pere

Esperante?…

— Aucun rapport, repondit M. Manuel. Toutefois, a plusieurs reprises, j’ai su par les Indiens qui venaient de l’est que Santa-Juana prenait chaque annee un nouvel accroissement. C’est une belle oeuvre que celle de ce missionnaire, et qui honore l’humanite…

— Oui, monsieur le commissaire, declara Jacques Helloch, et elle honore aussi le pays qui produit de tels hommes!… Je suis certain que nous recevrons un bon accueil du Pere Esperante…

— N’en doutez pas, repliqua M. Manuel, et il vous traitera comme si vous etiez ses compatriotes. C’est l’accueil qu’il reservait a M. Chaffanjon, si celui-ci eut ete jusqu’a Santa-Juana…

— Et, ajouta Jean, puisse-t-il nous mettre sur les traces de mon pere!”

L’apres-midi, les hotes du commissaire durent visiter le rancho, ses champs bien cultives, ses plantations bien entretenues, ses bois ou les fils

Manuel faisaient une incessante guerre aux singes depredateurs, ses prairies ou paissaient les troupeaux.

On etait a l’epoque de la recolte du caoutchouc, — recolte prematuree cette annee. D’habitude, elle ne commence qu’en novembre pour se continuer jusqu’a la fin de mars.

Aussi, M. Manuel de dire:

“Si cela peut vous interesser, messieurs, je vous montrerai demain comment on procede a cette recolte.

— Nous acceptons tres volontiers, repondit Germain Paterne, et j’en ferai mon profit…

— A la condition de se lever de grand matin, observa le commissaire. Mes gomeros se mettent au travail des le point du jour…

— Nous ne les ferons pas attendre, soyez-en sur, repondit Germain Paterne. Ca te va-t-il, Jacques?…

— Je serai pret a l’heure, promit Jacques Helloch. — Et vous, mon cher Jean?…

— Je ne manquerai pas cette occasion, repondit

Jean, et si mon oncle est encore endormi…

— Tu me reveilleras, mon neveu, tu me reveilleras, j’y compte bien! repliqua le sergent Martial. Puisque nous sommes venus dans le pays du caoutchouc, c’est bien le moins que nous sachions comment on fait…

— La gomme elastique, sergent, la gomme elastique!” s’ecria Germain Paterne.

Et l’on regagna l’habitation, apres une promenade qui avait dure toute l’apres-midi.

Le souper reunit les hotes du commissaire a la meme table. La conversation porta principalement sur le voyage, sur les incidents survenus depuis le depart de Caicara, l’invasion des tortues, le coup de chubasco qui avait compromis les pirogues et la vie de leurs passagers.

“En effet, affirma M. Manuel, ces chubascos sont terribles, et le haut Orenoque n’en est point exempt. Quant aux invasions de tortues, nous n’avons pas a les craindre sur nos territoires, qui n’offrent pas de plages propices a la ponte, et ces animaux ne s’y rencontrent guere qu’isolement…

— N’en disons pas de mal! ajouta Germain Paterne. Un sancocho de tortues cuit a point, c’est excellent. Rien qu’avec ces betes-la et les rotis de singe, — qui le croirait? — on est assure de faire bonne chere en remontant votre fleuve!

— Cela est exact, dit le commissaire. Mais, pour revenir aux chubascos, defiez-vous-en, messieurs. Ils sont aussi soudains, aussi violents en amont de San-Fernando qu’en aval, et il ne faut pas donner a M. Helloch l’occasion de vous sauver une seconde fois, monsieur Jean…

— C’est bon… c’est bon!… repliqua le sergent Martial, qui n’aimait guere ce sujet de conversation. On veillera aux chubascos… on y veillera, monsieur le commissaire!”

Alors, Germain Paterne de dire:

“Et nos compagnons, dont nous ne parlons pas a M. Manuel… Est-ce que nous les avons deja oublies?…

— C’est juste, ajouta Jean, cet excellent M. Miguel… et M. Felipe… et M. Varinas…

— Quels sont ces messieurs dont vous citez les noms?… s’enquit le commissaire.

— Trois Venezueliens, avec lesquels nous avons fait le voyage de Ciudad-Bolivar a San-Fernando.

— Des voyageurs?… demanda M. Manuel.

— Et aussi des savants, declara Germain Paterne.

— Et que savent-ils, ces savants?…

— Vous feriez mieux de demander ce qu’ils ne savent pas, fit observer Jacques Helloch.

— Et que ne savent-ils pas?…

— Ils ne savent pas si le fleuve qui arrose votre rancho est l’Orenoque…

— Comment! s’ecria M. Manuel, ils auraient l’audace de contester…

— L’un, M. Felipe, soutient que le veritable Orenoque est son affluent l’Atabapo, l’autre, M. Varinas, que c’est son affluent le Guaviare…

— Voila de la belle impudence! s’ecria le commissaire. A les entendre… l’Orenoque ne serait pas l’Orenoque!”

Et il etait vraiment furieux, ce digne M. Manuel Assomption, et sa femme, ses deux fils, partageaient sa fureur. Leur amour-propre etait reellement touche dans ce qui leur tenait le plus au coeur, leur Orenoque, c’est-a-dire la “Grande Eau”, en dialecte tamanaque, “le Roi des Fleuves”!

Il fallut alors expliquer ce que M. Miguel et ses deux collegues etaient venus faire a San-Fernando, a quelles investigations, suivies sans doute de discussions orageuses, ils devaient se livrer en ce moment.

“Et… ce monsieur Miguel… que pretend-il?… demanda le commissaire.

— Monsieur Miguel, lui, affirme que l’Orenoque est bien le fleuve que nous avons suivi de San-Fernando a Danaco, repondit Germain Paterne.

— Et qui sort du massif de la Parima! affirma d’une voix eclatante le commissaire. Aussi, que M. Miguel vienne nous voir, et il sera recu avec cordialite!… Mais que les deux autres ne s’avisent pas de relacher au rancho, car nous les jetterions dans le fleuve, et ils en boiraient assez pour s’assurer que son eau est bien celle de l’Orenoque!”

Rien de plus plaisant que M. Manuel parlant avec cette animation et proferant de si terribles menaces. Mais, toute exageration a part, le proprietaire du rancho tenait pour son fleuve, et il l’eut defendu jusqu’a sa derniere goutte.

Vers dix heures du soir, Jacques Helloch et son compagnon prirent conge de la famille Assomption, dirent adieu au sergent Martial et a Jean, puis regagnerent leur pirogue.

Fut-ce involontairement, ou par suite d’une sorte de pressentiment, la pensee de Jacques Helloch se porta sur Jorres. Il n’y avait plus a douter que cet Espagnol eut connu le Pere Esperante, qu’il l’eut rencontre a Caracas ou ailleurs, puisqu’il l’avait depeint tel que M. Manuel venait de le faire. De ce chef, on ne pouvait accuser Jorres d’avoir invente une pretendue rencontre avec le missionnaire dans le but de s’imposer aux passagers des pirogues qui se rendaient a Santa-Juana.

Toutefois, d’autre part, restait cette affirmation de l’Indien Bare, pretendant que Jorres avait du deja remonter l’Orenoque, au moins jusqu’au rancho de Carida. Malgre les denegations de l’Espagnol, l’Indien avait maintenu son dire. Les etrangers ne sont pas tellement nombreux a parcourir ces territoires du Venezuela meridional que l’on puisse commettre une erreur de personne. A propos d’un indigene, cette erreur aurait ete admissible. L’etait-elle, alors qu’il s’agissait de cet Espagnol dont la figure etait si reconnaissable?

Or, si Jorres etait venu a Carida, et, comme consequence, dans les villages, ou les sitios situes en dessus et en dessous, pourquoi le niait-il?… Quelles raisons avait-il de s’en cacher?… En quoi cela eut-il pu lui nuire dans l’esprit de ceux qu’il accompagnait a la Mission de Santa-Juana?…

Apres tout, peut-etre le Bare se trompait-il. Entre quelqu’un qui dit: “Je vous ai vu ici”, et quelqu’un qui dit: “Vous ne pouvez m’avoir vu ici, puisque je n’y suis jamais venu”, s’il y a erreur, elle ne peut evidemment pas venir du second…

Et cependant, cet incident ne laissait pas de preoccuper Jacques Helloch, non qu’il vit la un sujet d’apprehension pour lui-meme; mais tout ce qui interessait le voyage de la fille du colonel de Kermor, tout ce qui pouvait en retarder ou en compromettre le succes, l’obsedait, l’inquietait, le troublait plus qu’il ne voulait en convenir.

Cette nuit-la, le sommeil ne le prit que tres tard, et, le lendemain, il fallut que Germain Paterne l’en tirat par une tape amicale, au moment ou le soleil commencait a deborder l’horizon.

CHAPITRE XXIII

Situation aggravee. - Jenny et Fritz ne perdent pas espoir. - Peches fructueuses. - Tentative pour reconnaitre la cote vers l’est. - L’albatros

de la Roche-Fumante. -Triste fin d’annee.

La situation, pire que jamais, menacait de s’aggraver encore. Alors qu’ils etaient dans l’embarcation, exposes a tous les dangers de la mer, le capitaine Gould et les passagers couraient du moins la chance d’etre recueillis par un navire ou d’atteindre une terre. Le navire, ils ne l’avaient point rencontre. S’ils avaient accoste la terre, cette terre etait inhabitable et maintenant on devait renoncer a tout espoir de la quitter.

<<<Il est vrai, ainsi que le dit John Block a Fritz, si nous avions attrape pareille tempete au large, notre chaloupe serait par le fond et nous avec!>>>

Fritz ne repondit rien et, sous un deluge de pluie et de grele, vint se refugier pres de Jenny, Doll, Suzan en proie aux plus vives inquietudes. Grace a son orientation dans l’angle du promontoire, la grotte n’avait pas ete inondee a l’interieur.

Vers minuit, lorsque la pluie eut cesse, le bosseman disposa a l’entree un tas de goemons secs qu’il retira d’une des cavites de la falaise. Un feu vif y eut bientot seche les habits trempes par les rafales et les lames.

Jusqu’a l’heure ou les violences de l’orage s’apaiserent, le ciel ne cessa d’etre en feu. Les roulements de la foudre diminuerent bientot avec le deplacement des nuages chasses vers le nord. Mais, tandis que la baie continuait a s’illuminer d’eclairs lointains, le vent continua de souffler avec force, soulevant la houle qui deferlait tumultueusement sur la greve.

Des l’aube, les hommes sortirent de la grotte. Des nuees echevelees passaient au-dessus de la falaise. Quelques-unes, plus basses, couraient a sa surface. Pendant la nuit, la foudre l’avait frappee a deux ou trois endroits. D’enormes debris de roches gisaient a sa base. D’ailleurs on n’y put apercevoir ni une fissure ni une lezarde par lesquelles il eut ete possible de s’introduire et de gagner le plateau superieur.

Harry Gould, Fritz et John Block inventorierent ce qui restait du materiel de l’embarcation. Il comprenait le mat, la misaine et le foc, les agres, les amarres, le gouvernail, les avirons, le grappin et sa chaine, les planches des bancs et les barils d’eau douce. De la plupart de ces objets a demi brises, on ne saurait sans doute faire usage.

<<<Le malheur nous a cruellement eprouves!… dit Fritz. Si, encore, nous n’avions pas ces pauvres femmes avec nous… trois femmes et un enfant!… Quel sort les attend au fond de cette greve que nous ne pouvons plus meme abandonner!>>>

Francois, quelle que fut sa confiance en Dieu, garda le silence, cette fois, et qu’aurait-il pu dire?…

Cependant John Block se demandait si la tempete n’avait pas cause d’autres desastres aux naufrages, - ne meritaient-ils pas ce nom?… N’etait-il pas a craindre que les tortues n’eussent ete detruites par les lames, leurs oeufs ecrases dans les affouillements du sable?… Quelle irreparable perte si cette ressource venait a manquer!

Le bosseman, ayant fait signe a Francois de le rejoindre, lui dit quelques mots a voix basse. Puis tous deux, franchissant le promontoire, redescendirent sur la crique qu’ils voulaient visiter jusqu’au morne.

Tandis que le capitaine Gould, Fritz et James, parcourant la greve, se dirigeaient vers le contrefort de l’ouest, Jenny, Doll et Suzan avaient repris leurs occupations habituelles, - ce que l’on pourrait appeler les soins du menage, si ce mot eut ete juste en cette deplorable situation. Le petit Bob, indifferent, jouait sur le sable, attendant que sa mere lui preparat un peu de biscuit amolli dans l’eau bouillante. Et quelle desolation, quelles angoisses, lorsque Suzan songeait aux miseres que son enfant n’aurait pas la force de supporter!

Apres avoir mis tout en ordre a l’interieur de la caverne, Jenny et Doll vinrent retrouver Mme Wolston, et bien tristement se mirent a causer…

De quoi, si ce n’est du present si aggrave depuis la veille? Doll et Suzan, plus accablees que la jeune femme, osaient a peine envisager l’avenir, et leurs yeux se mouillaient de grosses larmes.

<<<Que deviendrons-nous?… dit Suzan.

— Ne perdons pas confiance, repondit Jenny, et ne decourageons pas nos compagnons…

— Et, cependant, ajouta Doll, il n’est plus possible de partir… Et lorsque la mauvaise saison sera venue…

— A toi, ma chere Doll, comme a Suzan, reprit Jenny, je repete que se decourager ne mene a rien!

— Puis-je conserver le moindre espoir?… s’ecria Mme Wolston, qui se sentait defaillir.

— Vous le devez… oui! c’est votre devoir! dit Jenny. Pensez a votre mari… a James… dont vous redoubleriez les peines s’il vous voyait pleurer…

— Tu es forte, Jenny, reprit Doll, tu as deja lutte contre le malheur!… Mais nous…

— Vous?… repondit Jenny. Oublies-tu donc que le capitaine Gould, Fritz, Francois, James, John Block feront tout ce qu’il sera possible pour nous sauver tous…

— Et que pourront-ils?… demanda Suzan.

— Je ne sais, Suzan, mais ils y reussiront, a la condition que nous ne les affaiblirons pas en nous abandonnant au desespoir!

— Mon enfant… mon enfant…>>> murmurait la pauvre femme, que les sanglots etouffaient…

A cet instant, a la vue de sa mere qui pleurait, Bob resta tout interdit, ses yeux grands ouverts.

Ce fut Jenny qui l’attira pres d’elle et le prit sur ses genoux en disant:

<<<Ta maman a ete inquiete, mon cheri!… Elle t’avait appele… Tu ne repondais pas, et alors… Tu etais a jouer sur le sable… n’est-ce pas?…

— Oui… repondit Bob, avec le bateau que m’a fait mon ami Block… Mais je voudrais aussi lui mettre une petite voile blanche pour qu’il navigue… Il y a dans le sable des trous tout pleins d’eau ou je le mettrai… Tante Doll m’a promis de me faire une voile…

— Oui, mon Bob… tu l’auras aujourd’hui, dit Doll.

— Alors, deux voiles… reprit l’enfant, deux voiles comme a la chaloupe qui nous a amenes ici…

— C’est entendu, repondit Jenny. Tante Doll te fera une belle voile… et moi je t’en ferai une aussi.

— Merci, merci, madame Jenny, repondit Bob en battant des mains. Mais ou est donc notre grand bateau?… Je ne le vois plus!…

— Il est alle… a la peche, repondit Jenny, il reviendra bientot… avec de beaux poissons!… D’ailleurs… tu as le tien… celui de ton ami Block…

— Oui… mais je lui dirai de m’en construire un autre, ou je pourrai embarquer… avec papa et maman… et tante Doll… et madame Jenny… et tout le monde!…>>>

Pauvre petit! il disait bien la ce qu’il aurait fallu… remplacer la chaloupe… et comment le faire?…

<<<Retourne jouer, mon cheri, lui dit Jenny, et ne t’eloigne pas de nous…

— Non… la… tout pres, madame Jenny!>>>

Puis, apres avoir embrasse sa mere, il partit en sautillant ainsi que font les enfants de son age.

<<<Ma chere Suzan, ma chere Doll, dit alors Jenny, Dieu ne peut vouloir que ce petit etre ne soit pas sauve!… Non, il ne peut le vouloir… et son salut, c’est le notre!… Je vous en prie, pas de faiblesse, pas de larmes… Soyez confiantes comme je le suis, comme je l’ai toujours ete dans la Providence!>>>

Ainsi parla Jenny, et ce qu’elle disait lui venait d’un coeur resolu. C’etait son ame intrepide qui lui inspirait ces choses, et, quoi qu’il arrivat, elle ne desespererait pas. Si la mauvaise saison s’ouvrait avant que les naufrages eussent quitte cette cote, - et comment a moins qu’un navire ne les y recueillit? - on prendrait des dispositions pour un hivernage. La grotte offrait un abri sur contre les gros temps… L’amas des plantes marines fournirait du combustible contre le froid… La peche, la chasse meme suffiraient sans doute a procurer la nourriture… Dans ces conditions, il etait permis de garder quelque espoir…

Et, tout d’abord, il importait de savoir si les craintes de John Block relativement aux cheloniens etaient fondees. Non… par bonheur. Apres une heure d’absence, le bosseman et Francois revinrent avec leur charge habituelle de tortues, qui avaient trouve refuge sous le tas de varechs. Par exemple, pas un seul oeuf.

<<<Mais elles pondront, les bonnes betes, declara John Block, et repondront a la confiance que nous avons en elles!>>>

On ne put s’empecher de sourire a cette plaisanterie du bosseman.

Lors de leur promenade jusqu’au contrefort, le capitaine Gould, Fritz, James, avaient reconnu l’impossibilite d’en contourner la base autrement que par mer. Les courants s’y propageaient avec une extreme impetuosite dans un sens comme dans l’autre. Meme par temps calme, le violent ressac n’aurait pas permis a une embarcation de s’en approcher, et le meilleur nageur eut ete entraine au large ou se fut brise contre les roches.

La necessite d’atteindre le plateau de la falaise par quelque autre moyen s’imposait donc plus que jamais.

<<<Comment?… dit un jour Fritz, son regard impatiemment attache a cette crete inaccessible.

— On ne s’echappe pas d’une prison dont les murs sont hauts de mille pieds, repondit James.

— A moins de les percer… reprit Fritz.

— Percer cette masse de granit… plus epaisse peut-etre qu’elle n’est haute?… dit James.

— Nous ne pouvons pas cependant rester dans cette prison!… s’ecria Fritz pris d’un mouvement de colere impuissante dont il ne fut pas maitre.

— Sois patient et aie confiance, repeta Francois, qui voulait calmer son frere.

— De la patience, je puis en avoir, repliqua Fritz, mais de la confiance…>>>

Et sur quoi se fut-elle appuyee, cette confiance?… Le salut ne pouvait venir que d’un navire passant au large de la baie!… S’il apparaissait, apercevrait-il les signaux que le bosseman lui ferait en allumant un grand feu sur la plage ou sur la pointe du promontoire?…

Quinze jours s’etaient ecoules depuis que la chaloupe avait accoste le littoral, et plusieurs semaines s’ecoulerent encore sans que la situation eut subi aucun changement. En ce qui concernait la nourriture, le capitaine Gould et ses compagnons en etaient reduits aux tortues et a leurs oeufs, aux crustaces, crabes et homards, dont John Block put capturer quelques-uns. D’ordinaire, c’etait lui qui s’occupait de la peche, non sans succes, avec le concours de Francois. Des lignes, munies, en guise d’hamecons, de clous recourbes qui provenaient des planches de la chaloupe, avaient permis de prendre diverses sortes de poissons, des dorades, longues de douze a quinze pouces, d’une belle couleur rougeatre et de chair excellente, des bars ou perches de mer. Meme un esturgeon de grande taille fut apprehende au moyen d’un noeud coulant qui le hala sur le sable.

Quant aux chiens de mer, assez abondants en ces parages, ils laissaient a desirer au point de vue alimentaire. Ce qu’on en tira, c’est une graisse qui fut employee a fabriquer de grossieres chandelles, pourvues d’une meche de laminaires seches. Si inquietante que dut etre cette perspective d’un hivernage, ne fallait-il pas y songer et se precautionner contre les longs et sombres jours de la mauvaise saison?…

Il n’y avait pas lieu de compter sur les saumons, qui remontaient en si grande abondance a certaines epoques le ruisseau des Chacals de la Nouvelle-Suisse. Toutefois, un jour, un banc de harengs vint s’echouer a l’embouchure du petit rio. On en prit plusieurs centaines, qui, apres avoir ete fumes au-dessus d’un feu de goemons secs, fournirent une importante reserve.

<<<Ne dit-on pas que le hareng porte son beurre avec lui?… observa John Block. Eh bien, si cela est, en voici qui sont tout accommodes… et je me demande ce que nous ferons de tant de si bonnes choses!…>>>

Pendant ces six semaines, a plusieurs reprises, on essaya d’escalader le promontoire pour gagner le plateau de la falaise. Comme toutes ces tentatives furent infructueuses, Fritz resolut de contourner le morne de l’est. Mais il se garda bien de confier son projet a personne, sauf a John Block. Aussi, dans la matinee du 7 decembre, tous deux se dirigerent-ils vers la crique sous pretexte de ramasser des tortues a sa pointe orientale.

La, au pied de l’enorme masse rocheuse, la mer brisait avec rage et, a vouloir la doubler, assurement Fritz exposerait sa vie.

En vain le bosseman voulut l’en detourner… Il n’obtint rien, et n’eut plus qu’a lui preter son aide.

Apres s’etre deshabille, Fritz s’attacha autour des reins une longue corde, - la drisse de la chaloupe, - dont John Block devait garder l’autre bout, et il entra dans l’eau.

Double etait le risque, soit d’etre saisi par le ressac et jete contre la base du morne, soit d’etre entraine par le courant si la corde venait a casser.

A deux fois, Fritz tenta inutilement de se degager des lames. Il ne reussit qu’a la troisieme a se maintenir de maniere a porter ses regards au dela du morne, et John Block, non sans peine, dut le ramener vers la pointe!

<<<Eh bien… demanda le bosseman, qu’y a-t-il, au dela?

— Rien que des roches et des rochers!… repondit Fritz, des qu’il eut repris haleine. Je n’ai apercu qu’une suite de criques et de caps… La falaise se continue en remontant vers le nord…

— Je n’en suis pas autrement etonne…>>> se borna a repondre John Block.

Lorsque le resultat de cette tentative fut connu - et avec quelle emotion l’apprit Jenny! - il sembla bien que tout espoir venait de s’evanouir. Ce n’etait decidement qu’un amas inhabitable et inhabite, cet ilot dont le capitaine Gould et les siens ne pouvaient plus sortir!…

Et de quels regrets poignants se compliquait cette situation! Sans la revolte, depuis deux mois deja les passagers du Flag seraient arrives en ce fertile domaine de la Terre-Promise!… Et a quelles angoisses devaient etre en proie ceux qui les attendaient et ne les voyaient point venir!… Comment les deux familles expliqueraient-elles un tel retard?… La corvette avait-elle donc peri corps et biens?… Ne reverraient-ils plus jamais Fritz, Jenny, Francois, James, Suzan, Doll… Et si la Licorne avait fait naufrage, etait-ce pendant la traversee de l’ile en Europe, avant ou apres sa relache a Capetown?…

En verite, ces parents, ces amis etaient plus a plaindre que le capitaine Gould et ses compagnons!… Au moins, ceux-ci les savaient-ils en surete dans la Nouvelle-Suisse!

L’avenir debordait donc d’inquietudes, etant donnee une situation dont on ne pouvait prevoir le terme.

Puis, quel nouveau sujet de craintes se fut ajoute a tant d’autres, s’ils eussent su ce que Harry Gould et le bosseman etaient seuls a savoir: c’est que le nombre des tortues diminuait sensiblement, par suite de la consommation qui s’en faisait chaque jour!…

<<<Peut-etre, fit observer cependant John Block, cela tient-il a ce que ces betes ont connaissance de quelque passage souterrain qui leur donne acces sur les criques de l’est ou de l’ouest, et quel malheur que nous ne puissions les suivre…

— Dans tous les cas, Block, repliqua Harry Gould, n’en parle a personne…

— Soyez tranquille, mon capitaine, et si je vous l’ai dit, c’est que l’on peut tout vous dire…

— Et on le doit, Block.>>>

Le bosseman, des lors, eut donc a s’occuper plus particulierement de la peche, car la mer ne refuserait jamais ce que la terre allait bientot refuser. Il est vrai, a se nourrir exclusivement de poissons, de mollusques, de crustaces, la sante generale finirait par en souffrir… Et si des maladies se declaraient, ne serait-ce pas le comble de tant de miseres?…

La derniere semaine de decembre etait arrivee. Temps toujours beau, sauf quelques orages qui n’eurent point la violence du premier. La chaleur, parfois excessive, aurait ete difficile a supporter, si la falaise n’eut projete sa grande ombre sur la greve, l’abritant du soleil, qui tracait sa courbe diurne au-dessus de l’horizon du nord.

A cette epoque, nombre d’oiseaux frequentaient ces parages, et ce n’etaient pas seulement les goelands, les macreuses, les mouettes, les fregates, hotes habituels des greves. De temps a autre, passerent des bandes de grues et de herons. Cela rappelait a Fritz ses heureuses chasses sur le lac des Cygnes et aux abords des metairies de la Terre-Promise. A la cime du morne parurent egalement des cormorans, semblables a celui de Jenny, actuellement l’hote de la basse-cour de Felsenheim, et des albatros, semblables a celui dont elle avait fait le messager de la Roche-Fumante!

D’ailleurs, ces oiseaux se tenaient hors de portee. Lorsqu’ils venaient se poser sur le promontoir, en vain essayait-on de les approcher, et ils s’envolaient a tire-d’aile au-dessus de cette Crete infranchissable.

Un jour, le capitaine Gould, Fritz, Francois, tous et toutes furent appeles sur la plage par un cri du bosseman.

<<<Voyez… voyez donc!… repetait John Block, en montrant de la main l’arete du plateau superieur.

— Qu’y a-t-il?… demanda Fritz.

— Comment, reprit John Block, vous n’apercevez pas cette rangee de points noirs?…

— Ce sont des pingouins, repondit Francois.

— Des pingouins, en effet, affirma Harry Gould, et s’ils ne nous paraissent pas plus gros que des corneilles, c’est a cause de la hauteur ou ils sont perches…

— Eh bien, fit observer Fritz, puisque ces oiseaux ont pu s’elever sur le plateau, c’est donc que les pentes sont praticables de l’autre cote de la falaise!…>>>

Il y avait lieu de le croire, car les pingouins, tres gauches, tres lourds, n’ayant pour ailes que des moignons rudimentaires, n’auraient pu voler jusqu’a cette crete. Si donc l’ascension n’etait pas praticable par le sud, tres probablement elle l’etait par le nord. Or, faute d’une embarcation qui eut permis de remonter le long du littoral, il fallait renoncer a atteindre le sommet de la falaise.

Triste, bien triste fut le Noel de cette funeste annee!… Et quelle desolation a la pensee de ce qu’eut ete le Christmas dans la grande salle de Felsenheim, au milieu des deux familles, en compagnie du capitaine Gould et de John Block! Il sembla que les douleurs de l’abandon en fussent accrues, et cette fete se reduisit a des prieres ou il n’y avait plus guere d’espoir!

Et pourtant, il fallait tenir compte de ce que, malgre tant d’epreuves, la sante de ce petit monde n’en etait pas encore affectee. Quant au bosseman, les miseres, pas plus que les deceptions, n’avaient prise sur lui.

<<<J’engraisse, repetait-il, oui… j’engraisse!… Voila ce que c’est que de passer son temps a ne rien faire!>>>

Rien faire, helas! et, malheureusement, dans cette situation, il n’y avait rien a faire!

L’apres-midi du 29, il se produisit un incident qui, d’ailleurs, ne pouvait apporter aucun changement, bien qu’il rappelat le souvenir de temps plus heureux.

Un oiseau vint se poser sur la partie du promontoire dont l’acces etait praticable.

C’etait un albatros, qui arrivait de loin, sans doute, et paraissait tres fatigue. Il s’etendit sur une roche, les pattes allongees, les ailes repliees.

Fritz voulut essayer de capturer cet oiseau. Habile a manier le lasso, on le sait, peut-etre y reussirait-il, en formant un noeud coulant avec la drisse de la chaloupe?

La longue corde fut preparee par le bosseman, et Fritz, le plus doucement possible, commenca a gravir le promontoire.

Tous le suivaient du regard.

L’oiseau ne bougeant pas, Fritz put s’approcher a quelques toises, et lanca son lasso qui s’enroula autour du corps de l’albatros.

C’est a peine si l’albatros tenta de se debattre, lorsque Fritz, qui l’avait pris entre ses bras, l’apporta sur la greve.

A cet instant, Jenny ne put retenir un cri de surprise.

<<<C’est lui, repetait-elle, en caressant l’oiseau… c’est lui… je le reconnais…

— Quoi… s’ecria Fritz, ce serait?…

— Oui… Fritz… c’est bien mon albatros… mon compagnon de la Roche-Fumante… celui auquel j’avais attache ce billet qui est tombe entre tes mains…>>>

Etait-ce possible?… Jenny ne faisait-elle pas erreur?… Apres trois annees, cet albatros, qui n’etait jamais revenu a l’ilot, aurait vole jusqu’a cette cote?…

Jenny ne se trompait pas, et l’on en eut la certitude, lorsqu’elle montra un bout de ficelle qui entourait encore l’une des pattes de l’oiseau. Quant au morceau de toile sur lequel Fritz avait trace quelques lignes de reponse, il n’en restait plus rien.

Et si cet albatros etait venu de si loin, c’est que ces puissants volateurs peuvent franchir d’enormes distances. A n’en pas douter, celui-ci s’etait transporte de l’est de l’ocean Indien a ces parages du Pacifique, eloignes d’un millier de lieues peut-etre!…

Inutile d’insister sur les soins, sur les caresses que recut le messager de la Roche-Fumante. N’etait-ce pas comme un lien qui rattachait les naufrages a leurs parents, a leurs amis de la Nouvelle-Suisse?…

Deux jours apres s’achevait cette annee 1817, qui avait ete si malheureuse pendant ses derniers mois, et que reservait l’annee nouvelle?…

CHAPITRE XXIV

Entretiens a propos de l’albatros. - Bonne camaraderie entre le petit Bob

et l’oiseau. - Fabrication des chandelles. - Un nouveau sujet de douleur.

— Recherches inutiles et desespoir. - Un cri de l’albatros.

Si le capitaine Gould ne se trompait pas en ce qui concernait le gisement de l’ilot, la saison d’ete ne devait plus avoir que trois mois a courir. Apres ces trois mois arriverait le redoutable hiver, avec ses froides rafales, ses tempetes furieuses. Cette faible chance d’apercevoir quelque navire au large, de l’attirer par des signaux, aurait disparu, car, a cette epoque de l’annee, les marins fuient ces dangereux parages. Mais, auparavant, peut-etre se presenterait-il quelque circonstance qui modifierait la situation, bien qu’il fut temeraire de l’esperer.

L’existence continua donc d’etre ce qu’elle avait ete depuis le 26 octobre, ce jour funeste ou la chaloupe fut detruite. Quelle monotonie, quel desoeuvrement, et combien l’impossibilite de rien entreprendre paraissait dure a des hommes si actifs! Reduits a errer au pied de cette falaise qui les emprisonnait, leurs yeux se fatiguant a observer la mer toujours deserte, il leur fallait une extraordinaire force d’ame pour ne point succomber au decouragement.

Les journees, si longues, se passaient en conversations que Jenny etait toujours la premiere a provoquer. La courageuse jeune femme animait tout son monde, s’ingeniait a le distraire, discutait des projets sur la valeur desquels elle ne se meprenait guere. Fritz et elle echangeaient leurs pensees, meme sans qu’ils eussent besoin de parler. Le plus souvent, le capitaine Gould et John Block s’entretenaient de l’avenir. Et parfois ils se demandaient si le gisement de l’ilot etait bien tel qu’ils le supposaient dans l’ouest du Pacifique. Le bosseman emettait quelque doute a cet egard.

<<<Est-ce l’arrivee de l’albatros qui te donne a reflechir?… lui demanda un jour le capitaine.

— Je l’avoue, repondit John Block, et ce n’est pas sans quelque raison, je pense.

— Et tu veux en conclure, Block, que cet ilot serait situe plus au nord que nous ne le supposons?…

— Oui, mon capitaine… et qui sait?… a proximite de l’ocean Indien… Un albatros peut plus facilement franchir des centaines de lieues sans se reposer que des milliers…

— Je le sais… repondit Harry Gould, mais je sais aussi que Borupt avait interet a entrainer le Flag vers les mers du Pacifique! De quel cote a souffle le vent pendant les huit jours de notre sequestration, dans la cale, il m’a bien semble, et a toi aussi, que c’etait de l’ouest…

— J’en conviens, repondit le bosseman, et, pourtant, cet albatros… Est-il venu de pres?… Est-il venu de loin?…

— Et quand cela serait, Block, quand nous nous serions trompes sur le gisement de cet ilot, s’il ne se trouvait qu’a quelques lieues de la Nouvelle-Suisse, n’est-ce pas comme s’il en etait a des centaines, puisque nous ne pouvons pas le quitter!>>>

La conclusion du capitaine Gould n’etait, helas! que trop juste. D’ailleurs tout donnait a croire que le Flag avait du se diriger vers les mers du Pacifique, loin, bien loin des parages de la Nouvelle-Suisse. Et pourtant, ce que pensait John Block, d’autres le pensaient egalement. On le repete, il semblait que l’oiseau de la Roche-Fumante eut apporte quelque espoir avec lui.

Inutile de dire que l’oiseau, promptement revenu de ses fatigues, ne se montrait ni craintif ni farouche. L’apprivoiser fut tres aise, et il ne tarda pas a parcourir la greve, se nourrissant de baies de varechs ou de poissons qu’il pechait adroitement, sans manifester aucune envie de s’envoler.

Quelquefois, par exemple, apres s’etre eleve le long du promontoire, il allait se percher sur la crete de la falaise en poussant de petits cris.

<<<Hein! disait alors le bosseman, il nous invite a monter!… Si seulement il pouvait me preter ses ailes, je me chargerais bien de voler jusque-la… et de voir de l’autre cote… Il est vrai, ce cote-la ne vaut probablement pas mieux que celui-ci, mais enfin on serait fixe!…>>>

Fixe!… Ne l’etait-on pas depuis que Fritz n’avait apercu au dela du morne que les memes roches arides, les memes infranchissables hauteurs?

Un des meilleurs amis de l’albatros fut le petit Bob. La camaraderie s’etablit promptement entre l’enfant et l’oiseau. Ils jouaient sur le sable. Pas a craindre de taquineries de la part de l’un, ni coups de bec de la part de l’autre. Lorsqu’il faisait mauvais temps, tous deux rentraient dans la grotte, ou l’albatros avait son coin qu’il occupait chaque soir.

Enfin, sauf cet incident, qui n’autorisait aucune hypothese, rien ne vint tirer le capitaine Gould et ses compagnons de cette monotone existence.

Toutefois la prudence exigeait que l’on songeat serieusement a l’eventualite d’un prochain hivernage. A moins d’une de ces tres heureuses chances auxquelles les naufrages n’etaient pas habitues, ils auraient a subir quatre ou cinq mois de mauvaise saison. A cette latitude, au milieu des mers du Pacifique, les tourmentes se dechainent avec une extraordinaire violence, et peuvent provoquer un serieux abaissement de la temperature.

Le capitaine Gould, Fritz et John Block causaient parfois a ce sujet. Puisqu’ils ne pouvaient ecarter les menaces de l’avenir, mieux valait les regarder en face. Resolus a lutter, ils ne ressentaient plus rien du decouragement qu’avait d’abord provoque la destruction de la chaloupe.

<<<Ah! si la situation n’etait pas aggravee par la presence de ces trois femmes et de cet enfant, repetait Harry Gould, si nous n’etions ici que des hommes…

— Raison de faire plus encore que nous n’aurions fait>>>, repondait Fritz.

En prevision de l’hiver, une grave eventualite se posait: si les froids devenaient rigoureux, s’il fallait entretenir un foyer jour et nuit, le combustible ne viendrait-il pas a manquer?…

Il n’y avait pas lieu de le craindre, du moment que l’on se contentait des varechs, regulierement deposes sur la greve par chaque maree montante et que le soleil sechait vite. Toutefois, comme la combustion de ces plantes marines produisait une acre fumee, on ne pourrait les employer au chauffage de la grotte dont l’atmosphere deviendrait irrespirable. Aussi conviendrait-il d’en fermer l’entree avec les voiles de la chaloupe, et assez solidement pour resister aux rafales qui assaillaient le pied de la falaise pendant la periode hivernale.

Resterait alors la necessite d’eclairer l’interieur, lorsque le temps interdirait les travaux du dehors.

Le bosseman et Francois, aides de Jenny et de Doll, s’occuperent donc a fabriquer un grand nombre de grossieres chandelles avec la graisse des chiens de mer qui frequentaient la crique, et dont la capture n’offrait aucune difficulte.

Ainsi que cela s’etait pratique a Felsenheim, John Block, par la fonte de cette graisse, obtint une sorte d’huile qui devait se coaguler en refroidissant. Comme il n’avait pas a sa disposition le coton que recoltait M. Zermatt, il dut se contenter de la fibre des laminaires marines, lesquelles fournirent des meches utilisables.

En outre, il y avait la question des vetements dont chacun etait peu fourni, et comment les renouveler si le sejour se prolongeait sur cette plage?…

<<<Decidement, dit un jour le bosseman, lorsqu’un naufrage vous jette sur une ile deserte, il est prudent d’avoir a sa disposition un navire dans lequel se trouve tout ce dont on a besoin… Sans cela c’est une mauvaise affaire!>>>

Oui, et c’est bien ce qu’avait ete le Landlord pour les hotes de la Nouvelle-Suisse.

Dans l’apres-midi du 17, un incident, dont personne n’aurait pu prevoir les consequences, causa les plus vives inquietudes.

On sait que Bob trouvait grand plaisir a jouer avec l’albatros. Lorsqu’il s’amusait sur la greve, sa mere ne cessait de le surveiller, afin qu’il ne s’eloignat pas, car il aimait a gravir les basses roches du promontoire comme a courir au-devant des lames. Mais, lorsque l’oiseau et lui restaient dans la grotte, il n’y avait aucun inconvenient a les laisser seuls.

Il etait trois heures environ. James Wolston aidait le bosseman a disposer les espars destines a supporter la portiere de grosse toile qui devait etre tendue devant l’entree. Jenny, Suzan et Doll, assises dans l’angle, pres du fourneau sur lequel bouillonnait la petite chaudiere, travaillaient a reparer leurs vetements.

L’instant approchait ou Bob prenait d’habitude son gouter quotidien.

Aussi Mme Wolston fit-elle quelques pas du cote de la grotte en appelant l’enfant.

Bob ne repondit pas.

Suzan descendit vers la plage et appela d’une voix plus forte, sans obtenir de reponse.

Alors le bosseman de crier:

<<<Bob… Bob!… c’est l’heure de manger!>>>

L’enfant ne parut point, et on ne le voyait pas courir sur la greve.

<<<Il etait ici… pres de nous… il n’y a qu’un moment… affirma James.

— Ou diable peut-il etre?…>>> se demanda John Block en remontant vers le promontoire.

Le capitaine Gould, Fritz et Francois se promenaient alors au pied de la falaise.

Bob n’etait pas avec eux.

Le bosseman, en se faisant un porte-voix de sa main, cria a plusieurs reprises: <<<Bob… Bob!>>>

L’enfant restait invisible.

James rejoignit le capitaine et les deux freres.

<<<Vous n’avez pas vu Bob?… questionna-t-il d’un ton d’extreme inquietude.

— Non, repondit Francois.

— Je l’ai apercu il y a une demi-heure, declara Fritz, et il jouait avec l’albatros…>>>

Et tous de se mettre a l’appeler en se tournant dans tous les sens.

Ce fut inutile.

Aussitot Fritz et James se dirigerent vers le promontoire, dont ils gravirent les premieres roches, et promenerent leurs regards sur toute l’etendue de la crique.

Personne, ni l’enfant, ni l’oiseau.

Tous deux rejoignirent leurs compagnons pres de Jenny, de Doll et de Mme Wolston, pale d’inquietude.

<<<Mais l’avez-vous cherche dans la grotte?…>>> demanda le capitaine Gould.

Bob, en effet, pouvait y etre rentre. Comment n’en etait-il pas sorti depuis qu’on l’appelait?…

Fritz ne fit qu’un bond vers la grotte, en visita tous les coins et reparut sans ramener l’enfant.

Mme Wolston, eperdue, allait et venait comme une folle. Il se pouvait que le petit garcon eut glisse entre les roches, qu’il fut tombe dans la mer… Enfin les plus alarmantes suppositions etaient permises, puisqu’on n’avait pas trouve Bob.

Il fallait donc continuer, sans perdre un instant, les recherches sur la plage et jusqu’a la crique.

<<<Fritz… James… dit le capitaine Gould, venez avec moi et suivons le pied de la falaise… Peut-etre Bob est-il enfoui sous un tas de varechs?…

— Faites, repondit le bosseman, tandis que M. Francois et moi, nous allons visiter la crique…

— Et le promontoire, ajouta Francois. Il est possible que Bob se soit avise d’y grimper et qu’il ait roule dans quelque trou…>>>

On se separa, les uns se dirigeant vers la droite, les autres vers la gauche. Jenny, Doll etaient restees pres de Mme Wolston, dont elles essayaient de calmer les angoisses.

Une demi-heure plus tard, tous etaient de retour apres d’inutiles recherches. Personne sur tout le perimetre de la baie. On n’avait signale aucune trace de l’enfant et les appels n’avaient produit aucun resultat.

Le desespoir de Suzan eclata alors en sanglots. Prise de spasmes qui lui dechiraient la poitrine, il fallut l’emporter, malgre elle, dans la grotte. Son mari, qui l’accompagnait, ne pouvait prononcer une parole.

Au dehors, Fritz disait:

<<<Il n’est pas admissible que cet enfant soit perdu!… Je vous le repete, je l’ai vu sur la greve, il y a une heure a peine, courant, sautant, et non du cote de la mer… Il tenait une corde a la main, avec un galet au bout… L’albatros et lui jouaient ensemble…

— Mais, au fait, ou donc est l’oiseau?… demanda Francois en se retournant.

— Oui… ou est-il?…>>> repeta John Block.

On n’y avait pas prete attention, tout d’abord, et le bosseman dut constater l’absence de l’albatros.

<<<Est-ce qu’ils auraient disparu tous les deux?… fit observer le capitaine Gould.

— On peut le croire>>>, repondit Fritz.

Les regards se portaient en toutes directions et principalement vers les roches, ou l’oiseau avait coutume de se percher…

On ne l’apercut pas, on n’entendit pas son cri, si reconnaissable entre ceux des macreuses, des goelands et des mouettes.

Que l’albatros se fut envole au-dessus de la falaise, qu’il eut gagne quelque autre hauteur de la cote, a cela rien d’impossible, bien qu’il fut si habitue a cette plage, a ceux qui y vivaient, et plus particulierement a Jenny. Dans tous les cas, le petit garcon n’avait pu s’envoler, lui… Tout au plus eut-il ete capable de remonter le long du promontoire a la suite de l’oiseau. D’ailleurs, apres les recherches de Francois et du bosseman, rien ne permettait d’admettre cette explication.

Neanmoins, comment ne pas faire un rapprochement entre la disparition de Bob et celle de l’albatros? D’ordinaire, ils ne se quittaient guere, et voici qu’on ne les revoyait plus!… C’etait au moins tres extraordinaire.

Avec le soir qui s’approchait, devant l’inexprimable douleur du pere et de la mere, a la vue de Suzan, dont les paroles incoherentes faisaient craindre pour sa raison, Jenny, Doll, le capitaine Gould, ses compagnons, ne savaient plus que tenter. A la pensee que, si l’enfant etait tombe dans quelque trou, il allait y rester ainsi toute la nuit, on reprit les recherches. Un feu de goemons fut allume a l’extremite du promontoire afin de guider le petit, en cas qu’il eut gagne le fond de la crique. Apres avoir ete sur pied jusqu’aux dernieres heures de la soiree, il fallut renoncer a l’espoir de retrouver Bob, et y avait-il une chance que le lendemain on fut plus heureux que la veille?…

Tous etaient rentres dans la grotte, non pour y dormir, - l’auraient-ils pu?… Tantot l’un, tantot l’autre ressortait, regardait, pretait l’oreille au milieu des clapotis du ressac, et revenait s’asseoir sans prononcer une parole.

Quelle nuit, la plus douloureuse, la plus desesperante, de toutes celles que le capitaine Gould et les siens eussent passees sur cette cote deserte!

Vers deux heures du matin, le ciel, brillant d’etoiles jusqu’alors, commenca a se voiler. La brise avait saute au nord, et les nuages, venus de cette direction, s’accumulaient dans l’espace. S’ils n’etaient pas tres epais, ils chassaient du moins avec une vitesse croissante, et, assurement, a l’est et a l’ouest de la falaise, la mer devait etre demontee.

C’etait l’heure a laquelle le flot ramenait sur la greve les lames de la maree montante.

A ce moment, Mme Wolston se releva, et, avant qu’on eut pu la retenir, elle s’elanca hors de la grotte, en proie au delire, criant d’une voix effrayante:

<<<Mon enfant… mon enfant!>>>

Il fallut employer la force pour la reconduire. James, qui avait rejoint sa femme, la prit dans ses bras, et la ramena plus morte que vive.

La malheureuse mere resta etendue sur le tas de varechs, ou d’habitude Bob reposait pres d’elle. Jenny et Doll essayerent de la ranimer, mais ce ne fut pas sans grande peine qu’elle reprit ses sens.

Pendant le reste de la nuit le vent ne cessa de raser en rugissant le plateau superieur de la falaise. Vingt fois Fritz, Francois, Harry Gould, le bosseman, explorerent la plage, avec cette crainte que la maree montante ne deposat un petit cadavre sur le sable…

Rien, pourtant, rien!… Est-ce donc que l’enfant avait ete emporte au large par les lames?…

Vers quatre heures, apres l’etale de la mer, alors que le jusant venait de s’etablir, quelques blancheurs se montrerent a l’horizon de l’est.

A ce moment, Fritz, accote contre le fond de la grotte, crut entendre une sorte de cri derriere la paroi. Il preta l’oreille, et, craignant de s’etre trompe, il rejoignit le capitaine.

<<<Suivez-moi…>>> lui dit-il.

Sans savoir ce que voulait Fritz, sans meme le demander, Harry Gould l’accompagna.

<<<Ecoutez…>>> dit Fritz.

Le capitaine Gould tendit l’oreille.

<<<C’est un cri d’oiseau que j’entends… dit-il.

— Oui!… un cri d’oiseau!… affirma Fritz.

— Il existe donc une cavite derriere la paroi…

— Sans doute, et peut-etre quelque couloir qui communique avec le dehors… car comment expliquer?…

— Vous avez raison, Fritz.>>>

John Block, qui venait de s’approcher, apprit ce qui en etait. Apres avoir applique son oreille contre la paroi, il declara:

<<<C’est le cri de l’albatros… je le reconnais…

— Et si l’albatros est la… dit Fritz, le petit Bob doit y etre aussi…

— Mais par ou auraient-ils pu s’introduire tous deux?… demanda le capitaine.

— Ca… nous le saurons!>>> repliqua John Block.

Francois, Jenny, Doll furent aussitot mis au courant. James et sa femme reprirent un peu d’espoir.

<<<Il est la… il est la!…>>> repetait Suzan.

John Block avait allume une des grosses chandelles. Que l’albatros fut derriere cette paroi, on ne pouvait le mettre en doute, puisque son cri continuait de se faire entendre.

Toutefois, avant de rechercher s’il ne s’etait pas glisse par quelque issue exterieure, il convenait de bien constater que la paroi du fond ne presentait pas un orifice.

La chandelle a la main, le bosseman vint examiner l’etat de cette paroi.

John Block n’observa a sa surface que quelques fissures trop etroites pour que l’albatros et, a plus forte raison, Bob eussent pu y passer. Il est vrai, a sa partie inferieure, un trou d’un diametre de vingt a vingt-cinq pouces etait creuse dans le sol, et, par consequent, assez large pour avoir livre passage a l’oiseau et a l’enfant.

Cependant, le cri de l’albatros ayant cesse, tous eurent cette apprehension que le capitaine Gould, le bosseman, Fritz avaient du faire erreur.

Jenny prit alors la place de John Block et, se baissant au ras du trou, appela plusieurs fois l’oiseau, qui etait habitue a sa voix comme a ses caresses.

Un cri lui repondit, et, presque aussitot, l’albatros sortit par le trou.

<<<Bob… Bob!>>> repeta Jenny.

L’enfant ne repondit ni ne parut… N’etait-il donc pas avec l’oiseau derriere la paroi?… Sa mere ne put retenir un cri de desespoir…

<<<Attendez…>>>, dit le bosseman.

Il s’accroupit, il agrandit le trou en rejetant le sable derriere lui. Quelques minutes suffirent a lui donner une dimension assez grande pour qu’il put s’y introduire…

Une minute apres, il rapportait le petit Bob evanoui, qui ne tarda pas a reprendre connaissance sous les baisers de sa mere.

CHAPITRE XXV

La seconde grotte. - Espoir decu. - La chandelle de Fritz. - A travers le massif. - Plusieurs haltes. - Le plateau superieur. - Rien au sud, ni a l’est, ni

a l’ouest. - Au moment de redescendre…

Le la terrible secousse qu’elle venait d’eprouver, Mme Wolston allait etre quelque temps a se remettre. Mais enfin Bob lui etait rendu, et est-il meilleur remede aux souffrances d’une mere que les caresses de son enfant!

Ce qui s’etait passe, on le devine. En jouant avec l’albatros, Bob le suivit au fond de la grotte. L’oiseau s’etant engage a travers cet etroit couloir, Bob y penetra apres lui. Au dela s’ouvrait une assez sombre excavation, de laquelle, lorsqu’il le voulut, le petit ne parvint pas a ressortir. Tout d’abord, il appela… Ses appels ne furent point entendus… Il perdit connaissance, et on ne sait trop ce qui serait arrive, si, par la plus heureuse des chances, le cri de l’albatros n’eut frappe l’oreille de Fritz.

<<<Eh bien, dit le bosseman, maintenant que Bob est dans les bras de sa maman, tout est pour le mieux… C’est grace a lui que nous avons decouvert une seconde grotte… Il est vrai, nous n’en avons que faire… La premiere nous suffisait, et meme nous ne demandons qu’a en deloger…

— Cependant, fit observer Harry Gould, je tiens a savoir si elle ne se prolonge pas…

— Jusqu’a l’autre cote de la falaise, mon capitaine?…

— Qui sait, Block?…

— Soit, repondit le bosseman. Mais, en admettant qu’elle traverse le massif, que trouverions-nous au dela?… Du sable, des roches, des criques, des promontoires, et pas grand comme mon chapeau de terre vegetale pu de verdure…

— C’est probable, declara Fritz. Neanmoins, il est indispensable de voir…

— On verra, monsieur Fritz, on verra, et, ainsi qu’on dit, la vue n’en coutera rien!>>>

Or, de cet examen pouvaient resulter de precieuses consequences, il y avait donc lieu de proceder sans retard, et la reconnaissance commenca a l’instant meme.

Le capitaine, Fritz, Francois retournerent au fond de la grotte. Le bosseman, qui s’etait muni de plusieurs grosses chandelles, marchait derriere eux. Afin de faciliter le passage, les premiers agrandirent l’ouverture en retirant encore quelques-unes des pierres qui s’etaient eboulees.

Il ne fallut pas plus d’un quart d’heure pour que l’orifice fut juge suffisant. D’ailleurs, ni Harry Gould ni ses compagnons n’avaient precisement engraisse depuis leur debarquement sur l’ilot. Trois mois de cette penible existence, ce n’etait pas fait pour les pousser a l’embonpoint, a moins que la nature ne les eut disposes, a l’exemple du bosseman, en depit de toutes les miseres, a gagner quelques livres depuis qu’il avait quitte le Flag…

Lorsque tous eurent franchi l’ouverture, les chandelles donnerent assez de lumiere pour permettre d’examiner cette seconde excavation.

Elle etait plus profonde que la premiere, de beaucoup moins large, mais longue d’une centaine de pieds. A proprement parler, c’etait plutot une sorte de couloir d’un diametre de dix a douze pieds et de hauteur a peu pres egale. Peut-etre d’autres, embranches sur celui-ci, formaient-ils a l’interieur du massif une sorte de labyrinthe dont les branches se ramifiaient en diverses directions. Et, alors, - ainsi l’avait pense Harry Gould, - pourquoi une de ces branches ne conduirait-elle pas, sinon au plateau superieur, du moins a l’une des autres faces laterales de la falaise, au dela soit du morne, soit du contrefort?… Et, comme le capitaine Gould insistait de nouveau sur cette circonstance:

<<<C’est possible, apres tout, repondit John Block, et ce que nous n’avons pu faire a l’exterieur, qui sait si par l’interieur nous n’atteindrons pas le plateau?…>>>

Lorsqu’ils se furent avances d’une cinquantaine de pas a travers ce couloir qui se retrecissait peu a peu, le capitaine Gould, le bosseman, Fritz atteignirent une paroi rocheuse devant laquelle ils durent s’arreter.

Apres avoir promene la lumiere a sa surface depuis le sol jusqu’a la voute, John Block ne rencontra que d’etroites fissures entre lesquelles la main n’aurait pu se glisser. Donc tout espoir s’effacait de s’enfoncer plus profondement a travers le massif.

Quant aux parois laterales du couloir, elles ne presentaient aucun orifice sur toute leur longueur. Cette seconde excavation au dela de la premiere grotte, telle etait la seule decouverte qui resultait de cet incident.

<<<Allons, dit Harry Gould, ce n’est pas encore par la que nous franchirons la falaise…

— Ni que nous monterons dessus!>>> ajouta le bosseman.

Ceci constate, il ne restait plus qu’a revenir.

En somme, s’il y avait eu deception sur le point de rencontrer un passage interieur, personne n’avait pu croire serieusement que ce fut possible.

Et, cependant, quand le capitaine Gould, John Block, Fritz furent revenus, il leur sembla qu’ils etaient plus enfermes que jamais sur cette greve!

Les jours suivants, le temps, qui avait ete tres beau jusqu’alors, indiqua quelque tendance a se modifier. Le ciel s’obscurcit de nuages assez legers qui ne tarderent pas a s’epaissir. Cette fois, c’est par-dessus le plateau superieur que les poussait une brise du nord, qui, dans la soiree du 22 janvier, s’accentua et souffla en grand frais.

Cette direction ne donnait rien a craindre pour la baie des Tortues. Sous l’abri de la falaise, elle ne serait point exposee aux coups de houle, comme a l’epoque de cette furieuse tempete qui avait occasionne la perte de la chaloupe. La mer demeurerait calme le long du rivage, elle ne ressentirait les poussees du vent qu’a une grande demi-lieue au large, et il n’y aurait rien a en redouter, lors meme qu’il se dechainerait un ouragan.

Un fort orage se declara dans la nuit du 22 au 23. Vers une heure du matin, tous furent brusquement reveilles par un coup de tonnerre tel qu’une piece d’artillerie, tiree a l’entree de la grotte, ne l’eut pas emplie d’un fracas plus formidable.

Fritz, Francois, le bosseman, sautant hors de leurs reduits, se precipiterent vers l’entree.

<<<La foudre est tombee pres d’ici… dit Francois.

— Sur la crete, sans doute>>>, repondit John Block, en s’avancant de quelques pas a l’exterieur.

Suzan et Doll, toujours tres impressionnees pendant ces orages qui affectent si profondement les personnes nerveuses, avaient suivi Jenny hors de la grotte.

<<<Eh bien?… demanda Doll.

— Il n’y a aucun danger, ma chere Doll, repondit Francois. Rentrez et fermez les yeux et les oreilles…>>>

Mais, en ce moment, Jenny de dire a son mari qu’elle venait de rejoindre:

<<<Comme cela sent la fumee, Fritz…

— Eh! ce n’est pas etonnant… Il y a le feu… la-bas… s’ecria le bosseman.

— Ou?… demanda le capitaine Gould.

— A ce tas de varechs, qui est au pied de la falaise.>>>

En effet, l’eclair avait enflamme cet amoncellement d’herbes seches. Quelques instants suffirent pour que l’incendie se communiquat a la masse des plantes marines accumulees a la base du massif. Elles brulerent comme de la paille, petillant au souffle de la brise, tourbillonnant en feux follets, repandant une acre fumee sur toute l’etendue de la plage.

Heureusement, l’entree de la grotte etait degagee et le feu ne pouvait l’atteindre.

<<<Voila notre reserve qui brule!… s’ecria John Block.

— N’en peut-on rien sauver?… dit Fritz.

— C’est impossible>>>, repondit le capitaine Gould.

Et les flammes se propageaient avec une telle rapidite qu’elles n’eussent pas permis de faire la part du feu, de mettre en surete ces amas qui formaient l’unique combustible des naufrages.

Certes, les apports de la mer etaient inepuisables. Il en reviendrait de ces goemons, de ces laminaires, mais que de temps il faudrait pour en reunir une telle quantite! La maree montante n’en deposait que quelques brassees, deux fois par vingt-quatre heures. Ce qu’il y avait sur la plage, c’etait l’oeuvre de nombreuses annees. Et qui sait si, pendant les quelques semaines precedant la mauvaise saison, le flot en aurait ramene assez pour les besoins de l’hivernage?…

Or, en moins d’un quart d’heure, la ligne de feu eut cerne le pourtour de la greve, et, sauf quelques tas le long du promontoire, il ne resta plus rien.

Ce nouveau coup de la mauvaise fortune aggravait la situation deja si inquietante.

<<<Decidement… ca ne va pas!>>>

Et dans la bouche du bosseman, si confiant d’habitude, ces mots prenaient une exceptionnelle valeur.

Mais les murailles de cette prison ne s’ecrouleraient donc pas pour permettre aux prisonniers de s’enfuir!…

Le lendemain, 23 janvier, le temps, bien qu’il ne fut plus orageux, resta trouble, et le vent du nord continua de balayer violemment le plateau.

La premiere occupation fut de reconnaitre si les herbes marines, entassees le long du contrefort, avaient ete respectees par l’incendie. Oui, en partie. Aussi John Block, Fritz, Francois et James se mirent-ils a la besogne, et en rapporterent plusieurs brassees qui suffiraient durant une semaine, sans compter sur ce que les marees apporteraient quotidiennement.

Il est vrai, tant que le vent soufflerait du nord, ces masses flottantes seraient repoussees au large.

Des qu’il reviendrait au sud, la recolte s’effectuerait avec plus d’abondance.

Toutefois, le capitaine Gould fit observer qu’il y aurait certaines mesures a prendre pour l’avenir.

<<<Vous avez raison, mon capitaine, repondit John Block. et il conviendrait de mettre a l’abri ce qui reste de varechs… en prevision d’un hivernage…

— Et, ajouta Fritz, pourquoi ne pas l’emmagasiner dans la seconde grotte que nous venons de decouvrir?…>>>

Cela etait tout indique, et, ce jour-la, avant midi, Fritz voulut y retourner afin de mieux en reconnaitre la disposition interieure. Muni d’une chandelle, il franchit l’etroite ouverture qui mettait en communication les deux grottes. Qui sait si la seconde n’avait pas quelque sortie au dela du massif?…

Or, il arriva qu’au moment ou il atteignait l’extremite du long couloir, Fritz sentit un souffle plus frais, en meme temps que son oreille percevait un sifflement continu.

<<<Le vent… murmura-t-il, c’est le vent!…>>>

Il approcha son front de la paroi, et sa main y rencontra quelques fissures.

<<<Le vent, repetait-il… c’est bien le vent!… Il vient jusqu’ici lorsqu’il souffle du nord!… Il existe donc un passage, soit sur le flanc, soit sur le sommet de la falaise!… Mais alors, de ce cote, il y aurait une communication avec le revers septentrional?…>>>

A cet instant, la chandelle, que Fritz promenait le long de la paroi, s’eteignit brusquement sous un souffle plus vif qui traversait l’une des fissures.

Fritz n’en demanda pas davantage, sa conviction etait faite. En franchissant cette paroi, on aurait libre acces au dehors.

Revenir a tatons vers la caverne ou tous l’attendaient, leur faire part de sa decouverte, les ramener avec lui, s’assurer qu’il n’avait point fait erreur, cela n’exigea pas une minute.

Quelques instants apres, Fritz, le capitaine Gould a sa suite, John Block, Francois, James passaient de la premiere cavite dans la seconde, en s’eclairant de plusieurs chandelles que l’on prit la precaution, cette fois, de ne pas approcher trop pres de la paroi du fond.

Fritz ne s’etait point trompe. Un souffle frais courait a travers le couloir.

Alors, le bosseman, projetant la lumiere au ras du sol, observa que le couloir n’etait ferme que par un amas de pierres, tombees sans doute le long d’une sorte de puits naturel.

<<<La porte… s’ecria-t-il, voila la porte!… Et pas besoin de clef pour l’ouvrir!… Ah! mon capitaine, c’est vous qui aviez raison contre nous…

— A la besogne… a la besogne!…>>> se contenta de repondre Harry Gould.

Il fut facile de degager le passage, obstrue de pierres. On se les passa de main en main en assez grande quantite, car le tas s’elevait de cinq ou six pieds au-dessus du sol. A mesure que s’avancait le travail, le courant d’air s’accentuait davantage. Assurement, il existait une sorte de gorge creusee a l’interieur du massif.

Un quart d’heure suffit a desobstruer totalement le passage.

Fritz le franchit le premier, et, suivi de ses compagnons, il remonta pendant dix a douze pas une pente tres raide, eclairee d’un jour vague.

Il n’y avait point la de puits vertical. A ciel ouvert, entre deux murailles dont les parements se perdaient a une grande hauteur, sinuait une gorge large de cinq a six pieds, au-dessus de laquelle plafonnait une bande de ciel. C’est le long de cette gorge que s’engouffrait le vent qui se glissait a travers les fissures de la paroi au fond du couloir.

Ainsi donc la falaise etait fendue sur toute son epaisseur… Mais ou aboutissait cette fente?…

On ne le saurait qu’apres l’avoir parcourue jusqu’a son extremite, en admettant que cela fut possible.

Inutile d’insister sur l’impression que causa cette decouverte. Tous etaient la comme des prisonniers devant lesquels venait de s’ouvrir la porte de leur prison!

Il etait a peine huit heures du matin alors et le temps ne manquerait pas. Il ne fut pas meme question d’envoyer en avant soit Fritz, soit le bosseman. Chacun voulut remonter le passage sans perdre un instant.

<<<Au moins, fit observer Jenny, emportons quelques vivres… Qui sait si notre absence ne se prolongera pas?…

— Et d’ailleurs, dit Francois, savons-nous ou nous allons?…

— Dehors…>>> repliqua le bosseman.

Et ce simple mot, qui exprimait si bien le sentiment general, repondait a tout.

Cependant le capitaine Gould exigea que l’on prit le premier repas prealablement, et, en prevision de retard, on se munirait de provisions pour plusieurs jours.

Ce dejeuner fut rapidement expedie. On mettait les morceaux doubles, on parlait a peine afin de manger plus vite. Apres quatre mois passes au fond de cette baie, comment Harry Gould et ses compagnons n’auraient-ils pas eu hate de savoir si leur situation etait amelioree, et peut-etre modifiee du tout au tout!…

D’ailleurs, il serait toujours temps de revenir, si le plateau superieur etait aussi aride que le littoral, s’il ne se pretait pas a une installation de quelque duree, si de son plus haut sommet on n’apercevait aucune terre dans le voisinage. Si les abandonnes du Flag avaient atterri sur un ilot ou sur une ile, ils regagneraient la grotte, et prendraient des dispositions en vue de l’hivernage.

Sans doute, avant de remonter cette gorge, qui aboutissait on ne savait ou, il eut ete plus raisonnable de laisser Harry Gould, Fritz, le bosseman, reconnaitre si elle avait une issue praticable soit sur le plateau ou sur les flancs de la falaise. Mais, on le repete, personne n’y eut consenti. Un secret pressentiment les poussait tous a cette tentative. Jenny, Doll, Suzan Wolston n’etaient pas les moins ardentes; puisqu’il n’y avait aucun inconvenient a partir ensemble, on ne discuta meme pas a ce sujet.

Le repas acheve, les hommes se chargerent de quelques provisions. La premiere grotte fut abandonnee, et, suivis de l’albatros qui marchait pres de Jenny, tous franchirent l’orifice du couloir.

Arrives a l’entree de la gorge, Fritz, Francois passerent d’abord. Apres eux vinrent Jenny, Doll, Suzan tenant le petit Bob par la main.

Le capitaine Gould et James suivirent, tandis que John Block fermait la marche.

A sa naissance, la gorge etait assez resserree pour qu’il y eut necessite d’aller en file. Si elle s’elargissait plus haut ou plus loin, on irait par deux ou trois.

En realite, il n’y avait la qu’une fente du massif, se dirigeant vers le nord, entre deux parois verticales qui montaient a huit ou neuf cents pieds.

Au-dela d’une centaine de pas presque en droite ligne, le sol presenta une pente assez accusee. Dans ces conditions, l’ascension ne serait pas tres penible. Il est vrai, le chemin serait allonge, car, en admettant qu’il aboutit au plateau, il aurait du racheter cette difference de quatre-vingts toises environ qui existait entre le niveau de la greve et la partie superieure de la falaise. En outre, ce qui ne tarda pas a accroitre sensiblement le trajet, ce furent les sinuosites. On eut dit les brusques et capricieux detours d’un labyrinthe a l’interieur du massif. Toutefois, d’apres la lumiere qui se propageait d’en haut, Harry Gould avait lieu de croire que la direction generale de la gorge etait du sud au nord. Quant a ses parements lateraux, ils s’ecartaient peu a peu, - ce qui rendait la marche plus facile.

Vers dix heures, il y eut necessite de faire halte afin que chacun put reprendre haleine. On s’arreta dans une sorte d’evasement semi-circulaire, au-dessus duquel apparaissait une plus large tranche du ciel.

Harry Gould estimait a deux centaines de pieds seulement l’altitude de cet endroit au-dessus du niveau de la mer.

<<<A ce compte-la, fit-il observer, il faudra de cinq a six heures pour gagner le plateau…

— Eh bien, repondit Fritz, il sera grand jour encore lorsque nous y arriverons, et, au besoin, nous aurons le temps de redescendre avant la nuit.

— Vous avez raison, Fritz, repliqua Harry Gould, mais sommes-nous assures que cette gorge ne s’allongera pas par de nombreux detours?…

— Et qu’elle donne acces sur la falaise?… ajouta Francois.

— Que ce soit au sommet ou sur les cotes de la falaise, repartit le bosseman, acceptons les choses comme elles viennent!… En haut si c’est en haut, en bas si c’est en bas, peu importe, apres tout!>>>

Assurement, mais quelle deception et de quel decouragement elle serait suivie, si, ferme par un obstacle infranchissable, le passage n’offrait pas d’issue au dehors…

Apres une demi-heure de repos, on se remit en marche. La gorge, de plus en plus sinueuse, qui mesurait alors de dix a douze pieds de large, etait tapissee d’un sol sablonneux, seme de petites pierres, sans aucune trace de vegetation. Une reflexion venait alors a l’esprit, c’est que le sommet devait etre aride, car quelque graine, quelque germe, entraines par les pluies, eussent vegete, et rien… pas meme une touffe de lichen ou de mousse!

Vers deux heures de l’apres-midi une seconde halte s’imposa, non seulement pour le repos, mais aussi pour le reconfort. Chacun s’assit au fond d’une sorte de clairiere dont les parois s’evasaient et au-dessus de laquelle passait le soleil en declinant vers l’ouest. A l’estime, la hauteur atteinte devait etre alors de sept a huit cents pieds depuis le depart, d’ou cet espoir que l’on pourrait atteindre le plateau superieur.

Lorsque le repas fut termine, Fritz dit:

<<<Ma Jenny, je te demande de rester ici avec Mme Wolston et Doll… Francois voudra bien demeurer avec vous… Le capitaine Gould, John Block et moi, nous essayerons d’arriver au sommet de la falaise… Il n’y a pas a craindre de s’egarer… Nous vous retrouverons a cette place… Ce sera vous epargner des fatigues peut-etre inutiles…>>>

Mais Jenny, qui fut appuyee par Doll et Suzan, pria si instamment son mari, qu’il dut retirer sa proposition, bien que Harry Gould l’eut approuvee.

A trois heures, le cheminement fut repris, et, des le debut, il y eut lieu de reconnaitre que les difficultes devenaient de plus en plus grandes. Pente tres raide, sol jonche d’eboulis qui rendaient l’ascension tres penible, pierres qui glissaient en rebondissant, Harry Gould et Fritz prenaient d’extremes precautions, maintenant que la gorge, largement ouverte, formait un ravin dont les talus se haussaient encore a deux ou trois cents pieds. Il fallait s’aider les uns les autres, se tirer par les bras. D’ailleurs, tout donnait a croire que le plateau serait atteint. Voici meme que l’albatros, deployant ses ailes, s’eleva d’un bond comme pour inviter a le suivre… Et que ne pouvait-on l’accompagner dans son vol!…

Enfin, apres des efforts inouis, un peu avant cinq heures, tous etaient sur la falaise.

Rien en vue ni vers le sud, ni vers l’est, ni vers l’ouest… Rien que la vaste mer!…

En s’etendant au nord, je plateau developpait une etendue qu’il etait impossible d’estimer, car on n’en voyait pas l’arete terminale. De ce cote presentait-il quelque paroi a pic, dressee face au large?… Faudrait-il aller jusqu’a son extremite pour retrouver l’horizon de mer?…

En somme, c’etait une deception pour ceux qui esperaient mettre le pied sur une region fertile, verdoyante, boisee! Meme aridite, meme desolation qu’a la baie des Tortues, qui etait moins triste, sinon moins sterile, puisque des mousses la tapissaient ca et la, et les plantes marines ne manquaient pas a sa marge sablonneuse. Puis, lorsque l’on se retournait vers le levant ou le couchant, en vain cherchait-on les lineaments d’un continent ou d’une ile. Tout indiquait un ilot isole au milieu de ces parages.

Il est vrai, puisque la mer n’apparaissait pas en direction du nord, c’est que le plateau se developpait sur une distance de plusieurs lieues… Et cette distance, il serait necessaire de la franchir pour se retrouver en vue du large en cette direction.

Pas une parole ne fut prononcee ni par le capitaine Gould ni par ses compagnons devant cet aneantissement de leur derniere esperance. Ces affreuses solitudes n’offrant aucune ressource, il n’y avait plus qu’a reprendre la route du ravin, regagner cette greve, reintegrer la grotte, s’y installer durant les longs mois d’un hivernage, et n’attendre le salut que du dehors!…

Il etait cinq heures alors, et avant que le soir n’obscurcit l’espace, il n’y avait pas de temps a perdre. Sans doute, on mettrait moins de temps a redescendre qu’on n’en avait mis a monter, mais, au milieu de l’ombre, le cheminement ne serait pas facile.

Cependant, puisqu’il restait a reconnaitre la partie septentrionale du plateau, convenait-il de le faire pendant qu’il faisait jour encore?… Devait-on meme y camper la nuit entre les quartiers de roches disperses a sa surface?… Cela n’eut pas ete prudent… Si le temps venait a changer, ou trouver un abri?… La sagesse exigeait que l’on revint sans retard.

C’est alors que Fritz fit cette proposition:

<<<Chere Jenny, dit-il, que Francois te ramene a la grotte avec Doll, Mme Wolston et le petit… Vous ne pouvez passer la nuit sur la falaise… Le capitaine Gould, John Block et moi, nous y resterons, et demain, des qu’il fera jour, nous en acheverons la reconnaissance…>>>

Jenny ne repondit pas, tandis que Suzan et Doll semblaient la consulter du regard.

<<<Ce que Fritz propose est prudent, ajouta Francois, et d’ailleurs que pouvons-nous esperer en nous attardant ici?…>>>

Jenny continuait a garder le silence, observant cette immense mer qui se deployait sur les trois quarts de l’horizon, cherchant peut-etre un navire en vue, se disant qu’un feu allait peut-etre briller au large…

Deja le soleil declinait rapidement entre les nuages que le vent chassait du nord, et il y aurait au moins deux heures de marche au milieu d’une profonde obscurite pour atteindre la baie des Tortues…

Fritz reprit:

<<<Jenny, je t’en prie… va!… La journee de demain nous suffira sans doute… Nous serons de retour pour le soir… et s’il y a lieu de revenir… nous reviendrons…>>>

Jenny porta une derniere fois ses regards autour d’elle. Tous etaient leves, prets a partir. Quant au fidele albatros, il voltigeait de roche en roche, alors que les autres oiseaux, mouettes, goelands, macreuses, regagnaient, en poussant leurs derniers cris, les trous de la falaise.

La jeune femme comprenait bien qu’il fallait suivre le conseil de son mari, et, non sans regret:

<<<Partons… dit-elle.

— Partons>>>, dit Francois.

Soudain, le bosseman se releva d’un bond, et, faisant de sa main un cornet, il tendit l’oreille dans la direction du nord.

Une detonation, tres assourdie par la distance, venait de se faire entendre.

<<<Un coup de canon!>>> s’ecria John Block.

CHAPITRE XXVIII

Depart pour Falkenhorst. - Le canal. - Inquietudes. - La cour devastee.

— La demeure aerienne. - A la cime de l’arbre. - Desespoir. - Une fumee au-dessus de Felsenheim. - Alerte!

Le lendemain, des sept heures, apres un premier repas compose des restes de la veille, sans compter le coup du depart, - un verre de vin de palme, - Fritz et ses compagnons quitterent l’ermitage d’Eberfurt.

Tres impatients, ils se proposaient d’enlever en moins de trois heures les trois lieues qui separaient la metairie de Falkenhorst.

C’etait en effet vers Falkenhorst que Fritz avait, non sans raison, resolu de se diriger.

Il existait bien une seconde route, celle qui rejoignait la ferme de Waldegg a la pointe du lac des Cygnes, mais elle eut quelque peu allonge l’etape. Le plus court etait de marcher en droite ligne sur Falkenhorst, d’ou l’on redescendrait a Felsenheim en suivant la belle avenue qui longeait le rivage jusqu’a l’embouchure du ruisseau des Chacals.

<<<Il est possible, fit observer Fritz, que nos familles soient actuellement installees dans leur demeure aerienne…

— Et si cela est, mon ami, ajouta Jenny, nous aurons la joie de les embrasser une grande heure plus tot…

— Et peut-etre davantage, repondit Doll, si nous avons la bonne chance de les rencontrer en route!

— Pourvu qu’elles ne soient pas en villegiature a Prospect-Hill! observa Francois. Nous serions alors obliges de remonter jusqu’au cap de l’Espoir-Trompe…

— N’est-ce pas ce cap, demanda le capitaine Gould, d’ou M. Zermatt doit guetter l’arrivee de la Licorne!…

— C’est bien de la, capitaine, repondit Fritz, et, comme la corvette a sans doute acheve ses reparations, elle ne peut tarder a etre en vue de l’ile.

— Quoi qu’il en soit, dit le bosseman, ce qu’il y a de mieux a faire, je pense, c’est de partir… S’il n’y a personne a Falkenhorst, nous irons a Felsenheim, et s’il n’y a personne a Felsenheim, nous irons a Prospect-Hill ou ailleurs… Mais, en route!>>>

Si les ustensiles de cuisine, si les outils de culture ne manquaient pas a l’ermitage d’Eberfurt, Fritz y avait inutilement cherche des armes et des munitions de chasse. Lorsque son pere et ses freres venaient a la metairie, ils emportaient leurs fusils, mais, par prudence, ne les y laissaient jamais. D’ailleurs, a traverser le district de la Terre-Promise, du moment que tigres, lions, pantheres, ne pouvaient franchir le defile de Cluse, il n’y aurait rien a craindre. Assurement, le voyage offrait plus de dangers entre le pic Jean-Zermatt et la vallee de Grunthal.

Un sentier carrossable, - et que de fois deja le chariot attele des buffles et de l’onagre l’avait aplani! - se dessinait entre les champs cultives en pleine vegetation et les massifs en pleine verdure. Toute cette prosperite rejouissait le regard. Le capitaine Gould et le bosseman, James et Suzan Wolston qui entrevoyaient pour la premiere fois cette region, etaient emerveilles. Oui! les colons pouvaient y venir, elle suffirait a en nourrir plusieurs centaines, comme l’ile plusieurs milliers!

Apres une heure et demie de marche, presque a mi-chemin de l’ermitage d’Eberfurt a Falkenhorst, Fritz fit halte quelques instants devant un rio dont il ne connaissait pas l’existence en cette partie du district.

<<<Voila du nouveau… dit-il.

— Assurement, repondit Jenny, et je ne me rappelle pas qu’il y eut un cours d’eau en cet endroit…

— Ce rio ressemble plutot a un canal!>>> fit observer le capitaine Gould.

C’etait, en effet, un canal creuse de main d’homme.

<<<Vous avez raison, capitaine, declara Fritz. M. Wolston aura eu la pensee de deriver les eaux du ruisseau des Chacals afin d’alimenter le lac des Cygnes et maintenir son etiage pendant la saison chaude, ce qui permet d’arroser les alentours de Waldegg…>>>

Fritz ne se trompait pas, on le sait.

<<<Oui, continua Francois, ce doit etre votre pere… votre pere, ma chere Doll, qui a eu cette idee-la et l’a mise a execution…>>>

Francois ne se trompait pas non plus.

<<<Oh! fit Doll, je pense que votre frere Ernest doit y etre pour quelque chose!

— Sans doute… notre savant Ernest… ajouta Fritz.

— Et pourquoi pas l’intrepide Jack… et aussi M. Zermatt?… demanda le capitaine Gould.

— Alors toute la famille!… dit en riant Jenny.

— Oui… les deux familles, qui maintenant n’en font plus qu’une!>>> repondit Fritz.

Le bosseman intervint, suivant sa coutume, par une observation des plus justes:

<<<Si celui ou ceux qui ont etabli ce canal, repliqua-t-il, ont bien fait, celui ou ceux qui ont permis de le traverser en y jetant un ponceau meritent tout autant d’eloges… Passons donc et continuons notre route.>>>

Le ponceau franchi, on s’engagea sur la partie plus boisee, d’ou sourdait le petit rio qui se deversait pres de Falkenhorst, un peu au-dessous de l’ilot de la Baleine.

Pour etre veridique, il convient de noter que Fritz et Francois, l’oreille tendue, cherchaient a percevoir quelque lointain aboiement ou quelque coup de fusil. Que faisait donc Jack, l’enrage chasseur, s’il ne chassait pas pendant cette belle matinee?… Precisement, le gibier se levait en toutes les directions, fuyait a travers les fourres, se dispersait d’arbres en arbres… Si les deux freres avaient eu des fusils, ils auraient fait coup double a maintes reprises. Il leur semblait que le poil et la plume n’avaient jamais ete plus abondants dans le district, a ce point que leurs compagnons en temoignaient une veritable surprise.

Mais, sauf le pepiement des petits oiseaux, le cri des perdrix et des outardes, le jacassement des perruches, parfois aussi le hurlement des chacals, c’etait tout ce qu’on entendait, sans qu’il s’y melat jamais ni la detonation d’une arme a feu ni la voix d’un chien en quete.

Il est vrai, Falkenhorst se trouvait encore eloigne d’une bonne lieue, et il se pouvait que les familles fussent encore installees a Felsenheim.

Enfin, au dela du ruisseau de Falkenhorst, il n’y eut qu’a en suivre la rive droite jusqu’a la lisiere du bois, a l’extremite duquel s’elevait le gigantesque manglier dont les basses branches supportaient la demeure aerienne. Une demi-heure suffirait a traverser ce bois dans sa longueur.

Tres probablement, ni M. et Mme Zermatt, ni Ernest et Jack, ni M. Wolston, ni sa femme, ni sa fille ne devaient etre a Falkenhorst. Il semblait impossible que leur presence ne fut pas signalee deja. Turc, Falb, Braun n’auraient-ils pas senti leurs jeunes maitres?… N’eussent-ils pas annonce par de joyeux aboiements le retour des absents?…

Un profond silence regnait sous ces grands arbres, - un silence qui ne laissait pas de causer une vague inquietude. Lorsque Fritz regardait Jenny, il lisait dans ses yeux un sentiment d’anxiete que rien ne justifiait cependant. Francois, en proie a une certaine nervosite, allait en avant, revenait sur ses pas. Cette sorte de malaise moral etait ressentie de chacun. Dans dix minutes, on serait a Falkenhorst… Dix minutes?… N’etait-ce pas comme si on y etait arrive?…

<<<Bien sur, declara le bosseman, qui voulut reagir contre ce trouble des esprits, bien sur, nous serons obliges de redescendre par votre belle allee jusqu’a Felsenheim!… Un retard d’une heure, voila tout… Et qu’est-ce-la, apres une si longue absence?…>>>

On pressa le pas. Quelques instants plus tard, apparurent la lisiere du bois, puis le gigantesque manglier au milieu de la cour, fermee de palissades, que bordait une haie vive.

Fritz et Francois coururent vers la porte menagee dans la baie…

Cette porte etait ouverte, et il fut meme constate qu’elle avait ete a demi arrachee de ses gonds.

Les deux freres penetrerent dans la cour et s’arreterent pres du petit bassin central…

L’habitation etait deserte.

De la basse-cour et des etables etablies contre la palissade ne s’echappait aucun bruit, bien que d’ordinaire vaches, moutons, volaille en fussent les hotes pendant la saison d’ete. Sous les hangars, divers objets, caisses, paniers, instruments de culture, etaient dans un desordre qui contrastait avec les habitudes soigneuses de Mme Zermatt, de Mme Wolston et de sa fille.

Francois courut aux etables…

Elles ne contenaient que quelques brassees d’herbes seches dans les rateliers…

Est-ce donc que les animaux avaient force les portes de la cloture?… Erraient-ils a travers la campagne?… Non… puisqu’on n’en avait pas vu un seul aux environs de Falkenhorst… Il se pouvait, apres tout, que, pour une raison ou pour une autre, ils eussent ete parques dans les autres fermes, et cependant, cela ne s’expliquait guere…

On le sait, la metairie de Falkenhorst comprenait deux habitations, l’une disposee entre les branches du manglier, l’autre entre les racines qui s’arc-boutaient a sa base. Au-dessus de celle-ci, construite en cannes de bambous qui soutenaient la toiture en mousse goudronnee, regnait une terrasse avec garde-fou. Cette terrasse recouvrait plusieurs chambres separees par des cloisons fixees aux racines, et assez vastes pour que les deux familles pussent s’y loger ensemble.

Cette premiere habitation etait aussi silencieuse que les annexes de la cour.

<<<Entrons!>>> dit Fritz d’une voie alteree.

Tous le suivirent, et un cri leur echappa, - car ils n’auraient pu prononcer une parole…

Le mobilier etait bouleverse, les chaises et les tables renversees, les coffres ouverts, la literie gisant sur le plancher, les ustensiles jetes dans les coins. On eut dit que les chambres avaient ete livrees au pillage et pour le plaisir de piller. Des reserves de vivres, tenues ordinairement au complet a Falkenhorst, il ne restait rien. Dans le fenil, plus de foin; dans le cellier, vides les barils de vin, de biere et de liqueurs. Pas une arme, si ce n’est un pistolet charge que le bosseman ramassa et mit a sa ceinture. D’ordinaire, pourtant, carabines et fusils etaient toujours laisses a Falkenhorst pendant la saison des chasses.

Fritz, Francois, Jenny, tous demeuraient atterres devant ce desastre si inattendu… En etait-il donc de meme a Felsenheim, a Waldegg, a Zuckertop, a Prospect-Hill?… Des diverses metairies, celle de l’ermitage d’Eberfurt avait-elle ete seule epargnee par les pillards, et ces pillards, quels etaient-ils?…

<<<Mes amis, dit le capitaine Gould, un malheur est arrive… mais peut-etre n’est-il pas aussi grand que vous semblez le craindre…>>>

Personne ne repondit, et qu’auraient pu repondre Fritz, Francois, Jenny, le coeur brise? Apres avoir mis le pied sur la Terre-Promise, la joie dans l’ame, que trouvaient-ils a Falkenhorst?… La ruine et l’abandon!

Que s’etait-il donc passe?… La Nouvelle-Suisse avait-elle ete envahie par une bande de ces pirates si nombreux a cette epoque dans l’ocean Indien, ou les iles Andaman et Nicobar leur offraient un refuge assure?… Les familles avaient-elles pu quitter a temps Felsenheim, se retirer en quelque autre partie du district ou meme s’enfuir de l’ile?… Etaient-elles tombees entre les mains de ces pirates… ou n’avaient-elles pas succombe en essayant de se defendre?…

Enfin, derniere question, cet evenement remontait-il a quelques mois, a quelques semaines, a quelques jours, et eut-il ete possible de le prevenir, si la Licorne fut arrivee dans les delais convenus sur ces parages?…

Jenny s’efforcait de retenir ses larmes, tandis que Suzan et Doll sanglotaient. Francois voulait se lancer a la recherche de son pere, de sa mere, de ses freres, et il fallut que Fritz le retint. Harry Gould et le bosseman, apres etre sortis plusieurs fois de la chambre afin de visiter les approches de la palissade, etaient revenus, n’ayant rien apercu, rien entendu de nature a les eclairer.

Il s’agissait cependant de prendre un parti. Convenait-il de rester a Falkenhorst, d’y attendre les evenements, ou de descendre vers Felsenheim sans savoir a quoi s’en tenir?… Devait-on effectuer une reconnaissance en laissant Jenny, Doll, Suzan Wolston sous la garde de James, tandis que Fritz, Francois, Harry Gould, John Block iraient a la decouverte, soit par l’avenue du littoral, soit en s’engageant a travers la campagne?…

Dans tous les cas, il fallait sortir de cette incertitude, dut la verite ne plus laisser aucun espoir!

Et, sans doute, Fritz crut repondre au sentiment general, lorsqu’il dit:

<<<Essayons de gagner Felsenheim…

— Et partons, s’ecria Francois.

— Je vous accompagnerai, declara le capitaine Gould.

— Moi aussi… ajouta John Block.

— Soit, repondit Fritz, mais James restera avec Jenny, Doll et Suzan, qui se mettront en surete dans le haut de Falkenhorst…

— Montons tous, d’abord, proposa John Block, et de la, peut-etre, verrons-nous…>>>

C’etait bien ce qu’il y avait de plus indique avant d’aller en reconnaissance au dehors. De la demeure aerienne et surtout de la cime du manglier, la vue embrassait une partie de la Terre-Promise et de la mer a l’est, et aussi trois lieues du littoral compris entre la baie du Salut et le cap de l’Espoir-Trompe.

<<<En haut… en haut!…>>> repondit Fritz a la proposition du bosseman.

L’habitation, etablie entre les branches de l’arbre, avait-elle echappe a la devastation, grace a l’epaisse frondaison du manglier, qui la cachait aux regards, c’etait admissible, en somme. La porte, donnant acces sur l’escalier qui se deroulait a l’interieur du tronc, ne portait aucune trace de violence, etant peu visible, d’ailleurs, au fond de la derniere chambre.

Francois essaya d’ouvrir cette porte, qui etait fermee et il en fit sauter la serrure dont le pene se degagea.

En peu d’instants, tous eurent gravi l’escalier, eclaire par les etroites meurtrieres de l’arbre, et mirent le pied sur le balcon circulaire, largement abrite derriere un rideau de feuillage.

Fritz et Francois, arrives sur la plate-forme, se haterent de penetrer a l’interieur de la premiere chambre.

Ni cette chambre ni celles qui y attendaient ne presentaient le moindre desordre, literie en bon etat, meubles en place. Il y eut donc lieu de reconnaitre que l’ancienne aire du Faucon avait ete respectee. Cela venait en confirmation de ce fait que les pillards n’avaient point du decouvrir la porte du bas. Quant a l’habitation, on le repete, dissimulee entre les branches du manglier, la frondaison s’etait tant epaissie depuis douze ans autour d’elle, que, de la cour du bas non plus que de la lisiere du bois voisin, il n’eut ete possible de l’apercevoir.

En une minute, Jenny eut visite avec Doll et Suzan ces chambres qu’elle connaissait bien, qu’elle avait habitees plusieurs fois avec la famille.

Il semblait vraiment que Mmes Zermatt et Wolston eussent tout range de la veille. On y reconnut en viande seche, en farine, en riz, en conserves, en liquides, pour une semaine de provisions suivant l’habitude prise a Falkenhorst, comme aux autres metairies de Waldegg, de l’ermitage d’Eberfurt, de Prospect-Hill et de Zuckertop.

Il est vrai, personne, en cette situation, ne songeait a la question des vivres. Ce qui preoccupait, ce qui desesperait, c’etait l’abandon dans lequel se trouvait Falkenhorst, en pleine saison d’ete, c’etait cet affreux pillage dont les batiments de la cour n’avaient ete que trop visiblement le theatre!

Des qu’ils furent revenus sur le balcon, Fritz et le bosseman se hisserent jusqu’aux branches superieures du manglier, afin d’etendre leur vue aussi loin que possible.

Vers le nord se developpait la ligne cotiere depuis le cap de l’Espoir-Trompe jusqu’a la colline ou s’elevait Prospect-Hill. Mais, en cette direction, le regard, arrete par les massifs, ne pouvait depasser la ferme de Waldegg. Rien de suspect ne fut apercu sur cette partie du district.

Vers l’ouest, au dela du canal qui mettait en communication le ruisseau des Chacals et le lac des Cygnes, se developpait la contree arrosee par le rio de Falkenhorst, que Fritz et ses compagnons avaient traversee apres avoir franchi le ponceau. Elle etait non moins deserte que celle qui se continuait a l’ouest jusqu’au defile de Cluse.

Au levant s’elargissait le vaste bras de mer compris entre le cap de l’Espoir-Trompe et le cap de l’Est, derriere lequel s’arrondissait la baie de la Licorne. On ne voyait pas une seule voile au large, pas une embarcation le long du littoral. Rien que la plaine liquide d’ou emergeait, au nord-est, l’ecueil sur lequel s’etait autrefois brise le Landlord.

Lorsque les yeux se tournaient vers le sud, ils ne pouvaient distinguer a la distance d’une lieue environ que l’entree de la baie du Salut, pres du rempart qui abritait l’habitation de Felsenheim.

Il est vrai, de cette habitation et de ses dependances, on n’apercevait rien, si ce n’est la cime verdoyante des arbres du potager, puis, en remontant vers le sud-ouest, une ligne lumineuse, qui indiquait le cours du ruisseau des Chacals.

Fritz et John Block redescendirent sur le balcon, apres une dizaine de minutes consacrees a ce premier examen. En se servant de la longue-vue que M. Zermatt laissait toujours a Falkenhorst, ils avaient attentivement regarde dans la direction de Felsenheim et du littoral.

Personne ne s’y montrait… C’etait a croire que les deux familles n’etaient plus dans l’ile.

Cependant il etait possible que M. Zermatt et les siens eussent ete conduits par les pillards en quelque metairie de la Terre-Promise, ou meme sur une autre partie de la Nouvelle-Suisse. Toutefois, a cette hypothese, Harry Gould fit une objection a laquelle il eut ete malaise de repondre:

<<<Ces pillards, quels qu’ils soient, dit-il, ont du venir par mer, et meme accoster par la baie du Salut… Or, nous n’avons remarque aucune de leurs embarcations… Il faudrait donc en conclure qu’ils sont repartis… entrainant peut-etre…>>>

Personne n’osa repondre au capitaine Gould. D’ailleurs, ce qui ne laissait pas d’etre fort grave, c’est que Felsenheim ne paraissait plus etre habite. Du haut de l’arbre, on ne voyait aucune fumee se degager des plantations du potager.

Harry Gould emit alors cette idee que les deux familles avaient quitte la Nouvelle-Suisse volontairement, puisque la Licorne n’avait pas paru a l’epoque fixee…

<<<Et comment?… demanda Fritz, qui eut voulu pouvoir se rattacher a cet espoir.

— A bord d’un navire arrive sur ces parages… repondit Harry Gould, soit un de ceux qui ont du etre expedies d’Angleterre, soit tout autre batiment que les hasards de la navigation auraient conduit en vue de l’ile…>>>

Cette explication etait admissible dans une certaine mesure. Et pourtant, que de serieuses raisons pour que l’abandon de la Nouvelle-Suisse ne fut pas du a cette circonstance!

Fritz dit alors:

<<<Il n’y a plus a hesiter… allons en reconnaissance…

— Allons!>>> repondit Francois.

Au moment ou Fritz se preparait a redescendre, Jenny l’arreta, disant:

<<<Une fumee… il me semble voir une fumee qui s’eleve au-dessus de Felsenheim…>>>

Fritz saisit la longue-vue, la braqua dans la direction du sud, et pendant plus d’une minute son oeil resta colle a l’oculaire de l’instrument…

Jenny avait raison. Une fumee, visible alors, car elle venait de s’epaissir, depassait le rideau de verdure, au-dessus des roches qui fermaient Felsenheim en arriere.

<<<Ils sont la… ils sont la… s’ecria Francois, et nous devrions deja etre pres d’eux!>>>

Cette affirmation ne fut mise en doute par personne. On avait tant besoin de se reprendre a quelque espoir, que tout fut oublie, et l’etat de solitude des environs de Falkenhorst, et le pillage de la cour, et l’absence des animaux domestiques, et le vide des etables, et la devastation des chambres au pied du manglier…

Toutefois, la froide raison revint, du moins au capitaine Gould et a John Block. Evidemment, - cette fumee en temoignait, - Felsenheim etait habite en ce moment… Mais n’etait-ce point par les pillards?… Aussi convenait-il d’en approcher avec une extreme prudence. Peut-etre meme le mieux serait-il de ne point suivre l’avenue qui descendait au ruisseau des Chacals. A travers champs, et, autant que faire se pourrait, en allant de massifs en massifs, il y avait des chances d’arriver au pont tournant sans avoir ete decouverts.

Enfin tous se disposaient a quitter la demeure aerienne, lorsque Jenny de dire, en abaissant la longue-vue qu’elle venait de promener du cote de la baie:

<<<Et la preuve que les deux familles sont toujours la… qu’elles n’ont point quitte leur ile… c’est que le pavillon flotte sur l’ilot du Requin!>>>

C’etait vrai, on n’avait pas encore apercu ce pavillon blanc et rouge aux couleurs de la Nouvelle-Suisse, qui cependant se deployait au-dessus de la batterie. Mais, en somme, cela donnait-il la certitude que M. Zermatt, M. Wolston, leurs femmes, leurs enfants n’eussent pas quitte l’ile?… Est-ce que, d’habitude, le pavillon ne flottait pas toujours a cette place?…

On ne voulut pas discuter… Tout s’expliquerait a Felsenheim… avant une heure…

<<<Partons… partons!… repetait Francois, et il se dirigea vers l’escalier.

— Arretez… arretez!…>>> dit soudain le bosseman en baissant la voix.

On le vit ramper sur le balcon du cote de la baie du Salut. Puis, apres avoir ecarte les feuilles, il passa sa tete et la retira precipitamment.

<<<Qu’y a-t-il?… demanda Fritz.

— Les sauvages…>>> repondit John Block.

CHAPITRE XXIX

Diverses hypotheses. - Ce qu’il faut faire. - Un coup de canon. - L’ilot

du Requin. - Reconnaissance jusqu’a la greve. - Un canot abandonne.

— L’embarquement. - <<<Ne tirez pas!…>>>

Il etait alors deux heures et demie du soir. Le feuillage du manglier etait si epais que les rayons du soleil, presque perpendiculaires, ne parvenaient pas a le percer. Fritz et ses compagnons ne couraient donc pas le risque d’etre signales dans l’habitation aerienne de Falkenhorst, encore inconnue des sauvages qui avaient debarque sur l’ile.

Une troupe de cinq hommes, demi-nus, a peau noire comme les naturels de l’Australie occidentale, armes d’arcs et de fleches, s’avancait en suivant l’allee. Qu’ils eussent ete vus, et meme que la Terre-Promise comptat d’autres habitants que ceux de Felsenheim, ils ne pouvaient s’en douter. Mais qu’etaient devenus M. Zermatt et les siens?… Avaient-ils pu s’enfuir?… Avaient-ils succombe dans une lutte inegale?…

En effet, il n’etait pas a supposer, ainsi le fit observer John Block, que le nombre des indigenes arrives sur l’ile fut reduit a cette demi-douzaine d’hommes. Avec une telle inferiorite numerique, ils n’auraient pas eu raison de M. Zermatt, de ses deux fils et de M. Wolston, meme dans le cas d’une surprise… C’etait toute une bande, montee sur une flottille de pirogues, qui avait du envahir la Nouvelle-Suisse… Cette flottille etait sans doute a present mouillee dans la crique avec la chaloupe et la pinasse… Si on ne l’apercevait pas du haut de Falkenhorst, c’est que, de ce cote-la, la vue etait arretee par la pointe de la baie du Salut…

Et alors ou etaient les familles Zermatt et Wolston?… De ce qu’on ne les avait rencontrees ni a Falkenhorst ni aux environs, fallait-il en conclure qu’elles fussent prisonnieres a Felsenheim… qu’elles n’avaient eu ni le temps ni la possibilite de chercher refuge dans les autres metairies… ou qu’elles avaient ete massacrees?…

Ainsi tout s’expliquait, les devastations constatees a Falkenhorst, l’abandon ou se trouvait la partie de la Terre-Promise entre le canal du lac des Cygnes et le littoral!… Fritz, Francois, Jenny venaient d’etre frappes du plus affreux malheur qui put les accabler!… De meme James, sa femme et sa soeur!… Et comment conserver quelque esperance qui ne fut du moins bien faible?… Aussi, tandis que Harry Gould et le bosseman ne perdaient pas de vue les naturels, donnaient-ils libre cours a leurs larmes, a leur desespoir.

Cependant une derniere hypothese: etait-il possible que les deux familles se fussent refugiees dans l’ouest, en une partie de l’ile, au dela de la baie des Perles?… En cas qu’elles eussent vu de loin les pirogues a travers la baie du Salut, n’avaient-elles pas eu le temps de fuir avec le chariot, emportant des provisions et des armes?… Mais ni les uns ni les autres n’osaient y croire!…

Harry Gould et John Block continuaient a observer l’approche des sauvages.

Se preparaient-ils a penetrer dans la cour, puis dans l’habitation deja visitee et pillee?… N’y avait-il pas lieu de craindre qu’ils ne decouvrissent la porte de l’escalier?… En ce cas, il est vrai, puisqu’ils n’etaient que cinq ou six, on s’en debarrasserait sans peine. Lorsqu’ils paraitraient sur la plate-forme, surpris un a un, ils seraient jetes par-dessus la balustrade, une chute de quarante a cinquante pieds…

<<<Et, comme le declara le bosseman, si, apres cette culbute, il leur reste des jambes pour aller a Felsenheim, c’est que ces animaux-la tiendraient plus encore du chat que du singe!>>>

Cependant, lorsqu’ils eurent atteint l’extremite de l’avenue, les cinq hommes s’etaient arretes. Maintenant Fritz, Harry Gould, John Block, ne perdaient pas un seul de leurs mouvements. Que venaient-ils faire a Falkenhorst?… Si l’habitation aerienne avait jusqu’ici echappe a leurs regards, n’allaient-ils pas la decouvrir, et aussi ceux qui l’occupaient?… Et, alors ne reviendraient-ils pas en plus grand nombre, et le moyen de resister a l’attaque d’une centaine d’indigenes…

Tout d’abord, la clairiere franchie, ils se dirigerent vers la palissade dont ils firent le tour. Trois d’entre eux s’introduisirent a l’interieur de la cour, sous un des hangars de gauche, et ils ressortirent presque aussitot, portant quelques-uns des engins de peche deposes en cet endroit.

<<<Pas genes, ces gueux!… murmura le bosseman. Ils ne vous demandent seulement pas la permission.

— Ont-ils donc un canot sur la greve… et vont-ils pecher le long du littoral?… dit Harry Gould.

— Nous ne tarderons pas a le savoir, mon capitaine>>>, repliqua John Block.

En effet, les trois hommes venaient de rejoindre leurs compagnons. Puis, prenant un petit sentier borde d’une forte haie d’epines, qui longeait la droite du rio de Falkenhorst, ils descendirent vers la mer.

On ne les perdit de vue qu’au moment ou ils atteignirent la coupee par laquelle s’ecoulait le ruisseau jusqu’a son embouchure sur la baie des Flamants.

Mais, des qu’ils eurent tourne a gauche, ils ne furent plus visibles, et ne pourraient etre revus que s’ils gagnaient le large. Qu’il y eut une embarcation sur la greve, c’etait probable, - probable aussi qu’ils s’en servaient habituellement pour la peche a proximite de Falkenhorst.

Tandis que Harry Gould et John Block restaient en observation, Jenny, maitrisant la douleur qui, chez Doll, chez Suzan, se manifestait par des soupirs et des larmes, dit a Fritz:

<<<Mon ami… que faut-il faire?>>>

Fritz regarda sa femme, ne sachant que repondre:

<<<Ce qu’il faut faire… declara le capitaine Gould, nous allons en decider… Mais, d’abord, il est inutile de rester sur ce balcon, ou nous risquerions d’etre decouverts.>>>

Des que tous furent reunis dans la chambre, tandis que Bob, fatigue de la longue etape, dormait dans un petit cabinet y attenant, voici ce que Fritz dit, en reponse a la demande que sa femme venait de lui adresser:

<<<Ma chere Jenny, non… tout espoir n’est pas perdu de retrouver nos familles… Il est possible… tres possible qu’elles n’aient point ete surprises… Mon pere et M. Wolston auront vu de loin leurs pirogues… Peut-etre ont-ils eu le temps de se refugier dans une des metairies, meme au fond des bois de la baie des Perles, ou ces sauvages n’ont pas du s’aventurer… En quittant l’ermitage d’Eberfurt, apres avoir traverse le canal, nous n’avons trouve aucune trace de leur passage… Mon opinion est qu’ils n’ont pas cherche a s’eloigner du littoral…

— Je le pense aussi, ajouta Harry Gould, et a mon avis, M. Zermatt et M. Wolston se sont enfuis avec leurs familles…

— Oui… je l’affirmerais!… declara Jenny. Ma chere Doll, et vous, Suzan, ne desesperez pas… ne pleurez plus!… Vous reverrez votre pere, votre mere, comme nous reverrons les tiens, Fritz, les votres, James!…>>>

La jeune femme s’exprimait avec une telle conviction qu’a l’entendre, l’espoir revenait, et Francois lui prit la main, en disant:

<<<C’est Dieu qui parle par votre bouche, ma chere Jenny!>>> Du reste, a bien reflechir, ainsi que le fit valoir le capitaine Gould, il etait peu supposable que Felsenheim eut ete surpris par l’attaque des naturels, puisque les pirogues ne pouvaient atterrir de nuit sur cette cote qu’ils ne connaissaient pas. C’est pendant le jour qu’elles avaient du arriver, soit de l’est, soit de l’ouest, en se dirigeant vers la baie du Salut. Or, etant donnee la disposition de ce bras de mer entre le cap de l’Est et le cap de l’Espoir-Trompe, comment M. Zermatt, M. Wolston, Ernest ou Jack ne les auraient-ils pas apercues d’assez loin pour avoir eu le temps de se refugier en quelque autre partie de l’ile?…

<<<Et meme, ajouta Fritz, si le debarquement de ces naturels est recent, peut-etre nos familles n’etaient-elles pas a Felsenheim… Est-ce que ce n’est pas l’epoque ou nous visitions d’ordinaire les metairies?… Si, la nuit derniere, nous ne les avons pas rencontrees, a l’ermitage d’Eberfurt, il se peut qu’elles soient a Waldegg, a Prospect-Hill, a Zuckertop, au milieu de ces bois epais…

— Rendons-nous d’abord a Zuckertop… proposa Francois.

— C’est a faire, repondit John Block, mais pas avant la nuit…

— Si… a l’instant… a l’instant!… repeta Francois, qui ne voulait rien entendre. Je puis aller seul… Deux lieues et demie pour aller, autant pour revenir, je serai de retour en trois heures, et nous saurons a quoi nous en tenir…

— Non, Francois, non!… dit Fritz. Je te demande de ne pas nous separer… ce serait imprudent… et, s’il le faut, comme ton aine, je te l’ordonne!…

— Fritz… tu veux m’empecher?…

— Je veux t’empecher de commettre une imprudence…

— Francois… Francois… dit Doll d’une voix suppliante, ecoutez votre frere!… Francois… je vous prie!…>>>

Francois s’etait bute a cette idee de partir, et il se preparait a descendre.

<<<Soit! dit le bosseman, qui crut devoir intervenir… Puisqu’il y a des recherches a faire, faisons-les sans attendre la nuit… Seulement, pourquoi ne pas aller tous ensemble a Zuckertop?…

— Venez… dit Francois.

— Mais, reprit le bosseman, en s’adressant a Fritz, est-ce bien vers Zuckertop qu’il faut se diriger?…

— Ou… si ce n’est la?… demanda Fritz.

— A Felsenheim!>>> repondit John Block.

Ce nom, inopinement jete dans le debat, eut pour resultat d’en changer le cours.

A Felsenheim?… Et, au total, si MM. Zermatt et Wolston, leurs femmes, leurs enfants etaient tombes entre les mains des naturels, si leur vie avait ete epargnee, c’etait la qu’ils se trouvaient, puisque cette fumee indiquait que Felsenheim etait habite… C’etait la qu’il importait de leur apprendre le retour de Fritz, de Francois, de Jenny, de Doll, de James et de Suzan Wolston…

<<<Aller a Felsenheim… bien… repondit le capitaine Gould, mais y aller tous?…

— Tous?… non… declara Fritz, a deux ou trois, et lorsque la nuit sera venue…

— La nuit?… reprit Francois, plus obstine que jamais a son idee. Je vais a Felsenheim…

— Et, pendant qu’il fait jour, esperes-tu donc echapper a ces sauvages qui rodent aux environs?… repliqua Fritz. Et si tu leur echappes, comment entreras-tu a Felsenheim, s’ils l’occupent en ce moment?…

— Je n’en sais rien, Fritz… mais je parviendrai bien a savoir si nos familles sont la… puis je reviendrai!…

— Mon cher Francois, repondit Harry Gould, je comprends votre impatience et je la partage!… Cependant rendez-vous a nos avis qui sont dictes par la prudence… Si ces sauvages s’emparaient de vous, l’eveil donne… ils se mettraient a notre recherche… nous ne serions plus en surete ni a Waldegg, ni ailleurs…>>>

En effet, la situation serait absolument compromise, et la ou se refugieraient Fritz et ses compagnons, les indigenes finiraient par les decouvrir.

Fritz parvint a faire entendre raison a son frere, et Francois dut se soumettre devant l’autorite de celui qui etait peut-etre le chef de la famille…

On attendrait, et des que l’obscurite le permettrait, Francois et le bosseman quitteraient Falkenhorst. Mieux valait effectuer a deux cette reconnaissance qui presentait bien des dangers. En se glissant le long de la haie vive bordant l’avenue, tous deux essayeraient d’atteindre le ruisseau des Chacals. Si le pont tournant etait replie sur l’autre rive, ils passeraient le ruisseau a la nage, et tenteraient de penetrer par le verger dans l’enclos de Felsenheim. Il serait facile de voir par l’une des fenetres si les familles y etaient renfermees. Si elles n’y etaient pas, Francois et John Block reviendraient aussitot a Falkenhorst, et l’on aviserait a gagner Zuckertop avant le lever du jour.

Donc, il convenait d’attendre, et avec quelle lenteur s’ecoulerent les heures! Jamais le capitaine Gould et ses compagnons n’avaient ete plus profondement accables, - meme apres l’abandon de la chaloupe sur ces parages inconnus, meme quand l’embarcation se fut brisee contre les roches de la baie des Tortues, meme lorsque les naufrages, et avec eux trois femmes et un enfant, se virent menaces d’un hivernage sur cette cote aride, au fond de cette prison dont ils ne pouvaient sortir!

Du moins, au milieu de tant d’epreuves avaient-ils alors cette consolation d’etre sans inquietude pour ceux qui habitaient la Nouvelle-Suisse!… Et voici qu’ils venaient de retrouver l’ile au pouvoir d’une bande de naturels… et ils ne savaient ce qu’etaient devenus leurs parents, leurs amis… et ils pouvaient craindre qu’ils n’eussent peri dans un massacre…

Cependant la journee s’avancait. De temps en temps, l’un ou l’autre, plus particulierement Fritz et le bosseman, se hissait entre les branches du manglier, afin d’observer la campagne et la mer. Ce dont ils s’inquietaient, c’etait de savoir si les sauvages occupaient les environs de Falkenhorst, ou s’ils avaient repris le chemin de Felsenheim.

Ils n’apercevaient rien, si ce n’est, dans la direction du sud, vers l’embouchure du ruisseau des Chacals, la petite colonne de fumee qui montait au-dessus des roches.

Jusqu’a quatre heures de l’apres-midi, aucun incident n’avait modifie la situation. Le repas fut prepare avec les reserves de l’habitation.

Apres le retour de Francois et de John Block, qui sait s’il n’y aurait pas necessite de partir pour Zuckertop? Et ce serait une longue etape!…

A cet instant, une detonation se fit entendre.

<<<Qu’est-ce donc?… demanda Jenny que Fritz retint en la voyant se diriger vers une des fenetres.

— Serait-ce un coup de canon?… repondit Francois.

— Un coup de canon!… s’ecria le bosseman.

— Mais qui l’aurait tire?… dit Fritz.

— Quelque batiment en vue de l’ile?… demanda James.

— La Licorne peut-etre!… s’ecria Jenny.

— Alors, elle serait tres rapprochee de l’ile, fit observer John Block, car cette detonation n’est pas venue de loin…

— A la plate-forme… a la plate-forme!… repeta Francois, en s’elancant vers le balcon…

— Tachons de ne pas etre apercus, car la bande doit etre en eveil…>>> recommanda le capitaine Gould.

Tous les regards se porterent vers la mer.

Aucun navire n’apparaissait qui, d’apres la proximite de la detonation, aurait du etre a la hauteur de l’ilot de la Baleine. Au large, le bosseman ne signala qu’un canot, monte par deux hommes, qui cherchait a rallier la greve de Falkenhorst.

<<<Si c’etaient Ernest et Jack?… murmura Jenny.

— Non… repondit Fritz, ces deux hommes sont des naturels, et le canot est une pirogue…

— Mais pourquoi se sauvent-ils?… demanda Francois. Est-ce qu’ils sont poursuivis?…>>>

Fritz poussa un cri - un cri qui tenait a la fois de la joie et de la surprise!

L’eclat d’une vive lumiere au milieu d’un jet de vapeur blanche etait arrive a ses yeux, et presque aussitot retentit une seconde detonation que repercuterent les echos du littoral.

En meme temps, un projectile, rasant la surface de la baie, fit jaillir une gerbe d’eau a deux brasses de l’embarcation, qui continua de fuir a toute vitesse vers Falkenhorst.

<<<La… la!… s’ecria Fritz. Mon pere… M. Wolston… tous les notres sont la…

— A l’ilot du Requin?… dit Jenny.

— A l’ilot du Requin!>>>

En effet, c’etait de cet ilot qu’etaient parties la premiere detonation, puis la seconde avec le boulet lance contre la pirogue… Nul doute, M. Zermatt, M. Wolston, leurs familles, avaient pu s’y refugier sous la protection de cette batterie dont les sauvages n’osaient approcher. Au-dessus se deployait le pavillon blanc et rouge de la Nouvelle-Suisse, tandis que le drapeau britannique flottait sur le plus haut pic de l’ile!

Rien ne saurait peindre la joie, - plus que la joie, - le delire auquel s’abandonnerent Fritz, Francois, Jenny, Doll, James et Suzan… Puisque leurs parents avaient pu gagner l’ilot du Requin, il n’y aurait a les rechercher ni a Zuckertop ni en aucune autre metairie de la Terre-Promise!… Et, ces sentiments, on l’imaginera sans peine, etaient partages par le capitaine Harry Gould, le bosseman, si unis de coeur et d’ame aux passagers du Flag!

Il n’etait plus question d’aller a Felsenheim, et on ne quitterait Falkenhorst que pour se rendre, - comment? on ne savait, - a l’ilot du Requin. Ah! si du haut du manglier, il eut ete possible de communiquer par des signaux, d’arborer un pavillon qui repondrait a celui de la batterie!… Il est vrai, cela n’eut pas ete prudent, non plus que de tirer des coups de feu avec le pistolet, qui, s’ils eussent ete entendus de M. Zermatt, auraient pu l’etre aussi des sauvages, s’ils rodaient encore aux environs de Falkenhorst.

Or, l’essentiel etait que la presence du capitaine Gould et des siens ne fut point connue d’eux, dans l’impossibilite ou ils etaient de resister a une attaque a laquelle aurait pris part toute la bande deja maitresse de Felsenheim.

<<<Notre situation est bonne maintenant, fit observer Fritz, ne la compromettons pas…

— Sans doute, repondit Harry Gould, puisque nous n’avons pas ete decouverts, ne risquons pas de l’etre!… Attendons la nuit avant d’agir…

— Comment sera-t-il possible d’atteindre l’ilot du Requin?… demanda Jenny.

— A la nage… declara Fritz. Oui… je saurai bien le gagner a la nage… Et puisque c’est avec la chaloupe que mon pere a du s’y refugier, je ramenerai la chaloupe pour vous prendre tous…

— Fritz… mon ami, ne put s’empecher de dire Jenny, traverser ce bras de mer…

— Un jeu pour moi, chere femme, un jeu!… repondit l’intrepide jeune homme.

— Et puis… qui sait?… ajouta John Block, peut-etre le canot de ces moricauds-la sera-t-il sur la greve?…>>>

Le soir approchait, et, un peu apres sept heures, il faisait deja sombre, la nuit succedant au jour presque sans crepuscule sous cette latitude.

Vers huit heures, le moment etant arrive, il fut decide que Fritz, Francois et le bosseman descendraient dans la cour. Apres s’etre assures que les indigenes n’etaient plus aux environs, ils s’aventureraient jusqu’au littoral. Dans tous les cas, le capitaine Gould, James Wolston, Jenny, Doll, Suzan attendraient au pied de l’arbre un signal pour les rejoindre.

Tous trois prirent donc l’escalier en tatonnant, car ils n’avaient point voulu allumer un fanal dont la lumiere aurait risque de les trahir.

Dans l’habitation du bas, personne, ni sous les hangars. Les hommes venus dans la journee avaient-ils repris le chemin de Felsenheim, ou se trouvaient-ils sur la plage vers laquelle s’etait dirigee la pirogue, c’est la ce qu’il importait de reconnaitre.

Mais il importait surtout de ne point se departir de la prudence observee jusqu’alors. C’est pourquoi Fritz et John Block resolurent de gagner seuls le rivage, tandis que Francois resterait en observation a l’entree de la cour, pret a remonter, si quelque danger menacait Falkenhorst.

Fritz et le bosseman franchirent la palissade, traverserent la clairiere a laquelle aboutissait l’avenue de Felsenheim. Puis, se glissant d’arbre en arbre pendant deux centaines de pas, ecoutant, regardant, epiant, ils arriverent a l’etroite coupee des dernieres roches que baignaient les lames.

La greve etait deserte, comme la mer, jusqu’au cap, dont on entrevoyait a peine le profil a l’est. Aucune lumiere ne se montrait ni dans la direction de Felsenheim ni a la surface de la baie du Salut. Seul, un massif se detachait a trois quarts de lieue au large.

C’etait l’ilot du Requin.

<<<Allons… dit Fritz. - Allons>>>, repondit John Block.

Tous deux se dirigerent vers la lisiere sablonneuse que la maree descendante, presque au plus bas, decouvrait encore.

Quel cri de joie leur aurait echappe, s’ils n’eussent ete si maitres d’eux-memes! Un canot etait la, gite sur le flanc.

C’etait cette pirogue que la batterie avait saluee de deux coups de canon.

<<<Fameuse chance, que les boulets l’aient manquee!… s’ecria John Block. Sans cela, elle serait maintenant par le fond… Si c’est M. Jack ou M. Ernest qui ont ete si maladroits, nous leur en ferons nos compliments!>>>

Cette petite embarcation, de construction australienne, qui se manoeuvrait a la pagaie, ne pouvait contenir que cinq a six personnes. Or, le capitaine Gould et ses compagnons etaient huit, plus un enfant, a embarquer pour l’ilot du Requin. Il est vrai, la distance ne mesurait que trois quarts de lieue.

<<<Eh bien, on se tassera, dit John Block, et il ne faut pas faire deux voyages…

— Au surplus, ajouta Fritz, dans une heure, le flot se fera sentir, et comme il porte vers la baie du Salut, sans trop s’eloigner de l’ilot du Requin, nous n’aurons pas besoin d’un grand effort pour y arriver…

— Tout est pour le mieux, repondit le bosseman, et cela commence a se debrouiller.>>>

Il ne fut pas question de pousser l’embarcation a la mer, et elle s’y remettrait d’elle-meme des que le flot l’aurait soulevee. John Block s’assura qu’elle etait solidement amarree et ne risquait pas de se dehaler au large.

Tous deux remonterent la greve, reprirent l’avenue, et rejoignirent Francois qui les attendait dans la cour.

Lorsque celui-ci eut ete mis au courant, il ne put que se rejouir. Mais, comme il convenait d’attendre que le flot fut etabli avant de s’embarquer, Fritz le laissa avec le bosseman afin de surveiller les approches de la cour.

On juge si les nouvelles qu’il apporta la-haut furent recues avec satisfaction!

Vers neuf heures et demie, tous etaient descendus au pied du manglier.

Francois et John Block n’avaient rien apercu de suspect. Les abords de Falkenhorst demeuraient silencieux. Le moindre bruit se fut fait entendre, car aucun souffle ne traversait l’espace.

Apres avoir franchi la cour et la clairiere, Fritz, Francois et Harry Gould en avant, les autres defilerent sous le couvert des arbres de l’avenue et atteignirent la greve.

Elle etait aussi deserte que deux heures auparavant.

Deja le flot avait souleve l’embarcation qui flottait au bout de sa bosse. Il n’y avait plus qu’a s’y embarquer, a la demarrer, puis a la pousser dans le courant.

Aussitot, Jenny, Doll, Suzan et l’enfant prirent place a l’arriere. Leurs compagnons se blottirent entre les bancs, Fritz et Francois se mirent aux pagaies.

Il etait, en ce moment, pres de dix heures, et, par une nuit sans lune, on pouvait esperer de passer sans etre apercu.

Il va de soi que, malgre l’obscurite assez profonde, il ne serait pas difficile de se diriger vers l’ilot.

Des que la pirogue eut ete saisie par le courant, elle fut entrainee de ce cote.

Chacun gardait le silence. Pas un mot n’etait echange, meme a voix basse. Tous les coeurs se serraient en proie a une inexprimable emotion. Que les familles Zermatt et Wolston fussent sur cet ilot, nul doute… Cependant, si quelqu’un des leurs etait reste prisonnier… ou avait succombe en se defendant…

Il n’y avait pas a compter sur le flot pour gagner directement l’ilot du Requin. A une demi-lieue du rivage, il s’en detournait pour remonter vers l’embouchure du ruisseau des Chacals et s’etendre jusqu’au fond de la baie du Salut.

Fritz et Francois nagerent donc avec vigueur en direction du sombre massif, duquel ne s’echappaient ni un bruit ni une lueur.

Mais M. Zermatt ou M. Wolston, Ernest ou Jack devaient etre en surveillance dans la batterie. Toutefois, la pirogue ne risquait-elle pas d’etre signalee et de recevoir quelque projectile, car ils croiraient a une tentative des sauvages pour prendre possession de l’ilot a la faveur de la nuit?…

Precisement, des que l’embarcation ne fut plus qu’a cinq ou six encablures, une lumiere brilla a l’endroit ou s’elevait le hangar de la batterie…

Etait-ce la flamme d’une amorce, et l’air n’allait-il pas etre ebranle par une detonation?…

Et alors, ne craignant plus de se faire entendre, le bosseman se releva et cria d’une voix de stentor:

<<<Ne tirez pas… ne tirez pas!…

— Amis… ce sont des amis!… ajouta le capitaine Harry Gould.

— C’est nous… c’est nous… c’est nous!…>>> repeterent Fritz et Francois.

Et, au moment ou ils accostaient le pied des roches, M. Zermatt, M. Wolston, Ernest, Jack les recurent dans leurs bras.

CHAPITRE XXXII

La Licorne. - Prise de possession au nom de l’Angleterre. - Aucune nouvelle du Flag. - Retour a Felsenheim. - Un mariage celebre a la chapelle.

— Plusieurs annees. - Prosperite de la colonie de la Nouvelle-Suisse.

C’etait bien la Licorne qui venait de jeter l’ancre a l’entree de la baie du Salut. Ses avaries reparees, le capitaine Littlestone, ayant quitte Capetown apres une relache de plusieurs mois, arrivait enfin a la Nouvelle-Suisse, dont il devait prendre officiellement possession au nom de l’Angleterre.

Le capitaine Littlestone apprit alors de la bouche meme d’Harry Gould les evenements dont le Flag avait ete le theatre.

Quant a ce qu’etait devenu ce navire, si Robert Borupt se livrait a la piraterie sur ces mers mal famees de l’ocean Pacifique, ou si ses complices et lui avaient peri dans quelque furieux tornados de ces parages, on ne devait jamais le savoir, ainsi qu’il a ete dit, et il n’y a plus lieu de s’en occuper.

Quelle satisfaction pour les deux familles, lorsqu’elles constaterent que l’habitation de Felsenheim n’avait pas ete saccagee! Il etait probable que les naturels, ayant l’intention de se fixer definitivement sur l’ile, comptaient s’y installer. Aucun degat dans les chambres a coucher ni dans les salles, aucune trace de pillage dans les annexes et magasins, aucune depredation dans le verger ni dans les champs voisins.

Des le retour des hotes de Felsenheim, les chiens, Turc, Braun et Falb accoururent, temoignant de leur joie par force aboiements et gambades.

Puis, on retrouva les animaux domestiques qui s’etaient disperses aux environs de l’enclos, les buffles Sturm et Brummer, l’autruche Brausewind, le singe Knips, l’onagre Leichtfus, la vache Blass et ses compagnons de pature, le taureau Brull et ses compagnons d’etable, les anons Rash, Pfeil et Flink, le chacal, l’albatros de Jenny qui avait franchi le bras de mer entre l’ilot du Requin et Felsenheim.

Comme plusieurs navires expedies d’Angleterre ne pouvaient tarder a amener de nouveaux colons avec leur materiel, il convenait de choisir l’emplacement des constructions nouvelles. Il fut decide qu’elles seraient etablies sur les deux rives du ruisseau des Chacals, en remontant vers la cascade. Felsenheim formerait ainsi le premier village de la colonie, en attendant qu’il devint une ville. L’avenir lui reservait sans doute le rang de capitale de la Nouvelle-Suisse, car elle serait la plus importante des bourgades qui s’eleveraient a l’interieur comme a l’exterieur de la Terre-Promise.

Du reste, la Licorne devait prolonger sa relache dans la baie du Salut jusqu’a l’arrivee des emigrants. Aussi, quelle animation sur cette cote en remontant les greves de Falkenhorst!

Trois semaines ne s’etaient pas ecoulees, lorsqu’une ceremonie, a laquelle on voulut donner tout l’eclat possible, reunit le commandant Littlestone, ses officiers et l’equipage de la corvette, puis le capitaine Harry Gould, le bosseman, puis les familles Zermatt et Wolston au complet, qui allaient se rattacher l’une a l’autre par des liens plus etroits.

Ce jour-la, le chapelain de la Licorne proceda dans la chapelle de Felsenheim a la celebration du mariage d’Ernest Zermatt et d’Annah Wolston. C’etait le premier qui s’accomplissait sur cette ile de la Nouvelle-Suisse, lequel, dans l’avenir, serait suivi de bien d’autres.

Et, en effet, a deux ans de la, Francois devint le mari de Doll Wolston. Cette fois, ce ne fut pas dans l’humble chapelle que le pasteur de la colonie benit cette union tant desiree. La ceremonie eut lieu dans une eglise elevee a mi-chemin de l’avenue entre Felsenheim et Falkenhorst, et dont le clocher, pointant hors des arbres, etait visible de trois milles en mer.

Il serait oiseux de s’etendre davantage sur les destinees de la Nouvelle-Suisse. L’heureuse ile vit s’accroitre, d’annee en annee, le nombre de ses habitants. La baie du Salut, abritee contre les vents et les houles du large, offrait d’excellents mouillages aux batiments, entre lesquels la pinasse Elisabeth ne faisait point mauvaise figure.

Il va de soi que les communications avaient ete regulierement etablies avec la metropole. Cela donna naissance a une fructueuse exportation des produits de la colonie, aussi bien ceux du district de la Terre-Promise que ceux de la campagne que limitait la chaine de montagnes au sud, de l’embouchure de la riviere Montrose a la cote occidentale. On comptait alors quatre principales bourgades, Waldegg, Zuckertop, Prospect-Hill, l’ermitage d’Eberfurt. Un port fut cree a l’embouchure de la riviere Montrose, un autre a la baie de la Licorne qu’une route carrossable mettait en communication avec le fond de la baie du Salut.

A cette epoque, c’est-a-dire trois ans apres la prise de possession par l’Angleterre, le chiffre de la population depassait deux mille. Le gouvernement britannique ayant laisse son autonomie a la Nouvelle-Suisse, M. Zermatt avait ete eleve au rang de gouverneur de la colonie. Fasse le Ciel que ceux qui lui succederont vaillent cet excellent et digne homme!

Il convient de noter aussi qu’un detachement des troupes de l’Inde vint prendre garnison sur l’ile, apres que des forts eurent ete construits au cap de l’Est et au cap de la Delivrance (ancien cap de l’Espoir-Trompe), de maniere a commander le bras de mer qui donnait acces dans la baie du Salut.

Certes, ce n’etaient pas les sauvages qu’il y avait a craindre, ni ceux des iles Andaman ou Nicobar, ni ceux de la cote australienne. Mais la position de la Nouvelle-Suisse en ces parages, outre qu’elle facilitait la relache des navires, avait une reelle importance au point de vue militaire a l’entree des mers de la Sonde et de l’ocean Indien. Il importait donc qu’elle fut pourvue de moyens de defense en rapport avec cette situation.

Telle est la complete histoire de cette ile depuis le jour ou la tempete y jeta un pere, une mere et leurs quatre enfants. Pendant douze annees, cette famille intelligente et courageuse avait travaille sans relache, mis en oeuvre toutes les forces d’un sol vierge, que fecondait le puissant climat des zones tropicales. Aussi sa prosperite n’avait-elle cesse de s’accroitre, son bien-etre d’augmenter jusqu’au jour ou l’arrivee de la Licorne lui permit d’etablir ses relations avec le reste du monde.

Une seconde famille, on le sait, etait venue volontairement joindre ses destinees a la sienne, et, materiellement comme moralement, jamais existence n’avait ete plus heureuse que sur ce fertile domaine de la Terre-Promise.

Mais, alors, commencerent les dures epreuves. Le mauvais sort s’acharna contre ces braves gens. Ils eurent la crainte de ne plus revoir ceux qu’ils attendaient, et le malheur d’etre assaillis par une bande de sauvages!

Il faut dire, cependant, que, meme aux plus mauvaises heures de cette periode, soutenus par une piete sincere que rien n’aurait pu ebranler, ils n’avaient jamais desespere de la Providence.

Enfin les beaux jours revinrent, et les mauvais ne sont plus a redouter pour cette seconde patrie des deux familles.

A present, la Nouvelle-Suisse est florissante, et elle deviendra trop petite pour recevoir tous ceux qu’elle attire. Son commerce trouve des debouches en Europe comme en Asie, grace a la proximite de l’Australie, de l’Inde et des possessions neerlandaises. Tres heureusement, - on doit s’en feliciter, - les pepites rencontrees dans le ravin de la riviere Montrose etaient extremement rares, et la colonie ne fut pas envahie par ces chercheurs d’or qui ne laissent apres eux que desordre et misere!

Quant aux mariages qui avaient uni les familles Zermatt et Wolston, ils ont ete benis du Ciel. Les grands-peres, les grand’meres, ne tarderent pas a se sentir revivre dans leurs petits-enfants. Seul, Jack s’est contente d’avoir des neveux et des nieces qui lui grimpaient aux jambes. Ayant, comme il le disait, pour vocation d’etre oncle, il s’acquittait avec succes de cette fonction sociale.

Desormais la prosperite de l’ile est assuree, et, bien qu’elle soit entree dans le domaine colonial de la Grande-Bretagne, l’Angleterre, de meme qu’elle l’a fait pour la Nouvelle-Hollande, lui a laisse son nom de Nouvelle-Suisse en l’honneur de la famille Zermatt.

FIN

THE VILLAGE IN THE TREETOPS

This 1901 novel explores themes of Darwinism and human development. The story concerns the members of a safari in the Congo, who discover what appears to be a colony of natives living in the trees.

Due to the scarcity of this novel in English translation, only the French text is available in this edition.

LE VILLAGE AERIEN

TABLE DES MATIERES

CHAPITRE I

CHAPITRE II

CHAPITRE III

CHAPITRE IV

CHAPITRE V

CHAPITRE VI

CHAPITRE VII

CHAPITRE VIII

CHAPITRE IX

CHAPITRE X

CHAPITRE XI

CHAPITRE XII

CHAPITRE XIII

CHAPITRE XIV

CHAPITRE XV

CHAPITRE XVI

CHAPITRE XVII

CHAPITRE XVIII

CHAPITRE I

Apres une longue etape

<<<Et le Congo americain, demanda Max Huber, il n’en est donc pas encore question?…

— A quoi bon, mon cher Max?… repondit John Cort. Est-ce que les vastes espaces nous manquent aux Etats-Unis?… Que de regions neuves et desertes a visiter entre l’Alaska et le Texas!… Avant d’aller coloniser au dehors, mieux vaut coloniser au dedans, je pense…

— Eh! mon cher John, les nations europeennes finiront par s’etre partage l’Afrique, si les choses continuent — soit une superficie d’environ trois milliards d’hectares!… Les Americains les abandonneront-ils en totalite aux Anglais, aux Allemands, aux Hollandais, aux Portugais, aux Francais, aux Italiens, aux Espagnols, aux Belges?…

— Les Americains n’en ont que faire — pas plus que les Russes, repliqua John Cort, et pour la meme raison…

— Laquelle?

— C’est qu’il est inutile de se fatiguer les jambes, lorsqu’il suffit d’etendre le bras…

— Bon! mon cher John, le gouvernement federal reclamera, un jour ou l’autre, sa part du gateau africain… Il y a un Congo francais, un Congo belge, un Congo allemand, sans compter le Congo independant, et celui-ci n’attend que l’occasion de sacrifier son independance!… Et tout ce pays que nous venons de parcourir depuis trois mois…

— En curieux, en simples curieux, Max, non en conquerants…

— La difference n’est pas considerable, digne citoyen des Etats-Unis, declara Max Huber. Je le repete, en cette partie de l’Afrique, l’Union pourrait se tailler une colonie superbe… On trouve la des territoires fertiles qui ne demandent qu’a utiliser leur fertilite, sous l’influence d’une irrigation genereuse dont la nature a fait tous les frais. Ils possedent un reseau liquide qui ne tarit jamais…

— Meme par cette abominable chaleur, observa John Cort, en epongeant son front calcine par le soleil tropical.

— Bah! n’y prenons plus garde! reprit Max Huber. Est-ce que nous ne sommes pas acclimates, je dirai negrifies, si vous n’y voyez pas d’inconvenient, cher ami?… Nous voici en mars seulement, et parlez-moi des temperatures de juillet, d’aout, lorsque les rayons solaires vous percent la peau comme des vrilles de feu!…

— N’importe, Max, nous aurons quelque peine a devenir Pahouins ou Zanzibarites, avec notre leger epiderme de Francais et d’Americain! J’en conviens, cependant, nous allons achever une belle et interessante campagne que la bonne fortune a favorisee… Mais il me tarde d’etre de retour a Libreville, de retrouver dans nos factoreries un peu de cette tranquillite, de ce repos qui est bien du a des voyageurs apres les trois mois d’un tel voyage…

— D’accord, ami John, cette aventureuse expedition a presente quelque interet. Pourtant, l’avouerai-je, elle ne m’a pas donne tout ce que j’en attendais…

— Comment, Max, plusieurs centaines de milles a travers un pays inconnu, pas mal de dangers affrontes au milieu de tribus peu accueillantes, des coups de feu echanges a l’occasion contre des coups de sagaies et des volees de fleches, des chasses que le lion numide et la panthere libyenne ont daigne honorer de leur presence, des hecatombes d’elephants faites au profit de notre chef Urdax, une recolte d’ivoire de premier choix qui suffirait a fournir de touches les pianos du monde entier!… Et vous ne vous declarez pas satisfait…

— Oui et non, John. Tout cela forme le menu ordinaire des explorateurs de l’Afrique centrale… C’est ce que le lecteur rencontre dans les recits des Barth, des Burton, des Speke, des Grant, des du Chaillu, des Livingstone, des Stanley, des Serpa Pinto, des Anderson, des Cameron, des Mage, des Brazza, des Gallieni, des Dibowsky, des Lejean, des Massari, des Wissemann, des Buonfanti, des Maistre…>>> Le choc de l’avant-train du chariot contre une grosse pierre coupa net la nomenclature des conquerants africains que deroulait Max Huber. John Cort en profita pour lui dire: <<<Alors vous comptiez trouver autre chose au cours de notre voyage?…

— Oui, mon cher John.

— De l’imprevu?…

— Mieux que de l’imprevu, lequel, je le reconnais volontiers, ne nous a pas fait defaut…

— De l’extraordinaire?…

— C’est le mot, mon ami, et, pas une fois, pas une seule, je n’ai eu l’occasion de la jeter aux echos de la vieille Libye, cette enorme qualification de portentosa Africa due aux blagueurs classiques de l’Antiquite…

— Allons, Max, je vois qu’une ame francaise est plus difficile a contenter…

— Qu’une ame americaine… je l’avoue, John, si les souvenirs que vous emportez de notre campagne vous suffisent…

— Amplement, Max.

— Et si vous revenez content…

— Content… surtout d’en revenir!

— Et vous pensez que des gens qui liraient le recit de ce voyage s’ecrieraient: <<<Diable, voila qui est curieux!>>> — Ils seraient exigeants, s’ils ne le criaient pas!

— A mon avis, ils ne le seraient pas assez…

— Et le seraient, sans doute, riposta John Cort, si nous avions termine notre expedition dans l’estomac d’un lion ou dans le ventre d’un anthropophage de l’Oubanghi…

— Non, John, non, et, sans aller jusqu’a ce genre de denouement qui, d’ailleurs, n’est pas denue d’un certain interet pour les lecteurs et meme pour les lectrices, en votre ame et conscience, devant Dieu et devant les hommes, oseriez-vous jurer que nous ayons decouvert et observe plus que n’avaient deja observe et decouvert nos devanciers dans l’Afrique centrale?…

— Non, en effet, Max.

— Eh bien, moi, j’esperais etre plus favorise…

— Gourmand, qui pretend faire une vertu de sa gourmandise! repliqua John Cort. Pour mon compte, je me declare repu, et je n’attendais pas de notre campagne plus qu’elle n’a donne…

— C’est-a-dire rien, John.

— D’ailleurs, Max, le voyage n’est pas encore termine, et, pendant les cinq ou six semaines que necessitera le parcours d’ici a Libreville…

— Allons donc! s’ecria Max Huber, un simple cheminement de caravane…, le trantran ordinaire des etapes… une promenade en diligence, comme au bon temps…

— Qui sait?…>>> dit John Cort.

Cette fois, le chariot s’arreta pour la halte du soir au bas d’un tertre couronne de cinq ou six beaux arbres, les seuls qui se montrassent sur cette vaste plaine, illuminee alors des feux du soleil couchant.

Il etait sept heures du soir. Grace a la brievete du crepuscule sous cette latitude du neuvieme degre nord, la nuit ne tarderait pas a s’etendre. L’obscurite serait meme profonde, car d’epais nuages allaient voiler le rayonnement stellaire, et le croissant de la lune venait de disparaitre a l’horizon de l’ouest.

Le chariot, uniquement destine au transport des voyageurs, ne contenait ni marchandises ni provisions. Que l’on se figure une sorte de wagon dispose sur quatre roues massives, et mis en mouvement par un attelage de six boeufs. A la partie anterieure s’ouvrait une porte. Eclaire de petites fenetres laterales, le wagon se divisait en deux chambres contigues que separait une cloison. Celle du fond etait reservee a deux jeunes gens de vingt-cinq a vingt-six ans, l’un americain, John Cort, l’autre francais, Max Huber. Celle de l’avant etait occupee par un trafiquant portugais nomme Urdax, et par le <<<foreloper>>> nomme Khamis. Ce foreloper, — c’est-a-dire l’homme qui ouvre la marche d’une caravane, — etait indigene du Cameroun et tres entendu a ce difficile metier de guide a travers les brulants espaces de l’Oubanghi.

Il va de soi que la construction de ce wagon-chariot ne laissait rien a reprendre au point de vue de la solidite. Apres les epreuves de cette longue et penible expedition, sa caisse en bon etat, ses roues a peine usees au cercle de la jante, ses essieux ni fendus ni fausses, on eut dit qu’il revenait d’une simple promenade de quinze a vingt lieues, alors que son parcours se chiffrait par plus de deux mille kilometres.

Trois mois auparavant, ce vehicule avait quitte Libreville, la capitale du Congo francais. De la, en suivant la direction de l’est, il s’etait avance sur les plaines de l’Oubanghi plus loin que le cours du Bahar-el-Abiad, l’un des tributaires qui versent leurs eaux dans le sud du lac Tchad.

C’est a l’un des principaux affluents de la rive droite du Congo ou Zaire que cette contree doit son nom. Elle s’etend a l’est du Cameroun allemand, dont le gouverneur est le consul general d’Allemagne de l’Afrique occidentale, et elle ne saurait etre actuellement delimitee par un trait precis sur les cartes, meme les plus modernes. Si ce n’est pas le desert, — un desert a vegetation puissante, qui n’aurait aucun point de ressemblance avec le Sahara, — c’est du moins une immense region, sur laquelle se disseminent des villages a grande distance les uns des autres. Les peuplades y guerroient sans cesse, s’asservissent ou s’entre-tuent, et s’y nourrissent encore de chair humaine, tels les Moubouttous, entre le bassin du Nil et celui du Congo. Et, ce qui est abominable, les enfants servent d’ordinaire a l’assouvissement de ces instincts du cannibalisme. Aussi, les missionnaires se devouent-ils pour sauver ces petites creatures, soit en les enlevant par force, soit en les rachetant, et ils les elevent chretiennement dans les missions etablies le long du fleuve Siramba. Qu’on ne l’oublie pas, ces missions ne tarderaient pas a succomber faute de ressources, si la generosite des Etats europeens, celle de la France en particulier, venait a s’eteindre.

Il convient meme d’ajouter que, dans l’Oubanghi, les enfants indigenes sont consideres comme monnaie courante pour les echanges du commerce. On paye en petits garcons et en petites filles les objets de consommation que les trafiquants introduisent jusqu’au centre du pays. Le plus riche indigene est donc celui dont la famille est la plus nombreuse.

Mais, si le Portugais Urdax ne s’etait pas aventure a travers ces plaines dans un interet commercial, s’il n’avait pas eu a faire de trafic avec les tribus riveraines de l’Oubanghi, s’il n’avait eu d’autre objectif que de se procurer une certaine quantite d’ivoire en chassant l’elephant qui abonde en cette contree, il n’etait pas sans avoir pris contact avec les feroces peuplades congolaises. En plusieurs rencontres meme, il dut tenir en respect des bandes hostiles et changer en armes defensives contre les indigenes celles qu’il destinait a poursuivre les troupeaux de pachydermes.

Au total, heureuse et fructueuse campagne qui ne comptait pas une seule victime parmi le personnel de la caravane.

Or, precisement aux abords d’un village, pres des sources du Bahar-el-Abiad, John Cort et Max Huber avaient pu arracher un jeune enfant a l’affreux sort qui l’attendait et le racheter au prix de quelques verroteries. C’etait un petit garcon, age d’une dizaine d’annees, de constitution robuste, interessante et douce physionomie, de type negre peu accentue. Ainsi que cela se voit chez quelques tribus, il avait le teint presque clair, la chevelure blonde et non la laine crepue des noirs, le nez aquilin et non ecrase, les levres fines et non lippues. Ses yeux brillaient d’intelligence, et il eprouva bientot pour ses sauveurs une sorte d’amour filial. Ce pauvre etre, enleve a sa tribu, sinon a sa famille, car il n’avait plus ni pere ni mere, se nommait Llanga. Apres avoir ete pendant quelque temps instruit par les missionnaires qui lui avaient appris un peu de francais et d’anglais, une mauvaise chance l’avait fait retomber entre les mains des Denkas, et quel sort l’attendait, on le devine. Seduits par son affection caressante, par la reconnaissance qu’il leur temoignait, les deux amis se prirent d’une vive sympathie pour cet enfant; ils le nourrirent, ils le vetirent, ils l’eleverent avec grand profit, tant il montrait d’esprit precoce. Et, des lors, quelle difference pour Llanga! Au lieu d’etre, comme les malheureux petits indigenes, a l’etat de marchandise vivante, il vivrait dans les factoreries de Libreville, devenu l’enfant adoptif de Max Huber et de John Cort… Ils en avaient pris la charge et ne l’abandonneraient plus!… Malgre son jeune age, il comprenait cela, il se sentait aime, une larme de bonheur coulait de ses yeux chaque fois que les mains de Max Huber ou de John Cort se posaient sur sa tete.

Lorsque le chariot eut fait halte, les boeufs, fatigues d’une longue route par une temperature devorante, se coucherent sur la prairie. Aussitot Llanga, qui venait de cheminer a pied pendant une partie de l’etape, tantot en avant, tantot en arriere de l’attelage, accourut au moment ou ses deux protecteurs descendaient de la plate-forme.

<<<Tu n’es pas trop fatigue, Llanga?… demanda John Cort, en prenant la main du petit garcon.

— Non… non!… bonnes jambes… et aime bien a courir, repondit Llanga, qui souriait des levres et des yeux a John Cort comme a Max Huber.

— Maintenant, il est temps de manger, dit ce dernier.

— Manger… oui… mon ami Max!>>> Puis, apres avoir baise les mains qui lui etaient tendues, il alla se meler aux porteurs sous la ramure des grands arbres du tertre.

Si ce chariot ne servait qu’au transport du Portugais Urdax, de Khamis et de leurs deux compagnons, c’est que colis et charges d’ivoire etaient confies au personnel de la caravane, — une cinquantaine d’hommes, pour la plupart des noirs du Cameroun. Ils avaient depose a terre les defenses d’elephants et les caisses qui assuraient la nourriture quotidienne en dehors de ce que fournissait la chasse sur ces giboyeuses contrees de l’Oubanghi.

Ces noirs ne sont que des mercenaires, rompus a ce metier, et payes d’un assez haut prix, que permet de leur accorder le benefice de ces fructueuses expeditions. On peut meme dire qu’ils n’ont jamais <<<couve leurs oeufs>>>, pour employer l’expression par laquelle on designe les indigenes sedentaires. Habitues a porter des l’enfance, ils porteront tant que leurs jambes ne leur feront pas defaut. Et, cependant, le metier est rude, quand il faut l’exercer sous un tel climat. Les epaules chargees de ce pesant ivoire ou des lourds colis de provisions, la chair souvent mise a vif, les pieds ensanglantes, le torse ecorche par le piquant des herbes, car ils sont a peu pres nus, ils vont ainsi entre l’aube et onze heures du matin et ils reprennent leur marche jusqu’au soir lorsque la grande chaleur est passee. Mais l’interet des trafiquants commande de les bien payer, et ils les payent bien; de les bien nourrir, et ils les nourrissent bien; de ne point les surmener au dela de toute mesure, et ils ne les surmenent pas. Tres reels sont les dangers de ces chasses aux elephants, sans parler de la rencontre possible des lions et des pantheres, et le chef doit pouvoir compter sur son personnel. En outre, la recolte de la precieuse matiere achevee, il importe que la caravane retourne heureusement et promptement aux factoreries de la cote. Il y a donc avantage a ce qu’elle ne soit arretee ni par des retards provenant de fatigues excessives, ni par les maladies — entre autres la petite verole, dont les ravages sont les plus a craindre. Aussi, penetre de ces principes, servi par une vieille experience, le Portugais Urdax, en prenant un soin extreme de ses hommes, avait-il reussi jusqu’alors dans ces lucratives expeditions au centre de l’Afrique equatoriale.

Et telle etait cette derniere, puisqu’elle lui valait un stock considerable d’ivoire de belle qualite, rapporte des regions au dela du Bahar-el-Abiad, presque sur la limite du Darfour.

Ce fut sous l’ombrage de magnifiques tamarins que s’organisa le campement, et, lorsque John Cort, apres que les porteurs eurent commence le deballage des provisions, interrogea le Portugais, voici la reponse qu’il obtint, en cette langue anglaise qu’Urdax parlait couramment: <<<Je pense, monsieur Cort, que le lieu de la halte est convenable, et la table est toute servie pour nos attelages.

— En effet, ils auront la une herbe epaisse et grasse… dit John Cort.

— Et on la brouterait volontiers, ajouta Max Huber, si on possedait la structure d’un ruminant et trois estomacs pour la digerer!

— Merci, repliqua John Cort, mais je prefere un quartier d’antilope grille sur les charbons, le biscuit dont nous sommes largement approvisionnes, et nos quartauts de madere du Cap…

— Auquel on pourra melanger quelques gouttes de ce rio limpide qui court a travers la plaine>>>, observa le Portugais. Et il montrait un cours d’eau, — affluent de l’Oubanghi, sans doute, — qui coulait a un kilometre du tertre.

Le campement s’acheva sans retard. L’ivoire fut empile par tas a proximite du chariot. Les attelages vaguerent autour des tamarins. Des feux s’allumerent ca et la avec le bois mort tombe des arbres. Le foreloper s’assura que les divers groupes ne manquaient de rien. La chair d’elan et d’antilope, fraiche ou sechee, abondait. Les chasseurs la pouvaient renouveler aisement. L’air se remplit de l’odeur des grillades, et chacun fit preuve d’un appetit formidable que justifiait cette demi-journee de marche.

Il va sans dire que les armes et les munitions etaient restees dans le chariot, — quelques caisses de cartouches, des fusils de chasse, des carabines, des revolvers, excellents engins de l’armement moderne, a la disposition du Portugais, de Khamis, de John Cort et de Max Huber, en cas d’alerte.

Le repas devait prendre fin une heure apres. L’estomac apaise, et la fatigue aidant, la caravane ne tarderait pas a etre plongee dans un profond sommeil.

Toutefois, le foreloper la confia a la surveillance de quelques-uns de ses hommes, qui devaient se relever de deux heures en deux heures. En ces lointaines contrees, il y a toujours lieu de se garder contre les etres malintentionnes, a deux pieds comme a quatre pattes. Aussi, Urdax ne manquait-il pas de prendre toutes les mesures de prudence. Age de cinquante ans, vigoureux encore, tres entendu a la conduite des expeditions de ce genre, il etait d’une extraordinaire endurance. De meme, Khamis, trente-cinq ans, leste, souple, solide aussi, de grand sang-froid et de grand courage, offrait toute garantie pour la direction des caravanes a travers l’Afrique.

Ce fut au pied de l’un des tamarins que les deux amis et le Portugais s’assirent pour le souper, apporte par le petit garcon, et que venait de preparer un des indigenes auquel etaient devolues les fonctions de cuisinier.

Pendant ce repas, les langues ne chomerent pas plus que les machoires. Manger n’empeche point de parler, lorsqu’on n’y met pas trop de hate. De quoi s’entretint-on?… Des incidents de l’expedition durant le parcours vers le nord-est?… Point. Ceux qui pouvaient se presenter au retour etaient d’un interet plus actuel. Le cheminement serait long encore jusqu’aux factoreries de Libreville — plus de deux mille kilometres — ce qui exigerait de neuf a dix semaines de marche. Or, dans cette seconde partie du voyage, qui sait? avait dit John Cort a son compagnon, auquel il fallait mieux que de l’imprevu, de l’extraordinaire.

Jusqu’a cette derniere etape, depuis les confins du Darfour, la caravane avait redescendu vers l’Oubanghi, apres avoir franchi les gues de l’Aoukadebe et de ses multiples affluents. Ce jour-la, elle venait de s’arreter a peu pres sur le point ou se croisent le vingt-deuxieme meridien et le neuvieme parallele.

<<<Mais, maintenant, dit Urdax, nous allons suivre la direction du sud-ouest…

— Et cela est d’autant plus indique, repondit John Cort, que, si mes yeux ne me trompent pas, l’horizon au sud est barre par une foret dont on ne voit l’extreme limite ni a l’est ni a l’ouest.

— Oui… immense! repliqua le Portugais. Si nous etions obliges de la contourner par l’est, des mois s’ecouleraient avant que nous l’eussions laissee en arriere!…

— Tandis que par l’ouest…

— Par l’ouest, repondit Urdax, et sans trop allonger la route, en suivant sa lisiere, nous rencontrerons l’Oubanghi aux environs des rapides de Zongo.

— Est-ce que de la traverser n’abregerait pas le voyage?… demanda Max Huber.

— Oui… d’une quinzaine de journees de marche.

— Alors… pourquoi ne pas nous lancer a travers cette foret?…

— Parce qu’elle est impenetrable.

— Oh! impenetrable!… repliqua Max Huber d’un air de doute.

— Pas aux pietons, peut-etre, observa le Portugais, et encore n’en suis-je pas sur, puisque aucun ne l’a essaye. Quant a y aventurer les attelages, ce serait une tentative qui n’aboutirait pas.

— Vous dites, Urdax, que personne n’a jamais essaye de s’engager dans cette foret?…

— Essaye… je ne sais, monsieur Max, mais qu’on y ait reussi… non… et, dans le Cameroun comme dans le Congo, personne ne s’aviserait de le tenter. Qui aurait la pretention de passer la ou il n’y a aucun sentier, au milieu des halliers epineux et des ronces?… Je ne sais meme si le feu et la hache parviendraient a deblayer le chemin, sans parler des arbres morts, qui doivent former d’insurmontables obstacles…

— Insurmontables, Urdax?…

— Voyons, cher ami, dit alors John Cort, n’allez pas vous emballer sur cette foret, et estimons-nous heureux de n’avoir qu’a la contourner!… J’avoue qu’il ne m’irait guere de m’aventurer a travers un pareil labyrinthe d’arbres…

— Pas meme pour savoir ce qu’il renferme?…

— Et que voulez-vous qu’on y trouve, Max?… Des royaumes inconnus, des villes enchantees, des eldorados mythologiques, des animaux d’espece nouvelle, des carnassiers a cinq pattes et des etres humains a trois jambes?…

— Pourquoi pas, John?… Et rien de tel que d’y aller voir!…>>> Llanga, ses grands yeux attentifs, sa physionomie eveillee, semblait dire que, si Max Huber se hasardait sous ces bois, il n’aurait pas peur de l’y suivre.

<<<Dans tous les cas, reprit John Cort, puisque Urdax n’a pas l’intention de la traverser pour atteindre les rives de l’Oubanghi…

— Non, certes, repliqua le Portugais. Ce serait s’exposer a n’en pouvoir plus sortir!

— Eh bien, mon cher Max, allons faire un somme, et permis a vous de chercher a decouvrir les mysteres de cette foret, de vous risquer en ces impenetrables massifs… en reve seulement, et encore n’est-ce pas meme tres prudent…

— Riez, John, riez de moi a votre aise! Mais je me souviens de ce qu’a dit un de nos poetes… je ne sais plus lequel: Fouiller dans l’inconnu pour trouver du nouveau.

— Vraiment, Max?… Et quel est le vers qui rime avec celui-la?

— Ma foi… je l’ai oublie, John!

— Oubliez donc le premier comme vous avez oublie le second, et allons dormir.>>> C’etait evidemment le parti le plus sage et sans s’abriter dans le chariot. Une nuit au pied du tertre, sous ces larges tamarins dont la fraicheur temperait quelque peu la chaleur ambiante, si forte encore apres le coucher du soleil, cela n’etait pas pour inquieter des habitues de <<<l’hotel de la Belle-Etoile>>>, quand le temps le permettait. Ce soir-la, bien que les constellations fussent cachees derriere d’epais nuages, la pluie ne menacant pas, il etait infiniment preferable de coucher en plein air.

Le jeune indigene apporta des couvertures. Les deux amis, etroitement enveloppes, s’etendirent entre les racines d’un tamarin, — un vrai cadre de cabine, — et Llanga se blottit a leur cote, comme un chien de garde.

Avant de les imiter, Urdax et Khamis voulurent une derniere fois faire le tour du campement, s’assurer que les boeufs entraves ne pourraient divaguer par la plaine, que les porteurs se trouvaient a leur poste de veille, que les foyers avaient ete eteints, car une etincelle eut suffi a incendier les herbes seches et le bois mort. Puis tous deux revinrent pres du tertre.

Le sommeil ne tarda pas a les prendre — un sommeil a ne pas entendre Dieu tonner. Et peut-etre les veilleurs y succomberent-ils, eux aussi?… En effet, apres dix heures, il n’y eut personne pour signaler certains feux suspects qui se deplacaient a la lisiere de la grande foret.

CHAPITRE II

Les feux mouvants

Une distance de deux kilometres au plus separait le tertre des sombres massifs au pied desquels allaient et venaient des flammes fuligineuses et vacillantes. On aurait pu en compter une dizaine, tantot reunies, tantot isolees, agitees parfois avec une violence que le calme de l’atmosphere ne justifiait pas. Qu’une bande d’indigenes eut campe en cet endroit, qu’elle s’y fut installee en attendant le jour, il y avait lieu de le presumer. Toutefois, ces feux n’etaient pas ceux d’un campement. Ils se promenaient trop capricieusement sur une centaine de toises, au lieu de se concentrer en un foyer unique d’une halte de nuit.

Il ne faut pas oublier que ces regions de l’Oubanghi sont frequentees par des tribus nomades, venues de l’Adamaoua ou du Barghimi a l’ouest, ou meme de l’Ouganda a l’est. Une caravane de trafiquants n’aurait pas ete assez imprudente pour signaler sa presence par ces feux multiples, se mouvant dans des tenebres. Seuls, des indigenes pouvaient s’etre arretes a cette place. Et qui sait s’ils n’etaient pas animes d’intentions hostiles a l’egard de la caravane endormie sous la ramure des tamarins?

Quoi qu’il en soit, si, de ce chef, quelque danger la menacait, si plusieurs centaines de Pahouins, de Foundj, de Chiloux, de Bari, de Denkas ou autres n’attendaient que le moment de l’assaillir avec les chances d’une superiorite numerique, personne, — jusqu’a dix heures et demie du moins, — n’avait pris aucune mesure defensive. Tout le monde dormait au campement, maitres et serviteurs, et, ce qui etait plus grave, les porteurs charges de se relever a leur poste de surveillance etaient plonges dans un lourd sommeil.

Tres heureusement, le jeune indigene se reveilla. Mais nul doute que ses yeux ne se fussent refermes a l’instant s’ils ne s’etaient diriges vers l’horizon du sud. Sous ses paupieres demi-closes il sentit l’impression d’une lumiere qui percait cette nuit tres noire. Il se detira, il se frotta les yeux, il regarda avec plus de soin… Non! il ne se trompait pas: des feux epars se mouvaient sur la lisiere de la foret.

Llanga eut la pensee que la caravane allait etre attaquee. Ce fut de sa part tout instinctif plutot que reflechi. En effet, des malfaiteurs se preparant au massacre et au pillage n’ignorent pas qu’ils accroissent leurs chances lorsqu’ils agissent par surprise. Ils ne se laissent pas voir avant, et ceux-ci se fussent signales?…

L’enfant, ne voulant pas reveiller Max Huber et John Cort, rampa sans bruit vers le chariot. Des qu’il fut arrive pres du foreloper, il lui mit la main sur l’epaule, le reveilla et, du doigt, lui montra les feux de l’horizon.

Khamis se redressa, observa pendant une minute ces flammes en mouvement, et, d’une voix dont il ne songeait point a adoucir l’eclat:

<<<Urdax!>>> dit-il.

Le Portugais, en homme habitue a se degager vivement des vapeurs du sommeil, fut debout en un instant.

<<<Qu’y a-t-il, Khamis?…

— Regardez!>>>

Et, le bras tendu, il indiquait la lisiere illuminee au ras de la plaine.

<<<Alerte!>>> cria le Portugais de toute la force de ses poumons.

En quelques secondes, le personnel de la caravane se trouva sur pied, et les esprits furent tellement saisis par la gravite de cette situation, que personne ne songea a incriminer les veilleurs pris en defaut. Il etait certain que, sans Llanga, le campement eut ete envahi pendant que dormaient Urdax et ses compagnons.

Inutile de mentionner que Max Huber et John Cort, se hatant de quitter l’entre-deux des racines, avaient rejoint le Portugais et le foreloper.

Il etait un peu plus de dix heures et demie. Une profonde obscurite enveloppait la plaine sur les trois quarts de son perimetre, au nord, a l’est et a l’ouest. Seul le sud s’eclairait de ces flammes falotes, jetant de vives clartes lorsqu’elles tourbillonnaient, et dont on ne comptait pas alors moins d’une cinquantaine.

<<<Il doit y avoir la un rassemblement d’indigenes, dit Urdax, et probablement de ces Boudjos qui frequentent les rives du Congo et de l’Oubanghi.

— Pour sur, ajouta Khamis, ces flammes ne se sont pas allumees toutes seules…

— Et, fit observer John Cort, il y a des bras qui les portent et les deplacent!

— Mais, dit Max Huber, ces bras doivent tenir a des epaules, ces epaules a des corps, et de ces corps nous n’apercevons pas un seul au milieu de cette illumination…

— Cela vient de ce qu’ils sont un peu en dedans de la lisiere, derriere les arbres…observa Khamis.

— Et remarquons, reprit Max Huber, qu’il ne s’agit pas d’une bande en marche sur le contour de la foret… Non! si ces feux s’ecartent a droite et a gauche, ils reviennent toujours au meme endroit…

— La ou doit etre le campement de ces indigenes, affirma le foreloper.

— Votre opinion?… demanda John Cort a Urdax.

— Est que nous allons etre attaques, affirma celui-ci, et qu’il faut, a l’instant, faire nos preparatifs de defense…

— Mais pourquoi ces indigenes ne nous ont-ils pas assaillis avant de se montrer?

— Des noirs ne sont pas des blancs, declara le Portugais. Neanmoins, pour etre peu avises, ils n’en sont pas moins redoutables par leur nombre et par leurs instincts feroces…

— Des pantheres que nos missionnaires auront bien du mal a transformer en agneaux!… ajouta Max Huber.

— Tenons-nous prets!>>> conclut le Portugais.

Oui, se tenir prets a la defense, et se defendre jusqu’a la mort. Il n’y a aucune pitie a esperer de ces tribus de l’Oubanghi. A quel point elles sont cruelles, on ne saurait se le figurer, et les plus sauvages peuplades de l’Australie, des Salomon, des Hebrides, de la Nouvelle-Guinee, soutiendraient difficilement la comparaison avec de tels indigenes. Vers le centre de la region, ce ne sont que des villages de cannibales, et les Peres de la Mission, qui bravent la plus epouvantable des morts, ne l’ignorent pas. On serait tente de classer ces etres, fauves a face humaine, au rang des animaux, en cette Afrique equatoriale ou la faiblesse est un crime, ou la force est tout! Et de fait, meme a l’age d’homme, combien de ces noirs ne possedent pas les notions premieres d’un enfant de cinq a six ans.

Et, ce qu’il est permis d’affirmer, — les preuves abondent, les missionnaires ont ete souvent les temoins de ces affreuses scenes, — c’est que les sacrifices humains sont en usage dans le pays. On tue les esclaves sur la tombe de leurs maitres, et les tetes, fixees a une branche pliante, sont lancees au loin des que le couteau du feticheur les a tranchees. Entre la dixieme et la seizieme annee, les enfants servent de nourriture dans les ceremonies d’apparat, et certains chefs ne s’alimentent que de cette jeune chair.

A ces instincts de cannibales se joint l’instinct du pillage. Il les entraine parfois a de grandes distances sur le chemin des caravanes, qu’ils assaillent, depouillent et detruisent. S’ils sont moins bien armes que les trafiquants et leur personnel, ils ont le nombre pour eux, et des milliers d’indigenes auront toujours raison de quelques centaines de porteurs. Les forelopers ne l’ignorent pas. Aussi leur principale preoccupation est-elle de ne point s’engager entre ces villages, tels Ngombe Dara, Kalaka Taimo et autres compris dans la region de l’Aoukadepe et du Bahar-el-Abiad, ou les missionnaires n’ont pas encore fait leur apparition, mais ou ils penetreront un jour. Aucune crainte n’arrete le devouement de ces derniers lorsqu’il s’agit d’arracher de petits etres a la mort et de regenerer ces races sauvages par l’influence de la civilisation chretienne.

Depuis le commencement de l’expedition le Portugais Urdax n’avait pas toujours pu eviter l’attaque des indigenes, mais il s’en etait tire sans grand dommage et il ramenait son personnel au complet. Le retour promettait de s’accomplir dans des conditions parfaites de securite. Cette foret contournee par l’ouest, on aurait atteint la rive droite de l’Oubanghi, et on descendrait cette riviere jusqu’a son embouchure sur la rive droite du Congo. A partir de l’Oubanghi, le pays est frequente par les marchands, par les missionnaires. Des lors il y aurait moins a craindre du contact des tribus nomades que l’initiative francaise, anglaise, portugaise, allemande, refoule peu a peu vers les lointaines contrees du Darfour.

Mais, lorsque quelques journees de marche devaient suffire a atteindre le fleuve, la caravane n’allait-elle pas etre arretee sur cette route, aux prises avec un tel nombre de pillards qu’elle finirait par succomber?… Il y avait lieu de le craindre. Dans tous les cas, elle ne perirait pas sans s’etre defendue, et, a la voix du Portugais, on prit toutes mesures pour organiser la resistance.

En un instant, Urdax, le foreloper, John Cort, Max Huber, furent armes, carabines a la main, revolvers a la ceinture, la cartouchiere bien garnie. Le chariot contenait une douzaine de fusils et de pistolets qui furent confies a quelques-uns des porteurs dont on connaissait la fidelite.

En meme temps, Urdax donna l’ordre a son personnel de se poster autour des grands tamarins, afin de se mieux abriter contre les fleches, dont la pointe empoisonnee occasionne des blessures mortelles.

On attendit. Aucun bruit ne traversait l’espace. Il ne semblait pas que les indigenes se fussent portes en avant de la foret. Les feux se montraient incessamment, et, ca et la, s’agitaient de longs panaches de fumee jaunatre.

<<<Ce sont des torches resineuses qui sont promenees sur la lisiere des arbres…

— Assurement, repondit Max Huber, mais je persiste a ne pas comprendre pourquoi ces gens-la le font, s’ils ont l’intention de nous attaquer…

— Et je ne le comprends pas davantage, ajouta John Cort, s’ils n’ont pas cette intention.>>>

C’etait inexplicable, en effet. Il est vrai, de quoi s’etonner, du moment qu’il s’agissait de ces brutes du haut Oubanghi?…

Une demi-heure s’ecoula, sans amener aucun changement dans la situation. Le campement se tenait sur ses gardes. Les regards fouillaient les sombres lointains de l’est et de l’ouest. Tandis que les feux brillaient au sud, un detachement pouvait se glisser lateralement pour attaquer la caravane grace a l’obscurite.

En cette direction, la plaine etait certainement deserte. Si profonde que fut la nuit, un parti d’agresseurs n’aurait pu surprendre le Portugais et ses compagnons, avant que ceux-ci eussent fait usage de leurs armes.

Un peu apres, vers onze heures, Max Huber, se portant a quelques pas du groupe que formaient Urdax, Khamis et John Cort, dit d’une voix resolue:

<<<Il faut aller reconnaitre l’ennemi…

— Est-ce bien utile, demanda John Cort, et la simple prudence ne nous commande-t-elle pas de rester en observation jusqu’au lever du jour?…

— Attendre… attendre… repliqua Max Huber, apres que notre sommeil a ete si facheusement interrompu… attendre pendant six a sept heures encore, la main sur la garde du fusil!… Non! il faut savoir au plus tot a quoi s’en tenir!… Et, somme toute, si ces indigenes n’ont aucune mauvaise intention, je ne serais pas fache de me reblottir jusqu’au matin dans ce cadre de racines ou je faisais de si beaux reves!

— Qu’en pensez-vous?… demanda John Cort au Portugais qui demeurait silencieux.

— Peut-etre la proposition merite-t-elle d’etre acceptee, repliqua-t-il, mais n’agissons pas sans precautions…

— Je m’offre pour aller en reconnaissance, dit Max Huber, et fiez-vous a moi…

— Je vous accompagnerai, ajouta le foreloper, si M. Urdax le trouve bon…

— Cela vaudra certes mieux, approuva le Portugais.

— Je puis aussi me joindre a vous…, proposa John Cort.

— Non… restez, cher ami, insista Max Huber. A deux, nous suffirons… D’ailleurs, nous n’irons pas plus loin qu’il ne sera necessaire… Et, si nous decouvrons un parti se dirigeant de ce cote, nous reviendrons en toute hate…

— Assurez-vous que vos armes sont en etat…, recommanda John

Cort.

— C’est fait, repondit Khamis, mais j’espere que nous n’aurons pas a nous en servir pendant cette reconnaissance. L’essentiel est de ne pas se laisser voir…

— C’est mon avis>>>, declara le Portugais.

Max Huber et le foreloper, marchant l’un pres de l’autre, eurent vite depasse le tertre des tamarins. Au dela, la plaine etait un peu moins obscure. Un homme, cependant, n’y eut pu etre signale a la distance d’une centaine de pas. Ils en avaient fait cinquante a peine, lorsqu’ils apercurent Llanga derriere eux. Sans rien dire, l’enfant les avait suivis en dehors du campement.

<<<Eh! pourquoi es-tu venu, petit?… dit Khamis.

— Oui, Llanga, reprit Max Huber, pourquoi n’es-tu pas reste avec les autres?…

— Allons… retourne…, ordonna le foreloper.

— Oh! monsieur Max, murmura Llanga, avec vous… moi… avec vous…

— Mais tu sais bien que ton ami John est la-bas…

— Oui… mais mon ami Max… est ici…

— Nous n’avons pas besoin de toi!… dit Khamis d’un ton assez dur.

— Laissons-le, puisqu’il est la! reprit Max Huber. Il ne nous genera pas, Khamis, et, avec ses yeux de chat sauvage, peut-etre decouvrira-t-il dans l’ombre ce que nous ne pourrions y voir…

— Oui… je regarderai… je verrai loin!… assura l’enfant.

— C’est bon!… Tiens-toi pres de moi, dit Max Huber, et ouvre l’oeil!>>>

Tous trois se porterent en avant. Un quart d’heure apres, ils etaient a moitie chemin entre le campement et la grande foret.

Les feux developpaient toujours leurs clartes au pied des massifs et, moins eloignes, se manifestaient par de plus vifs eclats. Mais si penetrante que fut la vue du foreloper, si bonne que fut la lunette que Max Huber venait d’extraire de son etui, si percants que fussent les regards du jeune <<<chat sauvage>>>, il etait impossible d’apercevoir ceux qui agitaient ces torches.

Cela confirmait cette opinion du Portugais, que c’etait sous le couvert des arbres, derriere les epaisses broussailles et les larges troncs, que se mouvaient ces lueurs. Assurement, les indigenes n’avaient pas depasse la limite de la foret, et peut-etre ne songeaient-ils pas a le faire.

En realite, c’etait de plus en plus inexplicable. S’il ne se trouvait la avant l’intention de se remettre en route au point du jour, pourquoi cette illumination de la lisiere?… Quelle ceremonie nocturne les tenait eveilles a cette heure?…

<<<Et je me demande meme, fit observer Max Huber, s’ils ont reconnu notre caravane, et s’ils savent qu’elle est campee autour des tamarins…

— En effet, repondit Khamis, il est possible qu’ils ne soient arrives qu’a la tombee de la nuit, lorsqu’elle enveloppait deja la plaine, et, comme nos foyers etaient eteints, peut-etre ignorent-ils que nous sommes campes a courte distance?… Mais, demain, des l’aube, ils nous verront…

— A moins que nous ne soyons repartis, Khamis.>>>

Max Huber et le foreloper reprirent leur marche en silence.

Un demi-kilometre fut franchi de telle sorte que, a ce moment, la distance jusqu’a la foret se reduisait a quelques centaines de metres.

Rien de suspect a la surface de ce sol traverse parfois du long jet des torches. Aucune silhouette ne s’y decoupait, ni au sud, ni au levant, ni au couchant. Une agression ne semblait pas imminente. En outre, si rapproches qu’ils fussent de la lisiere, ni Max Huber, ni Khamis, ni Llanga ne parvinrent a decouvrir les etres qui signalaient leur presence par ces multiples feux.

<<<Devons-nous nous approcher davantage?… demanda Max Huber, apres un arret de quelques instants.

— A quoi bon?… repondit Khamis. Ne serait-ce pas imprudent?… Il est possible, apres tout, que notre caravane n’ait point ete apercue, et si nous decampons cette nuit…

— J’aurais pourtant voulu etre fixe!… repeta Max Huber. Cela se presente dans des conditions si singulieres…>>>

Et il n’en fallait pas tant pour surexciter une vive imagination de Francais.

<<<Retournons au tertre>>>, repliqua le foreloper.

Cependant il dut s’avancer plus pres encore, a la suite de Max Huber, que Llanga n’avait pas voulu quitter… Et, peut-etre, tous les trois se fussent-ils portes jusqu’a la lisiere, lorsque Khamis s’arreta definitivement.

<<<Pas un pas de plus!>>> dit-il a voix basse.

Etait-ce donc devant un danger imminent que le foreloper et son compagnon suspendirent leur marche?… Avaient-ils entrevu un groupe d’indigenes?… Allaient-ils etre attaques?… Ce qui etait certain, c’est qu’un brusque changement venait de se manifester dans la disposition des feux sur le bord de la foret.

Un moment ces feux disparurent derriere le rideau des premiers arbres, confondus dans une obscurite profonde.

<<<Attention!… dit Max Huber.

— En arriere!…>>> repondit Khamis.

Convenait-il de retrograder dans la crainte d’une agression immediate?… Peut-etre. En tout cas, mieux valait ne pas battre en retraite sans etre pret a repondre coup pour coup. Les carabines armees remonterent a l’epaule, tandis que les regards ne cessaient de fouiller les sombres massifs de la lisiere.

Soudain, de cette ombre, les clartes ne tarderent pas a jaillir de nouveau au nombre d’une vingtaine.

<<<Parbleu! s’ecria Max Huber, cette fois-ci, si ce n’est pas de l’extraordinaire, c’est tout au moins de l’etrange!>>>

Ce mot semblera justifie pour cette raison que les torches, apres avoir brille naguere au niveau de la plaine, jetaient alors de plus vifs eclats entre cinquante et cent pieds au-dessus du sol.

Quant aux etres quelconques qui agitaient ces torches, tantot sur les basses branches, tantot sur les plus hautes, comme si un vent de flamme eut traverse cette epaisse frondaison, ni Max Huber, ni le foreloper, ni Llanga ne parvinrent a en distinguer un seul.

<<<Eh! s’ecria Max Huber, ne seraient-ce que des feux follets se jouant dans les arbres?…>>>

Khamis secoua la tete. L’explication du phenomene ne le satisfaisait point.

Qu’il y eut la quelque expansion d’hydrogene en exhalaisons enflammees, une vingtaine de ces aigrettes que les orages accrochent aussi bien aux branches des arbres qu’aux agres d’un navire, non, certes, et ces feux, on ne pouvait les confondre avec les capricieuses furolles de Saint-Elme. L’atmosphere n’etait point saturee d’electricite, et les nuages menacaient plutot de se resoudre en une de ces pluies torrentielles qui inondent frequemment la partie centrale du continent noir.

Mais, alors, pourquoi les indigenes campes au pied des arbres s’etaient-ils hisses, les uns jusqu’a leur fourche, les autres jusqu’a leurs extremes branches?… Et a quel propos y promenaient-ils ces brandons allumes, ces flambeaux de resine dont la deflagration faisait entendre ses craquements a cette distance?…

<<<Avancons… dit Max Huber.

— Inutile, repondit le foreloper. Je ne crois pas que notre campement soit menace cette nuit, et il est preferable d’y revenir afin de rassurer nos compagnons…

— Nous serons plus en mesure de les rassurer, Khamis, lorsque nous saurons a quoi nous en tenir sur la nature de ce phenomene…

— Non, monsieur Max, ne nous aventurons pas plus loin… Il est certain qu’une tribu est reunie en cet endroit… Pour quelle raison ces nomades agitent-ils ces flammes?… Pourquoi se sont-ils refugies dans les arbres?… Est-ce afin d’eloigner des fauves qu’ils ont entretenu ces feux?…

— Des fauves?… repliqua Max Huber. Mais pantheres, hyenes, boeufs sauvages, on les entendrait rugir ou meugler, et l’unique bruit qui nous arrive, c’est le crepitement de ces resines, qui menacent d’incendier la foret!… Je veux savoir…>>>

Et Max Huber s’avanca de quelques pas, suivi de Llanga, que Khamis rappelait vainement a lui.

Le foreloper hesitait sur ce qu’il devait faire dans son impuissance a retenir l’impatient Francais. Bref, ne voulant pas le laisser s’aventurer, il se disposait a l’accompagner jusqu’aux massifs, bien que, a son avis, ce fut une impardonnable temerite.

Soudain, il fit halte, a l’instant meme ou s’arretaient Max Huber et Llanga. Tous trois se retournerent, dos a la foret. Ce n’etaient plus les clartes qui attiraient leur attention. D’ailleurs, comme au souffle d’un subit ouragan, les torches venaient de s’eteindre, et de profondes tenebres enveloppaient l’horizon.

Du cote oppose, une rumeur lointaine se propageait a travers l’espace, ou plutot un concert de mugissements prolonges, de ronflements nasards, a faire croire qu’un orgue gigantesque lancait ses puissantes ondes a la surface de la plaine.

Etait-ce un orage qui montait sur cette partie du ciel, et dont les premiers grondements troublaient l’atmosphere?…

Non!… Il ne se produisait aucun de ces meteores, qui desolent si souvent l’Afrique equatoriale d’un littoral a l’autre. Ces mugissements caracteristiques trahissaient leur origine animale et ne provenaient pas d’une repercussion des decharges de la foudre echangees dans les profondeurs du ciel. Ils devaient sortir plutot de gueules formidables, non de nuages electriques. Au surplus, les basses zones ne se zebraient point des fulgurants zigzags qui se succedent a courts intervalles. Pas un eclair au-dessus de l’horizon du nord, aussi sombre que l’horizon du sud. A travers les nues accumulees, pas un trait de feu entre les cirrus, empiles comme des ballots de vapeurs.

<<<Qu’est-ce cela, Khamis?… demanda Max Huber.

— Au campement…, repondit le foreloper.

— Serait-ce donc?…>>> s’ecria Marc Huber.

Et, l’oreille tendue dans cette direction, il percevait un claironnement plus distinct, strident parfois comme un sifflet de locomotive, au milieu des larges rumeurs qui grandissaient en se rapprochant.

<<<Detalons, dit le foreloper, et au pas de course!>>>

CHAPITRE III

Dispersion

Max Huber, Llanga et Khamis ne mirent pas dix minutes a franchir les quinze cents metres qui les separaient du tertre. Ils ne s’etaient pas meme retournes une seule fois, ne s’inquietant pas d’observer si les indigenes, apres avoir eteint leurs feux, cherchaient a les poursuivre. Non, d’ailleurs, et, de ce cote, regnait le calme, alors que, a l’oppose, la plaine s’emplissait d’une agitation confuse et de sonorites eclatantes.

Le campement, lorsque les deux hommes et le jeune enfant y arriverent, etait en proie a l’epouvante, — epouvante justifiee par la menace d’un danger contre lequel le courage, l’intelligence ne pouvaient rien. Y faire face, impossible! Le fuir?… En etait-il temps encore?…

Max Huber et Khamis avaient aussitot rejoint John Cort et Urdax, postes a cinquante pas en avant du tertre.

<<<Une harde d’elephants!… dit le foreloper.

— Oui, repondit le Portugais, et, dans moins d’un quart d’heure, ils seront sur nous…

— Gagnons la foret, dit John Cort.

— Ce n’est pas la foret qui les arretera…, repliqua Khamis.

— Que sont devenus les indigenes?… s’informa John Cort.

— Nous n’avons pu les apercevoir…, repondit Max Huber.

— Cependant, ils ne doivent pas avoir quitte la lisiere!…

— Assurement non!>>>

Au loin, a une demi-lieue environ, on distinguait une large ondulation d’ombres qui se deplacait sur l’etendue d’une centaine de toises. C’etait comme une enorme vague dont les volutes echevelees se fussent deroulees avec fracas. Un lourd pietinement se propageait a travers la couche elastique du sol, et ce tremblotement se faisait sentir jusqu’aux racines des tamarins. En meme temps, le mugissement prenait une intensite formidable. Des souffles stridents, des eclats cuivres, s’echappaient de ces centaines de trompes, — autant de clairons sonnes a pleine bouche.

Les voyageurs de l’Afrique centrale ont pu justement comparer ce bruit a celui que ferait un train d’artillerie roulant a grande vitesse sur un champ de bataille. Soit! mais a la condition que les trompettes eussent jete dans l’air leurs notes dechirantes. Que l’on juge de la terreur a laquelle s’abandonnait le personnel de la caravane, menace d’etre ecrase par ce troupeau d’elephants!

Chasser ces enormes animaux presente de serieux dangers. Lorsqu’on parvient a les surprendre isolement, a separer de la bande a laquelle il appartient un de ces pachydermes, lorsqu’il est possible de le tirer dans des conditions qui assurent le coup, de l’atteindre, entre l’oeil et l’oreille, d’une balle qui le tue presque instantanement, les dangers de cette chasse sont tres diminues. En l’espece, la harde ne se composat-elle que d’une demi-douzaine de betes, les plus severes precautions, la plus extreme prudence sont indispensables. Devant cinq ou six couples d’elephants courrouces, toute resistance est impossible, alors que — dirait un mathematicien — leur masse est multipliee par le carre de leur vitesse.

Et, si c’est par centaines que ces formidables betes se jettent sur un campement, on ne peut pas plus les arreter dans leur elan qu’on n’arreterait une avalanche, ou l’un de ces mascarets qui emportent les navires dans l’interieur des terres a plusieurs kilometres du littoral.

Toutefois, si nombreux qu’ils soient, l’espece finira par disparaitre. Comme un elephant rapporte environ cent francs d’ivoire, on les chasse a outrance.

Chaque annee, d’apres les calculs de M. Foa, on n’en tue pas moins de quarante mille sur le continent africain, qui produisent sept cent cinquante mille kilogrammes d’ivoire expedies en Angleterre. Avant un demi-siecle, il n’en restera plus un seul, bien que la duree de leur existence soit considerable. Ne serait-il pas plus sage de tirer profit de ces precieux animaux par la domestication, puisqu’un elephant est capable de porter la charge de trente-deux hommes et de faire quatre fois plus de chemin qu’un pieton? Et puis, etant domestiques, ils vaudraient, comme dans l’Inde, de quinze cents a deux mille francs, au lieu des cent francs que l’on tire de leur mort.

L’elephant d’Afrique forme, avec l’elephant d’Asie, les deux seules especes existantes. On a etabli quelque difference entre elles. Si les premiers sont inferieurs par la taille a leurs congeneres asiatiques, si leur peau est plus brune, leur front plus convexe, ils ont les oreilles plus larges, les defenses plus longues, ils montrent une humeur plus farouche, presque irreductible.

Pendant cette expedition, le Portugais n’avait eu qu’a se feliciter et aussi les deux amateurs de ce sport. On le repete, les pachydermes sont encore nombreux sur la terre libyenne. Les regions de l’Oubanghi offrent un habitat qu’ils recherchent, des forets et des plaines marecageuses qu’ils affectionnent. Ils y vivent par troupes, d’ordinaire surveillees par un vieux male. En les attirant dans des enceintes palissadees, en leur preparant des trappes, en les attaquant lorsqu’ils etaient isoles, Urdax et ses compagnons avaient fait bonne campagne, sans accidents sinon sans dangers ni fatigues. Mais, sur cette route du retour, ne semblait-il pas que la troupe furieuse, dont les cris emplissaient l’espace, allait ecraser au passage toute la caravane?…

Si le Portugais avait eu le temps d’organiser la defensive, lorsqu’il croyait a une agression des indigenes campes au bord de la foret, que ferait-il contre cette irruption?… Du campement, il ne resterait bientot plus que debris et poussiere!… Toute la question se reduisait a ceci: le personnel parviendrait-il a se garer en se dispersant sur la plaine?… Qu’on ne l’oublie point, la vitesse de l’elephant est prodigieuse, et un cheval au galop ne saurait la depasser.

<<<Il faut fuir… fuir a l’instant!… affirma Khamis en s’adressant au Portugais.

— Fuir!…>>> s ecria Urdax.

Et le malheureux trafiquant comprenait bien que ce serait perdre, avec son materiel, tout le produit de l’expedition.

D’ailleurs, a demeurer au campement, le sauverait-il et n’etait-ce pas insense que de s’obstiner a une resistance impossible?…

Max Huber et John Cort attendaient qu’une resolution eut ete prise, decides a s’y soumettre, quelle qu’elle fut.

Cependant la masse se rapprochait, et avec un tel tumulte qu’on ne parvenait guere a s’entendre.

Le foreloper repeta qu’il fallait s’eloigner au plus tot.

<<<En quelle direction? demanda Max Huber.

— Dans la direction de la foret.

— Et les indigenes?…

— Le danger est moins pressant la-bas qu’ici>>>, repondit Khamis.

Que cela fut sur, comment l’affirmer?… Toutefois, il y avait, du moins, certitude qu’on ne pouvait rester a cette place. Le seul parti, pour eviter l’ecrasement, c’etait de se refugier a l’interieur de la foret.

Or, le temps ne manquerait-il pas?… Deux kilometres a franchir, alors que la harde n’etait qu’a la moitie tout au plus de cette distance!…

Chacun reclamait un ordre d’Urdax, ordre qu’il ne se resolvait pas a donner.

Enfin il s’ecria:

<<<Le chariot… le chariot!… Mettons-le a l’abri derriere le tertre… Peut-etre sera-t-il protege…

— Trop tard, repondit le foreloper.

— Fais ce que je te dis!… commanda le Portugais.

— Comment?…>>> repliqua Khamis.

En effet, apres avoir brise leurs entraves, sans qu’il eut ete possible de les arreter, les boeufs de l’attelage s’etaient sauves, et, affoles, couraient meme au-devant de l’enorme troupeau qui les ecraserait comme des mouches.

A cette vue, Urdax voulut recourir au personnel de la caravane:

<<<Ici, les porteurs!… cria-t-il.

— Les porteurs?… repondit Khamis. Rappelez-les donc, car ils prennent la fuite…

— Les laches!>>> s’ecria John Cort.

Oui, tous ces noirs venaient de se jeter dans l’ouest du campement, les uns emportant des ballots, les autres charges des defenses. Et ils abandonnaient leurs chefs en laches et aussi en voleurs!

Il n’y avait plus a compter sur ces hommes. Ils ne reviendraient pas. Ils trouveraient asile dans les villages indigenes. De la caravane restaient seuls le Portugais et le foreloper, le Francais, l’Americain et le jeune garcon.

<<<Le chariot… le chariot!…>>> repeta Urdax, qui s’entetait a le garer derriere le tertre.

Khamis ne put se retenir de hausser les epaules. Il obeit cependant et, grace au concours de Max Huber et de John Cort, le vehicule fut pousse au pied des arbres. Peut-etre serait-il epargne, si la harde se divisait en arrivant au groupe de tamarins?…

Mais cette operation dura quelque temps, et, lorsqu’elle fut terminee, il etait manifestement trop tard pour que le Portugais et ses compagnons pussent atteindre la foret.

Khamis le calcula, et ne lanca que ces deux mots:

<<<Aux arbres!>>>

Une seule chance s’offrait: se hisser entre les branches des tamarins afin d’eviter le premier choc tout au moins.

Auparavant Max Huber et John Cort s’introduisirent dans le chariot. Se charger de tous les paquets de cartouches qui restaient, assurer ainsi le service des carabines s’il fallait en faire usage contre les elephants, et aussi pour la route du retour, ce fut fait en un instant avec l’aide du Portugais et du foreloper, lequel songea a se munir de sa hachette et de sa gourde. En traversant les basses regions de l’Oubanghi, qui sait si ses compagnons et lui ne parviendraient pas a gagner les factoreries de la cote?…

Quelle heure etait-il a ce moment?… Onze heures dix-sept, — ce que constata John Cort, apres avoir eclaire sa montre a la flamme d’une allumette. Son sang-froid ne l’avait pas abandonne, ce qui lui permettait de juger la situation, tres perilleuse, a son avis, et sans issue, si les elephants s’arretaient au tertre, au lieu de se porter vers l’est ou l’ouest de la plaine.

Max Huber, plus nerveux, ayant egalement conscience du danger, allait et venait pres du chariot, observant l’enorme masse ondulante, qui se detachait, plus sombre, sur le fond du ciel.

<<<C’est de l’artillerie qu’il faudrait!…>>> murmura-t-il.

Khamis, lui, ne laissait rien voir de ce qu’il eprouvait. Il possedait ce calme etonnant de l’Africain, au sang arabe, ce sang plus epais que celui du blanc, moins rouge aussi, qui rend la sensibilite plus obtuse et donne moins prise a la douleur physique. Deux revolvers a sa ceinture, son fusil pret a etre epaule, il attendait.

Quant au Portugais, incapable de cacher son desespoir, il songeait plus a l’irreparable dommage dont il serait victime qu’aux dangers de cette irruption. Aussi gemissait-il, recriminait-il, prodiguant les plus retentissants jurons de sa langue maternelle.

Llanga se tenait pres de John Cort et regardait Max Huber. Il ne temoignait aucune crainte, n’ayant pas peur, du moment que ses deux amis etaient la.

Et pourtant l’assourdissant vacarme se propageait avec une violence inouie, a mesure que s’approchait la chevauchee formidable. Le claironnement des puissantes machoires redoublait. On sentait deja un souffle qui traversait l’air comme les vents de tempete. A cette distance de quatre a cinq cents pas, les pachydermes prenaient, dans la nuit, des dimensions demesurees, des apparences teratologiques. On eut dit d’une apocalypse de monstres, dont les trompes, comme un millier de serpents, se convulsaient dans une agitation frenetique.

Il n’etait que temps de se refugier entre les branches des tamarins, et peut-etre la harde passerait-elle sans avoir apercu le Portugais et ses compagnons.

Ces arbres dressaient leur cime a une soixantaine de pieds au-dessus du sol. Presque semblables a des noyers, tres caracterises par la capricieuse diffusion de leurs rameaux, les tamarins, sortes de dattiers, sont tres repandus sur les diverses zones de l’Afrique. En meme temps que les negres fabriquent avec la partie gluante de leurs fruits une boisson rafraichissante, ils ont l’habitude de meler les gousses de ces arbres au riz dont ils se nourrissent, surtout dans les provinces littorales.

Les tamarins etaient assez rapproches pour que leur basse frondaison fut entrelacee, ce qui permettrait de passer de l’un a l’autre. Leur tronc mesurait a la base une circonference de six a huit pieds, et de quatre a cinq pres de la fourche. Cette epaisseur presenterait-elle une resistance suffisante, si les animaux se precipitaient contre le tertre?

Les troncs n’offraient qu’une surface lisse jusqu’a la naissance des premieres branches etendues a une trentaine de pieds au-dessus du sol. Etant donnee la grosseur du fut, atteindre la fourche eut ete malaise si Khamis n’avait eu a sa disposition quelques <<<chamboks>>>. Ce sont des courroies en cuir de rhinoceros, tres souples, dont les forelopers se servent pour maintenir les attelages de boeufs.

Grace a l’une de ces courroies, Urdax et Khamis, apres l’avoir lancee a travers la fourche, purent se hisser a l’un des arbres. En employant de la meme facon une courroie semblable, Max Huber et John Cort en firent autant. Des qu’ils furent achevales sur une branche, ils envoyerent l’extremite du chambok a Llanga qu’ils enleverent en un tour de main.

La harde n’etait plus qu’a trois cents metres. En deux ou trois minutes, elle aurait atteint le tertre:

<<<Cher ami, etes-vous satisfait?… demanda ironiquement John Cort a son camarade.

— Ce n’est encore que de l’imprevu, John!

— Sans doute, Max, mais ce qui serait de l’extraordinaire, c’est que nous parvinssions a sortir sains et saufs de cette affaire!

— Oui… a tout prendre, John, mieux eut valu ne point etre expose a cette attaque d’elephants dont le contact est parfois brutal…

— C’est vraiment incroyable, mon cher Max, comme nous sommes du meme avis!>>> se contenta de repondre John Cort.

Ce que repliqua Huber, son ami ne put l’entendre. A cet instant eclaterent des beuglements d’epouvante, puis de douleur, qui eussent fait tressaillir les plus braves.

En ecartant le feuillage, Urdax et Khamis reconnurent ce qui se passait a une centaine de pas du tertre.

Apres s’etre sauves, les boeufs ne pouvaient plus fuir que dans la direction de la foret. Mais ces animaux, a la marche lente et mesuree, y parviendraient-ils avant d’avoir ete atteints?… Non, et ils furent bientot repousses… En vain se defendirent-ils a coups de pieds, a coups de corne, ils tomberent. De tout l’attelage il ne restait plus qu’un seul boeuf qui, par malheur, vint se refugier sous le branchage des tamarins.

Oui, par malheur, car les elephants l’y poursuivirent et s’arreterent par un instinct commun. En quelques secondes, le ruminant ne fut plus qu’un tas de chairs dechirees, d’os broyes, debris sanglants pietines sous les pieds calleux aux ongles d’une durete de fer.

Le tertre etait alors entoure et il fallut renoncer a la chance de voir s’eloigner ces betes furieuses.

En un moment, le chariot fut bouscule, renverse, chavire, ecrase sous les masses pesantes qui se refoulaient contre le tertre. Aneanti comme un jouet d’enfant, il n’en resta plus rien ni des roues, ni de la caisse.

Sans doute, de nouveaux jurons eclaterent entre les levres du Portugais, mais cela n’etait pas pour arreter ces centaines d’elephants, non plus que le coup de fusil qu’Urdax tira sur le plus rapproche, dont la trompe s’enroulait autour de l’arbre. La balle ricocha sur le dos de l’animal sans penetrer dans ses chairs.

Max Huber et John Cort le comprirent bien. En admettant meme qu’aucun coup ne fut perdu, que chaque balle fit une victime, peut-etre aurait-on pu se debarrasser de ces terribles assaillants, les detruire jusqu’au dernier, s’ils n’avaient ete qu’un petit nombre. Le jour n’aurait plus eclaire qu’un amoncellement d’enormes cadavres au pied des tamarins. Mais trois cents, cinq cents, un millier de ces animaux!… Est-il donc rare de rencontrer de pareilles agglomerations dans les contrees de l’Afrique equatoriale, et les voyageurs, les trafiquants, ne parlent-ils pas d’immenses plaines que couvrent a perte de vue les ruminants de toute sorte?…

<<<Cela se complique…, observa John Cort.

— On peut meme dire que ca se corse!>>> ajouta Max Huber.

Puis, s’adressant au jeune indigene achevale pres de lui:

<<<Tu n’as pas peur?… demanda-t-il.

— Non, mon ami Max… avec vous…, non!>>> repondit Llanga.

Et, cependant, il etait permis non seulement a un enfant, mais a des nommes aussi, de se sentir le coeur envahi d’une irresistible epouvante.

En effet, nul doute que les elephants n’eussent apercu, entre les branches des tamarins, ce qui restait du personnel de la caravane.

Et, alors, les derniers rangs poussant les premiers, le cercle se retrecit autour du tertre. Une douzaine d’animaux essayerent d’accrocher les basses branches avec leurs trompes en se dressant sur les pattes de derriere. Par bonne chance, a cette hauteur d’une trentaine de pieds, ils ne purent y reussir.

Quatre coups de carabine eclaterent simultanement, — quatre coups tires au juger, car il etait impossible de viser juste sous la sombre ramure des tamarins.

Des cris plus violents, des hurlements plus furieux, se firent entendre. Il ne sembla pas, pourtant, qu’aucun elephant eut ete mortellement atteint par les balles. Et, d’ailleurs, quatre de moins, cela n’eut pas compte!

Aussi, ce ne fut plus aux branches inferieures que les trompes essayerent de s’accrocher. Elles entourerent le fut des arbres en meme temps que ceux-ci subissaient la poussee puissante des corps. Et, de fait, si gros que fussent ces tamarins a leur base, si solidement que leurs racines eussent mordu le sol, ils eprouverent un ebranlement auquel, sans doute, ils ne pourraient resister.

Des coups de feu retentirent encore — deux cette fois — tires par le Portugais et le foreloper, dont l’arbre, secoue avec une extraordinaire violence, les menacait d’une chute prochaine.

Le Francais et son compagnon, eux, n’avaient point decharge leurs carabines, bien qu’ils fussent prets a le faire.

<<<A quoi bon?… avait dit John Cort.

— Oui, reservons nos munitions, repondit Max Huber. Plus tard, nous pourrions nous repentir d’avoir brule ici notre derniere cartouche!>>>

En attendant, le tamarin auquel etaient cramponnes Urdax et Khamis fut tellement ebranle qu’on l’entendit craquer sur toute sa longueur.

Evidemment, s’il n’etait pas deracine, il se briserait. Les animaux l’attaquaient a coups de defenses, le courbaient avec leurs trompes, l’ebranlaient jusque dans ses racines.

Rester plus longtemps sur cet arbre, ne fut-ce qu’une minute, c’etait risquer de s’abattre au pied du tertre:

<<<Venez!>>> cria a Urdax le foreloper, essayant de gagner l’arbre voisin.

Le Portugais avait perdu la tete et continuait a decharger inutilement sa carabine et ses revolvers, dont les balles glissaient sur les peaux rugueuses des pachydermes comme sur une carapace d’alligator.

<<<Venez!…>>> repeta Khamis.

Et au moment ou le tamarin etait secoue avec plus de violence, le foreloper parvint a saisir une des branches de l’arbre occupe par Max Huber, John Cort et Llanga, moins compromis que l’autre, contre lequel s’acharnaient les animaux:

<<<Urdax?… cria John Cort.

— Il n’a pas voulu me suivre, repondit le foreloper, il ne sait plus ce qu’il fait!…

— Le malheureux va tomber…

— Nous ne pouvons le laisser la…, dit Max Huber.

— Il faut l’entrainer malgre lui…, ajouta John Cort.

— Trop tard!…>>> dit Khamis.

Trop tard, en effet. Brise dans un dernier craquement, le tamarin s’abattit au bas du tertre.

Ce que devint le Portugais, ses compagnons ne purent le voir; ses cris indiquaient qu’il se debattait sous les pieds des elephants, et comme ils cesserent presque aussitot, c’est que tout etait fini.

<<<Le malheureux… le malheureux! murmura John Cort.

— A notre tour bientot… dit Khamis.

— Ce serait regrettable! repliqua froidement Max Huber.

— Encore une fois, cher ami, je suis bien de votre avis>>>, declara

John Cort.

Que faire?… Les elephants, pietinant le tertre, secouaient les autres arbres, agites comme sous le souffle d’une tempete. L’horrible fin d’Urdax n’etait-elle pas reservee a ceux qui lui auraient survecu quelques minutes a peine?… Voyaient-ils la possibilite d’abandonner le tamarin avant sa chute?… Et, s’ils se risquaient a descendre, pour gagner la plaine, echapperaient-ils a la poursuite de cette harde?… Auraient-ils le temps d’atteindre la foret?… Et, d’ailleurs, leur offrirait-elle toute securite?… Si les elephants ne les y poursuivaient pas, ne leur auraient-ils echappe que pour tomber au pouvoir d’indigenes non moins feroces?…

Cependant, que l’occasion se presentat de chercher refuge au-dela de la lisiere, il faudrait en profiter sans une hesitation. La raison commandait de preferer un danger non certain a un danger certain.

L’arbre continuait a osciller, et, dans une de ces oscillations, plusieurs trompes purent atteindre ses branches inferieures. Le foreloper et ses deux compagnons furent sur le point de lacher prise tant les secousses devinrent violentes. Max Huber, craignant pour Llanga, le serrait de son bras gauche, tandis qu’il se retenait du bras droit. Avant de tres courts instants, ou les racines auraient cede, ou le tronc serait brise a sa base… Et la chute du tamarin, c’etait la mort de ceux qui s’etaient refugies entre ses branches, l’epouvantable ecrasement du Portugais Urdax!…

Sous de plus rudes et de plus frequentes poussees, les racines cederent enfin, le sol se souleva, et l’arbre se coucha plutot qu’il ne s’abattit le long du tertre.

<<<A la foret… a la foret!…>>> cria Khamis.

Du cote ou les branches du tamarin avaient rencontre le sol, le recul des elephants laissait le champ libre. Rapidement, le foreloper dont le cri avait ete entendu, fut a terre. Les trois autres le suivirent aussitot dans sa fuite.

Tout d’abord, acharnes contre les arbres restes debout, les animaux n’avaient pas apercu les fugitifs. Max Huber, Llanga entre ses bras, courait aussi vite que le lui permettaient ses forces. John Cort se maintenait a son cote, pret a prendre sa part de ce fardeau, pret egalement a decharger sa carabine sur le premier de la harde qui serait a sa portee.

Le foreloper, John Cort et Max Huber avaient a peine franchi un demi-kilometre, lorsqu’une dizaine d’elephants, se detachant de la troupe, commencerent a les poursuivre.

<<<Courage… courage!… cria Khamis. Conservons notre avance!…

Nous arriverons!…>>>

Oui, peut-etre, et encore importait-il de ne pas etre retarde.

Llanga sentait bien que Max Huber se fatiguait.

<<<Laisse-moi… laisse-moi, mon ami Max!… J’ai de bonnes jambes… laisse-moi!…>>>

Max Huber ne l’ecoutait pas et tachait de ne point rester en arriere.

Un kilometre fut enleve, sans que les animaux eussent sensiblement gagne de l’avance. Par malheur, la vitesse de Khamis et de ses compagnons se ralentissait, la respiration leur manquait apres cette formidable galopade.

Cependant la lisiere ne se trouvait plus qu’a quelques centaines de pas, et n’etait-ce point le salut probable, sinon assure, derriere ces epais massifs au milieu desquels les enormes animaux ne pourraient manoeuvrer?…

<<<Vite… vite!… repetait Khamis. Donnez-moi Llanga, monsieur

Max…

— Non, Khamis… j’irai jusqu’au bout!>>>

Un des elephants ne se trouvait plus qu’a une douzaine de metres. On entendait la sonnerie de sa trompe, on sentait la chaleur de son souffle. Le sol tremblait sous ses larges pieds qui battaient le galop. Une minute, et il aurait atteint Max Huber, qui ne se maintenait pas sans peine pres de ses compagnons.

Alors John Cort s’arreta, se retourna, epaula sa carabine, visa un instant, fit feu et frappa, parait-il, l’elephant au bon endroit. La balle lui avait traverse le coeur, il tomba foudroye.

<<<Coup heureux!>>> murmura John Cort, et il se reprit a fuir.

Les autres animaux, arrives peu d’instants apres, entourerent la masse etendue sur le sol. De la un repit dont le foreloper et ses compagnons allaient profiter.

Il est vrai, apres avoir abattu les derniers arbres du tertre, la harde ne tarderait pas a se precipiter vers la foret.

Aucun feu n’avait reparu ni au niveau de la plaine ni aux cimes des arbres. Tout se confondait sur le perimetre de l’obscur horizon.

Epuises, epoumones, les fugitifs auraient-ils la force d’atteindre leur but?…

<<<Hardi… hardi!…>>> criait Khamis.

S’il n’y avait plus qu’une centaine de pas a franchir, les elephants n’etaient que de quarante en arriere…

Par un supreme effort — celui de l’instinct de la conservation — Khamis, Max Huber, John Cort se jeterent entre les premiers arbres, et, a demi inanimes, tomberent sur le sol.

En vain la harde voulut franchir la lisiere. Les arbres etaient si presses qu’elle ne put se frayer passage, et ils etaient de telle dimension qu’elle ne parvint pas a les renverser. En vain les trompes se glisserent a travers les interstices, en vain les derniers rangs pousserent les premiers…

Les fugitifs n’avaient plus rien a craindre des elephants, auxquels la grande foret de l’Oubanghi opposait un insurmontable obstacle.

CHAPITRE IV

Parti a prendre, parti pris

Il etait pres de minuit. Restaient six heures a passer en complete obscurite. Six longues heures de craintes et de dangers!… Que Khamis et ses compagnons fussent a l’abri derriere l’infranchissable barriere des arbres, cela semblait acquis. Mais si la securite etait assuree de ce chef, un autre danger menacait. Au milieu de la nuit, est-ce que des feux multiples ne s’etaient pas montres sur la lisiere?… Est-ce que les hautes ramures ne s’etaient pas illuminees d’inexplicables lueurs?… Pouvait-on douter qu’un parti d’indigenes ne fut campe en cet endroit?… N’y avait-il pas a craindre une agression contre laquelle aucune defense ne serait possible?…

<<<Veillons, dit le foreloper, des qu’il eut repris haleine apres cette epoumonante course, et lorsque le Francais et l’Americain furent en etat de lui repondre.

— Veillons, repeta John Cort, et soyons prets a repousser une attaque!… Les nomades ne sauraient etre eloignes… C’est sur cette partie de la lisiere qu’ils ont fait halte, et voici les restes d’un foyer, d’ou s’echappent encore quelques etincelles…>>>

En effet, a cinq ou six pas, au pied d’un arbre, des charbons brulaient en jetant une clarte rougeatre.

Max Huber se releva et, sa carabine armee, se glissa sous le taillis.

Khamis et John Cort anxieux se tenaient prets a le rejoindre s’il le fallait.

L’absence de Max Huber ne dura que trois ou quatre minutes. Il n’avait rien entrevu de suspect, rien entendu qui fut de nature a inspirer la crainte d’un danger immediat.

<<<Cette portion de la foret est actuellement deserte, dit-il. Il est certain que les indigenes l’ont quittee…

— Et peut-etre meme se sont-ils enfuis lorsqu’ils ont vu apparaitre les elephants, observa John Cort.

— Peut-etre, car les feux que nous avons apercus, monsieur Max et moi, dit Khamis, se sont eteints des que les mugissements ont retenti dans la direction du nord. Etait-ce par prudence, etait-ce par crainte?… Ces gens devaient se croire en surete derriere les arbres… Je ne m’explique pas bien…

— Ce qui est inexplicable, reprit Max Huber, et la nuit n’est pas favorable aux explications. Attendons le jour, et, je l’avoue, j’aurais quelque peine a rester eveille… mes yeux se ferment malgre moi…

— Le moment est mal choisi pour dormir, mon cher Max, declara

John Cort.

— On ne peut pas plus mal, mon cher John, mais le sommeil n’obeit pas, il commande… Bonsoir et a demain!>>>

Un instant apres, Max Huber, etendu au pied d’un arbre, etait plonge dans un profond sommeil.

<<<Va te coucher pres de lui, Llanga, dit John Cort. Khamis et moi, nous veillerons jusqu’au matin.

— J’y suffirai, monsieur John, repondit le foreloper. C’est dans mes habitudes, et je vous conseille d’imiter votre ami.>>>

On pouvait s’en rapporter a Khamis. Il ne se relacherait pas une minute de sa surveillance.

Llanga alla se blottir pres de Max Huber. John Cort, lui, voulut resister. Pendant un quart d’heure encore, il s’entretint avec le foreloper. Tous deux parlerent de l’infortune Portugais, auquel Khamis etait attache depuis longtemps, et dont ses compagnons avaient apprecie les qualites au cours de cette campagne:

<<<Le malheureux, repetait Khamis, a perdu la tete en se voyant abandonne par ces laches porteurs, depouille, vole…

— Pauvre homme!>>> murmura John Cort.

Ce furent les deux derniers mots qu’il prononca. Vaincu par la fatigue, il s’allongea sur l’herbe et s’endormit aussitot.

Seul, l’oeil aux aguets, pretant l’oreille, epiant les moindres bruits, sa carabine a portee de la main, fouillant du regard l’ombre epaisse, se relevant parfois afin de mieux sonder les profondeurs du sous-bois au ras du sol, pret enfin a reveiller ses compagnons, s’il y avait lieu de se defendre, Khamis veilla jusqu’aux premieres lueurs du jour.

A quelques traits, le lecteur a deja pu constater la difference de caractere qui existait entre les deux amis francais et americain.

John Cort etait d’un esprit tres serieux et tres pratique, qualites habituelles aux hommes de la Nouvelle-Angleterre. Ne a Boston, et bien qu’il fut Yankee par son origine, il ne se revelait que par les bons cotes du Yankee. Tres curieux des questions de geographie et d’anthropologie, l’etude des races humaines l’interessait au plus haut degre. A ces merites, il joignait un grand courage et eut pousse le devouement a ses amis jusqu’au dernier sacrifice.

Max Huber, un Parisien reste tel au milieu de ces contrees lointaines ou l’avaient transporte les hasards de l’existence, ne le cedait a John Cort ni par la tete ni par le coeur. Mais, de sens moins pratique, on eut pu dire qu’il <<<vivait en vers>>> alors que John Cort <<<vivait en prose>>>. Son temperament le lancait volontiers a la poursuite de l’extraordinaire. Ainsi qu’on a du le remarquer, il aurait ete capable de regrettables temerites pour satisfaire ses instincts d’imaginatif, si son prudent compagnon eut cesse de le retenir. Cette heureuse intervention avait eu plusieurs occasions de s’exercer depuis le depart de Libreville.

Libreville est la capitale du Congo francais. Fondee en 1849 sur la rive gauche de l’estuaire du Gabon, elle compte actuellement de quinze a seize cents habitants. Le gouverneur de la colonie y reside, et il ne faudrait pas y chercher d’autres edifices que sa propre maison. L’hopital, l’etablissement des missionnaires, et, pour la partie industrielle et commerciale, les parcs a charbon, les magasins et les chantiers constituent toute la ville.

A trois kilometres de cette capitale se trouve une annexe, le village de Glass, ou prosperent des factoreries allemandes, anglaises et americaines.

C’etait la que Max Huber et John Cort s’etaient connus cinq ou six ans plus tot et lies d’une solide amitie. Leurs familles possedaient des interets considerables dans la factorerie americaine de Glass. Tous deux y occupaient des emplois superieurs. Cet etablissement se maintenait en pleine fortune, faisant le trafic de l’ivoire, des huiles d’arachides, du vin de palme, des diverses productions du pays: telle la noix du gourou, aperitive et vivifiante; telle la baie de kaffa, d’arome si penetrant et d’energie si fortifiante, l’une et l’autre largement expediees sur les marches de l’Amerique et de l’Europe.

Trois mois auparavant, Max Huber et John Cort avaient forme le projet de visiter la region qui s’etend a l’est du Congo francais et du Cameroun. Chasseurs determines, ils n’hesiterent pas a se joindre au personnel d’une caravane sur le point de quitter Libreville pour cette contree ou les elephants abondent au-dela du Bahar-el-Abiad, jusqu’aux confins du Baghirmi et du Darfour. Tous deux connaissaient le chef de cette caravane, le Portugais Urdax, originaire de Loango, et qui passait, a juste titre, pour un habile trafiquant.

Urdax faisait partie de cette Association des chasseurs d’ivoire que Stanley, en 1887-1889, rencontra a Ipoto, alors qu’elle revenait du Congo septentrional. Mais le Portugais ne partageait pas la mauvaise reputation de ses confreres, lesquels, pour la plupart, sous pretexte de chasser l’elephant, se livrent au massacre des indigenes, et, ainsi que le dit l’intrepide explorateur de l’Afrique equatoriale, l’ivoire qu’ils rapportent est teint de sang humain.

Non! un Francais et un Americain pouvaient, sans dechoir, accepter la compagnie d’Urdax, et aussi celle du foreloper, le guide de la caravane, ce Khamis, qui ne devait en aucune circonstance menager ni son devouement ni son zele.

La campagne fut heureuse, on le sait. Tres acclimates, John Cort et Max Huber supporterent avec une remarquable endurance les fatigues de cette expedition. Un peu amaigris, sans doute, ils revenaient en parfaite sante, lorsque la mauvaise chance leur barra la route du retour. Et, maintenant, le chef de la caravane leur manquait, alors qu’une distance de plus de deux mille kilometres les separait encore de Libreville.

La <<<Grande Foret>>>, ainsi l’avait qualifiee Urdax, cette foret d’Oubanghi dont ils avaient franchi la limite, justifiait cette qualification.

Dans les parties connues du globe terrestre, il existe de ces espaces, couverts de millions d’arbres, et leurs dimensions sont telles que la plupart des Etats d’Europe n’en egalent point la superficie.

On cite, parmi les plus vastes du monde, les quatre forets qui sont situees dans l’Amerique du Nord, dans l’Amerique du Sud, dans la Siberie et dans l’Afrique centrale.

La premiere, se prolongeant en direction septentrionale jusqu’a la baie d’Hudson et la presqu’ile de Labrador, couvre, dans les provinces de Quebec et de l’Ontario, au nord du Saint-Laurent, une aire dont la longueur mesure deux mille sept cent cinquante kilometres sur une largeur de seize cents.

La seconde occupe dans la vallee de l’Amazone, au nord-ouest du Bresil, une etendue de trois mille trois cents kilometres en longueur et de deux mille en largeur.

La troisieme, avec quatre mille huit cents kilometres d’une part et deux mille sept cents de l’autre, herisse de ses enormes coniferes, d’une hauteur de cent cinquante pieds, une portion de la Siberie meridionale, depuis les plaines du bassin de l’Obi, a l’ouest, jusqu’a la vallee de l’Indighiska, a l’est, contree qu’arrosent l’Yenissei, l’Olamk, la Lena et la Yana.

La quatrieme s’etend depuis la vallee du Congo jusqu’aux sources du Nil et du Zambeze, sur une superficie encore indeterminee, qui depasse vraisemblablement celle des trois autres. La, en effet, se developpe l’immense etendue de region ignoree que presente cette partie de l’Afrique parallele a l’equateur, au nord de l’Ogoue et du Congo, sur un million de kilometres carres, pres de deux fois la surface de la France.

On ne l’a point oublie, il entrait dans la pensee du Portugais Urdax de ne pas s’aventurer a travers cette foret, mais de la contourner par le nord et l’ouest. D’ailleurs, comment le chariot et son attelage auraient-ils pu circuler au milieu de ce labyrinthe? Quitte a accroitre l’itineraire de quelques journees de marche, la caravane suivrait, le long de la lisiere, un chemin plus facile qui conduisait a la rive droite de l’Oubanghi, et, de la, il serait aise de regagner les factoreries de Libreville.

A present, la situation etait modifiee. Plus rien des impedimenta d’un nombreux personnel, des charges d’un materiel encombrant. Plus de chariot, plus de boeufs, plus d’objets de campement. Seulement trois hommes et un jeune enfant, auxquels manquaient les moyens de transport a cinq cents lieues du littoral de l’Atlantique.

Quel parti convenait-il de prendre? En revenir a l’itineraire indique par Urdax, mais dans des conditions peu favorables, ou bien essayer, en pietons, de franchir obliquement la foret, ou les rencontres de nomades seraient moins a redouter, route qui abregerait le parcours, jusqu’aux frontieres du Congo francais?…

Telle serait l’importante question a traiter, puis a resoudre, des que Max Huber et John Cort se reveilleraient a l’aube prochaine.

Durant ces longues heures, Khamis etait reste de garde. Aucun incident n’avait trouble le repos des dormeurs ni fait pressentir une agression nocturne. A plusieurs reprises, le foreloper, son revolver a la main, s’etait eloigne d’une cinquantaine de pas, rampant entre les broussailles, lorsque se produisait aux alentours quelque bruit de nature a inquieter sa vigilance. Ce n’etaient qu’un craquement de branche morte, le coup d’aile d’un gros oiseau a travers les ramures, le pietinement d’un ruminant autour du lieu de halte et aussi ces vagues rumeurs forestieres, lorsque, sous le vent de la nuit, frissonnent les hautes frondaisons.

Des que les deux amis rouvrirent les yeux, ils furent sur pied.

<<<Et les indigenes?… demanda John Cort.

— Ils n’ont point reparu, repondit Khamis.

— N’ont-ils pas laisse des traces de leur passage?…

— C’est a supposer, monsieur John, et probablement pres de la lisiere…

— Voyons, Khamis.>>>

Tous trois, suivis de Llanga, se glisserent du cote de la plaine. A trente pas de la, les indices ne manquerent point: empreintes multiples, herbes foulees au pied des arbres, debris de branches resineuses consumees a demi, tas de cendres ou petillaient quelques etincelles, ronces dont les plus seches degageaient encore un peu de fumee. D’ailleurs aucun etre humain sous bois, ni sur les branches, entre lesquelles, cinq ou six heures auparavant, s’agitaient les flammes mouvantes.

<<<Partis…, dit Max Huber.

— Ou du moins eloignes, repondit Khamis, et il ne me semble pas que nous ayons a craindre…

— Si les indigenes se sont eloignes, fit observer John Cort, les elephants n’ont pas pris exemple sur eux!…>>>

Et, de fait, les monstrueux pachydermes rodaient toujours aux abords de la foret. Plusieurs s’entetaient vainement a vouloir renverser les arbres par de vigoureuses poussees. Quant au bouquet de tamarins, Khamis et ses compagnons purent constater qu’il etait abattu. Le tertre, depouille de son ombrage, ne formait plus qu’une legere tumescence a la surface de la plaine.

Sur le conseil du foreloper, Max Huber et John Cort eviterent de se montrer, dans l’espoir que les elephants quitteraient la plaine.

<<<Cela nous permettrait de retourner au campement, dit Max Huber, et de recueillir ce qui reste du materiel… peut-etre quelques caisses de conserves, des munitions…

— Et aussi, ajouta John Cort, de donner une sepulture convenable a ce malheureux Urdax…

— Il n’y faut pas songer tant que les elephants seront sur la lisiere, repondit Khamis. Au surplus, pour ce qui est du materiel, il doit etre reduit a des debris informes!>>>

Le foreloper avait raison, et, comme les elephants ne manifestaient point l’intention de se retirer, il n’y eut plus qu’a decider ce qu’il convenait de faire. Khamis, John Cort, Max Huber et Llanga revinrent donc sur leurs pas.

En chemin, Max Huber fut assez heureux pour tuer une belle piece, qui devait assurer la nourriture pour deux ou trois jours.

C’etait un inyala, sorte d’antilope a pelage gris melange de poils bruns, animal de grande taille, celui-ci un male, arme de cornes spiraliferes, dont une fourrure epaisse garnissait la poitrine et la partie inferieure du corps. La balle l’avait frappe a l’instant ou sa tete se glissait entre les broussailles.

Cet inyala devait peser de deux cent cinquante a trois cents livres. En le voyant tomber, Llanga avait couru comme un jeune chien. Mais, on l’imagine, il n’aurait pu rapporter un tel gibier, et il y eut lieu de lui venir en aide.

Le foreloper, qui avait l’habitude de ces operations, depeca la bete et en garda les morceaux utilisables, lesquels furent rapportes pres du foyer. John Cort y jeta une brassee de bois mort, qui petilla en quelques minutes; puis, des qu’un lit de charbons ardents fut forme, Khamis y deposa plusieurs tranches d’une chair appetissante.

Des conserves, des biscuits, dont la caravane possedait nombre de caisses, il ne pouvait plus etre question, et, sans doute, les porteurs en avaient enleve la plus grande partie. Tres heureusement, dans les giboyeuses forets de l’Afrique centrale, un chasseur est toujours sur de se suffire, s’il sait se contenter de viandes roties ou grillees.

Il est vrai, ce qui importe, c’est que les munitions ne fassent pas defaut. Or, John Cort, Max Huber, Khamis etaient munis chacun d’une carabine de precision et d’un revolver. Ces armes adroitement maniees devaient leur rendre service, mais encore fallait-il que les cartouchieres fussent convenablement remplies. Or, tout compte fait, et bien qu’avant de quitter le chariot ils eussent bourre leurs poches, ils n’avaient plus qu’une cinquantaine de coups a tirer. Mince approvisionnement, on l’avouera, surtout s’ils etaient obliges de se defendre contre les fauves ou les nomades, pendant six cents kilometres jusqu’a la rive droite de l’Oubanghi. A partir de ce point, Khamis et ses compagnons devaient pouvoir se ravitailler sans trop de peine, soit dans les villages, soit dans les etablissements des missionnaires, soit meme a bord des flottilles qui descendent le grand tributaire du Congo.

Apres s’etre serieusement repus de la chair d’inyala, et rafraichis de l’eau limpide d’un ruisselet qui serpentait entre les arbres, tous trois delibererent sur le parti a prendre.

Et, en premier lieu, John Cort s’exprima de la sorte:

<<<Khamis, jusqu’ici Urdax etait notre chef… Il nous a toujours trouves prets a suivre ses conseils, car nous avions confiance en lui… Cette confiance, vous nous l’inspirez par votre caractere et votre experience… Dites-nous ce que vous jugez a propos de faire dans la situation ou nous sommes, et notre acquiescement vous est assure…

— Certes, ajouta Max Huber, il n’y aura jamais desaccord entre nous.

— Vous connaissez ce pays, Khamis, reprit John Cort. Depuis nombre d’annees vous y conduisez des caravanes avec un devouement que nous avons ete a meme d’apprecier… C’est a ce devouement comme a votre fidelite que nous faisons appel, et je sais que ni l’un ni l’autre ne nous manqueront…

— Monsieur John, monsieur Max, vous pouvez compter sur moi…>>>, repondit simplement le foreloper.

Et il serra les mains qui se tendirent vers lui, auxquelles se joignit celle de Llanga.

<<<Quel est votre avis?… demanda John Cort. Devons-nous ou non renoncer au projet d’Urdax de contourner la foret par l’ouest?…

— Il faut la traverser, repondit sans hesiter le foreloper. Nous n’y serons pas exposes a de mauvaises rencontres: des fauves, peut-etre; des indigenes, non. Ni Pahouins, ni Denkas, ni Founds, ni Boughos ne se sont jamais risques a l’interieur, ni aucune peuplade de l’Oubanghi. Les dangers sont plus grands pour nous en plaine, surtout de la part des nomades. Dans cette foret ou une caravane n’aurait pu s’engager avec ses attelages, des hommes a pied ont la possibilite de trouver passage. Je le repete, dirigeons-nous vers le sud-ouest, et j’ai bon espoir d’arriver sans erreur aux rapides de Zongo.>>>

Ces rapides barrent le cours de l’Oubanghi a l’angle que fait la riviere en quittant la direction ouest pour la direction sud. A s’en rapporter aux voyageurs, c’est la que la grande foret prolonge son extreme pointe. De la, il n’y a plus qu’a suivre les plaines sur le parallele de l’equateur, et, grace aux caravanes tres nombreuses en cette region, les moyens de ravitaillement et de transport seraient frequents.

L’avis de Khamis etait donc sage. En outre, l’itineraire qu’il proposait devait abreger le cheminement jusqu’a l’Oubanghi. Toute la question tenait a la nature des obstacles que presenterait cette foret profonde. De sentier praticable, il ne fallait pas esperer qu’il en existat: peut-etre quelques passees d’animaux sauvages, buffles, rhinoceros et autres lourds mammiferes. Quant au sol, il serait embarrasse de broussailles, ce qui eut necessite l’emploi de la hache, alors que le foreloper en etait reduit a sa hachette et ses compagnons a leurs couteaux de poche. Neanmoins, il n’y aurait pas a subir de longs retards pendant la marche.

Apres avoir souleve ces objections, John Cort n’hesita plus. Relativement a la difficulte de s’orienter sous les arbres dont le soleil percait a peine le dome epais, meme a son zenith, inutile de s’en preoccuper.

En effet, une sorte d’instinct, semblable a celui des animaux, — instinct inexplicable et qui se rencontre chez quelques races d’hommes, — permet aux Chinois entre autres, comme a plusieurs tribus sauvages du Far-West, de se guider par l’ouie et par l’odorat plus encore que par la vue, et de reconnaitre la direction a de certains indices. Or Khamis possedait cette faculte d’orientation a un degre rare; il en avait maintes fois donne des preuves decisives. Dans une certaine mesure, le Francais et l’Americain pourraient s’en rapporter a cette aptitude plutot physique qu’intellectuelle, peu sujette a l’erreur, et sans avoir besoin de relever la position du soleil.

Quant aux autres obstacles qu’offrait la traversee de la foret, voici ce que repondit le foreloper:

<<<Monsieur John, je sais que nous ne trouverons pour tout sentier qu’un sol obstrue de ronces, de bois mort, d’arbres tombes de vieillesse, enfin d’obstacles peu aises a franchir. Mais admettez-vous qu’une si vaste foret ne soit pas arrosee de quelques cours d’eau, lesquels ne peuvent etre que des affluents de l’Oubanghi?…

— Ne fut-ce que celui qui coule a l’est du tertre, fit observer Max Huber. Il se dirige vers la foret, et pourquoi ne deviendrait-il pas riviere?… Dans ce cas, un radeau que nous construirions… quelques troncs lies ensemble…

— N’allez pas si vite, cher ami, dit John Cort, et ne vous laissez pas emporter par votre imagination a la surface de ce rio… imaginaire…

— Monsieur Max a raison, declara Khamis. Vers le couchant, nous rencontrerons ce cours d’eau qui doit se jeter dans l’Oubanghi…

— D’accord, repliqua John Cort, mais nous les connaissons, ces rivieres de l’Afrique, pour la plupart innavigables…

— Vous ne voyez que les difficultes, mon cher John…

— Mieux vaut les voir avant qu’apres, mon cher Max!>>>

John Cort disait vrai. Les rivieres et les fleuves de l’Afrique n’offrent pas les memes avantages que ceux de l’Amerique, de l’Asie et de l’Europe. On en compte quatre principaux: le Nil, le Zambeze, le Congo, le Niger, que de nombreux affluents alimentent, et le reseau liquide de leur bassin est considerable. Malgre cette disposition naturelle, ils ne facilitent que mediocrement les expeditions a l’interieur du continent noir. D’apres les recits des voyageurs que leur passion de decouvreurs a conduits a travers ces immenses territoires, les fleuves africains ne sauraient etre compares au Mississippi, au Saint-Laurent, a la Volga, a l’Iraouaddy, au Brahmapoutre, au Gange, a l’Indus. Le volume de leurs eaux est de beaucoup moins abondant, si leur parcours egale celui de ces puissantes arteres, et, a quelque distance en amont des embouchures, ils ne peuvent porter des navires de tonnage moyen. En outre, ce sont des bas-fonds qui les interceptent, des cataractes ou des chutes qui les coupent d’une rive a l’autre, des rapides d’une telle violence qu’aucune embarcation ne se risque a les remonter. La est une des raisons qui rendent l’Afrique centrale si refractaire aux efforts tentes jusqu’ici.

L’objection de John Cort avait donc sa valeur, Khamis ne pouvait la meconnaitre. Mais, en somme, elle n’etait pas de nature a faire rejeter le projet du foreloper, qui, d’autre part, presentait de reels avantages.

<<<Si nous rencontrons un cours d’eau, repondit-il, nous le

descendrons tant qu’il ne sera pas interrompu par des obstacles…

S’il est possible de tourner ces obstacles, nous les tournerons…

Dans le cas contraire, nous reprendrons notre marche…

— Aussi, repliqua John Cort, ne suis-je pas oppose a votre proposition, Khamis, et je pense que nous avons tout benefice a nous diriger vers l’Oubanghi en suivant un de ses tributaires, si faire se peut.>>>

Au point ou la discussion etait arrivee, il n’y avait plus que deux mots a repondre:

<<<En route!…>>> s’ecria Max Huber.

Et ses compagnons les repeterent apres lui.

Au fond, ce projet convenait a Max Huber: s’aventurer a l’interieur de cette immense foret, impenetree jusqu’alors, sinon impenetrable… Peut-etre y rencontrerait-il enfin cet extraordinaire que, depuis trois mois, il n’avait pas trouve dans les regions du haut Oubanghi!

CHAPITRE V

Premiere journee de marche

Il etait un peu plus de huit heures lorsque John Cort, Max Huber,

Khamis et l’enfant prirent direction vers le sud-ouest.

A quelle distance apparaitrait le cours d’eau qu’ils comptaient suivre jusqu’a son confluent avec l’Oubanghi?… Aucun d’eux ne l’eut pu dire. Et si c’etait celui qui paraissait couler vers la foret, apres avoir contourne le tertre des tamarins, n’obliquait-il pas a l’est sans la traverser?… Et, enfin, si les obstacles, roches ou rapides, encombraient son lit au point de le rendre innavigable?… D’autre part, si cette immense agglomeration d’arbres etait depourvue de sentiers ou du moins de passees ouvertes par les animaux entre les halliers, comment des pietons pourraient-ils s’y frayer une route sans employer le fer ou le feu?… Khamis et ses compagnons trouveraient-ils, dans les parties frequentees par les gros quadrupedes, le sol degage, les broussailles pietinees, les lianes rompues, le cheminement libre?…

Llanga, comme un agile furet, courait en avant, bien que John Cort lui recommandat de ne pas s’eloigner. Mais, lorsqu’on le perdait de vue, sa voix percante ne cessait de se faire entendre.

<<<Par ici… par ici!>>> criait-il.

Et tous trois marchaient vers lui, en suivant les percees dans lesquelles il venait de s’engager.

Lorsqu’il fallut s’orienter a travers ce labyrinthe, l’instinct du foreloper intervint utilement. D’ailleurs, par l’interstice des frondaisons, il etait possible de relever la position du soleil. En ce mois de mars, a l’heure de sa culmination, il montait presque au zenith, qui, pour cette latitude, occupe la ligne de l’equateur celeste.

Cependant le feuillage s’epaississait a ce point que c’est a peine si un demi-jour regnait sous ces milliers d’arbres. Par les temps couverts, ce devait etre presque de l’obscurite, et, la nuit, toute circulation deviendrait impossible. Il est vrai, l’intention de Khamis etait de faire halte entre le soir et le matin, de choisir un abri au pied de quelque tronc en cas de pluie, de n’allumer de feu que juste pour cuire le gibier abattu dans l’avant ou l’apres-midi. Quoique la foret ne dut pas etre frequentee par les nomades, — et on n’avait pas releve trace de ceux qui avaient campe sur la lisiere, — mieux valait ne point signaler sa presence par l’eclat d’un foyer. Au surplus, quelques braises ardentes, disposees sous la cendre, devaient suffire a la cuisine, et il n’y avait rien a craindre du froid a cette epoque de la saison africaine.

En effet, la caravane avait deja eu a souffrir des chaleurs en parcourant les plaines de la region intertropicale. La temperature y atteignait un degre excessif. Sous l’abri de ces arbres, Khamis, Max Huber, John Cort seraient moins eprouves, les conditions etant plus favorables au long et penible parcours que leur imposaient les circonstances. Il va de soi que pendant ces nuits, impregnees des feux du jour, a la condition que le temps fut sec, il n’y avait aucun inconvenient a coucher en plein air.

La pluie, c’etait la ce qui etait le plus a craindre dans une contree ou les saisons sont toutes pluvieuses. Sur la zone equinoxiale soufflent les vents alizes qui s’y neutralisent. De ce phenomene climaterique il resulte que, l’atmosphere etant generalement calme, les nuages epanchent leurs vapeurs condensees en d’interminables averses. Toutefois, depuis une semaine, le ciel s’etait rasserene au retour de la lune, et, puisque le satellite terrestre parait avoir une influence meteorologique, peut-etre pouvait-on compter sur une quinzaine de jours que ne troublerait pas la lutte des elements.

En cette partie de la foret qui s’abaissait en pente peu sensible vers les rives de l’Oubanghi, le terrain n’etait pas marecageux, ce qu’il serait sans doute plus au sud. Le sol, tres ferme, etait tapisse d’une herbe haute et drue qui rendait le cheminement lent et difficile, lorsque le pied des animaux ne l’avait pas foulee.

<<<Eh! fit observer Max Huber, il est regrettable que nos elephants n’aient pas pu foncer jusqu’ici!… Ils auraient brise les lianes, dechire les broussailles, aplani le sentier, ecrase les ronces…

— Et nous avec… repliqua John Cort.

— Assurement, affirma le foreloper. Contentons-nous de ce qu’ont fait les rhinoceros et les buffles… Ou ils ont passe, il y aura pour nous passage.>>>

Khamis, d’ailleurs, connaissait ces forets de l’Afrique centrale pour avoir souvent parcouru celles du Congo et du Cameroun. On comprendra, des lors, qu’il ne fut point embarrasse de repondre relativement aux essences forestieres si diverses, qui foisonnaient dans celle-ci. John Cort s’interessait a l’etude de ces magnifiques echantillons du regne vegetal, a ces phanerogames dont on a catalogue tant d’especes entre le Congo et le Nil.

<<<Et puis, disait-il, il en est d’utilisables, susceptibles de varier le monotone menu des grillades.>>>

Sans parler des gigantesques tamarins reunis en grand nombre, les mimosas d’une hauteur extraordinaire et les baobabs dressaient leurs cimes a une altitude de cent cinquante pieds. A vingt et trente metres s’elevaient certains specimens de la famille des euphorbiacees, a branches epineuses, a feuilles larges de six a sept pouces, doublees d’une ecorce a substance laiteuse, et dont la noix, lorsque le fruit est mur, fait explosion en projetant la semence de ses seize compartiments. Et, s’il n’eut possede l’instinct de l’orientation, Khamis n’aurait-il pu s’en rapporter aux indications du sylphinum lacinatum, puisque les feuilles radicales de cet arbuste se tordent de maniere a presenter leurs faces l’une a l’est, l’autre a l’ouest.

En verite, un Bresilien perdu sous ces profonds massifs se serait cru au milieu des forets vierges du bassin de l’Amazone. Tandis que Max Huber pestait contre les buissons nains qui herissaient le sol, John Cort ne se lassait pas d’admirer ces tapis verdoyants de haute lisse, ou se multipliaient le phrynium et les aniomes, les fougeres de vingt sortes qu’il fallait ecarter. Et quelle variete d’arbres, les uns de bois dur, les autres de bois mou! Ceux-ci, ainsi que le fait remarquer Stanley, — Voyage dans les tenebres de l’Afrique, — remplacent le pin et le sapin des zones hyperboreennes. Rien qu’avec leurs larges feuilles, les indigenes se construisent des cabanes pour une halte de quelques jours. En outre, la foret possedait encore en grand nombre des teks, des acajous, des coeurs-verts, des arbres de fer, des campeches de nature imputrescible, des copals de venue superbe, des manguiers arborescents, des sycomores qui pouvaient rivaliser avec les plus beaux de l’Afrique orientale, des orangers a l’etat sauvage, des figuiers dont le tronc etait blanc comme s’il eut ete chaule, des <<<mpafous>>> colossaux et autres arbres de toutes especes.

En realite, ces multiples produits du regne vegetal ne sont pas assez presses pour nuire au developpement de leur ramure sous l’influence d’un climat a la fois chaud et humide. Il y aurait eu passage meme pour les chariots d’une caravane, si des cables, mesurant jusqu’a un pied d’epaisseur, n’eussent ete tendus entre leurs bases. C’etaient d’interminables lianes qui s’enroulaient autour des futs comme des fouillis de serpents. De toutes parts s’enchevetraient un enguirlandement de branchages dont on ne saurait se faire une idee, des tortis capricieux, des festons ininterrompus allant des massifs aux halliers. Pas un rameau qui ne fut rattache au rameau voisin! Pas un tronc qui ne fut relie par ces longues chaines vegetales, dont quelques-unes pendaient jusqu’a terre comme des stalactites de verdure! Pas une rugueuse ecorce qui ne fut tapissee de mousses epaisses et veloutees sur lesquelles couraient des milliers d’insectes aux ailes pointillees d’or!

Et des moindres amalgames de ces frondaisons s’echappait un concert de gazouillements, de hululements, ici des cris, la des chants, qui s’eparpillaient du matin au soir.

Les chants, c’etaient des myriades de becs qui les lancaient en roulades, rossignolades, trilles plus varies et plus aigus que ceux d’un sifflet de quartier-maitre a bord d’un navire de guerre. Et comment n’etre point assourdi par ce monde aile des perroquets, des huppes, des hiboux, des ecureuils volants, des merles, des perruches, des tette-chevres, sans compter les oiseaux-mouches, agglomeres comme un essaim d’abeilles entre les hautes branches?…

Les cris, c’etaient ceux d’une colonie simienne, un charivarique accord de babouins a poil grisatre, de colobes encamailles, de grenuches a fourrure noire, de chimpanzes, de mandrilles, de gorilles, les plus vigoureux et les plus redoutables singes de la faune africaine. Jusqu’alors, ces quadrumanes, bien qu’ils fussent en bandes, ne s’etaient livres a aucune manifestation hostile contre Khamis et ses compagnons, les premiers hommes, sans doute, qu’ils apercevaient au fond de cette foret de l’Afrique centrale. Il y avait lieu de croire, en effet, que jamais etres humains ne s’etaient aventures sous ces massifs. De la, chez la gent simienne, plus de curiosite que de colere. En d’autres parties du Congo et du Cameroun, il n’en eut pas ete de meme. Depuis longtemps, l’homme y a fait son apparition. Les chasseurs d’ivoire, auxquels des centaines de bandits, indigenes ou non, pretent leur concours, n’en sont plus a etonner des singes, depuis longtemps temoins des ravages que ces aventuriers exercent, et qui coutent tant de vies humaines.

Apres une premiere halte au milieu de la journee, une seconde fut faite a six heures du soir. Le cheminement avait presente parfois de reelles difficultes en presence d’inextricables reseaux de lianes. Les couper ou les rompre exigeait un penible travail. Toutefois, sur une grande etendue du parcours s’ouvraient des sentiers frequentes plus particulierement par les buffles, dont quelques-uns furent entrevus derriere les buissons, — entre autres des onjas de forte taille.

Ces ruminants ne laissent point d’etre redoutables, grace a leur force prodigieuse, et les chasseurs doivent eviter, quand ils les attaquent, d’etre charges par eux. Les tirer entre les deux yeux, pas trop bas, afin que la blessure soit foudroyante, c’est le plus sur moyen de les abattre.

John Cort et Max Huber n’avaient jamais eu l’occasion d’exercer leur adresse contre ces onjas, qui s’etaient tenus hors de portee. D’ailleurs, la chair d’antilope ne manquant pas encore, il importait de menager les munitions. Aucun coup de fusil ne devait retentir pendant cette traversee, a moins qu’il ne s’agit de la defense personnelle ou de la necessite de pourvoir a la nourriture quotidienne.

Ce fut au bord d’une petite clairiere que, le soir venu, Khamis donna le signal d’arret, au pied d’un arbre qui depassait la futaie environnante. A six metres du sol s’etendait son feuillage d’un vert tirant sur le gris, entremele de fleurs d’un duvet blanchatre tombant en neige autour d’un tronc a l’ecorce argentee. C’etait un de ces cotonniers d’Afrique, dont les racines sont disposees en arcs-boutants, et sous lesquelles on peut s’abriter.

<<<Le lit est tout fait!… s’ecria Max Huber. Pas de sommier elastique, sans doute, mais un matelas de coton, et nous en aurons l’etrenne!>>>

Le feu allume avec le briquet et l’amadou dont Khamis etait amplement approvisionne, ce repas fut semblable au premier du matin et au deuxieme de la meridienne. Par malheur, — mais comment ne point s’y resigner? — manque absolu de ce biscuit qui avait remplace le pain pendant la campagne. On se contenta donc des grillades, lesquelles satisfirent l’appetit dans une large mesure.

Le souper fini, avant d’aller s’etendre entre les racines du cotonnier, John Cort dit au foreloper:

<<<Si je ne me trompe, nous avons toujours marche dans le sens du sud-ouest…

— Toujours, repondit Khamis. Chaque fois que j’ai pu apercevoir le soleil, j’ai releve la route…

— A combien de lieues estimez-vous nos etapes pendant cette journee?…

— Quatre a cinq, monsieur John, et, si nous continuons de la sorte, en moins d’un mois nous aurons atteint les bords de l’Oubanghi.

— Bon, reprit John Cort, n’est-il pas prudent de compter avec les mauvaises chances?…

— Et aussi avec les bonnes, repartit Max Huber. Qui sait si nous ne decouvrirons pas quelque cours d’eau, qui nous permettra de descendre sans fatigue…

— Jusqu’ici il ne semble pas, mon cher Max…

— C’est que nous ne sommes pas assez avances en direction de l’ouest, affirma Khamis, et je serais tres surpris si demain… ou apres-demain…

— Faisons comme si nous ne devions pas rencontrer une riviere, repliqua John Cort. Somme toute, un voyage d’une trentaine de jours, si les difficultes ne sont pas plus insurmontables que pendant cette premiere journee, ce n’est pas pour effrayer des chasseurs africanises comme nous le sommes!

— Et encore, ajouta Max Huber, je crains bien que cette mysterieuse foret ne soit totalement depourvue de mystere!

— Tant mieux, Max!

— Tant pis, John! — Et, maintenant, Llanga, allons dormir…

— Oui, mon ami Max>>>, repondit l’enfant, dont les yeux se fermaient de sommeil, apres les fatigues d’une longue route pendant laquelle il n’etait jamais reste en arriere.

Aussi fallut-il le transporter entre les racines du cotonnier et l’accoter dans le meilleur coin.

Le foreloper s’etait offert a veiller toute la nuit. Ses compagnons n’y voulurent point consentir. On se relayerait de trois heures en trois heures, bien que les entours de la clairiere ne parussent pas suspects. Mais la prudence commandait d’etre sur ses gardes jusqu’au lever du jour.

Ce fut Max Huber qui prit la premiere faction, tandis que John

Cort et Khamis s’etendaient sur le blanc duvet tombe de l’arbre.

Max Huber, sa carabine chargee a portee de la main, appuye contre une des racines, s’abandonna au charme de cette tranquille nuit. Dans les profondeurs de la foret, tous les bruits du jour avaient cesse. Il ne passait entre les ramures qu’une haleine reguliere, la respiration de ces arbres endormis. Les rayons de la lune, tres elevee vers le zenith, glissaient par les interstices du feuillage et zebraient le sol de zigzags argentes. Au-dela de la clairiere, les dessous s’illuminaient aussi du scintillement des irradiations lunaires.

Tres sensible a cette poesie de la nature, Max Huber la goutait, l’aspirait, pourrait-on dire, croyait rever parfois, et cependant ne dormait point. Ne lui semblait-il pas qu’il fut le seul etre vivant au sein de ce monde vegetal?…

Monde vegetal, c’etait bien ce que son imagination faisait de cette grande foret de l’Oubanghi!

<<<Et, pensait-il, si l’on veut penetrer les derniers secrets du globe, faut-il donc aller jusqu’aux extremites de son axe, pour decouvrir ses derniers mysteres?… Pourquoi, au prix d’effroyables dangers et avec la certitude de rencontrer des obstacles peut-etre infranchissables, pourquoi tenter la conquete des deux poles?… Qu’en resulterait-il?… La solution de quelques problemes de meteorologie, d’electricite, de magnetisme terrestre!… Cela vaut-il que l’on ajoute tant de noms aux necrologies des contrees australes et boreales?… Est-ce qu’il ne serait pas plus utile, plus curieux, au lieu de courir les mers arctiques et antarctiques, de fouiller les aires infinies de ces forets et de vaincre leur farouche impenetrabilite?… Comment! il en existe de telles en Amerique, en Asie, en Afrique, et aucun pionnier n’a eu jusqu’ici la pensee d’en faire son champ de decouvertes, ni le courage de se lancer a travers cet inconnu? Personne n’a encore arrache a ces arbres le mot de leur enigme comme les anciens aux vieux chenes de Dodone?… Et n’avaient-ils pas eu raison, les mythologistes, de peupler leurs bois de faunes, de satyres, de dryades, d’hamadryades, de nymphes imaginaires?… D’ailleurs, pour se restreindre aux donnees de la science moderne, ne peut-on admettre, en ces immensites forestieres, l’existence d’etres inconnus, appropries aux conditions de cet habitat? A l’epoque druidique, est-ce que la Gaule transalpine n’abritait pas des peuplades a demi sauvages, des Celtes, des Germains, des Ligures, des centaines de tribus, des centaines de villes et de villages, ayant leurs coutumes particulieres, leurs moeurs personnelles, leur originalite native, a l’interieur de ces forets dont la toute-puissance romaine ne parvint pas sans grands efforts a forcer les limites?…>>>

Ainsi songeait Max Huber.

Or, precisement, en ces regions de l’Afrique equatoriale, est-ce que la legende n’avait pas signale des etres a un degre inferieur de l’humanite, des etres quasi fabuleux?… Est-ce que cette foret de l’Oubanghi n’avoisinait pas, a l’est, les territoires reconnus par Schweinfurth et Junker, le pays des Niam-Niam, ces hommes a queue, qui, il est vrai, ne possedaient aucun appendice caudal?… Est-ce que Henry Stanley, dans les contrees au nord de l’Itouri, n’avait pas rencontre des pygmees hauts de moins d’un metre, parfaitement constitues, a peau luisante et fine, aux grands yeux de gazelle, et dont le missionnaire anglais Albert Lhyd a constate l’existence entre l’Ouganda et la Cabinda, plus de dix mille, abrites sous la ramure ou perches sur les grands arbres, ces Bambustis, ayant un chef auquel ils obeissaient?… Est-ce que dans les bois de Ndouqourbocha, apres avoir quitte Ipoto, il n’avait pas traverse cinq villages, abandonnes de la veille par leur population lilliputienne? Est-ce qu’il ne s’etait pas trouve en presence de ces Ouambouttis, Batinas, Akkas, Bazoungous, dont la stature ne depassait pas cent trente centimetres, reduite meme, pour certains d’entre eux, a quatre-vingt-douze, et d’un poids inferieur a quarante kilogrammes? Et, cependant, ces tribus n’en etaient pas moins intelligentes, industrieuses, guerrieres, redoutables, avec leurs petites armes, aux animaux comme aux hommes, et tres craintes des peuplades agricoles des regions du haut Nil?…

Aussi, emporte par son imagination, son appetit des choses extraordinaires, Max Huber s’obstinait-il a croire que la foret de l’Oubanghi devait renfermer des types etranges, dont les ethnographes ne soupconnaient pas l’existence… Pourquoi pas des humains qui n’auraient qu’un oeil comme les Cyclopes de la Fable, ou dont le nez, allonge en forme de trompe, permettrait de les classer, sinon dans l’ordre des pachydermes, du moins dans la famille des proboscidiens?…

Max Huber, sous l’influence de ces reveries scientifico—

fantaisistes, oubliait tant soit peu son role de sentinelle.

L’ennemi se fut approche sans avoir ete signale a temps pour que

Khamis et John Cort pussent se mettre sur la defensive…

Une main se posa sur son epaule.

<<<Eh!… quoi? fit-il en sursautant.

— C’est moi, lui dit son compagnon, et ne me prenez pas pour un sauvage de l’Oubanghi! — Rien de suspect?…

— Rien…

— Il est l’heure a laquelle il est convenu que vous iriez reposer, mon cher Max…

— Soit, mais je serai bien etonne si les reves que je vais faire en dormant valent ceux que j’ai faits sans dormir!>>>

La premiere partie de cette nuit n’avait point ete troublee, et le reste ne le fut pas davantage, lorsque John Cort eut remplace Max Huber, et lorsque Khamis eut releve John Cort de sa faction.

CHAPITRE VI

Apres une longue etape

Le lendemain, a la date du 11 mars, parfaitement remis des fatigues de la veille, John Cort, Max Huber, Khamis, Llanga se disposerent a braver celles de cette seconde journee de marche.

Quittant l’abri du cotonnier, ils firent le tour de la clairiere, salues par des myriades d’oiseaux qui remplissaient l’espace de trilles assourdissants et de points d’orgue a rendre jaloux les Patti et autres virtuoses de la musique italienne.

Avant de se mettre en route, la sagesse commandait de faire un premier repas. Il se composa uniquement de la viande froide d’antilope, de l’eau d’un ruisseau qui serpentait sur la gauche, et auquel fut remplie la gourde du foreloper.

Le debut de l’etape se fit a droite, sous les ramures que percaient deja les premiers rayons du soleil, dont la position fut relevee avec soin.

Evidemment ce quartier de la foret devait etre frequente par de puissants quadrupedes. Les passees s’y multipliaient dans tous les sens. Et de fait, au cours de la matinee, on apercut un certain nombre de buffles, et meme deux rhinoceros qui se tenaient a distance. Comme ils n’etaient point d’humeur batailleuse, sans doute, il n’y eut pas lieu de depenser les cartouches a repousser une attaque.

La petite troupe ne s’arreta que vers midi, ayant franchi une bonne douzaine de kilometres.

En cet endroit, John Cort put abattre un couple d’outardes de l’espece des korans qui vivent dans les bois, volatiles au plumage d’un noir de jais sous le ventre. Leur chair, tres estimee des indigenes, inspira cette fois la meme estime a un Americain et a un Francais au repas de midi.

<<<Je demande, avait toutefois dit Max Huber, que l’on substitue le roti aux grillades…

— Rien de plus facile>>>, s’etait hate de repondre le foreloper.

Et une des outardes, plumee, videe, embrochee d’une baguette, rotie a point devant une flamme vive, petillante, fut devoree a belles dents.

Khamis et ses compagnons se remirent en route dans des conditions plus penibles que la veille.

A descendre au sud-ouest, les passees se presentaient moins frequemment. Il fallait se frayer un chemin entre les broussailles, aussi drues que les lianes dont les cordons durent etre tranches au couteau. La pluie vint a tomber pendant plusieurs heures, — une pluie assez abondante. Mais telle etait l’epaisseur des frondaisons que c’est a peine si le sol en recevait quelques gouttes. Toutefois, au milieu d’une clairiere, Khamis put remplir la gourde presque videe deja, et il y eut lieu de s’en feliciter. En vain le foreloper avait-il cherche quelque filet liquide sous les herbes. De la, probablement, la rarete des animaux et des sentiers praticables.

<<<Cela n’annonce guere la proximite d’un cours d’eau>>>, declara John Cort, lorsque l’on s’installa pour la halte du soir.

D’ou cette consequence s’imposait: c’est que le rio qui coulait non loin du tertre aux tamarins ne faisait que contourner la foret.

Neanmoins, la direction prise jusqu’alors ne devrait pas etre modifiee, et avec d’autant plus de raison qu’elle aboutirait au bassin de l’Oubanghi.

<<<D’ailleurs, observa Khamis, a defaut du cours d’eau que nous avons apercu avant-hier au campement, ne peut-il s’en rencontrer un autre dans cette direction?>>> La nuit du 11 au 12 mars ne s’ecoula pas entre les racines d’un cotonnier. Ce fut au pied d’un arbre non moins gigantesque, un bombax, dont le tronc symetrique s’elevait tout d’un jet a la hauteur d’une centaine de pieds au-dessus de l’epais tapis du sol.

La surveillance etablie comme d’habitude, le sommeil n’allait etre trouble que par quelques lointains beuglements de buffles et de rhinoceros. Il n’etait pas a craindre que le rugissement du lion se melat a ce concert nocturne. Ces redoutables fauves n’habitent guere les forets de l’Afrique centrale. Ils sont les hotes des regions plus elevees en latitude, soit au dela du Congo vers le sud, soit sur la limite du Soudan vers le nord, dans le voisinage du Sahara. Les epais fourres ne conviennent pas au caractere capricieux, a l’allure independante du roi des animaux, — roi d’autorite et non roi constitutionnel. Il lui faut de plus grands espaces, des plaines inondees de soleil ou il puisse bondir en toute liberte.

Si les rugissements ne se firent pas entendre, il en fut de meme des grognements de l’hippopotame, — ce qui etait regrettable, convient-il de noter, car la presence de ces mammiferes amphibies eut indique la proximite d’un cours d’eau.

Le lendemain, depart des l’aube par temps sombre, et coup de carabine de Max Huber, qui abattit une antilope de la taille d’un ane, ou plus exactement d’un zebre, type place entre l’ane et le cheval. C’etait un oryx, a robe de couleur vineuse, presentant quelques zebrures regulierement dessinees. L’oryx est raye d’une bande noire depuis la nuque jusqu’a l’arriere-train, orne de taches noires aux jambes, dont le poil est blanchatre, agremente d’une queue noire qui balaye largement le sol, echantillonne d’un bouquet de fourrure noire a sa gorge. Bel animal, aux cornes longues d’un metre, garnies d’une trentaine d’anneaux a leur base, s’incurvant avec elegance, et presentant une symetrie de forme dont la nature donne peu d’exemples.

Chez l’oryx, la corne est une arme defensive qui, dans les contrees du nord et du midi de l’Afrique, lui permet de resister meme a l’attaque du lion. Mais, ce jour-la, l’animal vise par le chasseur ne put echapper a la balle qui lui fut joliment envoyee, et, le coeur traverse, tomba du premier coup.

C’etait l’alimentation assuree pour plusieurs jours. Khamis s’occupa de depecer l’oryx, travail qui prit une heure. Puis, se partageant cette charge, dont Llanga reclama sa part, ils commencerent une nouvelle etape.

<<<Eh! ma foi! dit John Cort, on se procure par ici de la viande a bon marche, puisqu’elle ne coute qu’une cartouche…

— A la condition d’etre adroit…, repliqua le foreloper.

— Et heureux surtout>>>, ajouta Max Huber, plus modeste que ne le sont d’habitude ses confreres en haute venerie.

Mais jusqu’alors, si Khamis et ses compagnons avaient pu epargner leur poudre et economiser leur plomb, s’ils ne les avaient employes qu’a tuer le gibier, la journee ne devait pas finir sans que les carabines eussent a servir pour la defensive.

Pendant un bon kilometre, le foreloper crut meme qu’il aurait a repousser l’attaque d’une troupe de singes. Cette troupe se demenait a droite et a gauche d’une longue passee, les uns sautant entre les branches d’arbre en arbre, les autres gambadant et franchissant les fourres par des bonds prodigieux a faire envie aux plus agiles gymnastes.

La se montraient plusieurs especes de quadrumanes de haute stature, des cynocephales de trois couleurs, jaunes comme des Arabes, rouges comme des Indiens du Far-West, noirs comme des indigenes de la Cafrerie, et qui sont redoutables a certains fauves. La grimacaient divers types de ces colobes, les veritables dandys, les petits-maitres les plus elegants de la race simienne, sans cesse occupes a brosser, a lisser de la main cette pelerine blanche qui leur a valu le nom de colobes a camail.

Cependant cette escorte, qui s’etait rassemblee apres le repas de midi, disparut vers deux heures, alors que Max Huber, John Cort, Khamis et Llanga arpentaient un assez large sentier qui se poursuivait a perte de vue.

S’ils avaient lieu de se feliciter des avantages de cette route aisement praticable, ils eurent a regretter la rencontre des animaux qui la frequentaient.

C’etaient deux rhinoceros, dont le ronflement prolonge retentit un peu avant quatre heures a courte distance. Khamis ne s’y trompa point et ordonna a ses compagnons de s’arreter: <<<Mauvaises betes, ces rhinoceros!… dit-il en ramenant la carabine qu’il portait en bandouliere.

— Tres mauvaise, repliqua Max Huber, et, pourtant, ce ne sont que des herbivores…

— Qui ont la vie dure! ajouta Khamis.

— Que devons-nous faire?… demanda John Cort.

— Essayer de passer sans etre vus, conseilla Khamis, ou tout au moins nous cacher sur le passage de ces malfaisantes betes… Peut-etre ne nous apercevront-elles pas?… Neanmoins, soyons prets a tirer, si nous sommes decouverts, car elles fonceront sur nous!>>> Les carabines furent visitees, les cartouches disposees de maniere a etre renouvelees rapidement. Puis, s’elancant hors du sentier, tous quatre disparurent derriere les epaisses broussailles qui le bordaient a droite.

Cinq minutes apres, les mugissements s’etant accrus, apparurent les monstrueux pachydermes, de l’espece ketloa, presque depourvus de poils. Ils filaient grand trot, la tete haute, la queue enroulee sur leur croupe.

C’etaient des animaux longs de pres de quatre metres, oreilles droites, jambes courtes et torses, museau tronque arme d’une seule corne, capable de formidables coups. Et telle est la durete de leurs machoires qu’ils broyent impunement des cactus aux rudes piquants comme les anes mangent des chardons.

Le couple fit brusquement halte. Khamis et les autres ne doutaient pas qu’ils ne fussent depistes.

L’un des rhinoceros — un monstre a peau rugueuse et seche — s’approcha des broussailles.

Max Huber le mit en joue.

<<<Ne tirez pas a la culotte… a la tete…>>>, lui cria le foreloper.

Une detonation, puis deux, puis trois, retentirent. Les balles penetraient a peine ces epaisses carapaces et ce furent autant de coups en pure perte.

Les detonations ne les intimiderent ni ne les arreterent et ils se disposerent a franchir le fourre.

Il etait evident que cet amas de ronces et de broussailles ne pourrait opposer un obstacle a de si puissantes betes. En un instant, tout serait ravage, saccage, ecrase. Apres avoir echappe aux elephants de la plaine, Khamis et ses compagnons echapperaient-ils aux rhinoceros de la grande foret?… Que les pachydermes aient le nez en trompe ou le nez en corne, ils s’egalent en vigueur… Et, ici, il n’y aurait pas cette lisiere d’arbres qui avait arrete les elephants lances a fond de train. Si le foreloper, John Cort, Max Huber, Llanga, tentaient de s’enfuir, ils seraient poursuivis, ils seraient atteints. Les reseaux de lianes retarderaient leur course, alors que les rhinoceros passeraient comme une avalanche.

Cependant, parmi les arbres de ce fourre, un baobab enorme pouvait offrir un refuge si l’on parvenait a se hisser jusqu’a ses premieres branches. Ce serait renouveler la manoeuvre executee au tertre des tamarins, dont l’issue avait ete funeste, d’ailleurs. Et y avait-il lieu de croire qu’elle aurait plus de succes?…

Peut-etre, car le baobab etait de taille et de grosseur a resister aux efforts des rhinoceros.

Il est vrai, sa fourche ne s’ouvrait qu’a une cinquantaine de pieds au-dessus du sol, et le tronc, renfle en forme de courge, ne presentait aucune saillie a laquelle la main put s’accrocher ni le pied trouver un point d’appui.

Le foreloper avait compris qu’il n’y avait pas a essayer d’atteindre cette fourche. Aussi Max Huber et John Cort attendaient-ils qu’il prit un parti.

En ce moment, le fouillis des broussailles en bordure du sentier remua, et une grosse tete apparut.

Un quatrieme coup de carabine eclata.

John Cort ne fut pas plus heureux que Max Huber. La balle, penetrant au defaut de l’epaule, ne provoqua qu’un hurlement plus terrible de l’animal, dont l’irritation s’accrut avec la douleur. Il ne recula pas, au contraire, et d’un elan prodigieux se precipita contre le fourre, tandis que l’autre rhinoceros, a peine effleure d’une balle de Khamis, se preparait a le suivre.

Ni Max Huber, ni John Cort, ni le foreloper n’eurent le temps de recharger leurs armes. Fuir en directions diverses, s’echapper sous le massif; il etait trop tard. L’instinct de la conservation les poussa tous trois, avec Llanga, a se refugier derriere le tronc du baobab, qui ne mesurait pas moins de six metres peripheriques a la base.

Mais lorsque le premier animal contournerait l’arbre, lorsque le second se joindrait a lui, comment eviter leur double attaque?…

<<<Diable!… fit Max Huber.

— Dieu plutot!>>> s’ecria John Cort.

Et assurement il fallait renoncer a tout espoir de salut, si la Providence ne s’en melait pas.

Sous un choc d’une effroyable violence, le baobab trembla jusque dans ses racines a faire croire qu’il allait etre arrache du sol.

Le rhinoceros, emporte dans son elan formidable, venait d’etre arrete soudain. A un endroit ou s’entr’ouvrait l’ecorce du baobab, sa corne, entree comme le coin d’un bucheron, s’y etait enfoncee d’un pied. En vain fit-il les plus violents efforts pour la retirer. Meme en s’arc-boutant sur ses courtes pattes, il ne put y reussir.

L’autre, qui saccageait le fourre furieusement, s’arreta, et ce qu’etait leur fureur a tous deux, on ne saurait se l’imaginer!

Khamis, se glissant alors autour de l’arbre, apres avoir rampe au ras des racines, essaya de voir ce qui se passait: <<<En fuite… en fuite!>>> cria-t-il presque aussitot.

On le comprit plus qu’on ne l’entendit.

Sans demander d’explication, Max Huber et John Cort, entrainant Llanga, detalerent entre les hautes herbes. A leur extreme surprise, ils n’etaient pas poursuivis par les rhinoceros, et ce ne fut qu’apres cinq minutes d’une course essoufflante que, sur un signe du foreloper, ils firent halte.

<<<Qu’est-il donc arrive?… questionna John Cort, des qu’il eut repris haleine.

— Le rhinoceros n’a pu retirer sa corne du tronc de l’arbre…, dit Khamis.

— Tudieu! s’ecria Max Huber, c’est le Milon de Crotone des rhinoceros…

— Et il finira comme ce heros des jeux olympiques!>>> ajouta John Cort.

Khamis, se souciant peu de savoir ce qu’etait ce celebre athlete de l’antiquite, se contenta de murmurer: <<<Enfin… sains et saufs… mais au prix de quatre ou cinq cartouches brulees en pure perte!

— C’est d’autant plus regrettable que cette bete-la, … ca se mange, si je suis bien informe, dit Max Huber.

— En effet, affirma Khamis, quoique sa chair ait un fort gout de musc… Nous laisserons l’animal ou il est…

— Se decorner tout a son aise!>>> acheva Max Huber.

Il n’eut pas ete prudent de retourner au baobab. Les mugissements des deux rhinoceros retentissaient toujours sous la futaie. Apres un detour qui les ramena au sentier, tous quatre reprirent leur marche. Vers six heures, la halte fut organisee au pied d’une enorme roche.

Le jour qui suivit n’amena aucun incident. Les difficultes de route ne s’accrurent pas, et une trentaine de kilometres furent franchis dans la direction du sud-ouest. Quant au cours d’eau si impatiemment reclame par Max Huber, si affirmativement annonce par Khamis, il ne se montrait pas.

Ce soir-la, aussitot acheve un repas dont une antilope, dite antilope des brousses, fournit le menu peu varie, on s’abandonna au repos. Par malheur, cette dizaine d’heures de sommeil fut troublee par le vol de milliers de chauves-souris de petite et de grande taille, dont le campement ne fut debarrasse qu’au lever du jour.

<<<Trop de ces harpies, beaucoup trop!… s’ecria Max Huber, lorsqu’il se remit sur pied, tout baillant encore apres une si mauvaise nuit.

— Il ne faut pas se plaindre… dit le foreloper.

— Et pourquoi?…

— Parce que mieux vaut avoir affaire aux chauves-souris qu’aux moustiques, et ceux-ci nous ont epargnes jusqu’ici.

— Ce qui serait le mieux, Khamis, ce serait d’eviter les uns comme les autres…

— Les moustiques… nous ne les eviterons pas, monsieur Max…

— Et quand devons-nous etre devores par ces abominables insectes?…

— Aux approches d’un rio…

— Un rio!… s’ecria Max Huber. Mais, apres avoir cru au rio, Khamis, il ne m’est plus possible d’y croire!

— Vous avez tort, monsieur Max, et peut-etre n’est-il guere eloigne!…>>> Le foreloper, en effet, avait deja remarque quelques modifications dans la nature du sol, et, des trois heures de l’apres-midi, son observation tendit a se confirmer. Ce quartier de la foret devenait sensiblement marecageux.

Ca et la se creusaient des flaques herissees d’herbes aquatiques. On put meme abattre des gaugas, sortes de canards sauvages dont la presence indiquait la proximite d’un cours d’eau. Egalement, a mesure que le soleil declinait a l’horizon, le coassement des grenouilles se faisait entendre.

<<<Ou je me trompe fort… ou le pays des moustiques n’est pas loin…>>>, dit le foreloper.

Pendant le reste de l’etape, la marche s’effectua sur un terrain difficile, embarrasse de ces phanerogames innombrables dont un climat humide et chaud favorise le developpement. Les arbres, plus espaces, etaient moins tendus de lianes.

Max Huber et John Cort ne pouvaient meconnaitre les changements que presentait cette partie de la foret en s’etendant vers le sud-ouest.

Mais, en depit des pronostics de Khamis, le regard, en cette direction, ne saisissait encore aucun miroitement d’eau courante.

Toutefois, en meme temps que s’accusait la pente du sol, les fondrieres devenaient plus nombreuses. Il fallait une extreme attention pour ne point s’y enliser. Et puis, a s’en retirer, on ne le ferait pas sans piqures.

Des milliers de sangsues fourmillaient dans les trous et, a leur surface, couraient des myriapodes gigantesques, repugnants articules de couleur noiratre, aux pattes rouges, bien faits pour provoquer un insurmontable degout.

En revanche, quel regal pour les yeux, ces innombrables papillons aux teintes chatoyantes, ces gracieuses libellules dont tant d’ecureuils, de civettes, de bengalis, de veuves, de genettes, de martins-pecheurs, qui se montraient sur le bord des flaques, devaient faire une consommation prodigieuse!

Le foreloper remarqua en outre que non seulement les guepes, mais encore les mouches tse-tse abondaient sur les buissons. Heureusement, s’il faut se preserver de l’aiguillon des premieres, il n’y a pas a se preoccuper de la morsure des secondes. Leur venin n’est mortel qu’aux chevaux, aux chameaux, aux chiens, non a l’homme, pas plus qu’aux betes sauvages.

La petite troupe descendit ainsi vers le sud-ouest jusqu’a six heures et demie du soir, etape a la fois longue et fatigante. Deja Khamis s’occupait de choisir un bon emplacement de halte pour la nuit, lorsque Max Huber et John Cort furent distraits par les cris de Llanga.

Selon son habitude, le jeune garcon s’etait porte en avant, furetant de cote et d’autre, quand on l’entendit appeler a toute voix. Etait-il aux prises avec quelque fauve?…

John Cort et Max Huber coururent dans sa direction, prets a faire feu… Ils furent bientot rassures.

Monte sur un enorme tronc abattu, tendant sa main vers une large clairiere, Llanga repetait de sa voix aigue: <<<Le rio… le rio!>>> Khamis venait de les rejoindre, et John Cort de lui dire simplement: <<<Le cours d’eau demande.>>> A un demi-kilometre, sur un large espace deboise, serpentait une limpide riviere ou se refletaient les derniers rayons du soleil.

<<<C’est la qu’il faut camper, a mon avis…, proposa John Cort.

— Oui… la…, approuva le foreloper, et soyez surs que ce rio nous conduira jusqu’a l’Oubanghi.>>> En effet, il ne serait pas difficile d’etablir un radeau et de s’abandonner au courant de cette riviere.

Il y eut, avant d’atteindre sa rive, a franchir un terrain tres marecageux.

Le crepuscule n’ayant qu’une tres courte duree en ces contrees equatoriales, l’obscurite etait deja profonde lorsque le foreloper et ses compagnons s’arreterent sur une berge assez elevee.

En cet endroit, les arbres etaient rares et presentaient des masses plus epaisses en amont et en aval.

Quant a la largeur de la riviere, John Cort crut pouvoir l’evaluer a une quarantaine de metres. Ce n’etait donc pas un simple ruisseau, mais un affluent d’une certaine importance dont le courant ne semblait pas tres rapide.

Attendre au lendemain pour se rendre compte de la situation, c’est ce que la raison indiquait. Le plus presse etant de trouver un abri sec afin d’y passer la nuit, Khamis decouvrit a propos une anfractuosite rocheuse, sorte de grotte evidee dans le calcaire de la berge, qui suffirait a les contenir tous quatre.

On decida d’abord de souper des restes du gibier grille. De cette facon, il ne serait pas necessaire d’allumer un feu dont l’eclat aurait pu provoquer l’approche des animaux. Crocodiles et hippopotames abondent dans les cours d’eau de l’Afrique. S’ils frequentaient cette riviere, — ce qui etait probable, — autant ne pas avoir a se defendre contre une attaque nocturne.

Il est vrai, un foyer entretenu a l’ouverture de la grotte, donnant force fumee, aurait dissipe la nuee des moustiques qui pullulaient au pied de la berge. Mais, entre deux inconvenients, mieux valait choisir le moindre et braver plutot l’aiguillon des maringouins et autres incommodes insectes que l’enorme machoire des alligators.

Pour les premieres heures, John Cort se tint en surveillance a l’orifice de l’anfractuosite, tandis que ses compagnons dormaient d’un gros sommeil en depit du bourdonnement des moustiques.

Pendant sa faction, s’il ne vit rien de suspect, du moins a plusieurs reprises crut-il entendre un mot qui semblait articule par des levres humaines sur un ton plaintif…

Et ce mot, c’etait celui de <<<ngora>>>, lequel signifie <<<mere>>> en langue indigene.

CHAPITRE VII

La cage vide

Comment ne pas se feliciter de ce que le foreloper eut si a propos decouvert une grotte, due a une disposition naturelle de la berge? Sur le sol, un sable fin, tres sec. Aucune trace d’humidite, ni aux parois laterales ni a la paroi superieure. Grace a cet abri, ses hotes n’avaient pas eu a souffrir d’une pluie intense qui ne cessa de tomber jusqu’a minuit. Donc refuge assure audit endroit pour tout le temps qu’exigerait la construction d’un radeau.

Du reste, un vent assez vif soufflait du nord. Le ciel s’etait nettoye aux premiers rayons du soleil. Une journee chaude s’annoncait. Peut-etre Khamis et ses compagnons en viendraient-ils a regretter l’ombrage des arbres sous lesquels ils cheminaient depuis cinq jours.

John Cort et Max Huber ne cacherent point leur bonne humeur. Cette riviere allait les transporter sans fatigue, sur un parcours de quatre cents kilometres environ, jusqu’a son embouchure sur l’Oubanghi, dont elle devait etre tributaire. Ainsi seraient franchis les trois derniers quarts du trajet dans des conditions plus favorables.

Ce calcul fut etabli avec une suffisante exactitude par John Cort, d’apres les relevements que lui fournit le foreloper.

Leur regard se porta alors vers la droite et vers la gauche, c’est-a-dire au nord et au sud.

En amont, le cours d’eau, qui s’etendait presque en ligne directe, disparaissait, a un kilometre, sous le fouillis des arbres.

En aval, la verdure se massait a une distance plus rapprochee de cinq cents metres, ou la riviere faisait un coude brusque au sud-est. C’est a partir de ce coude que la foret reprenait son epaisseur normale.

A vrai dire, c’etait une large clairiere marecageuse qui occupait cette portion de la rive droite. Sur la berge opposee, les arbres se pressaient en rangs serres. Une futaie tres dense s’etageait a la surface d’un terrain assez mouvemente, et ses cimes, eclairees par le soleil levant, se decoupaient en un lointain horizon.

Quant au lit de la riviere, une eau transparente, au courant tranquille, l’emplissait a pleins bords, charriant de vieux troncs, des paquets de broussailles, des tas d’herbes arrachees aux deux berges rongees par le courant.

Tout d’abord, sa memoire rappela a John Cort qu’il avait entendu le mot <<<ngora>>> prononce a proximite de la grotte pendant la nuit. Il chercha donc a voir si quelque creature humaine rodait aux environs.

Que des nomades s’aventurassent parfois a descendre cette riviere pour rejoindre l’Oubanghi, c’etait chose admissible, et sans en tirer cette conclusion que l’immense aire de la foret developpee vers l’est jusqu’aux sources du Nil fut frequentee par les tribus errantes ou habitee par des tribus sedentaires.

John Cort n’apercut aucun etre humain aux abords du marecage, ni sur les rives du cours d’eau.

<<<J’ai ete dupe d’une illusion, pensait-il. Il est possible que je me sois endormi un instant, et c’est dans un reve que j’ai cru entendre ce mot.>>>

Aussi ne dit-il rien de l’incident a ses compagnons.

<<<Mon cher Max, demanda-t-il alors, avez-vous fait a notre brave Khamis toutes vos excuses pour avoir doute de l’existence de ce rio, dont il n’a jamais doute, lui?…

— Il a eu raison contre moi, John, et je suis heureux d’avoir eu tort, puisque le courant va nous vehiculer sans fatigue aux rives de l’Oubanghi…

— Sans fatigue… je ne l’affirme pas, repartit le foreloper.

Peut-etre des chutes… des rapides…

— Ne voyons que le bon cote des choses, declara John Cort. Nous cherchions une riviere, la voici… Nous songions a construire un radeau, construisons-le…

— Des ce matin, je vais me mettre a la besogne, dit Khamis, et, si vous voulez m’aider, monsieur John…

— Certainement, Khamis. Pendant notre travail, Max voudra bien s’occuper de nous ravitailler…

— C’est d’autant plus urgent, insista Max Huber, qu’il ne reste plus rien a manger… Ce gourmand de Llanga a tout devore hier soir…

— Moi… mon ami Max!… se defendit Llanga, qui, le prenant au serieux, parut sensible a ce reproche.

— Eh, gamin, tu vois bien que je plaisante!… Allons, viens avec moi… Nous suivrons la berge jusqu’au tournant de la riviere. Avec le marecage d’un cote, l’eau courante de l’autre, le gibier aquatique ne manquera ni a droite ni a gauche, et, qui sait?… quelque beau poisson pour varier le menu…

— Defiez-vous des crocodiles… et meme des hippopotames, monsieur Max, conseilla le foreloper.

— Eh! Khamis, un gigot d’hippopotame roti a point n’est pas a dedaigner, je pense!… Comment un animal d’un caractere si heureux… un cochon d’eau douce apres tout… n’aurait-il pas une chair savoureuse?…

— D’un caractere heureux, c’est possible, monsieur Max, mais, quand on l’irrite, sa fureur est terrible!

— On ne peut pourtant pas lui decouper quelques kilogrammes de lui-meme sans s’exposer a le facher un peu…

— Enfin, ajouta John Cort, si vous aperceviez le moindre danger, revenez au plus vite. Soyez prudent…

— Et vous, soyez tranquille, John. — Viens, Llanga…

— Va, mon garcon, dit John Cort, et n’oublie pas que nous te confions ton ami Max!>>>

Apres une telle recommandation, on pouvait tenir pour certain qu’il n’arriverait rien de facheux a Max Huber, puisque Llanga veillerait sur sa personne.

Max Huber prit sa carabine et verifia sa cartouchiere.

<<<Menagez vos munitions, monsieur Max… dit le foreloper.

— Le plus possible, Khamis. Mais il est vraiment regrettable que la nature n’ait pas cree le cartouchier comme elle a cree l’arbre a pain et l’arbre a beurre des forets africaines!… En passant, on cueillerait ses cartouches comme on cueille des figues ou des dattes!>>>

Sur cette observation d’une incontestable justesse, Max Huber et Llanga s’eloignerent en suivant une sorte de sentier en contre-bas de la berge, — et ils furent bientot hors de vue.

John Cort et Khamis s’occuperent alors de chercher des bois propres a la construction d’un radeau. Si ce ne pouvait etre qu’un tres rudimentaire appareil, encore fallait-il en rassembler les materiaux.

Le foreloper et son compagnon ne possedaient qu’une hachette et leurs couteaux de poche. Avec de tels outils, comment s’attaquer aux geants de la foret ou meme a leurs congeneres de stature plus reduite?… Aussi Khamis comptait-il employer les branches tombees, qu’il relierait par des lianes et sur lesquelles serait etabli une sorte de plancher double de terre et d’herbes. Avec douze pieds de long, huit de large, ce radeau suffirait au transport de trois hommes et d’un enfant, qui, d’ailleurs, debarqueraient aux heures des repas et des haltes de nuit.

De ces bois, dont la vieillesse, le vent, quelque coup de foudre avaient provoque la chute, il se trouvait quantite sur le marecage ou certains arbres d’essence resineuse se dressaient encore. La veille, Khamis s’etait promis de ramasser a cette place les diverses pieces necessaires a la construction du radeau. Il fit part a John Cort de son intention et celui-ci se declara pret a l’accompagner.

Un dernier regard jete sur la riviere, en amont et en aval, tout paraissant tranquille aux environs du marecage, John Cort et Khamis se mirent en route.

Ils n’eurent qu’une centaine de pas a faire pour rencontrer un amas de pieces flottables. La plus serieuse difficulte serait, sans doute, de les trainer jusqu’au pied de la berge. En cas qu’elles fussent trop lourdes a manier pour deux personnes, on ne l’essayerait qu’apres le retour des chasseurs.

En attendant, tout portait a croire que Max Huber faisait bonne chasse. Une detonation venait de retentir, et l’adresse du Francais permettait d’affirmer que ce coup de fusil ne devait pas avoir ete perdu. Tres certainement, avec des munitions en quantite suffisante, l’alimentation de la petite troupe eut ete assuree pendant ces quatre cents kilometres qui la separaient de l’Oubanghi et meme pour un plus long parcours.

Or, Khamis et John Cort s’occupaient a choisir les meilleurs bois, lorsque leur attention fut attiree par des cris venant de la direction prise par Max Huber.

<<<C’est la voix de Max… dit John Cort.

— Oui, repondit Khamis, et aussi celle de Llanga.>>>

En effet, un fausset aigu se melait a une voix male.

<<<Sont-ils donc en danger?…>>> demanda John Cort.

Tous deux retraverserent le marecage et atteignirent la legere tumescence sous laquelle s’evidait la grotte. De cette place, en portant les yeux vers l’aval, ils apercurent Max Huber et le petit indigene arretes sur la berge. Ni etres humains ni animaux aux alentours. Du reste, leurs gestes n’etaient qu’une invitation a les rejoindre et ils ne manifestaient aucune inquietude.

Khamis et John Cort, apres etre descendus, franchirent rapidement trois a quatre cents metres, et, lorsqu’ils furent reunis, Max Huber se contenta de dire:

<<<Peut-etre n’aurez-vous pas la peine de construire un radeau,

Khamis…

— Et pourquoi?… demanda le foreloper.

— En voici un tout fait… en mauvais etat, il est vrai, mais les morceaux en sont bons.>>>

Et Max Huber montrait dans un enfoncement de la rive une sorte de plate-forme, un assemblage de madriers et de planches, retenu par une corde a demi pourrie dont le bout s’enroulait a un piquet de la berge.

<<<Un radeau!… s’ecria John Cort.

— C’est bien un radeau!…>>> constata Khamis.

En effet, sur la destination de ces madriers et de ces planches, aucun doute n’etait admissible.

<<<Des indigenes ont-ils donc deja descendu la riviere jusqu’a cet endroit?… observa Khamis.

— Des indigenes ou des explorateurs, repondit John Cort. Et pourtant, si cette partie de la foret d’Oubanghi eut ete visitee, on l’aurait su au Congo ou au Cameroun.

— Au total, declara Max Huber, peu importe, la question est de savoir si ce radeau ou ce qui en reste peut nous servir…

— Assurement.>>>

Et le foreloper allait se glisser au niveau de la crique, lorsqu’il fut arrete par un cri de Llanga.

L’enfant, qui s’etait eloigne d’une cinquantaine de pas en aval, accourait, agitant un objet qu’il tenait a la main.

Un instant apres il remettait a John Cort ledit objet. C’etait un cadenas de fer, ronge par la rouille, depourvu de sa clef, et dont le mecanisme, d’ailleurs, eut ete hors d’etat de fonctionner.

<<<Decidement, dit Max Huber, il ne s’agit pas des nomades congolais ou autres, auxquels les mysteres de la serrurerie moderne sont inconnus!… Ce sont des blancs que ce radeau a transportes jusqu’a ce coude de la riviere…

— Et qui, s’en etant eloignes, n’y sont jamais revenus!>>> ajouta

John Cort.

Juste consequence a tirer de l’incident. L’etat d’oxydation du cadenas, le delabrement du radeau, demontraient que plusieurs annees s’etaient ecoulees depuis que l’un avait ete perdu et l’autre abandonne au bord de cette crique.

Deux deductions ressortaient donc de ce double fait logique et indiscutable. Aussi, lorsqu’elles furent presentees par John Cort, Max Huber et Khamis n’hesiterent pas a les accepter:

1deg Des explorateurs ou des voyageurs non indigenes avaient atteint cette clairiere, apres s’etre embarques soit au-dessus, soit au-dessous de la lisiere de la grande foret;

2deg Lesdits explorateurs ou voyageurs, pour une raison ou pour une autre, avaient laisse la leur radeau, afin d’aller reconnaitre cette portion de la foret situee sur la rive droite.

Dans tous les cas, aucun d’eux n’avait jamais reparu. Ni John Cort ni Max Huber ne se souvenaient qu’il eut ete question, depuis qu’ils habitaient le Congo, d’une exploration de ce genre.

Si ce n’etait pas la de l’extraordinaire, c’etait tout au moins de l’inattendu, et Max Huber devrait renoncer a l’honneur d’avoir ete le premier visiteur de la grande foret, consideree a tort comme impenetrable.

Cependant, tres indifferent a cette question de priorite, Khamis examinait avec soin les madriers et les planches du radeau. Ceux-la se trouvaient en assez bon etat, celles-ci avaient souffert davantage des intemperies et trois ou quatre seraient a remplacer. Mais, enfin, construire de toutes pieces un nouvel appareil, cela devenait inutile. Quelques reparations suffiraient. Le foreloper et ses compagnons, non moins satisfaits que surpris, possedaient le vehicule flottant qui leur permettrait de gagner le confluent du rio.

Tandis que Khamis s’occupait de la sorte, les deux amis echangeaient leurs idees au sujet de cet incident:

<<<Il n’y a pas d’erreur, repetait John Cort, des blancs ont deja reconnu la partie superieure de ce cours d’eau, — des blancs, ce n’est pas douteux… Que ce radeau, fait de pieces grossieres, eut pu etre l’oeuvre des indigenes, soit!… Mais il y a le cadenas…

— Le cadenas revelateur… sans compter d’autres objets que nous ramasserons peut-etre…, observa Max Huber.

— Encore… Max?…

— Eh! John, il est possible que nous retrouvions les vestiges d’un campement, dont il n’y a pas trace en cet endroit, car il ne faut pas regarder comme tel la grotte ou nous avons passe la nuit. Elle ne parait point avoir deja servi de lieu de halte, et je ne doute pas que nous n’ayons ete les seuls jusqu’ici a y chercher refuge…

— C’est l’evidence, mon cher Max. Allons jusqu’au coude du rio…

— Cela est d’autant plus indique, John, que la finit la clairiere, et je ne serais pas etonne qu’un peu plus loin…

— Khamis?>>> cria John Cort.

Le foreloper rejoignit les deux amis.

<<<Eh bien, ce radeau?… demanda John Cort.

— Nous le reparerons sans trop de peine… Je vais rapporter les bois necessaires.

— Avant de nous mettre a la besogne, proposa Max Huber, descendons le long de la rive. Qui sait si nous ne recueillerons pas quelques ustensiles, ayant une marque de fabrication qui indiquerait leur origine?… Cela viendrait a propos pour completer notre batterie de cuisine par trop insuffisante!… Une gourde et pas meme une tasse ni une bouilloire…

— Vous n’esperez pas, mon cher Max, decouvrir office et table ou le couvert serait mis pour des hotes de passage?…

— Je n’espere rien, mon cher John, mais nous sommes en presence d’un fait inexplicable… Tachons de lui imaginer une explication plausible.

— Soit, Max. — Il n’y a pas d’inconvenient, Khamis, a s’eloigner d’un kilometre?…

— A la condition de ne pas depasser le tournant, repondit le foreloper. Puisque nous avons la facilite de naviguer, epargnons les marches inutiles…

— Entendu, Khamis, repliqua John Cort. Et, tandis que le courant entrainera notre radeau, nous aurons tout le loisir d’observer s’il existe des traces de campement sur l’une ou l’autre rive.>>>

Les trois hommes et Llanga suivirent la berge, une sorte de digue naturelle entre le marecage et la riviere.

Tout en cheminant, ils ne cessaient de regarder a leurs pieds, cherchant quelque empreinte, un pas d’homme, ou quelque objet qui eut ete laisse sur le sol.

Malgre un minutieux examen, autant sur le haut qu’au bas de la berge, on ne trouva rien. Nulle part ne furent releves des indices de passage ou de halte. Lorsque Khamis et ses compagnons eurent atteint la premiere rangee d’arbres, ils furent salues par les cris d’une bande de singes. Ces quadrumanes ne parurent pas trop surpris de l’apparition d’etres humains. Ils s’enfuirent cependant. Qu’il y eut des representants de la gent simienne a s’ebattre entre les branches, on ne pouvait s’en etonner. C’etaient des babouins, des mandrills, qui se rapprochent physiquement des gorilles, des chimpanzes et des orangs. Comme toutes les especes de l’Afrique, ils n’avaient qu’un rudiment de queue, cet ornement etant reserve aux especes americaines et asiatiques.

<<<Apres tout, fit observer John Cort, ce ne sont pas eux qui ont construit le radeau, et, si intelligents qu’ils soient, ils n’en sont pas encore a faire usage de cadenas…

— Pas plus que de cage, que je sache… dit alors Max Huber.

— De cage?… s’ecria John Cort. A quel propos, Max, parlez-vous de cage?…

— C’est qu’il me semble distinguer… entre les fourres… a une vingtaine de pas de la rive… une sorte de construction…

— Quelque fourmiliere en forme de ruche, comme en elevent les fourmis d’Afrique… repondit John Cort.

— Non, M. Max ne s’est pas trompe, affirma Khamis. Il y a la… oui… on dirait meme une cabane construite au pied de deux mimosas, et dont la facade serait en treillis…

— Cage ou cabane, repliqua Max Huber, voyons ce qu’il y a dedans…

— Soyons prudents, dit le foreloper, et defilons-nous a l’abri des arbres…

— Que pouvons-nous craindre?…>>> reprit Max Huber, qu’un double sentiment d’impatience et de curiosite eperonnait, suivant son habitude.

Du reste, les environs paraissaient etre deserts. On n’entendait que le chant des oiseaux et les cris des singes en fuite. Aucune trace ancienne ou recente d’un campement n’apparaissait a la limite de la clairiere. Rien non plus a la surface du cours d’eau, qui charriait de grosses touffes d’herbes. De l’autre cote, meme apparence de solitude et d’abandon. Les cent derniers pas furent rapidement franchis le long de la berge qui s’inflechissait alors pour suivre le tournant de la riviere. Le marecage finissait en cet endroit, et le sol s’assechait a mesure qu’il se surelevait sous la futaie plus dense.

L’etrange construction se montrait alors de trois quarts, appuyee aux mimosas, recouverte d’une toiture inclinee qui disparaissait sous un chaume d’herbes jaunies. Elle ne presentait aucune ouverture laterale, et les lianes retombantes cachaient ses parois jusqu’a leur base.

Ce qui lui donnait bien l’aspect d’une cage, c’etait la grille, ou plutot le grillage de sa facade, semblable a celui qui, dans les menageries, separe les fauves du public.

Cette grille avait une porte — une porte ouverte en ce moment.

Quant a la cage, elle etait vide.

C’est ce que reconnut Max Huber qui, le premier, s’etait precipite a l’interieur.

Des ustensiles, il en restait quelques-uns, une marmite en assez bon etat, un coquemar, une tasse, trois ou quatre bouteilles brisees, une couverture de laine rongee, des lambeaux d’etoffe, une hache rouillee, un etui a lunettes a demi pourri sur lequel ne se laissait plus lire un nom de fabricant.

Dans un coin gisait une boite en cuivre dont le couvercle, bien ajuste, avait du preserver son contenu, si tant est qu’elle contint quelque chose.

Max Huber la ramassa, essaya de l’ouvrir, n’y parvint pas. L’oxydation faisait adherer les deux parties de la boite. Il fallut passer un couteau dans la fente du couvercle qui ceda.

La boite renfermait un carnet en bon etat de conservation, et, sur le plat de ce carnet, etaient imprimes ces deux mots que Max Huber lut a haute voix:

Docteur JOHAUSEN

CHAPITRE VIII

Le docteur Johausen

Si John Cort, Max Huber et meme Khamis ne s’exclamerent pas a entendre prononcer ce nom, c’est que la stupefaction leur avait coupe la parole.

Ce nom de Johausen fut une revelation. Il devoilait une partie du mystere qui recouvrait la plus fantasque des tentatives scientifiques modernes, ou le comique se melait au serieux, — le tragique aussi, car on devait croire qu’elle avait eu un denouement des plus deplorables.

Peut-etre a-t-on souvenir de l’experience a laquelle voulut se livrer l’Americain Garner dans le but d’etudier le langage des singes, et de donner a ses theories une demonstration experimentale. Le nom du professeur, les articles repandus dans le Hayser’s Weekly, de New York, le livre publie et lance en Angleterre, en Allemagne, en France, en Amerique, ne pouvaient etre oublies des habitants du Congo et du Cameroun, — particulierement de John Cort et de Max Huber.

<<<Lui, enfin, s’ecria l’un, lui, dont on n’avait plus aucune nouvelle…

— Et dont on n’en aura jamais, puisqu’il n’est pas la pour nous en donner!…>>> s’ecria l’autre.

Lui, pour le Francais et l’Americain, c’etait le docteur Johausen. Mais, devancant le docteur, voici ce qu’avait fait M. Garner. Ce n’est pas ce Yankee qui aurait pu dire ce que Jean-Jacques Rousseau dit de lui-meme au debut des Confessions: <<<Je forme une entreprise qui n’eut jamais d’exemple et qui n’aura point d’imitateurs.>>> M. Garner devait en avoir un.

Avant de partir pour le continent noir, le professeur Garner s’etait deja mis en rapport avec le monde des singes, — le monde apprivoise, s’entend. De ses longues et minutieuses remarques il retira la conviction que ces quadrumanes parlaient, qu’ils se comprenaient, qu’ils employaient le langage articule, qu’ils se servaient de certain mot pour exprimer le besoin de manger, de certain autre pour exprimer le besoin de boire. A l’interieur du Jardin zoologique de Washington, M. Garner avait fait disposer des phonographes destines a recueillir les mots de ce vocabulaire. Il observa meme que les singes — ce qui les distingue essentiellement des hommes — ne parlaient jamais sans necessite. Et il fut conduit a formuler son opinion en ces termes:

<<<La connaissance que j’ai du monde animal m’a donne la ferme croyance que tous les mammiferes possedent la faculte du langage a un degre qui est en rapport avec leur experience et leurs besoins.>>>

Anterieurement aux etudes de M. Garner, on savait deja que les mammiferes, chiens, singes et autres, ont l’appareil laryngo-buccal dispose comme l’est celui de l’homme et la glotte organisee pour l’emission de sons articules. Mais on savait aussi, — n’en deplaise a l’ecole des simiologues, — que la pensee a precede la parole. Pour parler, il faut penser, et penser exige la faculte de generaliser, — faculte dont les animaux sont depourvus. Le perroquet parle, mais il ne comprend pas un mot de ce qu’il dit. La verite, enfin, est que, si les betes ne parlent pas, c’est que la nature ne les a pas dotees d’une intelligence suffisante, car rien ne les en empecherait. Au vrai, ainsi que cela est acquis, <<<pour qu’il y ait langage, a dit un savant critique, il faut qu’il y ait jugement et raisonnement bases, au moins implicitement, sur un concept abstrait et universel>>>. Toutefois, ces regles, conformes au bon sens, le professeur Garner n’en voulait tenir aucun compte.

Il va de soi que sa doctrine fut tres discutee. Aussi prit-il la resolution d’aller se mettre en contact avec les sujets dont il rencontrerait grand nombre et grande variete dans les forets de l’Afrique tropicale. Lorsqu’il aurait appris le gorille et le chimpanze, il reviendrait en Amerique et publierait, avec la grammaire, le dictionnaire de la langue simienne. Force serait alors de lui donner raison et de se rendre a l’evidence.

M. Garner a-t-il tenu la promesse qu’il avait faite a lui-meme et au monde savant?… C’etait la question, et, nul doute a cet egard, le docteur Johausen ne le croyait pas, ainsi qu’on va pouvoir en juger.

En l’annee 1892, M. Garner quitta l’Amerique pour le Congo, arriva

a Libreville le 12 octobre, et elut domicile dans la factorerie

John Holtand and Co. jusqu’au mois de fevrier 1894.

Ce fut a cette epoque seulement que le professeur se decida a commencer sa campagne d’etudes. Apres avoir remonte l’Ogoue sur un petit bateau a vapeur, il debarqua a Lambarene, et, le 22 avril, atteignit la mission catholique du Fernand-Vaz.

Les Peres du Saint-Esprit l’accueillirent hospitalierement dans leur maison batie sur le bord de ce magnifique lac Fernand-Vaz. Le docteur n’eut qu’a se louer des soins du personnel de la mission, qui ne negligea rien pour lui faciliter son aventureuse tache de zoologiste.

Or, en arriere de l’etablissement, se massaient les premiers arbres d’une vaste foret dans laquelle abondaient les singes. On ne pouvait imaginer de circonstances plus favorables pour se mettre en communication avec eux. Mais, ce qu’il fallait, c’etait vivre dans leur intimite et, en somme, partager leur existence.

C’est a ce propos que M. Garner avait fait fabriquer une cage de fer demontable. Sa cage fut transportee dans la foret. Si l’on veut bien l’en croire, il y vecut trois mois, la plupart du temps seul, et put etudier ainsi le quadrumane a l’etat de nature.

La verite est que le prudent Americain avait simplement installe sa maison metallique a vingt minutes de la mission des Peres, pres de leur fontaine, en un endroit qu’il baptisa du nom de Fort-Gorille, et auquel on accedait par une route ombreuse. Il y coucha meme trois nuits consecutives. Devore par des myriades de moustiques, il ne put y tenir plus longtemps, demonta sa cage et revint demander aux Peres du Saint-Esprit une hospitalite qui lui fut accordee sans retribution. Enfin, le 18 juin, abandonnant definitivement la mission, il regagna l’Angleterre et revint en Amerique, rapportant pour unique souvenir de son voyage deux petits chimpanzes qui s’obstinerent a ne point causer avec lui.

Voila quel resultat avait obtenu M. Garner. Au total, ce qui ne paraissait que trop certain, c’est que le patois des singes, s’il existait, restait encore a decouvrir, ainsi que les fonctions respectives qui jouaient un role dans la formation de leur langage.

Assurement, le professeur soutenait qu’il avait surpris divers signes vocaux ayant une signification precise, tels: <<<whouw>>>, nourriture; <<<cheny>>>, boisson; <<<iegk>>>, prends garde, et autres releves avec soin. Plus tard meme, a la suite d’experiences faites au Jardin zoologique de Washington, et grace a l’emploi du phonographe, il affirmait avoir note un mot generique se rapportant a tout ce qui se mange et a tout ce qui se boit; un autre pour l’usage de la main; un autre pour la supputation du temps. Bref, selon lui, cette langue se composait de huit ou neuf sons principaux, modifies par trente ou trente-cinq modulations, dont il donnait meme la tonalite musicale, l’articulation se faisant presque toujours en la diese. Pour conclure, et d’apres son opinion, en conformite de la doctrine darwinienne sur l’unite de l’espece et la transmission par heredite des qualites physiques, non des defauts, on pouvait dire: <<<Si les races humaines sont les derives d’une souche simiesque, pourquoi les dialectes humains ne seraient-ils point les derives de la langue primitive de ces anthropoides?>>> Seulement, l’homme a-t-il eu des singes pour ancetres?… Voila ce qu’il aurait fallu demontrer, et ce qui ne l’est pas.

En somme, le pretendu langage des singes, surpris par le naturaliste Garner, n’etait que la serie des sons que ces mammiferes emettent pour communiquer avec leurs semblables, comme tous les animaux: chiens, chevaux, moutons, oies, hirondelles, fourmis, abeilles, etc. Et, suivant la remarque d’un observateur, cette communication s’etablit soit par des cris, soit par des signes et des mouvements speciaux, et, s’ils ne traduisent pas des pensees proprement dites, du moins expriment-ils des impressions vives, des emotions morales, — telles la joie ou la terreur.

Il etait donc de toute evidence que la question n’avait pu etre resolue par les etudes incompletes et peu experimentales du professeur americain. Et c’est alors que, deux annees apres lui, il vint a l’esprit d’un docteur allemand de recommencer la tentative en se transportant, cette fois, en pleine foret, au milieu du monde des quadrumanes, et non plus a vingt minutes d’un etablissement de missionnaires, dut-il devenir la proie des moustiques, auxquels n’avait pu resister la passion simiologique de M. Garner.

Il y avait alors au Cameroun, a Malinba, un certain savant du nom de Johausen. Il y demeurait depuis quelques annees. C’etait un medecin, plus amateur de zoologie et de botanique que de medecine. Lorsqu’il fut informe de l’infructueuse experience du professeur Garner, la pensee lui vint de la reprendre, bien qu’il eut depasse la cinquantaine. John Cort avait eu l’occasion de s’entretenir plusieurs fois avec lui a Libreville.

S’il n’etait plus jeune, le docteur Johausen jouissait du moins d’une excellente sante. Parlant l’anglais et le francais comme sa langue maternelle, il comprenait meme le dialecte indigene, grace a l’exercice de sa profession. Sa fortune lui permettait d’ailleurs de donner ses soins gratuitement, car il n’avait ni parents directs, ni collateraux au degre successible. Independant dans toute l’acception du mot, sans compte a rendre a personne, d’une confiance en lui-meme que rien n’eut pu ebranler, pourquoi n’aurait-il pas fait ce qu’il lui convenait de faire? Il est bon d’ajouter que, bizarre et maniaque, il semblait bien qu’il y eut ce qu’on appelle en France <<<une felure>>> dans son intellectualite.

Il y avait au service du docteur un indigene dont il etait assez satisfait. Lorsqu’il connut le projet d’aller vivre en foret au milieu des singes, cet indigene n’hesita point a accepter l’offre de son maitre, ne sachant trop a quoi il s’engageait.

Il suit de la que le docteur Johausen et son serviteur se mirent a la besogne. Une cage demontable, genre Garner, mieux conditionnee, plus confortable, commandee en Allemagne, fut apportee a bord d’un paquebot qui faisait l’escale de Malinba. D’autre part, en cette ville, on trouva sans peine a rassembler des provisions, conserves et autres, des munitions, de maniere a n’exiger aucun ravitaillement pendant une longue periode. Quant au mobilier, tres rudimentaire, literie, linge, vetements, ustensiles de toilette et de cuisine, ces objets furent empruntes a la maison du docteur, et aussi un vieil orgue de Barbarie dans la pensee que les singes ne devaient pas etre insensibles au charme de la musique. En meme temps, il fit frapper un certain nombre de medailles en nickel, avec son nom et son portrait, destinees aux autorites de cette colonie simienne qu’il esperait fonder dans l’Afrique centrale.

Pour achever, le 13 fevrier 1896, le docteur et l’indigene s’embarquerent a Malinba avec leur materiel sur une barque du Nbarri et ils en remonterent le cours afin d’aller…

D’aller ou?… C’est ce que le docteur Johausen n’avait dit ni voulu dire a personne. N’ayant pas besoin d’etre ravitaille de longtemps, il serait de la sorte a l’abri de toutes les importunites. L’indigene et lui se suffiraient a eux-memes. Il n’y aurait aucun sujet de trouble ou de distraction pour les quadrumanes dont il voulait faire son unique societe, et il saurait se contenter des delices de leur conversation, ne doutant pas de surprendre les secrets de la langue macaque.

Ce que l’on sut plus tard, c’est que la barque, ayant remonte le Nbarri pendant une centaine de lieues, mouilla au village de Nghila; qu’une vingtaine de noirs furent engages comme porteurs, que le materiel s’achemina dans la direction de l’est. Mais, a dater de ce moment, on n’entendit plus parler du docteur Johausen. Les porteurs, revenus a Nghila, etaient incapables d’indiquer avec precision l’endroit ou ils avaient pris conge de lui.

Bref, apres deux ans ecoules, et malgre quelques recherches qui ne devaient pas aboutir, aucune nouvelle du docteur allemand ni de son fidele serviteur.

Ce qui s’etait passe, John Cort et Max Huber allaient pouvoir le reconstituer — en partie tout au moins.

Le docteur Johausen avait atteint, avec son escorte, une riviere dans le nord-ouest de la foret de l’Oubanghi; puis, il proceda a la construction d’un radeau dont son materiel fournit les planches et les madriers; enfin, ce travail acheve et l’escorte renvoyee, son serviteur et lui descendirent le cours de ce rio inconnu, s’arreterent et monterent la cabane a l’endroit ou elle venait d’etre retrouvee sous les premiers arbres de la rive droite.

Voila quelle etait la part de la certitude dans l’affaire du professeur. Mais que d’hypotheses au sujet de sa situation actuelle!…

Pourquoi la cage etait-elle vide?… Pourquoi ses deux hotes l’avaient-ils quittee?… Combien de mois, de semaines, de jours fut-elle occupee?… Etait-ce volontairement qu’ils etaient partis?… Nulle probabilite a cet egard… Est-ce donc qu’ils avaient ete enleves?… Par qui?… Par des indigenes?… Mais la foret de l’Oubanghi passait pour etre inhabitee… Devait-on admettre qu’ils avaient fui devant une attaque de fauves?… Enfin le docteur Johausen et l’indigene vivaient-ils encore?…

Ces diverses questions furent rapidement posees entre les deux amis. Il est vrai, a chaque hypothese ils ne pouvaient faire de reponses plausibles et se perdaient dans les tenebres de ce mystere.

<<<Consultons le carnet…, proposa John Cort.

— Nous en sommes reduits la, dit Max Huber. Peut-etre, a defaut de renseignements explicites, rien que par des dates, sera-t-il possible d’etablir…>>>

John Cort ouvrit le carnet, dont quelques pages adheraient par humidite.

<<<Je ne crois pas que ce carnet nous apprenne grand’chose…, observat-il.

— Pourquoi?…

— Parce que toutes les pages en sont blanches… a l’exception de la premiere…

— Et cette premiere page, John?…

— Quelques bribes de phrases, quelques dates aussi, qui, sans doute, devaient servir plus tard au docteur Johausen a rediger son journal.>>>

Et John Cort, assez difficilement d’ailleurs, parvint a dechiffrer les lignes suivantes ecrites au crayon en allemand et qu’il traduisait a mesure:

29 juillet 1896. — Arrive avec l’escorte a la lisiere de la foret d’Oubanghi… Campe sur rive droite d’une riviere… Construit notre radeau.

3 aout. — Radeau acheve… Renvoye l’escorte a Nghila… Fait disparaitre toute trace de campement… Embarque avec mon serviteur.

9 aout. — Descendu le cours d’eau pendant sept jours, sans obstacles… Arret a une clairiere… Nombreux singes aux environs… Endroit qui parait convenable.

10 aout. — Debarque le materiel… Place choisie pour remonter la cabane-cage sous les premiers arbres de la rive droite, a l’extremite de la clairiere… Singes nombreux, chimpanzes, gorilles.

13 aout. — Installation complete… Pris possession de la cabane… Environs absolument deserts… Nulle trace d’etres humains, indigenes ou autres… Gibier aquatique tres abondant… Cours d’eau poissonneux… Bien abrites dans la cabane pendant une bourrasque.

25 aout. — Vingt-sept jours ecoules… Existence organisee regulierement… Quelques hippopotames a la surface de la riviere, mais aucune agression de leur part… Elans et antilopes abattus… Grands singes venus la nuit derniere a proximite de la cabane… De quelle espece sont-ils? cela n’a pu etre encore reconnu… Ils n’ont pas fait de demonstrations hostiles, tantot courant sur le sol, tantot juches dans les arbres… Cru entrevoir un feu a quelque cent pas sous la futaie… Fait curieux a verifier: il semble bien que ces singes parlent, qu’ils echangent entre eux quelques phrases… Un petit a dit: <<<Ngora!… Ngora!… Ngora!…>>> mot que les indigenes emploient pour designer la mere.

Llanga ecoutait attentivement ce que lisait son ami John, et, a ce moment, il s’ecria:

<<<Oui… oui… ngora… ngora… mere… ngora… ngora!…>>>

A ce mot releve par le docteur Johausen et repete par le jeune garcon, comment John Cort ne se serait-il pas souvenu que, la nuit precedente, il avait frappe son oreille? Croyant a une illusion, a une erreur, il n’avait rien dit a ses compagnons de cet incident. Mais, apres l’observation du docteur, il jugea devoir les mettre au courant. Et comme Max Huber s’ecriait:

<<<Decidement, est-ce que le professeur Garner aurait eu raison?…

Des singes qui parlent…

— Tout ce que je puis dire, mon cher Max, c’est que j’ai, moi aussi, entendu ce mot de <<<ngora!>>>, affirma John Cort.

Et il raconta en quelles circonstances ce mot avait ete prononce d’une voix plaintive pendant la nuit du 14 au 15, tandis qu’il etait de garde.

<<<Tiens, tiens, fit Max Huber, voila qui ne laisse pas d’etre extraordinaire…

— N’est-ce pas ce que vous demandez, cher ami?…>>> repliqua John

Cort.

Khamis avait ecoute ce recit. Vraisemblablement, ce qui paraissait interesser le Francais et l’Americain le laissait assez froid. Les faits relatifs au docteur Johausen, il les accueillait avec indifference. L’essentiel, c’etait que le docteur eut construit un radeau dont on disposerait, ainsi que des objets que renfermait sa cage abandonnee. Quant a savoir ce qu’etaient devenus son serviteur et lui, le foreloper ne comprenait pas qu’il y eut lieu de s’en inquieter, encore moins que l’on put avoir la pensee de se lancer a travers la grande foret pour decouvrir leurs traces, au risque d’etre enleve comme ils l’avaient ete sans doute. Donc, si Max Huber et John Cort proposaient de se mettre a leur recherche, il s’emploierait a les en dissuader, il leur rappellerait que le seul parti a prendre etait de continuer le voyage de retour en descendant le cours d’eau jusqu’a l’Oubanghi.

La raison, d’ailleurs, indiquait qu’aucune tentative ne saurait etre faite avec chance de succes… De quel cote se fut-on dirige pour retrouver le docteur allemand?… Si encore quelque indice eut existe, peut-etre John Cort eut-il regarde comme un devoir d’aller a son secours, peut-etre Max Huber se fut-il considere comme l’instrument de son salut, designe par la Providence?… Mais rien, rien que ces phrases morcelees du carnet et dont la derniere figurait sous la date du 25 aout, rien que des pages blanches qui furent vainement feuilletees jusqu’a la derniere!…

Aussi John Cort de conclure:

<<<Il est indubitable que le docteur est arrive en cet endroit un 9 aout et que ses notes s’arretent au 25 du meme mois. S’il n’a plus ecrit depuis cette date, c’est que, pour une raison ou pour une autre, il avait quitte sa cabane ou il n’etait reste que treize jours…

— Et, ajouta Khamis, il n’est guere possible d’imaginer ce qu’il a pu devenir.

— N’importe, observa Max Huber, je ne suis pas curieux…

— Oh! cher ami, vous l’etes a un rare degre…

— Vous avez raison, John, et pour avoir le mot de cette enigme…

— Partons>>>, se contenta de dire le foreloper.

En effet, il n’y avait pas a s’attarder. Mettre le radeau en etat de quitter la clairiere, descendre le rio, cela s’imposait. Si, plus tard, on jugeait convenable d’organiser une expedition au profit du docteur Johausen, de s’aventurer jusqu’aux extremes limites de la grande foret, cela se pourrait faire dans des conditions plus favorables, et libre aux deux amis d’y prendre part.

Avant de sortir de la cage, Khamis en visita les moindres coins. Peut-etre y trouverait-il quelque objet a utiliser. Ce ne serait pas la acte d’indelicatesse, car, apres deux ans d’absence, comment admettre que leur possesseur reparut jamais pour les reclamer?…

La cabane, en somme, solidement construite, offrait encore un excellent abri. La toiture de zinc, recouverte de chaume, avait resiste aux intemperies de la mauvaise saison. La facade anterieure, la seule qui fut treillagee, regardait l’est, moins exposee ainsi aux grands vents. Et, probablement, le mobilier, literie, table, chaises, coffre, eut ete retrouve intact, si on ne l’avait emporte, et, pour tout dire, cela semblait assez inexplicable.

Cependant, apres ces deux annees d’abandon, diverses reparations auraient ete necessaires. Les planches des parois laterales commencaient a se disjoindre, le pied des montants jouait dans la terre humide, des indices de delabrement se manifestaient sous les festons de lianes et de verdure.

C’etait une besogne dont Khamis et ses compagnons n’avaient point a se charger. Que cette cabane dut jamais servir de refuge a quelque autre amateur de simiologie, c’etait fort improbable. Elle serait donc laissee telle qu’elle etait.

Et, maintenant, n’y recueillerait-on pas d’autres objets que le coquemar, la tasse, l’etui a lunettes, la hachette, la boite du carnet que les deux amis venaient de ramasser? Khamis chercha avec soin. Ni armes, ni ustensiles, ni caisses, ni conserves, ni vetements. Aussi le foreloper allait-il ressortir les mains vides, lorsque dans un angle du fond, a droite, le sol, qu’il frappait du pied, rendit un son metallique.

<<<Il y a quelque chose la…, dit-il.

— Peut-etre une clef?… repondit Max Huber.

— Et pourquoi une clef?… demanda John Cort.

— Eh! mon cher John…, la clef du mystere!>>>

Ce n’etait point une clef, mais une caisse en fer-blanc qui avait ete enterree a cette place et que retira Khamis. Elle ne paraissait pas avoir souffert, et, non sans une vive satisfaction, il fut constate qu’elle contenait une centaine de cartouches!

<<<Merci, bon docteur, s’ecria Max Huber, et puissions-nous reconnaitre un jour le signale service que vous nous aurez rendu!>>>

Service signale, en effet, car ces cartouches etaient precisement du meme calibre que les carabines du foreloper et de ses deux compagnons.

Il ne restait plus qu’a revenir au lieu de halte, et a remettre le radeau en etat de navigabilite.

<<<Auparavant, proposa John Cort, voyons s’il n’existe aucune trace du docteur Johausen et de son serviteur aux environs… Il est possible que tous deux aient ete entraines par les indigenes dans les profondeurs de la foret, mais il est possible aussi qu’ils aient succombe en se defendant… et si leurs restes sont sans sepulture…

— Notre devoir serait de les ensevelir>>>, declara Max Huber.

Les recherches dans un rayon de cent metres ne donnerent pas de resultat. On devait en conclure que l’infortune Johausen avait ete enleve — et, par qui si ce n’est pas les indigenes, ceux-la memes que le docteur prenait pour des singes et qui causaient entre eux?… Quelle apparence, en effet, que des quadrumanes fussent doues de la parole?…

<<<En tout cas, fit observer John Cort, cela indique que la foret de l’Oubanghi est frequentee par des nomades, et nous devons nous tenir sur nos gardes…

— Comme vous dites, monsieur John, approuva Khamis. Maintenant, au radeau…

— Et ne pas savoir ce qu’est devenu ce digne Teuton!… repliqua

Max Huber. Ou peut-il etre?…

— La ou sont les gens dont on n’a plus de nouvelles, dit John

Cort.

— Est-ce une reponse cela, John?…

— C’est la seule que nous puissions faire, mon cher Max.>>>

Lorsque tous furent de retour a la grotte, il etait environ neuf heures. Khamis s’occupa d’abord de preparer le dejeuner. Puisqu’il disposait d’une marmite, Max Huber demanda que l’on substituat la viande bouillie a la viande rotie ou grillee. Ce serait une variante au menu ordinaire. La proposition acceptee, on alluma le feu, et, vers midi, les convives se delecterent d’une soupe a laquelle il ne manquait que le pain, les legumes et le sel.

Mais, avant le dejeuner, tous avaient travaille aux reparations du radeau comme ils y travaillerent apres. Tres heureusement, Khamis avait trouve derriere la cabane quelques planches qui purent remplacer celles de la plate-forme, pourries en plusieurs endroits. Grosse besogne d’evitee, etant donne le manque d’outils. Cet ensemble de madriers et de planches fut rattache au moyen de lianes aussi solides que des ligaments de fer, ou tout au moins que des cordes d’amarrage. L’ouvrage etait termine lorsque le soleil disparut derriere les massifs de la rive droite du rio.

Le depart avait ete remis au lendemain des l’aube. Mieux valait passer la nuit dans la grotte. En effet, la pluie qui menacait se mit a tomber avec force vers huit heures.

Ainsi donc, apres avoir retrouve l’endroit ou etait venu s’installer le docteur Johausen, Khamis et ses compagnons partiraient sans savoir ce que ledit docteur etait devenu!… Rien… rien!… Pas un seul indice!… Cette pensee ne cessait d’obseder Max Huber, alors qu’elle preoccupait assez peu John Cort et laissait le foreloper tout a fait indifferent. Il allait rever de babouins, de chimpanzes, de gorilles, de mandrilles, de singes parlants, tout en convenant que le docteur n’avait pu avoir affaire qu’a des indigenes!… Et alors — l’imaginatif qu’il etait! — la grande foret lui reapparaissait avec ses eventualites mysterieuses, les invraisemblables hantises que lui suggeraient ses profondeurs, peuplades nouvelles, types inconnus, villages perdus sous les grands arbres…

Avant de s’etendre au fond de la grotte:

<<<Mon cher John, et vous aussi, Khamis, dit-il, j’ai une proposition a vous soumettre…

— Laquelle, Max?…

— C’est de faire quelque chose pour le docteur…

— Se lancer a sa recherche?… se recria le foreloper.

— Non, reprit Max Huber, mais donner son nom a ce cours d’eau, qui n’en a pas, je presume…>>>

Et voila pourquoi le rio Johausen figurera desormais sur les cartes modernes de l’Afrique equatoriale.

La nuit fut tranquille, et, tandis qu’ils veillaient tour a tour, ni John Cort, ni Max Huber, ni Khamis n’entendirent un seul mot frapper leur oreille.

CHAPITRE X

Ngora!

Le lendemain, le ciel rasserene — on pourrait dire epoussete par le puissant plumeau des orages — arrondissait sa voute d’un bleu cru au-dessus de la cime des arbres. Au lever du soleil, les fines gouttelettes des feuilles et des herbes se volatiliserent. Le sol, tres rapidement asseche, se pretait au cheminement en foret. Mais il n’etait pas question de reprendre a pied la route du sud-ouest. Si le rio Johausen ne s’ecartait pas de cette direction, Khamis ne doutait plus d’atteindre en une vingtaine de jours le bassin de l’Oubanghi.

Le violent trouble atmospherique, ses milliers d’eclairs, ses roulements prolonges, ses chutes de foudre, n’avaient cesse qu’a trois heures du matin. Apres avoir accoste la berge a travers le remous, le radeau avait trouve un abri. En cet endroit se dressait un enorme baobab dont le tronc, evide a l’interieur, ne tenait plus que par son ecorce. Khamis et ses compagnons, en se serrant, y auraient place. On y transporta le modeste materiel, ustensiles, armes, munitions, qui n’eut point a souffrir des rafales et dont le rembarquement s’effectua a l’heure du depart.

<<<Ma foi, il est venu a propos, cet orage!>>> observa John Cort, qui s’entretenait avec Max, tandis que le foreloper disposait les restes du gibier pour ce premier repas.

Tout en causant, les deux jeunes gens s’occupaient a nettoyer leurs carabines, travail indispensable apres la fusillade tres vive de la veille.

Entre temps, Llanga furetait au milieu des roseaux et des herbes, a la recherche des nids et des oeufs.

<<<Oui, mon cher John, l’orage est venu a propos, dit Max Huber, et fasse le ciel que ces abominables betes ne s’avisent pas de reparaitre maintenant qu’il est dissipe!… Dans tous les cas, tenons-nous sur nos gardes.>>>

Khamis n’etait pas sans avoir eu cette crainte qu’au lever du jour les quadrumanes ne revinssent sur les deux rives. Et tout d’abord il fut rassure: on n’entendait aucun bruit suspect a mesure que l’aube penetrait le sous-bois.

<<<J’ai parcouru la rive sur une centaine de pas, et je n’ai apercu aucun singe, assura John Cort…

— C’est de bon augure, repondit Max Huber, et j’espere utiliser desormais nos cartouches autrement qu’a nous defendre contre des macaques!… J’ai cru que toute notre reserve allait y passer…

— Et comment aurions-nous pu la renouveler? reprit John Cort… Il ne faut pas compter sur une seconde cage pour se ravitailler de balles, de poudres et de plomb…

— Eh! s’ecria Max Huber, quand je songe que le docteur voulait etablir des relations sociales avec de pareils etres!… Le joli monde!… Quant a decouvrir quels termes ils emploient pour s’inviter a diner et comment ils se disent bonjour ou bonsoir, il faut vraiment etre un professeur Garner, comme il y en a quelques-uns en Amerique… ou un docteur Johausen, comme il y en a quelques-uns en Allemagne, et peut-etre meme en France…

— En France, Max?…

— Oh! si l’on cherchait parmi les savants de l’Institut ou de la

Sorbonne, on trouverait bien quelque idio…

— Idiot!… repeta John Cort en protestant.

— Idiomographe, acheva Max Huber, qui serait capable de venir dans les forets congolaises recommencer les tentatives du professeur Garner et du docteur Johausen!

— En tout cas, mon cher Max, si l’on est rassure sur le compte du premier, qui parait avoir rompu tout rapport avec la societe des macaques, il n’en est pas ainsi du second, et je crains bien que…

— Que les babouins ou autres ne lui aient rompu les os!… poursuivit Max Huber. A la facon dont ils nous ont accueillis hier, on peut juger si ce sont des etres civilises et s’il est possible qu’ils le deviennent jamais!

— Voyez-vous, Max, j’imagine que les betes sont destinees a rester betes…

— Et les hommes aussi!… repliqua Max Huber en riant. N’empeche que j’ai un gros regret de revenir a Libreville sans rapporter des nouvelles du docteur…

— D’accord, mais l’important pour nous serait d’avoir pu traverser cette interminable foret…

— Ca se fera…

— Soit, mais je voudrais que ce fut fait!>>>

Du reste, le parcours ne presentait plus que des chances assez heureuses, puisque le radeau n’avait qu’a s’abandonner au courant. Encore convenait-il que le lit du rio Johausen ne fut pas embarrasse de rapides, coupe de barrages, interrompu par des chutes. C’est ce que redoutait surtout le foreloper.

En ce moment, il appela ses compagnons pour le dejeuner. Llanga revint presque aussitot, rapportant quelques oeufs de canard, qui furent reserves pour le repas de midi. Grace au morceau d’antilope, il n’y aurait pas lieu de renouveler la provision de gibier avant la halte de la meridienne.

<<<Eh! j’y songe, suggera John Cort, pour ne pas avoir inutilement depense nos munitions, pourquoi ne pas se nourrir de la chair des singes?…

— Ah! pouah! fit Max Huber.

— Voyez ce degoute!…

— Quoi, mon cher John, des cotelettes de gorille, des filets de gibbons, des gigots de chimpanzes… toute une fricassee de mandrilles…

— Ce n’est pas mauvais, affirma Khamis. Les indigenes ne font point fi d’une grillade de ce genre.

— Et j’en mangerais au besoin…, dit John Cort.

— Anthropophage! s’ecria Max Huber. Manger presque son semblable…

— Merci, Max!…>>>

En fin de compte, on abandonna aux oiseaux de proie les quadrumanes tues pendant la bataille. La foret de l’Oubanghi possedait assez de ruminants et de volailles pour que l’on ne fit pas aux representants de l’espece simienne l’honneur de les introduire dans un estomac humain.

Khamis eprouva de serieuses difficultes a tirer le radeau du remous et a doubler la pointe.

Tous donnerent la main a cette manoeuvre, qui demanda pres d’une heure. On avait du couper de jeunes baliveaux, puis les ebrancher afin d’en faire des espars au moyen desquels on s’ecarta de la berge. Le remous y maintenant le radeau, si la bande fut revenue a cette heure, il n’aurait pas ete possible d’eviter son attaque en se rejetant dans le courant. Sans doute, ni le foreloper ni ses compagnons ne fussent sortis sains et saufs de cette lutte trop inegale.

Bref, apres mille efforts, le radeau depassa l’extremite de la pointe et commenca a redescendre le cours du rio Johausen.

La journee promettait d’etre belle. Aucun symptome d’orage a l’horizon, aucune menace de pluie. En revanche, une averse de rayons solaires tombait d’aplomb, et la chaleur aurait ete torride sans une vive brise du nord, dont le radeau se fut fort aide, s’il eut possede une voile.

La riviere s’elargissait graduellement a mesure qu’elle se dirigeait vers le sud-ouest. Plus de berceau s’etendant sur son lit, plus de branches s’enchevetrant d’une rive a l’autre. En ces conditions, la reapparition des quadrumanes sur les deux berges n’aurait pas presente les memes dangers que la veille. D’ailleurs, ils ne se montrerent pas.

Les bords du rio, cependant, n’etaient pas deserts. Nombre d’oiseaux aquatiques les animaient de leurs cris et de leurs vols, canards, outardes, pelicans, martins-pecheurs et multiples echantillons d’echassiers.

John Cort abattit plusieurs couples de ces volatiles, qui servirent au repas de midi, avec les oeufs deniches par le jeune indigene. Au surplus, afin de regagner le temps perdu, on ne fit pas halte a l’heure habituelle et la premiere partie de la journee s’ecoula sans le moindre incident.

Dans l’apres-midi, il se produisit une alerte, non sans serieux motifs:

Il etait quatre heures environ lorsque Khamis, qui tenait la godille a l’arriere, pria John Cort de le remplacer, et vint se poster debout a l’avant.

Max Huber se releva, s’assura que rien ne menacait ni sur la rive droite ni sur la rive gauche et dit au foreloper:

<<<Que regardez-vous donc?

— Cela.>>>

Et, de la main, Khamis indiquait en aval une assez violente agitation des eaux.

<<<Encore un remous, dit Max Huber, ou plutot une sorte de maelstrom de riviere!… Attention, Khamis, a ne point tomber la dedans…

— Ce n’est pas un remous, affirma le foreloper.

— Et qu’est-ce donc?…>>>

A cette demande repondit presque aussitot une sorte de jet liquide qui monta d’une dizaine de pieds au-dessus de la surface du rio.

Et Max Huber, tres surpris, de s’ecrier:

<<<Est-ce que, par hasard, il y aurait des baleines dans les fleuves de l’Afrique centrale?…

— Non… des hippopotames>>>, repliqua le foreloper.

Un souffle bruyant se fit entendre a l’instant ou emergeait une tete enorme avec des machoires armees de fortes defenses, et, pour employer des comparaisons singulieres, mais justes, <<<un interieur de bouche semblable a une masse de viande de boucherie, et des yeux comparables a la lucarne d’une chaumiere hollandaise!>>> Ainsi se sont exprimes dans leurs recits quelques voyageurs particulierement imaginatifs.

De ces hippopotames, on en rencontre depuis le cap de Bonne-Esperance jusqu’au vingt-troisieme degre de latitude nord. Ils frequentent la plupart des rivieres de ces vastes regions, les marais et les lacs. Toutefois, suivant une remarque qui a ete faite, si le rio Johausen eut ete tributaire de la Mediterranee, - - ce qui ne se pouvait, — il n’y aurait pas eu a se preoccuper des attaques de ces amphibies, car ils ne s’y montrent jamais, sauf dans le haut Nil.

L’hippopotame est un animal redoutable, bien que doux de caractere. Pour une raison ou pour une autre, lorsqu’il est surexcite, sous l’empire de la douleur, a l’instant ou il vient d’etre harponne, il s’exaspere, il se precipite avec fureur contre les chasseurs, il les poursuit le long des berges, il fonce sur les canots, qu’il est de taille a chavirer, et de force a crever, avec ses machoires assez puissantes pour couper un bras ou une jambe.

Certes, aucun passager du radeau — pas meme Max Huber, si enrage qu’il fut de prouesses cynegetiques — ne devait avoir la pensee de s’attaquer a un tel amphibie. Mais l’amphibie voudrait peut-etre les assaillir, et s’il atteignait le radeau, s’il le heurtait, s’il l’accablait de son poids qui va parfois a deux mille kilogrammes, s’il l’encornait de ses terribles defenses, que deviendraient Khamis et ses compagnons…

Le courant etait rapide alors, et peut-etre valait-il mieux se contenter de le suivre, au lieu de se rapprocher de l’une des rives: l’hippopotame s’y fut dirige apres lui. A terre, il est vrai, ses coups auraient ete plus facilement evites, puisqu’il est impropre a se mouvoir rapidement avec ses jambes courtes et basses, son ventre enorme qui traine sur le sol. Il tient plus du cochon que du sanglier. Mais, a la surface du rio, le radeau serait a sa merci. Il le mettrait en pieces, et, a supposer que les passagers eussent, en nageant, gagne les berges, quelle facheuse eventualite que celle d’etre obliges a construire un second appareil flottant!

<<<Tachons de passer sans etre vus, conseilla Khamis. Etendons-nous, ne faisons aucun bruit, et soyons prets a nous jeter a l’eau si c’est necessaire…

— Je me charge de toi, Llanga>>>, dit Max Huber.

On suivit le conseil du foreloper, et chacun se coucha sur le radeau que le courant entrainait avec une certaine rapidite. Dans cette position, peut-etre y avait-il chance de ne point etre apercus par l’hippopotame.

Et ce fut un grand souffle, une sorte de grognement de porc, que tous quatre entendirent quelques instants apres, quand les secousses indiquerent qu’ils franchissaient les eaux troublees par l’enorme animal.

Il y eut quelques secondes de vive anxiete. Le radeau allait-il etre souleve par la tete du monstre ou immerge sous sa lourde masse?…

Khamis, John Cort et Max Huber ne furent rassures qu’au moment ou l’agitation des eaux eut cesse, en meme temps que diminuait l’intensite du souffle dont ils avaient senti les chaudes emanations au passage. Ils se releverent alors et ne virent plus l’amphibie qui s’etait replonge dans les basses couches du rio.

Certes, des chasseurs habitues a lutter contre l’elephant, qui venaient de faire campagne avec la caravane d’Urdax, n’auraient pas du s’effrayer de la rencontre d’un hippopotame. Plusieurs fois ils avaient attaque ces animaux au milieu des marais du haut Oubanghi, mais dans des conditions plus favorables. A bord de ce fragile assemblage de planches dont la perte eut ete si regrettable, on admettra leurs apprehensions, et ce fut heureux qu’ils eussent evite les attaques de la formidable bete.

Le soir, Khamis s’arreta a l’embouchure d’un ruisseau de la rive gauche. On n’eut pu mieux choisir pour la nuit, au pied d’un bouquet de bananiers, dont les larges feuilles formaient abri. A cette place, la greve etait couverte de mollusques comestibles, qui furent recueillis et manges crus ou cuits, suivant l’espece. Quant aux bananes, leur gout sauvage laissait a desirer. Heureusement, l’eau du ruisselet, melangee du suc de ces fruits, fournit une boisson assez rafraichissante.

<<<Tout cela serait parfait, dit Max Huber, si nous etions certains de dormir tranquillement… Par malheur, il y a ces maudits insectes qui se garderont bien de nous epargner… Faute de moustiquaire, nous nous reveillerons pointilles de piqures!>>>

Et, en verite, c’est ce qui serait arrive si Llanga n’avait trouve le moyen de chasser ces myriades de moustiques reunis en nuees bourdonnantes.

Il s’etait eloigne en remontant le long du ruisseau, lorsque sa voix se fit entendre a courte distance.

Khamis le rejoignit aussitot et Llanga lui montra sur la greve des tas de bouses seches, laissees par les ruminants, antilopes, cerfs, buffles et autres, qui venaient d’habitude se desalterer a cette place.

Or, de meler ces bouses a un foyer flambant — ce qui produit une epaisse fumee d’une acrete particuliere — c’est le meilleur moyen et peut-etre le seul d’eloigner les moustiques. Les indigenes l’emploient toutes les fois qu’ils le peuvent et s’en trouvent bien.

L’instant d’apres, un gros tas s’elevait au pied des bananiers. Le feu fut ravive avec du bois mort. Le foreloper y jeta plusieurs bouses. Un nuage de fumee se degagea et l’air fut aussitot nettoye de ces insupportables insectes.

Le foyer dut etre entretenu pendant toute la nuit par John Cort, Max Huber et Khamis, qui veillerent tour a tour. Aussi, le matin venu, bien remis grace a un bon sommeil, ils reprirent des le petit jour la descente du rio Johausen.

Rien n’est variable comme le temps sous ce climat de l’Afrique du centre. Au ciel clair de la veille succedait un ciel grisatre qui promettait une journee pluvieuse. Il est vrai, comme les nuages se tenaient dans les basses zones, il ne tomba qu’une pluie fine, simple poussiere liquide, neanmoins fort desagreable a recevoir.

Par bonheur, Khamis avait eu une excellente idee. Ces feuilles de bananier, de l’espece <<<ensete>>>, sont peut-etre les plus grandes de tout le regne vegetal. Les noirs s’en servent pour la toiture de leurs paillotes. Rien qu’avec une douzaine, on pouvait etablir une sorte de taud au centre du radeau, en liant leurs queues au moyen de lianes. C’est ce que le foreloper avait fait avant de partir. Les passagers se trouvaient donc a couvert contre cette pluie tenue, qui glissait sur les feuilles d’ensete.

Pendant la premiere partie de la journee se montrerent quelques singes le long de la rive droite, une vingtaine de grande taille, qui semblaient enclins a reprendre les hostilites de l’avant-veille. Le plus sage etait d’eviter tout contact avec eux, et on y parvint en maintenant le radeau le long de la rive gauche, moins frequentee par les bandes de quadrumanes.

John Cort fit judicieusement observer que les relations devaient etre rares entre les tribus simiennes des deux rives, puisque la communication ne s’etablissait que par les ponts de branchages et de lianes, malaisement praticables meme a des singes.

On <<<brula>>> la halte de la meridienne, et, dans l’apres-midi, le radeau ne s’arreta qu’une seule fois, afin d’embarquer une antilope sassaby que John Cort avait abattue derriere un fouillis de roseaux, pres d’un coude de la riviere.

A ce coude, le rio Johausen, obliquant vers le sud-est, modifiait presque a angle droit sa direction habituelle. Cela ne laissa pas d’inquieter Khamis de se voir ainsi rejete a l’interieur de la foret, alors que le terme du voyage se trouvait a l’oppose, du cote de l’Atlantique. Evidemment, on ne pouvait mettre en doute que le rio Johausen fut un tributaire de l’Oubanghi, mais d’aller chercher ce confluent a quelques centaines de kilometres, au centre du Congo independant, quel immense detour! Heureusement, apres une heure de navigation, le foreloper, grace a son instinct d’orientation, — car le soleil ne se montrait pas, — reconnut que le cours d’eau reprenait sa direction premiere. Il etait donc permis d’esperer qu’il entrainerait le radeau jusqu’a la limite du Congo francais, d’ou il serait aise de gagner Libreville.

A six heures et demie, d’un vigoureux coup de godille, Khamis accosta la rive gauche, au fond d’une etroite crique, ombragee sous les larges frondaisons d’un cailcedrat d’une espece identique a l’acajou des forets senegaliennes.

Si la pluie ne tombait plus, le ciel ne s’etait pas degage de ces brumailles dont le soleil n’avait pu percer l’epaisseur. Il n’en faudrait pas inferer que la nuit serait froide. Un thermometre eut marque de vingt-cinq a vingt-six degres centigrades. Le feu petilla bientot entre les pierres de la crique, et ce fut uniquement pour les exigences culinaires, le rotissage d’un quartier de sassaby. Cette fois, Llanga eut vainement cherche des mollusques afin de varier le menu, ou des bananes pour edulcorer l’eau du rio Johausen, lequel, malgre une certaine ressemblance de nom, ainsi que le fit observer Max Huber, ne rappelait en aucune facon le johannisberg de M. de Metternich. En revanche, on saurait se debarrasser des moustiques par le meme procede que la veille.

A sept heures et demie, il ne faisait pas encore nuit. Une vague clarte se refletait dans les eaux de la riviere. A sa surface flottaient des amas de roseaux et de plantes, des troncs d’arbres, arraches des berges.

Tandis que John Cort, Max Huber et Khamis preparaient la couchee, entassant des brassees d’herbes seches au pied de l’arbre, Llanga allait et venait sur le bord, s’amusant a suivre cette derive d’epaves flottantes.

En ce moment apparut en amont, a une trentaine de toises, le tronc d’un arbre de taille moyenne, pourvu de toute sa ramure. Il avait ete brise a cinq ou six pieds au-dessous de sa fourche, ou la cassure etait fraiche. Autour de ces branches, dont les plus basses trainaient dans l’eau, s’entortillait un feuillage assez epais, quelques fleurs, quelques fruits, toute une verdure qui avait survecu a la chute de l’arbre.

Tres probablement, cet arbre avait ete frappe d’un coup de foudre du dernier orage. De la place ou s’implantaient ses racines, il etait tombe sur la berge, puis, glissant peu a peu, degage des roseaux, saisi par le courant, il derivait avec les nombreux debris a la surface du rio.

De telles reflexions, il ne faudrait pas s’imaginer que Llanga les eut faites ou fut capable de les faire. Ce tronc, il ne l’aurait pas plus remarque que les autres epaves animees du meme mouvement, si son attention, n’eut ete attiree d’une facon toute speciale.

En effet, dans l’interstice des branches, Llanga crut apercevoir une creature vivante, qui faisait des gestes comme pour appeler au secours. Au milieu de la demi-obscurite, il ne put distinguer l’etre en question. Etait-il d’origine animale?…

Tres indecis, il allait appeler Max Huber et John Cort, lorsque se produisit un nouvel incident.

Le tronc n’etait plus qu’a une quarantaine de metres, en obliquant vers la crique, ou etait accoste le radeau.

A cet instant, un cri retentit, — un cri singulier, ou plutot une sorte d’appel desespere, comme si quelque etre humain eut demande aide et assistance. Puis, alors que le tronc passait devant la crique, cet etre se precipita dans le courant avec l’evidente intention de gagner la berge.

Llanga crut reconnaitre un enfant, d’une taille inferieure a la sienne. Cet enfant avait du se trouver sur l’arbre au moment de sa chute. Savait-il nager?… Tres mal dans tous les cas et pas assez pour atteindre la berge. Visiblement ses forces le trahissaient. Il se debattait, disparaissait, reparaissait, et, par intervalles, une sorte de gloussement s’echappait de ses levres.

Obeissant a un sentiment d’humanite, sans prendre le temps de prevenir, Llanga se jeta dans le rio, et gagna la place ou l’enfant venait de s’enfoncer une derniere fois.

Aussitot, John Cort et Max Huber, qui avaient entendu le premier cri, accoururent sur le bord de la crique. Voyant Llanga soutenir un corps a la surface de la riviere, ils lui tendirent la main pour l’aider a remonter sur la berge.

<<<Eh?… Llanga, s’ecria Max Huber, qu’es-tu alle repecher la?…

— Un enfant… mon ami Max… un enfant… Il se noyait…

— Un enfant?… repeta John Cort.

— Oui, mon ami John.>>>

Et Llanga s’agenouilla pres du petit etre qu’il venait de sauver assurement.

Max Huber se pencha, afin de l’observer de plus pres.

<<<Eh!… ce n’est pas un enfant!… declara-t-il en se relevant.

— Qu’est-ce donc?… demanda John Cort.

— Un petit singe… un rejeton de ces abominables grimaciers qui nous ont assaillis!… Et c’est pour le tirer de la noyade que tu as risque de te noyer, Llanga?…

— Un enfant… si… un enfant!… repetait Llanga.

— Non, te dis-je, et je t’engage a l’envoyer rejoindre sa famille au fond des bois.>>>

Etait-ce donc qu’il ne crut pas a ce qu’affirmait son ami Max, mais Llanga s’obstinait a voir un enfant dans ce petit etre qui lui devait la vie, et qui n’avait pas encore repris connaissance. Aussi, n’entendant pas s’en separer, il le souleva entre ses bras. Au total, le mieux etait de le laisser faire a sa guise. Apres l’avoir rapporte au campement, Llanga s’assura que l’enfant respirait encore, il le frictionna, il le rechauffa, puis il le coucha sur l’herbe seche, attendant que ses yeux se rouvrissent.

La veillee ayant ete organisee comme d’habitude, les deux amis ne tarderent pas a s’endormir, tandis que Khamis resterait de garde jusqu’a minuit. Llanga ne put se livrer au sommeil. Il epiait les plus legers mouvements de son protege; etendu pres de lui, il lui tenait les mains, il ecoutait sa respiration… Et quelle fut sa surprise, lorsque, vers onze heures, il entendit ce mot prononce d’une voix faible: <<<Ngora… ngora!>>> comme si cet enfant eut appele sa mere!

CHAPITRE XI

La journee du 19 Mars

A cette halte, on pouvait estimer a deux cents kilometres le parcours effectue moitie a pied, moitie avec le radeau. En restait-il encore autant pour atteindre l’Oubanghi?… Non, dans l’opinion du foreloper, et cette seconde partie du voyage se ferait rapidement, a la condition que nul obstacle n’arretat la navigation.

On s’embarqua des le point du jour avec le petit passager supplementaire, dont Llanga n’avait pas voulu se separer. Apres l’avoir transporte sous le taud de feuillage, il voulut demeurer pres de lui, esperant que ses yeux allaient se rouvrir.

Que ce fut un membre de la famille des quadrumanes du continent africain, chimpanzes, orangs, gorilles, mandrilles, babouins et autres, cela ne faisait pas doute dans l’esprit de Max Huber et de John Cort. Ils n’avaient meme guere songe a le regarder de plus pres, a lui accorder une attention particuliere. Cela ne les interessait pas autrement. Llanga l’avait sauve, il desirait le garder, comme on garde un pauvre chien recueilli par pitie, soit! Qu’il s’en fit un compagnon, rien de mieux, et cela temoignait de son bon coeur. Apres tout, puisque les deux amis avaient adopte le jeune indigene, il etait bien permis a celui-ci d’adopter un petit singe. Vraisemblablement, des qu’il trouverait l’occasion de filer sous bois, ce dernier abandonnerait son sauveur avec cette ingratitude dont les hommes n’ont point le monopole.

Il est vrai, si Llanga etait venu dire a John Cort, a Max Huber, meme a Khamis: <<<Il parle, ce singe!… Il a repete trois ou quatre fois le mot <<<ngora>>>, peut-etre leur attention eut-elle ete eveillee, leur curiosite aussi!… Peut-etre l’eussent-ils examine avec plus de soin, ce petit animal!… Peut-etre auraient-ils decouvert en lui quelque echantillon d’une race inconnue jusqu’alors, celle des quadrumanes parlants?…

Mais Llanga se tut, craignant de s’etre trompe, d’avoir mal entendu. Il se promit d’observer son protege, et, si le mot <<<ngora>>> ou tout autre s’echappait de ses levres, il previendrait aussitot son ami John et son ami Max.

C’est donc une des raisons pour lesquelles il demeura sous le taud, essayant de donner un peu de nourriture a son protege, qui semblait affaibli par un long jeune. Sans doute, le nourrir serait malaise, les singes etant frugivores. Or, Llanga n’avait pas un seul fruit a lui offrir, rien que de la chair d’antilope dont il ne s’accommoderait pas. D’ailleurs une fievre assez forte ne lui eut pas permis de manger et il demeurait dans une sorte d’assoupissement.

<<<Et comment va ton singe?… demanda Max Huber a Llanga, lorsque celui-ci se montra, une heure apres le depart.

— Il dort toujours, mon ami Max.

— Et tu tiens a le garder?…

— Oui… si vous le permettez…

— Je n’y vois aucun inconvenient, Llanga… Mais prends garde qu’il ne te griffe…

— Oh, mon ami Max!

— Il faut se defier!… C’est mauvais comme des chats, ces betes-la!…

— Pas celui-ci!… Il est si jeune!… Il a une petite figure si douce!…

— A propos, puisque tu veux en faire ton camarade, occupe-toi de lui donner un nom…

— Un nom?… Et lequel?…

— Jocko, parbleu!… Tous les singes s’appellent Jocko!>>>

Il est probable que ce nom ne convenait pas a Llanga. Il ne repondit rien et retourna aupres de son protege.

Pendant cette matinee, la navigation fut favorisee et on n’eut point trop a souffrir de la chaleur. La couche de nuages etait assez epaisse pour que le soleil ne put la traverser. Il y avait lieu de s’en feliciter, puisque le rio Johausen coulait parfois a travers de larges clairieres. Impossible de trouver abri le long des berges, ou les arbres etaient rares. Le sol redevenait marecageux. Il eut fallu s’ecarter d’un demi-kilometre a droite ou a gauche pour atteindre les plus proches massifs. Ce que l’on devait craindre, c’est que la pluie ne reprit avec sa violence habituelle, mais le ciel s’en tint a des menaces.

Toutefois, si les oiseaux aquatiques volaient par bandes au-dessus du marecage, les ruminants ne s’y montraient guere, d’ou vif deplaisir de Max Huber. Aux canards et aux outardes des jours precedents, il eut voulu substituer des antilopes sassabys, inyalas, waterbucks ou autres. C’est pourquoi, poste a l’avant du radeau, sa carabine prete, comme un chasseur a l’affut, fouillait-il du regard la rive dont le foreloper se rapprochait suivant le caprice du courant.

On dut se contenter des cuisses et ailes des volatiles pour le dejeuner de midi. En somme, rien d’etonnant a ce que ces survivants de la caravane du Portugais Urdax se sentissent fatigues de leur alimentation quotidienne. Toujours de la viande rotie, bouillie ou grillee, toujours de l’eau claire, pas de fruits, pas de pain, pas de sel. Du poisson, et si insuffisamment accommode! Il leur tardait d’arriver aux premiers etablissements de l’Oubanghi, ou toutes ces privations seraient vite oubliees, grace a la genereuse hospitalite des missionnaires.

Ce jour-la, Khamis chercha vainement un emplacement favorable pour la halte. Les rives, herissees de gigantesques roseaux, semblaient inabordables. Sur leur base, a demi detrempee, comment effectuer un debarquement? Le parcours y gagnait, d’ailleurs, puisque le radeau n’interrompit point sa marche.

On navigua ainsi jusqu’a cinq heures. Entre temps, John Cort et Max Huber causaient des incidents du voyage. Ils s’en rememoraient les divers episodes depuis le depart de Libreville, les chasses interessantes et fructueuses dans les regions du haut Oubanghi, les grands abattages d’elephants, les dangers de ces expeditions, dont ils s’etaient si bien tires pendant deux mois, puis le retour opere sans encombre jusqu’au tertre des tamarins, les feux mouvants, l’apparition du formidable troupeau de pachydermes, la caravane attaquee, les porteurs en fuite, le chef Urdax ecrase apres la chute de l’arbre, la poursuite des elephants arretee sur la lisiere de la grande foret…

<<<Triste denouement a une campagne si heureuse jusque-la!… conclut John Cort. Et qui sait s’il ne sera pas suivi d’un second non moins desastreux?…

— C’est possible, mais, a mon avis, ce n’est pas probable, mon cher John…

— En effet, j’exagere peut-etre…

— Certes, et cette foret n’a pas plus de mystere que vos grands bois du Far West!… Nous n’avons pas meme une attaque de Peaux-Rouges a redouter!… Ici, ni nomades, ni sedentaires, ni Chiloux, ni Denkas, ni Monbouttous, ces feroces tribus qui infestent les regions du nord-est en criant: <<<Viande! viande!>>> comme de parfaits anthropophages qu’ils n’ont jamais cesse d’etre!… Non, et ce cours d’eau auquel nous avons donne le nom du docteur Johausen, dont j’aurais tant desire de retrouver la trace, ce rio, tranquille et sur, nous conduira sans fatigues a son confluent avec l’Oubanghi…

— L’Oubanghi, mon cher Max, que nous eussions egalement atteint en contournant la foret, en suivant l’itineraire de ce pauvre Urdax, et cela dans un confortable chariot ou rien ne nous eut manque jusqu’au terme du voyage!

— Vous avez raison, John, et cela eut mieux valu!… Decidement, cette foret est des plus banales et ne merite pas d’etre visitee!… Ce n’est qu’un bois, un grand bois, rien de plus!… Et, pourtant, elle avait pique ma curiosite au debut… Vous vous rappelez ces flammes qui eclairaient sa lisiere, ces torches qui brillaient a travers les branches de ses premiers arbres!… Puis, personne!… Ou diable ont pu passer ces negros?… Je me prends parfois a les chercher dans la ramure des baobabs, des bombax, des tamarins et autres geants de la famille forestiere!… Non… pas un etre humain…

— Max… dit en ce moment John Cort.

— John?… repondit Max Huber.

— Voulez-vous regarder dans cette direction… en aval, sur la rive gauche?…

— Quoi?… Un indigene?…

— Oui… mais un indigene a quatre pattes!… La-bas, au-dessus des roseaux, une magnifique paire de cornes recourbees en carene…>>>

L’attention du foreloper venait d’etre attiree de ce cote.

<<<Un buffle…, dit-il.

— Un buffle! repeta Max Huber en saisissant sa carabine. Voila un fameux plat de resistance, et si je le tiens a bonne portee!…>>>

Khamis donna un vigoureux coup de godille. Le radeau s’approcha obliquement de la berge. Quelques instants apres il ne s’en trouvait pas eloigne d’une trentaine de metres.

<<<Que de beefsteaks en perspective!… murmura Max Huber, la carabine appuyee sur son genou gauche.

— A vous le premier coup, Max, lui dit John Cort, et a moi le second… s’il est necessaire…>>>

Le buffle ne semblait pas dispose a quitter la place. Arrete sous le vent, il reniflait l’air a pleines narines, sans avoir le pressentiment du danger qu’il courait. Comme on ne pouvait pas le viser au coeur, il fallait le viser a la tete, et c’est ce que fit Max Huber, des qu’il fut assure de le tenir dans sa ligne de mire.

La detonation retentit, la queue de l’animal tournoya en arriere des roseaux, un douloureux mugissement traversa l’espace, et non pas le meuglement habituel aux buffles, preuve qu’il avait recu le coup mortel.

<<<Ca y est!>>> s’ecria Max Huber en lancant, avec l’accent du triomphe, cette locution eminemment francaise.

En effet, John Cort n’eut point a doubler, ce qui economisa une seconde cartouche. La bete, tombee entre les roseaux, glissa au pied de la berge, lancant un jet de sang qui rougit le long de la rive l’eau si limpide du rio Johausen.

Afin de ne pas perdre cette superbe piece, le radeau se dirigea vers l’endroit ou le ruminant s’etait abattu, et le foreloper prit ses dispositions pour le depecer sur place afin d’en retirer les morceaux comestibles.

Les deux amis ne purent qu’admirer cet echantillon des boeufs sauvages d’Afrique, d’une taille gigantesque. Lorsque ces animaux franchissent les plaines par troupes de deux a trois cents, on se figure quelle galopade furieuse au milieu des nuages de poussiere souleves sur leur passage!

C’etait un onja, nom par lequel le designent les indigenes, un taureau solitaire, plus grand que ses congeneres de l’Europe, le front plus etroit, le mufle plus allonge, les cornes plus comprimees. Si la peau de l’onja sert a fabriquer des buffleteries d’une solidite superieure, si ses cornes fournissent la matiere des tabatieres et des peignes, si ses poils rudes et noirs sont employes a rembourrer les chaises et les selles, c’est avec ses filets, ses cotelettes, ses entrecotes qu’on obtient une nourriture aussi savoureuse que fortifiante, qu’il s’agisse des buffles de l’Asie, de l’Afrique, ou du buffle de l’Amerique. En somme, Max Huber avait eu la un coup heureux. A moins qu’un onja ne tombe sous la premiere balle, il est terrible quand il fonce sur le chasseur.

Sa hachette et son couteau aidant, Khamis proceda a l’operation du depecage, a laquelle ses compagnons durent l’aider de leur mieux. Il ne fallait pas charger le radeau d’un poids inutile, et vingt kilogrammes de cette chair appetissante devaient suffire a l’alimentation pendant plusieurs jours.

Or, tandis que s’accomplissait ce haut fait, Llanga, si curieux d’ordinaire des choses qui interessaient son ami Max et son ami John, etait reste sous le taud, et voici pour quel motif.

Au bruit de la detonation produite par la carabine, le petit etre s’etait tire de son assoupissement. Ses bras avaient fait un leger mouvement. Si ses paupieres ne s’etaient pas relevees, du moins, de sa bouche entr’ouverte, de ses levres decolorees s’etait de nouveau echappe l’unique mot que Llanga eut surpris jusqu’alors:

<<<Ngora… ngora!>>>

Cette fois, Llanga ne se trompait pas. Le mot arrivait bien a son oreille, avec une articulation singuliere et une sorte de grasseyement provoque par l’r de <<<ngora>>>.

Emu par l’accent douloureux de cette pauvre creature, Llanga prit sa main brulante d’une fievre qui durait depuis la veille. Il remplit la tasse d’eau fraiche, il essaya de lui en verser quelques gouttes dans la bouche sans y parvenir. Les machoires, aux dents d’une blancheur eclatante, ne se desserrerent pas. Llanga, mouillant alors un peu d’herbe seche, bassina delicatement les levres du petit et cela parut lui faire du bien. Sa main pressa faiblement celle qui la tenait, et le mot <<<ngora>>> fut encore prononce.

Et, qu’on ne l’oublie pas, ce mot, d’origine congolaise, les indigenes l’emploient pour designer la mere… Est-ce donc que ce petit etre appelait la sienne?…

La sympathie de Llanga se doublait d’une pitie bien naturelle, a la pensee que ce mot allait peut-etre se perdre dans un dernier soupir!… Un singe?… avait dit Max Huber. Non! ce n’etait pas un singe!… Voila ce que Llanga, dans son insuffisance intellectuelle, n’aurait pu s’expliquer.

Il demeura ainsi pendant une heure, tantot caressant la main de son protege, tantot lui imbibant les levres, et il ne le quitta qu’au moment ou le sommeil l’eut assoupi de nouveau.

Alors, Llanga, se decidant a tout dire, vint rejoindre ses amis, tandis que le radeau, repousse de la berge, retombait dans le courant.

<<<Eh bien, redemanda Max Huber en souriant, comment va ton singe?…>>>

Llanga le regarda, comme s’il eut hesite a repondre. Puis, posant sa main sur le bras de Max Huber:

<<<Ce n’est pas un singe…, dit-il.

— Pas un singe?… repeta John Cort.

— Allons, il est entete notre Llanga!… reprit Max Huber. Voyons! tu t’es mis dans la tete que c’etait un enfant comme toi?…

— Un enfant… pas comme moi… mais un enfant…

— Ecoute, Llanga, reprit John Cort, et plus serieusement que son compagnon, tu pretends que c’est un enfant?…

— Oui… il a parle… cette nuit.

— Il a parle?…

— Et il vient de parler tout a l’heure…

— Et qu’a-t-il dit, ce petit prodige?… demanda Max Huber.

— Il a dit <<<ngora>>>…

— Quoi!… ce mot que j’avais entendu?… s’ecria John Cort qui ne cacha pas sa surprise.

— Oui… <<<ngora>>>, affirma le jeune indigene.

Il n’y avait que deux hypotheses: ou Llanga avait ete dupe d’une illusion, ou il avait perdu la tete.

<<<Verifions cela, dit John Cort, et, pourvu que cela soit vrai, ce sera tout au moins de l’extraordinaire, mon cher Max!>>>

Tous deux penetrerent sous le taud et examinerent le petit dormeur.

Certes, a premiere vue, on aurait pu affirmer qu’il devait etre de race simienne. Ce qui frappa tout d’abord John Cort, c’est qu’il se trouvait en presence non d’un quadrumane, mais d’un bimane. Or, depuis les dernieres classifications generalement admises de Blumenbach, on sait que seul l’homme appartient a cet ordre dans le regne animal. Cette singuliere creature ne possedait que deux mains, alors que tous les singes, sans exception, en ont quatre, et ses pieds paraissaient conformes pour la marche, n’etant point prehensifs, comme ceux des types de la race simienne.

John Cort, en premier lieu, le fit remarquer a Max Huber.

<<<Curieux… tres curieux!>>> repliqua celui-ci.

Quant a la taille de ce petit etre, elle ne depassait pas soixante-quinze centimetres.

Il semblait, d’ailleurs, dans son enfance et ne pas avoir plus de cinq a six ans. Sa peau, depourvue de poils, presentait un leger duvet roux. Sur son front, son menton, ses joues, aucune apparence de systeme pileux, qui ne foisonnait que sur sa poitrine, les cuisses et les jambes. Ses oreilles se terminaient par une chair arrondie et molle, differentes de celles des quadrumanes, lesquelles sont depourvues de lobules. Ses bras ne s’allongeaient pas demesurement. La nature ne l’avait point gratifie du cinquieme membre, commun a la plupart des singes, cette queue qui leur sert au tact et a la prehension. Il avait la tete de forme ronde, l’angle facial d’environ quatre-vingts degres, le nez epate, le front peu fuyant. Si ce n’etaient pas des cheveux qui garnissaient son crane, c’etait du moins une sorte de toison analogue a celle des indigenes de l’Afrique centrale. Evidemment, ce type se reclamait plus de l’homme que du singe par sa conformation generale, et tres probablement aussi par son organisation interne.

A quel degre d’etonnement arriverent Max Huber et John Cort, on l’imaginera, en presence d’un etre absolument nouveau qu’aucun anthropologiste n’avait jamais observe, et qui, en somme, paraissait tenir le milieu entre l’humanite et l’animalite!

Et puis, Llanga avait affirme qu’il parlait, — a moins que le jeune indigene n’eut pris pour un mot articule ce qui n’etait qu’un cri ne repondant point a une idee quelconque, un cri du a l’instinct, non a l’intelligence.

Les deux amis restaient silencieux, esperant que la bouche du petit s’entr’ouvrirait, tandis que Llanga continuait de lui bassiner le front et les tempes. Sa respiration, cependant, etait moins haletante, sa peau moins chaude, et l’acces de fievre touchait a son terme. Enfin ses levres se detendirent legerement.

<<<Ngora… ngora!…>>> repeta-t-il.

<<<Par exemple, s’ecria Max Huber, voila bien qui passe toute raison!>>>

Et ni l’un ni l’autre ne voulaient croire a ce qu’ils venaient d’entendre.

Quoi! cet etre quel qu’il fut, qui n’occupait certainement pas le degre superieur de l’echelle animale, possedait le don de la parole!… S’il n’avait prononce jusqu’alors que ce seul mot de la langue congolaise, n’etait-il pas a supposer qu’il en employait d’autres, qu’il avait des idees, qu’il savait les traduire par des phrases?…

Ce qu’il y avait a regretter, c’etait que ses yeux ne s’ouvrissent pas, qu’on ne put y chercher ce regard ou la pensee se reflete et qui repond a tant de choses. Mais ses paupieres restaient fermees, et rien n’indiquait qu’elles fussent pretes a se relever…

Cependant, John Cort, penche sur lui, epiait les mots ou les cris qui auraient pu lui echapper. Il soutenait sa tete sans qu’il se reveillat, et quelle fut sa surprise, quand il vit un cordon enroule autour de ce petit cou.

Il fit glisser ce cordon, fait d’une tresse de soie, afin de saisir le noeud d’attache, et presque aussitot il disait:

<<<Une medaille!…

— Une medaille?…>>> repeta Max Huber.

John Cort denoua le cordon.

Oui! une medaille en nickel, grande comme un sou, avec un nom grave d’un cote, un profil grave de l’autre.

Le nom, c’etait celui de Johausen; le profil, c’etait celui du docteur.

<<<Lui!… s’ecria Max Huber, et ce gamin, decore de l’ordre du professeur allemand, dont nous avons retrouve la cage vide!>>>

Que ces medailles eussent ete repandues dans la region du Cameroun, rien d’etonnant a cela, puisque le docteur Johausen en avait maintes fois distribue aux Congolaises et aux Congolais. Mais qu’un insigne de ce genre fut attache precisement au cou de cet etrange habitant de la foret de l’Oubanghi…

<<<C’est fantastique, declara Max Huber, et, a moins que ces mi-singes mi-hommes n’aient vole cette medaille dans la caisse du docteur…

— Khamis?…>>> appela John Cort.

S’il appelait le foreloper, c’etait pour le mettre au courant de ces choses extraordinaires, et lui demander ce qu’il pensait de cette decouverte.

Mais, au meme moment, se fit entendre la voix du foreloper, qui criait:

<<<Monsieur Max… monsieur John!…>>>

Les deux jeunes gens sortirent du taud et s’approcherent de

Khamis.

<<<Ecoutez>>>, dit celui-ci.

A cinq cents metres en aval, la riviere obliquait brusquement vers la droite par un coude ou les arbres reapparaissaient en epais massifs. L’oreille, tendue dans cette direction, percevait un mugissement sourd et continu, qui ne ressemblait en rien a des beuglements de ruminants ou des hurlements de fauves. C’etait une sorte de brouhaha qui s’accroissait a mesure que le radeau gagnait de ce cote…

<<<Un bruit suspect… dit John Cort.

— Et dont je ne reconnais pas la nature, ajouta Max Huber.

— Peut-etre existe-t-il la-bas une chute ou un rapide?… reprit le foreloper. Le vent souffle du sud, et je sens que l’air est tout mouille!>>>

Khamis ne se trompait pas. A la surface du rio passait comme une vapeur liquide qui ne pouvait provenir que d’une violente agitation des eaux.

Si la riviere etait barree par un obstacle, si la navigation allait etre interrompue, cela constituait une eventualite assez grave pour que Max Huber et John Cort ne songeassent plus a Llanga ni a son protege.

Le radeau derivait avec une certaine rapidite, et, au dela du tournant, on serait fixe sur les causes de ce lointain tumulte.

Le coude franchi, les craintes du foreloper ne furent que trop justifiees.

A cent toises environ, un entassement de roches noiratres formait barrage d’une rive a l’autre, sauf a son milieu, ou les eaux se precipitaient en le couronnant d’ecume. De chaque cote, elles venaient se heurter contre une digue naturelle et, a certains endroits, bondissaient par-dessus. C’etait, a la fois, le rapide au centre, la chute lateralement. Si le radeau ne ralliait pas l’une des berges, si on ne parvenait pas a l’y fixer solidement, il serait entraine et se briserait contre le barrage, a moins qu’il ne chavirat dans le rapide.

Tous avaient garde leur sang-froid. D’ailleurs, pas un instant a perdre, car la vitesse du courant s’accentuait.

<<<A la berge… a la berge!>>> cria Khamis.

Il etait alors six heures et demie, et, par ce temps brumeux, le crepuscule ne laissait deja plus qu’une douteuse clarte, qui ne permettait guere de distinguer les objets.

Cette difficulte, ajoutee a tant d’autres, compliquait la manoeuvre.

Ce fut en vain que Khamis essaya de diriger le radeau vers la berge. Ses forces n’y suffisaient pas. Max Huber se joignit a lui afin de resister au courant qui portait en droite ligne vers le centre du barrage. A deux, ils obtinrent un certain resultat, et auraient reussi a sortir de cette derive, si la godille ne se fut rompue.

<<<Soyons prets a nous jeter sur les roches, avant d’etre engages dans le rapide… commanda Khamis.

— Pas autre chose a faire!>>> repondit John Cort.

A tout ce bruit, Llanga venait de quitter le taud. Il regarda, il comprit le danger… Au lieu de songer a lui, il songea a l’autre, au petit. Il vint le prendre dans ses bras, et s’agenouilla a l’arriere.

Une minute apres, le radeau etait repris par le rapide. Toutefois, peut-etre ne heurterait-il pas le barrage et descendrait-il sans chavirer?…

La mauvaise chance l’emporta, et ce fut contre un des rochers de gauche que le fragile appareil butta avec une violence extreme. En vain Khamis et ses compagnons essayerent-ils de s’accrocher au barrage, sur lequel ils parvinrent a lancer la caisse de cartouches, les armes, les ustensiles…

Tous furent precipites dans le tourbillon a l’instant ou s’ecrasait le radeau, dont les debris disparurent en aval au milieu des eaux mugissantes.

CHAPITRE XII

Sous bois

Le lendemain, trois hommes etaient etendus pres d’un foyer dont les derniers charbons achevaient de se consumer. Vaincus par la fatigue, incapables de resister au sommeil, apres avoir repris leurs vetements seches devant ce feu, ils s’etaient endormis.

Quelle heure etait-il et meme faisait-il jour ou faisait-il nuit?… Aucun d’eux ne l’eut pu dire. Cependant, a supputer le temps ecoule depuis la veille, il semblait bien que le soleil dut etre au-dessus de l’horizon. Mais dans quelle direction se placait l’est?… Cette demande, si elle eut ete faite, fut restee sans reponse.

Ces trois hommes etaient-ils donc au fond d’une caverne, en un lieu impenetrable a la lumiere diurne?…

Non, autour d’eux se pressaient des arbres en si grand nombre qu’ils arretaient le regard a la distance de quelques metres. Meme pendant la flambee, entre les enormes troncs et les lianes qui se tendaient de l’un a l’autre, il eut ete impossible de reconnaitre un sentier praticable a des pietons. La ramure inferieure plafonnait a une cinquantaine de pieds seulement. Au-dessus, si dense etait le feuillage, jusqu’a l’extreme cime, que ni la clarte des etoiles ni les rayons du soleil ne passaient au travers. Une prison n’aurait pas ete plus obscure, ses murs n’eussent pas ete plus infranchissables, et ce n’etait pourtant qu’un des sous-bois de la grande foret.

Dans ces trois hommes, on eut reconnu John Cort, Max Huber et

Khamis.

Par quel enchainement de circonstances se trouvaient-ils en cet endroit?… Ils l’ignoraient. Apres la dislocation du radeau contre le barrage, n’ayant pu se retenir aux roches, ils avaient ete precipites dans les eaux du rapide, et ne savaient rien de ce qui avait suivi cette catastrophe. A qui le foreloper et ses compagnons devaient-ils leur salut?… Qui les avait transportes jusqu’a cet epais massif avant qu’ils eussent repris connaissance?…

Par malheur, tous n’avaient pas echappe a ce desastre. L’un d’eux manquait, l’enfant adoptif de John Cort et de Max Huber, le pauvre Llanga, et aussi le petit etre qu’il avait sauve une premiere fois… Et qui sait si ce n’etait pas en voulant le sauver une seconde qu’il avait peri avec lui?…

Maintenant, Khamis, John Cort, Max Huber, ne possedaient ni munitions ni armes, aucun ustensile, sauf leurs couteaux de poche et la hachette, que le foreloper portait a sa ceinture. Plus de radeau, et d’ailleurs de quel cote se fussent-ils diriges pour rencontrer le cours du rio Johausen?…

Et la question de nourriture, comment la resoudre? Les produits de la chasse allaient faire defaut?… Khamis, John Cort et Max Huber en seraient-ils reduits aux racines, aux fruits sauvages, insuffisantes ressources et tres problematiques?… N’etait-ce pas la perspective de mourir de faim a bref delai?…

Delai de deux ou trois jours, toutefois, car l’alimentation serait du moins assuree pour ce laps de temps. Ce qui restait du buffle avait ete depose en cet endroit. Apres s’en etre partage les quelques tranches deja cuites, ils s’etaient endormis autour de ce feu pret a s’eteindre.

John Cort se reveilla le premier au milieu d’une obscurite que la nuit n’aurait pas rendue plus profonde. Ses yeux s’accoutumant a ces tenebres, il apercut vaguement Max Huber et Khamis couches au pied des arbres. Avant de les tirer de leur sommeil, il alla ranimer le foyer en rapprochant les bouts de tisons qui brulaient sous la cendre. Puis il ramassa une brassee de bois mort, d’herbes seches, et bientot une flamme petillante jeta ses lueurs sur le campement.

<<<A present, dit John Cort, avisons a sortir de la, mais comment?…>>>

Le petillement du foyer ne tarda pas a reveiller Max Huber et Khamis. Ils se releverent presque au meme instant. Le sentiment de la situation leur revint, et ils firent ce qu’il y avait a faire: ils tinrent conseil.

<<<Ou sommes-nous?… demanda Max Huber.

— Ou l’on nous a transportes, repondit John Cort, et j’entends par la que nous ne savons rien de ce qui s’est passe depuis…

— Depuis une nuit et un jour peut-etre…, ajouta Max Huber. Est-ce hier que notre radeau s’est brise contre le barrage?… Khamis, avez-vous quelque idee a ce sujet?…>>>

Pour toute reponse, le foreloper se contenta de secouer la tete. Impossible de determiner le compte du temps ecoule, ni de dire dans quelles conditions s’etait effectue le sauvetage.

<<<Et Llanga?… demanda John Cort. Il a certainement peri puisqu’il n’est pas avec nous!… Ceux qui nous ont sauves n’ont pu le retirer du rapide…

— Pauvre enfant! soupira Max Huber, il avait pour nous une si vive affection!… Nous l’aimions… nous lui aurions fait une existence si heureuse!… L’avoir arrache aux mains de ces Denkas, et maintenant… Pauvre enfant!>>>

Les deux amis n’eussent pas hesite a risquer leur vie pour Llanga… Mais, eux aussi, ils avaient ete bien pres de perir dans le tourbillon, et ils ignoraient a qui etait du leur salut…

Inutile d’ajouter qu’ils ne songeaient plus a la singuliere creature recueillie par le jeune indigene, et qui s’etait noyee avec lui, sans doute. Bien d’autres questions les preoccupaient a cette heure, — questions autrement graves que ce probleme d’anthropologie relatif a un type moitie homme et moitie singe.

John Cort reprit:

<<<Lorsque je fais appel a ma memoire, je ne me rappelle plus rien des faits qui ont suivi la collision contre le barrage… Un peu avant, il m’a semble voir Khamis debout, lancant les armes et les ustensiles sur les roches…

— Oui, dit Khamis, et assez heureusement pour que ces objets ne soient pas tombes dans le rio… Ensuite…

— Ensuite, declara Max Huber, au moment ou nous avons ete engloutis, j’ai cru… oui… j’ai cru apercevoir des hommes…

— Des hommes… en effet…, repondit vivement John Cort, des indigenes qui en gesticulant, en criant, se precipiterent vers le barrage…

— Vous avez vu des indigenes?… demanda le foreloper, tres surpris.

— Une douzaine environ, affirma Max Huber, et ce sont eux, suivant toute probabilite, qui nous ont retires du rio…

— Puis, ajouta John Cort, sans que nous eussions repris connaissance, ils nous ont transportes en cet endroit… avec ce reste de provisions… Enfin, apres avoir allume ce feu, ils se sont hates de disparaitre…

— Et ont meme si bien disparu, ajouta Max Huber, que nous n’en retrouvons pas trace!… C’est montrer qu’ils tenaient peu a notre gratitude…

— Patience, mon cher Max, repliqua John Cort, il est possible qu’ils soient autour de ce campement… Comment admettre qu’ils nous y eussent conduits pour nous abandonner ensuite?…

— Et en quel lieu!… s’ecria Max Huber. Qu’il y ait dans cette foret de l’Oubanghi des fourres si epais, cela passe l’imagination!… Nous sommes en pleine obscurite…

— D’accord… mais fait-il jour?…>>> observa John Cort.

Cette question ne tarda pas a se resoudre affirmativement. Si opaque que fut le feuillage, on percevait au-dessus de la cime des arbres, hauts de cent a cent cinquante pieds, les vagues lueurs de l’espace. Il ne paraissait pas douteux que le soleil, en ce moment, eclairat l’horizon. Les montres de John Cort et de Max Huber, trempees des eaux du rio, ne pouvaient plus indiquer l’heure. Il faudrait donc s’en rapporter a la position du disque solaire, et encore ne serait-ce possible que si ses rayons penetraient a travers les ramures.

Tandis que les deux amis echangeaient ces diverses questions auxquelles ils ne savaient comment repondre, Khamis les ecoutait sans prononcer une parole. Il s’etait releve, il parcourait l’etroite place que ces enormes arbres laissaient libre, entouree d’une barriere de lianes et de sizyphus epineux. En meme temps, il cherchait a decouvrir un coin de ciel dans l’intervalle des branches; il tentait de retrouver en lui ce sens de l’orientation qui n’aurait jamais occasion pareille de s’exercer utilement. S’il avait deja traverse les bois du Congo ou du Cameroun, il ne s’etait pas engage a travers des regions si impenetrables. Cette partie de la grande foret ne pouvait etre comparee a celle que ses compagnons et lui avaient franchie depuis la lisiere jusqu’au rio Johausen. A partir de ce point, ils etaient generalement diriges vers le sud-ouest. Mais de quel cote etait maintenant le sud-ouest, et l’instinct de Khamis le fixerait-il a cet egard?…

Au moment ou John Cort, devinant son hesitation, allait l’interroger, ce fut lui qui demanda:

<<<Monsieur Max, vous etes certain d’avoir apercu des indigenes pres du barrage?…

— Tres certain, Khamis, au moment ou le radeau se fracassait contre les roches.

— Et sur quelle rive?…

— Sur la rive gauche.

— Vous dites bien la rive gauche?…

— Oui… la rive gauche.

— Nous serions donc a l’est du rio?…

— Sans doute, et, par consequent, ajouta John Cort, dans la partie la plus profonde de la foret… Mais a quelle distance du rio Johausen?…

— Cette distance ne peut etre considerable, declara Max Huber. L’estimer a quelques kilometres, ce serait exagerer. Il est inadmissible que nos sauveteurs, quels qu’ils soient, nous aient transportes loin…

— Je suis de cet avis, affirma Khamis, le rio ne peut pas etre eloigne… aussi avons-nous interet a le rejoindre, puis a reprendre notre navigation au-dessous du barrage, des que nous aurons construit un radeau…

— Et comment vivre jusque-la, puis pendant la descente vers l’Oubanghi?… objecta Max Huber. Nous n’avons plus les ressources de la chasse…

— En outre, fit remarquer John Cort, de quel cote chercher le rio Johausen?… Que nous ayons debarque sur la rive gauche, je l’accorde… Mais, avec l’impossibilite de s’orienter, peut-on affirmer que le rio soit dans une direction plutot que dans une autre?…

— Et d’abord, demanda Max Huber, par ou, s’il vous plait, sortir de ce fourre?…

— Par la>>>, repondit le foreloper.

Et il montrait une dechirure du rideau de lianes a travers laquelle ses compagnons et lui avaient du etre introduits en cet endroit. Au-dela se dessinait une sente obscure et sinueuse qui semblait praticable.

Ou cette sente conduisait-elle?… Etait-ce au rio?… Rien de moins certain… Ne se croisait-elle pas avec d’autres?… Ne risquait-on pas de s’egarer dans ce labyrinthe?… D’ailleurs, avant quarante-huit heures, ce qui restait du buffle serait devore… Et apres?… Quant a etancher sa soif, les pluies etaient assez frequentes pour ecarter toute crainte a cet egard.

<<<Dans tous les cas, observa John Cort, ce n’est pas en prenant racine ici que l’on se tirera d’embarras, et il faut au plus tot quitter la place…

— Mangeons d’abord>>>, dit Max Huber.

Environ un kilogramme de viande fut partage en trois parts, et chacun dut se contenter de ce mince repas!…

<<<Et dire, reprit Max Huber, que nous ne savons meme pas si c’est un dejeuner ou un diner…

— Qu’importe! repliqua John Cort, l’estomac n’a que faire de ces distinctions…

— Soit, mais il a besoin de boire, l’estomac, et quelques gouttes du rio Johausen, je les accueillerais comme le meilleur cru des vins de France!…>>>

Tandis qu’ils mangeaient, ils etaient redevenus silencieux. De cette obscurite se degageait une vague impression d’inquietude et de malaise. L’atmosphere, impregnee des senteurs humides du sol, s’alourdissait sous ce dome de feuillage. En ce milieu qui semblait meme impropre au vol des oiseaux, pas un cri, pas un chant, pas un battement d’aile. Parfois le bruit sec d’une branche morte dont la chute s’amortissait au contact du tapis de mousses spongieuses etendu d’un tronc a l’autre. Par instants, aussi, un sifflement aigu, puis le froufrou entre les feuilles seches d’un de ces serpenteaux des brousses, longs de cinquante a soixante centimetres, heureusement inoffensifs. Quant aux insectes, ils bourdonnaient comme d’habitude et n’avaient point epargne leurs piqures.

Le repas acheve, tous trois se leverent.

Apres avoir ramasse le morceau de buffle, Khamis se dirigea vers le passage que laissaient entre elles les lianes.

En cet instant, a plusieurs reprises et d’une voix forte, Max

Huber jeta cet appel:

<<<Llanga!… Llanga!… Llanga!…>>>

Ce fut en vain, et aucun echo ne renvoya le nom du jeune indigene.

<<<Partons>>>, dit le foreloper.

Et il prit les devants.

A peine avait-il mis le pied sur la sente qu’il s’ecria:

<<<Une lumiere!…>>>

Max Huber et John Cort s’avancerent vivement.

<<<Les indigenes?… dit l’un.

— Attendons!>>> repondit l’autre.

La lumiere — tres probablement une torche enflammee — apparaissait en direction de la sente a quelques centaines de pas. Elle n’eclairait la profondeur du bois que dans un faible rayon, piquant de vives lueurs le dessous des hautes ramures.

Ou se dirigeait celui qui portait cette torche?… Etait-il seul?… Y avait-il lieu de craindre une attaque, ou etait-ce un secours qui arrivait?…

Khamis et les deux amis hesitaient a s’engager plus avant dans la foret.

Deux ou trois minutes s’ecoulerent.

La torche ne s’etait pas deplacee.

Quant a supposer que cette lueur fut celle d’un feu follet, non assurement, etant donnee sa fixite.

<<<Que faire?… demanda John Cort.

— Marcher vers cette lumiere, puisqu’elle ne vient pas a nous, repondit Max Huber.

— Allons>>>, dit Khamis.

Le foreloper remonta la sente de quelques pas. Aussitot la torche de s’eloigner. Le porteur s’etait-il donc apercu que ces trois etrangers venaient de se mettre en mouvement?… Voulait-on eclairer leur marche sous ces obscurs massifs de la foret, les ramener vers le rio Johausen ou tout autre cours d’eau tributaire de l’Oubanghi?…

Ce n’etait pas le cas de temporiser. Il fallait d’abord suivre cette lumiere, puis tenter de reprendre la route vers le sud-ouest.

Et les voici suivant l’etroit sentier, sur un sol dont les herbes etaient refoulees depuis longtemps, les lianes rompues, les broussailles ecartees par le passage des hommes ou des animaux.

Sans parler des arbres que Khamis et ses compagnons avaient deja rencontres, il en etait d’autres d’espece plus rare, tel le gura crepitans a fruits explosibles, qui ne s’etait encore trouve qu’en Amerique dans la famille des euphorbiacees, dont l’ecorce tendre renferme une substance laiteuse, et dont la noix eclate a grand bruit en lancant au loin sa semence; tel le tsofar, l’arbre siffleur, entre les branches duquel le vent sifflait comme a travers une fente, et qui n’avait ete signale que dans les forets nubiennes.

John Cort, Max Huber et Khamis marcherent ainsi pendant trois heures environ, et, lorsqu’ils firent halte apres cette premiere etape, la lumiere s’arreta au meme instant…

<<<Decidement, c’est un guide, declara Max Huber, un guide d’une parfaite complaisance!… Si nous savions seulement ou il nous mene…

— Qu’il nous sorte de ce labyrinthe, repondit John Cort, et je ne lui en demande pas davantage!… Eh bien, Max, tout cela, est-ce assez extraordinaire?…

— Assez… en effet!…

— Pourvu que cela ne le devienne pas trop, cher ami!>>> ajouta John

Cort.

Pendant l’apres-midi, le sinueux sentier ne cessa de courir sous les frondaisons de plus en plus opaques. Khamis se tenait en tete, ses compagnons derriere lui, en file indienne, car il n’y avait passage que pour une seule personne. S’ils pressaient parfois le pas, afin de se rapprocher de leur guide, celui-ci, pressant egalement le sien, maintenait invariablement sa distance.

Vers six heures du soir, d’apres l’estime, quatre a cinq lieues avaient du etre franchies depuis le depart. Cependant, l’intention de Khamis, en depit de la fatigue, etait de suivre la lumiere, tant qu’elle se montrerait, et il allait se remettre en marche, lorsqu’elle s’eteignit soudain.

<<<Faisons halte, dit John Cort. C’est evidemment une indication qui nous est donnee…

— Ou plutot un ordre, observa Max Huber.

— Obeissons donc, repliqua le foreloper, et passons la nuit en cet endroit.

— Mais demain, ajouta John Cort, la lumiere va-t-elle reparaitre?…>>>

C’etait la question.

Tous trois s’etendirent au pied d’un arbre. On se partagea un morceau de buffle, et, heureusement, il fut possible de se desalterer a un petit filet liquide qui serpentait sous les herbes. Bien que les pluies fussent frequentes dans cette region forestiere, il n’etait pas tombe une seule goutte d’eau depuis quarante-huit heures.

<<<Qui sait meme, remarqua John Cort, si notre guide n’a pas precisement choisi cet endroit parce que nous y trouverions a nous desalterer?…

— Delicate attention>>>, avoua Max Huber, en puisant un peu de cette eau fraiche au moyen d’une feuille roulee en cornet.

Quelque inquietante que fut la situation, la lassitude l’emporta, le sommeil ne se fit pas attendre. Mais John Cort et Max Huber ne s’endormirent pas sans avoir parle de Llanga… Le pauvre enfant! S’etait-il noye dans le rapide?… S’il avait ete sauve, pourquoi ne l’avait-on pas revu?… Pourquoi n’avait-il pas rejoint ses deux amis, John et Max?…

Lorsque les dormeurs se reveillerent, une faible lueur, percant les branchages, indiqua qu’il faisait jour. Khamis crut pouvoir conclure qu’ils avaient suivi la direction de l’est. Par malheur, c’etait aller du mauvais cote… En tout cas, il n’y avait qu’a reprendre la route.

<<<Et la lumiere?… dit John Cort.

— La voici qui reparait, repondit Khamis.

— Ma foi, s’ecria Max Huber, c’est l’etoile des rois Mages… Toutefois elle ne nous conduit pas vers l’occident, et quand arriverons-nous a Bethleem?…>>>

Aucune aventure ne marqua cette journee du 22 mars. La torche lumineuse ne cessa de guider la petite troupe toujours en direction de l’est.

De chaque cote de la sente, la futaie paraissait impenetrable, des troncs serres les uns contre les autres, un inextricable entrelacement de broussailles. Il semblait que le foreloper et ses compagnons fussent engages a travers un interminable boyau de verdure. Sur plusieurs points cependant, quelques sentiers, non moins etroits, coupaient celui que choisissait le guide, et, sans lui, Khamis n’aurait su lequel prendre.

Pas un seul ruminant ne fut apercu, et comment des animaux de grande taille se seraient-ils aventures jusque-la? Plus de ces passees dont le foreloper avait profite avant d’atteindre les rives du rio Johausen.

Aussi, lors meme que les deux chasseurs auraient eu leurs fusils, combien inutiles, puisqu’il ne se presentait pas une seule piece de gibier!

C’etait donc avec une apprehension tres justifiee que John Cort, Max Huber et le foreloper voyaient leur nourriture presque entierement epuisee. Encore un repas, et il ne resterait plus rien. Et si, le lendemain, ils n’etaient pas arrives a destination, c’est-a-dire au terme de cet extraordinaire cheminement a la suite de cette mysterieuse lumiere, que deviendraient-ils?…

Comme la veille, la torche s’eteignit vers le soir, et, comme la precedente, cette nuit se passa sans trouble.

Lorsque John Cort se releva le premier, il reveilla ses compagnons en s’ecriant:

<<<On est venu ici pendant que nous dormions!>>>

En effet, un feu etait allume, quelques charbons ardents formaient braise, et un morceau d’antilope pendait a la basse branche d’un acacia au-dessus d’un petit ruisseau.

Cette fois, Max Huber ne fit pas meme entendre une exclamation de surprise.

Ni ses compagnons ni lui ne voulaient discuter les etrangetes de cette situation, ce guide inconnu qui les conduisait vers un but non moins inconnu, ce genie de la grande foret dont ils suivaient les traces depuis l’avant-veille…

La faim se faisant vivement sentir, Khamis fit griller le morceau d’antilope, qui suffirait pour les deux repas de midi et du soir.

A ce moment, la torche redonna le signal du depart.

Marche reprise et dans les memes conditions. Toutefois, l’apres-midi, on put constater que l’epaisseur de la futaie diminuait peu a peu. Le jour y penetrait davantage, tout au moins a travers la cime des arbres. Pourtant, il fut encore impossible de distinguer l’etre quelconque qui cheminait en avant.

Ainsi que la veille, de cinq a six lieues, toujours a l’estime, furent franchies pendant cette journee. Depuis le rio Johausen, le parcours pouvait etre d’une soixantaine de kilometres.

Ce soir-la, a l’instant ou s’eteignit la torche, Khamis, John Cort et Max Huber s’arreterent. Il faisait nuit, sans doute, car une obscurite profonde enveloppait ce massif. Tres fatigues de ces longues etapes, apres avoir acheve le morceau d’antilope, apres s’etre desalteres d’eau fraiche, tous trois s’etendirent au pied d’un arbre et s’endormirent…

Et — en reve assurement — est-ce que Max Huber ne crut pas entendre le son d’un instrument qui jouait au-dessus de sa tete la valse si connue du Freyschutz de Weber!…

CHAPITRE XIV

Les Wagddis

Sa Majeste Mselo-Tala-Tala, roi de cette peuplade des Wagddis, gouvernant ce village aerien, voila, n’etait-il pas vrai, ce qui devait suffire a realiser les desiderata de Max Huber. Dans la furia francaise de son imagination, n’avait-il pas entrevu, sous les profondeurs de cette mysterieuse foret de l’Oubanghi, des generations nouvelles, des cites inconnues, tout un monde extraordinaire dont personne ne soupconnait l’existence?… Eh bien, il etait servi a souhait.

Il fut le premier a s’applaudir d’avoir vu si juste et ne s’arreta que devant cette non moins juste observation de John Cort:

<<<C’est entendu, mon cher ami, vous etes, comme tout poete, double d’un devin, et vous avez devine…

— Juste, mon cher John, mais quelle que soit cette tribu demi-humaine des Wagddis, mon intention n’est pas de finir mon existence dans leur capitale…

— Eh! mon cher Max, il faut y sejourner assez pour etudier cette race au point de vue ethnologique et anthropologique, afin de publier la-dessus un fort in-quarto qui revolutionnera les instituts des deux continents…

— Soit, repliqua Max Huber, nous observerons, nous comparerons, nous piocherons toutes les theses relatives a la question de l’anthropomorphie, a deux conditions toutefois…

— La premiere?…

— Qu’on nous laissera, j’y compte bien, la liberte d’aller et de venir dans ce village…

— Et la seconde?

— Qu’apres avoir circule librement, nous pourrons partir quand cela nous conviendra…

— Et a qui nous adresser?… demanda Khamis.

— A Sa Majeste le pere Miroir, repondit Max Huber. Mais, au fait, pourquoi ses sujets l’appellent-ils ainsi?…

— Et en langue congolaise?… repliqua John Cort.

— Est-ce donc que Sa Majeste est myope ou presbyte… et porte des lunettes? reprit Max Huber.

— Et, d’abord, ces lunettes, d’ou viendraient-elles?… ajouta

John Cort.

— N’importe, continua Max Huber, lorsque nous serons en etat de causer avec ce souverain, soit qu’il ait appris notre langue, soit que nous ayons appris la sienne, nous lui offrirons de signer un traite d’alliance offensive et defensive avec l’Amerique et la France et il ne pourra faire moins que de nous nommer grands-croix de l’ordre wagddien…>>>

Max Huber ne se prononcait-il pas trop affirmativement, en comptant qu’ils auraient toute liberte dans ce village, puis qu’ils le quitteraient a leur convenance? Or, si John Cort, Khamis et lui ne reparaissaient pas a la factorerie, qui s’aviserait de venir les chercher dans ce village de Ngala au plus profond de la grande foret?… En ne voyant plus revenir personne de la caravane, qui douterait qu’elle n’eut peri tout entiere dans les regions du haut Oubanghi?…

Quant a la question de savoir si Khamis et ses compagnons resteraient ou non prisonniers dans cette case, elle fut presque aussitot tranchee. La porte tourna sur ses attaches de liane et Li-Mai parut.

Tout d’abord, le petit alla droit a Llanga et lui prodigua mille caresses que celui-ci rendit de bon coeur. John Cort avait donc l’occasion d’examiner plus attentivement cette singuliere creature. Mais, comme la porte etait ouverte, Max Huber proposa de sortir et de se meler a la population aerienne.

Les voici donc dehors, guides par le petit sauvage — ne peut-on le qualifier ainsi? — qui donnait la main a son ami Llanga. Ils se trouverent alors au centre d’une sorte de carrefour ou passaient et repassaient des Wagddiens <<<allant a leurs affaires>>>.

Ce carrefour etait plante d’arbres ou plutot ombrage de tetes d’arbres dont les robustes troncs supportaient cette construction aerienne. Elle reposait a une centaine de pieds au-dessus du sol sur les maitresses branches de ces puissants bauhinias, bombax, baobabs. Faite de pieces transversales solidement reliees par des chevilles et des lianes, une couche de terre battue s’etendait a sa surface, et, comme les points d’appui etaient aussi solides que nombreux, le sol factice ne tremblait pas sous le pied. Et, meme alors que les violentes rafales soufflaient a travers ces hautes cimes, c’est a peine si le bati de cette superstructure en ressentait un leger fremissement.

Par les interstices du feuillage penetraient les rayons solaires. Le temps etait beau, ce jour-la. De larges plaques de ciel bleu se montraient au-dessus des dernieres branches. Une brise, chargee de penetrantes senteurs, rafraichissait l’atmosphere.

Tandis que deambulait le groupe des etrangers, les Wagddis, hommes, femmes, enfants, les regardaient sans manifester aucune surprise. Ils echangeaient entre eux divers propos, d’une voix rauque, phrases breves prononcees precipitamment et mots inintelligibles. Toutefois, le foreloper crut entendre quelques expressions de la langue congolaise, et il ne fallait pas s’en etonner, puisque Li-Mai s’etait plusieurs fois servi du mot <<<ngora>>>. Cela pourtant semblait inexplicable. Mais, ce qui l’etait bien davantage, c’est que John Cort fut frappe par la repetition de deux ou trois mots allemands, — entre autres celui de <<<vater<<<, et il fit connaitre cette particularite a ses compagnons.

<<<Que voulez-vous, mon cher John?… repondit Max Huber. Je m’attends a tout, meme a ce que ces etres-la me tapent sur le ventre, en disant: <<<Comment va… mon vieux?>>>

De temps en temps, Li-Mai, abandonnant la main de Llanga, allait a l’un ou a l’autre, en enfant vif et joyeux. Il paraissait fier de promener des etrangers a travers les rues du village. Il ne le faisait pas au hasard, — cela se voyait, — il les menait quelque part, et il n’y avait qu’a le suivre, ce guide de cinq ans.

Ces primitifs — ainsi les designait John Cort — n’etaient pas completement nus. Sans parler du pelage roussatre qui leur couvrait en partie le corps, hommes et femmes se drapaient d’une sorte de pagne d’un tissu vegetal, a peu pres semblable, quoique plus grossierement fabrique, a ceux d’agoulie en fils d’acacia, qui s’ourdissent communement a Porto-Novo dans le Dahomey.

Ce que John Cort remarqua specialement, c’est que ces tetes wagddiennes, arrondies, reduites aux dimensions du type microcephalique tres rapprochees de l’angle facial humain, presentaient peu de prognathisme. En outre, les arcades sourcilieres n’offraient aucune de ces saillies qui sont communes a toute la race simienne. Quant a la chevelure, c’etait la toison lisse des indigenes de l’Afrique equatoriale, avec la barbe peu fournie.

<<<Et pas de pied prehensif…, declara John Cort.

— Et pas d’appendice caudal, ajouta Max Huber, pas le moindre bout de queue!

— En effet, repondit John Cort, et c’est deja un signe de superiorite. Les singes anthropomorphes n’ont ni queue, ni bourses a joues, ni callosites. Ils se deplacent horizontalement ou verticalement a leur gre. Mais une observation a ete faite, c’est que les quadrumanes qui marchent debout ne se servent point de la plante du pied et s’appuient sur le dos des doigts replies. Or, il n’en est pas ainsi des Wagddis, et leur marche est absolument celle de l’homme, il faut bien le reconnaitre.>>>

Tres juste, cette remarque, et, nul doute, il s’agissait d’une race nouvelle. D’ailleurs, en ce qui concerne le pied, certains anthropologistes admettent qu’il n’y a aucune difference entre celui du singe et celui de l’homme, et ce dernier aurait meme le pouce opposable si le sous-pied n’etait deforme par l’usage de la chaussure.

Il existe en outre des similitudes physiques entre les deux races. Les quadrumanes qui possedent la station humaine sont les moins petulants, les moins grimacants, en un mot, les plus graves, les plus serieux de l’espece. Or, precisement, ce caractere de gravite se manifestait dans l’attitude comme dans les actes de ces habitants de Ngala. De plus, lorsque John Cort les examinerait attentivement, il pourrait constater que leur systeme dentaire etait identique a celui de l’homme.

Ces ressemblances ont donc pu jusqu’a un certain point engendrer la doctrine de la variabilite des especes, l’evolution ascensionnelle preconisee par Darwin. On les a meme regardees comme decisives, par comparaison entre les echantillons les plus eleves de l’echelle simienne et les primitifs de l’humanite. Linne a soutenu cette opinion qu’il y avait eu des hommes troglodytes, expression qui, en tous cas, n’aurait pu s’appliquer aux Wagddis, lesquels vivent dans les arbres. Vogt a meme ete jusqu’a pretendre que l’homme est sorti de trois grands singes: l’orang, type brachycephale au long pelage brun, serait d’apres lui l’ancetre des negritos; le chimpanze, type dolichocephale, aux machoires moins massives, serait l’ancetre des negres; enfin, du gorille, specialise par le developpement du thorax, la forme du pied, la demarche qui lui est propre, le caractere osteologique du tronc et des extremites, descendrait l’homme blanc. Mais, a ces similitudes, on peut opposer des dissemblances d’une importance capitale dans l’ordre intellectuel et moral, — dissemblances qui doivent faire justice des doctrines darwiniennes.

Il convient donc, en prenant les caracteres distinctifs de ces trois quadrumanes, sans admettre toutefois que leur cerveau possede les douze millions de cellules et les quatre millions de fibres du cerveau humain, de croire qu’ils appartiennent a une race superieure dans l’animalite. Mais on n’en pourra jamais conclure que l’homme soit un singe perfectionne ou le singe un homme en degenerescence.

Quant au microcephale, dont on veut faire un intermediaire entre l’homme et le singe, espece vainement predite par les anthropologistes et vainement cherchee, cet anneau qui manque pour rattacher le regne animal au regne <<<hommal<<<, y avait-il lieu d’admettre qu’il fut represente par ces Wagddis?… Les singuliers hasards de leur voyage avaient-ils reserve a ce Francais et a cet Americain de le decouvrir?…

Et, meme si cette race inconnue se rapprochait physiquement de la race humaine, encore faudrait-il que les Wagddis eussent ces caracteres de moralite, de religiosite speciaux a l’homme, sans parler de la faculte de concevoir des abstractions et des generalisations, de l’aptitude pour les arts, les sciences et les lettres. Alors seulement, il serait possible de se prononcer d’une facon peremptoire entre les theses des monogenistes et des polygenistes.

Une chose certaine, en somme, c’est que les Wagddis parlaient. Non bornes aux seuls instincts, ils avaient des idees, — ce que suppose l’emploi de la parole, — et des mots dont la reunion formait le langage. Mieux que des cris eclaires par le regard et le geste, ils employaient une parole articulee, ayant pour base une serie de sons et de figures conventionnels qui devaient avoir ete legues par atavisme.

Et c’est ce dont fut le plus frappe John Cort. Cette faculte, qui implique la participation de la memoire, indiquait une influence congenitale de race.

Cependant, tout en observant les moeurs et les habitudes de cette tribu sylvestre, John Cort, Max Huber et Khamis s’avancaient a travers les rues du village.

Etait-il grand, ce village?… En realite, sa circonference ne devait pas etre inferieure a cinq kilometres.

<<<Et, comme le dit Max Huber, si ce n’est qu’un nid, c’est du moins un vaste nid!>>>

Construite de la main des Wagddis, cette installation denotait un art superieur a celui des oiseaux, des abeilles, des castors et des fourmis. S’ils vivaient dans les arbres, ces primitifs, qui pensaient et exprimaient leurs pensees, c’est que l’atavisme les y avait pousses.

<<<Dans tous les cas, fit remarquer John Cort, la nature, oui ne se trompe jamais, a eu ses raisons pour porter ces Wagddis a adopter l’existence aerienne. Au lieu de ramper sur un sol malsain que le soleil ne penetre jamais de ses rayons, ils vivent dans le milieu salutaire des cimes de cette foret.>>>

La plupart des cases, fraiches et verdoyantes, disposees en forme de ruches, etaient largement ouvertes. Les femmes s’y adonnaient avec activite aux soins tres rudimentaires de leur menage. Les enfants se montraient nombreux, les tout jeunes allaites par leurs meres. Quant aux hommes, les uns faisaient entre les branches la recolte des fruits, les autres descendaient par l’escalier pour vaquer a leurs occupations habituelles. Ceux-ci remontaient avec quelques pieces de gibier, ceux-la rapportaient les jarres qu’ils avaient remplies au lit du rio.

<<<Il est facheux, dit Max Huber, que nous ne sachions pas la langue de ces naturels!… Jamais nous ne pourrons converser ni prendre une connaissance exacte de leur litterature… Du reste, je n’ai pas encore apercu la bibliotheque municipale… ni le lycee de garcons ou de filles!>>>

Cependant, puisque la langue wagddienne, apres ce qu’on avait entendu de Li-Mai, se melangeait de mots indigenes, Khamis essaya de quelques-uns des plus usuels en s’adressant a l’enfant.

Mais, si intelligent que parut Li-Mai, il sembla ne point comprendre.

Et pourtant, devant John Cort et Max Huber, il avait prononce le mot <<<ngora>>>, alors qu’il etait couche sur le radeau. Et, depuis, Llanga affirmait avoir appris de son pere que le village s’appelait Ngala et le chef Mselo-Tala-Tala.

Enfin, apres une heure de promenade, le foreloper et ses compagnons atteignirent l’extremite du village. La s’elevait une case plus importante. Etablie entre les branches d’un enorme bombax, la facade treillissee de roseaux, sa toiture se perdait dans le feuillage.

Cette case, etait-ce le palais du roi, le sanctuaire des sorciers, le temple des genies, tels qu’en possedent la plupart des tribus sauvages, en Afrique, en Australie, dans les iles du Pacifique?…

L’occasion se presentait de tirer de Li-Mai quelques renseignements plus precis. Aussi, John Cort, le prenant par les epaules et le tournant vers la case, lui dit:

<<<Mselo-Tala-Tala?…>>>

Un signe de tete fut toute la reponse qu’il obtint.

Donc, la demeurait le chef du village de Ngala, Sa Majeste

Wagddienne.

Et, sans autre ceremonie, Max Huber se dirigea deliberement vers la susdite case.

Changement d’attitude de l’enfant, qui le retint en manifestant un veritable effroi.

Nouvelle insistance de Max Huber, qui repeta a plusieurs reprises:

<<<Mselo-Tala-Tala?…>>>

Mais, au moment ou Max Huber allait atteindre la case, le petit courut a lui, l’empecha d’aller plus avant.

Il etait donc defendu d’approcher de l’habitation royale?…

En effet, deux sentinelles Wagddis venaient de se lever et, brandissant leurs armes, une sorte de hache en bois de fer et une sagaie, defendirent l’entree.

<<<Allons, s’ecria Max Huber, ici comme ailleurs, dans la grande foret de l’Oubanghi comme dans les capitales du monde civilise, des gardes du corps, des cent-gardes, des pretoriens en faction devant le palais, et quel palais… celui d’une Majeste homo-simienne.

— Pourquoi s’en etonner, mon cher Max?…

— Eh bien, declara celui-ci, puisque nous ne pouvons voir ce monarque, nous lui demanderons une audience par lettre…

— Bon, repliqua John Cort; s’ils parlent, ces primitifs, ils n’en sont pas arrives a savoir lire et ecrire, j’imagine!… Encore plus sauvages que les indigenes du Soudan et du Congo, les Founds, les Chiloux, les Denkas, les Monbouttous, ils ne semblent pas avoir atteint ce degre de civilisation qui implique la preoccupation d’envoyer leurs enfants a l’ecole…

— Je m’en doute un peu, John. Au surplus, comment correspondre par lettre avec des gens dont on ignore la langue?…

— Laissons-nous conduire par ce petit, dit Khamis.

— Est-ce que tu ne reconnais pas la case de son pere et de sa mere?… demanda John Cort au jeune indigene.

— Non, mon ami John, repondit Llanga, mais… surement… Li-Mai nous y mene… Il faut le suivre.>>>

Et alors, s’approchant de l’enfant et tendant la main vers la gauche:

<<<Ngora… ngora?…>>> repeta-t-il.

A n’en pas douter, l’enfant comprit, car sa tete s’abaissa et se releva vivement.

<<<Ce qui indique, fit observer John Cort, que le signe de denegation et d’affirmation est instinctif et le meme chez tous les humains… une preuve de plus que ces primitifs touchent de tres pres a l’humanite…>>>

Quelques minutes apres, les visiteurs arrivaient dans un quartier du village plus ombrage ou les cimes enchevetraient etroitement leur feuillage.

Li-Mai s’arreta devant une paillote proprette, dont le toit etait fait des larges feuilles de l’ensete, ce bananier si repandu dans la grande foret, ces memes feuilles que le foreloper avait employees pour le taud du radeau. Une sorte de pise formait les parois de cette paillote a laquelle on accedait par une porte ouverte en ce moment.

De la main, l’enfant la montra a Llanga qui la reconnut.

<<<C’est la>>>, dit-il.

A l’interieur, une seule chambre. Au fond, une literie d’herbes seches, qu’il etait facile de renouveler. Dans un coin, quelques pierres servant d’atre ou brulaient des tisons. Pour uniques ustensiles, deux ou trois calebasses, une jatte de terre pleine d’eau et deux pots de meme substance. Ces sylvestres n’en etaient pas encore aux fourchettes et mangeaient avec leurs doigts. Ca et la, sur une planchette fixee aux parois, des fruits, des racines, un morceau de viande cuite, une demi-douzaine d’oiseaux plumes pour le prochain repas et, pendues a de fortes epines, des bandes d’etoffe d’ecorce et d’agoulie.

Un Wagddi et une Wagddienne se leverent au moment ou Khamis et ses compagnons penetrerent dans la paillote.

<<<Ngora!… ngora!… Lo-Mai… La-Mai!>>> dit l’enfant.

Et le premier d’ajouter, comme s’il eut pense qu’il serait mieux compris:

<<<Vater… vater!…>>>

Ce mot de <<<pere>>>, il le prononcait en allemand, fort mal. D’ailleurs, quoi de plus extraordinaire qu’un mot de cette langue dans la bouche de ces Wagddis?…

A peine entre, Llanga etait alle pres de la mere et celle-ci lui ouvrait ses bras, le pressait contre elle, le caressait de la main, temoignant toute sa reconnaissance pour le sauveur de son enfant.

Voici ce qu’observa plus particulierement John Cort:

Le pere etait de haute taille, bien proportionne, d’apparence vigoureuse, les bras un peu plus longs que n’eussent ete des bras humains, les mains larges et fortes, les jambes legerement arquees, la plante des pieds entierement appliquee sur le sol.

Il avait le teint presque clair de ces tribus d’indigenes qui sont plus carnivores qu’herbivores, une barbe floconneuse et courte, une chevelure noire et crepue, une sorte de toison qui lui recouvrait tout le corps. Sa tete etait de moyenne grosseur, ses machoires peu proeminentes; ses yeux, a la pupille ardente, brillaient d’un vif eclat.

Assez gracieuse, la mere, avec sa physionomie avenante et douce, son regard qui denotait une grande affectuosite, ses dents bien rangees et d’une remarquable blancheur, et — chez quels individus du sexe faible la coquetterie ne se manifeste-t-elle pas? — des fleurs dans sa chevelure, et aussi — detail en somme inexplicable — des grains de verre et des perles d’ivoire. Cette jeune Wagddienne rappelait le type des Cafres du Sud, avec ses bras ronds et modeles, ses poignets delicats, ses extremites fines, des mains potelees, des pieds a faire envie a plus d’une Europeenne. Sur son pelage laineux etait jetee une etoffe d’ecorce qui la serrait a la ceinture. A son cou pendait la medaille du docteur Johausen, semblable a celle que portait l’enfant.

Converser avec Lo-Mai et La-Mai n’etait pas possible, au vif deplaisir de John Cort. Mais il fut visible que ces deux primitifs chercherent a remplir tous les devoirs de l’hospitalite wagddienne. Le pere offrit quelques fruits qu’il prit sur une tablette, des matofes de penetrante saveur et qui proviennent d’une liane.

Les hotes accepterent les matofes et en mangerent quelques-uns, a l’extreme satisfaction de la famille.

Et alors il y eut lieu de reconnaitre la justesse de ces remarques faites depuis longtemps deja: c’est que la langue wagddienne, a l’exemple des langues polynesiennes, offrait des parallelismes frappants avec le babil enfantin, — ce qui a autorise les philologues a pretendre qu’il y eut pour tout le genre humain une longue periode de voyelles anterieurement a la formation des consonnes. Ces voyelles, en se combinant a l’infini, expriment des sens tres varies, tels ori oriori, oro oroora, orurna, etc… Les consonnes sont le k, le t, le p, les nasales sont ng et m. Rien qu’avec les voyelles ha, ra, on forme une sene de vocables, lesquels, sans consonances reelles, rendent toutes les nuances d’expression et jouent le role des noms, prenoms, verbes, etc.

Dans la conversation de ces Wagddis, les demandes et les reponses etaient breves, deux ou trois mots, qui commencaient presque tous par les lettres ng, mgou, ms, comme chez les Congolais. La mere paraissait moins loquace que le pere et probablement sa langue n’avait pas, ainsi que les langues feminines des deux continents, la faculte de faire douze mille tours a la minute.

A noter aussi — ce dont John Cort fut le plus surpris — que ces primitifs employaient certains termes congolais et allemands, presque defigures d’ailleurs par la prononciation.

Au total, il est vraisemblable que ces etres n’avaient d’idees que ce qu’il leur en fallait pour les besoins de l’existence et, de mots, que ce qu’il en fallait pour exprimer ces idees. Mais, a defaut de la religiosite, qui se rencontre chez les sauvages les plus arrieres et qu’ils ne possedaient pas, sans doute, on pouvait tenir pour sur qu’ils etaient doues de qualites affectives. Non seulement ils avaient pour leurs enfants ces sentiments dont les animaux ne sont pas depourvus tant que leurs soins sont necessaires a la conservation de l’espece, mais ces sentiments se continuaient au-dela, ainsi que le pere et la mere le montraient pour Li-Mai. Puis la reciprocite existait. Echange entre eux de caresses paternelles et filiales… La famille existait.

Apres un quart d’heure passe a l’interieur de cette paillote, Khamis, John Cort et Max Huber en sortirent sous la conduite de Lo-Mai et de son enfant. Ils regagnerent la case ou ils avaient ete enfermes et qu’ils allaient occuper pendant… Toujours cette question, et peut-etre ne s’en rapporterait-on pas a eux seuls pour la resoudre.

La, on prit conge les uns des autres. Lo-Mai embrassa une derniere fois le jeune indigene et tendit, non point sa patte comme l’eut pu faire un chien, ou sa main comme l’eut pu faire un quadrumane, mais ses deux mains que John Cort et Max Huber serrerent avec plus de cordialite que Khamis.

<<<Mon cher Max, dit alors John Cort, un de vos grands ecrivains a pretendu que dans tout homme il y avait moi et l’autre… Eh bien, il est probable que l’un des deux manque a ces primitifs…

— Et lequel, John?…

— L’autre, assurement… En tout cas, pour les etudier a fond, il faudrait vivre des annees parmi eux!… Or, dans quelques jours, j’espere bien que nous pourrons repartir…

— Cela, repondit Max Huber, dependra de Sa Majeste, et qui sait si le roi Mselo-Tala-Tala ne veut pas faire de nous des chambellans de la cour wagddienne?>>>

CHAPITRE XVI

Sa Majeste Mselo-Tala-Tala

Cette journee — ou plutot cet apres-midi du 15 avril — allait amener une derogation aux habitudes si calmes des Wagddis. Depuis trois semaines, aucune occasion ne s’etait offerte aux prisonniers de Ngala de reprendre a travers la grande foret le chemin de l’Oubanghi. Surveilles de pres, enfermes dans les limites infranchissables de ce village, ils ne pouvaient s’enfuir. Certes, il leur avait ete loisible — et plus particulierement a John Cort — d’etudier les moeurs de ces types places entre l’anthropoide le plus perfectionne et l’homme, d’observer par quels instincts ils tenaient a l’animalite, par quelle dose de raison ils se rapprochaient de la race humaine. C’etait la tout un tresor de remarques a verser dans la discussion des theories darwiniennes. Mais, pour en faire beneficier le monde savant, encore fallait-il regagner les routes du Congo francais et rentrer a Libreville…

Le temps etait magnifique. Un puissant soleil inondait de chaleur et de clarte les cimes qui ombrageaient le village aerien. Apres avoir presque atteint le zenith a l’heure de sa culmination, l’obliquite de ses rayons, bien qu’il fut trois heures passees, n’en diminuait pas l’ardeur.

Les rapports de John Cort et de Max Huber avec les Mai avaient ete frequents. Pas un jour ne s’etait ecoule sans que cette famille ne fut venue dans leur case ou qu’ils ne se fussent rendus dans la leur. Un veritable echange de visites! Il n’y manquait que les cartes! Quant au petit, il ne quittait guere Llanga et s’etait pris d’une vive affection pour le jeune indigene.

Par malheur, il y avait toujours impossibilite de comprendre la langue wagddienne, reduite a un petit nombre de mots qui suffisaient au petit nombre d’idees de ces primitifs. Si John Cort avait pu retenir la signification de quelques-uns, cela ne lui permettait guere de converser avec les habitants de Ngala. Ce qui le surprenait toujours, c’etait que diverses locutions indigenes figuraient dans le vocabulaire wagddien — une douzaine peut-etre. Cela n’indiquait-il pas que les Wagddis avaient eu des rapports avec les tribus de l’Oubanghi, — ne fut-ce qu’un Congolais qui ne serait jamais revenu au Congo?… Hypothese assez plausible, on en conviendra. Et puis, quelque mot d’origine allemande s’echappait parfois des levres de Lo-Mai, toujours si incorrectement prononce qu’on avait peine a le reconnaitre.

Or, c’etait la un point que John Cort tenait pour absolument inexplicable. En effet, a supposer que les indigenes et les Wagddis se fussent rencontres deja, etait-il admissible que ces derniers eussent eu des relations avec les Allemands du Cameroun? Dans ce cas, l’Americain et le Francais n’auraient pas eu les premices de cette decouverte. Bien que John Cort parlat assez couramment la langue allemande, il n’avait jamais eu l’occasion de s’en servir, puisque Lo-Mai n’en connaissait que deux ou trois mots.

Entre autres locutions empruntees aux indigenes, celle de Mselo-Tala-Tala, qui s’appliquait au souverain de cette tribu, etait le plus souvent employee. On sait quel desir d’etre recus par cette Majeste invisible eprouvaient les deux amis Il est vrai, toutes les fois qu’ils prononcaient ce nom, Lo-Mai baissait la tete en marque de profond respect. En outre, lorsque leur promenade les amenait devant la case royale, s’ils manifestaient l’intention d’y penetrer, Lo-Mai les arretait, les poussait de cote, les entrainait a droite ou a gauche. Il leur faisait comprendre a sa maniere que nul n’avait le droit de franchir le seuil de la demeure sacree.

Or, il arriva que, dans cet apres-midi, un peu avant trois heures, le ngoro, la ngora et le petit vinrent trouver Khamis et ses compagnons.

Et, tout d’abord, il y eut a remarquer que la famille s’etait paree de ses plus beaux vetements — le pere, coiffe d’un couvre-chef a plumes et drape dans son manteau d’ecorce, — la mere, enjuponnee de cette etoffe d’agoulie de fabrication wagddienne, quelques feuilles vertes dans les cheveux, au cou un chapelet de verroteries et de menues ferrailles — l’enfant, un leger pagne ceint a sa taille — <<<ses habits du dimanche>>>, dit Max Huber.

Et, en les voyant si <<<endimanches>>> tous trois:

<<<Qu’est-ce que cela signifie?… s’ecria-t-il. Ont-ils eu la pensee de nous faire une visite officielle?…

— C’est sans doute jour de fete, repondit John Cort. S’agit-il donc de rendre hommage a un dieu quelconque? Ce serait le point interessant qui resoudrait la question de religiosite.>>>

Avant qu’il eut acheve sa phrase, Lo-Mai venait de prononcer comme une reponse:

<<<Mselo-Tala-Tala…

— Le pere aux lunettes!>>> traduisit Max Huber.

Et il sortit de la case avec l’idee que le roi des Wagddis passait en ce moment.

Complete desillusion! Max Huber n’entrevit pas meme l’ombre de Sa Majeste! Toutefois, il fallut bien constater que Ngala etait en mouvement. De toutes parts affluait une foule aussi joyeuse, aussi paree que la famille Mai. Grand concours de populaire, les uns suivant processionnellement les rues vers l’extremite ouest du village, ceux-ci se tenant par la main comme des paysans en goguette, ceux-la cabriolant comme des singes d’un arbre a l’autre.

<<<Il y a quelque chose de nouveau…, declara John Cort en s’arretant sur le seuil de la case.

— On va voir>>>, repliqua Max Huber.

Et, revenant a Lo-Mai:

<<<Mselo-Tala-Tala?… repeta-t-il.

— Mselo-Tala-Tala!>>> repondit Lo-Mai en croisant ses bras, tandis qu’il inclinait la tete.

John Cort et Max Huber furent conduits a penser que la population wagddienne allait saluer son souverain, lequel ne tarderait pas a apparaitre dans toute sa gloire.

Eux, John Cort, Max Huber, n’avaient pas d’habits de ceremonie a mettre. Ils en etaient reduits a leur unique costume de chasse, bien use, bien sali, a leur linge qu’ils tenaient aussi propre que possible. Par consequent, aucune toilette a faire en l’honneur de Sa Majeste, et, comme la famille Mai sortait de la case, ils la suivirent avec Llanga.

Quant a Khamis, peu soucieux de se meler a tout ce monde inferieur, il <<<resta seul a la maison>>>. Il s’occupa de ranger les ustensiles, de veiller a la preparation du repas, de nettoyer les armes a feu. Ne convenait-il pas d’etre pret a toute eventualite, et l’heure approchait peut-etre ou il serait necessaire d’en faire usage.

John Cort et Max Huber se laisserent donc guider par Lo-Mai a travers le village plein d’animation. Il n’existait pas de rues, au vrai sens de ce mot. Les paillotes, distribuees a la fantaisie de chacun, se conformaient a la disposition des arbres ou plutot des cimes qui les abritaient.

La foule etait assez compacte. Au moins un millier de Wagddis se dirigeaient maintenant vers la partie de Ngala a l’extremite de laquelle s’elevait la case royale.

<<<Il est impossible de ressembler davantage a une foule humaine!… remarqua John Cort. Memes mouvements, meme maniere de temoigner sa satisfaction par les gestes, par les cris…

— Et par les grimaces, ajouta Max Huber, et c’est ce qui rattache ces etres bizarres aux quadrumanes!>>>

En effet, les Wagddis, d’ordinaire serieux, reserves, peu communicatifs, ne s’etaient jamais montres si expansifs ni si grimacants. Et toujours cette inexplicable indifference envers les etrangers, auxquels ils ne semblaient preter aucune attention — attention qui eut ete genante et obsedante chez les Denkas, les Monbouttous et autres peuplades africaines.

Cela n’etait pas tres <<<humain>>>!

Apres une longue promenade, Max Huber et John Cort arriverent sur la place principale, que bornaient les ramures des derniers arbres du cote de l’ouest, et dont les branches verdoyantes retombaient autour du palais royal.

En avant etaient ranges les guerriers, toutes armes dehors, vetus de peaux d’antilope rattachees par de fines lianes, le chef coiffe de tetes de steinbock dont les cornes leur donnaient l’apparence d’un troupeau. Quant au <<<colonel>>> Raggi, casque d’une tete de buffle, l’arc sur l’epaule, la hachette a la ceinture, l’epieu a la main, il paradait devant l’armee wagddienne.

<<<Probablement, dit John Cort, le souverain s’apprete a passer la revue de ses troupes…

— Et, s’il ne vient pas, repartit Max Huber, c’est qu’il ne se laisse jamais voir a ses fideles sujets!… On ne se figure pas ce que l’invisibilite donne de prestige a un monarque, et peut-etre celui-ci…>>>

S’adressant a Lo-Mai, dont il se fit comprendre par un geste:

<<<Mselo-Tala-Tala doit-il sortir?…>>>

Signe affirmatif de Lo-Mai, qui sembla dire:

<<<Plus tard… plus tard…

— Peu importe, repliqua Max Huber, pourvu qu’il nous soit permis de contempler enfin sa face auguste…

— Et, en attendant, repondit John Cort, ne perdons rien de ce spectacle.>>>

Voici ce que tous deux furent a meme d’observer alors de plus curieux:

Le centre de la place entierement degage d’arbres, restait libre sur un espace d’un demi-hectare. La foule l’emplissait dans le but, sans doute, de prendre part a la fete jusqu’au moment ou le souverain paraitrait au seuil de son palais. Se prosternerait-elle alors devant lui?… Se confondrait-elle en adorations!…

<<<Apres tout, fit remarquer John Cort, il n’y aurait pas a tenir compte de ces adorations au point de vue de la religiosite, car, en somme, elles ne s’adresseraient qu’a un homme…

— A moins, repliqua Max Huber, que cet homme ne soit en bois ou en pierre… Si ce potentat n’est qu’une idole du genre de celles que reverent les naturels de la Polynesie…

— Dans ce cas, mon cher Max, il ne manquerait plus rien aux habitants de Ngala de ce qui complete l’etre humain… Ils auraient le droit d’etre classes parmi les hommes tout autant que ces naturels dont vous parlez…

— En admettant que ceux-ci le meritent! repondit Max Huber, d’un ton assez peu flatteur pour la race polynesienne.

— Certes, Max, puisqu’ils croient a l’existence d’une divinite quelconque, et jamais il n’est venu ni ne viendra a personne l’idee de les classer parmi les animaux, fut-ce meme ceux qui occupent le premier rang dans l’animalite!>>>

Grace a la famille de Lo-Mai, Max Huber, John Cort et Llanga purent se placer de maniere a tout voir.

Lorsque la foule eut laisse libre le centre de la place, les jeunes Wagddis des deux sexes se mirent en danse, tandis que les plus ages commencaient a boire, comme les heros d’une kermesse hollandaise.

Ce que ces sylvestres absorbaient, c’etaient des boissons fermentees et pimentees tirees des gousses du tamarin. Et elles devaient etre extremement alcooliques, car les tetes ne tarderent pas a s’echauffer et les jambes a tituber d’une facon inquietante.

Ces danses ne rappelaient en rien les nobles figures du passe-pied ou du menuet, sans aller cependant jusqu’au paroxysme des dehanchements et des grands ecarts en honneur dans les bals-musettes des banlieues parisiennes. Au total, il se faisait plus de grimaces que de contorsions, et aussi plus de culbutes. En un mot, dans ces attitudes choregraphiques, on retrouvait moins l’homme que le singe. Et, qu’on l’entende bien, non point le singe eduque pour les exhibitions de la foire, non… le singe livre a ses instincts naturels.

En outre, les danses ne s’executaient pas avec accompagnement des clameurs publiques. C’etait au son d’instruments des plus rudimentaires, calebasses tendues d’une peau sonore et frappees a coups redoubles, tiges creuses, taillees en sifflet, dans lesquelles une douzaine de vigoureux executants soufflaient a se crever les poumons. Non!… jamais charivari plus assourdissant ne dechira des oreilles de blancs!

<<<Ils ne paraissent pas avoir le sentiment de la mesure…, remarqua John Cort.

— Pas plus que celui de la tonalite, repondit Max Huber.

— En somme, ils sont sensibles a la musique, mon cher Max.

— Et les animaux le sont aussi, mon cher John, — quelques-uns, du moins. A mon avis, la musique est un art inferieur qui s’adresse a un sens inferieur. Au contraire, qu’il s’agisse de peinture, de sculpture, de litterature, aucun animal n’en subit le charme, et on n’a jamais vu meme les plus intelligents se montrer emus devant un tableau ou a l’audition d’une tirade de poete!>>>

Quoi qu’il en soit, les Wagddis se rapprochaient de l’homme, non seulement parce qu’ils ressentaient les effets de la musique, mais parce qu’ils mettaient eux-memes cet art en pratique.

Deux heures se passerent ainsi, a l’extreme impatience de Max Huber. Ce qui l’enrageait, c’est que S. M. Mselo-Tala-Tala ne daignait pas se deranger pour recevoir l’hommage de ses sujets.

Cependant la fete continuait avec redoublement de cris et de danses. Les boissons provoquaient aux violences de l’ivresse, et c’etait a se demander quelles scenes de desordre menacaient de s’ensuivre, lorsque, soudain, le tumulte prit fin.

Chacun se calma, s’accroupit, s’immobilisa. Un silence absolu succeda aux bruyantes demonstrations, au fracas assourdissant des tam-tams, au sifflet suraigu des flutes.

A ce moment, la porte de la demeure royale s’ouvrit, et les guerriers formerent la haie de chaque cote.

<<<Enfin! dit Max Huber, nous allons donc le voir, ce souverain de sylvestres.>>>

Ce ne fut point Sa Majeste qui sortit de la case. Une sorte de meuble, recouvert d’un tapis de feuillage, fut apporte au milieu de la place. Et quelle fut la bien naturelle surprise des deux amis, lorsqu’ils reconnurent dans ce meuble un vulgaire orgue de Barbarie!… Tres probablement, cet instrument sacre ne figurait que dans les grandes ceremonies de Ngala, et les Wagddis en ecoutaient sans doute les airs plus ou moins varies avec un ravissement de dilettantes!

<<<Mais c’est l’orgue du docteur Johausen! dit John Cort.

— Ce ne peut etre que cette mecanique antediluvienne, repliqua Max Huber. Et, a present, je m’explique comment, dans la nuit de notre arrivee sous le village de Ngala, j’ai eu la vague impression d’entendre l’impitoyable valse du Freyschutz au-dessus de ma tete!

— Et vous ne nous avez rien dit de cela, Max?…

— J’ai cru que j’avais reve, John.

— Quant a cet orgue, ajouta John Cort, ce sont certainement les

Wagddis qui l’ont rapporte de la case du docteur…

— Et apres avoir mis a mal ce pauvre homme!>>> ajouta Max Huber.

Un superbe Wagddi — evidemment le chef d’orchestre de l’endroit - - vint se poser devant l’instrument et commenca a tourner la manivelle.

Aussitot la valse en question, a laquelle manquaient bien quelques notes, de se devider au tres reel plaisir de l’assistance.

C’etait un concert qui succedait aux exercices choregraphiques. Les auditeurs l’ecouterent en hochant la tete, — a contre-mesure, il est vrai. De fait, il ne semblait pas qu’ils subissent cette impression giratoire qu’une valse communique aux civilises de l’ancien et du nouveau monde.

Et, gravement, comme penetre de l’importance de ses fonctions, le

Wagddi manoeuvrait toujours sa boite a musique.

Mais, a Ngala, savait-on que l’orgue renfermat d’autres airs?… C’est ce que se demandait John Cort. En effet, le hasard n’aurait pu faire decouvrir a ces primitifs par quel procede, en poussant un bouton, on remplacait le motif de Weber par un autre.

Quoi qu’il en soit, apres une demi-heure consacree a la valse du Freyschutz, voici que l’executant poussa un ressort lateral, ainsi que l’eut fait un joueur des rues de l’instrument suspendu par sa bretelle.

<<<Ah! par exemple… c’est trop fort, cela!…>>> s’ecria Max Huber.

Trop fort, en verite, a moins que quelqu’un n’eut appris a ces sylvestres le secret du mecanisme, et comment on pouvait tirer de ce meuble barbaresque toutes les melodies renfermees dans son sein!…

Puis la manivelle se remit aussitot en mouvement. Et alors a l’air allemand succeda un air francais, l’un des plus populaires, la plaintive chanson de la Grace de Dieu.

On connait ce <<<chef-d’oeuvre>>> de Loisa Puget. Personne n’ignore que le couplet se deroule en la mineur pendant seize mesures, et que le refrain reprend en la majeur, suivant toutes les traditions de l’art a cette epoque.

<<<Ah! le malheureux!… Ah! le miserable!… hurla Max Huber, dont les exclamations provoquerent les murmures tres significatifs de l’assistance.

— Quel miserable?… demanda John Cort. Celui qui joue de l’orgue?…

— Non! celui qui l’a fabrique!… Pour economiser les notes, il n’a fourre dans sa boite ni les ut ni les sol diezes!… Et ce refrain qui devrait etre joue en la majeur:

Va, mon enfant, adieu, A la grace de Dieu…

voila qu’on le joue en ut majeur!

— Ca… c’est un crime!… declara en riant John Cort.

— Et ces barbares qui ne s’en apercoivent point… qui ne bondissent pas comme devrait bondir tout etre doue d’une oreille humaine!…>>>

Non! cette abomination, les Wagddis n’en ressentaient pas toute l’horreur!… Ils acceptaient cette criminelle substitution d’un mode a l’autre!… S’ils n’applaudissaient pas, bien qu’ils eussent d’enormes mains de claqueurs, leur attitude n’en decelait pas moins une profonde extase!

<<<Rien que cela, dit Max Huber, merite qu’on les ramene au rang des betes!>>>

Il y eut lieu de croire que cet orgue ne contenait pas d’autres motifs que la valse allemande et la chanson francaise. Invariablement elles se remplacerent une demi-heure durant. Les autres airs etaient vraisemblablement detraques. Par bonheur, l’instrument, possedant les notes voulues en ce qui concernait la valse, ne donnait pas a Max Huber les nausees que lui avait fait eprouver le couplet de la romance.

Lorsque ce concert fut acheve, les danses reprirent de plus belle, les boissons coulerent plus abondantes que jamais a travers les gosiers wagddiens. Le soleil venait de s’abaisser derriere les cimes du couchant, et quelques torches s’allumaient entre les ramures, de maniere a illuminer la place que le court crepuscule allait bientot plonger dans l’ombre.

Max Huber et John Cort en avaient assez, et ils songeaient a regagner leur case, lorsque Lo-Mai prononca ce nom:

<<<Mselo-Tala-Tala.>>>

Etait-ce vrai?… Sa Majeste allait-elle venir recevoir les adorations de son peuple?… Daignait-elle enfin sortir de sa divine invisibilite?… John Cort et Max Huber se garderent bien de partir.

En effet, un mouvement se faisait du cote de la case royale, auquel repondit une sourde rumeur de l’assistance. La porte s’ouvrit, une escorte de guerriers se forma, et le chef Raggi prit la tete du cortege.

Presque aussitot apparut un trone, — un vieux divan drape d’etoffes et de feuillage, — soutenu par quatre porteurs, et sur lequel se pavanait Sa Majeste.

C’etait un personnage d’une soixantaine d’annees, couronne de verdure, la chevelure et la barbe blanches, d’une corpulence considerable, et dont le poids devait etre lourd aux robustes epaules de ses serviteurs.

Le cortege se mit en marche, de maniere a faire le tour de la place.

La foule se courbait jusqu’a terre, silencieuse, comme hypnotisee par l’auguste presence de Mselo-Tala-Tala.

Le souverain semblait fort indifferent, d’ailleurs, aux hommages qu’il recevait, qui lui etaient dus, dont il avait probablement l’habitude. A peine s’il daignait remuer la tete en signe de satisfaction. Pas un geste, si ce n’est a deux ou trois reprises pour se gratter le nez, — un long nez que surmontaient de grosses lunettes, — ce qui justifiait son surnom de <<<Pere Miroir>>>.

Les deux amis le regarderent avec une extreme attention, lorsqu’il passa devant eux.

<<<Mais… c’est un homme!… affirma John Cort.

— Un homme?… repliqua Max Huber.

— Oui… un homme… et… qui plus est… un blanc!…

— Un blanc?…>>>

Oui, a n’en pas douter, ce qu’on promenait la sur sa sedia gestatoria, c’etait un etre different de ces Wagddis sur lesquels il regnait, et non point un indigene des tribus du haut Oubanghi… Impossible de s’y tromper, c’etait un blanc, un representant qualifie de la race humaine!…

<<<Et notre presence ne produit aucun effet sur lui, dit Max Huber, et il ne semble meme pas nous apercevoir!… Que diable! nous ne ressemblons pourtant pas a ces demi-singes de Ngala, et, pour avoir vecu parmi eux depuis trois semaines, nous n’avons pas encore perdu, j’imagine, figure d’hommes!…>>>

Et il fut sur le point de crier:

<<<He!… monsieur… la-bas… faites-nous donc l’honneur de regarder…>>>

A cet instant, John Cort lui saisit le bras et, d’une voix qui denotait le comble de la surprise:

<<<Je le reconnais… dit-il.

— Vous le reconnaissez?

— Oui!… C’est le docteur Johausen!>>>

CHAPITRE XVII

En quel etat le docteur Johausen!

John Cort avait autrefois rencontre le docteur Johausen a Libreville. Il ne pouvait faire erreur: c’etait bien ledit docteur qui regnait sur cette peuplade wagddienne!

Son histoire, rien de plus aise que d’en resumer le debut en quelques lignes, et meme de la reconstituer tout entiere. Les faits s’enchainaient sans interruption sur cette route qui allait de la cage forestiere au village de Ngala.

Trois ans avant, cet Allemand, desireux de reprendre la tentative peu serieuse et, dans tous les cas, avortee du professeur Garner, quitta Malinba avec une escorte de noirs, emportant un materiel, des munitions et des vivres pour un assez long temps. Ce qu’il voulait faire dans l’est du Cameroun, on ne l’ignorait pas. Il avait forme l’invraisemblable projet de s’etablir au milieu des singes afin d’etudier leur langage. Mais de quel cote il comptait se diriger, il ne l’avait confie a personne, etant tres original, tres maniaque et, pour employer un mot dont les Francais se servent frequemment, a demi toque.

Les decouvertes de Khamis et de ses compagnons pendant leur voyage de retour prouvaient indubitablement que le docteur avait atteint dans la foret l’endroit ou coulait le rio baptise de son nom par Max Huber. Il avait construit un radeau et, apres avoir renvoye son escorte, s’y etait embarque avec un indigene demeure a son service. Puis, tous deux descendirent la riviere jusqu’au marecage a l’extremite duquel fut etablie la cabane treillagee sous le couvert des arbres de la rive droite.

La s’arretaient les donnees certaines relatives aux aventures du docteur Johausen. Quant a ce qui avait suivi, les hypotheses se changeaient maintenant en certitudes.

On se souvient que Khamis, en fouillant la cage vide alors, avait mis la main sur une petite boite de cuivre qui renfermait un carnet de notes. Or, ces notes se reduisaient a quelques lignes tracees au crayon, a diverses dates, depuis celle du 27 juillet 1894 jusqu’a celle du 24 aout de la meme annee.

Il etait donc demontre que le docteur avait debarque le 29 juillet, acheve son installation le 13 aout, habite sa cage jusqu’au 25 du meme mois, soit, au total, treize jours pleins.

Pourquoi l’avait-il abandonnee?… Etait-ce de son propre gre?… Evidemment, non. Que les Wagddis s’avancassent parfois jusqu’aux rives du rio, Khamis, John Cort et Max Huber savaient a quoi s’en tenir a cet egard. Ces feux qui illuminaient la lisiere de la foret a l’arrivee de la caravane, n’etaient-ce pas eux qui les promenaient d’arbre en arbre?… De la cette conclusion que ces primitifs decouvrirent la cabane du professeur, qu’ils s’emparerent de sa personne et de son materiel, que le tout fut transporte au village aerien.

Quant au serviteur indigene, il s’etait enfui sans doute a travers la foret. S’il eut ete conduit a Ngala, John Cort, Max Huber, Khamis l’eussent deja rencontre, lui qui n’etait pas roi et qui n’habitait point la case royale. D’ailleurs, il aurait figure dans la ceremonie de ce jour aupres de son maitre en qualite de dignitaire, et pourquoi pas de premier ministre?…

Ainsi, les Wagddis n’avaient pas traite le docteur Johausen plus mal que Khamis et ses compagnons. Tres probablement frappes de sa superiorite intellectuelle, ils en avaient fait leur souverain, — ce qui eut pu arriver a John Cort ou a Max Huber, si la place n’eut ete prise. Donc, depuis trois ans, le docteur Johausen, le pere Miroir — c’est lui qui avait du apprendre cette locution a ses sujets — occupait le trone wagddien sous le nom de Mselo-Tala-Tala.

Cela expliquait nombre de choses jusqu’alors assez inexplicables: comment plusieurs mots de la langue congolaise figuraient dans le langage de ces primitifs, et aussi deux ou trois mots de la langue allemande, comment le maniement de l’orgue de Barbarie leur etait familier, comment ils connaissaient la fabrication de certains ustensiles, comment un certain progres s’etait peut-etre etendu aux moeurs de ces types places au premier degre de l’echelle humaine.

Voila ce que se dirent les deux amis lorsqu’ils eurent reintegre leur case.

Aussitot Khamis fut mis au courant.

<<<Ce que je ne puis m’expliquer, ajouta Max Huber, c’est que le docteur Johausen ne se soit point inquiete de la presence d’etrangers dans sa capitale… Comment? il ne nous a point fait comparaitre devant lui… et il ne semble meme pas s’etre apercu, pendant la ceremonie, que nous ne ressemblions pas a ses sujets!… Oh! mais, pas du tout!…

— Je suis de votre avis, Max, repondit John Cort, et il m’est impossible de comprendre pourquoi Mselo-Tala-Tala ne nous a pas encore mandes a son palais…

— Peut-etre ignore-t-il que les Wagddis ont fait des prisonniers dans cette partie de la foret?… observa le foreloper.

— C’est possible, mais c’est au moins singulier, declara John Cort. Il y a la quelque circonstance qui m’echappe et qu’il faudra eclaircir…

— De quelle facon?… demanda Max Huber.

— En cherchant bien, nous y parviendrons!…>>> repondit John Cort.

De tout ceci il resultait que le docteur Johausen, venu dans la foret de l’Oubanghi afin de vivre parmi les singes, etait entre les mains d’une race superieure a l’anthropoide et dont on ne soupconnait pas l’existence. Il n’avait pas eu la peine de leur apprendre a parler, puisqu’ils parlaient; il s’etait borne a leur enseigner quelques mots de la langue congolaise et de la langue allemande. Puis, en leur donnant ses soins comme docteur, sans doute, il avait du acquerir une certaine popularite qui l’avait porte au trone!… Et, a vrai dire, John Cort n’avait-il pas deja constate que les habitants de Ngala jouissaient d’une sante excellente, qu’on n’y comptait pas un malade et, ainsi que cela a ete dit, que pas un Wagddi n’etait decede depuis l’arrivee des etrangers a Ngala?

Ce qu’il y avait lieu d’admettre, en tout cas, c’est que, bien qu’il y eut un medecin dans ce village, — un medecin dont on avait fait un roi, — il ne semblait pas que la mortalite s’y fut accrue. Reflexion quelque peu irreverencieuse pour la Faculte, et que se permit Max Huber.

Et, maintenant quel parti prendre?… La situation du docteur Johausen a Ngala ne devait-elle pas modifier la situation des prisonniers?… Ce souverain de race teutonne hesiterait-il a leur rendre la liberte, s’ils paraissaient devant lui et lui demandaient de les renvoyer au Congo?…

<<<Je ne puis le croire, dit Max Huber, et notre conduite est toute tracee… Il est tres possible que notre presence ait ete cachee a ce docteur-roi… J’admets meme, quoique ce soit assez invraisemblable, que pendant la ceremonie il ne nous ait pas remarques au milieu de la foule… Eh bien, raison de plus pour penetrer dans la case royale…

— Quand?… demanda John Cort.

— Des ce soir, et, puisque c’est un souverain adore de son peuple, son peuple lui obeira, et, lorsqu’il nous aura rendu la liberte, on nous reconduira jusqu’a la frontiere avec les honneurs dus aux semblables de Sa Majeste wagddienne.

— Et s’il refuse?…

— Pourquoi refuserait-il?…

— Sait-on, mon cher Max?… repondit John en riant. Des raisons diplomatiques, peut-etre!…

— Eh bien, s’il refuse, s’ecria Max Huber, je lui dirai qu’il etait tout au plus digne de regner sur les plus inferieurs des macaques et qu’il est au-dessous du dernier de ses sujets!>>>

En somme, debarrassee de ses agrements fantaisistes, la proposition valait la peine d’etre prise en consideration.

L’occasion etait propice, d’ailleurs. Si la nuit allait interrompre la fete, ce qui se prolongerait, a n’en pas douter, c’etait l’etat d’ebriete dans lequel se trouvait la population du village… Ne fallait-il pas profiter de cette circonstance, qui ne se renouvellerait peut-etre pas de longtemps?… De ces Wagddis a demi ivres, les uns seraient endormis dans leurs paillotes, les autres disperses a travers les profondeurs de la foret… Les guerriers eux-memes n’avaient pas craint de deshonorer leur uniforme en buvant a perdre la tete… La demeure royale serait moins severement gardee, et il ne devait pas etre difficile d’arriver jusqu’a la chambre de Mselo-Tala-Tala…

Ce projet ayant eu l’approbation de Khamis, toujours de bon conseil, on attendit que la nuit fut close et l’ivresse plus complete dans le village. Il va de soi que Kollo, autorise a se joindre au festival, n’etait pas rentre.

Vers neuf heures, Max Huber, John Cort, Llanga et le foreloper sortirent de leur case.

Ngala etait sombre, etant depourvue de tout eclairage municipal. Les dernieres lueurs des torches resineuses, disposees dans les arbres, venaient de s’eteindre. Au loin, comme au-dessous de Ngala, se propageaient des rumeurs confuses, du cote oppose a l’habitation du docteur Johausen.

John Cort, Max Huber et Khamis, prevoyant le cas ou il leur serait possible de fuir ce soir meme avec ou sans l’agrement de Sa Majeste, s’etaient munis de leurs carabines et toutes les cartouches de la caisse garnissaient leurs poches. En effet, s’ils etaient surpris, peut-etre serait-il necessaire de faire parler les armes a feu, — un langage que les Wagddis ne devaient pas connaitre.

Tous les quatre, ils allerent ainsi entre les cases, dont la plupart etaient vides. Lorsqu’ils furent sur la place plongee dans les tenebres, elle etait deserte.

Une seule clarte sortait de la fenetre de la case du souverain.

<<<Personne>>>, observa John Cort.

Personne effectivement, pas meme devant la demeure de Mselo-Tala-Tala.

Raggi et ses guerriers avaient abandonne leur poste, et, cette nuit-la, le souverain ne serait pas bien garde.

Il se pouvait, cependant, qu’il y eut quelques <<<chambellans de service>>> pres de Sa Majeste et qu’il fut malaise de tromper leur surveillance.

Toutefois, Khamis et ses compagnons estimaient l’occasion trop tentante. Une heureuse chance leur avait permis d’atteindre l’habitation royale sans avoir ete apercus, et ils se disposerent a y penetrer.

En rampant le long des branches, Llanga put s’avancer jusqu’a la porte et il constata qu’il suffirait de la pousser pour penetrer a l’interieur. John Cort, Max Huber et Khamis le rejoignirent aussitot. Pendant quelques minutes, avant d’entrer, ils preterent l’oreille, prets a battre en retraite, s’il le fallait.

Aucun bruit ne se faisait entendre ni au dedans ni au dehors.

Ce fut Max Huber qui, le premier, franchit le seuil. Ses compagnons le suivirent et refermerent la porte derriere eux.

Cette habitation comprenait deux chambres contigues, formant tout l’appartement de Mselo-Tala-Tala.

Personne dans la premiere, absolument obscure.

Khamis appliqua son oeil a la porte qui communiquait avec la seconde chambre, — porte assez mal jointe a travers laquelle filtraient quelques lueurs.

Le docteur Johausen etait la, a demi couche sur un divan.

Evidemment, ce meuble et quelques autres qui garnissaient la chambre provenaient du materiel de la cage et avaient ete apportes a Ngala en meme temps que leur proprietaire.

<<<Entrons>>>, dit Max Huber.

Au bruit, qu’ils firent, le docteur Johausen, tournant la tete, se redressa… Peut-etre venait-il d’etre tire d’un profond sommeil… Quoi qu’il en soit, il ne parut pas que la presence des visiteurs eut produit sur lui aucun effet.

<<<Docteur Johausen, mes compagnons et moi, nous venons offrir nos hommages a Votre Majeste!…>>> dit John Cort en allemand.

Le docteur ne repondit rien… Est-ce qu’il n’avait pas compris?… Est-ce qu’il avait oublie sa propre langue, apres trois ans de sejour chez les Wagddis?…

<<<M’entendez-vous? reprit John Cort. Nous sommes des etrangers qui avons ete amenes au village de Ngala…>>>

Aucune reponse.

Ces etrangers, le monarque wagddien semblait les regarder sans les voir, les ecouter sans les entendre. Il ne faisait pas un mouvement, pas un geste, comme s’il eut ete en etat de complete hebetude.

Max Huber s’approcha, et, peu respectueux envers ce souverain, de l’Afrique centrale, il le prit par les epaules et le secoua vigoureusement.

Sa Majeste fit une grimace que n’eut pas desavouee le plus grimacier des mandrilles de l’Oubanghi.

Max Huber le secoua de nouveau.

Sa Majeste lui tira la langue.

<<<Est-ce qu’il est fou?… dit John Cort.

— Tout ce qu’il y a de plus fou, pardieu!… fou a lier!…>>> declara Max Huber.

Oui… le docteur Johausen etait en absolue demence. A moitie desequilibre deja lors de son depart du Cameroun, il avait acheve de perdre la raison depuis son arrivee a Ngala. Et qui sait meme si ce n’etait pas cette degenerescence mentale qui lui avait valu d’etre proclame roi des Wagddis?… Est-ce que, chez les Indiens du Far West, chez les sauvages de l’Oceanie, la folie n’est pas plus honoree que la sagesse, et le fou ne passe-t-il pas, aux yeux de ces indigenes, pour un etre sacre, un depositaire de la puissance divine?…

La verite est que le pauvre docteur etait depourvu de toute intellectualite. Et voila pourquoi il ne se preoccupait pas de la presence des quatre etrangers au village, comment il n’avait pas reconnu en deux d’entre eux des individus de son espece, si differente de la race wagddienne!

<<<Il n’y a qu’un parti a prendre, dit Khamis. Nous ne pouvons pas compter sur l’intervention de cet inconscient pour nous rendre la liberte…

— Assurement non!… affirma John Cort.

— Et ces animaux-la ne nous laisseront jamais partir…, ajouta

Max Huber. Donc, puisque l’occasion s’offre de fuir, fuyons…

— A l’instant, dit Khamis. Profitons de la nuit…

— Et de l’etat ou se trouve tout ce monde de demi-singes…, declara Max Huber.

— Venez, dit Khamis en se dirigeant vers la premiere chambre.

Essayons de gagner l’escalier et jetons-nous a travers la foret…

— Convenu, repliqua Max Huber, mais… le docteur…

— Le docteur?… repeta Khamis.

— Nous ne pouvons pas le laisser dans sa souverainete wagddienne… Notre devoir est de le delivrer…

— Oui, certes, mon cher Max, approuva John Cort. Mais ce malheureux n’a plus sa raison… il resistera peut-etre… S’il refuse de nous suivre?…

— Tentons-le toujours>>>, repondit Max Huber en s’approchant du docteur.

Ce gros homme — on l’imagine — ne devait pas etre facile a deplacer, et, s’il ne s’y pretait pas, comment reussir a le pousser hors de la case?…

Khamis et John Cort, se joignant a Max Huber, saisirent le docteur par le bras.

Celui-ci, tres vigoureux encore, les repoussa et se recoucha tout de son long en gigotant comme un crustace qu’on a retourne sur le dos.

<<<Diable! fit Max Huber, il est aussi lourd a lui seul que toute la

Triplice…

— Docteur Johausen?…>>> cria une derniere fois John Cort.

Sa Majeste Mselo-Tala-Tala, pour toute reponse, se gratta de la facon la plus simiesque…

<<<Decidement, dit Max Huber, rien a obtenir de cette bete humaine!… Il est devenu singe… qu’il reste singe et continue a regner sur des singes!>>>

Il n’y eut plus qu’a quitter la demeure royale. Par malheur, tout en grimacant, Sa Majeste s’etait mise a crier, et si fort qu’elle devait avoir ete entendue, si des Wagddis se trouvaient dans le voisinage.

D’autre part, perdre quelques secondes, c’etait s’exposer a manquer une occasion si favorable… Raggi et ses guerriers allaient peut-etre accourir… La situation des etrangers, surpris dans la demeure de Mselo-Tala-Tala, s’aggraverait, et ils devraient renoncer a tout espoir de recouvrer leur liberte…

Khamis et ses compagnons abandonnerent donc le docteur Johausen et, rouvrant la porte, ils s’elancerent au dehors.

CHAPITRE XVIII

Brusque denouement

La chance se declarait pour les fugitifs. Tout ce tapage a l’interieur de l’habitation n’avait attire personne. Deserte la place, desertes les rues qui y debouchaient. Mais la difficulte etait de se reconnaitre au milieu de ce dedale obscur, de circuler entre les branchages, de gagner par le plus court l’escalier de Ngala.

Soudain, un Wagddi se presenta devant Khamis et ses compagnons.

C’etait Lo-Mai, accompagne de son enfant. Le petit, qui les avait suivis pendant qu’ils se rendaient a la case de Mselo-Tala-Tala, etait venu prevenir son pere. Celui-ci, redoutant quelque danger pour le foreloper et ses compagnons, se hata de les rejoindre. Comprenant alors qu’ils cherchaient a s’enfuir, il s’offrit a leur servir de guide.

Ce fut heureux, car aucun d’eux n’aurait pu retrouver le chemin de l’escalier.

Mais, lorsqu’ils arriverent en cet endroit, quel fut leur desappointement!

L’entree etait gardee par Raggi et une douzaine de guerriers.

Forcer le passage, a quatre, serait-ce possible avec espoir de succes?…

Max Huber crut le moment venu d’utiliser sa carabine.

Raggi et deux autres venaient de se jeter sur lui…

Max Huber, reculant de quelques pas, fit feu sur le groupe.

Raggi, atteint en pleine poitrine, tomba raide mort.

Assurement, les Wagddis ne connaissaient ni l’usage des armes a feu ni leurs effets. La detonation et la chute de Raggi leur causerent une epouvante dont on ne saurait donner une idee. Le tonnerre foudroyant la place pendant la ceremonie de ce jour les eut moins terrifies. Cette douzaine de guerriers se dispersa, les uns rentrant dans le village, les autres degringolant l’escalier avec une prestesse de quadrumanes.

Le chemin devint libre en un instant.

<<<En bas!…>>> cria Khamis.

Il n’y avait qu’a suivre Lo-Mai et le petit, qui prirent les devants. John Cort, Max Huber, Llanga, le foreloper, se laisserent pour ainsi dire glisser, sans rencontrer d’obstacle. Apres avoir passe sous le village aerien, ils se dirigerent vers la rive du rio, l’atteignirent en quelques minutes, detacherent un des canots et s’embarquerent avec le pere et l’enfant.

Mais alors des torches s’allumerent de toutes parts, et de toutes parts accoururent un grand nombre de ces Wagddis qui erraient aux environs du village. Cris de colere, cris de menace furent appuyes d’une nuee de fleches.

<<<Allons, dit John Cort, il le faut!>>> Max Huber et lui epaulerent leurs carabines, tandis que Khamis et Llanga manoeuvraient pour ecarter le canot de la berge.

Une double detonation retentit. Deux Wagddis furent atteints, et la foule hurlante se dissipa.

En ce moment, le canot fut saisi par le courant, et il disparut en aval sous le couvert d’une rangee de grands arbres.

*******

Il n’y a point a rapporter — en detail du moins — ce que fut cette navigation vers le sud-ouest de la grande foret. S’il existait d’autres villages aeriens, les deux amis ne devaient rien savoir a cet egard. Comme les munitions ne manquaient pas, la nourriture serait assuree par le produit de la chasse, et les diverses sortes d’antilopes abondaient dans ces regions voisines de l’Oubanghi.

Le lendemain soir, Khamis amarra le canot a un arbre de la berge pour la nuit.

Pendant ce parcours, John Cort et Max Huber n’avaient point epargne les temoignages de reconnaissance a Lo-Mai, pour lequel ils eprouvaient une sympathie tout humaine.

Quant a Llanga et a l’enfant, c’etait entre eux une veritable amitie fraternelle. Comment le jeune indigene aurait-il pu sentir les differences anthropologiques qui le mettaient au-dessus de ce petit etre?…

John Cort et Max Huber esperaient bien obtenir de Lo-Mai qu’il les accompagnerait jusqu’a Libreville. Le retour serait facile en descendant ce rio, qui devait etre un des affluents de l’Oubanghi. L’essentiel etait que son cours ne fut obstrue ni par des rapides ni par des chutes.

C’etait le soir du 16 avril que l’embarcation avait fait halte, apres une navigation de quinze heures. Khamis estimait que de quarante a cinquante kilometres venaient d’etre parcourus depuis la veille.

Il fut convenu que la nuit se passerait en cet endroit. Le campement organise, le repas termine, Lo-Mai veillant, les autres s’endormirent d’un sommeil reparateur qui ne fut trouble en aucune facon.

Au reveil, Khamis fit les preparatifs de depart, et le canot n’avait plus qu’a se lancer dans le courant.

En ce moment, Lo-Mai, qui tenait son enfant d’une main, attendait sur la berge.

John Cort et Max Huber le rejoignirent et le presserent de les suivre.

Lo-Mai, secouant la tete, montra d’une main le cours du rio et de l’autre les epaisses profondeurs de la foret.

Les deux amis insisterent, et leurs gestes suffisaient a les faire comprendre. Ils voulaient emmener Lo-Mai et Li-Mai avec eux, a Libreville…

En meme temps, Llanga accablait l’enfant de ses caresses, l’embrassant, le serrant entre ses bras… Il cherchait a l’entrainer vers le canot…

Li-Mai ne prononca qu’un mot: <<<Ngora!>>> Oui… sa mere qui etait restee au village, et pres de laquelle son pere et lui voulaient retourner… C’etait la famille que rien ne pouvait separer!…

Les adieux definitifs furent faits, apres que la nourriture de Lo-Mai et du petit eut ete assuree pour leur retour jusqu’a Ngala.

John Cort et Max Huber ne cacherent pas leur emotion a la pensee qu’il ne reverraient jamais ces deux creatures affectueuses et bonnes, si inferieure que fut leur race…

Quant a Llanga, il ne put se retenir de pleurer, et de grosses larmes mouillerent aussi les yeux du pere et de l’enfant.

<<<Eh bien, dit John Cort, croirez-vous maintenant, mon cher Max, que ces pauvres etres se rattachent a l’humanite?…

— Oui, John, puisqu’ils ont, de meme que l’homme, le sourire et les larmes!>>> Le canot prit le fil du courant et, au coude de la rive, Khamis et ses compagnons purent envoyer un dernier adieu a Lo-Mai et a son fils.

Les journees des 18, 19, 20 et 21 avril furent employees a descendre la riviere jusqu’a son confluent avec l’Oubanghi. Le courant etant tres rapide, il y eut lieu d’estimer a pres de trois cents kilometres le parcours fait depuis le village de Ngala.

Le foreloper et ses compagnons se trouvaient alors a la hauteur des rapides de Zongo, a peu pres a l’angle que forme le fleuve en obliquant vers le sud. Ces rapides, il eut ete impossible de les franchir en canot, et, pour reprendre la navigation en aval, un portage allait devenir necessaire. Il est vrai, l’itineraire permettait de suivre a pied la rive gauche de l’Oubanghi dans cette partie limitrophe entre le Congo independant et le Congo francais. Mais, a ce cheminement penible, le canot devait etre infiniment preferable. N’etait-ce pas du temps gagne, de la fatigue epargnee?…

Tres heureusement, Khamis put eviter cette dure operation du portage.

Au-dessous des rapides de Zongo, l’Oubanghi est navigable jusqu’a son confluent avec le Congo. Les bateaux ne sont pas rares qui font le trafic de cette region ou ne manquent ni les villages, ni les bourgades, ni les etablissements de missionnaires. Ces cinq cents kilometres qui les separaient du but, John Cort, Max Huber, Khamis et Llanga les franchirent a bord d’une de ces larges embarcations auxquelles le remorquage a vapeur commence a venir en aide.

Ce fut le 26 avril qu’ils s’arreterent pres d’une bourgade de la rive droite. Remis de leurs fatigues, bien portants, il ne leur restait plus que cent kilometres pour atteindre Libreville.

Une caravane fut aussitot organisee par les soins du foreloper et, marchant directement vers l’ouest, traversa ces longues plaines congolaises en vingt-quatre jours.

Le 20 mai, John Cort, Max Huber, Khamis et Llanga faisaient leur entree dans la factorerie, en avant de la bourgade, ou leurs amis, tres inquiets d’une absence si prolongee, sans nouvelles d’eux depuis pres de six mois, les recurent a bras ouverts.

Ni Khamis ni le jeune indigene ne devaient plus se separer de John Cort et de Max Huber. Llanga n’etait-il pas adopte par eux, et le foreloper n’avait-il pas ete leur devoue guide pendant cet aventureux voyage?…

Et le docteur Johausen?… Et ce village aerien de Ngala, perdu sous les massifs de la grande foret?…

Eh bien, tot ou tard une expedition devra prendre avec ces etranges Wagddis un contact plus intime, dans l’interet de la science anthropologique moderne.

Quant au docteur allemand, il est fou, et, en admettant que la raison lui revienne et qu’on le ramene a Malinba, qui sait s’il ne regrettera pas le temps ou il regnait sous le nom de Mselo-Tala- Tala, et si, grace a lui, cette peuplade de primitifs ne passera pas un jour sous le protectorat de l’empire d’Allemagne?…

Cependant, il serait possible que l’Angleterre…

FIN

THE YARNS OF JEAN-MARIE CABIDOULIN

Also known as The Sea Serpent, this adventure novel was first published in 1901. It tells the story of an old seaman, who sets sail on a final voyage hoping to catch a glimpse of the ‘Sea Serpent’ that has eluded him all his life.

Due to copyright restrictions on the English translation, only the French text is available in this edition.

An original illustration

LES HISTOIRES DE JEAN-MARIE CABIDOULIN

TABLE DES MATIERES

CHAPITRE I

CHAPITRE II

CHAPITRE III

CHAPITRE IV

CHAPITRE V

CHAPITRE VI

CHAPITRE VII

CHAPITRE VIII

CHAPITRE IX

CHAPITRE X

CHAPITRE XI

CHAPITRE XII

CHAPITRE XIII

CHAPITRE XIV

CHAPITRE XV

CHAPITRE I

Un depart retarde “Eh! capitaine Bourcart, ce n’est donc pas aujourd’hui le depart?…

— Non, monsieur Brunel, et je crains que nous ne puissions partir ni demain… ni meme dans huit jours…

— Cela est contrariant…

— Et surtout inquietant, declara M. Bourcart en secouant la tete. Le Saint-Enoch devrait etre en mer depuis la fin du mois dernier afin d’arriver en bonne saison sur les lieux de peche… Vous verrez qu’il se laissera distancer par les Anglais et les Americains…

— Et ce sont toujours ces deux hommes qui vous manquent a bord?…

— Toujours… monsieur Brunel… l’un dont je ne puis me passer, l’autre dont je me passerais a la rigueur, n’etaient les reglements qui me l’imposent…

— Et celui-ci n’est pas le tonnelier, sans doute?… demanda M. Brunel.

— Non… ayez la bonte de m’en croire, non!… A mon bord, le tonnelier est aussi indispensable que la mature, le gouvernail ou la boussole, puisque j’ai deux mille barils dans ma cale…

— Et combien d’hommes compte le Saint-Enoch, capitaine Bourcart?…

— Nous serions trente-quatre, monsieur Brunel, si j’etais au complet. Voyez-vous, il est plus utile d’avoir un tonnelier pour soigner les barils que d’avoir un medecin pour soigner les hommes!… Des barils, cela exige sans cesse des reparations, tandis que les hommes…, ca se repare tout seul! D’ailleurs, est-ce qu’on est jamais malade a la mer?…

— Evidemment on ne devrait pas l’etre en si bon air, capitaine Bourcart… et, pourtant, quelquefois…

— Monsieur Brunel, j’en suis encore a avoir un malade sur le Saint-Enoch…

— Tous mes compliments, capitaine. Mais que voulez-vous? Un navire est un navire, et, comme tel, il est soumis aux reglements maritimes… Lorsque son equipage atteint un certain nombre d’officiers et de matelots, il faut qu’il embarque un medecin… c’est formel. Or vous n’en avez pas…

— Et c’est bien pour cette raison que le Saint-Enoch ne se trouve pas aujourd’hui par le travers du cap Saint-Vincent, ou il devrait etre!”

Cette conversation entre le capitaine Bourcart et M. Brunel se tenait sur la jetee du Havre, vers onze heures du matin, dans cette partie un peu relevee qui va du semaphore au musoir.

Ces deux hommes se connaissaient de longue date, l’un ancien capitaine au cabotage, devenu officier de port, l’autre commandant le trois-mats Saint-Enoch. Et, ce dernier, avec quelle impatience il attendait d’avoir pu completer son role d’equipage pour prendre le large!

Bourcart (Evariste-Simon), age d’une cinquantaine d’annees etait avantageusement connu sur la place du Havre, son port d’attache. Celibataire, sans famille, sans proches parents, ayant navigue des sa prime enfance, il avait ete mousse, novice, matelot et maitre au service de l’Etat.

Apres de multiples voyages comme lieutenant et second dans la marine marchande, il commandait depuis dix ans le Saint-Enoch un baleinier qui lui appartenait par moitie avec la maison Morice freres.

Excellent marin, a la fois prudent, hardi et resolu, il gardait toujours, contrairement a tant d’autres de ses collegues, une extreme politesse dans ses fonctions, ne jurant pas, donnant ses ordres avec une parfaite urbanite. Sans doute, il n’allait pas jusqu’a dire a un gabier: “Prenez la peine de larguer les ris du petit perroquet!” ou au timonier: “Ayez l’extreme obligeance de mettre la barre a tribord, toute!” Mais il passait pour etre le plus poli des capitaines au long cours.

A noter, en outre, que M. Bourcart, favorise dans ses entreprises avait eu des campagnes constamment heureuses, des traversees invariablement excellentes. Aucune plainte de ses officiers, aucune recrimination de ses matelots. Donc, si l’equipage du Saint-Enoch, cette fois, n’etait pas au complet, et si son capitaine ne parvenait pas a le completer, il ne fallait point voir la un indice de defiance ou de repugnance de la part du personnel maritime.

M. Bourcart et M. Brunel venaient de s’arreter pres du support metallique de la cloche sur la terrasse demi-circulaire qui termine la jetee. Le maregraphe marquait alors le plus bas du jusant, et le mat de signaux ne deroulait ni pavillon ni flamme. Aucun navire ne se preparait a entrer ou sortir, et les chaloupes de peche n’auraient pas meme trouve assez d’eau dans le chenal a cette maree de nouvelle lune. C’est pourquoi les curieux n’affluaient pas comme au moment des pleines mers. Les bateaux de Honfleur, de Trouville, de Caen et de Southampton restaient amarres a leurs pontons. Jusqu’a trois heures de l’apres-midi, il ne se ferait aucun mouvement dans l’avant-port.

Pendant quelques instants, les yeux du capitaine Bourcart, diriges vers le large, parcoururent ce vaste secteur compris entre les lointaines hauteurs d’Ouistreham et les massives falaises des phares de la Heve. Le temps etait incertain, le ciel tendu de nuages grisatres dans les hautes zones. Le vent soufflait du nord-est, — une petite brise capricieuse, qui fraichirait au debut de la maree montante.

Quelques batiments traversaient la baie, les uns arrondissant leur voilure sur l’horizon de l’est, les autres sillonnant l’espace de leurs vapeurs fuligineuses. Assurement, ce devait etre un regard d’envie que lancait M. Bourcart a ses collegues plus favorises qui avaient quitte le port. Il va de soi que, meme a cette distance, il s’exprimait en termes convenables, et il ne se fut pas permis de les traiter comme l’aurait fait un loup de mer.

“Oui, dit-il a M. Brunel, ces braves gens font bonne route, vent sous vergue, tandis que moi, je suis encore au bassin et ne puis en demarrer…

Voyez-vous, c’est ce que j’appelle proprement de la mauvaise chance, et c’est la premiere fois qu’elle s’attaque au Saint-Enoch…

— Prenez patience, monsieur Bourcart, puisqu’il vous est impossible de prendre la mer!… repondit en riant M. Brunel…

— Eh! n’est-ce pas ce que je fais depuis quinze longs jours?… s’ecria le capitaine, non sans quelque aigreur.

— Bon!… votre navire porte bien la toile, et vous aurez vite regagne le temps perdu… A onze noeuds, par belle brise, on fait de la route!… Mais, dites-moi, monsieur Bourcart, il ne va donc pas mieux, le docteur Sinoquet?…

— Non, helas! rien de grave, l’excellent docteur… Des rhumatismes qui le clouent sur son lit, et il en a pour plusieurs semaines!… Qui aurait jamais cru cela de la part d’un homme si habitue a la mer, et qui, pendant une dizaine d’annees, a couru avec moi tous les parages du Pacifique…

— Eh! insinua l’officier du port, c’est peut-etre de tant de voyages qu’il a rapporte ses infirmites…

— Non, par exemple! affirma le capitaine Bourcart. Des rhumatismes gagnes a bord du Saint-Enoch!… Pourquoi pas le cholera ou la fievre jaune!… Comment pareille idee a-t-elle pu vous venir, monsieur Brunel?…”

Et M. Bourcart laissait tomber ses bras casses par la stupefaction que lui causait une pareille enormite. Le Saint-Enoch… un navire si superieurement amenage, si confortable, si impenetrable a l’humidite!… Des rhumatismes!… On en attraperait plutot dans la salle du Conseil de l’Hotel de Ville, dans les salons de la Sous-Prefecture que dans les cabines ou le carre du Saint-Enoch!… Des rhumatismes!… Est-ce qu’il en avait jamais eu, lui?… Et, cependant, il ne quittait son navire, ni lorsqu’il etait en relache, ni lorsqu’il l’avait amarre dans le port du Havre!… Un appartement en ville, allons donc! quand on a son logement a bord!… Et il ne l’aurait pas change pour la plus confortable des chambres de l’Hotel de Bordeaux ou du Terminus!… Des rhumatismes!… Non, pas meme des rhumes!… Et l’avait-on jamais entendu eternuer a bord du Saint-Enoch?…

Puis, s’animant, le digne homme eut longtemps continue de plus belle, si M. Brunel ne l’avait interrompu en disant: “C’est convenu, monsieur Bourcart, les rhumatismes du docteur Sinoquet ne viennent que des sejours qu’il a faits a terre! Enfin il les a, voila le vrai, et il ne peut embarquer…

— Et le pire, declara M. Bourcart, c’est que je ne lui trouve pas de remplacant, malgre toutes mes demarches…

— Patience, je vous le repete, patience, capitaine!… Vous finirez bien par mettre la main sur quelque jeune medecin desireux de courir le monde, avide de voyages… Quoi de plus tentant que de debuter par une superbe campagne de peche a la baleine a travers les mers du Pacifique…

— Certes, monsieur Brunel, je ne devrais avoir que l’embarras du choix… Pourtant il n’y a pas foule, et j’en suis toujours a n’avoir personne pour manier la lancette et le bistouri ou le davier et la doloire!

— A propos, demanda l’officier de port, ce ne sont point les rhumatismes qui vous privent de votre tonnelier?…

— Non; a vrai dire, ce brave pere Brulard n’a plus l’usage de son bras gauche, qui est ankylose, et il eprouve de violentes douleurs dans les pieds et les jambes…

— Les articulations sont-elles donc prises?… s’informa M. Brunel.

— Oui, parait-il, et Brulard n’est vraiment pas en etat de naviguer!… Or, vous le savez, monsieur Brunel, un batiment arme pour la baleine ne peut pas plus se passer d’un tonnelier que de harponneurs, et il me faut m’en procurer un a tout prix!”

M. Brunel voulut bien admettre que le pere Brulard n’etait pas perclus de rhumatismes, puisque le Saint-Enoch valait un sanatorium et que son equipage y naviguait dans les meilleures conditions hygieniques, a en croire le capitaine. Mais il n’en etait pas moins certain que le docteur Sinoquet et le tonnelier Brulard etaient incapables de prendre part a cette campagne.

En cet instant, M. Bourcart, s’entendant interpeller, se retourna: “Vous, Heurtaux?… dit-il en serrant amicalement la main de son second. Enchante de vous voir, et, cette fois, est-ce un bon vent qui vous amene?…

— Peut-etre, capitaine, repondit M. Heurtaux, peut-etre… Je viens vous prevenir qu’une personne s’est presentee a bord… il y a une heure.

— Un tonnelier… un medecin?… demanda vivement le capitaine Bourcart.

— Je ne sais, capitaine… En tout cas, cette personne a paru contrariee de votre absence…

— Un homme d’age?…

— Non… un jeune homme, et il va bientot revenir… Je me suis donc mis a votre recherche… et comme je pensais vous rencontrer sur la jetee.

— Ou l’on me rencontre toujours, Heurtaux, quand je ne suis pas a bord…

— Je le sais… Aussi ai-je mis le cap sur le mat de signaux…

— Vous avez sagement fait, Heurtaux, reprit M. Bourcart, et je ne manquerai pas au rendez-vous. — Monsieur Brunel, je vais vous demander la permission de prendre conge…

— Allez donc, mon cher capitaine, repondit l’officier de port, et j’ai le pressentiment que vous ne tarderez pas a etre tire d’embarras…

— A moitie seulement, monsieur Brunel, et encore faut-il que ce visiteur soit un docteur ou un tonnelier!”

La-dessus, l’officier de port et le capitaine Bourcart echangerent une cordiale poignee de main. Puis celui-ci, accompagne de son second, remonta le quai, traversa le pont, atteignit le bassin du Commerce et s’arreta devant la passerelle qui donnait acces au Saint-Enoch.

Des qu’il eut mis le pied sur le pont, M. Bourcart regagna sa cabine, dont la porte s’ouvrait sur le carre et la fenetre sur l’avant de la dunette. Apres avoir donne ordre de le prevenir de l’arrivee du visiteur, il attendit, non sans quelque impatience, le nez dans un journal de la localite.

L’attente ne fut pas longue. Dix minutes plus tard, le jeune homme annonce se presentait a bord et etait introduit dans le carre, ou le capitaine Bourcart vint le rejoindre.

A tout prendre, si le visiteur ne devait point etre un tonnelier, il n’etait pas impossible que ce fut un medecin, — un jeune medecin, age de vingt-six a vingt-sept ans.

Les premieres politesses echangees, — et l’on peut etre assure que M. Bourcart ne fut pas en reste avec la personne qui l’honorait de sa visite, — le jeune homme s’exprima en ces termes: “J’ai appris, d’apres ce qu’on disait a la Bourse, que le depart du Saint-Enoch etait retarde par suite du mauvais etat de sante de son medecin habituel…

— Ce n’est que trop vrai, monsieur…

— Monsieur Filhiol… Je suis le docteur Filhiol, capitaine, et je viens vous offrir de remplacer le docteur Sinoquet a bord de votre navire.”

Le capitaine Bourcart apprit alors que ce jeune visiteur, originaire de Rouen, appartenait a une famille d’industriels de cette ville. Son desir etait d’exercer sa profession dans la marine de commerce. Toutefois, avant d’entrer au service de la Compagnie transatlantique, il serait heureux de prendre part a une campagne de baleinier et de debuter par la rude navigation des mers du Pacifique. Il pouvait fournir les meilleures references. Le capitaine Bourcart n’aurait qu’a se renseigner sur son compte chez tels ou tels negociants ou armateurs du Havre.

M. Bourcart avait tres attentivement observe le docteur Filhiol de physionomie franche et sympathique. Nul doute qu’il n’eut une constitution vigoureuse, un caractere resolu. Le capitaine s’y connaissait, ce n’etait pas celui-la, bien bati, bien portant, qui contracterait des rhumatismes a son bord. Aussi repondit-il: “Monsieur, vous venez fort a propos, je ne vous le cache point, et si, ce dont je suis certain d’avance, mes informations vous sont favorables, ce sera chose faite. Vous pourrez, des demain, proceder a votre installation sur le Saint-Enoch et vous n’aurez pas lieu de vous en repentir…

— J’en ai l’assurance, capitaine, repondit le docteur Filhiol. Avant que vous ayez a prendre des renseignements sur moi, je vous avouerai que j’en ai pris sur vous…

— Et c’etait sage, declara M. Bourcart. S’il ne faut jamais s’embarquer sans biscuit, il ne faut pas inscrire son nom sur le role d’un batiment sans savoir a qui on a affaire.

— Je l’ai pense, capitaine.

— Vous avez eu raison, monsieur Filhiol, et, si je comprends bien, les renseignements que vous avez recueillis ont ete tout a mon avantage…

— Entierement, et j’aime a croire que ceux que vous allez prendre le seront au mien.”

Decidement, le capitaine Bourcart et le jeune medecin, s’ils se valaient en franchise, s’egalaient en urbanite.

“Une seule question, cependant, reprit alors M. Bourcart. Avez-vous deja voyage sur mer, docteur?…

— Quelques courtes traversees a travers la Manche…

— Et… pas malade?…

— Pas malade… et j’ai meme lieu de croire que je ne le serai jamais…

— C’est a considerer pour un medecin, vous en conviendrez…

— En effet, monsieur Bourcart…

— Maintenant, je ne dois pas vous le cacher, elles sont penibles, dangereuses, nos campagnes de peche!… Les miseres, souvent les privations, ne nous y sont point epargnees, et c’est un dur apprentissage de la vie de marin…

— Je le sais, capitaine, et, cet apprentissage, je ne le redoute pas…

— Et non seulement nos campagnes sont perilleuses, monsieur Filhiol, mais elles sont longues parfois… Cela depend de circonstances plus ou moins favorables… Qui sait si le Saint-Enoch ne sera pas deux ou trois ans sans revenir?…

— Il reviendra quand il reviendra, capitaine, et l’essentiel, c’est que tous ceux qu’il emmene reviennent au port avec lui!”

M. Bourcart ne pouvait qu’etre tres satisfait de ces sentiments exprimes de cette facon et, certainement, il s’entendrait en tous points avec le docteur Filhiol si les references indiquees permettaient de signer avec lui.

“Monsieur, lui dit-il, je n’aurai, je crois, qu’a me feliciter d’etre entre en rapport avec vous, et, des demain, apres avoir pris mes informations, j’espere que votre nom sera inscrit sur le livre de bord.

— A vous revoir donc, capitaine, repondit le docteur, et, quant au depart…

— Le depart pourrait s’effectuer des demain, a la maree du soir, si j’etais parvenu a remplacer mon tonnelier comme j’ai remplace mon medecin…

— Ah! vous n’avez pas encore votre equipage au complet, capitaine?…

— Non, par malheur, monsieur Filhiol, et il est impossible de compter sur ce pauvre Brulard…

— Il est malade?…

— Oui… si c’est etre malade que d’avoir des rhumatismes qui vous paralysent bras et jambes… Et, cependant, croyez bien que ce n’est point en naviguant sur le Saint-Enoch qu’il les a attrapes…

— Mais j’y pense, capitaine, je puis vous indiquer un tonnelier…

— Vous?…”

Et le capitaine Bourcart allait se depenser comme d’habitude en remerciements prematures a l’adresse de ce providentiel jeune docteur. Il semblait qu’il entendait deja resonner les coups du maillet sur les douves des barils de sa cale. Helas! sa joie fut de courte duree, et il secoua la tete lamentablement lorsque M. Filhiol eut ajoute: “Vous n’avez donc pas songe a maitre Cabidoulin?…

— Jean-Marie Cabidoulin… de la rue des Tournettes?… s’ecria M. Bourcart.

— Lui-meme!… Est-ce qu’il peut y avoir un autre Cabidoulin au Havre et meme ailleurs?…

— Jean-Marie Cabidoulin!… repetait le capitaine Bourcart.

— En personne…

— Et comment connaissez-vous Cabidoulin?…

— Parce que je l’ai soigne…

— Alors… lui aussi… malade?… Mais il y a donc epidemie sur les tonneliers?…

— Non, rassurez-vous, capitaine… une blessure au pouce, maintenant guerie, et qui ne l’empeche point de manier la doloire… C’est un homme de bonne sante, de bonne constitution, encore robuste pour son age, a peine la cinquantaine, et qui ferait bien votre affaire…

— Sans doute, sans doute, repondit M. Bourcart. Par malheur, si vous connaissez Jean-Marie Cabidoulin, je le connais aussi, et je ne pense pas qu’aucun capitaine consentirait a l’embarquer…

— Pourquoi?…

— Oh! il sait bien son metier et il en a fait des campagnes de peche… Sa derniere remonte a cinq ou six ans deja…

— M’apprendrez-vous, monsieur Bourcart, pour quelle raison on ne voudrait pas de lui?…

— Parce que c’est un prophete de malheur, monsieur Filhiol, parce qu’il est sans cesse a predire sinistres et catastrophes… parce que, a l’entendre, quand on entreprend un voyage sur mer, ce doit etre le dernier et on n’en reviendra pas!… Et puis des histoires de monstres marins qu’il pretend avoir rencontres… et qu’il rencontrerait encore!… Voyez-vous, monsieur Filhiol, cet homme-la est capable de demoraliser tout un equipage!…

— Est-ce serieux, capitaine?…

— Tres serieux!

— Voyons… a defaut d’autre, et puisque vous avez besoin d’un tonnelier…

— Oui… je sais bien… a defaut d’autre!… Et pourtant, celui-la jamais je n’y aurais songe!… Enfin, quand on ne peut mettre le cap au nord, on le met au sud… Et si maitre Cabidoulin voulait… mais il ne voudra pas…

— On peut toujours essayer…

— Non… c’est inutile… Et puis, Cabidoulin… Cabidoulin!… repetait M. Bourcart.

— Si nous allions le voir?…” proposa M. Filhiol.

Le capitaine Bourcart, tres hesitant, tres perplexe, croisa, decroisa ses bras, se consulta, pesa le pour et le contre, secoua la tete comme s’il fut au moment de s’engager dans une mauvaise affaire. Enfin, le desir de mettre au plus tot en mer l’emportant sur toute consideration: “Allons!” repondit-il.

Un instant apres, tous deux avaient quitte le bassin du Commerce et se dirigeaient vers la demeure du tonnelier.

Jean-Marie Cabidoulin etait chez lui, dans sa chambre du rez-de-chaussee, au fond d’une cour. Un homme vigoureux, age de cinquante-deux ans, vetu de son pantalon de velours a cote et de son gilet a bras, coiffe de sa casquette de loutre et ceint du grand tablier brunatre. L’ouvrage ne donnait pas fort et, s’il n’avait pas eu quelques economies, il n’aurait pu faire chaque soir sa partie de manille au petit cafe d’en face avec un vieux retraite de la marine, ancien gardien des phares de la Heve.

Jean-Marie Cabidoulin etait, d’ailleurs, au courant de tout ce qui se passait au Havre, entrees et sorties des navires a voile ou a vapeur, arrivees et departs des transatlantiques, tournees de pilotages, nouvelles de mer, enfin de tout ce qui eclosait de potins sur la jetee pendant les marees de jour.

Maitre Cabidoulin connaissait donc et de longue date le capitaine Bourcart. Aussi, des qu’il l’apercut au seuil de sa boutique: “Eh! eh! s’ecria-t-il, toujours amarre au quai, le Saint-Enoch, toujours bloque dans le bassin du Commerce… comme s’il etait retenu par les glaces…

— Toujours, maitre Cabidoulin, repondit un peu sechement le capitaine Bourcart.

— Et pas de medecin?…

— Present… le medecin…

— Tiens… c’est vous, monsieur Filhiol?…

— Moi-meme, et, si j’ai accompagne M. Bourcart, c’etait pour vous demander d’embarquer avec nous…

— Embarquer… embarquer?… repetait le tonnelier en brandissant son maillet.

— Oui, Jean-Marie Cabidoulin…, reprit le capitaine Bourcart. Est-ce que ce n’est pas tentant… un dernier voyage… sur un bon navire… en compagnie de braves gens?…

— Par exemple, monsieur Bourcart, si je m’attendais a une pareille proposition!… Vous le savez bien, je suis a la retraite… Je ne navigue plus qu’a travers les rues du Havre, ou il n’y a ni abordages ni coups de mer a craindre… Et vous voulez…

— Voyons, maitre Cabidoulin, reflechissez… Vous n’etes pas d’un age a moisir sur votre bouee, a rester affourche comme un vieux ponton au fond d’un port!…

— Levez l’ancre, Jean-Marie, levez l’ancre!” ajouta en riant M. Filhiol pour se mettre a l’unisson de M. Bourcart.

Maitre Cabidoulin avait pris un air de profonde gravite — probablement son air de “prophete de malheur” — et, d’une voix sourde, il repondit: “Ecoutez-moi bien, capitaine, et vous aussi, docteur Filhiol… Une idee que j’ai toujours eue… qui ne me sortira jamais de la tete…

— Et laquelle?… demanda M. Bourcart.

— C’est que, a force de naviguer, on finit necessairement par faire naufrage tot ou tard! Certes, le Saint-Enoch a un bon commandant… il a un bon equipage… je vois qu’il aura un bon medecin… mais j’ai la conviction que, si je m’embarquais, il m’arriverait des choses qui ne me sont pas encore arrivees…

— Par exemple!… s’ecria M. Bourcart.

— C’est comme je vous le dis, affirma maitre Cabidoulin, des histoires epouvantables!… Aussi me suis-je promis de terminer tranquillement ma vie en terre ferme!…

— Pure imagination, cela, declara le docteur Filhiol. Tous les navires ne sont pas destines a perir corps et biens…

— Non, sans doute, repliqua le tonnelier, mais, que voulez-vous, c’est comme un pressentiment… si je prenais la mer, je ne reviendrais pas…

— Allons donc, Jean-Marie Cabidoulin, repliqua le capitaine Bourcart, ce n’est pas serieux…

— Tres serieux, et puis, entre nous, je n’ai plus de curiosite a satisfaire. Est-ce que je n’ai pas tout vu du temps que je naviguais… les pays chauds, les pays froids, les iles du Pacifique et de l’Atlantique, les ice-bergs et les banquises, les phoques, les morses, les baleines?…

— Mes compliments, vous n’etes pas a plaindre, dit M. Filhiol.

— Et savez-vous ce que je finirais par voir?…

— Quoi donc, maitre Cabidoulin?…

— Ce que je n’ai jamais vu… quelque terrible monstre… le grand serpent de mer…

— Que vous ne verrez jamais…, affirma M. Filhiol.

— Et pourquoi?…

— Parce qu’il n’existe pas!… J’ai lu tout ce qu’on a ecrit sur ces pretendus monstres marins, et, je le repete, votre serpent de mer n’existe pas!…

— Il existe!” s’ecria le tonnelier d’un ton si convaincu qu’il eut ete inutile de discuter a ce sujet.

Bref, a la suite de pressantes instances, decide finalement par les hauts gages que lui offrit le capitaine Bourcart, Jean-Marie Cabidoulin se resolut a faire une derniere campagne de peche, et, le soir meme, il portait son sac a bord du Saint-Enoch!

CHAPITRE III

Sur la cote est de la Nouvelle-Zelande Depuis environ une trentaine d’annees, les baleiniers exploitent ces parages de la Nouvelle-Zelande ou la peche est particulierement fructueuse. A cette epoque, c’etait peut-etre la partie du Pacifique dans laquelle les baleines franches se montraient en plus grand nombre. Seulement elles y sont dispersees, et il est rare de les rencontrer a courte distance du navire. Toutefois, le rendement de cette espece de cetaces est si avantageux que les capitaines ne veulent point regarder aux fatigues ni aux dangers que comporte cette difficile capture.

C’est ce que M. Bourcart expliquait au docteur Filhiol, lorsque le Saint-Enoch arriva en vue de Tawai-Pounamou, la grande ile meridionale du groupe neo-zelandais.

“Certes, ajouta-t-il, un batiment comme le notre, si la chance le favorisait, pourrait faire ici son plein en quelques semaines… Mais il faudrait que le temps fut constamment beau, et, sur ces cotes, on est a la merci de coups de vent quotidiens, qui sont d’une violence extreme.

— N’y a-t-il pas de ports dans lesquels il est facile de se refugier?… demanda M. Filhiol.

— Sans doute, mon cher docteur, et rien que sur le littoral de l’est se trouvent Dunedin, Oamaru, Akaroa, Christchurch, Blenheim, pour ne citer que les principaux. Il est vrai, ce n’est pas au milieu des ports que les souffleurs viennent prendre leurs ebats et on doit les aller chercher a quelques milles au large…

— N’importe, capitaine, ne comptez-vous pas relacher dans l’un d’eux avant de mettre votre equipage a la besogne?…

— C’est mon intention… trois ou quatre jours, afin de renouveler une partie de nos provisions, surtout en viande fraiche, ce qui variera notre ordinaire de salaison.

— Et sur quel point de la cote le Saint-Enoch ira-t-il jeter l’ancre?…

— Au havre d’Akaroa.

— Ou il arrivera?…

— Demain dans la matinee…

— Vous y avez deja fait relache?…

— Plusieurs fois… J’en connais les passes, et, en cas de gros temps, je suis assure d’y trouver un excellent abri.”

Cependant, si bon pratique que fut M. Bourcart des parages d’Akaroa, il ne put que tres difficilement atteindre le port. Lorsqu’il fut en vue de terre, le Saint-Enoch, ayant vent debout, dut louvoyer par forte brise. Puis, au moment ou il n’avait plus a tirer que deux bordees pour donner dans le chenal, son amure de grand foc cassa pendant le virement, et il fallut revenir au large.

D’ailleurs, le vent fraichissait, la mer devenait extremement dure et, l’apres-midi, il fut impossible de gagner Akaroa. Ne voulant pas etre de nuit trop pres de terre, le capitaine Bourcart fit vent arriere jusqu’a six heures du soir, puis revint au plus pres et boulina sous petite toile en attendant le jour.

Le lendemain, 17 fevrier, le Saint-Enoch put enfin suivre cette espece de canal sinueux, encaisse entre des collines assez elevees qui conduit a Akaroa. Sur le rivage apparaissaient quelques fermes et, au flanc des collines, boeufs et vaches paissaient en pleins paturages.

Apres avoir navigue sur une longueur de huit milles et demi toujours en louvoyant, le Saint-Enoch laissa tomber son ancre un peu avant midi.

Akaroa appartient a la presqu’ile de Banks, qui se detache de la cote de Tawai-Pounamou au-dessous du quarante-quatrieme parallele. Elle forme une annexe de la province de Canterbury, l’une des deux grandes divisions de l’ile. La ville n’etait encore qu’un modeste village, bati a droite du detroit, en face de montagnes echelonnees sur l’autre rive a perte de vue. De ce cote habitaient les naturels, les Maoris, au milieu de magnifiques bois de sapins, qui fournissent d’excellentes matures a la construction maritime.

Le village comprenait alors trois petites colonies d’Anglais, d’Allemands, de Francais, qui y furent amenes en 1840 par le navire Robert-de-Paris. Le Gouvernement conceda a ces colons une certaine quantite de terres, dont il leur abandonnait le profit qu’ils en sauraient tirer. Aussi des champs de ble, des jardins autour de nombreuses maisons en planches, occupent-ils le sol riverain, qui produit diverses especes de legumes et de fruits, — principalement les peches, non moins abondantes que savoureuses.

A l’endroit ou mouilla le Saint-Enoch se dessinait une sorte de lagon, du milieu duquel emergeait un ilot desert. Quelques navires s’y trouvaient en relache, entre autres un americain, le Zireh-Swif, qui avait deja capture quelques baleines. M. Bourcart vint a bord de ce navire acheter une caisse de tabac, sa provision commencant a diminuer. En somme, tout le temps de la relache fut employe a renouveler les reserves d’eau et de bois, puis a nettoyer la coque du navire. L’eau douce, on la puisait pres de la colonie anglaise a meme un petit courant limpide. Le bois, on allait le couper sur la rive du detroit frequentee par les Maoris. Cependant ces indigenes finirent par s’y opposer, pretendant obtenir une indemnite. Il parut donc preferable de se fournir sur l’autre rive, ou le bois ne coutait que la peine de l’abattre et de le debiter. Quant a la viande fraiche, le cuisinier s’en procurait aisement, et plusieurs boeufs, depeces ou vivants, devaient etre embarques au moment du depart.

Le surlendemain de l’arrivee du Saint-Enoch, un baleinier francais, le Caulaincourt, entra dans le port d’Akaroa, son pavillon a la corne. Une politesse vaut une politesse. Quand le capitaine Bourcart voulut hisser le sien, on s’apercut qu’il etait tout noir de la poussiere de charbon de bois dont les coffres avaient ete recouverts afin de detruire les rats qui s’etaient abominablement multiplies depuis le depart du Havre et empestaient le navire.

Il est vrai, Marcel Ferut assurait qu’il fallait bien se garder de detruire ces intelligentes betes.

“Et pourquoi?… lui demanda un jour l’un des novices.

— Parce que, si le Saint-Enoch courait danger de se perdre, ils nous previendraient…

— Ces rats…

— Oui… ces rats… en se sauvant…

— Et comment?

— A la nage, parbleu, a la nage…” repliqua ce farceur de charpentier.

Dans l’apres-midi, M. Bourcart, toujours le plus poli des hommes, envoya M. Heurtaux a bord du Caulaincourt, pour s’excuser de n’avoir pu rendre son salut avec un pavillon qui de tricolore etait devenu unicolore; et quelle couleur, le pavillon noir!

La relache du Saint-Enoch dura quatre jours. En dehors des heures de travail, le capitaine Bourcart avait juge bon de laisser descendre a terre, bien qu’il y eut risque de desertion. Cela tient a ce qu’en ce pays il se fait un metier fort lucratif, celui de scieur de long.

Les forets y sont inepuisables, ce qui excite les matelots a quitter le bord. Cette fois, pourtant, l’equipage etait au complet a l’heure reglementaire, et pas un ne manquait a l’appel le jour du depart.

Si les hommes n’avaient guere d’argent de poche, ils s’etaient du moins regales gratuitement de ces peches que les colons francais leur permettaient de cueillir et d’un agreable petit vin fabrique avec ces fruits.

Le 22 fevrier, M. Bourcart fit prendre les dispositions pour l’appareillage. Il n’avait pas l’intention de revenir a ce mouillage d’Akaroa, a moins d’y etre oblige par le mauvais temps et en cas que son navire ne put tenir la mer.

Du reste, ce matin-la, s’entretenant avec le second, les deux lieutenants, le docteur Filhiol et le maitre d’equipage: “Notre campagne, si les circonstances ne s’y opposent pas, dit-il, comprendra deux parties. En premier lieu, nous pecherons sur les parages de la Nouvelle-Zelande pendant cinq ou six semaines. En second lieu, le Saint-Enoch fera voile pour les cotes de la Basse-Californie, ou, a cette epoque, il sera facile, je l’espere, de completer la cargaison.

— Eh! fit observer M. Heurtaux, ne peut-il arriver que nous fassions plein chargement d’huile dans les mers de la Nouvelle-Zelande?…

— Je ne le crois pas, repondit M. Bourcart. J’ai cause avec le capitaine du navire americain… Selon lui, les baleines cherchent deja a regagner des parages plus nord…

— Et la ou elles iront, la nous saurons les amarrer!… declara le lieutenant Coquebert. Je me charge de leur filer de la ligne tant qu’elles en voudront…

— Et vous pouvez compter, capitaine, ajouta Romain Allotte, que je ne resterai pas en arriere de mon camarade…

— Je compte surtout, mes amis, reprit M. Bourcart, que l’ambition de vous surpasser l’un l’autre ne vous fera pas commettre d’imprudences! Donc, c’est convenu, apres les parages de la Nouvelle-Zelande, les parages de la Basse-Californie, ou j’ai plus d’une fois deja fait bonne peche… Ensuite… on verra d’apres les circonstances. Qu’en penses-tu, Ollive?…

— Je pense, capitaine, repondit celui-ci, que le Saint-Enoch se rendra ou il vous plaira de le conduire, fut-ce jusqu’a la mer de Behring. Quant aux baleines, je vous en souhaite par douzaines. Mais cela regarde les chefs de pirogues et les harponneurs, et non le maitre d’equipage.

— Entendu, mon vieux compagnon, repliqua en souriant M. Bourcart, et, puisque c’est ton idee, reste dans ta partie comme Jean-Marie Cabidoulin reste dans la sienne!… Les choses n’en iront pas plus mal…

— C’est mon avis, declara Ollive.

— A propos, le tonnelier et toi, vous etes toujours en dispute?…

— Toujours, capitaine. Avec sa manie de predire des malheurs, Cabidoulin finirait par vous mettre la mort dans l’ame!… Je le connais de longtemps et je devrais y etre habitue!… C’est d’autant plus bete de sa part qu’il s’est toujours tire d’affaire au cours de ses navigations!… Vrai! il eut mieux fait de demeurer au mouillage dans sa boutique, au milieu de ses tonnes…

— Laisse-le remuer la langue, Ollive, repondit le capitaine Bourcart. Des mots que tout cela! Jean-Marie Cabidoulin n’en est pas moins un brave homme!”

Dans l’apres-midi, le Saint-Enoch louvoyait sous bonne brise a quatre milles d’Akaroa, lorsqu’une premiere baleine fut signalee par le harponneur Louis Thiebault.

Il etait deux heures, et ce cetace de forte taille soufflait a petite distance.

M. Bourcart fit aussitot mettre en panne. Puis, deux des quatre pirogues furent amenees, celle du premier lieutenant Coquebert et celle du second lieutenant Allotte. Ces officiers y descendirent et se placerent a l’arriere. Les harponneurs Durut et Ducrest se tinrent a l’avant sur le tillac. Un des matelots prit la godille, et quatre hommes etaient aux avirons.

Avec la passion qui les animait, les deux lieutenants arriverent presque en meme temps a portee de piquer la baleine, c’est-a-dire de lui lancer le harpon.

A ce harpon est attachee une ligne mesurant environ trois cents brasses qui est soigneusement lovee dans une baille placee a peu pres au milieu de l’embarcation, de facon que rien ne gene son filage.

Les deux harponneurs envoyerent leurs harpons. Atteinte au flanc gauche, la baleine s’enfuit avec une extreme rapidite. A cet instant et malgre toutes precautions, la ligne du lieutenant Coquebert s’embrouilla et on fut oblige de la couper. Romain Allotte resta seul sur l’animal, dont son camarade, non sans regret, dut abandonner la poursuite.

Cependant la pirogue, irresistiblement entrainee, volait a la surface, tandis que la godille la maintenait contre les embardees. Lorsque la baleine sonda, autrement dit plongea pour la premiere fois, on lui fila de la ligne en attendant qu’elle reparut a la surface.

“Attention!… attention! cria le lieutenant Allotte. Des qu’elle reviendra, une lance a vous, Ducrest, et a moi l’autre…

— On est pare, lieutenant”, repondit le harponneur accroupi sur le tillac.

A bord des pirogues, il est d’usage de toujours avoir a tribord, en meme temps que deux harpons de rechange, trois lances affilees comme des rasoirs. A babord sont disposes la gaffe et le louchet qui sert a couper les arteres lorsqu’elle court avec une telle rapidite qu’il serait impossible de garder sa remorque sans compromettre la securite de l’embarcation. Alors, disent les gens du metier, on “la travaille a la lance”.

Au moment ou la baleine remontait a petite distance, la pirogue se hala dessus. Des coups de lance lui furent portes par le lieutenant et le harponneur. Comme ces coups n’atteignirent pas les organes essentiels, la baleine, au lieu de souffler le sang, souffla blanc comme a l’ordinaire, en filant vers le nord-est. Il y avait donc certitude qu’elle n’etait pas mortellement blessee.

A bord du Saint-Enoch, le capitaine et l’equipage suivaient avec le plus vif interet les peripeties de cette chasse, qui pouvait se prolonger. Il n’etait pas impossible, en effet, que l’animal continuat a se derober pendant plusieurs heures. Aussi M. Bourcart remit-il son navire au plus pres, afin de rejoindre la pirogue, dont deux bons milles le separaient alors.

Cette embarcation courait avec une prodigieuse vitesse. Tel que l’on connaissait le second lieutenant, on savait qu’il ne se resignerait point a abandonner sa proie, malgre les conseils de prudence qui lui avaient ete donnes.

Quant a Yves Coquebert, apres avoir debrouille sa ligne, il se preparait a rejoindre son camarade.

Une demi-heure encore, il fut aise de constater que la baleine commencait a s’epuiser. Ses plongeons ne duraient que quelques minutes, preuve que la respiration lui manquait.

Romain Allotte, profitant de ce que sa marche se ralentissait, fit haler sur la ligne, et, lorsqu’il fut rallie par la pirogue du lieutenant Coquebert, le harponneur Ducrest parvint a trancher un des ailerons de la baleine avec son louchet, et d’autres coups lui furent portes au flanc. Apres une derniere immersion, elle reparut, battant l’eau avec une violence telle qu’une des pirogues faillit chavirer. Enfin sa tete se dressa au-dessus de l’eau, et elle souffla rouge, ce qui indiquait sa fin prochaine.

Neanmoins, il fallait se defier des dernieres convulsions d’un si puissant animal. C’est a cet instant que les pirogues sont le plus exposees, et un coup de sa queue suffit a les mettre en pieces. Cette fois, les deux lieutenants furent assez adroits pour l’eviter, et, apres s’etre retourne sur le flanc, il flotta immobile a la surface de la mer.

Les deux embarcations se trouvaient alors de plus d’un mille et demi au large du Saint-Enoch, qui manoeuvra de maniere a leur epargner de la route. La houle s’accentuait sous une brise de nord-ouest. D’ailleurs, la baleine capturee, — une baleine franche, — etait d’un tel volume que les hommes auraient eu grand’peine a la dehaler.

Il arrive parfois que les pirogues ont ete entrainees a plusieurs lieues du batiment. Dans ce cas, si le courant est contraire, elles sont obligees de mouiller sur la baleine en y portant une petite ancre, et l’on ne la remorque qu’a l’heure ou le courant prend une direction inverse.

En cette occasion, il ne fut pas necessaire d’attendre. Vers quatre heures, le Saint-Enoch avait pu se rapprocher a quelques encablures. Les deux pirogues le rejoignirent, et, avant cinq heures, la baleine fut amarree au long du bord.

Le lieutenant Allotte et ses hommes recurent les felicitations de tout l’equipage. L’animal etait vraiment de belle grosseur. Il mesurait pres de vingt-deux metres sur une douzaine de circonference en arriere des nageoires pectorales, ce qui lui assignait un poids d’au moins soixante-dix mille kilogrammes.

“Mes compliments, Allotte, mes compliments!… repetait M. Bourcart. Voila un heureux coup de debut, et il ne faudrait pas beaucoup de baleines de cette taille pour emplir notre cale.

— Qu’est-ce que vous en pensez, maitre Cabidoulin?…

— M’est avis, repondit le tonnelier, que cette bete-la nous vaudra au moins cent barils d’huile, et, si je me trompe d’une dizaine, c’est que je n’ai plus l’oeil juste!”

Et, sans doute, Jean-Marie Cabidoulin s’y entendait assez pour ne point commettre une erreur d’appreciation.

“Aujourd’hui, dit alors le capitaine Bourcart, il est trop tard. La mer tombe, le vent aussi, et nous resterons sous petite voilure. Amarrez solidement la baleine… Demain on s’occupera du depecage.”

La nuit fut calme, et le Saint-Enoch n’eut pas a louvoyer. Des que le soleil parut a l’horizon, l’equipage se distribua le travail, et, en premier lieu, les hommes passerent les garants d’appareils, afin de virer la baleine au guindeau.

Une chaine fut alors engagee sous la nageoire du dehors, puis baguee dessus de maniere a ne point deraper. Des que les harponneurs eurent decolle l’autre nageoire, les matelots se mirent aux barres du guindeau afin de haler l’animal. Dans ces conditions, il ne demandait qu’a tourner sur lui-meme, et l’operation s’accomplirait sans difficulte.

Cela fait, la tete s’amena en quatre morceaux: les lippes, qui furent coupees et accrochees a un enorme croc; la gorge et la langue, qui tomberent ensemble sur le pont par-dessus les bastingages; puis l’extremite du mufle, a laquelle sont fixes les fanons, dont le nombre n’est jamais inferieur a cinq cents.

Cette besogne exigea le plus de temps, car, pour avoir ce dernier fragment de la tete, il est necessaire de scier l’os, assez gros et tres dur, qui l’attache au corps.

Au surplus, maitre Cabidoulin surveillait tout ce travail, et l’equipage n’y etait point novice.

Des que les quatre morceaux de la tete eurent ete deposes sur le pont, on s’occupa de virer le gras de la baleine, apres l’avoir decoupe en tranches larges d’une brasse et d’une longueur variant entre huit et neuf pieds.

Lorsque la plus grande partie fut a bord, les matelots purent couper la queue et se debarrasser de ce qui restait de la carcasse du cote du large.

On eut ensuite successivement les divers moignons dont il fut aise de decoller le gras, lorsqu’ils giserent sur le pont, et plus aisement que si le corps eut ete amarre au flanc du navire.

L’entiere matinee, pendant laquelle on ne perdit pas un instant, fut consacree a cette penible besogne, et M. Bourcart ne la fit reprendre que vers une heure, apres le repas de midi.

Les matelots attaquerent alors la monstrueuse tete. Lorsque les harponneurs en eurent chavire les quatre portions, ils detacherent a la hache les fanons, qui sont plus ou moins longs suivants leur grosseur. De ces lames fibreuses et cornees, les premieres, courtes et etroites, s’elargissent en se rapprochant du milieu de la machoire, et diminuent ensuite jusqu’au fond de la bouche.

Rangees avec une parfaite regularite, emboitees les unes dans les autres, elles forment une espece de treillis ou de nasse qui retient les animalcules, les myriades de petits articules dont se nourrissent les souffleurs.

Lorsque les fanons eurent ete enleves, Jean-Marie Cabidoulin les fit transporter au pied de la dunette. Il n’y aurait plus qu’a les gratter pour en decoller le blanc qui, provenant des gencives, est de qualite superieure. Quant au gras contenu dans le cerveau, il fut detache et mis en reserve. Enfin, la tete entierement videe de toutes les parties utilisables, les troncons furent rejetes a la mer.

Le reste de la journee et la journee suivante, l’equipage proceda a la fonte du gras. Comme les vigies n’avaient signale aucune autre baleine, il n’y eut pas occasion d’amener les pirogues et tout le monde s’employa au travail.

Maitre Cabidoulin fit ranger un certain nombre de bailles sur le pont entre le grand mat et le gaillard d’avant. Apres avoir ete introduit par morceaux dans les bailles, le gras, soumis a la pression d’une mecanique, forma des fragments assez minces pour entrer dans les pots de la cabousse, ou ils allaient fondre sous l’action de la chaleur.

Cela fait, ce qui restait, le residu, l’escrabe comme on l’appelle, servirait a entretenir le feu pendant le temps que fonctionnerait la cabousse, c’est-a-dire jusqu’au moment ou tout le gras serait converti en huile. L’operation terminee, il n’y aurait plus qu’a envoyer cette huile aux barils de la cale.

Cette manutention ne presente aucune difficulte. Elle consiste a laisser couler le liquide dans une baille placee a l’interieur, a travers un petit panneau, au moyen d’une manche en toile pourvue d’un robinet a son extremite.

L’ouvrage est alors acheve, et on le recommencera dans les memes conditions, lorsque les pirogues auront amarre d’autres baleines.

Le soir venu, apres que l’huile eut ete emmagasinee, M. Bourcart demanda a maitre Cabidoulin s’il ne s’etait pas trompe sur le rendement de l’animal.

“Non, capitaine, declara le tonnelier. La bete nous a valu cent quinze barils…

— Tout autant… s’ecria le docteur Filhiol. Eh bien, il faut l’avoir vu pour le croire!…

— J’en conviens, repondit M. Heurtaux, et, si je ne me trompe, cette baleine-la est une des plus grosses que nous ayons jamais harponnees…

— Un coup heureux du lieutenant Allotte! ajouta le capitaine Bourcart. S’il le recommence une dizaine de fois, nous serons bien pres d’avoir complet chargement!”

On le voit, les bons pronostics de M. Bourcart semblaient devoir l’emporter sur les mauvais pronostics de Jean-Marie Cabidoulin.

Ces parages de la Nouvelle-Zelande sont a juste raison tres recherches. Avant l’arrivee du Saint-Enoch, plusieurs navires anglais et americains avaient deja fait une excellente campagne. Les baleines franches se laissent plus facilement capturer que les autres. Comme elles ont l’ouie moins fine, il est possible de les approcher sans eveiller leur attention. Par malheur, les tourmentes sont si frequentes, si terribles en ces mers que, chaque nuit, il y a lieu de tenir le large sous petite voilure afin d’eviter de se mettre a la cote.

Pendant les quatre semaines que M. Bourcart passa dans le voisinage de la Nouvelle-Zelande, l’equipage amarra onze baleines. Deux furent prises par le second Heurtaux, trois par le lieutenant Coquebert, quatre par le lieutenant Allotte, deux par le capitaine. Mais elles n’egalaient point la premiere en volume, et le rendement en fut moins avantageux. D’ailleurs, les souffleurs commencaient a regagner de hautes latitudes. Aussi le Saint-Enoch, n’ayant en totalite que neuf cents barils d’huile, devait-il chercher d’autres parages de peche.

Le capitaine Bourcart eut alors la pensee de se rendre a la baie des Iles, colonie anglaise etablie sur le littoral est d’Ika-Na-Maoui, l’ile septentrionale du groupe. Peut-etre pourrait-il doubler son chargement avant de rallier les cotes occidentales de l’Amerique?…

Dans cette baie, le Saint-Enoch s’approvisionnerait de pommes de terre, et plus facilement qu’aux environs d’Akaroa, ou ces legumes ne font pas l’objet d’une tres abondante culture.

Le navire appareilla dans la soiree du 29 mars, et, le surlendemain, on eut connaissance de la baie des Iles.

L’ancre fut envoyee par un fond de dix brasses a courte distance de terre.

Dans le port etaient en relache plusieurs baleiniers qui se preparaient a quitter la Nouvelle-Zelande.

Des que les voiles eurent ete serrees, le capitaine Bourcart s’informa de l’endroit ou il pourrait se fournir de pommes de terre. On lui indiqua une ferme eloignee d’une douzaine de milles vers l’interieur. Les deux lieutenants partirent aussitot sous la direction d’un Anglais choisi pour guide.

Les pirogues remonterent une riviere sinueuse entre de hautes collines.

Le long des rives s’elevaient des habitations mahories, baties en bois, entourees de jardins riches en legumes que les indigenes echangent volontiers contre des vetements de fabrication europeenne.

A l’extremite de la riviere etait etablie cette ferme ou les pommes de terre abondaient, et dont on emplit plusieurs sacs en natte. Revenues le soir meme a bord, les embarcations rapportaient en outre une provision d’huitres d’excellente qualite, ramassees sur les roches des berges. Un regal pour le carre comme pour le poste de l’equipage.

Le lendemain, le maitre d’hotel du Saint-Enoch put se procurer quantite d’oignons provenant des jardins mahoris. Suivant la coutume, ces oignons furent payes de la meme monnaie que les pommes de terre, en pantalons, en chemises, en etoffes, dont le navire possedait une pacotille.

Au surplus, les indigenes se montraient fort obligeants, au moins sur les territoires de la baie des Iles. A cette epoque, il est vrai, les agressions n’etaient que trop frequentes en d’autres points de l’archipel. Les colons devaient lutter contre les Neo-Zelandais, et, ce jour meme, un aviso anglais venait de quitter le port pour aller reprimer quelques tribus hostiles.

Quant aux officiers et aux matelots du Saint-Enoch, ils n’eurent point a se plaindre durant cette relache. Recus partout hospitalierement, ils entraient dans les cases, on leur offrait des rafraichissements, non point de la limonade ou de la biere — les indigenes n’en font pas usage, — mais d’excellentes pasteques, dont les jardins regorgeaient, et aussi des figues non moins bonnes qui pendaient a les rompre aux branches des arbres.

M. Bourcart ne sejourna que trois jours dans la baie des Iles. Sachant que les baleines delaissaient ces parages, il prit ses dispositions en vue d’une assez longue traversee qui ne compterait pas moins de quatre mille milles.

En effet, c’etait a la baie Sainte-Marguerite, sur la cote de la Basse-Californie, que le Saint-Enoch irait achever cette campagne, si heureuse a son debut.

Et, lorsqu’on le repetait au tonnelier: “Le commencement est le commencement…, murmurait entre ses dents Jean-Marie Cabidoulin. Attendons la fin…

— Attendons la fin.” repondait maitre Ollive, en haussant les epaules.

CHAPITRE IV

A travers le Pacifique

Le 3 avril, a la premiere heure, le Saint-Enoch abandonna le mouillage de la baie des Iles. Il ne manquait plus a son approvisionnement que des noix de coco, de la volaille et des porcs. N’ayant pu s’en procurer aux deux dernieres relaches a la Nouvelle-Zelande, le capitaine Bourcart se proposait de toucher a l’une des iles de l’archipel des Navigateurs, ou ces objets de consommation ne font pas defaut.

Le vent soufflait en bonne direction, et les neuf cents milles qui separent Ika-Na-Maoui du tropique du Capricorne furent franchis en une huitaine de jours, grand largue, amures a babord.

Ce jour-la, 12 avril, en reponse a une question que lui posait le docteur Filhiol, M. Bourcart dit:

“Oui, c’est peut-etre a cette place, par le vingt-troisieme parallele et le cent soixante-quinzieme meridien, que l’ocean Pacifique accuse ses plus grandes profondeurs. Au cours de sondages qui ont ete executes a bord du Penguin, on a devide quatre mille neuf cents brasses de ligne sans atteindre le fond…

— Je croyais, fit observer M. Filhiol, que les fonds les plus considerables se rencontraient dans les mers du Japon…

— Erreur! declara le capitaine Bourcart. Ils l’emportent ici de deux cent quarante-cinq brasses, ce qui donne, au total, neuf mille metres…

— Eh! repondit le docteur Filhiol, c’est l’altitude des montagnes de l’Himalaya: huit mille six cents metres, le Dhwalagiri du Nepal; neuf mille, le Chamalari du Boutan…

— Voila, mon cher docteur, une comparaison de chiffres qui ne laisse pas d’etre instructive…

— Elle demontre, capitaine, que les plus hauts reliefs de la terre n’egalent point ses abimes sous-marins. A l’epoque de formation, lorsque notre globe tendait a prendre sa figure definitive, les depressions ont acquis plus d’importance que les soulevements, et peut-etre ne seront-elles jamais determinees avec quelque exactitude.”

A trois jours de la, 15 avril, ayant eu connaissance des Samoa, archipel des Navigateurs, le Saint-Enoch vint jeter l’ancre a quelques encablures de l’ile Savai, qui est une des plus considerables de ce groupe.

Une douzaine d’indigenes, accompagnant leur roi, se rendirent a bord avec un Anglais qui servait d’interprete. Ces naturels, tres incivilises, etaient a peu pres nus. Sa Majeste elle-meme ne se montrait guere autrement vetue que ses sujets. Mais une chemise d’indienne, dont le capitaine Bourcart lui fit present, et dans les manches de laquelle le souverain s’obstina tout d’abord a passer ses jambes, ne tarda pas a voiler la nudite royale.

Les pirogues, envoyees a terre sur le conseil de l’Anglais, rapporterent un chargement de noix fraiches.

Le soir, a la tombee du crepuscule, le Saint-Enoch vira de bord, par crainte de rester trop pres de la terre, et il louvoya toute la nuit.

Des l’aube naissante, le capitaine Bourcart reprit son mouillage de la veille. Les indigenes fournirent au maitre d’hotel une vingtaine de tortues de belle espece, autant de cochons de petite taille, de la volaille en quantite. Ces provisions furent payees en objets de pacotille dont les Samoans font le plus grand cas, — principalement de mauvais couteaux a cinq sols piece.

Trois jours apres le depart, les vigies signalerent une troupe de cachalots, qui s’ebattait a quatre ou cinq milles par babord devant. La brise soufflait faiblement, et le Saint-Enoch gagnait a peine vers le large. Il etait deja tard, pres de cinq heures. Cependant le capitaine Bourcart ne voulut pas perdre cette occasion de donner la chasse a un ou plusieurs de ces animaux.

Deux pirogues furent amenees sur-le-champ, celle du second Heurtaux et celle du lieutenant

Coquebert. Ces officiers, leurs harponneurs, leurs matelots, y prirent place. A force d’avirons, la mer n’etant gonflee que d’une longue houle, elles se dirigerent vers le troupeau.

Du haut de la dunette, le capitaine Bourcart et le docteur Filhiol allaient suivre non sans interet les peripeties de cette peche.

“Elle est plus difficile que la peche de la baleine, fit observer M. Bourcart, et aussi moins fructueuse. Des que l’un de ces cachalots a ete harponne, on est souvent contraint de larguer la ligne, car il plonge a de grandes profondeurs avec une extreme rapidite. En revanche, si la pirogue a pu se tenir sur la ligne pendant la duree du premier plongeon, on a la presque certitude de capturer l’animal. Une fois remonte a la surface, le louchet et la lance l’ont bientot acheve.”

C’est ce qui se produisit en cette circonstance. Les deux pirogues ne purent amarrer qu’un seul cachalot de moyenne taille, et il en est dont la longueur depasse celle de la baleine franche. La nuit commencait a venir, et, comme des nuages se levaient a l’est, il eut ete imprudent de s’attarder. Aussi, pendant la soiree, l’equipage s’occupa-t-il de virer l’animal.

Le surlendemain, il n’y eut pas lieu de se remettre en peche. Les cachalots avaient disparu, et le Saint-Enoch, servi par une fraiche brise, reprit sa route au nord-est.

Ce jour-la apparut un navire qui suivait la meme direction a trois ou quatre milles sous le vent. C’etait un trois-mats-barque, dont il eut ete impossible de reconnaitre la nationalite a cette distance. Neanmoins la forme de sa coque, quelques details de la voilure permirent de croire qu’il devait etre anglais.

Vers le milieu de la journee se produisit une de ces rapides sautes de vent de l’ouest a l’est, qui sont tres dangereuses par leur violence, sinon leur duree, et risquent de mettre un navire en perdition, s’il n’est pas prepare a les recevoir.

En un instant, la mer fut demontee, des paquets de houle tomberent a bord. Le capitaine Bourcart dut prendre la cape afin de tenir tete a la rafale sous le grand hunier, la misaine, le perroquet de fougue et le petit foc.

Au cours de la manoeuvre, le matelot Gastinet, s’etant paumoye jusqu’au bout-dehors du grand foc pour degager une des ecoutes manqua des deux mains.

“Un homme a la mer!” cria un de ses camarades qui, du gaillard d’avant, venait de le voir s’enfoncer sous les eaux.

Tout le monde fut sur le pont, et M. Bourcart gagna precipitamment la dunette afin de diriger le sauvetage.

Si Gastinet n’eut pas ete bon nageur, il aurait ete perdu. La mer brisait avec trop de violence pour que l’on put dehaler une embarcation. Il ne restait donc, comme moyen de secours, que de jeter des bouees, ce qui fut rapidement fait.

Par malheur, Gastinet etait tombe au vent, et, comme le navire derivait, les bouees ne pouvaient arriver jusqu’a sa portee. Aussi cherchait-il a les atteindre en nageant d’un bras vigoureux.

“A larguer la misaine et le perroquet de fougue!” commanda le capitaine Bourcart.

Et, en virant, le Saint-Enoch se rapprocherait de l’homme qui se debattait au milieu des lames. D’ailleurs Gastinet ne tarda pas a saisir une des bouees, et, a la condition de s’y maintenir, il etait sur d’etre recueilli lorsque le batiment aurait vire de bord.

Mais voici que la situation se compliqua effroyablement.

“Un requin… un requin!” venaient de crier quelques matelots postes sur la dunette.

Un de ces formidables squales apparaissait et disparaissait sous le vent du navire, apres avoir passe a l’arriere.

On connait la voracite extraordinaire, la force prodigieuse de ces monstres, — rien que machoires et estomac, a-t-on justement pu dire. Et si le malheureux etait happe par ce requin… s’il n’avait pu etre hisse a bord auparavant…

Or, bien que le squale ne fut plus qu’a une centaine de pieds de lui, Gastinet ne l’avait pas apercu. Il n’avait pas meme entendu le cri jete du haut de la dunette, et il ne se doutait pas du danger qui le menacait.

A ce moment, plusieurs coups de feu eclaterent. Le second Heurtaux et Romain Allotte, ayant decroche leurs carabines au ratelier du carre, venaient de tirer sur l’animal.

Celui-ci avait-il ete atteint?… On ne savait. Toutefois il plongea, et sa tete n’emergea plus du creux des lames.

Cependant, la barre dessous, le navire commencait a lofer. Mais, par une mer aussi forte, parviendrait-il a faire son abattee?… S’il manquait a virer, — ce qui etait a craindre dans ces mauvaises conditions, — la manoeuvre aurait ete inutile…

Il y eut un instant de terrible anxiete. Le Saint-Enoch, tandis que ses voiles ralinguaient et detonaient avec violence, eut quelques secondes d’hesitation. Enfin ses focs prirent, et il depassa la ligne du vent en donnant une bande telle que ses dallots engagerent.

Alors, les ecoutes solidement raidies, il se maintint au plus pres et gagna vers la bouee, a laquelle se cramponnait le matelot. On put lui envoyer un bout de grelin qu’il saisit vigoureusement et il fut hale a la hauteur des bastingages, au moment ou le squale, se retournant, les machoires ouvertes, allait lui couper la jambe.

Lorsque Gastinet eut ete depose sur le pont, il perdit connaissance. D’ailleurs, le docteur Filhiol n’eut pas grand’peine a le ranimer.

Entre temps, le harponneur Ducrest avait lance au monstre un croc garni d’un morceau de carcasse de boeuf.

Mais peut-etre le requin avait-il pris la fuite, car on ne le voyait plus…

Soudain une violente secousse se produisit, qui aurait entraine la ligne, si elle n’eut ete solidement tournee a l’un des taquets du bastingage. Le croc s’etait enfonce dans la gueule du requin et ne larguerait pas. Six hommes se mirent sur la ligne et le sortirent de l’eau. Puis, sa queue saisie par un noeud coulant, on le hissa au moyen d’un palan, et il retomba sur le pont, ou quelques coups de hache l’eurent bientot eventre.

D’habitude, les matelots veulent savoir ce que contient l’estomac de ces monstres, dont le nom, a ce que l’on pretend, tres significatif, n’est que le mot latin requiem.

Voici ce qui fut retire du ventre de ce squale, ou il y aurait encore eu de la place pour le pauvre Gastinet: quantite d’objets tombes a la mer, une bouteille vide, trois boites de conserves, vides egalement, plusieurs brasses de bitord, un morceau de faubert, des debris d’os, un surouet de toile ciree, une vieille botte de pecheur, et un montant de cage a poules.

On le comprend, cet inventaire interessa particulierement le docteur Filhiol.

“C’est la boite aux ordures de la mer!…” s’ecria-t-il.

De fait, on n’aurait pu imaginer une expression plus juste. Et il ajouta:

“Il n’y a plus maintenant qu’a le jeter par-dessus le bord…

— Non point, mon cher Filhiol, declara M. Bourcart.

— Et que voulez-vous faire de ce requin, capitaine?

— Le depecer pour en conserver tout ce qui a de la valeur! Et, rien qu’en ce qui vous concerne, docteur, on tire de ces squales une huile qui ne se fige jamais et qui a toutes les qualites medicinales de l’huile de foie de morue. Quant a la peau, apres avoir ete sechee et polie, elle sert aux bijoutiers pour fabriquer des objets de fantaisie, aux relieurs pour faire du chagrin, aux menuisiers pour faire des rapes a bois…

— Eh! capitaine, demanda le docteur Filhiol, allez-vous me dire aussi que la chair de requin se mange?…

— Sans doute, et ses ailerons sont tellement recherches sur les marches du Celeste-Empire qu’ils coutent jusqu’a sept cents francs la tonne… Si nous ne sommes pas assez Chinois pour nous en regaler, nous faisons de cette chair une colle de poisson qui est superieure, pour la clarification des vins, des bieres et des liqueurs, a celle que donne l’esturgeon. Au surplus, a qui ne repugne pas sa saveur huileuse, un filet de requin ne laisse pas d’etre fort agreable… Vous voyez donc que celui-ci vaut son pesant d’or!”

C’est a la date du 25 avril que M. Bourcart eut a noter sur le livre de bord le passage de la Ligne.

A neuf heures du matin, ce jour-la, par un temps clair, il avait obtenu au sextant une premiere operation, afin d’avoir la longitude, c’est-a-dire l’heure du lieu, — et il la completerait lorsque le soleil passerait au meridien et en tenant compte, avec le loch, de la distance parcourue entre les deux observations.

A midi, cette seconde operation lui indiqua sa latitude par la hauteur du soleil au-dessus de l’horizon, et il determina definitivement l’heure par le chronometre.

Le temps etait favorable, l’atmosphere pure. Aussi ces resultats furent-ils tenus pour tres exacts, et M. Bourcart dit, apres ses calculs:

“Mes amis, nous venons de franchir l’Equateur, et voici le Saint-Enoch revenu dans l’hemisphere septentrional.”

Comme le docteur Filhiol — le seul a bord qui n’eut point passe la Ligne — n’avait pas ete soumis au bapteme en descendant l’Atlantique, cette fois encore on lui epargna les ceremonies plus ou moins desagreables du bonhomme Tropique. Les officiers se contenterent de boire au succes de la campagne dans le carre, aussi bien que l’equipage dans le poste. Les hommes avaient recu double ration d’eau-de-vie — ce qui se faisait chaque fois qu’on avait amarre une baleine.

Il fallut meme, en depit de ses interminables grognements, que Jean-Marie Cabidoulin choquat sa tasse contre la tasse de maitre Ollive:

“Un bon coup a travers le gosier, ca ne se refuse pas…, lui dit son camarade.

— Non, certes! repliqua le tonnelier, mais ce n’est pas ca qui changera ma maniere de voir.

— Change pas, vieux, mais bois tout de meme!”

Sur cette partie du Pacifique, les vents sont d’ordinaire tres faibles a cette epoque de l’annee, et le Saint-Enoch fut a peu pres encalmine. C’est alors que les journees semblent longues! Sans faire route, du soir au matin et du matin au soir, un batiment est le jouet de la houle. On cherche donc a se distraire par la lecture, par la conversation, a moins de demander au sommeil l’oubli des heures au milieu de ces chaleurs accablantes des Tropiques.

Un apres-midi, le 27 avril, M. Bourcart, les officiers, le docteur Filhiol, et aussi maitre Ollive et maitre Cabidoulin, abrites sous la tente de la dunette, causaient de choses et d’autres.

Et alors, le second, s’adressant au tonnelier, de lui dire:

“Voyons, Cabidoulin, avouerez-vous que d’avoir deja neuf cents barils d’huile dans sa cale, c’est un bon debut pour une saison de peche?…

— Neuf cents barils, monsieur Heurtaux, repondit le tonnelier, ce n’est pas deux mille, et les onze cents autres ne se rempliront peut-etre pas comme on remplit sa tasse a la cambuse!…

— C’est donc, observa en riant le lieutenant Coquebert, que nous ne rencontrerons plus une seule baleine…

— Et que le grand serpent de mer les aura toutes avalees?… ajouta sur le meme ton le lieutenant Allotte.

— C’est possible…, repondit le tonnelier, qui se gardait bien de plaisanter.

— Maitre Cabidoulin, demanda le capitaine Bourcart, vous y croyez donc toujours, a ce monstre des monstres?…

— S’il y croit, le tetu!… declara maitre Ollive. Mais il ne s’arrete pas d’en causer sur le gaillard d’avant…

— Et il en causera encore! affirma le tonnelier.

— Bon! dit M. Heurtaux, ca n’a pas grand inconvenient pour la plupart de nos hommes, et ils ne donnent pas dans les contes de Cabidoulin!… Mais, pour ce qui est des novices, c’est autre chose, et je ne suis pas sur qu’ils ne finissent par s’effrayer…

— Alors… ayez soin de retenir votre langue, Cabidoulin, ordonna M. Bourcart.

— Et pourquoi, capitaine?… repondit le tonnelier. Au moins l’equipage sera-t-il prevenu, et lorsqu’il apercevra le serpent de mer… ou tout autre monstre marin…

— Comment, demanda M. Heurtaux, vous avez l’idee que nous le verrons, ce fameux serpent de mer?…

— Pas de doute a cela.

— Et pourquoi?

— Pourquoi?… Voyez-vous, monsieur Heurtaux, c’est une conviction que j’ai, et les plaisanteries de maitre Ollive n’y feront rien…

— Cependant… en quarante ans de navigation a travers l’Atlantique et le Pacifique, vous ne l’avez point vu, que je sache, cet animal fantastique?…

— Et je comptais bien ne point le voir, puisque j’avais pris ma retraite, repondit le tonnelier. Mais M. Bourcart est venu me relancer, et, cette fois, je n’y echapperai pas!

— Eh bien, je ne serai pas fache de la rencontre!… s’ecria le lieutenant Allotte.

— Ne dites pas cela, lieutenant, ne dites pas cela!… repliqua le tonnelier d’une voix grave.

— Allons, Jean-Marie Cabidoulin, reprit M. Bourcart, ce n’est pas serieux!… Le grand serpent de mer!… Je vous le repete pour la centieme fois… personne ne l’a jamais vu… personne ne le verra jamais… pour cette bonne raison qu’il n’existe pas et ne peut exister…

— Il existe si bien, capitaine, s’obstina a repondre le tonnelier, que le Saint-Enoch fera sa connaissance avant la fin de la campagne… et qui sait meme si ce n’est pas de la sorte qu’elle finira!”

Et, pour tout avouer, Jean-Marie Cabidoulin etait si affirmatif que non seulement les novices du bord, mais les matelots en venaient a croire aux menacantes predictions du tonnelier. Qui sait si le capitaine Bourcart parviendrait a clore la bouche d’un homme si convaincu?…

C’est alors que le docteur Filhiol, interroge par M. Bourcart sur ce qu’il pouvait savoir relativement au pretendu serpent de mer, repondit:

“J’ai lu a peu pres tout ce qu’on a ecrit la-dessus et je n’ignore point les plaisanteries que s’est attirees le Constitutionnel en donnant ces legendes pour des realites… Or, remarquez, capitaine, qu’elles ne sont pas nouvelles! On les voit apparaitre des le debut de l’ere chretienne! Deja la credulite humaine accordait des dimensions gigantesques a des poulpes, a des calmars, a des encornets, a des cephalopodes, qui ordinairement ne mesurent pas plus de soixante-dix a quatre-vingts centimetres, compris leurs tentacules. Il y a loin de la a ces geants de l’espece, agitant des bras de trente, de soixante, de cent pieds, et qui n’ont jamais vecu que dans les imaginations!… Et n’a-t-on pas ete jusqu’a parler d’un kraken, long d’une demi-lieue, lequel entrainait les batiments dans les profonds abimes de l’Ocean!”

Jean-Marie Cabidoulin pretait une extreme attention au docteur, mais il ne cessait, en remuant la tete, de protester contre ses affirmations.

“Non, reprit M. Filhiol, pures fables, auxquelles les anciens croyaient peut-etre, puisque, du temps de Pline, il etait question d’un serpent amphibie, a large tete de chien, aux oreilles repliees en arriere, au corps recouvert d’ecailles jaunissantes, qui se jetait sur les petits navires et les mettait en perdition… Puis, dix ou douze siecles plus tard, l’eveque norvegien Pontoppidan affirma l’existence d’un monstre marin dont les cornes ressemblaient a des mats armes de vergues, et, lorsque les pecheurs se croyaient sur de grands fonds, ils les trouvaient a quelques pieds seulement, parce que l’animal flottait sous la quille de leur chaloupe!… Et, a les en croire, l’animal possedait une enorme tete de cheval, des yeux noirs, une criniere blanche et, dans ses plongeons, il deplacait un tel volume d’eau que la mer se dechainait en tourbillons pareils a ceux du Mael-Strom!…

— Et pourquoi ne l’aurait-on pas dit, puisqu’on avait vu?… observa le tonnelier.

— Vu… ou cru voir, mon pauvre Cabidoulin… repondit le capitaine Bourcart.

— Et meme, ajouta le docteur Filhiol, ces braves gens n’etaient point d’accord, les uns affirmant que le pretendu monstre avait le museau pointu et qu’il rejetait l’eau par un event, les autres soutenant qu’il etait muni de nageoires en forme d’oreilles d’elephant… Et puis ce fut la grande baleine blanche des cotes du Groenland, la fameuse Moby Dick, que les baleiniers ecossais pourchasserent pendant plus de deux siecles sans parvenir a l’atteindre, pour cette bonne raison qu’ils ne l’avaient jamais apercue…

— Ce qui n’empechait pas d’admettre son existence…, ajouta M. Bourcart en riant.

— Naturellement, declara M. Filhiol, tout comme celle du non moins legendaire serpent, lequel, il y a quelque quarante ans, vint se livrer a de formidables ebats, une premiere fois en pleine baie de Glocester, une seconde fois a trente milles au large de Boston, dans les eaux americaines.”

Jean-Marie Cabidoulin fut-il convaincu par les arguments du docteur? Non, assurement, et il aurait pu repondre: Puisque la mer renferme d’extraordinaires vegetaux, des algues longues de huit cents a mille pieds, pourquoi ne recelerait-elle pas des monstres de prodigieuses dimensions, organises pour vivre dans ces profondeurs qu’ils n’abandonneraient qu’a de rares intervalles?…

Ce qui est certain, c’est que, en 1819, le sloop Concordia, se trouvant a quinze milles de Race-Point, rencontra une sorte de reptile emergeant de cinq a six pieds, a peau noiratre, a tete de cheval, mais ne mesurant qu’une cinquantaine de pieds, donc inferieur aux cachalots et aux baleines.

En 1848, a bord du Peking, l’equipage crut voir une bete enorme de plus de cent pieds de longueur, qui se mouvait a la surface de la mer. Verification faite, ce n’etait qu’une algue demesuree couverte de parasites marins de toutes sortes.

En 1849, dans le goulet qui separe l’ile Osterssen du continent, le capitaine Schielderup declara avoir rencontre un serpent de six cents pieds, endormi sur les eaux.

En 1857, les vigies du Castillan signalerent la presence d’un monstre a grosse tete en forme de tonneau, dont la longueur pouvait etre evaluee a deux cents pieds.

En 1862, le commandant Bouyer, de l’aviso Alecton…

“Pardon de vous interrompre, monsieur Filhiol, dit maitre Cabidoulin, je connais un matelot qui etait a bord…

— A bord de l’Alecton?… demanda M. Bourcart.

— Oui…

— Et ce matelot aurait vu ce qu’a raconte le commandant de l’aviso?…

— Comme je vous vois, monsieur Bourcart, et c’est bien un veritable monstre que l’equipage a hisse a bord…

— Soit, repondit le docteur Filhiol, mais ce n’etait qu’un enorme cephalopode couleur bistre rouge, yeux a fleur de tete, bouche en bec de perroquet, corps fusiforme, renfle au milieu, nageoires arrondies en deux lobes charnus places a l’extremite posterieure, huit bras s’echevelant autour de sa tete… Cette masse de chair molle ne pesait pas moins de deux mille kilogrammes, bien que l’animal n’eut pas plus de cinq a six metres de la tete a la queue… Ce n’etait donc point un serpent de mer…

— Quand il existe des poulpes, des encornets de cette espece, repondit le tonnelier, je me demande pourquoi le serpent de mer n’existerait pas?…”

Voici, d’ailleurs, les decouvertes qui allaient etre faites plus tard au sujet des specimens de teratologie que recelent les profondeurs de la mer:

En 1864, a quelque cent milles au large de San-Francisco, le navire hollandais Cornelis entra en collision avec un poulpe dont l’un des tentacules, charge de ventouses, vint s’enrouler autour des sous-barbes de beaupre et le fit enfoncer jusqu’au ras de l’eau. Lorsque ce tentacule eut ete tranche a coups de hache, deux autres s’accrocherent aux caps de mouton des haubans de misaine et au cabestan. Puis, apres amputation, il fallut encore couper huit autres tentacules qui faisaient donner au batiment une forte bande sur tribord.

Quelques annees apres, dans le golfe du

Mexique, on apercut un batracien a tete de grenouille, aux yeux saillants, pourvu de deux bras glauques et dont les larges mains saisirent le plat-bord d’une embarcation. Six balles de revolver firent a peine lacher prise a cette “manta”, dont les bras se reliaient au corps par une membrane semblable a celle des chauves-souris, et qui jeta l’epouvante dans ces parages du golfe.

En 1873, c’est le cutter Lida, qui, dans le detroit de Sleat, entre l’ile de Skye et la terre ferme, rencontre une masse vivante par le travers de son sillage. C’est le Nestor qui, entre Malacca et Penang passe non loin d’un geant oceanique long de deux cent cinquante pieds, large de cinquante, a tete carree, zebre de bandes noires et jaunes, ressemblant a une salamandre.

Enfin, en 1875, a vingt milles du cap San-Roque, pointe nord-est du Bresil, le commandant de la Pauline, George Drivor, croit apercevoir un enorme serpent enroule autour d’une baleine comme un boa constrictor. Ce serpent, a couleur de congre, qui devait mesurer de cent soixante a cent soixante-dix pieds de longueur, jouait avec sa proie et finit par l’entrainer dans l’abime.

Tels sont les derniers faits releves depuis une trentaine d’annees dans les rapports des capitaines. Peuvent-ils laisser des doutes sur l’existence de certains animaux marins tout au moins fort extraordinaires? En faisant la part de l’exageration, en refusant d’admettre que les oceans soient frequentes par des etres dont le volume serait dix fois, cent fois celui des plus puissantes baleines, il est tres probable qu’il faut accorder quelque creance aux recits rapportes ci-dessus.

Quant a pretendre avec Jean-Marie Cabidoulin que la mer renferme des serpents, des poulpes, des calmars d’une telle grosseur et d’une telle vigueur qu’ils parviendraient a couler des navires de moyen tonnage, non assurement. Si nombre de batiments disparaissent sans qu’on n’en ait plus de nouvelles, c’est qu’ils ont peri par collision, c’est qu’ils se sont brises sur les recifs, c’est qu’ils ont sombre sous voile au milieu des cyclones. Il y a assez, il y a trop de causes de naufrages, sans faire intervenir, comme le faisait l’entete tonnelier, ces pythons, ces chimeres, ces hydres extra-naturels.

Cependant les calmes se prolongeaient, au grand ennui des officiers et de l’equipage du Saint-Enoch. Rien ne permettait d’en prevoir la fin, lorsque, le 5 mai, les conditions atmospheriques se modifierent brusquement. Une fraiche brise verdit la surface de la mer et le navire reprit sa route vers le nord-est.

Ce jour-la, un batiment, qui avait ete deja signale comme suivant la meme direction, reparut et se rapprocha meme a moins d’un mille.

Personne a bord ne mit en doute que ce ne fut un baleinier. Ou il n’avait pas encore commence sa campagne de peche, ou elle n’avait pas ete heureuse, car il semblait assez lege et sa cale devait etre a peu pres vide.

“Je croirais volontiers, dit M. Bourcart, que ce trois-mats cherche a rallier comme nous les cotes de la basse Californie… peut-etre la baie Marguerite…

— C’est possible, repondit M. Heurtaux, et, si cela est, nous pourrions faire route de conserve…

— Est-il americain, allemand, anglais, norvegien?… demanda le lieutenant Coquebert.

— On peut le “raisonner”, dit le capitaine Bourcart. Hissons notre pavillon, il hissera le sien, et nous saurons a quoi nous en tenir.”

Un instant apres, les couleurs francaises flottaient a la corne d’artimon du Saint-Enoch.

Le navire en vue n’eut pas la politesse de repondre.

“Pas de doute, s’ecria alors le lieutenant Allotte, c’est un Anglais!”

Et, a bord, tout le monde fut de cet avis qu’un navire qui ne saluait pas le pavillon de la France ne pouvait etre qu’un “English d’Angleterre”!

CHAPITRE VIII

La mer d’Okhotsk

Les Kouriles, moins nombreuses que les Aleoutiennes, sont pour la plupart des ilots inhabites. Trois ou quatre, cependant, peuvent etre consideres comme des iles: telles Paramouchir, Owekotan, Ouchichir, Matoua. Assez boisees, elles possedent un sol productif. Les autres, rocheuses et sablonneuses, impropres a toute culture sont frappees de sterilite.

Une partie de ce groupe est tributaire de l’empire du Japon, dont il prolonge le domaine. L’autre partie septentrionale releve de la province russe du Kamtchatka. Ses habitants, petits, velus, sont designes sous le nom de Kamtchadales.

M. Bourcart ne songeait point a relacher au milieu de ce groupe ou il n’avait que faire. Il lui tardait d’avoir franchi cette barriere qui limite la mer d’Okhotsk au sud et au sud-est afin de commencer sa seconde campagne.

Ce fut en doublant le cap Lopatka, a l’extremite de la presqu’ile kamtchadale et en laissant Paramouchir sur babord, que le Saint-Enoch penetra dans les eaux siberiennes le 23 aout, apres trente-six jours de navigation depuis Vancouver.

Ce vaste bassin d’Okhotsk, tres protege par cette longue bande des Kouriles, comprend une superficie trois ou quatre fois superieure a celle de la mer Noire. Tout comme un ocean, il a ses tempetes, parfois d’une extreme impetuosite.

Le passage du Saint-Enoch a travers le detroit fut marque par un accident peu grave, mais qui aurait pu l’etre.

Le batiment se trouvait a l’endroit le plus resserre de l’inlet, lorsque, sous l’action d’un courant, son etrave vint a heurter un haut-fond dont la position etait inexactement indiquee sur la carte.

Le capitaine Bourcart etait alors sur la dunette, pres de l’homme de barre, et le second pres du bastingage de babord, en observation.

Des le choc, qui fut assez leger, ce commandement se fit entendre: “A masquer les trois huniers!”

Aussitot l’equipage se mit sur les bras des vergues, et elles furent orientees de telle sorte que, le vent prenant sa voilure a revers, le Saint-Enoch put se degager en culant.

Mais le capitaine Bourcart vit que cette manoeuvre serait insuffisante. Il serait necessaire d’elonger une ancre a l’arriere pour se haler dessus.

A l’instant meme, le canot fut lance a la mer avec une ancre a jet, et le lieutenant Coquebert, accompagne de deux novices, s’occupa de la mouiller a un endroit convenable.

Le choc, on le repete, n’avait pas ete rude. Un navire aussi solidement construit que le Saint-Enoch devait s’en tirer sans aucun dommage.

Au surplus, comme il avait touche a mer basse, vraisemblablement, des que la maree se ferait sentir, son ancre l’empechant de s’engraver davantage, il se releverait de lui-meme.

Le premier soin de M. Bourcart avait ete d’envoyer le maitre d’equipage et le charpentier a la pompe. Tous deux reconnurent que le batiment ne faisait point eau. Nulle apparence d’avaries ni dans le borde ni dans la membrure.

Il ne s’agissait plus que d’attendre le flot, ce qui ne tarda guere et, apres quelques raclements de sa quille, le Saint-Enoch se retira du bas-fond. Ses voiles furent aussitot orientees, et, une heure apres, il donnait dans la mer d’Okhotsk.

Les vigies reprirent alors leur poste sur les barres du grand mat et du mat de misaine, afin de signaler les souffleurs qui passeraient a bonne distance. Personne ne doutait de reussir ici comme a la baie Marguerite ou a la Nouvelle-Zelande. Avant deux mois, le Saint-Enoch, de retour a Vancouver, aurait ecoule son second chargement a des prix non moins avantageux que le premier.

Le ciel etait tres pur. Il ventait une jolie brise du sud-est. La mer se gonflait en longues houles sans deferler, et les embarcations ne risquaient pas d’etre genees dans leur marche.

Il y avait un certain nombre de navires en vue, — des baleiniers pour la plupart. Probablement ils exploitaient ces parages depuis quelques semaines, et poursuivraient leur campagne jusqu’a l’hiver. Les autres batiments etaient a destination de Nicolaievsk, d’Okhotsk, d’Ayan, les principaux ports de cette region, ou ils en sortaient pour regagner le large.

A cette epoque deja, Nicolaievsk, capitale de la province de l’Amour, situee presque a l’embouchure du grand fleuve de ce nom, formait une ville importante dont le commerce prenait d’annee en annee une plus grande extension. Elle offrait un port tres abrite sur le detroit de Tartarie, qui separe le littoral de la longue ile de Sakhalin.

Peut-etre, dans l’esprit de Jean-Marie Cabidoulin, l’echouage du Saint-Enoch avait-il ouvert l’ere des mauvaises chances. Non point que le tonnelier se fut explique a ce sujet d’une facon categorique; mais il n’aurait pas fallu le pousser tres vivement.

A noter toutefois que le debut de cette campagne dans la mer d’Okhotsk ne fut pas heureux.

Pendant la matinee, une baleine souffla a deux milles environ, — une baleine franche, sur laquelle M. Bourcart fit amener les quatre pirogues. En vain se mirent-elles a sa poursuite. Impossible de la revoir, apres qu’elle eut plonge a trois reprises, et tout a fait hors de portee.

Le lendemain, meme tentative, meme insucces. Les embarcations revinrent a bord sans que les harponneurs eussent lance le harpon.

Ce n’etaient donc pas les baleines qui manquaient dans cette mer. Quelques autres furent encore signalees par les vigies. Mais tres farouches ou tres effarouchees, elles ne se laissaient pas rejoindre. Les navires en vue etaient-ils plus favorises?… Il n’y avait pas lieu de le croire.

On se figure aisement que l’equipage en concevait un tres legitime depit. Plus que quiconque enrageait le lieutenant Allotte, et on pouvait craindre que, le cas echeant, il ne s’abandonnat a quelque imprudence, malgre les recommandations reiterees du capitaine Bourcart.

Celui-ci prit alors la resolution de conduire le Saint-Enoch aux iles Chantar, ou il avait deja passe deux saisons dans des conditions excellentes.

Trois mois plus tot, les baleiniers de la mer d’Okhotsk eussent rencontre les dernieres glaces de l’hiver. Non encore desagregees ou fondues, elles auraient rendu la peche moins facile. Les navires sont contraints d’elonger les ice-fields, afin d’en contourner l’extremite. Souvent meme, deux ou trois jours s’ecoulent avant qu’ils decouvrent une clairiere qui permette de faire bonne route.

Mais, au mois d’aout, la mer est entierement libre, meme en sa partie septentrionale. Ce qu’il y avait plutot a craindre, c’etait la formation des “young-ices”, les jeunes glaces, avant que la seconde campagne du Saint-Enoch eut pris fin.

Le 29, on eut connaissance des iles Chantar, groupees au fond de la baie, dans cette crique resserree qui echancre plus profondement le littoral de la province de l’Amour.

Au-dela s’ouvre une seconde baie, nommee baie Finisto ou du Sud-Ouest, qui n’offre pas beaucoup de fond. M. Bourcart la connaissait et vint y reprendre son ancien mouillage.

La se produisit un nouvel accident — tres grave cette fois.

Au moment ou l’ancre touchait, deux matelots venaient de se hisser a la vergue du petit hunier afin de degager une des manoeuvres du mat de misaine.

Lorsque la chaine de l’ancre fut raide, maitre Ollive recut l’ordre de faire amener les huniers. Par malheur, on oublia de crier aux matelots de se defier et de bien se tenir.

Or, a l’instant ou, les drisses larguees, la voile retombait a la hauteur du chouque, l’un des matelots avait une jambe sur les haubans, l’autre sur le marchepied de la vergue. Surpris dans cette position, il n’eut pas le temps de s’accrocher par les mains aux haubans, et, lachant prise, il tomba sur le bord de la pirogue du second, puis fut rejete a la mer.

Cette fois, cet infortune, — il se nommait Rollat et n’avait pas trente ans, — moins heureux que son camarade qui, on ne l’a pas oublie, avait ete sauve dans des circonstances identiques sur les parages de la Nouvelle-Zelande, disparut sous les flots.

Aussitot le canot fut mis dehors en meme temps que des bouees etaient lancees par-dessus les bastingages.

Sans doute, Rollat s’etait grievement blesse, peut-etre un bras ou une jambe casses. Il ne remonta pas a la surface, et c’est en vain que ses camarades essayerent de le retrouver.

C’etait la premiere victime de cette campagne du Saint-Enoch, le premier de ceux qui ne reviennent pas toujours au port.

L’impression que causa cet accident fut profonde. Rollat, ce bon matelot, tres apprecie de ses chefs, tres aime de tous, on ne le reverrait plus.

Ce qui amena le charpentier a dire au maitre d’equipage: “Est-ce que, decidement, cela va aller mal?…”

Plusieurs jours s’ecoulerent, et, si quelques baleines furent apercues, aucune ne put etre amarree. Le capitaine d’un navire norvegien, qui vint en relache dans la baie Finisto, declara que, de memoire d’homme, on n’avait jamais vu saison si mauvaise. Selon lui, la mer d’Okhotsk ne tarderait pas a etre abandonnee comme lieu de peche.

Ce matin-la, au moment ou un batiment passait a l’ouvert de la baie, le lieutenant Coquebert de s’ecrier: “Eh!… mais… le voila!…

— Qui?… demanda M. Heurtaux.

— Le Repton!”

En effet, le baleinier anglais, cap au nord-est, se montrait a moins de deux milles.

S’il avait ete reconnu du Saint-Enoch, nul doute qu’il n’eut egalement reconnu le trois-mats francais. D’ailleurs, pas plus cette fois que la premiere, le capitaine King ne chercha a entrer en communication avec le capitaine Bourcart.

“Eh! qu’il aille au diable!… s’ecria Romain Allotte.

— Il ne parait pas avoir ete plus heureux dans la mer d’Okhotsk que dans la baie Marguerite… fit observer M. Heurtaux.

— En effet, declara le lieutenant Coquebert, il n’est pas lourdement charge, et s’il a le quart de ses barils pleins, cela m’etonnerait…

— Apres tout, dit alors M. Bourcart, les autres batiments ne semblent pas avoir fait meilleure peche cette annee… Doit-on en conclure que, pour une cause ou une autre, les baleines ont abandonne ces parages pour n’y jamais revenir?”

Dans tous les cas, il etait douteux qu’il fut possible au Saint-Enoch de faire bonne campagne avant l’apparition des glaces.

En cet endroit meme, sans parler des quelques ports qu’elle possede, la cote n’est point tout a fait deserte. Les habitants descendent frequemment des montagnes de l’interieur, et il n’y a pas a s’inquieter autrement de leur presence.

Mais, lorsque les hommes vont a terre pour couper du bois, s’ils n’ont rien a craindre des bipedes, ils doivent prendre des precautions contre certains quadrupedes fort dangereux. Les ours, nombreux dans la province, sortent en bandes des forets voisines, attires par les carcasses de baleines echouees sur la greve, et dont ils paraissent tres amateurs.

Aussi les gens du Saint-Enoch, en corvee, se munissaient-ils de lances, afin de se defendre contre les agressions de ces plantigrades.

C’est d’une autre facon que procedent les Russes. En presence d’un ours, ils operent avec une adresse toute particuliere. Attendant l’animal de pied ferme, agenouilles sur le sol, ils mettent les deux mains sur leur tete en tenant un couteau. Des que l’ours s’est precipite sur eux, il s’enferre de lui-meme, et, le ventre traverse, tombe a cote de son courageux adversaire.

Cependant, presque chaque jour, apres avoir leve l’ancre, le Saint-Enoch louvoyait hors de la baie Finisto a la recherche des souffleurs, et il rentrait le soir a son mouillage sans avoir reussi.

D’autres fois, servi par un bon vent, sous ses trois huniers, sa misaine, ses focs, il prenait le large, les vigies en observation, les pirogues pretes. Mais c’est a peine si un cetace etait signale par vingt-quatre heures, et a de telles distances qu’on ne pouvait songer a le poursuivre.

Le Saint-Enoch vint alors en vue d’Ayan, petit port de la cote occidentale, ou le commerce des pelleteries a pris une grande importance.

La, l’equipage put ramener a bord un baleineau de moyenne taille — de l’espece de ceux que les Americains nomment “krampsess”. Il flottait mort et ne rendit que six barils d’une huile a peu pres semblable a celle des cachalots.

On le voit, les resultats de cette campagne dans le nord du Pacifique menacaient d’etre nuls.

“Et encore, repetait M. Heurtaux au docteur Filhiol, si nous etions en hiver, on se rabattrait sur les loups marins… A partir d’octobre, ils frequentent les glaces de la mer d’Okhotsk, et leurs fourrures se vendent assez cher.

— Par malheur, monsieur Heurtaux, l’hiver n’arrivera pas avant quelques semaines, et, a cette epoque, le Saint-Enoch aura quitte ces parages…

— Alors, monsieur Filhiol, nous reviendrons, la cale… autant dire le ventre vide!”

Il est tres vrai que, des la formation des premieres glaces, ces amphibies, loups marins ou autres, apparaissent par centaines, si ce n’est meme par milliers, a la surface des ice-fields. Tandis qu’ils se chauffent au soleil, il est facile de les capturer, a la condition de les surprendre endormis. Les pirogues s’approchent a la voile. Quelques hommes debarquent, saisissent l’animal par les pattes de derriere et le transportent dans l’embarcation. D’ailleurs, ces loups marins, tres defiants, ont l’ouie extremement fine, le regard d’une acuite surprenante. Aussi, des que l’eveil est donne a l’un d’eux, les voila tous en rumeur, et la bande a vite fait de s’enfuir sous les glaces.

Le 4 septembre, le lieutenant Coquebert rencontra encore une baleine morte. Apres lui avoir passe l’amarre de queue, il la ramena a bord, ou elle fut mise en position d’etre viree le lendemain.

On alluma donc la cabousse, et la journee entiere fut employee a fondre le lard. Ce qu’il y eut a remarquer, c’est que cet animal recemment blesse au flanc, n’avait certainement pas ete frappe d’un coup de harpon. La blessure etait due a la morsure de quelque squale. Au total, cette baleine ne donna que quarante-cinq barils d’huile.

D’ordinaire, lors des peches dans la mer d’Okhotsk, on procede autrement que sur les autres parages. Les pirogues, envoyees loin du navire, restent cinq a six jours parfois avant de revenir a bord. Ne pas en conclure qu’elles demeurent tout ce temps a la mer. Au soir, apres avoir regagne la cote, elles sont tirees a sec afin que la maree ne les enleve pas. Puis les hommes construisent des huttes de branchages, prennent leur repas, restent jusqu’a l’aube, en se gardant contre l’attaque des ours, et se remettent en chasse.

Plusieurs jours s’ecoulerent avant que le Saint-Enoch eut repris son mouillage de la baie Finisto. Il remonta meme au nord jusqu’en vue de la bourgade d’Okhotsk, port frequente du littoral, mais il n’y fit point relache.

M. Bourcart, qui ne perdait pas tout espoir, voulut pousser du cote de la presqu’ile kamtchadale, ou les souffleurs s’etaient peut-etre refugies en attendant l’epoque de refranchir les passes des Kouriles.

Or, c’etait precisement ce qu’avait fait le Repton, apres avoir mis a bord quelques centaines de barils.

Le Saint-Enoch, profitant d’une bonne brise du sud-ouest, se dirigea vers cette etroite portion de la mer d’Okhotsk, comprise entre la presqu’ile et la cote siberienne.

Son ancrage choisi a deux ou trois milles de terre, presque a la hauteur du petit port de Yamsk, le capitaine Bourcart decida d’envoyer trois pirogues a la recherche des baleines, sans leur fixer un delai de retour, a la condition de ne point se separer.

Les pirogues du second et des deux lieutenants furent designees pour naviguer de conserve, avec les harponneurs Kardek, Durut et Ducrest, quatre hommes, deux novices, et les engins necessaires, lances, fusils lance-bombes et louchets.

Parties a huit heures, les pirogues se dirigerent vers le nord-ouest en longeant la cote. Une legere brise favorisait leur marche, et elles eurent bientot perdu de vue, au revers d’une pointe, le lieu du mouillage.

La matinee ecoulee, aucun cetace n’avait ete apercu au large. C’etait a se demander si, pour la meme cause peut-etre, ils n’avaient point deserte la mer d’Okhotsk comme la baie Marguerite.

Cependant, vers quatre heures apres midi, plusieurs jets s’eleverent a trois milles dans le nord-est, — des souffles blancs d’une intermittence reguliere. Des baleines s’ebattaient a la surface de la mer, bien vivantes celles-ci.

Par malheur, la journee etait trop avancee pour permettre de s’amener dessus. Deja le soleil declinait vers les montagnes siberiennes de l’ouest. Le soir serait venu avant qu’il eut ete possible de lancer le harpon, et la prudence commandait de ne point demeurer la nuit en mer.

M. Heurtaux fit donc signal aux deux pirogues qui se trouvaient a un demi-mille au vent, et lorsqu’elles furent toutes trois bord a bord: “A terre! ordonna-t-il. Demain, des le petit jour, nous pousserons au large.”

Peut-etre Romain Allotte eut-il prefere continuer la chasse; mais il dut obeir. Au total, la resolution de M. Heurtaux etait sage. A courir dans ces conditions, jusqu’ou les embarcations risquaient-elles d’etre entrainees?… Et ne fallait-il pas tenir compte de la distance de onze ou douze milles qui les separait alors du Saint-Enoch?…

Lorsqu’elles eurent rallie la terre au fond d’une anse etroite, les hommes les halerent sur le sable. Pour sept ou huit heures a relacher sur la cote, M. Heurtaux ne jugea point qu’il fut indispensable de construire une hutte. On mangea sous les arbres, un groupe de grands chenes tres touffus; puis on se coucha a terre pour dormir.

Toutefois, M. Heurtaux prit la precaution de mettre un homme de garde. Arme d’une lance et d’un harpon, il serait releve de deux heures en deux heures, afin de defendre le campement contre l’attaque des ours.

“Et voila comment, ainsi que le dit le lieutenant Allotte, faute de pecher a la baleine, on peche a l’ours!”

La nuit ne fut aucunement troublee, si ce n’est par des hurlements lointains, et, des les primes lueurs de l’aube, tout le monde etait sur pied.

En quelques instants, les matelots eurent dehale les trois pirogues, qui prirent le large.

Temps de brume — ce qui est assez frequent en ce mois sous cette latitude. Aussi le regard se limitait-il a la distance, d’un demi-mille. Tres probablement ce brouillard se dissiperait apres quelques heures de soleil.

Cette eclaircie survint dans la matinee, et, bien que le ciel restat brouille dans ses hautes zones, la vue put s’etendre jusqu’a l’horizon.

Les pirogues s’etaient dirigees vers le nord-est, chacune ayant sa liberte de mouvement, et on ne s’etonnera pas que le lieutenant Allotte, stimulant ses hommes, eut tenu la tete. Il fut donc le premier a signaler une baleine qui soufflait a trois milles au vent, et toutes les mesures furent prises pour l’amarrer.

Les trois embarcations commencerent a manoeuvrer de maniere a rejoindre l’animal. Il fallait, autant que possible, eviter de lui donner l’eveil. D’ailleurs, il venait de plonger, d’ou necessite d’attendre qu’il reparut.

Lorsqu’il revint a la surface, le lieutenant Coquebert etait a meilleure distance pour le piquer. Le harponneur Durut, debout a l’avant, tandis que les matelots appuyaient sur les avirons, se tint pret a lancer le harpon d’une main vigoureuse.

Ce baleinoptere de grande taille, la tete tournee au large, ne soupconnait pas le danger. En se retournant, il passa si pres de l’embarcation que Durut, tres adroitement, put le frapper de ses deux harpons au-dessous des nageoires pectorales.

L’animal ne fit aucun mouvement, comme s’il n’eut pas senti le coup. Ce fut heureux, car, a ce moment, la moitie de son corps etant engagee sous l’embarcation, il eut suffi d’un coup de queue pour la mettre en pieces.

Soudain il sonda, mais si brusquement et a une telle profondeur que la ligne echappa des mains du lieutenant, et celui-ci n’eut que le temps de fixer sa bouee au bout.

Lorsque le baleinoptere emergea, M. Heurtaux en etait tres rapproche. Kardek lanca son harpon, et, cette fois, il ne fut pas necessaire de filer de la ligne.

Les deux autres pirogues arriverent alors. Des coups de lance furent portes. Le louchet trancha une des nageoires du cetace, qui, apres avoir souffle rouge, expira sans s’etre trop violemment debattu.

Il s’agissait maintenant de le remorquer jusqu’au Saint-Enoch. Or, la distance etait assez considerable — cinq milles au moins. Ce serait la une grosse besogne.

Aussi M. Heurtaux de dire au premier lieutenant: “Coquebert, larguez votre amarre et profitez de la brise pour rallier le mouillage de Yamsk… Le capitaine Bourcart se hatera d’appareiller, et il coupera notre route en mettant le cap au nord-est…

— C’est entendu, repondit le lieutenant.

— Je pense que vous aurez rejoint le Saint-Enoch avant la nuit, reprit M. Heurtaux. Dans tous les cas, s’il faut attendre jusqu’au jour, nous attendrons. Avec une masse pareille a la remorque, nous ne gagnerons guere un mille a l’heure.”

C’est ce qu’il y avait de mieux a faire. Aussi la pirogue, apres avoir hisse sa voile et garni ses avirons, prit-elle direction vers la cote.

Quant aux deux autres embarcations, le courant les favorisant, lentement, il est vrai, elles suivirent la meme direction.

Dans ces conditions, il ne pouvait etre question de passer la nuit sur le littoral, eloigne de plus de quatre milles. D’ailleurs, si le lieutenant Coquebert n’etait pas retarde, peut-etre le Saint-Enoch serait-il arrive avant le soir.

Malheureusement, vers cinq heures, les brumes commencerent a s’epaissir, le vent tomba, et le rayon de vue se restreignit a une centaine de toises: “Voici un brouillard qui va gener le capitaine Bourcart…, dit M. Heurtaux.

— En admettant que la pirogue ait pu retrouver son mouillage… fit observer le harponneur Kardek.

— Pas d’autre parti a prendre que de rester sur la baleine…, ajouta le lieutenant Allotte.

— En effet”, repondit M. Heurtaux.

Les provisions furent tirees des sacs, viande salee et biscuit, eau douce et tafia. Les hommes mangerent et s’etendirent pour dormir jusqu’au lever du jour. Cependant la nuit ne fut pas absolument tranquille. Vers une heure du matin, les pirogues, secouees par un violent roulis, risquerent de rompre leurs amarres et il fallut les doubler.

D’ou venait cette etrange agitation de la mer?… Personne ne put en donner l’explication. M. Heurtaux eut la pensee que quelque grand steamer passait a petite distance et en meme temps la crainte d’etre aborde au milieu des brumes.

Aussitot un des matelots donna nombre de coups de cornet, auxquels il ne fut pas repondu. On n’entendit ni les patouillements d’une helice, ni les echappements de vapeur qui accompagnent un steamer en marche, pas plus qu’on n’entrevit la lueur des fanaux.

Cette tumultueuse agitation se prolongea pendant quarante minutes, et fut si forte par instants que M. Heurtaux songeait presque a abandonner le baleinoptere.

Cependant cet etat de choses prit fin et la nuit s’acheva tranquillement.

Quelle avait ete la cause de ce trouble des eaux? Ni M. Heurtaux, ni le lieutenant Allotte ne pouvaient l’imaginer. Un steamer?… Mais, dans ce cas, le trouble n’eut pas dure si longtemps. Et puis, il semblait qu’on avait entendu de formidables hennissements, des ronflements tres differents de ceux que produit la vapeur a travers les soupapes.

Au jour, le brouillard se leva comme la veille. Le Saint-Enoch n’apparaissait pas encore. La brise soufflait a peine, il est vrai. Toutefois, vers neuf heures, le vent ayant fraichi, un des harponneurs le signala dans le sud-ouest, en bonne route.

Lorsqu’il ne fut plus qu’a une demi-encablure, M. Bourcart mit en panne, et les pirogues amenerent le baleinoptere, auquel on passa l’amarre de queue des qu’il fut contre le bord.

Il fallut presque la journee entiere pour le virer, car il etait enorme. Le lendemain, la cabousse s’alluma, et, apres un travail qui exigea quarante-huit heures, le tonnelier Cabidoulin chiffra a cent vingt-cinq barils la quantite d’huile envoyee en bas.

Quelques jours plus tard, le Saint-Enoch alla prendre un nouveau mouillage pres de la cote kamtchadale. Les pirogues recommencerent leurs recherches. Ce fut sans grand succes: deux baleines piquees, de petit volume, trois autres rencontrees mortes, les flancs ouverts, les entrailles dechirees, et dont il n’y eut rien a tirer. Avaient-elles succombe dans quelque violente attaque?… C’etait inexplicable.

Decidement, la bonne chance ne se prononcait plus pour le Saint-Enoch, et, sans aller jusqu’aux facheux pronostics de Jean-Marie Cabidoulin, tout portait a croire que cette seconde campagne serait peu fructueuse.

En effet, la saison touchait a sa fin. Jamais les baleiniers ne la prolongeaient au dela de septembre dans les eaux siberiennes. Deja le froid piquait et les hommes avaient du prendre leurs vetements d’hiver. La colonne thermometrique oscillait autour de zero. Avec l’abaissement de la temperature, les gros mauvais temps regneraient sur la mer d’Okhotsk. Les glaces commencaient a se former le long du littoral. Puis l’ice-field gagnerait peu a peu vers le large, et, dans ces conditions, on sait combien la peche est difficile, pour ne pas dire impossible.

Au surplus, si le Saint-Enoch n’avait pas ete favorise, il ne semblait pas que les autres baleiniers l’eussent ete davantage, a s’en rapporter aux informations recueillies par le capitaine Bourcart soit aux iles Chantar, soit a Ayan, soit a Yamsk. Aussi la plupart des batiments cherchaient-ils a regagner quelque lieu d’hivernage.

Il en fut de meme du Repton, que la vigie signala dans la matinee du 31. Toujours lege, il filait a pleines voiles vers l’est, afin sans doute de franchir la barriere des Kouriles. Tres probablement le Saint-Enoch serait le dernier a quitter la mer d’Okhotsk. Le jour etait venu de le faire, ou il eut couru le risque d’etre bloque.

D’apres les releves de maitre Cabidoulin, le chargement n’atteignait pas alors cinq cent cinquante barils — a peine le tiers de ce que pouvait contenir la cale.

“Je pense, dit M. Heurtaux, qu’il n’y a plus rien a tenter ici, et nous ne devons pas nous attarder…

— C’est mon avis, repondit M. Bourcart, et profitons de ce que les passes des Kouriles sont encore ouvertes…

— Votre intention, capitaine, demanda le docteur Filhiol, est-elle de retourner a Vancouver?…

— Probablement, repondit M. Bourcart. Mais, avant cette longue traversee, le Saint-Enoch ira relacher au Kamtchatka.”

Cette relache etait tout indiquee en vue de renouveler les provisions de viande fraiche. Au besoin meme, on aurait pu hiverner a Petropavlosk.

Le Saint-Enoch appareilla donc et, le cap au sud-est, descendit le long de la cote kamtchadale. Apres avoir double la pointe Lopatka, il remonta vers le nord et, le 4 octobre dans l’apres-midi, se trouva en vue de Petropavlosk.

CHAPITRE IX

Au Kamtchatka

Le Kamtchatka, cette longue peninsule siberienne, arrosee par la riviere de ce nom, se developpe entre la mer d’Okhotsk et l’ocean Glacial arctique. Elle ne mesure pas moins de treize cent cinquante kilometres sur une largeur de quatre cents.

Cette province appartient aux Russes depuis 1806. Apres avoir fait partie du gouvernement d’Irkoutsk, elle forme une des huit grandes divisions dont se compose la Siberie au point de vue administratif.

Le Kamtchatka est relativement peu peuple. A peine un habitant par kilometre superficiel, et il est visible que la population ne tend pas a s’accroitre. En outre, le sol parait peu susceptible de culture bien que la temperature moyenne y soit moins froide qu’en d’autres parties de la Siberie. Il est seme de laves, de pierres poreuses, de cendres provenant des dejections volcaniques. Son ossature est principalement indiquee par une grande chaine decoupee qui court au nord et au sud, plus rapprochee du littoral de l’est et dont plusieurs sommets sont fort eleves. Cette chaine ne s’arrete pas sur l’extreme limite de la presqu’ile. Au dela du cap Lopatka, elle se prolonge a travers le chapelet des Kouriles jusqu’au voisinage des terres du Japon.

Les ports ne manquent point a la cote occidentale en remontant l’isthme qui reunit le Kamtchatka au continent asiatique, Karajinsk, Chalwesk, Swaschink, Chaljulinsk, Osernowsk. Le plus important est, sans contredit, Petropavlovsk, situe a deux cent cinquante kilometres environ du cap Lopatka.

C’est dans ce port que le Saint-Enoch vint mouiller vers cinq heures du soir, a la date du 4 octobre. L’ancre tomba aussi pres de terre que le permit son tirant d’eau, au fond de cette baie d’Avatcha, assez vaste pour contenir toutes les flottes du monde.

Le Repton s’y trouvait deja en relache.

Si le docteur Filhiol avait jamais forme le reve de visiter la capitale du Kamtchatka, il allait le realiser dans les conditions les plus favorables. Sous ce climat salubre, d’ou se degage un air sain et humide, il est rare que l’horizon soit parfaitement net. Ce jour-la, pourtant, des l’entree du navire dans la baie d’Avatcha, on put suivre du regard le long profil de ce magnifique panorama de montagnes.

Des volcans nombreux s’ouvrent dans cette chaine: le Schiwelusch, le Schiwelz, le Kronosker, le Kortazker, le Powbrotnaja, l’Asatschinska, et enfin, en arriere de la bourgade si pittoresquement encadree, le Koriatski, blanc de neige, dont le cratere vomissait des vapeurs fuligineuses melees de flammes.

Quant a la ville, encore a l’etat rudimentaire, elle ne se composait que d’une agglomeration d’habitations en bois. Au pied des hautes montagnes, on eut dit un de ces jouets d’enfant dont les maisonnettes sont eparpillees sans ordre. De ces diverses pieces, la plus curieuse est une petite eglise du culte grec, de couleur vermillon, a toiture verte, et son clocher distant d’une cinquantaine de pas.

Deux navigateurs, l’un Danois, l’autre Francais, sont honores de monuments commemoratifs, a Petropavlosk: Behring et le commandant de Laperouse; une colonne pour le premier, une construction octogonale, blindee de plaques de fer, pour le second.

Ce n’est pas dans cette province que le docteur Filhiol eut rencontre des etablissements agricoles de quelque importance. Grace a l’humidite persistante, le sol est surtout riche par ses paturages, et il donne jusqu’a trois coupes annuelles. Quant aux graminees, elles sont peu abondantes, et les legumes y reussissent mediocrement exception faite pour les choux-fleurs, qui atteignent des proportions colossales. On n’y voit que des champs d’orge et d’avoine, peut-etre plus productifs que dans les autres parties de la Siberie septentrionale, le climat etant moins rude entre les deux mers qui baignent la presqu’ile.

M. Bourcart ne comptait sejourner a Petropavlosk que le temps de s’y procurer de la viande fraiche. En realite, la question n’etait pas encore resolue a propos de l’hivernage du Saint-Enoch.

Ce fut l’objet d’une conversation entre M. Heurtaux et lui, — conversation dans laquelle il s’agissait de prendre une decision definitive.

Et voici ce que dit le capitaine Bourcart: “Je ne crois pas, en tout cas, que nous devions passer l’hiver dans le port de Petropavlovsk, bien qu’un navire n’ait rien a y craindre des glaces, puisque la baie d’Avatcha reste toujours libre meme par les plus grands froids.

— Capitaine, demanda le second, est-ce que vous songeriez a regagner Vancouver?…

— Probablement, ne fut-ce que pour y vendre ce que nous avons d’huile dans nos barils?…

— Un tiers de chargement… tout au plus!… repondit le second.

— Je le sais, Heurtaux, mais pourquoi ne pas profiter de l’elevation des cours, et qui sait s’ils tiendront jusqu’a l’annee prochaine?…

— Ils ne baisseront pas, capitaine, si les baleines, comme il semble, veulent abandonner ces parages du Pacifique septentrional.

— Il y a la quelque chose de vraiment inexplicable, repondit M. Bourcart, et peut-etre les baleiniers ne seront-ils plus tentes de revenir dans la mer d’Okhotsk…

— Si nous retournons a Victoria, reprit M. Heurtaux, le Saint-Enoch y passera-t-il l’hiver?…

— C’est ce que nous deciderons plus tard… La traversee de Petropavlosk a Victoria durera de six a sept semaines, pour peu qu’elle soit contrariee, et qui sait si nous n’aurons pas en route occasion d’amarrer deux ou trois baleines!… Enfin… il faut bien qu’elles soient quelque part, puisqu’on ne les rencontre ni dans la mer d’Okhotsk ni dans la baie Marguerite…

— Il est possible qu’elles recherchent le detroit de Behring, capitaine…

— Cela peut etre, Heurtaux, mais la saison est trop avancee pour nous elever si haut en latitude… Nous serions bientot arretes par la banquise… Non… pendant la traversee, tachons de donner quelques coups de harpon…

— A propos, fit observer le second, ne serait-il pas preferable de retourner dans la Nouvelle-Zelande au lieu d’hiverner a Victoria?…

— J’y ai songe, repondit M. Bourcart. Toutefois, pour se decider, attendons que le Saint-Enoch ait relache a Vancouver.

— En somme, capitaine, il n’est point question de revenir en Europe?…

— Non… pas avant d’avoir fait une complete saison l’annee prochaine…

— Ainsi, demanda M. Heurtaux en terminant, nous ne tarderons pas a quitter Petropavlovsk!…

— Des que nos approvisionnements seront acheves”, repondit M. Bourcart.

Ces projets, portes a la connaissance de l’equipage, recurent l’approbation generale, — moins celle du tonnelier.

Aussi, ce jour-la, lorsque maitre Ollive le tint dans un des cabarets de la bourgade devant une bouteille de vodka: “Eh bien… vieux… ton opinion sur les resolutions du capitaine?… lui dit-il.

— Mon opinion, repondit Jean-Marie Cabidoulin, est que le Saint-Enoch ferait mieux de ne pas retourner a Vancouver…

— Et pourquoi?…

— Parce que la route n’est pas sure!

— Tu voudrais hiverner a Petropavlovsk?…

— Pas davantage.

— Alors?…

— Alors le mieux serait de mettre cap au sud pour revenir en Europe…

— C’est ton idee?…

— C’est mon idee… et c’est la bonne!”

Le Saint-Enoch, sauf quelques reparations peu importantes, n’avait qu’a renouveler ses vivres frais et sa provision de combustible. C’etait une indispensable besogne dont l’equipage s’occupa sans retard.

On vit, d’ailleurs, que le Repton le faisait egalement, ce qui indiquait les memes desseins. Il semblait donc probable que le capitaine King appareillerait sous peu de jours. Pour quelle destination?… M. Bourcart n’avait pu le savoir.

Quant au docteur Filhiol, il consacra les loisirs de cette relache a visiter les environs, ainsi qu’a Victoria, il est vrai, dans un rayon infiniment plus restreint. Au point de vue de la facilite des deplacements, le Kamtchatka n’en etait pas encore ou en etait l’ile de Vancouver.

Quant a sa population, elle presentait un type tres different de celui des Indiens qui habitent l’Alaska et la Colombie anglaise. Ces indigenes ont les epaules larges, les yeux saillants, les machoires accusees, les levres epaisses, la chevelure noire, — des gens robustes, mais d’une caracteristique laideur. Et combien la nature s’est montree sage en leur ayant donne aussi peu que possible de nez dans un pays ou les debris de poissons, laisses en plein air, affectent si desagreablement le nerf olfactif!

Les hommes ont le teint d’un brun jaunatre et il est blanc chez les femmes, autant qu’on peut en juger. D’habitude, ces coquettes se couvrent le visage d’une baudruche fixee a la colle et se fardent d’un rouge de varech melange de graisse de poisson.

Quant a l’habillement, il se compose de peaux teintes en jaune avec l’ecorce du saule, de chemises en toile de Russie ou de Boukhara, de pantalons que revetent les deux sexes. A tout prendre, les Kamtchadales, sous ce rapport, seraient aisement confondus avec les habitants de l’Asie septentrionale.

Au surplus, les coutumes locales, la maniere de vivre sont les memes qu’en Siberie sous la puissante administration moscovite, et c’est la religion orthodoxe que professe la population.

Il convient d’ajouter que, grace a la salubrite du climat, les Kamtchadales jouissent d’une sante excellente, et les maladies sont rares dans le pays.

“Les medecins n’y feraient pas fortune!” dut se dire le docteur Filhiol, en voyant ces hommes, ces femmes, doues d’une remarquable vigueur, d’une souplesse peu ordinaire, dues a la pratique constante des exercices physiques, et qui ne grisonnent jamais avant l’age de soixante ans.

Du reste, la population de Petropavlovsk se montrait bienveillante, hospitaliere, et, s’il y a un defaut a lui reprocher, c’est de n’aimer que le plaisir.

Et, en realite, pourquoi s’astreindre au travail, lorsqu’on peut se nourrir a peu de frais? Le poisson, le saumon surtout, sans parler des dauphins, abonde sur ce littoral, et les chiens eux-memes s’en nourrissent presque exclusivement. Ces chiens maigres et robustes, on les emploie au tirage des traineaux. Un instinct tres sur leur permet de s’orienter au milieu de si frequentes tempetes de neige. A noter que les Kamtchadales ne sont pas seulement pecheurs. Les quadrupedes ne manquent point, zibelines, hermines, loutres, rennes, loups, moutons sauvages, dont la chasse est assez fructueuse.

Les ours noirs se rencontrent egalement en grand nombre dans les montagnes de la presqu’ile. Aussi redoutables que leurs congeneres de la baie d’Okhotsk, il faut prendre certaines precautions. Lorsqu’on s’aventure aux environs de Petropavlovsk, des agressions sont toujours a craindre.

La capitale du Kamtchatka ne comptait pas alors plus de onze cents habitants. Sous Nicolas Ier, elle fut entouree de fortifications que, pendant la guerre de 1855, les flottes combinees anglo-francaises detruisirent en partie. Ces fortifications se releveront, sans doute, car Petropavlovsk est un point strategique de grande importance, et il importe de garantir cette superbe baie d’Avatcha contre toute attaque.

L’equipage du Saint-Enoch s’occupa aussi de refaire la provision de bois en vue d’une longue traversee, et pour le cas ou l’on pecherait quelque baleine. Mais se procurer ce combustible sur le littoral du Kamtchatka ne fut pas aussi facile que sur le littoral de la mer d’Okhotsk.

Les hommes durent s’eloigner de trois ou quatre milles pour se rendre a une foret qui couvre les premieres rampes du volcan de Koroatski. Il y eut donc necessite d’organiser un transport par traineaux atteles de chiens, afin de rapporter le bois a bord.

Des le 6 octobre, maitre Cabidoulin, le charpentier Thomas et six matelots, munis de scies et de haches, monterent dans un traineau, loue par le capitaine Bourcart, et que dirigeait son conducteur indigene avec l’adresse d’un veritable moujik.

Au sortir de la ville, le traineau suivit un chemin, plutot sentier que route, qui sinuait entre les champs d’avoine et d’orge. Puis il s’engagea a travers de vastes paturages dont la derniere coupe venait d’etre faite et qu’arrosaient nombre de creeks. Ce trajet rapidement enleve par les chiens, la foret fut atteinte vers sept heures et demie.

Ce n’etait, a vrai dire, qu’une futaie de pins, de melezes et autres arbres resineux a verdure permanente. Une douzaine de baleiniers auraient eu peine a s’y approvisionner a leur suffisance.

Aussi le charpentier Thomas de dire: “Decidement, ce n’est point le Kamtchatka qui ferait bouillir les cabousses!…

— Il y a la plus de bois que nous n’en brulerons…, repondit maitre Cabidoulin.

— Et pourquoi?…

— Parce que les baleines sont allees au diable, et il est bien inutile de couper des arbres quand on n’aura pas de feu a entretenir sous les pots!…

— Soit, reprit le charpentier, mais d’autres ne sont pas de cet avis et comptent encore sur quelques coups de harpon!”

En effet, a cet endroit, une equipe travaillait sur la lisiere du sentier.

C’etaient precisement une demi-douzaine de matelots du Repton qui, depuis la veille, avaient commence cette besogne sous la direction du second, Strok. Peut-etre le navire anglais devait-il faire voile pour Vancouver comme le Saint-Enoch?…

Apres tout, n’y eut-il la qu’une centaine d’arbres, les deux baleiniers en auraient leur suffisance. Les hommes ne viendraient donc pas a se disputer une racine ou une branche. Ni la cabousse de l’Anglais, ni la cabousse du Francais ne chomeraient, faute de combustible.

Au surplus, par prudence, le charpentier ne conduisit pas son equipe du cote occupe par les gens du Repton. On ne s’etait pas frequente sur mer, on ne se frequenterait pas sur terre. Avec juste raison, M. Bourcart avait recommande, le cas echeant, d’eviter tout contact entre les deux equipages. Aussi les matelots du Saint-Enoch se mirent-ils au travail a l’autre extremite du sentier, et, des le premier jour, deux steres de bois furent rapportes a bord.

Mais il arriva ceci: le dernier jour, malgre les conseils du capitaine Bourcart, les equipes du Repton et du Saint-Enoch finirent par se rencontrer et se quereller a propos d’un arbre.

Les Anglais n’etaient point endurants, les Francais pas davantage, et on ne se trouvait la ni en France ni en Angleterre, — terrain neutre, s’il en fut.

Bientot, des propos malseants commencerent a s’echanger, et des propos aux coups il n’y a pas loin entre matelots de nationalite differente. On le sait, la rancune de l’equipage du Saint-Enoch datait deja de quelques mois.

Or, pendant la dispute que ni maitre Cabidoulin ni Thomas ne purent empecher, le matelot Germinet fut brutalement pousse par le charpentier du Repton. Cet etre grossier, a demi ivre de whisky et de gin, vomit toute la serie d’injures qui sortent si abondamment d’une bouche saxonne.

Aussitot les deux equipes de s’avancer l’une vers l’autre. Il ne parut pas, d’ailleurs, que le second Strok fit le moindre effort pour retenir les siens, et peut-etre allait-on en venir aux mains.

En premier lieu, Germinet, n’etant pas d’humeur a garder la bourrade qu’il avait recue, sauta d’un bond sur l’Anglais, lui arracha son surouet et le pietina en s’ecriant: “Si le Repton n’a pas salue le Saint-Enoch, du moins cet English-la aura mis chapeau bas devant nous!…

— Bien envoye!” ajouterent ses camarades.

De ces deux equipes en nombre egal, on ne pouvait dire laquelle l’emporterait dans la lutte. Ces matelots, dont l’animation s’accroissait, etaient armes de haches et de couteaux. S’ils se jetaient les uns sur les autres, il y aurait du sang repandu, et peut-etre mort d’homme.

Aussi, tout d’abord, le charpentier et maitre Cabidoulin chercherent-ils a calmer leurs compagnons, qui allaient prendre l’offensive. De son cote, le second Strok, comprenant la gravite d’une rixe, parvint a retenir les gens du Repton.

Bref, il n’y eut que des injures echangees en deux langues, et les Francais se remirent au travail. D’ailleurs l’abattage fut termine ce jour-la, et les equipages n’auraient plus l’occasion de se rencontrer.

Deux heures apres, le tonnelier, le charpentier et leurs hommes etaient de retour a bord avec le traineau. Et lorsque M. Bourcart apprit ce qui s’etait passe: “Heureusement, le Saint-Enoch ne tardera pas a lever l’ancre, dit-il, car cela finirait mal!”

En effet, il y avait a craindre que les matelots des deux navires de plus en plus surexcites, ne fussent amenes a se battre dans les rues de Petropavlovsk, au risque d’etre apprehendes par la police russe. Aussi, desireux d’eviter une collision et ses suites dans les cabarets, le capitaine Bourcart et le capitaine King ne donnerent-ils plus permission de descendre a terre.

Il est vrai, le Saint-Enoch et le Repton etant mouilles a moins d’une encablure l’un de l’autre, les provocations partaient et s’entendaient des deux bords. Donc, le mieux serait de hater les preparatifs, d’embarquer les dernieres provisions, d’appareiller le plus tot possible, puis, une fois en mer, de ne point naviguer de conserve et surtout de ne pas se diriger vers le meme port.

Entre-temps un incident se produisit qui etait de nature a retarder le depart du navire francais et du navire anglais.

Dans l’apres-midi du 8 octobre, bien qu’il regnat une petite brise du large tres favorable a la peche, on fut tres surpris de voir les chaloupes kamtchadales forcer de voile pour regagner le port. Telle avait ete la precipitation de cette fuite que plusieurs rentraient sans leurs filets, abandonnes a l’ouvert de la baie d’Avatcha.

Et voici ce dont la population de Petropavlovsk ne tarda pas a avoir connaissance: A un demi-mille au large de la baie, toute cette flottille de peche venait d’etre frappee d’epouvante a la vue d’un monstre marin de taille gigantesque. Ce monstre glissait a la surface des eaux que sa queue battait avec une incroyable violence. Sans doute, il fallait faire la part des imaginations surexcitees, de la peur bien naturelle dont tous ces pecheurs furent saisis. A les entendre, cet animal ne mesurait pas moins de trois cents pieds de long sur une grosseur variant de quinze a vingt, la tete pourvue d’une criniere, le corps tres renfle en son milieu, et — ajoutaient quelques-uns — arme de pinces formidables comme un enorme crustace.

Decidement, si ce n’etait pas le serpent de Jean-Marie Cabidoulin, et a la condition que ce ne fut pas une illusion, cette partie de mer, au large de la baie d’Avatcha, avait ete ou etait encore frequentee par un de ces animaux prodigieux auxquels il ne serait plus possible d’attribuer une origine legendaire. Que ce fut une immense algue, de l’espece de celle que le Saint-Enoch avait rencontree au dela des Aleoutiennes, non, et pas d’erreur a ce sujet. Il s’agissait bien d’un etre vivant, ainsi que l’affirmaient les cinquante ou soixante pecheurs qui venaient de rentrer au port. D’une telle taille, il devait avoir une telle puissance qu’un batiment de la grandeur du Repton ou du Saint-Enoch n’aurait pu lui resister.

Et alors, M. Bourcart, ses officiers, son equipage, de se demander si ce n’etait pas la presence dudit monstre dans ces parages du Pacifique-Nord qui avait provoque la fuite des baleines, si ce n’etait pas ce geant oceanique qui les avait chassees de la baie Marguerite d’abord, de la mer d’Okhotsk ensuite… celui dont le capitaine de l’Iwing avait parle et qui, apres avoir traverse cette partie de l’Ocean, venait d’etre signale dans les eaux kamtchadales…

Voila ce que chacun se demandait a bord du Saint-Enoch, et n’etait-ce pas Jean-Marie Cabidoulin qui avait raison contre tout le monde en affirmant l’existence du grand serpent de mer ou autre monstrueuse bete de ce genre?…

Il y eut donc grosses et passionnees discussions a ce sujet dans le carre comme dans le poste.

Les pecheurs, sous l’empire d’une panique, n’avaient-ils point cru voir ce qu’ils n’avaient pas vu?…

C’etait l’opinion de M. Bourcart, du second, du docteur Filhiol et de maitre Ollive. Quant aux deux lieutenants, ils se montraient moins affirmatifs. En ce qui concernait l’equipage, la grande majorite n’admettait point l’erreur. Pour eux, l’apparition du monstre ne faisait aucun doute.

“Apres tout, dit M. Heurtaux, que ce soit vrai ou faux, que cet animal extraordinaire existe ou non, nous n’allons point remettre notre depart, je pense…

— Je n’y songe pas, repondit M. Bourcart, et il n’y a pas lieu de rien changer a nos projets.

— Que diable! s’ecria Romain Allotte, le monstre, si monstrueux qu’il soit, n’avalera pas le Saint-Enoch comme fait un requin d’un quartier de lard!…

— D’ailleurs, dit le docteur Filhiol, dans l’interet general, mieux vaut savoir a quoi s’en tenir…

— C’est mon avis, repondit M. Bourcart, et, apres-demain, nous mettrons en mer.”

Au total, on approuva la resolution du capitaine. Et quelle gloire pour le batiment et l’equipage qui parviendraient a purger ces parages d’un pareil monstre!

“Eh bien… vieux… dit maitre Ollive au tonnelier, on partira tout de meme, et si l’on s’en repent…

— Il sera trop tard… repondit Jean-Marie Cabidoulin.

— Alors… il faudrait ne plus jamais naviguer?…

— Jamais.

— Ta tete demenage… vieux!…

— Avoueras-tu que, de nous deux, celui qui avait raison, c’est moi?…

— Allons donc!… repliqua maitre Ollive en haussant les epaules.

— Moi… te dis-je… puisqu’il est la… le serpent de mer…

— Nous verrons bien…

— C’est tout vu!”

Et, au fond, le tonnelier se trouvait entre la crainte que devait inspirer l’apparition du monstre et la satisfaction d’avoir toujours cru a son existence.

En attendant, la terreur regnait dans cette bourgade de Petropavlovsk. On l’imaginera volontiers, ce n’etait pas cette population superstitieuse qui eut mis en doute d’abord l’arrivee de l’animal dans les eaux siberiennes. Personne n’aurait admis que les pecheurs se fussent trompes. Ce n’etaient point des Kamtchadales qui se seraient montres sceptiques devant les plus invraisemblables legendes de l’Ocean.

Donc, les habitants ne cessaient de surveiller la baie d’Avatcha, redoutant que le terrible animal y cherchat refuge. Quelque enorme lame se soulevait-elle au large, c’etait lui qui troublait l’Ocean jusque dans ses profondeurs!… Quelque formidable rumeur traversait-elle l’espace, c’etait lui qui battait les airs de sa puissante queue!… Et il s’avancait jusqu’au port, si, a la fois ophidien et saurien, cet amphibie s’elancait hors des eaux et se jetait sur la ville?… Il ne serait pas moins redoutable sur terre que sur mer!… Et comment lui echapper?…

Cependant le Saint-Enoch et le Repton activaient leurs preparatifs. Quelles que fussent les idees des Anglais au sujet de cet etre apocalyptique, ils allaient mettre a la voile, probablement le meme jour que le navire francais. Puisque le capitaine King et son equipage n’hesitaient pas a partir, le capitaine Bourcart et le sien pouvaient-ils ne point suivre son exemple?…

Il resulte de la que, le 10 octobre, dans la matinee, les deux batiments leverent l’ancre a la meme heure pour profiter de la maree. Puis, le pavillon a la corne, servis par une petite brise de terre, ils traverserent la baie d’Avatcha, cap a l’est, comme s’ils naviguaient de conserve.

Apres tout, en prevision d’une redoutable rencontre, qui sait malgre leurs antipathies, s’ils ne seraient pas conduits a se preter assistance?…

Quant a la population de Petropavlovsk, en proie a l’epouvante, son seul espoir etait que le monstre, apres s’etre acharne contre le Repton et le Saint-Enoch, s’eloignerait des eaux siberiennes!

CHAPITRE XI

Entre Anglais et Francais

Si jamais les dispositions hostiles qui surexcitaient les deux equipages du Repton et du Saint-Enoch eurent l’occasion de se manifester, ce fut bien, on l’avouera, en la presente circonstance.

Que la baleine eut ete d’abord apercue par les vigies du Saint-Enoch, que les Francais se fussent les premiers mis a sa poursuite, cela ne pouvait etre conteste. Il etait de toute evidence que, trois heures auparavant, les pirogues du second et des lieutenants avaient ete amenees en vue de chasser le culammak. S’il eut ete frappe sur place, on ne l’aurait jamais signale a bord du batiment anglais, qui ne se montrait pas encore au large. Mais il avait fui dans la direction du nord-est, la ou, deux heures apres, allait apparaitre le Repton. Aussi le capitaine King, bien que l’animal fut deja poursuivi par les embarcations francaises, avait-il mis ses pirogues a la mer. Toutefois, si les deux harpons avaient frappe simultanement celui de l’Anglais n’avait touche le culammak que dans la partie arriere du corps, a la naissance de la queue, tandis que celui de Ducrest avait atteint la nageoire de gauche, penetre jusqu’au coeur et force le culammak a souffler rouge.

Du reste, en admettant qu’il fut juste de faire egale part entre les deux batiments, chacun d’eux n’aurait qu’a se feliciter de cette capture. Ni le Saint-Enoch ni le Repton n’avaient capture pendant cette derniere saison un baleinoptere qui put etre compare a celui-ci.

Il va de soi que, chez les Francais comme chez les Anglais, personne n’entendait consentir a un partage. Sans doute, l’un des harpons avait fait une blessure telle que la mort s’en etait suivie, — coup tres heureux et tres rare, — mais l’autre avait egalement atteint l’animal.

Il resulte de cette circonstance que, au moment ou les hommes de M. Heurtaux prenaient leurs dispositions pour passer une remorque autour de la queue, les hommes de M. Strok se preparaient a les imiter.

Et alors, les Anglais, en une sorte de baragouin que les Francais comprenaient suffisamment, de s’ecrier:

“Au large… les canots du Saint-Enoch, au large!”

Aussitot, le lieutenant Allotte de repliquer:

“Au large vous-memes!…

— Cette baleine nous appartient de droit…, declara le second du Repton.

— Non… a nous… et elle est de bonne prise!… declara M. Heurtaux.

— Amarre… amarre!” commanda M. Strok, ordre qui fut a l’instant repete par le second du Saint-Enoch.

En meme temps, la pirogue du lieutenant Allotte accosta l’enorme bete et l’amarra, ce qui fut fait aussi par les matelots du Repton.

Et si les trois pirogues des Anglais et les trois pirogues des Francais se mettaient a haler, non seulement l’animal ne serait amene ni au Saint-Enoch ni au Repton, mais les remorques ne tarderaient pas a se rompre sous cette double traction en sens contraire.

C’est bien ce qui arriva, apres plusieurs efforts simultanes.

Alors, d’accord en cela sur ce point, les pirogues renoncerent a cette besogne, manoeuvrerent pour se rejoindre, et se trouverent presque bord a bord.

Dans la disposition d’esprit ou ils etaient, il y avait lieu de croire que les equipages en viendraient aux coups. Les armes ne manquaient pas, harpons de rechange, lances, louchets, sans compter le couteau de poche dont un matelot ne se separe guere. Le conflit degenererait en bataille. Il y aurait effusion de sang, en attendant que les navires eussent pris fait et cause pour leurs pirogues.

A ce moment, le second Strok, d’un geste menacant, d’une voix irritee, s’adressant a M.

Heurtaux, dont il parlait couramment la langue, dit:

“Avez-vous donc la pretention de contester que cette baleine doive nous appartenir?… Je vous previens que nous ne souffrirons pas…

— Et sur quoi fondez-vous votre pretention?… repliqua M. Heurtaux, apres avoir fait signe aux deux lieutenants de le laisser parler.

— Vous demandez sur quoi elle est fondee?… reprit le second du Repton.

— Je le demande!…

— Sur ce que la baleine venait de notre cote, et vous n’auriez pu la rejoindre, si nous ne lui avions barre la route…

— Et moi, j’affirme que, depuis plus de deux heures, nos pirogues avaient ete amenees sur elle…

— Apres les notres, monsieur!… declara M. Heurtaux.

— Non…, s’ecria M. Strok.

— En tout cas, c’est a bord du Saint-Enoch qu’elle a ete signalee pour la premiere fois, alors que votre navire n’etait pas meme en vue…

— Et qu’importe, puisque vous n’aviez pu l’approcher d’assez pres pour la piquer!…

— Tout cela, des mots!… repliqua M. Heurtaux, qui commencait a s’echauffer. Apres tout, une baleine n’est pas a celui qui la voit, mais a celui qui la tue…

— Notre harpon, ne l’oubliez pas, a ete lance avant le votre!… affirma M. Strok.

— Oui… oui! crierent les Anglais, qui brandissaient leurs armes.

— Non… non!…” riposterent les Francais en menacant les hommes du Repton.

Cette fois, M. Heurtaux n’aurait pu leur imposer silence. Peut-etre meme ne serait-il pas maitre de les retenir…

En effet, les hommes etaient prets a tomber les uns sur les autres.

M. Heurtaux, voulant tenter un dernier effort, dit au second du Repton:

“En admettant, ce qui n’est pas, que votre harpon eut ete lance le premier, il n’a pu faire une blessure mortelle, et c’est le notre qui a cause la mort…

— Cela est plus facile a dire qu’a prouver!…

— Ainsi… vous ne voulez pas ceder?…

— Non!” hurlerent les Anglais.

Arrives a ce degre de colere, les equipages n’avaient plus qu’a se battre.

Une circonstance allait mettre les matelots du Repton en etat d’inferiorite, sinon pour commencer, du moins pour continuer la lutte. A en venir aux mains, les Francais auraient fini par les obliger a battre en retraite.

En effet, le Repton, dehale sous le vent, n’avait pu se rapprocher avec cette faible brise. Il etait encore a un mille et demi, tandis que le Saint-Enoch mettait en panne a quelques encablures des pirogues. C’est bien ce qu’avait remarque M. Strok, et ce qui le fit hesiter a entamer la bataille.

Et, au total, en gens tres pratiques, les Anglais comprirent qu’ils ne pouvaient reussir a l’emporter dans ces conditions desavantageuses. Tout l’equipage du Saint-Enoch tomberait sur eux, et ils seraient battus avant que le Repton eut pu leur venir en aide. D’ailleurs, le capitaine Bourcart lancait deja sa premiere pirogue a la mer, et c’etait un renfort d’une dizaine d’hommes pret a arriver.

Aussi M. Strok de commander a ses matelots, qui se voyaient mal pris:

“A bord!”

Toutefois, avant d’abandonner la baleine, il ajouta, et d’un ton ou la colere le disputait au depit:

“Nous nous retrouverons!…

— Quand il vous plaira”, repondit M. Heurtaux.

Et ses compagnons ne se genaient pas pour repeter:

“Enfonces… les English… enfonces!”

Les pirogues de M. Strok, a force d’avirons, se dirigerent vers le Repton, distant alors d’un bon mille.

Restait a savoir si M. Strok n’avait profere que de vaines menaces, ou si l’affaire n’allait pas se regler definitivement entre les deux navires.

Le capitaine Bourcart, qui avait embarque dans la quatrieme pirogue, survint en ce moment.

Il fut aussitot mis au courant, et, apres avoir approuve la conduite de M. Heurtaux, il se contenta de repondre:

“Si le Repton vient “raisonner” le Saint-Enoch, le Saint-Enoch lui donnera des raisons!… En attendant, mes amis, amarrez la baleine.”

Cela se rapportait si bien au sentiment general, que l’equipage poussa de bruyants hurrahs que les Anglais purent entendre. Ah! le Repton ne les avait pas salues!… Eh bien, ils le saluaient de plaisanteries non moins salees que les eaux du Pacifique!

Le baleinoptere fut alors pris en remorque, et tel etait son poids que les matelots des quatre embarcations durent souquer vigoureusement pour le conduire au Saint-Enoch.

Maitre Ollive, le charpentier Ferut, le forgeron Thomas s’etaient portes sur le gaillard d’avant. Quant a Jean-Marie Cabidoulin, son avis fut qu’on tirerait deux cents barils du culammak. Avec ce que le Saint-Enoch avait deja dans sa cale, cela lui ferait une demi-cargaison.

“Eh bien, qu’en dis-tu, vieux?… demanda maitre Ollive en interpellant le tonnelier.

— Je dis que ce sera de la bonne huile a filer pendant la prochaine tempete…, repliqua Cabidoulin.

— Allons donc!… il ne nous manquera pas un seul baril en arrivant a Vancouver!… Bouteille va toujours?…

— Bouteille!”

Un des novices venait de piquer sept heures et demie du soir. Il etait trop tard pour virer la baleine. On se contenta donc de l’amarrer contre le flanc du batiment. Le lendemain, des l’aube, l’equipage procederait au depecement, puis a la fonte du gras, et il ne faudrait pas moins de deux jours pleins pour mener cette besogne a bonne fin.

En somme, il convenait de se feliciter. La traversee de Petropavlovsk a Victoria permettrait a M. Bourcart de ramener une demi-cargaison. C’etait mieux qu’on ne pouvait esperer en ces circonstances. Comme il etait probable que les cours n’avaient pas flechi sur le marche de Victoria, cette seconde campagne donnerait encore d’assez beaux benefices.

D’autre part, le Saint-Enoch n’avait fait aucune mauvaise rencontre. Au lieu du monstre marin signale par les pecheurs kamtchadales, c’etait ce magnifique culammak qui etait venu se faire amarrer!…

La nuit close, ses voiles sur les cargues, le trois-mats n’eut plus qu’a attendre le lever du soleil.

Avec le soir, la brise se sentait a peine. La mer etait au calme blanc. Le roulis s’accentuait si peu qu’il n’y avait point a craindre pour les amarres qui retenaient la baleine. Quelle perte, et quels regrets, en cas que, pendant la nuit, elle s’en fut allee par le fond!

Il y eut a prendre quelques mesures de precaution ou tout au moins de surveillance. Qui sait si le capitaine King ne voudrait pas donner suite aux menaces de son second, et tenter d’enlever le culammak en attaquant le Saint-Enoch?…

“Cette agression est-elle reellement a craindre?… demanda le docteur Filhiol.

— Ma foi…, lieutenant Coquebert, avec des Anglais on ne sait jamais sur quoi compter…

— Ce qui est certain, ajouta M. Heurtaux, c’est qu’ils sont partis fort en colere…

— Je le comprends, s’ecria le lieutenant Allotte. Un si beau morceau qui leur echappe!…

— Aussi, reprit M. Heurtaux, je ne serais pas autrement surpris s’ils venaient…

— Qu’ils viennent!… repondit le capitaine Bourcart. Nous serons prets a les recevoir!”

Et, s’il parlait ainsi, c’est qu’il etait sur de tout son equipage. Ce ne serait pas la premiere fois que des disputes auraient surgi entre baleiniers au sujet d’un coup de harpon conteste, — disputes souvent aggravees des plus regrettables violences.

Une severe surveillance fut donc etablie a bord du Saint-Enoch et les hommes de quart firent bonne garde. Si, faute de vent, le Repton aurait eu grand’peine a rejoindre le Saint-Enoch, il pouvait envoyer ses embarcations, et il convenait de ne point se laisser surprendre a la faveur de la nuit.

Du reste, ce qui assura la securite du navire francais, c’est que, vers dix heures, une brume assez epaisse enveloppa ces parages. Il eut ete malaise de retrouver la place ou le Saint-Enoch se tenait en panne.

Les heures se passerent sans alerte. Lorsque le soleil revint, le brouillard, qui ne se dissipa point, aurait cache le Repton meme a la distance d’un demi-mille. Mais peut-etre les Anglais n’avaient-ils pas renonce a mettre leurs menaces a execution, et tenteraient-ils une attaque, si les brumes venaient a se lever. Ce ne serait pas le vent qui les aiderait cependant. Aucun souffle ne traversait l’espace, et l’etat atmospherique ne se modifia pas de toute la matinee. L’equipage du

Saint-Enoch put se remettre aux travaux du bord sans etre trouble.

Des l’aube, — 21 octobre, — M. Bourcart avait fait proceder au virage de la baleine, avec ordre de pousser vivement la besogne. Deux garants d’appareils furent passes, et les hommes se relayerent au guindeau.

Prealablement, maitre Ollive, aide de quelques matelots, avait bague une chaine sur la nageoire du dehors, et l’animal tourna sur lui-meme, ce qui devait en faciliter le depecement. La tete fut alors detachee, et, non sans grands efforts, il fallut la mater pour la deposer sur le pont. On s’occupa d’en couper les lippes, la langue, les fanons, operation qui devint facile, apres qu’elle eut ete divisee en quatre morceaux.

La cabousse allumee, le bois ne manquant pas grace a l’approvisionnement embarque a Petropavlovsk, le cuisinier put entretenir le feu sous les deux pots.

Ce fut dans ces pots que l’on fondit d’abord le gras retire de la tete, de la langue et des lippes, qui est de qualite plus fine. Puis on proceda au depecage du corps par morceaux de huit a neuf brasses, reduits a deux pieds pour etre introduits dans la cabousse.

Toute la matinee et une partie de l’apres-midi avaient ete consacrees a cet ouvrage. C’est a peine si, vers trois heures, le brouillard s’etait quelque peu eclairci. Les vapeurs, a l’etat vesiculaire, empechaient le regard de s’etendre a plus d’un demi-mille autour du Saint-Enoch.

Du Repton, aucune nouvelle. Il n’aurait pu se rapprocher, faute de brise, a moins d’etre remorque par ses embarcations, ce qui eut occasionne une grosse fatigue.

Cependant M. Bourcart demeura toujours sur le qui-vive. La pirogue du lieutenant Allotte fut meme envoyee en reconnaissance vers le nord-est. Elle revint sans avoir rien a signaler, ne s’etant pas aventuree d’une demi-lieue en direction du nord.

Au fond, peut-etre, l’equipage n’eut-il pas ete fache d’en venir aux mains avec les Anglais. C’est de tradition chez les Francais et surtout chez les marins. Ils songent encore a la revanche de Waterloo, ces braves gens! Mais probablement, cette fois, le canon du Mont Saint-Jean ne se ferait pas entendre, et Wellington battrait en retraite vers la haute mer.

La besogne se continua dans d’excellentes conditions. M. Bourcart comptait que la moitie serait fondue pendant cette journee. Il avait donc l’espoir, si le vent se levait, de pouvoir appareiller des le surlendemain avec deux cents barils de plus dans sa cale.

Une fois, cependant, vers quatre heures, il se produisit une alerte.

Le forgeron Thomas, embarque dans le petit canot, etait en train de consolider une des conassieres du gouvernail, lorsqu’il crut entendre une sorte de clapotis du cote de l’ouest.

Etait-ce un bruit d’avirons annoncant l’approche des pirogues du Repton?… Les Anglais avaient-ils decouvert la position du Saint-Enoch?…

Le forgeron remonta aussitot et prevint M. Bourcart. Qui sait si le moment n’etait pas venu de decrocher les fusils au ratelier du carre, de se mettre sur la defensive?

On suspendit le travail et les hommes occupes au depecage durent rembarquer.

A defaut des yeux, qui ne pouvaient rendre aucun service au milieu des vapeurs, les oreilles se tendirent. Un absolu silence regnait a bord. On laissa meme tomber le feu de la cabousse, qui petillait. Le plus leger bruit venu du large se fut fait entendre.

Quelques minutes s’ecoulerent. Aucune pirogue ne parut, et, de la part du capitaine King, c’eut ete vraiment grande audace que de tenter l’attaque du Saint-Enoch dans ces conditions. Bien que le brouillard, s’il genait les Anglais, leur eut permis de s’approcher sans etre apercus, ceux-ci devaient supposer que M. Bourcart se tiendrait sur ses gardes. Mais, repetait volontiers maitre Ollive:

“Rien ne m’etonnerait de la part de John Bull!”

Cependant, on ne tarda pas a le reconnaitre, c’etait une fausse alerte. Le clapotis ne pouvait provenir que de l’une de ces risees capricieuses qui passent a travers les brumes sans avoir la force de les dissiper. Il y eut meme a constater que la brise cherchait a se lever, tout en ne se propageant que par souffles intermittents, sans direction fixe. A moins qu’elle ne fraichit, le ciel resterait brouille jusqu’au lever du soleil. A ces calmes, assez rares en cette saison et dans cette portion septentrionale de l’ocean Pacifique, succederaient probablement de grands mauvais temps. Il etait a craindre que la navigation ne fut pas aussi favorisee qu’elle l’avait ete en quittant Petropavlovsk. Toutefois, comme le trois-mats s’etait toujours bien comporte pendant maintes tempetes, sans jamais avoir eprouve d’avaries graves, Jean-Marie Cabidoulin eut ete mieux avise en epargnant ses menacantes histoires au Saint-Enoch, du Havre, capitaine Evariste-Simon Bourcart!

Apres tout, pourquoi le navire ne retrouverait-il pas ses bonnes chances de la premiere campagne, et ne rencontrerait-il pas d’autres baleines qui permettraient de completer le chargement avant de mouiller a Vancouver?…

L’apres-midi s’avancait. Vraisemblablement, cette nuit serait aussi obscure que la precedente. En tout cas, les precautions etaient prises, et, au retour du lieutenant Allotte, les pirogues avaient ete rehissees a bord.

En somme, pour la besogne qui restait a faire, mieux valait que le Saint-Enoch fut encalmine pendant vingt-quatre heures encore, a la condition qu’un bon vent le poussat vers la cote americaine.

Soudain, un peu avant cinq heures, des sifflements d’une extreme violence dechirerent l’espace. En meme temps, la mer fut extraordinairement troublee jusque dans ses couches profondes. Une immense nappe d’ecume blanchit sa surface. Le Saint-Enoch, eleve sur le dos d’une enorme lame, fut secoue d’un roulis et d’un tangage des plus violents. Les voiles, qui pendaient sur leurs cargues, claquerent a grand bruit, et l’equipage put craindre que toute la mature ne vint en bas.

Par bonne chance, le corps de la baleine, fortement maintenu le long du bord, ne se detacha pas, et ce fut miracle, tant la bande du navire avait ete prononcee.

“Qu’est-ce donc?…” s’etait ecrie M. Bourcart en s’elancant hors de sa cabine.

Puis il monta sur la dunette, ou le second et les lieutenants se haterent de le rejoindre.

“Ce doit etre un raz de maree, declara M. Heurtaux, et j’ai vu le moment ou le Saint-Enoch allait engager…

— Oui… un raz de maree, repeta maitre Ollive, car il n’y a pas de vent de quoi remplir mon chapeau…

— Mais, comme il pourrait etre accompagne d’un grain, reprit le capitaine Bourcart, faites serrer toute la toile, Heurtaux… Il ne faut pas se laisser surprendre!”

C’etait prudent, et meme opportun, et meme pressant. En effet, a quelques minutes de la, le vent fraichissait avec assez d’impetuosite pour refouler une partie des brumes vers le sud.

“Navire par babord derriere!”

Ce cri, pousse par un des matelots accroches dans les haubans de misaine, fit tourner tous les regards de ce cote.

Le navire signale etait-il le Repton?…

C’etait le navire anglais, a trois milles environ du Saint-Enoch.

“Toujours a la meme place…, observa le lieutenant Coquebert.

— Comme nous a la notre…, repondit M. Bourcart.

— On dirait qu’il se prepare a larguer ses voiles…, remarqua le lieutenant Allotte.

— Pas de doute… il va appareiller…, declara M. Heurtaux.

— Serait-ce donc pour venir sur nous?… demanda le docteur Filhiol.

— Il en est bien capable!… s’ecria maitre Ollive.

— Nous verrons bien”, se contenta de dire le capitaine Bourcart.

Et, sa longue-vue aux yeux, il ne cessait de la tenir en direction du baleinier anglais.

Il y avait tout lieu de croire que le capitaine King voulait profiter de la brise qui soufflait alors de l’est et lui permettrait de se rapprocher du Saint-Enoch. On voyait les hommes se paumoyer sur les vergues. Bientot les huniers, la misaine, la brigantine, furent etablis, amures a tribord, puis le grand et le petit foc qui faciliterent l’abattee du Repton.

La question etait de savoir s’il allait continuer sa route vers l’est en serrant le vent, afin de gagner quelque port de la Colombie britannique.

Non, telle n’etait pas l’intention du capitaine King, a laquelle il eut ete impossible de se meprendre. Le Repton, au lieu de mettre cap a l’est, marchait de maniere a couper la route du Saint-Enoch.

“C’est a nous qu’il en a!… s’ecria Romain Allotte. Il entend reclamer sa part de baleine!… Eh bien… il n’en aura pas meme un bout de queue!…”

Ce que disait le lieutenant fut repete par l’equipage. Si le Repton venait attaquer le Saint-Enoch, il trouverait a qui parler!… On lui repondrait comme il convenait de repondre, a coups de fusil, de pistolet et de hache!…

Il etait alors six heures et quelques minutes. Le soleil declinait rapidement vers l’horizon un peu dans le sud-ouest. La mer restait degagee de vapeurs du cote d’ou soufflait la brise. On ne perdait pas un des mouvements du Repton, qui s’avancait a moyenne vitesse. En moins d’une demi-heure, il serait bord a bord avec le Saint-Enoch, a moins qu’il ne changeat sa barre.

En prevision d’une attaque, ordre fut donne de preparer les armes. On chargea les deux pierriers dont les baleiniers sont armes generalement. Si le capitaine King lui envoyait quelques boulets de cinq a six livres, le capitaine Bourcart lui en adresserait autant et de meme poids.

Le Repton n’etait plus qu’a trois quarts de mille, lorsque l’etat de la mer se modifia soudain, sans aucun changement dans les conditions atmospheriques. Le vent n’avait pas force, le ciel ne s’etait pas charge. Nul nuage menacant ne se levait a l’horizon. Calme absolu dans les hautes et basses zones de l’espace.

Et, en effet, le phenomene extraordinaire qui se preparait devait se localiser en cette partie de l’Ocean.

Soudain, au milieu d’horribles mugissements, dont personne a bord du Saint-Enoch ne reconnut ni la nature ni la cause, la mer bouillonna, se blanchit d’ecume, se denivela comme si une eruption sous-marine en eut trouble les dernieres profondeurs. C’etait precisement a la place occupee par le baleinier anglais, alors que le baleinier francais ne ressentait pas encore les effets de cette inexplicable agitation.

Le capitaine Bourcart et ses compagnons, tout d’abord surpris, observaient le Repton, et, ce qu’ils virent, apres la surprise, les jeta en pleine epouvante.

Le Repton venait de se soulever sur le dos d’une enorme lame, puis de disparaitre derriere elle. De cette lame jaillissaient de puissants jets liquides, tels qu’ils eussent pu s’echapper des events d’un gigantesque monstre dont la tete aurait ete engagee sous le navire, et dont la queue eut battu la mer a une demi-encablure, soit pres de cent metres…

Lorsque le navire reparut, il etait desempare, sa mature en bas, ses agres rompus, sa coque chaviree sur babord, assaillie par de formidables coups de mer…

Une minute plus tard, apres avoir ete une derniere fois roule par la monstrueuse lame, il s’engloutissait dans les abimes du Pacifique.

Le capitaine Bourcart, ses officiers, son equipage, pousserent un cri d’horreur, stupefaits en presence de cet inexplicable et epouvantable cataclysme…

Mais peut-etre les hommes du Repton n’avaient-ils pas tous peri avec le navire?… Peut-etre quelques-uns avaient-ils pu fuir dans les pirogues a temps pour ne point etre entraines dans le gouffre?… Peut-etre pourrait-on sauver un certain nombre de ces infortunes avant que la nuit se fut etendue sur la mer?…

Toutes causes d’inimities s’oublient devant pareilles catastrophes!… Il y avait un devoir d’humanite a remplir, on le remplirait…

“A la mer, les embarcations!…” cria le capitaine Bourcart.

Deux minutes a peine s’etaient ecoulees depuis la disparition du Repton et il etait encore temps de porter secours aux survivants du naufrage…

Soudain, avant que les pirogues eussent ete amenees, un choc qui ne fut pas tres rude, se produisit. Le Saint-Enoch, souleve de sept a huit pouces par l’arriere, comme s’il eut heurte un ecueil, donna la bande a tribord et demeura immobile.

CHAPITRE XII

Echouage

Le vent qui soufflait de l’est vers cinq heures du soir, et dont le Repton avait voulu profiter, ne s’etait pas maintenu. Apres le soleil couche, il calmit et finit par tomber tout a fait. L’agitation de la mer se reduisit a un leger clapotis de surface. Alors revinrent les epaisses brumes qui enveloppaient depuis quarante-huit heures cette portion du Pacifique.

Quant au Saint-Enoch, c’etait au moment ou son equipage allait lancer les embarcations qu’il avait touche. Est-ce donc a un accident de meme nature qu’il fallait attribuer la perte du Repton?… Et, moins heureux que le Saint-Enoch, le navire anglais s’etait-il defonce contre un ecueil?…

Quoi qu’il en soit, s’il n’avait pas coule a pic, le Saint-Enoch n’en etait pas moins echoue. Or, comme il risquait a chaque instant d’etre englouti, il fut impossible d’employer les pirogues au sauvetage des marins anglais.

Tout d’abord, la premiere impression de M. Bourcart et de ses compagnons avait ete celle de la stupeur.

A quelle cause attribuer cet echouage?… Le Saint-Enoch avait a peine subi l’action de cette legere brise qui s’etait levee vers cinq heures du soir… Pour etre venu talonner contre cet ecueil, avait-il subi l’action d’un courant dont personne ne soupconnait l’existence, et sans qu’il eut ete possible de s’en apercevoir?…

Il existait la certaines circonstances des plus inexplicables, et d’ailleurs, l’heure n’etait pas aux explications.

La secousse, on l’a dit, avait ete plutot faible. Mais, apres deux coups de talon, qui ne demonterent point son gouvernail, le navire recut un enorme paquet de mer. Par bonheur, sa mature ne s’ebranla point, ses etais et ses haubans resisterent. Sans avaries dans ses fonds, il ne semblait pas qu’il fut menace de sombrer comme le Repton. Peut-etre meme ne lui manquait-il que quelques pouces d’eau pour retrouver sa flottaison, et se degagerait-il au plein de la mer?…

Seulement le choc eut pour premier resultat de rompre les amarres qui retenaient la baleine, et le courant entraina cette carcasse.

Il y avait autre chose a faire qu’a s’inquieter de la perte d’une centaine de barils d’huile. Le Saint-Enoch echoue, il s’agissait de le tirer de cette facheuse situation.

A la suite de cet accident, maitre Ollive se fut bien garde d’interpeller Jean-Marie Cabidoulin. Le tonnelier aurait eu beau jeu pour lui repondre: “Va… ce n’est que le commencement de la fin!”

Cependant M. Bourcart et le second conferaient sur la dunette.

“Il existe donc des bas-fonds dans cette partie du Pacifique?… dit M. Heurtaux.

— Je ne sais que penser… declara M. Bourcart.

Ce qui est certain c’est que les cartes n’en indiquent aucun entre les Kouriles et les Aleoutiennes!”

En effet, les plus modernes ne portaient ni bas-fonds ni recifs dans cette partie de l’Ocean ou le cent-vingtieme et le cent-soixantieme meridien croisent le cinquantieme parallele. Il est vrai, depuis soixante heures, les brumes avaient empeche le capitaine Bourcart de prendre hauteur. Mais la derniere observation le mettait a plus de deux cents milles de l’archipel aleoutien. Or, il n’etait pas admissible que, depuis le calcul du 19 octobre, le vent ou les courants eussent porte le Saint-Enoch a cette distance.

Et, pourtant, ce n’etait que sur les extremes recifs des Aleoutiennes qu’il aurait pu se mettre au plein.

Apres etre descendu dans le carre, M. Bourcart avait etale ses cartes sur la table, il les etudiait, il relevait a la pointe du compas la position que son navire occupait en evaluant a l’estime la route parcourue en trois jours. Et meme en l’etendant a deux cents milles en cette direction, c’est-a-dire jusqu’aux iles Aleoutiennes, il ne rencontrait aucun ecueil…

“Cependant, observa le docteur Filhiol, ne peut-il se faire que posterieurement a l’etablissement de ces cartes, un soulevement se soit produit a cette place?…

— Un soulevement du fond?…” repondit M. Bourcart, qui ne sembla pas rejeter une pareille hypothese.

Et, faute d’une autre, etait-il deraisonnable de l’admettre?… Pourquoi, par une poussee lente ou par un brusque exhaussement dus a l’action des forces plutoniennes, le seuil sous-marin ne se serait-il pas releve a la surface de la mer?… Manquent-ils donc les exemples de ces phenomenes telluriques dans les regions ou se manifeste encore le travail eruptif?… Et, precisement, ces parages ne sont-ils pas voisins d’un archipel volcanique?… Deux mois et demi auparavant, en les traversant, n’avait-on pas apercu dans le nord les flammes du Chichaldinskol sur l’ile Ounimak?…

Bien que cette explication ne laissat pas d’etre plausible dans une certaine mesure, la majorite de l’equipage devait la repousser, ainsi qu’on le verra bientot.

Apres tout, a quelque cause qu’il fut du, l’echouage du Saint-Enoch etait indiscutable. En sondant a l’avant, puis a l’arriere, maitre Ollive ne trouva pas plus de quatre a cinq pieds d’eau sous la quille.

Le premier soin du capitaine Bourcart avait ete de proceder a la visite de la cale. Jean-Marie Cabidoulin et le charpentier Ferut s’etaient rendu compte que la mer n’avait pas penetre a travers le bordage, et, assurement, aucune voie d’eau ne s’etait declaree a la suite de la collision.

En somme, il convenait d’attendre au lendemain afin de determiner la nature de cet ecueil inconnu du Pacifique, et peut-etre parviendrait-on, avant l’arrivee des mauvais temps, a dehaler le Saint-Enoch…

La nuit parut interminable. Ni les officiers ne regagnerent leur cabine, ni les hommes le poste de l’equipage. Il fallait se tenir pret a tout evenement. Parfois se produisaient des tiraillements de la quille sur le recif… N’allait-elle pas, sous l’influence d’un courant, se detacher de ce lit de roches?… Ne pouvait-il se faire que le navire glissat du cote ou il donnait la gite et retrouvat sa ligne de flottaison?…

D’ailleurs, par precaution, le capitaine Bourcart avait mis les pirogues a la mer, avec la plus grande quantite de vivres possible, en cas qu’il fut necessaire d’abandonner le Saint-Enoch. Qui sait s’il ne deviendrait pas necessaire de s’y embarquer pour rallier les terres les plus rapprochees? Et ce devaient etre les iles de l’archipel Aleoutien, a moins que, par suite de circonstances absolument incomprehensibles, le navire eut ete rejete hors de sa route… D’ailleurs, il ne menacait pas de chavirer, ce qui fut peut-etre arrive si la baleine eut encore ete suspendue a son flanc.

Entre autres eventualites qui pourraient amener le degagement du Saint-Enoch, M. Bourcart ne laissait pas de compter sur la mer montante. Les marees sont generalement faibles sur toute l’etendue du Pacifique, il ne l’ignorait pas. Mais qui sait si un relevement de quelques pouces n’amenerait pas le renflouage?… Il ne semblait pas que le batiment se fut engage tres avant sur l’ecueil, auquel il n’adherait que par son talon.

Le flux avait commence a se faire sentir a onze heures et la mer serait pleine vers les deux heures du matin. Le capitaine et ses officiers suivirent donc avec soin les progres de la maree, annoncee par un clapotis de courant que l’oreille percevait au milieu de cette nuit si calme.

Par malheur, le moment venu, lorsque la mer fut etale, aucun changement ne se produisit. Peut-etre le Saint-Enoch eprouva-t-il quelques faibles secousses, peut-etre sa quille roula-t-elle legerement sur le seuil marin… A cette date du mois d’octobre, les marees d’equinoxe etant deja passees, les chances de se dehaler diminueraient avec les lunaisons prochaines.

Et maintenant, lorsque le jusant s’accentuerait, ne devait-on pas craindre que la situation ne vint a empirer?… La bande ne s’accuserait-elle pas a mesure que l’eau se retirerait, et le navire ne risquait-il pas de chavirer a mer basse?…

Ce grave sujet d’inquietude ne cessa que vers quatre heures et demie du matin. D’ailleurs, en vue de parer a tout evenement, le capitaine Bourcart avait fait preparer des bequilles avec les vergues de perroquet, mais il n’y eut pas lieu de les mettre en place.

Un peu avant sept heures, une lueur rougit les vapeurs de l’est. Le soleil, qui debordait de l’horizon, ne put les dissoudre, et les agres se chargerent d’humidite.

On le pense bien, les officiers sur la dunette, les matelots sur le gaillard d’avant, cherchaient a percer ce brouillard du cote ou gitait le navire, en attendant que les pirogues pussent en faire le tour. Ce que chacun s’inquietait de reconnaitre, c’etait la disposition de l’ecueil. S’etendait-il sur un large espace?… Formait-il un bas-fond unique?… Des tetes de roches emergeraient-elles au large a basse mer?

Impossible de voir meme a quelques metres en dehors des bastingages. Toutefois, on ne percevait aucun bruit de ce ressac que le courant produit sur des rochers a fleur d’eau.

Donc, rien a faire avant que la brume se fut dissipee, et peut-etre se dissoudrait-elle comme les jours precedents, lorsque le soleil approcherait de la meridienne. Alors, si les circonstances le permettaient, M. Bourcart essaierait-il de determiner sa position au sextant et au chronometre.

Il y eut lieu de proceder a une visite plus complete de la cale. Maitre Cabidoulin et le charpentier Ferut s’assurerent de nouveau, en deplacant un certain nombre de barils de l’arriere, que l’eau ne l’avait point envahie. Ni la membrure ni le bordage n’avaient cede au moment de l’echouage. Donc aucune avarie grave. Mais, en maniant ses barils, le tonnelier ne se disait-il pas qu’il faudrait sans doute les hisser sur le pont, les jeter a la mer, les pleins et les vides, afin d’alleger le navire?…

Cependant la matinee s’avancait, et le ciel ne se degageait pas. Une reconnaissance, faite par M. Bourcart et le second autour du Saint-Enoch dans un rayon d’une demi-encablure, ne revela rien touchant la nature et la position de l’ecueil.

Avant tout, il eut fallu constater s’il se trouvait a proximite d’une terre ou les embarcations pourraient accoster, en cas qu’il devint necessaire d’abandonner le navire. Il est vrai, qu’il se rencontrat un continent ou un archipel en ces parages, M. Bourcart ne pouvait l’admettre, et, au docteur qui l’interrogeait a cet egard: “Non, monsieur Filhiol, non, repondit-il d’un ton affirmatif, il y a quelques jours, j’ai obtenu une bonne observation, je le repete… Je viens de revoir mes calculs, ils sont exacts et nous devons etre a deux cents milles au moins de l’extreme pointe des Kouriles.

— J’en reviens donc a mon explication…, reprit le docteur Filhiol. Il a du se produire un exhaussement du sous-sol marin, contre lequel s’est heurte le Saint-Enoch…

— C’est possible, repliqua M. Bourcart, et je me refuse a croire qu’une erreur ou une deviation de route nous aient rejetes a une telle distance dans le nord.”

C’etait vraiment une deplorable malchance que le vent ne parut pas devoir se lever. D’abord il aurait balaye les vapeurs et degage l’horizon. Puis, s’il avait souffle de la partie ouest, l’equipage, en coiffant les voiles sur les mats, eut peut-etre oblige le Saint-Enoch a s’arracher du seuil rocheux…

“Attendons… attendons, mes amis!… repetait le capitaine Bourcart, qui sentait s’accroitre l’impatience et aussi l’inquietude de ses hommes. J’espere que ce brouillard se levera dans l’apres-midi, et nous serons fixes sur cette situation, dont, je l’espere, nous sortirons sans grand dommage!”

Mais, lorsque les matelots et les novices regardaient Jean-Marie Cabidoulin, ils le voyaient hocher sa grosse tete ebouriffee, signe qu’il ne partageait point cet optimisme, et cela n’etait pas pour les rassurer.

Entre temps, afin d’empecher la mer montante, en venant de l’est, de pousser le navire plus avant sur l’ecueil, M. Bourcart d’accord avec le second, decida de mouiller une ancre a jet par l’arriere.

Maitre Ollive et deux matelots parerent une des pirogues afin de proceder a cette prudente operation sous la direction du lieutenant Allotte.

La pirogue deborda, tandis que le grelin de l’ancre lui etait file du Saint-Enoch.

Suivant les ordres du capitaine Bourcart, le lieutenant fit envoyer un coup de sonde, alors qu’il se trouvait a une cinquantaine de pieds du navire. A sa grande surprise, meme apres avoir largue une vingtaine de brasses, il ne trouva pas de fond.

L’operation, recommencee a plusieurs places de ce cote, donna un resultat identique, et le plomb ne toucha nulle part.

En ces conditions, mouiller une ancre eut ete inutile, puisqu’elle n’aurait pu mordre. Ce qu’il fallait en conclure, c’est que, de ce bord tout au moins, les flancs de l’ecueil etaient coupes a pic.

La pirogue revenue, le lieutenant Allotte fit son rapport au capitaine.

M. Bourcart se montra assez surpris. Dans sa pensee, le recif devait plutot descendre en pentes laterales tres allongees, l’echouage s’etant produit presque sans secousse, comme si le navire eut glisse a la surface d’un seuil peu incline.

On dut effectuer alors des sondages autour du Saint-Enoch, de maniere a determiner autant que possible l’etendue de l’ecueil et la profondeur de l’eau a sa surface. Le capitaine Bourcart embarqua dans la pirogue avec le second, le maitre d’equipage et deux matelots. Ils emportaient un plomb dont la ligne mesurait deux cents brasses.

Apres avoir repris l’operation du lieutenant Allotte, on dut reconnaitre que l’extremite de la ligne n’atteignait pas le fond. Il fallut donc renoncer a mouiller une ancre par l’arriere, ce qui eut permis de dehaler le navire en virant au guindeau.

“Capitaine, dit M. Heurtaux, nous ferions bien de sonder a quelques pieds seulement de la carene…

— C’est mon avis”, repondit M. Bourcart.

Maitre Ollive crocha la gaffe dans un des porte-haubans, et rangea la pirogue de maniere a contourner la coque a cinq ou six pieds au plus. De trois metres en trois metres, le second laissait filer la ligne. Nulle part elle ne rencontra le seuil, meme a deux cents brasses.

Ainsi, l’ecueil n’occupait qu’une etendue tres restreinte a une ou deux toises au-dessous de la surface de la mer. Autant dire que le Saint-Enoch s’etait echoue a la pointe d’un cone sous-marin non indique en ces parages.

Cependant l’heure s’avancait, et rien n’annoncait une levee des brumes. Aussi M. Bourcart voulut-il tenter, au moment ou la maree atteindrait sa plus grande hauteur, de dehaler son navire avec les pirogues. En le tirant par l’arriere, il etait possible que l’on parvint a le renflouer au plein de la mer.

Cette manoeuvre s’executa dans les conditions les plus favorables. Les six pirogues se reunirent en un effort commun, et les matelots souquerent de toute leur vigueur sur les avirons. Le batiment fit-il un leger mouvement de recul?… un pied a peine. Ce fut tout ce qu’on obtint, et, finalement, l’equipage perdit l’espoir de l’arracher de cet ecueil.

Or, ce que n’avaient pu faire les embarcations, si le vent ne le faisait pas, que deviendrait le Saint-Enoch aux premiers gros temps?… Il serait roule a la surface de ce bas-fond, il n’en resterait bientot que d’informes debris… Et, a cette epoque de l’annee, tarderaient-elles a se dechainer, les tempetes qui troublent si formidablement cette portion du Pacifique?…

Une operation restait a tenter pour se remettre a flot. Le capitaine Bourcart, apres y avoir murement reflechi, apres en avoir cause avec les officiers et les maitres, dut s’y resoudre, mais en l’ajournant de quelques heures, puisqu’il ne semblait pas qu’un changement de temps fut a craindre. Ladite operation aurait pour but d’alleger le navire en jetant sa cargaison a la mer. Decharge de huit a neuf cents barils d’huile, peut-etre se releverait-il assez pour flotter a l’etale du flot…

On attendit en comptant que, ce jour-la comme la veille, le brouillard se dissiperait dans l’apres-midi.

C’etait une des raisons pour lesquelles M. Bourcart ne donna pas immediatement suite a son projet de sacrifier la cargaison. En effet, que le navire vint a se renflouer, eut-il ete possible de le diriger au milieu des brumes?… De ce que les sondages avaient accuse de grandes profondeurs autour de l’ecueil, s’ensuivait-il qu’il n’existait pas a proximite d’autres recifs ou le Saint-Enoch risquerait de s’echouer a nouveau?… Est-ce que, a moins d’un mille, le Repton n’avait pas touche, et meme si malheureusement qu’il s’etait englouti presque aussitot?…

Cette reflexion, que chacun se faisait, ramena les conversations sur le baleinier anglais. N’y avait-il pas a se demander si quelques hommes avaient survecu au naufrage?… Ses pirogues ne tentaient-elles pas de retrouver le Saint-Enoch?… Aussi M. Bourcart et l’equipage se tenaient-ils aux ecoutes…

Aucun cri n’arrivait, et, sans doute, pas un des matelots du Repton n’avait pu echapper a cette epouvantable catastrophe…

Trois heures s’ecoulerent. La maree se retirant alors, inutile d’esperer que le navire se degagerait de lui-meme. D’ailleurs la difference entre le plus haut du flot et le plus bas du jusant allait etre assez faible. Cet ecueil ne devait jamais decouvrir, si ce n’est peut-etre dans les syzygies. M. Heurtaux put meme constater que l’eau n’avait pas sensiblement baisse par rapport aux reperes traces sur la coque, et, quand on sondait autour, les lances atteignaient le fond rugueux a une profondeur constante de cinq pieds.

Telle etait la situation. Comment se denouerait-elle?… Le Saint-Enoch reprendrait-il le cours de sa navigation?… Les hommes ne seraient-ils pas contraints de l’abandonner avant qu’une tempete l’eut aneanti?… Ils etaient trente-trois a bord et pourraient trouver place dans les embarcations avec des vivres pour quelques jours… Mais, a quelle distance se rencontrerait la cote la plus rapprochee?… Et s’il fallait franchir des centaines de milles?…

M. Bourcart se decida a sacrifier le chargement. Peut-etre le navire, soulage de plusieurs centaines de tonnes, se souleverait-il assez au plein de la mer pour que l’equipage put le dehaler!…

Cette decision prise, les hommes se mirent a la besogne, non sans maudire la mauvaise chance qui leur ferait perdre les profits de cette derniere campagne!…

Maitre Ollive activa le travail. Au moyen de palans frappes au-dessus des deux panneaux, les barils furent hisses sur le pont, puis jetes a la mer. Quelques-uns coulaient immediatement. D’autres brises dans la chute contre l’ecueil, se vidaient de leur contenu, qui remontait a la surface de la mer. Le Saint-Enoch fut bientot entoure d’une couche grasse, comme s’il eut file de l’huile pour calmer les lames d’une tempete. Jamais la mer n’avait ete plus tranquille. Pas meme le plus leger ressac a la surface ou sur le perimetre du bas-fond, bien que M. Heurtaux eut constate l’existence d’un courant venant du nord-est.

La maree ne devait pas tarder. Toutefois le delestement du navire ne produirait son effet qu’a l’instant ou le flot atteindrait son maximum. Comme on disposait de trois heures, l’operation serait terminee au moment voulu. En somme, pas de temps a perdre, ou le Saint-Enoch resterait echoue jusqu’a la nuit prochaine, et mieux valait qu’il put s’eloigner de l’ecueil pendant le jour. Pres de huit cents barils a remonter de la cale, cela exige du temps, sans parler de la fatigue.

Vers cinq heures, une moitie de la besogne etait faite. La maree ayant deja gagne de trois a quatre pieds, il semblait bien que le Saint-Enoch, en partie allege, aurait du s’en ressentir, et aucun mouvement ne fut senti…

“On dirait, le diable soit!… que notre navire est cloue a cette place!… dit maitre Ollive.

— Et ce n’est pas toi qui le decloueras!… murmura Jean-Marie Cabidoulin.

— Tu dis…, vieux?…

— Rien!…” repliqua le tonnelier en lancant un des barils vides a la mer.

D’autre part, l’espoir auquel on s’etait attache que les vapeurs se dissiperaient ne s’etait pas realise. La nuit menacait d’etre doublee de brumes. Si donc son navire ne se degageait qu’a la maree prochaine, le capitaine Bourcart serait fort gene pour le sortir de ces dangereux parages.

Un peu apres six heures, alors qu’une demi-obscurite envahissait deja l’espace, des cris se firent entendre en direction de l’ouest eclaire de vagues lueurs.

Maitre Ollive, poste sur le gaillard d’avant, rejoignit M. Bourcart au pied de la dunette.

“Capitaine… ecoutez… ecoutez…, dit-il. Tenez… par la… il semble bien…

— Oui… on appelle!…” ajouta le lieutenant Coquebert.

Un peu de tumulte se produisit parmi l’equipage.

“Silence!” ordonna M. Bourcart.

Et chacun de preter l’oreille.

En effet, des appels, encore eloignes, arrivaient jusqu’a bord. Nul doute qu’ils ne fussent adresses au Saint-Enoch.

Une clameur leur repondit aussitot sur un signe du capitaine Bourcart!

“Ohe!… ohe!… par ici…”

Etaient-ce les indigenes d’une terre ou d’une ile du voisinage venus sur leurs embarcations?… Ne s’agissait-il pas plutot des survivants du Repton?… Leurs pirogues ne cherchaient-elles pas depuis la veille, au milieu de cet intense brouillard, a rallier le baleinier francais?…

Cette hypothese, la plus vraisemblable, etait la vraie.

Quelques minutes plus tard, guidees par les cris et par des detonations d’armes a feu, deux embarcations vinrent elonger le Saint-Enoch.

C’etaient les pirogues du Repton, montees par vingt-trois hommes, compris le capitaine King.

Ces pauvres gens, extenues de fatigue, tombaient d’inanition, n’ayant pas pu embarquer des vivres, tant la catastrophe avait ete soudaine. Apres avoir erre pendant vingt-quatre heures, ils mouraient de faim et de soif…

Les survivants du Repton furent recueillis et accueillis par M. Bourcart avec cette politesse dont il ne se departait jamais, et bien qu’il n’eut point a se louer de leurs procedes anterieurs. Avant d’interroger le capitaine King, avant de lui demander dans quelles circonstances son navire s’etait perdu, avant de lui faire connaitre la situation du Saint-Enoch, M. Bourcart donna ordre de servir a manger et a boire a ses nouveaux passagers.

Le capitaine King fut conduit au carre, les matelots descendirent dans le poste.

Treize hommes manquaient a l’equipage du capitaine King, treize, engloutis dans le naufrage du Repton!

CHAPITRE XIV

Vers le nord

Ou allait ainsi le Saint-Enoch sous l’action d’un moteur d’une puissance prodigieuse attache a ses flancs, le cap tantot au nord-est, tantot au nord-ouest?

Au milieu de l’obscurite profonde, impossible de rien distinguer. Le capitaine Bourcart et ses officiers cherchaient vainement a reconnaitre la direction. L’equipage etait au paroxysme de l’epouvante. Il ne restait plus une seule des embarcations dans lesquelles on eut pu se refugier, les amarres ayant casse au moment ou le navire s’etait remis en marche.

Cependant le Saint-Enoch fuyait avec une telle rapidite, que les hommes eussent ete renverses par la resistance de l’air. Ils durent s’etendre le long des parois, se coucher au pied des mats, s’accrocher aux taquets, abandonner la dunette pour ne point etre envoyes par-dessus le bord. La plupart des matelots s’affalerent dans le poste ou sous le gaillard d’avant. Quant a M. Bourcart, au capitaine King, au docteur Filhiol, au second, aux lieutenants, ils s’abriterent a l’interieur du carre. Il y aurait eu danger a se tenir sur le pont, car la mature risquait de venir en bas.

Et puis qu’y aurait-il eu a faire?… Au milieu de cette nuit noire on ne se voyait pas, on ne s’entendait meme pas. L’espace se remplissait de mugissements continus, auxquels s’ajoutaient les sifflements de l’air a travers les agres, bien qu’il ne passat pas un souffle. Si le vent se fut dechaine avec cette fureur, il eut dissipe l’intense brouillard, et, a travers les dechirures de nuages, on aurait apercu quelques etoiles.

“Non…, dit M. Heurtaux, le temps n’a pas cesse d’etre calme, et la violence de ces rafales ne provient que de notre vitesse!

— Il faut donc que la force de ce monstre, s’ecria le lieutenant Allotte, soit extraordinaire…

— Monstre… monstre!” repetait M. Bourcart.

Et, malgre ce qui paraissait etre l’evidence, tout comme le docteur Filhiol, le second et maitre Ollive, il se refusait encore a admettre l’existence d’un animal, serpent gigantesque ou saurien colossal, capable d’emporter un navire de cinq cents tonneaux avec cette invraisemblable impetuosite. Un mascaret provoque par quelque commotion sous-marine, un raz de maree d’une puissance infinie, tout ce que l’on voudrait, excepte de croire aux absurdes histoires de Jean-Marie Cabidoulin.

La nuit s’ecoula dans ces conditions. Ni la direction ni la position du navire ne s’etaient modifiees. Aux premieres lueurs de l’aube, le capitaine Bourcart et ses compagnons voulurent observer l’etat de la mer. A supposer que le tonnelier eut raison, qui sait si l’animal ne montrerait pas certaines parties de son corps, si meme il ne serait pas possible de le blesser mortellement, de delivrer le navire de ses formidables etreintes?… Appartenait-il a ce genre de cephalopodes connus sous le nom de poulpes, avec une tete de cheval, un bec de vautour, des tentacules qui se fussent etroitement enlaces autour de la coque du Saint-Enoch?… Ne se rangeait-il pas plutot dans cette classe des articules, recouverts d’une epaisse carapace, ichthyosaures, plesiosaures, crocodiles geants?… Etait-ce un de ces calmars, des ces krakens, de ces “mantas” deja rencontres sur certains parages de l’Atlantique ou du Pacifique, de dimensions telles que l’imagination n’aurait pu les rever?…

Le jour etait venu, jour blafard a travers un brouillard opaque. Rien ne laissait prevoir qu’il dut se dissoudre ni meme perdre de son extraordinaire intensite.

Telle etait la vitesse du Saint-Enoch que l’air cinglait les visages comme une mitraille. Il fut encore impossible de se tenir sur le pont. M. Bourcart et ses officiers durent donc rentrer dans le carre. Maitre Ollive, qui essaya de ramper jusqu’aux bastingages, n’y put parvenir et fut si brutalement repousse qu’il faillit s’ecraser contre l’escalier de la dunette: “Vingt mille diables! s’ecria-t-il lorsque les deux lieutenants l’eurent releve, j’ai bien cru que je ne serais plus en etat de payer bouteille a cette vieille bete de Cabidoulin.”

Ce que le capitaine Bourcart avait constate, cependant, c’est que le Saint-Enoch, pris par le travers, donnait une bande sur babord a faire croire qu’il allait chavirer.

Il va de soi que l’equipage n’avait point quitte le poste ni le gaillard d’avant. Il eut ete difficile, surtout au milieu des brumes, de communiquer de l’arriere a l’avant du navire. Heureusement la cambuse contenait assez de vivres, biscuits ou conserves, pour assurer la nourriture du bord.

“Que faire?… dit le second.

— Nous verrons, Heurtaux…, repondit M. Bourcart. Cette situation ne peut se prolonger…

— A moins que nous ne soyons emportes jusqu’a la mer Glaciale! repliqua le lieutenant Allotte.

— Et que le Saint-Enoch ait pu resister!…” ajouta le lieutenant Coquebert.

En ce moment, aux mugissements qui semblaient s’echapper des basses zones de l’Ocean se joignit un fracas effroyable.

Aussitot, maitre Ollive, qui se traina vers la porte de la dunette de s’ecrier: “La mature vient de s’affaler!”

C’etait une chance que personne n’eut pu s’aventurer sur le pont. Haubans, galhaubans, etais, avaient largue aux secousses du tangage et du roulis. Mats de perroquet et mats de hune s’etaient abattus en grand avec leurs vergues. Quelques-uns etaient retenus en dehors par leurs agres, au risque de defoncer le bordage. Il ne restait plus que les bas mats avec leurs hunes, contre lesquels battaient les voiles deferlees, qui ne tarderent pas a s’envoler par lambeaux. Le navire, ainsi desempare, ne perdit rien de sa vitesse, et les epaves le suivaient dans cet irresistible entrainement vers le nord du Pacifique.

“Ah! mon pauvre Saint-Enoch!”

Ces paroles desolees echapperent au capitaine Bourcart.

Jusqu’alors, il n’avait point perdu l’espoir que son batiment pourrait reprendre sa navigation, lorsqu’il se retrouverait dans des conditions normales. En effet, l’existence d’un monstre marin admise, il etait evident que ce monstre, si puissant qu’il fut, n’avait pas la force d’entrainer le Saint-Enoch dans l’abime… Il l’eut deja fait… Donc, il finirait par se fatiguer d’une telle charge et n’irait pas se fracasser avec lui contre quelque littoral de la cote asiatique ou de la cote americaine…

Oui!… M. Bourcart avait jusque-la espere que le navire en sortirait sain et sauf!… Mais, a present, sans mats ni voiles, et dans l’impossibilite de reparer ses avaries, quelles ressources offrait-il?…

Situation extraordinaire, en verite, et il n’avait pas tort, Jean Marie Cabidoulin, lorsqu’il disait: “On n’a jamais tout vu des choses de la mer, et il en reste toujours a voir!”

Cependant le capitaine Bourcart et ses officiers n’etaient pas de ces hommes sur lesquels le desespoir a prise. Tant que cette coque serait sous leurs pieds, ils ne croiraient pas avoir perdu toute chance de salut… Seulement pourraient-ils reagir contre la terreur a laquelle l’equipage s’abandonnait?…

Les chronometres marquaient alors huit heures du matin. Il y en avait donc environ douze d’ecoulees depuis que le Saint-Enoch s’etait remis en marche.

Evidemment, la force de traction, quelle qu’elle fut, devait etre prodigieuse, non moins prodigieuse la vitesse imprimee au batiment. Du reste, certains savants ont calcule, — que n’ont-ils pas calcule et que ne calculeront-ils pas dans l’avenir! — la puissance des grands cetaces. Une baleine, longue de vingt-trois metres, pesant environ soixante-dix tonnes, possede la force de cent quarante chevaux-vapeur, soit quatre cent vingt chevaux de trait, force que ne developpent point encore les locomotives les plus perfectionnees. Aussi, comme le disait le docteur Filhiol, peut-etre, un jour, les navires se feront-ils remorquer par un attelage de baleines, et les ballons par un attelage d’aigles, de condors ou de vautours?… Or, d’apres ces chiffres, l’on juge de ce que pouvait etre la valeur mecanique d’un monstre marin qui devait mesurer de quatre a cinq cents pieds de longueur!

Lorsque le docteur Filhiol demanda au capitaine Bourcart a combien il estimait la marche du Saint-Enoch, — marche qui, d’ailleurs, semblait uniforme: “Elle ne peut etre moindre de quarante lieues a l’heure, repondit M. Bourcart.

— Nous aurions fait alors pres de cinq cents lieues depuis douze heures?…

— Oui!… pres de cinq cents lieues!”

Que cela soit pour surprendre, il est certain qu’il existe des exemples de rapidite meme superieure. Et, precisement, dans l’ocean Pacifique, voici le phenomene qui avait ete signale, quelques annees avant, par un commandant des stations navales.

A la suite d’un violent tremblement de terre sur les cotes du Perou, une immense ondulation de l’Ocean s’etendit jusqu’au littoral australien. Ce fut par bonds precipites que cette lame, longue de deux lieues, parcourut pres du tiers du globe avec une vitesse vertigineuse estimee a cent quatre-vingt-trois metres par seconde, soit six cent cinquante-huit kilometres par heure. Lancee contre les nombreux archipels du Pacifique, precedee d’une lointaine oscillation sous-marine, son arrivee s’annoncait par un grand bruissement aux abords des terres; et, l’obstacle franchi ou tourne, se deplacait plus rapidement encore.

Ce fait precisement rapporte dans le Journal du Havre, M. Bourcart le connaissait et, apres l’avoir cite a ses compagnons, il ajouta: “Je ne serais donc pas etonne que nous fussions temoins et victimes d’un phenomene de ce genre… Une poussee volcanique se sera produite au fond de l’Ocean, et de la l’origine de cet ecueil inconnu sur lequel s’est echoue le Saint-Enoch… Puis, de meme qu’a la suite du tremblement de terre du Perou, une enorme lame, un extraordinaire raz de maree aura pris naissance, et, apres nous avoir arraches a l’ecueil, c’est lui qui nous entraine vers le nord…

— A mon avis, declara M. Heurtaux, en voyant le capitaine King faire un signe approbatif, voila qui parait autrement admissible que l’existence d’un monstre marin…

— Et quel monstre, ajouta le docteur Filhiol, capable de transporter notre navire avec une vitesse de quarante lieues a l’heure!

— Bon! repondit maitre Ollive, allez dire cela a Jean-Marie Cabidoulin, et vous verrez s’il abandonne son kraken, son calmar ou son serpent de mer!”

Peu importait, en somme, que le tonnelier s’entetat a ses histoires fantastico-marines. L’essentiel eut ete de reconnaitre jusqu’a quelle latitude le Saint-Enoch pouvait s’etre eleve ce jour-la.

M. Bourcart prit sa carte et chercha a etablir la position. Tres vraisemblablement, la direction suivie s’etait maintenue vers le nord. Il y avait donc lieu d’admettre que le navire, apres avoir franchi le long semis des Kouriles au large de la derniere ile, avait traverse la mer de Behring. Autrement, il se fut deja fracasse soit contre cet archipel, soit contre celui des Aleoutiennes plus a l’est. A la surface de ce bassin aucune terre n’emergeait qui eut pu lui faire obstacle. Il devait meme, etant donnee sa vitesse, avoir franchi ce detroit a peine large d’une quinzaine de lieues. Or, en le franchissant, il eut suffi que l’immense lame obliquat de quelques milles a l’est ou a l’ouest pour se jeter sur le cap Orient de la terre d’Asie ou sur le cap du Prince de Galles de la terre d’Amerique. Mais, puisque cet ecart ne s’etait pas produit, pouvait-on douter que le Saint-Enoch ne fut deja en plein ocean Arctique?…

Et alors le docteur Filhiol de demander a M. Bourcart: “A quelle distance de cet ecueil se trouvait donc situee la mer polaire?

— Dix-sept degres environ, repondit le capitaine, ce qui, a vingt-cinq lieues par degre, donne pres de quatre cent vingt-cinq lieues…

— Ainsi, declara M. Heurtaux, nous ne devons pas etre eloignes du soixante-dixieme parallele!”

Le soixante-dixieme parallele, c’est celui qui limite l’ocean Arctique, et, a cette epoque de l’annee, la banquise polaire devait etre proche!

Les cinquante-six hommes, embarques sur le Saint-Enoch, couraient vraisemblablement a la plus epouvantable des catastrophes. Ce serait au milieu des solitudes hyperboreennes que se perdrait leur navire. A cette latitude se rencontreraient les glaces deja immobilisees au dela du detroit de Behring, les ice-fields, les icebergs, et l’infranchissable banquise arctique…

Et que deviendrait l’equipage, en admettant qu’il ne fut pas englouti a la suite d’une violente collision?… Qu’il parvint a se refugier sur un champ de glaces, sur l’un des archipels de ces parages, la Nouvelle-Siberie, la terre de Wrangel ou quelque autre groupe insulaire, a plusieurs centaines de milles des cotes de l’Asie et de l’Amerique, sur une de ces iles inhabitees et inhabitables, sans vivres, et sans abri, expose a ces froids excessifs qui, des octobre, enveloppent les regions de la mer Glaciale, quel sort l’y attendait?… Il n’y saurait hiverner, et comment atteindre les provinces de la Siberie ou de l’Alaska?…

Il est vrai, au sortir du detroit de Behring, l’enorme ondulation oceanique, ayant un plus large espace pour s’etendre, devait perdre en force et en vitesse. Et puis ne fallait-il pas compter avec la baisse qu’indiquait la colonne barometrique? Au milieu des rafales sur une mer demontee, alors que le vent soufflerait en tempete, peut-etre le phenomene epuise rendrait-il sa liberte au Saint-Enoch!… Toutefois, desempare, sous le coup des tourmentes a ce debut de l’hiver arctique, comment resisterait-il et que deviendrait-il?… Et quelle affreuse perspective pour le capitaine Bourcart et ses compagnons, sur ce navire dont ils ne seraient plus maitres, perdu au fond de ces lointains parages!…

Telle etait la situation que ni l’energie, ni l’intelligence, ni le courage ne seraient en etat de modifier.

La matinee s’ecoula. Le Saint-Enoch continuait a etre emporte tantot par le travers, tantot par l’arriere ou par l’avant, comme une epave abandonnee au caprice de la mer. Ce qui rendait cette situation plus effrayante, c’est que le regard ne parvenait pas a percer ce rideau de brumes. D’ailleurs, etant donnee l’impossibilite de se tenir sur le pont, c’est seulement a travers les etroites fenetres du carre que M. Bourcart et ses officiers eussent pu observer le large. Ils ne savaient donc pas si le navire passait en vue de terre, a proximite de l’une ou l’autre rive du detroit de Behring, si quelque ile des archipels arctiques se montrait contre laquelle l’extraordinaire ondulation fut venue se briser, et le Saint-Enoch avec elle!…

Dans tous les cas, le denouement ne pouvait etre qu’un naufrage a bref delai auquel ne survivrait sans doute pas un seul homme de l’equipage!…

“Mais creve donc, maudit brouillard, creve donc!” s’ecriait le lieutenant Allotte.

Le brouillard se dissipa dans l’apres-midi sous l’influence de la baisse barometrique. Ses volutes remonterent vers les hautes zones, et, si le soleil ne fut pas visible, du moins le regard put-il s’etendre jusqu’a l’horizon.

Vers quatre heures du soir, la vitesse du Saint-Enoch sembla diminuer. Allait-il se degager enfin?… Ce ne serait qu’un navire desempare; mais, si le capitaine Bourcart reussissait a etablir quelque voile de fortune, peut-etre parviendrait-il a revenir vers le sud…

“Tout… dit M. Heurtaux, tout plutot que d’aller s’ecraser contre la banquise!”

A ce moment, maitre Ollive essaya de sortir du carre. La resistance de l’air etant moins forte, il y parvint. M. Bourcart, le capitaine King, le docteur Filhiol, les lieutenants, le suivirent et vinrent s’accoter contre le bastingage de tribord, en se retenant aux taquets.

Jean-Marie Cabidoulin, le charpentier, le forgeron, les harponneurs, une douzaine de matelots, tant Anglais que Francais, remonterent du poste et se placerent en observation sur la coursive entre les pavois et la cabousse.

Le Saint-Enoch presentait alors le cap au nord-nord-est, emporte sur le dos de cette large ondulation dont la hauteur s’abaissait en meme temps que decroissait sa rapidite.

Aucune terre en vue.

Quant a ce monstre marin auquel le navire eut ete attache depuis une vingtaine d’heures, il ne se laissait pas apercevoir, quoi que put dire le tonnelier.

Et tous d’esperer, tous de se raffermir aux encourageantes paroles que fit entendre le capitaine Bourcart. Aussi maitre Ollive crut-il opportun de plaisanter Jean-Marie Cabidoulin sur son crocodile poulpo-krako-kraque.

“Tu as perdu ta bouteille… vieux!… dit-il en lui frappant sur l’epaule.

— Je l’ai gagnee, repliqua maitre Cabidoulin, mais ni toi ni moi ne serons la pour la boire…

— Quoi!… tu pretends que ton monstre…

— Est toujours la… et, en regardant bien, on distingue tantot sa queue… tantot sa tete!…

— Tout ca… des imaginations de ta sacree caboche!…

— Et il nous tient dans ses pinces… et il ne nous lachera pas… et je sais bien ou il nous mene…

— Il nous mene la d’ou nous reviendrons, vieux!… riposta maitre Ollive. Et, apres bouteille de tafia, bouteille de rhum que nous nous en tirerons sains et saufs!…”

Jean-Marie Cabidoulin haussa les epaules, et jamais il n’avait jete un plus meprisant regard sur son camarade! Penche au-dessus de la lisse, c’est qu’il croyait reellement voir la tete du monstre, une sorte de tete de cheval a bec enorme, sortant d’une epaisse criniere, puis, a quelques centaines de pieds, sa queue monstrueuse battant avec fureur les eaux denivelees sur une large etendue!… Et, pour tout dire, novices et matelots voyaient tout cela par les yeux de l’entete tonnelier.

Cependant, si aucune terre ne se relevait au nord, des glaces flottantes se deplacaient alors sur un vaste espace. Aucun doute, le Saint-Enoch traversait les parages polaires au dela du detroit. De combien de degres au-dessus du soixante-dixieme parallele, cela n’aurait pu etre etabli que par une observation impossible a cette heure avancee du jour.

Au surplus, moins de dix minutes apres, le matelot Gastinet, qui venait de se hisser a la hune de misaine, criait d’une voix retentissante: “Banquise par babord devant!”

Un ice-field apparaissait a la distance de trois milles vers le nord. Plat comme un miroir, il reverberait les derniers rayons du soleil. Au fond, les premiers blocs de la banquise, dont la crete se profilait a une centaine de toises au-dessus du niveau de la mer. Sur l’ice-field, tout un monde d’oiseaux, mouettes, guillemots, manchots fregates, tandis que les phoques, par couples nombreux, rampaient sur ses bords.

La banquise pouvait etre eloignee de trois a quatre milles, et le vent, qui fraichissait, y portait directement. La mer etait assurement plus houleuse que ne le comportait la brise, ce qui tenait a ce que l’enorme lame courait encore au milieu des glacons entrechoques. Et, sans doute, elle viendrait se tuer contre l’inebranlable barriere arctique.

Aussi de lourds paquets de mer tombaient-ils sur le pont du Saint-Enoch dont les pavois furent defonces par le travers du mat de misaine. A un moment, le navire donna une telle bande que l’eau l’envahit jusqu’a la dunette. Si les panneaux de la cale n’eussent resiste, il aurait coule a pic.

A mesure que tombait le jour, la tourmente s’accentuait et se dechainait en effroyables rafales melangees de neige.

Enfin, vers sept heures du soir, le Saint-Enoch, une derniere fois souleve, fut precipite sur l’ice-field, le traversa en glissant a sa surface et vint buter contre les blocs de la banquise.

CHAPITRE XV

Denouement

En quelle partie de la mer arctique le Saint-Enoch avait-il ete entraine depuis le moment ou il s’etait detache de l’ecueil, c’est-a-dire depuis vingt-quatre heures environ?…

A la levee du brouillard, M. Bourcart avait observe que son navire se dirigeait vers le nord-nord-ouest. S’il ne s’etait point ecarte de cette direction a la sortie du detroit de Behring, ses compagnons et lui pourraient peut-etre rallier la terre ferme en se portant vers le littoral de la Siberie ou les iles avoisinantes. Le rapatriement s’effectuerait alors moins peniblement qu’a travers les interminables espaces de l’Alaska americaine.

La nuit etait arrivee, — une nuit obscure et glaciale, avec un froid de dix degres centigrades au-dessous de zero.

La collision avait ete assez violente pour que les bas mats du navire se fussent rompus en meme temps que se defoncait sa coque.

Ce fut un miracle si personne ne fut grievement blesse — quelques contusions seulement. Les hommes, projetes contre les bastingages purent prendre pied sur le champ de glace, ou M. Bourcart et les officiers les rejoignirent aussitot.

Il n’y avait plus qu’a attendre le jour. Toutefois, au lieu de rester au plein air pendant de longues heures, mieux valait remonter a bord. Aussi le capitaine en donna-t-il l’ordre. S’il n’etait possible de faire du feu ni dans le carre ni dans le poste presque entierement demolis, du moins l’equipage y trouverait abri contre les rafales de neige qui se dechainaient avec fureur. Des l’aube, M. Bourcart aviserait aux mesures qu’il conviendrait d’adopter.

Le Saint-Enoch s’etait redresse en heurtant la base de la banquise. Mais quelles avaries irreparables!… Coque ouverte en plusieurs endroits au-dessous de la ligne de flottaison, pont defonce ou disjoint, cloisons interieures des cabines disloquees. Cependant, les officiers purent s’installer a l’interieur de la dunette tant bien que mal, les matelots dans la cale et dans le poste.

Tel avait ete le denouement de cette situation, en ce qui concernait du moins le phenomene provoque par un irresistible mouvement du seuil oceanique entre le cinquantieme et le soixante dixieme parallele.

Maintenant, qu’allaient devenir les naufrages du Saint-Enoch et du Repton.

M. Bourcart et le second avaient pu retrouver leurs cartes au milieu des debris du carre. Eclaires par la lueur d’un fanal, ils cherchaient a etablir la position du Saint-Enoch.

“C’est depuis le soir du 22 jusqu’au soir du 23 octobre, dit M. Bourcart, que cette lame l’a emporte vers le nord-ouest de la mer polaire…

— Et avec une vitesse qu’on ne peut estimer a moins de quarante lieues a l’heure!… repondit M. Heurtaux.

— Aussi, declara le capitaine, je ne serais pas surpris que nous ayons atteint les parages de la terre de Wrangel.”

Si M. Bourcart ne faisait point erreur, si la banquise s’appuyait sur cette terre voisine de la cote siberienne, il n’y aurait qu’a traverser le detroit de Long pour gagner le pays des Tchouktchis, dont la pointe la plus avancee sur l’ocean Glacial est le cap Nord. Mais peut-etre etait-il regrettable que le Saint-Enoch n’eut pas ete rejete plus a l’ouest sur l’archipel de la Nouvelle-Siberie. A l’embouchure de la Lena, le rapatriement aurait pu s’accomplir dans des conditions meilleures, et les bourgades ne manquent pas en cette region des Yacoutes que traverse le cercle polaire.

A tout prendre, la situation n’etait pas desesperee. Les naufrages n’etaient pas sans avoir des chances de salut. Il est vrai, que de fatigues, que de privations, que de miseres!… Cheminer pendant des centaines de milles sur ces ice-fields, sans abri, exposes a toutes les rigueurs de ce climat dans la saison hivernale!… Et encore fallait-il que le detroit de Long fut solidifie par le froid dans toute sa largeur pour permettre d’atteindre la cote siberienne.

“Le plus grand malheur, fit observer M. Heurtaux, est que les avaries du Saint-Enoch ne soient pas reparables!… Il eut ete possible de creuser un canal a travers le champ de glaces, et notre navire aurait pu reprendre la mer…

— Et, ajouta M. Bourcart, nous n’avons pas meme une seule embarcation!… En construire avec les debris du Saint-Enoch, pouvant contenir une cinquantaine d’hommes, y parviendrons-nous, les vivres ne nous manqueraient-ils pas avant qu’elles eussent ete achevees?…”

Le jour reparut, et c’est a peine si le soleil montra son disque blafard, sans chaleur, presque sans lumiere, au-dessus de l’horizon.

L’ice-field se developpait a perte de vue vers l’ouest et vers l’est. Au sud s’ouvrait ce detroit de Long, encombre de glacons, dont l’hiver allait faire une surface ininterrompue jusqu’au littoral asiatique. Il est vrai, tant que ces parages ne seraient pas pris sur toute leur etendue, M. Bourcart et ses compagnons ne pourraient les franchir pour gagner le continent.

Tous quitterent le bord et le capitaine fit proceder a la visite du Saint-Enoch.

Il n’y eut a se faire aucune illusion. Coque ecrasee contre la banquise, varangues fracassees, membrures rompues, bordages largues, quille detachee au talon, gouvernail demonte, etambot fausse, autant d’avaries impossibles a reparer, ainsi que le declarerent, apres examen, le charpentier Ferut et le forgeron Thomas.

Il n’y aurait donc a choisir qu’entre deux partis:

Ou se mettre en route le jour meme, en se chargeant de tout ce qui restait de vivres, et remonter a l’ouest, vers cette partie de la mer peut-etre prise par les glaces jusqu’au littoral sous l’influence du courant polaire.

Ou etablir un campement au pied de la banquise et l’occuper en attendant que le passage du detroit de Long devint praticable a des pietons.

Le pour et le contre se rencontraient dans ces deux projets. En tous cas, il ne pouvait etre question d’hiverner a cette place jusqu’au retour de la saison chaude. En admettant que l’on parvint a creuser une retraite dans le soubassement de la banquise, ainsi que l’ont fait quelques baleiniers, comment vivre pendant sept a huit mois encore?… Ne point oublier qu’il s’agissait de nourrir cinquante-six hommes, dont l’alimentation n’etait assuree que pendant une quinzaine de jours, — trois semaines au plus, meme en se reduisant au strict necessaire. Compter sur la chasse ou la peche eut ete trop incertain. Puis, comment organiser le chauffage, si ce n’est en brulant les debris du navire?… Et apres que deviendraient les naufrages?…

Quant a l’arrivee d’un batiment en vue de la banquise, les deux tiers de l’annee s’ecouleraient avant que ces parages redevinssent navigables!…

Le capitaine Bourcart prit donc la resolution de partir des que serait achevee la construction de traineaux, auxquels, a defaut de chiens, s’attelleraient les hommes.

Il convient de dire que ce projet, adopte par l’equipage du Saint-Enoch, le fut egalement et sans discussion par le personnel du Repton.

Peut-etre, cependant, les Anglais eussent-ils prefere se mettre separement en route. Mais, faute de vivres, ils ne l’auraient pu, et le capitaine Bourcart n’eut jamais consenti a leur en fournir dans ces conditions.

Et, d’ailleurs, les naufrages etaient-ils exactement fixes sur la position de l’ice-field?… Avaient-ils la certitude de se trouver dans le voisinage de la terre de Wrangel?… Aussi, lorsque le docteur Filhiol posa cette question au capitaine:

“Je ne puis vous repondre d’une facon positive… declara M. Bourcart. Avec mes instruments, j’aurais su relever notre position, s’ils n’eussent ete brises… Je pense pourtant que cet ice-field doit etre a proximite de la terre de Wrangel, a moins qu’il ne subisse l’action d’un courant qui porterait a l’ouest ou a l’est du detroit de Behring.”

L’hypothese etait plausible. Or, sans points de repere, comment reconnaitre si le champ de glace etait immobilise ou s’il derivait avec la banquise…

En effet, deux forts courants traversent ces parages. L’un vient du nord-ouest en contournant le cap Orient de la presqu’ile des Tchouktschis, l’autre vient du nord pour se reunir au premier qui remonte le long de la cote alaskienne jusqu’a la pointe de Barrow.

Quoi qu’il en soit, le depart etait decide. Aussi, sur l’ordre du capitaine, maitre Cabidoulin, le charpentier et le forgeron se mirent-ils a la besogne. Il s’agissait de construire trois traineaux avec les planches et les espars retires du Saint-Enoch, dont la coque continuerait a servir d’abri. Quant au combustible, dont il faudrait emporter le plus possible, les mats et les vergues le fourniraient en abondance.

Ce travail devait durer trois jours, a la condition de ne pas perdre son temps. Les Anglais offrirent leurs services, et M. Bourcart comptait surtout y recourir pendant le cheminement. Ce ne serait pas trop de tous les bras pour enlever ces lourds traineaux au cours d’un si long voyage.

Plusieurs fois, les deux capitaines, les lieutenants et le docteur Filhiol monterent a la crete de la banquise, dont les pentes etaient assez praticables. De cette hauteur de trois cents pieds, le rayon de visibilite mesurait environ cinquante kilometres. Aucune terre n’apparut dans le champ des longues-vues. En direction du sud, c’etait toujours la mer charriant des glaces et non l’ice-field ininterrompu!… Il etait a supposer que quelques semaines s’ecouleraient encore avant que le detroit de Long fut pris sur toute son etendue… si c’etait bien le detroit de Long qui s’ouvrait de ce cote…

Durant ces trois jours, le campement ne fut point trouble par la visite des ours blancs. Deux ou trois de ces animaux, qui ne laissent pas d’etre redoutables, apres s’etre montres entre les glacons, se retirerent des qu’on voulut les poursuivre.

Enfin, a la date du 26 octobre, dans la soiree, la construction des traineaux fut achevee. On les chargea des caisses de conserves, viandes, legumes et biscuits, d’une forte provision de bois, d’un paquet de voiles destinees a l’etablissement de tentes, lorsque les tempetes de neige rendraient le cheminement impossible.

Le lendemain, apres une derniere nuit passee dans le poste et le carre, apres un dernier repas a bord, M. Bourcart et ses compagnons, le capitaine King et les siens, se mirent en marche.

Ce depart ne se fit pas sans une vive emotion, sans un profond serrement de coeur!… Cette epave, qui avait ete le Saint-Enoch, les yeux ne la quitterent qu’au moment ou elle disparut derriere les hauteurs de la banquise!…

Et comme maitre Ollive, toujours plein de confiance, disait au tonnelier:

“Eh bien… vieux… on s’en tirera tout de meme!… On reverra la jetee du Havre…

— Nous… qui sait?… mais pas le Saint-Enoch”, se contenta de repondre Jean-Marie

Cabidoulin.

Il n’y a pas lieu de rapporter par le detail les incidents de ce voyage a la surface de l’ice-field. Le plus grand danger etait que les vivres et le combustible vinssent a faire defaut si le cheminement venait a se prolonger.

La petite caravane marchait en ordre regulier. Les deux lieutenants tenaient la tete. Ils s’eloignaient parfois d’un ou deux milles afin de reconnaitre la route, lorsque les blocs la barraient. Il fallait alors contourner de hauts ice-bergs, ce qui accroissait d’autant les etapes.

Quant a la temperature, elle oscillait entre vingt et trente degres au-dessous de zero, — moyenne ordinaire a cette latitude au debut de la periode hivernale.

Et les jours se succedaient, et au sud de l’ice-field se developpait invariablement la mer, couverte de glaces flottantes. M. Bourcart observait, d’ailleurs, qu’un courant assez rapide entrainait ces glaces dans la direction de l’ouest, c’est-a-dire vers le detroit de Long, dont les traineaux avaient deja du depasser l’entree occidentale. Au sud se developpait probablement ce large bras de mer que bornent les iles Liakhov et l’archipel de la Nouvelle-Siberie.

Au sujet des eventualites a prevoir, lorsqu’il en causait avec ses officiers, le capitaine Bourcart exprimait la crainte d’etre oblige de remonter jusqu’a ces iles, que plusieurs centaines de milles separent du continent asiatique. Or, c’est a peine si la caravane pouvait en faire une douzaine par vingt-quatre heures, dont douze etaient reservees au repos de la nuit. Et, meme, comme les jours d’octobre sont de courte duree sous cette haute latitude, comme le soleil ne decrit au-dessus de l’horizon qu’une courbe de plus en plus retrecie, c’etait au milieu d’une demi-obscurite que le cheminement s’effectuait au prix de fatigues excessives.

Cependant ces hommes courageux ne se plaignaient pas. Il n’y avait rien a reprocher aux Anglais qui prenaient leur part du trainage. Lorsque M. Bourcart donnait le signal de halte, on formait des tentes au moyen de voiles disposees sur des espars, on distribuait la nourriture, on allumait le fourneau, on preparait quelque boisson chaude, grog ou cafe, et tous s’endormaient jusqu’au depart.

Mais quelles souffrances, lorsque les rafales se dechainaient avec une violence inouie, lorsque le chasse-neige balayait le champ de glace, lorsque la marche s’operait a contre-vent au milieu d’une epaisse et aveuglante poussiere blanche! On ne se voyait pas a quelques metres. La direction ne pouvait etre relevee qu’a la boussole dont l’aiguille, affolee, ne donnait plus d’indications suffisantes. M. Bourcart, — et il ne l’avouait qu’a M. Heurtaux, — se sentait egare a travers ces immenses solitudes… Il en etait reduit a longer la lisiere de l’ice-field que battaient les lames du large, au lieu de piquer droit au sud. Or, la mer s’etendait toujours de ce cote… Faudrait-il donc s’embarquer sur ces glacons en derive… s’en remettre au hasard pour atteindre la cote siberienne?… Non, a mesure que la temperature s’abaisserait, ces glacons, presses les uns contre les autres, finiraient par ne former qu’un champ solide de la surface du bassin polaire. Mais si des semaines s’ecoulaient avant que la mer ne se fut solidifiee, les vivres, malgre toute l’economie qu’on apportait, le bois, dont la consommation se reduisait a la cuisson des aliments, ne manqueraient-ils pas?…

Deja plusieurs des novices etaient a bout de forces, et le docteur Filhiol les soignait de son mieux. Ah! que de fatigues eussent ete evitees si les traineaux avaient eu un de ces attelages de chiens habitues aux plaines siberiennes ou kamtchadales! Doues d’un merveilleux instinct, ces animaux savent s’orienter au milieu des tourbillons de neige, alors que leurs maitres sont reduits a l’impuissance…

Enfin, on alla ainsi jusqu’au 19 novembre.

Vingt-quatre jours s’etaient ecoules depuis le depart. Il n’avait pas ete possible de descendre vers le sud-ouest, la ou M. Bourcart esperait rencontrer les points avances du continent aux approches des iles Liakhov.

Les vivres etaient presque epuises et, avant quarante-huit heures les naufrages n’auraient plus qu’a s’arreter a leur dernier campement, a y attendre la plus horrible des morts!…

“Navire… navire!…”

Enfin ce cri, dans la matinee du 20 novembre, fut pousse par Romain Allotte, et a tous les regards apparut le batiment que le lieutenant venait de signaler.

C’etait un trois-mats-barque, un baleinier qui, toutes voiles dehors, par fraiche brise du nord-ouest, se dirigeait vers le detroit de Behring.

M. Bourcart et ses compagnons, abandonnant les traineaux, retrouverent assez de forces pour courir vers la lisiere de l’ice-field.

La des signaux furent faits, des coups de fusil tires…

Ils avaient ete apercus et entendus… Le batiment mit aussitot en panne, et deux embarcations s’en detacherent…

Une demi-heure apres, les naufrages etaient a bord… sauves par cette intervention, on peut dire providentielle.

Ce navire, le World de Belfast, capitaine Morris, apres avoir termine tardivement sa campagne de peche, se rendait en Nouvelle-Zelande.

Inutile de dire que l’accueil reserve a l’equipage du Saint-Enoch comme a celui du Repton fut des plus genereux. Et, lorsque les deux capitaines raconterent dans quelles extraordinaires circonstances s’etaient perdus leurs navires, il fallut pourtant bien les croire!

A un mois de la, le World debarquait a Dunedin les survivants de ce sinistre maritime.

Et alors, le capitaine King de dire au capitaine Bourcart en prenant conge:

“Vous nous avez recueillis a bord du Saint-Enoch, et je vous ai remercie…

— Comme nous remercions votre compatriote, le capitaine Morris, de nous avoir recueillis a bord du World…, repondit M. Bourcart.

— Aussi sommes-nous quittes… declara l’Anglais.

— Comme il vous plaira…

— Bonsoir…

— Bonsoir!”

Et ce fut tout.

Quant au kraken, kalmar, cephalopode, serpent de mer, selon qu’on voudra l’appeler, le World, en depit des pronostics dont maitre Cabidoulin continuait a ne point se montrer avare, fut assez heureux pour ne point le rencontrer pendant sa traversee de la mer polaire a la Nouvelle-Zelande. D’autre part, ni M. Bourcart ni ses compagnons ne l’apercurent pendant leur traversee de la Nouvelle-Zelande en Europe. Les lieutenants Coquebert et Allotte se rendaient enfin compte que c’etait une lame enorme, douee d’une incomparable vitesse, qui avait emporte le Saint-Enoch jusqu’a la banquise.

Quant a Jean-Marie Cabidoulin, avec la majorite de l’equipage il tenait toujours pour son prodigieux monstre marin…

En tout cas, il n’y a pas certitude que les oceans renferment de tels animaux. Aussi, en attendant que les ichthyologistes aient constate leur existence et decide en quelle famille, quel genre, quelle espece, il conviendra de les classer, mieux vaut releguer ce qu’on en rapporte au rang des legendes.

Le capitaine Bourcart et ses compagnons rentrerent donc au Havre. Cette fois, ce ne fut pas a bord de leur navire.

Cependant, grace a la vente de la premiere cargaison a Victoria de Vancouver, la campagne donna des benefices, et, quant au Saint-Enoch, la perte en fut couverte par les assureurs. Mais les larmes venaient aux yeux du capitaine, lorsqu’il songeait a son pauvre batiment abandonne au pied de la banquise arctique!

En ce qui concerne maitre Ollive et maitre Cabidoulin, ils s’offrirent reciproquement les bouteilles de tafia et de rhum pariees gagnees, perdues, au cours du voyage. Et, lorsque le premier dit au second:

“Eh bien… vieux… est-ce que tu y crois toujours?…

— Si j’y crois… apres ce qui nous est arrive!…

— Ainsi, tu affirmes avoir vu la bete?…

— Comme je te vois.

— Entend-tu par la que j’en sois une?…

— Oui… puisque tu ne veux pas y croire!…

— Merci!”

On le voit, le tonnelier n’a point change d’opinion. Il persiste a admettre l’existence du monstre, et dans ses sempiternelles histoires revient sans cesse le recit des aventures du Saint-Enoch!…

Mais, qu’on en soit sur, cette campagne aura ete le derniere de Jean-Marie Cabidoulin.

THE KIP BROTHERS

This 1902 adventure novel concerns two brothers, who are convicted of a murder and condemned to a penal colony. They escape and seek the evidence that will clear their name.

Unfortunately, this novel was first published in English in 2007, and so is not available in this edition due to copyright restrictions. The original French text has been provided in its place.

The original frontispiece

The first English translation, 2007 - 105 years after the French publication

LES FRERES KIP

TABLE DES MATIERES

PREMIERE PARTIE

I - La taverne des “Three-Magpies”

II - Le brick “James-Cook”

III - Vin Mod a l’oeuvre

IV - A Wellington

V - Quelques jours de navigation

VI - En vue de l’ile Norfolk

VII - Les deux freres

VIII - La mer de Corail

IX - A travers la Louisiade

X - En remontant vers le nord

XI - Port-Praslin

XII - Trois semaines dans l’archipel

XIII - L’assassinat

XIV - Incidents

SECONDE PARTIE

I - Hobart-Town

II - Projets d’avenir

III - Derniere manoeuvre

IV - Devant le Conseil maritime

V - Les suites de l’affaire

VI - Le verdict

VII - En attendant l’execution

VIII - Port-Arthur

IX - Ensemble

X - Les fenians

XI - Le billet

XII - La pointe Saint-James

XIII - L’evasion

XIV - Suites de l’affaire

XV - Le fait nouveau

XVI - Conclusion

PREMIERE PARTIE

I - La taverne des “Three-Magpies”

A cette epoque, - 1885, - quarante-six ans apres avoir ete occupee par la Grande-Bretagne, qui en fit une dependance de la Nouvelle-Galles du Sud, trente-deux ans apres son etablissement en colonie detachee de la Couronne et se gouvernant elle-meme, la Nouvelle-Zelande etait encore devoree par la fievre endemique de l’or. Les desordres qu’engendre cette fievre ne furent pas aussi destructeurs qu’ils l’avaient ete en certaines provinces du continent australien. Cependant il en resulta des troubles regrettables dont se ressentit l’esprit de la population des deux iles. La province d’Otago, qui comprend la partie meridionale de Tawai-Pounamou, fut envahie par les chercheurs de places. Les gisements de la Clutha attirerent nombre d’aventuriers. On s’en rendra compte par ce fait que le rendement des gites auriferes de la Nouvelle-Zelande, entre 1864 et 1889, s’eleva a douze cents millions de francs.

Les Australiens, les Chinois ne furent pas seuls a s’abattre comme une volee d’oiseaux de proie sur ces riches territoires. Americains, Europeens y affluerent. Et s’etonnera-t-on que les equipages des navires de commerce a destination d’Auckland, de Wellington, de Christchurch, de Napier, d’Invercargill, de Dunedin, ne fussent assez fermes pour resister a cette attraction des leur arrivee au port?… En vain les capitaines essayaient-ils de retenir les matelots; en vain les autorites maritimes leur pretaient-elles concours!… La desertion sevissait, et les rades s’encombraient de batiments qui, faute d’hommes, ne pouvaient partir.

Parmi ceux-ci, a Dunedin, on remarquait le brick anglais James-Cook.

Des huit matelots appartenant au personnel du batiment, quatre seulement n’avaient point abandonne le bord, les quatre autres ayant decampe avec la ferme volonte de ne pas rembarquer.

Douze heures apres leur disparition, ils devaient etre deja loin de Dunedin, se dirigeant vers les gisements de la province. En relache depuis une quinzaine de jours, son chargement termine, son navire pret a prendre la mer, le capitaine n’avait pas pu remplacer les manquants. Ni l’appat de gages plus eleves, ni la perspective d’un voyage de quelques mois seulement ne lui avaient amene des recrues, et encore craignait-il que les hommes restes a bord ne fussent tentes de rejoindre leurs camarades. Aussi, tandis qu’il cherchait de son cote, le maitre d’equipage du James-Cook, Flig Balt, cherchait du sien dans les tavernes, dans les taps ou chez les logeurs, a completer l’equipage.

Dunedin est situee sur la cote sud-est de cette ile du Sud que le detroit de Cook separe de l’ile du Nord, - en langue indigene Tawai-Pounamou et Ika-na-Maoui, dont se compose la Nouvelle-Zelande. En 1839, a la place occupee par la cite, Dumont d’Urville n’avait trouve que quelques huttes maories la ou l’on voit actuellement des palais, des hotels, des places, des squares en pleine verdure, des rues sillonnees de tramways, des gares, des entrepots, des marches, des banques, des eglises, des colleges, des hopitaux, des quartiers actifs, des faubourgs qui s’accroissent sans cesse. C’est une ville industrielle et commercante, riche et luxueuse, d’ou rayonnent des multiples railways en toutes directions. Elle compte pres de cinquante mille habitants, population moins nombreuse que celle d’Auckland, la capitale de l’ile du Nord, mais plus nombreuse que celle de Wellington, le siege du gouvernement de la colonie neo-zelandaise.

Au pied de la ville, disposee en amphitheatre sur une colline, s’arrondit le port, dans lequel les navires de tout tonnage ont acces depuis qu’un chenal a ete amenage a partir de Fort-Chalmers.

Parmi les tavernes qui foisonnent en ce bas quartier, l’une des plus bruyantes, l’une des plus achalandees, etait celle d’Adam Fry, l’hotelier des Three-Magpies. Cet homme corpulent, haut en couleur, ne valait guere mieux que les boissons de son comptoir, juste autant que ses clients habituels, tous chenapans et ivrognes.

Ce soir-la, deux consommateurs etaient attables dans un coin devant deux verres et une pinte de gin a demi videe qu’ils auraient epuisee jusqu’a la derniere goutte avant de quitter la taverne. C’etaient des marins du James-Cook, le maitre d’equipage Flig Balt, en compagnie d’un matelot nomme Vin Mod.

“Tu as donc toujours soif, Mod?… demanda Flig Balt en remplissant le gobelet de son invite.

- Toujours entre les repas, monsieur Balt, repondit le matelot. Le gin apres le wisky, le wisky apres le gin!… Ca n’empeche pas de causer, d’ecouter et d’observer!… Les yeux n’en voient que plus clair, les oreilles n’en sont que plus fines, et la langue n’en est que mieux pendue!…”

On peut etre assure que, chez Vin Mod, ces divers organes fonctionnaient avec une merveilleuse aisance au milieu du brouhaha de la taverne.

Un individu de petite taille, age de trente-cinq ans, ce matelot, maigre, souple, musculeux, figure de fouine, nez pince, yeux vifs ou semblait briller une flamme alcoolique, museau pointu, pourrait-on dire, dents de rat, physionomie rusee, intelligente. Parfaitement capable d’aider a un mauvais coup, comme son compagnon qui le savait bien, ils se valaient et pouvaient compter l’un sur l’autre.

“Il faut pourtant en finir… dit Flig Balt d’une voix dure, en frappant la table du poing.

- Il n’y a qu’a choisir dans le tas!” repliqua Vin Mod.

Et il montrait les groupes buvant, chantant, sacrant a travers les vapeurs d’alcool et de tabac qui epaississaient l’atmosphere de cette salle.

On se fut grise rien qu’en respirant.

Flig Balt, age de trente-huit a trente-neuf ans, etait de taille moyenne, large d’epaules, la tete forte, la membrure vigoureuse. Sa figure, on n’aurait pu l’oublier, ne l’eut-on vue qu’une fois: grosse verrue a la joue gauche, yeux d’une effrayante durete, sourcils epais et frisottants, barbiche rougeatre a l’americaine, sans moustaches, bref la physionomie d’un homme haineux, jaloux, vindicatif. A son premier voyage sur le James-Cook, il avait embarque comme maitre quelques mois auparavant. Originaire de Queenstown, un port du Royaume-Uni, ses papiers le declaraient Irlandais de naissance. Mais, courant les mers depuis une vingtaine d’annees, on ne lui connaissait pas de parents. Et combien de ces marins n’ont d’autre famille que les compagnons de bord, d’autre pays que le batiment en cours de navigation! Il semble que leur nationalite change avec celle du navire. En ce qui concernait son service, Flig Balt le faisait severement, ponctuellement, et, tout en n’etant que maitre d’equipage, il remplissait a bord les fonctions de second. Aussi le capitaine Gibson croyait-il pouvoir s’en rapporter a lui touchant le detail, se reservant la haute main pour le commandement du brick.

En realite, Flig Balt n’etait qu’un miserable en quete de quelque mauvais coup, tres pousse par ce Vin Mod dont il subissait la detestable influence et l’incontestable superiorite. Et peut-etre allait-il trouver l’occasion de mettre a execution ses criminels projets…

“Je vous repete, dit le matelot, que, dans la taverne des Three-Magpies, il n’y a qu’a prendre, les yeux fermes… Nous rencontrerons ici les hommes qu’il nous faut, et disposes a faire le commerce pour leur propre compte…

- Encore convient-il, observa Flig Balt, de savoir d’ou ils viennent…

- C’est inutile, pourvu qu’ils aillent ou nous voudrons, maitre Balt!… Du moment qu’on les recrute dans la clientele d’Adam Fry, il n’y a qu’a se fier a eux!”

Et, au total, la reputation de ce cabaret de bas etage n’etait plus a discuter. La police y pouvait jeter ses filets sans risquer d’attraper quelqu’un d’honnete et qui n’eut deja eu des demeles avec elle. Bien que le capitaine Gibson fut dans la necessite de completer n’importe comment son equipage, il ne se serait pas adresse aux clients des Three-Magpies. Aussi Flig Balt s’etait-il garde de lui dire qu’il irait embaucher dans cette taverne.

L’unique salle, meublee de tables, de bancs, d’escabeaux, d’un comptoir au fond derriere lequel se tenait l’hotelier, de rayons encombres de flacons et de bouteilles, prenait jour, par deux fenetres garnies de barreaux de fer, sur une etroite rue aboutissant au quai. On y entrait par une porte a grosse serrure et a gros verrous, au-dessus de laquelle pendait l’enseigne, ou trois pies peinturlurees se dechiraient a coups de bec, - enseigne digne de l’etablissement. Au mois d’octobre, la nuit est faite des huit heures et demie du soir, meme au debut de la belle saison, par quarante-cinq degres de latitude sud. Quelques lampes de metal, approvisionnees de petrole aux infectes emanations, brulaient, suspendues au-dessus du comptoir et des tables. Celles qui filaient, on les laissait filer; celles dont la meche, presque entierement consumee, gresillait, on les laissait gresiller. Ce vague eclairage suffisait. Quand il s’agit de boire sec, pas n’est besoin de voir clair. Les verres trouvent sans peine le chemin de la bouche.

Une vingtaine de matelots occupaient les bancs et les escabeaux, - des gens de tous pays, Americains, Anglais, Irlandais, Hollandais, la plupart deserteurs, les uns prets a partir pour les placers, les autres en revenant et depensant sans compter leurs dernieres pepites.

Ils peroraient, ils chantaient, ils hurlaient a ce point que des coups de revolver n’eussent pas ete entendus au milieu de ce tumultueux et assourdissant tapage. La moitie de ces gens etaient ivres de cette ivresse morne des alcools frelates que leurs gosiers absorbaient machinalement et dont ils ne sentaient plus les acres brulures. Quelques-uns se levaient, titubaient, retombaient. Adam Fry, aide du garcon, un vigoureux indigene, les relevait, les tirait, les jetait dans un coin “en pagale”, pour employer une expression de l’argot maritime. La porte de la rue grincait sur ses gonds. Il y en avait qui sortaient, se cognant aux murailles, se heurtant aux bornes, s’etalant dans le ruisseau. Il y en avait qui entraient et venaient s’asseoir sur les bancs libres. Des reconnaissances s’operaient, des propos grossiers s’echangeaient avec poignees de main a briser les os. Des camarades se revoyaient apres une longue bordee a travers les gisements de l’Otago. Parfois aussi, c’etaient des mots malsonnants, des plaisanteries grossieres, des injures, des provocations qui fusaient d’une table a l’autre. Vraisemblablement la soiree ne se terminerait pas sans quelque rixe personnelle, qui degenererait en bataille generale. Cela n’aurait rien de tres nouveau, d’ailleurs, pour le patron et les habitues des Three-Magpies.

Flig Balt et Vin Mod ne cessaient d’observer curieusement tout ce monde avant de prendre langue, suivant les circonstances.

“En somme, de quoi s’agit-il?… dit le matelot, accoude de maniere a se rapprocher du maitre d’equipage. Il s’agit de remplacer par quatre hommes les quatre qui nous ont laches… Eh bien, ceux-la, il ne faut pas les regretter… ils ne nous auraient pas suivis!…

Je vous le repete, nous trouverons ici notre affaire… Et que le chanvre m’etrangle s’il est un de ces lascars qui repugne a s’emparer d’un bon navire, a courir le Pacifique au lieu de revenir a Hobart-Town… car cela tient toujours?…

- Cela tient, repondit Flig Balt.

- Alors comptons, reprit Vin Mod. Quatre de ces braves garcons, le cuisinier Koa, vous et moi, contre le capitaine, les trois autres et le mousse, c’est plus qu’il ne faut pour en avoir raison!… Un matin, on entre dans la cabine de M. Gibson… plus personne!… On fait l’appel de l’equipage… il manque trois hommes!… Quelque coup de mer les aura emportes pendant leur quart de nuit… Cela arrive meme par temps calme… Et puis le James-Cook ne reparait plus… Il a peri corps et biens en plein Pacifique… Il n’en est jamais question… et, sous un autre nom… un joli nom… le Pretty-Girl, par exemple, il s’en va d’iles en iles, faisant son honnete trafic, capitaine Flig Balt, maitre Vin Mod… Il complete son equipage de deux ou trois solides lurons comme il n’en manque guere dans les relaches de l’est ou de l’ouest… Et chacun y fait sa petite fortune au lieu d’une maigre paye, qui est generalement bue avant d’avoir ete touchee!”

Que le bruit empechat parfois les paroles de Vin Mod d’arriver a l’oreille de Flig Balt, peu importait. Celui-ci n’avait pas besoin de l’entendre. Tout ce que disait son compagnon, il se le disait a lui-meme. Parti pris, il ne cherchait plus qu’a en assurer l’execution. Aussi la seule observation qu’il fit fut-elle la suivante:

“Les quatre nouveaux, toi et moi, six contre cinq, compris le mousse… soit! Mais oublies-tu que nous devons embarquer a Wellington l’armateur Hawkins et le fils du capitaine?…

- En effet… si nous allons a Wellington en quittant Dunedin… Mais si nous n’y allons pas…

- C’est l’affaire de quarante-huit heures avec bon vent, reprit maitre Balt, et il n’est pas sur que nous ayons reussi a faire le coup dans la traversee…

- Qu’importe!… s’ecria Vin Mod. Ne vous inquietez pas, meme si M. Hawkins et le fils Gibson sont a bord!… Ils auront passe par-dessus le bastingage avant d’avoir pu s’y reconnaitre!… L’essentiel c’est de recruter des camarades qui ne se soucient pas plus de la vie d’un homme que d’une vieille pipe hors d’usage… des braves que n’effraye pas la corde… et nous devons les trouver ici…

- Trouvons”, repondit maitre Balt.

Tous deux se mirent a devisager plus attentivement les clients d’Adam Fry, dont quelques-uns d’ailleurs les regardaient avec une certaine insistance.

“Tenez, dit Vin Mod, celui-ci… un gaillard taille en boxeur… avec cette tete enorme… S’il n’a pas deja fait dix fois plus qu’il ne faut pour meriter d’etre pendu…

- Oui, repondit maitre Balt, il me revient assez…

- Et celui-la… qui n’a qu’un oeil… et quel oeil!… Soyez sur qu’il n’a pas perdu l’autre dans une bataille ou il avait raison…

- Ma foi, s’il accepte, Vin…

- Il acceptera…

- Cependant, fit observer Flig Balt, nous ne pouvons pas leur dire d’avance…

- On ne leur dira pas, et, le moment venu, ils ne bouderont pas a la besogne!…

Et regardez-moi cet autre qui entre!… Rien qu’a la maniere dont il a fait claquer la porte, on jugerait qu’il sent les policemen a ses trousses…

- Offrons-lui a boire… dit maitre Balt.

- Et je parie ma tete contre une bouteille de gin qu’il ne refusera pas!… Puis, la-bas… cette espece d’ours avec son surouet de travers, m’est avis qu’il a du naviguer plus souvent a fond de cale que sur le gaillard d’avant, et qu’il a eu plus souvent les pieds entraves que les mains libres!…”

Le fait est que les quatre individus designes par Vin Mod presentaient le type de determines chenapans. Aussi, en cas que Flig Balt les recrutat, on etait fonde a se demander si le capitaine Gibson consentirait a embarquer des matelots de cette envergure!… Inutile, au surplus, d’exiger leurs papiers: ils n’en produiraient pas, et pour cause.

Restait a savoir si ces hommes etaient disposes a contracter un engagement, s’ils ne venaient pas precisement de deserter leur bord, s’ils ne se preparaient pas a echanger la vareuse du matelot contre la veste du chercheur d’or. Apres tout, ils ne s’offriraient pas d’eux-memes, et quel accueil feraient-ils a la proposition d’embarquer sur le James-Cook?… On ne le saurait qu’apres en avoir cause en arrosant l’entretien de gin ou de wisky, a leur choix.

“Eh… l’ami… un verre… dit Vin Mod, qui attira le nouvel arrivant vers la table.

- Deux… si vous voulez… repondit le matelot, qui fit claquer sa langue.

- Trois… quatre… la demi-douzaine… et meme la douzaine, si tu as le gosier sec!”

Len Cannon, - c’etait son nom ou le nom qu’il se donnait, - s’assit sans plus de facon et de maniere a prouver qu’il irait facilement jusqu’a la douzaine.

Puis, comprenant bien qu’on ne le desalterait pas, - en admettant que ce fut possible, - pour ses beaux yeux et sa belle tournure:

“Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?…” demanda-t-il d’une voix eraillee par l’abus de l’alcool.

Vin Mod expliqua la chose: le brick James-Cook en partance… de gros gages… une navigation de quelques mois… simple cabotage d’iles en iles… bonne nourriture… boisson abondante et de bonne qualite… un capitaine qui s’en rapportait a son maitre d’equipage, Flig Balt, ici present, pour ce qui concernait le bien-etre des hommes… port d’attache Hobart-Town, enfin tout ce qui peut seduire un matelot qui aime a se divertir pendant les relaches… et pas de papiers a montrer au commissaire de marine… On appareillerait le lendemain, des l’aube, si l’on etait au complet… et pour peu que l’homme eut quelque ami dans l’embarras, en quete d’un embarquement, il suffirait de le designer, s’il se trouvait a cette heure dans la taverne des Three-Magpies…

Len Cannon regarda maitre Flig Balt et son compagnon en froncant le sourcil. Que signifiait au juste cette proposition?… Que cachait-elle?… Enfin, si avantageuse qu’elle parut etre, Len Cannon ne repondit qu’un mot:

“Non…

- Tu as tort!… dit Vin Mod.

- Possible… mais peux pas embarquer…

- Pourquoi?

- Je vais me marier!…

- Allons donc!…

- Oui… Kate Verdax… une veuve…

- Eh! l’ami, riposta Vin Mod en lui frappant sur l’epaule, si jamais tu te maries, ce ne sera pas avec Kate Verdax, mais avec Kate Gibbet… la veuve potence!…”

Len Cannon se mit a rire et vida son verre d’une seule lampee. Toutefois, malgre les instances de maitre Balt, il maintint son refus, se leva et rejoignit un groupe bruyant ou s’echangeaient de violentes provocations.

“A un autre!” dit Vin Mod, qu’un premier echec n’etait pas pour decourager.

Cette fois, laissant maitre Balt, il alla s’attabler pres d’un matelot assis dans un coin de la salle. Pas meilleure figure que Cannon, celui-la, et d’aspect moins communicatif, n’aimant a causer sans doute qu’avec sa bouteille, - interminable conversation qui paraissait lui suffire.

Vin Mod entra tout de suite en matiere:

“Est-ce qu’on peut savoir ton nom?

- Mon nom?… repondit le matelot apres une certaine hesitation.

- Oui…

- Et quel est le tien?…

- Vin Mod.

- Et c’est?…

- Celui d’un marin du brick James-Cook en relache a Dunedin…

- Et pourquoi Vin Mod veut-il savoir mon nom?…

- Pour le cas ou il y aurait a l’inscrire sur notre role d’equipage…

- Kyle… mon nom… repondit le matelot, mais je le garde pour une meilleure occasion…

- S’il s’en trouve, l’ami…

- On en trouve toujours!”

Et Kyle tourna le dos a Vin Mod, que ce second refus rendit peut-etre moins confiant.

C’etait comme une Bourse, cette taverne d’Adam Fry, et les demandes l’emportaient de beaucoup sur les offres, - ce qui laissait peu de chances d’aboutir.

En effet, vis-a-vis de deux autres clients, en longue dispute pour le reglement de leur derniere pinte avec leur dernier schelling, le resultat fut identique. Sexton, un Irlandais, Bryce, un Americain, iraient a pied en Amerique et en Irlande plutot que d’embarquer, fut-ce sur le yacht de Sa Gracieuse Majeste ou sur le meilleur croiseur des Etats-Unis…

Quelques essais d’embauchage, meme avec l’appui d’Adam Fry, ne purent reussir, et Vin Mod revint assez penaud a la table de Flig Balt.

“Rien de fait?… demanda celui-ci.

- Rien a faire, maitre Balt.

- N’y a-t-il pas d’autres tavernes que les Three-Magpies dans le voisinage?…

- Il y en a, repondit Vin Mod, mais, du moment que nous n’avons pas recrute ici, nous ne recruterons pas ailleurs!”

Flig Balt ne put retenir un juron accompagne d’un rude coup de poing qui fit tressauter verres et bouteilles. Son projet menacait-il d’echouer?… Ne parviendrait-il pas a introduire quatre hommes de choix dans l’equipage du James-Cook?… Serait-on reduit a le completer avec de braves matelots qui tiendraient pour le capitaine Gibson?… Il est vrai, les bons faisaient defaut tout comme les mauvais, et des semaines s’ecouleraient sans doute avant que le brick, par insuffisance du personnel, put reprendre la mer.

Cependant, il fallait voir autre part. Les cabarets a matelots ne manquent point dans le quartier, et, comme disait Vin Mod, il y en a plus que d’eglises ou de banques.

Flig Balt se disposait donc a payer les consommations, lorsqu’un tumulte plus accentue s’eleva a l’autre extremite de la salle.

La discussion de Sexton et de Bryce, a propos du reglement de la depense, prenait une tournure inquietante. Tous deux avaient certainement bu plus que ne le permettait l’etat de leurs finances. Or, Adam Fry n’etait pas homme a faire credit, ne fut-ce que de quelques pences. Ils en avaient pour deux schellings, et ils paieraient les deux schellings ou les policemen interviendraient et les bloqueraient la ou ils avait ete bloques plus d’une fois pour coups, injures et mefaits de diverses sortes.

L’hote des Three-Magpies, prevenu par le garcon, etait en train de reclamer son du, dont Sexton et Bryce n’auraient pu s’acquitter, quand on eut fouille jusqu’au fond de leurs poches, aussi vides de monnaie qu’ils etaient pleins de wisky et de gin. Peut-etre, en cette occasion, l’intervention de Vin Mod, argent en main, serait-elle efficace, et les deux matelots accepteraient-ils quelques piastres a titre d’avance sur les gages futurs?… Il tenta le coup, et fut proprement envoye au diable… Partage entre le desir d’etre paye et le desagrement de perdre deux clients s’ils embarquaient des le lendemain sur le James-Cook, Adam Fry ne lui vint meme point en aide, comme il l’esperait.

Alors, quand il vit cela, maitre Balt, comprenant qu’il fallait en finir, dit a Vin Mod:

“Partons…

- Oui… repondit Vin Mod… il n’est encore que neuf heures!… Allons aux Old-Brothers ou au Good-Seeman… c’est a deux pas et que je sois pendu si nous revenons bredouille a bord!”

On le voit, la pendaison, comme terme comparatif ou metaphorique, revenait frequemment dans la conversation de l’honnete Vin Mod, et peut-etre s’imaginait-il que c’etait la fin naturelle de l’existence en ce bas monde!

Cependant, des plus virulentes reclamations, Adam Fry en arrivait aux menaces. Sexton et Bryce payeraient ou ils iraient coucher au poste de police. Le garcon recut meme ordre d’aller querir les agents, qui ne sont point rares en ce quartier du port. Flig Balt et Vin Mod se preparaient donc a partir avec lui, lorsque trois ou quatre vigoureux gaillards vinrent se placer devant la porte, non moins pour empecher de sortir que pour empecher d’entrer.

Evidemment, ces matelots ne demandaient qu’a prendre fait et cause pour leurs camarades. Les choses ne tarderaient pas a se gater, et la soiree finirait par des violences, comme tant d’autres.

Adam Fry et le garcon n’en etaient pas a cela pres, et ils allaient simplement recourir a la force publique, ainsi qu’ils en avaient l’habitude en ces circonstances. Aussi, voyant la porte defendue, essayerent-ils de gagner par derriere la ruelle qui longeait la cour du fond.

On ne leur en laissa pas le temps. Toute la bande fut contre eux. Precisement Kyle et Sexton, Len Cannon et Bryce s’interposerent. Il n’y eut a ne point figurer dans la bagarre qu’une demi-douzaine d’ivres-morts, incapables de se tenir debout.

Il suit de la que ni maitre Balt ni Vin Mod ne purent quitter la salle.

“Il faut pourtant filer… dit le premier. Il n’y a que des horions a recevoir ici…

- Qui sait? repondit l’autre. Laissons faire… Peut-etre y a-t-il profit a tirer de la bataille!”

Et comme tous deux, s’ils voulaient en avoir le profit, ne desiraient pas en avoir les pertes, ils se tinrent a l’abri derriere le comptoir.

La lutte etait engagee a l’arme blanche, si cette expression peut s’appliquer aux pieds et aux poings des combattants.

Sans doute, les couteaux ne tarderaient pas a jouer, et ce ne serait pas la premiere fois - ni la derniere - que le sang coulerait dans la salle des Three-Magpies. Il semblait qu’Adam Fry et le garcon auraient du etre ecrases sous le nombre, et ils eussent ete reduits a l’impuissance, si quelques-uns des clients ne se fussent declares pour eux. En effet, cinq ou six Irlandais, dans la pensee de se menager un credit futur, vinrent repousser les assaillants.

Ce fut un tapage infernal. Maitre Balt et Vin Mod, tout en s’abritant du mieux possible, eurent grand’peine a eviter d’etre atteints, lorsque gobelets et bouteilles commencerent a voler de toutes parts. On frappait, on vociferait, on hurlait. Les lampes renversees s’eteignirent, et la salle ne fut plus eclairee que par la lumiere de la lanterne exterieure, encastree dans l’imposte de l’entree.

En somme, les quatre plus acharnes, Len Cannon, Kyle, Sexton, Bryce, apres avoir attaque, durent se defendre. D’abord, l’hotelier et le garcon n’en etaient pas a leurs debuts dans la pratique de la boxe. De terribles ripostes venaient de renverser Kyle et Bryce, la machoire a demi brisee; mais ils se releverent pour secourir leurs compagnons que les Irlandais acculaient dans un coin.

L’avantage etait tantot pour les uns, tantot pour les autres, et la victoire ne pourrait etre decidee que par une intervention du dehors. Les cris: “Au secours! a l’aide!” dominaient au milieu du vacarme. Toutefois, les voisins ne s’inquietaient guere de ce qui troublait la taverne des Three-Magpies, de ces batailles entre matelots passees a l’etat chronique. Inutile, n’est-il pas vrai, de se risquer en de pareilles bagarres.

C’est l’affaire des policemen, et, comme on dit, ils sont payes pour cela.

La bagarre continuait donc plus acharnee a mesure que la colere tournait a la rage.

Les tables avaient ete culbutees. On s’assommait avec les escabeaux. Les couteaux sortirent des poches, les revolvers des ceintures, et des detonations eclaterent au milieu de l’horrible tumulte.

Cependant, l’hotelier manoeuvrait toujours pour gagner soit la porte de la rue, soit la sortie sur la cour, lorsqu’une douzaine d’agents firent irruption, precisement par le derriere de la maison. Il n’avait pas ete necessaire de courir a leur bureau sur le quai. Des qu’ils eurent ete prevenus par des passants qu’on se cassait la tete dans la taverne d’Adam Fry, ils s’y rendirent, sans trop se presser, et, de ce pas d’ordonnance qui distingue le policier anglais, ils arriverent en assez grand nombre pour assurer l’ordre public. Au surplus, entre ceux qui attaquaient et ceux qui resistaient, il est probable qu’ils ne verraient aucune difference. Ils savaient que les uns ne valaient pas mieux que les autres. En arretant tout le monde, ils etaient assures de faire bonne besogne.

Du reste, bien que la salle ne fut que vaguement eclairee, les policemen reconnurent tout d’abord, parmi les plus violents, Len Cannon, Sexton, Kyle et Bryce, pour les avoir deja fourres en prison. Aussi, ces quatre chenapans, prevoyant ce qui les attendait, ne chercherent plus qu’a deguerpir en traversant la petite cour. Il est vrai, ou iraient-ils, et ne seraient-ils pas repris des le lendemain?…

Vin Mod intervint au bon moment, comme il avait dit a maitre Balt, et, tandis que les autres s’acharnaient contre les policemen afin de favoriser la fuite des plus compromis, il rejoignit Len Cannon et lui dit:

“Tous les quatre au James-Cook!…”

Sexton, Bryce et Kyle avaient entendu.

“Quand part-il?… demanda Len Cannon.

- Demain, des le jour.”

Et, malgre les agents contre lesquels, par commune entente, s’etait tournee toute la bande, malgre Adam Fry qui tenait plus particulierement a les faire arreter, Len Cannon et ses trois camarades, suivis de Flig Balt et de Vin Mod, parvinrent a s’echapper.

Un quart d’heure apres, le canot du brick les transportait a bord, et ils se trouvaient en surete dans le poste de l’equipage.

II - Le brick “James-Cook”

Le brick James-Cook jaugeait deux cent cinquante tonneaux, un solide navire, forte voilure, le coffre assez large, ce qui assurait sa stabilite, l’arriere tres degage, l’avant releve, d’excellente tenue sous toutes les allures, sa mature peu inclinee. Tres ardent au plus pres, se derobant vite a la lame, evitant ainsi les coups de mer, il filait sans se gener ses onze noeuds a l’heure par fraiche brise.

Son personnel - on le sait d’apres la conversation relatee ci-dessus - comprenait un capitaine, un maitre, huit hommes d’equipage, un cuisinier et un mousse. Il naviguait sous pavillon britannique, ayant pour port d’attache Hobart-Town, capitale de la Tasmanie qui depend du continent australien, l’une des plus importantes colonies de la Grande-Bretagne.

Depuis une dizaine d’annees deja, le James-Cook faisait le grand cabotage dans l’ouest du Pacifique, entre l’Australie, la Nouvelle-Zelande et les Philippines, voyages heureux et lucratifs, grace a l’habilete manoeuvriere et commerciale de son capitaine, un bon marin double d’un bon trafiquant.

Le capitaine Harry Gibson, age a cette epoque de cinquante ans, n’avait jamais quitte le brick depuis sa sortie des chantiers de Brisbane. Il y etait interesse pour un quart, les trois autres quarts appartenant a M. Hawkins, armateur d’Hobart-Town. Leurs affaires prosperaient, et les debuts de ce voyage permettaient de compter sur de gros benefices.

Les familles du capitaine et de l’armateur etaient etroitement unies de longue date, Harry Gibson ayant toujours navigue pour la maison Hawkins. Elles habitaient a Hobart-Town le meme quartier. M. et Mrs Hawkins n’avaient point d’enfants.

M. et Mrs Gibson n’avaient qu’un fils, age de vingt et un ans, qui se destinait au commerce. Les deux femmes se voyaient chaque jour, ce qui leur rendait la separation moins penible, car l’armateur se trouvait alors a Wellington, ou il venait de fonder un comptoir avec Nat Gibson, le fils du capitaine. C’est de la que le James-Cook devait les ramener a Hobart-Town, apres avoir complete sa cargaison dans les archipels voisins de la Nouvelle-Guinee, au nord de l’Australie, a travers les parages de l’Equateur.

Le maitre d’equipage, Flig Balt, inutile maintenant de dire ce qu’il etait et ce qu’il valait, ni quels projets meditait ce scelerat. A ses instincts qui le poussaient au crime, a sa jalousie envers son capitaine, il joignait une hypocrisie dont celui-ci etait dupe depuis le commencement du voyage. Grace a des certificats qui parurent authentiques, il avait ete admis comme maitre a bord du brick, en meme temps que Vin Mod y embarquait comme matelot. Ces deux hommes se connaissaient de longue date, ils avaient couru les mers ensemble, passant d’un navire a l’autre, desertant lorsqu’ils se voyaient dans l’impossibilite de tenter quelque mauvais coup, et ils esperaient bien parvenir a leurs fins pendant la derniere traversee du James-Cook avant son retour a Hobart-Town.

En effet, Flig Balt inspirait toute confiance au capitaine Gibson, que trompaient son affectation de zele et ses protestations de devouement. En rapport permanent avec l’equipage, il s’etait ingenie a prendre de l’influence sur le personnel du bord. Pour tout ce qui concernait la navigation et la partie commerciale, Harry Gibson ne s’en rapportait qu’a lui-meme. D’ailleurs, n’ayant pas l’occasion de se montrer, peut-etre Flig Balt n’etait-il pas aussi bon marin qu’il pretendait l’etre, quoiqu’il assurat avoir deja navigue en qualite de second.

Il est meme permis de croire que le capitaine Gibson conservait quelques doutes a ce sujet. Apres tout, le service ne laissant rien a desirer, il n’avait jamais eu aucun reproche a faire a son maitre d’equipage. Aussi le voyage du brick se fut-il probablement effectue dans les meilleures conditions, si la desertion de quatre des matelots ne l’eut retenu a Dunedin depuis une quinzaine de jours.

Les hommes qui n’avaient point suivi l’exemple de leurs camarades, Hobbes, Wickley, Burnes, appartenaient a cette categorie de braves gens, disciplines et courageux, sur lesquels un capitaine peut entierement compter. Quant aux deserteurs, il n’y aurait pas eu lieu de les regretter, s’ils n’eussent ete remplaces par les coquins que Vin Mod venait de recruter a la taverne des Three-Magpies. On sait ce qu’ils sont, on les verra a l’oeuvre.

L’equipage comprenait encore un mousse et un cuisinier.

Le mousse Jim etait un garcon de quatorze ans, d’une famille d’honnetes ouvriers qui demeurait a Hobart-Town. Elle l’avait confie au capitaine Gibson. C’etait un bon sujet, aimant le metier, agile et brave, qui ferait un vrai marin. M. Gibson le traitait paternellement, sans rien lui passer cependant, et Jim lui temoignait une grande affection. Au contraire, Jim eprouvait, par instinct, une sorte de repugnance pour le maitre Flig Balt. Celui-ci, qui s’en etait apercu, cherchait toujours a le prendre en faute, - ce qui amena plus d’une fois l’intervention de M. Gibson.

Quant au cuisinier Koa, il etait de ce type d’indigenes qui appartient a la seconde race des Neo-Zelandais, individus de taille moyenne, au teint de mulatre, robustes, musculeux et souples, aux cheveux crepus, dont se compose generalement la classe du peuple chez les Maoris.

A la fin de ce premier voyage qu’il faisait a bord du brick en qualite de maitre-coq, Harry Gibson entendait congedier cet etre sournois, vindicatif, mechant, - en outre malpropre, - sur lequel les reprimandes et les punitions ne produisaient aucun effet. Du reste, Flig Balt avait raison de le ranger parmi ceux qui n’hesiteraient pas a se revolter contre le capitaine. Vin Mod et lui s’entendaient bien. Le maitre d’equipage le menageait, l’excusait, ne le punissait que lorsqu’il ne pouvait faire autrement. Koa savait qu’il serait debarque des l’arrivee a Hobart-Town, et, plus d’une fois, il avait menace de se venger. Donc, Flig Balt, Vin Mod et lui, aides des quatre nouveaux introduits a bord, c’etaient sept hommes en face de M. Gibson, des trois autres matelots et du mousse. Il est vrai, M. Hawkins, l’armateur, et Nat Gibson devaient prendre passage sur le brick a Wellington, et la proportion serait moins inegale. Mais il etait possible que Flig Balt parvint a s’emparer du navire entre Dunedin et Wellington pendant la traversee, de si courte duree qu’elle dut etre. Si l’occasion se presentait, Vin Mod ne la laisserait pas perdre.

Le James-Cook, en cours de cabotage depuis quatre mois, etait charge pour differents ports, ou il avait debarque et embarque ses cargaisons avec des frets avantageux. Apres avoir successivement touche a Malikolo, a Merena et a Eromanga des Nouvelles-Hebrides, puis a Vanoua Linon des Fidji, il regagnerait Wellington, ou M. Hawkins et Nat Gibson l’attendaient. Puis il ferait voile pour les archipels de la Nouvelle-Guinee, bien pourvu d’objets de pacotille destines aux indigenes, et il en rapporterait de la nacre et du coprah pour une valeur de dix a douze mille piastres.

C’est de la que s’effectuerait le retour a Hobart-Town, avec relaches a Brisbane ou a Sydney, si les circonstances l’exigeaient. Encore deux mois, et le brick serait rentre a son port d’attache.

On concoit donc combien les retards subis a Dunedin avaient contrarie M. Gibson. M. Hawkins savait a quoi s’en tenir a cet egard, grace aux lettres et telegrammes echanges entre Dunedin et Wellington, et par lesquels il pressait le capitaine de reformer son equipage. Il parlait meme de venir a Dunedin, s’il le fallait, bien que les affaires exigeassent sa presence a Wellington. M. Gibson, on l’a vu, n’avait rien neglige, ayant hate de lui donner satisfaction, et on n’oublie pas a quelles difficultes il s’etait heurte, nombre d’autres capitaines se trouvant dans le meme embarras. Enfin Flig Balt avait reussi, et, lorsque les quatre matelots de la taverne des Three-Magpies furent a bord, il fit hisser les embarcations afin qu’ils ne pussent decamper pendant la nuit.

Le soir meme, Flig Balt raconta au capitaine comment les choses s’etaient passees, comment il avait profite d’une bagarre pour soustraire Len Cannon et trois autres aux recherches de la police. Ce qu’ils valaient, on le verrait bien… Le plus souvent, ces mauvaises tetes se calment quand le navire est en mer… Les tapageurs en bordee font la plupart du temps d’excellents matelots… En somme, le maitre d’equipage croyait avoir agi pour le mieux.

“Je les verrai demain, dit M. Gibson.

- Oui… demain, repondit maitre Balt, et mieux vaut, capitaine, les laisser cuver leur gin jusqu’au matin…

- C’est entendu. D’ailleurs, les embarcations sont sur les palans, et, a moins qu’ils ne se jettent par-dessus le bord…

- Impossible, capitaine…

Je les ai envoyes dans la cale et ils n’en sortiront qu’au moment du depart…

- Mais, le jour venu, Balt?…

- Oh! le jour venu, la crainte de tomber entre les mains des policemen les retiendra a bord.

- A demain donc”, repondit M. Gibson.

La nuit s’ecoula, et, sans doute, il eut ete inutile d’enfermer Len Cannon et ses camarades. Ils ne songeaient guere a se sauver et dormirent bruyamment du sommeil de l’ivrogne.

Le lendemain, des l’aube, le capitaine Gibson fit les preparatifs d’appareillage. Ses papiers etant en regle, il n’eut pas besoin de retourner a terre. C’est alors qu’il fut necessaire d’appeler les nouvelles recrues sur le pont.

Vin Mod ouvrit le grand panneau, et les quatre matelots monterent pour la manoeuvre. Parfaitement degrises, ils ne manifestaient aucunement l’intention de s’enfuir.

Toutefois, lorsqu’ils comparurent devant le capitaine, si M. Gibson fut assez maitre de lui pour cacher l’impression que produisit la vue de ces hommes - impression qui ne laissa pas d’etre des plus desagreables -, il les observa attentivement, puis demanda leurs noms, afin de les inscrire sur le role de l’equipage.

En donnant ces noms, ils indiquerent egalement leur nationalite: deux Anglais, un Irlandais et un Americain. Quant au domicile, ils n’en avaient pas d’autre que les tavernes du port, dont les tenanciers sont en meme temps des logeurs. En ce qui concernait leurs effets, et tout ce qui est d’ordinaire contenu dans le sac du matelot, ils n’avaient pu les emporter.

D’ailleurs, Flig Balt mettrait a leur disposition les vetements, linge et ustensiles que les deserteurs ne viendraient jamais reclamer. Il n’y aurait donc pas lieu de les envoyer chercher leurs sacs, et ils n’insisterent pas.

Lorsque Len Cannon, Sexton, Kyle et Bryce eurent regagne l’avant, M. Gibson dit, en hochant la tete:

“Mauvaises pratiques, Balt, et je ne crois pas que vous ayez eu la main heureuse…

- C’est a voir, capitaine… a voir a la besogne…

- Il faudra les surveiller, ces gens-la, et de pres!…

- Assurement, monsieur Gibson. Pourtant, ils ne sont pas maladroits, d’apres le dire d’un officier du West-Pound, ici en relache.

- Vous les aviez donc deja en vue?…

- Oui… depuis quelques jours.

- Et cet officier les connaissait?…

- Ils ont navigue avec lui au long cours, et, a l’en croire, ce sont de bons marins.”

Le maitre d’equipage mentait effrontement. Aucun officier ne lui avait parle de ces quatre hommes; mais son assertion ne pouvait plus etre controlee, et M. Gibson n’avait aucune raison d’en suspecter la valeur.

“On aura soin de ne pas les mettre de quart ensemble, dit le capitaine: les deux Anglais avec Hobbes et Wickley, l’Irlandais et l’Americain avec Burnes et Vin Mod… Ce sera plus sur…

- Compris, capitaine; et, je vous le repete, une fois en mer, ils ne bouderont pas au travail… C’est seulement en relache, et particulierement a Wellington, qu’ils seront a surveiller…

Pas de permission, si vous m’en croyez, ou ils pourraient bien ne pas revenir a bord…

- N’importe, Balt, ils ne m’inspirent point confiance, et, a Wellington, si je puis les remplacer…

- On les remplacera”, repondit le maitre d’equipage.

Flig Balt ne voulut pas insister plus qu’il ne convenait, ni paraitre tenir a ces marins d’occasion.

“Apres tout… ajouta-t-il, j’ai fait pour le mieux, capitaine, et je n’avais pas grand choix!…”

M. Gibson revint vers l’arriere, pres de l’homme de barre, tandis que Flig Balt se rendait a l’avant, afin de faire virer l’ancre et la ramener a poste, des que les voiles seraient orientees.

Le capitaine regarda le compas de l’habitacle pose devant la roue du gouvernail, puis la girouette a la pointe du grand mat, puis le pavillon britannique que le vent deployait a la corne de brigantine.

Le James-Cook se balancait sur sa chaine au milieu du port. La brise, soufflant du nord-ouest, devait favoriser sa sortie. Apres avoir descendu le chenal jusqu’a Port-Chalmers, il trouverait bon vent pour remonter de la cote orientale de la Nouvelle-Zelande jusqu’au detroit qui separe les deux iles. Toutefois, il lui faudrait, apres avoir appareille, prendre du tour pour eviter quelques navires mouilles a l’entree du chenal et se rapprocher du quai qui borde le port a droite.

M. Gibson donna ses ordres. Les deux huniers, la trinquette, les focs et la brigantine furent successivement etablis. Pendant cette manoeuvre, il parut constant que Len Cannon et ses camarades connaissaient le metier, et, lorsqu’ils eurent a monter jusqu’aux barres des perroquets, ils le firent en hommes qui n’ont plus rien a apprendre du service de gabiers.

L’ancre, etant a pic, fut hissee au moment ou les ecoutes etaient raidies pour mettre le brick en bonne direction.

Flig Balt et Vin Mod purent echanger quelques mots pendant la manoeuvre.

“Eh! fit celui-ci, nos recrues vont bien…

- Assez proprement, Mod…

- Encore trois lascars de cette sorte, et nous aurions l’equipage qu’il nous faut…

- Et le navire qu’il nous faudrait… ajouta Flig Balt a mi-voix.

- Et le capitaine qu’il nous faudrait!…” declara Vin Mod, en portant la main a son beret, comme s’il se fut tenu devant son chef.

Flig Balt l’arreta du geste, craignant que ces imprudentes paroles pussent etre entendues du mousse, occupe a tourner l’ecoute du petit foc. Puis il allait regagner le rouf, lorsque Vin Mod lui demanda comment M. Gibson avait trouve les quatre habitues des Three-Magpies.

“Il a paru mediocrement satisfait… repondit Flig Balt.

- Le fait est que nos recrues ne payent pas de mine! repliqua Vin Mod.

- Je ne serais pas surpris qu’il voulut les debarquer a Wellington… dit Flig Balt.

- Pour debarquer a Wellington, ajouta Vin Mod en haussant les epaules, il faut aller a Wellington… Mais j’espere que nous n’irons pas a Wellington et on n’y debarquera personne.

- Pas d’imprudence, Mod!

- Enfin… Flig Balt, le capitaine n’est pas content?…

- Non.

- Qu’importe, si nous le sommes!”

Le maitre d’equipage revint vers l’arriere.

“Tout est pare?… lui demanda M. Gibson.

- Tout, capitaine.”

Le James-Cook evoluait alors en se rapprochant du quai dont il allait contourner la pointe a moins d’une demi-encablure.

La s’etait forme un groupe, marins et badauds, que la vue d’un navire sous voiles interesse toujours. Et d’ailleurs, depuis plusieurs semaines, on etait prive de ce spectacle, puisque les batiments n’avaient pu quitter leur mouillage.

Or, dans ce groupe se voyaient quelques policemen dont l’attention paraissait tres attiree sur le James-Cook. Cela se devinait a leurs gestes, a leur attitude. Meme deux ou trois de ces agents se detacherent et coururent vers l’extremite du quai que le brick ne tarderait pas a ranger.

Precisement, - ni Flig Balt ni Vin Mod ne purent s’y tromper, - ces policemen etaient de ceux qu’ils avaient vus la veille dans la taverne d’Adam Fry. Len Cannon et ses camarades risquaient donc d’etre reconnus, et qui sait si le James-Cook, hele au passage et recevant l’ordre de s’arreter, ne serait pas mis en demeure de livrer les matelots des Three-Magpies?…

Apres tout, le capitaine Gibson, quitte a ne point se departir d’une extreme surveillance, trouvait son avantage a les conserver, ce qui lui permettait de mettre en mer, et il eut ete fort embarrasse s’il avait du les rendre a la police. Aussi, apres deux mots que lui dit Flig Balt, approuva-t-il que Vin Mod fit descendre dans le poste Len Cannon, Sexton, Kyle et Bryce avant qu’ils eussent ete apercus par les agents.

“En bas… en bas!…” leur souffla Vin Mod.

Ils jeterent un rapide regard vers le quai, comprirent, s’affalerent a travers le panneau.

D’ailleurs, leur presence n’etait plus indispensable sur le pont, et l’homme de barre suffisait a diriger le James-Cook vers l’entree du chenal, sans qu’il fut necessaire de brasser les voiles.

Le brick continua a se rapprocher de la pointe et plus que ne le font d’ordinaire les navires, car il lui fallut eviter un steamer americain dont les vigoureux sifflets dechiraient l’air.

Les policemen eurent alors toute facilite pour observer les matelots du bord et, assurement, si Len Cannon et les autres ne se fussent dehales, ils auraient ete reconnus et debarques sur l’heure. Mais les agents ne les virent point, et le brick put donner dans le chenal, des que le steamer en eut laisse l’entree libre.

Il n’y avait plus rien a craindre: les quatre matelots remonterent sur le pont.

Du reste, leur concours s’imposait. Le chenal, qui va du sud-ouest au nord-est, est assez sinueux, et il y a lieu de filer ou de raidir les ecoutes a chaque detour.

Le James-Cook, servi par la brise, navigua sans difficulte entre les rives verdoyantes, semees de villas et de cottages, et dont l’une est parcourue par le railway qui met en communication Dunedin et Port-Chalmers.

Il etait a peine huit heures lorsque le brick passa devant ce port et, tout dessus, donna en pleine mer. Puis, ses amures a babord, il remonta le long de la cote, laissant dans le sud le phare d’Otago et le cap Saunders.

III - Vin Mod a l’oeuvre

La distance entre Dunedin et Wellington, a travers le detroit qui separe les deux grandes iles, est inferieure a quatre cents milles. Si la brise de nord-ouest se maintenait, la mer resterait belle le long de la cote, et, a raison de dix milles par heure, le James-Cook arriverait le surlendemain a Wellington.

Pendant cette courte traversee, Flig Balt parviendrait-il a executer ses projets, a s’emparer du brick, apres s’etre debarrasse du capitaine et de ses compagnons, a l’entrainer vers ces lointains parages du Pacifique, ou toute securite et toute impunite lui seraient offertes?…

On sait comment Vin Mod entendait proceder: M. Gibson et les hommes qui lui etaient fideles seraient surpris et jetes par-dessus le bord avant d’avoir pu se defendre. Mais, des a present, il fallait mettre Len Cannon et ses camarades dans le complot, - ce qui ne serait sans doute pas difficile, - les tater prealablement a ce sujet et s’assurer leur concours. C’est ce que comptait faire Vin Mod pendant cette premiere journee de navigation, afin d’agir pendant la nuit prochaine. Pas de temps a perdre. En quarante-huit heures, le brick, rendu a Wellington, recevrait comme passagers M. Hawkins et Nat Gibson. Donc, cette nuit ou la suivante, il importait que le James-Cook fut tombe au pouvoir de Flig Balt et de ses complices. Sinon, les chances de reussite seraient infiniment diminuees, et pareille occasion ne se representerait peut-etre pas.

Du reste, que Len Cannon, Sexton, Kyle et Bryce consentissent, Vin Mod ne pensait pas que cela put faire question avec de tels individus, sans foi ni loi, sans conscience ni scrupules, alleches par la perspective de fructueuses campagnes en ces regions du Pacifique, ou la justice ne saurait les atteindre.

L’ile meridionale de la Nouvelle-Zelande, Tawai-Pounamou, affecte la forme d’un long rectangle, renfle a sa partie inferieure, qui se dessine un peu obliquement du sud-ouest au sud-est. Au contraire, c’est sous la forme d’un triangle irregulier, termine par une etroite langue de terre projetee jusqu’a la pointe du Cap Nord, que se presente Ika-na-Maoui, l’ile septentrionale.

La cote que suivait le brick est fort dechiquetee, relevee de rochers enormes a silhouettes bizarres, qui ressemblent de loin a quelques gigantesques mastodontes echoues sur les greves. Ca et la une succession d’arcades figure le pourtour d’un cloitre, ou la houle, meme par beau temps, se precipite furieusement avec un bruit formidable. Un navire qui se mettrait au plein sur le littoral serait irremediablement perdu, et trois ou quatre coups de mer suffiraient a le demolir. Heureusement, s’il est pousse par la tempete, soit qu’il vienne de l’est, soit qu’il vienne de l’ouest, il a chance de pouvoir doubler les extremes promontoires de la Nouvelle-Zelande. D’ailleurs, il existe deux detroits ou il est possible de trouver abri si l’on manque l’entree des ports: celui de Cook, qui separe les deux iles, et celui de Foveaux, ouvert entre Tavai-Pounamou et l’ile de Stewart, a son extremite meridionale. Mais il faut se garder des dangereux recifs des Snares, ou se heurtent les flots de l’ocean Indien et ceux de l’ocean Pacifique, parages trop feconds en sinistres maritimes.

En arriere de la cote se deroule un puissant systeme orographique, creuse de crateres, sillonne de chutes qui alimentent des rivieres considerables malgre leur etendue restreinte. Sur le versant des montagnes montent des etages de forets dont les arbres sont parfois demesures, pins hauts de cent pieds et d’un diametre de vingt, cedres a feuilles d’olivier, le “koudy” resineux, le “kaikatea” a feuilles resistantes et a baies rouges, dont les troncs sont depourvus de branches entre le pied et la cime.

Si Ika-na-Maoui peut s’enorgueillir de la richesse de son sol, de la puissance de sa fertilite, de cette vegetation qui rivalise en certaines parties avec les plus brillantes productions de la flore tropicale, Tavai-Pounamou est tenue a moins de reconnaissance envers la nature. C’est tout au plus la dixieme partie du territoire qui est susceptible d’etre livree a la culture. Mais, dans les endroits privilegies, les indigenes peuvent encore recolter un peu de ble d’Inde, differentes plantes herbacees, des pommes de terre en abondance, puis a profusion cette racine de fougere, le “pteris esculenta”, dont ils font leur principale nourriture.

Le James-Cook, parfois, approchait de si pres la cote, dont Harry Gibson connaissait bien les sondes, que le chant des oiseaux arrivait distinctement jusqu’a bord, entre autres celui du “pou”, des plus melodieux. Il s’y melait aussi le cri guttural des perroquets de diverses sortes, des canards a bec jaune, jambes et pattes d’un rouge ecarlate, sans parler des autres nombreuses especes aquatiques, dont les plus hardis representants voltigeaient a travers les agres du navire. Et, aussi, lorsque son etrave troublait leurs ebats, avec quelle rapidite se dispersaient les cetaces, ces elephants, ces lions de mer, ces multitudes de phoques, recherches pour leur graisse huileuse, pour leur fourrure epaisse et dont deux centaines suffisent a produire pres de cent barils d’huile!

Le temps se maintenait. Si la brise tombait, ce ne serait pas avant le soir, puisqu’elle venait de terre, et, en s’abaissant, rencontrerait l’obstacle de la chaine interieure.

Sous l’influence d’un beau soleil, elle parcourait les hautes zones et poussait rapidement le brick, qui portait ses voiles d’etai et ses bonnettes de tribord.

A peine s’il y avait lieu de mollir les ecoutes, de modifier la barre. Aussi les nouveaux embarques pouvaient-ils apprecier en marins les qualites nautiques du James-Cook.

Vers onze heures, le mont Herbert, un peu avant le port d’Oamaru, montra sa cime ballonnee, qui s’eleve a cinq mille pieds au-dessus du niveau de la mer.

Pendant la matinee, Vin Mod chercha vainement a causer avec Len Cannon, qu’il considerait justement comme le plus intelligent et le plus influent des quatre recrues de Dunedin. M. Gibson, on le sait, avait ordonne que ces matelots ne fussent point reunis dans le meme quart. Mieux valait, en effet, qu’on les tint separes les uns des autres. Au surplus, n’ayant point a manoeuvrer, le capitaine laissait au maitre d’equipage la surveillance du navire et il s’occupait dans sa cabine a la mise en etat de ses comptes de bord.

A ce moment, Hobbes etait a la banc. Flig Balt se promenait depuis le grand mat jusqu’a l’arriere, de chaque cote du rouf. Deux autres matelots, Burne et Bryce, allaient et venaient le long du bastingage, sans echanger une parole. Vin Mod et Len Cannon se trouvaient ensemble sous le vent, et leur conversation ne pourrait etre entendue de personne.

Lorsque Jim, le mousse, s’approchait d’eux, on le congediait assez brutalement, et meme, par prudence, maitre Balt l’envoya frotter les cuivres de l’habitacle.

Quant aux deux autres camarades de Len Cannon, Sexton et Kyle, qui n’etaient point de quart, ils preferaient le plein air a l’atmosphere echauffee du poste. Le cuisinier Koa, sur le gaillard d’avant, les y amusait de ses grosses plaisanteries et de ses abominables grimaces.

Il fallait voir a quel point cet indigene se montrait fier des tatouages de sa figure, de son torse et de ses membres, ce moko des Neo-Zelandais qui sillonne profondement la peau au lieu de l’entamer, ainsi que cela se fait chez les autres peuplades du Pacifique. Cette operation du moko n’est pas pratiquee sur tous les naturels. Non! les koukis ou esclaves n’en sont point dignes, ni les gens de basse classe, a moins qu’ils ne se soient distingues a la guerre par quelque action d’eclat.

Aussi Koa en tirait-il une extraordinaire vanite.

Et, - ce qui paraissait interesser fort Sexton et Kyle, - il entendait leur donner toute explication sur son tatouage, il racontait dans quelles circonstances sa poitrine avait ete decoree de tel ou tel dessin, il signalait celui du front, representant son nom grave en caracteres ineffacables et que, pour rien au monde, d’ailleurs, il n’eut voulu effacer.

Au reste, chez les indigenes, le systeme cutane, grace a ces operations qui s’etendent a toute la surface du corps, gagne beaucoup en epaisseur et en solidite. De la une resistance plus grande aux froidures de ce climat pendant l’hiver, aux piqures des moustiques, et combien d’Europeens, a ce prix, se feliciteraient de pouvoir braver les attaques de ces maudits insectes!

Tandis que Koa, se sentant instinctivement pousse par une sympathie toute naturelle vers Sexton et son camarade, jetait ainsi les bases d’une etroite amitie, Vin Mod “travaillait” Len Cannon, lequel, de son cote, ne demandait qu’a le voir venir:

“Eh! ami Cannon, dit Vin Mod, te voici donc a bord du James-Cook… Un bon navire, n’est-ce pas? et qui vous file ses onze noeuds sans qu’on ait besoin de lui donner la main…

- Comme tu dis, Mod.

- Et, avec une belle cargaison dans le ventre, il vaut cher…

- Tant mieux pour l’armateur.

- L’armateur… ou un autre!… En attendant, nous n’avons qu’a nous croiser les bras pendant qu’il fait bonne route…

- Aujourd’hui, ca va bien, repondit Len Cannon, mais demain… qui sait?…

- Demain… apres-demain… toujours!… s’ecria Vin Mod en frappant sur l’epaule de Len Cannon. Et n’est-ce pas preferable que d’etre reste a terre?… Ou seriez-vous, les camarades et toi, a present… si vous n’etiez pas ici?…

- Aux Three-Magpies, Mod…

- Non… et Adam Fry vous aurait mis a la porte, apres la facon dont vous l’avez traite… Puis, les policemen vous auraient empoignes tous les quatre… et comme vous n’en etes pas, je le suppose, a debuter devant le tribunal de police, on vous aurait gratifies d’un ou deux bons mois de repos dans la prison de Dunedin…

- Prison en ville ou batiment en mer, c’est tout un… repliqua Len Cannon, qui ne semblait pas resigne a son sort.

- Comment… s’ecria Vin Mod, des marins qui parlent de la sorte!…

- Ce n’etait pas notre idee de naviguer… declara Len Cannon. Sans cette mechante bagarre d’hier, nous serions deja loin sur les routes d’Otago…

- A peiner… a trimer… a crever de faim et de soif, l’ami, et pour quoi faire?…

- Faire fortune!… riposta Len Cannon.

- Faire fortune… dans les placers?… repondit Vin Mod. Mais il n’y a plus rien a pecher la-bas…

Est-ce que tu n’as pas vu ceux qui en reviennent?… Des cailloux, tant qu’on en veut, et l’on peut s’en lester pour ne point revenir les poches vides!… Quant a des pepites, la recolte est finie, et ca ne repousse pas du jour au lendemain… ni meme d’une annee a l’autre!…

- J’en connais qui ne regrettent pas d’avoir lache leur batiment pour les gisements de la Clutha…

- Et moi… j’en connais… quatre, qui ne regretteront pas de s’etre embarques sur le James-Cook au lieu d’avoir file a l’interieur!

- C’est pour nous que tu dis cela?…

- Pour vous et deux ou trois autres bons lurons de ton espece…

- Et tu cherches a me fourrer dans la tete qu’un matelot gagne de quoi rire, manger et boire le restant de ses jours, a faire le cabotage pour le compte d’un capitaine et d’un armateur?

- Non, certes… repliqua Vin Mod, a moins qu’il ne le fasse pour son propre compte!…

- Et le moyen… quand on n’est pas proprietaire du navire?…

- On peut quelquefois le devenir…

- Eh! crois-tu donc que mes camarades et moi nous ayons de l’argent a la banque de Dunedin pour l’acheter?…

- Non, l’ami… et, si vous avez jamais eu des economies, elles ont plutot passe par les mains des Adam Fry et autres banquiers de cette sorte!…

- Eh bien, Mod, pas d’argent, pas de navire… et je ne pense pas que M. Gibson soit d’humeur a nous faire cadeau du sien…

- Non… mais enfin un malheur peut survenir… Si M. Gibson venait a disparaitre… un accident, une chute a la mer… cela arrive aux meilleurs capitaines…

Un coup de lame, il n’en faut pas plus pour vous dehaler… et, la nuit… sans qu’on s’en apercoive… Puis le matin, plus personne…”

Len Cannon regardait Vin Mod, les yeux dans les yeux, se demandant s’il comprenait bien ce langage.

L’autre continua:

“Et alors, que se passe-t-il?… On remplace le capitaine, et, dans ce cas, c’est le second qui prend le commandement du navire, ou, s’il n’y a pas de second, c’est le lieutenant…

- Et, s’il n’y a pas de lieutenant… ajouta Len Cannon en baissant la voix, apres avoir pousse du coude son interlocuteur, s’il n’y a pas de lieutenant… c’est le maitre d’equipage…

- Comme tu dis, l’ami, et, avec un maitre d’equipage comme Flig Balt, on va loin…

- Pas ou l’on devait aller?… insinua Len Cannon, en coulant un regard de cote.

- Non… mais ou l’on veut aller… repondit Vin Mod, la ou se font de bons coups de commerce… de bonnes cargaisons… de la nacre, du coprah, des epices… tout cela dans la cale du Little-Girl.

- Comment… le Little-Girl?…

- Ce serait le nouveau nom du James-Cook… un joli nom, n’est-ce pas, et qui doit porter bonheur!”

Enfin, que ce fut ce nom ou un autre, - bien que Vin Mod parut y tenir tout particulierement, - il y avait une affaire en perspective. Len Cannon etait assez intelligent pour comprendre a demi-mot que cela s’adressait a ses camarades des Three-Magpies comme a lui-meme.

Ce n’etaient certes pas les scrupules qui les retiendraient. Toutefois, avant de s’engager, il convient de connaitre les choses a fond et de quel cote sont les chances. Aussi, apres quelques moments de reflexion, Len Cannon, qui jeta les yeux autour de lui pour s’assurer que personne ne pouvait les entendre, dit a Vin Mod:

“Lache tout!”

Vin Mod le mit alors au courant de l’affaire convenue avec Flig Balt. Len Cannon, tres accessible a des propositions de ce genre, ne montra aucune surprise a les entendre, aucune repugnance a les debattre, aucune hesitation a les accepter. Se debarrasser du capitaine Gibson et des matelots qui eussent refuse d’entrer en rebellion contre lui, s’emparer du brick, en changer le nom et, au besoin, la nationalite, trafiquer a travers le Pacifique a parts egales dans les profits, cela etait bien pour seduire ce coquin. Neanmoins, il voulait des garanties, il entendait avoir l’assurance que le maitre d’equipage connivait avec Vin Mod.

“Ce soir, apres le quart de huit heures, pendant que tu seras a la barre, Flig Balt te parlera, Len… Ouvre l’oreille…

- Et c’est lui qui commandera le James-Cook?… demanda Len Cannon, qui eut sans doute prefere n’etre sous les ordres de personne.

- Eh oui… mille diables!… repliqua Vin Mod. Il faut bien avoir un capitaine!… Seulement, c’est toi, Len, tes camarades et nous tous qui serons les armateurs…

- Convenu, Mod… Des que je serai seul avec Sexton, Bryce et Kyle, je leur toucherai deux mots de l’affaire…

- C’est que cela presse…

- Tant que cela?…

- Oui… cette nuit, et, une fois les maitres a bord, on prendrait le large!…”

Et alors Vin Mod expliqua pourquoi le coup devait etre execute avant l’arrivee a Wellington, ou embarqueraient M. Hawkins et le fils Gibson…

Avec deux hommes de plus, la partie serait moins sure… Dans tous les cas, si ce n’etait pas cette nuit, il fallait que ce fut l’autre. Pas plus tard… ou il y aurait moins de chance de reussir.

Len Cannon comprit ces raisons. Le soir venu, il previendrait ses camarades dont il repondait comme de lui. Du moment que le maitre d’equipage ordonnerait, ils obeiraient au maitre d’equipage… Mais, d’abord, Flig Balt devrait confirmer tout ce que venait de dire Vin Mod… Deux mots suffiraient et une poignee de main pour sceller le pacte… Et, par saint Patrick! Len Cannon n’exigerait pas une signature… Ce qui serait promis serait tenu… etc.

Bref, ainsi que l’avait indique Vin Mod, vers huit heures, tandis que Len Cannon etait a la barre, Flig Balt, en sortant du rouf, se dirigea vers l’arriere. Le capitaine s’y trouvant alors, il y avait lieu d’attendre qu’il eut regagne sa cabine, apres avoir donne ses ordres pour la nuit.

La brise de nord-ouest tenait encore, bien qu’elle eut un peu molli au coucher du soleil. La mer promettait d’etre belle jusqu’au matin, et il ne serait pas necessaire de changer la voilure; peut-etre seulement devrait-on amener le grand et le petit perroquet. Le brick resterait alors sous ses huniers, ses basses voiles et ses focs. D’ailleurs il serrait de moins pres le vent, en attendant de mettre le cap au nord-est.

En effet, le James-Cook, au large du port de Timaru, allait traverser la vaste baie qui echancre la cote, connue sous le nom de Canterbury-Bight.

Afin de doubler la presqu’ile de Banks qui la ferme, il lui faudrait arriver de deux quarts et naviguer sous l’allure du largue.

M. Gibson fit donc brasser les vergues et filer les ecoutes de maniere a suivre cette direction. Lorsque le jour reviendrait, a condition que la brise ne tombat pas tout a fait, il comptait avoir laisse en arriere les Pompey’s Pillars et se trouver par le travers de Christchurch.

Ses ordres executes, Harry Gibson, au grand ennui de Flig Balt, demeura sur le pont jusqu’a dix heures, tantot echangeant quelques paroles avec lui, tantot assis sur le couronnement. Le maitre d’equipage, prevenu par Vin Mod, etait dans l’impossibilite d’entretenir Len Cannon.

Enfin, tout allait bien a bord. Le brick n’aurait a modifier sa route qu’a trois ou quatre heures du matin, lorsqu’il serait en vue du port d’Akaroa. Aussi M. Gibson, un dernier coup d’oeil donne a l’horizon et a la voilure, regagna-t-il sa cabine qui prenait jour sur l’avant du rouf.

Il n’y en eut pas long a dire entre Flig Balt et Len Cannon. Le maitre d’equipage confirma les propositions de Vin Mod. Pas de demi-mesures… On jetterait le capitaine par-dessus le bord, apres l’avoir surpris dans sa cabine, et, comme on ne pouvait compter sur Hobbes, Wickley et Burnes, on les enverrait le rejoindre… Len Cannon n’avait donc qu’a s’assurer du concours de ses trois camarades, autrement dit a les avertir: ce n’est pas de leur part que viendraient les objections.

“Et quand?… demanda Len Cannon.

- Cette nuit, repondit Vin Mod, qui avait pris part a l’entretien.

- Quelle heure?

- Entre onze heures et minuit, repondit Flig Balt.

A ce moment, Hobbes sera de quart avec Sexton, Wickley a la barre… Il n’y aura pas a les tirer du poste, et, apres que nous serons debarrasses de ces honnetes matelots…

- Entendu”, repondit Len Cannon, sans eprouver plus d’hesitation que de scrupule.

Puis, abandonnant la roue a Vin Mod, il se dirigea vers l’avant afin de mettre Sexton, Bryce et Kyle au courant de l’affaire.

Arrive au pied du mat de misaine, c’est inutilement qu’il chercha Sexton et Bryce. Ils auraient du etre de quart, et ni l’un ni l’autre n’etaient la.

Wickley, qu’il interrogea, se contenta de hausser les epaules.

“Ou sont-ils? demanda Len Cannon.

- Dans le poste… ivres morts… tous les deux!

- Ah! les brutes! murmura Len Cannon. Les voila souls pour toute la nuit, et rien a en faire!”

Une fois descendu, il trouva ses camarades vautres sur leurs cadres. Il les secoua… Des brutes, en verite!… Ils avaient vole une bouteille de gin dans la cambuse, ils l’avaient videe jusqu’a la derniere goutte… Impossible de les tirer de cette ivresse, d’ou ils ne sortiraient qu’au matin… Impossible de leur communiquer les projets de Vin Mod!… Impossible de compter sur eux pour les mettre a execution avant le lever du soleil, car, sans eux, la partie etait trop inegale!…

Lorsque Flig Balt eut ete prevenu, on se figure aisement ce que fut sa colere. Vin Mod ne le calma pas sans peine, et lui aussi vouait a la potence ces miserables ivrognes!… Mais enfin, rien n’etait perdu…

Ce qui ne pouvait se faire cette nuit se ferait la nuit prochaine… On veillerait sur Kyle et Sexton… On les empecherait de boire… Dans tous les cas, Flig Balt se garderait bien de les denoncer au capitaine, ni pour la soulerie, ni pour le vol de la bouteille… M. Gibson les enverrait a fond de cale jusqu’a l’arrivee du brick a Wellington, les remettrait entre les mains des autorites maritimes et debarquerait peut-etre par surcroit Len Cannon et Kyle, ainsi que le fit observer Vin Mod… C’etait parler sagement. D’autre part, les matelots ne se denoncent pas entre eux. Ni Hobbes, ni Wickley, ni Burnes, ni meme le mousse ne parleraient, et le capitaine n’aurait point a intervenir.

La nuit s’ecoula, et la tranquillite ne fut point troublee a bord du James-Cook.

Lorsque Harry Gibson monta de grand matin sur le pont, il constata que les hommes de quart etaient a leur poste, et le brick en bonne direction par le travers de Christchurch, apres avoir double la presqu’ile de Banks.

Cette journee du 27 s’annonca bien. Le soleil deborda d’un horizon dont les brumes se dissiperent promptement. Un instant on put croire que la brise s’etablirait au large; mais, des sept heures, elle vint de terre, et, sans doute, se maintiendrait au nord-ouest comme la veille. En pincant le vent, le James-Cook pourrait atteindre le port de Wellington sans changer ses amures.

“Rien de nouveau?… demanda M. Gibson a Flig Balt, lorsque le maitre d’equipage sortit de sa cabine, ou il avait passe les dernieres heures de la nuit.

- Rien de nouveau, monsieur Gibson, repondit-il.

- Qui est a la barre?…

- Le matelot Cannon.

- Vous n’avez pas eu a reprendre les nouvelles recrues dans le service?…

- En aucune facon, et je crois ces gens-la meilleurs qu’ils ne paraissent.

- Tant mieux, Balt, car j’ai idee qu’a Wellington, comme a Dunedin, les capitaines doivent etre a court d’equipages.

- C’est probable, monsieur Gibson…

- Et, somme toute, si je pouvais m’arranger de ceux-ci…

- Ce serait pour le mieux!” repondit Flig Balt.

Le James-Cook, en remontant vers le nord, prolongeait la cote a trois ou quatre milles seulement. Les details en apparaissaient avec nettete sous l’embrasement des rayons solaires. Les hautes chaines du Kaikoura qui sillonnent la province de Malborough dessinaient leurs capricieuses aretes a une hauteur de dix mille pieds. Sur leurs flancs s’etageaient les epaisses forets dorees par la lumiere, en meme temps que les cours d’eau s’epanchaient vers le littoral.

Cependant, la brise montrait une tendance a calmir, et le brick, ce jour-la, ferait moins de route que la veille. D’ou probabilite qu’il n’arriverait pas la nuit a Wellington.

Vers cinq heures de l’apres-midi, on avait seulement connaissance des hauteurs du Ben More, dans le sud du petit port de Flaxbourne. Il faudrait encore de cinq a six heures pour se trouver a l’ouvert du detroit de Cook. Comme ce passage s’oriente du sud au nord, il ne serait pas necessaire de modifier l’allure du navire.

Flig Balt et Vin Mod etaient donc assures d’avoir toute la nuit pour accomplir leurs projets.

Il va sans dire que le concours de Len Cannon et de ses camarades etait acquis. Sexton et Bryce, leur ivresse dissipee, Kyle deja prevenu, n’avaient fait aucune observation.

Vin Mod ayant appuye Len Cannon, on n’attendait plus que le moment d’agir. Voici dans quelles conditions.

Entre minuit et une heure du matin, tandis que le capitaine serait endormi, Vin Mod et Len Cannon penetreraient dans sa cabine, le baillonneraient, l’enleveraient et le jetteraient a la mer avant qu’il eut le temps de pousser un cri. A ce moment, Hobbes et Burnes, etant de quart, seraient saisis par Kyle, Sexton, Bryce, et subiraient le meme sort. Resterait Wickley dans le poste; Koa et Flig Balt en auraient facilement raison, ainsi que du mousse. L’execution faite, il n’y aurait plus a bord que les auteurs du crime, pas un seul temoin, et le James-Cook, larguant ses ecoutes, gagnerait a toutes voiles les parages du Pacifique dans l’est de la Nouvelle-Zelande.

Toutes les chances etaient donc pour que cet abominable complot reussit. Avant le lever du jour, sous le commandement de Flig Balt, le brick serait deja loin de ces parages.

Il etait environ sept heures, lorsque le cap Campbell fut releve au nord-est. C’est a proprement parler l’extreme pointe qui limite le detroit de Cook au sud, ayant pour pendant, a une distance de cinquante milles environ, le cap Palliser, extremite de l’ile Ika-na-Maoui.

Le brick suivait alors le littoral a moins de deux milles, tout dessus, meme ses bonnettes, car la brise faiblissait avec le soir. La cote etait franche, bordee de roches basaltiques qui forment les premieres assises des montagnes de l’interieur. La cime du mont Weld se detachait comme une pointe de feu sous les rayons du soleil couchant. Bien que les marees du Pacifique soient peu importantes, un courant de terre portait vers le nord et favorisait la marche du James-Cook en direction du detroit.

C’etait a huit heures que le capitaine devait rentrer dans sa cabine, apres avoir laisse le quart au maitre d’equipage.

Il n’y aurait qu’a surveiller le passage des navires a l’ouvert du detroit. Au reste, la nuit serait claire, et aucune voile ne paraissait a l’horizon.

Avant huit heures, cependant, une fumee fut signalee par tribord arriere, et on ne tarda pas a voir un steamer qui doublait le cap Campbell.

Vin Mod et Flig Balt n’en prirent point ombrage. Assurement, etant donnee sa marche, il aurait bientot depasse le brick.

C’etait un aviso de l’Etat qui n’avait pas encore amene ses couleurs. Or, a cet instant, un coup de fusil se fit entendre, et le pavillon britannique descendit de la corne de brigantine.

Harry Gibson etait reste sur le pont. Allait-il donc y demeurer tant que serait en vue cet aviso, qui faisait la meme route que le James-Cook, soit qu’il eut l’intention de traverser le detroit, soit qu’il fut a destination de Wellington?…

Voila ce que se demandaient Flig Balt et Vin Mod, non sans une certaine apprehension, et meme une certaine impatience, tant il leur tardait d’etre seuls sur le pont.

Une heure s’ecoula. M. Gibson, assis pres du rouf, ne paraissait point songer a rentrer. Il echangeait quelques mots avec l’homme de barre, Hobbes, et observait l’aviso, qui ne se trouvait pas a un mille du brick.

Que l’on juge donc du desappointement de Flig Balt, de ses complices, un desappointement qui tournait a la rage. Le batiment anglais ne marchait plus qu’a petite vitesse et sa vapeur fusait par le tuyau d’echappement. Il se bercait aux ondulations de la longue houle, troublant a peine les eaux des battements de son helice, ne faisant pas plus de sillage que le James-Cook.

Pourquoi cet aviso avait-il donc ralenti sa marche?…

Etait-ce quelque accident survenu a sa machine?… Ou plutot ne voulait-il pas entrer de nuit dans le port de Wellington, dont les passes sont assez difficiles?…

Enfin, pour une de ces raisons, sans doute, il semblait devoir rester jusqu’a l’aube sous petite vapeur, et, par consequent, en vue du brick.

Cela etait bien pour desappointer Flig Balt, Vin Mod et les autres, pour les inquieter aussi.

En effet, Len Cannon, Sexton, Kyle, Bryce eurent d’abord la pensee que cet aviso avait ete envoye de Dunedin a leur poursuite; que la police, ayant appris leur embarquement et leur depart sur le brick, cherchait a les reprendre. Craintes exagerees et vaines, assurement. Il eut ete plus simple d’envoyer par telegraphe l’ordre de les arreter des leur arrivee a Wellington. On ne detache pas un navire de l’Etat pour s’emparer de quelques matelots tapageurs, lorsqu’il est facile de les pincer au port.

Len Cannon et ses camarades ne tarderent pas a etre rassures. L’aviso ne fit aucun signal pour entrer en communication avec le brick, et ne mit point d’embarcation a la mer. Le James-Cook ne serait pas l’objet d’une perquisition, et les recrues des Three-Magpies pouvaient etre tranquilles a bord.

Mais, si toute crainte fut bannie de ce chef, on imagine aisement la colere qu’eprouverent le maitre d’equipage et Vin Mod. Impossible d’agir cette nuit, et le lendemain le brick serait a son mouillage de Wellington. Se jeter sur le capitaine Gibson, sur les trois matelots, cela ne se ferait pas sans bruit. Ils resisteraient, ils se defendraient, ils crieraient, et leurs cris seraient entendus de l’aviso, qui ne se trouvait plus qu’a deux ou trois encablures…

La revolte ne pouvait eclater dans ces conditions… Elle eut ete promptement reprimee par le batiment anglais, qui, en quelques tours d’helice, eut accoste le brick.

“Malediction!… grommelait Vin Mod. Rien a faire!… On risquerait d’etre envoye a bout de vergues de ce damne bateau…

- Et demain, ajouta Flig Balt, l’armateur et Nat Gibson seront a bord!”

Il aurait fallu s’eloigner de l’aviso, et peut-etre le maitre d’equipage l’eut-il tente, si le capitaine, au lieu de regagner sa cabine, ne fut demeure la plus grande partie de la nuit sur le pont. Impossible de prendre le large… Donc, necessite de renoncer au projet de s’emparer du brick.

Le jour revint de bonne heure. Le James-Cook avait passe a l’ouvert de Blenheim, situe sur le littoral de Tawai-Pounamou, cote ouest du detroit; puis il s’etait rapproche de la pointe Nicholson, qui se projette a l’entree de la baie de Wellington. Enfin, a six heures du matin, il penetrait dans cette baie en meme temps que l’aviso et venait mouiller au milieu du port.

IV - A Wellington

La ville de Wellington est batie a la pointe sud-ouest de l’ile du Nord, au fond d’une baie disposee en fer a cheval. Tres abritee contre les vents du large, elle offre d’excellents mouillages. Le brick avait ete favorise par le temps, mais il n’en est pas toujours ainsi. La navigation, le plus souvent, presente des difficultes dans le detroit de Cook, sillonne de courants dont la vitesse atteint parfois une dizaine de noeuds, bien que les marees du Pacifique ne soient jamais fortes. Le marin Tasman, auquel on doit la premiere decouverte de la Nouvelle-Zelande, - decembre 1642, - y courut de grands dangers, risques d’echouage, risques d’attaque de la part des indigenes. De la ce nom de “Baie du Massacre” qui figure dans la nomenclature geographique du detroit. Le navigateur hollandais y perdit quatre de ses hommes, que devorerent les cannibales du littoral, et, cent ans apres lui, le navigateur anglais James Cook laissait entre leurs mains l’equipage de l’un des canots de sa conserve, commandee par le capitaine Furneaux. Enfin, a deux ans de la, le navigateur francais Marion du Frene et seize de ses gens y trouvaient la mort dans une agression de la plus effroyable sauvagerie.

En 1840, au mois de mars, Dumont d’Urville, avec l’Astrolabe et la Zelee, donne dans la baie Otago de l’ile du Sud, visite les iles Snares et l’ile Stewart, a l’extremite meridionale de Tawai-Pounamou. Puis il sejourne au port d’Akaroa, sans avoir a se plaindre de ses rapports avec les naturels. Le souvenir du passage de cet illustre marin est marque par l’ile qui porte son nom. Uniquement habitee par des tribus de pingouins et d’albatros, elle est separee de la grande terre du Sud par la “French pass”, ou la mer est si furieuse que les navires ne s’y aventurent pas volontiers a la sortie du detroit.

Actuellement, sous les plis du pavillon britannique, du moins en ce qui concerne les Maoris, toute securite est assuree dans les parages de la Nouvelle-Zelande.

Les dangers qui venaient des hommes ont ete conjures. Seuls, ceux de la mer subsistent, et encore sont-ils moindres, grace aux travaux hydrographiques et a l’etablissement du gigantesque phare que porte un roc isole en avant de la baie Nicholson, au fond de laquelle apparait Wellington.

C’est en 1849, au mois de janvier, que la New-Zealand Land Company envoya l’Aurora deposer les premiers colons sur le littoral de ces terres lointaines. La population des deux iles ne compte pas moins de huit cent mille habitants, et Wellington, capitale de la colonie, en possede une trentaine de mille pour sa part.

La ville est agreablement situee, regulierement construite, rues larges et proprement entretenues. La plupart des maisons sont baties en bois, par crainte des tremblements de terre, frequents dans la province meridionale, meme les edifices publics, entre autres le palais du gouvernement, au milieu de son joli parc, et la cathedrale, que son caractere religieux ne met point a l’abri des cataclysmes terrestres. Cette cite, moins importante, moins industrielle, moins commercante que deux ou trois de ses rivales en Nouvelle-Zelande, les egalera sans doute quelque jour sous l’impulsion du genie colonisateur de la Grande-Bretagne. En tout cas, avec son Universite, sa Chambre legislative composee de cinquante-quatre membres, dont quatre Maoris nommes par le gouverneur, sa Chambre des representants issus directement du suffrage populaire, ses colleges, ses ecoles, son musee, ses laborieuses usines pour les viandes frigorifiees, sa prison modele, ses places, ses jardins publics ou l’electricite va se substituer au gaz, Wellington jouit d’un confort exceptionnel que pourraient envier nombre de villes de l’Ancien et du Nouveau Monde.

Si le James-Cook n’avait point porte ses amarres a quai, c’etait pour cette raison que le capitaine Gibson voulait rendre plus difficile la desertion des hommes.

La fievre de l’or exercait autant de ravages a Wellington qu’a Dunedin et dans les autres ports neo-zelandais. Plusieurs navires se trouvaient dans l’impossibilite d’appareiller. M. Gibson devait donc prendre toutes precautions pour garder son equipage au complet, meme ces recrues des Three-Magpies qu’il eut cependant et tres volontiers echangees contre d’autres. D’ailleurs, sa relache a Wellington allait etre de tres courte duree - a peine vingt-quatre heures.

Les premieres personnes qui recurent sa visite furent M. Hawkins et Nat Gibson. Le capitaine s’etait fait mettre a terre des son arrivee, et huit heures sonnaient lorsqu’il se presenta au comptoir de M. Hawkins, situe a l’extremite d’une des rues qui debouchent sur le port.

“Mon pere!…

- Mon ami!”

Ainsi Harry Gibson fut-il accueilli a son entree dans le bureau. Il avait devance son fils et M. Hawkins, qui se disposaient a descendre sur le quai, ce qu’ils faisaient chaque matin, pour voir si le James-Cook ne serait pas enfin signale par la vigie du semaphore.

Le jeune homme s’etait d’abord jete au cou de son pere, puis l’armateur pressa celui-ci dans ses bras.

M. Hawkins, age de cinquante ans a cette epoque, etait un homme de moyenne taille, cheveux grisonnants, les yeux clairs et doux, bonne sante, bonne constitution, tres ingambe, tres actif, tres entendu au commerce, tres hardi en affaires. On sait que sa situation a Hobart-Town donnait toute securite, et il aurait deja pu se retirer, fortune faite. Mais il ne lui eut pas convenu, apres une existence si laborieuse, de rester oisif.

Aussi, dans le but de developper ses armements, qui comprenaient plusieurs autres navires, venait-il de fonder ce comptoir a Wellington avec un associe, M. Balfour. Nat Gibson deviendrait le principal employe a part d’interet, des que le James-Cook aurait acheve sa campagne.

Le fils du capitaine Gibson, alors age de vingt et un ans, d’intelligence vive, d’esprit serieux, ressentait pour son pere et pour sa mere une affection profonde, et aussi pour M. Hawkins. Il est vrai, ce dernier et le capitaine etaient lies si intimement que Nat Gibson pouvait les confondre dans la meme amitie. Ardent, enthousiaste, aimant les belles choses, il etait artiste tout en montrant des dispositions pour les affaires commerciales. D’une taille au-dessus de la moyenne, les yeux noirs, les cheveux et la barbe chatains, la demarche elegante, l’attitude aisee, la physionomie sympathique, il plaisait des le premier abord, et on ne lui connaissait que des amis. D’un autre cote, pas de doute qu’il ne dut devenir, avec l’age, resolu, energique. D’un temperament plus decide que son pere, il tenait de Mrs Gibson.

En ses loisirs, Nat Gibson s’occupait avec plaisir et gout de photographie, cet art deja si en progres grace a l’emploi des substances acceleratrices qui portent les epreuves instantanees au dernier degre de la perfection. Son appareil ne le quittait guere, et l’on peut imaginer s’il s’en etait servi au cours de ce voyage: sites pittoresques, portraits d’indigenes, des cliches de toutes sortes.

Pendant son sejour a Wellington, il avait pris nombre de vues de la ville et des environs. M. Hawkins lui-meme s’y interessait. Souvent on les voyait partir tous les deux, leur bagage de photographes en bandouliere, et ils revenaient de ces excursions avec de nouvelles richesses pour leur collection.

Apres avoir presente le capitaine a M. Balfour, M. Hawkins rentra dans son bureau, ou le suivirent M. Gibson et son fils. Et la, tout d’abord, on parla d’Hobart-Town. Les nouvelles ne manquaient pas, grace aux services reguliers entre la Tasmanie et la Nouvelle-Zelande. La veille meme etait arrivee une lettre de Mrs Hawkins, et celles de Mrs Gibson attendaient depuis quelques jours le James-Cook a Wellington.

Le capitaine prit connaissance de sa correspondance. Tout le monde allait bien la-bas. Ces dames etaient en bonne sante. Il est vrai, l’absence leur semblait longue et leur espoir etait qu’elle ne se prolongerait pas. Le voyage devait toucher a son terme.

“Oui, dit M. Hawkins, encore cinq ou six semaines, et nous serons de retour a Hobart-Town…

- Chere mere, s’ecria Nat Gibson, quel bonheur elle aura a nous revoir, autant que nous en avons eu, pere, a t’embrasser!…

- Et que j’en ai, moi, cher enfant!

- Mon ami, dit M. Hawkins, j’ai toute raison de croire que la traversee du James-Cook sera maintenant de peu de duree…

- C’est mon avis, Hawkins.

- Meme a moyenne vitesse, reprit l’armateur, la navigation est assez courte entre la Nouvelle-Zelande et la Nouvelle-Irlande…

- En cette saison surtout, repondit le capitaine. La mer est belle jusqu’a l’Equateur, les vents sont reguliers, et je pense comme toi que nous n’aurons aucun retard a subir, si notre relache a Port-Praslin ne doit pas se prolonger…

- Il n’en sera rien, Gibson. J’ai recu de notre correspondant, M. Zieger, une lettre tres rassurante a ce sujet.

Il y a dans l’archipel un gros stock de marchandises en nacre, en coprah, et le chargement du brick pourra s’effectuer sans difficultes.

- M. Zieger est-il pret a prendre livraison de nos marchandises?… demanda le capitaine.

- Oui, mon ami, et, je te le repete, j’ai l’assurance qu’il n’y aura aucun retard de ce chef.

- N’oublie pas, Hawkins, qu’apres Port-Praslin le brick devra se rendre a Kerawara…

- C’est l’affaire de vingt-quatre heures, Gibson.

- Eh bien, pere, dit Nat Gibson, nous pouvons etre fixes sur la duree du voyage. Combien de jours notre relache a Port-Praslin et a Kerawara?…

- Trois semaines environ.

- Et de Wellington a Port-Praslin?

- Tout autant.

- Et le retour en Tasmanie?…

- A peu pres un mois.

- Ainsi, dans deux mois et demi, il est possible que le James-Cook soit revenu a Hobart-Town…

- Oui… plutot moins que plus.

- Bon, repondit Nat Gibson, je vais ecrire a ma mere aujourd’hui meme, car le courrier pour l’Australie leve l’ancre apres-demain… Je lui demanderai encore deux mois et demi de patience, dont Mme Hawkins voudra bien prendre sa part, n’est-ce pas, monsieur Hawkins?…

- Oui, mon cher enfant.

- Et, au commencement de l’annee, les deux familles seront reunies…

- Deux familles qui n’en font qu’une!” repondit M. Hawkins.

Les mains de l’armateur et du capitaine se presserent affectueusement.

“Mon cher Gibson, dit alors M. Hawkins, nous dejeunerons ici avec M. Balfour…

- C’est entendu, Hawkins.

- As-tu affaire en ville?…

- Non, repondit le capitaine, mais il faut que je retourne a bord.

- Eh bien, au James-Cook! s’ecria Nat Gibson. Cela me fera plaisir de revoir notre brick avant d’y transporter nos bagages de passagers.

- Oh! repondit M. Hawkins, il va bien rester quelques jours a Wellington?…

- Vingt-quatre heures au plus, repondit le capitaine. Je n’ai point d’avaries a reparer, point de cargaison a debarquer ni a embarquer… Des provisions a renouveler seulement, et un apres-midi me suffira… C’est a ce sujet que je veux donner des ordres a Balt.

- Tu es toujours content de ton maitre d’equipage?…

- Toujours… C’est un homme zele et qui connait bien le service.

- Et l’equipage?…

- Des anciens matelots, rien a dire.

- Et ceux que tu as engages a Dunedin?…

- Ils ne m’inspirent guere de confiance, mais je n’ai pas trouve mieux.

- Ainsi le James-Cook partira?…

- Des demain, s’il ne nous arrive pas ici ce qui nous est arrive a Dunedin. En ce moment, il n’est pas bon pour les capitaines du commerce de relacher dans les ports de la Nouvelle-Zelande!

- Tu veux parler de la desertion qui decime les equipages?… demanda M. Hawkins.

- Et qui fait plus que les decimer, repliqua M. Gibson, puisque, sur huit matelots, j’en ai perdu quatre, dont je n’ai plus eu aucune nouvelle…

- Tu as raison, Gibson, prends garde a ce qu’il n’en soit pas a Wellington comme il en a ete a Dunedin…

- Aussi ai-je eu la precaution de ne permettre a personne de debarquer sous aucun pretexte… pas meme au cuisinier Koa…

- C’est prudent, pere, ajouta Nat Gibson… Il y a dans le port une demi-douzaine de navires qui ne peuvent prendre la mer faute de matelots.

- Cela ne m’etonne pas, repondit Harry Gibson. Aussi je compte mettre a la voile des que nous aurons embarque nos provisions, et assurement nous serons pares demain des la premiere heure.”

Au moment ou le capitaine prononca le nom du maitre d’equipage, M. Hawkins n’avait pu retenir un geste assez significatif.

“Si je t’ai parle de Flig Balt, reprit-il alors, c’est qu’il ne m’avait pas fait tres bonne impression quand nous l’avons engage a Hobart-Town.

- Oui… je sais, repondit le capitaine, mais tes preventions ne sont point justifiees… Il remplit ses fonctions avec zele, les hommes savent qu’il faut lui obeir, et, je te le repete, le service du bord n’a rien laisse a desirer.

- Tant mieux, Gibson, je prefere m’etre trompe a son egard, et du moment qu’il t’inspire confiance…

- D’ailleurs, Hawkins, lorsqu’il s’agit de la manoeuvre, je ne m’en rapporte qu’a moi seul, tu le sais, et j’abandonne volontiers le reste a mon maitre d’equipage.

Depuis notre depart, je n’ai pas eu un reproche a lui adresser, et s’il veut rembarquer sur le brick a son prochain voyage…

- Cela te regarde, apres tout, mon cher ami, repondit M. Hawkins. Tu es le meilleur juge de ce qu’il convient de faire.”

On le voit, la confiance que Flig Balt inspirait a Harry Gibson, confiance fort mal placee, etait entiere, tant ce fourbe avait su jouer son jeu comme Vin Mod. C’est pourquoi, lorsque M. Hawkins demanda encore si le capitaine etait sur des quatre matelots qui n’avaient point deserte: “Vin Mod, Hobbes, Wickley, Burnes sont de bons marins, repondit-il, et ce qu’ils n’ont pas fait a Dunedin, ils n’auraient pas cherche a le faire ici.

- On leur en tiendra compte au retour, declara l’armateur.

- Aussi, reprit le capitaine, ce n’est pas pour eux que j’ai defendu aux hommes de descendre a terre… c’est a propos des quatre recrues.”

Et M. Gibson fit connaitre dans quelles conditions Len Cannon, Sexton, Kyle, Bryce etaient venus a bord, ayant hate d’echapper aux policemen de Dunedin, apres une bataille dans la taverne des Three-Magpies.

“De veritables pratiques?… dit l’armateur.

- Assurement, mon ami, mais tu sais en quel embarras j’etais, et comment j’y ai ete retarde d’une quinzaine de jours!… J’en etais meme a me demander s’il ne me faudrait pas attendre des mois pour completer mon equipage!… Que veux-tu! on prend ce qu’on trouve…

- Et on se separe de ce qu’on a trouve des que cela est possible… repliqua M. Hawkins.

- Comme tu dis, Hawkins. C’est meme ce que j’aurais fait ici, a Wellington, si les circonstances l’avaient permis, et c’est ce que je ferai a Hobart-Town…

- Nous avons le loisir d’y songer, pere! observa Nat Gibson. Le brick restera bien quelques mois en desarmement, n’est-ce pas, monsieur Hawkins? et nous passerons ce temps en famille jusqu’au jour ou je reviendrai moi-meme a Wellington.

- Tout cela s’arrangera, Nat”, repondit l’armateur.

M. Hawkins, M. Gibson et son fils quitterent le comptoir, descendirent sur le quai, helerent une des embarcations employees au service du port et se firent conduire a bord du brick.

Ce fut le maitre d’equipage qui les recut, toujours obsequieux, toujours empresse, et auquel M. Hawkins, rassure par les declarations du capitaine, reserva bon accueil.

“Je vois que vous etes en bonne sante, monsieur Hawkins… lui dit Flig Balt.

- En bonne sante… je vous remercie…”, repondit l’armateur.

Les trois matelots, Hobbes, Wickley et Burnes, qui naviguaient depuis plusieurs annees sur le James-Cook, sans avoir donne aucun sujet de plainte, obtinrent les felicitations de M. Hawkins.

Quant a Jim, l’armateur l’embrassa sur les deux joues, et le jeune homme temoigna une grande joie de le revoir.

“J’ai d’excellentes nouvelles de ta mere, lui dit M. Hawkins, et elle espere bien que le capitaine est satisfait de toi…

- Entierement, declara M. Gibson.

- Je vous remercie, monsieur Hawkins, dit Jim, et vous me faites grand plaisir!

- Et moi?… dit Nat Gibson en l’attirant, il n’y a rien pour moi?…

- Oh, si! monsieur Nat, repondit Jim, qui se jeta a son cou.

- Et quelle bonne mine tu as!… ajouta Nat. Si ta mere te voyait, elle serait contente, la brave femme!… Aussi, Jim, je ferai ta photographie avant de partir…

- Bien ressemblante?…

- Oui… si tu ne bouges pas…

- Je ne bougerai pas, monsieur Nat, je ne bougerai pas!”

Il faut dire que M. Hawkins, apres avoir parle a Hobbes, Wickley et Burnes, de leurs familles, qui habitaient Hobart-Town, adressa quelques paroles a Vin Mod. Celui-ci se montra tres sensible a cette attention. Il est vrai, l’armateur le connaissait moins que ses camarades, et c’etait son premier voyage a bord du James-Cook.

Quant aux recrues, M. Hawkins se contenta de les saluer d’un simple bonjour.

Il y a lieu de l’avouer, d’ailleurs, leur vue ne fit pas sur lui meilleure impression que sur M. Gibson. Au reste, on aurait pu, sans inconvenient, leur permettre de descendre a terre. Ils n’auraient pas eu l’idee de deserter apres ces quarante-huit heures de navigation, et ils fussent certainement rentres avant le depart du brick. Vin Mod les avait travailles, et, malgre la presence de M. Hawkins et de Nat Gibson, ils comptaient bien que quelque occasion se presenterait de s’emparer du navire. Ce serait un peu plus difficile.

Mais qu’y a-t-il d’impossible a des gens sans foi ni loi, decides a ne reculer devant aucun crime?

Apres une heure, pendant laquelle M. Hawkins et M. Gibson examinerent ensemble les comptes du voyage, le capitaine annonca que le brick mettrait en mer le lendemain au lever du jour. L’armateur et Nat Gibson reviendraient dans la soiree prendre possession de leur cabine, ou ils auraient prealablement fait transporter les bagages.

Cependant, avant de regagner le quai, M. Gibson demanda a Flig Balt s’il n’avait pas besoin de se rendre a terre: “Non, capitaine, repondit le maitre d’equipage. Je prefere rester a bord… c’est plus prudent… et surveiller les hommes…

- Vous avez raison, Balt, dit M. Gibson. Il faut toutefois que le cuisinier aille aux provisions…

- Je l’y enverrai, capitaine, et, s’il est necessaire, deux matelots avec lui.”

Tout etant convenu, le canot qui avait amene l’armateur et ses compagnons les reconduisit a quai. De la, ils revinrent au comptoir, ou demeurait M. Balfour, qui se reunit a eux pour le dejeuner.

Pendant le repas, on causa d’affaires. Jusqu’ici le voyage en cours du James-Cook avait ete des plus favorises et donnait de beaux benefices.

Le grand cabotage, en effet, tendait remarquablement a se developper sur cette partie du Pacifique. La prise de possession des archipels voisins de la Nouvelle-Guinee par l’Allemagne ouvrait de nouveaux debouches. Ce n’etait pas sans raison que M. Hawkins avait noue des relations avec M. Zieger, son correspondant de la Nouvelle-Irlande, actuellement le Neumeklenburg.

Le comptoir qu’il venait de fonder a Wellington devait plus specialement entretenir ces relations par les soins de M. Balfour et de Nat Gibson, qui serait installe pres de lui dans quelques mois.

Le dejeuner acheve, M. Gibson voulut s’occuper des approvisionnements du brick que le cuisinier viendrait chercher dans l’apres-midi: conserves, volailles, porcs, farine, legumes secs, fromages, biere, gin et sherry, cafe et epiceries de diverses sortes.

“Pere, tu ne sortiras pas d’ici avant que j’aie fait ton portrait!… declara Nat.

- Comment… encore!… s’ecria le capitaine.

- Voila, mon ami, ajouta M. Hawkins, nous sommes tous les deux possedes du demon de la photographie, et nous ne laissons aucun repos aux gens tant qu’ils n’ont pas pose devant notre objectif!… Ainsi il faut te soumettre de bonne grace!…

- Mais j’en ai deja deux ou trois de ces portraits, chez moi, a Hobart-Town!…

- Eh bien, cela fera un de plus, repondit Nat Gibson, et, puisque nous partons demain, M. Balfour se chargera de l’expedier a ma mere par le prochain courrier.

- C’est entendu, dit M. Balfour.

- Vois-tu, pere, reprit le jeune homme, un portrait, c’est comme un poisson… Il n’a de valeur que lorsqu’il est frais!… Songe donc, tu as maintenant dix mois de plus qu’a l’epoque de ton depart d’Hobart-Town, et je suis sur que tu ne ressembles pas a ta derniere photographie, celle qui est placee sur la cheminee de ta chambre…

- Nat a raison, confirma M. Hawkins en riant.

C’est a peine si je t’ai reconnu ce matin!

- Par exemple!… s’ecria M. Gibson.

- Non… je t’assure!… Il n’y a rien qui vous change comme dix mois de navigation!…

- Fais donc, mon enfant, repondit le capitaine, me voici pret au sacrifice…

- Et quelle attitude vas-tu prendre?… demanda plaisamment l’armateur… celle du marin qui part ou celle du marin qui arrive?… Sera-ce la posture du commandant… le bras etendu vers l’horizon… la main tenant le sextant ou la longue-vue… la pose du maitre apres Dieu?…

- Celle que tu voudras, Hawkins…

- Et puis, pendant que tu seras campe devant notre appareil, tache de penser a quelque chose!… Cela donne plus d’expression a la physionomie!… A quoi penseras-tu?…

- Je penserai a ma chere femme, repondit M. Gibson, a mon fils… et a toi… mon ami…

- Alors, nous obtiendrons une magnifique epreuve!”

Nat Gibson possedait un de ces appareils portatifs perfectionnes qui donnent le negatif en quelques secondes. M. Gibson fut tres reussi, parait-il, a ce que dit son fils, lorsqu’il eut examine le cliche, dont l’epreuve serait laissee aux soins de M. Balfour.

M. Hawkins, le capitaine et Nat quitterent alors le comptoir afin de se procurer tout ce qu’exigeait une navigation de neuf a dix semaines. Les entrepots ne manquent point a Wellington, et on y trouve les divers approvisionnements maritimes: produits alimentaires, engins de bord, agres, poulies, cordages, ustensiles, voiles de rechange, instruments de peche, barils de brai et de goudron, outils de calfat et de charpentier.

Mais, sauf quelques glenes de filin a remplacer, les besoins du brick se bornaient a ce qui concernait la nourriture des passagers et de l’equipage. Cela fut vite achete, regle, puis expedie au James-Cook, des que les matelots Wickley, Hobbes et le maitre-coq furent arrives.

En meme temps, M. Gibson remplit les formalites qui sont obligatoires pour tout batiment a son entree et a sa sortie. Donc rien n’empecherait le brick d’appareiller des l’aube, plus heureux que d’autres navires de commerce que la desertion de leurs hommes retenait en relache a Wellington.

Pendant ces courses a travers la ville, au milieu d’une population tres affairee, M. Hawkins et ses compagnons rencontrerent un certain nombre de Maoris de la campagne environnante. Leur importance numerique a bien diminue en Nouvelle-Zelande, comme celle des Australiens en Australie, et surtout celle des Tasmaniens en Tasmanie, puisque les derniers specimens de cette race ont a peu pres disparu. On ne compte actuellement qu’une quarantaine d’indigenes dans l’ile du Nord et a peine deux mille dans l’ile du Sud. Ces Maoris s’occupent plus specialement de cultures maraicheres, et principalement de la culture des arbres fruitiers, dont les produits sont tres abondants et d’excellente qualite.

Les hommes sont d’un beau type, qui denote un caractere energique, une constitution robuste et endurante. Les femmes paraissent leur etre inferieures. En tout cas, il faut s’habituer a voir le sexe faible se promener dans les rues la pipe a la bouche et fumer plus immoderement que le sexe fort. On ne s’etonnera donc pas que cela gene l’echange de politesses avec les dames maories, puisque, d’apres les coutumes, il ne s’agit pas seulement de se donner le bonjour ou de se presser la main, mais de se frotter nez contre nez.

Ces indigenes sont, parait-il, d’origine polynesienne, et il est meme possible que les premiers immigrants en Nouvelle-Zelande soient sortis de l’archipel de Tonga-Tabou, qui est situe a quelque douze cents milles dans le nord.

Il y a, en somme, deux raisons pour que cette population soit en voie de decroissance et destinee a disparaitre dans l’avenir. La premiere cause de destruction, c’est la maladie et particulierement la phtisie pulmonaire, qui exerce de grands ravages dans les familles. La seconde, plus terrible encore, c’est l’ivrognerie, et il est a noter que les femmes tiennent le premier rang dans cet effroyable abus des liqueurs alcooliques.

D’autre part, il y a lieu d’observer que le regime d’alimentation s’est profondement modifie chez les Maoris. Grace aux missionnaires, l’influence du christianisme est devenue dominante. Les indigenes etaient anthropophages autrefois, et qui oserait dire que cette nourriture ultra-azotee ne convenait pas a leur temperament?… Quoi qu’il en soit, mieux vaut qu’ils disparaissent plutot que de se manger entre eux, “bien, a pu dire un touriste tres observateur, que le cannibalisme n’eut jamais qu’un seul but, la bataille: devorer les yeux et le coeur de l’ennemi, afin de s’inspirer de son courage et d’acquerir sa sagacite”!

Ces Maoris resisterent a l’envahissement britannique jusqu’en 1875, et c’est a cette epoque que le dernier roi de King-Country se soumit a l’autorite de la Grande-Bretagne.

Vers six heures, M. Hawkins, le capitaine et Nat Gibson rentrerent au comptoir pour diner; puis, apres avoir pris conge de M. Balfour, ils se firent conduire a bord du brick, qui serait pret a lever l’ancre des les premieres lueurs du jour.

VI - En vue de l’ile Norfolk

Un quadrilatere presque regulier sur trois de ses cotes, dont le littoral s’arrondit, se releve et modifie vers le nord-ouest la regularite; a ses quatre angles les pointes Howe, Nord-Est, Rocs et Rochy; plus excentriquement un pic, le Pitt-Mount, qui dresse sa cime a environ onze cents pieds d’altitude: telle est la figure geometrique de l’ile Norfolk, situee en ces parages du Pacifique par 29deg 02’ de latitude sud et 105deg 42’ de longitude est.

Cette ile n’a que six lieues de perimetre, et de meme que toutes ses pareilles de ce vaste ocean, elle est entouree d’un anneau de corail qui la defend comme une muraille defend une ville forte. Les houles du large ne rongeront jamais sa base de craie jaunatre qu’un leger ressac suffirait a detruire, puisque les lames se brisent contre les roches coralligenes avant de l’atteindre. Aussi les navires ne peuvent-ils que difficilement l’accoster en se glissant a travers d’etroites et dangereuses passes, exposes a toutes les surprises des tourbillons et des remous. De port, proprement dit, il n’en existe pas a Norfolk. C’est au sud seulement, dans la baie Sydney, que des penitenciers furent etablis. Par sa situation isolee, par la difficulte d’y debarquer, par la difficulte d’en sortir, il semble, en effet, que la nature ait destine cette ile a n’etre qu’une prison.

Il convient meme d’observer qu’au sud, dans la direction des ilots Nepcan et Philips, qui completent le petit groupe Norfolk, ces recifs de corail se prolongent jusqu’a six ou sept lieues du littoral.

C’est pourtant, en ses dimensions restreintes, une riche parcelle du domaine colonial de la Grande-Bretagne. Lorsque Cook la decouvrit en 1774, il fut tout d’abord frappe de son admirable vegetation sous ce climat a la fois doux et chaud des tropiques.

On eut dit une corbeille detachee des campagnes de la Nouvelle-Zelande, ornee de plantes identiques. La se multiplie un lin de qualite superieure, le “phormium tenax”, et une sorte de pin de toute beaute appartenant au genre des araucarias. Puis, a perte de vue s’etendent des plaines verdoyantes ou poussent sans culture l’oseille sauvage et le fenouil. Deja, au commencement du siecle, le gouvernement britannique avait transporte dans l’ile une colonie de convicts. Grace au travail de ces malheureux, des defrichements s’effectuerent, des travaux agricoles furent entrepris et le rendement du mais devint tel que les boisseaux s’y compterent par milliers. Il y avait la comme un grenier d’abondance, place entre l’Australie et la Nouvelle-Zelande. Mais trop de recifs et de brisants en occupent les approches, empechant d’y puiser dans des conditions pratiques.

Aussi retablissement penitentiaire, en presence de ces obstacles, dut etre une premiere fois abandonne. Il est vrai que, sur cette ile, on pouvait si aisement tenir sous un joug de fer les plus endurcis criminels de la Tasmanie et de la Nouvelle-Galles, que la colonie penale fut reorganisee. Elle compta jusqu’a cinq cents convicts surveilles par cent vingt-quatre militaires, et une administration de cent cinquante employes. Une ferme publique y fut creee, mise en valeur, et la recolte du mais assura la consommation en cereales.

Du reste, l’ile Norfolk etait inhabitee a l’epoque ou le grand navigateur en determina la situation geographique. Aucun indigene, maori ou malais, n’y avait ete attire malgre les richesses du sol. Elle n’eut jamais d’autre population que ces condamnes introduits par le gouvernement britannique.

Deserte elle etait au temps de sa decouverte, et deserte elle est redevenue. En 1842, pour la seconde et, sans doute, la derniere fois, l’Angleterre abandonna cet etablissement penitentiaire, qui fut transporte a Port-Arthur, sur la cote meridionale de la Tasmanie.

Quatre jours apres avoir perdu de vue les extremes pointes de la Nouvelle-Zelande, le James-Cook eut connaissance de l’ile Norfolk. Avec un vent moyen, il avait fait quatre-vingts milles pendant la journee du 2, cent vingt pendant la journee du 3, autant pendant la journee du 4 et, la brise ayant molli, seulement soixante-dix pendant la journee du 5. Vers le soir, il avait donc franchi la distance de quatre cents milles environ qui separe les deux iles.

Dans l’apres-midi, la vigie signala une hauteur qui se dessinait dans le nord-est. C’etait la cime du Pitt-Mount, et, vers cinq heures, le batiment se tenait par le travers de la pointe nord-est de l’ile Norfolk.

Au cours de cette navigation, M. Gibson avait fait attentivement surveiller cette partie du Pacifique. Aucune epave ne s’etait rencontree sur la route du James-Cook, et le mystere de la disparition du navire hollandais Wilhelmina restait toujours a decouvrir.

A mesure que le soleil declinait derriere les hauteurs de l’ile, le vent tombait, la mer prenait une apparence laiteuse, les rides disparaissaient de sa surface a peine gonflee par la longue houle. Assurement, le jour revenu, le brick serait encore en vue de l’ile. Il n’en etait qu’a deux milles et, par prudence, il evitait de s’en approcher davantage, car les bancs de coraux s’allongent dangereusement au large. D’ailleurs, le James-Cook etait presque aussi immobile que s’il eut ete mouille sur son ancre.

Aucun courant ne le deplacait; les voiles pendaient sur leurs cargues en gros plis. Si la brise se levait, il n’y aurait qu’a les laisser retomber pour faire route.

M. Gibson et ses passagers n’avaient donc qu’a jouir de cette soiree magnifique sous un ciel pur de toute vapeur.

Apres le diner, M. Hawkins, le capitaine et M. Gibson vinrent s’asseoir a l’arriere.

“Nous voici en calme blanc, dit M. Gibson, et, par malheur, je ne decouvre aucun symptome qui puisse indiquer le retour de la brise.

- Cela ne saurait durer, a mon avis, fit observer M. Hawkins.

- Et pourquoi?… demanda le capitaine.

- Parce que nous ne sommes pas en pleine saison chaude, Gibson, et le Pacifique n’a point la reputation de justifier le nom qui lui a ete donne un peu a la legere…

- J’en conviens, mon ami. Toutefois, meme a cette epoque, des navires restent enchaines plusieurs jours, et cela arriverait au James-Cook que je n’en serais pas autrement surpris.

- Tres heureusement, repliqua l’armateur, nous ne sommes plus au temps ou l’ile Norfolk renfermait une population de bandits… Alors il n’eut pas ete prudent de stationner dans son voisinage.

- En effet, et il y aurait eu lieu de veiller avec grand soin.

- Dans mon enfance, reprit M. Hawkins, j’ai entendu parler de ces forcenes qu’aucun chatiment, aucune discipline des maisons de correction n’avaient pu reduire, et dont le gouvernement s’etait avise de transporter toute une colonie a l’ile Norfolk…

- Ils devaient y etre bien gardes, d’une part, dit Nat Gibson, et, de l’autre, comment s’enfuir d’une ile dont les navires ne sauraient s’approcher?…

- Bien gardes… oui, ils l’etaient, mon cher enfant, repondit M. Hawkins. Fuite difficile, oui encore!… Mais, pour des criminels qui ne reculent devant rien quand il s’agit de recouvrer leur liberte, tout est possible, meme ce qui ne parait pas l’etre.

- Y a-t-il donc eu de frequentes evasions, monsieur Hawkins?…

- Oui, Nat, et meme incroyables! Ou les convicts parvenaient a s’emparer de quelque embarcation de l’Etat, ou ils en construisaient secretement avec des lambeaux d’ecorce, et ils n’hesitaient pas a gagner le large…

- Ayant quatre-vingt-dix chances sur cent de perir, declara M. Gibson.

- Sans doute, repondit M. Hawkins. Aussi, lorsqu’ils rencontraient dans les eaux de l’ile quelque navire comme le notre, ils avaient bientot fait de sauter a bord et de se debarrasser de l’equipage… Puis ils s’en allaient pirater a travers les archipels polynesiens, ou il n’etait pas aise de retrouver leurs traces…

- Enfin, cela n’est plus a craindre maintenant”, affirma le capitaine Gibson.

On le remarquera, tout ce que venait de dire M. Hawkins, et ce qui etait vrai, coincidait avec les projets formes par Flig Balt et Vin Mod. Bien qu’ils ne fussent pas enfermes a l’ile Norfolk, ils avaient les criminels instincts des convicts; ils ne demandaient qu’a faire ce que ceux-ci eussent fait a leur place, a changer l’honnete brick de la maison Hawkins, de Hobart-Town, en un batiment de pirates, puis a exercer leurs brigandages precisement au milieu des parages du Pacifique central, ou il est si difficile de les reprimer.

Donc, si le James-Cook n’avait plus rien a redouter actuellement aux approches de l’ile Norfolk, puisque le penitencier avait ete transporte a Port-Arthur, il n’en etait pas moins menace par la presence des recrues de Dunedin, resolues a seconder les desseins de Vin Mod et du maitre d’equipage.

“Eh bien, dit alors Nat Gibson, il n’y a pas de danger, pere, me permets-tu de prendre le canot?…

- Et que veux-tu faire?…

- Pecher au pied des roches… Nous avons encore deux heures de jour… C’est le bon moment, et je serai toujours en vue du brick.”

Il n’y avait aucun inconvenient a satisfaire le desir du jeune homme. Deux matelots et lui suffiraient pour tendre des lignes a l’accore des bancs de corail. Ces eaux etant tres poissonneuses, ils ne reviendraient pas sans avoir fait bonne peche.

D’ailleurs, M. Gibson crut devoir mouiller a cette place. Le courant portant plutot vers le sud-est, il envoya son ancre avec trente-cinq brasses de chaine sur un fond de sable.

Le canot pare, Hobbes et Wickley se disposerent a accompagner Nat Gibson. C’etaient, on ne l’ignore pas, deux honnetes marins auxquels le capitaine pouvait se fier.

“Va donc, Nat, dit-il a son fils, et ne t’attarde pas jusqu’a la nuit…

- Je te le promets, pere.

- Et rapporte-nous une bonne friture pour le dejeuner de demain, ajouta M. Hawkins… et aussi un peu de brise, s’il en reste encore sur la cote!”

L’embarcation deborda et, sous la vigoureuse poussee des avirons, elle eut bientot franchi les deux milles qui separaient le brick des premieres roches coralligenes.

Des lignes furent mises dehors, Nat Gibson n’avait pas eu besoin de lancer son grappin sur les recifs. Pas de courant, pas meme de ressac. Le canot demeura stationnaire, des que les avirons eurent ete rentres.

Du cote de l’ile, les bancs s’etendaient a un demi-mille environ, et, par consequent, moins que dans le sud, direction des iles Philips, et bien que la cote ne fut plus eclairee par le soleil, que cachaient les masses du Pitt-Mount, le regard en pouvait distinguer les details:

etroites greves entre les roches de calcaire jaunatre, criques fermees, pointes rocheuses, nombreux rios s’ecoulant vers la mer, et on les compte par milliers a travers les epaisses forets et les verdoyantes plaines de l’ile. Tout ce littoral etait absolument desert. Pas une cabane sous les arbres, pas une fumee se degageant des frondaisons, pas une pirogue mouillee au revers des pointes ou tiree sur le sable.

L’animation de la vie ne manquait pas cependant a la region comprise entre la crete des bancs et la terre. Mais elle etait uniquement due a la presence des oiseaux aquatiques, qui emplissaient l’air de leurs cris discordants, corbeaux a duvet blanchatre, coucals a plumage vert, martins-pecheurs dont le corps est couleur d’aigue-marine, stournes aux yeux de rubis, hirondelles de mer, echenilleurs, gobe-mouches, sans parler des fregates qui passaient a tire-d’aile.

Si Nat Gibson eut apporte son fusil, il aurait fait quelques beaux coups, en pure perte, il est vrai, car ce gibier n’est point comestible. Mieux valait, en prevision du prochain repas, demander a la mer ce que l’air ne pouvait donner, et, en somme, elle se montra genereuse.

Apres une heure au pied des bancs, le canot etait en mesure de rapporter de quoi nourrir l’equipage pendant deux jours. Le poisson abonde au milieu de ces eaux claires, dont les fonds se herissent de plantes marines, sous lesquelles fourmillent les crustaces, les mollusques, les coquillages, langoustes, crabes, palemons, crevettes, tridaines, scarabes, helives, ovules, patelles, et il faut qu’il soit inepuisable, puisque les amphibies, phoques et autres, en font une enorme consommation.

Parmi les poissons que prirent les lignes et qui presentent une extraordinaire variete d’especes, rivalisant par l’eclat de leurs couleurs, Nat Gibson et les deux matelots purent ramener plusieurs couples de blennies.

Le blennie est un animal bizarre, yeux ouverts au sommet de la tete, machoires jugulees, couleur gris de lin, qui vit dans l’eau, court les greves et saute sur les roches avec des mouvements de sarigue ou de kangourou.

Il etait sept heures. Le soleil venait de disparaitre, et sa derniere lueur empourpree s’eteignait a la pointe de Pitt-Mount.

“Monsieur Nat, dit Wickley, n’est-il pas temps de retourner a bord?…

- C’est prudent, ajouta Hobbes. Il se leve parfois, le soir, une petite brise de terre, et, si le brick peut en profiter, il ne faut pas le faire attendre.

- Rentrez les lignes, repondit le jeune homme, et retournons au James-Cook. Mais je crains bien de ne point rapporter a M. Hawkins le vent qu’il m’a commande…

- Non, declara Hobbes, pas de quoi remplir un beret!…

- Du cote du large, aucun nuage ne se leve… ajouta Wickley.

- Debordons…”, ordonna Nat Gibson.

Mais, avant de s’eloigner du banc, il se leva a l’arriere de l’embarcation et parcourut du regard toute la bordure des recifs qui s’arrondissait autour de la pointe du nord-est. La disparition de la goelette dont on n’avait plus de nouvelles lui revenait a l’esprit… N’apercevrait-il pas quelque debris de la Wilhelmina, quelque epave que les courants auraient portee vers l’ile?… Ne pouvait-il se faire que, la coque du batiment n’ayant pas ete entierement demolie, une partie de la carcasse fut encore visible au nord ou au sud de la pointe?…

Aussi les deux matelots observerent-ils la cote sur une etendue de plusieurs milles.

Ce fut inutilement. Ils ne virent aucun reste de la goelette signalee par le steamer.

Wickley et Hobbes allaient donc se mettre aux avirons, lorsque, sur une des roches detachees du littoral, Nat Gibson crut distinguer une forme humaine. Comme il s’en trouvait a une distance d’environ un mille, et au moment ou le crepuscule commencait a obscurcir l’horizon, il se demanda s’il faisait ou non erreur. Etait-ce un homme que l’arrivee du canot avait attire sur le rivage?… Cet homme n’agitait-il pas les bras pour appeler du secours?… Il etait a peu pres impossible de se prononcer.

“Voyez”, dit Nat Gibson aux deux matelots.

Wickley et Hobbes regarderent en cette direction.

A cet instant, l’ombre envahissant cette portion du littoral, la forme humaine, si forme humaine il y avait, disparut.

“Je n’ai rien vu… dit Wickley.

- Ni moi… declara Hobbes.

- Cependant, reprit Nat Gibson, je crois bien ne pas m’etre trompe… Un homme etait la… tout a l’heure…

- Vous croyez avoir apercu un homme?… demanda Wickley.

- Oui… la… au sommet de cette roche, et il faisait des gestes… Il devait meme appeler… mais sa voix ne pouvait parvenir jusqu’ici…

- On rencontre souvent des phoques sur ces greves au coucher du soleil, observa Hobbes, et, lorsqu’un d’eux se dresse, on peut le confondre avec un homme…

- J’en conviens, repondit Nat Gibson, et, a cette distance… il est possible que j’aie mal vu…

- Est-ce que l’ile Norfolk est habitee maintenant?… demanda Hobbes.

- Non, repondit le jeune homme. Elle ne renferme pas d’indigenes… Cependant des naufrages peuvent avoir ete contraints d’y chercher refuge…

- Et, s’il y a la des naufrages, ajouta Wickley, seraient-ce ceux de la Wilhelmina?…

- A bord! commanda Nat Gibson. Il est probable que demain le brick sera encore a cette place, et, avec nos longues-vues, nous parcourrons le littoral, qui sera en pleine lumiere au lever du jour.”

Les deux matelots appuyerent sur les avirons. En vingt minutes, le canot eut rallie le James-Cook. Puis, le capitaine, se defiant toujours d’une partie de son equipage, eut soin de faire remonter l’embarcation a son poste.

La peche fut bien accueillie par M. Hawkins, et, comme il s’interessait a l’histoire naturelle, il put a loisir etudier ces blennies, dont il n’avait jamais eu aucun echantillon entre les mains.

Nat Gibson fit part a son pere de ce qu’il croyait avoir apercu au moment ou il se dehalait des bancs de corail.

Le capitaine et l’armateur preterent grande attention au recit du jeune homme. Ils n’ignoraient pas que, depuis l’abandon de l’ile comme lieu de detention, elle devait etre deserte, et les indigenes des archipels voisins, Australiens, Maoris ou Papouas, n’avaient jamais eu la pensee de s’y fixer.

“Il est possible, toutefois, que des pecheurs soient sur ces parages, fit remarquer Flig Balt, qui prenait part a la conversation.

- En effet, repondit l’armateur, et ce ne serait pas etonnant a cette epoque de l’annee…

- Est-ce que tu as vu quelque embarcation en dedans des recifs?… demanda le capitaine a son fils.

- Aucune, pere.

- Je pense alors, reprit le maitre d’equipage, que M. Nat se sera trompe… La soiree etait deja sombre… Donc, a mon avis, capitaine, si le vent se leve cette nuit, nous ferions bien d’appareiller.”

On le comprend, Flig Balt, deja tres contrarie de la presence de M. Hawkins et de Nat Gibson a bord du brick, ne devait rien craindre tant que l’embarquement de nouveaux passagers. En ces conditions, il serait contraint de renoncer a ses projets - ce qu’il n’entendait pas faire. Ses complices et lui etaient formellement resolus a s’emparer du navire avant son arrivee a la Nouvelle-Irlande.

“Cependant, reprit le capitaine, si Nat n’a point commis une erreur, s’il y a des naufrages sur cette cote de Norfolk, - et pourquoi ne seraient-ce pas ceux de la Wilhelmina?… - il faut leur porter secours… Je croirais manquer a mes devoirs d’homme et de marin si je remettais a la voile avant de m’etre assure…

- Tu as raison, Gibson, approuva M. Hawkins. Mais, j’y songe, cet homme que Nat a cru apercevoir ne serait-il pas plutot quelque convict echappe du penitencier et reste sur l’ile?…

- Alors, cet homme aurait grand age, repondit le capitaine, car l’evacuation date de 1842, et s’il etait deja au bagne a cette epoque, puisque nous sommes en 1885, il serait plus que septuagenaire!…

- Tu as raison, Gibson, et j’en reviendrai plutot a l’idee que les naufrages de la goelette hollandaise ont pu etre jetes sur Norfolk, si toutefois Nat ne s’est pas trompe…

- Non… non! affirma le jeune homme.

- Alors, dit M. Hawkins, ces pauvres gens se trouveraient la depuis une quinzaine de jours, car il est probable que le naufrage ne remonte pas a une date plus eloignee…

- Oui, d’apres ce que nous a declare le capitaine de l’Assomption, repondit M. Gibson. Aussi, demain, ferons-nous tout ce que nous pouvons faire, tout ce que nous devons faire… Si, comme Nat n’en doute pas, un homme se trouve sur cette partie de la cote, il restera jusqu’au jour a observer le brick, et, malgre la distance, nous le verrons avec nos lunettes…

- Mais, capitaine, insista le maitre d’equipage, je le repete, peut-etre que la brise, une brise favorable, se levera la nuit…

- Qu’elle se leve ou non, Balt, le James-Cook demeurera sur son ancre, et nous n’appareillerons pas sans avoir envoye un canot en reconnaissance… Je ne quitterai l’ile Norfolk qu’apres avoir visite les environs d’East-North-Point, dussions-nous y consacrer une journee…

- Bien, pere, et, cette journee, j’ai la conviction qu’elle ne sera pas perdue…

- N’est-ce pas ton avis, Hawkins? demanda le capitaine en se retournant vers l’armateur.

- Absolument”, repondit M. Hawkins.

Et, en verite, il n’y aurait pas meme eu a feliciter M. Gibson de sa resolution. Agir de la sorte, n’etait-ce pas remplir un devoir d’humanite?…

Lorsque Flig Balt eut regagne l’avant, il raconta a Vin Mod ce qui venait d’etre dit et ce qui venait d’etre decide. Le matelot ne fut pas plus satisfait que le maitre d’equipage.

Apres tout, peut-etre Nat Gibson s’etait-il trompe… Peut-etre meme aucun des naufrages de la Wilhelmina ne s’etait-il refugie sur cette cote… La question serait tranchee avant une douzaine d’heures.

La nuit arriva, nuit assez obscure, nuit de nouvelle lune. Un rideau de hautes brumes voilait les constellations. Neanmoins, la terre se montrait confusement dans l’ouest, une masse un peu plus sombre au pied de cet horizon.

Vers neuf heures, une legere brise provoqua quelques clapotis autour du James-Cook, qui evolua d’un quart sur son ancre. Cette brise eut pu servir a gagner le nord, puisqu’elle halait le sud-ouest. Mais le capitaine ne revint point sur sa determination, et le brick resta au mouillage.

D’ailleurs, ce n’etaient que des souffles intermittents qui effleuraient la crete du Pitt-Mount, et la mer retomba au calme.

M. Hawkins, M. Gibson et son fils etaient assis a l’arriere. Peu presses de rentrer dans leurs cabines, ils aspiraient l’air plus frais du soir, apres les chaleurs du jour.

Or, il etait neuf heures vingt-cinq, lorsque Nat Gibson, se relevant et regardant du cote de la terre, fit quelques pas a babord:

“Un feu!… il y a un feu!… dit-il.

- Un feu?… repeta l’armateur.

- Oui, monsieur Hawkins.

- Et dans quelle direction?…

- Dans la direction de la roche ou j’ai apercu l’homme…

- En effet, declara le capitaine.

- Vous voyez bien que je n’avais point fait erreur!” s’ecria Nat Gibson.

Un feu brillait de ce cote, un feu de bois qui donnait de grandes flammes au milieu de tourbillons d’une fumee epaisse.

“Gibson, affirma M. Hawkins, c’est bien un signal qu’on nous fait…

- Pas de doute!… repondit le capitaine. Il y a des naufrages sur l’ile!”

Des naufrages ou autres, mais assurement des etres humains qui demandaient secours; et quelle anxiete ils devaient eprouver, et quelle crainte que ce brick n’eut deja leve l’ancre!…

Il convenait donc de les rassurer, et c’est ce qui fut fait a l’instant.

“Nat, dit-il, prends ton fusil, et reponds a ce signal.”

Le jeune homme rentra dans le rouf et en ressortit avec une carabine.

Trois detonations eclaterent, dont le littoral renvoya les echos au James-Cook.

En meme temps, un des matelots agita par trois fois un fanal, qui fut hisse en tete du mat de misaine.

Il n’y avait plus maintenant qu’a attendre le retour de l’aube, et le James-Cook se mettrait en communication avec ce point de l’ile Norfolk.

VII - Les deux freres

Au lever de l’aube, une brumaille assez dense couvrait l’horizon de l’ouest. Du littoral de l’ile Norfolk on distinguait a peine la ligne rocheuse. Sans doute, ces vapeurs ne tarderaient pas a se dissiper. La cime du Pitt-Mount se montrait au-dessus de ce brouillard, deja baignee des rayons du soleil.

Au surplus, le ou les naufrages ne devaient pas etre inquiets. Bien que le brick fut encore invisible, n’avaient-ils pas entendu et apercu pendant la nuit ses signaux en reponse aux leurs?… Le navire ne pouvait avoir quitte son mouillage, et, dans une heure, son canot serait envoye a terre.

Du reste, avant de mettre une embarcation a la mer, M. Gibson preferait, non sans raison, que la pointe se fut degagee des brumes. C’etait la que le feu avait ete allume, c’etait la que se montreraient les abandonnes qui reclamaient l’assistance du James-Cook. Evidemment, ils ne possedaient pas meme une pirogue, car ils seraient deja venus a bord.

La brise du sud-est commencait a s’etablir. Quelques nuages, allonges sur la ligne du ciel et de l’eau, indiquaient que le vent fraichirait dans la matinee. Sans le motif qui le retenait sur son ancre, M. Gibson eut donne des ordres pour l’appareillage.

Un peu avant sept heures, le pied du banc coralligene, le long duquel ecumait un ressac blanchatre, se dessina sous la brume. Les volutes de vapeurs roulerent les unes apres les autres, et la pointe apparut.

Nat Gibson, monte sur le rouf, sa longue-vue aux yeux, la promenait vers la cote. Il fut le premier a s’ecrier:

“Il est la… ou plutot… ils sont la!…

- Plusieurs hommes?… demanda l’armateur.

- Deux, monsieur Hawkins.”

Celui-ci prit la longue-vue a son tour:

“Oui, s’ecria-t-il, et ils nous font des signaux… en agitant un morceau de toile au bout d’un baton!”

L’instrument passa aux mains du capitaine, qui constata la presence de deux individus debout sur les dernieres roches a l’extremite de la pointe. Le brouillard, dissous alors, permettait de les distinguer meme a l’oeil nu. Qu’il y eut la celui des deux hommes que Nat Gibson avait apercu la veille, cela ne pouvait plus faire l’objet d’un doute.

“Le grand canot a la mer!” commanda le capitaine.

Et, en meme temps, par son ordre, Flig Balt hissa le pavillon britannique a la corne de brigantine en reponse aux signaux.

Si M. Gibson avait dit de parer le grand canot, c’etait en cas qu’il y eut a embarquer plus de deux personnes. Il etait possible, en effet, que d’autres naufrages se fussent refugies sur l’ile, en admettant qu’ils appartinssent a l’equipage de la Wilhelmina. Il y avait meme lieu de souhaiter que tous eussent gagne cette cote apres avoir abandonne la goelette.

L’embarcation descendue, le capitaine et son fils y prirent place, celui-ci a la barre. Quatre matelots se mirent aux avirons. Vin Mod etait parmi eux, et, au moment ou il enjambait la lisse, il fit au maitre d’equipage un geste qui temoignait de son irritation.

Le canot se dirigea vers le banc de corail. La veille, en pechant le long de ce banc, Nat Gibson avait remarque une etroite ouverture qui permettrait de franchir la barriere des recifs.

Jusqu’a la pointe il ne resterait plus qu’une distance de sept a huit encablures.

En moins d’un quart d’heure, l’embarcation atteignit la passe. On apercut les dernieres fumees du foyer qui avait ete entretenu toute la nuit et pres duquel se tenaient les deux hommes.

A l’avant du canot, Vin Mod, impatient, se retournait pour les voir, si bien qu’il entravait le mouvement des avirons.

“Attention a nager, Mod!… lui cria le capitaine. Tu auras le temps de satisfaire ta curiosite quand nous serons a terre…

- Oui… le temps!” murmura le matelot, qui, de rage, aurait casse son aviron.

La passe sinuait entre les tetes de coraux qu’il eut ete dangereux d’aborder. Ces aretes aigues, coupantes comme acier, eussent vite fait d’endommager la coque d’une embarcation. Aussi M. Gibson ordonna-t-il de moderer la vitesse. Il n’y eut, d’ailleurs, aucune difficulte a rallier l’extremite de la pointe. La mer, qui sentait la brise du large, poussait l’embarcation. Un assez fort ressac ecumait a la base des roches.

Le capitaine et son fils regardaient les deux hommes. La main dans la main, immobiles, silencieux, ils ne faisaient pas un geste, ils ne proferaient pas un cri. Lorsque le canot evolua pour ranger la pointe, Vin Mod put facilement les apercevoir.

L’un devait etre age de trente-cinq ans, l’autre de trente. Vetus d’habits en lambeaux, tete nue, rien n’indiquait qu’ils fussent des marins. A peu pres de meme taille, ils se ressemblaient assez pour que l’on put reconnaitre en eux deux freres, blonds de cheveux, barbe inculte.

En tout cas, ce n’etaient point des indigenes polynesiens.

Et alors, avant meme que le debarquement fut effectue, lorsque le capitaine etait encore assis sur le banc d’arriere, le plus age de ces deux hommes s’avanca a l’extremite de la pointe, et en anglais, mais avec un accent etranger, il cria:

“Merci pour etre venus a notre secours… merci!

- Qui etes-vous?… demanda M. Gibson des qu’il accosta.

- Des Hollandais.

- Naufrages?…

- Naufrages de la goelette Wilhelmina…

- Seuls sauves?…

- Seuls, ou du moins, apres le naufrage, seuls arrives sur cette cote…”

Au ton suspensif de ces derniers mots, il fut evident que cet homme ignorait s’il avait trouve refuge sur un continent ou sur une ile.

Le grappin du canot fut envoye a terre, et, quand un des matelots l’eut ajuste dans un creux de roche, M. Gibson et ses compagnons debarquerent.

“Ou sommes-nous?… demanda le plus age.

- A l’ile Norfolk, repondit le capitaine.

- L’ile Norfolk”, repeta le plus jeune.

Les naufrages apprenaient alors en quel endroit ils se trouvaient: une ile isolee de cette portion de l’ouest du Pacifique. Ils y etaient seuls, d’ailleurs, de tous ceux que la goelette hollandaise comptait a son bord.

Sur la question de savoir ce qu’etait devenue la Wilhelmina, si elle avait peri corps et biens, ils ne purent repondre d’une facon formelle a l’interrogatoire de M. Gibson. Quant aux causes du naufrage, voici ce qu’ils raconterent:

Quinze jours avant, la goelette avait ete abordee pendant la nuit, - ce devait etre a trois ou quatre milles dans l’est de l’ile Norfolk.

“En sortant de notre cabine, dit l’aine des deux freres, nous avons ete entraines dans un tourbillon… La nuit etait obscure et brumeuse… Nous nous sommes accroches a une cage a poules qui, heureusement, passait a notre portee… Trois heures apres, le courant nous portait au banc de corail et nous avons gagne cette cote a la nage…

- Ainsi, demanda M. Gibson, voila deux semaines que vous etes sur l’ile?…

- Deux semaines.

- Et vous n’y avez rencontre personne?…

- Personne, repondit le plus jeune, et nous sommes fondes a croire qu’il n’y a pas un etre humain sur cette terre, ou, du moins, que cette partie du littoral est inhabitee.

- Vous n’avez pas eu la pensee de remonter vers l’interieur?… dit Nat Gibson.

- Si, repondit l’aine, mais il eut fallu s’aventurer a travers des forets epaisses, au risque de s’y perdre, et dans lesquelles nous n’aurions peut-etre pas trouve a subsister.

- Et puis, reprit l’autre, ou cela nous aurait-il conduits puisque, vous venez de nous l’apprendre, nous etions sur une ile deserte?… Mieux valait encore ne point abandonner le rivage… C’eut ete renoncer a toute chance d’etre apercus, si un navire venait en vue, et d’etre sauves, comme nous le sommes…

- Vous avez eu raison.

- Et ce brick… quel est-il?… demanda le plus jeune frere.

- Le brick anglais James-Cook.

- Et son capitaine?…

- C’est moi, repondit M. Gibson.

- Eh bien, capitaine, dit l’aine en serrant la main de M. Gibson, vous voyez que nous avons bien fait de vous attendre sur cette pointe!”

En effet, a contourner la base du Pitt-Mount, ou meme a vouloir atteindre sa cime, les naufrages, eprouvant des difficultes insurmontables, seraient tombes d’epuisement et de fatigue au milieu des infranchissables forets de l’interieur.

“Mais comment avez-vous pu vivre dans ces conditions de denuement?… reprit alors M. Gibson.

- Notre nourriture consistait en quelques produits vegetaux, repondit l’aine, des racines deterrees ca et la, des choux-palmistes coupes a la tete des arbres, de l’oseille sauvage, du laiteron et du fenouil marin, des pommes de pin de l’araucaria… Si nous avions eu des lignes ou pu en fabriquer, il n’aurait pas ete difficile de se procurer du poisson, car il abonde au pied des roches…

- Et du feu?… Comment avez-vous pu en faire?…

- Les premiers jours, repondit le plus jeune, il a fallu s’en passer… Pas d’allumettes, ou plutot des allumettes mouillees et hors d’usage… Par bonheur, en remontant vers la montagne, nous avons trouve une solfatare qui jette encore quelques flammes… Des couches de soufre l’entouraient, ce qui nous a permis de cuire les racines et les legumes.

- Et c’est ainsi, reprit le capitaine, que vous avez vecu pendant quinze jours?…

- C’est ainsi, capitaine.

Mais, je l’avoue, nos forces s’en allaient, et nous etions desesperes, lorsque, en revenant hier de la solfatare, j’ai apercu un navire mouille a deux milles de la cote.

- Le vent avait refuse, dit M. Gibson, et comme le courant menacait de nous ramener vers le sud-est, je fus oblige de jeter l’ancre.

- Il etait deja tard, reprit l’aine. A peine restait-il une heure de jour, et nous etions encore a plus d’une demi-lieue dans l’interieur… Apres avoir couru a toutes jambes vers la pointe, nous apercumes un canot qui se preparait a regagner le brick… J’ai appele… J’ai, par gestes, reclame secours…

- J’etais dans ce canot, dit alors Nat Gibson, et il m’a bien semble voir un homme - rien qu’un - sur cette roche, au moment ou l’obscurite commencait a se faire…

- C’etait moi, repondit l’aine. J’avais devance mon frere… et quelle fut ma deception lorsque le canot s’eloigna sans que j’eusse ete apercu!… Nous avons cru que toute chance de salut nous echappait!… Il se levait un peu de brise… Le brick n’allait-il pas appareiller pendant la nuit?… Le lendemain ne serait-il pas deja au large de l’ile?…

- Pauvres gens!… murmura M. Gibson.

- La cote etait plongee dans l’ombre, capitaine… On ne voyait plus rien du navire… Les heures s’ecoulaient… C’est alors que nous vint l’idee d’allumer un feu sur la pointe… Des herbes dessechees, du bois sec, nous en apportames par brassees, et des charbons ardents du foyer que nous entretenions sur cette greve… Bientot s’eleva une lueur eclatante… Si le batiment etait toujours a son mouillage, elle ne pouvait echapper a la vue des hommes de quart!…

Ah! quelle joie, lorsque, vers dix heures, nous entendimes une triple detonation!… Un fanal brilla dans la direction du brick!… Nous avions ete vus… Nous etions surs maintenant que le navire attendrait le jour avant de partir, et que nous serions recueillis des l’aube… Mais il etait temps, capitaine, oui!… il etait temps, et, comme a votre arrivee, je vous repete: Merci… merci!…”

Visiblement les naufrages paraissaient etre a bout: alimentation insuffisante, forces epuisees, denuement complet sous les haillons qui les recouvraient a peine, et l’on comprendra qu’ils eussent hate d’etre a bord du James-Cook.

“Embarquez… dit M. Gibson. Vous avez besoin de nourriture et de vetements… Puis, nous verrons ce que nous pourrons faire.”

Les survivants de la Wilhelmina n’avaient point a retourner sur le littoral. On leur fournirait tout leur necessaire. Ils n’auraient plus a remettre le pied sur cette ile!

Des que M. Gibson, son fils et les deux freres eurent pris place a l’arriere, le grappin fut ramene et le canot se dirigea a travers la passe.

M. Gibson avait observe en les ecoutant, a la maniere dont ils s’exprimaient, que ces deux hommes etaient superieurs a la classe ou se recrutent d’ordinaire les matelots. Toutefois, il avait voulu attendre qu’ils fussent en presence de M. Hawkins pour s’informer de leur situation.

De son cote, a son vif deplaisir, Vin Mod s’etait aussi rendu compte qu’il ne s’agissait point de ces marins prets a tout comme Len Cannon et ses camarades de Dunedin, ni meme de ces aventuriers dont la rencontre est trop frequente en ces parages du Pacifique.

Les deux freres ne faisaient point partie de l’equipage de la goelette.

Ils etaient donc des passagers, et les seuls tres probablement qui se fussent tires sains et saufs de cet abordage. Aussi Vin Mod revenait-il plus irrite encore a la pensee que ses projets ne pourraient etre mis a execution.

Le canot accosta. M. Gibson, son fils, les naufrages, monterent sur le pont. Ces derniers furent aussitot presentes a M. Hawkins, qui ne dissimula point son emotion, a voir en quel etat miserable ils se trouvaient. Apres leur avoir tendu la main:

“Soyez les bienvenus, mes amis!” dit-il.

Les deux freres, non moins impressionnes, avaient voulu se jeter a ses genoux: il les en empecha.

“Non… reprit-il, non!… nous sommes trop heureux…”

Les mots lui manquaient, a cet excellent homme, et il ne put qu’approuver Nat Gibson qui cria: “A manger… qu’on leur donne a manger!… Ils meurent de faim!”

Les deux freres furent conduits dans le carre, ou le premier dejeuner etait servi, et la ils purent se refaire, apres quinze longs jours de privations et de souffrance.

Alors M. Gibson mit a leur disposition une des cabines laterales ou etaient deposes des vetements choisis dans la rechange de l’equipage. Puis, leur toilette achevee, ils revinrent a l’arriere, et la, en presence de M. Hawkins, du capitaine et de son fils, ils raconterent leur histoire.

Ces hommes etaient Hollandais, originaires de Groningue. Ils s’appelaient Karl et Pieter Kip. Karl, l’aine, officier de la marine marchande des Pays-Bas, avait fait deja de nombreuses traversees en qualite de lieutenant, puis de second a bord des navires de commerce.

Pieter, le cadet, etait associe dans un comptoir d’Amboine, l’une des Moluques, correspondant de la maison Kip, de Groningue.

Cette maison faisait le gros et le demi-gros des produits de cet archipel, qui appartient a la Hollande, et plus particulierement des noix du muscadier et des clous du giroflier, tres abondants en cette colonie. Si ladite maison ne comptait pas parmi les plus importantes de la ville, du moins son chef jouissait-il d’une excellente reputation dans le monde commercial.

M. Kip pere, veuf depuis quelques annees, etait mort cinq mois auparavant. Ce fut un coup grave pour les affaires du comptoir, et il y eut lieu de prendre des mesures afin d’empecher une liquidation qui se fut faite dans des conditions desavantageuses. Avant tout, il fallait que les deux freres revinssent a Groningue.

Karl Kip avait alors trente-cinq ans. Bon marin, en passe de devenir capitaine, il attendait un commandement et ne devait pas tarder a l’obtenir. Peut-etre d’une intelligence moins aiguisee que son frere, moins homme d’affaires, moins propre a la direction d’une maison de commerce, il le depassait en resolution, en energie comme en force et en endurance physique. Son plus gros chagrin venait de ce que la situation financiere de la maison Kip ne lui avait jamais permis de posseder un navire. Karl Kip eut alors fait la navigation de long cours pour son compte. Mais il aurait ete impossible de rien distraire des fonds engages dans le commerce, et le desir du fils aine n’avait pu etre realise.

Karl et Pieter etaient unis d’une etroite amitie qu’aucun desaccord n’avait jamais alteree, encore plus lies par la sympathie que par le sang.

Entre eux, pas un ombrage, pas un nuage de jalousie ou de rivalite. Chacun restait dans sa sphere. A l’un les lointains voyages, les emotions, les dangers de la mer. A l’autre le travail dans le comptoir d’Amboine et les rapports avec celui de Groningue. La famille leur suffisait. Ils n’avaient point cherche a s’en creer une seconde, a se donner des liens nouveaux qui les eussent separes peut-etre. C’etait deja trop que le pere fut en Hollande, Karl en cours de navigation, Pieter aux Moluques. Quant a celui-ci, intelligent, ayant le sens du negoce, il se consacrait entierement aux affaires. Son associe, Hollandais comme lui, s’appliquait a les developper. Ne desesperant pas d’accroitre le credit de la maison Kip, il n’y epargnait ni son temps ni son zele.

A la mort de M. Kip, Karl etait dans le port d’Amboine a bord d’un trois-mats hollandais de Rotterdam, sur lequel il remplissait les fonctions de second. Les deux freres furent douloureusement frappes de ce coup, qui les privait d’un pere pour lequel ils eprouvaient une profonde affection. Et ils ne se trouvaient pas meme la pour recueillir ses dernieres paroles, son dernier soupir!

Alors cette resolution fut prise entre les deux freres: Pieter se separerait de son associe d’Amboine, et reviendrait a Groningue diriger la maison paternelle.

Or, precisement, le trois-mats Maximus, sur lequel Karl Kip etait venu aux Moluques - navire deja vieux, en mauvais etat -, fut declare impropre au voyage de retour. Tres eprouve par des mauvais temps pendant sa traversee entre la Hollande et les iles, il n’etait plus bon qu’a demolir. Aussi son capitaine, ses officiers, ses matelots devaient-ils etre rapatries en Europe par les soins de la maison Hoppers, de Rotterdam, a laquelle il appartenait.

Or, ce rapatriement allait exiger, sans doute, un sejour assez prolonge a Amboine, s’il fallait attendre que l’equipage put embarquer sur quelque batiment a destination de l’Europe, et les deux freres avaient hate d’etre revenus a Groningue.

Karl et Pieter Kip deciderent donc de prendre passage sur le premier navire en partance, soit d’Amboine, soit de Ceram, soit de Ternate, autres iles de l’archipel des Moluques.

A cette epoque arriva le trois-mats goelette Wilhelmina, de Rotterdam, dont la relache serait de courte duree. C’etait un navire de cinq cents tonneaux, qui allait regagner son port d’attache en faisant escale a Wellington, d’ou son commandant, le capitaine Roebok, ferait voile vers l’Atlantique, en doublant le cap Horn.

Si la place de second eut ete vacante, nul doute que Karl Kip ne l’eut obtenue. Mais le personnel etait au complet, et aucun des matelots du Maximus ne put s’y engager. Karl Kip, ne voulant pas perdre cette occasion, retint une cabine de passager sur la Wilhelmina.

Le trois-mats mit en mer le 23 septembre. Son equipage comprenait le capitaine, M. Roebok, le second, Stourn, deux maitres et dix matelots, tous Hollandais d’origine.

La navigation fut tres favorisee sur le parcours de la mer des Arafura, si etroitement enfermee entre la cote septentrionale de l’Australie, la cote meridionale de la Nouvelle-Guinee, et le groupe des iles de la Sonde, a l’ouest, qui la defend contre la houle de l’ocean Indien. A l’est, elle n’offre pas d’autre issue que le detroit de Torres, que termine le cap d’York.

A l’entree de ce detroit, le navire rencontra des vents contraires qui le retarderent quelques jours. Ce ne fut que le 6 octobre qu’il parvint a se degager des nombreux recifs et a debouquer dans la mer de Corail.

Devant la Wilhelmina s’ouvrait alors l’immense Pacifique jusqu’au cap Horn, qu’elle devait rallier apres une courte relache a Wellington, de la Nouvelle-Zelande.

La route etait longue, mais les freres Kip n’avaient pas eu le choix.

Dans la nuit du 19 au 20 octobre, tout allait bien a bord, les matelots de quart a l’avant, lorsque se produisit un epouvantable accident que la plus serieuse vigilance n’aurait pu eviter.

De lourdes brumes, tres obscures, enveloppaient la mer, absolument calme, ainsi qu’il en est presque toujours dans ces conditions atmospheriques.

La Wilhelmina avait ses feux reglementaires, vert a tribord, rouge a babord. Par malheur, ils n’auraient point ete vus a travers cet epais brouillard, meme a la distance d’une demi-encablure.

Soudain, sans que les mugissements d’une sirene se fissent entendre, avant qu’un feu de position eut ete releve, le trois-mats fut aborde par le lof de babord a la hauteur du rouf de l’equipage. Un choc terrible provoqua la chute immediate du grand mat et du mat de misaine.

Au moment ou Karl et Pieter Kip s’elancaient hors de la dunette, ils n’entrevirent qu’une enorme masse, vomissant fumee et vapeur, qui passait comme une bombe, apres avoir coupe en deux la Wilhelmina.

Pendant une demi-seconde, un feu blanc avait apparu au grand etai de ce batiment. Le navire abordeur etait un steamer, mais c’etait tout ce qu’on en devait savoir.

La Wilhelmina, l’avant d’un cote, l’arriere de l’autre, coula aussitot. Les deux passagers n’eurent pas meme le temps de rejoindre l’equipage. A peine apercurent-ils quelques matelots accroches aux agres. Utiliser les embarcations, impossible, puisqu’elles etaient deja submergees. Quand au second et au capitaine, ils n’avaient sans doute pu quitter leur cabine.

Les deux freres, demi-vetus, etaient deja dans l’eau jusqu’a mi-corps.

Ils sentaient s’engloutir ce qui restait de la Wilhelmina, et allaient etre entraines dans le tourbillon qui se creusait autour du navire.

“Ne nous separons pas!… cria Pieter.

- Compte sur moi!” repondit Karl.

Tous deux etaient bons nageurs. Mais y avait-il une terre a proximite?… Quelle position occupait le trois-mats au moment de la collision en cette partie du Pacifique comprise entre l’Australie et la Nouvelle-Zelande, au-dessous de la Nouvelle-Caledonie, signalee vers l’est quarante-huit heures avant, dans la derniere observation du capitaine Roebok?

Il va sans dire que le steamer abordeur devait etre loin deja, a moins qu’il n’eut stoppe apres le choc. S’il avait mis des embarcations a la mer, comment, au milieu du brouillard, celles-ci retrouveraient-elles les survivants de cette catastrophe?…

Karl et Pieter Kip se crurent perdus. Une obscurite profonde enveloppait la mer. Aucun sifflet de machine, aucun appel de sirene n’indiquait la presence d’un navire, ni ce mugissement qu’eussent produit les echappements de vapeur, s’il fut reste sur le lieu du sinistre… Pas une seule epave a portee de la main des deux freres…

Pendant une demi-heure ils se soutinrent, l’aine encourageant le plus jeune, lui pretant l’appui de son bras lorsqu’il faiblissait. Mais le moment approchait ou tous deux seraient a bout de forces, et, apres une derniere etreinte, un supreme adieu, ils s’engloutiraient dans l’abime…

Il etait environ trois heures du matin, lorsque Karl Kip parvint a saisir un objet qui flottait pres de lui.

C’etait une des cages a poules de la Wilhelmina, a laquelle ils s’accrocherent.

L’aube perca enfin les jaunatres volutes du brouillard, la brume ne tarda pas a se lever, et un clapotis de lames reprit au souffle de la brise.

Karl Kip promena son regard jusqu’a l’horizon.

Dans l’est, mer deserte. Dans l’ouest, la cote d’une terre assez elevee, voila ce qu’il apercut tout d’abord.

Cette cote ne se trouvait pas a plus de trois milles. Le courant et le vent y portaient. Il y avait certitude de pouvoir l’atteindre, si la houle ne devenait pas trop forte.

A quelque terre, ile ou continent qu’elle appartint, cette cote assurait le salut des naufrages.

Le littoral, qui se deroulait a l’ouest, etait domine par un pic dont les premiers rayons du soleil doraient l’extreme pointe.

“La!… la!…” s’ecria Karl Kip.

La, en effet, car, au large, on eut vainement cherche une voile ou les feux d’un navire. De la Wilhelmina, il ne restait aucun vestige. Elle s’etait perdue corps et biens. Rien non plus du steamer abordeur, qui, plus heureux sans doute, ayant survecu a la collision, se trouvait maintenant hors de vue.

En se soulevant a demi, Karl Kip n’apercut ni debris de coque ni debris de mature. Seule surnageait cette cage a poules, a laquelle ils se tenaient.

Epuise, engourdi, Pieter aurait coule par le fond si son frere ne lui eut releve la tete. Vigoureusement, Karl nageait, en poussant la cage vers un semis de recifs dont le ressac blanchissait la ligne irreguliere.

Cette premiere frange de l’anneau coralligene se prolongeait devant la cote.

Il ne fallut pas moins d’une heure pour l’atteindre. Avec la houle qui les balayait, il eut ete difficile d’y prendre pied. Les naufrages se glisserent a travers une etroite passe, et il etait un peu plus de sept heures lorsqu’ils purent se hisser sur la pointe ou le canot du James-Cook venait de les recueillir.

C’etait sur cette ile inconnue, inhabitee, que les deux freres, a peine vetus, sans un outil, sans un engin, sans un ustensile, allaient pendant quinze jours mener la plus miserable existence.

Tel fut le recit que fit Pieter Kip, tandis que son frere, ecoutant en silence, se bornait a le confirmer du geste.

On savait a present pourquoi la Wilhelmina, attendue a Wellington, n’y arriverait jamais, pourquoi le navire francais Assomption n’avait pas rencontre d’epave sur sa route. Le trois-mats gisait dans les profondeurs de la mer, a moins que les courants n’en eussent entraine quelques debris plus au nord.

L’impression produite par le recit des naufrages etait tout en leur faveur. Naturellement, personne n’eut songe a mettre en doute sa veracite. Ils se servaient de la langue anglaise avec une facilite qui temoignait d’une instruction et d’une education convenables. Leur attitude n’etait point celle de tant de ces aventuriers qui pullulent sur ces parages, et l’on sentait chez Pieter Kip, surtout, une inebranlable confiance en Dieu.

Aussi M. Hawkins ne cacha-t-il point la bonne impression qu’il eprouvait.

“Mes amis, dit-il, vous voici a bord du James-Cook, et vous y resterez…

- Soyez remercie, monsieur, repondit Pieter Kip.

- Mais il ne vous reconduira pas en Europe… ajouta l’armateur.

- Peu importe, repondit Karl Kip.

Nous avons enfin quitte cette ile Norfolk ou nous etions sans ressources, et nous n’en demandons pas davantage.

- En quelque endroit que nous debarquions, ajouta Pieter Kip, nous trouverons les moyens de nous faire rapatrier…

- Et je vous y aiderai, dit M. Gibson.

- Quelle est la destination du James-Cook? reprit Karl Kip.

- Port-Praslin, de la Nouvelle-Irlande, repondit le capitaine.

- Il doit y sejourner?…

- Trois semaines environ.

- Puis il revient en Nouvelle-Zelande?…

- Non, en Tasmanie… a Hobart-Town, son port d’attache.

- Eh bien, capitaine, declara Karl Kip, il nous sera tout aussi facile de prendre passage sur un navire a Hobart-Town qu’a Dunedin, a Auckland ou a Wellington…

- Certainement, assura M. Hawkins, et si vous embarquez sur un steamer qui revient en Europe par le canal de Suez, votre retour s’effectuera plus rapidement.

- Ce serait a desirer, repondit Karl Kip.

- En tout cas, monsieur Hawkins, et vous, capitaine, dit Pieter Kip, puisque vous voulez bien nous accepter comme passagers…

- Non point des passagers, mais des hotes, dit M. Hawkins, et nous sommes heureux de vous offrir l’hospitalite du James-Cook!”

De nouvelles poignees de main furent echangees. Puis, les deux freres se retirerent dans leur cabine afin d’y gouter quelque repos, car ils avaient veille toute la nuit pres du foyer de la pointe.

Cependant, la petite brise qui avait dissipe les brumes commencait a fraichir.

Les calmes paraissaient etre a leur fin, et la mer verdissait dans le sud-est de l’ile.

Il convenait d’en profiter; M. Gibson donna ses ordres pour l’appareillage. Les voiles, qui etaient restees sur leurs cargues, furent amurees. On vira au cabestan, et le brick, grand largue, remonta dans la direction du nord-nord-ouest.

Deux heures apres, la plus haute cime de l’ile Norfolk avait disparu, et le James-Cook mettait le cap au nord-est, de maniere a prendre connaissance des terres de la Nouvelle-Caledonie sur la limite de la mer de Corail.

VIII - La mer de Corail

Quatorze cents milles environ separent l’ile Norfolk de la Nouvelle-Irlande. Apres en avoir fait cinq cents, la premiere terre que devait relever le James-Cook serait cette possession francaise de la Nouvelle-Caledonie dont se complete le petit groupe des iles Loyalty dans l’est.

Si le vent et la mer favorisaient la marche du brick, cinq jours suffiraient a la premiere partie de cette traversee, une dizaine a la seconde.

La vie du bord suivait sa regularite habituelle. Les quarts succedaient aux quarts, avec cette monotonie des belles navigations, qui n’est pas sans charme. Marins ou passagers s’interessent au moindre incident de mer - un navire qui fait route, une bande d’oiseaux qui volent autour des agres, une troupe de cetaces qui se jouent dans le sillage du batiment.

Le plus souvent les freres Kip, assis a l’arriere, s’abandonnaient, en compagnie de M. Hawkins, a de longues conversations auxquelles le capitaine et son fils se melaient volontiers. Ils ne pouvaient dissimuler leurs inquietudes relativement a la situation de la maison de Groningue. Combien il etait urgent que Pieter Kip eut repris la direction des affaires peut-etre deja tres compromises! Ni l’un ni l’autre ne cachaient leur apprehension, lorsqu’ils s’entretenaient avec l’armateur a ce sujet.

M. Hawkins ne cessait de repondre par des paroles d’encouragement. Les deux freres trouveraient du credit… La liquidation, s’il fallait en arriver la, s’effectuerait sans doute dans de meilleures conditions qu’ils ne l’esperaient… Mais les inquietudes de Karl et Pieter Kip n’etaient que trop justifiees par le retard que leur aurait impose le naufrage de la Wilhelmina.

On n’a point oublie quelle impression Karl et Pieter avaient produite dans l’esprit de Vin Mod.

Qu’il n’eut point a compter sur leur connivence pour servir ses projets, c’etait l’evidence meme. Les naufrages n’etaient point des aventuriers sans remords ni scrupules. Superieurs a la classe ou se recrutent les matelots, leur presence a bord rendait irrealisable toute tentative de revolte.

Aussi se figure-t-on aisement quelles reflexions echangerent Flig Balt et Vin Mod, des leur premier entretien, auquel prit part Len Cannon.

Relativement aux freres Kip, l’opinion du maitre d’equipage fut que, le cas echeant, ils se rangeraient du cote de l’armateur et du capitaine.

Toutefois, Len Cannon, jugeant les autres d’apres lui-meme, ne parut pas etre de cet avis:

“Sait-on au juste ce que sont ces Hollandais?… declara-t-il. A-t-on vu leurs papiers?… Non, n’est-ce pas, et pourquoi les croire sur parole?… Et puisqu’ils ont perdu tout ce qu’ils possedaient dans le naufrage, ils auraient tout a gagner!… J’en ai connu plus d’un qui payait de mine et ne faisait point de manieres lorsqu’il s’agissait de quelque bon coup…

- Est-ce toi qui les tateras?… demanda Flig Balt en haussant les epaules.

- Moi… non… bien sur! repondit Len Cannon. Les matelots n’ont jamais l’occasion de se mettre en rapport avec les passagers… puisque ce sont des passagers, ces malvenus-la!…

- Len a raison, affirma Vin Mod, ce n’est ni lui ni moi qui pourrions marcher sur ce terrain…

- Alors… ce serait moi?… demanda le maitre d’equipage.

- Non… pas meme vous, Flig Balt.

- Et qui donc?…

- Le nouveau capitaine du James-Cook.

- Comment… le nouveau capitaine?… dit le maitre d’equipage.

- Qu’entends-tu par la, Mod?… reprit Len Cannon.

- J’entends, repondit Vin Mod, qu’on doit etre au moins capitaine pour pouvoir causer avec ces beaux messieurs Kip… Et alors, il faudrait… et tant que cela ne sera pas…

- Et quoi donc?… s’ecria Flig Balt, impatiente de ces reticences.

- Il faudrait, repeta Vin Mod, une circonstance… oui… j’en reviens toujours a mon idee… Une supposition… M. Gibson tombe a la mer… pendant la nuit… un accident… Qui commanderait a bord?… Evidemment maitre Balt… L’armateur et le garcon ne connaissent rien en marine… et alors, au lieu de conduire le brick a Port-Praslin… et surtout de le ramener a Hobart-Town… enfin qui sait?…”

Puis, sans autrement insister et ne voulant pas encore renoncer au projet primitif, le matelot ajouta:

“Vraiment, c’est avoir eu trop de mauvaise chance!… Une premiere fois, cet aviso qui reste par notre travers!… Une deuxieme, M. Hawkins et Nat Gibson qui embarquent a Wellington!… Une troisieme, ces deux Hollandais qui prennent passage a bord!… Quatre hommes de plus… juste autant que nous en avons racole a Dunedin dans la taverne des Three-Magpies… Des bons, ceux-la… Les voila maintenant huit contre nous six… et huit bouts de corde je leur souhaite!”

Flig Balt ecoutait toujours plus qu’il ne parlait.

Nul doute que cette perspective de commander le navire ne fut de nature a le tenter. Provoquer un accident qui ferait disparaitre M. Gibson, cela vaudrait mieux que d’engager une lutte contre les passagers du James-Cook et la moitie de son equipage.

Mais Len Cannon repondait a cela que six hommes resolus doivent avoir raison de huit qui ne sont pas sur leurs gardes, si on les surprend avant qu’ils aient eu le temps de se reconnaitre… Il suffirait tout d’abord de s’etre debarrasse de deux, n’importe lesquels, pour que la partie fut egale… et il termina sur ces mots:

“Il faut faire le coup la nuit prochaine. Que maitre Balt dise oui… je previens les autres, et, demain, le brick aura le cap au large…

- Voyons, maitre Balt, que repondez-vous?…” demanda Vin Mod.

Le maitre d’equipage se taisait encore devant cette formelle mise en demeure.

“Eh bien… est-ce convenu?…” reprit en insistant Len Cannon.

En ce moment, M. Gibson, qui se trouvait a l’arriere, appela Flig Balt. Celui-ci alla le rejoindre.

“Il ne veut donc pas marcher?… demanda Len Cannon a Vin Mod.

- Il marchera, repondit le matelot, sinon la nuit prochaine, du moins quand l’occasion se presentera…

- Et si elle ne se presente pas?…

- On la fera naitre, Cannon!

- Alors, declara le matelot, que ce soit avant l’arrivee en Nouvelle-Irlande!… Mes camarades et moi, nous n’avons pas embarque a bord du brick pour naviguer sous les ordres du capitaine Gibson, et, je te previens, Mod, si l’affaire n’est pas faite d’ici la, a Port-Praslin nous filerons…

- Entendu, Len…

- Entendu, Mod…

Ce n’est pas nous qui ramenerons le James-Cook a Hobart-Town, ou nous n’avons que faire de trainer nos pattes!”

En somme, Vin Mod s’inquietait surtout des hesitations de Flig Balt. Il connaissait sa nature cauteleuse qui le portait plutot a l’astuce qu’a l’audace. Aussi s’etait-il toujours avise qu’il faudrait l’engager un jour ou l’autre de maniere qu’il ne put plus reculer. Mais il entendait que toutes chances de reussite fussent de son cote, et revenait invariablement a cette idee de voir le commandement du brick passer entre les mains du maitre d’equipage. En outre, il se promit de contenir Len Cannon, dont les impatiences pouvaient compromettre l’affaire.

La navigation se continua dans des conditions excellentes. Vent favorable allant jusqu’au grand frais pendant la journee et calmissant avec le soir. Les nuits etaient si belles, si rafraichissantes, apres les chaleurs diurnes qui s’accroissaient a mesure que le brick gagnait vers le Tropique du Capricorne. Aussi M. Hawkins, M. Gibson et son fils, Karl et Pieter Kip, causant et fumant, prolongeaient-ils la sieste du soir et restaient meme sur le pont jusqu’aux premieres lueurs de l’aube. La plupart des matelots, alors meme qu’ils n’etaient pas de quart, preferaient le plein air a la temperature etouffante du poste. Dans ces conditions, il eut ete impossible de surprendre Hobbes, Burnes, Wickley. En un instant ils eussent ete tous les trois sur la defensive.

Le Tropique fut atteint dans l’apres-midi du 7 novembre. Presque aussitot on eut connaissance de l’ile des Pins et des hautes terres de la Nouvelle-Caledonie.

La grande ile Balade - tel etait son nom canaque - n’a pas moins de deux cents milles de longueur du sud-est au nord-ouest sur vingt-cinq a trente de largeur.

Ses dependances se composent des iles des Pins, Beaupre, Botanique et Hohohana, puis, au levant, du groupe des Loyalty, dont la plus meridionale est l’ile Britannia.

On le sait, cet archipel neo-caledonien appartient au domaine colonial de la France. C’est un lieu de deportation, ou les condamnes pour crimes de droit commun sejournent en grande majorite. Bien qu’on ait eu a enregistrer un certain nombre d’evasions, il n’est pas facile de quitter ce penitencier des antipodes. Pour y reussir, il faut etre aide du dehors par quelque navire frete a cette intention, ainsi que cela s’est fait a differentes reprises au profit de deportes politiques. Dans tous les cas, lorsque les fugitifs, prives d’embarcations, doivent rejoindre un batiment a la nage, ils sont exposes a la dent des formidables squales qui fourmillent entre les recifs.

Du reste, sauf au port de Noumea, la capitale de l’ile, il est presque impossible d’accoster cet archipel que defendent des bancs madreporiques sur lesquels la houle brise avec fureur.

Le James-Cook, en remontant vers le nord, se tint donc au large de la cote. A la distance de deux a trois milles, le regard pouvait embrasser tout le developpement de la grande ile, les collines littorales disposees en amphitheatre, tellement nues et arides que l’on serait tente de conclure a l’infertilite de ce groupe. Et, en 1774, le capitaine Cook y fut tout d’abord trompe, lorsqu’il decouvrit ces nouvelles iles, dont l’amiral francais d’Entrecasteaux completa le releve hydrographique en 1792 et 1793.

Il n’en est rien, cependant. La population neo-caledonienne, evaluee a soixante mille habitants, voit son existence assuree rien que par les produits du sol, qui est tres riche: ignames, cannes a sucre, taro, hibiscus, pins en abondance, bananiers, orangers, cocotiers, arbres a pain, figuiers, gingembriers.

A l’interieur se massent ces forets profondes dont les arbres atteignent des dimensions prodigieuses.

Pendant la journee du 9, M. Hawkins, Nat Gibson et les deux freres purent observer en arriere du littoral cette haute chaine qui forme l’ossature de l’ile.

Sillonnee de torrents, elle est dominee par certains sommets, le mont Kogt, le mont Nu, le mont Arago, l’Homedebua, dont l’altitude depasse quinze cents metres. La nuit venue, on n’apercut plus que les feux des Canaques campes au fond des criques, et qui finirent par s’eteindre.

Eux aussi, Flig Balt, Vin Mod, Len Cannon et ses camarades observaient cette ile, mais dans une tout autre disposition d’esprit. Pouvaient-ils oublier qu’elle renfermait plusieurs centaines de condamnes dont ils eussent volontiers introduit une demi-douzaine a bord?…

“Il y a la, repetait Vin Mod, un tas de braves gens qui ne demanderaient pas mieux que de s’emparer d’un bon navire pour courir le Pacifique!… Si seulement quelques-uns avaient l’idee de s’enfuir cette nuit… si leur embarcation accostait le brick… s’ils se precipitaient sur le pont sans en demander la permission ni a M. Hawkins ni au capitaine… nous aurions vite fait de nous entendre avec eux…

- Sans doute, repondit Len Cannon, mais cela n’arrivera pas.”

Cela n’arriva pas, en effet. D’ailleurs, le cas echeant, a moins qu’ils n’y fussent montes par surprise, des fugitifs de Noumea n’eussent pas ete accueillis comme l’avaient ete les naufrages de la Wilhelmina. Un honnete navire ne favorise pas l’evasion de criminels!…

Le lendemain, 8, si la Nouvelle-Caledonie deroulait encore sa partie septentrionale, les derniers recifs qui s’etendent d’une centaine de lieues vers le nord furent laisses en arriere dans l’apres-midi, et le James-Cook donnait a pleines voiles a travers la mer de Corail.

En une dizaine de jours, avec belle brise, le brick pourrait avoir franchi la distance de neuf cents milles qui separe la Nouvelle-Caledonie de la Nouvelle-Irlande.

Cette mer de Corail est peut-etre, au dire des navigateurs, l’une des plus dangereuses du globe. Sur une etendue de deux degres en latitude, au-dessus et au-dessous de sa surface, elle est herissee de pointes madreporiques, barree de bancs de coraux, sillonnee de courants irreguliers et mal connus. Nombre de navires s’y sont perdus corps et biens. Il conviendrait vraiment qu’elle fut balisee a l’exemple des baies de l’Amerique ou de l’Europe. Pendant la nuit du 10 juin 1770, malgre l’avantage d’un bon vent et d’un brillant clair de lune, l’illustre Cook faillit y faire naufrage.

Il fallait esperer que M. Gibson ne se mettrait pas en perdition. La coque de son brick ne s’ouvrirait pas sur une de ces pointes, et, comme l’avait fait le navigateur anglais, il n’en serait pas reduit a passer une voile sous sa quille pour aveugler une voie d’eau. Toutefois, l’equipage dut apporter jour et nuit la plus extreme attention afin de parer les ecueils. A cette epoque, grace a des etudes hydrographiques faites avec une certaine precision, on pouvait se fier aux cartes du bord. En outre, Harry Gibson n’en etait pas a sa premiere navigation a travers la mer de Corail, et il en connaissait tous les dangers.

Karl Kip lui-meme avait deja frequente ces difficiles parages, soit que son navire eut ete chercher par l’est l’entree du detroit de Torres, soit qu’il en fut sorti en quittant la mer des Alfouras pendant ses campagnes en extreme Orient. La surveillance ne ferait pas defaut a bord du brick.

En somme, le temps favorisait la traversee du James-Cook, et il filait rapidement sous la brise constante des alizes du Pacifique, sans que les hommes eussent a manoeuvrer.

Ces parages sont, en general, peu visites. Pour rallier les mers d’Europe, la marine marchande a diminue de beaucoup son parcours a revenir des Philippines, des Moluques, des iles de la Sonde et de l’Indo-Chine par l’ocean Indien, le canal de Suez et la Mediterranee. A moins qu’ils ne soient a destination des ports de l’Ouest-Amerique, les steamers ne s’aventurent point sur la mer de Corail. Elle n’est guere frequentee que par les voiliers, qui preferent la route du cap Horn a celle du cap de Bonne-Esperance, ou par ceux qui, comme le James-Cook, font le grand cabotage entre l’Australie, la Nouvelle-Zelande et les archipels du nord. Il est donc rare que quelque voile se montre a l’horizon. De la une navigation monotone a laquelle doivent se resigner sinon les equipages, peu soucieux de distraction, du moins les passagers auxquels ces traversees semblent interminables.

Dans l’apres-midi du 9 novembre, Nat Gibson, penche sur la lisse a l’avant, appela le capitaine, qui venait de quitter le rouf, et il lui indiqua une sorte de masse noiratre a deux milles par babord.

“Pere, dit-il, est-ce que ce serait un ecueil?…

- Je ne le pense pas, repondit M. Gibson. J’ai fait une bonne observation a midi, je suis sur de ma position…

- Aucun recif n’est porte sur la carte?…

- Aucun, Nat.

- Il y a cependant la quelque chose…”

Apres avoir observe cette masse avec la longue-vue, le capitaine repondit:

“Je ne me rends pas bien compte…”

Les deux freres venaient d’arriver ainsi que M. Hawkins.

Ils regarderent attentivement cette masse de forme irreguliere, qu’il eut ete possible de prendre pour une roche coralligene.

“Non, dit Karl Kip, apres s’etre servi de la longue-vue, ce n’est point un ecueil…

- Il semble meme que cela flotte et s’eleve a la lame”, dit M. Hawkins.

Et, en effet, l’objet en question n’etait pas immobile a la surface de la mer, et obeissait aux mouvements de la houle.

“Et, de plus, dit Karl Kip, on n’apercoit aucun ressac sur ses bords…

- On dirait meme qu’il derive!” fit remarquer Nat Gibson.

Le capitaine cria alors a Hobbes, qui etait a la barre:

“Lofe legerement, de maniere a nous tenir plus pres…

- Oui, capitaine”, repondit le matelot, en donnant un tour a la roue du gouvernail.

Dix minutes apres, le brick s’etait assez rapproche pour que Karl Kip put dire:

“C’est une epave…

- Oui… une epave”, affirma M. Gibson.

Plus de doute, c’etait une carcasse de navire qui flottait par le travers du James-Cook.

“Est-ce que ce serait ce qui reste de la Wilhelmina?…” demanda M. Hawkins.

Rien d’impossible, en somme. Vingt jours apres la collision, il n’y aurait pas lieu de s’etonner que les debris du trois-mats eussent ete entraines dans ces parages.

“Capitaine, dit alors Pieter Kip, permettez que nous visitions cette epave…

Si elle provient de la Wilhelmina, il se peut que nous y retrouvions quelques objets…

- Et, ajouta M. Hawkins, qui sait si des naufrages, qu’il serait temps de sauver peut-etre…”

Il n’y avait pas a insister, et ordre fut envoye de venir au vent afin de mettre en panne a deux ou trois encablures de l’epave.

Les voiles bordees, ses cacatois ralinguant deja, le brick courut pendant quelques minutes.

Et alors, Karl Kip de s’ecrier:

“Oui… c’est bien la Wilhelmina… les debris de son arriere et de sa dunette…”

Flig Balt et Vin Mod, l’un pres de l’autre, se parlaient a voix basse.

“Il ne manquerait plus que d’en embarquer encore… un ou deux!…”

Le maitre d’equipage se contenta de hausser les epaules. Qu’il y eut des naufrages sur cette epave, c’etait peu probable.

De fait, personne n’apparaissait. S’il s’y fut trouve un ou plusieurs hommes, a moins d’etre a demi morts de souffrance, ils se seraient montres, ils auraient fait des signaux au brick depuis longtemps deja… et… personne.

“Le canot a la mer!” commanda M. Gibson en se tournant vers Flig Balt.

L’embarcation fut aussitot dehalee des portemanteaux. Trois matelots prirent place aux avirons, Vin Mod, Wickley, Hobbes. Nat Gibson embarqua avec les deux freres, et Karl Kip se mit au gouvernail.

C’etait bien la partie arriere de la Wilhelmina, dont la dunette presque entiere avait surnage apres l’abordage.

Tout l’avant manquait, ayant vraisemblablement coule sous le poids de la cargaison, a moins que le courant ne l’eut entraine au loin. Le mousse Jim, envoye en tete du grand mat, cria qu’il n’apercevait aucune autre epave a la surface de la mer.

Au tableau d’arriere, encore intact, se lisaient ces deux noms:

Wilhelmina - Rotterdam.

Le canot accosta. La dunette, fortement inclinee sur le cote gauche, flottait au-dessus de cette partie de la cale reservee a la cambuse, immergee dans toute sa profondeur. Du mat d’artimon, qui traversait le carre, il ne restait qu’un troncon de deux ou trois pieds, brise a la hauteur des taquets, et d’ou pendaient quelques bouts de drisses. Plus rien du gui arrache dans la collision.

D’ailleurs, il serait facile de penetrer dans la dunette. La porte en etait defoncee, et la houle en se gonflant la balayait a l’interieur.

Ce qu’il y avait a faire, c’etait donc de prendre pied sur l’epave, de visiter les cabines du carre, entre autres celle des deux freres placee en abord.

Quant aux cabines du capitaine et du second, qui occupaient la partie avant de la dunette, elles etaient entierement demolies.

Karl Kip rangea le canot le long de l’epave, de maniere a pouvoir debarquer, et Vin Mod tourna son amarre a un des montants du bastingage de tribord.

La mer, assez calme en ce moment, ne noyait pas le carre, fluait et refluait sur le bout du pont. Parfois le tangage decouvrait la cale, videe de tout ce qu’elle avait contenu.

Karl et Pieter Kip, Nat Gibson et Vin Mod, laissant l’embarcation a la garde des matelots, s’introduisirent a l’interieur du carre.

Et, en premier lieu, il fallait s’assurer s’il y avait quelque survivant de la Wilhelmina.

N’etait-il pas impossible que des hommes de l’equipage eussent trouve refuge dans la dunette, alors que s’engloutissait l’autre partie du navire?…

Ni vivants ni morts sur cette epave. Le capitaine et le second etaient-ils parvenus a sortir de leurs cabines? On ne le saurait jamais, sans doute, ni si la partie avant du navire avait pu se maintenir a la surface de la mer avec une partie de l’equipage. Il etait plutot probable que le James-Cook venait de rencontrer tout ce qui subsistait de la Wilhelmina.

On comprit quelle avait ete la violence du choc, lorsque l’un des deux batiments s’etait jete sur l’autre. Le steamer, lance a toute vitesse au milieu du brouillard, avait passe comme un projectile a travers la coque du trois-mats, peut-etre sans en avoir eprouve de graves avaries qui l’eussent empeche de continuer sa route. Avait-il pu stopper ensuite, mettre ses embarcations a la mer, recueillir quelques naufrages?…

Les deux freres, Nat Gibson et Vin Mod, ayant de l’eau jusqu’a mi-jambe, visiterent le carre.

Dans leur cabine, Karl et Pieter Kip retrouverent divers objets plus ou moins deteriores, des vetements, du linge, des ustensiles de toilette, deux paires de chaussures. Les cadres superposes contenaient encore leur literie, qui fut retiree et rapportee au canot.

Il eut ete tres desirable que les deux freres eussent pu remettre la main sur les papiers, surtout ceux qui concernaient le comptoir d’Amboine et la maison de Groningue. Leur disparition etait de nature a gener le reglement des affaires. Mais il n’y en avait pas trace, et la mer, en penetrant dans la cabine, avait fait son oeuvre de destruction.

Il en fut de meme pour une somme de mille piastres appartenant a Pieter Kip, et qui avait disparu, la petite armoire ou elle etait renfermee, sous le cadre inferieur, ayant ete brisee dans la collision.

“Rien… rien!” dit-il.

Tandis que l’on visitait le carre, Vin Mod, - on ne s’en etonnera pas, - pousse par ses instincts de pillage, ne cessait de fureter dans tous les coins, et, sans etre apercu, penetra dans la cabine des deux freres.

Et c’est alors que, sous le cadre inferieur de cette cabine, ou s’ouvrait le tiroir, il trouva un objet qui avait echappe aux recherches de Karl et de Pieter Kip.

C’etait un poignard de fabrication malaise, un de ces kriss a dents de scie, qui s’etait glisse dans l’interstice de deux planches disjointes. Cette arme, assez commune chez les indigenes du Pacifique, n’avait pas grand prix et n’eut servi qu’a completer la panoplie d’un amateur.

Vin Mod agissait-il sous une certaine pensee en s’appropriant cette arme?… Dans tous les cas, il saisit le kriss, le fourra sous sa vareuse sans avoir ete vu, et son intention etait de le cacher dans son sac, des qu’il serait de retour a bord du brick

On peut en etre assure, si, au lieu de cette arme, il eut retrouve le millier de piastres de Pieter Kip, il ne se fut fait aucun scrupule de l’emporter.

Il n’y avait plus rien a recueillir a bord du batiment naufrage. Les effets, habits, linge, literie, furent transportes dans le canot. D’ailleurs l’epave ne devait pas tarder a se disloquer entierement. Le plancher du carre, ronge par l’eau, cedait sous le pied.

Au premier mauvais temps, il ne flotterait plus que d’informes debris a la surface de la mer.

Le brick etait en panne par le travers de l’epave, et le courant commencait a l’eloigner. La brise fraichissait, la houle s’accentuait, et il convenait de revenir a bord. A plusieurs reprises, le porte-voix du maitre d’equipage se fit entendre, helant les gens de l’embarcation.

“On nous commande de rentrer, dit Nat Gibson, et puisque nous avons pris tout ce qu’il y avait a prendre…

- Allons… repondit Karl Kip.

- Pauvre Wilhelmina!” murmura Pieter Kip.

Tous deux ne cherchaient point a cacher l’emotion qu’ils eprouvaient!… S’ils avaient espere retrouver une partie de ce qu’ils possedaient, il leur fallait maintenant renoncer a cet espoir!

Le canot largua son amarre. Ce fut Nat Gibson qui se mit au gouvernail, tandis que Karl et Pieter Kip, tournes vers l’arriere, regardaient encore les restes de la Wilhelmina.

Des que l’embarcation eut ete rehissee a son poste, le brick eventa ses voiles, et, sous l’allure du largue, servi par une belle brise, gagna rapidement en direction du nord-ouest.

Pendant cinq jours, la navigation ne presenta aucun incident, et, des la matinee du 14, la vigie signalait les premieres hauteurs de la Nouvelle-Guinee.

III - Derniere manoeuvre

La satisfaction de M. Hawkins fut complete, lorsqu’il recut le lendemain la visite de Karl et de Pieter Kip. Il etait heureux que son intervention pres de la maison Arnemniden eut reussi. Cela ne meritait pas tant de remerciements… Tout son credit, toute son influence, il les mettait au service des deux freres… N’etait-il pas leur oblige?… Enfin, l’excellent homme felicita Karl Kip d’avoir ete nomme second du Skydnam, et aussi chaudement que s’il n’eut pas ete pour quelque chose dans cette nomination.

Nat Gibson, qui se trouvait a ce moment chez M. Hawkins, ne put que joindre ses felicitations a celles de l’armateur. Il avait deja la position d’associe dans la maison de commerce. Mais la preoccupation des affaires, son travail tres assidu, ne parvenaient pas a le detourner des tristes souvenirs du passe. L’image de son pere etait toujours devant ses yeux, et il ne rentrait chez lui que pour meler ses larmes aux larmes de sa mere. A ce chagrin s’ajoutait encore l’insurmontable horreur a l’egard de meurtriers que l’on ne connaissait pas et qui probablement ne seraient jamais ni atteints ni chaties.

Ce jour-la meme, Karl Kip, accompagne de son frere, vint prendre les fonctions de second a bord du Skydnam, ou le capitaine Fork leur reserva le meilleur accueil.

Le Skydnam, un steamer de douze cents tonneaux et de six cents chevaux, faisait des voyages reguliers entre Hambourg et les differents ports du littoral australien. Il apportait du charbon, il remportait des bles. Sa cargaison etait a terre depuis quelques jours. On s’occupait de quelques reparations et appropriations de la cale et de la dunette, du nettoyage des chaudieres et des machines, et d’avaries survenues a la mature.

“Certainement, affirma le capitaine Fork, tout sera termine a la fin de cette semaine, et nous n’aurons plus qu’a embarquer notre chargement…

Ce sera un peu votre affaire, monsieur Kip…

- Je ne perdrai ni un jour ni une heure, capitaine, repondit le nouveau second, et mon regret est de ne pouvoir, des maintenant, occuper ma cabine…

- Sans doute, repondit M. Fork, mais, vous le voyez, nous sommes livres aux ouvriers, aux menuisiers, aux peintres. Ce ne sera pas trop d’une dizaine de jours pour qu’ils aient termine leur besogne… Ni votre cabine ni la mienne ne sont en etat de nous recevoir…

- Peu importe, apres tout, capitaine, declara Karl Kip. Je serai a bord au lever du soleil, et j’y resterai jusqu’au soir… Il ne dependra pas de moi que le Skydnam ne soit pret a la date du 24 ou du 25…

- C’est entendu, monsieur Kip, repondit le capitaine Fork. Je laisse donc le navire a vos soins, et, si vous avez besoin de moi, vous me trouverez le plus souvent aux bureaux de la maison Arnemniden.”

De cet arrangement il resultait que Karl Kip passait toutes ses journees a bord du steamer. De son cote, Pieter Kip chercherait a se creer des relations sur la place d’Hobart-Town. Il se proposait de rendre visite aux principaux negociants avec la reference de M. Hawkins. Autant de bonnes semences, qui assureraient sans doute la recolte de l’avenir.

Cependant l’affaire des revoltes du James-Cook suivait son cours. L’instruction, confiee au rapporteur du Conseil, s’effectuait selon les reglements speciaux du code maritime.

Enferme dans la prison du port avec Len Cannon, Flig Balt n’avait point ete mis au secret. Il communiquait librement avec les autres detenus.

Du reste, cette prison ne servait qu’aux matelots arretes soit pour insubordination, soit pour delits de droit commun. En outre on y bloquait pour la nuit les marins en etat d’ivresse, les batailleurs ramasses par les rues ou dans les tavernes de ce quartier, non moins bruyant, non moins trouble que celui de Dunedin, ou Vin Mod recruta Len Cannon et ses camarades.

Ceux-ci, d’ailleurs, Sexton, Kyle, Bryce, quelque desir qu’ils en eussent, n’avaient pas encore quitte Hobart-Town. Il leur repugnait de partir en laissant Len Cannon aux mains de la justice sous une grave inculpation. Or, precisement, s’ils etaient cites comme temoins dans l’affaire du James-Cook, Vin Mod entendait leur dicter quelque bon temoignage au dernier moment. Il les rencontrait chaque jour, car ils avaient pris logement aux Fresh-Fishs, un affreux “tap” ou Vin Mod, on le sait, etait descendu sous son veritable nom. Celui-ci, lorsque les trois matelots auraient mange et surtout bu la paye touchee a l’arrivee du brick, interviendrait, les tirerait d’embarras, et, deja meme, il avait repondu pour eux au patron de l’auberge. Aussi Sexton, Kyle et Bryce ne se preoccupaient-ils pas d’obtenir un embarquement.

“Attendez… attendez!… leur repetait Vin Mod. Rien ne presse… Que diable!… l’ami Balt vous fera venir comme temoins et nous clorons le bec a ceux qui voudront le charger, lui et votre camarade Len Cannon!… Est-ce que ce n’etait pas notre droit de renvoyer ce damne Hollandais a sa cabine de passager… de rendre le commandement du brick au brave Anglais qui en etait le capitaine?… Si… n’est-ce pas?… Eh bien, c’est ce qu’a voulu faire Flig Balt, et on le condamnerait pour cela!…

C’est ce qu’a voulu faire Len Cannon… c’est ce que nous voulions tous faire!… Croyez-moi, les amis, notre ancien maitre d’equipage sera acquitte, et Len Cannon sortira de prison en meme temps que lui!…

- Mais, observait Bryce, est-ce qu’il n’y a pas danger qu’on nous arrete… qu’on nous loge a la meme enseigne que Len Cannon?…

- Non, declarait Vin Mod, vous etes des temoins… rien que des temoins… et lorsque Len Cannon embarquera pour retourner en Nouvelle-Zelande ou ailleurs, vous embarquerez ensemble… C’est moi qui vous trouverai un navire… un bon… en compagnie de l’ami Balt… et nous reussirons peut-etre mieux qu’a bord du James-Cook!”

C’est ainsi que Vin Mod retenait a Hobart-Town les camarades de Len Cannon, peut-etre avec l’idee qu’ils auraient un role a jouer dans ce proces dont il voulait tirer un acquittement au profit du maitre d’equipage.

Tandis qu’il preparait ses sourdes menees, qui, si elles reussissaient, devaient perdre les freres Kip, ceux-ci, ne soupconnant rien, etaient tout a leurs affaires.

Le chargement du Skydnam s’operait methodiquement sous la direction du second, les reparations suivaient leur cours avec l’aide des ouvriers du port, et le depart s’effectuerait a la date fixee.

La maison Arnemniden ne pouvait qu’apprecier le zele et l’intelligence de l’officier dont elle avait fait choix. Le capitaine Fork ne marchandait pas ses eloges, apres avoir reconnu que Karl Kip possedait une complete entente de ces details si compliques du bord qui regardent le second. Aussi quelles felicitations, quels remerciements M. Hawkins recevait a ce propos!

“Et pourvu que votre protege soit habile manoeuvrier, lui dit un jour le capitaine Fork, je le proclame un marin accompli…

- N’en doutez pas, capitaine, repondit l’armateur, n’en doutez pas!… Est-ce que nous ne l’avons pas juge a bord du James-Cook?… Est-ce qu’il n’a pas fait ses preuves, quand il a pris de lui-meme, par instinct, le commandement de notre navire?… Est-ce que j’ai eu a me repentir un instant de l’avoir nomme a la place de ce miserable Flig Balt qui nous avait mis en perdition?… Oui… Karl Kip est un vrai marin!…

- Nous le verrons a l’oeuvre, monsieur Hawkins, repondit le capitaine Fork, et, comme je n’en doute pas, si Karl Kip justifie pendant cette traversee la bonne opinion que nous avons de lui, la maison Arnemniden en tiendra compte, et son avenir est assure…

- Oui, il la justifiera, declara M. Hawkins d’un ton convaincu, il la justifiera!”

On le voit, l’armateur etait, non sans raison, tout acquis aux deux freres. Ce qu’il pensait de l’aine, il le pensait du cadet, ayant reconnu chez Pieter Kip une remarquable entente des affaires commerciales. Aussi tenait-il pour certain qu’il replacerait sur un bon pied la maison de Groningue, grace aux relations qui s’etabliraient avec la Tasmanie et la Nouvelle-Zelande.

On comprend de quels sentiments de gratitude les deux freres etaient animes envers M. Hawkins, qui leur rendait de tels services. Ils le voyaient le plus souvent possible, et, parfois, la journee achevee, s’asseyaient a sa table. Mme Hawkins partageait les sentiments sympathiques de son mari pour ces hommes d’intelligence et de coeur.

Elle aimait a s’entretenir avec eux, a causer de leurs projets d’avenir. De temps en temps, Nat Gibson venait passer la soiree dans cette hospitaliere maison. Il s’interessait vivement aux demarches de Pieter Kip… Dans quelques jours, le Skydnam aurait pris la mer… L’annee ne s’ecoulerait pas sans qu’il fut de retour a Hobart-Town… Ce serait une satisfaction de se revoir…

“Et, disait M. Hawkins, c’est le capitaine Kip, commandant le Skydnam, que nous recevrons alors, et avec quel plaisir!… Oui!… le digne Fork a droit a sa retraite des l’arrivee en Europe… Vous le remplacerez, Karl Kip, et, entre vos mains, le Skydnam sera ce qu’a ete… ce qu’etait le James-Cook!”

Par malheur, ce nom evoquait toujours les plus tristes souvenirs. M. Hawkins, Nat Gibson, les deux freres, se revoyaient en Nouvelle-Irlande, a Port-Praslin, a Kerawara, au milieu de cette foret ou est tombe l’infortune Gibson, devant ce modeste cimetiere ou reposait le capitaine.

Et, lorsque ce nom etait prononce, Nat palissait soudain. Tout son sang lui refluait au coeur, sa voix tremblait de colere, et il s’ecriait: “Mon pere… mon pauvre pere… tu ne seras donc pas venge!”

M. Hawkins essayait de calmer le jeune homme… Il fallait attendre les nouvelles qui arriveraient de l’archipel Bismarck par le premier courrier… M. Hamburg, M. Zieger auraient peut-etre decouvert les coupables… Il est vrai, les communications ne sont pas frequentes entre la Tasmanie et la Nouvelle-Irlande… Qui sait si des mois ne s’ecouleraient pas avant que l’on connut les resultats de l’enquete?…

On etait au 19 janvier.

Dans quarante-huit heures, le proces des revoltes du James-Cook viendrait devant le Conseil, et, sans doute, a moins d’incidents imprevus, les debats seraient termines le jour meme…

Trois jours apres, le Skydnam prendrait la mer, et les freres Kip auraient quitte Hobart-Town a destination de Hambourg.

Le lendemain, pendant l’apres-midi, on aurait pu voir Vin Mod roder autour de la prison du port. Assez agite, bien qu’il fut d’ordinaire tres maitre de lui, il marchait d’un pas rapide, evitant les regards, laissant echapper des lambeaux de phrases entrecoupes de gestes inquiets et qu’il eut ete sans doute tres interessant d’entendre.

Qu’esperait-il donc en passant a plusieurs reprises devant la porte de la prison?… Cherchait-il a s’y introduire pour rencontrer Flig Balt?… Non! il ne pouvait avoir cette idee, et, assurement, il lui serait impossible de franchir cette porte…

Etait-il a supposer, d’autre part, qu’il parviendrait a apercevoir le maitre d’equipage par quelque haute fenetre du batiment dont le dernier etage dominait les murs d’enceinte?… C’eut ete improbable, a moins que, de son cote, Flig Balt, sachant que le proces devait venir le lendemain, n’eut cette pensee que Vin Mod tenterait de communiquer avec lui, n’importe par quel moyen… Et cela meme n’etait-il pas convenu d’avance, en raison d’un plan arrete entre eux?…

Mais, dans ces conditions, l’un dehors, l’autre dedans, tous deux en eussent ete reduits a de simples signes pour correspondre, un mouvement de la tete, un geste de la main, et parviendraient-ils a se comprendre?…

Quoi qu’il en soit, Vin Mod n’apercut pas Flig Balt, et Flig Balt n’apercut pas Vin Mod.

Celui-ci, lorsque le soir arriva, apres un dernier regard jete au sombre edifice, revint lentement vers son auberge.

Et alors, toujours plonge dans ses reflexions, il se disait: “Oui… c’est le seul moyen de le prevenir, et s’il echoue… Eh bien, apres tout, je suis appele comme temoin… je parlerai… et ce que Flig Balt ne dira peut-etre pas… je le dirai, moi… oui!… je le dirai… et ils y passeront, les freres Kip!…”

Ce ne fut pas au tap des Fresh-Fishs que se rendit ce soir-la Vin Mod, mais a l’auberge du Great-Old-Man.

Il etait sept heures. Une pluie fine et penetrante tombait depuis midi. Le quartier se noyait dans une obscurite profonde que percait a peine la lumiere du gaz.

Vin Mod, sans avoir ete vu, prit l’allee qui conduisait a sa chambre, monta l’escalier, se glissa sur le balcon, regarda a travers la fenetre, dont les persiennes n’avaient pas ete refermees.

Apres avoir ecoute, n’entendant aucun bruit a l’interieur, il eut la certitude que la chambre etait vide en ce moment.

Precisement, ce soir-la, Karl et Pieter Kip dinaient chez M. Hawkins, et ne devaient pas regagner leur logis avant dix ou onze heures.

Ainsi, Vin Mod etait servi par les circonstances, le temps ne lui manquerait pas pour agir, et il ne courait point le risque d’etre surpris.

Il revint donc dans sa chambre, et, ouvrant une armoire, en retira differents papiers, auxquels il joignit une certaine quantite de piastres, valant environ de trois a quatre livres malaises, puis le kriss avec lequel Flig Balt avait frappe le capitaine Gibson.

Quelques instants apres, Vin Mod penetrait dans le logement des deux freres, sans avoir eu a briser un carreau de la fenetre, restee entrouverte.

Cette chambre, il en connaissait bien la disposition pour y avoir maintes fois plonge ses regards, lorsqu’il venait surprendre la conversation de Karl et de Pieter Kip. Il n’eut meme pas besoin de s’eclairer, ce qui aurait pu le trahir. Il savait comment etaient ranges les meubles, ou se trouvait placee sur un escabeau la valise qui avait ete retiree de la Wilhelmina.

Cette valise, Vin Mod n’eut qu’a en desserrer les courroies. Apres en avoir souleve le linge qu’elle contenait, il y glissa les papiers, les piastres, le poignard, et la referma.

“C’est fait!” murmura-t-il.

Il sortit par la fenetre, dont il ramena les battants derriere lui, suivit le balcon et rentra dans sa chambre.

Un instant plus tard, Vin Mod redescendait l’escalier, atteignait la rue, et se dirigeait vers l’auberge des Fresh-Fishs, ou devaient l’attendre Sexton, Kyle et Bryce.

Sept heures et demie sonnaient lorsqu’il penetra dans la salle commune, ou il rejoignit ses compagnons en train de boire…

Sexton et Bryce avaient deja vide un certain nombre de verres, wisky et gin. Ivres, non pas d’une ivresse bruyante et batailleuse, mais d’une ivresse morne et abetie, ils eussent ete incapables de comprendre ce que leur aurait dit Vin Mod, si celui-ci avait eu besoin d’eux.

Seul Kyle, prevenu sans doute, et avec lequel il s’entretenait plus volontiers d’habitude, avait a peine touche aux flacons deposes sur la table.

Aussi, lorsque Vin Mod parut dans la salle, il se leva pour aller a lui.

Vin Mod lui fit signe de ne pas bouger, et tous deux s’assirent l’un pres de l’autre.

Il y avait la une vingtaine de buveurs, - presque tous matelots en bordee, attables sous les lampes, au milieu d’une etouffante atmosphere.

A chaque moment, des entrees et des sorties de clients avines. Il se faisait assez de tapage pour qu’il fut facile de se parler a l’oreille sans courir le risque d’etre entendu. D’ailleurs, la table de Kyle occupait le plus sombre coin de la salle.

Voici ce que Vin Mod dit a son camarade, en se rapprochant de lui: “Il y a deja une heure que vous etes ici?…

- Oui… en t’attendant, comme il etait convenu.

- Et les autres n’ont pas pu resister a l’envie de boire?…

- Non… songe donc… une heure!…

- Et toi?…

- Moi… j’ai seulement rempli mon verre, et il est encore plein…

- Tu ne t’en repentiras pas, Kyle, car j’ai besoin que tu aies toute ta tete…

- Je l’ai, Mod.

- Eh bien… si tu n’as pas bu, tu vas boire maintenant…

- A ta sante!” repondit Kyle, qui saisit son verre et le porta a sa bouche.

Vin Mod, lui saisissant le bras, l’obligea a reposer le verre sur la table sans y avoir trempe ses levres.

- Non… mais je veux que tu fasses semblant de boire, et que tu aies l’air d’avoir trop bu…

- Et pourquoi, Mod?…

- Parce que, feignant d’etre ivre, tu vas te lever, parcourir la salle, chercher querelle aux uns et aux autres, menacer de tout casser, si bien que le tavernier appellera les agents afin qu’ils t’emmenent et te fourrent en prison…

- En prison?…”

Et, vraiment, Kyle ne savait guere ou Vin Mod voulait en venir. Feindre de boire, cela ne lui allait qu’a moitie, se faire mettre en prison pour tapage nocturne, cela ne lui allait pas du tout.

“Ecoute, lui dit Vin Mod. J’ai besoin de toi pour une affaire… qui te rapportera gros, si tu reussis… si tu remplis adroitement ton role…

- Et rien a risquer?…

- Peut-etre quelques bourrades, plus cinq ou six livres a gagner…

- Cinq ou six livres?…” repeta Kyle, tres allume par cette proposition.

Puis, montrant ses camarades: “Et les autres?… demanda-t-il.

- Rien pour eux, repondit Vin Mod. Tu les vois, ils ne sont pas plus en etat de comprendre que d’agir!”

En effet, aucun d’eux n’avait meme reconnu Vin Mod, lorsque celui-ci etait venu s’asseoir. Ils n’entendaient ni ne voyaient. Leurs bras soulevaient machinalement les verres et retombaient sur la table. Sexton murmurait d’incoherentes paroles d’ivrogne ou chantonnait quelque refrain de bord, en l’accompagnant de coups de poing lances dans le vide. Bryce, la tete baissee, les epaules arrondies, les yeux a moitie clos, ne tarderait pas a s’endormir du sommeil de la brute.

Cependant le tapage grandissait, des cris, des appels d’un groupe a l’autre, et parfois des provocations a propos de rien.

Le tavernier, tres habitue a ce genre de clientele, allait et venait, versant a la ronde ses abominables boissons.

“Eh bien, reprit Kyle en s’approchant plus pres encore de son interlocuteur, qu’y a-t-il?…

- Il y a, repondit Vin Mod, que j’ai deux mots a faire dire a l’ami Flig Balt… et comme Flig Balt est en prison, il faut l’y rejoindre…

- Ce soir?…

- Ce soir… parce que demain se reunit le Conseil et il serait trop tard. Aussi, pas de temps a perdre, et je compte que tu vas jouer l’ivrogne…

- Sans avoir bu…

- Sans avoir bu, Kyle. Cela ne sera pas difficile… Tu vas te lever… crier… hurler… t’en prendre aux autres buveurs… au besoin taper dessus…

- Et si j’attrape quelques mauvais coups au milieu de la bagarre…

- Je doublerai la somme”, repondit Vin Mod.

Et cette reponse sembla lever toutes les hesitations de Kyle, qui n’en etait pas a une bourrade pres. Il ne fit qu’une reflexion, celle-ci: “S’il est necessaire de communiquer avec Flig Balt, pourquoi est-ce moi, et non toi, qui cherche a le rejoindre?…

- Pas tant de mots, Kyle!… repliqua Vin Mod qui commencait a s’impatienter. J’ai besoin d’etre libre… d’etre la quand on jugera Flig Balt… Une fois en prison, on en a pour vingt-quatre heures au moins, et, je te le repete, il importe que je sois la…”

Et, comme dernier argument, Vin Mod, fouillant la poche de sa vareuse, en tira une livre et la glissa dans la main du matelot.

“Comme acompte… dit-il, le reste des que tu seras relache…

- Et… lorsque j’aurai ete relache… je te retrouverai…

- Ici… chaque soir.

- Convenu, repondit Kyle.

Maintenant, un verre de gin pour me mettre en train… Je n’en ferai que mieux l’ivrogne!”

Il leva son verre rempli de la brulante et corrosive liqueur et le vida d’un trait.

“Il est temps, reprit alors Vin Mod, et ecoute bien… Ce que j’ai a dire a Flig Balt, j’aurais pu l’ecrire… un bout de papier que tu lui aurais remis de ma part… Mais, si on le trouvait sur toi, l’affaire serait manquee… D’ailleurs, quelques mots suffiront et tu les retiendras… Des que les policemen t’auront fourre en prison, tache de rencontrer Flig Balt… Si tu n’y parvenais pas ce soir, que ce soit demain avant qu’on vienne le chercher pour le conduire au Conseil…

- C’est entendu, Mod, repondit Kyle, et que lui dirai-je de ta part?…

- Tu lui diras… que l’affaire est faite… et qu’il peut accuser hardiment.

- Qui?…

- Il le sait!…

- Bon… et pas autre chose?…

- Pas autre chose…

- Bien, Mod, repondit Kyle, et me voici, cette fois, ivre comme le plus ivrogne des sujets de la Reine!”

Kyle se leva, titubant, tombant, s’accrochant aux tables. Il menacait les buveurs, qui lui repondaient par de vigoureuses poussees. Il injuriait le tavernier qui lui refusait a boire, et, d’un coup de tete en pleine poitrine, il l’envoya rouler jusque dans la rue a travers la porte a demi entrouverte.

Le tavernier, hors de lui - et de chez lui - appela a l’aide. Deux ou trois policemen accoururent, se jeterent sur Kyle, qui n’opposa d’ailleurs qu’une faible resistance pour eviter les coups.

Finalement, il fut apprehende, maintenu, puis conduit au milieu des clameurs de la rue et enferme dans la prison du port.

Vin Mod l’avait suivi, et, apres s’etre assure par lui-meme que les portes s’etaient refermees sur Kyle, il revint au tap des Fresh-Fishs.

VIII - Port-Arthur

Un mois apres ce jour ou les condamnes a mort avaient beneficie de la commutation de leur peine, deux hommes travaillaient sous le fouet des argousins dans le penitencier de Port-Arthur.

Ces deux forcats n’appartenaient pas a la meme escouade. Separes l’un de l’autre, ne pouvant echanger ni une parole ni un regard, ils ne partageaient ni la meme gamelle ni le meme cabanon. Ils allaient, chacun de son cote, vetus de l’ignoble vareuse du galerien, accables sous les injures et les coups de la chiourme, au milieu de cette tourbe de bandits que la Grande-Bretagne expedie a ses colonies d’outremer. Le matin, ils quittaient le bagne et n’y rentraient que le soir, epuises de fatigues, insuffisamment soutenus par une grossiere nourriture. Ils y reprenaient le lit de camp, cote a cote avec un compagnon de chaine, cherchant en vain l’oubli dans quelques heures de sommeil. Puis, le jour revenu, alors sous les chaleurs etouffantes de l’ete, plus tard sous les terribles froids de l’hiver, ils iraient ainsi jusqu’a l’heure ou la mort tant souhaitee les delivrerait de cette abominable existence.

Ces deux hommes etaient les freres Kip, qui, trois semaines avant, avaient ete transportes au penitencier de Port-Arthur.

Jusqu’au milieu du XVIIe siecle, on le sait, la Tasmanie ne fut habitee que par les plus miserables peuplades du globe, des indigenes places, pourrait-on dire, sur cette limite qui separe l’animalite de l’humanite. Or, les premiers Europeens qui devaient prendre pied sur cette grande ile ne valaient guere mieux, sans doute, que ces sauvages. Mais, apres eux, vinrent les emigrants, lesquels, avec leur concours et le temps aidant, en firent une colonie des plus florissantes.

A cette epoque, la Grande-Bretagne avait deja fonde un etablissement de ce genre a Botany-Bay, sur la cote orientale de l’Australie, alors denommee Nouvelle-Galles du Sud.

Comme elle put supposer chez les Francais l’intention de creer un bagne similaire en terre tasmanienne, elle se hata de les y devancer, ainsi qu’elle le fit plus tard en Nouvelle-Zelande.

Vers le milieu de l’annee 1803, John Bowin, quittant Sydney avec un detachement de troupes coloniales, debarqua sur la rive gauche de la riviere Derwent, a vingt milles au-dessus de son embouchure, au lieu dit “Ridens”. Il emmenait un certain nombre de convicts, dont le chiffre monta a quatre cents l’annee suivante, sous le lieutenant-colonel Collins.

Cet officier, abandonnant Ridens, jeta les fondements d’Hobart-Town sur l’autre rive du Derwent, en un endroit ou une petite riviere fournissait l’eau douce, au fond de la baie de Sullivan-Cove dans laquelle les navires, meme d’un tonnage eleve, trouvaient d’excellents mouillages. La nouvelle ville ne tarda pas a prendre de l’extension, et, entre les batiments civils qu’elle compta bientot, l’un des premiers construits fut le bagne, enferme de quatre hautes murailles en pierres dures comme le granit.

Trois elements ont contribue a former la population en Tasmanie: les hommes libres, ce sont les emigrants, les colons, qui ont volontairement quitte le Royaume-Uni; les emancipes, ce sont les deportes, auxquels il a ete accorde une remise de peine en raison de leur bonne conduite ou dont la condamnation a pris fin; les convicts, ce sont les deportes qui, a leur debarquement, passent sous la surveillance du surintendant ou commissaire des chiourmes.

Ces convicts comprenaient trois categories:

1deg les condamnes aux peines les plus graves, qui deviennent les hotes du bagne et, sous la direction des constables, sont employes aux travaux de force, et particulierement a l’etablissement des routes; 2deg les condamnes pour fautes plus legeres, - les magistrats anglais ont souvent la main lourde, - qui obtiennent la faveur d’entrer au service des colons sans aucun salaire, mais a la condition d’etre convenablement loges, nourris suivant la ration reglementaire, mis a meme de remplir chaque dimanche leurs devoirs religieux; 3deg les condamnes qui, grace a leur bonne conduite, ont la liberte de travailler pour leur compte, et, de ceux-la, il en est quelques-uns qui sont arrives a la fortune, a l’independance. Il est vrai, en depit des efforts tentes par les gouverneurs, aucun d’eux ne peut reprendre rang dans la societe des hommes libres.

Telles furent donc les premieres mesures adoptees au debut de la colonie pour l’organisation penale, et telles etaient les differentes categories de convicts, aussi bien hommes que femmes. D’apres ce que note Dumont d’Urville, lors de son arrivee en Tasmanie, vers 1840, les peines infligees etaient graduees ainsi qu’il suit suivant la gravite des delits: reprimande, condamnation a tourner la roue d’un moulin pendant un temps limite, travaux forces le jour et emprisonnement solitaire la nuit, travaux forces sur les grands chemins, travaux forces dans les escouades enchainees, envoi a l’etablissement penal de Port-Arthur.

A propos de ce dernier etablissement, il convient de rappeler qu’en 1768 un penitencier avait ete fonde sur l’ile Norfolk, - cette ile ou furent recueillis par le James-Cook Karl et Pieter Kip, les naufrages de la Wilhelmina. Mais, des 1805, le gouvernement le fit evacuer, parce que, faute de port, il etait tres difficile d’y debarquer. L’ile, cependant, redevint plus tard siege de colonie penale, et c’est la que l’administration deportait les criminels les plus redoutables de la Tasmanie et de la Nouvelle-Galles du Sud.

Plus tard, en 1842, il fut abandonne definitivement et remplace par celui de Port-Arthur [Actuellement Port-Arthur est desaffecte et l’etablissement penal n’existe plus en Tasmanie.].

Ainsi, sans parler du bagne d’Hobart-Town, la Tasmanie en possedait un second, dont il convient de faire connaitre la situation avec quelque detail.

La grande ile, profondement entaillee dans sa partie meridionale par Storm-Bay, est limitee a l’ouest par le littoral tres decoupe, que traverse le Dervent, dont Hobart-Town occupe la rive droite. A l’est, elle a pour frontiere la presqu’ile de Tasman qui, de l’autre cote, est battue par les longues houles du Pacifique. Au nord, cette presqu’ile se rattache par un isthme tres resserre a la peninsule de Forestier, qui elle-meme ne tient au district de Panbroke que par une etroite langue de terre. Au sud, vers le large, se projettent les pointes aigues du cap du Sud-Ouest et du cap Pillar.

Depuis l’isthme qui relie les presqu’iles Forestier et Tasman jusqu’au cap Pillar, on compte environ six milles, et ce fut dans une petite baie de la cote meridionale que l’administration fonda l’etablissement de Port-Arthur.

La presqu’ile de Tasman est couverte de forets epaisses, tres riches en essences propres a la construction maritime, entre autres un bois dur qui presente l’apparence et les qualites du teck. Nombre de ces arbres, deja vieux d’un siecle, se reconnaissent a leur tronc gigantesque, sans aucune pousse laterale, et dont la frondaison ne s’etale qu’a leur cime.

La petite ville de Port-Arthur se developpe en amphitheatre sur la colline du fond de la baie. Son port, bien amenage avec mole de debarquement, abrite par les hauteurs environnantes, offre toute securite aux navires, dont les terribles rafales du nord-ouest empechent souvent l’entree dans les eaux de Storm-Bay.

Du reste, sauf pour les besoins du penitencier, ils n’y viennent guere qu’en relache forcee. La raison en est que le commerce est nul dans ce port, auquel l’avenir reserve une certaine prosperite si sa destination vient a changer.

En effet, la population de Port-Arthur est de composition toute speciale: les employes du gouvernement, les constables, les soldats des deux compagnies d’infanterie. Ce personnel, place sous l’autorite d’un capitaine-commandant, est prepose au fonctionnement et a la garde de l’etablissement penal. Ce chef, le capitaine Skirtle, en residence a Port-Arthur, occupait alors une confortable habitation, batie sur une pointe elevee du littoral, d’ou la vue s’etendait jusqu’a la pleine mer.

A cette epoque, l’etablissement comprenait deux divisions, affectees a deux categories de convicts tres distinctes.

Le premier se voyait sur la gauche en entrant dans le havre. Son nom de Point-Puer indiquait qu’il etait destine a de jeunes detenus, - plusieurs centaines d’enfants compris entre douze et dix-huit ans. Trop souvent deportes pour des delits en somme peu graves, ils occupaient des baraques de bois amenagees en ateliers et en dortoirs. C’est la qu’on tentait de les ramener au bien par le travail, par l’instruction moralisatrice que les reglements imposaient, par les lecons qu’ils recevaient d’un ministre charge de diriger les pratiques religieuses. Enfin, c’est de la qu’ils sortaient parfois bons ouvriers, en cordonnerie, en menuiserie, en charpentage et autres metiers manuels qui pourraient leur assurer une honnete existence. Mais on leur faisait la vie dure, a ces jeunes reclus, sous la menace des punitions en usage, l’internement en cellule, la mise au pain et a l’eau, le fouet incessamment brandi par la main des constables contre les recalcitrants.

Au total, de ceux qui quittent le penitencier a l’expiration de leur peine, les uns restent dans la colonie comme ouvriers et les autres retournent en Europe. Dans le premier cas, ils gardent surtout trace des bonnes lecons qu’ils ont recues; mais, dans le second, ils ne tardent guere a les oublier. Rejetes sur la route du crime, ils sont de nouveau condamnes a la deportation, lorsqu’ils ne finissent pas par le gibet, et c’est dans le penitencier des hommes qu’ils sont enfermes alors, quelquefois pour la vie, et soumis a toutes les rigueurs d’une discipline de fer.

L’autre division de Port-Arthur contenait environ huit cents convicts. C’est, ainsi qu’on l’a pu justement dire, la “lie des bandits d’Angleterre”, tombes au dernier echelon de la depravation humaine. Tels etaient autrefois les deportes de l’ile Norfolk, avant qu’ils eussent ete evacues sur la Tasmanie. Pas un qui n’eut un casier judiciaire charge d’assassinats ou de vols. Pour la plupart, - a la limite du chatiment supreme, ils n’avaient plus qu’une seule penalite a encourir, - la mort.

On ne s’etonnera pas si toutes precautions ont ete prises a Port-Arthur pour empecher les evasions. C’est par mer qu’elles offrent les meilleures chances de reussite, a la condition que les fugitifs aient pu s’emparer d’une embarcation qui les deposera sur un point du littoral, en dehors de la presqu’ile de Tasman. Toutefois ces occasions sont rares. Les convicts n’ont point acces dans le port, ou, s’ils y sont employes a certains travaux, on les tient en rigoureuse surveillance.

Mais, s’il est difficile de s’echapper par mer, n’est-il pas possible de s’echapper par terre, puisque, en realite, les deportes ne sont plus enfermes dans une ile comme ils l’etaient a Norfolk?…

Oui, des fugitifs ont pu quelquefois s’evader du penitencier, se refugier dans les bois environnants, se soustraire a toute poursuite, en se condamnant a une vie plus epouvantable que celle du bagne, et la plupart meurent de misere ou d’inanition. D’ailleurs, que de chances ils ont d’etre repris au milieu de ces forets, ou l’on a multiplie les postes, releves de deux heures en deux heures, et que les patrouilles parcourent jour et nuit!

Il faudrait que les fugitifs pussent quitter la presqu’ile de Tasman, et cela, c’est impossible.

En effet, l’isthme qui la rattache a la presqu’ile Forestier, l’Eagle-Hawk-Neck, - l’isthme de l’Aigle-Epervier, - ne mesure pas plus de cent pas en largeur dans sa partie la plus etroite. Sur cette greve, qui ne presente aucun abri, l’administration a fait planter des poteaux assez rapproches les uns des autres. A ces poteaux sont attaches des chiens dont les chaines peuvent se croiser - une cinquantaine de dogues, feroces comme des fauves. Quiconque tenterait de forcer cette ligne serait en un instant devore. Puis, en cas qu’un evade y fut parvenu, d’autres chiens, enfermes dans des niches elevees sur pilotis, signaleraient sa presence le long de la greve, ou sont echelonnees des sentinelles toujours en eveil. Dans de telles conditions, il semble donc que les deportes doivent renoncer a tout espoir de s’enfuir.

Tel etait ce penitencier de Port-Arthur, reserve aux malfaiteurs les plus intraitables, les plus endurcis. C’est la que Karl et Pieter Kip furent transportes quinze jours apres la commutation de leur peine. Pendant la nuit, un canot, les prenant a l’extremite du port, les mit a bord du petit aviso qui fait le service de l’etablissement penal.

Cet aviso traversa Storm-Bay, doubla le cap du Sud-Ouest, donna dans le havre et vint accoster le mole. Les deux freres furent aussitot incarceres en attendant le moment de comparaitre devant le capitaine-commandant de Port-Arthur.

Le capitaine Skirtle, age de cinquante ans, possedait l’energie qu’exigeaient ses difficiles fonctions, impitoyable lorsqu’il fallait l’etre, mais juste et bon envers les miserables qui meritaient sa justice et sa bonte. S’il punissait avec la derniere rigueur les fautes graves contre la discipline, il ne tolerait pas l’abus de la force chez les agents soumis a son autorite. Les severites du reglement qu’il appliquait aux deportes, il les appliquait egalement aux constables charges de leur surveillance.

Le capitaine Skirtle residait a Port-Arthur depuis une dizaine d’annees deja avec Mme Skirtle, sa femme, agee de quarante ans, son fils William et sa fille Belly, dans leur quatorzieme et leur douzieme annee. Habitant la villa dont il a ete question, Mme Skirtle et ses enfants n’avaient jamais aucun rapport avec le personnel des penitenciers. Seul le capitaine arrivait chaque matin, pour la plus grande partie de la journee, et ne revenait a la villa que le soir. Chaque mois, il faisait quelques tournees d’inspection a l’interieur de la presqu’ile jusqu’a l’isthme d’Eagle-Hawk-Neck, visitant les differents postes, passant en revue les escouades employees au travail des routes. Quant a sa famille, en outre des promenades effectuees autour de Port-Arthur, a travers les admirables forets environnantes, l’aviso les transportait a Hobart-Town, quand elle le desirait, et ses relations n’etaient pas interrompues avec la capitale tasmanienne.

Des son arrivee au penitencier de Point-Puer, le commandant se faisait amener les enfants qui avaient commis quelque mefait la veille, il les admonestait, il leur appliquait les peines reglementaires.

Et que l’on juge du degre de perversion auquel atteignaient parfois ces petits monstres! L’un deux, qui en voulait a un constable, repondait, lorsqu’on lui faisait entrevoir la potence dans un prochain avenir s’il ne s’amendait pas: “Eh bien! mon pere et ma mere m’auront montre le chemin, et, avant d’etre pendu, je tuerai ce constable!”

Apres la visite a Point-Puer, M. Skirtle se rendait au penitencier des hommes, et ce fut la, le matin du 5 avril, que Karl et Pieter Kip comparurent devant lui.

Le capitaine etait au courant de ce proces dont le retentissement avait ete considerable, - proces termine par la condamnation a mort des accuses. Que la Reine leur eut fait grace de la vie, le crime d’assassinat, et dans des conditions qui le rendaient plus odieux encore, n’en pesait pas moins sur eux. Ils devraient donc etre traites avec une severite extreme, et aucun adoucissement ne saurait etre apporte a leur situation.

Et, cependant, le commandant ne put qu’etre frappe de l’attitude que les deux freres eurent en sa presence. Apres avoir repondu aux questions qui leur furent posees, Karl Kip ajouta d’une voix ferme: “La justice des hommes nous a condamnes, monsieur le commandant, mais nous sommes innocents de l’assassinat dont le capitaine Gibson a ete victime!”

Ils s’etaient encore pris par la main, comme ils l’avaient fait devant la Cour criminelle, et ce fut la derniere fois qu’ils purent ainsi echanger une fraternelle etreinte.

Les agents les emmenerent separement, ordre ayant ete donne de ne plus les laisser l’un avec l’autre. Incorpores chacun dans une escouade, avec l’impossibilite de jamais se parler, ils auraient a peine l’occasion de s’entrevoir.

Alors commenca pour eux, puis se poursuivit cette epouvantable existence du forcat, sous l’accoutrement jaune, special au penitencier de Port-Arthur. Ils n’etaient pas accouples, ainsi que cela se fait en d’autres pays, a un compagnon dont ils eussent partage la chaine. A l’honneur de la Grande-Bretagne, cette torture, plus morale que physique, n’a jamais ete imposee dans les colonies anglaises. Mais une chaine longue de trois pieds environ entrave les jambes du condamne, et, pour marcher, il lui faut la relever jusqu’a la ceinture. Cependant, si l’accouplement continu n’existe pas a Port-Arthur, quelquefois, par mesure disciplinaire, les forcats d’une meme escouade sont rattaches ensemble et travaillent ainsi au transport des fardeaux.

Les freres Kip ne furent point soumis a cette horrible peine de la “chain-gang”. Durant de longs mois, sans avoir pu, meme une seule fois, s’adresser la parole, ils s’occuperent, dans des escouades separees, a l’etablissement des routes que le gouvernement faisait ouvrir a travers la presqu’ile de Tasman.

La plupart du temps, la journee faite, ils rentraient dans les dortoirs du penitencier, ou les convicts sont enfermes par bandes de quarante. Ah! quel adoucissement a tant de miseres, si, a ce moment, il leur eut ete permis de se rencontrer, de reposer l’un pres de l’autre, ou meme sur les chantiers, lorsqu’ils y passaient toute la nuit en plein air!

Un seul jour de la semaine, le dimanche, Karl et Pieter Kip avaient cette joie de s’entrevoir, lorsque les forcats se reunissaient dans la chapelle que desservait un ministre methodiste. Et que devaient-ils penser de la justice des hommes, eux innocents, dans la promiscuite de ces criminels dont les chaines bruissaient lamentablement entre les chants et les prieres?…

Ce qui brisait le coeur de Karl Kip, ce qui provoquait en lui des mouvements de revolte dont les consequences eussent ete graves, c’etait que son frere fut assujetti a de si penibles besognes.

Lui, d’une sante de fer, d’une vigueur exceptionnelle, il aurait la force de les supporter, bien que la ration du bagne suffit a peine a le nourrir: trois quarts de livre de viande fraiche ou huit onces de viande salee, une demi-livre de pain ou quatre onces de farine, une demi-livre de pommes de terre. Mais Pieter, de constitution moins forte, n’y succomberait-il pas?… Apres les dernieres chaleurs d’un climat presque tropical, uniquement vetus de la mauvaise defroque jaune du bagne, ils allaient souffrir de la bise intense, des froids, des rafales glaciales et des neiges epaisses. Le travail, il faudrait le continuer sous les menaces des constables, sous le fouet des gardes-chiourme. Aucun repos, si ce n’est aux courts instants du repas vers le milieu de la journee, en attendant le retour au penitencier. Puis, a la moindre velleite de resistance, les punitions disciplinaires de s’abattre sur ces malheureux, l’emprisonnement dans les cachots, le supplice de la “chain-gang”, enfin, le plus terrible de tous apres la mort et qui l’amenait quelquefois, la fustigation du coupable, dechire par les lanieres du cat!

Certes, une telle existence devait faire naitre chez les convicts le furieux, l’irresistible desir de s’evader. Aussi quelques-uns l’essayaient-ils, bien qu’ils eussent, avec tant de dangers a braver, si peu de chances d’y reussir. Et lorsque les fugitifs etaient repris dans les forets de la presqu’ile, c’etait ce cat qui les chatiait devant tout le personnel du penitencier. Le fouet a neuf branches, manie par un bras vigoureux, cinglait les reins du patient mis a nu, et sillonnait de zebrures les chairs transformees en une sorte de boue sanglante.

Cependant, si Karl Kip etait parfois sur le point de se revolter contre les rigueurs de la discipline, son frere Pieter se soumettait, esperant que la verite aurait raison un jour, qu’un fait, un incident, une decouverte ferait eclater leur innocence.

Il acceptait donc, si penible, si deshonorante qu’elle fut, cette vie du bagne, et, s’il ne possedait pas la vigueur physique de son frere, du moins son energie morale lui permettait-elle de la supporter, soutenu d’ailleurs par son entiere confiance en Dieu. Ce qui le tourmentait surtout, c’etait cette crainte que Karl ne parvint pas a se maitriser, qu’il ne s’abandonnat a quelque violence. Assurement, Karl ne chercherait point a s’enfuir, il ne voudrait pas le laisser seul dans le penitencier, d’ou tous deux ne sortiraient qu’ensemble!.. Mais, dans une heure de desespoir, Karl ne s’emporterait-il pas, alors que lui, Pieter, n’etait pas la pour le calmer, pour le retenir?…

Aussi, devore par ces inquietudes, Pieter crut-il devoir tenter une demarche, et, un jour, pendant l’inspection du capitaine-commandant, se hasarda-t-il a lui adresser la parole. Et, ce qu’il demanda d’une voix suppliante, ce fut, non point d’etre reuni a son frere, de travailler dans la meme escouade, mais la faveur de passer quelques moments aupres de lui.

Le capitaine Skirtle laissa parler Pieter Kip, l’observant non sans une vive attention, dans laquelle percait peut-etre un certain interet. Est-ce donc parce que Karl et Pieter Kip appartenaient a une classe sociale ou se recrutent rarement les hotes d’un bagne?… Est-ce donc que M. Hawkins, avec l’appui du gouverneur, avait poursuivi ses demarches en leur faveur?… Est-ce donc qu’apres la commutation de peine obtenue par lui, cet excellent homme continuait ses demarches afin d’obtenir pour eux quelque adoucissement au regime du bagne?…

D’ailleurs, M. Skirtle ne laissa rien voir de ce qu’il pensait.

Les freres Kip n’etaient et ne pouvaient etre a ses yeux que deux hommes condamnes pour crime d’assassinat. C’etait deja beaucoup que la pitie de la Reine leur eut epargne le dernier supplice. Plus tard, il pourrait peut-etre faire droit a la demande de Pieter Kip, mais il n’y avait pas encore lieu d’y acceder.

Pieter Kip, le coeur gonfle, etouffe par les sanglots, n’aurait pas eu la force d’insister. Il comprit que ce serait inutile, et il rentra dans le rang.

Pres de six mois s’etaient ecoules depuis l’arrivee des deux freres au penitencier de Port-Arthur. La fin de l’hiver approchait. Il avait ete dur pour ces malheureux, et comment eussent-ils entrevu la possibilite qu’un changement quelconque put modifier leur situation?… C’est ce qui se produisit, pourtant, et voici dans quelles circonstances.

Le 15 septembre, par une belle matinee, M. Skirtle, sa femme, son fils et sa fille, venaient de faire une longue excursion a travers la foret. Arrives a l’isthme d’Eagle-Hawk-Neck, ils etaient descendus de voiture.

En cet endroit, quelques convicts s’occupaient a creuser un canal d’irrigation, et le capitaine-commandant avait voulu inspecter ces amenagements.

Or, les escouades auxquelles appartenaient Karl et Pieter Kip y travaillaient ensemble, mais a une certaine distance l’une de l’autre. Les deux freres n’avaient pas meme eu cette consolation de s’apercevoir, tant les arbres formaient une epaisse lisiere a l’amorce meme de Eagle-Hawk-Neck.

Sa visite achevee, M. Skirtle et sa famille se disposaient a remonter en voiture, lorsque des cris eclaterent dans la direction de la palissade qui fermait l’isthme.

Presque aussitot s’y joignirent des aboiements furieux.

Ces aboiements etaient ceux des chiens attaches aux poteaux de la greve, a moins de trois cents pas de la lisiere.

L’un de ces animaux, ayant rompu sa chaine, s’etait elance du cote de la foret, au milieu des cris des constables, et des hurlements de toute la bande. On eut dit que le dogue voulait se jeter sur les convicts dont le costume lui etait bien connu. Mais, epouvante de leurs vociferations, ce fut vers la foret qu’il bondit avant que les gardiens eussent pu le reprendre.

Ce que le capitaine avait a faire, c’etait de remonter en voiture et de quitter la place avant que l’animal eut effraye les chevaux. Par malheur, ceux-ci prirent peur, et, malgre les efforts du cocher, s’enfuirent en direction de Port-Arthur.

“Venez… venez!…” cria M. Skirtle a sa femme et a ses enfants, qu’il entrainait vers un fourre ou ils esperaient trouver refuge.

Soudain, le chien parut, la gueule ecumante, les yeux enflammes. Il poussait des rugissements de bete fauve, et, d’un bond, il se precipita sur le jeune Skirtle qu’il renversa, apres lui avoir saute a la gorge.

Les cris des constables, qui accouraient de la lisiere, se faisaient entendre.

M. Skirtle, a la vue du danger que courait son fils, allait se jeter sur l’animal, lorsqu’il fut saisi par deux bras vigoureux qui le repousserent.

Un instant apres, le jeune Skirtle etait sauve, et le chien se debattait contre son sauveur dont il avait pris le bras gauche entre ses crocs sanglants, et qu’il dechirait avec rage…

Cet homme tenait a la main un fer de pioche, et il le plongea dans le corps du dogue qui retomba pantelant sur le sol.

Mme Skirtle tenait son fils dans ses bras et le couvrait de caresses, tandis que le capitaine se retournait vers l’homme, - un galerien dans son costume jaune.

C’etait Karl Kip. Il travaillait a cent pas de la, il avait entendu les cris des constables, il avait apercu le chien lache a travers la foret. Et alors, sans songer au danger, il s’etait precipite sur les traces de l’animal.

Le commandant reconnut cet homme, dont le sang coulait d’une horrible blessure. Il allait s’avancer vers lui pour le remercier, pour lui faire donner des soins, lorsqu’il fut devance par Pieter Kip.

Aux cris pousses en deca de la lisiere, les escouades s’etaient portees de ce cote en meme temps que les constables.

Les derniers arbres depasses, Pieter Kip, voyant son frere etendu pres du corps de l’animal, courut a lui en criant: “Karl… Karl!…”

En vain les gardiens auraient-ils voulu le retenir. D’ailleurs, sur un signe du capitaine vers qui Mme Skirtle tendait les mains et dont le fils implorait la pitie pour son sauveur, il fit signe aux constables de s’ecarter. Et, pour la premiere fois, depuis sept longs mois de separation, de miseres, de desespoir, Karl et Pieter Kip pleuraient dans les bras l’un de l’autre.

XII - La pointe Saint-James

Le lendemain soir, un peu apres sept heures, a quelques minutes d’intervalle, trois eclairs illuminerent successivement la haute muraille du penitencier, en arriere de Port-Arthur. Trois violentes detonations les avaient suivis. C’etait le canon d’alarme dont les eclats, propages a la surface de la presqu’ile de Tasman, allaient la mettre tout entiere en eveil. Les postes se relieraient entre eux par des patrouilles, les chiens seraient tenus a bout de chaine le long des palissades de l’isthme d’Eagle-Hawk-Neck. Aucun hallier, aucun fourre de la foret n’echapperait aux recherches des constables.

Ces trois coups de canon signalaient une evasion qui venait d’etre a l’instant constatee, et des mesures furent immediatement prises pour empecher les fugitifs de quitter la presqu’ile.

D’ailleurs, le temps etait si mauvais qu’il serait impossible de s’echapper par mer. Aucune embarcation n’aurait pu accoster le littoral, aucun batiment s’approcher de la cote. Donc, puisqu’ils ne pourraient franchir les palissades de l’isthme, les evades seraient contraints de se cacher dans la foret, et vraisemblablement ne tarderaient pas a etre ramenes au bagne.

En effet, il ventait un fort coup de vent de sud-ouest, qui demontait la mer dans Storm-Bay et au large de la presqu’ile.

Ce soir-la, apres la rentree au penitencier, on avait constate l’absence de deux deportes de la cinquieme escouade. Tandis qu’il les ramenait a Port-Arthur, le chef des constables, qui se tenait en tete de la colonne, ne s’etait pas apercu de leur disparition, cette cinquieme escouade etant sous la surveillance de Farnham que personne ne soupconnait.

C’est donc a l’appel du soir que l’on connut l’evasion, et le capitaine-commandant fut aussitot informe.

Comme il s’agissait des Irlandais O’Brien et Macarthy, deux condamnes politiques, il etait probable que le concours de quelques amis du dehors leur avait ete assure. Mais dans quelles conditions s’etait effectuee cette evasion?… Les fugitifs avaient-ils deja pu quitter l’ile?… Se cachaient-ils encore en un endroit convenu?… C’est ce que les recherches allaient peut-etre apprendre, maintenant que les trois coups de canon venaient de mettre sur pied tout le personnel de la presqu’ile.

En ce qui concerne Farnham, lorsqu’il avait ete demande la veille, ce n’etait que pour affaire de service. Aucune suspicion ne planait sur lui, et meme, lorsque son absence fut aussi constatee, elle ne l’atteignit pas tout d’abord. M. Skirtle et le chef des constables durent plutot croire que les Irlandais avaient pu se debarrasser de lui avant de prendre la fuite.

Ainsi qu’il a ete dit, il etait inadmissible qu’O’Brien et Macarthy se fussent echappes sur une embarcation, etant donne l’etat de la mer. Aussi, sur l’ordre de M. Skirtle, un detachement de constables se porta-t-il immediatement vers l’isthme, que l’on surveillait depuis les trois coups de canon. On s’etait assure que les dogues des palissades faisaient bonne garde, et, quant aux autres chiens, ils furent aussitot laches sur les greves de Eagle-Hawk-Neck.

Une tentative d’evasion a toujours chez le personnel d’un penitencier un retentissement considerable. Les deportes de Port-Arthur n’ignoraient plus que deux de leurs compagnons venaient de s’evader, ni qu’il s’agissait des Irlandais O’Brien et Macarthy. Et combien cette tentative devait exciter l’envie de ces miserables! Eux, condamnes de droit commun, ils se mettaient au meme rang que les condamnes politiques!…

C’etaient des prisonniers comme eux, ces fenians, et ils avaient pu s’evader!… Avaient-ils reussi a quitter la presqu’ile, a franchir les palissades de l’isthme?… Etaient-ils caches dans la foret, en attendant qu’un secours leur vint du dehors?…

Ce qui se disait dans les dortoirs se disait aussi dans la cellule des freres Kip. Mais ceux-ci savaient ce qu’on ne savait pas: un navire devait recueillir les fugitifs… une embarcation devait les prendre sur la pointe de Saint-James… Or, l’embarcation s’y etait-elle trouvee a l’heure dite?…

“Non… ce n’est pas possible!… affirma Karl Kip en repondant aux questions de son frere. Le vent souffle en rafale dans Storm-Bay!… Aucun canot ne pourrait accoster!… Un batiment, meme un steamer, ne se hasarderait pas si pres du littoral…

- Alors, observa Pieter Kip, ces malheureux seront obliges de passer la nuit sur la pointe?…

- La nuit et le lendemain, Pieter, puisque l’evasion ne peut se faire le jour… Et qui sait si cette tempete aura pris fin dans vingt-quatre heures?…”

Pendant ces longues heures, ni l’un ni l’autre des deux freres ne purent dormir. Tandis que la tourmente fouettait l’etroite fenetre de leur cellule, ils ecoutaient… Quelque bruit ne se produisait-il pas, un va-et-vient de constables indiquant que les deux Irlandais, arretes dans leur fuite, rentraient au penitencier?…

Voici dans quelles conditions, ce jour-la, s’etait effectuee l’evasion d’O’Brien et de Macarthy, avec la complicite de leur compatriote Farnham.

Il etait pres de six heures.

Les escouades achevaient leur travail de defrichement. Deja la foret se perdait dans l’ombre. Encore cinq ou six minutes, le chef des constables donnerait l’ordre de reprendre le chemin de Port-Arthur.

A ce moment, les deux freres observerent que Farnham, s’approchant des Irlandais, leur dit un mot a voix basse. Puis, ceux-ci le suivirent jusqu’a la limite de la clairiere, ou ils s’arreterent devant un des arbres marques pour l’abattage.

Le chef des constables ne s’inquieta pas autrement de les voir s’eloigner dans cette direction sous la surveillance d’un constable, et ils resterent en cet endroit jusqu’a l’heure ou les escouades se formerent en colonne pour regagner Port-Arthur.

Ainsi que cela a ete dit, personne ne s’apercut alors que ni O’Brien ni Macarthy ni Farnham n’avaient rejoint leurs compagnons. Ce fut seulement apres l’appel fait dans la cour du penitencier que l’on constata leur absence.

Profitant de l’obscurite croissante, les trois fugitifs avaient pu s’eloigner sans etre vus. Afin d’eviter une patrouille qui retournait au poste voisin, ils durent se blottir au fond d’un fourre, en ayant soin de ne point se trahir par le cliquetis de la chaine qu’O’Brien et Macarthy portaient au pied et a la ceinture.

La patrouille passee, tous trois se releverent; puis, s’arretant parfois, pretant l’oreille au moindre bruit, ils parvinrent a gagner la crete de cette falaise, au pied de laquelle s’etendait la pointe de Saint-James.

L’obscurite enveloppait alors toute la presqu’ile de Tasman, - obscurite d’autant plus profonde que des nuages tres epais, pousses par le vent d’ouest, emplissaient l’espace.

Il etait pres de six heures et demie lorsque les fugitifs firent halte pour observer la baie.

“Pas de navire!” dit O’Brien.

Et, en effet, il semblait bien que la baie fut deserte, car, a defaut de sa silhouette, invisible dans l’ombre, un batiment eut ete signale par ses feux de bord.

“Farnham, demanda Macarthy, nous sommes bien a la falaise de Saint-James?…

- Oui… declara Farnham, mais je doute qu’une embarcation ait accoste!”

Et comment eussent-ils ose l’esperer, en entendant la mer mugir au large, tandis que l’embrun des lames, souleve par la rafale, s’eparpillait jusqu’a la crete!…

Farnham et ses compagnons se porterent alors vers la gauche, puis descendirent sur la greve, de maniere a gagner l’extremite de la pointe.

C’etait une sorte de cap etroit, encombre de roches, troue de flaques, qui se prolongeait de deux a trois cents pieds et dont la courbure formait une petite crique ouverte vers le nord. Une embarcation y eut trouve des eaux plus tranquilles si elle eut reussi a se degager des recifs contre lesquels la mer brisait avec une extraordinaire violence.

Parvenus a cette extremite, apres avoir eu a lutter contre la tourmente, les fugitifs se mirent a l’abri d’une haute roche. Le billet apporte par Walter leur prescrivait de se trouver a cette date sur la pointe Saint-James, et ils y etaient, bien qu’ils n’eussent pas l’espoir d’etre recueillis, ce soir-la du moins. D’ailleurs, les termes du billet prevoyaient ce retard, et leur memoire les conservait mot pour mot: “Si le temps n’a pas permis au navire de quitter la rade d’Hobart-Town et de traverser la baie, attendre qu’il arrive en vue de la pointe, et veiller depuis le coucher jusqu’au lever du soleil.”

Il n’y avait qu’a suivre ces prescriptions.

“Cherchons un abri, dit O’Brien, quelque trou de la falaise ou nous puissions passer la nuit et la journee de demain…

- Sans nous eloigner de la pointe, fit observer Macarthy.

- Venez”, repondit Farnham.

En prevision de mauvais temps, celui-ci avait eu soin de visiter cette greve sauvage et deserte pendant sa derniere sortie du dimanche. Peut-etre a sa base la falaise offrirait-elle quelque anfractuosite ou les trois fugitifs sauraient se cacher jusqu’a l’arrivee de l’embarcation?… Farnham ayant decouvert cette anfractuosite dans un angle a l’amorce meme de la pointe, y avait depose quelques vivres, biscuits secs, viande conservee, achetes a Port-Arthur, plus une cruche qu’il remplit d’eau fraiche a un rio voisin.

Au milieu des tenebres, sous le coup des aveuglantes rafales, il ne fut pas tres aise de retrouver cette excavation, et les fugitifs n’y parvinrent qu’apres avoir traverse la greve, dont la declivite etait peu sensible.

“C’est la…”, dit Farnham.

Et, en un instant, tous trois s’etaient introduits dans une cavite profonde au plus de cinq a six pieds, ou ils seraient a l’abri de la tempete. Seulement, a mer haute, pousse par le vent qui battait de plein fouet, peut-etre le flot s’etendrait-il jusqu’a son ouverture. Quant aux vivres, qui suffiraient pendant quarante-huit heures, Farnham les retrouva a leur place.

A peine ses deux compatriotes et lui s’etaient-ils installes qu’une detonation trois fois repetee, dominant les fracas de la tourmente, se fit entendre.

C’etait le canon de Port-Arthur.

“L’evasion est connue!… s’ecria Macarthy.

- Oui, on sait qu’ils sont evades!… ajouta O’Brien.

- Mais ils ne sont pas pris… dit Farnham.

- Et ils ne se laisseront pas prendre!…” declara O’Brien.

Tout d’abord, il convenait que les deux Irlandais se delivrassent de leur chaine, en cas qu’il fut necessaire de fuir. Farnham s’etait muni d’une lime qui servit a couper le maillon du pied.

Apres six ans deja passes dans ce bagne, O’Brien et Macarthy n’etaient plus rives a ces lourdes entraves du galerien.

Il etait evident que, pendant cette nuit, aucun canot n’atterrirait en un point quelconque de la cote. Et, d’ailleurs, comment un navire eut-il risque de se mettre au plein sur cette formidable rangee de recifs qui s’etend du fond de Storm-Bay au cap Pillar?…

Neanmoins, tant leur surexcitation etait grande, les fugitifs ne resisterent pas au besoin d’observer les approches de la pointe. Plusieurs fois, ne craignant pas d’etre apercus, ils quitterent leur abri, ils se trainerent sur la greve, cherchant en vain au milieu de cette obscurite un feu de navire!…

Puis, rentres dans l’anfractuosite, ils s’entretenaient d’une situation, qui, le jour venu, serait assurement des plus dangereuses.

En effet, apres avoir fouille les environs de Port-Arthur, visite la foret jusqu’a l’isthme, les constables n’etendraient-ils pas leurs recherches jusqu’au littoral?… Les chiens, habitues a se lancer sur la trace des convicts, ne decouvriraient-ils pas ce trou ou etaient blottis Farnham et ses compagnons?…

Et, tandis qu’ils envisageaient ces redoutables eventualites, le nom des freres Kip fut prononce par O’Brien.

Rappelant le service que les deux freres leur avaient rendu: “Non, s’ecria-t-il, non!… Ce ne sont pas des assassins!… Ils l’ont dit!… Je les crois!…

- Et ce sont de grands coeurs, ajouta Macarthy. En nous denoncant, ils auraient peut-etre pu esperer qu’on leur en tiendrait compte… et ils ne l’ont pas fait!…

- J’ai entendu plusieurs fois parler de cette affaire a Hobart-Town, reprit alors Farnham, cet assassinat du capitaine Gibson du James-Cook… Quelques personnes se sont interessees aux freres Kip, et pourtant on ne croit pas qu’ils aient ete injustement condamnes…

- Ils sont innocents!… ils le sont!… repetait O’Brien. Et quand je songe que j’ai refuse de leur serrer la main!… Ah! les pauvres gens!… Non! ils ne sont pas coupables, et, dans ce bagne de Port-Arthur, au milieu de ce monde de criminels, ils doivent souffrir… ce que nous-memes avons souffert!… Mais nous… c’etait pour avoir voulu arracher notre pays aux oiseaux de proie de l’Angleterre!… Et, au dehors, des amis se sont occupes de preparer notre delivrance… Mais Karl et Pieter Kip… c’est pour la vie qu’ils sont enfermes la!… Ah! tenez, lorsqu’ils sont venus a nous, lorsqu’ils nous ont remis le billet trouve par eux… j’aurais du leur dire: “Fuyons ensemble!… Nos compatriotes vous accueilleront comme des freres!…”

La nuit s’avancait, toujours pluvieuse et glaciale. Les fugitifs souffraient du froid, et, cependant, ce n’etait pas sans les plus vives apprehensions qu’ils attendaient le jour. Des aboiements qui arrivaient parfois a leur oreille indiquaient que les chiens avaient ete laches a travers la presqu’ile.

Habitues a flairer de loin les convicts, a reconnaitre l’accoutrement du bagne, ces animaux ne decouvriraient-ils pas l’anfractuosite ou se cachaient Farnham et ses compatriotes?…

Un peu apres minuit, la greve etait entierement couverte par la maree montante sous la poussee des vents d’ouest. La mer se gonfla au point que la base de la falaise fut battue par le flot. Pendant une demi-heure, les fugitifs furent inondes jusqu’a mi-jambe. Heureusement, le niveau ne s’eleva pas au-dela, et le jusant entraina les eaux malgre la resistance de la rafale.

Avant le lever du jour, la tempete montra une tendance a diminuer. Le vent peu a peu halait le nord, rendant la baie plus praticable. Farnham, O’Brien et Macarthy pouvaient donc esperer que la mer ne tarderait pas a tomber. Lorsque le jour revint, l’amelioration etait sensible. Si les lames deferlaient encore au-dela des recifs, une embarcation aurait sans trop de peine accoste la pointe Saint-James a son revers.

D’ailleurs, il fallait attendre le soir avant de s’aventurer sur la greve.

Farnham fit trois parts des aliments qu’il avait apportes, le pain et la viande seche. Il convenait de les menager, en prevision de nouveaux retards au-dela de quarante-huit heures, dans l’impossibilite de les renouveler. Quant a l’eau douce, le soir meme, il serait facile de remplir la cruche au ruisseau.

Une partie de la matinee s’ecoula dans ces conditions et ne fut marquee par aucun incident. La tourmente prit decidement fin, et le soleil reparut entre les derniers nuages de l’est.

“Le navire, qui est en rade d’Hobart-Town, dit alors O’Brien, va pouvoir traverser Storm-Bay et il aura gagne la presqu’ile dans la soiree…

- Mais, sans doute, repondit Macarthy, on va surveiller plus soigneusement la cote…

- Raisonnons, reprit O’Brien. Personne ne sait a Port-Arthur ni qu’un batiment est arrive d’Amerique pour nous prendre a son bord, ni que rendez-vous nous a ete donne a la pointe Saint-James… Des lors, que doit-on supposer?… C’est que nous sommes caches dans la foret, et, les premiers jours du moins, c’est la que se continueront les recherches plutot que sur le littoral…

- J’y pense, fit observer Farnham, et Walter?… C’est, il y a deux jours, samedi, que nous l’avons rencontre sur la route de Port-Arthur… Est-il donc retourne a Hobart-Town?… Cela me parait probable… Apres etre revenu a bord du steamer, il aura informe le capitaine que nous serions a la pointe Saint-James dans la soiree de lundi…

- Assurement, repondit Macarthy, car, si Walter n’etait pas retourne a Hobart-Town, il nous aurait rejoints cette nuit!… Au milieu de l’obscurite, il ne lui eut pas ete difficile de depister les patrouilles…

- Je suis de cet avis, declara O’Brien, et, des dimanche, Walter a du quitter Port-Arthur sur un des vapeurs qui font le service de la baie…

- Et nous sommes certains, ajouta Farnham, qu’il pressera le depart du steamer… Aussi n’avons-nous plus qu’a patienter… Des qu’il fera nuit, le canot accostera la pointe…

- Dieu le veuille!” repondit O’Brien.

Vers une heure de l’apres-midi, se produisit une vive alerte. Des voix furent distinctement entendues sur le rebord de la falaise, a cent pieds a peine au-dessus de l’anfractuosite qui abritait les trois fugitifs. En meme temps eclataient des aboiements de chiens surexcites par leurs maitres!

“Les constables… les dogues! s’ecria Farnham. Voila le plus grand danger!”

Il etait a craindre, en effet, que ces animaux ne descendissent sur la greve, ou les constables les suivraient par le sentier que Farnham avait pris la veille. La, ces chiens se mettraient en quete… leur instinct les guiderait vers le bas de la falaise… ils finiraient par decouvrir l’anfractuosite… Et quelle resistance O’Brien, Macarthy, Farnham, pourraient-ils opposer a une douzaine d’hommes armes, alors qu’eux etaient sans armes?… On aurait vite fait de les saisir, de les reconduire au penitencier… Et ils ne savaient que trop quel sort les y attendait!… La double chaine et le cachot pour O’Brien et Macarthy!… La mort pour Farnham, convaincu d’avoir favorise leur fuite!

Tous trois restaient immobiles au fond de la cavite. En sortir n’etait plus possible, sans etre vu. Et, ou se refugier ailleurs que sur les dernieres roches de la pointe?… Alors, pour ne pas retourner au bagne, ils n’auraient qu’a se jeter a la mer!… Oui! tout plutot que de retomber entre les mains des constables!…

Cependant les voix arrivaient jusqu’a eux. Ils entendaient les propos echanges sur la crete de la falaise, les cris de ceux qui les poursuivaient, et auxquels se melait le furieux aboiement des dogues.

“Par ici… par ici!… repetait l’un.

- Lachez les chiens, dit l’autre, et fouillons cette greve avant de retourner au poste…

- Et que seraient-ils venus faire ici?… fut-il repondu precisement par ce brutal chef d’escouade dont Farnham reconnut la voix. Ils n’ont pas pu se sauver a la nage, et c’est dans la foret qu’il faut reprendre les recherches!”

O’Brien avait saisi la main de ses compagnons.

Apres cette observation de leur chef, il etait probable que les constables allaient s’eloigner. Mais l’un d’eux de repondre: “On peut toujours voir!… Descendons le sentier qui conduit a la greve… Qui sait si tous les trois ne sont pas caches dans quelque trou?…”

Tous les trois?… On ne doutait donc pas a Port-Arthur que Farnham, complice des deux Irlandais, dans cette tentative d’evasion, ne fut alors avec eux?…

A present, si les propos s’entendaient moins distinctement, preuve que les constables se dirigeaient vers le sentier, les hurlements des chiens se rapprocherent.

Une heureuse circonstance allait peut-etre empecher les fugitifs d’etre decouverts. La mer, haute en ce moment, inondait la greve jusqu’au pied de la falaise, et les dernieres ondulations du ressac baignaient l’excavation. Il eut ete impossible d’apercevoir l’ouverture a moins de contourner le contrefort de ce cote. Quant a la pointe Saint-James, elle ne montrait plus que ses extremes roches sous l’ecume du flot. Il faudrait au moins deux heures de jusant pour que la greve redevint praticable. Aussi n’etait-il pas probable que les constables s’attarderaient a cette place, etant presses de se jeter sur une meilleure piste.

Cependant les chiens aboyaient plus violemment, et sans doute l’instinct les poussait le long de la falaise. L’un d’eux se lanca meme a travers le tourbillon des lames, mais les autres ne l’imiterent point.

Presque aussitot, d’ailleurs, le chef des constables donnait ordre de reprendre le sentier. Bientot tout ce tumulte, tout ce bruit d’aboiements et de voix diminua.

On n’entendit plus que le mugissement de la mer battant a grand fracas le pied de la falaise.

XV - Le fait nouveau

Non! ce ne devait etre qu’un de ces faux bruits qui prennent naissance on ne sait ou, qui se repandent on ne sait comment, et dont le bon sens public a bientot fait justice.

Etait-il admissible que les freres Kip, apres avoir eu cette chance inesperee de s’enfuir en Amerique, fussent revenus en Tasmanie?… Eux, les assassins du capitaine Gibson, - eux de retour?… Est-ce donc que le navire sur lequel ils avaient pris passage en quittant San Francisco avait ete contraint de relacher sur rade d’Hobart-Town?… Et, alors, reconnus, denonces, apprehendes, ils auraient ete conduits en prison en attendant de reintegrer le penitencier ou l’on saurait bien empecher toute nouvelle tentative de fuite?… Quant a penser qu’ils fussent revenus d’eux-memes, qu’ils eussent commis une pareille imprudence, c’etait inadmissible.

Quoi qu’il en soit, - et les plus impatients purent s’en convaincre des le matin, - Karl et Pieter Kip etaient enfermes dans la prison depuis la veille. Toutefois, le gardien chef ne consentait point a dire dans quelles conditions ils y avaient ete amenes, ni de quelle maniere s’etait effectuee leur arrestation.

Cependant, si ce fait paraissait inexplicable, il y eut un homme auquel sa conviction en suggera l’explication veritable. Une revelation se produisit dans son esprit, - il serait plus juste de dire dans son coeur. Ce fut la solution du probleme qu’il se posait depuis l’invraisemblable evasion des freres Kip.

“Ils n’ont pas fui!… s’ecria M. Hawkins, ils ont ete enleves de Port-Arthur!… Oui!… ils sont revenus de plein gre… revenus parce qu’ils sont innocents, parce qu’ils veulent faire eclater leur innocence au grand jour!”

C’etait la verite.

En effet, la veille, un steamer americain, le Standard de San Diego, avait mouille sur rade avec une cargaison a destination d’Hobart-Town. Karl et Pieter Kip se trouvaient a bord en qualite de passagers.

Au cours de la traversee de l’Illinois entre Port-Arthur et San Francisco, les deux freres s’etaient d’abord tenus sur une extreme reserve vis-a-vis de leurs compagnons de bagne. Ils avaient meme proteste contre l’enlevement. D’ailleurs, lorsqu’ils affirmerent de nouveau qu’ils n’etaient pas les meurtriers du capitaine Gibson, ni O’Brien, ni Macarthy, ni Farnham, ni personne ne mit cette affirmation en doute. Et, s’ils regrettaient cette evasion, c’est qu’on s’occupait de la revision de leur proces, revision qui pouvait ainsi se trouver compromise.

D’autre part, bien que ce fut le hasard, le hasard seul, qui eut amene les freres Kip sur la pointe Saint-James, ils n’avaient pu hesiter a lutter contre les constables. Et, des lors, quoi de plus naturel que les fenians eussent profite de cette circonstance pour les entrainer a bord du navire americain?… Apres le service que Karl et Pieter Kip venaient de rendre aux Irlandais, n’etait-ce pas la un acte de reconnaissance, et pouvaient-ils se repentir de l’avoir accompli?… Non, et, en somme, ce qui etait fait etait fait.

A l’arrivee de l’Illinois au port de San Francisco, les freres Kip prirent conge des Irlandais, qui essayerent en vain de les retenir. Ou allaient-ils se refugier? Ils ne leur dirent point. Seulement, etant sans ressources, ils ne refuserent pas d’accepter quelques centaines de dollars a rembourser des que cela serait possible. Apres un dernier adieu, ils se separerent d’O’Brien, de Macarthy et de Farnham.

Tres heureusement pour eux, aucune demande d’extradition n’avait ete encore adressee aux autorites americaines par le consul de la Grande-Bretagne, et la police n’avait pu les arreter a leur debarquement.

A dater de ce jour, on ne rencontra plus jamais les deux freres dans les rues de San Francisco, et il y eut lieu de croire qu’ils avaient quitte la ville.

Effectivement, quarante-huit heures apres avoir pris terre, Karl et Pieter Kip descendaient dans une modeste auberge de San Diego, capitale de la Basse-Californie, ou ils esperaient trouver un navire en partance pour l’un des ports du continent australien.

Leur ferme intention etait de revenir au plus tot a Hobart-Town, de se livrer a cette justice qui les avait si injustement condamnes!… Si la fuite avait du etre interpretee comme un aveu de culpabilite, le retour crierait au monde entier l’innocence… Non! ils n’accepteraient pas de vivre a l’etranger, sous le coup d’une accusation criminelle, avec l’incessante crainte d’etre reconnus, denonces, repris!… Ce qu’ils voulaient, c’etait la revision de leur proces, c’etait la rehabilitation publique.

Et c’est bien de ce projet, de sa mise a execution, que Karl et Pieter Kip n’avaient cesse de s’entretenir a bord de l’Illinois. Peut-etre y eut-il chez Karl comme un instinct de revolte… Se sentir libre et renoncer a la liberte!… S’en remettre a la justice des hommes, a la faillibilite humaine!… Mais il s’etait rendu aux observations de son frere.

Ils etaient donc a San Diego, cherchant un embarquement et, autant que possible, sur un navire a destination de la Tasmanie. Les circonstances les servirent. Le Standard, precisement en charge pour Hobart-Town, prenait des passagers de differentes classes. Karl et Pieter Kip, se contentant de la derniere, arreterent leurs places sous un nom d’emprunt. Le lendemain, le steamer faisait route, cap au sud-ouest. Apres une assez longue traversee, contrariee par les mauvais temps du Pacifique, il doubla l’extreme pointe de Port-Arthur et jeta l’ancre en rade d’Hobart-Town.

Tout ce qui vient d’etre rapporte en quelques lignes, la ville en fut instruite des les premieres heures.

Un revirement soudain se produisit en faveur des freres Kip; et qui aurait pu s’en etonner?… Ils etaient donc les victimes d’une erreur judiciaire?… Ce n’etait pas volontairement qu’ils avaient fui le penitencier, et, des qu’ils avaient eu l’occasion de quitter l’Amerique, ils etaient revenus en Tasmanie!… Et, maintenant, ne serait-il pas possible d’etablir leur innocence sur des bases moins fragiles que de simples presomptions?…

Aussitot que cette nouvelle lui parvint, M. Hawkins se transporta a la prison, dont les portes lui furent tout de suite ouvertes. Un instant apres, il se trouvait en presence des deux freres enfermes dans la meme cellule.

La, devant l’armateur, ils se leverent, l’un tenant la main de l’autre.

“Monsieur Hawkins, dit Pieter Kip, ce n’est pas a vous que notre retour apporte un nouveau temoignage… Vous connaissiez la verite depuis longtemps, et vous ne nous avez jamais crus coupables… Mais, cette verite, il fallait la rendre evidente aux yeux de tous, et voila pourquoi le Standard nous a ramenes a Hobart-Town.”

M. Hawkins etait tellement emu que les paroles lui manquaient. Des larmes coulaient de ses yeux, et, enfin:

“Oui… dit-il, oui… messieurs… c’est bien… c’est grand ce que vous avez fait!… C’est la rehabilitation qui vous attend ici… avec la sympathie de tous les honnetes gens!… Vous ne deviez pas rester des evades de Port-Arthur!… Les efforts que j’ai faits, les demarches que je vais reprendre aboutiront!… Votre main, Pieter Kip!… Votre main, capitaine du James-Cook!”

Et, en redonnant ce titre a Karl Kip, le digne M. Hawkins ne lui rendait-il pas toute son estime?

Alors, tous trois revinrent sur l’affaire, sur les soupcons que le maitre d’equipage et Vin Mod leur avaient inspires. Les deux freres apprirent alors que Flig Balt, Vin Mod, Len Cannon et ses camarades s’etaient embarques sur le Kaiser, comment, apres leur passage a Port-Praslin, ils etaient partis pour l’archipel des Salomon. Et, a l’heure actuelle, qui sait si, deja maitres de ce batiment, ils ne se livraient pas a la piraterie dans cette partie du Pacifique ou il serait impossible de les retrouver?…

“Et, d’ailleurs, fit observer Pieter Kip, lors meme que Flig Balt et ses anciens compagnons du James-Cook seraient amenes devant la cour criminelle, quelles preuves pourrions-nous produire contre eux?… Ils accuseraient encore, et quel moyen de prouver que les assassins du capitaine Gibson ce sont eux, et non pas nous?…

- On nous croira!… s’ecria Karl Kip. On nous croira, puisque nous sommes revenus pour attester notre innocence!…”

Peut-etre, mais quels faits nouveaux invoquer pour obtenir la revision du proces?…

Inutile d’insister sur l’effet que produisit dans les deux familles le retour de Karl et de Pieter Kip. Mme Gibson, prise des doutes les plus terribles en ce qui les concernait, ne parvint pas a ebranler la conviction de son fils. Et qu’on n’en soit pas etonne puisque, depuis si longtemps, depuis les faits qui furent reveles au proces de Flig Balt, les meurtriers n’etaient pour Nat Gibson, ne pouvaient etre que les deux freres!… Sa pensee le ramenait sans cesse sur le theatre du crime!…

Il revoyait son malheureux pere attaque dans la foret de Kerawara, frappe par la main meme de ceux qu’il avait recueillis sur l’ile Norfolk, assassine par les naufrages de la Wilhelmina!… Oui!… toutes les preuves etaient contre eux, et que leur opposait-on?… De vagues et incertaines presomptions a l’egard du maitre d’equipage et de son complice!… Et, pourtant, ils etaient revenus a Hobart-Town!… ils y etaient revenus d’eux-memes!

Il va de soi que M. Hawkins avait aussitot demande une audience a sir Edward Carrigan. Le gouverneur, tres impressionne, resolut de faire tout ce qui dependrait de lui pour reparer cette erreur judiciaire, pour provoquer une revision qui permettrait de rehabiliter les freres Kip. Et quel pas en avant dans cette voie, si l’on avait pu mettre la main sur Flig Balt, Vin Mod et leurs compagnons!

On comprendra que la population d’Hobart-Town, sous le coup d’une surexcitation, se fut declaree en faveur de Karl et de Pieter Kip. Y a-t-il lieu d’etre surpris de cette mobilite des foules?… Quoi de plus naturel?… Cette fois, d’ailleurs, tout ce qui s’etait passe depuis l’arrestation des deux freres ne justifiait-il pas ce revirement des esprits?…

Cependant, un des juges de la Cour criminelle venait d’etre designe pour reprendre ou plutot recommencer une enquete, interroger de nouveau les deux condamnes, citer au besoin d’autres temoins. Qui sait si un fait nouveau ne permettrait pas de presumer l’innocence et de conclure a la revision?…

Et, en effet, si cette enquete ne parvenait pas a demontrer qu’un autre ou d’autres que les freres Kip devaient etre les meurtriers du capitaine Gibson, force serait de tenir l’affaire pour bien jugee, et il n’y aurait pas lieu de proceder a une rehabilitation.

La justice fut donc regulierement saisie, et l’instruction allait suivre son cours.

Mais, etant donnees les circonstances, l’eloignement du theatre du crime, la difficulte des recherches en ce qui concernait Flig Balt, Vin Mod, Len Cannon et les autres embarques sur le Kaiser, il se pourrait qu’elle fut de longue duree.

Aussi, en cette prevision, le regime de la prison allait-il etre, des ce jour, adouci pour les prisonniers. Ils ne furent pas tenus au secret. On n’interdit point leur cellule a ceux qui s’interessaient a leur sort, entre autres M. Hawkins et aussi M. Zieger, dont les encouragements les soutenaient au milieu de ces rudes epreuves.

Le lord chief-justice du Royaume-Uni avait ete mis au courant de cette passionnante affaire. Comme on attachait grande importance a retrouver le Kaiser, des ordres furent donnes de le rechercher dans cette portion du Pacifique qui comprend la Nouvelle-Guinee, l’archipel Bismarck, les Salomon et les Nouvelles-Hebrides. De son cote, le gouvernement allemand avait prescrit les memes mesures, en prevision de ce que le Kaiser etait peut-etre tombe entre les mains de pirates dans ces parages ou l’Angleterre et l’Allemagne etendent leur double protection.

Cependant, a Hobart-Town, le magistrat enqueteur, avec le concours officieux de M. Hawkins, connaissant les demarches deja faites, proceda a l’interrogatoire de nouveaux temoins. Les deux freres avaient ete interroges au sujet de leur sejour dans l’auberge de Great-Old-Man. S’etaient-ils apercus que la chambre voisine de la leur eut ete occupee?… Ils n’avaient rien pu repondre a ce sujet, car ils quittaient l’auberge des le matin et n’y rentraient que pour se coucher.

Le magistrat et M. Hawkins, apres s’etre transportes a cette auberge, se rendirent compte que le balcon interieur de la cour donnait acces sur la chambre voisine. Mais l’hotelier, chez lequel passaient tant d’hotes d’une nuit, ne se rappelait pas par qui cette seconde chambre avait ete occupee.

D’autre part, lorsque le tenancier des Fresh-Fishs fut mande devant le juge, il put affirmer, - et c’etait vrai, - que Vin Mod et les autres avaient toujours loge dans son etablissement des l’arrivee du James-Cook a Hobart-Town jusqu’au jour de l’arrestation des freres Kip.

On etait au 20 juillet. Pres d’un mois venait de s’ecouler depuis que Karl et Pieter Kip s’etaient remis entre les mains de la justice. Et l’enquete n’amenait aucun resultat… La base sur laquelle se fut appuyee la revision manquait toujours… M. Hawkins ne faiblissait pas; mais que de chagrin il eprouvait a constater son impuissance!

Malgre les reconfortantes paroles de M. Hawkins, Karl Kip, lui aussi, se laissait aller parfois a un complet decouragement contre lequel son frere ne reagissait pas sans peine. Qui sait meme s’il ne reprochait pas a Pieter d’avoir voulu revenir d’Amerique en Tasmanie pour se representer devant cette justice qui les avait condamnes une premiere fois?…

“Et qui nous condamnera peut-etre une seconde!… dit un jour Karl Kip.

- Non… frere, non..! s’ecria Pieter. Dieu ne le permettrait pas…

- Il a bien permis qu’on nous ait condamnes a mort comme assassins et que notre nom soit voue a l’infamie!

- Aie confiance, pauvre frere, aie confiance!”

Pieter Kip ne pouvait repondre autre chose.

D’ailleurs, cette confiance, rien ne l’eut ebranlee en lui… Elle etait aussi absolue que la conviction de M. Hawkins en leur innocence!

A cette epoque, M. Zieger, dont le sejour a Hobart-Town ne devait pas se prolonger au-dela d’une quinzaine, s’occupait de trouver un embarquement sur un steamer allemand ou anglais a destination de Port-Praslin.

Ces quelques semaines, les deux familles venaient de les passer ensemble dans la plus complete intimite. Depuis le retour des freres Kip, elles partageaient les memes idees, les memes esperances. Quant a Mme Gibson, la pensee que deux innocents eussent ete victimes d’une erreur la troublait profondement, et elle souffrait a voir se prolonger cette situation.

En effet, l’affaire restait toujours au meme point en ce qui concernait la demande de revision. De nouvelles informations prises en Hollande, relativement aux freres Kip, n’avaient fait que confirmer les premieres. Dans le pays ou survivaient les souvenirs de leur famille, ils n’etaient pas nombreux ceux qui avaient tout d’abord admis la culpabilite, et, apres que leur retour eut ete connu a Groningue, l’erreur ne faisait plus de doute pour personne.

Mais, en somme, ce n’etaient la que des sentiments, et le magistrat n’obtenait rien de ce qui etait juridiquement exige pour declarer recevable une demande en revision de l’affaire.

Enfin, a propos du navire allemand le Kaiser, depuis son depart de Port-Praslin, les nouvelles de mer ne signalaient son passage ni aux Salomon ni dans les archipels voisins. Impossible de savoir ce qu’etaient devenus Flig Balt, Vin Mod et autres qui pouvaient etre impliques dans le crime de Kerawara.

Aussi, au vif desespoir de M. Hawkins, le magistrat allait-il renoncer a continuer l’enquete.

Et alors, c’etait la condamnation definitive, c’etait la reintegration des deux freres au penitencier de Port-Arthur, a moins qu’une grace royale ne vint mettre fin a de si terribles epreuves.

“Plutot mourir que de rentrer au bagne!… s’ecriait Karl Kip.

- Ou d’etre l’objet d’une grace deshonorante!…” repondait Pieter Kip.

Telle etait la situation. On comprendra qu’elle fut de nature a troubler profondement les esprits, et meme a provoquer quelque acte d’indignation publique.

Le depart de M. et Mme Zieger devait s’effectuer le 5 aout suivant a bord d’un steamer anglais, charge pour l’archipel Bismarck. On se souvient que, le lendemain meme du crime de Kerawara, M. Hawkins avait fait en double epreuve la photographie du capitaine Gibson, represente nu a mi-corps, la poitrine trouee par le kriss malais.

Or, avant de retourner a Port-Praslin, M. Zieger voulut que M. Hawkins lui fit une reproduction agrandie de la tete du capitaine, afin de la placer dans le salon de Wilhelmstaf.

L’armateur consentit volontiers au desir de M. Zieger. Il serait tire plusieurs epreuves de ce nouveau cliche, qui resteraient entre les mains des familles Gibson, Hawkins et Zieger.

Le 27 juillet, dans la matinee, M. Hawkins proceda a cette operation dans son atelier, pourvu des meilleurs appareils, qui des cette epoque, grace aux substances acceleratrices, permettaient d’obtenir de veritables oeuvres d’art. Voulant operer dans les conditions les plus favorables, il se servit du cliche negatif fait a Kerawara, et sur lequel il ne prit que la tete du capitaine Gibson.

Apres avoir place ce cliche dans la chambre d’agrandissement, il mit son appareil au point de maniere a obtenir une epreuve de grandeur naturelle.

Comme le jour etait excellent, quelques instants suffirent, et la nouvelle photographie fut disposee dans un cadre place sur un chevalet au milieu de l’atelier.

L’apres-midi, M. Zieger et Nat Gibson, prevenus par M. Hawkins, se rendirent chez lui.

Il serait difficile de peindre leur emotion, lorsqu’ils se trouverent devant cette fidele image d’Harry Gibson, le vivant portrait de l’infortune capitaine.

C’etait bien lui, sa figure serieuse et sympathique tout empreinte d’une mortelle angoisse, tel qu’il avait ete au moment ou les meurtriers venaient de le frapper au coeur… a l’instant ou il les regardait de ses yeux demesurement ouverts…

Nat Gibson s’etait approche du chevalet, la poitrine gonflee de sanglots, en proie a une douleur que partageaient M. Hawkins et M. Zieger, tant il leur semblait que le capitaine fut la vivant devant eux…

Puis le fils se courba pour baiser le front de son pere…

Soudain il s’arrete, il s’approche plus pres encore, ses yeux dans les yeux du portrait…

Qu’a-t-il donc vu ou cru voir?… Sa figure est convulsee… sa physionomie bouleversee… Il est pale comme un mort… On dirait qu’il veut parler et ne le peut… Ses levres sont contractees… la voix lui manque…

Enfin il se retourne… il saisit sur une table une de ces fortes loupes dont les photographes se servent pour retoucher les details d’une epreuve… Il la promene sur la photographie, et le voici qui s’ecrie d’une voix epouvantee:

“Eux!… eux!… les assassins de mon pere!”

Et, au fond des yeux du capitaine Gibson, sur la retine agrandie, apparaissaient, dans toute leur ferocite, les figures de Flig Balt et de Vin Mod!

XVI - Conclusion

Depuis un certain temps deja, depuis les curieuses experiences ophtalmologiques qui ont ete entreprises par d’ingenieux savants, observateurs de grand merite, il est demontre que les objets exterieurs, qui impressionnent la retine de l’oeil, peuvent s’y conserver indefiniment. L’organe de la vision contient une substance particuliere, le pourpre retinien, sur laquelle se fixent precisement ces images. On parvient meme a les y retrouver, avec une nettete parfaite, lorsque l’oeil, apres la mort, est enleve et plonge dans un bain d’alun.

Or, ce que l’on savait relativement a cette fixation des images allait recevoir dans ces circonstances une indiscutable confirmation.

Au moment ou le capitaine Gibson rendait le dernier souffle, son supreme regard - un regard d’effroi et d’angoisse, - s’etait porte sur les meurtriers, et au fond de ses yeux se fixaient les figures de Flig Balt et de Vin Mod. Aussi, lorsque M. Hawkins prit la photographie de la victime, les moindres details de la physionomie se reproduisirent sur la plaque de l’objectif. Rien qu’avec la premiere epreuve, en l’examinant a la loupe, on aurait pu retrouver, au fond de l’orbite, la face des deux assassins, et, de fait, on l’y retrouvait encore.

Mais, a ce moment, comment cette pensee fut-elle venue a M. Hawkins, a M. Zieger, a M. Hamburg?… Non! il avait fallu le concours de toutes ces circonstances, le desir exprime par M. Zieger d’emporter a Port-Praslin la photographie agrandie du capitaine Gibson, cet agrandissement obtenu dans l’atelier de l’armateur. Et lorsque Nat Gibson s’est approche pour baiser le portrait de son pere, voici qu’il a cru apercevoir au fond des yeux deux points brillants…

Il a pris une loupe, et, distinctement, il a vu, il a reconnu la figure du maitre d’equipage et celle de son complice…

Maintenant M. Hawkins, M. Zieger les ont vues, les ont reconnues apres lui!… Ce n’etaient pas Karl et Pieter Kip dont l’oeil du mort avait conserve l’image… c’etait Flig Balt, c’etait Vin Mod!

Il existait donc, enfin, le fait nouveau, l’indiscutable presomption de l’innocence des accuses, qui permettrait de faire la revision du proces!… Aurait-on pu mettre en doute l’authenticite de la premiere epreuve faite a Kerawara?… Non, car elle avait deja figure au dossier criminel, et l’agrandissement qui venait d’etre obtenu n’en etait que la fidele reproduction?…

“Ah! les malheureux!… les malheureux!… s’ecria Nat Gibson. Innocents… et moi, tandis que vous les croyiez injustement condamnes… et vouliez les sauver…

- Mais c’est toi qui les sauves, Nat!… repondit M. Hawkins. Oui… toi… qui viens de voir ce que personne de nous n’aurait vu peut-etre!…”

Une demi-heure apres, muni de la grande et de la petite epreuve, l’armateur se presentait a la residence et demandait a etre recu immediatement par Son Excellence.

Sir Edward Carrigan donna ordre d’introduire M. Hawkins dans son cabinet.

Des qu’il eut ete mis au courant, le gouverneur declara qu’il ressortait de ce fait une preuve materielle d’une indiscutabilite absolue. L’innocence des freres Kip, l’injustice de la condamnation qui les avait frappes, tout cela etait l’evidence meme, et le magistrat n’hesiterait pas a introduire la demande en revision.

Ce fut aussi l’opinion de ce magistrat au bureau duquel se transporta M. Hawkins en quittant la residence.

Il avait voulu faire ces deux visites avant de se rendre a la prison avec M. Zieger et Nat Gibson. Il ne s’agissait plus, a present, de presomptions, mais de certitudes. C’etait justement que tout le passe des deux freres protestait contre la sentence de la Cour criminelle!… Les auteurs de l’attentat etaient connus… C’etait la victime qui les avait designes elle-meme… l’ancien maitre d’equipage du James-Cook et le matelot Vin Mod!…

Comment cette nouvelle se repandit-elle dans toute la ville?… Ou prit-elle naissance?… Qui fut le premier a raconter la decouverte faite dans l’atelier de M. Hawkins?… On l’ignore!…

Mais, ce qui est certain, c’est que cela fut connu avant meme que l’armateur se fut rendu a la Residence. Aussi une foule aussi bruyante que passionnee s’amassa-t-elle bientot devant la prison.

Du fond de leur cellule, Karl et Pieter Kip crurent entendre un gros tumulte, de longs cris qui traversaient l’air, et au milieu de ces cris leurs noms mille fois repetes…

Ils se rapprocherent tous les deux de l’etroite fenetre grillee qui s’ouvrait sur une cour interieure. Ils ecoutaient, en proie a la plus vive anxiete. Mais, de cette fenetre, impossible de rien voir de ce qui se passait dans les rues voisines.

“Qu’y a-t-il donc?… demanda Karl Kip. Vient-on nous chercher pour nous ramener au bagne?… Ah! plutot que d’aller reprendre cette vie epouvantable…”

Pieter Kip ne repondit rien, cette fois.

En ce moment, des pas precipites resonnerent a travers le couloir.

La porte de la cellule s’ouvrit.

Nat Gibson parut sur le seuil, accompagne de M. Hawkins et de M. Zieger.

Nat Gibson s’arreta, a demi courbe, les mains tendues vers les deux freres…

“Karl… Pieter… s’ecria-t-il, pardonnez-moi… pardonnez-moi!…”

Ceux-ci ne comprenaient pas… ils ne pouvaient comprendre… Le fils du capitaine Gibson qui les suppliait… qui implorait leur pardon…

“Innocents!… cria alors par trois fois M. Hawkins. Nous avons enfin la preuve de votre innocence…

- Et moi qui ai pu croire!…” reprit Nat Gibson en tombant dans les bras que lui ouvrait Karl Kip.

Cette affaire de revision ne prit d’autre temps que celui des formalites legales. Il fut maintenant facile de retablir les faits de la cause: c’etait sur l’epave de la Wilhelmina qu’avait ete trouve le poignard malais appartenant aux freres Kip… C’etait Vin Mod qui l’y avait vole et rapporte a bord… C’etait cette arme dont Flig Balt ou lui s’etaient servis pour commettre le crime, et avec l’intention que ce crime put etre attribue aux deux passagers du James-Cook… C’etaient eux qui, plus tard, avaient laisse voir ce kriss au mousse Jim dans la cabine des deux freres… Quant aux papiers, a l’argent, au kriss saisis dans la chambre de l’auberge du Great-Old-Man, ils y avaient ete deposes la veille du jour ou Flig Balt allait etre traduit devant le tribunal maritime… Cela n’avait pu etre fait que par le complice du maitre d’equipage, reste libre, par le matelot Vin Mod…

Et alors, plus de doute que l’homme qui avait, a cette epoque, occupe dans l’auberge la chambre voisine de celle des freres Kip ne fut Vin Mod…

Des l’arrivee du James-Cook, apres s’etre assure que Karl et Pieter Kip logeraient en cette auberge, il etait venu y retenir une chambre… Deguise probablement afin de n’etre point reconnu, en attendant le moment d’executer son projet, il avait glisse les papiers, les piastres, le kriss dans la valise ou on les retrouva le lendemain, lors de la descente de police…

Et c’est bien ainsi qu’avait ete perpetree cette abominable machination.

Evidemment, les soupcons de M. Hawkins s’etaient depuis longtemps portes sur le maitre d’equipage et sur son complice Vin Mod; mais il convenait que ces soupcons devinssent des certitudes. Aussi n’avait-il fallu rien moins que cette derniere revelation dont le public eut connaissance par les journaux d’Hobart-Town, ce qui provoqua un revirement aussi unanime que justifie.

A deux jours de la, les magistrats declarerent recevable la demande de revision. Appuyee sur un fait nouveau, elle permettait de presumer une erreur judiciaire, et les freres Kip furent renvoyes devant la Cour criminelle.

Aux debats de ce second proces, la foule fut plus nombreuse qu’au premier, mais, cette fois, entierement favorable aux deux freres. Assurement il y eut lieu de regretter que certains temoins ne pussent etre a la barre, d’ou ils auraient passe sur le banc des accuses… Mais, entre autres, est-ce que Flig Balt et Vin Mod n’etaient pas la… au fond des yeux demesurement ouverts de leur victime?…

L’affaire dura a peine une heure. Elle se termina par la rehabilitation de Karl et de Pieter Kip, qui fut hautement proclamee aux applaudissements de l’auditoire.

Puis, des qu’ils eurent ete mis en liberte, lorsqu’ils se trouverent dans le salon de M. Hawkins, au milieu des familles Gibson et Zieger, c’est alors qu’ils furent payes la de toutes les miseres, de toutes les hontes qui les avaient si longtemps, si durement accables.

Inutile d’ajouter que des offres de service leur vinrent non seulement par M. Hawkins, mais par tous ses amis. Si Karl Kip voulait reprendre la mer, il trouverait un commandement a Hobart-Town… Si Pieter Kip voulait se remettre aux affaires, il trouverait les negociants prets a lui venir en aide… Et n’etait-ce pas ce que tous deux avaient de mieux a faire, maintenant que la maison de Groningue avait ete liquidee a leur avantage?… Aussi, des que le James-Cook fut rearme, il repartit sous le commandement du capitaine Kip, avec les braves matelots de son ancien equipage.

Pour achever cette histoire, il convient de dire que plusieurs mois s’ecoulerent avant que la justice recut des nouvelles du Kaiser, sur lequel etaient embarques Flig Balt, Vin Mod et leurs camarades ou plutot leurs complices. On apprit alors que ce navire, qui exercait la piraterie dans les parages des Salomon et des Nouvelles-Hebrides, venait d’etre capture par un aviso anglais. Les matelots du Kaiser, tous gens de sac et de corde, se defendirent comme se defendent les miserables que la potence attend en cas de defaite. Nombre de ces malfaiteurs furent tues, - parmi eux Flig Balt et Len Cannon. Quant a Vin Mod, il etait parvenu a gagner une des iles de l’archipel avec quelques autres, et l’on ignorait ce qu’il etait devenu.

Tel est le denouement de cette cause celebre, - exemple fort rare, d’ailleurs, des erreurs judiciaires, - et qui eut un si grand retentissement sous le nom de “l’Affaire des freres Kip”.

CHAPITRE VII

VII

Debut de traversee

Des dix heures du matin, l’Alert avait laisse derriere l’horizon les extremes contours de la Barbade, la plus avancee vers l’est des iles de la chaine micro-antilienne.

Ainsi cette petite visite des laureats a leur pays natal s’etait effectuee dans des conditions tres favorables. Ils n’avaient pas eu trop a souffrir au cours de leurs traversees des violentes perturbations atmospheriques si frequentes en ces parages. Le voyage de retour commencait. Au lieu de revenir en Europe, le navire, dont Harry Markel et ses complices seraient des le lendemain les maitres, allait faire route vers les mers du Pacifique.

En effet, il semblait bien que les passagers de l’Alert ne pouvaient echapper au sort que leur reservaient ces bandits. La nuit prochaine, ils seraient surpris dans leurs cabines, egorges avant d’avoir pu se defendre!… Et qui devoilerait jamais ce drame sanglant de l’Alert?… A la rubrique des informations maritimes, le trois-mats figurerait parmi ces navires perdus corps et biens dont on n’a plus aucune nouvelle. On se mettrait vainement a sa recherche, alors que sous un autre nom, sous un autre pavillon, apres quelques modifications a son greement, le capitaine Markel entreprendrait ses criminelles campagnes dans les mers de l’Ouest-Pacifique.

Et ce n’etait pas la presence du marin nouveau-venu qui apporterait quelque chance de salut. Sans doute, les passagers se trouvaient maintenant onze a bord, et Harry Markel et ses compagnons n’etaient que dix. Mais ceux-ci auraient l’avantage de la surprise. D’ailleurs, comment opposer une resistance efficace a ces hommes robustes, habitues a verser le sang?… Et puis, c’est la nuit que s’accomplirait ce massacre… Les victimes seraient frappees en plein sommeil. Quant a implorer la pitie de ces miserables, inutile!… Il n’y en avait aucune a attendre.

Ainsi tout aurait reussi a cet audacieux malfaiteur. Ses projets se seraient realises jusqu’au bout. Il aurait eu raison contre les hesitations de John Carpenter et de quelques autres. La navigation a travers les Antilles ne les avait pas trahis, et cette relache a la Barbade leur valait une somme de sept mille livres, sans parler de la prime accordee par Mrs Kethlen Seymour.

Le marin embarque sur l’Alert s’appelait Will Mitz. Il n’etait age que de vingt-cinq ans, — a peine cinq annees de plus que Roger Hinsdale, Louis Clodion et Albertus Leuwen.

Will Mitz, de taille moyenne, vigoureux, bien decouple, agile et souple comme l’exige le metier de gabier, offrait tous les caracteres de l’honnetete et de la franchise. C’etait aussi un garcon serviable, de bonnes moeurs, d’une conduite irreprochable, tres penetre de sentiments religieux. Jamais il n’avait encouru une punition, et nul ne montrait plus de soumission ni deployait plus de zele dans le service. Embarque des l’age de douze ans en qualite de mousse, il devint successivement novice, puis matelot, puis quartier-maitre. C’etait le fils unique de Mrs Mitz, veuve depuis plusieurs annees, qui occupait des fonctions de confiance au chateau de Nording-House.

Apres un dernier voyage dans les mers du Sud, Will Mitz resta pres de sa mere pendant deux mois. Mrs Kethlen Seymour avait pu apprecier les qualites de cet honnete garcon. Grace a ses relations, il venait d’obtenir ce poste de second maitre a bord d’un batiment en chargement a Liverpool pour Sydney de l’Australie. Nul doute que Will Mitz, ayant de bonnes connaissances pratiques en navigation, intelligent, zele, ne dut faire son chemin et acquerir plus tard la position d’officier dans la marine marchande. Enfin, brave, resolu, il possedait cet imperturbable sang-froid, ce juste coup d’oeil, indispensable aux gens de mer, et qui doit etre leur premiere qualite.

Will Mitz attendait a Bridgetown l’occasion de s’embarquer pour Liverpool, lorsque l’Alert mouilla dans le port de la Barbade. C’est alors que Mrs Kethlen Seymour eut la pensee de s’entendre avec le capitaine Paxton afin d’assurer le retour du jeune marin en Europe. C’etait donc dans des conditions tres agreables que Will Mitz allait traverser l’Atlantique pour Liverpool, ou le trois-mats devait se rendre, le port meme d’embarquement de Will Mitz. De la, M. Horatio Patterson et ses jeunes compagnons regagneraient Londres par chemin de fer et rentreraient a Antilian School, ou ils seraient accueillis comme ils le meritaient.

Du reste, Will Mitz n’entendait point rester oisif au cours de la traversee. Le capitaine Paxton ne demanderait pas mieux que de l’employer pour remplacer cet homme qu’il avait eu le malheur de perdre dans la baie de Cork.

Le soir du 21, Will Mitz avait apporte son sac a bord de l’Alert, apres avoir pris conge de Mrs Kethlen Seymour et embrasse sa mere. Il etait, en outre, gratifie d’une petite somme que la bonne chatelaine le forca d’accepter, — somme qui lui permettrait d’attendre a Liverpool le depart de son batiment.

Bien que tous les cadres du poste de l’equipage ne fussent pas occupes par ses hommes, Harry Markel prefera ne point mettre Will Mitz avec eux. Cela aurait pu etre un embarras a l’accomplissement de ses projets. Il restait une cabine libre dans la dunette, et le nouveau passager en prit aussitot possession.

En arrivant, Will Mitz dit a Harry Markel: “Capitaine Paxton, je desire me rendre utile a bord… Je suis a votre disposition, et, si vous le voulez bien, je ferai le quart a mon tour…

— Soit”, repondit Harry Markel.

Il convient de dire que Will Mitz fut peu favorablement impressionne en observant le personnel du navire. Et ce n’etait pas seulement le capitaine de l’Alert, c’etaient aussi John Carpenter, Corty et les autres. Si la tenue du trois-mats lui parut irreprochable, ces figures ou se refletaient tant de passions violentes, ces physionomies farouches, dont la faussete se dissimulait mal, n’etaient point pour lui inspirer confiance. Aussi resolut-il de garder une certaine reserve avec l’equipage.

D’ailleurs, si Will Mitz ne connaissait pas le capitaine Paxton, il en avait entendu parler comme d’un excellent marin, avant meme qu’il eut le commandement de l’Alert, et Mrs Kethlen Seymour ne l’avait pas choisi sans serieuses references.

En outre, durant leur sejour a Nording-House, les jeunes passagers avaient toujours fait le plus grand eloge du capitaine Paxton et vante l’habilete dont il avait donne des preuves pendant la tempete au large des Bermudes. La traversee d’aller s’etait effectuee d’une maniere tres satisfaisante, pourquoi n’en serait-il pas ainsi de la traversee de retour?… Will Mitz pensa donc que cette premiere impression qu’il avait ressentie en arrivant a bord ne tarderait pas a s’effacer.

Lorsque Corty apprit que Will Mitz avait offert ses services, il dit a Harry Markel et a John Carpenter: “Eh!… voila une bonne recrue sur laquelle nous ne comptions guere!… Un fameux marin pour commander le quart avec toi, John…

— Et qu’on peut mettre en toute confiance a la barre!… ajouta non moins ironiquement John Carpenter. Avec un pareil timonier, pas d’ecart de route a craindre, et l’Alert filera droit sur Liverpool…

— Ou, sans doute, la police, prevenue d’une facon ou d’une autre, reprit Corty, nous recevrait a notre arrivee avec les honneurs qui nous sont dus…

— Assez plaisante, declara Harry Markel, et que chacun veille sur sa langue pendant vingt-quatre heures encore…

— D’autant plus, fit observer John Carpenter, que ce marsouin-la m’a paru nous regarder d’une singuliere facon…

— Dans tous les cas, reprit Harry Markel, qu’on ne lui reponde que peu ou point, s’il veut causer!… Et surtout que Morden ne recommence pas ce qu’il a fait a Sainte-Lucie…

— Bon! conclut Corty, quand il n’a pas bu, Morden est muet comme un poisson, et on l’empechera de boire avant que nous portions la sante du capitaine Markel!”

Au surplus, il ne sembla pas que Will Mitz voulut engager conversation avec les hommes de l’equipage. Des son arrivee, il se retira dans la cabine ou il deposa son sac, en attendant le retour des passagers, et, le lendemain, il avait donne la main a l’appareillage.

Pendant cette premiere journee, Will Mitz rencontra a l’arriere ce qu’il n’eut pas trouve a l’avant du navire, — de braves garcons qui s’interessaient a lui. Plus particulierement, Tony Renault et Magnus Anders se montrerent tres heureux “de pouvoir parler marine avec un marin”.

Apres le dejeuner, Will Mitz alla se promener sur le pont en fumant sa pipe.

L’Alert portait ses basses voiles, ses huniers et ses perroquets. Il aurait du courir une longue bordee au nord-est, de maniere a passer a l’ouvert du canal de Bahama au-dela des Antilles, et profiter des courants du Gulf-Stream qui se dirigent vers l’Europe. Aussi Will Mitz put-il s’etonner que le capitaine eut pris les amures a tribord au lieu de les prendre a babord, ce qui l’eloignait avec cap au sud-est. Mais, sans doute, Harry Markel avait ses raisons pour agir ainsi, et il n’appartenait point a Will Mitz de l’interroger a ce sujet. Il se disait, d’ailleurs, que l’Alert, apres avoir parcouru cinquante ou soixante milles, reprendrait sa route vers le nord-est.

En realite, ce n’etait pas sans intention qu’Harry Markel manoeuvrait de maniere a gagner la pointe meridionale de l’Afrique, et, de temps en temps, il observait si l’homme de barre maintenait le navire en cette direction.

Cependant Tony Renault, Magnus Anders, deux ou trois de leurs camarades causaient avec le jeune marin, en se promenant tantot sur le pont, tantot sur la dunette. Ils lui posaient des questions relatives a son metier, ce qu’ils n’avaient pu faire jusqu’ici avec leur peu communicatif capitaine. Au moins, Will Mitz repondait volontiers, se plaisait a leur conversation, voyant le gout qu’ils manifestaient pour les choses de la mer.

Et, tout d’abord, quels pays avait-il visites au cours de ses navigations, soit a l’Etat, soit au commerce?…

“Mes jeunes messieurs, repondit Will Mitz, je voyage depuis douze ans deja, autant dire depuis mon enfance…

— Vous avez traverse plusieurs fois l’Atlantique et le Pacifique?… demanda Tony Renault.

— Plusieurs fois, en effet, soit a bord de voiliers, soit a bord de steamers.

— Est-ce que vous avez fait campagne sur des batiments de guerre?… dit Magnus Anders.

— Oui, repondit Will Mitz, lorsque l’Angleterre envoya une de ses escadres dans le golfe de Petchili.

— Vous etes alle en Chine!… s’ecria Tony Renault, et il ne cachait point son admiration pour un homme qui avait accoste les rivages du Celeste Empire.

— Oui… monsieur Renault, et je vous assure qu’il n’est pas plus difficile d’aller en Chine que d’aller aux Antilles.

— Et sur quel navire?… questionna John Howard.

— Sur le croiseur-cuirasse Standard, contre-amiral sir Harry Walker.

— Alors, reprit Magnus Anders, vous etiez embarque comme mousse?…

— En effet… comme mousse.

— Et il y avait de gros canons a bord du Standard?… demanda Tony Renault.

— Tres gros… de vingt tonnes…

— De vingt tonnes!” repeta Tony Renault.

Et on sentait combien cet intrepide garcon serait heureux s’il pouvait jamais tirer une de ces formidables pieces d’artillerie.

“Mais, ajouta ensuite Louis Clodion, ce n’est pas a bord des navires de guerre que vous avez le plus navigue?…

— Non, mes jeunes messieurs, repondit Will Mitz. Je ne suis reste que trois ans a l’Etat, et c’est au commerce que j’ai fait mon apprentissage de gabier.

— Sur quels batiments?… demanda Magnus Anders.

— Le North’s-Brothers, de Cardiff, avec lequel je suis alle a Boston, et le Great Britain, a Newcastle.

— Un grand navire?… dit Tony Renault.

— Certes, un charbonnier de trois mille cinq cents tonneaux, qui avait pris son complet chargement pour Melbourne.

— Et qu’est-ce que vous rapportiez?…

— Des bles d’Australie a destination de Leith, le port d’Edimbourg.

— Est-ce que vous n’aimez pas mieux la navigation a voile que la navigation a vapeur?… reprit Niels Harboe.

— Je la prefere et de beaucoup, repondit Will Mitz. C’est plus marin, ces traversees-la, et, en general, elles sont aussi rapides que les autres… Et puis, on ne navigue pas au milieu des fumees de charbon, et rien n’est magnifique comme un batiment couvert de toile, qui peut faire ses quinze ou seize milles a l’heure!

— Je vous crois… je vous crois!… repliqua Tony Renault que son imagination entrainait a travers toutes les mers du monde. Et quel est le navire sur lequel vous allez embarquer?…

— L’Elisa Warden, de Liverpool, un superbe quatre-mats en acier, de trois mille huit cents tonnes, qui est revenu de Thio en Nouvelle Caledonie avec un chargement de nickel.

— Et quelle cargaison va-t-il prendre en Angleterre?… demanda John Howard.

— Une cargaison de houille pour San-Francisco, repondit Will Mitz, et je sais qu’il est affrete pour retour a Dublin avec bles de l’Oregon.

— Que doit durer le voyage?… reprit Magnus Anders.

— De onze a douze mois environ.

— Ah! s’exclama Tony Renault, voila des traversees que je voudrais faire!… Un an entre le ciel et l’eau!… L’ocean Atlantique, la mer du Sud, l’ocean Pacifique!… On va par le cap Horn… on revient par le cap de Bonne-Esperance!… C’est presque le tour du monde!…

— Eh! mon jeune monsieur, repondit Will Mitz en souriant, vous auriez aime la grande navigation…

— Assurement… et plus encore comme marin que comme passager!

— Voila qui est bien dit, declara Will Mitz, et je vois que vous avez gout pour la mer!…

— Magnus Anders et lui, affirma Niels Harboe en riant, si on les ecoutait, il faudrait leur abandonner la direction du navire, l’un apres l’autre a la barre!

— Par malheur, fit observer Louis Clodion, Magnus et Tony sont trop ages pour faire leurs debuts dans la marine…

— Dirait-on pas que nous avons soixante ans!… riposta Tony Renault.

— Non… mais nous en avons vingt… avoua le jeune Suedois, et peut-etre est-il trop tard…

— Qui sait?… repondit Will Mitz?… Vous etes hardis, lestes, bien portants, et, avec ces qualites-la, le metier s’apprend vite!… Cependant, mieux vaut commencer jeune… Il est vrai, pour la marine du commerce, il n’y a pas d’age reglementaire.

— Enfin, dit Louis Clodion, Tony et Magnus verront cela, lorsqu’ils auront fini leurs etudes a Antilian School…

— Et, quand on sort d’Antilian School, conclut Tony Renault, on est apte a tous les metiers… N’est-il pas vrai, monsieur Patterson?…”

Le mentor, qui venait d’arriver, paraissait un peu preoccupe. Peut-etre songeait-il a la fameuse phrase latine dont il n’avait pas encore trouve le sens. Toutefois il n’en dit mot, et Tony Renault, qui le regardait d’un air narquois, n’y fit aucune allusion. Mis au courant de la conversation, il donna raison au jeune pensionnaire qui tenait d’une main si vaillante le pavillon de l’ecole antilienne. Et le voici, l’excellent homme, qui se donne pour exemple. Il etait l’econome d’Antilian School, c’est-a-dire absolument etranger a toutes les connaissances maritimes… Il n’avait jamais voyage a travers les oceans, meme en reve… En fait de batiment, il n’avait guere vu que ceux qui remontent ou descendent la Tamise a travers Londres… Eh bien, rien que parce qu’il appartenait au personnel administratif de la celebre institution, il s’etait trouve capable d’affronter les coleres de Neptune!… Sans doute, au debut, pendant quelques jours, les secousses du roulage…

“Roulis, souffla Tony Renault.

— Oui… roulis… reprit M. Patterson, du roulis et du tang… oui… du tangage m’ont eprouve, parait-il!… Mais, a present, ne suis-je pas cuirasse contre le mal de mer?… N’ai-je pas le pied marin?… Croyez-moi… experto crede Roberto.

— Horatio, souffla encore Tony Renault.

— Horatio… puisque j’ai ete baptise du meme nom que le divin Flaccus!… Et, si je ne desire point lutter contre les tempetes, les tornades, les cyclones, etre le jouet des tourmentes et des ouragans, du moins je les contemplerais d’un oeil ferme et sans palir…

— Je vous en fais mon compliment, monsieur Patterson, repondit Will Mitz. Du reste, entre nous, mieux vaut ne point en faire l’experience… J’ai passe par la, et j’ai vu les plus braves parfois en proie a l’epouvante, lorsqu’ils se sentaient impuissants devant la tempete…

— Oh! fit M. Patterson, ce que j’en dis, ce n’est point pour provoquer la fureur des elements!… Loin de moi cette pensee, qui ne serait ni d’un homme prudent, ni d’un mentor, d’un charge d’ames, de jeunes ames, et qui sent tout le poids de sa responsabilite!… D’ailleurs, Will Mitz, j’espere que nous n’avons rien a redouter de semblable…

— Je l’espere, comme vous, monsieur Patterson. A cette epoque de l’annee, les mauvais temps sont assez rares dans cette partie de l’Atlantique. Il est vrai, un orage est toujours a craindre, et, un orage, on ne sait jamais ni ce qu’il sera ni ce qu’il durera… Nous en eprouverons, sans doute, car ils sont frequents en septembre, et je souhaite qu’ils ne se changent point en tempete…

— Nous le souhaitons tous, repondit Niels Harboe. Cependant, en cas de mauvais temps, nous pouvons avoir toute confiance en notre capitaine, c’est un marin habile.

— Oui, repondit Will Mitz, je sais que le capitaine Paxton a fait ses preuves, et j’en ai entendu dire le plus grand bien en Angleterre…

— Avec raison, declara Hubert Perkins.

— Et son equipage, demanda Will Mitz, vous l’avez vu a l’oeuvre?…

— John Carpenter parait etre un maitre tres entendu, declara Niels Harboe, et ses hommes connaissent bien la manoeuvre d’un navire.

— Ils ne sont pas causeurs… fit observer Will Mitz.

— En effet, mais leur conduite est bonne, repondit Magnus Anders. Puis, la discipline est severe a bord, et le capitaine Paxton ne laisse jamais aucun matelot descendre a terre… Non! il n’y a rien a leur reprocher…

— Tant mieux, dit Will Mitz.

— Et nous ne demandons qu’une chose, ajouta Louis Clodion, c’est que la campagne se continue dans les conditions ou elle s’est faite jusqu’a ce jour.”

CHAPITRE X

X

Au milieu des brumes

Il etait onze heures et demie.

Si l’obscurite n’eut pas ete si complete, la brume si epaisse, on aurait pu voir, a la distance d’un mille ou deux, le feu du batiment hisse a l’etai du mat de misaine.

Rien n’apparaissait, ni la masse d’un batiment, ni la clarte d’un fanal. Ce que Will Mitz savait, c’est que le navire, alors qu’il cessa de faire route, se trouvait dans le nord. L’embarcation se dirigea donc de ce cote, assuree, du moins, de s’eloigner de l’Alert.

Le brouillard, joint a la nuit, rendait la fuite plus difficile. Toutefois, faute de vent, sur une mer unie comme une glace, le batiment aurait ete atteint en une heure, si Will Mitz n’eut marche pour ainsi dire a l’aventure!…

Et, a present, les fugitifs pouvaient reconstituer, des son debut, ce drame dont le denouement ne se fut pas fait attendre!

“Ainsi, dit Hubert Perkins, ce sont les pirates de l’Halifax qui se sont empares de l’Alert!…

— Et tandis qu’on les cherchait dans le quartier du port, ajouta Niels Harboe, ils parvenaient a gagner l’anse Farmar!…

— Mais, fit observer Albertus Leuwen, ils savaient donc que l’Alert etait en partance, n’ayant a bord que son capitaine et son equipage…

— Sans doute, repondit Roger Hinsdale. Les journaux avaient annonce ce depart pour le 30 juin, et c’est precisement la veille qu’ils se sont echappes de la prison de Queenstown… Ils ont risque le tout pour le tout, et cela leur a reussi!…

— Et, dit Axel Wickborn, c’est dans la nuit qui a precede notre embarquement, que le malheureux capitaine Paxton et son equipage ont ete surpris, massacres, jetes a la mer…

— Oui, ajouta John Howard, et c’est bien le corps de l’un d’eux que le courant a porte sur la greve ou il a ete retrouve, ainsi qu’on en a ete avise a la Barbade…

— Et rappelez-vous l’audace de ce Markel!… s’ecria Tony Renault. N’a-t-il pas declare a l’officier de l’Essex qu’il avait perdu un de ses hommes dans la baie… et n’a-t-il pas meme ajoute que si ce pauvre Bob avait recu un coup de poignard, c’etaient probablement les bandits de l’Halifax qui l’avaient frappe!… Le miserable! puisse-t-il etre repris… juge… condamne… pendu… et les siens avec lui!”

Ces quelques propos echanges, tandis que le canot gagnait vers le nord, montrent que les passagers de l’Alert n’ignoraient plus rien des circonstances dans lesquelles le massacre du capitaine Paxton et de son equipage s’etait accompli. Lorsqu’ils arriverent a bord, Harry Markel et ses bandits etaient deja maitres du navire.

Alors, Hubert Perkins posa cette question:

“Pourquoi, sans attendre notre arrivee, l’Alert n’a-t-il pas pris la mer?…

— Faute de vent, repondit Louis Clodion. Tu te rappelles bien, Hubert, depuis deux jours le temps etait aussi calme qu’il l’est aujourd’hui… Pendant notre traversee de Bristol a Cork, nous n’avons pas eu un souffle de brise… Evidemment, son coup fait, Markel esperait mettre a la voile, mais il ne l’a pas pu…

— Aussi, affirma Roger Hinsdale, ce miserable s’est-il decide a jouer son role… Il est devenu le capitaine Paxton, et les autres sont devenus les matelots de l’Alert…

— Et dire que, depuis bientot deux mois, s’ecria Tony Renault, nous vivons dans la societe de ces coquins… des pillards, des assassins, et qu’ils ont ete assez habiles pour faire figure d’honnetes gens…

— Oh! fit Albertus Leuwen, ils ne nous ont jamais inspire aucune sympathie…

— Pas meme ce Corty, qui affectait tant de bonnes intentions a notre egard!… declara Axel Wickborn.

— Et encore moins Harry Markel, qui ne nous donnait pas une bonne idee du capitaine Paxton!” ajouta Hubert Perkins.

Will Mitz les ecoutait. Ils n’avaient plus rien a s’apprendre ni les uns ni les autres. Et ils se souvenaient, non sans honte et sans colere, des eloges qu’ils avaient faits du capitaine et de son equipage, des remerciements dont on avait comble ces malfaiteurs, de la prime que Mrs Kethlen Seymour avait accordee a cette bande de meurtriers…

Et, ces eloges, n’etait-ce pas M. Patterson qui s’en etait montre le plus prodigue dans les termes excessifs que lui suggerait son emphase habituelle!

Mais, a cette heure, le mentor ne songeait guere a revenir sur le passe, ni a ce qu’il avait pu dire en l’honneur du capitaine. Assis au fond du canot, entendant a peine les observations echangees autour de lui, s’il avait songe a quelqu’un, c’eut ete sans doute a Mrs Patterson…

En realite, il ne songeait a rien.

Alors une derniere question fut faite, a laquelle on repondit d’une facon assez plausible, qui etait juste, d’ailleurs.

Pourquoi, apres avoir recu a bord les pensionnaires d’Antilian School, Henry Markel ne s’etait-il pas debarrasse d’eux des le debut de la traversee afin de rallier les mers du sud?…

A cette question, Louis Clodion fit la reponse suivante:

“Je crois bien que ce Markel avait l’intention de se defaire de nous des que l’Alert aurait ete en pleine mer. Mais, faute de vent, force de rester sous la cote, il aura appris que chaque passager devait toucher une prime a la Barbade, et, avec une incroyable audace, il a conduit l’Alert aux Antilles…

— Oui, dit Will Mitz, oui… ce doit etre la raison, et c’est le desir de s’approprier cet argent qui vous a sauve la vie, mes jeunes messieurs… en admettant qu’elle soit sauvee”, murmura-t-il, car la situation s’aggravait sans qu’il voulut rien laisser paraitre de ses inquietudes.

En effet, depuis pres d’une heure, l’embarcation errait au milieu des brumes. Elle n’avait pas rencontre le navire, bien qu’elle eut marche dans sa direction relevee la veille.

Mais Will Mitz, n’ayant pas de boussole, n’avait pas meme pu se guider sur les etoiles, et plus de temps s’etait ecoule qu’il ne lui en aurait fallu pour accoster le batiment. Or, s’il avait ete depasse, que faire?… Revenir vers l’est ou vers l’ouest?… Ne serait-ce pas courir le risque de se retrouver dans les eaux de l’Alert?… Ne valait-il pas mieux attendre au large que le brouillard se fut dissipe, et, peut-etre, serait-ce au lever du soleil, c’est-a-dire dans quatre ou cinq heures?… Le canot rejoindrait alors le navire, et, en admettant que les fugitifs fussent apercus de l’Alert, Harry Markel n’oserait pas les poursuivre. La situation deviendrait tres mauvaise pour ses compagnons et lui…

Il est vrai, d’ici la, qui sait si un peu de brise n’aurait pas permis a l’Alert de s’eloigner vers le sud-est? Aussi Will Mitz comprenait-il a present pourquoi Harry Markel avait mis le cap en cette direction. Par malheur, l’autre batiment aurait eu toute facilite pour continuer sa route en sens inverse, et, au lever du jour, il ne serait plus en vue. Que deviendrait alors l’embarcation avec les onze passagers qu’elle portait a la merci du vent et de la mer?…

En tout cas, Will Mitz manoeuvra de maniere a rester, autant que possible, a longue distance de l’Alert.

Une heure apres minuit, rien de nouveau. Une vive inquietude commencait a se manifester chez quelques-uns des fugitifs. Pleins d’espoir en partant, ils se disaient qu’une demi-heure apres ils seraient en surete. Or, depuis deux heures deja, ils couraient a la recherche du batiment au milieu de cette profonde nuit.

Louis Clodion et Roger Hinsdale, montrant une grande energie, reconfortaient leurs camarades, lorsque quelque plainte, quoique defaillance, se faisaient sentir ou entendre, a defaut de M. Patterson, qui ne semblait plus avoir conscience de rien.

Will Mitz les secondait:

“Ayez bon espoir, mes jeunes messieurs, repetait-il. La brise ne s’est point levee, et le navire doit etre la… Lorsque ces brumes se dissiperont avec le jour, nous l’apercevrons alors que notre embarcation sera loin de l’Alert, et il suffira de quelques coups d’avirons pour etre a bord!”

Cependant Will Mitz etait extremement anxieux, bien qu’il n’en voulut rien laisser paraitre, en songeant a une eventualite qui risquait de se produire.

N’etait-il pas a craindre qu’un de ces bandits eut decouvert la fuite des passagers, que Harry Markel sut maintenant a quoi s’en tenir, qu’il se fut embarque dans le second canot avec quelques-uns de ses hommes?…

Cela etait possible, apres tout. Ce miserable n’avait-il pas un interet majeur a reprendre les fugitifs, puisque les calmes empechaient l’Alert de quitter ces parages?…

Et meme, la brise lui eut-elle permis d’eventer ses voiles, ne courait-il pas le danger d’etre poursuivi par ce navire, plus rapide et assurement plus fort que le sien et dont le capitaine serait au courant de la situation?…

Aussi Will Mitz tendait-il l’oreille aux moindres bruits qui se propageaient a la surface de la mer. Parfois il croyait entendre un va-et-vient d’avirons a faible distance, ce qui eut indique que l’embarcation de l’Alert etait a leur poursuite.

Alors, il recommandait de ne plus nager. Le canot, immobile, n’obeissait qu’aux lentes oscillations de la houle. Tous ecoutaient en silence, avec la crainte que la voix de John Carpenter ou de tout autre sortit des brumes…

Une heure s’ecoula encore. Louis Clodion et ses camarades se relayaient aux avirons, uniquement pour se maintenir sur place. Will Mitz ne voulait pas s’eloigner davantage, ne sachant quelle direction suivre. D’ailleurs, au moment ou le soleil reparaitrait, il importait de ne pas etre a une trop grande distance du navire, soit pour lui faire des signaux, soit pour essayer de le rejoindre, s’il se remettait en route.

A cette epoque de l’equinoxe, dans la seconde moitie du mois de septembre, le jour n’apparait guere avant six heures du matin. Il est vrai, des cinq heures, si le brouillard se dissipait, un batiment serait assurement visible dans un rayon de trois a quatre milles.

Aussi, ce que Will Mitz devait desirer, ce dont il parlait avec Roger Hinsdale et Louis Clodion, avec Tony Renault, qui ne se laissait pas abattre, c’etait que la brume vint a s’enlever avant l’aube.

“Non point sous l’action de la brise, ajoutait-il, car, si l’Alert s’eloignait, l’autre navire s’eloignerait egalement, et nous n’aurions plus autour de nous qu’une mer deserte!”

Or, avec ce canot non ponte, tres charge, sans la possibilite d’y etablir une voile, un canot que le moindre coup de mer mettrait en perdition, serait-il possible de rallier un port des Antilles?… Will Mitz estimait que, pendant cette premiere journee de navigation, l’Alert devait s’etre deplace d’une soixantaine de milles dans le sud-est de la Barbade. Soixante milles, meme avec une voilure, par bon vent et mer maniable, l’embarcation eut a peine franchi cette distance en quarante-huit heures!… Et pas de provisions a bord, ni eau ni vivres!… Le jour venu, la faim et la soif! comment les apaiser?

Une heure plus tard, brises de fatigue, saisis d’un irresistible besoin de dormir, la plupart des jeunes garcons, etendus sur les bancs, avaient succombe au sommeil. Si Louis Clodion et Roger Hinsdale resistaient encore, la nuit ne s’acheverait pas sans qu’ils eussent imite leurs camarades.

Will Mitz resterait donc seul a veiller. Et qui sait s’il ne se sentirait pas pris de desespoir devant tant de circonstances defavorables, tant de chances contraires?

De fait, il n’etait plus necessaire de recourir aux avirons, si ce n’est pour etaler le courant en attendant soit le lever du brouillard, soit le lever du jour.

Toutefois, il semblait bien que quelques souffles intermittents passaient a travers les vapeurs, et, bien que le calme reprit aussitot, certains symptomes indiquaient le retour du vent a l’approche de l’aube.

Il etait un peu plus de quatre heures, lors qu’un choc se produisit. L’avant du canot venait de se heurter, legerement il est vrai, contre un obstacle, et cet obstacle ne pouvait etre que la coque d’un navire.

Etait-ce celui que les fugitifs cherchaient inutilement depuis de si longues heures?…

Les uns s’etaient eveilles d’eux-memes, les autres avaient ete reveilles par leurs camarades.

Will Mitz saisit un des avirons, afin de ranger la coque du batiment. L’embarcation l’avait accoste par l’arriere, et Will Mitz sentit les ferrures d’un gouvernail.

Le canot se trouvait donc sous la voute du navire, et, bien que la brume fut un peu moins epaisse, il n’avait pas du etre apercu des hommes de quart.

Soudain, la main de Will Mitz saisit un cordage qui pendait de quatre a cinq pieds en dehors du couronnement.

Will Mitz reconnut ce cordage…

C’etait l’amarre qu’il avait coupee lui-meme, en s’eloignant, et ce navire, c’etait l’Alert…

“L’Alert!” repeta-t-il avec un geste de desespoir.

Ainsi, apres avoir erre toute cette nuit, c’etait vers l’Alert qu’une mauvaise chance les avait ramenes, et ils allaient retomber entre les mains d’Harry Markel!

Tous etaient atterres, et des larmes s’echappaient de leurs yeux.

Mais n’etait-il pas encore temps de fuir, de se lancer a la recherche du batiment?… Deja, du cote de l’est, portaient les premieres lueurs… Cinq heures approchaient… Quelques fraicheurs matinales se faisaient sentir…

Soudain, les vapeurs remonterent et degagerent la surface de l’ocean. La vue put s’etendre sur un rayon de trois a quatre milles…

Le navire en vue, profitant des premiers souffles, s’eloignait dans la direction de l’est… Il fallait renoncer a tout espoir de se refugier a son bord.

Cependant aucun bruit ne se faisait entendre sur le pont de l’Alert. Nul doute que Harry Markel et l’equipage ne fussent encore plonges dans le sommeil. Le matelot de quart ne s’etait meme pas apercu du retour de la brise alors que la voilure desorientee battait contre les mats.

Eh bien, puisque les passagers n’avaient plus a esperer d’autre salut, il leur fallait devenir maitres de l’Alert!

Ce coup d’audace, Will Mitz, apres l’avoir concu, s’appretait a l’executer. Ce qu’il voulait faire, il le dit en quelques mots a voix basse. Louis Clodion, Tony Renault, Roger Hinsdale comprirent. C’etait l’unique chance, puisque personne n’avait vu ni partir ni revenir l’embarcation.

“Nous vous suivrons, Will Mitz… dit Magnus Anders.

— Quand vous voudrez”, dit Louis Clodion.

Le jour pointant a peine, il s’agissait de surprendre l’Alert avant que l’eveil eut ete donne, d’enfermer Harry Markel dans sa cabine, et l’equipage dans le poste. Puis, aide des jeunes garcons, Will Mitz manoeuvrerait de maniere, soit a regagner les Antilles, soit a rejoindre le premier batiment qui croiserait sa route.

Le canot glissa sans bruit le long de la carene, et s’arreta a la hauteur des porte-haubans du grand-mat, a babord. En s’aidant des ferrures et des capes de mouton, il serait facile d’enjamber la lisse et de prendre pied sur le pont. Aux porte-haubans du mat d’artimon, etant donnee la hauteur de la dunette, l’escalade eut ete plus difficile.

Will Mitz monta le premier. A peine avait-il la tete au niveau du bastingage qu’il s’arreta et fit signe de ne point bouger.

Harry Markel venait de quitter sa cabine et observait le temps. Comme les voiles claquaient sur les mats, il appela l’equipage pour l’appareillage.

Les hommes dormaient, personne ne lui repondit, et il se dirigea vers le poste.

Will Mitz, qui suivait ses mouvements, le vit disparaitre par le capot.

C’etait le moment d’agir. Mieux valait ne point etre oblige d’enfermer Harry Markel et peut-etre d’engager une lutte dont le bruit aurait ete entendu de l’avant. Lorsque tous les hommes seraient emprisonnes dans le poste, on saurait les empecher de sortir avant l’arrivee aux Antilles, et, si les alizes tenaient, en trente-six heures on aurait connaissance de la Barbade.

Will Mitz sauta sur le pont. Les jeunes garcons le suivirent, apres avoir amarre le canot, ou etait reste M. Patterson, et ils ramperent de maniere a n’etre ni vus ni entendus.

En quelques secondes, ils eurent atteint le capot du poste, dont la porte fut refermees exterieurement. Puis l’epais prelart goudronne, qui le protegeait en cas de mauvais temps, fut fixe par de lourds espars sur ses bords.

Et, maintenant, Harry Markel compris, tout le personnel du bord etait prisonnier. Il n’y aurait plus qu’a surveiller ces miserables jusqu’au moment de les livrer, soit a quelque batiment rencontre en route, soit au premier port des Antilles ou relacherait l’Alert.

Le jour se faisait peu a peu. Les volutes de brume remontaient dans l’espace. L’horizon s’elargissait sous les premieres lueurs du matin.

En meme temps, la brise fraichissait legerement, sans s’etablir a un point quelconque du compas. Les voiles, telles qu’elles etaient orientees alors, ne pouvaient que maintenir le trois-mats en panne.

Ainsi la tentative de Will Mitz avait reussi. Ses jeunes compagnons et lui etaient maitres de l’Alert!

Quant a ce navire a bord duquel ils comptaient chercher refuge, a cinq ou six milles deja dans l’est, il ne tarderait pas a disparaitre.

CHAPTER 9

THE SECOND LETTER

On Board the Terror

July 15.

To the Old and New World,

The propositions emanating from the different governments of Europe, as also that which has finally been made by the United States of America, need expect no other answer than this: I refuse absolutely and definitely the sums offered for my invention.

My machine will be neither French nor German, nor Austrian nor Russian, nor English nor American.

The invention will remain my own, and I shall use it as pleases me.

With it, I hold control of the entire world, and there lies no force within the reach of humanity which is able to resist me, under any circumstances whatsoever.

Let no one attempt to seize or stop me. It is, and will be, utterly impossible. Whatever injury anyone attempts against me, I will return a hundredfold.

As to the money which is offered me, I despise it! I have no need of it. Moreover, on the day when it pleases me to have millions, or billions, I have but to reach out my hand and take them.

Let both the Old and the New World realize this: They can accomplish nothing against me; I can accomplish anything against them.

I sign this letter:

The Master of the World.

XIV. EN CAPTIVITE.

L’habitation dans laquelle furent conduits les prisonniers de Sohar etait l’ancien bordj de la bourgade. Depuis nombre d’annees deja il tombait en ruine. Ses murailles delabrees couronnaient un tertre de moyenne altitude sur la lisiere septentrionale de l’oasis. Jadis, ce chateau, un simple fort, avait servi aux Touareg de Zenfig, lors des grandes luttes que les tribus soutinrent entre elles dans toute la region du Djerid. Mais, apres la pacification, on ne s’etait plus occupe ni de le reparer ni de l’entretenir en bon etat.

Un “sour” ebreche en maint endroit, servait d’enceinte a ce bordj qu’une “souma’ah”, sorte de minaret decoiffe de son extreme pointe, surmontait encore et d’ou la vue pouvait largement s’etendre en tous sens.

Cependant, si delabre qu’il fut, le bordj offrait encore quelques parties habitables au centre de la construction. Deux ou trois salles accedant sur une cour interieure, sans meubles, sans tentures, separees par d’epaisses parois, pouvaient abriter contre les rafales de la bonne et les froids de la mauvaise saison.

C’est la que l’ingenieur, le capitaine Hardigan, le brigadier Pistache, M. Francois et les deux spahis furent conduits des leur arrivee a Zenfig.

Hadjar ne leur avait point adresse une seule parole, et Sohar, qui les amena au bordj sous l’escorte d’une douzaine de Touareg, ne repondit a aucune de leurs questions.

Il va sans dire que, lors de l’attaque du campement, le capitaine Hardigan et ses compagnons n’avaient pas eu la possibilite de se jeter sur leurs armes, sabres, revolvers, carabines. Ils furent d’ailleurs fouilles, depouilles du peu d’argent qu’ils portaient sur eux, et il n’est pas jusqu’a M. Francois, legitimement indigne, auquel ces malappris n’eussent enleve son rasoir.

Lorsque Sohar les eut laisses seuls, le capitaine et l’ingenieur prirent soin tout d’abord d’explorer le bordj.

“Quand on est enferme dans une prison, observa M. de Schaller, la premiere chose a faire est de la visiter…

— Et la seconde de s’en echapper”, ajouta le capitaine Hardigan.

Tous parcoururent donc la cour interieure, au milieu de laquelle se dressait le minaret. Il fallut bien le reconnaitre, les murailles qui l’entouraient, hautes d’une vingtaine de pieds, seraient infranchissables. On n’y decouvrit aucune breche comme il en existait au sour exterieur qui bordait le chemin de ronde. Une seule porte, ouvrant sur ce chemin, donnait acces dans la cour centrale. Elle avait ete refermee par Sohar, et ses epais battants, garnis de bandes de fer, n’auraient pu etre defonces. Or, on ne pouvait sortir que par cette porte et encore etait-il vraisemblable que les abords du bordj ne resteraient pas sans surveillance.

La nuit etait venue, une nuit que les prisonniers passeraient dans une complete obscurite. Ils n’auraient pu se procurer aucune lumiere. D’aliments quelconques, pas davantage. Pendant les premieres heures, en vain attendirent-ils que des vivres fussent apportes, et aussi de l’eau, car la soif les devorait. La porte ne s’ouvrit pas.

C’etait a la clarte du court crepuscule que les prisonniers avaient visite la cour, et ils se reunirent ensuite dans une des chambres y attenant ou des bottes d’alfa seche leur servaient de couchettes. C’est alors qu’ils s’abandonnerent a de fort tristes reflexions. Au cours des quelques propos qu’ils echangerent, le brigadier fut amene a dire: “Est-ce que ces gueux-la voudraient nous laisser mourir de faim?”

Non, ce n’etait pas ce qu’il y avait a craindre. Avant la derniere etape, a dix kilometres de Zenfig, la bande de Touareg avait fait halte, et les captifs avaient eu leur part des provisions chargees sur les meharis. Assurement, le soir venu, le capitaine Hardigan et ses compagnons auraient volontiers pris quelque nourriture. Mais la faim ne deviendrait intolerable que le lendemain, si, des l’aube, on ne leur fournissait pas des vivres en quantite suffisante.

“Essayons de dormir, dit l’ingenieur…

— Et de rever que nous sommes en face d’une table bien servie, ajouta le brigadier: des cotelettes, une oie farcie, une salade…

— N’achevez pas, brigadier, recommanda M. Francois, et comme on se contenterait d’une bonne soupe au lard!”

Maintenant, quelles etaient les intentions de Hadjar a l’egard de ses prisonniers? Il avait certainement reconnu le capitaine Hardigan. Ne voudrait-il pas le punir, a present qu’il le tenait? Ne le ferait-il pas mettre a mort et ses compagnons avec lui?…

“Je ne le pense pas, declara M. de Schaller. Il n’est pas probable que notre vie soit menacee… Les Touareg, au contraire, ont interet a nous garder comme otages en prevision de l’avenir. Or, pour empecher que les travaux du canal ne s’achevent, il est a supposer que Hadjar et les Touareg renouvelleront leurs attaques contre le chantier du kilometre 347, si les ouvriers de la Societe y reviennent. Hadjar peut echouer dans une nouvelle tentative… Il peut retomber entre les mains des autorites et, cette fois, on le garderait si bien qu’il ne parviendrait pas a s’enfuir. Il est donc bon pour lui que nous soyons encore en son pouvoir… jusqu’au jour ou Hadjar, menace d’etre repris a son tour, viendrait dire: “Ma vie et celle de mes compagnons pour celle de mes prisonniers”, il serait assurement ecoute… Et j’estime que ce jour est prochain, car le double coup d’audace de Hadjar doit etre connu a l’heure qu’il est, et bientot il aura en face de lui troupes, maghzen et goums envoyes a notre delivrance.

— Il est possible que vous ayez raison, repondit le capitaine Hardigan. Mais ne point oublier que ce Hadjar est un homme vindicatif et cruel… Sa reputation est etablie a cet egard. Raisonner comme nous raisonnerions, nous, ce n’est pas dans sa nature. Il a une vengeance personnelle a exercer…

— Et precisement contre vous, mon capitaine, fit observer le brigadier Pistache, puisque vous l’aviez proprement pince il y a quelques semaines.

— En effet, brigadier, et meme je m’etonne que, m’ayant reconnu, sachant qui je suis, il ne se soit pas tout d’abord livre a quelque violence!… Au surplus, nous verrons… Ce qui est certain, c’est que nous sommes entre ses mains, et que nous ignorons le sort de Villette et de Pointar, comme ils ignorent le notre.

“Cela dit, je ne suis point homme, mon cher de Schaller, a etre le prix de la liberte de Hadjar, ni a etre le trophee de sa vie de brigand.

“Coute que coute, il faut nous echapper, et, lorsque le moment propice me semblera venu, je ferai l’impossible pour sortir d’ici; mais, pour moi, je veux etre libre et non un prisonnier echange quand je paraitrai devant mes camarades et je veux aussi garder ma vie pour me retrouver, revolver ou sabre en main, face a face avec le brigand qui, par surprise, s’est empare de nous.”

Si le capitaine Hardigan et M. de Schaller meditaient des plans d’evasion, Pistache et M. Francois, quelque decides qu’ils fussent a suivre leurs chefs, comptaient davantage sur le secours du dehors, et peut-etre meme sur l’intelligence de leur ami Coupe-a-coeur.

Telle etait, de fait, la situation, il fallait bien le reconnaitre.

On ne l’a point oublie, depuis leur depart, Coupe-a-coeur avait suivi les prisonniers jusqu’a Zenfig, sans que les Touareg eussent voulu le chasser. Mais, lorsque le capitaine Hardigan et ses compagnons furent conduits au bordj, on ne laissa point le fidele animal les y rejoindre. Etait-ce intentionnellement?… Il eut ete difficile de se prononcer. Ce qui n’est pas douteux, c’est que tous regrettaient de ne point l’avoir avec eux. Et, pourtant, s’il eut ete la, quel service aurait-il pu leur rendre, si intelligent et si devoue qu’il fut?…

“On ne sait pas… on ne sait pas… repetait le brigadier Pistache en causant avec M. Francois. Les chiens… ils ont des idees d’instinct que n’ont pas les hommes. En parlant a Coupe-a-coeur de son maitre Nicol, de son ami Va-d’l’avant, peut-etre que de lui-meme il se lancerait a leur recherche? Il est vrai que, puisque nous ne pouvons sortir de cette maudite cour, Coupe-a-coeur ne le pourrait pas non plus!… N’importe, je voudrais l’avoir ici!… Et pourvu que ces brutes ne lui fassent point de mal!”

M. Francois se contenta de hocher la tete sans repondre, en frottant son menton et ses joues, deja rudes sous la poussee des premiers poils.

Les prisonniers, ayant vainement attendu qu’on leur apportat quelque nourriture, n’avaient plus qu’a prendre un peu de repos dont ils sentaient grand besoin. Apres s’etre etendus sur les bottes d’alfa, tous parvinrent a s’endormir plus ou moins tard, et ils se reveillerent d’une assez mauvaise nuit des la pointe du jour.

“De ce que nous n’avons pas soupe hier soir, objecta justement M. Francois, faut-il en conclure que nous ne dejeunerons pas ce matin?…

— Ce serait facheux, je dirais meme deplorable!…” repliqua le brigadier Pistache qui baillait a se decrocher les machoires, non pas de sommeil, cette fois, mais de faim.

Les prisonniers ne tarderent pas a etre fixes sur cette tres interessante question. Une heure apres, Ahmet et une douzaine de Touareg penetraient dans la cour et y deposaient du meme gateau que celui de la veille, de la viande froide, des dattes, de quoi suffire a dix personnes pour une journee. Quelques cruches contenaient une bonne quantite d’eau, puisee a l’oued qui traversait l’oasis de Zenfig.

Une fois encore, le capitaine Hardigan voulut connaitre le sort que le chef touareg leur reservait, et il questionna Ahmet.

Celui-ci, pas plus que Sohar la veille, ne consentit a repondre. Il avait sans doute des ordres a ce sujet, et il quitta la cour sans avoir prononce une seule parole. Trois jours s’ecoulerent et n’apporterent aucun changement a la situation. Chercher a s’evader du bordj, c’etait impossible, du moins en escaladant les hautes murailles, escalade impossible a effectuer faute d’echelle. Peut-etre, ces murs franchis en profitant de l’obscurite, le capitaine Hardigan et ses compagnons auraient-ils pu s’enfuir a travers l’oasis? Il ne semblait meme pas que le bordj fut surveille exterieurement, et, ni le jour ni la nuit, un bruit de pas ne resonnait sur le chemin de ronde. A quoi bon d’ailleurs, les murs opposaient un obstacle infranchissable et la porte de la cour n’aurait pu etre forcee.

Du reste, des le premier jour de leur incarceration, le brigadier Pistache avait pu reconnaitre la disposition de l’oasis. A la suite de maints efforts, et non sans avoir risque cent fois de se rompre le cou, il etait parvenu, en montant l’escalier delabre, a atteindre l’extremite du minaret, decoiffe de sa calotte superieure.

De la, en regardant a travers les dernieres embrasures, assure de ne point etre apercu, il avait observe le large panorama qui se deroulait a ses yeux.

Sous lui, autour du bordj, s’etendait la bourgade entre les arbres de l’oasis de Zenfig. Au-dela se prolongeait le territoire de l’Hinguiz sur une longueur de trois a quatre kilometres a l’est et a l’ouest. Face au nord se rangeaient les habitations en plus grand nombre, tres blanches au milieu de la sombre verdure. A la place occupee par l’une d’elles, a l’ensemble des constructions que ses murs entouraient, au mouvement qui se produisait devant sa porte, au nombre d’etendards dont la brise deployait l’etamine au-dessus de son entree, le brigadier se dit, non sans raison, que cette habitation devait etre la demeure de Hadjar, et il ne se trompait pas.

Dans l’apres-midi du 20, ayant repris son poste d’observation a l’extremite du minaret, le brigadier remarqua une grande animation dans la bourgade dont les maisons se vidaient peu a peu. Et meme, a travers l’oasis, il semblait bien que nombre d’indigenes arrivaient des divers points de l’Hinguiz. Et ce n’etaient point des caravanes de commerce, car aucun mehari, aucune bete de somme ne les accompagnait.

Qui sait si, a l’appel de Hadjar, une importante assemblee ne se reunissait pas ce jour-la a Zenfig?… Et de fait, la place principale fut bientot envahie par une foule nombreuse.

Voyant ce qui se passait, le brigadier se dit que son capitaine devait en etre informe, et il l’appela.

Le capitaine Hardigan n’hesita pas a rejoindre Pistache dans l’etroit reduit du minaret, mais ce ne fut pas sans de penibles efforts qu’il parvint a se hisser pres de lui.

Pas d’erreur, pas de doute, une sorte de palabre comptant plusieurs centaines de Touareg etait reunie en ce moment a Zenfig. Des cris, on les entendait, des gestes, on les voyait du haut de la “souma’ah”, et cette effervescence ne prit fin qu’a l’arrivee d’un personnage, suivi d’un homme et d’une femme, qui sortirent de la maison indiquee par le brigadier comme devant etre celle du chef touareg.

“C’est Hadjar… c’est lui! s’ecria le capitaine Hardigan. Je le reconnais…

— Vous avez raison, mon capitaine, repondit Pistache, et je le reconnais aussi.”

C’etait Hadjar, en effet, avec sa mere Djemma, son frere Sohar, et, des leur entree sur la place, ils furent acclames.

Puis le silence se fit. Hadjar, entoure de la foule, prit la parole, et, pendant une heure, parfois interrompu par des clameurs enthousiastes, il harangua cette masse d’indigenes. Mais les discours qu’il prononca ne pouvaient etre entendus du capitaine ni du brigadier. De nouveaux cris furent pousses, lorsque la reunion s’acheva, et, Hadjar ayant regagne son habitation, la bourgade retrouva sa tranquillite habituelle.

Le capitaine Hardigan et Pistache redescendirent aussitot dans la cour, et firent part a leurs compagnons de ce qu’ils avaient observe.

“Je pense, dit l’ingenieur, que cette reunion aura ete faite pour protester contre l’inondation des chotts, et qu’elle sera suivie de quelque nouvelle agression, sans doute…

— Je le crois aussi, declara le capitaine Hardigan. Cela pourrait indiquer que Pointar s’est reinstalle a la section du Goleah.

— A moins qu’il ne s’agisse de nous, dit le brigadier Pistache, et que tous ces coquins n’aient ete reunis que pour assister au massacre des prisonniers!…”

Un long silence suivit cette observation. Le capitaine et l’ingenieur avaient echange un regard qui trahissait leurs secretes pensees. Que le chef targui fut resolu a exercer des represailles, qu’il voulut donner l’exemple d’une execution publique, que diverses tribus de l’Hinguiz eussent ete convoquees a Zenfig dans ce but, n’y avait-il pas lieu de le craindre?… Et, d’autre part, comment conserver l’espoir qu’un secours quelconque put arriver, soit de Biskra, soit de Goleah, puisque le lieutenant Villette devait ignorer a quel endroit les prisonniers avaient ete conduits, et aussi entre les mains de quelle tribu ils etaient tombes?…

Or, avant de descendre du minaret, le capitaine Hardigan et le brigadier avaient une derniere fois parcouru du regard toute la partie du Melrir qui s’etendait devant eux. Desert au nord comme au sud, deserte egalement la portion qui se prolongeait a l’est et a l’ouest des deux cotes de l’Hinguiz, qui deviendrait ile apres l’inondation du chott. Aucune caravane ne se montrait, a travers la vaste depression. Quant au detachement du lieutenant Villette, en admettant que ses recherches l’eussent amene vers Zenfig, qu’auraient pu faire ses quelques hommes contre la bourgade?…

Il n’y avait donc plus qu’a attendre les evenements et dans quelles apprehensions! D’un instant a l’autre, la porte du bordj n’allait-elle pas s’ouvrir pour donner passage a Hadjar et aux siens?…

Serait-il possible de leur resister, si le chef targui les faisait entrainer vers la place pour etre mis a mort?… Et, ce qui ne serait pas fait aujourd’hui, ne se ferait-il pas demain?…

La journee s’ecoula, cependant, et sans apporter aucun changement a la situation. Les quelques provisions deposees le matin dans la cour leur suffirent, et, le soir venu, ils vinrent s’etendre sur la litiere d’alfa, dans la chambre ou ils avaient passe les nuits precedentes.

Mais ils y etaient depuis une demi-heure a peine, lorsqu’un bruit se fit entendre au-dehors. Est-ce donc que quelque Targui remontait le chemin de ronde?… Est-ce que la porte allait s’ouvrir?… Est-ce que Hadjar envoyait chercher les prisonniers?…

Le brigadier s’etait leve aussitot, et, blotti contre la porte, il ecoutait.

Ce n’etait pas un bruit de pas qui arrivait a son oreille, mais plutot une sorte de jappement sourd et plaintif. Un chien rodait le long du sour exterieur.

“Coupe-a-coeur… c’est lui! c’est lui!…” s’ecria Pistache.

Et se couchant au ras du seuil: “Coupe-a-coeur… Coupe-a-coeur!… repeta-t-il. C’est toi, mon bon chien?…”

L’animal reconnut la voix du brigadier comme il eut reconnu celle de son maitre Nicol, et repondit par de nouveaux aboiements a demi contenus.

“Oui… c’est nous… Coupe-a-coeur… c’est nous!… repetait encore Pistache. Ah! si tu pouvais retrouver le marchef, et son vieux frere, ton ami Va-d’l’avant… Va-d’l’avant… entends-tu, et les prevenir que nous sommes enfermes dans cette cassine!…”

Le capitaine Hardigan et les autres s’etaient rapproches de la porte. S’ils avaient pu se servir du chien pour communiquer avec leurs compagnons!… Un billet attache a son collier… Et qui sait si, rien que par son instinct, le fidele animal n’aurait pas retrouve le lieutenant?… Et Villette, apprenant ou etaient ses compagnons, aurait pris des mesures pour les delivrer!…

Dans tous les cas, il ne fallait pas que Coupe-a-coeur fut surpris dans le chemin de ronde a la porte du bordj. Aussi le brigadier lui repeta-t-il: “Va… mon chien, va!”

Coupe-a-coeur le comprit, car il s’en alla, apres avoir donne un dernier jappement d’adieu.

Le lendemain, comme la veille, des provisions furent apportees des la premiere heure et il y eut lieu de penser que la situation des prisonniers ne serait pas encore modifiee ce jour-la.

Pendant la nuit suivante, le chien ne revint pas; du moins, Pistache qui le guettait ne l’entendit point. Et il se demanda si le pauvre animal n’avait pas recu quelque mauvais coup et si on ne devait plus le revoir…

Les deux journees qui suivirent ne se signalerent par aucun incident, et l’on ne constata aucune nouvelle animation dans la bourgade.

Le 24, vers onze heures, le capitaine Hardigan, en observation au haut du minaret, remarqua un certain mouvement a Zenfig. Il se faisait comme un tumulte de chevaux, un bruit d’armes qui n’etait pas habituel. En meme temps, la population se porta en masse sur la place principale, vers laquelle se dirigeaient de nombreux cavaliers.

Etait-ce donc ce jour-la que le capitaine Hardigan et ses compagnons allaient y etre amenes devant Hadjar?…

Non, cette fois encore, il n’en fut rien. Tout, au contraire, annoncait un prochain depart du chef targui. A cheval, au milieu de la place, il passait en revue une centaine de Touareg, montes comme lui.

Une demi-heure apres, Hadjar se mettait a la tete de cette troupe, et, au sortir de la bourgade, il se dirigeait vers l’est de l’Hinguiz.

Le capitaine redescendit aussitot dans la cour et annonca ce depart a ses compagnons.

“C’est quelque expedition contre Goleah, ou les travaux auront ete repris, sans doute, dit l’ingenieur.

— Et qui sait si Hadjar ne va pas se rencontrer avec Villette et son detachement?… observa le capitaine.

— Oui… tout est possible, mais ca n’est pas sur, repondit le brigadier. Ce qui est certain toutefois, c’est que, puisque Hadjar et ses gueux ont quitte la bourgade, c’est le moment de fuir…

— Comment?…” demanda un des spahis.

Oui… comment?… comment profiter de l’occasion qui venait de se presenter?… Les murs du bordj n’etaient-ils pas toujours infranchissables? La porte, solidement fermee a l’exterieur, pouvait-elle etre forcee?… D’autre part, de qui attendre un secours?…

Il vint pourtant, ce secours, et voici dans quelles conditions.

Pendant la nuit suivante, ainsi qu’il l’avait fait une premiere fois, le chien fit entendre de sourds aboiements, en meme temps qu’il grattait le sol pres de la porte.

Guide par son instinct, Coupe-a-coeur avait decouvert une breche sous cette partie du sour, un trou a demi comble de terre qui communiquait de l’exterieur a l’interieur.

Et, tout a coup, le brigadier, qui ne s’y attendait guere, le vit apparaitre dans la cour.

Oui! Coupe-a-coeur etait pres de lui, sautant, aboyant, et il eut quelque peine a contenir le brave animal.

Aussitot, le capitaine Hardigan, M. de Schaller, les autres de se jeter hors de la chambre, et, le chien revenant au trou qu’il venait de franchir, ils le suivirent.

La etait l’orifice d’un etroit boyau, dont il suffirait d’enlever un peu de pierres et de terre pour qu’un homme put s’y glisser.

Oui… bien inattendue et dont il fallait profiter cette nuit meme, avant que Hadjar ne fut de retour a Zenfig.

Et, pourtant, traverser la bourgade puis l’oasis ne serait pas sans offrir de serieuses difficultes!… Comment les fugitifs se dirigeraient-ils au milieu de cette obscurite profonde?… Ne risquaient-ils pas d’etre rencontres, meme par la troupe de Hadjar?… Et les cinquante kilometres qui les separaient de Goleah, comment les franchiraient-ils, sans vivres, n’ayant pour se nourrir que les fruits ou les racines des oasis?

Aucun d’eux ne voulut rien voir de ces dangers. Ils n’hesiterent pas un instant a s’enfuir. Ils suivirent le chien vers ce trou, a travers lequel il disparut le premier: “Passe, dit l’officier a Pistache.

— Apres vous, mon capitaine”, repondit le brigadier.

Il y eut certaines precautions a prendre, pour ne point provoquer un eboulement de la muraille. Les prisonniers y parvinrent, et, apres une dizaine de minutes, atteignirent le chemin de ronde.

La nuit etait tres obscure, nuageuse, sans etoiles. Le capitaine Hardigan et ses compagnons n’auraient su en quelle direction aller si le chien n’eut ete la pour les guider. Ils n’eurent qu’a se fier a l’intelligent animal. Du reste, il ne se rencontrait personne aux approches du bordj, sur les pentes duquel ils se laisserent glisser jusqu’a la lisiere des premiers arbres.

Il etait alors onze heures du soir. Le silence regnait dans la bourgade, et des fenetres des habitations, veritables embrasures, ne filtrait aucune lueur.

Les fugitifs marchant a pas sourds s’engagerent a travers les arbres, et, sur la limite de l’oasis, ils n’avaient rencontre personne.

La, a ce moment, un homme, portant une lanterne allumee, parut devant eux.

Ils le reconnurent et il les reconnut.

C’etait Mezaki, qui regagnait son habitation de ce cote de la bourgade.

Mezaki n’eut pas meme le temps de pousser un cri. Le chien lui avait saute a la gorge, et il tombait sans vie sur le sol.

“Bien… bien… Coupe-a-coeur”, dit le brigadier.

Le capitaine et ses compagnons n’avaient plus a s’inquieter de ce miserable qui gisait sans vie a cette place, et, d’un pas rapide, ils suivirent, la lisiere de l’Hinguiz en se dirigeant vers l’est du Melrir.

XV. EN FUITE.

C’etait apres avoir murement reflechi sur ce qu’il y avait a faire a la suite d’une evasion que le capitaine Hardigan avait pris cette direction de l’est. A l’oppose, sans doute, un peu au-dela de la lisiere occidentale du Melrir, se trouvait la piste frequentee de Touggourt que suivait le trace du Transsaharien, et d’ou il aurait ete facile de gagner Biskra avec securite en temps ordinaire. Mais cette partie du chott, il ne la connaissait pas, etant venu par l’est de Goleah a Zenfig, et remonter L’Hinguiz vers l’ouest, c’etait non seulement l’inconnu, mais le risque d’y rencontrer des gens postes par Hadjar pour surveiller les troupes pouvant arriver de Biskra par ce cote. D’ailleurs le parcours etait a peu pres egal entre Zenfig et le terminus du canal. Les ouvriers pouvaient etre revenus en force au chantier. Et puis, a rallier Goleah, peut-etre rejoindrait-on le detachement du lieutenant Villette qui devait plutot effectuer ses recherches en cette portion du Djerid… Enfin, de ce cote s’etait elance Coupe-a-coeur a travers l’oasis, et comme le pensait le brigadier, il avait “ses raison pour cela!” et ne convenait-il pas de s’en rapporter a la sagacite de Coupe-a-coeur? Aussi avait-il dit: “Mon capitaine, il n’y a qu’a le suivre! Il ne se trompera pas!… Et d’ailleurs, il y voit la nuit comme le jour!… Je vous l’affirme, c’est un chien qui a des yeux de chat!…

— Suivons-le”, avait repondu le capitaine Hardigan.

C’etait ce qu’il y avait de mieux a faire. Au milieu de cette obscurite profonde, dans le dedale de l’oasis, les fugitifs auraient risque d’errer autour de la bourgade sans s’en eloigner. Tres heureusement, a se laisser guider par Coupe-a-coeur, ils atteignirent assez promptement la lisiere septentrionale de l’Hinguiz et n’eurent qu’a en longer la rive.

Il etait d’autant plus necessaire de ne point s’en ecarter, que, en dehors, le Melrir ne presentait qu’un sol dangereux, troue de fondrieres desquelles il eut ete impossible de se tirer. Les passes praticables qui circulaient entre elles n’etaient connues que des Touareg de Zenfig et des bourgades voisines, qui faisaient metier de guides, et, le plus souvent, n’offrant leurs services que pour piller les caravanes.

Les fugitifs marchaient d’un pas rapide, et n’avaient eu aucune mauvaise rencontre, lorsque, le jour se levant, ils firent halte dans un bois de palmiers. Etant donne la difficulte de s’aventurer en pleines tenebres, ils ne devaient pas estimer a plus de sept ou huit kilometres la distance parcourue pendant cette etape. Il en resterait donc une vingtaine pour atteindre la pointe extreme de l’Hinguiz, et, au-dela, a peu pres autant a travers le chott, jusqu’a l’oasis de Goleah.

En cet endroit, fatigue de cette marche de nuit, le capitaine Hardigan jugea a propos de se reposer une heure. Ce bois etait desert, et les bourgades les plus rapprochees occupaient la limite meridionale de cette future ile centrale. Il serait donc facile de les eviter. Du reste, aussi loin que le regard pouvait s’etendre vers l’est, la troupe de Hadjar ne se laissait point apercevoir. Partie de Zenfig depuis une quinzaine d’heures, elle devait etre loin deja.

Mais, si la fatigue obligeait les fugitifs a prendre un peu de repos, ce repos ne suffirait pas a les remettre, s’ils ne se procuraient quelque nourriture. Les provisions ayant ete epuisees pendant les dernieres heures passees au bordj, ils ne pouvaient compter que sur les fruits a cueillir en traversant les oasis de l’Hinguiz, rien que des dattes, des baies et peut-etre aussi certaines racines comestibles que connaissait bien Pistache. Le briquet et l’amadou ne manquaient ni aux uns ni aux autres, et, cuites sur un feu de bois sec, ces racines fournissaient une alimentation plus substantielle.

Oui… dans ces conditions, il y avait lieu d’esperer que le capitaine Hardigan et ses compagnons satisferaient leur faim, leur soif aussi, car plusieurs oueds sillonnaient l’Hinguiz. Peut-etre meme attraperaient-ils quelque gibier de poil ou de plume avec le concours de Coupe-a-coeur. Mais toute chance de ce genre s’evanouirait, lorsqu’ils feraient route a travers les plaines sablonneuses du chott, sur ces terrains saliferes ou ne poussaient que quelques touffes de driss, impropres a l’alimentation.

Apres tout, puisque les prisonniers etaient venus en deux jours, sous la conduite de Sohar, de Goleah a Zenfig, les fugitifs mettraient-ils plus de temps de Zenfig a Goleah?… Oui, assurement, et pour deux raisons: la premiere c’est qu’ils n’avaient pas de chevaux cette fois, la seconde, c’est que, ne connaissant pas les passes praticables, leur marche serait forcement retardee a chercher.

“Somme toute, observa le capitaine, il ne s’agit que d’une cinquantaine de kilometres… Ce soir, nous en aurons fait la moitie… Apres une nuit de repos, on se remettra en route, et, meme s’il faut le double de temps pour l’autre moitie, nous serons en vue des berges du canal dans la soiree d’apres-demain.”

Apres cette halte d’une heure, s’etant nourris uniquement de dattes, les fugitifs suivirent le long de la lisiere, en se dissimulant de leur mieux. Le temps etait couvert. A peine si quelques rayons de soleil filtraient entre les dechirures de nuages. Meme la pluie menacait, mais par bonne chance elle ne tomba pas.

La premiere etape prit fin a midi. Aucune alerte ne s’etait produite. On n’avait pas rencontre un seul indigene. Quant a la bande de Hadjar, nul doute qu’elle ne fut deja de trente ou quarante kilometres dans l’est.

La halte dura une heure. Les dattes ne manquaient point, et le brigadier deterra des racines qu’on fit cuire sous la cendre. On s’en nourrit tant bien que mal, et Coupe-a-coeur dut s’en contenter.

Le soir, vingt-cinq kilometres avaient ete franchis depuis Zenfig, et le capitaine Hardigan s’arretait a la pointe est de l’Hinguiz.

C’etait sur la bordure de la derniere oasis. Au-dela s’etendaient les vastes solitudes de la depression, l’immense aire etincelante d’efflorescences salines, sur laquelle, faute de guide, le cheminement allait etre non moins difficile que dangereux. Mais enfin les prisonniers etaient loin de leur prison, et si Ahmet et autres s’etaient mis a les poursuivre, du moins n’avaient-ils pas retrouve leurs traces.

Tous avaient grand besoin de repos. Quelque interet qu’ils eussent a gagner au plus tot Goleah, ils durent passer la nuit en cet endroit. D’ailleurs, se hasarder au milieu de l’obscurite sur ces terrains mouvants au-dela de l’Hinguiz aurait ete trop imprudent. C’est a peine s’ils s’en tireraient en plein jour! N’ayant point a craindre le froid a cette epoque de l’annee et sous cette latitude, ils se blottirent au pied d’un bouquet de palmiers.

Sans doute, il eut ete sage que l’un d’eux, surveillat les approches de ce campement. Le brigadier s’offrit meme pour rester de garde pendant les premieres heures, quitte a etre releve par les deux spahis. Tandis que ses compagnons tombaient dans un lourd sommeil, il se tint a son poste en compagnie de Coupe-a-coeur. Mais, a peine un quart d’heure ecoule, Pistache ne put resister a l’envie de dormir. Ce fut presque inconsciemment qu’il s’assit d’abord, puis s’etendit sur le sol, et ses yeux se fermerent malgre lui.

Heureusement le fidele Coupe-a-coeur faisait meilleure garde, et ce fut heureux, car, un peu avant minuit, les sourds aboiements qui lui echapperent reveillerent les dormeurs.

“Alerte… alerte!…” s’ecria le brigadier, qui venait de se relever brusquement.

En un instant, le capitaine Hardigan se retrouva sur pied.

“Ecoutez, mon capitaine!” dit Pistache.

Un violent tumulte se produisait sur la gauche du bouquet d’arbres, un bruit de branches brisees, de buissons dechires, a quelques centaines de pas de la.

“Est-ce donc que les Touareg de Zenfig nous poursuivent et seraient sur notre piste?…”

Et pouvait-il etre douteux que, l’evasion des prisonniers constatee, les Touareg ne fussent lances a leur poursuite?…

Le capitaine Hardigan, apres avoir prete l’oreille, fut d’accord avec le brigadier pour dire: “Non… ce ne sont pas des indigenes!… Ils auraient essaye de nous surprendre!… Ils ne feraient pas ce bruit!…

— Mais alors?… demanda l’ingenieur.

— Ce sont des animaux… des fauves, qui rodent a travers l’oasis”, declara le brigadier.

En effet, le campement n’etait point menace par les Touareg, mais par un ou plusieurs lions, dont la presence n’en constituait pas moins un grand danger.

S’ils se jetaient sur le campement, serait-il, possible de leur resister, sans une arme pour se defendre?…

Le chien donnait les signes de la plus vive agitation. Le brigadier eut grand-peine a le contenir, a l’empecher d’aboyer, et de se jeter vers l’endroit ou les hurlements eclataient avec fureur.

Que se passait-il donc?… Est-ce que ces fauves se battaient entre eux, se disputaient une proie avec cet acharnement?… Est-ce qu’ils avaient decouvert les fugitifs sous le bouquet d’arbres?… Est-ce qu’ils allaient se precipiter sur eux?…

Il y eut la quelques minutes de profonde anxiete. S’ils avaient ete decouverts, le capitaine Hardigan et ses compagnons seraient vite rejoints! Mieux valait attendre, attendre a cette place, et, tout d’abord, se hisser sur les arbres pour eviter une attaque.

Ce fut l’ordre que donna le capitaine, et il allait etre execute, lorsque le chien, s’echappant des mains du brigadier, disparut vers la droite du campement.

“Ici… Coupe-a-coeur! ici…” cria Pistache.

Mais l’animal, ou ne l’entendit pas ou ne voulut pas l’entendre, et ne revint pas.

En ce moment, ce tumulte, ces hurlements semblerent s’eloigner. Peu a peu, ils diminuerent, et finirent par cesser. Et les seuls bruits encore perceptibles ne furent que les aboiements de Coupe-a-coeur qui ne tarda pas a reparaitre.

“Partis… ces fauves sont assurement partis! dit le capitaine Hardigan… Ils n’avaient point vent de notre presence!… Nous n’avons plus rien a craindre…

— Mais qu’a donc Coupe-a-coeur?… s’ecria Pistache qui, en caressant le chien, sentait ses mains humides de sang. Est-ce qu’il est blesse?… Est-ce qu’il a recu la bas quelque coup de griffe?…”

Non… Coupe-a-coeur ne se plaignait pas… Il gambadait, il sautait, il allait vers la droite et revenait aussitot. On eut dit qu’il cherchait a entrainer le brigadier de ce cote, et, comme celui-ci se disposait a le suivre: “Non… restez, Pistache, ordonna le capitaine… Attendons la pointe du jour, et nous verrons ce qu’il faudra faire…”

Le brigadier obeit. Chacun reprit la place qu’il avait quittee aux premiers hurlements des fauves, et aussi son sommeil si brusquement interrompu.

Ce sommeil ne fut pas trouble, et, quand les fugitifs se reveillerent, le soleil commencait a deborder l’horizon a l’orient du Melrir.

Mais voici que Coupe-a-coeur s’elanca sous bois, et, quand il revint, cette fois, il fut constate que son poil portait des traces d’un sang frais.

“Decidement, dit l’ingenieur, il y a la quelque bete blessee ou morte… Un de ces lions qui se sont battus entre eux…

— Dommage que ca ne soit pas bon a manger, car on en mangerait dit un des spahis.

— Allons voir”, repondit le capitaine Hardigan.

Tous suivirent le chien qui les guidait en aboyant, et, a une centaine de pas, ils trouverent un animal qui nageait dans son sang.

Ce n’etait point un lion, mais une antilope de grande taille, que les fauves avaient etranglee, pour laquelle ils s’etaient battus sans doute, et qu’ils avaient abandonnee, tant la fureur les excitait les uns contre les autres.

“Ah! fameux cela… fameux!” s’ecria le brigadier. Voila un gibier que nous n’aurions jamais pris!… Il arrive a propos, et nous aurions une reserve de viande pour tout notre voyage!”

C’etait la, vraiment, une heureuse chance! Les fugitifs n’en seraient plus reduits aux racines et aux dattes. Les spahis et Pistache se mirent aussitot a la besogne, et detacherent les meilleurs morceaux de l’antilope dont ils donnerent sa part a Coupe-a-coeur. Cela faisait quelques kilos de bonne chair qu’ils rapporterent au campement. On alluma du feu, on placa quelques tranches sur les charbons ardents, et, si tous se regalerent de succulentes grillades, il n’y a pas lieu d’y insister.

En verite, chacun avait repris de nouvelles forces apres ce dejeuner inattendu ou la viande remplacait les fruits. Et, des qu’il fut termine a la satisfaction generale: “En route, dit le capitaine Hardigan. Il ne faut pas s’attarder… une poursuite des Touareg de Zenfig est toujours a redouter.”

En effet, et, avant de quitter leur campement, les fugitifs observerent-ils avec grande attention toute cette lisiere de l’Hinguiz qui se prolongeait vers la bourgade. Elle etait deserte et, sur toute l’etendue du chott, a l’est comme a l’ouest, ne se montrait aucune creature vivante. Et, non seulement les fauves et les ruminants ne s’aventuraient jamais sur ces regions desolees, mais les oiseaux eux-memes ne les traversaient point a tire-d’aile. Et pourquoi l’eussent-ils fait? puisque les diverses oasis de l’Hinguiz leur procuraient des ressources que n’aurait pas fournies l’aride surface du chott?

D’ailleurs, a cette observation que fit le capitaine Hardigan: “Ils en deviendront les hotes habituels, repondit l’ingenieur: oiseaux de mer, du moins, goelands, mouettes, fregates, alcyons, lorsque le Melrir sera change en un vaste lac, et, sous les eaux, se glisseront les poissons et les cetaces mediterraneens! Et je crois deja voir, a toute voile ou a toute vapeur, les flottilles de guerre et de commerce sillonner la nouvelle mer!

— En attendant que le chott soit rempli, monsieur l’ingenieur, declara le brigadier Pistache, m’est avis qu’il faut profiter de ce qu’il ne l’est pas encore pour regagner le canal. A esperer qu’un batiment vienne nous prendre ou nous sommes, il y aurait de quoi perdre patience…

— Sans doute, repondit M. de Schaller, mais je persiste a penser que la complete inondation du Rharsa et du Melrir s’effectuera en moins de temps qu’on ne l’a suppose…

— A ne pas durer plus d’un an, repliqua en riant le capitaine, ce serait trop pour nous! Et, des que nos preparatifs seront termines, je donnerai le signal du depart.

— Allons, M. Francois, dit alors le brigadier, il va falloir jouer des jambes, et puissiez-vous faire bientot une halte dans une bourgade qui possedera une boutique de barbier, car nous finirions par avoir une barbe de sapeur!…

— De sapeur!” murmura M. Francois, qui ne se reconnaissait deja plus lorsque les eaux d’un oued lui refletaient son visage.

Les preparatifs ne pouvaient etre ni longs ni compliques dans les conditions ou se trouvaient alors les fugitifs. Cependant, ce qui les retarda un peu ce matin-la, ce fut la necessite d’assurer leur nourriture pour les deux jours de marche jusqu’a Goleah. Ils n’avaient a leur disposition que les morceaux de l’antilope dont une partie seulement etait consommee. Or, pendant cette traversee du Melrir, ou le bois ferait defaut, comment allumer du feu?… Ici, du moins, le combustible ne manquait pas, et les branches, rompues par les violentes rafales du Djerid, jonchaient le sol.

Le brigadier et les deux spahis procederent donc a cette besogne. En une demi-heure, des tranches de cette excellente viande eurent grille sur les charbons. Puis, lorsqu’elles furent refroidies, Pistache les reunit en six parts egales et chacun prit la sienne, qu’il enveloppa de feuilles fraiches.

Il etait sept heures du matin, a en juger par la position du soleil au-dessus de l’horizon, qui se levait au milieu de brumes rougeatres annoncant une chaude journee. Cette fois, durant leurs etapes, le capitaine et ses compagnons n’auraient plus l’abri des arbres de l’Hinguiz contre les ardeurs des rayons solaires.

A cette regrettable circonstance il s’enjoignait une autre, dont le danger etait des plus serieux. Tant que les fugitifs avaient suivi la lisiere ombreuse, le risque d’etre apercus, et, des lors, d’etre poursuivis, etait en grande partie diminue. Mais, lorsqu’ils franchiraient a decouvert les longues sebkhas du chott, qui sait si leur passage ne serait pas signale?… Et, si quelque bande de Touareg croisait leur route, ou se refugier pour eviter leur rencontre?… Et puis, si, ce jour-la ou le lendemain, Hadjar et sa troupe revenaient vers Zenfig?…

Qu’on ajoute a ces perils les difficultes de la marche sur ces terrains mouvants du Melrir, dont ni l’ingenieur ni le capitaine ne connaissaient les passes, et l’on se rendra compte des dangers que presentait ce parcours de vingt-cinq kilometres entre la pointe de l’Hinguiz et le chantier de Goleah!

Le capitaine Hardigan et M. de Schaller n’etaient pas sans y avoir reflechi, et ils y songeaient encore. Mais ces redoutables eventualites, il fallait a tout prix s’y exposer. En somme, tous etaient energiques, vigoureux, capables de grands efforts.

“En route!… dit le capitaine.

— Oui… en route… bonne troupe!” repondit le brigadier Pistache qui, non sans raison, crut devoir modifier ainsi la vieille locution populaire.

THE LIGHTHOUSE AT THE END OF THE WORLD

This 1906 novel is now attributed to Michel Verne, the son of the famous writer, though Verne himself wrote a draft in 1901. The novel features three keepers, who are left to tend the new lighthouse on Staten Island, an island located 200 km NE of Cape Horn in the Atlantic Ocean. Unfortunately Staten has other residents, a group of pirates who’ve been waiting for the opportunity to seize a vessel with which to leave the island.

Due to copyright restrictions on the English translation, only the French text is available in this edition.

CHAPITRE III

En route.

Par le Pacific Canadian railway, touristes, commercants, emigrants, chercheurs d’or, a destination du Klondike, peuvent se transporter directement sans changer de ligne, sans quitter le Dominion, de Montreal a Vancouver. Debarques dans cette metropole colombienne, il leur reste a choisir entre differentes routes, terrestres, fluviales ou maritimes, et a combiner les divers modes de transport possibles, bateaux, chevaux, voitures, plus le mode pedestre dans la majeure partie du parcours.

Le depart etant resolu, Summy Skim n’aurait qu’a s’en rapporter, pour tous les details du voyage, l’acquisition du materiel, le choix des routes, a son cousin Ben Raddle. Ce serait proprement l’affaire de cet ambitieux mais intelligent ingenieur, seul promoteur de l’entreprise, a qui en reviendraient et qui en acceptait toutes les responsabilites.

En premier lieu, Ben Raddle observa tres justement que le depart ne pouvait etre retarde. Il importait que les heritiers de Josias Lacoste fussent rendus au Klondike au debut de l’ete, un ete qui ne rechauffe que pendant tres peu de mois cette region hyperboreenne, situee a la limite du cercle polaire arctique.

Eu effet, lorsqu’il consulta le code des lois minieres canadiennes, applicables au district du Yukon, il y lut un certain article 9 ainsi concu:

<<<Tout claim retournera au domaine public, qui restera sans etre creuse pendant quinze fois vingt-quatre heures, durant la belle saison (definie par le commissaire), a moins d’une permission speciale de ce dernier.>>>

Or, le debut de la belle saison, pour peu qu’il soit precoce, se fait dans la seconde moitie de mai. Donc, a cette epoque, si l’exploitation du claim 129 chomait plus de quinze jours, la propriete de Josias Lacoste reviendrait au Dominion, et, tres vraisemblablement, le syndicat americain ne manquerait pas de signaler a l’Administration tout motif de decheance de la propriete qu’il convoitait.

<<<Tu comprends, Summy, declara Ben Raddle, qu’il ne faut pas nous laisser devancer.

— Je comprends tout ce que tu veux que je comprenne, mon cher ami, repondit Summy Skim.

— D’autant plus que j’ai parfaitement raison, ajouta l’ingenieur.

— Je n’en doute pas, Ben. D’ailleurs, je ne repugne en aucune facon a quitter Montreal tout de suite, si cela doit nous permettre d’y revenir plus tot.

— Nous ne serons au Klondike que le temps necessaire, Summy.

— C’est entendu, Ben. A quelle date le depart?..

— Le 2 avril, repondit Ben Raddle. Dans une dizaine de jours.

Summy Skim, les bras croises, la tete penchee, eut fort envie de s’ecrier: <<<Quoi!.. Si tot!..>>> Mais il se tut, puisque gemir n’eut servi a rien.

Au surplus, Ben Raddle agissait sagement en fixant le 2 avril comme date extreme du depart. Son itineraire sous les yeux, il s’embarqua dans une serie d’observations, herissees de chiffres qu’il maniait avec une incontestable competence.

— Pour nous rendre au Klondike, dit-il, nous n’avons pas a choisir entre deux routes, puisqu’il n’y en a qu’une. Peut-etre un jour ira-t-on rejoindre le Yukon en passant par Edmonton et le fort Saint-John et en suivant la Peace River, qui traverse, au nord-est de la Colombie, le district du Cassiar…

— Une contree giboyeuse s’il en fut, ai-je entendu dire, interrompit Summy Skim, s’abandonnant a ses reves cynegetiques. Au fait, pourquoi ne pas suivre ce chemin?

— Parce qu’il nous faudrait, en quittant Edmonton, faire quatorze cents kilometres par terre, a travers des regions a peu pres inexplorees.

— Alors quelle direction comptes-tu adopter, Ben?

— Celle de Vancouver, sans aucun doute. Voici des chiffres tres exacts qui te fixeront sur la longueur de l’itineraire: De Montreal a Vancouver on compte quatre mille six cent soixante-quinze kilometres et, de Vancouver a Dawson City, deux mille quatre cent quatre-vingt-neuf.

— Soit au total, dit Summy Skim, en chiffrant l’operation: Cinq et neuf quatorze, je retiens un; huit et huit seize, je retiens un; sept et quatre onze, je retiens un; cinq et deux, sept… Soit sept mille cent soixante-quatre kilometres.

— Exactement, Summy.

— Eh bien, Ben, si nous rapportons autant de kilogrammes d’or que nous aurons fait de kilometres!..

— Cela vaudra, au taux actuel de deux mille trois cent quarante francs le kilogramme, seize millions sept cent soixante-trois mille sept cent soixante francs.

— Pourvu, murmura Summy Skim entre ses dents, que nous rapportions seulement les sept cent soixante francs!

— Tu dis, Summy?

— Rien, mon cher Ben. Absolument rien.

— Une telle somme, reprit Ben Raddle, ne me surprendrait pas. Le geographe John Minn n’a-t-il pas declare que l’Alaska produirait plus d’or que la Californie, dont le rendement a ete pourtant do quatre cent cinq millions, rien que dans l’annee mil huit cent soixante et un? Pourquoi le Klondike n’ajouterait-il pas sa, bonne part aux vingt-cinq milliards de francs qui composent la fortune aurifere de notre globe?

— Ca me parait extremement probable, approuva Summy avec une sage prudence. Mais, Ben, il faut songer aux preparatifs… On ne s’en va pas la-bas, dans ce pays invraisemblable, en n’emportant qu’une chemise de rechange et deux paires de chaussettes.

— Ne t’inquiete de rien, Summy, je me charge de tout. Tu n’auras qu’a monter dans le train a Montreal, pour en descendre a Vancouver. Quant a nos preparatifs, ce ne seront pas ceux de l’emigrant qui, errant a l’aventure dans une contree lointaine, est oblige d’avoir un materiel considerable. Le notre est tout rendu. Nous le trouverons sur le claim de l’oncle Josias. Nous n’avons a nous occuper que du transport de nos personnes…

— Eh! c’est quelque chose! s’ecria Summy Skim. Elles valent la peine que l’on prenne certaines precautions… surtout contre le froid… brrrrr… je me sens deja gele jusqu’au bout des ongles.

— Allons donc! Summy, lorsque nous arriverons a Dawson City la belle saison battra son plein.

— Mais la mauvaise reviendra.

— Sois tranquille, repondit Ben Raddle. Meme l’hiver tu ne manqueras de rien. Bons vetements, bonne nourriture. Tu reviendras plus gras qu’au depart.

— Ah! non! je n’en demande pas tant, protesta Summy Skim, qui avait pris le parti de se resigner. Je te previens que, si je dois engraisser seulement de dix livres, je reste!

— Plaisante, Summy, plaisante tant que tu voudras… mais aie confiance.

— Oui…, la confiance est obligatoire. Il est donc entendu que, le 2 avril, nous nous mettrons en route en qualite d’eldoradores…

— Oui… Ce delai me suffira pour nos preparatifs.

— Alors, Ben, puisque j’ai une dizaine de jours devant moi, j’irai les passer a la campagne.

— A ta guise, approuva Ben Raddle, bien qu’il ne doive pas encore faire beau a Green Valley.

Summy Skim aurait pu repondre qu’en tout cas ce temps-la vaudrait celui du Klondike. Mais il prefera s’abstenir, et se contenta d’affirmer qu’il aurait grand plaisir a se retrouver pendant quelques jours au milieu de ses fermiers, a revoir ses champs, meme blancs de neige, les belles forets toutes chargees de givre, les rios cuirasses de glace et la masse solidifiee des embacles du Saint-Laurent. Et puis, par les grands froids, l’occasion ne manque point au chasseur d’abattre quelque superbe piece, poil ou plume, sans parler des fauves, ours, pumas ou autres, qui rodent aux environs. C’etait comme un adieu que Summy Skim voulait adresser a tous les hotes de la region…

— Tu devrais m’accompagner, Ben, dit-il.

— Y penses-tu? repondit l’ingenieur. Et qui s’occuperait des preparatifs de depart?>>>

Des le lendemain, Summy Skim prit le chemin de fer, trouva a la gare de Green Valley un <<<stage>>> bien attele, et, dans l’apres-midi, descendit a la ferme. Comme toujours, Summy Skim se montra tres sensible a l’affectueux accueil qu’il y recut. Mais, lorsque les fermiers connurent le motif d’une si precoce visite, lorsqu’ils apprirent que tout l’ete se passerait sans que leur maitre fut avec eux, ils ne cacherent point le chagrin que leur causait celle nouvelle.

<<<Oui, mes amis, dit Summy Skim, Ben Raddle et moi nous allons au Klondike, un pays du diable, qui est a tous les diables, si loin qu’il ne faut pas moins de deux mois, rien que pour y arriver et autant pour en revenir.

— Et tout cela pour ramasser des pepites! dit un des paysans en haussant les epaules.

— Quand on en ramasse, ajouta un vieux philosophe, qui secoua la tete d’un air peu encourageant.

— Que voulez-vous, mes amis, dit Summy Skim, c’est comme une lievre, ou plutot une epidemie, qui, de temps en temps, traverse le monde, et qui fait bien des victimes!

— Mais pourquoi s’en aller la-bas, not’ maitre? demanda la doyenne de la ferme.

Et alors Summy Skim d’expliquer comment son cousin et lui venaient d’heriter d’un claim apres la mort de leur oncle Josias Lacoste, et pour quelles raisons Ben Raddle estimait leur presence necessaire au Klondike.

— Oui, reprit le vieux, nous avons entendu parler de ce qui se passe a la frontiere du Dominion, et surtout des miseres de tant de pauvres gens qui succombent a la peine! Enfin, monsieur Summy, il n’est point question que vous restiez dans ce pays, et, lorsque vous aurez vendu votre tas de boue, vous reviendrez…

— Croyez-le bien, mes amis! Mais, en attendant, cinq a six mois s’ecouleront, et la belle saison sera a son terme!.. C’est un ete que je vais perdre!..

— Et, ete perdu, hiver plus triste encore! ajouta une vieille, qui se signa et dit:

<<<Dieu vous protege, not’ maitre!>>>

Apres une semaine passee a Green Valley, Summy Skim pensa qu’il etait temps de rejoindre Ben Raddle. Ce ne fut pas sans emotion, une emotion partagee de tous, qu’il prit conge de ces braves gens. Et songer que, dans quelques semaines, le soleil d’avril se leverait sur l’horizon de Green Valley, que, de toute cette neige, sortiraient les premieres verdures du printemps, que, sans ce maudit voyage, il serait revenu, comme il le faisait chaque annee, s’installer dans ce pavillon jusqu’au retour des premiers froids de l’hiver! Pendant ces huit jours, il avait confusement espere qu’une lettre de Ben Raddle arriverait a Green Valley et lui apprendrait qu’il n’y avait pas lieu de donner suite a leurs projets. Mais la lettre n’etait pas venue… Rien n’etait change… Le depart s’effectuerait a la date fixee… Aussi Summy Skim dut-il se faire conduire a la gare, et, le 31 mars, dans la matinee, il etait a Montreal en face de son terrible cousin.

<<<Rien de nouveau?… demanda-t-il en se plantant devant lui comme un point d’interrogation.

— Rien, Summy, si ce n’est que nos preparatifs sont acheves.

— Ainsi tu t’es procure…

— Tout, sauf les vivres que nous trouverons en route, repondit Ben Raddle. Je ne me suis occupe que des vetements. Quant aux armes, tu as les tiennes, et j’ai les miennes. Deux bons fusils dont nous avons l’habitude et l’equipement complet du chasseur. Mais, comme il n’est pas possible de renouveler la-bas sa garde-robe, voici les divers objets d’habillement que nous emportons chacun par prudence: chemises de flanelle, camisoles et calerons en laine, jersey d’epais tricot, costume de velours a cotes, pantalons de gros drap et pantalons de toile, costume de toile bleue, veste de cuir avec fourrure en dedans et capuchon, vetement impermeable de marin avec coiffure idem, manteau en caoutchouc, six paires de chaussettes ajustees et six paires de chaussettes d’un numero plus grand, mitaines fourrees et gants de cuir, bottes de chasse a gros clous, mocassins a tiges, raquettes, mouchoirs, serviettes…

— Eh! s’ecria Summy Skim en levant les mains vers le ciel, veux-tu donc creer un bazar dans la capitale du Klondike? En voila pour dix ans!

— Non, deux ans seulement!

— Seulement, repeta Summy. <<<Seulement>>> est tout bonnement epouvantable. Voyons, Ben, il ne s’agit que d’aller a Dawson City, de ceder le claim 129 et de revenir a Montreal. Il ne faut pas deux ans pour cela, que diable!

— Sans doute, Summy, si on nous donne du claim 129 ce qu’il vaut.

— Et si on ne nous le donne pas?

— Nous aviserons, Summy!>>>

Dans l’impossibilite d’obtenir une autre reponse, Summy Skim n’insista pas.

Le 2 avril, des le matin, les deux cousins etaient a la gare ou leurs bagages avaient ete transportes. Cela ne formait pas un gros volume au total, et leur materiel de prospecteurs ne deviendrait veritablement un embarrassant <<<impedimentum>>> qu’apres avoir ete complete a Vancouver.

Si, avant de quitter Montreal, ils se fussent adresses a la Compagnie du Canadian Pacific, les voyageurs auraient pu prendre des billets de steamer pour Skagway. Mais Ben Raddle n’avait pas encore decide quelle voie ils suivraient pour gagner Dawson City, la route maritime et fluviale qui remonte le Yukon, depuis son embouchure jusqu’a la capitale du Klondike, ou la route terrestre qui, au dela de Skagway, se deroule a travers les montagnes, les plaines et les lacs de la Colombie britannique.

Ils etaient donc enfin partis, les deux cousins, l’un entrainant l’autre, celui-ci resigne, celui-la plein de confiance, mais, au demeurant, tous deux confortablement installes dans un excellent pulmann-car. C’est bien le moins que l’on veuille avoir toutes ses aises, lorsqu’il s’agit d’un voyage de quatre mille sept cents kilometres, dont la duree est de six jours, entre Montreal et Vancouver.

En quittant Montreal, le train traverse cette partie du Dominion qui comprend les districts si varies de l’Est et du Centre. C’est seulement apres avoir depasse la region des grands lacs qu’il entre dans une contree moins populeuse et parfois deserte, surtout aux approches de la Colombie.

Le temps etait beau, l’air vif, le ciel voile de legeres brumes. La colonne thermometrique oscillait autour de zero. A perte de vue se developpaient les plaines toutes blanches, qui, dans quelques semaines, deviendraient verdoyantes, et dont les multiples rios seraient degages de glace. De nombreuses troupes d’oiseaux, devancant le train, se dirigeaient vers l’Ouest a grands coups d’aile. De chaque cote de la voie, sur la couche de neige, on pouvait relever des empreintes d’animaux, jusqu’aux forets de l’horizon. Voila des pistes qu’il eut ete aise de suivre et qui eussent mene a quelque beau coup de fusil!

Mais il etait bien question de chasse, a present! S’il y avait des chasseurs dans ce train en marche sur Vancouver, ce n’etaient que des chasseurs de pepites, et les chiens qui les accompagnaient n’etaient point dresses a l’arret des perdrix ou des lievres, ni a la poursuite des daims ou des ours. Non, simples betes de trait, leur destin etait de tirer les traineaux sur la glace solidifiee des lacs et des cours d’eau, dans cette partie de la Colombie comprise entre Skagway et le district du Klondike.

La fievre de l’or n’etait a vrai dire qu’a son debut. Mais des nouvelles arrivaient constamment annoncant la decouverte de nombreux gisements sur l’Eldorado, la Bonanza, le Hunter, le Bear, le Gold Bottom et tous les affluents de la Klondike River. On parlait de claims ou le prospecteur lavait jusqu’a quinze cents francs d’or au plat. Aussi l’affluence des emigrants ne cessait-elle pas de s’accroitre. Ils se jetaient sur le Klondike comme ils s’etaient jetes sur l’Australie, la Californie, le Transvaal, et les compagnies de transport commencaient a etre debordees. D’ailleurs, ceux qu’emportait ce train, ce n’etaient point des representants de societes ou de syndicats formes avec l’appui des grandes banques de l’Amerique ou de l’Europe. Ceux-la, pourvus d’excellent materiel, largement ravitailles en vetements et en vivres par des services speciaux, peuvent n’avoir aucune crainte de l’avenir. Non! il n’y avait la que de ces pauvres gens en proie a toutes les rigueurs de l’existence, que la misere chasse de leur pays, qui peuvent tout risquer, n’ayant rien a perdre, et dont, il faut bien l’avouer, l’espoir de quelque coup de fortune trouble la cervelle.

Cependant le train de la Transcontinental courait a toute vapeur. Summy Skim et Ben Raddle n’auraient pas pu se plaindre du manque de confort au cours de ce long voyage: un drawing-room a leur disposition pendant la journee, un bed-room pour y passer la nuit, un smoking-room ou ils pouvaient fumer a leur aise comme dans les meilleurs cafes de Montreal, un dining-room ou la qualite des mets et le service ne laissaient rien a desirer, un wagon-bain, s’ils voulaient se baigner en route. Mais tout cela n’empechait pas Summy Skim de soupirer en pensant a son pavillon de Green Valley!

Ottawa. Rideau Falls; Post Office et Palais du Parlement

En quatre heures, le train eut atteint Ottawa, la capitale du Dominion, qui, du haut d’une colline, domine la contree environnante, cite superbe dont la pretention plus ou moins justifiee est d’occuper le centre du monde.

Au dela, pres de Carlton Junction, on aurait pu apercevoir sa rivale, Toronto, l’ancienne capitale aujourd’hui detronee.

Winnipeg. Main Street

Courant alors directement vers l’Ouest, le train gagna la station de Sudbury, ou la ligne se divise en deux branches, contree enrichie par l’exploitation des mines de nickel. Ce fut la branche nord qui fut suivie pour contourner le Lac Superieur et aboutir a Port Arthur, pres de Fort William. A Heron Bay, a Schreiber et a toutes les stations du vaste lac, l’arret avait ete assez long pour que les deux cousins pussent, s’ils l’avaient desire, se rendre compte de l’importance de ces ports en eau douce. Puis, par Bonheur, Ignace, Eagle River, a travers une region dont les mines font la fortune, ils arriverent a l’importante cite de Winnipeg.

C’est bien la qu’en d’autres circonstances une halte de quelques heures eut paru trop courte a Summy Skim, desireux de garder au moins un souvenir de son voyage. S’il n’eut pas ete hypnotise par le Klondike, sans doute eut-il volontiers consacre un jour ou deux a visiter cette cite de quarante mille habitants et les villes avoisinantes du Western Canada… Malheureusement, Summy Skim n’etait pas en etat de s’interesser aces contingences. Le train reprit donc ses voyageurs, veritables colis humains pour la plupart, qui ne voyageaient pas pour leur plaisir, mais pour arriver a destination par le plus vite et par le plus court.

C’est en vain que Ben Raddle essaya de reveiller l’attention du coproprietaire de Green Valley.

<<<Tu ne remarques pas, Summy, suggera-t-il, avec quelle perfection toute cette contree est cultivee?..

— Ah! fit mollement Summy Skim.

— Et quelles immenses prairies elle possede. Les buffles y frequentent, dit-on, par milliers. Voila une belle chasse, Summy!..

— Assurement, conceda Summy Skim sans la moindre amenite, j’aimerais mieux passer ici six mois, et meme six ans, que six semaines au Klondike.

— Bah! s’il n’y a pas de buffles aux environs de Dawson City, repliqua Ben Raddle en riant, tu te rattraperas sur les orignals.>>>

Regina City depassee, le train se dirigea vers la Crow New Pass des Montagnes Rocheuses, puis vers les frontieres de la Colombie britannique, apres avoir stationne pendant quelques heures a Calgary City.

C’est de cette ville que se detache, vers Edmonton, ou cesse la ligne ferree, un embranchement que prennent quelquefois les emigrants pour se rendre au Klondike, En passant par Peace River et Fort Saint-John, puis par Dease, Francis et Pelly Rivers, celte route relie le nord-est de la Colombie au Yukon a travers le district de Cassiar, si celebre au point de vue cynegetique. C’est une route de chasseurs, que Summy Skim eut certainement preferee s’il avait ete la pour son plaisir. Mais, difficile et longue, elle oblige le voyageur a des ravitaillements frequents, sur un parcours qui excede deux mille kilometres. Il est vrai, cette contree est particulierement aurifere; on peut laver dans presque tous ses cours d’eau. Malheureusement, elle est denuee de ressources, et ne deviendra praticable que le jour ou le gouvernement canadien y aura etabli des relais de quinze en quinze lieues.

Pendant la traversee des Rocheuses, il fut loisible aux voyageurs d’entrevoir ces montagnes orgueilleuses eternellement coiffees de leur calotte de neige. Au milieu de ces solitudes glacees regnait le <<<silence of all life>>>, que troublait seul le haletement de la locomotive.

A mesure que le train gagnait vers l’Ouest, des regions s’ouvraient devant lui, non point riches enterres fertiles, auxquelles le travail assure les beaux rendements d’un sol que la production n’a pas encore epuise. Non!.. C’etaient des territoires de Koota-way, ces Gold Fields du Cariboo, ou l’or fut rencontre et se rencontre abondamment encore, tout ce reseau hydrographique qui roule des paillettes du precieux metal. Il y avait meme lieu de se demander pourquoi les prospecteurs ne frequentaient pas plus assidument un pays qu’il etait aise d’atteindre, au lieu d’affronter les fatigues d’un lointain voyage au Klondike, sans parler des depenses excessives qu’il exige.

<<<En verite, fit observer Summy Skim, c’est bien dans ce Cariboo que l’oncle Josias aurait du venir tenter la fortune!.. Nous serions arrives maintenant… Ce qu’aurait valu son exploitation, nous le saurions a l’heure presente! Nous en aurions fait argent dans les vingt-quatre heures, et notre absence n’aurait pas dure plus d’une semaine!..>>>

Summy Skim avait raison. Mais il etait sans doute ecrit sur le grand livre de sa destinee qu’il s’aventurerait jusqu’a cette terrifiante region du Klondike, et pataugerait dans les boues du Forty Miles Creek.

Et c’est pourquoi le train continuait sa route, entrainait Summy Skim toujours plus loin de Montreal et de Green Valley, l’emportait vers la frontiere littorale de la Colombie, et finalement, sans qu’aucun incident eut trouble le voyage, le deposait, le 8 avril, a cote de son cousin Ben Raddle, sur le quai de la gare de Vancouver.

CHAPITRE VII

Le Chilkoot.

Bill Stell avait raison de preferer la passe du Chilkoot a la White Pass. Cette derniere, il est vrai, on peut la suivre en sortant de Skagway, tandis que la premiere ne commence qu’a Dyea; mais, apres la White Pass, il reste environ huit lieues a faire dans des conditions deplorables pour atteindre le lac Bennet, alors que seize kilometres seulement separent le lac Lindeman de la passe du Chilkoot, et ce lac conduit sans peine au lac Bennett, dont son extremite superieure n’est distante que de trois kilometres.

Que la passe du Chilkoot, plus dure que la White Pass, comporte un talus presque vertical de mille pieds a gravir, cela n’etait pas pour embarrasser des gens que n’encombrait aucun lourd materiel. Au dela du Chilkoot, ils trouveraient une route suffisamment entretenue qui aboutit au lac Lindeman. Cette premiere section du voyage a travers la barriere montagneuse du territoire n’offrirait donc pas, sinon de grandes fatigues, du moins de grandes difficultes.

Le 27 avril, a six heures du matin, Bill Stell donna le signal du depart. Edith et Jane Edgerton, Summy Skim et Ben Raddle, le Scout et les six hommes a son service quitterent Skagway et prirent la route du Chilkoot. Deux traineaux atteles de mules devaient suffire a cette partie du voyage qui se terminait a la pointe sud du lac Lindeman ou Bill Stell avait etabli son poste principal. Ce parcours ne pouvait s’effectuer en moins de trois a quatre jours dans les circonstances les plus favorables.

Un des traineaux portait les bagages. L’autre etait destine aux deux jeunes filles, qu’un amoncellement de couvertures et de pelleteries defendait contre une bise extremement vive. Elles n’avaient jamais imagine, on s’en doute, que leur voyage s’accomplirait de la sorte, et, glissant un bout de nez rose hors de ses fourrures, Edith, a plusieurs reprises, adressa a Summy Skim des remerciements que celui-ci s’obstinait a ne point entendre.

Ben Raddle et lui etaient trop heureux de pouvoir leur etre utiles. Quelle agreable compagnie pour un si affreux voyage! Bill Stell lui-meme en etait enchante.

Du reste, le Scout n’avait point cache a Edith avec quelle impatience elle etait attendue a Dawson City. L’hopital etait litteralement encombre, et plusieurs gardes-malades avaient ete atteintes par les differentes epidemies qui decimaient la ville. La fievre typhoide, plus particulierement, desolait alors la capitale du Klondike. C’est par centaines que l’on comptait les victimes, parmi ces malheureux emigrants qui arrivaient, anemies, surmenes, epuises, apres avoir laisse tant de leurs compagnons sur la route.

<<<Charmant pays, decidement! se disait Summy Skim. Nous, encore, nous ne ferons qu’y passer!.. Mais ces deux petites, qui vont braver de tels dangers, et qui ne reviendront peut-etre pas!..>>> Il avait semble inutile d’emporter des vivres pour la traversee du Chilkoot, afin de diminuer le poids a transporter sur ces rudes pentes. Le Scout connaissait, sinon des hotels, du moins des <<<lodgings>>>, auberges des plus rudimentaires, ou l’on trouvait a se nourrir, et meme, a la rigueur, un logement pour la nuit. A de hauts prix, il est vrai. On paye un demi-dollar un lit fait d’une simple planche, et un dollar le repas qui se compose invariablement de lard et de pain a peine leve. Un confortable si relatif ne serait heureusement inevitable que pendant fort peu de jours. La caravane de Bill Stell ne serait point reduite a ce regime lorsqu’elle franchirait la region lacustre.

Le temps etait froid et la temperature se maintenait a 10 degres centigrades au-dessous de zero, avec une bise glaciale. Du moins, une fois engages a travers la <<<trace>>>, les traineaux pourraient glisser sur la neige durcie. C’etait une circonstance favorable pour les attelages. La montee etait raide, en effet. Aussi mules, chiens, chevaux, boeufs, rennes, y succombent-ils en grand nombre, et la passe du Chilkoot, comme la White Pass, est-elle semee de leurs cadavres.

En quittant Skagway, le Scout s’etait dirige vers Dyea, en suivant la rive orientale du canal. Ses traineaux, moins charges que tant d’autres qui remontaient vers le massif, auraient pu aisement les devancer. Mais deja l’encombrement etait prodigieux. Au milieu des rafales qui font rage dans ces etroits defiles et soulevent d’aveuglants tourbillons de neige, ce n’etaient que vehicules de toutes sortes, projetes en travers, voire culbutes, betes se refusant a marcher malgre les coups et les cris, violents efforts des uns pour se faire livrer passage, violente resistance des autres pour s’y opposer, materiel qu’il fallait decharger puis recharger, disputes et rixes au cours desquelles s’echangeaient injures et coups, et parfois meme des balles de revolver. Autant d’infranchissables obstacles qui barraient la route, et force etait de regler son allure sur celle du plus lent. Puis, c’etaient des attelages de chiens qui s’enchevetraient, et que de temps mettaient les conducteurs a les depetrer, au milieu des hurlements de ces animaux a demi sauvages!

La distance qui separe Skagway de la passe est courte, et, malgre les difficultes du cheminement, on peut la franchir en quelques heures. Aussi, avant midi, la caravane du Scout faisait-elle halte a Dyea.

Sur la pente de Chilkoot.

Campement pres de la crete du Chilkoot.

Au sommet du Chilkoot

Ce n’etait encore qu’une agglomeration de cabanes disposees au bout du canal. Mais quelle invraisemblable cohue! Plus de trois mille emigrants se pressaient dans cet embryon de ville, a l’oree de la passe du Chilkoot.

Desireux de mettre a profit ce temps froid, qui facilitait le trainage, Bill Stell, avec raison, entendait quitter Dyea au plus tot. A midi on repartit, Ben Raddle et Summy Skim a pied, les deux jeunes filles dans leur traineau. Il eut ete difficile de ne pas admirer les sites sauvages et grandioses que decouvrait chaque detour du defile, ces massifs de pins et de bouleaux couverts de givre qui se hissaient vers la crete, ces torrents que le froid n’avait pu saisir et qui bondissaient tumultueusement jusqu’au fond des abimes dont la profondeur echappait aux regards.

Le Sheep Camp n’etait distant que de quatre lieues. Quelques heures suffiraient a les franchir, bien que la passe se developpat en rampes tres raides et que les attelages s’arretassent frequemment. Ce n’etait pas sans peine que leurs conducteurs les obligeaient a se remettre en marche.

Tout en cheminant, Ben Raddle et Summy Skim causaient avec le Scout. Celui-ci, a une question qui lui fut posee, repondit: <<<Je compte bien arriver au Sheep Camp vers cinq ou six heures. Nous y resterons jusqu’au matin.

— Y existe-t-il une auberge ou nos deux compagnes puissent prendre quelque repos? demanda Summy Skim.

— Il y en a, repondit Bill Stell, car le Sheep Camp est un lieu de halte pour les emigrants.

— Mais, interrogea Ben Raddle, est-on certain d’y trouver de la place?

— C’est tres douteux, affirma le Scout. D’ailleurs ces auberges sont peu engageantes. Peut-etre serait-il preferable de dresser nos tentes pour passer la nuit.

— Messieurs, dit Edith qui, de son traineau, avait entendu cette conversation, nous ne voulons pas etre une cause de gene.

— De gene! repondit Summy Skim. En quoi pourriez-vous nous gener? N’avons-nous pas deux tentes? L’une vous sera reservee. Nous occuperons l’autre.

— Et avec nos deux petits poeles qui bruleront jusqu’au jour, ajouta Bill Stell, il n’y aura rien a craindre du froid, quoiqu’il soit vif actuellement.

— C’est parfait, approuva Jane en prenant la parole a son tour. Mais il doit etre bien convenu que vous n’avez pas a nous menager. Nous ne sommes pas des invitees. Nous sommes des associees qui ne meritons ni plus ni moins d’egards que les autres. Quand il faudra voyager de nuit, nous le ferons. Nous voulons etre traitees en hommes, et nous regarderions comme une injure tout ce qui pourrait ressembler a de la galanterie.

— Soyez tranquilles, declara Summy Skim en riant, et tenez pour certain que nous ne vous epargnerons ni ennuis, ni fatigues. Nous en inventerions, au besoin!>>> La caravane atteignit Sheep Camp vers six heures. En arrivant, les attelages etaient harasses. On se hata de les deteler, et les gens du Scout s’occuperent de leur nourriture.

Bill Stell avait eu raison de dire que les auberges de ce village etaient depourvues de tout confort. Elles etaient combles, d’ailleurs. Le Scout fit donc etablir les deux tentes a l’abri des arbres, un peu en dehors du Sheep Camp, de maniere a ne point etre trouble par l’effroyable tumulte de la foule.

Edith et Jane prirent a ce moment le premier role. En un clin d’oeil, les couvertures et les pelleteries des traineaux furent, par leurs soins, transformees en couches suffisamment moelleuses, et les poeles firent entendre d’agreables ronflements. Si l’on se contenta de viandes froides, du moins les boissons chaudes, the et cafe, ne firent-elles point defaut. Puis les hommes allumerent leurs pipes, et la soiree se prolongea confortablement, en depit du thermometre qui, a l’exterieur, etait tombe a 17deg au-dessous de zero.

Que de souffrances devaient eprouver ceux des emigrants qui - par centaines - n’avaient pu trouver un abri dans le Sheep Camp! Combien de femmes, d’enfants, deja epuises au debut du voyage, n’en verraient pas le terme!

Le Scout fixa le depart du lendemain a la pointe du jour, afin de devancer la foule dans la passe du Chilkoot. Le temps se maintenait sec et froid, mais, en somme, dut le thermometre baisser encore, cent fois preferable aux rafales, aux tourbillons de neige, a ces violents blizzards, si redoutes dans les hautes regions du Nord-Amerique.

La tente de Jane et d’Edith etait abattue quand les deux cousins sortirent de la leur. Aussitot, le cafe fut prepare et servi bouillant, puis la seconde tente disparut a son tour. Quelques instants plus tard, sans que la partie masculine de la caravane ait eu a s’en occuper, tout le materiel etait remis sur les traineaux, bien en ordre, et de maniere que chaque objet tint le minimum de place et put etre aisement retire sans deranger les antres. Ben Raddle, Summy Skim, et jusqu’a Bill Stell, etaient litteralement emerveilles d’une telle virtuosite. Le premier, en voyant la methode superieure des <<<associees>>>, commencait meme a penser que le contrat signe par lui dans un but charitable pourrait bien, en fin de compte, se transformer en une excellente affaire.

Quant a Summy, il admirait beatement le manege de ses jeunes compagnes, qu’il suivait pas a pas, les mains vides, offrant avec obstination un tardif concours qu’elles refusaient en riant.

L’allure n’allait pas etre plus rapide que la veille. La rampe s’accentuait a mesure que la passe gagnait vers le sommet du massif. Ce n’etait pas trop de ces mules robustes pour tirer les vehicules sur un sol inegal, rocailleux, coupe d’ornieres, et que le degel eut rendu tout a fait impraticable.

Toujours la meme foule grouillante et tumultueuse, toujours les memes obstacles qui rendent cette trace du Chilkoot si penible. Toujours des haltes forcees et parfois longues, lorsqu’un embarras de traineaux et d’attelages coupait la route. A plusieurs reprises le Scout et ses hommes durent en venir aux mains pour se frayer un passage.

Sur les cotes du sentier, les cadavres de mules se succedaient, plus nombreux a mesure qu’on gagnait en hauteur. Les uns apres les autres, ces animaux etaient tombes, tues par le froid, la fatigue et la faim, et les attelages de chiens, emportant avec eux leurs traineaux malgre les efforts des conducteurs, se precipitaient sur cette nourriture inesperee et s’en disputaient en hurlant les derniers debris.

Spectacle plus triste encore, il n’etait pas rare d’apercevoir le corps de quelque emigrant, mort de froid et de fatigue, abandonne sous les arbres ou au fond des precipices. Un exhaussement de la couche neigeuse, d’ou sortaient un pied, une main ou un bout de vetement, indiquait seul la place de la tombe ephemere qu’emporterait le premier souffle du printemps. Invinciblement d’abord, l’oeil etait attire par ces sinistres tumuli, puis, peu a peu, l’accoutumance faisait son oeuvre, et l’on passait avec une indifference grandissante.

Parfois, c’etaient des familles entieres, hommes, femmes, enfants, incapables d’aller plus loin, qui gisaient sur le sol glace, sans que personne leur vint en aide. Inlassables, Edith et Jane, aidees de leurs compagnons, s’efforcaient de porter secours a ces malheureux, de les ranimer avec un peu d’eau-de-vie. Mais que pouvaient-elles pour cette foule de miserables? Bientot, il fallait abandonner ces infortunes a leur sort, et reprendre l’ascension epuisante de ce sentier de necropole.

Toutes les cinq minutes, on etait contraint de s’arreter, soit pour laisser souffler les mules, soit a cause de l’encombrement. En quelques endroits, a des coudes brusques, le defile devenait si etroit, que le materiel emporte par certains emigrants ne parvenait pas a le franchir. Les pieces principales des bateaux demontables excedaient la largeur du sentier. De la necessite d’en decharger les vehicules, et de les faire haler une a une par les betes de trait. De la, aussi, une perte de temps considerable pour les autres attelages.

En d’autres endroits, la rampe etait si rude, que l’angle d’inclinaison depassait quarante-cinq degres. Bien que ferres a glace, les animaux, alors, se revoltaient ou, tout ou moins, se derobaient. On ne pouvait les decider a attaquer la montee qu’a grand renfort de cris et de fouet, et les crocs de leurs fers laissaient de profondes empreintes sur la neige, tachee de gouttelettes de sang.

Vers cinq heures du soir, le Scout arreta la caravane. Les mules extenuees etaient dans l’incapacite de faire un pas de plus, bien que leur charge fut faible relativement a tant d’autres. Sur la droite de la passe, s’evidait une sorte de ravin, ou des arbres resineux poussaient en grand nombre. Sous leur frondaison, les tentes trouveraient un abri contre les bourrasques que devait faire redouter le relevement de la temperature.

Bill Stell connaissait cette place ou il avait deja plus d’une fois passe la nuit. Le campement y fut organise sur ses indications.

<<<Vous craignez quelque rafale? lui demanda Ben Raddle.

— Oui, la nuit sera mauvaise, repondit le Scout, et nous ne saurions prendre trop de precautions contre les tempetes de neige, qui s’engouffrent ici comme dans un entonnoir.

— Mais, fit observer Summy Skim, nous serons en surete, grace a l’orientation de ce ravin.

— C’est pour cela que je l’ai choisi,>>> repondit Bill Stell.

L’experience du Scout ne l’avait pas trompe. La tourmente, qui commenca vers sept heures du soir et se prolongea jusqu’a cinq heures du matin, fut terrible. Elle etait accompagnee de tourbillons neigeux qui n’eussent pas permis de se voir a deux metres. On eut grand’peine a maintenir les poeles en activite, car la furie du vent refoulait les fumees a l’interieur, et il n’etait pas facile de renouveler les provisions de bois au milieu des rafales. Si les tentes resisterent, c’est que Summy Skim et Ben Raddle veillerent une partie de la nuit, avec la crainte perpetuelle que celle ou s’abritaient les jeunes filles ne fut emportee.

C’est precisement ce qui arriva pour la plupart de celles qui avaient ete dressees en dehors du ravin, et, lorsque le jour reparut, on put juger de l’importance des degats causes par la tempete. Attelages ayant rompu leurs entraves, disperses en toutes directions, traineaux culbutes, quelques-uns jusqu’au fond des precipices qui bordaient la route et dans lesquels mugissaient les torrents, familles en larmes, implorant vainement une assistance qu’il n’etait au pouvoir de personne de leur donner: c’etait un veritable desastre.

<<<Pauvres gens!.. pauvres gens!.. murmuraient les jeunes filles. Que vont-ils devenir?

— Ce n’est pas notre affaire, declara d’un ton bourru le Scout, cachant son emotion impuissante sous une apparente durete, cl, comme nous n’y pouvons rien, le mieux est de decamper au plus tot.>>> Sans tarder, il donna le signal du depart et la caravane attaqua de nouveau la montee.

Cependant la bourrasque s’etait apaisee a l’aube. Avec cette brusquerie que le thermometre constate en ces regions elevees, le vent avait hale le Nord-Est, et la temperature etait retombee a 12deg sous zero. L’epaisse couche de neige qui recouvrait le sol acquit aussitot une extreme durete.

L’aspect de la region s’etait modifie. Au dela des talus, les bois avaient fait place a de vastes plaines blanches, dont la reverberation eblouissait. Les voyageurs qui n’ont pas eu soin de se munir de lunettes bleues en sont reduits dans ce cas a saupoudrer leurs cils et leurs paupieres avec du charbon de bois.

Sur le conseil du Scout, Ben Raddle et Summy Skim prirent cette precaution, mais ils ne purent decider Edith et Jane a les imiter.

<<<Comment ferez-vous, mademoiselle Jane, pour decouvrir les pepites, quand vous aurez une bonne ophtalmie? insista vainement Ben.

— Et vous, mademoiselle Edith, rencherit Summy, comment soignerez-vous alors les malades? Ne serait-ce que pour nous, mademoiselle, car, j’en suis certain, il nous arrivera malheur dans ce pays du diable, et vous serez notre infirmiere un jour ou l’autre a l’hopital de Dawson.>>> Cette eloquence fut perdue. Les deux jeunes filles prefererent disparaitre sous la retombee de leurs capuchons et renoncer a faire usage de leurs yeux, plutot que de les barbouiller de cette maniere. Ce qui prouverait, s’il en etait besoin, que, meme chez la feministe la plus militante, l’eternelle coquetterie ne perd jamais ses droits.

Dans la soiree du 29 avril, la caravane fit halte au sommet de la passe du Chilkoot, et le Scout y etablit son campement. Le lendemain, on adopterait les mesures necessaires pour effectuer la descente sur le revers septentrional du massif.

En cet endroit, entierement decouvert et expose a toutes les rigueurs de la temperature, l’encombrement etait extraordinaire. Plus de trois mille emigrants l’occupaient alors. C’est la qu’ils organisent les <<<caches>>> ou ils abritent une partie de leur materiel. La descente ne s’effectuant pas, en effet, sans d’extremes difficultes, on ne peut proceder que par petites charges, afin d’eviter les accidents. Aussi, tous ces illumines, auxquels le mirage du Klondike donne une energie, une tenacite surnaturelles, apres etre descendus au pied de la montagne avec un premier fardeau, remontent-ils au sommet, ou ils reprennent une seconde charge, puis descendent et remontent encore, et cela quinze ou vingt fois, s’il le faut, pendant d’interminables jours. C’est alors que les chiens peuvent rendre d’inappreciables services, qu’ils soient atteles a des traineaux ou a de simples peaux do boeuf que l’on fait plus facilement glisser sur la neige durcie des pentes.

La plupart des emigrants, bravant les vents du Nord qui, battant de plein fouet ce revers du Chilkoot, allaient decupler leurs souffrances au cours de la descente, avaient fait halte a l’arete septentrionale de la passe.

De ce point, tous ces malheureux voyaient, ou croyaient voir, ouvertes devant leurs pas, les plaines du Klondike. Ils etaient a leurs pieds, ces territoires fabuleux, que leurs imaginations surchauffees transformaient en un immense champ d’or, ou germaient pour eux, pour eux seuls, une richesse infinie, une puissance surhumaine! Et toute leur ame se projetait vers le Nord mysterieux de toute la violence de leur desir, de toute la force de leur reve merveilleux, dont la plupart seraient arraches par un epouvantable reveil!

Bill Stell et sa caravane n’avaient point a prolonger leur sejour sur le sommet. Pour ces privilegies, pas de cache a etablir, et nul besoin de gravir de nouveau la pente, apres l’avoir descendue. Lorsqu’ils auraient mis le pied sur la plaine, il ne leur resterait plus a franchir qu’une distance de quelques lieues pour atteindre la pointe du lac Lindeman.

Le campement fut etabli comme d’habitude. Mais cette derniere nuit fut des plus mauvaises. Brusquement la temperature s’etait relevee, et la tourmente se remit a souffler avec une nouvelle violence. Les tentes n’ayant plus, cette fois, l’abri d’un ravin, furent, a plusieurs reprises, arrachees de leurs piquets par la rafale, et il fallut enfin les plier, sans quoi elles eussent ete emportees au milieu des tourbillons de neige. Il n’y eut d’autres ressources que de s’envelopper dans les couvertures et d’attendre philosophiquement le retour de l’aube.

<<<Et en verite, pensait Summy Skim, ce ne serait pas trop de toute la philosophie de tous les philosophes anciens et modernes pour accepter les abominations d’un tel voyage, surtout lorsque rien ne vous oblige a le faire!>>> Pendant les rares accalmies, eclataient des cris de douleur et de terreur, des imprecations horribles. Aux gemissements des blesses que le vent roulait a la surface du sol, se melaient les aboiements, les hennissements, les beuglements des betes errant effarees a travers le plateau.

L’aube du 30 avril parut enfin. Bill Stell donna le signal du depart. Les chiens, remplacant les mules, furent atteles aux traineaux sur lesquels d’ailleurs personne ne prit place, et la descente commenca.

Grace a la prudence et a l’experience du Scout, elle s’effectua sans accidents, sinon sans fatigues, et les deux traineaux atteignirent heureusement la plaine, a l’issue de la passe du Chilkoot. Le temps devenait plus favorable. Le vent, moins vif, tournait a l’Est, et le thermometre remontait. Fort heureusement, il se maintenait toutefois au-dessous de zero, car le degel eut rendu la marche plus difficile.

Au pied de la montagne, nombre d’emigrants etaient reunis dans un campement en attendant que leur materiel les eut rejoints. L’emplacement etait vaste et l’encombrement moins considerable que sur le plateau superieur. A l’entour s’etendaient des bois ou les tentes pouvaient etre dressees en toute securite.

Ce fut la que la caravane vint passer la nuit. Le lendemain elle se remettait en route, et, par un chemin assez facile, arrivait vers midi a la pointe meridionale du lac Lindeman.

VII

Cet acte inqualifiable, qui pouvait en etre l’auteur, en effet, si ce n’est celui-la seul qui avait interet a le commettre? Cette premiere attaque serait-elle suivie d’autres actes plus graves? N’etait-ce, comme nous le pensions, que le commencement des represailles contre la famille Roderich?

Le docteur Roderich fut informe de l’incident des la premiere heure par son fils, qui vint aussitot apres a l’hotel Temesvar.

On imagine aisement dans quel etat d’irritation etait le capitaine Haralan.

“C’est ce coquin qui a fait le coup! s’ecria-t-il. Comment s’y est-il pris, je l’ignore. Il ne s’en tiendra pas la, sans doute, mais je ne le laisserai pas faire!

— Gardez votre sang-froid, mon cher Haralan, dis-je, et ne commettez pas quelque imprudence qui pourrait compliquer la situation.

— Mon cher Vidal, si mon pere m’avait prevenu avant que cet homme fut sorti de l’hotel, ou si, depuis, on m’eut laisse agir, nous serions debarrasses de lui.

— Je persiste a penser, mon cher Haralan, qu’il vaut mieux que vous ne vous soyez pas mis en evidence.

— Et s’il continue?

— Il sera temps de reclamer l’intervention de la police. Songez a votre mere, a votre soeur.

— Ne vont-elles pas apprendre ce qui s’est passe?

— On ne le leur dira pas, pas plus a elles qu’a Marc. Apres le mariage, nous verrons quelle attitude il conviendra d’adopter.

— Apres?… repondit le capitaine Haralan, et s’il est trop tard?”

Ce jour-la, a l’hotel, quels que fussent les soucis caches de M. Roderich, sa femme et sa fille ne s’occupaient que de la soiree de contrat qui allait etre donnee le soir meme. Elles avaient voulu “faire bien les choses”, pour employer une maniere de parler toute francaise. Le docteur, qui ne comptait que des amis dans la societe ragzienne, avait lance des invitations en assez grand nombre. Ici, comme sur un terrain neutre, l’aristocratie magyare se rencontrerait avec l’armee, la magistrature et les fonctionnaires. Le gouverneur de Ragz avait accepte l’invitation du docteur, auquel l’unissait une amitie personnelle deja ancienne.

Les salons de l’hotel suffiraient largement a contenir les cent cinquante invites qui devaient s’y reunir ce soir-la. Quant au souper, il serait servi dans la galerie a la fin de la soiree.

Personne ne songera a s’etonner que la question de toilette eut occupe Myra Roderich dans une juste mesure, ni que Marc eut voulu y apporter son gout d’artiste, ce qu’il avait deja fait a propos du portrait de sa fiancee. D’ailleurs, Myra etait Magyare, et le Magyar, quel que soit son sexe, a le grand souci de l’habillement. C’est dans le sang, comme l’amour de la danse, amour qui va jusqu’a la passion. Aussi, ce que j’ai dit de Myra s’appliquant a toutes les dames et a tous les hommes, cette soiree promettait d’etre tres brillante.

L’apres-midi, les preparatifs furent acheves. Je restai toute cette journee chez le docteur, en attendant l’heure d’aller proceder, moi aussi, a ma toilette, comme un vrai Magyar.

A un instant ou j’etais accoude a l’une des fenetres donnant sur le quai Batthyani, j’eus l’extreme deplaisir d’apercevoir Wilhelm Storitz. Etait-ce le hasard qui l’amenait la? Non, sans doute. Il suivait le quai le long du fleuve, la tete baissee, il se redressa, et quel regard s’echappa de ses yeux! Il passa a plusieurs reprises, et Mme Roderich ne fut pas sans le remarquer. Elle le signala au docteur, qui se contenta de la rassurer, sans lui rien dire de la recente visite de l’enigmatique personnage.

J’ajouterai que, lorsque Marc et moi nous sortimes pour aller a l’hotel Temesvar, cet homme nous rencontra sur la place Magyare. Des qu’il apercut mon frere, il s’arreta d’un mouvement brusque et parut hesiter comme s’il voulait venir a nous. Mais il resta immobile, la face pale, les bras d’une raideur cataleptique… Allait-il donc tomber sur place? Ses yeux, ses yeux fulgurants, quel regard ils jetaient a Marc, qui affectait de ne point faire attention a lui! Et, lorsque nous l’eumes laisse de quelques pas en arriere:

“Tu as remarque cet individu? me demanda mon frere.

— Oui, Marc.

— C’est ce Wilhelm Storitz dont je t’ai parle.

— Je le sais.

— Tu le connais donc?

— Le capitaine Haralan me l’a montre une ou deux fois deja.

— Je croyais qu’il avait quitte Ragz? dit Marc.

— Il parait que non, ou, du moins, qu’il y est revenu…

— Peu importe, apres tout!

— Oui, peu importe”, repondis-je. Mais, a mon avis, l’absence de Wilhelm Storitz eut ete plus rassurante. Vers neuf heures du soir, les premieres voitures s’arreterent devant l’hotel Roderich, et les salons commencerent a se remplir. Le docteur, sa femme, sa fille, recevaient leurs invites a l’entree de la galerie resplendissante de l’eclat des lustres. Le gouverneur de Ragz ne tarda pas a etre annonce; ce ne fut pas sans grandes marques de sympathie que Son Excellence presenta ses compliments a la famille. Mlle Myra fut particulierement l’objet de ses prevenances, ainsi que mon frere. D’ailleurs les felicitations vinrent de toutes parts aux fiances.

Entre neuf et dix heures affluerent les autorites de la ville, les officiers, les camarades du capitaine Haralan, qui, bien que son visage me parut encore soucieux, mettait beaucoup de bonne grace a recevoir les invites. Les toilettes des dames resplendissaient au milieu des uniformes et des habits de ceremonie. Tout ce monde allait et venait a travers les salons et la galerie. On admirait les cadeaux exposes dans le cabinet du docteur, les bijoux et bibelots de prix, parmi lesquels ceux qui venaient de mon frere temoignaient d’un gout exquis. Sur une des consoles du grand salon etait depose le contrat qui serait signe au cours de la soiree. Sur une autre etait place un magnifique bouquet de roses et de fleurs d’oranger, le bouquet des fiancailles, et, suivant la coutume magyare, aupres du bouquet, sur un coussin de velours, reposait la couronne nuptiale que porterait Myra, le jour du mariage, lorsqu’elle se rendrait a la cathedrale.

La soiree comprenait trois parties, un concert et un bal, separes par la signature solennelle du contrat. Les danses ne devaient pas commencer avant minuit, et peut-etre la plupart des invites regrettaient-ils que l’heure en fut si tardive, car, je le repete, il n’est pas de divertissement auquel Hongrois et Hongroises se livrent avec plus de plaisir et de passion.

La partie musicale avait ete confiee a un remarquable orchestre de tziganes. Cet orchestre, en grand renom dans le pays magyar, ne s’etait pas encore fait entendre a Ragz. Les musiciens et leur chef prirent place a l’heure dite dans la salle.

Je ne l’ignorais pas, les Hongrois sont enthousiastes de musique. Mais, suivant une juste remarque, il existe entre les Allemands et eux une difference tres sensible dans leur maniere d’en gouter le charme. Le Magyar est un dilettante, non un executant. Il ne chante pas, ou chante peu, il ecoute, et lorsqu’il s’agit de la musique nationale, ecouter est a la fois pour lui une affaire serieuse et un plaisir d’une extraordinaire intensite.

L’orchestre se composait d’une douzaine d’executants sous la direction d’un chef. Ce qu’ils allaient jouer, c’etaient leurs plus jolis morceaux, ces “Hongroises” qui sont des chants guerriers, des marches militaires, que le Magyar, homme d’action, prefere aux reveries de la musique allemande.

Peut-etre s’etonnera-t-on que, pour une soiree de contrat, on n’eut pas choisi une musique plus nuptiale, mieux appropriee a ce genre de ceremonie. Mais ce n’est pas la tradition, et la Hongrie est le pays des traditions. Elle est fidele a ses melodies populaires, comme la Serbie a ses pesmas, comme la Valachie a ses doimas. Ce qu’il lui faut, ce sont ces airs entrainants, ces marches rythmees, qui evoquent le souvenir des champs de bataille et celebrent les exploits inoubliables de son histoire.

Les tziganes avaient revetu leurs costumes d’origine bohemienne. Je ne me lassais pas d’observer ces types si curieux, leurs visages hales, leurs yeux brillants sous de gros sourcils, leurs pommettes saillantes, la denture aigue et blanche que decouvre leur levre, leurs cheveux noirs dont la crepelure ondulait sur un front un peu fuyant.

Le repertoire de cet orchestre produisit un grand effet. Toute l’assistance ecoutait religieusement, puis s’abandonnait a des applaudissements frenetiques. Ainsi furent accueillis les morceaux les plus populaires, que les tziganes enleverent avec une maestria capable de reveiller tous les echos de la puszta.

Le temps reserve a ces auditions etait ecoule. Pour mon compte, j’avais eprouve un plaisir des plus vifs, en ce milieu magyar, alors que, dans certaines accalmies de l’orchestre, le lointain murmure du Danube arrivait jusqu’a moi.

Je n’oserais affirmer que Marc eut goute le charme de cette etrange musique. Il en etait une autre, plus douce, plus intime qui enivrait son ame. Assis pres de Myra Roderich, leurs regards se parlaient, ils se chantaient ces romances sans paroles qui ravissent le coeur des fiances.

Apres les derniers applaudissements, le chef des tziganes se leva, ses compagnons l’imiterent. Puis le docteur Roderich et le capitaine Haralan les ayant remercies en termes flatteurs, auxquels ils parurent tres sensibles, ils se retirerent.

On proceda alors sans tarder a la signature du contrat, ce qui fut fait avec toute la solennite desirable, puis il y eut ce que j’appellerai un entracte, pendant lequel les invites quitterent leurs places, se rechercherent, formerent des groupes sympathiques, quelques-uns se dispersant a travers le jardin brillamment illumine, tandis que les plateaux circulaient charges de boissons rafraichissantes.

Jusqu’a ce moment, rien n’avait trouble l’ordonnance de cette fete, et, bien commencee, il n’y avait aucune raison pour qu’elle ne finit pas de meme. Vraiment, si j’avais pu le craindre, si quelques apprehensions etaient nees dans mon esprit, je devais avoir repris toute assurance.

Aussi, je ne marchandai pas les felicitations a Mme Roderich.

“Je vous remercie, monsieur Vidal, me repondit-elle, et je suis satisfaite que mes invites aient passe la une heure agreable. Mais, au milieu de tout ce monde joyeux, je ne vois que ma chere fille et votre frere. Ils sont si heureux!…

— Madame, repliquai-je, c’est un bonheur qui vous etait du. Le plus grand que puissent rever un pere et une mere n’est-il pas celui de leurs enfants?”

Par quelle bizarre association d’idees, cette phrase assez banale me rappela-t-elle le souvenir de Wilhelm Storitz? En tout cas, le capitaine Haralan ne paraissait plus songer a lui. Son detachement etait-il naturel ou simule? Je ne sais, mais il allait d’un groupe a l’autre, animant cette fete de sa joie entrainante, et, sans doute, plus d’une jeune Hongroise le regardait avec quelque admiration. Puis, il jouissait de la sympathie que la ville entiere, on peut le dire, avait voulu en cette circonstance temoigner a sa famille.

“Mon cher capitaine, lui dis-je, lorsqu’il passa pres de moi, si la fin de la soiree vaut le commencement…

— N’en doutez pas! s’ecria-t-il. La musique, c’est bien, mais la danse, c’est mieux!

— Parbleu! repris-je, un Francais ne reculera pas devant un Magyar. Sachez que votre soeur m’a accorde la deuxieme valse.

— Pourquoi pas la premiere?

— La premiere?… Mais elle est a Marc de droit et de tradition!… Oubliez-vous donc Marc, et voulez-vous que je me fasse une affaire avec lui?

— C’est juste, mon cher Vidal. Aux deux fiances d’ouvrir le bal!”

L’orchestre des tziganes reparut et s’installa au fond de la galerie. Des tables etaient disposees dans le cabinet du docteur, de telle sorte que les gens a ce point serieux qu’ils s’interdisaient valses et mazurkas, pourraient se livrer aux plaisirs du jeu.

Or, l’orchestre etait pret a preluder, attendant que le capitaine Haralan lui en donnat le signal, lorsque du cote de la galerie, dont la porte s’ouvrait sur le jardin, se fit entendre une voix lointaine encore, d’une sonorite puissante et rude. C’etait un chant etrange, d’un rythme bizarre, auquel la tonalite manquait, des phrases que ne reliait aucun lien melodique.

Les couples formes pour la premiere valse s’etaient arretes… On ecoutait… Ne s’agissait-il pas d’une surprise ajoutee a la soiree?… Le capitaine Haralan s’etant approche de moi.

“Qu’est-ce donc? lui demandai-je.

— Je ne sais, repondit-il d’un ton ou percait une certaine inquietude.

— D’ou vient ce chant?… De la rue?…

— Non… je ne crois pas.”

En effet, celui dont la voix arrivait jusqu’a nous, devait etre dans le jardin, en marche vers la galerie. Peut-etre meme etait-il sur le point d’y entrer.

Le capitaine Haralan me saisit le bras et m’entraina pres de la porte du jardin.

Il n’y avait alors dans la galerie qu’une dizaine de personnes, sans compter l’orchestre installe au fond derriere les pupitres. Les autres invites etaient groupes dans les salons et dans la salle. Ceux qui s’etaient promenes au-dehors, pendant l’entracte, venaient de rentrer.

Le capitaine Haralan alla se placer sur le perron. Je le suivis, et nos regards purent parcourir le jardin eclaire dans toute son etendue…

Nous ne decouvrimes personne.

M. et Mme Roderich nous rejoignirent en ce moment, et le docteur dit a son fils quelques mots auxquels celui-ci repondit par un geste negatif.

Cependant, la voix continuait a se faire entendre, plus accentuee, plus imperieuse, en se rapprochant toujours…

Marc, ayant Myra a son bras, vint pres de nous dans la galerie, tandis que Mme Roderich restait au milieu des autres dames, qui l’interrogeaient, et auxquelles elle ne pouvait repondre.

“Je saurai bien!…” s’ecria le capitaine Haralan, en descendant le perron.

Le docteur Roderich, plusieurs domestiques et moi, nous le suivimes. Soudain, alors que le chanteur semblait ne plus etre qu’a quelques pas de la galerie, la voix se tut.

Le jardin fut visite, ses massifs furent fouilles. Les illuminations n’y laissant pas un coin dans l’ombre, la recherche put etre faite minutieusement… Et, pourtant, on ne trouva personne…

Etait-il possible que cette voix fut celle d’un passant attarde suivant le boulevard Tekeli?

Cela paraissait peu vraisemblable, et d’ailleurs on put constater que le boulevard etait absolument desert a cette heure.

Une seule lumiere brillait a cinq cents pas sur la gauche, la lumiere a peine visible qui s’echappait du belvedere de la maison Storitz.

Des que nous fumes rentres dans la galerie, nous ne pumes repondre a ceux des invites qui nous interrogeaient qu’en donnant le signal de la valse.

C’est ce que fit le capitaine Haralan, et les groupes aussitot se reformerent.

“Eh bien, me demanda Myra en riant, vous n’avez pas choisi votre valseuse?

— Ma valseuse, c’est vous, mademoiselle, mais pour la deuxieme seulement.

— Alors, mon cher Henri, dit Marc, nous n’allons pas te faire attendre!”

Marc se trompait. Je devais attendre plus longtemps qu’il ne croyait la valse que Myra m’avait promise. Je l’attends meme toujours, a vrai dire.

L’orchestre venait d’achever le prelude, lorsque, sans qu’on apercut le chanteur, la voix retentit de nouveau, et cette fois au milieu du salon…

Au trouble des invites se joignit alors un vif sentiment d’indignation. La voix lancait a pleins poumons le Chant de la Haine de Frederic Margrade, cet hymne allemand qui doit a sa violence une abominable celebrite. Il y avait la une provocation au patriotisme magyar, une insulte directe et voulue!

Et celui dont la voix eclatait au milieu de ce salon… on ne le voyait pas!… Il etait la pourtant, et nul ne pouvait l’apercevoir!…

Les valseurs s’etaient disperses, refluant dans la salle et dans la galerie. Une sorte de panique gagnait les invites, surtout les dames.

Le capitaine Haralan allait a travers le salon, l’oeil en feu, les mains tendues comme pour saisir l’etre qui echappait a nos regards…

En ce moment la voix cessa avec le dernier refrain du Chant de la Haine.

Et alors, j’ai vu… oui! cent personnes ont vu comme moi ce qu’elles se refusaient a croire…

Voici que le bouquet depose sur la console, le bouquet de fiancailles, est brusquement arrache, dechire, et que ses fleurs sont comme pietinees!… Voici que les morceaux du contrat jonchent le parquet!…

Cette fois, ce fut l’epouvante qui frappa tous les esprits! Chacun voulut fuir le theatre de si etranges phenomenes. Pour moi, je me demandais si j’avais bien toute ma raison et si je devais ajouter foi a ces incoherences.

Le capitaine Haralan venait de me rejoindre. Il me dit, pale de colere:

“C’est Wilhelm Storitz!”

Wilhelm Storitz?… Etait-il fou?…

S’il ne l’etait pas, j’allais le devenir a coup sur. J’etais bien eveille, je ne revais pas, et pourtant j’ai vu, oui j’ai vu de mes yeux, a cet instant, la couronne nuptiale s’enlever du coussin sur lequel elle etait placee, sans qu’on put apercevoir la main qui la tenait, traverser le salon, puis la galerie, et disparaitre entre les massifs du jardin!…

“C’en est trop!…” s’ecria le capitaine Haralan, qui sortit rapidement du salon, traversa comme une trombe le vestibule, et s’elanca sur le boulevard Tekeli.

Je me precipitai a sa suite.

L’un suivant l’autre, nous courumes vers la maison de Wilhelm Storitz, dont une fenetre en haut du belvedere brillait toujours faiblement dans la nuit. Le capitaine saisit la poignee de la grille et la secoua rudement. Sans bien savoir ce que je faisais, je joignis mes efforts aux siens. Mais la porte etait solide, et c’est a peine si nous parvenions a l’ebranler.

Depuis quelques minutes, nous nous epuisions ainsi en vain. Notre rage croissante nous enlevait tout reste de bon sens…

Soudain, la porte tourna sourdement sur ses gonds…

Le capitaine Haralan s’etait evidemment trompe en accusant Wilhelm Storitz… Wilhelm Storitz n’avait pas quitte sa maison, puisque c’est lui-meme qui nous ouvrait la porte, puisqu’il etait en personne devant nous.

VIII

Des les premieres heures du jour, le bruit des incidents dont l’hotel Roderich venait d’etre le theatre se repandit par la ville. Tout d’abord, ainsi que je m’y attendais, le public ne voulut pas admettre que ces phenomenes fussent naturels. Cependant, ils l’etaient, ils ne pouvaient pas ne pas l’etre. Quant a en donner une explication acceptable, c’etait autre chose.

Je n’ai pas besoin de dire que la soiree avait pris fin apres la scene que j’ai racontee. Marc et Myra en avaient paru desoles. Ce bouquet de fiancailles pietine, ce contrat dechire, cette couronne nuptiale volee sous leurs yeux!… A la veille du mariage quel mauvais augure!

Pendant la journee, des groupes nombreux stationnerent devant l’hotel Roderich, sous les fenetres du rez-de-chaussee qui n’avaient pas ete rouvertes. Les gens du peuple, en majorite des femmes, affluaient sur le quai Batthyani.

Dans ces groupes, on causait avec une extreme animation. Les uns s’abandonnaient aux idees les plus extravagantes; les autres se contentaient de jeter des regards peu rassures sur l’hotel.

Ni Mme Roderich ni sa fille n’etaient sorties ce matin-la suivant leur habitude. Myra etait restee pres de sa mere, dangereusement impressionnee par les scenes de la veille, et qui avait besoin du plus grand repos.

A huit heures, Marc ouvrit la porte de ma chambre. Il amenait avec lui le docteur et le capitaine Haralan. Nous avions a causer, peut-etre a convenir de quelques mesures urgentes, et mieux valait que cet entretien n’eut pas lieu a l’hotel Roderich. Mon frere et moi, nous etions rentres ensemble dans la nuit, et, de tres bonne heure, il etait alle prendre des nouvelles de Mme Roderich et de sa fiancee. Puis, sur sa proposition, le docteur et le capitaine Haralan s’etaient empresses de le suivre.

La conversation s’engagea aussitot: “Henri, me dit Marc, j’ai donne l’ordre de ne laisser monter personne. Ici, on ne peut nous entendre, et nous sommes seuls… bien seuls… dans cette chambre.”

En quel etat se trouvait mon frere! Sa figure, rayonnante de bonheur la veille, etait defaite, affreusement pale. En somme, il me sembla plus accable que ne le comportaient les circonstances.

Le docteur Roderich faisait des efforts pour se contenir, tres different de son fils, qui, les levres serrees, le regard trouble, laissait voir a quelle obsession il etait en proie.

Je me promis de conserver tout mon sang-froid.

Mon premier soin fut de m’informer de Mme Roderich et de sa fille: “Toutes deux ont ete fort eprouvees par les incidents d’hier, me repondit le docteur, et quelques jours seront necessaires pour qu’elles puissent se remettre. Cependant Myra, tres affectee d’abord, a fait appel a son energie et s’efforce de rassurer sa mere, plus frappee qu’elle. J’espere que le souvenir de cette soiree s’effacera bientot de son esprit, et, a moins que ces deplorables scenes ne se renouvellent…

— Se renouveler? dis-je. Il n’y a pas lieu de le craindre, docteur. Les circonstances dans lesquelles se sont produits ces phenomenes - puis-je appeler autrement ce qui s’est passe? - ne se representeront pas.

— Qui sait? repliqua le docteur Roderich, qui sait? Aussi ai-je grande hate que le mariage soit accompli, car je commence a croire que les menaces qui m’ont ete faites…”

Le docteur n’acheva pas cette phrase dont le sens n’etait que trop comprehensible pour le capitaine Haralan et pour moi. Quant a Marc, qui ne savait rien encore des dernieres demarches de Wilhelm Storitz, il parut ne pas avoir entendu.

Le capitaine Haralan, lui, avait son opinion. Toutefois, il garda un silence absolu, attendant sans doute que j’eusse donne mon avis sur les evenements de la veille.

“Monsieur Vidal, reprit le docteur Roderich, que pensez-vous de tout cela?”

J’estimai que j’avais plutot a jouer le role d’un sceptique, qui n’entend point prendre au serieux les etrangetes dont nous avions ete temoins. Mieux valait affecter de n’y rien voir d’extraordinaire, en raison meme de leur inexplicabilite, si l’on veut me permettre d’inventer ce mot. D’ailleurs, a vrai dire, la demande du docteur ne laissait pas de m’embarrasser.

“Monsieur Roderich, dis-je, je vous l’avoue, “tout cela”, pour employer votre expression, ne me semble pas meriter qu’on s’y arrete longtemps. Que penser, si ce n’est que nous avons ete victimes d’un mauvais plaisant? Un mystificateur s’est glisse parmi vos invites et s’est permis d’ajouter aux distractions de la soiree une scene de ventriloquie d’un effet deplorable… Vous savez combien ces exercices s’executent maintenant avec un art merveilleux…”

Le capitaine Haralan s’etait retourne vers moi, il me regardait les yeux dans les yeux, comme pour lire plus avant dans ma pensee. Son regard signifiait clairement: “Nous ne sommes pas ici pour nous payer d’explications de ce genre!”

Le docteur repondit: “Vous me permettrez, monsieur Vidal, de ne pas croire a quelque tour de passe-passe…

— Docteur, repliquai-je, je ne saurais imaginer autre chose… a moins d’une intervention que je repousse pour ma part… une intervention surnaturelle…

— Naturelle, interrompit le capitaine Haralan, mais due a des procedes dont nous n’avons pas le secret.

— Cependant, insistai-je, en ce qui concerne la voix entendue hier, cette voix qui etait bien une voix humaine, pourquoi ne serait-ce pas un effet de ventriloquie?”

Le docteur Roderich secouait la tete en homme absolument refractaire a cette explication.

“Je le repete, dis-je, il n’est pas impossible qu’un intrus ait penetre dans le salon, avec l’intention de braver le sentiment national des Magyars, de blesser leur patriotisme avec ce Chant de la Haine, venu d’Allemagne.”

Apres tout, cette hypothese etait plausible, du moment que l’on voulait se tenir dans la limite des faits purement humains. Mais, meme en l’admettant, le docteur Roderich avait une reponse tres simple a faire, et il la fit en ces termes: “Si je vous accorde, monsieur Vidal, qu’un mystificateur, ou plutot un insulteur, a pu s’introduire dans l’hotel, et que nous ayons ete dupes d’une scene de ventriloquie - ce que je me refuse a croire -, que diriez-vous du bouquet et du contrat dechires, de la couronne emportee par une main invisible?”

En effet, attribuer ces deux incidents a quelque escamoteur, si adroit qu’il fut, la raison s’y refusait. Et pourtant, il est de si habiles magiciens!

Le capitaine Haralan d’ajouter: “Parlez, mon cher Vidal. Est-ce votre ventriloque qui a detruit ce bouquet fleur a fleur, qui a dechire ce contrat en mille morceaux, qui a enleve cette couronne, l’a promenee a travers les salons, et l’a emportee comme un voleur?”

Je ne repondis pas.

“Pretendriez-vous, par hasard, reprit-il en s’animant, que nous ayons ete victimes d’une illusion?”

Non, assurement, l’illusion n’etait pas admissible, le fait s’etant passe devant plus de cent personnes!

Apres quelques instants d’un silence que je ne cherchai point a rompre, le docteur conclut: “Acceptons les choses comme elles sont et n’essayons pas de nous abuser. Nous sommes en presence de faits qui semblent echapper a toute explication naturelle, et qui ne sont pas niables. Cependant, en restant dans le domaine du reel, voyons si quelqu’un, non pas un mauvais plaisant, mais un ennemi, aurait voulu, par vengeance, troubler cette soiree de fiancailles.”

En somme, c’etait placer la question sur son veritable terrain.

“Un ennemi?… s’ecria Marc. Un ennemi de votre famille ou de la mienne, monsieur Roderich? En connaitriez-vous?

— Oui, affirma le capitaine Haralan. Celui qui avant vous, Marc, avait demande la main de ma soeur.

— Wilhelm Storitz?

— Wilhelm Storitz.”

Marc fut alors mis au courant de ce qu’il ignorait encore. Le docteur lui raconta la nouvelle tentative qu’avait faite Wilhelm Storitz quelques jours auparavant. Mon frere connut la reponse si categorique du docteur, puis les menaces proferees par son rival contre la famille Roderich, menaces de nature a justifier dans une certaine mesure le soupcon que celui-ci avait participe d’une maniere quelconque aux scenes de la veille.

“Et vous ne m’avez rien dit de tout cela!… s’ecria Marc. C’est aujourd’hui seulement, lorsque Myra est menacee, que vous m’avertissez!… Eh bien, ce Wilhelm Storitz, je vais aller le trouver, et je saurai…

— Laissez-nous ce soin, Marc, dit le capitaine Haralan. C’est la maison de mon pere qu’il a souillee de sa presence…

— C’est ma fiancee qu’il a insultee!” repondit Marc, qui ne se contenait plus.

Evidemment, la colere les egarait tous deux. Que Wilhelm Storitz eut l’intention de se venger de la famille Roderich et de mettre ses menaces a execution, soit! Mais qu’il fut intervenu dans les scenes de la veille, qu’il y eut joue personnellement un role, il etait impossible de l’etablir. Ce n’est pas sur de simples presomptions que l’on pouvait l’accuser et lui dire: “Vous etiez la, hier soir, au milieu des invites. C’est vous qui avez dechire le bouquet de fiancailles et le contrat. C’est vous qui avez enleve la couronne nuptiale.” Personne ne l’avait vu, personne.

D’ailleurs, ne l’avions-nous pas trouve chez lui? N’etait-ce pas lui-meme qui nous avait ouvert la porte de la grille? Assurement, il nous avait fait attendre un temps appreciable, tres suffisant, en tout cas, pour lui permettre de revenir de l’hotel Roderich; mais comment admettre qu’il eut pu faire le trajet sans etre apercu du capitaine Haralan ni de moi?

Tout cela, je le repetai, et j’insistai pour que Marc et le capitaine Haralan tinssent compte de mes observations dont le docteur Roderich reconnaissait la logique. Mais ils etaient trop montes pour m’entendre et voulaient se rendre sur-le-champ a la maison du boulevard Tekeli.

Enfin, apres une longue discussion, on s’arreta au seul parti raisonnable, celui que je proposai en ces termes: “Mes amis, venez a la Maison de Ville. Mettons le chef de police au courant de l’affaire, s’il ne l’est deja. Apprenons-lui quelle est la situation de cet Allemand vis-a-vis de la famille Roderich, quelles menaces il a proferees contre Marc et sa fiancee. Faisons connaitre les presomptions qui pesent sur lui. Disons meme qu’il pretend disposer de moyens pouvant defier toute puissance humaine - pure vanterie de sa part, d’ailleurs. Il appartiendra au chef de police de voir s’il n’y a pas des mesures a prendre contre cet etranger.”

N’etait-ce pas ce qu’il y avait de mieux a faire, et meme tout ce qu’il y avait a faire dans cette circonstance? La police peut intervenir plus efficacement que des particuliers. Si le capitaine Haralan et Marc se fussent rendus a la maison Storitz, peut-etre la porte ne se serait-elle pas ouverte devant eux. Auraient-ils donc essaye d’entrer par la force?… De quel droit?… Or, ce droit, la police le possedait. C’est donc a elle, a elle seule, qu’il convenait de s’adresser.

D’accord sur ce point, il fut decide que Marc retournerait a l’hotel Roderich, tandis que le docteur, le capitaine Haralan et moi, nous irions a la Maison de Ville.

Il etait dix heures et demie. Tout Ragz, ainsi que je l’ai dit, connaissait alors les incidents de la veille. En voyant le docteur et son fils se diriger vers la Maison de Ville, on devinait aisement les motifs qui les y conduisaient..

Lorsque nous fumes arrives, le docteur se fit annoncer aupres du directeur de la police, qui donna l’ordre de nous introduire immediatement dans son cabinet.

M. Henrich Stepark etait un homme de petite taille, a la physionomie energique, au regard interrogateur, d’une finesse et d’une intelligence remarquables, d’un esprit tres pratique, d’un flair tres sur. En maintes occasions, il avait fait preuve d’une grande habilete. Tout ce qu’il serait possible de faire pour eclaircir cette obscure histoire de l’hotel Roderich, on pouvait etre assure qu’il le ferait. Mais, etait-il en son pouvoir d’intervenir utilement dans des circonstances si particulieres qu’elles franchissaient les limites de la vraisemblance?

Le chef de police etait instruit comme tout le monde des details de cette affaire, sauf de ce qui n’etait connu que du docteur, du capitaine Haralan et de moi.

“Je comptais sur votre visite, monsieur Roderich, dit-il en nous accueillant, et, si vous n’etiez pas venu a mon cabinet, c’est moi qui serais alle vous voir. J’ai su, cette nuit meme, que d’etranges choses s’etaient passees dans votre hotel, et a quel propos vos invites ont eprouve une terreur assez naturelle en somme. J’ajoute que cette terreur a gagne la ville, et Ragz ne me parait pas etre pres de se calmer.”

Nous comprimes, a cette entree en matiere, que le plus simple serait d’attendre les questions de M. Stepark.

“Je vous demanderai tout d’abord, monsieur le docteur, si vous avez encouru la haine de quelqu’un, si vous pensez que, par suite de cette haine, une vengeance ait pu etre exercee contre votre famille, et precisement a propos du mariage de Mlle Myra Roderich et de M. Marc Vidal?

— Je le crois, repondit le docteur.

— Quelle serait cette personne?

— Un nomme Wilhelm Storitz.”

Ce fut le capitaine Haralan qui prononca ce nom. Le chef de police ne sembla nullement surpris. Le docteur apprit alors a M. Stepark que Wilhelm Storitz avait recherche la main de Myra Roderich, qu’il avait renouvele sa demande, et qu’apres un nouveau refus il avait menace d’empecher le mariage par des moyens qui defiaient toute puissance humaine.

“Oui, oui, dit M. Stepark, et il a commence en lacerant l’affiche de mariage sans qu’on ait pu l’apercevoir.”

Nous fumes tous de cet avis.

Toutefois, notre unanimite ne rendait pas le phenomene plus explicable, a moins de l’attribuer a quelque sorcellerie. Mais c’est dans le domaine de la realite que se meut la police. C’est au collet des gens en chair et en os qu’elle met sa main brutale. Elle n’a point l’habitude d’arreter des spectres ou des fantomes. L’arracheur de l’affiche, le destructeur du bouquet, le voleur de la couronne, etait un etre humain parfaitement saisissable. Il ne restait qu’a le saisir.

M. Stepark reconnut ce qu’il y avait de bien fonde dans nos soupcons et dans les presomptions qui s’elevaient contre Wilhelm Storitz.

“Cet individu, dit-il, m’a toujours paru suspect, bien que je n’aie jamais recu de plaintes a son sujet. Son existence est cachee. On ne sait trop comment il vit ni de quoi il vit. Pourquoi a-t-il quitte Spremberg, sa ville natale? Pourquoi, lui, un Prussien de la Prusse meridionale, est-il venu s’etablir en ce pays magyar peu sympathique a ses compatriotes? Pourquoi s’est-il renferme avec un vieux serviteur dans cette maison du boulevard Tekeli, ou personne ne penetre jamais? Je le repete, tout cela est suspect… tres suspect…

— Que comptez-vous faire, monsieur Stepark? demanda le capitaine Haralan.

— Ce qui est tout indique, repondit le chef de police, operer une descente dans cette maison ou nous trouverons peut-etre quelque document… quelque indice…

— Mais, pour cette descente, demanda le docteur Roderich, ne vous faut-il pas une autorisation du gouverneur?

— Il s’agit d’un etranger, et d’un etranger qui a menace votre famille. Son Excellence accordera cette autorisation, n’en doutez pas.

— Le gouverneur etait hier a la soiree des fiancailles, fis-je observer.

— Je le sais, monsieur Vidal, et il m’a deja fait appeler au sujet des faits dont il a ete temoin.

— Se les expliquait-il? demanda le docteur.

— Non! il ne leur trouvait aucune explication raisonnable.

— Mais, dis-je, lorsqu’il saura que Wilhelm Storitz est mele a cette affaire…

— Il n’en sera que plus desireux de l’eclaircir, repondit M. Stepark. Veuillez m’attendre, messieurs. Je vais directement au palais, et, avant une demi-heure, j’aurai rapporte l’autorisation de perquisitionner dans la maison du boulevard Tekeli.

— Ou nous vous accompagnerons, dit le capitaine Haralan.

— Si cela vous plait, capitaine, et vous aussi, monsieur Vidal, accorda le chef de police.

— Moi, dit le docteur Roderich, je vous laisserai aller avec M. Stepark et ses agents. J’ai hate de retourner a l’hotel, ou vous reviendrez, apres la perquisition terminee.

— Et apres arrestation faite, s’il y a lieu” declara M. Stepark, qui me parut decide a mener rondement cette affaire.

Il partit pour le palais, et le docteur sortit en meme temps que lui, se rendant a l’hotel, ou nous irions le retrouver.

Le capitaine Haralan et moi nous restames dans le cabinet du chef de police. Peu de propos furent echanges. Nous allions donc franchir la porte de cette maison… Son proprietaire s’y trouvait-il en ce moment?… Je me demandais si le capitaine Haralan pourrait se contenir lorsqu’il serait en sa presence.

M. Stepark reparut apres une demi-heure d’absence. Il rapportait l’autorisation de perquisitionner, et avait mandat de prendre toutes mesures qui lui sembleraient necessaires.

“Maintenant, messieurs, nous dit-il, veuillez sortir avant moi. J’irai d’un cote, mes agents de l’autre, et, dans vingt minutes, nous serons a la maison Storitz. Est-ce convenu?

— C’est convenu”, repondit le capitaine Haralan.

Et tous deux, quittant la Maison de Ville, nous descendimes vers le quai Batthyani.

XIII

Les phenomenes auxquels nous avions assiste a la cathedrale de Ragz et ceux dont l’hotel Roderich avait ete le theatre tendaient au meme but. Leur origine etait la meme. C’est Wilhelm Storitz, lui seul, qui en etait l’auteur. Admettre qu’ils fussent dus a quelque tour d’adresse?… J’etais bien oblige de me repondre negativement. Non, ni le scandale de l’eglise, ni l’enlevement de la couronne nuptiale ne pouvaient etre attribues a un escamotage. J’en arrivais a supposer serieusement que cet Allemand tenait de son pere quelque secret scientifique, celui d’une decouverte ignoree qui lui aurait donne le pouvoir de se rendre invisible… Pourquoi pas, apres tout?… Pourquoi certains rayons lumineux n’auraient-ils pas la propriete de traverser les corps opaques, comme si ces corps etaient translucides?… Mais ou allais-je m’egarer!… Billevesees que tout cela, billevesees dont je me gardai de rien dire a personne.

Nous avions ramene Myra sans qu’elle eut repris connaissance. On la transporta dans sa chambre, on la deposa sur son lit, mais les soins qui lui furent prodigues ne reussirent pas a la ranimer. Elle restait inerte, insensible, malgre les efforts du docteur impuissant. Toutefois, elle respirait, elle vivait. J’en etais a me demander comment elle avait pu survivre a tant d’epreuves, comment cette derniere emotion ne l’avait pas tuee.

Plusieurs des confreres du docteur Roderich etaient accourus a l’hotel. Ils entouraient le lit de Myra, etendue sans mouvement, les paupieres abaissees, la figure d’une paleur de cire, la poitrine soulevee par les battements irreguliers du coeur, la respiration reduite a un souffle, un souffle qui pouvait s’eteindre d’un instant a l’autre!…

Marc lui tenait les mains. Il pleurait. Il la suppliait, l’appelait:

“Myra… ma chere Myra!…”

D’une voix etouffee par les sanglots, Mme Roderich, repetait en vain:

“Myra… mon enfant… Je suis la… pres de toi… ta mere…”

La jeune fille ne rouvrait pas les yeux, et certainement elle ne l’entendait pas.

Cependant les medecins avaient essaye des remedes les plus energiques. Il sembla que la malade allait reprendre connaissance… Ses levres balbutierent de vagues mot dont il fut impossible de saisir le sens, ses doigts s’agiterent entre les mains de Marc, ses yeux se rouvrirent a demi… Mais quel regard incertain, sous ces paupieres a demi relevees! Quel regard ou manquait l’intelligence!…

Marc ne le comprit que trop. Tout a coup, il recula, en poussant ce cri:

“Folle… Folle!…”

Je me precipitai sur lui et le maintins avec l’aide du capitaine Haralan, en me demandant si, lui aussi, il n’allait pas perdre la raison. Il fallut l’entrainer dans une autre piece ou les medecins lutterent contre cette crise, dont l’issue aurait pu etre fatale.

Que serait le denouement de ce drame? Y avait-il lieu d’esperer que Myra recouvrerait avec le temps son intelligence, que les soins triompheraient de l’egarement de son esprit, que cette folie ne serait que passagere?

Le capitaine Haralan, lorsqu’il se retrouva seul avec moi, me dit:

“Il faut en finir!…”

En finir?… Comment l’entendait-il? Que Wilhelm Storitz fut revenu a Ragz, qu’il fut l’auteur de cette profanation, nous n’en pouvions douter. Mais ou le rencontrer, et avait-on prise sur cet etre insaisissable?

D’autre part, a quelle impression allait s’abandonner la ville? Voudrait-elle accepter une explication naturelle de ces faits? Ici nous n’etions pas en France, ou, a n’en pas douter, ces prodiges eussent ete tournes en plaisanterie et ridiculises par des chansons. Il devait en etre tout autrement en ce pays. J’ai deja eu l’occasion de le noter, les Magyars ont une tendance naturelle au merveilleux, et la superstition, dans la classe ignorante, est inderacinable. Pour les gens instruits, ces etrangetes ne pouvaient resulter que d’une decouverte physique ou chimique. Mais, quand il s’agit d’esprits peu eclaires, tout s’explique avec l’intervention du diable, et Wilhelm Storitz allait passer pour etre le diable en personne.

En effet, il ne fallait plus songer a cacher dans quelles conditions cet etranger, contre lequel le gouverneur de Ragz avait signe un arrete d’expulsion, etait mele a cette affaire. Ce que nous avions tenu secret jusqu’alors ne pouvait plus rester dans l’ombre, apres le scandale de Saint-Michel.

Des le lendemain, la ville fut en ebullition. On rattacha les evenements de l’hotel Roderich a ceux de la cathedrale. L’apaisement qui s’etait fait dans le public fit place a de nouveaux troubles. Le lien qui unissait ces divers incidents, on le connut enfin. Ce nom de Wilhelm Storitz, dans toutes les maisons, dans toutes les familles, on ne le prononca plus sans qu’il evoquat le souvenir, on pourrait dire le fantome d’un personnage etrange, dont l’existence s’ecoulait entre les murs muets et les fenetres closes de l’habitation du boulevard Tekeli.

Qu’on ne soit donc pas surpris si, des que la nouvelle fut connue, la population se porta vers ce boulevard, entrainee par une force irresistible, dont elle ne se rendait peut-etre pas compte.

C’est ainsi que la foule s’etait amassee dans le cimetiere de Spremberg. Mais, la, les compatriotes du savant esperaient assister a quelque prodige, et aucun sentiment d’animosite ne les poussait. Ici au contraire, il y avait une explosion de haine, un besoin de vengeance, justifies par les actes d’un etre malfaisant.

Qu’on n’oublie pas, d’autre part, l’horreur que devait inspirer a cette ville si religieuse le scandale dont la cathedrale venait d’etre le theatre.

Cette surexcitation ne pouvait que s’accroitre. Le plus grand nombre ne voudrait jamais accepter une explication naturelle de ces incomprehensibles phenomenes.

Le gouverneur de Ragz dut se preoccuper de ces dispositions de la ville, et enjoindre au chef de police de prendre toutes les mesures que reclamait la situation. Il fallait etre pret a se defendre contre les exces d’une panique, qui aurait pu avoir les consequences les plus graves. En outre, a peine le nom de Wilhelm Storitz eut-il ete revele, qu’il fallut proteger la maison du boulevard Tekeli, devant laquelle se rassemblerent des centaines d’ouvriers, de paysans, et la defendre contre l’envahissement et le pillage.

Cependant, mes idees evoluaient, et j’en arrivais a discuter serieusement une hypothese que j’avais, au premier abord, repoussee de piano. Si donc cette hypothese etait fondee, si un homme avait le pouvoir de se rendre invisible, ce qui etait incroyable, peut-etre, mais ne me paraissait decidement plus contestable, si la fable de l’anneau de Gyges a la cour du roi Candaule etait devenue une realite, c’etait la tranquillite publique absolument compromise. Plus de securite personnelle. Puisque Wilhelm Storitz etait venu a Ragz et que nul n’avait pu l’y voir, rien ne s’opposait a ce qu’il y fut encore, sans qu’on eut le moyen de s’en assurer. Autre sujet de crainte, avait-il garde pour lui seul le secret de cette decouverte que lui avait probablement leguee son pere? Son serviteur Hermann ne l’utilisait-il pas comme lui? D’autres n’en feraient-ils pas usage a son profit ou au leur? Qui les empecherait des lors de penetrer dans les maisons quand et comme il leur plairait, de se meler a l’existence des occupants? L’intimite des familles n’allait-elle pas etre detruite? Pour s’etre enferme chez soi, serait-on assure d’y etre seul, assure de n’y point etre entendu, comme de n’y point etre vu a moins de se tenir en une obscurite profonde? Et, dehors, dans les rues, cette crainte perpetuelle d’etre suivi, sans le savoir, par quelqu’un d’invisible, qui ne vous perd pas des yeux et peut faire de vous ce qu’il veut!… Quel moyen de se soustraire aux attentats de toutes sortes rendus si faciles? N’etait-ce pas, a bref delai, l’aneantissement de la vie sociale?

On se rappela alors ce qui s’etait passe sur la place du marche Coloman, ce dont le capitaine Haralan et moi nous avions ete temoins. Un homme avait ete violemment renverse, pretendait-il, par un agresseur invisible. Tout portait a croire, maintenant, que cet homme avait dit la verite. Sans doute, il avait ete heurte au passage par Wilhelm Storitz, par Hermann ou par tout autre. Chacun eut la pensee que cela pouvait lui arriver. A chaque pas, on etait expose a de pareilles rencontres.

Puis, certaines particularites revinrent a la memoire, l’affiche des publications arrachee de son cadre a la cathedrale, et, lors de la perquisition du boulevard Tekeli, un bruit de pas entendu dans les chambres, cette fiole inopinement tombee et brisee.

Eh bien, il etait la, lui, et, vraisemblablement, Hermann y etait aussi. Ils n’avaient point quitte la ville aussitot apres la soiree des fiancailles, ainsi que nous le supposions, et cela expliquait l’eau savonneuse de la chambre a coucher, le feu sur le fourneau de la cuisine. Oui! tous deux assistaient aux perquisitions faites dans la cour, dans le jardin, dans la maison, et c’est en s’enfuyant qu’ils avaient fait choir l’agent de police de garde au pied de l’escalier. Si nous avions trouve la couronne nuptiale dans le belvedere, c’est que Wilhelm Storitz, surpris par la perquisition, n’avait pas eu le temps de l’enlever.

En ce qui me concernait, les incidents qui avaient marque mon voyage a bord de la Dorothee, lorsque je descendais le Danube de Pest a Ragz, s’expliquaient desormais. Le passager, que je croyais debarque a Vukovar, etait toujours a bord, et on ne l’y voyait pas!…

Ainsi, me disais-je, cette invisibilite, il sait la produire instantanement. Il parait ou disparait a son gre, comme les magiciens grace a leur baguette enchantee, et, en meme temps que lui-meme, il peut rendre invisibles les vetements qui le couvrent, mais non pas les objets qu’il tient a la main, puisque nous avons vu le contrat et le bouquet dechires, la couronne emportee, les alliances lancees a travers la nef. Toutefois, il ne s’agit pas ici de magie, de mots cabalistiques, d’incantations, ni de sorcellerie. Restons dans le domaine des faits materiels. Evidemment, Wilhelm Storitz possede la formule d’une composition qu’il suffit d’absorber… Laquelle? Sans doute, celle que renfermait cette fiole brisee et qui s’est evaporee presque instantanement. Quelle est la formule de cette composition, voila ce que nous ne savons pas, ce qu’il importerait de savoir, ce qu’on ne saura jamais peut-etre!…

Quant a la personne de Wilhelm Storitz, alors meme qu’elle est invisible, est-il donc impossible de la saisir? Si elle se derobe au sens de la vue, elle ne se derobe pas, j’imagine, au sens du toucher. Son enveloppe materielle ne perd aucune des trois dimensions communes a tous les corps, longueur, largeur, profondeur. Il est toujours la, en chair et en os, comme on dit. Invisible, soit, intangible, non! Cela, c’est pour les fantomes, et nous n’avons pas affaire a un fantome!

Que le hasard permette de le saisir par le bras, par les jambes, par la tete, si on ne le voit pas, du moins le tiendra-t-on. Et si etonnante que soit la faculte dont il dispose, elle ne lui permettra pas de passer a travers les murs d’une prison.

Ce n’etait la que raisonnements, en somme acceptables, que chacun faisait probablement, mais la situation n’en restait pas moins inquietante, la securite publique compromise. On ne vivait plus que dans les transes. On ne se sentait en surete, ni au-dehors, ni a l’interieur des maisons, ni la nuit, ni le jour. Le moindre bruit dans les chambres, un craquement du plancher, une persienne agitee par le vent, un gemissement de la girouette sur le toit, le bourdonnement d’un insecte aux oreilles, le sifflement de la brise par une porte ou une fenetre mal fermee, tout paraissait suspect. Pendant le va-et-vient de la vie domestique, a table pendant les repas, le soir pendant la veillee, la nuit pendant le sommeil, en admettant que le sommeil fut possible, on ne savait jamais si quelque intrus ne s’etait pas introduit dans la maison, si Wilhelm Storitz ou quelque autre n’etait pas la, epiant vos demarches, ecoutant vos paroles, penetrant enfin les plus intimes secrets des familles.

Sans doute, il pouvait se faire que cet Allemand eut quitte Ragz et fut retourne a Spremberg. Toutefois, en y reflechissant - ce fut l’avis du docteur et du capitaine Haralan, et aussi celui du gouverneur et du chef de police -, pouvait-on raisonnablement admettre que Wilhelm Storitz en eut fini avec ses deplorables attaques? S’il avait laisse le “baillage de licence” s’accomplir, c’est qu’il n’etait pas encore revenu de Spremberg. Mais, le mariage meme, il en avait interrompu la celebration, et, dans le cas ou Myra recouvrerait la raison, ne chercherait-il pas a l’empecher encore? Pourquoi la haine qu’il avait vouee a la famille Roderich serait-elle eteinte, puisqu’elle n’etait pas satisfaite? Les menaces qui avaient retenti dans la cathedrale ne repondaient-elles pas eloquemment a ces questions?

Non, le dernier mot de cette affaire n’etait pas dit, et on etait en droit de tout craindre en pensant aux moyens dont disposait cet homme pour la realisation de ses projets de vengeance.

En effet, si surveille jour et nuit que fut l’hotel Roderich, ne parviendrait-il pas a s’y introduire? Une fois dans l’hotel, n’agirait-il pas comme il lui conviendrait?

On peut juger, d’apres cela, de l’obsession des esprits, aussi bien de ceux qui se maintenaient dans le domaine des faits positifs, que de ceux qui s’abandonnaient aux exagerations d’une imagination superstitieuse.

Mais enfin, existait-il un remede a cette situation? Je n’en voyais aucun, je l’avoue. Le depart de Marc et de Myra ne l’eut pas changee. Wilhelm Storitz n’avait-il pas, en effet, le pouvoir de les suivre en toute liberte? Sans compter que l’etat dans lequel se trouvait Myra ne lui permettait guere de quitter Ragz.

Pour l’instant, ou etait-il, notre insaisissable ennemi? Nul n’eut ete capable de le dire avec certitude, si une serie d’evenements ne nous eussent prouve coup sur coup qu’il s’obstinait a sejourner au milieu d’une population qu’il bravait et terrorisait impunement.

Le premier de ces evenements faillit mettre notre desespoir au comble. Deux jours pleins s’etaient alors ecoules depuis la terrible scene de l’eglise Saint-Michel, sans qu’aucune amelioration se fut manifestee dans la sante de Myra, toujours entre la vie et la mort. Nous etions au 4 juin. Apres le dejeuner, toute la famille Roderich, mon frere et moi compris, etait reunie dans la galerie, et nous discutions avec animation la meilleure conduite a adopter, quand un eclat de rire veritablement satanique retentit a nos oreilles.

Nous nous levames tous epouvantes. Marc et le capitaine Haralan, pris d’une sorte de frenesie, s’elancerent d’un meme mouvement vers la partie de la galerie d’ou semblait venir cet effrayant eclat de rire, mais ce fut pour s’arreter au bout de quelques pas. Tout se passa en deux secondes. En deux secondes, je vis fulgurer un eclair, comme celui d’une lame brillante decrivant dans la lumiere sa courbe homicide; je vis mon frere chanceler, et le capitaine Haralan le recevoir dans ses bras…

Je me precipitai a leurs secours, au moment meme ou une voix - cette voix que nous connaissions tous, a present! - prononcait avec l’accent d’une indomptable volonte:

“Jamais Myra Roderich ne sera la femme de Marc Vidal!… jamais!”

Aussitot, une violente poussee d’air fit vaciller les lustres, la porte du jardin rapidement ouverte et refermee battit a grand bruit, et nous comprimes que notre implacable adversaire nous echappait une fois de plus.

Le capitaine Haralan et moi, nous etendimes mon frere sur un divan, et le docteur Roderich examina sa blessure. Elle n’etait pas grave heureusement. La lame du poignard avait glisse sur l’omoplate gauche de haut en bas, et tout se reduisait a une longue estafilade, qui, bien que fort impressionnante d’aspect, n’en serait pas moins guerie en peu de jours. Pour cette fois, l’assassin avait manque son but. Mais en serait-il toujours ainsi?

Marc fut panse, puis transporte a l’hotel Temesvar, et je m’installai a son chevet, ou, tout en le veillant, je m’absorbai dans l’examen du probleme pose a ma sagacite et qu’il fallait resoudre coute que coute sous peine de mort pour tant d’etres qui m’etaient chers.

Je n’avais pas encore fait, je le confesse, le premier pas sur le chemin de la solution cherchee, lorsque d’autres evenements survinrent, nullement dramatiques ceux-ci, mais plutot bizarres, incoherents meme, et qui me donnerent fort a penser.

Le soir de ce meme jour, 4 juin, une lueur puissante, qui fut apercue de la place Kurtz et du marche Coloman, apparut a la plus haute fenetre du beffroi. Une torche enflammee s’abaissait, se relevait, s’agitait, comme si quelque incendiaire eut voulu mettre le feu a l’edifice.

Le chef de police et ses agents, se jetant hors du poste central, atteignirent rapidement les combles du beffroi. La lumiere avait disparu, et, comme M. Stepark s’y attendait d’ailleurs, on ne trouva personne. Sur le plancher gisait la torche eteinte d’ou une odeur fuligineuse se degageait, des etincelles resineuses glissaient encore sur la toiture, mais l’incendiaire avait disparu. Ou l’individu - disons Wilhelm Storitz - avait eu le temps de s’enfuir, ou il se dissimulait, introuvable, en un coin du beffroi.

La foule amassee sur la place en fut pour ses cris de vengeance dont se riait le coupable.

Le lendemain, dans la matinee, nouvelle bravade jetee a la cite entiere prise d’affolement.

Dix heures et demie venaient de sonner, lorsque retentit une sinistre volee de cloches, un funebre glas, une sorte de tocsin d’epouvante.

Cette fois, ce n’etait pas un homme seul qui aurait pu mettre en branle l’appareil campanaire de la cathedrale. Il fallait que Wilhelm Storitz fut aide de plusieurs complices, ou tout au moins de son serviteur Hermann.

Les habitants se porterent en foule sur la place Saint-Michel, accourant meme des quartiers eloignes ou ces coups de tocsin avaient jete l’effroi. De nouveau, M. Stepark et ses agents s’elancerent. Ils se precipiterent vers l’escalier de la tour du Nord, en franchirent rapidement les marches, arriverent a la cage des cloches, tout inondee du jour qui passait a travers ses auvents…

Mais en vain visiterent-ils cet etage de la tour et la galerie superieure… Personne! Personne!… Lorsque les agents etaient entres dans la cage ou les cloches muettes achevaient de se balancer, les invisibles sonneurs avaient deja disparu.

XVII

Ainsi perit tragiquement Wilhelm Storitz. Helas! sa mort survenait trop tard. Bien que la famille Roderich n’eut desormais plus rien a craindre, cette mort aggravait la situation plutot qu’elle ne l’ameliorait, puisqu’elle nous faisait perdre l’espoir de retrouver Myra.

Accable par la responsabilite qui pesait sur lui, le capitaine Haralan contemplait d’un air morne son ennemi abattu. Enfin, prenant son parti de ce malheur irreparable, il eut un geste de desespoir et s’eloigna a pas lents dans la direction de l’hotel Roderich, afin de mettre les siens au courant de ces deplorables evenements.

Le lieutenant Armgard et moi restames sur place, au contraire, en compagnie de M. Stepark, venu, comme par miracle, nous ne savions d’ou. Le silence etait parfait, malgre ces centaines d’hommes, dont la curiosite etait portee au paroxysme, qui se tassaient autour de nous, se serraient les uns contre les autres, s’efforcant de mieux voir.

Tous les regards etaient fixes sur le cadavre. Un peu retourne sur le cote gauche, ses vetements souilles de sang, la face decoloree, la main droite tenant encore le sabre du lieutenant, le bras gauche a demi replie, Wilhelm Storitz etait bon pour la tombe, dont son malfaisant pouvoir n’avait pas reussi a l’affranchir.

“C’est bien lui!” murmura M. Stepark, apres l’avoir longuement regarde.

Les agents s’etaient approches, non sans quelque apprehension. Ils le reconnurent aussi. Pour joindre a la certitude de la vue celle du toucher, M. Stepark tata le cadavre de la tete aux pieds.

“Mort… bien mort!” dit-il, en se relevant.

Le chef de police donna un ordre, et aussitot une dizaine d’hommes attaquerent les decombres au point meme ou, avant la mort de Storitz, ceux-ci avaient paru animes de si etranges mouvements.

“D’apres la conversation que nous avons surprise, me dit M. Stepark, repondant a une question que je lui posais, c’est la que doit se trouver la cachette dans laquelle le miserable recelait la substance qui lui permettait de nous braver. Je ne m’en irai pas d’ici avant d’avoir decouvert cette cachette et avant d’avoir detruit tout ce qu’elle contient. Storitz est mort. Dut la science me maudire, je veux que son secret meure avec lui.”

En moi-meme, je donnais pleinement raison a M. Stepark. Bien que la decouverte d’Otto Storitz fut de nature a exciter l’interet d’un ingenieur, je ne pouvais lui reconnaitre aucune utilite pratique, et je comprenais qu’elle favorisait seulement les plus mauvaises passions de l’humanite.

Bientot une petite plaque de fer fut mise a nu. On la souleva, et les premieres marches d’un etroit escalier nous apparurent.

A ce moment, une main saisit la mienne, tandis qu’une voix plaintive se faisait entendre.

“Pitie!… Pitie!…” disait-elle.

Je me retournai, mais je ne vis personne. Pourtant, ma main etait toujours prisonniere; et la voix suppliante continuait a se faire entendre.

Les agents avaient interrompu leur travail. Tout le monde s’etait tourne de mon cote. Avec une anxiete facile a comprendre, j’etendis celle de mes mains demeuree libre et j’explorai l’espace autour de moi.

A la hauteur de ma taille, mes doigts rencontrerent une chevelure, et, plus bas, frolerent un visage inonde de larmes. Evidemment, il y avait la un homme que je ne pouvais voir, a genoux, et qui pleurait.

“Qui etes-vous? balbutiai-je avec effort, la gorge etranglee par l’emotion.

— Hermann, me repondit-on.

— Que voulez-vous?”

En quelques phrases hachees, l’invisible serviteur de Storitz nous dit qu’il avait entendu M. Stepark formuler ses projets de destruction, et que, si ces projets etaient mis a execution, il lui fallait renoncer a reprendre jamais l’apparence humaine. Que deviendrait-il, condamne ainsi a rester toujours seul au milieu des autres hommes? Il suppliait que le chef de police, avant de detruire les flacons qu’il trouverait dans la cachette, lui permit d’absorber le contenu de l’un d’eux.

M. Stepark promit d’y consentir, en prenant toutefois les precautions qui s’imposaient, Hermann ayant des comptes a regler avec la justice. Par son ordre, quatre agents robustes apprehenderent l’invisible personnage. On pouvait etre certain qu’ils ne le lacheraient pas.

M. Stepark et moi, precedant les quatre agents qui maitrisaient le prisonnier, nous descendimes l’escalier. Quelques marches nous conduisirent dans un caveau que la lumiere venue par la trappe eclairait faiblement. La, sur une etroite etagere, etaient alignes une serie de flacons etiquetes, les uns ndeg 1, les autres ndeg 2.

Hermann, d’un ton impatient, reclama un de ces derniers, que lui tendit le chef de police. Alors nous vimes, avec une indicible stupefaction - bien que nous dussions nous attendre a ce spectacle -, le flacon decrire tout seul une courbe dans l’air, puis se renverser, comme si quelqu’un, l’ayant porte a sa bouche, en eut avidement absorbe le contenu.

Ce fut aussitot une etrange merveille. A mesure qu’il buvait, Hermann semblait sortir du neant. On distingua d’abord une vapeur legere dans la penombre du caveau, puis les contours s’affirmerent, et j’eus enfin devant moi ce meme individu qui m’avait suivi le soir de mon arrivee a Ragz.

Sur un signe de M. Stepark, le reste des flacons fut immediatement detruit, et les liquides qu’ils contenaient, repandus sur le sol, se volatiliserent instantanement. Cette execution terminee, nous remontames au jour.

“Et maintenant, qu’allez-vous faire, monsieur Stepark? interrogea le lieutenant Armgard.

— Je vais faire transporter ce corps a la Maison de Ville, lui fut-il repondu.

— Publiquement? demandai-je.

— Publiquement, dit le chef de police. Il faut que tout Ragz sache que Wilhelm Storitz est mort. On ne le croira qu’apres avoir vu passer son cadavre.

— Et apres qu’il sera enterre, ajouta le lieutenant.

— Si on l’enterre, dit M. Stepark.

— Si on l’enterre?… repetai-je.

— Oui, expliqua le chef de police, car il vaudrait mieux, selon moi, bruler ce cadavre et en jeter les cendres au vent, comme on faisait des sorciers du Moyen Age.”

M.

Stepark envoya chercher une civiere, et partit avec le plus grand nombre d’agents, en emmenant son prisonnier redevenu un vieux bonhomme tres banal depuis qu’il avait cesse d’etre invisible. De notre cote, le lieutenant Armgard et moi nous rentrames a l’hotel Roderich.

Le capitaine Haralan etait deja pres de son pere, auquel il avait tout raconte. Dans l’etat ou se trouvait Mme Roderich, il avait paru prudent de ne lui rien dire. La mort de Wilhelm Storitz ne lui rendait pas sa fille.

Quant a mon frere, lui non plus ne savait rien encore. Il fallait cependant le mettre au courant, et c’est pourquoi nous le fimes prevenir que nous l’attendions dans le cabinet du docteur.

Ce ne fut pas avec le sentiment de la vengeance satisfaite qu’il accueillit la nouvelle que nous lui apportions. Il eclata en sanglots, tandis que ces paroles desesperees s’echappaient de ses levres: “Il est mort!… Vous l’avez tue!… Il est mort sans avoir parle!… Myra!… Ma pauvre Myra!… Je ne la reverrai plus!…”

A cette explosion de douleur, que pouvait-on repondre?…

Je le tentai pourtant. Non, il ne fallait pas renoncer a tout espoir. Nous ne savions pas ou etait Myra, mais un homme le savait, Hermann, le serviteur de Wilhelm Storitz. Or, on tenait cet homme sous les verrous. On l’interrogerait, et, comme il n’avait pas le meme interet que son maitre a se taire, il parlerait… On l’y deciderait, fut-ce au prix d’une fortune… On l’y forcerait, au besoin, dut-on le mettre a la torture… Myra serait rendue a sa famille, a son mari, et la raison lui reviendrait a force de soins, de tendresse et d’amour…

Marc n’entendait rien. Il ne voulait rien entendre. Pour lui, le seul qui fut capable de parler etait mort. On n’aurait pas du le tuer avant de lui avoir arrache son secret.

Je ne savais comment calmer mon frere, lorsque notre conversation fut interrompue par un tumulte du dehors. Nous nous precipitames a la fenetre qui s’ouvrait a l’angle du boulevard et du quai Batthyani.

Qu’y avait-il donc encore?… Dans la disposition d’esprit ou nous etions, je crois que rien n’aurait pu nous surprendre, quand meme il se fut agi de la resurrection de Wilhelm Storitz!

Ce n’etait que son cortege mortuaire. Le cadavre, etendu sur une civiere, etait porte par quatre agents accompagnes d’une nombreuse escouade. Ainsi, Ragz allait savoir que Wilhelm Storitz etait mort et que cette periode de terreur avait pris fin.

M. Stepark avait voulu le montrer partout, ce cadavre. Apres avoir suivi le quai Batthyani jusqu’a la rue Etienne-1er, le cortege devait traverser le marche Coloman, puis les quartiers les plus frequentes, avant de s’arreter a la Maison de Ville.

A mon avis, il eut mieux fait de ne point passer devant l’hotel Roderich.

Mon frere nous avait rejoints a la fenetre. Il poussa un cri de desespoir en apercevant ce corps ensanglante, auquel il aurait voulu rendre la vie, fut-ce au prix de la sienne.

La foule s’abandonnait aux plus bruyantes demonstrations. Vivant, Wilhelm Storitz eut ete ecartele par elle. Mort, son cadavre fut epargne. Mais, sans doute, ainsi que l’avait dit M. Stepark, la population ne voudrait pas qu’il fut inhume comme le commun des mortels. Elle exigerait qu’il fut brule en place publique ou precipite dans le Danube, dont les eaux l’emporteraient jusqu’aux lointaines profondeurs de la Mer Noire.

Pendant un quart d’heure, les cris retentirent devant l’hotel, puis le silence se fit.

Le capitaine Haralan nous dit alors qu’il allait se rendre a la Maison de Ville. Il entendait faire en sorte que l’interrogatoire d’Hermann eut lieu sur-le-champ. Nous l’approuvames, et il quitta l’hotel en compagnie du lieutenant Armgard.

Moi, je restai pres de mon frere. Ce que furent ces douloureuses heures passees avec lui!… Je ne pouvais le calmer, et cette surexcitation toujours croissante m’epouvantait. Il m’echappait, je le sentais bien, et je redoutais une crise a laquelle il ne resisterait peut-etre pas. Il se refusait a m’entendre. Il ne discutait pas. Il n’avait qu’une idee, une idee fixe: partir a la recherche de Myra.

“Et tu m’accompagneras, Henri”, disait-il.

Tout ce que je pus obtenir, ce fut que nous attendrions le retour du capitaine Haralan. Celui-ci ne revint avec son camarade que vers quatre heures. Les nouvelles qu’ils rapportaient etaient les plus mauvaises que nous pussions attendre. L’interrogatoire d’Hermann avait eu lieu, en effet, mais il avait eu lieu inutilement. Le capitaine, M. Stepark, le gouverneur lui-meme, avaient menace, prie, supplie en vain. En vain on avait offert une fortune au domestique de Storitz, en vain on lui avait annonce les pires chatiments s’il se refusait a parler. On n’avait rien obtenu. Hermann n’avait pas varie un seul instant. Il ne savait pas ou etait Myra. L’enlevement meme etait inconnu de lui, son maitre n’ayant pas cru devoir le mettre au courant de ses projets.

Apres trois heures d’efforts et de lutte, il avait fallu se rendre a l’evidence. Hermann etait de bonne foi et disait la verite. Son ignorance etait sincere. Des lors, nous devions perdre tout espoir de revoir jamais la malheureuse Myra.

Quelle triste fin de journee nous passames! Ecroules dans des fauteuils, accables de tristesse, nous laissions couler le temps sans prononcer une parole. Qu’aurions-nous pu nous dire, en effet, qui n’eut ete dit et redit cent fois?

Un peu avant huit heures, un domestique apporta les lampes. Il n’y avait alors dans le salon, le docteur Roderich etant encore pres de sa femme, que les deux officiers, mon frere et moi. Comme le domestique sortait, son service termine, la pendule commenca a egrener ses huit coups.

A ce moment precis, la porte de la galerie s’ouvrit assez vivement. Sans doute, quelque courant d’air venu du jardin l’avait poussee, car je ne vis personne. Par exemple, ce qu’il y eut de plus extraordinaire, c’est qu’elle se referma d’elle-meme…

Et alors - non! je n’oublierai jamais cette scene! - une voix se fit entendre… Non pas, comme a la soiree des fiancailles, la voix rude qui nous insultait avec le Chant de la Haine, - mais une voix fraiche et joyeuse, une voix aimee entre toutes, la voix de notre chere Myra!…

“Marc, disait-elle, et vous monsieur Henri, et toi, Haralan, que faites-vous ici? C’est l’heure du diner, et je meurs de faim.”

C’etait Myra, Myra elle-meme, Myra qui avait recouvre la raison, Myra guerie!… On eut dit qu’elle descendait de sa chambre comme d’habitude. C’etait Myra qui nous voyait et que nous ne voyions pas!… C’etait Myra invisible!…

Jamais mots aussi simples ne produisirent un tel effet. Stupefaits, cloues a nos sieges, nous n’osions ni bouger, ni parler, ni aller du cote d’ou venait cette voix. Pourtant, Myra etait la, vivante, et, nous le savions, tangible dans son invisibilite…

D’ou arrivait-elle?… De la maison ou son ravisseur l’avait conduite?… Elle avait donc pu s’enfuir, traverser la ville, rentrer dans l’hotel?… Pourtant, les portes en etaient fermees, et personne ne les lui avait ouvertes…

Non - et l’explication de sa presence ne tarda pas a nous etre donnee -, Myra descendait de sa chambre ou Wilhelm Storitz l’avait rendue et laissee invisible. Alors que nous la croyions hors de l’hotel, elle n’avait pas quitte son lit. Elle y etait restee etendue, immobile, toujours muette et inconsciente, pendant ces vingt-quatre heures. A personne n’etait venue cette pensee qu’elle pouvait etre la, et, en verite, pourquoi cette pensee nous serait-elle venue?

Sans doute, Wilhelm Storitz n’avait pu l’enlever aussitot, mais il aurait paracheve son crime, si, ce matin meme, le coup de sabre du capitaine Haralan ne l’en eut pour jamais empeche.

Et voici que Myra ayant recouvre la raison - peut-etre sous l’inf1uence de cette liqueur que Storitz lui avait fait boire -, Myra, ignorante de ce qui s’etait passe depuis la scene de la cathedrale, Myra etait au milieu de nous, nous parlant, nous voyant, n’ayant pu, dans l’obscurite, se rendre compte encore qu’elle ne se voyait pas elle-meme.

Marc s’etait leve, les bras ouverts comme pour la saisir…

Elle reprit: “Mais qu’avez-vous donc? je vous parle, et vous ne me repondez pas. Vous paraissez surpris de me voir. Qu’est-il donc arrive?… Pourquoi maman n’est-elle pas la? Serait-elle souffrante?”

La porte s’ouvrit de nouveau, et le docteur Roderich entra. Aussitot, Myra de s’elancer vers lui - nous le supposions du moins - car elle s’ecria: “Ah! mon pere!… Qu’y a-t-il donc?… Pourquoi mon frere, mon mari ont-ils cet air etrange?”

Le docteur s’etait arrete, petrifie, sur le seuil. Il avait compris.

Cependant Myra etait pres de lui. Elle l’embrassait et repetait: “Qu’y a-t-il?… Maman?… Ou est maman?

— Ta mere se porte bien, mon enfant, balbutia le docteur. Elle va descendre… Reste, mon enfant, reste!”

En ce moment, Marc, qui avait trouve la main de sa femme, entraina doucement celle-ci, comme s’il eut conduit une aveugle. Elle ne l’etait pourtant pas, et ceux-la seuls l’etaient qui ne pouvaient la voir. Mon frere la fit asseoir pres de lui…

Elle ne parlait plus, effrayee de l’effet que produisait sa presence, et Marc, d’une voix tremblante, murmura ces paroles auxquelles elle ne devait rien comprendre: “Myra… ma chere Myra!… Oui!… C’est bien toi… Je te sens la… pres de moi!… Oh! je t’en supplie, ma bien-aimee, ne me quitte plus!…

— Mon cher Marc… Cet air bouleverse… Tous… vous m’effrayez… Mon pere… reponds-moi!… Il y a donc un malheur ici?…”

Marc sentit qu’elle se levait. Il la retint doucement.

“Non, dit-il, rassure-toi. Aucun malheur n’est arrive, mais parle, Myra, parle encore!… Que j’entende ta voix… toi… toi… ma femme… ma bien-aimee Myra!…”

Oui, cette scene, nous l’avons vue, ces paroles, nous les avons entendues. Et nous restions la, les yeux fixes, immobiles, retenant le souffle, terrifies par cette pensee que celui-la seul qui aurait pu nous rendre Myra sous sa forme visible etait mort en emportant son secret!

XVIII

Cette situation, dont nous n’etions plus les maitres, se terminerait-elle par un denouement heureux? Qui aurait pu le croire? Comment ne pas se dire que Myra etait a jamais rayee du monde visible? Aussi, a cet immense bonheur de l’avoir retrouvee, se melait cette immense douleur qu’elle ne fut pas rendue a nos regards dans toute sa grace et sa beaute.

On imagine ce qu’allait etre dans ces conditions l’existence de la famille Roderich.

Myra ne tarda pas a se rendre compte de son etat. En passant devant la glace de la cheminee, elle n’avait pas apercu son image… Elle se retourna vers nous, en jetant un cri d’angoisse, et ne vit pas son ombre a ses cotes…

Il fallut alors tout lui dire, tandis que des sanglots s’echappaient de sa poitrine, tandis que Marc, agenouille pres du fauteuil ou elle venait de s’asseoir, essayait en vain de calmer sa douleur. Il l’aimait visible, il l’aimerait invisible. Cette scene nous dechirait le coeur.

Vers la fin de la soiree, le docteur voulut que Myra montat dans la chambre de sa mere. Mieux valait que Mme Roderich la sut pres d’elle, l’entendit lui parler.

Quelques jours s’ecoulerent. Ce que n’avaient pu faire nos encouragements, le temps le fit; Myra s’etait resignee. Grace a sa force d’ame, il sembla bientot que l’existence normale eut repris son cours. Myra nous prevenait de sa presence en parlant a l’un ou a l’autre. Je l’entends encore disant:

“Mes amis, je suis la… Avez-vous besoin de quelque chose?… Je vais vous l’apporter… Mon cher Henri, que cherchez-vous?… Ce livre que vous avez pose sur la table?… Le voici!… Votre gazette?… Elle est tombee pres de vous… Mon pere, c’est l’heure ou, d’habitude, je vous embrasse. Pourquoi, Haralan, me regarder avec des yeux si tristes?… Je t’assure que je suis toute souriante. Pourquoi te faire de la peine?… Et vous, mon cher Marc, voici mes deux mains… Prenez-les!… Voulez-vous venir au jardin?… Donnez-moi votre bras, Henri, et nous causerons de mille et mille choses.”

L’adorable et bonne creature n’avait pas voulu qu’il fut apporte aucun changement a la vie de famille. Elle et Marc passaient de longues heures ensemble. Elle ne cessait de lui murmurer d’encourageantes paroles. Elle essayait de le consoler, affirmant qu’elle avait confiance dans l’avenir, que cette invisibilite cesserait un jour… Cet espoir, l’avait-elle reellement?

Une modification, cependant, une seule, fut faite a notre vie familiale. Myra, comprenant combien sa presence dans ces conditions eut ete penible, ne vint plus prendre sa place a table au milieu de nous. Mais, le repas acheve, elle redescendait au salon. On l’entendait ouvrir et refermer la porte, disant: “Me voici, mes amis, je suis la!” et elle ne nous quittait plus qu’a l’heure de remonter dans sa chambre, apres nous avoir souhaite le bonsoir. Il n’est pas besoin de le dire, si la disparition de Myra Roderich avait produit tant d’effet dans la ville, sa reapparition - je n’ai pas d’autre mot dans mon vocabulaire - en produisit plus encore. De toutes parts arriverent des temoignages de la plus vive sympathie, et les visites affluerent a l’hotel.

Myra avait renonce a toute promenade a pied dans les rues de Ragz. Elle ne sortait qu’en voiture fermee, accompagnee de quelqu’un des siens. Mais elle preferait a tout s’asseoir dans le jardin, au milieu de ceux qu’elle aimait, et auxquels, moralement du moins, elle etait rendue tout entiere.

Pendant ce temps, M. Stepark, le gouverneur et moi-meme, nous nous obstinions a faire subir au vieil Hermann des interrogatoires aussi nombreux que steriles. On ne pouvait rien en tirer d’utile dans les tristes circonstances que nous traversions.

Les evenements ayant prouve sa bonne foi en ce qui concernait l’enlevement presume de Myra, on ne l’inquietait plus de ce chef, mais ne pouvait-il se faire qu’il fut au courant des secrets de son maitre defunt? ou meme qu’il fut detenteur de la formule d’Otto Storitz?

Quel remords pour M. Stepark et pour moi-meme d’avoir agi avec tant de precipitation lors de la decouverte du caveau! Sans cette precipitation deplorable, ce que nous avions fait pour Hermann, nous aurions pu le faire pour Myra. Un seul flacon de la mysterieuse liqueur, et toutes nos angoisses passees n’auraient plus ete qu’un cauchemar efface dans la joie du reveil.

Le crime involontaire que M. Stepark avait commis, et que j’avais, moi, laisse commettre, nous ne nous en vantions ni l’un ni l’autre. Il demeurerait a jamais enseveli entre nous, et, d’un tacite accord, nous n’avions meme pas echange le moindre mot a ce sujet.

Chacun de notre cote, nous nous acharnions l’un et l’autre a torturer de mille facons le malheureux Hermann, dans le chimerique espoir de lui arracher un secret qu’il ne possedait sans doute pas. Quelle chance y avait-il, en effet, qu’on eut revele a un domestique depourvu de la plus vulgaire culture les arcanes de la chimie transcendante, et, si on l’avait fait, quelle probabilite que celui-ci y eut compris quelque chose?

Le jour vint enfin ou nous primes conscience de l’inanite de nos efforts, et, comme il ne subsistait, en somme, contre Hermann aucune charge qui fut justiciable des tribunaux, il fallut bien se resoudre en haut lieu a le remettre en liberte.

Mais le sort avait decide que le pauvre diable ne profiterait pas de cette tardive mansuetude. Le matin ou son gardien vint le chercher pour lui rendre la clef des champs, on le trouva mort dans sa cellule, foudroye par une embolie, comme l’autopsie le demontra ulterieurement.

Ainsi s’evanouit notre dernier espoir. Ainsi nous fut demontre que le secret de Wilhelm Storitz demeurerait a jamais inconnu.

Dans les papiers saisis lors de la perquisition du boulevard Tekeli et deposes a la Maison de Ville, on ne trouva, apres un minutieux examen, que de vagues formules, des notations a la fois physiques et chimiques, absolument incomprehensibles. Cela ne nous avancait a rien. Impossible de rien deduire de ce fatras, quant a la reconstitution de la diabolique substance dont Wilhelm Storitz avait fait un si criminel usage.

De meme que son bourreau avait surgi du neant, en tombant frappe au coeur par le sabre d’Haralan, de meme la malheureuse Myra ne reparaitrait donc a nos yeux qu’etendue sur son lit de mort.

Dans la matinee du 24 juin, mon frere vint me trouver. Il me parut relativement plus calme.

“Mon cher Henri, me dit-il, j’ai voulu te faire part de la resolution que j’ai prise. Je pense que tu l’approuveras.

— N’en doute pas, repondis-je, et parle en pleine confiance. Je sais que tu n’auras ecoute que la voix de la raison.

— De la raison et de l’amour, Henri. Myra n’est qu’a demi ma femme. Il manque a notre mariage la consecration religieuse, puisque la ceremonie a ete interrompue avant que les paroles sacramentelles n’eussent ete prononcees. Cela cree une situation fausse que je veux faire cesser, pour Myra, pour sa famille, pour tout le monde.”

J’attirai mon frere dans mes bras, et lui dis:

“Je te comprends, Marc, et je n’imagine pas ce qui pourrait faire obstacle a tes desirs…

— Ce serait monstrueux, repondit Marc. Si le pretre ne voit pas Myra, il l’entendra du moins declarer qu’elle me prend pour mari comme je la prends pour femme. Je ne pense pas que l’autorite ecclesiastique fasse aucune difficulte.

— Non, mon cher Marc, non, et je me charge de toutes les demarches.”

Ce fut d’abord au cure de la cathedrale que je m’adressai, a l’archipretre qui avait officie a cette messe de mariage interrompue par une profanation sans exemple. Le venerable vieillard me repondit que le cas avait ete prealablement examine, et que l’archeveque de Ragz lui avait donne une solution favorable. Bien qu’elle fut invisible, il n’etait pas douteux que la fiancee fut vivante, et, des lors, apte a recevoir le sacrement du mariage.

Les bans ayant ete publies depuis longtemps, rien ne s’opposa a ce que la date de la ceremonie fut fixee au 2 juillet.

La veille, Myra me dit, ainsi qu’elle me l’avait dit une fois deja:

“C’est pour demain, Henri… N’oubliez pas!”

Ce second mariage fut, comme le premier, celebre a la cathedrale Saint-Michel, et dans les memes conditions. Memes temoins, memes amis et invites de la famille Roderich, meme affluence de la population.

Qu’il s’y soit mele une dose de curiosite plus grande, je l’accorde, et cette curiosite, on la comprendra, on l’excusera. Sans doute, il restait encore dans cette assistance des apprehensions dont le temps seul triompherait. Oui, Wilhelm Storitz etait mort; oui, son serviteur Hermann etait mort egalement… Et pourtant, plus d’un se demandait si cette seconde messe de mariage n’allait pas etre interrompue comme la premiere, si des prodiges ne troubleraient pas de nouveau la ceremonie nuptiale.

Voici les deux epoux dans le choeur de la cathedrale. Le fauteuil de Myra parait inoccupe. Elle est la, cependant.

Marc est debout, tourne vers elle. Il ne peut la voir, mais il la sent pres de lui. Il la tient par la main, comme pour attester sa presence devant l’autel.

Derriere, sont places les temoins, le juge Neuman, le capitaine Haralan, le lieutenant Armgard et moi; puis M. et Mme Roderich, la pauvre mere agenouillee, implorant du Tout-Puissant un miracle pour sa fille!… Autour se pressent les amis, les notabilites de la ville, emplissant la grande nef, et les bas-cotes fourmillent de monde.

Les cloches sonnent a toute volee, les orgues resonnent a pleins jeux.

L’archipretre et ses acolytes sont arrives. L’office commence, ses ceremonies se deroulent au chant de la maitrise. A l’offrande, on voit Marc conduire Myra jusqu’a la premiere marche de l’autel et la ramener, apres que son aumone est tombee dans l’aumoniere du diacre.

La messe terminee, le vieux pretre s’est retourne vers l’assistance.

“Myra Roderich, etes-vous la?… interroge-t-il.

— Je suis la”, repond Myra. Puis, s’adressant a Marc:

“Marc Vidal, consentez-vous a prendre Myra Roderich ici presente pour epouse?

— Oui, repond mon frere.

— Myra Roderich, consentez-vous a prendre Marc Vidal ici present pour epoux?

— Oui, repond Myra d’une voix qui est entendue de tous.

— Marc Vidal et Myra Roderich, prononce l’archipretre, je vous declare unis par le sacrement du mariage.”

Apres la ceremonie, la foule s’empresse sur la route que doivent suivre les nouveaux epoux. On n’entend pas le brouhaha confus de rigueur en de telles circonstances. On se tait, en tendant le cou, dans le fol espoir de voir quelque chose. Nul ne voudrait ceder sa place et personne cependant ne desire etre au premier rang. Tous sont a la fois pousses par la curiosite et retenus par une peur mysterieuse…

Entre la double haie de cette foule quelque peu craintive, les epoux, leurs temoins, leurs amis se rendent a la sacristie. La, sur les registres de la fabrique, a la signature de Marc Vidal vient se joindre un nom, celui de Myra Roderich, un nom trace par une main qu’on ne peut voir, par une main qu’on ne verra jamais!

L’ETONNANTE AVENTURE DE LA MISSION BARSAC

TABLE DES MATIERES

PREMIERE PARTIE

CHAPITRE 1

CHAPITRE 2

CHAPITRE 3

CHAPITRE 4

CHAPITRE 5

CHAPITRE 6

CHAPITRE 7

CHAPITRE 8

CHAPITRE 9

CHAPITRE 10

CHAPITRE 11

CHAPITRE 12

DEUXIEME PARTIE

CHAPITRE 1

CHAPITRE 2

CHAPITRE 3

CHAPITRE 4

CHAPITRE 5

CHAPITRE 6

CHAPITRE 7

CHAPITRE 8

CHAPITRE 9

CHAPITRE 10

CHAPITRE 11

CHAPITRE 12

CHAPITRE 13

CHAPITRE 14

CHAPITRE 15

CHAPITRE 1

L’affaire de la Central Bank

Assurement, l’audacieux cambriolage qui a tant occupe la presse sous le nom de l’affaire de la Central Bank et qui a eu, quinze jours durant, l’honneur de ses manchettes, n’est pas efface de toutes les memoires, malgre les annees ecoulees. Peu de crimes, en effet, ont excite la curiosite publique autant que celui-ci, car il en est peu qui aient reuni au meme degre l’attrait du mystere et l’ampleur du forfait, et dont l’accomplissement ait exige une aussi incroyable audace, une aussi farouche energie.

On en lira donc peut-etre avec interet le recit incomplet encore, mais scrupuleusement veridique. Si ce recit n’eclaire pas absolument tous les points restes dans l’ombre jusqu’ici, il apportera du moins quelques precisions nouvelles, et redressera ou coordonnera les informations parfois contradictoires donnees a l’epoque par les journaux.

Le vol, on le sait, a eu pour theatre l’Agence DK de la Central Bank, situee pres de la Bourse de Londres, au coin de Threadneedle Street et de Old Broad Street, et dirigee alors par Mr Lewis Robert Buxton, fils du lord de ce nom.

Cette agence comporte essentiellement une vaste piece, divisee en deux fractions inegales par un long comptoir de chene, qui se developpe parallelement aux deux rues, lesquelles se coupent a angle droit. On y accede, au croisement de ces deux rues, par une porte vitree, en pan coupe, precedee d’une sorte de tambour de plain-pied avec le trottoir. En entrant, on apercoit a gauche, derriere un grillage a fortes mailles, la caisse, qui communique par une porte egalement grillagee avec le bureau proprement dit, ou se tiennent les employes. A droite le comptoir de chene est interrompu a son extremite par un battant mobile, permettant au besoin d’aller de la partie destinee au public dans celle qui est reservee aux employes, ou vice versa. Au fond de cette derniere, s’ouvre d’abord, pres du comptoir, le cabinet du chef de l’agence, lequel cabinet commande un reduit sans autre issue, puis, en suivant la muraille perpendiculaire a Threadneedle Street, un couloir donnant acces au vestibule commun a tout l’immeuble auquel appartient le local.

D’un cote, ce vestibule passe devant la loge du concierge et conduit a Threadneedle Street. De l’autre, apres avoir desservi le grand escalier, il aboutit a une porte vitree a deux battants, qui dissimule a la vue du dehors l’entree des caves et l’escalier de service, qui fait face a celle-ci.

Tels sont les lieux ou se sont deroulees les principales peripeties du drame.

Au moment ou il commence, c’est-a-dire a cinq heures moins vingt exactement, les cinq employes de l’agence s’occupent de leurs travaux habituels. Deux d’entre eux sont plonges dans leurs ecritures. Les trois autres repondent a autant de clients accoudes sur le comptoir. Quant au caissier, il fait, sous la protection de son grillage, le compte des especes, qui, en ce jour de liquidation, atteignent le total imposant de soixante-douze mille soixante-dix-neuf livres, deux shillings et quatre pence, soit un million huit cent seize mille trois cent quatre-vingt-treize francs quatre-vingts centimes.

Ainsi qu’il a ete dit, l’horloge de l’agence marque cinq heures moins vingt. Dans vingt minutes, par consequent, on fermera; la devanture en fer sera baissee, puis, un peu plus tard, les employes se disperseront, leur journee de travail finie. Le sourd grondement des voitures et le bruit de la foule parviennent du dehors a travers les glaces de la vitrine, obscurcies par le crepuscule de ce dernier jour de novembre.

C’est a ce moment que la porte s’ouvrit et qu’un homme entra. Le nouveau venu, apres avoir jete un coup d’oeil rapide dans le bureau, se retourna a demi et fit au-dehors, a l’adresse, sans doute, d’un compagnon reste sur le trottoir, un geste de la main droite, dont le pouce, l’indicateur et le medius redresses mimaient d’une maniere claire le nombre 3. Leur attention eut-elle ete eveillee, les employes n’auraient pu voir ce geste que leur cachait la porte entrouverte, et l’eussent-ils vu, qu’ils n’auraient evidemment songe a etablir aucune correlation entre le nombre des personnes alors accoudees sur le comptoir et celui des doigts qui etaient ainsi montres comme un signal.

Son signal donne, si c’en etait un, l’homme acheva d’ouvrir la porte, la referma apres s’etre introduit dans le bureau, et alla prendre rang derriere l’un des clients precedents, indiquant ainsi son intention d’attendre, pour faire connaitre ses desirs, que ce client eut termine et se fut retire.

Un des deux employes libres se leva, et, se dirigeant vers lui, demanda: — Vous desirez, monsieur?…

— Merci, monsieur, j’attendrai, repondit le nouveau venu, en accompagnant sa reponse d’un mouvement de la main, destine a faire entendre qu’il voulait precisement avoir affaire a l’employe a proximite duquel il s’etait arrete.

Celui qui avait obligeamment interpelle se rassit sans insister et reprit son travail, la conscience apaisee par cette tentative de zele, et satisfait en somme qu’elle eut ce resultat negatif. L’homme attendit donc, sans que personne fit plus attention a lui.

La singularite de son aspect eut justifie cependant plus serieux examen. C’etait un gaillard de haute taille, qui a en juger par sa carrure, devait etre d’une force peu commune. Une magnifique barbe blonde encadrait son visage au teint bronze. Quant a son rang social, on ne pouvait le presumer d’apres sa mise; un long cache-poussiere en soie grege le recouvrant jusqu’aux pieds.

Le client derriere lequel il etait place ayant termine ce qu’il avait a faire, l’homme au cache-poussiere lui succeda et entretint, a son tour, le representant de la Central Bank des operations qu’il desirait entreprendre. Pendant ce temps, la personne qu’il avait remplacee ouvrait la porte exterieure et sortait de l’agence.

Cette porte se rouvrit immediatement et livra passage a un deuxieme personnage aussi singulier que le premier dont il semblait etre, en quelque sorte, la copie. Meme stature, meme carrure, meme barbe blonde entourant un visage sensiblement cuivre, meme long cache-poussiere de soie grege dissimulant les vetements de son proprietaire.

Pour ce dernier personnage, il en fut comme pour son sosie. Comme celui-ci, il attendit patiemment derriere l’une des deux personnes encore accoudees au comptoir, puis son tour venu, il engagea conversation avec l’employe devenu libre, tandis que le client gagnait la rue.

De meme que precedemment, la porte se rouvrit aussitot. Un troisieme individu fit son entree et alla prendra rang a la suite du seul des trois clients primitifs qui restat. De taille mediocre, tout en largeur et trapu, son visage colore encore assombri par une barbe noire, ses vetements recouverts d’un long pardessus gris, celui-ci offrait a la fois des differences et des analogies avec ceux qui, avant lui, s’etaient livres a semblable manege.

Enfin, lorsque la derniere des trois personnes qui se trouvaient precedemment dans l’agence eut termine ses affaires et ceda la place, ce fut a deux hommes que la porte aussitot rouverte livra passage en meme temps. Ces deux hommes, dont l’un semblait doue d’une vigueur herculeenne, etaient vetus l’un et l’autre de ces longs paletots-sacs communement designes sous le nom d’ulsters, que la rigueur de la saison ne justifiait pas encore, et, de meme que pour les trois premiers, une barbe abondante garnissait leurs visages assez montes de ton.

Ils s’introduisirent d’une maniere bizarre: le plus grand entra d’abord, puis a peine entre, s’arreta dans une position telle qu’il masquait son compagnon, lequel, pendant ce temps, feignant de s’etre accroche a la serrure, faisait subir a celle-ci un mysterieux travail. La halte, au surplus, ne dura qu’un instant, et la porte fut bientot refermee. Mais, a ce moment, si elle avait toujours sa poignee a l’interieur, ce qui permettait de sortir, la poignee de l’exterieur avait disparu. Du dehors, par consequent, nul ne pouvait plus entrer dans le bureau. Quant a frapper a la vitre pour se faire ouvrir, personne n’aurait eu garde de le tenter, un avis colle sur la porte, a l’insu des interesses, annoncant au public que l’agence etait irrevocablement fermee pour ce jour-la.

Les employes n’avaient aucun soupcon qu’on les eut ainsi isoles du reste du monde. L’eussent-ils su, d’ailleurs, ils n’auraient fait qu’en rire. Comment se seraient-ils inquietes, en pleine ville, au moment le plus actif de la journee, alors qu’arrivait jusqu’a eux l’echo de la vie intense de la rue, dont seule une mince pellicule de verre les separait?

Les deux derniers employes s’avancerent a la rencontre des nouveaux venus d’un air aimable, car ils avaient constate que l’horloge marquait pres de cinq heures. Par consequent, breve serait la visite de ces geneurs, qu’il allait etre legitime d’expulser dans moins de cinq minutes. L’un des tardifs clients agrea les services qui lui etaient offerts, tandis que l’autre, le plus grand, les declinait et demandait a parler au directeur.

— Je vais voir s’il est la, lui fut-il repondu.

L’employe ne disparut par la porte menagee au fond de la partie du bureau interdite au public que pour revenir aussitot.

— Si vous voulez prendre la peine d’entrer?… proposa-t-il, en ouvrant le petit battant articule a l’extremite du comptoir.

L’homme a l’ulster obeit a l’invitation et penetra dans le cabinet du directeur, tandis que l’employe, en ayant referme la porte derriere lui, retournait a son travail.

Que se passa-t-il entre le chef de l’agence et son visiteur? Le personnel declara par la suite n’en rien savoir, ne pas meme se l’etre demande, et cela doit etre tenu pour exact. L’instruction en fut ulterieurement reduite aux hypotheses sur ce point, et a l’heure actuelle on est encore dans l’ignorance de la scene qui se deroula alors derriere la porte close.

Une chose certaine, a tout le moins, c’est qu’il ne s’etait pas ecoule deux minutes depuis sa fermeture, quand cette porte se rouvrit, et quand l’homme a l’ulster reparut sur le seuil.

D’une maniere impersonnelle et sans s’adresser plus particulierement a aucun des employes: — S’il vous plait… dit-il d’un ton parfaitement calme, M. le directeur voudrait parler au caissier.

— Bien, monsieur, repondit celui des employes qui n’etait pas occupe.

Se detournant, il appela: — Store!

— Mr Barclay?…

— Le chef vous demande.

— On y va, repondit le caissier.

Avec la ponctualite inherente aux gens de sa profession, il jeta une serviette et trois sacs, contenant, en billets et numeraire, l’encaisse du jour, dans le coffre-fort beant, dont la lourde porte battit avec un bruit sourd, puis ayant baisse son guichet, il sortit de sa cabine grillagee, qu’il ferma soigneusement derriere lui, et se dirigea vers le bureau du chef, devant lequel attendait l’etranger, qui s’effaca et entra sur ses talons.

En penetrant dans le bureau, Store eut la surprise de constater que celui qu’on pretendait l’appeler ne s’y trouvait pas et que la piece etait vide. Mais le temps lui manqua pour eclaircir ce mystere. Attaque par-derriere, la gorge prise dans une poigne d’acier, il essaya vainement de se debattre, de crier… Les mains meurtrieres resserrerent leur etreinte, jusqu’au moment ou, perdant le souffle, il s’ecroula, evanoui, sur le tapis.

Aucun bruit n’avait revele cette lutte farouche. Dans la grande salle, les employes continuaient tranquillement leur travail, quatre formant autant de groupes avec les clients dont ils etaient separes par le comptoir, le cinquieme absorbe dans des calculs interessant son service.

L’homme a l’ulster prit le loisir de s’essuyer le front ou perlait un peu de sueur, puis il se pencha sur sa victime. En un tour de main, le caissier fut baillonne et ligote.

Cette besogne terminee, il entrouvrit doucement la porte et jeta un coup d’oeil dans la grande salle. L’examen l’ayant satisfait, il toussa legerement, comme s’il eut voulu attirer l’attention des quatre singuliers clients qui s’y attardaient alors, puis, ce but atteint, il ouvrit d’une seule poussee, toute grande, la porte qui le dissimulait.

Ce fut le signal — convenu d’avance, sans nul doute — d’une scene litteralement fantastique. Tandis que l’homme a l’ulster traversait d’un bond toute la salle et, tombant comme la foudre sur le calculateur solitaire, l’etranglait impitoyablement, les quatre collegues de celui-ci subissaient un sort pareil.

Le client le plus pres de l’extremite du comptoir franchit la porte battante menagee en cet endroit et terrassa, en le prenant a revers, l’employe qui lui faisait face. Des trois autres clients, deux allongerent les bras en travers du comptoir, et leurs mains se nouerent au cou de leurs interlocuteurs respectifs, qu’ils “sonnerent” ferocement sur l’appui de chene. Quant au dernier, le plus petit de taille, ne pouvant apprehender son vis-a-vis dont une trop grande distance le separait, il bondit pardessus le comptoir et saisit son adversaire a la gorge avec une violence que son elan decuplait.

Pas un cri n’avait ete pousse. Le drame n’avait pas dure trente secondes.

Quand leurs victimes eurent perdu connaissance, les etrangleurs acheverent de les mettre hors de combat. Le plan avait ete minutieusement etudie. Rien ne clocha. Il n’y eut aucune hesitation. De toutes les poches sortirent a la fois les accessoires necessaires. Ensemble, dussent les patients perir par l’asphyxie, les bouches furent bourrees d’ouate et baillonnees. Ensemble, les mains furent ramenees en arriere et ligotees, les pieds etroitement lies, les corps raidis dans la multiple etreinte d’une fine cordelette d’acier.

Le travail de tous fut termine au meme instant. D’un seul mouvement, les cinq assaillants se redresserent.

— Le rideau! ordonna celui qui avait demande a voir le directeur de l’agence et qui semblait commander aux autres.

Trois des bandits coururent actionner les manivelles de la devanture en fer. Les lames de tole commencerent a descendre, attenuant progressivement les bruits venant de l’exterieur.

L’operation etait a demi effectuee, quand la sonnerie du telephone retentit tout a coup.

— Stop! fit le chef de la bande.

Le rideau s’etant arrete dans sa course descendante, il s’approcha de l’appareil et decrocha le recepteur. La conversation suivante s’engagea, dont la moitie seulement parvenait aux quatre etrangleurs maintenant inactifs.

— Allo!

— J’ecoute.

— C’est vous, Buxton?

— Oui.

— C’est drole. Je ne reconnais pas votre voix.

— Il y a de la friture.

— Pas chez nous.

— Il y en a ici. Moi non plus je ne reconnais pas votre voix.

— Mr Lasone.

— Ah! tres bien!… tres bien!… je reconnais maintenant.

— Dites donc, Buxton, la voiture est-elle passee?

— Pas encore, assura le bandit apres une courte hesitation.

— Quand elle viendra, dites-lui de retourner a l’agence S. On me telephone a l’instant qu’on vient d’y recevoir un versement important apres la fermeture et le depart des fonds.

— La somme est forte?

— Assez. Dans les vingt mille livres.

— Fichtre!…

— Vous ferez la commission?… Je peux compter sur vous?

— Comptez sur moi.

— Bonsoir, Buxton.

— Bonsoir.

L’etranger raccrocha le recepteur et, un instant, demeura immobile, pensif.

Soudain, il prit son parti et, rassemblant ses complices autour de lui: — Il s’agit de s’activer, camarades, leur dit-il a voix basse, en commencant a se deshabiller febrilement. Ouste!… qu’on me donne la pelure de cet homme-la!

Du doigt, il designait Store, toujours prive de sentiments.

En un clin d’oeil, celui-ci fut depouille de ses vetements, que son agresseur endossa, bien que ces vetements fussent un peu petits pour sa taille. Ayant trouve dans une des poches les cles de la caisse, il ouvrit ensuite la cabine, puis le coffre-fort, dont furent extraits les sacs de numeraire, la serviette aux billets et les liasses de titres.

Il achevait a peine, quand on entendit une voiture qui s’arretait au bord du trottoir. Presque aussitot, on frappa aux vitres de la porte a demi recouverte par la devanture metallique.

— Attention! dit rapidement le chef de cette bande d’etrangleurs, en commentant ses paroles de gestes expressifs. Bas les manteaux, montrez vos vestons, a vos places, et du coup d’oeil!… Qu’on ne rate pas le premier qui entrera!… Et sans bruit… Apres, porte close, et qu’on n’ouvre qu’a moi!…

Charge de la serviette et de plusieurs paquets de titres, il s’etait, tout en parlant, rapproche de la porte, tandis que trois de ses complices s’asseyaient, sur un signe de lui, a la place des employes, pousses d’un coup de pied sous le comptoir, et que le quatrieme se postait pres de l’entree. Il ouvrit cette porte d’une main ferme. Le vacarme de la rue parut grandir subitement.

Une voiture de livraison s’etait en effet arretee devant l’agence. Dans la nuit, on voyait briller ses lanternes. Le cocher, reste sur son siege, causait avec un homme debout au bord du trottoir. C’etait cet homme, un encaisseur de la Central Bank, qui avait frappe a la porte quelques instants plus tot.

Sans se presser, evitant les passants dont le torrent coulait sans interruption, l’audacieux bandit traversa le trottoir et s’approcha de la voiture.

— Salut! dit-il.

— Salut! repondirent les deux hommes.

Le cocher, ayant regarde celui qui l’interpellait, parut etonne.

— Tiens!… ce n’est pas Store! s’ecria-t-il.

— C’est son jour de conge. Je le remplace, expliqua le pseudo-caissier.

Puis, s’adressant a l’encaisseur debout aupres de lui.

— Eh!… Un coup de main, l’ami?

— Pour quoi faire?

— Pour un de nos sacs. On a recu beaucoup d’argent aujourd’hui. Ca pese.

— C’est que… dit l’encaisseur en hesitant, il m’est defendu de quitter la voiture.

— Bah! pour une minute!… D’ailleurs, je te remplace. Un des employes t’aidera pendant que je deposerai la serviette et les titres.

L’encaisseur s’eloigna sans insister davantage et franchit la porte, qui se referma derriere lui.

— A nous camarade, disait pendant ce temps au cocher le remplacant de Store. Ouvre ta voiture.

— Allons-y! acquiesca le cocher.

La caisse de la voiture n’ayant aucune issue en arriere ni sur les cotes, la seule ouverture consistait en une petite porte a deux battants de tole, menagee derriere la banquette du conducteur. De cette maniere, les risques de vol etaient reduits au minimum.

Pour penetrer dans la voiture, il fallait donc necessairement faire basculer la banquette, dont une moitie avait ete rendue mobile dans ce but. Mais, comme il s’agissait seulement de placer quelques paquets dans un des casiers garnissant les cotes du vehicule, le cocher jugea superflu de se livrer a ce travail et se contenta de repousser les portes.

— Passe la serviette, dit-il.

Ayant recu ce qu’il demandait, le cocher, a demi couche en travers de la banquette, disparut jusqu’a mi-corps dans l’interieur de la voiture, ses jambes faisant contrepoids a l’exterieur. Dans cette position, il ne put voir son soi-disant collegue monter sur le marchepied, puis de la sur le siege, et se placer de maniere a le separer de ses guides. Pardessus le cocher etendu, le faux caissier, comme s’il eut ete curieux de voir ce que contenait la caisse de la voiture, y introduisit a son tour le haut du corps, et son bras, tout a coup, se detendit violemment dans l’ombre.

Si quelqu’un des nombreux passants qui circulaient avait eu l’idee de regarder de pres a ce moment, il aurait vu les jambes du cocher se raidir d’une maniere aussi subite du siege, tandis que le buste flechissait de l’autre cote de la banquette.

Rapidement, l’homme saisit alors par la ceinture ce corps inerte, et l’envoya au milieu des sacs et des paquets deposes dans la voiture.

Cette serie d’actes, executes avec une precision et une audace merveilleuses, n’avait demande que quelques instants. Les passants continuaient a circuler paisiblement, sans aucun soupcon des evenements anormaux qui se succedaient si pres d’eux, en pleine foule.

L’homme se pencha plus encore dans la voiture, de maniere a ne pas etre aveugle par les lumieres de la rue, et regarda dans la caisse. Sur le plancher, au milieu d’une flaque de sang qui grandissait a vue d’oeil, le cocher gisait, un couteau fiche a la base du crane, dans cet epanouissement de la moelle qui a recu les divers noms de bulbe, de cervelet, de noeud vital. Il ne bougeait plus. La mort avait ete foudroyante.

Le meurtrier, craignant que le sang ne finit par traverser le parquet et par couler sur le sol, enjamba la banquette, s’introduisit tout entier dans la voiture et depouilla le mort de sa vareuse. Il s’en servit pour tamponner la terrible blessure, puis, ayant retire le couteau de la plaie et l’ayant soigneusement essuye, ainsi que ses mains rouges, il referma les portes de tole, sur que le sang, s’il continuait a couler, serait absorbe par la laine comme par une eponge.

Cette precaution prise, il descendit de la voiture, traversa le trottoir et frappa d’une maniere particuliere a la porte de l’agence, qui fut aussitot ouverte, puis refermee.

— L’homme?… interrogea-t-il, en entrant.

On lui montra le comptoir.

— Avec les autres. Ficele.

— Bon!… Ses vetements!… Vite!

Pendant qu’on se hatait d’obeir, il retirait le costume du caissier Store et le remplacait par celui de l’encaisseur.

— Deux hommes resteront ici, commanda-t-il, tout en procedant a cette transformation. Les autres avec moi pour demenager la “bagnole”.

Sans attendre la reponse, il rouvrit la porte, sortit, suivi de ses deux acolytes, remonta sur le siege et s’introduisit dans la caisse de la voiture, dont le pillage commenca.

L’un apres l’autre, il donnait les paquets a ses complices, qui les transportaient dans l’agence. La porte de celle-ci, demeuree grande ouverte, decoupait un carre brillant sur le trottoir. Les passants, venant de l’obscurite relative de la rue pour y retourner aussitot, traversaient sans y prendre garde cette zone plus lumineuse. Rien ne les eut empeches d’entrer. Mais cette idee ne venait a personne, et la foule s’ecoulait indifferente a une manutention qui ne la regardait pas et que rien ne l’autorisait a suspecter.

En cinq minutes la voiture fut vide. Porte close, on proceda au tri. Les valeurs, actions ou obligations, furent mises d’un cote; les especes de l’autre. Les premieres, impitoyablement rejetees, allerent joncher le parquet. Des billets de banque, on fit cinq parts, et chacun en prit une, dont il se matelassa la poitrine.

— Et les sacs?… demanda l’un des bandits.

— Bourrez vos poches, repondit le chef. Ce qui restera, dans la voiture. Je m’en charge.

On lui obeissait deja.

— Minute!… s’ecria-t-il. Convenons de tout auparavant. Quand je serai parti, vous rentrerez ici et vous finirez de baisser la devanture. Ensuite, expliqua-t-il, en montrant le couloir ouvrant dans le fond de la piece, vous sortirez par la. Le dernier fermera a double tour et jettera la cle a l’egout. Au bout, c’est le vestibule et vous connaissez les aitres.

Du doigt, il montra le cabinet du directeur.

— N’oubliez pas le bonhomme. Vous savez ce qui est convenu?…

— Oui, oui, lui repondit-on. Sois tranquille.

Au moment de partir, il s’arreta encore.

— Diable!… fit-il. Je ne pensais plus au principal… Il doit bien y avoir ici une liste des autres Agences.

On lui montra, colle a l’interieur de la vitrine, une affiche jaune qui donnait ce renseignement. Il la parcourut des yeux.

— Quant aux manteaux, dit-il, lorsqu’il eut decouvert l’adresse de l’agence S, jetez-les dans un coin. Qu’on les trouve. L’essentiel est qu’on ne les voie pas sur notre dos. Rendez-vous ou vous savez… En route!

Le surplus des sacs d’or et d’argent fut transporte dans la voiture.

— C’est tout?… interrogea l’un des porteurs.

Son chef reflechit, puis, frappe d’une idee soudaine: — Fichtre non! Et mes frusques!

L’autre partit en courant, pour revenir aussitot, apportant les vetements que ceux du caissier Store avait tout d’abord remplaces, et qu’il jeta a la volee dans la caisse de la voiture.

— Cette fois, c’est bien tout?… demanda-t-il de nouveau.

— Oui. Et ne trainez pas! lui fut-il repondu.

Il disparut dans l’agence. La devanture de fer acheva de descendre.

Pendant ce temps, le cocher improvise saisissait les guides et reveillait les chevaux d’un coup de fouet. La voiture s’ebranla, remonta Old Broad Street, tourna dans Throgmorton Street, suivit Lothburg Street, puis Gresham Street, tourna dans Aldergate Street et s’arreta enfin devant l’agence S, au ndeg 29 de cette derniere rue.

Le faux cocher y entra hardiment et se dirigea vers la caisse.

— Il parait que vous avez un pli a me donner? dit-il.

Le caissier releva les yeux sur celui qui l’interpellait.

— Non, ma foi! reconnut l’encaisseur avec un gros rire.

— Je ne comprends pas que le siege, maugreait cependant le caissier d’un air mecontent, envoie comme ca des gens qu’on ne connait pas…

— C’est parce que je ne fais pas le quartier d’habitude. C’est a l’agence B qu’on m’a dit de passer ici, d’apres un coup de telephone du siege. Parait que vous avez eu un fort versement apres la fermeture.

Il avait trouve sur-le-champ cette reponse plausible, la liste des agences de la Central Bank etant encore toute fraiche dans sa memoire.

— Oui… reconnut le caissier, malgre tout soupconneux… C’est egal, ca m’ennuie de ne pas vous connaitre.

— Qu’est-ce que ca peut vous faire, repliqua l’autre etonne.

— Il y a tant de voleurs!… Mais, au fait, il y a moyen de tout arranger. Vous avez votre commission sur vous, je suppose?

Si quelque chose etait de nature a troubler le bandit, c’etait bien une pareille question. Comment aurait-il eu sa “commission”? Il ne comprenait meme pas ce que le mot signifiait. Il ne se troubla pas cependant. Quand on risque de telles aventures, il faut avoir des qualites speciales, et, pardessus toutes les autres, un absolu sang-froid. Cette qualite, le faux encaisseur de la Central Bank la possedait au supreme degre. Si donc il fut emu en entendant la question qu’on lui posait a l’improviste, il n’en laissa rien paraitre, et repondit du ton le plus naturel: — Parbleu! ca va sans dire.

Il s’etait tenu ce raisonnement bien simple que cette “commission”, puisqu’on admettait comme probable qu’il l’eut sur lui, consistait forcement en quelque objet materiel, dont les employes de la Central Bank avaient coutume d’etre toujours porteurs. En fouillant la vareuse de l’encaisseur auquel il s’etait substitue, il trouverait donc, sans doute, cette fameuse “commission”.

— Je vais voir, ajouta-t-il d’une voix calme, en s’asseyant sur un banc et en se mettant en devoir de vider ses poches.

Il en sortit de nombreuses paperasses, lettres, notes de service, ou autres, toutes fortement frangees et froissees, comme il arrive de celles qu’on a longtemps trainees avec soi. Simulant la maladresse des ouvriers, quand leurs gros doigts, plus habiles aux rudes travaux, sont dans le cas de manipuler des papiers, il depliait les pieces l’une apres l’autre.

Des la troisieme, il decouvrit un document imprime, avec des blancs remplis a la main, aux termes duquel le nomme Baudruc etait commissionne a titre d’encaisseur de la Central Bank. C’etait evidemment ce qu’il cherchait, et pourtant la difficulte restait la meme. Le nom ecrit sur le document constituait peut-etre, en effet, le plus grand de tous les dangers, ce Baudruc etant bien connu du caissier de l’agence S, qui s’etait etonne de ne pas avoir affaire a lui.

Sans rien perdre de son sang-froid, l’audacieux bandit imagina sur-le-champ l’expedient necessaire. Profitant d’un moment d’inattention du caissier, il dechira en deux morceaux la piece officielle, dont la moitie inferieure resta dans sa main droite.

— Pas de veine!… s’ecria-t-il du ton d’un homme vexe, aussitot que cette operation eut ete menee a bonne fin. Je l’ai bien, ma commission, mais la moitie, pas plus.

— La moitie?… repeta le caissier.

— Oui, elle etait vieille et tout usee, a force de trainer dans ma poche. Elle se sera coupee en deux et j’en ai laisse betement une moitie chez moi.

— Hum!… fit le caissier.

L’encaisseur parut froisse.

— Et puis en voila assez, declara-t-il en se dirigeant vers la porte. On m’a dit de venir chercher votre galette; je viens. Vous ne voulez pas me la donner? Gardez-la. Vous vous debrouillerez avec le siege. Moi, je m’en moque.

L’indifference qu’il temoignait fit plus pour son succes que les meilleurs arguments et plus encore la phrase menacante qu’il avait decochee, telle une fleche de Parthe, en s’eloignant. Pas d’histoires! c’est le but eternel de tous les employes de la terre.

— Minute!… s’ecria le caissier en le rappelant. Montrez-la moi, votre “commission”.

— La voila! repondit l’encaisseur, qui presenta la moitie de ce document ou n’etait inscrit aucun nom.

— Il y a la signature du chef, constata le caissier avec satisfaction.

Puis, se decidant enfin: — Voici l’argent, annonca-t-il, en presentant un paquet scelle. Si vous voulez me signer mon recu?

L’encaisseur, ayant mis un nom quelconque sur la feuille qui lui etait presentee, s’eloigna d’un air mecontent.

— Salut!… dit-il, d’une voix bourrue, en homme irrite de la suspicion dont il venait d’etre l’objet.

Aussitot dehors, il pressa le pas vers la voiture, monta sur le siege et disparut dans la nuit.

Ainsi fut accompli ce vol qui eut un si grand retentissement.

Comme on le sait, il fut decouvert le soir meme, plus tot, a coup sur, que ne l’avaient suppose ses auteurs. L’agence verrouillee a double tour, son personnel reduit a l’impuissance, le cocher de la voiture supprime, ils pouvaient legitimement croire qu’on ne s’apercevrait de rien avant le lendemain matin. A ce moment, le garcon de bureau, en venant proceder au balayage quotidien, donnerait necessairement l’eveil, mais il y avait de grandes chances pour que l’aventure demeurat secrete jusque-la.

Les choses se passerent tout autrement dans la realite.

A cinq heures et demie, Mr Lasone, ce controleur des agences qui avait telephone une premiere fois, vers cinq heures, pour aviser du passage de la voiture de recolement, inquiet de ne pas voir arriver celle-ci, telephona de nouveau a l’agence DK. Il ne recut pas de reponse, les voleurs, qui terminaient alors le partage du butin, ayant decroche simplement le recepteur, afin d’arreter la sonnerie, dont la persistance aurait pu eveiller l’attention du voisinage. Sur le moment, le controleur n’insista pas et se contenta d’incriminer les employes du telephone.

Cependant, le temps s’ecoulant et la voiture n’arrivant toujours pas, il fit une seconde tentative. Celle-ci restant aussi vaine que la premiere, et le bureau du telephone lui affirmant que l’agence DK ne repondait pas, le controleur envoya un garcon du siege voir pourquoi elle etait ainsi muette. Avant six heures et demie, ce garcon etait de retour. On sut par lui que l’agence etait fermee et paraissait deserte.

Le controleur, fort etonne que Mr Buxton eut termine ses operations de si bonne heure, un de ces jours de fin de mois ou le personnel est oblige parfois de veiller jusqu’a neuf heures, ne put qu’attendre la voiture de recolement avec une impatience grandissante.

Il l’attendait encore a sept heures et quart, quand une grave nouvelle lui parvint. La voiture avait ete trouvee derriere Hyde Park dans une rue peu frequentee de Kensington, Holland Street, par un employe du siege central qui, sa journee faite, regagnait son domicile. Cet employe, intrigue par le stationnement tardif d’une voiture de la Central Bank dans cette rue relativement obscure et deserte, etait monte sur le siege, avait pousse les portes de tole qui n’etaient pas fermees, et, a la lueur d’une allumette, il avait decouvert le corps deja froid du cocher. Il etait alors revenu en courant au siege central, afin de donner l’alarme.

Aussitot, le telephone joua dans toutes les directions. Avant huit heures, une escouade de police entourait la voiture abandonnee, tandis que la foule s’amassait devant l’agence DK, dont une autre escouade faisait ouvrir les portes par un serrurier requis a cet effet.

Le lecteur sait deja ce qu’on devait y trouver.

L’enquete commenca sur-le-champ. Par bonheur, aucun des employes de l’agence n’etait mort, bien qu’a vrai dire ils n’en valussent guere mieux. Aux trois quarts etouffes par les baillons, la bouche emplie d’ouate et de chiffon qu’on y avait enfonces avec violence, ils gisaient evanouis, quand du secours leur arriva, et nul doute qu’ils ne fussent passes de vie a trepas s’ils etaient restes dans cette situation jusqu’au matin.

Lorsque, apres une heure de soins, ils eurent repris conscience, ils ne purent donner que des renseignements fort vagues. Cinq hommes barbus, les uns recouverts de longs cache-poussiere, les autres de ces pardessus de voyage vulgairement denommes ulsters, les avaient assaillis et terrasses. Ils n’en savaient pas plus.

Il n’y avait pas a mettre leur sincerite en doute. Des le debut de l’enquete, on avait trouve, en effet, les cinq manteaux bien en evidence, comme si les malfaiteurs avaient tenu a laisser une trace de leur passage. Au surplus, ces vetements, examines avec attention par les plus fins limiers de Scotland Yard, ne revelerent rien touchant ceux qui les avaient abandonnes. Faits d’etoffes banales ou de magasin, ce qui expliquait qu’on les eut laisses sur les lieux du crime.

Tout cela n’apprenait pas grand-chose, et pourtant le magistrat enqueteur dut renoncer a en savoir davantage. Vainement il retourna les temoins dans tous les sens. Ils ne varierent pas, et il fut impossible d’en rien tirer de plus.

Le dernier temoin entendu fut le concierge de l’immeuble. La devanture etant baissee, les malfaiteurs etaient forcement sortis par le vestibule commun a toute la maison. Le concierge avait donc du les voir.

Celui-ci ne put que confesser son ignorance. Les appartements dont il avait la surveillance etaient trop nombreux pour qu’elle fut reellement efficace. Ce jour-la, il n’avait rien remarque d’anormal. Si les voleurs etaient passes devant lui, ainsi qu’on devait le supposer en effet, il les avait pris pour les employes de l’agence.

Pousse dans ses derniers retranchements, invite a fouiller dans sa memoire, il cita les noms de quatre locataires qui avaient traverse le vestibule a peu pres a l’heure du crime, ou peu de temps apres. Verification faite seance tenante, ces quatre locataires, d’une honorabilite parfaite, etaient rentres tout simplement pour diner.

Le concierge parla aussi d’un garcon charbonnier qui s’etait presente, porteur d’un sac volumineux, vers sept heures et demie, un peu avant l’intervention de la police, et qu’il avait remarque uniquement pour cette raison qu’il n’est pas d’usage de livrer du charbon a une pareille heure. Ce garcon charbonnier avait demande un locataire du cinquieme, et avec une telle insistance que le concierge avait autorise la livraison et avait indique l’escalier de service.

Le garcon charbonnier etait donc monte, mais pour redescendre un quart d’heure plus tard, toujours charge de son sac. Interpelle par le concierge, il avait dit alors s’etre trompe d’adresse. Tout en parlant d’une voix haletante, en homme qui vient de gravir cinq etages avec un lourd fardeau sur les epaules, il avait gagne la rue, puis ayant depose son sac dans une voiture a bras en station au bord du trottoir, il etait parti sans se presser.

— Savez-vous, demanda le magistrat enqueteur, a quelle maison appartient ce garcon?

Le concierge repondit qu’il l’ignorait.

Le magistrat, reservant ce point pour une verification ulterieure, interrogea le locataire du cinquieme. Il lui fut confirme qu’un homme, se disant charge d’effectuer une livraison de charbon, avait, en effet, sonne a la porte de service vers sept heures et demie. La bonne, qui lui avait ouvert, l’ayant assure qu’il se trompait, il etait reparti sans insister. Une difference existait, toutefois, entre les diverses depositions relatives a cet incident, la bonne du cinquieme soutenant, contrairement au dire du concierge, que l’homme n’etait porteur d’aucun sac.

— Il l’aura laisse en bas pour monter, expliqua le magistrat.

Toutefois, il apparut que cette explication n’etait pas suffisante, quand on decouvrit, dans le couloir commun des caves, la valeur d’un sac d’anthracite, que le concierge affirmait ne pas s’y trouver quelques heures plus tot. De toute evidence, le mysterieux garcon charbonnier avait vide en cet endroit le sac qu’il apportait. Mais alors, qu’avait-il emporte, puisque — le concierge se montrait tout aussi affirmatif sur ce point — le sac paraissait n’etre, au depart, ni moins plein, ni moins lourd qu’a l’arrivee?

— Ne nous occupons pas de cela pour l’instant, conclut le magistrat, renoncant a resoudre l’insoluble probleme. Ce point sera tire au clair demain.

Pour le moment, il avait a suivre une piste qu’il estimait plus serieuse, et il entendait ne pas s’en ecarter.

En effet, tout le personnel de l’agence n’avait pas ete retrouve. Le personnage le plus important, le directeur, manquait a l’appel. Mr Lewis Robert Buxton avait disparu.

Les employes ne purent fournir aucune indication a cet egard. Tout ce qu’ils savaient, c’est que, un peu avant cinq heures, un client, introduit aupres du directeur, avait, quelques minutes plus tard, appele le caissier Store, que celui-ci s’etait rendu a cet appel et n’avait pas reparu. C’est quelques instants apres que l’agression s’etait produite. Quant a Mr Buxton, nul ne l’avait revu.

La conclusion s’imposait. S’il etait hors de doute que l’agence eut ete prise d’assaut par cinq bandits plus ou moins deguises ou maquilles, il ne l’etait pas moins que ces bandits eussent un complice dans la place et que ce complice ne fut autre que son chef.

C’est pourquoi, sans attendre les resultats d’une enquete plus approfondie, mandat d’amener fut immediatement lance contre Lewis Robert Buxton, chef de l’agence DK de la Central Bank, inculpe de vol et de complicite de meurtre, et c’est pourquoi son signalement, que l’on connaissait bien, si on ignorait celui de ses complices, fut telegraphie dans toutes les directions.

Le coupable n’ayant pas encore quitte l’Angleterre, il allait etre apprehende, soit dans une ville de l’interieur, soit a un port d’embarquement, succes rapide dont la police pourrait s’enorgueillir a juste titre.

Sur cette agreable perspective, magistrat et detectives gagnerent leurs lits respectifs.

Or, cette meme nuit, a deux heures du matin, cinq hommes, les uns completement glabres, une forte moustache barrant le visage cuivre des autres, descendaient a Southampton de l’express de Londres, isolement, comme ils y etaient montes. Apres avoir pris livraison de plusieurs colis, et notamment d’une grande malle tres lourde, ils se firent conduire en voiture au bassin a flot, ou attendait a quai un steamer de deux mille tonneaux environ, dont la cheminee vomissait une epaisse fumee.

A la maree de quatre heures, c’est-a-dire a un moment ou tout dormait a Southampton et ou le crime d’Old Broad Street y etait encore inconnu, ce steamer se dehala du bassin, sortit des jetees et prit la mer.

Nul ne tenta de s’opposer a son depart. Et pourquoi, en verite, aurait-on suspecte cet honnete batiment, charge ouvertement de marchandises, disparates mais honorables, a destination de Cotonou, port du Dahomey?

Le steamer s’eloigna donc paisiblement, avec ses marchandises, ses cinq passagers, leurs colis et leur grande malle, que l’un d’eux, le plus grand, avait fait deposer dans sa cabine, tandis que la police, interrompant son enquete, cherchait dans le sommeil un repos bien gagne.

Cette enquete, elle fut reprise le lendemain et les jours suivants, mais, ainsi que chacun le sait, elle ne devait pas aboutir. Les jours s’ajouterent aux jours, les cinq malfaiteurs demeurerent inconnus, Lewis Robert Buxton demeura introuvable. Aucune lueur ne vint eclairer l’impenetrable mystere. On ne parvint meme pas a decouvrir a quelle maison appartenait le garcon charbonnier qui avait attire un moment l’attention de la police. De guerre lasse, l’affaire fut classee.

La solution de l’enigme, la suite de ce recit la donnera, pour la premiere fois, entiere et complete. Il appartiendra au lecteur de dire si on pourrait en imaginer de plus inattendue et de plus etrange.

CHAPITRE 2

2

Un voyage d’etude

Conakry, chef-lieu de la Guinee francaise et residence du lieutenant-gouverneur, est aujourd’hui une ville tres agreable, dont les rues, intelligemment tracees d’apres les plans du gouverneur Ballay, se coupent a l’angle droit et sont, en general, designees par un simple numero d’ordre, a la mode americaine. Batie sur l’ile de Tombo, elle est separee du continent par un etroit chenal, que franchit un pont, sur lequel passent cavaliers, pietons, vehicules, et aussi le chemin de fer qui aboutit pres du Niger, a Kouroussa. C’est la station la plus salubre du littoral. Aussi les representants de la race blanche y sont-ils nombreux, particulierement les Francais et les Anglais, ces derniers plus specialement groupes dans le faubourg de Newtown.

Mais, a l’epoque des evenements qui forment le sujet de ce recit, Conakry n’avait pas encore atteint ce degre de prosperite et n’etait guere qu’une grosse bourgade.

En cette journee du 27 novembre, cette bourgade etait en fete. Obeissant a l’invitation que le gouverneur, M. Henry Valdonne, lui avait faite par voie d’affiches, la population se portait vers la mer, disposee a recevoir chaleureusement, ainsi qu’on l’en priait, les voyageurs notables qui allaient incessamment debarquer du Touat, un paquebot de la Compagnie Frayssinet.

Les personnages qui mettaient ainsi en rumeur la ville de Conakry etaient d’importance, en effet. Au nombre de sept, ils formaient le haut personnel de la commission extraparlementaire chargee par l’administration centrale d’effectuer un voyage d’etude dans la region du Soudan connue sous le nom de “boucle du Niger”. A vrai dire, ce n’etait pas tout a fait de plein gre que le president du Conseil, M. Granchamp, et M. Chazelle, ministre des Colonies, avaient reuni cette mission et decrete ce voyage d’etude. Ils y avaient ete contraints, en quelque sorte, par la pression de la Chambre et par la necessite de clore une joute oratoire qui confinait a l’obstruction.

Quelques mois auparavant, a propos d’un debat relatif a la region africaine que la mission extraparlementaire avait mandat d’explorer, la Chambre s’etait partagee en deux fractions numeriquement egales, que menaient au combat deux irreductibles leaders.

L’un de ses leaders s’appelait Barsac; l’autre avait nom Baudrieres.

Le premier, bien en chair, voire un tantinet bedonnant, portait en eventail une opulente barbe noire. C’etait un Meridional de la Provence, au verbe sonore, doue, sinon d’eloquence, du moins d’une certaine faconde, un joyeux et sympathique garcon au demeurant. Le second representait un departement du Nord, et, si l’on autorise cette expression audacieuse, il le representait en longueur. Sec de corps et de visage, une mince moustache tombante accentuant ses levres minces, anguleux et dogmatique, il faisait partie de la race des tristes. Autant son collegue s’epanouissait genereusement, autant il vivait replie sur lui-meme, se livrant le moins possible, l’ame verrouillee comme le coffre-fort d’un avare.

Tous deux deputes de vieille date, ils s’etaient specialises dans les questions coloniales, et on s’accordait a les regarder comme des autorites en la matiere. Cependant — cette reflexion s’impose — il etait reellement merveilleux que leurs patientes etudes les eussent conduits a des conclusions si opposees. Le certain, c’est qu’ils etaient rarement d’accord. Lorsque Barsac traitait une question quelconque, il y avait dix a parier contre un que Baudrieres allait demander la parole pour dire juste le contraire, si bien que, leurs discours s’annulant, la Chambre en etait generalement reduite a voter dans le sens indique par le Ministere.

Mais, cette fois, Barsac et Baudrieres n’avaient pas voulu ceder d’un pouce, et la discussion s’etait eternisee. Elle avait commence au sujet d’un projet de loi depose par le premier, projet tendant a creer cinq sieges de deputes dans la Senegambie, la Haute-Guinee et la partie du Soudan francais situee a l’ouest du Niger, et a accorder l’electorat, voire l’eligibilite, aux gens de couleur, sans distinction de race. Aussitot, ainsi qu’il en avait coutume, Baudrieres s’etait vigoureusement eleve contre la these de Barsac, et les deux irreconciliables adversaires s’etaient jete a la tete toute une mitraille d’arguments.

L’un, citant a l’appui de son opinion celle d’un grand nombre de militaires et de civils qui avaient parcouru ces regions ou y avaient trafique, representa les negres comme parvenus a un degre de civilisation fort avancee. Il ajouta que c’etait peu d’avoir supprime l’esclavage si on ne donnait pas aux populations conquises les memes droits qu’a leurs conquerants, et il prononca a ce propos, dans une serie de peroraisons que la Chambre applaudit bruyamment, les grands mots de liberte, d’egalite et de fraternite.

L’autre affirma, par contre, que les negres croupissaient encore dans la plus honteuse barbarie et qu’il ne pouvait etre question de les consulter, pas plus qu’on ne consulte un enfant malade sur le remede qu’il convient de lui appliquer. Il ajouta qu’en tout cas le moment n’etait pas propice a une experience aussi dangereuse et qu’il convenait plutot de renforcer les troupes d’occupation, des signes inquietants autorisant a redouter des troubles prochains dans ces contrees. Il invoqua un aussi grand nombre d’opinions militaires et civiles que son contradicteur, conclut en preconisant une nouvelle intervention armee et declara avec une energie patriotique que le patrimoine conquis par le sang francais etait sacre et devait demeurer intangible. Lui aussi fut applaudi frenetiquement.

Le ministre des Colonies fut tres embarrasse pour departager ces orateurs passionnes. Il y avait du vrai dans les deux theses. S’il etait exact que les populations noires habitant la boucle du Niger et la Senegambie parussent commencer a s’accommoder de la domination francaise, que l’instruction fit quelques progres parmi ces peuplades jadis si profondement ignorantes, et que la securite y fut en voie de rapide amelioration, il ne l’etait pas moins qu’actuellement la situation tendait a se modifier dans un sens defavorable. On avait recu la nouvelle de troubles et de razzias; des villages entiers, on ignorait pour quelles raisons, avaient ete abandonnes par leurs habitants, et enfin il convenait d’enregistrer, sans rien exagerer cependant, des bruits assez mysterieux et confus qui couraient la brousse, aux abords du Niger, et dont le sens general etait qu’une puissance independante fut en train de se former en un point encore inconnu du sol africain.

Chacun des deux precedents orateurs pouvant a la rigueur trouver des arguments favorables a sa cause dans le discours ministeriel, ils triompherent tous deux egalement, et la discussion se poursuivit, jusqu’au moment ou un depute, excede, s’ecria au milieu du bruit:

— Puisqu’on ne peut pas s’entendre, qu’on aille y voir!

M. Chazelle repondit que ces contrees avaient ete si souvent explorees que la necessite de les decouvrir une fois de plus ne s’imposait pas, mais qu’il etait pret, neanmoins, a se conformer aux vues de la Chambre, si celle-ci estimait qu’un voyage d’etude eut quelque utilite, et qu’il serait heureux de l’associer, dans ce cas, a une telle entreprise, en placant l’expedition sous la direction de celui de ses membres qu’elle voudrait bien designer.

La proposition eut beaucoup de succes. On vota seance tenante, et le Ministere fut invite a constituer une mission qui parcourrait la region comprise dans la boucle du Niger et qui redigerait un rapport sur le vu duquel la Chambre statuerait ulterieurement.

On se mit moins facilement d’accord quand il s’agit de nommer le depute qui serait le chef de cette mission et, par deux fois, Barsac et Baudrieres recueillirent un nombre de suffrages mathematiquement egal.

Il fallait cependant en finir.

— Parbleu! qu’on les nomme tous les deux! s’ecria un de ces plaisants qui ne manquent jamais dans une assemblee francaise.

Cette idee ayant ete accueillie avec enthousiasme par la Chambre, qui, sans doute, y voyait un moyen de ne plus entendre parler des colonies pendant quelques mois, Barsac et Baudrieres furent elus, l’age devant decider lequel des deux aurait le pas sur l’autre. Verification faite, ce privilege echut a Barsac, qui se trouva etre l’aine de trois jours. Baudrieres dut donc se resigner a n’etre que son coadjuteur, ce dont il fut extremement mortifie.

A ce rudiment de mission, le gouvernement avait adjoint par la suite quelques personnalites, moins decoratives assurement, mais peut-etre mieux qualifiees, si bien qu’a son arrivee a Conakry elle comportait sept membres au total, y compris Barsac et Baudrieres deja nommes.

Parmi les autres, on remarquait le docteur Chatonnay, un grand medecin et un medecin grand, car il etait fort savant et il elevait a plus de cinq pieds huit pouces son joyeux visage, que couronnait une chevelure frisee aussi blanche que la neige, bien qu’il n’eut pas tout a fait cinquante ans, et que barrait une moustache en broussaille de meme couleur. C’etait un excellent homme que ce docteur Chatonnay, sensible et gai, et riant a tout propos avec un bruit de vapeur qui fuse.

On remarquait encore a la rigueur M. Isidore Tassin, correspondant de la Societe de geographie, un petit homme sec et tranchant, passionnement et exclusivement geographe.

Quant aux derniers membres de la mission, MM. Poncin, Quirieu et Heyrieux, tous trois fonctionnaires de divers ministeres, on ne les remarquait pas. Sans particularite notable, c’etaient des gens comme tout le monde.

Autour de ce noyau officiel gravitait, tres officieusement, un huitieme voyageur. Celui-ci, un blond a l’air energique et decide, avait nom Amedee Florence, et son metier consistait a renseigner de son mieux le grand journal quotidien L’Expansion francaise, dont il etait le reporter actif et debrouillard.

Tels furent les personnages qui debarquerent, ce jour-la, 27 novembre, du paquebot le Touat, de la Compagnie Frayssinet.

L’evenement devait necessairement provoquer des discours. Pour peu que l’on fasse partie du personnel administratif ou gouvernemental, on ne se contente plus, lorsqu’on se rencontre, de se serrer la main et de se dire bonjour, et on considere comme indispensable d’echanger des paroles historiques, tandis qu’un auditoire, toujours amuse, malgre l’accoutumance, par le comique special de cette formalite, se range en cercle autour des orateurs.

C’est en vertu de ce protocole que, sur le lieu meme du debarquement, M. Valdonne, escorte de ses principaux fonctionnaires, qu’il eut soin de presenter, souhaita solennellement la bienvenue aux visiteurs de marque qui lui arrivaient, sinon du ciel, du moins des lointains de l’ocean. D’ailleurs, rendons-lui cette justice, il fut bref, et sa courte harangue obtint un succes merite.

Barsac, qui lui repondit, en sa qualite de chef de la mission, prit ensuite la parole en ces termes:

— Monsieur le gouverneur, messieurs, prononca-t-il avec l’accent de la reconnaissance — et du Midi! — apres avoir tousse pour s’eclaircir la voix, mes collegues et moi nous sommes profondement touches des paroles que nous venons d’entendre. La cordialite de votre accueil est pour nous de favorable augure, au moment ou commence reellement une entreprise dont nous ne nous exagerons pas, au surplus, les difficultes. Nous savons que, sous la genereuse administration de la metropole, ces contrees, jadis explorees au milieu de tant de perils par les hardis pionniers de la patrie, connaissent enfin la paix francaise, si vous voulez bien autoriser cette expression pompeuse empruntee a nos ancetres les Romains. C’est pourquoi, ici, au seuil de cette belle ville de Conakry, entoures des rangs presses de nos compatriotes, nous avons la sensation de n’avoir pas quitte la France, et c’est pourquoi, en nous enfoncant dans l’interieur, nous ne la quitterons pas davantage, car les laborieuses populations de ces contrees sont desormais formees des citoyens d’une France agrandie et prolongee. Puisse-t-elle augmenter encore, s’il est possible, leur attachement a la patrie, leur devouement a la Republique.

M. le gouverneur Valdonne donna, comme il est d’usage, le signal des applaudissements “spontanes”, tandis que Barsac faisait, en arriere, un pas que Baudrieres faisait aussitot en avant.

A la suite d’interminables conciliabules dans le cabinet du ministre, on avait decide que Baudrieres serait non pas le sous-chef, mais le chef adjoint de l’expedition. Or — mysterieuse puissance des mots! — il en resultait, parait-il, que si Barsac prenait la parole dans une ceremonie officielle, Baudrieres la prendrait immediatement apres lui. Ainsi avait ete resolu l’epineux probleme des amours-propres.

— Monsieur le gouverneur, messieurs, commenca Baudrieres, coupant court, de cette maniere, aux applaudissements dont on avait salue la peroraison de son predecesseur, je m’associe pleinement aux eloquentes paroles de mon eminent collegue et ami. Ainsi qu’il l’a dit excellemment, chacun de nous se rend un compte exact des difficultes et des dangers que peut offrir notre exploration. Ces difficultes, nous les vaincrons de notre mieux. Quant aux dangers, ils ne sauraient nous emouvoir, puisque, entre eux et nous, des baionnettes francaises seront interposees. Qu’il me soit donc permis d’envoyer, des notre premier pas sur la terre d’Afrique, un salut cordial a l’escorte qui eloignera de nous jusqu’a la possibilite d’un peril. Et, ne vous y trompez pas, messieurs, en saluant cette escorte restreinte, c’est a l’armee — car n’est-elle pas tout entiere, en verite, dans l’humble troupier qui passe? — c’est a l’armee, dis-je, que j’adresse mon salut. C’est donc l’armee, si chere a tous les coeurs francais, qui s’associera a nos travaux, et c’est par elle que s’accroitront dans cette entreprise obscure, comme l’ont fait si souvent les aventures glorieuses dont elle est coutumiere, le prestige de la patrie et la grandeur de la Republique!

De nouveau, les applaudissements eclaterent, exactement aussi nourris et aussi “spontanes” que les premiers, puis on se mit en route pour la Residence, ou les principaux membres de la mission allaient etre heberges pendant les trois jours qui seraient consacres a regler les derniers details du programme de l’exploration.

Le programme etait vaste. La region interessee par le projet de loi de Barsac depasse un million cinq cent mille kilometres carres. C’est a peu pres trois fois la superficie de la France. S’il ne pouvait etre question de visiter tous les points de cette immense etendue, du moins avait-on trace un itineraire assez capricieux pour que l’impression recueillie finalement par les explorateurs eut quelque chance d’etre conforme a la verite. Cet itineraire se developpait sur plus de deux mille cinq cents kilometres pour certains membres de la mission, et sur pres de trois mille cinq cents pour les autres.

L’expedition devait, en effet, se dedoubler en cours de route, de maniere a etendre le plus possible le champ de l’enquete. Au depart de Conakry, on irait d’abord jusqu’a Kankan, en passant par Ouossou, Timbo, centre important du Fouta-Djalon meridional, et Kouroussa, station etablie sur le Niger, a peu de distance de la source.

De Kankan, on traversait, par Foroba,

Forabokourou et Tiola, le Ouassoulou et le Kenedougou, jusqu’a Sikasso, chef-lieu de ce dernier pays.

C’est a Sikasso, a mille cent kilometres de la mer, que l’expedition se diviserait en deux parties. L’une, sous la direction de Baudrieres, redescendrait vers le sud, se dirigerait vers le pays de Kong et gagnerait sa capitale par Sitardougou, Niambouambo et diverses agglomerations plus ou moins importantes. De Kong, elle rayonnerait dans le Baoule, pour gagner finalement, a Grand-Bassam, la cote de l’Ivoire. Avec Barsac, l’autre partie continuerait, au contraire, dans l’Est, passerait par Ouagadougou, et atteindrait le Niger a Saye, puis, marchant parallelement au fleuve, elle traversait le Mossi, et enfin, par le Gourma et le Borgou, elle aboutirait a Cotonou, son point terminus, sur la cote du Dahomey.

En tenant compte des detours et des retards inevitables, on devait s’attendre a ce que le voyage durat au moins huit mois pour la premiere, et dix a douze mois pour la seconde.

Partis ensemble, le 1er decembre, de Conakry, ce ne serait pas avant le 1er aout que Baudrieres arriverait a Grand-Bassam, et avant le 1er octobre que Barsac atteindrait Cotonou.

Il s’agissait donc d’un long voyage. Et pourtant M. Isidore Tassin ne pouvait guere se flatter qu’il lui permit d’etablir quelque importante verite geographique ignoree jusqu’a lui. A vrai dire meme, la presence d’un correspondant de la Societe de Geographie s’expliquait mal, l’espoir de decouvrir la boucle du Niger etant aussi peu realisable que celui de decouvrir l’Amerique. Mais M. Tassin n’etait pas gourmand. Le globe ayant ete sillonne en tous sens, il estimait qu’on devait savoir se contenter de peu.

Sagement pensait-il en limitant ainsi ses ambitions. Depuis longtemps, la boucle du Niger avait cesse d’etre la contree inaccessible et mysterieuse qu’elle fut pendant tant d’annees. Depuis le docteur allemand Barth, qui, le premier, la traversa, en 1853 et 1854, une foule de braves l’ont graduellement conquise. C’est, en

1887, le lieutenant de vaisseau Caron et l’exploration magnifique a tous egards du capitaine Binger; en 1889, le lieutenant de vaisseau Jaime; en 1890, le docteur Crozat; en 1891, le capitaine Monteil; en 1893 et 1894, les morts glorieuses du lieutenant Aube et du colonel Bonnier, et la prise de Tombouctou par le lieutenant Boiteux, bientot rejoint par le commandant Joffre. En cette meme annee 1894 et en 1895, c’est le capitaine Toutee et le lieutenant Targe; en 1896, le lieutenant de vaisseau Hourst, et tant d’autres, pour aboutir a la campagne au cours de laquelle, en 1898, le colonel Audeoud s’empara de Kong et acheva d’abattre la puissance de Samory. Des lors, le Soudan occidental cesse de meriter l’epithete de sauvage; l’administration succede a la conquete, les postes se multiplient, assurant d’une maniere de plus en plus solide la bienfaisante domination francaise.

Au moment ou la mission extraparlementaire allait penetrer a son tour dans ces regions, la pacification n’etait pas encore complete, mais deja la securite etait plus grande, et il y avait tout lieu d’esperer que le voyage s’accomplirait, sinon sans incident, du moins sans accident, et que tout se reduirait a une promenade parmi des populations paisibles, que Barsac estimait mures pour gouter les joies de la politique electorale.

Le depart etait fixe au 1er decembre.

La veille du depart, le 30 novembre, un diner officiel allait reunir une derniere fois les membres de la mission a la table du gouverneur. C’est a la suite de ce diner que les toasts seraient echanges, ainsi qu’il est d’usage, avec l’accompagnement obligatoire de l’hymne national, et que l’on formulerait les ultimes voeux pour le succes de l’expedition et pour la gloire de la Republique.

Ce jour-la, Barsac, las d’avoir deambule dans Conakry sous un soleil de feu, venait de regagner sa chambre. Il s’y eventait avec beatitude, en attendant que vint l’heure d’endosser l’habit noir, dont aucune temperature ne saurait dispenser un personnage officiel dans l’exercice de son emploi, quand le planton de service — un rengage de la coloniale, qui “la connaissait dans les coins” — vint le prevenir que deux personnes demandaient a etre recus.

— Qui est-ce? interrogea Barsac.

Le planton fit un geste d’ignorance.

— Un type et sa dame, dit-il simplement.

— Des colons?…

— C’est pas mon idee, vu leur degaine, repondit le planton. L’homme est un grand, avec macache gazon sur le caillou…

— Le caillou?…

— Il est chauve, quoi! Avec des favoris filasse et des yeux en boule d’escalier.

— Vous avez des images!… fit Barsac. Et la femme?

— La femme?…

— Oui. Comment est-elle?… Jeune?

— Assez.

— Jolie?

— Oui, et nippee!…

Barsac se frisa machinalement la moustache et dit:

— Faites entrer.

Tout en donnant cet ordre, il envoya, sans meme y penser, un coup d’oeil a la glace qui refletait sa corpulente image. S’il n’avait eu l’esprit ailleurs, il aurait pu alors constater que la pendule marquait six heures. En raison de la difference des longitudes, c’est precisement a cet instant que commencait l’attaque de l’agence DK de la Central Bank qui forma la matiere du premier chapitre de ce recit.

Les visiteurs, un homme d’une quarantaine d’annees suivi d’une jeune fille de vingt a vingt-cinq ans, furent introduits dans la piece ou Barsac goutait les charmes du farniente, avant d’aller affronter les fatigues d’un diner officiel.

L’homme etait tres grand, en effet. Une paire de jambes interminables supportait un buste relativement exigu, qui s’achevait en un cou long et osseux, lequel servait de piedestal a une tete modelee en hauteur. Si les yeux n’etaient pas en boule d’escalier, ainsi que l’avait avance le planton abusant des images outrancieres, on ne pouvait contester qu’ils ne fussent saillants, ni que le nez ne fut gros, ni que les levres ne fussent epaisses et glabres, un impitoyable rasoir en ayant supprime les moustaches. Par contre, de courts favoris, du modele de ceux qu’il est classique d’attribuer aux Autrichiens, et une couronne de cheveux boucles entourant la base du crane merveilleusement nu et poli, permettaient d’affirmer que le planton manquait de precision dans le choix de ses qualificatifs. Filasse, avait-il dit. Le mot n’etait pas exact. En bonne justice, le personnage etait roux.

Ce portrait dispenserait, au besoin, de dire qu’il etait laid, s’il ne convenait d’accoler a sa laideur l’epithete de sympathique. Ses grosses levres exprimaient, en effet, la franchise, et dans ses yeux luisait cette malicieuse bonte que nos peres designaient sous le nom charmant de bonhomie.

A sa suite, venait la jeune fille. Il faut reconnaitre que le planton, en la decretant jolie, n’avait, cette fois, nullement exagere. Grande, mince, la taille elegante, la bouche fraiche et bien meublee, le nez fin et droit, les yeux grands et surmontes de sourcils admirablement dessines, une abondante chevelure d’un noir d’encre, tous les traits d’une regularite impeccable, c’etait une parfaite beaute.

Barsac ayant offert un siege a ses visiteurs, ce fut l’homme, comme de raison, qui prit la parole.

— Vous nous pardonnerez, monsieur le depute, de venir ainsi vous importuner, et, dans l’impossibilite ou je suis de faire autrement, vous nous excuserez de vous dire nous-memes qui nous sommes. Je m’appelle — vous me permettez d’ajouter, suivant mon habitude: j’ai le regret de m’appeler, car ce nom est ridicule, Agenor de Saint-Berain, proprietaire, celibataire et citoyen de la ville de Rennes.

Ayant ainsi debite son etat civil, Agenor de Saint-Berain fit une legere pause, puis, s’aidant du geste, presenta:

— Mlle Jane Mornas, ma tante.

— Votre tante… repeta Barsac.

— Oui, Mlle Mornas est bien ma tante, autant qu’on peut l’etre de quelqu’un, affirma Agenor de Saint-Berain, tandis qu’un gai sourire entrouvrait les levres de la jeune fille.

Ce fut comme un coup de soleil. Son beau visage, dont l’expression trop serieuse etait peut-etre le seul defaut, en parut illumine.

— M. de Saint-Berain, expliqua-t-elle avec un leger accent anglais, tient essentiellement a son titre de neveu, et ne laisse passer aucune occasion de proclamer notre degre reel de parente…

— Ca me rajeunit, interrompit le neveu.

— Mais, continua Jane Mornas, une fois l’effet produit et son droit legal bien etabli, il consent a renverser les roles et a redevenir l’oncle Agenor, ce que, par convention de famille, il a toujours ete depuis ma naissance.

— Et ce qui est plus en rapport avec mon age, expliqua l’oncle-neveu. Mais passons, et, les presentations etant faites, permettez-moi, monsieur le depute, d’en arriver a ce qui nous amene, Mlle Mornas et moi. En bon oncle-neveu, je me suis laisse entrainer par elle jusqu’a ces lointaines contrees. Notre intention n’est pas de sejourner a Conakry, mais bien de nous aventurer dans l’interieur, en quete d’emotions et de spectacles neufs. Nos preparatifs sont termines, et nous etions sur le point de partir, quand nous avons appris qu’une mission allait suivre, sous vos ordres, une route analogue a la notre. J’ai fait alors observer a Mlle Mornas que, si tranquille que fut ce pays, il me paraissait preferable de nous joindre a cette mission, si l’on voulait bien nous y accueillir. Nous venons donc vous demander l’autorisation de faire route de conserve avec vous.

— En principe, repondit Barsac, je n’y vois pas d’inconvenient, mais je dois, vous le comprendrez, consulter mes collegues.

— C’est trop naturel, approuva Saint-Berain.

— Peut-etre, suggera Barsac, craindront-ils que la presence d’une femme ne retarde notre marche et ne soit peu compatible avec l’execution du programme qui nous a ete trace… Dans ce cas…

— Qu’ils perdent cette crainte! protesta l’oncle Agenor. Mlle Mornas est un vrai garcon. Elle vous demande elle-meme de la traiter, non en compagne, mais en compagnon.

— Certes! approuva Jane Mornas. J’ajouterai que, meme au point de vue materiel, nous ne vous causerons aucune gene. Nous possedons chevaux et porteurs. Rien ne nous manque, et nous avons jusqu’a deux Bambaras, deux anciens tirailleurs senegalais, que nous avons engages en qualite de guides et d’interpretes. Vous voyez que vous pouvez nous accueillir sans crainte.

— Dans ces conditions, en effet… reconnut Barsac. Enfin, j’en parlerai ce soir meme a mes collegues, et, s’ils sont de mon avis, c’est une affaire entendue. Ou pourrai-je vous donner une reponse definitive?

— Demain, au moment du depart, car de toute facon nous quitterons Conakry des demain.

Les choses etant ainsi convenues, les visiteurs prirent conge.

Au diner du gouverneur, Barsac transmit, en effet, a ses collegues la requete qu’on lui avait presentee. Elle recut un favorable accueil. Seul

Baudrieres crut devoir faire ses reserves. Non pas qu’il se refusat positivement a agreer la demande de cette jolie compagne de route, dont Barsac prit la defense avec plus de chaleur peut-etre qu’il n’etait strictement necessaire, mais enfin il manifesta une certaine hesitation. L’incident lui paraissait louche. Etait-il admissible qu’une jeune fille s’aventurat dans un pareil voyage? Non, vraiment, le pretexte donne n’etait pas serieux, et l’on devait croire qu’on en dissimulait le veritable but. Ceci pose, n’etait-on pas en droit de craindre que la requete ne cachat quelque piege? Qui sait, meme, si elle n’avait aucune correlation avec les bruits mysterieux dont le ministre s’etait fait discretement l’echo a la tribune de la Chambre?

On rassura Baudrieres en riant.

— Je ne connais ni M. de Saint-Berain, ni Mlle Mornas, declara M. Valdonne, mais, depuis quinze jours qu’ils sont a Conakry, je les avais remarques.

— On remarquerait a moins! s’ecria Barsac avec conviction.

— Oui, la jeune fille est fort belle, approuva M. Valdonne. Ils arrivent, m’a-t-on assure, de Saint-Louis du Senegal, par le bateau qui dessert la cote, et, si singulier que cela paraisse, ils semblent bien faire un simple voyage d’agrement, ainsi qu’ils l’ont dit a M. Barsac. Pour ma part, je ne pense pas qu’il y ait le moindre inconvenient a leur donner satisfaction.

L’opinion du lieutenant-gouverneur prevalut sans autre opposition.

C’est ainsi que la mission dont Barsac etait le chef s’augmenta de deux recrues et fut portee au total de dix membres, y compris Amedee Florence, reporter de l’Expansion francaise, mais non compris les porteurs et l’element militaire. C’est ainsi que le hasard put, le lendemain matin, favoriser Pierre Marcenay, capitaine d’infanterie coloniale et commandant de l’escorte, en lui permettant de devancer Barsac, au moment ou celui-ci se precipitait aussi vite que cela est possible a un quadragenaire legerement ventripotent, en vue d’aider Mlle Mornas a se mettre en selle.

— Armis cedat insigne, dit, en montrant du doigt la place de son echarpe absente, Barsac, qui avait fait ses humanites.

Mais on voyait bien qu’il n’etait pas content.

CHAPITRE 5

Deuxieme article de M. Amedee Florence

Le deuxieme article de M. Amedee Florence fut publie dans l’Expansion francaise du 18 janvier. On en trouvera ci-dessous la reproduction in extenso.

LA MISSION BARSAC

(Par depeche de notre envoye special) Les jours se suivent — Mon hote — Ballet! — Je suis indiscret — Peche miraculeuse de M. de Saint-Berain — Borouya — Pour me faire honneur — Timbro! quarante-huit heures d’arret-buffet — Daouheriko — La vie en rose au pays noir — M. Barsac aurait-il raison? — Je suis perplexe Daouheriko, 16 decembre — Depuis ma derniere depeche ecrite en pleine brousse le soir de notre depart, a la tremblante lumiere d’une lanterne, le voyage fut heureux et, par suite, il n’a pas d’histoire.

Le 2 decembre, nous levons le camp a cinq heures du matin, et notre colonne, grossie d’une unite — oserai-je dire d’une demi-unite, puisqu’une blanche vaut deux noires? — se met en marche.

On a decharge un ane et reparti sur les autres les ballots qu’il portait, afin de l’attribuer a Malik. Comme une enfant qu’elle est, la petite negresse semble avoir oublie ses malheurs passes. Elle ne fait que rire, heureuse nature!

Depuis, nous suivons toujours la route, qui continue a etre bonne et facile, et, n’etaient la couleur des populations qui nous entourent et la pauvrete du paysage, nous pourrions nous imaginer n’avoir pas quitte la France.

Car le paysage n’est pas beau. Nous traversons une contree plate, ou du moins faiblement vallonnee, avec, parfois, de mediocres hauteurs a l’horizon du nord, et, a perte de vue, nous n’apercevons que cette vegetation rabougrie, melange de broussailles et de graminees hautes de deux et trois metres, qui porte le nom generique de brousse. De loin en loin un bouquet d’arbres, malingres a cause des incendies periodiques qui devastent ces savanes pendant la saison seche, et parfois des champs cultives, des lougans, selon le mot indigene, auxquels succedent generalement d’assez beaux arbres. C’est alors qu’on arrive a proximite d’un village.

Ils portent des noms absurdes, ces villages: Fongoumbi, Manfourou, Kafou, Ouossou, etc. j’en passe. Ils ne peuvent donc pas s’appeler Neuilly ou Levallois, comme tout le monde?

De ces noms de villages, un nous a divertis. Cette importante cite, situee a la frontiere anglaise du Sierra Leone, et que nous laissons, par consequent, fort loin sur notre droite, se nomme Tassin. Notre eminent geographe n’a pas du etre mediocrement fier, en se decouvrant un homonyme a cent trente-six kilometres de Conakry.

Quant aux naturels, ils nous regardent passer avec sympathie et ils ont l’air vraiment inoffensifs. Je ne pense pas qu’ils aient l’intelligence d’un Victor Hugo ou d’un Pasteur, mais, comme l’intelligence n’est pas, ainsi que l’a prouve une longue experience, une condition de l’electorat, il pourrait se faire que M. Barsac fut dans le vrai.

Il est inutile de dire que le chef de la mission entre dans les plus miserables villages et tient des palabres avec ses habitants.

Derriere lui, M. Baudrieres ne manque pas de faire sa contre-enquete.

M. Barsac et M. Baudrieres tirent, ainsi qu’on peut le supposer, des conclusions diametralement opposees de ce qu’ils entendent et de ce qu’ils voient, si bien qu’ils nous reviennent toujours egalement enchantes. Ainsi tout le monde est content. C’est parfait.

Pour le surplus, nous traversons ou nous suivons des rivieres: Forecariah, Mellancoree, Scarie, Kaba, Diegounko, etc. et nous passons d’une vallee dans une autre sans trop nous en apercevoir. Tout cela n’est pas d’un interet palpitant.

J’ai beau consulter mes notes, je ne vois rien a confier a l’histoire de mon temps, jusqu’au 6 decembre, date a laquelle M. de Saint-Berain, qui est en train de devenir mon ami Saint-Berain, crut devoir imaginer un incident pour mon plaisir, et, je veux l’esperer, pour le votre.

Ce soir-la, nous campions a proximite d’un village, un peu moins insignifiant que les precedents, du nom de Oualia. Le moment venu, je rentre dans ma tente, dans le but legitime d’y chercher le sommeil. J’y trouve Saint-Berain, deshabille jusqu’a la chemise et jusqu’au calecon exclusivement. Ses vetements sont jetes a la volee un peu partout. La couverture est faite. De prime abord, il est evident que Saint-Berain a l’intention de coucher chez moi. Je m’arrete sur le seuil de la tente, et contemple mon hote inattendu dans l’exercice de ses fonctions.

Saint-Berain ne parait pas surpris de me voir. D’ailleurs, Saint-Berain n’est jamais surpris. Il est fort affaire, s’agite, furete partout, et jusque dans ma cantine qu’il a ouverte, et dont il a repandu le contenu sur le sol. Mais il ne decouvre pas ce qu’il desire, ce qui l’enrage. Il se tourne vers moi, et, sans paraitre autrement etonne de me voir, me declare du ton le plus convaincu: — Je deteste les gens distraits. C’est odieux.

J’approuve sans broncher: — Odieux!… Mais que vous arrive-t-il, o Saint-Berain?

— Figurez-vous, me repond-il, que je ne peux pas mettre la main sur mon pyjama… Je parie que cet animal de Tchoumouki l’a oublie a la derniere etape. C’est gai!

Je suggere: — A moins qu’il ne soit dans votre cantine!

— Dans ma…

— Car celle-ci est a moi, cher ami, de meme que cette tente hospitaliere et ce lit virginal sont a moi.

Saint-Berain roule des yeux egares. Soudain, il prend conscience de son erreur, ramasse a la hate ses vetements epars et se sauve, comme s’il avait une meute de cannibales a ses trousses. Moi, je tombe sur mon lit et me roule.

Quel etre delicieux!

Le lendemain, 7 decembre, nous venions de nous mettre a table, apres l’etape du matin, quand nous apercumes des negres qui semblaient nous epier. Le capitaine Marcenay ordonna a ses hommes de les chasser. Ils s’enfuirent, mais pour reparaitre bientot.

“Chassez le naturel, il revient au galop”, crut devoir assurer a cette occasion le docteur Chatonnay, qui a la manie de citer a tout propos, et plus encore hors de propos, des vers qui n’ont generalement aucun rapport avec son sujet. Mais chacun a ses travers.

Morilire, envoye en reconnaissance, nous apprit que ces Noirs, au nombre d’une dizaine, etaient des marchands et des griots (sorciers), qui n’avaient aucune intention hostile et voulaient seulement, les uns nous vendre leurs produits, les autres nous divertir.

— Serrez l’argenterie! recommanda M. Barsac en riant, et introduisez-les dans la salle a manger.

On amena donc ces Noirs, tous plus laids et plus sordides les uns que les autres. Il y avait parmi eux des nounou, artisans de trente-six metiers, fabricants de poterie, de bijouterie, de vannerie, d’objets en bois ou en fer, des dioula ou marraba, qui vendent des armes, des etoffes, et surtout des noix de kola, donc nous fimes une ample provision. On connait les proprietes excitantes de ce fruit que le docteur Chatonnay appelle un “aliment d’epargne”. Nous fumes tres heureux d’en acquerir une grande quantite en echange d’un peu de sel. Dans les contrees que nous parcourons, le sel est rare; il n’a, pour ainsi dire, pas de prix. Sa valeur augmentera de plus en plus, a mesure que nous nous eloignerons de la cote. Aussi en emportons-nous plusieurs barres.

Nous appelames ensuite les griots, et on leur ordonna de chanter leur plus belle chanson en l’honneur de notre gracieuse compagne.

Ces troubadours du pays noir etaient au nombre de deux. Le premier tenait a la main sa guitare. Quelle guitare!… Qu’on se figure une calebasse traversee par trois lamelles de bambou pourvues chacune d’une corde en boyau. On appelle cet instrument dianne. Le second griot, un vieux aux yeux atteints d’ophtalmie, comme il arrive souvent ici, etait arme d’une sorte de flute du nom de fabresoro, en bambara. C’est un simple roseau a chaque bout duquel est adaptee une petite calebasse.

Le concert commenca. Le second griot, qui n’etait vetu que d’un bila, sorte de ceinture large de trois doigts passant entre les jambes, se mit a danser, tandis que son camarade, plus decemment couvert d’une de ces longues blouses, d’ailleurs d’une salete repoussante, appelees doroke, s’asseyait sur le sol, pincait sa guitare et poussait des cris gutturaux qui avaient la pretention, du moins je le suppose, d’etre un chant adresse au soleil, a la lune, aux etoiles et a Mlle Mornas.

Les contorsions de l’un, les hurlements de l’autre, les sons etranges que les deux virtuoses tiraient de leurs instruments, eurent le don d’exciter nos aniers. Ils abandonnerent leur mil, leur riz et leur mais, et organiserent un ballet qui n’etait pas ordinaire.

Entraines par l’exemple, nous nous emparons des casseroles et des chaudrons, sur lesquels nous frappons a coups de cuilleres et de fourchettes; M. de Saint-Berain casse une assiette, en fait des castagnettes, perdant toute retenue, se confectionne un turban avec une serviette, et, tandis que M. Baudrieres, l’honorable depute du Nord, se voile la face, l’honorable depute du Midi execute un pas d’une fantaisie ultrameridionale.

Il n’existe de si bonne plaisanterie qui n’ait une fin. Apres cinq minutes de ce charivari, nous dumes nous arreter, epuises. Mlle Mornas pleurait a force de rire.

C’est le soir de ce meme jour que fut commise par Amedee Florence, soussigne, la faute avouee en tete de cet article. A vrai dire, c’est une faute dont je suis coutumier, l’indiscretion etant le peche mignon des reporters.

Donc, ce soir-la, le hasard ayant place ma tente tout pres de celle de Mlle Mornas, j’allais me coucher, quand j’entendis parler chez ma voisine. Au lieu de me boucher les oreilles, j’ecoutai.

Telle fut ma faute.

Mlle Mornas causait avec son domestique, Tongane, qui lui repondait dans un anglais extremement fantaisiste, que je traduis en francais correct pour l’agrement de vos lecteurs. La conversation durait sans doute depuis longtemps deja. Mlle Mornas interrogeait Tongane sur sa vie anterieure. Au moment ou je commencais a tendre l’oreille, elle demandait: — Comment un Achanti tel que toi…

Tiens! Tongane n’est pas un Bambara. Je ne m’en doutais guere.

— … Est-il devenu tirailleur senegalais? Tu me l’as deja dit, quand je t’ai engage, mais je ne m’en souviens plus.

Illusion ou non, il me semble que Mlle Mornas n’est pas sincere. Tongane repond: — C’est apres l’affaire Buxton…

Buxton?… Ce nom-la me dit quelque chose. Mais quoi?… Tout en ecoutant, je fouille dans mes souvenirs.

— … J’etais engage dans son expedition, continue Tongane, quand les Anglais sont venus et ont tire sur nous.

— Sais-tu pourquoi ils ont tire? questionna Mlle Mornas.

— Parce que le capitaine Buxton s’etait revolte, qu’il pillait et massacrait tout.

— Etait-ce vrai, cela?

— Tres vrai. On brulait les villages. On tuait les pauvres negres, les femmes, les petits enfants…

— Et c’etait le capitaine Buxton qui ordonnait ces atrocites? insiste Mlle Mornas, dont la voix me parait alteree.

— Non, repond Tongane. On ne le voyait jamais. Il ne sortait plus de sa tente, depuis l’arrivee d’un autre blanc. C’est ce Blanc qui nous donnait des ordres au nom du capitaine.

— Il etait avec vous depuis longtemps, cet autre Blanc?

— Tres longtemps. Cinq ou six mois, peut-etre plus.

— Ou l’aviez-vous rencontre?

— Dans la brousse.

— Et le capitaine Buxton l’avait accueilli sans difficulte?

— Ils ne se quittaient pas, jusqu’au jour ou le capitaine n’est plus sorti de sa tente.

— C’est sans doute a partir de ce jour-la que les cruautes ont commence?

Tongane hesite.

— Je ne sais pas, avoue-t-il.

— Et ce Blanc, demande Mlle Mornas, te souviens-tu de son nom?

A ce moment, un bruit venu de l’exterieur couvre la voix de Tongane. J’ignore ce qu’il repond. Ca m’est egal, apres tout. Quelle qu’elle soit, cette histoire-la n’est plus d’actualite, et ne m’interesse pas beaucoup, par consequent.

Mlle Mornas reprend: — Apres que les Anglais eurent tire sur vous, qu’es-tu devenu?

— Je vous l’ai dit a Dakar ou vous m’avez engage, repond Tongane. Moi et beaucoup d’autres, nous avons eu peur, et nous nous sommes sauves dans la brousse. Puis je suis revenu, mais il n’y avait plus personne a l’endroit ou l’on s’etait battu. Il n’y avait plus que les morts. J’en ai enterre quelques-uns, ceux qui etaient mes amis, et aussi le chef, le capitaine Buxton…

J’entends a cet endroit une exclamation etouffee.

— Apres cela, continue Tongane, j’ai erre de village en village et j’ai atteint le Niger. Je l’ai remonte dans une pirogue que j’avais volee, et je suis arrive enfin a Tombouctou, juste comme les Francais y entraient. J’avais mis pres de cinq ans a faire le voyage. A Tombouctou, je me suis engage comme tirailleur, et, quand j’ai ete libere, j’ai gagne le Senegal, ou vous m’avez rencontre.

Apres un instant de silence, Mlle Mornas demande: — Alors, le capitaine Buxton etait mort?

— Oui, maitresse.

— Et c’est toi qui l’as enterre?

— Oui, maitresse.

— Tu sais donc ou est sa tombe?

Tongane rit.

— Bien sur, dit-il. J’irais les yeux fermes.

Encore un silence, puis j’entends: — Bonsoir, Tongane.

— Bonsoir, maitresse, repond le negre, qui sort de la tente et s’eloigne.

Mlle Mornas va se coucher, et moi j’en fais autant sans plus lambiner. Mais, a peine ai-je souffle ma lanterne, que la memoire me revient.

Buxton?… Parbleu! je ne connais que ca! Ou donc avais-je la tete? Quel admirable reportage j’ai manque, ce jour-la!

J’etais au Diderot a cette epoque deja reculee, et — qu’on excuse ces souvenirs personnels — j’avais propose a mon directeur d’aller interviewer sur le theatre meme de ses crimes le capitaine revolte. Pendant des mois il recula devant les frais. Que voulez-vous? Tout le monde n’a pas le sens de l’actualite. Quand il consentit enfin, il etait trop tard. J’appris a Bordeaux, au moment de m’embarquer, que le capitaine Buxton etait mort.

Maintenant, tout ca, c’est de l’histoire ancienne et vous me demanderez peut-etre pourquoi je vous ai raconte cette conversation surprise entre Tongane et sa maitresse?… Vraiment, je ne le sais pas moi-meme.

Le 8 decembre, je trouve encore sur mon carnet le nom de Saint-Berain. Il est inepuisable, Saint-Berain. Cette fois, c’est un rien, mais ce rien nous a beaucoup amuses. Puisse-t-il vous derider quelques minutes!

Nous cheminions depuis deux heures a la premiere etape du matin, quand voila Saint-Berain qui pousse tout a coup des cris inarticules et se tremousse sur son cheval de la maniere la plus hilarante. Nous commencons deja a rire, de confiance. Mais Saint-Berain ne rit pas, lui. Peniblement, il met pied a terre et porte la main a cette partie de son individu sur laquelle il a coutume de s’asseoir, le tout en se livrant a des contorsions inexplicables.

On s’empresse. On s’informe. Que lui est-il arrive?

— Les hamecons!… murmure Saint-Berain d’une voix mourante.

Les hamecons?… Cela ne nous dit rien. C’est seulement plus tard, quand le degat eut ete repare, que le sens de cette exclamation nous fut revele.

On n’a peut-etre pas oublie que, au moment ou nous quittions Conakry, Saint-Berain, rappele a l’ordre par sa tante — ou sa niece — s’etait hate d’accourir, en fourrant a pleines mains dans ses poches des hamecons qu’il venait d’acheter. Naturellement, il n’y avait plus pense. C’etaient lesdits hamecons qui se vengeaient maintenant de ce sans gene. Par suite d’un faux mouvement, ils s’etaient interposes entre la selle et le cavalier, et trois d’entre eux s’etaient implantes solidement dans la peau de leur proprietaire.

Il faut l’intervention du docteur Chatonnay pour delivrer Saint-Berain. Trois coups de bistouri y suffisent, que le docteur ne se prive pas d’accompagner de commentaires. Et il rit, que c’est un plaisir!

— On peut dire que vous avez “mordu”! s’ecrie-t-il d’abord avec conviction, tout en procedant a l’examen du champ operatoire.

— Aie!… fait, pour toute reponse, Saint-Berain qui vient d’etre separe du premier hamecon.

— Pour une belle peche, c’est une belle peche! proclame au deuxieme le docteur.

— Aie!… crie derechef Saint-Berain.

Enfin, pour le troisieme: — Vous pouvez vous flatter d’avoir pris la grosse piece, aujourd’hui, complimente l’excellent docteur.

— Aie!… soupire une derniere fois Saint-Berain. L’operation est terminee. Il n’y a plus qu’a panser le blesse, qui remonte ensuite a cheval, ou il prendra, pendant deux jours, des attitudes tres cocasses.

Le 12 decembre, nous sommes arrives a Boronya. Boronya serait un petit village comme les autres, s’il n’avait l’avantage de posseder un chef particulierement aimable. Ce chef, qui est tout jeune, car il n’a guere plus de dix-sept ou dix-huit ans, gesticule beaucoup et distribue des coups de fouet aux curieux qui nous approchent de trop pres. Il s’elance au-devant de nous, une main sur son coeur, et nous fait mille protestations d’amitie, que nous reconnaissons en lui offrant du sel, de la poudre et deux rasoirs. A la vue de ces tresors, il danse de joie.

Pour nous remercier, il donne l’ordre de construire, en dehors du village, des paillotes dans lesquelles nous pourrons coucher. Lorsque je prends possession de la mienne, je vois les nounou tres occupes a aplanir et a fouler le sol, qu’ils recouvrent de bouse de vache sechee. Je leur demande pourquoi le luxe de ce tapis; ils me repondent que c’est pour empecher les vers blancs de sortir de terre. Je leur sais gre de l’attention, et les en recompense d’une poignee de cauries1. Ils en sont tellement enchantes qu’ils s’empressent de cracher sur les murs et d’etaler leurs crachats avec la paume de la main. Saint-Berain, qui doit partager ma case — et qui est la 1 Caurie, monnaie indigene, donc seize cents valent cinq francs. par hasard! — me dit que, ce qu’ils en font, c’est pour m’honorer. Grand merci!

Le 13 decembre, dans la matinee, nous atteignons Timbo sans autre incident. Cette agglomeration, la plus importante de celles que nous avons traversees jusqu’ici, est entouree d’un tata, c’est-a-dire d’un mur en pise, d’epaisseur variable selon les contrees, derriere lequel est eleve un echafaudage en bois qui sert de chemin de ronde.

La tata de Timbo contient en realite trois villages, separes les uns des autres par de vastes espaces cultives ou boises, ou les animaux domestiques flanent en liberte. Dans chacun de ces villages, il y a un petit marche quotidien, mais dans le plus etendu se tient un grand marche hebdomadaire.

Une case sur quatre est inoccupee. Elle est remplie d’immondices, d’ordres variees, ainsi, d’ailleurs, que les rues. Il est hors de doute que ce pays manque de balayeurs. Et autant que malpropre il est pauvre. Nous avons vu des enfants, la plupart d’une maigreur de squelettes, chercher leur nourriture dans le fumier. Quant aux femmes, elles sont d’une laideur repoussante.

Cela, du reste, ne les empeche pas d’etre coquettes. Comme c’etait jour de marche, les plus riches de l’endroit s’etaient mises sur leur trente et un. En toilette “habillee”, elles portent un pagne bleu raye de blanc, le haut du corps etant enveloppe d’une piece de calicot blanc ou de mauvais florence aux couleurs eclatantes, leurs oreilles sont chargees de lourds anneaux de metal soutenus par des chainettes d’argent entrecroisees sur le dessus de la tete, et des bracelets et des colliers en corail ou en perles fausses decorent leurs cous, leurs poignets et leurs chevilles.

Presque toutes ont des coiffures en forme de casque. Certaines ont les parietaux rases et un cimier de cheveux orne de verroterie sur le sommet du crane. D’autres sont completement rasees. Les plus elegantes se font une tete de clown: toupet pointu et deux larges coques laterales. A leur facon d’arranger leur chevelure, on doit, parait-il, reconnaitre a quelle race elles appartiennent, peuls, mande, bambara, etc. Mais je ne suis pas de cette force, et j’abrege ces details ethnographiques, sur lesquels M. Tassin doit, a son retour, s’etendre dans un livre qui sera, a tout le moins, serieusement documente.

Les hommes sont vetus de brayes, de blouses blanches ou de pagnes. Ils ornent leurs cranes des couvre-chefs les plus divers, depuis la chechia jusqu’au chapeau de paille, en passant par le bonnet orne de ferblanterie ou de losanges d’etoffes de couleur. Pour vous saluer, ils se frappent la cuisse de la paume de la main pendant cinq bonnes minutes, en repetant le mot dagare, qui doit, comme Ini-tie, signifier “bonjour”, ou bien Ini Sou-Khou-ma, qui le signifie certainement.

Nous nous rendons au grand marche, ou nous trouvons reunie toute l’aristocratie de Timbo. Les vendeurs y sont installes depuis huit heures du matin dans deux rangees de paillotes, ou seulement assis sous des nattes soutenues par quatre piquets, mais le beau monde n’y arrive que vers onze heures.

On y vend un peu de tout: du mil, du riz, du beurre de karite a 0 fr. 50 centimes le kilo, du sel a raison de 11 fr. 50 la barre de vingt-cinq kilos, des boeufs, des chevres, des moutons, des poulets a 3 fr. 30 la piece, ce qui n’est pas donne, des fusils a pierre, des noix de kola, du tabac, des koyos ou bandes pour pagne, des niomi, galettes de farine de mil ou de mais frites, des etoffes variees: guinee, calicot, des chapeaux, des turbans, du fil, des aiguilles, des epingles, de la poudre, des pierres a fusil, etc. et enfin, bien etales sur des peaux dessechees, de petits tas de viande pourrie d’une odeur sui generis, pour les gourmets.

Timbo est, comme je vous l’ai dit, le premier centre un peu important que nous rencontrons. Aussi y sommes-nous restes deux jours, les 13 et 14 decembre. Ce n’est pas que nous soyons extremement fatigues, mais les animaux et les porteurs, ces autres betes de somme, manifestent une lassitude parfaitement legitime.

Pendant ces quarante-huit heures, nous avons fait, les uns et les autres, de nombreuses promenades dans l’enceinte du tata. J’ai consigne ci-dessus l’essentiel de mes observations. N’attendez pas de moi de plus amples descriptions, que vous trouverez sans peine, au surplus, dans les traites speciaux. Mon role a moi, c’est d’etre l’historiographe de la mission Barsac, et ce role me plait. Clio m’inspire, mais je n’ai pas l’ame d’un geographe. Que cela soit dit une fois pour toutes.

Le lendemain de notre arrivee, le 14, par consequent, nous avons ete fort inquiets au sujet de notre guide. Pendant toute la journee, on le chercha vainement. Morilire avait disparu.

Rassurez-vous. Le 15 decembre, au moment du depart, il etait a son poste, et, quand nous nous reveillames, il avait deja distribue une suffisante quantite de coups de gourdin pour que les aniers ne missent pas en doute la realite de sa presence. Questionne par M. Barsac, Morilire soutint mordicus n’avoir pas quitte le camp de toute la journee de la veille. Comme nous n’avions, en somme, aucune certitude, et la chose etant, d’ailleurs, sans importance, car, Morilire est bien excusable, apres tout, d’avoir voulu tirer ce que les marins appellent une “bordee”, on n’insista pas, et l’incident fut clos.

Nous quittons donc Timbo le 15 decembre, a l’heure habituelle, et notre voyage se poursuit toute la journee sans difficulte particuliere, et selon l’horaire accoutume. Il y a lieu de noter, cependant, que les pieds de nos chevaux ne foulent plus le sol de la route qui nous a conduits jusqu’ici. La route, au-dela de Timbo, se transforme progressivement en un simple sentier. C’est donc a partir de Timbo que nous devenons vraiment des explorateurs.

Autre changement: le pays est maintenant accidente. Ce ne sont que montees et descentes. Au sortir de Timbo, il nous faut d’abord gravir une colline assez haute que nous devons ensuite descendre. A la colline succede une plaine, puis c’est une nouvelle montee, jusqu’au village de Daouheriko, aux abords duquel nous devons nous arreter afin de camper pour la nuit.

Gens et animaux etant bien reposes, le train est plus rapide que de coutume, et il n’est pas six heures du soir quand nous arrivons a ce village.

Les manifestations les plus amicales nous y attendaient. Le chef vint au-devant de nous et nous offrit des presents. M. Barsac le remercia. Des cris de bienvenue lui repondirent.

— Ils ne sont pas plus chauds pour moi a Aix, quand je passe sur le cours Sextius, dit M. Barsac avec satisfaction. J’en etais sur. Il n’y a qu’a leur parler.

Il semble bien qu’il ait raison, M. Barsac, malgre que M. Baudrieres hoche la tete d’un air sceptique.

Cependant, le chef du village continuait ses amabilites. Il offrait de nous loger dans les plus belles cases du village, priait notre compagne d’accepter l’hospitalite dans sa propre demeure. Cet accueil chaleureux nous allait au coeur, et la suite de notre voyage nous apparaissait en rose, lorsque Malik, s’approchant de Mlle Mornas, lui dit rapidement a voix basse: — Toi pas aller, maitresse! Sans ca, toi mourir!

Mlle Mornas regarde la petite negresse avec stupefaction. Il va de soi que j’ai entendu, comme c’est le devoir d’un reporter qui se respecte. Mais le capitaine Marcenay a entendu, lui aussi, bien que ce ne soit pas son metier. D’abord, il parait surpris. Puis, apres une courte reflexion, il se decide.

Il se debarrasse en deux temps des importunites du chef et donne des ordres pour l’installation du camp. Je l’ecoute, et conclus que nous serons bien gardes.

Ces precautions me font reflechir. Le capitaine, qui a la pratique du pays noir, y croit donc, a ce danger signale par Malik?

Alors?…

Alors, je me pose cette question avant de m’endormir: “Qui a raison, M. Barsac ou M. Baudrieres?”

Peut-etre le saurai-je demain.

En attendant, je suis perplexe.

Amedee Florence.

CHAPITRE 7

A Sikasso

La mission Barsac parvint le 12 janvier a Sikasso. Elle avait donc parcouru en moins de six semaines, soit a raison de vingt-cinq kilometres par jour en moyenne, les onze cents kilometres separant de la cote cette ancienne capitale du Kenedougou, devenue par la suite la derniere forteresse de Samory.

L’Expansion francaise ayant cesse, comme on l’a dit, de recevoir les articles d’Amedee Florence, apres le troisieme, envoye par celui-ci le surlendemain de son depart de Kankan, on n’aurait, a dater de ce jour, aucun renseignement touchant la marche de la mission, sans le carnet sur lequel l’habile reporter consignait au jour le jour ses remarques et observations. Ce carnet, l’auteur du present recit l’a sous les yeux et ne manquera pas d’y faire, le cas echeant, de larges emprunts.

De Kankan a Sikasso, le voyage parait avoir ete monotone et sans interet. Outre quelques plaisanteries a propos des distractions de Saint-Berain et la relation minutieuse des petits incidents journaliers, incidents dont trop d’exemples ont ete donnes au lecteur pour qu’il soit utile d’en citer d’autres, Amedee Florence se borne a decrire la route, plate jusqu’a Tiola, tres accidentee a partir de cette bourgade, et a constater brievement que Tchoumouki, continuant a fuir la compagnie de son camarade Tongane, parait se lier avec le guide de tete Morilire. Il ne fait, d’ailleurs, a ce sujet, aucune reflexion, et vraiment il n’y avait pas lieu d’en faire, l’etat des relations entre ces trois negres n’etant pas d’une gravite telle que ce probleme dut retenir son attention.

Du silence d’Amedee Florence, on doit conclure qu’il ne s’etait rien passe de plus important. Par consequent, ainsi qu’on pouvait s’y attendre, aucune des predictions du kenielala n’avait recu le plus petit commencement d’execution: Amedee Florence continuait a rediger ses articles et a les remettre a Tchoumouki, qui en garantissait toujours la bonne arrivee en Europe, et, si, pour une raison ou une autre, cette promesse n’etait plus tenue, le reporter n’en savait rien; Saint-Berain pouvait toujours enfourcher son cheval, et, de Jane Mornas — nous lui laisserons le pseudonyme qu’elle a choisi — le coeur n’avait recu aucune blessure, ou, du moins, aucune blessure visible. Quant a une blessure morale, il semblerait resulter, au contraire, de quelques mots ecrits par Amedee Florence, qu’il considerait la troisieme prediction comme plus pres que les autres de se realiser, a la condition qu’on la prit dans son sens figure. Il consacre, en effet, deux lignes, d’ailleurs approbatives et sympathiques, a l’amitie de plus en plus intime de Jane Mornas et du capitaine Marcenay, et au plaisir grandissant que les deux jeunes gens semblaient y trouver.

En ce qui concerne la quatrieme prediction, la plus serieuse et la plus sinistre, rien, absolument rien n’indique qu’un fait quelconque fut venu la confirmer. La mission n’etait ni detruite, ni reduite en esclavage, elle s’avancait paisiblement sous la garde des deux cents sabres du capitaine Marcenay, ses animaux etaient en bonne sante, et ses bagages, en bon etat, n’avaient ete mouilles au passage des rivieres que le minimum inevitable avec les negres.

Pour juste qu’il lui eut paru au moment ou il l’avait concu, le raisonnement tenu par Amedee Florence a la fin de son article date de Kankan n’avait pas davantage ete confirme par les evenements ulterieurs. Nul ne s’etait plus risque a un attentat reel ou simule contre la colonne, et on n’avait rencontre aucun autre kenielala pour formuler a nouveau de menacantes propheties. Si donc Amedee Florence avait vu juste, et s’il existait quelque part un etre qui eut forme le projet absurde d’epouvanter la mission au point de la decider a retrograder, tout portait a croire qu’on y avait renonce.

Au surplus, Amedee Florence lui-meme n’avait plus, en arrivant a Sikasso, d’opinion tres nette sur cette affaire. Les faits qui avaient motive ses reflexions: tentative plus ou moins veritable d’empoisonnement au doung-kono et sombres predictions du sorcier negre, avaient perdu de leur valeur en devenant plus anciens. Bien qu’on ne fut pas encore a Sikasso et que le danger annonce dut commencer seulement au-dela de cette ancienne capitale, il s’etait rassure de jour, tant il lui paraissait insense d’admettre que ces negres inoffensifs qu’on croisait de temps a autre se risquassent a attaquer une importante troupe de soldats reguliers. Une telle aventure n’aurait pas eu de precedent, en l’absence d’un tyran, tel que Samory, contraignant par la violence ces populations pueriles a se muer en guerriers.

Toutefois, Amedee Florence se rassurait peut-etre un peu trop, en basant sa tranquillite uniquement sur les hommes du capitaine Marcenay, puisque, a Sikasso precisement, cette force armee allait etre reduite de moitie.

C’est a Sikasso, on ne l’a sans doute pas oublie, que la mission Barsac devait se dedoubler. Tandis qu’une premiere fraction, dirigee par Barsac en personne, allait pousser jusqu’au Niger, en passant par Ouagadougou, capitale du Mossi, et revenir a l’ocean par le Borgou et le Dahomey, la seconde, sous la direction de Baudrieres, descendrait tout de suite au sud et se dirigerait presque en ligne directe sur Grand-Bassam. Bien entendu, chacune de ces fractions de la mission ayant droit a une protection egale, l’escorte serait, par consequent, reduite a une centaine d’hommes de part et d’autre.

Au moment ou l’expedition, toujours entiere, arrivait a Sikasso, il n’y avait pas tres longtemps que cette forteresse de Samory, emportee d’assaut dans les premiers mois de 1898 par le colonel Audeoud, appartenait a la France. Aux environs, le pays se ressentait encore des pillages incessants que lui avait fait subir ce sinistre marchand d’esclaves decore par nous-memes, on ne sait trop pourquoi, du nom pompeux d’Almany. De tous cotes, ce n’etaient que villages brules ou devastes, et la misere etait affreuse.

Quant a la ville meme — s’il est permis d’appliquer cette expression a une cite noire — elle etait restee a peu pres dans l’etat ou l’avait trouvee le colonel Audeoud. C’etait, et c’est encore, d’ailleurs, un simple groupement de plusieurs villages distincts, que separent des champs cultives et que reunit l’enceinte ordinaire des agglomerations de ces contrees, un tata, qui, a Sikasso, ne mesure pas moins de six metres de hauteur et de huit metres d’epaisseur a la base.

A l’interieur de ce tata, l’administration francaise avait couru au plus presse, et, jusqu’alors, outre les plus urgents travaux de nettoyage, elle n’avait guere eleve que les constructions necessaires au logement des troupes formant la garnison.

Cette garnison comprenait, a cette epoque, trois compagnies, une d’infanterie coloniale et deux de tirailleurs senegalais, ces dernieres encadrees par des officiers et des sous-officiers francais. On juge quelle joie fut l’arrivee de la mission Barsac pour ces jeunes gens depuis si longtemps separes de leurs pareils. Cette joie fut portee au comble par la presence, a la tete de l’escorte, du capitaine Marcenay, qui retrouva dans ce poste lointain plusieurs de ses meilleurs camarades, et elle devint du delire, quand on sut qu’une femme blanche faisait partie de l’expedition.

On menagea a ces visiteurs de marque une entree solennelle. Drapeaux claquant au vent, clairons sonnant, tambours battant, arcs de triomphe en feuillage, acclamations des negres habilement masses, rien n’y manqua, pas meme un discours de Barsac.

Le soir, les officiers offrirent un punch magnifique, ou ne cessa de regner la plus franche gaiete. Ce fut Jane Mornas qui presida la fete. On s’imagine le succes qu’elle obtint. On l’entourait, on se pressait autour d’elle. Toute cette ardente jeunesse eut joyeusement combattu pour les beaux yeux de cette Blanche, qui venait apporter dans son exil un rayon de soleil.

Mais Jane Mornas ne se laissa pas griser par le succes. Parmi tous ces hommages, ce furent ceux dont le capitaine Marcenay ne se montra pas avare qui trouverent le plus aisement le chemin de son coeur.

Cette preference, elle la manifesta meme, sans le savoir, avec une telle innocence, que tout le monde s’en apercut bientot. Aussitot, les camarades de Marcenay eurent, en vrais Francais, la delicatesse de mettre progressivement une sourdine a leur enthousiasme, et, l’un apres l’autre, ils adresserent a l’heureux capitaine de discretes felicitations, que celui-ci se defendit vainement de meriter.

Marcenay detournait les yeux, niait, assurait qu’il ne comprenait pas ce qu’on voulait lui dire. Il comprenait tres bien, au contraire, et nageait en plein bonheur. Tous les reves lui etaient donc permis, puisque les sentiments de Jane Mornas etaient si evidents qu’il etait le seul a ne pas les connaitre.

C’est ainsi que l’amour qu’eprouvaient l’un pour l’autre Jane Mornas et Marcenay leur fut revele a eux-memes.

Le lendemain, on commenca a s’occuper de la maniere dont la mission allait etre divisee, et, tout de suite, on se heurta a des difficultes imprevues.

Pour les Europeens, rien de plus simple. Autour de Baudrieres se grouperent MM. Heyrieux et Quirieu, conformement a leurs instructions, et M. Tassin, conformement a ses preferences personnelles. A Barsac se reunirent M. Poncin et le docteur Chatonnay. Amedee Florence se joignit a cette fraction, dont l’itineraire plus etendu etait, par consequent, susceptible de donner matiere a plus ample copie.

Quant au capitaine Marcenay, il avait ordre d’affecter a l’escorte de Baudrieres cent de ses hommes sous le commandement d’un lieutenant detache de la garnison de Sikasso et de se joindre personnellement a la fraction Barsac avec les cent autres. Decide, cela va de soi, a la plus stricte obeissance, il n’en etait pas moins tres trouble, et il ne se demandait pas sans une certaine angoisse quel parti allaient adopter Jane Mornas et Saint-Berain.

Quel soupir de soulagement, quand il entendit la jeune fille, interrogee a ce sujet, declarer qu’elle accompagnerait Barsac! Mais quel autre soupir, de deception celui-ci, succeda bientot au premier, lorsque Jane ajouta qu’elle et Saint-Berain ne resteraient que peu de jours avec l’honorable depute du Midi, et que leur intention etait de le quitter au bout de quelques etapes, afin de continuer leur exploration personnelle plus au nord.

Parmi les officiers, ce fut un tolle general. Il n’y eut personne qui ne blamat la jeune fille d’avoir forme un projet aussi imprudent. Eh quoi! seule, sans escorte, elle voulait se risquer dans des regions presque completement inconnues et dans lesquelles les armes francaises n’avaient jamais penetre? On lui representa qu’un tel voyage etait irrealisable, qu’elle y risquait sa vie, ou que, tout au moins, les chefs des villages s’opposeraient a son passage.

Rien n’y fit, Jane Mornas demeura inebranlable, et nul, pas meme le capitaine Marcenay, n’eut sur elle la moindre influence.

— Vous perdez votre temps, declara-t-elle en riant. Vous n’arriverez, tout au plus, qu’a epouvanter mon oncle, qui roule la-bas de gros yeux effares.

— Moi!!… protesta Agenor ainsi pris a partie.

— Oui, vous, insista Jane Mornas. Vous mourez de peur, c’est visible. Vous laisseriez-vous donc influencer par tous ces prophetes de malheur?

— Moi!… repeta le pauvre Saint-Berain.

— Pourquoi auriez-vous peur? demanda Jane d’un air superbe. Je serai avec vous, mon neveu.

— Mais je n’ai pas peur! protesta Saint-Berain, furieux d’etre le point de mire de tous les regards.

Jane Mornas se retourna contre ses contradicteurs.

— Quant a moi, dit-elle, j’ai quitte l’Europe dans l’idee de traverser le Hombori et d’atteindre le Niger au sommet de sa boucle, a Gao. Je traverserai le Hombori et j’atteindrai le Niger a Gao.

— Et les Touaregs Aouelimmiden, qui, dans cette region, occupent les deux rives du Niger?

— Je me moque des Touaregs, repliqua Jane

Mornas, et je passerai malgre eux.

— Mais pourquoi Gao plutot que tout autre point? Quel motif si puissant avez-vous, puisque vous voyagez pour votre plaisir, d’aller la plutot qu’ailleurs?

— Mon caprice, repondit Jane Mornas.

Le mot, que les officiers s’accorderent a trouver d’allure crane et, d’apres eux, bien francaise, fut tres applaudi.

— C’est, en effet, un puissant motif, proclama le commandant Vergeze. Le caprice d’une jolie femme est l’ultima ratio, ce n’est pas nous qui le contesterons.

La division du personnel dirigeant, tant officiel qu’officieux, de la mission etant terminee, il restait a repartir equitablement le personnel subalterne, ce qui semblait facile.

Tout d’abord les dix anes, les cinq aniers et les dix porteurs appartenant en propre a Jane Mornas et a Saint-Berain suivraient naturellement le sort de ceux qui les avaient engages. Quant aux autres porteurs et conducteurs, et au surplus des betes de somme, on en ferait deux groupes inegaux, le plus nombreux devant etre attribue a celle des deux missions ayant a effectuer le plus long parcours, c’est-a-dire a Barsac, a qui serait egalement laisse le concours du guide Morilire. On se mit d’accord, sans peine, sur ces divers points.

Mais ce fut quand il s’agit de realiser cette combinaison que les difficultes commencerent.

Aux premiers mots qui lui furent dits a ce sujet, Morilire opposa un refus categorique, dont aucun argument ne put avoir raison. D’apres lui, on ne l’avait engage que jusqu’a Sikasso, et rien au monde ne le ferait aller plus loin. On insista en vain. En vain on employa tous les moyens, y compris l’intimidation, tout ce qu’on reussit a obtenir, ce fut qu’il accompagnerait la mission Baudrieres. Quant a aller dans l’Est avec Barsac, il fut impossible de l’y decider.

Ce point a peine regle, on eprouva des difficultes semblables avec les aniers et les porteurs. A l’exception de ceux directement engages par Jane Mornas et son neveu, ils se refuserent unanimement a depasser Sikasso. Prieres, promesses, menaces, tout fut inutile. On se heurtait contre une muraille, et il fallut renoncer a les convaincre.

Force fut donc de se mettre en quete d’un nouveau guide et d’autres serviteurs. On n’eut pas grand-peine a reunir la majeure partie de ces derniers, mais plusieurs jours s’ecoulerent avant qu’on eut trouve un indigene inspirant une suffisante confiance. On le decouvrit enfin. C’etait un negre de trente-cinq a quarante ans, du nom de Bala Konere, originaire de Niele, agglomeration du Follona situee sur l’itineraire de Baudrieres, mais qui n’etait pas sans avoir fait quelques pointes dans le Mossi. Ce Bala Konere fut engage.

Aussitot, brusque transformation de Morilire. Celui-ci, qui avait assiste avec indifference, un peu narquoisement meme, semblait-il, aux recherches d’abord infructueuses de ses chefs, changea tout a coup d’attitude des que ces recherches furent couronnees de succes. Il vint trouver Barsac, lui demanda humblement pardon de son entetement, qu’il mit sur le compte de la peur, et s’offrit a conduire la mission jusqu’a Ouagadougou et jusqu’au Dahomey, comme il s’y etait d’abord engage. En meme temps, toute resistance disparaissait parmi les anciens porteurs et aniers, qui se declaraient prets a suivre leur mantoba (guide) ou il plairait a celui-ci de les mener, a la seule condition que ce guide fut Morilire.

Cette subite unanimite prouvait a l’evidence que ledit Morilire devait etre tenu pour seul responsable de cette greve inattendue, et l’on eut un instant la pensee de decliner ses offres tardives. Il y avait cependant un tel interet a s’assurer le concours d’un personnel eprouve et celui d’un guide ne dans les pays memes que l’on allait traverser, qu’on se resigna finalement a fermer les yeux.

Il fut donc entendu que Bala Konere serait attribue a Baudrieres, avec une faible partie de l’ancien personnel, a laquelle on adjoignit quelques-uns des nouveaux porteurs, et que Barsac conserverait Morilire et la majeure partie des porteurs et aniers primitifs.

Toutes ces hesitations, tous ces changements n’avaient pas laisse de prendre un temps considerable. Entres ensemble a Sikasso le 12 janvier, ce fut seulement le 21 que Barsac et Baudrieres purent le quitter separement.

Ce matin-la, des l’aube, les compagnies furent de nouveau sous les armes, et s’alignerent sous le commandement de leurs officiers en tenue de parade, de nouveau les drapeaux claquerent au vent, de nouveau les clairons sonnerent aux champs, et la mission Barsac la premiere, la mission Baudrieres ensuite, defilerent entre une double haie de soldats. Puis la troupe, s’ebranlant derriere eux, leur fit cortege jusqu’a l’enceinte.

Hors du tata, ce fut l’echange des adieux. Les officiers de la garnison exprimerent aux uns et aux autres leurs souhaits d’heureux voyage, et, non sans une vive emotion, Barsac et Baudrieres se serrerent la main.

Enfin, tandis que les troupes regagnaient leurs casernements, les deux convois s’ebranlerent et se mirent en route, chacun de son cote.

Baudrieres, ceux qui l’accompagnaient et leurs cent hommes d’escorte s’eloignerent dans la direction du sud. Barsac, M. Poncin, le docteur Chatonnay, Amedee Florence, Jane Mornas et Saint-Berain, egalement encadres par cent cavaliers commandes par le capitaine Marcenay, tournerent a gauche et disparurent dans la direction de l’est.

Or, a ces deux colonnes presque identiques etaient reservees des destinees tres differentes. Si la premiere ne devait rencontrer sur son chemin aucun danger veritable, ni meme aucune difficulte serieuse, il n’allait pas en etre ainsi pour la seconde. Tandis que Baudrieres, accomplissant paisiblement sa mission, allait reunir sans peine les elements du rapport qu’il s’etait engage a soumettre a la Chambre, et arriver finalement a Grand-Bassan a peu pres dans les delais prevus, il etait ecrit que Barsac et ses amis seraient meles a l’aventure la plus terrible, la plus extraordinaire qui se puisse imaginer. Ainsi en avait decide le sort.

C’est pourquoi, negligeant les incidents mediocres qui ont jalonne la marche tranquille de Baudrieres, ce recit s’attachera desormais exclusivement a cette fraction de la mission qui s’eloigne dans l’Est, et qui, sous la conduite du guide Morilire, s’enfonce toujours davantage dans la profondeur du pays noir.

CHAPITRE 9

Par ordre superieur

(Carnet de notes d’Amedee Florence.) Meme jour. — Tout a l’heure, j’ai du m’interrompre, le capitaine Marcenay m’ayant appele pour me montrer la traduction du lambeau de document arrache a l’appetit de Morilire. Je reprends le recit chronologique des evenements.

Donc, nous trouvons la tente vide. Plus de Morilire. Rien que ses liens sur le sol. Tres irrite, le capitaine Marcenay interpelle les hommes de garde. Mais les pauvres diables sont aussi etonnes que lui. Ils affirment n’avoir pas quitte leur poste et n’avoir entendu aucun bruit suspect. C’est a n’y rien comprendre.

Nous rentrons dans la tente, et alors seulement nous remarquons qu’elle est percee, a son sommet, d’un trou assez large pour laisser passer un homme, et au-dessus duquel on apercoit une grosse branche de bombax. Des lors, tout s’explique. Morilire, mal attache, s’est debarrasse de ses liens et, grimpant le long du piquet central, il a repris sa liberte par le chemin des airs.

Faut-il courir apres lui? A quoi bon? Le fugitif a pres d’une heure d’avance et, d’ailleurs, comment trouver un homme au milieu des hautes graminees de la brousse? Il faudrait avoir des chiens.

D’accord sur ce point, nous nous resignons a l’inevitable. Le capitaine fait abattre la tente qui a si mal garde Morilire, renvoie les quatre tirailleurs, en leur ordonnant, sous peine d’un chatiment severe, le plus profond silence sur ce qu’ils ont vu, et disparait chez lui, ou il va s’attaquer au mysterieux document. Moi, je m’attelle a la redaction de mes notes. Pendant ce temps, Saint-Berain mettra nos compagnons au courant des evenements, s’il ne l’oublie pas, toutefois.

Une heure plus tard, le capitaine Marcenay m’envoie chercher, comme je l’ai dit. Je le trouve dans la tente de M. Barsac, ou tous les Europeens sont reunis. Les visages expriment un etonnement des plus naturels. A quoi rime, en effet, la trahison de Morilire? Agirait-il pour le compte d’un tiers, dont, pour ma part, j’ai soupconne l’intervention il y a deja longtemps? Dans quelques minutes, nous le saurons peut-etre.

— L’ecriture arabe, nous explique le capitaine Marcenay, va de droite a gauche, mais il n’y a qu’a la lire par transparence, en tournant vers soi le verso du papier, pour la retablir dans le sens qui nous est habituel. On obtient alors ceci.

Il nous remet un papier, calque sur celui dont nous nous sommes empares, et par consequent irregulierement dechire, sur lequel je lis les mots suivants, que je transcris en caracteres latins: Mansa a man grigni toubaboul Memou nimbe mando kafa batak manaeta sofa A okata. Batou i a kafolo. Mansa a be S’il n’y a que moi pour dechiffrer ce grimoire!…

Le papier passe de main en main. Mlle Mornas et Saint-Berain paraissent y comprendre quelque chose. J’admire l’etendue de leurs connaissances. Quant a MM. Barsac et Poncin, ils en savent juste autant que moi.

— Les derniers mots de la premiere et de la deuxieme ligne sont incomplets, nous expose le capitaine Marcenay. L’un doit etre lu toubaboulengo, qui veut dire “Europeens”, litteralement “Europeens rouges”, et l’autre Kafama, qui signifie “encore”. Voici maintenant la traduction du document ainsi complete: “Le maitre (ou le roi) ne veut pas que les Europeens… Puisqu’ils avancent encore… lettre amenera soldats… Il commandera. Obeis… tu as commence. La maitre (ou le roi) est…”

Nous faisons la grimace. Ce n’est pas beaucoup plus clair.

Cependant, le capitaine Marcenay continue sa demonstration.

— Le premier fragment de phrase se comprend aisement. Il y a quelque part un maitre ou un roi qui ne veut pas que nous fassions telle ou telle chose. Quoi? Le second fragment nous le dit. Il ne veut pas que nous avancions dans le pays noir. Pour une raison quelconque, nous le genons, probablement. Ce second fragment commencait sans doute l’enonce d’un plan que nous ne connaitrons pas. Les deux lignes suivantes sont moins limpides. “Une lettre qui amenera des soldats”, cela ne veut pas dire grand-chose; la quatrieme n’est qu’un ordre adresse a Morilire, et nous ignorons qui est cet “il”, qui commandera. Quant aux derniers mots, ils n’ont aucun sens, pour nous tout au moins.

On se regarde avec desappointement. Nous voici bien avances! M. Barsac prend la parole et resume la situation.

— De ce que nous avons observe jusqu’ici, y compris les evenements d’aujourd’hui, on peut conclure: Primo, que notre guide nous trahissait pour le compte d’un tiers, lequel, pour des raisons inconnues, cherche a s’opposer a notre passage. Secundo, que cet inconnu dispose d’un certain pouvoir, puisqu’il a reussi a nous donner, a Conakry, un guide de son choix. Tertio, que ce pouvoir n’est pas tres grand, neanmoins, puisqu’il n’a trouve, jusqu’ici, que des moyens enfantins pour parvenir a ses fins.

J’objecte: — Pardon! Le mysterieux inconnu a fait, dans le meme sens, des tentatives d’un autre ordre.

Et je communique a l’honorable auditoire mes reflexions touchant l’empoisonnement au doung-kono et les predictions du kenielala. Je suis loue pour ma perspicacite.

— Les ingenieuses deductions de M. Florence, ajoute M. Barsac, ne font en somme que confirmer les miennes. Je persiste donc a croire que notre adversaire, quel qu’il soit, n’est pas tres a craindre, sans quoi il aurait employe contre nous des moyens plus efficaces et plus serieux.

M. Barsac a raison. C’est la sagesse, Sophie, la grande Sophie des Grecs, qui parle par sa bouche. Il continue: — Mon opinion est que, tout en ayant cette affaire en serieuse consideration, il convient de ne pas l’exagerer. Ce qui revient a dire: soyons prudents, mais ne nous laissons pas emouvoir.

Tout le monde approuve, ce qui ne m’etonne pas, car je connais les mobiles secrets de chacun. Ce qui m’etonne, par exemple, c’est l’obstination de M. Barsac. Pourquoi ne saisit-il pas cette occasion d’interrompre un voyage dont l’inutilite n’est pas discutable?

Quoi qu’il en soit, nous sommes dans la necessite de nous procurer de nouveaux guides. Mlle Mornas propose les siens, qui connaissent, ou tout au moins, doivent connaitre le pays, puisque c’est pour cette raison qu’ils ont ete engages. Afin de trancher la question, on fait comparaitre Tchoumouki et Tongane.

L’attitude du premier ne me plait pas. Il repond qu’on peut compter sur lui, mais il semble gene, embarrasse, et, pendant qu’il parle, je n’arrive pas a saisir son regard fuyant. Pour moi, le particulier sue le mensonge. M’est avis qu’il ne vaut pas mieux que Morilire.

Tongane est, au contraire, tres carre. Il affirme qu’il connait parfaitement le pays et qu’il nous conduira ou il nous plaira d’aller. Il assure egalement qu’il saura mettre a la raison porteurs et aniers. Ce garcon me fait bonne impression. Sa voix est franche, son regard droit.

Je decide qu’a partir de ce moment j’aurai confiance en Tongane et me mefierai de Tchoumouki.

Les deux nouveaux guides vont palabrer avec le personnel noir. Selon la version officielle, ils lui apprennent que Morilire a ete devore par un caiman, et qu’ils commanderont desormais en son lieu et place. Personne ne dit mot. Apres la sieste, nous partirons.

9 fevrier. — Morilire n’est plus la, mais c’est exactement la meme chose. Avec Tchoumouki et Tongane, nous n’avancons guere plus vite qu’avec leur predecesseur.

Ce sont, entre les deux guides, des disputes continuelles a propos de la direction a prendre. Ils ne sont jamais d’accord, et leurs querelles sont interminables. Moi, j’opine systematiquement dans le sens de Tongane, bien que ce soit lui qui crie le plus fort, et l’experience prouve que je vois juste. S’il arriva, en effet, par hasard, que la majorite decide en faveur de Tchoumouki, les renseignements que nous recueillons au premier village rencontre nous montrent invariablement notre erreur. Il faut alors biaiser, parfois a travers des terrains quasi impraticables, pour retrouver le bon chemin que nous avons quitte.

D’autres fois, la discussion des deux Noirs se prolonge tellement, que la grande chaleur arrive et qu’il faut s’arreter ou l’on est.

Dans ces conditions, on n’avance pas vite. Aussi, en deux jours et demi, avons-nous fait a peine une trentaine de kilometres. C’est maigre.

Nous suivons toujours la vallee dans laquelle nous sommes entres a Kokoro. Elle s’est elargie encore, et nous n’avons plus de hauteurs que sur notre droite, dans le Sud, par consequent.

Le chemin est, en somme, des plus faciles, et n’etaient les eternels passages de rivieres, rarement sur des ponts de bois aux trois quarts rompus, plus souvent au moyen de gues qui ne sont pas toujours tres gueables et ou les caimans sont loin d’etre rares, nous n’aurions a lutter contre aucune difficulte materielle.

11 fevrier. — De bonne heure ce matin, nous sommes au milieu de champs cultives, ce qui indique la proximite d’un village. Ces champs seraient assez bien entretenus, si une grande partie d’entre eux n’etaient pas devastes par les termites qui sont de terribles destructeurs.

Ces insectes batissent des termitieres en forme de champignons, parfois de la hauteur d’un homme, qu’ils evacuent, au commencement de l’hiver, sous forme de fourmis ailees. Les villages en sont alors infestes. Mais l’homme ne perd aucune occasion de se distraire un peu. L’apparition de ces fourmis ailees est le signal de fetes et d’orgies sans nom. On allume partout des feux, ou les fourmis viennent se bruler les ailes. Les femmes et les enfants les ramassent et les font frire au beurre de ce. Or, ce n’est pas tout de manger, il faut boire. C’est pourquoi, le soir venu, tout le village est ivre.

Vers huit heures, nous apercevons celui que nous annoncaient les cultures. Il s’appelle Bama. Au moment ou nous en approchons, nous rencontrons une procession de dou, en train de parcourir les lougans pour en chasser les mauvais esprits et demander la pluie. Ces dou sont des individus vetus de blouses sur lesquelles on a cousu des brins de chanvre et des fibres de palmier. Leur tete est entierement recouverte d’un bonnet de chanvre avec deux trous pour les yeux et surmontee d’un cimier en bois rouge ou d’un bec d’oiseau de proie.

Ils marchent en dansant, suivis de badauds et de gamins qu’ils ne se genent pas pour frapper de leurs batons “sacres”. Lorsqu’ils passent devant une case, on les gorge de dolo (biere de mil) et de vin de palme. C’est assez dire qu’apres une heure de promenade, ils sont ivres morts.

Une demi-heure plus tard, nous arrivons a Bama. D’un air hypocrite, Tchoumouki expose alors au capitaine Marcenay que les negres sont trop fatigues, qu’ils se refusent a faire une autre etape et qu’ils demandent a rester a Bama toute la journee. Le capitaine ne bronche pas, et, malgre les signes de reprobation que Tongane multiplie derriere le dos de son camarade, il prend un air etonne et repond que la demande est inutile, puisqu’il etait deja decide qu’on ferait une longue halte ce jour-la. Tchoumouki se retire interloque, tandis que Tongane leve les bras au ciel et exprime a Malik son indignation.

Nous profitons de cet arret imprevu pour aller visiter le village, et bien nous en prend, car il est different de ceux que nous avons deja vus jusqu’ici.

Pour y entrer, on nous fait d’abord monter sur le toit d’une case, et on nous conduit ainsi de toit en toit, jusqu’a celle du dougoutigui.

Ce dougoutigui est un vieux negre a fortes moustaches, et ressemble a un ancien sous-officier de tirailleurs. Il fume une longue pipe de cuivre, dont le feu est entretenu par un affreux petit negrillon.

Il nous recoit avec beaucoup de cordialite, et nous offre du dolo. Pour ne pas etre en reste de politesse, nous lui faisons quelques menus presents qui le comblent de joie, puis, ces rites accomplis, nous nous promenons en touristes.

Sur la place, un barbier ambulant opere en plein air. Pres de lui, des gamins, pedicures et manucures, rognent a l’aide de vieux ciseaux, les ongles des pieds et des mains. Quatre cauries par tete, tel est le prix de leurs services, mais ils doivent rendre aux clients les rognures d’ongles, que ceux-ci s’empressent d’aller enterrer pieusement dans de petits trous. J’ai beau m’enquerir, par le canal de Saint-Berain qui se fait a peu pres comprendre, impossible de connaitre les raisons de cette etrange coutume.

A quelques pas, un “medecin” traitait un malade suivant les prescriptions du Codex negre. Nous assistons de loin a la “consultation”.

Le malade est un homme emacie, aux yeux caves, tout tremblant de fievre. Le medecin le fait coucher sur le sol, au milieu d’un cercle de curieux, puis, s’etant blanchi la figure avec de la cendre delayee, car, ici, le blanc est “fetiche”, il place aupres de lui une petite statuette en bois grossierement sculptee, image d’un dieu favorable. Il execute ensuite autour du patient une danse echevelee, en poussant des cris sauvages. Enfin, il se fait indiquer la partie malade, la masse doucement, et soudain, avec un hurlement de joie, feint d’en retirer un fragment d’os dissimule au prealable dans sa main. Le malade se leve aussitot et s’en va, en se declarant gueri, nouvelle preuve de la verite de cet apophtegme: il n’y a que la foi qui sauve.

Celle de notre malade n’etait-elle pas suffisante? Il y a lieu de le supposer, car l’amelioration par lui accusee n’a ete que de courte duree. Le soir meme, notre campement recevait sa visite. Ayant appris, de l’un ou l’autre de nos negres, qu’un medecin toubab etait parmi nous, il venait implorer le secours du sorcier blanc, puisque le sorcier noir n’avait pas reussi a le soulager.

Apres un examen sommaire, le docteur Chatonnay lui administra tout simplement une dose de quinine. Le “client” ne fut pas avare de barka (merci), mais, tout en s’eloignant, il secouait la tete d’un ait sceptique, en homme qui ne compte guere sur un remede dont aucune incantation ni sortilege ne renforcent l’efficacite.

12 fevrier. — Aujourd’hui, c’est “meme chose” qu’hier comme disent nos hommes d’escorte. C’est meme pis. Nous ne ferons encore qu’une seule etape, et nous n’en ferons pas demain.

Ce matin, le depart s’est accompli en bon ordre.

Au moment ou notre colonne s’ebranlait, nous avons vu accourir le malade d’hier soir. Il allait tellement mieux qu’il voulait remercier son sauveur une fois de plus. Le docteur lui remit quelques paquets de quinine, avec la maniere de s’en servir.

Tout va bien jusqu’a l’etape. Le train est vif. Pas une anicroche, pas une plainte parmi les negres. C’est trop beau.

A l’heure de la halte, en effet, pendant qu’on s’installe, Tchoumouki aborde le capitaine Marcenay et lui tient un discours analogue a celui de la veille. Le capitaine repond que Tchoumouki a pleinement raison, qu’on ne repartira pas, ni ce soir, ni de toute la journee de demain, mais qu’ensuite, apres ce grand repos, on ne s’arretera plus, le soir, avant d’avoir franchi un minimum de vingt kilometres.

Le capitaine a prononce ces mots a haute voix, de facon que nul n’en ignore. Les negres savent donc qu’on va desormais inaugurer la maniere forte. Mais le ton ferme du capitaine les a probablement impressionnes. Ils ne disent rien et font le gros dos, en echangeant des regards en dessous.

Meme jour, onze heures du soir. — Cette histoire-la commence a m’agacer.

Ce soir, un peu avant six heures, en plein jour, par consequent, nous entendons tout a coup le meme bruit de ronflement, ou de bourdonnement, qui a, une premiere fois, frappe nos oreilles pres de Kankan, et ensuite mon tympan personnel, le soir de l’incident Morilire.

Aujourd’hui encore, ce bruit singulier nous arrive de l’est. Il est tres faible, suffisamment fort, cependant, pour qu’une erreur ne soit pas admissible. Aussi bien, je ne suis pas seul a l’avoir entendu. Le camp entier leve la tete vers le ciel, et les Noirs donnent deja des signes de terreur.

Il fait jour, ai-je dit, et pourtant nous n’apercevons rien. Ou qu’on regarde, le ciel est desert. Il est vrai qu’une colline assez haute limite la vue, du cote de l’est precisement. Je me hate vers son sommet.

Pendant que je la gravis de toute la vitesse de mes jambes, l’etrange bruit grandit peu a peu, puis cesse brusquement, et, quand j’atteins le point culminant, rien ne trouble le silence.

Mais, si je n’entends plus, je peux voir maintenant. Devant moi, c’est la plaine, c’est, a perte de vue, cette foret de graminees demesurees qui constitue la brousse. Cette etendue est deserte.

J’ecarquille en vain les yeux, en vain j’inspecte l’horizon. Je ne vois rien.

Je reste en sentinelle jusqu’au moment ou la nuit tombe. Peu a peu, de profondes tenebres recouvrent la campagne, car la lune va entrer dans son dernier quartier et se leve tard, par consequent. Il est inutile de m’enteter davantage. Je redescends.

Or, je ne suis pas a moitie de la cote que le bruit reprend. C’est a devenir fou, ma parole. Il reprend de la meme maniere qu’il a cesse, brusquement, puis decroit peu a peu, comme s’il s’eloignait dans l’Est. En quelques minutes, c’est de nouveau le silence.

J’acheve ma descente, tout pensif, et je rentre dans ma tente, ou j’ecris brievement ces quelques notes.

13 fevrier. — Aujourd’hui, repos. Chacun s’occupe de ses affaires.

M. Barsac se promene de long en large. Il parait soucieux.

M. Poncin prend, sur un calepin de grand format, des notes sans doute relatives a ses fonctions. A en juger par les mouvements de son crayon, il semblerait qu’il se livre a des calculs. Quels calculs? Je le lui demanderais bien, mais me repondrait-il? Entre nous, je crains qu’il ne soit muet.

Saint-Berain… Bon! ou est-il, Saint-Berain?… Je presume qu’il taquine le goujon quelque part.

Le capitaine Marcenay cause avec Mlle Mornas. Ne les troublons pas.

A l’autre extremite du camp, Tongane tient compagnie a Malik. Ils n’ont pas l’air de trouver le temps long, eux non plus.

Le personnel negre dort ca et la, et l’escorte, a l’exception des sentinelles, fait de meme.

Moi, je passe une bonne partie de la journee a terminer un article, a l’aide des notes des jours precedents.

L’article fini et signe, j’appelle Tchoumouki, prepose au service de la poste. Tchoumouki ne repond pas. Je prie un tirailleur d’aller a sa recherche. Une demi-heure plus tard, le tirailleur revient et me dit qu’il n’a pu le decouvrir. Je le cherche a mon tour sans plus de succes. Tchoumouki est devenu invisible, et je dois renoncer a expedier mon article.

14 fevrier. — Ce matin, coup de theatre.

Vers huit heures, car nous avons passe une partie de la matinee a chercher inutilement Tchoumouki, nous nous disposons a partir, de guerre lasse, quand, dans l’ouest, et, par consequent, du cote de Bama que nous avons quitte il y a deux jours, nous voyons apparaitre au loin une troupe nombreuse.

Le capitaine Marcenay l’a vue avant moi, et il a donne ses ordres en consequence. En un clin d’oeil, notre escorte a pris ses positions de combat.

Ces precautions sont inutiles. Nous ne tardons pas a reconnaitre des uniformes francais, ou du moins ce qui en tient lieu dans ce pays, et, quand la troupe inconnue est plus pres, nous constatons qu’elle se compose de vingt soldats reguliers de race noire, tous montes et armes du fusil reglementaire, et de trois Europeens, egalement a cheval, deux sous-officiers et un lieutenant, qui porte la tenue de l’infanterie coloniale.

Un de nos sergents est envoye a la rencontre des nouveaux venus, qui, eux-memes, detachent en avant un des leurs. Les deux parlementaires echangent quelques mots, puis la troupe, qui a fait halte pendant ces pourparlers, reprend sa marche dans notre direction.

Elle penetre dans notre campement, les fusils en bandouliere, et le lieutenant qui la commande aborde le capitaine Marcenay. Le dialogue suivant parvient a nos oreilles: — Le capitaine Marcenay?

— C’est moi, lieutenant…

— Lieutenant Laceur, du 72e d’infanterie coloniale, commandant actuellement un detachement monte de volontaires soudanais. J’arrive de Bamako, mon capitaine, et, depuis Sikasso, ou je vous ai manques de quelques jours, je suis a votre poursuite.

— Dans quel but?

— Ce pli vous l’apprendra, mon capitaine.

Le capitaine Marcenay prend la lettre qui lui est offerte. Pendant qu’il la lit, je constate que son visage exprime autant de surprise que de desappointement.

— C’est bien, lieutenant, dit-il. Permettez-moi de mettre M. Barsac et ses compagnons au courant. Je suis ensuite a vous.

Le lieutenant s’incline. Le capitaine donne un ordre a ses hommes, puis s’approche de notre groupe.

— J’ai a vous apprendre une nouvelle etonnante, monsieur le depute, dit-il a M. Barsac. Il faut que je vous quitte.

— Nous quitter!…

Cette exclamation, je dois a la verite de dire que c’est Mlle Mornas qui l’a poussee. Je la regarde. Elle est toute pale et se mord les levres. Je ne connaitrais pas son energie, je jurerais qu’elle va pleurer.

Nous, nous sommes surtout ahuris, sauf M. Barsac, chez qui la colere domine.

— Qu’est-ce a dire, capitaine? demande-t-il.

— C’est-a-dire, monsieur le depute, que je recois l’ordre formel de me rendre a Tombouctou.

— C’est inimaginable! s’ecrie M. Barsac, qui semble tres blesse.

— Mais cela est, replique le capitaine. Lisez plutot.

Il tend a M. Barsac la lettre que le lieutenant lui a remise. Le chef de la mission la parcourt des yeux en donnant de multiples signes d’indignation, apres quoi il nous la montre et nous prend a temoin du sans-gene avec lequel on le traite.

Je m’arrange pour avoir la lettre le dernier, afin de pouvoir en prendre rapidement copie. Voici cette lettre: Republique Francaise Gouvernement general du Senegal Cercle de Bamako Le colonel Ordre au capitaine Pierre Marcenay et a son detachement de se rendre a marches forcees a Segou-Sikoro et, de la, par la voie du Niger, a Tombouctou, ou il se mettra a la disposition du colonel commandant la place. Les chevaux du detachement du capitaine Marcenay seront laisses en subsistance a Segou-Sikoro.

Le lieutenant Lacour, du 72e regiment d’infanterie coloniale, commandant un detachement monte de vingt volontaires soudanais, portera le present ordre au capitaine Marcenay, a Sikasso, et se mettra a la disposition de M. le depute Barsac, chef de la mission extraparlementaire de la boucle du Niger (premiere section), qu’il escortera jusqu’a son point d’arrivee.

Le colonel commandant le cercle de Bamako.

Saint-Auban.

Pendant que je prends febrilement copie, M. Barsac continue a exhaler sa mauvaise humeur.

— C’est inqualifiable! dit-il. Nous donner vingt hommes d’escorte!… Et precisement au moment ou nous nous heurtons aux pires difficultes!… Ah! mais cela ne se passera pas ainsi!… Des mon retour a Paris, nous verrons si la Chambre approuve qu’on traite un de ses membres avec une pareille desinvolture.

— En attendant, il faut obeir, dit le capitaine Marcenay, qui n’essaie meme pas de cacher sa tristesse.

M. Barsac attire le capitaine a l’ecart, mais j’ai une oreille de reporter et j’entends fort bien.

— Pourtant, capitaine, si l’ordre n’etait pas authentique!… suggere M. Barsac a mi-voix.

Le capitaine a un haut-le-corps.

— Pas authentique!… repete-t-il. Vous n’y pensez pas, monsieur le depute. Il n’y a malheureusement aucun doute. La lettre est munie de tous les cachets officiels. D’ailleurs, j’ai ete sous les ordres du colonel Saint-Auban, et je connais parfaitement sa signature.

La mauvaise humeur excuse bien des choses. Je trouve cependant que M. Barsac va trop loin.

Heureusement que le lieutenant Lacour n’a pas entendu. Il ne serait pas flatte.

M. Barsac n’a rien trouve a repondre et garde le silence.

— Voudriez-vous me permettre, monsieur le depute, de vous presenter le lieutenant Lacour, dit le capitaine et de prendre ensuite conge de vous?

M. Barsac ayant acquiesce, les presentations sont faites.

— Connaissez-vous, lieutenant, interroge alors M. Barsac, les raisons qui ont motive l’ordre dont vous etes porteur?

— Certainement, monsieur le depute, repond le lieutenant. Les Touaregs Aouelimmiden sont en effervescence et menacent nos lignes. D’ou necessite de renforcer la garnison de Tombouctou. Le colonel a pris ce qu’il avait sous la main.

— Et nous?… objecte le chef de la mission. Est-il prudent de reduire notre escorte a vingt hommes?

Le lieutenant Lacour sourit.

— Cela ne peut offrir aucun inconvenient, assure-t-il. Cette region est absolument tranquille.

— Ne disait-on pas, cependant, objecte M. Barsac — le ministre des Colonies lui-meme a porte ces faits a la tribune de la Chambre, et le president de Conakry nous les a confirmes — que les abords du Niger etaient le theatre d’evenements des plus inquietants?

— Cela a ete vrai autrefois, repond le lieutenant Lacour, qui sourit toujours, mais il n’en est plus question. C’est de l’histoire ancienne.

— Pourtant, nous avons pu constater nous-memes… insiste M. Barsac, qui met le lieutenant au courant de nos aventures.

Celui-ci n’en parait pas trouble.

— Vous voyez bien, dit-il, que l’inconnu qui semble vous preoccuper plus que de raison est en somme un bien petit personnage. Comment! il a, d’apres vous, la pretention de vous barrer la route, et il n’a pas imagine autre chose pour vous arreter?… Ce n’est pas serieux, monsieur le depute.

Comme ce sont la ses propres conclusions, M. Barsac ne trouve rien a repliquer.

Le capitaine Marcenay s’approche.

— Permettez-moi, monsieur le depute, de prendre conge de vous, dit-il.

— Eh quoi! si vite! s’ecrie M. Barsac.

— Il le faut bien, repond le capitaine, mes ordres sont formels. Je dois gagner Segou-Sikoro et Tombouctou sans perdre une heure.

— Faites donc, capitaine, concede, en lui tendant la main, M. Barsac, dont l’emotion apaise la colere, et soyez sur que vous emportez avec vous tous nos voeux. Personne de nous n’oubliera ces quelques jours passes en commun, et je suis l’interprete de tous, j’en suis certain, en vous exprimant notre reconnaissance pour votre protection vigilante et votre devouement sans defaillance.

— Merci, monsieur le depute, dit le capitaine, sincerement emu lui aussi.

Il nous fait ses adieux a chacun a tour de role, en finissant cela va de soi, par Mlle Mornas. Je les guigne de l’oeil, on le pense bien.

Mais j’en suis pour ma curiosite. Tout se passe le plus simplement du monde.

— Au revoir, mademoiselle, dit le capitaine.

— Au revoir, capitaine, repond Mlle Mornas.

Rien de plus. Toutefois pour nous qui sommes dans la confidence, ces pauvres mots ont une valeur qu’on ne leur accorde pas d’ordinaire. Nous comprenons tous qu’ils equivalent a une double et formelle promesse.

C’est bien ainsi que le comprend le capitaine, car son visage s’est rasserene. Il prend la main que lui tend Mlle Mornas, y depose respectueusement un baiser, s’eloigne, saute a cheval et se place a la tete de son detachement, qui s’est groupe pendant ce temps.

Un dernier salut a notre adresse, puis il leve son sabre. Les cent hommes s’ebranlent et partent au grand trot. Non sans un certain trouble, nous les suivons des yeux. En quelques minutes, ils sont hors de vue.

Nous voici seuls avec le lieutenant Lacour, ses deux sous-officiers et ses vingt hommes, dont nous ne soupconnions pas l’existence il y a une heure. L’aventure s’est deroulee si rapidement que nous en sommes tout etourdis. Il s’agit, maintenant, de reprendre son calme.

Je reprends le mien assez vite, et je regarde nos nouveaux gardes du corps, afin de faire connaissance avec eux. Il se passe alors quelque chose de curieux. Au premier regard que je jette sur eux, j’ai un petit frisson — pas desagreable, ma foi! — car j’ai tout a coup l’impression tres nette qu’ils ressemblent tout a fait a des gens avec lesquels je n’aimerais pas me trouver au coin d’un bois.

CHAPITRE 10

La nouvelle escorte

(Carnet de notes d’Amedee Florence.) Meme jour, le soir. — Non, je n’aimerais pas me trouver avec eux au coin d’un bois, et pourtant j’y suis, ou plutot je suis avec eux en pleine brousse, ce qui est pire, infiniment. Aussi la situation est-elle, a mes yeux, remplie de charme. Avoir conscience qu’on court un danger, un vrai, et ne pas connaitre ce danger; avoir l’intelligence tendue pour deviner ce qu’on vous cache, l’oeil et l’oreille aux aguets pour parer le coup qu’on pressent, sans savoir d’ou il viendra, rien de plus “excitant”. C’est pendant ces heures-la qu’on vit d’une maniere vraiment intensive, et ces sensations degottent joliment le plaisir d’un cafe-creme sur la terrasse du Napolitain.

Allons! Voila que je m’emballe, selon ma coutume. En me montrant des bandits, alors que nous avons affaire, sans doute, a des tirailleurs tres ordinaires et tres quelconques, mon imagination ne me jouerait-elle pas un mauvais tour? Et la lettre, la lettre authentique du colonel Saint-Auban, qu’est-ce que j’en fais?

Ce qu’on voudra. La lettre du colonel Saint-Auban me gene, je l’accorde, mais rien ne peut prevaloir contre l’impression que me causent notre nouvelle escorte et son commandant.

Et d’abord, cet officier, ces sous-officiers, ces soldats sont-ils des “militaires”? Pour les Noirs, on ne peut savoir. Ces negres se ressemblent tous. Pour l’officier, on est tente de repondre oui. Par contre, on repond non sans hesiter en ce qui concerne les deux sergents. Des tirailleurs, ces tetes-la? A d’autres! Nul besoin d’etre phrenologiste, physiognomoniste, ni tout autre savant en iste, pour lire sur ces faces-la: inquietude de la bete traquee, gout des plaisirs grossiers, impulsivite sans controle, violence et cruaute. Charmant portrait!

Ce qui m’a frappe en premier lieu n’est qu’un detail, mais c’est ce detail qui a ouvert le robinet de mes cogitations. N’est-il pas bizarre, en effet, que ces hommes, sous-officiers compris, soient couverts de poussiere, ainsi qu’il sied a des gens courant apres nous depuis quinze jours, et que leur chef soit frais comme s’il sortait d’une boite? Car il est frais, et meme a un point invraisemblable. Linge blanc, chaussures brillantes, moustache ciree, c’est tout a fait un joli garcon. Et sa tenue? On dirait que le lieutenant Lacour va passer une revue. Il est d‘“ordonnance” de la tete aux pieds. Rien ne lui manque, pas un bouton, pas un fil, jusqu’a son pantalon qui a le pli marchand! On n’a pas souvent l’occasion, dans la brousse, d’admirer une telle elegance. Cet uniforme-la crie a qui veut l’entendre qu’on ne l’a jamais mis, qu’il est tout neuf, et celui qui le porte, dans son desir d’avoir l’air “officier”, me semble avoir depasse les limites de la vraisemblance.

Pour etre si pimpant pendant que ses subordonnes sont aussi poussiereux, le lieutenant Lacour ne nous donnait donc pas la chasse avec eux?

Les deux sergents sont, au contraire, abondamment sales, mais, s’ils n’ont pas l’elegance exageree de leur officier, ils pechent, a mon avis, par l’exces oppose. Leurs uniformes (?) semblent venir du “decrochez-moi ca”. Ils sont en loques. Leurs pantalons sont beaucoup trop courts et largement rapieces, et aucun numero, aucun signe quelconque n’indique leur regiment. J’ai peine a croire qu’on entretienne aussi mal des soldats francais, fussent-ils des engages a court terme. Autre remarque plus difficile a traduire: il m’apparait que les proprietaires de ces vieux uniformes n’ont pas l’habitude de les porter. Sans que je puisse expliquer tres bien pourquoi, ils n’ont pas l’air d’etre “chez eux” dans leurs vetements.

Telle est la liste complete de mes remarques et observations. On trouvera peut-etre que c’est maigre et que j’ai grandement tort de me laisser influencer par des particularites insignifiantes, qui s’expliquent peut-etre le plus simplement du monde? Je ne dis pas non, car je ne suis pas loin d’avoir moi-meme cette opinion. En cherchant a preciser, pour les noter sur ce carnet, les raisons de ma mefiance, je suis le premier a les trouver bien faibles. Mais c’est aussi que cette mefiance est surtout instinctive, et cela, je ne peux le rendre avec des mots.

Quoi qu’il en soit, je n’ai rien a ajouter a ce qui precede. Pour la discipline, notamment, rien a dire. Meme, elle serait plutot trop stricte, a mon idee. Les sentinelles sont a leur poste et se relevent regulierement. La tenue generale est parfaite, trop parfaite peut-etre.

L’escorte se divise nettement en trois groupes qui ne fraient aucunement avec le surplus du convoi. Le premier comprend les vingt tirailleurs soudanais. En dehors de leurs heures de garde, ils ne se quittent pas, et, chose incroyable quand il s’agit de Noirs, ils parlent a peine. Ils font leur popote en silence, ou ils dorment. On ne les entend pas. Ils obeissent au doigt et a l’oeil a leurs sous-officiers, qu’ils paraissent beaucoup redouter. Il semblerait, en somme, que ces vingt negres sont tres tristes et qu’ils ont peur.

Le deuxieme groupe reunit les sous-officiers. Ceux-ci causent, mais exclusivement ensemble, et toujours a mi-voix. Malgre mon oreille de reporter, je n’ai pu, jusqu’ici, saisir au vol que peu de mots sans importance.

Le troisieme et dernier groupe est compose du lieutenant Lacour tout seul. Ce lieutenant Lacour est un homme de petite taille, qui me fait l’effet d’etre un monsieur pas commode. Il a des yeux bleu pale, des yeux d’acier, comme on dit, qui n’expriment pas precisement une bienveillance universelle. Pas bavard, et sauvage avec ca. De tout l’apres-midi, je ne l’ai vu sortir de sa tente que deux fois, et uniquement pour inspecter ses hommes. Cette operation n’est pas variee. En apercevant leur chef, les tirailleurs se levent et se mettent en ligne. Le lieutenant, raide comme un piquet, passe devant eux, tandis que son regard glace les parcourt de la tete aux pieds, puis il disparait chez lui, sans avoir adresse la parole a personne. En mettant tout au mieux, j’ose dire que cet elegant officier ne sera pas, du moins, un joyeux compagnon.

De toute la journee, je n’ai pas apercu Mlle Mornas.

Ni Tchoumouki non plus, ce qui fait que j’ai toujours mon article en poche.

15 fevrier. — Au reveil, ce matin, je ne constate aucun preparatif de depart. Je m’informe aupres de Tongane, lequel m’apprend que nous ne bougerons pas de toute la journee. Apres le repos d’hier, cette halte me parait etrange.

Le hasard me fait croiser le lieutenant Lacour, toujours aussi raide et d’une aussi impeccable elegance. Je l’aborde, et lui demande la raison de cet arret supplementaire.

— Ordre de M. Barsac, me repond-il laconiquement.

Quatre mots, apres lesquels il fait le salut militaire et pivote sur ses talons. Le lieutenant Lacour n’est pas ce qu’on appelle un brillant causeur.

Pourquoi le chef de la mission nous fait-il ainsi marquer le pas? Renoncerait-il a poursuivre le voyage avec cette escorte reduite des quatre cinquiemes? Cela m’intrigue. Cela m’inquiete aussi, puisque cette decision mettrait le point final a un reportage que je pressens etre sur le point de devenir sensationnel.

Precisement, vers dix heures, j’apercois M. Barsac. Il se promene a grands pas, les mains derriere le dos, les yeux vers le sol, et n’a pas l’air de bonne humeur. Le moment n’est peut-etre pas tres bien choisi pour lui demander quels sont ses projets. Cette consideration ne m’arrete pas, et je risque l’interview.

M. Barsac ne se fache pas. Il s’arrete, et me regarde un bon moment en silence. Enfin, il me dit: — Il y a quelques jours, monsieur Florence, vous m’avez deja pose la meme question. Je ne vous ai pas repondu. Je vous repondrai aujourd’hui que je ne sais pas moi-meme quelle reponse je dois faire.

— Vous n’avez donc pris encore aucune decision, monsieur le depute?

— Aucune. Je reflechis, je tatonne, je pese le pour et le contre…

Nouveau silence, puis, tout a coup: — Mais, au fait, s’ecrie M. Barsac, pourquoi n’examinerions-nous pas la question ensemble? Vous etes un garcon pratique et plein de bon sens. (Merci bien, monsieur Barsac.) Vous me donnerez votre avis.

Je m’incline.

— A vos ordres, monsieur le depute.

— Examinons d’abord, reprend M. Barsac, si ce voyage peut etre continue sans imprudence; en d’autres termes, s’il est possible.

Je suggere: — Peut-etre vaudrait-il mieux examiner d’abord s’il est utile.

— Du tout, replique M. Barsac, son utilite est certaine.

Un homme etonne, c’est moi. Cependant, M. Barsac poursuit.

— Donc, ce voyage est-il faisable? voila le probleme. Hier encore, il ne se posait meme pas, car, jusqu’ici, aucun incident vraiment serieux n’avait marque notre route. C’est bien votre opinion, n’est-ce pas?

— Tout a fait.

— Le premier incident qui ait une reelle gravite, c’est le changement inopine de notre escorte et sa reduction a vingt hommes. Vingt hommes sont-ils capables d’assurer notre securite au milieu de cette population negre? Je me le demande.

— Ainsi posee, dis-je, la question ne comporte qu’une reponse affirmative. Il me parait certain que vingt hommes sont largement suffisants, si nous ne rencontrons que des negres pour adversaires. D’autres explorateurs ont fait des voyages plus longs que le notre avec une escorte moindre, ou meme absolument sans escorte. Mais…

— Je sais ce que vous allez dire, interrompt M. Barsac. Vous allez parler du mysterieux inconnu qui parait mecontent de nous voir dans ce pays. Je n’ai pas cache mon sentiment a cet egard, et tout le monde m’a approuve. Rien de nouveau n’est survenu depuis. Donc, inutile d’y revenir, selon moi.

Je replique.

— Veuillez m’excuser, monsieur le depute, mais je crois qu’il y a eu du nouveau, au contraire.

— Bah! fait M. Barsac, surpris. Du nouveau qu’on m’aurait cache, alors. Expliquez-vous.

Ainsi mis au pied du mur, je ne laisse pas d’etre tres embarrasse. Mes remarques, qui me semblaient si importantes, et leurs consequences, que je jugeais si fortement deduites, lorsque j’examinais les unes et les autres en moi-meme, m’apparaissent, maintenant qu’il me faut les exprimer a haute voix, encore plus insignifiantes et plus arbitraires qu’au moment ou j’ai du les preciser par ecrit. Cependant, puisque j’ai sottement engage le doigt dans l’engrenage — c’etait mon devoir, au surplus — il faut bien m’executer.

Je m’execute. Je communique a M. Barsac mes observations sur notre escorte et sur l’officier qui la commande, et, sous forme de conclusion, je formule timidement l’hypothese que, si ces gens-la ne sont pas de veritables soldats, ils pourraient bien etre a la solde de l’ennemi inconnu que nous n’avons pas voulu prendre au tragique jusqu’ici.

En entendant ces enormites, M. Barsac se met a rire.

— C’est du roman! s’ecrie-t-il. Vous me paraissez avoir, monsieur Florence, une brillante imagination. Elle vous sera fort utile, s’il vous plait jamais d’aborder le theatre, mais je vous conseille de vous en mefier dans la vie reelle.

— Cependant… dis-je, pique.

— Il n’y a pas de cependant. Il y a des faits. L’ordre ecrit, d’abord…

— Il peut etre faux.

— Non, replique M. Barsac, puisque le capitaine Marcenay l’a estime veritable et qu’il a obei sans hesiter.

— Il a pu etre vole…

— Encore du roman!… Comment, je vous prie, se serait-on substitue a la veritable escorte? Il aurait fallu, dans cette hypothese, tenir prete une troupe assez nombreuse pour, premierement, detruire les soldats authentiques jusqu’au dernier, jusqu’au dernier, vous entendez bien, et, deuxiemement, afin d’etre d’accord avec l’ordre dont on se serait empare, leur substituer un faux detachement absolument identique, et cela longtemps a l’avance, a un moment ou personne ne pouvait savoir quelle serait la composition de la nouvelle escorte, ni meme que cette escorte dut etre jamais envoyee par le colonel Saint-Auban. Aucun des hommes du lieutenant Lacour n’etant blesse, cette troupe aurait du etre tres nombreuse, car vous n’admettez pas, je pense, que les soldats veritables se seraient laisses massacrer sans se defendre. Et vous voudriez que la presence d’une bande aussi importante n’eut pas ete remarquee, que le bruit d’un pareil combat ne fut pas parvenu jusqu’a nous, alors que les nouvelles, dans la brousse, se transmettent de village en village avec la rapidite du telegraphe? Voila a quelles impossibilites on se heurte, quand on lache la bride a son imagination!

M. Barsac a raison. L’ordre n’a pas ete vole. Il continue: — Quant a l’impression que vous ont faite les hommes et leurs chefs, sur quoi repose-t-elle? En quoi ces tirailleurs, que vous apercevez d’ici, different-ils de tous les tirailleurs noirs?

Je regarde comme j’y suis invite, et je suis force de reconnaitre que M. Barsac a encore raison. Ou donc avais-je l’esprit, hier soir? Je me suis suggestionne moi-meme. Ces negres-la sont pareils a tous les negres.

M. Barsac a conscience de son avantage. Il reprend avec plus d’assurance (et Dieu sait pourtant si c’est l’assurance qui lui manque!): — Passons aux sous-officiers. Qu’est-ce que vous leur trouvez de particulier? Ils sont tres sales, c’est vrai, mais pas plus que certains sergents du capitaine Marcenay. On ne peut pas, en campagne, etre tres pointilleux sur le chapitre des uniformes.

C’est parler d’or. Je glisse timidement, car je suis reellement ebranle: — Le lieutenant Lacour, cependant…

— Oh! il est d’une correction extraordinaire, s’ecrire M. Barsac en souriant. C’est evidemment un homme tres soigne de sa personne et tres porte sur l’article toilette. Ce n’est pas un crime.

Non, ce n’en est pas un. Je fais un dernier effort, et j’insinue: — Tout de meme, un uniforme tout battant neuf, c’est bizarre!

— Parce que l’autre est dans la cantine du lieutenant, explique M. Barsac qui a reponse a tout. Comme il etait couvert de poussiere, M. Lacour a voulu se mettre en grande tenue avant de se presenter devant moi.

M. Barsac a l’air de trouver cette preoccupation tres naturelle. Apres tout, c’est peut-etre moi qui ne me rends pas exactement compte de l’importance du chef de la mission.

— D’ailleurs, j’ai longuement cause avec le lieutenant Lacour, hier, au cours de l’apres-midi…

(Pendant que j’ecrivais mes notes, probablement.) — … C’est un homme charmant, malgre ses gouts d’elegance exageres, je vous le concede. Poli, bien eleve, deferent, respectueux meme…

Ici, M. Barsac se rengorge.

— … respectueux meme, j’ai trouve en lui une relation tres agreable et un subordonne tres souple.

Je demande: — Le lieutenant Lacour ne voit-il, pour sa part, aucun inconvenient a poursuivre notre voyage dans ces conditions?

— Aucun.

— Vous hesitiez, cependant, monsieur le depute.

— Je n’hesite plus, declare M. Barsac, qui s’est convaincu lui-meme en parlant. Nous partirons demain.

J’interroge: — Sans meme examiner l’utilite du voyage, apres en avoir etabli la possibilite?

L’ironie discrete de ma question passe inapercue.

— A quoi bon? repond M. Barsac. Ce voyage n’est pas seulement utile, il est necessaire.

Je repete, sans comprendre: — Necessaire?…

Tout a fait de bonne humeur, M. Barsac me prend familierement le bras, et, sur le ton de la confidence, il m’explique: — Entre nous, mon cher, je veux bien vous accorder que, depuis un certain temps deja, les Noirs que nous rencontrons sont loin d’etre assez degrossis pour qu’on puisse en faire des electeurs. Je vous accorderai encore, si vous m’en pressez, que nous n’avons aucune chance d’etre plus heureux, tant que nous tournerons le dos a la cote. Mais, ce que je vous dis a vous, je ne le dirai pas a la tribune de la Chambre. Or, si nous terminons ce voyage, les choses se passeront de la maniere suivante: Baudrieres et moi, nous deposerons un rapport dont les conclusions seront diametralement opposees. Ces rapports seront renvoyes a une commission. La, ou nous nous ferons de mutuelles concessions, et l’on accordera l’electorat a quelques negres en bordure de l’ocean, ce qui constituera une victoire a mon actif, ou nous ne ferons aucune concession, et l’affaire sera enterree. Au bout de huit jours, on n’y pensera plus, et personne ne saura si les faits m’ont donne tort ou raison. Dans les deux cas, rien ne s’opposera a ce que Baudrieres ou moi, selon le vent, nous ayons un jour ou l’autre le portefeuille des Colonies. Que je revienne, au contraire, sans avoir accompli ma mission jusqu’au bout, ce sera proclamer moi-meme que je me suis fourvoye, mes ennemis crieront a tue-tete que je ne suis qu’une vieille ganache, et je serai definitivement coule.

M. Barsac fait une petite pause, puis il conclut par cette pensee profonde: — N’oubliez jamais cette verite, monsieur Florence: un homme politique peut se tromper. Cela n’a aucune importance. S’il reconnait son erreur, il est perdu.

Je savoure la maxime et je m’en vais content. Je suis tres content, en effet, car je connais maintenant les raisons de chacun.

En quittant M. Barsac, je tombe en arret sur le carnet de M. Poncin, que celui-ci a, par hasard, oublie sur un pliant. Mes instincts de journaliste prennent le pas sur ma bonne education, et j’ouvre deliberement le carnet. Il y a trop longtemps qu’il m’intrigue. Il y a trop longtemps que je me demande ce que notre silencieux compagnon peut bien y ecrire du matin au soir. Je vais enfin le savoir.

Helas! je suis puni de ma curiosite. Je n’apercois qu’un herissement de chiffres et de lettres embrouilles a plaisir et totalement incomprehensibles. Ce ne sont que des “p. j. 0,0009”, des “p. K. c. 135,08” des “M. 76,18”, et ainsi de suite.

Un mystere de plus! Pourquoi cette ecriture secrete? M. Poncin aurait-il donc quelque chose a cacher? Trahirait-il, lui aussi?

Allons, encore une marotte. Il faudra soigner ca. Quelle idee de suspecter ce brave homme! Je lui fais trop d’honneur, car, je peux bien le dire a ce carnet sur lequel j’ecris pour moi seul, il n’est pas fort, M. Poncin.

Mais on est journaliste ou on ne l’est pas. A tout hasard, je copie des exemples de ces hieroglyphes choisis parmi ceux qui reviennent presque quotidiennement. J’obtiens: 5 D. V. t. 7. H. 3306. M. 472,28. F 1895. P. v. 1895: 7 = 270,71. K. c. 122. P. k. c. 3306: 122 = 27,09. P. t. 27,09 X 54,600 = 1 479114. 16 F. V. t. 81. H. 12 085. M. 149,19. F. 6654. P. v. 6654: 81 = 82,15. K c. 1401. P. K. c. 12 085: 1401 = 8,62. P. t. 8,62 X 54600 = 470 652.

Je remets le carnet en place, et je me sauve avec mon butin. Ca servira peut-etre. On ne sait jamais.

Dans l’apres-midi, promenade. Je me fais accompagner par Tongane, qui prend le cheval de Tchoumouki, meilleur que le sien. Nous allons dans la campagne au petit trot. Au bout de cinq minutes, Tongane, que la langue demange, me dit ex abrupto: — Y en a bon Tchoumouki partir. Tchoumouki sale negre. Lui trahir.

En voila bien d’une autre! Comment! Tchoumouki nous trahissait, lui aussi? Je comprends que c’est le moment de me documenter. Je fais l’etonne.

— C’est Morilire que tu veux dire.

— Y en a pas bon Morilire, prononce energiquement Tongane. Mais Tchoumouki meme chose Morilire. Dire negres: “Y a pas bon marcher.” Donner beaucoup dolo toubab (eau-de-vie), beaucoup argent, beaucoup or.

De l’or entre les mains de Morilire et de Tchoumouki? C’est invraisemblable.

— Tu veux dire qu’ils donnaient des cauries aux negres, pour s’en faire bien voir?

— Pas cauries, insiste Tongane. Beaucoup or.

Et il ajoute ce detail, qui me renverse: — Beaucoup or english.

— Tu connais donc l’or anglais, Tongane?

— Ioo, me repond le Noir. Moi Achanti. Moi connaitre livchterlignes.

Je comprends que Tongane, par ce vocable singulier, nomme a sa maniere les livres sterling. Le mot est drole. J’ai tente l’orthographe phonetique pour le transcrire, mais, dans la bouche de Tongane, c’est mieux. Toutefois, je n’ai pas envie de rire, en ce moment. De l’or — et de l’or anglais! — entre les mains de Tchoumouki et de Morilire!… Je suis confondu. Bien entendu, je n’en laisse rien paraitre, et j’ai l’air de n’attacher aucune importance au renseignement.

— Tu es un brave garcon, Tongane, dis-je a mon compagnon, et, puisque tu connais si bien les livchterlignes, prends cette petite piece d’or a l’effigie de la Republique francaise.

— Y a bon Republique! crie, au comble de la joie, Tongane, qui fait sauter en l’air la piece que je lui offre, la rattrape au vol et l’insinue dans une des fontes de la selle.

Son visage exprime aussitot de l’etonnement, et, de la cavite dans laquelle il l’a introduite, sa main retire un gros rouleau de papier, objet peu courant chez les negres, en effet. Je pousse un cri, et j’arrache a Tongane ce rouleau que j’ai parfaitement reconnu.

Mes articles! Ce sont mes articles! Mes articles si remarquables restes dans les fontes de ce coquin de Tchoumouki! Je verifie. Helas! ils y sont bien tous, a compter du cinquieme inclusivement. Combien severement ne doit-on pas me juger a l’Expansion francaise! Je suis deshonore, a jamais perdu de reputation!

Tandis que je roule ces tristes pensees, nous continuons a nous eloigner au petit trot de nos chevaux. Nous devons etre a six kilometres du camp environ, lorsque je m’arrete soudainement. Je viens de decouvrir quelque chose de curieux.

C’est, presque en bordure du chemin, un espace large de six a sept metres, long de cinquante a peu pres, trace au milieu de la brousse. Dans cet espace, les hautes herbes sont couchees, ecrasees, beaucoup meme sont coupees net comme aurait pu le faire une faux gigantesque. Or, et c’est cela surtout qui a attire mon attention, dans la partie ainsi denudee, on distingue nettement deux ornieres paralleles, semblables a celles que nous avons remarquees pres de Kankan, c’est-a-dire profondes de huit a dix centimetres a l’une de leurs extremites et s’effacant insensiblement a l’autre bout. Cette fois, le cote profond est a l’est.

Je fais malgre moi un rapprochement entre cette couple d’ornieres et le bourdonnement entendu l’autre soir. A Kankan aussi, nous l’avions entendu, le bourdonnement etrange, avant de constater sur le sol ces inexplicables traces.

Quel rapport y a-t-il entre ces deux phenomenes — bourdonnement, couple d’ornieres — et le kenielala de Kankan? Je n’en vois pas. Pourtant, ce rapport doit exister, puisque, tandis que je considere ces enigmatiques sillons, mon subconscient evoque de lui-meme la vilaine figure du sorcier negre. Et voila que cette verite m’apparait soudain que, des quatre predictions de ce farceur, la troisieme, apres les deux premieres, vient de se realiser!

Alors, seul avec mon noir compagnon dans cette immensite, deserte, un frisson — le second, en comptant celui d’hier — me parcourt de la nuque au talon, et, pendant un instant, songeant au mystere qui m’entoure, j’ai peur.

C’est exquis, surtout dans de pareilles conditions. Malheureusement, ca ne dure pas, car je ne suis pas tres bien organise pour la peur. Mon point faible, a moi, c’est la curiosite. Aussi, tandis que nous revenons, je ressasse a satiete les irritants problemes qui me sont poses et m’entete a en poursuivre la solution. Cet exercice m’absorbe tellement que je ne vois plus rien autour de moi.

En arrivant au camp, je sursaute. Tongane, sans aucun preambule, m’a dit tout a coup: — Toulatigui (lieutenant) y a pas bon. Sale tete singe.

Je reponds sans meme y penser, ce qui est mon excuse: — Tu parles!…

17 fevrier. — Forte etape aujourd’hui, et plus forte encore hier. Cinquante kilometres dans ces deux jours. Tchoumouki n’a pas reparu — la canaille! On s’en apercoit. Sous la direction unique de Tongane, nos aniers et porteurs font merveille, et marchent avec le maximum d’entrain dont ils sont capables.

Pendant ces deux jours, les craintes que j’avais concues se sont attenuees, je le confesse. L’escorte a fait correctement son metier, qui, d’ailleurs, n’est pas difficile. Les vingt hommes, en deux files, encadrent le convoi, comme l’encadraient ceux du capitaine Marcenay. Je remarque seulement qu’ils n’echangent pas, avec notre personnel noir, ces faceties de meme couleur dont leurs predecesseurs n’etaient pas avares. Cela fait honneur, en somme, a leur discipline.

Les deux sous-officiers restent en general a l’arriere-garde, quand ils ne parcourent pas la ligne des tirailleurs. Ils ne parlent a personne, sauf a leurs hommes, auxquels ils adressent, de temps a autre, des ordres brefs aussitot executes.

Il faut reconnaitre que, si notre escorte est peu nombreuse, elle est du moins fortement commandee.

Le lieutenant Lacour se tient en tete, a peu pres a la place qu’occupait le capitaine Marcenay, a cote de M. Barsac. Je remarque que Mlle Mornas a retrograde de quelques rangs. Elle est avec Saint-Berain, derriere le docteur Chatonnay et M. Poncin. Mlle Mornas n’a pas l’air de priser beaucoup la societe du lieutenant.

Rien a dire sur le compte de celui-ci, cependant. S’il parle peu, il agit. Il est certain que son attitude energique n’est pas etrangere au resultat tres satisfaisant de ces deux journees de marche.

Non, rien a dire. Et pourtant…

Mais ce doit etre chez moi une idee fixe. Le mystere que je sens autour de nous, les faits bizarres que j’ai constates m’ont sans doute trouble la cervelle, et je suis enclin, trop enclin sans doute a voir la trahison partout.

Quoi qu’il en soit, voici ce qui motive ma restriction.

C’etait ce matin, vers neuf heures. Nous traversons alors un petit hameau de quelques feux completement desert, quand nous entendons des gemissements sortir de l’une des cases. Sur l’ordre de M. Barsac, le convoi s’arrete, et le docteur Chatonnay, accompagne du lieutenant Lacour et de deux tirailleurs, penetre dans la case d’ou partent les plaintes. Bien entendu, la presse, c’est-a-dire moi, y penetre avec eux.

Dans la piece ou nous entrons, un triste spectacle frappe nos regards. Il y a deux morts et un blesse. Chose affreuse, les deux cadavres, un homme et une femme, sont abominablement mutiles. Qui a tue et blesse ces pauvres gens? Qui s’est rendu coupable de ces atroces mutilations?

Le docteur Chatonnay s’occupe d’abord du blesse. Comme il fait trop noir dans la case, les tirailleurs le portent au-dehors sur son ordre. C’est un assez vieux negre. Il est atteint a l’epaule, et la blessure est terrible. Les os de la clavicule sont a nu. Je me demande quelle arme a pu causer de tels ravages.

Le docteur nettoie la plaie et en extrait de multiples fragments de plomb. Il rapproche ensuite les chairs, les recoud et panse soigneusement la blessure, a l’aide de bandes que lui passe le lieutenant Lacour. Tant que dure l’operation, le patient ne cesse de faire entendre de lamentables gemissements. Il semble moins souffrir lorsque le pansement est termine.

Mais le docteur parait soucieux. Il entre une seconde fois dans la case, examine les deux cadavres, et, quand il sort, il est plus soucieux encore. Il s’approche du blesse, qu’il interroge par l’intermediaire de Tongane.

Du recit de ce pauvre negre, il resulte que, six jours plus tot, le 11, par consequent, soit trois jours avant notre changement d’escorte, le petit hameau a ete attaque par une troupe de Noirs commande par deux Blancs. Les habitants se sont alors sauves dans la brousse, a l’exception de l’homme et de la femme dont nous avons trouve les cadavres, lesquels n’ont pas eu le temps de se mettre a l’abri. Le blesse etait avec les autres.

Malheureusement, pendant qu’il fuyait, une balle l’a frappe a l’epaule. Il a eu, neanmoins, la force de se cacher dans la brousse, et a ainsi echappe a ses agresseurs. Lorsque ceux-ci se furent eloignes, ses compagnons l’ont rapporte au village, mais tout le monde a de nouveau pris la fuite, quand on a vu arriver une autre troupe, et precisement du cote par lequel la premiere s’etait eloignee.

Tel est ce recit qui ne laisse pas de nous inquieter. Il ne peut nous etre agreable, en effet, d’apprendre qu’une bande de malfaiteurs court le pays. C’est meme une vraie chance que nous n’ayons pas eu affaire a elle, puisque, d’apres le blesse, elle allait a notre rencontre.

Cependant, le pauvre diable exprime d’une maniere touchante sa reconnaissance au docteur Chatonnay, quand il se tait tout a coup, tandis que ses yeux expriment une profonde terreur et se fixent sur quelque chose ou quelqu’un qui est derriere nous. Nous nous retournons, et nous trouvons face a face avec un des deux sous-officiers de notre escorte. C’est la vue de cet homme qui a cause au negre tant d’epouvante.

Le sous-officier, d’ailleurs, n’a pas l’air emu. Il s’emeut, toutefois, quand les yeux glaces du lieutenant Lacour lui lancent un regard terrible ou se lisent a dose egale reproche et menace. Je surprends au passage ce regard que je ne m’explique pas. Le sergent se touche alors le front, de maniere a nous faire entendre que le blesse delire, et va rejoindre ses hommes.

Nous revenons aupres de notre malade. Mais le charme est rompu. Il nous regarde avec terreur et il est impossible d’en tirer une parole. On le transporte donc dans sa case, et nous repartons, assez rassures sur son sort, au surplus, car le docteur Chatonnay affirme qu’il guerira.

Je ne sais a quoi pensent mes compagnons. Pour ma part, je creuse, tout en marchant, ce nouveau probleme offert a ma sagacite: Pourquoi le vieux negre a-t-il manifeste pareille frayeur? Pourquoi, alors qu’il n’avait fait nulle attention au lieutenant Lacour, cette frayeur a-t-elle ete provoquee, sans aucun doute possible, par la vue de l’un de nos sergents?

A ce probleme nulle solution, pour changer. Toutes ces enigmes insolubles que le hasard nous pose, cela finit par etre agacant a la fin.

Ce soir, assez tard, nous avons dresse nos tentes aupres d’un autre petit village du nom de Kadou. Nous sommes fort tristes d’y etre arrives, car c’est a Kadou que Mlle Mornas et Saint-Berain vont nous quitter. Tandis que nous continuerons tout droit vers Ouagadougou et le Niger, ils remonteront au nord, avec Gao et ce meme Niger comme objectif.

Il est inutile de dire que nous avons fait tout au monde pour les decider a renoncer a ce projet insense. Ainsi qu’on pouvait le presumer, nos efforts ont ete vains. J’ose prevoir que la future moitie du capitaine Marcenay ne sera pas des plus maniables. Quand Mlle Mornas a quelque chose dans la tete, le diable ne l’en ferait pas demordre.

En desespoir de cause, on a demande du renfort au lieutenant Lacour, et on l’a prie de montrer, a son tour, a notre compagne quelle folie elle etait sur le point de commettre. Je suis convaincu qu’il aurait plaide en pure perte, mais il n’a pas pris cette peine. Le lieutenant Lacour n’a pas prononce une parole. Il a fait un geste evasif, et il a souri, d’un sourire que j’ai trouve drole, je ne saurais dire exactement pourquoi.

Donc, on a fait halte aupres de Kadou. Au moment ou je vais me retirer sous ma toile particuliere, le docteur Chatonnay me retient. Il me dit: — Une chose dont je desire vous informer, monsieur Florence, c’est que les balles qui ont frappe les negres de ce matin etaient des balles explosives.

Et il s’en va, sans attendre ma reponse.

Bon! encore un mystere! Des balles explosives, maintenant! Qui peut user de pareilles armes? Comment meme de telles armes peuvent-elles exister dans cette contree?

Deux questions de plus a ajouter a ma collection qui s’enrichit sans cesse. Par contre, c’est ma collection de reponses qui n’augmente pas!

18 fevrier. — Derniere nouvelle du jour, sans commentaire: notre escorte est partie. Je dis bien: partie.

J’insiste, parce que ce n’est pas croyable, et je repete: l’escorte est partie. Au reveil, il y a de cela trois ou quatre heures, nous ne l’avons plus trouvee. Elle s’etait evaporee, volatilisee pendant la nuit, et, avec elle, tous les porteurs et tous les aniers sans exception.

On a compris? Le lieutenant Lacour, ses deux sergents et ses vingt hommes ne sont pas alles faire un peu de footing matinal, pour revenir a l’heure du dejeuner. Ils sont partis, de-fi-ni-ti-ve-ment par-tis.

Nous voici seuls dans la brousse, avec nos chevaux, nos armes personnelles, trente-six anes, cinq jours de vivres, et Tongane.

Ah! je voulais des aventures!…

CHAPITRE 12

Une tombe, des ossements

Accompagnes de six porteurs fournis par le dougoutigui de Kadou, les debris de la mission Barsac quitterent ce village dans la matinee du 24 fevrier. Pour troublants que fussent les derniers evenements qui l’avaient desorganisee, le depart s’effectua dans la gaiete. Si on en excepte M. Poncin, dont les sentiments intimes demeuraient impenetrables, tous etaient agreablement surexcites par la perspective d’accomplir un acte genereux, voire heroique en quelque maniere, et se felicitaient reciproquement de la decision prise. Au surplus, rien n’etait perdu encore. Les six Europeens, de meme que Tongane, qui avait pris Malik en croupe, possedaient toujours leurs montures, et on ne manquait ni d’armes, ni de vivres, ni d’objets d’echange. D’autre part, le pays paraissait tranquille, et on etait en droit d’esperer que l’adversaire inconnu, contre lequel on s’etait involontairement heurte jusqu’alors, mettrait un terme a ses persecutions, la mission n’etant plus capable d’inquieter personne. Rien ne s’opposait donc, en principe, a ce qu’on atteignit Koubo sans avoir a subir d’epreuves vraiment serieuses.

Rien, non plus, ne s’opposerait sans doute a ce qu’on y parvint rapidement, maintenant qu’on ne serait plus retarde par un nombreux troupeau d’anes, parmi lesquels il en est necessairement de recalcitrants. Pour activer la marche, on s’etait, d’ailleurs, impose de lourds sacrifices. On avait laisse au dougoutigui de Kadou, a titre de remuneration pour ses bons offices, une partie de la pacotille, ce qu’on en conservait devant aisement permettre d’arriver a Gao. Sacrifice plus douloureux, on s’etait resigne a abandonner les tentes, dont une seule avait ete conservee pour l’usage exclusif de Jane Buxton, malgre que celle-ci s’en fut energiquement defendue. Quant aux hommes, ou ils trouveraient a se loger dans les villages, ou ils dormiraient en plein air. Dans la saison seche et pour un aussi court voyage, cela ne pouvait avoir grand inconvenient. Il ne s’agissait en somme que d’un parcours de cinq cents kilometres environ, soit de quinze a vingt journees de marche. Selon toute vraisemblance, on serait donc a Koubo entre le 10 et le 15 mars.

Le debut du voyage fut d’accord avec ces favorables auspices. Les porteurs, tout frais et pleins d’ardeur, gardaient un train soutenu, et on n’employa que cinq jours a franchir les cent quarante kilometres separant Kadou de Sanabo, ou l’on arriva dans la journee du 28. Aucun incident n’etait survenu pendant cette premiere partie du voyage. Conformement aux previsions, on avait generalement trouve a se loger, le soir venu, dans des cases indigenes, fort malpropres, a vrai dire, mais enfin suffisantes, et les nuits passees en plein air, lorsqu’il n’y avait aucun village a proximite lors de la seconde halte du jour, s’etaient ecoulees paisiblement. Partout bien accueillis, les voyageurs avaient pu se ravitailler sans peine, et c’est toujours nantis de leur reserve de vivres qu’ils quitterent Sanabo le matin du 1er mars. Ils n’avaient donc, jusque-la, aucune raison de regretter le parti qu’ils avaient adopte.

— C’est-a-dire que c’est trop beau! proclamait Amedee Florence parlant a son ami Saint-Berain, pendant qu’ils faisaient cote a cote la seconde etape du 2 mars. Le profond penseur que je suis devrait meme s’en inquieter et calculer de quelle fraction le rapport habituel du bien et du mal est vicie a notre profit. J’aime mieux supposer, toutefois, que le destin peut, de temps en temps, prendre modele sur M. Poncin et negliger la fraction a son exemple.

— Voila le resultat d’une bonne action, cher ami, repondit Saint-Berain. Vous n’avez pas voulu nous abandonner. Le Ciel vous en recompense.

— Du train dont vont les choses, nous n’aurons pas grand merite, dit, en se retournant sur sa selle, le docteur Chatonnay qui precedait les deux amis.

— Qui sait? fit Saint-Berain. Nous ne sommes pas encore au bout.

— Bah! s’ecrira Amedee Florence, c’est tout comme. Nous avons le vent en poupe, cette fois.

Ces choses-la se sentent, que diable! Je soutiens que nous allons arriver a Koubo dans un fauteuil, sans la plus petite aventure au tableau, ce qui, d’ailleurs, n’est pas tres rejouissant pour un journaliste, dont le directeur… Eh la! s’interrompit-il tout a coup, en adressant cette exclamation a son cheval qui venait de buter lourdement.

— Qu’y a-t-il? interrogea Barsac.

— C’est mon cheval, expliqua Florence. Je ne sais ce qu’il a. Il bute sans cesse, depuis ce matin. Il faudra que j’examine…

Il n’eut pas le temps d’achever sa pensee. Le cheval, qui s’etait arrete brusquement, tremblait et vacillait sur ses jambes. Le reporter eut tout juste le temps de mettre pied a terre. A peine avait-il quitte la selle, que l’animal pliait des genoux et s’allongeait sur le sol.

On s’empressa de secourir la pauvre bete, qui ahanait et soufflait peniblement. On relacha la sangle de la selle, on lui mouilla les naseaux avec l’eau d’un petit cours d’eau voisin. Rien n’y fit. Une heure plus tard, elle etait morte.

— J’aurais du toucher du bois, tout a l’heure, dit piteusement Amedee Florence transforme en pieton. Se feliciter de sa veine appelle necessairement la guigne, c’est bien connu.

— Seriez-vous superstitieux, monsieur Florence? demanda Jane Buxton en souriant.

— Pas precisement, mademoiselle. Embete seulement, tres embete, par exemple!

Le cheval de Tongane fut attribue au reporter, Jane Buxton prit Malik en croupe, et l’on se remit en route apres une halte de deux heures, en laissant en arriere le cadavre du cheval et son harnachement qu’on ne pouvait songer a emporter. L’etape en fut raccourcie d’autant.

A la tombee de la nuit, on s’arreta au pied d’un bouquet d’arbres naturellement disposes suivant une demi-circonference, en bordure immediate du chemin. Situe au sommet d’une petite eminence, ce point, d’ou on avait vue dans toutes les directions, ce qui mettait a l’abri d’une surprise toujours possible, etait heureusement choisi pour y passer la nuit. Ses avantages avaient, d’ailleurs, frappe de precedents voyageurs, qui, ainsi qu’on ne tarda pas a le reconnaitre, avaient campe au meme point. A en juger par leurs traces, ces voyageurs etaient assez nombreux et possedaient des chevaux, dont les sabots avaient laisse de multiples empreintes. Qui etaient ces gens? Des negres ou des Blancs? La seconde hypothese, la plus probable, car les negres ne font pas en general usage de chevaux, devint une certitude, quand Amedee Florence eut decouvert et montre a ses compagnons un objet oublie par leurs predecesseurs. Cet objet, tout insignifiant qu’il fut, puisqu’il s’agissait d’un simple bouton, n’en etait pas moins un produit de la civilisation peu employe par les Noirs, et temoignait irrecusablement de la couleur de ses anciens proprietaires.

L’etat des herbes foulees, qui se redressaient deja, prouvait, d’ailleurs, que le passage de cette troupe, quelle qu’elle fut, remontait a une dizaine de jours, a tout le moins. Comme on ne l’avait pas croisee, on devait en conclure qu’elle aussi suivait la route du Nord-Est, et que, par consequent, on n’etait pas destine a la rencontrer jamais.

La journee du 3 mars n’offrit rien de particulier, mais, le 4, les explorateurs eurent a deplorer un nouveau deces dans leur cavalerie. Vers le soir, le cheval de Barsac mourut exactement comme etait mort celui d’Amedee Florence. Cela commencait a devenir singulier.

Le docteur Chatonnay, qui avait examine l’animal defunt, saisit la premiere occasion de parler confidentiellement a Amedee Florence, et dit a celui-ci:

— J’ai attendu d’etre seul avec vous, monsieur Florence, pour vous apprendre quelque chose d’assez serieux.

— Quoi donc? interrogea Florence, surpris.

— C’est que les deux chevaux sont morts empoisonnes.

— Pas possible! s’ecria le reporter. Qui les empoisonnerait? Les Noirs engages a Kadou?… Ils n’ont aucun interet a nous creer des difficultes, au contraire.

— Je n’accuse personne, insista le docteur, mais je maintiens ce que j’ai dit. Apres le premier deces, j’avais des soupcons. Apres le second, j’ai une certitude. Les signes sont indeniables. Le dernier des ignorants ne s’y tromperait pas.

— Alors, votre avis, docteur?

— Sur quel sujet?

— Sur ce que nous devons faire.

— Je n’en sais pas plus que vous. Mon role consiste a vous prevenir, et si je m’en suis acquitte de cette maniere confidentielle, c’est pour que vous mettiez nos compagnons au courant, a l’insu de miss Buxton, qu’il me parait inutile d’effrayer.

— Tout a fait, approuva Florence. Mais, dites-moi, docteur, est-il donc necessaire de faire intervenir la malveillance dans ces deux accidents? Ne peuvent-ils s’expliquer autrement? Nos chevaux n’ont-ils pu brouter, en meme temps que leur provende, une herbe veneneuse quelconque?

— Ce n’est pas seulement possible, dit le docteur, c’est certain. Reste a savoir si c’est le hasard qui a mele a leurs aliments cette plante veneneuse, ou si ce hasard-la porte un nom d’homme. La-dessus, je n’en sais pas plus long que vous.

On convint de surveiller plus rigoureusement que jamais les cinq chevaux survivants, afin d’eviter le retour de semblable malheur. Un des Europeens ou Tongane resterait toujours aupres d’eux pendant les haltes, de telle sorte que personne ne put en approcher sans etre vu. Fut-ce a cause de ces precautions, ou simplement parce que les deux deces etaient accidentels, quoi qu’il en soit, il ne s’en produisit plus les deux jours suivants, si bien que l’on se rassura peu a peu.

Au surplus, la perte de ces chevaux etait le seul incident facheux qui fut survenu jusqu’alors.

La contree etait tres plate, on y cheminait sans fatigue, aussi vite que l’autorisait le train des porteurs, et on continuait a s’approvisionner facilement dans les villages, ce qui permettait de conserver intacte l’avance initiale de quatre jours de vivres.

Cependant, l’apres-midi du 5 et toute la journee du 6 s’etant ecoulees sans qu’on eut apercu un seul village, force fut d’entamer cette reserve. On ne s’en inquieta pas, au surplus, Tongane affirmant qu’on n’allait pas tarder a rencontrer une agglomeration d’une certaine importance ou il serait facile de se ravitailler.

On parvint, en effet, le soir du 6 mars, a cette bourgade, qui portait le nom de Yaho, mais les previsions de Tongane ne se realiserent pas. Des qu’on s’approcha du tata, des vociferations et meme quelques coups de fusils a pierre partirent de son sommet, sur lequel se pressait une nombreuse foule de negres. C’etait la premiere fois qu’on recevait pareil accueil depuis le depart de Conakry, si on excepte la demonstration des naturels de Kokoro. Encore, a Kokoro, avait-il ete possible de transformer leurs dispositions belliqueuses en sentiments plus amicaux, tandis qu’a Yaho on ne put meme pas essayer d’arriver a un semblable resultat.

Barsac eut beau s’ingenier afin d’entrer en relation avec les habitants de ce village, les moyens employes echouerent les uns apres les autres. Un drapeau blanc fut en vain porte au bout d’un baton. Cet embleme symbolique, dont le sens pacifique est compris sur toute la surface de la terre, provoqua un ouragan de hurlements, accompagnes d’une nuee de balles, qui eussent ete mortelles pour le porteur du drapeau, s’il n’avait eu la prudence de se tenir a distance suffisante. Tongane, puis successivement deux des porteurs, gens de meme race, ou a peu pres, que les habitants de Yaho, furent sans plus de succes envoyes en parlementaires. On refusa de les ecouter, et on ne leur repondit que par le jet de projectiles divers, que la maladresse seule des tireurs rendit inoffensifs. Il etait evident que la population de ce village entendait, pour une raison ou pour une autre, n’avoir aucun rapport avec des etrangers, et qu’elle ne voulait meme pas connaitre leurs intentions. Il fallut y renoncer.

D’ailleurs, ces negres inhospitaliers se bornerent a faire bonne garde autour du tata, dont ils refusaient si formellement l’entree, sans se livrer a aucun acte d’hostilite plus directe.

Quels que fussent les motifs d’une telle attitude, les voyageurs ne purent se ravitailler comme ils l’esperaient, et durent repartir le lendemain 7 mars, n’ayant plus que deux jours de vivres devant eux. La situation n’avait encore, du reste, rien d’inquietant. On avait fait alors plus de trois cents kilometres depuis Kadou, c’est-a-dire plus de la moitie du parcours total, et tout portait a croire que les prochains villages auraient une attitude plus amicale que celle de Yaho.

Le chemin n’en ayant traverse aucun, la question ne put etre tranchee pendant la journee du 7 mars, qui fut bonne au point de vue du nombre de kilometres parcourus, mais au cours de laquelle survint un nouveau malheur. Un troisieme cheval mourut, de la meme maniere qu’etaient morts les deux premiers.

— Quelqu’un reussirait-il donc, demanda Florence au docteur Chatonnay, a empoisonner nos animaux, malgre la surveillance dont nous les entourons?

— C’est peu probable, repondit le docteur. L’empoisonnement doit etre anterieur a notre depart de Kadou. Peut-etre remonte-t-il au jour ou notre escorte a deserte. Si nos chevaux meurent successivement, et non tous a la fois, cela doit tenir a la difference de leurs resistances individuelles et sans doute aussi a la difference des doses.

— En attendant, dit Amedee Florence, nous voici trois pietons contre quatre cavaliers. Ce n’est pas drole!

Le 8 mars, ce ne fut pas sans inquietude qu’on se remit en route. De quelque cote qu’on le considerat, l’avenir commencait a devenir sombre. On ne pouvait pas se dissimuler que la puissance adverse dont on se croyait a jamais debarrasse n’eut pris la precaution d’empoisonner les chevaux avant de disparaitre, ce qui impliquait une persistance de haine aussi effrayante qu’inexplicable, et on s’attendait a voir tomber d’un instant a l’autre les quatre animaux survivants. D’autre part, on ne possedait plus qu’un seul jour de vivres, et on souffrirait de la faim, si un village n’etait pas rencontre avant le coucher du soleil.

On n’eut meme pas si longtemps a attendre. La premiere heure de marche n’etait pas ecoulee qu’une agglomeration de cases apparaissait dans le lointain.

Les voyageurs s’arreterent quelques instants, s’efforcant de prevoir l’accueil qui les attendait. Dans la vaste plaine qui se deployait sous leurs yeux, ils ne distinguerent rien qui fut de nature a les renseigner. Autant qu’on en pouvait juger a cette distance, le village semblait mort, et l’etendue etait deserte. On ne voyait que le haut tapis de la brousse, et la trouee du chemin, sur lequel, de place en place, on apercevait des taches noires, dont il etait impossible de reconnaitre la nature.

Apres une courte halte, Barsac et ses compagnons se remirent en marche vers le village. Ils n’avaient pas fait un kilometre qu’une odeur nauseabonde les saisit a la gorge. Quelques pas encore, et ils furent aupres d’une de ces taches noires qu’ils avaient remarquees de loin. Ils eurent un mouvement de recul. Cette tache noire, c’etait le cadavre a demi putrefie d’un negre. Jusqu’au village, le chemin etait jalonne de la sorte. Ils purent compter dix de ces bornes funebres.

— Voyez combien petite est l’entree du projectile qui a frappe cet homme, dit a Amedee Florence le docteur Chatonnay qui examinait l’un des cadavres, et combien est grand au contraire son orifice de sortie, quand ces projectiles ont traverse les corps de part en part. D’autres ont rencontre des os et vous pouvez constater quels effroyables ravages ils ont produits dans ce cas. Ces hommes ont ete tues par des balles explosibles.

— Encore! s’ecria Amedee Florence.

— Encore.

— Comme le vieux negre que nous avons soigne dans le petit hameau, pendant notre premiere etape avec la nouvelle escorte?

— Comme ce jour-la, repondit le docteur Chatonnay.

Amedee Florence et le docteur rejoignirent leurs compagnons en silence. Ils etaient pensifs, et se demandaient ce qu’il fallait conclure de l’explicable repetition d’un fait aussi anormal.

Dans le village, le spectacle etait plus affreux encore. A de nombreux signes, on reconnaissait qu’il avait ete le theatre d’une lutte acharnee. En outre, apres la bataille, les vainqueurs l’avaient incendie, et la plupart des cases etaient detruites par le feu. Dans celles qu’ils avaient epargnees, on trouva d’autres cadavres.

— La mort de ces malheureux remonte au moins a dix jours, dit le docteur Chatonnay, et, comme pour les autres, ce sont des balles explosibles qui l’ont provoquee.

— Mais quels peuvent bien etre les miserables qui se sont livres a un pareil carnage? s’ecria Saint-Berain.

— Peut-etre, suggera Amedee Florence, ceux dont nous avons remarque les traces, il y a quelques jours. Nous estimions alors leur avance a une dizaine de jours. Cela coinciderait avec le delai que fixe le docteur.

— Ce sont eux a n’en pas douter, dit Barsac indigne.

— Comme ce sont eux, ajouta Amedee

Florence, qui nous ont valu la fraiche reception de Yaho, qu’ils auront voulu traiter comme ils ont traite ce village. Yaho etant entoure d’un tata, ils n’auront pu y entrer, mais cela expliquerait que les negres effrayes se soient tenus depuis ce moment sur la defensive.

— C’est assez logique, en effet, approuva le docteur Chatonnay.

— Mais qui peuvent bien etre ces miserables, demanda Jane Buxton, et leur presence ne peut-elle etre un danger pour nous?

— Qui ils sont, je n’en sais rien, repondit Amedee Florence, mais ils ne me paraissent pas a craindre en ce qui nous concerne. Tout concourt a nous demontrer qu’ils ont sur nous une avance de dix a douze jours, et, comme ils sont montes, il est peu probable que nous les rattrapions jamais.

On parcourut tout le village incendie sans y rencontrer aucun etre vivant. Ceux des habitants que les balles n’avaient pas atteints s’etaient enfuis, et il etait completement desert. Il etait aussi pille de fond en comble, tout ce que le feu n’avait pas devore, on l’avait jete aux quatre vents. Meme spectacle aux alentours, dans les lougans saccages, devastes. La volonte de destruction etait evidente.

C’est en proie aux plus tristes pensees qu’on laissa en arriere le malheureux village. Le soir, on fit halte en pleine campagne. Il ne restait alors de vivres que pour un seul repas. De cet unique repas, on fit deux parts, l’une qu’on mangea sur-le-champ, l’autre qui fut reservee pour le lendemain matin.

Au cours de la journee du 9 mars, deux villages furent rencontres. On ne put s’approcher du premier, que defendait un petit tata, et dont l’accueil fut en tout point semblable a celui de Yaho. Quant au second, qu’aucune fortification ne protegeait, il etait, comme celui du jour precedent, saccage, incendie et vide d’habitants.

— On dirait vraiment, observa Barsac, que des gens s’ingenient a creer le desert devant nous.

L’observation etait juste. On aurait voulu affamer les voyageurs qu’on n’aurait pas procede autrement.

— Bah! fit Amedee Florence, avec une insouciance voulue, nous le traverserons malgre eux, ce desert. C’est a peine s’il y a cent cinquante kilometres d’ici a Koubo. Ce n’est pas la mer a boire, apres tout. Puisque les bouchers et les epiciers sont en greve, la chasse nous fournira nos biftecks.

A l’exception de M. Poncin, tout a fait incapable de manier un fusil, on suivit aussitot cet excellent conseil. Malheureusement, les hautes herbes arretaient trop souvent la vue, et la contree n’etait pas tres giboyeuse. De toute la journee, on n’eut qu’une outarde, deux pintades et deux perdrix au tableau. Pour nourrir quatorze personnes, c’etait a peine l’indispensable minimum.

A l’etape du soir, Amedee Florence et le docteur Chatonnay constaterent pour la seconde fois que l’endroit ou l’on s’arretait avait anterieurement recu la visite d’autres voyageurs. Les herbes paraissaient meme plus recemment froissees, comme si l’avance de ceux-ci eut diminue.

Pendant qu’on echangeait des reflexions a ce sujet, Tongane, prepose a ce moment a la surveillance des chevaux, appela ses maitres tout a coup. Deux des animaux venaient de tomber, comme etaient tombes les trois premiers. Comme ceux-ci, ils agoniserent sans qu’il fut possible de les secourir, et moururent apres une heure de souffrance.

Deux chevaux restaient encore, mais on ne devait pas garder longtemps ces deux animaux, qui succomberent a leur tour pendant la journee du 10 mars.

Les porteurs engages a Kadou furent-ils effrayes par ces deces successifs? Plus simplement, la chasse n’ayant, au cours de la journee du 10, produit qu’un resultat derisoire, redouterent-ils de souffrir de la faim? Quoi qu’il en soit, ils disparurent dans la nuit du 10 au 11, et, le matin venu, les six Europeens, Tongane et Malik, se reveillerent sans porteurs, sans chevaux et sans vivres.

Ils eprouverent alors un moment de decouragement bien naturel, qu’eut, d’ailleurs, suffi a expliquer la faiblesse qu’ils commencaient a ressentir. La plus accablee etait Jane Buxton, qui se reprochait d’avoir entraine ses compagnons dans ce deplorable voyage et se sentait responsable de leur misere. Elle s’accusait et sollicitait leur pardon.

Amedee Florence comprit la necessite de reagir contre la depression generale.

— Que de paroles inutiles! s’ecria-t-il en s’adressant a Jane Buxton avec une affectueuse brutalite. Nous ne sommes pas encore morts, je suppose. Que la chasse n’ait pas ete tres bonne ces jours-ci, la belle affaire! Elle sera meilleure demain, voila tout.

— N’oublions pas, fit observer le docteur Chatonnay venant au secours du reporter, que nos negres, en nous laissant en plan, nous ont, du meme coup, debarrasses de leurs six estomacs.

— C’est tout benefice, conclut Florence. S’ils n’etaient pas partis, j’allais vous proposer de les renvoyer a leurs aimables familles. J’estime que, dans les circonstances presentes, rien ne pouvait nous arriver de plus heureux.

— Merci, monsieur Florence, merci, messieurs, disait cependant Jane Buxton, profondement emue. Croyez que je n’oublierai jamais votre bonte et votre devouement.

— Pas d’attendrissement! interrompit Florence. Rien n’est plus mauvais avant le dejeuner. Si vous voulez m’en croire, filons, mettons-nous en chasse, et mangeons jusqu’a l’indigestion inclusivement. Nous nous epancherons au dessert, si ca vous chante.

Le depart des porteurs rendant impossible le transport des colis, on dut abandonner la derniere tente et le reste de la pacotille d’echange. Jane Buxton dormirait desormais, elle aussi, en plein air, quand on ne pourrait trouver un abri dans un village abandonne. Quant a la perte des objets d’echange, on n’en eprouva pas de trop vifs regrets. A quoi eussent-ils ete bons, le pays etant desert et toute transaction y etant impossible? D’ailleurs, n’avait-on pas de l’or, pour le cas ou les circonstances viendraient a changer?

C’est dans ces tristes conditions que la marche fut reprise. Au cours de cette journee du 12 mars, le chemin traversa un village, ou l’on decouvrit encore de nombreux cadavres de negres. Le docteur fit remarquer a ses compagnons que la mort de ces malheureux etait plus recente et paraissait remonter a deux jours tout au plus. Devait-on en conclure que la bande des assassins etait maintenant plus proche, et fallait-il s’attendre a se heurter contre elle un jour ou l’autre?

Malgre cette perspective peu rassurante, on continua a s’elever dans le nord. Quel moyen de faire autrement, au surplus? Revenir au sud, sur ce chemin jalonne de villages hostiles ou detruits, eut ete impossible. Mieux valait gagner a tout prix le Niger, puisque la seulement on aurait du secours.

C’etait toujours le desert que trouvaient devant eux les voyageurs epuises. Pas un village qui ne fut hostile, quand un tata l’avait defendu contre la destruction, ou pille, brule, devaste, dans le cas contraire. Nulle part, il ne leur etait possible de se procurer des vivres, et ils ne subsistaient que grace a des hasards favorables: ignames, patates ou autres racines deterrees par chance dans un lougan saccage, heureux coup de fusil, ou, parfois encore, quelque miserable poisson capture par Saint-Berain pendant la halte du jour.

Cette derniere ressource manquait, a vrai dire, le plus souvent. Outre que l’adversite n’avait en rien diminue la perpetuelle distraction, non plus que la sensibilite excessive du fantaisiste neveu de Jane Buxton, on traversait des territoires ou les cours d’eau etaient rares. On eut plus d’une fois a souffrir de la soif, les puits qu’on decouvrait de temps a autre etant invariablement combles. La puissance malfaisante qui s’ingeniait a accabler les voyageurs n’avait rien oublie.

L’energie de ceux-ci n’etait pas entamee, cependant. Brules par un soleil de feu, se trainant peniblement quand le gibier avait fait defaut, reglant les etapes sur leur faiblesse croissante, ils gagnaient courageusement vers le nord, jour par jour, pas a pas, malgre la fatigue, malgre la soif, malgre la faim.

Les deux Noirs opposaient a ces epreuves une merveilleuse indifference. Habitues aux privations, accoutumes a subir une vie de misere, peut-etre souffraient-ils moins que leurs maitres de la misere presente. Tous deux faisaient preuve du devouement le plus touchant.

— Moi, y en a pas beaucoup faim, disait Tongane a Malik, pour l’engager a accepter quelque racine comestible qu’il avait decouverte.

Malik acceptait le present, mais pour l’offrir a Jane Buxton, qui, d’ailleurs, s’empressait de le joindre a la reserve collective dont serait compose le prochain repas de tous.

Ainsi chacun faisait son devoir, tout en reagissant selon son temperament personnel.

Barsac inclinait plutot vers la colere. Il ne parlait guere, et, si parfois un mot s’echappait de ses levres, ce mot s’adressait generalement au Gouvernement francais, dont l’incapacite l’avait mis, lui Barsac, dans un pareil petrin. Deja, il se voyait a la tribune de la Chambre. En attendant, il preparait ses foudres, qu’il lancerait au retour, tel Jupiter, du haut de cet Olympe parlementaire.

Le docteur Chatonnay parlait peu lui aussi, mais, bien que fort inhabile a la chasse, il ne s’en rendait pas moins utile. Il cherchait les fruits comestibles, qu’il decouvrait assez souvent, et, soucieux avant tout de conserver au moins l’apparence de la gaiete, il ne manquait jamais de rire, avec son eternel bruit de vapeur fusante, au moindre mot que prononcait Amedee Florence.

— Dommage, docteur, lui disait ce dernier, que vous n’ayez que l’echappement des gaz. Vous n’auriez pas le moteur sur vous, par hasard? C’est ca qui ferait notre affaire!

Et l’excellent docteur de rire de nouveau, par principe.

M. Poncin parlait moins encore, puisqu’il n’ouvrait pas la bouche. Il ne chassait pas, ne pechait pas, et, d’ailleurs, ne se plaignait pas. Il ne faisait rien, M. Poncin, si ce n’est ecrire de temps a autre quelque mention sur son mysterieux carnet, ce dont Amedee Florence etait toujours fort intrigue.

Saint-Berain se comportait comme a l’ordinaire, ni plus gai, ni plus triste qu’au moment du depart. Peut-etre ignorait-il dans quelle situation il se trouvait, et etait-il distrait au point de ne pas savoir qu’il avait faim.

A en juger par les apparences, il eut semble que Jane Buxton supportait avec moins de philosophie les epreuves dont le sort l’accablait, et pourtant celles-ci etaient etrangeres a la tristesse grandissante que refletait son visage. N’ayant jamais espere que le voyage s’accomplirait sans effort, elle acceptait d’un coeur ferme les obstacles qu’elle rencontrait sur sa route. Amaigrie, affaiblie par les privations et par les souffrances de toute espece, son energie, du moins, demeurait intacte, et sa pensee restait tendue vers le but qu’elle s’etait fixe. Mais, a mesure qu’elle en approchait, son trouble, son angoisse augmentaient sans qu’elle put s’en defendre. Quelle reponse allait donner la sepulture de Koubo? Que lui apprendrait l’enquete qu’elle entamerait ensuite, en prenant comme centre de ses recherches les lieux ou son frere etait tombe? Apprendrait-elle quelque chose seulement, et ne lui faudrait-il pas revenir les mains vides? Ces questions se pressaient dans son esprit, chaque jour plus imperieuses et plus absorbantes.

Amedee Florence n’etait pas sans avoir remarque la tristesse de Jane Buxton, et il la combattait de tout son pouvoir. En fait, il etait l’ame de ce petit monde, et les pires epreuves n’avaient aucune influence sur sa persistante gaiete. A l’entendre, on devait remercier le Ciel pour sa paternelle bienveillance, aucun autre genre de vie ne pouvant etre aussi rigoureusement conforme a une hygiene bien comprise. Quoi qu’il arrivat, il s’en applaudissait. Avait-on soif? Rien de plus favorable a sa dilatation d’estomac commencante. Avait-on faim? Rien de meilleur pour combattre l’arthritisme qui le guettait. Etait-on extenue de fatigue? On n’en dormirait que mieux, d’apres lui. Et il en appelait au docteur Chatonnay, qui approuvait, en admirant le courage et l’energie du brave garcon.

Le merite d’Amedee Florence etait d’autant plus grand qu’il eprouvait, en fait, outre les soucis communs a tous, une inquietude supplementaire que ses compagnons ne soupconnaient meme pas. Cela remontait au 12 mars, c’est-a-dire au jour ou, pour la premiere fois, on avait traverse un village dont le sac paraissait dater de la veille. Depuis ce jour, Amedee Florence avait acquis l’intime conviction qu’on etait surveille, suivi, epie. Des espions guettaient dans la brousse, il en etait sur, escortant pas a pas la mission desemparee, assistant a son agonie, prets sans doute a annihiler l’effort de ces naufrages de la terre, au moment ou ceux-ci atteindraient enfin le salut. L’oeil et l’oreille constamment au guet, il avait recueilli des preuves nombreuses a l’appui de ses soupcons: pendant le jour, nouvelles traces de campement recent, detonations a peine perceptibles, galops de chevaux dans le lointain; pendant la nuit, chuchotements, glissements, et, parfois, passage d’une ombre incertaine quand l’obscurite etait profonde. De ses observations, de ses reflexions, de ses craintes, il s’etait abstenu de rien dire a ses compagnons, afin de ne pas augmenter leurs angoisses, et il avait recommande le silence a Tongane, dont les remarques etaient conformes aux siennes. Ils se contenteraient de faire tous deux une garde vigilante, jusqu’au moment ou le reporter estimerait utile de mettre ses amis dans la confidence.

Le voyage, complique par de telles difficultes, ne put evidemment s’accomplir dans les delais prevus. Ce fut seulement le soir du 23 mars qu’on fit halte pour la derniere fois avant d’arriver a Koubo. Sept a huit kilometres en separaient encore les voyageurs extenues, mais, a moins de deux mille metres, on devait trouver, d’apres Tongane, la tombe ou reposaient les restes du capitaine George Buxton. Le lendemain, des l’aurore, on se remettrait en route. Quittant le chemin trace, on irait d’abord jusqu’aux lieux ou la troupe revoltee avait ete aneantie, puis on se dirigerait vers le village. S’il etait en meilleur etat que les autres, on s’y ravitaillerait et l’on y prendrait un repos de plusieurs jours, pendant lesquels Jane Buxton poursuivrait son enquete. Dans le cas contraire, ou bien on obliquerait sur Gao, ou bien on se dirigerait sur Tombouctou ou sur Djenne, dans l’espoir de rencontrer vers le nord ou vers l’ouest des territoires moins ravages.

C’est a ce moment qu’Amedee Florence crut devoir mettre ses compagnons au courant des faits qui le preoccupaient. Pendant qu’on se reposait des fatigues du jour et que Malik faisait cuire le frugal repas sur un feu d’herbes, il leur fit part de ses remarques nocturnes et diurnes, desquelles il resultait qu’on ne pouvait tres probablement faire un pas sans qu’il fut connu d’ennemis invisibles mais toujours presents.

— J’irai plus loin, ajouta-t-il, et j’oserai pretendre que nos adversaires sont pour nous des relations deja anciennes, presque de vieux camarades. Je soutiendrai mordicus, jusqu’a preuve du contraire, qu’ils se composent exactement de vingt Noirs et de trois Blancs, et que l’un de ceux-ci ressemble comme un frere a notre elegant ami, le soi-disant lieutenant Lacour, si avantageusement connu de l’honorable societe ici presente.

— Sur quoi repose cette hypothese, monsieur Florence, demanda Barsac.

— Sur ceci, d’abord, que notre pretendue escorte a pu aisement connaitre nos intentions et nous preceder sur la route que nous devions suivre, afin d’y faire, contre nous, le joli travail que vous avez pu admirer, tandis qu’il serait difficile d’admettre la presence d’une autre troupe, qui se serait livree, tout en ignorant notre existence, aux memes distractions, dans un but qui serait alors inexplicable. Il y a encore autre chose. Les habitants des villages detruits et le vieux negre que le docteur a rafistole avant Kadou ont ete frappes de la meme maniere. Donc, les meurtriers etaient deja dans nos environs avant l’arrivee de la deuxieme escorte, de meme qu’ils y sont apres son depart.

— Peut-etre avez-vous raison, monsieur Florence, reconnut Barsac, mais vous ne nous apprenez pas grand-chose, apres tout. Personne de nous n’a jamais doute que la devastation de ce pays ne fut dirigee contre nous. Que cette devastation soit l’oeuvre du lieutenant Lacour ou de tout autre, que ces bandits soient autour de nous, au lieu de nous preceder comme nous le supposions, cela ne change rien a notre situation.

— Ce n’est pas mon avis, repliqua Amedee

Florence. C’est si peu mon avis, que je me suis decide a parler ce soir, apres avoir longtemps garde le silence pour ne pas accroitre inutilement vos craintes. Mais nous voici arrives au but, malgre tout. Demain, ou nous serons a Koubo, a l’abri, par consequent, ou bien nous aurons change de direction, et l’on cessera peut-etre de nous persecuter. Je souhaiterais, je l’avoue, tromper pour une fois la surveillance dont nous sommes l’objet, afin que personne ne sache ce que nous sommes venus faire ici.

— Pour quel motif? demanda Barsac.

— Je n’en sais trop rien, avoua Florence. C’est une idee que j’ai comme ca. Mais il me parait preferable, dans l’interet de miss Buxton, que le but de son voyage ne soit pas connu avant qu’elle ait pu mener a bien son enquete.

— Je suis d’accord avec M. Florence, approuva Jane Buxton. Qui sait si nos adversaires ne sont pas sur le point d’entamer plus franchement la lutte? Ce sera peut-etre demain qu’ils nous attaqueront, et peut-etre me feront-ils echouer au port. Je ne voudrais pourtant pas etre venue si loin sans atteindre mon but. C’est pourquoi je pense que M. Florence a raison de vouloir echapper aux espions qui nous entourent. Malheureusement, je n’en vois guere le moyen.

— Rien de plus facile au contraire, a mon sens, expliqua Amedee Florence. Il est incontestable que, jusqu’ici tout au moins, ceux qui nous en veulent ne se sont risques a aucune tentative directe. Ils se contentent de contrecarrer notre marche et de nous espionner, en se reservant, si l’idee de miss Buxton est juste, d’intervenir plus efficacement le jour ou notre entetement sera devenu superieur a leur patience. Il est donc probable que leur surveillance se relache quand ils sont certains que nous avons fait definitivement halte pour la nuit. La regularite de nos habitudes doit les rassurer, et ils ne mettent pas en doute, qu’ils nous retrouveront le matin la ou ils nous ont quittes le soir. Il n’y a aucune raison pour que leur garde soit plus vigilante aujourd’hui que les autres jours, a moins qu’ils ne se soient resolus a une attaque immediate. Encore, dans ce cas, serait-il plus opportun que jamais d’essayer de filer par la tangente. Mais, s’il n’en est pas ainsi, rien de plus simple que de partir tout a l’heure, en profitant de l’obscurite. Nous nous en irons successivement, en faisant le moins de bruit possible, tous dans la meme direction, apres etre convenus d’un rendez-vous general. Apres tout, ce n’est pas une armee innombrable que nous avons a nos trousses, et il faudrait une remarquable guigne pour que nous tombions juste sur le seduisant lieutenant Lacour.

Ce plan, chaudement approuve par Jane Buxton, fut adopte. On convint que, les uns apres les autres, on s’en irait dans l’Est, jusqu’a un fort bouquet d’arbres, distant d’un kilometre environ, qu’on avait apercu avant la tombee de la nuit. Ces arbres etaient maintenant invisibles, mais on savait dans quelle direction ils se trouvaient, et l’on pouvait les atteindre surement, en se guidant sur une etoile qui scintillait a l’horizon, au-dessous de gros nuages qui augmentaient encore l’obscurite. Tongane partirait le premier, puis Jane Buxton, puis Malik. Les autres Europeens viendraient ensuite a tour de role, Amedee Florence devant fermer la marche.

Le depart s’effectua sans incident. Deux heures plus tard, les six Europeens et les deux Noirs etaient reunis a la lisiere du bouquet d’arbres. On se hate de le traverser, de facon a placer cet impenetrable ecran entre les fugitifs et leurs ennemis. On s’avanca ensuite plus librement. La proximite du but rendait des forces aux moins valides. Personne ne sentait plus sa fatigue.

Apres une demi-heure de marche rapide, Tongane s’arreta. D’apres lui, on devait etre arrive a l’endroit meme ou la troupe revoltee de George Buxton avait ete exterminee; mais, dans cette nuit profonde, il ne pouvait indiquer avec exactitude le point precis qui interessait Jane Buxton. Il fallait attendre le jour.

On prit donc quelques heures de repos. Seule, Jane Buxton, incertaine de ce que la prochaine aube lui reservait, ne put trouver le sommeil. Plus pressantes que jamais, cent questions se posaient pour elle. Son malheureux frere etait-il reellement mort et en decouvrirait-elle une preuve que le temps n’eut pas detruite? Si une telle preuve existait, tendrait-elle a confirmer le crime, a demontrer l’innocence, ou la laisserait-elle dans la meme incertitude? Et demain, dans quel sens commencerait-elle l’enquete qu’elle avait resolue? Les derniers temoins du drame n’etaient-ils pas disperses, disparus, morts peut-etre a leur tour, ou bien serait-il possible de retrouver quelques-uns d’entre eux? Et si elle y parvenait, quelle serait la verite qui sortirait de leur bouche?

Un peu avant six heures, tout le monde fut debout. Tandis que le jour se levait, on attendit, etreint par une vive emotion, les yeux fixes sur Tongane, qui examinait les alentours et cherchait ses points de repere.

— La, dit enfin le negre en designant un arbre eloigne de trois a quatre cents metres, qui s’elevait solitairement dans la plaine.

En quelques instants, on fut au pied de cet arbre. Tongane continuant a se montrer tres affirmatif, on attaqua le sol au point qu’il designait, bien que rien n’indiquat qu’une tombe eut jamais existe a cet endroit. Febrilement, les couteaux fouillerent la terre, qu’on rejetait a pleines mains sur les bords du trou qui se creusait rapidement.

— Attention! s’ecria tout a coup le reporter… Voici des ossements…

Miss Buxton, tres emue, dut s’appuyer au bras du docteur.

Avec precaution, on acheva de deblayer la fosse. Un corps apparut, ou plutot un squelette merveilleusement conserve. Autour de ce qui avait ete les bras, subsistaient des lambeaux d’etoffe et les broderies d’or, insignes de son grade. Parmi les os du thorax, on decouvrit encore un portefeuille, presque entierement detruit par le temps. On l’ouvrit. Il ne contenait qu’un unique document: une lettre adressee a George Buxton par sa soeur.

Les larmes jaillirent des yeux de la jeune fille. Elle porta a ses levres le papier jauni, qui s’effrita entre ses doigts; puis, defaillante, elle s’approcha de la tombe.

— Docteur, je vous en prie, dit-elle a

Chatonnay d’une voix tremblante, ne pourriez-vous avoir la bonte d’examiner les restes de mon malheureux frere?

— A vos ordres, miss Buxton, repondit le docteur, trouble au point d’en oublier la faim qui lui tenaillait les entrailles.

Le docteur Chatonnay descendit dans la tombe et proceda, avec le soin et la methode d’un medecin legiste, a l’examen qui lui etait demande. Quand il l’eut termine, son visage etait grave et exprimait une intense emotion.

— Moi, Laurent Chatonnay, docteur en medecine de l’Universite de Paris, prononca-t-il, non sans une certaine solennite, au milieu d’un profond silence, je certifie ce qui suit: premierement, les ossements soumis a mon examen, et que miss Jane Buxton declare etre ceux de son frere George Buxton, ne portent la trace d’aucune blessure faite par une arme a feu; deuxiemement, l’homme de qui proviennent ces ossements a ete assassine; troisiemement, la mort a ete provoquee par un coup de poignard porte de haut en bas, qui a traverse l’omoplate gauche et atteint un des lobes superieurs du coeur; quatriemement, voici l’arme du crime, retiree par moi-meme de la gaine osseuse dans laquelle elle etait restee plantee.

— Assassine!… murmura Jane eperdue.

— Assassine, je l’affirme, repeta le docteur Chatonnay.

— Et par-derriere!…

— Par-derriere.

— George serait donc innocent!… s’ecrira Jane Buxton en eclatant en sanglots.

— L’innocence de votre frere est une question qui excede ma competence, miss Buxton, repondit doucement le docteur Chatonnay, et je ne saurais l’affirmer avec la meme rigueur que les faits materiels constates par moi, mais elle me parait, je dois vous le dire, infiniment probable. Il resulte, en effet, de mon examen, que votre frere n’est pas tombe les armes a la main, comme on l’avait cru jusqu’ici, mais qu’il a ete assassine par-derriere, avant, pendant ou apres le feu de salve que l’histoire a enregistre. A quel moment exact et par qui a-t-il ete frappe? Je l’ignore. Tout ce qu’on peut dire, c’est que le coup n’a pas ete porte par un des soldats reguliers, car l’arme qui a tue votre frere est un poignard et non une arme de guerre.

— Merci, docteur, dit Jane qui se remettait peu a peu. Tels qu’ils sont, les premiers resultats de mon voyage sont de nature a me donner confiance… Encore un mot, docteur. Seriez-vous dispose a attester par ecrit ce que vous avez vu aujourd’hui, et ces messieurs voudraient-ils avoir la bonte de servir de temoins?

Tous se mirent avec empressement a la disposition de Jane Buxton. Amedee Florence, sur une feuille que M. Poncin consentit a detacher de son carnet, redigea une relation des faits constates au cours de la matinee, et ce proces-verbal, signe par le docteur Chatonnay, puis par toutes les personnes presentes, fut remis a Jane Buxton avec l’arme trouvee dans la tombe de son frere.

Cette arme, la jeune fille fremit en la touchant. C’etait un poignard dont une epaisse couche de rouille, peut-etre melangee de sang, recouvrait la forte lame quadrangulaire aux faces moulurees par de profondes gouttieres. Sur le manche d’ebene, a demi ronge par l’humidite de la terre, on discernait encore la trace d’une inscription disparue.

— Voyez donc, messieurs, dit Jane en montrant ces lineaments presque invisibles, cette arme portait autrefois le nom du meurtrier.

— Dommage qu’il soit efface, soupira Amedee Florence, en examinant l’arme a son tour. Mais attendez donc… On lit encore quelque chose… un i et un l, je crois.

— C’est maigre, dit Barsac.

— Peut-etre n’en faut-il pas plus pour demasquer l’assassin, dit gravement Jane.

Sur son ordre, Tongane rejeta sur les restes de George Buxton la terre qu’on avait extraite et qui fut ensuite tassee avec soin; puis, laissant la tombe tragique a sa solitude, on se dirigea vers Koubo.

Mais, apres trois ou quatre kilometres, on dut s’arreter. La force manquait a Jane Buxton, dont les genoux flechissaient et qui dut s’etendre sur le sol.

— L’emotion, expliqua le docteur Chatonnay.

— Et la faim, ajouta avec juste raison Amedee Florence. Allons! vieux Saint-Berain, nous n’allons pas laisser mourir d’inanition votre niece, meme si elle est votre tante, quand le diable y serait! En chasse! et tachez de ne pas me prendre pour un gibier de choix!

Malheureusement, le gibier etait rare. La plus grande partie de la journee s’ecoula avant que les deux chasseurs eussent vu un animal quelconque au bout de leurs fusils. Ce fut seulement vers la fin du jour que le sort les favorisa. Par contre, le tableau n’avait jamais ete aussi brillant, deux outardes et une perdrix etant, coup sur coup, tombees sur leur plomb. Pour la premiere fois depuis longtemps, on put donc faire un repas abondant. En revanche, on dut renoncer a atteindre Koubo le soir meme, et se resoudre a passer une derniere nuit en plein air.

Epuises de fatigue, et d’ailleurs convaincus d’avoir depiste leurs adversaires, les voyageurs negligerent ce soir-la la garde qu’ils s’imposaient d’habitude. C’est pourquoi personne ne vit les phenomenes bizarres qui survinrent pendant la nuit. Vers l’ouest, de faibles lueurs scintillerent a plusieurs reprises dans la plaine. D’autres lumieres, puissantes celles-ci, leur repondaient dans l’est, a une grande hauteur, bien qu’il n’y eut aucune montagne dans cette contree remarquablement plate. Peu a peu ces faibles scintillements de l’ouest et les puissants eclats de l’est se rapprocherent les uns des autres, les premiers lentement, les seconds tres vite, tous deux convergeant vers le point occupe par les dormeurs.

Tout a coup, ceux-ci furent reveilles en sursaut par l’etrange ronflement qu’ils avaient deja entendu apres leur depart de Kankan, mais le ronflement etait aujourd’hui plus proche et infiniment plus intense. A peine avaient-ils ouvert les yeux, que des lumieres fulgurantes, emanant d’une dizaine de foyers de grande puissance tels que des projecteurs electriques, jaillissaient soudainement dans l’Est, a moins de cent metres d’eux. Ils cherchaient encore a se rendre compte de la nature du phenomene, quand des hommes, sortant des ombres du nord et du sud, entrerent dans le cone eclaire et bondirent sur les dormeurs etourdis, aveugles. En un instant, ceux-ci furent renverses.

Dans la nuit, une voix brutale demanda en francais:

— Y etes-vous, les garcons?

Puis, apres un silence:

— Le premier qui bouge, une balle dans la tete… Allons! en route, nous autres!

DEUXIEME PARTIE

CHAPITRE 1

Blackland

Presque au croisement du deuxieme degre de longitude ouest et du seizieme degre de latitude nord, c’est-a-dire un peu en aval du point le plus septentrional atteint par le Niger, la ville de Gao-Gao s’eleve sur la rive gauche de ce fleuve qui, dans cette partie de son cours, marque la limite sud-ouest du Sahara. Au-dela commence le Grand-Desert, qui se continue, dans le Nord, jusqu’au Maroc, l’Algerie et la Tripolitaine, dans l’Est, jusqu’a l’Egypte et la Nubie, dans le Sud, jusqu’aux possessions europeennes de l’Afrique centrale, dans l’Ouest jusqu’a l’ocean. Les oasis les plus voisines de Gao-Gao, l’Adrar, au nord, l’Air, a l’est, en sont encore separees, la premiere par quatre cents, la seconde par neuf cents kilometres de sable. Sur les cartes de geographie les plus exactes et les plus recentes, cette immense etendue de trois cent soixante mille kilometres carres n’est representee que par un espace entierement vierge. A l’epoque ou la mission commandee par le depute Barsac subissait les epreuves qui ont ete relatees dans la premiere partie de ce recit, personne ne l’avait traversee, personne n’y avait penetre. Elle etait completement inconnue.

A cette epoque, les plus etranges legendes couraient sur cette region inexploree parmi les riverains du Niger. Parfois, racontaient les indigenes, on voyait passer, s’enfuyant a tire-d’aile vers ces plaines arides ou en arrivant, d’immenses oiseaux noirs aux yeux de feu. D’autres fois, a les entendre, c’etait une horde de grands diables rouges, montes sur des chevaux fougueux dont les naseaux jetaient des flammes, qui sortaient tout a coup de la contree mysterieuse. Ces cavaliers fantastiques traversaient les bourgades au galop, tuant, massacrant ceux qui se trouvaient sur leur passage, puis repartaient dans le desert, emportant en travers de leurs selles des hommes, des femmes, des enfants, qui ne revenaient jamais.

Quels etaient les etres malfaisants qui detruisaient ainsi les villages, pillaient les cases, s’appropriaient les miserables richesses des pauvres negres, et disparaissaient en laissant derriere eux la ruine, le desespoir et la mort? Nul ne le savait. Nul n’avait meme cherche a le savoir. Qui eut ose suivre a la trace, en effet, des ennemis que l’imagination populaire douait d’un pouvoir surnaturel, et que beaucoup supposaient etre les feroces divinites du desert?

Tels etaient les bruits qui couraient, a cette epoque, le long du Niger, de l’Aribinda au Gourma, jusqu’a plus de cent cinquante kilometres de sa rive droite.

Si, plus hardi que ces negres pusillanimes, quelqu’un s’etait aventure dans le desert, et si cet audacieux avait atteint, au prix d’un parcours de deux cent soixante kilometres, le point situe par un degre quarante minutes de longitude est et par quinze degres cinquante minutes de latitude nord, il aurait eu la recompense de son courage, car il aurait vu ce qui n’avait jamais ete vu, ni par les geographes, ni par les explorateurs, ni par les caravanes: une ville1.

Oui, une ville, une veritable ville, qui ne figurait sur aucune carte et dont personne ne soupconnait l’existence, bien que sa population totale ne fut pas inferieure, non compris les enfants, a six mille huit cent huit habitants.

Si l’hypothetique voyageur avait alors demande le nom de cette ville a l’un des habitants, et si celui-ci avait consenti a le renseigner, on lui aurait dit, peut-etre, en anglais: “Blackland is the name of this city”, mais il aurait pu aussi arriver qu’on lui repondit en italien: “Questa citta e Terra Nera”; en bambara: “Ni dougouba ntocko a be Bankou Fing”; en portugais: “Hista cidada e Terranegra”; en espagnol: “Esta ciudad es Tierranegra”, ou en n’importe quelle autre

1 Depuis le moment ou ces evenements se sont deroules, la region situee dans l’est de Gao-Gao a ete enfin reconnue. La suite du recit expliquera pour quelle raison il n’a ete trouve que peu de traces de la ville dont il est ici question. langue, toutes reponses qui eussent signifie en francais: “Le nom de cette ville est Terre-Noire”.

Rien d’impossible meme a ce que le renseignement eut ete donne en latin: “Ista urbs Terra nigra est”. C’est que le questionneur aurait eu affaire en ce cas a Josias Eberly, un ancien professeur qui, n’ayant pas trouve a Blackland l’emploi de son erudition, y avait ouvert boutique et s’etait transforme en apothicaire et en marchand de produits pour la teinture, ainsi que l’indiquait cette enseigne: Josias Eberly. Druggist. Products for dye.

Toutes les langues etaient parlees dans cette nouvelle Tour de Babel, dont la population, au moment ou la mission Barsac succombait pres de Koubo, se composait, outre cinq mille sept cent soixante-dix-huit negres et negresses, de mille trente Blancs, venus de tous les pays du monde, mais dont l’immense majorite avait ce trait commun d’etre des echappes de bagne et de prison, des aventuriers capables de tout excepte du bien, des declasses prets aux pires besognes.

Toutefois, de meme que les representants de la race anglaise predominaient dans cette foule heteroclite, de meme la langue anglaise avait le pas sur les autres. C’est en anglais qu’etaient rediges les proclamations du chef, les actes de l’etat civil, si tant est qu’il y eut un etat civil, et le journal officiel de la localite: The Blackland’s Thunder (Le Tonnerre de Blackland).

Tres curieux, ce journal, ainsi qu’on pourra juger par ces fragments, extraits de quelques-uns de ses numeros:

“Hier John Andrew a pendu le negre Koromoko, qui avait oublie de lui apporter sa pipe apres le lunch.”

“Demain soir, a six heures, depart pour Kourkoussou et Bidi de dix planeurs, avec dix Merry Fellows, sous le commandement du colonel Hiram Herbert. Razzia complete de ces deux villages que nous n’avons pas visites depuis trois ans. Retour dans la meme nuit.”

“Nous avons appris qu’une mission francaise, dirigee par un depute du nom de Barsac, doit prochainement partir de Conakry. Cette mission aurait, parait-il, l’intention d’atteindre le Niger, en passant par Sikasso et Ouagadougou. Nos precautions sont prises. Vingt hommes de la Garde noire et deux Merry Fellows vont incessamment se mettre en route. Le capitaine Edward Rufus les rejoindra en temps opportun. Edward Rufus, qui est, ainsi qu’on le sait, un deserteur de l’infanterie coloniale, jouera, sous le nom de Lacour, le role d’un lieutenant francais, et profitera de sa parfaite connaissance des usages militaires de cette nation, pour arreter, d’une maniere ou d’une autre, ledit Barsac, qui, on peut en etre certain, n’arrivera pas jusqu’au Niger.”

“Hier, sur le Garden’s Bridge, a la suite d’une discussion, le conseiller Ehle Willis s’est vu dans la necessite de mettre du plomb dans la tete du Merry Fellow Constantin Bernard. Celui-ci est tombe dans la Red River, ou, emporte par le poids anormal de sa tete nouvellement plombee, il s’est noye. Le concours a ete aussitot ouvert, afin de pourvoir au remplacement du defunt. C’est Gilman Ely qui a remporte la timbale, avec dix-sept condamnations prononcees par les tribunaux francais, anglais et allemands, et atteignant le total de vingt-neuf annees de prison et de trente-cinq annees de bagne. Gilman Ely passe donc du Civil Body aux Merry Fellows. Nos meilleurs souhaits l’y accompagnent.”

Ainsi qu’on l’a sans doute remarque, Josias Eberly, John Andrew, Hiram Herbert, Edward Rufus, Ehle Willis, Constantin Bernard, Gilman Ely n’etaient designes que par l’association de deux prenoms. Cette pratique etait d’un usage general a Blackland, ou tout nouvel arrivant subissait un second bapteme et perdait son nom patronymique, que personne, sauf le chef, ne connaissait. Seul de tous les habitants de race blanche, si l’on en excepte une fraction particuliere de la population dont il sera bientot question, ce chef etait designe a la maniere ordinaire, et encore son nom devait-il etre plutot un sobriquet terrible et sinistre. On l’appelait Harry Killer, c’est-a-dire, d’apres le sens litteral, Harry l’Assassin, Harry le Tueur.

Une dizaine d’annees avant l’enlevement des debris de la mission Barsac, par lequel s’est terminee la premiere partie de ce recit, Harry

Killer, venant nul ne savait d’ou, avec quelques individus de sa trempe, etait arrive a ce point du desert ou devait s’elever Blackland, il y avait plante sa tente, et avait dit: “La sera la ville.” Et Blackland etait sortie du sable comme par enchantement.

C’etait une ville tres singuliere. Batie en terrain parfaitement plat, sur la rive droite de l’oued Tafasasset, riviere eternellement a sec jusqu’au jour ou la volonte d’Harry Killer l’avait remplie d’eau courante, elle affectait la forme d’un demi-cercle rigoureux et mesurait exactement douze cents metres du nord-est au sud-ouest, c’est-a-dire parallelement a cette riviere, et non moins exactement six cents metres du nord-ouest au sud-est. Sa superficie, qui atteignait, par consequent, cinquante-six hectares environ, etait divisee en trois sections tres inegales, que limitaient d’infranchissables murailles en pise demi-circulaires et concentriques, hautes de dix metres et d’une epaisseur presque egale a la base.

En bordure immediate de la riviere, dont le nom primitif avait ete change par Harry Killer en celui de Red River, la riviere rouge, la premiere section avait ete tracee avec un rayon de deux cent cinquante metres. Un boulevard large de cent metres, enleve aux deux pointes de la deuxieme section, et suivant la berge de la riviere jusqu’a ce qu’il rencontrat la troisieme, augmentait notablement sa surface, dont le total approchait de dix-sept hectares.

C’est dans la premiere section qu’habitait l’aristocratie de Blackland, ceux qu’on designait, par antiphrase, sous le nom de Merry Fellows1. A l’exception de quelques-uns d’entre eux appeles a des destinees plus hautes, les compagnons d’Harry Killer, au moment ou il s’etait resolu a fonder une ville en ce lieu, avaient ete l’embryon de ce corps des Merry Fellows. Autour de ce premier noyau etaient venus bientot se grouper une foule de bandits, echappes des prisons et des bagnes, que Killer avait attires, en leur promettant la satisfaction sans limites de leurs

1 Les Joyeux Garcons. detestables instincts. En peu de temps, les Merry Fellows avaient ainsi atteint le nombre de cinq cent soixante-six, qui, sous aucun pretexte, ne devait etre depasse.

Les fonctions des Merry Fellows etaient multiples. Organises d’une facon militaire, puisqu’ils comprenaient un colonel, cinq capitaines, dix lieutenants et cinquante sergents, commandant respectivement a cinq cents, cent, cinquante et dix hommes, ils constituaient en premier lieu l’armee de Blackland et faisaient la guerre. Guerre sans grand merite, au surplus, guerre de rapines, qui consistait uniquement a piller de miserables villages et a massacrer ceux de leurs habitants qu’on n’emmenait pas en esclavage. Les Merry Fellows exercaient, en outre, la police de la ville, et dirigeaient, a coups de matraque, quand ce n’etait pas a coups de revolver, les esclaves charges de toutes les besognes sans exception, et notamment des travaux agricoles. Mais, par-dessus tout, ils formaient la garde du chef, et en executaient aveuglement les volontes.

La troisieme section, la plus eloignee du centre, ne comportait qu’un espace semi-circulaire, long de seize cents metres, large de cinquante, dont les deux extremites aboutissaient en meme temps a la premiere et a la Red River, et qui suivait le pourtour de la ville, entre la muraille qui la ceinturait exterieurement et celle limitant la deuxieme section, ou les esclaves etaient parques.

Dans cette troisieme section habitaient, sous l’appellation commune de Civil Body1, les Blancs qui n’avaient pu entrer dans la premiere. En attendant qu’une place devint libre dans celle-ci, ce qui n’etait jamais tres long, les moeurs brutales pratiquees a Blackland y rendant les deces tres frequents, ils faisaient un stage dans le Civil Body, qui pouvait etre considere, par consequent, comme un purgatoire, dont le corps des Merry Fellows eut ete le paradis. Pour vivre jusqu’a ce moment, les Merry Fellows seuls etant entretenus par le chef sur le produit des affaires communes,

1 Corps civil, corporation civile. ils se livraient au negoce. Leur section etait donc le quartier commercant de la ville, et c’est la que les Merry Fellows trouvaient contre argent une infinite de produits jusqu’aux plus luxueux, que le marchand avait achetes au chef supreme, lequel se les etait procures soit par le pillage, soit, quand il s’agissait d’objets de provenance europeenne, par des moyens qui n’etaient connus que de lui et de son entourage immediat.

Au moment ou il est, pour la premiere fois, parle de Blackland dans ce recit, cette troisieme section comptait deux cent quatre-vingt-six habitants, dont quarante-cinq femmes blanches, lesquelles ne valaient pas plus cher que leurs concitoyens males de meme couleur.

Entre la premiere et la troisieme section, la deuxieme, dont la superficie depassait trente et un hectares et demi, occupait tout le reste de la ville. C’etait le quartier des esclaves, dont le nombre s’elevait alors a cinq mille sept cent soixante-dix-huit, dont quatre mille cent quatre-vingt-seize hommes et mille cinq cent quatre-vingt-deux femmes. C’est la qu’ils habitaient, a tres peu d’exceptions pres. La etaient leurs cases. La s’ecoulait leur triste vie.

Chaque matin, les quatre portes percees dans la muraille de cet enfer s’ouvraient, et, sous la conduite de Merry Fellows armes de matraques et de revolvers, ceux des negres qui n’etaient pas occupes aux soins de la ville allaient, par brigades, se livrer aux travaux agricoles. Le soir, le lamentable troupeau revenait de la meme maniere, et les lourdes portes se refermaient jusqu’au lendemain. Nulle issue sur l’exterieur. D’un cote, les Merry Fellows, de l’autre le Civil Body. De toutes parts, des etres aussi sanguinaires et aussi feroces.

Beaucoup de ces miserables mouraient, soit en raison des privations qu’ils enduraient, soit sous les coups de leurs gardiens trop souvent transformes en meurtriers. C’etait un petit malheur. Une razzia avait tot fait de combler les vides et de remplacer par d’autres martyrs ceux que la mort avait delivres.

Mais les quartiers de la rive droite, qui viennent d’etre succinctement decrits, ne constituaient pas toute la ville de Blackland. Sur la rive gauche de la Red River, ou le sol, se relevant brusquement, formait un monticule d’une quinzaine de metres de hauteur, la muraille d’enceinte se continuait, en effet, et delimitait un rectangle, long de douze cents metres suivant la riviere, et large de trois cents dans l’autre sens. Cette seconde ville, a peine moins grande que la premiere, puisque sa superficie atteignait trente-six hectares, se divisait elle-meme en deux parties egales, que separait une haute muraille transversale.

De l’une de ces moities, situee sur la pente nord-est de la butte, on avait fait le Fortress’s Garden, jardin public, qui, a son extremite septentrionale, communiquait de plain-pied par un pont, le Garden’s Bridge1, avec les sections des Merry Fellows et du Civil Body. L’autre moitie, placee au sommet du monticule, contenait les organes vitaux de la cite.

Dans l’angle nord, contigue au Jardin public,

1 Pont du Jardin. s’elevait une vaste construction quadrangulaire, entouree de murailles a redans, dont la facade nord-ouest tombait a pic dans la Red River d’une hauteur de trente metres environ, le Palais, ainsi qu’on l’appelait communement, ou Harry Killer et neuf de ses compagnons du debut, promus au rang de conseillers, avaient elu domicile. Singuliers conseillers, que ces complices les plus habituels des crimes de leur chef. Singuliers conseillers, dont la principale fonction etait d’assurer l’execution immediate des ordres d’un maitre inaccessible et presque toujours invisible, et de ses arrets sans appel.

Un second pont, qu’une grille solide barrait pendant la nuit, le Castle’s Bridge1, reliait le siege du gouvernement a la rive droite.

Au Palais etaient annexees deux casernes, l’une affectee a douze esclaves faisant fonction de domestiques et a cinquante negres, choisis parmi ceux dont les instincts naturels avaient ete reconnus les plus feroces, qui constituaient la

1 Pont du Chateau.

Garde noire, l’autre a quarante Blancs selectionnes de la meme maniere, auxquels etait confiee la conduite d’un egal nombre de machines volantes, qu’on designait, a Blackland, sous le nom de planeurs.

Admirable invention d’un cerveau de genie, ces planeurs etaient de prodigieux engins, capables, grace a des procedes sur lesquels quelques lumieres seront bientot donnees, de parcourir sans ravitaillement jusqu’a cinq mille kilometres a la moyenne de quatre cents kilometres a l’heure. Le don d’ubiquite que les pirates de Blackland semblaient posseder, ils le devaient a ces planeurs, qui leur permettaient de disparaitre sitot le crime accompli, et le pouvoir despotique d’Harry Killer reposait principalement sur eux.

C’est par la terreur, en effet, que celui-ci gouvernait l’empire inconnu dont Blackland etait la capitale, et c’est par la terreur qu’il avait etabli et maintenait son autorite. Toutefois, l’autocrate n’avait pas laisse de prevoir la revolte de ses sujets blancs ou noirs. Prudemment, il avait place le palais de telle sorte qu’il dominat et tint perpetuellement sous la menace de ses canons ville, jardin, casernes. Toute revolte aurait donc ete le signal d’un massacre, sans meme que les revoltes eussent pu recourir a la fuite. Outre que le desert formait a lui seul une infranchissable barriere, on verra bientot qu’une fois entre dans ce repaire, il fallait renoncer a tout espoir d’en sortir.

Pour le surplus, Blackland etait une ville parfaitement propre, bien tenue et pourvue de toutes les commodites possibles. Pas un logement des Merry Fellows ou du Civil Body qui ne possedat le telephone. Pas une rue, pas une maison, pas meme une case du quartier des esclaves qui ne jouit de l’eau sous pression et ne fut eclairee a l’electricite.

Aux alentours de la cite, fondee dix ans plus tot en plein desert, le prodige etait plus grand encore. Si l’ocean de sable l’entourait toujours, il ne commencait plus maintenant qu’a quelques kilometres de son enceinte. Aux abords immediats de la ville, sur une etendue si grande que l’horizon en cachait l’extremite, le desert avait fait place a des champs cultives selon les methodes les plus parfaites, et dans lesquels poussaient, avec un succes croissant d’annee en annee, tous les vegetaux d’Afrique et d’Europe.

Telle etait, dans son ensemble, l’oeuvre d’Harry Killer, oeuvre qui eut ete admirable si elle n’avait eu le crime pour base et pour objet. Mais comment l’avait-il realisee? Comment avait-il transforme en campagne fertile ces plaines arides et dessechees? L’eau est l’element indispensable a toute vie animale ou vegetale. Pour que l’homme et les animaux subsistent, pour que la terre produise, il faut de l’eau. Comment Harry Killer en avait-il dote cette region ou, jadis, des annees entieres s’ecoulaient sans qu’il tombat une goutte de pluie? Etait-il donc doue d’un pouvoir magique, pour avoir realise, a lui seul, ces miracles?

Non, Harry Killer ne possedait aucune puissance surnaturelle, et, abandonne a ses propres forces, il eut ete assurement incapable d’accomplir de telles merveilles. Mais Harry

Killer n’etait pas seul. Le Palais, ou il demeurait avec ceux qu’il nommait effrontement ses conseillers, les casernes de la Garde noire et les remises des planeurs n’occupaient ensemble qu’une infime partie de la derniere section de Blackland. Au milieu du vaste espace demeure libre, il existait d’autres constructions, une autre ville plutot, incluse dans la premiere, dont les divers batiments, les cours et les jardins interieurs couvraient a eux seuls neuf hectares. En face du Palais se dressait l’Usine.

L’Usine etait une cite autonome, independante, a laquelle le chef prodiguait l’argent, qu’il respectait, que, sans se l’avouer, il redoutait meme un peu. S’il avait concu la ville, c’est l’Usine qui l’avait creee, qui l’avait dotee de tous les perfectionnements modernes, et, en outre, d’inventions extraordinaires que l’Europe ne devait connaitre que plusieurs annees apres Blackland.

L’Usine avait une ame et un corps. L’ame, c’etait son directeur. Le corps, c’etait une centaine d’ouvriers appartenant a differentes nationalites, mais surtout a la France et a l’Angleterre, ou ils avaient ete choisis parmi les meilleurs dans leurs professions respectives, et d’ou ils avaient ete amenes sur un pont d’or. Chacun d’eux avait des appointements de ministre, en echange desquels il devait subir la regle inflexible de Blackland.

A peu pres tous les corps de metier figuraient parmi ces ouvriers, dont les ajusteurs mecaniciens formaient toutefois la majorite. Quelques-uns d’entre eux etaient maries, et, a cette date de l’histoire de Blackland, l’Usine contenait vingt-sept femmes, plus un petit nombre d’enfants.

Cette population d’honnetes travailleurs, qui contrastaient si etrangement avec les autres habitants de la ville, logeaient tous dans l’Usine, d’ou il leur etait rigoureusement interdit de jamais sortir. L’eussent-ils voulu, qu’ils ne l’auraient pas pu, une surveillance severe etant exercee nuit et jour par la Garde noire et par les Merry Fellows. Au surplus, on les avait prevenus en les embauchant, et nul n’etait tente d’enfreindre la regle portee a sa connaissance au moment de son engagement. En echange des appointements tres eleves qui leur etaient offerts, ils devaient se considerer comme retranches du monde pendant le temps qu’ils passeraient a Blackland. Non seulement ils ne pourraient quitter l’Usine, mais ils ne pourraient non plus ecrire a personne, ni recevoir aucune lettre du dehors. Telles etaient les conditions posees au moment de l’engagement. Nombreux etaient ceux que leur rigueur faisait reculer. Quelques-uns se laissaient pourtant tenter de temps a autre par l’elevation du salaire offert. Qu’a-t-on a perdre, en somme, lorsqu’on est pauvre, et lorsqu’il faut lutter pour le pain? Courir la chance de s’enrichir valait bien le desagrement de s’en aller dans l’inconnu, et, apres tout, se disaient-ils, on ne risquait, au maximum, que la vie dans l’aventure.

Le contrat conclu, il etait aussitot execute. L’homme embauche prenait passage sur un bateau qu’on lui indiquait, et qui le conduisait a l’une des iles Bissagos, archipel situe pres de la cote de la Guinee portugaise, ou il debarquait. La, il devait consentir a ce qu’on lui bandat les yeux, et un des planeurs, pour lesquels un abri etait amenage sur un point desert des rivages de l’archipel l’emportait en moins de six heures a Blackland, distant de deux mille deux cents kilometres a vol d’oiseau. Le planeur descendait dans l’esplanade separant le Palais de l’Usine, et l’ouvrier, debarrasse de son bandeau, entrait dans cette derniere, pour n’en plus sortir, jusqu’au jour ou il lui conviendrait de resilier son engagement et de retourner dans son pays.

Sur ce point, le contrat reservait, en effet, la liberte de l’ouvrier embauche. S’il etait prisonnier, tant qu’il demeurait a Blackland, il lui etait loisible a toute epoque de quitter la ville pour toujours. Ce cas echeant, de cette meme esplanade ou l’avait depose le planeur, un autre planeur l’emporterait vers les iles Bissagos, ou il trouverait un steamer pour le ramener en Europe. Telle etait du moins l’assurance donnee aux ouvriers desireux de partir. Mais ce qu’ignoraient leurs camarades restes a l’Usine, c’est que les hommes ainsi partis n’etaient jamais arrives a destination, que leurs os blanchissaient en quelque point du desert et que les salaires qu’ils emportaient avaient ete invariablement repris par celui qui les avait distribues. Ainsi la caisse de ce dernier ne s’appauvrissait-elle pas, ainsi etait gardee secrete l’existence de Blackland, ainsi l’empire d’Harry Killer demeurait inconnu.

Au surplus, ces departs etaient rares. Dans l’impossibilite de connaitre, de soupconner meme quel genre de vie menaient les habitants d’une ville sur laquelle ils manquaient du renseignement le plus insignifiant, ces ouvriers ne demandaient qu’exceptionnellement a quitter leur petite cite particuliere. Ils y vivaient entre eux, neuf esclaves noirs des deux sexes, prisonniers comme eux-memes, aidant les femmes dans les soins domestiques, heureux, en somme, plus heureux, en tout cas, qu’ils ne l’avaient ete dans leur pays d’origine, tout a leurs travaux qui les passionnaient a ce point qu’ils les prolongeaient parfois spontanement fort avant dans la nuit.

Au-dessus d’eux, les ouvriers n’avaient qu’un chef, leur directeur, un Francais, du nom de Marcel Camaret, qu’ils n’etaient pas loin de considerer comme un dieu.

Marcel Camaret etait le seul habitant de l’Usine qui put librement en sortir et errer a son gre, soit dans les rues, soit aux environs de Blackland. Bien qu’il ne se fit pas faute d’user de cette liberte et de promener de tous cotes ses reveries, il ne faudrait pas en conclure qu’il fut mieux renseigne que le personnel place sous ses ordres sur les moeurs particulieres de cette ville, dont il ignorait jusqu’au nom.

Un des ouvriers lui ayant demande un jour ce renseignement, Camaret avait cherche un instant, de bonne foi, puis, au grand etonnement de son subordonne, il avait repondu avec hesitation:

— Ma foi… je ne sais trop…

Jamais, jusqu’alors, il n’avait pense a s’informer de ce detail. Il n’y pensa, d’ailleurs, pas davantage apres que la question lui eut ete posee.

C’etait un etre etrange que Marcel Camaret.

Il paraissait age d’une quarantaine d’annees. De taille moyenne, ses epaules etroites, sa poitrine plate, ses cheveux tenus et rares d’un blond fade lui donnaient une apparence delicate et frele. Ses gestes etaient mesures, son calme inalterable, et il parlait, avec une timidite d’enfant, d’une voix faible et douce, qui ne s’elevait jamais au ton de la colere, voire de l’impatience, dans aucune circonstance quelle qu’elle fut. Il tenait constamment un peu penchee sur l’epaule gauche sa tete trop lourde, et son visage, d’une paleur mate, aux traits fins et maladifs, n’avait qu’une beaute: deux admirables yeux bleus pleins de ciel et de reve.

Un observateur attentif eut decouvert encore autre chose dans ces yeux magnifiques. A de certains moments, une lueur vague et trouble y passait, et, parfois, leur expression avait, pour un instant, quelque chose d’egare. Qui eut surpris cette lueur n’eut pas manque de soutenir que Marcel Camaret etait fou, et peut-etre, apres tout, ce jugement n’eut-il pas ete tres loin de la verite. N’est-elle pas bien petite, en effet, la distance qui separe l’homme superieur du dement? Par quelque cote le genie ne touche-t-il pas a la folie?

En depit de sa timidite, de sa faiblesse physique et de sa douceur, Marcel Camaret etait doue d’une energie sans limites. Les plus grandes calamites, les dangers les plus imminents, les privations les plus cruelles le laissaient insensible. La raison en est qu’il les ignorait. Ses limpides yeux bleus ne regardaient qu’en dedans et ne voyaient rien des contingences exterieures. Il vivait hors du temps, dans un monde feerique tout peuple de chimeres. Il pensait. Il pensait fortement, il pensait uniquement et toujours. Marcel Camaret n’etait qu’une machine a penser, machine prodigieuse, inoffensive — et terrible.

Distrait a rendre des points a Saint-Berain, ou plutot “etranger” a tout ce qui constitue la vie materielle, il etait plus d’une fois tombe dans la Red river, en croyant s’engager sur un pont. Son domestique, auquel un facies simiesque avait valu le nom de Joko, ne pouvait arriver a le faire manger a des heures regulieres. Marcel Camaret mangeait quand il avait faim, et dormait quand il avait sommeil, aussi bien a midi qu’a minuit.

Dix ans plus tot, des circonstances qui ne tarderont pas a etre connues l’avaient place sur le chemin d’Harry Killer. A cette epoque, un surprenant engin, capable, d’apres son inventeur, de provoquer la pluie, etait une des chimeres de Camaret. Celui-ci ne se faisant pas faute de raconter ses reveries a qui voulait les entendre, Harry Killer avait connu cette invention, encore toute theorique, en meme temps que les autres auditeurs du reveur. Mais, alors que ces derniers ne faisaient que rire de pareilles folies, Harry Killer les avait prises au serieux, au point de baser sur elles le projet qu’il avait depuis realise.

Si Harry Killer etait un bandit, du moins etait-il un bandit de large envergure, et avait-il eu le merite de comprendre quel parti il pouvait tirer du genie meconnu de tous. Le hasard ayant mis Camaret a sa merci, il avait fait miroiter aux yeux du savant la realisation de ses reves, il l’avait entraine jusqu’a ce point du desert ou s’elevait maintenant Blackland, et avait dit: “Qu’ici tombe la pluie promise!” Et la pluie, docilement, s’etait mise a tomber.

Camaret, depuis lors, vivait dans une fievre perpetuelle. Toutes ses chimeres, il les avait materialisees successivement. Apres la machine a provoquer la pluie, son cerveau avait produit cent autres inventions dont Harry Killer avait beneficie, sans que leur auteur s’inquietat jamais de l’usage qui en etait fait.

Certes, un inventeur ne saurait etre tenu pour responsable du mal dont il fut, pourtant, la cause indirecte. Il ne viendra a l’esprit de personne d’accuser, par exemple, celui qui a imagine le revolver, de tous les crimes commis a l’aide de cette arme qui n’aurait pas existe sans lui. Mais enfin, le createur de cet agent de meurtre n’ignorait pas qu’un pareil instrument pouvait et devait tuer, et c’est evidemment dans ce but qu’il l’a concu.

Rien de pareil chez Marcel Camaret. S’il avait eu jamais la fantaisie d’etudier un canon dont la portee fut plus grande et le projectile plus lourd qu’on ne l’avait fait jusqu’alors, il aurait calcule avec plaisir la forme de la piece, le poids et le profil de l’obus et la charge de poudre, sans voir dans cette etude autre chose qu’une curiosite balistique. On l’aurait grandement etonne en lui apprenant que son enfant pouvait, le cas echeant, faire preuve de quelque brutalite.

Harry Killer avait desire la pluie, et Camaret avait fait pleuvoir; Harry Killer avait desire des instruments agricoles, et Camaret avait cree des bineuses, semeuses, sarcleuses, faucheuses et batteuses mecaniques perfectionnees qui binaient, semaient, sarclaient, fauchaient et battaient sans moteur autonome; Harry Killer avait desire des machines volantes, et Camaret lui avait donne ces planeurs capables de franchir cinq mille kilometres a la vitesse d’un bolide.

Quant a l’usage que son compagnon pouvait faire de ces diverses inventions, l’idee n’etait pas venue a Marcel Camaret de se le demander. Etre de pure abstraction, il n’avait vu que les problemes en eux-memes, sans s’occuper, ni de leur application pratique ni de l’origine des moyens materiels mis a sa disposition pour les resoudre. Ainsi qu’il avait assiste sans s’en apercevoir a la naissance de Blackland et a la substitution progressive d’une campagne fertile au desert, ainsi il n’avait jamais eu la moindre velleite de savoir par quels procedes Harry Killer lui avait fourni les premiers instruments et les premieres machines avec lesquels l’Usine avait ensuite fabrique les autres.

Tout d’abord, Marcel Camaret avait demande, comme une chose toute simple, qu’une usine fut construite, et, aussitot, des negres, par centaines, l’avaient batie. Il avait ensuite demande telle et telle machine-outil, des dynamos et un moteur a vapeur, et, sinon aussitot, du moins quelques mois plus tard, les machines-outils, les dynamos et le moteur etaient arrives miraculeusement dans le desert. Il avait demande enfin des ouvriers, et, l’un suivant l’autre, les ouvriers etaient venus jusqu’au nombre fixe par lui-meme. Comment ces etonnantes merveilles s’etaient-elles accomplies? Marcel Camaret n’en avait cure. Il avait demande, il etait servi. Rien ne lui paraissait plus simple.

Et, pas davantage, il n’avait songe a evaluer l’importance des capitaux absorbes par la realisation de ses reves, et jamais il ne s’etait jamais pose cette question si naturelle: “D’ou vient l’argent?”

Les principaux traits de Blackland et de ses habitants ayant ete ainsi indiques, il est possible d’en recapituler en peu de mots les caracteristiques essentielles.

Sur la rive gauche de la Red River, le Palais, avec Harry Killer, ses neuf acolytes et les douze domestiques noirs. A proximite, les cinquante hommes de la Garde noire et les quarante conducteurs de planeurs dans leurs casernes respectives.

Sur la meme rive, en face du Palais, l’autre tete de la cite, l’Usine, son directeur, Marcel Camaret, “marchant, vivant dans un reve etoile”, le domestique Joko, les neuf autres serviteurs noirs et les cent ouvriers, dont vingt-sept maries, tous prisonniers dans cette cite autonome et sans aucune communication avec le reste de Blackland.

Sur la rive droite, les Merry Fellows, au nombre de cinq cent soixante-six, officiers compris, tous gens de sac et de corde, les deux cent quarante et un Blancs et les quarante-cinq femmes blanches de meme acabit formant le Civil Body, et enfin le vaste quartier central des Noirs, ou vivent, peinent et souffrent le surplus des esclaves, soit cinq mille sept cent six negres des deux sexes.

Tels sont les lieux ou vont se derouler les evenements que la seconde partie de ce recit se propose de raconter.

Au moment ou elle commence, tout etait comme a l’ordinaire a Blackland. Le personnel de l’Usine travaillait, un certain nombre des Merry Fellows surveillaient les negres employes aux travaux agricoles que necessitait l’approche de la saison des pluies, tandis que les autres se livraient, de meme que chaque jour, aux plus grossiers plaisirs, et le Civil Body s’occupait un peu vaguement de son negoce des plus restreints et des plus irreguliers.

Vers onze heures du matin environ, Harry Killer etait seul dans son appartement personnel. Il reflechissait profondement, et ses pensees ne devaient pas etre plaisantes, a en juger par l’expression de son visage.

La sonnerie du telephone retentit.

— J’ecoute! dit Harry Killer en s’emparant du recepteur.

— Ouest, dix-sept degres sud, dix planeurs en vue, lui annonca le telephone.

— Je monte, repondit Harry Killer, qui raccrocha l’appareil. En quelques minutes, il atteignit le faite du Palais, au-dessus duquel s’elevait une tour d’une dizaine de metres de hauteur, ou il monta egalement. Sur la plate-forme se trouvait le Merry Fellow qui l’avait averti:

— La, fit celui-ci, en montrant un point de l’espace.

De nouveau, il fouilla l’horizon de l’ouest. Puis, abaissant la longue-vue:

— Appelle les conseillers, Roderik, dit-il. Je descends.

Tandis que le Merry Fellow executait l’ordre recu en telephonant aux divers membres du Conseil, Harry Killer descendit rapidement jusqu’a l’esplanade menagee entre l’Usine et le Palais. Successivement les neuf conseillers vinrent l’y rejoindre. Les yeux leves vers le ciel, ils attendirent.

Leur attente fut breve. Les planeurs signales grossissaient a vue d’oeil. Quelques minutes plus tard, ils atterrissaient doucement sur l’esplanade.

Les yeux d’Harry Killer brillerent de plaisir. Si quatre des planeurs ne contenaient que leurs conducteurs respectifs, les six autres transportaient chacun deux passagers supplementaires: un homme de la Garde noire et un prisonnier etroitement garrotte, et dont une etoffe disposee en forme de sac emprisonnait le buste.

Les six prisonniers furent delivres de leurs entraves. Quand leurs yeux eblouis eurent repris l’habitude du grand jour, ils regarderent autour d’eux avec surprise. Ils se trouvaient sur une vaste place entouree de tous cotes par d’infranchissables murailles. A quelques pas, les appareils etranges qui les avaient transportes dans les airs. Devant eux, la masse enorme du Palais surmonte de sa tour, et trente negres de la Garde noire masses en un groupe compact. Plus pres, un autre groupe de dix hommes d’aspect peu rassurant. Derriere eux, a plus de cent metres, un mur long de deux cent cinquante metres sans porte ni fenetre, au-dessus duquel apparaissait une haute cheminee d’usine et un frele pylone metallique plus eleve encore, dont l’usage leur etait inconnu. Ou etaient-ils? Quelle etait cette forteresse que n’indiquait aucune des cartes de l’Afrique, dont, tous, ils avaient fait une etude attentive et patiente?

Tandis qu’ils se posaient ces questions, Harry Killer fit un signe, et, sur l’epaule de chaque prisonnier, une main brutale s’abattit. Bon gre, mal gre, il leur fallut marcher vers le Palais, dont la porte s’ouvrit devant eux et se referma derriere eux.

Jane Buxton, Saint-Berain, Barsac, Amedee Florence, le docteur Chatonnay et M. Poncin etaient definitivement au pouvoir d’Harry Killer, autocrate de Blackland, capitale inconnue d’un empire inconnu.

CHAPITRE 2

A tire-d’aile (Carnet de notes d’Amedee Florence.) 25 mars. — Voila pres de vingt-quatre heures que nous sommes a… Au fait, ou sommes-nous? On me dirait que c’est dans la lune, je n’en serais pas autrement surpris, etant donne le mode de locomotion dont nous venons de gouter les charmes. La verite est que je n’en ai aucune idee. Quoi qu’il en soit, je peux, sans crainte de me tromper, m’exprimer ainsi qu’il suit: Voila pres de vingt-quatre heures que nous sommes prisonniers, et c’est ce matin seulement, apres une nuit d’ailleurs excellente, que je me sens la force d’ajouter ces notes a mon carnet, qui commence a en contenir de raides, j’ose le dire.

En depit d’une lecon de voltige equestre qu’il nous a fallu prendre bon gre, mal gre, la sante generale serait satisfaisante, et nous serions tous a peu pres en forme, si Saint-Berain n’etait cloue au lit par un feroce lumbago, mieux que par la meilleure chaine d’acier. Le pauvre homme, aussi raide qu’un pieu, est incapable du moindre mouvement, et nous devons le faire manger comme un enfant. A cela, rien d’etonnant. L’etonnant, au contraire, c’est que nous puissions remuer encore, apres la petite chevauchee d’hier matin.

En ce qui me concerne, j’ai ete, toute la journee d’hier, brise, moulu, hors d’etat de rassembler deux idees. Aujourd’hui, ca va mieux, bien que pas tres fort encore. Essayons, cependant, de retrouver nos esprits, comme dit le camarade, qui, a en juger par ce pluriel, en avait sans doute plusieurs, le veinard, et de recapituler les evenements extraordinaires dont mes compagnons et moi avons ete les deplorables heros.

Donc, avant-hier, nous nous etions couches, rompus de fatigue, et nous dormions du sommeil du juste, quand, un peu avant l’aube, nous sommes reveilles par un bruit infernal. C’est ce meme ronflement qui m’a deja intrigue trois fois, mais aujourd’hui il est beaucoup plus intense. Nous n’ouvrons les yeux que pour les refermer aussitot, car nous sommes eblouis par des lumieres fulgurantes qui semblent projetees sur nous d’une certaine hauteur.

Nous ne sommes pas revenus de ce vacarme et de cette illumination egalement inexplicables, quand des hommes tombent sur nous a l’improviste. Nous sommes bouscules, renverses, ligotes, baillonnes et aveugles par une espece de sac, dans lequel on nous introduit jusqu’a la taille. Tout cela en moins de temps qu’il n’en faut pour l’ecrire. Il n’y a pas a dire, c’est de l’ouvrage bien faite.

En un tour de main, je suis ficele comme un saucisson. A mes chevilles, a mes genoux, a mes poignets, qu’on a soigneusement croises derriere le dos, des liens qui m’entrent dans la chair. C’est delicieux!

Tandis que je commence a apprecier cette agreable sensation, j’entends une voix, dans laquelle je reconnais immediatement l’organe enchanteur du lieutenant Lacour, prononcer ces mots d’un ton rude: — Y etes-vous, les garcons?

Puis, presque aussitot, sans laisser auxdits garcons — de charmants garcons, sans aucun doute — le temps de repondre, la meme voix reprend, d’un ton plus rude encore: — Le premier qui bouge, une balle dans la tete… Allons, en route, nous autres!

Nul besoin d’etre licencie es lettres pour comprendre que la seconde phrase est pour nous. Il en a de bonnes, l’ex-commandant de notre escorte! Bouger?… Il en parle a son aise. Non, je ne bougerai pas, et pour cause. Mais j’ecoute.

Precisement, quelqu’un repond au semillant lieutenant: — Wir konnen nicht hier heruntersteigen. Es sind zu viel Baume.

Bien que je n’entende goutte a ce jargon, je parie tout de suite avec moi-meme que c’est de l’allemand. M. Barsac, tres ferre sur cet idiome rocailleux, m’a dit depuis que j’avais gagne, et que cela signifie: “Nous ne pouvons pas descendre ici, il y a trop d’arbres.” C’est bien possible.

En tout cas, sur le moment, je n’y ai rien compris. Mais, ce qui m’a frappe, c’est que la phrase tudesque etait criee de loin, je dirai meme “d’en haut”, au milieu du vacarme qui continuait a sevir. A peine etait-elle terminee qu’une troisieme voix ajoute de la meme maniere, c’est-a-dire en hurlant: — It’s necessary to take away your prisoners until the end of the trees.

Bon! de l’anglais, maintenant. Verse dans la langue de Shakespeare, je traduis sur-le-champ: “Il faut emmener vos prisonniers jusqu’a la fin des arbres”, tandis que le presume lieutenant Lacour interroge: — Dans quelle direction?

— Towards Kourkoussou (vers Kourkoussou), crie le fils de la perfide Albion.

— A quelle distance? demande encore le lieutenant.

— Circa venti chilometri, vocifere une quatrieme voix.

Un latiniste de ma force n’a pas grand mal a deviner que ces trois mots sont italiens et signifient: “Environ vingt kilometres”. Suis-je donc au pays des polyglottes? Dans la Tour, ou, du moins, dans la brousse de Babel?

Quoi qu’il en soit, le lieutenant Lacour a repondu: “C’est bon, je partirai au jour”, et on ne s’est plus occupe de moi. Je reste ou je suis, a plat sur le dos, ficele, ne voyant rien, respirant a peine, dans la cagoule tres peu confortable dont on m’a affuble.

Sur la reponse du lieutenant, le bourdonnement a d’abord redouble d’intensite, pour diminuer ensuite et s’eteindre graduellement. En quelques minutes, il a cesse d’etre perceptible.

Quelle peut etre la cause de ce bruit etrange?

Bien entendu, mon baillon m’interdisant toute communication avec le reste du monde, c’est a moi seul que je pose cette question, et, naturellement, je n’y reponds pas.

Le temps s’ecoule. Une heure passe, davantage peut-etre, puis deux hommes me saisissent, l’un par les pieds, l’autre par les epaules, m’enlevent, me balancent un instant, et me jettent comme un sac de son en travers d’une selle dont le troussequin me meurtrit le dos, sur un cheval qui s’elance dans un galop furieux.

Je n’avais jamais pense, au sein de mes reves les plus fantasques, que je jouerais un jour les Mazeppa dans le centre de l’Afrique, et je vous prie de croire que la gloire de ce Cosaque ne m’avait jamais empeche de dormir.

Je me demandais si j’arriverais a m’en tirer comme lui, et si ma destinee etait de devenir hetman des Bambaras, quand une voix avinee, sortant d’une gorge qu’on devait rincer au petrole, me dit d’un ton a faire fremir: — Take care, old bloody toad! If you budge, this revolver shall hinder you to begin again.

Traduction: — Prenez garde, vieux sanglant crapaud! Si vous bougez, ce revolver vous empechera de recommencer.

Voila deux fois qu’on me fait la meme recommandation, toujours, d’ailleurs, avec une aussi exquise politesse. C’est du luxe.

Autour de moi, c’est un bruit de galops furieux, et j’entends parfois de sourds gemissements: mes compagnons, sans doute, qui doivent etre aussi mal en point que je le suis moi-meme. Car je suis fort mal, en verite! J’etouffe, et je suis terriblement congestionne. C’est a croire que ma tete va eclater, ma pauvre tete qui pend lamentablement sur le flanc droit du cheval, tandis que mes pieds battent la mesure sur son flanc gauche a chaque foulee.

Apres une heure environ de course folle, la cavalcade s’arrete brusquement. On me descend de cheval, ou plutot on me jette a terre comme un paquet de linge. Quelques instants se passent, puis assez vaguement, car je suis mort aux trois quarts, je percois des exclamations qui se croisent: — She is dead! (Elle est morte).

— No. Ell’e solamente svenuta. (Non. Elle est seulement evanouie.) — Detachez-la, commande en francais la voix que j’attribue au lieutenant Lacour, et detachez aussi le medecin.

Ce feminin… Miss Buxton serait-elle en danger?

Je sens qu’on me debarrasse du sac et du baillon qui m’empeche de voir et de respirer. Mes bourreaux s’imagineraient-ils, par hasard, que, sous ces peu recommandables articles de toilette, ils vont trouver le brave docteur Chatonnay? Oui, c’est bien pour cette raison qu’on s’occupe de ma modeste personne, car, des que l’erreur est reconnue: — Ce n’est pas celui-ci. A un autre, dit le chef, qui est bien le lieutenant Lacour, comme je le supposais.

Je le regarde, et je m’octroie interieurement les plus virulentes injures. Quand je pense que j’ai pu prendre ca pour un officier francais!… Certes, j’ai le droit de le dire a mon honneur, j’ai tout de suite soupconne le subterfuge, mais soupconne seulement, et je n’ai pas, sous son deguisement d’emprunt, demasque le bandit, qui s’est ainsi paye, comme on dit, notre tete, ce dont j’enrage. Ah! la canaille!… Si je le tenais!…

A ce moment, un homme s’approche de lui et l’interpelle. J’entends son veritable nom: capitaine Edward Rufus. Va pour capitaine. Il pourrait bien etre general qu’il n’en vaudrait pas plus cher.

Pendant qu’on lui parle, le capitaine Rufus a cesse de faire attention a moi. J’en profite pour respirer a pleins poumons. Il etait temps. Encore un peu et j’allais perir asphyxie. Cela doit se voir et il est probable que je suis violet, car le capitaine, ayant jete un coup d’oeil de mon cote, a donne un ordre que je n’ai pas entendu. Aussitot, on me fouille. On me prend mes armes, mon argent, mais on me laisse ce carnet. Les brutes ne se rendent pas compte de la valeur d’une copie signee Amedee Florence. A quels stupides voleurs ai-je affaire, juste ciel!

Ces anes bates me delient cependant bras et jambes, et je peux remuer. J’en profite sans tarder, tout en examinant les alentours.

Ce qui attire tout d’abord mes regards, ce sont dix… quoi?… dix… machines, dix… hum! choses… systemes… dix objets, enfin, car le diable m’emporte si je me doute de leur usage, qui ne ressemblent a rien que j’aie jamais vu. Figurez-vous une assez vaste plateforme reposant sur deux larges patins recourbes a l’une de leurs extremites. De la plateforme s’eleve un pylone en treillis metallique haut de quatre a cinq metres, qui porte, en son milieu, une grande helice a deux branches, et, a son sommet, deux… (Allons! voila que ca recommence. Impossible de trouver les mots convenables) deux… bras, deux… plans… non, je tiens le mot, car l’objet en question ressemble beaucoup a un heron colossal perche sur une patte, deux ailes, c’est bien cela, deux ailes en metal brillant, d’une envergure totale de six metres environ. Verification faite, il y a dix mecaniques conformes a cette description rangees en bataille l’une a cote de l’autre. A quoi cela peut-il bien servir?

Quand je suis rassasie de ce spectacle incomprehensible, je m’apercois que la societe qui m’entoure est assez nombreuse.

Il y a, d’abord, l’ex-lieutenant Lacour, recemment promu au grade de capitaine Rufus, les deux anciens sergents de notre seconde escorte, dont j’ignore la veritable dignite, leurs vingt tirailleurs noirs, dont je reconnais parfaitement la plupart, et enfin dix Blancs que je n’ai jamais vus, a figures plutot patibulaires. Si la societe est nombreuse, elle ne me parait pas tres choisie.

Au milieu de ces gens-la sont mes compagnons. Je les compte des yeux. Ils y sont tous. Miss Buxton est etendue sur le sol. Elle est livide. Le docteur Chatonnay et Malik, qui pleure a chaudes larmes, lui prodiguent leurs soins. Pres d’elle, j’apercois Saint-Berain, assis par terre, qui reprend peniblement sa respiration. Il est dans un etat pitoyable. Son crane denude est d’un rouge brique, et ses gros yeux semblent pres de jaillir de leurs orbites. Pauvre Saint-Berain!

M. Barsac et M. Poncin me paraissent en meilleure condition. Ils sont debout et font jouer leurs articulations. Pourquoi ne ferais-je pas comme eux?

Mais je ne vois nulle part Tongane. Ou peut-il etre? Aurait-il ete tue au cours de l’attaque que nous avons subie? Ce n’est que trop probable, et c’est peut-etre pour cela que Malik sanglote si fort. J’eprouve un chagrin reel a cette pensee, et je donne un souvenir attendri au brave et fidele Tongane.

Je me leve, et me dirige vers miss Buxton, sans que personne me dise rien. Mes jambes sont raides et je n’avance pas vite. Le capitaine Rufus me devance.

— Comment va Mlle Mornas? demande-t-il au docteur Chatonnay.

Au fait! c’est vrai, l’ex-lieutenant Lacour ne connait notre compagne que sous son nom d’emprunt.

— Mieux, dit le docteur. La voici qui rouvre les yeux.

— Pouvons-nous partir? interroge le soi-disant capitaine.

— Pas avant une heure, declare d’un ton ferme le docteur Chatonnay, et encore, si vous ne voulez pas nous tuer tous, je vous conseille d’adopter des moyens moins barbares que ceux employes jusqu’ici.

Le capitaine Rufus ne repond pas et s’eloigne. Je m’approche a mon tour, et constate que miss Buxton revient a elle, en effet. Bientot, elle peut se redresser, et le docteur Chatonnay, qui etait agenouille aupres d’elle, se releve. A ce moment, M. Barsac et M. Poncin viennent nous rejoindre. Nous sommes au complet.

— Mes amis, pardonnez-moi! nous dit tout a coup miss Buxton, tandis que de grosses larmes s’echappent de ses yeux. C’est moi qui vous ai entraines dans cette effroyable aventure. Sans moi, vous seriez en surete maintenant…

Nous protestons, comme bien on pense, mais miss Buxton continue a s’accuser et a nous demander pardon. Moi, qui n’ai pas la fibre de l’attendrissement tres developpee, j’estime que ce sont la des paroles inutiles, et je crois opportun de faire devier la conversation.

Puisque miss Buxton n’est connue que sous le nom de Mornas, je suggere qu’il serait meilleur de lui laisser son pseudonyme. Est-il impossible, en effet, qu’il y ait des anciens subordonnes de son frere parmi les gredins qui nous entourent? A quoi bon, dans ce cas, risquer de courir un danger supplementaire, quel qu’il soit? On approuve a l’unanimite. Il est convenu que miss Buxton redevient Mlle Mornas, comme devant.

Il etait temps d’arriver a cette conclusion, car notre conversation est brusquement interrompue. Sur un ordre bref du capitaine Rufus, on s’empare brutalement de nous. Trois hommes s’occupent specialement de ma modeste personne. Je suis ficele de neuf et l’abominable sac me separe de nouveau du monde exterieur. Avant d’etre tout a fait aveugle, je constate que mes compagnons, y compris miss Buxton — pardon! Mlle Mornas — subissent le meme traitement. Puis, comme tout a l’heure, on m’emporte… Vais-je donc recommencer la petite partie d’equitation a la maniere de Mazeppa?

Non. On me depose a plat ventre sur une surface dure, mais plane, qui ne rappelle en rien l’echine d’un cheval. Quelques minutes s’ecoulent, et j’entends comme un violent battement d’ailes, tandis que la surface qui me porte se met a osciller faiblement dans tous les sens. Cela dure un instant, puis, tout a coup, c’est assourdissant, le fameux bourdonnement, mais quintuple, decuple, centuple, et voici que le vent me frappe avec une violence extraordinaire qui s’accroit de seconde en seconde. En meme temps, j’eprouve une impression… comment dirai-je?… une impression d’ascenseur, ou, plus exactement, de montagnes russes, quand le chariot monte et descend leurs collines artificielles, quand on a la respiration coupee, le coeur etreint d’une angoisse invincible… Oui, c’est bien cela, c’est quelque chose de ce genre que j’eprouve.

Cette sensation persiste cinq minutes peut-etre, puis mon organisme retrouve peu a peu son equilibre habituel. Alors, l’avouerai-je, la tete enfouie dans ce maudit sac, prive d’air et de lumiere, berce par ce ronronnement devenu regulier, je crois que je glisse sur la pente du sommeil…

Une surprise me reveille brusquement. Une de mes mains a bouge. Oui, mes liens mal rattaches se sont desserres, et, dans un effort inconscient, mes mains ont pu s’ecarter l’une de l’autre.

D’abord, je me contrains a l’immobilite, car je ne suis pas seul, ainsi que me l’apprennent des voix qui hurlent dans le bruit aupres de moi. Il y a deux personnes qui parlent. L’une s’exprime en anglais, d’une voix eraillee telle qu’en peut emettre un gosier brule par l’alcool. L’autre repond dans la meme langue, mais avec une grammaire de haute fantaisie, et melangee de mots incomprehensibles pour moi, que je devine appartenir au bambara, pour en avoir souvent entendu les consonances depuis quatre mois que je suis dans ce joyeux pays. L’un des deux interlocuteurs est un veritable Anglais, l’autre un negre. Je comprends de moins en moins. Peu importe, d’ailleurs. Que mes gardiens soient noirs ou blancs, il ne faut pas que le moindre mouvement du sac indique que j’ai reconquis partiellement ma liberte.

Lentement, prudemment, je tire sur mes liens qui glissent peu a peu autour de mes poignets. Lentement, prudemment, je parviens a ramener le long de mon corps mes deux mains enfin liberees.

Voila qui est fait. Maintenant, il s’agit de voir.

Le moyen de voir, je le possede. Dans ma poche, j’ai un couteau… non, pas un couteau, un canif, qui a echappe a mes voleurs, tellement il est petit, un minuscule canif, que je ne saurais transformer en arme defensive, mais tres suffisant pour ouvrir une petite fenetre dans ce sac qui m’aveugle, qui m’etouffe. Reste a m’emparer de ce canif sans attirer l’attention.

J’y reussis, au prix d’un quart d’heure de patients efforts.

Ainsi armee, ma dextre remonte jusqu’a la hauteur de mon visage, et transperce le sac…

Juste ciel!… Qu’ai-je vu?… C’est tout juste si j’ai pu arreter a temps un cri de surprise. Mes yeux, diriges vers le sol, apercoivent celui-ci a une distance enorme, plus de cinq cents metres a mon estime. La verite se revele a moi. Je suis sur une machine volante, qui m’emporte a travers les airs avec la vitesse d’un express, plus vite encore peut-etre.

A peine ouverts, mes yeux se sont refermes. Un frisson m’a parcouru des pieds a la tete. Sous le coup de la surprise, j’ai eu peur, je l’avoue.

Quand mon coeur a repris son rythme regulier, je regarde avec plus de calme. Sous mes yeux, le sol continue a fuir d’une maniere vertigineuse. A quelle vitesse allons-nous? Cent, deux cents kilometres a l’heure?… Davantage?… Quoi qu’il en soit, ce sol est celui du desert, c’est du sable, mele de cailloux, et parseme de touffes assez nombreuses de palmiers nains. Triste pays.

Et pourtant je me l’imaginais plus triste encore. Ces palmiers nains sont d’un vert intense, et, entre les cailloux, l’herbe est abondante. Contrairement a la legende, pleuvrait-il donc parfois dans le desert?

Par moments, je distingue, quand leur altitude est moindre que la mienne, des appareils semblables a celui qui me porte. Mon oreille me dit que d’autres sont a une hauteur plus grande. C’est une escadrille d’oiseaux mecaniques qui vogue a travers l’espace. Quelque grave que soit ma situation personnelle, je suis enthousiasme. Apres tout, le spectacle est admirable, et nos ennemis, quels qu’ils soient, ne sont pas des gens ordinaires, eux qui ont realise l’antique legende d’Icare avec une pareille maestria.

Mon champ visuel n’est pas tres grand, car ainsi que j’arrive a le constater, grace a un petit mouvement qui reste inapercu de mes gardiens, mon regard passe entre les lames d’une plateforme metallique, qui l’arretent de tous les cotes. En raison de la hauteur d’ou il tombe, il embrasse cependant une certaine etendue.

Or, voici que le pays change. Apres une heure de vol environ, voici que j’apercois tout a coup des palmiers, des prairies, quelques jardins. C’est une oasis, mais une oasis de proportions restreintes, car son diametre atteint au maximum cent cinquante metres, elle disparait aussitot apparue. Mais, a peine l’avons-nous laissee en arriere, qu’une autre surgit de l’horizon devant nous, puis, apres cette deuxieme, c’en est une troisieme, au-dessus de laquelle nous passons en trombe.

Chacune de ces oasis ne contient qu’une maisonnette. Un homme en sort, attire par le bruit de notre appareil aerien. Je n’en apercois pas d’autre. Ces ilots n’auraient-ils donc qu’un seul habitant?

Mais un nouveau probleme se pose, encore plus insoluble. Depuis la premiere oasis, notre machine volante domine une ligne de poteaux si regulierement espaces que je les imagine relies par un fil metallique. Je crois rever. Le telegraphe — a moins que ce ne soit le telephone — en plein desert?

Apres que nous avons depasse la troisieme oasis, une quatrieme, beaucoup plus importante, surgit devant nous. J’apercois des arbres, non seulement des palmiers, mais des essences variees, qui semblent etre des karites, des bombax, des baobabs, des acacias. Je vois aussi des champs cultives, merveilleusement cultives meme, ou de nombreux negres travaillent. Puis des murailles se levent a l’horizon, vers lesquelles nous nous precipitons.

C’est a cette cite inconnue que nous allons, car voici que notre oiseau feerique commence a descendre. Nous sommes bientot au-dessus d’elle. C’est une ville de mediocre grandeur, mais combien singuliere! Je distingue nettement ses rues demi-circulaires et concentriques, tracees suivant un plan rigoureux. La partie centrale est a peu pres deserte, et ne contient a cette heure de la journee qu’un petit nombre de negres qui se cachent dans leurs cases en entendant le ronronnement des machines volantes. Par contre, dans la peripherie, les habitants ne manquent pas. Ce sont des Blancs, qui nous regardent, et, Dieu me pardonne, paraissent nous montrer le poing. Je me demande en vain ce que nous leur avons fait.

Mais la machine qui me porte accentue sa descente. Nous franchissons une riviere etroite, puis, aussitot, j’ai l’impression que nous tombons comme une pierre. En realite, nous decrivons une spirale qui me donne la nausee. Le coeur me monte aux levres. Vais-je donc…?

Non, le bourdonnement de l’helice a cesse et notre machine a touche terre. Elle glisse sur le sol pendant quelques metres avec une vitesse decroissante, et s’arrete.

Une main tire le sac qui entoure ma tete et l’enleve. Je n’ai que le temps de rouler mes liens autour de mes mains, que je replace dans leur position primitive.

Le sac enleve, on libere mes membres. Mais celui qui me delivre s’apercoit de la fraude.

— Who is the damned dog’s son that has made this knot? (Quel est le damne fils de chien qui a fait ce noeud?) interroge une voix avinee.

Comme bien on pense, je n’ai garde de repondre. Apres mes mains, on delie mes jambes. Je les agite avec un certain plaisir.

— Get up! (Debout!) commande avec autorite quelqu’un que je ne vois pas.

Je ne demande pas mieux, mais obeir n’est pas tres aise. Depuis le temps que la circulation du sang est arretee dans mes membres, ceux-ci me refusent leur service. Apres quelques tentatives infructueuses, je parviens cependant a me lever et a jeter un premier coup d’oeil sur ce qui m’entoure.

Pas gai, le paysage. Devant moi, c’est une haute muraille sans la moindre ouverture, et, dans la direction opposee, le spectacle est rigoureusement identique. A ma gauche, c’est encore la meme chose. La perspective n’est pas variee, decidement! Toutefois, au-dessus de ce troisieme mur, qui regne a ma gauche, j’apercois une espece de tour et une haute cheminee. Serait-ce une usine? C’est possible, tout me parait possible, excepte de concevoir l’usage de cet interminable pylone qui s’eleve, s’eleve, a cent metres peut-etre au-dessus de la tour.

A ma droite, le point de vue est different, sans etre pour cela plus enchanteur. Je compte deux vastes batiments et, en avant, une construction enorme, une espece de forteresse avec redans et machicoulis.

Mes compagnons de captivite sont au complet, sauf Tongane, malheureusement, et sauf aussi Malik qui etait cependant presente a l’etape de ce matin. Qu’en a-t-on fait?

N’ayant pas eu, comme moi, l’avantage de jouir d’une fenetre ouvrant sur la campagne, mes amis semblent tres incommodes par la lumiere du jour. Ils ne doivent pas voir grand-chose, car leurs yeux papillotent, et ils les frottent energiquement.

Ils les frottent encore, quand une main s’abat sur l’epaule de chacun de nous. On nous entraine, on nous pousse, ahuris, desempares…

Que nous veut-on enfin, et ou diable pouvons-nous etre?…

Helas! Une minute plus tard, nous etions en prison.

CHAPTER VII.

ALL INTERESTS AT STAKE.

Meanwhile, Sarah was left alone, alone with her anguish and her grief! She was about to give up her whole life to a man whom she did not love! She leaned over the perfumed balcony of her chamber, which overlooked the interior gardens. Through the green jalousies, her ear listened to the sounds of the slumbering country. Her lace mantle, gliding over her arms, revealed a profusion of diamonds sparkling on her shoulders. Her sorrow, proud and majestic, appeared through all her ornaments, and she might have been taken for one of those beautiful Greek slaves, nobly draped in their antique garments.

Suddenly her glance rested on a man who was gliding silently among the avenues of the magnolia; she recognized him; it was Liberta, her servant. He seemed to be watching some invisible enemy, now sheltering himself behind a statue, now crouching on the ground.

Sarah was afraid, and looked around her. She was alone, entirely alone. Her eyes rested on the gardens, and she became pale, paler still! Before her was transpiring a terrible scene. Liberta was in the grasp of a man of tall stature, who had thrown him down; stifled sighs proved that a robust hand was pressing the lips of the Indian.

The young girl, summoning all her courage, was about to cry out, when she saw the two men rise! The negro was looking fixedly at his adversary.

“It is you, then! it is you!” exclaimed he.

And he followed this man in a strange stupefaction. They arrived beneath the balcony of Sarah. Suddenly, before she had time to utter a cry, Martin Paz appeared to her, like a phantom from another world; and, like the negro when overthrown by the Indian, the young girl, bending before the glance of Martin Paz, could in her turn only repeat these words, “It is you, then! it is you!”

The young Indian fixed on her his motionless eyes, and said: “Does the betrothed hear the sound of the festival? The guests are thronging into the saloons to see happiness radiate from her countenance! Is it then a victim, prepared for the sacrifice, who is about to present herself to their impatient eyes? Is it with these features, pale with sorrow, with eyes in which sparkle bitter tears, that the young girl is to appear herself before her betrothed?”

Martin Paz spoke thus, in a tone full of sympathizing sadness, and Sarah listened vaguely as to those harmonies which we hear in dreams!

The young Indian resumed with infinite sweetness: “Since the soul of the young girl is in mourning, let her look beyond the house of her father, beyond the city where she suffers and weeps; beyond the mountains, the palm-trees lift up their heads in freedom, the birds strike the air with an independent wing; men have immensity to live in, and the young girls may unfold their spirits and their hearts!”

Sarah raised her head toward Martin Paz. The Indian had drawn himself up to his full height, and with his arm extended toward the summits of the Cordilleras, was pointing out to the young girl the path to liberty.

Sarah felt herself constrained by an irresistible force. Already the sound of voices reached her; they approached her chamber; her father was undoubtedly about to enter; perhaps her lover would accompany him! The Indian suddenly extinguished the lamp suspended above his head. A whistling, similar to the cry of the cilguero, and reminding one of that heard on the Plaza-Mayor, pierced the silent darkness of night; the young girl swooned.

The door opened hastily; Samuel and Andre Certa entered. The darkness was profound; some servants ran with torches. The chamber was empty.

“Death and fury!” exclaimed the mestizo.

“Where is she?” asked Samuel.

“You are responsible for her,” said Andre, brutally.

At these words, the Jew felt a cold sweat freeze even his bones.

“Help! help!” he exclaimed.

And, followed by his domestics, he sprang out of the house.

Martin Paz fled rapidly through the streets of the city. The negro Liberta followed him; but did not appear disposed to dispute with him the possession of the young girl.

At two hundred paces from the dwelling of the Jew, Paz found some Indians of his companions, who had assembled at the whistle uttered by him.

“To our mountain ranchos!” exclaimed he.

“To the house of the Marquis Don Vegal!” said another voice behind him.

Martin Paz turned; the Spaniard was at his side.

“Will you not confide this young girl to me?” asked the marquis.

The Indian bent his head, and said in a low voice to his companions: “To the dwelling of the Marquis Don Vegal!”

They turned their steps in this direction.

An extreme confusion reigned then in the saloons of the Jew. The news of Sarah’s disappearance was a thunderbolt; the friends of Andre hastened to follow him. The faubourg of San Lazaro was explored, hastily searched; but nothing could be discovered. Samuel tore his hair in despair. During the whole night the most active research was useless.

“Martin Paz is living!” exclaimed Andre Certa, in a moment of fury.

And the presentiment quickly acquired confirmation. The police were immediately informed of the elopement; its most active agents bestirred themselves; the Indians were closely watched, and if the retreat of the young girl was not discovered, evident proofs of an approaching revolt came to light, which accorded with the denunciations of the Jew.

Andre Certa lavished gold freely, but could learn nothing. Meanwhile, the gate-keepers declared that they had seen no person leave Lima; the young girl must therefore be concealed in the city.

Liberta, who returned to his master, was often interrogated; but no person seemed more astonished than himself at the elopement of Sarah.

Meanwhile, one man besides Andre Certa had seen in the disappearance of the young Jewess, a proof of the existence of Martin Paz; it was the Sambo. He was wandering in the streets of Lima, when the cry uttered by the Indian fixed his attention; it was a signal of rally well known to him! The Sambo was therefore a spectator of the capture of the young girl, and followed her to the dwelling of the marquis.

The Spaniard entered by a secret door, of which he alone had the key; so that his domestics suspected nothing. Martin Paz carried the young girl in his arms and laid her on a bed.

When Don Vegal, who had returned to re-enter by the principal door, reached the chamber where Sarah was reposing, he found Martin Paz kneeling beside her. The marquis was about to reproach the Indian with his conduct, when the latter said to him: “You see, my father, whether I love you! Ah! why did you throw yourself in my way? We should have been already free in our mountains. But how, should I not have obeyed your words?”

Don Vegal knew not what to reply, his heart was seized with a powerful emotion. He felt how much he was beloved by Martin Paz.

“The day on which Sarah shall quit your dwelling to be restored to her father and her betrothed,” sighed the Indian, “you will have a son and a friend less in the world.”

As he said these last words, Paz moistened with his tears the hand of Don Vegal. They were the first tears this man had shed!

The reproaches of Don Vegal died away before this respectful submission. The young girl had become his guest; she was sacred! He could not help admiring Sarah, still in a swoon; he was prepared to love her, of whose conversion he had been a witness, and whom he would have been pleased to bestow as a companion upon the young Indian.

It was then that, on opening her eyes, Sarah found herself in the presence of a stranger.

“Where am I?” said she, with a sentiment of terror.

“With a generous man who has permitted me to call him my father,” replied Martin Paz, pointing to the Spaniard.

The young girl, restored by the voice of the Indian to a consciousness of her position, covered her face with her trembling hands, and began to sob.

“Withdraw, friend,” said Don Vegal to the young man; “withdraw.”

Martin Paz slowly left the room, not without having pressed the hand of the Spaniard, and cast on Sarah a lingering look.

Then Don Vegal bestowed upon this poor child consolations of exquisite delicacy; he conveyed in suitable language his sentiments of nobility and honor. Attentive and resigned, the young girl comprehended what danger she had escaped; and she confided her future happiness to the care of the Spaniard. But amid phrases interrupted by sighs and mingled with tears, Don Vegal perceived the intense attachment of this simple heart for him whom she called her deliverer. He induced Sarah to take some repose, and watched over her with the solicitude of a father.

Martin Paz comprehended the duties that honor required of him, and, in spite of perils and dangers, would not pass the night beneath the roof of Don Vegal.

He therefore went out; his head was burning, his blood was boiling with fever in his veins.

He had not gone a hundred paces in the street, when five or six men threw themselves upon him, and, notwithstanding his obstinate defense, succeeded in binding him. Martin Paz uttered a cry of despair, which was lost in the night. He believed himself in the power of his enemies, and gave a last thought to the young girl.

A short time afterward the Indian was deposited in a room. The bandage which had covered his eyes was taken off. He looked around him, and saw himself in the lower hall of that tavern where his brethren had organized their approaching revolt.

The Sambo, Manangani, and others, surrounded him. A gleam of indignation flashed from his eyes, which was reciprocated by his captors.

“My son had then no pity on my tears,” said the Sambo, “since he suffered me for so long a time to believe in his death?”

“Is it on the eve before a revolt that Martin Paz, our chief, should be found in the camp of our enemies?”

Martin Paz replied neither to his father, nor to Manangani.

“So our most important interests have been sacrificed to a woman!”

As he spoke thus, Manangani had approached Martin Paz; a poignard was gleaming in his hand. Martin Paz did not even look at him.

“Let us first speak,” said the Sambo; “we will act afterward. If my son fails to conduct his brethren to the combat, I shall know now on whom to avenge his treason. Let him take care! the daughter of the Jew Samuel is not so well concealed that she can escape our hatred. My son will reflect. Struck with a mortal condemnation, proscribed, wandering among our masters, he will not have a stone on which to rest his sorrows. If, on the contrary, we resume our ancient country and our ancient power, Martin Paz, the chief of numerous tribes, may bestow upon his betrothed both happiness and glory.”

Martin Paz remained silent; but a terrific conflict was going on within him. The Sambo had roused the most sensitive chords of his proud nature to vibrate; placed between a life of fatigues, of dangers, of despair, and an existence happy, honored, illustrious, he could not hesitate. But should he then abandon the Marquis Don Vegal, whose noble hopes destined him as the deliverer of Peru!

“Oh!” thought he, as he looked at his father, “they will kill Sarah, if I forsake them.”

“What does my son reply to us?” imperiously demanded the Sambo.

“That Martin Paz is indispensable to your projects; that he enjoys a supreme authority over the Indians of the city; that he leads them at his will, and, at a sign, could have them dragged to death. He must therefore resume his place in the revolt, in order to ensure victory.”

The bonds which still enchained him were detached by order of the Sambo; Martin Paz arose free among his brethren.

“My son,” said the Indian, who was observing him attentively, “to-morrow, during the fete of the Amancaes, our brethren will fall like an avalanche on the unarmed Limanians. There is the road to the Cordilleras, there is the road to the city; you will go wherever your good pleasure shall lead you. To-morrow! to-morrow! you will find more than one mestizo breast to break your poignard against. You are free.”

“To the mountains!” exclaimed Martin Paz, with a stern voice.

The Indian had again become an Indian amid the hatred which surrounded him.

“To the mountains,” repeated he, “and wo to our enemies, wo!”

And the rising sun illumined with its earliest rays the council of the Indian chiefs in the heart of the Cordilleras.

These rays were joyless to the heart of the poor young girl, who wept and prayed. The marquis had summoned Father Joachim; and the worthy man had there met his beloved penitent. What happiness was it for her to kneel at the feet of the old priest, and to pour out her anguish and her afflictions.

But Sarah could not longer remain in the dwelling of the Spaniard. Father Joachim suggested this to Don Vegal, who knew not what part to take, for he was a prey to extreme anxiety. What had become of Martin Paz? He had fled the house. Was he in the power of his enemies? Oh! how the Spaniard regretted having suffered him to leave it during that night of alarms! He sought him with the ardor, with the affection of a father; he found him not.

“My old friend,” said he to Joachim, “the young girl is in safety near you; do not leave her during this fatal night.”

“But her father, who seeks her — her betrothed, who awaits her?”

“One day — one single day! You know not whose existence is bound to that of this child. One day — one single day! at least until I find Martin Paz, he whom my heart and God have named my son!”

Father Joachim returned to the young girl; Don Vegal went out and traversed the streets of Lima.

The Spaniard was surprised at the noise, the commotion, the agitation of the city. It was that the great fete of the Amancaes, forgotten by him alone, the 24th of June, the day of St. John, had arrived. The neighboring mountains were covered with verdure and flowers; the inhabitants, on foot, on horseback, in carriages, were repairing to a celebrated table-land, situated at half a league from Lima, where the spectators enjoyed an admirable prospect; mestizoes and Indians mingled in the common fete; they walked gayly by groups of relatives or friends; each group, calling itself by the name of partida, carried its provisions, and was preceded by a player on the guitar, who chanted, accompanying himself, the most popular yaravis and llantos. These joyous promenaders advanced with cries, sports, endless jests, through the fields of maize and of alfalfa, through the groves of banana, whose fruits hung to the ground; they traversed those beautiful alamedas, planted with willows, and forests of citron, and orange-trees, whose intoxicating perfumes were mingled with the wild fragrance from the mountains. All along the road, traveling cabarets offered to the promenaders the brandy of pisco and the chica, whose copious libations excited to laughter and clamor; cavaliers made their horses caracole in the midst of the throng, and rivaled each other in swiftness, address, and dexterity; all the dances in vogue, from the loudon to the mismis, from the boleros to the zamacuecas, agitated and hurried on the caballeros and black-eyed sambas. The sounds of the viguela were soon no longer sufficient for the disordered movements of the dancers; the musicians uttered wild cries, which stimulated them to delirium; the spectators beat the measure with their feet and hands, and the exhausted couples sunk one after another to the ground.

There reigned in this fete, which derives its name from the little mountain-flowers, an inconceivable transport and freedom; and yet no private brawl mingled among the cries of public rejoicing; a few lancers on horseback, ornamented with their shining cuirasses, maintained here and there order among the populace.

The various classes of Limanian society mingled in these rejoicings, which are repeated every day throughout the month of July. Pretty tapadas laughingly elbow beautiful girls, who bravely come, with uncovered faces, to meet joyous cavaliers; and when at last this multitude arrive at the plateau of the Amancaes, an immense clamor of admiration is repeated by the mountain echoes.

At the feet of the spectators extends the ancient city of kings, proudly lifting toward heaven its towers and its steeples, whose bells are ringing joyous peals. San Pedro, Saint Augustine, the Cathedral, attract the eye to their roofs, resplendent with the rays of the sun. San Domingo, the rich church, the Madonna of which is never clad in the same garments two days in succession, raises above her neighbors her tapering spire; on the right, the vast plains of the Pacific Ocean are undulating to the breath of the occidental breeze, and the eye, as it roves from Callao to Lima, rests on those funereal chulpas, the last remains of the great dynasty of the Incas; at the horizon, Cape Morro-Solar frames, with its sloping hills, the wonderful splendors of this picture.

So the Limanians are never satisfied with these admirable prospects, and their noisy approbation deafens every year the echoes of San Cristoval and the Amancaes.

Now, while they fearlessly enjoyed these picturesque views, and were giving themselves up to an irresistible delight, a gloomy bloody funereal drama was preparing on the snowy summits of the Cordilleras.

CHAPTER XVI.

CONCLUSION.

Herming, mortally wounded, had been carried to a berth by Misonne and Turquiette, who had succeeded in getting free. He was already at the last gasp of death; and the two sailors occupied themselves with Nouquet, whose wound was not, happily, a serious one.

But a greater misfortune had overtaken Louis Cornbutte. His father no longer gave any signs of life. Had he died of anxiety for his son, delivered over to his enemies? Had he succumbed in presence of these terrible events? They could not tell. But the poor old sailor, broken by disease, had ceased to live!

At this unexpected blow, Louis and Marie fell into a sad despair; then they knelt at the bedside and wept, as they prayed for Jean Cornbutte’s soul, Penellan, Misonne, and Turquiette left them alone in the cabin, and went on deck. The bodies of the three bears were carried forward. Penellan decided to keep their skins, which would be of no little use; but he did not think for a moment of eating their flesh. Besides, the number of men to feed was now much decreased. The bodies of Vasling, Aupic, and Jocki, thrown into a hole dug on the coast, were soon rejoined by that of Herming. The Norwegian died during the night, without repentance or remorse, foaming at the mouth with rage.

The three sailors repaired the tent, which, torn in several places, permitted the snow to fall on the deck. The temperature was exceedingly cold, and kept so till the return of the sun, which did not reappear above the horizon till the 8th of January.

Jean Cornbutte was buried on the coast. He had left his native land to find his son, and had died in these terrible regions! His grave was dug on an eminence, and the sailors placed over it a simple wooden cross.

From that day, Louis Cornbutte and his comrades passed through many other trials; but the lemons, which they found, restored them to health.

Gervique, Gradlin, and Nouquet were able to rise from their berths a fortnight after these terrible events, and to take a little exercise.

Soon hunting for game became more easy and its results more abundant. The water-birds returned in large numbers. They often brought down a kind of wild duck which made excellent food. The hunters had no other deprivation to deplore than that of two dogs, which they lost in an expedition to reconnoitre the state of the icefields, twenty-five miles to the southward.

The month of February was signalized by violent tempests and abundant snows. The mean temperature was still twenty-five degrees below zero, but they did not suffer in comparison with past hardships. Besides, the sight of the sun, which rose higher and higher above the horizon, rejoiced them, as it forecast the end of their torments. Heaven had pity on them, for warmth came sooner than usual that year. The ravens appeared in March, careering about the ship. Louis Cornbutte captured some cranes which had wandered thus far northward. Flocks of wild birds were also seen in the south.

The return of the birds indicated a diminution of the cold; but it was not safe to rely upon this, for with a change of wind, or in the new or full moons, the temperature suddenly fell; and the sailors were forced to resort to their most careful precautions to protect themselves against it. They had already burned all the barricading, the bulkheads, and a large portion of the bridge. It was time, then, that their wintering was over. Happily, the mean temperature of March was not over sixteen degrees below zero. Marie occupied herself with preparing new clothing for the advanced season of the year.

After the equinox, the sun had remained constantly above the horizon. The eight months of perpetual daylight had begun. This continual sunlight, with the increasing though still quite feeble heat, soon began to act upon the ice.

Great precautions were necessary in launching the ship from the lofty layer of ice which surrounded her. She was therefore securely propped up, and it seemed best to await the breaking up of the ice; but the lower mass, resting on a bed of already warm water, detached itself little by little, and the ship gradually descended with it. Early in April she had reached her natural level.

Torrents of rain came with April, which, extending in waves over the ice-plain, hastened still more its breaking up. The thermometer rose to ten degrees below zero. Some of the men took off their seal-skin clothes, and it was no longer necessary to keep a fire in the cabin stove day and night. The provision of spirit, which was not exhausted, was used only for cooking the food.

Soon the ice began to break up rapidly, and it became imprudent to venture upon the plain without a staff to sound the passages; for fissures wound in spirals here and there. Some of the sailors fell into the water, with no worse result, however, than a pretty cold bath.

The seals returned, and they were often hunted, and their grease utilized.

The health of the crew was fully restored, and the time was employed in hunting and preparations for departure. Louis Cornbutte often examined the channels, and decided, in consequence of the shape of the southern coast, to attempt a passage in that direction. The breaking up had already begun here and there, and the floating ice began to pass off towards the high seas. On the 25th of April the ship was put in readiness. The sails, taken from their sheaths, were found to be perfectly preserved, and it was with real delight that the sailors saw them once more swaying in the wind. The ship gave a lurch, for she had found her floating line, and though she would not yet move forward, she lay quietly and easily in her natural element.

In May the thaw became very rapid. The snow which covered the coast melted on every hand, and formed a thick mud, which made it well-nigh impossible to land. Small heathers, rosy and white, peeped out timidly above the lingering snow, and seemed to smile at the little heat they received. The thermometer at last rose above zero.

Twenty miles off, the ice masses, entirely separated, floated towards the Atlantic Ocean. Though the sea was not quite free around the ship, channels opened by which Louis Cornbutte wished to profit.

On the 21st of May, after a parting visit to his father’s grave, Louis at last set out from the bay. The hearts of the honest sailors were filled at once with joy and sadness, for one does not leave without regret a place where a friend has died. The wind blew from the north, and favoured their departure. The ship was often arrested by ice-banks, which were cut with the saws; icebergs not seldom confronted her, and it was necessary to blow them up with powder. For a month the way was full of perils, which sometimes brought the ship to the verge of destruction; but the crew were sturdy, and used to these dangerous exigencies. Penellan, Pierre Nouquet, Turquiette, Fidele Misonne, did the work of ten sailors, and Marie had smiles of gratitude for each.

The “Jeune-Hardie” at last passed beyond the ice in the latitude of Jean-Mayer Island. About the 25th of June she met ships going northward for seals and whales. She had been nearly a month emerging from the Polar Sea.

On the 16th of August she came in view of Dunkirk. She had been signalled by the look-out, and the whole population flocked to the jetty. The sailors of the ship were soon clasped in the arms of their friends. The old cure received Louis Cornbutte and Marie with patriarchal arms, and of the two masses which he said on the following day, the first was for the repose of Jean Cornbutte’s soul, and the second to bless these two lovers, so long united in misfortune.

The old cure received Louis Cornbutte and Marie.

The Poetry

VERNE’S PLAYS

Verne wrote numerous plays throughout his life, with several being based on his novels, but unfortunately there are no English translations available. However, to give you a sample of his work in this medium, two of his plays in the original French have been provided below.

Scene VII

Maxime, puis Roquefeuille et Robert.

Maxime Voila une femme qui me fera damner avant le mariage!

Roquefeuille, entrant.

Il y a des gens bien presses!

Robert, entrant.

Ah! Maxime! Parbleu! j’allais envoyer chez toi!… Sommes-nous seuls?

Roquefeuille Oui.

Robert Eh bien, je suis charme de vous avoir tous les deux! J’ai a vous consulter!

Maxime Comme medecin?

Roquefeuille Comme notaire?

Maxime Ou comme amis?

Robert Comme amis avant tout! Comme notaire, peut-etre! mais surtout comme medecin!

Roquefeuille C’est la consultation de Panurge?

Robert Et sur la meme question, le mariage!

Roquefeuille Seulement, Panurge etait plus fin, il consultait avant.

Maxime On t’ecoute, parle!

Robert Aux amis, d’abord. Figurez-vous qu’il regne dans cette maison, depuis huit jours, un mystere que j’ai vainement essaye de percer. Ma femme n’est plus la meme; elle me fuit, elle m’evite. Rien ne marche comme d’habitude; ce sont des allees et venues continuelles de gens que je ne connais pas. Hier, un monsieur fort mal habille est venu m’offrir les services de son administration, et, apres une longue conversation ou il n’a ete question que de mairie, de voiture de ceremonie, etc. j’ai cru comprendre qu’il s’agissait d’enterrement.

Maxime Tiens!

Roquefeuille Et tu n’as pas profite de l’occasion?

Robert Ce n’est pas tout!… Ma femme s’enferme des heures entieres pour lire, et sais-tu quel roman j’ai trouve sur son bureau? Le Code civil… ouvert au titre du mariage… Des droits respectifs des epoux!

Roquefeuille Ah! c’est curieux!… Y avait-il une corne?

Robert Mauvais plaisant!… Enfin, il n’y a pas jusqu’a mes journaux, sur lesquels je ne puis mettre la main depuis huit jours.

Roquefeuille Etrange! etrange!

Maxime Et ta conclusion?

Robert La votre?

Roquefeuille Tu n’as pas d’autres indices?

Robert Si! il y en a d’autres, mais…

Maxime Mais…

Robert C’est delicat a dire!

Maxime On peut tout dire a son notaire.

Roquefeuille Et a son medecin.

Robert Eh bien, soit! Tu vois bien cette porte?

Maxime Je la vois.

Robert C’est la porte de la chambre de ma femme.

Maxime Eh bien?

Robert Eh bien, fais-moi le plaisir de l’ouvrir.

Maxime Hein! Pourquoi faire?

Robert Fais toujours!

Roquefeuille Ouvre-lui la porte, pour l’amour de Dieu!

Maxime, allant a la porte de droite.

Soit!… Fermee!

Robert Eh bien, oui, fermee! mais fermee comme on ne ferme pas une porte, a un mari surtout! Or, voila huit jours qu’il en est ainsi.

Roquefeuille et Maxime, riant.

Ah bah!

Robert Je vous avouerai, mes chers amis, que votre rire m’agace!

Roquefeuille Quoi! elle ne s’est pas meme ouverte a cette heure discrete ou Psyche eteignait sa lampe?

Robert Non!

Roquefeuille Eh bien, que veux-tu que nous y fassions, mon pauvre ami? Nous ne pouvons pourtant pas…

Robert Parbleu! je le sais bien! Mais je veux un conseil, un bon conseil!

Maxime Quel conseil?

Robert Celui du notaire d’abord!

Roquefeuille Marche!

Robert Ma femme a-t-elle le droit de me refuser…

Roquefeuille L’obeissance? Non! Article 213.

Robert Ai-je le droit d’exiger…

Roquefeuille L’obeissance? Oui!… Meme article 213.

Robert Bon! Me voila tranquille sur le fait de la legalite!

Roquefeuille Tu citeras ta femme en justice pour la…

Robert Non, non, non! Seulement, je connais mon droit. C’est enorme!

Roquefeuille Va toujours! Tu t’amuses infiniment!

Robert, a Maxime.

Tu comprends bien que je ne me suis pas facilement resigne a ce role de…

Maxime De Tantale?

Robert De Tantale, soit! Et que j’ai demande a ma femme la cause de ce divorce anticipe…

Maxime Et elle t’a repondu qu’elle etait souffrante?

Robert Qu’elle etait souffrante… des nerfs!

Roquefeuille et Maxime Des nerfs.

Robert Des nerfs!

Maxime Eh bien, la raison en vaut une autre!

Robert La raison est pitoyable, mon cher. Jamais Laurence n’a eu les apparences d’une plus magnifique sante. Elle est fraiche comme a quinze ans, et jolie comme les amours!

Roquefeuille Tu la vois a travers les lunettes d’un celibataire!

Maxime Voyons, soyons serieux! Te connais-tu quelques torts? Ta femme est-elle fachee contre toi?

Robert Mais non! Et la preuve, c’est que, pendant le jour, elle est charmante, presque coquette avec moi; mais a mesure que le soleil descend sur l’horizon…

Maxime Les belles de jour se ferment au coucher du soleil! Et cela a commence?…

Robert Le jour meme de mon billet de garde, vous vous rappelez… cette curieuse decouverte sur ma nationalite.

Maxime, riant.

Parbleu! voila la raison! N’en cherche pas d’autres! Elle veut rompre toutes relations avec toi… depuis que tu es Anglais!

Roquefeuille Oh! oh! oh! Au moment du traite de commerce? C’est invraisemblable!

Robert, impatiente.

Mon Dieu! vous plaisantez, la!…

Maxime Serieusement, je m’y perds!

Robert Je n’ai donc plus qu’une ressource, c’est de m’adresser a toi, mon ami. Je veux qu’adroitement, et sans que Laurence s’en doute, tu puisses me dire si ma femme est malade, oui ou non.

Maxime Comment! sans qu’elle s’en doute? Mais, malheureux, as-tu songe que notre seul thermometre, a nous, medecins, c’est le pouls et la langue?

Roquefeuille Et si elle ne s’y prete pas?

Maxime S’il ne faut pas qu’elle s’en doute?…

Robert Ta, ta, ta, arrange-toi a ta guise; trouve quelque moyen adroit, detourne, pour arriver a ton but.

Maxime Mais…

Roquefeuille Chut! la porte s’ouvre!

Maxime Il est grand jour!

Robert Voici ma femme; je te laisse avec elle. Viens, Roquefeuille.

Maxime Non, parbleu! Mieux vaut que tu sois la!

Roquefeuille, a part.

Et moi aussi!

Scene VIII

Les memes, Laurence.

Laurence Vous ne m’en voulez pas, monsieur Maxime, de vous avoir laisse seul un instant?

Maxime Robert m’a tenu compagnie.

Roquefeuille, a part.

Attention! Roquefeuille… prevenons-la! (Bas a Laurence.) Mef…

Laurence Plait-il?

Roquefeuille, toussant.

Moi?… Ah! mes amis, je crois que je me grippe.

Maxime Mais ce que je ne vous pardonnerais pas, madame, c’est de nous avoir enleve madame de Vanvres, si je n’etais assure que c’est pour empecher son depart.

Laurence Precisement!

Roquefeuille, meme jeu.

Mefiez-vous.

Laurence Vous dites?…

Roquefeuille, faisant semblant de croire qu’elle a interrompu Robert.

Tu dis?

Robert Moi, je n’ai pas souffle mot.

Roquefeuille, a Laurence.

Il n’a pas souffle mot!

Laurence Ah! je croyais. (A part.) Qu’est-ce qu’ils ont donc?

Robert, bas a Maxime.

Va donc!

Laurence Et de quoi parliez-vous quand j’ai interrompu votre conversation? Y a-t-il de l’indiscretion a vous le demander?

Maxime, a part.

Comment arriver?

Roquefeuille, a part.

Voyons donc comment il va se tirer de la?

Maxime, haut.

Ah! oui, madame, je racontais a ces messieurs quelques particularites de mes voyages. Je disais que l’Europe, qui se croit a la tete de la civilisation, a ete distancee sur certaines sciences par quelques peuplades oceaniennes. La divination, par exemple.

Laurence La divination!

Roquefeuille, a part.

Voila le moyen detourne.

Laurence Vous croyez a cette science?

Maxime Oui, madame; mais je fais une difference extreme entre la science de M. Desbarolles et celle des naturels de Nouka-Riva.

Robert, bas.

Au fait!

Maxime Exemple, la chiromancie!

Roquefeuille Ah! l’y voila!

Maxime, reprenant.

La chiromancie peut, tout au plus, faire connaitre le passe. Donnez-moi votre main, s’il vous plait!

Roquefeuille, bas, a Laurence.

Ne la donnez pas!

Laurence Ma main!

Robert, a part.

Enfin!

Roquefeuille, bas.

Ne la donnez pas!

Laurence, sans comprendre.

Mais…

Robert Donne donc ta main, chere amie!

Roquefeuille, a part.

Alors, il n’y a qu’un moyen. (A Laurence.) Donnez-moi l’autre.

Maxime, bas, a Robert.

Prends ta montre et compte une minute.

Robert Je comprends!

Maxime Main de race, madame. Hum!

Roquefeuille, prenant l’autre main.

Tout a fait aristocratique! (Robert compte, et regarde Roquefeuille.) Maxime Eh bien, qu’est-ce qu’il fait donc, lui?

Roquefeuille Je fais la contre-epreuve.

Laurence Expliquez-moi donc?

Roquefeuille Nous allons vous dire la bonne aventure, belle dame!… Laissez faire!

Robert, bas, a Maxime.

Compte!

Maxime Eh bien, madame, vous avez la main longue, les doigts effiles… vingt…

Roquefeuille Quarante!

Maxime Et, ce que nous appelons la main psychique… quarante.

Roquefeuille Quatre-vingt!

Maxime Qui doit servir merveilleusement les conceptions d’une intelligence superieure.

Robert, bas, a Maxime.

Ca y est!

Maxime, de meme.

Soixante pulsations!… Le pouls est excellent!

Roquefeuille Ca y est! Cent vingt! Une fievre de cheval!

Robert Comment?

Roquefeuille Une fievre de cheval!

Robert Tu es fou, ou ta montre ne va pas!

Roquefeuille Ma montre ne va pas? La montre de ma mere!

Robert Au diable! Voyons la langue!

Roquefeuille Voyons la langue! (A part.) Ouf! et d’une! (A Laurence.) Oh! vous n’en etes pas quitte, madame… il parait que ce n’est pas fini.

Laurence Comment?

Maxime Dans l’art de la divination, madame, la main n’est que la premiere page du livre…

Laurence Quelle est la seconde?

Maxime C’est… ne riez pas d’avance… c’est la langue!

Roquefeuille, a Laurence.

Fermez la bouche!

Robert Ah! pour le coup, tu ne me persuaderas pas!

Maxime Et pourquoi non? La langue n’est-elle pas l’expression veritable de nos pensees? Tous nos organes obeissent a notre volonte, la langue seule est independante, et, partant, ne saurait mentir, au physique, bien entendu! On dit: une langue effilee, pour une personne fine et spirituelle; une langue epaisse, pour un ignorant et un imbecile.

Roquefeuille Et une langue bien pendue pour un bavard.

Maxime Oui!

Roquefeuille Oui!

Maxime Et qu’y a-t-il d’etonnant a ce que des peuples observateurs aient fait de la langue le miroir de l’avenir?

Robert Je me rends! je me rends! Et, si Laurence veut bien se preter…

Laurence Comment, monsieur, vous voulez… que… (Riant.) Ah! ce n’est pas serieux?

Roquefeuille Fermez la bouche! (Elle repince les levres.) Robert Je te demande pardon, rien n’est plus serieux!

Laurence Ah! par exemple! (Elle rit.) Roquefeuille, mettant son binocle sur son nez.

Allons, belle dame, allons, tirez-nous la langue!

Laurence, eclatant de rire.

Ah! ma foi! je ne puis pas!… Ah! ah! ah! (Elle va tomber en riant sur le canape. Maxime et Robert se regardent, tandis que Roquefeuille leur tire la langue.) Robert Manque!

Maxime, a Roquefeuille.

C’est ta faute!

Roquefeuille Moi?

Maxime et Robert Oui, tu l’as fait rire!

Roquefeuille C’est vous!

Maxime et Robert C’est toi!

Roquefeuille C’est vous!

Scene III

Leonie, Roquefeuille, Laurence.

Laurence Eh bien?

Leonie Eh bien! ma pauvre Laurence, rien de nouveau.

Laurence Mon Dieu!

Roquefeuille C’est a n’y rien comprendre!

Laurence Ah! je le comprends trop bien, moi!… Ce que nous voulions lui cacher, il le sait… et maintenant qu’il est libre, il est parti pour ne plus revenir!

Leonie Mais non! Quelle idee!

Laurence Ah! ne me dis pas que non, j’en suis sure!

Autrement, est-ce qu’il ne serait pas deja de retour, lui qui se faisait un scrupule de rentrer plus tard que l’heure dite, pour m’epargner la plus petite inquietude?… Car il etait si bon!… il etait si tendre, si doux, parfois!… Ah! c’est fini, maintenant, c’est bien fini, va!… Je l’ai perdu, et pour toujours!…

Leonie Mais veux-tu ne pas pleurer comme cela!

Laurence Voila ce que c’est que d’avoir voulu ruser avec lui, au lieu de lui tout dire!… Ah! si j’avais tout dit!… il m’aimait tant! et quelques instants encore avant son depart… Ah! si j’avais su!… C’etait si facile!

Roquefeuille Voyons, voyons, chere dame, ne nous desolons pas, et cherchons le remede! Vous etes bien sure qu’il n’a pas laisse le plus petit mot d’avis?

Laurence Pas un! J’ai fouille partout!

Leonie Et, depuis ce temps, pas une lettre, pas un mot pour expliquer sa conduite?

Laurence Rien!

Roquefeuille C’est incomprehensible!… Et dire que cela nous arrive au moment de le marier serieusement, de lui river la chaine! Il a soupconne l’embuche, le scelerat!… Un plan si joli, si bien conduit!… J’avais tout prevu… tout est pret… le maire est prevenu; il nous attend pour deux heures; apres deux heures, il serait trop tard: il a une assemblee d’actionnaires qu’il preside, et comme il ne donne jamais de dividende, il doit au moins etre exact! Et le premier mariage dont je me sois occupe va manquer par l’absence inexplicable du futur!… et quel futur?… Un futur serieux, eprouve, garanti! un futur passe! un futur anterieur! Non! ce n’est pas possible! il va arriver! il arrivera! il arrive! le voila! (Entree de Therese.)

Scene XIV

Laurence, Leonie, Robert.

Leonie

Il s’habille en marie?

Laurence

Pas positivement!

Leonie

Que veux-tu dire?

Laurence

Mais c’est le meme costume.

Leonie

Le meme costume?

Laurence

Ma chere Leonie! ma seule, mon unique amie! mon sort est entre tes mains!

Leonie

Parle!

Laurence

Apprends donc… (Robert entre en grand costume.) Robert, saluant.

Madame!…

Laurence, a part.

Pour cette fois, c’est fini!

Robert, a Leonie.

Vous voyez que je ne vous ai pas garde rancune de vos torts envers moi?

Leonie

Je le vois… a quoi?

Robert

Vous n’avez donc pas remarque cette tenue digne et solennelle?

Leonie

En quoi, je vous prie, cette tenue digne et solennelle est-elle une preuve que vous avez oublie mes torts?

Laurence, bas, a Leonie.

Tais-toi!

Leonie, etonnee.

Hein?

Robert

Comment! vous raillez encore a ce moment supreme?

Leonie

Quel moment supreme?

Robert

Mais il n’y a donc rien de sacre pour vous?

Leonie

Qu’est-ce qui n’est pas sacre?

Robert

Ah! par exemple, c’est trop fort! Si c’est ainsi que vous recompensez votre temoin…

Leonie

Quel temoin?

Laurence, bas.

Silence! malheureuse! Je n’ai pas eu le temps de te dire que tu te mariais dans dix minutes.

Leonie, abasourdie.

Moi?

Scene XVI

Laurence, Leonie, Maxime.

Leonie, a Laurence.

Mais sais-tu que tu me mets dans une affreuse position!

Laurence

C’etait le seul moyen de lui faire endosser l’habit noir!

Maxime

Mon mariage depend de l’habit noir de Robert!

Leonie

Me voici bel et bien compromise!

Maxime

Un mot, madame, et je vous rends l’honneur!

Leonie

Laissez-moi tranquille! Il s’agit bien de vous!

Laurence

Il le faut! En te voyant consentir a ton mariage, il sera force de consentir au sien.

Maxime

Qui il?

Leonie

Cela ne vous regarde pas. Ecoute, Laurence, je consens a une transaction, je vous accompagne a la mairie, mais ne m’en demande pas davantage!

Laurence

Ce n’est pas assez!

Maxime, sans savoir ce qu’il dit.

Ce n’est pas assez!

Laurence

Si tu dis non, il dira non aussi.

Maxime, abasourdi.

Il dira non aussi!

Scene XVII

Les memes, Roquefeuille.

Roquefeuille Partons! partons! Le maire s’impatiente et le suisse ne veut rien entendre.

Leonie Il faut absolument que j’epouse M. Duvernet!

Roquefeuille Deux mariages! Tres bien! Plus on est de fous plus on rit. En route!

Maxime Ah ca! mais quel est donc le second mariage? Est-ce le tien?

Roquefeuille Pas de mauvaise plaisanterie!

Maxime Cependant!…

Roquefeuille Cela ne te regarde point. Partons! partons!

Laurence Ma chere Leonie!…

Maxime Madame!…

Leonie Eh bien?

Laurence Eh bien?

Roquefeuille Allons donc! qu’est-ce que cela vous fait?

Leonie, tendant la main a Maxime.

Ce n’est pas pour vous, au moins, monsieur!

Roquefeuille Et d’un!… A l’autre!

Laurence Appelez Robert.

Roquefeuille Robert! Robert!

Leonie Aurait-il encore pris la fuite?

Roquefeuille Je n’ai pas le temps de l’attendre, je cours a la mairie; vous n’avez plus que quelques minutes! En route! (Il sort.) Leonie, a Maxime.

Allons, mon cher monsieur, le bonheur vous a-t-il paralyse? Trouvez-nous cet introuvable Robert!

Maxime Robert! Robert!

Scene XIX

Les memes, Maxime.

Leonie

Eh bien?

Maxime

Personne!

Leonie

Personne!

Laurence

C’est une fatalite!

Leonie

Et deux heures vont sonner!

Maxime

Robert!

Laurence

Robert!

Leonie

Monsieur Maubray!

Baptiste

et THERESE

Monsieur! monsieur!

Scene XX

Les memes, Robert.

Robert

On m’appelle?

Maxime

Nous le tenons.

Laurence

Enfin!

Leonie

Vite, donnez-moi votre bras et partons!

Robert

Le voila! (Deux heures sonnent.)

Laurence

Deux heures!

Tous

Deux heures!

Scene XXI

Les memes, Roquefeuille.

Roquefeuille, essouffle.

Trop tard! (Il tombe epuise.) Laurence

Tout est fini! (Elle tombe sur le canape.) Roquefeuille

Le maire est parti en colere, il ne reviendra pas!

Maxime

Et dire que je touchais au port! (Il tombe sur une chaise.) Leonie

Pauvre Laurence! (Moment de silence et d’embarras.) Robert, tire des gants blancs de sa poche, les met lentement; il s’approche de Laurence.

Mademoiselle?

Tous

Hein?

Robert

Mademoiselle Laurence de Croix veut-elle me faire l’honneur de m’accorder sa main?

Laurence, se levant.

Robert… tu savais donc?

Robert

Tout!

Laurence

Ah! que je t’aime! (Elle tombe dans ses bras.) Roquefeuille

Bravo! Superieurement joue!

Maxime

Si j’y comprends quelque chose…

Laurence

Mon cher mari!

Robert, souriant.

Pas encore!…

Leonie

Mais, comment avez-vous devine?…

Roquefeuille

Oui, comment?

Robert, tirant un journal de sa poche.

Ce journal que vous vouliez me cacher, et que Baptiste m’a deterre il y a trois jours, m’a mis sur la voie, et le maire, a qui Roquefeuille avait du tout dire, m’a appris le reste!

Roquefeuille

Et tu as voulu prendre ta revanche?

Robert

De vos mysteres et de vos secrets!

Maxime

Quels mysteres? quels secrets?

Laurence

Ainsi, ce depart?

Robert

Comedie!

Laurence

Cette froideur?

Robert

C’etait la surtout qu’etait la comedie! Eh quoi! petite tete folle, vous avez doute de moi un seul instant? Vous avez pu croire que je ne vous aimais plus?…

Laurence

Pardon!

Roquefeuille

Tres bien! tres bien! Mais, avec tout cela, M. le maire…

Robert

L’assemblee des actionnaires, c’etait moi! Le maire nous attend!

Roquefeuille

Encore! (A Maxime.) Va toucher ton dividende! (Il le conduit pres de madame de Vanvres.) Maxime

Esperons qu’un jour on me dira le mot!

Roquefeuille

Qu’est-ce que cela fait, puisque, comme dans les comedies, cela finit par un mariage.

Robert

Par deux mariages!

Maxime, prenant la main de Leonie.

Le mien… et?…

Robert, prenant la main de Laurence.

Et le mien!

Maxime

Ah bah!

Roquefeuille

Votre exemple me gagne… J’en ferais bien autant… si l’on pouvait se marier… sans prendre une femme!

FIN

MICHEL STROGOFF

1880

TABLE DES MATIERES

PERSONNAGES

Acte premier

Scene I

Scene II

Scene III

Scene IV

Scene V

Scene VI

Scene VII

Scene VIII

Scene IX

Acte deuxieme

Scene I

Scene II

Scene III

Scene IV

Scene V

Scene VI

Scene VII

Scene VIII

Scene IX

Scene X

Scene XI

Scene XII

Scene I

Scene II

Scene III

Scene IV

Scene V

Acte troisieme

Scene I

Scene II

Scene III

Scene I

Scene II

Scene III

Scene IV

Scene V

Acte quatrieme

Scene I

Scene II

Scene III

Scene IV

Scene V

Scene VI

Scene VII

Acte cinquieme

Scene I

Scene II

Scene III

Scene IV

Scene V

Scene VI

Scene I

Acte premier

Premier tableau - Le Palais Neuf.

Une galerie a arcades, splendidement paree et eclairee, attenant a droite aux salons de reception du palais, a gauche au cabinet du gouverneur de Moscou. Portes a droite et a gauche dans les pans coupes. A gauche une vaste fenetre a large balcon.

Scene I

Jollivet, le general Kissoff, l’aide de camp, officiers, invites, etc.

Ces divers personnages, groupes a droite, pres de la porte du salon, regardent danser. On entend l’orchestre du bal.

L’AIDE DE CAMP. - Les salons peuvent a peine contenir la foule des invites.

LE GENERAL. - Oui, et les groupes de danseurs finiront par refluer jusque dans cette galerie… C’est magnifique!

JOLLIVET. - Quel est donc le voyageur qui a ose parler des froids de la Russie, general?

LE GENERAL. - La Russie de juillet n’est pas la Russie de janvier, monsieur Jollivet.

JOLLIVET. - Non, certes, mais on croirait que monsieur le gouverneur a, pour cette nuit, transporte Moscou sous les tropiques! Ce jardin d’hiver qui relie les appartements prives de Son Excellence avec les grands salons de reception est vraiment merveilleux.

LE GENERAL. - Que pensez-vous de cette fete, monsieur le reporter?

JOLLIVET, montrant son carnet. - Voici ce que je viens de telegraphier, general: “Fete que gouverneur de Moscou donne en honneur de Sa Majeste Empereur de toutes les Russies, splendide!”

LE GENERAL. - A merveille! Les journaux francais parleront de nous en bons termes. Il en sera de meme des journaux anglais, je pense, grace a M. Blount, votre confrere.

JOLLIVET. - L’orgueilleux et irascible M. Blount, qui pretend que l’Angleterre, cette reine de l’univers, comme il l’appelle, et le Morning-Post, ce roi des journaux, comme il le nomme aussi, doivent toujours etre informes les premiers de tout ce qui se passe sur le globe terrestre!

LE GENERAL. - Ah! tenez, le voici.

Scene V

Ivan, Sangarre

IVAN, se redressant apres avoir regarde si personne ne l’observe. - Et dans quelques jours, j’aurai passe la frontiere!

SANGARRE. - Et c’est alors, Ivan, que tu seras reellement libre.

IVAN. - Libre!… je le suis deja, grace a toi, qui m’as fait evader de la forteresse de Polstock, ou le czar que je hais, me retenait prisonnier! C’est par toi, par tes Tsiganes devouees, que j’ai pu correspondre avec Feofar-Khan! C’est grace a toi, enfin, que j’ai pu penetrer dans le palais du gouverneur, et que je vais obtenir ce passeport, sans lequel je n’aurais jamais pu franchir la frontiere pour aller rejoindre les armees de l’emir!… Sangarre, je ne l’oublierai pas.

SANGARRE. - Depuis le jour ou tu m’as sauvee, pendant cette guerre de Khiva, depuis que le colonel Ivan Ogareff a ramene a la vie la Tsigane que les Russes venaient de knouter comme espionne, la Tsigane t’appartient corps et ame! Elle est devenue la mortelle ennemie de ces Russes qu’elle hait autant que tu les hais toi-meme! Ivan, il n’y a plus rien de moscovite en toi! Que ton epaule saigne toujours a l’endroit ou l’on a arrache l’epaulette comme mon epaule saignera toujours a l’endroit ou le knout l’a dechiree!

IVAN. - Ne crains rien!… ma vengeance marchera de pair avec la tienne!…

SANGARRE. - Ah! je la retrouverai cette Siberienne… cette Marfa Strogoff qui m’a denoncee aux Russes!… Je la retrouverai, dusse-je aller la saisir jusque dans Kolyvan dont les Tartares vont bientot s’emparer!…

IVAN. - Comme ils s’empareront d’Irkoutsk, conduits par moi a l’assaut de cette capitale! Ah! Grand-Duc maudit, en me cassant de mon grade, en me faisant emprisonner, tu as fait manquer ce premier soulevement que j’avais organise! Mais, je suis libre maintenant! Rien ne pourra sauver Irkoutsk, et la, tu periras, d’une mort infamante, sur les murs memes de la ville en flammes!

SANGARRE. - Oui, mais il faudrait eviter tout retard, et ce passeport promis par le gouverneur…

IVAN. - Dans cinq minutes je l’aurai, et je m’elancerai, d’un seul vol, de Moscou aux avant-postes de l’emir! Prends garde, on vient!…

Scene VI

Les memes, le gouverneur, puis un aide de camp.

Le gouverneur rentre par la gauche, tenant un passeport a la main.

LE GOUVERNEUR. - Tiens, es-tu content? Regarde. (Il remet le passeport a Ivan.)

IVAN, apres avoir lu. - Ah! Excellence, avec un pareil permis, on passe partout! Il n’y manque plus…

LE GOUVERNEUR. - Que ma signature, et je vais a l’instant meme… (Il s’approche de la table, s’assied et prend la plume. Un aide de camp entre.)

L’AIDE DE CAMP. - Un pli pour Son Excellence! (Il remet un pli cachete. Le gouverneur le lit.)

SANGARRE, a Ivan. - Mais il ne signera donc pas!

IVAN, bas. - Patience!

LE GOUVERNEUR, au general qu’il emmene a gauche. - General, nous parlions tout a l’heure du colonel Ivan Ogareff.

SANGARRE, a part’. - Ton nom!

IVAN, bas. - Tais-toi!

LE GOUVERNEUR. - Ce traitre qui fut casse de son grade et condamne a mort pour avoir fomente, une fois deja, le soulevement des Tartares…

LE GENERAL. - Oui, Ogareff, dont l’empereur a commue la peine en une perpetuelle detention dans la forteresse de Polstock.

LE GOUVERNEUR. - Il s’est echappe recemment de sa prison. Voila ce qu’on m’ecrit du cabinet de Petersbourg: Ivan Ogareff s’est enfoui!… Il faut mettre toute notre police sur sa trace.

LE GENERAL. - Nous ferons tres severement garder la frontiere que, sans passeport, il ne pourra franchir.

LE GOUVERNEUR, s’asseyant a la table et ecrivant. - Que les ordres soient transmis sans retard. Il importe que le Grand-Duc soit prevenu au plus tot, car cette lettre du ministre me marque que, d’apres une correspondance, saisie depuis l’evasion d’Ivan Ogareff, le plan de ce traitre serait de penetrer dans Irkoutsk, et s’il y parvient, c’est la mort du Grand-Duc, objet de sa haine personnelle!

IVAN, a Sangarre. - Mais ils savent donc tout?… Allons… (S’approchant.) Excellence!

LE GOUVERNEUR. - Que me veut-on?… Qui ose se permettre?…

IVAN. - Pardon, monseigneur…

LE GOUVERNEUR. - Ah! c’est toi!… Eh bien!… Eh bien!… attends! (Il continue d’ecrire.)

IVAN, bas. - Que va-t-il decider?

LE GOUVERNEUR, se levant. Au general. - Faites partir cette depeche. Grace a elle ce miserable ne passera pas la frontiere, et toi… (Ivan s’incline.) tiens, voici ton permis… Personne n’entravera ta route!

IVAN, avec ironie. - Monseigneur, vous ne saurez jamais tout ce que je vous dois de reconnaissance!

LE GOUVERNEUR. - C’est bon, c’est bon!… Va!

IVAN, a part. - Viens, Sangarre… Libre maintenant, et bientot venge!

Ivan, Sangarre et les Tsiganes sortent par la porte de gauche, en meme temps que Jollivet et Blount entrent par la droite.

Scene VIII

Le gouverneur, le general, l’aide de camp.

L’AIDE DE CAMP, a demi-voix. - Excellence, le fil telegraphique de Moscou a Irkoutsk est coupe!

LE GOUVERNEUR. - Que me dites-vous la?

L’AIDE DE CAMP. - Les depeches s’arretent a Kolyvan, a mi-chemin de la route siberienne, dont les Tartares sont les maitres!

Sur un signe du gouverneur les portieres retombent.

LE GOUVERNEUR. - En sorte que la depeche que nous avons transmise au Grand-Duc, celle qui designait le jour ou doit arriver, en vue d’Irkoutsk, l’armee de secours?…

L’AIDE DE CAMP. - Cette depeche n’a pu parvenir a Son Altesse.

LE GOUVERNEUR. - Ainsi, les Tartares, maitres de la route! La Siberie orientale separee du reste de l’empire moscovite! Le Grand-Duc, non prevenu du jour ou il doit etre secouru, ou il doit operer sa sortie!… Il faut a tout prix… (Au general.) General, n’y a-t-il pas au palais une compagnie de courriers du czar?

LE GENERAL. - Oui, Excellence.

LE GOUVERNEUR, se mettant a ecrire. - Connaissez-vous, dans cette compagnie, un homme qui puisse, a travers mille dangers, porter une lettre a Irkoutsk?

LE GENERAL. - Il en est un dont je repondrais a Votre Excellence, et qui a plusieurs fois rempli, avec succes, des missions difficiles.

LE GOUVERNEUR. - A l’etranger?

LE GENERAL. - En Siberie meme.

LE GOUVERNEUR. - Qu’il vienne. (Le general dit un mot a l’aide de camp qui sort par la droite.) Il a du sang-froid, de l’intelligence, du courage?…

LE GENERAL. - Il a tout ce qu’il faut pour reussir la ou d’autres echoueraient.

LE GOUVERNEUR. - Son age?

LE GENERAL. - Trente ans.

LE GOUVERNEUR. - C’est un homme vigoureux?

LE GENERAL. - Il a deja prouve qu’il peut supporter jusqu’aux dernieres limites le froid, la faim et la fatigue! Il a un corps de fer, un coeur d’or!

LE GOUVERNEUR. - Il se nomme?

LE GENERAL. - Michel Strogoff.

LE GOUVERNEUR. - Il faut que ce courrier arrive jusqu’au Grand-Duc, ou la Siberie est perdue!

Scene I

Le maitre de poste, le maitre de police, un agent, voyageurs.

Un certain nombre de voyageurs sont groupes dans la cour du relais.

L’HOTELLIER. - Les routes de l’Oural sont encombrees! C’est a peine si je peux fournir des chevaux!

PREMIER VOYAGEUR. - Et quels chevaux! Fourbus des quatre jambes!

L’AGENT. - Allons! Allons! les passeports! les passeports! On vous les rendra apres qu’ils auront ete vises!… (Il recueille les passeports des divers voyageurs et rentre a gauche.)

LE MAITRE DE POLICE. - Il y a encombrement.

LE MAITRE DE POSTE. - Oui, monsieur le maitre de police, et vous aurez fort a faire pour expedier tous ces gens-la… presque autant que moi a leur fournir des chevaux! Il ne m’en reste plus qu’un au relais, et encore a-t-il fait cinquante verstes la nuit derniere!

LE MAITRE DE POLICE. - Un seul?

LE MAITRE DE POSTE. - Et il est retenu par un voyageur, arrive il y a une heure.

LE MAITRE DE POLICE. - Quel est ce voyageur?

LE MAITRE DE POSTE. - Un marchand qui se rend a Irkoutsk!

LE MAITRE DE POLICE. - Je vais viser les passeports et donner la volee a tous ces gens-la!… (Il rentre dans la maison a gauche.)

LE MAITRE DE POSTE. - On aurait cent chevaux dans les ecuries qu’on ne pourrait suffire a tout!

Scene III

Les memes, Jollivet.

Jollivet entre en scene par le fond. Il est extenue, et porte une valise de chaque main.

JOLLIVET. - Ouf!… Cent pas de plus et j’abandonnais mes valises sur la grande route… surtout celle-ci qui n’est pas a moi! (Il depose une des valises dans un coin, garde l’autre et va s’asseoir devant la table, en face de Strogoff.) Excusez-moi, monsieur… Eh! mais, je vous reconnais… Vous etes?…

STROGOFF. - Nicolas Korpanoff, marchand.

JOLLIVET. - Marchand… marchant comme l’eclair!… C’est bien vous qui m’avez depasse, il y a deux heures, sur la route! Nous etions, vous en tarentass, et moi en telegue… ou plutot je n’y etais plus, et une petite place dans votre voiture aurait joliment fait mon affaire, car je me trouvais en pleine detresse!

STROGOFF. - Pardon… monsieur?…

JOLLIVET. - Alcide Jollivet, correspondant de journaux francais, en quete de chroniques!…

STROGOFF. - Eh bien, monsieur Jollivet, je regrette vivement de ne pas vous avoir apercu! Entre voyageurs, on se doit de ces petits services.

JOLLIVET. - On se doit, mais on ne se paye pas toujours. J’ai fait vingt verstes a pied, et je l’ai merite! Une mauvaise action ne profite jamais! Le ciel m’a puni en m’inspirant la pensee de prendre une telegue au lieu d’une tarentass.

Le maitre de poste rentre apportant un broc et des verres.

STROGOFF. - Un verre de biere, monsieur?

JOLLIVET. - Volontiers.

LE MAITRE DE POSTE, a Jollivet. - Dois-je vous garder une chambre et prendre vos valises?

JOLLIVET. - Pas celle-la!… Elle n’est pas a moi.

LE MAITRE DE POSTE. - A qui donc?

JOLLIVET. - A mon ennemi intime, mon confrere Blount, qui doit, en ce moment, courir apres moi!… Mais j’espere bien etre parti avant qu’il arrive au relais!… A propos, une voiture et des chevaux dans une heure!

LE MAITRE DE POSTE. - Il n’y a plus ni chevaux, ni voiture disponibles!

JOLLIVET. - Bon! il ne manquait plus que cela! Eh bien, gardez-moi les premiers qui rentreront au relais!

LE MAITRE DE POSTE. - C’est entendu!… mais ce ne sera pas avant demain. Je vais vous retenir une chambre.

JOLLIVET au maitre de poste qui rentre a droite. - Oui!… Heureusement, j’ai une belle avance sur Blount!

STROGOFF. - Votre ennemi?

JOLLIVET. - Mon ennemi, mon rival! Un reporter anglais, qui veut me devancer sur la route d’Irkoutsk, et defraichir mes nouvelles! Figurez-vous, monsieur Korpanoff, que je n’ai trouve que ce moyen pour le distancer, lui voler sa voiture, qui etait tout attelee, quand je suis arrive au relais! Il n’y en avait pas d’autre, et pendant qu’il reglait sa note, j’ai glisse un paquet de roubles dans la poche de son cocher, - disons son iemskik, pour faire un peu de couleur locale… et en route!… Naturellement, j’emportais la valise de mon Anglais, mais je la lui renverrai intacte!… Ah! par exemple, il n’y a que sa voiture que je ne pourrai pas lui renvoyer!

STROGOFF. - Pourquoi donc?

JOLLIVET. - Parce que c’est… ou plutot c’etait une telegue! Vous savez, une telegue… une voiture a quatre roues?…

STROGOFF. - Parfaitement!… Mais je ne comprends pas…

JOLLIVET. - Vous allez comprendre. Nous partons… mon iemskik sur le siege de devant et moi sur le banc d’arriere! Trois bons chevaux dans les brancards! Nous filons comme l’ouragan! A peine s’il est necessaire de stimuler du bout du fouet nos trois excellentes betes! De temps a autre seulement, quelques bonne paroles jetees par mon iemskik! Hardi, mes colombes!… Volez, mes doux agneaux! Houp, mon petit pere de gauche!… Enfin l’attelage tirait, tant et si bien que, la nuit derniere, un fort cahot se produit… crac! les deux trains de la voiture s’etaient separes… et mon iemskik… sans entendre mes cris, continuait a courir sur les train de devant, tandis que je restais en detresse sur le train de derriere! Et voila comment je dus faire vingt verstes a pied, ma valise d’une main, celle de l’Anglais de l’autre, et voila pourquoi je ne pourrai lui renvoyer qu’une demi-voiture!

LE MAITRE DE POSTE, rentrant. - Votre chambre est prete, monsieur.

JOLLIVET, se dirigeant vers la porte. - C’est bien… Au revoir, monsieur Korpanoff.

STROGOFF. - Au revoir, monsieur.

JOLLIVET, revenant. - Ah! j’ai trouve!

STROGOFF. - Qui donc?

JOLLIVET. - La veritable definition de la telegue!… Ce sera le mot de la fin de ma prochaine chronique! (Ecrivant sur son carnet.) “Telegue, voiture russe… a quatre roues quand elle part… et a deux quand elle arrive!…” Au revoir, monsieur Korpanoff! (Il entre a droite.)

STROGOFF, se levant. - Au revoir, monsieur. Un joyeux compagnon, ce Francais!

Scene VII

Le maitre de poste, Jollivet.

Le maitre de poste commence a servir le dejeuner de Blount.

LE MAITRE DE POSTE. - Il s’en va furieux, le gentleman.

JOLLIVET. - Et il reviendra de meme!… Il y a de quoi!… A sa place, je serais hors de moi!… (Au maitre de poste.) Qu’est-ce que vous servez donc la!…

LE MAITRE DE POSTE. - Le dejeuner du gentleman.

JOLLIVET. - Ah! c’est son dejeuner… cela a l’air d’etre bon. (Il s’asseoit a la table.)

LE MAITRE DE POSTE. - Permettez, monsieur, je vous l’ai dit. C’est le dejeuner du gentleman!

JOLLIVET. - Eh bien?… (Il se met a manger.)

LE MAITRE DE POSTE. - Mais, monsieur, il a paye d’avance.

JOLLIVET. - Ah! il a paye d’avance. Alors vous ne risquez plus rien!…

LE MAITRE DE POSTE. - Mais le gentleman?

JOLLIVET. - Nous sommes en compte… C’est tres bon!

LE MAITRE DE POSTE. - Mais, monsieur, monsieur!…

JOLLIVET, mangeant. - Soyez donc tranquille, je me charge de tout. Decidement, vous cuisinez tres bien, mon cher.

LE MAITRE DE POSTE, flatte. - Merci du compliment, monsieur.

JOLLIVET. - Ah! c’est que nous sommes connaisseurs en cuisine, nous autres Francais.

LE MAITRE DE POSTE. - Oui, oui, de grands connaisseurs!

JOLLIVET, mangeant. - Et la votre, mon cher, est exquise!

LE MAITRE DE POSTE. - Exquise… en verite?… Vous trouvez cela?

JOLLIVET. - Exquise, vous dis-je!

LE MAITRE DE POSTE. - Eh bien, si monsieur veut gouter ceci… je crois qu’il le trouvera encore meilleur. (Il lui presente un second plat.)

JOLLIVET. - Excellent, en effet… c’est fin, c’est delicat, c’est…

LE MAITRE DE POSTE, presentant un troisieme plat. - Vous me direz encore ce que vous pensez de celui-ci.

JOLLIVET, riant. - Avec plaisir… Mais, dites donc… Eh bien, et le gentleman?…

LE MAITRE DE POSTE. - Tiens, c’est vrai!… j’oubliais que c’est son dejeuner… Ah! bah!… tant pis.

JOLLIVET. - A propos, que dit-on des Tartares?

LE MAITRE DE POSTE. - Que le pays est envahi tout entier, et que les troupes russes du Nord ne seront pas en force pour les repousser… On s’attend a une bataille avant deux jours.

JOLLIVET. - De quel cote?

LE MAITRE DE POSTE. - Pres de Kolyvan.

Scene X

Les memes, Strogoff.

STROGOFF, allant a Nadia. - Pourquoi ces supplications et ces larmes, Nadia?… Qu’importe que ton passeport soit valable ou non… puisque nous avons le mien qui est en regle.

NADIA, a part. - Que dit-il?

STROGOFF, montrant son permis au maitre de police. - Et personne, entendez-vous, personne n’a le droit de nous empecher de partir!

NADIA, avec joie. - Ah!

LE MAITRE DE POLICE. - Votre permis?…

STROGOFF. - Signe par le gouverneur general lui-meme… Droit de passer partout, quelles que soient les circonstances, et sans que nul puisse s’y opposer!…

Le tarentass est amene au fond sur la route.

LE MAITRE DE POLICE. - Vous avez en effet le droit de passer… Mais elle…

STROGOFF, montrant le permis. - Autorisation d’etre accompagne… Eh bien! quoi de plus naturel que… ma soeur m’accompagne!

LE MAITRE DE POLICE. - Votre?…

STROGOFF, tendant la main a Nadia. - Oui, ma soeur… Viens, Nadia.

NADIA, la saisissant. - Je te suis, frere!

BLOUNT. - Tres fier… cette marchande!…

JOLLIVET. - Et tres energique… ami Blount.

BLOUNT. - Je n’etais pas votre ami, mister Jollivette.

JOLLIVET. - Jollivet!

BLOUNT. - Jollivette! Jollivette… for ever!

Scene XII

Les memes, moins Ivan.

STROGOFF. - Oh! cet homme… Je le retrouverai. (A l’hotelier.) Quel est cet homme?

LE MAITRE DE POSTE. - Je ne le connais pas… mais c’est un seigneur qui sait se faire respecter!

STROGOFF, bondissant. - Tu te permets de me juger!

LE MAITRE DE POSTE. - Oui, car il est des choses qu’un homme de coeur ne recoit jamais sans les rendre!

STROGOFF, saisissant le maitre de poste avec violence. - Malheureux!… (Froidement.) Va-t’en, mon ami, va-t’en, je te tuerais!…

LE MAITRE DE POSTE. - Eh bien, vrai, je t’aime mieux ainsi!

JOLLIVET. - Moi aussi! Le courage a-t-il donc ses heures!

BLOUNT. - Jamais d’heure pour le courage anglaise!… Il etait toujours prete!… toujours!…

JOLLIVET. - Nous verrons cela a Kolyvan, confrere! (Il se dirige vers l’auberge et y entre.)

NADIA a part. - Cette fureur qui eclatait dans ses yeux au moment de l’insulte!… cette lutte contre lui-meme en refusant de se battre!… et maintenant… ce desespoir profond!…

STROGOFF, assis pres de la table. - Oh! je ne croyais pas que l’accomplissement du devoir put jamais couter aussi cher!…

NADIA, le regardant. - Il pleure!… Oh! il doit y avoir un mystere que je ne puis comprendre… un secret qui enchainait son courage! (Allant a lui.) Frere! (Strogoff releve la tete.) Il y a parfois des affronts qui elevent, et celui-la t’a grandi a mes yeux!

En ce moment, Blount pousse un cri. On voit passer au fond Jollivet sur l’ane de Blount.

BLOUNT. - Ah! mon hane! Arretez!… Il emportait mon hane!…

JOLLIVET. - Je vous le rendrai a Kolyvan, confrere, a Kolyvan!

BLOUNT accable. - Aoh!

Cinquieme tableau - L’isba du telegraphe.

La scene represente un poste telegraphique pres de Kolyvan, en Siberie. Porte au fond, donnant sur la campagne; a droite un petit cabinet avec guichet, ou se tient l’employe du telegraphe. Porte a gauche.

Scene I

L’employe, Jollivet.

On entend le bruit, sourd encore, de la bataille de Kolyvan.

JOLLIVET, entrant par le fond. - L’affaire est chaude! Une balle dans mon toquet!… Une autre dans ma casaque!… Le ville de Kolyvan va etre emportee par ces Tartares! Enfin, j’aurai toujours la primeur de cette nouvelle… il faut l’expedier a Paris!… Voici le bureau du telegraphe! (Regardant.) Bon! l’employe est a son poste, et Blount est au diable!… Ca va bien! (A l’employe.) Le telegraphe fonctionne toujours?

L’EMPLOYE. - Il fonctionne du cote de la Russie, mais le fil est coupe du cote d’Irkoutsk.

JOLLIVET. - Ainsi les depeches passent encore?

L’EMPLOYE. - Entre Kolyvan et Moscou, oui.

JOLLIVET. - Pour le gouvernement?…

L’EMPLOYE. - Pour le gouvernement, s’il en a besoin… pour le public, lorsqu’il paye! C’est dix kopeks par mot.

JOLLIVET. - Et que savez-vous?

L’EMPLOYE. - Rien.

JOLLIVET. - Mais les depeches que vous…

L’EMPLOYE. - Je transmets les depeches, mais je ne les lis jamais.

JOLLIVET, a part. - Un bon type! (Haut.) Mon ami, je desire envoyer a ma cousine Madeleine une depeche relatant toutes les peripeties de la bataille.

L’EMPLOYE. - C’est facile… Dix kopeks par mot.

JOLLIVET. - Oui… je sais… mais une fois ma depeche commencee, pouvez-vous me garder ma place, pendant que j’irai aux nouvelles?

L’EMPLOYE. - Tant que vous etes au guichet, la place vous appartient… a dix kopeks par mot; mais, si vous quittez la place, elle appartient a celui qui la prend… a dix…

JOLLIVET. - A dix kopeks par mot!… oui… je sais!… Je suis seul!… commencons. (Il ecrit sur la tablette du guichet.) “Mademoiselle Madeleine, faubourg Montmartre, Paris. - De Kolyvan, Siberie…”

L’EMPLOYE. - Ca fait deja quatre-vingt kopeks!

JOLLIVET. - C’est pour rien. (Il lui remet une liasse de roubles papier, et continue a ecrire.) “Engagement des troupes russes et tartares…” (A ce moment, la fusillade se fait entendre avec plus de force.) Ah! Ah! voila du nouveau!

Jollivet, quittant le guichet, court a la porte du fond pour voir ce qui se passe.

Scene II

Les memes, Blount.

Blount arrive par la porte de gauche.

BLOUNT. - C’est ici le bioureau telegraphique… (Apercevant Jollivet.) Jollivette!… (Il va pour le saisir au collet, mais arrive pres de lui, il se met a lire tranquillement par-dessus son epaule ce que celui-ci a ecrit.) Aoh!… Il transmettait des nouvelles plus nouvelles que les miennes!

JOLLIVET, ecrivant. - “Onze heures douze. - La bataille est engagee depuis ce matin…”

BLOUNT, a part. - Tres bien… Je faisais mon profit. (Il va au guichet, pendant que Jollivet continue d’observer ce qui se passe. A l’employe.) Fil fonctionne?

L’EMPLOYE. - Toujours.

BLOUNT. - All right!

L’EMPLOYE. - Dix kopeks par mot.

BLOUNT. - Biene, tres biene!… (Ecrivant sur la tablette.) “Morning-Post, Londres. - De Kolyvan, Siberie…”

JOLLIVET, ecrivant sur son carnet. - “Grande fumee s’eleve au-dessus de Kolyvan…”

BLOUNT, ecrivant au guichet et riant. - Oh! bonne! “Grande fioumee s’eleve au-dessus de Kolyvan…”

JOLLIVET. - Ah! ah! ah! “Le chateau est en flammes!…”

BLOUNT, ecrivant. - Ah! ah! “Le chateau il est en flammes…”

JOLLIVET. - “Les Russes abandonnent la ville.”

BLOUNT, ecrivant. - “Rousses abandonnent le ville.”

JOLLIVET. - Continuons notre depeche. (Jollivet quitte la fenetre, revient au guichet et trouve sa place prise.) Blount!

BLOUNT. - Yes, mister Blount!… Tout a l’heure… apres mon depeche… vous rendez raison a moi et mon hane!

JOLLIVET. - Mais vous avez pris ma place!

BLOUNT. - La place il etait libre.

JOLLIVET. - Ma depeche etait commencee.

BLOUNT. - Et le mien il commence.

JOLLIVET, a l’employe. - Mais vous savez bien que j’etais la avant monsieur.

L’EMPLOYE. - Place libre, place prise. Dix kopeks par mot.

BLOUNT, payant. - Et je payai pour mille mots d’avance.

JOLLIVET. - Mille mots!…

BLOUNT, continuant d’ecrire et a mesure qu’il ecrit de passer ses depeches a l’employe qui les transmet. - “Bruit de la bataille se rapprochait… Au poste telegraphique, correspondant francais guettait mon place, mais lui ne le aura pas…”

JOLLIVET, furieux. - Ah! monsieur, a la fin…

BLOUNT. - Il n’y avait de fin, mister. “Ivan Ogareff a la tete des Tartares, va rejoindre l’emir…”

JOLLIVET. - Est-ce fini?

BLOUNT. - Jamais fini.

JOLLIVET. - Vous n’avez plus rien a dire…

BLOUNT. - Toujours a dire… pour pas perdre le place. (Ecrivant.) “Au commencement, Dieu crea le ciel et le terre…”

JOLLIVET. - Ah! il telegraphie la Bible maintenant!

BLOUNT. - Yes! le Bible, et il contenait deux cent soixante-treize mille mots!…

L’EMPLOYE. - A dix kopeks par…

BLOUNT. - J’ai donne une acompte… (Il remet une nouvelle liasse de roubles.) “Le terre etait informe et…”

JOLLIVET. - Ah! l’animal! Je saurai bien te faire deguerpir! (Il sort par le fond.)

BLOUNT. - “Les tenebres couvraient le face de le abime… (Continuant.) “Onze heures vingt. - Cris des fouyards redoublent… Melee furiouse.”

Cris au dehors que Jollivet vient pousser a travers la fenetre.

JOLLIVET. - Mort aux Anglais!… Tue! pille!… A bas l’Angleterre.

BLOUNT. - Aoh!… Qu’est-ce qu’on criait donc?… A bas l’Angleterre! Angleterre, jamais a bas! (Il tire un revolver de sa ceinture et sort par la porte du fond. Jollivet rentre alors par la porte de gauche et prend la place de Blount au guichet.)

JOLLIVET. - Pas plus difficile que cela!… A bas l’Angleterre, et l’Anglais quitte le guichet. (Dictant.) “Onze heures vingt-cinq. - Les obus tartares commencent a depasser Kolyvan…”

BLOUNT, revenant. - Personne! Je avais bien cru entendre… (Apercevant Jollivet.) Aoh!

JOLLIVET, saluant. - Vive l’Angleterre, monsieur, vive les Anglais!

BLOUNT. - Vous avez pris mon place.

JOLLIVET. - C’est comme cela.

BLOUNT. - Vous allez me le rendre, mister.

JOLLIVET. - Quand j’aurai fini.

BLOUNT. - Et vous aurez fini?…

JOLLIVET. - Plus tard… beaucoup plus tard. (Dictant.) “Les Russes sont forces de se replier encore…” (Imitant l’accent de Blount.) “Correspondant anglais guette ma place au telegraphe, mais lui ne le aura pas…”

BLOUNT. - Est-ce fini, mister?

JOLLIVET. - Jamais fini… (Dictant.)

Il etait un p’tit homme.

Tout habille de gris

Dans Paris…

BLOUNT, furieux. - Des chansons!…

JOLLIVET. - Du Beranger! Apres le sacre, le profane!

BLOUNT. - Monsieur, battons-nous a l’instant!

JOLLIVET, dictant. -

Joufflu comme une pomme,

Qui sans un sou comptant…

L’EMPLOYE, refermant brusquement le guichet. - Ah!

JOLLIVET. - Quoi donc?

L’EMPLOYE, sortant de son bureau. - Le fil est coupe! Il ne fonctionne plus! Messieurs, j’ai bien l’honneur de vous saluer… (Il salue et s’en va tranquillement. - Grands cris au dehors.)

BLOUNT. - Plus depeches possibles, a nous deux, mister. Sortons!

JOLLIVET. - Oui, sortons, et venez me touyer!…

BLOUNT. - On dit touer!… Il ne sait meme pas son langue!

Ils sortent par le fond, en se provoquant.

Scene V

Les memes, Strogoff, Nadia, Blount, Jollivet, fugitifs.

JOLLIVET, entrant par le fond. - Les balles pleuvent sur la route.

BLOUNT, le suivant. - Forces de remettre notre duel.

STROGOFF, entrant par le fond avec Nadia. - Ici, Nadia!… Ici, du moins, tu seras a l’abri, mais je suis force de me separer de toi!

NADIA. - Tu vas m’abandonner?…

STROGOFF. - Ecoute, les Tartares avancent!… ils marchent sur Irkoutsk!… Il faut que j’y sois avant eux!… Un devoir imperieux et sacre m’y appelle! Il faut que je passe, fut-ce a travers la mitraille, fut-ce au prix de mon sang, fut-ce au prix de ma vie!…

NADIA. - S’il en est ainsi, frere, pars, et que Dieu te protege!

STROGOFF. - Adieu, Nadia. (Il va s’elancer vers la porte du fond, et se trouve face a face avec Marfa.)

MARFA, l’arretant. - Mon fils!

JOLLIVET. - Tiens!… Nicolas Korpanoff!

MARFA. - Mon enfant!… (Aux Siberiens.) C’est lui, mes amis! C’est mon fils… C’est Michel Strogoff!

TOUS. - Michel Strogoff!

MARFA. - Ah! vous demandiez un chef pour vous conduire dans la steppe, un chef digne de vous commander! Le voila… Michel, embrasse-moi! prends ce fusil, et sus aux Tartares.

STROGOFF, a part. - Non! non! je ne peux pas… j’ai jure… MARFA. - Eh bien, ne m’entends-tu pas? Michel! Tu me regardes sans me repondre?

STROGOFF, froidement. - Qui etes-vous?… Je ne vous connais pas.

MARFA. - Qui je suis? Tu le demandes? Tu ne me reconnais plus… Michel! mon fils!…

STROGOFF. - Je ne vous connais pas.

MARFA. - Tu ne reconnais pas ta mere?

STROGOFF. - Je ne vous reconnais pas.

MARFA. - Tu n’es pas le fils de Pierre et de Marfa Strogoff?

STROGOFF. - Je suis Nicolas Korpanoff, et voici ma soeur Nadia.

MARFA. - Sa soeur! (Allant a Nadia.) Toi! sa soeur?

STROGOFF, avec force. - Oui, oui, reponds!… reponds, Nadia.

NADIA. - Je suis sa soeur!…

MARFA. - Tu mens!… Je n’ai pas de fille!… Je n’ai qu’un fils, et le voila!

STROGOFF. - Vous vous trompez!… laissez-moi. (Il va vers la porte.)

MARFA. - Tu ne sortiras pas!

STROGOFF. - Laissez-moi… Laissez-moi!…

MARFA, le ramenant. - Tu ne sortiras pas! Ecoute, tu n’es pas mon fils!… Une ressemblance m’egare, je me trompe, je suis folle, et tu n’es pas mon fils!… Pour cela, Dieu te jugera! Mais tu es un enfant de notre Siberie. Eh bien, l’ennemi est la et je te tends cette arme!… Est-ce qu’apres avoir renie ta mere, tu vas aussi renier ton pays? Michel, tu peux me dechirer l’ame, tu peux me briser le coeur, mais la patrie, c’est la premiere mere, plus sainte et plus sacree mille fois!… Tu peux me tuer, moi, Michel, mais pour elle tu dois mourir!

STROGOFF, a part. - Oui!… c’est un devoir sacre… oui… mais je ne dois ni m’arreter, ni combattre… Je n’ai pas une heure, pas une minute a perdre! (A Marfa.) Je ne vous connais pas!… et je pars!

MARFA. - Ah! malheureux qui es devenu a la fois fils denature, et traitre a la patrie!

Forte detonation au dehors. Un obus tombe pres de Marfa, meche fumante.

STROGOFF, s’elancant. - Prenez garde, Marfa!

MARFA. - Que cet obus me tue, puisque mon fils est un lache!

STROGOFF. - Un lache! Moi! Vois si j’ai peur! (Il prend l’obus et le jette dehors. Il s’elance par le fond.) Adieu, Nadia.

MARFA. - Ah! je le disais bien!… C’est mon fils! c’est Michel Strogoff, le courrier du csar!

TOUS. - Le courrier du csar!

MARFA. - Quelque secrete mission l’entraine sans doute loin de moi!… Nous combattrons sans lui! Barricadons cette porte, et defendons-nous!…

Coups de fusils qui eclatent au dehors.

BLOUNT, portant la main a sa jambe. - Ah! blesse!…

JOLLIVET, lui bandant sa blessure malgre lui. - Ah! pauvre Blount.

MARFA. - Courage! mes amis!… Que chacun de nous sache mourir bravement, non plus pour le salut, mais pour l’honneur de la Russie!

TOUS. - Hurrah! Pour la Russie!

Le combat s’engage avec les Tartares qui apparaissent. Un brouillard de fumee emplit le poste qui s’effondre.

Sixieme tableau - Le champ de bataille de Kolyvan.

Vue du champ de bataille de Kolyvan. Horizon en feu, au coucher du soleil. Morts et blesses etendus, cadavres de chevaux. Au-dessus du champ de bataille, des oiseaux de proie qui planent et s’abattent sur les cadavres.

STROGOFF, paraissant au fond et traversant le champ de bataille. - Ma mere! Nadia!… Elles sont ici peut-etre, la parmi les blesses et les morts!… Et l’implacable devoir impose silence a mon coeur… Et je ne puis les rechercher ni les secourir!… Non… (Se redressant.) Non! Pour Dieu, pour le csar, pour la patrie!…

Il continue a marcher vers la droite et le rideau baisse.

Scene III

Blount, Jollivet.

BLOUNT, avec terreur. - Fousille! fousille! fousille!…

JOLLIVET. - Je n’ai pas ete maitre de mon indignation!

BLOUNT. - Fousille!… Cette miserable coquine faisait fousille vous!

JOLLIVET. - Helas! oui!… Rien ne peut me sauver et le mieux est de me resigner courageusement!

BLOUNT. - Ah! Jollivet!

JOLLIVET. - Vous voila debarrasse de votre rival, de votre ennemi!

BLOUNT, se recriant. - Debarrasse de mon hennemi!

JOLLIVET. - Et il etait ecrit que notre duel n’aurait jamais lieu!

BLOUNT, emu. - Notre douel?… Est-ce que vous aviez pense que je battais jamais moi avec vous, Jollivet?

JOLLIVET. - Je sais qu’il y avait en vous plus d’emportement que de haine!

BLOUNT. - Oh! non! je vous haissais pas, Jollivet, et si vous avez un peu moque, vous avez defendu moi dans le bataille, vous avez soigne mon blessure, vous avez sauve moi comme une bonne et brave gentleman, Jollivet!

JOLLIVET, souriant tristement. - Tiens! vous ne m’appelez plus Jollivette, monsieur Blount.

BLOUNT. - Et je demandai pardone a vous pour cette mechante plaisanterie!

JOLLIVET. - Alors nous voila amis… tout a fait?

BLOUNT. - Oh! yes, amis jusqu’a la m…

JOLLIVET. - Jusqu’a la mort!… Ce ne sera pas long, helas!… et je voudrais… avant… de mourir… vous demander un service, ami Blount.

BLOUNT vivement. - Une service! Oh! je promettai, je jurai d’avance!…

JOLLIVET. - Nous sommes ici, mon ami, comme deux sentinelles perdues et chargees l’une et l’autre d’eclairer notre pays sur les graves evenements qui s’accomplissent. Eh bien, le devoir que je ne pourrai plus remplir, je vous demande de le remplir a ma place.

BLOUNT, tres emu. - Oh! yes! yes!…

JOLLIVET. - Voulez-vous me promettre, Blount, qu’apres avoir adresse chacune de vos correspondances en Angleterre, vous l’envoyez ensuite en France?

BLOUNT. - Ensuite! non!… Jollivet, non… pas ensuite. Je voulais remplacer vous, tout a faite, et comme vous etiez plus adroite que moi, vous aviez envoye toujours les nouvelles le premiere, eh bien, je promettai que j’envoyai en France… d’abord!

JOLLIVET. - En meme temps, Blount, en meme temps… je le veux!…

BLOUNT. - Yes!… en meme temps!… d’abord!… Etes-vous satisfaite, Jollivet?

JOLLIVET. - Oui, mais ce n’est pas tout, Blount.

BLOUNT. - Parlez, je ecoutai vous.

JOLLIVET. - Mon ami, j’ai laisse la-bas une femme!…

BLOUNT. - Une femme!

JOLLIVET. - Une jeune femme… et un petit enfant. Elle, bonne comme une sainte! lui, beau comme un ange!…

BLOUNT, avec reproche. - Oh! vous aviez une femme et une toute petite bebe, et vous avez quitte eux!… Oh! Jollivet! Jollivet.

JOLLIVET, tristement. - Que voulez-vous?… Nous etions pauvres, mon ami!

BLOUNT, pleurant. - Pauvres!… Et alors vous etiez force pour abandonner eux, et moi je reprochai a vous… J’accusai vous… Oh! my friend, my dear friend!… I am a very bad man… your pardon… for… having spoken as… I have done!… Je demandai pardone a vous. Jollivet, yes!… je demandai pardone, et quand le guerre etait finie ici, je jurai que j’allai en France, je cherchai votre femille, je servai pour pere a votre pauvre petite bebe, et je servai pour meri… non!… je servai pour frere a votre bonne jolie femme… je promettai… je jurai… je… (Il lui serre la main, se jette a son cou et l’embrasse. - On entend un bruit de fanfare.)

JOLLIVET. - Qu’est-ce que cela?

UN TARTARE, entrant. - C’est l’arrivee de l’emir Feofar. Tous les prisonniers doivent se prosterner devant lui… Venez.

BLOUNT. - Prosterner!… je prosternerai pas!… je prosternerai jamais!… (Ils sortent.)

Le decor change a vue et represente le camp tartare.

Huitieme tableau - Le camp de l’emir.

La scene represente une place, ornee de pylones, recouverte d’un splendide velum. A droite, un trone magnifiquement orne; a gauche, une tente.

Scene IV

Les memes, Nadia, Strogoff.

MARFA, a part et continuant. - Lui!… mon fils!… mon fils!…

STROGOFF, a Nadia. - Qu’est-ce donc?

NADIA. - Des Tartares?

STROGOFF. - Ils nous ont vus?

NADIA. - Oui!…

MARFA, a part. - Oh! cette fois je ne me trahirai pas devant eux. (Elle se cache au fond.)

L’OFFICIER. - Faites approcher ces gens.

LE SERGENT. - Allons! approchez… approchez!

L’OFFICIER. - Qui etes-vous?…

NADIA. - Mon frere est aveugle, et nous avons parcouru, malgre les terribles souffrances qu’il a subies, une route si penible et si longue qu’il peut a peine se soutenir!

L’OFFICIER. - D’ou venez-vous?

STROGOFF. - D’Irkoutsk, ou nous n’avons pu penetrer parce que les Tartares l’investissent.

L’OFFICIER. - Et vous allez?

STROGOFF. - Vers le lac Baikal, ou nous attendrons que la Siberie soit redevenue tranquille.

L’OFFICIER. - Et elle le sera sous la domination tartare!

LE SERGENT, observant Nadia. - Elle est jolie, cette fille, capitaine!

L’OFFICIER, a Strogoff. - C’est vrai, tu as la une belle compagne!

Le sergent veut s’approcher de Nadia.

NADIA, s’eloignant. - Ah! (Elle reprend la main de Strogoff.)

STROGOFF. - C’est ma soeur!

LE SERGENT. - On pourrait un autre guide a l’aveugle, et cette belle fille resterait au bivouac! (Il s’approche d’elle.)

NADIA. - Laissez-moi, laissez-moi!

STROGOFF, a part. - Miserables!

LE SERGENT. - Elle est farouche, la jeune Siberienne! Nous nous reverrons plus tard, la belle.

UN SOLDAT, entrant. - Capitaine, en montant sur une colline, a cent pas d’ici, on peut voir de grandes fumees qui s’elevent dans l’air, et, en pretant l’oreille, on entend au loin, le bruit du canon.

L’OFFICIER. - C’est que les notres donnent l’assaut a Irkoutsk!

STROGOFF, a part. - L’assaut a Irkoutsk!

L’OFFICIER. - Voyons cela. (Aux soldats.) Dans une heure le moment sera venu d’accomplir notre tache, et, cela fait, nous rejoindrons les assaillants.

Il sort, les soldats l’accompagnent. Le sergent regarde une derniere fois Nadia et sort.

Scene V

Nadia, Strogoff, puis Marfa.

NADIA. - Ils sont partis, frere, nous pouvons continuer notre route.

STROGOFF. - Non!… j’ai dit que nous allions du cote du lac Baikal!… Il ne faut pas qu’ils nous voient prendre un autre chemin!

NADIA. - Nous attendrons alors qu’ils soient tout a fait eloignes.

STROGOFF. - C’est aujourd’hui le 24 septembre, et aujourd’hui… je devrais etre a Irkoutsk.

NADIA. - Esperons encore!… Ces Tartares vont partir… Cette nuit, quand on ne pourra plus nous voir, nous chercherons le moyen de descendre le fleuve… et tu pourras, avant demain, entrer dans la ville!… Essaye de prendre un peu de repos en attendant!

Elle le conduit au pied d’un arbre.

STROGOFF. - Me reposer… et toi, pauvre Nadia, n’es-tu pas plus brisee par la fatigue que je ne le suis moi-meme?

NADIA. - Non… non… Je suis forte… tandis que toi, cette blessure que tu as recue, cette fievre qui te devore!…

Strogoff s’asseoit au pied de l’arbre.

STROGOFF. - Ah! qu’importe, Nadia, qu’importe! Que j’arrive a temps aupres du Grand-Duc et je n’aurais plus rien a vous demander, mon Dieu, si ma mere existait encore!

NADIA. - Devant son fils que ces barbares allaient martyriser, elle est tombee… inanimee!… Mais qui te dit que la vie s’etait brisee en elle?… Qui te dit qu’elle etait morte?… Frere… je crois que tu la reverras… (Se reprenant et le regardant avec douleur.) Je crois, frere, que tu la presseras encore dans tes bras… et qu’elle couvrira de baisers et de larmes ces pauvres yeux ou la lumiere s’est eteinte!

STROGOFF. - Quand j’ai pose mes levres sur son front, je l’ai senti glace!… Quand j’ai interroge son coeur, il n’a pas battu sous ma main!… (Marfa, qui a reparu, s’est approchee lentement de son fils.) Helas! ma mere est morte!

NADIA, apercevant Marfa. - Ah!

STROGOFF. - Qu’est-ce donc? qu’as-tu, Nadia?

NADIA. - Rien. Rien!

Marfa, qui s’est agenouillee, fait signe a Nadia, prete a se trahir, de garder le silence; puis, prenant une des mains de son fils, elle la porte en pleurant a ses levres. Strogoff, qui a etendu l’autre bras, s’est assure que Nadia est bien a sa droite.

STROGOFF. - Oh!… Nadia!… Nadia!… ces baisers, ces larmes!… les sanglots que j’entends!… Ah!… c’est elle!… c’est elle, c’est ma mere!

MARFA. - Mon fils! mon fils! (Ils tombent dans les bras l’un de l’autre.)

NADIA. - Marfa…

MARFA. - Oui, oui, c’est moi, mon enfant bien-aime, c’est moi, mon noble et courageux martyr!… Laisse-moi les baiser mille fois ces yeux, ces pauvres yeux eteints!… Et c’est pour moi, c’est parce qu’il a voulu defendre sa mere qu’ils l’ont ainsi torture!… Ah! pourquoi ne suis-je pas morte avant ce jour fatal?… Pourquoi ne suis-je pas morte, mon Dieu?

STROGOFF. - Mourir!… toi, non… non!… Ne pleure pas, ma mere, et souviens-toi des paroles que je dis ici: Dieu reserve a ceux qui souffrent d’ineffables consolations!

MARFA. - De quelles consolations me parles-tu, a moi, dont les yeux ne doivent plus, sans pleurer, se fixer sur les tiens?

STROGOFF. - Le bonheur peut renaitre en ton ame.

MARFA. - Le bonheur?

STROGOFF. - Dieu fait des miracles, ma mere…

MARFA. - Des miracles! Que signifie?… Reponds, reponds, au nom du ciel!

STROGOFF. - Eh bien! apprends donc!… je, je… Ah! la joie! l’emotion de te retrouver… ma mere… ma…

MARFA. - Mon Dieu! la parole expire sur ses levres… Il palit… il perd connaissance!…

NADIA. - C’est l’emotion apres tant de fatigues!

MARFA. - Il faudrait pour le ranimer!… Ah! cette gourde! (Elle prend la gourde que Strogoff porte a son cote.) Rien! elle est vide… La-bas, de l’eau!… Va… va… Nadia! (Nadia prend la gourde et s’elance au fond sur le chemin qui monte vers la droite.) Michel, mon enfant, entends-moi, parle-moi, Michel!… Dis encore que tu me pardonnes tout ce que, par moi, tu as souffert!…

STROGOFF, d’une voix eteinte. - Mere!… mere!…

MARFA. - Ah!… il revient a lui!… (Regardant au fond.) Nadia! Nadia! (A ce moment Nadia qui a rempli la gourde se releve, mais aussitot le sergent tartare reparait et se precipite vers elle.)

LE SERGENT. - A moi, la belle fille!…

NADIA. - Laissez-moi.

LE SERGENT. - Non!… tu viendras de gre ou de force!… (Il veut l’entrainer.)

NADIA. - Laissez-moi!… Laissez-moi!

MARFA, apercevant Nadia. - Le miserable… Nadia!… (Elle court a Nadia.)

LE SERGENT. - Arriere!… (Il repousse Marfa, saisit Nadia dans ses bras et va l’enlever.)

NADIA, poussant un cri. - A moi, pitie!… a moi!

STROGOFF. - Nadia!… (Il se redresse, se leve; puis, par un mouvement irresistible, il se jette sur un des fusils deposes pres de l’arbre, il l’arme, il ajuste le sergent et fait feu. Le sergent tombe mort.)

MARFA et NADIA. - Oh! (Toutes deux, apres etre restees stupefaites un instant, redescendent en courant aupres de Strogoff.)

STROGOFF. - Que Dieu et le czar me pardonnent!… Cette contrainte nouvelle etait au-dessus de mes forces!

MARFA. - Ah! Michel, mon fils, tes yeux voient la lumiere du ciel!

NADIA. - Frere! Frere!… C’est donc vrai?

STROGOFF. - Oui, oui, je te vois, ma mere!… Oui, je te vois, Nadia!…

MARFA. - Mon enfant, mon enfant!… Quelle joie, quel bonheur, quelle ivresse!… Ah!… Je comprends tes paroles maintenant: Dieu garde aux affliges d’ineffables consolations…

NADIA. - Mais comment se fait-il?

MARFA. - Et d’ou vient ce miracle?…

STROGOFF. - Quand je croyais te regarder pour la derniere fois, ma mere, mes yeux se sont inondes de tant de pleurs, que le fer rougi n’a pu que les secher sans bruler mon regard!… Et comme il me fallait, pour sauver notre Siberie, traverser les lignes tartares: “Je suis aveugle, disais-je. Le Koran me protege… Je suis aveugle…” et je passais!

NADIA. - Mais pourquoi ne m’avoir pas dit… a moi?…

STROGOFF. - Parce qu’un instant d’imprudence ou d’oubli aurait pu te perdre avec moi, Nadia!…

MARFA. - Silence!… Ils reviennent.

CHAPTER VI.

JEAN DE BETHENCOURT, 1339-1425.

I.

The Norman cavalier — His ideas of conquest — What was known of the Canary Islands — Cadiz — The Canary Archipelago — Graciosa — Lancerota — Fortaventura — Jean de Bethencourt returns to Spain — Revolt of Berneval — His interview with King Henry III. — Gadifer visits the Canary Archipelago — Canary Island or “Gran Canaria” — Ferro Island — Palma Island.

Jean de Bethencourt was born about the year 1339, at Eu in Normandy. He was of good family, and Baron of St. Martin-le-Gaillard, and had distinguished himself both as a navigator and warrior; he was made chamberlain to Charles VI. But his tastes were more for travelling than a life at court; he resolved to make himself a still more illustrious name by further conquests, and soon an opportunity offered for him to carry out his plans.

Jean de Bethencourt.

On the coast of Africa there is a group of islands called the Canaries, which were once known as the Fortunate Islands. Juba, a son of one of the Numidian kings, is said to have been their first explorer, about the year of Rome 776. In the middle ages, according to some accounts, Arabs, Genoese, Portuguese, Spaniards, and Biscayans, had partially visited this interesting group of islands. In 1393, a Spanish gentleman named Almonaster, who was commanding an expedition, succeeded in landing on Lancerota, one of these islands, and brought back, with several prisoners, some produce which was a sufficient guarantee of the fertility of this archipelago.

The Norman cavalier now found the opening that he sought, and he determined to conquer the Canary Islands and try to convert the inhabitants to the Catholic faith. He was as intelligent, brave, and full of resources as he was energetic; and leaving his house of Grainville-la-Teinturiere at Caux, he went to La Rochelle, where he met the Chevalier Gadifer de la Salle, and having explained his project to him, they decided to go to the Canary Islands together. Jean de Bethencourt having collected an army and made his preparations, and had vessels fitted out and manned, Gadifer and he set sail; after experiencing adverse winds on the way to the Ile de Re, and being much harassed by the constant dissensions on board, they arrived at Vivero, and then at Corunna. Here they remained eight days, then set sail again, and doubling Cape Finisterre, followed the Portuguese coast to Cape St. Vincent, and arrived at Cadiz, where they made a longer stay. Here Bethencourt had a dispute with some Genoese merchants, who accused him of having taken their vessel, and he had to go to Seville, where King Henry III. heard his complaint and acquitted him from all blame. On his return to Cadiz he found part of his crew in open mutiny, and some of his sailors so frightened that they refused to continue the voyage, so the chevalier sent back the cowardly sailors, and set sail with those who were more courageous.

The vessel in which Jean de Bethencourt sailed was becalmed for three days, then, the weather improving, he reached the island of Graziosa, one of the smaller of the Canary group, in five days, and then the larger island of Lancerota, which is nearly the same size as the island of Rhodes. Lancerota has excellent pasturage, and arable land, which is particularly good for the cultivation of barley; its numerous fountains and cisterns are well supplied with excellent water. The orchilla, which is so much used in dyeing, grows abundantly here. The inhabitants of this island, who as a rule wear scarce any clothing, are tall and well-made, and the women, who wear leathern great-coats reaching to the ground, are very good-looking and honest.

The traveller, prior to disclosing his plans of conquest, wished to possess himself of some of the natives, but his ignorance of the country made this a difficult matter, so, anchoring under the shelter of a small island in the archipelago, he called a meeting of his companions to decide upon a plan of action. They all agreed that the only thing to be done was to take some of the natives by fair means or foul. Guardafia, the king of the island, treated Bethencourt more as a friend than a subject. A castle or rather fort was built at the south-western extremity of the island, and some men left there under the command of Berthin de Berneval, while Bethencourt set out with the rest of his followers for the island of Erbania or Fortaventura. Gadifer counselled a debarcation by night, which was done, and then he took the command of a small body of men and scoured the island with them for eight days without meeting one native, they having all fled to the mountains. Provisions failing, Gadifer was forced to return, and he went to the island of Lobos between Lancerota and Fortaventura; but there his chief sailor mutinied and it was not without difficulty that Gadifer and Bethencourt reached the fort on Lancerota.

Bethencourt resolved to return to Spain to get provisions and a new contingent of soldiers, for his crew he could not depend upon; so he left Gadifer in command and set sail for Spain in one of Gadifer’s ships.

It will be remembered that Berthin de Berneval had been left in command of the fort on Lancerota Island. Unfortunately he was Gadifer’s bitter enemy, and no sooner had Bethencourt set out than he tried to poison the minds of Gadifer’s men against him; he succeeded in inducing some, especially the Gascons, to revolt against the governor, who, quite innocent of Berneval’s base designs, was spending his time hunting sea-wolves on the island of Lobos with Remonnet de Leveden and several others. Remonnet having been sent to Lancerota for provisions, found no Berneval there, he having deserted the island with his accomplices for a port on Graziosa, where a coxswain, deceived by his promises, had placed his vessel at his disposal. From Graziosa, the traitor Berneval returned to Lancerota, and put the finishing stroke to his villany by pretending to make an alliance with the king of the island. The king, thinking that no officer of Bethencourt’s, in whom he had implicit confidence, could deceive him, came with twenty-four of his subjects to see Berneval, who seized them when asleep, had them bound, and then carried them off to Graziosa. The king managed to break his bonds, set three of his men free, and succeeded in escaping, but the remainder of his unfortunate companions were still prisoners, and Berneval gave them up to some Spanish thieves, who took them away to sell in a foreign land.

Berneval’s evil deeds did not stop here. By his order the vessel that Gadifer had sent to the fort at Lancerota was seized; Remonnet tried resistance, but his numbers were too small, and his supplications were useless to prevent Berneval’s men, and even Berneval himself, from destroying all the arms, furniture, and goods, which Bethencourt had placed in the fort at Lancerota. Insults were showered upon the governor, and Berneval cried, “I should like Gadifer de la Salle to know that if he were as young as I, I would kill him, but as he is not, I will spare him. If he is put above me I shall have him drowned, and then he can fish for sea-wolves.”

Meanwhile, Gadifer and his ten companions were in danger of perishing on the island of Lobos for want of food and fresh water, but happily the two chaplains of the fort of Lancerota had gone to Graziosa, and met the coxswain, who had been the victim of Berneval’s treason, and he sent one of his men named Ximenes with them back to Lancerota. There they found a small boat which they filled with provisions, and embarking with four men who were faithful to Gadifer, they succeeded in reaching Lobos, four leagues off, after a most dangerous passage.

Gadifer and his companions were suffering fearfully from hunger and thirst, when Ximenes arrived just in time to save them from perishing, and the governor learning Berneval’s treachery embarked in the boat for Lancerota, as soon as he was a little restored to health. He was grieved at Berneval’s conduct towards the poor islanders whom Bethencourt and he had sworn to protect. No! he never could have expected such wickedness in one who was looked upon as the most able of the whole band.

But what was Berneval doing meanwhile? After having betrayed his master, he did the same to the companions who had aided him in his evil deeds; he had twelve of them killed and then he set out for Spain to rejoin Bethencourt and make his own case good by representing all that had happened in his own way. It was to his interest to get rid of inconvenient witnesses, and therefore he abandoned his companions. These unfortunate men at first meditated imploring the pardon of the governor; they confessed all to the chaplains, but then, fearing the consequences of their deeds, they seized a boat and fled towards Morocco. The boat reached the coast of Barbary, where ten of the crew were drowned and the two others taken for slaves.

While all this was happening at Lancerota, Bethencourt arrived at Cadiz, where he took strong measures against his mutinous crew, and had the ringleaders imprisoned. Then he sent his vessel to Seville, where King Henry III. was at that time; but the ship sank in the Guadalquiver, a great loss to Gadifer, her owner.

Bethencourt having arrived at Seville, met a certain Francisque Calve who had lately come from the Canaries, and who offered to return thither with all the things needed by the governor, but Bethencourt could not agree to this proposal before he had seen the king.

Just at this time, Berneval arrived with some of his accomplices, and some islanders whom he intended to sell as slaves. He hoped to be able to deceive Bethencourt, but he had not reckoned upon a certain Courtille who was with him, who lost no time in denouncing the villany of Berneval, and on whose word the traitors were all imprisoned at Cadiz. Courtille also told of the treatment that the poor islanders had received; as Bethencourt could not leave Seville till he had had an audience with the king, he gave orders that they should receive every kindness, but while these preliminaries were being concluded, the vessel that contained them was taken to Aragon, and they were sold for slaves.

Bethencourt obtained the audience that he sought with the king of Castille, and after telling him the result of his expedition he said, “Sire, I come to ask your assistance and your leave to conquer the Canary Islands for the Catholic faith, and as you are king and lord of all the surrounding country, and the nearest Christian king to these islands, I beg you to receive the homage of your humble servant.” The king was very gracious to him and gave him dominion over these islands, and beyond this, a fifth of all the merchandise that should be brought from them to Spain. He gave him 20,000 maravedis, about 600l. to buy all that he needed, and also the right to coin money in the Canary Islands. Most unfortunately these 20,000 maravedis were confided to the care of a dishonest man, who fled to France, carrying the money with him.

However, Henry III. gave Bethencourt a well-rigged vessel manned by eighty men, and stocked with provisions, arms, &c. He was most grateful for this fresh bounty, and sent Gadifer an account of all that had happened, and his extreme disappointment and disgust at Berneval’s conduct, in whom he had so much confidence, announcing at the same time the speedy departure of the vessel given by the King of Castille.

Plan of Jerusalem.

But meanwhile very serious troubles had arisen on Lancerota. King Guardafia was so hurt at Berneval’s conduct that he had revolted, and some of Gadifer’s companions had been killed by the islanders. Gadifer insisted upon these subjects being punished, when one of the king’s relations named Ache, came to him proposing to dethrone the king, and put himself in his place. This Ache was a villain, who after having betrayed his king, proposed to betray the Normans, and to chase them from the country. Gadifer had no suspicion of his motives; wishing to avenge the death of his men, he accepted Ache’s proposal, and a short time afterwards, on the vigil of St. Catherine’s day, the king was seized, and conveyed to the fort in chains.

Some days afterwards, Ache, the new king of the island attacked Gadifer’s companions, mortally wounding several of them, but the following night Guardafia having made his escape from the fort seized Ache, had him stoned to death, and his body burnt. The governor (Gadifer) was so grieved by these scenes of violence, which were renewed daily, that he resolved to kill all the men on the island, and save only the women and children, whom he hoped to have baptized. But just at this time, the vessel that Bethencourt had freighted for the governor arrived, and brought besides the eighty men, provisions, &c. a letter which told him among other things that Bethencourt had done homage to the King of Castille for the Canary Islands. The governor was not well pleased at this news, for he thought that he ought to have had his share in the islands; but he concealed his displeasure, and gave the new comers a hearty welcome.

The arms were at once disembarked, and then Gadifer went on board the vessel to explore the neighbouring islands. Remonnet and several others joined him in this expedition, and they took two of the islanders with them to serve as guides.

They arrived safely at Fortaventura island; a few days after landing on the island, Gadifer set out with thirty-five men to explore the country; but soon the greater part of his followers deserted him, only thirteen men, including two archers, remaining with him. But he did not give up his project; after wading through a large stream, he found himself in a lovely valley shaded by numberless palm-trees; here having rested and refreshed himself, he set out again and climbed a hill. At the summit he found about fifty natives, who surrounded the small party and threatened to murder them. Gadifer and his companions showed no signs of fear, and succeeded in putting their enemies to flight; by the evening they were able to regain their vessel, carrying away four of the native women as prisoners.

Gadifer found himself in a lovely valley.

The next day Gadifer left the island and went to the Gran Canaria island anchoring in a large harbour lying between Telde and Argonney. Five hundred of the natives confronted them, but apparently with no hostile intentions; they gave them some fish-hooks and old iron in exchange for some of the natural productions of the island, such as figs, and dragon’s blood, a resinous substance taken from the dragon-tree, which has a very pleasant balsamic odour. The natives were very much on their guard with the strangers, for twenty years before this some of Captain Lopez’ men had invaded the island; so they would not allow Gadifer to land.

The governor was obliged to weigh anchor without exploring the island; he went to Ferro Island, and coasting along it arrived next at Gomera; it was night, and the sailors were attracted by the fires that the natives had lighted on the shore. When day broke Gadifer and his companions wished to land; but the islanders would not allow them to proceed when they reached the shore, and drove them back to their vessel. Much disappointed by his reception, Gadifer determined to make another attempt at Ferro Island; there he found that he could land without opposition, and he remained on the island twenty-two days. The interior of the island was very beautiful. Pine-trees grew in abundance, and clear streams of water added to its fertility. Quails were found in large numbers, as well as pigs, goats, and sheep.

From this fertile island the party of explorers went to Palma, and anchored in a harbour situated to the right of a large river. This is the furthest island of the Canary group; it is covered with pine and dragon-trees; from the abundance of fresh water the pasturage is excellent and the land might be cultivated with much profit. Its inhabitants are a tall, robust race, well made, with good features and very white skin. Gadifer remained a short time on this island; on leaving it he spent two days and two nights sailing round the other islands, and then returned to the fort on Lancerota. They had been absent three months. In the meantime, those of the party who had been left in the fort had waged a petty war with the natives, and had made a great number of prisoners. The Canarians, demoralized, now came daily to cast themselves on their mercy, and to pray for the consecration of baptism. Gadifer was so pleased to hear of this, that he sent one of his companions to Spain to inform Bethencourt of the state of the colony.

II.

JEAN DE BETHENCOURT.

The return of Jean de Bethencourt — Gadifer’s jealousy — Bethencourt visits his archipelago — Gadifer goes to conquer Gran Canaria — Disagreement of the two commanders — Their return to Spain — Gadifer blamed by the King — Return of Bethencourt — The natives of Fortaventura are baptized — Bethencourt revisits Caux — Returns to Lancerota — Lands on the African coast — Conquest of Gran Canaria, Ferro, and Palma Islands — Maciot appointed Governor of the archipelago — Bethencourt obtains the Pope’s consent to the Canary Islands being made an Episcopal See — His return to his country and his death.

The envoy had not reached Cadiz when Bethencourt landed at the fort on Lancerota. Gadifer gave him a hearty welcome, and so did the Canary islanders who had been baptized. A few days afterwards, King Guardafia came and threw himself on their mercy. He was baptized on the 20th of February, 1404, with all his followers. Bethencourt’s chaplains drew up a very simple form of instruction for their use, embracing the principal elements of Christianity, the creation, Adam and Eve’s fall, the history of Noah, the lives of the patriarchs, the life of our Saviour and His crucifixion by the Jews, finishing with an exhortation to believe the ten commandments, the Holy Sacrament of the Altar, Easter, confession, and some other points.

Bethencourt was an ambitious man. Not content with having explored, and so to speak, gained possession of the Canary Islands, he desired to conquer the African countries bordering on the ocean. This was his secret wish in returning to Lancerota, and meanwhile, he had full occupation in establishing his authority in these islands, of which he was only the nominal sovereign. He gave himself wholly to the task, and first visited the islands which Gadifer had explored.

But before he set out, a conversation took place between Gadifer and himself, which we must not omit to notice. Gadifer began boasting of all he had done, and asked for the gift of Fortaventura, Teneriffe, and Gomera Islands, as a recompense.

“My friend,” replied Bethencourt, “the islands that you ask me to give you are not yet conquered, but I do not intend you to be at any loss for your trouble, nor that you should be unrequited; but let us accomplish our project, and meanwhile remain the friends we have always been.”

“That is all very well,” replied Gadifer, “but there is one point on which I do not feel at all satisfied, and that is that you have done homage to the King of Castille for these islands, and so you call yourself absolute master over them.”

“With regard to that,” said Bethencourt, “I certainly have done homage for them, and so I am their rightful master, but if you will only patiently wait the end of our affair, I will give you what I feel sure will quite content you.”

“I shall not remain here,” replied Gadifer, “I am going back to France, and have no wish to be here any longer.”

Upon this they separated, but Gadifer gradually cooled down and agreed to accompany Bethencourt in his exploration of the islands.

They set out for Fortaventura well armed and with plenty of provisions. They remained there three months, and began by seizing a number of the natives, and sending them to Lancerota. This was such a usual mode of proceeding at that time that we are less surprised at it than we should be at the present day. The whole island was explored and a fort named Richeroque built on the slope of a high mountain; traces of it may still be found in a hamlet there.

Just at this time, and when he had scarcely had time to forget his grievances and ill-humour, Gadifer accepted the command of a small band of men who were to conquer Gran Canaria.

He set out on the 25th July, 1404, but this expedition was not fated to meet with any good results, winds and waves were against it. At last they reached the port of Telde, but as it was nearly dark and a strong wind blowing they dared not land, and they went on to the little town of Aginmez, where they remained eleven days at anchor; the natives, encouraged by their king, laid an ambush for Gadifer and his followers; there was a skirmish, blood was shed, and the Castilians, feeling themselves outnumbered, went to Telde for two days, and thence to Lancerota.

Gadifer was much disappointed at his want of success, and began to be discontented with everything around him. Above all, his jealousy of Bethencourt increased daily, and he gave way to violent recriminations, saying openly that the chief had not done everything himself, and that things would not have been in so advanced a stage as they were if others had not aided him. This reached Bethencourt’s ears; he was much incensed, and reproached Gadifer. High words followed, Gadifer insisted upon leaving the country, and as Bethencourt had just made arrangements for returning to Spain, he proposed to Gadifer to accompany him, that their cause of disagreement might be inquired into. This proposal being accepted, they set sail, but each in his own ship. When they reached Seville, Gadifer laid his complaints before the king, but as the king gave judgment against him, fully approving of Bethencourt’s conduct, he left Spain, and returning to France, never revisited the Canary Islands which he had so fondly hoped to conquer for himself.

Bethencourt took leave of the king almost at the same time, for the new colony demanded his immediate presence there; but before he left, the inhabitants of Seville, with whom he was a great favourite, showed him much kindness; what he valued more highly than anything else was the supply of arms, gold, silver, and provisions that they gave him. He went to Fortaventura, where his companions were delighted to see him. Gadifer had left his son Hannibal in his place, but Bethencourt treated him with much cordiality.

The first days of the installation of Bethencourt were far from peaceful; skirmishes were of constant occurrence, the natives even destroying the fortress of Richeroque, after burning and pillaging a chapel. Bethencourt was determined to overcome them, and in the end succeeded. He sent for several of his men from Lancerota, and gave orders that the fortress should be rebuilt.

In spite of all this the combats began again, and many of the islanders fell, among others a giant of nine feet high, whom Bethencourt would have liked to have made prisoner. The governor could not trust Gadifer’s son nor the men who followed him, for Hannibal seemed to have inherited his father’s jealousy, but as Bethencourt needed his help, he concealed his distrust. Happily, Bethencourt’s men outnumbered those who were faithful to Gadifer, but Hannibal’s taunts became so unbearable that Jean de Courtois was sent to remind him of his oath of obedience and to advise him to keep it.

Courtois was very badly received, he having a crow to pick with Hannibal with regard to some native prisoners whom Gadifer’s followers had kept and would not give up. Hannibal was obliged to obey the orders, but Courtois represented his conduct to Bethencourt on his return in the very worst light, and tried to excite his master’s anger against him. “No, sir,” answered the upright Bethencourt, “I do not wish him to be wronged, we must never carry our power to its utmost limits, we should always endeavour to control ourselves and preserve our honour rather than seek for profit.”

In spite of these intestine discords, the war continued between the natives and the conquerors, but the latter being well-armed always came off victorious. The kings of Fortaventura sent a native to Bethencourt saying that they wished to make peace with him, and to become Christians. This news delighted the conqueror, and he sent word that they would be well received if they would come to him. Almost immediately on receiving this reply, King Maxorata, who governed the north-westerly part of the island, set out, and with his suite of twenty-two persons, was baptized on the 18th of January, 1405. Three days afterwards twenty-two other natives received the sacrament of baptism. On the 25th of January the king who governed the peninsula of Handia, the south-eastern part of the island, came with twenty-six of his subjects, and was baptized. In a short time all the inhabitants of Fortaventura had embraced the Christian religion.

The King of Maxorata arrived with his suite.

Bethencourt was so elated with these happy results, that he arranged to revisit his own country, leaving Courtois as governor during his absence. He set out on the last day of January amid the prayers and blessings of his people, taking with him three native men and one woman, to whom he wished to show something of France. He reached Harfleur in twenty-one days, and two days later was at his own house, where he only intended making a short stay, and then returning to the Canary Islands. He met with a very warm reception from everybody. One of his chief motives in returning to France was the hope of finding people of all classes ready to return with him, on the promise of grants of land in the island. He succeeded in finding a certain number of emigrants, amongst whom were twenty-eight soldiers, of whom twenty-three took their wives. Two vessels were prepared to transport the party, and the 6th of May was the day named for them to set out. On the 9th of May they set sail, and landed on Lancerota just four mouths and a half after Bethencourt had quitted it.

He was received with trumpets, clarionets, tambourines, harps, and other musical instruments. Thunder could scarcely have been heard above the sound of this music. The natives celebrated his return by dancing and singing, and crying out, “Here comes our king.” Jean de Courtois hastened to welcome his master, who asked him how everything was going on; he replied, “Sir, all is going on as well as possible.”

Bethencourt’s companions stayed with him at the fort of Lancerota; they appeared much pleased with the country, enjoying the dates and other fruits on the island, “and nothing seemed to harm them.” After they had been a short time at Lancerota, Bethencourt went with them to see Fortaventura, and here his reception was as warm as it had been at Lancerota, especially from the islanders and their two kings. The kings supped with them at the fortress of Richeroque, which Courtois had rebuilt.

Bethencourt announced his intention of conquering Gran Canaria Island, as he had done Lancerota and Fortaventura; his hope was that his nephew Maciot, whom he had brought with him from France, would succeed him in the government of these islands, so that the name of Bethencourt might be perpetuated there. He imparted his project to Courtois, who highly approved of it, and added, “Sir, when you return to France, I will go with you. I am a bad husband. It is five years since I saw my wife, and, by my troth, she did not much care about it.”

The 6th of October, 1405, was the day fixed for starting for Gran Canaria, but contrary winds carried the ships towards the African coast, and they passed by Cape Bojador, where Bethencourt landed. He made an expedition twenty-four miles inland, and seized some natives and a great number of camels that he took to his vessels. They put as many of the camels as possible on board, wishing to acclimatize them in the Canary Islands, and the baron set sail again, leaving Cape Bojador, which he had the honour of seeing thirty years before the Portuguese navigators.

During this voyage from the coast of Africa to Gran Canaria, the three vessels were separated in stormy weather, one going to Palma, and another to Fortaventura, but finally they all reached Gran Canaria. This island is sixty miles long and thirty-six miles broad; at the northern end it is flat, but very hilly towards the south. Firs, dragon-trees, olive, fig, and date-trees form large forests, and sheep, goats, and wild dogs are found here in large numbers. The soil is very fertile, and produces two crops of corn every year, and that without any means of improving it. Its inhabitants form a large body of people, and consider themselves all on an equality.

When Bethencourt had landed he set to work at once to conquer the island. Unfortunately his Norman soldiers were so proud of their success on the coast of Africa, that they thought they could conquer this island with its ten thousand natives, with a mere handful of men. Bethencourt seeing that they were so confident of success, recommended them to be prudent, but they took no heed of this and bitterly they rued their confidence. After a skirmish, in which they seemed to have got the better of the islanders, they had left their ranks, when the natives surprised them, massacring twenty-two of them, including Jean de Courtois and Hannibal, Gadifer’s son.

After this sad affair Bethencourt left Gran Canaria and went to try to subdue Palma. The natives of this island were very clever in slinging stones, rarely missing their aim, and in the encounters with these islanders many fell on both sides, but more natives than Normans, whose loss, however, amounted to one hundred.

After six weeks of skirmishing, Bethencourt left Palma, and went to Ferro for three months, a large island twenty-one miles long and fifteen broad. It is a flat table-land, and large woods of pine and laurel-trees shade it in many places. The mists, which are frequent, moisten the soil and make it especially favourable for the cultivation of corn and the vine. Game is abundant; pigs, goats, and sheep run wild about the country; there are also great lizards in shape like the iguana of America. The inhabitants both men and women are a very fine race, healthy, lively, agile and particularly well made, in fact Ferro is one of the pleasantest islands of the group.

Bethencourt returned to Fortaventura with his ships after conquering Ferro and Palma. This island is fifty-one miles in length by twenty-four in breadth, and has high mountains as well as large plains, but its surface is less undulating than that of the other islands. Large streams of fresh water run through the island; the euphorbia, a deadly poison, grows largely here, and date and olive-trees are abundant, as well as a plant that is invaluable for dyeing and whose cultivation would be most remunerative. The coast of Fortaventura has no good harbours for large vessels, but small ones can anchor there quite safely. It was in this island that Bethencourt began to make a partition of land to the colonists, and he succeeded in doing it so evenly that every one was satisfied with his portion. Those colonists whom he had brought with him were to be exempted from taxes for nine years.

The question of religion, and religious administration could not fail to be of the deepest interest to so pious a man as Bethencourt, so he resolved to go to Rome and try to obtain a bishop for this country, who “would order and adorn the Roman Catholic faith.” Before setting out he appointed his nephew Maciot as lieutenant and governor of the islands. Under his orders two sergeants were to act, and enforce justice; he desired that twice a year news of the colony should be sent to him in Normandy, and the revenue from Lancerota and Fortaventura was to be devoted to building two churches. He said to his nephew Maciot, “I give you full authority in everything to do whatever you think best, and I believe you will do all for my honour and to my advantage. Follow as nearly as possible Norman and French customs, especially in the administration of justice. Above all things, try and keep peace and unity among yourselves, and care for each other as brothers, and specially try that there shall be no rivalry among the gentlemen; I have given to each one his share and the country is quite large enough for each to have his own sphere. I can tell you nothing further beyond again impressing the importance of your all living as good friends together, and then all will be well.”

Bethencourt remained three months in Fortaventura and the other islands. He rode about among the people on his mule, and found many of the natives beginning to speak Norman-French. Maciot and the other gentlemen accompanied him, he pointing out what was best to be done and the most honest way of doing it. Then he gave notice that he would set out for Rome on the ensuing 15th of December. Returning to Lancerota, he remained there till his departure, and ordered all the gentlemen he had brought with him, the workmen, and the three kings to appear before him two days before his departure, to tell them what he wished done, and to commend himself and them to God’s protection.

None failed to appear at this meeting; they were all received at the fort on Lancerota, and sumptuously entertained. When the repast was over, he spoke to them, especially impressing the duty of obedience to his nephew Maciot upon them, the retention of the fifth of everything for himself, and also the exercise of all Christian virtues and of fervent love to God. This done, he chose those who were to accompany him to Rome, and prepared to set out.

His vessel had scarcely set sail when cries and groans were heard on all sides, both Europeans and natives alike regretting this just master, who they feared would never return to them. A great number waded into the water, and tried to stop the vessel that carried him away from them, but the sails were set and Bethencourt was really gone. “May God keep him safe from all harm,” was the utterance of many that day. In a week he was at Seville, from thence he went to Valladolid, where the king received him very graciously. He related the narrative of his conquests to the king, and requested from him letters recommending him to the Pope, that he might have a bishop appointed for the islands. The king gave him the letters, and loaded him with gifts, and then Bethencourt set out for Rome with a numerous retinue.

He remained three weeks in the eternal city, and was admitted to kiss Pope Innocent VII.‘s foot, who complimented him on his having made so many proselytes to the Christian faith, and on his bravery in having ventured so far from his native country. When the bulls were prepared as Bethencourt had requested, and Albert des Maisons was appointed Bishop of the Canary Islands, the Norman took leave of the Pope after receiving his blessing.

The new prelate took leave of Bethencourt, and set out at once for his diocese. He went by way of Spain, taking with him some letters from Bethencourt to the king. Then he set sail for Fortaventura and arrived there without any obstacle. Maciot gave him a cordial reception, and the bishop at once began to organize his diocese, governing with gentleness and courtesy, preaching now in one island, now in another, and offering up public prayers for Bethencourt’s safety. Maciot was universally beloved, but especially by the natives. This happy, peaceful time only lasted for five years, for later on, Maciot began to abuse his unlimited power, and levied such heavy exactions that he was obliged to fly the country to save his life.

Bethencourt after leaving Rome went to Florence and to Paris, and then to his own chateau, where a great number of people came to pay their respects to the king of the Canary Islands, and if on his return the first time he was much thought of, his reception this second time far exceeded it. Bethencourt established himself at Grainville; although he was an old man, his wife was still young. He had frequent accounts from Maciot of his beloved islands, and he hoped one day to return to his kingdom, but God willed otherwise. One day in the year 1425 he was seized with what proved to be fatal illness; he was aware that the end was near; and after making his will and receiving the last sacraments of the church he passed away. “May God keep him and pardon his sins,” says the narrative of his life; “he is buried in the church of Grainville la Teinturiere, in front of the high altar.”

Jean de Bethencourt makes his will.

CHAPTER I.

THE CONQUERORS OF CENTRAL AMERICA.

I.

Hojeda — Americus Vespucius — The New World named after him — Juan de la Cosa — Vincent Yanez Pinzon — Bastidas — Diego de Lepe — Diaz de Solis — Ponce de Leon and Florida — Balboa discovers the Pacific Ocean — Grijalva explores the coast of Mexico.

The letters and narratives of Columbus and his companions, especially those dwelling upon the large quantity of gold and pearls found in the recently discovered countries, had inflamed the imagination of eager traders, and of numbers of gentlemen who loved adventure. On the 10th of April, 1495, the Spanish government had issued an order allowing any one who might wish to do so, to go and discover new countries; but this privilege was so much abused, and Columbus complained so bitterly of its trenching upon established rights, that the permission was withdrawn on the 2nd of June, 1497, and four years later it became necessary to repeat the prohibition with more severe penalties attached to its infringement. The effect of the royal decree was at once to produce a kind of general rush to the Indies, and this was favoured by Bishop Fonseca of Badajoz, through whose hands passed all business connected with the Indies, and of whom Columbus had had so much reason to complain.

The admiral had but just left San-Lucar on his third voyage, when four expeditions of discovery were fitted out almost at the same moment, at the cost of some rich ship-owners, foremost among whom we find the Pinzons and Americus Vespucius. The first of these expeditions, which left the port of Santa-Maria on the 20th of May, 1499, consisted of four vessels, and was commanded by Alonzo Hojeda. Juan de la Cosa sailed with him as pilot; Americus Vespucius was also on board, without any very clearly defined duties, but he would seem to have been astronomer to the fleet.

Americus Vespucius.

Fac-simile of an old print.

Before entering on a brief account of this voyage, we will glance for a few moments at the three men whom we have just named; the last of the three especially, plays a most important part in the discovery of the New World, which received its name from him.

Hojeda, born at Cuenca about 1465, and brought up in the household of the Duke of Medina-Celi, had gained his first experience in arms in the wars against the Moors. Columbus enrolled him amongst the adventurers whom he recruited for his second voyage, when Hojeda distinguished himself alike by his cool courage and his readiness in surmounting all difficulties. What caused his complete rupture with Columbus remains a mystery; it appears still more inexplicable when we think of the distinguished services that Hojeda had rendered, especially in 1495, at the battle of La Vega, when the Caribbean Confederation was annihilated. All we know is, that on Hojeda’s return to Spain he found shelter and protection with Bishop Fonseca. It is said even that the Indian minister supplied him with the journal of the admiral’s last voyage, and the map of the countries which Columbus had discovered.

The first pilot employed by Hojeda was Juan de la Cosa, born probably at Santona, in the Biscayan country. He had often sailed along the coast of Africa before accompanying Columbus on his first voyage, while in the second expedition he filled the post of hydrographer (maestro de hacer cartas).

As specimens of La Cosa’s talent in drawing maps may be mentioned two very curious ones still extant; one showing all the territory that had been acquired in Africa in 1500, the other on vellum, and enriched with colour like the first, giving the discoveries made by Columbus and his successors. The second pilot was Bartholomew Roldan, who had likewise sailed with Columbus on his voyage to Paria.

As to Americus Vespucius, his duties were not, as we have said, very clearly defined, he was there to aid in making discoveries (per ajutare a discoprire, says the Italian text of his letter to Soderini). Born at Florence on the 9th of March, 1451, Amerigo Vespucci belonged to a family of distinction and wealth. He had made mathematics, natural philosophy, and astrology (as it was then called) his special studies. His knowledge of history and literature, judging from his letters, appears to have been somewhat vague and ill-digested. He left Florence in 1492 without any special aim in view, and went to Spain, where he occupied himself at first in commercial pursuits. We hear of him in Seville acting as factor in the powerful trading house of his fellow countryman, Juanoto Berardi. As this house had advanced money to Columbus for his second voyage, it is not unlikely that Vespucius had become acquainted with the admiral at this period of his career. On Juanoto’s death in 1495, Vespucius was placed by his heirs at the head of the financial department of the house. Whether he may have been tired of a situation that he thought below his powers, or been seized in his turn with the fever for making new discoveries, or whether he hoped to make his fortune rapidly in the new countries reputed to be so rich; whatever in short may have been the motive that actuated him, at least this we know, that he joined Hojeda’s expedition in 1499, this fact being so stated in Hojeda’s deposition in the law-suit instituted by the Treasury with the heirs of Columbus.

The flotilla, consisting of four vessels, set sail on the 20th of May from Santa-Maria, taking a south-westerly course, and in twenty-seven days the American continent was sighted at the place which was named Venezuela, because the houses being built upon piles reminded the beholders of Venice. Hojeda, after some ineffectual attempts to hold intercourse with the natives, with whom he had several skirmishes, next saw the Island of Margarita; after sailing about 250 miles to the east of the river Orinoco he reached the Gulf of Paria, and entered a bay called the Bay of Las Perlas, from the natives of that part being employed in the pearl fisheries.

Guided by the maps of Columbus, Hojeda passed by the Dragon’s-Mouth, which separates Trinidad from the continent, and returned westward to Cape La Vela. Then, after touching at the Caribbee Islands, where he made a number of prisoners, whom he hoped to sell for slaves in Spain, he was obliged to cast anchor at Yaquimo, in Hispaniola, on the 5th of September, 1499.

Columbus, knowing Hojeda’s courage and his restless spirit only too well, feared that he would introduce a new element of discord into the colony. He therefore despatched Francesco Roldan with two caravels to inquire into his motives in coming to the island, and if necessary to prevent his landing. The admiral’s fears were but too well grounded; Hojeda had scarcely landed before he had an interview with some of the malcontents, inciting them to a rising at Xaragua, and to a determination to expel Columbus. After some skirmishes, which had not ended to Hojeda’s advantage, a meeting was arranged for him with Roldan, Diego d’Escobar, and Juan de la Cosa, when they prevailed upon him to leave the island. “He took with him,” says Las Casas, “a prodigious cargo of slaves, whom he sold in the market at Cadiz for enormous sums of money.” He returned to Spain in February, 1500, where he had been preceded by Americus Vespucius and B. Roldan on the 18th of October, 1499.

The most southerly point that Hojeda had reached in this voyage was 4deg north latitude, and he had only spent fourteen weeks on the voyage of discovery, properly so called. If we appear to have dwelt at some length upon this voyage, it is because it was the first one made by Vespucius. Some authors, Varnhagen for instance, and quite recently, Mr. H. Major, in his history of Prince Henry the Navigator, assert that Vespucius’ first voyage was in 1497, and consequently that he must have seen the American continent before Columbus, but we prefer to follow Humboldt, who spent so many years in studying the history of the discovery of America, in his opinion that 1499 was the right date, also M. Ed. Charton and M. Jules Codine, the latter of whom discussed this question in the Report of the Geographical Society for 1873, apropos of Mr. Major’s book.

“If it were true,” says Voltaire, “that Vespucius had discovered the American Continent, yet the glory would not be his; it belongs undoubtedly to the man who had the genius and courage to undertake the first voyage, to Columbus.” As Newton says in his argument with Leibnitz, “the glory is due only to the inventor.” But we agree with M. Codine when he says, “How can we allow that there was an expedition in 1497 which resulted in the discovery of above 2500 miles of the coast-line of the mainland, when there is no trace of it left either among the great historians of that time, or in the legal depositions in connexion with the claims made by the heir of Columbus against the Spanish Government, in which the priority of the discoveries of each leader of an expedition is carefully mentioned, with the part of the coast explored by each?” Finally, the authentic documents extracted from the archives of the Casa de contratacion make it evident that Vespucius was entrusted with the preparation of the vessels destined for the third voyage of Columbus at Seville and at San Lucar from the middle of August, 1497, till the departure of Columbus on the 30th of May, 1498. The narratives of the voyages of Vespucius are very diffuse and wanting in precision and order; the information they give upon the places he visited is so vague, that it might apply to one part of the coast as well as to another; as to the localities treated of, as well as of the companions of Vespucius, there are no indications given of a nature to aid the historian. Not a single name is given of any well-known person, and the dates are contradictory in those famous letters which have given endless work to commentators. Humboldt says of them “There is an element of discord in the most authentic documents relating to the Florentine navigator.” We have given an account of Hojeda’s first voyage, which coincides with that of Vespucius according to Humboldt, who has compared the principal incidents of the two narratives. Varnhagen asserts that Vespucius, having started on the 10th of May, 1497, entered the Gulf of Honduras on the 10th of June, coasted by Yucatan and Mexico, sailed up the Mississippi, and at the end of February, 1498, doubled the Cape of Florida. After anchoring for thirty-seven days at the mouth of the St. Lawrence, he returned to Cadiz in October, 1498.

If Vespucius had really made this marvellous voyage, he would have far outstripped all the navigators of his time, and would have fully deserved that his name should be given to the newly-discovered continent, whose coast-line he had explored for so great a distance. But nothing is less certain, and Humboldt’s opinion has hitherto appeared to the best writers to offer the largest amount of probability.

Americus Vespucius made three other voyages. Humboldt identifies the first with that of Vincent Yanez Pinzon, and M. d’Avezac with that of Diego de Lepe (1499-1500). At the close of this latter year, Giuliano Bartholomeo di Giocondo induced Vespucius to enter the service of Emmanuel, King of Portugal, and he accomplished two more voyages at the expense of his new master. On the first of these two voyages, he was no higher in command than he had been in his earlier ones, and only accompanied the expedition as one whose intimate acquaintance with all nautical matters might prove of service under certain circumstances. During this voyage the ships coasted along the American shores from Cape St. Augustine to 52deg of south latitude. The fourth voyage of Vespucius was marked by the wreck of the flag-ship off the Island of Fernando de Noronha, which prevented the other vessels from continuing their voyage towards Malacca by way of the Cape of Good Hope, and obliged the crews to land at All Saints’ Bay, in Brazil.

This fourth voyage was unquestionably made with Gonzalo Coelho, but we are quite ignorant as to who was in command on the third voyage. These various expeditions had not tended to enrich Vespucius, while his position at the Portuguese court was so far from satisfactory that he determined to re-enter the service of the King of Spain. By him he was made Piloto Mayor on the 22nd of March, 1508. There were some valuable emoluments attached for his advantage to this appointment, which enabled him to end his days, if not as a rich man, at least as one far removed from want. He died at Seville on the 22nd of February, 1512, with the same conviction as Columbus, that he had reached the shores of Asia. Americus Vespucius is especially famous from the New World having been named after him, instead of being called Columbia, as in all justice it should have been, but with this Vespucius had nothing to do. He was for a long time charged, though most unjustly, with impudence, falsehood, and deceit, it being alleged that he wished to veil the glory of Columbus and to arrogate to himself the honour of a discovery which did not belong to him. This was an utterly unfounded accusation, for Vespucius was both loved and esteemed by Columbus and his contemporaries, and there is nothing in his writings to justify this calumnious assertion. Seven printed documents exist which are attributed to Vespucius; they are — the abridged accounts of his four voyages, two narratives of his third and fourth voyages, in the form of letters, addressed to Lorenzo de Pier Francesco de Medici, and a letter addressed to the same nobleman, relative to the Portuguese discoveries in the Indies. These documents, printed and bound up as small thin volumes, were soon translated into various languages and distributed throughout Europe.

It was in the year 1507 that a certain Hylacolymus, whose real name was Martin Waldtzemuller, first proposed to give the name of America to the new part of the world. He did so in a book printed at Saint Die and called Cosmographia introductio. In 1509 a small geographical treatise appeared at Strasburg adopting the proposal of Hylacolymus; and in 1520 an edition of Pomponius Mela was printed at Basle, giving a map of the New World with the name of America. From this time the number of works employing the denomination proposed by Waldtzemuller increased perpetually.

Some years later, when Waldtzemuller was better informed as to the real discoverer of America and of the value to be placed upon the voyages of Vespucius, he eliminated from his book all that related to the latter, and substituted everywhere the name of Columbus for that of Vespucius, but it was too late, the same error has prevailed ever since.

As to Vespucius himself, it seems very unlikely that he was at all aware of the excitement which prevailed in Europe, nor of what was passing at St. Die. The testimony that has been unanimously borne to his honourable and upright conduct should surely clear him from the unmerited accusations which have for too long a time clouded his memory.

Three other expeditions left Spain almost at the same time as that of Hojeda. The first of these, consisting of but one vessel, sailed from Barra Saltez in June 1499. Pier Alonzo Nino, who had served under Columbus in his two last voyages, was its commander, and he was accompanied by Christoval Guerra, a merchant of Seville, who probably defrayed the expenses of the expedition. This voyage to the coast of Paria seems to have been dictated more by the hope of lucrative commerce than by the interests of science. No new discoveries were made, but the two voyagers returned to Spain in April, 1500, bringing with them so large a quantity of valuable pearls as to excite the cupidity of their countrymen, who became anxious to try their own fortunes in the same direction.

The second expedition was commanded by Vincent Yanez Pinzon, the younger brother of Alonzo Pinzon who had been captain of the Pinta and had shown so much jealousy of Columbus, even adopting the following mendacious device: —

A Castilla, y a Leon

Nuevo Mundo dio Pinzon.

Yanez Pinzon, whose devotion to the admiral equalled his brother’s jealousy, had advanced an eighth part of the funds required for the expedition of 1492, and had on that occasion been in command of the Nina.

He set out in December, 1499, with four vessels, of which only two returned to Palos at the end of September, 1500. He touched the coast of the newly discovered continent at a point near the shore visited by Hojeda some months before, and explored the coast for some 2400 miles, discovering Cape St. Augustine at 8deg 20’ south latitude, following the coast-line in a north-westerly direction to Rio Grande, which he named Santa-Maria de la Mar dulce, and continuing in the same direction as far as Cape St. Vincent. Diego de Lepe explored the same coasts with two caravels from January to June, 1500; there is nothing particular to record of this voyage beyond the very important observation that was made on the direction of the coast-line of the continent starting from Cape St. Augustine. Lepe had but just returned to Spain when two vessels left Cadiz, equipped by Rodrigo M. Bastidas, a wealthy and highly respectable man, with the view of making some fresh discoveries, but above all with the object of collecting as large a quantity of gold and pearls as possible, for which were to be bartered glass beads and other worthless trifles. Juan de la Cosa, whose talents as a navigator were proverbial, and who knew these coasts well from having explored them, was really at the head of this expedition. The sailors went on shore and saw the Rio Sinu, the Gulf of Urabia, and reached the Puerto del Retrete or de los Escribanos, in the Isthmus of Panama. This harbour was not visited by Columbus till the 26th of November, 1502; it is situated about seventeen miles from the once celebrated, but now destroyed town of Nombre de Dios. In fact this expedition, which had been organized by a merchant, became, thanks to Juan de la Cosa, one of the voyages the most fertile in discoveries; but alas! it came to a sad termination; the vessels were lost in the Gulf of Xaragua, and Bastidas and La Cosa were obliged to make their way by land to St. Domingo. When they arrived there, Bovadilla, the upright man and model governor, whose infamous conduct to Columbus we have already mentioned, had them arrested, on the plea that they had bought some gold from the Indians of Xaragua; he sent them off to Spain, which was only reached after a fearfully stormy voyage, some of the vessels being lost on the way.

After this expedition, so fruitful in results, voyages of discovery became rather less frequent for some years; the Spaniards being occupied in asserting their supremacy in the countries in which they had already founded colonies.

Indians devoured by Dogs.

From an old print.

The colonization of Hispaniola had commenced in 1493, when the town of Isabella was built. Two years afterwards Christopher Columbus had travelled over the island and had subjugated the poor savages, by means of those terrible dogs which had been trained to hunt Indians, and unaccustomed as the natives were to any hard work, he had forced them to toil in the mines. Both Bovadilla and Ovando treating the Indians as a herd of cattle, had divided them among the colonists as slaves. The cruelty with which this unfortunate people was treated became more and more unbearable. By means of a despicable ambush, Ovando seized the Queen of Xaragua and 300 of her principal subjects, and at a given signal they were all put to the sword without there being any crime adduced against them. “For some years,” says Robertson, “the gold brought into the royal treasury of Spain amounted to about 460,000 pesos (2,400,000 livres of the currency of Tours) an enormous sum if we take into consideration the great increase in the value of money since the beginning of the sixteenth century.” In 1511 Diego Velasquez conquered Cuba with 300 men, and here again were enacted the terrible scenes of bloodshed and pillage which have rendered the Spanish name so sadly notorious. They cut off the thumbs of the natives, put out their eyes, and poured boiling oil or melted lead into their wounds, even when they did not torture them by burning them over a slow fire to extract from them the secret of the treasures of which they were believed to be the possessors. It was only natural under these circumstances that the population rapidly decreased, and the day was not far off when it would be wholly exterminated. To understand fully the sufferings of this race thus odiously persecuted, the touching and horrible narrative of Las Casas must be read, himself the indefatigable defender of the Indians.

Indians burnt alive.

From an old print.

In Cuba, the Cacique Hattuey was made prisoner and condemned to be burnt. When he was tied to the stake, a Franciscan monk tried to convert him, promising him that if he would only embrace the Christian faith, he would be at once admitted to all the joys of Paradise. “Are there any Spaniards in that land of happiness and joy of which you speak?” asked Hattuey. “Yes,” replied the monk, “but only those who have been just and good in their lives.” “The very best among them can have neither justice nor mercy!” said the poor cacique, “I do not wish to go to any place where I should meet a single man of that accursed race.”

Does not this fact suffice to paint the degree of exasperation to which these unfortunate people had been driven? And these horrors were repeated wherever the Spaniards set foot! We will throw a veil over these atrocities practised by men who thought themselves civilized, and who pretended that they wished to convert to Christianity, the religion pre-eminently of love and mercy, a race who were in reality less savage than themselves.

In 1504 and 1505 four vessels explored the Gulf of Urabia. This was the first voyage in which Juan de la Cosa had the supreme command. This seems, too, to have been about the date of Hojeda’s third voyage, when he went to the territory of Coquibacoa, a voyage that certainly was made, as Humboldt says, but of which we have no clear account.

In 1509 Juan Diaz de Solis, in concert with Vincent Yanez Pinzon, discovered a vast province, since known by the name of Yucatan.

“Though this expedition was not a very remarkable one in itself,” says Robertson, “it deserves to be noticed as it led to discoveries of the utmost importance.” For the same reason we must mention the voyage of Diego d’Ocampo, who being charged to sail round Cuba, was the first to ascertain the fact that it was a large island, Columbus having always regarded it as part of the continent. Two years later Juan Diaz de Solis and Vincent Pinzon sailing southwards towards the equinoctial line, advanced as far as the 40deg of south latitude, and found, to their surprise, that the continent extended on their right hand even to this immense distance. They landed several times, and took formal possession of the country, but could not found any colonies there, on account of the small resources they had at their command. The principal result of this voyage was the more exact knowledge which it gave of the extent of this part of the globe.

Alonzo de Hojeda, whose adventures we have narrated above, was the first to think of founding a colony on the mainland; although he had no means of his own, his courage and enterprising spirit soon gained him associates, who furnished him with the funds needed for carrying out his plans.

With the same object Diego de Nicuessa, a rich colonist of Hispaniola, organized an expedition in 1509.

King Ferdinand, who was always lavish of encouragements which cost little, gave both Hojeda and Nicuessa honourable titles and patents of nobility, but not a single maravedis (a Spanish coin). He also divided the newly-discovered continent into two governments, of which one was to extend from Cape La Vela to the Gulf of Darien, and the other from the Gulf of Darien to Cape Gracias a Dios. The first was given to Hojeda, the second to Nicuessa. These two “conquistadores” had to deal with a population far less easy to manage than that of the Antilles. Determined to resist to the utmost the invasion of their country, they adopted means of resistance hitherto unknown to the Spaniards. Thus the strife became deadly. In a single engagement seventy of Hojeda’s companions fell under the arrows of the savages, fearful weapons steeped in “curare,” so fatal a poison that the slightest wound was followed by death. Nicuessa on his side, had much difficulty in defending himself, and in spite of two considerable reinforcements from Cuba, the greater number of his followers perished during the year from wounds, fatigue, privations, or sickness. The survivors founded the small colony of Santa-Maria el Antigua upon the Gulf of Darien, and placed it under the command of Balboa.

Before we speak of Balboa’s wonderful expedition, we must notice the discovery of a country that forms the most northerly side of that arc, cut so deeply into the continent, and which bears the name of the Gulf of Mexico. In 1502 Juan Ponce de Leon, a member of one of the oldest families in Spain, had arrived in Hispaniola with Ovando. He had assisted in its subjugation, and in 1508 had conquered the island of San Juan de Porto Rico. Having learnt from the Indians that there existed a fountain in the island of Bimini which possessed the miraculous power of restoring youth to all who drank of its waters, Ponce de Leon resolved to go in search of it. Infirmities must have been already creeping on him at fifty years of age, or he would scarcely have felt the need of trying this fountain. Ponce de Leon equipped three vessels at his own expense, and set out from St. Germain in Porto Rico on the 1st of March, 1512. He went first to the Lucayan Islands, which he searched in vain, and then to the Bahamas. If he did not succeed in finding the fountain of youth which he sought so credulously, at least he had the satisfaction of discovering an apparently fertile tract of country, which he named Florida, either from his landing there on Palm Sunday, (Paques-Fleuries), or perhaps from its delightful aspect. Such a discovery would have contented many a traveller, but Ponce de Leon went from one island to another, tasting the water of every stream that he met with, without the satisfaction of seeing his white hair again becoming black or his wrinkles disappearing. After spending six months in this fruitless search, he was tired of playing the dupe, so giving up the business he returned to Porto Rico on the 5th of October, leaving Perez de Ortubia and the pilot Antonio de Alaminos to continue the search. Pere Charlevoix says, “He was the object of great ridicule when he returned in much suffering, and looking older than when he set out.”

This voyage, so absurd in its motive but so fertile in its results, might well be considered to be simply imaginary, were it not vouched for by historians of such high repute as Peter Martyr, Oviedo, Herrera, and Garcilasso de la Vega.

Vasco Nunez de Balboa, who was fifteen years younger than Ponce de Leon, had come to America with Bastidas and had settled in Hispaniola. He was only anxious for a safe refuge from his numerous creditors, being, as were so many of his fellow-countrymen, deeply in debt, in spite of the repartimiento of Indians which had been allotted to him. Unfortunately for Balboa a law had been passed forbidding any vessels bound for the mainland taking insolvent debtors on board, but his ingenuity was equal to this emergency, for he had himself rolled in an empty barrel to the vessel which was to carry Encisco to Darien. The chief of the expedition had no choice but to receive the brave adventurer who had joined him in this singular manner, and who never fled except from duns, as he soon proved on landing. The Spaniards, accustomed to find but little resistance from the natives of the Antilles, could not subjugate the fierce inhabitants of the mainland. On account of the dissensions that had arisen among themselves, they were obliged to take refuge at Santa-Maria el Antigua, a settlement which Balboa, now elected commandant in place of Encisco, founded in Darien.

If the personal bravery of Balboa, or the ferocity of Leoncillo his bloodhound — who was more dreaded than twenty armed men and received the same pay as a soldier, — could have awed the Indians, Balboa would have also won their respect by his justice and comparative moderation, for he allowed no unnecessary cruelty. In the course of some years he collected a great mass of most useful information with regard to that El Dorado, that land of gold, which he was destined never to reach himself, but the acquisition of which he did much to facilitate for his successors.

It was in this way that he learnt the existence six suns away (six days’ journey), of another sea, the Pacific Ocean, which washed the shores of Peru, a country where gold was found in large quantities. Balboa’s character, which was as grand as those of Cortes and Pizarro, but who had not, as they, the time or opportunity to show the extraordinary qualities which he possessed, felt convinced that this information was most valuable, and that if he could carry out such a discovery, it would shed great lustre on his name.

He assembled a body of 190 volunteers, all valiant soldiers, and like himself, accustomed to all the chances of war, as well as acclimatised to the unhealthy effluvia of a marshy country, where fever, dysentery, and complaints of the liver were constantly present.

Though the Isthmus of Darien is only sixty miles in width, it is divided into two parts by a chain of high mountains; at the foot of these the alluvial soil is marvellously fertile, and the vegetation far more luxuriant than any European can imagine. It consists of an inextricable mass of tropical plants, creepers, and ferns, among trees of gigantic size which completely hide the sun, a truly virgin forest, interspersed here and there with patches of stagnant water, where live multitudes of birds, insects, and animals, never disturbed by the foot of man. A warm, moist atmosphere exists here which exhausts the strength and speedily saps the energy of any man, even the most robust.

With all these obstacles which Nature seemed to have rejoiced in placing in Balboa’s path, there was yet another no less formidable, and this was the resistance which the savage inhabitants of this inhospitable shore would offer to his progress. Balboa set out without caring for the risk he ran in the event of the guides and native auxiliaries proving faithless; he was escorted by a thousand Indians as porters, and accompanied by a troop of those terrible bloodhounds which had acquired the taste for human flesh in Hispaniola.

Of the tribes that he met with on his route, some fled into the mountains carrying their provisions with them, and others, taking advantage of the difficulties the land presented, tried to fight. Balboa marching in the midst of his men, never sparing himself, sharing in their privations and rousing their courage, which would have failed more than once, was able to inspire them with so much enthusiasm for the object that was before them, that after twenty-five days of marching and fighting, they could see from the top of a mountain that vast Pacific Ocean, of which, four days later, Balboa, his drawn sword in one hand and the banner of Castille in the other, took possession in the name of the King of Spain. The part of the Pacific Ocean which he had reached is situated to the east of Panama, and still bears the name of the Gulf of San Miguel, given to it by Balboa. The information he obtained from the neighbouring caciques, whom he subjugated by force of arms, and from whom he obtained a considerable booty, agreed in every particular with what he had heard before he set out.

A vast empire lay to the south, they said, “so rich in gold, that even the commonest instruments were made of it,” where the domestic animals were llamas that had been tamed and trained to carry heavy burdens, and whose appearance in the native drawings resembled that of the camel. These interesting details, and the great quantity of pearls offered to Balboa, confirmed him in his idea, that he must have reached the Asiatic countries described by Marco Polo, and that he could not be far from the empire of Cipango or Japan, of which the Venetian traveller had described the marvellous riches which were perpetually dazzling the eyes of these avaricious adventurers.

Balboa discovering the Pacific Ocean.

Balboa several times crossed the Isthmus of Darien, and always in some fresh direction. Humboldt might well say that this country was better known in the beginning of the sixteenth century than in his own day. Beyond this Balboa had launched some vessels built under his orders on the newly-discovered ocean, and he was preparing a formidable armament, with which he hoped to conquer Peru, when he was odiously and judicially murdered by the orders of Pedrarias Davila, the governor of Darien, who was jealous of the reputation Balboa had already gained, and of the glory which would doubtless recompense his bravery if he carried out the expedition which he had arranged. Thus the conquest of Peru was retarded by at least twenty-five years, owing to the culpable jealousy of a man whose name has acquired, by Balboa’s assassination, almost as wretched a celebrity as that of Erostratus.

If we owe to Balboa the first authentic documents regarding Peru, another explorer was destined to furnish some not less important touching that vast Mexican Empire, which had extended its sway over almost the whole of Central America. In 1518, Juan de Grijalva had been placed in command of a flotilla, consisting of four vessels, armed by Diego Velasquez, the conqueror of Cuba, which were destined to collect information upon Yucatan, sighted the year before by Hernandez de Cordova. Grijalva, accompanied by the pilot Alaminos, who had made the voyage to Florida with Ponce de Leon, had two hundred men under his command; amongst the volunteers was Bernal Diaz del Castillo, the clever author of a very interesting history of the conquest of Mexico, from which we shall borrow freely.

After thirteen days’ sailing, Grijalva reached the Island of Cozumel on the coast of Yucatan, doubled the Cape of Cotoche, and entered the Bay of Campeachy. He disembarked on the 10th of May at Potonchan, of which the inhabitants defended the town and citadel vigorously, in spite of their astonishment at the vessels, which they took for some kind of marine monsters, and their fear of the pale-faced men who hurled thunderbolts. Fifty-seven Spaniards were killed in the engagement, and many were wounded. This warm reception did not encourage Grijalva to make any long stay amongst this warlike people. He set sail again after anchoring for four days, took a westerly course along the coast of Mexico, and on the 19th of May entered a river named by the natives the Tabasco, where he soon found himself surrounded by a fleet of fifty native boats filled with warriors ready for the conflict, but thanks to Grijalva’s prudence and the amicable demonstrations which he made, peace was not disturbed.

“We made them understand,” writes Bernal Diaz, “that we were the subjects of a powerful emperor called Don Carlos, and that it would be greatly to their advantage if they also would acknowledge him as their master. They replied that they had a sovereign already, and were at a loss to understand why we, who had only just arrived, and who knew so little of them, should offer them another king.” This reply was scarcely that of a savage!

In exchange for some worthless European trinkets, the Spaniards obtained some Yucca bread, copal gum, pieces of gold worked into the shape of fishes or birds, and garments made of cotton, which had been woven in the country. As the natives who had been taken on board at Cape Cotoche did not perfectly understand the language spoken by the inhabitants of Tabasco, the stay here was but of short duration, and the ships again put to sea. They passed the mouth of the Rio Guatzacoalco, the snowy peaks of the San Martin mountains being seen in the distance, and they anchored at the mouth of a river which was called Rio de las Banderas, from the number of white banners displayed by the natives to show their friendly feeling towards the new comers.

When Grijalva landed, he was received with the same honour as the Indians paid to their gods; they burnt copal incense before him, and laid at his feet more than 1500 piastres’ worth of small gold jewels, as well as green pearls and copper hatchets. After taking formal possession of the country, the Spaniards landed on an island called Los Sacrificios Island, from a sort of altar which they found there placed at the top of several steps, upon which lay the bodies of five Indians sacrificed since the preceding evening; their bodies were cut open, their hearts torn out, and both legs and arms cut off. Leaving this revolting spectacle, they went to another small island, which received the name of San Juan, being discovered on St. John’s Day; to this they added the word Culua, which they heard used by the natives of these shores. But Culua was the ancient name for Mexico, and this Island of San-Juan de Culua is now known as St. John d’Ulloa.

Grijalva put all the gold which he had collected on board one of the ships and despatched it to Cuba, while he continued his exploration of the coast, discovered the Sierras of Tusta and Tuspa, and collected a large amount of useful information regarding this populous country; on arriving at the Rio Panuco, he was attacked by a flotilla of native vessels, and had much difficulty in defending himself against their attacks.

This expedition was nearly over, for provisions were running short, and the vessels were in a very bad state, the volunteers were many of them sick and wounded, and even had they been in good health their numbers were too small to make it safe to leave them among these warlike people, even under the shelter of fortifications. Besides, the leaders of the expedition no longer acted in concert, so after repairing the largest of the vessels in the Rio Tonala, where Bernal Diaz boasts of having sown the first orange-pips which were ever brought to Mexico, the Spaniards set out for Santiago in Cuba, where they arrived on the 15th of November, after a cruise of seven months, not forty-five days, as M. Ferdinand Denis asserts in the Biographie Didot, and as M. Ed. Charton repeats in his Voyageurs Anciens et Modernes.

The results obtained from this voyage were considerable. For the first time the long line of coast which forms the peninsula of Yucatan, the Bay of Campeachy, and the base of the Gulf of Mexico, had been explored continuously from cape to cape. Not only had it been proved beyond doubt that Yucatan was not an island as they had believed, but much and reliable information had been collected with regard to the existence of the rich and powerful empire of Mexico. The explorers had been much struck with the marks of a more advanced civilization than that existing in the Antilles, with the superiority of the architecture, the skilful cultivation of the land, the fine texture of the cotton garments, and the delicacy of finish of the golden ornaments worn by the Indians. All this combined to increase the thirst for riches among the Spaniards of Cuba, and to urge them on like modern Argonauts to the conquest of this new golden fleece. Grijalva was not destined to reap the fruits of his perilous and at the same time intelligent voyage, which threw so new a light on Indian civilization. The sic vos, non vobis of the poet was once again to find an exemplification in this circumstance.

II.

THE CONQUERORS OF CENTRAL AMERICA.

Ferdinand Cortes — His character — His appointment — Preparations for the expedition, and attempts of Velasquez to stop it — Landing at Vera-Cruz — Mexico and the Emperor Montezuma — The republic of Tlascala — March upon Mexico — The Emperor is made prisoner — Narvaez defeated — The Noche Triste — Battle of Otumba — The second siege and taking of Mexico — Expedition to Honduras — Voyage to Spain — Expeditions on the Pacific Ocean — Second Voyage of Cortes to Spain — His death.

Velasquez had not waited for Grijalva’s return before sending off to Spain the rich products of the countries discovered by the latter, and at the same time soliciting from the council of the Indies, as well as from the Bishop of Burgos, an addition to his authority, that he might attempt the conquest of these countries. At the same time he fitted out a new armament proportioned to the dangers and importance of the undertaking that he proposed. But though it was comparatively easy for Velasquez to collect the necessary material and men, it was far more difficult for him — whom an old writer describes as niggardly, credulous, and suspicious in disposition — to choose a fit leader. He wished indeed, to find one who should combine qualities nearly always incompatible, high courage and great talent, without which there was no chance of success, with at the same time sufficient docility and submissiveness, to do nothing without orders, and to leave to him who incurred no risk, any glory and success which might attend the enterprise. Some who were brave and enterprising would not be treated as mere machines; others who were more docile or more cunning lacked the qualities required to insure the success of so vast an enterprise; among the former were some of Grijalva’s companions who wished that he should be made commander, while the latter preferred Augustin Bermudez or Bernardino Velasquez. While this was pending, the governor’s secretary, Andres de Duero, and Amador de Larez, the Controller of Cuba, both favourites of Velasquez, made an arrangement with a Spanish nobleman named Ferdinand Cortes, that if they could obtain the appointment for him, they should be allowed a share in his gains.

Bernal Diaz says, “They praised Cortes so highly, and pointed him out in such flattering terms as the very man fitted to fill the vacant post, adding that he was brave and certainly very faithful to Velasquez (to whom he was son-in-law), that he allowed himself to be persuaded, and Cortes was nominated captain-general. As Andres de Duero was the governor’s secretary, he hastened to formulate the powers in a deed, making them very ample, as Cortes desired, and brought it to him duly signed.” Had Velasquez been gifted with the power of looking into the future, Cortes was certainly not the man he would have chosen.

Ferdinand Cortes.

From an old print.

Cortes was born at Medellin in Estramadura in 1485, of an ancient, but slenderly-endowed family; after studying at Salamanca for some time, he returned to his native town, but the quiet monotonous life there was little suited to his restless and capricious temper, and he soon started for America, reckoning upon the protection of his relation Ovando, the Governor of Hispaniola.

His expectations were fully realized, and he held several honourable and lucrative posts, without counting that between times he joined in several expeditions against the natives. If he became in this manner initiated into the Indian system of tactics, so also, unfortunately, did he grow familiar with those acts of cruelty which have too often stained the Castilian name. He accompanied Diego de Velasquez in his Cuban expedition in 1511, and here he distinguished himself so highly, that notwithstanding certain disagreements with his chief, a large grant of land as well as of Indians was made to him as a recognition of his services.

Cortes amassed the sum of 3000 castellanos in the course of a few years by his industry and frugality, a large sum for one in his position, but his chief recommendations in the eyes of Andres de Duero and Amador de Sares his two patrons, were his activity, his well-known prudence, his decision of character, and the power of gaining the confidence of all with whom he was brought into contact. In addition to all this, he was of imposing stature and appearance, very athletic, and possessed powers of endurance, remarkable even among the hardy adventurers who were accustomed to brave all kinds of hardships.

As soon as Cortes had received his commission, which he did with every mark of respectful gratitude, he set up a banner at the door of his house, made of black velvet embroidered in gold, bearing the device of a red cross in the midst of blue and white flames, and below, this motto in Latin, “Friends, let us follow the Cross, and if we have faith, we shall overcome by this sign.” He concentrated the whole force of his powerful mind upon the means to make the enterprise a success; even his most intimate friends were astonished at his enthusiasm in preparing for it. He not only gave the whole of the money which he possessed towards arming the fleet, but he charged part on his estate, and borrowed considerable sums from his friends to purchase vessels, provisions, munitions of war, and horses. In a few days 300 volunteers had enrolled themselves, attracted by the fame of the general, the daring nature of the enterprise, and the profit that would probably accrue from it. Velasquez, always suspicious, and doubtless instigated by some who were jealous of Cortes, tried to put a stop to the expedition at its outset. Cortes being warned by his two patrons that Velasquez would probably try to take the command from him, acted with his customary decision; he collected his men and, in spite of the vessels not being completed and of an insufficient armament, he weighed anchor and sailed during the night. When Velasquez discovered that his plans had been check-mated he concealed his indignation, but at the same time, he made every arrangement to stop the man who could thus throw off all dependence upon him with such consummate coolness. Cortes anchored at Macaca, to complete his stores, and found many of those who had accompanied Grijalva now hasten to serve under his banner: Pedro de Alvarado and his brothers, Christoval de Olid, Alonzo de Avila, Hernandez de Puerto-Carrero, Gonzalo de Sandoval, and Bernal Diaz del Castillo, who was to write a valuable account of these events “quorum pars magna fuit.” Trinity Harbour, on the south coast of Cuba was the next resting-place, and here a further supply of provisions was taken on board, but while Cortes lay at anchor for this purpose, Verdugo the governor, received letters from Velasquez, desiring him to arrest the captain-general, the command of the fleet having been just taken from him. This bold step would have endangered the safety of the town, so Verdugo refrained from executing the order. Cortes sailed away to Havana in order to enlist some new adherents, while his lieutenant Alvarado went over land to the port where the last preparations were made. Although Velasquez was unsuccessful in his first attempt, he again sent an order to arrest Cortes, but Pedro Barba the governor, felt the impossibility of executing the order in the midst of soldiers who, as Bernal Diaz says, “would willingly have given their lives to save Cortes.”

At length, having recalled the volunteers by beat of drum, and taken on board all that appeared necessary, Cortes set sail on the 18th February, 1519, with eleven ships (the largest being of 100 tons), 110 sailors, 553 soldiers, — 13 of whom were arquebusiers, — 200 Indians from the island, and some women for domestic work. The real strength of the armament lay in the ten pieces of artillery, the four falconets provided with an ample supply of ammunition, and the sixteen horses which had been obtained at great expense. It was with these almost miserable means, which, however, had given Cortes much trouble to collect, that he prepared to wage war with a sovereign whose dominions were of greater extent than those appertaining to the King of Spain — an enterprise from which he would have turned back if he had foreseen half its difficulties. But long ago a poet said, “Fortune smiles on those who dare.”

After encountering a very severe storm, the fleet touched at the island of Cozumel, where they found that the inhabitants had embraced Christianity, either from fear of the Spaniards, or from finding the inability of their gods to help them. Just as the fleet was about to leave the island, Cortes had the good fortune to meet with a Spaniard named Jeronimo d’Aguilar, who had been kept a prisoner by the Indians for eight years. During that time he had learnt the Indian language perfectly; he was as prudent as he was clever, and when he joined the expedition he was of the greatest use as an interpreter.

After doubling Cape Catoche, Cortes sailed down the Bay of Campeachy, passed Potonchan, and entered the Rio Tabasco, hoping to meet with as friendly a reception there as Grijalva had done, and also to collect an equally large quantity of gold; but he found a great change had taken place in the feelings of the natives, and he was obliged to employ force. In spite of the bravery and numerical superiority of the Indians, the Spaniards overcame them in several engagements, thanks to the terror caused by the reports of their fire-arms and the sight of the cavalry, whom the Indians took for supernatural beings. The Indians lost a large number of men in these engagements, while among the Spaniards two were killed, and fourteen men and several horses wounded; the wounds of the latter were dressed with fat taken from the dead bodies of the Indians. At last peace was made, and the natives gave Cortes provisions, some cotton clothing, a small quantity of gold, and twenty female slaves, among whom was the celebrated Marina, who rendered such signal services to the Spaniards as an interpreter, and who is mentioned by all the historians of the conquest of the New World.

Cortes receives provisions, clothing, a little gold, and twenty female slaves.

Cortes continued on a westerly course, seeking a suitable place for landing, but he could find none until he reached St. John d’Ulloa. The fleet had scarcely cast anchor before a canoe made its way fearlessly to the admiral’s vessel, and here Marina (who was of Aztec origin) was of the greatest use, in telling Cortes that the Indians of this part of the country were the subjects of a great empire, and that their province was one recently added to it by conquest. Their monarch, named Moctheuzoma, better known under the name of Montezuma, lived in Tenochtitlan, or Mexico, nearly 210 miles away in the interior. Cortes offered the Indians some presents, assuring them of his pacific intentions, and then disembarked upon the torrid and unhealthy shore of Vera-Cruz. Provisions flowed in immediately, but the day after the landing, Teutile, governor of the province, and ambassador of Montezuma to the Spaniards, had much difficulty in answering Cortes when he asked him to conduct him to his master without delay, knowing as he did all the anxiety and fears which had haunted the mind of the Emperor since the arrival of the Spaniards. However, he caused some cotton stuffs, feather cloaks, and some articles made of gold to be laid at the feet of the general, a sight which simply excited the cupidity of the Europeans. To give these poor Indians an adequate idea of his power, Cortes called out his soldiers, and put them through their drill, he also ordered the discharge of some pieces of artillery, the noise of which froze the hearts of the savages with terror. During the whole time of the interview, some painters had been employed in sketching upon pieces of white cotton, the ships, the troops, and everything which had struck their fancy. These drawings very cleverly executed, were to be sent to Montezuma.

Before beginning the history of the heroic struggles which shortly commenced, it will be useful to give some details as to that Mexican empire which, powerful as it appeared, nevertheless contained within itself numerous elements of decay and dissolution, which fact explains the cause of its conquest by a mere handful of adventurers. That part of America which was under the dominion of Montezuma was called Anahuac and lay between 14deg and 20deg north latitude. This region presents great varieties of climate on account of its difference of altitude; towards the centre, and rather nearer to the Pacific than to the Atlantic, there is a huge basin at an elevation of 7500 feet above the sea, and about 200 miles in circumference, in the hollow of which there were at that time several lakes; this depression is called the valley of Mexico, taking its name from the capital of the empire. As may be easily supposed, we possess very few authentic details about a people whose written annals were burnt by the ignorant “conquistadores” and by fanatical monks, who jealously suppressed everything which might remind the conquered race of their ancient religious and political traditions.

Arriving from the north in the seventh century the Toltecs had overspread the plateau of Anahuac. They were an intelligent race of people, addicted to agriculture and the mechanical arts, understanding the working in metals, and to whom is due the construction of the greater part of the sumptuous and gigantic edifices of which the ruins are found in every direction in New Spain. After four centuries of power, the Toltecs disappeared from the country as mysteriously as they had come. A century later they were replaced by a savage tribe from the north-west, who were soon followed by more civilized races, speaking apparently the Toltec language. The most celebrated of these tribes were the Aztecs, and the Alcolhues or Tezcucans, who assimilated themselves easily with the tincture of civilization which remained in the country with the last of the Toltecs. The Aztecs, after a series of migrations and wars, settled themselves in 1326 in the valley of Mexico, where they built their capital Tenochtitlan. A treaty of alliance both offensive and defensive was entered into between the states of Mexico, Tezcuco, and Tlacopan, and was rigorously observed for a whole century; in consequence of this the Aztec civilization, which had been at first bounded by the extent of the valley, spread on all sides, and soon was limited only by the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans. In a short time these people had reached a higher degree of civilization than any other tribe in the New World. The rights of property were recognized in Mexico, commerce flourished there, and three kinds of coin in circulation provided the ordinary mechanism of exchange. There was a well-organized police, and a system of relays which worked with perfect regularity, and enabled the sovereign to transmit his orders with rapidity from one end of the empire to the other. The number and beauty of the towns, the great size of the palaces, temples, and fortresses indicated an advanced civilization, which presented a singular contrast to the ferocious manners of the Aztecs. Their polytheistic religion was in the highest degree barbarous and sanguinary; the priests formed a very numerous body, and exercised great influence even over political affairs. Side by side with rites similar to those of Christians, such as baptism and confession, the religion presented a tissue of the most absurd and bloody superstitions. The offering up of human sacrifices, adopted at the beginning of the 14th century, and used at first very sparingly, had soon become so frequent, that the number of victims immolated each year, and drawn chiefly from the conquered nations, amounted to 20,000, while under certain circumstances the number was much larger. Thus in 1486, at the inauguration of the temple of Huitzilopchit, 70,000 captives perished in a single day.

The Government of Mexico was monarchical; at first the imperial power had been carefully limited, but it had increased with the various conquests, and had become despotic. The sovereign was always chosen out of the same family, and his accession was marked by the offering up of numerous human sacrifices. The Emperor Montezuma belonged to the sacerdotal caste, and in consequence his power received some unwonted development. The result of his numerous wars had been the extension of his frontiers, and the subjugation of various nations; these latter welcomed the Spaniards with eagerness, thinking that their dominion must surely be less oppressive and less cruel than that of the Aztecs.

It is certain that if Montezuma, with the large force which he had at his disposal, had fallen upon the Spaniards when they were occupying the hot and unhealthy shore of Vera-Cruz, they would have been unable, in spite of the superiority of their arms and discipline, to resist such a shock; they must all have perished, or been obliged to re-embark, and the fate of the New World would have been completely changed. But the decision which formed the most salient point in the character of Cortes, was completely wanting in that of Montezuma, a prince who never could at any time adopt a resolute policy.

Fresh ambassadors from the emperor had arrived at the Spanish camp, bringing to Cortes an order to quit the country, and upon his refusal all intercourse between the natives and the invaders had immediately ceased. The situation was becoming critical, and this Cortes felt. After having overcome some hesitation which had been shown by the troops, he laid the foundations of Vera-Cruz, a fortress designed to serve as a basis of operations, and a shelter in case of a possible re-embarkation. He next organized a kind of civil government, a junta, as it would be called in the present day, to which he resigned the commission which had been revoked by Velasquez, and then he made the junta give him one with new provisions and more extended powers. After this he received the envoys from the town of Zempoalla, who were come to solicit his alliance, and his protection against Montezuma, whose dominion they bore with impatience. Cortes was indeed fortunate in meeting with such allies so soon after landing, and not wishing to allow so golden an opportunity to slip, he welcomed the Totonacs kindly, went with them to their capital, and after having caused a fortress to be constructed at Quiabislan on the sea-shore, he persuaded his new friends to refuse the payment of tribute to Montezuma. He took advantage of his stay at Zempoalla to exhort these people to embrace Christianity, and he threw down their idols, as he had already done at Cozumel, to prove to them the powerlessness of their gods.

Meanwhile a plot had been forming in his own camp, and Cortes, feeling convinced that as long as there remained any way of returning to Cuba, there would be constant lukewarmness and discontent among his soldiers, caused all his ships to be run aground, under the pretext of their being in too shattered a condition to be of any further use. This was an unheard-of act of audacity, and one which forced his companions either to conquer or to die. Having no longer anything to fear from the want of discipline of his troops, Cortes set out for Zempoalla on the 16th of August, with five hundred soldiers, fifteen horses, and six field cannon, and also two hundred Indian porters, who were intended to perform all menial offices. The little army soon reached the frontiers of the small republic of Tlascala, of which the fierce inhabitants, impatient of servitude, had long been engaged in strife with Montezuma. Cortes flattered himself that his oft-proclaimed intention of delivering the Indians from the Mexican yoke would induce the Tlascalans to become his allies and at once to make common cause with him. He therefore asked for leave to cross their territory on his way to Mexico; but his ambassadors were detained, and as he advanced into the interior of the country, he was harassed for fourteen consecutive days and nights by continual attacks from several bodies of Tlascalans, amounting in all to 30,000 men, who displayed a bravery and determination such as the Spaniards had never yet seen equalled in the New World. But the arms possessed by these brave men were very primitive. What could they effect with only arrows and lances tipped with obsidian or fish-bones, stakes hardened in the fire, wooden swords, and above all with an inferior system of tactics? When they found that each encounter cost them the lives of many of their bravest warriors, while not a single Spaniard had been killed, they imagined that these strangers must be of a superior order of beings, while they could not tell what opinion to form of men who sent back to them the spies taken in their camp, with their hands cut off, and who yet after each victory not only did not devour their prisoners, as the Aztecs would have done, but released them, loading them with presents and proposing peace.

Upon this the Tlascalans declared themselves vassals of the Spanish crown, and swore to assist Cortes in all his expeditions, while he on his side promised to protect them against their enemies. It was time that peace should be made, for many of the Spaniards were wounded or ill, and all were worn out with fatigue, but the entry in triumph into Tlascala, where they were welcomed as supernatural beings, quickly made them forget their sufferings.

After twenty days of repose in this town, Cortes resumed his march towards Mexico, having with him an auxiliary army of six thousand Tlascalans. He went first to Cholula, a town regarded as sacred by the Indians, and as the sanctuary and favoured residence of their deities. Montezuma felt much satisfaction in the advance of the Spaniards to this town, either from the hope that the gods would themselves avenge the desecration of their temples, or that he thought a rising, and massacre of the Spaniards might be more easily organized in this populous and fanatical town. Cortes had been warned by the Tlascalans that he must place no trust in the protestations of friendship and devotion made by the Cholulans. However, he took up his quarters in the town, considering that he would lose his prestige if he showed any signs of fear, but upon being informed by the Tlascalans that the women and children were being sent away, and by Marina that a considerable body of troops was massed at the gates of the city, that pitfalls and trenches were dug in the streets, whilst the roofs of the houses were loaded with stones and missiles, Cortes anticipated the designs of his enemies, gave orders to make prisoners of all the principal men of the town, and then organized a general massacre of the population, thus taken by surprise and deprived of their leaders. For two whole days the unhappy Cholulans were subject to all the horrors which could be invented by the rage of the Spaniards, and the vengeance of their allies the Tlascalans. A terrible example was made, six thousand people being put to the sword, temples burned to the ground, and the town half destroyed, a work of destruction well calculated to strike terror into the hearts of Montezuma and his subjects.

Lake of Mexico.

Sixty miles now separated Cortes from the capital, and everywhere as he passed along he was received as a liberator. There was not a cacique who had not some cause of complaint against the imperial despotism, and Cortes felt confirmed in the hope that so divided an empire would prove an easy prey. As the Spaniards descended from the mountains of Chalco, they beheld with astonishment the valley of Mexico, with its enormous lake, deeply sunk and surrounded by large towns, the capital city built upon piles, and the well-cultivated fields of this fertile region.

Cortes did not trouble himself about the continued tergiversations of Montezuma, who could not make up his mind to the last moment whether he would receive the Spaniards as friends or enemies. The Spanish general advanced along the causeway which leads to Mexico across the lake, and was already within a mile of the town, when some Indians, who, from their magnificent costume were evidently of high rank, came to greet him and to announce to him the approach of the emperor. Montezuma soon appeared, borne upon the shoulders of his favourites in a kind of litter adorned with gold and feathers, while a magnificent canopy protected him from the rays of the sun. As he advanced the Indians prostrated themselves before him, with their heads downwards, as though unworthy even to look at their monarch. This first interview was cordial, and Montezuma himself conducted his guests to the abode which he had prepared for them. It was a vast palace, surrounded by a stone wall, and defended by high towers. Cortes immediately took measures of defence, and ordered the cannon to be pointed upon the roads leading to the palace. At the second interview, magnificent presents were offered both to the general and soldiers. Montezuma related that according to an old tradition, the ancestors of the Aztecs had arrived in the country under the leadership of a man of white complexion, and bearded like the Spaniards. After laying the foundations of their power, he had embarked upon the ocean, promising them that one day his descendants would come to visit them and to reform their laws — and if, as Montezuma said, he now received the Spaniards rather as fathers than as foreigners, it was because he felt convinced that in them he beheld the descendants of his people’s ancient chief, and he begged them to regard themselves as the masters of his country.

The following days were employed in visiting the town, which appeared to the Spaniards as larger, more populous, and more beautiful than any city which they had hitherto seen in America. Its distinguishing peculiarity consisted in the causeways which formed a means of communication with the land, and which were cut through in various places to allow a free passage to vessels sailing on the waters of the lake. Across these openings were thrown bridges which could be easily destroyed. On the eastern side of the town there was no causeway and no means of communication with the land except by canoes. This arrangement of the town of Mexico caused some anxiety to Cortes, who saw that he might be at any moment blockaded in the town, without being able to find means of egress. He determined, therefore, to prevent any seditious attempt by securing the person of the emperor, and using him as a hostage. The following news which he had just received furnished him with an excellent pretext: Qualpopoca, a Mexican general, had attacked the provinces which had submitted to the Spaniards, and Escalante and seven of his soldiers had been mortally wounded; besides this, a prisoner had been beheaded and the head carried from town to town, thus proving that the invaders could be conquered, and were nothing more than ordinary mortals.

Cortes profited by these events to accuse the emperor of perfidy. He declared that although Montezuma appeared friendly to him and to his soldiers, it was only that he might wait for some favourable opportunity to treat them in the same manner as Escalante, a proceeding quite unworthy of a monarch, and very different from the confidence which Cortes had shown in coming, as he had done, to visit him. He went on to say that if the suspicions of the Spaniards were not justified, the emperor could easily exonerate himself by having Qualpopoca punished, and finally, to prevent the recurrence of aggressions which could but destroy the existing harmony, and to prove to the Mexicans that he harboured no ill-design against the Spaniards, Montezuma could not do otherwise than come to reside amongst them. It may be easily imagined that the emperor was not very ready to decide upon this course, but was at last obliged to give in to the violence and threats of the Spaniards. Upon announcing his resolution to his subjects, he was made to assure them several times over that he put himself into the hands of the Spaniards of his own free will; these words were needed to calm the Mexicans, who threatened to make an attack upon the foreigners.

The success of Cortes in this bold scheme was quite beyond his expectations. Qualpopoca, with his son and five of the chief ringleaders in the revolt, were seized by the Mexicans, and brought before a Spanish tribunal, which was at the same time judge and prosecutor; the Indians were condemned and burnt alive. Not content with having punished men who had committed no crime but that of executing the orders of their emperor, and of opposing an armed resistance to the invasion of their country, Cortes imposed a new humiliation upon Montezuma, in placing fetters upon his feet, under the pretext that the culprits in their last moments had made accusations against him. For six months the “Conquistador” exercised the supreme government in the name of the emperor, now reduced to a puppet-show of authority. Cortes changed the governors who displeased him, collected the taxes, presided over all the details of the administration, and sent Spaniards into the various provinces of the empire with orders to examine their productions, and to take particular notice of the mining districts and the processes in use for collecting gold.

Cortes also turned to account the curiosity evinced by Montezuma to see European ships, to have rigging and other appurtenances brought from Vera-Cruz, and to order the construction of two brigantines destined to ensure his communications with terra-firma by the waters of the lake.

Emboldened by receiving so many proofs of submission and humility, Cortes took another step in advance, and required that Montezuma should declare himself the vassal and tributary of Spain. The act of fidelity and homage was accompanied, as may be easily imagined, with presents both rich and numerous, as well as by a heavy tax which was levied without much difficulty. The opportunity was now taken to gather together everything in gold and silver, which had been extorted from the Indians, and to melt them down, except certain pieces which were kept as they were, on account of the beauty of the workmanship. The whole did not amount to more than 600,000 pesos, or 100,000l. Thus, although the Spaniards had made use of all their power, and Montezuma had exhausted his treasures to satisfy them, the whole product amounted to an absurdly small sum, very little in accordance with the idea which the conquerors had formed of the riches of the country. After reserving one-fifth of the treasure for the king, and one-fifth for Cortes and subtracting enough to reimburse the sums which had been advanced for the expenses of the expedition, the share of each soldier did not amount to 100 pesos, and they considered that it would have been more worth their while to have remained in Hispaniola, than to have experienced such fatigues, encountered such great dangers, and suffered so many privations, all for the reward of 100 pesos! If the promises of Cortes ended in this beggarly result, and if the partition had been made with fairness, of which they did not feel certain, they argued that it was absurd to remain longer in so poor a country, while under a chief less prodigal in promises, but more generous, they might go to countries rich in gold and precious stones, where brave warriors would find an adequate compensation for their toils. So murmured these greedy adventurers; some accepting what fell to their share while fuming over its small amount, others disdainfully refusing it.

Cortes had succeeded in persuading Montezuma to conform to his will in everything which concerned politics, but it was otherwise in regard to religion. He could not persuade him to change his creed, and when Cortes wished to throw down the idols, as he had done at Zempoalla, a tumult arose which would have become very serious, had he not immediately abandoned his project. From that time the Mexicans, who had offered scarcely any resistance to the subjugation and imprisonment of their monarch, resolved to avenge their outraged deities, and they prepared a simultaneous rising against the invaders. It was at this juncture, when the affairs in the interior seemed to be taking a less favourable turn, that Cortes received news from Vera-Cruz, that several ships were cruising off the harbour. At first he thought this must be a fleet sent to his aid by Charles V. in answer to a letter which he had sent to him on the 16th of July, 1519, by Puerto Carrero and Montejo. But he was soon undeceived, and learnt that this expedition was organized by Diego Velasquez, who knew by experience how lightly his lieutenant could shake off all dependence upon him; he had sent this armament with the object of deposing Cortes from his command, of making him a prisoner, and of carrying him off to Cuba, where he would be speedily placed upon his trial. The fleet thus sent was under the command of Pamphilo de Narvaez; it consisted of eighteen vessels, and carried eighty horse-soldiers, and 100 infantry (of whom eighty were musketeers), 120 cross-bowmen, and twelve cannons.

Narvaez disembarked without opposition, near to the fort of San Juan d’Ulloa, but upon summoning the Governor of Vera-Cruz, Sandoval, to give up the town to him, Sandoval seized the men who were charged with the insolent message, and sent them off to Mexico, where Cortes at once released them, and then gained from them circumstantial information as to the forces, and the projects of Narvaez. The personal danger of Cortes at this moment was great; the troops sent by Velasquez were more numerous and better furnished with arms and ammunition than were his own, but his deepest cause of anxiety was not the possibility of his own condemnation and death, it was the fear lest all fruit of his efforts might be lost, and the knowledge of the hurtfulness of these dissensions to his country’s cause. The situation was a critical one, but after mature reflection and the careful weighing of arguments for and against the course he meditated, Cortes determined to fight, even at a disadvantage, rather than to sacrifice his conquests and the interests of Spain. Before proceeding to this last extremity, he sent his chaplain Olmedo to Narvaez, but he was very ill-received, and saw all his proposals for an accommodation disdainfully rejected. Olmedo met with more success amongst the soldiers, who most of them knew him, and to whom he distributed a number of chains, gold rings, and other jewels, which were well calculated to give them a high idea of the riches of the conqueror. But when Narvaez heard of what was going on, he determined not to leave his troops any longer exposed to temptation; he set a price upon the heads of Cortes and his principal officers, and advanced to the encounter.

Cortes, however, was too skilful to be enticed into giving battle under unfavourable circumstances. He temporized and succeeded in tiring out Narvaez and his troops, who retired to Zempoalla. Then Cortes, having taken his measures with consummate prudence, and the surprise and terror of a nocturnal attack which he organized compensating for the inferiority of his troops, he made prisoners of his enemy and all his soldiers, his own loss amounting to but two men. The conqueror treated the vanquished well, and gave them the choice between returning to Cuba, or remaining to share his fortune. This latter proposal, backed up as it was by gifts and promises, appeared so seductive to the new arrivals, that Cortes found himself at the head of 1000 soldiers, the day after he had been in danger of falling into the hands of Narvaez. This rapid change of fortune was turned to the greatest advantage by the skilful diplomacy of Cortes, who hastened to return to Mexico. The troops whom he had left there under the command of Alvarado, to guard the emperor and the treasure, were reduced to the last extremity by the natives, who had killed or wounded a great number of soldiers, and who kept the rest in a state of close blockade, while threatening them constantly with a general assault. It must be confessed that the imprudent and criminal conduct of the Spaniards, and notably the massacre of the most distinguished citizens of the empire during a fete, had brought about the rising which they dreaded, and which they had hoped to prevent. After having been joined by 2000 Tlascalans, Cortes pressed forward by forced marches towards the capital, where he arrived in safety, and found that the Indians had not destroyed the bridges belonging to the causeways and dikes which joined Mexico to the land. In spite of the arrival of this reinforcement, the situation did not improve. Each day it was necessary to engage in new combats, and to make sorties to clear the avenues leading to the palace occupied by the Spaniards.

Cortes now saw but too plainly the mistake which he had made in shutting himself up in a town where his position might be stormed at any moment, and from which it was so difficult to extricate himself. In this difficulty he had recourse to Montezuma, who, by virtue of his authority and of the prestige which still clung to him, could appease the tumult, give the Spaniards some respite, and enable them to prepare for their retreat. But when the unfortunate emperor, now become a mere toy in the hands of the Spaniards, appeared upon the walls decked out with regal ornaments, and implored his subjects to cease from hostilities, murmurs of discontent arose, and threats were freely uttered. Hostilities began afresh, and before the soldiers had time to protect him with their shields, Montezuma was pierced with arrows, and hit upon the head by a stone which knocked him down. At this sight the Indians, horrified at the crime which they had just committed, at once ceased fighting, and fled in all directions, while the emperor, understanding but too late all the baseness of the part which Cortes had forced him to play, tore off the bandages which had been applied to his wounds, and refusing all nourishment, he died cursing the Spaniards.

Death of Montezuma.

After so fatal an event, there was no more room to hope for peace with the Mexicans, and it became necessary to retire in haste, and at whatever cost, from a town in which the Spaniards were threatened with blockade and starvation. For this retreat Cortes was preparing in secret. He saw his troops each day more and more closely hemmed in, whilst several times he was forced himself to take his sword in his hand and to fight like a common soldier. Solis even relates, but upon what authority is not known, that during an assault which was made upon one of the edifices commanding the Spanish quarter, two young Mexicans, recognizing Cortes, who was cheering on his soldiers, resolved to sacrifice themselves in the hope of killing the man who had been the author of their country’s calamities. They approached him in a suppliant attitude, as though they would ask for quarter, then seizing him round the waist they dragged him towards the battlements, over which they threw themselves, hoping to drag him over with them. But thanks to his exceptional strength and agility Cortes managed to escape from their embrace, and these two brave Mexicans perished in their generous but vain attempt to save their country.

The retreat being determined upon, it was necessary to decide upon whether it should be carried out by night or by day. If in the daytime the enemy would be more easily resisted, any ambuscades which might be prepared would be more easily avoided, while they could better take precautions to repair any bridges broken by the Mexicans. On the other hand, it was known that the Indians will seldom attack an enemy after sunset, but what really decided Cortes in favour of a nocturnal retreat was, that a soldier who dabbled in astrology had declared to his comrades that success was certain if they acted in the night.

They therefore began their march at midnight. Besides the Spanish troops, Cortes had under his orders detachments from Tlascala, Zempoalla, and Cholula, which, notwithstanding the serious losses which had been sustained, still numbered 7000 men. Sandoval commanded the vanguard, and Cortes the centre, where were the cannon, baggage, and prisoners, amongst whom were a son and two daughters of Montezuma; Alvarado and Velasquez de Leon led the rearguard. With the army was carried a flying bridge, which had been constructed to throw over any gaps there might be in the causeway. Scarcely had the Spaniards debouched upon the dike leading to Tacuba, which was the shortest of all, when they were attacked in front, flank, and rear by solid masses of the enemy, whilst from a fleet of numberless canoes, a perfect hailstorm of stones and missiles fell upon them. Blinded and amazed, the allies knew not against whom to defend themselves first. The wooden bridge sank under the weight of the artillery and fighting men. Crowded together upon a narrow causeway where they could not use their fire-arms, deprived of their cavalry who had not room to act, mingled with the Indians in a hand-to-hand combat, not having strength to kill, and surrounded on all sides, the Spaniards and their allies gave way under the ever renewed numbers of the assailants. Officers and soldiers, infantry and cavalry, Spaniards and Tlascalans were confounded together, each defended himself to the best of his ability, without caring about discipline or the common safety.

All seemed lost, when Cortes with one hundred men succeeded in crossing the breach in the dike upon the mass of corpses which filled it up. He drew up his soldiers in order as they arrived, and putting himself at the head of those least severely wounded, plunged wedge-fashion into the melee, and succeeded in disengaging from it a portion of his men. Before day dawned all those who had succeeded in escaping from the massacre of the noche triste, as this terrible night was called, found themselves reunited at Tacuba. It was with eyes full of tears that Cortes passed in review his remaining soldiers, all covered with wounds, and took account of the losses which he had sustained; 4000 Indians, Tlascalans, and Cholulans, and nearly all the horses were killed, all the artillery and ammunition, as well as the greatest part of the baggage, were lost, and amongst the dead were several officers of distinction — Velasquez de Leon, Salcedo, Morla, Lares, and many others; one of those most dangerously hurt was Alvarado, but not one man, whether officer or soldier, was without a wound.

The fugitives did not delay at Tacuba, and by accident they took the road to Tlascala, where they did not know what reception might await them. Ever harassed by the Mexicans, the Spaniards were again obliged to give battle upon the plains of Otumba to a number of warriors, whom some historians reckon at two hundred thousand. Thanks to the presence of some cavalry soldiers who still remained to him, Cortes was able to overthrow all who were in front of him, and to reach a troop of persons whose high rank was easily discerned by their gilded plumes and luxurious costumes, amongst whom was the general bearing the standard. Accompanied by some horsemen, Cortes threw himself upon this group and was fortunate enough, or skilful enough, to overturn by a lance-thrust the Mexican general, who was then despatched by the sword by a soldier named Juan de Salamanca. From the moment when the standard disappeared the battle was gained, and the Mexicans, panic-stricken, fled hastily from the field of battle. “Never had the Spaniards incurred greater danger,” says Prescott, “and had it not been for the lucky star of Cortes, not one would have survived to transmit to posterity the history of the sanguinary battle of Otumba.” The booty was considerable, and sufficed in part, to indemnify the Spaniards for the loss they had sustained in leaving Mexico, for this army which they had just defeated was composed of the principal warriors of the nation, who, having been quite confident of success, had adorned themselves with their richest ornaments.

Cortes at the Battle of Otumba.

The day after the battle the Spaniards entered the territory of Tlascala. Bernal Diaz says, “I shall now call the attention of curious readers to the fact that when we returned to Mexico to the relief of Alvarado, we were in all 1300 men, including in that number ninety-seven horsemen, eighty cross-bowmen, and the same number armed with carbines; besides, we had more than 2000 Tlascalans, and much artillery. Our second entry into Mexico took place on St. John’s Day, 1520; our flight from the city was on the 10th day of the month of July following, and we fought the memorable battle of Otumba on the 14th day of this same month of July. And now I would draw attention to the number of men who were killed at Mexico during the passage of the causeways and bridges, in the battle of Otumba, and in the other encounters upon the route. I declare that in the space of five days 860 of our men were massacred, including ten of our soldiers and five Castilian women, who were killed in the village of Rustepeque; we lost besides 1200 Tlascalans during the same time. It is to be noticed also that if the number of dead in the troop of Narvaez were greater than in the troop of Cortes, it was because the former soldiers set out on the march laden with a quantity of gold, the weight of which hindered them from swimming, and from getting out of the trenches.”

The troops with Cortes were reduced to four hundred and forty men, with twenty horses, twelve cross-bowmen, and seven carabineers; they had not a single charge of gunpowder, they were all wounded, lame, or maimed in the arms. It was the same number of men that had followed Cortes when he first entered Mexico, but how great a difference was there between that conquering troop, and the vanquished soldiers who now quitted the capital.

As they entered the Tlascalan territory Cortes recommended his men, and especially those of Narvaez, not to do anything which could vex the natives, the common safety depending upon not irritating the only allies which remained to them. Happily the fears which had arisen as to the fidelity of the Tlascalans proved groundless. They gave the Spaniards a most sympathizing welcome, and their thoughts seemed to be wholly bent upon avenging the death of their brothers massacred by the Mexicans. While in their capital Cortes heard of the loss of two more detachments, but these reverses, grave as they were, did not discourage him; he had under his orders troops inured to war and faithful allies, Vera-Cruz was intact, he might once more reckon upon his good fortune. But before undertaking a new campaign or entering upon another siege, help must be sought and preparations made, and with these objects in view the general set to work. He sent four ships to Hispaniola to enrol volunteers and purchase powder and ammunition, and meanwhile he caused trees to be cut down in the mountains of Tlascala, and with the wood thus obtained twelve brigantines were constructed, which were to be carried in pieces to the Lake of Mexico, to be launched there at the moment when needed.

After suppressing some attempts at mutiny amongst the soldiers, in which those who had come with Narvaez were the most to blame, Cortes again marched forwards, and, with the help of the Tlascalans, first attacked the people of Tepeaca and of other neighbouring provinces, a measure which had the advantage of exercising anew his own troops in war, and of training his allies. While this was going on, two brigantines bringing ammunition and reinforcements fell into the hands of Cortes; these ships had been sent to Narvaez by Velasquez, in ignorance of his misadventures; at this time also some Spaniards sent by Francis de Garay, governor of Jamaica, joined the army. In consequence of these reinforcements the troops with Cortes, after he had rid himself of several partisans of Narvaez with whom he was dissatisfied, amounted to five hundred infantry, of whom eighty carried muskets, and forty horse-soldiers. With this small army, and with one thousand Tlascalans, Cortes set out once more for Mexico on the 28th of December, 1520, six months after he had been forced to abandon the city. This campaign had for its theatre countries already described, and must therefore be passed over somewhat rapidly here, notwithstanding the interest attaching to it; to enter fully into the history of the conquest of Mexico would not be in accordance with the primary object of this work.

After the death of Montezuma his brother Quetlavaca was raised to the throne, and he adopted all the measures of precaution compatible with Aztec strategic science. But he died of the smallpox, the sad gift of the Spaniards to the New World, at the very moment when his brilliant qualities of foresight and bravery were the most needed by his country. His successor was Guatimozin, the nephew of Montezuma, a man distinguished by his talents and courage.

Cortes had no sooner entered the Mexican territory than fighting began. He speedily captured the town of Tezcuco, which was situated at twenty miles’ distance, upon the edge of the great central lake, that lake upon whose waters the Spaniards were to see an imposing flotilla floating three months later. At this time a fresh conspiracy, which had for its object the assassination of Cortes and his principal officers, was discovered, and the chief culprit executed. At this moment fate seemed in every way to smile upon Cortes; he had just received the news of the arrival of fresh reinforcements at Vera-Cruz, and the greater part of the towns under the dominion of Guatimozin had submitted to the force of his arms. The actual siege of Mexico began in the month of May, 1521, and continued with alternate success and reverse until the day when the brigantines were launched upon the water of the lake. The Mexicans did not hesitate to attack them; from four to five thousand canoes, each bearing two men, covered the lake and advanced to the assault of the Spanish vessels, which carried in all nearly three hundred men. These nine brigantines were provided with cannon, and soon dispersed or sunk the enemy’s fleet, who thenceforth left them in undisputed possession of the water. But this success and certain other advantages gained by Cortes had no very marked consequences, and the siege dragged slowly on, until the general made up his mind to capture the town by force. Unfortunately the officer who was charged with protecting the line of retreat by the causeways while the Spaniards were making their way into the town, abandoned his post, thinking it unworthy of his valour, and went to join in the combat. Guatimozin was informed of the fault which had been committed, and at once took advantage of it. His troops attacked the Spaniards on all sides with such fury that numbers of them were killed in a short time, while sixty-two of the soldiers fell alive into the hands of the Mexicans, a fate which Cortes, who was severely wounded in the thigh, narrowly escaped sharing. During the night following, the great temple of the war-god was illuminated in sign of triumph, and the Spaniards listened in profound sadness to the beating of the great drum. From the position they occupied they could witness the end of the prisoners, their unfortunate countrymen, whose breasts were opened and their hearts torn out, and whose dead bodies were hurled down the steps; they were then torn in pieces by the Aztecs, who quarrelled over the pieces with the object of using them for a horrible festival.

This terrible defeat caused the siege to go on slowly, until the day came when three parts of the city having been taken or destroyed, Guatimozin was obliged by his councillors to quit Mexico and to set out for the mainland, where he reckoned upon organizing his resistance, but the boat which carried him being seized he was made prisoner. In his captivity he was destined to display much greater dignity and strength of character than his uncle Montezuma had done. From this time all resistance ceased, and Cortes might take possession of the half-destroyed capital. After a heroic resistance, in which 120,000 Mexicans according to some accounts, but 240,000 according to others, had perished, after a siege which had lasted not less than seventy days, Mexico, and with the city all the rest of the empire, succumbed, less indeed to the blows dealt against it by the Spaniards than to the long-standing hatred and the revolts of the subjugated people, and to the jealousy of the neighbouring states, fated soon to regret the yoke which they had so deliberately shaken off.

Contempt and rage soon succeeded amongst the Spaniards to the intoxication of success; the immense riches upon which they had reckoned either had no existence, or they had been thrown into the lake. Cortes found it impossible to calm the malcontents, and was obliged to allow the emperor and his principal minister to be put to the torture. Some historians, and notably Gomara, report that whilst the Spaniards were stirring the fire which burnt below the gridiron upon which the two victims were extended, the minister turned his head towards his master and apparently begged him to speak, in order to put an end to their tortures; but that Guatimozin reproved this single moment of weakness by these words, “And I, am I assisting at some pleasure, or am I in the bath?” an answer which has been poetically changed into, “And I, do I lie upon roses?”

The Spaniards stir the fire burning below the gridiron.

The historians of the conquest of Mexico have usually stopped short at the taking of Mexico, but it remains for us to speak of some other expeditions undertaken by Cortes with different aims, but which resulted in casting quite a new light upon some portions of Central America; besides we could not leave this hero, who played so large a part in the history of the New World and in the development of its civilization, without giving some details of the end of his life.

With the fall of the capital was involved, properly speaking, that of the Mexican empire; if there were still some resistance, as notably there was in the province of Oaxaca, it was of an isolated character, and a few detachments of troops sufficed to reduce to submission the last remaining opponents of the Spaniards, terrified as the Mexicans were by the punishments which had been dealt out to the people of Panuco, who had revolted. At the same time ambassadors were sent by the people of the distant countries of the empire, to convince themselves of the reality of that wonderful event, the taking of Mexico, to behold the ruins of the abhorred town, and to tender their submission to the conquerors.

Cortes was at length confirmed in the position he held after incidents which would take too long to relate, and which caused him to say, “It has been harder for me to fight against my countrymen than against the Aztecs.” It now remained to him to organize the conquered country, and he began by establishing the seat of government at Mexico, which he rebuilt. He attracted Spaniards to the city by granting them concessions of lands, and the Indians, by allowing them at first to remain under the authority of their native chiefs, although he speedily reduced them all, except the Tlascalans, to the condition of slaves, by the vicious system of repartimientos, in vogue in the Spanish colonies. But if it is justifiable to reproach Cortes with having held cheaply the political rights of the Indians, it must be conceded that he manifested the most laudable solicitude for their spiritual well-being. To further this object he brought over some Franciscans, who by their zeal and charity in a short time gained the veneration of the natives, and in a space of twenty years brought about the conversion of the whole population.

At the same time Cortes sent some troops into the state of Mechoacan, who penetrated as far as the Pacific Ocean, and as they returned visited some of the rich provinces situated in the north. Cortes founded settlements in all the parts of the country which appeared to him advantageous: at Zacatula upon the shores of the Pacific, at Coliman in Mechoacan, at Santesteban near Tampico, at Medellin near Vera-Cruz, &c.

Immediately after the pacification of the country, Cortes entrusted Christoval de Olid with the command of a considerable force, in order to establish a colony in Honduras, and at the same time Olid was to explore the southern coast of that province, and to seek for a strait which should form a communication between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. But, carried away by the pride of command, Olid had no sooner reached his destination than he declared himself independent, whereupon Cortes immediately despatched one of his relations to arrest the culprit, and set out himself, accompanied by Guatimozin, at the head of one hundred horsemen and fifty foot-soldiers, on the 12th of October, 1524. After crossing the provinces of Goatzacoalco, Tabasco, and Yucatan, and enduring all kinds of privations in the course of a most trying march over marshy and shifting ground, and across a perfect ocean of undulating forests, the detachment was approaching the province of Aculan, when Cortes was told of the existence of a plot, formed, as was said, by Guatimozin and the principal Indian chiefs. Its aim was to seize the first opportunity to massacre both officers and soldiers, after which the march to Honduras was to be continued, the settlements were to be destroyed, and then there was to be a return to Mexico, where during a general rising there would doubtless be small difficulty experienced in getting rid of the invaders. Guatimozin in vain protested his innocence, in which there is every reason to believe; he was hung, as well as several of the Aztec nobles, upon the branches of a Ceyba tree, which shaded the road. Bernal Diaz del Castillo says, “The execution of Guatimozin was very unjust, and we were all agreed in condemning it.” But Prescott says, “If Cortes had consulted but his own interest and his renown, he should have spared him, for he was the living trophy of his victory, as a man keeps gold in the lining of his coat.”

At length the Spaniards reached Aculan, a flourishing town, where they refreshed themselves after their journey in excellent quarters; when they set out again, it was in the direction of the Lake of Peten, a part of the country where the population was easily converted to Christianity. We shall not dwell upon the sufferings and misery which tried the expedition in these sparsely-peopled countries, until it arrived at San Gil de Buena-Vista, upon the Golfo Dolce, where Cortes, after receiving the news of the execution of Olid and the re-establishment of the central authority, embarked upon his return to Mexico. At this time he entrusted to Alvarado the command of three hundred infantry, one hundred and sixty cavalry, and four cannon, with a body of Indian auxiliaries, with which he set out for the south of Mexico, to conquer Guatemala. He reduced to submission the provinces of Zacatulan, Tehuantepec, Soconusco, Utlatlan, and laid the foundations of the town of Guatemala la Vieja; when, some time afterwards he made a voyage to Spain, he was named by Charles V. governor of the countries which he had conquered.

Three years had not expired after the conquest, before a territory 1200 miles in length upon the sea-board of the Atlantic, and 1500 miles upon that of the Pacific, had submitted to the Castilian crown, and with but few exceptions, was in a state of perfect tranquillity.

The return of Cortes to Mexico from the useless expedition to Honduras — which had wasted so much time and caused almost as great sufferings to the Spaniards as the conquest of Mexico — had taken place but a few days, when he received the news that he was temporarily replaced by another commander, and was invited to repair to Spain to exculpate himself from certain charges. He was not in any haste to comply with this order, hoping that it might be revoked, but his indefatigable calumniators and his implacable enemies, both in Spain and Mexico, preferred accusations against him after such a manner, that he found himself obliged to go and make his defence, to state his wrongs, and boldly to claim the approval of his conduct. Cortes therefore started accompanied by his friend Sandoval, as well as by Tapia und several Aztec chiefs, amongst whom was a son of Montezuma. He disembarked at Palos, in May, 1528, at the same place where Columbus had landed thirty-five years before, and he was welcomed with the same enthusiasm and rejoicings as the discoverer of America had been; here Cortes met with Pizarro, then at the outset of his career, who was come to solicit the support of the Spanish government. Cortes afterwards set out for Toledo, where the court then was. The mere announcement of his return had produced a complete change in public opinion. His unexpected arrival at once contradicted the idea that he harboured any projects of revolt and independence. Charles V. saw that public feeling would be outraged at the thought of punishing a man who had added its greatest gem to the crown of Castille, and so the journey of Cortes became one continual triumph in the midst of crowds of people greater than had been ever known before. “The houses and streets of the large towns and of the villages,” says Prescott, “were filled with spectators impatient to contemplate the hero whose single arm might be said, in some sort, to have conquered an empire for Spain, and who, to borrow the language of an old historian, marched in all the pomp and glory, not of a great vassal, but of an independent monarch.”

Charles V. after having granted several audiences to Cortes, and bestowed upon him those particular marks of favour which are termed important by courtiers, deigned to accept from him the empire which he had conquered for him, and the magnificent presents which he brought. But he considered that he had fully recompensed him when he had given Cortes the title of Marquis della Valle de Oajaca, and the post of captain-general of New Spain, without, however, restoring to him the civil government, a power which had been formerly delegated to him by the junta of Vera-Cruz. Cortes, after his marriage with the niece of the Duke de Bejar, who belonged to one of the first families in Spain, accompanied the emperor, who was on his way to Italy, to the port of embarkation; but the general, soon becoming tired of the frivolities of a court, so little in accordance with the active habits of his past life, set out again for Mexico in 1530, and landed at Villa-Rica. After his arrival he underwent some annoyance caused by the Audienza, which had exercised the power in his absence, and which had instituted law-suits against him, and he also found himself in conflict with the new civil junta on the subject of military affairs. The Marquis della Valle withdrew himself to Cuernavaca, where he had immense estates, and busied himself with agriculture. He was the means of introducing the sugar-cane and the mulberry into Mexico, he also encouraged the cultivation of hemp and flax, and the breeding, on a large scale, of merino sheep.

But this peaceable life without adventures could not long satisfy the enterprising spirit of Cortes. In 1532 and 1533, he equipped two squadrons destined to make voyages of discovery in the north-west of the Pacific. The latter expedition reached the southern extremity of the peninsula of California without attaining the object sought, namely the discovery of a strait uniting the Pacific with the Atlantic. Cortes himself met with no better success in 1536 in the Vermilion Sea (Gulf of California). Three years later a concluding expedition, of which Cortes gave the command to Ulloa, penetrated to the farthest extremity of the gulf, and then, sailing along the exterior side of the peninsula, reached the 29deg of north latitude. From thence the chief of the expedition sent back one of his ships to Cortes, while the rest proceeded northwards, but from that time nothing more is heard of them. Such was the unhappy result of the expeditions of Cortes, which, while they did not bring him in a single ducat, cost him not less than 300,000 gold castellanos. But they at least had the result of making known the coast of the Pacific Ocean, from the Bay of Panama as far as Colorado. The tour of the Californian Peninsula was made, and it was thus discovered that what had been imagined to be an island, was in reality a part of the continent. The whole of the Vermilion Sea, or Sea of Cortes, as the Spaniards justly named it, was carefully explored, and it was ascertained that, instead of having an outlet as was supposed to the north, it was in reality only a gulf deeply hollowed into the continent.

Cortes had not been able to fit out these expeditions without coming into antagonism with the viceroy Don Antonio de Mendoza, whom the emperor had sent to Mexico, an appointment which had wounded the feelings of the Marquis della Valle. Wearied with these continual, annoyances, and indignant at finding his prerogative as captain-general, if not absolutely ignored, at least perpetually questioned, Cortes left Mexico, and once more set out for Spain. But this journey was not destined at all to resemble the first. Grown old, disgusted with life, and betrayed by fortune, the “conquistador” had no longer anything to expect from government. He had not to wait long before receiving proof of this; one day he pressed through the crowd which surrounded the emperor’s coach, and mounted upon the step of the door. Charles V. pretended not to recognize him, and asked who this man was. Cortes answered proudly, “It is the man who has given you more States than your father left you Towns.” By this time public interest was diverted from Mexico, which had not yielded as much as had been expected from it, and was centred upon the marvellous riches of Peru. Cortes was, however, received with honour by the supreme council of the Indies, and permitted to state his complaints before it, but the debates upon the subject were endlessly drawn out, and he could obtain no redress. In 1541, during the disastrous expedition of Charles V. against Algiers, Cortes, who was serving in it as a volunteer, but whose counsels had not been listened to, had the misfortune to lose three great carved emeralds, jewels which would have sufficed for the ransom of an empire. Upon his return he renewed his solicitations, but with the same want of success. His grief over this injustice and these repeated disappointments was so deep, that his health suffered severely; he died far from the scene of his exploits, on the 10th of November, 1547, at Castilleja de la Cuesta, at the very moment when he was making preparations to return to America.

“He was a true knight errant,” says Prescott; “of all that glorious troop of adventurers which the Spain of the sixteenth century sent forth to a career of discovery and conquest, there was not one more deeply imbued with the spirit of romantic enterprise than Fernando Cortes. Strife was his delight, and he loved to attempt an enterprise by its most difficult side.”…

This passion for the romantic might have reduced the conqueror of Mexico to the part of a common adventurer, but Cortes was certainly a profound politician and a great captain, if one is justified in giving this name to a man who accomplished great actions by his own unassisted genius. There is no other example in history of so great an enterprise having been carried to a successful end with such inadequate means. It may be said with truth that Cortes conquered Mexico with his own resources alone. His influence over the minds of his soldiers was the natural result of their confidence in his ability, but it must be attributed also to his popular manners, which rendered him eminently fit to lead a band of adventurers. When he had attained to a higher rank, if Cortes displayed more of pomp, his veterans at least continued on the same terms of intimacy with him as before. In finishing this portrait of the “conquistador,” we shall quote the upright and veracious Bernal Diaz, with whose sentiments we fully agree. “He preferred his name of Cortes to all the titles by which he might be addressed, and he had good reasons for it, for the name of Cortes is as famous in our days as that of Cesar amongst the Romans, or Hannibal amongst the Carthaginians.” The old chronicler ends by a touch which vividly depicts the religious spirit of the sixteenth century: “Perhaps he was destined to receive his reward only in a better world, and I fully believe it to be so; for he was an honest knight, very sincere in his devotions to the Virgin, to the Apostle St. Peter, and to all the saints.”

III.

THE CONQUERORS OF CENTRAL AMERICA.

The triple alliance — Francisco Pizarro and his brothers — Don Diego d’Almagro — First attempts — Peru, its extent, people, and kings — Capture of Atahualpa, his ransom and death — Pedro d’Alvarado — Almagro in Chili — Strife among the conquerors — Trial and execution of Almagro — Expeditions of Gonzalo Pizarro and Orellana — Assassination of Francisco Pizarro — Rebellion and execution of his brother Gonzalo.

The information which had been gained by Balboa as to the riches of the countries situated to the south of Panama had scarcely become known to the Spaniards before several expeditions were organized to attempt the conquest of them. But all had failed, either from the means used being insufficient, or from the commanders not being equal to the greatness of the undertaking. It must be confessed also that the localities explored by these first adventurers — these pioneers, as they would be called now-a-days — did not at all come up to what Spanish greed had expected from them, and for this reason, that all the attempts had been hitherto made upon what was then called “Terra Firma,” a country pre-eminently unhealthy, mountainous, marshy, and covered with forests; the inhabitants were few, but of so warlike a disposition that they had added another obstacle to all those which nature had strewn with so prodigal a hand in the path of the invaders. Little by little, therefore, the enthusiasm had cooled, and the wonderful narratives of Balboa were mentioned only to be turned into ridicule.

Francisco Pizarro.

From an old print.

There lived, however, in Panama a man well able to weigh the truth of the reports which had been circulated concerning the richness of the countries bathed by the Pacific; this man was Francisco Pizarro, who had accompanied Munez de Balboa to the southern sea, and who now associated with himself two other adventurers, Diego de Almagro and Ferdinand de Luque. A few words must be said about the chiefs of the enterprise. Francisco Pizarro, born near Truxillo between the years 1471 and 1478, was the natural son of a certain Captain Gonzalo Pizarro, who had taught the boy nothing but to take care of pigs; he was soon tired of this occupation, and took advantage of his having allowed one of the animals who were in his charge to stray, not to return to the paternal roof, where he was accustomed to be cruelly beaten for the smallest peccadillo. The young Pizarro enlisted, and after passing some years amidst the Italian wars, he followed Christopher Columbus to Hispaniola in 1510. He served there with distinction, and also in Cuba; afterwards he accompanied Hojeda to Darien, discovered, as has been already mentioned, the Pacific, with Balboa, and after the execution of the latter, he assisted Pedrarias Davila, whose favourite he had become, in the conquest of all the country known as Castille d’Or.

While Pizarro was an illegitimate child, Diego de Almagro was a foundling, picked up according to some in 1475 at Aldea del Rey, but according to others at Almagro, from which circumstance, as they maintain, he derived his name. He was educated in the midst of soldiers, and while still young went to America, where he had succeeded in amassing a small fortune.

Ferdinand de Luque was a rich ecclesiastic of Tobago, who exercised the calling of a schoolmaster at Panama. The youngest of these adventurers was by this time more than fifty years of age, and Garcilasso de la Vega relates that upon their project being known, they became the objects of general derision; Ferdinand de Luque was the most laughed at, and was called by no other name than Hernando el Loco, Ferdinand the Fool. The terms of partnership were soon agreed upon between these three men, of whom two at least were without fear, if they were not all three without reproach. Luque furnished money needed for the armament of the vessels and the pay of the soldiers, and Almagro bore an equal part in the expense, but Pizarro, who possessed nothing but his sword, was to pay his contribution in another manner. It was he who took the command of the first attempt, upon which we shall dwell in some detail, because it was then that the perseverance and inflexible obstinacy of the “conquistador” first came fully into sight.

One of the historians of the conquest of Peru, Augustin de Zarate, relates as follows: — “Having then asked and obtained the permission of Pedro Arias d’Avila, Francisco Pizarro after much trouble equipped a vessel upon which he embarked with 140 men. At the distance of 150 miles from Panama he discovered a small and poor province named Peru, which caused the same name to be henceforward improperly bestowed upon all the country which was discovered along that coast for the space of more than 3600 miles in length. Passing onwards he discovered another country, which the Spaniards called the burnt people. The Indians slew so many of his men that he was constrained to retire in great disorder to the country of Chinchama, which is not far distant from the place whence he had started. Almagro, however, who had remained at Panama, fitted out a ship there, upon which he embarked with seventy Spaniards, and descended the coast as far as the River San Juan, 300 miles from Panama. Not having met with Pizarro, he went back northwards as far as the burnt people, where, having ascertained by certain indications that Pizarro had been there, he landed his men. But the Indians, puffed up by the victory which they had gained over Pizarro, resisted bravely, forced the entrenchments with which Almagro had covered his position, and obliged him to re-embark. He returned therefore, still following the coast-line until he arrived at Chinchama, where he found Francisco Pizarro. They were much rejoiced at meeting again, and having added to their followers some fresh soldiers whom they had levied, they found their troops amounted to 200 Spaniards, and once more they descended the coast. They suffered so much from scarcity of provisions and from the attacks of the Indians, that Don Diego returned to Panama to collect more recruits and to obtain provisions. He took back with him eighty men, with whom and with those who remained to them, they went as far as the country called Catamez, a country moderately peopled and where they found abundance of provisions. They noticed that the Indians of these parts who attacked them and made war against them, had their faces studded with nails of gold inserted in holes which they had made expressly for receiving these ornaments. Diego de Almagro returned once again to Panama, whilst his companion waited for him and for the reinforcements which he was to bring with him, in a small island called Cock Island, where he suffered much from the scarcity of all the necessaries of life.”

The Indians kill many of the Spaniards.

Upon his arrival in Panama, Almagro could not obtain permission from Los Rios, the successor of Avila, to make new levies, for he had no right, Los Rios said, to allow a greater number of people to go and perish uselessly in a rash enterprise; he even sent a boat to Cock Island to bring away Pizarro and his companions. But such a decision could not be pleasing to Almagro and De Luque. It meant expense thrown away; and it meant the annihilation of the hopes which the sight of the ornaments of gold and silver of the inhabitants of Catamez had caused them to entertain. They sent therefore a trusty person to Pizarro, to recommend him to persevere in his resolution, and to refuse to obey the orders of the Governor of Panama. But Pizarro in vain held out the most seductive promises; the remembrance of the fatigues which had been endured was too recent, and all his companions except twelve abandoned him.

With these intrepid men, whose names have been preserved, and amongst whom was Garcia de Xeres, one of the historians of the expedition, Pizarro retired to an uninhabited island at a greater distance from the coast, to which he gave the name of Gorgona. There the Spaniards lived miserably on mangles, fish, and shell-fish, and awaited for five months the succour that Almagro and De Luque were to send them. At length, vanquished by the unanimous protestations of the whole colony, — who were indignant that people whose only crime was that they had not despaired of success, should be left to perish miserably and as though they were malefactors, — Los Rios sent to Pizarro a small vessel to bring him back. With the object of presenting no temptation to Pizarro to make use of this ship to renew his expedition, not a single soldier was placed on board of her. At the sight of the help which had arrived, and oblivious of all their privations, the thirteen adventurers thought of nothing but persuading the sailors who came to seek them to participate in their own hopes. Whereupon, instead of starting again on the route to Panama, they sailed all together, towards the south-east, in spite of contrary winds and currents, until, after having discovered the Island of St. Clara, they arrived at the port of Tumbez, situated beyond the 3deg of south latitude, where they saw a magnificent temple and a palace belonging to the Incas, the sovereigns of the country.

The country was populous and fairly well-cultivated, but what proved beyond all else seductive to the Spaniards, and made them think that they had reached the marvellous countries of which so much had been said, was the sight of so great an abundance of gold and silver, that these metals were employed not only as finery and ornament by the inhabitants, but also for making vases and common utensils.

Pizarro caused the interior of the country to be explored by Pietro de Candia and Alonzo de Molina, who brought back an enthusiastic description of it, and he caused some gold vases to be given up to him, as well as some llamas, a quadruped domesticated by the Peruvians. He took two natives on board his vessel, to whom he proposed to teach the Spanish language, and to use them as interpreters when he should return to the country. He anchored successively at Payta, Saugarata, and in the Bay of Santa-Cruz, of which the sovereign, Capillana, received the strangers with such friendly demonstrations, that several of them were unwilling to re-embark. After having sailed down the coast as far as Porto Santo, Pizarro set out on his return to Panama, where he arrived after three whole years spent in dangerous explorations, which had completely ruined De Luque and Almagro.

Pizarro received by Charles V.

Pizarro resolved to apply to Charles V. before undertaking the conquest of the country which he had discovered, for he could not obtain leave from Los Rios to engage fresh adventurers; so he borrowed the sum required for the voyage, and in 1528 he went to Spain to inform the emperor of the work which he had undertaken. He painted the picture of the countries that were to be conquered in the most pleasing light, and as a reward for his labours the titles of governor, captain-general, and alguazil-major of Peru were bestowed upon him and his heirs in perpetuity. At the same time he was ennobled, and a pension of 1000 crowns was bestowed upon him. His jurisdiction, independent of the governor of Panama, was to extend over a tract of 600 miles along the coast to the south of the Santiago river; it was to be called New Castille, and he was to be the governor; concessions that cost nothing to Spain, for Pizarro had yet to conquer the country. On his side he undertook to raise a body of 250 men, and to provide himself with the necessary ships, arms, and ammunition. Pizarro then repaired to Truxillo, where he persuaded his three brothers Ferdinand, Juan, and Gonzalo to accompany him, as well as one of his half-brothers Martin d’Alcantara. He took advantage of his stay in his native town, and at Caceres, to try to raise recruits, both there and throughout Estramadura; they did not, however, come forward in large numbers, in spite of the title of Caballeros de la Espado dorada which he promised to bestow upon all who would serve under him. Then he returned to Panama, where affairs were not going so smoothly as he had hoped. He had succeeded in getting De Luque named Bishop protector de los Indios; but for Almagro, whose talents he knew, and whose ambition he feared, he had only asked that he should be ennobled and a gratuity of 500 ducats bestowed upon him, with the government of a fortress which was to be built at Tumbez. Almagro refused to take part in this new expedition; he was not pleased with the meagre portion given to him after spending all his money on the earlier expeditions; he wished now to organize one on his own account. It required all Pizarro’s address, aided by the promise to give up to Almagro the office of adelantado, to appease him and make him consent to renew the old partnership.

Map of Peru.

The resources of the three partners were so limited at this time, that they could only get together three small ships and 124 soldiers, of whom thirty-six were horse-soldiers; the expedition set out in February, 1531, under the command of Pizarro and his four brothers, whilst Almagro remained at Panama to organize an expedition of supplies. At the end of thirteen days’ sailing, and after having been carried by a storm 300 miles more to the south than he had intended, Pizarro was forced to disembark both men and horses on the shores of the Bay of San Mateo, and to follow the line of the coast on land. This march was a difficult one in a very mountainous country, thinly-peopled, and intersected by rivers which had to be crossed at their mouths. At last a place called Coaqui was reached, where was found a great booty, which decided Pizarro to send back two of his ships. They carried to Panama and Nicaragua spoils to the amount of 30,000 castellanos, as well as a great number of emeralds, a rich booty, which would, according to Pizarro, determine many adventurers to come and join him.

Then the conqueror continued his march southwards as far as Porto-Viejo, where he was joined by Sebastian Benalcazar and Juan Fernandez, who brought him twelve horsemen and thirty foot-soldiers. The effect which had been produced in Mexico by the sight of the horses and the reports of the fire-arms was repeated in Peru, and Pizarro was able to reach the Island of Puna in the Gulf of Guayaquil without encountering any resistance. But the islanders were more numerous and more warlike than their brothers of the mainland, and for six months they valiantly resisted all the attacks of the Spaniards. Although Pizarro had received some aid from Nicaragua, brought by Ferdinand de Soto, and although he had beheaded the cacique Tonalla and sixteen of the principal chiefs, he could not overcome their resistance. He was, therefore, obliged to regain the continent, where the maladies peculiar to the country tried his companions so cruelly, that he was forced to stay three months at Tumbez, exposed to the perpetual attacks of the natives. From Tumbez he went next to the Rio Puira, discovered the harbour of Payta, the best on this coast, and founded the colony of San-Miguel, at the mouth of the Chilo, in order that vessels coming from Panama might find a safe shelter. It was here that Pizarro received some envoys from Huascar, who informed him of the revolt of Atahualpa, the brother of Huascar, and asked his aid.

At the period when the Spaniards landed to conquer Peru, it extended along the shore of the Pacific Ocean for 1500 miles, and stretched into the interior as far as the imposing chain of the Andes. Originally the population was divided into savage and barbarous tribes, having no idea of civilization, and living in a perpetual state of warfare with one another. For many centuries affairs had continued in the same state, and there appeared no presage of the coming of a better era, when, on the shores of Lake Titicaca, there appeared to the Indians a man and woman, who pretended that they were the Children of the Sun. They called themselves Manco-Capac and Mama-Oello, and were of majestic appearance; according to Garcilasso de la Vega, towards the middle of the twelfth century they united together a number of wandering tribes, and laid the foundations of the town of Cuzco. Manco-Capac had taught the men agriculture and mechanical arts, whilst Mama-Oello instructed the women in spinning and weaving. When Manco-Capac had satisfied these first needs of all societies, he framed laws for his subjects, and constituted a regular political state. It was thus that the dominion of the Incas or Lords of Peru was established. At first their empire was limited to the neighbourhood of Cuzco, but under their successors it rapidly increased, and extended from the Tropic of Capricorn to the Pearl Islands, a length of thirty degrees. The power of the incas was as absolute as that of the ancient Asiatic sovereigns. “Also,” says Zarate, “there was perhaps no other country in the world where the obedience and submission of the subjects was carried further. The incas were to them quasi-divinities; they had but to place a thread drawn from the royal head-fillet in the hands of any one, and the man so distinguished, was certain to be everywhere respected and obeyed, and to find such absolute deference paid to the king’s order which he carried, that he could alone exterminate a whole province without any assistance from soldiers, and cause to be put to death all the inhabitants, both male and female, because at the mere sight of this thread, taken from the royal crown, the people voluntarily and without any resistance, offered themselves up to die.” However, the old chroniclers all agree in saying that this unlimited power was always used by the incas for the well-being of their subjects. Out of a series of twelve kings, who in succession sat on the throne of Peru, there was not one who did not leave behind him the memory of a just prince adored by his subjects. Should we not search in vain through the annals of any other country in the world for facts analogous to these? Must it not be regretted that the Spaniards should have brought war with all its attendant horrors, and the maladies and vices of a different climate, along with what they in their pride called civilization, amongst a rich and happy people, whose descendants, impoverished and debased as they are, have not even the recollection of their ancient prosperity to console them in their irremediable decay?

“The Peruvians,” says Michelet in his admirable Precis d’Histoire Moderne, “handed down the principal facts to posterity by knots, which they made in ropes. They had obelisks and exact gnomons to mark the equinoxes and solstices. Their year consisted of 365 days. They had erected prodigies of architecture, and they carved statues with amazing art. They formed the most polished and industrious nation of the New World.”

The inca Huayna-Capac, father of Atahualpa, under whom this vast empire was destroyed, had done much to increase and embellish it. This inca, who conquered all the country of Quito, had made, by the hands of his soldiers and of the vanquished people, a great road 1500 miles in length from Cuzco to Quito, across precipices which had been filled up and mountains which had been levelled. Relays of men, stationed at intervals of a mile and a half from each other, carried the emperor’s orders throughout the empire. Such was their police, and if we wish to judge of Peruvian magnificence, we need only instance the fact that the king when he travelled was carried on a throne of gold which weighed 25,000 ducats, and the golden litter upon which the throne rested was borne by the highest personages of the realm.

In 1526, when the Spaniards appeared on the coast for the first time, the twelfth inca had lately married — in defiance of the ancient law of the kingdom — the daughter of the vanquished king of Quito, and had had a son of this marriage named Atahualpa, to whom he left this kingdom on his death, which happened about 1529. His eldest son Huascar, whose mother was descended from the incas, had the remainder of his states. But this partition, so contrary to the customs established from time immemorial, caused such great discontent at Cuzco, that Huascar, encouraged by his subjects, determined to march against his brother, who would not acknowledge him for his lord and master. Atahualpa, in his turn, had too lately tasted power to be willing to abandon it. He managed by bribes to attach to himself the greater part of the warriors who had accompanied his father during the conquest of Quito, and when the two armies met, fortune favoured the usurper.

Is it not curious to remark how both in Peru and Mexico the Spaniards were aided by entirely exceptional circumstances? In Mexico some of the people who had recently submitted to the Aztec race, being mercilessly trampled upon by their conquerors, welcome the Spaniards as deliverers; in Peru the strife between two brothers, furious against each other, hinders the Indians from turning all their forces against the invaders whom they might easily have crushed.

Pizarro upon receiving the envoys sent by Huascar, to ask his aid against his brother Atahualpa, whom he represented as a rebel and usurper, saw at once all the advantages that might accrue to him from these circumstances. He saw that by espousing the cause of one of the brothers, he could more easily crush them both, therefore he advanced at once into the interior of the country, at the head of a very inconsiderable force, consisting of sixty-two cavalry and one hundred and twenty foot-soldiers, of whom only twenty were armed with arquebuses and muskets; he was obliged to leave part of his troops to guard San-Miguel, in which Pizarro reckoned upon finding a refuge in case of his being unsuccessful, and where in any case all supplies which might arrive could be landed.

Pizarro first made for Caxamalca, a small town situated at about twenty days’ march from the coast. To reach it he had to cross a desert of burning sand, without vegetation and without water, which extended for sixty miles in length as far as the province of Motupe, and where the slightest attack of the enemy, joined to the sufferings endured by the little army, would have been sufficient to crush the whole expedition at one blow. Next the troops plunged into the mountains and became entangled in narrow defiles where a small force might have annihilated them. During this march Pizarro received an envoy from Atahualpa bringing him some painted shoes and gold bracelets, which he was requested to wear at his approaching interview with the inca. Naturally Pizarro was lavish in his promises of friendship and devotion, and assured the Indian ambassador that he should be only following the orders given him by the king his master in respecting the lives and property of the inhabitants. From the moment of his arrival at Caxamalca Pizarro prudently lodged his soldiers in a temple and a palace belonging to the inca, where they were sheltered from any surprise. Then he sent one of his brothers with De Soto and twenty horse-soldiers to the camp of Atahualpa, which was distant only three miles, to announce to him his arrival. The envoys of the governor were received with magnificence, and were astonished at the multiplicity of the ornaments and vases made of gold and silver which they saw throughout the Indian camp. They returned, bringing a promise from Atahualpa that he would come on the next day to visit Pizarro, to bid him welcome to his kingdom. At the same time the envoys gave an account of the wonderful riches they had seen, which confirmed Pizarro in the project which he had formed of seizing the unfortunate Atahualpa and his treasures by treachery.

Several Spanish authors, and notably Zarate, disguise these facts, which no doubt appeared to them too odious, and altogether deny the treachery towards Atahualpa. But at the present day there are extant many documents which force the historian to believe, with Robertson and Prescott, in the perfidy of Pizarro. It was very important for him to have the inca in his own hands, and to employ him as a tool, just as Cortes had done with Montezuma. He therefore took advantage of the honesty and simplicity of Atahualpa, who placed entire confidence in Pizarro’s protestations of friendship and so was thrown off his guard, to arrange an ambuscade into which Atahualpa was certain to fall. There was not a scruple in the disloyal soul of the conqueror; he was as cool as though he were about to offer battle to enemies who had been forewarned of his approach; this infamous treason must be an eternal dishonour to his memory. Pizarro divided his cavalry into three small squadrons, left all his infantry in one body, hid his arquebusiers on the road by which the inca must pass, and kept twenty of his most determined companions near himself. Atahualpa, wishing to give the Spaniards a great idea of his power, advanced with the whole of his army. He himself was borne upon a kind of bed, decorated with feathers, covered with plates of gold and silver, and ornamented with precious stones. He was accompanied by his principal nobles, carried like himself on the shoulders of their servants, and he was surrounded by dancers and jesters. Such a march was more that of a procession than of an army.

As soon as the inca had nearly reached the Spanish quarters (according to Robertson), Father Vincent Valverde, the chaplain of the expedition, who was afterwards made a bishop as a reward for his conduct, advanced with the crucifix in one hand and his breviary in the other. In an interminable discourse he set forth to the monarch the doctrine of the creation, the fall of the first man, the Incarnation, Passion, and Resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ, the choice made by God of St. Peter to be His vicar upon earth, the power transmitted through him to the Popes, and the gift made by Pope Alexander to the King of Castille of all the regions of the New World. When he had expounded all these doctrines, he called upon Atahualpa to embrace the Christian religion, to recognize the supreme authority of the Pope, and to submit to the King of Castille as his legitimate sovereign. If he submitted immediately, Valverde undertook to promise that the king his master would take Peru under his protection, and allow him to continue to reign there; but he declared war against him and threatened him with fearful vengeance if he refused to obey, and persevered in his impiety.

To say the least of it, this was a singular scene and a very strange harangue, alluding to facts which were utterly unknown to the Peruvians, and of the truth of which a more skilful orator than Valverde would not have succeeded in persuading them. If we add that the interpreter knew so little of the Spanish language that it was almost an impossibility for him to translate what he scarcely understood himself, and that the Peruvian language lacked words to express ideas so foreign to its genius, we shall not be much surprised to learn that Atahualpa understood almost nothing of the Spanish monk’s discourse. Some sentences, however, which attacked his own power, filled him with surprise and indignation. But he was none the less moderate in his reply. He said that, as master of his own kingdom by right of succession, he could not see how any one had the power to dispose of it without his consent; he added that he was not at all willing to renounce the religion of his fathers to adopt one of which he had only heard that day for the first time; with regard to the other points touched upon in the discourse he understood nothing, it was a thing entirely new to him, and he would much like to know where Valverde had learnt so many wonderful things. “In this book,” replied Valverde, handing him his breviary. Atahualpa received it with eagerness and turned over some of the leaves with much curiosity, then, putting it to his ear, he exclaimed, “What you show me there does not speak to me, and tells me nothing.” With this he flung the book upon the ground.

This served as a signal for the combat, or rather for the massacre. Cannon and muskets came into play, the cavalry sprang forward, and the infantry fell sword in hand upon the stupefied Peruvians. In a few moments the confusion was at its height. The Indians fled on all sides, without attempting to defend themselves. As to Atahualpa, although his principal officers tried to make a rampart of their own bodies, while they carried him off, Pizarro sprang upon him, dispersed or overthrew his guards, and seizing him by his long hair, threw him down from the litter in which he was carried. Only the darkness could arrest the carnage. Four thousand Indians were killed, a greater number wounded, and 3000 were taken prisoners. An incontestable proof that there was no real battle is, that of all the Spaniards Pizarro alone was hit, and he received his wound from one of his own soldiers who was too precipitately endeavouring to seize upon the inca.

Atahualpa is made prisoner.

From an old print.

The booty collected in the camp and from the dead exceeded anything the Spaniards could have imagined, and their enthusiasm was proportioned to the conquest of such riches.

At first Atahualpa bore his captivity with resignation, which may have been partly due to Pizarro’s doing all he could to soothe him, at least by words. But the inca, soon understanding the unbridled covetousness of his jailors, made a proposal to Pizarro to pay him ransom, and to have a room of twenty-two feet in length by sixteen in width filled as high as the hand could reach with vases, utensils, and ornaments of gold. Pizarro eagerly agreed to this, and the captive inca despatched the necessary orders at once to all the provinces; these were carried out promptly and unmurmuringly. Beyond this, the Indian troops were disbanded, and Pizarro was able to send Soto and five Spaniards to Cuzco, a town situated more than 600 miles from Caxamalca, while he himself subjugated all the country within a circuit of 300 miles.

In the meantime Almagro landed with 200 soldiers. There had been set aside for him and his men — with what regrets may easily be imagined — 100,000 pesos (a Spanish coin); a fifth was reserved for the king, and this left 1,528,500 pesos to be divided between Pizarro and his companions. This product of pillage and massacre was solemnly divided between those entitled to it on the Festival of St. James, the patron saint of Spain, after fervent prayer to God. A deplorable mixture this of religion and profanity, too common unfortunately, in these times of mingled superstition and avarice.

Each horse-soldier received 8000 pesos as his share, and each foot-soldier 4000, which would be equivalent to about 1600l. and 800l. sterling. This was enough to satisfy the most exacting soldier, after a campaign which had been neither long nor difficult. Many of the adventurers wished to enjoy this unexpected good fortune in a peaceable manner in their own country, and eagerly asked for their dismissal. This Pizarro granted without hesitation, for he felt sure that the news of their rapidly-acquired wealth would soon bring him new recruits. With his brother Ferdinand, who went to Spain to give the emperor an account of Pizarro’s triumph and some splendid presents, went sixty Spaniards, laden heavily indeed with money, but lightly with remorse.

As soon as Atahualpa’s ransom was paid, he claimed his freedom; but Pizarro, who had only saved his life that he might make all the treasures of Peru his own, and shelter himself under the prestige and authority which the inca still exercised over his subjects, was soon wearied by his entreaties. He suspected him also of having for some time secretly given orders to levy troops in the distant provinces of the empire. Besides, Atahualpa having soon discovered that Pizarro was no better educated than one of the lowest of his soldiers, felt in consequence a contempt for the governor which, unfortunately, he could not conceal. Such were the reasons, all trivial as they were, which determined Pizarro to prepare for the trial of the inca.

Nothing could have been more hateful than this trial, in which Almagro and Pizarro were at the same time both suitors and judges. The heads of the accusation were so ridiculous and absurd, that one is in doubt whether to be most surprised by the effrontery or the wickedness of Pizarro, in subjecting the head of a powerful empire, over which he had no jurisdiction, to such an inquiry. Atahualpa, being found guilty, was condemned to be burnt alive; but as he had at length asked to be baptized, that he might rid himself of the importunities of Valverde, his enemies contented themselves with strangling him. A worthy counterpart this, of Guatimozin’s execution! These were amongst the most atrocious and odious deeds committed by the Spaniards in America, where, however, they have sullied themselves with every imaginable crime.

Among this herd of adventurers there were still some men who had retained sentiments of honour and self-respect. They protested loudly against this perversion of justice, but their generous pleadings were stifled by the selfish declamations of Pizarro and his worthy assistants.

The governor now raised one of Atahualpa’s sons to the throne, under the name of Paul Inca; but the civil war between the two brothers, and the events which had occurred since the arrival of the Spaniards, had done much to loosen the ties which bound the Peruvians to their kings, and this young man, destined soon to die an ignominious death, had scarcely more authority than Manco-Capac, the son of Huascar, who was acknowledged by the inhabitants of Cuzco. Soon after this, some of the principal people in the country even tried to carve for themselves kingdoms out of the empire of Peru. Such was Ruminagui, the commandant of Quito, who caused the brother and the children of Atahualpa to be massacred, and declared himself independent. Discord reigned in the Peruvian camp, and the Spaniards resolved to take advantage of it. Pizarro advanced rapidly upon Cuzco, the small number of his forces having been the only reason which had prevented him from doing so sooner. Now that a crowd of adventurers, attracted by the treasures which had been brought back to Panama, vied with each other in hastening to Peru, now that he could assemble 500 men — after leaving an important garrison at San-Miguel under Benalcazar’s command, — Pizarro had no further reason for delay. On the way some skirmishes took place with large bodies of troops, but they ended as always, with severe loss to the natives, and a very insignificant one to the Spaniards. When they entered Cuzco, and took possession of the town, the invaders showed surprise at the small quantity of gold and precious stones which they found there, although it far exceeded Atahualpa’s ransom. Was this because they were becoming accustomed to the riches of the country, or because there was a larger number to share in them?

Meanwhile, Benalcazar, being weary of inaction, took advantage of the arrival of a reinforcement from Nicaragua and Panama, to set out for Quito, where according to the Peruvians, Atahualpa had left the greater part of his treasure. He placed himself at the head of eighty horse-soldiers and 120 infantry, defeated on several occasions Ruminagui, who disputed his passage, and thanks to his prudence and cleverness, he entered Quito victorious; but he did not find there what he sought, that is to say, the treasures of Atahualpa.

At the same time, Peter d’Alvarado, who had so signally distinguished himself under Cortes, and who had been made governor of Guatemala, as a reward for his services, pretended to believe that the province of Quito was not included in Pizarro’s command, and organized an expedition consisting of 500 men, 200 of whom were cavalry. Landing at Porto-Viejo, he wished to reach Quito without a guide, by going up the Guayaquil River and crossing the Andes. This road has always been one of the worst and most trying that it is possible to choose. Before they had reached the plain of Quito, after horrible sufferings from hunger and thirst, without speaking of the burning cinders hurled from the crater of Chimborazo, a volcano near Quito, and the snow-storms which assailed them, the fifth part of the band of adventurers, and half the horses, had perished; the remainder were completely discouraged and quite unfit for fighting. It was therefore with the greatest surprise, and some uneasiness, that they found themselves face to face, not with a body of Indians as they had expected, but with a party of Spaniards, under the command of Almagro. The latter were preparing to charge, when some of the more moderate among the officers caused an arrangement to be entered into, by virtue of which Alvarado was to withdraw to his own province after receiving 100,000 pesos to defray the expenses of the armament.

Ferdinand Pizarro had set sail for Spain, while these events were happening in Peru, feeling sure that the immense quantity of gold, silver, and precious stones which he took with him, would secure him a warm welcome. He obtained for his brother Francisco the confirmation of his appointment as governor, with more extended powers; he himself was made a knight of the order of St. Iago; as for Almagro, he was confirmed in his title of adelantado, and his jurisdiction was extended 600 miles, without, however, its limits being very strictly defined, which left the door open for many contests and all kinds of arbitrary interpretations.

Ferdinand Pizarro had not reached Peru again, when Almagro, having learnt that a special government had been assigned to him, pretended that Cuzco formed part of it, and made preparations for its conquest. But Juan and Gonzalo Pizarro had no intention of allowing themselves to be robbed, and the parties were on the point of coming to blows when Francisco Pizarro, who is often called the Marquis or the great Marquis, arrived at the capital.

Almagro had never forgiven Francisco Pizarro the duplicity which he had displayed in his negotiations with Charles V. nor the coolness with which he had claimed for himself, at the expense of his two friends, the principal share of authority, and the most extended government. But as Almagro met with great opposition to his designs, and as he was not the stronger, he concealed his vexation, put a good face on the matter, and seemed delighted at a reconciliation. “They renewed their partnership, therefore,” says Zarate, “on condition that Don Diego d’Almagro should go and discover the country on the south side, and if he found any that was really good, they should ask his Majesty to make him the governor of it; but that if he found nothing to suit him, they should share Don Francisco’s government between them.” This arrangement was made very solemnly, and they took their oath upon the consecrated wafer, that for the future they would undertake nothing against one another. Some say that Almagro swore that he would never encroach either upon Cuzco or on the surrounding country within 390 miles, even if his Majesty should give him the government of it. They add that turning towards the holy sacrament, he pronounced these words, “Lord, if I violate the oath that I now take, I pray that Thou wilt confound me, and punish me both in my body and my soul!”

Pizarro and Almagro take an oath upon the Host.

After this solemn agreement, which was destined to be observed with as little fidelity as the first, Almagro made his preparations for departure. Thanks to his well-known liberality, as much as to his reputation for courage, he gathered together 570 men, of about equal numbers of cavalry and infantry, with which he set out by land for Chili. The journey was an extremely trying one, and the adventurers suffered severely from intense cold whilst crossing the Andes; they had also to deal with very warlike tribes, unsoftened by any civilization, who assailed them with a furia of which nothing they had seen in Peru had given them any idea. Almagro could make no settlement, for he had scarcely been two months in the country when he heard that the Indians in Peru had revolted, and massacred the greater part of the Spaniards, whereupon he immediately retraced his steps.

After the new partnership had been signed between the conquerors (1534), Pizarro had returned to the provinces bordering on the sea, in which he could establish a regular government, there being no longer anything to dread from resistance. For a man who had never studied legislation, he had drawn up some very wise rules for the administration of justice, for the collection of taxes, the apportionment of the Indians, and the working of the mines. Some parts of the “conquistador’s” character were doubtless very open to criticism, but it is only just to recognize that he was not wanting in enlarged ideas, and that he was conscientious in playing his part as the founder of a great empire. This it was which made him hesitate long before choosing the future capital of the Spanish possessions. Cuzco had the recommendation of having been the residence of the incas; but this town, situated more than 400 miles from the sea, was very distant from Quito, of which the importance seemed to Pizarro to be extreme. Before long he was struck with the beauty and fertility of a great valley, watered by a stream called the Rimac, and there in 1536, he established the seat of his dominion. Soon, the City of Kings (de Los Reyes), or Lima, as it is called by a corruption of the name of the river which flows at its feet, assumed the aspect of a great city, owing to the magnificent palace and the sumptuous residences for officers, which Pizarro caused to be built there. While these cares kept Pizarro far from his capital, small bodies of troops, sent in different directions, penetrated into the most distant provinces of the empire, with the object of extinguishing the last smouldering embers of resistance; so many of the soldiers were employed in this way, that there remained in Cuzco itself but a very small body of troops. The inca, who had remained in the hands of the Spaniards, thought this an opportune moment for fomenting a general rising, in which he earnestly hoped that the foreign government might be overthrown. Although closely guarded, he contrived to take his measures with so much skill that he did not arouse the suspicions of his oppressors. He obtained permission even to be present at a grand fete, which was to be held at several miles’ distance from Cuzco, and for which the most distinguished persons in the empire had met together. As soon as the inca appeared, the standard of revolt was raised. The country was soon in arms from the confines of the province of Quito as far as Chili, and a number of small detachments of Spaniards were surprised and destroyed. Cuzco, defended by the three brothers Pizarro with but 170 Spaniards, was exposed for eight consecutive months to the incessant attacks of the Peruvians, who had now become expert in the use of the arms which they had taken from their enemies. The conquerors made a most valiant resistance, but experienced some severe losses, especially that of Juan Pizarro. Almagro left Chili in the greatest haste, crossed the stony and sandy desert of Atacama, where he suffered as severely from heat and drought as he had done in the Andes from cold and snow, penetrated into the Peruvian territory, defeated Manco-Capac in a great battle, and succeeded in approaching the town of Cuzco, after having driven away the Indians. He then tried to get the town given up to him, on the pretext that it was not included in Pizarro’s government, and violating a truce, during which the followers of the marquis were taking a short rest, he entered Cuzco, seized both Ferdinand and Gonzalo Pizarro, and had himself acknowledged as governor.

While this was going on, a considerable body of Indians invested Lima, intercepted all communications, and annihilated the various small bodies of troops which Pizarro sent at intervals to the aid of the Spaniards at Cuzco. At this time he sent away all his vessels to Panama to compel his companions to make a desperate resistance; he recalled from Truxillo the forces under the command of Alonzo d’Alvarado, and entrusted to the latter a column of 500 men, which advanced to within several miles of the capital without having the slightest suspicion that the town was now in the hands of fellow-countrymen, who were fully determined to bar their passage. But Almagro desired much rather to attract these new adversaries to himself than to destroy them; he arranged therefore, to surprise them and make them prisoners. He had now a fine opportunity in his hands of ending the war, and making himself master of the two governments by a single blow. Several of his officers had observed this to him, and especially Orgonos, who proposed that the two brothers of the “conquistador” should be put to death, and that Almagro should advance by forced marches with his victorious troops against Lima, where Pizarro, taken by surprise, would not be able to resist him. But as a Latin poet says, “Jupiter makes dotards of those whom he means to ruin.” Almagro, who in so many other instances had thrown aside all scruples, did not wish to put himself in the wrong by invading Pizarro’s dominions as a rebel, and he quietly took the road back to Cuzco.

Looking at it only from the side of Almagro’s own interests, he evidently committed in this a gross blunder, of which he was soon to repent; but if we consider, what we should never lose sight of, the interest of the country, he had already committed a capital crime in the acts of aggression of which he had been guilty, and in kindling civil war in face of an enemy quite ready to take advantage of it. His adversaries did not delay to remind him of it. Whereas prompt decision would have been necessary for Almagro to make him master of the situation, Pizarro had everything to expect from time and opportunity. While waiting for the promised reinforcements from Darien, he commenced negotiations with his adversary, lasting for several months, during which time one of his brothers, as well as Alvarado, found means to escape with more than seventy men. Although Almagro had been so often duped, he consented again to receive the licentiate Espinosa, who was ordered to represent to him, that if the emperor knew what was taking place between the two competitors, and learnt the condition to which their contests had reduced affairs, no doubt he would recall them both, and put some one else in their place. At last, after the death of Espinosa, it was decided by the friar Francisco de Bovadilla, to whom Pizarro and Almagro had referred their differences, that Ferdinand Pizarro should be immediately set free, that Cuzco should be given back to the marquis, and that they should send several officers on both sides to Spain, charged with representing the respective rights of the two parties and submitting them to the emperor’s decision.

Scarcely had the last of his brothers been set at liberty than Pizarro, rejecting all idea of peace and amicable arrangement, declared that arms alone should decide whether he or Almagro was to be lord of Peru. In a short time he had assembled a body of 700 men, of which he entrusted the command to his two brothers. Finding it impossible to cross the mountains which would have been the most direct road to Cuzco, they followed the line of the sea-coast as far as Nasca, and then penetrated into a branch of the Andes, by which they could reach the capital in a short time. Possibly Almagro ought to have defended the mountain defiles, but he had only 500 men, and he reckoned much on his splendid cavalry, whom he could not deploy in a confined space; he therefore waited for the enemy in the plain of Cuzco. The two parties encountered each other on the 26th of April, 1538, with equal animosity; but the victory was decided by two companies of musketeers which the emperor had sent to Pizarro when he heard of the revolt of the Indians. One hundred and forty soldiers perished in this engagement, which received the name of las salinas. Orgonos and several officers of distinction were killed in cold blood after the battle, and Almagro himself, aged and ill, could not escape from Pizarro.

The Indians who, assembled in arms on the surrounding mountains, had reckoned upon falling on the conqueror, had need instead to fly in all haste. “Nothing,” says Robertson, “more entirely proves the ascendancy gained by the Spaniards over the Americans, than seeing that the latter, witnesses of the defeat and dispersion of one of the parties, had not the courage to attack the other, even weakened and fatigued as they were by their victory, and dared not fall upon their oppressors when fortune offered them so favourable an opportunity for attacking them with advantage.”

At this period a victory not followed by pillage was incomplete, so the town of Cuzco was sacked, and all the riches that Pizarro’s companions found there did not suffice to content them. They had such exalted ideas of their merits and of the services which they had rendered, that each would have desired an appointment as governor. Ferdinand Pizarro therefore dispersed them, and sent them to conquer fresh territories with some of the partisans of Almagro who had rallied, and whom it was important to send to a distance.

As for Almagro himself, Ferdinand Pizarro, feeling convinced that his name constituted a focus of permanent agitation, resolved to get rid of him. He caused him therefore to be put upon his trial, which ended, as it was easy to foresee, in a sentence of death. When Almagro received this news, after giving way for a few moments to a very natural grief, pleading his great age and the different way in which he had behaved with regard to Ferdinand and Gonzalo Pizarro when they were his prisoners, he recovered his calmness and awaited his death with a soldier’s courage. He was strangled in his prison, and afterwards publicly beheaded (1538).

After several successful expeditions, Ferdinand Pizarro set out for Spain, to give the Emperor an account of what had taken place. He found most minds there strangely prejudiced against him and his brothers. Their cruelty, their violence, and their disregard of the most sacred engagements had been laid bare without reserve, by some friends of Almagro’s. Ferdinand Pizarro needed the utmost cleverness to win the Emperor round. Charles V. had no means of judging fairly on which side the justice of the case lay, for he had only heard of it from the interested parties; he could only discern the deplorable consequences to his own government of the civil war. He decided, therefore, to send a commissioner to the country, to whom he gave most extensive powers, and who, after having inquired into all that had taken place, should establish whatever form of government he thought most advisable. This delicate mission was confided to Christoval de Vaca, a judge of audience at Valladolid, who proved not unequal to his task. One fact is worthy of notice; he was recommended to show the greatest respect towards Francisco Pizarro, at the very time when his brother Ferdinand was arrested and thrown into a prison, where he was destined to remain forgotten for twenty years.

While these events were taking place in Spain, the Marquis portioned out the conquered country, keeping for himself and his trustworthy friends the most fertile and best situated districts, and giving to Almagro’s companions, the men of Chili as they were called, only the more sterile and distant territories. Next he confided to Pedro de Valdivia, one of his aides-de-camp the execution of the project which Almagro had only been able to sketch out, the conquest of Chili. Valdivia set out on the 28th of January, 1540, with 150 Spaniards, amongst whom Pedro Gomez, Pedro de Miranda, and Alonzo de Monroy were destined especially to distinguish themselves; he crossed first the desert of Atacama, which even at the present day is considered a most troublesome enterprise, and reached Copiapo, standing in the midst of a beautiful valley. Received at first with great cordiality, he had to sustain, as soon as harvest was over, several combats with the Araucanians, a race of brave, indefatigable warriors, very different from the Indians of Peru. In spite of this, he laid the foundations of the town of Santiago on the 12th of February, 1541. Valdivia spent eight years in Chili, presiding over the conquest and organization of the country. Less greedy than the other “conquistadores” his contemporaries, he only sought for the mineral riches of the country that he might ensure the development of the prosperity of his colony, in which he had taken care first of all to encourage agriculture. “The best mine that I know of, is one of corn and wine with nourishment for livestock. Who has this, has money. As for mines, we do not depend upon them for subsistence. And often that which looks well outwardly is not really worth much.” These wise words of Lescarbot, in his Histoire de la Nouvelle France, might have been used by Valdivia, so exactly do they correspond with and express his sentiments. His valour, prudence, and humanity, more especially the latter quality, which shines forth strangely in contrast with the cruelty of Pizarro, ensures for him a distinction all his own among the “conquistadores” of the sixteenth century.

The shores of Rio Napo.

At the time that Valdivia set out for Chili, Gonzalo Pizarro crossed the Andes at the head of 340 Spaniards, half of whom were mounted, and 4000 Indians, of whom the greater part of the Indians perished from cold; then he penetrated eastwards into the interior, seeking for a country where spices and cinnamon were said to abound. In these vast Savannahs, intersected by marshes and virgin forests, the Spaniards encountered torrents of rain, which lasted quite two months; they found only a scattered population, who were not industrious and also hostile; in consequence, the invaders often suffered from hunger in a country where there were then neither horses nor oxen, where the largest quadrupeds were tapirs and llamas, and even the latter were seldom met with on this slope of the Andes. In spite of these difficulties, which would have discouraged any less energetic explorers than the descubridores of the sixteenth century, they persevered in their attempt and descended the Rio Napo or Coca, an affluent on the left of the Maranon, as far as its confluence. There, with great difficulty they built a brigantine, which was manned by fifty soldiers under the command of Francisco Orellana. But either the strength of the current carried him away, or else being no longer under the eyes of his chief, he wished in his turn to be the leader of an expedition of discovery; he did not wait for Gonzalo Pizarro at the appointed rendezvous, but continued to descend the river until he reached the ocean. Such a voyage is simply marvellous, through nearly 6000 miles of an unknown region, without guide, without compass, without provisions, with a crew who murmured more than once against the foolish attempt of their leader, and in the midst of populations almost invariably hostile. From the mouth of the river, which he had just descended in his badly built and dilapidated vessel, Orellana succeeded in reaching the Island of Cubagua, whence he set sail for Spain. If the proverb “He who comes from a distance tells many lies” were not of much earlier date, one might have thought it had been coined for Orellana. He invented the most preposterous fables as to the wealth of the countries he had traversed; the inhabitants were so rich that the roofs of the temples were formed of plates of gold; an assertion which gave rise to the legend of El Dorado. Orellana had heard of the existence of a Republic of female warriors who had founded a vast empire, which caused the river Maranon to be called the River of the Amazons. If, however, we strip this narrative of all that is ridiculous and grotesque, and calculated to please the imaginations of his contemporaries, it remains certain that Orellana’s expedition is one of the most remarkable of this epoch, so fertile in gigantic enterprises; and it furnishes the first information upon the immense zone of country lying between the Andes and the Atlantic.

But we must return to Gonzalo Pizarro. His embarrassment and consternation had been great, when on arriving at the confluence of the Napo and Maranon, he had not found Orellana, who was to have been awaiting him. Fearing that some accident might have befallen his lieutenant, he had descended the course of the river for 150 miles, until he met with an unfortunate officer, who had been left behind for having addressed some remonstrances to his chief upon his perfidy. The bravest among Pizarro’s men were discouraged at the news of the cowardly way in which they had been abandoned, and at the destitute condition in which they were left. Pizarro was obliged to yield to their entreaties and to return to Quito, from which they were more than 1200 miles away. To give an idea of their sufferings on this return journey, it suffices to say that, after having eaten horses, dogs, and reptiles, roots, and wild beasts, and after having devoured every article made of leather in their accoutrements, the unfortunate survivors who reached Quito, lacerated by brambles, emaciated and utterly impoverished, numbered only twenty-four. Four thousand Indians and two hundred and ten Spaniards had perished in this expedition, which had lasted less than two years.

While Gonzalo Pizarro was conducting the unfortunate expedition just related, the old partisans of Almagro, who had never frankly joined Pizarro, gathered round the son of their old leader, and formed a plot for murdering the Marquis. In vain was Francisco Pizarro several times warned of what was threatening him, he would pay no heed to the report. He said “Keep quiet, I shall be safe as long as there is no one in Peru who does not know that I can in a moment take the life of any one who should dare to form the project of attempting mine.”

On Sunday, the 26th of June, 1541, at the hour of siesta, Juan de Herrada and eighteen conspirators left the house of Almagro’s son with drawn swords in their hands and armed from top to toe. They ran towards the house of Pizarro, crying out, “Death to the tyrant! death to the infamous wretch!” They entered the palace, killed Francisco de Chaves, who had appeared in haste on hearing the noise, and gained the hall, where was Francisco Pizarro, with his brother Francisco-Martin, the doctor Juan Velasquez, and a dozen servants. These jumped out of the windows, with the exception of Martin Pizarro, two other gentlemen, and two tall pages, who were killed while defending the door of the governor’s apartment. He himself had not had time to put on his cuirass, but he seized his sword and buckler and defended himself valiantly, killing four of his adversaries and wounding several others. One of his assailants, in a spirit of self-devotion, attracted to himself the blows of Pizarro. Meanwhile the other conspirators made their way in and attacked him with such fury that he could not parry all the blows, being so exhausted that he could scarcely wield his sword. “Thus,” says Zarate, “they made an end, and succeeded in killing him by a thrust in the throat. Falling to the ground, he asked in a loud voice that he might be allowed to confess, and then not being able any longer to speak, he made the sign of the cross on the ground, which he kissed, and then yielded up his soul to God.” Some negroes carried his body to the church, where Juan Barbazan, his old servant, alone ventured to come and claim it. This faithful servant secretly rendered to it funeral honours, for the conspirators had pillaged the house of Pizarro, not leaving enough even to pay for wax tapers.

Death of Pizarro.

From an old print.

Thus did Francisco Pizarro come to his end, assassinated even in the capital of the vast empire which Spain owed to his valour and indefatigable perseverance, but which he bestowed upon his country, it must be admitted, ravaged, decimated, and drowned in a deluge of blood. Pizarro is often compared with Cortes; the one had as much ambition, courage, and military capacity as the other; but the cruelty and avarice of the Marquis della Valle were carried to an extreme in Pizarro, and united in him to perfidy and duplicity. If we are inclined to excuse certain parts of Cortes’ character which are not estimable, by the times in which he lived, we are at least charmed by that grace and nobility of manners, and by that way of a gentleman above prejudices, which made him so much beloved by the soldier. In Pizarro, on the contrary, we find roughness, and a harsh, unsympathizing way of feeling, while his chivalrous qualities disappear entirely behind the rapacity and perfidy which are the salient features of his character.

If Cortes found brave and resolute adversaries among the Mexicans, who opposed almost insurmountable difficulties to his progress, Pizarro had no trouble in vanquishing the Peruvians, who were timid and enervated, and who never made any serious resistance to his arms. Of the conquests of Peru and Mexico, the less difficult produced the greater metallurgic advantage to Spain, and thus it was the more appreciated.

The civil war was on the point of breaking out again after Pizarro’s death when the governor arrived, who was delegated by the metropolitan government. As soon as he had collected the needful troops, he marched towards Cuzco. He seized young Almagro without trouble, had him beheaded with forty of his confederates and governed the country with firmness, until the viceroy Blasco Nunez Vela, arrived. It is not our intention to enter into the detail of the disputes which took place between the latter and Gonzalo Pizarro, who, profiting by the general discontent, caused by the new regulations as to the “repartimientos,” revolted against the Emperor’s representative. After many changes of fortune, for which we have not space, the struggle ended by the defeat and execution of Gonzalo Pizarro, which took place in 1548. His body was taken to Cuzco and buried fully dressed; “No one,” says Garcilasso de la Vega, “being willing to give even a winding-sheet for it.” Thus ended the judicial assassin of Almagro. Is not the text appropriate in this case: “They that take the sword shall perish with the sword”?

CHAPTER IV.

THE TWO AMERICAS.

The western coast of America — Juan de Fuca and De Fonte — The three voyages of Behring and Tschirikow — Exploration of the straits of De Fuca — Survey of the Archipelago of New Georgia and of part of the American coast — Exploration of the interior of America — Samuel Hearn — Discovery of the Coppermine river — Mackenzie, and the river named after him — Fraser river — South America — Survey of the Amazon by Condamine — Journey of Humboldt and Bonpland — Teneriffe — The Guachero cavern — The “Llanos” — The Electric eels — The Amazon, Negro, and Orinoco rivers — The earth-eaters — Results of the journey — Humboldt’s second journey — The “Volcanitos,” or little volcanoes — The cascade at Tequendama — The bridge of Icononzo — Crossing the Brindisi on men’s backs — Pinto and Pinchincha — Ascent of Chimborazo — The Andes — Lima — The transit of Mercury — Exploration of Mexico — Puebla and Cofre de Perote — Return to Europe.

We have more than once had occasion to speak of expeditions for the survey of the coasts of America. We have told of the attempts of Fernando Cortes and of the voyages and explorations of Drake, Cook, La Perouse, and Marchand. It will be well now to go back for a time, and with Fleurieu sum up the series of voyages along the western coast of America, to the close of the eighteenth century.

In 1537, Cortes with Francisco de Ulloa, discovered the huge peninsula of California, and sailed over the greater part of the long and narrow strait now known as the Vermilion Sea.

He was succeeded by Vasquez Coronado and Francisco Alarcon, who — the former by sea, and the latter by land — devoted themselves to seeking the channel which was erroneously supposed to connect the Atlantic and Pacific. They did not, however, penetrate beyond 36deg N. lat.

Two years later, in 1542, the Portuguese Rodrique de Cabrillo, reached 44deg N. lat. where the intense cold, sickness, want of provisions, and the bad state of his vessel, compelled him to turn back. He made no actual discovery, but he ascertained that, from Port Natividad to the furthest point reached by him, the coast-line was unbroken. The channel of communication seemed to recede before all explorers.

The little success met with appears to have discouraged the Spaniards, for at this time they retired from the ranks of the explorers. It was an Englishman, Drake, who, after having sailed along the western coast as far as the Straits of Magellan, and devastated the Spanish possessions, reached the forty-eighth degree, explored the whole coast, and, returning the same way, gave to the vast districts included within ten degrees the name of New Albion.

Next came, in 1592, the greatly fabulous voyage of Juan de Fuca, who claimed to have found the long-sought Strait of Anian, when he had but found the channel dividing Vancouver’s Island from the mainland.

In 1602 Viscaino laid the foundations of Port Monterey in California, and forty years later took place that much contested voyage of Admiral De Fuente, or De Fonte according as one reckons him a Spaniard or a Portuguese, which has been the text of so many learned discussions and ingenious suppositions. To him we owe the discovery of the Archipelago of St. Lazarus above Vancouver’s Island; but all that he says about the lakes and large towns he claims to have visited must be relegated to the realms of romance, as well as his assertion that he discovered a communication between the two oceans.

Port Monterey.

(Fac-simile of early engraving.)

In the eighteenth century the assertions of travellers were no longer blindly accepted. They were examined and sifted, those parts only being believed which accorded with the well authenticated accounts of others. Buache, Delisle, and above all Fleurieu, inaugurated the prolific literature of historical criticism, and we have every reason to be grateful to them.

The Russians, as we know, had greatly extended the field of their knowledge, and there was every reason to suppose that their hunters and Cossacks would soon reach America, if, as was then believed, the two continents were connected in the north. But from such unprofessional travellers no trustworthy scientific details could be expected.

A few years before his death the Emperor Peter I. drew up, with his own hands, a plan of an expedition, with instructions to its members, which he had long had in view, for ascertaining whether Asia and America are united, or separated by a strait.

The arsenal and forts of Kamtchatka being unable to supply the necessary men, stores, &c. captains, sailors, equipment, and provisions, had to be imported from Europe.

Vitus Behring, a Dane, and Alexis Tschirikow, a Russian, who had both given many a proof of skill and knowledge, were appointed to the command of the expedition, which consisted of two vessels built at Kamtchatka. They were not ready to put to sea until July 20th, 1720. Steering north-east along the coast of Asia, of which he never for a moment lost sight, Behring discovered, on the 15th August, in 67deg 18’ N. lat. a cape beyond which the coast stretched away westwards.

In this first voyage Behring did not apparently see the coast of America, though he probably passed through the strait to which posterity has given his name. The fabulous strait of Anian gave place to Behring Straits. A second voyage made by the same explorers the following year was without results.

Not until June 4th, 1741, were Behring and Tschirikow in a position to start again. This time they meant to bear to the east after reaching 50deg N. lat. till they should come to the coast of America; but the two vessels were separated in a gale of wind on the 28th August, and were unable to find each other again throughout the trip. On the 18th July Behring discerned the American continent in 58deg 28’ N. lat. and the succeeding days were devoted to the survey of the vast bay between Capes St. Elias and St. Hermogenes.

Behring spent the whole of August in sailing about the islands known as the Schumagin archipelago, off the peninsula of Alaska; and after a struggle, lasting until the 24th September, with contrary winds, he sighted the most southerly cape of the peninsula, and discovered part of the Aleutian group.

Exhausted by long illness, however, the explorer was now no longer able to direct the course of his vessel, and could not prevent her from running aground on the little island bearing his name. There, on the 8th December, 1741, this brave man and skilful explorer perished miserably.

The remnant of his crew who survived the fatigues and privations of winter in this desolate spot, succeeded in making a large sloop of the remains of the vessel, in which they returned to Kamtchatka.

Meanwhile Tschirikow, after waiting for his superior officer until the 25th June, made land between 55deg 56’ N. lat. where he lost two boats with their crews, without being able to find out what had become of them. Unable after this catastrophe to open communication with the natives, he went back to Kamtchatka.

The way was now open, and adventurers, merchants, and naval officers eagerly rushed in, directing their efforts carefully to the Aleutian Islands and the peninsula of Alaska.

The expeditions sent out by the English, and the progress made by the Russians, had, however, aroused the jealousy and anxiety of the Spanish, who feared lest their rivals should establish themselves in a country nominally belonging to Spain, though she owned not a single colony in it.

The Viceroy of Mexico now remembered the discovery of an excellent port by Viscaino, and resolved to found a “presidio” there. Two expeditions started simultaneously, the one by land, under Don Gaspar de Partola, the other by sea, consisting of two packets, the San Carlos and San Antonio, and after a year’s search found again the harbour of Monterey, alluded to by Viscaino.

After this expedition the Spanish continued the exploration of the Californian coast. The most celebrated voyages were those of Don Juan de Ayala and of La Bodega, which took place in 1775, and resulted in the discovery of Cape Engano and Guadalupe Bay. Next to these rank the expeditions of Arteaga and Maurelle.

We have already related what was done by Cook, La Perouse, and Marchand, so we can pass on to say a few words on the expeditions of Vancouver. This officer, who had accompanied Cook on his second and third voyage, was naturally appointed to the command of the expedition sent out by the English government with a view to settling the disputes with the Spanish government as to Nootka Sound.

George Vancouver was commissioned to obtain from the Spanish authorities the formal cession of this great harbour, of such vast importance to the fur trade. He was then to survey the whole of the north-west coast, from 30deg N. lat. to Cook’s River in 61deg N. lat. Lastly, he was to give special attention to the Straits of De Fuca and the bay explored in 1749 by the Washington.

The two vessels, the Discovery of 340 tons, and the Chatham of 135 — the latter under the command of Captain Broughton — left Falmouth on the 1st of April, 1791. After touching at Teneriffe, Simon Bay, and the Cape of Good Hope, Vancouver steered south-wards, sighted St. Paul’s Island, and sailed towards New Holland, between the routes taken by Dampier and Marion, and through latitudes which had not yet been traversed. On the 27th September was sighted part of the coast of New Holland, ending in abrupt and precipitous cliffs, to which the name of Cape Chatham was given. As many of his crew were down with dysentery, Vancouver decided to anchor in the first harbour he came to, to get water, wood, and above all provisions, of which he stood sorely in need. Port George III. was the first reached, where ducks, curlews, swans, fish, and oysters abounded; but no communication could be opened with the natives, although a recently abandoned village of some twenty huts was seen.

We need not follow Vancouver in his cruise along the south-west coast of Holland, as we shall learn nothing new from it.

On the 28th November Van Diemen’s Land was doubled, and on the 2nd December the coast of New Zealand was reached and anchor cast by the two vessels in Dusky Bay. Here Vancouver completed the survey left unfinished by Cook. A gale soon separated the Discovery from the Chatham, which was found again in Matavai Bay, Tahiti. During the voyage there from Dusky Bay, Vancouver discovered some rocky islands, which he called the Snares, and a large island named Oparra, whilst Captain Broughton had discovered Chatham Island, on the east of New Zealand. The incidents of the stay at Tahiti resemble those of Cook’s story too closely for repetition.

On the 24th January the two vessels started for the Sandwich Islands, and stopped for a short time off Owyhee, Waohoo, and Ottoway. Since the murder of Cook many changes had taken place in this archipelago. English and American vessels now sometimes visited it to take whales, or trade in furs, and their captains had given the natives a taste for brandy and fire-arms. Quarrels between the petty chiefs had become more frequent, the most complete anarchy prevailed everywhere, and the number of inhabitants was already greatly diminished.

On the 17th March, 1792, Vancouver left the Sandwich Islands and steered for America, of which he soon sighted the part called by Drake New Albion. Here he almost immediately met Captain Grey, who was supposed to have penetrated, in the Washington, into De Fuca Strait, and discovered a vast sea. Grey at once disavowed the discoveries with which he was so generously credited, explaining that he had only sailed fifty miles up the strait, which runs from east to west till it reaches a spot where, according to some natives, it veers to the north and disappears.

Vancouver in his turn entered De Fuca Strait, and recognized Discovery Port, Admiralty Entry, Birch Bay, Desolation Sound, Johnston Strait, and Broughton Archipelago. Before reaching the northern extremity of this long arm of the sea, he met two small Spanish vessels under the command of Quadra. The two captains compared notes, and gave their names to the chief island of the large group known collectively as New Georgia.

Vancouver next visited Nootka Sound and the Columbia River, whence he sailed to San Francisco, off which he anchored. It will be understood that it is impossible to follow the details of the minute survey of the vast stretch of coast between Cape Mendocino and Port Conclusion, in N. lat. 56deg 37’, which required no less than three successive trips.

“Now,” says the great navigator, “that we have achieved the chief aim of the king in ordering this voyage, I flatter myself that our very detailed survey of the north-west coast of America will dispel all doubts, and do away with all erroneous opinions as to a north-west passage; surely no one will now believe in there being a communication between the North Pacific and the interior of the American continent in the part traversed by us.”

Leaving Nootka, to survey the coast of South America before returning to Europe, Vancouver touched at the small Cocoa-Nut Island — which, as we have already observed, little deserves its name — cast anchor off Valparaiso, doubled Cape Horn, took in water at St. Helena, and re-entered the Thames on the 12th September, 1795.

The fatigue incidental to this long expedition had so undermined the health of the explorer that he died in May, 1798, leaving the account of his voyage to be finished by his brother.

Throughout the arduous survey, occupying four years, of 900 miles of coast, the Discovery and Chatham lost but two men. It will be seen from this how apt a pupil of Cook the great navigator was; and we do not know whether most to admire in Vancouver his care for his sailors and humanity to the natives, or the wonderful nautical skill he displayed in this dangerous cruise.

While explorers thus succeeded each other on the western coast of America, colonists were not idle inland. Already established on the borders of the Atlantic, where a series of states had been founded from Florida to Canada, the white men were now rapidly forcing their way westwards. Trappers, and coureurs des bois, as the French hunters were called, had discovered vast tracts of land suitable for cultivation, and many English squatters had already taken root, not, however, without numerous conflicts with the original owners of the soil, whom they daily tried to drive into the interior. Emigrants were soon attracted in large numbers by the fertility of a virgin soil, and the more liberal constitution of the various states.

Their number increased to such an extent, that at the end of the seventeenth century the heirs of Lord Baltimore estimated the produce of the sale of their lands at three thousand pounds; and in the middle of the following century, 1750, the successors of William Penn also made a profit ten times as great as the original price of their property. Yet emigration was even then not sufficiently rapid, and convicts were introduced. Maryland numbered 1981 in 1750. Many scandalous abuses also resulted from the compulsory signing by new comers of agreements they did not understand.

Although the lands bought of the Indians were far from being all occupied, the English colonists continued to push their way inland, at the risk of encounters with the legitimate owners of the soil.

In the north the Hudson’s Bay Company, holding a monopoly of the fur trade, were always on the look-out for new hunting-grounds, for those originally explored were soon exhausted. Their trappers made their way far into the western wilds, and gained valuable information from the Indians whom they pressed into their service, and taught to get drunk. By this means the existence of a river flowing northwards, past some copper-mines, from which some natives brought fine specimens to Fort Prince of Wales, was ascertained. The company at once, i.e. in 1769, decided to send out an expedition, to the command of which they appointed Samuel Hearn.

For a journey to the Arctic regions, where provisions are difficult to obtain, and the cold is intense, a few well-seasoned men are required, who can endure the fatigue of an arduous march over snow, and bear up against hunger. Hearn took with him only two whites, and a few Indians on whom he could depend.

In spite of the great skill of the guides, who knew the country, and were familiar with the habits of the game it contained, provisions soon failed. Two hundred miles from Fort Prince of Wales the Indians abandoned Hearn and his two companions, who were obliged to retrace their steps.

The chief of the expedition, however, was a rough sailor, accustomed to privations, so he was not discouraged. If he had failed the first time, that was no reason why a second attempt should not succeed.

In March, 1770, Hearn started again to try and cross the unknown districts. This time he was alone with five Indians, for he had noticed that the inability of the whites to endure fatigue excited the contempt of the natives. He had penetrated 500 miles when the severity of the weather compelled him to wait for a less severe temperature. He had had a terrible experience. At one time to have, indeed, more game than can be eaten; but more often to have no food whatever, and be compelled for a week at a time to gnaw old leather, pick bones which had been thrown aside, or to seek, often in vain, for a few berries on the trees; and lastly, to endure fearful cold — such is the life of an explorer in these Arctic regions.

Hearn started once more in April, wandered about the woods until August, and had arranged to spend the winter with an Indian tribe which had received him well, when an accident which deprived him of his quadrant compelled him to continue his journey.

Privations, miseries, and disappointments, had not quenched the ardour of Hearn’s indomitable spirit. He started again on the 7th December, and penetrating westwards below the 60th parallel N. lat. he came to a river. Here he built a canoe, and went in it down the stream, which flowed into an innumerable series of large and small lakes. Finally, on the 13th July, 1771, he reached the Coppermine River. The Indians with him now declared that they had been for some weeks in the country of the Esquimaux, and that they meant to massacre all they should meet of that hated race.

An encounter very soon took place.

“Coming,” says Hearn, “upon a party of Esquimaux asleep in their tents, the Indians fell upon them suddenly, and I was compelled to witness the massacre of the poor creatures.”

Of twenty individuals, not one escaped the sanguinary rage of the Indians; and they put to death with indescribable tortures an old woman who had in the first instance eluded them.

“After this horrible carnage,” says Hearn, “we sat down on the grass, and made a good dinner off fresh salmon.”

Here the river widened considerably. Had Hearn arrived at its mouth? The water was still quite sweet. There were, however, signs of a tide on the shores, and a number of seals were disporting themselves in the water. A quantity of whale blubber was found in the tents of the Esquimaux. Everything in fact combined to prove that the sea was near. Hearn seized his telescope, and saw stretching before him a huge sheet of water, dotted with islands. There was no longer any doubt; it was the sea!

On the 30th June Hearn got back to the English posts, after an absence of no less than a year and five months.

The company recognized the immense service just rendered by Hearn, by appointing him Governor of Fort Prince of Wales. During his expedition to Hudson’s Bay, La Perouse visited this post, and there found the journal of Samuel Hearn’s expedition. The French navigator returned it, on condition that he would publish it. We do not know why its appearance in accordance with the promise given by the English traveller to the French sailor was delayed until 1795.

Not until the close of the eighteenth century did the immense chain of lakes, rivers, and portages become known, which, emanating from Lake Superior, receive all the waters flowing from the Rocky Mountains, and divert them to the Arctic Ocean. It was to the brothers Frobisher, fur traders, and to a Mr. Pond, who reached Athabasca, that their discovery is partially due.

Thanks to their efforts, travelling in these parts became less difficult. One explorer succeeded another, posts were established, and the country was opened to all comers. Soon after a rumour was spread of the discovery of a large river flowing in a north-westerly direction.

It was Alexander Mackenzie who gave his name to it. Starting on the 3rd June, 1789, from Fort Chippewyan, on the southern shores of the Lake of the Hills, accompanied by a few Canadians, and several Indians who had been with Samuel Hearn, he reached 67deg 45’ N. lat. where he heard that the sea was not far off on the east, but that he was even nearer to it on the west. It was evident that he was quite close to the north-western extremity of America.

On the 12th July, Mackenzie reached a large sheet of shallow water covered with ice, which he could not believe to be the sea, though no land could be seen on the horizon. It was, however, the Northern Ocean, as he became assured when he saw the water rising, although the wind was not violent. The tide was coming in! The traveller then gained an island at a little distance from the shore, from which he saw several whales gambolling in the water. He therefore named the island, which is situated in N. lat. 69deg 11’, Whale Island. On the 12th September the expedition safely returned to Fort Chippewyan.

Three years later Mackenzie, whose thirst for discovery was unslaked, ascended Peace River, which rises in the Rocky Mountains. In 1793, after forcing his way across this rugged chain, he made out on the other side the Tacoutche-Tesse River, which flows in a south-westerly direction. In the midst of dangers and privations more easily imagined than described, Mackenzie descended this river to its mouth, below Prince of Wales Islands. There, he wrote with a mixture of grease and vermilion, the following laconic but eloquent inscription on a wall of rock: “Alexander Mackenzie, come from Canada overland, July 22nd, 1793.” On the 24th August he re-entered Fort Chippewyan.

Mackenzie’s first view of the North Pacific Ocean.

In South America no scientific expedition took place during the first half of the eighteenth century. We have now only to speak of Condamine. We have already told of his discoveries in America, explaining how when the work was done he had allowed Bougner to return to Europe, and left Jussieu to continue the collection of unknown plants and animals which was to enrich science, whilst he himself went down the Amazon to its Mouth.

“Condamine,” says Maury in his “Histoire de l’Academie des Sciences,” “may be called the Humboldt of the eighteenth century. An intellectual and scientific man, he gave proof in this memorable expedition of an heroic devotion to the progress of knowledge. The funds granted to him by the king for his expedition were not sufficient; he added 100,000 livres from his private purse; and the fatigue and suffering he underwent led to the loss of his ears and legs. The victim of his enthusiasm for science, on his return home he met with nothing but ridicule and sarcasm from a public who could not understand a martyr who aimed at winning anything but Heaven. In him was recognized, not the indefatigable explorer who had braved so many dangers, but the infirm and deaf M. de Condamine, who always held his ear-trumpet in his hand. Content, however, with the recognition of his fellow-savants, to which Buffon gave such eloquent expression in his reply to the address at his reception at the French Academy, Condamine consoled himself by composing songs; and maintained until his death, which was hastened by all he had undergone, the zeal for information on all subjects, even torture, which led him to question the executioner on the scaffold of Damiens.”

Portrait of Condamine.

(Fac-simile of early engraving.)

Few travellers before Condamine had had an opportunity of penetrating into Brazil. The learned explorer hoped, therefore, to render his journey useful by making a map of the course of the river, and putting down all his observations on the singular costumes worn by the natives of that little frequented country.

After Orellana, whose adventurous trip we have related, Pedro de Ursua was sent in 1559 by the Viceroy of Peru to seek for Lake Parima and the El Dorado. He was murdered by a rebel soldier, who committed all manner of outrages on his way down the river, and finished his course by being abandoned on Trinity Island.

Efforts of this kind did not throw much light on the course of the river. The Portuguese were more fortunate. In 1636 and 1637 Pedro Texeira with forty-seven canoes, and a large number of Spaniards and Indians, followed the Amazon as far as the junction of its tributary the Napo, and then ascended, first it, and afterwards the Coca, to within thirty miles of Quito, which he reached with a few men.

The map drawn up by Sanson after this trip, and as a matter of course copied by all geographers, was extremely defective, and until 1717 there was no other. At that time the copy of a map drawn up by Father Fritz, a German missionary, came out in Vol. xii. of the “Lettres Edifiantes,” a valuable publication, containing a multitude of interesting historical and geographical facts. In this map it was shown that the Napo is not the true source of the Amazon, and that the latter, under the name of the Maranon, issues from Lake Guanuco, thirty leagues east of Lima. The lower portion of the course of the river was badly drawn, as Father Fritz was too ill when he went down it to observe closely.

Leaving Tarqui, five leagues from Cuenca, on the 11th May, 1743, Condamine passed Zaruma, a town once famous for its gold-mines, and having crossed several rivers on the hanging bridges, which look like huge hammocks slung from one side to the other, reached Loxa, four degrees from the line, and 400 fathoms lower than Quito. Here he noticed a remarkable difference of temperature, and found the mountains to be mere hills compared with those of Quito.

Between Loxa and Jaen de Bracamoros the last buttresses of the Andes are crossed. In this district rain falls every day throughout the year, so that a long stay cannot be made there. The whole country has declined greatly from its former prosperity. Loyola, Valladolid, Jaen, and the greater number of the Peruvian towns at a distance from the sea, and the main road between Carthagena and Lima, were in Condamine’s time little more than hamlets. Yet forests of cocoa-nut trees grow all around Jaen, the natives thinking no more of them than they do of the gold dust brought down by their rivers.

Condamine embarked on the Chincipe, wider here than the Seine at Paris, and went down it as far as its junction with the Maranon, beyond which the latter river becomes navigable, although its course is broken by a number of falls and rapids, and in many places narrows till it is but twenty fathoms wide. The most celebrated of these narrows is the pongo, or gate, of Manseriche, in the heart of the Cordillera, where the Amazon has hewn for itself a bed only fifty-five fathoms wide, with all but perpendicular sides. Condamine, attended only by a single negro, met with an almost unparalleled adventure on a raft in this pongo.

“The stream,” he says, “the height of which had diminished twenty-five feet in thirty-six hours, continued to decrease in volume. In the middle of the night, part of a large branch of a tree caught between the woodwork of my boat, penetrating further and further as the latter sunk with the water, so that if I had not been awake and on guard at the time, I should have found myself hanging from a tree, on my raft. The least of the evils threatening me would have been the loss of my journals and note-books, the fruit of eight years of work. Fortunately, I eventually found means to free my raft, and float it again.”

In the midst of the woods near the ruined town of Santiago, where Condamine arrived on the 10th July, lived the Xibaro Indians, who had been for a century in revolt against the Spaniards, who tried to force them to labour in the gold-mines.

Beyond the pongo of Manseriche a new world was entered, a perfect ocean of fresh water — a labyrinth of lakes, rivers, and channels, set in an impenetrable forest. Although he had lived in the open air for more than seven years, Condamine was struck dumb by this novel spectacle of water and trees only, with nothing else besides. Leaving Borja on the 14th July, the traveller soon passed the mouth of the Morona, which comes down from the volcano of Sangay, the ashes from which are sometimes flung beyond Guayaquil. He next passed the three mouths of the Pastaca, a river at this time so much swollen that the width of no one of its mouths could be estimated.

On the 19th of the same month Condamine reached Laguna, where Pedro Maldonado, governor of the province of Esmeraldas, who had come down the Pastaca, had been waiting for him for six weeks. At this time Laguna was a large community, of some thousand Indians capable of bearing arms, who recognized the authority of the missionaries of the different tribes.

“In making a map of the course of the Amazon,” says Condamine, “I provided myself with a resource against the ennui of a quiet voyage with nothing to break the monotony of the scenery, though that scenery was new to me. My attention was continually on the strain as, compass and watch in hand, I noted the deflexions in the course of the river, the time occupied in passing from one bend to another, the variations in the breadth of its bed and in that of the mouths of its tributaries, the angle formed by the latter at the confluence, the position and size of the islands, and above all the rate of the current and that of the canoe. Now on land and now in the canoe, employing various modes of measurement, which it would be superfluous to explain here, every instant was occupied. I often sounded, and measured geometrically the breadth of the river and that of its tributaries. I took the height of the sun at the meridian every day, and I noted its amplitude at its rising and setting, wherever I went.”

On the 25th July, after having passed the Tigre River, Condamine came to a new mission station, that of a tribe called Yameos, recently rescued from the woods by the Fathers. Their language is difficult to learn, and their mode of pronouncing it extraordinary. Some of their words are nine or ten syllables long, and yet they can only count up to three. They use a kind of pea-shooter with great skill, firing from it small arrows tipped with a poison which causes instantaneous death.

The following day the explorer passed the mouth of the Ucayale, one of the most important of the tributaries of the Maranon, and which might even be its source. Beyond it the main stream widens sensibly.

Condamine reached on the 27th the mission station of the Omaguas, formerly a powerful nation, whose dwelling extended along the banks of the Amazon for a distance of 200 leagues below the Napo. Originally strangers in the land, they are supposed to have come down some river rising in Granada, and to have fled from the Spanish yoke. The word Omagua means flat-head in Peruvian, and these people have the singular custom of squeezing the foreheads of new-born babies between two flat pieces of wood, to make them, as they say, resemble the full moon. They also use two curious plants, the floripondio and the curupa, which makes them drunk for twenty-four hours, and causes very wonderful dreams. So that opium and hatchich have their counterparts in Peru.

Cinchona, ipecacuanha, simaruba, sarsaparilla, guaiacum, cocoa, and vanilla grow on the banks of the Maranon, as does also a kind of india-rubber, of which the natives make bottles, boots, and syringes, which, according to Condamine, require no piston. They are of the shape of hollow pears, and are pierced at the end with a little hole, into which a pipe is fitted. This contrivance is much used by the Omaguas; and when a fete is given, the host, as a matter of politeness, always presents one to each of his guests, who use them before any ceremonial banquet.

Changing boats at San Joaquin, Condamine arrived at the mouth of Napo in time to witness, during the night of the 31st July or the 1st August, the emersion of the first satellite of Jupiter, so that he was able to determine exactly the latitude and longitude of the spot — a valuable observation, from which all other positions on the journey could be calculated.

Pevas, which was reached the next day, is the last of the Spanish missions on the Maranon. The Indians collected there were neither all of the same race nor all converts to Christianity. They still wore bone ornaments in the nostrils and the lips, and had their cheeks riddled with holes, in which were fixed the feathers of birds of every colour.

St. Paul is the first Portuguese mission. There the river is no less than 900 fathoms wide, and often rises in violent storms. The traveller was agreeably surprised to find the Indian women possessed of pet birds, locks, iron keys, needles, looking-glasses, and other European utensils, procured at Para in exchange for cocoa. The native canoes are much more convenient than those used by the Indians of the Spanish possessions. They are in fact regular little brigantines, sixty feet long by seven wide, manned by forty oarsmen.

Between St. Paul and Coari several large and beautiful rivers flow into the Amazon. On the south the Yutay, Yuruca, Tefe, and Coari; on the north the Putumayo and Yupura. On the shores of the last-named river lives a cannibal race. Here Texeira set up a barrier, on the 26th June, 1639, which was to mark the frontier between the district in which the Brazilian and Peruvian languages respectively were to be used in dealing with the Indians.

Purus River and the Rio Negro, connecting the Orinoco with the Amazon, the banks dotted with Portuguese missions under the direction of the monks of Mount Carmel, were successively surveyed. The first reliable information on the important geographical fact of the communication between the two great rivers, is to be found in the works of Condamine, and his sagacious comments on the journeys of the missionaries who preceded him. It was in these latitudes that the golden lake of Parime and the fabulous town of Manoa del Dorado are said to have been situated. Here, too, lived the Manaos Indians, who so long resisted the Portuguese.

Now were passed successively the mouth of the Madera River — so called on account of the quantity of timber which drifts down from it, the port of Pauxis — beyond which the Maranon takes the name of the Amazon, and where the tide begins to be felt, although the sea is more than 200 miles distant — and the fortress of Topayos, at the mouth of a river coming down from the mines of Brazil, on the borders of which live the Tupinambas.

Not until September did the mountains come in sight on the north — quite a novel spectacle, since for two months Condamine had not seen a single hill. They were the first buttresses of the Guiana chain.

On the 6th September, opposite Fort Paru, Condamine left the Amazon, and passed by a natural canal to the Xingu River, called by Father D’Acunha the Paramaribo. The port of Curupa was then reached, and lastly Para, a large town, with regular streets and houses of rough or hewn stone. To complete his map, the explorer was obliged to visit the mouth of the Amazon, where he embarked for Cayenne, arriving there on the 20th February, 1774.

This long voyage had the most important results. For the first time the course of the Amazon had been laid down in a thoroughly scientific manner, and the connexion between it and the Orinoco ascertained. Moreover Condamine had collected a vast number of interesting observations on natural history, physical geography, astronomy, and the new science of anthropology, then in its earliest infancy.

We have now to relate the travels of a man who recognized, better than any one else had done, the connexion between geography and the other physical sciences. We allude to Alexander von Humboldt. To him is due the credit of having opened to travellers this fertile source of knowledge.

Portrait of Alex. de Humboldt.

(Fac-simile of early engraving.)

Born at Berlin, in 1759, Humboldt’s earliest studies were carried on under Campe, the well-known editor of many volumes of travels. Endowed with a great taste for botany, Humboldt made friends at the university of Gottingen with Forster the younger, who had just made the tour of the world with Captain Cook. This friendship, and the enthusiastic accounts given of his adventures by Forster, probably did much to rouse in Humboldt a longing to travel. He took the lead in the study of geology, botany, chemistry, and animal magnetism; and to perfect himself in the various sciences, he visited England, Holland, Italy, and Switzerland. In 1797, after the death of his mother, who objected to his leaving Europe, he went to Paris, where he became acquainted with Aime Bonpland, a young botanist, with whom he at once agreed to go on several exploring expeditions.

It had been arranged that Humboldt should accompany Captain Baudin, but the delay in the starting of his expedition exhausted the young enthusiast’s patience, and he went to Marseilles with the intention of joining the French army in Egypt. For two whole months he waited for the sailing of the frigate which was to take him; and, weary of inaction, he went to Spain with his friend Bonpland, in the hope of obtaining permission to visit the Spanish possessions in America.

This was no easy matter, but Humboldt was a man of rare perseverance. He was thoroughly well-informed, he had first-rate introductions, and he was, moreover, already becoming known. In spite, therefore, of the extreme reluctance of the government, he was at last authorized to explore the Spanish colonies, and take any astronomical or geodesic observations he chose.

The two friends left Corunna on the 5th June, 1799, and reached the Canaries thirteen days later. Of course, as naturalists they were in duty bound not to land at Teneriffe without ascending the Peak.

“Scarcely any naturalist,” says Humboldt in a letter to La Metterie, “who, like myself, has passed through to the Indies, has had time to do more than go to the foot of this colossal volcano, and admire the delightful gardens of Orotava. Fortunately for me our frigate, the Pizarro, stopped for six days. I examined in detail the layers of which the peak of Teyde is composed. We slept in the moonlight at a height of 1200 fathoms. At two o’clock in the morning we started for the summit, where we arrived at eight o’clock, in spite of the violent wind, the great heat of the ground, which burnt our boots, and the intense cold of the atmosphere. I will tell you nothing about the magnificent view, which included the volcanic islands of Lancerote, Canaria, and Gomera, at our feet; the desert, twenty leagues square, strewn with pumice-stone and lava, and without insects or birds, separating us from thickets of laurel-trees and heaths; or of the vineyards studded with palms, banana, and dragon-trees, the roots of which are washed by the waves. We went into the very crater itself. It is not more than forty or sixty feet deep. The summit is 1904 fathoms above the sea-level, as estimated by Borda in a very careful geometric measurement… The crater of the Peak — that is to say, of the summit — has been inactive for several centuries, lava flowing from the sides only. The crater, however, provides an enormous quantity of sulphur and sulphate of iron.”

In July, Humboldt and Bonpland arrived at Cumana, in that part of America known as Terra Firma. Here they spent some weeks in examining the traces left by the great earthquake of 1797. They then determined the position of Cumana, which was placed a degree and a half too far north on all the maps — an error due to the fact of the current bearing to the north near La Trinidad, having deceived all travellers. In December, 1799, Humboldt wrote from Caracas to the astronomer Lalande: —

“I have just completed an intensely interesting journey in the interior of Paria, in the Cordillera of Cocolar, Tumeri, and Guiri. I had two or three mules loaded with instruments, dried plants, &c. We penetrated to the Capuchin mission, which had never been visited by any naturalist. We discovered a great number of new plants, chiefly varieties of palms; and we are about to start for the Orinoco, and propose pushing on from it perhaps to San Carlos on the Rio Negro, beyond the equator. We have dried more than 1600 plants, and described more than 500 birds, picked up numberless shells and insects, and I have made some fifty drawings. I think that is pretty well in four months, considering the broiling heat of this zone.”

During this first trip Humboldt visited the Chayma and Guarauno Missions. He also climbed to the summit of the Tumiriquiri, and went down into the Guacharo cavern, the entrance to which, framed as it is with the most luxuriant vegetation, is truly magnificent. From it issues a considerable river, and its dim recesses echo to the gloomy notes of birds. It is the Acheron of the Chayma Indians, for, according to their mythology and that of the natives of Orinoco, the souls of the dead go to this cavern. To go down into the Guacharo signifies in their language to die.

The Indians go into the Guacharo cavern once a year, in the middle of summer, and destroy the greater number of the nests in it with long poles. At this time many thousands of birds die a violent death, and the old inhabitants of the cave hover above the heads of the Indians with piercing cries, as if they would defend their broods.

The young birds which fall to the ground are opened on the spot. Their peritoneum is covered with a thick layer of fat, extending from the abdomen to the anus, and forming a kind of cushion between the legs. At the time called at Caripe the oil harvest, the Indians build themselves huts of palm leaves outside the cavern, and then light fires of brushwood, over which they hang clay pots filled with the fat of the young birds recently killed. This fat, known under the name of the Guacharo oil or butter, is half-liquid, transparent, without smell, and so pure that it can be kept a year without turning rancid.

Humboldt continues: “We passed fifteen days in the Caripe valley, situated at a height of 952 Castilian varas above the sea-level, and inhabited by naked Indians. We saw some black monkeys with red beards. We had the satisfaction of being treated with the greatest kindness by the Capuchin monks and the missionaries living amongst these semi-barbarous people.”

Engraved by Morieu.

From the Caripe valley the two travellers went back to Cumana by way of the Santa Maria Mountains and the Catuaro missions, and on the 21st November they arrived — having come by sea — at Caracas, a town situated in the midst of a valley rich in cocoa, cotton, and coffee, yet with a European climate.

Humboldt turned his stay at Caracas to account by studying the light of the stars of the southern hemisphere, for he had noticed that several, notably the Altar, the Feet of the Centaur, and others, seemed to have changed since the time of La Caille.

At the same time he put his collections in order, despatching part of them to Europe, and most thoroughly examined some rocks, with a view to ascertaining of what materials the earth’s crust was here composed.

After having explored the neighbourhood of Caracas, and ascended the Silla, which, although close to the town, had never been scaled by any native, Humboldt and Bonpland went to Valencia, along the shores of a lake called Tacarigua by the Indians, and exceeding in size that of Neufchatel in Switzerland. Nothing could give any idea of the richness and variety of the vegetation. But the interest of the lake consists not only in its picturesque and romantic beauty; the gradual decrease in the volume of its waters attracted the attention of Humboldt, who attributed it to the reckless cutting down of the forests in its neighbourhood, resulting in the exhaustion of its sources.

Near this lake Humboldt received proof of the truth of the accounts he had heard of an extraordinary tree, the palo de la vaca, or cow-tree, which yields a balsamic and very nutritive milk, drawn off from incisions made in the bark.

The most arduous part of the trip began at Porto Caballo, at the entrance to the llanos, or perfectly flat plains stretching between the hills of the coast and the Orinoco valley.

“I am not sure,” says Humboldt, “that the first sight of the llanos is not as surprising as that of the Andes.”

Nothing in fact could be more striking than this sea of grass, from which whirls of dust rise up continually, although not a breath of wind is felt at Calabozo, in the centre of this vast plain. Humboldt first tested the power of the gymnotus, or electric eel, large numbers of which are met with in all the tributaries of the Orinoco. The Indians, who were afraid of exposing themselves to the electric discharge of these singular creatures, proposed sending some horses into the marsh containing them.

“The extraordinary noise made by the shoes of the horses,” says Humboldt, “made the eels come out of the ooze and prepare for battle. The yellowish livid gymnoti, resembling serpents, swam on the top of the water, and squeezed themselves under the bodies of the quadrupeds which had disturbed them. The struggle which ensued between animals so differently constituted presented a very striking spectacle. The Indians, armed with harpoons and long canes, surrounded the pond on every side, and even climbed into the trees, the branches of which stretched horizontally over the water. Their wild cries, as they brandished their long sticks, prevented the horses from running away and getting back to the shores of the pond; whilst the eels, driven mad by the noise, defended themselves by repeated discharges from their electric batteries. For a long time they appeared victorious, and some horses succumbed to the violence of the repeated shocks which they received upon their vital organs from every side. They were stunned, and sank beneath the water.

“Others, panting for breath, with manes erect, and wild eyes full of the keenest suffering, tried to fly from the scene, but the merciless Indians drove them back into the water. A very few, who succeeded in eluding the vigilance of the guards, regained the bank, stumbling at every step, and lay down upon the sand, exhausted with fatigue, every limb paralyzed from the electric shocks received from the eels.

“I never remember receiving a more terrible shock from a Leyden jar than I did from a gymnotus on which I accidentally trod just after it came out of the water.”

The astronomic position of Calabozo having been determined, Humboldt and Bonpland resumed their journey to the Orinoco. The Uriticu, with its numerous and ferocious crocodiles, and the Apure, one of the tributaries of the Orinoco, the banks of which are covered with a luxuriant vegetation such as is only met with in the tropics, were successively crossed or descended.

The latter stream is flanked on either side by thick hedges, with openings here and there, through which boars, tigers, and other wild animals, made their way to quench their thirst. When the shades of night shut in the forest, so silent by day, it resounds with the cries of birds and the howling or roaring of beasts of prey, vying with each other as to which shall make the most noise.

While the Uriticu is inhabited by fierce crocodiles, the Apure is the home of a small fish called the “carabito,” which attacks bathers with great fury, often biting out large pieces of flesh. It is only four or five inches long, but more formidable than the largest crocodile, and the waters it frequents are carefully avoided by the Indians, in spite of their fondness for bathing, and the relief it affords them, persecuted as they are by ants and mosquitoes.

Our travellers went down the Orinoco as far as the Temi, which is connected by a short portage with the Cano-Pimichino, a tributary of the Rio Negro.

The banks of the Temi, and the adjacent forests, are often inundated, and then the Indians make waterways, two or three feet wide, between the trees. Nothing could be more quaint or imposing than floating amongst the gigantic growths, beneath their green foliage. Sometimes, three or four hundred leagues inland, the traveller comes upon a troop of fresh-water dolphins, spouting up water and compressed air in the manner which has gained for them the name of blowers.

It took four days to transport the canoes from the Tenir to the Cano-Pimichino, as a path had to be cleared with axes.

The Pimichino flows into the Rio-Negro, which is in its turn a tributary of the Amazon.

Humboldt and Bonpland went down the Rio-Negro as far as San Carlos, and then up the Casiquiaro, an important branch of the Orinoco, which connects it with the Rio-Negro. The shores of the Casiquiaro are inhabited by the Ydapaminores, who live entirely on smoked ants.

Lastly, the travellers went up the Orinoco nearly to its source, at the foot of the Duida volcano, where their further progress was stopped by the hostility of the Guaharibos and the Guaica Indians, who were skilful marksmen with the bow and arrow. Here was discovered the famous El Dorado lake, with its floating islets of talc.

Thus was finally solved the problem of the junction of the Orinoco and the Maranon, which takes place on the borders of the Spanish and Portuguese territories, two degrees above the equator.

The two travellers then floated with the current down the Orinoco, traversing by this means five hundred leagues in twenty-five days, after which they halted for three weeks at Angostura, to tide over the time of the great heat, when fever is prevalent, regaining Cumana in October, 1800.

“My health,” says Humboldt, “was proof against the fatigue of a journey of more than 1300 leagues, but my poor comrade Bonpland, was, immediately on his return, seized with fever and sickness, which nearly proved fatal. A constitution of exceptional vigour is necessary to enable a traveller to bear the fatigue, privations, and interruptions of every kind with which he has to contend in these unhealthy districts, with impunity. We were constantly surrounded by voracious tigers and crocodiles, stung by venomous mosquitoes and ants, with no food for three months but water, bananas, fish, and tapioca, now crossing the territory of the earth-eating Otomaques, now wandering through the desolate regions below the equator, where not a human creature is seen for 130 leagues. Few indeed are those who survive such perils and such exertions, fewer still are those who, having surmounted them, have sufficient courage and strength to encounter them a second time.”

We have seen what an important geographical discovery rewarded the perseverance of the explorers who had completed the examination of the whole of the district north of the Amazon, between Popayan and the mountains of French Guiana. The results obtained in other branches of science were no less novel and important.

Humboldt had discovered that there exists amongst the Indians of the Upper Orinoco and the Rio Negro a race with extremely fair complexions, differing entirely from the natives of the coast. He also noticed the curious tribe of the Otomaques.

“These people,” he says “who disfigure their bodies with hideous paintings, eat nothing but loam for some three months, when the height of the Orinoco cuts them off from the turtles which form their ordinary food. Some monks say they mix earth with the fat of crocodiles’ tails, but this is a very false assertion. We saw provisions made of unadulterated earth, prepared only by slow roasting and moistening with water.”

Amongst the most curious of the discoveries made by Humboldt, we must mention that of the “curare,” the virulent poison which he saw manufactured by the Catarapeni and Maquiritare Indians, and a specimen of which he sent to the Institute with the “dapiche,” a variety of Indian rubber hitherto unknown, being the gum which exudes spontaneously from the roots of the trees known as “jacio” and “cucurma,” and dries underground.

Humboldt concluded his first journey by the exploration of the southern districts of San Domingo and Jamaica, and by a short stay in Cuba, where he and his companions made several experiments with a view to facilitating the making of sugar, surveyed the coast of the island, and took some astronomical observations.

These occupations were interrupted by the news of the starting of Captain Baudin, who, it was said, was to double Cape Horn and examine the coasts of Chili and Peru. Humboldt, who had promised to join the expedition, at once left Cuba, and crossed South America, arriving on the coast of Peru in time, as he thought, to receive the French navigator. Although Humboldt had throughout his long journey worked with a view to timing his arrival in the Peruvian capital to meet Baudin, it was only when he reached Quito that he ascertained that the new expedition was making for the Pacific by way of the Cape of Good Hope.

In May, 1801, Humboldt, still accompanied by the faithful Bonpland, embarked at Cartagena, whence he proposed going first to Santa Fe de Bogota, and then to the lofty plains of Quito. To avoid the great heat the travellers spent some time at the pretty village of Turbaco, situated on the heights overlooking the coast, where they made the necessary preparations for their journey. In one of their excursions in the neighbourhood they visited a very strange region, of which their Indian guides had often spoken under the name of Volcanitos.

This is a volcanic district, set in a forest of palms, and of the tree called “tola,” about two miles to the east of Turbaco. According to a legend, the country was at one time one vast collection of burning mountains, but the fire was quenched by a saint, who merely poured a few drops of holy water upon it.

In the centre of an extensive plain Humboldt came upon some twenty cones of greyish clay, about twenty-five feet high, the mouths of which were full of water. As the travellers approached a hollow sound was heard, succeeded in a few minutes by the escape of a great quantity of gas. According to the Indians these phenomena had recurred for many years.

Humboldt noticed that the gas which issues from these small volcanoes was a far purer azote than could then be obtained by chemical laboratories.

Santa Fe is situated in a valley 8600 feet above the sea-level. Shut in on every side by lofty mountains, this valley appears to have been formerly a large lake. The Rio-Bogota which receives all the waters of the valley, has forced a passage for itself near the Tequendama farm, on the south-west of Santa-Fe, beyond which it leaves the plain by a narrow channel and flows into the Magdalena basin. As a natural consequence, were this passage blocked, the whole plain of Bogota would be inundated and the ancient lake restored. There exists amongst the Indians a legend similar to that connected with Roland’s Pass in the Pyrenees, telling how one of their heroes split open the rocks and drained dry the valley of Bogota, after which, content with his exploit, he retired to the sacred town of Eraca, where he did penance for 2000 years, inflicting upon himself the greatest torture.

The cataract of Tequendama, although not the largest in the world, yet affords a very beautiful sight. When swollen by the addition of all the waters of the valley, the river, a little above the Falls, is 175 feet wide, but on entering the defile which appears to have been made by an earthquake, it is not more than forty feet in breadth. The abyss into which it flings itself, is no less than 600 feet deep. Above this vast precipice constantly rises a dense cloud of foam, which, falling again almost immediately, is said to contribute greatly to the fertility of the valley.

Nothing could be more striking than the contrast between the valley of the Rio Bogota and that of the Magdalena: the one with the climate and productions of Europe, the corn, the oaks and other trees of our native land; the other with palms, sugar-canes, and all the growths of the tropics.

One of the most interesting of the natural curiosities met with by our travellers on the trip, was the bridge of Jcononzo, which they crossed in September, 1801. At the bottom of one of the contracted ravines, known as “canons,” peculiar to the Andes, a little stream, the Rio Suma Paz, has forced for itself a narrow channel. To cross this river would be impossible, had not nature herself provided two bridges, one above the other, which are justly considered marvels of the country.

Three blocks of rock detached from one of the mountains by the earthquake which produced this mighty fissure, have so fallen as to balance each other and form a natural arch, to which access is obtained by a path along the precipice. In the centre of this bridge there is an opening through which the traveller may gaze down into the infinite depth of the abyss, at the bottom of which rolls the torrent, its terrible roar mingled with the incessant screaming of thousands of birds. Sixty feet above this bridge is a second, fifty feet long by forty wide, and not more than eight feet thick in the middle. To serve as a parapet, the natives have made a slender balustrade of reeds along the edges of this second bridge, from which the traveller can obtain a fine view of the magnificent scene beneath him.

The heavy rain and bad roads made the journey to Quito very exhausting, but for all that Humboldt and Bonpland only halted there for an absolutely necessary rest, quickly pressing on for the Magdalena valley, and the magnificent forests clothing the sides of the Trinidiu in the Central Andes.

This mountain is considered one of the most difficult to cross in the whole chain. Even when the weather is favourable, twelve days, at least, are necessary for traversing the forests, in which not a human creature is seen and no food can be obtained. The highest point is 1200 feet above the sea-level, and the path leading up to it is in many parts only one foot wide. The traveller is generally carried, bound to a chair in a sitting posture, on the back of a native, as a porter carries a trunk.

“We preferred to go on foot,” says Humboldt in a letter to his brother, “and the weather being very fine we were only seventeen days in these solitudes, where not a trace is to be seen of any inhabitant. The night is passed in temporary huts made of the leaves of the heliconia, brought on purpose. On the western slopes of the Andes marshes have to be crossed, into which one sinks up to the knees; and the weather having changed when we reached them, it rained in torrents for the last few days. Our boots rotted on our feet, and we reached Carthago with naked and bleeding feet, but enriched with a fine collection of new plants.

“From Carthago we went to Popayan by way of Buga, crossing the fine Cauca valley, and skirting along the mountain of Choca, with the platina-mines for which it is famous.

“We spent October, 1801, at Popayan, whence we made excursions to the basaltic mountains of Julusuito and the craters of the Purace volcano, which discharge hydro-sulphuric steam and porphyritic granite with a terrible noise…

“The greatest difficulties were met with in going from Popayan to Quito. We had to pass the Pasto Paramos, and that in the rainy season, which had now set in. A ‘paramo’ in the Andes is a district some 1700 or 2000 fathoms high, where vegetation ceases, and the cold is piercing.

“We went from Popayan to Almager and thence to Pasto, at the foot of a terrible volcano, by way of the fearful precipices forming the ascent to the summit of the Cordillera, thus avoiding the heat of the Patia valley, where one night will often bring on the fever known as the Calentura de Patia, lasting three or four months.”

The province of Pasto consists entirely of a frozen plateau almost too lofty for any vegetation to thrive on it, surrounded by volcanoes and sulphur-mines from which spiral columns of smoke are perpetually issuing. The inhabitants have no food but batatas, and when they run short they are obliged to live upon a little tree called “achupalla,” for which they have to contend with the bear of the Andes. After being wet through night and day for two months, and being all but drowned in a sudden flood, accompanied by an earthquake near the town of Jbarra, Humboldt and Bonpland arrived on the 6th January, 1801, at Quito, where they were received in cordial and princely style by the Marquis of Selva-Alegre.

Quito is a fine town, but the intense cold and the barren mountains surrounding it make it a gloomy place to stay in. Since the great earthquake of the 4th February, 1797, the temperature has considerably decreased, and Bouguer, who registered it at an average of from 15deg to 16deg would be surprised to find it varying from 4deg to 10deg Reaumur. Cotopaxi and Pinchincha, Antisana and Illinaza, the various craters of one subterranean fire, were all examined by the travellers, a fortnight being devoted to each.

Humboldt twice reached the edge of the Pinchincha crater, never before seen except by Condamine.

“I made my first trip,” he says, “accompanied only by an Indian. Condamine had approached the crater by the lower part of its edge which was covered with snow, and in this first attempt I followed his example. But we nearly perished. The Indian sank to the breast in a crevasse, and we found to our horror that we were walking on a bridge of frozen snow, for a little in advance of us there were some holes through which we could see the light. Without knowing it we were in fact on the vaults belonging to the crater itself. Startled, but not discouraged, I changed my plan. From the outer rim of the crater, flung as it were upon the abyss, rise three peaks, three rocks, which are not covered with snow, because the steam from the volcano prevents the water from freezing. I climbed upon one of these rocks and on the top of it found a stone attached on one side only to the rock and undermined beneath, so as to protrude like a balcony over the precipice. This stone was but about twelve feet long by six broad, and is terribly shaken by the frequent earthquakes, of which we counted eighteen in less than thirty minutes. To examine the depths of the crater thoroughly we lay on our faces, and I do not think imagination could conceive anything drearier, more gloomy, or more awful than what we saw. The crater consists of a circular hole nearly a league in circumference, the jagged edges of which are surrounded by snow. The interior is of pitchy blackness, but so vast is the gulf that the summits of several mountains situated in it can be made out at a depth of some 300 fathoms, so only fancy where their bases must be!

“I have no doubt that the bottom of the crater must be on a level with the town of Quito. Condamine found this volcano extinct and covered with snow, but we had to take the bad news to the inhabitants of the capital, that the neighbouring burning mountain is really active.”

Humboldt ascended the volcano of Antisana to a height of 2773 fathoms, but could go no further, as the cold was so intense that the blood started from the lips, eyes, and gums of the travellers. It was impossible to reach the crater of Cotopaxi.

On the 9th June, 1802, Humboldt, accompanied by Bonpland, started from Quito to examine Chimborazo and Tungurunga. The peak of the latter fell in during the earthquake of 1797, and Humboldt found its height to be but 2531 fathoms, whilst in Condamine’s time it was 2620 fathoms.

From Quito the travellers went to the Amazon by way of Lactacunga, Ambato and Rio-Bamba situated in the province laid waste by the earthquake of 1797, when 40,000 inhabitants were swallowed up by water and mud. Going down the Andes, Humboldt and his companions had an opportunity of admiring the remains of the Yega road, leading from Cusco to Assuay, and known as the Inca’s road. It was built entirely of hewn stones, and was very straight. It might have been taken for one of the best Roman roads. In the same neighbourhood are the ruins of a palace of the Inca Fupayupangi, described by Condamine in the minutes of the Berlin Academy.

After a stay of ten days at Cuenca, Humboldt entered the province of Jaen, surveyed the Maranon as far as the Rio Napo, and with the aid of the astronomical observations he was able to make, supplemented Condamine’s map. On the 23rd October, 1802, Humboldt entered Lima, where he successfully observed the transit of Mercury.

After spending a month in that capital he started for Guayaquil, whence he went by sea to Acapulco in Spanish America.

The vast number of notes collected by Humboldt during the year he spent in Mexico, and which led to the publication of his Essay on Spanish America, would, after what we have said of his previous proceedings, be enough to prove, if proof were needed, what a passion he had for knowledge, how indomitable was his energy and how immense his power of work.

At one and the same time he was studying the antiquities and the history of Mexico, the character, customs, and language of its people, and taking observations in natural history, physical geography, chemistry, astronomy, and topography.

The Tasco, Moran, and Guanajuato mines, which yield a profit of several million piastres per annum, first attracted the attention of Humboldt, who had early studied geology. He then examined the Jerullo volcano, which, although situated in the centre of an immense plain thirty-six leagues from the sea, and more than forty from any volcano, discharged earth on the 29th September, 1759, and formed a mountain of cinders and clay 1700 feet high.

In Mexico the travellers were able to obtain everything necessary to the arrangement of the immense collections they had accumulated, to classify and compare the observations each had taken, and to prepare their geographical map for publication.

Finally, in January, 1804, they left Acapulco to examine the eastern slopes of the Cordilleras, and to take the dimensions of the two lofty Puebla volcanoes.

“Popocatepetl,” says Desborough Cooley, “is always active, although nothing but smoke and ashes have issued from its crater for centuries. It is not only 2000 feet higher than the loftiest mountains of Europe, but is also the loftiest mountain in Spanish America.” In spite of the great quantity of snow which had recently fallen, Humboldt accomplished the ascent of the Cofre, 1300 feet higher than the peak of Teneriffe, obtaining from its summit, an extensive and varied view, embracing the Puebla plain and the eastern slopes of the Mexican Cordilleras, clothed with thick forests of “liquidambar,” tree-ferns and sensitive plants. The travellers were able to make out the port of Vera Cruz, the castle of San Juan d’Ulloa and the sea-shore.

This mountain owes its name of Cofre to a naked rock of pyramidal form which rises like a tower from its summit at a height of 500 feet.

After this last trip Humboldt went down to Vera Cruz, and having fortunately escaped the yellow fever then decimating the population, he set sail for Cuba, where he had left the greater part of his collection, going thence to Philadelphia. There he remained a few weeks to make a cursory study of the political constitution of the United States, returning to Europe in August, 1804.

The results of Humboldt’s travels were such, that he may be justly called the discoverer of Equinoctial America, which before his time had been explored without becoming really known, while many of its innumerable riches were absolutely ignored. It must be fully acknowledged that no traveller ever before did so much as Humboldt for physical geography and its kindred sciences. He was the very ideal of a traveller, and the world is indebted to him for important generalizations concerning magnetism and climate; whose results are plainly seen in the isothermal lines of modern maps. The writings of Humboldt mark an era in the science of geography, and have led to many further researches.

III. THE GREAT EXPLORERS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY

Translated by N. D’anvers,

CONTENTS

PART I

CHAPTER I.

THE DAWN OF A CENTURY OF DISCOVERY.

CHAPTER II.

THE EXPLORATION AND COLONIZATION OF AFRICA.

CHAPTER III.

THE ORIENTAL SCIENTIFIC MOVEMENT AND AMERICAN DISCOVERIES.

PART II.

CHAPTER I.

VOYAGES ROUND THE WORLD, AND POLAR EXPEDITIONS.

CHAPTER II.

FRENCH CIRCUMNAVIGATORS.

CHAPTER III.

POLAR EXPEDITIONS.